I would, -- But I'm watching the Season Finale of the United States that weekend... Sometimes, all I can hear is this sustained hissing sound... An extended effects reel of some 80's soda ad.; where constant fizzy bubbles tinkle like champagne against the top of my scull. Foamy white-noise filling my consciousness, drowns my space-suit pajamas with a soothing hiss. Here I lay still, mute, noise-cancelled -- Beneath the covers, under the influence [of] CBD, synthetic melatonin, and Red Bordeaux. It would seem that every damn evening I tediously coax myself to sleep bewitched with terror, for the future. In this drugged space-time of my mute dread, I realize that when I was a kid, none of this shit mattered whatsoever. Yet, it's really tough to get back to that place. Nothingness is [was] Bliss. Today, I feel nothing for our future, it will not, (does not), belong to me. My numb angst, panning the room by kindle-light, a cold glow casting shadows upon daily detritus, dirty dishes, or dead or dying plants. My glowing inanimate still-life lay about a shadowy room, exquisite corpses cutely curled, petrified chalky Pompeii figures asleep -- While I am awake. We are all waiting to fall asleep. We have all been waiting to fall asleep for some time now. We would fall asleep at the wheel far faster, and once we have trashed this place we'll vanish from our shitty baby-sitting jobs, leaving the next gen to clean up the mess and fend. Maturity dreams of itself poolside... in some idyllic Conde' Nast construct. But your maturity has actually gone 'Golfing' on some public course, leaving the kids home alone. Those in charge DNGAF about the Future, because they will be dead soon. Golf Carts are re-fitted with ramps, wide-screens, Fox-News, A.C.. and Wi-Fi, while drivers re-write comfort into climate policy. Uninterested geezers have "Gone fishing"; or some equally slow-paced sport... whilst a half dozen Hot-Pockets thaw on the countertop, "the kids are alright", right? In this house salty packets of heart disease soften, because elderly adults run the country, and APPs run the microwave. Cooking, is a skill like cursive writing, or dancing, which is now as dead as the term Hip-Hop. Nobody needs a microwave, because like the stove, or the oven before it... making stuff is a dead craft, a relic, a thing for machines. Today the Kids order their lunches using the blue glow of Door-Dash, and only immigrants need to know where it comes from, or how to operate the radar-range. In the twilight of my dystopian dreamscape, A refugee gig-slave arrives by e-bike with someone's lunch, tapping an android phone to the deadbolt, kitchen cans illuminate, and they unload a poly plate of reheated Hot-Pockets onto a spartan countertop, along with a smoothie, and an iced-latte some-such. Kiddies push Daddy's card to "Make Lunch", but even the tap is gone, as numbers simply exchange transparently through the ether, incognito. "What's the weather like?" "Here, let me check..." Again, perhaps a blue sky day -- is what my phone says. But there is no need to open the front door. Ancient technology such as the Mail-slot are being re-installed to facilitate meal delivery. The Tray slides through the bars and it's back to the screen we go. An argument for how the slippery slope toward Autocracy in western democracies may begin may actually start with over-parenting. This seems ludicrous on the surface but when we cede not just our power and independence to our parents to control every outcome, and every calorie, and we want decisions made for us, which we later choose not to vote against -- We create a marriage of convenience. When Protests become campfire parties, and we are complicit in the face of rising fascism -- mostly out of laziness, and comfort -- then it is simple to connect the dots to a culture shift from democracy toward an autocracy. Disbelievers have 'Gone to the Mega-Church' for redemption, re-education, a charity car wash, a marital affair, or whatever... Grown-ups are leaving the children alone by the pool secured with water wings, a tablet and a debit card. In these our diminished "united states" everyone is a baby now. (again)... The same adults who used to espouse maturity as a life-goal; (tutoring the maths, coaching cocky kids, and such) -- They are all fresh out of maturity. And so today, we coast..., We are all coasting, pretending to be children, [again.] An amphetamine symphony of self-care, malt-liquor disguised as diet seltzer, popping pills, poking syringes, a bit of filler here, and a tuck there. The hiss is a chorus of diet remedies, & injectables, easing pharma into a lazy bloodstream with a small prick. The pricks keep getting smaller, and the squeeze more unfeeling, while homeward-bound gen-Z babies fashion their celebrity status with an A.I. makeover. If one doesn't actually interact with other humans, they don't have to look good in-person. So we pour money into our profiles. We are "at play", in a constant state of mediocre mid-life melt-down. 