Where are the rufflecahflumpernutters?

I’m just wondering because they seem to be all the rage. I haven’t seen any here in LA, but online they’re spoken about all day.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ve been living under a genuine mountain rock on the edge of a cliff in Wyoming.

A few minutes on the internet and you’re inundated by references to this or that rufflecahflumpernutter and whether or not you have the one that comes in steel gray or iridescent rainbow with pressed titanium inscriptions devoted to your favorite rufflecahflumpernutter phrases.

I haven’t decided yet whether or not I want a rufflecahflumpernutter, it seems a little hipster, while at the same time scholastically challenged, and maybe a week from now it will be a lump of iridescent rainbow plastic at the bottom of the dustbin.  The market share of users are a fickle bunch, I don’t want to get caught out in that tide.

Maybe I’ll just stick with my clunky but hard to break perfunkdamesdimagdalex and hope it out-survives the tech revolution.

Seriously, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, walk away and save yourself.

 

 

A look back to 2001.

Four days after 9/11, I felt the need to address my public diary with this entry.  I apologize for some of the melodramatic bits, but let’s all agree that most of us still weren’t right in the head after this tragedy.  Some of the sentiment still rings true:  Sit back in your easy chair but not all the way back.


“31”

When I turned 31 I didn’t think I would be packing an old army field pack with rations in case of a third world war.

But I am.

A small tremor of earth among common California ground faults was mere child’s play compared to the live human bomb that wasted the heart and soul of Manhattan, New York.

Few escaped. The pictures prove. The world is full of evil and it does touch free soil.

For so long we have guarded our shores. Taken freedom for granted and have become comfortable with the ability to go, say, feel, what and where we want or feel.

On edge and pushed forward to the front of our easy chairs, the American flag raises yet again to prove that though wounded we lick and lick to heal.

We are not dead. We will move on. But our innocence is gone.

And freedom has become more expensive.

The next generation will never know how easy it was to move from place to place. Or to talk about things that would not draw attention from authorities. Indeed the freedom of speech has become the most expensive asset of our daily lives.

Over 5000 portions of my soul and humanity have disappeared September 11, 2001.

They will never come back and I will always feel that hole.

Revenge, hate, and anger will not replace those missing pieces.

No matter how much I want to wrap my hands around the throat of those would empty my soul, I must reveal that they are the ones who have no pieces to their soul at all and they are empty.

EMPTY

I thank God that all of you in my close circle of friends and family are safe and sound.

Stay strong and stay on the edge of your easy chair, not all the way back.

Materialism in Elementary School aka The Lost Lunch Box

Back in the late 70’s early 80’s, Tupperware came out with this lunch box which for for all intents and purposes was inspired by a Japanese bento box.

We weren’t well off enough to splurge on Tupperware, nor did my family like to waste money on things that had simpler utilitarian alternatives (brown bags). So I’m pretty sure when I DID get one (after much parental convincing), it was close to the only Tupperware in the house and I treated it like the Ark of the Covenant.

I kept it so clean, mothering it, polishing it dry, all for the next day’s lunch adventure. Then after maybe a month of ownership, perhaps even less, it was stolen.

Two days later, I accused another student of stealing it because she had the exact same model and I could see my name scrawled on the bottom before she yanked it closer to her chest to hide my handwriting.

I never pushed the issue. I don’t know why. I think I was partially mortified that someone that close to me (small school) would do something so horrible. I was also smart enough to realize that if I asked again, the name might be removed so it was a pointless venture to try to ask or point it out again.

I felt injustice by my own hand by not doing anything. People steal, this wasn’t a new concept, but friends or classmates stealing and then protesting their obvious theft? I was dead inside after that. Dead to material ownership of things. Why bother lusting after something everyone wants? Someone will just take it. It’s not worth it.

I still miss you lunch box.

Photograph Provided by www.vintagegoodness.com with permission.
Photograph Provided by Vintage Goodness with permission. See Below for more Info.

I hope your new owner thinks about her theft every day and that it has carved a deep, stale, tupperware-plastic, smelly hole in her heart.


This post was inspired by a Reddit user posing the question: What mild injustice was done to you as a child that you are still mad about?.  I recommend you read the other responses, it will be an interesting respite from the harsh day.

The amazing photograph of The Lunchbox was published with permission by Mitzi Swisher of Vintage Goodness. Check out her fabulous blog for all things mid century.

Rose Colored Glasses or The Age of Wisdom

We sometimes go through life looking backwards, reaching deeper as the years go by and what do we see?

Are the memories softer because of age, or are they painted with a varnish of wisdom that comes through living through them?

This particular weekend has brought back a lot of memories that were once filled with thorns but time and therapeutic apologies have trimmed off the points, leaving nothing but blooms.  In our youth we experience what I think are some of the most tumultuous situations of our life. We’re changing on a daily basis, surfing a wave of hormones we can’t control and occasionally we crash the waves made by other people’s crafts, causing wakes that can pulverize or intersect with greatness.

I’m mostly talking about personal relationships that have gone by in the past with people who go unnamed here because no one deserves the wrong type of attention. I’m approaching this blog entry as a straight female adult living with the memories of loving a gay person in my childhood. He was not in any position to completely understand his feelings or come out of a closet so tightly nailed shut in the era we grew up in, that there really can be no blame for any hurt feelings that passed between us.

From my perspective, I was once dating a kind, generous, fun, soul that became anxious to explore the sexual potential of the human body with another person so hard and fast that I was unable to mentally process five minutes ahead of myself, a girl who lived an emotionally desperate, parent-demanded chaste life.  I never inwardly blamed him for the impulses, I just couldn’t ever give back because I was wrapped up in that fear. I lashed out publicly at the impulses but I never truly blamed him. I blamed myself for being the prude who couldn’t reciprocate and many relationships afterwards were tinged with that inability and feeling violated for wanted to feel good.  My brain was twisted to not get close to another human being and it took many years to un-wring that mess.

After many cross words spewed down stairwells and across hallways, we went our separate ways, neither knowing what truly powered the other. It wasn’t until many years later that I came to understand the inception of all disastrously immature behavior that passed between us. The event gave me pause to instantly forgive not only him but myself. In the middle of a fashion design class, for some reason, we started talking about significant others that had become famous.  My X-boyfriend, a local personality had come up in conversation, and I mentioned our connection in high school. You think it only happens in the movies, but the room really did become become silent enough to hear pins drop.  I looked up from my work and the woman across from me, with a look of disbelief, said her roommate (a man) was dating my x-boyfriend from high school.

I remember that moment as if something in my life had died and simultaneously exploded like a beautiful phoenix into the air. The clarity that came with finding out a person that caused me so much heart felt pain was gay made the moment palpable and the only thing I could say as I set down my arms on the table was, “That makes complete sense.”  I understand now and all is forgiven. Not only were they set free, I was too.

We spoke later through letters and I’ve kept those letters as a reminder that we move through this life with the ability to grow as human beings and loving ourselves is tantamount to loving others.  It’s so easy to get caught up in revenge or harbor ill feelings because let’s face it, hatred is as powerful of a drug as is love, but love is, with my utmost respect for the cliche, what makes the world go around.

 

 

Fox in a Corner

It was 1983 and Mr. Fox was planning to get married. He had arrived in Los Angeles to tie the knot with his betrothed but like many love connections, he quickly learned that the family of the bride-to-be was not keen on living arrangements coupled with sin, so he was forced to quickly find a cheap apartment in East Hollywood.

He searched about, thinking mostly of his fiance, trying to find the closest bachelor apartment (an appropriately coined term, if I do say so) and when he happened upon a garden courtyard he snapped up their only remaining studio, located in the back with the worst view and the noisiest neighbors.

