The trick.

“Turn your blog into a bestseller!”

That’s what the book promised.

“Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge."”

Sorry, I’m multitasking. I was learning movie magic, Christopher Nolan style, but got distracted by the slight of hand in my lap.

No, not that slight of hand.

My iPhone. It’s in my lap. It says, “Turn your blog into a bestseller!”

Their pledge: Rainbows and unicorns popping from printed blog pages while cherubs of joy roll out heavens red carpet welcoming my prose. God’s hand reaches down from the clouds dressed in a black and white hand-tuxedo, complete with thumb-knuckle top hat, tapping down the stairs, complete with Fan dancers flagging the aisle to greatness. How can I miss?

Ok, so the big God hand routine is a little overkill. You tell the big guy. Last time I critiqued his choreography he sent me to retail-gatory.

“When you can make angels Gangnam Style on the head of a pin, then you can stop watching people stick fragrance bottles in their nostril.”

Ok, slight break to reality. Yes, people really do stick fragrance bottles in their noses. No, not just up to, in. Maybe their olfactory sensors need physical contact. I dunno.  To me the best way to smell cologne is to spray it, but these odd others believe that the day old dry down odor on an atomizer nozzle plugged into a socket of nostril hair is the true whiff to a scent.  Trust me as an ex-professional: Don’t go touching store fragrances without an alcohol wipe.

And that’s, one to grow on.

But I digress. Where was I?  Oh…hand of God dancing in the nose of blogging for dollars.

“Oh, look at the nugget I’ve found!”

Yeah, this 200-page huckster was pitching it to me.  Black hat and carnival red coat barking a pledge that a mere $13 could make me just as famous as the next guy.  Never mind that Amazon had 60 plus copies in their used department and that I can’t even name one famous blog to book author, not even the creator of this pulp.

“you had me at hello.”

I don’t usually buy into this stuff. I know that the flow-bee is just a vacuum, and that the bullet only replaces every appliance in your kitchen if you never used them in the first place. Still, I blog!  I want to write a best seller!

And I’m not alone. So does a pin load of Gangnam Style dancing pop-opaths. We’re all part of a culture of instant notoriety whores looking for a trick. Andy Worhol promised we’d all be famous by the year 2000, and some of us were sleeping through our turn; we want it back, all 15 minutes, with interest. We’re counting.

PT Barnham believed something similar about one being born every minute.

“This way to the egress.”

And that doesn’t stop us from lining up for the next big thing: insta-fame! To prove my point, the aforementioned blog book, according to Amazon.com, is frequently sold with “Platform: Get noticed in a noisy world.”

Noisy world?  I’ll say.  Psy and Rebecca Black are screaming ditties over YouTube rabble while a father and daughter duet out-cute every singing head with a collection of their favorite songs to realize their dream of staring in a car commercial.

“The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary.”

Yeah, dad and daughter just sit on a couch and lull you to like them. “Come, sit with us.  You’ll like us.  We’re cute.”

Me? I’ve got a blog and 8 readers and cat that poops on the floor.  I can’t compete. Hey, I’m not complaining. I’m ahead of half the rabble, but in a world where every rabble rebel with super powers is vying for a bit of fame, flaunting my power of invisibility seems like an ill-conceived notion. If this were a reality show going for fame, the only reason I wouldn’t get voted off is because nobody saw me.

“Weren’t there seven contestants left? I only count 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, plus the dancing God hand…who’s missing?”

Yeah, I’d be disqualified by default while Dad and Daughter stomp atop a heap of broken bodies. Dad beats down every contender with a bloody broken guitar neck while daughter holds the Kardashian award for unwarranted fame high above her head in one hand and Rebecca Black’s bodiless head by a fistful of hair in another.

“Friday, this b---!”

Maybe invisibility isn’t all that bad.

That’s the problem with our society.  No, not the girl swinging a silenced Rebecca Black like a detached Barbie skull: that needed to happen.  That’s survival of the fittest. No the true crime here is that we’ve given fame such prestige. 

“That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call "The Prestige"."

Ok, not the same thing…or is it?  Fame is all smoke and mirrors.  It’s not skill or talent it’s all about where the light hits while the cameras are looking. It’s never been about talent. Talent is a red herring painting the town blue. There are millions of talented people who aren’t famous. Take John Doe. He’s incredibly talented at whatever he does.

Fame is all about one person looking at another and going, “why am I watching them? I could do that too, so why are they famous?”

Then that person tells one of their friends, “Hey…”

Then that friend says, “Hey, maybe you could, but I could too, and better…”

Then that friend tells a friend, “Hey, you know what that dork Bernice told me? She thinks she can do this…”

…And so on, and so on…

Fame is popular now, and that’s why hucksters are latching onto it.  Back in the Ronco era, it wasn’t about fame. It was about survival. Pocket Fisherman? Who hasn’t gone on a trip and forgotten their pole?  Mr. Microphone? What Douchbag hasn’t gone, “Cat calls just aren’t working anymore. I need a better way to get a girl’s attention.”

