In my previous post I said the waitress at the Buena Vista's rent was three times the midwesterners pad rental.
Then I looked it up.
A studio in The City goes for about $1400, and you can rent a spot for your mobile home in Nebraska for about $235.
My bad. Her rent is six times the pad rental. Tip her well...is all I'm saying.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Black is Back
Wake up and smell the coffee. It's morning in America, and I've gone back to black.
I've downed many cups of well-creamed coffee over years past, now I'm going back to black. To tell the truth, I like cream or half 'n' half in my coffee because it cools it down, and "warms" it up at the same time. Black is so cold, even when it is piping hot. The word foodies use is "mouth feel." I like the creamy mouth feel you get from fat. It's cozy.
So why am I going without cozy coffee? No reason. It just seemed like time to make a change. Can I do it? Yes, I can.
I'm also drinking more wine than vodka lately, although wine has such a soporific effect on me I refer to it as Winesta. Even my best friends are getting sick of that quip, though, so this might be the last time I use it. If only that were true.
Not that I drink all that much, or all that often. Still, I do drink, and thanks to my dad, I can drink with my foot on the brake. My friends drink, too, thank god. And also thank god, we all drink pretty well. None of us are sloppy drunks. We all know when to stop. We all know when not to drive. We rarely cry, or puke, or get lezzy on each other...even though we are all charter members of the Lesbian Sex Club. (Two rules: you can't be a lesbian, and you can't have sex with another member.) But what I like best is, we all know how to order. When the server comes to our table we're not all, "Hmmm...I can't decide...I don't know...I wonder if I'd like a Sidecar. What is a Sidecar? No. I'll have a Chardonnay. What's a good Chardonnay?"
If you want to be my friend, you have to order your booze ~you'll pardon the expression~ like a man. Short of "Scotch. Neat." which is a little TOO manly...unless of course you ARE a man...my women friends know what they want. And more important, what they drink doesn't embarrass me. Red wine works. Martini works. Tequila shot works. Even a Cadillac margarita, on the rocks, no salt works, but only if we are at Chili's or any such place that has a laminated, full-color photo flip chart drink menu on the table.
Just don't order a Cherry Vodka with Diet Lime Soda...also known as a Cherry Poppin' Daddy...UNLESS you are my beloved niece and her friend who are young enough and hip enough to order anything they want and not look dorky. They are still in their twenties. They are still experimenting. They are in the process of learning who they are, and they're doing it in style. On their 50th birthday, if they are still drinking Appletini's or wine spritzers I'll take them aside. For now, they're cool. Cool enough to drink coolers, that's how cool.
Back to my new black friend. I have to make a major exception for my black coffee switch: Irish coffee from The Buena Vista Cafe in San Francisco. The BV prepares a perfect "Irish" which is its nickname, but to be honest, you can hold up two fingers and nod and I can guarantee the waitress won't ponder your meaning. Always order two. The first one is really, really good, but the second one is even better. And no, you can't order the second one first. And need I say this? Never order seven...unless of course you are sitting at a table with three other people. I had seven once...I think...my recall of that night is hazy at best. About all I can remember is it was the first time I was in San Francisco and was not cold.
Sorry to be the big ol' Rule Maker, but so-help-me, if you order decaf, or no sugar, or no cream, I will reach through my blog window and choke the snot out of you. If you get the right waitress, your cocktail napkin will fly down onto your table top like a whirlybird. Tip her big time. She has to put up with tourists from the midwest who think 10% is a good tip, not realizing her apartment in SF is half the size of their mobile home, and three times their pad rental. She is the nicest mean lady you'll ever love to hate.
We live in a world that is changing. America always changes for the good. For some of us, this last election...you know, the one that began before the previous election and cost more than the war...was a victory, and a disappointing defeat for others. But the American socialscape and its ideals are like the American landscape and its mountains, plains and rivers...high, broad, and always flowing. Another way to view and accept change is this: imagine a world without it.
I take my coffee black, my martini dry, my tequila straight, and I take my politics on the rocks, no salt.
