|Wut? This is NOT what a selfie's supposed to look like?|
|How most of my selfie attempts turn out.|
1) The Selfie Obsessed
I’ve got an iPhone now. Turns out it wasn’t more expensive than my previous, no Internet or pic-snapping-capability tiny-phone. I can take selfies now but I suck Bantha wang at it. Just ask Coco.
Why take selfies at all? I guess I want a record of my princess’ fave resting spot – my neck. Why do others take selfies? I know that the on line sites – dating, MeetUps, book discussion, political commentary and more, all want to match our pics up with our blatherings. It makes everything more friendly-like. OK. Cool. I get it.
But, wut up with the folks who seem addicted to capturing their image? Fer instance, they're in line at the Caffeine-ateria and gotta hold up the line so's they can take a snap. They're at the Grand Canyon and more into getting a shot of themselves with that hole in the ground as a backdrop. The Blue Lagoon's just an opportunity for a bikini and steam shot, eh?
I used to work with a young woman who seemed to spend much of her off-gig time snapping shots of herself and then glossing them up in Photoshop. No. Fer reals. She was an attractive babe but too short to be a paid clothes hanger – maybe modeling was her fantasy job? We all have one. Mine? God. Of course.
privacy hedge. Do they care more about the pristine pool table-esque lawn than the intense noise levels and soot heavy car exhaust seeping into their pricey home?
“Turf has about as much value as asphalt to nature and to the ecosystem. But we need it if we’re going to play croquet or have a place to walk,” says Kathy Gates of Kansas City Native Plant Initiative.
I only mention it but I’ve never seen the folks who live in this cher shack playing croquet or so much as stepping out on their perfect, green front lawn.
Plant some damn trees fer fuck’s sake!
Reefer Madness in high school health class.
Yup, I’m talkin’ ‘bout the not awful by any means but OOF horribly uneven Death of a Postmodernist by Janice Steinberg. She refers to smoke as a “mind-altering” drug – as though it’s in league with window pane or PCP or something. You know, a total gateway to violent, criminal behavior and shit.
One of the characters, Jill, could be SO guilty of murder because she does MARIJUANA and, don’cha know – coke, crystal meth, LSD, weed – they’re all alike. Right? RIGHT?!
The first time she trotted out the ill-informed Mary Jane’s a violent narcotic - an unspeakable scourge - The Real Public Enemy Number One crap, I thought brace yourself, the propaganda-is-my-god-Republicanizing’s just begun. Nope, she even worked in a coupla Reagan slams (this came out in ’95) later on. Huh. Guess she was just ignorant and unaware of her own benighted state. Too bad the book's editor didn't clue her in.
So, despite the fun, great cutting edge ArtWorld setting and descriptions, I won’t be picking up another of Steinberg’s books. Why not? Clumsy and obvious plot devices, occasional clunky sentence structure on top of her ignorant, this-chick-musta-been-homeschooled, marijuana nonsense.
Mystery novels are an escape. They should smoothly whisk me into another reality. Zoom! This one’s ride was more like a suspension-free commute down a deeply rutted country lane in a bottomed-out Chevy Vega. It was worth the three bones I paid for it but no more.