What would the media do without the corona-virus, Harvey Weinstein and the Democrats jostling for votes to become the candidate to oppose President Trump this fall? They’d have to fold up and crawl under their desks. Is there any news that isn’t bad news, or better put, scary news? The media thrives on crises.
Have you also noticed how shallow the reporting is? Lots of scare language but little substance. There are barely enough facts to understand anything, let alone feel you have the full story.
What’s happened to journalism? What’s being taught in these schools? I think they’re really in the entertainment business. There is no such thing as a well-balance piece about anything anymore except maybe how to dance the tango or make a plum tart.
And have you noticed how many journalists take their cues from Twitter quotes? Or video clips? Pretty soon I’m expecting some company to roll out a platoon of robots holding yellow legal pads and pencils stuck behind their ears to produce the news. They’ll be cheaper and more efficient in the long run. That is, if you don’t care about the facts.
Calvin says, “Take your cue from me. My nose is the daily paper. I learn everything I need to know there. You should do the same.”
The chaos of the Trump impeachment trial, the threat of the corona virus, and the frenzy of the upcoming Super Bowl, all conspire to keep our nation popping anti-anxiety pills. This must be a boon for big pharma.
Me? I just want to take a long walk in the woods, look up at a canopy of trees, breathe in the fresh air, and forget I’m on this planet.
The hysteria of the media is at an all-time high. Every headline screams at you. The more the hype the less details emerge from the articles. My questions never seem to be asked. Background research doesn’t get done. There is no serious journalism. Nothing that educates or motivates. Just noise.
One way to handle this is to turn off the television, the online news, the sound-byte texts, and take a hot bath. Turn the lights down low. Light scented candles. Listen to uplifting music. Relax.
Whatever you do, don’t let the dog in. He’ll distract you. He’ll whine. He’ll look at you with those misty, droopy eyes. He’ll try to hoist himself into the bath with you. Don’t do it. Leave him outside the closed door. He’ll get the message. Maybe even go to sleep.
Calvin says, “How rude. What about all the hoo-hah you dish out every day? Do you think it’s easy living with you? Don’t I deserve a time-out too with a massage and a tummy rub?”
So much for global warming.
It’s been raining in Hawaii. The temperatures in the North West Coast are freezing, with so much snow people are inside for the duration of the winter.
Chicago is frozen, Lake Michigan has a layer of ice, and the famous Bean is wearing a blanket of frost.
As Thornton Wilder in his play, The Skin of Our Teeth said, “It’s so cold, the dogs are sticking to the sidewalk.”
Last I read, these types of deep weather fluctuations are normal for the planet. So why do we make such drama out of it? Is it because we don’t have the right wardrobe? Or the skiing ability? Maybe we don’t have the shovels for our driveways or we don’t know how to drive on icy roads?
We definitely don’t know how to drive, that’s for sure. Even with a bit of rain the traffic around here becomes paralyzed while drivers attempt going through the raindrops. California drivers aren’t used to rain or snow. They only know sunshine. Any other weather condition reduces them to frightened children behind the wheel.
The rain is my favorite kind of weather. Too many days of sun and clear skies depress me. There’s no drama. Give me dark skies, crackling lightning, a good thunderstorm that sounds like bowling balls crashing into each other, and pelting raindrops the size of figs. Now that’s real weather. It’s not for sissies.
Calvin says, “I’d never stick to the sidewalk. My nose maybe.”
With all these sexual harassment allegations popping up all over the place, it’s a wonder we can live normal lives these days.
Every day there’s a new one.
The truth is if every industry, especially the media and government, were to come clean, there wouldn’t be anyone left to make movies or run the country.
We’re all a bunch of scoundrels. It’s in our DNA.
Sexual harassment is as old as the bible itself. Just read Genesis where it all began.
What floors me is how women expect to gain respect dressing the way they do with cleavages to their belly buttons, skirts wrapped around their waists and backsides like plastic wrap leaving nothing to the imagination, and stilettos like walking stilts.
If fashion returned to modesty, if women wore clothing that was attractive and decent, then men might behave themselves. Maybe. There’s no guarantee. For complete assurance of respectful behavior between the sexes everyone would require heart purification surgery.
Calvin says, “Dogs don’t have these issues. We are what we wear. We wear what we are. Simple.”
I had always known the Oscars were political, but my convictions grew to the size of Mt. Everest last night.
This year there were more actors of color nominated for awards than ever before. Why? Because public opinion had made a stink.
Why standing ovations for those of color who won? I think it was a way of assuaging collective guilt for only honoring white actors over the years.
It was good for their collective soul that they had a major blunder at the end. It revealed how choreographed and scripted the evening was, everyone on automatic, with no one paying attention to the details. It also humbled them, made them a little more like us.
The comment that gagged in my throat was Ms. Davis’ that “actors are the only profession that celebrates what it means to live a life.” What? You mean playing someone you’re not and have never been is the only way to live life? Really?
Calvin says, “She was in LA LA Land, didn’t you know?”
“Are people on suicide watch where you are?” my friend asked me today, one day after the election. “Me? I stayed up all night drinking champagne.”
My colleagues at work are in a somber mood. Nobody dares talk about the election results fearing they will offend others or they are so depressed they don’t want to burst into tears and look silly.
I guess it comes down to this: everyone likes to win and in this case, they didn’t.
I’ve also noticed that people are afraid of what life will be like come January 20. In my opinion that’s attributing a lot of power to someone who’s never been in office before. What, as soon as he steps into the oval office he’s going to ruin everything? What if our new president turns out to be one of the best we’ve ever had? Nobody has offered that as a possibility. He stands the same chance of being reasonably good as a seasoned politico, perhaps better. And why wouldn’t he? After all, aren’t we a country of new opportunities for everyone?
Calvin says, “Not this guy. He doesn’t even own a dog.”
I watched the last debate. Alf left the room saying, “I’m exhausted.” He was right of course, the entire nation has been on a marathon run of insults, lies and scandal.
We have arrived at reality TV status. Not surprising since we thrive on this genre. Why would we expect our candidates to be anything less than entertaining?
What was missing for Trump was a hair stylist and a script beyond the one-liner attack. There were moments, especially up close, he looked like the Grinch in pancake make-up.
Clinton looked starched and at moments scared. Behind her rehearsed poise, she was bracing herself for the inevitable questions about the disgraces in her life. However, she was so well scripted that she pulled off the performance of a lifetime. She deserves an Oscar for the best performance of an actor in a leading role. It’s no surprise that her personality type either goes in for acting or politics.
If Trump wins the presidency, we will get all the glam and eye-candy we crave. The media will drool capturing Melania’s every model move. She will light up the White House and elevate it to mogul status. That in itself will distract Putin and ISIS for a while.
Clinton, on the other hand, will be returning to her old digs with her scandal-worn philandering partner. A rather stale spectacle in comparison.
Calvin says, “Do you know what’s really a shame? There’s no mention of a dog coming to the White House. But then again maybe they’re too many already.”
The Giants pulled it off last night – barely. It seems they thrive under pressure like our two presidential candidates. But unlike the Giants, we have to live with one of these people for the next four years. I wish we had a probationary period of a year, then we re-evaluate if the new president is doing his job or not. I like how the British handle their politicians. If there is a loss of confidence and support, they step down and call for a new election. I’m always amazed how many are waiting in the wings to fill the vacancy. You’d think the British would need a few months to ask for resumes to find someone who was a good fit to lead the country. Instead, you wake up the next day to see a new prime minister move into 10 Downing Street.
This year American politics has succumbed to an all-time low. It reminds me of a bull fight, except instead of a bull and a matador, we have two bulls locking horns and skewering each other. The issue of character, composure, and class has been trampled. Neither one has given us their plan for the country except in sound bites. If you’re interested, Hillary says to go read her book. I saw it in Costco last week. It’s a paperback that looks like it’s been culled together overnight by a team of star-struck high schoolers in a stuffy basement somewhere. It’s written for an eight-year old reader. That shows you what she thinks of us, or is the book for the non-American and non-citizen who is going to vote this year?
The Giants play again tonight. They must win if they’re going to stay in the game. As for Donald and Hillary, I’m hoping neither wins. Their VP candidates would make better presidents.
Calvin says, “Stick to baseball. At least there’s a ball to play instead of dirty laundry.”
My friend and her husband are driving cross country to deliver a car to their daughter in D.C.
Nevada and Utah were blanketed in snow, which made for stunning pictures. Wyoming was another matter. Flat is the only word for it. A view of the occasional cow on some green land was the only bump on the landscape.
Now they’re in Iowa, home of John Wayne and its depressing Main Street, which looks more like a movie set than a real place for real people who work, play and raise families.
I’m so used to living on the coasts that I forget there’s a whole country in the middle of the country. It looks like a foreign land to me. I expect people to be speaking another language and living another culture. And perhaps they do. They are ranchers and farmers and people who have worked the cornfields all their lives.
I looked up employment in Iowa. The list included pizza driver, office clerk, test administrator and library assistant. I noticed there weren’t any tech jobs. That’s probably because there’s no internet. Who needs internet for herding cows? Two border collies will do.
What I did discover were a ton of bloggers from Iowa. A lot of them are food blogs. But I don’t see Iowa as a foodie destination. How many blog posts do you need for grilling hamburgers?
It’s worth mentioning that there’s the famous Iowa’s Writers’ Workshop, which has produced many award-winning authors over the years.
For some, looking at pasture lands and grazing cattle fosters the urge to write. I, for one, wouldn’t find any inspiration looking at a cow chewing the cud. I’d need some action like a line of geese following a marching band.
Calvin says, “And to think Iowa is the bellwether of American politics.”