I've downed many cups of well-creamed coffee over years past, now I'm going back to black. To tell the truth, I like cream or half 'n' half in my coffee because it cools it down, and "warms" it up at the same time. Black is so cold, even when it is piping hot. The word foodies use is "mouth feel." I like the creamy mouth feel you get from fat. It's cozy.
So why am I going without cozy coffee? No reason. It just seemed like time to make a change. Can I do it? Yes, I can.
I'm also drinking more wine than vodka lately, although wine has such a soporific effect on me I refer to it as Winesta. Even my best friends are getting sick of that quip, though, so this might be the last time I use it. If only that were true.
Not that I drink all that much, or all that often. Still, I do drink, and thanks to my dad, I can drink with my foot on the brake. My friends drink, too, thank god. And also thank god, we all drink pretty well. None of us are sloppy drunks. We all know when to stop. We all know when not to drive. We rarely cry, or puke, or get lezzy on each other...even though we are all charter members of the Lesbian Sex Club. (Two rules: you can't be a lesbian, and you can't have sex with another member.) But what I like best is, we all know how to order. When the server comes to our table we're not all, "Hmmm...I can't decide...I don't know...I wonder if I'd like a Sidecar. What is a Sidecar? No. I'll have a Chardonnay. What's a good Chardonnay?"
If you want to be my friend, you have to order your booze ~you'll pardon the expression~ like a man. Short of "Scotch. Neat." which is a little TOO manly...unless of course you ARE a man...my women friends know what they want. And more important, what they drink doesn't embarrass me. Red wine works. Martini works. Tequila shot works. Even a Cadillac margarita, on the rocks, no salt works, but only if we are at Chili's or any such place that has a laminated, full-color photo flip chart drink menu on the table.
Just don't order a Cherry Vodka with Diet Lime Soda...also known as a Cherry Poppin' Daddy...UNLESS you are my beloved niece and her friend who are young enough and hip enough to order anything they want and not look dorky. They are still in their twenties. They are still experimenting. They are in the process of learning who they are, and they're doing it in style. On their 50th birthday, if they are still drinking Appletini's or wine spritzers I'll take them aside. For now, they're cool. Cool enough to drink coolers, that's how cool.
Back to my new black friend. I have to make a major exception for my black coffee switch: Irish coffee from The Buena Vista Cafe in San Francisco. The BV prepares a perfect "Irish" which is its nickname, but to be honest, you can hold up two fingers and nod and I can guarantee the waitress won't ponder your meaning. Always order two. The first one is really, really good, but the second one is even better. And no, you can't order the second one first. And need I say this? Never order seven...unless of course you are sitting at a table with three other people. I had seven once...I think...my recall of that night is hazy at best. About all I can remember is it was the first time I was in San Francisco and was not cold.
Sorry to be the big ol' Rule Maker, but so-help-me, if you order decaf, or no sugar, or no cream, I will reach through my blog window and choke the snot out of you. If you get the right waitress, your cocktail napkin will fly down onto your table top like a whirlybird. Tip her big time. She has to put up with tourists from the midwest who think 10% is a good tip, not realizing her apartment in SF is half the size of their mobile home, and three times their pad rental. She is the nicest mean lady you'll ever love to hate.
We live in a world that is changing. America always changes for the good. For some of us, this last election...you know, the one that began before the previous election and cost more than the war...was a victory, and a disappointing defeat for others. But the American socialscape and its ideals are like the American landscape and its mountains, plains and rivers...high, broad, and always flowing. Another way to view and accept change is this: imagine a world without it.
I take my coffee black, my martini dry, my tequila straight, and I take my politics on the rocks, no salt.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Bats and Spiders and Snakes...oh my.
Happy Halloween from Templeton. We take the holiday very seriously here. No fake decorations for us. Our pumpkins have seeds, our hay is for horses, and our creatures of the night are real!
We have a bat. "He" lives directly above the front door. He poops directly below the front door. And he has acquired a taste for giant insects that live here, too. We have retrieved no less than three giant bug heads from the porch since bat"man" moved in. He leaves the head and pincers behind. Now you know, some parts of a bug you just don't eat.
