They say Buddhists believe in multiple lives. Buddhists say cats have 9 lives. And cats have nothing to say on the matter, because they are cats. If they could speak I'd imagine they would say one life is enough.
One can only eat so much canned garbage, lick yourself, and poop in a sand filled box.
Birthdays typically represent the unique ability to look at your life thus far and prophesize, noodle will you, over the road ahead. At 18 I looked at my life and said "wow I've managed not to kill myself for 18 years!" At 21, it was much of the same. By 28 it was the the 10 year mark of being an adult, and not killing myself. Everyday presents a series of moments, or a singular one, that runs the risk of ending the show, that's all she wrote, thank you and good night, don't forget to tip your waitress, don't let the door hit you on the way out, see ya, fuck off, peace out, end this here rodeo.
I've been tasked with a power as I like to call it, the uncanny ability to know, "oh yes I can die doing this." Skydiving, for example, too unsafe for me. A first date with a guy I don't know much about, driving in the back roads of the Angeles National Forest. Death eminent. A shady apartment in Soho.
Even with my power, death has been a factor to be reckoned with more often than I'd like.
My stomach turned with hunger. A hunger that usually doesn't present itself so early in one that doesn't eat breakfast. The air was cracked up one notch just enough to tousle my updo, and ventilate the car, but not enough to cool skin clothed in a light summer dress, begging for the overcast sky to clear the way for just another Los Angeles end of summer early morning day. Busy bodies abound. In cars and on streets, jamming freeways and Starbucks, canyon roads and daycares. Life moving fastly, ever swiftly, but unnoticed, in a car who's passenger had thoughts of hunger and bills, replayed conversations, anxiety and regrets. And so my head wasn't in the busy bodies of today, but somewhere else. Where it was, when it entered an intersection, on a wholly green light, with no thoughts of "you could die doing this", or an "abort mission" but a merrily going about the business of the mundane, when by a cat's whisker, smaller than a Buddhists wants, a speeding car thou a red light missed me, my car, my life, and allowed me to someday be 29, but today be 28, to appreciate the significance of something so nearly missing, to be. To not be in a place far far away of worry of things, but here, still. To just be.
Multiple times or 9 times over, just being - me, for another day.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Most Enjoyable Way To Engage In American Politics
I was in Colorado Springs for a work meeting in early August - and as I took a taxi from the airport to my hotel, I made dialogue with the cabbie, like I do.
I'd been before, but this time I got to stay for longer, like a whole night! I asked the cab driver what the weather had been like, what was walking distance from my hotel, where he was from, how long he'd been driving a cab, where he got his shirt (what it was a nice shirt), and the who's who and the what what of the Springs. It was days before the Olympics so the competing Olympians had left the training center, leaving just kids who'd come there for camps - and a senior golf tour outside the city. Aside from a Chipotle within walking distance, a whole lot of altitude and clean air, and an asphalt convention at the Hilton, there wasn't a lot rocking a town more known for it's winter months. "Besides the convention, it will be a slow summer here."
The asphalt convention, I presumed.
I continued to engage my cab driver (it was a long drive and I was paying him - he had to talk to me). From what I gathered there were 2 years he wasn't living in Colorado and to which he couldn't explain. Jail I thought securely - but I didn't press it. He was nice enough and was driving me to where I needed to go so I made due pleasantries.
As we drove and spoke, I had to ask, how big was this convention? Were there that many people in the business of asphalt and concrete? Over cocktails at the pool just weeks ago my friends and I discussed just how many conventions there are. There's a convention for everything. Just this morning I heard an advertisement for the North American Reptile Breeders convention. I can't keep all these conventions straight. But I just didn't think based upon the number of people he said were coming in to town, we were talking about an assembly of asphalt men.
What convention is this in late August?
Um, the Democratic National Convention.
Right. That little one. That would bring in a fair share of who's who and what's what.
Unlike the asphalt convention at my hotel, the Democratic National Convention is televised live. Unfortunately at the gym, it's live with no sound. So last night I worked out and watched, watched and worked out, breathed and drank water, and just imagined who people were and what they could be saying.
