Blog

So.

1. I posted at DadCentric last week. You should probably read it: Memories of Distant Cities.

2. The new album by The Brother Kite, Isolation, is – finally – out and available. I haven't written a full review of it yet because I'm too overcome by joy to write rationally about the experience of listening to it. Quick summary: it's wonderful, and you should buy a copy. Two, in fact, just in case you lose one. If you have any love for music, I implore you to check them out.

3. My friend Stacy – you may know her as Jurgen Nation – is working on an incredible project called The I Survived Project. Basically, she's making a documentary about survivors of sexual abuse — and knowing how committed, passionate and capable she is, I have little doubt it's going to be extraordinary. Here's the thing: she needs funding. She's an independent artist trying to put this thing together, and as such she's trying to cobble together funding from any and all possible sources.

I'm (tragically) not nearly as wealthy as I deserve to be, and as such my own contribution was relatively modest. But I'm proud to have given what I could, and I'd like to ask you to visit the site, take a quick read through… and then do whatever you can. This is great and important work, and you can help to make it possible.

4. PoliteFictions has just kicked off a new round. This one is called Heaven or Las Vegas, and the basic idea is that we're using the 7 Sins & 7 Virtues as our starting point for freestyle jazz exploration short fiction. ing. Anyhow, the entirely wonderful Mr Lady started us off yesterday with Patience — take a look, and then keep up with new posts via the magic of Twitter.

5. While I'm sending you off to other places to read great content – because God knows you're not gonna find it here – check out this wonderful and really moving piece by my friend LaurieWrites, Why I Had To Tell You About Him.

6. I'm weary, dudes. Just so goddamn weary. How're you doin'?

[You may already know about this. I didn't, but fortunately I have
friends who are infinitely more cultured and well-informed than I to
clue me in. NPR is working up their fifth round of what they call
Three-Minute Fiction — the idea being that they provide you with one or
two core elements, and then you write and submit a short story of up to
600 words (which, theoretically, can be read on-air in three-ish
minutes).

This round is guided by writing superstar Michael Cunningham, who's provided a first line – "Some people swore that the house was haunted." – and a last line: "Nothing was ever the same again after that." Beyond
the fact that you can't go past 600 words for the whole thing, the rest
is up to you. In a lot of ways, it's very reminiscent of what we're
doing over at PoliteFictions.

You can find out more and submit your own entry to NPR here. The deadline is September 26th. My entry is below.]

• • •

Keys

Some people swore that the house was haunted. It was a rationalization of sorts, but in the end no worse than any other. Blind luck, or the lack thereof, was also named a candidate, as were karma, happenstance, and the somewhat less than benign indifference of the universe.

It certainly was no condemnation of the house itself. Three bedrooms, bath and a half. Yard and a garage. Flowering trees, and muscular coils of rhododendron like arms rising in victory along each front corner. In late spring, they erupted into a soft riot of violent and lavender, drawing clouds of small bees first ecstatic with purpose, then lulled to slow flight by the calming weight of pollen. I remember, that first April after we moved, taking a picture from the end of the driveway — the lens saturating with warm sunlight; cornflower blues and thick bladed greens and those long limbs of trunk, leaf and flower, embracing this miracle of shingle and glass. The clean white paint on clapboard. That gentle curve of brick, winding its way from asphalt to entrance. I remembering thinking, "This is ours. This is ours."

Maybe that was it. The sin of pride.

Funny, really, when I considered our first blush. "It has good bones," the realtor had said. Not an inappropriate observation, perhaps, but one we'd taken a leap of faith in adopting as our own: transforming this handsome skeleton in ragged clothes into the rest of our lives. We imagined those days ahead – peeling long strips of wallpaper like skin, razor stroke by razor stroke, cleansing the dark stains and quiet memories of other times, other families, to unveil it as something fresh and pure: a new bride – and together, looking, we leapt.

I drove to the house on the day before we closed. A child circling his presents on Christmas Eve, fingers dancing in anticipation. I wanted to see it, to know it, on this last day before it was ours. To catalogue this mercury-slick sliver of time, coming one day a stranger… and the next, coming home.

He was mowing the lawn. His hair long, half-shadowing his eyes, gray-black stubble lining the sharp angles of his jaw and cheeks. The owner's son, acting at his father's behest. We'd met the owner before, once: near 80, pale blue eyes wrapped in the thin sulci of his paraffin skin, his smile growing warm as he filled with memory. Of this house. Of his wife. Their daughter and son, riding tricycles across the floor. Growing tall. Growing old.

"This house," he said. "It… embraces you."

