In
May, 2012, I had picked up a new client, the humor website, “FunnyJunk.com.”
I was writing the usual website terms-of-service and related
documents for a social networking website, basically
emulating Facebook’s way of doing things, following the
leader in terms of best practices for dealing with community
conflicts, abuse, and of course the DMCA takedown policy. It
had all been going quite nicely with the client being very
prompt in communicating and with sending wire transfers. Who
knew humor could be so profitable? It appeared it was, using
my usual gauge for how much money clients made, i.e., how
much they dickered about my fee. Not long after all the
routine work was done, the client asked me to look at this
webpage on TheOatmeal.com, slagging FunnyJunk. Excellent.
More work. Happy to do it.
What follows is a retrospective diary of the
consequences of me doing that work, that I hope gives the
flavor of the raw immediacy with which the recorded events
proceeded. By retrospective, I mean that this diary wasn’t
really written contemporaneously with the events, but is an
effort to recreate the feel of the moment by using the diary
format. (Occasional references to the events that have
occurred since the “date” of the diary entry give this
away.) Accordingly, this “diary” is not a reliable
reference for exactly what I did and thought on any given
day, and is just intended to try to recreate for the reader
the first-person experience of a person suffering a DIRA
against themselves.
May 30, 2012
Today I will make a major change in my life,
but I don’t know I’m doing it. It feels like any other day.
I sit in the cantina next to the pool and work on my laptop.
Every now and then I take a dip to cool off. I check tasks
off the list. I get to this one: “Check out The Oatmeal’s
post about FunnyJunk.” I check it out. The post is literally
inaccurate in asserting that FJ is engaging in copyright
infringement at a whole list of links, because all the links
go straight to 404 not found. I ask the client if they took
all the infringing content down once they saw the post,
about a year ago, and the answer is “yes, we took it down,
but he never complained to us, never sent a DMCA notice.”
May 31, 2012
I dig into the Oatmeal project with more
focus, screencapping source-code, and drafting a cease and
desist letter. I do background research on Matt Inman, who
seems like any of many people who have learned to scam
traffic with hidden codes and links. His humor is not to my
taste, although it turns the corners of my mouth. I can see
why the users posting at FunnyJunk would post copies of it
and make comments about them. I get that Inman has a mob of
followers who are still impressed with the fact that they
can manipulate their own joystick. I consider, but not
deeply enough, the possibility that Inman’s army of
pizza-and-soda-smeared console-humpers could pose some kind
of threat.
June 1, 2012
I assemble all the screencaps into exhibits.
I finalize the draft into a decent C & D for this insolent
fellow. I decide to include a screencap of the pterodactyl
in the source code of Inman’s webpage and its weird,
coded-in threat to “ptero you a new asshole.” That sort of
defines weird, hidden aggression, and has overtones of
conjuration and magic that are rather sinister. Hidden texts
with secret meanings?
Inman seems like a guy who got shorted on
parental affection. At this point, I don’t realize that
Inman’s mom is a New Age right-wing-white-lighter, but it
wouldn’t have affected me much. After all, people so reared
can be delightful. But not in this case.
It takes a wee bit of detective work to find
Inman’s street address, decide it’s a residence, and arrange
for personal delivery of the C & D. I find a process server
in Seattle and call him up, get his price for service, and
the arrow is nocked in the string. Tomorrow I play Cupid.
June 2, 2012
I get a voice mail from the
process server. He served Inman at his home at 10 p.m. on a
Sunday night. I didn’t ask for that type of extra-annoying
intrusion. Some process servers just like to twist the
knife, or maybe he was busy earlier that night having a good
time. Whatever, Inman got served with a nice, fat C & D,
over a hundred pages of screencaps attached, with
the now-infamous $20,000 demand.
I figure Inman will send this all to a lawyer, and I’ll have
a chat with a fellow-professional who’ll tell me there’s no
$20,000 for me, but the accusations of copyright
infringement and the dead links purporting to be links to
infringing content will be removed. It’s always amazing to
see how some people, like Inman, know all these dandy tricks
for fucking with their adversaries while pasting themselves
on the top of a Google search page. I, of course, assume
that I am immune to his methods. Why I so assume is the
mystery.
June 11, 2012 7:13 p.m.
This is like watching a
hurricane blowing in from the coast. FunnyJunk’s management
told me the trolling had started, a mass run at the website
by hordes of pizza-and-soda-smeared zombies incited into a
frenzy of console-humping by Inman’s cartoon of my mom
“seducing a Kodiak bear,” the visual motif of the “Bear Love
Campaign” that Inman had started to raise $20K in spite
donations to the
NWF and ACS, because like
cancer, nasty
lawyers suck, and
like bears, that are good, Inman is
entitled to eat his enemies for breakfast. I go to the
Oatmeal and see the picture of “my mom” — 800 lbs. in a red
bikini, making crazy goo goo eyes at a bear that’s probably gonna eat her for breakfast.My
mom didn’t have a bikini. She died in her navy blue
one-piece swimsuit right before my eyes.
There is a red film spreading over my entire
mind. Something has unfortunately totally blown loose in my
psyche. I cannot hear my superego wailing like a lost soul
left behind by the fast-departing troop train of my id, with
my ego in the engineer’s cabin, calling for every bit of
steam he can get.
June 11, 2012 11:10 p.m.
Speech emerged from our need to articulate
grievances. At some point, yelling and pushing was no longer
enough, and smacking on the head with stones just hurt too
damn much, and we had to find a way to talk about it. It
began with grunts and growls. Or maybe pleas for mercy.
Maybe the first time a voice kept a stone from breaking a
head, that was speech. Yes, I think that would be.
But I can’t speak a word that will stop
anonymous cybervandals from posting
phony Amazon reviews
panning my book, giving my girls shit on Twitter, trying to
take down my websites, sending me hatemail, signing me up
for free email offers, ordering me pizza, sending me bags of
poop, certificates of jerkdom, and really, the kindest one,
a free package of Attends. It’s at times like these that
having a deep understanding of the universe and an abiding
trust in the universe’s merciful nature comes in really
handy.
But eventually, sanctity wears thin and you
start to seethe.
June 11, 2012
I look at the
Bear Love campaign on Indiegogo.com and it makes me gag.
What the fuck ever happened to people that a guy with a
website and a sick sense of humor can say “Gimme $20 grand
to teach this asshole a lesson,” and they say, “Oh, yeah,
we’ll do that, and 10X besides!” There is, of course,
something wrong here. People may be that stupid, but the law
isn’t. Inman and Indiegogo are breaking the law.
It is getting on towards late afternoon, and
my head is pounding. I get in the Prius and start driving
West, towards the setting sun. I almost let the car drive
itself, just drifting west on Speedway, listening to Frank
Black. I keep replaying, “White Noisemaker.”
“I heard a lotta talk
So I’m goin’ to the stereo store,
And get a white noisemaker
Turn it up to 10.
Yakkety-yak is back
Again.”
Gradually, working my way through the
post-rush-hour traffic, letting everything in my head
subside, the pounding stops. I’m breathing now, watching the
reds and oranges and blues of the spreading dusk.
Now I know where I’m going. I’m going to
Gates Pass on the other side of Tucson, headed towards
Mexico, in the light and radio shadow of Tucson, on the far
side of a big, sculpted rock that has a road running down
its western slope, steep as a stairway in places. As you
wind down the slope, halfway down this big rock, there’s a
pullout and trails lead up the rock. It’s a popular place to
watch the sunset. Probably a popular place to do drug deals,
too. The setup looks perfect, with lots of visibility coming
and going, especially to the west. I could imagine one of my
old Federal defender clients being popped here. Ah, would
that I were still engaged in such unpretentious pursuits as
representing real criminals. Instead, I’ve devolved to this
level of policing Internet speech of various types. The pure
commerciality of it does appeal to me, of course. And
actually, visiting prisons, jails, and seeing your clients
in green pajamas or orange jumpsuits, with their hands
cuffed to their bellies, is a pretty big downer.
