PSA: Blogging Is On Its Way OUT

I have had it with elite "bloggers" and tech-ass CEOs condescending to the masses with their guides to "boosting blog traffic." Let's face it, people. SEO is out. Even search engines are out. Heck, nobody even uses the Internet anymore. We are living a lie: we need to admit that this way of communicating--blogging--is not viable anymore. I've been blogging since 1945--back when blogging was something you got paid to do--and let me tell you, this is a dying art. I don't mean that in the sense that it's something we should preserve, build an institute for, and cherish like it's the last surviving fertile pair of pandas.

I mean it in the sense that we need to take blogging off life-support and just let it die a natural death.

Let me explain. Like I said, I was one of the early bloggers. I wasn't among the first, but let's just say I was around when Eisenhower wrote the classic "14 Reasons Why an Interstate Highway System Would Fucking Rock" listicle. (I was the first to comment on that listicle, by the way.)

I saw the real estate content marketing boom and bust, and I watched thousands of desperate bloggers scrambling to reclaim all the subscribers they suddenly lost after people realized nobody actually cared about the "18 best ways to announce at your dinner party that you casually bought property in California."

I saw the Cold War blog fiasco, where one Soviet blogger nearly sparked World War III after "10 Bombs America has Already Dropped On Us."

You might just think that these decades of experience have put a massive chip on my shoulder, but all they have done is given me an undeniably well-rounded perspective on the inevitable un-trending of a trend we have in recent years tended to overextend.

Over the past 60-odd years, blogging has seen a slow but steady decline. In 1945, when I was starting out and blogging was hot, everybody and his mother had a blog. The President had a blog. The Army had a blog. Even your dog had a blog. Now, the President has some intern blogging for him. The Army has outsourced its blogging to underpaid wage-workers in China. For reasons largely left unexplained, nearly 80 percent of dogs have left the blogosphere.

No note. They just left.

Comparing the blogosphere of today to the blogosphere of 1945 is like holding up a rabbit turd to the ziggurats of Machu Picchu. Laughable. And you want to wash your hands after you do it.

I feel filthy.

Here are some startling statistics:

• Blogs on religion are down 45 percent from 1945.
• Blogs on politics are down 80 percent. 
• Blogs on cats--once a rare atrocity--have nearly tripled. This is a bad sign.
• Here's the zinger: the average annual income of professional bloggers has reached an all-time low. In 1945, you could make $80,000 per year by blogging about your political views and honest opinions. As much as it pains me to relate this fact, I will: bloggers today make an average of $300 per year.
• Possibly as a result of their diminished wages and desperate circumstances, the number of federal crimes committed in America by bloggers has increased tenfold.
• Homicides, specifically, have doubled.
• Possibly due to a drought of good ideas, copyright infringement has placed thousands of well-meaning bloggers in prison.

Blogging has become a playground for 14-year-old nutbags, bad writers, terrorists, and content marketers. Blogging used to be an honest profession. It really did. It brought home the bacon, it made you friends, it gave you self-esteem, and it helped people. It actually helped people. Not only that, but it was the way people left their permanent mark on the world. Nowadays people will read 600 words from some 14-year-old who calls himself a "content marketing prodigy" (but is actually a cat), impulsively add themselves to that imbecile cat's insipid following, scroll down to the next story, and run back to their narcissistic bastard lives feeling like they exercised their freedom of expression and--gulp!--learned something. Not so in 1945. Back then, good bloggers got plaques.

They got plaques, and some of the really good ones got medals.

Whole towns got together to throw parties for good blog posts.

It was a different world...I would go so far as to call it the Golden Age of Blogs.

It's been a long time since that world was a reality, and despite some tough years of denial in the 80s, I'm over it. My problem now is that most people haven't made this leap.

