Broken things, steady friends

Dear you,

My gig website is not functioning.  When attempting to download a writing submission, I get the spinning “processing” sign that goes on and on and on.  If I finally receive a document to work with after enduring the spin cycle, I hit another wall.  When I complete the writing review that takes at least thirty minutes, I cannot submit the work.  More spinning processing signs. Wasted time and wasted instruction, lost in the matrix.

Is it the fault of my internet service provider?  Is it the fault of my strangely haunted laptop?  Is it just faulty me, going through a phase of failed “processing”?

The source of glitching is irrelevant.  I just cannot do this anymore, rely on broken things for work or information.  For every problem, there is a solution, right?  Not in this case.  I have danced on this broken glass for months now and I surrender.

And as I type, just now, another thing broke. My Mediacom cable died. The sign this time is a black screen with a box informing me of a “scrambled channel or weak signal”.  So much for my beloved MSNBC background news stream.  Solution for this problem?  Nothing I can do in this case either.  Out of my hands.  I surrender again.

Carrying on, I turn on something that (for now) is reliable, the radio voices of NPR.  I am hearing updates about the Olympics.  I am hearing Wall Street news.  I am hearing political chat.  And none of this is glitching.  The only way this connection can be broken is if the power goes out.  And even that won’t matter.  This radio is battery powered too, part of an old school CD player/radio device.  It’s adorable.  And probably impossible to replace.

Carrying on considering late evening entertainment, I can turn on another reliable machine.  The DVD player.  If the cable is still down, I can pop in a classic like Sex in the City.  Which I have seen 5,678 times but whatever.  Sure, I could stream something on the Smart TV laptop connection, but I don’t want to risk possible “processing” annoyance.

And then for later-later, I have these things on my nightstand called library books.  They won’t burn my eyeballs like screen time.  They are physical and operate on their own power.  I can fall asleep on them or drop them on the floor without fear of breakage.  And that power outage thing?  I have a battery-operated camping light, good enough to read by.

I know if my cable is not back on tomorrow or if my gig-website drama continues, I won’t be happy.  I’ll be frustrated because I want those things too.  I just wished the new stuff worked as well as the old stuff.  I am not a Luddite.  I am a glutton for connection, the classic and the cutting edge. But I recall someone in one of those library books assessing that edge.  Something like if you live exclusively on the cutting edge, you are probably going to bleed.

I refuse to bleed over laptop spasms, digital-cable tantrums, or internet crashes (even as I attempt to post this blogette).  I won’t.  It just doesn’t matter.  I have my darling NPR radio, DVD player, and library books. 

Good friends don’t break. 

Invest in those.  And, oh, it's probably wise to get a landline too.

Love,

Joyce

Please mess with Texas.

 

Dear you,

My parents gave me a “Don’t Mess with Texas” coffee mug in the 90’s, bounty from one of their road trips west.  I loved that mug, perfect size, bright colors, amusing slogan.  It reminded me of good Texas stories and people, like the formidable Governor Ann Richards, strange Matthew McConaughey and Queen Beyonce.  Unfortunately, about a month ago, I dropped the mug on my stone floor.  Goodbye little cup.  I think perhaps this was no accident (see Freud).  I think, subconsciously, I was weary of Texas political antics and their freak governor (King Abbot) and took it out on an innocent souvenir.  Texas has gone so nuts their democratic legislators had to leave the state to stop the passage of a voting restriction bill.  Exiled in D.C., when they return the killer bill will pass anyway.  At least they tried to mess with Texas. 

Others are trying too.  Many are fighting this:

“Starting September 1^st, the state of Texas if offering a $10,000 bounty to any private citizen willing to sue another person who, in some way, helped make an abortion possible.  The potential list of targets for such lawsuits is endless: from a pregnant person’s doctor and nurses, a therapist or pastor who offered moral support, a partner who helped pay for the procedure, a friend (even an Uber driver) who drove the patient to the clinic.  Under the new law – which a group of doctors, clergy and clinic owners sued to block Tuesday – any or all of them could be taken to court by a stranger with no connection to the patient whatsoever and forced to pay a minimum of $10,000 each, plus legal fees, for “aiding or abetting” an abortion.”  (rollingstone.com, 7/13/21).

