Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Twitterland

As of this month, Twitter.com is growing to become THE social media application. As one evangelist and devotee of Twitter land, or shall we call him, Mr. Twit, said, “It’s bringing the conversation to where people are. There is where the conversation is at.” Thus, if you want to be in the conversation, you must go there. In a year, they’ll move from there to over there but for now, they are there and we are over here. Hello, World?

In our great grandparent’s day, with those bobby sox and cheesy loafers, children were to be seen and not heard. At least today, in Twitterland, in full hipster regalia and huge salaries, we can now be there at the adult’s table and finally be heard.

And who doesn’t want to be there, in the conversation? Maybe your 75 year old uncle, in his black sweat pants and top, who spends too much time in the back of the video store perusing and selecting Adult movies.

Uncle reading video title: “’Wild Girls Gyrate to the Rhythm of Market Mayhem.’ Hmmm. I think I rented that one all ready…”

Maybe your dad, who lives far from there, while you keep calling him to be there with you in this new social conversation. You could invite your relatives over there, where you are, but there is not an interesting place for them. It’s here where he and your uncle want to be. At their current moment, they’re interested in why you’re interested in being over there instead over here...

(in a heavy New York Brooklyn accent) "Must you check your Twitter account whenever we’re here?” my uncle asks eating his lox and cream cheese bagel slowly.

My dad: “if you want to be here, with us, do we need to make an appointment to meet you there? Shall we Tweet you instead?”

Twitter invites us into their conversation. There, among like-minded Twits, we type our 140 character bursts, each containing important social conversation, that’s supposed to fire our imagination….

Tweet: “What’s up? Taking a poo. Gotta go!”
Tweet back: Bought some t.p. at Ralphs. So expensive!
Tweet: Obama will need lots of it to clean up this health care mess! ;)
Tweet back: http://www.doubleplytoiletpaperforhealthcare.com/. Interesting, accurate, non-partisan paper from Charmin, Inc on how to wipe this healthcare mess from forward to back without the helping hands of constipated republicans.
Tweet: I just blew it up, man. Ba-bam, ba-bomb! Guy in stall next to me…poor choking slob… could use some double ply paper action. Only one wipe, my friend?

Our Twitter conversations have really moved from the kiddy’s table since our great grandfather’s time. Until then, I’ll see you there!!

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Swimming with the fishes...

This is not about poo. It’s not about vomit. Or the feeling you have when you scrap off the road kill from your car tires; it could be the same, if you read on. It’s about bugs. Big, ugly creatures created to give us the feeling and justification that we are the superior beings in the food chain on this planet! Bugs are the kind of vermin you secretly fear will find a home in your shoes or hidden under your blankets when you jump into bed to sleep off the wine you drank too much during dinner.

Last night I took the bus home. As usual, it was crowded and congested with smells and odors that stick to your clothes. Whenever I get home, I change out of my military wear of jeans and dress shirt, immediately. Sometimes I notice the “Bus Butt,” that waif of odor that clings to your cotton denim jeans which a good wash eliminates.

One time I saw a bug on the Big Blue Bus. It happens. It’s a jungle in there. People droppings and such. Another time, on the Chicken Bus, in Guatemala, a couple brought their hen on board and placed it above them in the open luggage compartment, feet tied. Later, during a particular thorny section of road, the hen crowed or whatever they do, and a steady stream of urine bounced off the farmer’s straw hat.

After a nice dinner last night, we sat on the couch in our civilian wear of pajamas and tee shirts. The sun had already set. As the night became cooler, the fan in the living room spewed forth a nice cool breeze of West Los Angeles air; not too smoggy. Watching Season Five of the Sopranos, I got distracted by something crawling on the floor. It was a gigantic grass hopper! It was huge! I was excited. I haven’t seen one since I lived in Long Island, with a real back yard and sand pile. There were always cool bugs there. Like a Tony Soprano dream sequence when he realizes that his best friend was flipped by the FBI, I realized too, that the bug’s body shape was completely wrong and I saw the ugly truth unfold before me as he ran. It was a cock roach.

What happened next was from any Sopranos’ episode, take your pick. We both jumped up and like a gang initiation gone bad, beat it up with our slippers and shoes. I gave it a few more whacks, Soprano style. I guess we went crazy. Blood and guts oozed forth as it tried to limp away. We pinned him down and shouted at him with our obligatory New Jersey-ian Italian accented profanity: get the F!#@$!# out of here, or you’re dead! I guess we missed the Sopranos episode where the guy actually is allowed to walk away; not this roach. He dead. He is swimming with the fishes.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Pregnancy and social mores

“I see pregnant women,” I told my girl friend. Young, twenty somethings, bellies full, ankles swollen and bladders working over time. They walk to and from the rest room, by my office, sometimes their skin is sullen and other times a pinkish glow. Recently, I counted six co-workers gimping along ready to burst forth their little bean out of the watery warm womb of blood, protein and that alien-like viscous birth fluid. I think about the baby’s world, floating on their placenta Lazy Boy, remote in hand. Every day is Sunday football…I can remember it well. Maybe all baby’s know what that familiar banging sound they hear when mommy and daddy are getting busy? Maybe their hearts race a little fast too when mommy is upset because daddy doesn’t want mommy to breast feed their son?

