Circling the Drain

Newspapers, specifically printed weekly newspapers, are living on borrowed time, like death row convicts waiting for their last meals before one final sizzling tango in the electric chair.

Print weeklies cannot keep up with the lightning-fast information glut of the Internet, of 24/7 news sites, of the public’s appetite for instantaneous information. It’s a constant need to put stories out as they happen, when they happen, the frenetic information overload, the rapid delivery times and manifold competition that’s choking weeklies out of existence.

Weeklies failed to be relevant in the 21^st Century because the times demand more of reporters and editors. The public, weened on a 24-hour, constant news cycle, must have their up-to-the-nanosecond news with immediate delivery. Weekly reporting used to be a quaint, dilettante profession where scribblers with lackadaisical work ethics file stories at a snail’s pace because the paper only published one day a week.

With the public craving Internet news sites, social media and newsfeeds, weekly reporters have become daily reporters, cranking out stories faster than they’ve done to meet the demands. Despite their added responsibilities and workloads, their pay hasn’t kept up. They’re still underpaid minions of a bloated goblin king, now with double their usual output.

As recently as a decade ago, weeklies were how small communities received their news.  Local papers were either “rags” or sacrosanct watchdogs, depending on who you talk to. Reporters for these publications were fixtures of town meetings and events and held considerable sway. When the Internet added a new dimension to publishing, some smaller newspapers were reticent to climb onboard, and they’re the ones who’ve paid the price of their failure.

Internet news sites like Patch are popular with readers, but haven’t scored well with netting advertising dollars, which steadfastly remain grounded to local print publications (if the businesses can afford to advertise, that is). Meanwhile, print weeklies are circling the drain, losing subscribers and readership to the free Internet sites.

Newspapers who don’t embrace the online models usually end up the redundant dinosaurs they deserve to be. If newspapers are going to survive, they need to get into reader’s hands, whether on a desktop, smartphone or tablet. Migrating their news content to the Internet not only broadens readership, but ensures the publication’s survival.

The times are a-changing, fellow news-slaves. You’re either on the Information Superhighway driving 100 mph in a red Maserati blasting Rammstein, or you’re walking by the side of the road, whistling The Lovin’ Spoonful.

Your fate is your choice.

Evil, Thy Name is Writer's Block

Writer's block, that dreaded feeling you get when the words simply won't flow. When your creative juices run dry and you have imagination constipation. When what once defined you as a writer; the innate ability to pull words out of the ether, slap them around like an obstinate scullery maid and then position them where you want, is gone.

Vanished.

Poof.

Buh-bye.

My moral malaise has only grown over these past few months. I'm experiencing a crisis of faith.

 

Faith in my abilities as a journalist to get stories people want to read. I'm just not engrossed in my profession anymore. Every story seems to blend into the other, like an amorphous blob of raw sewerage. A bulk of what I write professionally is about buildings and structures. It's about zoning and who can put what duplex where. In the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy (I refuse to use that idiotic moniker 'superstorm' anymore because, well, the media's retarded) most of the stories involve advisory base flood elevation maps and building height. Important topics, to be sure, but they don't excite me.

Trying to get a writer to write about something that doesn't excite him is like trying to get a kid to eat his vegetables, except the vegetables are rotten and teeming with plump maggots. 

It takes every ounce of energy for me not to fall asleep at the keyboard anymore.

The competition is writing in-depth stories about building height, zoning ordinances and planning. The ins and outs and nitty-gritty details of why and how homeowners can elevate their homes to lower their flood insurance premiums and not have tidal waves roar through their living rooms.

Maybe I've soured on Sandy coverage because it affected me more than other reporters. I had to move out because of a foot of water in my apartment, a foot of water that obliterated my furniture, books, DVDs, clothes and other possessions.

How can I get excited in a job where I haven't had a pay raise in six years or a promotion in ten?

Where my opinions and concerns go unheard and where my sources are drying up faster than Jane Fonda's tits?

Where I do hit my stride is reporting local history. Pouring through moldering tomes of newspapers, researching historic events and personages long dead is, for me, engaging and fun. So far, I've chronicled Prohibition, World War II and World War I and a northeast storm of 1962. I'm currently working on the 19th Amendment and how the local fight for women's suffrage.

