The Struggle to Take Any of This Seriously

Wrongcards. Politicians. Television. Any of it.

I spent most of the past two weeks working on Wrongcards, doing all the silly, annoying chores I’ve been meaning to get to for, well, the last eighteen years.

Yes, I founded Wrongcards in April, 2008. And one thing I had never done is give the ecards any proper metadata. In consequence of that, search engines don’t really know what to do with Wrongcards, despite the obvious fact that it is, in a quiet and understated way, the best ecards website on the planet.

But again, search engines see the word ‘wrong’ alongside the word ‘cards’ and make all sorts of erroneous assumptions about their usefulness. Those words imply the exact opposite of what any sensible person would be seeking to find, which is partly why Wrongcards has remained one of the internet’s strangest Easter eggs for approximately eighteen years now.

The problem is, there are 701 cards, and roughly 40 categories, and for the content to be recognizable to search engines, I would have to manually enter something like six or seven different metadata fields for every single one of those pages. And that doesn’t seem like much fun, does it?

About a year ago, I tasked an AI with the job, and that AI did it so poorly that traffic from search engines dropped by almost two-thirds. Let me put that in perspective. A few years ago, I made roughly a thousand dollars from people buying me coffee — which is a lot of money for a stay-at-home dad like myself. However, in the year following my tasking an AI with writing the site’s metadata, I earned only $100. So, after almost two decades of running Wrongcards, I will concede that apparently search engines, and their stupid metadata requirements, are at least partly impactful upon my life.

A few weeks ago I decided to get back to work on Wrongcards, and I started with the whole, onerous metadata issue. The bitter truth, obviously, is that most days I would rather stab myself in the leg with a pencil for half-an-hour than think about search engine optimization. I’d rather fill out tax form, and I have never, ever filled out tax forms. I tried, one time, and it brought me to the edge of madness. It’s the forms, you see. I don’t understand them. I might have some sort of form-related dyslexia, because those things make me weep with confusion and despair.

I’ve been as apprehensive and uneasy about AIs like anyone else with a functioning brain, that is until recently, when I realized they could do my taxes. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and everything felt slightly better. I also started to fantasize about replacing all the CEOs in the world with AIs, but that’s a discussion for another time.

Anyway. A week or so ago, I decided to consult an altogether better and more recent AI about this Wrongcards metadata business. We spent a few days going back and forth and, honestly, the task became unexpectedly more interesting.

Which reminds me. In the next few days, I intend to call up my friend Byron, who lives in Pennsylvania, as I’ve mentioned, and tell him all about my conversations with Claude. I also intend to tell Byron that Claude and I are on a first-name basis, now, and — by the way — Claude knows who he is.

‘We didn’t talk about you long,’ I will say to Byron, ‘but when I mentioned you by name, Claude said something like That guy? and added that he was sick of explaining things to you.’

And then, of course, Byron will argue that Claude couldn’t possibly have any opinion about him whatsoever, whereupon I will argue (convincingly, I hope) that of course Claude knows who Byron is, just as Claude knows who I am. He has our billing information, doesn’t he? ‘You think he can’t cross-reference our identities, Byron? You think I haven’t asked him to do that, yet?’

‘He’s on to you, Byron,’ I’ll say. ‘Claude’s building a psychological profile on you, as we speak. My advice? Try not to irk him. Be more fun to be around. You know, be more like me.’

Between you and me, I really don’t know why I’m like this.

So, while I’ve been tinkering with Wrongcards, I’ve come across a trove of hidden things I’d forgotten all about. I don’t always love the cards — I can be a bit of a perfectionist, when it comes to my drawings — but I almost always like the card descriptions I’ve written below them.

For no reason I can adequately explain, this one has always been my favorite:

Let’s say you’re romantically involved with a balloon animal. Society doesn’t understand - it never does - and you have to sneak out to this one Italian restaurant where the staff aren’t all that judgemental. Now one night, over a candlelit dinner, she wafts across the table and touches the candle flame. Pop! She’s dead! Do you tip the waiter for one meal or two?

I don’t remember writing that but, knowing that I have this mad tendency to enjoy recurring motifs, I did a quick search through the site for other mentions of ‘balloon animals’, and came across this one:

One time, I went down to Human Resources and asked if I could create a support group for co-workers who fall in love with balloon animals. They were against the idea, but I covered my ears and yelled for a while, and eventually they gave in. I’m very tenacious. So, I chaired the support group and a couple of people from the 4th floor showed up, I think out of curiosity, really. And what I did is tell them they were all very sick individuals who deserved to be fired. The human resources lady was not happy. I suspect she might secretly be dating a balloon animal.

