Sense.
I saw this.
In seeing sense, I decided not to call this post FUCK ME HARD. It might have attracted a different style of comment. I'm not saying the comments would have been good or bad.
Different.
Is the product as advertised? Recently I blogged about being offered a meal and receiving a different kind of meal. That was one of those writerly moments packed with symbolism. I wasn't offered the wrong meal in an actual place.
No, I made that up to illustrate a point.
If I want steak, don't bring me soup unless I asked for soup followed by steak. Is the product, the service, the thing, meant to be that way?
Okay, mistakes are made in restaurants. But not with spam. Spam is a category of mistake all to itself.
I'm going to fuck you hard = I'm going to spam you hard.
The comment means something else uttered under different skies. In a bedroom, or a mocked-up bedroom in Ikea, I'm going to fuck you hard takes on a certain connotation.
This is true of a scene in a movie, whether comedy, porno, or comedy porno.
In my in-box, it means spam.
I'm going to fuck you hard in your in-box.
Okay, that could still apply in Ikea or at the movies.
But this business of pumping me hard or offering to ride me hard, fuck me hard, do me hard, by telling me this in multiple e-mails...
That clutters my in-box. This is not a euphemism.
Anyway...
I know this spam doesn't work. Viagra? No thanks. Rolex? No. Does Dr Dre really need the help of spammers to promote his headphones? I think he'll get by just fine without me.
And advertising?
I don't run around waving books in faces.
This is how I used to purchase books...
In the vast past, I'd walk into a bookshop with a definite idea of what I went there for. I'd heard about a book. So I went looking for the title, or the author. I'd go and look in a category.
Finding what I wanted to check out, I'd read the blurb on the back cover. Then I'd read the first page. If you didn't disgrace yourself on the first page of your book, you did well.
I've changed my mind about an essential book on reading that crucial first page. Back on the shelf you go.
Recently, I was offered a loyalty card in the last bookshop. Accepting killed the shop. It closed. Am I now without a bookshop? No. There's always Amazon.
I search for a book by title. By author. Perhaps by category. I check out the blurb. And I click to read the free sample. Same procedure as I used in the vast past.
But now, that's all electronic. There's no bookshop here. The bookshop is everywhere. Was there spam, in the vast past?
Newspaper book reviews, perhaps. The cosy kind, where who you knew in the writing world outbid what you knew about writing. Hell, that hasn't changed. The devious business just upgraded to a better seat.
Being offered an unspecified service - admittedly related to being fucked hard...my cynicism suspects financially - turned my thoughts to author spam.
Spam by authors, rather than spam aimed at authors.
I write of spam periodically. It grows more devious by the hour, that stuff. Devious...and desperate.
How often have I bought a book based on receiving an automated Twitter response in my Direct Message in-box, asking me to like the author's Facebook page?
My (three) regular blog readers already know my views on Facebook. Facebook is for stalkers, cat-obsessives, and cat-obsessed stalkers.
Sense. I threw sense out of the window and changed this blog post from FUCK ME HARD to SPAM ME HARD. Then I saw sense and changed back. Putting SPAM in the title risks attracting an audience of carnivores.
Spam, as a meal, is likely to be the best thing to eat in a Zombie Apocalypse. It's the tinned food that comes with its own can-opener.
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