something fishy

There's something fishy about this. But let me explain:
Journals aren't something new, of course, we all know this, and neither is the idea of writing a journal with the lofty hopes that someone might read it, love it, canonize you as a bearer of honesty and legitimate, unabashed self-reflection. Shit, James Boswell and Thomas de Quincey did it, hundreds of years ago, and it worked for them (even with de Quincey injesting a kille dose of opium every day), and I'm sure they weren't the first. I'd even be willing to bet that the idea predates the invention of surnames.
But I think the notion of writing a published journal has also found a new home in a dark corner of the much larger concept of The American Dream. The whole rags-to-riches thing has alot to do with hard work, and enterprise, sure, but I know I wouldn't be the first person to have cross his mind the thought that maybe, if I just record my shitty everyday experiences AS THEY'RE HAPPENING, a little bit at a time, hoards of people will come along and marvel at my insights and throw praise and money at me, and applaud my minor dramas ("oh my GOD," they'll say, "can you believe he ACTUALLY ran out of gas, and walked a whole three-quarters of a mile to a gas station, only to walk back again??? He's SO amazing....what a hero!"), and then I'll majestically rise above my own insignificance, and THEN, I won't even have to have shitty everyday experiences anymore. I'll be exhalted. They'll hand me briefcases of money for a half-hour motivational speech. EVERYBODY WILL WANT TO HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY...
Of course there's always been an obstacle: the publishing world. That's right, admission isn't free into this whole thing, someone with some authority is going to have to decide that you have something worthwhile to say, and the means with which to say it, and this person might not be able to tie his own shoelaces without repeating to himself some sort of rhyme, but he worked his own angle of the American Dream well enough and is sitting behind a desk clanking his kinetic energy balls looking at you with a single bloodshot eye and telling you that he doesn't think your stuff would really be appreciated by the reading public.
And there's another obstacle: your own patience. Because hey, it may seem like a great idea at first, but if you write about your own life long enough, you may just find out how boring it really is. And then, next thing you know, you're attending seminars at airport hotels.
But then comes the internet to save us from these things. Write what you want, post it yourself, people read it if they want to, stop when they want to--and you can stop too, if you just can't take it. And maybe, just maybe, someone'll read it, and find there's actually something there--and then won't it be great to know that it wasn't all for nothing after all?
So here I am, with my feet on the starting blocks, and MAN, let me tell you, are you gonna' LOVE what I have to say....oh, readers, it'll bring us all so much closer, it'll enlighten you while you read it just as I have been enlightened through the act of writing it--just like that journal I kept on my trip to Europe that I didn't show anybody...or maybe there'll just be a little something to make it stand out as something a little different. Either way, I'm convinced that I'll be the next donkey to really catch the literary carrot that keeps dangling a few inches from my snout. Jim Bouton did it, and all HE had to do was play major league baseball for a decade. I went to college, work in an office and have done a little traveling, which is pretty much the same thing.
But like I said, there's something fishy. And that is, that I may be talking to a void, or I may be talking to someone I don't know, out there in the world, OR I may be talking to someone I know very well, or all three. And my honesty, my pure, unbridled honesty, is compromised by the fact that what I say could very well come back to bite me in the ass, and quick. So I better watch it...but I'm still gonna' make an effort. I'm still gonna' make an effort to make this real, and honest, and more than anything worth reading, although I can't yet really conceive of a reason to make it so. I figure I'll just kinda' wing it. Wish me luck.
So here it is, the Moses Josh Galactic Symphony, a grandiose and ridiculous name for something that I hope will be small, personal and down-to-earth. Maybe I just should've called it the Journal of Andy Hyman. Or maybe just the surely spine-tingling "Thoughts". Oh well. The damage is done. And who is Moses Josh? Well, if we make it through this, maybe I'll tell you; although it's really not all that exciting. Until next time....