I always wanted a blog, but now I got one I have no idea what to do with it. My first thought was to make it an online line diary where I could post my thoughts and express my feelings, but the problem is it’s not like an old fashioned diary because anyone who stumbles across it can read it and they can tell their friends to read it. So different than sneaking into Stu’s older sister’s bedroom and jimmying the lock on her $2.99 Unicorn themed, lined little book with the Harry Potter-esque clasp and the embossed gold lettering spelling DIARY in a happy little cursive script. And even the day we sneaked it onto the 4th grade playground at recess its readership peaked at 12 people. Here, on the web it could go further, so you write with the knowledge of that. Instead of just writing, pure and cleanly, just to exercise, each word is open and on view in the public domain. Like here for instance, I would never let loose with a string of curses, a fuck, fuck, fuck, you dumb cunt. It would be self-indulgent and boring. Which was precisely what Stu’s sister’s diary was: a boring commentary about boys and Barbie’s and that board game Mystery Date and the Monkees. I run the risk of the same. Posting something akin to crib notes on a damaged brain. Then I was gonna post fiction, essay’s and prose. But the problem with that is once again, writing with an end purpose in mind, the piece becomes considered, groomed, no longer pure moonshine, but getting close to bourbon. Which leads me to recognize that journaling, the automatic jotting, the draining of communicative energy with no purpose, no audience & no rules; should be done on paper. Mr. Lynch told me write every day, Mr. Clarke told me to write 3 pages every day and tear the pages up after. This is supposed to unblock the creative qi. But I never did that. Just kept writing in notebooks and some of it was good. Problem was it never finished or jelled into a meaningful story. Disjointed paragraphs. Now I have knowledge. Writing for deadlines, marketing. Perhaps I will put up my stories, Quabbin tales, the unstable messiah, and inspirational stuff that makes my eyes cry. I don’t seem to cry at tragedy much anymore, no, I tear up over those stories like Jeter’s last All Star Game and the reverence the fans and players showed, and that fakey story of Shia, a disabled boy and his first time playing baseball, and how the teams playing just knew, that it was more important to make memories than win. No it’s not just baseball stuff making me weepy, although learning that baseball is hot in Iran  gave me hope. I think it’s basically stories where people aren’t kicking the shit out of each other that soothe me.  And there’s my purpose: the blog will host thought out musings and commentary akin to diary entries, stories and of course gossip and anonymous innuendo that’s rife on the web. I think I’m seeing less bathroom graffiti since the web came along, and I haven’t seen any sex requests on the stall walls since Grindr debuted. And then there’s plain revenge. Ever get a putdown so wrapped in flowery words and a body language bow that you didn’t even get the insult till later? There’s the kinda stories I wanna tell. All about Fidget, Aztec Two Step, and Stoned, Blind & Stubborn. And other interesting people.
But first I tell a very old story.