I’ve been careful on this blog not to write too much about what I do for a living.  Sure, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.  I’ve even mentioned it a time or two in previous posts.  But I work with people who regularly scour the web to locate information for stories.  Reporters are smart.  We are also nosy.  God forbid one of my co-workers stumble onto this blog and connect it to me.

Oh, what an effing train-wreck that would be!

It’s not that my bosses would be overly-surprised that one of their employees “did the nasty” with a co-worker.  TV people are an incorrigible bunch.   The industry is rife with stories of reporters who got caught banging each other’s brains out.   You just don’t want to be one of those stories.  Not if you’re me, anyway.

Who am I?   I’m the guy who, just two days ago, served up another ratings-victory on a silver platter.  And I’m the guy who’ll do it again next week, and the week after that, and the following week.  I’m what our morning anchorman jokingly refers to as “ratings gold.”  I do television stories that hit nerves.  My viewership knows it, and my bosses love it.

I’d hate to shatter their illusion of me.

You see, here’s the difference between you and I.  (Not that we’re really any different.)  If you get pulled over for drinking and driving, your name will appear in the police blotter section of your local newspaper…in the tiniest of print.  But if I get popped for DUI, that, my friends, is front-page material.  For added measure, I’m sure the bastard print reporters would include a Nick Nolte-style booking photo of me.

I’m not saying a workplace affair is “reportable” information, not unless a person is charged.  But in my business, public image is everything.  One stupid PR move and you’re screwed.

It’s possible even a guy like me could have survived a workplace affair if it had happened under normal circumstances.  But mine wasn’t normal.  She wasn’t normal.  Not to them.  Not to the bosses who sign our paychecks.   They fired her, but instead of leaving quietly, she went out kicking and screaming.  She hired a lawyer.  Threw scare-tactics their way.  I would have been guilty by mere association.   It’s why I laid low.  Didn’t stand up for her.  Didn’t explain to them that she had a medical problem, and deserved another chance.  As angry as I’ve been with her these last two years (and for good reason), it’s the one thing I regret not doing.

She was excellent on the air.  A natural talent.   But a sheep among hungry wolves.  She couldn’t keep up the front of competence.  The bullshit act that reporters put on.  She was too honest.  Too sincere for all that.  And it’s why I fell so hard for her.   But toward the end, when she needed my “vote,” I stayed the hell away.  Far away.  For that, I will always be sorry.

But enough about that.  What’s done is done.  I’m still here, and I’m still having to act.  Keep a straight face.  Look important.  And keep my eyes the hell off our morning anchorwoman’s perfect ass.   I fooled them the first time.   Only a fool tries for seconds.

This is a true story.  No fantasy shit.  What you’re about to read actually happened.  I was in my kitchen last night washing dishes like a good boy when my wife’s cell phone started to chirp.   The familiar sound of an incoming text message.  From who, I don’t know.  It was none of my business.  It never is these days.  And I wouldn’t have cared who the text was from, if not for the horrified look on my wife’s face.

(Oh please oh please oh God no!)

I kept my cool.  Kept washing dishes.  Stared straight ahead.  Pretended not to notice.  But my breath was heavy.  My wife heard me gasping.  She looked at me with her patented evil grimace and said, “Everything okay?   Dear?”

I pretended that I didn’t hear her.  That I was deep inside a dishwashing daydream.  You know what I mean.  The mundane shit you think about when slaving over the kitchen sink.

“I asked you if everything’s okay.”

This time, I answered her.

“Oh.  Sorry.  I was just thinking about all the things I have to do at work tomorrow.”

“I see,” she said.  “I thought heard you sigh when I picked up my phone.  That’s all.”

(Why the fuck would I do that, my beautiful bride?)

It turns out, the text message on my wife’s phone was from our daughter.  Our driving-age teenage daughter.  Seems an unauthorized trip to Wal-Mart was in the works.  Hence, the reason for that ghastly look on my wife’s face.

