Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Random Thoughts

    Do you remember Doogie Howser, M.D.?  Both the show and the kid?  At the end of every episode, which was the end of every day in the life of that kid, he sat down at what back then was a pretty state of the art desktop with sweet but unrealistic white on blue graphics and typed out his diary, describing what he learned, growing up little by little with each word that followed that white cursor.  And that was crazy for back then, because back in the late 80s and early 90s you just didn't do shit like that.  You still had the old notebook and if you were a girl there was a lock on the front so your parents and little and big brother didn't find out.  Because that was in the days of discretion, back before Big Brother meant a show on which you did all of those old diary things on camera because it made for good ratings and everyone would talk about you at the water cooler the next morning.  And that in itself is strange because there was a time not too long ago where one didn't want people talking about them at the water cooler.  God, do I sound old.
     But I digress.  Although I definitely feel that there is a certain romance to the written word - the physical, actual written word - in which one drags an inkpen or even pencil across a piece of paper, actually writing stuff down takes a long, long time.  And there isn't even any spell check at all.  So when I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe taking a few minutes to spill out some of the things that are collecting in my head each day would be a good idea, I quickly came to the realization that if I wrote in in, oh say a Black and Red book for example, I wouldn't actually get much accomplished because I would only get in a paragraph or two, and it would all be in undeciperable chicken scratch that even I can't read sometimes.  Plus, no matter how many times I write a word and underline it with blue pen on a piece of paper it doesn't magically become a link so some other relevent content that explains the shit out of things so I don't have to.
     So the now much improved over Doogie Howser times computer seemed to be the answer for me, and I immediately began to think about how it was that I would format a word document so that I could write what would essentially be a journal entry every single day.  But Word, for as functional as it is, and for a revolutionary as it has been for the modern American office, sort of sucks butt.  It is soulless, at least until one pumps some soul into it.  So why not pump some soul into the Internet, right Company?  I mean, there is nothing interesting or even remotely creative on that thing.  99.87% of it is porn and I am pretty sure that the rest of it is just Facebook and YouTube and whatever else Google permits to be on the Internet these days.  But I am here, and I always have been.  Sometimes I might go away, and you might think that you are safe from me but you are not.  I am like the West Nile virus, except that there are easier ways to tell if I am around than cutting open every dead crow that one finds on the roadside.
     Which by the way, how messed up is that?  The only way that the health officials in this country can tell if the West Nile virus is beginning to run rampant in your community is to test dead crows.  First of all, how do they know which crows to test?  There are approximately eleventy billion dead crows out there, and I just have this vision of public health workers screeching to a halt on the side of an Iowa highway and scooping up dead crows into their cars.  And in my vision there is a really intense thunderstorm threatening and they are almost more like storm chasers who are screeching to a halt to pick up dead crows.  But things always tend to get sort of skewed in our heads, not don't they, Company?
     Anyway, the second thought I have when we are out searching for West Nile on the highways and byways and in the backyards of this great land is this: Who the hell came up with that test?  Like, what individual was sitting around a conference room at the CDC or Johns Hopkins and was like "Let's test some crow's blood?"  That's messed up.  I assure you that wasn't developed in Salem, MA because only a witch would think of that shit.  But then again, how does anything get developed?  You know chocolate?  Yeah, that chocolate.  It comes from roasting the bean of a pod that only grows on one type of plant in a place far, far away.  On Good Eats they told me that animals and early man came for the fruit of the pod.  But somewhere along the way someone had to look at that bean and be like "Let's heat it up!" or they had to pick a bean out of a fire and eat it.
     Who does that?  Back in the day we used to make fun of the kid who sat on the playground and ate asphalt, but maybe it is time to rethink that strategy, because that is the guy who is going to discover the next chocolate, and he is going to be rich as hell.  And he is not going to invite any of us to his sexy parties.  And yes, I say "he" and not "she" or whatever, because I just don't care.  Okay?  Dear females: it doesn't matter if I write "he" or "she" because when I write in the masculine it is just because I am lazy and it saves me a letter.  A woman could do any of those things.  A woman could absolutely discover the next chocolate and get super rich and famous.  And more power to her.  I wish her well.  Except that now the men are mad because the don't get to invent chocolate and now everyone is pissed and we are stuck with current chocolate forever.  And that is okay.  Because chocolate is delicious.

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