#jon wolper

They Danced Like Programmed Angels ~ Spit Light through the Canopy

They Danced Like Programmed Angels is the pseudonym of Jon Wolper, who, on Spit Light through the Canopy, plays a selection of instruments. Synthesizers, piano, and guitar are all featured, and he includes field recordings, too. Maria Grigoryeva (violin, viola) and Lyudmila Kadyrbaeva (cello) provide the string section. Spit Light through the Canopyis music of a September light. A kinder, softer…

I Must Protect My Brand

My name is Fred Marshall, and my brand is exquisite. My social networks are in full bloom. My blog posts are SEO-friendly. I have crafted an impenetrable online presence and I am constantly improving it.

I have 92 Google alerts, and their sinuous arms traverse the web. They are variations of my name, places of employment past, present, and future, cities I’ve lived in and lived close to, and the names of all my pets. My dog is Efficiency. My cat is Ambition.

I utilize a triple-monitor computer setup. Each screen ranges from 27 to 33 inches and they curl around my desk. This is my command center. TweetDeck takes up the leftmost screen, and that is where I monitor my private account, public account, and aggregation account, which is where I mostly just retweet Mashable links. The other two screens are mishmashes of Chrome and Firefox tabs. I cycle through subreddits at mach two. I share things that You Will Not Believe. I am become clickbait, destroyer of #longform.

I create. I curate. I work hard to be myself.

I am Entrepreneur 2.0. My LinkedIn account is 100 percent complete, as I have uploaded my resume. I check in on Foursquare as soon as I wake up. I am the mayor of my apartment. I am a Snapchat wunderkind. I’ll give you my WiFi password when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.

Other Fred Marshalls challenge the sanctity of my brand. They live across the country, and they post on Twitter and Facebook, and those posts are cached, and now there are Fred Marshalls competing with me for Internet space. Some of them say things that are off-color. They offend people. They pick fights with Patton Oswalt on Twitter. At any moment, he could answer. At any moment, outrage could find its way to my door.

My brand! I fear for the safety of my brand!

So I am in San Diego, at the doorstep of one Fred Marshall. The sky is deeply, brilliantly blue. It is cloudless but for a few wisps that accent the beauty. I Instagram it. I go #nofilter. I do not add a geotag. This is a covert mission.

“Can I help you?” Fred Marshall asks. He has answered his front door. His house is handsome.

“I am a mama tiger, fiercely guarding my cubs.” I say. “My brand is a church, and its worshippers are pious and pure.”

He is confused.

“You cannot be a part of this,” I continue, lighting the underside of my face with my flashlight app. I take out a gun. “I am building my future. I am Fred Marshall.”

I guide him to the computer in his den. MapMyRun tells me that walk was .005 miles, but I don’t share it to Facebook, and that gives me a dirty thrill. The adrenaline courses through me. Together, we delete his accounts. He is asking me about his safety. He is pleading for me to leave, to put the gun away. I am telling him to delete his tweets, one by one.

I am telling him the Internet is a vast, frightening place, and I cannot let anyone think poorly of me. I must defend my name. I must remain myself. I must protect my brand.

Hey, bros. My name’s Blake, and I’ll be your server. How are you doing today? Crushing it? Def. I’ll get you a round of Mountain Dew waters in a second, but first: Have any of you have ever eaten here before?

No?

Then welcome to Badass Bistro, formerly Bistro Savoureuse, now under new management. Here, we combine the rush of grinding a 20-foot rail with a quaint yet modern dining experience the whole family can enjoy.

There are several menus in front of you; please look them over carefully. I’ll run you through the basics. Keep in mind that all dishes marked with a chili are spicy and all dishes marked with a pair of nuts come with me punching you in the nuts.

The smallest paper is our drink menu; let’s look at that first. The front is our list of wines, which are sourced from vineyards in Napa, Burgundy, and our owner Blake’s bathtub. On the back you’ll find our energy drinks, craft beers, and energy beers.

There are no choices for the first course -- instead, all customers get access to our back room behind the oil-on-canvas Vin Diesel portrait. We call it The Hummus Pit. Trust me, it’s gnarly. You'll go in there, take one of our complimentary bodyboards, and just start riding the chickpea waves. It’s the most intense dish we’ve served since the spicy soba noodles with cabbage, shiitake mushrooms, and Frank’s Stinky Butt Sauce. We make our hummus with imported chickpeas, we rock a lightly spiced, house-made tahini paste, and we get our bodyboards from Rick’s Surf Shop. And we throw pita at you. Five minutes per person.

Second course is the entree, which is a big fucking steak. You can get a side salad, too, but notice that menu option is marked with a pair of nuts.

Before we move on, I just want to mention that our dessert menu is printed on hemp. OK.

We have a pretty long dessert menu, partly because we all have a big sweet tooth here at Badass Bistro, and partly because Blake farms hemp on the side. I’d recommend the lava cake, which is vanilla ice cream on a hot brownie drizzled with locally sourced lava. It’s from Mt. Vesuvius! Ha, just kidding. That’d be ridiculous. That’s so many miles away. No, the lava is from Mt. Rainier. A few of us free-climb up to the summit every Saturday to gather it.

Oh, and don’t forget to share some crepes. They’re divine. Do you need a minute to decide? That’s cool. I’ll be back in a sec to take your orders. In the meantime, here’s a plate of Hacky Sacks for the table. Enjoy!