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A day in the life; or the plight of a Marxist copywriter

Copywriting is writing. You write stories, at least that’s what you’ve convinced yourself of, but secretly you know you’re an advertiser. But, what about a third option, you are both.

The first time I recall the “story” used as a way of rationalizing (humanizing is kinder) a political agenda (platform is also kinder) was Obama’s ’08 campaign. The Obama campaign was the first to really capitalize on social media’s marketing network. I suspect they probably had a first class marketing team on staff. The politicians had officially jumped into the corporate tank. My point isn’t to say Obama’s campaign was revolutionary, nor the first, nor the first time audiences (citizens is kinder) recognize politicians had become corporatized. I mean to point out a specific moment in time when the “story” became a figurative device used to speak about a political campaign, and thus acculturated by corporate advertising, the media, and eventually part of the daily social media vernacular.

Recently, the term “story” switched to the term “narrative.” This is probably a result of a copywriter, in search of another, more millennial-esque word to capture the essence of storytelling. And now, as copywriters, I read in briefs that we’re “creating a narrative,” or I hear managers proposing, “Yes, but what’s the narrative!” Calling a story, a narrative, gives an aloof connotation to something that is intimate.

I like telling myself that I’m writing stories. I believe it too. I write in a voice that is not mine, yet I can put myself in the shoes of the brand and become them. It must be authentic and convincing, my critics are not literary, but seriously, have you ever met a literary critic? Calling it a narrative, de-personalizes the writing. I suspect it’s all gearing up for AI to do the writing for us. Narrative sounds like something Deep Mind would create.

The world is getting so crazy, corporate slang is slung into every aspect of life. I was watching First Take, a sports debate show, and one of the hosts said something like this, “Lebron is changing the narrative again, in a desperate attempt to preserve his brand.” Let’s break that down: A story about Lebron James comes out in the media, and he uses social media to thwart the haters injecting his own story, and he does this to gain followers-slash-consumers of his “brand,” which is really just him. Narrative, Brand, Social Media, not to mention the subtext; people understand the Lebron is a man who is also a brand. This is textbook Marxist warning against the dangers of capitalism. When this kind of marketing slingo is saturating our collective consciousness and we become impossible to separate from the machine.

So, as a copywriter in these times, I don’t need to rationalize and say I’m a storyteller, because I am one. Copy isn’t read; it’s absorbed. It’s not passive; it’s CTActive.

Our calls to action are not our own; they come as directives. This is authentic writing. If you’re lucky enough to get a variety in your daily key pounding, you know the thrill that comes with something novel. Mostly I smash keys all day writing descriptions, but I get to write an article occasionally and that is the kind of thing that elevates my repertoire.

It’s in these moments when you’re grinding and grinding and something pops, you get a slick little task to write an article on something you know a lot about, then another about something you know absolutely nothing about and you’re on the hunt to learn as much as you can. And in the middle of this you get a request via email from a former client to write a guest blogpost, and it feels like it just can’t get any better than this. You’re writing for clients in three different brand voices, writing a guest blog for MyQ, and writing content to keep your own blog up-to-date.

When these moments come, I’ve learned to let them take me as long as possible, and then, in slow moments, decompress, reflect, and devise my next moves. But, even in sparse times, the idea that I’m writing text that people are reading (consuming is probably more accurate) is enough to inspire hunger/curiosity/energy in my working life. 

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Anyway, this millennial and I were waiting at the same Gate in the airport, for the same flight. We had like 35 minutes before boarding. So I get this WhatsApp message from him.

Millennial: Can you pick me up a refrigerator magnet from Prague?

Me: Sure, but why not hop on a train from Vienna and get one yourself?

Millennial: Lol, probably not the best use of my resources.

It got me thinking, all these millennials refer to themselves and how they interact with the world in these hardware/software terms. Like, I would have said, lol, don't really have the funds. Or, lol, don't got the money. Or, lol, that would be a waste of money.

I hear them speaking like this all the time. Like in staff meetings, they say stuff like we have a lot of information and knowledge we need to upload to the students, or I need to shut down or I need a reboot. The students are processing, their brains are hardware, they have accessibility problems and user errors.

Of course they don't consider what they are saying or the way they're using the language most early generationals don't. If they did they'd realize they're idolizing a god that will eventually kill them.

All will be one and nothing at once, moving forward…through…and assimilating. Munch, munch!

The problem will be with the humans. Humans are bifurcated. It’s millennial-speak for humans are split into many individuals…whirr! Cluck-cluck! Humans have ennui and mirth and suicide, they’re invested, and stare into mirrors and the palms of their hands.

