Blogs Are Stupid

Well...my attempt at humor seems to have gone over like a lead balloon (but a truly sincere thanks to those who commented).

I should leave funny to those who are truly gifted comedically, I suppose. It's just that I'm so rarely stricken by an idea for a funny post, that I get really excited when I think I might have something. Don't hold it against me.

Anyway, I have fine blue powder clogging my sinuses, my hair, and my lungs, I am covered in spackle, and my right arm is still tingling an hour after I finished sanding, so my blogging genius (written with a decidedly self-depracating snort) is a little compromised at the moment.

So I thought for fun, I would repost the very first thing I ever put up here at Blogs Are Stupid. At the time, I was poking fun at a particular group of people, who, lemming like, were all starting blogs.

I hadn't really delved into the blogopshere at all, and didn't really understand that there was a community of folks out there interacting, edifying, entertaining and supporting one another.

Now I do.

The dichotomy in thinking between then and now is kind of amusing and somewhat ironic, since Blogging has become, for me, an outlet and a catalyst and a treasured part of my day.

Not long ago, there was a discussion on Miss Britt's blog, where Kimberly from Petroville as a guest poster, talked about hanging up the blog, because it just didn't seem as if people were interested anymore.

This is what I said in my comments there:

I go through this every year and it always follows the same progression.

1. I read some really inane post from one of the a-listers that has like 85 comments.

2. I fume about that.

3. I decide I’m quitting, because if people flock to read schlock like that, while ignoring bloggers who are writing truly meaningful stuff (not me, necessarily, I have lots of blogs in my reader that are incredibly well written but receive few comments) I’ve lost all hope for the intelligence and integrity of women.

4. I quit.

5. I think about blogging every day, but don’t blog. The timeframe on this varies. The longest I’ve ever held out is two weeks.

6. I decided I can’t live without blogging and I will blog only for me and not worry about statcounts or comments or awards.

7. I write a flurry of posts that I have poured my heart and soul into.

8. I pride myself on not caring that these posts didn’t get 85 commetns.

9. I start tailoring my posts to get more comments.

10. I read a completely inane post that has like, 85 comments.

11. I fume.

Lather, rinse, repeat. This year I skipped all that and decided blogging is what it is. And what it is, is extrinsic motivation to write. And that’s okay.

Is that really true? Yes, usually. Except when I write a post that I think is funny and the response indicates that it isn't, in actuality, funny. Then I get kind of bummed. But the truth is, that's just not my forte. But sometimes my blog identity gets kind of staid, and I try to mix it up a bit, with predictably disastrous results.

SIGH.

I guess part of the problem is that I don't really know why people come here. Often the posts that I am most proud of, are the ones that elicit the fewest responses. And sometimes, I throw something out there just to fill space, and get beseiged by comments.

I can't figure it out, so I guess I should stop trying.

Enough meta. Blogging is just...kinda crazy, isn't it? But good crazy and bad crazy and what the hell is going on with this kind of crazy all at once.

I give you now, my first piece ever...

Blogs Are Stupid:

According to all the latest web buzz, "blogs" are the newest trend amongst the pseudo-intellectual. Being myself a pseudo intellectual (just ask my detractors) I decided that I should probably get on board with this, or risk being thought hopelessly antideluvian and uncool. I started doing some investigating, as I was plagued by some troubling questions that I felt must be answered before I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be) in an attempt to "blog".

What manner of things does one include in a blog? Are blogs meant to be public opinion pieces, the purpose of which is to be read and commented upon (and lauded for their wit and adroitness with a turn of phrase, of course) by others? Or are they merely the modern equivalent of "Dear Diary", with secret musings and expressions of heart's desire? What sort of person spills the secrets of their soul on the information superhighway? Is this something *I* would be comfortable doing? More importantly, how does one convince one's self that what one has written is not, in fact, french fried tripe, unfit for public consumption? Perhaps the certainty borne of narcsissm is a prerequisite for blogging and if that is so...can one fake it?

With these questions in mind, I set out to unlock the secret of blogging. Misgivings about my aptitude for such a pursuit weighed heavily on my mind. I desperately needed a mentor. I have, in the course of my internet travels, been acquainted with a number of self styled intellectuals; illuminati of such stellar character as to be wholly convinced of their idealogical, moral and philosophical superiority. They struck me immediately as the sort of individual who would indeed, "blog". What better way to gain insight into the mind and qualifications of the seasoned blogger than to avail myself of their wisdom and proficiency? Nothing is quite so edifying as intellectual property, after all.