What You Should Do

Trust me. Blogging is one of the worst things you could do with your life. Save yourself some time and stop blogging. Maybe it was once a glamorous profession, but now it's the editorial equivalent of basket-weaving. And if you told anyone that you were a basket-weaver, you'd get a stern talking to--similar to this one--about how you need to move on and get a real job. 

4 Definite Signs Your Woman is Seeing Another Man (#2 Caught Me Off-Guard)

We all know the feeling. Jealousy. Suspicion. A building sense of cold distance between oneself and the angel once exalted as a goddess in one's most intimate dreams. We all know the terrible certainty-despite-uncertainty that our love is hanging over a precipice from a single thread of hope.

But how can we know for sure whether our world is ending for good?

I traveled the world to find an answer to this question. I traveled to Norway. What I discovered shocked me, intrigued me, and, more than anything else, enlightened me.

Here are 4 definite signs your woman is seeing another man.

1) She says five subtle, seemingly innocuous words to you: "I am seeing another man."

You have to be careful with this tricky phrase and the context in which it arises. If, for instance, your woman is an actress, and she is speaking these words to another person on a stage, and the two are generally presumed to be acting out roles that bear no necessary relation to their personal lives, then you can be pretty sure (not 100% sure) that your woman (emphasis on your and woman) remains your faithful slave and or beloved and cherished partner. If, however, your woman asks you if she can "talk to you about something" and says she has "something" she's "been meaning to tell you for some time" and maybe even "feels bad about," and then utters these five nearly undetectable code-words, then you have a reason to make that dreaded leap, pack your bags, and move far, far away to a purer, less crooked and less tainted world. (Iceland is good.)

2) She invites you to come on a date with "another man I've been seeing."

This one is also hard to decipher without proper guidance, but I'm here to help. It's a signal that I learned to watch for during my time in Norway. 

While I was in Bergen, I met a woman (whom I quickly claimed as "my woman" though she disputed the title) who invited me to peruse the fish market with "Anders." When I asked my woman who "this f---er Anders" was, she said---in a matter-of-fact tone I found simply intolerable---that he was "another man" she "had met in a spa" and who "was interested in a little group [bonding]." (I replaced her use of a word unbecoming of a female.)

I had had my suspicions before (like when she invited me to the disco-tech with her "sexy lover" Nils), but it was not until this precise moment that I had no shadow of a doubt that my woman was seeing another man. I immediately threw my bag of mini shrimp in her face and stormed out of the fish market like an indignant Norse god. Some people gasped, and there were some things said in Norwegian I didn't quite understand, but I'm sure they were congratulating me on humiliating my FORMER woman (read: infidel) in public.

(Let me clarify that when I say "your woman," I mean the female that you personally own, who divested herself of all autonomy when you first laid eyes on her and conceptualized her being "your woman." Her name, career, or aspirations are not important provided she is "your woman" and you have "a woman.")

3. She introduces you to her "boyfriend."

I can't tell you how many times I have missed this cue. At least seven. Maybe eight. Less than 10. You really have to watch for it. You have to watch for it like you're watching the door of the one bathroom at work, which has been taken for the last hour, it seems, by some idiot who is probably texting his mom. You'll miss it 99% of the time, but if you're vigilant, I think you can catch it.

As soon as she introduces you to the guy, it's no use. You've lost her loyalty. Stand your ground. Don't make eye contact with the brute. This man stole your prize from you, and he deserves no recognition. Throw something at him, maybe a stapler or a glass jar. Make grunting sounds to indicate your dominance. If you're lucky, the couple will just turn and walk away, but if he picks a fight, knock him down in the dust like the soulless dog he is. 

4. You walk into your bedroom to find your woman in the dreaded act with another man.

The first time this happened to me, I gave my woman the benefit of the doubt. I said, "Honey, I don't know what you're doing over there, but it sure looks like you're twiddling that guy's Talbot." She said, "No, we're just playing a board game."

"Is it Twister?"

"No. It's backgammon."

"OK. If it was Twister I'd come over there and join you, but since it's not Twister I think I'll go watch TV."

