Emoti...con.

So, I was writing a facebook post yesterday and I realized that it was long enough to consider it as a blog post. Desperate as I am these days for content, I put it in the pocket of my Monday pants and pulled it out today.

I was thinking about then & now, and how I couldn't fathom then, being the lengthy letter crafter I was, writing the way I do now.

Yes, then, I doodled in the margins, drew hearts and smiley faces in-between the lines, and, occasionally, sealed them with a kiss - though that mostly in my mind. These were ancillary elements, not required for the reader to get my meaning.

Now, it seems that every electronic transmission requires a qualifier. A misunderstanding diffuser. That is, the emoticon.

So, now, to my deep thought on the unanticipated acts of my future. The other day, in a dashed off note, I accidentally typed a winky frowny instead of a winky smiley. It was a mistype, but I wondered, were it not: what is the emotion here? Cheeky, but damned grumpy about it? I'm giving you my shitbird face, but really it's just a front? Meet me in the corner and I'll confess to you how happy I really am?

And then I thought: what the hell? And, I'm still thinking that.

I Don’t Think We’re in Lansing Anymore…

Driving home from work today, I realized that the CD I was listening to had looped about three times, and the fact that it included alternate cuts of a couple of songs on it, I had metaphorically eaten a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yes, Dave Brubeck’s Time Further Out is brilliant, but now it was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I hit eject and tuned in to the standard rush-hour slot that typically features news of the day, traffic updates, and, as it was today, and interview with a local politician. The topic was a pretty controversial one, and the interviewee was on the opposite side of my opinion. I thought: good ol’ NPR. I know they’re legit when I don’t agree with everything they report on and everyone they talk to. It shows they are unbiased, as they should be.

But then suddenly my house was uprooted and I was no longer in Midwestern farm country. I heard the interviewer start to express an opinion. He abandoned any perceived objectivity and rallied with the interviewee. He even pointed listeners to a place where they could retrieve canned statements that they could send to their representatives in objection to the abomination that was in current discussion.

I know I said What the Fuck? aloud and also may have hit the brakes. This slowed me down enough to look at the channel and realize that I was no longer on NPR station 91.7, which is a mid-Michigan public radio feed that we had tuned into yesterday while road-tripping. Instead I had harnessed the batshit craziness known as 91.3, Grand Rapids. It’s actually a bit of a wonder that my car didn’t veer off the road from the misalignment or explode on the moment that such a message hit my nihilistic ears.

I am reminded that I need to send Michigan Radio my yearly contribution. With a thank you note. For asking me to listen to what I’ve heard and think; not take orders and get in line.

I Realize.

For the fourth time since 2009, I walked today with my family in the Komen Race for the Cure. The first year, I arranged it--on a high from learning that my sister would very well survive her diagnosis and the exhausting and difficult treatment that ensured that she would. She did, and we continued after that year over year.

I lost considerable steam when the Komen Foundation decided to cut funding for Planned Parenthood. (FOR CRYING OUT LOUD: what sane person is not in support of bringing children into world who are both wanted and expected?! Seriously.)

Plus, I have become somewhat doubtful of the results of such an effort and skeptical that the appropriation of funds goes to a so-called cure. (On an aside note, I believe that lifestyle and diet can be instrumental to prevention, which seems so much more effective than curing after the fact. Hmmm. Kind of like Planned Parenthood. But that's not profitable, is it?) 

I stopped raising funds for them after the first year. I go only these days because it pleases my family and it is a symbolic gesture of solidarity. And a reminder that everyone in my life is fragile. And temporary. No matter what.

So, I'd like to dedicate this post and this day to this wonderful song. Lest we forget.

Old Bags.

The big thrill of today was the Michigan Modernism Exposition, in good ol' Southfield. Not quite as big as I'd hoped, but my senses still got their fill.

I hadn't planned on buying anything, but a strange grouping of mugs featuring flying pigs, a school of fish, and a pair of dragons called me back for a second look.

Of course, the second look is merely the gateway to the parting with cash. Once I had the dragon mug in my hands and Ben was suggesting I drink wine from it while watching Game of Thrones, the deal was done.

The cranky, era-appropriate woman I bought it from was clearly unimpressed with my singular purchase and showed it by packing my little prize in a crumpled bag that was very likely from the same century. That is, definitely last century.

Just Winging It.

I was sitting at an extraordinarily long stoplight yesterday evening when two unusual-looking birds that appeared to be male and female of the same species caught my eye. Starlings, I learned from my research. They pecked and poked at the ground, and one simultaneously pooped, which actually kind of startled me—as if swallowing the scrap that was in its beak had immediately produced this result.

I got drawn into their business, and, for a moment, drifted into a daydream. Except for the whole dropping right where I'm eating part, suddenly being a bird seemed like a pretty good gig.

The ability to quickly flee a situation? That'd be a nice power to have. Traipsing around in the grass all day long? Beats putting on clothes, driving in traffic, and genuflecting to the man for the majority of the daylight hours.

So, I've decided that I'm going to be a bird in my next life. I'll just have to watch out for hawks, fast cats, and plate glass windows.     

Marooned in Dreamland.

I've just returned from a mis-routed flight that landed us in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We had a layover, so we visited an artists' community where I ran into an old coworker. He was painting an abstract piece and wearing a hat with Pippi Longstocking-like pigtails poking out from it.

Whew, that was weird...so happy to be back in my bed!

Except that Adam Levine's doppelgänger is sitting on me and tickling me in the most uncomfortable and almost terror-inducing way. I am writhing and screaming, but it just comes out in a muffled mwa... mmwaaa... mwwwwaaaah kind of way.

The crickets chirp and I am snoozing my alarm.

Oh. Good.

I'll Be Grateful When You're Nice.

What I left behind in 1991 was the desire to cover my rear window in stickers that promoted love, peace, and day-old jam bands. The better to watch my past in my mirror become faint and indistinct as I drove further and further away from it.

A few days ago, for the first time in so many years, I tagged the bumper of my car with a new message. One that embodies the spirit of the old days, but in a less posturizing kind of way. I think. I mean, I want to mean it...

 
In doing this, I acknowledge that some people will read it, and, therefore, I should be on better behavior while on the roads. Lest my message be rendered insincere. The problem is, some people are not beautiful, and rush hour traffic is an explicit way of understanding this.

What does it say when a woman driving the "just the way you are" vehicle flings a finger, shakes a fist, or tilts her head upward so that you, you shithead with your window down, can hear my personal, just for you expletives echoing more clearly through my sunroof?

We call that an incongruity.

So I am thinking about installing something akin to a vacancy/no vacancy sign. Something that I could switch on, when needed, that would append my message with: "Except you. You are actually an asshole. Go home and think about that."

That should do.