Still Stupid About Smart Phones II

Until not that very long ago, I was still stupid about smart phones. 

It's not that I'm a Luddite or otherwise particularly behind the times, it's just that I was waiting until we had cars that drive themselves before I got myself a phone that did anything more than ring up Ol’ Doc Johnson because Little Timmy was sick and Lassie was missing. 

But with the advent of cars so advanced that not only can they drive themselves they can also stop and ask directions and then get the directions screwed up, it was time for me to step up to a stepped-up phone.

It was time for iPhone for mePhone.

But I swore that in so doing I would not fall prey to the custom most foul practiced by smart phone owners around the world.  I would not spend the rest of my life with my head tilted downward, my eyes riveted upon the phone, and my psyche oblivious to the rest of the Milky Way around me.

For one thing, it's rude. These days you can meet someone on the street, talk for five minutes, and not even know who you were talking to. You may not even know whether the person was wearing pants.  And even worse, it isn't safe. With eyes locked onto the screen 24/7 you risk all kinds of mishaps from bumping into one another (especially unpleasant if neither of you are wearing pants), to walking down an open manhole, to striding into the Pacific Ocean until you trip over the International Date Line.

So when I got my iPhone, I took it in hand and walked proudly forward out of the Verizon store, my head held high, my eyes gazing straight ahead, and my life firmly rooted in reality. 

How did I manage to do this?

Simple.  I'm a loser who doesn't get any e-mails or texts.

I'm not in business anymore so there's no e-mails from bosses, co-workers, or anyone who wants me to do anything more than get out of bed occasionally. My circle of acquaintances and friends having shrunk like a linen jacket in the dryer, I get texts from Verizon about my overdue bill, friends who think they might have left gloves at my house six months ago, and elderly Uncle Ted who is experimenting with texting and didn't mean to text me, which is okay because I don't have an Uncle Ted.

And as I walk around fully perceiving and totally in touch with my environment, all around me are the cool people enmeshed into their smart phones, studying their screens as though they are little slot machines constantly coming up with three cherries.  

Me, I don't even get one pit.  

Where are all the Nigerian princes when you need them?

So it’s time to beef up my social networking life.  Subscribe to some interesting blogs like A Presbyterian’s View of Tooth Decay, Gardening in Greenland, and Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Gherkins. And political sites Sensible Gun Regulation Now!, Save the Earth Now!, Screw Wayne LaPierre Now!, Save the Earth While Screwing Wayne LaPierre Now!, and Wayne LaPierre and Gherkins: Screw Them Both ... Now!”

That’s it.  Getting there.

And subscribe to internet journalism in the form of esteemed sites like TruthRipper, FactForker, and BuzzKill, as well as the dating site JuicyJews.com.  And subscribe to The Ballsy Boomer about aging in place, that place being a strip joint near Schwenksville PA.  And start sending out texts to folks I barely know, including Uncle Ted whom I probably know better than all the rest of them.

And now with head held low and eyes straight downward, I daily risk mortal injury in the form of walking into a revolving door and going around forever in four neatly sectioned pieces.

Now I’m just like everyone else.

So, looks like I'm still stupid about smart phones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Sandwich Generation

They are called the Sandwich Generation and it's not difficult to see why. They are caught in a whipsaw between two generations, the one directly above them and the one directly below.

The Sandwich Generation consists of Baby Boomers and some folks a bit younger who have to take care of both their pre-college age children and aging parents. And it is a daunting responsibility because both generations eat lots of sandwiches, and you're the one who has to make them!

For the kids, you're pumping out family favorites like PBJs, BLTs, tuna fish, ham and cheese, and Nutella slathered on Wonder Bread at such speed and intensity you could almost fill up Chris Christie on a day that Donald Trump forgets to feed him.

Meanwhile the aging parent is upstairs clamoring for a corned beef on rye. While busily shifting gears from young Arthur's BLT you accidentally schmear mayo on the corned beef. If your parent is over 80 and Jewish, it may well be a near cataclysmic event.

Fortunately, support groups have sprung up throughout the country where you can share your worries and frustrations in a safe supportive environment and hopefully scope out tips on where to pick up day-old kaiser rolls and how to cut the crust off a tea sandwich without cutting off your fingers.

