Strange Little Blogs

I think alot can be told about a person by what they do in their spare time; their petty minutes if you will. Not by their choice to go to Somalia and force-feed infants who’ve lost their arms and legs to hungry neighbours, or to volunteer to feel holier-than-thou by serving gruel at the local urban soup-kitchen on a Wednesday night; but rather by the things they do when they wake up on a rainy Tuesday morning, unemployed and uncommitted except to eating the obligatory three meals a day.

This morning I’ve been using this ‘me-time’ to intrude on the trials and tribulations of another human being – one greatly distanced from myself yet with whom I have developed a wonderfully one-way relationship. By relationship, I don’t mean that in a weird stalkerly kind of way; rather it’s a situation where I spend some time out of my life reading about hers.

Blogs are fascinating to me, both on a personal and [sigh] academic level, (I sigh to admit an academic interest simply because a good deal of the people who consider blogs academically are wankers on the ‘new media’ bandwagon and have never even read one, much less reduced themselves to produce one) and the blog I’ve been reading this morning is particularly so.

I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t done drugs or anything self-destructive for the longest period of time, or the incredibly dry yet hilarious way she journals her life – like a ‘sex and the city’ for ‘misanthropes, agoraphobes, depressives, alcoholics, pill poppers, pot smokers, losers, outsiders, and chronic masturbators’ [to quote the author’s supposition of her audience] – but Miss Forksplit really floats my boat, hauls my oars and any number of other passing-related naval metaphors.

There’s just something so wonderful about mixing voyeurism and journalism – like seeing Anderson Cooper get his rocks off in a dirty half-way house; it’s something we can all enjoy.

So without further adu, Miss Forksplit. [This post was selected as it’s a pretty good introduction into to the Forksplit format and humour, plus I could use it without censoring every second word to comply with my University’s assessment MA-rating policy]

Thursday, October 20, 2005

This Friday, I have go to an all-day corporate retreat. Ostensibly designed to build team spirit, all it’s good for is the open bar that immediately follows a day of doing “trust falls” into the reluctant arms of co-workers who secretly hate you.

This year’s shit fiesta has been named, “Heading For the Light.”

I’m not sure who’s responsible for coming up with this year’s moniker abomination, but isn’t “Heading For The Light” what happens right after your body has finished twitching in its last death throes? Why would you name a company retreat this? And why would you force fledgling sociopaths like me to attend it? Don’t they realize how easy fire arms are to obtain these days?

If they make us use Play Doh to mold the animal which best describes who we are again this year, I can’t be held responsible for what happens. Last year, I molded mine into a cock and balls and pushed it across the table to my friend Aaron. He started laughing. Later, our boss cornered us and told us that we weren’t team players and that this was all about consensus building. This year, who knows? I carry mace in my handbag, so my group leader may get a full round in the face.

Last year, the pep squad organizer of my floor hounded me for two weeks, about filming or photographing me for the opening video.

Why don’t you take a picture of my middle finger and use that? I was tempted to say. Or how about I part my ass cheeks and give you a nice close up? Should go great with Sheryl Crowe’s “Every Day Is A Winding Road,” which is the song you —-wads always seem to use for the video montages.

Instead, I ducked into the bathroom every time I saw her coming down the hall. If the PA who’s doing the video this year knocks on my door one more time and asks me to pose with my next door office mate, I’m shoving a Scripto pen into his jugular.

To deal with this event, I have two options. I can take several Xanax and hope I don’t completely pass out in my seat.

Or, I can do as my friend Karen suggested.

“Go get sushi from Food Emporium for lunch the day before,” she offered. “And make sure EVERYONE sees you eating it. The next day, just call in saying you have food poisoning. You probably won’t be lying.”

Right now, I’m leaning toward the three day old, Food Emporium tekka roll option. I’ll be sick all weekend. But at least I won’t have to mold a rat out of Play Doh.

Reading through such a vibrant and hilarious blog, it’s hard to factor Forksplit into the dull and dusty definitions often attributed to the blogosphere. But then perhaps it’s inevitable that academia will have to allocate such a constricting lexicon on this colourful media expression – after all, the literati couldn’t very well praise a self-confessed “lazy sack of shit with a significant pot problem and possible Attention Deficit Disorder” as a pioneer of online literature and virtual cultures. It just wouldn’t do!

Forksplit proves for me that there is nothing boring or irrelevant about ‘diary blogging’ – the blogging sub-genre mentioned in Axel Bruns and Joanne Jacobs‘ forthcoming book “Use of Blogs” (and in this case at least, the academics are genuinely immersed in the blogging movement). Here is an online journal that belies the mundane names of the genre it inhabits and rejects the notion that diary blogging is merely a “banal minutiae of an individual bloggers life” (Jacobs, 2003); instead one sees a synergy between personal narrative and creative expression that reaches far beyond the bounds of geographic and cultural contexts to emote, inform and entertain.

Perhaps Forksplit is not for you, with its still-curdling mix of personal pain and hilarious social commentary, but as more and more people publish their own journals online – revelling in the anonymity of the virtual realm – this is one blogging genre which is almost guaranteed to have something for everyone.

Visit Forksplit [Not safe for sensitive eyes]

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