Banky For President

Wanna know one of my deepest darkest secrets?

I wish I was a writer.

That’s why I blog I suppose. Much like bass guitar players are frustrated guitarists (All apologies, Dennis), bloggers are the Web equivalent. Posers, imposters, wannabes, the lot of us.

It doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate good writing when we see it or hear it. I remember reading Hunter S. Thompson for the first time. The words dripped off the page like recently thawed Goldschlager. I’ve never been turned on by a writer like the way I was that day, but it made me appreciate all writers and writing in a way I never had before. For the first time, since I heard Stairway to Heaven or saw Star Wars, I realized that life is more than what you did yesterday or what your doing today. It’s about what you can do with your tomorrow. And so I started writing and trying to find insight in my screwed-up existence.

It happened to me again yesterday. And in this desert, commonly referred to as the Writer’s strike, I turned to Showtime On-Demand and gave a half hour of my life to Californication.

I really wanted to hate it. I already watch too much television. But a buddy of mine told me it had replaced his Sopranos obsession, so I gave it a shot. If I liked it, maybe I would want to write about it.

I was hoping to blog more anyway.