He wasn’t going to be there long, so the lack of luxury accommodations didn’t phase him. He would soon be cuddling with his fiance post ceremony and life would be complete.

Then one day the relationship ended, perhaps over money, perhaps over family, Mr. Fox wasn’t one to divulge that much information to strangers. So he stayed in that bachelor apartment to wait out what would happen next in his life.

One year went by and then 20. Soon 30. That’s when I met him, after almost a lifetime of sitting in a tiny, corner pocket, studio apartment. He never changed the paint (or carpet), and lived exactly the life you would expect of a bachelor who’s heyday was probably in the 1940s.

He would make delightful conversation with myself and our neighbors as they came and went through the complex, moving on with their lives as he gently evolved into that kind man in the corner apartment. It was always a joy to bump into him on the way to the mailbox.

Mr. Fox once gave me a painting he was going to take to goodwill. I saw it as he passed by and he offered it to me, saying he couldn’t remember if it was worth anything. I told him it inspired me for its dream like qualities and soon after that it was mine.

I recently learned that Mr. Fox, the permanent bachelor, the kind man in the corner apartment, died this week. A former neighbor at the complex broke the news and I just wanted everyone to know what a kind, sweet, patient person he was. Why some woman never snapped him up, we’ll never know.

See you on the other side, Mr. Fox.

I’ll remember your wisdom-laced smile forever.

painting

Top Five Moments as a Production Assistant aka Gopher

One of my most loved and used pieces of advice when talking to new writers is to get out and actually make a film before you attempt to write one.

Is it mandatory? No. Will it improve your writing? Yes, in folds.

But with the folding comes delight, terror, and humor. Here are my top five memories of working in the infomercial world.

Grand Theft Parsons
Grand Theft Parsons – 2002

1) Day One

During the fall – spring season, I worked at an Orange County based repertory theater. But summer was always a fight to pay the rent, so when I stumbled upon a production company hiring P.A.s, I applied for the job because I knew someday I was headed to L.A. and the experience would be worth its weight in Oscar statues.  I was very excited to get the position because once I met my co-workers, I realized I was the only female P.A.. Power fist!

After a few days of doing paperwork I didn’t understand (call sheets, etc), they sent me to set.  I was basically a lamb going to slaughter and it was probably one of the most frightening experiences in my life. What do you touch? What don’t you touch? Are those dirty men with their guts hanging out over their tool belts actually smoking cigarettes in the fumes of the generator?  I made it through the day, only getting yelled at once. The biggest lesson on your first day is don’t touch ANYTHING without being told to do so by your immediate supervisor (the A.D.).

2) Dusty the P.A.

With one commercial under my belt, the set me loose with a little more responsibility because I hadn’t burnt anything down yet. We had an oddly late call to the beach where we lugged a million containers (I counted) to a beach. When 6 pm rolled around, I asked why we weren’t shooting. “Oh, no, honey, this is just the gear set up. See you at 4:30 a.m. tomorrow. ” So, basically, it took 8 hours to move everything the set needs to one location when normally it takes 2.

The next day I reported for duty and the A.D. handed me a large, new, paint brush. He said my only job of the day was to keep the actors clean. Clean? “We’re on the beach so they’ll get sandy, so be ready. ”  Okie dokie, sir.  Green as the day was not,  I went to craft service and ate breakfast, armed with my paint brush, awaiting my destiny.

Once the set and crew were ready, the actors were walked on and I’m faced with three well built actors, 2 women and 1 very very very very cut gentleman.

I spent the next 12 hours brushing sand off of glutes, thighs, and six packs.  And instead of being called by my name, they cooed for “Dusty”.

Best day ever.

