I'm a Twit-Idiot

Maybe I need a category for "the future is here and I'm scrambling to keep up."

So I, um, created a Twitter account today. Thought I'd ease into it and figure out how it works and, ya know, not make an ass of myself in public until I had half a Twitter-clue. I posted my initial Twitter messages -- er, tweets -- thinking I was out in there in the e-universe by myself just testing the medium.

Next, I searched for the three people that I knew for certain had Twitter accounts; easily "found" them; and clicked to "follow" them. And then thought of a couple of more people who might have accounts, and did the same.

Again, I'm thinking I'm out there alone and no one could "see" me messing with this form of communication trying to figure out how it all works. You guessed it.

Suddenly: Emails from the people-I'm-following. I had no idea that they'd, ya know, get Twitter-info that they had a new "follower," and actually realize that I was following them.

And, yes, that idea is creepy. Tantamount to stalking someone, so, yes, I shoulda realized. Yikes.

But I'll figure this out. Really, I will. I'm a move-into-the-future kind of person. I can do this. Although I'll likely make a total fool of myself in the process.......

Some Maggots With That Beer?

Whoa! Talk about scary.

The sauerkraut on your hot dog may average up to 50 thrips. And when washing down those tiny, slender, winged bugs with a sip of beer, you might consider that just 10 grams of hops could have as many as 2,500 plant lice. Yum.

Or not. But some perspective helps:

1. Ten thousand years ago, people were eating food in a considerably more "natural" state than we are now.

2. Millions and millions of people have grown up eating peanut butter and then consumed oceans of beer as adults, and 99.99999% of us survived. (Yes, I am sensitive to the fact that eight [nine?] people have died recently from eating contaminated peanut products. My point is that those tragedies were the exception rather than the norm.) (And yes, the company president who took the fifth the other day at the hearings is the Asshole of the Decade.)

3. All those thrips, maggots, and mites; rot, mold, and "mammalian excreta," no doubt bolster our immune systems. Think of all those "additives," in other words, as "organic" supplements.

More On Twittering From a Twitterer (Or is it "Tweeter"?)

Okay, back on the subject of Twitter -- which, ahem, some of you are urging me to at least try -- this first-hand account of its use from a fellow skeptic. Pogue's report certainly demystifies the process, because part of what's holding me back is, well, I have no idea how to do it. Or even what it's used for.

Eg, I thought it was designed for use on cell phones, and I only use a cell phone about six times a year. And I thought most people used Twitter when they're out and about: as in "Now I'm in the grocery store." "Now I'm in the check-out line." That kind of thing. And I rarely leave the house, so, ya know.... (Yes, I realize how weird that sounds. What can I say? I can't write a book while running around town, and when I'm not writing a book, I like hanging at home.)

The Day the Muzak Died

I don't wish anyone or anything ill, honestly I don't. Certainly not at this moment, when every bankruptcy affects not just the fat cats, but the employees and stockholders. (It's definitely affecting my family.) But . . . I have to admit: This particular bankruptcy is sweet revenge. My GOD, but I hate the stuff. Hate it. (*1)

___________

*1: My Muzak story: 1971. I was 17 at the time, nearly 18. Working full-time at a restaurant. Working hard: this was an old-line restaurant (normal for the times) where the "waitresses," as they were called then, did everything: Took the orders, brought the food, cleared the tables, set the tables, made part of the food, stocked their own ice, milk, coffee, etc. I worked my ass off. Good way to start adult life, frankly. Everything I know about being organized, responsible, and coordinated, I learned there.

Anyway -- A friend of mine also worked there. She was a year older. She was definitely more sophisticated, hip, and mature than me (god only knows why we were friends.) She'd recently started on sex-drugs-rock-and-roll, which was still a bit unusual for then. (Yes, life has changed since the early '70s.)

There we were, running around like lunatics, waiting on eight or nine tables in a place that always had a line at the door, tired, etc. We were doing something -- making coffee? Getting milk from the small frig? Cutting pie (it was a pie shop with food)? Complete insanity that required every fiber of our being to keep track of what was what and who was where and fifteen orders at a time.

She was leaning over, into the small frig (she was grabbing some milk or cream or something) and she looked up, and then looked at the ceiling, and then looked over at me (frantically making coffee or loading a tray with eight meals or whatever) and said: "My god. Do you hear that? It's the Stones. "Satisfaction." On MUZAK! Can you believe it? God, this is horrible! The STONES? As MUZAK?"

We looked at each other (that was the moment that I realized she was high) (I had not yet wandered into sex-drugs, but I knew it when I saw it) and we listened to the Rolling Fucking Stones as Muzak and we lost it. We both almost fell on the floor, we were laughing so hard.

The Rolling Stones as MUZAK? No wonder our generation was so screwed up and cynical.

Nudging, Traffic, and Other Stuff With Which to Become Distracted

Just what I need: yet another distraction. But this is worth it. First, this from last Sunday's Times, to which I'd been meaning to post a link. And today was reminded to do so by this from Alan Jacobs, one of my favorite bloggers. (Make sure to click through to the Wired story and Vanderbilt's site.)

And all of that reminds of me of the remarkable work of E. O. Wilson . (I had a chance to hear him speak a few years ago. Amazing.)

Huh? Blogging = Money?

I have to say, it never crossed my mind that anyone intentionally tries to make money from blogging. I can't figure who the dim bulb is in this scenario -- but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it's me.