HI! MY NAME IS IDGAF YAAS! I'M ON FACEBOOK! COME ON OVER AND HANG OUT.

Okay, they got me.

If you know me, or at least have been reading this blog for some time, you know that generally, I have a deep contempt for social networking sites. Personally, I find them to be downright boneheaded and generally wrong on so many levels.

I've managed to avoid much of a presence on MySpace.

I do believe that I now hold the record for most consecutive days with no followers on Twitter.

However, then I got a phone call from my good friend and co-conspirator, who let me know that I simply HAD to get on FUCKin' Facebook. Well, not in so many words. Actually, maybe yeah, now that I think about it, that is how he said it.

Anyway. I tracked down a few of my good friends who go back with me to close to a quarter century ago, and decided, fuck it, I'm going to be somewhat active on Facebook. Not that I prefer it over the other two aforementioned sites. On the contrary. To me, Facebook sucks just as bad. It doesn't load pages very well, the chat functions totally blow (and crash my browser more times than not), and, with no offense to my friends who think otherwise, I got sick of playing the games-that-really-aren't-games (eg "Mafia Wars") after about two days, if that long.

Still, I've settled into a role I like to call "Annoying Leftist Newsfeed Guy", since a lot of the publications that I read online anyway are available on Facebook and easy to link to my page.

Another thing which annoys me about Facebook is how they try to force everybody to use their legal birth name. I don't have any problem with my birth name, and anybody can easily find that online, along with my date of birth and birthplace, on the "Biography" section of my last.fm profile. It's just that, not only do a lot more people whom I'd want to find me know me as Michael Psycho, there's approximately umpteen hundred million Michael Warrens all over the planet, with God knows how many in Sacramento alone.

SO I tried using Michael Psycho. Facebook wasn't having it. Previously, I had complained about not being able to use the name, and got handed this line of horseshit via email:

Hi,

Facebook does not allow people to sign up with certain names that may be fake or associated with fake accounts. While we realize this verification method may prevent some people with legitimate names from initially registering, we feel this policy is currently the best method to prevent against malicious and fake accounts on the site.

We can help you sign up for an account, but we will need additional information. Please reply to this email with a scanned image or digital picture of a government-issued photo ID (e.g., driver's license) in order to confirm the accuracy of your name. Also, make sure you black out any personal information that is not needed to verify your identity (e.g., social security number). Keep in mind that we will permanently delete your ID from our servers once your name has been verified.

We apologize for the inconvenience, but you will be unable to sign up until you provide us with a scanned image of a government-issued ID. Please include all of our previous correspondence in your response so that we can refer to your original inquiry.

Thanks in advance for understanding this security policy,

Ursula
User Operations
Facebook


Ursula, I cordially invite you and the rest of the User Operations team at Facebook to fuck off. You are not the government, and I am not trying to use a credit card to purchase goods and services. If I am otherwise using Facebook in the manner which it is meant to be used, you have no business in Hell to be demanding that I use my birth name.

I was going to give up altogether, when suddenly inspiration struck and I decided to give it another go. I reactivated my account but instead of Michael Psycho, or Michael Warren, I came up with a brand new handle.

That name was... Idgaf Yaas.

Okay. I'll write that one more time.

Idgaf Yaas.

The name is an acronym, and it is intended to be a tribute to the nice folks who rejected "Michael Psycho" as my name on Facebook. It stands for:

I Don't Give A Fuck. You Assholes All Suck.

Facebook accepted the name.

So, dear friends, as of right now, Facebook is the place where you will find it easiest to reach me online. It is my online hangout, my street corner, my stoop. I'm positive that, if you are staring at a computer screen right now, you probably already have a Facebook page. So, especially to the readers of this blog, I invite you to come on by and make a friend request. Don't be shy. Although I like my tight knit lil' circle of seven or eight pals I've got since I joined a couple of weeks ago, you are always welcome. Just to make it easy on you, I've provided a link below. I look forward to seeing you. At least until Facebook kicks me out.

Click Here, Pilgrim
(Yes. I know. The link is dead. Read the update below.)


