“Hey what’s with all the exercise?”
“Getting myself ready, getting pumped up.”
“I need the confidence to not back off, tell Him how I feel.”
“You’re gonna tell God off?”
“Yeah. For letting people live with such misery and inhumanity!”
“Alright, you go to it.”
“Ok, wish me luck.”
*****************2 minutes later*********************
“Man that was fast. So you did it?”
“Well no, I figured Sunday was His day off. So I’ll do it tomorrow.”
WARNING: I may sound like an old man here. I’m not sure, but I thought I’d give you the opportunity to skip this blog and return tomorrow. But if you are in your 20s and 30s and agree, I’d also really love to hear from you. I’m putting this out late on a Saturday night so only the hard core followers might read it or the bloggers like me that have no social life.
Social media is such a necessary part of my work as a web designer and writer, yet it goes so against the grain of how I was raised and developed as a professional entertainer. It’s just this close (insert tiny space between thumb and forefinger held closely together) to feeling as fake as if I’d ever gotten a toupee.
Because—I go under the assumption that no one cares that much about me. I’m really happy that people read my blog, but that’s all I could want. I don’t expect them to care what restaurant I’m at, my thoughts, I meant tweets, on each and every incident in the world, or whether I’m experiencing an emoticon.
I was raised, and by raised I mean listened to overweight or over-lived men who were the mentors in a magic group I was in as a teenager. I mean raised in the professional sense. These guys had worked the bar and the nightclub scene in Chicago, so they knew late nights and how to have a killer act that would shut up drunks. And that’s no small feat. These guys lived by the motto “always leave them wanting more” which is entirely counter intuitive to the idea of social media whose motto is “exhaust the f*ck out of them with all your useless thoughts and behaviors.”
And then there’s how I was raised by my dad, and mom, really, not to complain. Not to air out dirty laundry in public. So I’m mystified by the notion that people feel better airing out things on Facebook and Twitter. I sort of get when celebrities do it, or I should say I just assume it’s to get attention. But how regular people can say things about their family, their friends, their job and think that’s ok, just—escapes me. Do they check to know that the people won’t see it? Are they too chicken to say anything in person? Should a breathalyzer be installed on everyone’s laptop, pad and mobile device?
I like the idea of Facebook. I joined when it first started and it seemed kind of cool to get in touch with people you hadn’t seen. And it’s worked out for me to get the word out about my shows and now my writing. Maybe I just need to let people be the way they are and not let it get to me. Let them use it the way they use it and I’ll use it the way I use it. Check in once a day or so and just skim. Get in the game but don’t be ruled by the game.
And maybe I should get that toupee.
It really is amazing how much they can get into a thirty second television commercial—amazing images to entice us, sayings to infiltrate our brains, and jingles to annoy our friends and family because we can’t get them out of our heads. But those glorious thirty seconds of perfection and happiness portrayed end just in time. It’s what happens after the cameras stop rolling that has my curiosity.
It was inspired by the latest commercial for Diet Coke where different people who are about to do something big—a best man giving a wedding toast, an woman about to go into an auction and even Taylor Swift presumably prior to her concert—all take a big swig of their Diet Coke that makes them ready for anything.
Nope, we never see the truth in any of these things. We don’t see the girl blow the audition because she had two diet drinks waiting the two hours for her audition and she was totally jacked up on caffeine.
We see the young people on a tree swing flying into the lake in all the beer commercials but we don’t see the one idiot that isn’t sitting right, doesn’t jump at the right time, and ends up in the tree.
All of the happy, smiling kids munching on burgers and fries and no pictures of the ones that can’t make it through one game of tag on the recess asphalt.
All the people hitting the open road in their brand new sports car, but nobody getting a ticket for driving the speed shown in the commercial.
All of the women looking fabulous in the latest fashions, dancing their way through life, but none of the women who are unable to pay their credit card and bugged day and night by debt collectors.
And of course, all of the people whose depression and anxiety are lifted but none of the the ones that are affected by the side effects with aches, pains and poopy pants.
Nope, we just get all the pretty and none of the truth. In thirty seconds the world looks so colorful, so happy, so joyous. But it’s that thirty first second you have to worry about.