'Linked-in' masquerades as an HR professional, Glass Door as the exit interview. Here, the adults fizzle... Hisssssss.... Slowly burning petulant fuel. Concerts become Rallies, drum beats use gun stocks, and the refrain repeats Marjorie's tantrums silo by silo. Media trades un-truth as currency. A newly possessed Veruca Salt, or whomever else may have lost their shit today, setting the expectation of another childish rant quite unconvincingly. But you 'follow' her. A Few Truths: I will not be revered nor well-remembered, despite what anyone may eulogize. I will not leave a symphony behind. I will not write the greatest novel of our our time. I will not medal at the Olympics. I will not medal at the Ozempics (either). I will not be elected to public office. I will not invent a brilliant new gadget. I will not Sign Copies of my first album on record store day. I will not drive a fancy fucking Tesla. I will not bake the best Pot Brownies of all time. I have always been mediocre. I will die un-remarkably. And everyone is far less remarkable than their Linked-In states. I have zero desire to normalize the Gen-blah solution for aging gracefully, by ignoring the problem. Mid-rifts spilling over to celebrate a second muffin at the virtual work meeting. There are no kids splashing about in these fountains of Youth. Refusing to grow up wont avert an aging calamity. We paint over the wet spot until the ceiling caves-in. Ignoring our gentle slope will not change it's angle nor the creases it leaves. We are all sliding down together. The only tangible feeling left is that of gravity's pull. There is no Fountain, No lifeguard. The Pools have all closed, Hunch-backs sun themselves by the blue screen shimmer. Parents pop a few gummies and continue their medicated descent down life's "Wet Banana". Baptizing mediocrity into a splash pool shaped not unlike a giant solo cup. In my dream, The asylum has been breached like a levy -- a poetry of paper cups filled with potions, pills, and party-goers descend into dark water fully clothed, and we drown in the spout of mediocrity. "Night Swimming" plays softly, but the guitar part is all wrong. A dobro perhaps? The vocal has a reverb tremelo effect from some space-age country pop-star. Dystopia is a misappropriated 90's anthem, plagiarized, and sung by someone unworthy with a twang. Country Music and Jeeps push the narrative nostalgia of a simpler time and place, where we connected with our emotions, and with nature... But that script is a lie. I'm almost there, nearly sleeping, and then a phone flashes, offering me news of another shooting, or discordant Trumpian fugue. Then, something not so fresh surfaces, about appealing to Gen-Blah for Votes... "They love me", he says, and "The Blacks Too" Of course they do! -- So much so that they'll stay at home come election day. 51 percent of the electorate actively normalize fascism, or sits silently while petulant children run amok. Indulged kiddies will drown in their consumption, so long as daddie's NASDAQ hovers positively above them, and their elderly parents will keep them quiet with a green straw in their mouth and a Mastercard. Hisssss... It is an exhausted exhale -- a last breath before we fall sleep forever. My sister says she can't come for the funeral if it's during College Football season... The screen goes blank, and I leave no reply. I awaken at a concert where I can't watch the band over a thousand glowing screens capturing peta-bytes of footage which nobody will ever watch again. Annoying adult children forced to a concert with Mommy and Daddy, and they don't know any of the songs. They can't even fake it, much as I'd done at Church years ago. They annoy people watching the show, but parents think they are lovely... and clever ...And you are so failing them. More likely until someone actually says something to you, you'd have thought that your kid was "adorbs!" but you now feel the laser-death-glare of everyone else, who'd seem to indicate otherwise. Yes, You, and your participation medals, and lattes, and your nine-year-old's loaded debit card, would seem to indicate a smidge of failure. Your pseudo-celebrity kid-smog sugar-coats a massive fail. Because they are ushering in Autocracy, You have failed, and so now you munch free-trade pistachios, slurp diet hard-seltzer, and deflect onerous glares by the slapped face glow of your facial peel. It's time... The Black Yukon is waiting. Climb aboard