(To listen to an audio version of this post, click on the podcast with the same title over to the right.)
Good morning Boys and Girls...
I see a woman named Patti Smith is retiring after serving as a flight attendant for Aloha Airlines for fifty years.
Zowie. That's a long time in the air.
The article says that when she started, she made 170 bucks a month for 85 hours of work. Now she's leaving a job that pays her 43.50 an hour; not a fortune by any stretch, but still, it's over twenty-one times what she made at the beginning. After adjusting for inflation, of course, it's a paltry six or seven times more than her starting pay.
I hope this doesn't sound like an old man reminiscing about the good old days here, as I promise, it's not, but I do get a kick out of remembering perfectly well when Cokes went from a dime to fifteen cents, and hamburgers at the little soft-serve ice cream place we frequented cost nine cents. Hell, if I remember correctly, my fist meal at McDonald's, (a hamburger, fries and a coke) cost thirty-six cents.
A week ago I ordered that very meal at a drive-thru. Three dollars and eighteen cents.
On the other hand, when I was in high school, I earned a $1.60 per hour at Kinney Shoes. I thought that was pretty good since I'd turned down a buck forty at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Plus, at Kinneys, we received really cool 50 cent bonuses if someone bought a purse or a belt along with their shoes.
At Kinneys though, the big bucks were in insoles. They looked sturdier than the shoes and were fairly well made I guess, with their ridiculously firm molded arch support that was surely far too exaggerated to be truly beneficial. What did I know. All I knew was that we got a whole dollar if we convinced someone they were worth the ten bucks being charged for them. I loved that. Some weeks, my commissions matched my base pay. See, I wore the insoles myself and I was totally convinced they were the greatest thing since sliced bread and so had no problem selling them. I remember looking at my schedule each week and guessing how many pairs of insoles I'd sell during each shift. Fridays I averaged two pairs an hour, though I don't remember why Friday was such a good day for insole sales. Maybe it was just that most people got paid on Friday and so were flush with cash, but for sure, selling them to guys was easier than selling them to women. Maybe more men came in on Fridays.
I don't remember but I sure hope I don't rot in hell for selling that junk.
And if I do, I hope the wages down there have kept up with the conflagration...
An elderly man walked down the busy city street late in the afternoon of a cold winter day. He didn't exactly have a destination in mind, or at least he didn't think he did. He had to do something. He was sure of it, though for the life of him, he couldn't remember what is was or even if he'd ever really known specifically what task awaited him. All he knew for sure was that he was going the right way, and that he was getting closer to the place he was supposed to be.
He'd sat indoors all day long trying to figure it out. He'd ignored all his TV shows for the first time in months, and on a Friday no less, when most of his stories would be wrapping up little subplots and setting cliffhangers for the viewers to worry over throughout the weekend. At about ten in the morning, just after Regis and Kelly, a thought came to him. An old thought.
Now, as he walked, he analyzed the way the it had come back. He decided, finally, that for whatever reason, he'd partially remembered something particularly profound.
Yeah, it was one of those; a thought he'd had in the past that had rattled around his mind for long periods of time, but one that had eventually, after a good long while, faded into the deep canals of his subconscious without his ever having sufficiently chewed the thing.
It had been there, front and center, for a long time, maybe even driving him a little crazy sometimes, until one day, it simply wasn't there any longer. Poof. Zip. Gone.
But this morning, it had come back, or it had tried to. And he realized suddenly that it hadn't originally been his thought at all. No, it was one someone else had had that he'd adopted; made his own. It was something that had become a truth he lived throughout his business life and one that had made him successful for many many years. How had he forgotten it? How could he still not articulate it in his own mind? No matter.
For some reason, he thought it had had something to do with a place he'd applied for a job many years earlier. A jewelry store. What had been the name of the place? Marcos? Marcus? No. Maccus. That was it.
He didn't even remember the place, or where it was. Was it still even there?
He waited at a traffic light, crossed the street and turned left on Fortieth. His pace surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd walked this fast for so long. He'd be seventy next year, wouldn't he?
He'd been what? -twenty-five? Something like that. He remembered walking south from bus stop in front of the Emerson building and he'd been quite late. By the time he'd arrived at the store, he'd seen the owner talking to another kid through the window. The two of them were shaking hands across the display case.
His shoulders dropped, but he made himself go in. He walked to the counter and introduced himself, but only to hear the owner say what he knew he'd say. The jeweler threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the kid who was just then walking behind the counter for the first time. "I'm sorry. The position is filled." He shrugged and briefly showed his hands palms up in front of him. "I thought your appointment was for nine thirty."
