‘There is no one way to blog, there is simply a way to blog. Choose that which speaks to you, and if it doesn’t suit someone else? Fuck ’em’
My rebel yell style of play was going strong by June of 2007. The above thought came from a blog post which drew some acclaim for calling out the “Sam Houston Bloggers among us” who lorded over the blogosphere as if they owned the fucking place. It was a stinging response to a blogger who had called me out for not being down with blogging etiquette. The dude also happened to be one of Dan’s networking pals, and they had something in common; they were better at making connections than at actually writing.
Dan had been away from the blog for over a month when a case of viral meningitis landed him in the hospital. He was still keeping tabs from the sidelines though, and he had a few somethings to say about my bridge burning episode with one of his compadres. But I possessed hand, in the form of stats. And they were booming. My feud with Sam Houston had trickled from his comment thread to my own, with followers and daily notifications of crazy. We made it onto the featured blogs of the WordPress front page, after which I wrote a “Thanks But Who Cares” post in response which was quickly- and rightly- taken down by Dan. Admittedly, I needed a muzzle sometimes.
But I didn’t wish to be a part of a fraternal order. I simply wanted to spill my thoughts onto the page, with no preconceived notions or obligations to anyone or anything but the thoughts in my head. Because to pattern my writing after what I perceived to be the popular branding method would have been to cheat myself, and everyone else. It stole away improvisation and replaced it with a homogenized rendition.
I had effectively exorcised the Britney sugar walls episode with a post titled How To Prevent A Shark Attack, which sandblasted any residual effects of my spiritual nadir. Granted, it wasn’t great literature by any stretch. But at least it was writing and not a porn centerfold. The comment thread churned on for weeks, with a couple notable favorites; Like Patti. She introduced herself as a marine biologist and then began to critique my shark attack strategies, point by point. Then she let me know some of the best moments of her life were spent around sharks. So of course . . I had to respond in (not so) kind, and I finished my thoughts with this.
One last thing. If some of the best moments of your life were spent around sharks, it means you’ve never been laid. Good luck with that. And keep reading!
And then there was Marek- a German filmmaker who was interested in using the image in my post for one of his film covers. I told him ten grand would do the job. He took it seriously and we actually went back and forth in emails for a while before I had to break it to him that I was joking.
That was how the blog went. People either got the joke, or they didn’t. But regardless, they were reading us up. Because when we were good, we were very good. But when we were bad, we were buttah. The blog was a marriage of ugly and pretty words, and they were making babies. Furiously so.
It was to wit, the pretty words that won over The Dame. A Mother’s Day post titled My First Girl had her gushing like a school girl. Of course, outside of the Manson family, the overwhelming majority of dudes have pretty words at the ready for their mothers. I was gladly accepting of her glowing comments and our ever more involved emails to each other. But still, I was miffed at how a virtual stranger could fall for simple words. I read my Shakespeare, and I know that it works. But the logistics of it never did make much sense to me.
“You ask too many questions,” Dan said in response to my questioning her love and affection for my modern day romantic side.
“Yeah, because I realize that writing something beautiful and heartfelt is not the same as being something beautiful and heartfelt,”
“Whatever works, Marco”.
To my way of thinking, it was much too easy to make someone believe in something that wasn’t real. And with some background to go off of, I knew that she was clinging to the version of me that suited her struggling spirit. But hell if I wasn’t doing the same thing. And it didn’t matter any longer because we were a snowball, running away from the peak and straight into a catastrophe.
The morning of June 7th produced one of my least inspired efforts in months. I had too much on my mind and so I took the easy way out. I bashed the Washington Nationals new ballpark, which I equated to a money pit mausoleum for a minor league product.
The Nationals move falls in line with ‘elite’ franchise ticket prices, such as the New York Yankees, who are charging up to $400 for top seats this season, exempting natural blonde strippers. The Boston Red Sox charge $312 for an infield dugout box and $500 for a ten minute conversation with Curt Schilling. The Los Angeles Dodgers charge $450 for some premium, game-day seats close to the field and $300 for a picture with Tommy Lasorda’s penis pump.
When I got home from work that night, I checked the blog and then my emails. And there it was, the prayer to all my answers. The Dame. Her email was short and sweet and it included her phone number and an invitation. She was blaming her impetuousness on the Pinot.
I had no such alibi.