How to Eat Fried Blogs

I've been inspired by Becky* to start a blog. Really I just want to make something colorful, and mine will not be nearly as funny as hers is.

This isn't a blog primarily about books, as the title might suggest, hopefully just a space to dust off my own thoughts and start conversation. James is another person in my life who has been blogging lately and I would like to shamelessly link to it here, for those of you who might be reading The Pale King by David Foster Wallace (I am not). http://tpkteam.wordpress.com/

For some reason, books have me thinking about worms. They are funny creatures. It always strikes me as a small tragedy to see them fried up on the sidewalk in the morning. Shouldn't they have evolved by now to know that the sidewalk will be super hot in morning if they don't try to cross it before the sun comes up? (Darwin studied them for almost forty years, seems they are slow changers) I'm not sure if I have a favorite type of worm... there are earthworms, tapeworms, glowworms, bookworms, gummyworms.. all kinds really.

If you were a worm, what kind would you be? Are you the worm who eats its weight in food each day? the worm that is both male and female? Are you cold-blooded? Are you blind? Are you slimy? Do you have a deep-seated fear of birds? Did you ever read Thomas Rockwell's How to Eat Fried Worms? Or are you militant, perhaps, like these worms?



And thus ends my brilliant, I woke up at 5am to drive to the airport today, first blog post.

* shameless use of Becky's asterisk style and her blog: http://rebecamendizabal.typepad.com/blog/

Comments

[Becky]

I think we both know what kind of worm I'd be...

[James Marks]

Having been the reason for the early wake-up, I should probably at the very least try and answer what sort of worm I'd be, but I'm not really sure. Maybe a sandworm. The kind they use as fishing bait. If you're not careful, they can bite you pretty good. As for the blog title and books, I think bookshelves maybe seem like they're totally about books, but mine have lots more going on than just that, and half the time it's not the books on them but the people looking at the books on them, or the way they're looking, that matters most. And what's dust but collected bits of the discarded cells of myself and those onlookers?