Social Networking and You

“Social networking” is a relatively new phrase and phenomenon. Interaction among people in groups and societies is nothing new of course, but new technologies have made that interaction evolve into something our ancestors wouldn’t recognize. Hell, I don’t even recognize most of it.

I think it was all invented by a couple of college students who were the results of cloning experiments using genetic material from the Adam of personal computing – Bill Gates. These kids, many years ago, discovered that they could make their computers talk to each other. Then they had the brilliant realization that they could use the computers to talk for them as if they were at a party or just goofing in study hall. Then one of them invented the cell phone, which originally was just a phone made out of cells, and then some Japanese guys married the cell phone to a computer, which was the beginning of phone sex. A short time later (all this stuff happened very quickly) Bill Gates called a meeting and told all the inventors and developers and experts that, damn it he was no longer Adam he was now God and he was in charge and he owned all of this crap. And it came to pass that Facebook appeared, supposedly invented by some other incredibly rich clones, but everybody knows it all belongs to Microsoft. Except for the stupid Mac stuff which belongs to Bill Gates’ brother-in-law, Steve Jobs. And isn’t Jobs a weird last name? Makes you think of the Bible and that guy who was swallowed by a whale. Or was that one of the Jonas brothers? I forget. Anyway…

Now that you know the short and complex history of social networking you have, I’m sure, a far greater appreciation of its importance in the course of human events. “In the course of human events” is also a historic phrase, I think, from the drivers’ education manual or some place like that. And since you have this greater appreciation and understanding I expect you to be a lot more serious about how you use the stuff. You shouldn’t waste all your social networking time doing silly apps like “FarmCity”, “Mafia Turf Wars”, “Mother-In-Law Ultimate Fighting” or “Global Terror Featuring Paula Abdul”. Also, unintelligible texting should be limited to situations that are safe and unlikely to disturb other less technologically adept folks. Movie theaters, church services and automobile driving are all places where unintelligible texting is socially acceptable. You shouldn’t text when you’re at a slot machine and you’ve just won a couple thousand pennies which, to your feeble mind, seems like a really big deal. It isn’t a big deal! It’s just twenty bucks or so you dummy. Okay. Sorry, I got a little sidetracked there.

Personally, I don’t text. And I only use social networking to maintain a close and loving relationship with my family, friends and a few bands. My “friend list” is a relatively modest 23,494. Of course some of those people are my wife’s friends because she refuses to do any social networking. Weird isn’t she?

So let me restate my point, in case you didn’t get it. “Social Networking” is a serious responsibility. Always use it wisely. Always use protection.

Thank you and have a fine day.

2011 - NOT JUST ANOTHER YEAR

I’ve made a resolution for this New Year. Usually I don’t make resolutions. My will power and moral fiber are much too weak for those kinds of self-improvement efforts, so I generally resist the peer (wife, doctor, well meaning friends and relatives) pressure that shows up at this time of year. But this year I’ve resolved to re-start blog writing. My writing efforts in the past went more and more into my poetry. I even had a few things published. You all did notice, didn’t you? It was announced on Facebook, for goodness sake, and we all know what a bastion of high cultural standards that is.

The poetry, while satisfying, pays like crap. And I’ve heard that it’s possible to get paid for advertising junk on a blog site if it gets enough readers. So now I’ll be writing stuff here and promoting it blatantly (which sharp readers will know refers to the original name of this page) so that I can sell space to advertisers. If you happen to see ads on the page for dating sites, male enhancement products or plastic surgeons that specialize in tattoo removal then I’d appreciate it if you patronize those businesses. And don’t forget to let them know you learned about them here.

A lot of bloggers are writing articles that review the events of last year or are making up lists of their top twenty songs or other easy stuff to fill up their first postings of 2011. I could do that. But 2010 was just too boring. The events list would look just like most other years:

1. War in the Middle East.
2. Terrorism everywhere
3. Britany Spears
4. Political crap
5. Brad Pitt

Blah, blah, blah.

Since my taste in music would only interest the ten other people in the world who like Bluegrass from northern New York State a list of my favorite songs wouldn’t be a big attention getter.

So my first posting this year will be more cutting edge. It will be devoid of cuteness. Even though it will be poetic in language and mood it will definitely be prose. As I wrote these words I just realized that this is the first posting of the year. So it will be the second posting that has all those other fine qualities. Watch for it. I’m pretty sure I have the will power to write something and stick it up on this site. After all, I got this one finished.

Have a fine day.