Here’s where you ask what’s so frightening about that.   A text message…oooooh!   That’s scary shit!   My answer to you is, PTSD.   Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from a man who cheated on his wife.

Two whole goddamned years ago!

Yes, dear readers, this is my life.  My new life of fear and paranoia.   Little things, innocent things, innocuous things freak me the fuck out because I’ve been beaten down.

The phone rings.  WHO IS IT?   A new email.  FROM WHO?   My wife leaves the house.  WHERE IS SHE?  AM I IN TROUBLE?

Go ahead.  Laugh.  Or recommend therapy.  Oh wait, I’ve been there.  Done that shit.  The problem is, no matter what I do, or which self-help books I read, I can’t the feeling that “she” is going to call my wife.   Or that my wife will call “her” and my nightmare will start all over again.

“She,” of course, is my ex-lover, who I haven’t heard from in more than a year.  (Next year, it will be two years, and the year after that, three.)   You ask, why would she call?  Why would she do that?   What on earth would that accomplish?   Surely you don’t believe that would ever happen.

No, I don’t.   It’s crazy to even think it.  And it’s embarrassing to even bring this up.  But such is the life of a formerly cheating man.   A man who was caught and is still being punished.

Gotta go.   My wife’s phone is ringing.   And the ghost of my ex-lover is laughing at me.

Happy Halloween, y’all.

As most of you know, I’ve been struggling of late to post anything of substance on this blog.  Don’t ask me why.  Perhaps the “explorer” has finally run out of things to say.  Or perhaps it’s time I take this blog in a new erection direction.  Where…I don’t know.  Until I figure that out, I’m going to post something that makes me utterly happy.  Ooh yeah!  It’s a photo tribute to my favorite woman of broadcasting, ESPN sideline reporter Erin Andrews.

A moment of silence, please.

Beautiful woman,
come out and play,
reveal your inner treasures.

The sparkle in your eyes,
the natural swing in your walk,
you radiate excitement and enthusiasm.

You need no latest fashion,
No expensive hair cuts,
No blinding big accessories.

You glow in your passions,
passionate in your pursuits,
you know what you are made of.

You are not easily bothered,
by the mindless opinions of others,
you know very well where you want to go.

you are a joy to watch,
an inspiration to others,
your pure soul an endless marvel.

Beautiful woman,
let your brilliance shine through,
your eyes speak of true inner beauty.

(Poem not written by me.)

Let me tell you what I did last night.  It’s boring, but I’m really quite proud of myself.   I surprised my family with a better-than-average dinner.  By that, I mean I found an awesome recipe on the internet and fixed it!   Eating dinner at my house was like eating out.  A bold new dish with bold new sides.  Hell, I even threw in fresh-squeezed lemonade.   No one knew what to think, but they loved it.

Keep focused.   Look forward.

I’ll tell you what else I did.   Earlier in the day, I surprised my wife at her workplace with a hummus plate from the local middle eastern restaurant.     I scored about a thousand points for that one!

Make deposits.  Rectify wrongs.

Tonight, I’m taking my wife downtown for dinner, and coffee afterwards.   Tomorrow night, we have tickets to a show at our local performing arts venue.   Both nights, I plan to end the evening’s festivities with some “performing arts” of my own.  On my wife.  There are only two tickets to this show, and they’re both taken.

Have sex with your spouse as often as you can.

In my free time, I’ve been thinking more and more about my next career, which may come sooner than later.  It’s not that I’m worried about losing my job.   (My bosses worship me.)   It’s that I don’t think I can keep doing what I do for much longer.   TV news eats away at you, piece by piece, year after year.   It desensitizes you.  Makes you cold.  Makes you a pit bull before you know it.   Reporters must be tough, or they won’t last.   Only the strong survive in my business.   And I’m running out of strength.

Plan your future.  Don’t live in an affair-vacuum.

