Preface

At some point in my life (Probably midway through a documented account of a failed attempt to find the American Dream --- there is no way to be certain, though) I came to the conclusion that someday I wanted to write. Being a writer never seemed to me as much of a respectable profession, which, to be wholly honest, made it all the more appealing to me. It is my passive desire to end my life as a Journalist.

Now, when I say I want to be a journalist, the majority of those hearing me assume they know what I'm driving at. For the sake of clarification, I have no interest in being the next Walter Cronkite, or Wolf Blitzer, or, God help me, a young Glenn Beck. I don't care to discuss the turnings of the gears to the political machine, or debate (outside of living rooms, at least) the value of a full-scale land invasion in the Twenty-first century. I am far more interested in writing about things that don't matter now, will not matter in the future, and barely mattered when they happened.

To put it bluntly, I want to do what Klosterman does.

This (we)b-log is mostly a stretching excercise. It's something to fill time between work, and sleep, and to expediate the process of my waiting for my phone to ring. It's something to keep me from taking too seriously Freudian analysis of old Family Matters re-runs at two in the morning. This is bound to be a mixed bag. Some days it will be quasi-intellectual, cryptic and inevitably childish. Some days it will be lazy and --- whatever.

If you read it, tell me. Tell me what you think. Help me out. If not, I'll probably lie and say I'm just doing it for myself. I'm very gullable sometimes.