I have been surprised to come across, not one, but two important news items involving Aliens from outer space recently.
First, reported by Jon Stewart on The Daily Show, a recent Presidential poll found that Barack Obama is leading Mitt Romney by a staggering 65% to 35% when respondents were asked who they trusted more to deal with an invasion by Space Aliens.
Now, you might be tempted to think this was a joke. I certainly did, until I read another story in which an ex-CIA Agent confirmed that the Roswell, New Mexico incident of 1947 was in fact a crashed Alien space craft, and included dead Alien bodies.
This could turn the year's election on its head...but not in the way you might think.
In 2008 the prestigious journal, National Enquirer, reported that Barack Obama had wrapped up important support from space Aliens during his Primary battle against Hilary Clinton.
Why? Why would the space Alien Politicos back Obama? Had Bill Clinton squandered his Alien support while he was President?
And if Obama has the support of extra-terrestrials, can we really trust him to handle the coming invasion?
This is not to suggest that Mitt Romney would be better. I agree with the 65% who do not trust Mitt Romney to respond adequately when staring down Alien photon torpedoes.
So, what are we to make of all this? Are we trapped? Are we doomed to re-elect a President who may already be in cahoots with those who are about to invade us from space? Is our only option a starched technocrat who will probably be anti-space-Alien only until it helps his career to become pro-space-Alien?
These are rhetorical questions, dear readers. I do not have the answers.
The game may already be over.
Does anyone know how Ron Paul feels about space Aliens?
Hm? He IS one!?
Figures...
Dennis Kucinch?
Never mind.
-Peter Wick
July 12, 2012
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
#6 - Violence - June, 2012
I hung out with some relatively new friends last Friday night; drinks at a bar on Venice Beach, California; a healthy dose of happy drunkeness (less by me than by a girl who, for her sake and mine, I will call 'Mary'), a late-night run onto the beach itself...it was a celebration of life... Life...in it's simplest form, fun, wondrous, mysterious, but mostly just fun.
It took my mind off the events of 2 weeks earlier. A little more than a year ago, during the first handful of months of 2011, I was in a Seattle stretch of what was basically a 5-year-long Seattle-Los Angeles split of my time. I became a semi-regular, during those months, at a little cafe and bar a block from where I lived, called CAFE RACER. I call myself a 'semi-regular' because, compared to the real 'regulars,' I was a pretender. There were several good people who almost seemed to live there.
I made a point of showing up when Amy was bartending - and not just because she seemed to erase a drink or 2 from my tab at the end of the night. I would arrive at 7 or 8 in the evening as Len, the Chef, was closing the kitchen. I really just wanted to hang out with Amy, but she was working, so when Len would pull up a bar stool and settle into his post-shift beer, we struck up a comfortable friendship.
Len is a good guy, quit a computer job to go to culinary school. I overheard him once telling Kurt, the owner of Cafe Racer, that he had been looking on Craigslist for Chef positions in Hawaii. Two weeks ago, on Wednesday, May 30th, about 5pm, I received the first of several messages from friends in Seattle. A mentaly ill gunman who had been kicked out of Cafe Racer for being obnoxious and disorderly, came back and shot 5 people.
Len took 2 bullets, luckily missing his spine and vital organs. Bleeding, he called 911. The mentaly ill gunman later took his own life.
Things were confusing that night. No one had all the names of the victimns. I had to ask Amy, via text message, the very unusual question, "Hey, you haven't been shot have you." I sent the message as the horrifying thought crossed my mind, what if I never hear back? Thankfully she replied. She wasn't there when it happened.
This is difficult to write about, but I am doing it because it happened. There is no escape from this fact. I am also writing about it because it only took 3 days for a different shooting in a different city to replace it in the headlines. First there was a mall shooting in Toronto. This week it was 3 dead at Auburn University...and 4 more in Sacramento.
As I write this Len is still in the hospital, but doing well. He is the survivor of the Cafe Racer shooting. 4 others are dead.
So many thoughts cross my mind as I sit writing - don't get too preachy (the mentally ill gunman had a concealed weapons permit), don't get too maudlin (real people deal with real tragedies every day somewhere in this world), don't be too selfish (the two people who I knew the best at Cafe Racer are alive).
In the end I just come away with a renewed sense that guns matter. I have grown tired of going to movies where people are shot for sport (just about every action blockbuster ever made). I am relieved when guns are portrayed with some sense of their real impact (check out the D-Day scene that opens Spielberg's "Saving Private Ryan" again).
