Nope, I’m not Contemporary

As I’ve hinted in recent UNPLUGGEDs, I have been encountering difficulties in writing fiction.

I fear I’ve discovered the reason. If the Prime Rule of Writing is WRITE ABOUT WHAT YOU KNOW, then I cannot write contemporary fiction because I do not know … contemporary.

For a time, I thought I was keeping up. I was able to tell you that Heath Ledger was not a candy covered version of a Franklin Planner and that RUN-DMC was not a command in DOS ver 6.06. But then, somehow, I lost it. Didn’t realize that SMALLVILLE was all about super-you-know-who because if that were the case, then why in the hell wasn’t it called SUPERBOY. Thought that “24″ was a news show (the way 20/20 used to be) until I saw someone named Keister Sutherland looking as though he sure hoped the Milk of Magnesia would kick in soon. Then came last week’s Grammies, and it hit me that I had not heard the music of any of these people, and that after hearing the (alleged) music of these (alleged) people, I had to say it was not my music–my music! CCR and Moby Grape (MOBY with the GRAPE, not MOBY sans GRAPE), and CREAM and DOORS–so there …

I was pleased to learn Beyonce is a person and not the new laundry detergent I’d previously associated with her name. (AMY WINEHOUSE? They serve cheese fondue?)

Contemporary? Well, not me, buckaroo. I do not have an IPOD. I do have a cheap MP3 player with a screen that shows me what I am listening to if I hold it close enough in a properly lit room. What I am probably listening to is BOSTON BLACKIE, I LOVE A MYSTERY, OUR MISS BROOKS, and THE GREEN HORNET. If you can identify the aforementioned, you are likely not contemporary—or you’re researchin’.

Sure, I have a cell phone because I must. I teach in a college and thus I am obligated to quickly alert proper authorities if a student with a problem like Neo-Cognitive Digressive Primordial Halitosis, Stuttering, and Crazy-Like-a-La-La-Loon Psychosis suddenly makes his eyes spin in opposite directions while declaring Great Squirrel Father has given him NEW ORDERS for ARMAGGEDEON SUPREME (LEVEL 5–with extra topping!) as he yanks from his backpack the 87 handguns, rifles, bazookas, and Sherman Tanks our Second Amendment says he is entitled to have …

But my cell phone doesn’t take pictures. My camera does. It doesn’t suggest which restaurant I might visit (Arbys? KFC?). It doesn’t hum to me to help me sleep.

And I HAVE NEVER TEXTED ANYONE. I will not.

Do not text me. If I manage to figure out how to decipher what you’ve sent, I will turn it over to the FBI and tell ‘em that you’re running a SEXTING ring with extra SEX–solely for four year olds.

My cell phone’s ring is “ring… ring… ring.” It is not the “Love-Death Duet from Tristan and Isolde” and doesn’t herald the riding forth of The Lone Ranger. (That’s an allusion~!) I don’t hear that ring too often, anyway. That’s because my cell phone is turned off (except around ARMAGGEDEON SUPREME (LEVEL 5!) time, although I frequently manage to forget the damned thing on the dresser.

I have no face on Facebook. Myspace is solely occupied by the area in which you will find my corporeal being—arms extended shoulder height at either side, ass filling in whatever seating space has been afforded me.

Twitter?

We are gathered at the bedside of that big-footed, speech-impedimented yellow canary. ‘T’was not the Sylvester claimed the birdy, but the Pixar produced lumpkins that people nowadays call cartoons: The final memorable line of the Avian: “Twitter.”

If Walt Disney were alive, he would be rolling over in his grave.

I thought I was staying somewhat current by not infrequently using the word “Whatever” in a manner not unlike that of my former students or the mannequins on the JERRY SEINFELD show (a WHATVER show if ever there were one.) You know, Leno / O’Brien  … WHATEVER. Letterman. WHATEVER. Windows 7. WHATEVER. John Whoring Around Edwards Smacking Around His Cancer Victim Wife –

–WHO WRITES A BOOK TO HELP OTHER WOMEN COPE WITH THEIR PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE HUSBANDS WHO WHORE AROUND AND SMACK THEM AROUND… WHATEVER. THEN SOMEBODY — WHOEVER–TOLD ME WHATEVER WAS SO YESTERDAY … WHATEVER.

So, gotta face it. I’m out to lunch. Out of it. My paradigm has shifted and hurts like a mofo when the weather turns damp. I can’t get my duck in a row. I see a dude, that’s a guy who’s selling patent medicine from his wagon on THE RIFLEMAN.

Nope, I’m not contemporary.

And that’s why I’m having a rough time writing contemporary fiction.