Navigating the Turbulent Waters of Meta Deceit: Highly-Sensitive Person’s Witness of the Devolution of Zuckerberg’s Social Advertising Contraption

Posted on September 17, 2024September 17, 2024 by loneraverbook_y1puxb

The Emotional Cross-Fit of Facebook, Algorithmic Manipulation, and the Search for Authentic Connection in a Mirror Maze of Service Level De-optimization

A Decade Under the Shadow of Facebook: An Agonizing Influence on An Already Agonized Life

Originally published in April 2023

This lands with Lone Raversince it tells the stories of times that the records require but which, some days, I’d prefer to forget. And so would Mark Zuckerberg.

And I no longer am attempting to blot it all out that this actually happened.

Lone Raver is the story inspired by events in my life and perspectives gained from growing up in LA County in the early 1980s, moving to the high desert of southern California sometime after the 1984 Olympics, and growing up a weirdo in an area of California that’s more like Oklahoma than some parts of Oklahoma.
And the mid-90s to late 2000s rave scene, way more fun than the current psychedelic whatever it is.
And then the aftermath of it all for me: the that, and the other thing, and the moving to Boston, and the moving back to California to LA and then up to Big Bear, and then up to the SF Bay, and then back down, and finally, well, you get the idea.

This letter is the organized, edited for your enjoyment pre-writing that contextualizes Lone Raver and SparkleDeep — going deep with the sincerely unique— and also contains more on travel, good food, amazing people to learn from, the most remarkable vistas, and things that don’t fit elsewhere.

I’m going into this all, because this is brand-new for me, relaunching my communication strategy, so yeah, it’s a chance to share how it’s going, and I’m not saying to go over there, right now — not at all, haha — but there are two other newsletters, and they might have separate audiences, though I believe you will also find them interesting.

Now, get ready for an experience.

I. The Early Days

About two years before I was arrested in 2009, I opened a Facebook account. I was nearly never on any social media, I didn’t understand Twitter, at all, and Tribe.net had fizzled, as had Friendster. I couldn’t see myself getting hooked on another social site that was going to go under.

Facebook, the social media giant that has connected billions of people, also left a trail of personal and social consequences in its wake.

In that second year, there was that relationship that ended due to the strategic use of the Poke button by someone who no doubt saw her act as some kind of justice, pretty sure that was the second year I had a Facebook account.

First year, there was an excruciating relationship status fumbling through what to do, about a year before that, and probably had something to do with why I procured an account in the first place: wanting to keep up with the Jones’ and, well, my date’s last name might have rhymed with that, so it would be literally and otherwise true that I acquired a Facebook account to keep up with someone whose last name rhymes with Jones.

II. Superficial Connections Era (2011-2013)

During the period from 2011 to 2013, Facebook became the primary means of socializing for me. I had moved to Boston for my post-MBA job, and didn’t really have time – or much inclination – to meet new friends. I knew I would be sentenced in a few months, and while the count I pled to had a maximum sentence of four years, four years was still a long time.

In some ways, looking back, 4 years, I’m not sure how I would have been after a 4-year stint – a 4-year “bid” one of the bunkmates I had at a men’s halfway house would have said; he was in for bank robbery. I think I met more bank and pharmacy robbers than anybody else. Plenty of fraudsters. And then there was the odd clandestine chemist; that was me.

When I moved to Boston, I opened a new Facebook account and let my heart be my guide. It was entertaining to see all the things people shared, and to be open about what I posted, which wasn’t much. But I made friends. Real friends that I even got to know in IRL — at least for a few years. While it allowed for easy connections with others, it also led to the fact the only friends I had were people I didn’t really know. I did see a lot of people making fools of themselves, but that was part of the attraction of 2012 Facebook, I suppose? A cross-section of people outdoing the last person’s foolishness for attention, which resulted in absolutely superficial and shallow relationships.

III. The Acrimonious Troll Farm-Induced Civil War of Online 2015-2016

The rise of troll farm activity in 2015 and 2016 resulted in an online civil war that wreaked havoc on Facebook. It felt like a battlefield to me, as a transgender person in 2015 and 2016, and most of the harmful postings were friends of people who had larger followings.

The spread of misinformation and divisive content led to increased animosity between users and amplified existing social and political tensions. We all know what happened next.

For me, that began several years of uncertain housing, living around the Bay Area, then living in Long Beach for 2018, which was refreshing to be in one place for a full year. During that year, a lot happened. It was about May when I noticed I had an unreasonably strong attachment to someone I had only met, once, and who didn’t seem that interested. It was a bizarre situation, but helped me see how atypical my emotions and attachment mechanisms were askew.