I park the Prius and walk up the hill a ways,
just to get away from the other people and their voices.
It’s gorgeous, and I keep thinking about how as soon as I
get back to the office, I’m going to research California law
on charitable fundraising. Inman can’t just grab the names
of the NWF and the
American Cancer Society and start raising
money in their name. I’ll call NWF and ACS and find out. I
text a couple of notes to my email to remind myself of these
ideas, and put them aside for the moment.
I’m here to exert control over this
compulsive thinking and rethinking of the situation. I’m
leaving behind that useless process of reliving emotions
that I’ve already experienced dozens of times. I’m doing
something useful. I’m putting myself together from the
inside out. I’m not going to use my awareness to listen to
words that are intended to anger me. If I’m going to be
angry, I’ll be angry for my own reasons. And maybe I’m not
going to be angry at all.
In each battle, Clausewitz says, the entire
weight of the battle settles on the general. The general’s
ability to bear that weight is the difference between
victory and a rout. In my own wars, I’m everyone from the
pawn to the King, so I always bear the burden of the entire
conflict. Some may not see how being engaged in constant
warfare could leave you feeling any way but massively
insecure, but eventually, if you take to the lifestyle,
living in conflict is much more comfortable than constantly
eating shit. Shit tastes bad, but once you get used to
eating it, everyone will assume you like it, and they’ll
just feed you more.
But how do we fight tirelessly? How do we get
the energy to declare and fight wars, i.e., to file lawsuits
and invest all the scores of hours of difficult brain-work
that carrying off litigation requires? How do we deal with
the scary work of facing off against intelligent
adversaries, being paid nicely, who desire only our legal
demise at the earliest possible date? We adopt warrior
ethics.
Of course, few people know what ethics are,
and they probably think warrior ethics are terribly fierce
and semi-barbaric. Not so. Warrior ethics are about
preserving the prize while fighting the battle for
possession. And the foremost prize, the one you already
possess and never want to lose, is basic human decency. That
is what I take from the lesson of the enlightenment
experience of Morhei Uyeshiba, the founder of Aikido, of
whom I’ve been a student for 44 years, since I first saw his
face at the age of 13, on the altar of Sensei Takagi’s dojo,
two blocks from my house.
Uyeshiba was a very accomplished martial arts
master, who transformed the dignified, expansive movements
of samurai fencing into a way to dance your adversary to
defeat. In Aikido, punches and kicks are thrown, but only to
teach students how to defend against them. All Aikido
victories are gained by deflecting or evading the attack,
leading the adversary along the line of force established by
their attack, and either tossing them a safe distance away
or sweeping them to the floor, and immobilizing them with a
jiu-jitsu-style wrist or elbow lock. Aikido’s been good to
me in a couple of motorcycle accidents, when knowing how to
fly and land without injury comes in handy. Once your body
absorbs the lessons of Aikido, the logic of nonresistance
becomes quite compelling.
So I’m thinking about Clausewitz and the
weight of the battle falling on me. And I’m thinking about
Uyeshiba, and how he got enlightened, not like the Buddha,
sitting under a tree, but like a warrior, after a battle in
which he most notably didn’t abuse his superior martial arts
abilities, and instead, faced the danger of a naked sword
without unsheathing his own. As the story goes, Uyeshiba was
at his dojo when an angry young man arrived with his sword
and challenged him to duel, claiming that Uyeshiba had
insulted him in some way. Uyeshiba simply evaded the young
man’s attacks until at last, exhausted and unable to
continue, he gave up the fight. Uyeshiba walked outside and
stood under a fruit tree in bloom. A light descended from
heaven suffusing the tree and passing through Uyeshiba’s
entire body, filling him with the knowledge that “the Spirit
of the Universe is the spirit of love and protection of all
beings.”
Uyeshiba walked the walk, so I listen when he
talks. Not to strike a blow. Yes, I love the story. But it’s
not the way I operate. I’m gonna sue that bastard.
June 11, 2012
Somebody, perhaps Cyrus Farivar, against whom
I have nothing except his means of employment, said I told
him the California code was vast, as if I’d combed through
it looking for something to sue Inman for. That would be
going about it the wrong way. What I’m doing is more
mundane. I’m just looking at what he’s doing and checking it
against the statutes that Inman’s lawyer, the legal genius
Venkat Balasubramani, hasn’t given any thought to, while his
client goes out and violates them by representing himself as
a fundraiser for two national charities that are themselves
violating the law by doing nothing about it.
It doesn’t take a lot of research to learn
that charitable fundraising is a high risk area for consumer
fraud. People’s hearts are always easier to manipulate than
their brains, so to put their hearts in gear for “charity”
and their brains in neutral is a great way to raise money.
But Inman has taken this idea and given it a fiendish twist
— raising donations with misogynistic jokes about a lawyer’s
mom fucking bears, most certainly to be dismembered in the
process.
I know the lesson I’m s’pozed to be getting
from this Internet shellacking is that a lot of people want
me to stop being mean to Matt Inman, but that just incites
me further. With a single act I can tell thousands, perhaps
millions, to fuck off. By God, as Hunter Thompson would say,
“This is too good to be true.”
Of course, my calls to the American Cancer
Society and NWF come back negative. The ACS guy, who calls
from his cell somewhere in the freeway grid in L.A., is
virtually hapless: “Man, strippers do benefits and give us
money. We don’t monitor it. We don’t say No.” Oh well,
that’s a violation of the law. I’m going to have to sue
these people to give them money. Ah, woe is me, tra-la.
National Wildlife Foundation is even more
sleazy than ACS. Their lawyers evade all communications, and
I end up sending their lawyers a letter that says in
essence, “If I don’t hear from you, I’m assuming Inman
doesn’t have your authorization to do this Bear Love
campaign involving the image of my mother in the 800 lb.
bikini begging a bear to have sex with her.” I guess if
you’re really into wildlife, maybe that’s OK marketing, but
generally I’d say no to bestiality at the nonprofit
boardroom level.
So for what do we sue the insolent stranger?
We’ve got “count one, pretending to fundraise on behalf of
entities that don’t know you from Adam,” and then count two,
“pulling a bait and switch” by using the names of the ACS
and NWF to raise the money, then deciding, as Inman did, to
expand the circle of generosity to include “some other
nonprofits.” Oh, with that one brief statement, he opened up
a gap large enough to allow me to claim that we needed a
judicial order. Because the money’s at risk of being
diverted, in some part or all, to the Seattle Retired
Cartoonists Foundation, conveniently being formed right now
by Venkat Balasubramani, who is catching up on California
nonprofit law with the help of Indiegogo lawyers.
But suppose the judge asks, “What’s it to
you?” Suppose Inman feeds all the money to his mother’s pet
chihuahua in the form of a lifetime supply of Godiva
truffles. I’ve got no dog in this fight! But for the fact
that they’ve turned my mom into a swimsuit model for a
gruesome, possibly lethal, sexual encounter with Ursus
horribilis, I wouldn’t even care. I have no standing to sue.
So, much as it pains me, I must contribute to
Bear Love. I think $10, being the approximate average
contribution of your average Oatmeal-zombie, will be
sufficient. I hope they haven’t thought this far ahead and
are going to block my payment. Nope. I’m through. I have my
receipt. I’m in.
Suing people isn’t all that easy, especially
in federal court, where cases are immediately assigned to a
judge, the opposing party has to be served with the lawsuit
papers swiftly, and even minor typos are a source of
embarrassment. As soon as you tee up one of these babies,
you’ve got responsibility, as in — your email becomes a
constant repository of potentially explosive documents.
