Once there were three little pigs. But they were not your average ordinary pigs. They were better than that. They were Indy pigs. That's right. Independent film making pigs. And one day, they all grew up big enough to go out on their own and make real Indy films.
Now the first little pig made his studio out of straw (give me a break, it's a time honored literary convention that I have to use). And he began to crank out the films. Now his films were pretty darned artsy and full of social commentary. He was a very hip little pig. He made sure to use swear words and tried to focus on the theme of incest, because then he would be taken seriously. But there was a reason he was an Indy film maker. He wasn't any good. But he was self-delusional and tried to not let these little things bother him. At least there were the festivals where all the Indy films would be shown and everyone would sit through the little pig's films as long as he promised to sit through theirs and pretend to discover stinging commentaries on Sartre hidden in the sub-plot. It was a wonderful existence, until (of course) the Big Bad Wolf came along.
Now BB Wolf didn't think much of the medium, but it all looked like so much fun that he had to dive in. And so he attended the next film festival. He drank Scotch, swore and wore mostly black. He commented on chiasms and even made one reference to Heidegger. But there was something wrong. He had a little smirk on his face. And the little pig began to notice it. He was hurt. He was wounded. He got POd. He confronted BB and told him, "If you hate me just say it, but quit making fun of me!"
But BB didn't hate anyone there. He was more entertained by them than anything else. Besides all he had done was join in the revelries with everyone else. Admittedly, he had laughed. But most of his laughs were at his own self, because it was all so damned silly. If anyone was offended it was because their own Indy pride had gotten a bit too puffed.
And of course the little pig went running "wee wee wee" all the way to pig number two's new stick studio.
Now pig number two had a chip on his shoulder. None of the real studios had seen his brilliance. None had recognized his gift. And so he loved independent films, because it gave him a chance to "be some-n." Because of this he had grown to be a bitter little pig. And boy did he crank the films out. They were provacative. Scathing. Merciless. They were "in your face." They were so gritty and real that you could hardly believe it. But like the first little pig, nobody watched them, except a couple of miscellaneous barnyard animals with nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Mr. Wolf followed the squeels all the way to pig number two's studio where he discovered something even more fun. This pig was not only self absorbed, he was also a bitter little porker. And so the next film festival found Mr. Wolf with front seats, a very swank beret, and a martini (cause hard liquor is for grown-ups). Again he joined the revelries. He saw layers of meaning. He made allusions to every famous nihilist that he could think of. And most of all, he was very ostentatious with his baggy cords.
Pig number two knew what was happening. He knew that he was being mocked. And like pig number one, he was one POd little porker. But rather than get hurt, he got pious. "This is not the way to treat a brother!" Now some people were curious as to how that fit with his earlier tendency towards criticism. But this little pig was too big to be tied down by something like consistency. And so he and pig number one went "weee, wee, wee" all the way to pig number three.
Now the third little pig was busy working away in his studio of brick. But when he heard all the squeeling, he stopped his work and let the other pigs in because he was a kindly sort of pig. He even invited them to his next film festival. Mr. Wolf heard about the festival and decided to come along as well. But he was shocked when he got there.
The first film was quite trivial and silly. So he began his typical commentary. But to his surprise, the whole theater burst into laughter at his comments. The more he spoofed the films, the louder the place shook with laughter. At the end of the first film, the producer, a small chicken from Iowa, came up to him with tears in his eyes from laughing so hard and thanked him earnestly for coming along. He looked around and awkwardly realized that he was the only one wearing a black turtleneck. Did no one take themself uber-seriously here?
The second film was significantly different. For once it was good. It was so good that Mr. Wolf got annoid at the many distractions in the theater. Couldn't they be quiet and pay attention?
The rest of the evening was mostly a mix of these two types of films. Some were really good and demanded a serious viewing. Some fell dramatically short. But when the audience laughed, so did the director. After all, he worshipped something other than himself. He could handle having an idol knocked over.
And so at the end of the festival. . .
Ah never mind. It's the Sabbath and it was a lame story anyways. Stupid pigs.
Why me?
I had to ask myself that very question several times today. And I have to admit that I've had to do some real soul searching. Alls I wanted was a blog like everyone else. I wanted to be one of the boys. I wanted to feel justified when I rented videos from the foreign film section, because I would know that my readers were depending on me for profundity.
But was it worth it?
Sure. I got lots of hits. Over 200 yesterday.
Sure. I had readers on five continents.
But was it really worth it?
A lot of people were angry. They called me things. Even I called me things. That's how ugly it got.
