Suits. Media friendships are convivial. Funny. Smart. Creative. Communicative. They smile. They’re now your buddy. Now, they go for the jugular. You (as subject) could go with no comment on any issue and I am sorry, but there are, indeed, writers who will put words in your mouth, rendering you a demon. Not a human. Anymore by decree. You, too. are not human, Wikipedia. I have been commodified, objectified, and written off as humorous, but not germane to anything. Impress editors. We are writing for readers. But no. We are writing for editors. They are the boss. No one wants to be marginal. No one wants to be seen, as incredibly lucky, to be at the time and place Mister Mark can cash in on. Poker face. Zuck is a media creation, we are stuck with the awareness of a four-year-old. Mark is not a happy rich, CEO. He’s an anguished-looking rich CEO, and the fundamental consequence of that is an internalization that easily fits any grief-driven modus operandi. Some people create their own identity. Follow the money. Obfuscate capitalism itself. Status quo. Imbue Zuck with a creative moralism crafted by the Axiom Persona. Big Girl Rich, and he can sit with us Poverty Big Boys at the table who are controlled by adults. Is he an adult. By accident. No reciprocity. No compromise. He is already the dictator of social media’s meat market. No real accountability, but that is what they all do. Swisher is right. Fat chance when all we want is stuff to work. Dog. Pony shows. Ponies bite. too. Hurts.