When was the last time you or someone you know blamed the media? Was it when you were reading all those stories about the twerking Miley Cyrus? Or maybe it was when they got it all wrong about your favorite politician or sports hero or even someone you know personally. Yeah, it's really ridiculous how they gave Miley so much attention. Miley, Miley, Miley. You just had to keep reading about it because the stupid media just wouldn't stop going on and on about her and her twerking, twerking, twerking.
So, people of America who are so sick of the media, answer me this. Who exactly is the media these days? One by one we're losing a mainstream news agency here and a mainstream news agency there. Who's got the monopoly on what the public gets to read about or hear about? Who, who, who? Hmm. (Thoughtfully tapping my finger on my chin.)
Well, if you posted a status or tweeted a tweet or shared a link or uploaded a photo or video in the last week, I'm here to tell you that the media is you. And me. And all of those anonymous commenters who always seem to be so angry about everything. If you feel misinformed or overwhelmed by inane, incredible, inconsequential, inaccurate information, it's because all of us are voluntarily spreading the ridiculous info-crap that we claim to be so offended by.
Yes, there was a time not too long ago when we could reasonably blame the media for certain missteps like, say, causing our government to start an unjustifiable war. But those times have disappeared. Because for every fact or lie published now, there's a whole pile of other facts or lies immediately thrown at it.
Here's a real, true recent news item: Miley's got her first ever No.1 Billboard hit. I think that's horrible. And I blame the media.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
It's Always Sunny in Florida
Even though South Florida is composed of an exceedingly diverse and crazy population that can never, ever agree on anything, there is something in the air this time of year that brings us all together: excessive humidity. Remember how Herman Cain had his 9-9-9 plan? Well, down here we have our 90-90-90 plan: 90 degree temperatures, 90 percent humidity, and 90 percent sick of it. We are all united in our despondency and misery.
When it gets to be the end of September, there's the universal feeling of: Enough already! We start seeing pictures from other parts of the country in which people are wearing pants and maybe even long sleeves, and those people are not sweating! The foliage in the background of these pictures is starting to change colors. And to make things worse, the retailers down here start selling leather boots and wool sweaters and corduroy pants that somehow carry the scent and feel of autumn with them, without bringing the pleasant coolness.
At 6 a.m. on school days, I step out into the darkness in my tank top and boxer shorts to walk Daisy the cockapoo, and while standing in sleepy stillness on my driveway, I begin to sweat. Standing still! Wearing a tank top and boxer shorts! This is something the tourism bureau does not want you to know. (And by this, I mean the sweating, and that I go outside in my boxer shorts.)
This sticky feeling will continue for another two months. That's right, we'll have Humid Halloween and Thick Thanksgiving. So, enjoy it while you can, people elsewhere in the country. And then we will chat about this again in December.
When it gets to be the end of September, there's the universal feeling of: Enough already! We start seeing pictures from other parts of the country in which people are wearing pants and maybe even long sleeves, and those people are not sweating! The foliage in the background of these pictures is starting to change colors. And to make things worse, the retailers down here start selling leather boots and wool sweaters and corduroy pants that somehow carry the scent and feel of autumn with them, without bringing the pleasant coolness.
At 6 a.m. on school days, I step out into the darkness in my tank top and boxer shorts to walk Daisy the cockapoo, and while standing in sleepy stillness on my driveway, I begin to sweat. Standing still! Wearing a tank top and boxer shorts! This is something the tourism bureau does not want you to know. (And by this, I mean the sweating, and that I go outside in my boxer shorts.)
This sticky feeling will continue for another two months. That's right, we'll have Humid Halloween and Thick Thanksgiving. So, enjoy it while you can, people elsewhere in the country. And then we will chat about this again in December.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
An Instabrain Full of Snapthoughts
When I was a child I developed what is now considered the rather eccentric habit of thinking. Just thinking. I would sometimes sit and stare out the window with my chin resting in the palm of my hand.
I would also think while walking places in my suburban New Jersey neighborhood: crunching my way through the orange-red, fallen leaves in autumn; sloshing through and squinting at the mushy, bright snow in winter; and sneezing my way past undulating, freshly mown lawns in spring and summer. I have such vivid memories of how quiet snowfall is and how sharp the scent of cut grass.
