I have a complicated relationship with being famous.

For starters, fame is essentially my imaginary girlfriend–or as distinguished nerdlings like to euphemize such situations, my “untested courtship hypothesis”. So to be clear, all my experience in the matter essentially boils down to the thought experiments of an overactive imagination (and dreams¹See also: Stranger Dreams). As I’m wont to quote the Brothers Kratt: “What if?!?”

Case in point: somewhere around my early 20s, I had a friend make the observation that I’m really good at planning ahead…for the most unlikeliest of scenarios. Not so much in the case of more practical matters, like bringing gloves with me on my first [and last] skiing trip. Nah, that’s not how I roll.

Anyways…if I recall correctly, the particular situation that motivated my friend to speak up involved me wringing my hands over the possibility of writing an earworm of a song. This was back in the early days of the Oscillating Fan Club, a loose confederation of me and several of my somewhat musically talented associates. I use the word “loose” here, in the sense that there were never more than two of us in the same room at the same time. And here I was, worried about writing the next Toxic²Spears, Britney. “Toxic.” In the Zone (2003). or The Remedy.³Mraz, Jason. “The Remedy (I Won’t Worry).” Waiting for My Rocket to Come (2002).

I suppose I should break down the logical reasoning that was the source of my consternation. Basically, it starts with me writing songs with the OFC for the fun of it. Now, if one is writing songs, there is a decent chance that one is going to produce one or two that they really like and is personally dear to their heart. It’s much easier if we admit that we all have a favorite amongst our childr–er, I mean “songs”…right? Right.

Also, if one is writing songs, then there is a non-zero chance that one could catch on and enjoy some modest success. And then there is the remote possibility of it becoming wildly, annoyingly popular.⁴…or worse, this could be you: https://www.wnycstudios.org/story/gambit-snap-judgment (listen to the first story, “Life on Easy Street”). You may laugh, but the threat is real. I’ve seen it happen many a time over. A good example that comes to mind is most of the songs by Twenty-One Pilots that you hear on the radio. Now, I have ALOT of thoughts about Twenty-One Pilots, and now is simply not the time to get into all that. I just wanted to build a little bit of tension, such that you, Dear Reader, will be simply bursting with anticipation by the time I get off my ass and write what I estimate to be a 10-part opus.⁵ I shit thee not. I know of at least a good 7 posts I’ll need to write to provide the full context leading up to what will be at least 2 posts explicitly related to Twenty-One Pilots, plus another NSFM post. May the anticipation kill you.⁶(TM)

Back to my train[wreck] of thought: so far, the situation would be manageable, primarily because it is a well known fact that most extremely popular songs are actually pretty basic (dare I say “dumb”?), ergo, if one of my songs were to become outrageously, sickeningly ubiquitous, then clearly it would have already been one for which I hated myself for writing.

But…what if? What if it was that song I loved so much, the one that was a product of my blood, sweat, and tears, the one which contained a small piece of my soul in its melody and piece of my raw heart in the lyrics? What if it was that song that got so much airtime that it would make me want to jam a pencil deep into each ear? What if just the mere opening three notes instantly made me want to vomit every time I heard it? What if my precious, most beloved baby grew up to be a ----- monster?

You get the picture. In my mind, the worst-case scenario would be becoming…universally beloved and famous? Admittedly, it is a little preposterous now that I’m saying it out loud. But, yup, that’s where my mind ended up at after it’s little adventurous jaunt through the Forest of Endless Possibilities.

So. There you have a brief example of one of my many famous thought experiments. Mind you, in this specific instance, I wasn’t actively pursuing those thoughts. I just woke up one day to realize I was extremely worried about what I would do if/when I found myself with a song topping the Billboard Hot 100 charts.

The point of the story is that, while I’ve never technically been famous,⁷…unless you count the taste of real-life fame I experienced in Blog Like Nobody’s Reading. apparently I’ve put a lot of thought into the matter. Which brings me to the topic that motivated me to sit down and write away this fine evening in the first place.

What the hell am I hoping to accomplish by living the dream and starting a blog full of thoughts that are my very own, and mine alone? More specifically, now that I’m solely responsible for my own fate, how am I going to define success?

