YOU’RE FORGIVEN – AND BLESSED – IF YOU HADN’T NOTICED
I First Potchke’d Around With
Shameless, Hyperbolic, Egocentric, Self-Promotion – Blogging – A Decade Ago.
A recent Global Poll reported nearly 7.6 billion people have never heard of me.
A big, unflattering number – depends on one’s perspective – expected to reach 10 billion by 2050.
Ten zeroes, folks!
How’s that for potential?
HERE I AM
Living The Meh … Blissfully content:
“As the most irrelevant, least heard voice in the ‘History of Self-Published Righteous Blowhards With Unknowable Talent and No Promise’.”
Loitering at the crossroads of ambivalence and disdain. Waiting on an old nemesis – common sense – to arrive.
So, I’ve got that going for me.
Smitten with the romanticized notion of disseminating my thoughts through a medium accessible to nearly infinite, like-minded odd sorts … left me forlorn and dejected.
A mild unrequited flirtation bordering on obsessive delusions of grandeur.
My sophomoric crush on Self – mercifully aborted – before irrecoverable measures of ostracism and eternal banishment were executed by its sympathetic subscribers.
Blessed were the Group of Nine.
As unspecific, dull and inconsequential.
As the writer – me – uninspired and ill-prepared.
My viewpoint, myopic and absorbed.
Neutered all optimism to connecting with a deeper, committed audience.
AFTER A HANDFUL OF ARTICLES
I got all Millennial about it.
Took home my Purple Participation Ribbon like it mattered.
What I did.
And, so I’m back.
CHE VECCHIO CASTAGNO
That Old Chestnut.
distracted consumed me: father-ish, husband-lite, career-derailed …
Netflix. Salty snacks. My dog.
Priorities, not so much.
THIS DIDN’T HELP …
Multifarious apathy and malaise. A penchant for calamity.
“The attention span of a pre-adolescent Gnat weaning off Ritalin.”
The ‘stickwithitty’ of a bath bubble about to hit the ceiling fan.
ONWARD WITH ‘KUCHED’
If you haven’t moseyed your sweet way onto my “Its Not All ABOUT Me” page before landing here,
It’ll give you the perfunctory back story on Why This Blog Came To Be.
In the seminal wisdom of David Wooderson,
“It’d be a lot cooler if you did.”
SINCE I WROTE IT
I’d say it’s biased with my usual self-pontificated ramblings.
A fair, but indefensible perception that marginally describes my character (faults).
Littered with delusional doses of
How I See Myself (and a few others consider me).
IT MAY HELP THE READER
To better navigate the journey ahead knowing what makes me tick, sneeze, hiccup, blink, stumble and fall, as often and dramatically as I do.
I laugh, cry and bleed with equal aplomb. Often, simultaneously.
None of it is pretty or admirable.
I TEND TO WRITE IN BUNCHES
Of short, choppy anecdotes.
Before attempting to draft – a relative term that would suggest I have developed a finely honed Craft (obviously, I haven’t) – a readable submission to share.
I’M A WORD HOARDER (UNABASHED)
Incessantly stockpiling muses, thoughts, whims – the vague beginnings of future haphazard meanderings – unsorted in vacuous Black Holes of incompletion, mayhem and irrelevance.
If one looked closely they may find a process to my innate randomness.
I just haven’t discovered it.
You’re welcome to search for clues.
CLARITY OF POINT, INDECIPHERABLE
I’ll occasionally surprise myself by limiting adjectives to only four per insufferably exhausting, run-on sentence.
I’ve never trusted adverbs. They don’t like me. We’re irreconcilable.
We’re at peace now.
MERCY, DEAR BROTHERS & SISTERS
Scrambled in the carnage and wake is the vague promise of validity and purpose.
Revealed in small increments.
Like vaccines to heal.
And, to sooth the soul.
CIRCUITOUS THOUGHTS = NONSENSICAL JOURNALS
Not unlike what I’ve just dribbled.
At last inventory (this morning), I’ve scripted over 300 Digressions-in-Development.
Infinite topics surging through my cranium vying for precious gray matter to make sense of it. I’m in for the long-term – a dozen month’s at least (prepaid subscription).
Once I figure out this warmed over mess.
IF YOU DECIDE TO STAY ONBOARD
And why not, really?
There’ll be plenty of indigestible fodder to indulge in, ignore, mock, ridicule, hiss at – bury in kitty litter – and otherwise, consume your disposable slag time.
Time, no doubt, spent better elsewhere invested in more noble, rewarding endeavors.
Like feeding your Koi fish. Adopting a pack of feral slugs. Counting life’s regrets.
MY (SOON-TO-BE, ALMOST PERFECT, BROKEN) PROMISE TO YOU
It won’t all be whimsical, inspiring or worthwhile.
Some of it will try my own nerve.
Or, offer little to enrich your life.
Not unlike the bounty of the digital feces stinking up the internet.
WHAT’S IN IT FOR YOU?
For starters, dig this:
My First Rodeo?
Somewhere outside San Antonio, Texas. 2016.