Ultimately there is hope for the Sandwich Generation.  In time the kids will leave home and the parents will take off for greener pastures (i.e. they'll be dead) and there will be no more sandwiches to make except those you want to eat yourself.

Then before you know it, you'll be on the tail end of the next Sandwich Generation with your kids frantically pushing out pbj's and turkey clubs to their unruly kids and garrulous old you.

And you'll be wishing like hell you were back in the middle of this Sandwich Generation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blackberry Ringing (FF)

FF- Friday Fictioneers

copyright - Roger Bultot

Blackberry Ringing

(to the tune of Blackbird) 

Blackberry ringing in the dead of night.
Take these smokin’ things, watch e-mails fly!

All your life.
You are always waiting for an e-mail to arrive.

Blackberry ringing in the dead of night.
Not hard to theorize, it’s plain to see.

All your life.
Forever you’ll be waiting for a moment to be free. 

Blackberry fine! Blackberry mine!
Ringing all night through the dark black night.

Blackberry fine! Blackberry mine!
Ringing all night ‘til the broad daylight.

Blackberry ringing in the dead of night.
Take these smokin’ things and e-mails fly!

All your life.
You are only sated when an e-mail does arrive. 
With this gadget you are mated in an e-mail paradise. 

You are always waiting for an e-mail to arrive. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

I realize that "Blackerry Ringing" is a bit dated these days,  but iPhone ringing simply doesn't cut it.  Anyway, I always wondered what would have happened were the always ahead-of-their-time Beatles ever to have come face to face with modern technology and social media. 

This is one example; there's a couple more from the very early days of this blog in Meet the Beatles, Mr. Zuckerberg. Perhaps you have a few more ideas? In the meanwhile here are the ideas of the many other Friday Fictioneers regarding the picture prompt above.

Maybe I'll do a few more of these when I'm 64.  Ooops, already missed that!

Be HIM!

Be HIM!

As of April 25th of this year, my son Brandon is 21 years old. I'm proud that he is turning into a happy, healthy, and intelligent young man with a wide variety of interests and a well-adjusted and positive outlook on life and the future.

Just one thing.

Why can't he still be eleven?!

Though I do miss the days gone by, as a hardcore realist I must accept the fact that children grow up and move on and that life is a constantly changing enterprise. Also I must accept the fact that I don’t for a minute believe that nonsense I just wrote in the last sentence.

“Happy Birthday, Brandon!” I said via Facetime on the special day.

“Thanks, Dad,” Brandon replied.  “I was just on my way out.”

“Bet I know what you’re going,” I said with a knowing grin.  “Now that you’re 21 years old, you’re headed out to try drinking alcohol for the first time.”

“Umm … yeah … yeah, Dad.  That’s exactly it.”

“I knew it! I was just the same way when I turned 16 … I mean, turned 21!”

“Sorry I can’t talk longer, Dad. I’ve got some people waiting for me.”

“Sure, sure, go be with your little friends. But let me make a suggestion: Start your drinking experiences with something simple and basic, like the drink they call beer.  Do you want me to spell it for you?”

“Is it b-i-e-r, Dad?”

“No, it’s not,” I laughed.  “I’ll text you the proper spelling.  In six months or so we’ll step up to vodka. That’s spelled v-o-d…”

“Thanks, Dad.  I’ll look forward to it. Gotta go!”

“One more thing, Bran.  Though it's over a year away, I’d like to talk to you about where you’re going to live when college is over.”

“Oh, I don’t know yet.  I’ll have a job of some kind and a place of my own, I guess.”

“That’s just it.  A place of your own is very expensive. I know of a place that’s very inexpensive.  In fact, it’s free.”

“What kind of a place is free?”

“Our basement!  And utilities are included too.”

“Dad, a basement is a last resort if a kid doesn’t have a job.”

“Well, I’m going to encourage you to think of it as your first resort! With pool table, vintage TV that works if you kick it, and close proximity to a laundromat that doesn’t require coinage.”

"Well, Dad, we’ll see."

"Okay. I'll throw in a Jacuzzi. I'll call the contractor right now.”

“I hope he shows up before I'm married with children.”

