Social Media Etiquette for the 21st Century

(Yes, I said in the 21^st century, because I doubt there were high levels of fuckery going down in ’96 when Geocities was all the rage.)

QUICK FACT: Social media has now overtaken pornography as the No. 1 activity on the web. 

TRANSLATION: When pron (typo, and it stays) falls alllll the way to second place, the end of the world is nigh.

Still no reason to forget our manners, right?  We reviewed a little cell phone etiquette, so now let’s tackle this social media situation…

OVERVIEW:
The strange thing about social media is that waay back, before we had unlimited access to share and chat and be all up in each other’s thought processes - one could walk around with the notion that most folk were basically kind, intelligent, worthwhile human beings.

But not now; nope. The social media phenomenon has forced us to accept that the planet is rife with people who are sadly and profoundly - stupid. Or boring. Or mean, self-absorbed, small-minded, and/or suffering from a plethora of mental and personality disorders. 

I mean, just look.

Though social media is a fucking genius when it comes to real life issues - raising awareness, spearheading social causes, starting a revolution, disseminating information, holding the powers that be accountable - and for tasks such as marketing, advertising, showcasing original /talent content (music, literature, cinema, etc.), and clever entertainment.

Speaking of entertainment, though? OMG. The MEME movement is the BEST.THING.EVER.  

 

And gif’s - AWESOME.SAUCE.

(And I’m totally going to create my own, AND post them all over my blog. YOU WATCH, TIA.)

But back to minding our manners via:

TWITTER:  

I have some extremely intelligent, very interesting friends who hang out on Twitter. Personally, I can’t get into it. I can’t get into Twitter, just like I can’t get into ice swimming.  It’s just not my idea of a good time. What can I say? I just get the feeling that murky things go on there. Plus everybody uses it, which rarely turns out well. Etiquette infractions include:

Hashtag abuse:

Especially personalized hashtags that drag on and give dyslexic’s nervous breakdowns:

#thingsthathesaysthatmakemegoabsolutelyinsane

#justgottotheclubheynowwheremygirlsattimetoturnup

And, rampant stupidity:

Add to the list:

• Spelling/grammatical errors
• Wack twitter names and handles
• Endless re-tweeting
• USING ALL CAPS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!!
• Excessive emoji use (I freaking love emoji's.)

Side note: Twitter is great for: customer service resolutions, as a non-traditional news source, and roasting public figures who deserve it.

INSTAGRAM:
 

Folks kept saying you don’t have an Instagram account? you really need an Instagram account. So I got one.  And, so. This is where the all the foodies, #selfie fanatics, and amateur photogs/videoagraphers reside.

My daughter, for example, will Instagram snapshots of her everyday meals, and call it art. Which forces me to politely say, no sweetheart, just because you’ve captured a bitten into grilled cheese sandwich and slapped a filter on it, does not make it art. And then I’ll show her a place where art lives.

It’d be more exciting (and less obnoxious) if Instagram users would be kind enough kick it up a notch. A lot of the content looks awfully pedestrian. Interesting cuisine, breathtaking scenery, and fashion shoots are awesome to look at; but a little more creativity is in order. Maybe jump out of a plane, and Instagram an expression pic as you fumble for the parachute release strap? Now that would be cool.

PINTEREST:

Great concept. Love the virtual personalized boards with all kinds of neat categories. I use it about twice every fiscal year, so not familiar with its annoyance level.  Is social media etiquette routinely skirted there? Hit me up, Pinterest people!

Otherwise, it seems pretty harmless. Or maybe it’s just another way to waste time online. Wouldn't it be more fulfilling to get out in the real world and hit a few thrift stores or an estate sale or accomplish a DIY project that once finished, can be posted on Instagram with all kinds of fancy special effects accompanied by a clever hashtag? (but what the fuck do I know)

FACEBOOK:

The most egregious crimes of social media etiquette continue to take place here. Let's review:

Tip #1: Pretend you’re at a party. All of your FB friends are attendees. Would you strike up convo about that great movie (or book, restaurant, cable TV series, whatever), or your
travel bucket list, or go with an interesting anecdote/observation - or would you lead with how much you hate your job, or that your kid vomited on you last night? Now, if you can make the kid-vomit story interesting, then go ahead. If not, wait for something more electrifying to share.

Tip #2: If you do choose to post about yourself, politely do us all a favor and have a pretty amazing existence or lifestyle. Like one of my favorite girls right here. She’s always up to something fresh and entertaining. She's talented, fabulous, extremely humble and grounded, interesting, and a world traveler. AND SHE'S FROM INGLEWOOD. (What up, Shan!) Now, would you rather read about someone who says: I'm getting ready to go to work, or I'm getting ready to go to GUAM/GREECE/GERMANY?

