A Book You Loved and Another You Don't.

Considering elsewhere I've listed my favorite books here on these pages, I think I'm going to approach this with immediate memory and forethought. That list was pondered and milled over by several months of research, narrowing and narrowing my literary stupidity into one, fine, focus.

Hey, I admit it. I like to read. But, well, my tastes are rarely sophisticated.

I even, on occasion, will listen to country music.

Remember, I grew up on a steady diet of Stephen King as a teen. And since I discovered him, like, after all of his really good books were published, it was easy to find reading material. And I tried to find other books that kept me interested, but the pacing, the verve never really caught on for me, so I was forced to branch out into books that weren't that scary. Sure, I tried Dean Koontz, and he was okay. But, when I tried to read the second one, I noticed that the plotline was pretty much the same as the first. As was the third attempt.

Then? My beloved Penelope moved across that great ole Rainbow Bridge.

And I needed to fill a void in my life. I started reading dog fiction, while wisely passing by Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows. I found The Art of Racing in the Rain, and it was beautiful. Because of Winn-Dixie was a fun re-read, especially as an educator.

Then I stumbled across the Watchers.

A friend of mine recommended it. I made sure to ask her if the dog died in the end.

She didn't answer and I wanted to smack the shit out of her, but she did the right thing. Horror. Check. Canines. Check. Two in the right direction.

And Dean Koontz wrote it and pulled it. The book really captures the power of a dog and the relationship. Not only that, it goes one step further-it gives the tale a twist, the kind of dream that all dog owners would love to have happen to them.

The dog could communicate. Not talk, but communicate.

And I was hooked. It was a page turner, too.

A book I loved:  The Watchers by Dean Kootz

Another I didn't? I could be blasphemous and mention that Harry Potter, though written well, is not a favorite. However, over the years, I've begun to think that I'm just tired of the hype and the fame. Maybe it is the hipster in me, because, in reality, they are good books. Twilight gave me the willies, too. I was proud to see my students, so low on language, finally want to dog ear pages. They would become violent when I told them they had to pay attention in class instead of looking at their book fair books. "You told us you wanted us to read!"

"I KNOW! But not now! Do you see anyone else reading?????"

The texts of these titles merely reinforced the narrative structure to vital for our communication patterns, I cannot completely curse them to oblivion.

There was one that I read in one night. And not because it was good.

Have you ever read the Da Vinci Code? The concept behind it, that Jesus has secretly fathered a child and this bloodline lives on, was daring do-and the secret code to find the supposed children the stuff that SHOULD become a page turner. The analysis, with pictures, really gave old-timey art a boost and made any patron really study imagery for something small and important. I get that.

The whole time I was reading it, I was thinking, "gee, this would make a better movie than a book."

It is just so COMPLICATED. It's like a sophomoric endeavor during 3rd period Advanced Expository Class 201b, the one with that really tiny but loud teacher who the others keep closing their classrooms to. That one student, so motivated has to put every-single-bit-of-research into their paper and, while important, the presentation goes from an arrow of truth to a labyrinth of juvenile concept art. Dan Brown wants to show you EVERYTHING, and, well, things like character and plot are hurled to the sidelines like a cigarette butt.

As a movie? The title worked a bit smoother and it was good to see Tom Hanks as an action star, but one who thought about what was happening, every step of the way. It worked--as a movie.

But, oy, who said this would be a good book? The pages are short (I said I read it in one night), the depth shorter. What a piece of drivel.

Yes, Scars Tell Better Stories than Tattoos

Unless they are me, of course.

I don't have many scars, however, so I really have to rely on my tattoos in many ways. And, since I've been known to hack a yarn or two, the tattoos, I'm thinking, are the way to go. 

Today's writing challenge is talk about my tattoos. 

So I guess the one who started this challenge is a millennials. I remember in the 70s, my babysitter got a tattoo and it was something of a scandal. Now? When I'm at the gym and there's men in various states of undress, I've noticed a specific pause when I DON'T see a tattoo. I have to ponder. Is he a mere youth? Is it something who a fitness model? Are they just broke? 

Cause tattoos, being unregulated, are fucking expensive.