Life’s too easy now. There is no struggle to find a pole or insult women. These things are right at our fingertips. Our new love is ourselves, and we want to get popular just by blogging about it. Right now, we don’t need survival; we need fame.

And now there’s an app for that. Ok, maybe not an app yet—that’s next—but there is a book, and right now that book says I need to name drop for my SEO.

Lindsay Lohan

Ok, that’s done. See, SEO, if you don’t know, is one of the tricks that this book will teach you for setting up your blog. It’s all about getting seen, because if you’re going to be famous, you need to be seen.

Now, the trick is that so does everybody else.  They’ve convinced themselves that being seen is important, and that puts them in my way like a crowd of crazed girls at a Bieber concert.  See, we all still buy into fame like it’s something important. There’s always at least one person watching and the first glimpse is free.

Then we want more.

And that’s the prestige.

I Remember

You may find this hard to believe, but not everything I write is cool and kitschy. Despite what I say about this blog no longer being about me, sometimes I do write words for me. I write words that I expect no one else will see. I search for words of comfort and understanding.  Today is September 11th.  Today I wrote words for me to understand the memory of someone else. It's not good, but it's honest and its me. And some days when the world scrapes us raw with the "why?" of life, that's all that we can be. So I offer my humblest words of memory in memory of them.

I remember.

I remember waking up in bed.

I remember MyEx.

"Watch TV." She said.

"What Channel?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter," she said.

I remember every identical station of images on TV.

I remember what words cannot reproduce produced in vivid smoke grey and cloying ash white.

I remember the Orkin man at the door.

 “Did you hear?” I asked.

I remember he nodded.

I remember inviting him in to see for himself.

I remember those who ran in.

I remember the running of the bulls of mortar, smoke and rock when time ran out.

I remember the Orkin man who could watch no more.

I remember that my ants just didn’t matter that day.

I remember TV people asking if I’d seen people that I’d never seen before in my life.

I remember praying that I could see them at least once.

I remember a cloud that lasted for days.

I remember a skyline changed forever.

I remember the love of a nation.

I remember everything

And I will never forget.

A Facefull

What do you think of the new digs?

I’m still not ready to call this a new blog or anything, but I am willing to say I’ve rearranged the room a bit.

Look around, you’re looking at what Blogger calls the “Dynamic” look.  Why? Cuz I’m feeling dynamic. Dynamic is Greek for, “It’s gonna look cool cuz you really can’t personalize it.” I’m married.  I know what that’s all about.

“What do you think of the den?”

“I uhm…love it the way it is?”

“Yes you do.”

I’m ok with that. How personal do I need to be? This is a blog, not a diary.  If I wanted a diary I’d write a Facebook page.

“Dear Facebook, Today I did laundry, posted pictures of my sister’s naked Zumba class, and made Facebook logos out of compost.”

Facebook amazes me. Facebook is hordes screaming hunt-n-peckers stabbing, “look at me!” into their keyboards simultaniously, but they’re too busy screaming to look at anyone else.

“Like if you agree.”

“Like if you see me.”

“Like if…aw, screw it, I’ll like you instead. It’s faster.”

I want the “Retype if you really understand a thing about me” button. Then again, that’s social media.  It’s so antisocial it’s cool. Facebook is Mark Zuckerberg’s new clothes.  You want to snub him but he’s the one running to the bank while we bleat “originality!” by reposting cutest kitten pictures somebody else recreated.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the big F, you.”

Mark’s brilliant. Not because he’s some computer nerd making a Google worth of greenbacks; that just makes him another statistical poster boy for the 2000s.  No Mark’s brilliant because he found a way to make money off of the world’s favorite past time: people admiring themselves.

Mark makes money because we post our opinion about everything, and keep clicking refresh until people finally agree with us. I’m sure Marie Antoinette would have loved a Facebook account.

“It appears nobody likes cake, but the Guillotine is getting thousands of hits.”

Don’t get me wrong.  In the time I wrote this post, I checked my FB page several times for likes to my latest post.

See if I like you either.

When I was growing up, the big thing was self-affirmation and self-visualization.  Now we’ve traded our selfs for Facebook mass-affirmation and mass-visualization: If Facebook can see me do it, then I can do it.

And what is our latest favorite thing to Facebook do? It’s Cyberbullying.  We’re all “I hate bullies” until the lights are off and the blue white FB glow finds us home alone. Then we’re picking on some teenager in Tarzana named Daryl because he posted a sponge bob picture. 

That’s right Daryl.  That was me.  I hate Sponge Bob.

 "No, Patrick. They’re laughing next to us."

Sponge Bob and bullying are the biggest things on Facebook. Maybe that’s why we get so many “washing dishes” posts: they’re safe and boring.  And don’t even get me started on the dirty laundry.

Ok.  I’ll start the dirty laundry.

