ugly, baby: the pleasure of your company

Two things: one, besides people looking for me directly, the greatest source of visitors to this blog are people looking for pictures of ugly babies.

What does this say about us as a culture?

(Don't look at me, I'm not answering that one.) (Except to say: don't these people know that there ARE no ugly babies?)

Also, and this is a big also, there are a lot of people reading this blog who I'll never meet, and who I've never met, and who live in places like Valley Village and Receda and Australia and Brooklyn. I know this because I look at the Google Analytics thingie and I can seeee you.

I can see the trail of crumbs left by the readers of this blog, and because I don't know what most of the data mean, I look at the geographical overlay, because even a data comprehension challenged gal like myself can get what that all means. And it means that I can see the countries and the states and the cities where the clicks come from. And it gives one a strange fluttery stomach feeling to know that non-self and non-friends and non-family have been here, read here.

I get that this is the point of the blog. But still the stomach thing happens when I see the dots-across-the-globe. Surely hardened bloggers (whose fingertips are like iron from their steadfast posting) no longer get the stomach flutter, and have tales to tell about the pitfalls of their vast readerships, but for myself I like it and I'm sort of proud of it, and because only I can see the real numbers, I'll tell you confidentially that they're HUGE.

I always look at the cities too, to see if certain friends of the long lost variety are checking up on me, remotely or shyly or whimsically, but they never are. It's always you, stranger, it's always you, ugly-baby photo seeker. It's always you and me, out here in the weird digital desert where nothing much is recognizable, nothing much seems real, and things you see on the horizon which wouldn't normally look promising do, and you walk over to see what they are, and most of the time they're just a rock, but sometimes they're not. Sometimes they're more.