To awaken one morning to find that one's humble little blog, upon which one has labored Walter-Mittily for only a few weeks, has been Blogrolled by Vanity Fair Contributing Editor and Left-Blogsylvania Christ James Wolcott -- whose book you are hereby firmly enjoined to rush out and buy -- is to learn quite a bit about oneself.
My first reaction was to behave like a mid-Sixties sitcom housefrau who's just been told by Thoughtless Hubby that he's bringing The Boss home for dinner in an hour: Dithering about the place, dusting frantically, checking for typos, cursing yesterday's sloth -- "Dishy meatballs? Dishy meatballs? Wolcott gives you mad props and the first thing you've got on your page is some dippy shit about dishy fucking meatballs???
Which leads to self-consciousness and questioning of fate: Why today of all days? Why not last Friday? Last Friday this blog was shipshape: Pogo in the lead, not an ounce of fat all the way down to the Quaker Girls... Now it's all goopy and directionless...
Next up: Suspicion. Waaaaaaaiiiiitaminit... What if this is some sort of setup? It's just the sort of thing you'd expect from that bastard Quackenbush!
And finally, after a spate of endzone dancing and high-fiving that has the non-blogging portion of the Jingo household staring at Dad in stunned bemusement, comes -- of all things -- a touch of melancholy. Aw, shit. Not I'm gonna have to be all serious 'n' shit... So long, dishy meatballs!
Well.
Welcome, Wolcottniks! Here you will probably not find all the anodyne backing-and-forthing on politics that are found at other spots on Wolcott's blogroll -- I live in dread of confrontation -- but I do strive to keep it entertaining. I've been doing a little occasional research on an amusingly psychopathic Civil War guerrilla -- think a slightly less prolific William Quantrill -- who used to maraud pretty much exactly where my house stands. I'm trying to get into his head, and I think just now I may have found the Royal Road -- watch this space later today. You can follow along by investigating the "John Mobberly Story" over there in the right column.
Other than that, keep your skillet greasy, and don't take any wooden rhetoric.
Thanks, Wolcott!
5 comments:
Big Jim says come on over - we come on over. Anybody that loved Pogo as much as I loved Pogo can impregnate my sister (for a small fee, of course) anytime.
DrBopper
Ah, but you sell yourself too cheaply. A blog so clean of limb, a dry, ringing wit, a bubbling tragedy that resonates from your hearth to the front step of a million McMansions nationwide -- all this, and rooted history too, with pictures? This is one of the ways, Neddie Jingo, how it ought be done.
Even without the Pogo. To say nothin' of Durer.
But hey. I lived on Rt 690 south of Purcellville for three wrenching years of early adolescence. I'll prolly never get over it. Tysons in the mid-70s has a lot to do with why I'm sitting tonight between the Pacific and the deep Klamath mountains.
So keep at it. Te gustibus etc. And don't spare the stories.
Don't worry about too many new guests just yet. Nobody reads Wolcott. Your anonymity is still safe. At least until someone further (farther?) up the bloggy food chain like Bérubé discovers your dishy meatballs.
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The Dad
Yes, but how does it compare to the giddiness you experienced after discovering that I had linked to you?!
Delightful post.
I am a descendant of Black Jack Quantrill via some of the Cantrells of Missouri. Understandably, most law abiding Quantrills changed their name to Cantrell.
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