OK, Release the menopausal dawgs and let’s commence with some raging bull. How does one mother get her coed daughter to pick up her room? A room that has been condemned by the board of health and contains chalk outlines of discarded clothing. I opted to employ a demolition crew but I am not quite ready to renovate. And besides, I don’t think Ty Pennington and his escorts will handle just ONE messy room. I could just hear the extreme entourage now as they make it over to my spread wearing their designer denims and yielding a Holler Back megaphone:
“Good morning little rich kid in a fancy University! Are you ready for me and my pals to sashay into that room of yours with our pink backhoe to bulldoze the floor in order to locate the closet to hang up some of your clothes?”.
I could just imagine the incredible sob saga now as tearful Ty explains to his peeps how this “unfortunate college coed just can’t find the time to clean her room in between folding pizza boxes at work, shopping 24/7, and engaging in a free-floating night life; why this must devastate this child to come home at all hours of the night and find discarded Victoria undergarments lolly-gagging about withholding secrets and catering to dust bunnies. We at Extreme Room Decor sympathize with this poor unfortunate college student who’s mother has been unable to enter her room in two years without a crow bar. And what about the family pet that they thought was missing for two days but later surfaced nestled in with the neglected stuffed animals garnishing the floor of the walk-in closet. And imagine the humiliation felt when her brother posted a neon Yard Sale sign in her bedroom window flashing: Take This Crap Now….Yes folks, this is truly a site to behold. Never has the Extreme team ever been called upon to help this little darling sort out her life and her laundry!”.
Well thank you Ty from the bottom of my scrub bucket. But I really wanted to call the Swat team wearing their Hazmat suits to clean up this eye sore of toxic waistbands and T-shirts. I have contributed enough money to the Government and I think for the first time I should utilize my tax dollars in a more constructive way. Maybe I could get a special discount with the ATF as they send their German Shepherd’s in to confiscate the Air soft pellets embedded in the rug that were misfired by my son. Maybe Greenpeace could rid this haven harboring hazardous candy wrappers oozing chocolate residue onto the hardwoods from Halloween Two. Maybe I’ll give EcoNet a call to collect all the perfumed sprays and hair Gels lining the bathroom counter tops that clog up the household atmosphere . I’ll AXE them about the pipes later. Hopefully they can impose a little clean air in that act. Yeah, then I can contact the Wilderness Society so they can control the population growth of all their loose socks, because they are now down to ZERO pairs. Maybe notifying the Sierra Club will help to curb this nature vs Not- Picking -up -after -themselves-nurture and help stop the influence of the grass-roots growing under the Queen size beds. I would also like them to assist in the scented oil spills concealed in the cabinet doors. Yes, I think I am beginning to take a special interest in the undertakings of tackling this issue from a different standpoint. I could exercise my right to take advantage of these organizations which were surely formed for the sake of a mother wanting peace of mind and a pristine sleeping area ,instead of the urge to throw a stick of dynamite onto an unmade bed heaped with last weeks attire. Maybe these organizations will back me as I ransack her room and kick ass-ide the overgrowth of wet towels blanketing the bathroom floor. Maybe I’ll terminate her Land Rights and pull that filthy carpet right out from under her overstuffed laundry basket and see how she likes tripping over toppled shoes during the day.
Or maybe I’ll just help her move out in the Fall and condemn her to a life in a Dorm……………Payback, an Environmental Defense Mechanism.
This is dedicated to Sharon.
I would love to use this forum to air my dirty laundry, however, that would certainly be a sight for the neighbors, plus hanging Spanky and our gang of unmentionables outside the house is against the Home Owner’s Association Rules.
My undergarments are not what is at stake here it is the youngsters briefs I object to. Why do I have to be privy to someone’s boxers peering out between their shirt and their pants. Is this a manufacturer’s problem with fit and alignment or maybe the growth vs size of the teenager. At what point in a child’s life do their Osh Kosh By Gosh’s start to drop with age and their Levi’s lower like a hula hoop down to their knees.