Everything the court has to say, or your adversary has to
say, is going to show up in that inbox, and if you can’t
overcome your aversion to bad news, it’s going to blow up in
there and take you out with it. Not reading your email is a
hanging offense for a federal litigator. And I am as much of
a fraidy-cat as the next guy. Plus, when I’m engaged in
litigation for the sake of principle, which I try to avoid
like the plague, but have ended up doing all too often
during my career, I don’t have the justification “I’m
getting paid for this” to fall back on. It’s the
all-volunteer army around here. We drink our coffee
straight. I and I, like the Rastas say.
I’m listening to Peter Tosh a lot now,
especially Johnny B. Goode, with its incredible rhythm and
total-redo of melody, lyrics, and concept. As much as I love
that Chuck Berry’s Golden Decade double album, much as I
loved Chuck Berry, this version of Johnny B. Goode is simply
transcendent. Get it, listen to it, make it a part of your
life.
I think about my favorite Brazilian film, “Quilombo,”
about the slave uprising led by Zumbi do Paumares and Ganga
Zumba, and how, when Ganga Zumba’s people disarm after
negotiating peace with the Portugese, they look so pitiful
without their spears. They have passed from freedom to
bondage, and the loss of their weapons is proof of it. Where
before, their backs were as straight as their spears
pointing to the sky, disarmed, they walked stooped and
slumped, as if fit only to be ordered here or there.
So I like that reggae beat of resistance; I
like the fact that Peter Tosh was too good to be allowed to
live; that his memory continues to fuel righteous resentment
against oppression in songs like “The Day the Dollar Die
(there’ll be no more war).” And in my case, to provide the
war drums for a little personal jihad against the enemies of
my mother’s memory.
I told those pseudo-journalist digital
drivelers who talked to me I don’t know how many times that
I was Mexican and like Italians, we have to fight if our
mothers are even mentioned by other people. Random people
don’t just get to talk about your mother. Nobody’s seen that
movie “Amores Perros” “Love’s A Bitch” in Gringolandia,
anymore. Whenever I ask if they’ve seen it, I get dumb
looks. First movie Gael Garcia Bernal ever made, and nobody
remembers — but I do — and what I remember is how scary
Mexico City badasses are. How you just know they will fuck
you up because they are fucked up, and they need to take it
out on someone. They look at you and you turn into dirt.
That’s where I went to summer school, in Mexico City, where
I was a fucking gringo nobody stood up for, getting shaken
down for my lunch money and shit like that. The way they
start a fight that you can’t back away from is by talking
about your mother. Inman is that gangster, a little
socialized savage with a license to be a prick. Well, I will
grab that prick and nail it to the courthouse door.
June 12, 2012 2:38 a.m.
Suit filed today. Lots of people, some
possessed of the capacity for rational thought, but few
exercising it, and nearly none in possession of accurate
knowledge of what I have done, are expressing impassioned
opinions about my conduct and character. I read very few of
the many, many thousands of words they have written. Like
any soldier with a battle to fight, I can’t listen to enemy
propaganda, that only seeks to induce surrender and can be
of no possible use to me. I exercise my tactical skills, and
follow Clausewitz’s exhortation to make every day a bad day
for the enemy.
June 12, 2012
Hatemail. Never got this before. It’s a good
thing there was only a vestigial Internet back when I
represented people in homicide cases. I’d have been getting
emails from dead people accusing me of getting their killers
off. I read all the hatemail, after turning off the
case-submitter on CharlesCarreon.com. Enough of giving
assholes a toilet seat above my desk. I give hatemails a
Gmail label for later use. Later I discover I answered a
large majority of around three hundred hatemails. Pretty
tough job, but they were thoughtful enough to write, so I
felt obliged to attempt replies. Stupid, huh?
This has become a lot like driving through a
hailstorm of ugly insects, foaming at the mouth. One
idiotic, distorted grimace after another, going splat on my
windshield. It becomes challenging to keep liking human
beings, and then I remind myself that each one of them is
possessed of a mind that is subject to excitement, and very
few of them have learned to control it. Why should they?
They live in small apartments and tract homes and trailers;
they work in cubicles if they work; they’re harried by
bosses, constipated, suffering from acid reflux; they’re
underpaid, everything costs too much, and they don’t know
how to relax. They play with their joysticks too much, eat
badly, and lack real relationships. And there are no doubt
plenty who just have had it with lawyers demanding money and
acting entitled. Holding up a cartoonist for $20K! How
tacky! So of course they write hatemail.
I continue to attempt to empathize with these
creatures. It is interesting how they all have individual
email names, but say much the same things, in a few
different flavors. Many declare that they are “the
Internet.” Others quote the Anonymous threat, “We are
legion, we do not forget, we do not forgive.” invoking the
image of a demonic horde. I’m angered more than frightened,
and in the end I am simply massively disturbed.
It is only little by little that I stumble
onto the truth. They’re zombies. I don’t digest this
immediately. Obviously, it would be too horrible to accept
all at once. I tell myself that this is just a crazy thing
happening, and remind myself, speaking out loud even that
“these people know not what they do.”
June 12, 2012
I have at least two tweeters claiming to be
me, slinging shit at people, offending people in my name.
Twitter took altogether too long to get rid of them — a day
or so. I send demands to preserve evidence to Twitter. This
provokes speculation about whether I’ll sue Tweeters, as
I’ve reserved spaces for them as “Doe defendants” in the
Inman lawsuit, in my claim for the new tort of the era, the
DIRA. If the courts recognized this tort, it would give
grounds for a civil claim against those who make active
netwar against other Netizens.
June 12, 2012
“My site’s down.” There are no more terrible
words in the English language, at least here at Online Media
Law, LLC, where we host a network that includes the
redoubtable American-Buddha.com, an old war horse of the
Internet, dating back to year 2000, when “everybody” knew
when you put up a new Buddhist website, when there was no
social media, when the Internet was still slumbering in an
Arcadian dawn, where almost all of the traffic was porn, and
such innocent porn, good lord. But I digress.
Tara’s site is down. Time to contact Jacob,
who is never so responsive as in an emergency. Jacob and I
go back to those early days. Jacob is simply a magician.
Jacob soon has the matter in hand. He pegs the problem, a
Denial of Service attack, coming from one IP address,
conducted by someone running a copy of Web-Reaper to
“scrape” the site repeatedly, on a repeating loop,
requesting a huge number of copies of certain target pages.
Soon, there’s no bandwidth left for anyone else, and the
site goes down. The answer is simple — Jacob blocks the IP
address. And then monitors loads on the server to see where
there’s excess activity, and thus finds all the DOS attacks
that are starting up against American-Buddha.com and its
sister-site NaderLibrary.com.
Why is the DIRA blowing in this direction?
Because my beloved spouse has a blog at NaderLibrary.com
that has apparently drawn the ire of my enemies. Tara has a
way of doing that. I remember once I got in a shouting match
with some road-raging jackass about my mom’s driving, and
the fucker tried to pull me out of the car window. Tara was
out of the back seat in a flash, kickin’ the guy in the ass!
Then his wife got involved, immobilizing Tara with a bear
hug, and using special code words, brought her gorilla under
control, and got back in the SUV they were driving. It is
Tara’s unbending disapproval of any course involving retreat
from the field of battle that has helped me to march into
courthouse after courthouse to argue causes that could not,
on principle, be handled any other way. The woman is a gem
drawn from some Scottish-Germanic genetic treasure chest who
fits the job description Iggy Pop set forth in his
brilliant, but rarely heard song, “Strong Girl”:
“I need a strong girl
Cause war’s where I’m going
I need a war girl
Who wants to show ‘em
Good people want to be
Really what they are
But if you try, you will fry
Plenty before catching fire.
I need a strong girl
Who works on tension
I need a gendarme
Cause I’m after ascension
When the sun’s rays hit my back
On a naked day
I know I will testify
No matter what I have to say.”
Tara knows what it is to make litigation
ammunition and have your lawyer use it to destroy the
adversary. She knows the legal system from close observation
of over 20 years, looking over my shoulder, getting the
lowdown on trials and judges and juries, and it ain’t
pretty. She knows that.