MODERN LANGUAGE

Long ago and far, far away when I was just a lad, things were different. That’s a silver tongued first sentence, isn’t it? Right out of a thousand stories and Star Wars too, I think. I digress. How different were things? Don’t answer. That’s a rhetorical question and I’ll answer it here in a little bit. Okay, where was I?

Oh yeah, different. Back in those days, the Fifties and early Sixties, girls didn’t talk about the parts of the male physique that lie below the waist line. And waist lines, surrounded by cheap leather belts, were a lot higher back then. If I happened to overhear a girlish conversation about boys or men I would hear giggling chatter about muscular arm muscles, highly shellacked pompadour or D.A. hairstyles, dreamy eyes and other non-racy stuff like that. Really hushed conversations might turn to a guy’s ability as a kisser. That was hot stuff back then.

Then the Sixties rolled on in. Those long haired wild eyed rock and roll musicians started multiplying. Then a bunch of them crossed over from England. Crazy, drugged up band boys leaping about and screaming sex driven lyrics were all over the radio and television. Bands like the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and probably the wildest band of all Freddie and the Dreamers. Next thing we knew girls’ skirts got shorter, bras were being burned and people were rolling in the mud in upstate New York. Books like the Joy of Sex were on every newlywed’s night stand. And I think that one even showed up on Father Knows Best. Maybe not.

There has been a downhill slide ever since those halcyon days of yore. (Another terribly overused cliché there) All of which brings me to the point you all knew I’d get around to eventually.

The other day I happened to be at the mall in the food court. I know, I know. I’ve told you before how I never go to the mall. Well, it was raining and I wanted to get a walk done so I was there doing that. Then I needed to go into Sears for a new chain for my chainsaw. All that made me hungry so I went to ChicFila for a healthy grilled chicken sandwich. Okay, are you satisfied?

Anyway, a bunch of young teenage girls was sitting nearby talking and laughing in that annoying way that only teenage girls can seem to master. They were talking about budget deficits, the upcoming election and ways to foster world peace. Ha! You know I’m lying with that last one. No, those girls were talking about boys and all the necessary equipment and stratagems they use to capture the smelly creatures. But the conversation reached, in terms of language and anatomical correctness, a whole new level that, frankly, surprised even me. As anyone who has ever heard my skills in the area of off-color language can attest, no trooper or sailor has a vocabulary more extensive than mine. I pale in comparison to that group of expensively dressed, well fed young females.

“Like last Friday, ya’know, I went out with Billy and he like was wearing these really like tight jeans and ya’know you could see his **** and his **** and when I shoved my like tongue down his throat his **** got all **** and like he grabbed my **** and like I was **** and….”

That was a highly censored excerpt of part of the conversation. I supplied those asterisk thingies for the unmentionable body parts. But I completely eliminated all the “F” words, “S” words, “MF” words and others. If I had kept those in that paragraph would have run well over a page.

But something even more disturbing than that conversation happened a little later. I mean, teenagers can be excused as being ignorant and interested in saying things for shock value alone. It was a day or two later when I was in the grocery store that I came across three middle aged ladies in the produce department. I was innocently squeezing tomatoes when I overheard a conversation emanating from those expensively dressed, well fed matrons. Here’s a sample.

“Yes, my George is getting so lazy when it comes to ****. Why he even went out and bought me a ****** so he wouldn’t have to, you know, **** me. So Javier the pool guy we have, who is very good by the way, has been taking care of **** and **** and **** and I’m a lot more relaxed now. And you should see his **** and his **** is magnificent also.”

It went on. These women didn’t use as many cuss words as adjectives and adverbs but they weren’t totally cuss free. But I had to move on when one of the women noticed a tomato turning into sauce in my hand and she figured out I was eavesdropping. When all three glared at me like I was some kind of lecherous psychopath I made my way to the dairy department.

Well I guess my shock at hearing such blunt and crude language from the fairer sex marks me in one more way as an old geezer. And I’m sure that those few representatives from the distaff side aren’t like all women. I know my dear wife doesn’t talk dirty, no matter how hard I try to convince her to do it. She can let loose with a string of colorful invective when she’s really irritated with me, however. Which is, when I think about it, fairly often.

Okay then, have a fine day.

JUST A COUPLE OF THINGS HERE...

Howdy friends and neighbors. It’s been quite a long time since I posted anything on the old Blog site. I’ve been focusing most of my writing energy on my little pieces of poetry. Some would call them little pieces of something else but I think those folks are just artistically deficient.

But today I feel the need to comment on a couple of things. One of them is a little bit political so if you’re sick and tired of all that crap you can skip over it. But if you skip it then you have let to me know and I’ll send along a couple of poems for you to read. You’re going to get your unpleasant reading whether you like it or not.