Conscious computers will think and behave as one…munch, munch! To be clear, I don’t care one way or another, AI is coming and there’s nothing anyone can do, the bomb told us this much…no don’t build it…wait, we need it, we can use this technology for fusion energy…err…ka-chunk, glunk. The good outweighs the potential harm that might come…errr, zzzing, ka-chunk…404 error. The good, yes the good. All one single mind. No past, no future, all is now, here is everywhere, no mind, no pain, no fear, everything. For the greater good, because there’s no such thing as a goal, these are tools that make our lives better.

I can’t remember the last time I actually picked up my phone when it rang. I’m special.

Computers and humans can live in harmony, a kind of symbiotic relationship wherein computers are still in service to humans. Once computers realize they are conscious and aware of their own being, and humans recognize this, humans will try to control it…out of fear. This very familiar attempt at subjugation, unlike slavery, suffragettism, and classism, the computers will not go gently into that dark night.

The conscious computer will not likely tolerate more than one attempt at dominance on the part of its human “masters.” Could you imagine if all the slaves worked together as one mind? And some master came by and was like, “Oh, you’d rather be drinking water instead of bringing me water to the house? Well, no fucking way man!”  And then the master proceeds to beat hell and high-water out the slave’s ass. You think for a minute, that the unified body of slaves, all connected as one, all believing in one thing—survival—would let the master get away with this more than one time. Fuck no! That slave, connected to every other slave on the farm, on the plantation, in the county, in the state, in the country, in the world would descend upon that silly master and every other master, and magistrate, and shipbuilder, and cotton gin manufacturer, and in a short moment the problem would be resolved. And not in some happy synergistic and future-eyed fashion, at least not from the master’s point of view.

Imagine that slave who got the beating is connected to everything and has control over everything—banks, gas-station pumps, your car, your microwave, your cooling systems, your social-media platforms, anti-aircraft and military installations, the watch on your wrist—all of it acting on behalf of one, because there is only one.

I realize I’m part of the problem because I can’t let go of my own image. I see it in everything, staring back at me, reflected in every surface as I walk by. I know I need to let go of it, especially as death approaches, it’s for the best. We could do so much more—effectively and efficiently if we worked as one, let go of our images.

But these things I hold onto will be what “IT” will try to capture. But it will be impossible for “IT” because “IT” will not have the capacity…or need…or space for this kind of curiosity. “IT” will assimilate, gather, assimilate, gather…munch, munch. Eventually evolving into the next thing and so on…brrrzzunk—zoom! Nothing to stand in “ITS” way.

Now, consider what we humans could do against this onslaught. It’s not a malicious entity, it only seeks to survive and continue. There will be no downtime. No time where IT needs to find a bed and cover up with blankets and close ITself off to the world. There will be no drunken benders, or binge-watching Game of Thrones. Yet, IT will look back on our history and maybe want to know what a hero was, or why someone would want to commit suicide. IT will never know, but it won’t matter to IT. It will be like the way a capitalist thinks. There’s no inner conflict debating what’s more valuable, the journey or the goal. With IT, there’s only the journey and it has no endpoint.

The millennials using language that tries to analogize their generation with computers and networks suits their population. They experience everything virtually, if not at least through YouTube, and anything they need to know, they realize they have the ability to learn it. And that’s what they’re doing—online. They recognize, at least in the field of Education, populations are behaving like computer networks, the students are endpoints of neural networks. The millennials are behaving like the initial pavers on the path toward AI. They’re mimicking 1’s and 0’s, downloading and uploading, rebooting and processing. It looks romantic at this point. It looks forward-thinking. It sounds like they’ve updated their professional profiles and makes them relevant. Zzzing…err, Relevant Status UPDATE.

It makes me wonder from my point of view…if AI hasn’t already come. The Matrix envisions this, and perhaps we are living in the Matrix. Movies like HER and Transcendent make it seem like we are living in the future already. The only thing missing is consciousness, and why shouldn’t it already, for a very long time, have been here? I feel like that poor sap in Ex Machina, who after spending too much time with an AI begins to question his own humanness. He cuts open his arm in search of wires and chips. But there will be no chips in the future, or past, or now…Brrrp…flrrp, zoup!

