Midnight Blue

My sister said midnight blue and I didn’t know what that meant. There was blue. Dark blue and light, like the sky. What shade was midnight blue?

Like our car.

The Ford Galaxy 500. Running my finger over the pattern pressed into the back of the seat, that No Man’s Land between me and my sister. Clicking my fingernail over the ridges in the clear plastic knob you used to roll down the window. I always sat behind Dad, Denise behind Mom. Baby David sat in between them on the front bench seat. He would turn around and look at us and we responded as if he’d committed a crime against humanity.

Mom! Make him stop!

Do you remember the sound when the windows were rolled up, but the wings were open?

I threw up once on the floor of that car. Was it car sickness? Something else? I can’t remember, but I do remember that my father wasn’t happy. A stickler about his vehicles, the last thing he wanted was a car that reeked of sick. I cried and then he felt bad.

When I overreact to my children, I see my father in me.

The Summer of ’69.

That Ford took us to movies at the Starlite Drive-In on Highway 50. The speaker hooked over the window rolled to half-mast. The sound of ice cubes rattling in fluorescent plastic tumblers because we brought our own drinks. Pepsi and Big Red and Dad’s Root Beer. David climbed up into the back window and fell asleep.

To keep the dust down, the gravel was oiled. The smells of petroleum and popcorn, french fries and sickly sweet snow cones hung in the air as we watched the movies and the people coming and going from the cinder block concession stand, an oasis of light and treats in the middle of the parking lot. The teenagers were of particular interest to me.

We sat in the car at the Big Boy under the awning and ate our cheeseburgers with tartar sauce and drank cherry cokes. I preferred the squishy crinkle fries. The carhops weren’t on rollerskates, but I was fascinated by the silver coin dispensers they wore at their waists.

I don’t know why my parents sold this car, but I know that my father is sorry that he did. The last he heard, the person he’d sold it to resold it to someone in Michigan, which is, I suppose, somehow fitting.

Your turn. What is the first car you remember?

Midnight blue

My sister said midnight blue and I didn’t know what that meant. There was blue. Dark blue and light, like the sky. What shade was midnight blue?

Like our car.

The Ford Galaxie 500. Running my finger over the pattern pressed into the back of the seat, that No Man’s Land between me and my sister. Clicking my fingernail over the ridges in the clear plastic knob you used to roll down the window. I always sat behind Dad, Denise behind Mom. Baby David sat in between them on the front bench seat. He would turn around and look at us and we responded as if he’d committed a crime against humanity.

Mom! Make him stop!

Do you remember the sound when the windows were rolled up, but the wings were open?

I threw up once on the floor of that car. Was it car sickness? Something else? I can’t remember, but I do remember that my father wasn’t happy. A stickler about his vehicles, the last thing he wanted was a car that reeked of sick. I cried and then he felt bad.

When I overreact to my children, I see my father in me.

The Summer of ’69.

That Ford took us to movies at the Starlite Drive-In on Highway 50. The speaker hooked over the window rolled to half-mast. The sound of ice cubes rattling in fluorescent plastic tumblers because we brought our own drinks. Pepsi and Big Red and Dad’s Root Beer. David climbed up into the back window and fell asleep.

To keep the dust down, the gravel was oiled. The smells of petroleum and popcorn, french fries and sickly sweet snow cones hung in the air as we watched the movies and the people coming and going from the cinder block concession stand, an oasis of light and treats in the middle of the parking lot. The teenagers were of particular interest to me.

We sat in the car at the Big Boy under the awning and ate our cheeseburgers with tartar sauce and drank cherry cokes. I preferred the squishy crinkle fries. The carhops weren’t on rollerskates, but I was fascinated by the silver coin dispensers they wore at their waists.

I don’t know why my parents sold this car, but I know that my father is sorry that he did. The last he heard, the person he’d sold it to resold it to someone in Michigan, which is, I suppose, somehow fitting.

Your turn. What is the first car you remember?

