Thursday, June 13, 2013

Storm’s coming, and I don’t mean this in the metaphorical, Lord of the Rings sense. There’s an actual thunderstorm headed this way. Someone showed it to me on an “app,” by way of a smart telephone: an animated map of the immediate area, just like the kind you see on the Weather Channel, with a fuckload of red headed this way. That’s why I’ve got Notepad opened, cursor blinking on this very sentence at an early hour, in hopes of knocking out a few paragraphs before any power outages strike.

I’d like to talk about another storm, too, one which is metaphorical. It’s more of a shitstorm, really, and were it not for the wisdom of the crowd, I would’ve stepped face-first into it. It has to do with the Internet meat I mentioned recently, an alleged Kobe beef jerky that captivated both imagination and stomach. Turns out it was a scam, outed at the 11th hour, and suspended by Kickstarter with minutes left on the clock. I wish I could tell you I was one of the noble few who uncovered the sordid affair, driven by principle, armed with skepticism. In truth, I was blindsided, utterly and completely, and I was excitedly waiting for the project to close so my card could be charged.

Part of the problem is the other efforts I’ve backed to date have been legitimate, and this jerky benefitted from a halo effect. But the larger issue is because I wanted to believe in it, even in the face of common sense. How can you make jerky out of heavily marbled meat? Wouldn’t it rot pretty easily? Legitimate concerns, perhaps, but easily brushed aside by the story told. You fill in the gaps. Hell, even when I read the page now, I’d still pay $5 to $10 for the narrative alone, such is its masterful weaving of testimonials, fake taste tests, news coverage, pictures, and promise. I’ve been rescued from paying a dime, though, and the project remains on my profile, seared into my history–a badge of shame, a memento of crowdfunding innocence lost.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, June 13.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

“Privacy” and “Verizon” seem to be the buzzwords of the day, along with “Facebook,” “Gmail,” and Lord knows what else. Ironically enough, my new phone arrived on my doorstep today, sleek and shiny, Verizon logo prominently stamped on its cover, a branding play now turned scarlet letter. I know how I should feel–shock and indignation at my eroding liberties–but instead I am seized by a dull indifference.

Part of the reason for my lack of surprise is because Gene Hackman and Will Smith already warned me about this in Enemy of the State, a cautionary tale on how overreaching the NSA can be. Hell, I had firsthand experience when, fresh out of college, I resubmitted my resume to the NSA with a slightly altered filename, only to have the site immediately tell me it knew I had applied already. It knew! Obviously. My sole source of comfort? The knowledge that I don’t text, Facebook, or really even call all that often.

But having less of a footprint to infringe upon is a poor excuse for complacency and an awfully low standard for a republic. It’s a relief, I suppose, that we live in a place where open dialogue can exist about a breach of trust like this. Even as I say this, though, I’m wrapping myself in just a little bit more cynicism, the sardonic blanket that never disappoints. And now, I must return to moving my contacts to my new phone, which happens to be another flip phone. Normally this process would be seamless, but my old unit was so outdated that it renderered the transfer software inoperable. So I’ll have to re-enter every contact manually, with each letter tapped out carefully. It’s like a telegraph, in a way. I am a modern-day Marconi whose messages are comprehensively recorded to guard against the jihadi menace.