A Blog, eh?
People ask me why I blog. Actually it frequently comes in one of these forms:
“A Blog. Seriously?”
“That’s on the internet, right?”
“Is it because Barney has one on ‘How I Met Your Mother’?”
“Can you use it to meet girls?
“Have you turned fruit?”
To which I reply: “Yes.” “Yes.” “I had one first.” “I guess.” “Not that I’m aware of.”
(Man, I hope that I answered those in the right order.)
But, how did this magical mystery tour begin?
Well, when I was a little Pete, with the world at my feet, the wind at my back, a spring in my step and water on my knee, I realized that I liked to write.
I think it was in grade 3. We had to write a short story for Hallowe’en. I don’t remember much about it, other than a few wise-cracking ghosts and a vampire with a heart of gold. I am sure that it was brilliant on a variety of levels.
I remember loving the feeling of creating this little world. The characters did what I said. I OWNED them. Mwuhahahaha. Kidding. I wasn’t that maniacal.
But, I did really enjoy it. Even at that age, I felt like it could be my “thing.”
Then the bell rang, I went to gym glass and got hit in the jiggers with a dodge ball and didn’t think much about writing for a few years.
Jump ahead to the 7th grade. I once again decided that I was a writer. (I also decided that I was Billy Idol, but that is a story for another day.) I was doing school plays and decided that I could write a better play than the ones we were trying to choose from.
That didn’t go overly well.
Still, I kept working on writing plays, skits and short stories in the comfort and privacy of my bedroom. (Probably not the only thing I did to take advantage of said privacy.)
Then the 9th grade happened.
(If this post had background music — and it really should — it would have changed with that line.)
You see, that was the point when students from three other junior highs started coming to my school. There were SO many more women.
Tight jeans… the smell of hairspray in the morning…
It was fucking beautiful, man.
It was like the scene in GOODFELLAS when the mob world really opens up for Henry Hill. Everything had changed. I knew that I couldn’t go back to a world before Grade 9. Like an average nobody… getting to live the rest of my life like a schnook.
But, this estrogenic influx meant the end of writing. My brain had one focus.
Well, two if you count playing basketball. Which, let’s face it, in my head I saw as another arrow in my getting laid quiver.
Let’s skip the rest of high school.
During my first year at university, I took an “Intro to English” class as an elective. My professor was the foremost North American expert on Dracula. Which has little to do with this post, but I thought it was kind of nifty.
At one point, while sitting in his class, I had a flash of actually doing a degree in English. Of reading all the greats. Of writing. Of dressing in black. Of looking all broody and forlorn for no apparent reason.
But, that flash left as quickly as it came.
The voices of family and neighbours echoed in my head. “What kind of job are you going to get with THAT degree?”
I’m not from a land of writers.
Growing up, it felt like you were either going to work at a fish plant, as a fisherman, as a teacher, or you were going to get the fuck out.
Telling people that you wanted to be a writer would, I assumed, have gotten you the same stares as telling people you wanted to be a goat sodomizer.
Sometime after university, I decided that I wanted to try writing again. Not sure how or why it happened. But, this crazy internet thing that all the kids were using, meant that I could foist my ramblings on unsuspecting strangers.
Jump ahead another couple years and a (now) ex-girlfriend, growing tired of receiving 2000 word e-mails from me about how the 1985 film SECRET ADMIRER, starring Kelly Preston, Lori Loughlin and C. Thomas Howell, is an underappreciated classic, said to me, “There’s this thing called blogging…”
[This is sort of a reply to Amanda’s Weekly Composition Challenge. Probably not exactly the type of thing that she was actually looking for. But, I’m not big on following instructions. Maybe if she wore tight jeans and used a lot of hairspray…]