“One more thing, Bran.  I’m looking at a picture of you when you were about 5, the one where you’re sitting in the green chair. Here I’ll show it to you.”

“Sure, I remember that one. So?”

"Be HIM!"

"Excuse me?"

"Be HIM!  The Brandon in the picture."  

"Oh, I see.  You asked me that once before."

"Be HIM again! I miss him." 

“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t think I can actually become him again." 

“I didn’t really think you could. No harm asking."  

"Talk to you soon, Dad.”

"Yep. Enjoy the bier!”

My son Brandon is now 21 years old. I must accept the fact that children grow up and move on and life is a constantly changing enterprise.

And frankly, it’s enough to drive me to drink!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you liked this post, you may also like Bedtime Story,  Why Can't He Be Seven?, and Brandon Block IS The Graduate.

If you hated this post, I hope whenever you order a beer they always serve you bier!

Just What the Doctor Didn't Order

It's often been said that Pennsylvania is actually two states, not one. These two states are:

1) Philadelphia, and

2) All the rest of Pennsylvania that ain't Philadelphia.

For the most part, Philadelphia views all the rest of Pennsylvania that ain't Philadelphia as composed of hayseeds in romantic love with the Second Amendment, and all the rest of Pennsylvania that ain't Philadelphia views Philadelphia as the world's foremost hotbed of sin, wickedness, and depravity.

Notwithstanding the failure of Philadelphia to live anywhere near up to its reputation when it comes to me, however, it seems that the world’s foremost hotbed of sin, wickedness, and depravity is poised to score a major victory over the rest of Pennsylvania. That is, over the rest of Pennsylvania that ain't it.

The legalization of Medical Marijuana is today being seriously considered in the state. Both of them!

Now my dope smoking days are rather solidly in the rear view mirror, but this bit of news coupled with the various aches, pains, and coronaries of modern Boomer life got me to thinking that it might not be half bad if certain objects in the rear view mirror turned out to be closer than they seem.

So I called my family doctor.

"Dr. Kropotkin!  I can't believe I got you on the phone."

"Well, you know I'm very busy. Who is this?"

"This is your longstanding patient, Perry Block."

"OMG, I’m really, really busy, gotta go!"

"You know, Dr. Kropotkin, sometimes I wonder if you actually are that busy or if it's me."

"Mostly it's you.  You have 30 seconds."

"Doctor, I understand medical marijuana may be coming to Pennsylvania soon."

"So they say.  Twenty-five seconds left."

"Well, I want to get on your radar for some dope --- I mean medical marijuana --- when the time comes."

"Perry, I can't prescribe medical marijuana for no reason at all."

"No reason at all?!! I'm a virtual walking ER of symptoms!"

"Such as?"

"My scoliosis.  You know my spine is shaped like the piping under your kitchen sink."

"Perry, medical marijuana is not going to straighten your spine."

"I know, but the more I sit around contemplating the universe the less likely I am to care about it." 

"Twenty seconds."  

"Don't forget I have vitiligo.  I have white patches all over my skin!"  

"Perry, your dermatologist Dr. Joy Davis has advised me your case of vitiligo is not that bad."

"Not that bad?  Cruella de Vil has been stalking me for my coat!"

"Fifteen seconds."

"Eye floaters."

"Everybody has eye floaters."

"Mine are the size of a Buick."

"Buicks are fashionable now.  Look, over there, that guy getting out of one outside the nightclub: that's not your grandpa!  Ten seconds."

"Very painful corns, Dr. Kropotkin."

"Go to the foot doctor and get them cut off."

"I'll never make it. You have to walk across a former Civil War battlefield to get to her office."

"Five seconds, and I'm free."

"Aren't you forgetting something very important, doctor?"

"For the sake of the medical profession, I hope not."

"My psychological problems:  Rampant insecurity, aging angst, and my desire to return to the womb provided they put in a wet bar."

"Oh, crap!  Okay, how many ounces do you need and what flavor do you prefer?"

"I'll leave that up to your professional judgment.  And oh, Dr. Kropotkin? 

"Yes?"

