I want to go viral. That’s right, viral. I want to move through the Internet like a dose of salts. Capiche? Okay, in a nutshell, I want to be Justin Bieber. And, but for the thirty-year age difference, I don’t see anything getting in my way. If the Internet is ageless, then, why can’t I be?
For anyone suffering from acute atrophication of their abiding hipness, Justin Bieber is a Canadian whippersnapper, posing as an internet pop phenom with more marketability than an iPhone that gets 100 miles to the gallon. Bieber was discovered by accident, when his, now, manager, Scooter Braun was online hoping to snag some other talent. It goes to show you, one wrong click and you’re famous. I mean, if the Internet isn’t the continuance of the American Dream, I guess I don’t know my AOL from my elbow. America might be flushing itself down the porcelain love seat, but the Internet has become the country in a very real sense: it’s virtual like our footing. We are a land of dreamers. We sold away our manufacturing. Gulped an ocean of corn syrup. Lost our homes. Fought wars in Iraqifuckknowwheresstan and mislaid the keys to the kingdom. Not objective enough? Then, watch a movie, America, and get real. These are great times for idols and I aim to be one.
It was Bieber’s mother who posted her son’s prowess on YouTube. Without knowing it, he already had a manager. Note to self: need web-savvy parents in order to become an Internet Idol. No. Scratch that. My parents are luddites. I’ll leave my meteoric rise in the hands of my kids. Samson can, at least, get to YouTube to watch re-runs of Thomas The Tank Engine. Launching his dad as a something between Susan Boyle and the Backstreet Boys should be a cinch.
Through her enterprising motherliness, Bieber’s mom received a call from the agent. Her response to this good fortune was to pray, saying, literally, “God, I gave him to you. You send me a Christian man, a Christian label.” And in walks Shmuel Ben Elieze, a.k.a. Scooter Braun. Not quite the answer to her prayers, but Yahweh works in mysterious ways.
The point is that I need a religious moment to propel me into the celebritysphere. I need prayer on my behalf to gather the forces and bring forth a merchant of Hebraic acumen to lead me across the Red Sea of my anonymity. Then I’ll be flown somewhere, like Atlanta, schooled by Usher, and told to sing into a microphone because everyone is gonna get paid.
First: get online by doing something exceptional or something exceptionally stupid. Remember, as P. T. Barnum said, if there’s one thing the people of our nation love more than anything else, it is bunkum. Matt Harding knows all about bunkum. This bobble head Aussie decided to do something daft, as Aussies are prone to doing, and before he knew it he was doing daft all around the world for a chewing gum manufacturer. Aussie Jackass. I’m not entirely certain on the kind of stunt I can pull, now that Dick’s dead. Yep. Dick. My first ever pet. Hope purchased the wee Siamese fighting fish when we lived in Manhattan. Dick was aggressive, colorful and took excellent direction. It started with fish food and tweezers: dip tweezers in water, dip tweezers in fish food, hold just above the surface and flash, snap, gulp: food gone. As a joke, I decided, and I’ve forgotten the exact number of gin and tonics involved, to put the fish food on my nose. Again, put water on nose, dab on fish food, hold nose just above the surface and flash, snap, gulp: food gone. I showed this to my friend Lee, when he came to visit us in Provincetown—the height of Dick’s career—and he said we should contact the Letterman Show. Lee, if you’re still reading, you were right. Needless to say, he was amazed. Everyone who saw Dick feed off my nose was amazed. I need to find another such act, if I’m to rival Bieber’s song Baby as the most watched video in the world. Get this: “Baby” was number one in 17 countries. Which brings me to another Barnum quote, “Without promotion something terrible happens… Nothing!”
The question is, though, can a Scooter Ben Shmuel really make me the Internet version of H1-N1? According to Scoot, no. The fans will. They’re smart and want ownership and recognition of their innate smarts. So, they go online and click, which is the new way of saying, “I’m smart. I’m money.” This to me is foreign. It isn’t the atmosphere I grew up in. My era taught me: children should be seen and not take on the corporate world as consumer vigilantes. Putting trust in strangers is Biblical, but not for a Gen-Xer. I need a scientific measurement. I need statistics.
Going viral is also aided by hyper-frenetic Twittering. I need to make statements of a social, political and personal nature to let my fans know that, a) I’m for real and b), as “The Scoot,” has correctly identified, that I respect their intelligence. I’ll begin my Tweet campaign with something like “Dove soap is evil.” It isn’t just political. It lets people into my world.
In his 18-month career, Bieber hasn’t broken into the music world; he has broken the music world. He’s used the Internet matrix to go over the industry gates and their keepers and into the market place. Going viral is guerilla advertising. It is D.I.Y. meets Madison Avenue, cutting out the middleman…aside from “El Scooterino,” of course. Going viral is another bonkers move to have come out of the virtual world and what it does it to strip away all the parts: the publicists, the radio and TV stations, the hordes of people working on getting the word out. It has put publicity at the fingertips of one or two people, who can hand it over to the audience. And by buying the product, the audience simultaneously markets the product. Most will say this isn’t real. Think again. Moreover, the new method of promotion makes the old method of promotion appear equally unbelievable. It too was viral, but with more manpower. What the web has done, especially for the young, is to take the age old tradition of being in your room, door closed, acting out your fantasies, be it singing, acting, strutting your artistry in any way you can, and pumping it out into the world. You become legit as soon as you hit send.
I might be old enough to be Justin Bieber’s dad, but that’s not going to stop me. What counts is talent and getting the word out.
