randomness

So here we are.

Today I serve up some odds and ends:

stupid chicken

So here we are.

It has been about six weeks since I turned 40. 

This means that I am “over 40.” That is clear. I know this to be true. It sucks, but it is true. I have never been one to lie about my age, and I certainly have been more than forthcoming about it on this web...blah...log.

But it’s really hard to check a little box that reads +40. 

got mlk?

So here we are.

Today, I found myself incredibly puzzled by something:

When did Martin Luther King Day become known as MLK Day? 

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. won a Nobel Peace prize at 35. He was a pivotal figure in American culture and the civil rights movement. He spoke for those who could not speak for themselves, the ones who had been oppressed and silenced by the hoses and the dogs and the ropes, and he himself was arrested dozens of times in the name of justice, equality, and peace. 

So really, for the love of muffins, is everyone seriously now calling it MLK Day? They’re just throwing it off like that? Really? That’s what it’s come to? The casual text-ification of absolutely everything and everyone?

analog sandwich aside

So here we are. 

One of the comments from my last post -- “secret” -- was from a friend who mentioned that he prefers not to follow people who use their 140 characters to type mindless asides on their sandwiches. I don’t intentionally follow sandwich-tweeters, either... but the sentiment echoed something I’d written in one of my Playbill.com guest-blogs from August 2010, wherein I suspected that the real reason the Library of Congress was archiving tweets was for the preservation of sandwich history, as Twitter posts (and Facebook status updates) often tend towards sandwich-centricity. Not even the brightest, smartest, and funniest tweeters are completely immune to it. 

It begs the question: did we always care this much about sandwiches? Or is sandwich obsession purely a byproduct of the Internet?

This, along with my currently being immersed in Downton Abbey, inspired the following attempt at polite chuckle-inducing... my imagining of how this all began:

secret

So here we are.

I have a secret to share with you devoted dozens:

I’m on Twitter. Sort of.

Hang on there, cowboys... I’m on Twitter, but I’m not me. I decided that in order to truly just dip a toe in the social networking waters, I should fly under the radar, so I have a completely made up name. Don’t bother looking. You won’t find it. It’s a name that is unrelated to anything or anyone you may have ever associated with me, my career, or this blog.

And it’s not necessary to look for me anyway, since I have not sent out a single tweet yet, and probably won’t, ever. I’m purely a follower. I can’t even think of what I would possibly want to wink-wink. 

You read that right: wink-wink.

pointing fingers

So here we are.

I am so angry at my pants. They have rebelled for some unknown reason and refuse to do what pants should do.

Gotta blame someone. That’s what we do, right? When we get bad news, or something goes awry or amiss... we point the finger at someone or something else. Because it can’t possibly be my fault.