I've just spent six months on Facebook and I'm ready to give my interim grades. Right now I give it a C-. Is it nice to find all of my old friends and family and have a handy vehicle to talk with them and keep up with them .... yes. But it does not take long for the distasteful side of this to appear, and that really taints the entire experience for me.
First, you must understand that, dispite all of the sales pitches about how great social networking is, the primary reason it exists is so that the social networking providers can gather and sell information to advertisers and vendors so they can all make money off of you. You, and especially your information, are vital commodities to be bought and sold. I am not comfotable in this role as "information bitch." I am a private person and I feel my life is my business and "IF" I decide to let you in on any of it I will. The idea that everything I say, do, write, and contribute to the provider becomes their "property" to sell as they wish just makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Second, many people have no actual lives and social networking quickly becomes an addiction that billows into the rediculous. It gives the average person an incredibly overblown sense of self-importance because they can publish something and they feel that (for some unknown reason) the entire world is reading their stuff, and it makes them feel important. They then become convinced that they need to keep the world informed and start posting every stupid little thing they see, think, or do to the networking site(s). People actually spend their entire day posting shit like "I woke up," "I'm having breakfast now. I like pancakes," "ate something yesterday that is not agreeing with me today," "time for my shower," "going to sleep." When I read stuff like that my response (to myself - of course) is STFU! Who cares? This is just drivel and helps dilute the good parts of social networking. Facebook has a lot of this, but the WORST offender is Twitter. This was designed for, and it overused by, two kinds of people, those with exceptionally overblown senses of self-importance who truly believe the world really DOES need to know everything they think and do, and those with no lives at all, who actually subscribe to the twitter pages of the arrogant assholes in order to have lives, and, in so doing, further feed the imagined self-importance of the posters. It is a psychological experiment in self-reinforcing delusion.
Third, just like in real life there are assholes and bullies who feel like really big people when they can shout down or rip apart someone else. In real-life you can often see those people coming and just avoid them. In cyberspace, because you are often at the mercy of the privacy settings of people you talk to, these shitheads just pop up out of nowhere and try to take over. They try to crush your opinion, they are insulting, they are denigrating, and there is almost nothing you can do about them, unlike real-life. This is a very discouraging and disheartening thing.
Lastly, this just becomes another consumer of your life and time. You begin to feel obligated to check your page multiple times a day "just in case" someone has sent you a message. So instead of possibly relaxing, or doing something constructive with your time, you end up spending even more lost lifetime sitting behind your computer (or phone) anxiously waiting for someone else to acknowledge you. This is also distasteful.
So what am I going to do? I will continue to stay with Facebook for another six months and give it a full year. But, based on my experiences and the way I like to live my life, I am making some changes to my usage. I am going to cull my friends list. I have allowed people in as my friends because I used to work with them, even though we were not really close friends then. I want my friends list to be people I really care something about, not everyone on the globe, so I will start cutting off some of the bit players. I am going to do a LOT more of my correspondence with friends by PRIVATE MESSAGES so that the assholes can't interrupt and disturb me. If I don't feed their stupidity, maybe they will die and fall away. I am going to only post publicly if I think I have anything to post that may be of interest. I am going to avoid giving public opinion (don't feed the dickheads) and avoid responding to other people's stupid public opinions (don't feed the dickheads). I think I'm going to print a big sign and tape it up by my computer that says DON'T FEED THE DICKHEADS !!!! This should help remind me to hold my tongue.
So, the first six months was mixed, but, I am going to change the way I use the product and see if my experience improves. The only thing that is for sure is that it is good for advertising. I created pages for the two websites I manage and within days the hit rates began to climb after being very steady for years. I guess this all goes back to the first point. We are all just commodities anymore.
Final grade and decision on whether to continue in six months.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
A Little Travelin' Music
Here is another short story I wrote about my hobo friends. On a day which is synonymous with American history, it only seems right to post about an important part of that history.
I Know the Hobo
Originally written May, 1983
Revised April 14, 2002
The United States is a democratic republic, and every hobo is a king unto himself. Yet, every year, an event happens which is designed to rock the republic to its’ core.
Every year, all the vagabonds, hoboes, and travelers all meet in Britt, Iowa and elect a “king” who rules the nation. I know this because I have attended the event several times and have personally seen it happen.
