Milestones from a Commentful Life: An Orgy

October 26, 2005. Brandon writes about his obsession with comments and the whole world screams "Me too!" People comment. And comment. And comment. The internet is an addiction. Blogs are an addiction. Comments are an addiction.

Sometime, late 70s: I sit on the floor with my Fisher Price Little People. They are armless, legless, breastless stumps. I do not care. I am obsessive compulsive and I like to line them up. I make up stories. There are some challenges to making up these stories, as there are only five or six different varieties of little people, and I have multiple sets, so I have five or six mini clone armies. I do my best. Unfortuntately, I did not write Brave New World. Fortunately, I did not write Star Wars Episodes I, II, or III.

I am aware of my parents, and whomever else, in the kitchen, a world away, certainly not caring about my universe. In my mind there are only me and my little people. The kitchen is five feet away. Certainly, they are listening. Perhaps, my first comment.

The days and months since October 26, 2005. Brandon gets over 100 comments. Brandon gets a bright idea. "Aha! A meme!" And rather than kill another meme, as is his tradition, he births one, sending an orgy of comments along to Romy. The concept: upon receiving 100 comments, the host(ess) tags another blogger who must get 100 comments to tag the next. A lovefest for comment-lovers. Romy passes the orgy to Pea who passes it to Jen who passes it to another Jen who passes it to Peefer who passes it to me. An orgy, it is. And orgies require flesh. Do Barbie boobs count?

Sometime, mid 80s. Sheets of looseleaf, bearing the personal details of every Barbie doll I own--names, biographies, histories, preferences. Match.com, for the plastic set. Barbie and the Rockers naturally had a much more glamorous lifestyle, and many more failed romances than the other Barbies. Especially that corporate Barbie that came with the plastic briefcase and tiny credit card. I loved 9 to 5, but my imagination was "Material Girl" all the way.

One day, not long after, I rediscover my hand-written Barbie soap opera, am humiliated by myself, and tear it into tiny tiny tiny bits. I am my own worst commenter.

1990. Ray Bradbury's A Graveyard for Lunatics is published:

"The Beast is ours now. We own him." "Yeah, who gave him to us? Who sent us to see? Who's watching us watching him?" Roy reached out to draw half a terrible face on the moisture inside the window. "Right now, just my Muse."

This week, 1993. There's a party going on downstairs. We are sitting on the floor in my friend's bedroom. The bed would cause suspicion, and anyway, it's already piled high with coats. I stare at him intently and pray I'm right about him--well, maybe I pray. At this time, I'm still at least semi-Catholic. He finishes reading and looks up.

Four thousand seven hundred forty five days later, give or take a few, I receive our standard text message. No, not the one about me finally breaking down and writing erotica. The one that's more like "What are you working on and when can I read it?"

Constantly. We hit refresh. We watch who's watching us.
Blogs are an addiction. Comments are an addiction.
But they're my addiction. And I own that.
Someone reads my words. Someones.
I will not apologize for loving that feeling. Rather, I will love more.

Last year. I am interviewing someone for a play I am writing. "It's amazing how much you love your job," I tell him. "Fantastic, really." He replies without hesitation or hint of guile: "What about you? You're a writer."

And in the way I love the sky ocean air molten core of planet earth, I will love him--fiercely and without regret--until the molecules of me disperse, and me's no longer me. But even then, they'll find a way to send another "words cannot express" to his, wherever they may be--a tadpole's tail, a whisp of dandelion, a supernova. I'm a writer.

Foreverly. Thank you to all those with whom I correspond daily, or howeverly;
To those who comment;
And those who don't;
To the lurkers and occasional happen-upons;
Anyone who's read a word I put to paper or screen;
To readers readers everywhere.

You read my words. Wow.

Wow.

I love you fiercely. And without regret.




Let the orgy begin.