tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889024050410765192024-02-08T08:36:35.317-08:00Random Ruminations, Reasoned or RabidIolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-46962533421229742662017-09-06T07:27:00.000-07:002017-09-06T07:28:26.166-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><i><span style="font-size: 20pt; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-numeric: normal; letter-spacing: 0.55pt;">BÊTE NOIRE:</span></i></b><b><span style="font-size: 20pt; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-numeric: normal; letter-spacing: 0.55pt;"> THE TELEPHONE...</span></b></span><b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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For as long as I can remember, I have always disliked the
telephone. No, let me amend that: HATED the telephone. In my view, it’s always
been an infernally intrusive pest, an insidious serenity-disrupting nuisance.
For me, the ringing of a telephone doesn’t engender feelings of curiosity, or
excitement, or anticipation; <i>au contraire</i>,
my overwhelming reaction is invariably some mental variation of “Shut the
<bleep> up and leave me alone!” </div>
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Of course, most folks have no such issues with answering a
call; they pick up the phone, say “Hello?” and cheerfully proceed to engage
with whomever and/or whatever is on the other end. Frankly, I don’t understand
how anyone can maintain their composure in the face of so many horrible possibilities...
I mean, think about it! Oh, sure, it <i>might</i>
be Publishers Clearing House informing you that you’ve just won all the gold in
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Knox</st1:placename></st1:place>. OR –and infinitely more likely– it
<i>could</i> be the IRS saying that you owe <i>them</i> all the gold in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Knox</st1:placename></st1:place>.
OR a wrong-number moron wanting to speak with Mr. Elmo Bugg. OR some idiot
offering to sell you condo timeshares in Leviticus Notch, <st1:state w:st="on">Iowa</st1:state>. OR The-Most-Annoying-Guy-In-The-World inviting
you to come with him to Wal-Mart for the Annual Bowling Ball Blowout Sale. OR
the eight millionth telemarketer with a Bangladeshi accent asking if you’re
home. OR... but you get the idea, right? Call me a paranoid old mossback, but I
am <i>done</i> with putting the receiver to
my ear and hearing some obvious cretin demand, “Who IS this??” </div>
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Now, it wasn’t as bad in the good old days (cue me angrily
waving my cane and shouting) when telephones were restricted to homes and
booths on the street. Back then, you could actually evade the nerve-shredding <b><i>BRR-I-NNG!</i></b>
by driving in your car, going to the beach, relaxing with a book under an elm,
or climbing <st1:place w:st="on">Mount Whitney</st1:place>. But nowadays, since
the advent of portable cell phones –which, I am convinced, will hasten humanity’s
inevitable extinction– there is no escape. <i>Everyone</i>
has a phone, and they take the blasted thing <i>everywhere</i> they go; it’s become more of an appendage than a device.
Not only that, cell phones have seemingly become the primary form of
human-to-human communication: abominations such as “texts” and “tweets” have
not only reduced large segments of the populace to glassy-eyed fanatical phone-peckers
(including the orange-haired you-know-who), but have given rise to an execrable
form of shorthand typified by hideous acronyms like “ROFL” and “SYL”, or even
worse, bastardized misspellings such as “UR” for “you’re”. Alas for the English
language! The ability to converse in complete, grammatically-correct sentences
has been so vitiated by this cell-phone/tweet/text addiction that I wouldn’t be
surprised if, in the near future, humans lose the capacity to speak in anything
other than grunts and squeals, like wild pigs or tapirs... <i>sic transit gloria mundi!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Fortunately for me, I have an amazingly wonderful
Significant Other who has none of these issues. Cool as a cucumber, she wields
her iPhone with aplomb & skill, taking messages, arranging appointments,
keeping everything from dissolving into chaos, and thereby sparing me the
necessity of ever using my own iPhone for anything other than playing idiotic
slot machine games based on Willy Wonka. Not only that, but being highly
educated, she speaks in beautiful complete sentences that are music to my ears, <i>and</i> she absolutely shares my loathing for “<st1:city w:st="on">UR</st1:city>”
and “LOL”. Bless her heart! </div>
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But I still HATE the damn telephone, and– hey, wait, check
it out! I just won 54 million dollars on the Oompa-Loompa Bonus... wow!
