The title came from the web futzing between the thought I had probably under a minute but close to it ago and the writing down of it for the world in this pithy thought provoking The God-Damned New Yorker is finally going to discover me and send me to the Paris Review board for that one, it was so brilliantly crafted and thought-provokingly analyzed that even Malcolm Gladwell can’t figure out how I did it and vows to make my method the centerpiece of his next pop-sociological ethos: The Primordial Mind. It’s all a game, really, a game of words, which even a Game of Thrones, might admit, if it weren’t so layered in epic, goth, hideously oh-no-he-didn’—all the more disturbing because it’s a period piece showing how our perversions are not only no better but could actually be worse in this parallel universe where humans massacre without much deliberation as to their angst. Simpler times? Compared to what. I digress. A memoir of my years tap-tap-tapping on a laptop versus the old Smith-Wesson typewriters (I know it’s Smith-C-something — Corona? Isn’t that a popular spring break in Mexico beer? Corolla? The best car you never want to admit to driving? Smith-Corona. I remember the sound it made. The rat-a-tat-tat of the typewriter. The excitement of the page, you couldn’t type out the shitty ideas fast enough back then. Ah, nostalgia. Not much has changed. Three paragraphs in and I still have yet to even address the topic that sparked the incendiary need to express my newest genius thought about content-creation, cross-platform saturation, brand-product-mind meld integration and letting the audience be your guide. My own radical opinions based on my own slightly extreme life experience and diligent analysis of my own thought process in the context of the world I chose to embrace, which has been mercurial, at best. Given to sublime ‘moments’ of triumph and excrutiating depths of despair. That just have to be lived through. Waited out. Go figure. Don’t talk about it with others, they won’t understand, will look at you funny or tell you not to give up, whatever you do. I can’t get into that now. It’s not in my DNA to do that but I do consider the stupendously absurd surreal stupidity of my existence and am smart enough to ‘know’ that it is probably true and therefore even more excrutiatingly painful to consider meaninglessness as truly an option. The idea is this. It’s gone now. It had to do with the email I sent (all Don Drapered out on my thesis until I switched windows and took a sip of Bass, which is good but I still wish I could find that GD Kauai beer which is nowhere to be found, only the stupid surfboard cliche from Duke’s Canoe Club, where my first glimpse of the ‘hegemony of ideas’ came from. The audience. Kerouac, Bukowski, Miller. What do they have in common (with me—we all add on to that thought, am I wrong? They were all restless, travellers, nomads, found themselves through the down and out which would add Rimbaud, Baudelaire and Amy Winehouse to that)? The idea of wandering through the streets of Paris, penniless but somehow drunk, in love with the air, stumbling into King Eddy’s on Skid Row, betting on horses and writing your way out of fists and their logic, which has consumed you up until there, the bar that will, in 5 hours, throw you out, kick you to the curb, tell you to sleep it off. And Kerouac, despite the facts, always struck me as a somehow priviledged kid who took to the rails in some romantic riff that then cuts to Bob Dylan’s music video for Subterranean Homesick Blues in my head with the card “Jump Bail” (at least I think that is the lyric, but my memory is over-crowded by this now) and I always end up with the caveat, or was that Kesey? Dr. Timothy Leary? Winona Ryder’s Godfather. The Godfather of Scanner Darkly and her perfect cartoon character of a coke whore undercover DEA Agent. The Drug, of course, is a typical Philip K. Dick psycho-tropic sci-fi combo of pyschedelics-amphetimine-pain killers and whatever the hell you can imagine in the future—that always ends badly, with the annoyances of the body (bugs on the skin, crawling, literally turning Woody Harrelson who should really just be stoned with Matthew McConnehy, into a cockroach hallucination) — which are way worse (to me anyway) than the tricks of the mind on the brain (see mushrooms-ecstasy-LSD and Jerry Garcia, but I was lucky and never had a bad trip, rarely get paranoid and the only issue usually was ever a backache from the poison they put in that shit). The idea started off as a riff on how to know what all the sponsors out there want to say in these stories I can create (docu-reality since both sides don’t realize that the other is necessary, and reality is dead, technically while documentaries according to HBO which you have to be rich to even be deemed worthy of watching — or else pirate that shit, are back in, whatever that means, Sheila Mafia). Content-audience-product integration. Somebody give me some income. I will do the work. I just hate having to find it. Not into needles, in haystacks or elsewhere, for that matter. I will try to come up wit the real thoughts on this subject tomorrow because I need to start working on how to convince schools to let me be a professor of this shit, emeritus.