Part of me (the logical, rational cardigan-wearing egghead in my brain) tells me it's only a job, just a way to snag a paycheck and earn a living. When we distill our daily activities as only a way to accumulate wealth, we're missing a vast part of the human experience.

America has a massive Viagra-chugging hard-on for money and acquiring riches. Sure, we all want to get paid for working, but when the quest is focused only on that and not using your talents to give something back, we transform into the stereotypical monocle-wearing misers sitting behind a pyramid of stacked gold coins.

I'm not saying my writing will cure cancer or even be remembered or read a century from now, but I just want that chance to create something that stands out, that's wholly unique.

Writing about height elevation or building codes isn't wowing anybody except the people who are directly affected.

For reporting to matter, it has to affect more than just an immediate audience. It should broaden its scope and be relevant to a wider readership. Why my career has stalled and fell into a torpid mire is this: I've retread the same ground before, and endless loop of interviewing the same officials about the same topics.

I need to unlearn all of the slothful and slipshod habits and liberate myself from the conventional bonds tethering me to the dungeon floor. Reporters should be obstinate assholes who make officials nervous. They should be prodding, annoying gadflies buzzing around the bloated corpses of government, sinking their malaria-filled stingers into jaundiced flesh and tearing open the festering wounds of a teetering oligarchy.

We should be revealing uncomfortable truths and not just informing the public like some community center corkboard thumbtacked with messages. We should be bold and take risks, not dwell in fear and timidity.

Fact is, this city spends way too much money on settling lawsuits. They've made an art of the pay-off instead of challenging lawsuits in court, which would generate bad publicity. The last thing the administration needs is bad publicity, probably because they're not too adroit at defending the entrenched cronyism so prevalent in this town.  

The reason for my lapse in devoting every waking moment to good ol' fashioned journalism is I've been distracted.

I've been working on other projects in my spare time, writings I hope I'll be known for instead of the mundane weekly newspaper articles. Writers tell stories, and I have many to share. I'm reticent in detailing exactly what I'm working on, but it's big and crosses a few media platforms.

It's writing I can be proud of. My unique perspective. My energy, talents and hard work birthed this 800-pound juggernaut baby squirming like a happy pink squid, tentacles wiggling.

So I live two lives, inhabiting two distinct personas. One, the daylight me, the Clark Kent moping around the office and conducting daily interviews and pounding out columns like a Vicodin zombie, is who the world sees. The second, Superman persona, the crazed, angst-ridden comedian wrangling with hippogriffs and spitting out fiction, is what I'm doing when nobody's watching. It's the true me, the writer I want to be, the wordsmith whose Herculean efforts and persistence will one day undoubtedly pay off.

Writing is hard.

Whoever doesn't believe that has never struggled with writer's block.

My best material comes at inopportune times, late at night or early in the morning. I began writing this at 5:30 a.m. It's now 6:30 a.m. It took an hour to write 1,000 words. Think of what a full day of doing this would bring? I'd hit 8,000 words in eight hours. After a week, I'd have a novelette. Two to three weeks, a novel. I'd be an unstoppable writing machine, an Optimus Prime of scribes.

Yet I'm a mere mortal, struggling with the words, living two independently different writing lives. Mild-mannered reporter by day, tortured genius by night. I see myself in some laboratory, hunched over a keyboard, an array of bubbling flasks and a Jacob's ladder, complete with a rising arc of high voltage in the background. A spark of ingenuity, the insane writer completes his work, his back sore and stiff, his vision blurred from the computer monitor's glare.

Triumphantly, he cackles, raises one arm, his hand forming into a crooked claw and bellows, "It's alive! It's aliiiivvveeee!"

   

Torrid Spam Tales, Part 2: The Squelching

Since my spam filter gets more of a workout than I do these days, it’s time to dig into the dark recesses of the Internet and dredge up another installment of Torrid Spam Tales.

Seriously, where does this spam come from? I imagine a sweatshop in Chechnya staffed with 19-year old peasant girls looking to make an illicit love connection. A more accurate description would be a jerkoff named Boris in the Ukraine scamming lonely Yankees out of their credit card numbers by promising kinky cybersex with nubile slaves trafficked by the Russian mob.

