Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The other night, the Moms came over to watch the Georgia game with me, and we noticed that Bella was trying to get something behind the vacuum cleaner in the corner of the kitchen. I figured that the little mogster had lost a ball or a toy, so I grabbed the vacuum and lifted that shit up, and before I knew it, Bella had this twig-like thing in her mouth. And I started to reach down, thinking she's gotten a hold of an old plant branch or something and then, I notice the tiny little dangling feet. It was a damn mouse tail hanging out of Bella's mouth. Of all my five cats (four of which are grown and one of which lived outside for a time), the baby got a mouse.
Every time one of the grown cats would try to get in on the action, Bella would growl really loudly and deeply and that was that. It was her kill by fucking God.
Well, of course, Bella toyed with the poor rodent, and in between screaming, cursing, and climbing on a chair, because she would release the mouse, let it start to get away, and then cover it with her entire body, I managed to get her out of the house.
Once outside, I picked Bella up by her tail and her back legs and shook that cat like the bejeezus, and finally, Bella's ass dropped that poor mouse, and it scurried under the neighbor's front porch.
Never a dull moment around my place. Not with five cats and a mentally unhinged canine.
And, of course, Georgia won. Go dawgs!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Fuck it, I say. If you're 90-damn-years-old, you may as well be 95 or 100. It's sort of immaterial and not like lying to stretch that shit a bit.
Aunt Merle crochets tiny little baby blankets for the infants who die, while trying to be born, at the hospital where her daughter works. Isn't that nice? She said that some people advise her that she is wasting her time, since the infants are dead anyway, and they don't know the difference between a cozy blanket and shinola, but I told Aunt Merle that I thought that was a bunch of damn bullshit. Merle said at her age (95), she doesn't really give a rat's ass what people think. Good for her!
One other cousin (I forget his name, because I don't much like him) has only one leg. He was in a motorcycle accident of some sort. He had a prosthesis, but never liked wearing it, so he had one of those motorized scooters. When he went to leave, he stowed the damn scooter in the back of his van and then hopped on one leg around to the driver's side. This cousin is nice enough, but sort of a damn blowhard, so I avoided him. I don't like to converse with loud types. They irritate piss out of me.
Another cousin, Butch, started telling me about how his daughter's were all sluts and only one daughter out of "the whole damn bunch" had married well. He even went on to lament that he had a little "nigger grandbaby" that he didn't even acknowledge. I wasn't brave like my friend Ms. Moon, and I didn't want to disrespect the damn pinhead, so I just acted like I was interested in some photos that my cousin Sue Lynn was passing around and moved the hell away from Butch's dumb ass.
My Uncle Doyle was there, too, but he had the oxygen on. He was a WWII vet, and he stopped at a McDonald's outside the park to pick a sandwich up. We had plenty of scratch-cooking food to eat, but his ass hadn't contributed to the meal, so he wasn't going to damn well mooch, by God.
The Moms said that Doyle's generation was just like that--they didn't mooch--and they always expected to contribute. This made me feel REALLY BAD about being a part of Generation X, because we are all a bunch of damn losers and slackers. Uncle Doyle's generation was THE GREATEST GENERATION, and my generation is THE LOSERIEST GENERATION. Also, we dress poorly.
We had only about 14 people total at the reunion. I was the only semi-young person there. There wasn't even one damn toddler or infant. That shit was depressing.
What the hell's wrong with young people (or even middle-aged people) that they don't want to know their extended family? [If you're a damn ignorant bonehead who doesn't attend family reunions, maybe you can tell us all why. We won't judge.]
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sharing with us what he knows
shining eyes are big and blue
and all around him water flows
this world to him is new
this world to him is new
to touch a face
to kiss a smile
new eyes see no race
the essence of a child
the essence of a child
he's born to shimmer
he's born to shine
he's born to radiate
he's born to live
he's born to love
but we'll teach him not to hate
true love it is a rock
smoothed over by a stream
no ticking of a clock
truly measures what that means
truly measures what that means
and this thing they call our time
heard a brilliant woman say
she said you know it's crazy
how I want to capture mine
I think I love this woman's way
I think I love this woman's way
she shimmers, the way she shines
the way she radiates
the way she lives, the way she loves
the way she never hates
sometimes I think of all this that can surround me
I know it all as being mine
but she kisses me and and wraps herself around me
she gives me love, she gives me time
yeahh.... and I am fine
but time I cannot change
so here's to looking back
you know I drink a whole bottle
of my pride and I toast to change
to keep these demons off my back
to keep these demons off my back
cause I want to shimmer, i want to shine
I want to radiate
I want to live, I want to love
I want to try to learn not to hate
try not to hate
we're born to shimmer
we're born to shine
we're born to live, we're born to love
we're born to never hate
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
[In my college poetry class, we were asked to select a poem to read, and this is the one that SB chose. My ass loves larking too!]
I recently read that when Elvis had his beloved cook, Mamie, make him peanut butter and nana sandwiches, Mamie used an ENTIRE LOAF OF WHITE BREAD! You people read that shit right. Elvis ate AN ENTIRE LOAF OF WHITE BREAD in one blow. [Note that Elvis ate WHITE BREAD, and not that shitty wheat crap, just like SB. I want Wonder Bread, goddammit! And so did the King.]
SB wishes her ass had a live-in cook (and a doctor on call to write prescriptions for me, but I digress), who I could call up AT ANY HOUR to appease my slightest gastronomical whim.
If he took a notion, Elvis could ring Mamie in her room at midnight and say, "Goddammit Mamie, I'd like a damn red velvet cake from scratch! Wake me up when it's ready." And that bitch would have to haul ass down to the kitchen and bake that damn cake in the middle of the night. Everybody should have a Mamie.
To me, Elvis is like family. I'm allowed to poke a little fun about his eating habits and weight, but goddammit, NOBODY ELSE HAD BETTER! Or it will be like:
What did you say about the King, motherfucker? WHAT DID YOUR DUMB ASS JUST SAY? ELVIS WAS A GOOD BOY, GODDAMMIT.
Growing up, I watched Elvis movies all the time. My favorite was Blue Hawaii. Every time I light a damn tiki torch, even today, I expect Elvis to magically appear, wearing a lei and holding a damn ukulele. It's kind of disappointing when he doesn't show.My grandma used to say, "Alvin was a good boy. He never hurt anybody but himself, and he liked to make people happy by giving them Cadillacs. Alvin knew what it was to be poor." Grandma Peg was from Mississippi, and she took particular pride in Elvis, who also hailed from Mississippi, except that Grandma was a little hard of hearing and called him Alvin Prescott. We tried correcting her, but grandma was a tad stubborn and that shit didn't fly.