I discovered by end of highly productive workout this really could be the most enjoyable way to engage in American politics.
I gathered notes after watching night one of the Democratic National convention on mute. Obama may get my vote based solely on his wife's incredible taste in the color blue and a stunning broach. I was mildly confused why the guest of honor was there via video. I came to find out that this was night one of three, which made a lot more sense than my make believe reasons. NBC has really nailed the close-ups of minorities and women about to cry. People wear really weird hats. And political speakers make as much sense on mute as they do when you read the the actual transcripts the next day.
Also, I now want to appear by video screen at all my social engagements if that's at all possible.
On to night two.
I'd been before, but this time I got to stay for longer, like a whole night! I asked the cab driver what the weather had been like, what was walking distance from my hotel, where he was from, how long he'd been driving a cab, where he got his shirt (what it was a nice shirt), and the who's who and the what what of the Springs. It was days before the Olympics so the competing Olympians had left the training center, leaving just kids who'd come there for camps - and a senior golf tour outside the city. Aside from a Chipotle within walking distance, a whole lot of altitude and clean air, and an asphalt convention at the Hilton, there wasn't a lot rocking a town more known for it's winter months. "Besides the convention, it will be a slow summer here."
The asphalt convention, I presumed.
I continued to engage my cab driver (it was a long drive and I was paying him - he had to talk to me). From what I gathered there were 2 years he wasn't living in Colorado and to which he couldn't explain. Jail I thought securely - but I didn't press it. He was nice enough and was driving me to where I needed to go so I made due pleasantries.
As we drove and spoke, I had to ask, how big was this convention? Were there that many people in the business of asphalt and concrete? Over cocktails at the pool just weeks ago my friends and I discussed just how many conventions there are. There's a convention for everything. Just this morning I heard an advertisement for the North American Reptile Breeders convention. I can't keep all these conventions straight. But I just didn't think based upon the number of people he said were coming in to town, we were talking about an assembly of asphalt men.
What convention is this in late August?
Um, the Democratic National Convention.
Right. That little one. That would bring in a fair share of who's who and what's what.
Unlike the asphalt convention at my hotel, the Democratic National Convention is televised live. Unfortunately at the gym, it's live with no sound. So last night I worked out and watched, watched and worked out, breathed and drank water, and just imagined who people were and what they could be saying.
I discovered by end of highly productive workout this really could be the most enjoyable way to engage in American politics.
I gathered notes after watching night one of the Democratic National convention on mute. Obama may get my vote based solely on his wife's incredible taste in the color blue and a stunning broach. I was mildly confused why the guest of honor was there via video. I came to find out that this was night one of three, which made a lot more sense than my make believe reasons. NBC has really nailed the close-ups of minorities and women about to cry. People wear really weird hats. And political speakers make as much sense on mute as they do when you read the the actual transcripts the next day.
Also, I now want to appear by video screen at all my social engagements if that's at all possible.
On to night two.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dodger Dog-Marciano Cherry-Chicken Nugget-Cupcake-White Castle Slider Cleanse
I've done a lot of travelling as of late. World traveler, if you will. Although I have met a person or two who don't think going to Omaha Nebraska is world traveling. I decided this summer would be all about a tour of the flyover states. However after 2 weeks in Eastern Nebraska, as I combed through the invite to my cousins wedding in middle of no where Kentucky in early August "hell to the mother fucking no" sort of represents how I felt about that plan for my life. It was time for a new plan.
My new plan was a plan of staying put. Being, as you can call it. LA is a magical place with perfect weather, adventures abound, and all my favorite pals. Being a fan of LA has somehow become uncouth. But I'm not ashamed to say it, I like it here. There are the obvious obstacles in which to navigate around, of course - the $8 valet parking at the dry cleaners, "the scene," "the business," "other various pronouns," and the flavor diets of the day.
I've always refused to diet. Opting for dodger dogs in reasoning I've entitled part "I do what I want" and "I'm more fun than those skinny bitches." But I've amassed enough knowledge that doing a body good is in my best interest to having more energy and most obviously in an attempt to outlive my rivals.