IV. The 2018 Messenger Morning Texting Fiasco

In 2018, Facebook’s Messenger app became the center of controversy in my mind when a certain user began receiving unsolicited and inappropriately timed messages from a very well-known sender.

This situation highlighted for me how tricky some of the user interface design was, nudging me to do the thing I wanted to do. How did it know? And why did it have to flash it in my face when this person was active. And it seemed she was active when I was active. It was a match made in heaven. She didn’t always answer. But often times, she did. She never did say anything about my messages being too early or late.

V. From Algorithmic Meddling to the Mirror Maze of Customer Support, Today

As Facebook’s algorithms have evolved, so too have the way users interact with the platform. Today, we see a trickle of content curated and controlled by algorithms, leading to a loss of authenticity and individual control.

This meddling has left users questioning the platform’s intentions and the role it plays in shaping our online experience.

It always feels to me like I’m being put through a ringer. Like contorted around for some purpose that I am supposed to believe is reasonable — but certainly does not feel reasonable.

IV. Holding Facebook Accountable

Despite the damage caused by troll farms and other issues, Facebook has faced limited consequences. While the company has been fined for various offenses, such as the 2019 $5 billion FTC settlement related to privacy violations, many argue that these penalties have not been sufficient to hold the platform accountable for the full extent of its influence on our lives.

And two days before the Christmas Holiday of 2022 — so not exactly a time of year people are even paying much attention to the news — Facebook was fined $725 million of its role in data breach related to Cambridge Analytica.

So if you want to know the cost Facebook paid for the data breach associated with the tumultuous 2015-2016 which ended up with an election that didn’t turn out as the pollsters expected, it was $725 million.

Summing It Up: Too big too fail social media?

Over the past decade, Facebook’s influence on my life and the lives of countless others has been undeniably significant. However, the platform’s negative impact, from invasive features and superficial connections to algorithmic meddling and the rise of troll farms, has left many questioning the true cost of our new dependence on this social media behemoth.

As we go forward, it is essential to hold Facebook accountable for its actions and to critically assess the role it plays in our society.

Should a population be able to be taken hostage by their emotions, by a company of any kind, in order to sell advertising and make money?

That’s up for us to choose. But seems totally okay, to everyone concerned, so far.

And Cambridge Analytica? Who are they again?

Lone Raver is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Where you sign up? I have no f’ing clue. Enjoy your day!

Moonlit Reflections: the Dance of Belonging and Exclusion

Posted on June 22, 2024June 22, 2024 by loneraverbook_y1puxb

Navigating the Shadows of Human Connection, Disconnection, and Belonging

(Los Angeles, 2024, not in the desert or eastern sierra, summer solstice and full strawberry moon)

In usually quiet places nestled beneath the embracing glow of the full moon, there existed a gathering—a ritual under the stars that once anchored my sense of belonging. It helped me make sense of the world, and it seemed to me to really help me. I used to cherish these nights, still hearing music from all those years ago where laughter echoed and bonds were forged in the gentle glow of lunar light. It felt like home, a sanctuary where we celebrated each other, the sky, the earth, everything.

But then came the season of tumult, when torrents of discord rippled through the familiar circle. The bringer of terrible news, I was branded the cause of chaos, when I simply surfaced a harsh reality.

One fateful day, I found myself on the outskirts, peering into a world I once thought was more my home than any dwelling I ever lived. It was a place I thought could never be tarnished and only polished: the dancefloor.

The implicit invitation, once freely given to those interested, clever, and lucky enough to find it, was taken back by one voice, leaving me adrift in disbelonging. Of all the people to be disinvited from this inclusion fest, it was me.

It struck at a moment of vulnerability, when one would be expected to seek solace and reconnection with one’s spirituality the most.

As I navigated the labyrinth of emotions, I realized this ritual was more than a gathering—it was a mirror reflecting the complexities of social connection, emerging spiritual groups, and the price of stigma, when challenges grew too big for a fledgeling group of quite-human organizers.

The highs of acceptance contrasted sharply with the lows of exclusion, revealing truths about identity and belonging. Or it could have been simply people being paranoid on illegal drugs.

It was a journey through shadows and light, where allegiances shifted like the phases of the moon. But instead of happening over hours like a desert-set trip, it unfolded over years as my mental health deteriorated.

In the years of imposed silence that followed, I pondered the delicate balance between inclusion and autonomy, between conformity and individuality.

I had been from a broken home. I had found my star family. I had found my moon family. And then it all broke, again.

Hard not to take it personally, my being at the center of my experience of it all.

