Category: Uncategorized

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Some thoughts on Social Media, aka “Get off my lawn!”

Sometime back in the Pleistocene (y’know, six, seven years ago) I was on most Social Media, including Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Facebook was the first to go. Even before the arrival of the Orange Russian Wig Stand I felt it was devolving into a major political and social boxing ring. I was as guilty of fanning the flames as anyone else, and what finally caused me to step aside, do some self-examination and finally close my account was a comment left on my wall by the cute barista who worked at the Starbucks by our apartment that said, “Why don’t you ever post anything positive?”

Facebook was like heroin (or at least what I imagine heroin must be like). I was constantly looking for my next fix, and the withdrawal was just as painful. Zuckerberg knows that. That’s why your account isn’t immediately closed. He knows there’s a better than average chance you’ll relapse and come crawling back for your next high.

It was months before I could honestly say I no longer had the urge to click that icon and reopen my account. I breathed a sigh of relief when the thing had finally been deleted.

I’m now in pretty much the same ready-to-quit mood with Twitter as I was with FaceBook. Twitter (at least when I first joined in 2008) used to be fun, but lately it’s turned into a feculent vat of toxic hell stew thanks to the 2016 election.

Are there still islands of something nice, something fun? Yeah (check out Myrna Tellingheusen and the other residents of the fictitious Vaca Muerta Estates for a good time), but mostly now it’s just two tribes lobbing venomous grenades at each other and an open sewer of nothing but horrific news and outrage.

I’ve reached the point where I can stand to be on it a couple minutes at most every other day (mostly to catch up with Vaca Muerta and some tech news), but after ten years I’m thinking of shuttering my online presence there as well.

The only remaining social media that I still enjoy and spend way too much time on is Instagram. Maybe it’s because I fancy myself an adequately artistic photographer or perhaps it’s just because I’m a visual person. Either way, I still enjoy the platform. Yes, even it is getting politicized to a degree, although at the moment its remaining fairly civil. (Where do you think I find the anti-trump memes, anyway?)

But what’s annoying me about Instagram is how it’s spawned a whole new generation of people who fancy themselves famous for simply being on the platform. “Instagram Models” is apparently a new profession. Along with “influencers.” Influencers of what? Do you think because you’re 20 years old, have six-pack abs and judging from your photos—apparently can’t get your hands on a single shirt anywhere in the world you go—you’re are going to influence…what, exactly? What are you influencing beyond furthering  the rampant narcissism that’s consuming our culture? Do you really think people are going to buy the same brand of jockstrap you’re wearing because you’re posing on a beach in Mykonos?

Someone brought this up the other day by not-so-ironically posting on Instagram, “Public Figure: two words guaranteed to get you removed from my followers. Who decides that they’re a public figure, and why? Sorry, take your self importance somewhere else.”

I responded, “Add to that  “influencer” along with “Instagram Model,” aka I don’t have a real job but I’m (at least temporarily) pretty and whore myself out to rich sugar daddies just enough to travel the world and take (primarily shirtless) selfies.”

But do I follow these men and enjoy looking at their shirtless selfies? Of course I do. They’re pretty. And as long as I can ignore their self-importance I can enjoy that. Do they influence me? Not one whit. Am I being shallow? Possibly, if not probably. As I joke, “My Instagram feed consists of bears, vinyl collectors, drag queens, d-list celebrities, and men who don’t seem to own a single shirt among the lot of them.”

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You know who you are. Thank you.

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For those of you who have been living under a rock (or simply aren’t fans—WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!) the eleventh season of the “rebooted” Doctor Who had its worldwide premiere yesterday with a new Doctor and a new show runner. I was excited for these changes before I saw last night’s premier, and I’m even more excited now having seen this first episode.

In the interest of transparency, I’m completely unfamiliar with Ms. Whittaker’s previous work, so I don’t know if what we saw last night was her normal acting persona or if she’d been studying David Tenant’s Doctor intensely after landing the role. But OMG…the facial expressions, the vocal inflections…she’s at least initially coming off as a female Tenant, and I’m okay with that because—as Ben pointed out—we need a fun, joyful Doctor again.

I immediately came to care about these characters, and while in seasons past it’s taken me quite a while to warm up to new Doctors, this time I was all in from the get go! She’s—as they say across the pond—brilliant!

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It’s kind of sobering to realize that most—if not all—of the adults I knew as a child (including some beloved teachers) are probably now dead.

