How to [or who to]…? pick a post-pandemic (Delta variant timescale) - persona, for success.

 Let’s face it.

How rude a statement would that be, for someone? 

People are scrambling to avoid being caught in the crosshairs of propagandist ideation sublingual suggestive peripheries from taking hold of our young socialite upstart aspirations and takeovers, however distant and fartlorn we are, away from the nation’s capital, all the way at the other end of the country. Thankfully, in Los Angeles, the heatwaves haven’t been all too severe, and if it feels like it,

A fallen Japanese beetle, at the foot of an ominous, shadowy figure.

 

it probably is an infrared beam of “spotted you, eh?”

 

sorts of “dun, dun, dun…” 

how could a person possibly shake that sort of fate, and come out unscathed? I get scared, all the time. It’s always gangland wars, voices in my head, and sometimes, things, of all things, seem to become unseemly familiar, as far as that I feel I can identify people doing these things to me and my loved ones, and I can’t (usually) find a typology alter ego and spiritual boost timely and well enough to propel me in to quite, understanding and empathizing with what they claim is going on, in my life, and amongst people I’ve known, or my family, for example. 

I feel that some people take the concept of familiarity as appropriate grounds for dysfunctional catharsis to break ground and egotism platforming au contraire, for the sake of the fact that I… I just don’t do stuff like that. They’re the ones that are mad at me. 

Who could I possibly be, or have been, in order to not have become placed amongst these bingers on drugs type of judgmental and persecutory figurative individuals whom I’d known, or know, or some sort of vagueness that develops beyond scarcity of identity exchange, this being the remote sensing medium of communications and self | identity transmissions. It’s big, in Los Angeles. We do big things, out here, and some of us are without apologies or excuses for how, who, why, and what, and where? It happens to be, out here, that people are as slight as the breezes out here, in the hot summer nights. 

Just don’t… just - just… nah, you just really ought not to… I’d say. There’s something that sounded like screaming outside. I should go and check on it. Goodbye. 

Never mind. I don’t know… and then, South L.A. has been making lots of news stories happen, recently. 

Hmm. Sorry, I’m still adapting to this concept of that I am (just slightly) having my content served on Google News.

I was thinking that the hobbyist parfumerie enthusiast thing was the thing, for me, but I’ve got to be agile and swift, and I can’t do all things, or all people, and I can’t much solve my own problems, lately, because I don’t really know just who is doing what, and how I could better gain people’s good side. 

The JoyBuy miniature misting fan thing is blowing up, now that it’s summer. I bought four of them, and I think that some of them were broken by someone else, playing with the crumbs and knickknacks of my room.

Then there was idiot deluxe, the most everything guy (or lady), butt shittle, definitely, it would be ladies and gentlemen’s only - prowess, to become: the one who says the most iconically irreverent fwopp.

Man... the day can't even pass, it seems, without it:

There's no cruising. Passing by the same location twice or more within 6 hours is cruising.

Fwoppin' bwopp: priceless.

Butt shittle, even better.

Of on piss, muah.

And, I farted.

— Jay Ammon, Founding Director at iPigeon.institute (@jay_ammon) July 16, 2021

Being a photographer is pretty cool, except that … , well, nah… it’s just pretty cool. Never mind whatever else and all that. Pretty cool stuff.

Originally, I was just going to have the article main image be me, looking at the device, as in this photo. Then, I chose a more ominous ruse… Dun, Dun, Dun… the semiotician | symbolism analyst gig.

Then, there’s work, all over again…

And that’s all still being figured out, by many of us, but I chose light gardening services, as my offering on craigslist. It’s here and there, a little bit shabby Los Angeles, but it’s Los Angeles, and it’s craigslist. Who would like to hire me? for stuff I can do, and take care of? A vast playground, for the mind, but for a laborer? It ends up playing out alright, so far (for me). I’d gotten some takers on this gardening services offering, already. 

Then, there’s “fartlorn,” 

Fartlorn is the guy or girl that we all want to be, whereas we’d rather not do the work, and we’d rather it be on our own terms, whereas the persona is so dramatically astute, to the toot. It’s a hopelessly “concentrated milk and sugar,” outdoor hauling exercise sort of one, to carry it through, successfully - I did recycling, as my journey; butt shittle, before I began, and then, many times, thereafter… of on fartlorn… 

You get the idea. 

but a bold one, though … <_< … that would be outperform of on fartlorn… 

I joined the Google Local Guides program. I just turned 3 on there. 

