Simulacra and simulators

09/20/2010 | Monday
Source: http://www.afisha.ru/article/volobuev_virt/

One acquaintance dropped scissors in the washing machine, and those, spinning in it, made holes in his favorite T -shirt. Our common girlfriend, comforting him, joked in the sense that this is a budget version of the situation when the former lover in a fit of jealousy cuts your expensive shirts. The acquaintance was immediately cheerful, and in the evening in English he wrote in Twitter, as he takes out of the machine to the shreds of Hugo -Bossian shirts from the machine and - then there was a joke about his lover. “This is my joke, and he has only one normal shirt, I know,” a common girlfriend complained to me the next day. We began to scold a friend, but quickly came to the conclusion that he had acted, in general, reasonably. The stupid case became almost an outline of the morals for 140 signs and brought joy to 78 people in different parts of the world (and this is not counting the retweets). Moderately a successful joke has gained immortality. And shirts - who now has more than one normal shirt.

Judging by the statuses on Facebook, all my friends live in airplanes flying from one interesting place to another. Hello read a lot, at night they revise the Godard and drink champagne in the morning of the frames. Masterly they cook something and immediately eat with pleasure. Their life is full of paradoxes and happy accidents. Rare failures, mistakes, and suddenly jumping temperature only set off the brilliant course of their life, preventing them from finally turning into equestrian monuments of their own class. I hate them all.

The exception is those of them whom I sometimes see with my eyes. I know about them that they are actually bores and shoot 150 rubles to the salary. Airplanes take them not to where they want, but where it happened. They have a middle -aged crisis (especially those who are 25) and work where they sit until two in the morning, finishing what they had to do a week ago. If you go to them on the weekend, it turns out that they are lying on the floor and watching the repetition of “daddy daughters”. They drink antidepressants. They lose weight and do not repay loans. They say nonsense, and even more often they are made. They cannot be loved, especially reading everything that they compose to themselves on Facebook.

Social networks, of course, have nothing to do with it. The habit of love and hate not people, but the phantoms they created appeared a thousand years before Twitter. Since childhood, we learned to consider bad writers to be a goat, and good ones - samples for imitation, even if biographies and show that it is more often the opposite. Recently, on the Petersburg-Moscow train, I ran into one of the worst directors in the country, and maybe in the world. He turned out to be a sweetest person, a fan of Morrissi and films of the Riga film studio about the life of Kapstra. While approaching the Leningrad station, we admitted in chorus that before the acquaintance we considered each other moral freaks, after which we hugged and exchanged phones.

Spending half a life to seem smarter and better, we naturally forget that the resulting freaks are not us. We do not say in such a voice on the NTV channel, as if we had inflamed eggs. We are not an hour before the deadline we erase the elderly filmmaker who removed harmless nonsense into the powder of the elderly. We do not judge loudly about things in which we do not mean a damn thing, and sniper jokes where we need to stop. We are actually better, and if not better, it is clearer and more touching. Even Putin, even George Bush, even a girl who again photographs his dash legs with a watering can.