3) Dusty the P.A. and roundabout hero of the homeless

During the same commercial, somewhere near 5 o’ clock in the evening, craft service was asked to start packing up the mid-day snack (hot dogs and burgers).  While this was going on, a homeless man had walked through the set, eyeing the tent where other P.A.s were packing up and grips were eating. There must have been 20 hot dogs left even with the crew completely stuffed, and so, innocent me, I put together a meal for the poor guy.

Not five minutes after this moment, the A.D. is screaming down at me about not encouraging the hobos because they’ll come back in droves. In my head I’m spitting in his face, thinking, fuck, it’s 5 o’clock, we’re not coming back, what is your problem. Scream any louder and you’re going to have a heart attack.

Once the vocal flagellation was complete, he walked away to finish work.  I went right back to craft services and packaged up more hot dogs for the homeless guy and handed all of them to him .

The grips near craft service gave me a standing O.

Fuck that A.D.

4) Lamborghini

All I remember about this day was an unbreakable pair of glasses as the focus of the commercial and the hottest car you’ve ever seen. Dusty to the rescue! I spent the entire day removing finger prints and you know EVERYONE had to touch this car.

5) Upgrade

After an unending amount of  golf and workout infomercials which includes my failed break into show business as a testimonial actor (the commercial never aired), I was told they needed a wardrobe supervisor for an ABC internal industrial commercial. What, no P.A. position? I’m being promoted?  HOTCHA!

The position was really not much more different than what I did as a P.A., they just wanted someone voting on which outfit each ‘cast member’ would wear. No stripes, no white, that was my only order.  But at least my resume was upgraded by the job. I was finally able to work in Hollywood at that point, and nailed my first film as an on-set dresser without an interview.

 


 

What do all of these memories have to do with screenwriting?  Every commercial I did, and every film I worked on, no matter what I was doing, I was a part of the process. I learned how to make films and by knowing how to make them, you can write them more effectively.

You’re sorely missing out if you don’t try being a P.A. at least once.  Some writers may disagree with me, but because they haven’t done it, they can’t see the light that shines above you while you’re writing. It really does add to the experience.

Break a leg, folks.

Love,

Dusty.

 

 

 

Never upstage a clown.

This evening’s Twitter hashtag game was to state reasons why you were fired from a job in two words.

My answer: Upstaged Clown. #ReasonYouWereFiredInTwoWords 

The hashtag immediately brought forth some sour memories as a college student, drudging through a small town trying to find ANY job that has even a shred of connection to the Performing Arts.  White Castle won’t do for a student trying to become a costume designer and the one shopping mall we had seemed delightfully unequipped in the fashion department to work retail.

What’s a theatre major to do?

Lo and behold, a help wanted sign shined like a water tower warning light, beckoning any one willing to work behind the counter in a cramped, tiny costume rental shop.  I thought I had finally found my golden ticket because renting costumes is costume design related, RIGHT? Right? It has to be!

Well, there were no sewing duties that involved costume creation but there were a few rips to darn. There were a lot of sniff tests to make sure the returned costumes had been dry cleaned, and then the ever present alphabetical filings of duck and Tonto costumes back into the crammed storage area kept me busy most of the day.

Oh, did I mention I was also required to perform as a Chipmunk at children’s parties while the owner of the costume shop dressed up as a clown and terrified the children she was hired to entertain?

My boss was a bitter hard woman, someone you’d least expect to have or like children much less entertain them, and I think she was a smoker. If you can picture a 40 something, gambling addict glued to a filtered cigarette as she pulls the slot machine handle down between gulps of watered down rum and coke, this was my boss.

After one week on the job, she announces a party we have to attend. While she’s closing up the shop and putting on her clown makeup, I’m pulling on a brown fake fur body suit.  Two minutes in to wearing it and I’m soaked in sweat. While she finishes the final details of her ensemble, I wait outside, Chipmunk head under my arm.

Once we’re in the car, the Chipmunk head now doing double duty on my lap as an air bag, my boss turns to me and says, “Just follow me, do what I tell you and NEVER LET THEM SEE YOUR EYES.”