"Could you also write me a script for a very nice bong and a psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you liked this post, you may also like Rocky Mountain High, Why Do You Think They Call It Dope?, and It’s Always Smokey in Philadelphia.

If you hated this post, I hope your doctor writes you a script for Medical Marijuana and it turns out to be oregano!

The Intellectual Mommy Blogger

Kant, Hegel, & A Half-Eaten Bagel 

A journey of moral and philosophical growth within a nuclear family while facing life's complexities often in a droll manner

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meet the Blogger:

I am Katharine Manheim, a highly educated and erudite female parent of two gifted and inquisitive offspring as well as an educator at a highly selective New England college. Often in exclusive custodial status of the said offspring, frequently occasioning travail yet concurrent merriment.

I am referred to by the rather pedestrian term of "mommy blogger."

Meet the Nuclear Family:

Courtland Manheim - Observing the argot of the Internet I will refer to Courtland as the "hubs. A cunning linguist with more degrees than a thermometer, the hubs has translated hundreds of books into a massive variety of highly diverse and  vibrant languages, most recently Finnegan's Wake into pig Latin.

Roget Manheim - Mega-gifted 12 year old male whose scholastic trajectory is pointed towards Harvard University unless somebody invents a school of higher academic merit prior to his entrance therein.  Roget's hobbies include quantum mechanics, 14^th century agrarian reform, and rampant masturbation.

Luna Manheim - Prodigious 16 year old prodigy of musicality, Luna plays to excellence virtually every musical instrument known to humankind except the Vuvuzela.  Also the discoverer of penicillin.

Charlemagne - Inimitable four legged reservoir of canine cavorting and carryings-on.

Today's Post: Dinner with Noam Chomsky

It all transpired little more than a fortnight ago.

I had returned home having completed my Friday morning lecture on “Great Russian Authors who Liked Golf,” my pressing agenda featured preparation of a very special meal for a very special guest.

"Mom!" ejaculated Roget, "is it true that Uncle Noam is coming to dinner tonight?" 

"Indeed he is," I replied, to which Roget quipped with great glee, "Superb, I'm always eager to Chomp-Chomp with Chomsky!"

Oh, what a sassy lad!

I must remember that witticism myself.

“But what will be on the bill of fare?” inquired Luna.

“That will be determined in totality by your father,” I counseled her “who will select and transport home the evening’s victuals.”

Just then the strains of Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings gently serenaded our sensibilities, and I reached over to sate the soft yet insistent urgings of my intelligent phone. 

"Katherine," bespoke the hubs, "to my infinite regret I will not be able to join our evening's festivities. I am translating the Dead Sea Scrolls into Gangsta and I probably won’t be finished until at least 10:00 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, 7:00 P.M. West Coast Time."

Holy Mother of Einstein! So much to do, so little expanse of that most precious commodity called time in which to achieve it!

"I must away for Whole Foods on the wings of Hermes!"

Swiftly arriving at Whole Foods I perused the aisles designated "Pretentious," "Highly Pretentious," and "Georges, before the guests arrive, please leave the tome on Masterpieces of the Metropolitan Museum of Art open to page 247."  

I departed Whole Foods with the necessary organic kale, organic kiwi, organic Dublin Cheddar, and organic Hot Pockets to complete preparation for the upcoming victuals.

Returning home, my oral cavity flung open!

"Roget, do not permit Charlemagne to make amorous advances towards the sofa!

Oh my, what is a family matriarch to do?

With the three of us working at full dispatch, the dinner was itself dispatched and fully prepared for the appointed hour. Just as the frenetically paced preparation reached its climax, there was a familiar and highly progressive knock at the door.

"It's Uncle Noam!" cried both offspring in non-melodious unison. 

I opened the door and standing before me was the family's favorite philosopher, cognitive scientist, historian, logician, social critic, and political activist, but only our second favorite linguist.

"Hiya, Katharine.  How're they hanging?"

"Hello, Noam.  It's been a long time since we've been arrested together."

The kids excitedly gathered around Noam, begging him semi-churlishly for presents and treats and vigorously critiquing his views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict when through the door strode the hubs.

“I thought you were embroiled in translation of the concluding book of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” I opined.