Tip #3: Please keep in mind, Facebook is not:

• A diary
• A blog
• A personal newsletter
• An advice column
• A place to incessantly talk about yourself (see Tip #2)
• To be used in place of professional therapy
• A place to hash out family, parental, or relationship issues for the world to see
• A place to drop terrible news to or about someone without first attempting a more discreet mode of communication
• Add your pet peeve here ________________

Actually, I think there should be a separate Facebook for each subject matter or interest. Yes. I am advocating Facebook segregation. It makes sense, for us and Zuckerberg. (somebody get him on the horn) That way we can talk freely amongst ourselves, with our own kind, and not bore the outsiders to tears.

There would be a designated Facebook world for each tribe:  (a) parents, their woes, and their wacky kid tales (b) complainers and venters, (c) people on the prowl and/or looking for dates, (d) the exercise extremists, (e) the foodies, (f) fashionistas, (g) religious freaks, (h) celebrity gossipers, (i) the conspiracy theorists, (j) the druggies, (k) the metaphysical and enlightened Ones, (l) the financial schemers and planners, (m) the wanna-be stand-up comedians (n) gang-members, (o) people who want to endlessly talk about relationships, etc.  (My only friends on Facebook would be other people who also hate Facebook.)

Tip #4: Standard FB etiquette requires asking yourself these hard-hitting questions: 

• Is this post in some way witty, profound, remarkable, newsworthy, thought-provoking, interesting, or intriguing? AND IF NOT,
• Why am I posting this?
• Who am I posting this for?
• Am I talking about myself again?
• Am I talking to myself again?
• Am I talking about the same old shit again?
• Do I have a compulsion I need to address?
• Am I posting this specifically to get the attention of one particular person/group, yet being all pass-agg about it? 
• Will I feel better after posting this?
• Is this something I want my grand-kids to stumble across when they Google me in 20 years?

In other words, Darlings - refrain from posting anything that you don’t mind being examined, commented on, and/or talked about out here in these Facebook streets. Unless, of course, you don't give a shit. Which leads me to...


The Unfriend Finder:

APPARENTLY, PEOPLE DO GIVE A SHIT: Yes, there is an app to find out who unfriended you on Facebook. (Twitter, Instagram, etc.) My daughter regrettably informed me this is actually a thing. This should be called the you've got to find better things to do with your time app. Because, really? WELCOME BACK TO HIGH SCHOOL.

Final tip: So many of us worry about the NSA or whoever (Putin? the Aliens?) violating our privacy, despite being overly enthusiastic about posting every second of our natural lives on social media. All of the info we volunteer online is viewed, tracked, and disseminated by employers, advertisers, identity thieves, governmental agencies, etc. That's the agreement we make when using social media. Also keep in mind, internet content lives forever. (Forever ever) So be smart, be savvy, and always mind your manners!

Cell Phone Etiquette for the 21st Century

 

The other day I received a text message at 6:47am. I ignored it of course, but wondered what kind of CALLOUS MOTHERFUCKER sends a text on a Saturday morning before breakfast? And it wasn’t an emergency, I know it, because the interloper would’ve grudgingly picked up the phone and speed dialed to hear me yell ARE YOU SERIOUS into the speakerphone. 

Most of my people know that mornings are not a good look for me. (don't let the MAC under eye concealer fool you.) My central nervous system does not fire at full throttle before lunchtime. Reason being I’m a hardcore insomniac and don’t go night- night until 2am-ish, and that’s with the assistance of sleepy-time pharmaceuticals. Saturday and Sunday I needs my beauty rest and don’t deign to get out of bed before NOON.

Weekend mornings are my sacred meditation, meaning I shamelessly sleep right through them. 

I’m also what is termed “old school,” which is code for having actually been raised with an intact and functioning set of manners.  Mum taught me that it is truly bad form to ring someone’s phone before 10 in the morning, or past 10 at night. A lesson which has stuck with me; for I have never been so uncouth as to curse somebody out before or beyond the appropriate etiquette defined hour.

Whatever happened to decorum? Social protocol? Whatever happened to the effort of not acting like an unrefined, offensively rude and heinous human being? You cell phone crackheads act like it’s your religion to careen across every conceivable social guideline and boundary.  Not only is it highly infuriating, but you 21^st century barbarians are contributing to the downfall of the entire species.

