FAKE GONZO JOURNALISM, TEENAGERS, MEDIA.

Writing proper Gonzo journalism is just an aficionado thing in this country. What Hunter Thompson discovered back in the early seventies was that the easiest way to live the American dream was running away from it. Bashing around the fantastic possibilities of life in United States at that particular time. But he was betrayed too, and his loss and failure also belongs to the rhetoric junkies that followed him. At the turn of the millennium the Colombian dream is not the vision of the big winner who trades nothingness for uncommon wealth. Like it still happens in the States, the Colombian dream is smaller, more crushing and, by God, so very anonymous. The great hunter in this country is the one who profits others' dismay, the one who outlives every possible disgrace ranging from National armed confrontation to neighborhood dilemmas. We have been totally lied to by politicians and we expect a Messiah every four years, as if any problem in the world was ever voted away.

The chances of extravagant life are not for adults here, but for teenagers who live a frenzy based on free sex, drug abuse, massive booze consumption and fanatical oblivion of the country's realities. But what they can't see now is that they too are a walking, talking reality of our times. They too are screwed.

Not very far from now, when they are twenty-five or thirty, they'll find themselves sitting in front of a cup of coffee at some coffee shop, or the kitchen table in their parent's houses; their hair completely fucked by excess of coloring chemicals on them, black bags around their eyes that will make them look like panda bears caused by countless sleepless nights: some partying, some allegedly studying. And just as the last sip of the coffee lodges in their throats and reminds them the taste of cigarette and they are seized by a nasty coughing fit, they'll know. Just like we knew way earlier.

Nevertheless, I have great hope in these kids. I feel confident that some sort of new consciousness is arising amidst them, as if the French revolution had landed on them a tad bit late but well fucking worth it. Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité. I don't know if they'll really know freedom, but they are way more detached from racial and sexual prejudices than even the most liberal of us were. And they need fraternity, it's the only thing they can claim as own, the only thing that binds them all together is knowing that they are one cell-phone speed-dial away from each other. That is their handle.

We didn't have that, and we sure needed it. We had ideas, we had concepts. We received all the crap from post-modern critics and sociologists and anthropologists who rejoiced in bullshitting us with flamboyant words to tell us actual facts that were always bare in front of our eyes and we were too damn busy thinking to see. It is funny how Baudrillard preached on that reality only becomes real when broadcasted on TV, it has to be one of the major gags in our modern history. And I think so because the punchline is that we know it is true. We have become so desperately dependant on the media that it turns absurd to believe anything that gets to us as word of mouth. We call it the "uncivilized" way of spreading news. Because we do have all sorts of things, even a civilized way to spread our legs when we are going to get fucked. We renamed everything again, as if the legendary Night of Times were to meet no end and we were just cavemen discovering reality through screens. This is madness.

And this country has grown fond of definitions and justifications when our Independence from the Spaniards was not announced by formal letters on expensive parchment but by hollering it on squares, posted on walls and yelled in the ears of everyone who was not taking part in the action. And now we want to believe in media, we do believe in media. Our parents did, we do and the teenagers do to. Funny. Every revolutionary spirit dies by lack of publicity, advertising is the true oxygen we breathe and every single one of us tries to pump his or her special gas out in the air to be felt, whiffed and acknowledged.

So are we image? Truth? Concepts? None. we are all mad children playing recklessly on the shore while our mother lays asleep on some colorful towel and our father is entertained watching girls in bikini, nobody aware of the menacing, gigantic wave roaring its way to us.

FEDERICO AC.

23.04.2K5.