As I noshed on chocolate covered raisins I googled various cleanses: master cleanse, vegan cleanse. While I am sure I will be awesome at any of them I choose, I just need one a little more tailored to me.
So I google Dodger Dog-Marciano Cherry-Chicken Nugget-Cupcake-White Castle Slider Cleanse - and it came back, with zero entries.
Looks like I will need a new plan to outlive my rivals.
My new plan was a plan of staying put. Being, as you can call it. LA is a magical place with perfect weather, adventures abound, and all my favorite pals. Being a fan of LA has somehow become uncouth. But I'm not ashamed to say it, I like it here. There are the obvious obstacles in which to navigate around, of course - the $8 valet parking at the dry cleaners, "the scene," "the business," "other various pronouns," and the flavor diets of the day.
I've always refused to diet. Opting for dodger dogs in reasoning I've entitled part "I do what I want" and "I'm more fun than those skinny bitches." But I've amassed enough knowledge that doing a body good is in my best interest to having more energy and most obviously in an attempt to outlive my rivals.
As I noshed on chocolate covered raisins I googled various cleanses: master cleanse, vegan cleanse. While I am sure I will be awesome at any of them I choose, I just need one a little more tailored to me.
So I google Dodger Dog-Marciano Cherry-Chicken Nugget-Cupcake-White Castle Slider Cleanse - and it came back, with zero entries.
Looks like I will need a new plan to outlive my rivals.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Giving hope to disabled israeli turtles looking for love everywhere
Foxnews.com
Disabled turtle gets skateboard & finds love
JERUSALEM — Arava the disabled turtle is using her new set of wheels to get around in more ways than one.
Officials at the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo say the 10-year-old spurred tortoise has begun mating since being fitted with a custom skateboard to overcome paralysis of her hind legs.
The 55-pound turtle is unable to move herself forward with her front legs alone. So the zoo's staff built her a metal board with two wheels that can be strapped to her stomach.
Arava arrived in Jerusalem a few months ago from a petting zoo in southern Israel with the unexplained handicap, and found no reptile romance.
Zoo curator Shmulik Yedvad says it's not that Arava has come out of her shell with her unique new wheelchair, but that a particularly amorous 10-year-old male has been after her.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Giftedness, Cats, Household Chores, And Learning New Things
Sometimes life is about growing. Sometimes it's about preserving. Self preservation. Clinging to a buoy as to not get swept up in the storm. Sometimes it's just about being. And still sometimes it's about learning new things.
This blog is about new things I've learned.
In the 2nd grade Mrs Lipton, looking at my state exams, told my mother she should take me out of the gifted program. "Rebecca is not gifted."
"She got 2 out of 4 total math problems wrong. I think this hardly makes the case she's not gifted," my Mom would say.
Most of what happened in the next 10 years of basic education was my parents trying to prove Mrs Lipton wrong pushing me in programs that were clearly too difficult for me. Mrs Lipton was old and found no more personal spark in teaching, but she taught our class about dinosaurs, and she wasn't wrong about me. I wasn't gifted. I tried hard and I had natural aptitude for reading and writing and talking when I should have been working, but math most certainly was never my gift, and neither was giftedness. Years later I would open up that letter from the IRS pointing out the mathematical errors on my 2006 returns and give Mrs Lipton her due props.
Mrs Lipton died when I was in high school. I remember my mom telling me smuggly. "I bet they carried that nasty old woman out of that classroom. She refused to retire."
My mom never quite got over that blow to her darling 2nd grader.
I wasn't gifted and I'm reminded of that at unusual, nonideal and unfortunately painful times.
Like when vacuuming.
Vacuuming is fun. It not only feeds my obsessive compulsive tendancies, the sound is soothing, you start with something dirty and you can see by very real tracks in the ground you have made a difference. I have made a difference. I vaccuum often. When I can't change the world outside - I can vacuum. You know who doesn't like to vacuum? My cats. So holding one and starting the vacuum would probably result in one of those painful reminders.
New life lesson: don't hold a cat while starting a vacuum.
