When time is short, I rely on photos to cover my… bases. This is such a post. Herewith, three photos that make me say, “Huh?”
The age of specialization has gone too far. What? You can’t clean your own bass before you throw it in the Bass-O-Matic???
Oh snap! Since when did Ben and Jerry’s qualify as “supplemental nutrition”?
Yeah, and we really, really mean it this time.
It’s been accurately observed that toy guns are more rigorously regulated than the real thing. I for one think this is an abomination for our country. It’s time to end the madness.
That’s why I’m announcing the creation of the NTRA: the National Toy Rifle Association to send the message to the Buster-Brown-booted thugs:
Adults aren’t the only ones protected by the 2nd amendment. The right to arm toddlers shall not be infringed.
Just because some wimpy, timid housewife told her little boy, “You’ll shoot your eye out”, are we going to live in fear? No! If she’d listened to little Ralphie, her home wouldn’t have been overrun by Black Bart and his gang, known communist sympathizers.
If we give up our toy guns, the terrorists win. Who’s going to defend America then? No matter that a paintball or cap gun won’t do much to protect us from missiles and nuclear devices. This is a matter of principle!
Remember: If they take away your water gun today, they’ll take away your water tomorrow! Super Soakers don’t soak people, people soak people. If you want to keep people dry, we need MORE water guns, not fewer.
It’s time to say “enough is enough”. For those of us who can stand up, it’s time to stand up for our rights. The rest of us will just sit and fuss.
You can have my toy gun when you pry it from my stinky, poopy diaper.
Check out the first line of this sign. It’s supposed to be a pun on the fact that the restaurant in question will tow a drunk patron’s car home. I applaud the intent but question the implementation.
If I’m too drunk to drive (which would be a major miracle since I don’t drink alcohol at all) what are the odds I’ll understand this message, much less appreciate the attempt at humor?
In fact, when I saw it, I started to question my own sobriety. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Why does it say “Tow Drunk”? Did they think “Two” was the right word and transposed a couple of letters?
It boggled my mind so much that I was forced to publish this lame post in an effort to avoid being overcome altogether.
In which case, I’d probably need to be tooed.
(Sorry. I’m in the midst of a family crisis while also readying a book for publishing. Thus, the blog loses. This, such as it is, is the best I can deliver today.)
No time this week to devote to a fully developed article.
This excuse might wear on some nerves – I’ve used it more than my share of times – but it can’t be helped. If you knew my situation, I’m certain you would agree. Nevertheless, I’ve made a pact with myself and my readers to put something out here every other week (and on LITL on the in-between weeks). Rather than shortchange you, I’m publishing a longer one than usual… if you buy into the maxim that a picture is worth a thousand words.
For reasons I won’t get into, I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals lately. Based on the way people park in those places, you’d think they were hospitals for antisocial morons. This is just a small sample. There were many, many more examples. A hospital? Come on, folks! As tempting as it is, I would never key a car. But it’s hard to suppress the hope that someone will.
This is my new hero, unicycling the San Marcos Pass in Santa Barbara, CA.
I went inside, but there was nothing apply in there – no apply pie, no turnovers, nothing. Oh, the scourge of ambiguity!
Finally, the power of cattle leg oil in a shampoo. What a great country we live in!
These are not good days for reality. They haven’t been for some time, but the old boy’s decline seems to be hastening. From all indications, people don’t have a lot of use for reality.
As an entity, reality has been, as we were wont to say in the software world, deprecated. That means it’s still out there somewhere, but you’re discouraged from using it. It’s just as well. It’s getting as hard to recognize as it is scarce.
The reality (there’s that word again) of the situation has been driven home for me most recently with the suddenly huge and profitable enterprise known as fantasy football. Fantasy sports have been around for a while, mostly played out among friends and co-workers. The lunatic fringe started getting involved. That was bad enough. Then it became Big Business, giving us all the gift of legalized gambling in all 50 states.
