Getting Googled In Your Jammies

Back up several months, if you will, and recall the humble - no, humiliating - roots of one dear rural blogger. Old friend becomes new flame becomes manipulating, lying, son-of-a-bitch. Shell of a human being washes into a therapist's office against his best judgement. Indignant exit to follow.

Caught up? OK. There was never any plan for a blog. There wasn't even a plan for a journal. We didn't own a note pad, for that matter. Had we wanted to document any aspect of the experience, we would have been stealing our own toilet paper for the title page. Or, we could have broken the No Wal-Mart pledge we'd just signed, driven 25 miles each way, and bought paper. Then it occurred... This is (was) 2006. There's a computer in the house.

At the computer, the goal was to snap ourselves out of the unprecedented funk by making fun of the entire therapy experience. We had laid down a number of rules for the journey: 1) We are not going to lie down on that couch. Too cliche. Besides, we get reflux. 2) We are not going to blame our mother for how we interacted with a 6'5" hairy oaf. 3) We are not going to pay a therapist for the privilege of an erotic relationship. (See? We can clean it up when required. You'll see why briefly.)

So we started repeating and revising, in 90% truth style, the experience and found a helpful way to participate in the Clinic while clinging to our Cynic. It worked. Funk dumped. Sense of humor restored. New-found lease on life, if not love, established. Thank you for your time and, for the record, "No, we are not interested in expanding this paid relationship into the erotic arena. Flattery duly noted."

What helped it work was a healthy dose of exhibitionism. By pure accident, we stumbled across the free blogging site, perused a number of the posts, and generally decided that our ego would allow us to document this experience - anonymously - in the public eye. The self-imposed commitment to keep it running was helpful in the extreme. If nothing else, it kept us from sinking inward toward that black hole of self-absorption - the bad kind, not the kind we peddle here on an almost daily basis. Never, never, never did we have any ambitions toward becoming the next Erica Jong, David Sedaris, William Burroughs or Schmoe Jablonsky, the weekly newspaper letter writer.

Then came the strokes, feedback, snarky responses, and the occasional cat-call. Instant addiction. And not just a couple minor delusions of grandeur. We were our very own Huffington Post - if to no one else but the dog and the guy in New Jersey who never fails to read a post. We've tottered along that way for months now. Following the therapy, we changed our name a tad, changed the focus a lot, and started talking more about the world and less about ourselves. Some called that evolution. Others just wanted to know where all the dirt about our personal life went. (Note: It went back where it came from with a cross-eyed man. We never said it didn't still rankle us.)

We got a little giddy about the world-wide stumbles that just having a blog will get you. Spain, Venezuela, Sweden, England, France, Vietnam- even places they don't speak English!! Like Arkansas! Somebody searches for "Judy" and whether it was Garland or Blume, if you mentioned either, you're going on the list of clicks they can make. One time we typed "Sirhan Sirhan" into a post and it has generated more visits than anything else in over a year of typing. Go figure. Someone googled "women's prolapsed (rectums)" and found us. We cannot begin to explain that phenomenon. Such is the Internet. You don't get too giddy about who's reading because half the time they didn't mean to find you anyway. That was until last night.

The House of Representatives found me. The real one. Ours. Three times in twenty-four hours. I'm sure they're not conducting a job search. I happened to mention my congresswoman in passing. Someone on The Hill googled said lady, and by whatever happenstance ended up between the covers of (if not with) YOURS FRIGGIN' TRULY! Now, this may be the standard protocol for Congress, but when you live in Mayberry and anybody in the hallowed halls of Congress has reason to know you're alive... Words fail.

Our drunk friend** in New York City has pimped some of the writing here to New York Magazine, made us flirt with CNN staffers, and generally shoved us off on a number of his dates via telephone - most of whom had some editorial title for some major magazine you've either read or from which you've cut pictures. But nothing.... nothing... prepares you for the day when you're sitting in your underwear eating Frosted Flakes and you see "Unites States House Of Representatives" among the footprints to and from your potty-mouthed rambling about everything and nothing. (**Ed. Note: By "Our Drunk Friend" we mean "Our Only Friend" in New York City. Due to heightened sensitivities on the Island of Manhattan, we take this rare step to clarify that we have never seen this unnamed person drunk. In fact, we have never seen this person. To our knowledge, he may not exist. We also cannot confirm that he has ever had a drink of anything, including water. Neither can we confirm that he is a he. We cannot confirm that he is in New York City for that matter. We take complete license to characterize him as we see fit and leave his friends to have a sense of humor about the matter or to spend more time at the gym. If they took as many well-lubricated phone calls in the middle of the night as we had, they would enjoy taking the occasional jab at one of their favorite people, as well. No aspersions are cast on the quality of this individual - which we assert to be well above average. Aspersions are heaped on those who would take such an off-hand, mostly loving characterization and turn it into a Whodunnit. Now...back to our story.)

We want to just take this chance to give a big shout out to the folks in D.C. for the hard work they do, for making a nobody's day, and.... since we have your attention, at least fleetingly... You're doing the Lord's work. Thank you for helping us get rid of the last guy. And thank you for being smart enough not to do the job like we would - with flaming torches, nooses and midnight raids. You seem to be hitting all the right notes with a broad swath of the constituency - even though we'd prefer a Jihadi Democrat Congress that pulls wigs off little old Republican ladies. And men.