This blog is about new things I've learned.
In the 2nd grade Mrs Lipton, looking at my state exams, told my mother she should take me out of the gifted program. "Rebecca is not gifted."
"She got 2 out of 4 total math problems wrong. I think this hardly makes the case she's not gifted," my Mom would say.
Most of what happened in the next 10 years of basic education was my parents trying to prove Mrs Lipton wrong pushing me in programs that were clearly too difficult for me. Mrs Lipton was old and found no more personal spark in teaching, but she taught our class about dinosaurs, and she wasn't wrong about me. I wasn't gifted. I tried hard and I had natural aptitude for reading and writing and talking when I should have been working, but math most certainly was never my gift, and neither was giftedness. Years later I would open up that letter from the IRS pointing out the mathematical errors on my 2006 returns and give Mrs Lipton her due props.
Mrs Lipton died when I was in high school. I remember my mom telling me smuggly. "I bet they carried that nasty old woman out of that classroom. She refused to retire."
My mom never quite got over that blow to her darling 2nd grader.
I wasn't gifted and I'm reminded of that at unusual, nonideal and unfortunately painful times.
Like when vacuuming.
Vacuuming is fun. It not only feeds my obsessive compulsive tendancies, the sound is soothing, you start with something dirty and you can see by very real tracks in the ground you have made a difference. I have made a difference. I vaccuum often. When I can't change the world outside - I can vacuum. You know who doesn't like to vacuum? My cats. So holding one and starting the vacuum would probably result in one of those painful reminders.
New life lesson: don't hold a cat while starting a vacuum.
Monday, August 18, 2008
This is Not Another Article About Michael Phelps.
This is not another article about Michael Phelps. Nor will this be another article about what an amazing feat 8 golden medals in a single olympics is or being part of the annals of history. This will not be about what clever/inspirational thing Michael Phelps said today to Bob Costas, his billionare status, how many facebook friends he has, or how awesome he is. Not a mention of Bob Bowman, Baltimore, his mom, sisters, world records, sponsorships, Morgan Freeman narrations, Sportscenter commercials, the size of his feet, or what he ate for breakfast this morning. This will not be about any of those things. And not just because "annals of history" is sort of hilarious to me.
No, this is an article about my Saturday night.
I have regular size feet, somewhere within the range of the avergage American female. I also have most normal sized hands, good for things like writing and pointing and brushing my teeth. I have zero appearances in any Sportscenter commercial and while I enjoy a Morgan Freeman appearance in just about every movie I've seen in the past year, he hasn't yet narrated anything related to my life. I have never been to Baltimore and I don't even think I know anyone named Bob. A Robert, a Bobby and a Rob, but interestingly no Bob. Note to self: make a friend named Bob.
Just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is our fish status. I enjoy the water. Always have. And while I can't get back and forth in a 50 meter pool in quite the same expeditious nature, I admit winning lots of gold medals hasn't really been my dream. Yes, just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is liking to swim - and our Saturday night.
While Phelps was winning gold medal of the games number 8, I was drinking a Jim Bean and a diet soda at local bar The Green Frog. The deliciousness to which they make alcoholic beverages is only matched by the perfection of the decor. It was there that I saw gold medal 8 and met sketchy guy number 1 - the white pants, the purple silk shirt, the long braids.
It's in frequenting LA's bar scene that I'm reminded, God is a funny SOB.
I crossed the street to another bar. Another Jim and diet later, I found myself at the juke box.
Pounding on the juke box.
"Make it stop. What is this garbage?"
"It's Oingo Bongo."
"I'd like it to stop thank you."
When I was told by now guy 2 and 3 and then 4 the music was beyond my time, I said the only thing I thought would make sense. "What? I'm 42."
I'm a terrible liar. But when the mood strikes me, and I'm on a roll, the lies keep coming.
"I'm 42."
"Yes, that girl there, that's my daughter."
"I'm English. Yes, Northern England, the Leeds and Manchester areas."
"I'm a flight attendant. I'm leaving on the 10:20 to Phoenix tomorrow."