If you'd like to reinstate a smidgen of your humanity, here are some ideas:

 

ENGAGE IN THE FASCINATING AND COMPLEX WORLD AROUND YOU. Don't be brainwashed with the idea that you live a quality life, just because you have the latest phone upgrade and spend all of your time hunched over while texting, gaming, What’sApp’ing, Vine-ing, Instagramming, FaceTime-ing, Twatting, or updating your feed for all 600 hundred of your closest friends who you don’t even know in real life.

Try looking up at the sky. Try looking straight ahead when you’re walking around. Look at the traffic that you’re always in danger of walking into because you refuse to pull your head out of your cell phone's ass. Pay attention to your surroundings. Observe. Listen. Marvel at the sun. Try participating in the world like a sentient human being. 

YOU OWN YOUR PHONE. IT DOES NOT OWN YOU. An office mate tripped and broke her ankle while trying to grab her phone by the third ring. Why? Fear of missing a call. Here's another small tip: You are not required to answer the phone each time it cries out. Nor is this 1980, where when you missed a call and there was no voice mail to pick up, you were left to agonize if that was the call that was going to change your entire life. If you happen to miss a call, just chill out. I promise you’ll get a return call. In about 5 seconds. Or a follow-up text. Or you can simply access your missed call log, and push a button. Try not to let your phone dictate your every move.

ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER:  There’s nothing wrong with the reasonable abbreviation every now and again. When strapped for time, shortcuts come in handy. But if someone needs this while deciphering your texts (emails, tweets, Facebook posts) please reconsider your life.  You’re either a 12 year old girl (literally or emotionally), functionally illiterate, or a lazy asshole.  Yes, I'm tlkN bout u. Now w@?

TEXTING WHILE RIDING:  Naturally one should not drive and text, like ever. Though when you live in Los Angeles, most of your prime texting time is earned while sitting in traffic - so there's that. But this is addressed to the annoying, over-entitled cyclists attempting to take over this city: Stop trying to use a cell phone WHILE STEERING A BIKE WITH ONE HAND DOWN SANTA MONICA BLVD DURING RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC.  Just stop it.   

 

Stop doing this.   

You are going against the innate survival instinct supposedly present in all humans. Stay off the phone, stay in your lane, and GET OUT OF THE ROAD.

 SHOW SOME FUCKING MANNERS:

 

 

YAP ALL YOU WANT, just be courteous enough to cease your usually loud ass cell phone conversation before it’s your turn in line.  Don’t hold up the natural process by trying to order while still blabbing into your earpiece about your psycho boss or why your best friend is pissed or how you’re about to go to urgent care for that rash.  

When someone is assisting you face-to-face, do your best to act like a dignified human being. Make eye contact with the person serving you. Acknowledge. Say please and thank you. Then resume your conversation.

Because seriously, the people behind you at Starbucks or the Thai joint do not want to hear your blather on, or watch you fumble around in search of your credit card, the post-it note containing your co-workers order, expired coupons, exact change, PIN number, etc., while in essence, holding up the goddamn line.   

Don't do it. 

Because secretly, those people want to stab you.   

And by those people, I mean me.

Next Up: Social Media Etiquette. Gird your loins.

Are You Not Entertained?

Social media has never provoked a high level of disgust in me (shout out to my buddy Zed) - until I saw a Facebook status update from a funeral. How did I know it was from a funeral? Because that was the purpose of the update - to let everyone know they were in the same room as a coffin, paying their respects. After witnessing this gross display of indecency, I felt a seething hate for humanity. Especially humans compelled to document every movement of their lives on Facebook.

I understand Facebook is voluntary, and not an as-yet requirement for inclusion on the planet. I initially joined for the same reasons we all did - mindless entertainment. Back in '06, it was a novel way to keep track of friends, family, wayward children, ex-lovers, enemies, current events, etc.

Now? It's a complete clusterfuck. A posterchild for meglomania. A place where people seldom dialogue about thought-provoking issues, but sit around and circulate bad memes, complain/humble brag about their lives, force you to look at 500 page virtual photo albums, gossip, proselytize, commit uncalled-for hash tag or emoji abuse, post snapshots of kale smoothies; or make shameless exhaustive monologues on life lessons, shitty relationships, personal prayers, or the existential crisis one experiences after being snubbed by a friend’s cat.

Just when did Facebook become the equivalent of the goddamn Hunger Games? I'm not referring to the casual users. I'm talking about folks who act as if they fail to contribute twenty plus updates per day, they will ABSOLUTELY KEEL OVER AND DIE. 

