On average, I delete about 90 emails a day.
The algorithm that runs the show seems incapable of guessing my gender.
I have in the past week, received two with the subject line: Men’s Health News (first sentence begins-- If you have ED). I don’t.
Other subject lines: Impotence (How to Control Your Penis); Male Enhancement, Harder and Longer, Breaking Alert (Men, You Don’t Need Viagra), Hardness Issues, Hardness, etc.
↑ I realize that this can be critically important in some relationships. I am glad there are resources available.
But I want to know a couple of things. Is the problem so pervasive that random emails will reach thousands in need?
And why, if the problem is so pervasive, are there stories of sexual assault in nearly every edition of the paper?
And why is there the “Me Too” movement?
And why was there an article in today’s NY Times that more than 100,000 sexual assault cases have resulted in 1,000 arrests with more on the horizon? And “another 155,000 or more sex assault evidence kits still await testing.”
And why are there 48,000 immigrants being held in ICE for-profit detention centers?
Yes. That’s a related story.
We need to start treating other human beings as if they are persons of value.
Because they are.
Wednesday, March 13, 2019
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Sweetheart City
I live in Loveland, Colorado.
Predictably, the city goes crazy every Valentine’s Day.
Citizens submit designs, verses, and cachet content and the winners are selected for the year's official Valentine’s components.
The cards are sold in almost every local store.
A Miss Loveland Valentine is selected from among comely high school students. Later the winner will have a special audience with the Colorado governor when she is introduced to the state legislators in Denver.
Senior high school students paint ‘love notes’ on red wooden hearts that are hung from light posts on all major streets. The Loveland Thompson Valley Rotary Club sells ‘heart space’ as its major fundraiser.
Volunteers gather to hand cancel mail with the official cachet before it enters the postal mainstream.
And on the day itself, or close to it, a “Sweetheart Festival” is held in the city’s historic district.
I’m probably leaving something out. It’s all kind of fun.
Personally, I received some nice emails and had a lovely Skype visit with my grandson. But the only Valentine card I received was from the staff at my dentist’s office.
It made me smile.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Wham!
After a month of 40-degree weather and sunshine, winter slammed into Colorado.
When I walked toward the entrance for the event on the east side of town, the temperature was gentle, the wind calm. When I walked out, I saw the sidewalk was wet. Then I felt the rain. Then gusts of wind threatened to knock me down. I was teetering toward the parking lot when a couple passed me then turned and asked if I’d like some help. “Yes!”
As we maneuvered off the sidewalk toward the parking lot, rain changed to sleet, driven horizontal by fierce wind. It was actually painful. As we struggled forward, the sleet mixed with snow. Visibility was minimal. The couple persevered, depositing me in my car, admonishing me to be careful.
I turned the heater and windshield wipers on full blast, dried off my glasses and waited until most windows were clear. Not that it did much good. The snow was now falling in such thickness that roads, signs, and traffic were almost completely obscured. But I couldn’t stay there.
I drove, inching my way toward what I hoped was the exit, letting others pass so I could follow their tracks. Slowly I made it back to the highway, getting into what I hoped was the slow lane. I headed west, choosing to get off the highway as soon as I could, grateful that increased traffic made the road more visible.
Closer to home, I knew the way. My car knew the way. My garage door opener worked. I was home. And so grateful to the couple who turned back to help a tottering old lady.
And to a car that warmed up and handled slippery streets and a cozy home to welcome me. A glass of wine and a little television numbed winter reality and I went to bed dreading the avalanche that I must assuredly deal with in the morning.
There was no avalanche. Only about an inch of snow. By mid-morning the sun was out, and many sidewalks were clear.
As we maneuvered off the sidewalk toward the parking lot, rain changed to sleet, driven horizontal by fierce wind. It was actually painful. As we struggled forward, the sleet mixed with snow. Visibility was minimal. The couple persevered, depositing me in my car, admonishing me to be careful.
I turned the heater and windshield wipers on full blast, dried off my glasses and waited until most windows were clear. Not that it did much good. The snow was now falling in such thickness that roads, signs, and traffic were almost completely obscured. But I couldn’t stay there.
I drove, inching my way toward what I hoped was the exit, letting others pass so I could follow their tracks. Slowly I made it back to the highway, getting into what I hoped was the slow lane. I headed west, choosing to get off the highway as soon as I could, grateful that increased traffic made the road more visible.
Closer to home, I knew the way. My car knew the way. My garage door opener worked. I was home. And so grateful to the couple who turned back to help a tottering old lady.
And to a car that warmed up and handled slippery streets and a cozy home to welcome me. A glass of wine and a little television numbed winter reality and I went to bed dreading the avalanche that I must assuredly deal with in the morning.
There was no avalanche. Only about an inch of snow. By mid-morning the sun was out, and many sidewalks were clear.
I love Colorado.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Dystopian Curse
My next substantial piece of writing is way overdue.
People keep asking me if I am writing a new book. No. But I should be.
The trouble is, I want it to be funny. I am pretty good at making people laugh, usually just by saying something unexpected. Something other than the “how are you?” “fine” kind of stuff.
These ambitions are daunted, subdued, quashed by two factors.
First, the enormously depressing news of what is going on in our world. It’s as if news reports were written by Margaret Atwood or George Orwell. It seems irresponsible to write something fluffy.
Second, I too often let the enormously depressing news quash my own sense of humor.
However, I do understand why Hollywood pumped out lots of lighthearted movies during the Depression. When they were so urgently needed. That’s an important precedent. But someone on the West Coast must have been buoyed by more ebullience than I can muster… most days.
