CommunityTBogg

I’m a man of wealth and taste

When TBogg wrote me, revealing his plan to ditch you guys and write Navajo poetry and sell vibe-infused rocks in Sedona — now that all the dusky-types are fleeing the state, he figured it was a good time to fleece the New Age White Supremacist market — and asked me to help snark-sit his joint, I said:

TBogg! They’ll eat me alive! I’m not going to read that right-wing shit for them, Ross Douthat’s mewling, passive-aggressive righty Catholicism makes me want to stuff David Brooks up his ass. I’m not going to post pictures of your dogs, and if I posted pictures those pictures I have of your wife, you’d wonder how I got them and we’d have issues. In short buddy, I’m not you. Get some other clown to fill those giant, honking shoes of yours.

It was here I felt his virtual hand around my shoulder — online he’s the tops, our TBogg (in person, he’s even nicer) — he wrote back, “Don’t worry, Jay. They probably won’t bother reading you anyway. It’s cool. Do what you want. Be the best you, you can be.”

I felt reborn. Three years (or is it four?) after closing up my blog Needles on the Beach (I can’t seem to find much of a trace of it on the Google), I was ready to get back on the beam. To give the people full-frontal, unvarnished, ME.

Now I just have to figure out what the fuck to write about. I could pull a Goldberg here and bleg for subjects, but I trust in the collective will of the conservative Borg and their media enablers to deliver unlimited grist for our mill here. So keep coming back.

And anyway, Susan’s already going great guns and another A-lister will be up and running later today (check back soon to see who it is!), meanwhile, I’ll get my C-list shit together, put my feet on TBogg’s couch, take off my pants and get comfortable.

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Jay B.

Jay B.

Writer. Bon Vivant. Jerk. I've been called many things, but in my heart I still like to think of myself as that quiet, ultra-shy shut in from Massachusetts who wrote poetry that moved that moved the world. Wait. That's Emily Dickinson.

I'm someone else.

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