Those momentous spaces with so many different people had taught me that belonging cannot be derived from external validation, but must also be nurtured from within. But without external validation, belonging becomes impossible.

It was a test of resilience and self-discovery, where the heart finds its home not in the approval of others, but in the embrace of authenticity, yet also discovering its limits.

Authenticity doesn’t provide us food, authenticity does not heal broken bones, nor does authenticity know how to correct harm – much less prevent it.

As desert ravers percolate under the waving of milky stars, I find solace in the realization that while paths diverge and seasons change, the journey towards belonging and what-is is a perpetual dance under phases of the moon.

Yet, with time, I’ve arrived at the understanding that when we create belonging, those who create belonging have a responsibility not to do harm.

Yet most groups intend to create an outgroup, they even thrive on there being a gap between the insiders and those outside.

It’s that duality of creating space for inclusion and then actively excluding that does real harm by bringing a shadow over the moments where actually-inclusive belonging was supposed to be possible.

What Dougal Fry’s F.A.M.I.L.Y. Means to Lone Raver

Posted on March 27, 2024April 13, 2024 by loneraverbook_y1puxb

Lone Raver’s 1st Time at Dougal Fry’s Unforgettable Event

It was between semesters at college, before my time as a “technologist” at a startup focused on organ preservation where supposedly my boss’s father’s head rested at the bottom of our deep freezer. I crossed paths with Ravena and Shaggy, one night. Word had reached us about F.A.M.I.L.Y.

friends and music I love you — from an actual F.A.M.I.L.Y. flyer circa who knows

An event not to be missed, so we connected on the internet. It wasn’t a swinger’s party, I would hear about unicorns for about 15 more years, and it never crossed my mind whether they’d be inviting me back up at the end of the night. It was about the dance.

It was yet the early Newsnet days of the internet; “socal-raves” provided the nexus for our connecting. This was the early, early days of the net, pre-web mostly — no dotcom busts yet — when most everyone was friendly and instant community that I met online, because mostly social-internet-curious, tech-inclined people wanted to fulfill the promise of technology for society! Before the greed came to tech and out of the woodwork with little notice for us babes lost in the woods. We hadn’t yet realized we had social anxiety, men and women, younger nearly-20somethings and even some “older” people in their late 20s and 30s – and even older — every race. It tbh felt diverse. Maybe we hadn’t felt the burdens of the world to have social anxiety as bad as people could have it, either. Or maybe we were inoculating ourselves against social anxiety with these rituals, these methods, aye these substances.

We agreed I would collect them from their dorm at UCLA, navigating from beyond the eastern-most corners of LA county through the labyrinth of the 10 to 405, exit to Westwood, up and around dark, sparsely street light-illuminated Sunset Blvd through some fancy part of LA I wasn’t yet familiar with, in the late 90s — being only 20-ish and from the other side of the mountains.

It was the era of my first cell phone, dialing on a Motorola as LA Cellular was about to be nabbed by AT&T, that I dialed to have them meet me. So convenient.

It’s the end of 1997; it’s autumn in Los Angeles.

That evening, the destination was not marked on any map. We were headed to “The Sound Stage,” not only a euphemism for a nondescript warehouse transformed into a black box theater of a party haven. Vehicles cluttered the vicinity, with revelers claiming every inch of legal parking—and some spots less so—just off Santa Monica Blvd in Hollywood. Where people once parked eventually became a lot filled with white box trucks infamous as film and tv production assets.

In the queue, the three of us exchanged pleasantries and shared tales of recent parties past while waiting to enter the F.A.M.I.L.Y. event, an acronym that stood for “Friends and Music, I Love You”—a tongue-in-cheek nod, I thought, to the unspoken ‘and Drugs’ that completed the sentiment. As one entered, you could hear the common refrain from an intrepid young entrepreneur, likely putting himself through a training program – offers to buy “X” or “L” from the vagabond vendor, “usually the guy with the backpack,” one of us observed, but I preferred to know the particulars of what I consumed.

And I had been lucky enough. To account all of my drug history to that point: B. who was in the accelerated MD program where I visited her in Madison, WI, August, 1995, gave me LSD — well, the shaven-skull dude who looked like he might have been a dead ringer for one of the guys in House of Pain, took my hand, put a drop on my hand, and he told me to lick, so I licked. Then, there was the 1st college psychonaut crew and I — we acquired shrooms from our college acquaintance who likely acquired it from the college psychedelics dealer — the person who is still a DJ and leader of a dance collective, she connected me with my first “X” dealer – for ecstasy, what a name, even today – that sometimes grade-school teachers also still throws events; they’re still relevant, no doubt.