"OK, Sweetie. Can you turn out the light?"

"Sure thing Honey."

Literally I had no idea. Literally. Right there in front of me. I even saw him put his Lamborghini in the garage, but I didn't want to ask any questions. Anyway, if this ever happens to you, stop right there. Put an ad on Craigslist, either for you or for your EX woman, doesn't matter. Life as you know it is over.

What Should You Do?

The four signs I've highlighted in this article are hard to detect, and now, I'm sure, the mere thought that any of these signals has an underlying meaning is throwing you through a loop. But, if you find any of these four nightmares to come true, I have some action steps you can follow to ensure the best possible outcome for you.

Do not show weakness. Period. The worst thing you can do in these kinds of situations is admit that you're having an emotional reaction (also known as a WEAK reaction). Strong men simply don't have emotions, and if you're having one, you need to beat yourself up or something, just to show that you have a high pain tolerance and you're not affected by little unimportant things like your woman betraying your trust. Draw blood for an added effect.

Do not talk about it. Talking never solved any problems. Talking is for women, like the harpy who ground your soul into the dust with her pointless girly high heels of sexual impurity. I bet she does a lot of talking with that other man. Serves him right.

Stick to your values. If your woman turns out to be seeing another man, there is no question as to who is in the wrong. It's definitely her. Don't listen to anything she says about your "emotional unavailability" or the "really lousy sex" or your "oppressive misogyny." These are all concepts invented by the feminine wiles to make honorable men like you feel bad about themselves unnecessarily. (They want to steal your masculinity!) AND to give them an excuse to soil their pure spirits in the filthy confusion of so-called "independence." 

Build an ark. The ending of such a perfect love can only signal the end of the world as we know it. Just to be safe, it's a good idea to prepare for the worst. 

Tune in next week when I explain 5 sure signs your sarcasm is becoming an addiction.

Plant an Idea: a Parable

Great ideas are like great seeds: tiny particles of promise; all potential, nothing "valuable" as of yet, but full of a strength and presence only the wise ones know. Those who understand the power of great ideas will not keep their share in a plastic bag on the shelf; nor will they labor endlessly to find the best pot, the best water, the best soil; they will choose any pot that will hold soil, fill it, and plant each seed with care, one by one. And, once all their seeds are nestled in the dirt, the planters go inside and--have lunch! After all, it doesn't take an above-average intelligence to grow a healthy plant. Add a little water, sun, and soil, and greatness simply becomes itself.

To a city-dweller, or to others equally unversed in the cultivation of such unassuming mysteries, a handful of the stuff might as well be a clutch of dust. But, in classic irony, as the ignorant discard what seeds of genius they possess (perhaps for bowls of soup, or worse, jobs), the seeds are not destroyed. On the contrary, they fall to the fertile soil of disuse, forgetting, and the vital depths of unconsciousness. Else, they catch a gust of wind and drift until they find a place to rest, take root, and grow. Then, even after being trampled by ten thousand bureaucratic boots, swept away by cataclysms of culture, and buried under the ponderous weight of institutions, the great idea rises silently from its humble ground in triumph--unembittered, rugged, raw, and true to its original, eternal grace.

So, do not boast and say, "I have a great idea." Rather, plant it in good sunlit soil, and remember to water it every day. For anyone who asks, say, "I am growing a great idea," but even then, do not boast until you can hold the ripened fruit of the tree in your hand, bite down, and taste its succulent flesh. Then, you may boast of your expert skill in tilting a watering can, and of your capable teeth.

