Tag Archives: general crankiness

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

etc., fashion, humor, , , ,

To those of us who were hippies back in the 60s and 70s (and are now in our 60s and 70s), letting your freak flag fly meant something special. If I had to define it in two words, it meant Weird Pride. The straight world viewed us as weirdos, and, rather than being insulted, we embraced the title.

A lot of the controversy had to do with hair—specifically, long hair on men. I know it’s hard to believe now, in a time when anyone can do anything with their hair and not have anyone bat an eye, but back then it was a form of rebellion and a cause for discrimination. (There was a time when long hair was considered a job-killer. Beards too. Now about the only job-killer appearance I can think of is face tattoos. But I digress.)

It’s hard to let your freak flag fly anymore. There don’t seem to be any more freak flags. Not even hairstyles. Mohawks are passé. Shaved and partially shaved heads are accepted, even for women. Grandmothers are dying their hair green, pink, and blue—and not the kind of blue that used to be called a blue rinse. (Though many old ladies called it a blue wrench. I’m not sure why. But I digress again.)

It seems like the only way left to have a freak flag is based on your clothing. Even then it’s hard to do. I’m not talking about tie-dye, either. That can be worn by anyone, not just Deadheads. Mismatched, colorful socks won’t do it, and (unless you move in Martha Stewart’s orbit (which I don’t, needless to say) neither will wearing plaids with polka dots. (If you’re wearing a suit, the mismatched striped socks thing might work, but anything unusual worn with a suit would count as a freak flag (except an AR-15 pin, and maybe not even that in some surprising circles). Business suits are still an indicator of a non-freak. But I digress some more.)

Even non-clothing freak flags are getting more permissible. Psychedelic music is now on the oldies stations. Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In hasn’t worn well, even though you can find it on a streaming channel. Marijuana is legal in many states (does anyone still say weed, pot, Mary Jane, blunts, roaches, etc.?) and used for relief from physical pain and illnesses. Psychedelic and party drugs are being used for psychiatric illnesses.

Protest songs don’t even exist anymore, though they’re sorely needed, if you ask me. Vulgar and obscene t-shirt sayings barely rate a blink. There are places to go if you’re a nudist, gay, or kinky that don’t get raided. Bare feet are about the only things that can get you tossed out of restaurants.

There are no freak cars anymore either. People don’t paint their VWs with flowers. A VW bus is more likely to belong to a soccer mom than a commune. And when it comes to travel, no one has to go to Canada to evade the draft. There are no draft cards to burn. Teenagers don’t even know what the draft was, and Vietnam vets are old men and women.

Now I’m not saying these new sensibilities are bad things, not at all. It’s probably a good thing that more styles are not only acceptable but non-controversial. It’s great that people can express themselves more freely. Whenever my husband wears his Jerry Garcia t-shirt, people think it’s far out. (I know people don’t say “far-out” anymore. Or “groovy.” I can’t keep track of what they do say. Plus, my husband’s t-shirt usually draw remarks that he looks like the picture. But I digress yet again.)

Basically, if you can find a way to let your freak flag fly, do it!

Don’t Harsh My Buzz

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Haters gonna hate. But I wish they wouldn’t, at least when it comes to personal preferences.

At this time of year, there is one major group of haters: those who hate pumpkin spice, who think it ought to be abolished. Who make fun of the people who enjoy a nice pumpkin spice latte.

I don’t get it. I love cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves. I’m especially fond of cinnamon and ginger. In fact, I love them so much that I believe all pumpkin pies should be made with more of the spices than are called for in the recipe so as not to be overwhelmed by the pumpkin, which is, after all, not all that flavorful.

And yet some people hate on pumpkin spice “everything.” I don’t often drink coffee and never lattes, so I don’t know exactly how a pumpkin spice latte tastes. But my bet is that it doesn’t contain any actual pumpkin flavor. It’s got to be doctored with only the spices. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Obviously, there’s a market for it, or Starbucks et al. wouldn’t be offering it. And offering it in September is totally legitimate. September is the gateway to fall.

