Go Oscar. Go Oscar. Go Wilde. Go Oscar.
I love all the quotations of this poetic aesthete. [The artists and writers of the Aesthetic movement tended to hold that the Arts should provide refined sensuous pleasure, rather than convey moral or sentimental messages. (wikipedia)] He was, indeed, the Stewie Griffin of his time.
Wilde said, "I am not young enough to know everything." This pokes me in a particularly personal place now that I am the parent of two twenty-somethings, who as educated as they are, and as bright as they are, are too young and too smart to know they would barely pass the GED of Life if it were given on other than an NCS bubble sheet...which, surprise, it is.
He said, "I think that God in creating Man somewhat overestimated his ability." As a recent subscriber to Match.com, I gotta say this one really cracks me up, especially if we replace the God part with something that is "spiritual but not religious."
I can't agree with everything The Author of Dorian Gray said. For example, he said, "Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." I beg to differ, but only on the grounds that we so often quote Bugs Bunny, who is not so much a person as a wascally wabbit. I wouldn't go so far as to say, "Of course you realize this means war!" but, were he not dead, I would advise Mr. Wilde to consider the wisdom of the nonhuman sages among us lest he miss one of life's important messages, in other words, to not miss the left toin at Albuquoiky.
When he says, "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information." I am compelled to quote Daffy Duck, "It is to laugh." In the nowadays of now, that's about all we have, and what better way to illustrated that fact than with this blog.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
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Sunday, September 19, 2010
Are You a Moron or a Looser?
Forum sites. What are they?
For the most part forum sites are all-too-easy-to-stumble-across locations on the internet where amateurs give advice to amateurs. Unlike wiki sites where many people contribute to the overall knowledge about a subject, forums are loaded with opinion, criticism, bragging, and downright misinformation. Although it's usually a giant bull session sometimes you find a gold nugget in the dung pile. That's why you go in the first place. You need a nugget.
Lately I have noticed an astounding increase in the number of times I've spotted the word "loser" spelled "looser." You can see by looking at the word just exactly why people think they are spelling it correctly. Loo, sounds like Lou. I'll Grant you that. But we are still going to need a word to stand up as the antonym of tighter, and looser it is.
It would be a tragic waste of time to post spelling corrections on a forum site. Just correcting the common-common-common missing letter 'r' in your as in, "Type in you user name..." or 'your' instead of 'you're', as in, "Your going to need to type in you user name." would take up all day and I can tell you (pretty much from experience) these morons don't give a rat's ass about spelling.
Also, how, when and why did the word "moron" return to the lexicon? Answer: forum sites. Not only ARE many of them morons, they also call each other moron, especially when they are frustrated with each other. I don't believe I have ever called a person a moron. I prefer dumbshit, or the (oddly) less offensive dipshit. On forum sites, moron appears to be the put-down of choice and I'm guessing it is because it is so easy to spell.
I am going to grab a real life forum entry. I'll see if I can't find a real good one for you. I'll be back in 7 minutes.
tick, tick, tick
Damn! In 7 minutes all i could find was a bunch of looser morons who cant' find there shift key. that sucks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Who Knew?!
Hi again, so soon.
I didn't realize my blog posts arrived in some of your mailboxes in plain text and not in the colorful, now green, splendor of my actual blog page. (see previous post "Gone Green")
I recently added a few of you to my automatic notification list, and at the same time added myself, and glad of it. Each time I posted a new entry I thought you were notified by way of a web link to the colorful blog page. Alas, this is not the case as I discovered when I received my own notification.
If it isn't too much trouble, could you please use the link at the bottom of the page rather than read the email. After all, it's called Wild Oats Way, not Plain Old Dumb Boring Oats Way.
Thank you. I guess it's not about the words after all. (sigh) But see how much prettier this is? I know, right?
I didn't realize my blog posts arrived in some of your mailboxes in plain text and not in the colorful, now green, splendor of my actual blog page. (see previous post "Gone Green")
I recently added a few of you to my automatic notification list, and at the same time added myself, and glad of it. Each time I posted a new entry I thought you were notified by way of a web link to the colorful blog page. Alas, this is not the case as I discovered when I received my own notification.
If it isn't too much trouble, could you please use the link at the bottom of the page rather than read the email. After all, it's called Wild Oats Way, not Plain Old Dumb Boring Oats Way.
Thank you. I guess it's not about the words after all. (sigh) But see how much prettier this is? I know, right?
Gone Green
Consider the following:
"The only constant is change."
And what is changing today? My blog! I have LITERALLY gone green, with a touch of blue up there in the sky. So is this blog about change? No. Color? Not really. It's about words. And to that I say, duh.
The use of the word "literally" has been all but literally banned by my family of Word Not'sies. We have reserved its use for instances where it literally means literally.
I have personally banned, "It is what it is." and "Life's too short." and I'm working on putting an end to "At the end of the day..." and its whore of a cousin, "In any event...".
In the case of "literally," my daughter has chosen to substitute the phrase "not figuratively" to give her the adamance-soaked-bullwhip-wielding power of "literally" while avoiding the getting-shot-in-the-grammatical-groin by a loved one for its misuse.
Now consider this:
"Green is not a color. It is a way."
The Quote Whisperer himself, Oscar Wilde, said that very thing about art, but when he walked the mortal earth--spreading the seeds of mighty quotes along his path--green was the color of envy and money and the Grasshoppers at the Algonquin Hotel bar. What green didn't mean "back in the day" (banned!) was ecology-teaching, environmentalism-preaching, earth-friendly outreaching.
The times, they are a'changin'. Today "green" means many things. Not literally. If it were literal, the definition of green would be (if you are reading this to someone else insert air quotes here) "many things."
Today green often refers to (besides the color of grass, peas, and baby poop) a movement (which is literally incapable of motion and utterly unrelated to baby poop) where more people (the opposite being fewer people) buy, consume, and discard less crapola (the opposite being more crapola).
What a world, what a world, where "more" is the opposite of both "less" and "fewer," and where "lesser" is in bed with "greater." Great. Just great. (an expression of disappointing inadequacy)
Are you getting this? If you are not getting this, don't feel bad. It's possible you are reading badly. This time read carefully. And if you still don't get it, maybe it's because you had a bad teacher and the reason your reading is so bad is because you were taught badly by a bad teacher. I'll say it again, don't feel bad. You are not a bad person. You just read badly.
Great. Now I feel bad.
"The only constant is change."
And what is changing today? My blog! I have LITERALLY gone green, with a touch of blue up there in the sky. So is this blog about change? No. Color? Not really. It's about words. And to that I say, duh.
The use of the word "literally" has been all but literally banned by my family of Word Not'sies. We have reserved its use for instances where it literally means literally.
I have personally banned, "It is what it is." and "Life's too short." and I'm working on putting an end to "At the end of the day..." and its whore of a cousin, "In any event...".
In the case of "literally," my daughter has chosen to substitute the phrase "not figuratively" to give her the adamance-soaked-bullwhip-wielding power of "literally" while avoiding the getting-shot-in-the-grammatical-groin by a loved one for its misuse.
Now consider this:
"Green is not a color. It is a way."
The Quote Whisperer himself, Oscar Wilde, said that very thing about art, but when he walked the mortal earth--spreading the seeds of mighty quotes along his path--green was the color of envy and money and the Grasshoppers at the Algonquin Hotel bar. What green didn't mean "back in the day" (banned!) was ecology-teaching, environmentalism-preaching, earth-friendly outreaching.
The times, they are a'changin'. Today "green" means many things. Not literally. If it were literal, the definition of green would be (if you are reading this to someone else insert air quotes here) "many things."
Today green often refers to (besides the color of grass, peas, and baby poop) a movement (which is literally incapable of motion and utterly unrelated to baby poop) where more people (the opposite being fewer people) buy, consume, and discard less crapola (the opposite being more crapola).
What a world, what a world, where "more" is the opposite of both "less" and "fewer," and where "lesser" is in bed with "greater." Great. Just great. (an expression of disappointing inadequacy)
Are you getting this? If you are not getting this, don't feel bad. It's possible you are reading badly. This time read carefully. And if you still don't get it, maybe it's because you had a bad teacher and the reason your reading is so bad is because you were taught badly by a bad teacher. I'll say it again, don't feel bad. You are not a bad person. You just read badly.
Great. Now I feel bad.
Monday, July 26, 2010
I Write Like Cory Doctorow
..which begs the question. Don't make me say it...W,tH!,iCD?
There is a site that analyzes your writing and through the magic of "coding robots" figgers out who you write like. Cleverly, the site is named, "I Write Like":
http://iwl.me
The introduction begins, "Check which famous writer you write like...". And they use the word "famous" once again in the same sentence, as if a) fame is a selling point, and 2) the writer your writing most resembles is famous enough for you to have heard of him or her.
I have never heard of the famous Cory Doctorow, but in his defense, I don't read books, I have a lousy memory for names, and I don't keep track of the guys I've slept with, so unless he was really memorable in ~like~ 2 out of 3 of those areas, there is a very good chance he qualifies for famous in the real world, but not in my whirled.
If you know me, you know I have a thing for...and by "for" I mean "against"...fame.
First of all, fame is a bad thing in the same way meth is a bad thing: it tricks you into feeling good about yourself and the world, and then it proceeds to own you from the balls out. Or would that be from the balls in? Either way, it owns you, and nothing you do from that point on is likely to be good for you. You will do the riskiest things, make the stupidest choices, and cavort with the sorriest humans--all in the name of hanging on to the feeling that you rock. I've seen it happen. To others.
I, myself, have been spared the personal agony of drug addiction (caffeine does not count) and fame poisoning, although I have been exposed to second-hand fame, and although there are no definitive studies about the permanent effects of second-hand fame there are anecdotal accounts of people suffering from gagging, as a result of putting one's fingers down one's throat; strained muscles caused by excessive eyeball rolling; hair loss caused by the involuntary yanking out of it, and various scrapes and bruises such as those incurred while crawling under a vehicle to...say...cut a brake line.
It should be noted that meth, not fame, does wicked-awful things to your teeth. As it happens, fame can make your teeth whiter and brighter because if you're going to be famous, you have unwittingly signed the Terms of Use for Fame. Rule number one, and it appears again in rules 10, 11 and 14, clearly states you must have "...a dazzling smile and look photo-ready..." at all times. Rule 17, Character Actors, are not bound by the dazzling smile rule.
Another difference between meth and fame is, for the most part, famous people don't steal money from their family and friends like meth addicts do. They accept favors and freebies, sure, but they don't mess with your stuff. Besides, your stuff is ~sorry~ not good enough. Ya see, if you're famous your stuff is famous. The riffraff will pay good money to an eBay reseller for a famous person's used Starbucks cup! And that money, of course, goes to buy meth. As you can see it is a vicious spiral.
Finally, the saying about drug addicts, meth or otherwise, (How can you tell if a drug addict is lying? Their lips are moving.) must be amended slightly for the People of Fame, by substituting the word "lying" with "talking about themselves." Otherwise, the two are in very close alignment and in some cases there will be crossover, also known as the Lohan Effect.