I sat in my car and watched, and imagined his father gently making the request. A final, kind gesture — a parent, smoothing the unruly hair of a child. I imagined him seeking out his son's eyes, making sure he understood. Ensuring the message navigated whatever twisting roads or thorned crowns that might block the way.

He moved slowly, his feet a deliberate shuffle. Carving neat, even lines across the grass. His lips moving with each step, engaged in quiet conversation with unheard voices.

I wondered how it had been, to watch him grow from a child into a shell of a man.

The next day pen met paper, checks exchanged hands, and at last: keys. I drove us home, and carried my wife over the threshold. I remember her smiling at me: the slender lines in her face not yet betraying the gentler curves of the coming months. Our own son, only a tiny nestling of cells. Growing restlessly.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.

You wouldn't know it by visiting (or, more likely, not visiting) this old place, but I've had an irrationally busy and productive week online. Pass GO, collect $200, and proceed directly to Jail the following:

• PoliteFictions
We're heading towards the tail end of the newest series at PF, all wrapped around the theme of "What Happens After…" — the idea being that we (the writers) use that as a starting point and then go to town in whatever direction we feel appropriate and/or inspired. My entry went live on Tuesday, and I think it's worth a few minutes of your time: What Happens After Impact. When you're done with that, I implore you to read some of the other posts, too. PoliteFictions includes some of the best damned writers on the interweb, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that I am regularly stunned by the quality of what I read there.

• DadCentric
I also made an appearance at DadCentric – gasp! – yesterday to observe the fact that my twin daughters started Kindergarten last week. You can read about it here: Small Creatures. (And while you're there, please check out recent, excellent pieces by Jason, Whit, The Holmes and new guy Homemaker Man.)

• MamaPop
Finally, I finished up my long odyssey into the Real Housewives of New Jersey and/or self-loathing with a live thread of the Season 2 Reunion show on Monday, which I followed with the more pertinent – and perhaps entertaining – summary of the Top Ten Things I Learned From Real Housewives of New Jersey. 

That's it! Start readin', and have yerselves a great weekend.

This one isn't about me. It's about three friends of mine who are doing extraordinary things.

1) Kevin from Always Home and Uncool
Above and beyond the fact that he let me sleep with him – repeatedly – at BlogHer last month, Kevin is notorious in my household as one of my comrades-in-interwebbing over at DadCentric and PoliteFictions. He's also one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, and a devoted husband (except when he's sleeping with me) and father. It's as an extension of his role as father that he's taken his daughter's fight against Juvenile Myositis public (in conjunction with his wife, who's also a powerhouse proponent in the fight against JM) — leading to last month's incredible push to help Cure JM win $250k in research funding from Pepsi. Hundreds of worthy charities were fighting for position (only the top two finishers would be eligible for the donation), but Kevin's relentless drive both online and in person drew hundreds and hundreds of other people into the effort, to the point where on Tuesday, August 31st, Twitter was virtually a nonstop cavalcade of pleas for people to get out the vote for Cure JM.

And the thing is: they came in 1st. And are now in line to receive a quarter of a million dollars to fund research to help fight JM, and hopefully take huge steps against it.

I'm stunned and humbled by the scale of Kevin (and his wife's) achievement. And I hope they can take a little pride in knowing what an incredible thing they've accomplished here.

2) Jason from Outnumbered
Above and beyond the fact that he sat on my lap across several dozen blocks' worth of Manhattan in August, Jason is a pure rock star blogger – his presentation at BlogHer's Voices of the Year thing brought the house down – and one of the most legitimately cool guys I've ever met. He's also a key proponent of the Garden of Dreams Foundation, which works in conjunction with Madison Square Garden to help make dreams come true for kids in crisis.

Jason also just published a children's book, called Do Witches Make Fishes. All proceeds from sales of the book will go directly to Garden of Dreams. And I hope – with all the hope my gnarled, gruesome soul is capable of generating – that you will join me in buying a copy for the kids in your life… and help the Garden of Dreams kids.

3) Ryan from Pacing the Panic Room
Ryan is… well, Ryan's a lot of things. He's a brilliant photographer. An extremely skilled writer. And he's a husband and father who's devoted an incredible amount of time and energy to helping bring awareness to Smith Magenis Syndrome (SMS), which affects his stepson LB. 

Do Fun Things is the newest result of these efforts — a compilation album of really cool kids music (and let me make clear: I HATE kids music, but I dig what I hear here) now downloadable from iTunes… with all proceeds being used to further research on SMS. 