A book of worries

Photo: My own

The intersection of blogging and commerce is a strange place.

On this post, alex239 commented “this is a blatant advertisement for a specific brand of razors. Slaves to advertising, all of ya! so cute.” 12:18 a.m.

Unsatisfied that the comment didn’t show up immediately, alex expanded on that thought. “This is an obvious advertisement for a specific brand of razors in a linkbait section at the bottom of a USA Today article. Slaves to advertising, so cute.” 12:19 a.m.

Now frustrated that neither comment appeared, alex concluded that at 12:20 a.m., with two comments now so clearly ignored alex concludes one thing — “of course, censhorship, for pointing out the obvious nature of the advertising.”

When I checked my email at 12:15 p.m., these three comments awaited moderation. I published them, as I have most comments on that post. The only ones not published were either too vile to publish or spam.

My initial reaction was “Who is this online avenger and why do they think it’s okay to complain about a clearly labeled commercial?” My second reaction was, I’m blogging about this. Because that’s what I do when something gets my attention.

But back to Alex. The comment about the post being “linkbait” stings a little.  I haven’t a clue how the linking company picked my post to place at the bottom of articles ranging from USA Today to Slate. I didn’t pay for it, but I’m grateful nonetheless. Perhaps the post was chosen by outbrain because of its possibly provocative title. What not to shave.

I admit wondering what people expect to read or see when they click the link. Perhaps something more like this? I think we can all agree that with my filthy mind, I could come up with far more titillating content than a story about how I shave my toes and belly button.

This pains me greatly because very few things in this world would please me more than to have all the thousands of people who have clicked that link to read something that kept them coming back for more. Instead this feels like a missed opportunity to make a great first impression.

It’s the Ice, Ice, Baby of my blogging “career.” Thankfully, it’s not plagiarized. Take that, Vanilla Ice.

If the linkbait comment stung, Alex’s censorship comment tickled me. That, too, is commerce-related. Over a year ago, I added comment moderation to battle spam comments on my older posts. Now, any post older than four days requires comment moderation. A point which is clearly stated in the comment box that alex must have missed in the rush to have a say.

A question:  Should this convince me to decline future offers to write sponsored posts?

Over the years, when I had to ask for donations, readers suggested I monetize the blog. I resisted for a long time because I worried about how it would affect my writing. Then an opportunity arrived and I decided to risk it.

The outcome has been mixed. The money helps our still precarious financial situation. Just because I have a job doesn’t mean we’re still not making choices between buying gasoline to get to work and food when we reach the thin end of the month. The stats and the chance to reach a wider audience (there are some who click on other posts, thank goodness) are amazing. Other new opportunities are popping up and I’m grateful for more chances to write and be paid to do so.

When writing future sponsored posts, I’ll first have to censor the alex  in my head. The Worrier. The Shamer. The Constant Questioner. Can I find a way to write well and fit the requirements that sometimes are part of writing a sponsored post?

Is it better to simply decline and take the high road for my “art?” And why do I feel like an asshole using the word art to describe what I do?

I’ll start with repeating the Bill Cosby quote “I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everyone” and go from there.

A book of worries

Photo: My own

The intersection of blogging and commerce is a strange place.

On this post, alex239 commented “this is a blatant advertisement for a specific brand of razors. Slaves to advertising, all of ya! so cute.” 12:18 a.m.

Unsatisfied that the comment didn’t show up immediately, alex expanded on that thought. “This is an obvious advertisement for a specific brand of razors in a linkbait section at the bottom of a USA Today article. Slaves to advertising, so cute.” 12:19 a.m.

Now frustrated that neither comment appeared, alex concluded that at 12:20 a.m., with two comments now so clearly ignored alex concludes one thing — “of course, censhorship, for pointing out the obvious nature of the advertising.”

When I checked my email at 12:15 p.m., these three comments awaited moderation. I published them, as I have most comments on that post. The only ones not published were either too vile to publish or spam.

