#FacebookFree48; The Life I Saw This Weekend

I firmly believe, long after I am gone, history will finally realize that I am a brilliant writer with brilliant ideas. None may be any more brillianter than what I've been doing the last 3 weekends. I've been staying off Facebook and social media. I have currently dubbed this #FacebookFree48. As another Monday morning dawns, I feel refreshed. I feel drama and stress free. I'm also feeling pretty damn haughty about the Free 48 I'm onto. I feel like it's my mental "down dog" and I don't even have to wear yoga pants. Or any pants really.

Dog does not have social media. Be more like dog.

One of the byproducts of the Free 48 is all the -duh- free time. I'm up and out of bed earlier because I'm not on FB seeing whose bitching about the weather or politics. I'm not on the dumper for 20 minutes now. I'm doing healthier things for my mind and body. Now, maybe you're not sold on this Free concept, so I thought I would detail all the "extra" little things in life I got to do and see this weekend. Turns out there's a lot of life that doesn't fit in your phone.


I watched the Endless Summer like I always do during the summer. It's my favorite summer movie-sorry, Jaws and Malibu Bikini Shop-and a great slice of a simpler time. I also enjoy watching it before the PC police come down on it for maybe, possibly being a tad racist in, like 1 or 2 small segments. But I really feel it was naivete and cluelessness on film maker Bruce Brown's part.

I had my faith restored in humanity, which is pretty heavy for a Saturday. As much as I loathe to do this during the weekend, I had to venture out to the store to pick something up. While I was there, minding my own GD business, a guy comes up to me and asks, "Excuse me, do you work here?" One thing I have learned about me is that I appear to look like I work at whatever place I may be in at that given time. (Like, for example, the liquor store. But at least that makes sense because I am there all the damn time, they gave me my own locker in the back.) I politely tell him no, but I also point him to someone who does. He goes over to the employee, whatever. Then the guy comes up to me and thanks me! "Hey, buddy, I just wanted to thank you. What's your name?" I am flabbergasted this kind of courtesy exists in this world. I tell him my name, he extends his hand, "Well, thank you, Mr. Kevin" and he walks away. 

I find myself listening to Michael Franti more and more. However, this is music I can only listen do during the summer. When it’s nice. And sunny. Not raining. (I know, I know, I am a music freak.) I wasn’t even digging Stay Human 2 till recently, then the click came and I dug it. I really think Franti is getting to be to young people what Buffett is to old people. Also, Roger Clyne and The Peacemakers is great summer music. I’ve been getting into the Joint on SXM. Again, when the summer goes, so does the preset for the Joint.

I’m writing more and more. I think we can all be thankful for that. Namaste, world.

Killing it at the gym. Like, to the point, I’m actually sweating. This is good news, as it aids an air of legitimacy to all the over priced UnderArmour I wear.

Cleaned out my computer. Much like myself, I’ve been noticing it slowing down lately. Look, I understand, as far as PCs go, it’s getting pretty old. (I bought it last week). I took the time to go through settings/apps and features to remove anything questionable. And I know what you’re thinking, and, no, none of this was from watching porn. Also, much like myself, I cleaned out all the cookies. My PC should be quicker now, which could mean more blogs! More likely, drunken Amazon purchases. (Narrator voice; “None of this worked.”)

I watched a lotta porn.

I went to the store to buy a frozen pizza. I left it on the dashboard, and by the time I got home, it was ready.

Came across one of the funniest sites I've ever seen

Speaking of, went blackout shopping on Amazon. I’m not even gonna check what I did, I prefer the surprise. One time, Drunk Kev went all next level and got into my subscribe & save. This explains why I have 37 bottles of Orange Glo.

I switched up my direct deposits. Yay adulting!

Finished a book. Pretended to understand it.

Reset my neighbor’s wifi password. Just to teach him a lesson. Can’t be too safe these days. I mean, with a password like FGh56://5tY7Gg5&o2@k%, he was just asking for it.

Filled out every survey at the bottom of every receipt I could find. Back up the Brinks truck!

On Sunday, like a proper and distinguished gentleman, I had brunch:

Accomplished my summer goal ahead of time; collected all 50 different bottles of Mountain Dew. Comes with free diabetes.

Multiple incidents of puppy cuddles. I have to say it boggles my mind when I see people walking their dogs, yet they're staring into their phones. (The people, not the dogs.) Like, you're walking a dog, life can't get much better.


Monday is once again upon us, with it's usual evil precision. Yet I feel refreshed and pretty sure my bullshit meter is low. I had a great weekend in many respects even if it wasn't all amusements parks and beaches. I'm grateful for the extra time I got back and the little slices of life I got to see. Now, maybe the freight train that is the work week has all kinds of bad plans for me, I can't say. But I can say I am coming from a pretty good place, and I really like my odds.

What I Learned Staying Off Facebook For 48 Hours

There I was, Saturday morning. It was a good morning as I didn’t get shitfaced on Friday night. Theory Pup 2 let me sleep in a little bit, which is damn nice of the guy. I didn’t know what time it was, but the summer sun filling the room in June colors told me it was about an hour or so later than what time I typically get up during the week. I picked up my phone, just to see the time. I was happy with the extra sleep, and anxious to actually get a full, fun Saturday in. Why stare at my phone? I can see there is a nice summer day unfolding, let’s go get it! Phone goes down, day starts. I am in the gym nice and early, so there’s only a few people who can watch me try not to drop plates and bars on various body parts that are mostly soft tissue. I get a really solid workout in. Get back home, and realize I never “checked my phone.” I can see there are no texts (no one loves me) and no important email. Here, I can make a choice, I can get sucked down the hole that is Facebook. Or I can keep the good flow of a beautiful Saturday going. I make one of those spontaneous decisions I am famous for (Like seeing how much of a pie I can eat) and decide this day is too beautiful and too promising to waste on Facebook. I am going to go 24 hours without checking FB.

This is your brain without social media.

Already, there is a uniqueness to this morning. This is not the typical start. In fact, I dare say most of us start our mornings a little something like this;  I am pretty sure most of my readers are at least comfortable enough with technology, that they have eschewed the traditional alarm clock, and just use their phone. I am no different. However, I soon found myself falling into a trap that I had set for myself. Here’s the scenario; alarm goes off disgustingly early. I open my eyes, and pray I am waking up in my bed, and not a tub of ice in some seedy hotel with a note saying some of my organs were removed, also there is a ton of rented porn on the hotel bill. (Truth be told, those two things may not have a lot to do with each other.) Upon realizing I was in fact in my own bed, I grab my phone, swipe the MFing alarm off. From there I can unlock it, and what pops right up? Right, FB, because that was the last thing I looked at before I went to bed. Now, it was fairly easy for me to stop that useless habit (checking socials and getting fired up at the stupidity I see, which in turns keeps me up all night), but the feeling to “just check FB/socials real quick” got to the point it was a flaming waste of time and immediately put me in a bad mood. Why are we waking up and checking social media? Is it FOMO?

