das web log

I’ve always maintained that this little public journal has been just for me (and Adoring and Wonderful Husband. And the Grandmas.) But secretly - in my heart of hearts – everything I do, I do it for you. My audience. Whoever you are, wherever you are. Ye who shall henceforth be known as: My Dedicated and Fabulous Fan Base. At least that’s what I like to think on my good days, the days I exclaim to Boh, as he sits in his ExerSaucer, staring at me, wishing I would quit god-damned typing already and maybe read him a story, or at least change the pee-pee diaper he’s been sitting in, for like, AN HOUR: That dooce broad ain’t got nuthin’ on me, baby boy! HOO-rah!

I’ve fancied myself a sometimes writer for years, ever since I was in grade five and tried to write my first novel, a la Gordon Korman and his Macdonald Hall series. If that dude can write his first novel at the age of 12, I thought, surely I can too. And so I did. And in its entirety the manuscript was nine pages long and consisted merely of caricatures of all the other little snot-nosed brats in my class, pre-puberty, post-pleasant, otherwise known as the age when parents say, What the bleep! did I do THAT for? My peers found out about my scripture (mostly because I told them all that – Behold! I am going to WRITE A BOOK!), and – of course – they wanted to read it, if only to know how history would judge them.

My debut (typed, double spaced) made its rounds around the room, when we were supposed to be learning to count to 100 en français, and ended at Christina, a girl I described in my “book” as “a chubby thing, with long brown hair.” (Riveting stuff, I know.) She took offence, mostly because she CLEARLY WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND ART if its meaning reared up and bit her in her slightly dimpled buttocks. Nonetheless, my attempts at writing the great Canadian novel were curtailed, at least until grade seven, when my dreams for penning the definitive biography of Michael Damien, singer of the ever rockin’ song, umm, Rock On, were dashed when whoever was in charge of his fan club refused to send me a stock reply to my letter, which asked him what it was like to work on the set of The Young and The Restless before embarking on his distinguished career as a recording artist. My only explanation for the snub was that either: a) Mr. Damien had a number of shocking skeletons in his closet that he obviously didn’t want me to uncover, or b) like Christina, he was threatened by my talent. In any case, I just googled good ol’ Damien, and his career thus far probably would have been HELPED by being the muse of what could have been the youngest Canadian biographer ever. His loss.

Umm…so where is all this going? I’m sure you’re wondering, since you all have jobs and your time is precious and stuff. It’s going here: I was dropped as a link from a fellow blogger’s website, and I am crushed. Apparently My Dedicated and Fabulous Fan Base doesn’t extend much further than myself, Adoring and Wonderful Husband, the Grandmas, and that Mike Todd guy (when I am lucky). Whatever. You’re all chubby anyways.