‘ere he migrated East to hang with Woody, drink rye at (then piss on) Mailer’s grave, take long night walks with his beagle in Astoria and eternally work on REDACTED, Packham would spend a few of his idle moments attempting to lure me out for a beer.
As intriguing as the thought was (Welcome to Chis-Nick, the all DFW-Pynchon station!) I always demurred; my semi-anonymity was important to me. It was not that he was going to surreptitiously snap a pic and post it online, rather – as I told him – it was everyone else with their stinking cell-phone cameras; traffic cameras, security cameras, the freaking satellites. 1
These days I am resigned to being outted.
I still keep a low profile; I can count on one hand (with fingers left over) the number of times I’ve publicly met other
obsessives bloggers. But the ‘unveiling’ won’t happen that way. No one really cares any more about the people behind blogs – that’s soooo 2005. No it will be the FBI. Or DISA. Or Quik Trip, HyVee or some lonely gas station on the edge of town that captures my face and uploads it to the Matrix.