Sunday, May 2, 2010

What's a blog gotta do

Oh bloggy.

Sometimes I imagine you panting under a hot Alabamas sun; the sky is always blue here and it IS always summer. You're rolling in the dirt because you need a bath or you have fleas or you smell like a smaller dog's saliva or you're an asshole or you're incorrigible or just because.

Sometimes I imagine you doggy paddling or sailing ether waves and you become a boat on those ether waves but sometimes you're a dolphin and sometimes you're a deadly jelly fish and sometimes you're that kid that survived the deadly jelly fish's sting and sometimes you're plankton and sometimes you're that six-pack ring of plastic and you've been caught around the neck of an albatross and the albatross is choking slowly starving and sometimes you're happy plastic molecules and sometimes you're bobbing and dancing among the waves - it's a plasticky rave, sometimes you're plotting plastic insurrection; you're time will come, dear bloggy, just like that plastic coup d'etat of our oceans. Some day all the plastic particles will band together and form a bridge and then a country and then a world and our world will be a plastic world and we won't know any better or we won't be able to be part of the plastic world.

But that's not now and that's almost post-apocalyptic and not want I want to talk about.

I want to tell a story. I want to talk about me. And why I should be famous. Or why my neighbors should at least know my name. Why store clerks should be nice to me. Why truckers should always sound their horns when I make that horn pull gesture. Why rest stops should be named after me. Why I should receive surprise gifts of good bourbon on my doorstep. Why there should be a Lifetime movie about me or at least someone close to me, someone I've touched, or someone who's been in some kind of proximity to me once. Why kids should be given donuts with some kind of semblance of my face in sprinkles, in jimmies even, every now and then. Just for the hell of it.

When I was a wee child, the Easter bunny and Santa and the clowns and any other adult dressed up in some weird costume at some weird thing Xtian adults or just adults thought children would like always talked to me. They would seek me out in the crowd; as a child, I was always singled out. It got to be so bad every time the actors left the stage I would hyperventilate, even if I knew it was just for postmodernism's sake. I'm still the one interrupting the Globe's performances. I'm the one they have paramedics on hand for. I left a part of me there with Falstaff, in London. He and I are locked in some eternal battle.

So, I should either be famous or paranoid...

As I got older, people still didn't leave me alone. All I wanted was to be left alone, but those fucking people knew it and just wouldn't. Junior high, yeah, boys would bother me. Grade school, even. We played "boys chase girls" and I was so wild. I never wanted to be caught.

Older still and I started to appreciate boys; I started to appreciate being singled out. I was in fashion shows. People would stop me and tell me I should be a model. I stomped through Turkey's cobblestone roads in platform boots and people shouted, How do I talk to her? I was young, and like those plastic particles, plotting some kind of coup.

It didn't last cause I got older and wiser and less idealistic and less naive perhaps. Maybe lazier, too. But today, I was in the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie in the Alabamas and a woman had to stop her cell phone convo to tell me she loved my outfit.

That made me feel good.

Of course, none of this has to do with you bloggy. Or your raison-d'etre, writing or the South or conformity...Plus, it's not even sexy. The closest it got to be sexy was when the boys were chasing me.

C’mon boys, where you at?

And check check check this out, too:

That's the post-apocalyptic shit I'm talking bout.


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