Is it for breaking news? No. No, likely, it is to immediately start comparing ourselves to others. We don’t like what we see, either in our friends our ourselves, and now we’re dark sourpusses all day. if there’s one thing you take away from this blog today; please let it be this:

SEND ME ALL YOUR MONEY.

OK, that was just a test. Here’s the real lesson;ereHe

DO NOT CHECK YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA FIRST THING IN THE MORNING.

Any morning. In fact, don’t let it be the second, third or tenth thing you do. This lesson came quite harshly, as one morning it hit me; there is a perfectly fine and fluffy puppy belly waiting on the couch. And that’s how I start all my mornings now. Alarm goes off, I shut it off, phone goes face down, and I greet the morning with my best friend. That’s the way to do it, not by getting yourself all fired up over some dipshits on FB.

Be proud to be a jomo. G'head, be a flaming jomo all you want.

Back to Saturday. The clock tells me it’s noon, and I am in an unusually good mood and pleasantly sober! Maybe there really is something to staying off the socials, and just living your day.

So what did I do with my vast, newfound amount of freetime?

I spent time with my parents. I spent time with my dog. I read books. I caught up on magazines (Ok, from October 2018.) I binged. (TV, not rum!) I listened to music. I did shit around the house. I napped in the hammock. I found the inspiration to write after months. I spent time with people important to me. I did my best to live in the moment. And I had zero FOMO. I ventured out into the world.

I went to a bar, where everybody-everybody- ­was staring into their phone, even the bartenders and DJ. Their faces aglow in zombie like light. Their screens full of FB, IG, texts, etc. There was a bunch of people here, but it seemed like I was the only one truly there. I watch as a couple comes in and sits at the bar. Husband has on a stereotypical Hawaiian shirt, even though we are about as far away from Hawaii-in many respects- as possible. Maybe it was their big night out, maybe they had a sitter, I don’t know, but they were different. I suspect they Ubered it there, as they both seemed to be politely buzzed. As my man ordered a flight of beer, his inner Jimmy Buffett became unleashed, and he sang along with the music to his wife. A little sloppy, but not rude and offensive. And she was laughing back. They were the happiest two in the joint. Maybe it’s more than just coincidence than neither of them were staring into their phone. They were actually having fun, and almost no one saw that and appreciated it like I did. Everyone else was staring into their phones and socials. But I can assure you, I was more entertained than any other schlub there.

As I awoke Sunday, also still having both kidneys safely stored inside me, guess what? Still no FOMO. In fact, much like the IFChallenge I did a while back, it was all very positive forward momentum. “Hell, I got this far, and I feel awesome! Let’s go another day.” And I did. And, again, it was awesome.

Monday morning comes like a vengeful goblin, and I finally decide to check FB. You know what I missed? Nothing, absolutely nothing. When I logged back in, after the first 6 or so posts, it was literally the same BS. I missed little. My perspective from this experience was fresh, as I scrolled down a few more posts, I saw all the behavior that I didn’t miss in full bloom.

Stuff like:

FB not only enables creeping, it already does the creeping on you. Yes, this is old news, but this is my story. About a week or so ago, I ordered a foam roller because my back needs to crack like its full of painful popcorn. I order it, it shows up, mad cracking commences. Now, here’s the thing. I never used FB to research this, I knew what I wanted because the gym has one that works for me. (sidenote; however rolling on the floor and loudly saying, “Oh yea, that’s the spot, right there!” is not being well met.) Open FB, and wanna guess what the first sponsored ad I see is? Yup, for that exact same foam roller. Just another reminder, FB is stalking you. For some of you sickos, that might make you feel a little better about yourself. Whatever floats your boat.

Stop playing victim/attention whore with all your issues/dramas. Not to get all Tony Robbins here (especially the pervy part), but no one ever fixed a problem or achieved their dreams by just whining about them on FB. Man the hell up, buttercup. I have a theory (duh) that the people who post the least on their socials are the most grounded and self-realized people living full and well intentioned lives.Or they are super busy doing important things. I mean, it’s not like you see the President tweeting or anything. Of course, I also have a theory that Taylor Swift wrote a song about me, so WTF do I know?

Enough with the constant barrage of vacation photos. Yes, all your photos of the sunset/rise are all worthy of a mug on Café Press, but let’s limit it here, eh? You know, it is possible to go away and not post about it? (Go follow Clark Little, and that’s all the photography you need.) Every time I see you go away, I go to your empty house and rub my butt all over your doorknobs.

Kind of unrelated, but anyone know any good lawyers? Seems everybody has video doorbells these days.

Suicide is sadly still a thing. Maybe FB should stop with all the political propaganda ads, and throw in some suicide awareness PDAs and contacts. Just sayin’.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline 1 800 273 8255

@800273TALK on Twitter

I have totally slacked on my Presidential campaign. No biggie, I can just hire some PR firm to put misleading ads on social media. Done.

The amount of requests I get to like y’all side hustle pages is getting to be reGDdiculous. Look, I support small business and friend’s ventures all I can. But if your one of my FB “friends” who never says boo to me (especially on Halloween), never wish me happy birthday, never like a picture of Theory Pup 2, never acknowledge all my hysterical jokes, don’t read this here blog, then don’t fucking expect me to acknowledge your home based tchotchke selling business. You don’t encourage my waste of time and unprofitable side gig, so you can’t expect me to support yours. (Editor’s note; in the process of letting this post breathe a little bit, as I was editing it, a good FB friend asked me to like a band page. She is always supportive of me; she ‘likes’ lots of my posts and comments occasionally, so guess what? That band got a like.) (Editor’s note; I don’t know why I used the term ‘editor’s note.’ I’m the friggin’ editor here. I do all the writing, the pictures and their captions and the editing. Spoiler alert, when you see the term ‘editor’s note’ it’s almost always the writer trying to sound all haughty.)