"It was," he said. "The bus broke down about six blocks back, but I don't know the city and thought I was still much further away. Had I realized how close I was, I could have walked here in plenty of time." He'd spoken with a dejected tone.
The store's owner said something then. What was it? He'd remembered it for years, but it had faded.
He walked on, made one more turn, and there it was.
As he walked up to the building he was quite sure had been the jewelry store four-plus decades earlier; yes, this was it - there was the same window he'd looked through to watch that handshake so many years earlier; the jeweler's words came back to him. "Oh dear. That's a shame." And the owner had shaken his head in sincere sympathy. "But I can't very well penalize this fellow for your bad luck, now can I?"
As it came back clearly, he tried to clear his mind, still not understanding why it had been so important for him to remember this episode. For some reason, he was very glad he'd taken the walk. He relaxed and leaned against the building, reflecting a bit, and just standing there. Eventually, he looked through the window into the dry cleaners that now occupied the building. He saw shirts and suits moving steadily on a hanging conveyor that surrounded the large room. A sign above the counter caught his attention. "All item drop off after noon ready next day. NO except. Item left beyond one week charge one dollar day storage each."
(To listen to an audio version of this post, click on the podcast with the same title over to the right.)
Good afternoon Boys and Girls.
Looks like a phone charger got left behind, but other than that, a gift from Dot to my friend - both easily mailed - and a sore throat acquired by my friend yesterday that I'm sure she's not thrilled about taking home with her, there weren't any tragedies over the weekend. Unfortunately, the fifteen year-old girl didn't find much to do here in this home of middle-aged types and so spent most of her weekend watching movies and, of course, texting with her friends.
Meanwhile, the rest of us yapped up a storm and drank coffee like it was nectar of the Gods and we were folks with lofty aspirations.
I suppose I'm left with a mild sense of melancholy for the briefness of the time two of us got to spend together, but I'm thankful nonetheless, and in about five minutes I'm sure I'll begin looking forward to the next time. It's my turn to make the trip and I'll do so gladly sometime in the next few weeks.
We're different from each other in many ways - certainly in more ways than we're similar - and we look at things differently too. Still we connect easily where it's most important; for instance, we make each other laugh out loud frequently, and my oh my, those eyes! Jeez, I look in those eyes?... Hell, I'm lucky I don't stammer like a twelve year old boy after seeing his first naked lady.
Wait, I'm showing my age. These days I'm sure kids see their first naked lady by the time they're six or seven, hell, maybe even three or four what with all the nudity on TV, but geez, what fun is that? I liked seeing my first naked lady when I was old enough to understand the possibilities such a view suggested.
But that's not the point I was going for. Forgive my aside. I'd planned on writing about the reasons we're drawn to certain people, and why we're not to others.
There's an electricity to attraction. It's been written about by people far more qualified to do so than am I. All I know is that I don't understand it; never have. Doubt I ever will either, but holy moly, when it clicks, and you're fortunate enough to have other things in common too, it's a pretty special thing. It's magic. In fact, it's the only kind of magic I believe in.
Guess time will tell whether it's an illusion. Meanwhile, it's fun to be a interested spectator, especially when you're the guy chosen out of the crowd and urged onto the stage to help with the trick.
Be good to everyone.
Surrogate and Friend's Turkey Noodle Soup
Start with three or four celery stalks, one medium onion, a couple of carrots and three or four mushrooms - all chopped finely and put into a medium hot stockpot with a drizzle of oil. Cook them a few minutes till they started to soften. (You're not caramelizing here, just sweating them a bit.)
Add about a quart and a half of water and some stock (I used a cup of leftover gravy and some reduced stock I'd made from the carcass, but canned chicken stock, or even more water and some concentrated soup base is fine.)
Bring this mixture to a boil, turn the heat down a bit, and let it cook for a while - at least till you've got everything else ready. This is a good time to check the seasoning and add salt and pepper if you like. Also, we added about a single clove's worth of chopped garlic at this point.
Chop up a some leftover turkey into about half-inch chunks. I'd guess you want about a cup and a half or so, but I can't imagine you could have too much. Hell, the object here is to use the stuff up without wasting it, right? I use both white and dark meat, but use what you like. Set it aside.