(Except this year, of course. September is meant to herald the onset of sweater weather. This year, it’s still the month of boob sweat rash. But I digress.)

There are lots of other things made with pumpkin spice that are delightful as well. There are cakes and cookies, candy and cereal, bread and pancakes, soup and cheesecakes, muffins and doughnuts, macarons and popcorn, protein shakes and yogurt. But if you hate pumpkin pie spice, you can simply not buy them. You don’t have to declare how much you dislike them. As some of my friends say, “Don’t yuck my yum.” (We old hippies say “Don’t harsh my buzz,” hence the title of this post. Other formulations include “Don’t harsh my mellow,” and “Don’t be a buzzkill.” But I digress again.)

There are other things that people hate on. Country music. Rap music. Superhero movies. Horror movies. Romance novels. Science fiction novels. Et endless cetera.

Some of these impinge on me personally. I love country music (at least classic country and what they call Americana these days). Yet when a person says that they love country, people assume they’re an ignorant, racist redneck. I love science fiction, but I’m not a teenage, basement-dwelling geek. Those are stereotypes. Like most stereotypes, there’s a reason they exist. And also like stereotypes, they don’t apply to everyone.

Basically, I think all this hate would lessen if more people understood Sturgeon’s Law, which says, “90 percent of everything is crap.” (Sturgeon is Theodore Sturgeon, a science fiction author. One of the Big Names, at least of the old guard. But I digress some more.)

What Sturgeon meant is that 90 percent of anything you’d care to name is crap: 90 percent of country music is crap; 90 percent of rap music is crap; 90 percent of science fiction is crap; 90 percent of romance novels are crap; and so on. And 90 percent of coffee drinks are crap, I suppose.

That leaves 10 percent of everything that isn’t crap—indeed, it may be extraordinary. But the catch is that you have to wade through the 90 percent of crap to get to the 10 percent of great. And most people aren’t willing to wade through the crap to get to the non-crap. It’s much easier just to dismiss the whole 100 percent as crap.

All I’m really asking is that you leave the pumpkin spice lovers alone. Don’t yuck their yum. If you don’t like country music, you don’t have to go through the 90 percent to get to the 10 percent that I love. Don’t harsh my buzz.

Life would be a lot more pleasant if everyone would simply refrain from yucking yums and harshing buzzes.

Is that too much to ask?

I’m Melting!

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We don’t have any AC, which has been a problem for some time. So of course my response was to buy a laptop computer.

Why? (I hear you ask.) Well, we spent all our money on fixing our car and our truck, which chose to break down simultaneously. A Pitman arm (whatever that is) and brakes, pads, and rotors later, we had moderately functional cars—until the Pitman arm vehicle blew a ball joint (whatever that is). Dan had to take a Lyft to our mechanic to pick up the car with the new brakes, another expense we hadn’t counted on. The one with no ball joint is still sitting in our driveway, inert. (The other one runs moderately well, except now the power steering has gone out and I can’t make turns with my frail, little bunny arms, so Dan is the only one who can drive it. But I digress.)

Back to the AC. My brave husband tried some potential fixes. Breakers. Turning it off and back on. Poking around the basement and outside where the compressor sits in hopes of finding something that looked like an inexpensive way to resurrect it.

No luck. No money to fix it.

Back to the laptop. Best Buy was having a sale on Apple computers, so I went shopping there. I found a refurbished laptop. (I must admit I accessorized with a mouse, a carrying case, and a subscription to Microsoft Office. The carrying case comes into play later in this story. But I digress some more.) Where did I get the money? We have a Best Buy credit card. It paid for a laptop but not a ball joint or a mechanic, which is a shame.

Again, why a laptop? I have a desktop computer, but it’s unluggable.

My plan was to put the laptop into the case with the mouse and head off to Panera if the day got scorching. (Panera has electrical outlets, wifi, and USB ports, which cannot be said for Waffle House, my original choice. Mcdonald’s was my other choice. They don’t have USB ports and electrical outlets, but they do have wifi, and I may still go there as their iced tea is cheaper than Panera’s. I figure I ought to buy something if I go to a restaurant, and keeping hydrated is important. But I digress yet again.)