I first heard of this remarkable event from hobo king “Steamtrain” Maury Graham
himself. I met Maury at a crafts festival in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland. He
invited me to come to Britt in order to see how a hobo king is elected. How could I, a devout wanderer and traveler, possibly have turned down an invitation like that?
Unlike the majority of the true hoboes who come in to Britt “on the rails”, my
arrival has always been by conventional truck or motorcycle. I have always wanted to
make a grand entrance by hopping off a freight; however, the old-timers have told me of the dangers and discouraged me from trying. They have explained how riding the rails is a survival art of much skill which is best left to those who have extensive experience at it. I trust them so I listen to them.
The town of Britt has acted as host to this annual hobo convention for over a
hundred years now. It would be hard to find a better host. The people of Britt love the hoboes. I have seen people buy groceries, clothing, blankets, and other goods for their hobo friends. Many residents, who have gotten to know the old ‘bos over the years, will come out to the “jungle” and invite their friends to their homes for food and to stay over. Everyone else just seems to get caught up in the festive atmosphere. There are events and a carnival all week leading up to the election and coronation of a king and queen of hoboes.
As a friend of “Steamtrain” Maury, I have had the privilege and fun of
participating in many of the activities, and I have been allowed to live in the jungle with the ‘bos. I have helped in the preparation and serving of “mulligan stew” and have been trusted to guard the jungle during the coronation festivities.
I have vivid memories of the smells and tastes of the stew as all of the ingredients
cooked for hours in the pots. I have tasted “hobo pickles” which are very tasty and can be made in only a few hours. I have tasted a hobo candy made by an old ‘bo named “Frypan Jack.” It is so sweet and delicious that people will wait in line for hours to get some. I have no idea what the ingredients are, nor do I care.
I have slept under a clear Iowa sky, inside an open boxcar, and in a small tent with no other protection as a tornado passed overhead during the night. The roar and whistle inside the funnel did no justice to the feeble attempts at description that others have made who have had contact with these monsters. I have even met Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody is the hobo candidate for President of the United States. When you ask someone who they are going to vote for, and they reply “nobody,” you now know who they were talking about. Most importantly, I have met many new people, made many new friends, and heard many good stories and much history.
That is the purpose of a true hobo; to make friends. Not just acquaintances, but
friends whom you will keep in touch with throughout your life. I have done this and I
correspond regularly with many of my new friends. In 1980, in appreciation of the help and friendship I put forth to my hobo friends, I was officially dubbed a “Grand Duke of Hoboes” for life. I have the paperwork to prove it. I cherish the honor, and, like everything else connected to the hoboes, I laugh about it at the same time. Irreverence is a hallmark of hobo life. I was even given a hobo name, “Black River Blondie,” to identify me and increase my “status” among the brotherhood. I have since shortened it to “Black River” out of laziness, but I will never drop the name I was given.
So, every year I sit down and try to see if I can find the time to return to the
festivities. Since I have settled down with a wife and family it has been difficult. I read the hobo web sites to see who did or didn’t make it to the convention. Whether those who didn’t were just ill, or whether they “caught the Westbound” and will not return again.
It is a sad irony that I have discovered the honor and friendship of the
“brotherhood of the road” just as it is entering its twilight years. The heyday of the hobos rested on the steam locomotive. As the steamers faded into oblivion and the economy improved the job prospects of the millions out of work during the depression, the ability of the old ‘bos to travel freely was severely restricted. Few young men took up train hopping and the existing population has now become quite aged. Soon there will be no “real” hoboes left. I have wished many times that I could have discovered it when it was young so that I would not have to watch it die.
But there is hope. Maybe not for the train hoppers, but for the traveling spirit and
the vagabond lifestyle. Every year more and more young vagabonds show up to be a part
of the convention. Hitchhikers, bikers, and campers are well represented along with the original vagabonds who never die, the tramps. So maybe the reign of the American Hobo is not quite over yet. Perhaps I can still be a part of some of the festivities over the next 100 years of coronations in Britt, Iowa, the home of the “American King in Rags.
I Know the Hobo
Originally written May, 1983
Revised April 14, 2002
The United States is a democratic republic, and every hobo is a king unto himself. Yet, every year, an event happens which is designed to rock the republic to its’ core.
