Todd Terwilliger

I’ve come to a decision. I do not like the term, “blogger”. I don’t know what, exactly, a “weblog” is but I don’t like it. Okay, I know what a weblog is as a practical matter but what is it, really? I’m not logging webs or webbing logs. I’m not keeping a log of the web nor keeping a web of a log. I’ve seen logs, loafs, bars, and loads, and my interest in them is, at best, tangential. The only webs I’m interested in are the spun-out lairs of the spiders in my bathroom and what interest I had in those I have already expressed. No, whatever currency the term “weblog” had with me is spent. I must define myself elsewhere.

For the past few weeks, I’ve exchanged my morning subway ride to work with a walking commute. Even though the time spent in transit has not changed overmuch (on average walking takes me ten to twenty minutes longer), the experience is a completely different animal. Without having to worry about practical matters such as jockeying for subway car position or perfecting proper platform placement for an incoming train, my mind can wander to more esoteric planes, asking questions like, for example, why is that woman screaming in the middle of the street?

Bless me, readers, for I have sinned. It’s been a month since my last confession. Over a month, actually, but what a busy, busy month it’s been. I’m still chewing over my Cannes 2009 experience- the meat of it still churning slowly through my digestive tract. In the meantime, over the long weekend, I watched Terminator: Salvation and could only conclude my viewing with a single thought: when did John Connor become a complete and monstrous prick?