Peck-peck-peck-peck...</div>
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SYL,</div>
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<i><b><span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;">Lannie Woulff</span></b></i></div>
Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-81686941242657226332017-08-21T16:12:00.000-07:002017-08-21T16:12:41.044-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #3d85c6;">OF TOURISTS AND LOCUSTS...</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i><b>“Behold, tomorrow I
will bring locusts into your territory, and they shall cover the face
of the earth, so that no one can see the land. And they shall eat what is
left to you... and they shall fill your houses and the houses of all your
servants, as neither your fathers nor your grandfathers have seen, from the day
they came on earth to this day...”<o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<i><b> Exodus 10:
4-6</b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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As I anticipate the upcoming thirtieth glorious year I have
lived here in lovely Palm Springs, my mind overfloweth with appalling visions of
crowded sidewalks, congested streets, overflowing restaurants, clogged traffic,
lumbering RVs signaling left from the right turn lane, jam-packed movie
theaters, supermarket aisles swarming with pallid Midwesterners buying cheap
Styrofoam beer coolers and fluorescent green float noodles... in short, all the
horrendous mental pictures that can only mean one thing: once again,
inevitably, it’s TOURIST SEASON!!</div>
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Dammit to hell! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr...</div>
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Do I sound like a crusty, cranky, misanthropic old
curmudgeon? Good, because that’s exactly what I <i>am</i>... at least from October, when the weather cools and the tourists arrive, through the
end of May, when the intensifying solar furnace finally scares away the few
remaining vacationeers (‘snowbirds’), who mistakenly consider daytime
temperatures of 101° to be “hot”. (We long-term locals don’t even take notice
below 110°.) Then –Hallelujah!– the roads clear, the crowds vanish, the birdies
sing (until they collapse from heatstroke) and peace reigns once more in our
sleepy little desert paradise. </div>
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Of course, a churlish attitude like mine is distinctly at odds with
those of the city fathers, merchants, and restaurateurs, whose livelihoods
more-or-less depend on this annual invasion by multitudes of cash-dispensing
out-of-towners. Yeah, I get it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I
mean, how would <i>you</i> feel being mired
in traffic behind a behemoth Winnebago from <st1:state w:st="on">Saskatchewan</st1:state> going half the speed limit and
slowing down to gawp at every Burger King as if it’s the Taj Mahal?? Trust me,
you wouldn’t, especially when it transforms what would be a ten-minute drive
during off-season into an hour-long patience-shredding nightmare. </div>
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Meanwhile, since I really don’t want to stroke out from road
rage, over the years I have adopted certain survival techniques to keep from
losing my mind: First, whenever I’m compelled to venture forth into the tourist
maelstrom, I’ve learned to stick to hidden back roads and out-of-the-way
routes; which, while longer distance-wise, at least aren’t frozen into near
immobility like the main thoroughfares. Also, I have gotten to the point where
even from a distance I can instantly recognize –and execute fast lane-changes
to avoid– many of the alien license plates, especially those from states where everyone,
and I do mean <i>everyone</i>, seems to be
in desperate need of remedial driving lessons. (The worst of these odious
plates sports a detestable little green tree; every time I spot one, I can feel
my blood pressure exploding upward.)</div>
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But you know what’s really odd? Despite this systemic
antipathy toward tourists, I have actually spent most of my life living in various
vacation destinations: St. Thomas, in the Virgin Islands; Eilat, on the shores
of the Red Sea in Israel; New York City (a brobdingnagian concrete termite’s
nest but nonetheless a tourist mecca for sure); and even Washington D.C., where
nary a day goes by when the entire metro area isn’t smothered under a tidal
wave of visitors. Come to think of it, the only time I truly escaped the
tourist hordes was when I lived by myself on a small family farm in <st1:place w:st="on">Northern Virginia</st1:place>: twenty-five acres, me, my cat, some
cows, and blessed <i>peace</i>... “Far from
the madding crowd”, as it were. </div>
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Now, by way of being somewhat less of a grouch, I suppose I
could –should?– try to feel a bit more welcoming toward all these goggling,
clueless, perpetually lost, sunburned, camera-toting, traffic-jamming,
beer-quaffing, economy-stimulating human locusts... but no, I’d better not. My
Malcontent Certification is coming up for renewal, and I can’t take a chance on
it being revoked.</div>
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In conclusion, let me say this: If you’re ever thinking
about coming to <st1:city w:st="on">Palm Springs</st1:city>,
my advice is... don’t. Just say ‘no’. Please. It’s not all that great, anyway. Would
I lie? Dusty, hot, boring... Seriously, why not go somewhere <i>really</i> interesting, like <st1:place w:st="on">Tristan da Cunha</st1:place>?</div>
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Y’all be good (or not),</div>
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<i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;"><b>Lannie Woulff</b></span></i></div>
Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-79467914366973175372017-08-13T12:16:00.000-07:002017-08-13T12:16:04.480-07:00<b><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">SCRUFFIES...</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
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Having lived my first five
decades on the male side of Gender Street, I am naturally familiar with the
ever-ongoing masculine imperative to be obsessed with all manner of “guy”
things: Cars, sports equipment, firearms, motorcycles, snakes, knives, cherry
bombs, dirt, profanity, fake rubber vomit, enormous dogs, itching powder and so
forth. It’s all perfectly natural, and to be expected; as the old rhyme goes:
“Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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But perhaps <i>the</i> most guy-ish, testosterone-y thing
of all is... wait for it... drum roll... FACIAL HAIR. Beards, mustaches,
sideburns, muttonchops, handlebars, the nubs; by whatever name, they are all
variations on a hirsute theme that’s as old (maybe even older) than <i>homo sapiens</i> itself. Have you ever seen
a depiction of a clean-shaven Neanderthal? I haven’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, back in my guy days, I
too harbored a powerful longing to obscure my distressingly smooth features
with coarse black hair... although, in my case, the coarse black hair never really
materialized, or even got much past the silky fuzz stage. Possibly my body was
trying to inform me that I was really a girl and that I should abandon such a
futile endeavor, but in any event, my efforts were... well, somewhere between
pathetic and dismal. Being a bullheaded sort of fool, however, I did finally manage to grow a meager mustache –it
took me three <i>years</i>– that would have
made Fu Manchu die of embarrassment, which I mistakenly believed made me look
more manly. (To this day, I cannot look at old pictures of Mustachioed Me
without wanting to hide in a cave somewhere.) In the end, I shaved it off the
same day I quit wearing a filthy disgusting baseball cap and initiated my
gender transition. The ‘stache has been gone for going on two decades now
(hallelujah) and will <i>never</i> come
back, thanks to five years of incredibly painful, incredibly expensive, and
incredibly worth-it electrolysis... yay!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where am I going with this?
