I was at the gym the other day listening to My Sharona. Having graduated from college with a degree in literature, I am obviously qualified to inform you that My Sharona is poetry of the highest caliber. Do you doubt me? Consider these lyrics.
Always get it up for the touch of the younger kind.
My my my i yi woo! M M M My Sharona!”
I think that proves my point. Never doubt me again, my peeps. My Sharona is second only to Mickey on the list of world’s most thought-provoking songs.
Anyway, My Sharona provoked quite a few deep thoughts. My #1 deep thought was, “Is this blog a bad idea?” I started this blog to promote my jewelry line, which I do occasionally mention. I especially wanted to share stories about all the hot queens who inspire me and the troubled pop stars who occasionally borrow a ring without asking.
Sunflower ring in 18K yellow gold, blackened silver, diamonds and citrine
© Wendy Brandes 2007-2008
Photo by the astonishingly tall John Muggenborg
But infrequently updated, 100% self-promoting blogs by designers bore me, so I felt I should amuse as well as educate people on the fabulousness of myself. Hence my digressions about fish feet and strategically placed bows. While listening to the Knack, I pondered whether all of this scares off more customers than it attracts. On the other hand, would a person who is offended by riding crops really be interested in a poison ring anyway?
If any disgusted would-be customers are lurking, today’s a good time to reveal yourself. I shudder to think I almost missed National Delurking Week.
For those of you who are not up-to-date on the latest Interweb lingo, lurkers are people who read a blog but never comment. So basically I’m working like a dog to bring you the latest news from Coco’s vagina, and you never even say, “Thanks! I didn’t know a vagina could eat a pair of pants!” Delurking means you tediously sign up for Blogger or Gmail and battle numerous illegible captchas to say something witty, like “Hi” or “Her ass is totally real and I will cut you if you say otherwise, XOXO Coco’s pimp, Ice-T.”
Lurkers can make a person feel unappreciated. Or paranoid, which is how I felt last night when Eben Shapiro, a charming real-life acquaintance of mine, said something like, “Hey, I enjoyed reading about your boobs online.” His remark reminded me that in addition to disgusted-but-latex-obsessed would-be customers and, God willing, Ice-T, my lurkers include people who know me in actuality. People from my real life have commented on this blog a grand total of ten times or so. This has allowed me to persist in the delusion that my readers are chicks with huge racks, sexy weasels, royalty, bubbly Brits, pig-owning Norwegians, blonde Glamazons, street photographers, sultry San Franciscans, macaron fetishists, angry pregnant ladies and men with severe dating problems — all of whom will stay mostly online and far away from the bottle of Champagne I am draining at my husband’s latest retirement gala.
Speak now, lurkers, and enlighten me as to how badly I’m ruining my offline life! While you’re at it, you can beg me not to give you a full-name shout-out that will forever link you via Google with the words “tit jewelry.” Sorry about that, Eben Shapiro!