Now, instead of a fish jumping from the water to feed, I could be the one doing the jumping? Scooter! Click here?
For anyone suffering from acute atrophication of their abiding hipness, Justin Bieber is a Canadian whippersnapper, posing as an internet pop phenom with more marketability than an iPhone that gets 100 miles to the gallon. Bieber was discovered by accident, when his, now, manager, Scooter Braun was online hoping to snag some other talent. It goes to show you, one wrong click and you’re famous. I mean, if the Internet isn’t the continuance of the American Dream, I guess I don’t know my AOL from my elbow. America might be flushing itself down the porcelain love seat, but the Internet has become the country in a very real sense: it’s virtual like our footing. We are a land of dreamers. We sold away our manufacturing. Gulped an ocean of corn syrup. Lost our homes. Fought wars in Iraqifuckknowwheresstan and mislaid the keys to the kingdom. Not objective enough? Then, watch a movie, America, and get real. These are great times for idols and I aim to be one.
It was Bieber’s mother who posted her son’s prowess on YouTube. Without knowing it, he already had a manager. Note to self: need web-savvy parents in order to become an Internet Idol. No. Scratch that. My parents are luddites. I’ll leave my meteoric rise in the hands of my kids. Samson can, at least, get to YouTube to watch re-runs of Thomas The Tank Engine. Launching his dad as a something between Susan Boyle and the Backstreet Boys should be a cinch.
Through her enterprising motherliness, Bieber’s mom received a call from the agent. Her response to this good fortune was to pray, saying, literally, “God, I gave him to you. You send me a Christian man, a Christian label.” And in walks Shmuel Ben Elieze, a.k.a. Scooter Braun. Not quite the answer to her prayers, but Yahweh works in mysterious ways.
The point is that I need a religious moment to propel me into the celebritysphere. I need prayer on my behalf to gather the forces and bring forth a merchant of Hebraic acumen to lead me across the Red Sea of my anonymity. Then I’ll be flown somewhere, like Atlanta, schooled by Usher, and told to sing into a microphone because everyone is gonna get paid.
First: get online by doing something exceptional or something exceptionally stupid. Remember, as P. T. Barnum said, if there’s one thing the people of our nation love more than anything else, it is bunkum. Matt Harding knows all about bunkum. This bobble head Aussie decided to do something daft, as Aussies are prone to doing, and before he knew it he was doing daft all around the world for a chewing gum manufacturer. Aussie Jackass. I’m not entirely certain on the kind of stunt I can pull, now that Dick’s dead. Yep. Dick. My first ever pet. Hope purchased the wee Siamese fighting fish when we lived in Manhattan. Dick was aggressive, colorful and took excellent direction. It started with fish food and tweezers: dip tweezers in water, dip tweezers in fish food, hold just above the surface and flash, snap, gulp: food gone. As a joke, I decided, and I’ve forgotten the exact number of gin and tonics involved, to put the fish food on my nose. Again, put water on nose, dab on fish food, hold nose just above the surface and flash, snap, gulp: food gone. I showed this to my friend Lee, when he came to visit us in Provincetown—the height of Dick’s career—and he said we should contact the Letterman Show. Lee, if you’re still reading, you were right. Needless to say, he was amazed. Everyone who saw Dick feed off my nose was amazed. I need to find another such act, if I’m to rival Bieber’s song Baby as the most watched video in the world. Get this: “Baby” was number one in 17 countries. Which brings me to another Barnum quote, “Without promotion something terrible happens… Nothing!”
The question is, though, can a Scooter Ben Shmuel really make me the Internet version of H1-N1? According to Scoot, no. The fans will. They’re smart and want ownership and recognition of their innate smarts. So, they go online and click, which is the new way of saying, “I’m smart. I’m money.” This to me is foreign. It isn’t the atmosphere I grew up in. My era taught me: children should be seen and not take on the corporate world as consumer vigilantes. Putting trust in strangers is Biblical, but not for a Gen-Xer. I need a scientific measurement. I need statistics.
Going viral is also aided by hyper-frenetic Twittering. I need to make statements of a social, political and personal nature to let my fans know that, a) I’m for real and b), as “The Scoot,” has correctly identified, that I respect their intelligence. I’ll begin my Tweet campaign with something like “Dove soap is evil.” It isn’t just political. It lets people into my world.
In his 18-month career, Bieber hasn’t broken into the music world; he has broken the music world. He’s used the Internet matrix to go over the industry gates and their keepers and into the market place. Going viral is guerilla advertising. It is D.I.Y. meets Madison Avenue, cutting out the middleman…aside from “El Scooterino,” of course. Going viral is another bonkers move to have come out of the virtual world and what it does it to strip away all the parts: the publicists, the radio and TV stations, the hordes of people working on getting the word out. It has put publicity at the fingertips of one or two people, who can hand it over to the audience. And by buying the product, the audience simultaneously markets the product. Most will say this isn’t real. Think again. Moreover, the new method of promotion makes the old method of promotion appear equally unbelievable. It too was viral, but with more manpower. What the web has done, especially for the young, is to take the age old tradition of being in your room, door closed, acting out your fantasies, be it singing, acting, strutting your artistry in any way you can, and pumping it out into the world. You become legit as soon as you hit send.
I might be old enough to be Justin Bieber’s dad, but that’s not going to stop me. What counts is talent and getting the word out.
Now, instead of a fish jumping from the water to feed, I could be the one doing the jumping? Scooter! Click here?
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