I actually like to think I was ahead of the curve. I remember discussing, over coffee at Paris on the Platte coffeehouse the kinds of tattoos and where they would best. Now, understand, I have severe body image issues. I always have. And, experience has shown me that many who are obsessed with tattoos tend to. Not in a negative way, either. I find that those who are obsessed, you know, the "big"-oerexics that proliferate at the gyms, also seem to be obsessed with body modifications. The fifteen or so people I have known as transgendered? Inked to the point that Bic ballpoints could call them for spare color should they run low on inventory. Bodybuilders? They keep bronzer companies employed with the amount of Trump tanner they have to rub over themselves before each competition. 

This is insulting, what I'm saying. But this is my observation. 

The worst part? I love tattoos. And when anyone has one, I want to lean over and ask, "what's the reason for this one? That one?" 

And no, I'm not staring at you because you are buff. I'm staring at you because you have poor choices in clothing and without sleeves, I see a tattoo with a radio microphone and penis and I'm dying to know why you elected to wear that in front of the middle schoolers here after class! 

You? Dear reader, you are lucky. I'm going to cut out your ponderances and just say outright....I have tattoos and here's what they mean.

I am not including actual photos, however. Mine? They are mine, alone. Besides, given my profession, there are too many people asking questions. So they will remain hidden until otherwise stated.

I knew I was of Celtic blood as a child, mother unit informed me so. So I began to read about them on my weekly trips to the library, how they drove the Romans mad and the English as well. They inked themselves, their faces, they skins, everything. Like the Polynesians, they saw it as instruments of power and fear and used it against the organizations at large.

Yes, much like the millennials.

Keeping that in mind, I designed my first. 

Japanese kanji. I doubt it says, "soy sauce," but it might.

From my understanding from the library, it is the title of a Japanese tale. 

"In the Water, the Fish Shall Dream."

Thing is? I've not found the tale again, since, well, then. The gist was I read it and it had components that rang deep in my soul. It had dreams. I had fish, and I'm a Pisces. 

I know, I should have gotten an image of a fish, dreaming, right?

I was young. Forgive me. On my right shoulder blade, I pay homage to that story. In it, a fish become so pious with his prayers and meditations, keeping the ancestors venerated, so much so, that it catches the eyes of the seven immortals. The fish? his heart wishes that he may walk among men. So they descend to the side of the pond and tell the fish that his faith is to be rewarded. Seeing his dreams about to come true, the fish stops. 

"But, then, what will I dream of?" 

The immortals are unable to answer. The looked to each other, failing in every aspect of their power, other than to provide. 

Dreaming, it seemed, is the purpose for faith and belief. Like the yin and yang, they cannot exist without both aspects. 

An aspect, as it were, of the Tao. The story stuck with me in my youth (I had to read something between the LGBT books I was reading in the back of the stacks...) and I knew I wanted to keep it with me. And, at 22, as a celebration of getting my first career job, boom. My first tattoo on my right shoulder blade.

With a yin and yang, of course, the symbol of my chosen faith.

Then, in 2009, I left that job. I felt it vital to celebrate this profound transition in my life. Now, I've long adopted the Irish Bear as my symbol. I'm big and round, and, physically, most people, including my husOtter, have compared me more to the grand mountain gorilla. Makes sense. Barrel chested and arms that drag on the floor, always hunched over. But the bear? that's also part of the LGBT community and I found it something I really agreed with. Bears are large and furry men, approachable and accepting of race and, yes, flexible body image. Even if I wasn't in the dating pool any more, I found that this grouping was something I supported. 

I needed the bear, like the fish, to become my totem in some way. So? That first week at my new job, I tattooed a Celtic knot to my shoulder, another link to my past, but also, to the bear-as it is a bear claw. 

And as complicated as I like to think I am.

Last? 

I knew, when I got to Florida, I wanted to celebrate by getting another permanent marker. What to do? What could cover the depth I choose? I kept with the Celtic faith, but I also expanded it. The older flag of Ireland (and was on their dollars for a short time) is the harp. There's a reason Irish writers are so celebrated. They have the gift of the bard, the gift of storytellers. I mean, when your entire island is constantly invaded, yet idyllic, you get sense of poetry. Opposites play upon the souls of the Irish. The symbol of the Irish, other than probably the whiskey bottle, is the harp. The song of angels comes from it, but the lowly bard, traveling from town to town to herald the news and tales of the day, could bring bad news in the form of song and cheer. This is a skill of the artists of all kinds. This is the symbol of storyteller, truly, and I really connected that. 