Do something big.  Do something grand.  Make every minute of your life count.   Take your life back.   Stop being a prisoner.  Advance yourself.   Do it now!   Otherwise, you may as well kill yourself.   Spare yourself from any further suffering.   What’s the point of living if you’re not really living?   Snap out of this funk at get moving!

Control your thoughts.   I said, control your thoughts.

Take up a new hobby.  Something.  Anything.  Go buy a book.  Have you read a book lately?   Go for a walk.  If it’s raining, take your umbrella.  Work the fat off your ass.  And hips.  And stomach.   And stop eating so much junk!   Start keeping a list of things you need to do.   Stop trying to commit those things to memory, because it never works out.   Develop an agenda.  Stick to your goals.  Exceed your goals.   Impress those around you.   Become the spouse you should have been a long time ago.   Productive, fun and sexy.  So sexy!    Remember, if you lose your sex, you’ve lost your youth.   This battle must be fought to the bitter end.   Don’t look old.  Don’t become old.

Reinvent yourself.   You’re not dead yet.

Let’s get started.

Note to self:   If you ever decide to boff another female coworker (not that there will be a next time), don’t forget to remove incriminating evidence from your desk at work.  Stuff you’d have one helluva time explaining to your boss.

Who knew that nearly two years after my unfortunate workplace sexcapade, my desk would contain a variety of  “smoking guns” which I discovered this weekend during a cleaning binge.

Take the trial-size bottle of KY lube that was crammed in the back of my drawer.   It was a gag gift from “other.”   Her way of telling me she thought I was a really swell guy.   Sitting here now, wrapping the bottle in a McDonald’s napkin before tossing it in the trash, I’m reminded that the affair “wasn’t just me.”   KY-girl aimed to get some.

And did.

Rifling through folders in my large bottom drawer, I find even more damning evidence:  A 4GB flash-drive that contains, among other things,  a dozen or so photos of her that I saved when our affair ended.  I don’t know why I saved them.  I guess I was worried I would never see her again, and would forget what she looks like.   (I was right.)  Looking at them now, for the first time in nearly two years,  I feel a mix of anger and sadness.   This was my friend.  I trusted her.   No matter what happened, our secret would always be safe.   But this person –this skinny TV-model posing in a variety of photos– no longer exists, in spirit or in likeness.   (Was she ever real to begin with?)

Delete.

More evidence.  Printout after printout of cell phone text messages between me and OW.    What do I have these?   Oh wait, I remember.   These were my wife’s printouts…for her lawyer.   They were to show my long-term pattern of lies and deception.   I found them at home and brought them to work.   Did I think my wife wouldn’t print out more?   Look at all these text messages!   Hundreds upon hundreds!   I was not only slack in my cover-up, I was crazy!

Shred.

Next folder:  A print-out from my lawyer.    An explanation of what would happen if my wife decided to move forward with the divorce.   She would’ve taken everything.   Kids included.   I would have been relegated to a one-room apartment.   And food stamps!    Yes, I did the right thing by fighting for my marriage.

A Word document on the hard-drive of my computer:   A timeline of OW’s meltdown at work.   My wife demanded that I create this timeline, because there were “holes” in my original story.    Looking at it now, I see how I had cast all judgement aside during OW’s final days at work.   She was crashing and burning.   Drawing attention from our bosses for her erratic behavior.   And there I was.  By her side.   Waiting for her erratic behavior to turn on me…like a loaded gun.

Delete.

Finally, in the drawer where I keep extra pens and my earpiece for live shots, I pull out a vintage photo of me and wife.   Both of us are chubby.   But we’re happy, or seem to be happy.    The suggestion of adultery had not been introduced in our lives.   Noticeably absent from my dear wife’s face is that unmistakable look of betrayal.   The one she wears even today.

And my face?   I’d love to know what the man in the photo was thinking back then, if I was thinking about anything.   I was innocent.  Comfortably numb.  Content with the way things were, and where my life was headed.

