Evidently I've cheesed off at least one of the Fates again. This time, I was honored with a position on the Advertising subcommittee, which answers to the Internet committee that ostensibly governs our corporate Web site. My qualifications for this position seem to be mostly that I've seen more Web ads than anyone else in the group.

This is, to be sure, not unusual for those three mythical mountebanks. In recent years, I've been favored with recruiting material from the local romance writers' guild, a job offer from a Great (well, maybe) Metropolitan Newspaper (hint: it was nowhere near Dustbury), and introductions to some wonderfully interesting and extremely unavailable individuals — by which is meant, the ones which did not threaten me with legal action.

The first question, apart from "What did I do to deserve this?", must be "What do all these incidents have in common?" After thinking it over for not long enough for the screen-saver to kick in, I've decided that the crux of this particular biscuit is a serious qualitative gap between first impression and second; I'm a lot more interesting in very small doses, after which the stench of failure, or something comparably malodorous, settles upon me with way too much speed.

The obvious solution is to avoid second impressions altogether; assuming the counter is correct, the meager number of visits to this site suggests I've been remarkably successful. Just the same, this isn't the sort of success to which I might have aspired.

Of course, this means that I am in my true element out here on the Web, where everything is ephemeral. It's just a question of persuading people that I'm not as indifferent a writer as I let on. Unfortunately, this site is jam-packed with evidence to the contrary. Oh, well. At least I'm not getting solicitations from Glamour Shots. Yet.

The Vent

#18
17 August 1996

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