Who doesn’t love bacon? I’ve never met anyone who hates bacon. We love bacon cheeseburgers, bacon bits, bacon and eggs, BLT’s and bacon lip balm.

Yes. Bacon lip balm is available from Thinkgeek.com. So is bacon pop corn, bacon lollipops, bacon jellybeans, bacon candles, fizzy bacon drink tablets, bacon salt, gummy bacon, Baconnaise (porky mayonnaise), bacon gumballs, bacon bubble buddy, bacon-flavored envelopes, bacon hot sauce, bacon mints, Squeez Bacon (basically bacon paste), canned bacon, bacon scarves, bacon t-shirts, Mr. Bacon’s Big Adventure board game and bacon soap. The last one I am going to buy a lot of. I love the smell of bacon. And now I can smell like it all day. Rudy, our Jack Russell, will never leave my side. He will not need a leash. Little guy will just suck up in my bacony wake and off we go.

Thinkgeek sells eclectic everything from caffeinated body wash and caffeinated marshmallows to whiskey stones (look it up), spy cam video sunglasses, unicorn meat (“FOR REAL! NO FOOLIN’ THIS TIME), and titanium sporks. I kind of want that spork, too.

This joint make’s Spencer’s at the mall look like the Hallmark store. They have it all, if it’s a little weird and you are sort of a geek. Bacon, however, seems to be one of their biggest draws, next to Star Wars. For me, it doesn’t end there, however.

Despite having never bought a single slice of bacon through the mail, I seem to heave gotten on a list of bacon purveyors across the country: Nueske’s, Harrington’s, The Loveless Café, Early’s and several I can’t remember. The pictures lure me in. I want that bacon, all of it, every slab. Perhaps when my shipment of bacon soap arrives and I take that first shower, it will fry my bacon Jones.

Hmmm, Bacon Jones. Didn’t he play for the Rams?

If you haven’t seen Social Network, go now. Go tonight. Go tomorrow. It’s a heartwarming tale of genius and greed and betrayal, brilliantly written, directed and acted. No doubt, there will be soon be movies that examine Napster’s start (a bit of it is covered in Social Network), YouTube, Google and Apple.

In watching Mr. Zuckerberg’s behavior, both in real life and on the screen, it is not his eccentricities that stand out. In fact, I began to realize about halfway through the picture that it is really not about Zuckerberg at all. It is about us – all 500,000 of us and how fast we are willing to change every aspect of our lives to follow an idea.

Like Edison and his light bulb, eventually the idea’s birth and the inventor’s actions fade in the wake of the millions of people who are affected by the cultural shift that follows in the wake of the invention. Facebook is only six years old. YouTube is a year younger. Google is not much older than either. Apple is ancient in this new universe. By next year, something new will take a little more of our daily time.

Whatever you may think of him, in Zuckerberg, we see a piece of ourselves. In Facebook, you literally see every piece of us all, splayed out for people who may or may not really be our friends. Is it not irony that a person so socially inept could create something that forever changes the definition of “friend?”

Digitally, we will never die. We will just enter another database, easily found by anyone who remembers just a little info about us. It may not take that much. Our clicks live forever like old episodes of “I Love Lucy” floating through space to far away planets on sound waves broadcast in black and white over fifty years ago.

Into this metric world comes Bynamite, a small start-up that wants to help us regain some control of our digital selves. The app monitors information that Web marketers are collecting about us. It is less about online privacy than online transparency. According to the New York Times the founders say Bynamite “is mainly a ‘mirror,’ showing users how the commercial Internet sees them.”

In the same Sunday NYTimes Book Review, Gary Shteyngart writes about disconnecting from our iDevice/ARoid world and seeing what is around us in the real world. His observation that once engaged on a smartphone, everything disappears except the little arrow and the tiny screen, is far too familiar for most of us. We are drowning in Droids and buried in Blackberrys. This week, Apple’s Steve Jobs delivered a fix for the new iPhone so it works no matter where you hold it. The announcement made me a bit sad.
There are times when I’d like to hold my digital device in a way that doesn’t let it take the reality of my existence from me, meaning that I don’t hold it, it holds me.

I am disturbed to admit that I have become a traitor to my own humanity, constantly fondling a small re-charable square that blinds me from all that surrounds me. My kids sleep with their devices. People die texting or surfing or thumbing the ubiquitous screens. Every time I want to –

“Droid!”

