Today, I make no references to breastages, chemically enhanced love rockets or pop stardom, as the collective national attention drifts elsewhere (and, of course, it does not focus fucked up state of the world, because that is, well, icky and kind of boring and grim).

By the way, “chemically enhanced love rockets” might be a good name for a fakely packaged non-product, as purveyed by maintainers of the pop culture, such as these folks.

I really don’t have much to write today (or arguably most days). But, I was thinking that I wished the Internet was around when I was a kid. Aspiring to be a writer, especially in the sense of the written word being the one constant source of passion in my pathetic little existence (OK, maybe that and the occasional sex toy), yet being too shy and insecure to actually show my writing to anyone or think that I had anything of interest to say, was a joyously impotent way to mispend my youth.

Having a weblog has to be the least risky, most incredibly passive way of getting something out into the world. Unlike, of course, the suicide course of doing stand-up comedy, which I embarked on despite total stage fright. Yeah, that was a fucking great idea. Let’s see, I already think I’m unworthy of your attention, and I’m apt to stiffen woodenly whilst speaking to you the audience, so why not have us all bask in the sheer masochism of the moment and watch me stifle the nauseous belch? Who doesn’t enjoy going to a bar and swimming in self-induced angst?

Oh, by the way, if anyone sees this ‘blog and thinks they might like to see me live and in person, I should clarify I am MUCH better now in public. From my early stilted yearnings, I now can smile and react normally and tend to remember what I meant to say, including the funny parts. And, in truth, it was always much worse in my head. For example, I never actually peed on my shoes publicly and ended up electrocuting myself with a faulty mike cord, as I feared would be my undoing.

Of course, never say “never,” since now I am soon to be 40 and facing the inevitable incontinence of middle age (as magazines and ads would make me believe).

Speaking of that phantom of middle age, I hope any one of my friends who read this bullshit will nudge me when it comes time for me, because of life’s inevitable withering, to never mention sex in public again.

My stand-up comedy has a very carnal base (actually, I don’t think it’s that bad, but apparently nice girls don’t refer to there possession of a vagina, even in context, yada yada, so I’ve been told I’m “edgy.”) Since I can think of at least three women who I have seen the audience visibly cringe at the image of their being half of the beast with two backs (accent on beast), I suspect my time will come. As I neglect the appearance of a beard and let myself slide into my dotage, or however it all manifests itself, the day will come when only a loved one, or a creepy wrinkle fetishist, could conceptualize mounting me. Right now, I believe, I still appear to the world as fuckable. But, how long, how long?

Anyone, send me a brief (out of kindness) email apprising me of the situation, if I fail to notice it myself.

Oh and by the way, from checking my stats and looking at comments, I want to acknowledge and say hello to anyone who (a) stumbles across this vapid wasteland and (b) returns.

Hey, there and thanks!

By the way, there’s one reader in particular who needs to know that the little things count, and he gets a special thanks. If you don’t know if it’s you, then you probably aren’t quite deep as I thought…