If indeed I write like Cory Doctorow, it is my hope that my science fiction novel(s), like his, will hit the charts big time and give my nom de plume pseudofame de plume, leaving me comfortably anonymous, and still able to answer the door in my jammies at three in the afternoon.
Then again, how do you, my number one reader (and that is based on an actual count of my readership...I'm up to 1), how do you know I am not Cory Doctorow? Maybe Cory Doctorow is my pseudo-anonom de plume. How do you know that picture of me isn't some gorgeous model I paid to be my face de plume? Or if it is me, I cropped it tight like that because I'm actually in my jammies?
I'm blowing your mind, right now, aren't I? What was your name again?
There is a site that analyzes your writing and through the magic of "coding robots" figgers out who you write like. Cleverly, the site is named, "I Write Like":
http://iwl.me
The introduction begins, "Check which famous writer you write like...". And they use the word "famous" once again in the same sentence, as if a) fame is a selling point, and 2) the writer your writing most resembles is famous enough for you to have heard of him or her.
I have never heard of the famous Cory Doctorow, but in his defense, I don't read books, I have a lousy memory for names, and I don't keep track of the guys I've slept with, so unless he was really memorable in ~like~ 2 out of 3 of those areas, there is a very good chance he qualifies for famous in the real world, but not in my whirled.
If you know me, you know I have a thing for...and by "for" I mean "against"...fame.
First of all, fame is a bad thing in the same way meth is a bad thing: it tricks you into feeling good about yourself and the world, and then it proceeds to own you from the balls out. Or would that be from the balls in? Either way, it owns you, and nothing you do from that point on is likely to be good for you. You will do the riskiest things, make the stupidest choices, and cavort with the sorriest humans--all in the name of hanging on to the feeling that you rock. I've seen it happen. To others.
I, myself, have been spared the personal agony of drug addiction (caffeine does not count) and fame poisoning, although I have been exposed to second-hand fame, and although there are no definitive studies about the permanent effects of second-hand fame there are anecdotal accounts of people suffering from gagging, as a result of putting one's fingers down one's throat; strained muscles caused by excessive eyeball rolling; hair loss caused by the involuntary yanking out of it, and various scrapes and bruises such as those incurred while crawling under a vehicle to...say...cut a brake line.
It should be noted that meth, not fame, does wicked-awful things to your teeth. As it happens, fame can make your teeth whiter and brighter because if you're going to be famous, you have unwittingly signed the Terms of Use for Fame. Rule number one, and it appears again in rules 10, 11 and 14, clearly states you must have "...a dazzling smile and look photo-ready..." at all times. Rule 17, Character Actors, are not bound by the dazzling smile rule.
Another difference between meth and fame is, for the most part, famous people don't steal money from their family and friends like meth addicts do. They accept favors and freebies, sure, but they don't mess with your stuff. Besides, your stuff is ~sorry~ not good enough. Ya see, if you're famous your stuff is famous. The riffraff will pay good money to an eBay reseller for a famous person's used Starbucks cup! And that money, of course, goes to buy meth. As you can see it is a vicious spiral.
Finally, the saying about drug addicts, meth or otherwise, (How can you tell if a drug addict is lying? Their lips are moving.) must be amended slightly for the People of Fame, by substituting the word "lying" with "talking about themselves." Otherwise, the two are in very close alignment and in some cases there will be crossover, also known as the Lohan Effect.
If indeed I write like Cory Doctorow, it is my hope that my science fiction novel(s), like his, will hit the charts big time and give my nom de plume pseudofame de plume, leaving me comfortably anonymous, and still able to answer the door in my jammies at three in the afternoon.
Then again, how do you, my number one reader (and that is based on an actual count of my readership...I'm up to 1), how do you know I am not Cory Doctorow? Maybe Cory Doctorow is my pseudo-anonom de plume. How do you know that picture of me isn't some gorgeous model I paid to be my face de plume? Or if it is me, I cropped it tight like that because I'm actually in my jammies?
I'm blowing your mind, right now, aren't I? What was your name again?
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Use the Fork that God Gave You
My mother-in-law, Edna Kohn, died Saturday, June 26, 2010.
I could leave it like that, but you'd only get a small taste of how abrupt it felt when the news, hours old by then, arrived to my ears. She had been "gone" for hours, but for me it happened right then and there.
What happened after that is what this post is all about. As abrupt as it is, as stealth as it is...okay let's just say it...as inevitable as it is...death is all too common and every day to carry this much emotional weight. The burden we bear is not that it happens, it's the damned permanence of it. There are no mulligans, or do-overs or second tries like in "real life." They die. We live with it.
But there is beauty there. When we sit around and talk about the things they said, the familiar way they smelled, and the sounds of their laugh--their tragic end becomes our magic wand. Like wizards we are given the power to reach back in time to capture memories and bring them to the present day. We are given a precious gift, the chance to become better people so when we die (gulp) we, too, will be well-remembered.
Edna had many, many expressions, but one that really stands out in my memory is "Use the fork that God gave you." What a blessing to be fumbling around like the Duchess of Dorkshire with ice tongs and get this very sensible advice to pick up the cube with your fingers.
She also said, in a very generic one-size-fits-all way, "Don't bother. People don't notice." As it happens, this is not true in every case, but if it helps you overcome a barrier that is occupying your efforts well out of proportion to your expected result, it is good advice nonetheless. Put it this way, if dinner is late and people are starving because you are piping sweet potato puree into hollowed out baby pumpkins, it's may be a bit of a nudge but it fits like a hug.
"Make a decision every day... Don't eat garbage... Lie down in the afternoon...around four... Find something you "do"...it doesn't have to be knitting, just something to keep your hands busy... Sit. Relax. Have coffee... What can I get for you? Come. I have something..."