Or something along similar lines, without the international intrigue that doesn’t involve Interpol.

 

However these emails wind up sent to me remains a mystery, but they’re more fun than the “Nigerian Prince Needs Your Bank Account Number” scam or the “Free Boner Pills” offer. Even though they’re illegal operations orchestrated by foreign criminals, at least I’m flattered a Nigerian prince needs my financial aid, but insinuating I need a pill to boost my erection is just insulting.

 No matter.

You came here for the juicy, scintillating details and I’ll oblige. Let the spammy debauchery and wanton online depravity commence:

Hello
I looked your description over the Internet. And decided to
write to you. You are pleasant to me very much. I expect on reciprocity. I
have tried  become acquainted with to man via Internet at first time,
therefore it is a  hard for me. What need I to write? A little about itself.
This is Nella. I’m 29 years.
I work, have a rest like many girls. I would like to go to the cinema,
walk in the parks. Sometimes I simply see DVD at home. Think that I don't
have enough man's intercourse. Though I’m beautiful woman. Maybe after
learning more about each other we can have friendship.
I hope it was interesting for you. Wait for your answer.
Take care, Nella

The above included a photo of what appears to be a nude female in a tree. Isn’t that taking naturism a bit too far? Wouldn’t that be one of the first things she’d write? “Hi, my name is Nella and for kicks I enjoy getting naked and climbing trees.”

Listen, I like seeing naked women. I like seeing trees. Put them together and you only have a batshit goofy girl in a tree. Upon closer examination, you detect the vaguest hints of a black shirt, but come on.  What an anonymous cock tease. 

Now the deconstruction: She “looked your description over the Internet.” How can she look at my description? Did she Google “funny and smart reporter/writer, swarthy appearance, resembles Bronson Pinchot on good days and Jon Lovitz on the bad”? How did she find me, and who the fuck is this nosy bitch?

“You are pleasant to me very much. I expect on reciprocity.”

Hey, you expect what now? You expect? Again, who the fuck are you?

“This is Nella. I’m 29 years.”

This is Eric. I’m so dreadfully confused.

“I work, have a rest like many girls.”

Going out on a limb here and assuming she is employed and occasionally takes time off of her job for recreational activities.

“Think that I don’t have enough man’s intercourse. Though I’m a beautiful woman. Maybe learning more about each other we can have friendship.”

Now we get to the gritty crux of this missive. She wants to fuck. She wants you to write back and correspond because, in some Bizarro World alternate dimension, a nude tree woman will let you screw her high in the branches of a majestic larch.

The email is a fragmented mess, with each sentence brief and disjointed. Look at the second half of the letter and read it to yourself, but in Cookie Monster’s voice.  Better yet, take it to your local coffee shop on open mic poetry night and read it as a poem.

Dude I understand English is your second language, but if you’re going to scam people, learn the lingo first. How do you expect to fund Grozny’s largest meth empire if you can’t get blackmail and hoodwink Americans?

The next spam has a whimsical, fantastical flavor to it:

How do you do
I am here to meet a special man who will  give me a chance to care of him, to cook for him, to raise his children, to give him all my love from my big heart.
I would awake the feelings were sleeping in my sweetheart's soul before meeting me.
After that moment we will never go through a day without saying how much we love and need each other for the rest of our life.
I like different cuisine and I dream about calm candlelight dinners with my second half.
I believe he will care enough to make me smile, stay with me long enough to learn more about me.
Goodbye, dear
Unicorn

Unicorn? Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the alluring, sensual names designed to get a man excited (Jade, Ebony, Sindy) you choose one describing a mythological horse? Maybe if you were trying to pick up 6-year old girls, the name Unicorn might carry some weight, but as a grown man I am not impressed.

So “Unicorn” wants to meet a man she could cook and care for. Basically she’s a Russian mail order bride desperately in need of a green card.

“I would awake the feelings were sleeping in my sweetheart’s soul before meeting me.”

Almost like poetry. Almost.

“I like different cuisine and I dream about calm candlelight dinners with my second half.”

Dinners you’d cook, right? Because that’s what you promised earlier in the email.

“I believe he will care enough to make me smile, stay with me long enough to learn more about me.”

