I hate cell phones. They’re a symptom of everything that’s wrong in America, like the rib cracking cough that’s makes pneumonia so much more insufferable than the flu. Fuck you, I don’t need you. There’s someone else, somewhere else, and they’re more important than you. I don’t need you. I am connected. I can talk to someone else. I’ve just been settling for you company, and I don’t need you anymore. And now I’m gonna run for mayor.

No wonder we’re all so desperate. No wonder we’re all so lonely. We live in our own head, at the whim of our whim. We’re indecisive, disoriented and confused. We don’t know where we are or who we want to be. We just know that we’re bored and are clinging to the hope that there’s just gotta be something better and more convincing beyond the immediate moment.

Eye contact can be terrifying. The eyes are the window to the soul, and it isn’t easy looking into the depths of someone else’s desperation and realizing that we’re not alone, realizing that we’re just as unoriginal and inconsequential and unappreciated as we find everyone else around us. So we put on the blinders, look at the ground six feet ahead of us, tune out, and tune into the magical little sound box that’s frying our occipital lobes one kilohertz at a time.

And what would we do if the network came crashing down tomorrow. Forget the disruption in communication. We’re a generation weaned on connections. We’re nothing on our own, and left to ourselves, we have nothing left to do but wallow in the foamy, white noise that’s our own shallow stream of consciousness.

I remember going to a conference in Vegas in 2005. It was The Magic Show and I was working for American Apparel. It was 2005, our phones were still in the stone age, and The Magic Show is one of the biggest conferences in the world. The system couldn’t hack it, and it crashed like a neanderthalic superstructure. We were lost. A bunch of us had push-to-talk phones and could still communicate enough to get our jobs done, but our safety net was gone. All our conversation could be heard by everyone around us.

There was no privacy, no one to confide in, no escape. We were stuck with whoever we happened to be standing near and were completely alone. And there’s nothing quite as pathetic in the same way as a hipster who has to face their own irony. Fuck it, I couldn’t take it. I ripped the battery from my phone and drove out to the desert with a model who robbed me of everything but my soul. She was a good girl.

Credit: Hugh MacLeod

I found out this morning that someone I worked with is dead. He didn’t come to work yesterday and no one could get in touch with him, so some people went by his place to check on him. They found him face down in his pillow. He was 26.

He was 26 and now he’s gone. When I was 26, I found out I was going to be a father. But before I found that out, I’d sit up late reading books and getting high in the spare room at my parent’s place, thinking about how much of a failure I’d already become, and wondering whether I’d have the courage to silence the screeching voices in my head if there was a gun in the night table next to me if.

Then life gave me a shot in the mouth and reminded me that it’s not all about me, that there are other people around me, and some of them are depending on me. So I sobered up and pulled my shit together. Since then, I’ve been doing what I have to do to take care of business. I’ve been running the rat race, taking it in the tuckus from bosses, dealing with lay-offs, and doing what I have to do to make ends meet. But I never stopped wondering if maybe there are more ends than I really need.

Now life has given me another slap off the head, and I there’s no more avoiding that this is it. No dress rehearsals, no glory laps. Every shot you don’t take is a shot you miss, and every shot you miss is a little piece of you lost forever. But fuck it, ’cause soon it’s all going to be over, and none of it will matter much anyway, so I mind as well be able to sleep with myself in the meantime so that I can enjoy it as much as possible.

It’s bad news all over, for the left and the right. Democracy and the markets are taking a thrashing, and the bodies are piling up. It’s starting to stink, and we can use some graves, but there aren’t many real journalist left to do the digging. They’ve all either been laid-off or bought-out, and a hungry man doesn’t wield a shovel.

A few of them, though, were either lucky, smart, or stupid enough to read through the lines of their own bullshit early on, and got out while the getting was still good. They were able to make it out West before the law did, and those of them that were lucky were able to claim a chunk of the Ponderosa for themselves (those that weren’t either scalped or shot in the back by a flippant drunk horse rustler).

One of the lucky ones was Tom Forenski. He’s managed to find a way to keep his belly full and his shovel out of hawk for long enough stretches to dig’em six feet deep before the rainy season turns’em into sinkholes. His latest ode-to-a-spade has enough room it for just about anyone he’s ever worked for, with, or on.  Sifting through the annual Edelman Trust Barmometer, Tom has found that:

- Trust in information from friends and peers, “people like me,” dropped by 20 points, from 47 to 27 percent.

