Last Weekend I Lost 5 Twitter Followers (and this is what I learned)

(I was going to go all sprawling essay on this bad boy but come to think of it, list form may actually be more coercive in ensuring that curious humans actually read this stuff.)

1. Twitter and My Self-Esteem Are Connected Part I

Today I saw this Tweet so spot-on that I retweeted it.

Okay, so that’s true. And yes, I can (wo)man up and admit to checking my “mentions” page a horrifyingly amount of times–especially given the miserly results. So, um, yes, it hurt my feelings when five people, groups, trolls or otherwise decided I wasn’t worth the 11 seconds it takes to scan one of my “trying-to-hard” Tweets. Okay, maybe that’s exactly the reason.

2. I’m not the same person on Twitter that I am at 22 Cortlandt. Or with my social-justice glossy-eyed friends. Or with my intellectualism and tea companions. Or basically, pretty much anywhere except Finnerty’s, my Market Street, Embarcadero Center, and AT&T Park away home.

Indeed, my social media personality on this platform, is a persona that (I hope) sounds like an intelligent and informed baseball enthusiast. Except I have (almost) no friends who care about baseball. And I don’t have that gig right now that I can put as a byline (Columnist at Grantland / Contributor to SB Nation / Creator of CantPredictBall)

So I’m just a fan. Relegated to the status of occasional responses by VIPs creates happiness that can only be characterized as juvenile.

3. All the Cool People Have No Idea I’m Clever

Really. Like I feel like my witty, snarky and astute self-esteem and muscles are constantly in use on Twitter but I constantly feel like I’m excluded from the cool Christian 20-something clique, New York City Communications, Media and Start-up Scene, San Francisco Giants club or otherwise. And yes, since Twitter lets me “eavesdrop” onto everyone else’s smart one-liners–I know that I stand firmly on the periphery.

(That moment when you look for clever tweets to embed and evidence this claim and don’t find any. Well then.)

4. Twitter and My Self-Esteem Are Connected Part 2

I haven’t been on Facebook since two weeks before Matt Cain through his perfect game in June 2012.  I don’t have a smartphone (and therefore no Instagram, Snapchat, or other vanity social media.) I write self-aware articles and make self-aware pontifications suggesting that I have carved out a unique way to avoid the Narcissism Plaguing My Generation.

Gut-check. Still got Twitter. Still invisibly jump up and down whenever someone decides I’m worth that 11 seconds.

5. Without a Strong Online Presence I Feel Powerless

Look, I know that whenever I blast 7-15 clumps of my email contacts with some mind-blowing link, people actually read it. But since you can’t measure that on Klout then my influencer score might as well be nil. Also, because it’s not public. I’m glad I need validation like this.

6. Like It or Not. I Am a Product of a Social Media Generation

Like it or not.

There Are No Florescents from the Stadium Tonight

Balls are still sprayed across the infield and outfield grass and skirting pass John Jay’s glove and Torii Hunter’s nose dives in Big, Bad Boston and Dee-troit and Saint Louie and the City of Angels but October Mayhem has passed over Flushing Queens.

xx

A little lush music will still lead us onward and the glow and the hum from the computers will drone us all into staying up way past the time when we know what to do with ourselves. All the way to the time, when making nonsensical decisions about podcasts and porn and patheticness and so much disquietude emerges when self-control’s battery is not fully charged.

xx

To God be the glory, not only when the stadium lights flicker and then fade, but when all of humanity’s pizazz fires up the school in full yell, To God be the glory.

Channeling MySpace

Who I’d like to Meet

A guy who will lie in bed and listen to postseason baseball games on the radio* with me at 11:39 p.m. on a weekday night. Must punch the mattress after a two out walk turns into a go-ahead run and never-say-never ever even when a career .092 batter is standing in in the 9th inning against a closer who has an opponent batting average of .170 during the season. Those who are not Yankees fans are especially encouraged to apply. The classified poster is a San Francisco Giants fan but believes passion supersedes loyalty when it comes to interaction with other fans and love of baseball (as opposed to indifference or ignorance) trumps all.

*The radio part is crucial. None of this TV/TBS/Joe Buck business will be tolerated.

Dear Heather

Dear Heather,

Here is why this card is late. I have trouble accomplishing tasks that I anticipate being half-assed. Everything (except for applying makeup or proofreading) that I do, I aim to do with my entire heart and effort behind it and it is very hard for me, once I have committed to doing something at a particular scale, to minimize and shrink–no matter how realistic those edits may be.

But the major flaw in this life philosophy is that when I can’t do something large, and at the scale that I desire, I often just don’t do anything–write the letter, reply to the email, do the 10 minute French lesson, go for the 15 minute swim. It’s 30 minutes swim or bust or 2000 word essay on my blog or no writing at all. I’m rigid, inflexible and this is at once my Achilles heel and man is it a good one. There are so many swell reasons why it’s good to be good at small things.

1) it helps build up the muscles to do larger things

2) an action is better than no action

3) little, petite, tiny, all kills hubris. When I wait for my moment–the time I can write you an awesome, voluminous birthday card it becomes more about me (let me write this letter) than about you (your birthday) yikes. that is not a good thought and not very catalytic realization.

anyway, here’s to eating the elephant one bite at  a time and realizing its way more radical at times just to mail the card on time and exercise for 15 minutes than having endless dreams of a unforgettable letter and running a marathon. Remember Jesus himself, counter-intuitively became small to save all of humanity.

Breaking Bad

Two days after the season finale, Chelsea and I distractedly but also deliberately watched the first episode of Walt’s meth-making vocation (and seeming genesis of a murder hobby.) The pilot begs an obvious question, “If I do the wrong thing but for the right reasons, is it wrong?”

And the less obvious: “Who is capable of evil? And what does it take to make a person such–especially when she or he lives outside the caricatures of how we normally define it?”

Perhaps there is a narrative of us falling into “bad things”–this storyline that we like to believe that our lives have a moral arc or cord or connection that threads and weaves and simplifies. But I think sin is nonlinear; the bad that we do is much more spurious and random and also consistent, if not often times clandestine, and if I was truly to fess up about how many times I have stolen (a towel from Zoraida’s house, pens from Open Society Foundation,) lied (to CP and Coro bosses about reasons for tardiness,) cheated (by looking over the shoulder of someone’s blue book on a Constitutional Law exam,) and coveted (Sari’s job, Steph’s ability to make friends,) then it would all seem much more confusing why I haven’t done anything far more nefarious and dastardly yet.

But I bury, bury, bury and people don’t know to ask about what they don’t know.

Walt’s wickedness is televised but I’ve done my best to crush the surveillance cameras attempting to monitor my heart.