No Excuses

Really, none. One should be more consistent about posting, especially if one wants to maintain some kind of equally consistent readership. At least twice a week and preferably three--I mean, I suppose I could turn this into one of those "here's what I did today" blogs, but aren't those kind of...ummm...well...OK, see, it's not that I don't admire the arrogance of the mindset that thinks "the minutiae of my day are, by virtue of the fact that they are the result of my existence, fascinating and important enough to share with the world at large"--I mean, that's hard-core self-delusional hubris, of which I am quite the fan. (I know, you're expecting me to make a Paris Hilton joke here--or even a Princess Di or Jackie O gag if I'm feeling particularly outre, but see, the thing about those horrible, irrelevant people is that they didn't make themselves famous--fame was offered to them by a soulless market of star-f*ckers, and they signed up for a triple helping. So sure, I fantasize about a world in which such people--people famous for being famous--accidentally fill their porcelain bath-tub with radioactive waste and bubble meltingly into unrecognizable pools of semi-toxic sludge. But I don't blame them. The fate I wish on those who shove them in my face is much, much more graphic, and not suitable for family viewing. But enough of this tangent.) But we don't want that kind of blog, because that kind of blog, wellllll...sucks. There, I said it. At least, mine would suck, because I'm a prig and a neurotic and so 'variety' is about as appealing an element in my life as 'taking a shot to the sack with a pipe-wrench.' I'm all about structure. Patterns. Habit. It's my comfort and my refuge. And as narrative, it is incredibly, astoudingly dull. So be glad you are spared this.

But as I say: No excuses. The point is, I should post more often. But 'often' is the amount of time I find myself with either little to say--I mean, how often can one find an amusing variation on the theme of 'the degree to which the Bush administration insults/poisons my intelligence/soul'? (Although John Bolton's inevitable post at the U.N. has been a source of much bridge-of-the-nose-pinching, I admit. Someone on 'Air America' posited that the reason for the appointments of people like Bolton at the U.N. and Wolfowitz at the World Bank is that the Bush folks want these men to undermine--and if possible, destroy--these institutions. Which, frankly, is the least scary explanation I can think of. A much, much worse one is that Bush & Co. actually think that these ethically aborted freaks are 'the best men for the job.') (I'd also like to point out the eerie prescience of my last post, as Bush, immediately afterwards, went off to Europe and tried to make himself look good by bashing FDR. Gotta love that. We've moved beyond the evolutionarily-challenged men of power comparing themselves to the great men of the past--Dan Quayle endlessly comparing his experience as a Senator to that of JFK--to such knuckle-dragging throwbacks degrading them. Nice. Oh, but wait. Bush doesn't believe in evolution. Fair enough. He's not a throwback. He's a Child of Cain.) But I seem to be proving my point, which is--it's never going to end, and it's eventually going to get boring. "Bush sucks" gets old just as fast as "Bush is swell"--witness the fact that Dennis Miller just got cancelled from his nightly administration of neo-con fellatio to the Executive Branch of the government. Sigh. Dennis Miller. Used to just...idolize him. Really. A hero. And then...it's like the feeling the housewife must have when the police show up at the front door one morning and tell her that her husband is in custody and they need to start digging in the crawlspace for the bodies of all the hookers that went missing during his "road trips." But, as always, I digress.

So I'm occasionally stumped for content that measures up to the effort it takes to type it out, and frankly I don't want y'all coming here and finding crap. So I'll try to find my anger a bit more frequently, but in the meantime, just relax in the knowledge that my silence is sparing you the reading of drivel. Honest.