A flash of panic seized me after I read a piece today about the death of blogging, and how the rise of social networking has rendered traditional online word outlets obsolete. For the briefest moment I considered surfing over to Facebook–you know, just to check it out and not, like, inhale or anything–when it dawned on me the premise of the Wired article was the insatiable desire for more readers, more recognition.
I subscribe to the other, much smaller camp, where I usually don’t want to know you’re here. Obviously there’s a public element to this site, since I’m not furtively scribbling these nouns into a diary with a heart-shaped lock, but there’s a reason for why I cringe whenever “Secondhand Rants” is mentioned aloud in polite company. And if you lop off the “social” in social networking, all you’re left with is LinkedIn, which basically describes the extent of my participation in this phenomenon.
Even then, the foibles of the Internet manifest themselves, with complete strangers who share little more than a common adjective in the alma mater wanting to connect. It’s unprecedented, really. Imagine you’re out at sea, boat bobbing calmly with the waves. Suddenly, you spy one of your high school BFFs within striking distance, so you harpoon him. Just as you connect, a spearhead plunges through your own chest as the chick you met at that one internship friends you, but you think little of it as you pull her aboard, because dammit you’re trying to outwit your work buddy in Ultra Scrabble. Meanwhile, your mother-in-law whispers in your ear a play-by-play of what she ate or didn’t eat today. Time-stamped, of course. And then someone–earmuffs, please!–superpokes you.
That’s the Information Superhighway for you. It amplifies when it shouldn’t, conceals when it should do otherwise, and tracks you from tongue to toilet through a Big Brother built on a swirling expanse of friends, family, and vagabonds. I’m a traditionalist, in case you couldn’t tell, a connoisseur of how things were who’d probably much prefer only being able to choose between the newspaper or the weekly broadcast of Flash Gordon, rather than tweet. Alright, firing up my oven now–and not because I’m channeling Sylvia Plath, but because I want to pretend it’s a hearth.
I used to think Blink-182 was the name of a band prone to ridiculously titled albums, but after catching some footage from last night’s debate, it may very well be an accurate total of sorts. Picture it: you’re sitting at an economic roundtable overseas, Sarkozy on one side, Dmitry on the other, and damn it if it isn’t a challenge to deliver your points while in the throes of mild epilepsy. And who knows? Maybe excessive blinking is an affront to Russian sensibilities–is insultink to mother country, you might say.
If Pepperidge Farm kicks it during term, it may be only a matter of months before minivans are heavily subsidized, with a special model adorned with flags and flames available at Walmart for even deeper discount. Really, I’d feel a lot safer if Tina Fey were somehow on the ticket instead. Clearly I’ve made my decision for this election, but even now I feel that old-time apathy creeping up, eclipsing whatever blip of excitement I felt a few months ago.
Media and marketing overload is the primary source of burnout. When I checked the “Independent” box on the card, I didn’t know it was an invitation to flood my mailbox with poorly designed postcards from all parties, and even here the GOP effort manages to be slightly tasteless. It’s like someone suddenly realized that Photoshop wasn’t an actual store so much as an imaginary place hidden in the world of computers, but by then it was too late and the collateral had already left headquarters. Meanwhile, the ads from the Dems both online and off are exhorting me to vote early, as if the wheels on the car may fall off at any moment. I know I’m out of gas myself, and I’m just campaigning to give enough of a shit to make it to the polls.
There have been some pretty spectacular conceits in the medical dramas I’ve seen, and in one Grey’s Anatomy episode–a series I stopped consuming long ago because I don’t own the skirt necessary to watch it–a subway pole was extracted from two skewered passengers who couldn’t shut up. Another episode featured a woman who was chronically stuck at a 270° angle, but by then I had done a 180° myself and vetoed the programming.
Even resurrection was possible, with main characters handily saved from clinical death. Whether it’s possible to resurrect a social life, however, is a spectacle I’ve yet to witness. We’re not talking about television anymore, obviously, but reality. My reality. Now, I know alcohol would be the equivalent of pushing an epi or jamming a shot of adrenaline straight into the proverbial heart, just as I know my perennial dislike of the stuff persists to this day. Sure, mojitos are tolerable. So what, though? Is a one-drink repertoire appreciably different than not drinking at all? Perhaps I should try emphasizing different syllables while ordering my one drink, maybe go with a hard “J” and ask for a “mojeeto,” in hopes of discovering a delicious new variant.
Until then, the list of social outlets is truncated, populated with things like church, the alumni association, volunteering, or some kind of club. Were I more optimistic, I’d dig into every such opportunity with gusto, my mind primed for new experiences and associations. Of course, if I ever got to such a point I’d probably possess light telekinetic skills as well, along with minor feats of alchemy and the ability to fly for short distances.
But in my current state, nothing really seems appetizing on that short list of venues, you know? I think “church + social,” and I instantly picture congregating in some stranger’s living room for awkward Bible study. “Alumni association + social” brings to mind a football game or two and that same living room, albeit with reminiscing instead of prayer. “Volunteering + social”? A brief flash illuminates a worn kitchen and a musty community center. “Club” evokes an image of hiking, which I need to promptly banish. And the more I think about these things, the urge to power nap simply overtakes.