WHERE IS THE LOVE?/ 2:35AM & OTHER STORIES
Real lives are fictionalized on "reality" television while big butts and big lips invade "breaking news". The millennium is a juxtaposition of the natural vs. the extremely unnatural. Monsoons, mudslides, tsunamis, hurricanes share coveted front pages with "real" housewives of every goddam city.
Sarcastic idioms replace proper grammar. Children grow addicted to technology while mothers inhale Crystal Meth, hoping to do it all; gerbils spinning our proverbial wheels, competing with the Jones', the Royals, the impossible. Harder, stronger, faster, better. Harder, stronger, faster, better? Burned out, strung out, kicked out, left for dead.
Where have the conventional problems gone? Drunk uncles, foul mouth children, big brothers smoking pot?
Absurd is the new normal; a living, breathing visual of the incredulous; a constant stream of upset and revelation and shock that not only shake families they rock worlds.
Privacy is arguably criminal. Celebrities go to court to get it, grandmothers avoid Internet shopping to keep it, and our children will never have it. Nothing is off limits.
We're experiencing an infestation of flies on every wall.
As parents we're obligated to instill what we "know": secrets hurt and love conquers all.
Still, we struggle to protect the next generation from strangers and bad touches. The "Cosby effect", said to be a "good thing", made 2015 the safest year in New York City's modern history, while hearts across the nation were breaking at the fall our most beloved TV father; twisted message upon twisted message.
But where do we go from here when hearsay is admissible in court; when one's character is fact checked on Facebook and Pinterest and vetted by potential employers or worse, landlords, as homelessness reaches a record high worldwide. It's impossible to walk down the street without encountering a big, bright sign denoting 'new construction'. If not those in need of homes, who will occupy this new construction? The answer to this gentrifying question is obvious.
Where have the conventional problems gone? Drunk uncles, foul mouth children, big brothers smoking pot?
Absurd is the new normal; a living, breathing visual of the incredulous; a constant stream of upset and revelation and shock that not only shake families they rock worlds.
Privacy is arguably criminal. Celebrities go to court to get it, grandmothers avoid Internet shopping to keep it, and our children will never have it. Nothing is off limits.
We're experiencing an infestation of flies on every wall.
As parents we're obligated to instill what we "know": secrets hurt and love conquers all.
Still, we struggle to protect the next generation from strangers and bad touches. The "Cosby effect", said to be a "good thing", made 2015 the safest year in New York City's modern history, while hearts across the nation were breaking at the fall our most beloved TV father; twisted message upon twisted message.
But where do we go from here when hearsay is admissible in court; when one's character is fact checked on Facebook and Pinterest and vetted by potential employers or worse, landlords, as homelessness reaches a record high worldwide. It's impossible to walk down the street without encountering a big, bright sign denoting 'new construction'. If not those in need of homes, who will occupy this new construction? The answer to this gentrifying question is obvious.
Today, everyone's an expert-a qualified voice of reason. Giants of industry emerge out of having never "paid dues" or "climbed the ladder" or experienced "grunt work". But when the current Republican nominee can so freely run a campaign fueled by racist, sexist rhetoric, and take credit for predicting the largest mass murder in US history, gloat about it, then be revered for it, I grow weary.
Have we exhausted the real talent? Or are we waiting for the bubble to burst?
Maybe then 'normalcy' can be restored or created or reclaimed. Perhaps then love will matter. I don't know... The goings on of this millennium beg the question: is there a hard and fast line pointing us in the right direction?
Because if not a direct line, then what? A mess of virtual lily pads we can either jump on or not. Lily pads crowded with individuals boasting record number virtual likes and millions of followers, who sit amongst the elusive 'one percent'. Ones who hold tickets to the moon should our planet implode or explode; exclusive access to a world we cannot see. Yet with all of our supposed "experts", no one can seem to fix the one we can see.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are getting high on social media gossip, relying on a swish and a swipe to trash the things we no longer want 'out there': nip pics, emails, felonies.
Where is the love? For ourselves, our neighbors, our friends. For people dying in the street, without homes, protection, or the comfort of knowing someone cares. Where is the love for love itself?
Have we exhausted the real talent? Or are we waiting for the bubble to burst?
Maybe then 'normalcy' can be restored or created or reclaimed. Perhaps then love will matter. I don't know... The goings on of this millennium beg the question: is there a hard and fast line pointing us in the right direction?
Because if not a direct line, then what? A mess of virtual lily pads we can either jump on or not. Lily pads crowded with individuals boasting record number virtual likes and millions of followers, who sit amongst the elusive 'one percent'. Ones who hold tickets to the moon should our planet implode or explode; exclusive access to a world we cannot see. Yet with all of our supposed "experts", no one can seem to fix the one we can see.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are getting high on social media gossip, relying on a swish and a swipe to trash the things we no longer want 'out there': nip pics, emails, felonies.
Where is the love? For ourselves, our neighbors, our friends. For people dying in the street, without homes, protection, or the comfort of knowing someone cares. Where is the love for love itself?
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