You can use any sort of noodle you like, but we made ours this way, hardy original, but dependable as can be:
Make a small pile of flour on the counter - about a cup and a half. Then create a small well in the top. Sprinkle a pinch of salt over the pile and crack an egg into the void. Start mixing GENTLY, adding milk just drops at a time till you can just barely get the stuff to stay together. (You may want to chill the dough a while in plastic at this point, but I usually don't.)
Roll out the dough till it's about an eigth of an inch thick. Cut the dough into strips about a half inch thick and maybe two or three inches long.
Ten or fifteen minutes before you're ready to eat, bring the pot back to a boil and drop the noodles in a few at a time, making sure you don't put in so many that the heat is reduced to below boiling temperature. Throw in your turkey, add peas if you like and let it cook for a few minutes.
Finally, just before you serve it up, squeeze the juice from half a lemon into the soup.
Nice day here. Four of us did the mall for four or five hours, shopped like crazy, me without buying a darn thing. Between us, we only ran down three people.
We spent the bulk of the time looking for a formal dress for a fifteen year old cutie-pie. This meant, of course, that there was plenty of waiting for the other male in the contingent and me, and during the time spent trying on the dresses, he and I were relegated to the task of standing around trying to look as though we somehow belonged hanging out in the junior-miss dress department - outside the fitting rooms - without looking like pedophiles on the prowl.
The trip was successful and the youngster is now ready for the formal at her school next month. Her Father and I seemed to have escaped the attention of any store detectives and were allowed to leave the mall without having been formally charged with anything that, had we been convicted, would have necessarily required our names being added to any internet based lists of especially despicable people.
Leftovers for dinner, like everyone else, I'd guess and now this post. I do NOT plan on staying up late as I am old and tired.
I’m sitting here amid some friends, trying not to let them look over my shoulder as I type this. The argument of the moment is whether or not to allow one of my guests to take the pulses and blood pressures of the rest of us for some homework assignment.
First, let me say that none of us are all that excited about the prospect of this, but the threat is that if we don’t allow her to do her thing using the stethoscope and blood pressure cuffs that she’ll use a specialty thermometer of a certain sort to take our temperatures too.
I, for one, and only out of a sense of self-preservation, plan to bravely hold out my arm, thrust out my chest and tell her to have at it.
One of the guests here is a teenaged girl. She’s fifteen. Nice kid. She’d been watching TV this morning and is hooked on a show called “Searching for Love with Tila Tequila.” The show centers on bisexual supermodel who seems to be bedding twenty-odd contestants in an effort to find which one of them she can love.
It’s really bothersome. I could care less about the fact the gal is bisexual. I really hate it that the show’s premise is that you can find love through a process of elimination, or by “trying out” each potential lover to decide whether there’s a possibility things might become meaningful later. I mean, I know there’s some of that in life, but geez, this is sleazy, and that it seems targeted at young kids is all the more disturbing. It may be reality TV, but I’m pretty sure it’s not anything near real, or at least I hope it’s not.
I think it’ll be a nice Thanksgiving. Daughter dearest isn’t coming. She’s flying out to Chicago to be with her new beau and his family, but Ryan will be here and along with friends, some of whom have already arrived, it ought to be fun.
Our snowplow guy came an put the stakes up to mark the driveway yesterday. It’s a long winding path and without them he’d not be able to tell exactly where the asphalt is. If we get the white stuff Thursday, likely from what I hear, I sure hope driving conditions aren’t so dangerous that it keeps people from being able to make the trip.
Our moderately-sized fifteen pound turkey sits in a brine of Wild Turkey bourbon, kosher salt, and sugar where he’ll remain till some time tomorrow morning at which point he’ll be removed from his final bath. He’ll then be dried, oiled, re-seasoned and stuffed. Finally he’ll go into the oven, where the process of becoming what he was bred to be will finish itself in a mere four hours.
Hey, perhaps we should let her take the turkey’s blood pressure instead. In fact, if she feels the need to plunge a thermometer somewhere, maybe...
Be good to everyone.
Three cheers for Detroit. Two? How about this; can I get one lousy cheer for my hometown?
(To hear an audio version of this post, click on the podcast with the same title over to the right. I recorded it at the same time I posted this, but it's likely to take a couple of hours to show up on the player. -Haven't figured out how often they update the links. There's a learning curve to this thing...)
Good morning Boys and Girls.
Well, damn.
This morning I see that a national survey has determined that the most dangerous city in the country is, (drum roll please,) Detroit, my hometown.
Lovely.
For years, in the seventies and early eighties, Detroit was the murder capitol of the country, a truly special designation. But those murder numbers, we were told, were skewed like crazy. You see, for some reason I've never understood, Detroit always suffered a far greater number of murders within families than any other city in the country.
