Please, Stalk Me

I recently read a discussion post on www.20sb.net about "blog stalkers."

Like most discussions that take place on this board, replete with enticing, hard-hitting topics like "Longest You've Gone Without Sex?", "How Ugly Are You?", "I Want to Discover More Girly Blogs!" and, my favorite, "Should Canada's Anthem Become Gender-Neutral?" I was definitely moved and intrigued by a discussion on the burgeoning phenomenon of "blog stalkers."

I have to go on the record at this point and admit that I'm not sure I understand the term. I mean, I know there are people out there who read my blog every day, and they make comments about the things that I write-- personal stuff!-- and some of these people even go so far as to "follow" me.

I mean, skeevy times, right?

Here's the thing: I thought that's what bloggers... wanted.

Maybe I'm wrong, but don't we obsessively self-promote, self-adulate, ardently seek the approval and consistent praise of total strangers? Don't we welcome them into our lives by opening ourselves up like a mid-March crocus? I mean... I thought that's what we did.

So I got to thinking, because no one on that particular discussion board was able to adequately elucidate exactly what a blog stalker was-- what is the difference between a blog follower and a blog stalker.

Well, I thought about this for a long time, and I came to the conclusion that there are a lot of similarities, and only a couple differences.

SIMILARITIES:

Blog followers & blog stalkers...

* read your blog obsessively

* comment frequently

* tell their friends, acquaintances, neighbors, comrades-in-arms, postal inspectors about your blog

* are almost always female

* have a vested interest in what you have to say

* can't squeeze out their morning loaf until they've read your blog at least three times

* more often than not read your blog at least semi-nude

DIFFERENCES

* Blog followers give you positive attention, blog stalkers give you negative attention

* Blog followers may sometimes end their comments with "I love you." Blog stalkers may sometimes end their comments with "Mo' cut you."

If there are other things that set blog followers and blog stalkers apart, I couldn't figure out what those traits might be. Maybe I just haven't had enough experience with blog stalkers. I once had a bunch of people get mad at me for a negative review I wrote about the band, "Hoots & Hellmouth" but they forgot about me after the next time they got high.

I sometimes have followers of My Masonic Apron write me 20sb messages or g-mails about this or that, and they sometimes mention feeling guilty about coming off "stalkerish." And I have to pretty much laugh that off until one of them shows up on my doorstep wearing a masonic apron with my picture embroidered on it and bloody pig's head as a facemask. Because, really-- the internet and the blogosphere has very much blurred the line between fan, follower, friend, stalker and everything in between. These designations just aren't as clear-cut as they once were. My creative writing teacher hiding in J.D. Salinger's bushes wearing camouflage make-up and eating tinned tuna for three weeks? Stalker. I mean, come on-- that's easy.

Someone in Alberta checking your blog four times a day? Maybe they're just a fan with O.C.D. Who knows, right? And maybe I'm a reverse-stalker for checking my blog stats so much. Maybe I'm fucking stalking YOU! Well, folksies... what are you going to do? Bust out a cyber-restraining order against me? That I can't come within five thousand IP addresses from yours? Tell it to the judge, sweetheart.

Do me a favor, though, in the meantime: get me some more stalkers. Or followers. Or whatever. I could use the attention; positive or otherwise.

So, There's This Thing...

So, there's this thing called "Featured Blogger" on http://www.20sb.net/. It's a forum for overwhelmed, attention-seeking emotiwhores like myself who, as noted in a prior blog, are straddling the divide between zits and wrinkles-- some doing so better than others.

Every month, 20something bloggers plucks a blogger from the environs and plops his or her (mostly her) mug on their homepage for the duration of the month, and ravenous content-hungry plebians flock there en masse hoping to find pearls of wisdom to live by, or at least a humorous anecdote about shoes or boys.

Members of 20something bloggers must vote on who they feel, for whatever meritorious conduct, who ought to be featured. Now, without pulling my own pud, I'm honored to say that, for the past few months, My Masonic Apron has been mentioned favorably and has garnered its fair share of votes. But I've never won. Because life is, at its core, virulently antisemitic.