Update(1/30/10): So much for trying to be more social. This evening, I deactivated the account, so Idgaf Yaas is no longer a threat to the shivering denizens of Facebook any longer.

I simply got tired of the whole shebang. I had been thinking about walking away from this shit for a while now when something very interesting occurred today.

I was walking back from taking the trash to my dumpster when somebody seemingly familiar passed me in the courtyard of my apartment complex. I said hello, this person returned the greeting, and walked on by. There was no indication that either of us really recognized each other as any sort of acquaintance. When I noticed that a card for a local city council candidate was placed on my door, I put two and two together.

This was one of the folks who I didn't know personally, somebody I'd never met in my life, who had added me as a friend on Facebook! Rather then having my feelings hurt, I found the experience to be a rather, ahem, teachable moment. That's when I decided it was about high time to bring this noble personal social experiment to an end.

While it was nice to have tracked down a few folks from the past, ultimately, Facebook activity just seems like a tremendous waste of time. Time is pretty much the most valuable thing I have left nowadays. Also, I've increasingly grown to accept a basic belief that social activity is way overrated.

So to all of the true dear old friends that I ran into on Facebook, thanks for bringing back fond memories and I'm glad to see that we are all surviving and well. As for the rest of you:

THESE TWO LINKS GO TOGETHER LIKE PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY.

On the Black Hole Media Co. blog, there is a brief description of a BHMC research project underway which, with any luck, will be completed by the time that I qualify for Medicare:

Click Here, Pilgrim

I realize that the basic point of this project, of course, is a little hard to describe to a lot of folks without sounding all Unabombery and shit. So, as a way of providing a contemporary example of the type of stuff I've been witnessing that inspired me to begin this project, please check out the link below to this recent article from Mother Jones:

Click Here, Pilgrim

BLACK HOLE MEDIA CO. WEBSITE IS BACK UP AND ROLLING. SORT OF.

Go get that Bookmarks tab warmed up, Pilgrim.

Black Hole Media Co., my sometimes collective, usually lone-wolf-run media terrorist cooperative, is back on them Interwebs at its old address: blackholemediaco.com.

There won't be much there for a while, but don't worry, I'll work on it. You can help too if you want. If you have issues as serious as I do with the Establishment Media, and can express yourself clearly and intelligently, and can pass our screening, go ahead and email the BHMC headquarters. Your help doesn't even have to have anything to do with the site. As long as it's legal and makes sense, hit us up. We're into a little of this and a little of that, so try it, we might like it. (BIG FAT NOTE: Do NOT use this email link to try to contact me personally for any other reason than Black Hole Media Co. business. I will not respond and odds are good that anything sent otherwise will be deleted. I know it's hard as Hell to get ahold of me and I do that on purpose. I've been making myself a smidge more accessible online and I'll be discussing that in a week or two).

EXTRA SPECIAL NOTE:

Black Hole Media Co., in all of its various weird incarnations, has been in operation since 1984. No, it hasn't just been me. I've had a lot of help, and I'm grateful to everyone who has gotten involved at one level or another. Over the years, BHMC has been involved in music and video production, performance art, renegade flyering, consultation, networking, corporate surveillance, ridicule of public figures and a whole lot of other stuff which, though essentially legal, probably shouldn't be discussed right now.

That said, in the time around and since Black Hole Media Co. last had a Web presence (around 2000 or 2001), there have been a spate of sites popping up with interesting variations of our name. Here, for the purpose of clarity, allow me to point out those sites which have no association with Black Hole Media Co. whatsoever, and, to be sporting, I will provide a link as well.

This software company is not Black Hole Media Co. and has no association with BHMC whatsoever.

Neither does this site. Not BHMC related, never was, never will be.

BHMC has released records (and cassettes) under the Black Hole imprint, but has nothing to do whatsoever with Black Hole Recordings.

BHMC also has nothing to do with the band from Italy, The Black Hole Company.

And lastly, BHMC is not associated with Adbusters, but apparently they took a liking to the BHMC logo. (I'm sure that they have a convenient backstory of its symbolism ready. Don't worry, Adbusters, your efforts are still cool in my book).