PS You can forget your prepared remarks, you're going home with a scarf.
I could leave it like that, but you'd only get a small taste of how abrupt it felt when the news, hours old by then, arrived to my ears. She had been "gone" for hours, but for me it happened right then and there.
What happened after that is what this post is all about. As abrupt as it is, as stealth as it is...okay let's just say it...as inevitable as it is...death is all too common and every day to carry this much emotional weight. The burden we bear is not that it happens, it's the damned permanence of it. There are no mulligans, or do-overs or second tries like in "real life." They die. We live with it.
But there is beauty there. When we sit around and talk about the things they said, the familiar way they smelled, and the sounds of their laugh--their tragic end becomes our magic wand. Like wizards we are given the power to reach back in time to capture memories and bring them to the present day. We are given a precious gift, the chance to become better people so when we die (gulp) we, too, will be well-remembered.
Edna had many, many expressions, but one that really stands out in my memory is "Use the fork that God gave you." What a blessing to be fumbling around like the Duchess of Dorkshire with ice tongs and get this very sensible advice to pick up the cube with your fingers.
She also said, in a very generic one-size-fits-all way, "Don't bother. People don't notice." As it happens, this is not true in every case, but if it helps you overcome a barrier that is occupying your efforts well out of proportion to your expected result, it is good advice nonetheless. Put it this way, if dinner is late and people are starving because you are piping sweet potato puree into hollowed out baby pumpkins, it's may be a bit of a nudge but it fits like a hug.
"Make a decision every day... Don't eat garbage... Lie down in the afternoon...around four... Find something you "do"...it doesn't have to be knitting, just something to keep your hands busy... Sit. Relax. Have coffee... What can I get for you? Come. I have something..."
PS You can forget your prepared remarks, you're going home with a scarf.
Friday, May 7, 2010
I Miss You
Dear My Blog,
It has been a long time since I've written, and for that, apologies. I have no good excuse. It's as if each passing day has increased the need for a rich, dark, excuse d'elegance, while at the same time the only excuses I can conjure have grown thinner and paler than Sissy Spacek's eyebrows. In retrospect, none of my excuses seem worthy of the neglect you have suffered at my (lack of) hand--Didn't want to. Forgot. Too busy. Maybe after lunch. Not feeling writerly. Computer is in the other room. Baseboards need Q-tipping. Can't get "Nashville Cats" out of my head--all the usual culprits that hinder a writer's duty. To write.
But now I'm back and I have some good news to share with you. We have received a rave review in the form of a fan comment! Some anonymous person, who shall remain nameless, sent us this comment: "You are hilarious and I love the blog, and will now be followed faithfully by me! I am a complete secret blog reader and love love love yours!!"
Well anyone can plainly see by the syntax and vocabulary that none other than Mr. Stephen Colbert has graced us with his fan fan fan-hood.
You're welcome, sir.
This is no surprise, as he follows me on Twitter...and by that I mean I follow him...so it is as if we were best friends, lovers actually, as what could be more intimate than tweeting on Twitter? He wrote me this haiku.
Short and sweet we tweet
Clandestined. Exposed.
In plain sight we never meet.
Let's just hope our other follower, Sarah Silverman, doesn't become jealous of our twysts. We could find her sneaking into our special drawer and replacing our batteries with Tootsie Rolls and replacing the tape in our boudoir camcorder with a deck of Old Maid playing cards. She's such a vengeful woman, that one, ever since the Matt Damon incident. Still we love her, don't we? I mean, how could we not? She's so not mental, or sex crazed, or self absorbed, or hilarious, which is to say she is all of those things.
"Not," it would seem, is the new "n'yuh huh."
Again my sincere apologies to you, my dear blog. I never wanted to starve you like this, and I never will again. Unless of course, I don't want to , forget, am too busy, need lunch, trying to dig Tootsie Roll bits out of Magilla The Thrilla, downloading "Bali Hai" from iTunes as an antidote to Nashville Cats, buying more Q-tips...and such as that.
It has been a long time since I've written, and for that, apologies. I have no good excuse. It's as if each passing day has increased the need for a rich, dark, excuse d'elegance, while at the same time the only excuses I can conjure have grown thinner and paler than Sissy Spacek's eyebrows. In retrospect, none of my excuses seem worthy of the neglect you have suffered at my (lack of) hand--Didn't want to. Forgot. Too busy. Maybe after lunch. Not feeling writerly. Computer is in the other room. Baseboards need Q-tipping. Can't get "Nashville Cats" out of my head--all the usual culprits that hinder a writer's duty. To write.
But now I'm back and I have some good news to share with you. We have received a rave review in the form of a fan comment! Some anonymous person, who shall remain nameless, sent us this comment: "You are hilarious and I love the blog, and will now be followed faithfully by me! I am a complete secret blog reader and love love love yours!!"
Well anyone can plainly see by the syntax and vocabulary that none other than Mr. Stephen Colbert has graced us with his fan fan fan-hood.
You're welcome, sir.
This is no surprise, as he follows me on Twitter...and by that I mean I follow him...so it is as if we were best friends, lovers actually, as what could be more intimate than tweeting on Twitter? He wrote me this haiku.
Short and sweet we tweet
Clandestined. Exposed.
In plain sight we never meet.
Let's just hope our other follower, Sarah Silverman, doesn't become jealous of our twysts. We could find her sneaking into our special drawer and replacing our batteries with Tootsie Rolls and replacing the tape in our boudoir camcorder with a deck of Old Maid playing cards. She's such a vengeful woman, that one, ever since the Matt Damon incident. Still we love her, don't we? I mean, how could we not? She's so not mental, or sex crazed, or self absorbed, or hilarious, which is to say she is all of those things.
