What I hate about FaceBook

Not that much, except for this.  I used to hate it when someone would write what they were doing every night after work as if it were Scarlett's coming out party at Tara:  "on my way to pick up an anchovy pizza, then put my feet up and watch . . . TELEVISION!"  or "planning to ring up Mopsie and see how her goldfish is doing after the colonoscopy!"  I mean to say -- why should anyone care to read about your anchovy pizza or your friend's goldfish?  That bothered me until I realized I could unfriend them and they wouldn't know the difference because they never really understood that people are reading these pieces of shite in the first place from their own perspectives and that's what makes FB exciting.  In the narcissistic world of average everydayness, what I am is what everyone is and what I do is what everyone does and what I like is what everyone likes -- average everydayness. 

You see, looking at every single human being and every one of their acts as if it is a potentially unique and interesting fact that might be connected to other such facts to get at the glorious harmony in that soul or among all souls, is a habit of only the teeniest tiniest portion of the human population.  Genetic freak that I am, I do that.  Why not?  I'm not especially busy.  I'm not late for my nap or anything.  I watch, listen, ask about, try out stuff and see what happens.  People are interesting.  Why do they do the things they do?  What are they thinking?  I admit it's an anthropomorphic taste, rather outmoded in our time, when human beings are on a par with all the other creatures in the biosphere.  We're even worse than that -- we are the culprits who are stamping out hundreds of species every day in our self-centered quest for domination of the planet.  So, fuck us.

All the same, with certain exceptions such as dogs, cats, tigers, snakes, zebras, owls and ravens, and maybe parasitical worms, I just can't get that interested in other species.  I try to make them interesting -- and the urge to write cartoons that portray animals having thoughts is part of that, but animals persist in acting as if Descartes were right that they are soulless machines, utterly predictable and utterly without self-determination, that is, tools.  And even the most boring and predictable human is more compelling than a tiger who, admittedly beautiful and strong, does tricks.  Ants are kinda fun, because you can block them off while they're walking somewhere and they just go around it.  But that's not really a lot of fun.  Zebras make a cool sound but they don't sing like Kiri Tae Kawana.  Owls are spooky in a harbinger of death kind of way, but even when Stephen King was in his getting hit by a van phase, he was spookier.  I may have a bit of trouble finding a reason some human beings are more interesting than parasitical worms, but that's all conflated with the fact that these parasitical worms are parasitizing humans as their primary "interesting" activity.  And the reason why prions, bacteria, viruses, funguses, etc. are interesting is that they have not only physical effects on humans but they often also have evolving and long term psychotropic effects that are really cool to think about -- phobias, paranoia, hearing voices, aggression, etc.

So anyways, what I hate about FaceBook is not that my friends are boring because they most certainly are not  ; )  but that while it's possible to be utterly tedious on FaceBook without suffering meaningful consequences (as in real life!), even so FaceBook wants you to remember that there are children on FB that may cry when they read your posts. FaceBook reserves the right to remove your posts if they think children will complain.  Or somesuch formula for telling you that you're being watched for content.  It's a fine point, I confess, but nonetheless, it's what I hate about FaceBook.

All is fair in food.

Why do people eat?  It has a leeetle bit to do with all the things everyone else talks about, but I don't think so.  Mostly, it's self-expression.  I'm going with that.

What do I eat?  Coffee, espresso and more coffee.  Things that make loud sounds when I crush them with my teeth -- tortilla chips, nuts, egg rolls, wasabi peas.  Things that are salted -- more chips and nuts, provolone.  Things that are hot -- ginger, candied ginger, ginger snaps, curry with lots of ginger, gingeroos (if there were such a thing.)  And finally, things that don't try to eat me -- dead meat, arugula, mustard greens, corn, corn products, bananas, sweet potatoes, avocados, peaches, red carrots when I can get them, blood oranges, crusty french bread and chestnuts.  Fresh and still planted in the ground -- basil, mint, oregano, thyme, violets, marigolds, nasturtiums, rosemary, tomatoes, rose petals. 

I've made a few mistakes with food choices and some have been forced on me.  I cannot believe that anyone would ever drink milk of their own free will because it tastes like rotten.  Snake meat and chocolate covered insects are preferable to loose eggs, any kind of fish, meat gristle, sushi, creamed anything, wraps, protein shakes, tofu or tabouleh. 

Tomorrow -- french toast for dinner.

What's happening to Snow Day?

Dunno. Maybe it was 2008 and 2009 that just got me down enough to not want to share any more secrets with you. Or, I just had better things to do. Like a new boyfriend, that is, FB. I try to be true but it isn't easy when you're graphophilic.

There have been quite a few changes in my life since 2008 -- for one, we now have basic cable and no HBO. So I have to get my fixes of Dexter and Larry David from netflix or take them out of the library.

I finally had a chance to watch all two seasons of ROME and it was so worth the wait. More on this later.

