Sorry guys. This one's gonna be one of the serious ones, and if you're here for the laughs, well, I still have a few for you, but you might want to sit this one out.
I think about my own identity a lot, and about the extraordinary set of circumstances that led to my existence. For as long as I can remember, I was a curious child. Also, I was a child with crippling insomnia. Sometimes I'd be up for three days and suddenly crash. It could happen anywhere. When I got my drivers license I made sure to watch my driving if I'm approaching day three. Then older me discovered alcohol. Then even older me discovered Unisom AND alcohol combined.
But I'd be awake and wonder if I could get away with reading. If I had the flashlight, I could. There was a risk of getting my five year old self being beaten within an inch my life, but I risked it. Otherwise I'd be stuck with my horribly loud and unending thoughts. The one that kept me up the most was, what was here before all of this? What if, instead of black, space was green. Before that, it could have been pink, right? And before that? And before that? And where is the edge of reality? And what's beyond the edge? There has to be something, right? But if there is, it's not the edge, right? You get the idea. I learned the concept of death pretty early when my best (and only) friend died from choking on a broken pencil tip. Mom broke the news, and I asked what it all meant. She said it meant my friend was in the ground now, and the worms were eating him.
Parenting tip: try not to do what my mom did.
But I tried to think about an existence that moved on without me. Where would I be? I didn't believe even then in an afterlife. I remembered that before 1978, I didn't exist. Could I possibly remember what that was like so I could prepare for my inevitable death?
So I watched The Social Dilemma today. I'll get more into that in a bit. But there was a scene where a family is having dinner together, and the mom puts all their phones in a time lock. That wasn't what I thought about, though. I remember a time before cell phones, after all. No, the part I focused on was the concept of the family dinner.
I have never had a family dinner, where we all sit at the same table and chitchat over food. Maybe if it was a special occasion, like a wedding or Christmas, but I never experienced that part of the cliched American experience.
But what if I had? Would that make me a different person than I am? What if we had cell phones back then? Would I have become the person I am today? Sometimes I feel like Frankenstein's creature in the Kenneth Branagh version, the Robert DeNiro version. When the creature finally has his creator where he wants him, he asks questions. Significant questions. My favorite is when he's asking about the nature of the soul. "Do I even have one? Or was that a part you left out?"
Would I be so questioning of authority if I hadn't taken Mr. Tourney's US History class? Would I be so lax in research without the influence of my many English teachers? Would I have the nasty streak of rage that runs in me if I'd never been abused as a child? If you read my book, BLOOD, then you could guess that I was trying to exorcise that from myself just by writing it. Micky Scarlet is me, if I let my rage control me.
I come from a telecom tech background, which is funny because I'm usually the last person to adopt a new technology. My first cell phone was a pay-by-minute thing that was forced into my hand by someone who got it from a crack dealer. I would never have gotten a DVD player if someone hadn't given me one as a birthday gift just a few years before streaming became a thing. I didn't get home internet until maybe ten years ago, I think? Some of it is because I don't need it. I'm the guy who will hear a notification ding, and if I'm busy (usually when I'm reading or writing), I won't pick up my phone to check. I just heard three dings go off during the course of writing this, and my phone is still face down on my bed.
Recently I broke my phone. It was in a fit of rage, and it was around the time of the psych ward. Someone texted me something horrible, and I texted back that I never wanted to hear from this person again. And to ensure that this person couldn't respond, I broke my phone. But you kinda need a phone in this age, if only to--GASP--call someone. So it took a while and some money, but I rediscovered something nice in the time that it was in the shop.
It reminded me of before I had a cell phone. I absolutely despise talking on the phone, and I avoid it at all costs. It was easy when I didn't have one. It actually made me happier than I'd been in a while. No texts. No calls. I had a laptop, so I could still check emails and social media, but I usually did so only once, twice, maybe three times a day, tops. It was fucking glorious!
There's a fourth ding that I'm going to ignore.
And then I got the phone back. I'd already heard back from the person in question (there's a $200 waste of time for me), and we had an uneasy truce that lasted for a while until we finally, politely, bowed out of each others' lives. For good, I think. I hope.