I’d been studying for an exam the last few months, so I'm not sure when my Facebook feed devolved into professionally edited snapshots of pizza, #selfies, sweaty people on gym equipment, song lyrics, and Candy Crush invites. I knew there were compelling events going on in the world (Ukraine, Putin, the Michael Dunn case, Oscar Pistorius, the two US astronauts currently stuck in outer space, The Affordable Care Act, MH370, House of Cards Season Two, etc.), yet all of them took a back seat to what somebody's stupid coworker WORE ON TUESDAY.

So this is what we’re doing now.  How repellant. It's tantamount to group masturbation, with everyone jerking off to their own lives, inviting other people to watch. For why? Because in the 21st century, self-absorption is the look. We must proclaim ZOMGG I'M READING A BOOK, as if it's some peculiar activity that other mere mortals don't do. If we have an experience and don't post it on Facebook, does its significance cease to exist? Is it really that difficult to be still, be present, and bask in the experience of life without the need to document every second of it?

And what happened to living in stealth mode? Whatever happened to SECRETS? Secrets (healthy ones) are provocative, intriguing, sexy.  Secrets – just like modesty, demureness, humility, discretion, class, tact, and decorum - need to make a comeback.

BECAUSE YOUR NARCISSISM IS BORING.

Though I couldn't help but wonder (©): Are people happier this way, compulsively posting about their daily lives? The idea vexed me. I was completely vexed.

Maybe I was missing out.

So I conducted an experiment. I decided to consistently update my FB feed over a span of 48 hours, to see if my personal fulfillment meter surged exponentially. The extra kick was that I got all satirical about it, by posting the same type of mind-numbing, frustratingly mediocre junk that others rudely foist onto their FB counterparts. (who, believe me - have done nothing to deserve it.) No, I’m not above a bout of petty passive-aggressiveness in order to have a little fun.

EXPERIMENTAL DATA, DAY ONE:

Status updates: Photo post from the checkout line at the grocery store.  Announce I was purchasing greens and chicken wings. Post picture of a Ralph’s water bottle, which accompanied dinner. Post that I was about to watch Basketball Wives.  The next morning, post about a delicious red apple I enjoyed as a snack (with photo), post that I'd listened to Carly Simon and Mack 10 on Spotify. Next, a random post of some freak on the internet, an update about my afternoon walk, another post to indicate I was enjoying the day, followed by two status updates on the weather, then a post asking for donations on behalf of the International Bird Rescue. After that -  a Drake meme, then a post announcing my water intake due to the hot weather, a post about taking lunch, a snapshot of said lunch, a mid-day selfie, an almost decade old picture of my kids, an exercise video on planking, a conversation re-enactment had with a co-worker, a snapshot of a caramel rice cake (another snack), a twerk video, a Jesus quote, that I was stuck in rush hour traffic, and a post when I’d finally made it home. Posted about my 20 minute stationary bike workout, then ended the evening with a goodnight post.

EXPERIMENTAL DATA, DAY TWO:

Status updates: A post about a mockingbird that kept me up until 2 a.m. A "good morning, stay positive" post. A picture of a wedding dress. A weather update. A random post about the dude sitting across from me in a café, who looked like a serial killer. Posted lyrics to Drunk In Love, made one post each about Donald Sterling and the anniversary of the LA riots (to see if anyone would bite), a post about the Panda Cam live feed, a post about how much I missed Sassy (my dog), another picture of Sassy, three more pictures of Sassy, a random wisecrack, an excerpt from the book of Exodus. Next post was about my commute home, and that I was on the 10 freeway and drinking vodka (I got a few likes, and no one seemed concerned). Next, a post announcing I'd arrived home, and a final picture of Sassy and two lumps of dried shit she'd left in her potty area - hashtagged. (#twolittlePoopsofLove.)

DATA ANALYSIS AND FINDINGS:

A.     EXHAUSTION: At the end of Day One, I was completely drained. Interrupting my life, to post about my life was unexpectedly tiring. Or, posting such self-absorbed drivel basically sapped my creative energy. It felt like an empty exercise. By the end of Day Two, I was sick of my phone, sick of FB, and sick of myself.

B.     UNPRODUCTIVITY: In the days prior to the experiment, I ‘d been reading two books, journaling, working on blog updates, helping my daughter with her t-shirt store website, catching up on new epi's of Anthony Bourdain’s travel show, and doing some gardening. I accomplished very little of that during the experiment. There is only so much free time in a day, especially after work and other personal responsibilities.  I couldn’t be actively creative AND update Facebook – it was one or the other. FB is a cunning time dump.

