Mysteries. They capture our collective imaginations, tickle our curiosities, and open wide the doors to the gardens of the esoteric. So it is indeed no mystery that we are drawn to the inexplicable, the furtive, the transcendental. The human animal has forever been more intrigued by what they don’t know then what they do know. It’s why we have so many fears (pols love that). It simply bothers us to be kept in the dark. It eats at us.
So we gravitate towards Christie, Poe, Doyle, Chandler or Connelly to get our fix for the arcane. Turning the pages in such rapid succession that the binding begins to smolder. With fantasies racing we read on with mouth’s agape, opening just short of dislocation as the web untangles and we inch ever closer to our burning query: Who dunnit?
Who dunnit? Or in my/our case… who wrote it? That seems to be on the minds of just a few folks these days as they from day one have read tea leaves, followed the bread crumbs, connected the dots, and thrown pasta against the cabinet, looking for the cryptic clues (maybe there are some… maybe not) as to the nature of this/these veiled men/man/woman/women who now reside(s) on Blogger’s Row.
Are they upstate? Are they Downstate? Some have speculated with high certainty that Sussex holds the key; others hold firm that by God, it must be Wilmington. Dover gets some nods of conjecture. They Look for me/us in Rehoboth, scouring Arena’s or Cultured Pearl, or Dogfishhead Head (Hey Sam!) to see if there are any really good writers (yes self aggrandizing… and why not… I/we am/are (A) good writer/writers) hanging out at the bar. One told us we drink Scotch (I/we) do) others swear they’ve seen my/our shadow/shadows in every pub and coffee shop in the state. And even one who was kind enough to ask me/us to Toscana (Hey Dan)… whoops, I/we do know where that is… now how ‘bout that ; ) …was just funnin’.
But it doesn’t begin to stop there. Nooooo, not even. There in addition exists speculation as to the nature of my/our political ideology and leanings. I/we have been cited for hiding in the pocket of almost everyone in the race. You name it, we’ve heard it. The King swears I/we am/are for Carney, Carney supporters insist I/we wear lil elephants on my/our lapel (s). There is also talk that I/we are all about Wedo… and he’s not even gonna be a friggin’ candidate!!! Of course it all makes me/us feel like we stand objective amongst the forces of the subjective and deeply partisan, which is pretty cool. If one bothers to read the “about us” feature on the site… it was spelled out clearly. But that never stops the wheels from turnin’ now does it? Who doesn’t just loooove a good rumor.
So who am/are I/we? With whom do I/we side and associate? Good questions all, but why do they incite such an inquisition? Well, we will tell you all this much: I’m/we’re not tellin’. TTTTTHHHHPPPP.
But I/we will intimate that you have seen me/us at the conventions, Shooting some skeet w Mr. Cullis, maybe (he do like them shotguns), Having fun with Mike and Jane, Sharin’ a bass with the Govs and their lieutenants at the Golden Fleece, imbibing Booker’s (neat) at the U whist club, playin Golf with John… (ya know, Carney… our perceived best bud) playin’ golf with Jane (before and after she became the Queen)… playin’ golf at Baywood and DuPont and The South Course at Wilmington (although I/we prefer the north) and charity events at the sparkling new “Rock” or celebrating a birdie on the 9th at Porky’s… we are there.
I/we am/are at the committee meetings, back rooms and privy to the skinny. Whether it is Harry’s, or Buckley’s or the Summer House or meeting comfortably over the comfort food at the Harvest Diner (Georgetown… very good)… I/we are there. I/we am/are Alfred, and I/we know Mr. Wayne’s favourite varietals.
The fly on the wall, the whisper in the wind, the eye of the storm. That is me/us. Do ya think Jim Morrison actually had that title in mind, bro? I/we like that tag… Writer’s/Writer on the Storm.
A final note: I/we loved reading Richard Bachman, not knowing (at the time) or caring that it was Stephen King. Atlas Shrugged for Ayn Rand but it was really Alisa Zinov’yevna Rosenbaum who penned the work. Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn didn’t waste a thought that their creator, Mark Twain was a cool dude named Samuel Langhorne Clemens, and lordy, would any of us taken advice from Dear Pauline and Jean (Phillips)?… oh, Dear Abby to you and I. In the end does it matter? It’s still Dear Abby.
So, Lieutenant Girard, keep on searching for Dr. Richard Kimble. But here’s a hint… it really was the one armed man… lol.
