Thirty years ago there were two people in love, the type who spoiled their labrador and took a honeymoon to DisneyWorld. These two people decided, despite a lingering Cold War, odd medical histories, and common sense, to have a child. They tried for awhile, but the stork kept getting lost. Then in 1989, one came through, and the childe showed up a little early because the mother greased the stork with a little baksheesh to make the process go smoother.
This child grew up with the hardscrabble childhood of the semi-privileged liberal, sitting through interminable repeats of “A Prairie Home Companion” and wondering why it never made into the top spelling group because of a disorganized word like “miscellaneous.” Feral, the child flung paint and a precocious enthusiasm for the macabre with equal intensity until it reached middle school, whereupon the Powers That Be In the Media reminded it that it was not a butterfly but just awkward and wouldn’t fit in. Ever ever.
The child discovered that journalist notebooks slid comfortably into its red corduroy cargos alongside its cd-player full of adolescent angst. The child learned that you can be definitely defiant and defiantly definite, but that the two words are not the same. It fell in with a bad crowd, the members of which devoted themselves to parroting of the world around them, reading the New York Times and achieving academically to the exclusion of having fun.
Full of wit and vigor, the child ventured off away from the bad crowd of over-achievers and into College, wherein it discovered other passionate slackers like itself hiding at the peripheries. They shared the journalist notebooks of their pasts sometimes over herbed chicken and spinach-artichoke dip at Friday teas. The child, still trying to figure out Other People, majored in Anthropology.
The child is now a sometimes adult, living at home with the family in small-town Maine. 3 part-time jobs and too much time spent on the internet.
So one day, the child started a blog…
This sometimes adult can be found on: