The Sleep Twilight

I've long been a believer in finding (or rather receiving) ideas in that half-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness. In fact, I let one go this morning. It was genius, I'm sure, but I didn't write it down and it vanished.

Found this quote at AnimalNewYork marking the passing of Ray Bradbury:

“Any owner of cats will know of what I speak. Cats come at dawn to sit on your bed. They may not nip your nose or inhale your breath or make a sound. They simply sit there and stare at you until you open one eyelid and spy them there about to drop dead for need of feeding. So it is with ideas. They come silently in the hour of trying to wake up and remember my name. The notions and fancies sit on the edge of my wits, whisper in my ears and then, if I don’t rouse, give more than cats give: a good knock in the head, which gets me out and down to my typewriter before the ideas flee or die or both. In any event, I make the ideas come to me. I do not go to them. I provoke their patience by pretending disregard. This infuriates the latent creature until it is almost raving to be born and once born, nourished.”

Maybe that's what lacking in today's workplace. Not enough napping.

Echo and The Narcissists

In my iGoogle Twitter window there's a lady in Perth live-blogging a stalker at her home while the police arrive. That's mildly interesting and slightly disturbing. Someone tweeted "Good morning, Tweet Peeps!" which made me click the "Unfollow" button. The usual runners and workout grunts are explaining how good they feel having completed a "great run." (I keep them around because they remind me I should do that too.) Others are linking everyone to what song they're listening to and hoping we'll join them in a global singalong. We are the World. Hands Across America.

I get a notice that someone is following me. I see he is also following another 10,000 and has 400 followers. I will not be one of them. He's a specialist in Customer Relationship Management and tweets nothing but. Someone else is following me. She has 25,324 followers and is following about the same number. I don't understand that and don't want to be a part of it. If you're following that many, you can't possibly be paying much attention to many of them. Just to be sure I'm not missing anything worthwhile, I check on what she might be tweeting. I look in at her feed to see nothing but a bunch of retweets, the Twitter way of saying, "I saw this somewhere and wanted you to know that I thought it was worth sharing with all of you."

I said something about real estate in a tweet and five real estate agents instantly started following me. I said something about hating when marathoners talk incessantly about their training and a bunch of marathon-types and runner's magazines started following me. Someone who tweets nothing but positive New Age tripe cloaked as "Inspiration" is about to get deleted from my "Following" list. I guess he thinks he's the world's "Life Coach." Not mine, buddy. Bye.

I say we all just get mini-camera implants in our eyes, and then we can all have our whole lives broadcast on a unique channel. The most interesting lives will have lots of viewers and people will do crazy-dumb stuff to get more viewers, which will mean they can start wooing sponsors to their lives. A guy's eyes will glance down in the morning to pick up a tube of toothpaste. In order to get compensated for the product placement shot, he will need to linger on the tube for about five seconds. The whores can charge a viewer fee so you can watch them do their thing. The self-professed gurus and knowledge-slingers can wax on and on as they drive their kids to soccer practice. ("Daddy, I got an A on my math test!" "Son, I'm talking to my followers right now.") You can keep your Facebook twisted-face pose on all the time, or that goofy trademark tongue-sticking-out thing you do. Think of the world as your bathroom mirror, admiring you as much as you do. Let's all be Balloon Boy's dad, or the desperate dolts who send staged clips to America's Funniest Home Videos.

Everyone's life on constant display. Everything you see, touch, experience, eat, drink and do, you can show the world. We see what you see. We see what you do. We're in your head, sharing your wisdom, your fears, your life. We're at your meals, your job, on your dates, in your dreams.

Sounds like a creepy, far-off Dystopian nightmare. But we're halfway there.

The Day The Theater Was Sold Out

Christmas used to be a great day to go to the movies, as you and a handful of people didn't have to suffer lines or sell-outs. You could stroll up to the box office three minutes before show time and still get a prime seat. Not so anymore. Movies get released on Christmas day and people have turned what was a secret Jewish custom into a national event. I know the Jews must be pissed at the Gentiles for co-opting their Christmas tradition.

