Weblogs, "blogs" to their many enthusiastic fans, what they are, 25 words or less, yada yada. People writing personal stuff. About love and loss and joy and death and sex and like that. Never been an outlet for us to say who we are. Just NEWS and ADVERTISING and POLITICS and MINDLESS ENTERTAINMENT a la (can I say this?) Disney. Not that I'm not a big fan of mindless entertainment myself, but there's never been a choice before, and now there is and people are coming to it by the millions just as business is wringing its hands that the Internet is a "failure," the fucking morons. (NOTE: don't say "fucking" morons.) Of course it's a failure! For ramming the same old shit down our throats. (NOTE: don't say... oh, fuck it.) Kids are talking to each other about Columbine and the recent rerun in Germany. About breakups and disappointments, small joys, big setbacks. About fucking. And shit. And fucking shit up. But more than that. Giving each other permission to be human. Passing along encouragement, support, and (if we can just not snicker for a second) hope. Plus lotsa laughs.

The press is all over weblogs, but the press doesn't get why they're so hot. We're talking about our lives here. Not what we buy or watch on TV or how we'd vote if the fucking politicians weren't all ruthless egomanicas. And fucking stupid. (NOTE: do say "fucking stupid" -- make them edit it out.) We're talking about our lives. What they feel like from the inside. What really matters to us and what doesn't -- like whether business thinks the net is a failure. Talking about our lives. Writing as if our lives depended on it. And there was never a place to do that before. Not like this. It's not just "the kids," either. Not just the usually suspect too cool dyed in the wool webheads. Women have a lot to do with how the personal dimension is emerging. Halley Suitt writing about her dad's death. While it's happening. Jeneane Sessum writing about her father too. How she loved him, the impact of his loss. And Elaine, in her 60s, writing about the men in her life, lovers. Writing odes to Pan. You know, the usual...