My initial reaction was “Who is this online avenger and why do they think it’s okay to complain about a clearly labeled commercial?” My second reaction was, I’m blogging about this. Because that’s what I do when something gets my attention.

But back to Alex. The comment about the post being “linkbait” stings a little.  I haven’t a clue how the linking company picked my post to place at the bottom of articles ranging from USA Today to Slate. I didn’t pay for it, but I’m grateful nonetheless. Perhaps the post was chosen by outbrain because of its possibly provocative title. What not to shave.

I admit wondering what people expect to read or see when they click the link. Perhaps something more like this? I think we can all agree that with my filthy mind, I could come up with far more titillating content than a story about how I shave my toes and belly button.

This pains me greatly because very few things in this world would please me more than to have all the thousands of people who have clicked that link to read something that kept them coming back for more. Instead this feels like a missed opportunity to make a great first impression.

It’s the Ice, Ice, Baby of my blogging “career.” Thankfully, it’s not plagiarized. Take that, Vanilla Ice.

If the linkbait comment stung, Alex’s censorship comment tickled me. That, too, is commerce-related. Over a year ago, I added comment moderation to battle spam comments on my older posts. Now, any post older than four days requires comment moderation. A point which is clearly stated in the comment box that alex must have missed in the rush to have a say.

A question:  Should this convince me to decline future offers to write sponsored posts?

Over the years, when I had to ask for donations, readers suggested I monetize the blog. I resisted for a long time because I worried about how it would affect my writing. Then an opportunity arrived and I decided to risk it.

The outcome has been mixed. The money helps our still precarious financial situation. Just because I have a job doesn’t mean we’re still not making choices between buying gasoline to get to work and food when we reach the thin end of the month. The stats and the chance to reach a wider audience (there are some who click on other posts, thank goodness) are amazing. Other new opportunities are popping up and I’m grateful for more chances to write and be paid to do so.

When writing future sponsored posts, I’ll first have to censor the alex  in my head. The Worrier. The Shamer. The Constant Questioner. Can I find a way to write well and fit the requirements that sometimes are part of writing a sponsored post?

Is it better to simply decline and take the high road for my “art?” And why do I feel like an asshole using the word art to describe what I do?

I’ll start with repeating the Bill Cosby quote “I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everyone” and go from there.

And that’s precisely why you buy the book

There’s been a lot of why bother going around. Many days I feel the Grand Marshalette of that particular parade. Self-defeat thy name is Lisa.

I was preaching the gospel of get out there and try to Nate the other day. We were commuting together and he was going through the litany of things he wants to do, but doesn’t think he’d be successful doing. This nearly seventeen year old boy is already a master at negative self-talk. Oy vey.

I don’t have to look far to see which donkey’s ass on which to pin the blame for that.

I’m the anti-Stuart Smalley. I stand in front of the mirror and tell myself that I’m never good enough, never smart enough and holy fuck, do you know how many people don’t like you?

Then I lean forward and try to rub the line out from between my eyes.

Why bother writing?

Why bother talking?

Why bother listening?

Why bother voting?

Why bother fighting?

Why bother loving?

Why bother trusting?

Why bother trying?

Why bother?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Do it anyway. DO it anyway. Do IT anyway. Do it ANYWAY. DO IT ANYWAY.

And that’s precisely why you buy the book

There’s been a lot of why bother going around. Many days I feel the Grand Marshalette of that particular parade. Self-defeat thy name is Lisa.

I was preaching the gospel of get out there and try to Nate the other day. We were commuting together and he was going through the litany of things he wants to do, but doesn’t think he’d be successful doing. This nearly seventeen year old boy is already a master at negative self-talk. Oy vey.

I don’t have to look far to see which donkey’s ass on which to pin the blame for that.

I’m the anti-Stuart Smalley. I stand in front of the mirror and tell myself that I’m never good enough, never smart enough and holy fuck, do you know how many people don’t like you?

Then I lean forward and try to rub the line out from between my eyes.