The fantasy versions of sports have surpassed their reality counterparts in importance to many people. At least it’s called “fantasy” because it isn’t “real”. (Would that TV showed the same discretion, q.v. below.) Unfortunately, some people take it to extremes and trade reality in for fantasy. They forget the actual sport – or worse, interfere with the actual sport! – in favor of the fantasy version. Read “Fantasyland” by Sam Walker for a glimpse at the insanity of it all in baseball.
Worse is when we slap the word “reality” on things that are anything but. It should come as a surprise to exactly no one that I’m talking about so-called reality TV. And by reality I mean fantasy. How did that happen? In this case, reality refers to something that is surreal, absurd, contrived, and a slew of other qualities that are in reality (I mean it this time) descriptive of things such as fiction, fantasy, and general nonsense.
That situation isn’t all that distinct from the average based-on-fact movie today. Maybe in days of yore movies that were about people or things that actually existed were factual. There’s no such pretense these days. Movies simply aren’t telling true stories anymore. In order to squeeze into the save-the-cat mold or whatever other generic screenwriting template is in vogue, films are dramatized often to the point of camouflaging the truth beyond recognition. You see the disclaimers at the end of the ridiculously long credits:
Although this movie is based on actual events that may or may not have happened, none of the characters are real. The settings and dialogue have been fabricated for dramatic effect. Organizations depicted herein are not and have never been and most likely never will be real. The story has been twisted like a Möbius strip in order to maximize income for the producers. However, it is true that there once was a guy.
Movies use a variety of descriptions that, if analyzed correctly, reveal how far they’ve drifted from historical veracity. Here’s a sample:
Reality. 
I miss it.
It seems to be the Season of the Blowhard. Look who’s grabbing headlines on the sports page and the front page:
On the one hand, we have Rex Ryan. Erstwhile failure coach of the New York Jets, subsequently hired by a rival team in the AFC East. Now he’s the failure coach of the Buffalo Bills. Why would the Bills hire this guy who is a proven failure? Because he sells tickets and that’s what the game is all about – not wins and losses but dollars and cents. Ownership knew he’d publicly obsess over trying to beat the Patriots, rant and rave about how it’s someone else’s fault when they lose, and generally be quotable. If they’re lucky, there will be some foot fetish humor thrown in for good measure. He doesn’t have to be a success as a coach as long as he’s a media celebrity.
Sure enough, Ryan has gotten plenty of coverage in the sports pages, though precious little success on the field. Six weeks into the season and his players are already rebelling, questioning his coaching. In his absence, the New York Jets are having their best start in years. Coincidence? Yeah, right.
Then there’s The Donald. Nobody in their right mind could possibly want this clown representing the USA to the world. His candidacy is a joke. He’ll say or do something stupid and implode as all joke candidates do. Then it’s feast time for political pundits, talking heads, and editorial cartoonists and the scrap heap for Kombover King.
It’s happened before. Poor Howard Dean got bounced just for screaming, “yeeaahhh!” Who remembers 1988? Gary Hart’s libido and his aptly named boat, “Monkey Business” sank his quest for the presidency. That same year, Pat Robertson finished in front of George H. W. Bush in the Iowa caucuses. Everyone thought he was a serious candidate. He wasn’t. Neither is Trump.
As far as I can tell, Ryan and Trump are twins separated at birth (16 years apart). There’s no “there” there. Their value is purely as entertainment, which works great since that’s what most news is these days. All it takes is a buffoon or other freak frothing at the mouth and the video truck will cling to them like a remora, waiting for a juicy news bite.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen those two together. Hmmmm…
Whenever the subject of book tours is brought up in the company of writers, they all talk about how much they dread them. The travel, the repetitive questions, the crowds or the absence of them. I can’t imagine why they don’t enjoy the experience. If I had a book tour, believe me, I’d make the most of it. Easy to say since the prospect is slim for me. I can always dream.