I don’t get why these teens have a yearning to replicate a 1990’s flash in the pan singer’s pantaloons. I’m talking trousers that Can’t Touch That area that probably needs the most protection and support. Maybe it’s time to drop the arm & Hammer and get those gangsta designer’s to shrink that material to fit properly. I am tired of the public viewing of airplane prints ascending from the back ends of pre-pubescent bee-hinds. Ohh I see London..I see AIR France….
I have a teen who tried to pull down a fast one with his jeans one day, and I reprimanded him before he reached for the emergency exit in the house. I asked him “why do the kids have to wear their pants so low nearly below the hip line?”.
He shot back: “cause it’s cool.”
Oh, yes…I do see the breeze flowing through that rented space which I’m sure is creating a draft in that junk room.
What I recall in my school daze was that if the undies superseded the belt line it was a fair game of Brownie.
So I yanked my six foot offspring up by his Hanes and had enough of his Hanky Panky and decided to show him Hugo’s Boss. I replaced all his boxers with speedo size Tighty Whitey’s. That should add a little Diesel to his 3G network.(Quality never goes out of style…….Put that between your Calvin’s.)
I don’t know which sighting appeals to the eye worse; the boom blasting boxers or the slip of the thong.
Now, I know panties have gotten scanty over the decades, and I have watched them decrease in size since my grandmother’s era, but to nearly disappear and diminish to the range of a rubber band? That I don’t get. Form vs function just left the building.
One time while doing the laundry I threw my daughters sling shots mistakenly into the dryer and they macrame(d) themselves into a knitted cap. One thong dropped out during transport and my puppy retrieved it in his canines and rolled on his back using it as a Resistant Band with his elliptical back paws.
I can’t quite get a grip on this string of a foundation that covers less then the mentionable. I never liked the sensation of something falling through a crack and being forced to constantly search for a private corner to get out of a cheeky situation. When I was a Teen, Thongs were something you wore on your FEET at the beach, that would Flip-Flop hot sand up your ass. And THAT you would dig out later in the corner of the shower as your trailing mud pies….
I guess this is just a sign of the times and a prelude to arriving in our parents jodhpurs. I’m sure my mother hated when she took me shopping for underwear and had to pull me away from the bikini table and the rounders filled with Wonder Bra’s. I know it must have been difficult for her to accept the fashion revolution from 100% cotton coverage to 60% frill and lace. I don’t know how she would deal with my daughter’s skimpy elastic bands that I pull out of the dryer. She would probably think it’s the dental floss that fell out of her robe pocket.
Oh well just another generational mishap
© charlywalker2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links are acceptable, provided that full and clear credit is given to charlywalker with appropriate and specific direction via links to the original content.
When people write about their inner most thoughts or possibly about something they experienced (or didn’t) in life, they are exhibiting freedom of expression. When I read a piece about a tragic event I am emotionally moved to tears, but if a spark of light can reach that tragedy and turn the fears or tears to smiles that could instill hope and possibly give someone their last bit of laughter, would such a person be considered as heartless as the Tin Man before he met Dorothy on her way to OZ? I would never leave someone out in the rain all night….unless it were my teenage son who said he would be home from his party by midnight but showed up at the door at 1:37 a.m……AND, the only reason he was allowed to go in the first place was because he said he finished his homework, which I located later hidden in the abyss of his designer back pack crumpled into a form that resembles toe tissues you remove from a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s.
I have seen a lot of fear on tragic faces of folks I’ve never met and had to console their tears of fear and sedate their high anxiety. If you ever worked in an E.R. or an O.R. you have experienced the highs and lows of a human’s emotional tolerance level. I have seen high power executives shrink in their suits to have a thorn removed from their paw. I watched toddlers go under the knife and wake up refreshed searching for their Teddy Ruxpin’s to play with instead of crying out their complaints. Most of the things I have witnessed in these departments have me suppressed by the HIP(PA) and I am bound by not being able to expound. I did find though, while working in this eclectic paced environment it did host some of the most unusual suspects of employees, and the one commonality was that most everyone contained an innate sense of off the wall humor,sarcasm, wit, or Irony. Even the most prestigious department heads housed a Humorus funny bone under his/her scrubs.