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I may just be posting nekkid menz for a while here. I have no more energy for the political bullshit going on right now.

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…but after the Kavanaugh shit show last week, and the fact that the pussy grabber in the White House actually managed to pull off getting that other  pussy grabber appointed to the Supreme Court, I have very little hope for the future of this country.

Women, be afraid. Be very afraid.

POC, be afraid. Be very afraid.

GLBT, be afraid. Be very afraid.

Muslims, be afraid. Be very afraid.

In fact, if you’re not a rich, white, heterosexual “christian” male, you should probably be looking over your shoulder as well, because they will eventually come for you too. We’ve seen this story play out countless times in the history of our world, and it never ends well.

My question is who will “save” us? Will we be speaking Russian or Chinese when The United States takes its dying breath and the dust settles?

I seriously would like to know what the Orange Wigstand’s response would be if Russian troops landed on the west coast.

I think we all know.

While the number of people who hate Shitler’s guts far outweigh the number of knuckle-draggers in his base, I fear the so called “Blue Wave” expected in November is never going to materialize. Please prove me wrong. Between general voter apathy, the knat-like attention span of the population (the Kavanaugh crap show will be an entire month in the past by the time Election Day rolls around), Republican gerrymandering/voter suppression/dirty tricks and expected-yet-undefended-from Russian interference next month, if the Democrats do make gains, they still won’t be substantial enough to flip the balance of power in Washington.  And at that point WE. ARE. FUCKED.

Please, please, please…women, LGBT, people of color, and the vast majority of whites who are patriotic and care for this country, get off your asses and vote. This may be your last opportunity.  I’m not being hyperbolic here; our country is sliding into fascism much the same way Germany did in the 30s, and apparently a sizable portion of the population is okay with that. There’s a small, angry mob of white-hooded nationalists and tiki-torch sympathizers who have decided that all their woes are because of the “other,” and the Shitgibbon (who they’re too stupid to realize doesn’t give a fuck about them other than they’re useful tools who fawn over him, stroking his narcissistic sociopathy) view him as their holy savior. It seems that now the main goal of republicans is not to actually govern or reach compromise; their singular focus has become “owning the libs,” even if it means burning everything this country was founded on to the ground.

With Twitler today spewing garbage that is a hair’s breadth away from labeling Democrats Enemy of the People, I have very little hope that we are in for anything other than VERY dark times ahead. Mexican kids in cages? You ain’t seen nothing yet—especially if you’re not a rich, white, heterosexual “christian” male.

Fleeing the country is not an option for Ben and I or the vast majority of our friends, and I’m sure that when the shit really hits the fan, our borders will be closed tighter than Melania’s coach. (Has anyone considered that Agent Orange’s border wall is more to keep us in than to keep anyone else out?)

So please, if you care one whit about this country, if you’re not ready for “Trump Youth” or jackbooted thugs marching in formation down your city streets—or simply about staying alive and not ending up in a camp—get off your ass and vote November 6th because you know the Shitgibbon’ s minions will.

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…time for Charlie Sheen and his immaculately groomed goatee in the bathtub scene!

This of course was long before Mr. Sheen’s numerous personal issues came to light.

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Stormy is tough, smart, and has absolutely no fucks left to give when it comes to the Orange Baboon in the White House.

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Again, from John Pavlovitz:

A Trump supporter just called me a “Beta Male.”

I was on social media, expressing my respect for survivors of sexual assault, in the wake of the President’s vile and reprehensible public ridiculing of Christine Blasey Ford—and he dropped (based on his commentary following) what he thought was some leg sweep, knockout punch, mic drop, designed to leave me in a quivering mass on the floor.

Apparently I was supposed to be insulted.
I wasn’t it.
I felt complimented.
I felt validated.
I realized I’m on the right track.

“Beta Male,” seems to be a Trump fan’s word for a man with decency, self-control, and compassion; someone a woman wouldn’t need to fear being around when alone or vulnerable.

It’s the label they slap on any man who is sickened by the misogyny on display in this Administration, who pushes back against the cultivating of a lowest-common-denominator expression of toxic masculinity, who rejects the idea that dehumanizing a woman and talking about grabbing her by the genitalia, is something decent men do.

