It’s all I ever wanted, just to be read once or twice. I don’t need to be on Conan. I don’t need Jay to think I’m okay. I don’t need to hang in a glass box from a chain on a crane to get attention. All I have to do is blog away and it’s all done for me.
Today I was in my office writing, as I am now, looking out the window at the squirrels chasing each other in circles — and I looked back at my screen that said: “Uodfsau8 I wzs on my offivce wrltkng, as I am nle.” I never learned how to touch type.
I work in a cozy tiny bright room in the garage and have a clear view of the back of the house to which a large deck is attached. Here in DeKalb where the Sun Shines Brighter it the last day of February and the first day of summer. It’s 50 degrees.
From out of the kitchen streak five little dogs who crash into the locked gate. They are hysterical. They have an urgent message for the squirrels: “You! You! You! Go! Go! Go! Go! You! Go! Out! Yard! Now! You! You!” The smartest of them, Henri, who is gay, is the most reasonable, advising them to use the roof. Roof! ROOOF!
Meanwhile I’m trying to decide whether I should leave something in that only two years ago was deeply embarrassing. I decide to kill it, regret it, control Z it and save it on Notepad, absent-mindedly hit control N and get a new document, fresh as a sheet from the dryer. I wonder how I got here and what I should blog about today.
Two of my adult children are now on the deck, talking. A third is in the basement selling everything on eBay. The two on the deck are excited about their new phones, taking pictures of each other. It’s very cute.
We’re seeing this all over town. It’s a small town, DeKalb, where everybody knows each other except me; a college town in the land of corn. As it gets closer to Spring break they’re predicting a potentially serious outbreak of GGW as a direct result of the proliferation of these gadgets. Most of us from around here are surprised by all the shirt lifting and video making going on these days, especially while Uncle Chester still festers in prison for doing something similar.
They’re not taking pictures now. They seem to be reading, or deciding on buttons. They’re no longer interesting. I go back to work. I have to gray up this screen with typing for some reason.
I hear them laughing, wonder what’s so funny. They’re laughing hard now, now harder, and sure enough, they hit the deck. We Fishers overdo everything. If it’s funny, we always fall down.
I throw up my screen (you know what I mean) and lean outside. I like to do this. It makes me feel like a drive-thru guy.
Would you like to try a Shamrock Shake, sir or ma’am? Umm… what flavor is Shamrock? ummm… you ever had lawn clippings?
Yeah, I’m thinking, maybe I’ll blog on that. But first I got to figure out what’s so funny. They’re still laughing. They see me now. “Dad! C’mere!”
Dad! C’mere! would soon become my Watson! I need you!
“We’re reading you on our phones!” says my daughter.
My boy hands me his phone. And there I am, on the screen. CW Fisher. The Apologist. Nice font, easy to read, smooth paging.
“We Googled you,” says my daughter.
It’s all I asked for, it’s all I’ve got. To be bouncing in the pocket of the whole world at once. One flip of the screen from seeing your face again — it’s all I ever wanted.
In a single bound I am more accessible than Dick Tracy. Than CNN.
If I’d known it was going to be this easy I wouldn’t have tried so hard. Now that it’s happened, I’d like to buy the world a Coke and move on to my next achievement, something a little more daunting.
I am deeply curious, my example, as the last of my money wears out, how cheaply a person or persons might live. Need a box be uncomfortable? Need a dwelling have plumbling to be regarded as home? We’ll see.
Maybe I’ll become a DJ at a cybercafe. I’ll blog that later. And by the way. Mint. Shamrock Shakes are Mint.