"Pass the peas please Dad."
"No!" Bang!
The spin was - and I bought it - that if, in order to get a more accurate picture, you artificially reduced the number of murders of "loved ones" down to the national average - at least for the purpose of looking at the rest of the numbers - the odds of you being killed by a stranger as you walked down the street was far lower than in most cities - (not that anyone actually walks around there. -Hell no, we're all in locked cars. You ever hear of carjacking for God's sake?)
Or, to look at it another way, Detroit was a fine place to visit, you just didn't want to form any close relationships around town or start a family there. THAT could get you killed.
These days, it's not too hard to figure why Detroit has gotten even more dangerous. The number of jobs that pay a living wage have dropped to crazy numbers, meaning the tax base continually erodes like the fender on a 73 Pinto which in turn has lead to the city's school system finding itself in abysmal shape. Then, of course, the drug problem has never gone away, and the racially divisive political atmosphere festering around city hall for the last thirty years has caused too many business people to wash their hands of the place. Hell, over the years there's been more finger pointing as to why the problems exist than in a presidential debate two weeks prior to the election in a close race.
The city's deserved reputation has lead to some colorful t-shirts worn by some of those of us who still love the town - God forbid anyone tell us we don't have a sense of humor: (The graphic is of a gun pointed at the head of a puppy) "Say something nice about Detroit."
"I lerned to reed and rite at my hi skool in Detroyt."
"Detroit, where the weak are killed and eaten."
-That last sounds a little too close to true these days. Depressing.
(To listen to an audio version of this post, click on the podcast with the same title over to the right.)
Good morning Boys and Girls.
I held a mug, the coffee's heat working through the heavy ceramic easily and warming my hands pleasantly. Though it didn't follow the dawn up over the horizon, what with the clouds obscuring things a bit, the light coming through the bare trees to the east looked bright enough to hint that the sun might make an appearance a little later in the morning.
Two deer ate at the corn pile, surprising me since it was the second morning of the gun season and the woods up behind the house are spotted with the blinds of any number of eager hunters. I'd figured any deer making their way down here would have been forced to walk a fatal gauntlet and that I wouldn't see any in the yard till the first of December, but then, these were does; maybe they weren't in as much danger as had they been males.
One of the two raised her head and looked at me standing there in my open doorway, the mug tilted against my lips. Her ears twitched and she somehow communicated with her friend the possible danger I represented.
It's happened before. Usually, if there are enough of them, say five or six, if one makes a move to bolt, the rest will follow, spooked as much by the suddenness of the movement of the one as by me. Sometimes, especially if it's getting toward dark, the idea of food must be worth the risk and they'll simply cast glances my way, and then, fooling themselves I think, they'll go about the business of munching corn. But this was a little different.
She stared at me, then they both did. I didn't change my behavior. I leaned against the door's frame and continued to raise and lower my mug as I saw fit. She seemed to evaluate the threat for a good minute or so, and finally deciding I meant her no harm, she went back to enjoying the corn.
After a couple of minutes, I stepped out onto the concrete slab just to see if that would make them run. It didn't. Roadie the cat watched this interplay with amusement from her favorite viewing spot there on the carpet between slats of the vertical blind.
I started humming. No change in movement, though they certainly heard me. Another minute or so later, I began whistling a tune that had attached itself to that part of my brain responsible for such things after hearing it yesterday over the speaker system at some store, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For."
Even as I gradually increased the volume, it still didn't spook'em. Part of me wanted to start doing jumping jacks just to see if if that would do it, though I really didn't want to scare them off. I just wanted to see "scientifically" ; what exactly I'd have to do short of throwing a stone at them to make them react. I watched for another couple of minutes and decided I'd better start a post if I wanted to write one before work.
I walked back inside and closed the door. I didn't slam it shut or anything, but the solid "thwap" of the door sliding home finally did it. They looked up, ears straight up once again, then they turned and bound up the hill and onto the trail. Roadie looked at me in disgust for inadvertently having turned off the "TV show" she'd been enjoying. "Why the hell did you have to make that noise?" she seemed to be asking.
I've been feeling really good of late; a wonderful thing. The change in my mindset has been remarkable really, and I'm thankful for it.
In fact, I find I've been unable to wrap my mind around the larger problems of the world that usually occupy my head, -not that I've ever felt I could do anything about any of them. Interestingly, the very way I've been feeling helps me understand why many of them exist in the first place. It's simple. We're occupied doing other things.