NOTE: Grandma also thought my REALLY OBESE friend, Tina was named Tiny. She really fumed about that shit and said, "Her parents had some nerve naming that girl Tiny!"
Thursday, September 24, 2009
“When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be -- I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things, who do not tax their lives with forethought or grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world and am free.”
"The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it."
[Clearly, some Christians understand what Jesus taught.]
Hypothetical conversation between a friend and I: Hey, did you hear the news, asks the friend. Yeah, we talked about it yesterday in church, I reply. But, that's impossible, this just happened today! How could you have talked about this yesterday if it happened today, he exclaims. Well you see, it's all written right here in this bible, I answer with a smile.
Fair and balanced
[I'm glad this ho is English. One less prejudiced nutjob with wretched grammatical skills over here.]
Link to story at the fabulous True Crime Report: http://www.truecrimereport.com/2009/09/naked_baristas_hit_for_prostit.php
If you are interested (and goddammit, who wouldn't be), check that shit out here: http://gingermagnolia.wordpress.com/2009/09/23/the-pimp/
SB loves her some Gingermagnolia!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
[Uhhhhhhhhmmmmmmm, okay. Clearly there is some sort of epic genius at work here that SB is not privy to.]
I believe that the only reason I am writing this is to let everyone know I was not taken by aliens. I think that the government and the world will tell you that all the missing children and the Christians who have the Holy Spirit that have suddenly dissapeared were taken by aliens or maybe they will say it was a solar flare. Do not be surprised if you see lots of black objects in the sky, they are not from another world. They are part of "the devil's plan to confuse you. Everything you need to know is in Revelations, in the Bible.
You will be able to become a Christian after the Rapture, I do not know if the Holy Spirit will be here though. Do not accept the mark of the beast. I believe the Rapture will occur in the next few days. I have been attacked by evil several times this week and I am grateful that I was able to post this message. I will not be posting another message. I have no private agenda associated with this post. I am a happy disabled person who is not trying to write a book or introduce you to a website. This message is of pure intentions and love and I wish no one to be afraid. I want you to be ready and know that Jesus died for you and does not want you to go to Hell. He created Hell for fallen angels not humans. You will be able to accept Christ during the next 7 years.
[Bless him, at least he wants no one to be afraid. Isn't that novel? I am glad I can accept Christ as a backup plan if I need to.]
[This post is dedicated to my dear friend Syd, who has the SADS. I am hoping I can cheer him up some.]
Last night, I found out that a dear friend's husband has cancer. I think he'll be fine, he's young and in good shape, but it's still damn scary. I love my friend, who has had a string of really bad luck, and it makes me mad and gives me the SADS all at the same time.
I have another good friend, who is currently struggling with lung cancer. Her prognosis is good, but that word sure is scary, don't you think? That word scares hell out of me, and I don't scare easily.
This morning, I found out, while talking round the coffeemaker, that another friend, who lost his young wife unexpectedly, and then shortly after his mother (who had been helping a lot with his young kids after his wife died), now has his dad in the hospital with lung cancer. Goddamn it makes me mad for him. He said he didn't sleep well last night because he had a lot on his mind. This is what led to the conversation about his father.
Then, before I got away from the coffee room, another co-worker told me that his Grandma, who was in the hospital and about to come home yesterday, was found in her room (before checking out of the hospital) and had had some sort of seizure. Looks like she won't be checking out after all.
Life is hard, and you are lucky if you don't have big troubles. The Moms points stuff like this out to me when I am feeling depressed, and it makes me angry in a way, that in order to feel better about living, I have to look at some poor unfortunate person who has it worse, but I know it's true and that I don't have much to piss and moan about compared to a lot of folks.
Life is hard, and I am damn lucky.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The sun isn't the only source of light you know? Think of a cloudly day, there's light coming from somewhere.
[And also the light shines out of my behind.]
Do you think I have a problem? It's a rhetorical question, motherfuckers.
The daddum's ass doesn't even know how to copy and paste. Fucker is computer illiterate. I shit you not.
I am also going to ask every Christian who sees this video to make the same prayer once a day until your spine is crushed and you will never be able to walk again. The view count on this video will basically become a countdown to your injury. As the view count rises, that means more and more Christians are likely to have seen this video and have already started praying. If you decide you want to stop this from happening you must make a video proclaiming that you have accepted Jesus Christ into your heart and asking him to forgive you for your sins. After doing so I will immediately pull this video.
For those Christians who feel like this is too harsh, I believe that C0ct0pusPrime is too far gone to be able to reach salvation through rational discussion. Participating in this prayer may be our only hope of rescuing him from burning in agonizing pain for an eternity in the pits of hell."
[I am too fucking astounded to really comment on this one.]
The young man in the photo is getting a priceless education, and Mastercard can't buy that shit.
SB grew up in the country and this stuff happens. Hell, I thought the animals were just hugging as a kid. I didn't know. Whatever.
How is Pig Fucking Tuesday going for you all?
SB is still a grumpy motherfucker, due to the gray pigfucking weather, and I AM GOING TO SHANK A BITCH if I don't get some sun soon.
Monday, September 21, 2009
(later) [obviously, this took so much brain power to compose, this guy had to take a break and come back and finish it later]
ostriches are birds because they look like birds. flight is not necessary, if they are enough similar to a bird.
i wouldn't call penguins birds because they look kinda weird. a little birdish, but not entirely birds. they are waterbirds.
i think it's foolish to say that an animal is a different kind of animal just because it is warmblooded or coldblooded, or if it lays eggs instead of children, because a normal person can't even notice if a creature has warm blood or not, only scientists can do that, so scientists can have their definitions and we normal people have our own
This is one reason why abortion should be banned. People will probably eat fetuses when abortion is made legal.
Karl [Clearly, Karl won the Smartest title in high school.]
At first I thought I had hit the button on the door, when I realized I didn't and it kept happening, I asked my son's girlfriend is it was her, she said no.
As it kept happening we both became alarmed, she said it must be a ghost. I said they're is no such thing, I said it could be an evil spirit. I asked her is she was messing with anything she shouldn't "weegie board, etc". (excuse my spelling, not sure how to spell that board) She said no.