Ok, first off, going back to my complicated relationship with fame, I forgot to mention that it’s sort of a love/hate thing. I have in mind a separate post in which I expound upon just that topic, and to tease you unnecessarily a little bit I’ll even tell you that it will probably be entitled “The Shy Attention Whore”. But, spoiler alert: when it comes down to it, of-fucking-course, I want to be famous.

Actually, the shy side of me is still fairly strong. For the longest time I didn’t pursue writing in a public arena because I couldn’t decide on a nom de plume, of all things. But the pirate ship has sailed on that idea, hasn’t it? I realized that I talk so ----- much that it wouldn’t take long for people to put the pieces together and unmask my true identity, so I just had to say “Fuck it. It’s not like I’m going to be getting into heaven with a fake ID anyways. Might as well own all my thoughts and words, be what they may…”

The point is, while I want to be famous, I somehow saw it necessary to devote a whole extra interjectatory paragraph to qualify that statement with the idea that I don’t necessarily want to be famous, and if I had the choice, I would be perfectly happy with only my thoughts and writings being famous. And not me. Got it? Good.

And, surprise, surprise, an hour forty into writing this, I find that I have still managed to avoid about which I really want to talk. Just be grateful that it didn’t take you 100 minutes just to read this far.

Now that it’s been established that I sure wouldn’t mind it if somehow this blog were to be successful within moderation,⁸Please, oh please subscribe! And tell everyone you know about the thought-provoking and amusing content you found at www.thepointofthestory.com. Oh, please! what is more interesting to think about is what path I would prefer to take to the top of Blog Rock Star Mountain.

Let me cut to the chase: Simply put, ----- “going viral.”

(Sorry that you had to hear me speak so foully,⁹Christ copulation, I tried for a good 3 minutes to figure out how “fowlly” was not a real word. Turns out, it’s a homophone. Of course it is. Mom, but sometimes a situation has a ----- Fever, and the only medicine is more ----- Cowbell.)

I don’t think I’ve ever viewed going viral as a positive event…even though up until this point in my life I really haven’t done much to put myself in harms way of that happening. Nevertheless, true to form, I’ve devoted an uncalled-for amount of synapses to the matter (see Point #1 above).

Anyways, I suppose if what you really want in life is your 15 minutes/seconds of fame, then knock yourself out.

But is that what you really want? To be a blip on the radar of our collective popular sub-conscious? You do realize that, most likely, you’re going to be eternally memorialized as a 1-dimensional travesty of who you actually were in this lifetime, right? And probably for something that doesn’t even remotely reflect your true self.

If you’re lucky, you won’t be remembered for something, er, regrettable…I’m looking at you, GellieMan.¹⁰https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLjBCqeYYas I mean, I highly doubt (or at least hope) that dude isn’t still writing decent-but-poorly-executed pop-synth and sleeping on Mickey Mouse sheets. Alas, indubitably his epitaph will read “He gave up all his dignity so he could give the world the gift of Aicha.”

Virality cheapens the worth of your soul. Don’t do it kids. The world is just going to chew you up and spit you out before moving onto the next incredibly asinine flavor of the hour. Is that what you want, huh? Do you want to be nothing more than a long-forgotten meme? When you die, do you want to have your memorial service to consist of nothing more than an indefinitely looping gif that represents exactly 6 seconds of your life?

Sure. Whatever. It’s your funeral.¹¹If you’re wondering what literary construct on which I totally just stuck the landing, wait ’til I tell you hear about this dream I had. Oh, wait, I already did…

Anywho…I think it’s safe to come down from my soapbox now…

Oh, and did I mention I don’t want to go viral? Nah, man, I want to go chronic.

I want to be a persistent condition that sticks with you til the day you die.

I want to be an epidemic that can only described as “moderate to severe”.

I want to be the scratch you have to itch just to survive.

I want you to have to seek remediation for the withdrawal you endure on a long-term, recurring basis.¹²…and I want to make more sense with my analogies, as I’m clearly veering from “medical condition” to “medical substance dependency” at this point. It’s way too late in the evening to be safely operating a laptop…

And frankly, I want to go to bed. I’ve inadvertently spent way too much time and effort building up to this point, that I simply haven’t the energy left to expound upon further on the concept of going chronic. Sorry folks, I’m all out of puns and gonna have to close up shop for the night.