But I'm still left with the question of why? I went back through my posts today to read them. Did I do anything different than what is on every other blog out there? Do I need to take myself more seriously?
Here. I'll try-
Today I listened to an Eric Clapton CD and then a Taj Mahal CD. I had an oreo. Okay I had a couple because someone left the bag sitting in front of me. But I only meant to have one. I forgot to mention that they were double stuff oreos. So I really shouldn't have done that.
There. Now will that make them angry or will they accept me as one of the gang?
Josh,
Your mother and I are both very disappointed in you. I asked you to interview me. You deleted my request. I asked again and invoked the blogger’s code (you know that you’re required to interview me). But again you denied my humble request. Plus, you got snippy. But will I stoop to that? Oh no. Not me. I’m taking my ball and going home. Please return my ring and all my letters. And don’t even think of asking me to sign your yearbook, cuz I’ll just write something rude (frowny bracket).
So now Nate and I are starting our own interview chain and our own interview rules. Here’s how it works:
Super Cool Blog Interview
1. If you want to be interviewed, post a comment to Ben Merkle’s blog http://nsablogs.com/mememe/ or Nate Wilson’s blog http://nsablogs.com/moimoimoi/ saying “Interview me, interview me, interview me. I am worthy. I won’t Meltdown.” Those exact words must be used.
2. Then we will send you five questions within one week, which you will answer and then post to your blog. You must post an additional copy of your interview as a comment to http://www.chattablogs.com/unclejosh It doesn’t matter what you’re commenting on. Post it anywhere. Don’t worry, he’ll just delete it. And he’ll appreciate all those extra hits on his blog.
3. When you post your interview, you must copy and paste these rules to the bottom of your interview.
Here’s my Interview. Nate Wilson asked the questions.
1. If you could rename any blog what would it be?
Berek Smith has a killer blog, but he just calls it Berek Qinah Smith. The name is too obvious. He needs something more subtle. He needs a new name that has layers of meaning. I would like to rename it “Kevin.”
2. When was the last time you tried to appear thoughtful? Did it work?
Well I was delivering a final earlier and I started to daydream. I had no idea what the student had been saying. So I just sneered at her and said, “Uber-tripe." She burst into tears and apologized for not being smart enough for me. So I think it worked pretty well.
3. Has your marriage improved since you began communicating with your wife via blog?
I wish I could say “yes.” But I have to admit that it has been rough. In particular, she keeps reading irony into my blogs. She thinks that I am mocking the genre and pointing out the obsession of self-importance in the midst of utter obscurity. When actually, I’m taking myself very seriously and desperately trying to demonstrate my own intellectual viability. I so want to belong. Quit knocking me Bekah!
4. Which Beat poet most ripped off your personality?
Well he isn’t really a “Beat” poet. But he is certainly a poet. He's a life poet. It’s Kevin Bacon. Particularly, I’m thinking of that scene in Footloose, where he’s really mad at everyone that won’t let him listen to rock music and they won’t let him dance. And so he goes out to the grain silo, or warehouse, or train station , or something, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he turns up the music really loud and dances all over the place. Real angry-like dancing. That’s me. I mean it was pretty much a scene taken straight out of my life. I totally do that all the time.
5. Did your father ever teach you to throw? Why did you stop?
Shut up Nate! Just leave me alone. I don’t need you! I don’t need any of you! I could have friends if I wanted them. I can Google myself a friend whenever I want one. Leave me alone!
This morning I woke up to the cool Autumn breeze coming in through the window. Waking up felt like walking in late to a dinner party with good friends. Everyone happy and eager to see me joining in the revelries. I thought about how I should occupy my time on such a glorious day. Maybe I could rake the first wave of leaves collecting on my lawn for the kids to run and dive into. Maybe I would spend the bulk of the day in the kitchen smelling my wife’s bread baking. Maybe I would just spend the day chasing my wife and sneaking kisses at every opportunity. What to do? Maybe I could sip a beer on the front porch and prep for a lecture on Edmund Spenser. Maybe I could help my son practice his roller blading so that he’ll be ready for his first season of hockey. There I was weighing my options.
Ah screw it! I’m going to the basement to blog.
Now we all know that under normal circumstances it’s quite pathetic, spineless, and impotent when people leave comments on blogs anonymously.
But I’m different.
I’m the one exception.
The reason is. . . Well I didn’t want to say, but it was going to come out sooner or later, so I might as well just tell you now. There’s no point in trying to keep it a secret.