As the door locking and unlocking continued the more alarmed we got. My son's girlfriend said what should I do "she was driving" I said to pull into the upcoming shopping center and told her we should pray. [BIG EYE ROLL]
In prayer I asked the Lord to take away what ever it was and asked for His protection. I had absolute faith that as a child of God He would answer our prayer. My son's girlfriend agreed in prayer.
After we prayed the locking and unlocking of doors stopped, completely stopped. What the heck was this?
I haven't been spiritually attacked in a LONG time. I feel very secure in my faith and relationship with the Lord, why this now?
Any input will be greatly appreciated! [Trust me, SB's input would not be appreciated by Cookie.]
Date: 2009-07-12, 1:48AM CDT
I was having trouble finding the clinic Saturday morning, but then I saw you guys waving your signs around, and I knew exactly which exit to take.
I made it to my abortion with five minutes to spare. Keep up the good work!
Location: South Austin
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Updated on Sunday, September 20, 2009, 17:25 IST London: Robbie Williams has finally explained how he ballooned after his decision to retire.
First he explained that he had burnt out and wanted to do something substantial."I had burnt out. I was completely burnt out. That was it. I decided, I`m retiring. I didn`t say it but I thought it. I thought, I'm going to go off and do something else,” the News of the World quoted him as saying."I thought it would present itself to me. It would be a proper job. It would be humanitarian,” he added.
However, the singer confessed that he sat and ate till his waistline started increasing rapidly.He said: "I just sat on my a*** and ate. I was waiting on the sofa for something to happen and I wasn`t very pro-active about searching for this other job."
But the ‘Lazy Days’ hitmaker is making a comeback.
"Nothing came along and then the album presented itself. I`d got enough sleep and I was ready to come back and go, `Hey what do you think of this?`” he said.
Robbie still loves food and plans to lay back once he is done with the new album. He added: "If the world was going to end in three months I would gorge myself. So many times women get the man of their dreams, they get the ring on and eats lots of food and get massive. “And I`m reversing the roles. That`s what I`m going to do when this album's over."
The disciples ruin it for me, too, especially the current-day ones.
And I'm not posting funny shit today, because my ass doesn't feel like being funny. I am a grump, but the Moms did call and invite me over for homemade spaghetti tonight. So there's that to look forward to at least. I'm 40 some now, and that's all it takes to cheer me up from the appalling state of the nation. Homemade fucking spaghetti.
Link to Sheria's post: http://theexaminedlife-sheria.blogspot.com/2009/09/exploding-dream-deferred.html
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ekaterina supposedly screamed, "I'm going to kill myself. You are going to find me dead."
To which Ronnie replied:
"Fuck off home you slut."
As for the preaching of formal Christianity, I am all for it. What I can’t stand are sermons which say that to believe in the divinity of Jesus is a way to win.
By Andrew Purcell ⋅ March 17, 2009
This article first appeared in the Sunday Herald, in March 2006
Kurt Vonnegut is dwelling on the apocalypse. It’s not that his omelette isn’t good. It’s not that his mood is downcast, but for the third time over lunch America’s funniest and most pessimistic novelist is explaining why he will welcome the end of the world. “I don’t like life very much for what it does to other people,” he says. This is by no means the most depressing statement he makes between starter and main course, but somehow, by the time we leave the restaurant I feel inspired and full of hope.
Taken at face value, Vonnegut’s worldview is appallingly bleak. He tells me that “all the other species are dying and so will we.” He argues that almost everybody is “humiliated, frustrated, terribly disappointed ” and compares life to an enforced spell in the army lasting eighty years instead of three. An hour in the company of such an acutely-aware Eeyore could be dispiriting, were it not for his belief in the redemptive power of creativity and his endless capacity for jokes. “I’m whistling as I walk past the graveyard,” he admits, “and I’m whistling as beautifully as I can.”
A Man Without A Country has been presented as Vonnegut’s final testament, eight years after he announced that he would never publish again. It contains many familiar themes, some old gags, and several passages lifted verbatim from previous essays and speeches, most of which first appeared in the left-wing magazine In These Times. He credits his publisher, Daniel Simon, with “doing for me what Jesus did for Lazarus.”
“I was so dead I stank,” he continues, “I’m as surprised as anyone to be back at the age of eighty-three and I’m embarrassed to have lived so long. I was in a house fire some years ago and it would have been much more tasteful to have died back then.”
For all the references to his advanced years, and his continued loyalty to unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes, Vonnegut is in remarkably good health. His wheezing laugh, the tar pit depths of his baritone and the occasional coughing fit testify to seventy years of smoking, but he doesn’t light up. In New York, even literary icons must keep their habit at home. A glass of wine is declined because “it hits me too hard these days”.
It has often been remarked that as he grows older, he increasingly resembles Mark Twain, one of his heroes. The curls are tighter and darker, the moustache less pronounced, and despite his frailty he looks younger than Twain in his declining years, even though Huckleberry Finn’s creator never saw seventy-five. The photograph on the front cover of the new book, taken by his wife Jill Krementz, is a good one. “It’s a good face, fer chrissakes,” he cackles.
Manners are important to him, and he regrets their passing. He is unfailingly courteous, and once wrote that if he dined with Nixon’s defence secretary, he would discuss global annihilation with a smile. If promoting a new book is a chore, it never shows. He tells the waitress “this place is great… I eat less than this on Thanksgiving.”
And so on.
Born in Indianapolis in 1922, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was encouraged to believe that once the Great Depression was over technological advances would ensure prosperity for all. His father, an architect, insisted that he should become a scientist like his brother. “What actually happened,” he recalls in his collected speeches, “was that we dropped scientific truth on Hiroshima. We killed everybody there.”
As he had recently experienced his mother’s suicide, fought in World War Two and witnessed the fire-bombing of Dresden as a captive of the German army, he decided, not unreasonably, that there was no longer much cause for optimism. “I predicted that everything would become worse,” he says, “and everything has become worse.”
In 1958 his sister Alice died of cancer the day after her husband John was killed in a train crash. Vonnegut and his wife adopted their three children. They already had three of their own.
“I try to be truthful,” he continues, “My God, after the Holocaust isn’t it time we gave up as a species? After the First World War wasn’t it time we gave up? We’re perfectly awful animals and we’re intelligent enough to know about it.”