“Unicorn” is looking for the perfect mate, a man to compliment her, to complete her life and to create a brood of younglings with. Well, the perfect person, just like the mythological beast whose name she proudly uses, is imaginary.

You wanted a love letter? The next one drips with maudlin sentimentality:

Regards
I believe that new beginning will fill the empty place in my soul with the fresh air and scent of trees in bloom.
I am calm, decent, open-minded lady with good sense of humor.
I like sport, reading and especially I like to make my home cozy, I like to cook and often I try to cook something new.
I am dreaming about meeting that special man to share the most exciting moments with him. I am looking for active, emotional, cheerful, sociable and passionate man.
Yourth faithfully
Laurie

Yourth? That’s not a typo. That’s how she actually spelled it. “Yourth faithfully.” Think with all of this poetry she read too much Shakespeare and started writing in archaic English? Hey, if you can’t master contemporary English, the 16^th century version will do.

“I believe that new beginning will fill the empty place in my soul with the fresh air and scent of trees in bloom.”

Read Chaucer much?

“I am calm, decent, open-minded lady with good sense of humor.”

These are exceptional qualities for any person. But here’s where it gets interesting:

“I am dreaming about meeting that special man to share the most exciting moments with him. I am looking for active, emotional, cheerful, sociable and passionate man.”

That puts immense pressure on a guy, right? Every moment has to be exciting. Why not just share moments with him? Why does everything have to be exciting moments. Sometimes, life is dull, like waiting in line for shoes. How thrilling can you make that moment? Or getting your taxes done. Or sitting on the toilet. Life isn’t about the exciting times. Life is a series of moments. Go with that and you’ll be contented.

Last one, and it’s a doozy:

Aloha
My darling will hold my heart and my soul
I am very tender, caring, loving and understanding woman.
I wish that my future man looks into my eyes and tells me that he loves me with all his heart.
I know I am not completely ready to give one hundred percent of my heart, but I pray my future sweetheart will be my new beginning, my fresh new start. We will meet, look into each others eyes, and speak without saying a word.
Goodbye, my dear
Maggie

Beginning the email with “Aloha” is a nice touch if you’re Hawaiian. If you’re anything other than from the Hawaiian Islands, using “Aloha” as a greeting probably means you’ve skipped a few doses of Wellbutin.

“I know I am not completely ready to give one hundred percent of my heart, but I pray my future sweetheart will be my new beginning, my fresh new start. We will meet, look into each others eyes, and speak without saying a word.”

This would be lyrically beautiful if it weren't so insane. The previous sentence urged her “future man” to tell her he loves her with all his heart. So it’s okay for a man to give his heart to Maggie, but Maggie isn’t ready to give her heart to him? Why bother asking him to do so?

“We will meet, look into each others eyes, and speak without saying a word.”

Someone’s been watching too many rom-coms. Relationships aren’t idealized and seamless. They’re messy and require time and effort, but if you’re willing to compromise and commit, they can work. Just looking into someone’s eyes doesn’t signify love. It means they’re ready to rut like wild animals in the treetops, and for that, you need to call Nella.

Thirst or Consequences

U.S. Senator from Florida Marco Rubio delivered the Republican response to President Obama's State of the Union speech last night. At one point, he leans over, grabs a small plastic water bottle, takes a rapid swig and, all while maintaining eye contact with the camera, sets the bottle aside.

A mundane, insignificant act.

He was parched after talking and needed to quench his thirst. Pause. Drink. Resume.

But in a world where social media is king and awkwardness is punished, Rubio's sip became the talk of the Internet.

Rubio later commented on the incident - I decline to call it a gaffe because it wasn't a mistake -  on ABC's Good Morning America, "God has a funny way of reminding us we're human."

God also has a funny way of reminding us a legion of partisan 12-year olds control the media.

Look, I'm not defending Rubio's positions. He's vehemently anti-abortion, voted against funding stem cell research, wants to repeal Obamacare and favors returning control to health care to the states, opposed repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell, favors more oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, opposed the Violence Against Women Act and is hankering for war with Iran.

He's every Tea Party curmudgeon in a younger, handsomer form.

Rubio is a far right-wing ideologue who doesn't even want to compromise with moderate Republicans, much less Democrats.