The location was vital for this tattoo had to be on a nexus. I figured on the breaking point of nerves from my skull to my hands was very important, for with my hands I talk (sign language) and tell tales (as I type). So, there, between my shoulder blades, stands the famed harp. 

Oh fuck, it's on the Guinness bottles too.

Yeah, cool, I don't mind. 

So, there. Three tattoos and three stories. 

And it's time for a forth. I need another fish, because Pisces is, in the end, a pair. A shark or a ray. Perhaps a dragon. My love of Disney? Maybe some ears? Whatever it will be, it will have a story. 

A Person Who Fascinates You, and Why?

This is in interesting one. I find that I keep listing individuals as "heroes" when I'm diligently inquired about such things, but I realize, frequently, that perhaps there is an inherent disconnect between someone we admire for their pluck, and those we just find plain, damn interesting.

Take, for example, Walt Disney. I've listed him as a hero and I believe that to be mostly true. For those of you who seem to avoid adverbs on social media and can only think in absolutes (like so many who installed 45), 'mostly' means 'not entirely.'

Yes, another adverb. Learn to see them.

Ahem.

Walt did something I could smack the shit of him for. Literally. I could punch him in face, repeatedly. Strangely, not for his supposed anti-Semitism. That's too nebulous. Only one real book mentions it. No. What makes me irked?

He turned states' evidence during the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC), making sure anyone who was trying to unionize would be blacklisted. He helped, basically, create the Hollywood Ten.

I do not approve.

But that tarnishes, but does not eliminate my fascination with the man. He has also brought great joy to the world. My world, specifically. I cannot deny that.

As we age, we learn that as our hair greys, as does the concept of morality. Surely the churches and the morality police see such things as immutable, black and white. Never is morality a spectrum, which, as for many of a certain age, we eventually realize.

Disney has, over the years, even as a corporation, has moved on this spectrum. They still fight against unions and living wages.

And, yes, it's fascinating.

Today, I'd like to give two responses. Right now, out in theaters, there's also The Greatest Showman, a musical that idealizes the famed P. T. Barnum.

He's the other one I'd like to submit for consideration-and in opposition to Mr. Disney. Unlike Disney, a man who created wonder, but made mistakes, I have tended to see Mr. Barnum in the opposite light. He was a charlatan, a grifter, who, in his own way, make good. Yes, he hired people of special and unique needs and talents and profited off of their (as the times were, as for now, they would be much more accepted, in my humble opinion) misfortunes.  Surely, the argument now is for the elephants he placed under his control, but I'm referring to the humans in his coterie. They were labelled freaks and put on display. But they had homes, lives, cash flow, when, before that time-they may not have had such luxuries. It was wrong, what he did.

But, as the tales would have it? He would truly consider the community home. He provided for them, gave them legal access...when it behooved him, of course. Trust me, what he did, he didn't realize. By marginalizing them to the sidelines in showmanship, he inadvertently created an unneeded phobia which would keep them fighting for their rights for years-but that was not a conscious choice at the last turn of the century.

The man, plain and simple, fascinates me. There is still some debate on if he said, "there's a sucker born every minute!" That means he sees us all as a mark. I'm okay with that, to some extent.

Cause, well, it tends to be true. Look at Washington, DC. Look at television commercials. There's even fake news. But, at the very least, I get the sense that Barnum is winking at us with elaborate showmanship. That old vaudevillian, "well, you asked to be entertained, didn't you?" way. I keep circling back to this man and what made him tick. He was, in the end, an entertainer-those tickets sold, even against our better judgement. That, to me, takes some talent-one that goes way beyond marketing.

If you could live anywhere, but it has to be a place you've never been...where'd you go?

Assuming, of course, that money is no object, because, after all, aren't we dealing in the wonders of idealism here?

We are. This is supposed to be making me write. Not bogging me down with pesky realities like trying to find a job.

Strangely, knowing the way my noggin works, however, I don't think language would ever be an issue for me. It might be for my husOtter, just because he's one of those kinds of men that read Klingon and understand 42 different dialects.