before the encore, and weave home, before bed-time, and you can struggle just like me. Baby Sitting is exhausting. Baby Sitting through the age of 23, 28, 31... Is a trade which used to be staffed by minors, but now is the perpetual chore of Mid-life Parents who'd indulged that "Gap Year', and their kid's "Beer Pong Patio Party", instead of kicking them out. and cutting them off at the right moment. Don't bring them along, it's embarrassing, and harmful. I'm tossing now in my covers now, eyes moving faster, heartrate up. I'm frightened for the future. The future is asleep. "If you need a helping hand -- I'm totally happy to smack your kid for you", I say aloud. [did I say that out loud?] In fact, I'll help with the kids for free, if you need a romantic evening out. But I can only help when you face the fact that you, and they are old enough to know better, and nobody can question my methods. I wake up sweating with the urge to pee. Faced with middle-class mid-life mediocrity, most make a choice to be numb, dumb, and boring, because being beige is simply easier. But... Saying dumb-shit like, "everything is fine", to normalize bad behavior, or turning a cheek to fascism is why nobody can sleep tonight. You are so exhaustingly lifeless that your fucking blood runs beige. Some even patch-up their sinking ships with tattoos. Sure thing sign up for Kick-boxing, and Jiu Jitsu, decorate a full sleeve with fantasies of your toughness, while the dough rises. Many of us sans le sexy fait accompli of relevance will rage against our own blase' machine. Today, many of our friends are behaving like coked teenagers, and we are complicit. The perfect "Con" is not to make everyone bend to one's will, nor to float within the bubble of one's invented self-care truths... But in convincing oneself and others day in and day out that one doesn't completely suck. As we age, we have to settle into a few humbling "Adult Facts": 1. We are all pretty fucking average -- Yep, even you. 2. Past accomplishments (best left un-quoted), are tedious dinner party conversation. 3. If the cute neighbor seems to be hitting on you, Then you are plainly delusional. 4. If the cute neighbor's dog bites your hand, refer to "3". 5. You may never look as good or feel as well as you do today, so stop with the pity antics. 6. Yes you can rock that outfit, as long as (A). you totally own it, <and> (B). It fits your form. 7. Do NOT pretend to be a Sommelier, if you are serving cheddar and brie with that Cab. 8. Same with Cigars, Sports-Cars, Wrist-Watches & Tattoos. [These are tacky, Always have been.] 9. Just stop with words like Cognoscente, and Touch-Base, that's fucking lame-splaining 10. Don't ask your server for ketchup; Find a decent restaurant or enjoy your McDonalds. 10.5. The long answer is almost always a lie. 11. Your Shrink is more fucked-up than you are, but just barely and was way more reluctant to show up today than you were, [Were it not for their student loans, they'd be seeing their shrink today too]. My news-feed sent me an article today, with a fetchy title like: "Are young adults failing to launch today?" Hmm... I wonder? They are the future, or so they were supposed to be, but they took a queue from you -- and you couldn't even medal at the '24 Ozempics. Instead you got a bronze in "worst role model ever". Now the battle royale for the future (not our future) but theirs seems to be between those "Kids" who are confident that they are always right, but who are completely checked-out of inheriting the earth -- and the "Adults" who know they were never really right about stuff, but gave-up trying long ago, and covered their trail with tattoos. Unfortunately Nobody has yet made the perfect ironic T-shirt to wear to this party. The End of the World is here, and it's General Admission. Limited Mobility predicted a post boomer gold rush for Berkshire-Hathaway to buy up all of the Hospice, and cremation facilities, and to later partition every tennis court, doubling real-estate into two equal halves. While reducing our effort, we've also increased our portion sizes, so a full Tennis Court and fast moving ball has been replaced by Slow Ping-Pong, and Corn-Hole. Basically sports that can be played with a beer in one hand. Pickle Ball is where good marriages go to die. The general trend toward making sure everyone medals, and so that things are just plain easier is taught today in dystopia 101. The smart money is now on venues with more chairs, because the General Admission standing space is just too much fucking work for both adults and kids alike. Dancing only occurs in barns. So-what, if your beverage portions go up inverse to your output. Lazy old men run the country. Maintaining the "greatest