She knows that the whole reason there’s been
food in the fridge and gas in the car is because I wield the
coercive and protective power of the law. And Tara’s
Internet activities with the American Buddha Online Library
and Nader Library are of the sort that requires legal
consultation and representation. So she has a certain
understanding of the law.
But that does not extend to understanding
what the hell is going on on the Internet right now. And how
these people who are clamoring about Matt Inman’s right to
free speech are so happy that people are DOSing my network
and her sites. I haven’t actually heard the phrase yet, but
I think the right term for what’s going on right now is
“grave dancing.” This type of unchecked malevolence is
profoundly disturbing to her.
With Jacob actively managing threats at the
helm of our network, I’m wondering how I’ll ever be able to
pay him for all the hours he’s putting in. We open two new
hosting accounts and open an account with Amazon to buy
cloud storage, because we need lots of bandwidth to ride out
the DOS attacks that keep coming. The zeros keep rolling
along — the way money gets spent in wartime.
Now you’ve gotta ask — why does it matter if
Tara’s sites are down for a while? It’s not like she makes
any money off them. Even my sites being down — it’s not like
I’m going to go broke. Indeed, in about 10 months I’m going
to boycott the Internet and redirect all browsers seeking
CharlesCarreon.com to a site I built that only shows rock
videos. But right now, it’s the battle of the bandwidth, and
we are not about to be knocked off the Net by a few
Anonymous wannabees.
Y’know, that Anonymous people would be hating
on me is so fabulous — it’s like — I’m one of the only
lawyers who would even understand the Anonymous attitude,
and now they’ve been induced to fuck me up! Asinine. But I
guess, in a sort of Cointelpro way, it’s about what we’d
expect from a group that is just bad news for friends and
foes alike. I mean, you don’t want to mess with the FBI.
June 16, 2012
I tell you what, Marc Randazza, if you’re
going to assault me in public, don’t tell folks I’m your
friend. I don’t think I even bought you a drink at Phoenix
Forum the one time we met there among the skin merchants and
clickmongers last year. You had two Blackberries, and you
were doing deals with digital signatures right there at the
bar. I was impressed. Busy guy, been in porn law since you
got your bar license. A man who knows his way to the bottom
and swims there intrepidly. A guy who quotes the Marquis de
Sade in his advertising. Whoa! Way to bond with the clients.
And the foul-mouthed blogging. Yeah, that’s some First
Amendment moxie for ya! Everything I never wanted to be, and
never could be, due to an enlarged sense of decency,
perhaps, that makes me for a sucker. Which is why real
sleazebags never hire me. They go to guys like you, who they
can count on to place no limits on accusatory trash-talking
and fawning adulation for an “industry” that is barely
deserving of the name, being more an extension of the phone
and Internet fraud complex than an actual provider of honest
smut. So Marc, tell the truth. We were never friends. We’re
sure not friends now.
June 21, 2012
Contemplating today the IRL (in real life)
effects of a DIRA. As I am a pretty quiet person working
out of a home office, I have few people who see me on a
regular basis. But I shop at Trader Joe’s where I am a
well-known face, and you really get to know the people. I
even have one actual friend on staff there. I was lined up
with my online image and instantly indicted as an asshole by
this one Trader Joe’s employee, who until then, had been
quite nice to me. Now, he was literally giving me the hairy
eyeball. Well eventually my friend got him straightened out
with better information and now we are friends again, but
for a while there it was touch and go. So that was weird,
actually, very weird.
Then there was the unbelievable slam at me in
the print and online editions of the Tucson Weekly, taken by
some bonehead named Dan Gibson who hadn’t even bothered to
call me up. I called him up and said we should get together
for a drink and talk so he could know the person he was
writing about. He agreed to, then bowed out last-minute
saying he had a job interview because he was being paid
terribly at Tucson Weekly. It was hard not to point out to
him that he was doing a terrible job, just regurgitating
tripe, but I managed it. I just hate hearing myself sneer,
or I would have told him, and I couldn’t deliver that line
without a sneer. So I just said, “Good luck with the
interview.” He said, “Thanks.”
The funny thing about the Tucson Weekly item
is that it truly did not bother me for long, because no one
in Tucson had the least idea who I was. It was quite simply
a totally useless news item, far less useful than “News of
the Weird” or “Savage Love,” that also ran that week, and
every week, in the Tucson Weekly. Which is, I suppose, why
they are syndicated, and the bozo who wrote the item about
me was looking for a job, leaving a trail of droppings
shaped like news items behind him across the banal surface
of our local entertainment rag.
I concluded that journalism has essentially
become an unpaid, or barely-paid pursuit.
Being the object of hatred in a DIRA is going
to put your family members in an unfriendly spotlight,
especially if they have active social media profiles. Just
as celebrity/VIP status has a halo effect that suffuses
those in the entourage with cachet drawn from the main
celebrity, so your kids will be negatively viewed by many
social media zombies. They will be forced to defend
themselves in supernasty online exchanges with people who
hate “YOUR NAME HERE”– that guy who does so many bad things.
They essentially reply, “Who are you to talk, and why do you
care? You don’t even know my Dad. He’s the coolest fuckin’
Dad that ever fuckin’ walked the earth, you piece of shit.
You would be lucky to beg a dollar from him, and he would
give you a twenty, you idiot. If you were in trouble, he’s
probably the only lawyer who would even care about a fool
like you.” Perhaps something milder from Ana, who was really
shocked by the hail of vituperation that came her way for a
week or so during the height of the DIRA.
Maria, the elder daughter, is a very smart
woman, and for a while did a lot of whip-smart tweeting.
When the DIRA record blew in, one zombie tweeter in
particular went absolutely psycho on her, and Maria
responded effectively, which of course just caused the
zombie to go into hyperdrive with her invective. When Maria
sees that the psycho-tweeter is deleting her own
most-inflammatory tweets, she screencaps all that remain.
Indeed, it’s the beginning of IRL effects for Maria. The
psycho-tweeter is threatening to contact Maria’s boss and
accuse her of unprofessional use of Twitter. Daddy didn’t
raise no fools, so Maria moves first, visiting the HR office
with printouts in hand, to get her story in ahead of the
zombie attack.
Maria’s HR manager asks a few questions,
looks at the psycho-tweeter’s off-the-wall tweets, and says
to Maria, as if she’d have nothing to fear from a complaint
by such a person, “But this person is obviously crazy — no
one will pay attention to her.” Maria’s response was pure
New York City: “Never underestimate crazy.” Or zombie, as
the case may be.
June 22, 2012
What I did not do was what
some experts advise when hit with a DIRA, which is to issue
apologies on Twitter. Marc Randazza suggested this, but I
just blew it off.
Seriously, why would I apologize for doing things I do all
the time, and will very likely keep doing for the rest of my
employed life?Basically
my entire employment is threatening companies and people,
except when I’m protecting them from threats, which,
however, I do by means of counterthreats. So if Inman gets a
pass because he’s an asshole, I’m fucked. In response to my
perseverance in inflicting legal punishment upon those who
have besmirched the memory of my mother, Tech Crunch and
Popehat are posting that “Carreon is still digging,” and
really clever jokes about China begin to pop up. Displays of
true wit in this crowd are extremely rare. The business of
rapeutationing is serious. After all, we’re trying to
destroy somebody here. So clichés are more appropriate to
this type of work, true humor has no place here, and all
these posters have, in my view, declared that they do not
hold their mothers, or anyone’s mother, in special regard.
They are, to quote The Three Amigos, the “sons of a
motherless goat.” Hehe.