C.     SOCIAL INTERACTIONS: I was constantly distracted. I made very little eye-contact with people. I tried to help my daughter with her project during my "experiment," but I wasn’t present with her. I  half- listened. I kept putting her off. She got impatient, which frustrated me even more. I also like to chat with the small sociopaths neighborhood kids when I get in from work - to ask them what they learned, and remind them to stay off my grass. Bypassed that, because I was too busy trying to get inside and resume the experiment. Instead of chilling in the backyard with my pooch, I kept trying to get her to pose for FB pics. She didn't cooperate, nor did she appreciate it. My selfish antics were impacting others. I was simultaneously neglecting people AND getting on their nerves.

D.    FEEDBACK AND RESPONSES: As a result of my increased posting and subject matter, I was inundated with texts, emails, and phone calls inquiring: (1) if my FB account had been hacked (2) if I was okay, (3) if I was engaged in some kind of ironic performance art social media protest, or (4) if I was off my meds. I assured those who didn’t already know, the answer was #3. Those who didn’t know me as well (obviously,) seemed delighted in my sudden participation in Facebook life, and rewarded me with “likes” accordingly. Only three people de-friended me. Not too many cared about the serious topics (Sterling, The Riots), but the mockingbird post and Bey’s song lyrics were winners.

I was also chided that I didn't go hard enough with this experiment, and needed way more status updates, a shit ton of selfies with bad lighting and filters, more typos, more randomness, and more hideous pics of food closely resembling vomit. (shout out to Manochinita)

  E. PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS:  I felt anxious and disconnected. I didn't feel present in my real life, with the people and activities which meant most to me. It was difficult keeping up the momentum at the office, because I'm required to do a certain level of interacting. I do however get that stationary/isolating office gigs can lead to excessive FB posting. Which basically falls under the category of boredom.  There are a hundred other ways to actively (vs. passively) combat boredom.  Even if trapped behind a desk, one can make the most of it -  maybe actually apply yourself to the job you'd like to keep, enroll in an online course, study a new language, brainstorm on personal projects, pen a handwritten letter, take a walk, break your fingers, snort some bath salts, jump off a cliff.  Just.don't.waste.your.life.online.

Sidenote: I did observe a lot of emotional venting on Facebook. I get the feeling some people utilize FB to effectively drown out the reality that their lives might be lacking, unrewarding, empty, dysfunctional, lonely, or unhealthy.  For that, the best resources would be serious self-examination, a private journal, and professional therapy.  Zuckerberg don't give a damn about your mental health.

The comic Louis CK said it better:

You need to build an ability to just be yourself, and not be doing something. That's what phones are taking away, is the ability to just sit there.

That's being a person. And sometimes when things clear away, you're not watching anything, you're in your car, and you start going, 'oh no, here it comes. I'm alone.' It's starts to visit on you. Just this sadness. Life is tremendously sad, just by being in it...

That's why we text and drive. I look around, pretty much 100 percent of the people driving are texting. And they're killing, everybody's murdering each other with their cars. But people are willing to risk taking a life and ruining their own because they don't want to be alone for a second because it's so hard.

   F. FINAL TAKEWAY:  As suspected, my productivity and mental state hit their zenith when living outside the Facebook trap. I have three very good friends who drop kicked Facebook a few years ago, to focus on their real life passions and goals.  They are now, as follows: a social worker, an RN, and a law school student. They weren't posting updates about their case studies or anatomy exams, they were quietly doing their work.  A fulfilling, exciting life isn’t like a business - you don’t have to advertise.

I have yet to deactivate my account for two main reasons:  First, I live for the authentic interactions I have with an amazing group of women (most of whom I know in real life) and our primary mode of sharing is via a private group on Facebook. Second, I am an observer of the human carnival, and Facebook is prime territory to watch it unfold.

The fuckery is entertaining.

The Panda Cam

We all look forward to those glorious moments during the day, when we can fuck off take time out for the mental “breathers” that keep us sane at the office. During the course of a garden variety work day, many of us exhale on the internets in the form of: instant messaging, online gambling/ shopping/dating, scouring the gossip blogs, checking fantasy football stats, stalking your teens' Tumblr feed, blathering on about absolutely fucking nothing via Facebook (Instagram, Twitter, Vine, Xanga, yadda yadda); creating stupid cute Bitstrip cartoons, or by leaving rambling, rage-filled comments regarding Obamacare in the entertainment section of Yahoo.com

Well. I've traded all of the above, since the day I found my beloved Panda Cam.

With just one click, I’m instantly transported to the peaceful environs of the Ailuropoda melanoleuca, the Giant Pandas who currently enjoy their endangered life status at the Smithsonian National Zoo in DC.  Twenty-four/seven, a camera follows Mei Mei and Bao Bao (Moms and her cub) as they sleep, stretch, laze around, play, eat, and shit.