I am trying to read Stephenie Meyer's vampire books if only to have something to say at all those teen parties I go to. I can't decide whether Bella or Edward is the most screamingly repulsive and whiny person I have ever come across, but I'm sure it's one of them.

Well, gotta rest up for the festivities tonight. 'Later.

rubba pubba

This is a phrase from a Frank Sinatra tune that we like to say when things are getting SPICEEEEY!

Anyways, a new family game is "Lifetime Television" which has replaced "Witness Protection Program." How you play is you stare at strangers until you see one who has that "victim" look -- she's oh, say, about 38 and has a few kids, or just one with an EXTRA SPECIAL personality. And of course, she's single. She could be a widow with fond mems of the ol' hubby, etc., or a divorcee (ooh! That tingles! I'm suddenly five years old and my mother is kaffe klatching with her friends about "what Maisie knew" and it's a bit of a dirty secret -- D.I.V.O.R.C.E.) So, irregardless, the gal with the "victim" look is either a merry widow (with a bra to match?) or an embattled divorcenik. If divorced, the ex is probably a rich and arrogant "businessman" who is trying to get custody of the kids by trashing the rep of the mom, or, he's a redneck construction worker with a stringy greasy ponytail, a truck, a lotta skeezy friends, a cabin where he headquarters seasonal roadkill shoots, etc. And this one is also after the kids but not because he's got issues about the (now) working class mother, but because he "owns them kids" and the ex, too, as it turns out. He's. not. a. nice. guy. And eventually it comes to a showdown where he's plotting, then moving toward concretion of plans, to kill the ex-Mrs. Except for, aha! she's got an old college friend who returns to town. Really, it's one of her single days ex-boyfriends and they ended it amicably, and perhaps even over a misunderstanding orchestrated by their scheming ambitious parents. He then went off to Iowa or somewhere godawful in the middle of America while she attend Community College in the hometown. He's now a middle manager or start up professional, an engineer or something arcane and harmless requiring a pocket protector (which in Lifetime Code is an indicator of seriousness and sincerity.) He's a bit of a stalker himself, but the good kind. He checks out her house in the wee hours because he's still in love with her, and because he's noticed some violations of the building code he wants to write in his pocket notebook.

So, now it's about an hour and a half since the beginning of the "Family Lifetime" movie game, and about 6-8 days into the plot. Our victim is tied up in the basement, or handcuffed in the trunk of a car, or locked in the cabin outhouse (if her ex is the ponytail dude) and for about ten commercials, we are treated to short shots of her biting on her ropes or jiggling the lock helplessly. Meanwhile College Friend is stalking her house and has noticed that her garage is unlocked and the car is missing. For 2 days!!!!! And Heatherette, the daughter who goes to a special school for kids with ESP or kids with extra limbs or kids with a lot of accessories relating to kittens, is wandering around on her own (for 2 days!!!) forced to eat peanut butter sandwiches and takeout because NOW SHE HAS NO MOTHER!!!! Well, Heatherette has just about had it with this loser existence and she goes out to meet her friends at the mall (but wait! isn't it after 9:00 p.m. as shown by a quick pan to the kitchen clock?) And, while walking to the mall, a very sleazy homeless person who is reeling drunk crash-walks right into Heatherette! College Friend is man-on-the-spot and lands a good one on Homeless Guy's jaw, telling him to "Stay away from her and don't come back unless you want some more!" thereby winning Heatherette's emotional gushing in his direction. Improbably, she hugs him and gets into his car. However, we know he's not a predator, but a nice guy, because even at this late hour, he's still wearing his pocket protector! She weepingly confesses that she hasn't seen or heard from her mother for two days and is worried sick over it. Ever so quickly, College Friend gets her to tell him where the father's secret hideout is, because it goes without saying that the father is the culprit. Rush Rush Rush, fisticuffs, gunfire, stuffed squirrels flying everywhere around the cabin and mom is saved! Also she confesses that College Friend is Heatherette's real father, not the pathetic corpse lying on the floor of the cabin. Cut to one year later: mom, college friend and Heatherette on vacation in the Bahamas yukking it up on the beach. The End.

For Your Delectation, Ladies and Gentlemen

Can it really be, Ladies and Gentlemen, all that simple, that all that needed to be done was to place an order on HSN with the husband's suffragium and then, when the package arrived, some 7 days later, priority mail, said husband placed the band on the left hand with appropriate wording, and the unscratchable, breathtakingly shiningly brilliant tungsten (aka wolfram) band was MINE! I tell you, MINE, all MINE?

Was ever a woman so thrrrrilled by such a trifle? Well, yes, t'was I, when first this same husband placed the pink gold circlet upon mine finger some years ago under like circumstance. Had I not borne several children in the interrum and found fruite pyes such a compelling diversione on my childbed so sore, this sayme gold circlet would still be upon mine finger now. But alas, even running upon airport tarmackes and sittinge and typing vaste long upon worde processores wryting bookes and artycles has not kepte me from shedding stones that I gained whilst gravide with childe. Thus a new marriage ringe my brydegroome didst find me on the InterWebbe this day. And upon my finger he didst putte it. Oh Joy! Oh Yes! Yes! Yes!

