Maybe I'll know better what to say 11 days from now, the day after Alyce and Ben become Mr. and Mrs Larsen.
Yes, it's coming right up, this wedding. I'm excited. I'm happy.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Thumbing, Part 2
Don't get me wrong. . . . Well, get me wrong if you want. I don't care.
But the truth is that I do not repudiate texting itself. I think it's a great technological innovation. Useful, helpful. It's the use it is put to that I dislike.
Because it is silent, or nearly so, people think they can do it any time and any place. I don't agree.
I have seen people texting in church. Rude, irreverent, thoughtless, to say the least.
I have seen people texting on the job, one-handed with that one hand in pocket and only an occasional lifting of the phone and carefully timed glance, so that "no one will know." As if. The best that can be said is "skilled use of a hand." The worst, I guess, fire the guy.
But the truth is that I do not repudiate texting itself. I think it's a great technological innovation. Useful, helpful. It's the use it is put to that I dislike.
Because it is silent, or nearly so, people think they can do it any time and any place. I don't agree.
I have seen people texting in church. Rude, irreverent, thoughtless, to say the least.
I have seen people texting on the job, one-handed with that one hand in pocket and only an occasional lifting of the phone and carefully timed glance, so that "no one will know." As if. The best that can be said is "skilled use of a hand." The worst, I guess, fire the guy.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Thumb Generation
Let's see. How to put this.
I am fed up with kids and their constant texting. It doesn't matter what's happening, who's speaking, and I don't think it would matter if someone were dying, when that little thing in their pocket or hand or lying next to them on the church pew buzzes, they're on it. Thumbing away.
They are slaves. Willing slaves, I guess, but slaves anyway. This little plastic box is their master, their all-time bf, their whole life. Heaven forbid they might go somewhere without the "phone." I've seen that happen, and the kid had a meltdown panic session. Some fun way to live.
No need, I suppose, to suggest that the whole phenomenon is RUDE.
There. I think that's direct enough.
P.S. Yesterday, a guy driving on I-84 at freeway speeds was texting while driving and plowed into the back of a highway patrol car stopped on the shoulder. Totaled both cars. Good that the officer was not in his. Don't try to tell me this guy is the first person stupid enough to be thumbing while driving. By the way, he's 37, no kid, but he makes the point.
I am fed up with kids and their constant texting. It doesn't matter what's happening, who's speaking, and I don't think it would matter if someone were dying, when that little thing in their pocket or hand or lying next to them on the church pew buzzes, they're on it. Thumbing away.
They are slaves. Willing slaves, I guess, but slaves anyway. This little plastic box is their master, their all-time bf, their whole life. Heaven forbid they might go somewhere without the "phone." I've seen that happen, and the kid had a meltdown panic session. Some fun way to live.
No need, I suppose, to suggest that the whole phenomenon is RUDE.
There. I think that's direct enough.
P.S. Yesterday, a guy driving on I-84 at freeway speeds was texting while driving and plowed into the back of a highway patrol car stopped on the shoulder. Totaled both cars. Good that the officer was not in his. Don't try to tell me this guy is the first person stupid enough to be thumbing while driving. By the way, he's 37, no kid, but he makes the point.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
From the Past
Wow! I saw Driek Zirinski today in Winco. Driek, short for Hendriekia, in case you're interested. Or is it Hendriekje? It's Dutch. She retired from teaching at BSU ten years ago, about four years before I did, or as she put it (and as I always put it when speaking of myself) quit.
Anyway, many years since I've seen her. She asked for a hug, responded to my question about what she is doing now by telling me what turned out to be a rather long story, got interrupted by someone rolling a cart between us, became impatient to leave--as I think she always is--then remembered she had been talking, and continued.
She is an accomplished woman. After teaching, as her long story revealed, she turned her talents to the Boise Art Museum, is on the board, is an extensive collector of contemporary art, some of which she lends out to galleries. I told her I hope she writes her name on the back. She could still be formidable, if I were into being formidabled, but I'm not.