These habits have carried over, manifesting themselves in different ways. I make my 20-minute drive to and from work each day without turning on music, and I go on my exercise runs most of the time without the wires of any electronic device sticking out of my ears. If I'm home alone, I never turn on the TV. (I will admit part of the reason for this is that I stopped knowing how to operate the remote about three entertainment systems ago. But there is definitely an element of protest involved in my ignorance.)
I was prompted to reflect on this strange habit of quiet reflection that I enjoy when I read a Q&A in the business section of The New York Times recently. They have a feature called "Corner Office," in which they interview a seriously attired CEO who discusses his or her methods of success. Something about the man's picture pulled me in this time; his eyes had a rather un-CEO-like gentleness about them. Daniel Lubetzky has an interesting story (his father was a Holocaust survivor who immigrated to Mexico), but what I found most interesting was his answer to the last question of the interview: "What career advice would you give to a class of graduating seniors?" His answer is too long for Instagram, Twitter or Snapchat, but I'm hoping you'll read the whole thing here.
The most important is to make sure that you talk to yourself, that you think hard about what's important to you and gives you meaning. When I was 19 and walking between classes, I didn't have a phone, so my brain would take me in different directions. And it's so healthy and important to be thinking, "Oh, I could have done that better." Or, "What about this idea?" But nowadays, we're on our iPhones all the time, and you don't have time to talk with yourself, to analyze.
It's very important for people to know what gives them meaning. But it's hard for people to figure out if you're not connecting with yourself and taking the time to just be introspective and daydream.
Daydreaming is outlawed in the dystopian science-fiction novel Fahrenheit 451, in which everyone is forced to speed on the highways, lulled into watching giant TV screens filled with a fake family, and, of course, required to destroy all their books (or the "firemen" will do it for them). But citizens are also viewed as suspicious and subversive if they just want to take a slow stroll. It's amazing how prescient Ray Bradbury and the other early sci-fi writers were. While our government is not the one that's speeding us up in order to dumb us down, it is still happening as we do it to ourselves.
Just think about that.
I would also think while walking places in my suburban New Jersey neighborhood: crunching my way through the orange-red, fallen leaves in autumn; sloshing through and squinting at the mushy, bright snow in winter; and sneezing my way past undulating, freshly mown lawns in spring and summer. I have such vivid memories of how quiet snowfall is and how sharp the scent of cut grass.
These habits have carried over, manifesting themselves in different ways. I make my 20-minute drive to and from work each day without turning on music, and I go on my exercise runs most of the time without the wires of any electronic device sticking out of my ears. If I'm home alone, I never turn on the TV. (I will admit part of the reason for this is that I stopped knowing how to operate the remote about three entertainment systems ago. But there is definitely an element of protest involved in my ignorance.)
I was prompted to reflect on this strange habit of quiet reflection that I enjoy when I read a Q&A in the business section of The New York Times recently. They have a feature called "Corner Office," in which they interview a seriously attired CEO who discusses his or her methods of success. Something about the man's picture pulled me in this time; his eyes had a rather un-CEO-like gentleness about them. Daniel Lubetzky has an interesting story (his father was a Holocaust survivor who immigrated to Mexico), but what I found most interesting was his answer to the last question of the interview: "What career advice would you give to a class of graduating seniors?" His answer is too long for Instagram, Twitter or Snapchat, but I'm hoping you'll read the whole thing here.
The most important is to make sure that you talk to yourself, that you think hard about what's important to you and gives you meaning. When I was 19 and walking between classes, I didn't have a phone, so my brain would take me in different directions. And it's so healthy and important to be thinking, "Oh, I could have done that better." Or, "What about this idea?" But nowadays, we're on our iPhones all the time, and you don't have time to talk with yourself, to analyze.
It's very important for people to know what gives them meaning. But it's hard for people to figure out if you're not connecting with yourself and taking the time to just be introspective and daydream.
Daydreaming is outlawed in the dystopian science-fiction novel Fahrenheit 451, in which everyone is forced to speed on the highways, lulled into watching giant TV screens filled with a fake family, and, of course, required to destroy all their books (or the "firemen" will do it for them). But citizens are also viewed as suspicious and subversive if they just want to take a slow stroll. It's amazing how prescient Ray Bradbury and the other early sci-fi writers were. While our government is not the one that's speeding us up in order to dumb us down, it is still happening as we do it to ourselves.
Just think about that.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
10 reasons why people need to stop making this kind of list
1. Sometimes a thought or point requires more than one sentence.
2. Or more than a fragment.
3. One or more points on the list are really forced and not clever or interesting because the writer is just trying to fill up the list.