We all have it. We used to call it “skeletons in the closet,” but at some point the skeletons turned into smelly laundry stacks needing aired, falling out into the hallway (presumably about the same time the gay people opened the closet door. Now I have no problem with gay people coming out, but the least they could have done is kick the stinky stack pile back in behind them and close the door, like any reasonable uptight repressed person would do.). Once the laundry is in the hall, we all feel the need to hang it on line for all Facebook to see.  Yes Tandy, we know your mother was a stripper and your father was an alcoholic, but that’s why some of us had great fun at their parties. Now, you’re trying to turn this into some uncivil war and split families over blue and grey panties. Keep them in your pants. The rest of us don’t want to see them.

So what’s it all mean?  Just like everything else on Facebook, it means nothing. It means I’m rearranging and the dancing dust bunnies came out. So come back and read some more of my dirty laundry on my next post.

Oh, and don’t forget to like me.

EpiBlog

So this is my blog page.

It’s been a while. 

We haven’t seen each other.

How you been?

What’s new?

You’ve grown a little, haven’t you?

No, I mean taller.  Sorry, I mean—nevermind--I love your hair!

Yeah, so I’ve been doing this blog thing for 5 years, some years more intermittent than other years.  This blog started with a Friendly Divorce and landed in the Robblog mire. All this verbal travel without ever really changing topics, or without having any real topics for that matter--as some critics might argue. Oh sure, I started talking about divorce, but even in the early days the focus was rather blurry.

“Which is clearer: Blog three, or Blog four.”

“I don’t know, can I see three again…”

“Three…”

“uh…”

“…or four…”

Yeah.  I know. I am not the most concise blogger, but I’d like to believe that even the most absurd blogs had a focus. 

"If I can't stop hating you by August, I want a divorce." (Blog #1)

Ok. I was hoping for something a little more universal, but If you took that away, good for you. Me I like:

“Once you show spaghetti, you can’t pretend it’s a side of beef.” (Feb 12, 2009)

See? I can even quote me.  I am a five-year study on the subject of Rob.  I think I’m good.

What about you? Has the RobBlog done anything for you? Do you feel safer? Happier? More fulfilled?  More defined?

I know, since I’ve moved to the big D (and I don’t mean divorce or Dallas..) my keyboard has been quiet.  I have no excuse except life stood between my computer and I and refused to budge.  I got married, I gave up pride and took up retail, and I haven’t had the time to blog.  I’m sorry.  If it’s any consolation, you didn’t miss anything as I walked through the valley of the shadow of retail. 

Dissatisfied, disappointed, and disillusioned, and that was just the customers.  They expected more from their Rob.

“You’re what’s wrong with retail.”

Yeah, somebody told me that one day.  It’s ok. When I took the job, I decided that I was there for the customer, and I would do everything I could to create a friendly experience for them. She didn’t see that. It’s okay, With few exceptions, I believe that I accomplished my goal. Which is good, because as of last Thursday I’m no longer in retail.  They let me go.  We had a disagreement over the importance of timeliness.

They won.

I did the same with this blog. (I meant the friendly thing, but I suppose you could extend the timely issue too…) When I started documenting the events of my divorce, my primary goal was to tell others, “No matter how alone you feel in this, there are others who are there too.” I’d like to think that I accomplished that too.

I also committed a selfish act over the last year:  I got married. I fell in love, and wanted something good for myself. I’m bad, but so’s she. I’ve got pictures to prove it:

 

 

So we’re in our happily ever after phase, and it’s an even happier phase now that retail is no longer a part of it. Now I have time to think. Time to write.

Time to blog?

Ahhhh, there is the question. Do I have anything else to say that you want to hear? My inward search was great, but I’m only so deep, and once I’ve dug the hole, I’m no longer digging:  I’m just throwing dirt back down on myself.

I’m tired.

I’m dirty. 

I’m done.

It’s time for something new. And yet my beloved bride has accused me of being “a voice.”   Yeah, that’s what she said, as if I have some sort of obligation. Fine…If I am “a voice,” then I should try to be heard, right?

Sigh…

I’m conflicted.

So what does that mean for you, dear reader?

Apparently that I have more to say.

Other than that, I don’t know, but it means that the RobBlog has come to another end, and yet it isn’t finished. Not yet. It means that I’d like to continue our talks, and continue nurturing our relationship, but I’d like to talk a little less about me, and open it up to more about you. Or at least I’d like to give it a try. Let’s face it, I am pretty Rob-focused, and rarely altruistic. Still, it should be more fun than a barrel full of dentists. 

Whaddya say?

Stay tune for some blog changes, real and blog deep.

Oh look, the background picture is already gone.

I guess the first thing I need to do is to find a place to store images online…

So I guess it is time.

It’s time I was the one who lived vicariously.

It’s time we took a look at you.

Give me time to get some things squared away here, and in the meantime, why don’t you tell me about your childhood…