Find your own road
(from suck.com, published june 4 1996)
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
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
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
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
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
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.
courtesy of Dr. Freeman