- Trust in information from digital media–blogs, social networks, and free content sources like Wikipedia or Google news, remains low: only between 11 percent and 22 percent of respondents express trust in information about companies from these sources.
[...]
- Trust in credibility of TV news declined by 20 points, from 44 to 24 percent.

- Trust in news coverage on the radio dropped by 17 points, from 48 to 31 percent.

- Trust in newspapers fell by 14 points, from 46 to 32 percent.

- Only 38 percent trust media (as an institution) to do what is right, down from 46 percent in 2008.

- Media companies (as an industry) have declined in credibility by 16 points (from 48 to 32 percent).

- In the U.S., media companies are tied with the insurance industry for last place. Banks are second from the bottom.

- Top trusted industry is technology and it has widened its lead over other industries.

- Tied for the second most trusted industry is Biotech and Automotive at 63 percent, followed by Energy, Retail and Food at 61 percent.

I can get Automotive tying for second place. I mean, geezus, the American people own the auto-industry now. If they can’t trust themselves, how are they supposed to look themselves in the mirror every morning and keep bullshitting themselves into thinking that what they’ve been doing for last two decades has actually meant anything and that they should keep doing it?

Besides, we’re a nation of smug, arrogant apes. About the the only thing we trust is our gut instinct and it tells us we’re hungry. So how are we supposed to afford an $8 non-fat caramel double machiatto to wash down our Grand Slam breakfast if we don’t trust ourselves enough to show up and work and bring home the bacon?

But Biotech? Ye gawds, it’s a college student’s worst nightmare. I mean, they’ve done things to farmers, genes, and the American justice system that would make an Father O’Hanrahan blush. But I digress…

It seems like America is losing faith in anything with a type-face. We’re losing faith in the people we don’t really know and the blogs that they write. We’re losing faith in Google and it’s ability to gage the relevance of something based on how many virgins linked to it. And we’re also losing faith in the media companies that can no longer afford to pay their creditors, never mind the interns that are supposed to be fact-checking the weather reports.

Tom thinks it’s bad news for PR agencies, “social media experts,” citizen journalists, and media start-ups. But what about the poor and wretched souls in middle-America who don’t know whether to be more terrified Osama, Obama, or the impending Zombie apocalypse when their kids ring-in 2013 with a double of their cerebrospinal fluid on the rocks?

These are the people whose weekend trips to Walmart and Costco keep the coffers of the agencies and media companies replete with fresh lies, and how are they supposed to keep spending if they’re too terrified or confused to make it to work in the morning?

Two decades of whore-mongering is catching up with us folks. It’s daybreak, the party is over, and before the shooter-girls can count-out, go home, and sleep it off, the rest of us have to face the reckoning and pray to the vengeful, pagan gods we’ve worshiped all night that there’s enough left-over for the cab ride home.

Credit: teridillon

Just because something is creative, that doesn’t make it art. To be art, something needs to capture a bit of truth.

That’s why I could never make it as a writer, or any other kind of artist: I’ve never been able to stomach the truth.

But it’s also why I make a half-decent ad-hack: I’m so good with denial, at pretending that everything’s just fine. I’m good enough at it, in fact, that I can reassure others that things are just fine.

I’m limited, though, at reassuring them. I’m not quite there when it comes to convincing them. Maybe that’s something that’ll come with more time and experience. Maybe my conscience will always get in the way. Or maybe it’ll fade with time.

We’ll see…

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.

I just found out that Mary Travers of Peter, Paul, and Mary died today. And I’m not taking it very well.

I’m not a Peter, Paul, and Mary fan, and before tonight, I wouldn’t have recognized her name. I still wouldn’t recognize the full names of Peter and Paul, and don’t even know if they’re alive or dead.

But when I was I young child, my father used to play his guitar and sing me to sleep, and when he sang Puff The Magic Dragon, I would cry and become inconsolable, but wouldn’t want him to stop. Now that I’m a father, I pray to whatever Gods who can still find it somewhere in their omniscience to forgive our wretched species for what they are that my own son never neglects painted wings and giant rings for other toys.

Thank you, Mary, for contributing to a very important part of my childhood, and may those same Gods shuttle you to someplace better than this one.

My buddy just got out of a relationship. He needs a wingman, but can’t find one. One of his best friends has the mind of a freshman, and I’m “married with children.

Most men who are married with children don’t go out drinking on a work night. Many of them never go out drinking at all. But my buddy was being facetious. I’m not really married. I have a baby-mama, not a wife, and I don’t live with her. I live with my girlfriend.