We also have lizards. They are the invited guests of Artsie. He befriends them, and brings them home to recover from their injuries. You see, nearly all of them are missing their tails. What a good kitizen you are, Mr. Cat.
We also have tarantulas. October is the month they migrate. They go from point A to point B, and they inch their way over whatever ground lies betwixt the two. They are completely harmless...if you don't see one and run away screaming so fast you trip and fall.
We have rattlesnakes as well. They eat gophers. And as you know, we also have coyotes, which eat snakes and cats, which eat gophers which feed snakes. Such are the rock, paper and scissors in the "game" of life.
No ghosts, no bleeding eyeballs, no skeletons, no witches (unless you count that woman at Citibank) and no need to decorate for Halloween here, boss.
Templeton, after the harvest, is paradise...if by paradise you mean a place fricking scary as Hell!
Speaking of harvest... this year we pulled 15 tons of fruit. Our estimated yield was 10-12 tons, so 15 tons is good. Really, really good. For those of you not familiar with agricultural terms, "to pull fruit" means a crew of knife-wielding Mexicans deftly coax bunch after bunch of grapes off the vines, hurling them into bins a'waiting. Up and down every row they go, until, mere hours later, a big honkin' truck loaded with 30,000 pounds of grapes escorts the purple little bundles to their new life first as juice, then as wine. And the pickers themselves are also escorted...to the next vineyard. They will not stop working until the grapes are gone.
We all know wine is made from grapes, but when we drink it we rarely envision knife-wielding Mexicans, do we? We picture Lucy Ricardo with her skirt tucked between her legs, or if you're old enough, that jolly man who called himself "That Little Old Winemaker...Me," or maybe you picture the Sunmaid Raisin lady with her big basket of fruit and her sunny bonnet, and think wine grapes are probably harvested by one of her sluttier friends.
However you imagine the journey from grape to wine, take the time to be thankful for people like me who selflessly lose money year after year growing grapes, Mexicans who risk giant pinching bugs, hairy spiders and venomous snakes to get them off the vine, hemorrhoidal truckers who ship them, and the winemakers who, lord have mercy, try to negotiate a treaty between the gods of art and science in an effort to transform tiny balls of juice into the juice of balls.
We have a bat. "He" lives directly above the front door. He poops directly below the front door. And he has acquired a taste for giant insects that live here, too. We have retrieved no less than three giant bug heads from the porch since bat"man" moved in. He leaves the head and pincers behind. Now you know, some parts of a bug you just don't eat.
We also have lizards. They are the invited guests of Artsie. He befriends them, and brings them home to recover from their injuries. You see, nearly all of them are missing their tails. What a good kitizen you are, Mr. Cat.
We also have tarantulas. October is the month they migrate. They go from point A to point B, and they inch their way over whatever ground lies betwixt the two. They are completely harmless...if you don't see one and run away screaming so fast you trip and fall.
We have rattlesnakes as well. They eat gophers. And as you know, we also have coyotes, which eat snakes and cats, which eat gophers which feed snakes. Such are the rock, paper and scissors in the "game" of life.
No ghosts, no bleeding eyeballs, no skeletons, no witches (unless you count that woman at Citibank) and no need to decorate for Halloween here, boss.
Templeton, after the harvest, is paradise...if by paradise you mean a place fricking scary as Hell!
Speaking of harvest... this year we pulled 15 tons of fruit. Our estimated yield was 10-12 tons, so 15 tons is good. Really, really good. For those of you not familiar with agricultural terms, "to pull fruit" means a crew of knife-wielding Mexicans deftly coax bunch after bunch of grapes off the vines, hurling them into bins a'waiting. Up and down every row they go, until, mere hours later, a big honkin' truck loaded with 30,000 pounds of grapes escorts the purple little bundles to their new life first as juice, then as wine. And the pickers themselves are also escorted...to the next vineyard. They will not stop working until the grapes are gone.
We all know wine is made from grapes, but when we drink it we rarely envision knife-wielding Mexicans, do we? We picture Lucy Ricardo with her skirt tucked between her legs, or if you're old enough, that jolly man who called himself "That Little Old Winemaker...Me," or maybe you picture the Sunmaid Raisin lady with her big basket of fruit and her sunny bonnet, and think wine grapes are probably harvested by one of her sluttier friends.
