My obsessions are my own
We watched Julie and Julia last night. I loved Meryl Streep doing Julia and how she projected Julia's larger-than-life personality and dedication to her art, along with some sleek parodic moments.
As far as Julie, I didn't care for the character. She seemed scheming: not to write a blog about what she was thinking, but to write with the original premise that she could hitch her star to someone who might take her places.
So, you can cook. According to my undomesticated mother, anyone who can read can cook. That's why recipes call for measurement. That's also why we stay out of the kitchen.
When Julie got to the point that she didn't want to disappoint her fans, I thought it was a bit precious. I didn't get into the blogosphere for fans; I didn't even know who would stumble upon my little world, decide s/he liked it, and wanted to sit for a while.
May I remind all of us, when we started in this world, when we had "fans," we learned that others admired our writing style, could made us laugh or think. We, or at least I, didn't set out to purchase any product some blogger gushed about. Or admire their ability to commit to a cookbook for an entire year.
How did I decide to blog? On the heels of some friends who blogged in 2004, I got inspired. I have written professionally; these days, I don't do marketing, which does bring the chance for fame and fortune into the realm of negligible. However, I have a voice, and blogging give me the chance to play with it.
The closest this blog gets to domesticity is in describing my own incompetence, and what new areas I have glossed over since Y2K. Take most 21st century technology. Please. Or give me a lucid explanation of why it is that when telephones had cords, we didn't have dropped calls every three minutes as we do on this decade's model, the cell phone.
Why detach the cord when it served such a perfect purpose? So the next generation won't know how to conduct a conversation? Or are they so busy texting that by the time they reach legal drinking age, their hands will be too crippled to hold a glass?
I'd started reading blogs written by some of my ancient private email list friends, women I'd known virtually for at least 10 years at the time -- 2004 -- and my focus was and is, my blog and welcome to it. Sure, I comment on social affairs and bad politics and the long saga of life in Wonderland, and why I would choose to live nowhere else.
I don't fancy myself an arts critic, unless it is to mock stumbling over the "art" a a contemporary gallery, a place where I think the "artist's" highest achievement was to convince someone else to buy the product, even when it looked like a mound of dirt, or tree outlines moving to John Cage-like music on a CD player.
Sure it's creative, but then again, so is my next-door neighbor's fingerpaint ouevre. And Abby just turned 5 last month. I've seen paintings my mom had framed, my own elementary school artwork. At age 7, I had a good grasp of perspective.
I may have hit my zenith in watercolor at age 8, but I'm not trying it to peddle it at the school of art and commerce. Commerce is where those who lack in artistic talent lose their critical aesthetic abilities to become seduced be an artist's story. I do have to admire an "artist" who separates fools from their money. That, to me, is the true story of contemporary art.
Tell me the story, and I'll keep my money to myself. I will try hard not to laugh at what I will never consider art, just spin.
But I digress: I did not come to blogging as a means to make my fortune. Looks like Julie did. I did sign up for BlogHer this year, simply because it is in Wonderland, convenient by taxi, and I should have an immune system, I hope, by them. I'll never be Dooce; I'll never be FinSlippy. If I have a blogging idol, it's MetroDad. He's a great writer and he makes me laugh.
Plus, Peanut's Halloween costume for last year alone should get him a lifetime of paid blogging. You haven't lived until you've seen MD's underage Chinese gymnast outfit on his daughter. And he doesn't take commercial endorsements.
As far as Julie, I didn't care for the character. She seemed scheming: not to write a blog about what she was thinking, but to write with the original premise that she could hitch her star to someone who might take her places.
So, you can cook. According to my undomesticated mother, anyone who can read can cook. That's why recipes call for measurement. That's also why we stay out of the kitchen.
When Julie got to the point that she didn't want to disappoint her fans, I thought it was a bit precious. I didn't get into the blogosphere for fans; I didn't even know who would stumble upon my little world, decide s/he liked it, and wanted to sit for a while.
May I remind all of us, when we started in this world, when we had "fans," we learned that others admired our writing style, could made us laugh or think. We, or at least I, didn't set out to purchase any product some blogger gushed about. Or admire their ability to commit to a cookbook for an entire year.
How did I decide to blog? On the heels of some friends who blogged in 2004, I got inspired. I have written professionally; these days, I don't do marketing, which does bring the chance for fame and fortune into the realm of negligible. However, I have a voice, and blogging give me the chance to play with it.
The closest this blog gets to domesticity is in describing my own incompetence, and what new areas I have glossed over since Y2K. Take most 21st century technology. Please. Or give me a lucid explanation of why it is that when telephones had cords, we didn't have dropped calls every three minutes as we do on this decade's model, the cell phone.
Why detach the cord when it served such a perfect purpose? So the next generation won't know how to conduct a conversation? Or are they so busy texting that by the time they reach legal drinking age, their hands will be too crippled to hold a glass?
I'd started reading blogs written by some of my ancient private email list friends, women I'd known virtually for at least 10 years at the time -- 2004 -- and my focus was and is, my blog and welcome to it. Sure, I comment on social affairs and bad politics and the long saga of life in Wonderland, and why I would choose to live nowhere else.
I don't fancy myself an arts critic, unless it is to mock stumbling over the "art" a a contemporary gallery, a place where I think the "artist's" highest achievement was to convince someone else to buy the product, even when it looked like a mound of dirt, or tree outlines moving to John Cage-like music on a CD player.
Sure it's creative, but then again, so is my next-door neighbor's fingerpaint ouevre. And Abby just turned 5 last month. I've seen paintings my mom had framed, my own elementary school artwork. At age 7, I had a good grasp of perspective.
I may have hit my zenith in watercolor at age 8, but I'm not trying it to peddle it at the school of art and commerce. Commerce is where those who lack in artistic talent lose their critical aesthetic abilities to become seduced be an artist's story. I do have to admire an "artist" who separates fools from their money. That, to me, is the true story of contemporary art.
Tell me the story, and I'll keep my money to myself. I will try hard not to laugh at what I will never consider art, just spin.
But I digress: I did not come to blogging as a means to make my fortune. Looks like Julie did. I did sign up for BlogHer this year, simply because it is in Wonderland, convenient by taxi, and I should have an immune system, I hope, by them. I'll never be Dooce; I'll never be FinSlippy. If I have a blogging idol, it's MetroDad. He's a great writer and he makes me laugh.
Plus, Peanut's Halloween costume for last year alone should get him a lifetime of paid blogging. You haven't lived until you've seen MD's underage Chinese gymnast outfit on his daughter. And he doesn't take commercial endorsements.
posted by alice, uptown at 12:01 PM
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