These women are in their prime birth years. Their careers are on a path, they’ve met "the man of their dreams" and now they are ready. At this age they are really just baby machines: progenitors of the next generation out of some biological selfish drive, burdening society with their off spring, some of which will maim and others which will do good. When couples copulate, they don’t think about it. This world of ignorant ideologues, barbaric practices and arrogant war mongers. But…children are beautiful, even little Adolf Schicklgruber was cute. His mom loved him too.

Never ask women if they’re pregnant.

Some recently gained a lot of weight. Others, whose pregnant bellies protruding forth, may elect not to keep it or carry with them, a familial history of false, as in “oops,” starts or rotten genetic finishes. Jesus. The formalities we carry out just to keep the outer appearances propped up and alive.

A while ago I noticed a co-worker’s sparse collection of manicured and pedicured carrot and celery sticks had multiplied, along with her weight. In breaking a social more, I asked:

“Are you pregnant?” Instead, of an answer, I got a blank, stoic stare. And later, in falsetto like indignation, I overheard her telling her co-workers of my social faux pas.

“I can’t believe he asked me that!” she said incredulously, rubbing her stomach.

“He’s so insensitive,” another quipped.

“Did you pick out a name yet?” the third chirped in.

About two and a half months later, she finally told everyone. We all feigned surprise! “Really, you’re pregnant? Wow,” they said in a high pitched voice with a wide-open mouth and expression-filled eyes. Except me, I sat darkly in my corner cubicle, because, (in one of those big, polished radio announcer voices): I am the EVIL ONE.

After she left to delivery her healthy daughter from the warm clutches of the baby remote and placenta lazy boy, I covered her desk. She was breast feeding and eating carrot sticks while I did the work of two people. And, did the kid thank me? No. Did my co-worker forgive me for my awkward question? No, probably not. Now…How are we supposed to ignore the “elephant in the room?”

In case you have a pregnant co-worker or someone you know has some sort of physical ailment that you can’t talk about, you can practice this politically correct moment when they reveal to everyone, when it’s safe and okay to do so, their very obvious condition:

Step One. Please feign surprise. It helps to say “really.”

Step Two. Use a high pitched voice, with a wide-open mouth and eyes filled with wonder and amazement when receiving the news, and lastly;

Step three: Say: “This blog piece is over?”

Fake nails

Ever since I’ve been living with my gf, I’ve been eating yogurt ice cream once a week. It’s good! Never before would I venture into those yogurt shops that, during the 1980’s in Los Angeles, were in business like crack dealers on every corner. The new dealers on the block are: Pinkberry, Yoku Yoku, Penguins, Red Mango, TCBY, Frugos and the like. They are here again with new flavors, pretty furniture and “healthier” toppings.


Last night me and my gf shared a chocolate and a French vanilla yogurt topped with mango. As in most franchises, they hire young high school kids. This one had long, curved fake nails painted with black and white spotted dots, the kind of Rorschach pattern you see on the cows from Ben and Jerry’s ice cream pints. Imagine her trying to squeeze a zit or pick up a glass of water with those?

In between spoons of the low fat substance, my gf said that fake nails are not good for food service positions especially in the kitchen. They limit your ability to handle a knife or hold plates. While I pondered this and the fat / sugar content of our medium sized yogurt--and wondered if I should be eating ice cream instead--the high school kid dropped a glass on the floor. You could hear the sharp pieces of glass bouncing off the off-white tile. She was right.

Long, fake nails are only practical for swinging down a pole in Vegas and or giving a BJ in a porno.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The weighing of compliments

The other day, a co-worker named E, a fellow writer and a brother of the grape, said I had writing talent. Coming from a professional screen writer and producer, someone who has produced a film, written over a dozen screen plays, was a really nice thing to hear. I said thanks. This compliment made me reflect on how society and I, receive and give these poo tokens of appreciation. Both Yanne and Kelly have given me compliments about some of my posts here. (Thank you guys, again. I press my hands in front of me, humbled like the Buddha himself, to form a prayer of thanks). So, what's the poo about? Aren't all compliments good, Palmer?

In our society, they are given--few and far between-- like the number of life preservers available to passengers on a sinking boat. So, in general, I am somewhat suspicious when I receive them and probably they're received with the same sort of incredulous blankness when I give them.

Can’t we just relax?

When compliments are given from people who are held in high regard in an area of expertise, then they're "true" compliments. Like Jimi Hendrix telling Eric Clapton he plays well. Like Bob Marley telling Tommy Chong that his stash went up in smoke. Do you notice the implicit hierarchies?

When they come from mere acquaintances, like your dorky co-worker, you know, the guy who microwaves left over fish every day, they are received as brown-nosing, noise or flirting. I think our culture trains us to be suspicious of compliments. Maybe it’s from our pilgrim origins of self-reliance and independence and our Max Weber-ian Protestant Work Ethic which we self-deprecate when faced with a public display of complimentary poo. I have no idea what the hell that means, but WTF. Besides, our ears, are highly tune to bull shit--because our society generates so much of it—and this critical filter is so sensitive that even, non-agenda, heartfelt and genuine compliments are wiped away like poo on paper.