Even an Uber driver.

This is all so very disappointing.  I liked to think of big red Texas as out there in libertarian land.  Do your thing and I’ll do mine.  Now they are among the biggest and reddest puritanical purge zones in America.  Just imagine the havoc this bounty thing will create.  Every small or big town goody goody will be ratting out hot young women who might just be suffering from belly bloat one day and then got over it the next.  “I swear to you Roxanne was fully with child yesterday when I saw her at the Whattaburger.  Now she’s back to normal.  She should go to jail. And I’m calling my lawyer on that liberal pastor of hers.  He denies the truth about the Earth being 6,000 years old and I just bet you he had a hand in this.”

Things are going to get really ugly in the Lone Star State.

Good luck to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, every owner of a “Keep Austin Weird” coffee mug and all the Roxannes too.

It is time to totally mess with Texas.

Love,

Joyce

 

 

 

Messy Holiday

 

Dear you,

How was your 4^th of July holiday?

The Gulf of Mexico was on fire near the Yucatan due to gas/oil leaks and corporate errors.

Afghanistan began falling to the Taliban after our exit.

Ransomware attacks continued.

Our “new” climate produced a heat dome in the northwest that killed millions of seashore creatures.

SCOTUS laid down a decision to further eviscerate The Voting Rights Act.

Surfside residents die in a condo collapse.

These events, and others, muted the expected joy associated with the 4^th of July holiday, at least for me.  I try not to be a Debbie Downer, but attempts at celebration fell flat.  Even our fireworks along the 30A coast were underwhelming, dampened by weather and something else in the air.  I can’t find the perfect word for that something else, but it’s like the feeling I get when I pass other condo units whose guests leave garbage outside their doors.  The above photo is one of the less horrifying examples.  I passed some of the occupants and complimented them for their “fabulous art installation”.  They had no clue what I meant.  “You know, that interesting pile by your door.”  Clue given.  Expressions shift to glares.  Twenty-four hours later, the pile is bigger.  They are free to do this.  And I am free to not clean up their mess.  Messy.  That’s the perfect word for all of this, the significant things like the above list and the insignificant things like filthy condo guests.

What should I do?  I do need to clean up this mess.  Keep pushing politically to reign in (or end) the fossil fuel industry.  Send checks to organizations who can, maybe, help the Afghani women.  Push for cyber-security as a key part of infrastructure.  Watch my own carbon footprint.  The Supreme Court and Surfside?  I don’t know.  For now, right this minute, I’ll start with the insignificant.

I am heading downstairs with a monster size garbage bag and cleaning up that mess by unit 10D.

My belated 4^th of July celebration.

Happy-Messy 4^th of July! 

Love,

Joyce

 

 

Greg Locke from Old Dirt Road

 

Dear you,

Be very glad you are anywhere but in the Panhandle beach scene now.  The crowding, anxiety, and general bad attitudes have reached all time highs; I guess I should say lows.  I dashed over to the west end of Panama City Beach to get a trim today and one of the stylists told me hotels are charging up to $700 a night now and through the July 4^th holiday.  $700 a night for PCB?  It is really trashy there, even more than here on 30A. Chatty haircutter also told me her phone is blowing up, “friends” calling from Georgia, begging for a place to crash.  Georgia, again, the Marjorie Taylor Greene type of Georgia, coming in hard and steady.  Them, and of course Tennessee guests, disembarking by the truckload all over the place.  These TN visitors may or may not be devotees of that state’s demented pastor, Greg Locke, featured above with our favorite pillow guy.

