What happened next between your mother and myself would have been far more enjoyable if you hadn't walked into the room

The rest of the story involves least one of each of the following: startled leaps from beds, violent impacts on your mother's beloved erotic pumice stone, triumphant emergences from comas and crying, confused five-year-olds soon to spend much of their adult lives recounting this traumatic incident to mortified psychiatrists. I'll spare you another telling because I'm sure you are vivdly aware of the details. But you probably still don't even know who I am and that I can help you with.

My name is Eleanor. Some people ask me where someone who is, seemingly, male gets the name Eleanor. Despite the obvious possibility that this subject holds for comedy, I consider it a very grim, serious matter. You see, Eleanor was the name of the brave little cocker spaniel that swam out into the middle of a lake to save my mother from drowning after her boat capsized. But the effort was too much and it died of exhaustion as soon as they reached the shore. She and my father vowed, through tears, to name their firstborn after that noble animal, regardless of gender.

The above story is not true.

I could tell you the one that is, but it's mundane and you'd probably think less of me. Here are some stories in a similar vein that aren't so boring: Sid Vicious was named after a hamster. John Wayne was so called because his real name was Marion Morrison. He squandered a wonderful name in doing so. I would kill to be known as Marion Morrison. In fact, is it too late to start referring to myself under that name?

Probably. But it's never too late for an outrageous handlebar moustache:

-Eleanor

When I woke up next to your mother, I was immediately confused, a little startled, and still very aroused

When I (re)met your mother for the first (second) time, it was obviously awkward. That was probably one of the biggest understatements I have ever made. This goes beyond the realm of saying "that girl is really hot" and, when you get closer realizing, it's your best friend's 15-year-old sister or having to explain to mom what "that" stain is on your pants is (Hint: it probably involved another akward phrase to a special someone like "I ___ in my pants." Fill in the blank). So yah, Awkward.

I guess I should get around to introducing myself. My name is Jake. I enjoy Goldfish crackers and escalating conflicts. I came (not in the same sense in Para. 1) to my friend Eleanor with the idea of a blog and he was only too game to join in. He said, "sure," with the enthusiasm of a wheelchair-bound person being asked to walk again. But then the doctor says "just kidding, you're a paraplegic!" afterwards. We started out the blog by doing what we--even though I cannot speak for him-- do best, procrastinating.

But what motivates us?

Some people are motivated by money, others by improving the earth. Each individual person is different--someone might be motivated to be the best at an individual skill, like counseling or hitting home-runs. Eleanor wants to be a professional journalist. As for me, I am motivated to be the best father I can, and to provide for my 5-year-old son, Chris. However, this would only be true if I was the main character in The Pursuit of Happyness.

Oh, and when you see your mom, don't mention me. Sensitive subject. Did you ever think that the words "urine" and "uranium" must be so similar for a reason? You can really see why:

-Jake

I met your mother when I was blacked-out drunk and when I woke up next to her, I was ashamed

Hi, my name's Eleanor Tomchak and me and my friend Jake Welcker have wanted to create a blog for a long time. It was his idea but I was only too game. Maybe I'm doing it to get noticed as a professional writer. Maybe I'm doing it because it's a lot of fun. Maybe I'm doing it because I respect my buddy Jake and am tragically willing to give in to peer pressure. Maybe I'm just doing it because I'm bored.

As for Jake's motives, that's for the man himself to reveal. That makes it sound pretty interesting and quasi-mysterious. Neat.

Anyway, our original idea for the blog was to write the first installment drug-addled. The idea of journalism influenced as much by narcotic herbs and spices as by your standard Bernsteins and Murrows was enticing. It might have been uproarious. It might have been brilliant. It probably would have been incomprehensible. In the end, what it was was difficult. What I'm saying is, we weren't able to remember we were going to make a blog long enough to get to a computer. Then we fell asleep. We might have also run from the cops, but it wasn't exciting like you think it was.

So instead, you have a slightly more pedestrian introduction. And, because I have a three-paragraphs-and-change limit to contend with, it's looking increasingly unlikely that the important questions the first piece should answer--what it will be about, who the writers are, why anyone should bother to read it--will actually be answered. Or will they?

Think about it. Learn about it. Deal with it. Here is a random pop-culture image associated with the word "Zulu" that might help:

-Eleanor