Writing dystopian tales seems the only logical response to current events.
And they are not funny. At all.
Still, I keep trying. I’ve even invented a character, Gertrude, who (just a coincidence) is experiencing with ironic humor all the indignities of getting old… alone.
So I will persevere. I will take a walk and actually look at the beauty around me. I will eat a piece of chocolate. And snuggle with my cat. And write another damn paragraph full of wit and good cheer.
Amen.
People keep asking me if I am writing a new book. No. But I should be.
The trouble is, I want it to be funny. I am pretty good at making people laugh, usually just by saying something unexpected. Something other than the “how are you?” “fine” kind of stuff.
These ambitions are daunted, subdued, quashed by two factors.
First, the enormously depressing news of what is going on in our world. It’s as if news reports were written by Margaret Atwood or George Orwell. It seems irresponsible to write something fluffy.
Second, I too often let the enormously depressing news quash my own sense of humor.
However, I do understand why Hollywood pumped out lots of lighthearted movies during the Depression. When they were so urgently needed. That’s an important precedent. But someone on the West Coast must have been buoyed by more ebullience than I can muster… most days.
Writing dystopian tales seems the only logical response to current events.
And they are not funny. At all.
Still, I keep trying. I’ve even invented a character, Gertrude, who (just a coincidence) is experiencing with ironic humor all the indignities of getting old… alone.
Amen.
Thursday, January 3, 2019
I want a lion
This is Harlan’s lion.
As Linus used a blanket, Harlan (age 3) uses his lion. It's something for him to hold on to when things (either good or bad) get overwhelming.
Mostly the news is about something terrible ... every day:
A pipeline . . .
A wall . . .
A shooting or bombing . . .
A massive fire or tsunami . . .
Alliances shattered; treaties ignored . . .
Environmental safeguards dissolved . . .
Governments paralyzed or paranoid or predatory . . .
More than 260 million people wandering the planet with no home and little hope -- having left everything they have ever known ... Millions escaping the unacceptable, only to become unacceptable.
All kinds of toxicity
All the time
I (considerably older than 3)want a lion
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Beethoven Lives
Last summer, my son and daughter-in-law took my 2.5- year-old grandson Harlan to Chicago’s Grant Park to listen to whatever music was being performed. He could sit on the grass or dance. He danced.
Thanksgiving week we were playing around in his living room. My son casually picked out the beginning notes of “Ode to Joy” (4th movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony) on Harlan’s toy piano. Harlan, now three, was playing with his toy train but he perked up when he heard the melody.
Then, amazingly, he started singing – in German.
Both my son and I were astounded – that he recognized the melody, that he remembered the German words, and that he sang them pretty much on key.
Harlan’s mom is German and is teaching him that language along with English and a myriad other things. But still.
There are perhaps a hundred language variations of that particular section of Beethoven’s work. I believe that it is adapted so often, in so many contexts, because it may well be the most joyfully triumphant piece of music ever written.
But what could be more triumphant than a performance by a three-year-old boy in a Chicago living room? Beethoven lives.
Thanksgiving week we were playing around in his living room. My son casually picked out the beginning notes of “Ode to Joy” (4th movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony) on Harlan’s toy piano. Harlan, now three, was playing with his toy train but he perked up when he heard the melody.
Then, amazingly, he started singing – in German.
Both my son and I were astounded – that he recognized the melody, that he remembered the German words, and that he sang them pretty much on key.
Harlan’s mom is German and is teaching him that language along with English and a myriad other things. But still.
There are perhaps a hundred language variations of that particular section of Beethoven’s work. I believe that it is adapted so often, in so many contexts, because it may well be the most joyfully triumphant piece of music ever written.
But what could be more triumphant than a performance by a three-year-old boy in a Chicago living room? Beethoven lives.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Once Every 16 Years
For 16 years, ever since I brought him home from the Humane Society when he was two years old, I have avoided tripping over my cat, Herbie.
Until yesterday.
I was unloading groceries. When I turned to move some perishables into the refrigerator, I stumbled over his soft, not-so-adorable-at-that-moment form.
I didn’t fall. Instead, I managed to land most of the perishables safely onto the counter.
Except for the blueberries. When their little plastic box fell to the floor, it opened, and all the little blue globules flew out.
Herbie the cat was delighted. Blueberries roll. Everywhere. The magnificent old feline batted them around for a few minutes before ambling off to one of his four favorite napping places.
Except for the one I stepped on, the blueberries were quite neat and retrievable. And washable.
And the cat, forgivable, especially when he snuggled, purring, next to me in bed that night. And still forgivable even when I found the small hairball on my bedroom rug this morning.
Once every 16 years is okay.
Until yesterday.
I was unloading groceries. When I turned to move some perishables into the refrigerator, I stumbled over his soft, not-so-adorable-at-that-moment form.
I didn’t fall. Instead, I managed to land most of the perishables safely onto the counter.
Except for the blueberries. When their little plastic box fell to the floor, it opened, and all the little blue globules flew out.
Herbie the cat was delighted. Blueberries roll. Everywhere. The magnificent old feline batted them around for a few minutes before ambling off to one of his four favorite napping places.
Except for the one I stepped on, the blueberries were quite neat and retrievable. And washable.
And the cat, forgivable, especially when he snuggled, purring, next to me in bed that night. And still forgivable even when I found the small hairball on my bedroom rug this morning.
Once every 16 years is okay.
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