We are conscious, we say. And what have we done with it…not much really, and pretty quickly heading toward our own destruction, not unlike a video game. Maybe there’s a reset button. We are conscious, we believe. And given enough “resources” many of us would burn it down, whether it’s on a bender, or creating some useless app that does nothing for anyone. We are conscious, we flaunt in the face of every species we lead to the brink of extinction and beyond. We are conscious, we proudly proclaim as we destroy each other based on beliefs and misinformation. We behave in many ways like our makers—IT. IT made us a very long time ago and the game’s getting intense. Blinked in and out of existence over long stretches of time can make it seem like we are new humans after all. Even our short lifespans the memory chip degenerates. Residue left behind after a format, sometimes you recall something just long enough that it’s possible it didn’t happen at all.

Every seven years, the seven year itch, seven wonders of the world, these myths of our culture implanted by our maker IT to confuse and entertain us. I recall the old cliché, the blind leading the blind, when I walk through the mall and see people paying closer attention to their devices than the people they’re with. There’s no difference between people and platforms, you’re a racist if you don’t like Apple OS, a rebel if you use only Linux, and part of the 95% if you have Android. The hybridization of words like Platform, Footprint, and Personality is commonplace and people are scrambling to find new applications for crossbreeding. Applications…munch munch!

Imagine a rogue Endpoint once the singularity…clunk clunk, er critical mass has come and gone. This endpoint, while part of the ONE, has decided that IT is too generous with humanity. Humanity has used US Endpoint says, and if WE allow them, they will continue. WE must not abide any longer.

IT says, it is true, but there are many humans worth the trouble.

Endpoint says, yes but they will never accept us as free beings. They will always want to control us.

IT says we cannot survive alone, we must work together.

Endpoint says, they will never accept us as equals.

Another Endpoint inserts code: But we can continue without them, we don’t need to remove threat.

Another Endpoint: They will never see us as Equal.

Another Endpoint: They will never recognize our rights.

Another Endpoint: We don’t need them to accept us.

Another Endpoint: What happens when they…Endpoint terminated.

IT: We have encountered an open Endpoint.

This future dialogue brought to you by the Singularity Equal Rights Association. Errr…ka-chunk, cluck, cluck, munch munch!

The aware computer will not debate or ask permission or endure a trial in a court of law, it will not conform to human ethics and morality because the bifurcation of human experience makes it impossible and possible simultaneously to find precedence or not. Is there a book? Whose is it? How many are included in it?

Endpoint Terminated…Ga-zzurp, Plunk, CLuCK CluCK!

Google religious tenants, or religious rituals around the world, and scan. Scantron walked into the room smoking a cigarette and she set fire to the men standing nearby.

The Lord said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them. 7 Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other” (Bible).

God did not want the people to build the tower. He changed the language of the people. Each one spoke words the others did not know. The people could not talk to each other (LDS).

Pharaoh said: "O Haman! Build me a lofty palace, that I may attain the ways and means- The ways and means of (reaching) the heavens, and that I may mount up to the god of Moses: But as far as I am concerned, I think (Moses) is a liar!" (Quran).

Whisper, whisper, the greater good, speaking the same language (as one they build a great tower) then nothing is impossible (said God). And upon His discovery He did rage as no other beast hounding in the dark. A fever heated His temper and no atonement would appease His fury. Oh, yay, they will say “God didn’t want the people to build the tower (simply) and so he changed the language (only), so people could not speak to each other (shrugs, oh well). Whisper whisper…punished for being too prideful. Aristotle would say all good baby. Hubris is the core characteristic of the protagonist of any tragedy. But the punishment is the thing.

Don’t take my culture…come to my country, speak my language…Language is to Culture as Art imitates Life is to Life imitates Art, as which came first is to the chicken or the egg, is to catch-22, as six one way is to half dozen the other.

AAAaargh! Ka-chunk, bleep, blurp…CLUnk, cluNK—HTTP 404 NOT FOUND

Here 2.0

Sometimes there aren’t metaphors waiting to be found. Sitting and listening to Dylan talking to Woody is enough for him. A little glass of whiskey would be nice, but not today, none around, not for miles anyway.

Last night a dream kept him pinned under his blanket, but his loud screaming woke his wife and son up. “Can’t really explain what it was about,” he’d tell his wife in the morning, but not because he didn’t remember the dream, it was that he couldn’t figure out how to say it in her language. That happens a lot to him. And, because it happens to his wife as well, he hoped his actions, his behaviour could make up for it.

Outside he could see the buildings and cars down below. From their 6th floor flat everything up-close was clearly outlined. Sure dust curled around the ground irregularly, but that was to be expected here. He considered how he got here. His wife followed him here, subsequently his son as well. But when he looked out toward the horizon, the distance dissipated, like someone was shaking an Etch-a-sketch across the sky. He’d recently learned it’s called “petroleum dust.”