Well, I’ll tell you. One of my current pet peeves/rants/diatribes has to do
with the fact that nowadays so many men of all ages run around sporting the
wildly-popular, damn-near <i>ubiquitous</i>
Unshaven Look... what I refer to as The Scruffies. As you may have guessed, I
am NOT a fan of this trend; to me, it makes guys look unkempt, shabby, lazy,
smelly (even if they aren’t), unsavory, and generally primitive. Plus, looking
at these horrible facial umbras always makes me <i>itch</i>. What on earth possesses guys to do this?? I simply can’t see
the attraction; although, full disclosure, my beloved Significant Other assures
me that LOTS of women not only don’t mind, but actually LIKE fields of bristles
on their men’s cheeks. Well, possibly so... but if you ask me, they need to
have their heads examined.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When did this Scruffy
phenomenon start? Where did it originate? Well, here’s my theory: Those of us
getting on in years surely remember the 1980’s television series <i>Miami Vice</i>, with its pastel colors,
cigarette boats, non-stop gunfire, and criminal druggies being dispatched by
Detectives Tubbs and Crockett... the latter played by perpetually unshaven Don
Johnson, who, I firmly believe, established for all time the archetype of the
Scruffy Sexy Hero. Thanks a lot, Don... I loved your show, but why-oh-<i>why</i> couldn’t you find a damn razor??<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, many –in fact,
probably most of today’s young Scruffies never even heard of Don Johnson or <i>Miami Vice</i>... and yet, here they are by the
millions, polluting the landscape with unshorn facial follicles by the <i>trillions</i>, and it just drives me nuts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As it happens, I am greatly
blessed to have two magnificent young gentlemen in my life. One is a nephew,
brilliant beyond words, thoughtful, kind, with a heart bigger than the planet
Jupiter. The other is my soon-to-be stepson, a genial six-foot-five ripped
Adonis who is so blindingly gorgeous that he blots out the sun... I kid you
not. Do I even have to bother telling you that BOTH of these incredible male
specimens are card-carrying Scruffies? With <i>heavy</i>
facial growth?? Whenever either of them comes for a visit, I cringe inwardly,
hoping against hope that they will have picked up a Bic or a Norelco or a
machete and MOWED THE LAWN... For the love of God, Montressor!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Needless to say, my wishes go
unfulfilled, and I end up being heartily kissed by what feels like a wire
barbecue brush. Naturally, with typical male good humor, both my beautiful boys
find Lannie’s "Scruffy" issues quite hilarious. They chortle, tell me how much
they love me, kiss me <i>again</i> (ouch!)
and promise to shave the next time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, you know, bless their
hearts, once in a blue moon they actually <i>do</i>...
but not nearly often enough. And it grows back overnight! Hopeless...<o:p></o:p></div>
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Envisioning a clean-shaven
world,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Until next time,</div>
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<i><b><span style="color: magenta; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">Lannie Woulff</span></b></i></div>
Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-56723739805115437372017-07-16T09:50:00.000-07:002017-07-16T09:50:08.894-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">SCAM DOGS...</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Another fine
Sunday morn here in blistering hot Palm Springs... perfect time for another
unhinged rant, so let’s have at it, shall we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">I am <i>not</i> a dog person. From earliest onset of
awareness, I have been a cat fanatic. (Actually, thanks to gender transition, I
can now proudly claim to be a Crazy Old Cat Lady, which pleases me to no end.) Now,
I don’t mean to re-ignite the eternal Cat vs. Dog debate (the conclusion is
obvious, anyway) and I hasten to point out that I am, and always have been, an
all-around animal lover. In my view, ALL the beasties are fabulous creatures
and more-or-less preferable to <i>homo
sapiens</i>: Aardvarks, kinkajous, macaques, lemurs, iguanas, flying squirrels,
cats, tigers, lions, leopards, panthers, black widow spiders (whose habit of
devouring their male counterparts after mating is extremely cool), and yes, dogs
too; especially wolves, who are indescribably magnificent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">But having
said which, I repeat: NOT a dog person. To me, dogs’ servile adoration of
humans, aside from being wholly unwarranted, isn’t an appealing character
trait. Neither is their happy willingness to chase sticks, bite at tires, bark
incessantly, and leave steaming piles anywhere, any time. I just don’t see the
attraction, y’know? I mean, if your kid did these things, how long would you
stick around??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">But there is
one dog-related issue that chaps my butt more than any other: the whole
“service dog” thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Now mind
you, there is no question that so-called “Service Dogs” do exist; absolutely
they do, and what’s more, they are extraordinarily brave and devoted animals,
deserving the highest admiration. My parents owned a retired service dog once,
a Golden Retriever named Newman, and by gosh that pooch was a hell of a lot
smarter than 98% of the people currently serving in Congress, to say nothing of
more honest. Newman passed away years ago, and I honor his memory to this day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">But what
drives me hopping mad is the way so many undeservedly-entitled dog-owners
assign the respected “Service Dog” designation to any old undistinguished cur,
just so they can take it places where ordinary dogs aren’t customarily allowed.
