Operating a blog is no easy task. First you have to have a good topic to write about. It has to make sense; it has to be topical and be about something that people want to read. Then you have to write it so that it makes sense and reads smoothly. It should be slightly controversial and upset less than half the readers otherwise you will be left with too many comments to deal with.
I choose to write about a difficult subject – old age. No one likes the subject, even those in the middle of it. So I try to be a middle-of-the-road blogger, doing my best not to upset the older residents and not be too kind to the younger. I write between the lines, so to speak, a nerve-wracking business. I also have to be versed in many subjects so that I can hold up my end of a conversation in my research interviews with anyone ranging in age from about 75 to 100. Take this afternoon; I drifted down to the lounge at about 5 and bumped into a fellow artist. He is about 89 and knows a lot about painting. He gave me some unwanted advice on how I can improve my work while I ducked and weaved and let the stuff fly past me without him noticing.
I moved seats and this old guy, he must be pushing 93, grabbed me and I received his lecture no. 23, meaning I have heard it 22 times already, on the dangers of investing in the stock exchange. I smiled, nodded and parried every one of his thrusts.
All this was pretty exhausting until last Friday when a young blogger named Jason, challenged me to a beer-drinking session. I think I did okay mainly because I talked a lot and hardly allowed him to get a word in. In the end I decided to give him the full treatment and invited him back to our apartment in the retirement home. A tour of this place could give anyone under the age of 67 the heebies for years, but he looked straight ahead and avoided eye contact with the local denizens. In the end he came right back and introduced me to a new writing aid and blog system.
I offered him a coffee he clapped his hands and yelled “as long as it’s Turkish!” He clearly hasn’t heard about political incorrectness yet. “You mean a straight black?” I asked.
“That’s it and can we pour a little whisky into it?” he asked nervously, glancing at my dwindling supply of the lubricant.
Your recipe works just fine, young feller. I had four of those on Saturday evening, haven’t slept for 3 nights and still cannot contain the words pouring from my pen. Thank you.