Why not go out and address the mob? The
opportunity to comment and reply in online forums is
entirely illusory once you have been tagged as a douchebag,
and thousands of trolls are roaming around online, just
aching with a desire to declare that they went mano-a-mano
with Charles Carreon and handed him his ass. These trolls
are networked, and will collect like cops around a
crime-in-progress with endless amounts of verbal ammo to
dispatch. I watched a good friend of mine who tried to say
good things about me on his own blog eight months after the
initial rapeutation kickoff in June 2012. These networked
trolls obviously have Google alerts on “Charles Carreon,” so
they can immediately attack or add fuel to any fire where
the fires of the neverending DIRA are still burning. They
discovered that my friend was engaging in douchebaggery by
trying to help me out with a little good press, truthfully
posting that I had been helping him a lot with his business,
and that I was the kind of lawyer who was helpful when times
are tough.
Like Scientologists descending upon a suppressive
who’s been newly-marked as “fair game,” the Charles Carreon
rapeutationists simply added my friend to their list of
people to fuck and set his reputation on fire at a thread in
Tech Crunch. Some of his competitors showed up to declare
him a disgrace to his profession for even working with
Charles Carreon. When my friend started posting at Tech
Crunch to answer the abuse, his bold sallies were quickly
repulsed with loads of invective that would have sunk a
garbage ferry. He quickly retreated, punched silly by a gang
of rapeutationists who had finally got a chance to release
that blast of hateful steam I’d been avoiding for the better
part of the prior year. I’d sooner try and wrestle a zombie
for a fresh brain than engage those TechCrunchers on their
terrain. You don’t have to read Sun Tzu to know that.
June 16, 2012
In the Complaint, I alleged that Inman had
initiated a Distributed Internet Reputational Attack, what I
called a DIRA. It’s called a “Distributed” attack because
the task of conducting the reputational attack is
“distributed” to many thousands of actors, Inman’s mob. Just
like a computer, that accomplished tasks by “distributing”
them to many memory registers, the instigator of the attack
would assign roles in carrying out the attack to his
“zombies.” Inman used his huge email list and the Indiegogo
crowdfunding system as a social-media-cannon to initiate an
attack signal to all of his followers, whose minds he had
already conditioned to pretty much click on command on any
ordinary day, at least enough to feed a little greeting card
empire, and on a better day, like today, elicit a very large
volume of “spite donations.”
The characteristics of a DIRA are all
illustrated in my case, which is a textbook example of the
use of social media to start an online riot calling for the
total and utter destruction of the career and life of moi,
what I sometimes refer to as “the object of hatred.” The mob
of course wished upon me what its members most fear — many
because they are already stuck in it — joblessness. Alas,
what my longtime spiritual preceptor Ramana Maharshi said to
a man who yearned to retreat from his busy life to be a
renunciate has proven true:
“If you are not meant to work, you will not
be able to find it even if you look. If you are meant to
work, you will not be able to avoid it, even if you try.”
I have never been unoccupied as a lawyer, and
at this point in my career, the people who count don’t seem
to care about the Internet hullaballoo. Knock on wood.
Now, let’s look at whether there is something
legally actionable about a person initiating a DIRA intended
to inflict upon the victim a lifetime of employment failure.
There could be liability, even if the defendant incited the
DIRA by using what would otherwise be protected speech —
especially since such a plan would be per se malicious.
Now suppose I start a whispering campaign to
disseminate lies about my victim, and it includes, as DIRAs
always do, active impersonation of the victim, by
impersonators who engage in socially offensive behavior that
can then be misattributed to the victim. For example, fake
Twitter accounts like @charles-carreon, that had quite a few
people confused before I got it disconnected. God knows what
the phony CharlesCarreon that was signed up at Pornhub was
doing — maybe not much — I only got one invitation to
adultery in my email. I had to tell the disappointed online
lot-lizard that I was charmed by her interest, but it was
not I who had offered his services for a hot time in Tucson.
This kind of activity easily extends into active
life-wrecking behavior that could see a person criminally
charged. If someone pretending to be you was claiming
responsibility for the Boston Marathon bombing, for example,
that would obviously be an intentional tort, a new species
of defamation, essentially. You only have to produce an
extreme example like falsely “claiming credit” for a
celebrity crime and exposing the victim to arrest and mass
hatred to see that such a tort would probably be recognized
by the courts as promptly as it was asserted.
DOS attacks have been a tort ever since
Thrifty Tel v. Bezenek, where two boys were held liable for
“trespass to chattels,” for bombarding a server with random
numbers trying to guess passwords and get free long
distance. This trespass to chattels was an old tort dusted
off from the English common law that found a handy spot in
the cyber-litigator’s book of cybertorts. The
server-slowdown was a form of damage.
Tort laws say that if an act is foreseeably
going to cause unlawful injuries to others, you have a duty
not to commit that act, and if it causes injury, you are
liable for it. A DIRA is intended to pick up steam, like a
hurricane, eventually blowing completely random shit around
like pianos through your window, putting boats in your
bedroom and dead people on your porch. In the midst of a
DIRA, the victim’s personal information is often strewn
about for any random person to exploit for harassment
purposes, identity theft, or something even more sinister.
Since the insane distortion of facts in the Internet
echo-chamber is not only foreseeable, but virtually certain
to occur when a DIRA gains speed, the instigator of a DIRA
should be held liable for the consequences of their acts.
Why? Because, whether figuratively or otherwise, they have
incited violence against a particular individual, knowing
that personal details about the victim are now public
knowledge. Therefore, for all practical purposes, the
instigators of the DIRA have urged the mob to commit real
violence. Bruce Sterling foresaw using an email bot
technology to mount assassination campaigns by urging a list
of armed wingnuts to take out the target. The character
assassins of the DIRA realm are more subtle — one good
hacker can disable a bot, but no one can disable a DIRA.
Sean Parkeris
the most high-profile victim of a DIRA to date, and I’d sure
be happy to work for him and discuss his options as a DIRA
tort victim in this new field of law.
So what about that other
essential element of every tort — damage? Did I have it for
my lawsuit, or not? Physical or financial damage must be
shown to warrant the imposition of liability. Again,Thrifty
Tel v. Bezenekprovides
that the financial cost of extra server space is sufficient
damage to establish the tort of trespass to chattels. So to
the extent DIRAs provoke DOS’s, you’ve got your claim for
trespass to chattels at minimum.
Additionally, I have suffered a whole series
of injuries that take time to deal with, and are very
stressful to process. As an author, I have suffered reduced
sales on Amazon of The Sex.Com Chronicles due to the phony
“reviews” posted for the sole purpose of “one-starring” the
book, bringing my 5-star rating down to 3, and festooning
the sale page with many comments derisive of me and the
book.
What about emotional distress? Extreme
emotional distress without physical harm becomes actionable
when the distress is “so severe in intensity and prolonged
in duration that no one in a civilized society should be
required to bear it.” Objective evidence shows that
Net-humiliation leads to teen suicides, so I think we can
safely conclude that the cat is out of the bag: being the
butt of a DIRA is so painful no one should have to endure
it. Beyond painful, I tell ya, it’s scary.
The characteristic of Internet hate campaigns
is that they scar a person’s reputation for as long as
Google keeps reporting the search results in response to
their name. Reputation managers will charge you $10,000 per
month to recapture Google page one, and those who have
looked at my situation don’t sound real optimistic, even
with a large budget. They confess inability to penetrate the
Wikipedia mafia, although news reports establish that a
direct appeal to Jimmy Wales, checkbook in hand, will do the
trick. Links to Google faves like TechCrunch, ArsTechnica,
Boing Boing, etcetera, push out all the space with mere
retellings of a misleading and often flatly erroneous
narrative about the case, or about “Charles Carreon.” All of
this “news” and “opinion” has, in the case of “Charles
Carreon” become so voluminous that what I would have thought
impossible has happened — you can no longer find much, if
any, of my hundreds of thousands of words of free writing —
journalistic reportage for Ashland Free Press, poetry,
fiction, even songs and political opinion and YouTube
videos. But all of this had actually disappeared from Google
search results — it’s no longer even turning up on any page,
when you Google my name.