Seriously, where do they get off?? Just because it’s easy to buy some cutesy red
dog vest online that says “Service”, that doesn’t mean you can bring your
hideous Patagonian Poop-Yap into a restaurant where I’m eating! Bloody outrageous,
I say. Especially repugnant are these teacup-sized little horrors who are lovingly
referred to as “Therapy Dogs”... gimme an effin’ break. Their owners need
therapy, all right, LOTS of it, but they ain’t gettin’ it from some misbegotten
mutt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">The worst
part of all this is that by co-opting a title that rightfully belongs to the highly-trained
GENUINE service dogs , these canine frauds diminish the respect level that the
others have rightfully earned... and I think that’s just plain wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Nonetheless,
it bears pointing out that, as is always the case, the fault here lies entirely
with the humans, not the animals. Whatever else they may be, like them or not, dogs
–and all other animals– are permanently, unassailably innocent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Uh-oh, I
better shut up now. My Therapy Cat, Xena, is fixing me with a baleful glare that
says, “Dammit, are you scribbling away in that idiotic blog again??)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Until next
time, take care, have a good’un.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;">Lannie Woulff</span></i></b></span></div>
Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-66593567398322831982017-07-07T15:18:00.000-07:002017-07-08T12:16:20.702-07:00OF INDOLENCE...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">It’s been
six years since I posted an entry in this blog. Six years... wow! That may
strike some as an astonishing display of idleness, but the fact is, it’s quite
consistent with my lifelong habit of being spectacularly lazy. You see, I am
inordinately fond of Doing Nothing, and in fact have perfected it into
something of an art form. Whilst the rest of humanity ceaselessly scampers
hither-and yon with almost frantic haste, I am perfectly content to sit on the
sidelines, my mind in neutral, in a bemused state that, at full strength,
leaves me only dimly aware that I’m alive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Now, lest
you think otherwise, this is <i>not </i>the
same as meditating. From what I gather, meditation actually takes some <i>effort;</i> which, of course, is utterly
incompatible with sure-nuff sloth. I mean, if emptying the brain requires any
concentration at all, it’s far too much work for the likes of me. Not that
sitting cross-legged for hours droning OMMMMMMMMMMMMMM isn’t an admirable way
to kill time, but it’s still <i>activity </i>(sort
of), and consequently far “outside my wheelhouse”, as the saying goes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">As you might
suspect, some folks find my penchant for being lazy annoying, if not downright
disreputable. This is especially true of my loved ones, who are mostly high-IQ
go-getters with endless accomplishments and accolades to their credit. My late
mother, a brilliant lady, never got anything less than an ‘A’ all the way from
kindergarten through college –a feat which I easily managed not to replicate–
and my lethargy drove her nuts. (Sorry about that, Ma.) The thing is, from the
outset I found school to be a stupefying bore; pretty much the only thing I liked
about it was the opportunity to sit for hours and daydream while the teacher
babbled incessantly about things no reasonable person would want to know. I
mean, who in their right mind gives a flying fick about the <st1:place w:st="on">Gadsden
Purchase</st1:place>??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Still, every
rule has an exception, and on a few occasions I have “gotten it together”, as
they say, and actually <i>done</i> stuff.
When I was a lazybones thirteen-year-old boy I absolutely <i>rocked</i> my bar-mitzvah, blew the entire congregation away with my high-C
soprano reading of the weekly Torah portion (the longest of the year, natch). I graduated from Princeton (God knows how), then in my early thirties I emerged from my
comfortable torpor long enough to not only open a marine sporting goods
boutique on the shores of the <st1:place w:st="on">Red Sea</st1:place>, (which
was madness) but to go bankrupt doing it (which was inevitable). There have
been other minor eruptions of industry along the way, none of which had any
real lasting impact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">But amazingly, and of most significance, I have written not one but <i>two</i>
novels (pretty good ones, too) and am well into a third. How I’ve managed to do
this is an absolute mystery to me, since writing is some of the hardest work
imaginable. Still, incomprehensible or not, I must admit that it isn’t altogether unpleasant to be able to say “Hey, look
what<i> I</i> did!” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">I’ll don't suppose I will ever understand
the Type A workaholic busy-as-a-bee mindset, but so it goes. As far as I'm concerned, live and let live,
and long may everyone prosper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Good
heavens... this post has gone on for far too long, and I’m much too lazy to write anything else... for now, at least. With luck, I'll be back before another six years has elapsed.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">Bye-bye and be well,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><i><b><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;">Lannie Woulff</span></b></i></span></div>
Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-75880159714104829562011-07-11T18:47:00.000-07:002011-07-11T18:47:48.577-07:00VULGARITY OF EXCESS: WEDDINGS...Attention, all you (putatively) happy young couples out there who are in the process of arranging your nuptials: <strong><span style="color: red;">CAUTION! DO NOT READ.</span></strong> This blog post will undoubtedly rub you the wrong way, and far be it from me to tread on your bliss. May you be blessed and live happily ever after!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>{Rice} {Cheers} {Tears} {Etcetera}<br />
<br />