Taking pictures of your babies every month they get older needs to end. OK, spoiler alert, EVERY BABY LOOKS LIKE EVERY OTHER BABY THE FIRST FEW MONTHS. Like, you could literally do this for 6 months, switching out a new baby every time and no one would notice. Don’t believe me? I triple dog (yes, just cutting right to the chase, here) dare you. Go nuts. Have a white girl baby at 2 months, and a black male baby at 3 months, conjoined twins at 5 months. No one would notice. They’d all just blindly hit the ‘like’ button and comment, “Ohh, it’s getting SO big!!!!” NEWS FLASH-THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS TO BABIES WHEN YOU FEED THEM! You should be calling the authorities if the infant seems to be getting smaller.

It’s apparently a law now that every time you go to the airport, you have to “check in.” It’s apparently a by law that you then have to humblebrag about either your job or your vacation. Well, whoop-de-fucking-do, peckerhead, you boarded a plane! How about this, “check in” when you’re actually flying the damn thing. Outside of that, get over yourself. Pretty sure when Wilbur and Orville Wright first flew, they didn’t immediately dispatch the carrier pigeons bragging how they actually flew and didn’t shit their pantaloons.

"Orville! Call that putz Ford and tell him his autothingamajiggies will never cut it now!"

Oh yea, I have a Twitter, too! Can't tell you the last time I checked it. is Twitter still cool? Have we moved onto something else? I need to know, so I can care less about it.

Apparently, people are now claiming to be something called “breatharians”on InstaGram. Just the fact that this horseshit has picked up so much traction on IG and the main stream media only reinforces my correct decision to not even be on IG. If you seriously think people can go months without eating, and can “breathe” in nutrition, you are truly the r-word we can no longer use. I am pretty sure IG is nothing but hot chicks wearing bikinis spouting off bullshit that everyone takes as gospel. And that’s why I’m not on IG. IG only promotes narcissism and anxiety. (That and the fact the only people I would follow are hot chicks wearing bikinis. It would be embarrassing. Yes, I am a man with flaws, but at least I own my flaws. Sometimes twice a night.)

So what do we take away from this experience, other than I have to get better at writing segues to end my posts? Maybe the time is upon us to pay more attention to what's happening outside the phone. Phones, as advanced and necessary as they are, will always come in boxes. Life doesn't, and if you think it does, you can always step out of that box and live a little bit. Just don't feel the need to feed the beast, and blab about it on your socials. 

DVD Bonus Material

In the whole "editor's note" bit, part of letting a post breathe is giving it a day or two, then trying to put it in a coherent order and getting the pictures and captions (Editor's note; this is seriously about my favorite part of putting the post together.) In this particulate case, much of the time to "breathe" was me spending countless hours researching "fitness girls on IG" all for one joke. But, still, the time invested was well worth it.) You're welcome, fellas. Turns out I didn't even use the joke I had in mind.

Put The GD Phone Down and Enjoy Your F*cking Vacation

It seems my entire summer has been nothing but getting barraged by vacation posts on my social media. “Oh, look, so and so is on vacation. Here’s another 30 pictures and five check ins from Tuesday. Oh man, I hope there’s pictures of food in this collection!”

Be more like her.

Guys, we need to have some sort of summit, some kind of “code” where we reign in all this “Look social media!1! I’m on vacation!1!” Here’s what I propose as I decide if I should add this to any of my #VoteForKev2020 platforms.

1)      No more than 5 pics per day. And all 5 shots have to be different, not just slightly different poses. Exception; unless you’re a hot chick in a bikini. In which case, this is likely the only reason I keep you as a FB friend. We both know the deal here.

2)      Only 1 shot of the sunrise or sunset. You can’t have both. What are you doing up so early on vacation anyway?

3)      No more than 5 check ins per week. Plan your attention whoring carefully.

4)      Absolutely no video. Few care to see pictures of your child on the Teacups, let alone video. In fact, you could post a video of an entirely different child on the Teacups, and most of us wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

5)      Absolutely no food porn. Can we just call a halt to this banal practice anyway? I can’t tell you how many bullshit food porn pics have been littering my feed all summer. To be quite honest, no one really fucking cares. Is your ego really that inflated that you think, “I’m am going to post this nondescript picture of what appears to be Michelob Ultra in a glass along side a plate of food that looks like it could be literally from the chicken wing place two blocks away from me.” 

Pop quiz, hotshot

The above is a picture of

1) The finest pizza with expensive beer from a villa in Italy

2) The world famous boardwalk pizza and local craft brew

3) The Monday Night Special from the shitty sports bar

Well, what do you think?

Every time I see something like the above pizza picture, I go to your house and pee somewhere. Pool, garden, doorknob, bed (both dog and human), car door handle, mailbox. I feel no guilt, you brought this on yourself.

I myself abide by the same rules. To wit, this is the first year for Theory Pup 2.0 on the beach. As this is a momentous occasion, it’s only a momentous occasion for a small amount of people. I did shoot a video of his first steps on the beach and brush with the ocean, but that really means something to just me. I kept it and didn’t post it. And since we’re all being honest here, I will tell you I took 64 pictures total. Of those, TP2 was in 58 of them. And while most certainly yes, he was rocking the dorbs, you want to know how many pics I posted? None. Zip. Zero. Nada. I value and appreciate my FB friends that much that I don’t want to waste their time on videos they won’t watch or pics they won’t look at, just long ass blogs they won’t read.

Vacations generally cost a lot of money because they are worth it. Hotels and beach houses are generally expensive to rent because part of the deal is the peace of mind.  You don’t sit around thinking of what picture to hang where or what color to paint the garage door or any other of the subliminal messages those bastards at Lowes and Home Depot implant. You don’t worry about anything because generally, there is nothing to worry about at the hotel/beach house.Yes, there may not be a monetary return on investment, but what you can get out of them is often worth it if you know what you're doing. And that's why you're here because I know what I'm doing. For the record, give me an old school, “back in the day” beach house any day. No, really, please somebody just give me one of those. HMU @ifyouseekev Until that beach house pops up, let’s get back on point. What’s the point of getting away from it all if you take everything with you? You know what I’m talking about; this wonderful device we all use called “the phone.” You finally get there, and you stare at your phone like you do every other damn day? That makes no sense to me.

"I wonder what the weather on the beach is supposed to be like today. I better check."

What is that conversation like when you return to work on Monday?

“Hey, Dick, how was your vacation last week?”

“Hi, Harry, thanks for asking! It was great! We went to the beach and I posted 50 photos a day! Then we went to the boards, and I stared my phone. We ate great dinners while I took pictures and stared at my phone. We ate ice cream and I stared at my phone. I even managed to stare at my phone while we rode roller coasters!”