I plan to keep this picture forever.

“We dance round in a ring and suppose, While the secret sits in the middle and knows.” ~ Robert Frost.

I’m going to be brutally honest…again.

This mess we find ourselves in wouldn’t have happened if we’d been honest with our spouses.  Honest about everything.  EVERY-thing!  Every dark desire that creeps into your mind.   That’s how honest marriages work.  No holding back.  No secrets.  No waiting for your spouse to leave for work –or better yet, leave for an entire weekend!– so you can roll a big doobie and get blitzed out of your mind.  No pretending you’re one thing when you’re really another.  No saying shit to your spouse just to appease them and avoid confrontation.  An honest marriage is when both spouses understand who they’re dealing with and what they’re dealing with.

Anything else constitutes a “secret second life.”

Do you tell your spouse how much money you’ve spent?  Down to the last red-cent?  Or do you hide that fact that you just dropped $4.50 on a specialty coffee at Starbucks  because you don’t want to hear their lecture –again– on wasting money?  Or maybe there’s something else you don’t tell because…it’s “just for you.”  Your business, not theirs.   How can we be independent human beings when we have to report EVERYTHING to our spouses?!!!    That’s what your mind tells you.   That’s how secret second lives are born.

They start small.  Too small to be considered any real violation of the marital rules.  Besides, honesty can go too far, you say to yourself.  What guy wants to tell his wife that she needs to stop eating all that junk because it’s making her fat?   And what woman wants to tell her husband to stop acting so stupid all the time, and to get up off of his ass and get some work done, and then maybe, just MAYBE she’ll consider giving head? Yes, we love each other.  But we realize early on there are just some things that will never change with our spouses.  They are who they are.  You are who you are.  Why spend your life fighting?  Just do what you gotta do, and keep it on the down-low.    Take care of business in your secret second life.

Five years click by.  Ten years click by.  Before ya know it, you’re a member of the twenty club.  That secret second life that began over a Starbucks?  Now you’re on to other secret things.   Mostly secret thoughts.  Things you’d like to do.  Things you think about because they give you satisfaction.  You like dreaming about a spouse that isn’t wound so tight.  Someone cool.  Someone funny.  Someone who’s actually fun to be around.  And while you’re at it, imagine that fantasy woman has a nice, skinny body.  Someone who cares about how she looks.  Or imagine that man has an awesome penis, and knows how to use it and keep it going for hours.  A man who understands fucking and lovemaking.  A stud who only gets pleasure from pleasing.  Unlike you’re slack-ass husband.

But none of this means you’ll actually do anything.  You’ve always been faithful.  These are just fantasies.  I would NEVER cheat on my blessed spouse.  Despite all my complaining, he/she is a “wonderful person.”  I’ll be faithful till the day I die.  Besides, who would ever make a pass at me? Old and worn out married me?

Then you see it, and it all boils down to a single look.   A special look.   You don’t know what to make of it.   Surely, you’re misreading it.  There has to be an explanation for that look.   Because I know damn well the look that married person just gave me didn’t mean what I think it did…that they find me attractive.  You’re imaging things!   Stop that shit!   That person did NOT just look at you like they want to fuck you.   And you did NOT just return that look.   No way did you flash your fuck-face smile.   Even if said-looks were exchanged, it doesn’t mean anything, right?  Not until that night when you go home feeling good about yourself and decide to forgo that second-helping of peach cobbler.  You are self-aware and you don’t even realize it.  What you do realize –now that you’re home– is that your spouse hasn’t changed.  They’re the same buzz-killers they were when you left the house this morning.   And tonight, they’re really destroying your buzz.   But that’s okay, you tell yourself.  I’m content in my mind thinking about…that look.

