In Which I Attempt To Help A Friend Start A Blog

It’s been almost five years since this trainwreck I call Swan Fungus began. To be honest, I don’t remember what it was like when I first created the blog. I don’t even know why I chose to do it. I just knew that people started blogs, so I did. I never would have imagined that doing so would become a job (not that it pays well, if at all), or that it would continue for as long as it has. Like most of my college experiences, I figured it would peter out like the resinous embers of a forgotten bongload. The last thing I expected was to one day have people approach me for advice about starting their own blog. But that’s exactly what happened this week when a young female friend of mine (we’ll call her Soulie because that’s the letters of her name rearranged!) asked if we could meet to discuss how to create a blog.

I was nervous. The last time someone asked me for help with a hobby of mine I was in high school. A girl asked me to give her guitar lessons. The only one I ever gave her lasted roughly ten minutes. I taught her the names of the strings, and then tried to show her an open E chord. I sat there helplessly as her little fingers tried desperately to hold down the strings. She’d strum, and the sound of muted strings — unnatural and ugly — barely rose above a whisper. “E…” I said, trying to sound out the note. “E…” I said, growing slightly more agitated. “E! Fucking E!” I declared loudly, insultingly, and she dropped the guitar and left crying. I did not want to relive that “lesson” again today.

What’s more, I had a kind of a wake-up call this afternoon when I met some potential new roommates. They came to visit me at work, a nice young couple with a cute little dog. After speaking a few minutes about them and their pup and the apartment situation, I asked if they wanted to know anything about me. Apparently all they learned of me after meeting with my current roommate is that I have a blog. Oh God, is this what I’ve been reduced to? My roommate could have told these people that I was a really nice person, or that I’m witty and charming and a have value. Or at least that I’m from New Jersey. Instead I’m just the guy with the blog. At that moment I felt like I should have been wearing a shirt with a pocket protector and a beanie. I should have had some jock’s foot up my ass. First a friend asks me for help setting up a blog, and then on the day of our meeting two people admit all they know about me is that I have a blog. “Kill me now,” I thought. Ah, but then I wouldn’t get to experience the joy of my first blogging lesson. “I can always hang myself afterwards,” I promised myself.

We met at Nicci’s because, well, I didn’t want my roommate who only knows me as a blogger to see me giving some poor soul a lesson in blogging. I’d never be able to live down such a shameful sight. We ordered some Two Boots pizzas, and I introduced her to WordPress. We looked at different templates and she chose one she liked. I made a custom logo for her in Photoshop, and helped her arrive at a conclusion for a tag line. I taught her about the sidebar. She made her first poll. I showed her how to begin a new blog entry, and how to play with widgets. She seemed grateful, yet overwhelmed. It was a far cry from my first day as a blogger. On Thursday March 10th, 2005 at 7:02pm EST I wrote one sentence and then called it a night. Maybe I took a bunch of painkillers and fingered my dick. Maybe I just played Nintendo GameCube. Whatever magical force compelled me to publish my first entry that night, it certainly wasn’t some loser who knew how to work the Internet. At 7:45pm tonight, I became that loser.

The pizza was good, though. After that we watched a few episodes of LOST and everybody was happy. If all goes well, I’ll probably wind up begging Soulie for money after her website becomes a popular moneymaker. Wouldn’t that be the most ironic ending for this anything-but-a-fairytail story? Boy starts blog. Boy hates blog. Boy helps girl start blog. Girl’s blog makes her rich. Boy still hates himself. It’s got Hollywood written all over it. Get on it, Wes Anderson. Not even you can fuck up this story.