The reason I was out drinking on a work night was that my girlfriend wasn’t talking to me. She caught a glimpse of me and my baby-mama talking on the corner outside our place when my baby-mama came to pick up our son. When I went back inside, she told me she didn’t want to talk to me. So I left. Our place isn’t that big, and I don’t like awkward silences. They’re awkward.

I rented a bicycle to go cash my paycheck at the bank. When I came out, there was an altercation with a middle-aged woman who couldn’t figure out the rent-a-bike stand. She didn’t want my help. I didn’t want to wait for her. I said nasty things to her in a loud voice. And then I took a walk up and down the street until she was gone. You can’t always get what you want (my mother taught me that).

Then I showed up at my buddy’s place with a six pack. We talked shit and conclude bitches is crazy. BitchesIsCrazy.com is already registered — to some guy in Portugal.

We finished the six pack and then went to eat Indian food at a dive bar a few block away. The food was really good. The draft beer wasn’t. We finished both of them. And then I went home.

I’d been gone about four and a half hours. I don’t think I ever got further than six blocks in any direction. I was more tired than drunk. My girlfriend was on the couch watching the news. I said “hi.” She just looked at me. I went into the office. She went to bed. I slept on the couch.

In the morning, there was nothing but a note for me. It said the the door repairman was coming Saturday morning. I went to work.

Do you ever think that you’re living through history? That you’re watching it go down in realtime?

The last of the Kennedy’s is dead. The last of a democratic trinity. We’ve closed a chapter in the American Dream that was never realized… that was never really finished…

What can our generation really boast? A black president? A new world order?

Everything is regressing into a commodity, and soon, even the memories will just that: a mere idea that can be used to brand, barter, and trade a package of lies, smoke, and mirrors.

It used to mean something to rebel, to revolt, to stand out in the crowd. But now it’s all just a way to brand our own vain sense of individuality.

We live for nothing more than our own personal distinction… our own personal brand… our own individuality… just like all our friends…

It’s no longer our beliefs that distinguish us from our contemporaries. It’s the ideas that we consume with out disposable income; the ideas we come to “embody” through our purchases.

It’s no longer what we believe; it’s what we invest in… and like all investment capital, it can be shifted or diverted to some other asset or portfolio with or without a loss or gain…

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 went to a networking event last night. It was the type of thing people go to feel like their “connected” and relevant” in “the community.” They do this by talking about themselves, what they or their employer has been up to (and how they’ve been a part of it), and all the other rumors or “trends” they’ve read about lately in “industry publications” or blogs.

I’ve been to plenty of these. Hell, I used to help organize one. But I kicked the habit in favor of finding something to do with my time that maybe, just maybe, Jesus wouldn’t hold against me (come December 21st, 2012).

Since I just had my review at work, though, I figured it was time that I got back into the “groove of things.” I figured that it was a good way to show “just how much of an asset I was to the company/team/department.” In fact, I came up with it when I saw the review coming. But I digress…

I showed up at this “event” with a friend of mine. He works in local politics, and I told him that it’d be worth his time because there’d be plenty of local “businessman” and bloggers he could network with.

We spent most of the time standing off to the side, talking between ourselves. He pointed out the “frizzy hair,” mocha-complexioned mulatto girl on the other side of the room. She was an old boss of mine who’d fired me two months into a gig two years ago.

I’d been working on a two-month “contract” at a locally-based multi-national. The “contract” was their way of saying “we’ll keep you on indefinitely so long as you don’t fuck or piss off anyone of influence.” I did both.

I had a sex & dating blog at the time, and I blogged about how during a meeting, I daydreamed about getting blow jobs from an assorted array of my female cohorts. Long story short, they found it.

They didn’t tell me, though, so I thought I got canned for being lazy. It wasn’t until months later when Frizzy confronted me over instant messenger that I found out what had happened. Apparently, she’d found her part in it amusing:

Then there’s the local editor, a strong-headed, intelligent woman with curls that you just want to grab, pull, and tug at. She wouldn’t suck cock because shse liked it or wanted to, but because it would be appropriate for the time and place. It would be what the situation called for: standard operating procedure, plain and simple. She’d be thorough and efficient, arguably pneumatic, and she wouldn’t look up to make eye-contact once. It’d be cold and impersonal, and when she was done, I’d be left feeling used and empty, in a gratifying way. I’d ask for more, and she’d just sneer. Then I’d say please and she’d snicker. Then I’d cry.

I wish I’d said hi to her before leaving. Any girl who can shrug off something like that is someone worth knowing once you get through your first divorce.

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.”