Personally I'm too busy thinking about people and situations I'm close to to worry about the rest of the world. These days my days are busy and full and my head is constantly spinning with plan making and problem solving to be all that concerned with things that don't involve me directly. My sense of empathy is still there I hope, but it's certainly not front and center in my consciousness; the place I (pre)tend to try to keep it when I'm feeling differently. In some respects, I feel selfish, while in others, I feel generous; the proprietary instinct of a male cat to mark it's territory enabling it to show benevolence within the confines of the space - a too graphic example, perhaps, but at least a moderately accurate one, I think.
It's a wonder to me, and even at close to fifty-one years old, I don't understand it in the least, and perhaps I'm not supposed to.
Meanwhile, every morning I think, "today will be the very last day I'll be able to work outside till spring," but so far, we've enjoyed nice enough days to continue making it possible. Hopefully, I'll accept the daily gifts as graciously as I'm able.
Be good to everyone.
Well Captain, I wear it because it's logical, of course.
(Click on the podcast with the same title over to the right to listen to an audio version of this post.)
Good morning Boys and Girls.
Well, I did it.
I'm now the proud owner of a glistening white macbook.
Found it on Craigslist last Saturday which, for those of you unfamiliar with it, is a really nice online classified ads service where the object is to be able to find what you're looking for locally. It's not an auction, just an ad service. If you have questions, you can either call the seller, or email them directly.
I offered and paid slightly more than the guy was asking for the puter to entice him into throwing in a software package he'd purchased and planned on using on his other computer, but hadn't installed yet. I'd noticed it sitting there on the desk, still in the cellophane wrapper. It's a package I'd planned on buying, but is damned expensive and in fact costs more than I paid for the used mac AND the software combined.
Let me say this. Ya-Hoo!
I'd already had a major change in my business appearance a couple of months ago when I decided to start wearing a bluetooth headset every day, something I'd been avoiding even though I knew how handy it would be. I was just afraid of looking like a short, squat, bald Spock as I worked, which I probably do, but man I love the thing. Now, with the laptop, finally, I'll be able to design things on the spot and, if nothing else, show my customers decent sized digital photos of either previous jobs I'd like to repeat or use as a jumping off point, or Photoshopped mock-ups of new designs I'd like to try.
Should be fun. I wonder if, in a few weeks - as has happened with the bluetooth - I'll be kicking myself for not buying a laptop years ago. Hope so. Maybe it's just that I'm so damn cheap, I just can't get myself to spend money on new technology unless I can buy it used or at such a drastic discount that I won't regret it too badly if it doesn't work out.
Maybe it's time to sell the horse and buggy and buy a car. I hear they're pretty convenient.
(To listen to a stuffy-headed audio version of this post as you read along, click on the episode with the same title over to the right.)
Good morning Boys and girls.
This morning when I woke up, my head buzzed with the things I must do today. I put coffee on as soon as I reached the kitchen.
I'm in the middle of a little job for work and there's quite a list of chores to do.
All of a sudden, I felt a tickle in my right nostril. I rubbed my nose, but it wouldn’t go away. Thirty seconds later I felt it coming. We all know that feeling. There’s not a damn thing to be done about it. It came; I sneezed.
And once more. Then, I started sneezing in earnest.
I sneezed. And I sneezed.
...and again.
And more.
Man was it annoying. That itch that refused to be quelled turned into a seeze-fest lasting a good ten minutes before I finally sneezed myself out.
By time it subsided, I was absolutely exhausted.
I'm seasonally allergic to a bunch of things, but usually I keep in check fairly well with over-the counter remedies. But yesterday, I mowed the lawn, chopping up a few million leaves in the process, many of which I'm quite sure are moldy and those little buggers seemed to have decided to spew forth their essence into the air as I disturbed their peaceful decomposition on the lawn.
The yard is too large to rake as far as I'm concerned, and I'm disinclined anyway, so I felt the big leaf-chop in conjunction with a final cutting before I put the mowers away for the winter was the best way to go. But now, I'm feeling like I want to put off the outdoor chores I'd planned to do today lest I rupture a lung or cause my nose to fly off my face.
During this little episode, Roadie the cat simply stared at me as though I'd lost my mind, showing no sympathy whatsoever and, in fact, the minute it was over, she began overtly lobbying for a treat in her insistent manner; fair-weather friend that she is.
I shook my head in disbelief at this heartless behavior, but I gave the furry little addict her fix.