The lying has a snowball effect. But as the lies continued, so did the influx in truly comical men who came to harass me and my friend. The lies were comedy to keep them at bay.
By nights end, as the ugly lights flashed, and last call was called, we counted them up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. In braids and white linen pants, with strange accents and creepier motives, eight in all. One night. Eight weird suitors among us. So all I have to say,
Michael Phelps eat your heart out.
No, this is an article about my Saturday night.
I have regular size feet, somewhere within the range of the avergage American female. I also have most normal sized hands, good for things like writing and pointing and brushing my teeth. I have zero appearances in any Sportscenter commercial and while I enjoy a Morgan Freeman appearance in just about every movie I've seen in the past year, he hasn't yet narrated anything related to my life. I have never been to Baltimore and I don't even think I know anyone named Bob. A Robert, a Bobby and a Rob, but interestingly no Bob. Note to self: make a friend named Bob.
Just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is our fish status. I enjoy the water. Always have. And while I can't get back and forth in a 50 meter pool in quite the same expeditious nature, I admit winning lots of gold medals hasn't really been my dream. Yes, just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is liking to swim - and our Saturday night.
While Phelps was winning gold medal of the games number 8, I was drinking a Jim Bean and a diet soda at local bar The Green Frog. The deliciousness to which they make alcoholic beverages is only matched by the perfection of the decor. It was there that I saw gold medal 8 and met sketchy guy number 1 - the white pants, the purple silk shirt, the long braids.
It's in frequenting LA's bar scene that I'm reminded, God is a funny SOB.
I crossed the street to another bar. Another Jim and diet later, I found myself at the juke box.
Pounding on the juke box.
"Make it stop. What is this garbage?"
"It's Oingo Bongo."
"I'd like it to stop thank you."
When I was told by now guy 2 and 3 and then 4 the music was beyond my time, I said the only thing I thought would make sense. "What? I'm 42."
I'm a terrible liar. But when the mood strikes me, and I'm on a roll, the lies keep coming.
"I'm 42."
"Yes, that girl there, that's my daughter."
"I'm English. Yes, Northern England, the Leeds and Manchester areas."
"I'm a flight attendant. I'm leaving on the 10:20 to Phoenix tomorrow."
The lying has a snowball effect. But as the lies continued, so did the influx in truly comical men who came to harass me and my friend. The lies were comedy to keep them at bay.
By nights end, as the ugly lights flashed, and last call was called, we counted them up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. In braids and white linen pants, with strange accents and creepier motives, eight in all. One night. Eight weird suitors among us. So all I have to say,
Michael Phelps eat your heart out.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
My-Betsey-Johnson-You're-Too-Fabulous-To-Marry-The-Wrong-Guy-Ring
In the fashion of Sex and the City and Carrie's famous, "Hallmark doesn't make a 'congratulations, you didn't marry the wrong guy' card," I, today, made a purchase.
My first love, after many years, I broke up with, moved on, and have never looked back. He had also moved on, to several significant relationships, and yesterday, called to tell me that he was engaged.
In a showing of surprising maturity, I congratulated him and was, truly happy. By that evening, and the following morning, I no longer felt the same way. I was funky and generally ornery and I didn't know why. My life has been more fabulously fabulous since him than I could have imagined and I know when the time is right I too will find my partner. But he was my first love.
Love how I loathe you.
Today I remembered my favorite SATC friend Carrie's words. Maybe I should be celebrating making a really positive decision and not marrying someone who I knew was not right for me.
I saw the above ring at the mall today and bought it. I call it my 'Betsey-Johnson-you're-too-fabulous-to-marry-the-wrong-guy-ring.' It's a mouthful, and I wear it proudly.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Hi, my name is Rebecca, and I'm addicted to Olympics.
Hi Rebecca.
What would have been a relatively pleasant weekend with cool temps at the beaches and the California sunshine looked a lot more like me attached to my TV and NBC's coverage of the Olympics. I somehow fooled my body to think I was there, my sleep pattern was jilted, and I added 15 hours when I looked at the clock. I think I really wanted to be there. But I wasn't. I was at home. Neglecting a perfect summer weekend, to watch men's rowing, among others.