"Not," it would seem, is the new "n'yuh huh."
Again my sincere apologies to you, my dear blog. I never wanted to starve you like this, and I never will again. Unless of course, I don't want to , forget, am too busy, need lunch, trying to dig Tootsie Roll bits out of Magilla The Thrilla, downloading "Bali Hai" from iTunes as an antidote to Nashville Cats, buying more Q-tips...and such as that.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Miseria, Rhymes with Nigeria
On March 2, 2010 an anonymous Nigerian infiltrated my Gmail accounts, both of them, and deleted all my emails and contacts. "He" (although to be fair and balanced he could have been a "she"...uh, yeah right) sent emails to my friends, family, acquaintances, associates, members, ex's, and even those random Craig's List reply coded emails like sale-2x7ocv-9276502@craigslist.org. Don't bother checking, the lawn mower has already been sold. In other words, everybody in my contact list...which numbered 2682+. I know this because I backed it up on March 1...thank you angels!
The scam, spam, phisher man email was sent as if it were from me, and he sent it from both of my Gmail accounts, so people got it twice, which in a way is good, because it gave it the subtle, if not over-salty, flavor of spam.
I feel bad for those poor victims, and you, if you are one of them. They received an email from "me" entitled "i need your help." It was signed "Lori" and the body of the email informed them i was at a funeral in England and i needed money. And if you're wondering why I don't feel "badly" it is because this event did not impair the nerves in my hands...but that's another hammer to pound.
As it happens, my friends who are least able to afford it were the ones who offered to send me money. I gained comfort in knowing my friends would do that for me, even though I probably would have spent the money on a round of black and tans for the whole pub, so if I'm in England, don't send me money...unless i use a capital I...because if I can't shift, I'm drunk.
I would NEVER use a lower case i when referring to myself. I can't even stand it when YOU use lower case i, but that's not my point. My point is I don't talk like this: "How are you today? I hope everything's alright. Please I need you to help me out with something. Can I get a loan from you very urgently? I`ll reimburse you under a week, I promise. I need to solve some personal problems at hand which have been giving me great worries. I`d also prefer if we discuss this through email as I`m presently in England for a friend's funeral. I`m sorry if I didn`t inform you about it, but please try and understand. I`ll let you know how much I need if you are willing to assist me. Thanks, Lori"
I`m "presently" at a friend's funeral?...problems "at hand"? Who talks like that? The syntax, the vocabulary, the staccato, it sounds like C3PO is translating for Yoda. And what's with those backwards apostrophes? They are much too left-leaning for my taste. By the way, it's that key on the upper left side of the keyboard, under the muy pequeño tilde. As far as I'm concerned that key's only function is to indicate THIS EMAIL IS NOT FROM LORI!
Anywhays (and this is as good a place as any for me to introduce you to my little friend "anywhays"--the mutant spawn of anywho and anyways) as I was saying, it was apparent from the every first LETTER that this letter was not from me. Trust me on this, if I can't hit the shift key, it means I am at the funeral of my left pinkie. No amount of money is going to bring that finger back.
Speaking of fingers, I have a special one for GMail and the folks at Google...who I am presently no longer a fan of...dangle, dangle...because they let me down after I entrusted them with my cyber-journal-of-life which is not this blog, but my email archives. This blog is where I blather and flail in a way that gives us all a chance to chuckle about how life sucks, but my emails were dated and time-stamped correspondence between me and the whirled. I trusted you, Google, to store my precious letters in a sturdy box under the bed...or better yet, on a secure server with state of the art backup technology. I guess the box would have been safer, huh.
Now what? Now I wait. I wait to see if the lowly Niger goes the extra mile and steals my identity. And if he does, there WILL be a funeral, only it will be in Nigeria, not England. And it won't be a person, or a pinkie finger, it will be an IP address. This one: 41.155.83.93 or this one: 41.155.6.97, or this one: 41.155.102.137, or this one: 41.155.51.195. Or maybe all of them. They'll call it The Great 41.155-o-cide of 2010.
If you are a White Hat hacker, would you please take this Black Hat a-hole down? But first, grab the box under the bed and return my life to me. I am saying this most humbly, "i need your help."
The scam, spam, phisher man email was sent as if it were from me, and he sent it from both of my Gmail accounts, so people got it twice, which in a way is good, because it gave it the subtle, if not over-salty, flavor of spam.
I feel bad for those poor victims, and you, if you are one of them. They received an email from "me" entitled "i need your help." It was signed "Lori" and the body of the email informed them i was at a funeral in England and i needed money. And if you're wondering why I don't feel "badly" it is because this event did not impair the nerves in my hands...but that's another hammer to pound.
As it happens, my friends who are least able to afford it were the ones who offered to send me money. I gained comfort in knowing my friends would do that for me, even though I probably would have spent the money on a round of black and tans for the whole pub, so if I'm in England, don't send me money...unless i use a capital I...because if I can't shift, I'm drunk.
I would NEVER use a lower case i when referring to myself. I can't even stand it when YOU use lower case i, but that's not my point. My point is I don't talk like this: "How are you today? I hope everything's alright. Please I need you to help me out with something. Can I get a loan from you very urgently? I`ll reimburse you under a week, I promise. I need to solve some personal problems at hand which have been giving me great worries. I`d also prefer if we discuss this through email as I`m presently in England for a friend's funeral. I`m sorry if I didn`t inform you about it, but please try and understand. I`ll let you know how much I need if you are willing to assist me. Thanks, Lori"
I`m "presently" at a friend's funeral?...problems "at hand"? Who talks like that? The syntax, the vocabulary, the staccato, it sounds like C3PO is translating for Yoda. And what's with those backwards apostrophes? They are much too left-leaning for my taste. By the way, it's that key on the upper left side of the keyboard, under the muy pequeño tilde. As far as I'm concerned that key's only function is to indicate THIS EMAIL IS NOT FROM LORI!
