A blog is the ultimate act of vanity. I should know, I used to have one. You write an entry, you post it, send up a flare in your social media circles so that your friends are now aware that a brick of thought-hash has made its way from your brain to your keyboard or touchscreen or voice input device, then you wait. You try to pretend you’ve moved on with your day but if you’re writing something for your blog then most likely the valuable part of your day is gone. The meat is consumed – blogging is simply chewing on the marrow of one’s own existence.
Sure, every once in a while you hit one with a purpose. The one where Amy Adams cooks her way through a five-pound cook book had purpose. So much purpose dripped from its unrested slices that it was collected in a tupperware and turned into a Nora Ephron movie. And said movie of course included a scene where her friends all “informed” her of how popular her little site was. As if she didn’t know. “Who, me?” Yes, you. Don’t try to pretend you weren’t watching StatCounter, damn you. Nobody’s that spunky. She, this person avatar-embodied in Amy Adams, made abso-darn-lutely sure that the movie version of this period in her life – her shining moment – had a footnote making it clear that this was all a surprise. She never imagined this billboard to her overgrown life-consuming hobby, a distraction from her job answering telephones for some enterprise I can’t remember (Ink cartridges? Sure, ink cartridges.). Never once spent the better part of a bowel movement contemplating how her uptight friend (Cindy? Sure, Cindy.) would never see her the same again once this momentous effort of hers became public.
You may have Nora Ephron fooled, Amy Adams, but you don’t fool me. I know what you were thinking when you wrote that blog and when you submitted that post and when you made that bowel movement. “I just read it, it’s great!” Yea, that’s the stuff. Like crack, only it doesn’t disable your spawn.
So here I am, chasing that high. I used to chase it, years ago until it got lost in a haze of alcohol and near-failure. I’m back where I should be – clear-headed and world-aware enough to know that there is something wrong with every god damned thing I lay my eyes on. And I’m going to let you all in on it.
Welcome back to Fantastic Manliness, you bastards.