I like Olympics, but even I, can recognize there's a problem. Not just in the 24 hour coverage I've adapted in to my schedule, no something deeper even. In some unhealthy way I'm convinced I can do it. That it isn't that hard. If I'd just tried I could have made the team. Name a sport. Syncronized diving. Easy. Uneven bars. Yeah I could do that. Men's swimming? If I just asserted myself, I could be that fast. It's like all this potential is just locked up, being kept at bay by something much more powerful than athletic ability and the Olympic dream. Laziness.
I'm thinking about training for 2012. It's just picking what to train for that's the major hold up. I picked my Halloween costume this year (bumblebee) and once those big decisions are out of the way the rest just falls in to place. I'm thinking the same will go for training for the Olympics.
----
I went to the mall over the weekend. (The games were being tivo'd not to worry). But I did spy the Ralph Lauren outfits USA wore to opening cermony. The shirts, pants, hats. I thought about buying them and seeing if anyone at work would notice. My mall visit, in typical fashion, leads me through the mall, to the Hello Kitty store and back across to grab a sample from the tea store.
I would say among my traits exists this essential one: if given the opportunity, I'd squander every penny I have on door to door salesman and mall kiosks. Somewhere between the Hello Kitty store and the tea sample I saw the kiosks, but determined to keep my eye on the free tea prize, I looked forward only. It was shiny lotion that caught my eye, and an employee of cute accent decsent and I was $30 in the hole on nail products from the Dead Sea.
I would say among the marital challenges I face someday as a married person, that is if I could ever get beyond a first date, it would be to keep me from mall kiosks and door to door salesmen. But I would guess there's a lot of 24 hour a day Olympic coverage between now and the day that becomes relevant. In the meantime this blog has cost me 13 minutes of watching women's rowing. I hope you're happy.
What would have been a relatively pleasant weekend with cool temps at the beaches and the California sunshine looked a lot more like me attached to my TV and NBC's coverage of the Olympics. I somehow fooled my body to think I was there, my sleep pattern was jilted, and I added 15 hours when I looked at the clock. I think I really wanted to be there. But I wasn't. I was at home. Neglecting a perfect summer weekend, to watch men's rowing, among others.
I like Olympics, but even I, can recognize there's a problem. Not just in the 24 hour coverage I've adapted in to my schedule, no something deeper even. In some unhealthy way I'm convinced I can do it. That it isn't that hard. If I'd just tried I could have made the team. Name a sport. Syncronized diving. Easy. Uneven bars. Yeah I could do that. Men's swimming? If I just asserted myself, I could be that fast. It's like all this potential is just locked up, being kept at bay by something much more powerful than athletic ability and the Olympic dream. Laziness.
I'm thinking about training for 2012. It's just picking what to train for that's the major hold up. I picked my Halloween costume this year (bumblebee) and once those big decisions are out of the way the rest just falls in to place. I'm thinking the same will go for training for the Olympics.
----
I went to the mall over the weekend. (The games were being tivo'd not to worry). But I did spy the Ralph Lauren outfits USA wore to opening cermony. The shirts, pants, hats. I thought about buying them and seeing if anyone at work would notice. My mall visit, in typical fashion, leads me through the mall, to the Hello Kitty store and back across to grab a sample from the tea store.
I would say among my traits exists this essential one: if given the opportunity, I'd squander every penny I have on door to door salesman and mall kiosks. Somewhere between the Hello Kitty store and the tea sample I saw the kiosks, but determined to keep my eye on the free tea prize, I looked forward only. It was shiny lotion that caught my eye, and an employee of cute accent decsent and I was $30 in the hole on nail products from the Dead Sea.
I would say among the marital challenges I face someday as a married person, that is if I could ever get beyond a first date, it would be to keep me from mall kiosks and door to door salesmen. But I would guess there's a lot of 24 hour a day Olympic coverage between now and the day that becomes relevant. In the meantime this blog has cost me 13 minutes of watching women's rowing. I hope you're happy.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Let’s not get all crazy loving people
By now you’ve heard some media outlet reporting that John Edwards had an affair.
