Changing the face of Blogging one unfocused rant at a time.

Welcome to the huddled masses inside my head, yearning to breath free. I'm still a little conflicted over this issue, however. Breathing free is always a laudable goal, but these voices are costing me a fortune in Huddled Mass Chow.

This is my first blog entry ever- I'm not disciplined enough to maintain a regular writing journal, so now I've got to take it out on some wet-behind-the-ears technology. I can't wait to see what sort of AdSense spots arise from these blog entries. It would almost be worth it to throw off the Google revenue dogs with the most confusing keywords ever. Please ignore the following paragraph, unless you're a search bot working for Google. (Does anyone else get the impression that Google was named on a dare?)

So midget heroin dynasties never seem to sell real estate or Viagra to naked celebrities like Paris Hilton Paris Hilton Paris Hilton. EBay tortures get rich quick moguls with free airline tickets for Aruba. Michael Jackson's trial turns into urban legend faster than Nigerian banks urging PayPal updates. If only American Idol would enter free poetry contests for fabulous prizes and cash awards.

Now all I have to do is sit back and count the rubles. It must be horrible to live in a country after their native currency is replaced with some universal trinket forged out of aluminum foil. I remember having a huge jar of pennies when I was a kid and the entire family decided to spend the day wrapping them. The money would be used to go to Geauga Lake, our local amusement park. My hands smelled like dirty copper wiring for days, but we did raise nearly 37 whole dollars. I feel sorry for some poor German kid spending three days wrapping pfennigs only to discover they were now essentially worthless. No Geauga Lake, plenty of copper smell and all he can do is sell the rolls as brass knuckles.

I think I'm going to enjoy this blogging thing. Stay tuned for more random musings from what I like to call The Buffer Zone. It's not catchy at all, and more than a little played out, but I always thought I would call my syndicated column Greetings from the Buffer Zone. Chicks would dig me and the money would come rolling in. I'd buckle under the strain of impossible deadlines and eventually become an incurable alcoholic. Eventually I'd attempt some half-hearted comeback only to discover some snot-nosed kid had taken over my column space. Of course by then I would have spent all of the money earmarked for retirement, so I'd have to become a bitter old writer living off the dusty college circuit. But every boy's dream has to start somewhere, so Greetings from the Buffer Zone.