By Bernie Lincicome

A sports columnist, a generation before mine, imagined what it would be like if he suddenly died.

“The first day,” said Joe Falls, long a Detroit fixture, “everyone would be sad. ‘Ain’t it awful about old Joe,’ they would say.

“The second day they would sigh and shake their heads and say, ‘You know, I sure miss old Joe.’

“On the third day they would put down the paper and say, ‘You know, this new guy’s not too bad.’ ”

In my case, there is no new guy, not even a paper. But there is a new world, and I will need a few more days to decide if it is not too bad.

The blogosphere. Ugly name, right up there with Pittsburgh and Vinegaroon, but not really a place; a place that exists only in fancy rather than in fact, much the same as Camelot, but without the honor.

I witnessed a collection of bloggers (what would that be, a pride of lions, a gaggle of geese, a barrel of bloggers?) at the Democratic Convention in Denver, and, to be honest, many of them appeared quite human, even in their sweat pants.

They had their own room, inside the building, whereas I, a fully credentialed, veteran, award-winning print journalist, was outside in a tent. They had their own lunchroom, with a spread of coldcuts (ah, that’s it, a spread of bloggers) pastries and utensils, not many of which were used.

They seemed very busy, reading other bloggers on the Internet, a few the daily newspaper, some various editions of a Dummies Guide to This or That.

Almost on a common cue, they would flip open their laptops and pound an opinion into the ether, that indefinite blogosphere out there, unsure anyone would ever see it, except each other.

Wait. I have it. A tiding of bloggers. Very distinctive and usually applied to magpies. A perfect fit come to that. Like magpies, incessant noise but without intelligence. Yes. Tiding of bloggers it is.

So here I am, one of them, and I will say this about the sweatpants: Marvelous invention. Almost worth being jobless.

At the Super Bowl, during Media Day, where freaks and self-promoters are encouraged, I thought about hanging a sign around my neck that said, “Will Blog For Food.”

The first time I was asked to blog, I cleared my throat and looked for a place to spit. No, I was told, to blog is to write, to consider things and to offer an opinion about them.

Well, that’s what I have been doing for a very long time and did not even know it. And what’s the difference?

No money.

Bloggers do it for love. Sounds like a bumper sticker. Or a T-shirt. Maybe there’s money in that. I claim authorship. I mean, I gave away Rocktober. But at the time I had an income.

Otherwise, it is all one way. Have an idea. Write it down. Steal someone else’s idea. Write it down. Wake up cranky. Write it down. But don’t expect to get paid.

That great information highway, the one my late newspaper took to its doom, the place where all legitimate, reasoned, fact-checked, multiple-sourced journalism shall one day go, is paved but not generous.

Many consolations came, lamenting my misfortune, wishing me well in my new circumstance, whatever that might be. Many came from folks who have cluttered my life at times and passed through barely noticed at others, and to all I am grateful for the sympathy.

When it started early on, at the first Broncos game after the announcement that the newspaper was for sale, I told fellow columnist Dave Krieger I felt like a widow.

“You mean widower,” he said. Always a stickler for facts is Dave. And he is working while I am blogging.

I should have a fresh appreciation for bloggers, but I do not yet. Every word typed is as closely considered as ever, every original thought is as savored, every sentence as well crafted as talent allows.

Yet, to be self-published still seems to be unnoticed, to imagine notice is to be self-deluded.

This is not the game. This is just calisthenics.

Blog on, sweet prince, and choirs of angels sing thee to thy Internet site.

Tweet. Tweet.

Visit Bernie’s site at www.bernielincicome.com.