Rolling Bones Mark II: Jazz Odyssey

Something is happening here.

Clearly it hasn't been happening on this blog. It's in my head. And I'm completely flummoxed about how to get it out.

I started this blog while in journalism school. I was finally reconnecting with the part of my brain that takes thoughts and puts them into orderly, occasionally witty words (perhaps too many of them costing above $5)


But at some point I came to a point where I felt useless. I track the traffic here, and it's not an exaggeration to say that the regular readership of this blog could fit in a compact car with a baby seat and a Doberman in back. The others came (though likely not in the way they had hoped) looking for naked pictures of Eva Longoria. And thanks to this fresh reference, I can guarantee a new surge in visitors typing with one hand and their pants at their ankles.


This was disheartening. I mean, I have an ego. I like to think I'm humble, but nobody really writes to be anonymous. As a reporter, I like being recognized and praised for good work even as I maintain a cool, above-it-all, watchdog demeanor.

And I'm perhaps excessively proud of much of the work I've done on this blog. If you happen to be new here or haven't visited in a long time, please peruse a random sampling of archived material represented by the dated months on the right side rail. It's been a place to post some of my most passionate beliefs, some cool though completely obsessive shit, the Great Collaboration on Mock Porn Movie Titles, and my hatred of all things OJ.

I'm also incredibly resistant to Facebook, not necessarily for rational reasons. I like the idea of connecting with friends and family across the country. I like the idea of spying on long-lost friends and acquaintances I really don't care enough to actually connect with. And it's not like I need an excuse to fritter away my time.


But I don't want to put my life out there for scrutiny. If I were to jump into the Facebook pool, I'd maintain strict controls on who and what gets posted. Maybe I can drive some traffic to this blog. But it will never be the kind of confessional therapy session that really attracts readers. And as a reporter, I really shouldn't be talking about all the stuff I actually believe because it could compromise my ability to maintain objectivity in the stories I might cover, scare away potential employers or invite two guys named Phil to confine me in a flourescent light-drenched room and feed me thorugh a straw while speakers blast Clay Aiken day and night.

So what's the solution? This blog can continue to provide a place for me to post cool stuff I encounter on the 'net, complete with a few wry comments. But that really doesn't fire me up. I can try to scrub this site of any reference to my identity. But that probably isn't practical or even possible, depending on how these things get archived across the web.


And yet I can't imagine keeping quiet anymore. There is something going on all right. Something about an election, the looming collapse of the nation's financial system, the assisted suicide of the newspaper industry, and -- on a personal level -- my upcoming wedding, blogging at a site near you.


That last bit is more than a late August ceremony to be attended by at least half of that compact car of Rolling Bones readers. I see the 11 months to come as an opportunity to solidify relationships with family and friends, to reestablish connections with far-flung folks and form a bond with members of a new family. This blog -- and my inevitable capitulation to Facebook -- can help facilitate this.


All of which is to say, something is happening here, and here I'll have something to say about it. Writing is thinking. It's not thinking written down. I need the exercise to make sense of this world. Your comments and contributions will always be welcomed and almost certainly mocked.


With any luck, this new era will soon see a brighter future for the country with a steady, worthy leader in the White House. And OJ in jail.