But the guy takes one sip of water and people crucify him. They call it bumbling and ridiculous. They start Internet memes and create Facebook pages devoted to Rubio's water bottle. Even the talking heads on 24-hour cable news networks get involved, presumably because there are no other stories to report.

I recently had a conversation with someone who worked as a reporter in the 1970s, the golden age of journalism. She told me the smartest thing for budding reporters to do is not to major in journalism but marketing or public relations and take journalism as a minor. Have a job you can make a living with and then write on the side.

In the last few years I've seen the quality of journalism shrink dramatically. Good reporting is almost nonexistent. We're a nation of corporate pundits, partisan prattlers and catchphrase-spitting monkeys. The Internet is a bastion of hackneyed comedians, political minions and sub-literate idiots who vomit shit and bile into the ether for all to view.

Rubio's sip has grown into a monstrous shit demon spewing diarrhea tsunamis across the globe.

This juvenile sense of mocking, of ridiculing the slightest awkward action has made everyone schoolyard bullies. We pick on the high and mighty because it gives our own crappy lives a sense of power and validation.

Most of the people ridiculing Rubio for being thirsty - gasp! - are Democrats.

The next time President Obama gives an address or press conference and news cameras are there, I wish POTUS would emit a long, sloppy, wet fart. The flatulence will be loud and audible and sound like it came from the buttcheeks of a 300-pound truck driver named Earl who subsisted on a diet of beer and corned beef hash. I want Obama to fart for about 25 to 30 seconds, a continual blast of methane from the leader of the free world. Then, after finishing, he stares at the cameras for another 10 seconds, and resumes his speech.

If only this would happen, maybe Rubio's mangled attempt to satisfy his thirst by imbibing bottled water could be overlooked as the trivial event it was.

Yet in the land of the Internet troglodytes and lazy newsrooms, they're riding the cresting waves of feces, hoping to take someone famous down a few notches.

All for ratings or a few laughs.

The Love Muscle Striketh

When I was a younger man and actually believed in ridiculous things like basic human decency, humility, and love, people called me gullible. Now that I’m older I can dust off the ash and dandruff the LifeMonster vomited all over me and say through Clint Eastwood-like clenched teeth that everything we’re taught about romance and love is bullshit.

We’ve all heard Valentine’s Day is a holiday created by greeting card companies and confectioners to sell cards and chocolate. It’s the most pussy-whipped, superficial and ill-conceived holiday in the calendar next to Groundhog Day and Arbor Day. In fact, I’d rather plant a tree and watch a groundhog than participate in the inane rantings of a bad couple who stay together because it’s Feb. 14.

Before you say such a negative attitude is cynical and the people who are grumpy around Valentine’s Day are alone, I have to say two things:

1    1. The name of this blog is the Angry Reporter. I work in rage and frustration the way Picasso worked in paint or Bill Clinton worked in pussy. You should know what you’re getting into when you read my screeds o’ fury. And,

2    2. Fuck you.

     

     Valentine’s Day suggests – nay, forces everyone, like a tinpot dictator issuing decrees through a bullhorn – to be happily in love and romance the shit out of each other:

     

      “All couples will meet in the town square and sweethearts will hold hands! If hands are not held, the firing squads will pick you off one by one! Love! Love! LOVE!!!!”

      

      I’ve been in a serious relationship for over two years, and each year my girlfriend wants us to do something for Valentine’s Day. This usually translates to us going out to some overpriced restaurant, which is more excruciating and horrible than being raped by Bigfoot and Gary Busey in a truckstop bathroom.

     

     Valentine’s Day insists you reward your beloved with romantic trinkets like chocolates and roses and buy them steak and lobster. If you don’t do these things, you’re a horrible boyfriend and secretly desire to see your girlfriend murdered by Al Qaeda.

     

      I treat Valentine’s Day like I do anything antiquated; a sad remnant of a simpler time when a hastily-made valentine, decorated with lace and intricately-cut paper, contained the dreamy musings of a lovestruck bachelor who only wanted the schoolmarm to see through his awkward country ways. 

