“What are you going to say now James? That you’ve never walked a step in your life?”
That is correct.
But I get the appeal.
And I’m not talking about “hiking” or “speed walking”. That’s some white people bullshit.
I’m talking about walking in a straight line on a flat plane. It’s great: putting one foot in front of the other, just wondering aimlessly because you’ve got nowhere to go because you’re unemployed and your kids won’t talk to you.
Nothing beats it.
Except for black tar heroin.
I ain’t gonna lie.
I did exactly what I wanted to do for nine straight years: drink in excess.
So it’s hard for me to say that I regret nearly a decade of my life. There were some great fucking times.
But were there regrets? Situations I could’ve handled better? People I could’ve been nicer to?
Oh yeah! You bet!
The truth is, where I came from, I overstayed my welcome. A good friend told me, for my own well-being, that he better not see my face in these bars ever again.
He meant it.
I never returned. Never spoke with him again.
Some things are meant to be forgotten.
But I can’t help but think: do all my old friends hate me? Do they think about me as much as I think about them?
I suppose that we all separated for the better. It just nags me that there are those I spent years with, whose lives instantly got better once when I left.
Of course my life got better too when I left them.
Maybe I’m just overstating my self importance.
Maybe it’s hard for me to accept that time is gaining on me.
Honestly, I barely remember the Matrix. It was forgettable and bland, much like Keanu Reeves.
I’ve never seen the sequels and I never will.
Unfortunately it has left an indelible mark on our social consciousness, so I can’t but be reminded of it every time I look at the internet.
The philosophy of the Matrix has always kind of annoyed me. I don’t know if that’s the fault of the film, or by the malcontents that roam the web.
I’m vaguely familiar with Jean Baudrillard. I guess much of the film’s philosophy is influenced by his work, specifically Simulacra and Simulation. Never read it. But a quick Google search would suggest that there’s some overlap with my own personal philosophy which I discussed in “the joker sucks” series.
Since I never read Baudrillard (and probably never will) I can’t provide a valuable critique, but I’d venture to say that I’d break from his central thesis: that reality is somehow made “less real” by excessive use of “symbols”,“consumerism”, or “late stage capitalism”. (Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong on that thesis)
Reality IS distorted by human perception, and human perception is, to a degree, culturally constructed. But reality is, by definition really, real…regardless of how our perceptions change.
So, in reality, “the Matrix” in the Matrix is actually Reality, and the “desert of the real” (with all the mythology and sinister forces at play) is actually the Fantasy.
None of this matters to the quality of the film AS A FILM, but when its philosophy is utilized as genuine cultural critique by internet malcontents, they completely miss the irony.
The truth of the matter is that I don’t know what the Internet is. Is it real? A pointless fantasy projected onto real physical materiality? The “Real” Matrix that we all must escape from?
I guess it’s just mental masturbation for me.
Anyways, shit’s boring. Lost my train of thought. Basically I’m saying the same shit in “the joker sucks” but I’m applying it to the Matrix because the two are overused memes from overrated films.
Also, recognize fantasy when you see it.
Again, sorry for my tiny dick
As we fall further down the technological abyss, bombarded by competing information and ideas, we struggle to make sense of anything.
With an endless stream of movies, television, videos, and literature, we perceive the world through a dramatic prism, unable to grasp that the universe is impartial to our reasoning.
When confronted with this cognitive dissonance, we double down. And the opportunists in the media are all too happy to entertain our delusions.
In a sense, we are living in the “matrix.”
But perhaps this has always been true, even prior to the Internet. Maybe to live in a cultivated society means to live in a “matrix”, and no one wants to admit this.
Because of this, there rises either futile sentiments of cultural superiority, or need to “break free” from the restraints of society. But they’re both fantasies…fantasies that fuel our collective imagination.
Philosophers and theorists have failed to understand this: “the dramatic progression” that underpins our understanding. This is how nationalists can assert dominance, or how Christians and Marxists share an almost identical eschatological worldview despite being seemingly opposed. We view the world through a dramatic lens, and there are bad actors out there that try to entertain it.
All of this lies in our subconscious, and we may not be able to escape it. Being a part of this human collective is what makes us…human. So maybe the real political objective is not more theory, but to take from Sigmund Freud: we need to “sublimate well”.
Some might argue that’s Machiavellian, or utopian, or Orwellian, or naive, or overly optimistic, over pessimistic, liberal, conservative, or whatever.
With the Kantian blockage…or the inability to perceive the universe in its total, final form…it becomes difficult to understand that multiple truths can simultaneously exist.
Or maybe none of it is true.
It doesn’t matter. Stay pissed off if you choose. The universe goes on.
Furthermore, I’m not some postmodern lunatic claiming that real truth doesn’t exist and therefore it’s pointless to speculate on the nature of it.
What I AM saying is that Immanuel Kant was RIGHT. And philosophers from his day onward have been pissed off because of it.