If it’s any consolation to those jaded scribes, I enjoy hearing author presentations of any kind. The standard format is to have the authors read excerpts from their work then endure a line of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of autograph hounds. Serious RSI potential.
One of my favorite writers, Mark Helprin, did the signing thing but declined to read from his book, claiming that there were only a few great actors in the world and there was no way he could do his prose justice with his weak performance skills. There’s a lot of truth in what he said. What’s the point in hearing him read his own stuff anyway? Usually, I’ve already read it. If I’m there, I’m probably a fan so he doesn’t have to sell me on the book.
Instead of reading, Helprin described fascinating, often bizarre experiences he’d had. Not surprising, since his books are filled with such occurrences. He concluded his talk by urging his readers to follow his example by keeping our eyes open to the amazing things that happen around us all the time. (That’s heavily paraphrased. My addled memory can’t recall his exact words and my comparatively pathetic prose can’t come anywhere near his lofty standard.)
In the spirit of his admonition, and my unwillingness to devote too much time to this post in the face of deadlines and exhaustion, I present some photos of things I’ve observed in recent months. Since each is worth 1,000 words, this could be my longest post of all.
Enjoy, but then go out and have your own experiences.
I saw these two buses drive off a ferry recently. Which one would you prefer to ride, “Elite” or “Lamers”?
This is what’s called a “no-brainer”. Who’s the marketing wizard who came up with “Lamers” for a name? It’s almost certainly a person’s name – a person who put his (or her) ego before the company’s best interests.
This guy was giving away ice cream in downtown Boston. I love this town!
A visitor on the bike path. Is it any wonder I spend as much time there as possible?
What’s cooler than hanging out on the front porch of a general store? Especially Alley’s. (Martha’s Vineyard)
There’s something inspiring about these two trees seeming to grow out of nothing but rock. (Acadia National Park)
As much as I hate to revisit and flog a deceased equine, my time is limited by other projects and general life stress. Thus I’m back to a favorite topic of an unfavorite movie: Boyhood.
My original lambasting of the aforementioned over-hyped project was written several months ago. Recently, however, while stuck in a holding position over personal issues, the topic came back to mind. My primary critique of the film, held in common with others in the blogosphere, is that it was not a great movie, nor even a particularly good one. Its only claim to greatness rests in its gimmick of filming the same performers in the same roles over many years. The only problem is…
…it’s been done! Many times!
…albeit in a different format with more entertaining results. I’m talking about television programs. Many have successfully spanned a decade or more: Ozzie and Harriet, Lassie, My Three Sons, Bonanza, Happy Days, The Cosby Show, Seventh Heaven, Two and a Half Men, and so many more of varying degrees of quality. In each case, the same cast aged before our eyes over the span of the series.
That’s right, “Boyhood” is merely the logical (but dull) extension of any long-running TV series, although the ones with children bear the closest resemblance. If you take the 10-year run of “Happy Days” and edit it into a single three hour marathon, what exactly is the difference? Yeah, the HD movie would be much more entertaining and Boyhood has nobody that comes close to The Fonz in originality. Other than that and a slew of undeserved Oscar nominations, it’s the same deal.
See what happens when I have too much time on my hands to think and too little to write?
Seriously, which of these guys would you rather watch grow up? Mr. emo Boyhood kid or Ricky Nelson? Ricky’s life was way more interesting.
Lately everyone has been worried about the devaluation of the Chinese yuan against the US dollar. It must be important because it’s mentioned in every business report and the front page of the Wall Street Journal. For some reason, it also significantly devalued my IRA.
I don’t understand this. I’ve never spent a yuan. I’ve never held one in my hands. I couldn’t even tell you what one looks like. Yet it cost me all sorts of money because of its devaluation, whatever that is.
To be perfectly blunt, I don’t pay a lot of attention to money. While there are people whose lives revolve around the topic, I find it less interesting than Lithuanian zoning regulations. That’s bad, I know, in our mammon-obsessed culture where money somehow signifies credibility, even for the least credible presidential candidate.
