Do Blogs Die?

"Can blogs die?" I asked a friend.

"Sure," she said.

"Well, what about mine?"

"Is yours dying?"

"Yeah."

"No, I think it's okay."

"How can you tell?"

"You post on it. You tell me that people read it. You pay attention to it. So I think it's alive."

"And is posting the only thing that signals life or death?"

"No. Sometimes the content gets tired. Sometimes it's repetitive, didactic. A lot of blogs only talk about their grandchildren, or golf. Or they make a lot of noise getting out of the car, or getting up after a long meal. Or in the mornings. That's how you know it's getting pretty near the end. And they move to condos or bungalows because they don't like stairs."

"And sometime's they're incoherent, wandering?"

"Yes."

"With a lot of non-sequiturs?"

"Yeah. Like this cabbage that I bought last week was really green. Did I tell you?"

"So, what do you think? Should I keep posting?"

"Sure. I enjoy reading you. But..."

"What?"

"I just wish you'd write more about Joseph Boyden. I know that you've mentioned him a couple times, but I really, really like him. Can't you do more stories about him? I'd really like to know who cuts his hair."

"I think he has some kind of vacuum."

"That's the kind of thing I'd love to know. What's his inseam?"

"I don't even know him. We've met once."

"And?"

"And his t-shirt was tucked into his pants."

"What kind of t-shirt?"

"It said 'Old Navy Swim Team est. 1984.'"

"I wonder if he's any good...Oh. Well, write more about life. I like when you talk about death, and dying, and the death drive. I like that."

"You like that."

"Yes."

"That stuff drives me crazy. Eschatology. Reflecting on my own mortality. My Primo Levi motivational tapes...That's what Joseph Boyden and I talked about: death."

"Oh yeah? What did he have to say?"

"That he'd live forever, probably. That a fortune teller told him that his beard would never go grey."

"And what did you say?"

"The same thing happened to Derrida. He went to a fortune teller, and the woman told him that he'd never die, that he'd only get stronger and more vital with age. Well, he wasn't too happy about that. In fact, he was mad. So you know what he did?"

"No. What?"

"He painted a picture of her upside-down, then covered it with a sheet."

"What did that do?"

"It put her under erasure."

"Oh, God..."