Cursing a blue streak

Lackadaisical as I am, as a blogger I do strive for a nano-sized measure of quality control. Immediately after I post, I log out of Flickr and WordPress to doublecheck that everything I want to show SHOWS. Because who the hell wants to look at a bunch of broken links, right?

But for some reason, Flickr SEEMINGLY randomly-and-without-user-error has a need to turn some of my photo permissions private. Then change the image ID/url of those photos. Which in laywoman’s terms means: BROKEN UNPRETTY POSTS.

I’ll email support to make sure it’s not on my end; I mean hey, I try not to mix editing and crack but who’s to say I’m not a multi-tasker? Right now, though, I’m flashing on the way my old boss’ father-in-law, a Louisiana native, once summed up his relationship with a colleague: “I wouldn’t trust that guy in a shithouse with a muzzle.”

Now THAT’S colorful.

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A finger on the scale

Aside from having an all-access pass to Dr. Google, one of the super-best things about the internet is being able to find people who share your obsessions or neuroses or lovely-but-quite-boring interests.

Of course as soon as I typed the above I thought–in the very stilted manner that I can’t seem to shake off since I began writing legally binding copy–“Wow, that generalization conveniently leaves out the destructive and often illegal actions that can arise from mutual obsessions and dangerous inclinations.”

Naturally from there I began thinking about poor exploited children and e-affairs and the international arms smuggling that goes on under the cover of knitting forums.

But I got a grip, because I really just wanted to say that in talking about the direction of an earlier post with a very creative person (vs a pal who would rather eat glass than discuss the creative process, and by “pal” I mean Mr Vix) I was totally amazed that she took my musings and turned them into something one could freaking exhibit as an indie short. Or turn into a commercial if going all 80s art world provocateuse beckoned.

She gave me something linear and fantastical with the opportunity for riotous dialogue. Something wry yet bittersweet. And for a moment I was all, “OMG if I ran with this I could be on my way to becoming an honorary Sedaris!”

And then I came to my goddamn senses. Because while it was amazingly uplifting to have her overestimate my capabilities that way, coming up with those sorts of wild tales is not how I roll. The storytelling that’s mine by nature and nurture won’t go to those heights. It’s a horizontal creature, destined to make make wrong turns and go in circles and head down dead ends that require tedious backing out and, if all goes well, getting to re-orient after meandering by an accidental landmark.

The storytelling that’s mine by nature and nurture doesn’t do closure, but for a minute there it was nice to dream.

Loose(ned up)

So yeah, those that can do and those that can’t critique.

But one of the 3,598,805 reasons I’ve resisted blogging thus far despite participating in online forums and seeing crazy that shockingly rivaled that of my family is…do you want to guess?

No, not fear of being slagged off. Not my boring life. Not laziness–look, they are “right” but not the answer I’m looking for, ok? And since I have 3,598,802 more of these to go, asking you to guess was stupid.

It’s tone. Because frankly after years of mucking around in people’s s-e-xxx lives, I now get paid (sporadically, thank you luck of the Irish) to write copy that is “put together” to varying degrees. Sometimes it needs to read like Barbara Bush looks, all stern and hearty and This Is the Way It Is. Sometimes it can be a bit more sprightly and warm and adorable, like MTM doing Laura Petrie. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what the hell I write because by the time it gets through all the “stakeholders” and lawyers I don’t recognize it anyway.

But when I’m communicating with people who make me laugh and there are no expectations and no constraints I don’t dread writing. [More importantly, I don’t dread re-reading what I’ve written because I’m trying to stay awake or something and whoa, counterproductive.] It’s usually vulgar and run-on and messy and free and often rather mean-spirited, which (somewhat sad to say) is me, unplugged. It’s Janis Joplin meets Bob Dole, yo, and hot damn it feels good.

This is where I remember that in school I always sucked at writing conclusions and it took forever and I’d be in tears but generally triumphant by the end. Or this is where I could think back to yesterday and the trouble I had ending my “more serious” posts so that there could be a nice pithy sound-bite-y sort of wrap up.

And then I realize there’s nothing but me and the memories of my grammar school teachers holding me back from typing:

IN CONCLUSION, I’m glad there are beautifully-crafted blog posts out there; I even enjoy reading some of them. But all them sparkles, it ain’t me.*

* c KD Lang/Ben Mink