However you imagine the journey from grape to wine, take the time to be thankful for people like me who selflessly lose money year after year growing grapes, Mexicans who risk giant pinching bugs, hairy spiders and venomous snakes to get them off the vine, hemorrhoidal truckers who ship them, and the winemakers who, lord have mercy, try to negotiate a treaty between the gods of art and science in an effort to transform tiny balls of juice into the juice of balls.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Giving New Meaning to the Words "Left Bank"
Banks. Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Citibank, I can live without.
I'm not much for boycotts, they rarely work, but I am for solidarity so I ask you, will you please help me punish Citibank? So long as punishing Citibank doesn't also punish you, that is. It's as simple as withdrawing your funds and putting them in another bank, a good bank, a bank like, say, Bank of America, Paso Robles Branch, where the wise and wonderful Jackie had the wisdom and wonderfulness to shed any bank-issued lead-lined robes and don angel wings. Her actions came on the heels of Citibank's indescribable rigidity and complete unwillingness to be human, no doubt caused by lead poisoning. Thank you, Jackie of Bank of America. Shame on you Citibank.
The sad, sad story of the bad banking practices which incurred my wrath will be reserved for the next two people who ask, and then the story will be retired, as other sad, sad stories have been retired. Unlike Beanie Babies, retirement does not increase their value, rather it banishes them to the sad, sad story dungeon where they will be forgotten. The only way the sad, sad story can be resurrected will be if Citibank comes to me and makes restitution, at which time I will rewrite the story and give it the happiest of endings, and in a sparkling new blog entry, I will ask you to cease all punishment of Citibank, possibly even encouraging you to utilize their services. But we all know that ain't happening.
Yeah. About that sad, sad story. You see, the way it works is, you had to have been at least second in line to hear it. Yeah. And you were third. Aww. Sorry. Yeah. You were third, and yeah, you had to be second. That's the policy. There's nothing I can do. Yeah. Sorry. If you had been second, you would have qualified to hear the story, but yeah, I can't tell the story to you if you're third. I wish I could. It's policy. Yeah, sorry.
Citibank, I can live without.
I'm not much for boycotts, they rarely work, but I am for solidarity so I ask you, will you please help me punish Citibank? So long as punishing Citibank doesn't also punish you, that is. It's as simple as withdrawing your funds and putting them in another bank, a good bank, a bank like, say, Bank of America, Paso Robles Branch, where the wise and wonderful Jackie had the wisdom and wonderfulness to shed any bank-issued lead-lined robes and don angel wings. Her actions came on the heels of Citibank's indescribable rigidity and complete unwillingness to be human, no doubt caused by lead poisoning. Thank you, Jackie of Bank of America. Shame on you Citibank.
The sad, sad story of the bad banking practices which incurred my wrath will be reserved for the next two people who ask, and then the story will be retired, as other sad, sad stories have been retired. Unlike Beanie Babies, retirement does not increase their value, rather it banishes them to the sad, sad story dungeon where they will be forgotten. The only way the sad, sad story can be resurrected will be if Citibank comes to me and makes restitution, at which time I will rewrite the story and give it the happiest of endings, and in a sparkling new blog entry, I will ask you to cease all punishment of Citibank, possibly even encouraging you to utilize their services. But we all know that ain't happening.
Yeah. About that sad, sad story. You see, the way it works is, you had to have been at least second in line to hear it. Yeah. And you were third. Aww. Sorry. Yeah. You were third, and yeah, you had to be second. That's the policy. There's nothing I can do. Yeah. Sorry. If you had been second, you would have qualified to hear the story, but yeah, I can't tell the story to you if you're third. I wish I could. It's policy. Yeah, sorry.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Understanding Homer
Are you mad! You did what!? You willingly put that...that THING... into your mouth and swallowed! What are you? Some kind of self-destructive, sicko-pervert, twisted, glazed, custard-filled, fried fruit fritter freak? Step away from the bar. That's right, the maple bar.