The album was released on August 30th, following months of work by Ryan to get the album together and promote it via the magic of social media… and by the end of the day, it was the #1 ranked download for children's music on iTunes. Ryan wrote a great article about it for FastCompany — but really, that only scratches the surface of the effort he's made and the impact he's generating.

I downloaded it this morning. I hope you'll do the same.

• • •

These stories? These guys?

This is why social media matters. Real people. Building real relationships. And doing great things.

It's pretty amazing, really. And they all deserve your support.

So. We went to Maine for a week.

 

Was it awesome? Survey says: yep.

 

Did a little hiking. Had a few some many beers.

We reached the conclusion: one week isn't enough.

Wish you were here.

Wish we were still there.

Hey. Yeah. So… uh… God only knows if or when I'll find the time and energy to fill you in on the action-packed day three of my BlogHer extravaganza. Especially since I'm taking off in the morning for a long-awaited and much-anticipated week away with the family up in Maine — where despite the fact that I rented a place that was promising to install WiFi… well, let's just say I'm skeptical.

That said, I wanted to thank those of you who've stopped by here recently, and to offer you the following tidbits to tide you over until such a time as I either A) return from Maine; B) am eaten by any number of Stephen King-derived monsters; C) actually get around to writing another half-assed attempt at a post.

So. Without further ado…

1) In case you missed it – and I think most of you did – I wrote a DadCentric piece about Maine a couple of weeks ago that I think is worth checking out. Please assuage my ego by doing so. Thank you.

2) Speaking of DadCentric… there's been a real run of great, strong writing there of late. I mean, when you've got guys like PetCobra and Whit Honea and Kevin from Always Home and Uncool and The Holmes and even the only-slightly-less-frequently-seen-than-a-chupacabra Mr. Big Dubya weighing in with great stuff left, right and center… it's pretty awesome. I'm clearly the weak link in this group, so if you enjoy good writing – and I know you do – give DadCentric a little love. I think you'll find it worth your while.

3) Meanwhile… I'm still writing about the Real Housewives of New Jersey over at ye olde MamaPop, and my self-loathing for doing so is become more and more evident with each passing week. It's kind of fascinating and horrifying, all at the same time.

4) And finally, PoliteFictions 4.0 is currently – albeit slowwwwwwwwwly – making its way through its paces. This edition's focus is the idea of What Happens After, and while I've yet to go (hell: I'm still trying to figure out what the hell I'm gonna do) there are already some sweet posts up there from the likes of Jonniker and FADKOG and Mr. Lady and Ms. Picket To You and Adam P Knave and… well, it's pretty cool, and certainly a better use of your time than anything you'll find on this site.

Anyhow. That's it. Tomorrow, I head off for the land down under of a thousand dances of the lost of blueberry ales and fjords. If I'm lucky, I may never come back.

See ya on the other side.

Part Uno available here for your reading pleasure…

Before we move on to the events of Friday – the first day of BlogHer proper – two things about Thursday that I'd forgotten to mention:

• As we walked into the People's Party on Thursday evening, BHJ stopped for a moment so he could say hi & introduce us to SweetSalty Kate. Jason said hello, BHJ beamed warmly in reaction to this reunion with a friend, and I basically melted into a puddle of goo. D'you remember in Notting Hill when Hugh Grant's sister – who is beloved by everyone but also kind of a whack job who (between her googly eyes and goofy hair) for all intents and purposes resembles a cartoon bird – meets his famous actress girlfriend (Julia Roberts) for the first time and finds herself unable to stop from gushing out something to the effect of "I've always felt, in a deep and meaningful way, that you and I were meant to be friends. The best of friends." and then Julia Roberts just stares at her and we all die of embarrassment watching? Yeah, well… as the introduction took place, I came thisclose to having a Hugh-Grant's-sister-in-Notting-Hill-moment. Why? Because Kate is easily one of the finest writers I know on the interwebs, plus she wrote a book that snuck around my defenses and surprised me by becoming one of my favorite things ever, plus she's terrifyingly beautiful. Taken together, it's a pretty fucking intimidating package. So when I finally found myself face-to-face with her and in a position to introduce myself and say hi… well, realizing that I was on the verge of a Defcon-6 moment of embarrassment meltdown, I chose instead to swallow my tongue and die on the spot. Which is exactly what I did. The end.

• I should also point out that right from the get-go… Always Home and Uncool Kevin (aka my roommate) (aka the man I slept with) (twice) worked diligently at every possible opportunity to achieve his core goal for the event. To promote himself? To make connections? To pick up important tips on branding? None of the above: Kevin was working to generate awareness of the Cure JM Effort to win the $250,000 Pepsi Refresh Grant. The guy made an incredible effort at every possible turn, and I'd be doing him a supreme disservice if I didn't ask you to take a minute now – and every day this month – to click on that link and place your vote.