In the end I have no real insights, no solutions. I guess it is worthwhile to remember - in the midst of all our planning and ambition and focusing on the future - that right now might be your whole life. Celebrate it. Go for a late night run on a beach somewhere.
And think about Len...wish him a full recovery.
-Peter Wick, June 14, 2012
It took my mind off the events of 2 weeks earlier. A little more than a year ago, during the first handful of months of 2011, I was in a Seattle stretch of what was basically a 5-year-long Seattle-Los Angeles split of my time. I became a semi-regular, during those months, at a little cafe and bar a block from where I lived, called CAFE RACER. I call myself a 'semi-regular' because, compared to the real 'regulars,' I was a pretender. There were several good people who almost seemed to live there.
I made a point of showing up when Amy was bartending - and not just because she seemed to erase a drink or 2 from my tab at the end of the night. I would arrive at 7 or 8 in the evening as Len, the Chef, was closing the kitchen. I really just wanted to hang out with Amy, but she was working, so when Len would pull up a bar stool and settle into his post-shift beer, we struck up a comfortable friendship.
Len is a good guy, quit a computer job to go to culinary school. I overheard him once telling Kurt, the owner of Cafe Racer, that he had been looking on Craigslist for Chef positions in Hawaii. Two weeks ago, on Wednesday, May 30th, about 5pm, I received the first of several messages from friends in Seattle. A mentaly ill gunman who had been kicked out of Cafe Racer for being obnoxious and disorderly, came back and shot 5 people.
Len took 2 bullets, luckily missing his spine and vital organs. Bleeding, he called 911. The mentaly ill gunman later took his own life.
Things were confusing that night. No one had all the names of the victimns. I had to ask Amy, via text message, the very unusual question, "Hey, you haven't been shot have you." I sent the message as the horrifying thought crossed my mind, what if I never hear back? Thankfully she replied. She wasn't there when it happened.
This is difficult to write about, but I am doing it because it happened. There is no escape from this fact. I am also writing about it because it only took 3 days for a different shooting in a different city to replace it in the headlines. First there was a mall shooting in Toronto. This week it was 3 dead at Auburn University...and 4 more in Sacramento.
As I write this Len is still in the hospital, but doing well. He is the survivor of the Cafe Racer shooting. 4 others are dead.
So many thoughts cross my mind as I sit writing - don't get too preachy (the mentally ill gunman had a concealed weapons permit), don't get too maudlin (real people deal with real tragedies every day somewhere in this world), don't be too selfish (the two people who I knew the best at Cafe Racer are alive).
In the end I just come away with a renewed sense that guns matter. I have grown tired of going to movies where people are shot for sport (just about every action blockbuster ever made). I am relieved when guns are portrayed with some sense of their real impact (check out the D-Day scene that opens Spielberg's "Saving Private Ryan" again).
In the end I have no real insights, no solutions. I guess it is worthwhile to remember - in the midst of all our planning and ambition and focusing on the future - that right now might be your whole life. Celebrate it. Go for a late night run on a beach somewhere.
And think about Len...wish him a full recovery.
-Peter Wick, June 14, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
5. The Guy Who Saves String - May, 2012
The guy who saves string...A crazy invention from the mind of Woody Allen, from the short pieces he published years ago.
The guy who saves string shuffles oddly down the street, mumbling to himself, obsessing over string, how to save it, and how he can find more of it.
It is one of those mental images that makes a you laugh the first time you read about it, and nearly every time it pops into your thoughts from then on.
So...when I began unpacking a 15-year-old box from my storage space, and pulled from among the stacks of useless old papers, a single piece of string, I realized I had some self-examining to do.
Technically it's bigger than string. It's either a very long shoe lace, or the kind of lace you tie swim trunks around your waste with. But let's be honest; it's string...and I saved it...in a box...for 15 years.
There are many different reason for saving things:
-Reminders of important events in your life.
-Ideas jotted down that you might someday carry out.
-Things that once influenced or helped shape who you have become.
This is a piece of string, though. The only reason I can come up with that might explain why I saved it, is that I was convinced that sometime in the distant future something might desperately need to be tied up.
That doesn't help me much.
I want to go into denial about this.
There are other things in this box from the 1990's that I can't explain:
-Empty envelopes...
Apparently, on several occasions, I received something in the mail, opened the envelope, took out the contents, and saved the empty envelope.