This is of course genuinely painful, and
causes even rich people like Sean Parker to wail for mercy
and understanding. This pain caused by the Google-toxicity
of your name after a DIRA is going to last a long time. In
my case, it will eventually turn into a level of fame that I
could never have otherwise achieved. Turning the whiff of
scandal into the aroma of success is precisely the
transformation I have performed repeatedly during my career,
and this will prove no different; accordingly, I am sanguine
about the outcome for myself.
But I am different from many
people who get DIRA’d. I am a career pragmatist with a free
lawyer on staff.Some
say that just gives him a fool for a client.
Although there is that risk, when matters of honor are
concerned, you do not get pick about weapons. By this
theory, Inman, who will be represented by others, is in a
much better position than I, a pro se with a bar license. So
it’s certainly not unfair to Inman. Everyone respects a
fighter more than a surrenderer in legal combat, even if
they think he’s a bad guy, as in my case. So I’d rather
enjoy the hatred of idiots who think my legal tactics are
injuring their favorite nihilist cartoonist than hear the
smug declarations of “he surrendered.”
June 20, 2012
“All power comes from the barrel of a gun.”
So said my father. So said Mao Tse Tung. I never liked that
much. I remember once in Pomona, Judge Burton Bach was
talking to me and Steve Joffe jovially over his desk before
we began trial in a construction accident case. Judge Bach
had a couple of old bullets set out in a display to remind
you that sometimes lawyers and their clients just have to
suffer, but at least we got bullets ya’ can bite. Judge Bach
told us he was all about helping us try our case, and
reassured us that he had guys in brown and white cars who
were ready to help witnesses comprehend the meaning of a
subpoena, should they forget.
Now that’s the brotherhood in action,
enjoying the exercise of power, yes, that very power that
comes from the barrel of a gun. It’s that kind of
camaraderie that exists inside stone buildings, no doubt in
every land, where powerful men wearing robes run the
day-to-day levers of power that extend right out through the
police car and the billy club. That’s the business of law —
telling people where to go and what to do.
The courts are all essentially military in
character. Everything the judge does is an ORDER. You gotta
do it. If it’s wrong, you gotta get him to correct it, to
change his order.
People think of laws and they think of books
filled with rules, but the personal impact of law comes
through judicial orders. You may break the law, but you
won’t go to prison for it until a judge signs an order
declaring you convicted. You may be innocent, but until a
judge lifts a wrongful conviction, you must serve your
sentence as previously ordered. Almost all litigation is
aimed at securing judicial orders, also known as decrees,
and when sufficiently final, as judgments. People are
divorced when the judge orders it, thus undoing the order he
gave them when they got married, which was, to keep their
marriage vows, i.e., to perform judicially enforceable
agreements made in open court. To love, honor, and obey.
Orders.
That’s the main product of courthouses —
orders. But if you ask me, “What goes on in the house of the
law?” I can only answer, “Some very strange things. We often
recreate awful, horrific events before the jury box, and
punish the convicted according to a very stern code. We also
indict people under anti-terrorism laws for dumb things like
flashing a laser pointer at a jetliner coming in for a
landing. We often condemn the innocent with false evidence
and release the guilty for reasons that seem unjust to their
victims. We routinely ignore the cries of the injured and
protect the privileges of the wealthy. All of these things
we do and much, much more.”
The strange goings-on in courthouses are the
work of the lawyers who bring and defend the lawsuits, which
are essentially an endless circus of human weakness, and
folly, where lawyers play ringmaster. The way the courts are
supposed to work, and in form they do work this way, is
essentially that the judge does nothing until “moved.” Even
if you file a complaint, nothing happens except some
deadlines get set, unless you “move” the court. Then the
judge acts. If you move the court properly. Moving properly
means moving for an order that the court can grant.
To move a federal judge to issue an order,
the terms of which you define, is obviously a job of
persuasion. They don’t exercise their powers without, at
least, “good cause.” In this case, I desire to swiftly
arrive at the judge’s door of decision, and get an order,
first directing Indiegogo not to release the money raised by
illegal fundraising methods to Inman, an unregistered
fundraiser. Second, to order Inman not to disburse any of
the money to anyone until the court takes a look at the
whole process. Then it should be split between ACS and NWF,
the involuntary beneficiaries of my pro bono legal efforts.
June 22, 2012
Oh, here come
more friends to wish me a nice funeral. Paul Levy of Public
Citizen Litigation Group, that previously allied with me in
defending against Penguin’s copyright lawsuit against
American Buddha in New York. I do so wish I had defensively
registered Charles-Carreon.com, because it has been
registered at Register.com by some person who has “domain
privacy,” who has published a site entitled “Censorious
Douchebag,” with my face on it. I trademarked my name some
time ago on a lark, just to show people I could do it, and
so could they. So I sent my typical privacy-lifting demand
to Register.com, waving my trademark for emphasis, and now
Levy has written me an email on behalf of the “private”
website owner whom he falsely described as a female, telling
me to back off. He’s called me, too, which is a creepy
thing, because his voice is of that unctuous northeastern
liberal style that I associate with my old boss Andy Tashman,
who was such a robot that I had to find another job to get
away from him. The nicest robot, like C3PO, in his tact and
delicacy, but real Death Star material on the inside. I knew
I needed a new job when Andy said to me, “Charles, we have
the advantage of being able to be like a machine,
persistently grinding away at them.” Great. Just what I
wanted to do. Run a grinder.
Andy’s mechanistic view of the law was
instructive, like being shown how to rivet and set bolts by
a master pipefitter. The analogy so far worked itself into
my mind that one day I found myself in a strange reverie as
I sat eating pizza and drinking beer at La Monica’s in
downtown L.A., a bright place where I was very comfortable
hanging out with the Mexican manager who spotted me all food
and drink except for actual in-the-lunchtime-line pizza. I
was sitting there and I sort of had a waking dream — I saw
all these guys in suits, carrying 5-gallon oilcans, with
long spouts on them. There were many of them, all identical,
all grey and tall, like Andy, and they were oiling the
exposed cams, rods and levers of a huge, mechanical
leviathan that appeared to be streaming across the sea. I
realized I was one of the oilers. I popped out of the waking
dream, and was hit by the sensation of having forgotten
something.
I rubbed my forehead. What was it? What was
it? Oh, yeah, I remembered! I was going to be a trial
lawyer! Which is how I ended up where I am now, squaring off
against a robot who, up until I got his phone call, had been
an ally. He’s the head lawyer at Public Citizen Litigation
Group, that previously filed an amicus brief on my side of
the issue in Penguin v. American Buddha, a new York case
Penguin filed against the company that operates the American
Buddha Online Library. Tara runs American-Buddha.com and
Naderlibrary.com as online library websites, and having PCLG
on our side was, I had thought, a real feather in our cap.
Now it’s like I’m being called by the free speech Yakuza and
asked if I’ve forgotten my oaths. It really chaps my hide,
and I’m furious about this damn Charles-Carreon.com. Hell, I
sue cybersquatters for a living!
I have this saying that I use all the time —
“Never go with a feeling in your head.” The problem is,
these days, my whole body feels like my head, and my
feelings are similarly everywhere. This is a mistake I am
about to make. I write a stupid email to the robot. Should I
experience a surge of hilarity right now and back away from
the computer? Yes. Do I? No.
I hit send.
July 3, 2012
I often feel especially fortunate to practice
law in the Northern District of California, where so many
good lawsuits are filed. The City of Brotherly Love has seen
fit to make crazy okay, in many ways, and of that, I am all
in support. It has a pride, a privilege, and a pleasure to
practice law there. But to practice law, you have to get
inside the courthouse, or at least, get your papers inside
the courthouse.
And something strange is happening. Something
that has never happened in the 12 years I’ve been using the
Northern District ECF System. It’s down, without prior
notice. That means I can’t file my Motion for Temporary
Restraining Order, because all filings must be done
electronically.