“Wow, that sounds really awesome! Well, welcome back and enjoy staring at your computer screen for the next 8 hours, dick.”

On vacation, I consciously unplugged, and you know what? It was fucking glorious. I didn’t bring my PC. Left the work phone at home and never checked my work communications once and didn't feel a damn shred of guilt about it. My constituents can go a week without me. I mean, c’mon, when 45 takes his weekly 4-day vacations, you think he has his work phone, or even “the football?” No, he doesn’t, so I see no need for any of us to do any different. I used my phone sparingly. For example; running tracker & music, directions, Yelp to find new places and reviews, weather, tide chart. Maybe FB once a day. I didn’t drunk text anybody. I didn’t check my usual sports sites, besides, what other meaningful sports are in season now beyond NASCAR and UFC? I didn’t check my usual newsites. And you know what I missed? You know what happened?

Nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, for the second time this year, I find myself coming back to a Del Amitri song:

And nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all

The needle returns to the start of the song

And we all sing along like before

You know it’s possible to go to the beach and not bring your phone? I know, right, pretty freaking mind-blowing. I’m so old school, I brought these things called books and this ancient technology called an “iPod.” Not “iPad” but “iPod.” King Tut had one. Go Google it. My mind boggles when people stare at their phones all day on the beach. Yet they do, in scary, big numbers. Doesn’t matter the age, everyone is doing it. And it got me wondering, what’s the point here? Why do you pack a bag, towel, umbrella, food and drink, set yourself up, then stare at your phone the whole time? What’s the endgame here? You can just do that shit at home. Your phone is with you all the time, the beach isn’t. What am I missing here? I could have been sitting on that beach, phasing in and out of unconsciousness (naps, not blackouts) with my iPod on. A tsunami warning could go out, I could miss it and wake up to an empty ass beach with a huge wave coming at me all Rogue One style. Whoops, SPOILER ALERT! Damn it. Sorry. Anyway, I’d just look at that wave with Zac Brown playing in my ears and enjoy my last few minutes of peace. And some chicken fried.

OK, I can hear you naysayers out there, asking, “But, Kev, what if they were actually not screwing around on their phones? What if they actually were reading?” That’s a fair question, and here’s my common sense answer; because I can tell. So, let’s see, when they are constantly tap tap tapping on their screen. When they are lying on their back, neck craned to the left, where their hand is holding the phone. Lying on their stomach, creating a mountain around their phone with their t-shirt so they can see the screen, robbing themselves of the beach and ocean. Taking selfies, Twittering or Twattering or whatever it’s called, checking in, everything from the beach but not actually being on the beach.

Every morning, I would watch this family of 3, a mom and two teen aged daughters, walking to the beach. And without fail every time, the mom was eyes ahead on the prize of the beach, while her two kids mindlessly had their necks craned at 45 degrees so they could stare into their phone.

One day I even saw another teen girl texting while pedaling her bike next to a busy road. Is this where we’re really heading? Using this marvelous thing called a phone to not -oh I don’t know-actually talk to people? Anyone remember when the big threat was people just merely talking on their phone? Now it’s people texting while driving, even though handsfree devices are far less dorkly than previous models. Even when every new car comes with BlueTooth. When I saw this girl texting while on her bike, I had half a mind to run across the street and barrel into her just to teach her a valuable lesson. Alas, I had already run ½ mile in ten minutes before gassing out and just didn’t have the energy. She probably could have beaten me up.

And yes, I know this is Old Man Theory running out into his yard wearing tall white socks, screaming at the clouds and telling those durn kids to turn down their infernal music. I get kids today never not had phones. They’ve probably never bought a physical cd or physical book. Nope, all that stuff today comes magically in the air to your phone. And it stays there. And it gets lost there.

Everyone has their place; their place that heals them, inspires them, soothes them, encourages them. For me, that is the beach. So why would I bring anything to distract me from that? I have a playlist on my iPod called SummerSongs. (Yes, there’s no space in there, and no, I haven’t figured out how to correct it.) And it’s literally hundreds of songs that are about summer, remind me of summer, or were big hit songs in the summers of my current youth.

Some days, I would put my iPod on and just listen to all those songs. Two things would happen. 1) If it was an older song, memories of past summers would come rushing in, much like the tide. Where I was when I heard this song, who I was with, beach visits from the past. 2) Or if it was another song, I would find myself making new memories to it. That kid in the green shorts with matching skim board that always went ass up when he hit the wave. Those 4 girls who were talking about guys they were stalking or “ruin.” The stand up paddle boarders paddling by. Embedding memories in these songs so the next time I heard them, these moments would come back. Pleasant time bombs.

I would venture out into the ocean. Without the books or iPod of course, because that would be stupid. I would wade so far out, the lifeguards wouldn’t whistle me in, because they knew I could fight any shark dumb enough to be coming by. My eyes saw it like this; for 180 degrees, from my left to my right was nothing but me and the ocean. I could see no one else. Just me and the ocean, my ocean. The ocean I can still never make myself pee in. The sun beating a trail down on the waves tracing back to me. A million tiny suns shining back in the waves. Occasionally, dolphins (the fish, not the football players, because that would be kind of weird) would breach way out in front of me. And this was it. I hit my Zen. And

IT

WAS

AWESOME

Up to me and what’s left of my brain cells to somehow hit the pause button and remember this scene, this feeling. I didn’t have to post anything about it. I didn’t have to check in about it. It was just me and my ocean. This would have to hold me for another 51 weeks. So, soak it all in. I was able to hit this Zen moment a few more times on the beach. Each time trying to consciously be in the moment. We don’t remember the moments we lifelessly stare into our phones, we remember moments like this.

There were times on that beach where I was just trying to hit the pause button. I don’t think we need the KT Bureau of BS statistics to tell us time flies much faster on vacations. I believe the variant to be at 1.3. So when you get those moments where you have Zen or are able to live in the moment, do it. Don’t take pictures or blab about it on ChatterGram or Friendster or wherever people are jerking off these days. Appreciate where you are and hold onto it for as long as you can. There are actual non KT Bureau of BS Statistics that show people who constantly take pics with their phone remember far less than those who try to be present in the moment.

Top; Tiger Woods teeing off 2002, bottom Tiger Woods teeing off 2018. Progress?

In case you didn't get that joke.