There’s something absolutely meditative about watching these cute, burly creatures peacefully lolling around the bamboo garden all day. This daily practice also provides me with a quick, safe, and stress-free method of connecting with nature. (The lifestyle experts say this is important.) And it's really cool to witness these creatures in action, especially since they’d maul your fucking eyes out if you ever got too close in real life.

It’s all so damn zen.

And hey, sometimes my long days at the office can get rough. Working with people who happen to be battling cancer every day is extremely rewarding, but it also has the propensity to suck major ass. (Because, cancer.) My way of decompressing is by observing the life of the exquisite panda throughout the day.

This is reality TV as it SHOULD BE, people.  Natural. Authentic. Educational. Uncensored. There’s no repulsive, warped, dysfunctional behavior going down, like say, in HUMANITY. In the panda realm, there are no politics or hidden agendas. No nastiness. (which means no Republicans) And depending on which camera you select for your viewing pleasure, you'll either have the joy of watching baby Bao Bao stretch and roll around in her crib (ok, cage) like some wild, little, breathing cotton ball with legs:







Or, you'll be greeted by the vision of Mei Mei, chilling in the bamboo garden, serenely consuming lunch, and reigning like the true Thug Misses she is.





Fascinating.

Check what else I learned about pandas:

Lifestyle:

A wild giant panda spends much of its day resting, feeding, and seeking food.

How cool is that? The equivalent in my world would be: Sleeping, lounging, and constant dinner reservations.  These pandas have got the FUCKING LIFE.

Characteristics:

Though the panda is often assumed to be docile, it has been known to attack humans, presumably out of irritation rather than aggression.

Totally can relate. I attack anyone who bothers me around lunch time.

Social Structure:

Adult giant pandas are generally solitary, but they do communicate periodically through scent marks, calls, and occasional meetings.

Me too! Except I communicate periodically through angry facial expressions, this blog, and occasional meetings at the bar (happy hour)!

Raising Cubs:

Offspring stay with their mothers from one and a half to three years.

I dig how panda motherhood is so.... accelerated. Three years tops? My offspring have been hanging around my pad for a few decades. (I bet Panda moms show their boomerang kids the DOOR.)  Mei Mei is a stern disciplinarian, and does NOT play. Especially when she's trying to get some decent shut-eye. If Bao Bao bothers her, wanting to play, or be fed  - Mei Mei will raise her gargantuan paw and fling poor Bao Bao aside like an unwanted rollie pollie.

I respect that.

Kids have to learn not to fuck with Moms during her beauty rest. It's the same in the wild, and at my house.

Not everyone is on board with my latest obsession. A colleague walked in one day, spied the active Panda Cam on my screen.

He kinda scoffed and said something about how he mistook me for suuuucch a progressive, and how could I participate in the exploitation of innocent pandas like that? Violating their privacy, and such. What about the panda's rights?

It took me 4 seconds to realize what was going down. Dude just tried to PANDA SHAME me.

"Listen," I whisper-shouted. "This is my thing. Do I get all judgy with your thing, like when you Skype with those slack-jawed hosebeasts you meet on your secret OkCupid account?" (I was irritated because Bao Bao was stretching after her sixth afternoon nap and I'd just missed it.)  "Is this what you really want to debate with me? Panda advocacy? Of all the social ills ravaging this planet? How about human rights violations going on at GITMO? What about sex trafficking in Cambodia? Miner's rights in South Africa? Do you even care about the homeless? What about the evil that is Fox News? This (I point at screen, as the camera zooms in on Mei Mei taking a shit) is restorative to me. Ok? Oprah has her mountaintop on Maui, I HAVE MY PANDA CAM."

He backed away as if to say ok this is really not how I want to die and meandered away. Actually, he's hasn't spoken to me since.

GOOD.

FINE.

Whatever.

We don't have time for any nonsense, we're here to work.

But how freaking cute is Bao Bao?!  Just look at her. ADORBS!

Digging in the Crates: Rant #267 - "Going Postal" Aftermaths

It never fails.

After some Willie or Wanda finally snaps and plummets straight off the edge (in the form of a shooting rampage at company   headquarters/the post office/a gas station/freeway/Ralphs market, etc.) – the next-door neighbors, relatives, and co-workers all blather and spout the same bullshit.  Always claiming so-and-so ‘was such a nice guy’ or how ‘it was so out of character for her’ or ‘there must be some mistake, the Willie or Wanda I know would never ever do something like that.’

Blather, blather, blather.

What I wanna know is - just who are these people so compelled to keep their psychosis under wraps? And why?  The pressure they must heap upon their unsuspecting loved ones. So sad, so shameful.