No, seriously-- everyone hates Jews. Especially other Jews.

But I think the real reason I've never won is because there's never been an organized, grassroots, pull-em-by-the-short-curlies, bible-thumpin', ass-rapin' campaign to raise me to the top of the podium, where I rightfully belong as a slightly misanthropic, decidedly myopic, ill-mannered troll with a decent vocabulary and a smattering of scoliosis.

Well, a day or so ago, one of my very nice readers, Maria M. from No One Reads the Copy (which is patently untrue, Maria) dropped me a line and said something akin to, "Hey, Apron-- everyone who's a featured blogger on 20sb is a girl and is snarky and talks about fashion. It's all the same-- you write obsessively every day and aren't a girl and you obviously know nothing about fashion: you should be a featured 20sb blogger-- what the fuck?!" And I was like, "Yeah, but I don't like self-promotion." And she was like, "Shut the fuck up and show us your balls, you little faggot."

I'm paraphrasing, of course, despite the quotation marks which are admittedly misleading.

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. I'm kind of an underdog in this world. I don't catch your eye with pretty pictures of dogs and cats hugging or take up space with inane cupcake recipies or clips from old SNL episodes or bad poetry, or even drunk texts or rants about how my roommate's room smells like feet. Why shouldn't I be a featured whatever, right? The only thing is-- I swore to myself (I do that a lot) that I wouldn't come to you to ask you to vote for me unless I could think of a decent, solid list of compelling reasons why you should do just that.

So, after much deliberation, care, and ointment, here we go:

* I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist Party.

* I believe everyone is entitled to full, complete, and comprehensive healthcare. Except North Koreans over the age of 82, persons with a total of seven fingers, and the guy who lives across the street from me and always parks his black Passat wagon the wrong way. Fuck him, you know?

* I just showered, and I smell all nice and pretty. I even used conditioner!

* I believe that furry, wild animals should be appreciated and admired from a distance, and not shot at from helicopters.

* I've never stolen anything-- except for when I worked on the street as an EMT. That was like theft city. I don't know what got into me back then. I stole fucking everything! Brightly-colored nitrile gloves from ERs were my favorite-- I would stuff every single pocket of mine full with them-- and EMTs have lots of pockets. Blankets and pillows from other ambulances in the company were another easy target, and I even stole a goddamn penlight for my wife who needed it for her graduate studies. Goddamn thing didn't even light up when I brought it home to her.

* I've never cheated on my wife, and that's something that a lot of people in politics have a real problem with. And, if I did cheat on her, I wouldn't expect her to "stand by her man." I would expect, and fully support, her inserting her pinkie fingernail straight into my urethra and then inserting my shaft into a jar of acid.

* The only times I get caught in "compromising positions" are when I'm onstage-- so it's okay.

* I've never invaded Poland.

* I promise that, if elected to the supremely coveted position of Featured Blogger I will never:

-- pardon a Goddamn turkey
-- hold an Easter Egg Roll on my lawn
-- pardon a Goddamn criminal
-- read "The Cat in the Hat" to a bunch of zonked-out school children
-- use a Tele-Prompter
-- wear a flag pin
-- say "My fellow" anything
-- fuck an intern
-- fuck a sheep
-- fuck over a significant portion of the population
-- stare off vacantly into space while some asshole takes a black-and-white picture of me
-- become Protestant
-- eat babies
-- masturbate all over the ceiling of the Lincoln Bedroom
-- inhale
-- reveal classified photographs of Henry Kissingers breasts
-- pick you-know-who as my Vice Presidential running mate
-- drop-kick George Stephanopolous on national television
-- wear a bra under my suit

Please. If you're twenty-something, and a member of 20sb, be a good citizen, and not a little bitch. Vote for My Masonic Apron right here.

Blog of the Month

Harken ye to this proclamation:

I have been nominated to be the Featured Blogger for the month of February on http://www.20sb.net/.

Debonair and talented Brit Duke Fandango is the one who initiated the madness, and a few of my stalwart supporters have lent their voices to second and third and fourth the motion. If you want to throw your weight and/or naughty bits behind me, go right ahead.

