Rockstar

Supposedly it is no longer cool to just have a drug dealer on speed dial. Nobody has speed dial anymore. The whole world population is assembled on Facebook (translation to Portuguese: feissebuque) or Twitter (no translation available; god help you if you don’t get what Twitter is). The other day a colleague (handsome, latino, just the right amount of grey hair) showed up at my office with a worried face and asking me how I am. It is not every day that I have an handsome sportsman asking me how I am doing. I decided to take his question seriously. The question had been prompted by my off-the-cuff status update on Facebook that mentioned the nastier sides of my character and a Swiss fish wrapper named Blick (on the level of the National Enquirer or the Mirror; trash really). Needless to say that I go to Facebook for the same reasons that I page through the Blick when I find an abandoned copy in a train or at the Rathaus. Actually at the Rathaus in Bern the Blick is a rare sight, and it is the Berner Bär that takes its place. The quality of these two publications is indistinguishable. Anyhow, these fish wrappers are full of gossip and local trivia very far removed from my daily preoccupations, they entertain. I will not touch the Berner Bär, and it could just be that I am totally out of touch with what goes on around me.

I go into Facebook for signs – pictures – of the my very lively cousins who seem to party non-stop. The cousins are delightful girls doing what girls do in college, party and supposedly study a bit. We have been there, done that; some of us have the t-shirt to prove it. My handsome colleague and I go to Facebook for identical reasons: to keep in touch with distant relatives and friends who are outside the own work ecology. Perhaps I ought to reconsider what the appropriate level of sarcasm in my status updates should be, or else just stick to pretty pictures. Still, disgusted as I am with Facebook – something about it is repulsive – it has some utility in the communication and entertainment categories. And then again, I ought to reconsider my relationship to Facebook now that even The Economist is reporting on the phenomenon. Besides that, a no-nonsense kind friend in London recently commented on how so many people claim to not be paying much attention to Facebook. I suspect that somehow, this little social utility has a shadowy reputation that borders on pornography and voyeurism. I can only speak for myself, and I do confess that it is social voyeurism that has me log in to Facebook. Came to think of it, it is also social pornography that appeals to me. Forgive me for stripping both voyeurism and pornography of their sexual content, and to replace it with the social. Anyhow, it is the graphical display of social life that stimulates envy and satisfies curiosity that leads me to such expropriation of meaning in two words that represent, for the most part, behaviors that are not too desirable.

So, how am I doing?

 

I am doing good. It is really hard to hide the happiness these days. But what is happiness? We have been here before, I have asked this question before, and I have tried answering it before. There is no right answer. There are many answers. Right now happiness has something to do with the fact that I have assessed my biggest worry to be what colour shoes to wear after I have put on black underwear and brown trousers. Life is rough. Today I am wearing black, traveling and the sun was shinning in Geneva.

That said, I am happy about the return of my impatience. This impatience is as present as ever, and if nothing else, it is present with a revenge. It is also not that in this impatient happy madness of mine, all goes smoothy and utopian. The father of one of my best friends died, and for reasons that I can not quite explain I felt the loss to be a bit too close to be comfortable. It could be just egoism and the realization that with the death of his father, our relationship will change, and neither of us knows where the change will take us.

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