I won’t have to tell them anything. They’ll know all about him from the state-mandated History of Blogging curriculum. But on cold windy nights when spindly treelimbs claw the windowpanes and the eaves rattle and the rooftimbers creak with the passing of an age, I’ll gather them round the fire and spin dark tales of the days when posting quotas ruled the roost, when the couches were somehow overstuffed and uncomfortable and reeked of sexual violation, when I was driven from my warm blogger pajamas into the unforgiving streets of the Upper East Side to photograph dead men fallen from the sky, and how I failed, and how bad I felt about that failure, and how I felt bad about that feeling of badness, and how aren’t we all so much better here in our cabin in the mountains, and yet how it was no fault of that man’s we speak, because he was and is the man of the age, and it’s a lesson they had all best learn well, when they’re in school, so they should pay attention during that History of Blogging class because that is the history of America and