I'm not going to win, but that's okay. After all, what would winning get me? Some more exposure? A few more followers? A potential lawsuit? A box of biscuits? You never know, but I distinctly lack the 20something star-power necessary to attain such a lofty feat. Plus, my blog isn't networked on Facebook and I don't tweet every time I touch myself in the shower, so, the deck is kind of stacked against me. Just like it is in life!

However, learning that I was graciously nominated as Blogger of the Month got me to thinking about other "of the Month" type enterprises and their appeal. Beer, cheese, wine, gifts, it seems like you of-the-month-club almost anything in this consumption-happy country of ours! Every good-natured WASP knows about the Omaha Steaks Steak of the Month club, where you can wow your friends and family with a different honkin' cut of marbleized meat every month! iGourmet has a Coffee of the Month club which I'm sure is very popular amongst the jittery, trembling, buzz-craving masses. There are lots of Candy of the Month clubs, and even some in Canada, my little canuckian beauties. I don't know what they send you-- maybe a box of peppermint sticks for December and maybe a couple pair of edible panties for February.

Speaking of undies, http://www.pantiesclub.com/ will send you a pair of genuine, though I believe non-edible underwear of the sexylicious variety every month, and you can either choose which panties you'd like to receive, or you can opt for their "Random Panty" deal where they choose for you. Frankly, I think they missed a brilliant marketing opportunity there by not going with "Randy Panty," but what do I know?

I have to say, while we're on this subject and I am semi-erect, I was somewhat amused and bemused by the names for the different panties. You can choose from Sexy Panty, Naughty Panty, Hot Panty, Erotic Panty, Daring Panty, Risque Panty, Exotic Panty and a couple others. Is it just me, or do those all sound like they would be essentially the same thing: a strip of cloth thinner than most children's pinkie fingers with vag pouring out on either side? Call me cynical, but I think they need to come up with some more colorful adjectives. How about "Siberian Panty" with fur lining or the "Devastator Panty?" with, like, I don't know-- fucking studs and snow chains on it or something. They could do "The Berlin Wall Panty" and graffitti it and have barbed wire going along the crotch. That would be cool.

There's nothing funnier, though, in my opinion, than the notion, or the reality of the Crotchless Panty. I mean, I get the idea, obviously, but it's nothing than a sexy version of the nursing bra. And that's not very sexy. I mean, as far as panties go-- either wear them, or don't. And don't expect me to spend $57.95 to send you a month's supply of undies with a big hole in the middle.

Any of you.

I was trying to brainstorm some ideas for good Of-the-Month Clubs that do not yet exist but that I think would benefit this society as a whole. Feel free to chime in with your thoughts, too!

* Sweatpant of the Month Club

In this day and age, as the average waistband of the American dolt is expanding with seemingly no end (or feet) in sight, why not put a smile on your portly friend or coworker's face with a gift from the Sweatpant of the Month Club? They'll love the soft, plush 100% cotton shell and easy-to-tie elastic corded waistband, and these sweatpants come in a dizzying array of fashionable colors like Banana Yellow, '80s Turqouise, and Non-Committal Gray. Our sweatpants are also Teflon-coated to resist those pesky mayonnaise, bacon-grease, vomit, and relish stains that are so prevalent with today's consumer. Sizes start at 2XL and go all the way up to Peterbilt-Quintuppa-X.

* Machete of the Month Club

Our motto at Machete of the Month is "You Just Can't Ever Have Too Many Serrated, Edged Weapons." Our 9-18-inch blades slice through a human crack-dealer's cranium as easily as the plump, soft belly of a sleeping infant-- you wouldn't believe the cutting dynamics! Order now and we'll throw in a free autographed Croccodile Dundee leather boomer-knife holster with quick-draw snap action for those pesky 3:00am back-alley attacks.