The way she said it, I thought I was walking into a battlefield.  She wasn’t far off, because when we arrived, we were swarmed in the front yard by children hopped up on birthday cake and icing.

I literally spent the entire afternoon being chased by children. Every time I stopped (it’s 80+ degrees out by the way), the children would jump and try to look at me through the large screened-in eyes of the Chipmunk. Every single child there was a truth seeker, adamant about proving my existence as a human being (or overly large living cartoon character).

In the melee of trying to keep the their innocence intact, I found these children were not paying attention to the clown trying her damnedest to get their attention.

Her magic tricks were no match for a circling giant Chipmunk with a horde of children in tow.

At one point I even sat down, trying to get them to gather, because I knew she was losing her patience. I had to stand right back up again because you know what happens when you sit down in a Chipmunk costume?  You’re eye level with the Pip Squeak Inquisition, and they get digital with you, poking hard, little fingers everywhere, knocking your head around en masse.

Once she made it through her act, we left, she paid me for my time (not a part of the take), and we rode back to the costume shop in silence.

When I was dressed and  ready to leave she told me, “this just wasn’t going to work out”.

I was young and I always did my best to be a dutiful employee back then, unable to invent a quick comeback, but had I come up with one, it might have gone thusly:

What isn’t going to work out? Me sweating my ass off in an itchy, poop-colored, acrylic Chipmunk nightmare for minimum wage, or you being the saddest clown I’ve ever seen?  Don’t peg this party failure on me, Ice Queen. Given a choice, children will always choose the NOT CLOWN for entertainment. I bid you a good day.

But rather than rip her a new one, I left, head down, trying to figure out where I was going to work next. I ended up working in a university research lab with bloodhounds that smeared the walls with their feces over every inch of their kennel… every day.

The moral of all this is don’t upstage the clown if you want to stay employed.

 

 

My memories of Mr. Nimoy

It’s been a couple days since the world lost Mr. Nimoy, and not many people who know me now, know that I have a deep connection with Star Trek.

Sometimes it’s embarrassing to let people know this information, especially if someone willingly laughs at you for being in an inconsolable state of drunken shock when the news finally settles in one’s heart.

Yes, this has already happened to me.

But I thought, ignoring the ignorant, I’m finally able to put words to digital paper to talk about my connection to a television show and an actor who has been a part of it.

Every time we lose one of our heroes, a little notch is taken out of our souls. It makes us less than whole and it’s just a matter of being patient enough to walk through the pain and brush off the wound so we can keep going.  God help me when Mr. Koenig reaches this point. Seriously. I’ve packed away some Xanax and a paper bag for the day. But that’s a different story.

I’ll just begin by saying that my personality is probably 50% Star Trek and 50% parental upbringing. Where my parents faltered, a television show about survival, equality, peace and the love of science took their place.

Star Trek is also how I started my fascination with writing.  My father, having moved away after my parent’s divorce, knew I was lonely the first time I left my home state to visit him. At 12 years old, he bet me 50$ I couldn’t write a book by the end of the summer and having fallen in love with Star Trek the previous year, the math was simple. I wrote about what I loved.  I turned in, I don’t know, 200 pages of hand written Star Trek melodrama with a stolen nemesis from Flash Gordon to boot.  Funny how I never got paid for that until many years later.  But I did get paid. I was given an immense gift. A way to escape all worries, a safe place to explore and just be myself or anyone else I wanted to be.

Fast forward many years, after educating myself in theatre and film, I ended up as an assistant stage manager / production assistant at South Coast Repertory for the play Six Degrees of Separation. Marnie Mosiman, an actress in the production was/is an amazingly talented woman who just happened to be married to John De Lancie.  I figure if you’re a trekkie/er, I don’t have to explain any identities, nor explain the internal storm of raging excitement I hid every day of the production.

