When magician Ricky Jay performs his playing card throwing act, in which two of the cards are thrown into the exact same spot–literally with no space between them, he berates the audience with that same line I use in my title.  And it’s true in the case of the lonely blogger, sometimes.

Blogging, and for that matter writing–has moments of absolute inspiration. I’ve had things pop into my head and ultimately wind up on paper, or posted here, that I thought had an inertia to take it around the world. But the blogosphere is a huge place.  I’ve  a few things here that, in my own opinion, are the thing that if the “right person” was to read it, would land me a cool job somewhere. And right after that, I’d get four hits on it–even after I tried to do the whole Paul Revere thing on Facebook.

First of all, let me explain something about me. I do not struggle to write.  Very few of the things you read here take me more than an hour, after deliberating about the color, rhythm, and cadence of things.  This is a natural, God-given talent I carry.  Now, if you don’t particularly like my writing, none of this matters, but if you do–it might.

I have many talents, for some reason, but most of them came to me in pupal form, and had to be nurtured.  This whole “painting with the language I speak” thing was prevalent–nearly as soon as I could talk. What’s weird is, it doesn’t feel like that.  Every written creation, to the writer, is like a child. We literally take it through a certain gestation period in our heads, and ultimate–out it comes.

Yep. I was a freak. Even in kindergarten. Click on this if you really care.

This is no different with me, except, it simply feels that the nine-months of gestation are on a time-lapse sequence.  But at the end of it, no matter how accelerated it seems, I’m still exhausted in a different way.  The investment does not feel lessened simply because it happens so quickly.

The problem with giving birth is, most of the time, my best looking children showed up when I had to draw my own bath water. . . and, you know, being a man . . . I’m starting to kinda creep myself out.  Anyway, suffice it to say, I’ve birthed a few kids when no one was around to notice that they too, might be freakishly interesting little tykes.  And I’d like introduce you to a few of them, since they’re otherwise kept locked in the attic.

For instance, I lay into the idea that conspiracies are really at the core of what look like logistical mistakes–or really–“helpful advice,” such as the time Billy Squire consented to take nefarious, choreographic advice from a video director, who clearly wanted to plunge Billy’s growing career off the cliff.

Then, we have a little broadside I wrote about something contained in the holy-grail of what is known as “Evidence based practices.” Particularly a conversational technique known as “Motivational Interviewing.” One day, I happened to be reading GamesmanShip by Stephen Potter, and realized, this is the exact same thing.  The only exception being, the overt manipulation of people for self-aggrandizement is most like more fun that trying to be with wind underneath someone’s wings.

I also managed to take direct inspiration from arson.  Actually, I took it from Jimmy Hendrix, right after spending the night sleeping on top of the exact spot he torched his Fender Stratocaster in 1967 at the Monterey Pop festival. Sure, it was probably acid.  But It could have also been that roustabout Jimmy had a sudden fit of anti-materialism, and wanted to tell the world.

I also appropriated a never-played cassette-tape cover one by my wife–one of an accordion player who had the audacity to put “By Request” as the title, as not only a reason to engage in my own tone-deaf foray into self promotion, but also allowed me to wrote this line, which, for some reason makes me laugh:

Now, I could at this point launch into a rhetorical, manchurian bloodletting about this instrument, but I won’t. I could foot-flip my indignant Louisville Slugger into a one-handed, territorially-xenophobic head-shot about how this instrument needs to get a boarding pass to the bus marked Zydeco and stay there.

Not bad for a piker. Then, on to classic rock music.  Since I actually happen to have a reasonably good communication relationship with Mr. Big front man, Eric Martin, I thought I’d take his huge hit, “To be With You,” and break it down into near machine language, or at any rate paraphrase it so mundanely, that even he would have to acknowledge that only a man with finely-tuned chops in the abstract and banal could pull it off.

Oh, and I also compared him to Benedict Cumberbatch.  Anyway, he liked it much, or I assume a text message that says “your deductions are brilliant, Watson!” is some form of assent.

Lastly, or for now, one of the ones I want to reblog– because it will probably never lose its applicability.  A bit where I suggest taping a Nook to your arm my stem the addictions to screens and electronics. Sure, it sounds draconian–but there is very real, and life changing thing contained therein.

Anyway. Eric just called. He said his song was just featured on Germany’s version of The Voice, and to IMMEDIATELY quash rumors of his being screened for Doctor Who.