ABOUT A MONTH or so ago I began working out with a personal trainer at a nearby CrossFit gym three times a week. Since then my body aches all the time and I can barely make it up the stairs to bed each night, but at least I can say it’s because I pushed myself and am getting stronger every day, instead of it being because I’m almost seventy and thus getting weaker every day. Trust me, it’s a lot better, at least psychologically.
I blame, oops, I mean attribute, this turn of events on my husband, who has been, since the day we met, and still insists on being to this day, eleven years younger than I. Mitch is a founding member of CrossFit, and while I often have scoffed at his blind obedience to the cult, he does seem to be in damn good shape, I’ll give him that. He too is in constant pain, so now we complain together and soak in the hot tub more often. In that sense, CrossFit is helping our marriage.
The old saw, “Use it or lose it,” certainly rings true for me. I have discovered muscles I never knew I had, and surely they were on their last legs before I disturbed them, if muscles can be said to have legs. Now my entire body is engaged in the aging process, and I’m guessing that can only be a good thing. I only wish I had started sooner, but at least I’ll be stronger in my next life when I’m up against all those Transhumans.
— Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
RECENTLY I RECEIVED two marketing calls from vendors seeking my business. While certainly annoying, this is nothing extraordinary, except for the fact that both calls came from the offices of medical doctors.
The first was from a woman representing our family physician, wondering why my adult son had not yet made an appointment since signing on with the practice over a year ago, shortly after he moved to Maine. She pointed out that “Now would be a great time for him to come in for a thorough checkup, as the doctor has a lot of flexibility in his schedule.” I said that knowing Zack as well as I do I’m pretty sure he would not see a doctor unless he was sick, and even then he’d have to be really sick. She began a prepared spiel stressing the importance of regular checkups but I stopped her and said my son has his own home and phone number and maybe she should call him.
The next call came from my dermatologist’s office. I had cancelled a follow-up appointment after a minor procedure several months ago because I went to Florida, and never rescheduled. “The doctor really wants to see you,” she intoned, sounding quite stern. Thinking it’s supposed to be the other way around, I assured her that I’m fine and have no problems whatsoever, at least none requiring a dermatologist. She countered by saying the doctor was now booking out “as far as September,” and so if I anticipated having any problems by then I should schedule an appointment now. “You never know when something will pop up,” she added helpfully. I told her I would be happy to just be alive by September, and completely agreed that “you never know.” She said that was all the more reason to make an appointment now. I promised to call back soon.
Either fewer people are getting sick these days or they’re finding other ways to fix themselves when they do. I’d say this is a good trend, except for all the poor doctors struggling to pay their malpractice insurance. Thank goodness for new illnesses like the Zika virus or all those doctors would face financial ruin.
“How can people be so heartless
How can people be so cruel
Easy to be hard
Easy to be cold”
Those lyrics (from the song Easy to Be Hard) have stuck in my head ever since I first saw “Hair” on Broadway in 1968. That’s a long time ago, and sadly, people haven’t changed a whit since then. In fact, they’ve gotten harder. Whether it’s ranting about Trump and his stupid supporters or making fun of some dorky kid in junior high with thick glasses and acne, young and old people alike are often just plain mean.
But they’re even meaner in North Korea, where a 21-year-old American undergraduate at the University of Virginia has just been sentenced to 15 years of hard labor for attempting to steal a propaganda banner “as a trophy for an acquaintance who wanted to hang it in her church.” In North Korea, the prank is considered grounds for a subversion charge. Videos of the young man tearfully pleading for his freedom are all over the Internet.
My heart goes out to his parents, who must also be suffering terribly. But hey, who goes to North Korea on Spring Break? Hasn’t the kid ever heard of Fort Lauderdale?
— Andrea Rouda
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
IMAGINE LIVING your entire life in a monastery on a mountain top in Tibet. You have a bed, a small table and some sort of stove for cooking. You eat, sleep, dream, exercise, have aches and pains and wonder about the nature of existence, but you have no idea what Bloomingdale’s is. That must be nice.
I try to approximate that life on the days when my husband is away, which are numerous, and when I don’t have any appointments with anyone, which are also numerous. If I don’t turn on the TV or look at my computer and if nobody ever calls, I can come close. But still, I remember Bloomingdale’s, back when it was a big deal. Their flagship store on Lexington Avenue seemed like heaven to me during my New York City college days. Riding up there on the subway from my studio apartment in Soho — in those days it was called Little Italy — was a special occasion. So many pretty things to desire and someday attain!