Okay. So: having now established the groundwork for a phenomenally successful weekend of How Not To Win Friends and Influence People… Friday dawned, and with it the officially beginning of BlogHer 2010.

• Despite the fact that didn't get to sleep until 2:30am, I'm up and in the shower at 6:30am. Seven+ years of living with small mammals monsters children has apparently ruined me for sleep forever. I'm showered, dressed and ready to face the world by the time Kevin awakens to find me sitting six inches away from him, deciding his skin is pretty and that I'd like to wear it in my comfortable hotel chair, a song on my lips and love in my heart, prepared for the glory of a (deep breath) blogging conference. 

• Sustenance! We seek sustenance! And so, we head down to the main ballroom to grab some breakfast and hear the introductory "Welcome to BlogHer!" speech thing. Kevin loads up his plate with fresh fruit; I demonstrate a similar commitment to nutrition by allowing a blueberry to accidentally fall onto my plate. Antioxidents and all.

• We sit down – two lonesome dudes at a table, afloat in a sea of BlogHers – and wait for the festivities to begin. We're quickly surrounded by women (none we know… they all seem friendly enough, as Kevin makes smalltalk and I hide behind my bagel) and begin getting frantic emails from Kristine, who relates the story in much finer detail than I'm capable of mustering here. 

• We also start wondering as to the whereabouts of Darcy (from Post Picket Fence) and Carolyn (de la Carolyn Online), who were supposed to have come down from Connecticut in time for the morning session. I hypothesize that it'll turn out that they're too damaged by the previous night's festivities to make it down before mid-afternoon. Soon enough, he gets an email from Darcy to that effect. Score one for the blue lobster, folks. 

• And with that, BlogHer 2010 launches like Sputnik into space. (I'm Laika in this equation, btw.) I meander aimlessly for half an hour, and then find my way into my very first-ever BlogHer conference session — on Blogging Autism. As I wander the room, looking for a familiar face (not the last time – not by a long shot – that I'll do the "new kid in middle school/who do I sit with at lunch?" dance in a crowded room), I see Devra from Parentopia and (without thinking) I go up and introduce myself by shaking my lanyard at her. (Not thinking generally works well for me.) She is, needless to say, entirely awesome and impossibly warm and friendly and instantly invites me to sit next to her for the session. Yes! I have a session buddy! As I've learned from my kids' preschools & schools… the buddy system works — and this session is no exception. I won't try to describe the session itself, as Amalah already does that quite nicely in the link above, but it turns out to be a pretty remarkable and moving discussion among the four presenters and a very involved audience. Midway through the session, Jodifur tweets Devra and tells her to give me a hug — which she immediately jumps up and does. I respond by once again melting into a puddle of goo. And then, suddenly… the session is over. In all honesty, I could've easily stayed another hour, listening to these people talk and soaking up their experiences and trying to figure out how they relate to my own. So: wow. Great start to this thing.

• I decide to celebrate by blowing off all other sessions for the day (see: not thinking). Actually, it's not a conscious decision, but after session one I run into into Sweetney and Charlie, who invite me out to lunch.

• Which is how I end up in a place with a mechanical bull and cattle skulls on the wall. In Manhattan.

• I spend most of the lunch talking to Miss Banshee and Snarky Amber, who are – for the record – every bit as cool and self-deprecatingly, sharply, truly, deeply funny as you'd think they'd be. I also somehow manage to fool myself into thinking that I'm not coming off like a complete buffoon, so… score one for the powers of self-delusion.

• I also get to talk at some length to Charlie about beer and food. Man, does that guy know his stuff. 

• Lunch lasts for approximately three hours, most likely because we're all hypnotized by the cattle skulls and unable to rouse ourselves from the table. Fuckin' cattle skulls, man.

• After lunch, I find myself wandering aimlessly around the Hilton (do you sense that this is something of an ongoing theme for me?)… until: Shazam! I stumble upon Jonniker, who's chillin' at the hotel lounge with a bunch of really, really, really cool women. Drunk on self-delusion and the cumulative effect of three hours in the presence of cattle skulls, I sit down and proceed to inflict myself on them for a chunk of the afternoon. They are remarkably tolerant of my presence.

• In the midst of all of this, I'm exchanging emails with Mr. Lady, who's decided to blow off BlogHer so that she can go commune with nature or some shit. At some point during this exchange, she starts emailing me lyrics to The Wind Beneath My Wings, which immediately burrows into my skull and makes me want to dig it out with a spork. I respond with great dignity and restraint:

"Sitting in a hotel bar with Jonniker, She Likes Purple, Lawyerish, the New Girl and Suebob.