Let's step back...oops, pardon me, Officer, sir...and take a closer look at the crime scene. A glass case, covered with fingerprints. A box that dispenses wax paper squares. A smiling counter clerk with one hand on a yet to be unfolded box and the other hand on a yet to be unfolded white paper bag. So what's it gonna be? One or two (or three) in a pristine white bag? Or a dozen...make that a baker's dozen...in the box. If you buy the bag, you are admitting your guilt when you walk out the door. "Yeah, I bought three but I ate one before I got back to the car, so technically I ate two. And no one saw me, so one."
If you buy the box...sure it's a better deal, do the math...but the value is in the volume. They are not for you, they're for the gals in the office, the work crew, your kids, their teachers...the Others. And here's the beauty part, the box only holds twelve, so that baker's so called dozenth donut, went into an innocent, little white bag. You can eat it before you get back to the car and if no one saw you, who's to call it a crime? Back at the office of course, you can come clean. That is to say, you can wipe the sugar off your chin, and grab "just one".
But wait! What kind of pig eats an entire donut? No one, except that pale, skinny guy in the "I [lightning bolt] Jolt" T-shirt. He eats two, in four bites, and doesn't bother to wipe the sugar off his chin because he's saving that for his lunch. So you cut them into halves or maybe even quarters. And you put a little stack of crispy white napkins next to the box. Sure, they're little now, but if you unfold them, and stack two together, they're the Chinet of stealth snackers world over. Your grandma could fit a whole basket of dinner rolls into a paper napkin strategically folded, and still have room for the foil wrapped butter pats.
Where you put the box requires some strategic planning. Should you put it in the break room, on your desk, under your desk? Heavens (and by that we mean Hell) no. You walk around the office offering them to people. Starting, of course, with the thin ones, the vegans, the gays. They won't take even so much as a quarter. They just ate...a hyoooge Breakfast Salad, consisting of a tablespoon of plain acidophilus yogurt, an organic peach slice, 5 wild Maine blueberries, and nine flaxseed and wheat germ granola buds. "If I ate that I think I'd have to hurl"...which is sad, because it is also true. (Do they really think we don't know?)
So you move on to the next tier: Guys who work out and single women. He's crunching the numbers, "How many crunches would I have to do to work off two quarters of the plain cake?" She's trying to remember the last time she had sex, and thinking, "Oh no! I can't even remember the last time I had sex! What if the last time I had sex was the last time I will EVER have sex, and I missed it! I'll just take a little piece of each."
The last group, which includes you, has no qualms about eating deep-fried white flour and sugar-coated heart attack bombs. These seasoned donut-eaters know to layer three napkins, and they take two more for their face and hands, because through experience they have learned how to use coffee to make moistened towelettes. They are silently annoyed that you cut them up, but they know why you did. Still, they take advantage of the system and take one quarter of each kind, knowing full well that by 4 o'clock the remaining stray rejects will become victims of drive-by chocolate coconut poppers, so dried out that no one will even bother to use the cut side to gather up the loose droppings of sugar, frosting and sprinkles littering the bottom of the box.
It's a sad end to a glorious journey from vat of boiling oil to permanent exile in the lily white ass of a post-menopausal, divorcee with no recollection of having had sex...ever. The good news is, while there are still donuts in the world, who's complaining? Not me, Officer.
On the other hand, if you're young, lean, single, fit and healthy, go to "Heaven"! Kidding. Just say NO. It's white flour, mixed with white sugar, and fried in hot fat. How much more evidence do you need to convict this brutal criminal element waddling free in our society. Did it occur to you that cops hang out in donut shops because donuts are a crime in progress? Yeah, I thought as much. And if you remain unconvinced, and still want to eat one harmless little donut, try this mental aversion technique: Imagine whirring the donut in a blender, and drinking it. Yes, you may go and hurl now.
Let's step back...oops, pardon me, Officer, sir...and take a closer look at the crime scene. A glass case, covered with fingerprints. A box that dispenses wax paper squares. A smiling counter clerk with one hand on a yet to be unfolded box and the other hand on a yet to be unfolded white paper bag. So what's it gonna be? One or two (or three) in a pristine white bag? Or a dozen...make that a baker's dozen...in the box. If you buy the bag, you are admitting your guilt when you walk out the door. "Yeah, I bought three but I ate one before I got back to the car, so technically I ate two. And no one saw me, so one."