Okay here’s the political stuff. First of all, I’m not a party politics kind of guy. It’s true that I’m more than a little bit conservative in my views. In fact I’ve been described as a poor man’s William F. Buckley. Not quite sure who described me that way. Might even have been me. It doesn’t matter. This recent primary election business was an interesting bit of civics in action. What with the Tea Party folks and the more traditional Republicans going at it along with a few interesting little contests on the Democrat side there’s something different flowing down this particular river of history. I’m not registered with any party so I didn’t have the opportunity to vote in the primaries. Probably better that I didn’t because my variety of choices might have short circuited the voting machine. But the message from the voters of both parties seems to be that a whole lot of folks are tired of professional politicians.

For instance here in Delaware we had a Democrat Party primary to choose a candidate for the State Treasurer race. One of the contenders was Ms. Velda Potter-Jones who currently holds that esteemed office. She’s been involved in government for a long time and her husband is a city councilman up in Wilmington. But she projected just a little bit of arrogance, a little bit of the “I’m a member of the very smart ruling class” attitude. Her opponent was a hard working accountant type guy who came across as sincere and uninterested in making elected office-holding a lifetime career. Well he won quite handily. Other races in the state seemed to be decided the same way. Career politicians might be a new and welcomed endangered species. I’ve always harbored a suspicion of folks who come out of college with a law or political science degree and immediately go about building a career that leads to permanent residence in elected office. In fact I find them kind of scary and I take most every opportunity to vote against that particular breed. The upcoming general election will be interesting to me mostly to see how many incumbent careerists get to join the unemployment rolls that they helped fill up with regular working folks. So that’s my political ranting.

Now on to a subject that may cause my spleen to burst if I don’t get it out of my system. And if I have any readers who happen to be part of the group I’m about to malign (which is pretty unlikely since these morons must be completely illiterate) too bad. If I knew your names I’d mention them before I let go with this diatribe. Where did these complete idiots on motorcycles come from? I’m not talking about those club guys who tool around on their Harleys or the folks in late middle age who ride those big shiny Gold Wings with more options than the average Cadillac. No I’m talking about the fools on those “crotch rocket” imported bikes that ride without any regard for laws, life or limbs.

Just tonight we were driving east on RT 50 coming home from the DC area when a pack of those things ripped by us, weaving in and out of traffic at speeds well over eighty miles per hour. I know that for a fact because I hit the gas to try and keep up with them but I chickened out when I hit eighty. It’s hard to weave a 2005 Chevy Malibu in and out of traffic at speeds like that. Those guys were flying down the highway. I know they passed several cops because I saw the police cars and they were shooting the radar gun and picking up little old ladies doing sixty-seven in a sixty-five zone. They pick up those kinds of speeders because there’s no challenge to it. Cops know they can’t catch the “crotch rockets” so they don’t even bother.

And why do the over-dressed, tinted glass helmet wearing knuckleheads travel in packs? We always see three, four or more of them whining their annoying engines as they terrorize other drivers and cause pedestrians to leap from bridges. I honestly can’t think of a greater hazard on our roads today. As we traveled home tonight we saw big electric signs in several spots – MOTORCYCLE SAFETY WEEK SHARE THE ROAD. Those signs blinked and went out when the “crotch rocket” riders roared past causing a warp in the space-time continuum.

I do have a solution, harsh and cruel though it may be. I will sell you a device to mount on your car, SUV, pick-up truck or minivan that will stop those riders forever. When you see one or more of those bikes racing up to pass you, just flick a button. That button will release a spring loaded very long, very sharp blade at just the right height to slice the front tire of the motorcycle and retract immediately. At that point just slow down and watch as the motorcycle continues along at eighty or ninety until the unraveling tire causes the thing to start flying through the air like Evel Kneivel on crack. “Awesome, dude!” they might say as they become highly colorful road-kill.

Well, you get my drift. I feel better now.

Have a fine day.

Aimee's Story

This is a story written by Aimee Bourey, daughter of my cousin Mike and his lovely wife Kelly. The article won first place in a writing contest in Denton Texas. It is beatifully poetic and a fitting tribute to my Uncle Art. Thank you Aimee for allowing me to publish your story here on my little blog site. It is especially appropriate for this Memorial Day weekend.

My Grandpa

by Aimee Bourey

Arthur Bourey, my grandpa, was a brave man. He was born on September 9, 1926 in Standish, New York. He served in U.S Navy during World War II. Afterward, since my grandpa was smart and strong, he worked as a master welder for thirty-three years.

