Analog Nation

The Internet is weird. Every twisted and desperate thought humanity ever had is rendered in loving detail, thrown into a corner, and forgotten. And hell, that’s just Wikipedia. Everyone knows this, at least on an academic level. But it’s nice to see occasional proof that yep, the Internet is still the Crooked Attic of the Soul.

We here at Analog Nation get that proof every time we look through our analytics.

It’s a bad idea to get wrapped up in your website’s analytics, especially if the only quasi-stated goal of your website is to impress Karen Gillan to be mildly amusing. Stare at your traffic long enough and you’ll eventually find a reason to be discouraged. However, search term analytics — the list of what people googled before clicking through to your site — now that right there is a good time. There is your proof that the Internet is weird. Twenty-five percent educational, sixty percent bizarre, fifteen percent terrifying.

Because I’m catastrophically short on ideas always eager to enlighten, I thought I would share some of Analog Nation’s search analytics. To be clear, these are all completely real — I did not make any of these up.

[Read the rest →]

Not to speak on behalf of an entire generation or anything, but we have a bit of an irony problem. We invoke irony like it’s diplomatic immunity or the Fifth Amendment, as if the label pardons us from actually thinking about whatever it is we’re saying/observing/sculpting/baking/etc. The irony of it is, we usually don’t even properly identify it. Irony gets more false positives than Sasquatch — people see it everywhere. Honestly, I’m never quite certain if I have it pegged or what. In fact, I’m pretty sure I used it incorrectly just three sentences ago. So let’s see if I can get it right this time.

An oil rig catches fire. Company officials examine the situation and issue assurances that any damage to the environment will be comparatively minor.

Then the oil rig sinks into the ocean. On Earth Day.

I’m ninety-five percent sure that’s irony.

[Read the rest →]

8:25 AM: My iPhone is sad today. I’m not really sure what the problem is. Usually on Saturdays we get up early and I make us breakfast, but this morning it doesn’t seem interested. I made dinosaur-shaped pancakes — its favorite — and steamed 1% milk for its chai latte. No “thank you,” no “nice triceratops,” hardly a grunt or a marimba chime. Not that every last thing I do for my iPhone has to be praised, of course. It’s just that Saturday breakfast is one of our favorite parts of the week, other than maybe watching “Mad Men” together, or updating apps.

8:40 AM: Come to think of it, my iPhone has been acting weird all week. Wednesday I brought home some breaded tilapia and wild rice from Trader Joe’s, with yellow peppers from the green grocer on Court Street. Well my goodness, my iPhone just lay there on the coffee table, half watching “Pardon the Interruption” on ESPN and half staring out the window. How often do I have time to cook us a nice meal? I work all day too, you know.

10:15 AM: I wish my iPhone would tell me what’s wrong. Honestly, it’s never like this. After nine o’clock, I started reading through live blogs of the iPad release, and I could have sworn I heard my iPhone make some kind of noise. I checked it for messages, but there was nothing. Was it something I said? Am I forgetting something? It’s definitely not our anniversary yet — I remember June 20, 2009 like I remember my own birthday. How could I forget the day of the iPhone 3G S release? I gave it an extra iTunes sync, just in case.

12:20 PM: Okay seriously, what the hell? Today is completely gorgeous, and I don’t think it’s fair that I be cooped up all afternoon just because my iPhone is in a shit mood. I suggested we take a walk over to Park Slope while listening to “OK Computer,” nothing. I suggested we search for nearby cafes and browse real-time reviews to see who has the best chocolate croissant, nothing. I downloaded the new “Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me” over Wi-Fi, because God forbid I use my forty dollar 3G connection for that, but no. Nothing. My iPhone simply can’t be bothered to get off its ass today, for whatever reason.

2:40 PM: This is beyond frustrating. I just wish my iPhone would let me in. Where on Earth is this melancholy coming from? Why does it keep its feelings so bottled up? Doesn’t it know I want to share those feelings, that I want to be a part of its life? It doesn’t matter how much music I stream on Pandora, or how many notes I take on Dragon Dictation, or how often I check Mindy Kaling’s tweets on TweetDeck. If my iPhone builds a wall around itself, brick by brick, then we will never truly connect.

3:15 PM: Really shaken up right now. For the love of Steve, all I did was mention in passing that we could go over to the SoHo Apple Store and check out the iPad in person. Jesus, you would have thought I was talking about some sleazy Verizon outlet. Suddenly my iPhone was all like, “Why, so you can replace me?” The worst part was its tone, so … vicious. I played it off like a joke, but it wouldn’t let up. “The thing can’t even make calls, you know.” After putting up with its bullshit all day, I was in no mood to roll over. “That’s not what it’s for, and you know it. It’s not a phone, it’s a whole new category of mobile device.” Wow, was that ever the wrong move. “Oh, so now you’re defending it? What, are you thinking of getting one? Huh? Are you gonna buy your precious little iPad?” That one stung me, because I thought my iPhone knew me better than that. “Excuse me, I never buy first generation hardware.” That got it all passive aggressive. “Whatever. It’s a fucking iPod with a thyroid problem.” I stormed out.

4:05 PM: Brought the MacBook. Using Wi-Fi at Starbucks. Man is it a pain to lug this thing around.

4:55 PM: This is all my fault. I should have known today would be hard for my iPhone. I should have been more supportive. From now on, I will be completely devoted. If it can just see how much I care, then everything will be alright.

5:00 PM: My iPhone is sad today. And if my iPhone is sad, then so am I.

This scene comes with a bit of back-story. Two years ago, a thoroughly decent chap named John O’Brien came to me with an idea. His theater company, Mill 6 Collaborative in Boston, was putting together a show to celebrate their tenth anniversary. He wanted to include live readings of material from Analog Nation, including a personal ad-slash-rant written in December 2007. His idea was to pair it with a new piece, an ad written from a girl’s perspective. I was more than happy to oblige, and banged something out five minutes before deadline (as is my custom). Apparently it went well, because last month John had another idea. As part of a fundraiser for Mill 6, he wanted to re-stage the two personal ads, this time followed by a scene of the guy and the girl on a date. Five minutes before deadline, I started typing like a banshee. What follows is that scene, performed last night by Greer Rooney and Jonathan Michael Anderson.

Wait, do banshees type?

[Read the rest →]

Folks like you helped me earn a living for years. Many of you made valiant attempts to stop me. A few of you managed even to slow me down a little. Only a handful were able to actually thwart me outright, and that select few lived in paranoid lockdown, afraid of the outside world. Their loss, frankly. But the rest, all you wholesome American families living in nice houses with nice kids and nice Labrador retrievers, you were my bread and butter. And my friends, I like a lot of butter on my bread.

Home invasion is a young man’s game, so when the time came for me to hang it up, I never looked back — until now. Let my lifetime of experience guide you. Use it to build a safer home, to protect yourselves from guys like me. Make no mistake, they are out there. They are everywhere, and their bread is dry and butterless.

[Read the rest →]