You're not jealous at all."

Her thoughtful response: "Fuck off and die."

(pouring one out for Mr. Lady)

• At some point during the course of lounge hours, another woman approaches the lounge area and is greeted warmly by the group. Since I'm deaf and stupid, I miss her name when she introduces herself to me. She's apparently just gone shopping – buying a new dress – and is anxious about something she's going to be doing that night or the next day. She's only there for a couple of minutes, and seems really nice, but before I can get clarification on anything she's gone… and it's only late that afternoon that I recognize her – wearing that new dress – when she gets up on stage and delivers a long and exuberant rap about Twilight as part of the BlogHer Community Keynote/Voices of the Year Presentation. At which point, I say: oh. That's Metalia. (See under: am stupid.)

• I'm starting to realize that I was the Forrest Gump of BlogHer 2010. Am not happy about this.

• So! Speaking of the BlogHer Community Keynote/Voices of the Year Presentation! I go, of course. And it is fantastic, of course. Each and every post that is read is terrific. It is, obviously, a blast to see Jason stalk out on stage like he owns it – which he does – instantaneously mention his penis to an audience of 2400 women, and then hammer his way through his fantastic Valentine's Day piece. Dude is the biggest damn rock star that I know. And the others… man. Some made me cackle like a madman; some made the room get all dusty all of a sudden. Just an impressive expression of the kind of work floating out there on the interwebs. Kind of inspiring, really.

• Afterwards, struggling amongst the huddled masses yearning to breath free take the elevators up to their rooms, I find myself standing next to Marinka — whose Keynote presentation was one of the greatest things I've ever heard: just funny as hell, delivered in a perfect deadpan that hit every note perfectly. Since I kinda sorta vaguely kinda know her through the magic of the Real Housewives of New Jersey, I think: hey! I know! I'll introduce myself and let her know how awesome I thought she was on stage! And then I clear my throat to say something and she looks up and… I go starstruck and dead stupid. Unable to form words, I flap my lanyard at her and mumble something to the effect of "hominahominahomina." And then the elevator doors open and she slips away and I stand there, staring at the closed doors, trying not to make eye contact with my reflection and thinking: I shouldn't be allowed around people. 

• See under: I suck.

• Suddenly, it's time to head out to the MamaPop Writer's Dinner! And so all 4 8 15 16 23 42 of us climb onto a single rickshaw into a cadre of cabs and head downtown to the sweet-ass corporate offices of OutNumberedIsMe, who generously offered to host our sorry asses for an evening of burritos, beer, and apocalyptic karaoke meltdown.

• I just realized I used ass and/or an ass-derivative twice in that last sentence. Sorry.

• In any case: it is a goooooooooood time. Seriously.

• First off: I have to say that I'm deeply jealous of the people who work there, because that is a seriously sweet set-up. Y'know that vision you have in your head of the kind of place where cool people do great, creative work? Lots of exposed brick, woodwork and pipes, offices with glass doors and big couches to facilitate collaboration and the free flow of ideas, open, communal spaces where people can take a break from their tasks and actually hang for a few minutes without fear of being nailed by a supervisor for being somewhere other than their tiny little cubicle of depression? This office is that vision brought to life. And judging by the brief conversations I had with a few people who worked there… that impression is accurate. Deeply, deeply cool spot.

• Secondly: Karaoke is a full-contact spot. Sometimes people get hurt. Just sayin'.

• Third: That said, I do not actually participate in said karaoke — I simply hear and witness it in states that range from "Wow. I'm actually kind of impressed" to "Ouch" to "I'm pretty sure I hate music now."

• Fourth: Perhaps my favorite moment of the evening occurs at the end of a long solo performance by  KBestOliver, who completes an exhilarating rendition of… well, I don't actually know what it is, but she finishes by suddenly yelling out "SEXUAL CHOCOLATE" and then dropping the mic to the floor and walking away. A seriously badass moment from one of my newly favorite people.

• Fifth: Despite having never really said much more than "boo" to her before, I end up talking to Amalah for something like half an hour about kid stuff (and the complexities thereof), and man: she is as down to earth and cool as anyone I&#39
;ve ever met in my life. Seriously. All the love she's engendered in the online world? Couldn't go to a better person.

