Snow is like makeup–it hides a lot of unsightly reality. Last night 20/20 had a two hour program on the rise of video capturing the unsightly reality of everything we formerly hid behind a screen of snow-like privacy. The main point of 20/20 was that privacy is dead.
About a week ago, Time Magazine’s person of the year was announced as YOU, the citizen content creator, the video taker, the blogger, the personal publisher.
Is privacy . . .
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“We’re marauding giants,” eight-year old Jeremy shouted, as he and Meredith stomped into the bedroom, arms upraised. “Aarrggghhh,” he growled, face distorted with giant-like fearsomeness. He ranged around my bedroom, marauding dangerously, and snatched up my jewelry box. He dumped it on the floor and beat his chest. “Quake in fear before me, peasant!” he said, and stomped from the room with Meridith following on his heels.
I turned back to my folding chores. I knew soon enough the marauding giants would return reincarnated as house cleaners and right the contents of my jewelry box. . .
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We were so hungry
That mom’s meals,
Made of the cheapest
And the less than prime,
Seemed so wonderful
So tasty, so perfect.
Like a magic trick
She turned base goods
Into golden broth,
Savory stew and
Soul satisfying bread.
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Three men in masks ran from the bank. One carried a heavy looking garbage bag. Instead of getting out of my car, I slumped down in the front seat and dialed 9-1-1. I reached into the glove compartment and grabbed my .38 and my badge. I was out of uniform, but the gun spoke for itself.
I heard tires spinning on the icy parking lot and curses coming from the big black SUV that the three men drove. I stood up, still shielded by my car door, and showed my gun and badge. I always felt silly yelling, “Stop, Police!” but I did it now.
The driver gave the SUV even more gas and the back end began spinning on the ice, creeping toward my car. I fired at a front tire, shouting . . .
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The latest Sorry game includes an alternative version. You play with 5 cards in your hand. It gives you some control over your fate, some decision-making power about how to play the game, about whether to bust someone back to Start or make your move toward Home.
Life should be like the new Sorry. Should we leave Iraq using one of these five options? What if one of the options is to keep doing the same thing that hasn’t been working? No decent game would stick you with a choice like that…
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A wonderful thing arrived in the mail with a Christmas card from a high school classmate. A handful of old photos of me that looked like they might have languished for the last umpteen years in a forgotten wallet or scrapbook. The photos were so “me” as a teen. This one, I’m not sure about. Was I showing off a muscle flex, stretching, proud of my belt, or merely goofing off for the camera? I don’t remember, but I love seeing this younger me doing something so typically me with such gusto.
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “what was I thinking?”
Leafing through the spring catalog from the local community college, I saw a class called “Perfect Murder Weapons for Mystery Writers.” It was taught by a local celeb writer of popular mysteries and promised to teach aspiring writers some of the secrets of successful murders.
I have no interest in writing at all, but I’m very interested in the secrets of successful murders, so I called the college and . . .
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Mom dragged my radio into the bathroom. “You are using too much hot water,” she accused. “From now on, your shower cannot last longer than one song: three minutes.”
“Oh, yeah, right, like I can wash my hair and take a whole shower in three minutes. You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“I’m not kidding. When one song, only one song, ends, the water goes off.” She sat the radio on the counter and reached to . . .
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After the movie, I mentioned the message about commercial fishing. My two grandkids were quick to offer more: 1) it doesn’t matter if you seem a little different, just following your heart, 2) don’t throw litter in the ocean.
More subtle was the idea that true love was worth waiting for, that a woman didn’t have to have “eggs” to be a real woman, that a mix of accents and outlooks could blend into a pleasant melting pot of penguiness without wars breaking out. Oh yeah, don’t forget, spread joy, get rhythm.
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The tide was out, the wavewashed sand smooth beneath her feet. The end of her run approached and she stopped a moment to admire the rocky outcrop that marked her three mile goal before turning back toward home.
Above the muted low tide breathing of the water, she heard a voice. . .
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