Now the question lies with how does one not let that cutting edge harden the emotional arteries of a truly compassionate person. And, at what level of wit and retort do we consider a comment to be snide or funny? In the cartoon world we laugh when the Anvil drops on the head of Wile E. Coyote and watch him pop back up like an accordion unaffected by the crushing incident. He just stands there blinking eyes of revenge holding his anvil in his hands. Can a funny remark to someone in distress act like a crushing blow or could the humor help them forget their angst and make them rise above the pain. I found in most cases within the arena of urgent care ,people have felt the humor at some point while in a position of dire straits. I am not saying that protocol demands a stand up comic to meet and greet and tend to the adversity, but humor is a mandatory and beneficial gene in order to “carry on” in certain tragic situations. One setting called for an entire team to retrieve 27 raisins from an octogenarian’s nose. These little dried fruities were impacted in his nostrils almost to the point of no return.
Well, I bet you’re wond’rin how I knew how those raisins hopped into those dual openings, Well, I found out yesterday, about the plan that almost turned him blue: The grandpa was babysitting his grandsons and fell asleep in his recliner snoring like a dead madman, and the kids were just about to lose their minds. So the tots decided to stuff those little stinkers up grand daddy’s snout to silence the up-roar because the snoring interrupted their watching cartoons.
Sometimes it is very difficult to maintain a professional stance when the dance of the Kellogg’s raisinettes are staring you in the face with Marvin Gaye crooning through your head. You know a health professional ain’t suppose to cry, but the tears I couldn’t hold inside, I asked POPS if he has a problem with snoring and sleep apnea. Gasping in between his breaths he stated: “how did you know?”.
“Oh. Dontcha know? I heard it through the grapevine…”
He snorted out the remaining 20 raisins that were still hiding….
It took me by surprise, I must say…………..
And you thought this was a sensitive compassionate piece. Sometimes you just have to reach for the oil can…………..
Fasten your keyboards….. it’s going to be a bumpy blog. I love flying…in an airplane. I love being 35 thousand feet up in the air and staring down at the back sides of cloud formations. I love the feel of the jet engines revving as the plane bolts down the runway for take off. I love the ascent at a 45 degree angle where my belongings escape their captivity from under the seat in front of me. I await the clatter of the landing gear as the axle stretches to secure the bald Michelin’s into their hiding place. I love when the “OK” light goes off so I can plug my earphones into the armrest and settle in to their 90’s Muzak system. But my favorite airline attribute is having my very own video screen located on the seat in front of me to view the latest Blue Ray release…..uninterrupted…….except by the captain…..every 15 minutes…to give us an aerial tour guide of the earth below.
I don’t want to hear how the Rockies are “lovely this time of year covered in snow and temperatures below zero,” spoken to me with a voice that keeps clearing his throat of last nights frivolity with the crew. I want to land my eyes and ears on Brad Pitt in his tight WWII uniform spewing mean words from his bleached teeth and not some Inglorious Basterd breaking in on a scratchy Boeing 757 microphone to update me on demographics of geographics.
NOR do I want to be disturbed by the swishing and hustle of a flight attendant who doesn’t fit down the aisle holding a giant GLAD bag to retrieve garbage.( They really need a scheduled pick -up time).
Nor, do I want the constant undecided passenger in front of me whose seat houses my screen, to continually hold an argument with the recline button. You will not win. And if one more two year old stands up in their seat and hurls their sippy cup over the head rest for me to pick up…well…I’ll start throwing my miniatures back at them. Just see how they would like it if my Vodka splatters on their face and their adorable overalls… By Gosh….. Just try to explain that one to the grandparents when you land……
Oh, long are the days when Airline flights were a luxury and you could un-flex those tired legs and extend them past a 90 degree angle. Oh, those good times of not fighting over the arm rest and ending up in an elbow altercation over some space. Which is now an added fair to your ticket along with luggage fees. “Please stow your arms at your sides and sit on your hands until the captain has turned off the No Elbow Room sign”.