It doesn’t matter where your Zen is. It could be a golf course in Ireland. Setting up camp in the forest. An iceberg in Alaska. (Yea, I don’t get that one, either.) The point here is, find that place and go to it. With my favorite kind of abandon; reckless abandon. Go to it as often as you can. Unapologetically. And when you get there, be there. Put the phone away. It’s just you and your Zen here, kid. No phone can capture that. Only you can. And while we’re at it, keep an eye out for forest fires, because that’s kinda your responsibility now too, champ. Only you…

I also hit these Zen moments while running, of all things. Yes, longtime readers who haven’t yet got quite tired of my juvenile humor know I absolutely detest running. I am only doing this because I have the stupid Warrior Dash coming. But running at the beach in the morning is a whole different animal. I have a running tracker, and music to help me as I huff and puff like an asthmatic Jabba the Hutt. The music I “use” for such occasions is a mix of aggressive, heavier type music, along with a few from my SummerSongs playlist. And I found as those summer songs hit, I was taking more of the sights in. The umbrellas gently moving on the beach, the hotel that somehow had palm trees on some on the balconies, trying to look studly and unfatigued as I ran past the boardwalk webcam that I often look at. Again, the next time I hear those songs, I will recall those scenes in slow motion. Because that was pretty much the way it felt like I was running.

Music is funny that way, you can hear a song you’ve heard before, but when at the right time and right environment, it can capture a memory you want to hold on to. For example, I heard this Michael Franti song while I was eating breakfast outside on Monday morning with a Crabby Mary. The Crabby Mary of course being the drink and not anybody I may have been with. So, of course, I bought this album (people still do buy music) and put it on my iPod. (OK, I might be alone in that behavior.) It will always remind me of this -and really, who has good memories of any Monday morning?- breakfast and the overwhelming gratitude that I was even able to be in this space and time. And that the Visa gift card miraculously didn’t bounce, or it would have been another morning run.

It was on these runs that this blog started taking form. As I sluggishly made my way, I literally see hundreds of people of all ages actively ignoring the beach and the life on the boardwalk to mindlessly stare into their phones. They didn’t smell the popcorn and cotton candy, nor hear the seagulls or waves. If I had the other half of my mind, I’d recklessly careen into them like I am a movie getaway car driving through boxes in an alley. I just couldn’t get away very fast. Plus, those assholes would quickly post photos of me running away. Lousy social media.

And yes, it’s not lost on me that I use a lot of these very same social medias to pimp this blog. I know, it’s lazy. I know it’s the nature of the beast. But at least I am trying to get some good, sound advice out there. And, trust me, this is all good shit. It’s also not lost on me that as I write this first draft (and let’s face it, I’m just gonna run it 95% the way it is) that I have been staring at a screen for 154 minutes now on a beautiful Sunday when I could be reading, hammocking, walking Pup 2.0. Instead, here I am, spouting sound common sense that will largely be ignored. I have faith that one day my work will be discovered and feted. I see a liberal and forward thinking college naming a wing after me.

Let me end this life lesson. If you must surf the Web while on the beach, reading this blog is acceptable. In fact, you are encouraged to let others read it, too. Afterwards, I am sure they will put their phones down and actually enjoy the waves. And if someone actually is reading this blog while on the beach, send me a picture, and I will donate some money to the charity of your choosing. (See, that’s how you use education and social media for good.)

Now put the phone down.

DVD Extra

Bonus scene with commentary

For the most astute of you, you probably notice there has been an unexplained gap from Theory Pup 1 and this New Guy, Theory Pup 2. Theory Pup 1, was lost, so, so suddenly last fall. I thought there was more time. It’s nothing that fits this humor blog, other than I truly miss him every day. Every fucking day. But TP2 is doing a really good job at plugging this dog sized hole in my heart. I mean, not enough to get a tattoo, but you never know. I don’t believe in signs. But the following is true.

As I arrived on the beach on Saturday, the first day of this illustrious vacation, I was rifling through my shorts, hoping for 20s, 50s or something even greater. I fumbled through a few old receipts. And I found a yellow square of paper, a Post it. And on that small yellow square of paper was a series of questions I was going to ask the doctor who evaluated TP1. Ultimately, they were not needed to be asked. TP1 was gone so shortly thereafter. (And yes, this opens me up for how often I wash my clothes, so fire away, fucktards.)

So here I am, at the very same beach TP1 quite possibly had the last, best time of his life. On those shores, in that sand, in front of that ocean, he found his inner pup. Acting, dancing far younger than his 13 years. Squirrel speed. Energy boundless. A part of me, a very big part of me, was dreading this "Yappy Hour." TP2 was proving to be stubborn, but to be fair, he was so much younger, by years, than the first time I brought TP1 down.  TP2 was being a very good boy, but still a bit of a dickhead.

The last day of Yappy Hour, Friday, I held that little yellow square tightly in my hand, TP2 in my other hand. I knew what I had to do. In the Grand Scheme of Things, it was full circle. Again, I don’t believe in signs. But it seemed to make all the sense in the world. As I was walking TP2 along the tide- a struggle in itself- I bent down like a Ninja and placed the small yellow paper into the ocean. The tide knew what to do with the rest. I watched it disappear into the ocean, knowing TP1 would never disappear from my heart. Not now, not ever. I miss you Big Guy, you are a great dog.

Turns Out I'm Something Called an Introvert, So You Gotta Deal With It

I hate people.

In all of my years writing, I don’t know that I’ve ever opened up with a more honest statement.

Here’s a confession. I am shy. Too shy. Deathly shy. 

Me.

I know some of you are probably disagreeing with this, but bear with me as I explain. I am shy to the point of awkwardness. And I am sure my awkwardness has led many to believe I am gruff/stiff/weird/odd. And I don’t disagree with that. For me, there is no bigger dread than walking into a big room full of strangers, even if we all share a common interest. I can’t do small talk; I suck at it. “So…uh…hey…how about all that…..weather. And stuff. Crazy….sun….and barometric pressure. Um…did you see those clouds yesterday? Crazy, man.” Fucking shoot me. I feel the room closing around me, like I am the lone, shy human amongst a crowd of socially at ease zombies. And they’re going to eat my brains. And probably still be hungry.

To be honest, I’m one of those types that has more of “the feels” for animals (OK, dogs, mostly. Definitely not cats.) than for people. Just how black is my heart? Whenever I see those posters of all those missing kids, I feel nothing. Like, literally, nothing. But if I see a handwritten sign for a lost dog, I go to pieces. One time in my neighborhood, I saw a sign on a telephone pole that a little girl lost her turtle. And I actually went looking for the GD turtle! Also, protip here; don’t go calling for turtles, turns out they don’t have ears.