4. It's a lazy way to pull in readers.
5. It's overused so it's gotten harder to make the lists funny.
6. Just because you can make anything into a list doesn't mean you should.
7. Usually there are two points on the list that are really the same thing just worded a little differently.
8. Readers forget everything on the list the minute they finish reading it.
9. Two of the points are often the same but just sound a little different.
10. There's a big expectation that the last point be super witty, but it just can't be. Although, perhaps it can be ironic.
2. Or more than a fragment.
3. One or more points on the list are really forced and not clever or interesting because the writer is just trying to fill up the list.
4. It's a lazy way to pull in readers.
5. It's overused so it's gotten harder to make the lists funny.
6. Just because you can make anything into a list doesn't mean you should.
7. Usually there are two points on the list that are really the same thing just worded a little differently.
8. Readers forget everything on the list the minute they finish reading it.
9. Two of the points are often the same but just sound a little different.
10. There's a big expectation that the last point be super witty, but it just can't be. Although, perhaps it can be ironic.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Fat Lizard
An open letter to the fat lizard that is living on my patio
Fat, curly-tailed lizard living on my screened-in patio:
Why do you torment me so? Why do you stare at me through the glass of the sliding door, nay, glare at me, nay, mock me, daring me to come after you? I am used to the little geckos that roam suburban South Florida, but you are different. You are bigger, fatter, curlier of tail. You are an invader! And you have taken over the patio, skittering like a reptilian flash of light into the safety of the bottom track of the hurricane shutters whenever we try to come near you. Surely, you have set up a rather cozy camp in there, probably hosting all sorts of fat lizard raves, laughing at the people who live in the house, not caring in the least that you've caused conversations like this to occur between my husband and me:
Ricky: I've set up a blockade.
Me: What do you mean?
Ricky: I put a piece of broken cement on each side of the track, blocking the two openings.
Me: You mean to keep it out of there?
Ricky: No, I saw it go in there. It's trapped!
Me: But it'll die in there!
Ricky: We want it to die. (Ricky gets look of confusion.) Don't we?
Me: (I get look of confusion.)
Ricky: But it makes big doodies all over the patio. You don't want doodies all over the patio.
Me: No. (Still looking conflicted.) Maybe we can write to The Ethicist in The New York Times Magazine.
Ricky: It eats the bugs, right?
Me: Yes! It eats the bugs. (Ignoring the fact that the patio is screened-in, so there aren't really any bugs.)
Ricky: So, you don't want it to die in there?
Me: I don't want it to die in there.
Ricky: (Goes back out and removes the blockade.)
So, fat lizard living on my patio, I hope you're happy with yourself.
Fat, curly-tailed lizard living on my screened-in patio:
Why do you torment me so? Why do you stare at me through the glass of the sliding door, nay, glare at me, nay, mock me, daring me to come after you? I am used to the little geckos that roam suburban South Florida, but you are different. You are bigger, fatter, curlier of tail. You are an invader! And you have taken over the patio, skittering like a reptilian flash of light into the safety of the bottom track of the hurricane shutters whenever we try to come near you. Surely, you have set up a rather cozy camp in there, probably hosting all sorts of fat lizard raves, laughing at the people who live in the house, not caring in the least that you've caused conversations like this to occur between my husband and me:
Ricky: I've set up a blockade.
Me: What do you mean?
Ricky: I put a piece of broken cement on each side of the track, blocking the two openings.
Me: You mean to keep it out of there?
Ricky: No, I saw it go in there. It's trapped!
Me: But it'll die in there!
Ricky: We want it to die. (Ricky gets look of confusion.) Don't we?
Me: (I get look of confusion.)
Ricky: But it makes big doodies all over the patio. You don't want doodies all over the patio.
Me: No. (Still looking conflicted.) Maybe we can write to The Ethicist in The New York Times Magazine.
Ricky: It eats the bugs, right?
Me: Yes! It eats the bugs. (Ignoring the fact that the patio is screened-in, so there aren't really any bugs.)
Ricky: So, you don't want it to die in there?
Me: I don't want it to die in there.
Ricky: (Goes back out and removes the blockade.)
