Bry’s Blog / April 7, 2015
Good morning, Blogosphere, I’m back. Hey, Bill, in case you stop by an Internet shop—do they exist where you are?—to check your emails, I have sent a couple to your old Yahoo account. No answer. But of course, anything from muy amigo mio, unheard from for thirty-three years, goes straight into Spam.
I was hoping you might at least glance at your website, your blog, and see my entreaties to make contact. Or maybe one of your cult following of good-humoured, nonconforming eco-liberals, or a relative, your agent, publisher, somebody who knows where the fuck you are, will get word to you that Bry Pomerantz has hacked into both your writing studio and your blog.
Can you be totally out of range, in a cave? There are no iPhones in your commune? No Fuckbook addicts posting their daily drivel? Have you achieved total out-of-touchness, you and the braless pothead you hooked up with after your marriage went kaput?
Are you really working on your new book, or are you just faking off and pooting around? “Bliss,” you wrote. I have trouble believing it. A suspicion arises that you are on the run.
Establishing shot. Palm trees by the wave-lapped shore. A funky resort, a seedy three-stool bar, palapa-roofed rental units. Hippies lounging about with books or games. Hippies splashing in the water.
Cut to our hero in a hammock strung between the palms. A Corona with a wedge of lime in its neck. A book. Escape fiction, of course, because escape is the current motif of your life.
Now approaches, to your dismay, a barefoot fan from off a SunQuest charter, and he’s clutching an iPad, and he explains at agonizing length that he’s hesitant to bother you but he wonders if he could buy you another beer and, by the way, a strange individual appears to have invaded your blog.
You bark at him, you do not want to see what the Internet has dredged up on his iPad, you came to this hidden corner of the world to be free of the encroaching, smothering Web—that ultimate space alien—to escape spams and blogs and links and tweets.
The pest whom you chewed out has gone away hangdog but (and isn’t this a lovely little touch?) we cut to him returning forgivingly with another sweating cold Corona and a dog-eared manuscript that he wonders if you’d care to look at.
Fade out, opt out, drop out, that’s what you’ve done, you’ve abdicated from this petty world. Congratulations.