Good at finding Turtles.

I was shy all through school and college. I was never popular-surprise! Everyone just seemed so far ahead and ‘grown up’ and confident. Meanwhile, I was off in the corner at all the school dances, wondering why the hell I would even go to dances. I can’t dance. So let’s see; not attractive-check, can’t talk-check, can’t dance-check. So let’s just go to the dance so I can totally destroy what little self esteem I had. And these were supposed to be my good years? Doomed from the start, I tell ya.

It doesn’t help I am horrible with names. I’m pretty good with faces. Still, faces are scary because they have mouths that can open and talk and sneeze and call me by my name. What sorcery is this? I open my mouth, and gibberish comes out. Or a loud belch. Usually, it’s a loud belch. Sometimes, it smells like lunch.

I don’t know how to change it, I don’t know how to get more “social.” At times, it bothers me I am this far in life and have the social skills of a dull two year old. I should know how to have a polite conversation with a fellow human, yet this skill continues to evade me. I must have made some kind of subconscious deal to trade conversational skill for barely talented writer. They both have the same result; barely anyone hears me.

Yeah, asshole.

One of the beauty things about FB and the Net is that you can find just about any group to accept your flaws and shortcomings, give it a name, and suddenly, you’re the victim, and the world better cater to you. For example, turns out I was never deathly shy. And I’m not even an asshole! Turns out I am something called an “introvert” and there’s all kinds of memes and pointed quotes to make me feel comfortable. The world should acquiesce to my short comings and flaws. There’s actually many articles on how to deal with introverts. See, I am actually so deep and complex, I need an instruction manual! Better yet, there are lots more of these “introverts,” though we probably won’t get together to talk about it. 

The funny thing about putting any label on yourself is that it defines you. In my case, I’m an “introvert” and it’s perfectly acceptable to live inside my comfortable little box and stay here. That’s kind of what introverts do. And now this label makes it totally acceptable to stay introverted and stay inside my house and binge watch shows or read books or write blogs. I can wear whatever I want and go to bed whenever I want. Even my introvert self can recognize this behavior is socially retarded. I will always be an introvert if I stay an introvert. Nothing changes if nothing changes, and I’m OK with that.

Speaking of FB, we’ve all seen the picture of the log cabin. You’re asked if you could live in the cabin for 30 days with no wifi and no TV. And here’s where my shyness is hardcore. Every dipshit comments that they would live there, like the point is to say no. And here’s where I’m different; I could actually do it. The idea of being in the woods (actually, I’d prefer a shack on the water, choosy beggar am I) alone in a house (if it was a tent, no deal) sounds like heaven for introvert me. I would have a much better sleep pattern. I would bring every book and magazine (starting with all the unread Men’s Fitness from 2015) with me. I would bring my iPod-yes, I said iPod-that has months of music on it that I would happily listen to.

Wait. These are the neighbors!? 60. I can do 60 days. Easy.

Also, I think we’re all assuming this mythological cabin will have some creature comforts. Running hot water. Fridge. A decent bed, ooh maybe a hammock hung up in the corner! Electricity. Can I at least get Sirius? And some sort of oven or microwave? It’s not like I’m gonna be out hunting like a dirty caveman, but I’m at least going to assume there is a Wawa or something near by. Hell, there will probably be 3 Starbucks in the middle of the woods. I can snake their wifi.

No one to talk to. No one to impress or pass judgement on me. No discussions about the weather, which, by the way for the sake of this trial is assumed to be perfect. No deal if it’s not sunny and 70. I would look forward to going out into nature some days: running, walking, hiking, urinating. Maybe get up early a few mornings to see a sunrise or two. See the stars and moon with no light pollution for the big, bad city. My only real worry will be dodging the serial killers all the movies told me populate the woods.

"You getting the hockey game in that cabin?"

OK, so for shits and giggles (and wouldn’t the term shits and goggles be more appropriate? Just sayin’.) let’s just put this “introvert” label on me. Does it define me? Does it make sense? Does it explain anything? Does anybody remember laughter?

Writing is a moneyless hobby I enjoy. It can excite me, and I can stay awake half the night working out a topic I think can be funny. One of the things I enjoy most about writing is it’s all me. I do the writing, I do the editing. (This post was originally 5,000 words long.)  I choose the pictures and come up with the captions. If it’s witty, it’s because of me. If it’s enjoyable, it’s because of me. If it sucks, it’s because of me. If it’s not funny, well then quite frankly, that’s your piss poor sense of humor, ya dickwad ya. And it’s something I do totally alone. Usually with curtains drawn. So, hmmm, maybe there is a part of this “introvert” thing I should be paying attention to? OK, let’s keep going.

Another joyless hobby of mine is going to the gym. It’s my release, my escape, my therapy. I put my headphones on, then proceed to lift barely heavy things in an effort to not crush my body. The risk of benching 70 pounds is quite detrimental if my girly wrists give out and it crushes my larynx. Sometimes, my biggest challenge is to not scream like a girl when I’m benching 70 pounds. And, BTW 70 pounds is 31.7 kilos for my international readers. Still as impressive, no? But, GD, if that isn’t another thing I enjoy doing alone.

OK, so maybe some of this may fit me. As with any new theory, there are other terms to it to further apply to oneself. Here’s one I like; introvert hangover. Wow I can be sick of people, too! I’m all in now!  OK, unlike the clear fallacy that is hype like ADHD, I actually kinda believe this one. Am I not the only one, when after spending a night with a bunch of people, go to bed feeling like a semi just ran them over? And I wasn’t even drinking? I totally get that. How many of us have said, “I am so tired of people?”

People are dicks. They’re mean, fake, shallow, greedy, unappreciative, dumb. I don’t like being around people because I feel they are judging me. And being an introvert can easily lead them to. I have been an introvert long enough, that it has bred this attitude of “fuck you.” I have just gotten beyond the point of feeling the need to be liked. Face it, life is littered with fake people, just like FB is. A wise man one told me, “I yam what I yam.” And that’s how I feel about me. If you like me, cool. If you don’t like me, that’s cool, too. I’m fine either way. 

But does this make being an introvert OK? Is it OK that I stay in my little box of shyness? Shouldn’t I want to be meeting new people? Shouldn’t I be the life of every party? Shouldn’t I be more knowledgeable about world events, current topics? Shouldn’t I be able to easily discuss how earth-shatteringly cool my job is? Or the last book I read? The last freaking awesome blog I wrote? Or the last movie I saw? (Which was Jigsaw by the way, and a worthy continuation to the series. On second thought, do people really wanna know I actually think that?) The last show I binge watched?