It's funny, because you head into something like BlogHer and you've heard (well, okay: I headed into it and I'd heard) about how years past have offered internet/bloggy-type people (note: NOT Amy) acting like queen bees and generating all kinds of unnecessary drama and throwing around attitude like loaves of bread to the masses at the Coliseum… and you find yourself getting really, really apprehensive about going to a conference like this. And then you suddenly find yourself talking to someone like Amy – "A WIDELY-READ BLOGGER IN A SMALL SUBSET OF A SPECIALIZED NICHE IN THE FEMALE SEGMENT OF THE BLOGOSPHERE" – and justlikethat all those apprehensions disappear, and you realize: maybe you're not as out-of-place as you thought you'd be.

• See under: self-delusion. Also: I still suck.

• Sixth: That said, her coolness does not dissuade me from kicking her husband's ass at foosball. FIVE. STRAIGHT. TIMES.

• (Also: said husband? His name is Jason, he's online here, and he's a hell of a nice guy. Very glad I met him.)

• Seventh: Goon Squad Sarah. Do I have to tell you how awesome she is? I didn't think so. Also: METAL.

• Eighth: Laurie and Katie? Yes. Yes yes yes. Likewise Jodi and Schmutzie and Marilyn and kdiddy. Yes, yes yes yes. All really funny, really smart, really cool. All tolerate my presence admirably. Thank you for your kindness, should you happen to see this.

• Ninth: I only veryveryvery briefly see or talk to Ryan and Melissa, which is lose-lose for me but big, big, big WINs for them both. Avoiding the lobster = good move at BlogHer 2010. 

• Tenth: And then there's Bitchin' Amy, who could not be more my polar opposite. She's tall, blonde, lovely, exuberantly extroverted (in case you couldn't tell from her Community Keynote closing rendition of The (Wicked) Popular Blogger)… and at the same time: smart, funny as hell, and really sweet. So glad I got the chance to talk to her. Hope you did, too.

• And finally: Sweetney herself. Totally in her element, surrounded by her people, and completely overjoyed by every minute of it. A really nice thing to behold, and to be an (even tiny) part of.

• Suddenly, it's 2am and we all turn into pumpkins. Or not. Either way: party over & time to head back to the Hilton. Once we arrive, everyone else heads to the elevators… except for me. Finding myself unexpectedly dead sober, I do one last pass by the hotel bar just to see if anyone was there.

• SURPRISE! Darcy! Carolyn! Momo Fali! Kevin! Other people I'm momentarily blanking on! I am immediately offered my choice of Miller Lite tallboys – which are cleverly hidden beneath the cocktail table – but I chouse to decline. Beer snobbery does not allow room for compromise. 

• Have I pointed out that it's taking me longer to recap this damned conference than it did to actually live it?

• At some point, the hotel bar closes and with that… the night is over. At 3:30am – 21 hours after awakening – Kevin and I collapse into bed(s) and call it a night.

• (To be continued)

• (Eventually)

I know you have this image of me in your head as a staggeringly handsome social butterfly/blue lobster capable of owning any and every room I flit into with the suave debonairness (debonair suaveness?) of… well, let's just think of me as a cross between Daniel Craig in Casino Royale and the bloodthirsty sea worm things that come up through the pipes and eat everyone on the cruise ship in Deep Rising. In other words, someone who should have no problem whatsoever walking into the 2400 women-attended social mediapocolypse that is BlogHer — despite the crippling differentiator of an XY chromosome.

Tragically – and I know this is going to come as a surprise, because I keep it well-hidden – I am somewhat skeptical by nature. I know, I know… it's hard to believe, but once you pick yourself up off the floor (which you fell onto) (because you were so surprised by this revelation) (back up now? y'ok? need a minute to recompose yourself?) and take a minute to think about me (and really: you should spend more time thinking about me, even when I don't ask you to) you may come to realize that despite my sweet indigo exoskeleton and awesome hair and incredibly hot wife and the acclaim respect tolerance of my peers… I am, in the end, a quiet and retiring creature, not necessarily given to the easy words and smooth gladhandling you might expect typical of a gathering of like-minded folk brought together from the far corners of the world to celebrate and share and market and brand all that is and will be the world of (deep breath) (gritting teeth) (trying not to say it like a dirty word) blogging.

In other words, an event like BlogHer is precisely the kind of thing that would normally cause me to swallow my tongue and die rather than attend and participate in. And I know, I know — I just finished a sentence with a preposition, which you're never supposed to do, and yet I just did, and know you're wondering: what the hell is going on, dude? Ending sentences in prepositions? Attending massive femalevolent gatherings of online personas? Publicly exposing the world to the horror that is you? Why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, would you ever do something like that?

Fair enough. The answer, of course, is that I got talked into it. Fucking Darcy, man.