“Progressed far more speedily than I anticipated,” reflected the hubs, “the translation consisting primarily of four letter words. Besides I’m always eager to Chomp-Chomp with Chomsky!"

What a sassy hubs! I must remember that witticism myself. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Champion Sax And A Girl Named Sandra

Champion Sax and a Girl Named ... 

What the hell does that mean anyway?

"Just what are you doing on Facebook?" I asked Sandra, the woman I'd been seeing for the last several weeks.

"Same as everybody else.  Irrevocably wasting up to one-third of my remaining life span."

"That's not what I mean," I said.  "Why are you using a current picture of yourself on your Facebook page?  You're a Boomer, just like me. Even the best of us peaked over 20 years ago."

"Oh, so you're saying I should be like you, using a picture that's so old it's approaching puberty?  Don't I look okay just like this?"

"I think you look great. But why not bamboozle the virtual world into thinking you look even greater?”

"Okay, if you want I'll post a younger picture of myself. But, Perry, you're too focused on appearance. You have other fine attributes more important than appearance."

"What are they?"

"Can I get back to you on that?"

As Sandra went to get a picture of her younger self, I called after her.

"I've been wondering: why doesn't anyone call you Sandy?"

"They used to, but then back in college people started calling me Champion Sax and a Girl Named Sandy."

"That's adorable!"

"Not if you hate the Doors," she said, returning to the room. “Anyway, here's the picture." 

I looked, blinked, and gasped.  And gasped again.

"Why you ... you ... look like ...  Scarlett Johansson! You look like … Mila Kunis!  You look like …. the child of Scarlett Johansson and Mila Kunis should there be such a thing!”

"Well, thanks, I guess back in the day, people said ...”

"I don't think you should post this picture."

"Why?"

“Because there's a lot of perverts out there!  A lot of guys with thick dandruff and coke bottle glasses named Kitchell who'll be salivating over you while building full-size models of the Starship Enterprise in their parents' basements!”

"So I'll block them, no problem."

"And there's lots of radical groups and terrorists, some of which may try to recruit you!”

“You don’t think I know enough to avoid terrorists?”

’’What if they’re giving double coupons?  And there’s cool guys of Boomer age with full heads of thick gray hair who may be charming and accomplished and interested in you!”

"Well, that doesn't sound bad."

"Doesn't sound bad?!  Post this picture and before long you're engaged to some good-looking Boomer who turns out to be an unrepentant Doors Fan who listens to the Soft Parade while he dresses up like Robby Krieger!"

"First you say ‘post it,’ then you say ‘don't post it.’"

“Let's just say I’ve evolved on the issue. Like Republican presidential candidates do."

"Okay ... okay ... I won't post it."

"Good!  Now how about we go out for coffee?”

"Sure.”

"Oh, one more thing?"

"Yes."

"Can I have the picture?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Seed Money Street

Hi, I'm Elmo. 

How's Your Portfolio, Children of Privilege?

As PBS fans and many others already know, Sesame Street is moving. No, they're not uprooting the whole street to a new urban address, but rather moving the land breaking television show from PBS to a new home on premium cable channel HBO.

Children  whose parents can't afford HBO will still get to see Sesame Street on PBS but will see it a full nine months later than it airs on HBO, by which time they may be too old for it. It's just another example of the widening chasm between haves and have nots in America, which we may all fall into one day if we're not careful.

Here, kids, let's enjoy today's episode of the new Sesame Street:

Sunny Day

Sweepin' the Riff Raff Away 

On My Way to Where the Money is Green,

Won't you Tell Me How to Get, How to Get To

Seed Money Street!

"Hi, Boys and Girls of Privilege!  I'm Bert of the new Seed Money Street.  We'll be stopping by the country club for a round of golf a bit later--- can you spell golf, that's G ...O ...L ...EFFF! --- and visiting Kermit at his new job as a hedge fund manager on Wall Street, but first up let's say hello to my bestie and squash partner, Ernie!"

"Thanks, Bert.  Underprivileged Kids, today we'll be talking about vocational schools. And .... look who's here, it's 83 year old Bob McGrath!"

"Bert, I can't believe I've been relegated to the nine months later part of the show!"