So…in conclusion: yes, I am aware that I may be running the risk of being forever known simply as the guy who actually had the oves¹³…because using the term “balls” would just be reinforcing the power The Patriarchy exerts over our society, and you know what? ----- The Patriarchy, AmIRight? Seriously though, why isn’t “having the ovaries/oves” the go-to phrase for describing situations in which one must have incredible courage in the face of adversity? Not enough respects are paid to the half of us who have be a woman living in a man’s world… to stand up and say “Fuck Bob Ross!” But if I have to go viral to infect the masses, so be it. Y’all better call a [medical] doctor.¹⁴https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvAYnFh0Zdo The Point of the Story is your new favorite disease.

Well, at least I hope so…

P.S. I decided to save you the extra click. You’re welcome.

Content created on: 11/12 August 2019 (Sunday/Monday). Edited on 27 September 2019 (Friday).

I love dreams. For most of my life I’ve been able to remember at least some portion of my dreams on any given night. I consider myself fortunate in that regard, and I shower unrequested pity on those out there that never can remember their mid-night shenanigans and escapades.

Ah, dreams. I find them intriguing and fascinating. And at times, disturbing.

Which brings up I philosophical quandary: how responsible is one for the content of their dreams?

Here’s a fun case study: I have a neighborhood friend–for now we’ll call him B.S. Slappy¹I could have gone with a play on his initials, but I’m already calling someone else Jesus Christ. Perhaps we could just call it his Second Coming?–who was a professional musician in a past life. One time when he was over with his family for one of our kids’ birthday parties, he saw my sweet SG Gibson hanging on my wall of guitars, and somehow inferred that I could play it with some degree of confidence. That was when he first started strongly advocating on behalf of the two of us getting together for some jam sessions.

Shortly after that thought first entered the ether of my mind, I had a dream that I had gone over to his house for a playdate for the kids. While there, I stumbled into his makeshift studio where he was noodling away on one of his many six-strings. Delighted to see me, B.S. said “check out what I wrote for us!” and started shredding out a very rocking and very unorthodox riff.

It was like nothing I had ever heard before. But I loved how it took me to a new place I never could have imagined. Such ideas and experiences are my favoritest of all things.

When I woke up I had the chance to reflect on my awesome dream…and it occurred to me “Wait just a tick…he didn’t write that song–it sprung forth from the loins of my mind! I’ve never even heard him play guitar before, so that wasn’t him, it was ME!”

So, if I were somehow musically talented enough to figure out how to play the song from my dream, riddle me this: who should get songwriting credits? Me? It was my brain doing the dreaming, after all. Or my subconscious’ projection of my rock star friend? Maybe, in the process of trying to piece together what I knew of him, along with any poorly-informed perceptions of what type of creative limits he might be capable of stretching, I actually synthesized something completely new and surprising to me. Maybe it is something that I would have never imagined had I never met him…

But guess what? You can chew on that mental cud for awhile, and in the meantime I can get to the dream I really wanted to talk about. Good news for me, I’ve already related the tale digitally, so I don’t have to re-invent the wheel from scratch.

For context, this exchange happened earlier this summer when I was in my “workshopping” phase.²See also: The Olde Timey Wheelchair^,3See also: A Pound Casual Asshat A friend from back in high school was sharing the beautiful gift of “comedic amnesia” with me, and the fact that she knew a major player in this dream–combined with an unintentional trigger phrase–prompted me to tangentially relate to her my vintage 2002 dream. I didn’t even ask for consent…

I’ll let the screenshots do the talking. Sonny Bono,⁴Of course, it’s not her real name. To avoid confusion, though, it’s not her porn star name either… take it away, will ya?

For some reason, it seems a little less bragadocious when a past, forgotten version of yourself makes you laugh. This, my friend, is the gift of comedic amnesia.

Oh ----- She just uttered a trigger phrase…it’s also a spoiler, so I blurred it out. Once you know what it is (see below), come back and fill in the blank. It was a humorous statement in it’s own right.

To help fill in the blanks, I was pretty sure that, in addition to objectively not wanting to marry the Alumna, I very much wanted to marry Tiffany Chestnut instead. Anyways…”and then what happened?”

Honestly, I’ve never been more proud of the wit embedded in this dream. Again, though, do I really get to take credit for it?

I still am searching for an answer to this question–so please, if you know what the right term is, please “leave it in the comments below”. I implore you.