Anywhays (and this is as good a place as any for me to introduce you to my little friend "anywhays"--the mutant spawn of anywho and anyways) as I was saying, it was apparent from the every first LETTER that this letter was not from me. Trust me on this, if I can't hit the shift key, it means I am at the funeral of my left pinkie. No amount of money is going to bring that finger back.
Speaking of fingers, I have a special one for GMail and the folks at Google...who I am presently no longer a fan of...dangle, dangle...because they let me down after I entrusted them with my cyber-journal-of-life which is not this blog, but my email archives. This blog is where I blather and flail in a way that gives us all a chance to chuckle about how life sucks, but my emails were dated and time-stamped correspondence between me and the whirled. I trusted you, Google, to store my precious letters in a sturdy box under the bed...or better yet, on a secure server with state of the art backup technology. I guess the box would have been safer, huh.
Now what? Now I wait. I wait to see if the lowly Niger goes the extra mile and steals my identity. And if he does, there WILL be a funeral, only it will be in Nigeria, not England. And it won't be a person, or a pinkie finger, it will be an IP address. This one: 41.155.83.93 or this one: 41.155.6.97, or this one: 41.155.102.137, or this one: 41.155.51.195. Or maybe all of them. They'll call it The Great 41.155-o-cide of 2010.
If you are a White Hat hacker, would you please take this Black Hat a-hole down? But first, grab the box under the bed and return my life to me. I am saying this most humbly, "i need your help."
Monday, March 1, 2010
Honoring the B in D.O.B.
Gotta love the Age of Technology! Today, March 1, I received an email reminder (from myself) that I was born on March 3, 1954. My Google Calendar has been instructed (by me) to remind me 2 days in advance of important dates. This started me thinking--does any date carry more importance than the date of one's own birth? Well, yes. And no.
I suppose my own date of birth doesn't matter at all--which is not suggesting my fact of birth is equally meaningless. If I found out my real birthday was March 2nd or March 4 because some random, tired-eyed clerk typed a number wrong on my birth certificate the revelation would not elicit much beyond, "Cool! I think I'll post a blog about that!"
However, if I were never born...THAT would matter a lot! Not to me, of course, since there would be no me to be bothered. It would bother my mom. She tried like the devil to get me to this place called life, and she sacrificed a lot of herself in the process.
My dad started smoking on the day I was born, right there in the waiting room...and subsequent to that he died of lung cancer. But if you asked him today, he would not trade my birth for his life even if you threw in a positive cash flow mobile home park.
My sister, Julie, might have been spared some personal misery if I had never been conceived. As it happens, she had a little friend who innocently shared what her adoptive parents had told her, "We adopted you when your mother died." which being a child and quite literal she took to mean when any baby is born the mother naturally dies. When Daddy left for the hospital he told Julie he would bring back a baby sister or brother, and she asked, "When do we bury Momma?" Safe to say my birth mattered to her if for no other reason than to give her a sibling to have her back while she kicked that adopted girl's ass.
My sister, Cindy, is another story. My birth preceded hers. It is impossible to say whether her life might have been better or worse or exactly the same had I not been born at all. If one were to guess, the odds are one would guess wrong. Do the math. There are countless possible answers to a what if scenario...and only one right answer.
It's safe to say my birth has had the most direct impact on Katie and Joey. I think we can safely say neither child could have been born if not for me...oh, and Bob.
I love thinking about the fact that I am the daughter of a daughter of a daughter...and Katie is my daughter. She may be the very last of our gender-kind. Or not. The arrival of her daughter will decide that. Just thinking about that long, long line that goes down to the corner, and around the block, all the way back to the first woman--hundreds of mother-daughter-mother-daughter pairings way back in time--it gives me the chills.
And my question is, if this is the end of the line, why does it feel like the head of the line? Could it be being born is like getting cuts in line? And does it matter if your tickets are Row 3, Seat 3, or Row 3 Seat 4? No, it doesn't. What matters is you have tickets to the show.
And what about Joey? He's a son. Where's the "oh, oh, oh it's magic" in that? I suppose you could say he's the son of a father of a son of a father-son pairing going around the block, too. I guess the fine line is mothers actually produce the show, where fathers are pretty much limited to executive producer credit.
And although we can't create our own mate, we can create a mate for another woman. And to do so is an honor, just so long as the little hussy is good enough for him.
So there you have it. My birth is important enough to warrant a reminder from Google Calendar, but my Date of Birth not so much. I can live with that.
I suppose my own date of birth doesn't matter at all--which is not suggesting my fact of birth is equally meaningless. If I found out my real birthday was March 2nd or March 4 because some random, tired-eyed clerk typed a number wrong on my birth certificate the revelation would not elicit much beyond, "Cool! I think I'll post a blog about that!"
However, if I were never born...THAT would matter a lot! Not to me, of course, since there would be no me to be bothered. It would bother my mom. She tried like the devil to get me to this place called life, and she sacrificed a lot of herself in the process.
My dad started smoking on the day I was born, right there in the waiting room...and subsequent to that he died of lung cancer. But if you asked him today, he would not trade my birth for his life even if you threw in a positive cash flow mobile home park.
