In My Speedo

Blogger has been down today and when it hasn't been down it's been slow. Three times I've sat down to write, and it has taken so long for me to get to what Blogger somewhat optimistically labels the "create" page that by the time I've gotten there I've lost the urge, the edge, the thread of confidence -- whatever you want to call it -- and turned to other things.

The point seems to be that given the time to think about blogging, I hesitate to blog. Revenge is a dish best served cold, but blog work is an hors d'oeuvre, to be served hot or not at all. (I believe the hasty imprecision of that comparison makes my point.)

I envy the persistence of the all-day political bloggers who have a message, a focus, a series of talking points even if those TPs consist of the ability to whack back at someone else's talking points in the mode of Andre Agassi in his prime. You know: Send it back over the net harder than it came.

We are all familiar with the stereotype of the typical "professional" blogger: a guy sitting there in his underwear in a darkened room reading and typing, reading and typing 12 hours a day. (A few of them sit there in someone else's underwear. And none dare call it treason.)

Blogging the way I do it is like a guy playing a round of golf in a golf cart. Charge down the fairway, jump out of the cart and whack the ball in the general direction of the flag and if you can't see the flag, whack it anyway. In fact, why even get out of the cart? Embrace your inner polo player. Stretch out your strong right hand and whack the ball without ever throttling down.

That means you don't sift your mind for ideas. It's like the lottery. Turn the basket and pull out a ping pong ball and go with that.

As Socrates said: Know thyself. And if that doesn't work: Take your best shot.

The timer just went off. That's all I got, but I'll Be Back. It worked for Schwarzenegger.