Bullshit

Gadget Malaise

One thing I always try to keep in mind when trolling the Internet, magazines, newspapers, and random cocktail napkins found in the gutters of the world for something to read while I drink my coffee in the morning is this: Writers need something to write about. Even I, sitting here in my secret underground bunker with crates full of cheap Canadian whisky stacked up around me, wake up every now and then and decide I need to update this blog (like, say, this morning) and stew for a few moments wondering what in the world I can write about. This makes me deeply suspicious of a lot of media; there’s a lot of doom and gloom and alarmism out there, but I suspect a lot of it has to do with the need for content and the fact that pessimism always sells better (IMHO – YMMV).

Recently, I was reading about the supposed “rapid generation gaps” we’re experiencing, wherein every set of kids learn a whole host of technologies that their older siblings, merely five years older, are completely unfamiliar with.  For example, people of my generation grabbed onto e-mail with gusto in the 1990s and haven’t let go since, but the generations that followed us view e-mail as a business thing for the old folks, and spend their time texting or IMing or, who knows, inserting their souls into cyberspace and interacting in The Matrix.

Sidenote: By using the words “cyberspace” and “Matrix” in that sentence, I have dated myself dangerously, and the kids are now cheerfully mocking me on IRC channels I’ll never hear about.

I don’t doubt the truth in that article: I’ve seen with my own eyes how people 10 years younger than me use technology differently, and people 10 years younger than them use it differently from them, and so on. Technology is evolving rapidly and kids will be in the forefront of it because unlike folks my age, its kids who by and large use these new technologies at first. When I was a kid, all technology trickled down from my parents. Today it’s the kids who want the new phones, the new media players, the new game systems. So, sure. By the time I’m old enough to retire, there will likely be a baffling array of technological gadgets I can’t comprehend.

But here’s the thing: So what?

Who cares if 10-year olds are communicating using gadgets I’ve never seen and probably couldn’t figure out how to use? They are ten. I will never wish to speak with them.

This is a general rule of thumb I apply to everything like this. If a group of people are using a technology or tool to socialize, I ask myself: Do I really want to hang out and communicate with them? If the answer is “no” (and it almost always is, as I am misanthropic) then I cease to care about whatever it is we’re talking about. This works out much better than you might imagine.

There is, I think, a general fear of growing old and becoming dumb, fueled by the rapid pace of change and the fact that people my age have vivid memories (possibly from yesterday, literally) of having to painfully show our parents or grandparents how to use what we consider simple technologies, like the television after the recent digital signal switchover. We’re used to being the smug hippies who know everything, and it terrifies us that we might one day be sitting in puzzled humility while a cretinous child who doesn’t know anything about good booze or classic pornography smugly teaches us how to use our Teleportation Stick or whatever. Of course, it’s entirely possible to live a full and happy life without knowing anything about the latest gadgets (hell, I’ve been doing it since I was a teenager), it’s just a fear of being left behind that drives this kind of insanity.

Which brings me to a gadget that makes me leaden with boredom despite what the marketing droids want me to believe: 3D Television. If there is a more useless upgrade in the universe, I am not aware of it. While 3D visuals are kind of fun, and I don’t mind wearing stupid glasses, say, once every decade, the fact is I can’t imagine anyone who wants 3D television. But the electronics industries fear nothing like the end of a constant upgrade-cycle; I’m convinced one of the reasons for the fierce resistance to MP3s as a standard digital music format had nothing to do with DRM or quality issues, but rather the simple fact that MP3s can be played on any device these days, so you may never have to purchase another music content delivery item (a CD, for example) or a content decoder (a CD player, for example). For the last 30 years there’s been a constant stream of upgrades that people have bought, and now, there’s little reason to. But I digress.

The point is, no matter how hard they try, no one will convince me that I must have 3D TV or risk being irrelevant to society. I already am irrelevant to society, in that sense of the term. I don’t need wacky glasses to prove that. And so it goes.

Stapler porn

For those of you who make print zines, this might appeal. After switching to a double biannual issue, I found that my trusty old Stanley long reach stapler couldn’t hack it any more. Sadly, I had to replace it with . . . this:

MONSTER STAPLER

Monster Stapler can destroy worlds with its awesome power. And possibly staple my hand to my thigh if I try to make zines drunk.

The Five People You Meet in the Laundromat

Hey gang: This is a little essay that appeared in my local newspaper a few years ago. I wrote a number of these for the fun of it back in the day, so I thought I’d just repost a few.

THERE are few indignities associated with city living more consistently aggravating than the laundromat experience. Dragging your soiled linens to the laundromat is sort of like adult acne: Something you were promised you wouldn’t have to deal with once you graduated school and grew up a little, but which persists in afflicting you well into your middle age. The salt in the wounds in the New York City area, of course, is that we’re all paying ridiculous amounts of money for our tiny, cramped dwellings, and still must carry our weighty sacks of laundry to the coin-op laundry. I have, in the past, attempted to register my protest of such conditions by refusing to do laundry at all, but this proved unpopular with my coworkers, friends, and wife, and I was forced to relent.

