I suppose I could be a blogger

I’m so awakened by Ifemelu in Americanah, her blogging, that after the doctor, whose first name was Tennessa, which I had never heard before, and which, when I mentioned it to the medical student who had amazingly white teeth, got me a blank and slightly fearful smile as if she did not know which way I was going with this simple acknowledgement that I had never heard the name Tennessa before (I was frankly curious to know if it would be a recognizably male or female name), I went to Peet’s for tea and they did not have gen mai cha but they had a jasmine green tea which I do not like and they had Earl Gray which I do not like so I settled on black English breakfast tea, and sat in the window at Peet’s in the Lakeshore Plaza on Sloat and continued my wonderful, energizing, effervescent enchantment with this novel by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie called Americanah, in which Ifemelu, whose name I cannot get out of my head, comes to America and observes us. Yes, us. You and me, as we go about our sometimes charming and sometimes clueless and sometimes cluelessly cruel, rich, privileged, blank-faced, rude, hungry, entitled, brittle, righteous, Christian, needy, overly sensitive and spoiled little lives. In Yale and in Philadelphia and in New York and in Baltimore and in Connecticut. Ifemelu has not yet come to California in the book and I do not know if she will. I wish she would if she doesn’t. I would like to know what she would have to say about Valencia Street and 24th, and the Alley Cat Books, and the Google buses and our rage at the Google buses, which I am thinking I could make a piece of personal literary nonfiction out of if I rode one.

This is how I naturally write and that is why I am thinking I might just be a blogger because I am no longer a writer on salary and strangely enough “blogger” sounds more enterprising than “freelancer,” which has a doubtful air and always did because one had to first acquire an “assignment” as a “freelancer” but one can magically become a “blogger” just by blogging. A blogger is someone who blogs, to paraphrase a tautology of which I am fond and yet suspicious, because everybody knows when we say “writer” in one context we mean it as an occupation and trade, like “cook” or “shoemaker,” and there are limits to what even the most enterprising DIYer can do as far as being a shoemaker. “Do you grow your own cotton?” (Read the book if you don’t get that.)

If I were to become a blogger I would want to say something controversial and yet harmless and so I would probably say how sad I am that Steven Colbert is taking over from David Letterman, how I mourn already, and how Steven Colbert leaves me cold and has never made me laugh, and how I find him irritating and hyperactive and want to shush him and if we were at a dinner party I would leave early with some excuse.

Part of it is that I love David Letterman so much. Part of it is not wanting to see him replaced. But if he were to be replaced wouldn’t it be wonderful for him to be replaced by someone with a small ego and a folksy manner, some humility, and when I say humility I mean affect, I mean acting, I mean the persona of humility which seems to allow the rest of us to relax and laugh as the brittle and hyped-up persona of Steven Colbert does not. I mean that I have never been made to laugh by Steven Colbert. I have gaped; I have observed with detachment that he has twisted something around again; I have seen that what he says makes others laugh. But I have never laughed and I have never loved Steven Colbert and so it is sad to know that he will take over from David Letterman, whom I love and have since watching first in Paul Keister and Debora Iyall’s apartment up on Nob Hill on California Street where they had practically no furniture because she was on tour with Romeo Void and I’m not sure if they’d even had their wedding at the Art Institute yet, but there was this young, gap-toothed ironic and silly man on late at night and that was Dave.

But who else? Who is large enough in the firmament of stars (odd phrase that)?

I do not know. Perhaps you do. Perhaps you also do not find Steven Colbert funny and by mentioning it I can give you courage, like in the old days when I used to enter into the spirit of whatever your malady was and thus by example allow others to breathe more easily at their desks in highrise office buildings where they would think about their lives and read my column and commune with all the lost souls found on the Internet. Or perhaps you will pity me for missing what is so funny about him. I like to laugh. Jon Stewart makes me laugh. Edgy people make me laugh. Silly people make me laugh. He doesn’t seem edgy or silly; he seems like he wants us to know how smart he is and I’m not sure how smart he is because what he does is obvious but then so is what R.E.M. does and I never got far disliking them, either, nor did I get very far Disliking Intensely U2.

But then I thought, maybe that’s what blogging is for, to dispense possibly unpopular opinions and see what you think.

Maybe you can also tell me why so few people of the supposedly aware and tasteful set of which I am a charter member do not watch the most amazing and exciting show on television right now other than The Good Wife, which is American Idol. Am I the only one in my social group who is stunned and reduced to tears by the dream of regular folks from dirt-poor ordinariness and drabness in shared bedrooms having their dreams not of cheap stardom but of true artistry come to life in front of practiced and knowledgeable professionals? Am I the only one who is interested in what Harry Connick Jr. says because he is not only a star but a working musician with practical knowledge who thinks about practical problems of phrasing and chords and so forth?

So I do think about things other than therapy and God and why you think your husband is making you unhappy.

Oh, and one more thing. What do I notice about publication dates and review dates and marketing cycles, which I lived with in the world of music and so am hyper-alert to and somewhat dismayed by, as it means that culture runs to the tune of marketing and distribution, which we know but still find at times when we are delicate or extremely moved and perhaps vulnerable to be unsettlingly and even outrageously crass even if, as I think I admitted somewhere near the beginning of this sentence, true, but that all the reviews if you search on the name “Ifemelu” (I just wanted to see if it was, um, a super-familiar name that I just hadn’t heard because I don’t know enough about Nigeria) seemed to all happen in May 2013 when the book came out, which I know, again, is obvious and how the world works and why do I have a problem with that, but still, it’s just something I noticed that bothered me. Because the world I live in bothers me in case you didn’t notice yet. In case I’ve spent 12 years being such a nice person trying to help other people with their problems that I didn’t have time to be this other extremely bothered person who sometimes feels the whole crushing weight of the world’s crass idiocy on his shoulders and has to get down on his knees on the sidewalk just for a minute until it goes away?