the sticking point: The Type of Memories That Turn Your Bones to Glass

"Daddy, what did people do before weblogs," my older son asked me the other day.

No he didn't. He is 27 months old, and speaks in much shorter sentences, Hemingway-like in their directness. ("Mommy go?" "Roast beef?" "Gun show!") And, he's not even my "older" son quite yet. As I write this, he's still an only child, blissfully ignorant of how close to a change in that status he is.

But he did raise a valid question about life in the pre-Weblogian era. Remember when diaries were for girls, "journals" were just diaries for boys, and one's innermost thoughts were held most inner? Remember when you had to be arrested for a multi-state killing spree before your aggro-psychotic screeds would be published for the masses? (Sure, they'd be accompanied by a bad hair day photo and the headline THE LUNATIC'S RANTINGS, but still.) I don't have to go into the thousands of ways the Internet and weblogs have changed the way we share boring or private information, but I will contribute to the sharing of it.

I recently opened a file folder packed with some of my moldiest of oldies, and found a ready-to-be-discarded pile of some random writings. Back when I wrote this stuff, I immediately recognized it as subpar, pointless, or silly. Reading it today, I see weblog posts. Go figure.

Here's a sample. I guess it's from around 1993, when I was already old enough to know better and be smarter. Though I'm tempted to re-write 95% of this before I post it, here it is, as I originally typed it up more than 13 years ago.

The Crotch Outlaw Rides Again
I've got a western outlaw in my shorts. It's not my sexual organ ("he" is the reincarnation of Kubla Khan -- but that's another tale altogether, bub). I've got a western outlaw living in my Loomies. Recently, he made me switch from jockeys to boxers as he desired more living space. His name's Ornery Clive, and he's got a long, shaggy gray beard, beady eyes of cold blue, and an itchy trigger finger. Clive's exactly four inches tall and wears a dirty red Henley, ripped brown trousers, pointy black boots, and a pair of six-guns on his hips. Clive stopped wearing a ten-gallon hat, as I bitterly complained of chafing.

I'm not sure why Ornery Clive took up residence in my pubic frontier, or exactly how. All I know is that one day I woke up and saw a large lump in my shorts. I figured it was early-morning timber, but then I heard a belch coming from my cottonies; the last time I checked, my penis didn't have a digestive tract. I quickly accepted Ornery Clive as my partner in life. I now value Clive's "down-home" advice and common sense -- sometimes the western outlaw is all that gets me through the day. "Now, Tom, I wouldn't be doin' that so soon after eatin' -- you'll get cramps," Clive cautioned me when I wanted to dive into the hot tub one day. "Tom, vote for him -- he's got a sound environmental policy," Clive would counsel in the polling booth. As you can see, Ornery Clive has proven useful -- and fun, to boot!

"Tom, ask the barkeep to make ya a Prairie Punch. Here's what it's got in it..." Then I'd tell the bartender what ingredients to put in the drink, and soon, everyone in the establishment would order one and I'd be a tavern hero. One day, Clive used his "frontier sense" to save me from stellar embarrassment: "Tom, she's a he! Get out now!!"

Don't start thinking that this was a one-way relationship; I taught Clive bundles about modern life. I taught his how to floss, what color pocketsquare to wear with certain neckties, the perils of using too much seltzer in an egg cream, when to downshift, and how to read and write. Presently, I'm schooling Clive in advanced hydro-thermal dynamics and the proper preparation of ceviche.

Women react to Ornery Clive in all sorts of ways: some run away in fear, some are more interested in him than me, and some want Clive to "watch" us. Actually, I like it when Clive watches -- he's a perverted little devil and gets such a kick out of it!

I think Clive and I will get on famously for many years to come. I plan to make my fortune in gold mining with Clive's help. We've all sorts of plans: the gold mine, the western fast-food places, the western-wear shops, the travel books, and much more. Yet, there's someone who might get in the way of our placidity. See, Clive just informed me that he discovered a miniature Sal Mineo in his drawers! I ask, What can Sal Mineo teach Clive and me? We shall see. We shall see.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Freight Train from the album O.F.R. by Nitro