This dim view of the world permeates Vonnegut’s fiction, without ever becoming corrosive, thanks to an endless parade of wild ideas, elegantly constructed comic set-pieces and cheap one-liners. Slaughterhouse Five, widely regarded as his definitive statement, views the horrors of Dresden through the eyes of a man who has become unstuck in time. Billy Pilgrim leaps from 50s America to the planet Tralfamadore and back to Dresden again, a device Vonnegut describes as “the equivalent of [Shakespeare] bringing on the clowns every so often to lighten things up.”
Writing it was a painful experience lasting more than twenty years, and by the end all he felt able to conclude was “I’ve finished my war book now. The next one I write is going to be fun. This one is a failure, and had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt.”
The novel has been a staple of US high school reading lists for three decades now, but Vonnegut’s work remains under-appreciated next to his avant-garde peers Pynchon, Barth and Gaddis. For too long, critics and academics stacked all science-fiction with the trash, assuming that books thousands of teenagers were enjoying on their own time did not merit serious consideration.
That stigma has faded, but there is still a sense that Vonnegut is both too whimsical and too accessible for America’s literary custodians, an issue he has himself addressed, writing that “clarity looks a lot like laziness and ignorance and childishness and cheapness to them. Any idea which can be grasped immediately is for them, by definition, something they knew all the time.”
In A Man Without A Country, Vonnegut plays with this notion that he has been cheated of due recognition, claiming that he hasn’t been awarded the Nobel Prize for literature because he once ran a Saab dealership that went bust and consequently bad-mouthed the Swedes. “I think it was great that Pinter won,” he says “and it was a fine speech. Perhaps as a result of this book they’ll give me one too. I just need to make it to October and I get a million dollars.” He’s kidding, although his publisher points out that his work is always translated into Swedish, just to make sure it doesn’t slip past the committee.
If there is a lingering hunger for acceptance, Vonnegut hides it well. “I’m just the asshole who broke the bank at Monte Carlo,” he says, and if it’s a well-worn line, he seems ready enough to believe it.
“Listen, I have no idea how it happens,” he continues, “There are plenty of artists that have no idea how they did it. I don’t think any of us know what we are. I seem to have had a destiny, so I did it.
“Beethoven died shaking his fist at god because all this music was still pouring out of him. I don’t know how the hell I did it. What people say is they’re possessed, and I suspect that we’re more possessible than we realise. Something just takes over.”
Vonnegut has threatened to quit several times. Long before he formally declared that Timequake would be his last book, in 1997, he was fond of reminding people that of all the great writers only Tolstoy produced his best work after forty-five. Is there not some slim chance that he will be possessed again?
“I don’t care,” he answers, “I don’t think it would be particularly good news. I feel like I’ve fulfilled my destiny. I’m completely in print. I’ve been allowed to say everything I’ve wanted to say. I’ve said that this country needs another novel the way the world needs another Sistine Chapel or another Beethoven’s Ninth.”
As to what the country does need, Vonnegut is less sure. His last book, if it is his last, is an excoriating attack on modern American society in all its greed and stupidity, but there is no pay-off or conclusion. It ends not with a revolution but with a requiem.
Vonnegut’s contempt for George Bush and his government is expressed with great force and clarity in A Man Without A Country, but his feelings of alienation from his homeland are nothing new. In 1972 he covered the Republican Convention for Harper’s Magazine, describing Nixon as “the first President to hate American people and all they stand for.” It was there he concluded that the USA’s two party system is one of winners and losers, rather than Democrats and Republicans, and the winners win no matter who gets into office. This being so, surely there is some consolation in the fact that the current President is such a ripe satirical target?
“I suppose so,” he acknowledges, “but the country is terribly at risk, because his stupidities have terrible consequences, leading to deaths of many people, rotten schools, rotten healthcare. He should be protecting us not only from insurgents or terrorists but from disease and ignorance, and he’s not about to do either.
“Still, there’s not much difference. [John] Kerry said out of the side of his mouth at one point that he’s not for re-distributing wealth. He and George Bush belong to the same social class, went to the same university, belong to the same gentleman’s club. Can you believe that, in a country of 300 million people we have to choose between two members of skull and bones at Yale?”
Vonnegut votes Democrat, but describes himself as socialist, in the tradition of Carl Sandburg, Eugene Victor Debs and Powers Hapgood. Does he find it troubling that there is no socialist party of note in the US, that historians of the right can claim that the left has demonstrably failed?
“They have socialised medicine in Sweden and Canada, I wish to God we had it,” he says, “there are socialist experiments going on everywhere. In the Communist Manifesto what they demanded was free education and free healthcare. One of the most beneficial social experiments in this country was the GI Bill Of Rights – when we came home we could all go to college for free.”
This week George Bush used his annual State Of The Union address to declare that his government is meeting its responsibility to provide healthcare for the poor and the elderly and spearheading a global quest for peace. Vonnegut’s stump speech states the opposite. In the land of his internal exile corporate profiteers rule unchecked, extended families have been split into desperately vulnerable nuclear groups, “lethal injection and warfare are forms of entertainment” and Americans are “as feared and hated all over the world as the Nazis once were.”
When challenged about this last statement, Vonnegut repeats that Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney are “jut-jawed, like Nazis” and argues that the main difference is that the Germans were justly feared for their military prowess.
“We have no army,” he says, “What makes us the most powerful nation on earth is our willingness to kill people in their thousands with remote-controlled missiles, the fact that we’re prepared to set off nuclear explosions in the middle of unarmed people - men, women and children.
“Only one country has been crazy enough to set off a nuke in the middle of a civilian population. Did it twice, and that’s when members of my generation, soldiers, could see that ‘we’re not the good guys anymore’. We were very careful not to hurt civilians.”
In his rage and despair he invokes the true guardians of America’s soul, quoting from Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address and Christ’s Sermon On The Mount. For a confirmed Humanist, he mentions the Beatitudes surprisingly often, arguing that the President’s fundamentalist friends have forgotten the meek, the merciful, and the peacemakers.
Vonnegut once observed that he was at his funniest two days after Martin Luther King was shot, because he was speaking to an audience “full of pain that they couldn’t do anything about… there was an enormous need to either laugh or cry”.
The punchline count is high in A Man Without A Country, as it has been in every one of his novels. On the very first page he explains that as the youngest child in a family of five, making jokes was the only way to get noticed in adult conversation. Reporting on the fall of Biafra in 1970, he noticed he still cracked wise as the Nigerian army approached, writing that “joking was my response to misery I couldn’t do anything about.”
