It's Dada, baby

I identified personally with Johnny Depp in "The Libertine," the movie about the manslut of 17th century England.

"You won't like me," he declares at the beginning.

But I did, sort of.

Can my own feelings be hurt?

I guess so. I just got a phone call from a Hollywood tv producer, a former resident of C-U. He called me "little man" and "lunatic," implying that this was the consensus of the entire town, which it probably is by now after all, and he called my children "fucked up."

"That's all I know about you," he said. "You're a lunatic and your children are fucked up."

A few paragraphs later in the conversation he said he respected my world view, he read "my stuff," my letters to the editor.

I couldn't hate the man. I regretted I'd even known a secret or two from his own past, a skeleton in his closet.

I'm not sure how to feel, other than constricted and a little bit censored. How indiscreet of me was it to speak an opinion, even on a blog I assumed was not widely traveled? Dare I submit this to the blog I once anticipated was merely my own diary, my magic mirror?

Right now, I'm maintaining another blog, Scout Loves Bubbles, that is also not for public consumption.

Maybe our conversation will continue. The door was left open. I wish I'd never alluded to things I knew about his past. It just shows that "defending" one's self (in this case, by speaking too much) is rarely good or productive policy. Everything just accelerates, tit becomes tat, who went first against whom, and the next World War continues to brew on many fronts, each with a logo by Starbucks.

Doesn't everybody know by now that New York is all Dada at the moment?