What's in a Name?

I spent a great deal of time... okay, so maybe like four or five minutes, trying to come up with a title for this blog. My initial ideas were, let's be kind here, less than ideal. I wanted something clever, some sort of play on words that would summarize my snarky attitude and my creative desires. However, a lot of those sorts of phrases are already taken (for example, the interesting "ProstheticallyHip"). My next thought was to come up with something that reflected upon the way that I tend to bitch and moan in my blogs, writing away my sadness and so forth. This generated the name "Melancholera" which generated an immediate /facepalm and a few rueful shakes of the head. I mean, really? Yeah, let's make a blog named after an epidemic. That will draw in the readership. Why not just call it "Smallpokes" or even "Diarreadings"?
Ahem...

Let's give the abject horror of that last one a chance to fade, shall we?

So... Heart breaker about those Tigers, huh?

Right. Good? Okay, let's move on.

The title, Jealous of Mediocrity, the actual usable title that doesn't make you think of intestinal discomfort came about from feelings associated with one of my more recent addictions. I've been an i-Pod owner since the first Shuffles were created, the ones that looked like a giant version of the Lik-Em-Stik candy sticks? You know, the ones with no screen, the sliding power switch in the back? That one. And I had always used it for music. I carried it around with me at school, hooked it up to my car radio when I delivered pizzas, we were inseparable. This was a little before the time when I started hearing about podcasts and other such media. But even then, I never put audiobooks on my i-Pod, or any of the spoken-word stuff I had on CD (even the really trippy Henry Rollins shit). If I wanted to listen to someone talk, I'd go physically see someone, not pipe their voice through my earbuds. That just wasn't very "rock-n-roll" in my book.
It was around this time that I was exposed to NPR, and enjoyed listening to the weekend programming, specifically "Car Talk", the show where people call in with puzzling car troubles and the Magliozzi brothers dispense wisdom, humor, and only mild doses of embarrassment. When I found that I could start listening to "Car Talk" on my i-Pod (because I could never seem to catch it on the air anymore) I started subscribing to the podcast. A few others came shortly afterward, mostly other NPR programming like "This American Life" and "Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me". It was around this time that I also started paying attention to Wil Wheaton and his blogs. I subscribed to his podcast as well and have been a faithful listener ever since.
But here's my question. What's so special about Wil? He can write, certainly. He is witty, and hard-working, and has made a name for himself beyond the childhood (adolescent?) stardom that thrust him into the public eye in the first place. And he has done so in spite of the fact that the result of that initial stardom was that most everyone I knew or talked to about ST:TNG wanted to punch him in the dick. (I am consciously omitting Stand By Me here, a fine film that, given the leech scene, probably generated sympathy for Wil and his lil' Wheaton.) Bravo, Wil. Well done.
What bothers me though is that Wil, or anyone for that matter, can get lucky. They can be at the right place at the right time and things fall together for them. Now I'm not saying that by landing his acting roles, Wil got lucky. There seems to be a misconception that people in the arts have some sort of trick up their sleeve, and that none of it is really work. No, what I'm saying is that Wil has been able to translate his public exposure on ST:TNG into the ability to make a living through writing and making public appearances, and consequently gets guest spots on all sorts of cool shows and whatnot (see The Guild, Season 3). Now I don't begrudge Wil (or any other star in a similar situation) any of this. I'm happy for him and, in a way, despite all that dick-punching stuff, I admire him. He's quickly becoming the spokesman for the geek chic movement, and you know, we could use someone who's not a hundred pounds overweight, crying about his virginity on message boards from the safety and security of mom's basement.
No, what I really want to know is, why not me? I could write witty criticisms of old television shows and blog about my childhood. I could riff on movies and sell audio tracks of it (Mike Nelson). I could entertain millions with my singing. But I haven't, and most likely won't for a number of reasons. First, I'm geographically screwed. There's no one around here who's interested in what I have to offer. You wanna' be in the entertainment business? Better take the trip out to NY or LA. Second, it's been done before. I was always best at singing other people's songs, or doing things that have already been done before, just with my own spin. My old writing workshop leader used to call that "copy-change", South Park calls it "Simpsons did it", most everyone else just calls it bullshit. Third, and perhaps what's most insurmountable about the whole thing, is that for someone like me, the pursuit of dreams instead of responsibilities isn't a sustainable enterprise. I would love to create art for the sake of art, but I have a powerful need to eat, and having a roof to shelter me from that Michigan snow is pretty important too. I understand that there's an degree of sacrifice necessary to become great, and perhaps I'm not willing to take that step. I can accept not being great. However, I refuse to tell myself that I'm not good. And while I know it, to everyone else, I'm nothing. There are times when I would give anything for a little bit of recognition, just to know that someone acknowledges that I know what I'm doing, that I've created a bit of joy or pleasure for them. There are times when I would even stoop to playing a character like Wesley Crusher (portrayed by the fine, upstanding, incredibly witty Wil Wheaton).
In all seriousness, I feel like my talents are going to waste (as I'm sure is the case for many other people out there). This is never more apparent than when I'm slaving away, bent double over a sink full of dishes in the back of some shitty little grocery store for minimum wage.
There is one thing that makes me feel a little better. Like others I know, I have Googled my own name to see just what's out there. Granted, the most prominently displayed results deal with the trial of someone with an identical name, which is an unfortunate coincidence. Then there's all the rank and file stuff, the listings on MySpace or Classmates.com and such. But there was one listing, one search result, that was a mention in the blog of a former student. In it, he spoke of me as someone that he looked up to, someone who saw past his scruffy appearance and general lack of organization and saw a worthwhile kid. And it's true, he was a great kid, and he's becoming a fine young man. Seeing his statements, knowing that I had a positive effect on his life, is worth more than any paycheck.


Thank you for reading.