That's probably enough examples for now (until some more people try to co-opt). I'm fine with it, since Black Hole Media Co. is going to outlive all of these folks. And besides, you know what they say about imitation being...

A JURY OF YOUR PEERS. YOUR PISSED OFF, WEATHER BEATEN PEERS.

So, I was called for jury duty, which was, to my best recollection, my fifth time since moving to California. Before you start to fret about some poor defendant being stuck with me as one of the panel of twelve, be comforted with the fact that, in the spirit of the "One Day, One Trial" policy here in Sacramento County, I was not chosen and was dismissed at the end. In retrospect, I'm sure glad that I was not picked, as I paid a karmic surplus merely in my attempt to make it to the fuckin' courthouse in time.

I received my summons about 3 or 4 weeks ago, and I wasn't worried about how I was going to get to court on time. I like walking and was planning to give myself an ample head start (as long as I gave myself over 45 minutes from where I live in Midtown it would have been fine).

And then, Mother Nature decided to conspire with RT to give me a little character building personal challenge.

The weather, as it turned out, greeted me that morning with 45 mile per hour gusts and a shitload of rainfall. Resigned to having to take the light rail into downtown, I headed over to the 23rd and R station at about 7:20 or so, figuring that, since the trains run 15 minutes apart at the most, I'd have plenty of time to get to where I had to go.

Wrong.

Giving me one more reason to rue the lameness that is Sacramento Regional Transit, the ticket machine would not take any of my dollar bills. Moving across the tracks to the other machine, I noticed that other people were having the exact same problem. Although I probably should have felt some sort of humbling empathy in seeing my fellow members of humanity feeling my pain, I was none too happy to know that there was a FUBAR situation developing here at the RT station, as the 7:25 train pulled up.

I no longer have a cell phone, since I decided that I hardly speak to anybody anymore and it was a waste of money. I could have used the pay phone at the station, but when I've called the court in the past, just for general information, I've been put on hold and sent to Automated Menu Hell. My choice at this point was to either get forced into contesting a ticket for having no proof of fare or getting a bench warrant issued for failure to report for jury service. Even worse, I may have had to report back the following day. Nah. Not going to happen.

I'd like to share with you at this time a little personal issue that I have. If it's one thing that I don't like in this life, it's when I don't have an answer to something, and don't know if what I'm about to do will have consequences or will turn out okay. Sure, I have to deal with that kind of shit on almost a daily basis anyway, and usually things will turn out alright, but I would still rather have answers and information before I choose to do something.

In that mental state, and knowing that it was approaching 7:30, I knew that I had to do something to address the situation. I chose to start a panicked walk-mixed-with-jog down Q, then 22nd Street, then Capitol Avenue, then through a corner of Capitol Park and down L Street, turning to take 10th Street north and cutting across Wino Park, whoops I mean Cesar Chavez Plaza, and booking through I Street. Unfortunately, I overshot the street for the Superior Court building, turning and traveling on 8th, and was disoriented enough to ask some young lady on a phone outside of the Sacramento County Sheriff's doorway for directions back over to what turned out to be the entrance a block away at 9th and G.



I made it in the line outside of the courthouse door at the 8 AM deadline on the dot. Somebody up there likes me, or at least gave me the common sense not to be hitting the potato chips too hard nowadays.

By now, completely looking like a drowned rat, I waited in the long line at the Jury Assembly Room and checked in with my now-soaked summons, then took a seat in the hall. I sort of envied other folks who were using their laptops and taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi that the Court had generously provided for prospective jurors. And then again, I was glad that I had decided against bringing my laptop with me, considering the circumstances that had unexpectedly occured.

I neglected to mention earlier that I'd brought in a briefcase full of notebooks, reading material and other stuff, and had to lug that along under my coat for the little foot race I took through the storm. I chose to take along a copy of a book called The Price of Dissent, Bud and Ruth Schultz's fantastic collection of oral histories of people who have experienced repression and persecution from Uncle Sam because of their personal beliefs and expressed opinions, and pretty much nothing else. I'm reviewing one of the accounts for a project which I may or may not complete within the next few years. There was also, admittedly, a passing thought about how sorta fucked up it would look to be reading that particular book. That only encouraged me even more.

