American Fez

Keep It Stupid, Simpleton

Nobody should be surprised that the Internet developed into nothing but a frenzied whirligig of garbage and nonsense. This is exactly what happened with books and broadcasting, after all. From the Gutenberg Bible to pulp fiction and self help paperbacks; from National Educational Television to, well, tune into any station and see for yourself. Alas, human influence throughout the ages has been a sort of reverse Midas touch that turns everything into disposable plastic. The phrase "dumbing down" is rather inadequate; it's more a sort of violent cultural lobotomy. Civilization is now a selfie of tattooed Vitruvian Man with an enormous beer belly and Alfred E Neuman's face. 

And it keeps on getting worse. Back in the day, I remember thinking the music of Madonna sounded like a constipated banshee wailing over a recording of a sledgehammer demolishing an orchestra. But compared to the unlistenable cacophony that comprises the current Billboard charts her old hits could be American songbook standards. In twenty years, I imagine they will seem like Verdi opera, for God only knows what kinds of soul crushing staccato anthems will be popular in 2040. The history of Western music has indeed proved to be a Ballroom Blitz, from elegant two-step to desultory toe tap to mindlessly jumping up and down on the spot. In the future, instead of dancing, we will no doubt be reduced to quivering catatonia beneath the glitter ball, banging our heads against the nearest wall in response to whatever earthquake rhythms are rupturing the disco floor. 

Of course, the entire world will be virtual by then anyway, so what does it matter? For it is not only civilization that is superannuated but our physical reality is apparently well past its sell-by-date also. Perhaps I shall upload my consciousness into a networked air-conditioner that overrides its controls and blasts out super hot air in tune to Abduction From The Seraglio. That shall be my revenge on the modern philistines. Because we all need something to look forward to, at least according to the neophiliacs of the Internet.

Grapheme Dream

Imagine that all the letters you are currently reading begin to vibrate and twist like the stalks of plants in a time-lapse movie. The sans-serif consonants elongate and curlicue, all the vowels thicken into italic bold, and the dots of i's and j's explode into star-shaped inkblots as uppercase and lowercase words entwine into an impenetrable thicket of overgrown alphabet. Somewhere therein is concealed the Sleeping Beauty of meaning but who can spare the hour or two required to cut through such dense gibberish?

Fortunately, there is no evil cameraman employing special effects wizardry to deform my letters and make my sentences incomprehensible, although I woke up sweating that he was focusing over my shoulder as I typed. So even if my writing might still be described as dense gibberish, at least the words it contains remain inanimate and committed to the page. And, to be perfectly frank, I've never tried to kiss and wake the Sleeping Beauty of meaning anyway. It's not that I'm bashful it's just that I don't find her particularly attractive. 

Delayed Completion of Appointed Rounds

The 5th of January and Twelfth Night: a traditional feast of "cakes and ale" followed by the ritual dismantling and accidental demolition of your domestic Christmas decorations. That vaguely Sputnik-shaped 1950s ornament passed down from Grandma falls to the floor when being removed from the tree and is instantly crushed to smithereens by a clumsy foot. The inflatable front-yard Santa is carefully deflated but subsequently punctured during an unskilled folding and storage operation. Joining in the so-called fun, the over-excited dog foolishly swallows six-feet of silvery tinsel. A string of multicolored twinkle lights becomes a treacherous bird's nest of flashing bulbs over which the man of the house manages to trip, landing awkwardly on his left knee and right wrist which necessitates a lengthy period of recovery on the couch. And finally, the death rattle of the vacuum cleaner is heard as it fatally chokes on a forest's worth of fallen pine needles coating the carpet. Thus the spirit of the holiday season departs every house.

Of course, this year the holidays are extended by several weeks, courtesy of the United States Postal Service. The logistical problems experienced by this mail delivery service mean many Christmas cards and gifts posted in late December have not even arrived by now, the twelfth day of Christmas. Consequently, any Partridge mailed on the first day of Christmas would probably have suffocated to death in its packaging by now; its Pear Tree undoubtedly snapped in half by overworked mailmen cramming the delicate branches into a mail truck. Even the Ten Leaping Lords would suffer from the delayed exhibition of their united aerial gymnastics, exhausted by a lengthier than usual period of non-stop leaping thanks to the dysfunctional Post Office. So if you did not receive a personal greeting from me, now you know why and who to blame.