You’ve seen the footage. The poor neighbors, friends, aunts, and cousins who end up on Channel 9 news in stupefied disbelief, as they try to offer up an explanation for the actions of so-and-so’s crazy ass.  The spiel is always the same: “I don’t know, she/he seemed just fine to me….”

It would be so refreshing to watch an interview when someone states emphatically that there was always something shady about that muthafucka next door, and therefore no surprise to learn that for the last six months he ate chicken heads for breakfast while wearing a tutu and mailing homemade ricin to every Supreme Court judge whose last name ends with an A.

It’s my personal belief that it’s much more considerate, honorable even, for a person to unapologetically and visibly unravel.  Just put it right out there, from jump. It will cut down the confusion and ultimate feelings of betrayal in the long run.  Best believe, I take time to verbally express that I’m coming undone, ‘aint right in the head, about to go smooth loco at every conceivable opportunity during an ordinary day. That way, my peeps’ll have the heads up, and be able to converse intelligently the day I really do end up losing my shit.

I can hear it now:

“Yo, ole girl been hangin’ on for months, kid. Months.  I knew some shit had to go down eventually.  How much is her bail?”  (friends)

“Wigged the fuck out, for real? About time.”  (co-workers)

“Yeah, she’d wave to me every morning..but she wasn’t foolin’ nobody. Chick always had that look in her eye.  You know…that look?  Plus, she never checked her mail….” (neighbors)

There’s nothing cool about pretending to be sane and emotionally balanced, people. This selfish act can actually hurt the ones you love  – especially when you’re nicely tucked away at County or 51.50'd at the Neuro-Psych facility, and folks are left floundering in the aftermath of your deception. Trying to figure out why one day you were a functional citizen of the world, and the next you’re indicted for making multiple terrorist threats to the assholes at Jiffy Lube who manage to repeatedly sever your brake line during the course of a simple tire rotation and oil change.

So. If you’ve got problems (and you do) –  just be honest. The act of battling an impending bout of psychosis is draining enough; why bother with the energy it takes to put up a façade? When someone asks How are you, How life’s going?, and your life is currently going downhill in a bullshit fashion -- buck up and say ‘Yo, my life is going down in some kind of bullshit fashion, and ‘aint no tellin.’  (hop around and blink a lot when you say it.) That way, fake, pollyanna-ish, and/or psychosis-shy people will back up off you. Which for me is always the ultimate goal.

Besides - most folks already know you’ve got serious mental issues going on, so who you frontin’ for, anyway?

(12/2005)

Witch Titties

Winter, Los Angeles, California 2012 is responsible for the worst case of witch tits I've ever had in my entire southern California charmed life.  Not to be confused with bitch tits - witch tits is a chronic condition that develops when an LA girl is forced to maintain employment, polite social interactions, and basic life functions when the atmospheric temperature consistently drops below 50 degrees Fahrenheit.

Now you East coasters, who wish to rebuke me with woes of sub-zero temps, wind chill factors, and Nor'easters - kindly go fuck yourselves. When you reside in a heat deficient, snow-affirmative locale (by doom or design), you already know what you're up against. The salt trucks, thermal undies, and snow days are a part of your reality. You deal with it.

Because I am punk, and cannot deal with it, I live in Los Angeles. There's no fucking winter in Los Angeles; it's not allowed.  70 degrees is the legal requirement, the one thing you can count on in this cultural wasteland. Why else do you think we stay? The excruciating traffic, high tax rate, gang violence, questionable politicians, police pursuits, outlandish standards of living, Venice Beach, and the paparazzi? No.

We remain because no matter how shitty life gets, you can always stroll down to Starbucks wearing only shorts, flip-flops, and a tank. Or cruise down Sunset Blvd. (in December) with the sunroof open and the windows down while taking a toke. (But only if you have a legal medical marijuana card. And we all have legal medical marijuana cards.)

So as the Mayans claimed the world would end in late 2012, it kind of did, far as I could tell.  Suddenly I found myself in a post-apocolyptic landscape where the temps plunged below 40, and the ancient heater in my house simultaneously went on the blink. Wrapped in a Snuggie and standing precariously close to a rusty space heater, I scanned CNN, wondering if the President would declare the city a disaster zone. The orange patches were iced over, for christ's sake.

One nippy Monday morning, there was some substance on my car window. My neighbor patiently explained it was some phenomenon called frost. Snow was now falling within a 20 mile radius of my home, and the sturdiest piece of clothing I owned was a blazer. Not wanting to see what else the vast Los Angeles tundra had to offer, I got back in bed and called in sick.

