Thanks for visiting. I write about literature, skepticism, and the inherent beauty in both. Don’t worry, it’s a lot funnier than it sounds. Mostly, you’ll see projects from me that involve the growing technological landscape. A great example is my new novel, Fluid, now on sale!
Feel free to e-mail me directly. I like to hear from people. You. I like to hear from you.
This is one I wrote to all the buttheads…
Defending a Michael Jackson memorial is like defending air or water—anything so utterly and horribly over-exposed certainly needs no defense. It’s everywhere, like it or not, unavoidable, ubiquitous. But I feel the need to do so.
Our modern culture is split, fractured, divided amongst languages, factions, beliefs, politics, religions. Cultural pundits across the aisles have consistently bemoaned the loss of “water cooler moments” that unify our culture, that make us “Americans” or simply, “humans.” These events, in the age of three television stations and two newspapers, used to be as simple as Carol Burnett’s new show, or the crrrrrazy new Procter and Gamble advertisement. But, as more stations and websites and magazines take over a cultural landscape, as we’re allowed to find our own niche and not simply slot into the 4 or 5 boxes available, we fragment, we splinter, we separate. And that’s… okay. It’s a necessary by-product of progress, an ironic attribute of connectivity.
The morning after the presidential election, I sent this e-mail out to some of my friends who work in the arts:
As artists, we spend much of our lives reacting, be it to overly authoritarian power structures, mistreatment of the less fortunate, or worldviews we find to be corrupt and disingenuous. It strikes me today, after surrounding myself for the last twenty-four hours with like-minded individuals who shared their hugs and their fears and their tears, that we have another opportunity to consider. Read more
This is an old post I wrote about Proposition 8 and its subsequent failure.
Protests are always a crapshoot. The weather could blow, the turnout could suck, the keynote speakers could fall flat, the donated sound system could break, or, even worse, the protest could be a raging success. The disaffected people, the proletariat who have left their houses, traveled in solidarity for a common cause, they could be whipped into a chaotic frenzy, marched to a second destination, then… left to disband. This feeling of isolationism and confusion that drove them to seek out a group, that forced them to have a voice, it’s now worse before, now that each protestor has been exposed to the notion that there are OTHERS like him, that there are OTHERS who feel the same, that there are OTHERS willing to fight against the preservation of the status quo. But those others are riding the subway home. Those others are at Whole Foods getting lunch. Those others, whose names you don’t know, whose phone numbers you don’t have, they’re hitting the 3:15 showing of Madagascar 2. That dissipation of energy is the comedown off the heroin protest high, and it’s an all too familiar feeling for the modern dissident. Read more