Kant claimed we can’t know things “in themselves”. Meaning we can’t perceive objects and nature in their true form. We can only perceive “phenomena”, or nature though the prism of the human mind. In other words, the human mind is VERY active in shaping our reality.
No one likes this.
And they don’t like it because they know it’s true.
To perceive objects and nature without the human mind would mean to transcend the human mind. OR, ceasing to become human altogether.
As it currently stands, that’s impossible and we run into many metaphysical holes when we try to speculate on that.
Now, that isn’t to say we are “cut off” from external reality. But we are hobbled by our own physical brains. The universe is seemingly infinite, but our brains are finite.
We are like a small hole in the bottom of a beach, where only one grain of sand can pass through at any one moment.
Lame example, I know. But that’s how it feels.
But my larger point is how the Internet affects all of this. Is our logical faculties, rooted in a material brain, designed to handle this shock load?
In our evolutionary development, we developed our facilities to handle immediate needs. Tools and complex communication emerged from this, leading to advanced society and advanced technologies that have seemingly advanced passed our understanding.
I often like to think that art is an unintended byproduct of this development. Literature, drama, paintings, etc. got spat out and reabsorbed back into the machinery. It became an integral part of our language.
Along came the internet and telecommunications where we are bombarded by intellectual work. Now we can’t help but see the archetypal dramatic progression written in the fabric of the universe.
In other words, the internet permits us to live in our own fantasy world….a fantasy that objectively doesn’t exist….it’s a prism on top of a prism.
Are we made to sit behind a computer?
And is it worth tearing the world down because of Jon Gruden’s emails?
These are the questions worth asking.
Ok, BYE ✋
Death sucks.
But so does life.
While I was crying at a 7-eleven at 1:30 in the morning, I had a though: “could my life get any worse?”
But it’s never really been good.
Sure it’s had its moments. Doing mescaline at a Pistons game was pretty cool.
But something feels lost. And I can’t get it back.
I stepped away from the blog for a few weeks to regroup. I only got more lost.
So now I’m back. For now.
Probably always will be, now that I think about it.
So as long as my heart’s still beating and the drugs keep my brain functioning long enough to construct sentences, I’ll be posting.
That’s all
“Bob’s dead,” Pablo told me over the phone. “He was garroted in his garage. Cut his head clean off. Yakuza is suspected.”
“Holy shit!”
“Horrible ordeal. Anyways, a new producer has been assigned, Kathleen Kennedy. Not THAT Kathleen Kennedy. She wants to meet with you ASAP.”
So Pablo and me returned to Burbank to meet with this new hotshot producer. When we arrived, the guard stared blankly at us and said, “Elevator’s broken. You’ll have to climb up the old fireman’s pole.”
So we climbed up to the fourth floor where Mrs. Kennedy was waiting on us.
“Call me Kat,” she said. “Can I offer you a water or soda?”
“No thanks,” I replied. “I’ll take a scotch. Just started drinking again.”
She handed me the drink and sat down behind her desk.
“Let’s get down to business gentlemen,” Kat said. “Bob was a visionary. He knew what he wanted and went after it. I intend on carrying on that vision.”
Pablo and I nodded.
“The studio supports this project and will give us the resources necessary to see it through,” she continued. “That being said, we have some notes about your second draft.”
“What kind of notes?” I asked.
“The studio feels that we need to establish a plot, characters with motivation, sensible dialogue, and cut back on the violent gay sex,” she replied.
“So just make it regular gay sex then?”
“We’ll revisit that question when we see the third draft,” Kat said. “In the meantime, I want to meet one on one with you.”
Pablo looked over at me then exited the room. Kat poured a scotch for herself.
“So what took you so long?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a middle aged man. Divorcée. Never held a job for longer than 2 years. You’re balding, overweight, and heavy drinker. You’re probably a diabetic and won’t live to see 70. Now you’re in Hollywood. So why now?”
“I just put one foot in front of the other ma’am. Better late than never.”
“This is a tough business,” she said. “Everything’s changing and we need fresh minds to keep us one step ahead. And to me, you’re a dinosaur. So listen to me and listen good: stick with me and I’ll take you to heights you never thought possible. And if you stray one bit, you’ll be just another washout that litters this town.”
I just shrugged.
“All I want is booze money.”
They say that rewriting is the actual art of writing.
Thank god I’m not a real writer.
Writing is homework. I’ve never liked homework. I enjoy the immediacy of art, the spontaneity. Unfortunately writing is the only medium I can do.
Let me be real for a sec: I’m suffering from burnout. Not just from this blog, but from things in general.
Life’s too short. We can’t spend our entire lives looking at a screen. But we’re headed in that direction.
Rarely do we stop and think how amazing it is that we can experience anything. Consciousness is an extraordinary phenomenon.
I watch my son experience the world for the first time. I’m envious. It’s beautiful to watch. He appreciates life far more than I do.
Children understand something that we don’t. They aren’t burdened with the baggage of cynicism and jadedness that life hands us. They see the world for the miracle that it is.
It sounds naive, but we need to see the world as a child does: it’s beautiful, it’s sublime. Words are merely an approximation of what can be described.