My approach to these events leaned scientific, I was a junior chemistry major, after all, and I took these things extremely seriously: control some variables, let others run a bit more free. But there was always care and restraint in what I did.

So that night I didn’t do any drugs, not even cannabis. I had done pressed ecstasy tablets, LSD a handful of times, and shrooms enough to be taking a pause with them. That was all since the first time I had tasted what was mostly MDMA on NYE going into 1996 — nearly a year and quite a lot of learning. That night, I was explicitly there to soak up the vibe and finally make it to one of these famed F.A.M.I.L.Y. events “not to be missed.” And many of us had full FOMO, and we were not going to miss out. Full stop.

Being fall 1997, I had returned from a summer in London, having soaked up the vibes there, and “full stop” is something I picked up there. Weeknight events with legends spinning till 4am, walking home across London as the sun came up, and Sunday Sessions at the Bluenote, though it wasn’t the same even a few years later, I heard. Stories for another day.

As we entered the actual building and almost immediately went our own ways until the end of the event, the Sound Stage boasted a truly imposing wall of bass bins.

wall of bassbins like at F.A.M.I.L.Y. events

A line of speakers, several layer cakes stacked up: subs, lows, mids, highs. It was full spectrum, even as the whole of the warehouse was mostly dark, only punctuated by a sea of people mingling even though how could they hear each other (?), moving as current of organisms responding to the call of, and to, the beat, the beat, the beat, the beat. As the speakers lined one side of the dance floor, which would have been quite a big space if it were empty, we focused energy and created a dance vortex, simulating a lively experiment with humans navigating a sea of sound and sensation, powered by little capsules that could make you feel…not invincible, but superconnected to self and…the universe, and we were doing it together! Strangers but not really since we shared this city, and now this warehouse.

Reflecting in 2024, it is remarkable, even today in March 2024, to think I had ever feared people, then I didn’t for more than a decade, and then came to have such twisted dynamics with people in the years of unraveling subsequent cPTSD that fear isn’t quite what I was feeling, but something that felt a lot like something worse than typical fear – that never really ceased for more than 7 years. The shadow of dark clouds smothered me there, and I knew that I wasn’t myself, but I couldn’t fix that either.

Those were the years I felt I had lost my spiritual family, I almost lost my blood family, as I figured out life without psychedelics, started seeing I had been caught up in cult-like behavior, and ultimately put enough together to rejoin “the land of the living.” And there were tragedies and people did get hurt, before and after my “ground zero” in 2009.

Looking back, perhaps during that time, I didn’t learn to fear people enough. I loved being around people, but that wasn’t developing me socially, I can see, now. Not grieving seemed like a feature, though it now looks like a bug.

Implicitly trusting is how I had always wanted to be. I had so much fear and doubt about people. So much not to trust in the late 90s (“Same as it ever was” – Talking Heads, led by a trust-fund kid of all things, the bittersweet irony – at least we got a pop tune?): advertising wanted to sell us everything, parents and teachers with their agendas that had nothing to do with kids, other students, did I mention plastic advertising and stuff, everywhere.

But there we were in 1997 — explored around on my own, exchanged lots of smiles, and chatted for a moment, here and there. I came upon a “second room” I hadn’t realized was there for some time. It was nearly empty, but the sounds compelled me! Drum loops and bleepy sounds, this spoke to me. My first moments with old school techno breakbeat will be memories I will never forget.

That night, DJ Oscure (still going) introduced me to ‘Bombscare’ by 2BadMice, a 1991 track still vibrant in the evolving dialogue of electronic music – which did get a re-release with remixes in ‘96. Despite it being dated already in ‘96, being more than 5 years old even then, prompting no jaded raver to complain about how the vibe had changed ever, I’m sure — it struck a chord in me, and I busted some moves like I never had.

Bombscare (here’s a contemporary remix) certainly outlasted many of its contemporaries from a time before the genre of breakbeat’s production tricks had been universally honed and refined, and morphed into Jungle and Drum and Bass genres.

More Recent Reflections

Fast forward to years later—March 2024—it’s been 10 years that the person I shroomed with for the first time passed on, dying from an overdose. My fellow psychonaut whom I’ve shared many dancefloors and psychonautical explorations passed due to fatal, risky use of psychedelics and serotonin-releasers that were more dangerous than anything that had existed when we started exploring in the mid-90s and late 90s — so those dangers did not exist when we started exploring.

Looking back, I stayed in the cult, got kicked out, and ironically, that’s what saved me.