So, fat lizard living on my patio, I hope you're happy with yourself.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Trashy Behavior
My teenage daughter Amy and I were sitting in the optometrist's office waiting for her pupils to dilate. A father walked in with his 10-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son. The man was clearly flustered, telling the woman at the desk that his daughter had broken her glasses, and he produced the mangled evidence.
"That man looks so flustered," I said to Amy.
"I can't see anything," Amy said. "I don't have my contacts in and my pupils are dilated."
A second person, let's call him the glasses guy, was enlisted to take a look and told the man that the frames could not be repaired. The father mumbled something about his wife and took out his cellphone to make a call.
"See, I bet his wife normally handles this kind of thing. He's out of his league right now," I said.
"I can't see anything," Amy said.
In the meantime, the now unattended 8-year-old boy helped himself to a piece of candy from the dish on the counter and walked over toward where Amy and I were sitting as he unwrapped it. He paused near the toy area, the wrapper crinkle-crinkling in his hands. I noticed something fall and land on the perfectly clean, carpeted floor. It was a shred of the wrapper. I assumed the boy would instinctively bend over to pick it up, but he was still unwrapping the rest.
"I wonder if he saw that he dropped that," I said to Amy.
"I can't see anything," Amy said.
Then another, larger chunk of wrapper fell to the floor. There was no doubt the boy saw it fall. But he was still unwrapping.
"He definitely saw that," I said to Amy. "But maybe when he finishes unwrapping the candy, he'll pick it all up."
By now, the boy's sister had walked over while the father looked anxiously out the store window hoping his wife would appear. The man kept inching closer and closer to the front until he actually walked out the door and stood on the sidewalk gazing out into the parking lot.
The boy took this moment to shove the remaining piece of wrapper into his sister's hands. She then threw it at him, but it just bounced off of him and landed on the carpet next to the other two pieces of wrapper. The two children then walked away.
"I can't believe that!" I said to Amy.
"I can't see anything," Amy said.
"What kind of person is that?" I continued. "I don't care if he's 8. How do you just throw trash on someone's floor like that? Not only that, here the people are nice enough to put out candy. He takes the free candy that they have kindly put out and then, to repay their kindness, throws trash from that candy onto their floor. And the stupid father is standing outside waiting for the mother instead of watching his kids and making a decision about the broken glasses."
I turned to look at Amy. She looked like a Powerpuff Girl.
"Wow, your pupils are really dilated," I said.
"That man looks so flustered," I said to Amy.
"I can't see anything," Amy said. "I don't have my contacts in and my pupils are dilated."
A second person, let's call him the glasses guy, was enlisted to take a look and told the man that the frames could not be repaired. The father mumbled something about his wife and took out his cellphone to make a call.
"See, I bet his wife normally handles this kind of thing. He's out of his league right now," I said.
"I can't see anything," Amy said.
In the meantime, the now unattended 8-year-old boy helped himself to a piece of candy from the dish on the counter and walked over toward where Amy and I were sitting as he unwrapped it. He paused near the toy area, the wrapper crinkle-crinkling in his hands. I noticed something fall and land on the perfectly clean, carpeted floor. It was a shred of the wrapper. I assumed the boy would instinctively bend over to pick it up, but he was still unwrapping the rest.
"I wonder if he saw that he dropped that," I said to Amy.
"I can't see anything," Amy said.
Then another, larger chunk of wrapper fell to the floor. There was no doubt the boy saw it fall. But he was still unwrapping.
"He definitely saw that," I said to Amy. "But maybe when he finishes unwrapping the candy, he'll pick it all up."
By now, the boy's sister had walked over while the father looked anxiously out the store window hoping his wife would appear. The man kept inching closer and closer to the front until he actually walked out the door and stood on the sidewalk gazing out into the parking lot.
The boy took this moment to shove the remaining piece of wrapper into his sister's hands. She then threw it at him, but it just bounced off of him and landed on the carpet next to the other two pieces of wrapper. The two children then walked away.
"I can't believe that!" I said to Amy.
"I can't see anything," Amy said.
"What kind of person is that?" I continued. "I don't care if he's 8. How do you just throw trash on someone's floor like that? Not only that, here the people are nice enough to put out candy. He takes the free candy that they have kindly put out and then, to repay their kindness, throws trash from that candy onto their floor. And the stupid father is standing outside waiting for the mother instead of watching his kids and making a decision about the broken glasses."
I turned to look at Amy. She looked like a Powerpuff Girl.
"Wow, your pupils are really dilated," I said.
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