After some unusual days in rehearsal, (John de Lancie was pacing in the hallway with what appeared to be fumes hovering over his head, at least that’s what I was imagining when I sent our unsuspecting production intern out to figure out why he was upset or here for that matter), I came to the realization that this entire production would probably be touched by Star Trek, my secret love, my comfortable tattered sweater I wear when no one is around.

I wasn’t wrong. Many faces of Star Trek came through the backstage doors during production, and each one was a pleasure to talk to and not about Star Trek. I wasn’t stupid, I was cool, or at least I thought I was. I kept my ST questions behind the doors of convention hotels, safely locked away in their proper place. Don’t be the GEEK, Stacy.  Inside, I was a spaghetti and meatball mess of course, but it was fun throwing off some actors from the show (ST: VGR) because normally no one recognized them under all that make up.

Then one day, I think it was during the last week of production, Marnie let loose that Mr. Nimoy, THE ONE AND ONLY LEONARD NIMOY, would be gilding the halls of South Coast Repertory with his presence on the last show of the production. Many amazing actors have walked through the halls of SCR, but in my head, none compared.

I’m pretty sure when she told me,  I held my breathe and smiled, saying ‘lovely, that’s great, I hope I get a chance to meet him and his wife’.   Marnie promised she’d try to help make that happen.

Cut to the final show of the production. I can barely think or carry on a conversation with anyone I work with, and thankfully by that point, most of my cues were so ingrained, I couldn’t forget them.  The last show was as great as the first and the actors filed out to their dressing rooms for the final time.  As they got dressed back into their street clothes, I stood backstage pacing, because I knew what was happening next. Staff would lead Mr. Nimoy backstage to the green room to await Marnie.

I could not move my feet to the green room.

Why couldn’t I move? Why was I pacing backstage while I’m pretty sure a couple of my back stage crew enjoyed watching me buzz back and forth talking to myself.

Many people find it easy to ask questions at a convention. The actor they love is safely behind a “wall” of expectations, so there’s a form and dress to it all, you know the drill.  You’re surrounded by 3000 other people in the same boat, so it’s easy.  Back stage in the green room I knew there was just this person, this actor I had spent many many years adoring. I have to treat them like a human being, not some god. So you see the internal struggle and conundrum?

Marnie had promised to introduce me but time was waning backstage, no one had come to retrieve me so I swallowed hard, trying to create a voice that wouldn’t crack when I left to go find them.

I entered the green room and sure enough Marnie stood there with Mr. and Mrs. Nimoy.  What did I do?

I placed my arm around Marnie’s shoulders and asked her “So, who are these friends of yours?”

DID I JUST ASK THAT IN MY HEAD OR DID THAT COME OUT OF MY MOUTH????   Nope, woman, you said that. Don’t puke. Doooooon’t Puke.

Luckily, I was spared because Mr. and Mrs. Nimoy were use to this nonsense over the years. They melted my internal horror with handshakes and a pleasant conversation about the play and other places they had seen it to compare against what they had seen at SCR.

And that was it.

After they left the green room I lamented to Marnie, that I hadn’t had a chance to ask a certain question of Mr. Nimoy. I said it felt weird because it was somewhat related to Star Trek and it felt improper to blurt it out.  She said she’d try to ask him, and get the answer for me. So I told her what I wanted to know, hoping she’d email me with the answer.

The show closed, I went about my next few days getting ready to start another play and forgot about my question.

My question if you’re wondering was simple. What ever happened to a short Mr. Nimoy had directed about Chang and Eng Bunker, the “Siamese Twins”. Mr. Nimoy had attended a tour of Star Trek conventions showing off this lovely short and beyond the convention I had never heard of it again. I just wanted to know where this gem stood.

After a few days, the event of meeting a hero, safely tucked away inside my heart as a top 10 moment, I came home and the answering machine was blinking.