* Prostitute of the Month Club

In the mood for Chinese? Well, you won't be hungry half-an-hour later after a visit from Li Quo, Silken Goddess of Manchuria, just one of the exciting HIV-free prostitutes who will engage in any sexual act (excluding anal revisionst theory and parallel bars) with you and/or your friends every single month for one calendar year. No need to rent out a dingy room at a seedy motel-- we'll send these whores straight to your door so your whole family can benefit from the unique sexual instruction and athletic prowess of professional sex artists like "Frank/ie," the Confusing Testicular Wonder, "Semenia," Siren of the Salty Seas, and a very special 4'9" girl who goes simply by "Beef."

* Vengence of the Month Club

Pissed off at your boss? Like to slit his motherfucking throat? Well, then visit our friends at Machete of the Month Club, but, if it's a little vengence you're after, then stick with us! Just give us a list of names, addresses, phone numbers, social security numbers, places of employment of your 12 least favorite shitheads, and one of our experienced Vengexperts will pay them a little visit. They'll never have to know it was you! Maybe one will get sugar in his gas-tank, or goat feces spread all over the interior of his brand new Audi A6. Maybe a death threat to his grandmother written in ejaculate on the master bathroom mirror. Who knows? We're pretty creative at Vengence of the Month Club, so call now to inquire about our special promotional rates and specials. Vengence, it's sweet-- especially once a month!

Last Blog Post

Now, before you all go start preparing to sue me or picket outside my house-- relax. This isn't my last blog post. This is a post about other peoples' last blog posts.

So cool your jets... your lovely, lovely jets.

Sometimes, when I'm painfully bored, I go trolling through the seemingly infinite profiles of www.20sb.net to see who's blogging about what, who's holding a camera up in front of her face, who's posting YouTube videos and pictures of cats in septic tanks, who's being snarky and tell-it-like-it-is-y in the D.C. Metro area, who's giving profanity-laden advice to Dear Abby readers-- oh, wait, that's me.

Also, who's out there putting their nose to the grindstone and creating consistent, quality work that will improve my worldview by reading it. That's how I found some of you goobersteins. I mean, it's not like the goddamn Blog Faerie is whispering hot referral tips into my ear or rolling around on my desktop rubbing pixie-dust onto her twin sister bare midriff.

Oftentimes, when I stumble upon a blogger with an interesting and engaging profile and I click on the link to their blog I am dismayed to see a last publication date of 02/04/2008 or maybe three or four months ago. Some of them have that cold, antiseptic, marble-hued "The blog you are looking for is no longer available." or "This Blogger account has been disabled by the administrator."

The absence or removal of a blog always piques my curiosity, so much more than any one single extant post could. Sometimes, the blogger leaves a fare-thee-well message-- like one I recently stumbled onto where the last picture is of a proudly outstretched left hand bearing a shimmery engagement ring. Obviously, this blogger has wedding plans to attend to and blogging no longer fits in with her single-life routine. I get that-- but lots of times there is no good-bye message, just an ordinary-sounding final post about American Idol or a home-made macaroni and cheese recipie and I wonder-- what the fuck?

What happened?

Did the person just run out of steam? Were they out of inspiration or ideas or motivation? Were they hit by a mass transit vehicle? Did they collapse from too much froth in their mochaccino? Maybe they were arrested for running a crystal meth lab or a kiddie porn... amusement park...

While I have absolutely no statistical information to back this assertion up, I feel like maybe a reason why a significant number of bloggers give up blogging is that they've been "found out." Now, obviously, this doesn't account for bloggers who use their full and real names, have linked up their blog using the Networked Blog feature on Facebook-- I mean, they're not afraid of getting outed. It's us anonymous bloggers, or the ones who think we're anonymous. One day, most, if not all of us will get that dreaded email, or comment, or follower that lets us unequivocally know,

"I found you."

Maybe it's an ex-lover, a former or soon-to-be-former friend, a sibling, a parent (oy), or perhaps most disconcertingly, an employer. I'm sure some bloggers have said "bye-bye" to their privacy, their anonymity, their reputations, and their jobs all in a matter of minutes once the wrong person has stumbled across their blog.

Take mine, for instance. At 308 posts, (not including this one) there's a lot of shit in here that could seriously fuck me over, personally and professionally, if the wrong people found their weary way here. Is that a risk that I take by putting myself out there? Absolutely. Do I believe that people should have the privilege to express themselves freely and without identification if their words are not causing direct or indirect harm to another person? Well, obviously. Is that always the case?

