There’s a guy at our neighborhood coffee shop… who writes a blog. He’s been at it for years.
He keeps a notebook where he details the genius and the idiocy of humans like you and me. The things we do fascinate him no end.
Blogging is like putting a message in a bottle and tossing it in the ocean. There’s not telling who will find it.
One audience the man keeps in mind is his grandchildren’s children. He imagines they’ll be given school assignments to write about relatives who lived back in simpler times like ours.
He imagines them desperately rummaging through the family cloud the night before a project is due (procrastination is an inherited trait) and lifting entire passages from his posts (plagiarism is too).
As a writer he worries whether particular ideas or catchphrases will make sense to future readers. What was Y2K? There once were 50 states? When in doubt he turns to the baristas on duty.
He asks Hollie what she associates with the phrase:
“…a man in Reno.”
Hollie draws a blank. Minutes later he adds a clue:
”…I SHOT a man in Reno.”
Horror flashes across Hollie’s face.
”On no!” she cries.
At which point the dirty-chi, the medium-drip, and the soy-cappuccino in the window turn and chime in with the precision of backup artists in Nashville:
”…JUST TO WATCH HIM DIE.”
Hollie laughs in that infectious way she does.
The blogger makes a note to embed audio into his post. He fantasizes that his great-great greats will score points by playing ‘The Folsom Prison Blues’ during their show-and-tells, some hundred or so years from now.