But can't utter a single word. That would be okay, in all actuality, we'd survive, but I might have to do all the talking if a ninja attack would arrive, ya know?

That being the case, of course I'd live wherever there is a Disney, afterall. California would be my first choice, but, yes, I've been there and I already have a ton of friends. It is so much like my previous home in Colorado that transitioning SoCal would be a breeze.

But what about not having Disney?

Now we're talking. Before the silence hits, I will say one location of one particular Disney Park would draw me to it like no other.

Paris. I, as a young boy, learned sign and, since it was based on French, took a shine to it as early as fifth grade. As I grew up, I learned this was something called a francophone. Some really interested in France and the French language. Had a real knack for it then. In fact, after doing one of those really awesome and relaxing past life regressions, I noticed a draw to the Deep South, where I live, sorta, today.

Could I have been a Cajun? Could explain a few things.

But Paris, the home of writers, painters, credos, and dreams calls to me, even this late in my life. Grant you, I've heard of Paris Syndrome, where Japanese tourists arrive and are completely dissatisfied with their French experience to the point of severe depression-this could still happen, I'm sure. Even if I don't get to that Disney park just beyond in the 'burbs, to live in a flat and have cafes and health care and food, I'd be good.

There's a Disney there too.

I'd be more than willing to make a go at Shanghai or Hong Kong, for sure, heck, even Tokyo. Their chorus of voices is loud, to be sure, but the French take the proverbial cake.

However, let's go one better. I mentioned it as a home to the literary elites, but what about across the Chunnel? I mean, London? Again, I'm picking cities, but, in the end, I admit, I like what cities offer, but decry them for what they can't maintain for me.

My dogs.

But London might even do me one better-with showcases of writers and the arts that I can also heed. Grant you, there's is a tea cup to my French roast, and I get that and doubt I'd make the switch. However, everything else is up for grabs.

Again, like Paris, I'd love a flat of some sort, with a foyer where I could hang my bicycle and views of something.

See? Dreams.

London, Paris. I'm like everyone else.

But not in this last part. Those two cities don't offer something that I also need.

Temperature.

I'm a warm weather person. It's just the way I am. London's got delicious fogs to write about henchmen in; Paris has spring evenings that are mild and perfect for wine and stargazing over car horns.

I joke, frequently, especially during this recent cold snap, about moving to Cuba, the US Virgin Islands and the like.

Key West calls me.

A haven for people like myself and warm with tiny houses-I know I'd fall in love with it. Yes, the most recent Irma hurricane slapped the city senseless, and who knows if it'll ever recover.

But we're talking ideals, remember? Like I could ever afford to live there. Of have my family fly in from the mainland.

Still, these are my answers.

Ten Interesting Things About Me

Okay, I usually like to keep a distance, here, when I compose. The less you know about me, the more you can see who I am through my authorship. Like, for example, yesterday's topic for writing challenge. It asked for me to describe my first kiss AND my first love.

Yeah, no. Just can't go there. Sure, it exists somewhere, but, no, I just can't write about that.

Too private.

But, the pause of yesterday led to today. Today's topic was to author ten interesting things about myself.

Since yesterday I left you in the lurch, I figured I should, at the very least, try to find those ten moments that work on the definition of who I am. Maybe, for those out there in readership-land, you'll understand a bit more of where I'm coming from.

Here it goes.

The honest truth? I don't find myself very interesting. But, then, again, I have to live with this yutz all the time.

The clothing choices, alone, kept me away. I look awful in white.

10.  I went to college to become a minister.  Yes, there's a story. See, Ma was pretty open when it came to religion. She didn't force it like so many parents, but, in retrospect, she encouraged me to find enlightement where I found it would. My older brother, working his way through another girlfriend, elected to try the marriage thing and, through contacts, found a Lutheran Church. The minister was a friend of the family, a colleague of my uncle, also a man of the cloth. My biological father had us baptized before he left this mortal toil, a concession my mother made that I may never fully understand, even after all these years. That was always there, a reminder. So, after my brother went to this local church to get married (and divorced, five months later), I elected to continue to go. No, I didn't get all church-y, either. But something clicked. [in later moments in my life, I realized that it was the spiritual-ness I connected with, necessarily the ceremony or doctrine, but, that, my friends is a blog post upon itself]. By the time I got ready for college, I noticed I had aced a ton of vocal music, a knack I have since lost. I knew I wanted a private school. I knew I wanted a small school. And, yes, the college I went to in north, north, north Minnesota was where I sailed away to.