Okay, I think I've figured out a way to make the podcasts less cumbersome. If you'd enjoy listening to an audio version of this post while you read along, the player is just over to the right in the blog frame. Now, hopefully, it won't redirect you to the Gabcast website in order to listen. If you want to, just click on the top episode. Hopefully, it'll work. -And thanks to PastorDave for suggesting the site.
Good morning Boys and Girls.
I'm starting to get ready for guests Thanksgiving weekend. To that end I'm doing a few chores I should have done months ago.
One of the things I'm doing is moving my office area about twenty-five feet to the end of the downstairs den, and out of my bedroom which is where it's been since I moved in here a year ago. It's been fine I guess, but it's been crowded and cluttered and besides, the area to which I've moved things has been a largely unused bit of real estate here.
Roadie the cat has not been enamored by the changes and has looked at me with disgust for days. How dare I do away with one of her favorite spaces for laying around? (-the synthesizer - in its case - next to my desk on which has sat her blanket; a perfect place, in her mind anyway, since its proximity to the computer allowed me to reach over and pet her without effort.)
During the "emptying" process the last couple of evenings, I ran across quite a few things I'd forgotten I had, many of which I'd never looked at since I came to Grand Rapids, a few I hadn't looked at since my divorce six years ago.
I ran across a huge bunch of greeting cards received by Mr. Simpson - a neighbor of mine who came to live with me and my son the last 14 months of his life in 2002 - from his relatives and friends from his church. It was fun looking through them before tossing them away. Interspersed in the pile were a few sympathy cards to me from friends from after he died, as well as a few from when my Dad died just a few months earlier.
I ran across a journal from about the time I started this blog that contained a few pages of single-line ideas for topics I thought I might tackle. "I cannot eat half a cookie, no matter its size." or, "I find something to like in about 99% of the people I meet." -Stuff like that. Most were just as silly, but one caught my eye.
This is what it said:
Write about the fact that the sole reason for us to exist on the planet is to take care of it and each other; to show love to one another in all its myriad forms.
I think the above statement is 100% true. -Not something I could ever prove I suppose, but still, I'm pretty sure it's true.
So anyway, I set up my computer desk in a manner that allows for me to look out the big slider off my den at about the same angle I used to look out the window in my room. I can no longer see the apple trees at the top of the neighbors hill that attracts so many deer, but I can still see the trail they take to get there.
Yesterday when I got home from work, it struck me that the second shelf from the bottom of the bookcase that sits here to my left in the new set-up might be a fine place for Roadie's blanket. I put it there, called her over and simply showed it to her. She looked up at me, back at the blanket and then and jumped up onto the shelf and into her new private cubby hole. It's about 14 inches deep and about 24 inches wide. I can reach over and pet her without moving my chair at all. She spent most of the evening in there last night, and she's sprawled comfortably there now.
I think all is forgiven.
Be good to everyone.
Password? PASSWORD? I don't need no stinkin' password.
Okay. Now, I use this computer every single day, or at least every single day I'm around. I don't have a laptop, though I know I'll be getting one sometime in the next month or two, and it's something I've put off for far too long. I've used a computer daily for the better part of twenty-five years. I've never learned to do any programing; a choice, I tell myself, as I've never felt like I wanted to be a slave to the damn things. I wanted mine to be a tool, mostly to help me in some of the stuff I do for work, and, like so many of us, I want to use mine to write posts, emails, stories and the like; I like the word processing aspect of this little typewriter-with-a-TV. Okay.
So there it is.
That's it.
So, why the hell am I finding that even things I've never had trouble with in the past are seeming a little confusing to me now? Especially on-line things...
This morning I received an email from a friend of mine - a long-go tblogger, as a matter of fact - invited me to look at something she'd placed on her facebook page. I was to simply click on the link within the email to take me to the page where I'd be asked to add something to her "Wall."
I spent twenty minutes jumping through hoops just to get to the site, only to find it was a goofy thing to which I had no desire to add anything. Then? I couldn't figure out how the hell to log out.
This new pod-cast site I'm trying? -Gabcast? Nice site, I suppose. I like being able to simply call a phone number to add an audio-post, but I'm having a hell of a time figuring out the editing features.
All this makes me feel old, and I don't like it. It's annoying and makes me want to limp away like Walter Brennen from "the Real McCoys," and "The Guns of Will Sonnet." And the fact that HE's the guy that came to mind as an example of the perfect curmudgeon, is further proof that I'm becoming one myself.
