What’s all of this fuss
About Google Plus?
You’re suspended? You’re blocked?
Well, color me shocked!
Did you think for a minute
They’d let you stay in it?
The circles and streams
Fill up with your screams
Of protest and threat
They’re not listening, I bet.
If they took time to explain
We’re just a nuisance, a drain
We don’t buy all that stuff
The ads sell, so tough!
Facebook’s just the same
We don’t fit in their game.
When will Twitter become
Like these “real name” scum?
Well, you can all go to Hell
(Time to log into SL.)
Tag: commentary
Baby Panthers
On the way to work, I walk through the park next to the courthouse.
Down the steps, into a maintenance area under a bridge where a small cat colony lives.
There’s a calico, a tortie, an orange and white.
And two black cats.
I call them the wild baby panthers.
I carry cat treats in my work bag, and I leave a pile or two when I walk by on the way to work.
And the way home.
I know they’ll never trust me, or rub against my leg, purring or meowing.
That’s fine by me. To give is enough.
Too Ugly
Folks still ask me what it was like working with Marvin Zindler.
There was a piano in Studio B, and when things were slow and Marvin had checked his stocks enough, or he’d had his daily fight with the News Manager, he’d sit down and play.
I’d listen and enjoy.
“Simon,” he said, smiling Texas-wide, twinkling eyes behind blue lenses, never missing a key, “we’re bigger whores than the ones at the Chicken Ranch. They just got themselves prettier makeup.”
You know, early in his career, he got told he was too ugly for television.
These days, nothing’s too ugly.
Trail
We lift our backpacks, feel the weight shift on our backs, and head out on the trail.
But instead of birdsong, we are greeted with stump-speeches.
Instead of slapping away mosquito, we slap away pollsters.
And where we once pushed back branches, we dodge the fliers thrust out at us by candidates.
Lobbyists rush past us, handing out wads of cash.
I check my GPS and realize we’ve wandered off the hiking trail and on to a campaign trail.
It begins to rain, so we run for shelter.
Lobbyists assume we’re running for office, and chase us with the money.
The Game Of Life
When I was little, I’d try to spin high numbers in The Game Of Life.
Spin! Make the car go faster!
Graduate college!
Spin! Make the car go faster!
Get married!
Spin! Make the car go faster!
Have kids!
Make the car full of pegs go faster faster faster!
Rush headlong along the winding path!
Away we go!
And then…
The game’s over.
Wasn’t that fun?
Want to play again?
That Game Of Life, wherever it is, gathering dust… I learned one thing from it:
Spin low, take your time and enjoy the ride.
Make it last. Make it count.
Adrenalin Junkie
Bob’s an adrenalin junkie, but he’s also a lily-livered coward.
Unlike other adrenalin junkies who seek out extreme sports like skydiving and rock climbing and scuba diving, he’s barely able to make it out of bed without going all freako and diving below the covers again.
So, to get his adrenalin rush, he has it shipped to him.
Then, when he’s finally able to get out of bed and sign for the package, he scurries back to his bedroom and opens the box.
And then, staring at the contents, he dives back under the covers.
(Bob’s afraid of needles, too.)
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s a thin line between love and hate.
How thin is it?
Well, are you familiar with John Waters’ mustache?
Yes, the guy who did Hairspray and Cecil B. Demented. You know that thin black mustache he has?
Yes? Good. Okay, well, it’s about that thin.
Oddly enough, it’s also rather thin in terms of how sparse it is some days.
Which is why John Waters has to fill it in with an eyeliner pencil sometimes.
Because when it comes to his movies, you either love them or you hate them.
And for convenience, his mustache makes a handy reference.
Scribe
Where do I get my ideas?
I don’t know. Everywhere, I guess.
I’m walking along, minding my own business, and I see something that inspires me.
I used to keep a spiralbound notebook with me for those times, to write down the ideas.
Then I got a smartphone, but when my hands were full, or I got ideas in the shower (sometimes the same thing, really), I’d end up forgetting them.
Now, I have a monk write everything down for me, any hour of the day.
Brother William is loyal and efficient.
While I am a complete and total douchebag.
The Magic of Music
I came upon a grassy meadow
Massive human hands
Raising violin bows
Like magicians’ wands
Notes rose from the grass
Like dandelion seeds in the breeze
Rising… Rising…
Fading fading vanishing
I could not see any strings
The hands remained still
I heard music all around
A voice: “Music is the magic of life.”
I sat, watched, listened
I think of it again, and smile
The shadows grew long
I thought about heading back home
It’s still out there, that meadow
Where it is, I do not know
I’ve never come across it again
Closing my eyes, the magic returns
Property Values
The housing market’s in trouble, and everybody’s worried about property values going down.
Somehow, that building you live in stopped being a home and became an investment.
A bad investment.
So, you come up with a plan.
Drag the treadmill to the front porch, find the tightest traffic-stopping spandex you can fit into, and see what happens.
A week goes by.
Two weeks.
Three weeks.
You check the online property values map site your friend told you about.
The numbers have gone up.
“I’ve still got it,” you tell yourself, heading for the shower.
(And leave the window curtain open.)