I pressed play and then knelt on the floor, unable to breathe because Mr. Nimoy had called my house and left a long message…answering my question.   I had to listen to it several times to understand what he was saying because well fuck, LEONARD NIMOY LEFT A  MESSAGE ON MY ANSWERING MACHINE!!!

It occurs to me now, 18+ years later, that the message was recorded not on tape as I had thought (I’m still wondering), but on one of those DAMN digital contraptions with only a battery back up to save what was on them. I know I saved the message for quite awhile, but I don’t think I was able to archive it.

That’s my memory of Mr. Nimoy. It’s a good one for me. I’m going to miss him and his good work in this world, as I do every actor who created this fantastic world for me to live in when I was a child (and adult).

Thank you, Leonard. You and your wife have both touched the world and we’re better off for it.


I suppose you may want the answer to that question?

Mr. Nimoy explained that the short was a sales tool. He had wanted to create an entire feature film about Chang and Eng Bunker and after showing it around town for so many years, and after receiving no bites, he simply moved on to his next project. That’s a pretty typical answer from any filmmaker. But as a fan of his work, I still want to see that film, and I guess as a writer, I have seen it in my head already, but I still want to see it.

#LLAP

 

 

 

2015 aka Don’t Mess with Me, Man.

I am going to have to wrap up 2014 on a down note. I’m usually a great optimist, and I try to live in the moment but several situations have negated this possibility for the start of the year.

1) I lost a friend that I no longer communicated with over inane roommate complications.  There was no obituary posted, I can’t figure out if they’ve had a memorial service and I feel a bit lost at sea about it.

2) A family friend died on the same day. Seriously 2014, why.

3) We lost Robin Williams and Phillip Seymour Hoffman too soon. But I understand why. I understand. I just keep telling myself that to move on.

4) Another airline lost and limited technology to track it down. We’re minutes from 2015 and we haven’t pulled our collective heads out of our asses to make advancements for the safety of human lives a priority. We’re apparently just meat, and we’ll continue to think of each other as just meat until the computers take over and turn us into batteries.

5) Racism. What the fuck?  It’s 2015 and a woman younger than me with all that comes with that advantage should be capable of open-minded thinking. But when her child says her mother won’t let her use an iPad app because she might talk to black boys, I nearly had a heart attack.

  • I now consider you a nasty horrible human being in charge of a girl with a good heart. She’ll be ruined by your slimy thoughts.
  • I’d rethink the whole education of your children. Maybe you should be more worried that she’s TALKING TO BOYS at 12 without supervision on an electronic device that is a helpful tool to stalk children, rather than worrying about what color they are?
  • And people think black people are just paranoid about racism, that it’s not as expansive as they think. THEY’RE NOT PARANOID. This racist filth exists in droves and it breeds…apparently with a different man each time. (ooh, I slut shamed her.)
  • I feel as if it’s now my mission to counteract your ignorance but I can’t be there all the time. I just want to smack you so hard into the light.

I’m going to do my best to stand tall, head up, and think good thoughts for the remainder of the year. 2015 can’t be worse right?

 

The end of a useless experiment.

I recently spent some time on twitter in an attempt to learn why certain keywords trend; whether they’re paid for as an advertisement or truly blooming as a result of the population.

While searching #disneyland, because I was sure it was a trending topic as a result of advertisement (I was wrong), I chose to stumble down a rabbit hole lined with the coagulated angst of first world teenage conversation.

Why I did it, I don’t know.

twitter is a blackhole

Maybe it was the disrespectful thought process spewed through a keyboard, or the lack of understanding on how social media channels work. The tweet is read out of context, and none of us were there, but that’s where I will inevitably draw my point about how children these days do not care about what they proclaim in public spaces. They don’t understand the ramifications.

We were all teens once, but were we all this mean and thoughtless? (Luckily for Generation X, our missteps in youth aren’t on display to this degree. But I certainly remember never telling the entire world that my parents should “stfu” for being excited about something.)