This strategy would be inconvenient. With only one car operational, I’d have to take my husband to work at 5:30 a.m., go to Panera’s (or wherever) (if it’s open at that hour), and pick Dan up after work.

The next development was that I came into a little money from my ghostwriting, enough to buy a small window air conditioner, which was enough to keep my study—and my desktop computer—cool. We both now spend most of our time in my study.

But I discovered that I wanted to keep the laptop (was there ever any doubt?), so I used the rest of the money to make an extra payment on the credit card. I can use the laptop if I want to work in bed or when we go out of town. Or if I want to go to Panera or McDonald’s anyway. The laptop, though refurbished, has an operating system several generations newer than my desktop. It might also come in handy if the desktop computer goes the way of the car and the truck. (I don’t know whether computers have Pitman arms or ball joints. Digressing again.)

So, to recap, we now have a laptop, an air conditioner which enables us to live in one room of the house, and one car that works. (For the moment. It’s a 2001. The ball joint-deficient truck is a 1995. I don’t know how much longer its last legs will last. But I digress even more.) I have a writing assignment that should wrap up in September, and I can use that money to pay down the credit card some more.

It’s complicated, but at least we have options. We like options. Especially when we need to drop back five and punt. Or when we’re stranded in my study and I’m melting.

Kneecapped!

etc., health, humor, , ,

It began with a cat, of course. No, it didn’t. It started with an Arabian horse. Either way, it was the beginning of the end for my body.

(Technically, it started with a bucket of wood. At one time, I annoyed my back by carrying the wood up two flights of stairs, the other option being freezing to death. But what I didn’t realize at the time is that an annoyed back will never allow you to forget. But I digress.)

Anyway, there I was at the vet with a sick cat. I bent forward maybe 15 degrees to put the cat on the examining table. And my back did more than complain. It stabbed. (“How big was the cat?” asked everyone who heard the story. It was a normal, eight-pound cat. But I digress some more.)

That led to my first experience with back surgery. After trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pain and treat it with drugs, I had what was called a micro-laminectomy. Basically, they delved into the small of my back and scooped out little bits of bone from between the discs, or maybe bits of disc from between the bones. It helped.

Enter the Arabian horse. A friend owned it and offered to let me ride it. Bareback. I knew it was a dicey proposition with my back’s former lack of cooperation, but it was an Arabian horse, so I took a chance. Shortly thereafter came another round of stabbing and another micro-laminectomy. I was pronounced good to go, until, the surgeon said, I wanted a metal rod up my spine. I didn’t. (Favorite quote: “Bone on bone.”) So I gave up on horses, however Arabian they might be.

(Dan and I were talking the other night. He said, “There comes a time when you try to do something and realize, no, I can’t do that anymore.” I replied that I hadn’t had to try turning a cartwheel to realize I could no longer do it. “Not since the Arabian horse,” I said. He admitted that I had a point. But I digress again.)

But all that’s in the past. What I have to deal with now owes nothing to carrying wood, escorting cats to the vet, horseback riding, or back surgery. Now I’ve found that I’ve been kneecapped. And not by a Mafioso. By my own knees, which apparently I’ve had for far too many years.

A few years back, I told my doctor that my knees made crackling sounds when I climbed stairs. “Come back when they hurt,” he said. They did, and I did. After a little while fooling around with Tylenol and ointments, he decided I should have steroid shots in my knees. With a huge syringe and a long needle. (It actually didn’t hurt that much. There was just a weird sense of pressure inside my knees.)

I got a referral to another doctor who gave the steroid shots more frequently. (Favorite quote: “Bone on bone.”) “When they don’t work anymore, we’ll talk knee replacement,” he said. I think he meant the shots not working. Maybe he meant my knees.

I don’t particularly want to get bionic knees, but I also don’t want to keep limping and stumbling. Never mind a “Good Hair Day.” I’m satisfied when I have a “Good Knee Day.”

