Paranoid flasher

I don't know how they do it. The Heather B. Armstrong's and the Brandon Rogers' and the Julia Montgomery's, and the Tisha Sharp's and the Heather Hunter's of the blogosphere.

How do you cope when your real life and your blog collide? I mean there are people out there who not only have their names listed somewhere on their blogs, they post pictured of themselves. Crazy freaks!

I've come dangerously close to surrendering my sanity as well. I almost outed myself. Well, if anyone who knows the me behind the G read the right stuff they could probably figure out who is who and what is what. I'm caught between the urge to shut it all down or to throw open my digital trenchcoat and flash the world, so to speak.

OK, maybe I'm unduly influenced by a signed poster I have hanging on my wall of former Portland Mayor Bud Clark exposing himself to a statue in the Rose City.
It's just that I'm feeling, well, exposed. I'm not sure I want to be exposed. I can't write "fuck this" and "fuck that" if mom starts logging into the blog now can I? Yes, I am the product of a repressed upbringing, so deal with. I have. By repressing it, thank you very much. But Whoop, whoop, Mr. Mayor.

Perhaps I'm overreacting.

When a reporter from the Statesman Journal contacted me about a story she is doing on Salem area bloggers, I flirted briefly with the idea of consenting to an interview. But (and at the risk of pulling the trench coat open a bit further) I've been an interviewer before working on a story for print publication. I think I'd be a very bad interviewee. I've been a photographer, and I know I'm a shitty model (but that may have more to do with certain physical attributes, or lack thereof, but still I'm not comfortable in front of a camera). The say doctor's make the worst patients and lawyers make the worst clients. Well I don't need a whole lot of empirical data to tell me that I would be a nightmare source.

"Can we go off the record for a moment."

"Can you read that quote back to me?... Oh, that sounds like shit, let's try that again. How about if I say..."

"Oh, you can't use that. I was just, forming my thoughts, shooting the shit, you know. That wasn't intended for attribution."

"Um, well, uh. Hmmm, um, well. Oh fuck, I forgot how to work my tongue.

"How about if I just write you up a statement? You give me your questions and I'll write up responses. I speak much better in print."

So, on the week I start sharing what I now believe is way too much identifiable data, what happens? People start reading the fucking blog! Where were these people when I was writing about needing a nap?

On average about 20-30 people pick up the Fishwrap so to speak on any given day. The numbers have been pretty steady, but then over the weekend they fell off. Eight visitors. So, like an idiot, I wish to myself that more people would pop in. And what happens? More people start coming. The traffic had doubled or tripled the last two days.

So, I start pouring over the visitor data I have access to and I notice this domain: house.gov.
As if I weren't paranoid enough. If FBI or CIA.gov shows up, I'm moving to, um, well, away with no goodbye post either.

OK, so now I'm sounding like a tweaker on a two-day bender. I wonder if someone has slipped me something.

Did you hear something? Damn I need to start keeping the blinds closed. Either that, or I need to quit blogging naked.

Where's my trenchcoat?

And if my mother, or God forbid my daughter, ever finds this post, I don't really blog in the nude. And I have no idea who put those swear words in here.

Shit happens I guess.

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