The Time Has Come

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things. Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax; of cabbages and kings. And why the sea is boiling hot. And whether pigs have wings."
- - from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass.

Out of context, that section of the poem has become a charming little cliche for "I have a lot to talk about" or "Gee, I have a myriad of interests!" In context, actually, it's a bit less cute. The English teacher in me wants to pique your interest enough that you go look up the whole thing and rediscover some poetry. Sufficed to say, the walrus and the carpenter are using cutesy small talk to lure unsuspecting baby oysters to their death.

Really! Check it out for yourself: http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/walrus.html

And if you're too lazy to read, (well, you wouldn't be having this little exchange with me, now would you?) go rent the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland. In it, all the oyster-slaying barbarism is acted out for you by little cartoon walruses (walri?) and carpenters. (That one I know, a la the 70s brother-sister act of "We've Only Just Begun" fame. By the way: I make it a point never to sing love songs to my brother--but then again, I always make it a point to eat on a regular basis, so I guess Karen Carpenter is not my role model in many things.) Ooh, and the "barbarism" has a friendly "G" rating, no reading involved.

The time is long since past for me to talk of many things, it's just I finally have the time to do something about it. And seeing as I'm going to be staying in the teaching biz for at least one more year, I need to have an outlet for all this pent-up writing energy. While all my colleagues run out into the real world brandishing new Journalism School degrees and an armful of clips to gain entry at elite newsrooms in Boise, Bakersfield and Barstow, I'm left behind trying to get my writing out into the world. The cult of the journalist, just like any job worth doing, is wrapped up in a major Catch-22: you've got to be published to get published. In other words, my J-School degree means very little on its own.

The Polish side of my family has a saying: "Find a way." It sounds much fancier in Polish, but then you wouldn't know what I was saying, would you? As long as the writing bug is in my soul...and it's in there good, I tell you...I've got to find a way to get my ideas out there. So if no one will publish me just yet, I'll publish me.

Really, it's not so silly as it sounds! Just ask Izzy Stone. Izzy--officially I.F. Stone--was an amazing investigative journalist who worked just about everywhere in New York throughout the 30s and 40s muckraking to kick up the big stories. But it wasn't until the 1950s when he started his own paper, the Weekly, that Izzy was able to make the biggest impact. His small paper became a cult source of information for politicians, city bigwigs, and just about every journalist at those big papers he left behind because his work was so thorough, passionate, and unfiltered.

That's every writer's fantasy, even if they're too faux-modest to admit it.

So Izzy? Here's my Weekly in weblog form..give or take a steady timetable. So Dad? I've found a way. So everyone I've lured over to this site for a first look at this blog? Don't let the title scare you off. Sure, being a demi-Pole, there's bound to be some talk of cabbages. And okay, being a hockey fan from Los Angeles, there will undoubtedly be talk of Kings. But beyond that? Movies, politics, friends, brilliant ideas, complaints, celebrations, half-formed thoughts, real-life, and everything in between.

Get set for talk of many things. Some of it important, some of it Seinfeldianly insignificant, but all of it pure, unfiltered me. Cheer, cower in fear, scratch your head, read, skim or ignore...but know this: the time has definitely come!

I can only hope this opening post strikes you as a charming little cliche to let you know I have lots to say, and not a sunny diversion just before I lead you into a barbaric slaughter by unchecked rambling that even those poor, devoured baby oysters wouldn't envy...