A Bluesy Dead-Rabbit High

I am the man who stops and stares at roadkill. Not for any morbid thrill, or out of fascination with a body ripped apart by sudden, unexpected force, but for the succulent flavor of meditation that inevitably follows such a raw and brutal image. For lack of a better word, I call this mood a “bluesy dead-rabbit high.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if this feeling struck my readers as perverse, or at least queer. After all, I’ve only seen this feeling shared by one person, and a fictional character, at that. Ricky Fitts, the soulful, eccentric, artistic neighbor of the protagonist in American Beauty, captures this emotion when he films a dead bird near his high school campus. When a shallow cheerleader asks him “why” he is doing this, he responds simply, “Because it’s beautiful.” To this she retorts, “I think maybe you forgot your medication today, mental boy.”

The feeling is hard to explain on account of its intrinsic contradiction. As I gaze at the lifeless, glistening entrails and blood-matted fur of this fallen creature, I feel its emptiness, its nothingness, its lifelessness. I am reminded that at any moment, I might become like the body on the road. I am, for a moment, taken down to the level of dirt, reunited with my essence. However, in being alive and conscious, I then rise out of the gloom to a new appreciation of the simplest aspects of my being: heartbeat, breath, thought, and sense.

Regardless of the feeling’s obscurity among the panoply of human emotions, I stand by my bluesy dead-rabbit high. Roadkill captures a special beauty: random, yet inevitable; ordinary, but sacred as a grave; brutal, yet untroubled as the deepest sleep. It is a kind of death untouched by social custom — for, after all, there is no decorum for looking at an animal’s corpse — and, as such, brings the mind to an unsullied sort of consciousness, where one need not take any action but what comes naturally. And, standing naked and curious before the brute fact of death compels a person to resurface from a long illusory swim, like a long-submerged whale, for a breath of reality, a glimpse of the true light of the stars, or a moment of peace beneath the glowing mystery of the moon.

There’s a unity all living creatures have in death. In looking down at death, one looks down at the world from a god’s-eye view, as it were, and sees — behold! — a billion scattered strangers’ souls marching a finite parade. With one’s eyes sunken into the abyss, there appears nothing more precious, nothing more coveted, nothing more beautiful than a single moment of shared consciousness. In death there is no East or West, North or South, male or female, Jew or Gentile. There is no privilege, no wealth, no fame, no power — but only one great fellowship of compassion. In the certainty of death, our sins unshackle us, our great ideals unburden us, and the fire of hatred sputters, steams, and cools like lava rushing into an endless sea.

And so, here I am, riding the slow, undulating waves of my bluesy dead-rabbit high. I am refreshed in death; it is the air that meets my lips as I rise from the ocean of illusion to breathe. And with two fresh lungfuls of air, I take my time living, sensing, thinking — before it’s my time to bring someone else to this special state of mind.

Thank You, Kind Stranger, For My Soul

This weekend I visit the old, quiet town of Northfield, MN, the college town with which I fell in love just five years ago. My years in this small town were my very first extended glimpse into a different culture--the gentle oh-jeez youbetcha rhythm of the Midwest. To my cold, dark Bostonian reticence and standoffishness, it was a warm and cheerful dawn.

This morning, I was walking down a calm and dew-soaked suburb's road in Northfield. The sky above was a thick gray ceiling of impenetrable cloud, and all around me, summer-green trees drooped heavy with the rain they caught in last night's storm. My eyes, which for several months had adjusted to the claustrophobic streets of Boston, glided over these Minnesotan streets like wide-winged birds in a limitless arboreal paradise. As I moseyed down my private tree-lined highway, the tremulous calls of birds mixed seamlessly with the low, rumbling growl of some man's lawnmower not too far down the street.

The rumble of the mower rose with every step I took. In the wash of its hum, I passed great, spacious houses, which stood placid and solemn like monolithic guardians on the banks of a paved river. The humming of the mower grew more present, and I looked across the expanse of pavement to the operator, a gray-haired man in shorts and dad socks whose belly bulged behind a gray college tee-shirt. I smiled as I approached the man, as if I held some beautiful secret, and as we drew closer, I turned my head to the lawn-mowing man. He turned to me. I lifted up a hand. He lifted his in reciprocity. There was no word, no smile, but in a moment like a bubble on the surface of a pond, I became, to this unknown lawn-mowing man, a neighbor who deserved a wave.