Anyhow. Despite my skepticism, misgivings, dread and general sense of misanthropy… I went. This is what happened.

• Wednesday night: I'm on the road as I head over to pick up my kids when my wife calls from the city. "Um… I just pulled out of the parking lot, and the car started bouncing up and down like it's on hydraulics." This is, of course, the car that I'm supposed to be driving down to NYC in the next afternoon so that I can attend BlogHer 2010 and have a miserable time. We agree that she should have it towed to the dealer near us, and hope that they can fix it up quick. Quick like a bunny.

• 90 minutes later, I bring the kids out to the dealer/mechanic to pick my wife up. She tells me that her initial conversation with the service manager didn't sound promising. Basically: it could be a lot of things, and they're all time-consuming and expensive. And thus, my plans for getting to New York go out the window.

• Instinctively, I react by bitching about it on Twitter. Ah, social networking. Now I understand why you were invented.

• Within minutes, Sweetney – unasked – extends an impossibly generous offer to help pay my way to NYC via Amtrak. This, people, is why she's so cool.

• I decline gratefully, take a deep breath, and book myself on the Acela.

• Thursday morning: my wife graciously hauls my handsome ass to the train station. "Stay away from strange women," she advises. "But they're all women," I respond. "And I'm pretty sure they're all strange." Surprisingly, so does not find this reassuring.

• Soon enough, my handsome ass is snuggled into a leather (all business class!) seat on the Acela as the train instantaneously goes from zero to approximately 35,000mph. Bliss.

• About halfway to Connecticut, I suddenly realize that I've forgotten to bring – among other things – the PoliteFictions totem of terrifying genius. Somewhere deep in the American south, Jett Superior swears vengeance.

• Mid-afternoon, I arrive in the bowels of Pen Station. Please note: bowels is less a metaphor than an accurate description. Both as a function of lighting and aroma.

• When I finally emerge from the depths, I blink in the early August sunshine — overwhelmed by the sensory onslaught of Manhattan: traffic seized in angry gridlock, a million people milling around me like ants, and the incredible oppression of a 90+ degree day saturated with humidity. Taking a quick look at my Google Maps printout and the gridlocked traffic, I think: it's probably just as quick to walk. So I haul my 40+ lb. suit bag and my computer bag up on my broad, masculine and profoundly sexy shoulders, and begin walking across New York City.

• Forty minutes and 1.5 miles later, I finally arrive at the Hilton New York. I stumble into the lobby, where 2400-odd stylishly dressed, profoundly beautiful and deeply cool women have filled the space like an aviary of brilliant macaws, graceful turtledoves and stunning birds of paradise. I am drenched in sweat from head to toe, gasping for breath, and desperately attempting to will myself invisible to the eyes of all those around me.

• See under: grand entrances.

• After checking in, I escape to the sanctuary of my room (room #2010! as dumb as I am, even I can remember that number!) and try to rinse the stench of New York, sweat, desperation and failure off me in the Hilton's patented SilkwoodShower(TM). I emerge infinitely cleaner and with my hair restored to its natural state of breathtaking awesomeness. My inner suck, however, remains.

• And then: a rapping! A tap-tap-tapping! Who could be tapping on this, my chamber door — as I sit and brood over my long-lost Lenore.

• Of course, it turns out to be neither Lenore nor a raven but rather – drum roll, please – my roommate for the event: the luminous Kevin from Always Home and Uncool. We fall into each others' arms in a passionate embrace shake hands, say "dude" a bunch of times (well, okay: that was mostly me.) (well, okay: that was entirely me.) and then bid a temporary adieu, as I head downstairs to check in to the conference.

• Checking in, I'm presented with a lanyard and a bag o'swag. I'm indifferent to the swag, but suddenly confronted with the unavoidable reality that I'm about to spend an entire weekend with a sign around my neck bearing the incredibly stupid name "TwoBusy."

• I suck. Did I mention that I suck?

• I race back upstairs, dump my bag o'swag, and then head back to the lobby area for my first full-on social encounter: with the MamaPop crew.

• I'm intimidated. Did I mention that I'm intimidated?

• These people know each other. They've been to dozens of these things before, and have been hanging out for years, and I'm just some jackass from Boston who pretends to be a lobster. Amount of business I have bothering these people with a hello, never mind actually hanging out with them: None.

•
So, of course, I clear my throat and show my lanyard – because, you know, it's far too stupid and embarrassing to actually say this stupid pseudonym name out loud – and they all turn out to be… entirely awesome. All of them. Just: funny, warm, smart, and improbably given to tolerating my presence. There are handshakes and hugs. I'm stunned into silence, but then remember: it must be my hair. Once again, I've been saved by the awesomeness of my hair. Bless you, hair.