Words are the currency I put the most stock in. The devaluation of words and, on a larger scale, the language is what keeps me up nights when others toss and turn over the latest price of pork bellies on the futures exchange. I’m here to tell you that the news is not good. Words appear to be at their lowest value in ages. The evidence is seen all around us as the meanings of words and phrases change faster than the Standard & Poor’s index.
I blame Facebook for a lot of this. “Friend” is a crucial word in my vocabulary and life. It once indicated a relationship of some intimacy. An old proverb says,
A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.
Another translation puts it this way:
There are friends who pretend to be friends, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.
These aptly sum up a real friend versus a “Facebook friend”. How can you be a friend with someone whose only connection to you is a photo and a few carefully laundered and embellished personal facts? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the number of Facebook friends a person has is usually inversely proportional to the number of that one’s true friends.
Facebook has also turned us into a nation of Sally Fields. Everywhere I turn, people, organizations, and companies are begging me, yea, bribing me, to like them. “Like us and we’ll give you free stuff,” or, “Like me and you’ll be entered in a sweepstakes.” If we step back and acknowledge this for what it’s saying about our culture, it’s pretty pathetic. In truth, it all makes Ms. Field look downright dignified. At the very least, she was ahead of her time.
The most culpable culprit in this ongoing linguicide is corporate America. Look at the gifts they’ve bestowed on us:
And my personal favorite:
No one calls, writes, texts, asks, visits, patronizes, drops by, contacts, or tells anymore. We all reach out. We could wipe out the national debt if we put a tax on the use of this banal phrase. It’s bad enough when businesses do it. It has invaded the realm of personal discourse. “Thanks for reaching out to me, Mom. I’ll finish my homework when I’m good and ready.”
Notice one thing about all those biz-speak words. They all increase ambiguity. Thus, an executive may truthfully say, “Bonuses will be distributed going forward,” but might not intend it to happen in your lifetime.
When we say we’re starving, we aren’t. What we say we need, we don’t. Most disasters aren’t. That which we call awesome rarely inspires awe; it barely gets our notice. Great usually isn’t. Important things aren’t. Very-special, can’t-miss episodes of television programs are nothing or less.
Word devaluation doesn’t necessarily hit our wallets, though it could over time. More immediately, it throws our communication – and consequently our relationships – into disarray. We don’t know what we mean anymore. Misunderstanding is on the rise as precision is lost.
Don’t take my word for it. You’ll hear it for yourself going forward.
As some of my readers are aware, I have two blogs, this one (SITS) and Limping in the Light (LITL). Keeping up two separate blogs, even as minimalist as these two are, is a significant amount of work, especially if quality is an important consideration in their content, which it is to me anyway. I’ve written about time constraints and priorities in another post, so I won’t bore you with it (again) here.
Combine these blogs and the daily mundane activities of life with attempts to actually write stories to be sold, published, or otherwise used beyond the realm of the blogosphere and there’s a serious conflict. Something’s gotta give. Everything we do represents something we don’t do because that slice of time and energy has become unavailable.
The conflict is illustrated most tangibly blog-wise when I take shortcuts, such as using the same post in both blogs (q.v. here), write skimpy posts (q.v. here), and when I’m late with a post (q.v. what you’re reading now, one day late.) On the whole I’ve maintained an exemplary record, considering the longevity of the blogs. LITL spans over five years and 300 posts while its little brother SITS is comprised of about 70 entries spread over the last 14 months.
Not a bad run, but it’s going to slow to a walk after today.
In order to devote more time to my “job”, i.e. writing – and also to accommodate some other “opportunities” insinuating themselves into my life – I’m cutting back to one post a week total, that is, for both blogs. From today forward, I’ll write a single post per week, the intent being to alternate between the two platforms. The day of the week is TBD. Recommendations welcome.
This eases up the demands on my schedule, but it frees up your time, too.
You’re welcome.
Scribbling in the Sand 