To continue: As humanity continues its downward spiral into madness, certain formerly agreeable rites and rituals have gradually evolved from sweetly sentimental heartfelt celebrations into massive vulgar orgies of conspicuous consumption that would beggar the spectacles once staged in Rome’s Circus Maximus. Baptisms, circumcisions, christenings, confirmations, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">quinceañeras; all of them have been whipped up into a loony meringue of excess, frequently leading to severe financial hangovers and years of indebtedness. Does it make sense? Of course not. (Any supposed religious overtones are steamrolled by the tsunami of expenditure; the Almighty cannot be invoked as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">raison d’etre</i> for this nuttiness.) So, what bizarre out-of-control engine is driving this crazy train?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Simple: I believe that the motivation behind such displays is nothing but plain old one-upsmanship, but taken to an extreme that is so far gone into the Twilight Zone that no one even realizes it anymore. Overindulgence has become the norm. By golly, if Larry down the street stages an absurd five-thousand-dollar extravaganza for his sweet sixteen princess, then Moe is damn well going to spend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ten </i>thousand bucks on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> princess and make Larry look like a tightwad until Curly spends <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">twenty</i> thousand dollars to bury them both in humiliation and cause both their daughters to despise them for being such cheapskates. On and on it goes on, a never-ending carousel ride of rampant avarice, growing ever more outrageous, teaching the impressionable young greedsters to equate love with a willingness to abuse the plastic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">You know, I remember many, many years ago reading a story about some demented Miami businessman who rented the entire Orange Bowl for his son’s Bar Mitzvah. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Orange Bowl! </i>I recall thinking at the time, “Whoa, that kid is seriously hosed.” Yeah, sure. More likely he’s a hedge fund billionaire battening on the corpse of our economy and perhaps renting Antigua for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> kid’s Bar Mitzvah.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Now, for pure runaway, bloated, maniacally costly overkill, nothing comes close to the modern wedding. Have you watched some of those wedding shows on television? Setting aside the monetary devastation, the level of angst and hysteria is so stratospheric that it absolutely astonishes me that anyone emerges from the process with their sanity intact, let alone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happy</i>. Months and months before the ceremony, the bride is reduced to a shrieking basket case by endless anxieties about the dress, (“Twelve thousand bucks and I look like an effing COW!”) the reception, (“I don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">care</i> if Uncle Mario is doing life in Pelican Bay, we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to invite him and his family!”) the color scheme, (“Goddamit, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> purple and mustard, okay, and that fag wedding coordinator can just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bite</i> me!”) the flowers, (“Cricket Feldman had six thousand camellias, and she’s a cheap <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">slut!</i>”) the music, (“I don’t want a bunch of old farts playing songs from a million years ago!”) the bridesmaids, (“Courtney and Sarah are such <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bitches</i>, I hate them!”) and of course, the mothers. (“Can both of you just please <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shut up</i> before I lose my mind?!”)<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The groom, naturally, is almost entirely excluded from these proceedings, since he is irrelevant. Every once in a while he’s collared and dragged into the mosh pit to be “consulted” about something or other, whereupon he offers a doomed grin like that of the male black widow spider, who knows full well what’s in store.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The crowning –and pitiful– irony of this lunacy is that a huge percentage of these marriages implode rather quickly, because wasted money is no guarantor of happiness, and in fact may even kill it. Sometimes it seems that the more outlandishly-priced the affair, the quicker it ends in ruin. The bride shows up in a flower-bedecked carriage drawn by twelve white stallions, the groom helicopters down in a Sikorsky, the guests slug down </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Piper</span>-<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Heidsieck by the gallon<b> </b></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">and devour enough Beluga caviar to sink a barge, and five weeks later the joyful couple separates, citing “irreconcilable differences”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The Beatles (anyone remember them?) had it right: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can’t Buy Me Love</i>.” Perhaps the song should be played at every one of these atrocities, until folks begin to remember <em>why</em> they get married in the first place. Hint, sweethearts, from your old Aunt Lannie: It <em>isn't</em> the par-tay.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Until next we meet,</div>Be at peace.<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span><b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 20pt;">Lannie Woulff</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span>Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-13168799268525978762011-07-07T20:57:00.000-07:002011-07-07T20:57:54.570-07:00CONFESSIONS OF AN EX-POLITICAL JUNKIE...<em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">As we enter the opening phases of another interminable election cycle, I find myself curiously –and refreshingly– detached from the impending chaos and lunacy. For the first time in my adult [caution: suspect adjective use] life, I am not fastened like a squid’s sucker to every single political column, article, forecast, diatribe, prognostication and poll (straw or otherwise) that I can find. To my surprise, a great sense of peace arises in my breast from not caring in the slightest which one of the Keystone Kandidates made a better impression on last Sunday’s assemblage of gun-waving yahoos at the annual mudsucker fry over in the key bellwether hamlet of Throwback Notch. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Still, this serenity of mine is a trifle worrisome. I mean, what’s happening to me? Have I started my final descent into that rheumy-eyed Happy Realm where all I care about is another bowl of applesauce and a new hearing aid?? Consternation! I mean, everyone knows that it’s </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">vitally important</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> to remain </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">completely plugged in</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> all the time to </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">everything</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> that’s happening </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">everywhere</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">... isn’t it? After all, one way another, these pols are going to be running the country –and by extension, our lives– for the foreseeable future, and if that isn’t a reason for panic, nothing is. How can I </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">not</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> be</span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> </span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">obsessed? <o:p></o:p></span></em><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Well, I may have a hunch. Over the past several years, I have come to suspect that all of this manic election hoopla really doesn’t amount to much. Sure, it’s the most wastefully expensive yell-fest in human history, but so what? In my jaded view, our “political system” is so hopelessly bollixed up that the whole nominating process resembles some sort of through-the-looking-glass freak circus, and following every bump, grind, waffle and self-implosion isn’t nearly as entertaining as watching desperate contestants get catapulted into vats of syrupy goo on </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Wipe Out</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">. I don’t know how many years I have left on this earth, but surely I can find something better to do with my time than worry about whether Mr. Flip-Flop, Lady Screech, or the Bug-eyed True Believer is ahead in the latest meaningless newspaper sampling.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And anyway, what I think is of no significance whatsoever. Nothing I do will affect the ultimate outcome. Admittedly I never miss a chance to vote (it’s my Good Citizen gene) but that doesn’t mean I’m kidding myself. After more than six decades, I have come to realize that nine times out of ten the majority will elect the Most Unqualified Idiot, so why work myself into an anguished lather? “BUT (S)HE WILL APPOINT A RIGHT/LEFT-WING MANIAC TO THE SUPREME COURT”, I hear you scream. Yeah, maybe so. And? It’s happened before, and we’re all still here. As my daughter has observed on occasion: “Just chill.”<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In any case, there is one tremendous additional benefit to be had by ignoring the political silly season: not having to listen to television pundits. To my way of thinking, few things –with the possible exceptions of junk hamburgers and insurance company executives– have done more to debase the quality of life in America than television pundits. I know, I know, the Almighty created all living things, including parasites, and I humbly accept that She had Her reasons; but seriously, even for a lower life form, the television pundit is so utterly lacking in worth that it truly boggles the mind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">When my mind is boggled, it compensates in peculiar ways. Herewith an example:<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The Pompous Political Pundit Show</span></b> <i><br />
</i><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Another dull Sunday... rainy and cold,<br />
sitting around and beginning to mold.<br />
Turn on the boob tube, hey, whattaya know?<br />
It's the Pompous Political Pundit Show!<br />
<br />
These pundits are usually good for some laughs: <br />
the ill-informed statements, the blunders, the gaffes,<br />
delivered with such a self-worshipping glow<br />
on the Pompous Political Pundit Show.<br />
<br />
One is a geek, and the other's a blonde; <br />
smugly convinced that they've got us all conned.<br />
Never make sense but they spin and they snow<br />
on the Pompous Political Pundit Show.<br />
<br />
Eager by turns to go out on a limb,<br />
making predictions that simply sound dim.<br />
Somehow I doubt that they'll ever eat crow<br />
on the Pompous Political Pundit Show.<br />
<br />
Hurling such rot from the left and the right,<br />
ego-crazed bullies who just want to fight.<br />
Being a jackass will get you a go<br />
on the Pompous Political Pundit Show.<br />
<br />
Yelled interruptions too garbled to follow,<br />
twisted statistics a dolt wouldn't swallow,<br />
shouting out facts that you know aren't so,<br />
on the Pompous Political Pundit Show.<br />
<br />
Clearly they don't believe viewers can think.<br />
That's why they waste so much airtime (and ink).<br />
I'm feeling ill. For the Maalox I go,<br />
from the Pompous Political Pundit Show.</b> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Enjoy the show... or not. I’ve got a good book to write.<o:p></o:p></span></em><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">Until next we meet,</span></div><span style="background: white;">Be at peace.</span><br />
<em><b><span style="background: white; color: magenta; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Lannie Woulff</span> <o:p></o:p></span></b></em>Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-75601094225608043182011-07-05T11:37:00.000-07:002011-07-09T06:20:53.563-07:00THE GIZMOPHOBE...<em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">You may have noticed that my blog (R4) is atypically uncluttered with pictures, icons, URLs, Google ads, Twitter come-ons, YouTube links, dancing rainbow Tasmanian Devils or any of the billion other little cyber-thingies that populate the blog world. Perhaps you suppose that this is due to a disturbing fondness on my part for expanses of abstractly-splotched pink watercolor background, but that’s not it.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">No, the reason that stuff isn’t there is because... well, because I am a true <b>gizmophobe</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></em><br />