No. It isn't. And I think that, more than anything, is why bloggers disappear on us.

Of course some of them just plain don't give a shit anymore and give up-- I know that. Between this blog and my last blog (oh, yeah-- I shut down a blog of mine before, too, and it's because I was almost found out, no-no style) I've been blogging for just around a year-- so maybe I'll be burned out somewhere around year three or four. I don't know-- maybe I won't get there altogether.

I don't know how "My Masonic Apron" is going to end, but I think I'm kind of okay with that (notice the confidence?) See-- when I'm writing a piece of fiction or a play (not that I've done either of those in a while) I don't know how those things are going to end either-- and yet I go through with it, and the ending, well, it always comes... and usually without much of my help. Create characters and a situation and it all comes to a head quite naturally. Certainly a blog isn't the same thing as a story or a play-- and there are outside influences at work here in terms of readers and followers and Google-snoopers, but all things end-- somehow, some way.

I just hope that, when the end comes, I'm in the driver's seat, that the end is my choice and is not made in haste to save my ass, or after it's too late.

And, more than anything, I hope I get to say goodbye.

Femme Blog

According to some statistic that someone cited somewhere at some point, on the website 20something bloggers, there are 7,942 bloggers registered as members, and only around 900 of those members are males.

I'm left to ask the intellectually-stimulating question, "What the fuck is that all about?"

Seriously, sometimes I look at the 129 "friends" I have collected nigh these many months, and I feel like a total whoremaster, supervising my burgeoning, ballooning brothel. There's Laura the pilot, Mila with the roses popping out of her cleavage, Kate the poet, Sarah with the camera, Floreta with the vibrators, and, most recently, Leslie with the eye-patch. It's quite a collection of damsels, really. Any whoremaster would be proud.

There was a time where I felt selfconscious about having accrued so many BWB (bloggers with breasts) as online acquaintances, but I don't think I can honestly feel guilty about it due to the extreme saturation of the 20something blogging market by womenfolk.

It's interesting to note that, in the 18th, 19th and even 20th century, the vast majority of published writers were men, and that's no accident. The vast majority of book publishers and literary agents were men, too. It was not acceptable for women to write and publish material. Just ask Jane Austen, whose family was never quite thrilled about her professional aspirations.

Fortunately now, there are many, many women in the book publishing and literary agent industry. I should know, I've received rejection letters from most of them. So, with the increase in written, published work written by women, it should be no surprise that women are also taking the blogging world by storm.

My question is: why?

What is so appealing about tapping those deliciously manicured nails to the keyboard for women? Women have a reputation for being more sensitive than men, more open to revealing themselves and their inner feelings, and a whopping shitload of them were English majors in college.

So, is that it? Have I answered my own question? I don't know-- I don't think so.

There must be something about writing, about blogging, something about its freedom, its unemcumbered, unadorned form that appeals to women, but I don't know what it is. I guess that's why I have a comments section.

When I first started blogging, and for a while after, I didn't read any blogs. "I don't want to be influenced," I would say. "I want to be original and fresh." I worry about that a lot. If I'm going to play a part onstage, and another local company is doing the same show, I will avoid seeing the show at all costs, because I don't ever want to be accused of "copying" or "stealing," "mimicking" someone else's work. It's a youthful arrogance, a holdout from my younger days when I did copy others whom I admired-- and that fear of being caught nowadays petrifies me into almost total creative isolation.

Now, though, I read several blogs, and almost every one of them is written by a woman. I like women writers, because they are different than me. They are thoughtful, introspective and they are careful, considered, sometimes eloquent. They think about things I would never think to think about, and they open me up to different perspectives, and I appreciate that. I never thought I would like reading blogs, but I think I do. I guess I'm growing up a little.

When I write a play, I often struggle to create authentic female characters. Oftentimes they don't show up in my plays, because the challenge of writing honestly for a woman scares the piss out of me. I feel incapable and inept. The only woman I've ever included in a play who sounded true was my mother, because I couldn't get her wrong if I tried. There is a poignancy and a firm wisdom that I can only watch from a distance and appreciate.