Names withheld because I think this person is a minor.

Child:  “Its annoying af when my mom thinks going to the movies is like her going to disneyland, bruh chill tf out, take your seat, & stfu”

af (as fuck), bruh (brother), tf (the fuck), stfu (shut the fuck up).

Here’s where I could have just shaken my head, shown the person next to me how ungrateful and mean this child was being considering it’s most likely a twitter feed outside the realm of their parent’s viewing.

But no, I decided to poke the angst-ridden hornet’s nest and dare suggest with a little sarcasm that their parents were fidgety at a movie because they don’t get out much and have ungrateful children. Because the tweet is out of context I can only read into what is on the screen. It reads to me and others I’ve asked as thus:

– My mother doesn’t get out much and she’s very excited to be at the movies
– I’m so embarrassed by this activity rather than excited to be with her
– My mother probably paid for the movie so I’m not only ungrateful of this, but probably a lot of other things I’m given in my cushy life.

My reply: “Your poor mother probably doesn’t get out much… a side effect of caring for ungrateful children. LOFLOMG I can’t even.”

LOFLOMG (laugh out fucking loud, oh my god)

I guess I wanted them to realize they were in public, not some private little diary where they can cry and maybe just maybe understand the consequences of being a turd online.

But I was hoping for too much.

You don’t poke an angst-ridden hornet’s net without getting those first few barbs of defensive worker drones guarding the gate. The insults grew from generic to personal (towards me), and a bullying atmosphere developed over the next 24 hours.

An unrelated youth joined in to support the child’s ignorance and throw barbs about age, and life expectancy of my gonad tissues.

With every reply (lovingly captured for the future), they continued to spew hateful things, but they NEVER once worked the issue through. Reactionary at best, they never once tried to discuss my conclusion. They only wanted war.

That’s your future, World.

ninth circle - Dante
Artist’s rendering of future humans. Just kidding.

The comments kept coming, proving to me that children these days DO NOT CARE what ends up online and this will either confront them negatively later in life or maybe, and I say this with a dystopia laced caution, the world will evolve NOT to care and people will just be this mean and this callous 100% of the time.

If the latter is the case, I’ll probably be voting for suicide booths on every corner because who would want to live in that world?

I know there are more thoughtful, more intelligent children out there who understand humanity early on, and embrace the world for its positives but they are few and far between. They are little treasures that should be nourished so they grow and run the world in a more positive atmosphere.

My favorite reply of all:

Unrelated Youth (not original child): you’re eggs are probably rotten and you mad cause you can’t have me as a child shutup bitch

Honey: It’s ‘your eggs’ not ‘you’re eggs’.
And it’s ‘you’re mad’ not ‘you mad’.
I’ll let ’cause’ slide, because it is Twitter after all.
There is so much more to correct, but this isn’t a grammar lesson today.

Unfortunately, my eggs are still very fresh and it’s annoying having to worry about getting pregnant at this horrible old age, and after reading your tweets…no dear, without male parental guidance in your life, I would never want to be your mother.

Feel free to read the entire thread on my twitter feed. (8/8/2014)

The density and continuous stream of ignorant statements is alarming.

No more Twitter experiments for me.

Leave the ignorant youth alone and let them consume their own darkness.

For as adults, they’ll be easier to spot and weed out.

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For more information about understanding the consequences of online actions:

http://www.ikeepsafe.org/be-a-pro/ethics/helping-kids-understand-the-consequences-of-online-actions/

http://www.onguardonline.gov/articles/0012-kids-and-socializing-online

http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/845191/the-internet-never-forgets

http://www.today.com/parents/offline-parenting-why-some-parents-post-nothing-their-kids-online-1C6301992

https://www.consumer.ftc.gov/articles/0012-kids-and-socializing-online

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Shout out to my friend, Devin, for making this good point: “It’s not so much a useless experiment if you learned something from it.”  Well said, sir.