No, I never became a minister.

9.  I've written about 7 plus novels. Fact: They all suck moosedick. However, strangely, I've ghostwritten, twice, and those seemed to do well, but I never followed up on them. So if I am using someone else's idea, I'm fine, I guess. None of them have been published. None have been worthwhile. Most are not digital, either, and have been lost to the ages.

8.  I used to write for a 'zine.  Before there was the internet, subversive behavior and community growth was run by the college writing underground, and they had a cheap copier. We started small, in a small city, but eventually got advertisers. I was paid very little, and was really brought on board because of connections I had with a local theater. Yeap. Wrote their movie reviews. And since I didn't have to worry about the public, I could say, "fuck" alot in my reviews. We grew and grew and as I watched, dumbfounded, a newspaper grew. From them? I learned how to be a journalist. It's why I revere the Fourth Estate a bit more than Faux News does. I even would do ride alongs with the local fuzz and report on the crime beat. Yes, this could have been my profession.

7.  I'm somehow related to Edwin McMasters Stanton. Okay, I'm still learning about this one. But, yes, I'm related, via marriage to Mr. Stanton, the Secretary of War under Lincoln. When Mr. Lincoln was shot, the VP proved to be very ineffective-and Mr. Stanton, a blowhard with a strong personality, supposedly took over. At least, that's what some historians say. And, his wife was, somehow, married into our family.

6.  I have a strange hobby with my dreams and tarot cards. I write them down, if they're strong enough. I can't explain it. I can only tell if I slept well if I knew I had a dream, even if it fades away. Yeah, into dreams. No, not like the metaphors. Like, when you actually sleep and, you know, dream. And, yes, I will interpret dreams.

5.  I am, most likely, part Amish, mostly Irish, raised by Jewish traditions. My grandparents elaborated, once, about how my grandmother (or was it my grandfather)'s family left the River Brethren Order ages ago, but we were still related to them. However, we're still trying to find that link. Other than I kinda look like many of them. Another tale was that, on my mother's side, my Great Grandfather was a immigration officer on ships coming from Belfast.  One day? He got off the boat. And he was supposed what they called "Dark Irish," with dark complexions and dark hair.  Ma went on to get a Jewish husband who is a great guy-and inadvertently taught me the ways of Judaism, by just being...awesome.

Actual house where the crime was committed. Wait. There's something writable in this.

4.  An uncle of our family was a detective in rural Pennsylvania that had to investigate a very famous homicide.  I was also informed that the "Smith" in the nonfiction book, Hexed, was a distant uncle. Seems a group of young Amish boys were creeped out by a new minister in the community of York, PA, and killed him. But didn't just kill him. Severely dismembered him, so his spirit would not come back and haunt them. The book is horrifying in it's simplicity. They were supposedly 'God-faring.'   This was in the 1930s.

3.  I meditate and pray every morning, after reading poetry. Wait, you don't? Why are people so surprised by this? I vary the poetry, it just gives me something to think about. 

2.  My first job of my career was right up the street from where I basically grew up.  I applied to twenty different positions back in the fall of 1992. There was no internet, so these were cold calls, I just sent an application and resume and called, long distance. A few nibbles, including a possible job in Devil's Lake, North Dakota-yeah, no more winters in the North. But a weird phone call arrived and a secretary asked how soon I could arrive at an interview-an hour from my parents' home. "I can be there in an hour." I got the job.

And stayed there for 20 years.

1.  My father's name is on the moon. My father worked with Northrup Gruman and helped with the creation of the lunar lander with the Saturn and Apollo projects. As such, they all signed large poster documents and buried them on the moon, beneath a plaque, to commemorate everyone. So...if they ever colonize the lunar surface. My dad's name is there. Yeah, the guy who died in 1974.