I miss those days of taking a stroll about the cabin during your flight and possibly stopping by to chat with fellow travelers and sharing a Bloody Mary or two, but now the aisle only accommodates the passing of one thigh and it better not be attached to Fat Albert. And, God forbid, you should need to get up and use the latrines during the food service. That happened to me once and I waited in the rear of the plane until the entire 280 passengers were served. Then, after the food conga line had cleared, I noticed the flight attendant was wearing her yellow life jacket and holding up a stop sign to ensure that traffic flowed in the right direction.
Oh, and let’s touch base with the cuisine featuring a pretzel bag no larger than Barbies Evening in Paris Purse or the over priced mystery meal sealed in a plain white box that was probably processed via irradiation on the catering truck. And you wondered why the salami was so shiny………Once I found four grapes running loose under the cellophane wrapped cheese and crackers that had escaped from the vine and the flight attendant confiscated my box from me claiming “I received a First Class Meal by mistake…..”. How did they know? ohhhh They heard it through the grapevine…
Once upon a time , many many many years ago, there was a lovely East Coast Airline that had jumbo jets that served a three course meal in first class featuring a roast that was carved right before your eyes and all the fine wine and champagne you could endure on a flight from Puerto Rico to New York City. A service that started with a fresh Caesar Salad and ended with a chocolate torte. The entire meal was displayed on real china plates with silver utensils that had serrated knives to slice the succulent roast, and a glass filled with a fine Bordeaux that you held by the stem, and a pristine white cloth napkin draped across your belted lap to catch any crumbs that fell from a turbulent fork.
All of this fancy food rolled by on several carts ushered by Stewardess with manicured hands and were required to pass a weight standard. And if you were in coach you were served a fully heated meal on a tray with an offering of two Entree’s to choose from. There were passenger lounges in the front and aft of the plane equipped with couches and end tables with reading lamps adhered onto the top where passengers could sit and mingle and enjoy the bar cart. There were closets aboard to house your garment bags so your Brooks Brother’s was protected and assured a wrinkle free trip. There were toys for tots stowed in a cardboard trunk to keep the little ones busy.
The flight was all about fun and keeping the passengers happy and safe until a Big Bad Merger came along and ate the little airline and ripped apart the galley’s and lounges that occupied vital space needed to be utilized for more passenger seats in order to stretch and cram people in tighter that a pair of spandex pants covering Oprah’s ass. Leaving souls to never again recline comfortably or to be free to walk about the cabin without hazard lights flashing or Nazi Cabin Crews dictating who gets to keep their carry on luggage on board and who gets to fight the crowd in baggage claim.
This is your Blogger speaking…. and thank you for flying charlywalker.wordpress.com
Oh boy, here I go again. I think Blog surfing might be hazardous to one’s health. I am getting sea sick from delusional posts. If I read one more article about frustrated writers, cleaning strategies, giving up dating, or about a twenty-something year old who can’t cope with life, I may barf on my Macbook like a Pro.
I think Blogger’s are in need of resurrecting Dear Abby. Well here I am, hit me with your best shot. Bestow upon me your situation and I will fulfill your most thought out issue with a retort that deems appropriate…yet not ready for Prime time. I love this public diary..it complete’s me. Maybe I need to take life a little more serious , instead of meeting it head on with rolling eyes…
I have been accused of possessing too much humor in my body and not enough compassion. I think I have compassionate humor. I tend to see funny in almost everything. I once worked for a giant conglomerate corporation in NYC in a management role and was required to attend important staff meetings. Meetings that were being taught by amateurs fresh out of college who held the world on a string and played with it like a Yo-Yo. There was nothing more important to them than being the best around the word and kissing the highest ass they could reach.