You know where this story leads.  I don’t have to finish it detail by detail.  Just keep adding sentences.  Just keep adding thoughts.   Keep thinking about the path you took to get here.  Because “here” is a fucked up place, and the road out of here seems invisible.  Your secret second life brought you here.  Will the truth set you free, or will it destroy you?

“I don’t want to lie to my husband anymore.” ~ My former other woman.

I don’t know you.  We’ve never met.  I don’t know where you live or where you work.  I don’t know if you take your coffee black, or with cream and sugar.  (One lump or two?)  If you and I were seated across from each other at the airport or the train station, we wouldn’t speak.  We wouldn’t lock eyes.  You are a stranger to me, and I to you.

But I know your mind.  I know your flesh.  I know why you read this blog.  You carry a secret that can’t be shared with your husband, wife or best friend.  You are suffering because of this secret.  It keeps you awake at night.  It prevents you from focusing at home and at work.  It robs you of any real joy.  You’re a faker, pretender, poser, tourist. You’re a walking-talking shell.  You keep up appearances because…you must.   You, and only you, know what you are.

On fire.  On fucking fire. You are burning out of control with passion.  So much passion, you surprise yourself.   “Where did this come from?  This isn’t me.  I thought I was normal.  ‘Settled.’”  But no.  Right now, you live for one thing.  Other.  You want other.   It’s who you think about from the time you wake to the time you go to bed at night, and tell your spouse you have a headache.  Again.  You’re a caged animal, and you’re hungry.  So hungry!

This is not about sex, you tell yourself.   You’ve always had sex.   Sex is just sex.  This is about other’s touch.  His smell.   His forbidden smell.   It’s about the shape of other’s navel.  The droplets of sweat in the small of her back.  You’ve seen that sweat.  Ran your finger through it.  One taste and you’re hooked for life.

How dare you reduce my affair to a roll in the hay, Mr. TEEVEE-explorer!  Mine is about the words we shared.  The kindredness of our spirits.  We were made for each other.  Meant for each other.  I love my spouse, but this…this is better.  His emails are sweet.  Her text messages are sweeter.  Oh, my beautiful secret friend!  I have never felt so alive.  I was dead before.  Now, I breathe.  My life has meaning and purpose…again.

You go to church, not because you want to, but because you have to.  (Keep up appearances, remember?)   The preacher preaches holy matrimony.  Sez the journey into marriage requires death to self.  DEATH TO SELF!  But you did that already.  You gave it a try, and you didn’t like being dead.  Somewhere along the ‘journey,’ you woke up, and stepped into sin.  But how could something so perfect be sin?  Is it wrong to want to feel alive?   Yes it’s wrong, the preacher says.  Now lay back down and die!

Your family loves you.  Your family needs you.  Your spouse is a wonderfully sweet person.  They deserve better than what you’re giving them.  Lies, deception, broken marriage promises.  What’s wrong with you?  You didn’t start off as a dirty, no good adulterer.  You were taught better.  You were above all that.  Your secret is so shameful, you can’t even tell your friends whom you’ve known your whole life.  End it now, before you get caught.  Your mind keeps telling you this.  You don’t want to end it, but you know you must.  Better now than later.

Besides, your old life is wonderful.  Remember how wonderful it is? Every day is exactly the same.  No surprises.  No excitement.  Up at 6. Off to work.  Pick up milk and bread on your way home.  Kids need help with their homework tonight. Husband’s off in his own world.  Tomorrow is the same, and so is the next day.  This is your future, and there’s no changing it.  Difference is, you’re looking older.  You’ll be dead before you know it, and that’s a fact.  (Death to self.)

Control your thoughts.  Control your desires.  Don’t think about that gentle slap to your ass-cheek as other pins you face down on the corner of the bed.  You’re no super lover.  Stay home.  Get fat.  Wash the fart stains from your husband’s boxers.  Stop dying your hair.  Age gracefully.  Grandchildren are…how many years away?

Suffer you bitches and bastards!  You opened this door.  Now close it.

Yeah, right.