Every year, all the vagabonds, hoboes, and travelers all meet in Britt, Iowa and elect a “king” who rules the nation. I know this because I have attended the event several times and have personally seen it happen.
I first heard of this remarkable event from hobo king “Steamtrain” Maury Graham
himself. I met Maury at a crafts festival in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland. He
invited me to come to Britt in order to see how a hobo king is elected. How could I, a devout wanderer and traveler, possibly have turned down an invitation like that?
Unlike the majority of the true hoboes who come in to Britt “on the rails”, my
arrival has always been by conventional truck or motorcycle. I have always wanted to
make a grand entrance by hopping off a freight; however, the old-timers have told me of the dangers and discouraged me from trying. They have explained how riding the rails is a survival art of much skill which is best left to those who have extensive experience at it. I trust them so I listen to them.
The town of Britt has acted as host to this annual hobo convention for over a
hundred years now. It would be hard to find a better host. The people of Britt love the hoboes. I have seen people buy groceries, clothing, blankets, and other goods for their hobo friends. Many residents, who have gotten to know the old ‘bos over the years, will come out to the “jungle” and invite their friends to their homes for food and to stay over. Everyone else just seems to get caught up in the festive atmosphere. There are events and a carnival all week leading up to the election and coronation of a king and queen of hoboes.
As a friend of “Steamtrain” Maury, I have had the privilege and fun of
participating in many of the activities, and I have been allowed to live in the jungle with the ‘bos. I have helped in the preparation and serving of “mulligan stew” and have been trusted to guard the jungle during the coronation festivities.
I have vivid memories of the smells and tastes of the stew as all of the ingredients
cooked for hours in the pots. I have tasted “hobo pickles” which are very tasty and can be made in only a few hours. I have tasted a hobo candy made by an old ‘bo named “Frypan Jack.” It is so sweet and delicious that people will wait in line for hours to get some. I have no idea what the ingredients are, nor do I care.
I have slept under a clear Iowa sky, inside an open boxcar, and in a small tent with no other protection as a tornado passed overhead during the night. The roar and whistle inside the funnel did no justice to the feeble attempts at description that others have made who have had contact with these monsters. I have even met Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody is the hobo candidate for President of the United States. When you ask someone who they are going to vote for, and they reply “nobody,” you now know who they were talking about. Most importantly, I have met many new people, made many new friends, and heard many good stories and much history.
That is the purpose of a true hobo; to make friends. Not just acquaintances, but
friends whom you will keep in touch with throughout your life. I have done this and I
correspond regularly with many of my new friends. In 1980, in appreciation of the help and friendship I put forth to my hobo friends, I was officially dubbed a “Grand Duke of Hoboes” for life. I have the paperwork to prove it. I cherish the honor, and, like everything else connected to the hoboes, I laugh about it at the same time. Irreverence is a hallmark of hobo life. I was even given a hobo name, “Black River Blondie,” to identify me and increase my “status” among the brotherhood. I have since shortened it to “Black River” out of laziness, but I will never drop the name I was given.
So, every year I sit down and try to see if I can find the time to return to the
festivities. Since I have settled down with a wife and family it has been difficult. I read the hobo web sites to see who did or didn’t make it to the convention. Whether those who didn’t were just ill, or whether they “caught the Westbound” and will not return again.
It is a sad irony that I have discovered the honor and friendship of the
“brotherhood of the road” just as it is entering its twilight years. The heyday of the hobos rested on the steam locomotive. As the steamers faded into oblivion and the economy improved the job prospects of the millions out of work during the depression, the ability of the old ‘bos to travel freely was severely restricted. Few young men took up train hopping and the existing population has now become quite aged. Soon there will be no “real” hoboes left. I have wished many times that I could have discovered it when it was young so that I would not have to watch it die.
But there is hope. Maybe not for the train hoppers, but for the traveling spirit and
the vagabond lifestyle. Every year more and more young vagabonds show up to be a part
of the convention. Hitchhikers, bikers, and campers are well represented along with the original vagabonds who never die, the tramps. So maybe the reign of the American Hobo is not quite over yet. Perhaps I can still be a part of some of the festivities over the next 100 years of coronations in Britt, Iowa, the home of the “American King in Rags.
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