Plea Bargain

When someone says they don't want to complain, aren't they immediately betraying their interest? At the very least, they're setting themselves up to fail.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of surfing blogs. As I progressed from one to the next, I was again reminded why I think they're pointless. Don't get me wrong; some bloggers displayed beautiful photographs, others offered valuable insights on maximizing technical efficiency, others relayed updates on their ministries or families, and yet others detailed their struggles with diseases, often terminal.

I don't know what motivated me to continue browsing. Perhaps it was an voyeuristic impulse to glimpse into the lives of total strangers? More likely than not, I wanted some way to procrastinate and I'd already been through my daily rituals.

One recurring theme was reinforced as I visited blog after blog: I don't care. Seriously. I couldn't care less about cutesy baby pictures or the difficulties of eight-months-preggers ladies navigating shopping carts through a crowded supermarket. I'm not learning SQL anytime soon, nor have I any investment in somebody's journey for self-discovery by trekking through the Himalayas. What I wanted was something worth reading.

(Note to self: that's why books exist.)

I returned to a blog I thoroughly enjoy - Stephan Pastis, the cartoonist who does Pearls Before Swine. He cracks me up. So does Steve Martin's blog. But no one would visit their sites if they weren't already established in other venues.

So why do I write this? Haven't I asked that about a hundred times already? Is it for those few-and-far-between comments? I could achieve faster and better feedback from Facebook. Is it to maintain a practice and discipline for writing? And Here's the Kicker encouraged comedy writers to maintain journals. Would this qualify?

Have I ever committed so much time and effort to a senseless, pointless venture like this? On the days when I phone it in, would I be better off skipping altogether? What's my record for consecutive questions? Why do I suddenly feel like Macauley Caulkin from Uncle Buck?

I've determined if I have a request for my reading public (all nine of you), then I should state it up front because odds are slim of getting to the bottom of an introspective, non-funny entry like this. Even if I include tapioca.

So here's my plea: Give me a purpose for writing this. If you think it's humorous and that's sufficient, say so. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions. (I may not use them, but I'm willing to read them.) Ready? Begin.