In grinding out my modest contributions to the world of blogging, I've noticed that, once again, I've come late to the party. Two blogs, started quite some time ago (at least in the world of blogs; last month was a long time ago in this business) have already been picked up as BOOKS, for heaven's sake! One is about one young woman's attempt to cook everything in Julia Child's French cookbook while the other is about a young staffer in the U.S. House of Representatives who apparently spent more time sleeping around than working for the public good (well, considering how many guys she was sleeping with, they probably thought it was a very PUBLIC good). The latter has already managed to be sued by one of her former lovers when she apparently gave out enough information about him to blow his cover in the Beltway.
Obviously, my life just isn't interesting enough to warrant the publishing of my random thoughts and rantings in book form. I don't sleep around (my wife has stated rather pointedly over the years that she'd A. Divorce me; B. Take me for all I'm worth; C. Hunt me down and shoot me and D. Be very, very sad if I ever did such a despicable thing. She's got nothing to worry about) and I doubt that my family could handle my cooking sweetbreads and brains as part of a culinary journey. While my occasional rantings probably show off my centrist political leanings, I have a hard time being nasty and cutthroat, so my rants won't be making the national blog scene anytime soon; I'm too nice a guy. Yeah, I think Bush has lead us down the wrong path and his right-wing cronies like Rove have opened up a new avenue of political dirty tricks that'll probably lead us into religous theocracy one day, but I'm sure that they are personally very charming fellows who probably sleep with teddy bears at night.
My life is actually quite boring. That's why you'll never read my name in newspapers or hear it bandied about in gossip columns. We don't usually stare at cars driving along the road, staying in their lane and doing the speed limit; we DO rubberneck at horrific wrecks and idiots weaving back and forth, shoehorning their way in traffic to gain a few seconds (and wasting gas) to their eventual destination. On the highway of life, I'm the guy driving a Camry the speed limit in the right lane all the way into town. I don't see a lot of messages on my answering machine from People Magazine, wondering about my sex life.
Being anonymous does have its advantages. Most of the time I can go and come as I please without having to worry about someone recognizing me and wanting to know every detail of my oh-so-interesting lifestyle (well, I do occasionally get recognized, but usually by folks I've dealt with in Court; I'm just waiting for one of them to pull out their NRA-sanctioned, 2nd Amendment-protected Saturday Night Special and bust a cap in me). No one is going through our trash on a regular basis looking for, well, trash (except the feral kitty-cats or the odd raccoon in our neighborhood). I'm Mr. Cellophane incarnate.
Of course, not being famous and well-read does have its shortcomings as well. I wouldn't mind trading checking accounts with J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter's creator. I wouldn't mind having the occasional syncophant slobbering over me from time to time instead of the yellers I get most days on the telephone at my job. Yeah, I know, celebs whine all the time about how they have no privacy and how they can't go anywhere without being mobbed; sure, they're crying all the way to the bank into their bottles of Evian.
Oh well, dear reader, I'll just keep honing my craft here in my little anonymous blog, telling the truth the way I see it. Perhaps someone with more time on their hands than a normal human should have from a big publishing house will see my little missives and decide that I'm the electronic incarnation of James Thurber and will convert all this from electrons on a screen into ink on a page. I'm not putting a down payment on a BMW just yet, however.