<b></b><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;"><b>gizmo·phobia </b>(\'giz-mō-'fō-bē-ə) <i>n.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Fear of or aversion to technology, especially computers and high technology. (See also: <strong>Luddite</strong>, <strong>Neanderthal</strong>.)<em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">See, I have a serious fear of all things techie, geeky, nerdy, HTML-y, and so forth. (I suspect this came about because when I was still young and innocent my über-geek brother tried to ram DOS into my brain, leaving me cruelly traumatized and determined to forever avoid anything with a plug.) I don’t like cell phones (just looking at a Droid stresses me out), MP3 players strike me as alien and sinister, and I always offer prayerful thanks when the printer actually </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">prints</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> instead of exploding. (As for changing the ink cartridge... can I have a Xanax?)<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In light of this, it should come as no surprise when I confess that as I was setting up my fabulous blog, the actual </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">process</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> of assembling the components filled me with dread. I was confronted with an array of mysterious items: “templates”, “layout width”, “hover color”, and the like. Then, after an hour of tentative key taps to see what might (or might not) happen, I came across an elongated outline that proclaimed, in words striking terror to my very core: “INSERT GADGET HERE”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Horrors!<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Now, admittedly I’m a bit of a prude, but the thought of inserting gadgets </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">anywhere</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> is waay outside my comfort zone. What </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">kind</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> of gadget?? I didn’t </span><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">want</span></em><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> any stupid gadgets. I just wanted to write posts and have fun and try to be amusing and not be harassed and LEAVE ME ALONE ALREADY WITH THE GODDAM GADGETS!!<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Then, when I finally thought I’d gotten everything sorted out, I clicked on something called “Preview” to check it all out, and up popped one of those hideous messages that make 21st century life such a non-stop joy: </span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Internet Explorer cannot display the page because scrammis bollafip can’t virp splignit when you ick the screeble. Press ‘retry’ to retry, or ‘cancel’ to waste the entire past three hours because you are a lame loser from the previous century who would be more at home attending a husking bee than trying to use a computer. Error message: ICUR12BAtwit.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Sigh...<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="background: white; color: black; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I think I’ll go have some prune juice and practice using the can opener.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><span style="color: black;">Until next we meet,</span></span></div><span style="color: black;"> <span style="background: white;">Be at peace.</span></span><br />
<em><b><span style="background: white; color: magenta; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Lannie Woulff</span> <o:p></o:p></span></b></em>Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-32159081252592680802011-07-03T23:53:00.000-07:002011-07-09T06:22:56.734-07:00OF LOQUACITY...<span lang="EN">“Moderation ought never be taken to extremes." – <i>Anonymous </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>Well, okay. Anonymous didn’t say that. I did, during a recent doomed effort to transform myself into an aphorist along the lines of Messrs. La Rochefoucauld, Lichtenberg, and Wilde. I have always relished the keen or catty <i>bon mot</i>, and so I set out to become a master of the Pithy Truism.<br />
<br />
All very well, but I ran into a headwind straight away. These sorts of wise quips and witticisms all have one thing in common: they are <i>succinct</i>. As anyone who knows me will readily confirm, succinctness is not my forte. I have something of a tendency toward volubility; as my spouse is wont to observe, I can “download” until people want to cover their ears and scream. (Just to give you some idea, I could hold forth at great length on the subject of brevity.) True story: When my daughter was about three years old, she made the mistake of asking me an innocent question, whereupon I launched into an encyclopedic discourse about lord knows what. She scrunched up her beautiful little face, rolled her eyes and pleaded, “DAD! Don’t say more words.” I was so stunned and proud that I actually shut up, and that remains one of our most precious father-daughter memories to this day. Which, naturally, I recite in great detail at every opportunity, to her endless chagrin.<br />
<br />
Of course, this prolixity shows up in my writing, too. The first draft of SHE’S MY DAD emerged from my fevered mind at over 173 thousand words, from which I then cut almost 24 thousand. A <i>lot</i> of unnecessary long-windedness, to say the least. Determined to write more efficiently as I work on my new book, I sternly order myself to be concise and to the point, with no ruffles and flourishes. The result isn’t fewer ruffles and flourishes, but fewer words at all, since I’ve hamstrung myself from letting the prose flow naturally in a blathering torrent, which is the way I write. (Can you tell? Believe it or not, I heavily edited this entry.) That's what comes of trying to be brief, when one’s natural inclination is to be effusive.<br />
<br />
The one area where I did have a bit of luck at keeping things short was in the realm of poetry, even though poetry is the art of saying much in few words, whereas my art involves saying much, period. Nonetheless, I did manage to compose a few reasonably compressed poems, which folks seemed to find engaging rather than embarrassing. (Whew!) Here’s an example of my attempt at poetic concision:<br />
<br />
</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><div align="CENTER">Calming Waters</div></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"></span><div align="CENTER"><br />
<b>When the common uncommonly riles <br />
and constant strain of constant pain <br />
pops rivets from sanity's support beams,<br />
I yearn for refuge and renewal <br />
someplace on a solitary seacoast. <br />
<br />
Where salty waves mesmerize<br />
with metronomic eternity,<br />
isolated with my transience<br />
I seek to rediscover the serenity <br />
of relative insignificance.</b> </div><div align="CENTER"><br />
</div>Pretty succinct, right? <br />
<br />
But, as is said of the dinosaur DNA in <i>Jurassic Park</i>, “Nature always finds a way.” Before long, this is what I produced:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><div align="CENTER">The Porcine Pedant</div></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"></span><div align="CENTER"><br />
<b>It occasionally crosses my mind</b></div><b> <div align="CENTER">-- as a termite will a hotplate-- <br />