Cran-Apple Schnapps and Other Atrocities

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My friend Tom Smith wrote a funny song containing the phrase “cran-apple schnapps” as an idea for a repellent beverage. Then Ocean Spray came up with Cran-Apple drink and suddenly, the whole thing seemed a bit less ridiculous. (Linguists used to have a thing called a cranberry morpheme, a part of a word that could only be used with one other word part. Cran only went with berry. Then Ocean Spray got creative and now the cranberry morpheme is a thing of the past. I guess now they call it a huckleberry morpheme. But I digress. Pedantically.)

Now Ocean Spray has even more flavors, including white-cran-strawberry, white-cran-peach, cran-lemonade, cran-tangerine, cran-pomegranate, cran-pineapple, cran-raspberry, cran-blueberry, cran-blackberry, cran-grape, cran-mango, cran-ruby-red-grapefruit, cran-citrus-mango-pineapple, cran-cherry, cran-lime, and cran-iced-tea. To me, they all sound like okay flavors for nonalcoholic beverages, but lousy flavors for schnapps.

Schnapps ought to come in regular flavors like peppermint and peach. (While doing my research for this post, I came across Cactus Juice Schnapps. My initial reaction was bleh, but I don’t really know and have no desire to find out. But I digress again.)

Vodka is another liquor that comes in an alarming variety of flavors: lemon, lime, lemon-lime, orange, tangerine, grapefruit, raspberry, strawberry, blueberry, teaberry, vanilla, black currant, chili pepper, cherry, apple, green apple, coffee, chocolate, cranberry, peach, pear, passion fruit, pomegranate, plum, mango, white grape, banana, pineapple, coconut, mint, melon, rose, herbs, bacon, honey, cinnamon, kiwifruit, whipped cream, tea, root beer, caramel, marshmallow, and many more.

I think I understand the fruit-flavored ones since vodka drinks often include limes, cranberries, or other fruits. But bacon vodka is just weird. Whipped cream and marshmallow flavors just sound abominable and an occasion for projectile barfing. (I understand that flavored vodkas were invented to entice more women to drink more vodka. Hasn’t worked on me. But I digress some more.)

Whiskey hasn’t escaped the flavor-fying either. Now there are whiskeys subtly or not-so-subtly tasting of spiced apple, cinnamon, cherry peach, apple, vanilla, peanut butter, blackberry, salted caramel, chocolate, caramel turtle, cookie dough, honey, jalapeno honey, chocolate cherry cream, banana, praline, gingerbread, black cherry, maple, strawberry, chocolate mint, ruby red grapefruit, salty watermelon, mango habanero, peanut butter jalapeno, marshmallow chocolate, coconut, birthday cake, whipped cream, pineapple, kettle corn, barbecue, butterscotch, s’mores, rocky road, espresso martini, pumpkin pie, lemon pepper, candy cane, blood orange, strawberry banana, and grilled pineapple. There’s even one called Elvis Midnight Snack whiskey with flavors of peanut butter, banana, and bacon.

(I sort of understand coffee whiskey, because there’s a wonderful whiskey drink called Irish Coffee. Chocolate mint, however—I love chocolate mints and I like whiskey, and I may or may not have eaten a chocolate mint while sipping whiskey, but as far as making the two one, I’ll pass. But I digress yet again.)

Soda flavors are getting more inventive too. I’ve recently encountered Spiced Coke, which is supposed to have an undertone of raspberry, but the only flavor I get when I drink it is cinnamon. I rather like it. There’s also Strawberries and Cream Dr. Pepper, which Dan likes; Cherry Lime Sprite; Baja Blast Mountain Dew (tropical lime, colored blue for some reason); vanilla, cherry, peach oolong tea, and mango Pepsi; Coke black cherry, lime, lemon, raspberry, mango or Coke marshmello (their spelling); 7-up cherry, citrus, orange, raspberry, tropical twist, pink grapefruit, pomegranate, and mixed berry; Dr. Pepper cream soda and cherry vanilla; and Mountain Dew cherry, lime, orange, raspberry, watermelon, lemonade peach, citrus cherry, and blackberry. Some of those are limited-time flavors or ones sold only overseas.

