I'm a very private person. I keep to myself, I get uneasy when people pry. You wouldn't think this would be a problem, but here I am, hiding in an alleyway.
The cameras are out there, searching for me. Searching for everybody. A woman walking her poodle just walked by, talking into her cell and snapping pictures as she goes. Thanks to her Web site her dog’s bathroom habits are more well-known to the American people than any three Congressmen. I crouched behind an old HD-TV box and waited for her to pass.
Somewhere my ex-girlfriend is uploading intimate images from our last vacation to her MySpace page, her FlickR album, and her LiveJournal.
I’m starving, but I don’t dare go near any restaurants. Too many live cooking shows around, too many taste test informercials. My last meal was a pretzel snatched from a bakery just seconds before The Food Channel’s “Open for Lunch!” crews arrived to start tearing the place apart with the help of “Marketing Guru Rich Montague!” I grabbed a pizza box to cover my face and ran away before they could start handing out waivers to the other customers, who were all -- men and women -- excitedly touching up their makeup and IMing their friends that they were going to be on TV. Their friends couldn’t respond right away, of course, because they were all on TV themselves, somewhere.
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