On writing

That's not writing, Calvin, that's just bullshitting. And it's academic bullshitting, which has its own ultra-special hide-the-pets scent to it.

And we miss the writers, don't we? I don't watch television. Seriously don't. I've never seen a single solitary episode of The Wire, The Sopranos, Sex in the City, Will and Grace, Six Feet Under, etc. etc. etc. Never saw it. I hear it's great writing.

Here I am writing. It's why I started this blog, was I thought it might jumpstart my writing, make me write, get me to put words on the page in a more disciplined way.

Huh.

Some days I feel pulled to the keyboard like it's a religious experience. Like I'm communing with the very best amazing part of my holy Self. Sometimes I look at other posts and think, well, I could never do that, introduce Will Shakespeare to Flip Wilson and at the same time actually say something, now, could I?

And when I spend a few minutes reading Susie Bright on the death of publishing/books/the whole damn experience of words and can't tell what is still here or not, that unless that bound paper thing is being held up by Oprah or sitting Point-of-Purchase at a Starbucks NO ONE READS.

And still. All I want to do is write write write and then....

I find out that Tom Delay his own self has pulled a Pammy and that even when his simple spelling mistake is pointed out to him he leaves it up. Nevermind that there seems to be a planet where James Carville and Paul Begala are the "liberal enemy," and where the goal is to "hold accountable the liberal politicians who try to run as Ronald Reagan, but lead more like Jimmy Carter."



So what started as just writing becomes writing about politics, and what is writing about politics becomes writing about who is at this very specific claustrophobic cocktail party where everyone is very familiar and the hour is late. Some of the guests are drunk on revolution and anger and a sense of entitlement taken away. Some are so bored they really should go home but they are here because to not be here would be to disappear altogether, because there is no there out there, they think. Some have completely, utterly, forgotten how to laugh.

And it's supposed to be a party. Like this one, where Mr. (and Mrs?) Atrios check into the Bloggo Lodgings and tea room, meeting up with someone who looks remarkably like Al Franken by the window, but then turns to greet staff from the NRO [note that in my house we always call "writing a left wing blog post," "putting lard on the cat's boil"]:



Yes, I write about politics. I asked a friend recently if I was spreading myself too thin with all these blogs and having learned my fourth or fifth blogging platform-- sorry I've lost count, and have yet to learn unadulterated Wordpress--the kind friend asked me what it is Blue Gal really wants to do?

Blue Gal. wants. to. write.

I want to write. I want to continue to help small bloggers find a voice and an audience and a community. And I want it to continue to be fun. Ray Bradbury says it better in under two minutes than I could in the same number of hours:



What I don't want to do on my moderately successful political blog, is do a netroots lap dance for the Next President Of The United States. As a blogger, that is simply not my job.

It seems to me we have more important jobs as political bloggers than sideline cheerleaders for the DNC/DLC. Our job is to stay awake, to watch, to guard the Constitution (yeah it's been raped but not murdered, not yet). And we've got to watch our so-called friends as much or more as our so-called enemies. There will be no celebration here if a Democrat is elected President.

No matter who is elected anywhere, please to put another log on the fire so I can hold his/her feet to it.

Memo to every Democrat in the entire world: STFU about everything self-congratulatory and self-preserving and self-serving and self-defending, even. Mrs. Clinton, change is what doesn't pay the heating bills anymore, and we know what you owe. Cut the Oprah crap: I'm much more interested in your relationship with Rupert Murdoch than any relationship you have with your own voice. Mr. Edwards, those are some mighty fine stories you're telling, but notice they're writing the last chapter of yours, whether you're ready to end it or not. Mr. Kucinich, you're a white man with a congressional seat and a hot wife. Get over what you don't have and work with what you do, and maybe I'll listen to you again. Stop running for President, stop fighting Mickey Mouse, as fun as that must be, and visit Lebanon and Syria again. Take a page from Jimmy Carter's book, FAST. Heroism awaits you. I mean that.

Finally, Mr. Obama. I don't even want to hear about hope anymore. And I sure don't wanna hear about bi-partisanship, as if there is some sort of family excuse that Uncle George raped our little sister, left our economy and environment and standing in the world sobbing uncontrollably with blood trickling down her thin little legs and we just have to nod our heads and move forward together. Big Daddy Cheney likes to make us say thank you for the cigarette burns on the parts that don't show, the off-site torture chambers and prisons with no exits, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't have a picnic because look what's great about America. Seriously, Mr. Obama, I may even vote for you, but shut the fuck up, my friend. And give me your feet, they look kinda cold to me.