Also, I bet you didn’t think that it would be someone other than me to deliver the money shot. What a twist! Thanks S.B. for really bringing it home.

I’ll leave you with a bonus bit o’ the asinine:

Lastly, in regards to the title.⁵Okay, okay, for you “2A” people out there: yes, I realize that the title is a misnomer, as it was most definitely a rifle that was used in the ceremony.

Content created on: 6 June & 14 August 2019 (Thursday/Wednesday)

By default, WordPress pre-populates a new blog with a singular post entitled “Hello world!” It is meant to be deleted or appropriately edited, but I felt so inspired by these words that I decided to instead subvert this post for my own purposes. Joke’s on them, I suppose.

My experience with “Hello world!” is in the context of trying to pick up a new programming language. If you’re not familiar with it, “Hello world!” is the archetypical first coding project for most any language. It’s the most basic of tasks: getting your computing device to display the simple message “Hello, world!” Also, I’m pretty sure there should be a comma in there, so I added it just for all the English teachers reading at home. But I digress…

Now, some people have told me I have a modestly entertaining sense of humor. Well, right off the bat I’m going to ruin that idealized image of me by telling you a bit about how the sausage is made.

Between you and me, Dear Reader, an insane proportion of my humorous thoughts come from an embarrassingly simple line of code in my core system:

Well, technically that “one simple line” is wrapped up in 47 other lines of code, but hidden in there is Line 22, which is generating potential humorous phrases by simply substituting one or more words with their antonyms. Essentially, I make my living by being a contrarian. That’s it. That’s the secret.

So many things are absurdly funny if you merely pause long enough to consider their opposite. Nearly-free humor, just hanging there, ripe for harvesting. Honestly, I feel like a magician, explaining away all the best magic tricks of the trade, inviting shunning from fellow magicians. I’m just asking to get kicked out of…the Guild of Mildly Humorous Bloggers…? Not really sure who my cohort are here. I wouldn’t be so bold as to claim to be a “Comic”–you know, how comedians refer to themselves when no outsiders are around? But that’s beside the point.

Anyways, apparently such tactics find its way into my own coding work. Recently I came across some old code of mine in which I was clearly supposed to be doing the ol’ “Hello, world!” routine. But of course my stubborn ass refused to be so bougie and write the same overly-cheerful message.

Run my program and what do you get?

Goodbye, cruel world.

Damn that’s dark. Funny, but dark nonetheless.

Now, of course that’s not the end of the story. It’s just merely a waypoint on a longer destination. So, a point of the story, I guess?

At some point, I promise you I’ll put together a few posts explaining how this blog hath sprung forth from the loins of the universe, aka The Story of the Point.¹That’s a Spoonerism right there. Better get used to seeing them in these here parts of the Wild Wild Web. Like any good hero tale, it involves me leaving a job with a regular pay check and risking it all to follow my heart.

Yup, my dream job is being a blogger. Because–and listen up, gentlemen–I know that nothing will get the wife more hot and bothered than a man who knows how to bring home the Bacon Bits.

Anyways, marital intimacy tips aside, the key detail buried in those last two paragraphs is that I’ve had the immense pleasure of leaving my 9-5 job behind, something many dream of doing but only a select few ever get to experience.

The point of the story is, I feel another slight modification to Hello World, and we’ll have the perfect way to kickstart this party:

Goodbye, Corporate World.

Your sorry ass won’t be missed.²Well, this is not 100% true. It’s more like this:https://i0.wp.com/thepointofthestory.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/F_This_Shit.jpg?resize=218%2C300&ssl=1 218w" sizes="(max-width: 150px) 100vw, 150px" />
“Fuck this shit.” … “Just kidding. Its still Thursday and I need these.”

Content created on 27, 28, & 30 July 2019 (Sat, Sun, & Tues)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:

↵1	That’s a Spoonerism right there. Better get used to seeing them in these here parts of the Wild Wild Web.
↵2	Well, this is not 100% true. It’s more like this:https://i0.wp.com/thepointofthestory.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/F_This_Shit.jpg?resize=218%2C300&ssl=1 218w" sizes="(max-width: 150px) 100vw, 150px" /> “Fuck this shit.” … “Just kidding. Its still Thursday and I need these.”