I have more clothes than I need or even wear, and far too many dishes, especially considering we never have anyone for dinner, and way too many pairs of shoes. Besides all the sandals and loafers and high heels and clogs I have seven pairs of boots, despite having only two feet. I have earrings out the yin-yang, but I wear the same pair every day and have for the last four years. I have ten fingers but twice that number of gold and silver rings. If I walked around and put price tags on everything in my house, it could be another Bloomingdale’s.
At this point in my life I need nothing, except of course the direct experience of knowing I have everything I need. I wonder where they sell that.
— Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
“LET NOTHING UPSET you. Let nothing frighten you. Everything is changing. God alone is changeless. Patience attains the goal. Who has God has everything. Only God fills every need.”
I tell myself this every morning when I wake up and at difficult moments during the day, and again at night when I am trying to fall asleep. Sometimes it works, but honestly, most of the time it’s like putting a Band-Aid on a patient after open heart surgery. Life in the year 2106 is crazy, let’s face it. You know it and I know it. But somehow the folks at Facebook do not know it, or at least don’t want to admit it, and so they have come up a bit short with their new Reaction buttons that allow you to do more than just “Like” something. Now you can register a few other feelings, like Happy, Sad, Angry, Wow and HaHa.
I am guessing “Wow” is the one they offer to register all those other states of being that dog us through life, like Could Care Less, In the Gutter, Wish I Could Be You, High As a Kite, Considering Suicide, Sick and Tired of Your Bullshit, Not Even Who I Say I Am, Hate Your Guts But Friended You Anyway and Desperately Want to Deactivate My Account But Without It I Am Truly Alone. Now those would be some helpful buttons.
— Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
OFTEN WHEN I GO out to dinner in a busy restaurant I am struck by how much the cacophony of all the other patrons sounds like hundreds of chickens clucking. What could everyone possibly be saying to one another while their food is getting cold? I wonder that too when I see people walking out in public with cell phones held to their ears. Sometimes I hear a snatch of their conversations as I pass by, and it’s often something like, “Where should we eat?” or “Okay, I’ll call you later,” promising even more talk about nothing very important.
Which is funny, because the older I get, the less I have to say. Out loud, that is. So I am tempted to sign up for a week-long silent retreat to be held at a Buddhist conference center in the Maryland woods in a few months. You arrive and check in — I guess talking is allowed for that part — and then just don’t talk for the next seven days. There are meals taken in a big dining hall but eaten in silence and daily classes where I assume the teacher speaks, but I am just assuming. Maybe the teacher just sits up on the podium and thinks deep thoughts and you get them because your senses are so refined at that point, from all the not talking.
Anyway, this silent retreat business has always had an appeal for me. (My husband often suggests we take a cruise somewhere, but the thought of all the constant clucking turns me off to the idea. If I could find a silent cruise through the Greek Islands, I’d definitely go.) But the price tag for the Maryland woods, room-with-a-stranger-and-shared-bath experience is nearly $2,000, and I started thinking of all the other things I could do with that money and just be silent all by myself, so I decided against it. In fact, if anyone wants to come and stay at my house for a week and not say anything and pay me, just let me know.
— Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
I OFTEN WISH I could give up the starring role in my life and instead just have a small part in a crowd scene, maybe even one without any lines. Being the center of my own attention is exhausting. And the worst part is that the performance is ongoing; there are no days off or nights when the theater is dark. It’s work, work, work until the show closes.
A few nights ago I watched a rewarding documentary on Netflix about the former Broadway actress Elaine Stritch, who died last July at the age of 89. The film centers on her life just two years earlier when, at 87, she was still a pistol with legs to die for, pitching her salty personality and a lifetime of show tunes to sell-out crowds around the country. The film is called Elaine Stritch: Shoot Me, and if you can find it somewhere, see it. It is both a total hoot and a lesson in how to drain every last drop of flavor from life.
The film is full of important truths, but one which struck me hard and has stayed with me was when Elaine, battling diabetes and losing, recounted her father’s favorite expression: “Everybody’s got a sack of rocks. That was such a great way of putting it…. everbody’s got a sack of rocks.”
It’s a hard thing to remember, but if you can, it helps in almost every situation that might otherwise dissemble into negativity, anger or frustration. It’s sort of like realizing, when you’re stuck in traffic, that you are also “the traffic,” it’s not just the other people in those other cars. Everyone’s trying to get somewhere, just like you. And they all have a sack of rocks in the back seat.
— Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
“CONCUSSION” HAS SO many good things going for it, it’s hard to know where to start. First on the list has to be Will Smith’s impressive performance, one where he’s not even Will Smith anymore but some actor you’ve never seen before, one whose ears don’t even stick out all that much. As the brilliant Nigerian forensic specialist, Dr. Bennet Omalu, Smith has a very convincing accent that never gives out, which happens sometimes halfway through a movie. (Do they think we won’t notice?) Never an avid Smith fan myself, still I loved him in this role and hope he gets some kind of award from somebody for it.
In this sad-but-true story, Smith plays an accidental whistle-blower who inadvertently condemns the entire NFL when he discovers this dire truth: playing football causes head injuries that ultimately lead players to commit suicide. The tautly written tale unfolds in Pittsburgh, a somewhat overlooked American city that finally gets its day in the sun. Lots of aerial shots — the city at night with its stunning skyscrapers aglow or in bright daylight, gliding over the confluence of its two rivers that join to become a third — show off its best features with sharp cinematography.
Solid performances by the entire cast, notably David Morse (star of TV’s “St. Elsewhere”years ago), the ubiquitous Alec Baldwin and an ancient-looking but endearing Albert Brooks, make it an ensemble piece. There’s also a love interest for the good doctor. (She’s adorable, whoever she is; editor’s note: her name is Gugu Mbatha-Raw).
An unassertive sound track balances out the intensity of several autopsies performed on athletes who succumbed to post-brain death suicide after years of cracking their heads against other players, some of whom will likely meet similar fates, be it by gunshot, taser-induced heart attack or an intentional head-on collision.
A few words of caution: If you currently play football, do not see this film. If you have a youngster who wants to play football, definitely see this film and then forbid it. If you’re just a plain old rabid fan who loves watching the game, get ready to love it less. Other than that, “Concussion,”bad title aside, is a good time.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
HERE IN MAINE it is snowing for the second day in a row, and I am pissed about it. All the true Mainers are ecstatic that winter has finally arrived. My neighbors glide by on their snowshoes and their skate skis, huffing and puffing in the frigid air, making me feel like the loser from Brooklyn that I truly am. But hey, I’m writing a book, so sue me — I’ve got it going on.
Still, I’m beginning to understand why all the Jews move south when they hit a certain age. Why there are so many delis in Boca. And golf courses. Suddenly I’m ready to trade in four or five blizzards per year for a couple of Category 3 hurricanes. But not today.
Today I shoveled a path to our hot tub, climbed in, closed my eyes and fantasized. About the hot sand under my feet and the sound of the pounding surf. Finding seashells on the beach. Palm trees bending over, artfully, in those strong breezes coming off the ocean. Kites. Dogs chasing the tides, in and then out again. Lazing under those blue-and-white-striped cabanas we rented when we were in Deerfield Beach the last time. I threw in a couple of mojitos and some conch fritters from Key West just for fun. The smell of sunscreen. Heck, even the sound of all the air conditioners seemed appealing, a hum rather than a racket in this particular fantasy. It worked for awhile, but then it started snowing harder.
“Be here now,” I keep telling myself. Be here now. Be here — in the snow and the ice and the frigid temperatures and the shoveling and the poor cat can’t go outside — now (and for the next few months).
I may need a new mantra.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
NOT TO BUM YOU out, but this could be the last one of my blog posts you ever read. I could die before I write the next one. Better yet, you could. With that in mind I’m trying to think of what wisdom I can share from living on Earth all these years, at least this time around. There must be something that I know that nobody else knows. There has to be, since we are each unique and have very different life experiences.
Okay, here’s something. Earlier today I had an odd thing happen, and what made it odd was that it happened three times in a row, bam, bam, bam, within about two minutes total. I was just about to park my car at my local supermarket when a woman in a gray van sped up and cut me off, taking the very spot I was about to enter. “Huh,” I thought, “that was weird. Oh well,” I continued thinking, “maybe she has to pee and needs to get inside fast.”
Then I spied another spot right nearby, and I was perfectly aimed for it and started right for it when a guy in a maroon sedan floored it and got there first. “What the heck?” I thought, chalking it up to the Christmas season. So then I drove around and there was someone pulling out of a spot and I put on my blinker and waited as the guy pulled out, when a blue truck on the other side of him who had just arrived on the scene slid right in.
