The blogger who loathed me

But of course I could not make magic with my secret, online luv-toy. Life is never that simple.

For one thing, I had a girlfriend out in L.A.

For another thing, my discussion with Pete had hipped me to the idea that Sarvas wanted, rather desperately, to be involved with me. Whether he knew it or not -- chances are not -- he was toting around a whole scrotum full of fantasies. The basic one in which he mustered the courage to insult me to my face. The exalted one in which he read so brilliantly at our shared appearance that I was forced to bow down before him and admit that he was right: I really was just a self-promoting hack. The kinky one in which we slapped one another with silk gloves then changed into tights and fought a duel.

It was my job not to gratify this shit. Any sign that I knew who he was, that he mattered to me in any way, would simply give him too much pleasure. (Let me be honest: I was concerned he might ejaculate in his pants.) So I had to be very detached.

My plan was simple -- I would pretend I didn't know who he was. When introduced, I would say a few nice, disingenuous things about blogs, and if he, or someone else, mentioned his antagonism I would smile and say, "Thank God someone is out there keeping me honest!" Then later, if it felt right -- and only if it felt right -- I would pull down his Underoos and spank him on his hot little blogger bottom.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I have never been too good at following plans that call for me to act like an adult, because I grew up with a couple of brothers who often behaved like jerks and got away with it and this shaped my psyche in such a way that I developed a rather wide and intractable self-righteous streak. When people (other than me) act like assholes, I feel compelled to confront them.

My plan to show restraint in the Sarvas matter didn't last long. I had been at the book festival for barely an hour when I made a beeline for the Vermin booth. I walked right up to him and stuck my hand out and said, in a loud, friendly voice, "Hi! I'm Steve Almond!"

He looked up, startled. "Jim's over there!" he said, pointing to the tall fellow on his left. My hand hung in the air, waiting for the shake that would initiate our super-charged literary smackdown. But Sarvas took a swift step to the side and sat down in front of his laptop and refused to look up again.

I felt oddly preempted. After all, it had been my plan to pretend I didn't know who Sarvas was, and here he was pretending he didn't know who I was, even though I had just introduced myself to him.

I stood there for another few seconds, kind of confused, staring at Sarvas as he stared at his computer screen. I wanted to say something to him, something like: "Does anyone around here smell blog pussy?"

But this would be blowing my cover, giving him that precious gift of acknowledgment, so I shook hands with Jim instead and waited (in vain) for him to introduce me to Sarvas, who remained hunched over his machine, live blogging.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"That was Sarvas," I told my girlfriend, as we walked away from the booth.

"Which one?"

"The dude at the computer."

"What?"

She was confused. She was trying to square the image of my cyber-nemesis with the hunched figure at his keyboard.

It was at this point, I believe, that she began to refer to Sarvas exclusively as blog bitch. Actually, that's wrong. She didn't bestow this nickname until that night, when -- despite her best impulses -- she checked his blog.

Here is a direct transcription:

1:41 - Steve Almond is standing right in front of me ... We haven't spoken; he's talking to Jim ... Wondering if he'll punch me out ... I think I could take him ...

As sad as this might seem, even sadder was the response of his fellow blog bitches. One of them, a guy named Robert Birnbaum, sent the following response:

Yo! Fo! Shizzle! Almond b a wus. He gotz to be got.

Remarkably, Birnbaum is not a young, African-American blogger from Compton who goes by the street handle OGB (Original Gangsta Blogga). He is a paunchy middle-aged Jew who conducts long interviews with writers for his lit blog, often mentioning himself and his dog Rosie. Having been interviewed by Birnbaum myself, I tend to think of him as the Regis Philbin of the lit game, though that may be overstating his charm.

For the record, Birnbaum: If I get wind of you dissing my junk ever again, I'm gonna track down your mutt and see how she like my chocolate bone.

Why?

Cuz that b how real authors do they bidness.

Next Page: Sarvas blogs about my reading: "Almond's work is all assfucking and facials"

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