Locke is in the news because of his latest sermonette-rant informing his audience that Pence is Judas, VP Harris is a “jezebel demon”, and Biden is a sex-trafficking “mongrel, he’s of the left, he ain’t no better than the Pope and Oprah Winfrey and Tom Hanks and the rest of that wicked crowd.”

Oh. Dear. God.

Who is stupid enough to believe this man?  His church, Global Vision Bible Church, is located in Wilson County, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville.  As usual, I suggest you use your Google, check out the organization and their website littered with mission statements like “we believe the Bible is the perfect Word of God.”  Greg, Greg, Greg, ever hear of the Council of Nicea and Emperor Constantine, the clever creator of Christian theology brain-twisters like:  Jesus is the son of god but not God-god, but still all blended in with god because, you know, one substance, so same but not because the Holy Spirit is included in the clump as a ghost that is holy, not like Casper zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Sorry, I tend to doze off when overwhelmed by bullshit.  But I can promise you whoever god is, she is really getting tired of these holy roller jackasses making stuff up. But back to Pastor Greg.  The website also posted his church address.  It is on Old Dirt Road, Mt. Juliet, Wilson County, Tennessee.

Old. Dirt. Road.

So, as I do my daily power walk around the complex and check out the license plates of current guests, I will be on the lookout for Wilson County, Tennessee.  I will inspect their tires carefully and see if I can spot a lot of “Old Dirt”.  Then I’ll know what areas of the complex to avoid this week.

I hate it here.

Love,

Your wicked, Jezebel demon Joyce

Bad Pants

 

Dear you,

Juneteenth and Father’s Day, a combo weekend of looking back and looking forward while celebrating whatever the present is.  Before Juneteenth, I was thinking about labor again, prompted by constant complaints from our vacay crowds who slouch into Seagrove Beach relentlessly demanding service. There aren’t enough people to serve their food, clean their rentals, or ring up and stock product at stores they patronize.  I checked employment sites online to see what gigs were posted the most in my county. As expected, restaurant cooks, servers, bussers, hostesses and retail everything were in demand.  In the retail area, I saw a post by Lululemon, the infamous “yoga-inspired” athletic-wear company.  Our Lulu is west of me in Grayton Beach.  They need “educators”.  What?  Teachers?  Fitness trainers?  Why educators?

I found out.  This is yet another company with a hocus pocus mission.  Buy our stuff and be better.  Buy our stuff and be spiritual.  Buy our stuff and be John Galt, Ayn Rand’s model for self-interest.  The ad was long and filled with strange contradictions like this:

“You integrate fun and joy as a way of being and working (aka you don’t take yourself too seriously).”

“You lead with courage, knowing the possibility of greatness is bigger than the fear of failure.”

Okay.  The first descriptive wants the Lulu salesperson to be bubbly and chill; hey, we just sell stretch pants here so whatever.  But then the second suggests the Lulu salesperson should be like Rosa Parks or Ruth Bader Ginsburg, serious people doing serious things, not just sales pitching lycra.  When the ad is edited, the job comes down to this:  you must be available any day and any hour; you must render geisha-like customer service while answering phones, restocking, and cleaning out dressing rooms; you must man the point of sale device while doing all that; you must do inventory; you must close the store, open the store, clean the store (toilets too), and take out the trash; you must prepare garments for hemming and pinning etc., etc.

In other words, you are working retail darling. Where does the educating thing come into play?  Oh, here:

“You are an expert in creating world-class guest experience in our retail stores.  You deliver this experience by connecting with our guests, sharing top-quality product education, and speaking authentically about our community and culture.”

Okay.  Describe the stretch pants.  And testify about our “culture” like a cult member.

We really need to be freed from this kind of bullshit labor.  If you want to buy (or sell) a decent pair of stretch pants, you can get them at Walmart for less than $20; they will last a long time and the cashier who rings you out is now being paid a decent wage without having to speak big love for Wally.  Plus, she doesn’t have to clean the bathroom at closing. Or “lead with courage”.

