sermonette

Better watch that first sentence, it's a doozy. Whoever said that the beginnings were easy to see, and that it was the endings that were difficult to decipher never had a case of blogger's block. Simply put, contrary to what they taught us in Journalism 301, it is the rare story that writes itself. Blogs, while shorter in form and residing in their own dusty, solitary box on the literary shelf are no different.
First there is the subject matter to consider. True, one can write on just about any topic under the sun, and by sun I do mean that intensely hot suppressive orb that has kept us in triple digits for almost two months straight without any rain, but that is a case for the meteorologists to sort out. Topics can range from fashion to travel to politics to well, writing. Just the other day I came across a lengthy piece expounding upon the direction of toilet paper, and whether the roll should pull over or under, and if so, was it correct etiquette to change the rotation or just wait until the roll had been used up. Heady topics, these.
Once this thematic hurdle has been jumped, there is always that elusive first sentence, one which every writer worth his sodium chloride has his own opinion about. Blame it on my advertising copywriting background, but I prefer a punchy statement that opens the door seeing that you have about three seconds to grab the buyer... er, reader's attention. This is just a personal preference, much like ketchup on eggs, but it works for me and seems to get people over the threshold, crossing into what could be considered your own cozy little blog cabin on the net.
So now here we are in the living room of the story; the part where the writer has his guests look around, see. If you have made it this far, it is a pretty safe bet that your company will allow you to take their coat and at least stay for awhile and perhaps have a refreshment or two. Myself, I like three, but then again, personal preference.
The story should now unfold with a clear direction of where you are headed and what you want the reader to leave with besides a small hangover the next morning. Make your points succinctly and prepare to tidy everything up in your closing and goodbyes.
Once again, I like a little punch in my final paragraph, as well as in my glass, something that ties-in with a point that was made earlier in the article; a Styrofoam cup for the road, so to speak.
While I have a certain feeling that I languish somewhere near the "mushy middle" in the pantheon of my contemporaries, I have malignant optimism in the writing skills of just about everyone with an email account. Once the blockages have been removed, distractions dissolved, focus regained, the disciplined writer should have no trouble at all constructing his house of syllables, vowels, and consonants, that's what it is after all.
The wrap up is neat and tidy and can only finish with the two words that bring elation and joy to the heart of every writer. Happy Hour.

let them eat steak

There are two sides to every nickel. This is both. You see, in a climate that is increasingly becoming more and more bolstered by the have-nots supporting the haves I find myself squarely in the middle, an observer and a participant, performer and spectator, Democrat and Republican. Oh... forget the latter analogy lest I get carried away in a straitjacket again.
Sit down kids and let Uncle Mame explain it all.
Recently while poring through some glossy magazine that mysteriously ended up in my mailbox I ran across an article touting a new breed of brohemian, a class of citizenry that is more familiar with descriptions of cashmere cardigans from the pages of a J. Crew catalog than it is quotations from the sermon on the mount, or the meaning of "Christ" in Christmas Sale 20% Off. I tell you, it is the societal equivalent of throwing the baby out with the Bathsheba; giving up the guise of the trappings of success by actually paying more for material goods that portray a, shall we say, shabbier cheek. In a quest for solidarity with the less fortunate a subculture has popped up of the plenties portraying the unplenties. A subculture that has understandably now been been forever deemed the Poorgeoisie.
Forget Generation "X." Forget Generation "Y." For all intents and purposes we have run out of letters, much like the early settlers who ran out of continent, or the National Weather Service who infrequently encounters more hurricanes than they have names for. Ladies and Gentlemen, we have now witnessed the birthing of a movement of young, unsettled recessionistas who pay huge sums of money to look the part of the dowager while brunching on Brie and Veuve Clicquot.
The populist outrage has effectively been anesthetized and neutered. Snipped at the quick.
Who could feel sorry for the evicted woman sitting on her front stoop in a pair of Tom Ford $950 jeans? Or the couple who live paycheck to paycheck but refuse fast food, instead opting only to eat $30 Ikura sake-marinated salmon roe at Uchi every weekend. Marie Antoinette's head rolled for far less, this much I tell you.
Most small business owners are clamoring to have the extra business and have come to call this new breed of young, under-the-table spendthrifts the Appreciatives. Roget calls them Disipators. I prefer to call them In Debt. Either way, this inconspicuous consumerism has become the heart of an economy on life support, and may indeed be a necessary evil. What else is one to do? Make less and spend more all the while pretending to have less than the next guy. Now that is a stimulus package we can all support even though we may look upon it later with eyeful of disdain.
And that, my friends, is the fine edge of the coin. A coin I'd like to have back when you're done looking at it, thank you.