In 1972, George Carlin’s Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television was a scandalous hit. Even though most of the words can be heard regularly on many media outlets now, they are still considered inappropriate. Why certain combinations of letters that make certain sounds are deemed “bad” has always concerned me. But as a writer, I know that words are powerful. Especially words like the original seven: Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, and Tits. He also mentioned Fart, Turd, and Twat as contenders. I capitalize them to give them the authority they so richly deserve. I have a few to add as well. Mostly because I have stories to go with them.
This is a combination of random crap I have posted before at various times. I thought I would see if it worked together. I’m not sure I succeeded, but I also don’t much care.
I don’t like to advertise that I’m an attorney. Can you guess why?
1. No one believes it’s possible because
(a) I’m a “blonde”
(b) I’m never serious enough
(c) I have only a superficial understanding of world history and current events
(d) Any combination of the above
(e) (b) and (d)
One morning, my son (who was maybe ten years old at the time) told me, “I play this Nintendo game good.” I replied, “No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns.” After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher to him, he looked at me and asked, “Why aren’t they called adnouns? Shouldn’t adjectives modify jectives?” He totally missed the point.
The majority of my friends, acquaintances, blog reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my first husband or even dated him to begin with. (Same for husband number two, in fact.) And I’m proud to say that both of my children know the difference between “your” and “you’re” and the difference between “its” and “it’s,” which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them. I don’t care what you say, as long as you say it correctly.
Jesus Christ and his mom, the Virgin Mary, have been known to visit keen observers when they cause their likenesses to appear in the most unlikely of places. Apparently, only those who believe can see the images clearly. Sightings of these religious simulacra (as they are called) are often the result of what scientists refer to as pareidolia: The imagined perception of a pattern or meaning where it does not actually exist. This phenomenon is attributed to the human mind’s over-sensitivity to the perception of patterns, especially that of a human face or figure, where it would not normally be seen. I assume that when the image of someone’s aunt or third grade teacher, for example, materializes in, let’s say, a bowl of tapioca, it just gets eaten before any pictures are taken. Only the images of Jesus or his mom get such attention. And rightly so, I guess. I’d be afraid not to alert the media for fear of cosmic repercussions.
Sportswriter Red Smith is alleged to have said something to the effect of, “There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” Good writers spill their souls carefully and deliberately. They weave words to link their minds and hearts to those of their readers. Many of those who do it best are the ones who quite possibly feel or think too much. Scientific research suggests that poets and writers are more likely to suffer from mental illness and substance abuse. In fact, one study notes, “compared to the general population, bipolar mood disorder is highly over-represented among writers and artists.” Many with bipolar disorder produce their best work during manic periods. (I know I do.)
The year 2009 was a huge success when it came to the number of famous people dying. Two biggies happened on the same day in June. After Farrah Fawcett ruined my morning and Michael Jackson put a damper on my afternoon, I started wondering who would be the third, or if Ed McMahon was the first of that trio. (Because, we all know that these things supposedly happen in threes.) Then I thought, what if Farrah was actually the third and Michael was starting up a new one? Then I wondered how big a celebrity they need to be to have the dubious honor of being included in this little pop culture superstition game. I am relying, for the most part, on my voice-activated software. If it knows who I’m talking about, then they’re in.
According to my few minutes of painstaking research, a healthy amount of so-called celebrities bought the farm that year. But I’m only counting the ones I’m familiar with or interested in. I intend no offense to the memory of any B, C, or D-list “stars” nor do I mean to show disrespect toward any 100-year-old silent film actors or any sports figures from the 1940s to the 1960s. So here are my unofficial results (in threes, of course):
I have a confession that may cause me to lose friends or at least miss out on some social invitations. There’s a condition called “social anxiety disorder.” There are prescription drugs for it. (I’m not a pharmacist, but I play one at home.) I clearly don’t have a full-blown case of it because I’m comfortable speaking in front of large groups, I’ve been known to be the life of the occasional party, and I would tell my deepest secrets to the old crack whore in line next to me at a convenience store. However, when it comes to certain events (not only attending them but simply contemplating attending them) I can empathize with the unfortunate victims of this disorder. Here’s why:
I would prefer never to attend the following: daytime receptions, tea parties, banquets, buffet dinners, office parties, baby showers, wedding showers, children’s birthday parties, and parties where you feel obligated to buy jewelry, candles, or kitchen paraphernalia. Each type of gathering gives me a somewhat different yet equally uncomfortable level of social anxiety. Mostly because they make me feel like I’m burning daylight. Like I could be doing something more productive with my time such as cleaning out a closet or organizing a junk drawer or alphabetizing my spices again.
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