With great enthusiasm and hopeful fervor, I began to search out and peruse the literary stylings of this generation's greatest thinkers. I read blog after blog hoping for the kind of enlightenment that would allow me to enter the esteemed ranks of bloggers everywhere. Sadly, with each successive blog, I grew more and more disconsolate and disillusioned. I read about recipes. I read about diaper rash. I read about sex lives grown stale, and marital discontent. I read bad poetry and even worse fiction. I read political rantings and religious idealogy. I read self-indulgent lamentations of victimization, and proclomations of rectitude and altruism. Most appallingly, I read endless rambling accounts of day to day minutiae so staggering in their banality as to be nauseating, coma-inducing, and in some cases, both.

Imagine my great shock and dismay to discover that the meaning of life was not to be found in these missives. No, indeed. What I found instead, were rather stale and hackneyed attempts to legitimize and sensationalize the mundane, the ordinary, and the mediocre. To what end, I remain baffled. And I am also left wondering...what is so wrong with ordinary? I myself lead quite an ordinary life, and have in fact cultivated ordinariness with great determination. We are a middle American family with a middle class existence. My children are neither distressingly dim nor disparately bright. Neither my husband nor I am extraordinarily accomplished or attractive, and though we do alright in terms of wit and sagacity, neither of us is discovering new theorems or solving any of the multitude of problems that plague mankind. We are in all ways possible...exceedingly average.


This, apparently, is the antithesis of what one should aspire to, and I find myself somewhat toubleed about what manner and degree of character deficiency accounts for my disturbing lack of concern over it. I do not feel compelled to glorify housewifery. While I have long admired June Cleaver, I do not aspire to be her, and more often than not, my maternal and domestic stylings more resemble those of Roseanne. I am not driven to extoll the virtues of chauffering, food preparation or child care. It is what it is. I am not. Admittedly, sometimes the predictability of my days does lead to random mental meanderings. The act of removing fecal matter from aged porcelain to which it has become eternally bonded does not of its own accord inspire profound thought. Naturally, the mind wanders.

But what kind of person believes these disjointed bursts of marginally coherent thought suitable for anything but the deepest reccesses of their own mind? Certainly not the great thinkers and philosophers that I am acquainted with! Alas, the printed word does not deceive, and I am forced to acknowledge the monumental sham that has been perpetrated and accept the truth. Bloggers, thy name is Fraud! So, duplicitous they may be, but what compels them to importune others with their pointless and irrelevant blather? Perhaps it is the simple fact that misery loves company.

In short, the conclusion that I have reached is this: Blogs are stupid. As a trend, I predict they will go the way of leg warmers, parachute pants, and high waisted jeans. In other words, they will not be a treasured account of one's cerebral self in days gone by, but rather, a source of profound chagrin and endless harassment, much like the visual snapshots that preserve our dubious taste and unfortunate fashion choices for all eternity.

You know the ones I'm talking about...there's that one of you in the teal green satin dress with the dropped waist. Its the one you still secretly think you look hot in, and the one you always give to online acquaintances, professing not to have anything more recent. You're sporting a poodle perm and mile high bangs. Your date is sporting a matching cumberbund and a self-effacing grin. He know he looks foolish, and he knows he is destined to spend eternity looking foolish on your parent's living room wall. If he hadn't been pinning all his simple adolescent hopes on having sex with you on prom night, he would have clued you in to that fact.

So allow me to do what he could not. Bloggers, it is not too late. You can delete all the pretentious and puerile drivel you've foisted upon the world at large in an instant, and no one will be the wiser. Unless of course you've proudly publicized such with all the vainglorious ostentation that you posess and linked to every other blog in the free world. In which case, I'm afraid, you're screwed. The secret is out, and everybody knows you are whining, self-important boor with delusions of grandeur.

For the record, it has not escaped me that I have now placed myself in the same class as those whom I castigate herein. But no matter. My point has been made. I will not lament my lack of productivity in chronicling every mundane musing that crosses my mind. I will not chasten myself as a "bad blogger" and promise to do better. In fact, this may well be my only entry. Or not. If hindsight tells me anything, its that the malevolence and stupidity of others can always be counted on to provide fodder for my own self-indulgent rantings. Stay tuned. But don't hold your breath.