You, sir, are brilliant, funny, insightful. You have no business being all those things. I turn to you before the tea has finished steeping every morning. I wish that were enough. I wish I could remember how many women I'd said that to over the years.
Look, comments, schmomments. Kevin Drum gets 200 every time he sneezes, and I'll bet he'd trade it all just to be able to tap dance like you. And your commenters are invariably bright, funny, and witty, present company excepted. If I owned a network you'd be producing the news. Okay, cable network.
So my advice is, "Fuck it, I'm not qualified to give you advice." Follow the Muse. Read Chuang-tse:
Starlight asked Non-Entity, "Master, do you exist? Or do you not exist?" He got no answer to his question, however.
We'll wait, dude. Feel free to stop by Indianapolis, where both the booze and the In God We Trust license plates are free, the women are well-rounded, and a weekend's worth of discussing troublesome bare patches under shallow-rooted trees will show you what's important.