Barring any unanticipated software bug, next week I, too, am slated to join the blogosphere. Even I, I should have said. This new universe's acceptance of the technologically challenged and its willingness to allow them to catch up is pretty flattering, really. In truth, when I review my behavior over the past 18 months, I can honestly say I have made considerable efforts to close the technological gap. I use e-mail, I have mustered the courage to send a multimedia message (MMS) on at least two occasions, I have considered purchasing a USB flash drive and have pondered over the possibility of astonishing my friends with a PowerPoint presentation. If you ask me, I am almost there.
And then came the tempting offer. We didn't discuss money nor how frequently I would be appearing. Rules or requirements were not presented either. What impressed me was the option of enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime shortcut. I was in fact being offered the option of having my cake and eating it too. I could be technologically backward and still be a part of this new world. The blogosphere (boy, does that word have an innovative and space-age ring to it or what?) is essentially a brand name, a suit that unconditionally and immediately gives its wearer an advanced status. With it, you can look down with pity on those stuck behind. You get to be considered part of the high-tech scene without fearing the Damoclesian sword of mass dismissals that hangs over the heads of its denizens.
My life, if I may be allowed a little egocentrism, is about to be seriously upgraded. Instead of writing articles, I will now post updates. I will bid my letter-writing readers adieu and welcome my new friends, the talkback writers. I will no longer have to rummage through the newspaper's archive for things I have penned, relying instead on advanced links, along with the other members of my new community. Most important, my last name will receive the most coveted suffix of our time: dot-com. Who would have thought? To the chagrin of those anachronistic columnists, I am no longer a publicist but a blogger.
You may say I am living my life inside a bubble, that I was snared by the net. You may tease and taunt me, as long as you do it often. Don't be lazy, click. Leave a nice talkback. The blogosphere ethics code means I value the lady who authored Comment Number 100 more than the guy who posted Number 5, because around here everything is measurable. I need to rack up those users, the more the merrier. I've been given a unique opportunity to form an imaginary community, to become for the Internet community what Moses was for the Israelites. And this is one opportunity I have no intention of missing. Failure can mean only one thing: returning to a black-and-white world.
After doing a little homework I learned that many bloggers adopt descriptive nicknames. Some use some sort of play on words, others opt for some seductive title. I think I will use Web Dinosaur. Why, you ask? In truth, by now you should have realized that this writer's enthusiasm for the Web can only be matched the ecstasy that gripped the world's colossal reptilian rulers when they saw the glow from the meteorite impact. And we all know how that ended.
I wonder whether in a year from now, say, some newspaper will give me space for a column on the subject.
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