I don’t resent the fact that companies are introducing new flavors. Some of them I even like, and others my husband likes. And I know that adding new flavors is a way for them to attract new buyers who haven’t been satisfied with the usual choices.

But, for heaven’s sake, guys. Too much of a good thing is not necessarily a good thing. You’re taking up too much space on the shelves, and they’ll run out of the flavors I want. Use some restraint!

The Tyranny of SEO

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There’s a phenomenon called “search engine optimization,” or SEO for short. And I’ve grown to hate it.

The idea of SEO is to increase the chances of your post, article, book, or whatever being at the top of the responses to a Google search. Writers and publishers in particular are invested in making sure that their wares gain the attention of Google and then potential readers.

SEO works by focusing on keywords. There are certain words and phrases that people search for more than others. If your work contains these words, it will appear further up the Google results and, presumably, increase sales. It’s all about “search visibility” and marketing strategies. There are plenty of books and websites that teach you how to improve your SEO game.

What are some of the best, top keywords that people search for? Well, best and top show up high on the lists. Everyone wants to know the best places to eat or the top-rated appliances, so those words show up a lot. “How to” is another search term that gets top results.

There are lists of keywords for any number of fields. If you have a book or article on health and fitness, your SEO keywords include “weight loss,” “lifetime fitness,” and “health tips.” Business keywords include “money” (of course), “opportunity,” “income,” and “profitability.” There are lists of keywords for coffee, dog training, and poker, among many, many others. For one of my areas of interest, mental health, keywords include “symptoms,” “medication,” and “side effects.” There are companies that specialize in giving you a list of keywords for your project—for a price.

What really ticks me off is what this has done to book subtitles. (Yes, I know that there are much more important things to be ticked off about, especially these days. However, I work in the publishing field, so I get to see a lot of subtitles. But I digress.)

Let’s start with one that isn’t all that annoying: How to Sustain Personal and Organizational Excellence Every Day. Eight words only. But look at the SEO keywords. We have Personal and Organizational Excellence. Sustain may be a keyword too, and so might Every Day. What could the author have done instead? Organizational Excellence ought to do it. Combined with a title like Habits for Success, that ought to do it. Still plenty of SEO words. Or just have a title: Success and Organizational Excellence. No subtitle. But that goes against every publishing rule, evidently.

Here’s another subtitle that’s been reined in just a bit: Reflections on Death, Rebirth, and Hunger for a Faith. Nine words. It says what you’ll find in the book without going on and on. Just enough to pique the potential readers’ interest. (While we’re on the subject of things that tick me off (and I think we were), I cringe whenever I see “peak” someone’s interest, or, God help me, “peek.” But I digress again.)

Now here’s a subtitle that goes a little further overboard: Dynamic Techniques for Turning Fear, Indecision, and Anger into Power, Action, and Love. Thirteen words. Dynamic Techniques, Power, Action, and Love are obvious self-help SEOs. I can imagine the title that would go with it: Transform Your Life.

Let’s keep going. Next on my list of terrible subtitles is Stop People Pleasing, Staying Silent, & Feeling Guilty… And Start Speaking Up, Saying No, Asking Boldly, And Unapologetically Being Yourself. Twenty words, one of them a mouthful by itself: unapologetically. Honestly, I think you could read the first chapter in the time it takes to read the subtitle.

Finally, here’s a subtitle that really grates: Transform Your Body in 28 Days with Illustrated Exercises. Lose Belly Fat, Sculpt Glutes, and Feel More Energized in Just 10 Minutes a Day! Twenty-four words, four verbs, and a plethora of nouns and adjectives. And a promise with an exclamation point. What is there left to say in the book? Whoever wrote that subtitle ought to have their thyroid checked.

On the other hand, maybe I’m just jealous. I wrote two books before SEO took off. (I still get royalties. I’m saving up for a pizza. But I digress some more.) Maybe I should have called them Bipolar Me: The True Story of One Woman’s Journey Through Mental Illness, Depression, and Hypomania, Based on Her Weekly Journal of the Same Name and Bipolar Us: A Deep Dive into Bipolar Disorder and Its Devastating Effects on Sufferers and Society, the Highs and Lows That Come With It, and How to Find Peace and Stability.