On I walked, but my thoughts lingered in reflection on that moment of exchange. I felt that I'd received a gift, but what was given me? It was surely nothing tangible, but psychological: a message, a signal. I gave mine, my wave, and said my seeing. He heard my seeing, and said he saw me back. In an instant, we established our equality: as seers, messengers, interpreters. And, like a single drop of blood in a glass of water, the wave instilled a human tint to my morning; it flushed my blood of Boston's cruel impassibility. I was renewed, made human, clean.

Be aware: I don't exalt this Midwest town beyond its due; it's not a fairy tale; it has its grit and grime spread thick as any other human colony. But for a man who since September marched a social death on Boston streets, it is good to know that, here, in this small, humble, peaceful town, the "neighbor" lives.

What is the Soul?

Other people's souls are not in them. They are in you.

Cut open anyone you like. You will not find the soul. But this doesn't mean it's not there.

That's because the soul of another person is not in them, but in you.

Souls are beliefs.

Saying someone has a soul is like saying, "yes, he's like me on the inside." This is why, when we imagine trees or animals (like cute piglets) having souls, we immediately feel sympathy for them, because we believe that they perceive as we perceive. They feel as we feel. 

This is also why it's comforting to think that people who commit terrible crimes are soulless. By believing they do not have souls, we can say, "no, he's not like me on the inside," and, conversely, "I'm not like him on the inside."

Giving a soul is an act of creation.

When we are willing to say, "yes, he's like me on the inside," we actually create a living, sentient human being out of what would otherwise be an automaton. 

We are all gods with the uncanny ability to create and destroy people at will.

Hatred is an act of spiritual destruction.

In hating someone, a person says, "no, you are not like me."

And, in hating, that person destroys his neighbor.

In hating, a person becomes alone.

Related: Trying to Explain What I Think

Trying to Explain How I Think

Point 1: I believe the universe is just a bunch of stuff, and, to quote Fight Club, "we are all part of the same compost heap." I think our minds are no exception. Merely physical processes driven by molecules and things.

Point 1b: This is what pretentious philosophers call a "reductionist" view. As in, everything can be "reduced" to a material process. There's no proof for this view...it's just a way of looking at things. (We have just as much proof for saying that every physical process can be reduced to a spiritual process. At the end of the day, we have no idea what the words "physical" and "spiritual" mean except that they are in opposition to one another.)

Point 1*: I believe the universe is all just one thing, and that that one thing operates according to laws that are outside of our control.

Point 2. Because everything is physical, everything operates according to the laws of physics.

Point 2*: Because everything is the same thing, everything behaves according to the same laws.

Point 3: Because of the laws of physics, there is a certain inevitability to everything that happens. This is what pretentious philosophers call "determinism."

Point 3*: Because the laws are constant, the behavior of the universe is determined.

Point 3b: In other words, everything that happens is a single frame in one endless roll of film, and our lives are like tiny scenes in a movie. There is only one roll of film...

Point 3c: Again, there is no proof for this. Maybe there are three rolls of film. Nobody knows.

Point 4: Because everything is determined, our thoughts and "reasons" for things are also determined.

Point 5: This means that, no matter how you explain something, there is a chemical process causing you to explain it that way.

Point 6: To me, this means that the reasons people give for many of their thoughts, beliefs and desires may not in fact be the causes of those thoughts, beliefs and desires.

Point 6b: They might in fact just be a facade.

Point 7: My conclusion is that, because our conscious mind is determined by unconscious processes, we can't really know why we think, desire, or believe anything at all.

Point 7b: In other words, all reasons could very possibly be illusions.

Where does this leave us, practically speaking?

Really in a sort of gaping black hole of not having any way to explain anything.

Which isn't very impressive from a philosophical standpoint.

If anything, I merely believe that the emperor has no clothes.