403?

How’d that happen?

The solstice drew near and I was busy honing the seraphs on all the capital “T”s and “I”s in my favorite fonts to carbon-monofilament sharpness and I noticed that I had passed 400 posts this year.

WTF?

It’s not a secret number or anything, but it sort of jumped out at me, probably because the math was easy. That number of posts -- a few of them rather, uh, l-e-n-g-t-h-y :-) -- in under nine months seemed like cause enough to pause for a moment and thank everyone who drops by. For your comments, links and emails and making what is kind of a tricky commission -- keeping up a steady pace while sprinting between paying gigs and other commitments -- so interesting and informative.

At least for me.

So while I’m at it, let me take care of some housekeeping.

First, over on your right, you’ll see an ad for the “Liberal Prose” network. This isn’t a solicitation, but a “Thank You” to Matt at the currently-on-hold Tattered Coat. If you click on that link, you’ll see a Zagats of some of the coolest writers in Left Blogylvania; a collection/confederation/confection of knives-out, Lefty writers that I was asked to join. It was my honor to accept, and once a coding thingy is put to rights, this blog will be added to that roll.

Second, a sincere “Thank you” to the nice people at The Order of Brilliant Bloggers for an award/recognition in the shape of a Best Historic Post for "President Reminds Potential Rats…", and a Best Political Post Honorable Mention for "What Elephants?" for November.

Thank's, Mother Dearest.

And speaking of honors and good writers, a third and final bit of business: the business of awards.

Word has it that several of you lunatics have nominated this blog for honors in some Koufax categories, and when it comes to awards I wish I were something as simple as agnostic or a True Believer. But I’m not. I am, in fact, of two completely divided and opposing points of view, which is kind of a bitch.

But hey, I’m a Lefty; I contain legions…and some of them need a drink.

So, the Pro-Awards guy in me says:

First, take yourself out of the equation and then make any judgements.

Second, excellence not only deserves recognition; it requires it. The Progressive Movement exists. Men and women who labor in the vineyards of that movement exist. In the service of that movement, some people brandish sabers of the finest 440 carbon steel, some swing big lumber, and some – like, say, James Wolcott – step up to the plate with scalpels the size of redwoods and wield them easily with the loose-limbed grace of Gleason working his cue in “The Hustler”.

And Sturgeon’s Law applies everywhere: Ninety percent of everything is crap. It's not a bad idea to affix a consensual seal of approval on the very best of what we do and tell the world, and the confused shopper, and each other, “Everybody look what’s goin’ down.”

Because there is very definitely something happening here, although what it is sometimes ain’t exactly clear.

Third, for me, kind words mean a lot. I don’t “write for the trunk” or to fill up the pellucid ether. I write to communicate with my fellow human beings and if they think enough of what I had to say to holla back, or respond with thought and wit, or just say “Good job” it means I’ve succeeded on some level. Which means more than you may realize.

Fourth, a movement -- any movement -- is not simply a great, nomadic river ambling generally towards the sea. It picks up habits and mores, tides and traditions, and one of the very human institutions that seems to inevitably arise everywhere is the conferring of honors and laurels.

The Hugo and the Nebula Awards (to name two awards as a "for example") have a real effect on the authors that wind up in the running for them. It means more eyeballs, higher profile, professional recognition – by the readership in one case, and by peers in the other – and often means a real and positive contribution to the writer’s economic livelihood.

Well, I'm sure any of us can think of a double-handful of fine essayists that really deserve a wider readership, so what’s so bad about handing out e-ribbons to good writers?

Well, lemme tell ya…

The Anti-Awards guy in me says:

First -- and speaking only for myself -- I can’t take myself out of the equation.

I don’t pretend to be passionless and “objective”, and I’m as vain as anybody. I like strokes. I love to win. But writing with one eye peeking even a little bit at plaudits – with anything but both eyes on the page, attacking your work, as Balzac said, “with clean hands and composure” – is a teaspoon of poison in the well from which a writer draws inspiration.

I’m as soft in that spot as anyone else and know how many distractions and impediments there are to getting any words on paper at all without adding another, tempting gravity-well to mentally negotiate.

Second – corollary to the first – is the seduction reflex that comes on strong when the aroma of a pleasurable outcome slides into range. When, say, the scent of a Libidenous Liberal Lass is in the wind. The urge to charm or flatter, or to give in to an incipient and premeditated timidity and shave my words down a little; retool them to more serviceable means to gratifying ends.

Third, I’m not it competition with anyone, and awards create a competitive atmosphere.

I don’t like the feeling of looking left and right and seeing terrific and gifted fellow travelers like Shakespeare’s Sister and Dependable Renegade suddenly slotted into some kind of starter’s blocks next to me. I dislike the zero-sum-gameness inherent in it. Competition works wonders to drive innovation into and waste out of the marketplace…but it’s generally doesn’t improve the output of artists and craftsmen. Racing against deadlines and the constraints of form are great for focusing and challenging creative people, but not so much racing against each other.

So there it is, dumped out in no particular order. All of those things, all true and all chock-a-block with one another -- an inevitability, a distraction, a kind of accidental fencing match with people I only want to admire, a kind and much-appreciated compliment and a tingly tongue in the ear of my vanity. A clutter of sharply conflicting feelings, which doesn’t surprise me since the inside of my head is a cluttered place.

If you go out into the world and say nice things about what I write here, that’s terrific and I appreciate it. But if not, that perfectly OK too. I’m not going to crusade or ballyhoo, but I’m not going to cop to any bullshit false modesty either. I write well and I know it. Many, many others write well and I’m grateful every day for it.

But in the end, isn't that what's cool? That Left Bloggerton is so...profligate? So overflowing with talented and passionate people?

So instead, let me do something else entirely.

Since I’ve got a few hundred essays under my belt at this point, and I’m a reader as well as a writer, I let my mind drift back and settle on a few of the pieces that I liked for one reason or another. Ones that were well-remembered, or where I made something perfectly clear in exactly the way I intended, or accomplished an effect that was particularly satisfying. Where the parts all clicked into place in a way that made me smile. Not a “Best Of” by any means, just ones that I recalled as being solidly-built and that, upon re-reading, I could say, “Not bad, DG. Not bad at all.”

So here you go: my plate of Year End Solstice Retrospective Holiday cookies laid out in the front hall for any jolly Fitzmas visitors to sample. And if you have any particular favorites from the last nine months, let me know.

(Also and needless to say, Libidinous Liberal Lasses are, of course, always welcome to romp right on past the foyer where the cookies are kept and into the more cozy and soundproofed inner sancta here at ol’ castle driftglass…)

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This was an interesting exchange I had with Mr. Gilliard that went all ‘round the internets and back again.

This prompted some good conversation.


Me, getting very, very pissed at Tom Friedman for being an ass.

Me being pissed again.

It turns out I like parodies…

...so here's a parody of Monty Python’s “Cheese Shop” skit.

...and here's what happens when you mix Tom DeLay and Edgar Poe.

...and the first parable in a A Child's Book of Conservative Tales.

Science is also appealling as Metaphor…

...so A Black Hole where the press used to be.

...and Virtual Particles, Michael Jackson and Mandates


Bad horror movies, lesbian dreams and kicking Tom Friedman sideways.

These I liked, and they got a lot of feedback that was very much in tune with my intent. Which, as a writer, is gratifying:

What Elephants?
and
Peak Stoopid


And, lastly, the one that received far and away the most attention.