Last night I was hanging with my fellow “yet-to-be-famous” blogging bff, CSW (read his OPEN LETTERS here) and we thought we’d torture ourselves by comparing hits & statistics & likes. Good times (as in, bad times) but hardly enough to satisfy our shared jones for the sort of abasement and degradation on which we thrive. Thus, in order that we might sustain our “dim view” in which our ongoing humiliating failures and inability to please the world at large (or, even, please the people with whom we are sleeping – or, trying to sleep with – or, imagining sleeping with; yes, it’s true, sometimes a person can become so conditioned to rejection that even one’s masturbatory fantasies involve acts of ignominious rebuff) are the inescapable reality of our days, we started checking on the blogs and YouTube channels of people we know.
That did it. We actually know someone with tens of thousands of YouTube subscribers and millions of hits. I personally know a few bloggers who boast tens of thousands of Twitter followers. That’s when we started drinking. Well, started drinking last night. The rest of the evening is something of a blur of bad ideas we batted around for vlogging schemes and finding our niche-market followed by competing with one another to win the self-pitying, self-deprecating tiara of whining: Batman and Robin gone wrong, sort of.
It seems no one is interested in actual writing and thoughtful essays nowadays and since dancing around on screen in tighty-whities is beneath the dignity of one of us, and for the other of us would only frighten the horses – we got nothing.
On further research, I noticed that most of my “popular” friends in the blogosphere share tidbits that can be described as perky, funny, and upbeat. I briefly entertained tapping into my optimistic, love and light sort of side but, let’s face it, though once upon a time I was such the New Age idealist I might have been called Paully-anna, the agglomerative effect of a series of devastating disappointments and eviscerating betrayals I have come to call “life”, left me not really the kind who is much interested in turning a frown upside down. In fact, the only things I’ve much interest in upside-downing are a bottle of Silver Patron, my economic situation, and a rent-boy of the emaciated, tattooed, and slightly slimy variety.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. Happiness is fine. But the current trend of unrelieved, even aggressive optimism of those fans of self-actualization – who so often know so very little about either the self or the actual – exhausts me. This epidemic of spiritual-carnival-barkers insisting that enough slogan chanting, meditation, and physical contorting while snorting patchouli scented candles will result in one receiving “the secret” belies a culture determinedly oblivious to reality and addicted to selective-denial.
This, you see, is NOT the sort of thing people like to read. Whether my pointing out that too many of us are happily buying the snake-oil and hoping for a cure is an actual act of malefaction or just further evidence of my genetic-predisposition toward melancholy, matters little. Unless I can be as funny as Dorothy Parker or Fran Lebowitz (I can’t) or as deeply intellectual as Joan Didion or Christopher Hitchens (I’m not) then no one wants to hear this shit.
They want to see YouTube vids of someone cavorting around in tighty-whities or gamboling gleefully in frolicsome yet harmless homoerotic rollicking. They want to read about the mischievous antics of kitties and canines and tots and how to make a delicious combination macaroni & cheese & red velvet & peanut butter lasagna with a chocolate sauce in a crockpot while never having to peel or saute or measure anything.
Well, I guess I could do that, but sooner or later everyone would figure out the emperor had no clothes and as I believe I mentioned earlier, me, without clothes? It would scare the horses – not to mention the only demographic I’ve got: did I fail to mention? During the long, torturous process of re-affirming our self-hatred and mutual lack of accomplishment last night, CSW showed me how to check my demographics. Interesting fact: according to my Facebook page (did you like me yet? Of course not.) most of the LIKES & VIEWS on my HEREWEAREGOING page/blog (75%) are from women, most of whom are between the age of 25-54. Only 25% are from men, almost NONE of whom are between the ages of 25-54. This pretty much sums up my entire life.
And you wonder why it is I am pessimistic?