And it isn't as if I opened it carefully, planning to re-use the empty envelope. No, I tore the damn thing open...then saved it.
-A Tennis magazine, with Yannik Noah on the cover.
At least that is slightly interesting today, since I have been watching his son Joakim play basketball for the Chicago Bulls.
That helps a little.
Sometimes you save something on gut instinct; Maybe, just maybe, this magazine with this tennis player on the cover will resonate in some unique way in the future.
I suppose I was thinking the piece of string would resonate in some unique way someday; "Oh yeah, remember that time when we had the string, and we used it to...to um....tie that....that thing....to the other thing....you know with this piece of string?: "Yeah, that was awesome."
Nope. I have LOTS of self-examining to do.
And don't even get me started on the expired old driver's license of an ex-girlfriend...
Peter Wick
May 14, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
4. Gay Divorce - April, 2012
I have a few friends who have marched in the street over the issue of gay marriage.
When California's Proposition 8 banned gay marriage in the state, one friend in particular - a straight female - joined a crowd of people who shut down Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles.
When she asked why I did not join the march, I said, "I've been married....and divorced. I don't see myself spending a lot of time and energy supporting marriage. Divorce? Maybe."
So, when I read this past week that a lesbian couple, married two years ago in the state of Maryland, were having trouble getting a divorce, I decided it was time to rise up and join the cause.
My position is a simple one: Divorce is a right that no one should be denied. Divorce is one of the great gifts bestowed on us either by a divine creator or, if he doesn't exist, at least by a Divorce Court Judge. It is a gift of importance and great magnitude. No one, rgardless of their sexual orientation, should be denied the right to get the hell out of a dysnfunctional relationship.
Those who say divorce should only be between one man and one woman, have obviously never heard my gay neighbors arguing at 3 in the morning. Technically they are not married, but they sure act like an old married couple.
All of us are created equal. None of us should be denied the right to STAY in a bad relationship if we want to. None should be denied the right to be bored with their partner of 12 years - the inalienable right to go out to dinner out of sheer boredom, to sit numbly over your food brooding over the fact that you've had nothing to say to each other since 2004.
So also should none of us be denied the right to passive-aggressively jab at each other with snarky zingers until the divorce lawyers intervene and try to keep things at least moderately civil.
In short, this lesbian couple must be granted their divorce, and quickly, before expensive plates get broken.
It is the humanitarian thing to do.
Step up to the plate, Maryland.
Grant the divorce.
Do not allow prejudice over sexual orientation to cloud your judgement.
Let these two miserable Ex's walk away from each other, for cryin' out loud!
Peter Wick
April 13, 2012
When California's Proposition 8 banned gay marriage in the state, one friend in particular - a straight female - joined a crowd of people who shut down Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles.
When she asked why I did not join the march, I said, "I've been married....and divorced. I don't see myself spending a lot of time and energy supporting marriage. Divorce? Maybe."
So, when I read this past week that a lesbian couple, married two years ago in the state of Maryland, were having trouble getting a divorce, I decided it was time to rise up and join the cause.
My position is a simple one: Divorce is a right that no one should be denied. Divorce is one of the great gifts bestowed on us either by a divine creator or, if he doesn't exist, at least by a Divorce Court Judge. It is a gift of importance and great magnitude. No one, rgardless of their sexual orientation, should be denied the right to get the hell out of a dysnfunctional relationship.
Those who say divorce should only be between one man and one woman, have obviously never heard my gay neighbors arguing at 3 in the morning. Technically they are not married, but they sure act like an old married couple.
All of us are created equal. None of us should be denied the right to STAY in a bad relationship if we want to. None should be denied the right to be bored with their partner of 12 years - the inalienable right to go out to dinner out of sheer boredom, to sit numbly over your food brooding over the fact that you've had nothing to say to each other since 2004.
So also should none of us be denied the right to passive-aggressively jab at each other with snarky zingers until the divorce lawyers intervene and try to keep things at least moderately civil.
In short, this lesbian couple must be granted their divorce, and quickly, before expensive plates get broken.
It is the humanitarian thing to do.
Step up to the plate, Maryland.
Grant the divorce.
Do not allow prejudice over sexual orientation to cloud your judgement.
Let these two miserable Ex's walk away from each other, for cryin' out loud!
Peter Wick
April 13, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
3. No More Sexy Girls on Motorcycles, Please - March, 2012
There are certain things about a person, about me anyway, that have to be explained over and over. I don't want to keep explaining these things, but they keep coming up.