Sorry, I got to get that. Catch you later.

The fast-growing phenomenon is the creation of 27-year-old Russian software developer, Dmitry Chestnykh, who, ironically, speaks English as a second language. So I entered the word “Irony” 30 times and got the deceased, weird fiction writer, H.P. Lovecraft.

The Huffington Post had this to say about the writing analyzer: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/17/i-write-like-website-goes_n_650037.html

It uses keyword recognition to track down your inner author. I spent about 20 minutes analyzing several of my stories. According to “I Write Like,” I write like:

• Stephen King (at least 20 times)
• David Foster Wallace (18 times)
• Kurt Vonegut (12 times)
• Ernest Hemingway (a lot)
• Mario Puzo (4 times)
• Chuck Palachniuk (twice)
• William Gibson (say what?)

I pasted in the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy For the Devil.” I got Ian Fleming.

The Beatles “A Day In the Life” conjured up Raymond Chandler.

Cory Doctorow came up after typing a series of repetitive profanity.

Okay, I spent more than 20 minutes doing this. I spent far too much time. But it is addictive. One hit leads to another and soon you want to analyze everything from Michael Jackson songs to the ingredients on the back of a Pop Tart box. It went on and on. Check it out: http://iwl.me
By the way, I just analyzed this blog post and it is written like Cory Doctorow. You’ll get Cory Doctorow about every 8 tries. Everyone writes like him, I guess. Perhaps his blog: http://boingboing.net is running in the background of our brainwaves as we write other stuff and it comes out about every eighth time. (this single paragraph was analyzed as writing like Cory Doctorow, so there, it’s the eighth paragraph in this post. Point proven.)

Thanks, Jeff (who also writes like Cory Doctorow). Damn. Is Dmitry Chestnykh the president of Doctorow’s fan club?

Six out of ten fear they will not meet their current financial obligations. Half wonder if they will be able to pay for college or even stay in school. Eight of ten are concerned they will not find a job when they graduate. Fewer than that believe they will be better off then their parents. Four of ten are politically independent. That’s 40 percent. 36 percent were Democrats and 23 percent claimed to be Republican. See a pattern forming here?

This lack of faith in government and institutions is hardly new. The 1960’s sprouted a political movement that turned into the current political establishment on both sides of the aisle. But what if these short-term fears become a long-term reality? Who will suffer the most when younger Americans don’t see the needle move on solving some their concerns. Government and corporations have a lot to lose when the next generation doubts them both into irrelevance.

The 1960’s used music to express their opinion. This time, we’re using the web. The difference will become obvious as more people doubt this broken system and begin to use the power of the Internet to affect change. What says “by the people and for the people” better than the Web?

Vaguebooking is not new. We’ve been vague for years, decades and centuries. But Facebook has turned vagueness into an art form to be relished next to the lofty blog and the seminal webvid. It is just so easy to do. The little words in the box – “Write a comment…” –  is begging for your meatless entrée to be slathered into the trough.

“Go ahead, make my day.”

I used that one myself a week or so ago and received a rash of comments that filled out my nothingness quite impressively. I have equally added to the vagueness of others – and often. The pithy comment, the smart-ass retort, the equally vague assumption, I’ve shoveled my share.

It is addictive, too, this nutrition-less conversation. Looks great. Less filling. It has typeability. Vaguebooking is killing network TV. More people are vaguebooking right now, as I write this, than voted in the last 30 years worth of elections. So in effect, vaguebooking is more powerful than voting. Think about that for a minute. In fact, just to prove my point, I am going to post, “Think about that for a minute” on my Facebook page and see how many comments I get.

Vaguebooking says, “Im bored, maybe drunk, really tired, can’t think of anything clever to say, so I’ll toss out some vagary to chum the digital ocean and see if I get a bite. Sometimes I get several. Sometimes I get a pathetic ‘like.’ That’s what people do when they’re just too bored and tired to comment about your vagueness. Sometimes I get nothing. That’s the lowest of the Facebook lows. When no one comments, it’s a dark day below the little square picture I uploaded. If the answer to “What’s on your mind?” is met with silence, the inference is clear. What’s on your vague mind is not worth my vague time.

When your vaguebooking is ignored, it’s a sign that your life is no longer important to the people you thought were your friends. It causes vague feelings of self-doubt and comment envy. But if you look at it over the long term, it is all just digital toilet paper, easily wiped away with a click of ‘delete.’

