I called it CelebTweets. After a few posts went live a television producer contacted me with an idea. If I wrote fifty more of these she could pitch it to publishers and get a book made.

She cautioned me, however, to be very selective on what else I wrote on my blog. I did a lot of other styles of posts and she thought that might hurt my “brand.” If I wanted a book deal, I needed to decide if I would be the guy that bugs famous people on Twitter exclusively.

I decided against it. I wanted to do other things.

At the time I was separated and starting to go through a divorce which would become the most painful experience of my life. I had only, up until then, written silly posts. I was terrified to try anything unfunny. Looking back, I don’t know why this was such a scary proposition – I only had fifty readers. If nobody liked the serious stuff I could always go back to comedy.

By the way, my dad’s dick post is still the most popular story on this blog. Can you believe 154k visitors read that last year? Yes, that’s sad. And yes, I’m bragging.

I decided to change up my style. I started to chronicle feelings, thoughts, and perspectives around daily life. Sure I’d pepper in a joke or two, but the overarching theme was honesty and vulnerability. That was my mission.

In 2012 I ended up writing every day.  I published 185k words that year. And let me tell you, not all of the posts were gold. Some were flat out stinkers.

The number one reason bloggers tell me they don’t write more often is that they want each post to be gold. I understand. I do, too. But I have way more singles and doubles in me than home runs. I also have strikeouts.

Yesterday I struck out. I sat at my computer for two hours trying to save a piece of shit. It wasn’t working no matter how many times I edited. But, in a way, I felt okay about it. The piece was as good as it was going to get. I had pride because even though the post didn’t turn out perfect, I had done all that I could. I hit publish.

According to stats 74% of my daily traffic comes from new visitors. Today many people were introduced to my blog with maybe the worst post I have ever written. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t return.

So, why do I publish strikeouts?

One, failure is part of human experience. We all put effort into projects that don’t pan out. People relate to mistakes. Two years ago I dropped the need for my posts to be perfect and the weirdest thing happened. My viewership increased. The comments from readers got longer and more frequent. I was connecting with people at a deeper level than that of just fart jokes.

Also, many kept coming back after a less-than-stellar post. People forgive. I found that the only time anyone got pissed was when I didn’t share something intimate or “real.” Like if I wrote a joke that for a quick laugh I would receive little engagement.

I believe part of respecting and honoring an audience is to show them the truth. The flubs. Times that it doesn’t come together. As long as the writing is honest and in my voice I push it through. Now, I accept the consequences of this behavior, too. I lose readers who expect better consistency.

I guess at the end of the day I just want to feel good. During that marathon session yesterday I put my heart and sweat into that piece. I just re-read it again and yes, it’s cringe worthy. It was also the best I could do. I feel good about it because I see all the hard work that went into the process.

The question is, however – should I subject the audience to a mediocre post?

I’m probably alone here, but I say yes. A resounding yes. I just want to try my hardest and let the chips fall where they may. Were there readers bummed out after reading yesterday? I don’t know – I’m sure some were unimpressed.

So, here’s my deal. I write a lot. I have a boring, normal life and sometimes my posts will suck. Usually they won’t. Thanks for understanding.

photo credit: Plutor via photopin cc

I recently crossed over the five thousand mark in comments on they blog. I would say 99% are positive/funny responses to posts I’ve written. Once in awhile I invoke someone’s ire.

This particular reader yelled at me in a private email writing that I am a crazed narcissist and with all the hurt I cause my girlfriend I need to remember that I’m the lucky one to have her in my life. One of my comedy heroes, Marc Maron, has a response to a women whenever one starts passing judgement from the audience and interrupting his set. He’s a fantastic comic and talks openly about all his challenges. I try to do the same thing here. Anyway, his response is to look at the woman with compassion and then say, “I’m really sorry for what he did to you.” It’s one of the greatest power-move  dismissals ever.

It’s true, of course. Whenever we are bothered by someone else’s behavior there is something within us and about us that is bothered. Usually it’s a reflection to something you’re going through yourself. Since most of my readers are women who are married with children, every so often I get a, “You should be ashamed of the way you treat your girlfriend!” Well, first of all, the blog wouldn’t be that interesting if I simply wrote, “Today I sent Jessica flowers! (which I do, by the way) She really appreciated it!” It’s hard to make something like that engaging. Talking more about the wounds I have myself or have inflicted upon others is more interesting to me. So, I’m sure I can come off like a dick now and then.

But when I receive a negative comment I go through a few stages. My first response is anger and I want to fire back a short reply reducing the person to tears. I am really good at this, by the way. Just ask my exes. However, hurting people in this way really isn’t a fulfilling strategy since I then feel shame an hour later. So, I let the anger pass and then I realize, “Hey, in a really crazy way this person cares about me. She wouldn’t bother to write this if she didn’t give a shit.” That allows me to feel good about them even though I didn’t love their message. Lastly, I get sad because I know she was probably triggered by something I said that hit close to home. We’re all wired up for projection and denial and mostly we just react to the outside world on what is happening internally we can’t face. So, the sadness comes when I think that maybe her home life is similar to what she hates in my writing.