There’s so much to gain from real trekkers of the physical world around us, when proper and appropriate annotations, reviews, photos, notes, and anecdotes comprise the knowledge base of WTG|WTD. Here, in Local Guides, we can ascend through various levels of notoriety and merit, by posting and adding content to the Google Maps app.

Update: 12/15/2021

Now that months since my original posting had come and gone, and pandemic rules are still in place, and being reinstated, at that, people all over the place are experiencing an unsettling crisis of identity and a lack of purpose and place in life; on top of that, it’s an uncommonly chill winter that’s setting in. I remember last year as being a year where I wouldn’t require gloves when going out. This year is different. For many people in Los Angeles, myself included, hitting the gig work circuit is a compelling draw on our more-ideal selves, of our imagination of how to do Los Angeles life, and we hit craigslist for the classifieds, trying to discover a localized and in-person meeting up for a job kind of fulfillment, and it feels great to be the one picked, out of the people browsing classifieds for services and posting gigs. At a time when nobody seems to care, and solutions for scaling the societal ladder of status and financial gain are few and far between, finding somebody to agrees with our correspondence and offers is a richly satisfying and commonly rewarding experience, somewhat platonically akin to landing a date on a mobile app, for example. 

Given that, this is Los Angeles. The competition is awrr rawr rough and tough; ferocious, even. For me, I imagine that, being a guy, on one hand, is already sort of a downer, when it comes to the job search and labor market. Not that I’m unwilling, or incapable, in some cases, out of things that “could” possibly get done on craigslist, it’s just less rewarding, and imaginatively novel, in a sense, than it had been, in previous years, now that the staff and leadership had established that the dating section be removed, and therapeutic services, as well. Being a guy, with this sort of outlook, is a rough and tough life to live out, at times. 

I do Twitter, also - but how many people would care to do the platform in a manner of which I do, to compare? There’s the instagram hooker archetype, and for people who are well composed, and digital-crafty, there’s Snapchat, YouTube, and Tik-Tok. The hooker thing is doable, for certain, but for a guy? There’s a lot of guys out there who are guys, and who isn’t a guy, at some point, anyways? A dykstra circumstance of events? and even, oh yeah, I met … well, never mind. I don’t disclose personally identifying stuff about my clients and connections. I almost just did, though. I almost did it; that was the gist, but it didn’t pan out, quite like a standard coffee meeting meet up and fuck sort of ltr | romance fabled lore, of Los Angeles d’tandard: the d’tandard for people with dry mouths. 

 Can we relate on that, at a minimum? Butt shittle, oh, to be a hooker.

Covid-19 brought together fancy couples and newsworthy people, looks-wise, (I guess) somehow scaled the sociability ladder, and mocked up a pandemic bubble group: blog content was banter to that effect, making the common dude feel less formidable and worthwhile, in the world of sociable-standard types, who make the news, out of life, itself, somehow. 

After a season, or so, dumping big bwopp of on old out-doo-doo (the porta potty that got outdone, each and every time, was the jib): who could possibly think and be worth anything at this point. Remembering stuff? Man… that’s awrr rawr rawr rawr rawr - rough and tough. 

But alright. Facebook’s ad serves and market reach had landed me some viable opportunities in the paid surveys, user studies, and focus groups realm of personal finance. Returning to Facebook after doing so much of on out doo doo, on Twitter, was, like, “hey!” [just took a shitless]  it’s good to have friends that’ll accept me, on Facebook. I’ve gotta love Facebook, for friends, and for paid user studies ads, and stuff like that. 

But I had to tell them about how I out doo doo on Twitter, because man… old out doo doo. That was the one. (It [the porta potty] got burnt down, eventually; I thought I had it in image form. I can’t locate it, any more).

Now, 

on to the gig that mostly everybody can do: blood plasma donations, from, say, Octapharma plasma donation centers. At the moment, they’re offering new donors compelling prices paid, for starting out in donating plasma: up to $1,000 a month. That’s for real [squirrels] but with the slight caveat of that you’ll need to have, and bring in, to show - your California ID and or driver’s license, original social security card, and a piece of mail, sent to your home address. I failed, personally, for not having a copy of my social security card, but it’s for real squirrels money in your hand, for a relatively fair amount of time, and there’s local establishments, within a reasonable distance, even for public transit-riders sorts of people. It works!