The truth is, we want our vaguebooking to be meaningful. Sadly, it is just not built to take that kind of punishment. But even more sadly, these flimsy dollops of conversation are running the entire country, maybe the world.

Perhaps I should be less vague on my next post. But if I get too focused and actually say something with meaning, I lose my vaguebooking street cred. And we’ve all worked too damned hard to give up such a thing just because we want to post a concise, coherent thought.

Shewl Gantt met her brother at the door of the rancher outside Lafayette. Dr. Barrow hugged his sister. Gerald Gantt stood at the door. Jolene waited beside the car, hesitantly. Shewl looked at Jolene and her face broke into a look somewhere between a smile and shock. Jolene was like a mirror to Shewl’s past; the eyes, the mouth, the mannerisms, the way Jolene stood in the freshly mowed grass.

“Baby doll!” said Shewl. “You are too beautiful to be beat up like that.”

Dr. Barrow hugged Shewl and shook hands with Gerald on the porch.

“My brother is on his way with Gus,” said Gerald. “This is going to end badly for some people back in Alabama. You know that don’t you?”

“It ends how it ends,” said Dr.Barrow. “The people who did this should pay. Jolene has a decent person hiding inside that rage.”

“I’ve been down this road before,” said Gerald “Y’all can stay a few days. But I know my brother, and if this girl has his blood –”

“She has his blood. And yours too. You forget your past?” said Dr. Barrow. “I remember treating a lot of people you had trouble with.”

“I didn’t kill nobody,” said Gerald. “I had my share of scrapes, but I didn’t put people in the ground.” He would not look at Dr. Barrow.

A distant ambulance whined down near Breaux Bridge. Both men listened to it for a few seconds before Dr. Barrow turned back to Gerald. The years showed in his face. Pain pulled on him more than gravity, made him shorter, more bent and wrinkled. We wore his scars like skin.

“You put a few in the hospital, though,” said Dr. Barrow. “Several of them never came out. One is in a home up in Shreveport now.”

“He deserved it,” said Gerald. “And don’t say he didn’t. If justice comes outside the law, then that’s how it gets delivered.”

“So don’t be so hard on Jolene, then,” said Dr. Barrow. “She’s delivered a little justice just like her grandpaw and uncle. Invite her in.”

Gerald watched Shewl and Jolene getting along loudly beside Dr. Barrow’s car. They could have been mother and daughter to an observer.

“Shewl’s doing a good job of that,” said Gerald. “I’ll make some coffee. You still like strong coffee as much as you used to?”

“Make a pot. I’ll pour some in me,” said Dr. Barrow. “By the way, when was the last time you saw Gus?”

Gerald, slowed his enthusiasm. “Been a while. He was a boy,” said Gerald. “I hear he got shot up by that lake. And I reckon he knows that Jolene’s his daughter by now.”

“He does. Took him a while to accept it,” said Dr. Barrow. “According to Jimmy, he’s wrapped his mind around it pretty tightly.”

Gerald pinched his nose and adjusted his glasses. His swallowing was constricted by a dislike for Gus that had always been hard to hide. Gerald’s pained expressions were not difficult to read, especially for a man like Barrow. He understood pained expressions like an alphabet.

“Don’t really matter if he does or not. Fact is fact,” said Gerald. “That girl is family. Might as well move on from there.”

“She acts like people in the family as well,” said Dr, Barrow, smiling. “Take it all or don’t take any of it. Just how it is.”

Gerald opened the door to let them all in. He paused, staring at the floor as Jolene passed. She looked at him and stopped. He turned away.

“You look just like a different version of Jimmy Gantt,” she said. “Same rigid features. Same wrinkles. Same demeanor. Same detachment.”

“Not the same,” he mumbled in his gravelly voice. “May look the same, but I ain’t. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say it again.”

Dr. Barrow grinned from the foyer. “Truth is a bitter pill to swallow, Jolene,” he said. “Your Uncle Gerald has changed though.”

“How’s that?” said Jolene.

Dr. Barrow waited for Gerald to answer her question. He did not. Shewl stepped into the awkwardness to offer food.

“Jolene is a guest and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t dig up old arguments before she even knows us.” She pulled Jolene into the kitchen. “I hope you like frog legs, because Gerald and me gigged a mess of them this morning at dawn,” said Shewl. “Woke them with a sharp poke.”

