Amerika Online

from The Insider's Guide to Avant-Garde Capitalism:
Excelling in the Fine Art of Making Money

Mark Amerika

(Part One)

The PhD of control. At least I know I have, or am willing to beget. Or not that. But something more concrete like the way her voice trails off in mumbled utterance as if I need to know. Funny how I'll never, though. That's a fact of solitude. And derangement. The way I expend my relationship capital in the economy of ideas. The way I frame my points of reference in citational ambiguity. As if I were my own cut-up poem, prosaically moving towards the vast unknown: of everything that wants to become me. Of everything that wants to consume me, in brand-name identity. But not until I consume it.

Sanctioned lovers entwine entrepreneurially in mid-mindset. The TV disappears in the background but not the noise. Ticker tapes the conversation mulling about. Not precise in where it wants to go and that's part of the fun. Or the dilemma, as the case may be. Futuristic legalese scribbled on a tatooed pall. Her twisted psychoenergy tracing the airborne particles now ready for take-out ("do you want a dehumidifier with that?"). Sometimes I feel like a slut (s/he says). Me too.

The Language Gestapo bred equality. Each verb had its own nerve. And then someone said "Don't," although he did. That was enough to turn them on. Licking the icing off the corrupt scholarly icon, chipped in porcelain vein. Running smooth a liquidated media phenomenon now gone awry. A tear at the fore edge. Bodily signature can't find the dotted line. Finally, access to her hormonal delights via an e-commerce transaction that sold me back to myself. Was this my inner lesbian coming out? Better note it. Virtual Post-It to my seminal computer brain. My passport to possibility.

Thanks Mom, for the Palm Pilot. All of Mom's sons are expert palm pilots. Masturbators extarordinnaire. Now, some 40 years after the fact, I have other PDAs. Personal Digital Assistants. Pent-up Diorama of Destiny. Programmed Dilettantes Appearing (out of nowhere). Put that in your pipe and smoke it, careful not to enflame. Emotions. Let's not get carried away here, after all, it's only your life that's slipping into the pixellated parchment.

Now this: corporate thirst-quenchers injecting e-potassium into my veins so that I can buy online. That is, be online. Being-me, online, is a consumer practice that only ancient whores of the industrial work-force find fault in. New improved whores of the information revolution, people like me, have another take on this seminal way of being, of being online. This Digital Being Me. The e-consuming target market knows, as do I, that email is money, and that cashing in your stock options is not so much selling out as buying in. Buying in to something more luscious than an orgiastic beachhead.

Excuse me while I sample some more ravishing Internet capitalism. The fuel that drives my idea-engine into sweet oblivion. You know, a place where I can forget myself and create other forms of fictional me. I'm not talking about role-playing or anonymous remailers. I'm talking about *me*, the conqueror of cyberspace illuminating seasons of hell as if they were nasty dirty mock-ups of ancient novel language hung up on prose. Or an unwillingness to network with the greater mass of consummated e-commerce veterans of the Holy Grail. The post-literate mass of e-consumers telecommunicating sensual body language right over the wires. Can you feel it?

Media dry-humping is what I call it. Mental tele-dildonics where Reality (with a capital R) finances all forms of emotional exchange and all you have to do is simply BE. Be yourself. Be yourself marketing. Be yourself marketing in the name of progress. YOUR progress. Your progress as a marketing language establishing an orgiastic beachhead on the shores of Internet capitalism. Here come the thirst-quenchers, dry-humping a frozen desire that shows wonderfully accessible cracks in the ice.


Okay, let's put in our pin number. Out comes cash. Out comes cash, lack of emotion, death-desire, expediency. For some reason the expediency keeps coming out even though it's supposed to stop. The expediency won't stop coming out of the machine. The ATM. Will somebody please turn this thing off? I don't need all of this expediency! Why do these automated tellers keep shoving expediency down my throat, in my face. I can't handle it. Too much time-sensitive religious matter -- death, cash, lack of emotion -- I can't withdraw any more lest I end up an Internet recluse e-consuming mega-hits of honorific capitalism in total isolation. Maybe *I'm* the automated teller machine and the currency I keep dishing out is prophetic hormonal sense-oblivion. Buy one, get an orgiastic beachhead free.

I mean, I could become my own e-consuming monopoly, with emoney, ebranding, eflying, ehotels, e-motions. That's it, no question about it, I'm going to corner the e-consuming market. My unrelenting appetite to purchase things over the Net will be not be matched by anyone. In fact, no one will even try and compete with me because they know that I've got 90% of the e-consuming market. I'll be too big for them to buy me out and so they'll try and buy in, buy in to the most luscious e-consuming life an orgiastic beachhead could ever hope to be. Seminally be. Soon, people will be *paying me* to e-consume the masses *for* them. That's all I'll ever get paid for. E-consuming the masses. The precise manifestations of my work will defy language categorization. In fact, what I do when I do what I do will no longer be important, Thank God (that One Fatal Disappearing Act). Thank God indeed.