A Bare-Knuckle Bucket of Does

Listen. At the risk of jeopardizing the sanctity of my last post, I need to present certain errata. These do not attach specifically to any one of my points (i.e. no direct revision of the muscular metaphor or the "This isn't . . ." gag. Those are sound). But something in the spirit of the post was a little crooked, dishonest.

I can't stress the importance of taking this all seriously. Yes, this is life in a city, life in a suburb, there are career-affirming sitcoms booming from the T.V. room. And I'm not going to say "fuck you" to those who don't take the world-cosmos seriously. I don't need you all throwing up peace-sign-fingers and droning from your bulbous nose that you are "not a crook." I think H.S. Thompson sufficiently dismantled the Nixon aura era for me to "nix on" that vendetta.

But I am asking you to bear with me. This is difficult. Words, right? Sure. But you can't just dismiss this (world) as "words" when tactical advertising exists all around you. To dismiss the ricocheting shrapnel of ads as "just words," to turn bombs into words, is simultaneously to bring words to life--terrible, explosive life:

Take a peak at the new Droid phone from Verizon Wireless. Instead of a "Loading" bar, the page unloads with this message: "DEACTIVATING COMPROMISE." Fuck. This is an all out, balls to the wall, military-industrial, Sparks-guzzling bucket of DOES. Norman Wilson pictures a world of John Does uppercutting female deer. I tremble. Search-function-as-tactical-strike. Cell-phone-as-intelligent-stealth-fighter-automaton. Language-as-keg-fridge-magnet-set.

Weep, geek.

"In a world of doesn't, Droid does."

A world of doesn't. This shit is real. This is the pincer tearing open the pulsing membrane of hell and unleashing strange, new desires upon us like a cloud of locusts, a throng of masturbating imps and Paris-Hilton-Succubi.

Droid does. Let's build some fucking robots to round up these plagues and suffocate them with information. Damn. The air is thick with information, half of it porn. It's pushing out the oxygen, even the nitrogen. I feel myself giving in. The code is so thick it takes on organic features, roping together and dispersing, reproducing like molecules of a primordial soup. But guess what: the soup of the day is moral bankruptcy.

I don't know what does is any more and what's doesn't. What doesn't? Forget all this bullshit I'm writing and "Just Do It." Why theorize about information, why cloud physics with half-imagined molecules like swarms of cellular stealth bombers, when you can just go on living in a world increasingly saturated with does?

Folks, the world of doesn't is over. Droid is your mother and father and Droid is your children. Time to fit Bob Dylan with an electrolarynx and send him out to space to sing ballads about desperate iPhones and suicidal BlackBerries. Boys and girls, the next Vietnam will be fought with Scrabulous and Internet Banners. How close at hand will your Droid be then?

Yours Forever,

Eli