I tried with all my might to conjure up my corporate capabilities and sit attentively at these meetings looking executive-ly interested in what was being said. The problem in-le, is that my mind wanders during a long lecture on “percent of sell-through”, and I start to look around the room for props. One time I managed to make bunny ears appear on the assistant manager as he spoke in front of the projector screen. My favorite was capturing the pie chart in the alligators jaws as the shadow of my hands swam by….This use to get a giant gaffaw out of my co- worker.
But, I think the worst of it came when the uncontrollable laughter set in during a colleague’s presentation with her product. Every time this woman started a sentence she inhaled deeply and sucked in the entire room air. Her mouth opened so wide you could see her palate vibrating as she sang her proposal. Each time she opened her mouth wider and wider I got a birds eye view into that big cavern with the Uvula swinging like the bells of Notre Dame. I sat there in the second row witnessing her soliloquy about profit and loss and being sprayed with verbiage vibrating from her vocal chords. When she gasped her conclusion I felt like Jonah getting sucked into that whale of a mouth as she spouted her ending. I leaned forward at every breath and held onto my seat for fear that this mad “Hoover” speaker would inhale my head and aspirate my hair extensions like a fur ball.
Then it hit me. A giant wave of uncontrollable laughter bellowing out of my pearly whites. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and I found myself gasping for air, if there was any left. My cohort sitting adjacent to me swatted my leg with her folder and told me to “stop” and asked me what was it that had me peeing my pants in silent laughter. I quietly explained my observations in between hysteria, and she, too, caught on like wildfire ,and we both grabbed our bellies tight with laughter. Hey, I am not going down in this ship alone.
I know there are times to laugh and times to have composure, but my brain has always had a problem deciphering between the two. And Yes, I was called into the bosses office to explain my outlandish crack-up and inappropriate behavior during a pressing event. I couldn’t find the exact words to describe what it was that I watched as this woman spoke and how my imagination took over my Left brain function which set off my merriment – meter and caused the up-roar in my mind.
I didn’t know how the boss would react to explanations of the hilarity of seeing this woman’s Uvula bounce between her tonsils at the start of every sentence every time she took in a breath of corporate air. How could I tell my boss that my focus factor went astray during company time? How could I tell him that I was finding humor at an inopportune time at the expense of an employees fluttering motor mouth? How do I describe what set my giggle-gene off upsetting an entire team meeting? There is no way out of a perilous self made predicament placed upon oneself except with telling the boss something he might understand:
…….Well ,Sir…..I was drunk?….(with laughter).
I later found out that my boss, too, had a sense of humor……he assigned me to work on another project with Uvula Lady…
OK…let’s talk GYN. For those Old Ancestor’s that cringe at this topic…plug your eyes. I’m not talking about the GIN that I tasted from my fathers basement bar, although I could just Tanqueray all day on that topic, all the way to Bombay……..No my Beef– that is eating me is what goes on behind closed stirrups. First and foremost I would like to know why should a person who is missing internal feminine reproductive body parts need to visit the Gyno anyway? Why that’s like taking your car into the garage for tune up without an engine present. What are they going to see? The Rabbit hole. Maybe find Alice hosting a tea party atop your bladder. More sugar please.…oh wait I have type two diabetes…..”That’s splenda!” yells the Mad Hatter.