That did it. I was pissed. I started screaming obscenities into the air, yes the F-word if you must know, and I could feel my blood pressure rising with my anger. And even though I got really mad, it didn’t get me a parking spot.
Eventually I found one. But I understood two things very clearly: 1) Many people in Maine are oblivious and 2) Getting angry does nothing to alter one’s circumstances.
PEOPLE SEEM TO LOVE disasters as long as they’re not in them. Earthquakes, traffic accidents, mudslides wiping away entire villages in foreign countries, terror attacks, and Brian De Palma and Quentin Tarantino movies–the bloodier the better– are all magnets for our basest instincts. We watch in horror but still we watch, fascinated and titillated and relieved it’s not us.
The same is true of Donald Trump and his steadfast quest for the presidency. Americans can’t seem to get enough about this man they say they detest, yet they continue to salivate over his every word. The media, claiming disdain, builds entire broadcasts and panel discussions around him. Even this teeny little thing, my personal blog, sees skyrocketing readership numbers when I put Trump’s name in the title.
Come on people, grow up: We all know he won’t be our next president, so what’s all the fuss about? Maybe if everyone started ignoring him he’d go away. And if he doesn’t, remember this: “Toute nation a le gouvernement qu’elle merit.” –Joseph-Marie, Comte de Maistre
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid
A SPECIALIST in tooth and gum problems whom I like a lot has declared that I am in need of a tooth-pulling, to the tune of $3,000. It seems the tooth is fine but the surrounding gums have a problem. The plan is to get rid of the tooth, then fill the resulting hole with bone from someone else (God knows who), allowing my own bone to regenerate and eventually support a screw which will, many months from now, be the base for a new, albeit fake, tooth. This all sounds horrible to me. But hey, I’m no expert, and so I agreed to embark upon this nightmare scenario scheduled to begin in three days.
The sad part is that right now I have no pain at all and starting Friday I will have plenty, requiring massive doses of painkilling drugs and ice packs and sedatives and whatever else it takes. Sounds bad, doesn’t it?
Unlike my standard procedure with everyone else who tells me anything at all, when it comes to doctors I just accept their word as gospel and go with their plan, despite the fact that my personal history has repeatedly proven that “plan” to be desperately wrong. Then yesterday, a wise friend of mine pointed out that just because the doctor involved is a great guy with a sterling personality doesn’t necessarily mean he’s right. So for the first time in my life, I’m getting a second opinion. (I hope I like it better.)
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid
EARLIER TODAY I went out to lunch with a friend from Connecticut who is here in Maine on business. We drove separately and met at the restaurant, which is located in Portland’s busy Old Port district. A little bistro tucked on a side street, it does not have a parking lot but there is plenty of on-street parking available right out front, with meters. The fee is a quarter for fifteen minutes; this comes to about two dollars if you have a long lunch, or less if you don’t.
After we each had found a parking spot, my friend expressed outrage that there was no free parking for the restaurant’s patrons. “People in Connecticut would never stand for this,” she exclaimed. “Nobody in Connecticut would ever pay for parking just to go out for lunch!”
This got me wondering several things. First, would people who live in Connecticut pay for parking to go out for dinner? Next, what are the people living there called? Connecticutites? Connecticuters? Connecticutonians? And lastly, could my friend possibly be correct? I simply don’t believe that every restaurant in the state of Connecticut that serves lunch also provides free parking for its patrons, or that all the residents of that state demand it.
If anyone knows the answers to any of these questions, please tell me. The only thing I know for sure is that most people, no matter where they live, will say just about anything, especially when they are hungry.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
I HAVE JUST STARTED reading a book by M. Scott Peck, the now-deceased author of the wildly popular bestseller, “The Road Less Traveled.” This one is entitled “People of the Lie:The Hope for Healing Human Evil.” The second part of the title worries me because I lie all the time yet I don’t think of myself as evil. Am I?
My most recent lie was to a group of six women who meet for dinner once a month. Through a chance meeting with a friendly stranger I was eventually invited to join the group, and while I had an agreeable time the first evening, after the second one I realized there was no future in it for me. These were simply not my people, and certainly not my restaurants! One hint was that never, during either evening, was I asked anything about myself by anyone. Instead the others talked about their own lives, having several things in common: two of the women are related and three share an employer. I began as an outsider and remained one. Still, they included me in their planning emails and I was on the docket for the next dinner.