Death to self.

DEATH TO SELF!

(May God have mercy on our souls.)

You’d think by now I’d be used to the search terms that steer people to this blog o’ mine.   Hell, I write the stuff.  It’s natural that certain key words would bring up my blog.  Still, I’m amazed by the number of people who are searching for answers to the same things I have written about.

Or not.

Let’s get it on, shall we?

• tv explorer – You know you’ve arrived in the blogging world when people start searching for you by name.   Talk about fanning the narcissism flames!
• Kiss my wife’s feet while she fucks a man – To be honest, I’ve never actually thought about this.  But now that you mention it, yeah, good idea.  Sign me up for some of that action.
• Bipolar and adultery – It’s the search term that generates the second-most amount of traffic on this blog.  It proves to me there must be a correlation between bipolar and adultery.  Otherwise, why would so many people search this combination of words?   (The “explorer” isn’t so crazy after all.)
• Girlfriend left me because of manic bipolar - This just in.  Another “normie” falls victim to chemically-induced hypersexuality.
• Affair how long does it hurt - Answer:  As long as you let it.  As Tyler Durden said in the movie Fight Club, “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”   So get over it.
• No love for wife indifferent - That’s a problem, soldier.  I suggest you keep your dick in your pants until you figure it out.
• Lamborghini pictures - Great.  I once compared my ex-lover to a Lamborghini.  Now, I’m Lamborghini-central.  No fears.  I’m about to revise my car description to a pick-up truck.  Wide-load.
• Husbands who have wives that are bipolar – Imagine the husband whose wife has recently been “diagnosed” who stumbles onto this blog to see what their  future holds.   Poor fuck.
• I begged my cheater husband to take his mistress - No you didn’t, because you knew your husband might accept your offer, depending on his state-of-mind.  Unless you wanted the bastard gone, you did not beg him to take her.
• Am I a hot wife? - I don’t know, are you?  Let’s see some pictures.
• Fun ways to mess with people’s minds on Facebook - Here’s a suggestion:  Set your account to private.  That’ll mess with their minds.  It’s the equivalent of saying, “Fuck you!  I don’t even want you looking at me!”
• Husband can’t get over affair - Yes he can.  Just give him time.
• My wife had a lesbian experience - Oh, and I suppose there were strap-ons involved.  In your dreams, pal.
• Why do dreams mess with your head - Because you can’t get that image of your wife with another woman out of your head.
• What if I still have feelings for my lover - Then you should start a blog.  An anonymous blog.  And you can write about it till there’s nothing left to write!  Then you’ll realize nothing you’ve written will change a damn thing.  But at least you will have expressed yourself, which is more than some people are capable of doing.
• My smokin’ hot wife – Hands down, the number one search term on tvexplorer.wordpress.com.   In fact, if you do a Google search for “My Smokin’ Hot Wife,” my blog is the top result.    Guys love them some Ricky Bobby’s wife!

“Beware the beast, man, for he is the Devil’s pawn. Alone among God’s primates, he kills for sport or lust or greed. Yea, he will murder his brother, to possess his brother’s land. Let him not breed in great numbers, for he will make a desert of his home, and yours. Shun him, for he is the harbinger of death.”

The highway south of where I live leads to a “forbidden zone.”  Think Planet of the Apes.  The scene where Charleton Heston and the hot chick on horseback cross into an unforgiving world.   That was me last week.   Crossing over.  Heading straight for the bowels of the forbidden zone.  I was on assignment, and it required that I travel to her town.  The town where my ex-lover lives.  It’s a place that is taboo in my home.  The mere mention of this town is punishable by death.  Now, unbeknownst to my judge and jury, I was headed in, like a fugitive.

Memories.