My Earliest Memory

The back of the chair was wooden, a gnawed frame that held two green cushions that formed the part where you, well, sat. The color was ubiquitous in the 70s. I remember seeing it everywhere, that much I do remember. The foam within those cushions was horribly firm, as if the modern chemicals of today, harbored by secret Ikea chemists, had not been discovered yet. They had a wire frame, as well, that had worn through where the cushions rubbed up against the black wooden frame. The arms were held up by a series of small, carved posts, simple pieces that were created with a spinner and carving knife. For some reason, I recall these were also quite gnawed as well, as if the family dog had elected to redecorate. But the fact was, the dog was small thing, according to the pictures, so I have no idea how he could reach the armrests for a decent munch.

This color, only solid. And uglier.

I don't know why this horrid chair comes to mind. I was lighter then, able to sit at the top of the back-cushion, something that gave the illusion that I was riding on the shoulders of the person seated, but, well, I remember that wasn't happening. My legs dangled, pudgy and pajama-ed. Before me was a tableau.

A blue terrycloth robe's collar, folded over and forcing little rivulets of fuzzies to jut upwards like wayward weeds on an alien landscape. There, my father's bald head reared up. I remember there were several red lines, scabs, from the razor he had attempted to use to finish shaving his head. He had to. He was losing his hair in clumps.

He was dying of cancer. The whole concept of chemotherapy was brand new, apparently, and this symptom has not changed in the process. The calendar fills in the rest of the dates-he passed away in 1974, so I had to have been 4 years old. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would be dead soon, and, as my mother elaborated, he was between induced comas, from what she even remembered.

The memory, I'm thinking, was someone put me on that chair, behind his head to tell me to cut his hair. The hair that did not exist, but in the realm of ironic-ness.

This is my earliest memory. I like to recall that my mother insisted I remember this man, this twig before me, for he wasn't going to be around soon. The words still form in my head but I cannot recall the exact moment of their recitation. But those words? They haunt me, as they are something you should not have to explain to a four year old, I'm thinking.

And there I was, pretending, at four years old, to give a haircut to a man who would be father. I do not recall his face, I do not see his smile anywhere in my memory.

Just the back of his bald head, burn marks and all.

As I write this, a young person is walking across the parking lot in front of the coffeehouse. He's holding a hot-pink tablet in one hand, his other, his own four year old. What will her memories be? He won't hopefully have to consider his existence like that young father of mind did.

That is my earliest memory. I keep thinking it shouldn't be, I shouldn't be afforded that thought. But with deeper retrospect-yes, it is the memory that works. As soon I had a memory to work with, that infant that would be me, he only saw a man that was slowly losing his existence to a disease. I would be remembering a scarecrow. But with this memory, the silliness of it all, I'm okay. He's okay, there, in my memory. Getting an imaginary haircut from a 4 year old.

Five Problems with Social Media

Dang. Has it been so long since I've written? I'm not sure what came over me. Normally, there's a stress to write and I don't like that stress, so I cut myself from the authoring stuff, here. So I'll see a movie. Say I'm going to write about it, but time passes and I get all stressed out.

It's not like a have a public. Maybe if they were banging at my door, I'd feel worse and, ergo, more motivated to post something up on there here boards.

I'm going to try, I really am. I noticed two trends over the past 2017. I wrote, for sure, when it came to fiction. I really did. That part was a breeze. And so was meditation. When you wake up, every day, and attend a job where the adults talk about wanting you dead-okay, not with those words, but swinging Trumpisms around like rocks from a slingshot, the stress is increased even on simple things like, what you can eat or not eat for lunch. 2017 became a big stress ball since that fucking election. That's where it hit me. All these friends who, well, like one of them said, "my actions should speak to you, Roo, you know we're cool with your marriage."

Yet their action of voting for Trump and his neoNazi Pence would be the actions speaking to me.

That was the stress of this past year. And, to cope, fiction and meditation were the only two goals that kept me alive and kicking. The gym? I keep hurting myself, I noticed, and that kept me away from that. And food? I hate monitoring my food. But I noticed, when I lost the weight? I was better-I was a better person. I have to keep that in mind.

And add those to the ways I can deal with manifestations of stress.

Which leads us to here.

I stopped journaling. I stopped blogging. Fiction? That's glorious and wonderful. But when it came to reality? I just couldn't deal with it.

And I need to.

I'm blogging. I'm not going to say if I'm going to do this every day or once a week, because, again, such a commitment would just stress me out. Take it or leave it, I'm just announcing I'm going to try to be a better person this year.