What I do love, though, is honesty. I try to create a safe place for myself here where I can share openly. I have boundaries, of course. For example I have never shared about the time I went into Brooks Brothers and put on five suits at the same time and walked out tipping my cap to the salesman saying, “Nothing for me today, good sir!” Hey, cashmere single-breasted sports coats are like $800. Ballers don’t pay.

I will encourage you to continue to respond honestly. If you hate something I say or do, first go f yourself. Then, please write it and submit. I’ll work through my anger and sadness. Since I have such low self-esteem I eventually get to a place where I go, “Hey, haters still read!” Plus, if you met me in person, you’d love me. I’m that amazing. For real. Just ask around.

And with that I believe I have finally put this  narcissistic  silliness to rest.

Freshman year of high school I was in speech class working on a monologue about pet peeves. We each had to pick one annoyance and present it to the class. I racked my brain trying to come up with something that bothered me but nothing surfaced. I finally found one almost twenty years later.

While I have almost never directly addressed things here that piss me off, I have one that I want to share. My intention is not to make this a rant, but to point out the idiocy of the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”

This phrase has recently slimed its way into our vernacular. It was proceeded years back by its  cousin, “Well, I’m not religious but I am spiritual!” Thankfully that saying has all but disappeared. Those rebels are all grown up, married, and accompany their children to Sunday school. But there are always a few empty-calorie, narcissistic phrases that float around at any given moment. Let’s examine this one.

When do we hear about everything happening for a reason? First, by well-intentioned friends who need a space filler during a painful experience you’re sharing.

—

Well, my wife discovered that I was keeping two mistresses and left me. I lost the house, the kids, and custody of the parakeet.

Dude, everything happens for a reason. You’ll see.

I hope so, bro. I loved that goddamned parakeet.

—

The other situations where this phrase comes up is when something great happens on the heels of a terrible past event.

—

Son, remember the high school homecoming game where that senior ran onto the field and pulled your pants and underwear down during your tuba solo? Everyone saw your wang and then the kids in the stands started chanting “Pube-A”?

I remember.

Well, I just got a call from the Music Director at Stanford who saw the video once it went viral on YouTube. Guess who just  got a full band scholarship?

Pube-A?

Everything happens for a reason, Pube-A!

—

To be serious for a moment many things simply do not happen for a reason. Children dying of starvation, random murders, and natural disasters to name a few. If you have a reason that goes beyond, “Hey, shit happens!” I’m all ears. Imagine your sister was just sexually assaulted. After her silkwood shower you wouldn’t have the balls to try to comfort her with, “Something good will come of this – you’ll see!” By the way, that’s another phrase that needs to be shot in the taint.

“Everything happens for a reason” implies that the universe will take care of you and bring you to something better. But to think along those lines means you have to ignore the millions that don’t get to something better. Like the 20% of the world who lives in poverty. Nothing better going to happen to those folks.

I know we all would like to think we’re special to God or the universe, but if that’s true, God isn’t such an omnibenevolent guy. And if there is a God, I don’t suspect he  interferes much in our lives. If he does he needs to reexamine his priorities and help a few of the people of Africa now and then.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t comfort a friend in need. You should. But instead of saying, “This happened for a reason,” try, “You can find the strength to move on.” Assuming the person is physically and mentally capable of doing so, this is a empowering phrase. And, in many cases, you can, in fact, find meaning in something terrible. Viktor Frankl wrote about this as a Jew in the concentration camps in  Man’s Search for Meaning.

Why do bad things happen? Because, sadly, they do.

And when something wonderful falls your way, my suggestion is to recognize whether this was due to your own effort, others’ efforts, or simply good fortune.

So, let’s ditch the phrase “Everything happens for a reason.” I know you mean well and your heart’s in the right place, but you can do better.

By the way it seems like we finally got rid of saying, “That’s retarded” to mean stupid, which is a victory in and of itself. Next, if we can work on “It is what it is” I would be forever grateful. That one sucks, too.

photo credit: ! /streetart#__+__www.?.tk ??????? via photopin cc

But obviously I remembered as I’m writing about it now. Ugh – this whole intro was expositionally inappropriate. I use big words!!!

A few years ago a cop took my license away.

I should mention that I have had a perfect driving record for nigh on fifteen years. I think I got a speeding ticket back when I was twenty-two. That could be a dream I had, however. I truly don’t remember.

The only car accident I’ve been is was twenty years ago on the day after my sixteenth birthday where I totaled my Merkur XR4Ti. This was a day after receiving my license. I nailed this couple in a Cadillac driving up from Florida to Chicago to see their only granddaughter’s high school graduation. Destroyed their car, too. The guy was pretty sore at me and yelling, “Look at what you did!” The only satisfaction I had that day was hoping that they didn’t make the ceremony.