     

      As a holiday, Valentine’s Day is a clunky throwback, a nonsensical charade which has no baring on modernity. It’s the 21^st century, Skippy! If your woman doesn’t know you love her because you bought her a diamond tiara and Cuisinart juicer for Christmas, she’s a cluless harpy and unworthy of your attention.  Fortunately, my girlfriend doesn’t need decorative baubles from me to know I love her.  

     

     Romance is a really stupid thing. When you’re young, in love is where you want to be. As you age, you just want someone who understands you. I guess that’s what love really is. It doesn’t have anything to do with chubby-cheeked cherubs with a bow and arrow, or boxes of candy or expensive flowers. Love is that feeling you get at night when both of you are watching that home improvement show on HGTV and your hands drift toward each other and fingers briefly intertwine and she looks at you and smiles and without saying a word, you change the channel because HGTV is complete crap and anyone who habitually watches is a braindead chinchilla. 

     

     The point is, you don’t need some goofy holiday to celebrate your love. You should be doing that every day, with displays of affection. Tell the person you appreciate them. Say how much they mean to you.

      

      Later, when you’re giving her epically orgasmic, sweaty, eyes-crossed, toe-curling, screaming-to-the gods sex, you’ll thank me for saving you a dinner reservation and not buying into the Valentine’s Day scam. 

Descending into Facebook Hell

Hi. My name’s Eric and I’m addicted to Facebook.

The most popular social network site duped me out of precious hours of my life and turned me into a rabid procrastinator. When future historians reach into their TruthOrbs and lecture to their Holo-Students, they’ll recall how Facebook destroyed marriages, ruined friendships and corrupted 21^st Century society.

This is the flash point where everything faltered.

Facebook.

Why has this innocent site caused so much chaos and ill tidings? Don’t I enjoy hearing from the multitudes of “friends” and their everyday happenings, no matter how trivial? Don’t I like seeing the umpteen photos of everything including blurry pictures of their lunch, taken with a cameraphone at Applebee’s? Don’t I laugh at the various memes they post featuring cats or Star Wars references?

Of course I do, and that’s the problem.

I’ve used Facebook since 2008. I visit it every day, multiple times. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I find myself looking at Facebook, as if I’m sleepwalking, mindlessly logging in and browsing through my friend’s activities. Far from heightening my sense of awareness, it lulls me into a dull torpor where no productivity escapes. It’s the black hole of socialization, a meandering idiot-fest where you read about everything your friends are up to and suffer through a constant barrage of pictures. The event horizon of this swirling black hole are the comments your friends leave to you. I have to check out all of their comments to me, about me and in posts I commented in. The entire thing is like some diabolical Chinese puzzlebox but instead of unraveling the mystery and opening the box, your soul ends up inside the box.

Facebook used to be cute. Once you could “poke” your friends, a lighthearted way of saying “Hello. I don’t have a life, either.” Amusing videos of a baby swallowing a crayon. Fun games like Mob Wars or Farmville. Those insidious games are now annoying and anyone who sends me an invite will get a tersely-worded reply and a brick thrown at them.

A virtual brick. I’m no brutish thug.

Though Facebook had linked the world and allowed strangers to share cat photos and urban legends masquerading as fact (HIV-infected needles in gas pump handles? Really?) it is a complete time sink. Prepare to be amused or bored for hours.

In prompting me for my status update, Facebook is now asking me “How do you feel?” When did they replace the cold, logical parser with a New Age counselor? How I feel is pissed off I have to tell Facebook how I feel. Mind your own business, Facebook. And don’t even try to hug me.

In wishing to utilize my time wisely and more efficiently, I’m listing the most cogent replies to my Facebook friends based on an aggregation of their most popular status updates:

·      To the people posting Christian-related messages: Yeah, I get it. You like Jesus. Religion is important to your life. Tell me again how it improved your outlook as a human. Now tell me your thoughts on the homeless, poor people on welfare and single mothers.

·      To the atheists posting how stupid religion is and how science gives you all boners: So you don’t follow a religious creed, and you’re debunking someone else’s faith. That’s great, Poindexter. Religion is stupid. Feel better now? Feel superior? Feel smug? Apparently tolerance isn’t your bailiwick. But the stuff about Neil deGrasse Tyson you keep posting is interesting.