The 10 Day War

You ask where have I been. Friday, May something or other. The day before Doomsday. I decide it's high time I take on the Feral Half Acre. Three Ponds. A Small Patio set with criss-cross pavers, last seen in 2005, before I lost my 3-D vision, before I decided it's okay to fall on my arse on a weekly basis, even in front of people while doing physical feats of derring do, or, feats with potentially silly outcomes, i.e., gardening. I, singlehandedly, will clear brush. If our fearless president, who knows nothing about farming or government or social philosophy can do it, I, who know nothing about farming, and a little about government and much more about social philosophy, can do it. However, it turns out, the key element IS knowing something about farming, and not social philosophy. So, the president ought to continue to clear brush while I should stay indoors and deal with social philosophy, more likely.


To continue, armed with little more than garden shears, I cut down football fieldsful of wisteria vines, kudzu, feckless weeds, needless plants that did ask my permission to live amongst the herbs and roses in my lovely backyard secret garden. The remainder, I reason, will be a fig tree, several well-trimmed boxwood hedges, the pink roses, the red roses, the irises, the pickerels in the ponds, the white rose amongst the daylilies, the daylilies of course, and what forgotten fragrant hyacinths may have survived my hacking and general purge of several generations of hurricanesworth of immigrant usurpers of my precious grounds.


However, in my absence, a feverish virus has stealthily crept into the in-betweens and everywhere and lashed every open space of MY body. (See above photos, which should be studied by all who seek to cultivate one's garden BEFOREHAND) While I have been cutting the known vines, stems, roots, leaves, bulbs, clumps and other nasties away, these newcomers have been pinching and poking at my arms, neck, and face. My pants are loose, so I hitch them up and so, whatever is on my gloves goes onto my waist! My shoes come untied, so I yank off my gloves and re-tie them and so, my hands get all sticky with some godawful stuff that turns out to be urushiol oil! And then I get it on my other body parts (modesty forbids). All this blooms over the next few days and it looks approximately like this: http://www.poison-ivy.org/rash/index.htm Omigod!!!!!!


The test of physical vanity now follows. It turns out I care not a fig if anyone sees me as a red patchy person. I am truly ugly now, a mess of red weepy bubbles and sores, a leper, a veritable outcast, someone who should be coated in rags and what is worse, I have developed a limp, from falling down a stair. Not stairs, but a little bitsy stair. All my considerable weight on one foot, smushing down on a few little bones and it really hurts, so I limp. Should I get a cane? I have some nice ones. But no, I limp, like some medieval wanderer. Perhaps I should develop a croaking voice, or wear a hood. Exude a bad smell, like wormwood, or anise. Or garlic! Well, this is a bit overdramatic. Best to just take the prednisone, slosh on the cortisone cream and be done with it.

The good news is that the teas from China and Africa will arrive in about a month to console me!

Logic Woes and Rock 'n' Roll

So, here's the thing that happened in my logic class on Thursday. There's an exercise in the textbook (which I $#%#@Q^$T%^T$#@QFC$#Q#@ HATE more than I love, I daresay) that we are analyzing together as a class activity. The goal is to determine whether inductive arguments are strong or weak, cogent or non-cogent. The particular argument is: "Since rock 'n' roll has been around for 100 years, it will probably be here for one more year." The class correctly analyzes the argument as a prediction (duh) that is strong since the past pattern is a pretty long time and the future extrapolation is a pretty conservative short guess. (ditto - and - duh). And now the anvil falls on all our heads because I start cracking up. And this is where I suppose I get the reputation for thinking of my students as having a cultural gap that must be overcome because of, ahem, their, ahem, age? I say, "I, er, am, er laughing, tee hee, because, er, not that I was there or anything, but, it's kinda funny imagining rock 'n' roll in 1907! . . . !!!!!!!!" (long pause) (and I mean a very very long pause. and I mean I was the only one who thought this was funny. seriously. I'm not kidding. There was not a sound in the classroom. Nary a giggle nor a haha.) So, one of my students shouts out in a clear, ringing dulcet tone: "How long has it been around then -- 20 years?"

Now, I must pause, since it was my turn to gather my resources and not turn into a quivering mass of giggles. That would make rock 'n' roll what, originate in, well, er, 1987? I guess that could be alright. The beginning of rock could be, say, when Madonna sang "Like a Virgin" or would it have been Cyndi Lauper singing "Girls Just Wanna Have Lunch?" Nah, that was that guy who sang Amish Wonderland. I'm getting all mixed up. Iggy Pop? I've got to go put batteries in my clapper. So I sez, think Elvis. Think 1950 and there was another pause. So, once again, it's not up to me. It's almost time for me to retire. Another 50 years and I'll be ready for my bionic amygdala.