Face it, technology has conspired to make even the most extroverted behave like us introverts. And yes, I just became the flag bearer for introverts. Ya think any of ‘em are gonna stop me? Look no further than your phone. Look at all the wonder it has brought us. I can order a pizza without talking to a soul. If I drank coffee, I can put my ostentatious order in this miracle machine without saying a word. The warehouse club can have my entire order waiting for me. Yes, I need the multi pack of KY.

Instead of talking to the few brave souls in my “tribe” I can type a few words into this magic box and voicelessly communicate with them. If I was cool, I guess I could Snap them or Insta them, but I ain’t gots that kinda time. Point being, all that technology is awesome and readily available to us on our phone. Our phone. The thing we actually used to use to talk to these people. Progress!

I think this all successfully diagnoses me as an introvert. I know I’m not a doctor, but I’ve watched enough doctor porn to at least pick up a few things. WebMD can also be a legitimate help. In fact, I’m going there now to diagnose this shooting pain and numbness in my left arm. I am sure it is nothing. It's not like I'm actually gonna go see a doctor or anything...

The Asshole Hustle

As a point of reference, as I write this, it is just past 4PM on November 22^nd. It is the day before Thanksgiving. AKA, the biggest party night of the year. Might as well get one more good belt in before hanging with the fam for a day or two. And to be honest, I am already on my fourth rum and coke. I guess no one at this Barnes and Noble seems to find it odd. Nor do they find it odd I am clearly drinking in the children’s section. But, as I look around, I see plenty of the other breeders are doing the same thing. We occasionally nod to each other as if to say, “You’re cool here, brother. This is a safe space.” I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one here without actual children, but it does beg the question if the rest of them are pedos. So, what was the point of this blog?

Oh, yea, my new racket..um…hustle, umm  job. Let’s be honest, the evolution of real jobs over the last few years has been pretty wild. In this digital age, we now have professional cuddlers, Instagram picture takers,or sleeping on stranger’s floors. Hell, it seems like it was only a few years ago, our parents were telling us to never get in a stranger’s car. Nowadays, we hop on this mystical little device, and direct strangers to our exact location-often times, our own home-and willingly get in their car and have them drive us somewhere. They know our names and info. Progress?

In that entrepreneurial spirit, I have identified a need that needs filling. (That’s what needs do, they need stuff. That’s why they are a need.) And it’s a need I am particularly skilled in. You need a drunken asshole? I’m your man! Perhaps a few examples:

How many times have you found yourself in this scenario. A buddy says to you, “Hey, you doing anything tonight? Mike is having a party.” Being the pro you are, you ask, “Is DT going to be there?” Now, this DT character is someone we all know. The initials are meaningless, but they are always there. DT is often a male. (In cases when it’s a girl, the initials rule applies, but, also a caveat. The moniker “Crazy” might be applied. For example, Crazy Alanis or Crazy Steph. If you are a guy, dating Crazy is often adventurous.)

Yup, makes sense.

 He often goes by his initials. Sure, DJs are common. You might get other names like JT, JD, HM. Sometimes, more random initials like, J Dub (instead of the many syllabled W), PA. The initials are not as important as the character. DT is the guy who brings the party. DT is the guy you can just meet for a quick bite at Applebee’s on a Tuesday night, then wake up in an Atlantic City hotel room on Thursday. And you live in Wisconsin. DT will often show up dressed fairly nice, but as the night progresses, he loses his sport coat, his shirt becomes untucked and he is wearing glowing beads of some sort. Everyone loves DT. You wouldn’t trust him with a $10 loan, but when everyone gets their party on, everyone becomes best friends with DT. Parties are better with DT. Because he always gets drunker than everyone else. No matter how shit faced you get, DT gets more shit faced. No one remembers you tore the toilet paper holder off the wall of the guest bathroom because DT poured a margarita into the aquarium, then used a straw to drink it out. Ah, crazy ol’ DT being DT.

You’re asking if DT will be there, because that gauges your level of raging. If DT is there, you can safely get shitfaced, because the spotlight will be on DT. So, in a Choose Your Own Adventure style, it would look like this.

Is DT coming? If yes, flip to page 89

Page 89: “Great, I can safely get tuned. No worries.”

Is DT coming? If no, flip to page 91

Page 91:” Cue the fail horn! “Damn it, looks like I’m on Miller Lite all night.”

And, that, my friends is where I come in. If there’s one thing I have experience in, it’s being a drunken asshole. So why not make a living at it? You need more convincing? Man, when did you guys get to be such hardasses? Fine.

Here’s your real-world scenario. You’ve had a long week. Your fantasy team lost. Work was donkey balls. You just want to unwind. There’s a happy hour Friday night. You do your due diligence, and DT won’t be there. You want to get carelessly shitfaced. What’s one to do?

Call me!

Yup, my side hustle-as the kids all call it nowadays-is to be a raging, drunken asshole. A stretch, I know, but please let me elaborate. I will meet you at the event site; bar, country club, office Xmas party, Aunt Gladys’ funeral. Though, please note, the more formal the event, there will be a sliding fee to cover me getting all dressed up. You’re talking to a guy who does his best work in jeans and a t-shirt. Regardless, it will be my job to act like it’s a typical Tuesday afternoon; i.e  get blackout drunk and wake up in shame but hopefully at least my own bed. You can go get as sloshed as you want. I’ll be funneling Jager bombs with all the kids. And while I’m all stumbling around, you’ll be happily, invisibly toasted and no one will ever know because I am swinging off a chandelier wearing someone else’s shoes. Aw, ‘dat crazy KT!

Now, look, you all can realize this is a ROCK SOLID service I offer, and I suspect many of my ne’er-do-well readers will be hitting me up at @ifyouseekev to inquire of my services. But, it doesn’t stop there. No, no, no. This is Kev Theory we’re talking about here. While this is already an invaluable service, I am offering, you should be expecting more from me. And, I gotcha covered.

Maybe because I am now 7 drinks into my evening. Maybe because Evil Kev is starting to come out to play. Maybe because there are now actually kids here in the kid’s section. WTF? But I will offer many different levels of services. Depravity has many bounds.

Let’s be honest. You have your own motives. They may be pure, they may be evil. Frankly, I don’t care. I am an uncaring assassin. I’ve watched enough Jason Statham movies to understand. 

This tastes like steroids. With a dash of HGH. And strawberries!