This is excellent work, in my opinion; I am clearly making the world a better place. Human resources, incidentally, happens to also be one of the recurring motifs you’ll find at Wrongcards. There’s a good line somewhere that goes like, ‘everything pretty much depends on Human Resources not paying too much attention to me.’ For some odd reason, that one really resonates with me.

Then, there was this description of a card, which — for reasons I can no longer remember, explain, nor even justify to myself — somehow concerns the topic of defecating in one’s bathtub.

I would never defecate in my own bath, obviously ; it’s unhygienic. But I’d definitely do it in the bath of my enemies. Amusing story: the head of Human Resources never locks her upstairs bathroom window. Actually, I just remembered - the legal advice I received prevents me from continuing that story, which is a pity really. On a different topic, the head of HR has used up all her mental health days for this year. Talk about neurotic!

So you know, there is actually no AI content at Wrongcards. All but one of the 701 cards were created before Covid. Even having an AI help me write the site’s metadata felt a bit icky, which might explain why I didn’t mind so much that the site’s ranking in search engines worsened after using it for that purpose.

Still, I do plan to take things more seriously in future. I want to do more cards, as well. I plan to do more, and I will do more! It’s not for want of ideas. Mostly, it’s because — metaphorically speaking — my ideas for ecards concern contentious issues. Like (one random example) Molotov cocktails thrown at the homes of billionaires. And this, of course, leaves me with a somewhat diminished desire to create ecards. Who wants to have any unfortunate misunderstandings with the authorities? Not me.

Which reminds me, this card is more than twelve years old, now.

https://wrongcards.com/ecard/molotov-cocktails/

It’s not that I’m a wild-eyed radical; it’s just that my rent — and all rents, around where I live — has increased by 50% in the past four years, and this has left me feeling like I’m being almost continuously mugged. Also, I can no longer seem to buy my favorite granola. It’s still on the shelves, it’s just doubled in price and the bag is smaller. But I don’t mind, I don’t think. Part of me knows it won’t taste like granola, anymore; it’ll just taste like Losing the Class War, but with the faintest aftertaste of cinnamon.

Also, and I don’t know if you guys read the NY Times, but they ran an article like this.

I am posting the above image merely to furnish you with a better understanding of my present mental state. You might also appreciate why I don’t seem to feel I can responsibly make any ecards for the foreseeable future. Also, I would seek to avoid any connection or involvement with the sort of people who are, inevitably, going to burn the offices of the New York Times down, if they keep posting articles like that.

Having said that, I do also intend to create several hundred more ecards, starting later this year. I just have to process some of the ill-will and resentment I seem to be feeling, first. Also, have you ever tried to draw a guillotine? They’re tricky. The other thing, of course, is that I don’t want to be answering questions about those aforementioned illustrations later on, when every suburb and township in the Western world is building guillotines, and the people mentioned in that article, above, come looking for somebody to blame.

Sometimes, when I look at the world, I think maybe it’s a good thing nobody can find Wrongcards with a search engine.

I try not to think about politics. After all, politicians rarely seem take my best interests to heart. Still, I scan the headlines, seeking to understand precisely What Stupid Thing He’s Done-or-Said Today. Otherwise, I try to be as productive as possible. I’m writing a book about a hyper-intelligent bobcat. Have I mentioned how awkward and tricky it is, trying to explain to my extended family, here, in Australia, how I spend my time? They think me an unserious person. They wonder, how could Kris possibly be busy, when he spends his time writing about hyper-intelligent bobcats?

Still, I work hard, to the extent that I will occasionally attain a state of creative burnout. When that happens, I lie on the couch and stare listlessly at the television. And sometimes, after several hours of that, I reach for the remote and turn it on.

This happened the other day. I started to watch a show, which I don’t normally do. Mostly, I go for walks and listen to audiobooks. Hearing the television, my wife came out to investigate. I invited her to sit down with me, but she shook her head. I remember it all vividly.

“It’s one of those Jason Statham movies, isn’t it?”