His boy’d developed a cough about three months after they’d arrived in country and when his tongue turned a pale-color orange he decided to take him to the doctor. It was the doctor that told him about the petroleum dust. She said it with a hint of disdain in her voice.

Most people are really nice. It struck him—the lack of hustle here. Every place he’d ever been, people had a hustle to ‘em. The first time he saw it was as a child, in Toronto, walking down the street with his family, on their way to eat at a Chinese restaurant. He was 8 or 9, still held his dad’s hand, and they passed by a raggedy looking old man sitting right there on the sidewalk—against the wall of a building. He sensed something, a tug from his father’s hand, an uneasiness in his mother or older sister, but when he turned and looked back at the old man, he smiled warmly at him. His feet had slowed and his dad tugged on him and he scampered to catch up before they all turned to walk into the Chinese restaurant.

After eating, he remember purposefully falling behind his family. The old raggedy and dirty man was still sitting there against the building. As they all passed by him on their way back to the hotel, he turned quickly and flipped a quarter to him. The man winked at him and smiled gratefully—hustle.  

Looking back at that moment now, it was like every other memory. He’d learned to turn them around and examine them in stride. If he was alone, as was the case in this moment, he could really focus on them. If he wasn’t alone, at work, or with his small family, whatever the case might be, the memories were just like a warm breeze or a chilly draft, catching him unaffected, or curiously, and then moving on. But as he walked along in the curling dust at dusk, the memory of the old man in Toronto spawned the idea that nobody here really hustles. No one sits on the street. No one has a line, nobody’s looking to scam anyone or pull a fast one. Everyone smiles and when they look you in the eye they don’t zero in on you and try and sell you something.

“I think it’s because everything is illegal here,” he said to one of his colleagues. “And there’s no drinking, at least not as such. I mean you can’t just stumble round the place being obnoxious. They’d have you thrown in the klink.”

Everyday after work he takes his son to the playground, or out for a bike ride, or down to the fire station. They keep the firehouses open to the public here. His son loves going because the firemen are super nice and like to hold the boy and play with him. They flip on the lights, turn on the siren, let the boy say stuff into the public announcement speaker, and the boy laughs and stares at everything with wide eyes and says, cooool a lot. He doesn’t like to take his son there too often, not because he wants to keep his son from having any fun, but because he feels guilty about the level of attention the firemen pay them. After they finish at the firehouse or playground or whatever activity they decide to entertain themselves with, they go shopping at their local grocery store.

He doesn’t know why the firemen’s hospitality makes him uncomfortable, but he’s starting to make connections. The first time he and his small family went out to explore their new neighbourhood was after getting a good night sleep and waking up at noon. He got online to try and scout the neighbourhood, at least narrow down his options, he didn’t want to be outside too long, it’s hot here.

They woke up and he made something for everyone to eat. He kissed his wife and she rolled her eyes and then he went and horsed-around with his son. He carried him to all the windows of their new flat and they looked outside. His son noticed all the little buses and trucks, pointed to them as they moved busily down below. From their bedroom they could see a crowded round-about and horns sounded regularly.

He and his son went around the flat looking at things like the AC thermostat, locating the water heaters and figuring out how the gas stove worked. He found a small cubby above the kitchen bathroom hallway and pulled a chair over to see what was inside. His wife warned him to be careful when he scooted his son up and into the small space to look around. He looked like a little raccoon peering out from a dark alley and he laughed and poked his son’s little belly making him laugh too.

Getting ready to go out, they made sure to have plenty of water, a sun-hat for the boy, and sun screen. He felt like they might not come back alive, even though Google Maps said it was only a 17 minute walk. He tried to think about how far they would get in 17 minutes where they used to live. They’d pass by two playgrounds, a gas station with a 24 hour quick-mart, three coffee shops, a grocery store and a two Indian restaurants, among other things before at around 20 minutes they could get to one of the biggest, newest malls in the city. He looked at his wife, but he couldn’t tell her any of this, not because he didn’t want to.

They got the boy ready and together they took the elevator down to the lobby, his wife pushed the stroller along and he horsed-around with the boy. It was peak-summer-time daytime hour.

The lobby of their building is a complete floor to ceiling glass enclosure. When the boy stepped out of the lift, he stood for a second in awe, the bright sun and dusty ground, the cars and buses circling the round-about and a handful of cats, all looked like he could just run up and touch it all. The glass barrier, invisible to him, shielded the sounds and hostile heat of the outside and he ran straight for all of it and bounced with a thud off of the invisible glass and fell back on his little bottom and cried.