·      To the people posting pro-gay rights messages: Okay, you’d like to see gays and lesbians get married. Fine. But if gays want the same rights as straights, there has to be a trade-off. Gays can get married if straight people can reclaim Broadway show tunes without being sniggered at. If a straight guy wants to belt out the soundtrack to “Les Miz” while riding his tractor mower, he should be allowed.

·      To the people who post photos asking for a million “Likes” to help their kid get a puppy, or support their puppy with ass cancer, or for their glee club to get a class trip to Norway: You’re all attention whores. Stop it. This is a desperate attempt at groveling for approbation. If you’re a husband and your wife won’t let you buy a puppy for junior unless you get a million “Likes”, buy the damn dog anyway! You’re the one with the penis, so act like it.

·      To the Republicans/Democrats who post pro-Republican/pro-Democrat or anti-Republican/anti-Democrat messages, memes or assorted crap: While I am passionate about America, the U.S. Constitution and the future of our society, you’re all a bunch of Stepford douches shambling after your political masters. Until you learn to think for yourselves and break free from political machines and their poisonous ideologies, you’re never going to be fully actualized adults. Reach away from your comfort zones. Dare yourselves to think differently. Don’t give into hatred and ignorance. Or, barring that, try to be a class act in political discourse instead of a name-calling troglodyte.

·      To people posting photos of your kids: Congratulations. You successfully reproduced. You’re no doubt proud of your offspring and posted several photos of them on Facebook, for the whole world to see. Considering how sick and messed up the world is, and any pedophile with an Internet connection can view these photos, you’re not going to win parent of the year, are you?

·      To people complaining about their jobs/places of employment/co-workers: I sympathize with you. I really do. But don’t you think a less public forum would be more appropriate for your rants on how unfair your boss is or how the ladies in accounting treat you like shit? Again, people can see what you post. Grow a pair and stop whining.

·      To the people who deliberately post controversial questions to goad others into arguing with them: Gun control. Abortion. Feline AIDS. You’ve got the issues and you’re itching for a fight. If you feel strongly about the topic, do something constructive and join a group or something. This passive-aggressive attitude of taking it to Facebook is making you look like a douche-nozzle. Here’s a tip: Don’t look like a douche-nozzle.

·      To people posting photos of exotic places they’ve traveled: Wonderful! You’ve been to Aspen!

·      To people posting constant photos of their pets: You have a dog. And a cat. And another cat. And another dog. Look! The dog is licking its balls! The cat is crapping in the litter box! Isn’t technology grand?

·      To people posting jokes/pithy observations: These are allowed. They amuse me. Do carry on…

·      To people posting memes that just aren’t true/urban myths/incredibly frightening scenarios with no plausible logic behind them: Stop it. You’re gullible if you believe everything you read on the Internet. The government doesn’t want to confiscate your guns, Obama is not a socialist Muslim wizard from Kenya, and the ghost will not kill you if you don’t forward the chain letter. I live on planet Earth. Care to visit sometime?

·      To people who post details of recent medical procedures or health updates: I’m concerned with my friend’s well-being, so thanks for keeping me informed.

·      To people who post photos of food/alcohol they are currently consuming: Wow! You’re at Delmonico’s! Lobster Newberg and Pinot Grigio. Enjoy that gastronomic feast!

I realize I’m guilty for about half of these violations. I guess I’m in too deep. I’ve become the very thing I loathe; a mole-like subterranean dweller with pasty skin and bulbous eyes who clatters upon the keyboard while going through my friend’s timeline history.

I am in Facebook Hell. 

I Wanna Be A (Published) Writer

The infinite monkey theorem postulates that if you had a monkey hitting typewriter keys at random an infinite number of times will eventually produce all of Shakespeare’s works.

That’s pretty much how writing works. Given enough time, perseverance and temperament, a writer will eventually craft a work of subtle, tear-shedding brilliance.

That hasn’t happened to me yet.

I’m still banging on keys, hoping to strike it lucky, praying for literary gold.

All I ever seem to get is something passable, maybe mildly entertaining.

I don’t want that for an epitaph.

“Well, his writing was mildly entertaining…”

Self-doubt is poison to a writer. It clouds the mind, dulls the senses and makes one wish never to pound on keyboards anymore. Writing is the act of revealing a hidden portion of oneself, of parting the curtain and sharing experiences, fears and dreams.

