Seattle

Oh hi. Remember me? I used to write here in this blog. Sometimes I was funny. Mostly not. Sometimes I’d write posts that were all serious. Mostly not.

Sometimes I’d write sweet posts that were calculatedly designed to get all of my mom readers to cyber-throw their cyber-mom-jeans at me up on my cyber-stage. And to get Will to hit on me. Although that wasn’t on purpose. That’s just a bonus.

This post is an empty space. I just feel liking typing before I go to sleep. I don’t have anything earth-shattering to say. I don’t have any stories to tell (although, as you’d suppose from the title of this post I ought to be telling the story of our four-day weekend in Seattle). Even if I had a story I’m not sure I’d be telling it right now.

This space is for typing, tonight. Not for shaping.

Did you know that I played the baritone in the school band for six years? I was pretty good at it. No, no more details. That would make it look like a story. I’m just laying out some facts here.

My favourite president is President Sheridan from Babylon 5. That’s a lie. But it’s the answer that occurred to me first when I thought “do I have a favourite president?”

I deliberately spell words with an extra “u” sometimes, just to mess with you. Yo.

I have no observations to make right now; not about being a dad, not about being a dad in a mom’s world; not about being a dad-blogger in a mom-blogger’s cyberworld.

I’m not fond of the word “cyber”, but I use it like sugar in my coffee.

I don’t drink coffee. But when I do, I like it sweet.

You will find no deliberate messages in the words of this post. You might find some subconsciously-inspired ones, though.

I had a wicked crush on a Greek girl for four years, and for another four months five years later.

When Erin was five months old I started carrying her around in the backpack. I didn’t start this blog until she was almost eleven months old. That’s a lot of mysterious Backpacking Dad time lost. Not forever. There is a lame Livejournal out there that I used to write in but I don’t anymore because it never captured my attention the way this blog does. It’s even called “Backpacking Dad” at the moment. It used to be called “Thoughts from Suburbia” because I’m an asshole.

Can I just type and type and watch the words fall out? I think so.

I’m getting tired though. Is this what journal writing is like?

“Dear Diary: I hate Johnny Ratface. I don’t know what his last name is, but he sits at the back of the bus with his hillbilly friends and he thinks he can grow a moustache but he can’t and I’m pretty sure he just wants to go out with my girlfriend and doesn’t understand why she’s seeing me when she should be going out with a good ol’ boy like him. Johnny Ratface, who jokes to his friends, loudly enough for me to hear, “Know what my dad says Indians are? Prairie niggers.” I’m pretty sure that if I come back to this town on this little hillbilly island he’ll be here, working at the autoshop and wondering whether whiskey or gin reeks less when you roll down your window to talk to the cop who just pulled you over.”

See what happens? I try to just let the words come out and instead a story falls out. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell a story.

One summer, on that island, my summer job was to get a tan and ask the tourists if they wanted to rent a jetski. Every hour I’d hop on one and go buzz the ferry so they could all see what fun it was. I loved jumping the huge wake. I was really bad at selling it, though, because I’m pretty sure my boss, who owned the diner across the street from the dock and who sold smuggled cigarettes from his counter, lost a bunch of money that summer. I don’t remember making a lot of money either. I think I bought a book. I was really tanned though.

I have to go to bed now.

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