If laundromats were glorious, sunny places you could enjoy going to, it wouldn’t be so bad, but let’s face it, laundromats—at least the ones around me—are sort of hygiene gulags, tiny, drab, and crowded. Also, often damp. Every laundromat I’ve ever been in has been uniformly depressing: Grey and featureless, with leaking machines, crowds of angry people, and sad, minimalist vending machines. When you arrive, sweaty and wearing your emergency underwear (sometimes, wearing only your emergency underwear, if it’s a real emergency), the scene that greets you is not exactly inspiring. Neither are the people you rub elbows with while trying to scrub the shame out of your clothing.

Societal breakdown is never far away in cities; too many people plus not enough space equals simmering tempers and revenge fantasies. In the laundromats you have an ill-advised further concentration, crowding people into a small, resource-starved space—it isn’t long before a Lord of the Flies scenario erupts over the possession and use of the washers and dryers. Under such stresses, the true nature of people is revealed. Some writers would hesitate to boldly categorize the entire human race into a handful of generalizations, but not me: There are five types of people you meet in the laundromat. Not six, not four, but five:

The Brood Leader: Invariably there will be people who, for one reason or another, must bring their entire family with them to the laundromat. Nothing wrong with this, of course, and many people have no other choice—the laundry’s got to be done, and the kids can’t be allowed to burn the house down while you’re out doing it. Aside from the cloud of children swarming around them, you can identify these poor souls by the flat look in their eyes that hints that a lost child or two wouldn’t bother them too much.

Single Guy:We all know this guy. Heck, I was this guy. Charmingly clueless, he arrives with laundry in a plastic garbage bag, recklessly purchases soap and bleach from the ancient vending machine in the corner, mixes whites and colors, and overstuffs the washer so it explodes into suds and water that covers the floor in a pinkish, slippery film. Inexplicably, he never returns to claim his clothing.

The Relativity Theorist: The worst part of spending time in a laundromat is spending time there, of course, and this brainy customer isn’t afraid to bend the laws of physics to their will in a bid to reduce their sentence. Noting that lots of laundry crammed into one or two dryers will take a few quarter-driven cycles to completely dry, they spread their laundry out amongst as many dryers as possible—the ultimate goal being one article of clothing per dryer—in hopes of getting out of there after a single twenty-minute cycle. And more power to them.

Angry Angry Territorialist: Ever walked into a laundromat and found every washer or dryer occupied—a large number of which have stopped? After waiting a polite period of time, you start investigating, seeking to claim one of these units for your own use. The exact length of that “polite period of time” is a subjective matter, of course, but no matter how long you wait, at some point you will place your hands on the washer or dryer containing the clothing of The Territorialist, who will appear as if out of thin air and demand to know what you think you’re doing. No matter how long they’ve let their laundry languish, it is their firm belief that while their laundry resides inside a washer or dryer, they in some sense own that washer or dryer, and heaven help you if you trespass on their property.

The Quiet Professional: Once in a great while it is the honor of every laundromat refugee to witness an awe-inspiring display of laundry-management that puts the rest of us to shame. Someone will come in and so competently manage the washers and dryers that they’re preparing to exit from the laundromat while you’re still trying to remember which washer actually contains your clothing. They crisply smooth, fold, and hang their clothes on some sort of semi-professional laundry-transportation device that makes your college-era duffel bag look foolish in comparison, and march out of the building with a confident, no-nonsense stride that says “I am going home to starch and iron, fools!”

It’s enough to make you contemplate slinking home and doing your wash in the kitchen sink. Which I would not recommend, by the way, unless you really are down to your emergency underwear and nothing else.

New Year’s Resolutions

Like everyone else, I greet every arbitrarily-chosen day that indicates a new calendar year with rage, skepticism, and vows to never ever drink something handed to me by a stranger on the street. I also vow to develop my own calendars and system of time, enabling me to claim August 5th as New Year’s Day and January 1st as New Year’s Day (observed).

But as usual: I digress.

Since the wizards and alien astronauts who invented the world decided more or less at random that January 1st is the New Year, it’s a natural time for folks to make resolutions, and I am no different from anyone else. Or, yes, I am extremely different from everyone else due to my flagrant lack of pants and my unusual, Dick-Van-Dyke-in-Mary-Poppins inspired system of hygiene, but in this respect I stand with my brothers and sisters and declare the following things will happen in 2010 (or, in my own personal calendar system, Fred):

1. Develop Super Powers: It’s about damn time. I’m tired of not being able to fly, or shoot bolts of energy from my hands.

failing that:

2. Develop Super Weapons: If I can’t fly or shoot energy bolts, I’ll at least create the world’s largest slingshot and hold cities hostage for trillions of dollars.

That’s it. I figure if I succeed in either one of these resolutions, all sorts of exciting things will be very easily achieved, so why put more effort into it than necessary?

Haircuts and Me

And now, for no good reason at all, an article scheduled to appear in The Inner Swine Volume 15, Issue 3/4 (Winter 2009):

HITMEN WEARING MUZZLES

HESITATE YOU DIE

Haircuts and Me


Darlin’ don’t you go and cut your hair
Do you think it’s gonna make him change?
“I’m just a boy with a new haircut”
And that’s a pretty nice haircut
Charge in like a puzzle
Hitmen wearing muzzles
Hesitate you die
Look around, around
The second drummer drowned
His telephone is found[1]

–Possible lyrics, “Cut Your Hair”, Pavement

PIGS, let’s talk haircuts.