• Eventually, we leave the hotel lounge (as opposed to the hotel bar) (and I should know the difference, because god knows I spent enough time hanging out in both over the course of the weekend) and meander out into the thick Manhattan air, so as to slowly make our way over to some club… place… thing… for the SocialLuxe party. I have no idea what that is, but the tide is flowing and I'm flowing with it.

• I spend much of the walk over talking to Charlie — whom I've communicated with at great length over the course of more than a year, but whom I've never actually met or spoken to before live. He is all lanky arms and obliquely angled intellect and Kentucky accent, effortlessly leaping high into the air to pull a tiny feather from the breeze like a spider monkey pulling fruit from a tree, then returning to the strange tangents of our conversation without breaking stride or train of thought.

• We arrive, and find ourselves on the back end of a long line, populated in its entirety by women dressed in varying forms of finery. I blend effortlessly, of course. We stand there for several long minutes, biding our time, waiting to see if we'll all get in, when Black Hockey Jesus begins making an impassioned plea for pasta. Because, you know, he needs to carbo load in prep for his incredible Tutus for Tanner run the next morning. 

• Which is how I find myself eating dinner with Black Hockey Jesus and Jason from OutnumberedIsMe on my first night at BlogHer. Go figure.

• Dinner is pretty good, and is enlivened by the possibility of Jason's lactose intolerance kicking in and the sight of BHJ drinking something like 35 glasses of water.

• I'm pretty sure my hair continues to look good throughout. They don't mention it, but I presume that's because they're at a loss for words to describe its majesty.

• Afterwards, as we begin the long, sweaty trek back to the hotel, Jason suddenly leaps out into the street and grabs one of those bicycle/rickshaw dudes. The rickshaw is only supposed to hold 2 people; we solve this by having Jason sit on our laps.

• Jason: "Are those your keys?" Us: (uncomfortable silence)

• Which is how it comes to pass that dozens of attendees at BlogHer 2010 are treated to the vision of OutnumberedIsMe crouching on the laps of The BHJ and me as we pull up to the front entrance in a tiny rickshaw.

• Which is pretty much what I had in mind when I first signed up for the conference back in February.

• Eventually, we head up to The People's Party in the Grand Ballroom, which leads to the following exchange:

Table full of women we don't know: So why are you guys here?

Jason: MILFs. We're here to meet MILFs.

BHJ: (laughing)

Me: (face/palm)

Jason: (beaming) MILFs!

• Following that triumph, I proceed to wander around the hotel for a couple of hours. I'm kind of rough on the details, which is mildly surprising considering that I hadn't actually had much to drink at all, but my clearest recollection is that of running into Jonniker a couple of times – who is always in the company of a bunch of women, including what turns out to be her supercool roommate She Likes Purple – and each and every time having her introduction of me be followed (WITHOUT FAIL) by the women in question saying, "Oh! We hear your wife is lovely!" Which means that (apparently) Jonniker is preemptively ensuring the protection of my virtue by spreading the gospel of my wife's awesomeness.

• The single exception to this is a moment when I'm going down the escalator with Jonniker and one of her friends repeatedly yells up at us, "Are you all right, Jonna? Is he bothering you?" Because she thinks that I am a predatory male with malevolent intent towards the Jonniker. This, of course, turns out to be Sundry. Score one for me: the one time I meet Sundry… and I manage to convince her that I'm macking on her friend. Awesome.

• At some point, Thursday turns into Friday, and at about 1am I'm walking by the hotel bar one last time before I head upstairs… and I see the unmistakable faces of Palinode and Schmutzie, who have apparently just arrived. Of course, they don't know me – because, you know… blue lobster – but as soon as I flap my lanyard at them they are friendly and awesome and possibly even happy to see me. I proceed to plunk my hot ass down next to Aidan and spend well over an hour basking in his presence much as a lizard does beneath the sun: gratefully, happily, suffused with bone-deep warmth and joy. At some point during the late evening, he greets Kevin by referring to him as a "dirty motherfucker." He later expresses regret for the "motherfucker," although I can only presume he sticks by the assertion of "dirty."

• At about 2:30 am, I finally return to the hotel room (2010!) and sleep with Kevin.

• Oh. My. God. All of this, and I haven't even gotten to the point where the conference has started yet.

• See: I suck.

• (to be continued)

• (eventually)

And then I died of the cuteness. But not before I swiped yet another sample of my son's work and passed it off as legit web content.

 

It's probably important to note that his love for playing Wii with me may stem from the fact that he regularly kicks my ass.