I heard someone on a podcast the other day talking about how they have time for either doing things for themselves or doing them for content. I’m no pro, but I feel the same way. Besides, what’s the difference? Wouldn’t “authentic” content be filming yourself doing what you do honestly? That’s what I told myself as I stared at the app screen waiting for the Waymo to take me ot the Tesla Diner I would obviously never go to of my own accord. This was just a bit. The boys on Discord sure were going to get a kick out of this. I could safely quench my curiosity and maintain distance.

The Waymo app pinged me to let me know to be ready – my ride would arrive shortly. Elon says all cars will be robotaxis someday. Supposedly, it’s what keeps the stock up. Or maybe it’s xAi. (Maybe the robotaxis will run on Grok. Racist AI cabbie doing a gruff New Yawk accent? Feels like a meme he would post.) 

Whatever, I’m no Jim Kramer. I’ve heard the market can remain irrational longer than I can remain solvent, but that’s not much of a challenge. This burger and fries are about to be a noteworthy expense for me. Marx says something about capitalism obliging the worker to squeeze themselves into the smallest size possible to appease the market, so this self-care is an act of protest.

The Waymo pulls up; I hop in. “Ride for Jordan?” I ask the empty car and chuckle to myself. The car doesn’t acknowledge and slips silently into the traffic flowing north on Vine. 

I used to drive everywhere. I still haven’t gotten used to life as an adult passenger. I see myself in high school, sulkily resting my head against the cool, angled glass, seat belt gently tugging across my chest, watching the city go by. Those days are in the rear-view.

Hollywood is in decay. This is precisely the kind of neighborhood Musk wants to wipe away. Why open here? Is this supposed to be some mark of defiance? Does he think he’s winning people over? Is this an homage to Los Angeles as the symbolic home of car culture and the roadside diner? Maybe his seed of reaction will sprout and slowly consume the city.

The Waymo switches lanes to avoid a man in a tattered blanket trudging across Santa Monica, oblivious or uncaring.

I don’t usually notice how much of the street is empty – not empty, I should say – under construction. It feels like every other building is nothing more than an ad for another CRE (Commercial Real Estate) concern. At least someone is keeping the graphic designers and printers fed. Who is going to be packed into these buildings?

A recent apartment building towers, fortress-like, over a set of upscale retail stores. In the sky, paths and staircases criss-cross, leading to moments of astroturf with kettlebells, glass firepits with itchy canvas couches – a private space with a public view. Maybe there are Teslas in the subterranean garage.

Closing on the location, we’re still in traffic. A jam has formed around the packing lot and a squat man in a skin-tight viscose blend suit is stepping out of a cherry red Cybertruck looking like he’s about ready to try to pry loose the driver of the white Model Y blocking his way. I clock a taco stand a block away and wonder if I need a pre-game snack.

“I’m good here” I tell the empty Waymo and slip out into traffic. The car attempts to protest with flashing lights and sirens. A robotic voice tells me it’s unsafe. I step into traffic, up the curb and into the queue. 

The crowd is a mixture of ‘Silicon Beach’ California startup gridset guys in head-to-toe Vuori, nuclear families whose kids were exposed to Star Wars as religious initiation, and brain-rotted plastic Hollywood Influencers repeating algo-friendly lines into their phones.

In the parking lot, there’s a gunmetal gray Cybertruck with a logo that says XOGNs on it in motocross-inspired type. Mounted on the back is an M60. The truck promises me that their unique blend of peptides and beta-hydroxychroon will flush out the hormone Serquoline, which builds up in the brain and keeps society living in the past. A muscled carney in a cut-off linen camp shirt, camouflage headband, and jersey sweat cargos jumps up onto the back of the truck and swings the weapon so that it’s aimed over the crowd. “Are you ready for 100%?” he bellows before unleashing a volley. Small purple gummies rain down over us, and I catch a few. The locals are gobbling them up. I pop one in my mouth. Boysenberry flavor, nice.

Behind me are two 40-year-olds surrounded by clouds of microplastics emanating from their synthetic athleisure. The taller one is explaining the place that XOGNs has in his current supplement stack. “You see, as we go about our days, we have all of these meaningless moment fragments that prevent us from optimizing real-time value. It’s like, you gotta defrag your drive, right? Free up some processing power. 80% of our lives don’t matter. It’s a Pareto Principle thing”. The line has moved enough that I step through the doors, and their conversation is cut off.

Two security Teslabots wearing Navy Blue nylon jackets with Constellis x Tesla ironed over the chest pocket in yellow vinyl look me over. Holstered around their hips are glinting black plastic glocks (epic reference). I’d heard they had to replace the V1s after they nearly choked out a soyfacing YouTuber who tried to do a Buckingham Palace Guard act on it. The ‘Tuber was currently serving a year in prison for destruction of an instrument of business.

The XOGNs is really hitting now and I can feel my brain speeding up. I might just be able to look into these bots’ souls. I can see through their gleaming metal skulls, trace the electrical impulses running through their circuits. I could five-finger death punch right through their service ports and shut them down just like that.

The robot scans my face and beams it to an Oracle datacenter in Utah. It’s run through a Palantir database where my social graph is scanned for comments critical of Tesla. All I can think is they definitely know I’ve taken the XOGNs. I’m pouring sweat. I’ve taken the pills, and everybody knows. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s hotter than a Bitcoin mining rig in a thermal vent. I just, I gotta, I just – 

They step aside and let me through.

Everything here is too bright, too raw. Overhead lights shine their damnedest on blazing chrome tables. Each beam is trapped in the diner, unable to escape the hall of mirrors. The light is matched by an endless stream of AI-produced tracks trained on Fred Again’s discography. The sound and light waves ricochet from wall to wall, ready to find a target and do damage.

A robot that had been manning the popcorn machine earlier abandoned its post and started break dancing, leaving small cracks in the formica floors. Nobody seemed to notice. I was in hell.

I was standing in front of the cashier trying to order. I blurted out, “A burger, fries, and a chocolate shake”, hopped to attention, and saluted. “Epic Choice, sir”.

With my bag in hand, I stumbled back out into the night, completely bewildered. I took the Sharpie out of my pocket – the moment was here. “I bought this before Elon went crazy,” I scribbled on the bag before snapping a pic and posting it for the Group Chat.

My eyes were glued to my phone as I tore into the burger. My post got a quick flurry of “We’re Back” emotes. Solid.