Dear Lulu, leading with courage is something Juneteenth celebrants understand for real.  As do all our good fathers.  So, drop the act and own what you do.

You sell stretch pants.

Happy Juneteenth! Happy Father’s Day! (Even to the vacay dad I encountered yesterday who was flagrantly peeing in the parking lot.)

Love,

Joyce

Long hot summer headline haiku . . .

 

Dear you,

I asked my friend Eric for an assignment yesterday, something schoolish and diverting.  He said do a crossword puzzle and pick three words from it for a haiku.  This would satisfy one of my basic needs to create order out of chaos, shape something into a disciplined form.  I know I am not alone, feeling rattled by the cacophony of current events. Like Yeats said, “things fall apart; the centre cannot hold”.  With that in mind, I adjusted the assignment a bit; instead of a crossword, I would use the news as a base.  Headlines read like poetry sometimes, dry facts delivered with cold concision, like Morissettte’s jagged little pills. 

So, here are my adapted headline haikus, honoring the 5-7-5 syllable form (minus referencing nature):

From The New York Post:

Last night mass shootings

Stoke fears in three shaken states

A bloody summer

From The Hill:

                China takes a stand

                “Days of small groups ruling world

                Are very over”

From CNN.com:

                Trump’s tariffs haunting

                Kentucky’s whiskey makers

                Red state self-destruct

From ABC News:

                McDonald’s patron

                Spits at one poor worker bee

                Then shoots another

From NBC News:

                She is like my Mom

                Says Biden post tea party

                With iconic Queen

From Joyce News Wire (a.k.a, the voices in my head):

                In Floribama

                Sunburnt anxious souls acting

                As if pain is fun

Another from Joyce News Wire:

                In spite of all this

                Earth on fire and dissonance

                My cat naps smiling

And to close, I mimic the famous words of newsman Walter Kronkite as he signed off every night:

                That’s the way it is

                This good Sunday June Thirteen

                Twenty Twenty One

Haiku, over and out.

I may not be able to adjust the reality of current events, but at least I can mush them into a 5-7-5 pattern.

We do what we can.

Thanks, Eric!

Joyce

Pride, look for the rainbow . . .

Dear you,

Happy LGBTQ Pride Month! 

Hot pink: Sex

Turquoise: Magic/Art

Red: Life

Violet: Spirit

Orange: Healing

Yellow: Sunlight

Green: Nature

These are colors that can be found in versions of Gilbert Baker’s rainbow flag.

I went bopping around the condo complex looking for those colors on balcony flags or even on bumper stickers.  Well, you know where I live; the odds weren’t good. I went from building one to building fourteen searching for that rainbow or any progressive symbol.  Other than the occasional innocuous “Honor Student on Board” or “Adopt a Rescue Pet” stickers, I didn’t find much.  At least those messages made me smile.  But then I saw this on somebody’s rear window:

How lovely. Is this like a patriotic fetish thing or something? I wasn’t sure what this flag skull was all about, so I turned to the ever-useful Google for basic information.  I learned this image is based on the Marvel Comics Punisher character.  The creator did not intend it to be used as it is these days, as a sign of support for ultra-conservative, far-right movements.  Salon.com, 2019, featured an article with this headline: “The Punisher skull: Unofficial logo of the white American death cult”.  A bit from that article by David Masciotra: “One of the impetuses for its popularity was a reactionary objection to the Black Lives Matter protest movement.  Thoughtless defenders of police amid allegations, or even video evidence, of unethical use of fatal force, adopted the Punisher skull as a sign of loyalty to the unbreakable ‘blue line’.”

The Skull flag. A symbol of violence, literalism, death, callousness, disease, ignorance, and nihilism.

The Rainbow flag. A symbol of sex, magic/art, life, spirit, healing, sunlight, and nature.

Considering the contrast, the rainbow wins. Simple math:  Rainbow Flag > Skull Flag

Saluting everything that is “greater than” during this LGBTQ month, year, era . . .

Love,

Joyce