Xanga. You're a real trooper. Hanging onto whatever is left with a vice-like G.I. Kung-fu death grip. When you were hot shit, everyone jocked your nuts, hoisted you on their shoulders and chanted your otherworldly name to the ends of the earth.
But time shows mercy to no one, and new stars emerged in the playing field. Suddenly, you were pitted against all these hotshot social media sites, what with their sleeker, simpler, sexier interfaces, who lathered us with promises of more friends, more fun, more procrastination. And what could you possibly offer to wow the crowds again? The same old eprops? You couldn't keep up with the immediacy and efficiency of your new opponents, and you tried, but failed, to mimic them, to stay in the game, to not be that thing that fizzled out into oblivion.
It feels warm in that spotlight, bathing in the love of all your adoring fans, failing to realize that just as quickly as it comes, it leaves with the same swiftness and brute force. You tried to fight off that little voice gnawing at the back of your head, but that last party you threw was the final blow. Of the few who did show up, many made half-assed excuses to weasel out early. And when you called your close buddy to tell him not to bring that extra case of booze, since there was far too much for the dwindling group to finish, he told you he couldn't make it and had some work to do, but you heard the clamor in the background -- one of the bigshots were also throwing a party the same night. And it hit you like a punch in the gut: they are now what you once were. You hung up the phone, looked around, and saw with complete lucidity the sadness smeared all over your party. Some old-timers, the nostalgic ones who have marinated in your success and clung to it, appeased you by saying, "We could all just watch a movie and have a quiet night!" But you sent them home, because this wasn't a party. This was commiseration. And sympathy won't bring back what you once had.
You helped pave the way for all these new and flashy topdogs and fatcats. But we don't all age as well as we hope to.
Hope you get your second wind. But if not, you had a commendable run.
Until then.
PEACE!
Tumblr, come over here with that fat ass and gimme some good, good luvin.
Wow. I know Google is on some next-level shit. But look at how accurately it takes content from my blog and caters advertisements specifically to my "interests," which apparently is just Google's passive-aggressive way to point out my needs:
Not only are the first four ads indicating that I may have a problem of sorts, ahem coughcough hinthint, but the fifth and last ad even provides a fix if I cave into the demonic voices that drag me back into alcohol's mighty claws.
Google AdSense, keep doing what you do. Point out people's deep seated problems, throw it in their face, then tempt them with the exact vice they are struggling to overcome. Stay classy, Google AdSense.
Dude, I just figured it out: my Google Adsense is like those angels and demons on your shoulders, at once sanctimoniously moralizing and insidiously seductive.
"Oh, lost and wayward sheep, return to life's beauty and shun thy evil foe, alcohol OH THAT TASTE'S REAL NICE AND FOR A REAL NICE PRICE WE'LL GIVE YOU THAT SMOOTH CRISP DELICIOUS BOOZE BABY in sobriety, do good unto others and show kindness to your fellow THAT'S RIGHT GET REAL WASTED REAL QUICK AND SINK INTO LIQUID ELATION BABY OHHHHH oh OHHHHHHH oh OHHHHHH oh."
You know I'm right, guys. Something like that, no?
I went to a bar the other night. Some East Village swanky ass shit. The place is so hip it doesn't even have a name. There were all these dudes in button down shirts with arms around each other, taking shots, screaming, pinching each other's nipples and asses. All the girls in tight little slips, however, swayed to techno remixes of eighties hits while wearing frowns, which I believe were attempts at sultriness. It's like their faces were saying, "FUCK YOU please like me FUCK YOU i hope i look halfway decent FUCK YOU hi?"
I tried to make small talk through the ear-shredding renditions of techno-Journey and such, then couldn't get myself to stay a minute longer. I grabbed my stuff, and my only friend at the place, Liz, stopped me, asking why I was leaving. I stammered, scrambling to find an excuse:
"I'm, uh, gonna go, uh, uh... I GOTTA GO PLAY SMASH BROTHERS ON NINTENDO WII PEACE!"
And I ran out of there. Away from that club. Away from my shame.
But deep in my heart, I knew I made the right choice when I got to Chang's place and heard that siren call, like a chorus of angels. It was the Smash Brothers theme song. And at that moment, all was right with the world.
But honestly, what's worse? Grinding up with some clammy drunken floozy in a dank corner of a 20-somethings bar that blasts Z100 tracks, maybe even help smear her make-up by slobbering all over her unidentifiable face, using your tongue like a windshield wiper all over her diligently applied foundation? Or Smash Brothers until 4am? I don't know. You tell me.
But hey. I'm not saying I'm some kind of expert here. I may not know whether or not capitalism trumps socialism. Whether saying "that's so gay" to gay couples is offensive or ironically endearing. I'm not saying that. But if drunken Smash Brothers is wrong, then hey, I don't want to be right.
"That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen."
As an aspiring screenwriter/filmmaker, I'm always generating ideas for movies, then subsequently censoring myself immediately thereafter. As soon as I reach the eureeka moment, a little imp of a voice emerges in my head and says, "What the fuck were you thinking? That would make an awful film, asshole. Who are you kidding? Throw in the fucking towel. Flush your pipe dreams down the drain. Face reality and go get an MBA, you turd monger. People like you are a dime a dozen! You'd be lucky if someone called you a 'hack', but, oh, that's right, being a hack requires that you've tasted success! You're the kind of guy that hacks look down on to make themselves feel better! BAhahahah! Quit fooling yourself, and go work a cashier, sonny!"
In one of my more embarrassing brainstorm sessions, I wanted to take one of my former passions, B-boying, and try to make it "high-concept". I envisioned a world in which two opposing sides in a desolate urban future were at war, and the only way to settle their intrinsic hate and strife was through b-boy dance battles. I thought this would be a surefire hit, a superb idea at the time, until the next morning, when I woke up feeling great shame that I even gave serious consideration to this awful, awful notion. I quickly purged my mind of such trash with booze, and continued on in my brainstorming quests.
And then, I stumbled upon this little gem just now:
That's right. Some other person who walks this same earth as I do not only fancied the same ridiculous idea of a dystopian future in which conflicts are settled through dance battles, but also had the gall to run with it. And now, here it is, in all it's tawdry and unironic glory, in the form of a feature film.
A part of me feels validated, that the ideas I have can and do get made into movies for the masses to see. But a deeper part of me feels extremely unnerved, disturbed, unsettled, that the "creativity" that spring forth from my noggin are of this caliber: futuristic dance-offs in a desolate urban sprawl. All I can do is furrow my brows, slowly shake my head as if denying some horrific truth.
