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Privacy be damned. For years now I have been writing in private journals or small, tattered notebooks. I have sensitive
thoughts jotted on napkins stuck between pages of Stephen King novels. I have small, terribly incoherent verse scribbled on
coasters from bars in dicey parts of the global village. I have phone numbers written on my palm. I have legal pads, expensive
folders advertising various universities, address books and even an old TrapperKeeper from back in the day. And for
what? For my personal consumption? So I can look back when I'm middle-age and reflect on better days spent with more
attractive people in more comfortable places? Or perhaps I've been spilling ink in the vain hope of anesthetizing
the dull, chronic fear of my dreadfully transitory nature. I mean, everyone wants to be remembered, right? No one
relishes the prospect of suffering through a lifetime of bumps and bruises only to be forgotten once the buffet is cleared
at the memorial brunch. Or...
Maybe I've been amassing a sort of memoir for my kin. My kids, stupidly wrapped in the glow of parental idolatry, need
only refer to my diaries (passed down to the oldest son or daughter upon my falling teminally ill with cancer after
years of brushing my teeth with tap-water) to "humanize" their loving father. But to be honest, there is tremendous privilege
in the guise of such a role of fatherhood. I wouldn't really want to blow this sort of cover. It sort of provides tonic
for a lifetime of embarrassing mistakes, social indescretions and other choices that were made prior to finding a suitable,
more secure sense of self. Do I really suppose that little Sammy Schwaab, when flipping through his venerable old grandad's
inherited memoir, will laugh with knowing emphathy and growing respect for the family patriarch, when page fifteen is
dedicated to the time he went in drag to a friend's bachelor party and woke up in a Dominican brothel with neither his
wallet nor the pants to put one in? Yeah. Good ol' grandad.
No. I don't think I want to write for writing's sake anymore. I no longer believe in immortality and at this point, the
odds of my having children, let alone having anything of importance to impart to them is pretty damn slim. So I look to my
country for guidance. I look to my culture, its language and values. And what I find, not surprisingly, is that I have been
wrong to covet my individuality. Privacy is a thing of the distant past; a novelty afforded the citizens today who can afford
it and the geezers of yesteryear without the means to lose theirs. Indeed, Generalissimo Ashcroft has shown me the errors
of my ways. Privacy breeds suspicion. Suspicion breeds discontent. Discontent breeds terrorists. And the best way to confront
terrorism? The Patriotism Act! Indeed, Gautama's Four Noble Truths are for socialists and Eurofags. Ashcroft's Four Noble
Truths are for our New World Order...with liberty and justice for all, motherfucker!
So, in an attempt to finally target my writing, not for immortality's or descendents' sake, and in the spirit of patriotism
that will keep this country holy and blameless, I offer full disclosure of all my thoughts. It is for this reason, in fact, that
I reckon this site won't provide tremendous nuance or stimulating insight. This blog will simply recount the events and observations
of an ordinary Schwaab, doing his worst to do his best in the land of the free and home of the brave, erm...well, land of
the targeted demographic and home of the Whopper, anyway.
Further explanation and descriptions of various pages...
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