These last few days, I’ve been trying to write a new blog, sitting in front of my computer screen with my tongue out in the deepest concentration.


I am the prettiest intent concentrator out there.

It’s only been 6 days since my last post, but it feels like infinite plus one years. Which is a long time. And the issue, for once, isn’t that I haven’t been able to come up with an idea — I actually have three ideas ready: a followup to my post on bacon (BACON!), a piece on how we basically always have our same insecurities as adults that we did in childhood, and an edited redone version of one of my old blogs on how movies anymore overuse the irritation known as shaky cam. Despite this vast, oil field-like wealth of topics to choose from, I haven’t been able to post any of them, because when I read through what I have written of them after numerous takes, it basically looks like:

“Blah blah blah BACON blah blah; pop culture reference pop culture reference [kitty picture].”

And then I groan, because somehow, in that space between my mind and my computer screen (which I suppose is both figuratively and literally my fingertips), what was the equivalent to finely crafted tiramisu turns into the equivalent of poorly made slop.

This difficulty with writing a blog reminds me of a woe I used to know acutely. In high school, I was a pretty abysmal student, something I won’t even attempt to deny, and it’s solely due to the fact I didn’t turn in homework all too often. When my parents looked at me with eyes full of disbelief at my lackluster grades, I often told them one thing: “I forgot”. This was true often, because I was indeed the kind of kid who was more focused on getting epic lootzors in WoW than discussing the events of the Civil War.

But my lack of interest on many subjects in school was not the single cause of my troubles. Because I am a crazy person.

Even when I was younger, when I didn’t do something I felt confident about I wouldn’t turn it in. At times, when the teacher asked us to present small pieces in front of the class that we had written, if I felt my work was poor I would hold my head low and say I had forgotten to do the work, despite holding the crumpled up assignment in my hand. I sincerely was that person who would be happier getting an F than turning in something I felt was worse than it should be (listening to this I realize I sound like a ridiculous kid. Which I was). I was like a Japanese warrior, willing to fall on my own sword rather then face my shame, only much, much lamer. And so, my grades suffered.

A few weeks ago, I was at a friend’s film school’s senior movie screenings and she expressed to me her distaste for one of the films she was in because some of the aspects of it weren’t done nearly as well as she had hoped. After talking about this and explaining her embarrassment, she apologized for complaining, but of course I understood; if you’re passionate about something you should care about the final product, and if something with your name attached to it that you want to be proud of is inadequate, regardless of whether you or someone else was responsible for the problems, you shouldn’t be content with that. I think that’s one of the principles of producing anything creative. A literal zero can be better than a personal negative.

So there you have my blissfully short post on art. I apologize for the lack of pictures (and for seeing my disturbing face). I also apologize this isn’t very funny, but I think sometimes admitting I like art is necessary, even if it compromises my humor and makes me sound like a pretentious wang!

I’ll just end by leaving you trying to picture what a pretentious wang would look like.