ack in September 2002, when I started blogging with a little company called Blogger, they were a booming, but still fairly small outfit. A few months later, they were bought by Google, and a few months after that, I stopped blogging when I met the Princess in August 2003.

Only to return to it with Ban Sidhe in November 2004, mostly as a diary. Boring stuff.

Then something happened. January 2005, Ban Sidhe went on the air.

Or rather, I suddenly realized YOU were out there, reading this stuff, and I started to write for you.

Because I like the challenge of coming up with something interesting everyday. Because I like the attention, the variety, the emulation, the little strategies and victories and disappointments of this little war we wage for the attentions of ten, twenty, fifty, two hundred people…

Because it’s fun. Because once you start, you can’t stop.

Because I’m addicted, ok?

I don’t want to think about stopping. Don’t want to think about how far I’d go for a good post. Don’t want to think about how much time blogging takes up in my life. Don’t want to think about anything but my next post, and the one after that, and what comments I’m going to get from YOU.

Yes, I blog for the comments. I want to meet other MetroStoics, and exchange witty, insightful, slightly detached comments and posts about life, the universe and what color socks to wear. I want a comment counter that goes up as fast as the visit counter. Faster!

Ok, I blog for the stats.

And much as I love you, Blogger, much as we go back a long way, I’m going to leave you.

I’m going to get a domain name, a hoster, install WordPress and pay my 60 bucks a year.

Because you’re keeping my readers from leaving me deep, cogent mots d’esprit.

Because I deserve a favicon, damn it!

Because I’m worth it.

I’m a slow thinker.

Not dumb, not unoriginal, I’ve even been known to hatch a few good ideas in my time… But sometimes, you have to hit me with a brick to make me see the obvious.

Like the fact that I’ve been working on nothing but being with my Princess for eighteen months.

Or the fact that I was taking a risk on a big, soul-less corporation when I should have been taking one on us.

Or better still, the fact that I was selling my soul when I could have been offering my heart.

After only minimal applications of the brick, last nite I came to my senses and asked the Princess if she would marry me. On Instant Messenger, because, well, that’s our song, you know.

I’m happy to report that she said yes.

But she warned me that until I was her hubby, I was still just a hobby

Wise girl…

… so I didn’t … because men are cowards :

Dancer : whats going on with stephan?
Dancer : hes not answering any messages
Dancer : we were suppose to see each other on sat and he never called or answered and he still isnt
Mathieu : well, he’s been pretty depressed lately
Mathieu : couldn’t get him out of his flat on sunday
Mathieu : which medium you using?
Mathieu : IM, phone, SMS, email?
Dancer : all, everything!
Dancer : i tries msn, sms, phone, internet…
Mathieu : hummm
Mathieu : give him a few days, then
Mathieu : he must know you’re trying to reach him, but he’s really down
Dancer : i guess
Mathieu : have you heard of the Cave Theory of male mgt?
Dancer : no
Mathieu : it states that men need to retreat to a little cave and be left alone with no talking or verbalizing for a while, every so often
Dancer : oh yeah, hearde of that
Mathieu : this is linked to actual scientific evidence of a difference in the way our brains function
Dancer : i read that
Mathieu : female brains activate both the emotional centers of the reptilian brain AND the higher, linguistic functions of the cortex when they deal with emotions
Mathieu : male brains only the reptilian part
Mathieu : hence they are less inclined to analyze or talk about their emotions than women
Mathieu : he’s been hurt badly, he needs to live with his reptilian brain for a while
Mathieu : do male bonding stuff like sports, drinking…
Dancer : its def not still about C, but he needs to get out, its not gonna do any good. but ill leave him alone, ill stop trying to reach him
Mathieu : at least a couple days, yes
Mathieu : he knows you were trying to reach him
Mathieu : I’m sure he’ll call you when he comes out of the cave

The deception works only because Dancer, altho she expresses an interest in Stephan and his well-being, has still not bookmarked his blog, and thus has no way to know what he did this weekend. I’d be even more surprised if she read this.

Should I turn out to be wrong, Dancer, know that he should be calling you soon.

UPDATE : Dancer has read his blog, and this post. I understand they’ve talked, but Stephan isn’t out of the cave yet… and the only heart-to-heart he’s going to have is with his blog. Not fair, certainly, but those are the breaks.

Blogging is a near-sighted illusion of celebrity.

Walking in the streets of Paris, I’m constantly surprised that no-one comes up to me to ask if I’m Mathieu from that blog. Worse, I’m expecting them to ask me if the Count actually exists, or how to pronounce Ban Sidhe or Syvwlch without any need to verify my identity.

Since I’ve recently taken steps to correct my optical near-sightedness, and the blurry faces of strangers are suddenly sharply detailed individuals, I’m now acutely aware of any glances, stares, and frank appraisals that come my way. Seeing as Chaton lives in the gay quarter of Paris, this isn’t limited to women, either.

Bref, I’m wallowing in egocentricity. Better that than self-pity.

Cut to discussion of Bouffon‘s literally underground film with his number one fan, drinking Singha beer over glass noodle soup at the Mai Thai, served by a genuine Katoi, listening to the soothing liquid sounds of Thai babble from the kitchen…

We were speaking in our usual hash of French and East-Coast English of the plans for a visit in Thailand around May and I was trying not to be too obvious stealing glances at a pretty, older brunette one table over, volleying a NYC accent across the table with a (slightly) older woman. Which latter woman suddenly struck up a conversation with us.

Busted.

Mother visiting daughter and grandkids who live in France, it turned out, and daughter married to a Frenchman and working nearby in a model agency. A wealth of conversational options opened up between recommending our international high school (which she knew of and approved) and name dropping around Greg‘s brief modeling career (she didn’t look impressed at all), and dryed up just as quickly. We wished them a pleasant afternoon, and left the building.

Ten steps down the sidewalk it strikes me. I bet she blogs! I bet she knows Coquette or somesuch… and we didn’t ask.

Flashback to last face-to-face with Step… Yes, definitely need some personal cards with our blog addresses on them.

Because I can just see myself handing one over and asking :

“Do you Blog?”

And someday, somewhere, somebody exclaiming, holding the little bit of stiff paper in both hands :

“Oh, you’re THAT Mathieu!”

brrrrring
…
brrrrring
…
brrrClick!
(heartbeat)

“Why hello, Mathieu!”
“Hi, Mephisto…”
“… so, er, haya these days?”
“Hum, well, Meph, that’s why I called…”
“Yessss?”
“… ya know dat job I was so proud to have found widdout yer ‘help’, at the Old Man’s US ops?”
“Yeees, I was sooo happy for you!”
“Yeah, thx, Meph… Listen, I’m back on that “Job” thing you and the Old Man have going.”
“Oh? Well, you know we’d luuuuuuv to have you in this operation.”
“Yes, you’ve made it clear you love to poach from yer ex-employer’s flock.”
“Now, now, Mathieu, that may be true, but you have … skills that go unused in that place. We’d have a use for them here, Believe Me.”
“Here’s my price : a green card, office in NYC or nearby NJ, and no working with the Count.”
“Done, I’ll have my legions of undead lawyers draft something and kick off the red tape. When can you start?”
“Yesterday.”
“Hum… Let’s say 1st of May. La Fête du Travail, eh?”
“Whatever, Meph. I’ll be expecting your draft.”
“Keep your phone on, ducky Mine.”