"Bob, at your age in the media you're lucky not to be relegated to a movie starring Adam Sandler! Now a bit later, Underprivileged Kids, Bob is going to take all you on a tour of Shop Class. Why, here's the Count!"

"I am the Count. Being this is HBO, watch me count boobies!  One boob, two boobs, that makes one set of boobs! Hah, I'm getting the hang of HBO, Boys and Girls of Privilege:  two tits, four tits, two sets of titties! It's not porn, it's HBO." 

"Thanks, Count.  I'm Elmo.  You can tickle me but only if you're taking me out to an expensive dinner at 21 first. Look, here comes Big Bird!"

"Hi, Elmo.  Gotta run, Mr. Donald is chasing me!"

"And here's Mr. Donald.  Nice hair! Why are you chasing Big Bird?"

"I want to deport the son of a bitch!"

"Why?"

"We shouldn't let any big yellow birds into this country. Ever see the movie The Birds, Elmo?"

"Thanks, Mr. Donald.  Now let's say hello to Croissant Monster ...."

"Me want croissant!"

".... and Oscar the Grouch!"

"Goddamn welfare cheats!"

"And that's our Seed Money Street for today, Children of Privilege, brought to you by the letter E for Elite and the number one billion for the amount of money you should have when you're a grownup."

"And for you Underprivileged Kids, brought to you by the letter S for Schlepper and the number Zero.  Goodbye, boys and girls! I'm gonna go get me a look at the market now, it's been really off lately."

 Sunny Day

Sweepin' the Riff Raff Away ...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Museum of the Electronic Mouse (FF)

© Marie Gail Stratford

Willard Cornwallis had always wanted to open a museum and be a millionaire, and he thought he could accomplish both by opening The Museum of the Electronic Mouse.

The new museum had wired mouses, wireless mouses, and a mouse that said "Made in China." There was a mouse that had been used by Gates (David Gates, the lead singer of Bread), one used by Steve Jobs (a small employment agency in Akron), and a fanciful mouse operated by Blue Stripe Guy, a Batman villain who never quite got to tangle with Batman because his mommy called him in for dinner.

In June, Willard Cornwallis opened his museum and by August he was indeed a millionaire many times over. 

The crowds that thronged to The Museum of the Electronic Mouse did not come to see the exhibits. They came to see what kind of an idiot would think he could become a millionaire with a museum like The Museum of the Electronic Mouse.

~~~~~~~~~

If you're a stickler for the 100 word requirement of the Friday Fictioneers (and fortunately Rochelle is not), I hope you didn't read the above piece. This story is so far over the limit, even I want to force feed me my mouse for writing it.

But I didn't want to give short shrift to an enterprising dude like Willard Cornwallis, so I present his story here in 200 words or less (I hope).  You can read the enterprising and certainly more length-appropriate stories of the other Fictioneers by clicking here.

See you at The Museum of the Electronic Mouse! Can't to see that "Made in China" wonder. 

(Sorry, still mostly missing in action for reading your stories.  Please don't write anything great until I come back ....)

The Chamber and the Unit (FF)

Copyright Claire Fuller

The Pressure had spiked out of control!

Poor Barley Lumpkin, responsible for keeping proper pressure in the chamber, had fouled up.  It was his first day on the job and running from latch to latch had been too much for him.

"What have you done?"  screamed Manager Cromwell.  Barley felt terrible but he helped Cromwell stabilize the pressure and remove the unit from the chamber. "Whatever this has done to the unit,” said Cromwell, “we'll have to go with it.” And soon the unit was placed on Donald Trump's head.

This proved the beginning of the end for Mr. Trump.  His neatly groomed hair, parted at the side, robbed him of much of his charisma. Soon the rest of the novelty wore off as well.

And Barley Lumpkin --- both to Democrats and Republicans alike --- became a hero.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah, it's almost 140 words.  So it took me a couple of extra words to knock off Donald Trump.  Wasn't it worth it?

The other Friday Fictioneers have no doubt knocked off a thing or two themselves, and you can follow follow their exploits relative to the picture prompt above by clicking on the heroic name of Barley Lumpkin right here.

Maybe Barley Lumpkin can maintain the chamber that contains Mr. Trump's sensitivity next.