This is the critical moment, when the money
gathered in the Bear Love Campaign, all $220,000 of it, is
going to pass from Indiegogo to Matt Inman. That’s
pinch-point number one, where I can get an order that
compels two of our adversaries to do my will.
There is still pinch-point number two, after
Inman gets the money but before he pays out anything. But
Indiegogo is definitely engaging in unregistered fundraising
here, right along with Inman, and taking a 4% cut of this
spite-money, which is disgusting for a business that is
usually doing legitimate stuff, the equivalent of online
bake sales for all manner of good causes. I want them to
read the law they’re breaking, and learn for the future.
That’s my gift to the world.
So I need to get this Motion for TRO filed,
but the site is down for days. Crazy. I’m emailing tech
support at ECF and getting no response. I’m wondering if
someone’s hacked my office network and is blocking me, so I
go out and try to access it on my laptop from Starbucks. No
luck. I serve all the lawyers with the papers, but I can’t
get them to the judge.
I finally get the papers filed after days of
delay. Of course, Indiegogo ignores the pendency of the TRO
and transfers the money out from under the judge’s nose. I
get an order, though, at pinch-point number two. Telling
Inman to do something. To file photocopies of the checks he
pays to NWF and ACS. He has about 24 hours to do it.
I monitor the ECF site. The moment that
Inman’s filed his copies of the checks in compliance with
the order, I file my notice to dismiss. No need to deal with
motions to dismiss, ANTI-SLAPP motions to strike, all that
nonsense. Thank you all for coming. Of course, I’d love to
litigate the DIRA claim, but this is not the time. Point
made. Retreat is mandatory. Thus says Che Guevara.
That’s the hardest part of dismissing the
suit alleging the DIRA. It was not the day to fight that
battle. With the entire Internet lined up against me, with
EFF on the adversary bench, and Paul Levy suing me for
threatening to sue the operator of Charles-Carreon.com,
there were just too many powerful enemies for comfort. Sun
Tzu: “If they are strong, do not fight them.” And they were
all there, very strong. They could see I had articulated a
theory that was supremely dangerous to the free speech
mafia. This would not be forgotten. This would be pursued.
I acted with circumspection and caution,
dismissing the DIRA action after I’d achieved my goal of
securing disposition of the proceeds of the Bear Love
Campaign. In this, I did well. My point was made, and when I
quit the field, no one pursued me. This is much the same as
victory in the legal realm. Which is not the same as peace.
July 4, 2012
Like Vincent Price, returning from another
night staking the hearts of the undead, I return to myself
after weeks spent bent over the computer for long hours of
steady litigation work at no pay aside from the joy of
upholding my honor against the zombie hordes and their
commander Inman in the courts. Having engaged the beasts, I
have enraged the beasts. I am now clearly in defensive
position, having roused the ire of the zombies as one who
dared to attack the source of their Oatmeal, and reveal, in
court filings, the fact that they are zombies. Machiavelli
is not at all pleased with me for wounding a powerful enemy
whom I could not hope to disarm, thus leaving him free to
harry me with counterattacks. But we have had disagreements
before.
My dismissal of the case is roundly reported
as an ignominious defeat. My own impulses are, however,
satisfied. I reached out, placed my adversaries in the magic
circle of the Court’s jurisdiction, and obtained an order
that prevented Inman from doing what he’d promised to do —
photographing himself with the money. He had to send the
Indiegogo money to the NWF and ACS, and never got to touch
it.
But Inman’s got to complete his publicity
stunt, so he goes down to the bank, and, so he says,
withdraws $220,000 from his account, and photographs himself
with all of this U.S. currency stacked in a large “FU,” with
him smiling in the midst of it. Of course, no one can
examine these stacks of cash. Eventually it occurs to me
that maybe it was actually “joke money.” Money that you can
print up at moneyinstructor.com, or kidsmoneyfarm.com. That
would be exactly the sort of thing that Inman would enjoy
doing.
No one teases out the fact that my lawsuit
demonstrably did everything I wanted it to — it prevented
Inman, an unlicensed fundraiser, from being able to play
Midas with money collected in the names of ACS and the NWF.
If I hadn’t sued him, they would each have gotten less,
undoubtedly much less than they were entitled to as the
stated beneficiaries of the Bear Love campaign. Inman’s ego
would have been boosted more than it was, and his influence
as a dispenser of largesse would have been increased. We may
not obtain awards of damages against every legal foe, but we
can restrain them, and Inman had to bow to the Court’s
authority. He had to listen to lawyers; he had to think
about his conduct. Undoubtedly, of course, these lawyers
were all assiduously blowing smoke up his arse, celebrating
his brilliant manipulation of the Internet to take free
speech into realms of vileness previously undreamed-of. But
let’s face it. Hanging out with lawyers who are billing
their time is just not that much fun for everybody else.
July 8, 2012
Today isJoshua’sbirthday.
He would have been 36 today, and he would be madder than
hell about this whole DIRA thing. He would have some funny
shit to say, too.
Penning punk lyrics are my favorite way to
vent aggression, so the first thing I did to channel some
hate in the right direction was to write my Psycho Santa
song and compose a melodic line. Then I started working on a
video to illustrate the lyrics. As the video was being
produced with my background vocals and an electric guitar
track, I registered the dot-com form of my neologism,
“Rapeutation” that I defined as synonymous with a DIRA, and
posted a website at Rapeutation.com. There I put up a few
hundred fan mails I had received from assorted zombies. This
was to be sure that the fires of my DIRA would remain
burning in perpetuity, because I had already concluded that
the only way to make any good news out of the zombification
of my Internet experience would be to take this bull by the
horns, get on top of it, and try and ride it to the far
horizon. Hell, even if it dragged me there, I’d be
remembered for it.
The video uses transformations of Inman’s own
art and some original cartoons to depict him as a mutant
monster out to destroy the earth. Synchronized MTV-style
with the chord changes of Psycho Santa, the lyrics tell how
Inman, who was conceived in a CIA biotech experiment,
escaped from the lab, and is going to tear the Universe a
new asshole. The video sounds the alarm, warning everyone
that Inman, masquerading as Santa with his fun fund-raising
schemes, actually threatens all life on earth, and is
“particularly dangerous to boys and girls who play with
computers in the virtual world,” because he “shoots mind
rays — makin’ zombies of his followers, Internet slaves!”
The video sends a plea from all humanity to King Kong for
immediate protection from ptero-attack, because “only a
simian of similar size can pluck the pterodactyl from out of
the skies.” It closes with a photoshopped image of Inman in
the electric chair, wearing a Santa hat.
The Heroic Exploits of Matt Inman: A
Work of Perpendicular Fact
Well, Merry Christmas Boys and Girls. I hope
you’ve all been good because Santa is on his way and the Air
Force is reporting. This is Lt. Col. Merriweather from
NORAD reporting that we have just sighted an airborne sleigh
crossing the dew line. It appears to be drawn by reindeer,
and piloted by a jolly looking fellow in a red and white
suit …
— STATIC! …
No, what is that?
It’s not Santa, it’s, it’s … Oh, my God …
it’s going to tear the Internet a new asshole!
[BOMB!]
Well he used to be a pterodactyl up in the
sky,
Tearin’ people’s heads off,
and eatin’ their eyes,
But now he’s done a change-up,
Got a new disguise –
All Points Bulletin: Look out for this guy!
He’s a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin’ a bell, and beggin’ for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don’t fall for his schtick.
Particularly dangerous to boys and girls
Who play with computers in the virtual world
He claims to be the hero of the human race,
A relief from their cubicles and bookin’ their face.
He’s a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin’ a bell, and beggin’ for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don’t fall for his schtick.
His prehistoric origin’s a mystery –
Did he escape from the lavatory?
Was he made by the Pentagon and NSA
A living drone that shoots mind rays,
Makin’ zombies of his followers –
Internet slaves!
