Fitting In

It is somewhat overwhelming being a part of the Blogging Contingent
which is expected to save Convention coverage from the morass of insignificance
and self-serving shucksterism into which it has fallen during the past
few decades.

Hell,up until a couple of months ago, our biggest story was about a woman who made a model of a Harley Davidson out of butter.

Last night we had dinner with a group of Power Bloggers, heavy hitters in the Blogsphere and the business world, who were trading
stories mixing the early days of Blogging, when apparently one needed
to blog in a CLI environment and upload via 16 kps modems, with descriptions
of skeet-shooting with Kerry. We felt totally juvenile, outclassed and out-of-place, as if at any
moment we would be sent back to the "kids table"

Following dinner, we walked down Massachusetts Avenue to a typical Boston
Irish bar named "The Field". , which had been designated as the meetup point for a much younger and hipper group of PowerBloggers. The comparatively staid
group with whom we had dined declined to enter the raucous environment
of the Pub, and we probably should have headed home like the rest of
the Grownups. However, we decided to drop into the bar, where a number
of credentialed and uncredentialed bloggers had arranged to meet to discuss strategy
and tactics, for "just one beer".

In the restaurant we felt like a kid,  in the bar we felt like
Methuselah.  We were easily the oldest of the dozen bloggers gathered
around a pair of round bar tables pulled hastily together.  And
these young bloggers were smart and edgy sharks, circling conversationally searching
for the scent of blood in the waters.  They knew everyone and everything
about the party bigwigs, the mover’s and shakers of the political blogosphere,
and were expert at cadging invitations to the choicest parties on the
program. They wore thier ambition like epulets on their shoulders.

The conversation centered around who was going to be where, and which
parties had open access to the top-shelf booze.  They seemed to
know everything, but none of them knew where John Kerry was at that very
moment, except the Dowbrigade.  On the way to the bar we had stopped
at our parked car and heard the Candidate throw out the ceremonial first
pitch at the baseball game between the Red Sox and Yankees, at Fenway
Park, barely a mile from where we were sitting.

Disparaging finding anything else to contribute to this supercharged
conversation, we excused ourselves after just one beer and went to catch the end of the ballgame while driving home.

But in between the restaurant and the bar, we had an interesting interaction
with the Muffin guy at the Harvest organic food store in Central Square,
from where the lovely Norma Yvonne had requested a muffin when we called
home earlier.

"What kind of muffins you got tonight?" we asked.

"Uh, blueberry and mango," he answered after checking.

We needed to check too. "Hold on, I need to phone in for instructions."

The Muffin guy, in his early twenties and decked out in post-punk rings
and ripped threads, looked at us with barely restrained disdain.

"What, you mean you can’t make the Muffin decision on your own?" he
seemed to us to be sneering.

"Well," we mewed defensively, "I’m not the one who is going to eat them,
so I’m not the one who is going to make the decision…"

We made the call.  Norma Yvonne like both blueberry and mango,
and so we settled on one of each. We informed the Muffin Man, who turned
to drop the two pastries into a white waxed bag, now completely convinced
we were incapable of making a decision, even one as stress-free as what
muffins to bring our wife.

As he handed us the bag, he leaned his head close and advised helpfully,
"Try to stay focused, man."

Damn, how did he know…..