But we were torn yesterday. Nothing really jumped out at us.

There was the new Brad Pitt movie, which looked OK, but we didn't feel like sitting through three solid hours of Pitt being pretty. Eventually, maybe when the crowds die down, we will see what all the hype is about.

There was Brad Pitt's ex-wife's new movie, in which she stars with that idiot Owen dude. Aniston is sure to play a lovable if slightly ditzy hot chick, while Owen is sure to play a lovable, if slightly ditzy, laid-back surfer type. There's also a dog. Cute. Not happening. Not even on DVD or HBO.

There was Brad Pitt's ex-wife's ex-boyfriend Vince Vaughn in a throwaway Christmas feel-good festival. I wish to meet Vince Vaughn some dark night in a drunken alley knife fight.

Will Smith's new offering seemed a little weird, all about organ donation. Not your average holiday fare, so we declined on that.

Actor du jour Philip Seymour Hoffman stars opposite Meryl Streep in a movie about a priest who might be molesting boys. Sounds like fun - when I am stranded on a desert island and a rescue package arrives and the only thing in it is a battery powered DVD player and that movie.

There were various animated things, crap movies from Sandler and Carey, both of whom have worn out their welcome playing the same guy all the time (France - you want these guys?) that vampire movie for tween girls, and Keanu Reeves playing himself in a remake of the classic The Day The Earth Stood Still.

So, much to my horror, we agreed on Tom Cruise's new film, in which he plays Tom Cruise trying to act like a Nazi officer. I was sure he would strut about in Tom Cruise fashion, being all Tom Cruisey, urgent and badly trying to convey earnestness.

Sold out. I was not really disappointed.

So we saw Keanu, in IMAX, and it was a good mindless romp in that campy old sci-fi style in which every military or government type is hyper-dogmatic and cardboard. Reeves did not even bother me in this role, because it was made for his limited skills as an actor. Kathy Bates is the Secretary of Defense, and clearly modeled her performance on Hillary Clinton. The heavy-handed "You're killing the planet so we have to kill you" message was groan-inspiring and I half expected Al Gore to make a cameo. John Cleese did make a cameo, which is always nice. And for anyone who is not a fan of the New York Giants, the destruction of Giants stadium is awesome, but I'm sure it's pure sacrilege worthy of a fatwa in certain areas of the northeast.

Yawn...Another Jetpack Book

I'm joking, it might not be a snoozer. I haven't read it yet, but I'm quoted in it. Here is a review of the book from Time. (Click the image above to buy it from Amazon.)

The author, a NYC freelancer, contacted me months ago asking a few questions. According to him, my contribution to the book goes as follows:

Intrigued, I instant messaged with the site's operator, a man whose screen name is jetpackjockey.
Me: so...you're really into jetpacks. so am i.
Two minutes later, jetpackjockey responded: it's more of a joke about what they said would be "in the future"
Me: and nothing says future like a jetpack, right?
Jetpackjockey: absolutely
Me: what is the allure?
Jetpackjockey: I think there is a general disillusionment among people who grew up with a futuristic fantasy—a feeling like we got ripped off almost—nothing's changed and the world is going to hell faster than ever.

So if you're reading this blog thanks to Mac Montandon's new book, welcome. I hope you don't expect lots of talk about jetpacks here. Sure, I'd love a jetpack someday, but this isn't really about pursuing that dream. My last statement in that IM pretty well sums up this blog. It's your basic culture trashing and disaffected ranting about random stuff, with the occasional homemade comic thrown in. I probably focus most on my chosen profession, advertising. You'll also find a bit of political and religious humor that's often not funny at all. Let me again quote an esteemed Australian professor of philosophy, who summed it up this way:

[Where's My Jetpack?] "...disrupts the everyday and the opinionated links we make between words (& art & music) and experience; the links that speak as if the world were easily translatable into a common language and experience that we all share."

And I still have no idea what that means.

Congratulations on the publishing, Mac, and I look forward to reading it. One of these days.