In a recent fit of self-awareness, I learned that I am a blog snob. A snog, if you will, (because blob is the other choice and that’s unflattering). My snoggishness comes out when I meet someone for the first time and the topic of blogging emerges. If said
victim acquaintence wrinkles his or her nose and says, in the voice of someone who is smelling dirty feet, “No, I am not a blogger.” /hoity-toity accent, my snog radar goes on. If the person acquiesces, (and they usually do) confessing to having read a blog or blogs, then I know there’s hope, and let them off the hook.
But the person who is a blogger, who knows the names of Robert Scoble or Bob Lutz or heavens-to-Betsy, Dooce (and knows why that’s what we call Heather B. Armstrong) in casual conversation; the Charlottesville blogger who drops Waldo into chats, or Anoop; the St. Louis blogger who invokes Dana or Jeanette E. Spaghetti, for Pete’s sake, well we’re just going to be FRIENDS, that’s what.