Q.
Well, yes, they ask me that, too. And I don't really know why I keep a blog, or what this blog is for, or who's supposed to read it, etc., etc., depending on the question's permutation. My best answer (and this is true) that I'm combating George McFly syndrome, wherein one writes and writes and never shows it to anyone for fear of rejection. Put the shit on the infernet, and you can't even pretend to control how people will respond to it.
Q.
Yeah, except that in fact the "opinionating" is something I find now I want to cut back on. As I've said (in one or more of these posts, I think), I've got a tendency—we all do, I suppose, but in my case I believe it's particularly acute—to let our opinions snowball, to allow opposition to have a kind of amplifying effect on our positions, until before you know it we're arguing too damned hard, sometimes against imaginary opponents, and articulating grotesque versions of our beliefs that in a kind of argument-vacuum would probably be appalling even to us. There's something about this kind of arguing that both results from and leads to a kind of cordoning off of ourselves, a misguided (not to mention futile) attempt to divide self from universe in much the same way that the neurotic might protect himself from contamination by germs...
Q.
Yes. I've struggled with that, too, some. Who told you that?
Q....
Which of course raises the whole "how confessional?" question. One of the first blogs I ever saw, back before blog was a word, was back in 1999 or so, and I checked it out for my job... Shit, what was the guy's name? It was a diary, very '90s 'net with all the, what did they call it, hypertext?—and the guy really did fuckin' share, man, I think he even had explicit photos of himself with his girlfriend, or at least some naked ones, and I think it really was a kind of public diary. What was that guy's name? He had some weird haircut, like a kind of long straight mohawk that hung down?
Q.
...
Q.
Well, yes, sometimes this shit just serves to help me procrastinate. What's your point?
Q....
Two things helped me get over the germ thing. One: I was trying to decide whether to pick up 25¢ I'd dropped on the ground in N.Y.C., or rather I'd already picked the coin back up and was briefly worrying about whether to put it in my pocket where, for example, my handkerchief was (yes), and then it hit me: the only difference between the 25¢ in my hand and the assorted change in my pocket was that I'd seen the 25¢ on the ground, but you could be quite sure that the change in my pocket had been in all sorts of horrible places (e.g., the vagina of a panhandler), so, you know, I—
Q.
No, there's a story that goes along with that.
Q.
But so I'm saying that if the only difference between this 25¢ and the money already in my pocket was that I was conscious of the possible contamination of the 25¢, then I did not have to worry about it because the other money hadn't hurt me none. Two: someone told me slash reminded me lately that supposedly we're continually ingesting fæces, and at first of course my—
Q.
You haven't heard this? "If you've ever been to a restaurant, you've ingested fæces"? People are always pulling that one out.
Q.
Well, whatever. Welcome to the jungle, baby. Point being, anyway, that when I heard that—well, it was much like when I was in high school and some girl tried to turn me off Oreos by telling me that the white stuff was made of lard, and I was like, "Uh...well, then I guess lard is delicious": it hit me that if you can't help but ingest fæcal matter and indeed have been doing it for years, well, then it can't hurt to ingest fæcal matter at that level. Yeah?
Q.
O.K., well, for me it was helpful.
Q.
Fuck you, then, nobody's forcing you to read this.
Q.
Yeah, I called you fat. Look at me: I'm skinny—it never stopped me from getting busy. I'm a freak: I like the girls with the boom; I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom! I'm crazy. Allow me to amaze thee. They say I'm ugly, but it just don't faze me. I'm still getting in the girls' pants, and I've even got my own dance:
THE BARTMAN.
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