So, let’s say there is an event you want to get out of. HMU. Is there a wedding on the horizon that might conflict with the prospect of NOT going to a wedding you don’t want to go to? I can make that happen. Invite me to a family gathering beforehand. Tell me who to piss off, and I can do that. Just ask my Uncle Lou. Because he won’t speak to me, but SEE? That’s my point. Screw him for getting married to some trollop the same Saturday as the Preakness. Or was it the Belmont? I don’t remember; I don’t follow horse racing all that closely.

OK, so that may be evil. But I specialize in tough love. Sometimes, the ones you love need to hear a message loud and clear. I gotcha. Let’s say there is a wedding coming up, and you don’t agree with the bride of choice. You hire me. You give me all the facts. (in my biz, we call this a dossier, but no need to bog down the minds of all the commoners) You tell me who to talk to and what to say. You bring me to a family event. Wind up my string (fill me up with liquor, because that gets to the truth a lot quicker than beer) and set me off. “Hey, are you Craig? You’re getting married soon, right? To, uhh, whatsherface? Right, right. Hey, look man, I know I don’t know you, but (defers to script given to me) Hello lost deposits! And hello Jen, the bridesmaid. Also, you get that free weekend off.

Maybe you don’t like your boss. Psyche! Who doesn’t like their boss? What better way to give them a piece of your mind-safely-than by letting me tell him/her off? Invite me to the office golf outing. Tell me what you want this douche bag to hear. Then stand back as I level him/her with your own words! It’s like all those cheesy teen age rom-com movies where the guy in the bushes-who is secretly in love with the girl hanging out the window-tells the guy standing in the open what to say! (OK, I know that’s a roundabout simile, but y’all know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout here.) In the end, I get tossed out, you can claim ignorance, and your boss hears the shit they need to hear. In fact, they may even become a better person! GD, sport, you’re such a good person! Ask for that raise!

Jesus, I need to advertise this better on Craigslist. Maybe buy a sponsored shot on LinkedIn.

I’m not only Next Level, I have all this shit thought out. Through all of this, you rational thinkers should be saying, “But under what guise, Kev Theory? On WHAT GROUNDS? That is a fair question. And if I wasn’t now 12 drinks into my night and wondering how I got into the erotica section of this B&N, I would have addressed this earlier. Again, all my rational thinking readers are now saying, “Well, K Theory, if you were a better writer…”  To which, I intelligently respond…well..um….

Fuck you.

Going back to the hanging question, just how do I get invited to all these events? The answer is simple. The answer is… (skip to the scene of a clock advancing 5 minutes) whatever makes the most sense. Invite me as your friend. I’ll be a coworker. Or an old college buddy.  We used to play hockey together. You a girl? Invite me as your date. You a guy? Invite me as your date. I got both ears pierced, so I can pull off either. That’s dedication! Though truth be told, I’ve skipped through enough Lifetime Xmas movies to know how “pretending” I’m your date usually ends up, so try to keep your walls up against my smoldering hotness. Actually, in all reality, it won’t be that hard.

So there you go. If anyone knows Ashston Kutcher, who likes to invest into ultracool web startups, he can DM me @ifyouseekev. If anyone knows Mila Kunis, then tell her to email me at ifyouseekev@gmail.com. Just because. The rest of you can spread the word or invest.

Happy Thanksgiving! Rates go up in 10 minutes.

DVD Extra

This entire post is based on what I thought was a throwaway FB post that went like this:

Hey guys!

Don’t feel like being the drunken asshole at all your gatherings this holiday weekend? Well, good news! My services are still available! Hire me to come in and be the raging asshole, so all the attention is taken off of you!

PM me for reasonable rates and enjoy yourself this weekend!

References available upon request. Many, many references.

A sincere, heartfelt thanks for all those who liked than and spurred me onto the above post.

Spokeo Scam

Have you figured out this whole Spokeo thing is a scam by now? It’s brilliant marketing, for sure. In case you have actual friends that live real lives free of their iPhones and PCs, here’s the deal. Over the last few days, word and outrage arose over the most vaunted and respectable of places; Facebook. Within milliseconds, my FB page was plastered with status updates advising me of the evil that is Spokeo.

Spokeo is a website that contains personal information. Say there’s someone you want to track down; an old college roomie, an ex, that hot movie star who is in love with you and sadly doesn’t even know it yet. You put in their name and location, and eventually pinpoint the exact person down. From there, you are privy to a whole host of personal information; income, spouse, value of house, personal fetishes, etc. Surely, the availability of such info is invasive and shocking. How they get a hold of and release such info is another matter. A matter that will require something called ‘research’, and that is something your dear Klogger is not willing to fucking do on a Saturday afternoon. Let some other hack deal with that whole bee’s nest. However, I will contend of their description of my house as ‘ramshachkle lean-to’, but have no qualm with my job title of ‘unemployed naredewell’.

Spokeo hatched a brilliant marketing plan, and the gullible lunkheads on FB all fell for it. Again, forgoing this ‘research’ thing, here is my take on how this hatched. However Spokeo is created, it’s created. An employee who works for Spokeo puts that infamous status on their page, and, voila, it spreads like Nazi Chicks for Jesse James. Now, let’s be honest here. As soon as you saw that status pop up, what was the first thing you did? Did you rush to said site and get your info off of there? No.

You went to the site and entered all your friends info to get the dirt on them.

Don’t even tell me you didn’t, I know you did. And so Spokeo used FB to generate millions of cheap hits. You all fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Think I’m wrong about their marketing plan? Consider this; before all this hoopla, did you even know of the site? No, no one did. So if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound? If there’s a site and no one knows about it, does anyone really care? No and no. But, now, everyone knows.

Of course I ran my own info through it (don’t tell me you didn’t run yourself either, egomaniac). And here’s the kicker; my info is wrong! Not only is it wrong, but it’s wrong in a good way. Spokeo has my house drastically over valued. It has my Lifestyles and Interests comically wrong. According to them, I read comic books. I also read children’s books. Huh? I enjoy cruises, even though I’ve never been on one. I research stocks, bonds and investments. Quite frankly, I look far more adult and happening on Spokeo than in real life. Hell if I’m gonna take that info off. Let all my legions of ex-girlfriends look me up and see that shit. Now who made the mistake, Pam? Fuck you, I enjoy wine, food and gardening now.

So don’t be so hasty. I am sure the more literate among you can figure out ways to make yourself look better, wealthier and smarter on the site, so have at it. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is Wikipedia is made up.