But that is not all I knew about him. Beside all the stories I heard from my dad and other relatives, I knew him as a quiet and loving man. When I first met my grandpa I thought that he was a soldier though I did not know he had served in the Navy then.

When I walked into his home, I saw a beautiful handcrafted clock hanging on the wall, the quiet clock sounding just like the way grandpa talks, sturdy and trustful. I saw several of his model airplanes in his basement, all bright and shining; they shined like grandpa’s loving eyes behind his glasses. I saw his big green backyard with the plaster donkey in the middle hauling a wagon full of beautiful flowers. I felt the warm welcome from grandpa about our visit. Now, that home is all lonely and sad. A For-Sale sign is probably in front of it. His model airplanes are probably all packed to be sold. The plaster donkey with wagon might have been boxed up too. His handmade clock might be still on the wall, saying good-bye. My grandpa died. My tears rained for lifetimes. My happy smile has been destroyed by the sudden news.

I wish I could have said THANK YOU or I LOVE YOU to him for all the times I didn’t. I wish I could have sent him the THANK YOU card for the present he gave to me last Christmas. I wish ………I love my grandpa! I will miss him forever. I know he is in a better place and his bright eyes will shine on me all rest of my life.

AGING: ANOTHER VIEW

In the past couple of years I have ranted, analyzed and whined about the aging process. In one instance I may have even bragged about my immunity to the creeping crud of codgerdom. I shouldn’t have bragged. It’s all well and good, I suppose, but there is, as always, more to be said on such a pervasive subject. And this time jealousy is the point of my musings.

I am jealous of people who don’t seem to age. And I’m also jealous of folks who age in little tiny, nearly imperceptible increments. Take my wife, please. (That line didn’t seem funny when Henny Youngman said it and it still is lame) My wife has a little gray hair. She has a few little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. But it took her almost sixty years to get those tiny signs of aging. I got wrinkles, sagging body parts, sagging face parts, age spots, weird bodily noises, almost completely gray hair, hair sprouting from ears and nose, wild and bushy eyebrows and bad skin in a matter of weeks after I turned fifty. In fact just the other day one of my grandsons said I smelled old. How that can be true when I shower daily and use all manner of lotions and ointments is beyond me. Maybe it’s the lotions and ointments.

Here’s my wife’s regimen for clear skin and a youthful appearance. Wash face, dry face. That's it. She doesn’t use Oil of Olay or any other skin cream. She never wears make-up. Now I will divulge that she gets a little color added to her hair a couple times a year. But even fifteen year old girls do that. So I’d have to say that she’s pretty low maintenance and a disappointment to cosmetic marketing people everywhere.

Last week I had the opportunity to be around a large number of relatives, mostly from my Dad’s side of the family. The men in this group tended to look pretty well worn. If they had hair it was well on the way to gray. They all seemed to suffer the same maladies that afflict me. But the women seem to have gone into their middle and late middle age with a lot fewer visible signs of the process. They are bright eyed and clear skinned. Even the ladies that wear make-up seem to do it in an ornamental way and not for camouflage. It makes me so jealous when I see these women, some who are quite a lot older than me, looking so darn good.

Well I guess there’s no point in this envious attitude. Aging is what it is and will affect all of us in the same way eventually. I’ve decided to take a proactive approach. I’m going to hang out more with men and women who look older than me. In fact I was just on-line checking out assisted living and nursing homes in the area. Did you know that they have statistics like the “average age of residents” listed on their sites. I’m looking for a place where that number is somewhere around “ninety”.

Have a fine day, ya’ll.

Snowstorm's A Comin'

Here comes the forecasted snow
Looks like it’s gonna be a real big blow
All the weather girls and boys
Are making lots of scary noise
Every channel has the story
NOAA’s in its warning glory
Our governor has a real good plan
The snow plow driver’s name is Stan

Look at all the grocery stores
People knocking down the doors
Milk and meat and loaves of bread
A block of cheddar cheese to shred
Don’t forget the Quaker oatmeal
This dang place is sure surreal
Every Wilma Joe and Jane
Is rushing to the quick check lane

Gas stations all are really busy
Drug store clerks are getting dizzy
Panic’s rising shoulder high
Gotta find some stuff to buy
Shovels, gloves, flour and salt
Some liquor made with good old malt
Supplies are now safely in place
No more need to rush and race

With a little bit of Frenchman’s luck
Plows will all get soundly stuck
Then when Monday rolls around
We’ll still be sweetly hunkered down
With no particular place to go
Just looking out at all the snow
Maybe stay beneath the covers
Acting like two young lovers