One of the lazy generalizations about blogs is that they are merely electronic diaries–fluffy, self-absorbed journals that are no more interesting than the authors who pen them. While this characterization can be applied to some of the several million blogs in various states of maintenance, it is also fits some of the “professional journalism” that is supposedly under attack from the “cult of the amateur”.

Take, for example, The Irish Independent (sound of shotgun discharging into fish-filled barrel). The paper regularly features the syndicated ramblings of someone called Catherine Townsend, who recently tackled the monumentally boring “subject” of the dating scene in Los Angeles. Taking a leaf out of New Journalism playbook, Ms Townsend makes herself the centre of the story:

“On our first night, we went to a house party in the Hollywood Hills. When I saw the sea of silicon-enhanced, permatanned starlets, I figured that my chances of getting laid were roughly the same as their jean size: zero.”

Just as we begin to fret over our reporter’s damaged self-image….

“So I went to a corner and drank alone – until I met Richard, who had piercing blue eyes and said he was a plastic surgeon to the stars.

We had a very graphic conversation about how he saws through bone, stretches muscles and injects silicon into the cheekbones and buttocks of aspiring actresses. “What would you do to me?” I asked him teasingly. “Nothing,” he said. “There is nothing sexier than a woman who is secure about herself.” I knew it was a line, but it worked. He asked me out to dinner for the following night.”

And, what next? Please, tell us what happened on the date–did you…er, get laid? Our reporter is laudably discreet:

“He asked me to come home with him, and we kissed as he signalled for the cheque.”

What a pro…(a professional, I mean).