Perhaps you can't tell, because of the unbelievable professional quality you hear.
But I tend to do these at the last minute. Sometimes a bit past the last minute, as evidenced tonight. Technically, it's Saturday. I'd feel bad, if I wasn't busy feeling crazy.
I do these last minute because I am afraid of overthinking them. Given that I once wrote about poop for an entire post, you may be laughing at my presumption. You would be correct to laugh, in most cases. I, however, can agonize over whether to make a particular poop joke. I can fall into despair because poop seems so dumb, but it's all I've got. Poop and I are locked together like two stinky peas in a pod. There's no time. I put the post up. I wait for horrible things to happen. Maybe someone will buy me a puppy, then run over it just after I've named it and begun to love it. This never happens, but the expectation remains.
But, if I do these early in the week, I'll rethink them to the point of obsession. I'll see some joke or observation as stupid and strike it from my computer, and my heart. This poor, orphaned podcast will grow up in some back alley of cyberspace, and likely plot Kill Bill-esque revenge. I can't handle that. I also can't handle going slowly crazy for a week while I try to parse the good from the bad, and end up throwing two-thirds of it away. So I revert to my school mantra: fuck it, if they don't like it. I'll still probably be okay. And I am, until next week when it happens again.
I bitch about horror because I really like horror. I'm just usually not scared by it. The Shining freaked me out. The Grudge terrorized my thoughts for some time. But most horror is just fantasy with a dark twist - not that there's anything wrong with that - and not scary. I want scary. I like scary. As ole Cookie would say, I'm pretty much an idiot for 'em. And he would mean that, because he's a monster.
Sci-fi remains awesome. Put some folks in a ship, throw in a clone or two and hammer away with plot, character development, and whatever crazy shit ya got. Just don't gimme hard sci-fi. I don't care how the warp drive works. It's like trying to explain calculus to a dog. You might think you're getting through, but I just want to go play in the yard. The yard might be a metaphor here. I'm not sure.
Too much horror suffers from "Meh, fuck it" syndrome. I know that disease. It's deadly. It says that if you can make a buck, do it, with the least amount of creativity. It might be a good book. But in the end, I'm about as scared as a pit bull staring down a pigeon.
Late Facts: Go see Moon. It's good. Ritchie turned me onto it, and he was right on.