Crucially, it has not been his only reflex. What elevates his work above gallows humour and exposes him as an idealist in pessimist’s clothing is his palpable compassion and the way in which he appeals to the better nature of his readers. “Practicing any art is a way to make your soul grow,” he writes, and it is clear that this has been his own salvation.
He raises a Virgin Mary: “To the Arts”
Later, when the food arrives, Vonnegut talks about the teacher who inspired him, James C. Bean, reminding us that “the Great Depression was going on, and there were no good jobs, so it was a wonderful break to get to be a teacher or a mailman. Some of the best and smartest people in Indianapolis were teaching in school.
“All it takes is one great teacher,” he continues, and though he would never be so conceited as to admit it, he has evidently been that teacher, for his seven children, for students at various American universities, and for three generations of science-fiction fans.
What he has consistently taught is that art alone can rescue his homeland, through a series of personal revolutions. This belief in the transformative power of creativity is expressed beautifully in the preface to Wampeters, Foma, and Granfalloons (Opinions). He writes: “I now believe that the only way in which Americans can rise above their ordinariness, can mature sufficiently to rescue themselves and to help rescue the planet, is through enthusiastic intimacy with works of their own imaginations.
“I am not especially satisfied with my own imaginative works, my fiction. I am simply impressed by the unexpected insights which shower down on me when my job is to imagine, as contrasted with the woodenly familiar ideas which clutter my desk when my job is to tell the truth.”
At eighty-three years old, Vonnegut has been convinced by a publisher from his children’s generation that his last task is to tell the truth. He has decided that the proximity of environmental catastrophe will probably make him unfunny for the rest of his life. He is unrepentant in his pessimism, and he wishes he wasn’t a writer. He wishes, as he has always wished, that he was a musician.
“Music gives pleasure as we never can,” he reasons, “I’ve said that the purpose of the arts is to make people like life more than they had done before, and people ask me if I’ve seen this done and I say ‘yes, the Beatles did it’ – it was an amazing event .”
In Breakfast Of Champions, Vonnegut’s satirical take on the madness of consumer society, science-fiction writer Kilgore Trout longs to be seen as “a representative of all the thousands of artists who devoted their entire lives to a search for truth and beauty – and didn’t find doodley-squat.” It is his master’s voice. Vonnegut’s lifetime of searching has left him weary, and he is reluctant to claim much credit for the wonders he has unlocked for millions of readers. As he climbs into the back seat of the car he offers this parting shot: “Remember, I don’t know how I did it.”
I had an interesting talk with my pastor the other day. I showed him the posts of one "atheist female" from these boards and he was horrified to see that she is a mother. Hundreds of Christian women are unable to have children because Satan gives children to atheistic females. It's a also fact that atheistic females have a sexual contact with males outside the holy wedlock, for they are sinful and full of lust. They don't have right to carry children in their wombs. It is illegal and against the word of God. I don't want my child who is 9 years old to go to the same school with the child whose godfather is Satan. No, no! I shall not tolerate this any longer!
You atheists walk the earth only to blaspheme His Holy Name and His only Son Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost! How dare you? Live your pathetic lives and only when you surrender your life to the Christ shall you proliferate by the blessing of the Church. God bless you all to find the way out of Satan and if not may he smite you if his vengeance for your filthy and life full of debauchery.
[There is a lot of damn smiting going on amongst Christians. I don't think Jesus would want us to go around smiting other folks. In general, I don't think a loving God is a pro-smiting God. Your thoughts?]
What are y'all having for breakfast this morning?
NOTE: Good news for you folks up north, eh? I understand that Easy Cheese just became available in Canada.
As I've said before I agree with almost everything that ever came out of Kurt Vonnegut's dear mouth. And Carl Sandburg? Who could forget that fog comes on little cat feet? It was kind of Mr. Sandburg to point that out to us. It is one of my favorite poems. It was even short enough, that my dumb ass could memorize it. Wasn't that kind of him? It saved my ass in English class a few times.
Let me state right here (and if SB ever runs for office, and I might, you have it here definitively) that I am a socialist. Some pinhead with a bullhorn yelled at all of us lined up to get into a Kerry/Edwards rally years ago, that we were all a bunch of damn communists. After being momentarily startled that anybody actually still considered communism a threat, I yelled back that he had it wrong and that I was actually a damned socialist.
I believe in universal healthcare. I believe that the wealthy should pay more taxes than the poor or middle class. I could go on and on, but Mr. Vonnegut put it all so much better than I ever could.
So, here you go: http://www.vonnegutweb.com/archives/arc_carlsandburgaward.html
Please read it. I don't ask for much, but I'm asking this of you. You won't regret it. I promise.
And God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut. Wherever you are.
[This one is for my adopted sister, May, who is busting her ass waitressing and saying how a lot of people leave shitty tips.]
[SB bartended for a number of years. I miss it everyday of my life. I loved shooting the shit with people. And, no, I did not flip the bottles like that closeted dick, Tom Cruise. My ass is uncoordinated, and I would have been breaking bottles all over the fucking place and that would have gotten my clumsy ass fired. Instead, I gave away multitudes of free booze to friends, and that got me fired instead.]
One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell
Always be carefull
When you abuse the one you love
The hour or the day
No one can tell
But one day
Goodbye will be farewell, and
You will never see the one you love again
You will never see the one you love again
I have been thinking
What, with my final brain cell
How time grips you
Sliding in it's spell
And before you know
Goodbye will be farewell, and
You will never see the one you love again
And the smiling children, tell you that you smell
Well, just look at me
A savage beast
With nothing to sell
And when I die
I want to go to hell
And that's when
Goodbye should be farewell
One day goodbye will be farewell
So grab me while you still have the time
Thursday, September 17, 2009
[NOTE: Yes, I stole the idea from the Shit My Dad Says site, but it's my goddamn blog, and I'll do whatever the fuck I want.]
I met the She Wolf singer a few weeks ago and she is a fine looking woman.
Not that Posh has got anything to worry about.
Shakira is happily married and DAVID is always talking about how much he adores his missus.
Becks met up with the pop star at a fundraiser for CHOC Children's Hospital in California on Tuesday.
Looks like she was a big hit.
[SB had to comment. This is what I submitted.]