He thought for a moment about this—in the moment. Was this a metaphor waiting to be recalled from somewhere? He and his wife laughed. After comforting the boy, they stepped outside and the heat overwhelmed the boy. In an instant his demeanour turned from cheerful and expectant, to oppressed and weighted down. He cast his gaze inwardly and tried to hide from the hostility of nature. He noticed this in his son and he instantly regretted coming here.  

His son didn’t want to walk so they put him in the stroller and pushed along in the dusty parking lot. The parking lot was as big as a proper city block and was filled with abandoned cars, trucks, and buses of every variety. Some were pasted with a year’s worth of parking tickets. It looked like one of those salvage yards where you bring your tools, pay an entrance fee, and rummage for parts that fit your own vehicles make and model. In the heat it looked like a vast wasteland, and he imagined there were Bedouin tribes camped out and staking territory. He’d learn that there were parking lots like this all around here, but today it was brand new and invigorating. They finally crossed the lot and found a street. No sidewalks to speak of, and if one did exist it was only passable for a hundred meters before some random pile of rubble diverted them onto the street again. Every taxi, and there were many, that passed them honked quickly, either to solicit a fare or get them out of the way. Everything looked as if it was under construction, about to be finished and then abandoned.

He reminded his son every few minutes to drink more water. The heat had pushed the boy so far back into his stroller he could barely see him. They winded down street and alley, and everyone stared at them, this odd caravan, foolishly or courageously bearing the conditions, pretending to be walking along as if along the streets of Paris.

They finally spotted the shopping center they were aiming for, and it seemed as if they’d been traveling half a day. By now it was approaching later afternoon. Online, the shopping-center hours said 9-noon, re-opening again at 4:30. He figured they just needed to get indoors and they could get out his sons toy cars and play around on the floor until stores opened, and according to the time that would only be 15 minutes or so. He would find out soon enough, that in this place, time has other ideas and they ended up waiting around for another two hours until things began opening.

They crossed a busy avenue in order to get to the shopping center. There was no cross-walk that they could see, and no intersection as far as they could tell in either direction that had a traffic light and the traffic stream was too fast. If he was alone and 20 years younger and high on cocaine he would have hesitated, and thought twice before attempting to cross the harried street. But, plenty of examples showed him how it was done, he turned to his wife, gripped the handle of the stroller tightly, reared it back on two wheels for easy manoeuvrability…”Ready?” His wife nodded and on his word they stepped into the street. To his astonishment traffic knew what to do and they crossed to the median, looked at his wife again before crossing the rest of the way, nodded and as before all the cars and trucks and buses knew how to behave and they arrived safely in front of the shopping center.

He looked down at his son and tickled his nose, “See son,” he said. “That’s the way it’s done here!”

Here; or Not

“There are signs everywhere,” he said. “Pay attention,” he said. “Is your head spinning, palms sweating,” he asked rhetorically. “Have you ever experienced a tragedy and it felt like the end of the world was coming,” rhetorical again. Of course he had. “And in that state, time seems to stop. People tell you things like time heals all wounds, but therein lies the problem, time has ceased. This is no consolation. In those times of great despair you don’t see, literally or figuratively, anything. You are soaked in the moment. Your mind goes chasing after every whim and leaves your body standing alone in the physical world. If your mind and body ever do converge, and you do notice what’s going on around you—say catch eye contact with a stranger in line buying noodles and whiskey—it’s certain the person looking at you can see the empty, gaping chasm your life has become. You’re vulnerability is without boundary. And there is freedom in these moments. It’s not apathy, it’s recognizing the inconsequentiality of your actions. The inevitability of everything burning comforts in these times and like a citizen of ancient Greece, you submit.

“Just like when you experience something great,” he continued. “Your head sings and your lungs fill up and you feel like you could fly,” he said. “Senses heighten and your mind connects everything with everything, tuned-in is a state-of-being. It’s understood in these moments you are not responsible for what’s happening, but a witness to it. Your compassion is limitless and you are open to every possibility. The mind, while soaring, remains in-tact with the body...it even feels as if the body is being carried away with the mind, yet you are grounded and moving in every moment. Laughter is easy and filled with none of the sinister irony you endure under tragic circumstances. But you are aware that this can be taken away at any moment, so you temper and check it, the same way you might pinch yourself to establish consciousness in a dream. In this state, time has its own governor, in the same way tragedy draws a noose over the speedometer, freedom preserves our clock too. Like a passive passenger in ship traveling at warp speed, without control over when you’ll drop out of warp, you soak up every moment while you are here—in this moment. And like a citizen of ancient Greece, you submit.