My sister, Julie, might have been spared some personal misery if I had never been conceived. As it happens, she had a little friend who innocently shared what her adoptive parents had told her, "We adopted you when your mother died." which being a child and quite literal she took to mean when any baby is born the mother naturally dies. When Daddy left for the hospital he told Julie he would bring back a baby sister or brother, and she asked, "When do we bury Momma?" Safe to say my birth mattered to her if for no other reason than to give her a sibling to have her back while she kicked that adopted girl's ass.
My sister, Cindy, is another story. My birth preceded hers. It is impossible to say whether her life might have been better or worse or exactly the same had I not been born at all. If one were to guess, the odds are one would guess wrong. Do the math. There are countless possible answers to a what if scenario...and only one right answer.
It's safe to say my birth has had the most direct impact on Katie and Joey. I think we can safely say neither child could have been born if not for me...oh, and Bob.
I love thinking about the fact that I am the daughter of a daughter of a daughter...and Katie is my daughter. She may be the very last of our gender-kind. Or not. The arrival of her daughter will decide that. Just thinking about that long, long line that goes down to the corner, and around the block, all the way back to the first woman--hundreds of mother-daughter-mother-daughter pairings way back in time--it gives me the chills.
And my question is, if this is the end of the line, why does it feel like the head of the line? Could it be being born is like getting cuts in line? And does it matter if your tickets are Row 3, Seat 3, or Row 3 Seat 4? No, it doesn't. What matters is you have tickets to the show.
And what about Joey? He's a son. Where's the "oh, oh, oh it's magic" in that? I suppose you could say he's the son of a father of a son of a father-son pairing going around the block, too. I guess the fine line is mothers actually produce the show, where fathers are pretty much limited to executive producer credit.
And although we can't create our own mate, we can create a mate for another woman. And to do so is an honor, just so long as the little hussy is good enough for him.
So there you have it. My birth is important enough to warrant a reminder from Google Calendar, but my Date of Birth not so much. I can live with that.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The 9,007th Day
How do I say this? I am...um, er...single again. Dissolution, divorce, bifurcation...the legal terms are too harsh and too real, but the word "single" has an innocence about it. Virgins are single. Young people are single. Nuns are single.
This afternoon I found out that I have been single since February 16, 2010, one week ago today. Thank god the judge didn't stamp the document two days earlier. Had she, I would have had to live with a permanent, mental link to what would have been my second most brutal Valentine's Day ever. As much as I would LOVE to tell you about the first-most brutal Valentine's Day, I'm not going there. Let's just say February is historically a rough month for me.
What surprised me is that I cried when I read the email, but I'm kind of glad I did. I would hate to be the kind of person who would NOT cry at the end of a marriage that lasted 9006 days. Another thing that surprised me is how quickly I snapped out of it. You have to understand, though, this whole divorce process has been about as exciting as watching paint dry--especially if you're talking about the kind of paint that takes four years to dry.
Only the end-end-end came suddenly, in part because it left the building without saying goodbye-- much like the marriage.
Here's a funny story--my first divorce paper has a typographical error, Dave and I were divorced "...in The Untied States of America." It was a small but unfortunate mistake--much like the marriage.
Now we move on. But not now. And not we. A move, maybe. On for sure.
This afternoon I found out that I have been single since February 16, 2010, one week ago today. Thank god the judge didn't stamp the document two days earlier. Had she, I would have had to live with a permanent, mental link to what would have been my second most brutal Valentine's Day ever. As much as I would LOVE to tell you about the first-most brutal Valentine's Day, I'm not going there. Let's just say February is historically a rough month for me.
What surprised me is that I cried when I read the email, but I'm kind of glad I did. I would hate to be the kind of person who would NOT cry at the end of a marriage that lasted 9006 days. Another thing that surprised me is how quickly I snapped out of it. You have to understand, though, this whole divorce process has been about as exciting as watching paint dry--especially if you're talking about the kind of paint that takes four years to dry.
Only the end-end-end came suddenly, in part because it left the building without saying goodbye-- much like the marriage.
Here's a funny story--my first divorce paper has a typographical error, Dave and I were divorced "...in The Untied States of America." It was a small but unfortunate mistake--much like the marriage.
Now we move on. But not now. And not we. A move, maybe. On for sure.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Product Idea Could Sell Millions!
What a great idea! I think this is the big one that will make us all millions!
It's a plastic lined paper bag that you wear around your neck when you are reading the Singles Wanted ads on Craigs List.
After reading a dozen or more posts from horny, hard up, jobless, narcissists you are bound to hurl, but thanks to this bag you won't mess up your robe.
When people call the 800 number to order the "Gag Bagger" we'll offer them today's special--the "Wrist Razor Guard". It prevents you from accidentally on purpose slitting your wrists when you realize the Men Seeking Women who post things like "I'm jobless, no car, but 420 friendly" aren't remotely interested in you because you are not <27. I'm not sure if that's age, pounds or IQ, the point of course being this tang-seeker is just not remotely interested in you!
But wait, there's more! Act by midnight tonight and we'll throw in our special "Sight Savers" absolutely free. Sight Savers have a special lens that prevents you from seeing photos of tatooed genitalia, headless six packs, beard pride, and more.
Our R&D department is working on a Spelling Translator that turns ordinary MSW speak into English. Turn this: "u don't need a creditcard or jump through hoops just reply I no how 2treat a gurl rit" into this: "I will need the cash up front if you want me to do you."
You think I'm joking. Check out Craigslist PostingID: 1601940799.
I am joking about the products, but seriously, if I put this blog entry as an ad on Craigs List, I will get orders.
Dare me.
It's a plastic lined paper bag that you wear around your neck when you are reading the Singles Wanted ads on Craigs List.
After reading a dozen or more posts from horny, hard up, jobless, narcissists you are bound to hurl, but thanks to this bag you won't mess up your robe.
