Crap. Vibrating Liz has deleted her excellent blog. I tried to check her out this morning but kept getting redirected to a cheesy sex toy site that insisted I was searching for ‘black vibrator’. Black vibrator indeed. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.
Did you ever read ‘Granny Gets A Vibrator’? Hilarious stuff. Here is an excerpt from the ex-blog in which Liz reports on a conversation overheard in her Louisiana hamlet’s drug store:
In recent months I have been, owing to a phase of acute self-absorption, but a sporadic reader of blogs, and so was shocked, when visiting Liz’s ‘Granny Gets A Vibrator’ last week, to discover that at some point during my sabbatical she had rather suddenly come down with lymphoma. I felt a surge of something. Sadness, yes, but also recognition, with a splash of the kind of weird kinship that can develop on the internet between total strangers who share but a single common trait. I mean, Liz is a 50-something weight-lifter living in some Louisiana hamlet, and I am a 40-something schlub living in some Austin hippie enclave, and we don’t know each other from Adam, but there we both were, waving hello from the summit of the prime of our lives, blogging contentedly away about this and that, when, wham, cancer.
I don’t know if you’ve ever come down with cancer, so I’ll give a brief overview: no matter how bottom-of-the-barrel crappy your life seemed before, it was an azure-skied, gardenia-scented island in paradise compared to the balls-out nightmare into which the giant flying claw of Fate drops you when you get cancer. So Iâ€™m anxious for Vibrating Liz. You know, in cancerly solidarity.
I have been unable to reliably ascertain the reason—we always need to know the reason—for Liz’s departure from Blogville (possibly her commentariat was bumming her out; Pavlov’s Cat takes an Aesopian view, suggesting that the conflict between blogular confessionalism and the private real-life self might be bad for you) but Iâ€™m danged sorry sheâ€™s vamoosed, and Iâ€™ll miss her.