Why? Well, I could come up with some justification, I suppose. I could link haircuts with marriage, or I could come up with some theory about how haircuts reflect the world we live in. I could do that. Or I could say that I needed to fill a few pages in this zine and I just got a haircut and thought I could milk the subject for a while. Which are you more likely to believe? Don’t answer. I know what a bunch of bastards like you will say. You don’t deserve better. That’s why you get articles about my haircuts.

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This is what you’re missing on Twitter

A recent conversation between me and Bill Cameron:

jeffreysomers: http://presentmagazine.com/ – there’s also a review of The Eternal Prison for those of you who remain unconvinced.

bcmystery: @jeffreysomers Wait. Are you saying I didn’t have to read the actual book? I could have just read a review somewhere?

jeffreysomers: @bcmystery No, because the book had all those hidden messages and dollar bills hidden inside the binding.

bcmystery: @jeffreysomers That’s a good point. I forgot about the dollar bills, probably because of all the alcohol I bought with them.

bcmystery: @jeffreysomers Probably didn’t help that I bought whatever solvent they were selling as booze in that one bar in future Venice.

jeffreysomers: @bcmystery My work here is done.

bcmystery: @jeffreysomers Why lookie there! I missed one!

jeffreysomers: @bcmystery There should have been $50 in singles in every copy. No one can explain how we make money that way, but apparently we do.

jeffreysomers: @bcmystery And on a related note. . .can I borrow a dollar? They made me use my own money for that.

Random Monday Post

Herewith some random photos of bookshelves in my house. Why? Why not. These are just a few. There are many, many more. And people wonder why I’m lukewarm about eBooks.

More after the break.

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Random Tuesday Thought

Since my cats have very short memories and no sense of time, I believe that about five minutes after The Duchess and I leave the house they start to think the Apocalypse has occurred. I figure five minutes after we step out one of them rises up as a prophet of doom, telling how the Shaved Can Monkeys have abandoned us. About ten minutes in, there’s widescale wrestling and hissing and several cats take up positions by the dwindling food bowls, ready to pounce on intruders. Half an hour in, it’s Kitten Thunderdome.

I figure this solely from the reactions when I return to the house: First there is a sort of frozen awe, as if they can’t believe it – I am risen! Then there is what can only be described as joy, followed by a determined guidance to the food bowls so that I may be aware of the dire conditions they have survived fro thirty minutes. Then I feed them, and there is a feast, just like in most religions.

Carry on.

Pop Culture

Friends, I’ve spent far too much time this week a) reading TvTropes.org and b) watching the MTV VMAs. As Tv Tropes put me in the frame of mind to overanalyze everything, what struck me about the VMAs was how drastically the pop culture world has shifted in my lifetime, and, hell, within the last few years. I mean, most of the people who attended the 1999 VMAs weren’t at this year’s, weren’t even mentioned, and are possibly entirely unknown to kids starting High School this year. I mean, here’s a short list of performers/presenters:

Kid Rock, Aerosmith, Run-DMC, Lauryn Hill, Backstreet Boys, Ricky Martin, Nine Inch Nails, TLC, Fatboy Slim, Amil & Jay-Z, *NSYNC, Britney Spears, Eminem, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Korn, Garbage, Marilyn Manson, Lil’ Kim

Now, some of those folks still have hot careers, some are dead, and some are still plodding along, but very few of them are still part of the bubbling pop culture conversation. It’s amazing, really, to think what a difference 10 years makes.

So I was going to write a post about how pop culture references affect and date writing, but then I realized I wrote that eassay five thousand years ago in my zine The Inner Swine. So I’ll just reprint it here, slightly revised (very slightly):

How Many Simpsons References Can I String Together in One Essay, Anyway?

Pop Culture in Fiction

by Jeff Somers

FANS, I don’t claim to know much of anything at all. I know a few things: I know that Warren Spahn is the winningnest lefthanded pitcher in Major League Baseball history. I know that Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle states that one cannot simultaneously know both the position and the momentum of a given object to arbitrary precision. I know that irony is a form of speech in which the real meaning is concealed or contradicted by the words used. I know how to tie a Square Knot. I can write a Hello World program in BASIC. I know what a Fnord is. See, I know a few things, but nothing, really, of any importance, and nothing, really, that would convince you that I am qualified in any way to write intelligently about Serious Writing Topics. The fact that I’ve published a few literary gems doesn’t mean much, if you consider some of the crap that gets published these days—not just published, but the crap that wins awards. I don’t have any advanced degrees and I’ve rarely won an argument, usually descending to physical threats after about five minutes of stuttering impotence; I haven’t published any scholarly papers on the subject of writing and I’m not making millions through my art. So, there’s really no reason to pay any attention to me, is there? On this subject, I mean. If you need an essay on why a six-pack is good breakfast fare, I’m your man.

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