by Mark Patterson
Legendary tight-rope walker Karl Wallenda, who took that deadly fall in 1978, once said: “Life is on the wire. Everything else is just waiting.” Had the then- septuagenarian been born a few decades later, he probably would have performed while wielding both balance pole and Samsung Galaxy, because life in the 21st century exists on a smart phone-and nobody EVER waits to immerse themselves in one.
I recall eating out about 10 or 12 years ago and observing, at roughly the dawn of a tyranny those insidious devices would impose on our entire reality, that all but one or two fellow diners, paired off mainly in guy/girl couples, were ignoring the face across the table in favor of feverish surfing or texting. Even then, the burgeoning ability to visit any person, place, or thing-an entire planet and all it offers- during anything so mundane as a chain-restaurant meal had begun to forge addictive bonds that crack cocaine might envy.
Phooey on the future husband or Pilates pal sharing that rubbery calamari. What was THAT appeal compared to the world at their fingertips (Doesn’t that phrase sound like the title of a Bond movie, a really bad one with Timothy Dalton firing the PPK?). I imagined them conducting elicit trysts, checking NFL scores, or even ordering that special Christmas gift with just the taps of a practiced finger.
These days, even as the technology has exploded to incorporate cameras that could film the next Star Trek movie (Please, Mr. Producer, somehow work 96-year-old William Shatner into it, however ridiculous the device of resurrection. Just prop him up in the Captain’s chair and collect my 12 bucks.), the agenda of many users has changed. They don’t summon a virtual universe-they make themselves the center of it.
And employ “social media” in an anything but sociable manner.
For a quick disclaimer: I DID open an account on the sniping platform formerly known as twitter. But only to hype a live-stream podcast I’m set to launch next spring. There’s no interest like self-interest, but even so, maintaining an online “presence” with the occasional posting not only feels like a betrayal of my oft stated contempt for the places where people’s aliases gather to type things they would never give voice to in the presence of their target(s), but sends me to a hot shower faster than a third-rate relief pitcher who just gave up a walk-off grand-slam. Somebody grab a luffa and scrub the slime off my back.
My contempt for X, Facebook, and Tik-Tok (except for those comely chicks roller-dancing to Elvis songs) no doubt traces to the sort of vile attacks and indignities any public figure (even a very minor one like myself) inevitably faces in the land of likes and clicks. Did you know that anybody in Elon’s virtual jungle can POSE as you, make a buffoon (or worse, far worse) of you, and put unflattering words in your (virtual) mouth simply by declaring it a “parody” account?
And, believe me, my imitators have NOT had the “sincerest form of flattery” in mind. Unless, of course, hillbilly dialogue that makes Jethro Bodine sound like Oppenheimer, supposedly posted over “grits and possum” at Connie’s Corner ( at least, THAT malicious doppelganger looked up “Chester restaurants”), qualifies.
Those brickbats, I can live with. They’re part of the deal in doing televised sports commentary for 25 years-at least with any measure of candor, and my career has been nothing if not polarizing. A big sign emblazoned with “kick me,” as invitation to even the vociferous unaccountable, who obsessively court both clicks and carpal tunnel from the safety of mom and dad’s basement, comes with the job.
No, Hell is repetition, to quote Andre Linoge, my favorite Stephen King villain-in social media’s case, the same boring content re-cycled and posted over and over, to the imaginary applause of an ever-increasing “like” count.
Call me cold. You won’t be the first. But I don’t want (more) collages of grandkids, photos of somebody’s treasured Chiwawa, Fifi, all decked out in the little fella’s new fall-attire, and even less, a rundown on the casserole baked (with love, of course) in some house for dinner. The ultimate win for the narcissists lurking beneath your smart phone-screen comes by forcing you to look at the things THEY love.
Primarily, though, social media platforms scare me. Much like most normal kids harbor crippling phobias about clowns, all sane adults should be afraid (be VERY afraid) of any person enshrouding his identity. Nameless entities are non-starters with me. When words, even, no, ESPECIALLY, soundless ones on the sinister web, carry no consequences-all the better to stalk you with, my dear.
But that inspired testament to technology, that neutral meeting place for widespread points on the map and divergent points of view that is the internet, no doubt hits bottom in the “discussion” of politics. Employ one tentative finger to type one letter into THAT maelstrom and pull back a stub, as regardless of your orientation, vengeful hordes materialize to wish you deceased. When it comes to Trump, tariffs, the border, or foreign wars, no nuance exists, and the penalty for disagreement is always (virtual) death.
At least a Dahmer or Gacy had real logistical limits on their grisly tallies, whereas those who kill with keyboards have global reach and a pool of victims limited only by the good instincts to avoid slaying grounds festooned with cute emojis.
Don’t physicists theorize that the whole shebang ends with some inevitable convergence of matter and anti-matter? Cosmic fire and gasoline that must never meet? When related to social media, that Stephen Hawking stuff might not bode well for us. If the all-knowing universe can’t separate real from imaginary, how can mere humans hooked on Facebook be expected to?
Perhaps even now the apocalypse arises-from those five-inch devices that enslave us.
Sent from Outlook
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