American Fez

Goblin Market, Online

Apparently I can be an "influencer" by promoting products and services on American Fez in exchange for financial reward. It's an especially insidious form of advertising; fake enthusiasm, in today's Presidential parlance. There is no 'and now a word from a sponsor,' just cloak and dagger commercialism inserted between the lines.

This soap is beautifully soft and fragrant, I might write, for example, in praise of a minuscule bar of industrial-strength cleansing agent, illustrating my opinion with an ancient photograph of myself from when my skin was baby backside smooth. Meanwhile, like some marketing version of Dorian Gray, my actual face is festooned with blotches and rampant acne.

Perhaps I wouldn't even use the soap. I'd merely post a gushingly positive evaluation as if I had washed with the wretched substance. But my faithful readers would be unaware of my deception as they order a year's supply and I grow rich from their gullibility.

Alas, I have scruples; the poor man's curse. Come buy, come buy, the goblins cry, but I refuse to peddle plastic Chinese junk from beside the virtual brookside rushes.

Unfortunately for me, however, it's particularly self-defeating to maintain scruples in this day and age. Soon, as traditional vocations and categories of employment disappear, being an influencer will be our sole means of making a living as Social Media becomes the new factory floor. Not limited to promoting mere products and services, online influencers will also trade their political and religious beliefs for instant cash, or Bitcoin, whatever the Hell that is.

Of course, such disreputable wheeler-dealing is already happening as I type. We live in a time when standing ovations are shamelessly received after successful exhibitions of duplicity and misrepresentation in the public sphere. People even vote for the prime movers of such displays: All in favor of your own exploitation say aye. There is not only a Goblin Market on the Internet but a Troll market as well.

Oh well, modern dogma dictates we must all embrace change however annihilating it may be. But what kind of misanthrope with money to burn will buy anything boasting a rave notice from the idiosyncratic American Fez? What types of unfashionable merchandize can I buzz-market on this dusty, cobwebbed corner of the web? There isn't very much for sale in the world that I hold in high regard. God knows I'll need to think of something and hope the manufacturer's salesmen will be content with, at most, a modest three-star review.

What about groundbreaking medicinal tinctures, home-away-from-home nursing homes, scenic burial plots, discreet mediumship and seance solutions? Perhaps all of these essential requirements for American Fez readers can provide grist for my online influencing mill. And since I can't stomach the cynical fraudulence of being a Goblin or Troll, I promise to promote whatever service I write about as a simple, honest Pixie. 

Leftover Thoughts At Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving comes and goes in a puff of smoke, like a stage magician pulling a roasted turkey out of a top hat. We relish this traditional illusion of a sit down meal with family and friends. Ancient enmities, misgivings, and jealousies made to vanish into thin air for the day. 

Uncle Frank, usually so asocial, amuses the children by catching a bullet in his teeth. Prim and proper Aunt Agatha gets sawed in half by half a glass of wine, then put back together again with strong black coffee. Ten-year-old Tim, meanwhile, is upstairs practicing his knife throwing.

But, with the same expert sleight-of-hand, this holiday conjuring trick all too soon turns into Black Friday's black arts. Be amazed as Walmart The Uncanny materializes a million blindfolded consumers outside its stores at midnight in the freezing cold. Now pick a 4K TV, any 4K TV, and hold in front of the cameras with a cretinous grin on your face so everyone can see.

Personally, unless food rationing is imposed by some future American military junta, which is perhaps not as far-fetched as it sounds, I can't imagine myself lining up for anything, never mind a so-called Door Buster Deal.

Oh well, each to his own, I suppose. No doubt that is what we mean by "freedom." Now that, of course, is the most remarkable illusion of all. 

Quality You Cannot Trust.

"I'm working on my personal brand," said Oliver from marketing, presenting the straggly strands of a hipster beard he was growing for my inspection. 

This was news to me. I thought he'd simply discovered a foolproof method of concealing the explosions of acne that persistently disfigured his chin. "Personal brand?" Quite frankly, I didn't regard Oliver as possessing any kind of distinguishing features whatsoever, never mind a hallmark or designer logo. He certainly boasted zero seals of approval on his packaging. 

In point of fact, Oliver is more the sort of generic product you briefly consider purchasing at a Dollar Store but ultimately decide against. Or perhaps he's one of those "Factory Outlet" retailers who always reduce their stock for clearance and include free shipping.

His "personal brand," indeed. If I was a shopper I wasn't buying. Oliver would always be cheapest merchandise on the lowest shelf in the darkest corner of the warehouse. He would always be the Acme plastic cup compared to Fredericka's Waterford Crystal bowl, no matter how extravagant his beard or how many tattoos decorated his arms.

 Ah, the sorely missed Fredericka who moved upmarket last year. Now Fredericka had a personal brand. She was a souped-up Lamborghini in our Toyota showroom. It was only a matter of time before she shifted gears and sped away to more salubrious surroundings. And we are left with Oliver who thinks he can fool everyone with a fancy racing stripe, even though he's got a faulty gasket and his chassis shakes if he goes faster than forty miles per hour. 

If Oliver's personal brand is our best marketing hope then it's no surprise consumer confidence is down.

New Beatitudes For November

Blessed are the religious icons in need of a new lick of paint.

Blessed are the tiny leaves obscuring the ugly chain link fence.

Blessed are those who pass by and trim the hedge with their mind's eye.

Blessed is the wind wrecked umbrella abandoned in the gutter.

Blessed is the maple tree scheduled to be felled to enlarge the sidewalk and create a cycle lane

Blessed is the pedestrian with time to tarry and observe the world around him.

The Unknown Scribbler

Although achieving absolutely nothing of note during my time on Earth so far, I still daydream my life and its prospective works will deserve grander commemoration than reduction to ash and the undertaker's second cheapest urn. 

Ego whispers that my head's noble profile would look well sculpted in marble and placed on a plinth, perhaps sandwiched between similar balding monuments to Homer and Plato, or at least lined up alongside neoclassical busts of those long-forgotten Victorian worthies, Wackford and Igbertson.

I've a better idea, Id suggests, a Sphinx-like statue of yourself, reclining in the sand, would better suit your personality. Although, instead of a lion's body, your head will be attached to the torso of a panther. And it doesn't have to be sand, either, Id continues, we could do you in grass, which is undoubtedly more your northern European style. But such a verdant memorial obviously risks resembling a Chia pet.

Listen to me, Super-Ego says, no matter what additions to the sum of human happiness you may make, a simple rectangular plaque is all your life requires. "Here lies one whose name is writ in medium roasted coffee."

But these are nothing but the deluded mutterings of an idle mind. Judging by my current lack of literary endeavor, posterity will be most indulgent to provide any container whatsoever for my mortal remains. Indeed, I can foresee just a anonymous mass of flesh and bone left for science to do with as it wilt. 

I wonder who this guy was, the trainee anatomist asks. Probably one of those old-fashioned bloggers, his supervisor replies, you can tell by the crazy-patterned brain cells and the curvature of his spine.