It's my blog's party and I'll cry if I want to

Conical party hats are out, the pins for pin-the-tail on the donkey have been located, cake could be served- It's been 5 years of blogging action. After 1,120 posts I should know what I want to say and how I'm going to say it, but I don't. Years ago, my posts tended to be aphorisms plopped onto the screen. Now I tend to give those aphorisms more context, or at the very least a cushion of words to protect them from the uncaring outside world. I suppose that's progress.

In my 5 years, I have often excitedly, and at times less excitedly, tried to define why blogging was important to me. I feel like I've never been able to fully express it. Let me try again. One of the first reasons was the re-connection it gave me. There were a number of people, my friends, who I had lost contact with. Blogs put us back together; we became friends again, stopping for a moment to share some thought or frustration in the hallways of the Internet. It was important to re-establish this connection and has led me to laugh and worry and furrow my brow along with people that I care about and some I've never met. Blogs have led me to real-life visits, discussions, trips, accomplishments, and relationships. It's almost scary how much can be tied to these little boxes. That's the world I'm living in.

That world is moving on and it appears to me that blogs are getting left behind. More and more I find myself in different hallways of the Internet, often with the same people. Social networking sites are taking over the connection function and in my limited experience they do it quite well. I'm now connected and more aware of the comings and goings and birthdays of more people than I know what to do with. I'm also keeping up with reading habits of much of that same crowd. It's incredible and a little odd.

The second important aspect of blogging for me has been the writing. Perhaps in a gesture unfair to my readers, this blog has allowed me to spew my musings out into the world with very little attention to how satisfying or unsatisfying that experience might be. I have an internal editor, but I get the sense that he drinks a bit and doesn't always show up to work on time or at all. Even with an unreliable internal editor, the repetition of writing, an average of 18 times a month, was bound to change some things. One of those things has been my confidence and the other I've already mentioned is the structure of my thoughts.

The writing has slowed lately and the structure has been stuck. I want stories instead of descriptions. I want fully-formed opinions and ideas. The managing editor in my head is starting to crack down and it isn't always pleasant. Fortunately, the ombudsman has remained mostly silent.

What has been pleasant, despite the apparent newsroom in my skull, has been the opportunity to share the mundane and commonplace. I recognize that not everyone in my life wants to hear that I miss the TV show Ed or constantly hear about Ultimate, but this space has allowed me to share that information, sometimes even in a way that tickles me because I was able to mash up words in a pleasing way. This has benefitted my memory too. This function can't be underestimated. It makes me feel heard. However, I think that it has started to hold me back. I've allowed myself to be satisfied with getting the thought or description out there and let that be enough. It may be important to me, but it's no longer enough just to be heard. Somewhere, during the course of the last 5 years, I was able to make my observations into descriptions. I am now asking myself to make those descriptions into complete thoughts or opinions that are about more than just me. I think it may be the only way I can continue to justify blogging. If I can't do this, it may be time to take my writing elsewhere. That threatening-sounding sentence was for my benefit, not for my readers. I don't know yet how I want this next step to go. I may want to move toward fiction or my life may be able to generate the fodder I require. Time will tell if I can accomplish either or if this remains the right space to worry about it.

My party hat is drooping a bit. The ice cream has made my cake soggy and it appears that the donkey's tail has been pinned.

Sorry blog, grown-up birthday parties include reflection. Look a pony!

Neither Bond nor Belushi: more details

In the glow of 75-watt exposed bulbs, nursing a Shiner Bock, surrounded by a lot of small-ish men and a few younger women, I partied. College parties, like unfinished basements, have a certain ethos, or so I've been led to believe. This one seemed nearly perfect in its way. I stood and watched beer pong, flip cup, and the slightly awkward chatter of a crowd that could not have seen ET in theaters. A younger me would have been extremely uncomfortable here, even among friends, but this version manages slight discomfort with bouts of actual conversation and enjoyment. I still cling to the familiar, but at least acknowledge the unknown and even push through some of it, partying until the morning, by the strictest definition of the word.

If my Friday was a glimpse into a past I usually avoided or never really had, my Saturday was a glimpse into a future of the same. In the mood-lit dimness of a salon-like home, I sipped Glenfiddich and bumped elbows with elegant women and tuxedo-clad men. Between bites of hummus, I made small talk, or at least made small attempts at small talk with lawyers, a travel writer, and those more experienced on the small-talk circuit. There was less room for clinging to the familiar, and the sweeping wooden steps left me nowhere to hide. After two hours of the finer things, I had to take leave.