Category: Social Commentary

A Frog’s Perspective

I don’t get America’s infatuation with royalty. The royal wedding was a couple of weeks ago and news on every channel was clogged with coverage of something more inane than live poker on TV. I find English royalty completely irrelevant and honestly contrary to who we are as Americans. Really? Princes and princesses in the 21st century? Queens with crowns and scepters? Throngs of media outside the “royal birth hospital,” waiting in giddy anticipation for the revealing of the baby-name honoring some medieval monarch? But that’s important (to US)? The “royal” kid is in a long snaking chain of heirs to the English throne and has as much impact on America as my preferred brand of toilet paper.

I blame Disney. Every little girl in America has grown up with princesses and developed some kind of Cinderella syndrome at an early age, conditioned to believe that there is some evil wrongdoer in her life – typically an older woman – and that some prince in tights will sashay into her life, sweeping her off her feet to a life of luxury at a shiny palace.

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Shushaffected

“Why are you angry?  You always look angry.”

For the last time, I’m not angry!  This is the way I look.  This is what God gave me to work with for the past 50 odd years, so if it bothers you, imagine how I feel!

And I’m not “screaming.” I pride myself on speaking audibly. I’m not a mumbler, nor am I deaf. Although I should be after a lifetime exposure to loud machinery, gunfire, and music that my parents and people of the cloth found offensive. If I don’t hear you, it’s by choice.

If you wanna hear screaming I’ll gladly give you a demonstration. I AM the guy you want with you if you’re lost in the woods but I’m also completely capable of knowing how and when to situationally moderate volume, unlike the gaggles of alcohol-infused Wisconsin scream-talking women I’ve seen in restaurants lately. (I’ll never understand why women appear to lose their hearing when they drink, screeching over the top of each other like some kinda crazy competition at the annual coven.)

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Grayish

April 11, 2018.  I’m thinkin’ today’s a special day.  Maybe Homelessness Awareness Day.  I can’t keep special days straight anymore because there are so many of them that don’t show up on the free calendars I get from vendors.  (Oddly, Canadian Boxing Day is noted.  I’m not sure if that one has something to do with mixed martial arts or UPS.  I guess both are important enough to have a note on calendars.) I’ll have to Google it.  I’m a Googler.  It’s my go-to ready reference because my brain is full and I refuse to replace memories of my kids’ First Communions with irrelevant factoids.

But I’m pretty sure it’s Homelessness Awareness Day by the silent protesters I saw this morning.  I met my wife for breakfast before work and saw some “awareness” protesters; a family (two adults and five kids) sitting in the middle of the restaurant clad in their favorite pajamas and coats.  (I assume they kept their coats on because they’re modest and were on public display or maybe they were just chilly.)

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Collectively Claustrophobic

We’re a claustrophobic society. Maybe because we take Freedom and America’s vastness for granted we’re quick to feel uncomfortable when someone’s in our space. You know, that invisible personal zone – delineated by our magic sensors that detect body heat, food-breath, and clothing that carries an odiferous blend of Chinese restaurant and bowling ally – that warns of a close encounter. And I think we’re becoming more space-sensitive, evidenced by social warriors employing their three by five inch shields, held in a defensive posture; small-target body profile, head tipped forward at forty-five degrees, eyes side-glancing for imminent intruders.

I make an effort to be that violator when I detect spacial discomfort in someone I’m talking with, typically one of my wife’s friends or my daughter’s boyfriend. Not so close as to be freakishly uncomfortable, just six inches closer than normal. Their reactions are always noteworthy. The retreat step backward. A break in eye contact with side-glances for escape routes. Arms folded in front with their spine in a notable backward arch.

My son Joe got the gene and intentionally creeps up on me at work or home, leaning over my shoulder while I’m on the computer, intentionally breathing on my head or reaching around me to grab something off the counter. So I understand the instinctive urge to drop an orange safety cone to mark our space.

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Raise A Shoe In Solidarity!

I’ve always maintained that there’s no such thing as a bad kid or a bad dog. They just need different levels of finesse. I say that having raised several dogs, a girl and a boy, and coaching kids of all ages. There are however, more and more rotten parents whose apparent structure-deprived lifestyles enable zoo-like behavior from their youngins. Continue reading “Raise A Shoe In Solidarity!”