Based on my observations, in the minds of these folks, Beta Males:

are capable of deep empathy for people who are suffering.
yield to a woman’s consent regarding her body and her needs.
are burdened to be sources of gentleness and restraint and kindness.
don’t need to display physical dominance in order to feel validated.
aren’t a physical or emotional danger to women around them.

Sign me up.

With what we’re seeing unfold right now in America, the last thing we need are more men like this President and the men who emulate him; perpetually insecure man-children who’ve never been able to find a fully formed understanding of what it means to be a gentleman and human being. We don’t need anymore knuckle-dragging cavemen who are terrified of strong women and intimidated by sexuality and orientation that doesn’t fit their brittle Old Testament sensibilities.

I want my son to be a Beta Male. I want him to be a safe place for the women around him. I want him to respect their humanity and honor their wishes and see them is equal. I want him to see in his father, someone who is secure enough in who he is, not to need to damage someone else to prove his worth.

I want my daughter to be surrounded by these Beta Males; men who value her enough to let her decide what happens to her body, who see her as more than a tool for their self-gratification, who are not intimidated by her strength or intellect or accomplishments, who don’t leveraging religion or guilt or fear to coerce women into anything.

If Donald Trump is an Alpha Male, if Lindsey Graham is an Alpha Male, if Brett Kavanaugh is an Alpha Male—count me out. That’s not exactly a mark I’m interested in attaining. I’d rather sleep at night knowing that I’ve left this world more compassionate and loving than I found it.

If being an “Alpha Male” is what this Administration is cultivating, employing, and perpetuating—I’ll gladly be a Beta Male.

I think that just means I’m being human.

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As I posted a week or so ago, after spotting the house on Zillow where I lived during high school and until I moved out on my own in 1980, my sister and I resolved to pay a visit to the old place to see it in person since we figured it would probably be our last opportunity to ever do it.

So this past Monday morning we headed over, made the arrangements to get it unlocked (ah, the wonders of technology), and figuratively stepped back in time 46 years.

As I wrote previously, naturally there had been many changes—and I can now report that really none of them were for the better. We joked it would take $50-75K just to get the place (including the rear/side yard wasteland) back to what it was when we lived there. The only real positive improvement I saw was the fact that at some point they’d removed all the popcorn ceilings…

But despite all the years and the numerous families who have passed through those walls, the energy of the place was still the same as I remember it. It felt calm. It felt safe.

The house seemed neither larger or smaller than I remembered. The infamous ghost chose not to acknowledge our presence; perhaps it had no interest, had been exorcised, or had simply moved on.

Naturally we took lots of photos, but none worth posting that really show anything more than what I’d put up previously from the listing itself, save this:

Same location, just a little closer in this time…

And this, the obligatory in-my-old-bathroom selfie:

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Shouldn’t Medusa’s eyelashes be tiny snakes?

Let’s not even discuss if the carpet matches the drapes!

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I hated this series when it first came out. Now I’d almost kill for one.

While the tone arm was a definite improvement over the previous Mk2 series and the passing years have brought to light a few overall design issues, what I hated most about these tables (1600Mk2, 1700Mk2, 1800Mk2) was that the fully digital pitch control of the previous lineup had been discontinued for a continuously variable analog system. Of course, this pitch arrangement (via slider) became the de facto standard on the 1200Mk2 and its successors.

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Because right now, I ain’t got nothin’…

Journal

30 September 1988

It’s been a busy month.  Shortly after my last journal entry, my phone was shut off because of a bounced check and some asshole smashed my car window just for the fun of it.  If I had a baseball bat I’d love to beat the motherfucker’s head in.

The car is now being locked up at night, over in R&H Wholesale’s parking lot.  It’s only $25.00 a month, so it’s a real bargain for the peace of mind and not having to hassle anymore with the midnight street cleaning.

I finally received money back from the IRS which I paid in for “self-employment tax” for my 1986 return.  It amounted to just over $1000—and believe me, it came just in time. I have intentions of using it for new tires for the car and miscellaneous other expenses, but for the moment, it just got me caught up on several outstanding bills and a few that weren’t due until later in the month.  So, for all intents and purposes it’s gone—for at least two weeks until I get paid again.  I’m not too upset over the sudden income and loss thereof; it did get rid of those few pesky bills that I could just never seem to get around to paying (Time-Life Mozart and the Astronomy Book Club to name about $110 worth).

I arranged to get cable TV yesterday.  They’ll be out next Friday to turn it on.