During the rest of the work week I donned the warmest garments I could find, which were usually a maxi-dress, said blazer, peep toe heels, and some cute but non-functional scarf. Late evenings, I'd brave the half mile distance to my car in a spastic jog, with a scarf wrapped around my face, balaclava style. The chant I used to help stave off hypothermia usually went "fucking bullshit fuck THIS fuck this FUCK you fuck YOU" until I made it to my destination. Once home, no matter how many pair of sweats I piled on or shots of rum I drank, I remained completely fucking frozen. My house was a tad warmer than a morgue.

Hence, the witch tits.

Weekends, I stayed in bed, fully clothed, beneath a menagerie of blankets, towels, quilts, and pillows. I refused to leave the house. My social life suffered. I ordered groceries online. Even backed out on a date with cute enough dude, but I just couldn't will myself to move. He tried to persuade me, but I was having none of it.

So now I was a frigid bitch with witch titties. Witch tits. Whatever.

Now it's early Janurary, and the bleakness still remains. I purchased an ill-fitting pea coat at a thrift store, in a sincere effort to adjust. I'm wholly clueless on how to shop for "winter clothes." Winter clothes have always meant a few sweaters.

Clearly, I'm not about this life.

A "warning" email circulated at work the other day. Security had received a complaint from an elderly customer who was frightened when encountering "an erratic person mumbling loudly when exiting the building."  Be aware of vagrants using the property for shelter as a result of the recent cold snap, the email reported. "Complaintant could not provide definitive description due to mask or material obstructing suspect's face."

I vaugely remember blowing off some old dude who asked me for directions one night. That vagrant had a name; it was yours truly.

Bastards.

And yeah, I'll surely be on the lookout.

Dear Facebook: I See What You Did There

For two complete years, I've threatened to start another blog; for no other reasons than to respark my dwindling creativity, jump start my new manuscript, and regain some discipline. I even registered a few blogs, complete with cutesy titles and introductory entries, only to lose/forget the passwords or domain names; and then blithely drop the whole idea.  

I continued to journal of course, to cope and maintain my sanity; and for fear of losing the ability to write longhand permanently. I started using the phrase "in between projects," convincing myself that I would mini-flex my writing muscles daily - by posting on Facebook. 

Turns out, Facebook is a dangerous place. A slippery slope for writers; particularly unfocused and self-deluded ones.  The fantastic and troubling thing is, you can publish yourself instantly. Constantly. Exhaustingly. It's the crack cocaine of the net.

Starts like this: you post excerpts and ideas for that hot manuscript, then maybe a few inspirational quotes. You express your eternal awe for Rilke and Plath. You even dare to upload a photo (or 500) of yourself, doing...stuff. Activities. At the grocery store, in the pub. You then become a brazen individual who informs everyone when you last ate/slept/shat. One day you glance over at that stupid timeline, and witness the accumulation of trite bullshit in which you willingly engaged (celebrity gossip, the quiz defining your kissing style, a beautifully Instagrammed picture of the 405 freeway at dusk) and you wonder what you've really been doing with your life. 

And how bizarre is it that Facebook makes me ponder my own mortality?  Perhaps I die tomorrow, and my last Facebook post turns out to be uninspiring and prosaic, like "my deodorant is failing me?"  A status update can easily become your famous last words. Don't get me started about death and Facebook. We've all heard of, or had a friend who died - yet their Facebook page remains as some kind of luminous memorial. You expire, but your Facebook page won't. People continue to drop in, rifle through your photos, re-read all your hopes and dreams never realized, make comments, write on your wall, all without your fucking permission.

Or let's say you commit some uncool crime, and the media and detectives scour your page, sift through your alter egos and mindless ramblings to figure out where you fall in the DSM.

These thoughts horrify me.

I get it. We need a way to pass time while stuffed away in an office, or waiting to board some plane. But why do we still clamor to it on weekends? During "free" time? Do we need constant reassurance that our life means something? And the measuring stick is our photo albums and status updates?

Facebook celebrates the mundane; the minutia of daily life. It traps both simple minds and free thinkers. It has useful purposes, of course. Yet it also breeds an eerie, acceptable form of narcissism.

I won't even get into the godlessness that is Twitter.

Yes, I see what you did there, Facebook. Always feigning interest, with the How are you feeling? or What's going on with you? prompts at the top of my page. You don't give a shit about my wants and needs - but your advertisers do. And the fact that you're the brainchild of this brilliantly akward dude who didn't possess enough swag to meet chicks in real life - kinda makes it even more lame.

So here's what: I'm ditching my own lame factor. Branching out. Dabbling into new, groovy on and offline things.

Meanwhile, guess I"ll take a wild, girlish fling at writing.

Again.