I loved “The X Files.”  It was more than my nerdy love for Fox Mulder or my obsession with Dana Scully.  I’m a conspiracy theorist.  For example, I believe in all that Dan Brown shit.  I’ve also theorized that the government is preparing us to live in a post-apocalyptic underground world where we exist on processed food and have no need to see other human beings because everyone grew up playing videogames, Skyping, and having “relationships” on Facebook.  Once porn becomes 3-D and virtual reality, their work is done.

My latest conspiracy theory?  That “other blogger” enjoys many small things, including a little ghost writer.  Stay with me.  Look back at the older posts.  The 2008 and 2009 posts.  She doesn’t even use capital letters.  The whole thing is like one long text message from a 15-year-old.   “skool sux, lollllll!!!!! ;)”  The “magic” is there, as are the metaphors and the shameless love of that private beach club island paradise she can’t stop writing about.  But the voice is distinctly different.

Now, read doting daddy’s comments on all of the posts.  There is an identical excess to his writing that isn’t so obvious in her early writing, but is heavy handed in the recent drek posts.  Maybe he taught his daughter to write.  Maybe this is how they talk around the dinner table.  “Filial filly of my flesh, the yearning in my heart for a certain savory saltiness sadly lacking from my lonely lamb chop spurns forth in me a tiny prayer from me, to you.” 

He’s also super defensive of what is written.  There is an understandable protectiveness a father feels for a daughter, but the ominpresence of the father character in her little tale is fishy to me.  And I use the term deliberately, as an homage to the perfection, the magic, the millionaire’s paradise island where they regularly suck marrow.

Sidebar, a commentor wrote a while back that she went to the island and couldn’t find any public areas.  She wanted to go slide on enchanted bunnies down rainbows into fairy dust puddles too!  Who wouldn’t?  But she was chagrined and posited her theory that this clan of unicorns must know somebody who owns a home there or something.  When I’m feeling down, to give myself a chuckle, I try to picture the faces of the homeowners who occupy the island (all second homes, no doubt) as they see the carloads of middle-class, famous-local-blogger-loving tourists invading their island to spread Walmart blankets for budget picnics on the hallowed ground. 

Although it’s possible that in this economy, many of those vacation homes are for sale.

“Focus, Mulder,” Scully might say impatiently.  Yes, I have drifted off on a whimsy, haven’t I?  And a flimsy whimsy at that.

None of this is anything you couldn’t notice for yourself.  My training as an English teacher makes me more likely to “tsk tsk” over missing capital letters and dramatic changes in diction and tone.  Writers change and evolve, of course.  Not always for the better.  I actually find the older posts more charming and real, if you’re able to overlook the “texting” quality of the mechanics.

I have to go now.  It’s time for we Morlocks to go above ground and feast on the flesh of the Eloi.