Why waste this brief time being a cog?
Why waste it on hate and loathing?
This is just pointless meandering on my part. I’m just a day dreamer. Not a writer. Not anybody important.
I just need a break.
Maybe I’ll be back tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll never come back here. 🤷♂️
But thank you for reading. 🙏
I’m always tired.
So, so tired.
I was playing skee ball at Chuck E Cheese when Ed started hootin and hollerin.
“Don’t make me drop your ass kid! I’m packing my 9mm,” he said. Ed was getting the tables ran on him by a 2nd grader.
“Pipe down Ed,” I said.
“This is bullshit!”
I went back to minding my own business when a father confronted Ed.
“I will shove this skee ball right up your ass if you talk to me like that again!” Ed said to the man.
“Say, let’s settle down and have another beer Ed,” I said.
So we went back to our table, enjoyed some pizza, and watched the animatronics. Then Ed pulled out a pipe.
“Wanna do some crack?”
I reluctantly agreed, but it turned me into a beast at air hockey.
“Aren’t you guys too old to be at a Chuck E Cheese?” some mom asked us.
“Shut the fuck up bitch!” Ed replied as he threw the hockey pusher at her face.
The manager told us to leave.
“The problem with today’s kids is that no one beats the shit out of them anymore!” Ed yelled at the top of his lungs.
He then went on stage and pissed all over Munch’s Make Believe Band.
“Fuck this place!” Ed said. “We’re going to Dave & Busters!”
While sitting around the fire, Dale was free style rapping like a shitty 90s PSA.
Then the first explosions went off. A booby trap was tripped. Dale and I threw on our bandoliers, our machetes, and our AKs.
I tossed an AR-15 over to Nicky. “When in doubt, just spray bullets indiscriminately across that tree line,” I told him. “If they catch you, go ahead and use the weapon on yourself.”
Both Dale and I penetrated deep into the woods, deep into the cold of night. Another explosive went off. Someone, somewhere was close.
“Drop your weapons,” we heard.
We dropped them.
We obviously made shitty commandos.
Dale and I were surrounded by men in black uniforms and state of the art technology. They patted us down and escorted us through the dense woods to a large, portable, tank-like structure that resembled something out of Avatar.
How this structure moved undetected through Southern California is a mystery.
We were brought up to the bridge of this mega tank, and just like when Dale and I faced Honda, we were placed on our knees and presented with a series of theatrics that culminated in a villain presenting himself.
“Cut the bullshit, Randy,” I said. “We know it’s you.”
“Damn,” he replied. “But this tank is pretty cool, huh?”
“What are you and the dumb syndicate up to now?” I asked. “Poison the world’s food supply? Creating a race of super humans for world domination?”
“How did you know?” Randy replied.
“Just leave me out of it,” I said.
Then the black shirts brought in Nicky and placed him in front of Randy.
“We found this asshole with a rifle in his mouth. He didn’t even put up a fight,” one of the soldiers said.
“Damn it dad!” I said. “You were supposed to at least get off ONE shot before you offed yourself!”
“Sorry son,” Nicky replied. “I’m just not very good in firefights.”
Randy spoke up.
“Son? Dad? What’s this about?” he asked.
“Nicky’s my dad,” I replied. “I may die today, but at least I’ll die knowing who my family is.”
“Nicky’s not your dad,” Randy said. “I am your dad.”
“Bullshit,” I replied.
“It’s true! I thought I told you. Guess I forgot 🤷♂️. Anyhow, your mom and me were partners in another syndicate before we joined TOILET (Terrorism Or the International League that Engages in Terrorism). Unfortunately it was the 80s, so we were coked up and fucked, then you were born. So she left the syndicate.
Years later, the syndicate wanted to cover up its tracks, so I deployed my other son, Nicky, to kill you and your mother. But then the FBI shot the fuck out that strip club and Nicky got amnesia. After realizing that you were just some loser, the syndicate decided it wasn’t worth spending resources to kill you.
So Nicky, I’m also your father.”
I felt the world disappear beneath my feet. My heart sunk. I knew it was true.
“So what do we do now?” I asked. “I know the truth.”
“Excellent question,” Randy said.
Out of the shadows appeared Anthrax in full battle rattle. “I say we finish the job,” she said.
“Great idea!” Randy said.
“Traitor,” I said to Anthrax.
The soldiers grabbed Dale and placed him up against the wall. Randy took out his flame thrower and began taunting us.
“This has been quite a reunion,” Randy said. “You thought that Anthrax was your friend. You thought that you could stop me. But your plans just went up in flames.”
Randy then unleashed the full wrath of hell onto Dale. There were no screams. Dale just danced around as a gigantic flame before falling to the ground. What was once a man was now just charred, smoldering, remains.
“Was that supposed to scare me? Because I just shit my pants,” I said.
Just then the structure began to violently shake. Then there was a massive explosion and soldiers began to man their stations.
Honda launched her attack.
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Internet Ruined Everything 