Anyway, about 80% of The Social Dilemma I knew already. I suspected another 15%. The remaining 5% I was more or less surprised with. I'm no different from most. I get it. I do. When someone likes a post, you get a dopamine rush. I get it, certainly. But I recognize that and remind myself of it maybe 75% of the time. Every one of us, even those who think they're shit, have a certain level of narcissism. My level is fairly low, but it's there. Chuck Palahniuk talked about how he tries to hide just how long his neck is in author photos. I'm the opposite. I barely have any neck. My head is like a boulder sitting directly on top of another boulder. I've felt self-conscious about that and about my awful teeth and a few other things. But when my hair dries off just after a shower? Goddam, that's some gorgeous shit!
But the word is used today because of a Greek myth about a dude who was so vain that he accidentally drowned because he was enamored with his reflection in a body of water. That's the problem with true narcissists. They don't know they're narcissists. I don't use Instagram because most of the people there have a level of narcissism that is waaaaaaaaay too high for my likes. But ask one of them, why do you post these selfies? They might not even know why. I'd hazard a guess that they'd say that everyone else is doing it, so might as well join them. Don't get me started on filters. But the real reason why they're doing it is the dopamine drip that they don't even know is happening in their heads.
People on Facebook need the likes or whatever emoji of their choice. Those on Twitter need the retweets. We've become attention hogs, which is one of the funniest things about The Social Dilemma. Because we love the attention of others, social media loves our attention so they can sell that product--YOU--to advertisers. To political campaigns. To anyone with the cash, really. And we wonder why we've become so uninformed. So manipulated. I hate the phrase "fake news," but it has always existed in some form or another. Most early newspapers simply made stories up to sell copies, the more outlandish the better.
I'm gonna lose some of you on this one, but here we go. I love Escape from LA almost as much as Escape from New York. Is it goofy? Sure. It's got a bizarro streak through it. But my favorite part is at the end when Snake essentially turns Planet Earth off. Sorry everyone. Technology is over.
I love that scene and sometimes wish I had the button to do that. We've proven that we're not old enough to play with these toys. So Daddy is gonna take them away.
(Still waiting to find out how Snake escaped from Cleveland. Come on, Carpenter, get on it!)
But the toothpaste is out of the tube, and there's no putting it back. Another thing I despise is the concept of the algorithm. One of the guys in the movie talks about the two opposites in America and says that they disagree so much because they don't see the same information the other side sees. The algorithm figures out if you trend right or left, and that's the news you get. That's an extreme example. Sometimes it's just gonna tell you if you bought this, you might like to buy this. If you watched this video, you might want to watch this one. Don't forget to like and subscribe.
I try to deny the algorithm whenever I can. Sometimes it's unavoidable. But a lot of times I don't click on what they want me to click on.
What makes me this way? Why wasn't I one of the drooling idiots raiding the Capitol? Why wasn't I the guy dressed as Manbearpig? What makes me different? Was it because some guy in 1123 AD scratched his nuts instead of his asshole? Is that the set of circumstances that pushed the world into creating me in 1978 the way I am?
What if I could get an unassisted good night's sleep? What if I had that family dinner? What if my pa--er, I mean, Batman's parents didn't get killed in the supremely unlikely place of Crime Alley? Would I still be me?
Maybe there's a multiverse like some quantum theorists suggest. Maybe there's a world where I did get that family dinner every night. Who knows?
I was a wretched kid from the middle of elementary school almost entirely through college. I'm shocked that some people liked me back then (and some of you have stuck around). I felt that the universe had robbed me of a normal life, a normal childhood, and I was going to take it out on the rest of the universe. I saw people who had a mom and dad who not only loved them but also lived under the same roof, and these kids would be pissed about them all the time. I resented them the most because they had everything I wanted, and they'd piss it all away like it meant nothing.
Then I found alcohol. Alcohol made me consider a lot of things about me, and I realized what I prick I was. Not the fun kind, either. It also helped me think about something Mulder once said: "How do you define normal?" I discovered a new meaning: normal didn't exist. All those people I was angry with had all sorts of shit they were going through that I was not privy to. The appearance doesn't define a thing, just like people are not defined by the words they say. They are defined by their actions.
So I sat down. Every once in a while, I like to have an in-depth conversation with my lizard brain to assess the state of my existence. That is always a conversation that involves whiskey. When you get drunk, you're more willing to admit some things to yourself about yourself. (And I'm planning on doing that again in the next few days. I'll tell you how it goes.)
I had my first conversation with my lizard brain over whiskey, and I decided that I did not like the person I was. I figured out what my problems were, what my hang ups were, where I'd gone wrong with this or that, and then I figured out why all of that happened. I decided what I wanted to keep, and what I wanted to improve. I thought of things I would like in my personality, and I looked at people and fictional characters I viewed as role models, and by the time I was done, I had my goals.