I’m a super-hero. As you know super-heroes always have fake identities. But for us, it’s not pathetic. It’s merely one of the perks of having super-powers. What are my super-powers? Well for one, I have the fastest double click in the world. For another, I can see code, just like Neo in the Matrix. I see it everywhere. Even in the shower. Lastly, I have super bendy thumbs.
Now I would like to be able to tell all you young kids out there that my super-powers were the result of hard work, good nutrition, and determination. But that would be a lie. I was born this way. You see, there are two kinds of super-heroes. There are super-heroes that work hard to be classified as super-heroes. Class I: Think of Batman and Robin. They don’t have any actual super-powers, they just have belts with lots of tools. Anyone could be a Batman if he tried hard enough. Spiderman might fall into this category, if freak scientific accidents can count. Class II: These are real super-heroes. Superman, Aquaman, Wonderwoman. They were just born that way. Like me. You can never be like me, no matter how hard you try.
So when I leave a comment on your blog, I don’t have to say who I am. I can leave a little note that’s almost as mature as the notes scribbled on the boy’s room stalls in your Junior High, and I can do it under a pseudonym. Why? Because I am wearing my super-hero costume, complete with cape, spandex, a winged helmet, and my super-hero underoos.
Therefore, know that when someone leaves an anonymous comment on your Blog that it is probably some pathetic putz who is just using the internet as a way to mask his many insecurities. But it just might be someone with an excuse.
It just might be a super-hero.
It just might be me! Blogger Boy!!!
Anglo-Saxon literature. Anglo-Saxon history. Anglos-Saxon culture. But what about the Jutes? They crossed the channel and killed lots of people too. But does anyone study Jutish culture? Oh no. All we ever hear about are the stinking Angles and Saxons.
Sometimes I feel like a Jute.
Frowny Bracket.
So I'm from Moscow.
But watch how well I can preserve my credibility, my mystique, my aura of profundity by keeping a healthy attitude of skepticism. You see, I fear that many will think that I’m merely a groupie. That I have no real thoughts, dreams, hopes, aspirations of my own. Many might assume that I lack a shiny moon path of my own to follow. Oh no. I’m bigger than that because I have doubts. Not big doubts. Not Charliesque doubts. I keep my doubts small and manageable, like my readership. Just watch me and my doubts.
First, Moscow has the obvious DW problem. Now I am not going to call him a “Sonuvabitch.” But if I did I would make sure to spell it funny to make sound more like “dang” rather than the big big D. Also, I would mean it in a good way, like as a movie quote. Now my problem with DW is simple. I know what he is thinking. Sometimes he is thinking happy, godly, hallelujah-type thoughts. And sometimes he is thinking nasty, self righteous, O-the-deep-deep-mines-of-Moria thoughts. Now my knowledge of his secret thoughts is foundational, so don’t ask for proof, because no proof for foundational assumptions can be given. And if you’ve read you’re VanTil you’ll know that just this once I can be circular (so back off). His happy thoughts are substantial enough that I refuse to denounce him outright. I’ll even defend him if somebody gets carried away in lambasting him. But there are those nasty thoughts of his. Those “I’m better than the world” thoughts. And those are enough to make me raise an eyebrow once or twice. That’s it though. I raise an eyebrow at it. And then you can know that I’m a man of integrity. And if you ask me why I am raising an eyebrow, I’ll whisper quietly to you “I know what he is thinking.” Or maybe I’ll send it as a track back.
Moscow problem number two. Credenda Offenda (Made it up myself. Promise to link me if you use that.) When I complain about Credenda I begin with describing how Credenda used to be. But now it has gotten so . . . oh blather! Really it’s the same as the DW thing. I know what Credenda is thinking as well. I call it the tone. Now this is brilliant of me, and if you try it yourself you really ought to link me for this as well. I don’t take issue with any particular article, I have a problem with the tone. What is the tone? It’s a foundational assumption. Read your stinking VanTil! (Aren’t you glad I didn’t use the big big D? How about the big big D and a frowny bracket?)
Now there are many other Moscow problems, the NSA ads in Credenda, Leithart and green pants, oh I could go on and on. But I’m only here to raise an eyebrow. Anyhow, I’m off to watch the LOR trailer. Check me later for a killer review.
Dig my gravitas.
Nathan pudgey pants Wilson has just started a blog. I'm suspicious. He's up to no good. He's a meany. He will cannon ball into our calm blogger's wading pool. Everyone look the other way. Our movie reviews are above him. Our scholarship impeccable. Our self absorption envigorating. What ever he says, don't listen. He's just jealous (write that down on a post it and stick it on your moniter). Who's this spellcheck geek? I spelled it with an "e" for effect. Really. Honestly. Respect me! Please?