Find your own road
I have a dream. A dream of mythic proportions. A dream that began with the first kill file I ever wrote. A dream of declaring myself independent of this so-called “online community.” I want to become one of the Freemen of the Internet.
That particular group of Montanans have proven themselves to be masters of viewpoint inbreeding. Nothing matters to them except what matters to them. It’s brilliant, really. But I’m going to give them a run for their money.
While the Freemen have the jump on the news coverage, I’ve got something the Freemen don’t. Venture capital. Dozens of VCs are indirectly funding my experiments in filtering information, personalizing content, and tweaking my signal-to-noise ratio. Companies strewn across the Valley are helping me whittle down the bitstream into something manageable.
They understand that I no longer have a need for the shared experience. They know I’ve moved to my compound in virtual Montana. And that it’s a place where I’m completely in touch. With myself.
This is how I’ve found my own road. Or at least my own fruitopia.
I took down my website. Sure, my friends are getting 404s, but it was generating hits from people I’d never heard of. All of whom usually felt the need to write and tell me what they think. Like I care. I’ve replaced my site with a personal workspace at Netscape. It’s an exercise in net.minimalism. No scanned photos. No lists of links. No self-righteous opinions. In fact, no content whatsoever.
Just one single, solitary link: Affinicast. I filled out their survey, answered the question “What style of Web site do you prefer: unconventional or trustworthy?” and now surf only to sites that match my “individual media preferences.” And mine only.
The websites that Affinicast recommends I Freeload. While I sleep, dreaming of cable modem bandwidth, Freeloader downloads complete sites to my hard drive. In the morning, I surf locally, the “contacting host” message a thing of the past. And since I’m not connected, I no longer feel the need to follow the distracting hypertext. I know full well that all those links are full of useless propaganda.
Speaking of useless propaganda, I killed the ads, too. I just fast forward.
I stopped shopping for books. Bookstores were not only a huge time sink, but added to the general feeling of option anxiety: too much information, too little time. Instead, the “highly anthropomorphized” electronic editors at Amazon work for me around the clock. They constantly analyze my reading habits, the non-fiction topics I’m interested in, the viewpoint I like my short stories told from, and send me mail when they think one of their one million titles will turn me on.
I pared back friendships with people who felt it was their solemn duty to recommend new music. Instead, I’m spending quality time with my personal agent at firefly. I’ve learned from my psychographic neighbors that I should be listening to Tortoise instead of Sebadoh. (Thank you, neighbors.) I’m hoping that eventually I won’t even have to make a purchase decision, much less visit a record store. I’d rather just create a standing order of $100 per month, and have them send me music automatically.
I don’t read my email. Or at least most of it. I’ve spent weeks training Eudora in the art of ruthless triage. My sorting agent now operates by two simple rules. If it comes from a mailserver, keep it, for obvious reasons (see above). If it comes from a person, it must have the words “TAXATION” or “FEDERAL AGENTS” somewhere in the body of the message. Otherwise, straight to the trash.
I silenced the phone, without going so far as taking it off the hook. At first I went for The Message Center, but it wasn’t enough. I had to go one step further. With Caller ID, I’m currently screening out everyone but my broker at Fidelity (even a Freemen wannabe needs a good retirement plan). I set up my online savings personality and filled out the FundMatch Worksheet and am waiting for him to call with some new investment opportunities.
Which I’ll track with Bloomberg Personal.
Living out on the virtual range, comfort becomes an issue. Thanks to Levi’s Personal Pair(tm) Program, I rid myself of ill-fitting jeans. I had a custom-made pair shipped to me via Federal Express. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t accept my measurements via fax - I had to go to the mall. It’s the price you pay for perfection.
I stopped going to church, because I no longer have a need for anyone but my own personal Jesus; someone who hears my prayers, someone who cares.
The Freemen had a sense of the inevitable. They knew that The Man would come, looking for their tax dollars. Which is why they stockpiled food, water, supplies, and guns. Nothing like a little self-sufficiency to scare the shit out of Janet Reno.
Likewise, I know my own personal Feds will come, most likely in the form of advertisers demanding back pay for all the sites I’ve filtered, the ad banners I’ve blocked, and the telemarketing calls I’ve screened. And at $0.05 per hit, I’m going to owe plenty.
But I will not give in. I’m already preparing for their arrival. I’m stockpiling my Telescript agents, readying their release into the net at large, where they will do my bidding silently, tirelessly, without me. At which point I’ll just unplug the modem and come on out, guns blazing.