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Imagine a karaoke bar. A good one. Full of people. Huge song library. Good drinks. Cool DJ. People with the balls to participate put their name in the DJ’s queue, pick their song, and wait their turn. When their name comes up, they grab the mic and take the floor, perhaps even on a stage. They’re vulnerable now, in front of everyone. They do their song. They might kill it, they might forget a few lyrics, they might even crash and burn. But they own their moment by virtue of putting themselves up there. They are accountable as they stand on the platform they created for themselves from the opportunity they were given.

Now imagine a second karaoke bar with even more people. But this time, there’s no queue. As a matter of fact, everybody’s given a free microphone at the door, turned on. There is no DJ; a few people have rushed the gear. After fighting over songs, one song starts blasting, and now nobody knows where the volume is. But people don’t care. They all begin screaming into their free microphone at the same time, anonymously, spewing wrong lyrics out of key with voices they didn’t earn, some from the private corners of the room, others from under the tables that conceal them. Nobody owns anything now. Nobody is accountable. The content sucks, and is unusable.

That second karaoke bar is what the internet has become.

mobius ring loop animation

COVID-19, the coronavirus

In chronological order!

Vivor memorial

My favorite smells grew stronger. Pine needles, ocean air, cut grass, beef jerky, peanut butter, bacon, fried chicken. I marched up the final tunnel, drawn like a wasp to the radiant glow that waited at its end. Closer. Brighter.

“You’re here, Thirteen. Go ahead.”

I dashed out of the tunnel and into the light, the freshest breeze filling my jowls. Squinting through the sunshine I ran, the grass a cushion beneath my paws. I left my feet and flew…

Under Angels the novel

Sir Vivor Under Angels