There's been many a false start at writing this second column, many times when halfway through a paragraph or a sentence or a cold glass of wine-scented milk, I changed my mind, lost an idea, or didn't think what I was writing was worthy enough for the millions of readers of Studio8.net.

So it got deleted.

I closed down the computer, took off my clothes, tuned the radio to Fresh Air and went to sleep, putting off the notion of writing a column for another day, for a time of stronger inspiration. Maybe I was even hoping that Chris or Brock would fill in the dead column-less space of the past few weeks with a submission of their own.

Well, Chris will probably tell you that his time is devoted to teaching young New Orleans street hoodlums the golden genius of improvisational theater, and Brock will complain that his Texas-raised manicured digits are too overtyped as it is and that he can't possibly spare any extra time to go two levels down into the hell of his priorities and bring back up a column for you content-craving fans.

You know, it's sort of like my Uncle Jesse (not the same uncle from Full House) used to say to me while beating his son, my cousin, for trying to homosexually rape me, "Truston, excuses are like turds deep down in the digestive system - everybody's got a few squirts of it and they always find the most opportune times to unload it on the rest of the world."

I know what you're thinking, I've clearly mentioned my own excuse in the beginning of this piece. You're quite right, though you usually never are, and that's exactly why, despite my lack of stimulation (other than the pasta stuffed into my underwear), I sat down and am now typing out this column.

Of course, I have no idea where it will be at its conclusion and so I suppose this is a surprise that will be offered to us both, which means that author and fan alike will have a connection unlike any other up until this point in the known literary universe.

I must warn you, however, that this conjoinment of our minds doesn't mean I've slept with you, and I don't intend to, so stop with the insistent emailing. You all know who you are. I am also trying to be a subtle inspiration to both Chris and Brock, who as I've said, have let the petty things of life interrupt what is clearly the demand of the followers of Studio 8... this column section.

You all should email them with complaints.

Chris, I know that we've had our differences and I know that it's awkward for us to speak to each other or share the same shower, but I wanted to tell you that the first time I went to your house in Covington, I used the bathroom under your sister's sofa. I'm sorry.

And Brock, I know that you will edit most of the content of this composition in a way that glorifies only you, that you will underwrite and undercut every employee of Studio 8 in hopes of taking over the business and then selling it to a Japanese corporation, and that you will slowly turn Harold against me, but I wanted to thank you for that five dollar dinner you bought my kid sister the night she officially became a whore. She used to mention that every time she brought her paycheck home to my father.

Now, like many of you readers, I'm officially just as lost in this discourse as you are, and I'm not all that sure that the things I've mentioned to both Chris and Brock will in anyway get them to write columns of their own.

But then again, who knows? Perhaps they're pecking away on their custom keyboards right this very second. I'm no sure-sighted clairvoyant minstrel crooning telepathic transmissions in the night. I'm just a kid, a lonely penniless interloping denizen of the Denver Doldrums trying to find his way through an editorial like a woodsman who’s lost the trail.

And now, unless I want to incur Brock's southern wrath, I'd better put some kind of an ending on this thing. And I'm sure you readers out there are ready to call it quits, too, if you haven't already.

Well, here goes: So the grass grew green, and the cattle fat! And Ki-pat got a wife and a little Ki-pat. The end.

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