I thought we could commemorate our final entry of 2010 with an actual post, first and foremost, rather than a “we’ll be back” message. Additionally, it seemed appropriate to suggest we take 15 minutes and quietly reflect on the year as choral arrangements of holiday favorites play in the background. I’m just fuckin’ with you, of course, which means I’ve already violated the other guideline for tonight–no profanity–and that effectively prevents us from ringing in the new year really classy-like.
But we can ring it in with a commitment: To do all of this, this bounty of letters you see before you, again in 2011. It isn’t hard to make this claim by any means, because we’ve built a curious contraption here, the inner workings of which I explained recently. There’s a reason why there are no ads, no commenting system, no visitor counter, and no Google Analytics installed on this site. Heck, the web statistics package furnished by GoDaddy is straight out of the ’90s and offers the online equivalent of hash marks in a prison cell, only a little uglier. We’re lean because Secondhand Rants runs on a simple calculus. I write on my own terms, largely free of your input. And then you consume or ignore the content under cover of anonymity! Imagine that.
We have, in effect, carved out our own space on the Internet, harnessing a staple of social media–blogs–and shaping it into a kind of pact. An arrangement. I despise the phrase “social media,” by the way, and should I ever employ the term in a truly earnest capacity here, I may vomit. Or tweet, as the case may be. Let us call this unique geography something else. Semi-social media. Socially obtuse media. The Silent Exchange, if we want to get creative. I’m compelled to raise a toast at this juncture, but I have no idea how many people are in the room or who exactly is sitting where. And that’s just perfect.
For the first time in years, I’m feeling the cold bite of winter, and rather than bundle up with a jacket and other seasonally appropriate accoutrements, I’ve chosen to wrap myself in concern. I’ve been trying to determine what prompted this change, and I’ve traced the decreased tolerance to a few explanations, none of them comforting. But commit them here I must for posterity’s sake. I need to remember exactly when I got soft.
That’s the sad fact of what’s happened, you know. I’ve lost my grit. The ability to function without a jacket wasn’t just convenient and cost-effective. It was a badge of honor for serving in Chicago, where my very understanding of harsh climate was defined. Sub-20 qualified as a standard winter day. 30 or above was tolerable. And if the thermometer ever exceeded 40, it was, like, we’re going streaking, everybody, we’re going streaking up the quad and the gymnasium.
I’m in a different place now. Some days, when the chill is especially noticeable, I’ll point Weather.com to 60201 for a reference point. I remember how it was in Evanston, with the sharp cut of cold across the face upon stepping outdoors, and I can tie those memories to whatever number appears in today’s high. Then I look at the high for Charlotte, and invariably it’s 10 to 20 degrees warmer. But it simply doesn’t feel as such, and I don’t need a meteorologist to tell me why. For starters, I’m adapting to the warmer temperatures here. I’d also like to think southern gentrification plays a part. Finally, aging is likely another piece of the puzzle, and there are some mornings when it feels like I’m this close to recounting how driving to Service Merchandise was the only way to buy a thing.
Leaving you in a silent lurch on Thursday was anything but easy, and I feel apologies are in order. Now, just to clarify, the act itself of abandoning you was simple enough–indeed, it seemed like the best course of action after consuming a late-night round of Brazilian barbeque and then searching two parking garages in a bacon-wrapped haze for my car. Friday morning was difficult, though, when I realized we had missed a post and was promptly seized by guilt.
We’ve had a pretty good run these last few years. I’ve approached our scheduled time together with a kind of Swiss sensibility, where we reliably talk, like clockwork, twice a week. That’s not to say we’ve spoken every Tuesday and Thursday, only that you were given advanced notice of absences. Last week was inconvenient because when you miss writing one blog post, it’s exponentially easier to miss a second, then a third, then a fourth, and then nothing, which is why it was important for me to get back behind the wheel.
There’s a reason for why I approach this ritual with such gravity. It’s been fine-tuned for yours truly. The twice weekly frequency is optimal. Anything more than that, and I get surly. Ratchet down to one post a week, and it just doesn’t suffice. The double-post sweet spot affords me a chance to keep the right axons firing. I shit you not, I was mealy-mouthed in both dialogue and thought today, a grim combination I’m chalking up to last week’s sloth. Understand I need this, far more than you do. It’s a regular oil change for my mind. Now that we’re on speaking terms again, let me abuse the privilege by admitting how we’re going to talk about weather–yes, weather–the day after the next.