Mr. Cope's Cave: Indulge Me 

A couple of weeks ago, I told you I've been on a search for a new word to describe what I am doing here—ever since Boise Weekly High Command has decided to stop calling blogs "blogs." Their decision was fine by me, as I could never feel good about calling myself a "blogger." I think I'd rather be called about anything but blogger. Spawn of an Irish whore... Shanghai pimp... nose-picking Cossack... motherless gerbil packer... pig-f***er—they all sound better to my ear than "blogger."

However, as I said then, I don't like doing something that doesn't have a name for it. It's disorienting, like waking up in a strange bed in a strange room and not remembering you'd checked into a motel. And my wife doesn't like it, either. When I'm quiet for a long time—as I am wont to be when I'm writing—she is driven to periodically call down to the basement writing chamber, "Honey, what are you doing?" It's not that she's overly nosey. She's just wants to make sure I haven't dropped dead or something.

But since BW eliminated the blog feature, when she calls down after a prolonged silence with, "Honey, what are you doing?" all I can think to answer is "Not blogging, that's for damn sure!"

It is an unsatisfactory response for both of us. As for me, it feels like I'm confessing that I have no idea what I'm doing, and that's not a good feeling for a person getting paid to do it.

As for my wife... yes, she is assured I haven't dropped dead. But she told me it makes her wonder if I might possibly have gone nuts, down here in the basement by myself.

So I have invested a lot of thought into finding a word to fit this particular activity, and I think I may have one. As of right now, you, dear reader, are reading an INDULGAFART.

And I am, as I compose this item, INDULGAFARTING.

A little on the background of the word, which—without going to a dictionary to make sure it's not already there—I would estimate at being about 45 seconds old: Obviously, it is a combination of two other well-established words. It starts with a variation on "indulgence," which is what I have always secretly considered I was doing in "Mr. Cope's Cave"—indulging myself.

Not that I don't consider you, dear reader, or your concerns while I'm putting together an indulgafart (previously, a blog). But frankly, I'm not in it for you or your concerns. I am doing this strictly for me. Just me. If you want to read it ... hey, be my guest. But your involvement is, at most, incidental to the act of indulgafarting.

The "fart" syllable is more ambiguous. You might think it means, simply, that I—Bill Cope—am the fart, and I am directing you to indulge me by reading it, just as I am indulging myself by writing it.

Yes... and no.

You see, all writing is nothing more than putting ideas into communicable form. Whether it's an angel food cake recipe written on a 3-by-5 card or Finnegan's Wake, written for no other reason I can see than to use up a lot of ink, the point of it is to take an idea from the writer's mind and inject it into a reader's mind in the form of words.

Yet, to this writer, ideas are mysteries. You know, like enigmas wrapped in conundrums wrapped in, like, Saran wrap... and God knows what Saran wrap is made from, right? Seriously, I have no idea where my ideas come from. They just seem to show up when I least expect them. It's like, I'm sitting there watching teevee or cutting my toenails or staring off into blank space, and it's like, "Uh-oh, I feel something coming." And suddenly... there it is.

Not unlike a fart. See?

So when I am indulgafarting, I am taking an idea—no matter how inconsequential or goofy or nuts it may sound to you—and setting it free. Giving it an exterior existence. Putting the wings of words on it and releasing it into the wilds of Internetia.

So in this sense, I am not just indulging myself. I am indulging my ideas, whether they deserve to be indulged or not. And believe me, when you indulge your ideas, no matter how inconsequential or goofy or nuts they may be, you feel better for having done it.

Not unlike when you fart. See?

OK, now I'm going to finish off today's indulgafart by tacking two of my all-time favorite songs on the "Mr. Cope's Cave" memo board. You have probably heard them both a million times, especially recently. But they are important to me. Both of them came out when I was a youngster, and both of them sound as good and true, powerful and moving, to me today as they did back then. To my sensibility, they are so emotionally entwined, it's like they might have been two segments of a trilogy, the third and final song of which, sadly, never got written.

And I'm sure it's only coincidence that the two men who brought these songs to life died within days of one another. Sure.

My idea here is to gather them into the fold of my Internet presence—my collective indulgafartium, as it were—so that in some cyberspacey way, they are forever linked to my virtual bosom. I know it sounds a little crazy, but please... indulge me. After all, I am the very first, and for the time being only, indulgafarter in the history of the Universe.

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