Guest blogger Matthew Leathers, left, with one-time fiance Zooey Deschanel.
by MATTHEW LEATHERS
When I was contacted by Ben “Black Hammer” Vore to be a guest blogger, I was instantly thrilled. To be in such a regal fraternity with luminaries like Scooter Thomas and Jeremy Piven is a tremendous honor, something to tell your grandmother about (Her response? “Get out of the way, you’re blocking Gossip Girl”). I had been handpicked, plucked from the depths of the vast Voreblog community, to show the world that I’m somebody, somebody with a special purpose. My mind raced — my topic of choice had to be top-notch. This was to be a make-or-break turning point in my blogging career. Hit one out of the park here and I’d be on a gravy train with biscuit wheels. But strike out with the bat on my shoulder? That leads to a one-way ticket back to obscurity, i.e., commenting on Dane Cook’s MySpace page.
The first step is knowing your audience. What is the first thing you notice when visiting Voreblog? An unhealthy obsession with Lost and pooping? Certainly, but do they define the blog? If aliens stumble upon these pages centuries from now, would they file them under “Cleansings, Colon”? No, sirs and madams, I don’t believe so. What’s numero uno here is the relationship between a man and a woman. Voreblog is about love, perhaps more specifically it is about marriage. If my post was to be fully embraced, then I had to talk about marriage.
This was supposed to be a “Friday Recommends” post, though. As one of the few, so it seems, unmarried visitors, what could I possibly recommend about marriage? Well, nothing, really, and that’s exactly what led to my topic — I was to recommend not getting married. Ever. A counter argument was to be given for the three single people that frequent this blog. And I’m certainly qualified to give this donnybrook, because I’ve never been married. Not even for a second. I had it all planned out. This was to be my crowning achievement, my No Jacket Required. I was going to mindfreak the Voreblog universe, ya’ll. And it was going to be the tits, pardon my acid tongue.
This was not to be a diatribe against marriage — I have several good friends in happy unions — but a mere presentation of another path toward, well, if you don’t mind the City Slickers reference, toward finding your smile. The defining paragraph was to be anchored by my friends Danny and Erin, both months away from thirty, happily together for close to a decade with no plans of getting hitched in this lifetime. They were my Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn, my Brangelina, my Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, my Nicole Richie and that one guy from that band I hate. They were regular people in love that didn’t want to get married. I was going to totally contradict Beyonce by telling you to love her and NOT to put a ring on it.
But then something happened. I went to visit them in D.C. for the weekend, and not five minutes into our conversation, Danny goes, “Hey, Erin, show Matthew your hardware.” I immediately thought this meant, “Erin, take off your shirt.” Yes, it would have been just as strange for them to suddenly be swingers, but not nearly as strange as what actually happened. Instead, Erin flashed me a diamond ring and a big smile. Danny had casually popped the question a few days prior (by “casually,” I mean he asked her during an episode of Seinfeld while both were in their pajamas) and, shockingly, she had said yes. After years of pooh-poohing the idea of marriage, they were now suddenly drafting an invite list right in front of me. Jaw, I’d like you to meet Floor.
I had it all mapped out in my mind. I was going to talk about being young and single in NYC, and I was going to make all you “marrieds” jealous. But now? It seems like a sham, a travesty, and a mockery. A traveshamockery. I could have still carried on with the idea, told stories of late nights with the huddled singles, yearning to be free, but now it just seems kind of wrong. I’m legitimately happy for Danny and Erin; therefore, I can’t argue against something I support.
So what do I recommend? Do Not Cross Voreblog.
Somehow, through voodoo, mind control, or just flat out chicanery, they sabotaged my plan. They found me out, and my idea became a casualty of the game. It had to get got, I suppose. How they convinced my friends to get engaged, I’ll never know. I assume waterboarding was involved, but Voreblog does not torture, or so they say. I’m letting sleeping dogs lie, though. I’m not about to rattle any cages here. What’s done is done and I’m moving on.
So next time you think about dissing Mad Men, think twice. Or Don Draper will bone your mom. I don’t care if he’s a fictional character, Voreblog will make it so, believe me.