If you buy the box...sure it's a better deal, do the math...but the value is in the volume. They are not for you, they're for the gals in the office, the work crew, your kids, their teachers...the Others. And here's the beauty part, the box only holds twelve, so that baker's so called dozenth donut, went into an innocent, little white bag. You can eat it before you get back to the car and if no one saw you, who's to call it a crime? Back at the office of course, you can come clean. That is to say, you can wipe the sugar off your chin, and grab "just one".
But wait! What kind of pig eats an entire donut? No one, except that pale, skinny guy in the "I [lightning bolt] Jolt" T-shirt. He eats two, in four bites, and doesn't bother to wipe the sugar off his chin because he's saving that for his lunch. So you cut them into halves or maybe even quarters. And you put a little stack of crispy white napkins next to the box. Sure, they're little now, but if you unfold them, and stack two together, they're the Chinet of stealth snackers world over. Your grandma could fit a whole basket of dinner rolls into a paper napkin strategically folded, and still have room for the foil wrapped butter pats.
Where you put the box requires some strategic planning. Should you put it in the break room, on your desk, under your desk? Heavens (and by that we mean Hell) no. You walk around the office offering them to people. Starting, of course, with the thin ones, the vegans, the gays. They won't take even so much as a quarter. They just ate...a hyoooge Breakfast Salad, consisting of a tablespoon of plain acidophilus yogurt, an organic peach slice, 5 wild Maine blueberries, and nine flaxseed and wheat germ granola buds. "If I ate that I think I'd have to hurl"...which is sad, because it is also true. (Do they really think we don't know?)
So you move on to the next tier: Guys who work out and single women. He's crunching the numbers, "How many crunches would I have to do to work off two quarters of the plain cake?" She's trying to remember the last time she had sex, and thinking, "Oh no! I can't even remember the last time I had sex! What if the last time I had sex was the last time I will EVER have sex, and I missed it! I'll just take a little piece of each."
The last group, which includes you, has no qualms about eating deep-fried white flour and sugar-coated heart attack bombs. These seasoned donut-eaters know to layer three napkins, and they take two more for their face and hands, because through experience they have learned how to use coffee to make moistened towelettes. They are silently annoyed that you cut them up, but they know why you did. Still, they take advantage of the system and take one quarter of each kind, knowing full well that by 4 o'clock the remaining stray rejects will become victims of drive-by chocolate coconut poppers, so dried out that no one will even bother to use the cut side to gather up the loose droppings of sugar, frosting and sprinkles littering the bottom of the box.
It's a sad end to a glorious journey from vat of boiling oil to permanent exile in the lily white ass of a post-menopausal, divorcee with no recollection of having had sex...ever. The good news is, while there are still donuts in the world, who's complaining? Not me, Officer.
On the other hand, if you're young, lean, single, fit and healthy, go to "Heaven"! Kidding. Just say NO. It's white flour, mixed with white sugar, and fried in hot fat. How much more evidence do you need to convict this brutal criminal element waddling free in our society. Did it occur to you that cops hang out in donut shops because donuts are a crime in progress? Yeah, I thought as much. And if you remain unconvinced, and still want to eat one harmless little donut, try this mental aversion technique: Imagine whirring the donut in a blender, and drinking it. Yes, you may go and hurl now.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Freedom AND Information: How Much is TOO Much?
The Freedom of Information Act. It's what makes America great. ONE of the things, anyway. The underpinnings of it are that We, The People like to have facts that help us choose. Our right to choose is as dear to us as the right to know. The Constitution grants us neither. Ah, but the Internet, grants us BOTH!
In the loosie-goosie sense of the word, not the legal-eagle sense, we have the "right" to send information to the internet for all the world to read. And we also have the right to choose what to read, and perhaps more important what NOT to read.
Here's where you separate the muck from the duck. There is so much...make that soooooo much much much...out there to read, or not read, that we have been forced to apply filters to our lives to shield us from an informational tsunami. And the filters aren't working.