My fellow psychonaut didn’t join or wasn’t accepted by a cult, didn’t get kicked out, but Ben’s dead, and he’s been gone 10 years now.

Lesson for us all, today: if you’re going to be risky, don’t be risky solo.

A Saturday in March

Flash forward to 2024, amidst a field in a park in the basin of Sepulveda, San Fernando Valley, I let the music of classic breakbeat techno move me once again.

I reflected on past pains and personal growth. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and it wasn’t about assigning blame. It was about seeking – and finding – life’s moments and embracing the feeling of being alive — in the face of extraordinary external circumstances surrounding us all in that world then, and still.

And many of us did it and it helped us survive and some even thrive.

Even if it was through merely being present — and shaking a leg.

My memories may be intercalated with a blur of 12” records beats and rhythms, but that night at the Sound Stage still reverberates in my mind and heart. A day after the day at the park, I would learn that those events F.A.M.I.L.Y. were the brainchild of one Dougal Fry (not to be confused with the DJ Dougal of the UK, different Dougal).

The cost of belonging may on some days be measured in dollars, effort, and treats, but the true testament of flow was in the experience, showing up and showing out, see who else is representing and how, and to be together as one, even if but for a fleeting moment, as everyone had their separate yet unified experience.

And notably to do it in a way that doesn’t impose an ideology, many rules, or even a demand for a donation. The only imposing going on is a DJ’s laying down of the groove for a fleeting moment in eternity — or when someone asks for a light, maybe a drink of water. We’re ignoring a lot of bad behavior here, but that’s how it seemed for a moment, so pure, so elegant: people coexisting and celebrating together.

With all the weird weather everyone’s been getting in 2024, in one of the first sunny days of 2024 that I could remember, even with it being southern California, that track ~ Bombscare ~ got a rewind — that’s raver-speak for one more rotation on the wheels of steel.

From the track’s sampled lyrics:

I don’t want to lose your love / I don’t want to lose your love

In those warehouses-turned-sanctuaries, identity was fluid, and expression was free—though not without its perils.

From the spoken-sung words from the track that takes you to that rush, the momentary anxiety, and the energy:

Feel the energy rush up to your face / Feel the house music steady steady pounding

Among the pulsating beats, there was space for connection, for fleeting friendships, and for the chance to be part of something bigger than oneself. And for a moment to be free from geopolitical violence and intrigue, the burdens of finding our way in a society that seems past its prime and not fit for purpose, and simply to maybe meet someone.

The draw is immense, once one gets a taste. Stimulating, healthy movement, people, treats, and beats, that’ll make you tap your feet.

And there’s an implicit order that emerges: peace is real, peace can grow and be perpetuated, community building is a thing, personal peace is possible, and perhaps this might be an experiment to give a solid go.

It’s in this loud, vibrant, and unapologetically lively space where the focus isn’t on individual narratives but on a collective experience, amplified by music and the human connection it fosters. In this world, you’re invited to share in what feels private and special, made even more so by its public accessibility.

Don’t want to lose your love / Don’t want to lose your love!

But a good sample for a refrain over the years becomes more than a platitude. It becomes the words that give some meaning to all the pain, all the peaks of joy and the many valleys of loss.

Lately, I’ve started playing this little game, where let my mind wander and see if it makes up a little rhyme without very much effort. In the park on that March day, I let a new reply to the refrain, as I twirled on the grass under 2024’s stormy sun.

Didn't want to lose your love.
But - over the games - I’m finally done
I gave you my heart; you left me in the cold.
Done with the games, the truth now told.

Like a fish swept out to sea,
You turned my friends against me.

Was our love just a haze,
A blend of wild nights and chemical daze?

It felt real, but perhaps I was wrong,
In the shadows of love, I've grown strong.

I've learned to embrace both joy and pain,
Self-love is the truth I now claim.

Shame for loving, shame for falling,
Kept on turning, back to calling

No longer shamed for the love I gave,
I found peace within, brave and grave.

I sought your love, but now I see,
The love I need must come from me.


Didn't want to lose your love, it's true,
But the love I need comes from me too.

When I give, when I receive,
It's the balance that I now believe.

Love is fluid, this much I know,
Never truly gone, despite the ebb and flow.

Rest in Power, Our Ravers Who Say

“The Hardcore Never Die, They Just Trip and Roll.”

May they be remembered for the light they shined.

And, yes, may we be more like them when they were alive~

To shine as brightly, now they can only reflect through us, today,

There is a chance for eternal life, celebrating memories it’s the way.

Lone Raver is a labor of love. Support by sharing, following us around the net, and telling us what you think!