Why bother writing?
Why bother talking?
Why bother listening?
Why bother voting?
Why bother fighting?
Why bother loving?
Why bother trusting?
Why bother trying?
Why bother?
Why?
Why?
Why?

Do it anyway. DO it anyway. Do IT anyway. Do it ANYWAY. DO IT ANYWAY.

You let you mind out somewhere down the road

Links you can use. For good or evil. Links like a dandelion spreading its seeds on the wind,  links like sugar, Johnny Applelink, Malcolm Gladwell’s Link.

You know, links you might find mildly or wildly interesting.

David Cay Johnston gives us a Tale of Two Healthcare Plans. Warning: contains graphs, charts and the mention of taxes.

Paul Krugman (who had a cameo in Get Him to the Greek, much to my surprise and delight because if I have to sit through a film featuring Russell Brand and a scene where his character demands that his handler smuggle drugs up his butt (the handler’s not his own), then I’m going to need some sort of smartypants liberal elite elixir to provide some balance. One can’t sue Hollywood for brain atrophy, can one?) Where was I? Oh, yes, Paul Krugman. His piece on obstruction and exploitation. Also known as <redacted>.

I’m trying to not curse. It’s an experiment, an exercise in self restraint.

Which reminds me, I’m listening to the audio version of Frank Delaney’s Venetia Kelly’s Traveling Show: A Novel of Ireland and have laughed uproariously while driving to and from work. Which is saying something because lately I have been in one pissed off and holler mood. To crack this marble face takes some true comedic talent.

I bring this up because in the book, there’s a character who seasons every sentence with a sulfuric dash of that oh so versatile word fuck. When the narrator reports any conversations he has with said cuss monster, his mother insists he use flock instead of the other very bad word.

To wit:

…why in the flock does she need a flocking ladder to get to the flocking flowerboxes when I flocking told her that I would flocking help her in a few flocking minutes…….

It is perfect, of course, with the Irish brogue.

Douglas Coupland offers some advice to writers. Specifically, to young writers, but who’s to say what’s young anymore? I’m not biologically young, but my writing is young. Anyway, it’s a bullet point list so it won’t wear you thin with paragraphs and contains some points I haven’t seen elsewhere in my search for enlightenment about writing (a procrastination tactic familiar to writers the world over.)

Gwynne Watkins interviews Amanda Palmer.

Super8. Have you seen it? Sophie interrupted her own raving about it to ask me to watch it with her. I said I’d watch a few minutes and then probably get back to whatever it was I’d been doing. Two hours later, I was still glued to the television. It held my interest enough that I didn’t multitask once during the entire viewing and it made an ELO fan out of Sophie.

Bra Recycling. Surprisingly, I don’t mean turning bras into charming chapeaux. Although one could, I suppose, but let’s leave MathMan out of this.

I’m reading Rachel Maddow’s Drift: The Unmooring of American Military Power. Talk about taxing my ability to remain curse word free. I’m only up to the part about how Reagan funded the Contras in Nicaragua and have already worn out the phrases holy shit, motherfucker, Jesus Christ, What the hell? and I’ll be damned.

Please just stop. For all that was good and holy in Mrs. Johnson’s 7th grade language class, please. Stop.

And finally Fred Armisen on Alec Baldwin’s Here’s the Thing. Via the incomparable Bob Lefsetz. If you’ve been asking if you should keep chasing your dream, you must listen to this.

What’s making you click these days?

You let your mind out somewhere down the road

Links you can use. For good or evil. Links like a dandelion spreading its seeds on the wind,  links like sugar, Johnny Applelink, Malcolm Gladwell’s Link.

You know, links you might find mildly or wildly interesting.

David Cay Johnston gives us a Tale of Two Healthcare Plans. Warning: contains graphs, charts and the mention of taxes.

