| Secondhand Rants | Rock on, Sisyphus |
There was a conversation planned–experts claim it would’ve surpassed one paragraph in length–but we’re going to have to conclude yesterday’s topic tomorrow. It’s imperative, however, you study this chart in the mean time, lest you become the dumb kid in the discussion group.
The Diogenes Club. Heard of it? It’s one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s constructs, a club whose premise lies drenched in unsociability. Members may lounge and read in complete peace, unhampered by annoyances including conversation and acknowledgment of other people, and talk can only happen in the Stranger’s Room.
Originally I had in mind a vibrant community where smart discussion and witty exchanges, both of which would flow by the gallon, could flourish in parallel with readership. All this would percolate in a forum filled damn near to bursting, seams strained to the limits, those limits willfully ignored. The merriment would continue, unbroken, until such a time as the Intertron would collapse upon itself.
Fat chance. The more I read, the more I’m convinced we’re going Diogenes for months to come. There’s a public aspect built in the online world and, exciting thought it may seem, it’s also a tacit invitation for the roiling masses of stupidity to darken the living room carpet. “Sounds elitist,” you might say, to which I’d respond by patting you on the head and sending you back to your assigned corner. We’ll explore this in greater detail tomorrow.
Dead tired. AD:TECH? If I ever want to commune with an event that requires the stamina of three formals and a prom, well, hello and take a seat. Today was a sensory overload, and I’m at the point where coherent and sustained sentences disappear momentarily, eclipsed instead by a series of images.
My day began on a train in the Norshore, where a little Norshore girl whispered to her Norshore mother and suspiciously stared at a woman wearing a burka. There was pointing. Repeated pointing, as if the woman would explode in fire and terrorism.
The train stopped an hour later. Long walk. Badge and a lanyard. The dance of business began, slowly and then overwhelmingly, with booth after booth of exhibitors. One woman fainted, ideally from the excitement of direct marketing. I thought she was napping, no joke, and I almost stepped on her in my mad dash for information and trinkets, trinkets of unspeakable allure.
If you’re 40-something, don’t have enough self-awareness, and you’re still doing this, heaven help you. There was a man explaining search optimization to me with a passion bordering on ferocity. It was as if I had pissed on his wife and promptly asked him to sell me a toilet, informative pitch and all. 20 business cards later, I’m back on the train, back in the Norshore, straight to bed, then you, now back to bed.