Four years ago I started riding a bicycle to work. I’ve talked about this ad nauseum  and how I hadn’t been on a bike since I was fourteen, and I always thought bikes were lame, etc. And, you know what? Bicycles are sort of lame. I can say that as I’m on one almost two hours a day. Sure I burn a few hundred calories, but it’s not cool. I’ve owned convertibles and you will definitely catch a young lady’s eye as you round a corner in mid June. You look cool. I doubt a woman ever saw me speed by with my dog strapped to my back, dripping in sweat with my extra-big helmet for my huge melon and thought, “I want two pieces of that guy’s awesome!”

Anyway, I was riding to work one day and I came to an intersection. I really don’t like biking on the street. That shit’s dangerous! I go along the lakefront here on a special trail for runners and bikers (I still refuse to acknowledge roller bladers).

I have never met one normal person who  rollerblades. They’re all weirdos or narcissistic  dickheads. Sorry – somebody needs to speak the truth about these horrible people.

At the intersection they’ve got the left turn arrows which come on before the light turns green. I feel like there are some cities where this is reversed and the arrow comes on at the end or some nonsense. Just wanted to clarify.

Now, the crosswalk sign doesn’t flash to “walk” until the left-turn arrow goes away. Why? Because you’d be walking into people turning left and get run over. This is important to the story.

Since I believe the rules don’t apply to me, one of my little “screw youse guys!” to the world is that I cheat the light. When that bastard starts turning yellow on the other side (soon to be red), I know I have a scant five seconds to blitz through the light. I make it across just as the green arrow is coming on, thereby saving a whole seventeen seven seconds. It’s somewhat dangerous, but is a nice morning thrill.

I’d like to add that this was before I started taking my bike to work. I would never do this now.

So, as I did every morning I saw the opposite traffic hit the yellow light, and as soon as I assessed that nobody was going to try to drive through before it hits red, I bolted across the crosswalk.

The red and blues flashed immediately and a voice from a car speaker yelled, “Pull over, biker!” For a second I was like, “Oooh, I hope it’s a Hell’s Angel and he pulls a knife on the copper! That would be neat.”

I swear that at first I had no idea he was talking to me. But he was.

I’m already at 600 words – let’s finish this up tomorrow. Go hug your kid or dog or cry yourself to sleep because you don’t have children or pets. I still love you.

photo credit: e ³ ° ° ° via photopin cc

Now, mind you, by me sharing what I’m about to share, I am terrified you’re going to think I’m the biggest narcissistic douche on the planet.  But I assure you, I’m not.  I have a therapist that will attest to my relative well-being.

But I haven’t revealed something  embarrassing  and vulnerable in awhile.

I bike to work every day.  If you’re a regular reader you know all about this.  It burns a few calories, is fun for my dog (she rides in a backpack), and I get to see the beach and lake in Chicago.  I usually listen to podcasts and music on the way in.  It’s about a forty-five minute ride.

Once every so often, I turn off the sound halfway through.  Today was one of those days.

This morning, on my bicycle, I interviewed myself, in my head, for twenty five minutes.

No joshing.

I’d like to start by saying, this is not exactly an ego trip.  I’ve been interviewed a few times in real life and I never even go back and listen/watch them.  Not because I’m too cool to do so, but that it’s way too embarrassing.  Plus, I think I always sound like a goof.  I don’t actively seek out interviews, and it’s not my dream to be on  The Tonight Show.

But, truth be told, I do find myself damned interesting.  In this self-interviews I ask myself how I got started writing, and how I watched comedians growing up instead of sports on television.  I talk about how my readers seem to resonate with honesty, vulnerability and humor.  I talk about how building a base of readers takes a long time, but I’m putting in the effort and writing every day.

I ask myself what goals I have, and I sheepishly say, “Well, one day I’d like to do this full-time, but that’s years down the road.  Maybe write a book, who knows?”

I even ask myself, “Where do you get your ideas.”  And then…  Then I fucking answer.

But again, I swear this isn’t about me looking like a big shot.  I just love the idea of talking about myself.  To myself.  In a weird way it’s kind of a meditation to learn more about myself.  A process to ask questions that I have to answer.

I would just like to say that I really have no desire to become famous or anything like that.  If I can just keep writing and you keep reading, that’s enough for me.  I think.  No, wait.  I’m lying.  I would love to become well-known.  Ugh, honesty is tough.

So, whether I’m a narcissist or just a guy with dreams of making a living off his blog, I’d love to feel less alone on this one.  Please tell me you pretended it was you instead of Kate Middleton, or that you sing into your hairbrush, or that when you’re cooking you imagine you’re on  Top Chef  or something.  I’m sort of catering to the chicks on those example.  Guys, find an appropriate fantasy for you.

Now, I’m going to drown out some of this shame with a Fresca.