This one goes out to Chag. To the common blogger he's Cynical Dad. I've known him and believed in him for 4? 5? years. I've never met him. I'm not sure I even know his christian name. I happen to know him as Change Agent. He's Cynical because he's a Dad. He's a Dad because somebody's kids have to save the world. Check in with me right around 2020 and I'll let you know exactly what his kids are up to.
Hey Chag! I'm not selling anyone out, I just finally have enough passion to buy back my value.
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The dress rehearsal is finally over.
I'm about to get psych-ward-worthy crazy. I figure if I warn everybody who's waiting on the world to change, t a l k r e a l s l o o o w, and then start from the top, we can absolutely preempt any calls of a three-digit nature. See? An old dog can learn a new trick just like that! Bow? Wow!
These days, everlong, the world is my laboratory. Dude's hard-earned ad dollars generated by the "consumer's" purchase of Coca Cola and Old Spice and anything else that America's great independent ad machine can peddle comprise the just-about-adequate grant that funds my operation -- which is to say YOU do. What he's doing with your money as we speak? Ironically, blogging. Adding emotional value to an emotionally bankrupt world. He claims even the LA Times thinks so, but I'm not so sure.
Instead of bringing you sugar in your Coke, he brings you everything you didn't ask for. Because it's pretty good to look at, you don't notice the message (p.s. there isn't one) but you enjoyed the entertainment. As mentioned previously, ad nauseumly BMC-style, I never sold ad space or sold my story or sold myself or sold out. I do everything for love, not money. Which is to say I do everything for passion, not power, position or prestige. I was born entitled to all that shit, and I can assure you the batteries of passion are not included with that luxury package. Nor is a sunroof.
In my world PASSION = MONEY, thereby neutralizing the all-consuming power of either.
I'm going to stop here, because I have also learned during my short tenure as the interweb's resident unrehabilitated crazy, I scare people. I am manufacturing little white flags to hand to people before I start the crazy machine up.
I've taken to secretly predicting the outcome of any and all interactions with the world outside my head regarding the basis for my experiments in the lab of my life. According to the professor, I'm rockin' an A average, and can kill a pop quiz in a hot millisecond.
If you're here watching from the other side of the DMZ (Divorce Mesmerization Zone), do join me for tea and bedlam at the Inn.
The exit's to your right, I'm headed left. To the coast. For good.
See you at the Inn,