I suppose, in the end, why there are so many women bloggers out there and so few male bloggers isn't really important. It's a fine discussion topic to start and in which to participate, but it doesn't matter much. We bloggers all bring something different to the table, even those of us who just post YouTube clips or pictures of cellphones encrusted with Swarovski crystals.

Here's a Pretty Rant-Dee-Doo!

Surgeon General's Warning:

This rant may contain profanity, nudity, adult themes, drug use, and/or harsh comments.

Rants have been clinically proven in trial tests to produce angina pectoris in lab rats and certain types of squid.

20something Bloggers, an online blogging community of which I am a member (for another year and one month) frequently posts discussions started by members. Usually, they're pretty inconsequential, generally centering on such fascinating topics like, "Can you still have casual sex with someone you've broken up with?" and "What does no sex before marriage have to do with religion?" or my personal favorite "Hey girls in relationships-- What is your opinion on your guy looking at porn?"

Today, though, someone actually posted a topic question that was intellectually stimulating and had almost nothing to do with sex!

"Is it fair to charge a drunk driver who kills somebody with murder?"

Good for you for having a thought that originates from an area above your belly-button piercing!

(And they say guys are the only ones obsessed with sex. Please, girlfriend.)

Anyway, here we go:

Should some drunk fuck who kills somebody in a car wreck be charged with murder? You bet your sloshed, red ass he/she should! I would even go so far as to argue that it should be Murder 1.

Allow me to rantify:

To classify a homicide as Murder 1, one has to look at the definitions of Murder 1 as set up by the states. There are two different classifications of Murder 1 as I understand it. The first one is used by Pennsylvania and other states:

Murder 1: An intentional killing by means of poison, or by lying in wait, or by any other kind of willful, deliberate and premeditated action.

Then there's the New York and other states classification of Murder 1:

Murder 1: Murder involving special circumstances, such as murder of a police officer, judge, fireman or witness to a crime; multiple murders; and torture or especially heinous murders.

Defining a drunk-driving homicide as Murder 1 is easy using the Pennsylvania statute: consuming a sufficient quantity of alcohol to constitute intoxication and then making the decision to operate a motor vehicle resulting in someone else's death is a willful action, a deliberate action, and a premeditated action. While the intoxicated driver might not be intentionally ramming his car into the vehicle of a sober motorist, they did make a calculated series of judgements (or misjudgements) that lead up to that other person's untimely demise. It could successfully be argued by lawyers, who are far more articulate and better dressed than I that the decisions and actions leading up to the drunk driving fatality constitute premeditation. Any reasonable person would be able to deduce that getting behind the wheel of a car while drunk could easily result in a fatality, and therefore, because it is reasonable to assume that one's actions could result in death, it could be argued that the drunk driver went out onto the road knowing he or she could be committing murder.

Making a case for Murder 1 under the New York classification is tougher, because the special circumstances are absent, unless the drunk bastard slams into a police cruiser or the Pope-Mobile.

The fact remains that, for too long in this society, drunk drivers have gotten off relatively easy, even when they kill people. Sometimes they are only charged with DUI, public intoxication, reckless driving, reckless endangerment, speeding, evading. Oftentimes the best that drunk driving victims families can hope for is vehicular manslaughter, which is a pretty limp-wristed attempt at justice if you ask me and, if you're reading this blog, you are.

Accountability has eternally been the enemy of the drunk bastard:

"Yo, I didn't know what I was doin', y'alls-- I was drunk."

"I thought she wanted it-- I mean, I was drunk."

"I thought she was eighteen. You know, I was drunk."

"I didn't see that minivan full of Tabernacle singers. I was fucking drunk."

Yeah, well, you sure were drunk; and that was your decision, wasn't it, turdlick? I am so sick of hearing slurry bullshit about impaired judgement and altered states and shut the fuck up already, you pathetic losers. When you kill someone in a drunk driving collision, it ceases to be an "accident" and it should become murder. The act of getting into an automobile drunk is no different than picking up a gun and firing into the dark and blowing somebody's head off, sight unseen: your reckless, irresponsible, dangerous, motherfucking stupid and, yes, premeditated actions caused the death of somebody else.

