Shallowness as a means of consumption as a staple of techno-lust. Otherwise known as indulgence.

I have an iPod brimming with marvelous music, a cell phone that replicates that purpose while connecting me to 150 of my closest compadres, a 5-disc DVD player operating as one of three steros in my living room, 4 other kick ass music makers spread around the place, 600 CDs, over 1,000 books, a piano, drum set and pre-CBS Strat, 2 kick ass computers, custom golf clubs, a closet-full of Joseph Aboud, Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren suits, beach access, Manhattan velvet rope access, women who show up unannounced weekend nights, rare counter-computer surveillance knowledge, a dominating command over the English language, folk hero status in certain states, a curveball, a closet full of plaques and trophies, cool scars, cache in bars, and the confidence to not have to lie to teeter upon a shakey story of self-confidence. Plus, no one to answer to.

Those are the things I don't tell people, lest I lose my refined status as a man of excrutiatingly deep thought. Which is true.