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If you are reading this, welcome to my external locus of identity.  That’s $145 an hour’s worth of psychobabble for: “You clicked on this article, which makes me feel validated, which makes me feel loved, which makes me feel like I don’t suck, which began when I was picked last all the time in gym class.”  I trust I’m not alone in this.

According to the Internet and my bulk mail folder, I’m not; there are many, many public relations and “traffic generating” firms of varying degrees of self-proclaimed awesomeness to confirm it. 

By this I do not refer to legitimate PR firms which properly and honestly flog the living daylights out of the literary equivalent of the Shamwow and come up empty on Amazon.  I mean the time share presentation sector of the business—the ones who guarantee the benevolent gaze of Oprah, the ones who have already tanked up my G-4, the ones who miiiiiiiight technically yield some minor short-term results, but in the morning all I’d be left with is a charged credit card and a vague recollection of someone breathing “foreign film distribution rights” in your ear.

I almost referred to these luminaries as Harold Hills, but then, that’s an insult to Harold Hill, who at least looked good in a big feather-encrusted hat.  What brings his character in The Music Man such complexity isn’t that he’s just a huckster-- it’s that underneath the patter, he really does wish he could tell one note from another.  And if you listen closely, he never really sells boy’s bands.  He sells the idea of them, the promise of a vice-free community healed by Sousa.

But the other, more important truth is, if we’ve found one reader, if we’ve reached across the jet stream of time to the meeting of the human mind—that is enough.  It is more than enough.  It is sublime.  Some would have me believe that having my name bandied about on Twitter would make me more important than I really am... in other words, who I really should be.

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