I went with John Trapp last night to the George Michael concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater.  I’m still not that fond of G.M., but John doesn’t have a whole lot of friends [with cars] so I agreed to go.  The light show was the best part of it, along with a hunky chunky lighting technician who I ended up paying more attention to than G.M.  There was a straight south-bay Hispanic couple sitting next to us who were on the point of copulating by mid-show.  It really ruined the rest of the  performance for me.

And if I never hear another screaming 14-year old girl, that would be just fine.

I’ve been feeling pretty down lately.  I can’t put my finger on any one thing, but I know I’m just not my perky sociable self.  I’ve had my usual doses of hot impersonal sex, but I find what I’m really missing is being touched and caressed.  When I got my haircut the other day, Patrick gave me a really good scalp and shoulders massage, which made me realize just how long it’s been since anyone has touched me.

The painting of the Magician still isn’t finished, although it’s a lot farther along than it was at my last entry.  I’m still not feeling especially creative, and though I’ve got a refrigerator full of slowly-desiccating paint,  I just can’t seem to get up the gumption to finish it.  I’m not especially pleased with it (am I ever with any painting?), but his eyes are nice and I suppose I can always give it away. 

Ron has decided to move to L.A. for real.  I guess his love life is finally improving.  And I’ve decided to stay put on Folsom until further notice.  The thought of moving just makes me sick.  I’m so settled in here I can’t imagine hauling it all out again.  And anyway, I’ve got better things to do with my money than pay another security deposit to some new strange landlord. At least I know Trish and Ron.

I may move upstairs if #12 becomes available though. It’s got a view of Twin Peaks (from the Kitchen) and you can see up above the freeway.

I bought six CDs with some of that tax refund money:  two by Yanni (replacing his album from last year which I sold), one by Suzanne Vega “Solitude Standing”, one by Sting “Blue Turtles”, two by Dead or Alive and one by Curiosity Killed the Cat. The Cat CD is going to Streetlight Records at the earliest opportunity.

I guess that’s enough for now.

It certainly is.

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Can you imagine?

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Some of the things he says are not 100% accurate, but it’s an entertaining geek video nonetheless.

Inside a Technics SL-1200 Turntable

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The rage Judge Kavanaugh displayed, apart from its bearing on his judicial temperament, exposed the dark side of a guy who seemed fully capable of getting sloshed, doing exactly what Dr. Ford described, laughing as he did it, and barely remembering the next day what he had done.

— Laurence Tribe ???????? ⚖️ (@tribelaw) September 27, 2018

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From John Pavlovitz:

To Young Men and Women of America,

Have you heard us?
Is our message getting through?

We’ve been talking to you this week, trying to make sure you understand who we are, what kind of America we’re building here, the future nation we’re dreaming of.

We think we’ve been clear and compelling in our declarations, and we’ve done our best not to leave any ambiguity as to our hearts or our plans or our intentions.

We think our tirades and our condescension and our insults and our sneering tantrums have spoken eloquently about us and about you.

We hope Lindsey and Donald and Chuck and Orrin and Mitch and Brett and Susan have made a strong case—but if not, let us be more explicit in these moments, so there can be no confusion. After all, November is coming and we want you to be certain…

To the Young Men of America,

You can do whatever you want to young women.

You can disregard their humanity,
force yourself on them physically,
ignore their pleas to stop,
proceed without consent,
hurt them,
humiliate them,
indulge your urges,
treat them as property,
and silence, slander, and intimidate them after the fact.

You can do this as often as you like, to as many young girls as opportunity and your desires allow.

We will have your back (providing you are white, wealthy, and one day vote Republican.)

We will marshal our every resource of finance and position and privilege in protecting and defending you.

You will receive sanctuary in our midst, regardless of the horrors you are responsible for or the recklessness and brazenness of your conduct.

We will help you in any way we can, to malign your accuser’s character, destroy their credibility, and embarrass them further.

We will blame alcohol or her memory or her behavior in the past.
We will talk about your viciousness in ways designed to make it seem commonplace.
We will paint you in as flattering a portrait as we can, so that you actually come out looking like the victim, so that the accusations are actually a help.
We will have no loyalty to the truth or to goodness or decency, if such things pose a threat to either your narrative or our prosperity.
We’ll use the invaluable resource of the Evangelical Church to even make supporting you, part of God’s will.

If no other option is available, we will simply ignore what you’ve done. (After all we installed a President that way.)