I could have said I was sick that day. I could have said I was having surgery, or that my car was in the shop or my husband had a work thing or my non-existent dog died or my septic tank was overflowing or I sprained my ankle or I just plumb forgot. Better yet, I could have told the truth and said, “My feelings are hurt because I seem to matter so little to all of you. Besides, we have nothing in common, and I don’t really feel anything for any of you either.” That would have been A, guilt-tripping, and B, unkind, especially since what I wanted was an eternal escape, not their hollow (or even heartfelt) apologies and the need to come up with another excuse next time.
So I sent a group email announcing I would be going to China before the next dinner. Apparently they bought it, and with nary a question about why, or for how long, or where in China, or anything at all, instead emailing their well-wishes for a good trip, clearly substantiating my suspicion that I was a non-essential groupie to their superstar circle. End of story.
I didn’t feel guilty since nobody was hurt, and for all I know they are glad I’m gone. Still, it was a lie, and were I Pinocchio my nose would be growing as I write this. (I better read more of Peck’s book, and quick.) Anyway, just for fun, try to get through one day without lying. Be honest if anyone asks you any of the following questions:
Do I look like I’ve put on weight? Do you like my hair this color? Do I look old to you? Do you think I should have a face lift? Did you like the movie I recommended? Who do you think you will vote for? How much exercise do you get each day? What do you think of Donald Trump? What do you think of Michelle Obama? Should illegal aliens get free health care? How much TV do you watch every day? How much do you give to charity? Are you a vegetarian? Is Bruce Jenner male or female? Do you like yoga? Are you afraid of death? Are you an organ donor? Are you pro-Israeli or pro-Palestinian?
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
I SAW AN intriguing ad recently for a skin cream promising eternal youth, or at least the appearance of it. The provocative headline asked “Who Has Time for Aging?” Apparently this particular cream, when diligently applied to the face and neck, erases all wrinkles and turns back the clock, making you look like your young self again. And then you simply don’t get any older! Because it’s made in Hollywood, you know it works.
I am not buying any of that face cream, mostly because I don’t have a full-time job, or actually any job at all, so I have plenty of time for aging. In fact, without doing that, I’d have a lot of time on my hands — too much, really. But what I would buy is some of whatever those advertising executives use that gives them the chutzpah to print that stuff. Imagine the joy in believing that all your dumb ideas have value. If I had some of that, I’d promote a few of my own products. Lately I’ve been working on a special hat that allows you to stay in shape by just sitting around. If I can get it to be just a little bit smaller (see photo), I think it will fly off the shelves this Christmas.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
DON’T YOU HAVE those days when you’re just sick and tired of hearing that other people know for sure the absolute best way to do something and you’re doing it wrong? Often it turns out that they’re wrong but never in doubt, which adds to the frustration and embarrassment of it all. Almost as bad is listening to legitimate experts drone on about the one topic they have mastered. Sometimes I wish everyone would just shut up and go about their business, like animals foraging for food. You don’t see large groups of them clustered together on a smoke break, spreading misinformation and outright nonsense. Usually they work alone, and silently, like Picasso or Mark Rothko or Hemingway or James Joyce…..
I’m thinking all this because of a little book I stumbled upon last weekend in a quaint “5-and-10-cent” store selling nostalgia in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. As my husband accurately observed, the place was more like a five and ten dollar store, but alas, times have changed. Anyway, I bought a book, the kind you might leave in a guest bathroom as entertainment. Mother Knows Best: The Truth About Mom’s Well-Meaning (but not always accurate) Advice shattered the few intact remains of my youth in just 140 pages.
I certainly hope the author, Sue Castle, knows what she’s talking about since she pulled the rug out from under me on many fronts. For an investment of just $12.95, I now know that everything I was taught growing up is wrong. And although I already had a vague feeling and some concrete knowledge that much of my mother’s “teachings” were a load of well-meaning crap, still I held onto some of it like a favorite childhood teddy bear missing half his stuffing. Surely there was some truth somewhere? Come to find out: no.