No, the Gyn Dr. needs to check you out just to make sure nothing has imploded or fallen through the black hole. I thought my days hopping up in the stirrups had ceased since the hysterectomy but Dr. Dale Evans and nurse Roy Rogers say to “giddy-up” and “saddle-in” cause we’re “gunna have a look-see”… After the Doc dons her Minor’s helmet with the glowing headlight attached and buries her head under a sheet that barely covers your thighs, she then starts to investigates what is MINE. No noticeable nuggets noted. I read her notes. I don’t know which is worse, lying there while the Dr. shines a spotlight between your legs and holding a silent conversation with your vagina, or after the exam having to discuss face to face what the findings are. These visits in the past always went relatively swift and you were in and out faster than my first boyfriend in high school. It’s the conversation at the end that I’d like to omit. My Gyno made a gesture toward small talk and brought up my having taken a trip to Italy and then we ended with talking about bladder infections and sex with husband’s after a dry spell. Then she added: “So, how’d that go?”. …… “Oh it was O.K.”, I sheepishly said , and I continued; ” you know…being over fifty, and well, not being as active as we were in our thirties…”smirk..smirk…..Then it dawned on me she was referring to the trip to Italy…not the sex with the husband. I love awkward silence. I haven’t felt that since my ass woke up first from my colonoscopy and played a spontaneous round of Beethoven’s 5th in Gas Minor….accompanied by a paper gown that was blown open between beats….
The last time I found myself in a backward gown I was having an MRI done for a back injury. My physician thought it best to prescribe a mild opiate to take prior to the procedure because I am deathly claustrophobic. I think that stems from when I was six my brother sealed me in the cardboard box that the dishwasher came in and he neglected to add air holes. I pity the siblings of the guy that invented the MRI machine……..My orthopedic doctor gave me five pills of five milligrams each and told me to “take as needed for relaxation”. I asked him what the maximum dosage that one could ingest before I ended up in a coma or wearing a toe tag. He informed me that I could take all five and would be fine. Well…. while sitting in the waiting room of the Diagnostic Imagery office I felt the anxiety starting to rise up in me as I envisioned myself in a tube with no movement or windows, or, God forbid…air holes. I popped one of those pills and waited 15 minutes and felt nothing but more anxiety so I popped another. I started to feel a little woozy in the waiting room and I didn’t want other patients to notice my odd behavior or drooling so I tried to act as normal as possible. I reached for a magazine to read. One of the attendants called my name and had me rise and follow her to the changing area. My rubber legs made it to the dressing room and I plopped down onto a bench still clutching the Tabloid. I barely recall changing into the backless gown, but I did, and I continued to sit on the bench with my legs crossed and attempted to read my magazine….which I was holding upside down. The last thing I remember is sliding off the bench and slipping through the curtain onto the floor in the hallway of the MRI room and doing a face plant on the Sexiest Man Alive with my Hind End pointing a Southern exposure facing the waiting room. Apparently I had picked out the November 2006 issue of People from the lobby. I do remember the MRI machine and giggling like a lunatic who has escaped the psych ward in the asylum. And I would like to apologize to all the staff at the Imagery Office who gave up their lunch hour to assist me back into the upright position and lead me back to my clothes and sent me home in a cab.…….
Although I do need to remember to mail their gown back….right after I refill my GIN glass……….spread the humor…
It is rounding the end of summer and I haven’t even experienced the beginning yet. Usually a summer consists of a week at the shore or a flight to the West Coast or me entering a SPA in Aruba alone. OK, the last one I made up.
This summer has been tied up with an aggregation of responsibility and no breathing room. Every time I think I have a chance to just sit and stare at a wall without any thought and sip my coffee some minute encroachment befalls my attention. An Attention that has been placed amongst an estrogen free society.
I find in this newly acquired menopausal state that my sleeping patterns are more erratic than normal. I have yet to sleep through an entire night without a bathroom break or grabbing a swifter to mop up my sweat pools. Why does the body have to go through this after the age of 50? Why do I feel like I have a giant hangover every morning and I haven’t even had a drink the night before. Why does my body feel as though I need a tow truck and a fork lift to make me presentable in the morning. Why can’t I be as resilient as my pup and bounce out of my bed and jump on people licking their face off. Why does God chose women of the age of 50 plus to bear the brunt of hormone adjustments? Why do women get to experience the swelling of a left boob over a right and run a body temperature that fluctuates more than a Siesmograph situated in downtown Los Angeles.