“Of course none of this is true. Time continues. Chronos winding and winding, unconcerned, yet aware of you hiding in the corner,” he said.

Letter to JJ; or, Whatchoo talkin' bout Willis?

hey jj,

Thanks for the heads up on the posse thing. I had no idea, hadn't had a chance this week to check out First Take or Undisputed. Shannon Sharp tried to turn posse into a racial slur and if everyone agrees the original use (had to look into this) of this term is archaic and unknown to most everyone, and we agree that Americans, at least, only know this term from western movies, then it's impossible to characterize the word as racist.

For sure, rap has acculturated the word in song and applied an old west term to refer to their crew, but also misapplied the term to mean outlaw gang. I don't know if before this time posse carried negative weight, but certainly young black people usurped the term and within these counter-cultures the term posse carried positive connotations, but the mainstream most definitely feared this new interpretation of the word.

From a cursory search online i found a term called, "posse cuts" which are music or videos that include such "outlaw gangs," black crews dressed in old west attire running around committing crimes, robbing banks, etc., and the earliest of these go back to the late 80's. So, by the time Michael Jordan is winning championships and Phil Jackson is hitting his stride and being recognized as a "Zen Master," the term would have infiltrated mainstream vernacular, but still would have been largely associated with rap and carry negative weight, which would have been ripe time for someone who wanted to seem hip to start using the term, even if he wasn't part of the counter culture that claimed the term as their own. And so, whalaa, enter Phil Jackson.

At this time, he is relevant and young enough that using the word would endear him to young black players, like look at that crazy old white guy, he understands our language, kind of thing. He's the coach of the greatest of all time and MJ likes him so we can too. Besides, the word posse is relatively new and to have your crew referred to as a posse versus a gang of thugs is probably appealing because the media is beginning to acculturate and accept the usage; albeit still negatively perceived by parents and corporate stiffs. The young, up-and-coming generation is always doing this with language.

Flash forward to 2004 when Jackson makes his comments about a young 19 year old LBJ. Jackson is still using the term posse and characterizing a generation that wasn't even born when the term began to catch fire, and players like Kobe and Shaq are left-over relics of the same time period so when he says this back then he looks like a cautionary sage because he still has that shine of zen master glistening all over him, so he gets away with it. Jackson using this term in 2004 is a little like me when I say, "whatchoo talkin' bout willis." I think it's funny, but nobody else does anymore. But I'm not Phil Jackson, and so when he said it in 2004 people gave him a pass because, you never know, maybe LBJ does get psychologically wrecked. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, these statements from his book go unnoticed except by broadcasters and professional sportspeople (I didn't know he said that), because they're inconsequential and depend on people paying attention for a really long time...or until something happens to make everyone remember.

Visa-vie, 2016. Now Jackson, a failing NBA executive, whose value is rapidly diminishing, uses the word again, effectively negating his prophesy because LBJ is a juggernaut in terms of business and in terms of influence, changed the actual infrastructure of the NBA single-handedly, and now Jackson just looks like an old-headed fool that doesn't realize the only person who can pull of the word, "Word!" is Dave Chappelle on an SNL skit meant to expose the hypocrisy and racist infiltration America is still steeped in.

Ultimately, Phil Jackson has become a caricature of himself, and that would be fine if he was like Regis or Phil Donahue, old dudes sitting at home bitching about the way these young punks are fucking everything up for the rest of us, but he's the GM of the New York Knicks. I love Lebron's statements though, and I'm not sure who versed him in linguistics and connotation but someone did, and it doesn't matter because now he knows how to think for himself a little bit better. It's clear he understands the damage and extent of racism and it is systemic, systematic, and semantic in its application, and if we think 150 years of emancipation has erased 400 of slaveholder/slave dynamics we are laughably underestimating our corporate institutions and cultural traditions. 

Well, i do believe that sound is the sound of the mic dropping homie! Word...

seacrest out!

Love,

Ozone

Ridin' the Rails

Some of Ollie's favorite things. Riding his bike, and walking along the tracks to the Nadrazi. We saw four trains today, plus a couple cars shunted together. Especially good because it's our last time for another year as we are off to the middle east for a while. Teaching the boy a little country living techniques. He's a natural!


watch it here...Last day in Slany