The filters, like the filters on a swimming pool, can only remove the innocent little leaves and papery petals that are sucked into that little trap door on the side of the pool. The wasps and yellow jackets, and those tiny black "dirty bastard bitey bugs" as my friends and I have dubbed them, land in the water, right next to us--and they'll have hours of opportunity to sting us-- or bite us, which is it-- before they meet their eventual fate. And so it is with the wordy bastard bitey bugs that land next to us as we float idly along in front of our televisions and computers. We have the technology to filter the flotsam from the jetsam, but we can't seem to keep out the stuff that truly bugs us. In case you were wondering, flotsam is stuff floating in the water, jetsam is stuff someone threw overboard. Wonder no more.
Television commercials are jetsam, like colorful beach balls and inflatable pool toys thrown from a party boat--crazy good fun, sometimes not a good fit for you, but a great fit for someone else. They pop easily, but they were cheap in the first place. Sometimes the jetsam is from a corporate yacht--expensive, custom tailored life jackets offering security and long wear. But here's the thing with commercials: the boat owner is paying for your entertainment. Without commercials, there would be no boat, no toys, nothing.
Computer "commercials" are another kind of jetsam entirely. For one, spam-gangers don't need to provide the boat, the toys, the entertainment or the life preservers. They just toss a big ol' nasty mess overboard guessing someone is bound to mistake the net for a rope. And it must be working, because they keep throwing crud over the side. And someone keeps grabbing the rope.
What should we do? As much as we might like to stay ashore and not get our feet wet, we cannot. The sea level is rising, and soon there will be no shore. In preparation for this eventuality, how about learning to swim through the innocent little leaves in the great unfiltered sea of information? Then, how about finding a way to scoop out the dirty bastard bitey bugs before they can sting us. And finally, how's about learning to discern the difference between a net and a rope. Because sometimes the thing thrown off the boat actually IS a life saver, and if you don't grab on to it, you surely will sink.
If you're 80 years or older--and in hospice--you can stay ashore. If you're reading this, grab your scuba gear. Next stop Waterworld.
In the loosie-goosie sense of the word, not the legal-eagle sense, we have the "right" to send information to the internet for all the world to read. And we also have the right to choose what to read, and perhaps more important what NOT to read.
Here's where you separate the muck from the duck. There is so much...make that soooooo much much much...out there to read, or not read, that we have been forced to apply filters to our lives to shield us from an informational tsunami. And the filters aren't working.
The filters, like the filters on a swimming pool, can only remove the innocent little leaves and papery petals that are sucked into that little trap door on the side of the pool. The wasps and yellow jackets, and those tiny black "dirty bastard bitey bugs" as my friends and I have dubbed them, land in the water, right next to us--and they'll have hours of opportunity to sting us-- or bite us, which is it-- before they meet their eventual fate. And so it is with the wordy bastard bitey bugs that land next to us as we float idly along in front of our televisions and computers. We have the technology to filter the flotsam from the jetsam, but we can't seem to keep out the stuff that truly bugs us. In case you were wondering, flotsam is stuff floating in the water, jetsam is stuff someone threw overboard. Wonder no more.
Television commercials are jetsam, like colorful beach balls and inflatable pool toys thrown from a party boat--crazy good fun, sometimes not a good fit for you, but a great fit for someone else. They pop easily, but they were cheap in the first place. Sometimes the jetsam is from a corporate yacht--expensive, custom tailored life jackets offering security and long wear. But here's the thing with commercials: the boat owner is paying for your entertainment. Without commercials, there would be no boat, no toys, nothing.
Computer "commercials" are another kind of jetsam entirely. For one, spam-gangers don't need to provide the boat, the toys, the entertainment or the life preservers. They just toss a big ol' nasty mess overboard guessing someone is bound to mistake the net for a rope. And it must be working, because they keep throwing crud over the side. And someone keeps grabbing the rope.