As the process of beginning to call out names for that day's cases began, a woman sitting next to me looked up from her book and remarked, "Have you ever read that short story, The Lottery?" I replied, "Yes, a long time ago", while racking my brains to try to remember what that one was about. She continued, "They announce people's names and then they get executed. It sort of feels like that," with a smile. I may have agreed with her under normal circumstances if the worst part of the morning had not already been past me.

Eventually, my name was called and I headed upstairs to a courtroom. When I got there, the hall was already filling up, and a friendly young woman had motioned over to me to let me know that there was a seat open right next to her. I thanked her and sat my still-pretty-soaked ass down. She mentioned that there seemed to be a lot of people in this jury pool, and I had replied that I had used the stairs because my last name was at the end of the alphabet and by the time I was called, the elevators were already crowded with people waiting in queue. We briefly spoke about the weather outside, and I couldn't help but notice that she seemed just a wee bit agitated and nervous.

The deputy acting as bailiff came out of the courtroom briefly and gave us some pointers on what to expect and how to behave in the courtroom.(For instance, no food because crinkling wrappers will piss off the court reporter.) He then requested that we separate the four pages of our carbon copied voir dire questionnaire in order to make his job easier when he takes them from each juror as they get called to sit in the jury box. Everybody dutifully proceeded to pull their sheets apart. I found it kind of odd that my neighbor to the right, who had helped me to get a seat earlier, did not even pull out the questionnaire. It was no longer a mystery about two minutes later when the bailiff re-emerged, motioned to her and kept the door open as she entered the courtroom.

Great. I'm not even inside the courtroom and I've already carried on a conversation with the defendant. Oh well. We didn't discuss the trial, unless she's being charged with illegal cloud seeding or something, so I guess it was still cool. It still felt kind of fucked up, though.

The clerk then came out and announced eighteen names of people who would be the first to sit in the jury box (12 prospective jurors and six alternates), and then the rest of us filed into the gallery. The judge got things started and gave us the particulars on the trial that we were being considered for, along with the usual admonitions (eg don't discuss the trial details with anyone, etc.). I won't bother to tell you at this point what the charges were because, although legally I can speak about it now, the trial is still pending for all I know. All I can say at this point is that I have a family history in regards to the same offense, and probably would have been sent back to the jury room anyway.

After the initial questioning of the first group of potential jurors, the judge called for the afternoon break, which turned out to be two hours. Luckily I was prepared and had plenty of music to listen to and stuff to read and work on. The drag was that the weather sucked and I was still pretty damp, so I didn't feel like stepping outside. I settled for going up to the cafeteria and a lunch of coffee and cupcakes. I sat in the area near the jury lounge, listened to my usual repertoire of freeform eclectic audio mixture on shuffle play, and did some people watching for most of the time.

One thing about jury duty: it's sort of like the DMV. It's the Great Equalizer when it comes to making everyone get together in one public place, regardless of race, birthplace, occupation or education. There's business suits, baggy pants and hoodies, burkhas, cowboy hats, turbans, leather biker gear and hemp clothing. It almost seems like there should be a hope that these occasional perceived obligations of civil responsibility have a side benefit of reminding its participants that we have numerous differences, too many to even bother counting, and we should always consider that fact when acting out our lives in this world.

After the break, it was back to Final Jeopardy, and the panel was questioned about the usual: if anyone had been convicted of offenses relative to the trial, and of they had been victims under similar circumstances to the allegations that they would possibly be deliberating upon. After the judge excused initial people from the panel, the empty seats were filled and the new arrivals were reviewed on the same questions.

Then it was time for the respective attorneys to have their fun with their peremptory challenges, with the prosecutor and defense taking turns kicking out panelists at whim. This process can go on for a very long time, depending on the size of the jury pool and how anal the attorneys are. Typically, the defense tends to get a little happier with the challenges, and it was no different this time around. However, after one more break and a relatively short time, the two parties magically agreed and twelve jurors were picked along with two alternates. Us stragglers were then dismissed, and we made our way back to the jury room.