Of course, if I did that, the subtitles would have had to be printed in little tiny type, another aspect of publishing that really ticks me off. With my bad eyesight, I wouldn’t even be able to read my own subtitles. I can’t win.

Who Owns the Rainbow?

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I can’t believe that a rainbow is controversial, but there you have it. These days it is. The problem is that the rainbow means many different things to many different people.

This being Pride Month, we see a lot of pride flags, shirts, coffee cups, buttons, posts, memes, etc. with rainbows on them. They are brightly colored rainbows, not the more pastel kind you see in the sky after a rain. They’re meant to symbolize sexual diversity and visibility. The rainbow flag was first flown in 1978 at the San Francisco Gay Freedom Day parade. Now the rainbow flag stands for gay pride. You also see flags with white, pink, and blue, and black and brown added in some configuration for trans visibility and POC intersectionality.

There’s pushback, though. There’s the question of whether—and how much—rainbow merchandise should be displayed in mass-market retail stores during Pride Month. The manufacturers and sellers, whether they actually support the LGBTQIA+ community or not, naturally want to make money, and their first instinct is that people supportive of gay pride will buy rainbow-themed products. The pushback comes from some in the heterosexual community who feel that too much square footage and prominence have been given over to gay pride merchandise. Fearing that they would lose money if the complaining heterosexuals shopped elsewhere, some retailers cut down on the stock of rainbow merchandise or put it in the back of stores so it would be, if not back in the closet, at least less in-your-face.

Some Christians also push back against the rainbow-as-gay-pride concept by invoking religion. The rainbow, they say, belongs to God and is not to be associated with what they see as sin. It was a sign of God’s promise never to destroy the world with a flood again and so symbolizes holiness, faithfulness, and salvation. I’ve seen Facebook posts and memes promoting this understanding of rainbows and an attempt to “take back” the rainbow for God.

Call me pedantic, but no one seems to talk about what a rainbow actually is. It’s a product of refraction, which Sir Isaac Newton explained in 1665 when sunlight hit a prism and produced a color spectrum that resembled a rainbow. National Geographic defines a rainbow this way: “a multicolored arc made by light striking water droplets.” The controversy over rainbows, however, is not about what they are but what they symbolize.

Symbols, to get pedantic again, are not absolutes. They mean what we put into them, what we believe about them. And they change meanings over time. The Don’t Tread on Me flag (technically called the Gadsden Flag) was once a symbol of Colonial America’s resistance to the British. More recently, it became associated with the Tea Party movement and other right-wing causes. What does it symbolize now? Independence (though not from the British)? No taxation? Anti-government sentiment in general? Objections to one particular political party? All of the above? None of the above? When there’s that little agreement, the symbolic meaning fades out and the flag simply means “I’m angry” or perhaps “I’m defiant.”

The same is true of the American flag as a symbol. To some people, it represents the United States itself. To others, it means American ideals like liberty and justice for all. To still others, it stands for the US military. So if you disrespect the flag (in whatever way) who or what you’re disrespecting—the nation, the ideals, or the military—depends on how you interpret the symbol. (There’s no pushback at all against flag-themed clothing. At one time that was thought to be disrespectful too. It’s part of the US Flag Code that the flag shouldn’t be worn as clothing, but hardly anyone knows that anymore, much less abides by it.)

So, back to the rainbow. Going on the principle that a symbol means what you put into it, there’s no use fighting over what it means. It means different things to different people in different circumstances. Everyone is entitled to associate it with any meaning they prefer, whether that be gays or God. Or, as I prefer, refracted light in the sky that looks pretty. That’s a lot less contentious.

Now I wait for the comments that I’m disrespecting gays, God, or America (though probably not Sir Isaac Newton). You’re entitled to your symbolism. But no one owns the rainbow.

I Can’t Commit

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Of course, that’s not completely true. There are things I can commit to—my husband, for example. We’ve been married for 41 years, which I think is proof aplenty.

What I can’t commit to are things that go on too long. (The marriage does not fit into that category.)

Let me explain.

