Jerkoff Nation

With young boys, it's probably the first insult they use. You're a real jerkoff! Even before they know anything of the actual physical pursuit, the derogatory connotation is hardwired into the archetypal psyche. The only other epithet that might be embedded as deep would have to do with obesity. Woe to the fat jerkoff.

In my early teens I was quite pleased to realize that not all onanistic connotations were negative. What a handy way to deal with the pressures of puberty. The golden years before the advent of actual women and the experience of actual sex. After sex, masturbation was relegated to rubbing one out when and if the occasion arose. What the hell, it's yours, wash it as fast as you want.

These days, having turned fifty, I have to say I've reached the point of diminishing returns. I just don't have the time it takes or the ability to convince myself that it's on par with even bad sex. The whole key is to don't look down. It's my fault for having depleted my store of fantasy, having converted it into actual experience. I just can't be jerking off all the time. Get up and do some yoga. My addiction to isolation is better served out at the beach or at treeline on a mountain of my choice.

And of course somewhere down in the dank basement of my subconscious is that evil little monkey who posits that maybe I should get off my blog and get out there on the computer and rustle up some freaky new fantasies. The pop ups go on forever. There are obviously some serious lower chakric disorders roaming the Internet halls. I honestly wish there was something that caught my attention, that drew me in and occupied my mind to the point where I could forget that I have a couple of hundred files in photoshop that I have to get to tonight, that I have a shitload of things I have to get done before I go to Mount Rainier for four days this week, and that my obsession with actually living my own life has outran my desire to pretend to relive the same experience over again for the umpteenth time.

On the Internet it seems that jerking off is big business. They have taken a deep human need and conditioned it into a social habit, perhaps even an institution, and definitely a commodity. It's all part of the human zoo. The environment is supposed to shape behavior, but what is the link? Degrade yourself and your experience and environmental degradation is inevitable. Each new depth requires a new sensation, a new titillation, a further sense of hypocrisy that allows you to reshape your reality and to hone your isolation. To me it all looks the same, formulaic and soulless and generally lacking in imagination of any kind. What impresses me is that jerkoffs are willing to pay for that. Worse than that are the ones who are naive enough to think they are getting something for free. While they are flogging their dummy the world is going by. Maybe that's the point, that it's better to grab on to what you know than to try for something real and miss. Miss enough times and you're happy to sit there in fool and be fool.

The world is okay with that. It's designed to pick up the slack and profit from it. People used to go to the movies to escape. Real wealth is being able to turn your life into a movie. One that always has a happy ending. If you can delude yourself that you are doing Sharon Stone doggy style, then it's not a far leap to Shock and Awe and Mission Accomplished. You can pretend that the oil companies aren't bending you over the proverbial barrel. You can pretend that all is well in the world and your life really does matter, that it amounts to something, that you are leaving your mark. Sadly it's on the rug next to your computer.