We're smart enough to know that getting everything you want usually isn't good for you.

And please.... Google more often. Next time, call ahead and we'll fix punch.

"After Therapy" Goes.....Print

The newspaper picked up a few paragraphs of After Therapy thought and printed them in the OpEd pages today. Needless to say, "tickled" doesn't begin to describe our reaction.

They printed a slightly cleaned-up version of our thoughts on a local issue that got some national play. Kelsey Smith, a murdered Midwest teen, has been the focus of many letters to the editor since her story reached its apex. Most of them were decrying the obvious. A few were seizing the chance to score points for their caucus of choice.

On the same day, one letter was from a pro-death penalty minister seeking to spread the love of Jesus at the end of a noose for the murderer. Another was from a man who cut-and-pasted the When Someone Gets Shot paragraph from the N.R.A. newsletter that excuses the sin while lamenting the sinner.

And I thought we just had a case of crazy kid kills pretty girl.

We fired off this email to the editor:

Some days you’re reminded that common courtesy is neither, to paraphrase someone.

I pray for Kelsey Smith’s family in the face of unimaginable pain. That’s not what Patrick McWilliams (6/12, “Using a gun for defense”) or the Rev. David McKinley (6/12, “Kelsey Smith”) did. No, these letter writers approached the loss of a mother and daddy’s little girl with agendas rolled up in one hand and placards in the other: one to push his pro-death penalty view, the other to shill for the National Rifle Association. This kind of parasitic opportunism is stomach-turning.

If their parents are around, they have reason to disclaim responsibility for having raised someone to use a child’s death to praise their political pets. A pox on both their houses.

If no one else has told you, the rule is, “Shut up and mourn.” This is not your side-show.

The appearance above is slightly edited by the Powers That Be. I called them "boobs", not letter writers. I would never call someone a letter writer if I had the chance to call them a boob. But I guess that's the daily print business for you. The paper's Web site gives ample opportunity for the more weak-livered among us to fire back anonymously. This is the part we liked best.

We got one only slightly veiled invitation to join a racist rant that seems rooted in the belief that missing white girls make better TV than black ones do. And that their families' tireless efforts earn their plight the coverage it gets. Someone actually gave us an "Amen." Same person. One racist "Amen" for the After Therapy train of thought. We might need to retrace our steps.

So... hyped by the sheer exhilaration of having at least one thought on thousands of front lawns and at least one crazy person closely scrutinizing (and agreeing, frightfully enough) we decided to return the favor and post a comment of our own - as a karmic Thank You for adding ink to our inclinations. I picked out a letter from a Vietnam Vet still crying in his oatmeal over the ass-kicking handed to my former congressman, the Olympic runner Jim Ryun (R- KS), by Democrat Nancy Boyda in the 2006 cycle. Of late, the recriminations have focused on Ryun's absence from Vietnam for a "disability" (a 50% hearing loss at age 4 from high fever) - fine fodder for poking fun, given his rise to fame was based on his physical fitness.

So we jotted:

"Our thanks go to (the vet) for finally offering the one sensible explanation for Ryun's congressional service: He simply didn't hear what was going on.

To be so consistently wrong on such a wide variety of issues that you actually glide to the right of your rural Kansas constituents is a colossal achievement. To realize that it was accidental and a result of hearing loss is just... well... sad.

Interestingly, we know a number of hearing-impaired individuals who seem to be right on the issues most of the time. Perhaps attributing Ryun's poor judgement to his poor hearing is unfair to his ears. More often than not, the problem is between the ears, not in them.

Our modest education taught us that when an issue arises about which you have no reason to speak with clarity, reason or sound judgement, one ought to keep one's hand in the pocket when the vote is taken. Mr. Ryun, despite his lamentable hearing loss, was all too giddy to rush to the floor to cast his misguided votes to our collective detriment. His loss in '06 was among the most jaw-droppingly improbable of them all.

His hearing may be the lone, true explanation for how he slithered out of one war-time sacrifice. It does nothing but further our condemnation of him for pushing others down the same road he's never even sniffed. His defeat was too long in coming.

You can't say he didn't earn it. You can't say it wasn't a good idea. And you can't say we haven't already done better for ourselves."

Well... you'd think I'd called someone's grandmother a whore. I was poking sticks at a long-gone Representative from the part of Kansas most people don't know exists. Here's a sampling of the reaction:

"The party of tolerance marches on!!!"
"...irrational moonbats like yourself."
"...miserable partisan diatribe..."

Us! Moi! Your local funny/cranky/quirky/dirty talker! If there was a word to describe the thrill of being called nasty names by people you don't know, I would like it put on a t-shirt, a bumper sticker, and a line of condoms. This must be what love feels like!!

We may never again see ourselves in "real" print, but this time was a hell of a lot of fun! Our boobs may have become letter writers, we may have inadvertently given off a receptive racist vibe, but all in all, we discovered that getting called names in public is a HUGE turn-on.

On a disturbing note, we caught an unwelcome glimpse of understanding for the Ann Coulters of the planet. We don't like that part of the realization, but it apparently comes with Media Whore territory. As the French say,

"Tant pis."