Much gray has washed out the red of her hair. That happens as we age, you know. But other than that she looks pretty much the same.
I told her my favorite story about her. While she was still teaching, she and Martha Sipe were working together on some department project. One afternoon in the LA building I watched as Driek, in a hurry to leave, was chased by Martha, who clearly was not finished with her and called after her, "Wait just a minute, Missy."
It's funny because Driek is not one you'd call "Missy," but Martha was no respecter of persons, if you know what I mean.
Driek said, "I love it." We both said, "Sounds like Martha."
I was happy to see Driek, and I told her so. Happy to know she and Michael are still married, still on the planet.
Anyway, many years since I've seen her. She asked for a hug, responded to my question about what she is doing now by telling me what turned out to be a rather long story, got interrupted by someone rolling a cart between us, became impatient to leave--as I think she always is--then remembered she had been talking, and continued.
She is an accomplished woman. After teaching, as her long story revealed, she turned her talents to the Boise Art Museum, is on the board, is an extensive collector of contemporary art, some of which she lends out to galleries. I told her I hope she writes her name on the back. She could still be formidable, if I were into being formidabled, but I'm not.
Much gray has washed out the red of her hair. That happens as we age, you know. But other than that she looks pretty much the same.
I told her my favorite story about her. While she was still teaching, she and Martha Sipe were working together on some department project. One afternoon in the LA building I watched as Driek, in a hurry to leave, was chased by Martha, who clearly was not finished with her and called after her, "Wait just a minute, Missy."
It's funny because Driek is not one you'd call "Missy," but Martha was no respecter of persons, if you know what I mean.
Driek said, "I love it." We both said, "Sounds like Martha."
I was happy to see Driek, and I told her so. Happy to know she and Michael are still married, still on the planet.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
And I Call Myself a Writer
I did not have an unhappy childhood. My parents did not beat me, never even spanked me, not once. For all I know they loved me. They were not alcoholics, never divorced, died loving one another and, if I know anything, still love one another.
My brothers and sisters were brothers and sisters, and if you have any of either you know what that means.
I was never locked in a room for years, kidnapped, assaulted. One student--but, of course, this was well after my childhood--called me terrible names and behaved in a threatening way when I put an F on his paper. Another tore up his F paper, threw it in the trash, and stomped out of my class, never to return. I was forced to watch with the rest of the class. Oh well.
Otherwise, the only times I have been trapped are once when my eleven-year-old boyfriend held my wrists and tried to keep me from getting away so he could kiss me and later several times when my grown daughter has come home for visits and has liked to corner me in the kitchen pantry as a little joke.
No one abused me, not an uncle or family friend--one family friend turned out to be unsavory but not in my presence and I only learned of it much later.
No one told me I was no good or worthless or ugly or without talent. No one even tried to discourage me in anything I tried to do. I have not been the victim of a crime or a victim of anything much except my own foolishness.
I myself am not an alcoholic or a drug addict or an abuser or a criminal, and I am not gay. I do have British ancestors.
I was never locked in a room for years, kidnapped, assaulted. One student--but, of course, this was well after my childhood--called me terrible names and behaved in a threatening way when I put an F on his paper. Another tore up his F paper, threw it in the trash, and stomped out of my class, never to return. I was forced to watch with the rest of the class. Oh well.
Otherwise, the only times I have been trapped are once when my eleven-year-old boyfriend held my wrists and tried to keep me from getting away so he could kiss me and later several times when my grown daughter has come home for visits and has liked to corner me in the kitchen pantry as a little joke.
No one abused me, not an uncle or family friend--one family friend turned out to be unsavory but not in my presence and I only learned of it much later.
No one told me I was no good or worthless or ugly or without talent. No one even tried to discourage me in anything I tried to do. I have not been the victim of a crime or a victim of anything much except my own foolishness.
I myself am not an alcoholic or a drug addict or an abuser or a criminal, and I am not gay. I do have British ancestors.
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