XVIII: Pack it inside itself

My brain feels fried.

It's not even like I've been using it. I think that's the problem. All around me all I can do is watch the ongoing disintegration of western civilization, which celebrates its own entropy and glories in it. That's the freakin' point, ain't it? It seems like, how low can you go?

I feel like digging out those old Transmetropolitans my cousin sent me a few years ago, when I started Sheridan. For those not in the know, Transmet was a comic published some years ago by DC, (first Helix, then Vertigo upon that imprint's demise, although the existence of Helix was redundant when Vertigo already existed.) It was basically a comic book version of Hunter S. Thompson (in fictitious gonzo journalist Spider Jerusalem) set in a sort of post-dystopian cyber-future loaded with corruption and depravity. For whatever reason, I stopped reading it after issue 7, despite enjoying it a fair bit. I even cite myself as part-Jerusalem in the header crawl of this site (I haven't changed it since about then anyhow.)

It's a hostile world, man, certainly to me. Despite my capability with the internets and the fact that I grew up with PCs everywhere, in recent years I've become more and more a luddite. I'm not an activist about it or anything... I don't have an ounce of activism in me... but my personal philosophy is to involve technology in my life as little as I can manage. If I'm an example of anything, it's that the Internet is well populated by attention-seeking assholes who have nothing to offer you. But slowly and surely this site has evolved from "what did I eat for lunch and what girl do I like" to "why I think society is beyond redemption," which proves that, like it or not, I'm maturing. Also, I had a hot dog for lunch.

Give or take a dozen posts, I have 830 tiny little essays under my belt on this site. I could have been doing something productive with this time. Sadly, I'm not sure I had anything productive to offer. And I do it for myself. Shit man, I know nobody reads. Anybody who was reading probably got turned off years ago. The potential readership of this site consists generally of a smattering of curious friends and oddly enough a few people in Korea and Malaysia (hello out there!)

There ain't a great deal of a market for the insane self-involved ramblings of an evermore disgruntled would-be sorta journalist/writer/student. Not in mass media anyhow. Hence, people like me flock to the net to get our voices heard purely, without censorship and, as a consequence, without pay. That's fine, I can dig it all. If you're good, you make it. This somewhat deluded optimism has kept me going for years.

And so, until I do make it, I remain at work practising my words every night or so in this little field, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, look where my hand was; letting the days go by, let the water hold me down. It's the holy word of Guthrie - keep a journal. Write at least 20 minutes nightly. For better or worse, writers write, and if I'm not that then I'm not even sure I exist.

In the most awesome bit of news I may ever have heard, a band of teenage ninjas has been roaming neighbourhoods, getting up to no good, and leading cops on I-shit-you-not rooftop chases. I don't outlink very often, but check this out.

Half a world away, Greece burns.

Been on information overload. Like I said, brain's been fried, but you know what... I started this entry thinking I had nothing for tonight (even considering - gasp! - scrapping the whole damn thing.) And either this has been one of my most interesting entries in months, or I only think that it was interesting, and it is in fact a giant mess.

But that's about par for the course for this guy.

I think there are no idealists in Generation Y. I think we were born defeatists just trying to be real and make the best of the shitty world we've been handed. I don't preach except to say that you should treat your conscience right and live right.

Keep on rockin'
Scotto