"Fake it till you make it." I hate the phrase, but it works. It really does. It took some time, but I chiseled through my own bullshit and got myself into a good (more or less) headspace. Sometimes my personality needs editing, and I step right in with the red pen. See? That's how old I am. I still edit with red pen.
The Social Dilemma comes up with some solutions to the problem, and Zuckerberg is certainly not the guy to do it. In my opinion, he has no reason to. Why would he suddenly cost his own companies a ridiculous amount of money? One person suggested laws to restrict him and his vultures. Well, couldn't hurt, I guess.
I briefly considered saying that public schools should teach critical thinking at an early age. Then again, they have no incentive, either. Keep in mind, this is still a system that teaches kids that America, a land where there already were a lot of people, was discovered by Columbus. That Jefferson, a slave owner, believed that all men were created equal. That Lincoln is, if you'll excuse the pun, an unimpeachable man, when he planned that, after the Civil War was over and the slaves were free, he would solve the problem of racism by moving all those slaves to Grenada. I'll bet if you asked the average, say, third grader why this place is even called America, and they wouldn't be able to answer. Hell, ask any average middle-aged man, and he probably couldn't answer it. (Don't Google. No cheating. The algorithm is watching . . .)
Because this isn't something that social media came up with to serve their advertisers. They certainly came up with a new delivery system. But this manipulation of the truth (whatever that might be) begins in school.
So yeah. I don't expect a solution to this insanely big shit sandwich. Social media, and any tech company, really, isn't evil on its own. It's like a weapon. It's not dangerous on its own. It depends on the person who might use it. To quote a shady dude, "Same rules apply."
Wow, this is long. And a lot more personal than I would have thought. Maybe I didn't have quite enough jokes. So I'm going to end with an old joke that will never fail to get me to laugh. It's slightly dirty, but what else would you expect from me? Hey, don't blame me. The universe made me do it . . .
Bill is at the funeral of an old High School friend in Manhattan.
They’re all standing in the graveyard gathering their thoughts after the coffin has been lowered, when Bill notices Jim, another old friend from his High School days.
“Hello Jim” says Bill.
“Hello buddy, it’s been a long time. How are you?” asks Jim.
Bill responds positively but he’s puzzled as to why Jim is carrying an attaché case at a funeral.
“What’s in the case?” asks Bill.
“Oh, this is a tool of my trade.” says Jim.
“What do you mean? What sort of tool is it?” asks Bill.
“It’s a high velocity rifle.” says Jim.
“Now why would you need a high velocity rifle?” asks Bill.
“Because I’m a hitman.” says Jim.
“Dream on! You’re yanking my chain, surely?” says Bill.
“I’m serious” says Jim, “I make my living as a hitman. Take a look.”
With that Jim opens the attaché case to show he does indeed have a high velocity rifle complete with telescopic sight and silencer.
“Wow” says Bill, “Can I take a closer look at that?”
“Sure!” says Jim. With that he assembles the rifle, fits the telescopic sight and then passes it across to Bill.
Bill lifts the rifle to his shoulder and peers through the telescopic sight. “Wow! This is amazing. I can see everything so clearly.”
“Impressive, eh?” says Jim.
“Yes sir. I can see right across Central Park. I can even see my own apartment on Central Park West.” says Bill. “Wait a minute I can see right through my bedroom window and I can see my wife’s having sex with my neighbor.”
“Really?” says Jim.
“Yeah, really!” says Bill. “How much do you charge for a hit?”
“Well I charge $10,000 dollars per shot but with this telescopic sight I only ever need one shot to hit the target.” says Jim.
“Right!” says Bill. “I’ll have two. I want you to shoot her right through the head and I want you to shoot him in the genitals.”
So Jim takes the rifle, puts it so his shoulder, peers down the lens of the telescopic sight and carefully starts taking aim. However he then seems to take an age, as he starts waving the rifle barrel around and keeps adjusting the line of sight.
As he waits, Bill starts getting increasingly agitated as he thinks about what’s going on in his apartment.
“What’s going on now?” he asks, clearly freaking out. “What are they doing? Why are you taking so long? Why are you hesitating?”
“Have patience my friend”, says Jim. “I’m trying to save you ten grand.”
Yeah, yeah, I know. Jim misses the opportunity to say, "And don't call me Shirley." Can't have everything, bud.
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