One other deportee and myself were smart enough to hit the stairs right away, and we ended up at the front of the line as our remaining fellow rejects filed in and lined up to be dismissed. When I got to the window to turn in my badge, the question I got was: "But, were you excused"? The answer I wanted to give was: "Look, lady, I hauled ass by foot here from 23rd and R because the ticket machine didn't take my money and I practially ran here in a downpour to get here on time, then I spent eight hours trapped here in soaking clothes and was not picked for a jury. You really need to let me the fuck go, and we can try this again in a year or so, aight?" But, I simply replied "Yes," and requested an RT pass. I kind of felt like giving myself a break for the trip back.

That, of course, was not going to happen without even more bullshit. The light rail train headed back toward my homestead was delayed by at least 45 minutes, and I stood out there along with a flock of mostly government workers wondering if it would ever show up at all. Finally, I got my waterlogged carcass home. The next day, my thigh and calf muscles felt like I had rode the American River trail up to Folsom and back from Discovery Park, thanks to my impromptu morning workout.

I respect the American justice system and for all of the citizens of our country to have a right to a fair and speedy trial with a jury of peers. I just wish that it was at least a little easier for me to get through it. It's not the Superior Court I felt inconvenienced from, but definitely RT and its continuing dedication to making its customer service become suckier by the day, every day. Perhaps the Jury Comissioner's office can mail an optional postcard that folks can send back to request an advance RT ticket to be mailed before the reporting date, just to ensure that things run as smoothly as possible. I have a feeling that, if it was anyone else in my situation that day, a lot of others would have just thrown up their hands in the air, said "Fuck it", and tried to avoid even showing up at all. Now that wouldn't help anybody.

CLASSICS ILLUSTRATED, ON LSD.

Okay, I'm definitely going to have to score a copy of this. Mr. Crumb, of all people, has illustrated the Book of Genesis. I would like to answer a question put forth in one the comments posted for the article in Forward.com (linked below).

"Is God perhaps a latent Mr. Natural?"

Upon initial glances, I would tend to think so, though I would also agree with the same commenter that God has a nicer head of hair (natch).

Click Here, Pilgrim

HOSANNAH! THE COVENANT IS SEALED! SELAH.

Greetings, In The Name Of He Who Is Arisen,

Per your urgent request, I have received the token of our holy embrace and have placed it on display at a station of honor in the highest domain of my studio apartment. Your most precious trophy of athletic achievement is now among other significant objects of which I am fortunate enough to have been given the opportunity to save from other politically dangerous areas of the world. I recall only the fondest memories of the noble overseas Christian warriors who have presented me with the privileged duty to acquire all of these curios, at least until I had to change the PIN number on my debit card. I have forgiven them, as my covenant with the Lord dictates that I do so.

I am steadfastly praying, and I know you are as well, for the eventual consummation of our newfound alliance as soldiers of the battle for souls. It is simply one of many blessed events to occur that I had somehow been called by the powerful inner voice of the Heavenly Father to be browsing Ebay at such a miraculously perfect time.

I’m also delighted that you may be able someday to meet my heretofore-unknown long lost sister, Irinya Milošević Perrier O’Brien Gomez Psychodopoulos, who only recently had tracked me down and contacted me through Ancestry.com. She is marrying a lucky young fellow believer of my acquaintance, and while she is trying to get a visa to enter the U.S. from Belgium, I will be helping to open her new electronics store by accepting various packages shipped through UPS and FedEx and will be storing the items in my apartment, that is, the ones that I will not be forwarding, at her request, to her current retail outlet location in Abuja, Nigeria.

I am in passionate prayer daily to ask for God’s mercy upon the state of your treacherous situation, and assure you that I beseech the skillful hand of the Almighty Lord to touch the very essence of your existence, guiding you towards the way of the ultimate assumption of ecstatic glory, glory, glory in the highest until you reach the sacred realm of the Holy Spirit.

Sincerely,

Your Brother In Christian Intercourse,
MP

AT LEAST IT'S BEEN CONFIRMED: THE CELL NUMBER IS REAL.

Wow. Looks like Mary Manson really got its thong bunched up into its hemorrhoids over the latest stunt by the folks over at Buddyhead.

