Friday, August 05, 2005

The In Blogs

If you're in this unfashionable little corner of the Internet, you probably know how this feels. They're laughing, all those girls at the popular table. You feel paranoid that they're laughing about you, until you realize that that means they would know you exist, which would actually be kind of exciting. Because not only are you not in the in-crowd, the in-crowd doesn't know about you, and they never will. And I'm not talking about the high school in-crowd that you could feel superior to and hate and feel confident knowing that by the 10-year reunion they'd be fat, overly made up and never have left your town. I'm talking about popular girls you love, popular girls who are the stars in the plays you try out for, or the moms at baby swim class who are already BFF from the last two sessions. I'm talking about the BlogHers.

Ever since this conference happened last weekend, the women whose blogs I read have been raving about how fun it was to meet each other and stay up late drinking tequila in one another's hotel rooms. And how they were already best friends forever from all the late-night instant messaging sessions, but now that they've met and picked each other up at the airport and held each other's hair while they puked, they're BFF-plus eternity.

And for the first time, it bothers me that I know all about these women's lives, and they don't know about me. I read many posts about BlogHer with the narcissistic hope that one might link to my article or mention, "Gosh, that article about BlogHer was so good that I wish I could hang out with its author and be super-double-BFF." But nope. Of course not, because old media, even when read on the newspaper's Web site, is so 20th Century.

It made me start to wonder if I wanted to pump up my site's popularity, although I don't even know how. But that's not a very good idea, because I've seen the pages and pages of comments that popular blogs get, and you better believe that I would be compelled to read every comment I got, even if there were hundreds. And if I had that kind of time, I had better be working on my nah-vel (oh yeah, whatever happened to that?)

I just want to be popular among the in crowd. The masses can go blow (which is why it doesn't help at all to think that way more people see my work in the newspaper than read even Dooce on a daily basis). And don't imagine that it looks better than it is in the in crowd. I've been in it on a few rare occasions, and I gotta tell you, it's all that.

Here are some of the many blog entries about the in-crowd at BlogHer:
http://mightygirl.net/2005_08_01_archive.html#112328538517295854
www.fussy.org (August 3)
www.dooce.com (August 2)
http://finslippy.typepad.com/finslippy/2005/08/blogher_blogme.html#more
http://www.suburbanbliss.net/

On the other hand, it's awfully cool to be able to eavesdrop on the cool girls and see what they talk about when none of the common people are around.

2 comments:

Kori said...

Well, you're in MY in-crowd when it comes to blogs. Of course, you knew me in high school, and know darn well that I was also sitting far, far from the popular table at lunch.

Scratch that. I was in the cafeteria eating lunch, while the popular people were eating out off campus. That's right---I remember now.

So, if you're willing to take someone from the out-crowd and create your own in-crowd, you're set!

In all seriousness, I know exactly how you feel. Wouldn't it be great for people to find your blog? Yes. Wouldn't it be horrifying for people to find your blog? Yes. When I was deep into infertility diagnosis/treatment and I read all these great infertility-related blogs (some of which are still my staples), it struck me that everyone instant messaged and emailed each other all the time, while I was hesitant to even comment on a stranger's blog. Seemed like a whole different universe to me.

Alright, the breastpump calls...

Bert said...

I will sit at the table in the back of the lunch room with you... wearing the maroon, corduroy culottes my mom made for me and carrying my completely uncool, handpainted lunchbox-purse with Roberta emblazened upon it by some crafty woman in northern Minnesota. I will squint at you through my large, pink-and-blue-framed glasses and flash you a smille full of braces. We are dork squad buddies, you and me.