Movies

In the evenings, when my husband and I have finished dinner, he often wants to watch a movie, but I don’t often agree to it. I hate leaving a movie in the middle, but I also hate staying up past my bedtime to finish one. It’s a delicate balance.

For example, after the recent eclipse, we decided on Ladyhawke, which was relevant, but I couldn’t make it all the way through. We had to watch the second half the next day and that upset my internal clock, not to mention my sense of continuity. If a movie starts at 8:00, it’s pretty much out of the running for me. I’m a little old lady and don’t like staying up past 9:00. (And you can get off my lawn. If I had one, I mean. Dan is aiming for a pollinator garden. But I digress.)

TV Series

When it comes to TV, I hate to start a series because I realize I’ll never keep up with it every week. This doesn’t apply to series that have already finished. Often, old episodes of House, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Castle, Inkmaster, Chopped, or Bones are shown for several hours a day, and those I can tolerate multiple episodes of. (That may sound counterintuitive. The difference seems to be that I don’t have to pay attention to them. I usually have them on when I’m doing something else like writing. They’re just my emotional support background noise. But I digress again.)

Books

I used to be able to tolerate series of books. I devoured The Lord of the Rings, Asimov’s Foundation trilogy, Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain series, Sue Grafton’s Alphabet books, and other long-running written endeavors. Not anymore. I buy many of my e-books from discount sites for $1.99 or $2.99 (because I’m cheap). Many of them, as you might suppose, are not exactly scintillating. Some of them are so dreadful I give up on them well before I reach the denouement.

(One of the first ones I ever committed libris interruptus on was a horror novel that started by introducing the protagonists. They were perfect. Perfect looks. Perfect jobs. Perfect house. Perfect marriage. Perfect kids. By the end of the first chapter, I was rooting for the monster, which hadn’t even shown its tentacles, fangs, slime, or whatever. But I digress some more.)

I recently discovered that even book series I love can be too much of a commitment. I recently reread the three volumes of The Lord of the Rings, but couldn’t jump right into The Silmarillion. I love Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan series and set out to reread them all, but pooped out after book ten. I needed a break (a la Friends) and haven’t come back to finish the other four. Yet. I have a feeling that after 600 pages of Midnight in Chernobyl, my current good read, I’ll be ready. (I hate the phrase “a good read.” It sounds too much like saying someone is a “good lay.” But I digress yet again.)

I haven’t even reread my own books (Bipolar Me and Bipolar Us). They don’t constitute much of a series and would make a terrible movie. But that’s not the reason. There’s a terrible typo in the first one, and I’m afraid I’ll find one in the second as well. If I weren’t depressed about the slim sales, that would do it.

The Rise of the Asterisk

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It’s well-known (by people who know me) that I love punctuation. I read books about punctuation. I have two punctuation tattoos. My favorite mark of punctuation is the semicolon (which is one of the tattoos I have). But lately, when it comes to punctuation, the asterisk is in the ascendancy. And that’s because an increasing number of books have swear words in their titles. Punctuation is how we address the problem delicately.

The first example of the trend and at the time most shocking was Go the F**k to Sleep, a book that purported to be a read-to-kids goodnight book, but was really an expression of parental frustration. It caused quite a buzz.

After that came The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck (and the more daintily titled The Subtle Art of Not Caring About People’s Opinion), I Used to Be a Miserable F*ck, Unfu*k Yourself, The French Art of Not Giving a Sh*t, and F*ck Feelings. For those who prefer hashtags, there’s Unf#ck Your Brain. The winner for the longest title is The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F*ck: How to Stop Spending Time You Don’t Have with People You Don’t Like Doing Things You Don’t Want to Do (A No F*cks Given Guide). And Everything is #@%!ed! uses a whole string of punctuation. Fucking This shit Show: A Gratitude Journal for Tired Women dispenses with the veil of punctuation altogether. (I can’t help that inconsistent capitalization. That’s the way it’s written. Maybe shit is supposed to look less threatening in lowercase? But I digress.)