You can grow all you want.  You can move beyond an adulterous past, and focus only on the present.  But send a man to the town of his ex-lover, and he’s bound to start thinking again.   ‘This is where she lives.’   ‘This is where she shops.’   ‘These are the roads she travels daily.’   ‘This is what she sees when she looks out her window with those blue eyes…the ones that used to look at me.’   What she sees is an unblemished town.   Not tainted like the city where I live.  There are no landmarks here to remind her of me.  No parks with a bench where we once sat.   How refreshing that must be!  How utterly convenient!   To make a mess of where I live and move back here.

Entering her town, it occurred to me I don’t have the slightest clue where she lives.   Never did.   I never came here.   It wasn’t part of the drill.   This is where she would go, not me.  When she needed to do laundry.  When she missed her cats.   When she wanted to snort coke with her neighbor, who knew about her affair and encouraged it.  (“Get it while it’s hot.”)   This was her escape.   Her “home in the country.”   No memories or messes were ever made here.

Looking out my window, I feel nothing.   No feelings of nostalgia.  Not even a vague sense of missing her.    I am pleased with myself.  The only feeling I can muster is pity for my ex who has no choice but to live in this speck of a town.   Home with hubby.  Career dreams dashed.   Chewed up and spit out by unforgiving profession.  This is her last stop.   There will be no more.   She will die in this town.   Much like her dreams.

Suddenly, I am anxious to leave.

I recently “deactivated” my Facebook account.   Call me a bore, but I got tired of responding to endless “friend requests” and “cause invitations.”    I also grew tired of people I barely know adding their two cents every time I’d update my “status.”  (Like I care what they think about the fact that I’m “sucking down a caramel macchiato from Starbucks.”)   It got to the point where I was ready to empty a clip into the next person who “picdoodled” one of my photos.   And those lists…those goddamned lists!   “25 things that are none-of-your-fucking-business.”

Note to friends:  Facebook is for tards.  People with limited thinking ability.  Or as I like to call them, card-carrying members of the lowest common denominator of web users.

That’s harsh, I know.  But think about this:  When’s the last time you’ve seen anything on Facebook that was remotely creative or inspiring?  Are you ever truly impressed by someone’s “bling” collection, or their prowess in the virtual world of “YoVille”?  When you see that a friend has just become a “fan” of Anthony Bourdain, do you assume they must be a writer at heart?  Don’t.   People on Facebook are not ‘checking in’ while taking a break from their novel-writing.   They’re there to see what others are doing.  To observe lives more interesting than theirs.  And when they find such a life, they add their two-cents with such deep, prophetic comments as, “That’s so true!” or “LOL!”    Facebook turns your brain to mush.   No…critical…thought…required.

For the record, I am not criticizing something I don’t understand.  I was  social networking before social networking for people above the age of 14 was cool.  Back in the day, I had a MySpace page with hundreds of “friends,” some of whom I actually knew.   At least with MySpace, you could customize your own layout, and choose a song to fit your mood.  But even then, I noticed a lack of soul among users, including me.   All that work I had put into my page, and the most anyone could say is, “You rock!” or “Have a great summer!”  (Accompanied by the obligatory lolcats photo.)

Is it any wonder there are now websites to help people limit their time on Facebook?   And is anyone surprised that millions of blogs haven’t been updated in months because their owners are puffing the glass pipe of Facebook?    I stumbled onto a blog post from a young housewife in Alaska who apologizes for dropping off the face of the earth.   It seems she’s been spending all her time on Facebook.   I’m not picking on her. I’m just making a point.

Put down the pipe, people!  Challenge yourself!   Open a blank Word document and jot down some words.   Do you see what’s happening?  If you arrange the words in a certain order, you’ve got a sentence…then a paragraph!   You’re writing!   You’re actually writing, you copycat Anthony Bourdain you!   Penguin Publishers has your ticket!   You’re on your way to fame and fortune!    Bet you’d also make a real fine blogger.   People across the world may be interested in what you have to say. But beware, those blank writing-fields don’t fill up on their own.   You’ve got to think of something.

Can you?   Tard?