Letter above courtesy of Buddyhead, from the latest gossip page. Link below. Apologies for use without permission, nothing personal, just wanted to dress up the post a little. I'll take this opportunity to highly recommend the sort-of-weekly Buddyhead Gossip for all you crazy kids out there, as it's good for building critical thinking towards the entertainment world in growing minds.

At least I'm confident that Travis Keller won't be calling a fuckin' lawyer on me. As for Mary, on the other hand, I'm not so sure.

Click Here, Pilgrim

HOLY SHIT. SOMETHING ON THE NEW SNL MADE ME LAUGH.

I was actually watching a new episode of Saturday Night Live for once. Finally got to see that Gaga lady that all those kids are crazy about nowadays.

But besides that, the sketches were sorta so-so, until this came on.

GREAT NEWS FOR EVERYBODY WHO HATES ME.

Lately, I've been feeling like shit.

Not physically. As a matter of fact, it seems like I feel stronger and on top of that, I'm getting sick far less often than in my twenties. In my mental state, it's been another story.

It's like my mind is trying to make its way through the middle of a tornado. There's really not much of a better way that I can describe it. The strange thing is that I seem to be doing things okay on the job and in my own creative efforts here and there. Something just hasn't seemed right lately.

Having an overly heavy workload doesn't help, and at this point there's nothing much that I can do about it. Plus, it looks like the inevitable ax is going to fall someday sooner or later anyway. I've been involved in this pattern before, where the staffing gets cut down to the bone, and even though the service levels suffer, eventually the work gets outsourced and the folks who've stuck around to keep things going are out of there.

It would be nice to feel like I can see options beyond my present gig, but I can't. Sure, I have plenty of practical skills to carry with me, and a lot of those skills were picked up on the present job that I'm holding. The shitty economy doesn't help, either. The last thing that I'd be looking forward to would be to re-assess my skill set for the same type of work at another corporation. One positive possibility is that I'll get a higher paying job, which would be close to even odds at this point since I don't make diddly squat based on my current expectations and duties.

I've been squirreling away a few bucks here and there, and have been building a fairly decent sized rainy day fund (which currently would get me through about three years of rainy days, even though that took 15 years to accomplish). That ability to still get a little bit ahead with each paycheck is keeping me in place. If and when it starts to get closer to paycheck-to-paycheck finances, it will be a bit easier to just pack up and hit the road.

There's one weird thing that's going on in my head, though. Like I mentioned earlier, I feel like I'm in great physical shape, but have had thoughts that I'm going to die soon. Real soon. Not like I have any objections to that happening; there's really nothing holding me here. I am completely and realistically one person, with no remaining family or close personal ties whatsoever. That's the price that you pay when you can't keep your mouth shut and can't deal with society or won’t put up with anybody's shit. I paid for it, and now I'm living its results.

Suicide, on the other hand, is not something that I am even remotely capable of doing anymore. I came to the conclusion a while back that if I ever feel suicidal, the most effective method would be to keep living, because life will kill me eventually. My only brother wasn't quite as keen to that idea, and decided to give in to his ongoing urge to shoot himself at the age of 31. It feels sort of strange to be 15 years older than a sibling who was 8 years older than myself, and yet remembering somebody who ran circles around me in terms of intellect even at my current age.

Medication is out of the question, as I don't want any drugs in me anymore, period. I don't even take aspirin unless I'm in nearly excruciating pain. For a lot of folks in my situation, knocking back a few drinks would provide at least a temporary diversion, but I know well enough by now that alcohol is just going to lead down a path which will be even worse than the one I'm experiencing now. And therapy has been nothing but a failure in the past for me, so I wouldn't expect it to change now.

Yeah, I'm feeling pretty fucked nowadays. Anybody reading this right now who hates my guts for one reason or another (and don't worry, I know that you're out there) should be utterly stokely stoked to know about my present condition.

And I want all of you of that persuasion to know something right here, right now.

I am going to eventually snap out of this funk and come back stronger, better prepared, and ready to make you look like a bunch of complete and utter idiots more than ever.

I always do.

And as a matter of fact, just typing this and publishing it has made me feel a whole lot better.

Oh, and fuck you.