Iko Iko [part i]

The reason I haven't yet told you about my date, Gentle Reader, is that I have to make some editorial decisions first. You see, the person — ok, man — to whom I refer does not fit easily into the three categories of characters I have defined and, so far, have adhered to. To wit:

Category 1: People I'll never meet again, like Tommy and Orlicia and Phil. I can write about them with impugnity.

Category 2: Real people who blog under their real names, like Maria and Tim and Joey, and real people who sometimes read my blog, like my cousin Markus and my karaoke buddies. I am careful what I write about them, because they recognize what's true and what's fabricated, so there is a line I try not to cross.

Category 3: Real people like Angela and Boz and Zee who know the real Sass but who have no idea who Postmodern Sass is, and are about as likely to find out as I am to live happily ever after with Jack, which is to say that it's theoretically possible, in a splitting-the-atom sort of way, but the thought of it doesn't disturb my sleep.

The person causing my conundrum definitely doesn't fit into Category 1. He meets the criteria of Category 2, but the problem there is, if I treat him, bloggitorily speaking, the same way I treat the others in Category 2, I'd be curtailing my future options. And Category 3 is right out because, well, he's one of my readers.

Therefore, in the true spirit of reflexive, ironic postmodernism, I'm gonna need to reflect on it a while, all the while consciously cognizant of the fact that he's reading these words. And, very likely thinking to himself, "What? Was that a date? I didn't think that was a date!"

So instead I'll tell you about my it-wasn't-a-date-either with Kapp on Mardi Gras.

To be continued in part ii. The actual Story of the Was-It-A-Date won't be told until Sophia drags it out of me at Tequilacon in Portland.