generation" year over year is the big con. The Old Folks don't belong in this new world, but they are still running shit. Being Old is a status symbol like a well edged lawn, useless, but expected for some reason. Grass is the last vestige of wasteful 50's nostalgia. Mowers and blowers buzz, shadowed beneath bellies shrouded by an Ironic concert Tee. So what!, you heard of them first..? [Did you now?] You own a record player, but never play it, because, "It is a lot of fucking effort, man.," Yes!... The Young adults display their beige bellies; curly love-handled quotations around their being wholly un-remarkable. Nothing new here. I have friends who, if it meant a sure-fire VIP ticket to heaven, and an afterlife of piney IPA's could not pass the final exam, TO ROLL A JOINT (properly). So who is the loser? WHO IS FAILING? Those who have truly lived, may be unremarkable, but they know it, and that set of aches and pains from doing stuff are totally different, than the ones we feign from desk chairs. ANDWHOTHEFUCKCARES? There is a mixed crowd at every Music-Fest, where trendy elders bump walkers with literal babes. Kids wear ironic concert T's prefaded in Pakistan for Target, accompanied with shredded cut-off's, MUFFIN TOPS DOUSED IN GLITTER... While the so-called Adults bid real dinero for pre-owned "authentic T-shirts" to prove that they (actually) heard of them first. I realize that the Plop-Plop and the Fizz-Fizz, tonight is perhaps the twilight of my sleepy discontentment ending. My hissing stupor fading into a drool-worthy dreamscape, where people still gave a fuck. Twin fizzy biscuits fractured & melting bed-side into a piss-warm cup of effervescent hiss. Everyone has their own sizzle... My personal sizzle sound, all but imperceptible, sounds a bit like the ringing of ancient lawn implements, or perhaps ringing damage from that '88 Husker Du show. Or perhaps simply the concentrated anguish of every defeated sob and cry ever uttered by under-developed adults reflecting off the stratosphere and returning to earth as soft pissing rain... In a sense you could say that at least their sobs have finally left the building. Launching the precipitation of my defeat as an adult. The collective inhale before an extended sigh of our entire planet's last gasp. "We the people", washing our hands of the scum of our forebears, and scraping their left-overs into the compost. The trouble with longevity is that the adults get to live long enough to witness that whatever they'd been taught and later espoused is for shit, and to see the wreckage. We linger far longer, than our expiry date, and the system is now stacked to favor the meek, and the autocrats who run shit. Should old fuckers simply stay home in their jammies sitting on their hands? Perhaps go Golfing, fly-fishing..., and stay the fuck out of the fight they lost back in the 60's. Shall we call the game, the disco, and certainly that sexy beach club off-limits to anyone over 55-60? The thing that keeps me up tonight is NOT whether we'd be better off if the old fuck-wits went Golfing and left the kids to root through their closet... but if the same Kids found something dangerous there, would they even know how to use it? Will the kiddies (who won't vote) try at all to fly the plane. If good-ol'-grand-dad packed a chute, and pulled his rip-cord, who remains to show the kids how to operate that microwave drawer as the plane falls out of the sky.
Being an old fucker, affirms that the truth cuts deeply -- So, how does The West shift from, "Here, let me get that for you..." to "...Not giving a fuck what they get into tonight"? ...To total Autocracy? By ambivalence? Baby-Sitting may not be a compound word, or even hyphenated, but it used to be a place where one was judged for one's confidence game. The Baby-sitter was basically an older kid, who hadn't been caught yet. Giving kids a fair chance, means letting them fuck up. Allowing some to fail, flame-out, and float is to educate. In a few years the worst Con-Man of all time will no longer be baby-sitting his constituents and it's impossible to imagine another one this bad being coronated within the next generation. But because everyone is basically a marshmallow now, a fitting finale may be to roast. What happens then when the confidence shifts to someone competent, or in the least, less reprehensible? A Woman, who would exude enough confidence, to bend the will of the people to move on. Like Obama, who exuded common sense, and has yet to be caught doing something really bad... A good baby-sitter for this menagerie of glass animals is any cogent adult who will smack your children for you if you lack the confidence.
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