We will never allow the violence you make young women endure, to prevent you from having opportunity and advancement and success.

We can promise you that.

And to Young Women of America,

You don’t matter.

Not your trauma or your pain,
not the innocence you lose,
not the damage you sustain,
not the scars you are marked by,
not the nightmares you are haunted by,
not the peace you no longer find,
not the confidence that leaves you,
not the fear that is ever present,
not the shame that you cannot shake,
not the silence you are imprisoned by.

We simply do not see you as valuable—at least not as valuable as the status quo we’re protecting or the legislation we’re coveting or the religion we’re perpetuating or the votes we’re needing.

You are the acceptable collateral damage of our misogyny and entitlement.

Your body, your emotional health, and your sense of safety—simply aren’t worth more than a Supreme Court seat.

Of course, should a pregnancy somehow be created by your violation, we will vigorously demand that you be forced to carry it, even if it exacerbates your pain and magnifies your despair. After all, we urgently need to perpetuate the appearance that we are pro-life—just not your life.

We can imagine this is less than ideal for you, but we hope you understand that this is how it has always been, and we are counting on you to indulge us one last time, and we appreciate your cooperation.

After all, ee have a Patriarchy and a predatory President to protect.

So, young men and women of America, we hope you see us with clarity.
We hope that in these days, we are exposing ourselves fully.
We hope you know who we are now.

We’ll see you in November.

Sincerely,

The Republican Party of 2018

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https://twitter.com/andylassner/status/1045334890709835777

also…

https://twitter.com/andylassner/status/1045452340478660608

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The other day I was on Zillow and for kicks went looking for the house my family lived in from 1972 through 1981. It was where I spent my “formative” years and I have many fond memories of the place. I may have in fact, written about it at some point on this here blog thingie.

It was up for sale a few years ago, and the few photos posted of it at the time showed that it had gone downhill. Very downhill—matching the rest of the neighborhood. I knew the pool my folks finally put in as I was just about to move out (how convenient!) had been ripped out years ago, but I was unprepared for exactly how rundown the place had become.

I was kind of surprised to actually see that the house was once again on the market, but this time it looked damn good. It was obvious it was a flip, and while not a complete remodel, it looked like all the basic amenities had been replaced or repaired. More importantly, it looked clean—unlike the last time I was able to vicariously peek inside via the internet. And this was the first time I’d been able to see multiple views of every room in the house (save one) since my folks moved out in 1981.

I almost cried.

Sadly, for some reason neither I or my family took many pictures of the inside of the house while we lived there, but I was able to find and post a few “then and now” comparisons.

Mom was an interior designer, so when we lived there the place had a definite…look…about it. I think the only room that managed to remain the original white walls all those years was my dad’s study upstairs. I knew from the last time I saw inside the house everything had been stripped, but it was even sadder to see the place now, looking almost like it looked the day we moved in back in 1972.

Of course, it’s now 46 years later and decorating sensibilities are different. Carpet in all the living areas has been replaced by ceramic tile and there are now ceiling fans in nearly every room (something we did not have back then but definitely could’ve used). Thankfully the popcorn ceilings have been removed. While they slapped up a ceramic tile backsplash in the kitchen and replaced the major appliances (the GE “Americana” range is gone), they didn’t replace any of the cabinets or countertops except in the master bath. So the nasty faux butcher block Formica countertops that were original to the kitchen are still in place. So are the fiberglass one-piece tubs/showers in the bathrooms.

At some point since 1981 the wet bar (how 70s, am I right?) had been ripped out of the lower level family room as well, leaving a weird, empty, closet-like opening in one wall.

My old bedroom is now being marketed as a “study” with a ceramic tile floor like the rest of the main living areas.

I suppose I should be grateful that they didn’t simply reconfigure the whole first floor and knock out the wall between the kitchen and living room as has been done on countless other homes of the same model in the old neighborhood.

Out back, the wood deck and self-supporting “floating” lattice deck cover my dad built was long gone, replaced by a concrete slab and solid patio cover with posts to support it. All the landscaping was gone except for a couple palm trees that had been planted at some point after we vacated the property.

I sent the listing to my sister. We’re going to schedule a tour with the agent, since it’s probably the last time we’ll ever get the chance to step inside again…

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Brilliant!

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https://twitter.com/PoliticalEmilia/status/1040645134818275328

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