When people call the 800 number to order the "Gag Bagger" we'll offer them today's special--the "Wrist Razor Guard". It prevents you from accidentally on purpose slitting your wrists when you realize the Men Seeking Women who post things like "I'm jobless, no car, but 420 friendly" aren't remotely interested in you because you are not <27. I'm not sure if that's age, pounds or IQ, the point of course being this tang-seeker is just not remotely interested in you!
But wait, there's more! Act by midnight tonight and we'll throw in our special "Sight Savers" absolutely free. Sight Savers have a special lens that prevents you from seeing photos of tatooed genitalia, headless six packs, beard pride, and more.
Our R&D department is working on a Spelling Translator that turns ordinary MSW speak into English. Turn this: "u don't need a creditcard or jump through hoops just reply I no how 2treat a gurl rit" into this: "I will need the cash up front if you want me to do you."
You think I'm joking. Check out Craigslist PostingID: 1601940799.
I am joking about the products, but seriously, if I put this blog entry as an ad on Craigs List, I will get orders.
Dare me.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentater's Day
I've been joking with certain friends, that I'm going to slit my wrists today, Valentine's Day, because I am haplessly, hopelessly out of love. Let me comfort you, or possibly win (or lose) a bet for you, I am not slitting anything today. To be on the safe side, I might not even floss, lest I slip and slit my gums.
The fact is, my suicidal quips are so far removed from any actual intention of offing myself I think we can safely say, "Joking about suicide is not funny."
What else isn't funny is this: I'm not in love, so don't forget it. It's just a silly phase I'm going through. And just because I call you up, or launch a chat, or send an ecard, don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made. I'm not in love. No, no. I'd like to see you...but then again...that doesn't mean you mean that much to me. So if I call you, don't make a fuss. Don't tell your friends about the two of us. I'm not in love. No, no.
If you ARE in love, even if it's the pretend kind (and for some of you I can see it is) bask in it, because on this side--let's call it the Not in Love side--even your transparent pretense of being in love is better than this hollow, sad, lonely, pathetic, worthless, miserable, did I say hollow?...hollow side.
You, the truly in love, genuine, heartfelt, soulmate lover types out there, can suck it, because I'm totally jealous of you. Are you happy with yourselves? Oh that's right, you are happy. Love will do that to you. It also makes you stupid. It also makes unattractive people attractive. It makes dumb jokes funny. It makes bad food yummy. It makes rain romantic. It makes ugly jewelry special. It makes silk, conversation heart covered boxers not ridiculous. It turns French Toast into French cuisine. It compels men to put the seat down. It compels women to...oh never mind.
I'd almost rather hate someone than feel this hollow. May I hate you? Will you be my Valentate?
The fact is, my suicidal quips are so far removed from any actual intention of offing myself I think we can safely say, "Joking about suicide is not funny."
What else isn't funny is this: I'm not in love, so don't forget it. It's just a silly phase I'm going through. And just because I call you up, or launch a chat, or send an ecard, don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made. I'm not in love. No, no. I'd like to see you...but then again...that doesn't mean you mean that much to me. So if I call you, don't make a fuss. Don't tell your friends about the two of us. I'm not in love. No, no.
If you ARE in love, even if it's the pretend kind (and for some of you I can see it is) bask in it, because on this side--let's call it the Not in Love side--even your transparent pretense of being in love is better than this hollow, sad, lonely, pathetic, worthless, miserable, did I say hollow?...hollow side.
You, the truly in love, genuine, heartfelt, soulmate lover types out there, can suck it, because I'm totally jealous of you. Are you happy with yourselves? Oh that's right, you are happy. Love will do that to you. It also makes you stupid. It also makes unattractive people attractive. It makes dumb jokes funny. It makes bad food yummy. It makes rain romantic. It makes ugly jewelry special. It makes silk, conversation heart covered boxers not ridiculous. It turns French Toast into French cuisine. It compels men to put the seat down. It compels women to...oh never mind.
I'd almost rather hate someone than feel this hollow. May I hate you? Will you be my Valentate?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Selling
I can't sell.
There is something about asking people for money that rubs me the wrong way. I can encourage, suggest, demonstrate and help you decide if you want to buy a thing, but I can't sell in the classic sense of the word.
So let me encourage you to try You Mail. I use it, I like it, and it's free.
This is the hard part. If you end up liking it so much you opt to pay for the upgraded, premium service...which I myself do not...then I would encourage you to click through from here: (or if the link doesn't work, copy and paste the URL)
www.youmail.com?src=8315949494
because when you do, they send me a spiff.
I know, that's horrible for me to suggest, isn't it? But to look at it from another perspective, I really don't care that much about the 10% spiff. I care more about you having a decent voicemail service, and You Mail is the best.
So give it a try and see for yourself...and you don't have to act by midnight tonight or anything. You don't have to act at all.
In fact, I'm sorry I even mentioned it. You're doing fine with the voicemail you have now. Nevermind the fact that it is designed to be awful and boring. No matter.
Who cares that you can't customize the outgoing message a zillion ways to Sunday? So what.
Do you really need email alerts letting you know you have a message? I don't think so.
Yeah, right-- like you are ever going to need a written transcript of a voicemail, or the ability to save it on your computer, or share it with others. That's just crazy talk.
Who needs yet another so-called useful service? Life is hard and it should stay that way.
Forget I said anything. Your retarded voicemail system is just fine. Don't change a thing. I'm serious. Sure, it's lame, but we are all used to it. Change is bad. Even when it's a change for the good.
Don't try You Mail. I'm sorry I even brought it up.
But if you do, link through from me. If you want. I don't care.
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