(When marks of punctuation are used as stand-ins for letters or words, they’re called “grawlix,” an almost completely useless word, but one I’m quite fond of. Most people have seen grawlix only in comic books when Popeye, for example, wants to cuss. But I continue digressing.)

What’s the reason for all the daintily disguised sweary titles? It’s not like we don’t know what the asterisks stand for. It’s not fooling anyone. Go the F**k to Sleep was obviously meant to be shocking, though it also expressed humor and frustration. After that, it looks like a bandwagon was jumped on. The book even jumped on its own bandwagon. Now it’s a trilogy, including You Have to F**king Eat and F**k, Now There Are Two of You.

(I note that most of the sweary titles go with self-help books. Does this indicate a certain irreverence regarding the concept of self-help? Frustration with the concepts in the books? I know I’ve wanted to swear at self-help books during various periods of my life. Now I write them, though (so far) none have titles that require grawlix. But I digress some more.)

Personally, I have no objection to swearing. For a long time, I couldn’t do it, but after working as a waitress, I made up for lost time. Now I swear like a sailor, though with better enunciation. Sometimes, a curse word is just the right one. And of course, when I use a swear word in writing, I punctuate it properly. No grawlix here.

My favorite unexpected use of punctuation, however, comes in this brief verse:

Mary’s little lamb / Upon the grass did frisk. / But Mary was afraid / Her little * .

Now that’s creative punctuation!

What We Deserve

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I saw a mattress commercial once that said something like, “You’ll get the good night’s sleep you deserve.” Or maybe it was good dreams. I was taken aback. Do we really deserve a good night’s sleep? The ad appears to not have taken into account new babies and new puppies, known destroyers of a good night’s sleep and neither one a problem solvable with a new mattress. If you’ve recently acquired either a baby or a puppy, a good night’s sleep is not so much something you deserve as something that you desire.

Especially in commercials, there seem to be many things that folks apparently deserve. The most recent one I’ve heard is toilet paper that tears off neatly in pretty scalloped lines. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never desired—or deserved—ass-wipe that made pretty patterns on the roll. I’m satisfied if there is a roll and not just a brown paper tube on the holder. After being stranded once or twice, I won’t even insist on it facing the right way (over the front) as long as it’s there when I need it.

When it comes to what we deserve, I generally think of the very basics. We all deserve to have shelter and food and physical safety. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs has these physiological needs as the foundation of its levels of development. Maslow’s theory is that we can’t move on to higher levels of the pyramid until we have completed the ones below. So, until we have our basic needs met, we can’t move on to higher needs like love and belonging, esteem, and self-actualization.

But apart from our basic needs, what do we deserve? Singer-songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter has some thoughts (or rather Lucinda Williams, who wrote the lyrics). In her song “Passionate Kisses,” she lists “a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back”—so maybe that mattress is something we deserve after all. Other needs she wants fulfilled are “pens that won’t run out of ink and cool quiet and time to think.” And of course, those passionate kisses. “Shouldn’t I have all of this?” she asks. Yes. Yes, you should, I find myself thinking. Especially the pens. (Those don’t appear on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and neither do passionate kisses, except as a part of the love and belonging tier. But I digress.)

Williams was really onto something. While the comfortable bed and the pens cost money, the cool quiet and the time to think don’t, and neither do the passionate kisses.

I can think of a few other things we deserve as well. Healthcare that won’t bankrupt us. Enough food to stave off hunger, especially for children. Low-cost housing that the working poor can afford. Just to name a few. You know, stuff on the lowest level of Maslow’s Hierarchy.

Unfortunately, those do cost money, which really needs to be provided by social programs that require government funding, either national or local. Charitable organizations can help too, but they can’t shoulder the entire burden. And in the current political climate, funding for social programs is increasingly on the chopping block.

(And no, I’m not suggesting that there should be social programs that would offer funding for pens that don’t run out of ink or passionate kisses. That would be crazy. Maybe there should be a research effort to work on the pen thing, though. But I digress some more.)

For me personally, I think I deserve a mouse and keyboard that won’t run out of juice, a refrigerator that won’t run out of juice, and passionate kisses that won’t run out of juice. My old mattress works just fine.