I was watching a newscast last nigh about GM being broke. The correspondent made some comment about “repairing the American Dream.” My first thought was “Oh shit, if that analogy catches on, maybe I can milk some traffic off of it.”

What kind of shit head am I? Families are losing their livelihood and security, and I’m thinking of “Google juice.”

I’ll tell you what kind of shit head I am. I am the f**king “Facebook generation.” I’d rather you look at me than look at all the shit that’s going on around you. I’d rather you be “captive” than be happy.

I am the shadows on the wall. I’d rather you watch me dance in the flicker of flame than be happy because without you, my anthropomorphis means nothing. Without an audience, the irony of my shadow dance is lost in silence, to the unwatching eyes of an overloaded and apathetic tribe.

Res ipsa loquitor

I was up for review, today, at work. It was pretty anti-climactic. I’ve been building up to it for the last month, so I’ve had plenty of time to work up a series of indulgent dramatic outcomes in my head – none of which were all that likely to unfold.

In fact, the most likely outcome I’d dreamt up was getting fired, or laid off, or whatever other metaphor or euphemism you could think of when “losing your job” doesn’t suffice. It’s curious the influence that Aristotle had on us: fired, canned, laid off, terminated, let go… They all seem to entail some nuance that mean something to everyone else but the poor sucker on the butt-end of it all: no longer having anyway to pay bills, provide for the family… no longer having any security… no longer feeling secure.

I’ve been inopportunely unemployed more times than I can count (or am willing to try to). Whether it was my own doing or just some rotten, pig-faced luck, it always amounted to the same thing: not having the means to underwrite your newfound recklessness.

Recklessness comforts me. At least, that is, until the fall-out touches- down. Sometimes you can stretch it just a little bit longer, but whenever you do, the fall-out seems to double in half-life. It’s governed by the law of diminishing returns, really, but before touch-down does, all that freedom seems to be worth the trade-off, worth it to just fly in the face of biological imperatives, it’s tangible trade-offs, and Darwin. But I digress…

If I’d been canned, or “let go” as they say, I had a series of scathing summations to deliver, well rehearsed and scripted as all the world’s a stage. The only uncertainty was which one it would be. Would I tell them that it was okay, that Jesus would forgive them for their deceipt and various trespasses? Or just chuckle maniacally and walk out of the office without a word, leaving them to wonder what my next move would be: coming back tomorrow to go postal, airing their corporate dirt in very targeted and captive communities, or simply sharing snapshots of those skeletons in a very private and personal way with the roster of suppliers and clients I’d been made privy to.

But, no: it went fine, just fine. Well, not exactly. Overall, it was the poorest “performance review” I’d had to date. But there was nothing in it that was grounds for leaving me with no way to pay the bills, provide for family, or feeling secure.

Then again, this is a recession, and in a recession, anything less than “you are the single most valuable asset to this company, team, or department” is pretty much “Just go ahead, give us an excuse, I dare you.”

There seems to be this trend online to produce content without a point. The success of this doesn’t really surprise me. In fact, it kind of reminds me of the success of reality television. People dig it because it’s just like life: pointless. And they wonder why we let our children get fat and lazy. It’s because we’re rich, and when you don’t have to worry about sustaining your life, it’s not long before you realize just how pointless it is.

Anyway, I was checking out this channel on Meta Cafe called Cafe Confidential. The description reads:

Pour yourself a hot latte and listen in as the girl next door and the guy across the hall reveal their most personal stories. No scripts, no sets, no special effects – here at Café Confidential, you get real stories from real people, handpicked by hollywood producer Steven Bochco.

Personally, I prefer to listen to the girl next door getting racked by the guy across the hall, but that’s just me. Steven Bochco has obviously made a lot more money than I have, so in the grand scheme of a market democracy, his opinion is worth more than mine — literally.

What brought my attention to Cafe Confidential was that it’s sponsored by American Apparel. Once I’d tuned in, I saw this ad.

Well, pathetic and obsessed as I am, I couldn’t help clicking through (I wonder if that cost them anything), and it brough me to
this page on AA’s website where I was supposed to get a chance to Meet Amanda, but everytime I clicked on it, it just kept reloading the page.

This vicious loop really bummed me out. I was really hoping that my work day was going to be more interesting than this. I thought that maybe I’d get to watch a Cafe Confidential video about how Amanda banged Hugh (a guy who’s featured on the same AA’s page as her). But no, they just want my money.

That’s the real problem with using sex to sell: it’s false advertising. You advertise sex, but you’re really only offering t-shirts. It’s bullshit. I guess I’ll just have to go back to reading about Barack Obama instead. I wouldn’t mind listening to the girl next door (or Amanda) getting banged by him. But if he’s running for president, I’m just going to have to wait till the primaries are over before the Republicans release those tapes.