Tao of Pauly

Be Careful What You Blog

Someday I'm going to walk away from all of my blogs and not tell anyone. I'll start a new one as an anonymous blogger, or maybe I'll call myself Chester from Iowa. I'll ramble on incessantly about corn and other agricultural things like pork bellies and silos and Fred Hoiberg. (If anyone gets the Mayoral reference, I'll give them $1.) Eventually I'll build up a small following of bored fellow Iowans and maybe a North Dakotan or two, but that would be fine with me. My former fans would have to scour the internet for hours on end, sifting though boring blog after boring blog, hoping to catch a glimpse of my new blog, The Tao of Scorn.

Traveling the Too-Much-Information Highway is an article written by Heather Hunter. She's the author of This Fish Needs a Bicycle. I found this article over at Material Squirrel.

Here's a bit:

Because the Musician and I had met through our respective Web logs - and thus always understood that oversharing was an inherent risk - our relationship had never been terribly traditional. We didn't seem to spend time wondering what the other person was thinking. In my case, I figured I'd just write about it anyway.

But unlike me, the Musician rarely wrote about his dating habits. He had conspicuously failed to blog about our own relationship, and so I was blissfully ignorant of other women in his life. Suddenly, with the discovery of the Young Photographer's blog, that bliss was gone. Gone also were the days when I assumed night-vision goggles would be necessary to stalk a lover. All I had to do was open my Internet Explorer. Although good sense told me that blog-stalking my lover's lover wasn't the healthiest approach to the situation, compulsion trumped reason, and I stalked freely.

It wasn't long before I knew about her preferred sexual position (her toes had to be pointed), her birth control (the pill) and her cup size (34C). And the more I read, the more I was convinced that she was more stylish, more intelligent and more charming than I could ever be. If she wrote about applying a "contouring duo" eye shadow before one of her dates with the Musician, my mind raced: Did I even own a contouring duo, much less know how to use one? If she mentioned wearing vintage Chanel to a press junket, I became painfully aware of the conspicuous lack of silk, vintage or otherwise, in my wardrobe. I bought more silk.

Still, it remained: my shoes weren't expensive enough, my social engagements not nearly as glamorous, and my freckles not half as lovable. Despite knowing that he didn't expose his love life in his blog, I began combing through the Musician's daily entries for any mention of her and for any unthinkable indication that he might like her more than me.

I don't think I'm the Musician she's talking about. This freaked me out the first time I read it. I laughed the second time and then the third time I started to actually think about the people in my life and it made me wonder... who's cyberstalking me?

Jilted ex-girlfriends? Future lovers? Curious classmates? Jealous rivals? Albino nuclear physicists? Collection Agencies? There was that one girl back when I lived in Brooklyn, whatshername? She had a Canuck accent and I met her on the F Train. I'm sure she decided to google.ca me on a lonely Saturday night up in Nova Scotia. And I met a sizzling blonde at my Gambler's Anonymous meeting, I mentioned I had a blog and she said she'd check it out. How about those guys I went to college with from my dorm? They must wondered what the hell happened to me? And how about those knuckleheads who can't stand I'm a better writer than they are and are not having as much fun as me? And then there's that freaky looking white dude who looks like Doc Brown from Back to the Future, I dunno why he keeps emailing me.

I've done my best to not specifically talk about my romantic life. Most of the time there's not much to talk about. And when there is something going on, I'm usually very discreet about my relationships. The female involved is well aware of my extensive blogging and prefers not to be mentioned in my daily musings on life, which something I respect. Besides, I think folks are more curious about my feeding habits (French Toast with bacon and cheese fries for lunch, oh and an iced tea), than specifically what did I do to whom, at what time, in what location, in what oriface, oh and what was playing on the radio and maybe I had some deep insightful thing to say during the said sex act. Sure puts a different spin on Pieces of Pauly.

Last night around 12:14am, I pushed aside Amber's pink Victoria's Secret thong and began fingering her in the back seat of a taxi as it sped down Lexington Avenue. Jugdish, my friendly driver from New Dehli, chatted with me briefly about the warm November weather while a Kamar Samu CD played on his stereo loud enough to drown out the increased volume of Amber's moaning. That's when I had a moment of clarity. Kierkegaard was right after all. "Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."

I have several stories about meeting fans of my blog or other bloggers I know through each other's blogs. I've become friends with a fair amount of them especially the ones I got the chance of meeting. And I do have a couple of random lurid sex tales with female fans, but that not really fans, more like extra-friendly admirers and/or fellow bloggers. As much as I know that most of my friends and readers are deranged sex-freaks, I will not be going into detail about those. I'm not naming names. That's the kind of things that get you shot. You'll have to read the novel instead.

Anyway, there was one person who was cyber stalking me a couple of years ago. She had been reading my blog for months before she finally sent me an email. Yadda, yadda, yadda... the next thing I know were having phone sex. Ah, you don't want to hear this... do you?