To Mary Boyd: intolerant? Looks like you're intolerant of homophobes. I'm going to call you Bitch okay? Bitch, there are many reasons as to why homosexuality is fucked up. Number 1, it's by choice. If it was genetic, hey, not their fault their genes are fucked up, but when a person willingly chooses to become gay that's when I get angry. Not only am I angry that Gay's even exist, i'm pissed that you consider Gays as people. These 'people' want special rights for them and THEM only. Since when has being a fag entitled you to having extra rights? You know what they did back in the biblical times? They killed gays. That's right, stoned their asses to death. You know why? Because God hates gays. By not hating gays, you're disobeying him, and you don't want to go to hell do you?
Danny Jung [SB would like to beat Danny Jung's dumb ass.]
BAD CHURCH WOMEN ON GOD’S HIT LIST
Stubborn women will use their own money to purchase clothes to get a man regardless if he or God is pleased with their choice of garments.
DUET 22:5 Women shall not wear that which pertains (has reference to or looks like mans), (lesbian pants suits, etc.), for all that do so are abomination (disgusting, hated and loathed) unto the lord “your” God. 1 PET 3:1
[What in Sam fuck are lesbian pants suits? Any lesbians who can help us out here? I like the way this pinhead feels it necessary to define abomination. Even he knows his average reader is mentally challenged.]
Likewise, you wives be in subjection to your own husbands (obey his orders without question); Most women choose to be damned before they will obey a simple command from God or man. [I know I do.]
To God women wearing pants have the look of a whore and if they continuing therein will burn in hellfire. Some wear pants so tight their vagina separates and slices their buttocks in half for men to be tempted and turn from God laws of holiness. [Obviously this grammar-challenged moron has been checking that shit out closely. If he would have used the word "camel-toe," he sure would have saved a lot of typing.] When women young or old are raped because of skimpy and revealing clothes, floss beach suits, etc. they ask for it. [Stone-aged cocksucker.]
Dr R M Hands [What is this guy doctor of? Fuckery? Does anyone else find this really scary? It's probably some sort of mail-order college of ministry. He found it while checking out the ads for floss underwear in the back of Rolling Stone.]
Are some things still worth dying for?
Is the American idea one such thing?
Are you up for a thought experiment?
What if we chose to regard the 2,973 innocents killed in the atrocities of 9/11 not as victims but as democratic martyrs, “sacrifices on the altar of freedom”?
In other words, what if we decided that a certain baseline vulnerability to terrorism is part of the price of the American idea? And, thus, that ours is a generation of Americans called to make great sacrifices in order to preserve our democratic way of life—sacrifices not just of our soldiers and money but of our personal safety and comfort?
In still other words, what if we chose to accept the fact that every few years, despite all reasonable precautions, some hundreds or thousands of us may die in the sort of ghastly terrorist attack that a democratic republic cannot 100-percent protect itself from without subverting the very principles that make it worth protecting?
Is this thought experiment monstrous? Would it be monstrous to refer to the 40,000-plus domestic highway deaths we accept each year because the mobility and autonomy of the car are evidently worth that high price?
Is monstrousness why no serious public figure now will speak of the delusory trade-off of liberty for safety that Ben Franklin warned about more than 200 years ago? What exactly has changed between Franklin’s time and ours? Why now can we not have a serious national conversation about sacrifice, the inevitability of sacrifice—either of (a) some portion of safety or (b) some portion of the rights and protections that make the American idea so incalculably precious?
In the absence of such a conversation, can we trust our elected leaders to value and protect the American idea as they act to secure the homeland? What are the effects on the American idea of Guantánamo, Abu Ghraib, Patriot Acts I and II, warrantless surveillance, Executive Order 13233, corporate contractors performing military functions, the Military Commissions Act, NSPD 51, etc., etc.? Assume for a moment that some of these measures really have helped make our persons and property safer—are they worth it?
Where and when was the public debate on whether they’re worth it? Was there no such debate because we’re not capable of having or demanding one? Why not? Have we actually become so selfish and scared that we don’t even want to consider whether some things trump safety? What kind of future does that augur?
I heard the school bus this morning and thought for a moment, "Oh shit, I've missed the damn bus." Instantly, my ears pick out that specific sound, and nearly 25 years later, I still feel like I should be getting on the damn bus. I still associate fall with returning to school or college. It makes me feel out of sorts and melancholy. So much of my life is behind me now.
The music suitable for melancholy moods is definitely Morrissey. I adore him. In fact, if I were on a deserted island, I would choose to take Morrissey and Rufus Wainwright as my sole/soul music. SB is a gay man trapped in a woman's body. What can I say?
I argue with a friend of mine about Morrissey. I insist that he's a lyrical genius. For me, he ranks right under Johnny Mercer.
Ironically, one of the songs I have is Morrissey singing Moon River by Mercer/Mancini. It's terrific. Of course, Morrissey fucks with the lyrics a little, and this would have pissed Johnny off, but he's dead. So fuck it.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Did you get a load of all those fat asses in line for Dippin Dots? Who the fuck wants to eat dried ice cream anyway? Even the astronauts didn't want to eat that crap. They wanted good old Carvel or some shit.
There must be some sort of law of physics about fat motherfuckers and their attraction to Dippin Dots.
[Okay, I said it.]
At the time, Grandma's ass had been slaving away on an afghan blanket and found it only partially amusing when Fred (the feline) settled down for a cozy nap on her work (the afghan, in case I need to spell it out for you dumb fuckers).
After the Mom's and my visit, the Mom's went to retrieve napping Fred from the knitting basket, and Grandma decided to show Moms the progress she'd made on the blanket. The afghan was nearly done! Grandma could picture that shit on the back of her Regency davenport, which looked like it belonged in a damn French whore house. (We don't even want to discuss THE LAMP--this is how it is referred to in my family to this day--only as, THE LAMP--which had the tiny torsos of two naked blond whores, missing most of their arms, and perhaps meant to be miniature mastheads. ON A LAMP. But I digress.)
Anyhoo, when Grandma unfurled her formerly magnificent afghan, there were several gaping holes in it. IN THE MIDDLE. In fact, there were A WHOLE LOT OF HOLES. Fred had sucked holes in Grandma's masterwork. The Moms apologized and hussled Fred's nonplussed ass out, but I'm not sure Grandma EVER got over it. It was a BONE OF CONTENTION.
