That was when I was part of the launch team for NBC Europe's Giga in 1998, and we had this "amazing" and "novel" idea (at the time) to do a live show on Cable TV for 5 hours each day, starting when what I now would call the Google Kids
(only Google didn't exist back then, not really, it was an Internet toddler, and the whole Business 2.0 thing was about the break, bubble up and then burst just three years later, burning a lot of cash and bridges)
came home from school, hey, kids, we are the modern MTV, we are hip, we are so you, and by the way, you can talk to your hosts every moment of the day through special chat and there would be an immediate reaction and incorporation into the show.
Didn't like it. Well, I did like the idea, but I didn't want to be in front of the camera, because I never had the urge to perform like a monkey. But a monkey I became, and I was rather good at it, primarily because I didn't take it seriously, nor did I take myself seriously.
What I did take seriously?
The interaction between the viewers and myself.
You wrote me an email, you could be sure I'd be the one replying.
You chatted with me, even while I was doing the news live on air?
You could be sure I would be the one responding to you, in a casual way that nowadays would be the equivalent of a 7 (because I started the chat before we went on the air) hour Reddit AMA.
It was draining. It was long. It was burning me out.
But I thought, people "deserve" to know who is that asshole playing the monkey in front of the camera. Now, let me tell you something (all three of you who are not too busy spouting bullshit on Twitter, Facebook, commenting on shit because you feel the need to).
You don't deserve shit. You are not entitled to shit.
A writer. An artist. An anchor. An editor. They are not your little bondage piggies, for you to tie up and wrap around and bitch at. You have two choices. You buy what they produce. Or you don't.
That's all you are entitled to.
That doesn't mean you don't have the right to bitch. To moan. To whine. And to cheese. Nobody is taking that right away from you. But that? That isn't good enough for you. You think you are entitled to something more. Something bigger. You think you are allowed to crash somebody's time line on Twitter, to put comments up on their blogs, on the Facebook feed or whatever the shit it is you feel like doing.
You have the right to an opinion
You have the right to voice it loudly
The artist, the editor, the writer... they have the right to not reply.
Oh, and they have the right to not give a fuck.
They are not your friends. Too many of them feel the need to be "out there" and "connect" to you. Bullshit. It takes too much time, and most of the time, you have to deal with shitheads.
Yes, you. Over there. I'm talking to you. You know who you are. The serial troll on Twitter, the serial poster on boards, the serial bullshit wanker who thinks you "own" the artist's time, because I PAID MY MONEY, MY GOOD MONEY FOR THIS, I HAVE THE RIGHT TO...
... you don't have the right.
Don't delude yourself. You have the right to be pissed off. You have the right to voice it. To talk to your friends. And have your often retarded little "debates" on the Internet that barely ever amount to more than "you don't know" followed by "you're an asshat" and "you're a racist sex terrorist transgender vegan" or whatever else your tiny processed-food excuse of a brain can come up with.
It usually isn't much.
Once upon a time, I was yet another minor celebrity.
During the Egypt Revolution. On Twitter.
And I thought, maybe I can do some good there, and I told the truth, and I never ever trolled somebody. But I was trolled. Was I hurt by it? Fuck, no. But I again felt the obligation to answer to every retard, to explain, to debate, to have a civilized conversation, you know, the way we used to have them before the Internet reduced your brain capacity to a binary code of ME LIKE and ME HATE and nothing else between it.
Essentially, the kind of mindset that now allows rich retards like Trump and corrupt retards like Clinton run their campaigns on your emotional infantile black hole of a mind.
In 2013, when I got so ill that I could barely get through the day, I also closed my Twitter account, I replaced with a tiny one that only has a select group of friends invited in. And I make jokes. Sometimes I make them laugh. It's like a nice dinner party. And that is all that I care about in "social media", even now that I am feeling better.
I have not allowed and never will allow comments on this blog.
You can read it. You can not read it.
That's your choice.
You can have your opinion about me.
That's your right.
And I have the right not to be bothered by any of your opinions.
We are not friends.
I know my friends.
By the way, this extends to both good or bad opinions. Because they are both the same coin, different sides. They are what "fans" are. Fanatics. Either side. Bad shit, kids. As much as I always loved comics, movies, books, I never felt the need to interact with those who wrote them. Why should I? I enjoy what they do (or did), not who they are. I am sure I wouldn't be friends with most of them, just as I am sure most wouldn't want to be friends with me, primarily because I don't care much for people.
People bore me. They always have.
But those vocal "internet fans"?
Bore me the most.