“I know that feeling,” laughed Jolene. The humor avoided Shewl as she pulled the frog legs from the fridge and began to prep the frying pan.

“I love frog legs,” said Dr. Barrow as they walked away. “Show Jolene how they dance in the pan.”

Shewl shook her head and opened the refrigerator. A large cellophane bag of frog legs sat on the second shelf. Jolene eyed them nervously.

“You’ll never want chicken again,” said Shewl. “Can’t beat free groceries, even though they do come attached on each side of a frog’s ass.”

Gerald stepped out onto the porch with a cigarette, but didn’t light it. Dr. Barrow followed. They had business to discuss. The worst kind.

“This Alabama business will get ugly,” said Gerald. “I’d like to avoid it myself. But I won’t leave my brother hanging in the wind.”

“You never did,” said Dr. Barrow. He wiped sweat from his neck with a handkerchief. “You know who’s behind all of this mess don’t you?”

“I have a few ideas,” said Gerald. “Ritko was supposed to cover it. He’s lost his touch.” he paused. “Some other things have happened too.”

“Like what?” said Dr. Barrow. He knew Gerald was more involved in Jimmy’s life than he would ever admit, even to family.

“You like to keep you diploma unstained and that’s a smart way to work it. The dirty work is coming though,” said Gerald. “It’s on the way.”

“Ritko’s partner? The crazy one?” said Dr. Barrow. “Duware?” He probed Gerald but there was no information coming, just a hard, Gantt stare.

Gerald lit a cigarette and pulled a lung full, burning a quarter-inch ash at the end. He eased the smoke out, savoring the cloud. “Yeah,” he said.

The two men stood, backs to the door, watching the first thumps of rain on the Louisiana mud. Large drops pinged the car. Gerald pushed a bit of lose tobacco out between pursed lips and flicked it, then took another drag.

“Duware. Still roaming the earth,”  said Gerald.

“It will change with Jimmy still roaming the earth as well,” said Dr. Barrow. “Surprised they are both still vertical.”

“I’m not,” said Gerald. “All the dinosaurs didn’t die at once. Some just petered out at the edges of the world.”

Sometimes men talk a lot and say nothing, thought Dr. Barrow. Gerald was just the opposite. He was just like Jimmy. His silence said a lot.

“It’s feels a little like the edge of the world here today,” said Dr. Barrow.

Gerald responded with only a nod, finishing the cigarette. Hamdog, Shewl and Gerald’s beagle, turned the corner of the house and ran into Gerald’s leg, rubbing his ear, eyes blind, cold and white.

“That blind dog has got to be pushing 15 years old,” said Dr. Barrow.

The dog leaned against Gerald, hopelessly blinking into the rain.

“Better roll up your windows,” said Gerald. “Going to be a hard one.” He held his hand out to feel the rain, but his mind was in Alabama.

Ashley:  “What are you guys doing this weekend?”

Ben:  “Oh, we’re headed over to hang out at the offices of Blankenbutt and Napscracher.”

Ashley:  “I love those guys. Took the kids over there last night. They were doing inventory. They gave me a sales talk while we waited. It was pretty cool.”

Many companies are working to put a face on their fan pages. Even if thay talk about doing inventory. Whatever you do, just be yourself and make it interesting. If your people don’t get involved and become the face of your company, aka, be human, then you have a Facelessbook fan page. Same with other social media and networks.

“So what if our people aren’t interesting? What if we’re a bunch of dullards who just happen to be amazing at what we do, but not great with this social networking stuff? What if we don’t want our people wasting time on Facebook? What if there are legal concerns about what we can post?”

What if you go out of business because your competitors figured out that this is the reality, not of the future, but of the now?

One good rule seems to fit most of these questions: If you wouldn’t say it or do it in front of your mom or in the middle of a shopping center, don’t do it on Facebook. But maybe that’s just me.

The main thing about social media is, it’s basically a digital way to do what the average business owner used to do when a customer came into their store: have a conversation with them. Talk about what they want to talk about. Provide them something they want and will come back to get again. Social business is about finding new ways to talk with people. If they like the conversation and they need what you are selling, then you have a customer. 

As Seth Godin says, “Don’t have meetings about your social media strategy. Just do stuff. First you have to fail, then you can improve.”

Want to learn to ride a bike? Get on one and start peddling.