Which brings me to today's suggested topic-

Five Problems with Social Media

I don't have any. No, really, I don't. The fact is, when I moved in 2010 to Florida, I had just started to dabble with it. I had an app on my new Blackberry and it helped widdle away the hours in queues at Disney World; but, moreso, it linked me to my past as I move abruptly into an uncertain future. I never felt apart.

But I'm also not an idea. For every good, there is a bad. I would not be a practitioner of Tao if did not see the bad and the good in all things. Here? I saw a few, but it only came about because of time and use, like cigarettes, when you can't get up the mountain anymore. I will say this, I doubt I'll stop using my social media stuff. I'll just keep my eyes open.

1.  Everyone's doing it.

Everyone is doing it, basically. To curse it to the ground would mean a great many people would be cut off from the world. I know people with very specific needs, for whom social media is a boon. A place for persons who social anxiety is a bit too much; adults who have language delays but have the ability to type out a sentence or two using spell check and grammar checks.  But that's the first issue.

Everyone is dependent on it. I will say, My time at the gym is my time without my phone. When I'm with my clients? Yeah, phone's away. Here? When the entire world is watching, it's hard to get away from it, even if you don't want to. Like TVs. Worse? Since we're dealing with the full spectrum of humanity, that means the same message will not yield the same results. I mean, look at 45's ascendancy. Had the nation not been staring at their screens, they might have listened to things like results, science, and intelligence.

2.  Loss of Self.

I know many of my friends online from real life. And they're awesome. But what they post? That's not them. How many of them did I know supported marriage equality, yet still posted things about 45? They were jumping on their bandwagon. That wasn't them. Or was it?

It has become difficult to see the person to what they show. A person becomes a series of snippets and tweets. As every person who has become a victim of being misquoted, "that's been taking out of context." I have enough sense to pause and see what the deal is-but most do not. Social media is killing the whole individual to a series of hilarious memes.

3.  We are now a Product.

My disdain for corporation was only magnified when 45 assumed power. I realized that as I sipped my Starbuck's waiting in line at Disney World. The fact is, we cannot escape from corporations. No, they aren't people. And they don't see us as such, either. But if I like a company, they have my business. I choose that.

But Facebook sells us to corporation. Google, always watching, sells our information and demographics to the highest bidder. Makes sense. We aren't people. Facebook is free, afterall. They have to earn revenue. And that means selling us out like shares of stock.

That, to me, is a problem. I should have a choice in that. Disney? Sure. Watch me buy ears again.

The choice is mine.

And Google, to some extent. They gained a lot of kudos with their fight for net neutrality. They have my information-they've learned to tailor information to find what I am looking for.

But social media has done little to encourage that loyalty.

4.  Loss of nuance.

I'm lucky. I work with the Deaf, and, if you know anything about them, as a culture, they know nothing about white lies. They are blunt, direct, and straightforward. Nothing is technically wrong with that. They lack nuance and subtleties that make life a bit more bearable on the other side of the coin. But my friends who are devout followers of their faith? They don't shove it into your face; they won't even mention it in passing.

But you go to their media splash? You're going to get punched in the nose with enough Jesus loincloths this side of a Hebrew pornshop. That's not them. But they're not authors or artists. They haven't been trained to select their expression in direct paths, instead, just putting out what they feel is correct. I guess this kinda ties into my other missive, but this works more on the expressive side of things. I get it, again, because I'm used to the Deaf, telling me like it is. So I get it. But? Most don't have that safety net.

Think about vaguebooking. A family member recently posted, "at the hospital." Nothing else. Everyone freaked out. Yeah, they might have done that on purpose, to gain attention, but, in actuality, it's the lack of nuance. They should have done their usual who-what-why-when-where-how stuff for the benefits of an audience.

Fuck that, I know.

5.  It's a Physical Addiction

It's obviously hitting some part of our brain. I notice, when I do go without social networking for a while, I get quiet until another hit. I also get this way without really good food. We're human. It's fun to connect to people. And the fact that there's a response with a larger audience is exhilarating.

And, like all things that feel good, addiction can rear it's ugly snarl. And most people know alcohol can be bad. We can avoid it. But our current society is so dependent on computers, let alone, social media, many young kids just don't realize the need to break away.

That's a dangerous thing.