YOWL -- James Ph. Kotsybar I’ve seen the minds of my generation bested by their handheld mobile devices, texting for a dopamine rush, tuning out the reality around them. I’ve watched them, withdrawn from present company, looking for bars of microwave coverage, friending strangers, downloading angry birds, internet junkies, living in the ether, looking for that server connection to fame gauged by the number of hits they receive, who sit in restaurants with downturned faces aglow, oblivious to their dinner companions, to check who has Twittered® them in the last few minutes, who drive distractedly, causing fatalities in order to update their Twaddle® followers with TMI about their state of mind on the road, who walk into traffic, updating their relationship status or performing Binglehoo® searches for celebrity gossip or obituaries, who envision themselves as divas, broadcasting narcissistic images of every party or event they’ve attended in the camera phone eye, imagining others care, who live without discretion in the digital age, unknowingly or uncaringly giving up control over their destinies to follow the latest manufactured meme, who look with disdain on anyone behind the curve of the latest cell phone product designed to track them through time, space and potentially subversive ideas, who are GPSed at all times allowing local merchants to alert them to sales or law enforcement to track their movements, who are trained to demand ever higher speed connection because they’re afraid to be, “so seven seconds ago,” who fire up the Wiki at both ends eliminating the need for scholarly research or retention of thought, who self-publish their diaries and essays as open blogs pretending that makes them journalistic writers, who trust all their personal information to cloud networks they don’t begin to understand, who ask YSIC about who watches them watch countless MPEGs of people’s posted antics that pile up a profile of their tagged interests, who believe convenience and expediency are more important than their right to privacy, conceived as an abstract concept of the elderly, who are betrayed by the telecommunications industry they think serves them but ignores Constitutional rights to due process and even freedom of speech, who post supercilious comments publicly, assuming they have the protection of anonymity because they hide behind a hash tag or screen name, who, hands free, carry on conversations with the air, like schizophrenic lunatics, speaking to virtual colleagues, even incommodiously in the commode, who require medications for ADHD and bi-polar disorders, never making the connection to their constant multi-tasking, dividing their attention, who “can haz” perpetual amusement lolling at LOL sites, impersonally spamming inboxes worldwide with their latest animal pic find, who post videos to social sites of the last vestiges of actual experience witnessed, and often disrupted, to make their disassociated lives downloadable, who refuse to turn off their ringtones, assuming all potential calls more important than any movie, play or concert they might attend, who think they’re the source of the Arab Spring and 99% strong because sometimes they can pull off a successful flash mob, who are misled into believing they have influence and choice because there’s an app for that. II What routers have backed up the profitless souls naively sold to the machinery of control? Telco! Dotcom! Dotnet! Dotorg! Dotgov! Dotmil! Dotedu! Dottv! Dotbiz! Dotint! Everyday your bandwidth fills with the addresses you occupy. Telco, you are the new god of information, replacing books, magazines, newspapers and even postal letters. Telco! The world is trapped in the web you crawl seeking content management and infrastructure ownership. Telco, computer simulated, you leave no paper trail in cyberspace, so how can we know what really persists and what may have been censored? Telco, whose phones are smartest for you and whose service is about limiting access to information, you are the true user. Telco, your hidden stealth-bots relay the private data in our terminals that you cram with cookies. Telco, whose attempts at regulation have been at least partially thwarted, your lies about protection of intellectual property have been anticipated. Telco, whose plans to terrace farm the fertile fields will one day restrict totally free access, may you choke on the Creative Commons. Telco, who wants to navigate our searches for us, leading us into realms most profitably marketable for you, may your electronic banks surge without protection. III Like me on Bookface® AYOR -- no liability is claimed. Like me on Bookface® GRAS (but there’s no guarantee.) Like me on Bookface® Please register because UR2G2B4G Like me on Bookface® ROTFLMAO if you think the feeling is mutual. Like me on Bookface® You might win a promotional prize -- LMKHTWOFY Like me on Bookface® NTIMM – just logging on, you’re a research participant. Like me on Bookface® IYSWIM IGWS: There’s always a price to pay (TANSTAAFL). HAK XOXO IOH!