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Blogging = Streaking

February 21, 2010

Featured Article, Words

One of the Catch 22’s of  obscure blogging (aren’t most bloggers obscure ones?) is that you may feel that since only 17 people read your posts on any given day (actually, 113 on Friday; 64 on Saturday; and 47, so far today) you are free to write any old damn thing. Free to be ridiculous or to over-share because, hell, no one’s really paying attention, right? But then, as e-mail scandals demonstrate, everything you write on the Web is hidden in plain sight. It could come back to haunt you, all that over-sharing or venting, all that exertion and postulation. All that earnest prose and stinky fish yanked from the stream of your consciousness, then flopped, half-cooked onto the plate of a blogpost: Here’s a snack! So, it is with cautiousness and trepidation, shot through with the urge to join the exhibitionist party, I’ve recently begun to post regularly. I could flee at any moment, I should tell you, leaving this blog to join the dead ends, ghost towns and 404 File Not Found valentines hosted by ISP’s across  Blogostania. Because, really, is all this time in front of my computer, seated at my backyard picnic table, smoking an 8-5-8 (and hunting down an 8-5-8 Web link on my MacBook) really worth it for you 47 people? Do I even know you?

It’s a little like the streaking craze that swept through America back in the day in the early ’70s. Everyone’s doing it — or enough people are doing it that we keep reading about it. So, feck it all, let’s us do it. My only streaking experience came one night at J.’s house when I was a senior in high school back in Ohio. He’d stolen my girlfriend. Well, if there were a Wikipedia listing on the episode, it might recount that V. left D. for J., possibly because D. had failed to renew his temps and J. had a killer powder-blue convertible. But that would be a disputed interpretation caused by D’s abashed disappointment and inability to drive V. to the Pizza Hut anymore. Much less to make out in the backseat, except in your parent’s driveway, which is never cool. And J. had indisputable charms, not the least being he was tall, handsome and the mayor’s son. In any case, D. got to visit the boudoir, not to mention the bloomers of one of J.’s fading loves a few years hence in college, squaring our dance card. (See what I mean about over-sharing?)

So, one night, a a mate on the wrestling squad (we were all on the team and V. was a Wrestlette, the team’s version of a cheerleader) had the great idea to streak the mayor’s manse, the house with the tall white pillars at the top of the coolest street in our Planned Community. (Really, that’s what the signs into town said.) Let’s call T. the ringleader, followed by M., and maybe one or two others whose Facebook pages now list them as fans of Sarah Palin. So, we parked T.’s  Fairlane outside on the street, undressed and raced around to the back door to the house’s basement hang-out. This was in a day when back doors were left open, because who would expect buck-naked wrestlers to come into the back of your house? Only I wasn’t butt naked, but had left my BVDs on.

J., I knew, was down there with V., probably doing things in his decked-out basement I had not yet dreamed of trying with V as he was so much cooler and confident with girls than I was. Third base? No way, I was stranded on first, looking longingly that direction. A home run was simply out of the question. I should add, that in addition to that blue convertible, a revered object in the school parking lot, J. had an actual Pachinko game hung on the wall in his make-out basement. THAT’S how much more money and coolness factor his family had over me and mine. You can see what I was up against, girlfriend-stealing-wise. Don’t even get me going on J.’s waterbed, which was about as famous a destination in our town, as like, going to King’s Island. Only funner.

Like Sioux Indians on a raid, we went whooping through the house (thank god, his parents were gone). Which, if I recall, did NOT amuse J., who was in middle make-out mode with V., like that was surprising. Soon, we had skedaddled, back to the car, back to our clothes. Probably to a pepperoni pizza and laughs (though I was a tad morose and still longed for a stolen base with V.), then home to homework. So, that was it for my streaking career. J. is now a respectable, well-to-do businessman with three gorgeous daughters. V. went on to briefly date my younger brother  so the psycho-dynamics I had around that girl were fraught, which would explain the BVDs, were I ever to need to bring this up with a therapist.

And me, I’m an obscure blogger. All of which is to say, hey, read my blog. While it’s here. I hope you may enjoy it or at least not regret an occasional visit. Especially the Footloose Flaneur “fictional memoir” tale  I have begun to unspool, which will streak some places I’ve been leery of going for decades, and which are difficult but very interesting destinations. And ultimately, at least for this writer, necessary places to go before I move on to my next life. So, you 47 people, welcome. And speaking of this blogging thing, I hooked up with a favorite college prof from my days at Miami University recently, an interesting man. He is one of the community bloggers at Open Salon and, when we recently e-chatted about blogging, had this observant bon mot: “I’ve got a blog now, but I suspect they’re becoming like modern poetry: more of us write them than read them.”

Touché, Rich. Let’s write on. Meet you at the Pizza Hut later.



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2 Responses to “Blogging = Streaking”

  1. Karan I. Says:

    I love this, too. I think I’m getting a block- like a “I can’t write like D., so why try” kind of block.

    • admin Says:

      Cop-out call-out. Stop. I have my story and style. You have your story and style. Get your fans back (me included) by resuming the killer tales you were telling in your last life as a blogger. Over and out.