Or it could be about atomic gorillas typing for all eternity and coming up with Hamlet.

For 2013, I’m making the daft attempt at writing fiction. I’ve read so many warnings against self-publishing: People who self-publish are dreary hacks and untalented dolts who couldn’t get published the traditional way. Self-publishing means lesser quality, slipshod editing and poor distribution. Self-published authors only sell 10 copies at the county fair and won’t receive the exposure they crave.

While it’s true self-publishing has its downsides and limitations, I’ve heard reasons for it. The advice I received was to try to get your work published the traditional way, and then shift to self-publishing if you feel you’d benefit from it.

From what I’ve seen and heard at writer's conferences (and if there’s one near you, do go) is self-publishing is the Poverty Row of the publishing world. It’s where clueless writers who want the world to read their autobiographies or treatises on Latvian poetry end up, and face crushing disappointment.

Established writers look down on self-published authors much the same as physicians look down on chiropractors. The smug disdain for self-publishing is diminishing, as more established authors are taking the e-publishing route. Writers are finding electronic distribution to be easier than traditional publishing.

I’m no stranger to the slush pile. That’s where most of my work ends up these days. I have a lovely collection of rejection letters from a variety of publishers. The main thread running through these rejections is, “While the story is well-written, we just don’t have a market for it at this time.”

Call me Captain Unmarketable, caped crusader with no commercial potential.

Here’s the thing: Should I write what’s in my heart, craft the stories I want, or should I bow to genre?

I’ve been told in writer's conferences (and really, if you’re not doing anything, do pop by and try to attend one. They’re really marvelous!) genre fiction sells better than plain, vanilla literary fiction. There’s truth to that, but I’ve seen a mashing of genres in fiction having stellar success. “Abe Lincoln, Vampire Hunter” combines vampires and history, “Twilight” combines vampires and teen romance, “Fifty Shades of Gray” combines erotic fiction with a desire to throttle the author senseless.

Just bending to commercial pressure and writing something marketable is misguided, I think. Writing just to get published shouldn’t be the only goal, but abandoning the quest for getting published is worse.

It all comes down to fundamentals. That should be the foundation of writing. Can the writer tell a good story? Are readers engaged enough to continue reading the rest? From the first few sentences, you can tell if a story is going to entrap you and pique your interest. You’ll never be published if you write only to get published. Craft a seamless, well-written story and maybe a publisher won’t chuck it in the bin. 

I’ve also been told at writer's conferences (they’re super nice and will impart so much uplifting and positive information for fledgling authors, so why not attend one and see?) to act professionally, because the publishing community is so intimate and editors from different publishing houses communicate with each other. Act like an unprofessional jackass, and they’ll take notice. Threaten or cajole an editor, and you’ll be blacklisted.

Also, from what I’ve heard from established authors, it’s much easier for writers to get their books published if they have short stories published. I tried (unsuccessfully) to climb that ladder, but was beaten down, rung by rung. I submitted several short stories, which received the standard, “The story’s well-written, but we can’t use it at this time. Ever consider a career in retail sales? I hear The Gap is hiring.”

 Have I mentioned my stack of rejection letters is thicker than a Shanghai phonebook?

The problem for me is, those early stories were written hastily and catered to specific periodicals.

This science fiction publisher is looking for submissions for an anthology on robotic cross-dressing werewolves! Better crank something out fitting those exact parameters!

Sweet Jesus eating tofu! This publisher is looking for short stories on extraterrestrial lesbian Regency Romance! Time to get cracking on another 5,000-word opus!

By the way, extraterrestrial lesbian Regency Romance is a cool name for an alternative band, so feel free to steal it. Rock on!

Instead of writing what the market demands just to fit it into a particular (and peculiar) anthology, I’m concentrating on producing well-written stories. I’ve improved on the pacing, the characterization and the style.

I’d like 2013 to be the year my writing blossoms and changes, the year I become wholly readable.

So far, I’ve written one short story, with a goal of completing a short story a month.

We’ll see how it goes. Within six months, I’ll have a body of work to choose from and send out.

I just have to keep plugging away.

My monkey has a date with the keyboard…