Late to the Game
Everybody is blogging. Fat kids, skinny kids, kids who climb on rocks, tall kids short kids even kids with chicken pox...Now I am. And I am late to this electronic super nerd party. But at least I'm here.
I envision setting the blogosphere on fire with my posts. Somehow, through the din and confusion of the noisy marketplace of ideas called the internet, my voice will rise above the others and be seen as original, unusual, triumphant. I will be Farmer Ted driving Jake Ryan's dad's Rolls home with the Prom queen in the back, digging on my idiosyncrasies.
But then i hear the voice in the back of my head, you know the one that says "You are not special".
"Scram!" I say to the voice, but he never really leaves. He replies, "You'll end up like Bryce in Sixteen Candles, going home with his nerdy friend."
"Seriously, you're no good for me!" I tell the voice, but he's a permanent tenant in my brain, so much like my wife does to me when I am rambling, I simply learn to ignore him.
So this is it. The first one. We all remember our first time right? Underwhelming you say? Perhaps. It got better, right? Maybe it'll be little better if I'm drunk? Maybe you'll experience it once and have no desire for it ever again. Maybe you'll have a headache and not be in the mood to read it. I've heard all the excuses. I'm married.
In any case, a bit about me. I'm a 37 year old (when the hell did that happen?) father of two. I am a lawyer and I work for a Institute of higher learning. But what I really want to do is dance. Just kidding. I rant and babble and decided that maybe a blog would be good for me (well, better for those who would be spared my lunacy). Will I touch on politics? Probably. Religion? Yeah. Mostly pop culture and shit that annoys me? Likely.
I will probably offend somebody.
"If anybody reads it at all!"
"Shut up!". Sheesh, that guy's annoying. In any case, I don't think blogs aren't supposed to be a concrete permanent impression of the writer. It's a snapshot. A diary entry. The snapshot of me in 1986 wearing my Mork suspenders and Evel Kneivel long sleeved T shirt isn't me right now. It's a little piece of the jigsaw puzzle called me, without it, you don't get the complete picture, and you can't tell the complete picture just by looking at the one piece.
It's like good ole George Bailey throwing stones at the old house in "It's a Wonderful Life". The snapshot of George in that moment was a brash kid who viewed the old house as decrepit and deserving of ridicule.
This makes his "Oh, look at this wonderful old drafty house" statement at the end so moving (Yes, I get misty each and every time I watch it...so what?). So I'm throwing stones, and looking for Zuzu's petals. I'm trying to keep up. Quoting movies from the 1940's should help. How do you shut this typewriter off? Til next time.