Paul Krugman (who had a cameo in Get Him to the Greek, much to my surprise and delight because if I have to sit through a film featuring Russell Brand and a scene where his character demands that his handler smuggle drugs up his butt (the handler’s not his own), then I’m going to need some sort of smartypants liberal elite elixir to provide some balance. One can’t sue Hollywood for brain atrophy, can one?) Where was I? Oh, yes, Paul Krugman. His piece on obstruction and exploitation. Also known as <redacted>.

I’m trying to not curse. It’s an experiment, an exercise in self restraint.

Which reminds me, I’m listening to the audio version of Frank Delaney’s Venetia Kelly’s Traveling Show: A Novel of Ireland and have laughed uproariously while driving to and from work. Which is saying something because lately I have been in one pissed off and holler mood. To crack this marble face takes some true comedic talent.

I bring this up because in the book, there’s a character who seasons every sentence with a sulfuric dash of that oh so versatile word fuck. When the narrator reports any conversations he has with said cuss monster, his mother insists he use flock instead of the other very bad word.

To wit:

…why in the flock does she need a flocking ladder to get to the flocking flowerboxes when I flocking told her that I would flocking help her in a few flocking minutes…….

It is perfect, of course, with the Irish brogue.

Douglas Coupland offers some advice to writers. Specifically, to young writers, but who’s to say what’s young anymore? I’m not biologically young, but my writing is young. Anyway, it’s a bullet point list so it won’t wear you thin with paragraphs and contains some points I haven’t seen elsewhere in my search for enlightenment about writing (a procrastination tactic familiar to writers the world over.)

Gwynne Watkins interviews Amanda Palmer.

Super8. Have you seen it? Sophie interrupted her own raving about it to ask me to watch it with her. I said I’d watch a few minutes and then probably get back to whatever it was I’d been doing. Two hours later, I was still glued to the television. It held my interest enough that I didn’t multitask once during the entire viewing and it made an ELO fan out of Sophie.

Bra Recycling. Surprisingly, I don’t mean turning bras into charming chapeaux. Although one could, I suppose, but let’s leave MathMan out of this.

I’m reading Rachel Maddow’s Drift: The Unmooring of American Military Power. Talk about taxing my ability to remain curse word free. I’m only up to the part about how Reagan funded the Contras in Nicaragua and have already worn out the phrases holy shit, motherfucker, Jesus Christ, What the hell? and I’ll be damned.

Please just stop. For all that was good and holy in Mrs. Johnson’s 7th grade language class, please. Stop.

And finally Fred Armisen on Alec Baldwin’s Here’s the Thing. Via the incomparable Bob Lefsetz. If you’ve been asking if you should keep chasing your dream, you must listen to this.

What’s making you click these days?

Squirrel

The brief lull, time to myself;
Or rather
Alone in the living room

Until.

The calm exploded by energy awakened;
Hungry, anxious, jockeying for first place.
Who holds the remote is king.
When all three are under the roof of the rented split level on .75 wooded acre

But back to me, damn it.
And my time alone.

The glow of the companion
Brahms, Variations on a Theme of Haydn
Fan Fiction Composition?

The smell of litter boxes muddying an otherwise serene atmosphere.

IF! you ignore the loveseat bereft of the leather from its cushion,
Bags of clothing to be donated, (Note to self – yada, yada)
Apples to Apples on a stereo speaker (you told someone to put away that game three weeks ago),
The elliptical, the reason you’re up at this hour, with no miles yet clocked,
And the squirrel.

Who at this very moment is staring through the window, head cocked to one side;
Who, if he could speak, would declare that it’s well-beyond time to refill the squirrel feeder.
Yes, yes, he knows some creatures (including you) call it a birdfeeder.
But come on.

Squirrels are nothing if not realistic.

The moment of calm now over.

The Pi Shirt has descended from On High,
Or rather, upstairs,
To fill the air with the aroma of freshly-made coffee,
And a sense that if you don’t get on the elliptical soon,
The day will be lost;
And somehow the squirrels (in your brain)
Will have won.

Just like the song we’re addicted to the L word

(Brief nudity. Not safe for work, children or the repressed.)