If you have not, well, you’re hearing it from me. John Edwards had an affair.
(Shocking!).
Next thing you’ll tell me Olympic officials accept bribes, business executives commit fraud, and baseball players take steroids. I like to think the Associated Press just rotates through a set number of mad lib like stories about the human drama ______ (proper noun) ______ (verb) ______ (something naughty).
Lather, rinse and repeat.
Let’s take it from the top.
Refresh and reboot.
My interest in this story has nothing to do with its salaciousness, though I did think he was one of the good ones. No, I suppose my interest, why I want to talk about this at all has everything to do with why it’s even news at all.
Pre-Watergate, journalism was an exclusive field, meant for just a few to research, interview, and vet factually their stories. But Nixon’s wrongdoings opened up a generation who wanted to investigate the next great political scandal. It only started there. It had to be breaking news, where nothing was too small for public exposure. A Kennedy press core turned their back on presidential marital indiscretions, seeing them as not worthy of the paper they were written on. But a decade and change later - Watergate had changed all that, journalism itself. Technology allowed for continuous streams of news allowing for the viewer to decide for itself what was of value. And eventually we’d come to a day, where marital monogamy was not private discourse but public fodder.
Top line celebrity, political, entertainment, world and local news of today is just that, “John Edwards Admits to Affair.”
Personally I return to a Kennedy generation where it’s none of my business. The why’s, the whens, with whoms. Not my business.
What’s most interesting, however, is the byline I’ve seen repeated in countless stories: “Edwards Admits to Affair, However Says He Did Not Love Woman.”
Oh well good, that would just be insane if he was involved with someone and loved them. Let’s not get all crazy loving people. What would the world come to if people went around loving people. (Shocking!)
But possibly therein lies the problem in it all – the naughtiness, the journalistic shift, the public fodder – a lack of love. That pesky little thing called love.
I hope for the day, sometime between now and the end of my life, that love alone becomes the byline.
If you have not, well, you’re hearing it from me. John Edwards had an affair.
(Shocking!).
Next thing you’ll tell me Olympic officials accept bribes, business executives commit fraud, and baseball players take steroids. I like to think the Associated Press just rotates through a set number of mad lib like stories about the human drama ______ (proper noun) ______ (verb) ______ (something naughty).
Lather, rinse and repeat.
Let’s take it from the top.
Refresh and reboot.
My interest in this story has nothing to do with its salaciousness, though I did think he was one of the good ones. No, I suppose my interest, why I want to talk about this at all has everything to do with why it’s even news at all.
Pre-Watergate, journalism was an exclusive field, meant for just a few to research, interview, and vet factually their stories. But Nixon’s wrongdoings opened up a generation who wanted to investigate the next great political scandal. It only started there. It had to be breaking news, where nothing was too small for public exposure. A Kennedy press core turned their back on presidential marital indiscretions, seeing them as not worthy of the paper they were written on. But a decade and change later - Watergate had changed all that, journalism itself. Technology allowed for continuous streams of news allowing for the viewer to decide for itself what was of value. And eventually we’d come to a day, where marital monogamy was not private discourse but public fodder.
Top line celebrity, political, entertainment, world and local news of today is just that, “John Edwards Admits to Affair.”
Personally I return to a Kennedy generation where it’s none of my business. The why’s, the whens, with whoms. Not my business.
What’s most interesting, however, is the byline I’ve seen repeated in countless stories: “Edwards Admits to Affair, However Says He Did Not Love Woman.”
Oh well good, that would just be insane if he was involved with someone and loved them. Let’s not get all crazy loving people. What would the world come to if people went around loving people. (Shocking!)
But possibly therein lies the problem in it all – the naughtiness, the journalistic shift, the public fodder – a lack of love. That pesky little thing called love.
I hope for the day, sometime between now and the end of my life, that love alone becomes the byline.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Greetings and salutations the fine readers of my internet blog. I’ve been well, living the dream, kicking it old school, etcetera etcetera. In this very special issue of what’s going on in the four corners of Rebecca’s life, we deal with such heavy topics as the delicious cookie I just ate for lunch to such lighter topics as – Manny Mania, the Olympics, and that letter I just got from the IRS.