Grandma was not an animal lover, in general, and she once traumatized a cage-escaped hamster of my dad's by sitting on it and mashing it with the pressure of her petite ass. The unfortunate creature had somehow wedged itself between the cushions and the couch, perhaps seeking warmth. Grandma only found out later, when she was vacuuming underneath the sofa cushions. For some reason, there was not an odor.
The hamsters were not fans of Grandma, AND GRANDMA WAS NO FAN OF CATS.
As I said when this subject first came up, once again: Penises are not just for sex & peeing. It is only because man is evil that he thinks of penises exclusively in those terms.
Man is made in the image of God the Father. That is the primary reason why man has a penis.
You cannot insert your evil prejudicial ideas of man's penis onto God - which is exactly what you are doing. God's Penis is not equal to man's penis. It's really not hard to understand.
[I guess Heaven is a lot like Congress then.]
if we came from apes
how come were not hairy and have a big mouth
and did we end up looking like we do know
there isnt any serious proof of apes
they showd a video saying an ape was wondering around in the forest
that thing looked exactly like a costume that i had saw at a store
know one ever cought an ape
[I think this one speaks for itself.]
Note: The quotes I am featuring are actual comments from the Internet.
--Senate Commerce Committee Chairman Ted Steven (R-AK), explaining the workings of the Internet during a debate on net neutrality
Doesn't the wool make this guy's pecker itch? My vag itches just thinking about it.
[Comments about my vag are unwelcome.]
Substitute cell phone for Facebook page, and I would totally agree.
I just want to say thank you.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
It just walked away. You should see/hear it. IT DOES NOT TAKE A DAMN BREATH AT ALL. You cannot get a word in NO MATTER WHAT. FUCK ME.
Sartre was right. Hell REALLY is other people.
To Charlie Rose on his early suck-cess.
"The problem was I started out, I think, wanting to be a writer and wanting to get some attention and I got it really quick and . . . realized it didn’t make me happy at all, in which case, “Hmm. Why am I writing?” You know, “What’s the purpose of this?” And I don’t think it’s substantively different from the sort of thing — you know, somebody who wants to be a really successful cost accountant, right, and be a partner of his accounting firm and achieves that at 50 and goes into something like a depression. “The brass ring I’ve been chasing does not make everything okay.” So that’s why I’m embarrassed to talk about it. It’s just not particularly interesting. It’s — what it is, is very, very average."
Dave hung himself a year ago on September 12th. I wonder what he would have made of this mess the country is in right now? I miss his generous spirit and his humor nearly every day. God bless him.
This blend of beans from East Africa is balanced and complex, with delicate acidity and a flavorful interplay of exotic floral and citrus notes. Available: 1 lb bags of (STARBUCKS) RED whole bean coffee available at participating Starbucks stores in the U.S. and Canada and online in the U.S. (STARBUCKS) RED 12 oz ground coffee bags also available at Target! Price: 1 lb whole bean bag: $11.95 (US) with $1 (US) contribution and 12 oz. ground bag: $.075 (US) being contributed to help eliminate AIDS in Africa.
This is truly excellent coffee for an excellent cause. And no, SB is not making a cent to shill Starbucks (wish I was).
I have received a fair amount of compliments when I brew this coffee for company, and I, personally, love it. SB doesn't drink cheap shit, motherfuckers! Conceivably, my ass could be killed on the road on the way into work, and I don't want my last cup of coffee to have been shit coffee. Got me?
This coffee is a tad bit expensive, but pony up, motherfuckers. After all, Africa is the original cradle of mankind. It is all of our Motherland, and we all should care about its plight and the plight of its peoples.
Fork it over, bitches!
Monday, September 14, 2009
SB BITTERLY remembers the year she dressed as an elegant Sleeping Beauty (the OFFICIAL DISNEY COSTUME, peeps!), and it was slightly cold, so the Moms gave me the choice to wear a coat UNDER the fucking princess costume and look like a damn fat-ass or OVER the costume of splendor and look like a dork. The Moms didn't want me to catch cold and miss school, because then she couldn't watch her soaps or eat her damn bon-bons in peace.
All you stay-at-home moms know that if the kiddies are home sick, then you can't eat the entire package of bon-bons or guzzle your morning bourbon. Just admit that shit right now! You bitches know who you are, AND SO DO WE, because you smell like a damn distillery at the PTA meetings.
[Tip for stay-at-home moms: switch to vodka, bitches.]
"It's kind of a really bad Johansen translation of Virgil. But it's an aphorism that I think is apropos. You look at the newspaper and you say, "The world's going to hell in a hand-basket." But in five years, everybody's gonna be saying, "Those were the good old days."
“In real life I always seem to have a hard time winding up a conversation or asking somebody to leave, and sometimes the moment becomes so delicate and fraught with social complexity that I’ll get overwhelmed trying to sort out all the different possible ways of saying it and all the different implications of each option and will just sort of blank out and do it totally straight—‘I want to terminate the conversation and not have you be in my apartment anymore’—which evidently makes me look either as if I’m very rude and abrupt or as if I’m semi-autistic and have no sense of how to wind up a conversation gracefully. Somehow, in other words, my reducing the statement to its bare propositional content ‘sends a message’ that is itself scanned, sifted, interpreted and judged by my auditor, who then sometimes never comes back. I’ve actually lost friends this way.”
Friday, September 11, 2009
It looks like Jennifer Aniston and Gerard Butler can't stay away from each other. After wrapping "The Bounty" here, the co-stars, back in LA, met up for a quiet dinner Wednesday at Cliff's Edge restaurant. According to X17online, they "appeared incredibly affectionate with one another" and were "kissing, hugging and leaning in to talk to each other for over two hours."
If this is true, that fucker better run like hell. Jennifer Aniston is a love Jonah.
GRANDMA: Well, don't tell your parents I told you, but the kids at school are right. There is no Santa Clause.
This was a conversation (nearly word for word) between poor Grandma Peg and I, when SB was a little manipulative fucker. My ass was either a harsh negotiator or a valiant truthseeker. I'll go with valiant truthseeker.
[Link to Shit My Dad Says: http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays]
"Why the fuck would I want to live to 100? I'm 73 and shit's starting to get boring. By the way, there's no money left when I go, just fyi."
SB is getting pretty damn bored with life too. Seriously. I really am getting to be a jaded motherfucker. I've seent it all. Maybe death will be something new, unless reincarnation is true, and I've already died hundreds (maybe thousands) of times. Then death will be boring as fuck too.