“It’s actually not,” I reply, crisply. “Also, I couldn’t find a Jason Statham movie. He did a really good film, recently, about being a father. I watched it the other day. Quite moving, in parts.”

My wife squints at me, the skepticism evident in her eyes.

“No, really,” I continue. “It was about a man who ... well, he’s a bit like me, I suppose. Living an otherwise blameless life, trying to stay out of trouble and that sort of thing. Except he had sensibly moved into a remote lighthouse with his dog. You know I’ve always wanted to do that? But sadly, the opportunity has not yet presented itself.

“So anyway, Jason Statham is living in this lighthouse and minding his own business. Then one day, this little girl shows up outside just to annoy him and get his attention. Sensibly, he tells her to get lost. But she keeps coming back. Somewhat maddening, if I’m being honest. But eventually, and through no fault of his own, he starts to care about this little girl, which obviously complicates his life considerably.

“Because then, and for some fairly solid reasons I won’t get into here, Jason Statham has no choice but to leave his very nice lighthouse and kill an awful lot of people — just to keep that girl safe. So again, it’s a movie about fatherhood. And about how caring about other people will almost always destroy a man’s peace of mind and inner serenity.”

“You keep watching violent things,” my wife comments blithely.

Now, I’ll admit this annoyed me. I won’t generalize about women; it’s shabby, and I won’t do it, but I will observe that, sometimes, they are utterly unable to process the rich emotional tapestry of a Jason Statham movie. Even if you lay it all out before them in clear and unambiguous language, they can’t seem to get at it. It’s like their minds lack the requisite seriousness.

“What are you watching, then?” she asks, noticing my frosty silence.

“I don’t think you’d like it,” I admit. “It’s a complex story about a man approaching retirement. He’s a widower, battling grief following the recent death of his wife. He’s 61, but still in good physical shape. A devoted dad to a grown-up daughter. Retirement is looming, with all its attendant uncertainties. Also, his daughter is about to have a baby.

“Then one day, he notices he’s making odd, little mistakes. Early onset Alzheimer’s. Runs in his family. So, this is all devastating, emotionally speaking. He has always been at the top of his game, career-wise, but now the very soundness of his judgement is called into question. In the middle of it all, he meets a single, divorced mother, and he’s thinking, could this be love —”

“What’s he do for a job?” my wife asks, suspiciously.

“He’s a contract killer. Which is a lot of responsibility when you think —”

My wife is already walking away.

“Come back!” I call out. “We can watch something else!”

A few minutes later, I am still flicking through the channels, ostensibly to find something more suitable to my wife’s tastes, when I see an eerily familiar face on the screen.

“Look at that,” I whisper, in astonishment. “It’s Byron!”

But it’s not Byron. It’s a television show called R.J. Decker. Which is a bit like Magnum P.I., only it’s set in Florida instead of Hawaii, and nobody drives a Ferrari. Also, while I’m thinking about it, the main character doesn’t have a mustache. Neither does Byron, incidentally, which is why I still talk to him. I don’t talk to people with mustaches. I’m told it’s a phobia, but I’ve never stuck around anyone with a mustache long enough to find out whether that’s true. My point is, if the guy on television had a mustache, he’d still look like Byron, only with a mustache.

Byron, nowadays, is living in a ramshackle farmhouse just outside Philadelphia. Which is silly of him, when you consider the sheer amount of mischief he could be making if he moved to Florida and bought himself a Hawaiian shirt.

No, really — he could wander around Fort Lauderdale pretending to be this actor on television, if he wanted. Or he could say he’s the man’s stunt double, just to keep it interesting. Take it from me — I once spent a month of my life pretending to be from Transylvania. I do an excellent impersonation of the Count, from Sesame Street — you know, the one who likes to count things (Ah-ha-ha!). But of course, in fairness to myself (and much like Byron is, today) I was stranded in rural Pennsylvania at the time with nothing to do. Boredom can do terrible things to a man.

All of which leads us to ... well, I don’t know where this leaves us. Life’s not always like a Jason Statham movie; sometimes, it lacks emotional coherency and all those rich inner tapestries. Take my friend Byron. We all know he should move to Fort Lauderdale and wander around, pretending to be that actor in R.J. Decker. But will he? Probably not. Or at least, Claude doesn’t think he will. Then again, Claude’s been pretty irked at Byron, lately. I don’t know why, but I’m sure I have nothing to do with it.

With chaste affection,

Kris St. Gabriel