I was eating a bowl of Kashi brand Good Friends cereal this morning, enjoying those little flakes that are strangely similar in appearance to Sun Chips, and my sunny breakfast was ruined when I began to think about the state of the world, specifically the ruin brought on by bloggers. Who are these people? Where did they come from? And when will they leave?
A few things can be certain about these particular internet terrorists: they were teenage journalers, given to meandering entries of loss, love, loss of love, and swirly sketches of hearts being consumed by the Death Dragon, Jack, which sent the young soul into a goth-lite state of self-indulgent sorrow long enough to spend their entire paycheck from the snow-cone stand on clothes and accessories at Hot Topic. They deem their mundane everyday to be significant enough to be set apart from the mundane everyday of the masses and be read by these said masses who will quickly assimilate it into their own mundane everyday. Nice. Most likely they're narcissistic and feel smug satisfaction when dispensing unasked-for advice. They'll probably tell you what they had for breakfast and the exact thing that was going through their mind as they took another spoonful of Kashi brand Good Friends cereal. And if we're lucky they'll also have a myspace site from which we can discover which Saved by the Bell character they are most like and whether or not they're alcoholics. The titles of their blogs are clumsy attempts to be humorous or, God forbid, witty and often make no sense whatsoever. And just like the user pictures found on myspace, the unattractive bloggers obscure their faces behind wicker nightstands and strategically placed cameras to prevent the viewer from seeing the truth of the matter. It's pure smoke and mirrors. Even the word itself is ugly - blog. Klingon with a touch of sinus infection.
But perhaps the most pressing question is, "Why do we indulge these vain terrorists and actually read the rubbish they spit out?" Because, when all is said and done and the fat lady is crying over her spilled eggs which were counted before they hatched, we all want to be bloggers too. We want more people than our mothers to care about what's running around in our tiny heads. We want to show off our ironic detachment and the casual manner with which we traverse between high and low culture as we toss off pithy comments and seduce a susceptible audience with our unique and humorous perspective. I am unique, right? We want to dazzle you with our postmodern dance moves, aware that you're aware that we're aware that you're aware. And we want to tie things up with a nice closing paragraph which is both cynical and a little wistful.
Oh, and we all want to be famous.
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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Four Horsemen
3 comments:
I am dazzled. And a stalker. And totally in love with that photograph of you on your bed. Narcissistic. And hot. And bothered.
It's people like us who make people like Margaret Mason, author of No One Cares What You Had for Lunch, wealthy.
Isn't that frightening? There are self-help books for bloggers who don't know what to blog about! Perhaps they just shouldn't blog. Does this mean that writing seminars for potential bloggers will start appearing in undergraduate curriculum? Not everyone has a wealth of life experience, like the two of us, from which to glean and produce something glorious. That's not true. I'm as boring as the next person, but perhaps I can be a little more entertaining.
I see Ms. Mason suggested writing a serial novel, which I actually think is a great idea. And I've been mulling over a fictionalized biographical approach for a fascinating Hollywood non-figure I came across a little while ago.
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