And, guess what, Donny Drunko? That is fucking murder.

What Is This: The Papparazzi?

As a writer, I feel like one my jobs is to notice trends.

For example, five times a week, I shit three times a day. Hm. Maybe there's a blog post there.

Maybe not.

When my head's not inches away from my own toilet, making keen quality & quantity observations, I do actually notice other things. One of the things I've noticed recently has to do with a rather strange trend I've observed at 20 Something Bloggers, the online blogging community to which I belong, and whose membership I hope does not get revoked after this post.

For those of you who don't know, 20 Something Bloggers is a wonderful place for blogging prowess to both notice and get noticed. I've fattened up my readership from the ranks of the 20 Something Blogger members, and I've certainly hooked my hooknose into the private affairs of others on the site as well. It's mutual exploitation at its finest-- and my father in law instructed his daughter prior to marrying me that this was the basis for ideal relationships.

He should know; he's both married and a psychiatrist.

Anyway, on 20 Something Bloggers, you're able to pick out a little avatar to represent yourself, your own personal graven image, if you will. For both my old and new blog, I have picked pen-and-ink drawings by Sir William Schwenck Gilbert from his "Bab Ballad" days, because I am an anglophile and I am obsessed with all things Gilbert & Sullivan (still no word on that "Pirates" audition-- I'll keep you posted).

Some people pick Japanamation-style self-portraits as their avatars, some pick close-ups of their cleavage (not complaining), some choose Barack Obama, who, I'm sure, is appropriately honored and moved. Delizcious has selected a picture of Miss Piggy with one tit exposed, a'la Janet Jackson, which I hope she cleared with Janet Jackson, Joe Jackson, the Henson estate's lawyers, and Kermit, who is one jealous mothafucka, from what I understand. Most people, though, choose to put up pictures of themselves, or what are purported as being pictures of themselves. Who really knows these days, am I right, peeps?

The trend that I've noticed is the staggering number of pictures of 20 Something Blogger members holding cameras.

What's that about?

On the members page, which features 21 member pics at a time, there are fourteen pictures of actual members (the other pics are either Audrey Hepburn, a string of air-drying laundry or some other weird shit) three members are featured holding cameras. Only one of them, from what I can gather, has some professional reason to have one in her possession.

Next page, 2 members with cameras.

Page 3, none. Fine. Be that way.

Page 4, well, okay-- none for a while-- though, on page 12, there is a picture of a girl holding a gun. I know, that doesn't count. You don't point that at someone and say "Say 'Cheese'" unless you're insane and/or Jack Nicholson.

One on page 19, one on page 27. Okay, I have to stop now. There are 244 pages, by the way.

And these aren't little, dinky "Coolpix" cameras, either. These are big, honkin' black things (no hyperlinked picture to accompany that phrase-- sorry-- even I have limits) and they're either big-time digital cameras, or they're old-fashioned SLR's, the photography industry's answer to the 33 record. I just don't understand

One on page 28. Okay, okay-- sorry. For real, I'm done. See? I closed the window.

I just don't understand what it's trying to communicate.

I like to take pictures? That's good. You and 76 babillion other people.

I'm so retro I have a 1976 Leica CL with a vertically-travelling shutter? Um, okay?

I'm pretending to take a picture of you while you're taking an actual picture of me? Um, okay?

I work for a newspaper? Okay, that I can accept.

I'm a peeping tom? Well, that's fine, but I wouldn't be advertising that on 20 Something Bloggers.

I work for the papparazzi? You're a disgrace. Go fuck yourself. Get away from Octo-Mom and her menagerie.

Look, it's great to want to be different-- we're all struggling with that. I'm pretty confident, though, that I'm the only homobear with some Gilbertian doodle as his avatar. Not that it's a contest of originality, but let's keep creativity and self-expression bouyant and alive. If you want to be different and pose with some sort of object from antiquity, I suggest you try a rotary wall phone or a dictionary-- the camera bit is getting a bit overdone.