It happened again recently with the issue of girls, sexiness, and motorcycles.
I SHOULD think motorcycles are cool. I SHOULD love the ethos of individuality, travel, and power, that a motorcycle represents.
I SHOULD think there is nothing sexier than a sexy girl on a motorcycle.
Certain events mark a person's life, though. There is nothing we can do about certain happenings. They stay with us.
I don't remember exactly how old I was, maybe seven or eight.
We lived about 40 miles outside of Seattle. It was the "country" more or less. We were on 2 acres. The neighbors had 5. An entire 10-acre neighboring stretch had maybe 4 houses on it.
My brother Dan, a couple years older than me, was friends with Mark, who lived in one of the houses down a dirt road. Mark was also older, and I tagged along after them, just wishing I could be as cool as they were. That's your perspective on the world when you're the youngest of a group.
Mark owned a mini-bike - a small motorized machine that he would buzz around on. Living with so much open space invited it. The fact that he owned and rode what was bascially a miniature motorcycle at such a young age made him the coolest person in the world, I thought. I thought this until he and Dan goaded me into sitting on the damn thing myself.
Mark had created a jump. It was simple, a tilted peice of plywood, rising from ground-level to a height of maybe 3 feet.
Mark and Dan took turns jumping off it. They would rev up the bike, speed toward the plywood ramp, and fly off the high end into the air
They actually took flight. More surprisingly, though, they always managed to land perfectly.
It looked fun.
Deep down I knew that it was the sort of fun that I should just watch, not participate in. But older brothers and older friends have their own ideas, and they wouldn't take no for an answer.
I protested as forcefully as I could, but I was powerless.
Suddenly there I was, on the bike, throttle in my right hand. I had no idea how to use the brake.
The thing took off, faster than I could control
Steering it at all was a crap-shoot
I was arriving at the plywood ramp at the wrong angle. I hit the bottom of the ramp in a panic.
The front wheel lurched to the left.
I drove - tumbled, really - off the side of the ramp, wheel first, into the grass.
I had no control, and no idea what was happening.
All I remember is grass and wheels and an engine on top of me and a screaming sound, that seemed to be coming from ME.
I scrambled to my feet and ran. I just ran.
I had to get away as far and as fast as I could.
I heard someone yelling. It might have been Mark yelling after me about what I had just done to his bike.
I didn't care. All I cared about was distance. I had to be as far away from that machine as possible.
So...I apologize.
I apologize to an ex-girlfriend, and to what might have been a would-be girlfriend who were sure they would wow me with their sexiness on a motorcycle.
It was probably true...You are sexy on a motorcycle.
I just can't be a part of that. And yes, I agree, I am almost certainly missing out.
-Peter Wick
March, 14, 2012
It happened again recently with the issue of girls, sexiness, and motorcycles.
I SHOULD think motorcycles are cool. I SHOULD love the ethos of individuality, travel, and power, that a motorcycle represents.
I SHOULD think there is nothing sexier than a sexy girl on a motorcycle.
Certain events mark a person's life, though. There is nothing we can do about certain happenings. They stay with us.
I don't remember exactly how old I was, maybe seven or eight.
We lived about 40 miles outside of Seattle. It was the "country" more or less. We were on 2 acres. The neighbors had 5. An entire 10-acre neighboring stretch had maybe 4 houses on it.
My brother Dan, a couple years older than me, was friends with Mark, who lived in one of the houses down a dirt road. Mark was also older, and I tagged along after them, just wishing I could be as cool as they were. That's your perspective on the world when you're the youngest of a group.
Mark owned a mini-bike - a small motorized machine that he would buzz around on. Living with so much open space invited it. The fact that he owned and rode what was bascially a miniature motorcycle at such a young age made him the coolest person in the world, I thought. I thought this until he and Dan goaded me into sitting on the damn thing myself.
Mark had created a jump. It was simple, a tilted peice of plywood, rising from ground-level to a height of maybe 3 feet.
Mark and Dan took turns jumping off it. They would rev up the bike, speed toward the plywood ramp, and fly off the high end into the air
They actually took flight. More surprisingly, though, they always managed to land perfectly.
It looked fun.
Deep down I knew that it was the sort of fun that I should just watch, not participate in. But older brothers and older friends have their own ideas, and they wouldn't take no for an answer.
I protested as forcefully as I could, but I was powerless.
Suddenly there I was, on the bike, throttle in my right hand. I had no idea how to use the brake.
