B is for Blogging and for Bardbear

B is for Blogging and for Bardbear

I hate to admit my own selfishness.

But I’m doing this more for me than to announce to the world my opinion.

There, I feel better, don’t you? Coffee?

No, really, I am. For years, I’ve had this blog. I also have a journal and several unfinished books. What’s up with that? The fact is, I need to, well, bleedin’ WRITE.

And that’s the goal here, ultimately. Last summer, I did something quite similar, and started writing another book. I’ve done National  Novel Writing Month—but the books, well, they suck large moosepenis and just didn’t click.

But I did it.

This little blog, however, didn’t. It just sat in the corner like some unused exercise bike.

I have to admit my trepidation. At least with National  Novel Writing Month, there’s a certain privacy. I should write without thinking of an audience, to be sure, but here? Even keeping that mind doesn't mean I can hide any more.

And I can say thing like “moosepenis” and wonder what kind of reaction I’m going to have.

I noticed last night, after my first post, as soon as the first response came up, I was tweaking the edges of the blog—and I’m thinking that’s what this is all about. I’m supposed to pay more attention to this pseudo website and let it become something that works for me.

And, I suppose, save money on psychiatric bills. I’ll just spill my guts here. Heck, I might invent some angsty stuff too, just for the halibut.

I mentioned journaling, I do that daily too, but there’s something to be said about putting it up here, baring my soul. So? There you have it. I must have known today’s topic was going to be short one, an apology of sorts, for telling y’all why I started jumping on trampoline. I mean, really, is there a use for a trampoline? One can get fit, but, well, there’s not much else. 

You sorta just bounce.

 I’m writing completely for selfish means. To really get into developing my author’s voice with the help and thought of strangers.

Just like getting abs of steel going up and down and up and down on a trampoline.

But, someone asked me yesterday, what’s up with the Bardbear stuff and the Roo719 tags? I figured I’d go ahead and give you a clearer (clearerer?) picture of who I am.

You know, using my words and stuff.

Bardbear? Well, yes, that’s my nickname. There’s a subculture in gay circles called the “bears.” I know, how annoying is that? A group, repeatedly marginalized, dividing itself up. But, well, hear me out. This group, chubby, furry, masculine, everything the gays puts on the back burner. Remember those abs of steel? Bears, rarely, have them. They were born out of those men who were shuffled to back of the gay clubs of the 90s, ignored by the stand-and-models that lived life from when they were 21 to 22.

Bears created a pseudo movement to challenge others in the gay world, moving to the forefront, to give all different kinds of men, those who may not look like Abercrombie models, an opportunity to be just as annoying, drunk and yet somehow massively cute, to the front.

I applaud that and support the concept, even if the execution may be a bit confrontational. Bears, sadly, just sorta stuck to themselves, I’ve noticed. For all the feeling of exclusion they’ve suffered, they sorta excluded themselves. For example, I went to the Bears of Orange County meet-up and found them to be very unfriendly and a bit stand-offish. Perhaps it was borne out of fear of being hurt again or laughed at by the “popular kids” at the gay bar. And now? They’re the ones in charge. Maybe it was because my hair looked awful. But the feeling was there.

I like to think it was a fluke.

And I’ll accept (there’s that word again) them. In fact, I noticed I still tend to hang around men, gay or nongay, that define this stereotype.

Damn, I must be drinking some good coffee. Did you see that tangent coming?

I was supposed to be talking about nicknames.

I’m a writer. I’ve written a good 10 plays, and, as I’ve mentioned, several unfinished novels—all the trappings of the great Bard of long ago-Shakespeare.

And the name stuck.

As for the Roo719 part? What is they used to say? Always leave them wanting more—I think I’ll hold out on that one. Maybe for “R” in a few weeks.

So? There you have it—a smidgen (garsh I love that word) of my writing life, spotted on this page.

Peace!

Bardy Roo