while I wallow porcine, pompous,</div><div align="CENTER">pickling in the brine of my megamorphic rectitude,<br />
that my wonderful existence as Emperor of the Over-Learned Bores,<br />
attained after a lifelong struggle to absorb more useless mental chaff than <br />
any mortal in history<br />
to be spewed as water from a busted hydrant in blathering cascades without end,<br />
may be placed in jeopardy by my own gluttonous disregard</div><div align="CENTER">for the mundane verity<br />
that a subsistence upon swollen ego and</div><div align="CENTER">oleaginous orotundity and</div><div align="CENTER">animal grease <br />
must inevitably result in ghastly bloat of form and deadly stress of ticker...<br />
<br />
But then!<br />
<br />
Secure in my conviction that the Almighty</div><div align="CENTER">daren't apply to my sociopathic rotundity<br />
the laws of physics by which She governs the rest of the Universe,<br />
I reach for yet another fistful of tallow</div><div align="CENTER">to pound into my over-clogged capillaries, <br />
bravely marching in Strasbourg goose-step to martial strains</div><div align="CENTER">played by McDonald's Cholesterol Band<br />
into a glorious future of back-pain and</div><div align="CENTER">wheezing for breath and</div><div align="CENTER">double airplane seats<br />
to accommodate a posterior grown broader than a Simmental cow's, <br />
over the cliff of myocardial infarction to that intellectually barren</div><div align="CENTER">Land of Rubber Tubes<br />
which lies just short of the</div><div align="CENTER">Kingdom of Mental Parsnips<br />
where nary an ignoramus can sight-translate</div><div align="CENTER">Trilobite me</div><div align="CENTER">from the original Aramaic<br />
and enemas lurk behind green curtains</div><div align="CENTER">waiting to pounce with radiator flush <br />
and Vaselined nozzles.</div><div align="CENTER"><br />
</div></b> Alas for brevity!<br />
<br />
Hmm... perhaps I should try my hand at writing a short story.<br />
<br />
Until next we meet,<br />
Be at peace.<br />
<b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Lannie Woulff</span> </span> </span></span></i></b><i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;"></span></span></i><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;"></span></span></span>Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-688902405041076519.post-36530890224621230242011-06-30T11:31:00.000-07:002011-07-05T09:07:27.795-07:00INITIATE FIRING SEQUENCE...<span style="background: white;">Right, then: With considerable reluctance, I have concluded that it is time for me to join the 21st century, succumb to the inevitable, and start my own blog. To do this, as a famous disgrace once declared, “is abhorrent to every instinct in my body.” </span><br />
<o:p></o:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">Well, too bad, Lannie. Get over yourself, get with the program, and start shooting your mouth off. It’s what you do most of the time anyway; that whole reticence thing is an affectation, and nobody likes a poser.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<span style="background: white;">Why now? Well, for one thing, they say it’s absolutely crucial for a writer to have a blog these days. Ah, you ask, but exactly who are THEY? Why, the very same all-knowing THEY who decree that you can’t give lamb chop bones to the cat (it might choke), or wear long hair if you’re over forty (tacky and pathetic), or read <em>Huckleberry Finn </em>(Twain is, like, such a racist), or believe that Beltway pundits have less collective sense than a rutabaga. THEY are the ultimate faceless authorities before whom we all cringe, and genuflect, and scuttle under the refrigerator, lest THEY think we have a mind of our own. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">By starting a blog, I can now become one of the mob, a sure-nuff member of the <em>blaberatti</em>, spewing forth declamations and opinions on anything and everything that strikes my fancy; an exercise in metastasized self-indulgence that really, when you think about it, is nicely reflective of the prevailing societal attitude these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">Incidentally, I truly loathe the word “<strong>blog</strong>”, which is unquestionably one of the ugliest words ever coined. It sounds like some sort of demonic troll in “Lord of the Rings” (yes, dears, I <em>know </em>that was the Balrog) but you get my point. Personally I would’ve preferred <strong>bdiary</strong>, <strong>bjournal</strong>, or even <strong>bchronicle</strong>, but no one consulted me, so we’re stuck with "<strong>blog</strong>”. Alas for the English language!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">Now, although like most writers I am tinged with megalomania and exist in a more-or-less permanent state of self-absorption, I’m fully aware that my blog will prove to be of no consequence whatsoever in the grand scheme of things. Actually, I’m sort of counting on it, because there’s great comfort to be had in embracing one’s utter unimportance. Besides, in a world already overflowing with such atrocities as reality television shows, aerosol cheese spread and Wall Street, this blog (hereinafter referred to as “R4”) will at best be a minor additional horror.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">I don’t often make promises, but here’s an exception, paraphrased from the mandatory Honor Code signature required on all academic submissions at my esteemed alma mater, Princeton: “I pledge my honor as a gentlewoman that, in writing this blog, I shall take neither myself, nor anything else, seriously.” </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><span style="background: white;">Since finally starting a blog,</span></strong><o:p></o:p></div><strong><span style="background: white;">Miss Lannie’s an Internet cog.</span></strong><o:p></o:p><br />
<strong><span style="background: white;">With consummate poise,</span></strong><o:p></o:p><br />
<strong><span style="background: white;">she adds her own noise,</span></strong><o:p></o:p><br />
<strong><span style="background: white;">which thickens the cyber-space fog.<o:p></o:p></span></strong><br />
<br />
<o:p> See what I mean?</o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">To quote Mr. Longfellow: “<em>Excelsior!</em>” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="background: white;">Until next we meet,</span><o:p></o:p></div><span style="background: white;">Be at peace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><em><span style="color: magenta;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Lannie Woulff<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></strong></span>Iolanthe "Lannie" Woulffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08322578129325319775noreply@blogger.com5