What should we do? As much as we might like to stay ashore and not get our feet wet, we cannot. The sea level is rising, and soon there will be no shore. In preparation for this eventuality, how about learning to swim through the innocent little leaves in the great unfiltered sea of information? Then, how about finding a way to scoop out the dirty bastard bitey bugs before they can sting us. And finally, how's about learning to discern the difference between a net and a rope. Because sometimes the thing thrown off the boat actually IS a life saver, and if you don't grab on to it, you surely will sink.
If you're 80 years or older--and in hospice--you can stay ashore. If you're reading this, grab your scuba gear. Next stop Waterworld.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Kids Post the Darndest Things
Yesterday LA had an earthquake. And the levels of devastation were beyond comprehension. I heard one woman's French manicure went on totally crooked and she had to remove the polish and start completely over. And a guy was carrying a tray of Cadillac margaritas and the quake caused the Grand Marnier float to totally mix in. The humanity of it all.
Here's my deal. My son works in LA, on the sixth floor of a building that overlooks the 405 parking lot...I mean freeway. He called to tell me he was okay, not knowing I had not yet heard about any quakin' going on. I thought, what a great kid. He thought enough of my feelings to put me out of my misery...even when I had no misery to be put out of.
So later, I'm on FaceBook...don't ask, a friend put me up to it...and for those of you who don't know about FaceBook, there is this feature where it asks, "What are you doing right now?" and you type in, oh, I don't know...what you're doing right then, and such as that. Anyone reading about me would see, "Lori is..." followed by my most recent entry. Mine said, "Lori is...recording coyotes howling from the gulch." I was up at two a.m. the night before doing just that.
One of my FaceBook friend's entry was this, "Daniel is... earthquake." He must have been on FaceBook when the quake hit. If you knew Dan this would not surprise you. He's all about socialization and connecting with people. But my son's FaceBook entry was this: "Joey is...buried under six stories of rubble."
I think I busted my O key when I wrote back, "That is SOOOOOO not funny." Even though it kind of was. In a morbid way. But I "do" morbid. My sisters and I could call ourselves the Gallows Humor Gals. We are sicko's to put it mildly.
And so, it would seem, is my son a Gallows Humor Guy. Welcome to the club, Joey. And know this, if you had NOT called me BEFORE I read that, and I had needlessly choked on the razor sharp blades of terror and drowned my lungs in buckets of bitter tears of grief, make that scald my face with the caustic tears of all-consuming grief, I would have been forced to come down to LA and sick my rabid, but well-trained eyeball-eating raccoons on you...while you slept. Muahahahaha! Love, Mommy.
Here's my deal. My son works in LA, on the sixth floor of a building that overlooks the 405 parking lot...I mean freeway. He called to tell me he was okay, not knowing I had not yet heard about any quakin' going on. I thought, what a great kid. He thought enough of my feelings to put me out of my misery...even when I had no misery to be put out of.
So later, I'm on FaceBook...don't ask, a friend put me up to it...and for those of you who don't know about FaceBook, there is this feature where it asks, "What are you doing right now?" and you type in, oh, I don't know...what you're doing right then, and such as that. Anyone reading about me would see, "Lori is..." followed by my most recent entry. Mine said, "Lori is...recording coyotes howling from the gulch." I was up at two a.m. the night before doing just that.
One of my FaceBook friend's entry was this, "Daniel is... earthquake." He must have been on FaceBook when the quake hit. If you knew Dan this would not surprise you. He's all about socialization and connecting with people. But my son's FaceBook entry was this: "Joey is...buried under six stories of rubble."
I think I busted my O key when I wrote back, "That is SOOOOOO not funny." Even though it kind of was. In a morbid way. But I "do" morbid. My sisters and I could call ourselves the Gallows Humor Gals. We are sicko's to put it mildly.
And so, it would seem, is my son a Gallows Humor Guy. Welcome to the club, Joey. And know this, if you had NOT called me BEFORE I read that, and I had needlessly choked on the razor sharp blades of terror and drowned my lungs in buckets of bitter tears of grief, make that scald my face with the caustic tears of all-consuming grief, I would have been forced to come down to LA and sick my rabid, but well-trained eyeball-eating raccoons on you...while you slept. Muahahahaha! Love, Mommy.
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