Cartoon by Alex Gregory

Blogging is something that I do, but I don’t necessarily enjoy doing it. Reading is what I really enjoy but I lack the time to read as much as I would like because… I blog.

The reason that I still blog is that it gives me the opportunity to mock the mockable, poke the pokeable, and occasionally get off a little bon mot that makes people I have never met and who live 3000 miles or so away either smile or laugh out loud (and, no, I refuse to use the abbreviation for ‘laughing out loud’, the use of which annoys the shit out of me). Seen that way, it’s good work if you can get it if for no other reason than it allows one (me) to blow off a little steam and allow others (youse guys) to sometimes appreciate it. Win win, I say.

The obvious downside is that, instead of spending the evening siting in a comfy chair before a fire, a trusty hound dozing at my slippered feet* while I read  John Dos Passos’ USA Trilogy, I’m sitting at a computer reading Erick Erickson threatening to go Full Metal Spic & Span over  dishwasher detergent regulations. One of these things is not like the other.

Lately I’ve noticed that I have lots of books piling up around me that I really want to read (as opposed to those I kinda want to read) and I’m feeling a bit guilty/deprived/angsty about the whole situation because I can’t seem to get to them.  This past weekend, while wandering through the house, I came to the conclusion that I now have more books that I have yet to read than I could possibly finish before taking the expressway to Dirtnapville (On reading this this morning; Christ what an awkward sentence).  A couple of years ago when the stylish and alluring mrs tbogg was living in Santa Barbara, one of things I really looked forward to when I visited her (besides the hot monkey love) was the five plus hour train ride with no distractions. No phone. No TV. No crazy dogs storming up and down the stairs. Only time for getting lost in a book.  Awesome.

This was brought home even more so by this post by Lance Mannion on Richard Yates which reinforced for me not only how much I love good writing but also how much I love good writing about good writing. I envy him the time and thought and craft he can put into the written word while I spend my evenings writing about teabagging wolverives. Or something.

*This would never happen by the way, as I have no trusty hound. Just, you know, Beckham and Fenway who will snatch a Ding Dong off of your desk the moment you turn your back. Little Ding-Dong-snatching bastards…