Following are some of the delusions I have been living under all my life, and I’m pretty old already. You may still have time to smarten up:
1. Don’t read in dim light, you’ll ruin your eyes.
2. If you get stung by a bee once, the next time will be worse.
3. Black coffee sobers you up.
4. Put butter on a burn right away.
5. Yams and sweet potatoes are the same vegetables.
6. Feed a cold, starve a fever.
7. Don’t go out with wet hair, you’ll catch cold.
8. Don’t put plants in a sick room, they use up oxygen.
9. Don’t store food in open cans in the fridge, it will spoil.
10. If you don’t move, you won’t get stung by a bee.
11. Shaving makes your hair or beard grow back thicker.
12. Eating too much sugar gives you diabetes.
13. Brown eggs are more nutritious than white eggs.
14. If a dog’s nose is hot and dry, he’s sick.
15. Don’t have sex before a competition, it saps your energy.
16. The best way to stop a nosebleed is to tip your head back.
17. Don’t go swimming right after eating, you’ll get cramps and drown.
18. Milk is good for an ulcer.
19. You have to suck the poison out of a snake bite.
20. Brown sugar and honey are healthier than refined white sugar.
21. Fish is brain food.
I am sticking with #7, I don’t care what anyone says.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
I USED TO THINK it was all so complicated: Meditation and mantras and yoga and all that Eastern stuff. It seemed like it would require trips to India, something I refuse to do because of the long, uncomfortable flight packed inside a tiny tube high up in the sky. So I was doomed to never really “get it,” not in the same way the Beatles “got it” after they hung out with their guru in India for awhile and George went all “Hare, Hare, Krishna, Krishna” on us.
I felt stuck as an American, with cruddy American ideals and habits filled with shopping malls and advertising and TV laugh tracks and celebrities and junk food and Starbucks and all that other crap that makes us the greatest nation in the word, ha ha ha.
But then I started reading books by certain people who made it easy for me to “get it,” and after enough reading and enough practice, now I’ve “got it,” and it’s not complicated at all, not even a little. It’s all just a way to stop thinking terrible thoughts or obsessive thoughts or any thoughts and just be, breathe and accept, without judgment or expectations.
The mantra is nothing more than a word or group of words to think over and over, instead of thinking, “I might have a brain tumor, he never called me back, that woman drives me nuts, I forgot to mail that check, that guy is a total asshole, am I wasting my life, is that a new mole, I need snow tires, these pants make me look fat, am I fat, could it be cancer.” It’s much nicer and calmer to think, “Om mani padme hum,” over and over and over and over until all the bad thoughts are beaten down into a slimy pulp you can just wash down the drain in your shower.
The best part is you can do it right here in America. I love it.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
TWITTER, PINTEREST, Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook. These computer apps are often referred to as examples of “social media.” Actually, I believe that is an erroneous description, as they all lead to anti-social behavior. This can be seen in any restaurant in any city at any time of day or night, where diners across from one another sit with their heads bowed, texting or scrolling their iPhones instead of talking to the person sitting directly across from them. Eye contact among young people is quickly becoming obsolete, and with many of them considering it unnecessary or downright rude.
A recent Wall Street Journal has an article about how businesses can “learn from the stars” how to market their brands using social media, citing Kim Kardashian as someone to emulate. “Being well liked on social media can enhance a star’s career, with many celebrities openly admitting their careers have been significantly aided by the likes of Instagram,” it advises. Since joining Instagram in 2012, Ms. Kardashian, she of the no talent and huge and mostly artificial butt, has posted more than 3,180 images. I’m guessing quite a few of them were of the aforementioned butt.
I usually like to stay current to keep up with my 20-something son, but my line in the sand stops at Facebook. All those other websites seem like nonsense. And when I meet my good friend for lunch later today to celebrate her turning 60, I’m certain we will look right at one another and not at our phones. Just that fact alone makes up for all the wrinkles.
HERE IN MAINE it is snowing for the second day in a row, and I am pissed about it. All the true Mainers are ecstatic that winter has finally arrived. My neighbors glide by on their snowshoes and their skate skis, huffing and puffing in the frigid air, making me feel like the loser from Brooklyn that I truly am. But hey, I’m writing a book, so sue me — I’ve got it going on.
NOT TO BUM YOU out, but this could be the last one of my blog posts you ever read. I could die before I write the next one. Better yet, you could. With that in mind I’m trying to think of what wisdom I can share from living on Earth all these years, at least this time around. There must be something that I know that nobody else knows. There has to be, since we are each unique and have very different life experiences.
TWITTER, PINTEREST, Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook. These computer apps are often referred to as examples of “social media.” Actually, I believe that is an erroneous description, as they all lead to anti-social behavior. This can be seen in any restaurant in any city at any time of day or night, where diners across from one another sit with their heads bowed, texting or scrolling their iPhones instead of talking to the person sitting directly across from them. Eye contact among young people is quickly becoming obsolete, and with many of them considering it unnecessary or downright rude.