What is the point of putting women through this at a certain point in life. What is the purpose of shutting down the body works of a viable human being just because they are not going to reproduce anymore. Why not let the fluids flow indefinitely? What harm can that cause? I say, let the hormones continue as status quo throughout a lifetime and shut the works off upon death. Just think how much happier women of that age would be if they didn’t have to contend with a shut off valve when they turn 50. They wouldn’t have to fight the demons of the hormonal crash and alter what was once a reputable personality with a sense of humor. They would not have to uncork a 2009 Rose d’Anjou and follow it with a fresh Apple Pie Ala Mode chaser. We would not have to be ABili-fied or prozac-ed in order to CELEBRex our lives as we drive our LEXI-pro to a Zo-Loft in SOHO….
No. If God has chosen that woman shall bear false witness to losing control of their bodily functions and having their vagina dry up like the Sahara, and having a conscious waking state of wanting to eliminate every stupid comment out of another human being, well then, I say AMEN! We have earned the privilege to go ballistic on an Inept youngster that is lagging behind in the hormone caboose who is trying to tell us how to run our lives. We have already fought numerous battles with our libido and won in comparison with our younger counterparts. The younger generation is still finding fault with what God gave them. We, on the other hand, have mastered the storm from our first periods to our last labor pain to the rise and fall of the Fallopian empire.
We are women that can measure beyond the richter scale and not submit to the trials and tribulations that menopause can muster. We can open our droopy eyes and stand forthright and go into the battle of the bulging waistline fighting that pull between youth and aging. We will fight with our weapons of anti wrinkle creams and raise our Botox bayonets into the air as we race against time. We will show the youth a new Regenerist-nation and stand firm like a ROC. OLAY! er OLE…
spread the humor
I just realized you’re only as good as your last Blog. What if you have Blogger’s Block and you can’t produce anything clever or not clever. You don’t want to just post anything that comes from your blogger brain, it might not catch the blog surfers fancy and it could get overlooked for that special award of being freshly pressed. Plus, you don’t want it to be too BLAH-g.
I have read the featured articles that won the Oscar for best in Blog and I do have to commentate that they are talented Bloggers. Where I do feel the unrest is in the comment Box. Most fellow tagger’s seem reluctant to express what they truly think about the piece.
I think most the replies are subject to a little site kissing and blogging smoke up ones keister. That’s fine, this is blogging America and climbing the blog ladder can require certain tasks to get to the top rung.
I understand the salutations for a nice piece blogged, but does every comment really state the truth? Where have all the critic’s gone that tear down your blog in order to build it up better? Isn’t that the angst needed for a blogger to feel complete in his blogging and possibly better their blog. If every article is met with such nettiquette and politically correct praise, well then, we must all be Nobel winners and hold the Edgar, or Campbell, or Eisner, or Wolf-woof award.
My favorite comment artists are the ones that miss the humor and delineate on the quasi factual artifacts that they try so desperately to dig up and serve on a silver Blog platter. Is it a Blogger’s bone of contention to elicit responses that benefit and build the Blogger’s ego or is it that any comment is better than no comment……Does it hurt our braggadocio if a negative reply crosses our Blog?
If we feel the offense of a constructive sarcastic comment should we slap that scribble across the Blog-face , or retreat with our Blog between our legs. Or maybe,we should graciously accept the bold blog critique and wear that reply proudly across our Blog like a coat -of -blog-arms. I prefer the diversity of an honest comment, it just brings out the best in me. It’s like fuel to the fire, or a fire under a frying pan, or pot calling the kettle black (whatever that means). So what if someone has a flea in their ear, gets a rise, and foams at the keyboard and puts your knickers in a twist; It’s all in good jest.
We blog to vent, we blog to create, we blog for blog sake, and we blog to get freshly pressed. I read somewhere that if you use the same word continuous throughout your Blog it gets tracked and pinged and thrown out into the cyberspace for millions to view. Just count the BLOG’s in this creation….
Isn’t blogging a quagmire of everyone’s life and thoughts that are steamed into the public diary of the WEB only to have Critics Iron out their Freshly pressed wrinkles. Ohhhh… giggity-giggity.… Spread the Humor.