I think you can never take a compliment from coworkers. There are always hidden agendas. Especially those who occupy a lateral payroll title like you, in the corporate hierarchy. Their compliments always come off as disingenuous especially if you don’t like them. If the person telling you was a hot chick, then it would be flirtatious. If the person talking to you said your talk with the Dean was thoughtful, then he or she is seeking more information from you. With compliments, it is always better to receive them from your boss—someone above you in the corporate tree—it doesn’t work the other way.

Compliments from friends and significant others, however, and unfortunately, cannot be as highly valued as the disinterested employer simply because, in our culture, they are from people who have an emotional bond and will have a hard time being objective. Name me one employer who would take a letter of reference from your mom? Of course we love compliments from our friends and loved ones. But we don’t have the same vestment as we seek from our peers.

Strangers and those who know your work ethic have no emotional commitment or attachment and offer the most accurate compliments. These are the people who are supposed to know the bottom line of your strengths and weaknesses and reward you accordingly. As a society we are really jaded about compliments. Would the building custodian really know about that Excel spreadsheet you created which was used in the final quarterly report?

When you're a super star bball player, for example, people love you and your talents, so compliments fly like poo from the proverbial fan. After hearing them a lot, they lose meaning. But in the hierarchy of life, a compliment coming from Michael Jordan, a hall of famer, as opposed to that spasmodic dude you see on the bball court, carries more weight and credence.

So thank you all for the compliments. They are not poo to me.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Electronic foot prints

People in this city are afraid of each other but not of leaving their electronic foot prints. Last night, after class, dressed in my $100 black leather hipster boots, wearing my $20 Ross blue jeans and a preppy, $12 Docker checkered dress shirt, I walked casually across the campus reveling in the feeling of being a student in a classroom again. Thinking about my home work assignment for next week and carrying a nike back pack, my contstant companion for the last 30,000 miles, the campus was peaceful, empty and beautiful.

As I waited at the bus stop near the campus bookstore, the darkness and shadow played upon us. Each person became suspect-- our senses heightened, pupils dilating-- preparing for an attack. Even though my body position at the bus stop bench was not in anyone’s direct path, it did not make others at ease. Students in dyads, walking by, talking loudly, or the solo ones yapping cheerfully like chip monks on their cells, shot hesitant glances sideways, a familiar neurological flare of self-preservation. The kid who rode up on his bicycle, talking to himself, singing—and both, shot his kickstand down, reached into his pocket to pull out a cig to smoke before the bus ride home. His hooligan features were suspect: dressed in the style of now of low slung jeans, an urban shoulder gait of tough-like posturing and tattoo arms hiding beneath his extra large, blue hoodie. Perhaps, people should be scared living in L.A.

Almost every male in Los Angeles, is a potential victimizer, fueled by a conscious-- and perhaps driven by—a subconscious rage. Where does this anger come from? We are constantly bullied by the media with their incessant barrage showing us the inequities between the rich and famous and the rest of us, helping to create a victim-like passive persona. We hurt but we show up smiling at the podium anyway. We hide in our cars behind air bags but have road rage. We hide in the open listening to our mp3 players, watching videos drowning out the cell phone conversations around us. We ignore others, even in the same room. Our physical reaction to all of this: become harden, untrusting, suspicious and discontent. We want money, attention and sometimes fame. The media, acting indignant, shows us how we lack these things others have and we wonder why we feel this constant ire. The media are the dope dealers of our world but we hide in our electronic foot prints.

As a society we don’t think about this being an issue. We are inculcated already; it all is normal. Our heightened senses when self-preservation is threatened are a natural reaction to the repetitions of fear. Once you have lived in another city or country where crime rates are low, you may realize that the life you had led has prevented you in becoming more human and vulnerable. Here, in the big digital lie, we avoid others while an electronic community surrounds us in its computer fan generated growth. People we interact with are now invisible and when an analog exchange between flesh and bone occurs , we act surprised or even afraid. Paradoxically, our internet lives are rich and dynamic.

Today, we lead public lives on private networks, often disclosing personal and intimate information, but this comfortable feeling navigating and communicating online with friends and others, is a façade. The electronic foot prints you leave behind follow you forever and our natural self preservation from attack is canceled. But your identity can be stolen, your personal preferences noted and your life tracked. Your acquaintances scorned by your privacy settings on your Face Book “wall.” The friendships networked and forged online are steeped in deception and hidden agendas. We want to be popular and cool so we compete for being first with new information. We create new things so that we defend against obsolescence. We get in touch with old friends only to re-vive the scars that didn’t heal. We use our electronic foot prints to cover, track and over-compensate from our past wrongs done to others. An electronic band aid, anyone?

After the excitement of reuniting fades, your feelings of insecurity come forward; comparing their achievements with yours—soon this curiosity and connection to him or her is dropped or blocked by a filter activated by you. The 3,000 relationships in your electronic footprint are not trust worthy: only the “s” on the end of “http” is, just maybe, for a while.