The Meta-Blog About the Blog Talking About Itself, Chapter 18
Sometimes, like tonight, I wonder if I should go to a more random schedule with the blog (you know, like EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD DOES) since it would relieve me of the burden of being witty. However, doing so would relieve me of the burden of being witty.
When I started this thing, I wrote every single day without comments, and that included holidays like Christmas and New Year’s. I told myself I’d do it for a year, and there are so many entries back then I’m proud of, but you’ll never read them. My delightful friend Quinn occasionally reposts entries from the times when she had no page hits, but I feel like if I do that, you will all find it an unbelievably cheap transgression.
As it is, I take off all weekends and even the lesser holidays, but the main problem with keeping you all interested is this: my love life is accounted for. If you look at all the livejournal and blogspot blogs with 1.8 billion hits, it’s mostly people in their early 20s who may or may not reveal who they’ve been fucking (and all the sturm and drang therewith).
I look at my diary entries from those months of my life (the early 1990s), and fully 94% of it concerns my efforts to bed the other gender. Now, I was a well-known cad of the highest order, and thus those pages will not be unsealed until they repeal the Freedom of Information Act in the late 29th century, but at this point you are stuck with me already having proposed, gotten married, and having a child. All documented on this site.
I’m also a guy. Not a striking chick like Dooce, nor am I always one step away from showing my tits, like that podcast woman who gets drunk and usually winds up in the bathroom with her digital camera. This, as you might expect, puts a ceiling on the amount of damage I’ll ever do on the internet.
In essence, I feel like a throwback. I began this thing before blogging was cool, and now there are so many pictures of me (and Tessa and Lucy and everyone else we know) on here that I’ve had to go back and take out names, delete actual places, and try to obfuscate certain opinions that I was silly enough to entertain in the era of eternal Googling.
Already, there have been entries I’ve been ashamed of. One was about my old job at the Woolworth Building that I completely deleted because it was no longer how I felt, and unbelievably rude and inaccurate to boot. Lately, I’ve come to think my musings on Islam were not befitting someone who actually possessed a liberal arts education. And there was this one entry that was about my own grandfather – misread by some of Tessa’s family – that pretty much made me persona non grata in Houston for a couple of years.
So here’s the question: why do I do it? Is it the same desire for notoriety that fueled the best Wednesday’s Child entries in college? Do I lack community enough that my only solace are the comments section, where I rarely say anything? Do I have some sort of magical thinking, wherein my order falls apart if I don’t blog every weekday? Or is it just the same reason cavemen bothered to etch buffalo on the sides of caves?
Maybe I do this because I love to hear everyone talk. Perhaps these are all letters to my daughter, so she can know her dad like few do. Maybe it’s an ongoing love letter to my wife, so see if I can get her to laugh (which is actually quite hard). Or maybe these entries are just notes to my future self, reminding me to avoid complacency and remember there was a time when there was honor in endurance.