“Hello and Good Afternoon Rebecca,
I hope you’re having a swell summer. Schucks we were just flipping through your taxes from a few years ago and it seems as though you just made a small little miscalculation, an oversight if you will, and you actually owe us some money – plus interest and penalties. Gosh we know we’re massive buzz kills so on and so forth the letter went.
Love Always,
The IRS”
It was nice and light just like that. However, I did paraphrase a bit for brevity’s sake.
Then there’s Manny Ramirez. Please hold while I consult these notes I have just here under my laptop, yes I’m seeing here it says we paid, where is it, it must be on that sheet of paper underneath that other chicken scratch, oh there it is – we paid, um, we paid nothing? I have been known to make small miscalculations as it pertains to taxes and such so I would not trust my fuzzy math. It’s true, a couple trades to Pittsburg, Boston keeps him on the payroll, and we reap the rewards. And by rewards I mean world series rings. I want one.
Lastly the Olympics start this Friday – 8/8/08. Or so they would like you to believe. They actually started today. Whoops, guess you missed that. The 8 thing is a promotional vehicle - catchy, campy, and lucky if you’re Chinese. I, through my employment opportunities, have become something of an idiot savant as far as the games go. My strengths lie in swim, gym, and track, but there’s a lot in the old noodle from judo to water polo, from Phelps genetic freakishness to Torres abs, including such highly relevant topics as how do those syncro swimmers keep that makeup on under water (answer: chapstick), how did China get the Olympics with it’s human rights “challenges” (answer: bribes), what’s new (answer: bmx and open water swimming), how do I see Amanda Beard naked again (answer: the new Peta ad), and what’s on its way out (answer: softball and baseball). Unqualified, without credentials, not there, and blogging without any consistency throughout the games, I will share with you my musings relevant and not.
Some little girls dream about performing in the Olympics, others writing about them on a free blogspot with no ad dollars and even less traffic.
Be bad, be very bad,
Rebecca
“Hello and Good Afternoon Rebecca,
I hope you’re having a swell summer. Schucks we were just flipping through your taxes from a few years ago and it seems as though you just made a small little miscalculation, an oversight if you will, and you actually owe us some money – plus interest and penalties. Gosh we know we’re massive buzz kills so on and so forth the letter went.
Love Always,
The IRS”
It was nice and light just like that. However, I did paraphrase a bit for brevity’s sake.
Then there’s Manny Ramirez. Please hold while I consult these notes I have just here under my laptop, yes I’m seeing here it says we paid, where is it, it must be on that sheet of paper underneath that other chicken scratch, oh there it is – we paid, um, we paid nothing? I have been known to make small miscalculations as it pertains to taxes and such so I would not trust my fuzzy math. It’s true, a couple trades to Pittsburg, Boston keeps him on the payroll, and we reap the rewards. And by rewards I mean world series rings. I want one.
Lastly the Olympics start this Friday – 8/8/08. Or so they would like you to believe. They actually started today. Whoops, guess you missed that. The 8 thing is a promotional vehicle - catchy, campy, and lucky if you’re Chinese. I, through my employment opportunities, have become something of an idiot savant as far as the games go. My strengths lie in swim, gym, and track, but there’s a lot in the old noodle from judo to water polo, from Phelps genetic freakishness to Torres abs, including such highly relevant topics as how do those syncro swimmers keep that makeup on under water (answer: chapstick), how did China get the Olympics with it’s human rights “challenges” (answer: bribes), what’s new (answer: bmx and open water swimming), how do I see Amanda Beard naked again (answer: the new Peta ad), and what’s on its way out (answer: softball and baseball). Unqualified, without credentials, not there, and blogging without any consistency throughout the games, I will share with you my musings relevant and not.
Some little girls dream about performing in the Olympics, others writing about them on a free blogspot with no ad dollars and even less traffic.
Be bad, be very bad,
Rebecca
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