Tuesday, January 31, 2017

The Worst Kept Secrets

HOLY SHIT!  Do you guys remember Live Journal?  Cause I do, and that stuff was nuts.

     Every time I am presented with a situation in which someone is keeping a diary or journal, I am always tempted to do so myself.  It seems like such a great idea.  Then I remember that I am an award winning blogger, and I should just take the time to express my thoughts by writing my blog on a more regular basis.  But the two don't always jive, because what you don't come here to read, Company, is my innermost thoughts and feelings about the daily life and times of a media mogul. You want entertainment.  But I digress.  Back in the day, if you wanted a diary or journal that you could share with people all over the place you would use something called Live Journal.
     Live Journal was like someone took your personal diary - you know, the one which you keep under your pillow and which has that little easily picked key lock on it - and smashed it at high speed into the Internet.  It really was quite innovative, and aspects of it can be found here at the site that I use to create Big Dave and Company: Blogger, on Facebook, and in a number of other places around the Internet.  You had this community of friends who could see what you posted and vice versa, and whenever you put out an entry they could go read all about it.  It was pretty slick.
     Except back then the Internet was still sort of in its infancy, and so people weren't as quick to the uptake as they are today.  Exactly why one would want to take their diary - something which in written book form is usually kept hidden and often features a locking cover - and publish it for all to see is beyond me.  That is something that your family does posthumously after you die in your blaze of glory.  But people did because of reasons and it got them in trouble so often.  It was really easy, back in those Internet infancy days, to forget just how connected you suddenly had become, and people would go in their Live Journal forgetting that people could read it.  Or not understanding that stuff was out there once it was out there, and that it was discoverable.  So inevitably someone would find what you said about them, or the six degrees of Kevin Bacon would kick in and a mutual friend would rat you out and suddenly you had a social situation with your college roommate on your hand.
     What it turned out to be, in those early days of the Internet, was like moving into a small town when you have never lived in a small town before.  In a small town everyone is related somehow, and even if you are not related, everyone knows everyone, so it takes some time to get used to the fact that you have to be VERY careful about what you say.and who you say it around.  Eventually you figure out just to keep your mouth shut because it will always get back around.
     And so it was with Live Journal.  Eventually people figured it out (well, most people did) and it sort of evolved into more of a blog hosting site which was eventually sold off to the Russians.And with it all of our secrets.  Not national secrets, but all that gossip about who we like and how we can't believe what she did with her hair or did you hear about the skank you ex is dating now?  Those secrets.  Except they were the worst kept secrets around.

Friday, January 13, 2017

Fly Like an Eagle

    Right now, in places as far afield as Florida and Washington, D.C. and Wisconsin there are cameras which are set up, and streams provided on the Internet, for people to watch eagle eggs hatch.  There are laws and watch groups and guidelines set about to help preserve eagle nests.  There are towns and lakes and rivers both hither AND yon named after them, in addition to about 17 hundred thousand sports teams.  They are screaming, they are soaring, they are swooping, and just about every other "s" verb that one can think of.  They are on trucks and shirts and buildings and tattoos and belt buckles.  With all this in mind, I am going to take an unpopular stand: I don't give a shit about eagles.
This guy loves eagles quite a bit.
     Not that I want them to die or anything, I just don't share this enamored infatuation that everyone seems to have with them.  I mean, I understand why you feel this way, Company, I really do.  I mean, everything you have been told about life and science says that eagles are great.  They are the symbol of America, and America is great.  No it is, and it doesn't need to be "made great again" because it already is, okay?  They are the predators at the top of the food chain, they have big talons and they look pretty cool most of the time, what with their two-tone paint scheme and intelligent eyes.  I understand your bird crush, America.
     Your bird crush infatuation is a lot like your man crush on Tom Brady, though, and once you start to sort of peel away the layers of the rhetoric and majestic photos you will find that your precious eagles are not all that they seem to be.  Hell, even Benjamin Franklin wanted the turkey as the national bird, and that guy knew what he was talking about.  He founded America and banged everyone in France.  Including Lady Liberty.
     First off, you aren't even all that infatuated with eagles as a whole, just bald eagles.  You don't care about other eagles, because I haven't seen a lot of web cams in golden eagle nests.  And if you saw a black eagle sitting on the side of the road you would probably scream "TEN POINTS" and swerve to hit it with your car.  You would also be in Asia because that is where black eagles live (Fun fact: The only two species of eagle native to North America are the bald eagle and the golden eagle, so you have already forsaken half of the species you might see around your house.)
Enjoy your dead animal, wedge tail eagle.
     Number two, eagles spend their time evenly split between doing four things:  Sitting majestically in their nests, soaring majestically through the skies, majestically plucking delicious fish from our lakes, and majestically eating dead animals on the side of the road.  Yeah, that is right.  That fuzzy little thing being born in the dilapidated nest is next going to be seen eating the sun baked remains of a possum on the side of some rural highway.  Because eagles eat carrion, which is what this wedge tail eagle on the right is doing.  So get that idea though your head.  They are the garbage disposal of the skies.  So while Patsy is riding around in her boat saying "look at the eagles!" I am driving past four of them eating dead dear along the highway on my way to see her.  Unimpressive.
     Truth be told, Company, I don't really have anything against eagles.  They are fine.  What I really rebel against is this infatuation that everyone has with them. In the tradition of the goth kids from South Park, I have to go against whatever everyone likes.  And, as an added bonus, eagles are a dime a dozen around the Worldwide Headquarters.  I see them all the time, especially in the summertime.  This, I believe, is mostly due to the fact that I release them on a regular basis as if they are doves or Internet viruses, but they are everywhere.  So they aren't really special to me, if that makes sense.  If it doesn't it will next time we are together and I am excited to see a PF Chang's.  Familiarity breeds contempt, right? 
Apparently these are the jabronis I am trying to impress.
     So you can have your eagles, Company.  You can fawn over them and watch them be born in the background of your web browser while you do spreadsheets at work.  You can get all exited when you seem them flying about, shitting on everything underneath them.  I don't care.  Enjoy.  I am just not into it.  So I guess that means there is more than you.  But you will come around.  You will be outside while one is trying to fly off with your little dog and you will be cursing their creation.  Fly like an eagle Fido, fly like an eagle.