He’s a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin’ a bell, and beggin’ for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don’t fall for his schtick.
When cornered he will strike back with a
vicious blow,
There is no depth to which he will not go.
Do not attempt to apprehend –
Type “King Kong,” then hit Send.
He’s a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin’ a bell, and beggin’ for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don’t fall for his schtick.
He can revert to his original form at will.
X-Men got nothin’ he can’t kill.
Only a simian of similar size
Can pluck the Pterodactyl out of the skies.
He’s a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin’ a bell, and beggin’ for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don’t fall for his schtick.
Apparently, zombies don’t have a sense of
humor about being depicted as Net-slaves who hate for
Oatmeal, or about Inman being too-closely identified with
his chosen prehistoric totem, the pterodactyl. The video
literally soars during a few seconds of simulated reptilian
flight borrowed from the public domain silent film classic,
“The Lost World,” that leads in to a beautiful hi-res still
of Kong poised at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea,
holding Faye Wray in one hairy, black, fist, immobilizing
the giant pterodactyl in mid-flight with the other. Never
have I loved a giant gorilla so much.
Yeah, zombies can dish it out, but they can’t
take it. After about three-thousand views in eighteen hours,
Photobucket cancels my account. They say they had hundreds
of complaints. Gee, ya’ think maybe zombies lack the ability
to appreciate creativity? I moved my creation over to
YouTube where I should’ve started out in the first place.
Of course, the rapeutationists, with zombie
efficiency, having long-forgotten that they started out
their crusade on behalf of a poor, beleaguered cartoonist,
proceed to torture the creatives, and thus eliminate my
ability to mount future media reprisals. They contact all
the artists they think might have done the cartooning for
the video. One artist receives email threats to destroy the
artist’s fledgling online portrait-painting website.
Simultaneously “other” emailers suggest to this artist that
lucrative deals await a person of such talent who would be
wise enough to stop working for Charles Carreon. A second
artist, who has had her work posted on American-Buddha.com
for many years, receives a phone call, ostensibly from
someone in the art business, asking her “what type of work”
she has done for the Carreons. She finds the call weird, and
demurs before sending me an email about it. I tell her to
save her breath and talk to real people, not zombies.
It’s important to note that zombies are not
insensitive to the sufferings of everyone, nor is all
violence fun for zombies. Fun violence is violence committed
against people they perceive as weird or different. Cartoon
violence is safe to enjoy because a cartoon coyote that
survives dynamite blasts and falls from the top of the
Empire State Building is not someone we really have to worry
about. It feels like guilt-free fun, and our mirror neurons
don’t tune in on the “pain” the coyote suffers in his
run-ins with the roadrunner, rather they pick up that the
guy just keeps on truckin’, regardless of what happens to
him. So it’s actually sort of revitalizing, like being
invulnerable, which is probably why kids occasionally jump
off rooftops and such. I know that damn coyote was in the
back of my mind when I was pulling crazy stunts in my
childhood.
Un-fun violence is serious. A totally
different thing. It’s violence committed against people like
oneself. An Argentine study of the effects of violent TV on
children showed that kids liked action flicks, all right –
the more bang-pow-crash a movie had, the better. But they
didn’t want to see kids getting beat up, or parents
fighting. That’s un-fun violence. My video was really
un-fun, and the zombies voiced their disapproval,
suppressing their oft-declared love of free-speech to the
expedient of protecting Matt, the Giant-Killer, from the
ever-evil Charles Carreon.
So that’s one more take-home lesson about
zombies. They will not take kindly to it if you burn their
Oatmeal. They will become enraged, and gnaw all exposed
flesh in sight. Do not expose your allies to their sight.
Conceal your friendships, because otherwise, the zombies
will attack your friends. If you are careless about this,
you will multiply the targets of zombie attacks, and lose
all your allies into the bargain.
July 8, 2013 (One Year Later)
Absolute destruction brings peace. Like a
tsunami that puts everything that is not utterly destroyed
precisely where it ought not to be, the zombies have
inverted the image of “Charles Carreon.” Previously known as
the guy who, as a self-named Internet lawyer, rescued
Sex.Com from ownership by a criminal and restored it to its
former owner, I am now depicted as a former good-guy lawyer,
i.e., a “First Amendment lawyer,” who lost his halo, fell in
with bad company (Funny Junk) and became a hitman who
revealed his lack of wit by ignoring the Free Speech Mafia
and suing an Internet saint. Neither one of these characters
— the First Amendment lawyer or the hitman, are me, but the
name of Charles Carreon is mis-associated with them, to the
considerable detriment of its future utility, to me, as a
trade name.
Now I understand what my Buddhist teacher
taught us thirty years ago, when we lived in a yurt in a
meadow, uphill from a giant Buddha statue of magical
appearance, immersed in the wild milieu of hippiedom. Now I
understand what it means to detach from your name.
I do it like a swimmer divesting himself of
clothing — as a life-saving measure. Living inside the
self-consciousness of myself as Charles Carreon is no longer
tenable. I recall the horror that struck me as I heard the
zombie crowds baying at Vincent Price all night long,
terribly shouting his name, “Morgan! Morgan! Come out,
Morgan!” As a child in the darkened theater, I thought,
terrified, “How awful it is that they knew his name!” By
knowing his name, they could pin him down inside the redoubt
of his barricaded home, touch him through the walls.
Letting go of my name means letting go of the
mass media completely. I made a good start on that many
years ago, when I threw away the television. It was so long
ago, I still had lots of hair, and my children were nine,
seven, and five years old. I walked in the house and once
again heard the fighting over what to watch. I picked up the
small machine, told them I’d warned them if they kept
fighting about what to watch, I’d throw the TV away, and so
now it was happening. I pitched it in the dumpster and we
didn’t have a TV at all for many years after that, and then
used it only as the display for our VCR.
So on the flatscreen in our bedroom, we watch
mostly documentaries and nature flicks, some foreign films,
and a smattering of everything else except horror. Who needs
horror? Life is horrible enough, and that was before
rapeutations.
The big thing I give up, but it’s effortless,
is reading the New York Times at Starbucks. Aside from the
techie-legal news I get in my inbox, I don’t need to know
about much of anything to do my work, pay the bills, and uh
— that’s all I have to do, right? I know some things aren’t
going to change for the foreseeable future: we’ll keep
“leaving” Afghanistan, the Euro will stay soft and gold will
not be going up, people will keep being killed by drones,
the banksters will always own Obama, and Justice Roberts
will have the final say on many things of importance. Makes
you wish Ike were around to say, “Things are more like they
are now than they ever were before.” If, of course, he
actually said it.
I stopped listening to the radio. For years
since moving to Tucson, I was an NPR listener, which was
always a little redundant, since NPR follows the same
news-script as the New York Times. I would listen in the
car, while driving about doing business errands, and in the
evenings, after 7 pm, when Kai Ryssdal’s Marketplace closed
out the news show, I’d listen to conservative talk radio to
get my blood moving. Now I listen to Spotify and my huge MP3
collection stored on my phone. Music I will not be giving
up, because it’s the way I change the channel on my reality.
I put I little cloth image of my primary
meditation deity in the pecan tree in the backyard, which
turns it into a big, green, organic shrine that I can walk
around in the shade while reciting mantra. The Sanskrit word
“mantra” means “mental protection,” and is formed by
combining “mana,” the word for mind, with “tra.” So mantra
recitation is like a safe place I can reside within.
I don’t actually need a name when all I’m
doing is hanging out with myself. I’ve been a Buddhist for
39 years, and never realized straight-up benefit to be
gained by detaching from my identity as “Charles Carreon.”
So like the guy hanging from a vine sprouting from the side
of a cliff, with a tiger roaring above him and a tiger
roaring below him, I grab that strawberry of namelessness,
and pop it into my mouth. Truly it is delicious.