Popping sounds came from relaxing metal under the pecan tree. Jimmy and Gus found no more drivers licenses. Gasoline soaked the earth.

“You’ll want to walk back to the truck,” said Jimmy. “I’m going to roast some pecans.”

Gus walked back to the truck knowing what he meant. Jimmy did not smoke, but he always carried matches in case he needed to start a fire. He walked to the edge of the gas-soaked grass. Gus saw the match ignite in Jimmy’s cupped hands, then he dropped it. An orange swoosh raced across the ground towards the wreck. When it reached the twisted gas tank, a ball of flame plumed into the pecan limbs, crackling and hissing as it cooked the tree and the car. Jimmy shielded his face and studied the roiling fire, then turned and walked back to the truck where Gus stood.

A car came over the hill. The vehicle slowed. The driver’s face gaped, wide-eyed, through the windshield at the fire. Another explosion heaved the roiling wreckage. Gus held up a hand to staunch the heat and watched the approaching car through a squint. Blood from his wounds stained his wrinkled shirt. Acrid air burned his nostrils in a stench of combusting gasoline, burning leaves, roasting rubber and melting plastic. Gus rubbed his face. His features felt alien in his hand. His brain tightened around his dread. How had things turned so wrong so quickly?

Jimmy walked into the road, waving his arms. The driver – a wary salesman – pulled to the side and rolled down his window reluctantly.

“What the hell happened here?” he yelled at Jimmy. “Anybody make it?”

“We just got here ourselves,” said Jimmy. “You got a cell phone? Somebody should call 911. We would if we had one. It’s a bad accident.”

“I’d say so.” He squinted at the burning tree. “My cell just died after a two hour sales call. That whole tree is on fire over there. Damn.”

“Looks like they were flying when they left the road. The curve got them,” said Jimmy. “If it didn’t the explosion did.”

“I’d say they’re roasted,” said the salesman. “A fire that would roast a whole tree of pecans would sizzle a man pretty fast.”

“If you’ll stay here, we’ll drive up the road to a friend’s house,” said Jimmy. “We’ll call 911.”

The man looked at Jimmy and nodded. Jimmy walked back and got into the truck with Gus and left. He never looked back.

—-

The man dressed like a woman with a red snake tattooed on his wrist walked into the room sniffing the air as if the smell was an answer. He pulled off the wig and tossed it on the floor next to Bren. She felt a dread in his presence. It was thick and salty and soulless.

“Where is your father?” said Fussell Duware. Bren did not answer. “I’ll ask again, politely. If you don’t answer, the polite part ends.”

“I don’t know what you’re –” he cut her off.

“You’re stubborn like your brother,” said Duware. “Let’s see if you are as tough as he is.”

He hit her in the face. Her lip split against her teeth. Another hit followed. Then another. Then a kick to her ribs. She tried to breathe. Duware wasn’t much for drama. His training was strictly business. He pulled Bren up by her hair. Blood sprayed from her mouth as she heaved.

“Remember?” he said. “Clearly your brother is tougher. But you’re a woman, so I’ll cut you some slack. Or maybe just start cutting.”

Duware opened the blade of a box cutter, leaning in close to her bleeding ear. Blood gurgled in her throat as she heaved for breath.

“Gus won’t like the way you look when I’m done. And your daddy won’t like me any more than he does already. But Gus is out of commission.”

He waited for a reaction from her. None.

“Who knows where daddy is,” he said. “But he ain’t here.” He waited again. Nothing.

Outside a garbage truck was lifting a trash bin in metallic moans. Inside, trash lay on the floor around Bren’s broken jaw. Duware smiled.

“I’m dressed like a woman for practical reasons,” he said. “But I’m not a patient man.”

He acted like the two conditions were connected. Bren wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her voice was gone from the last kick. The pain was so intense that it was almost no pain at all.

“One last time, Miss Zapata,” said Duware. “Where is your father?”

Pinching her thoughts into a tiny, focused knot was the only way she could think through the descending darkness. Metal scraped and clicked. She heard Duware exhale and smelled his soured breath. Her father was not the one he should be worried about. Images of Gus smiling after they had made love filled her head. It gave her peace in the middle of what was about to be just the opposite. Bren was fighting to stay conscious. Lacking oxygen to clear her head, Duware’s words were abstract. She mumbled only one word, “Jimmy.”

As Duware made the first cut, Bren was falling into another world far from the dank room where she lay. She was beyond pain now.