The thing took off, faster than I could control
Steering it at all was a crap-shoot
I was arriving at the plywood ramp at the wrong angle. I hit the bottom of the ramp in a panic.
The front wheel lurched to the left.
I drove - tumbled, really - off the side of the ramp, wheel first, into the grass.
I had no control, and no idea what was happening.
All I remember is grass and wheels and an engine on top of me and a screaming sound, that seemed to be coming from ME.
I scrambled to my feet and ran. I just ran.
I had to get away as far and as fast as I could.
I heard someone yelling. It might have been Mark yelling after me about what I had just done to his bike.
I didn't care. All I cared about was distance. I had to be as far away from that machine as possible.
So...I apologize.
I apologize to an ex-girlfriend, and to what might have been a would-be girlfriend who were sure they would wow me with their sexiness on a motorcycle.
It was probably true...You are sexy on a motorcycle.
I just can't be a part of that. And yes, I agree, I am almost certainly missing out.
-Peter Wick
March, 14, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
2. Cheney Emails Declassified - Feb. 2012
Ten years after the fact, the CIA has declassified documents from the first years of the Bush-Cheney Administration.
While our researchers are still going through the many documents, looking for an actual news item, we came across these emails from the former Vice President, and found them interesting.
March 12, 2001
To All White House Staff: Whoever has been eating my Jolly Ranchers is going to die.
March 14, 2001
To All White House Staff: Listen clowns, you have to stop telling jokes in the hallways about my heart attacks. I am listening to everything!
In case you missed the earlier memo, we are calling them "Heart Attacks" so the public does not get confused. In fact what is happening is that my micro-cell power pack is running low. It makes me twitchy.
March 16, 2001
Attached is a list of staff members I would like to invite on my next hunting trip (Fun! Yeah!?)
[attachment missing from CIA files]
March 17, 2001
In Case of Emergency:
Hi everyone; my inventor - I mean "Doctor" - has informed me that I need to give all key staff members the following instructions, should I suffer a serious "heart attack" in your presence.
Since I do not technically have a "heart" in the strictest sense of the word, please do not panic. Simply follow these instructions, and everything will be fine.
1. At the top of my back, just below the neck, is a small panel. Press the red button, and a door will open on my chest.
2. Inside my chest you will find three plug-in jacks. Use a normal, everyday extension cord. Plug one end into a near-by wall socket, and attach the other end to the red jack in my chest.
Re-charging should take about an hour. Please do not make me do anyinterviews, or talk to the media, until fully charged.
April 7, 2001
To All White House Staff: Very Funny! Ha ha! Tee freakin' Hee!
Did I mention that I am listening to everything!?
So, Bob, David, Sam, Lisa, you are all going hunting with me next week.
Non-negotiabe. And you're going to enjoy it, whether you want to or not.
I'm excited! Getting twitchy just thinking about it.
-Peter Wick
February 14, 2012
While our researchers are still going through the many documents, looking for an actual news item, we came across these emails from the former Vice President, and found them interesting.
March 12, 2001
To All White House Staff: Whoever has been eating my Jolly Ranchers is going to die.
March 14, 2001
To All White House Staff: Listen clowns, you have to stop telling jokes in the hallways about my heart attacks. I am listening to everything!
In case you missed the earlier memo, we are calling them "Heart Attacks" so the public does not get confused. In fact what is happening is that my micro-cell power pack is running low. It makes me twitchy.
March 16, 2001
Attached is a list of staff members I would like to invite on my next hunting trip (Fun! Yeah!?)
[attachment missing from CIA files]
March 17, 2001
In Case of Emergency:
Hi everyone; my inventor - I mean "Doctor" - has informed me that I need to give all key staff members the following instructions, should I suffer a serious "heart attack" in your presence.
Since I do not technically have a "heart" in the strictest sense of the word, please do not panic. Simply follow these instructions, and everything will be fine.
1. At the top of my back, just below the neck, is a small panel. Press the red button, and a door will open on my chest.
2. Inside my chest you will find three plug-in jacks. Use a normal, everyday extension cord. Plug one end into a near-by wall socket, and attach the other end to the red jack in my chest.
Re-charging should take about an hour. Please do not make me do anyinterviews, or talk to the media, until fully charged.
April 7, 2001
To All White House Staff: Very Funny! Ha ha! Tee freakin' Hee!
Did I mention that I am listening to everything!?
So, Bob, David, Sam, Lisa, you are all going hunting with me next week.
