“I look into the finance box, to check my status.”–Phish, “Golgi Apparatus”
Today smells like boyhood swimming lessons, though the faint prick of chlorine in the air in Silicon Valley is associated with the nearby treatment of excrement. I supposed the chlorine in the community pool in Coldwater, Ohio, was there for the same purpose.
My general nostalgia coaxes me into gentle memories of my college days, when I was just one of many mangy-bearded young men full of confusion and hope. Those of us who were both barefoot and enlightened often found solace in the riff-laden melodies of Phish. We were conformists in our shared nonconformity, all searching for something weird and mildly dangerous but not wildly edgy.
I now again am one of many: One of many bloggers (despite my ardent assertions that I’m a fledgling media magnate). Sure, I enjoy myself, to misquote Phish, and the more I’ve done so publicly over the past 18 months, the more I’m challenged to entertain others with my self-absorbed diatribes. These days, due to encroachment from work and life, I write less. I cull from fewer non-me voices for the same reasons. I sink deeper into frivolous melancholia that is Twitter. Time disappears.
I went to business school, so I always think in important meaningless terms like “competitive moat” and “sustainable competitive advantage” and “secret sauce”. That’s pretty depressing.
Some people actually like the highbrow lowbrow humor of The Smatter (a whopping 181 of them, according to Facebook). But I ain’t the only smart or funny guy out there, and often I’m neither.
Without the occasional Freshly Pressed promotion, The Smatter would be a speck of dust in the antimatter of the blogosphere, whereas now it’s at least a grain of coarse waterlogged sand.
Those who don’t like it, I assume, find my oeuvre self-aggrandizing and self-serving, as if it were some random (gasp) blog. I can’t corner the market on that. See Michael Arrington, Kara Swisher, Barack Obama, Ariana Huffington, Ronald McDonald, etc. Yes, that clown has a blog.
So I’m not the fastest or funniest pseudo-literary gun in the west. But I am an ardent supporter of the ice cream lobby and a regular user of Stimudent toothpicks. Call me! I need lucrative endorsement deals.
So then, what’s the point? Isn’t one better off ignoring the noise and reading great Russian literature? Dostoevsky certainly, even from the grave, has a better grasp on the wretched human condition than Matt Drudge’s poorly formatted links.
Perhaps it’s time for some unemployed malcontent to pull together the Fake Fydor blog. We need more obstreperous complaining on the internet, and more use of the word obstreperous.
Until then, I’ll work on my big-bang, white-light, oh-that-was-deep ending lines.