I saw my dead Grandma Peg in a dream once, and I asked her the question we all want to know, right? Grandma, what's being dead like? What's it like?
She said, "Well honey, it's pretty boring to tell the truth."
GREAT. More of the same.
SB did have a boss once, who in the interest of discretion shall be nameless (David Mazer), who had all the warmth of Mr. Spock. I remember he once said in a meeting that he would "have to see some data on that." I shit you not. He really did. You sort of had to be there. He said it with no inflection whatsoever. That shit was robotic.
After that, sometimes when Mr. SB and I argued, we'd say to each other: I don't know--I'd have to see some data on that. Then we'd both laugh uproariously, and then we'd bare our teeth and go back to ripping chunks out of each other emotionally. It broke the necrotic acid-leeching tension for about 10 seconds. So that's good, right?
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Gwen Stefani and her husband, Gavin Rossdale, brought some Hollywood-like glamour to the Standard Grill the other night. Stefani, who shows her L.A.M.B. collection at Milk Studios today, was feted by a group including Anna Wintour with Shelby Bryan, Aerin Lauder, Macy's CEO Terry Lundgren and his wife, Tina, Teen Vogue editor Amy Astley, and Standard Hotel owner Andre Balazs. The room hushed as Stefani made her entrance "like a blond young version of Elizabeth Taylor," gushed an admirer.
Starting us off:
09/10/2009 11:00 AM
Totally agree Joe Wilson for President! O'Bama actually believes he can walk on water.
This dumb motherfucker actually thinks Obama is Irish and that Joe Wilson should be elected President. Need I say more?
Number of brain cells this commenter can rub together: +/- 2
Little Bastards in WI Get What's Coming to Them But I'd Still Like to Beat Their Dumb Asses with a Baseball Bat
I think the republicans made it clear last night, that despite the fact that they nearly ruined this great nation during George W. Bush's tenure, they are not only NOT going to help us dig out, but they are going to actively work AGAINST patching our damaged and bleeding country up. They were rude to our President. They were disruptive. They were vindictive. They were no more than than a bunch of petulant angry children. They are a bunch of sore losers, and they showed their stripes last night for all the nation and the world to see.
Fuck you republican assholes. We'll clean it up without you and in spite of you.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Star-crossed days and too much rain
By Jane Fishman
It's one thing to see the "check engine" light in my car when it's parked in front of my house (and when I just got it back from the shop), but to go to the mechanic, again, and to see no sign of any trouble is another.
It's kind of like waking up to a good hair day when you're supposed to get it cut. Or walking into the swanky Bohemian hotel on Bay Street, and wondering how to explain the name. Was it referring to Gypsies? Artists? Counter-culture sorts?
We know there will be disconnected events, but all in a two-day stretch? The moon must be in retrograde. Maybe it has something to do with the rain.
Chickens to Wi-Fi
One day recently, I got home in time to see our recently acquired free-range bantam chickens, Sarah and Marcus, new pets/diversionary items, grazing in the yard next door, days before we install their new plush living quarters. Was it something I said? You're too young to fly the coop, you hear?
The next day, thinking I finally had some luck going because I beat the rain, I started up the steps to the second floor of the public library, only to be told I can't take a cup of coffee inside when many libraries have their own coffee shops on the premises.
I'll show them, I thought, and left. Looking for a new hangout, something anonymous, I ventured into Starbucks, got settled with a pricey coffee, opened my laptop, only to find you have to pay for Wi-Fi (unless you have a Starbucks card). Foiled again. Fortunately, I live near the down-home Krystal, which offers free Wi-Fi on KrystalHotSpot. Now, that's some crazy stuff.
While I lounged at Krystal on some weak but cheap coffee, I took out the September Harper's magazine (now a whopping $6.95) to read in its well-sourced, well-documented Index page that seven in 10 Americans bankrupted by health insurance HAD health insurance, that profits of the top 10 insurance companies have skyrocketed 428 percent. This, a day after submitting myself, out of obligation, to listening to yet another debate on health care only to realize there are people in this nation crying about "socialized medicine" who don't know that Medicare, a highly bloated but decidedly successful program, is a federal program. I guess we are socialists after all.
There's no wonder why some of us spent more time than we needed last weekend checking back on Tiger Woods' final round, played in front of the Statue of Liberty in New York. Would he make one of his famed comebacks? Would he throw a club? Would we get to see his young children?
Or why we found ourselves glued to the Ted Kennedy funeral, wondering how his emotional and seemingly unstable and uncomfortable second son, Patrick, ever got himself elected to anything, ever got into politics. Or why we teared up when we saw any hint of Ethel (Kennedy) or any other mop-headed offspring of the fabled and star-crossed clan.
I think it's called displaced emotions.
It's a good thing there's Facebook.
But even that is losing its appeal. I'm beginning to have the same push-pull emotions toward Facebook that I have about the National Enquirer. They're both easily accessible, both hard to resist. And they both have nothing to do with me.
During a recent trip to see my mother, I was in the beauty shop with her when a fellow resident had the latest issue of the tabloid. Angie kicks Brad out of the bedroom, the headline read. The woman holding the tabloid was sitting under the dryer with her hair in curlers. She was about 110. I needed every bit of self-control I could muster not to grab the paper out of her hands. It was like staring at a piece of chocolate. I needed it, and I need it then.
That's how Facebook is to me. Or was. Until I realized I've been using it as a voyeur (one step short of being a stalker) much the same way some pervert would use a pair of binoculars on my bedroom. I am reading exchanges between people that were not meant for me. Oops. Make that "friends." I am flipping through someone else's photo album at people I don't know. I might as well be reading someone else's mail. And that's kind of icky.
I can see why parents might want to be on (to keep tabs of their kids) or merchandisers (to make money) or nonprofits (a new form of press release) but when someone who already has my e-mail address and phone number, and knows where I live, starts contacting me through Facebook, I have to wonder. When did this disconnect between people start?
Back in sixth grade we had something called "slam books." Everyone's name in the class was listed at the top of a page. The book, a notebook, was passed around for people to make comments about everyone else. My stomach does butterflies just thinking about it. Not exactly like Facebook but an early type of voyeuristic activity, an early form of "social networking."
It might be time to open a hardcover book, to write a letter or to ride my bike to the Bohemian hotel and have a beer. It might be time to go bohemian.
Jane Fishman's columns appear biweekly in Accent. Contact her at email@example.com.