Non-negotiabe. And you're going to enjoy it, whether you want to or not.
I'm excited! Getting twitchy just thinking about it.
-Peter Wick
February 14, 2012
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
1. Life After Facebook - January, 2012
For two years in the 1840's Henry David Thoreau lived alone in the woods, on Walden Pond.
He grew his own food and lived simply, rarely seeing his fellow man.
I know how that must have felt.
I dropped off of Facebook a week ago.
When I began telling friends that I would be dropping from Facebook, their reactions were mostly stunned silence, or, in a few cases, caring attempts at intervention.
I should clarify one thing; when I say 'friends,' I mean Facebook 'friends.' I still have lots of REAL friends.
I know ten people who have never signed up on Facebook, half of them family members, half close friends. They vary in age but more of them are younger than me than older. The youngest is 23.
Surprinsingly these ten people still seem to live rich, satisfying lives, and without ever having been 'tagged.' So I became curious to discover their seceret.
A healthy person who has never smoked crack cocaine might not know what he or she is missing. This person is healthy and well-adjusted, and feels no impulse to destroy themselves with crack. A non-Facebook person also does not know he or she is missing anything. They will just continue to live their lives, without ever feeling the need - to borrow a phrase from Star Trek's 'Borg' - to assimilate.
Assimilation into the Facebook machine is a difficult thing to reverse.
"Resistance is futile" is a more appropriate phrase than you might imagine.
I was on Facebook for a few years. My assimilation was well established.
Dropping off the site feels like what a junkie must feel, going cold turkey.
Day one involved the shakes, hyper-ventilating, and compulsively surfing Twitter and Huffington Post blogs, in search of a replacement fix.
My non-Facebook friends have also held onto that quaint 20th Century concept known as 'privacy.' If you don't remember what privacy is, it is the opposite of Facebook.
Just think of everything that happens on Facebook. Now imagine the opposite of that. That's privacy.
I hedged my bets with Facebook. They scared me into just 'deactivating' my account, rather than 'deleting' it.This gives me the option of returning and re-assimilating at some point in the future.
After a week, though, I am starting to like life wthout Facebook.
I am meeting a friend for a beer later. We will meet in person, speak to each other in something we used to call a 'conversation.' We will not be 'tagged.' No one will know where we are except us.
It's almost as bizarre as moving to the woods, to live on Walden Pond.
-Peter Wick
January 11, 2012
He grew his own food and lived simply, rarely seeing his fellow man.
I know how that must have felt.
I dropped off of Facebook a week ago.
When I began telling friends that I would be dropping from Facebook, their reactions were mostly stunned silence, or, in a few cases, caring attempts at intervention.
I should clarify one thing; when I say 'friends,' I mean Facebook 'friends.' I still have lots of REAL friends.
I know ten people who have never signed up on Facebook, half of them family members, half close friends. They vary in age but more of them are younger than me than older. The youngest is 23.
Surprinsingly these ten people still seem to live rich, satisfying lives, and without ever having been 'tagged.' So I became curious to discover their seceret.
A healthy person who has never smoked crack cocaine might not know what he or she is missing. This person is healthy and well-adjusted, and feels no impulse to destroy themselves with crack. A non-Facebook person also does not know he or she is missing anything. They will just continue to live their lives, without ever feeling the need - to borrow a phrase from Star Trek's 'Borg' - to assimilate.
Assimilation into the Facebook machine is a difficult thing to reverse.
"Resistance is futile" is a more appropriate phrase than you might imagine.
I was on Facebook for a few years. My assimilation was well established.
Dropping off the site feels like what a junkie must feel, going cold turkey.
Day one involved the shakes, hyper-ventilating, and compulsively surfing Twitter and Huffington Post blogs, in search of a replacement fix.
My non-Facebook friends have also held onto that quaint 20th Century concept known as 'privacy.' If you don't remember what privacy is, it is the opposite of Facebook.
Just think of everything that happens on Facebook. Now imagine the opposite of that. That's privacy.
I hedged my bets with Facebook. They scared me into just 'deactivating' my account, rather than 'deleting' it.This gives me the option of returning and re-assimilating at some point in the future.
After a week, though, I am starting to like life wthout Facebook.
I am meeting a friend for a beer later. We will meet in person, speak to each other in something we used to call a 'conversation.' We will not be 'tagged.' No one will know where we are except us.
It's almost as bizarre as moving to the woods, to live on Walden Pond.
-Peter Wick
January 11, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)