How to Dismantle an Atomic Blog


Hey, am I bugging ya? Didn’t mean to bug ya. But I’m at Steve’s place celebrating the great American tradition of Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving, because in Ireland we never give thanks for anything, except Daylight Savings Time when the pub stays open another hour. Anyway, I love your Silicon Valley, where every child can grow up to be Bill Gates and the only food lines on Thanksgiving are outside Whole Foods where you queue up your Range Rovers to pick up a turkey and a convincingly homemade pumpkin pie. Organic pumpkin pie. Delicious. You are, truly, in God’s Country.

Edge has been nagging me to get a blog now for years. But it’s hard work, this blogging. It takes a long time to build an audience. So I never bothered. Until today. Today I walked past Steve’s spacious, spacious home office and saw that he’d left himself logged in. I had to text Edge to find out how to give myself an account and then change Steve’s password. Shhh. He hasn’t figured it out yet, so I’m safe as long as he doesn’t check mail until after I leave for Uganda to meet with the Pope tomorrow. No, I’m not Catholic. My father was Catholic but my mother God rest her raised me Anglican. You could look it up on Wikipedia. But Benny the Red, he lets me call him, he’s doing God’s work. Plus he wears those rock’n'roll red Prada shoes I’ll tell you more about tomorrow.

Oh, sweet Mother of Jesus. Edge, that fooktard, he’s friggin with my iCal again. He updated all our laptops to Leopard last week, which he loves because he found out that on Leopard he can edit not just his iCal, but my iCal. Now my flight’s at 6 am instead of 10. I better sign off. Steve, don’t get too pissed off, eh? Think of this as payback for the time you stayed at my guest cottage — you know, the one with the bathroom wall where everyone gets to sign their names in magic marker. How do you think I felt when I went to use the loo and found you’d scrubbed the entire wall clean — Clinton, Tutu, Jagger, Mother Theresa, all gone — and repainted it sparkling white with just the word “Steve” dead center in perfectly hand-lettered Myriad Sans Bold? It was beautiful, my friend, beautiful. But kind of fooktarded. So until you get Edge to log you back in, brother Bono is in the house. All I’ve got is a red MacBook, three chords and the truth.