Is this blog on?

Although I am a seasoned (but not necessarily tasteful) blogger, I still find myself tentative when I explore the other social media outlets such as my new Twitter toy. It reminds very much of when I got my first tape recorder as a kid. I was so excited about it, but the first time a microphone was turned on in front of me I froze. Then maybe I'd dip my toe into the waters and murmer a soft, "testing, one, two, three."

The problem is and always has been thinking about what I want to say. I am a much better writer when I just write. And I am much cleverer when I am not trying to be clever.

Such is life.

I follow Rainn Wilson on Twitter. He plays Dwight on the Office. I follow him not because I particularily care about what he has to say, but because his was one of the first names I recognized when I signed up for Twitter and was given a list of people to potentially follow. I am one of about 1.8 million people who follow him. I can't even imagine a fraction of that many people reading what I wrote on the spur of the moment. But so far Rainn seems unfazed by the whole thing and tweets away random posts all the time.

I bet he doesn't even think about it. I would be sweating bullets over each word and then regretting it when I hit the button to post. That is the difference between writing and tweeting. A writer traditionally crafted his or her words carefully over time, edited them, reread them, submitted them for publishing, had them rejected several times and then if the publishing gods were feeling in a particularly favorable mood, published. Bloggers and tweeters just crap out the stuff and flush it into the digital ether.

Not that there isn't some art to writing and publishing almost in the same breath. That old adage about a thousand monkeys hammering away at typewriters eventually producing the complete works of Shakespeare holds true with the blog and twitter worlds as well. True greatness can be achieved by any monkey if you place the banana bits on the right keys.

Dark train ride of my soul

I have to admit that, after all of my derisive comments about Twitter, I am kind of getting a kick out of blurping out random tweets. It is kind of liking having digital Tourette Syndrome.

The "dark train ride of my soul" tweet just came to me as I sat on the train this morning staring at the dark, churning waters of the Puget Sound. It was just such a contrast to the weekend. Saturday was actually balmy with blue skies as far as the eye could see. But I blinked and we return to the dismal charcoal drawn landscape that is the Pacific Northwest.

Cool as I think "dark train ride of my soul" is, I stole a bit of it from one of my favorite authors, Douglas Adams. In addition to writing the brilliant Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series, he wrote a series of books featuring Dirk Gently and his holistic detective agency. One of the best was called, The Long Dark Tea-time of the Soul. It has been so long since I read it that I couldn't even tell you much about the plot, but it was funny as hell.

But partially plagerized or not, "dark train ride of my soul" still has a nice ring to it. It adds a little contrived intrigue to what is a pretty mundane commute. If anyone actually reads my random tweets (or this blog) they might imagine I am thinking deep thoughts while I ride the train rather than wondering what my wife packed me for lunch.

There is a certain irony to visualize public transit as a conveyor of souls and that the road to enlightenment would have a route number. Charon, after all, collected fares. The only difference now would be he'd have to accept an ORCA smart card and deal with the bloody beeping it makes when you tap it on the reader before getting on the train.

I would suggest that the best conveyor of souls would be the train and not the bus. A soul train (pardon the pun) has much more dignity than a soul bus (not to mention being a heck of a lot more comfortable). Some could argue that an airplane would be the more appropriate conveyor of souls. But after my recent business trip to Fort Lauderdale and the hours of airports and flying coach, I think flying is closer to hell than to heaven.

Anyway, save your soul and gas. Take the train to work.

I tweet therefore I spam...

Hypocritical as it seems, I couldn't resist opening up a Twitter account after ranting about social media sites and smart phones yesterday. I actually had a Twitter account that I rarely used before. But it suddenly dawned on me that it could be an interesting experiment to tie one to my blog. And I have to admit I'm kind of beginning to get the hang of it (if not the purpose).

Near as I can figure, Twitter is for people who don't have the attention span that Facebook requires. This is not to say that Facebook truly requires any attention. It is basically a way to stay in touch with people without actually ever interacting with them. There is a ironic kind of beauty in that.

Twitter doesn't bother with niceties like sharing photos, lists, interests or terribly deep thoughts. It's more the place to share brain farts. And since brain farts like real farts shouldn't linger, you only have 140 characters at a time to spout whatever random thought you are trying to convey.

Just as Facebookers collect "friends," Twitterers compete to collect followers. Because the more followers you collect, the more connected you are apparently supposed to feel. God knows you want as many people as possible to smell those oh so fragrant brain farts I was referring to.

And similar to blogging where you link to other people's blogs with the expectation that they will link to yours and create this parasitic relationship, I get the impression that when someone "follows" your tweets, they expect you to follow theirs. This is not unlike two people farting in bed and holding the covers over their heads.

I'm really beating this brain fart analogy to death.

So far, I've confined my tweets to word play with the words "tweet" and "twitter." I'm not sure how long I can keep that up. Eventually I will likely have to resort to mind numbing tweets about having popcorn stuck in between my teeth and trying to dig it out with a ball point pen cap. Or I could resort to mobile tweeting and get into the TMI category while voiding myself in the restroom. I think I'll pass on that option.

Pass on that option...get it? I crack myself up.

Tweeting actually comes easy to me. I have always been a pretty decent headline writer. It stems from my days working on the college newspaper before the digital age made it possible to make even the longest headline fit in the smallest space. In the days of typesetting, you had to write the headline to fit. I also like puns, so hopefully I'll never have to truly resort to mundane or TMI tweets.

I'll save those pearls for my blog.

Guess where I'm blogging from...

I have never hid my distain for cell phones. Before them, I hated land lines. Nothing good has ever transpired over the phone. But we live in a nation possessed by the need to stay connected constantly. This was very apparent on my recent trip to Florida.

I know it is not unusual to see people talking on cell phones in airports. And I have even got used to the fact that people will talk on their phones while locked in the semi-privacy of a restroom stall (but I still think it is disgusting). But I was appalled when I got off my plane in Houston, went into the restroom to use the urinal and there next to me was a guy talking on his cell phone while he was using the urinal.

Okay, what is so important that you can't wait until after you take a whiz to talk about. If it was a businss call, how professional could you possibly come across if you are holding your junk in one hand and talking on the phone with the other. He wasn't even using a Bluetooth headset for christ's sake.

I know I must appear to be a dinosaur when it comes to mobile technology, but I really think there are times in our lives when we need to unplug. I say this despite my addiction to my Blackberry and e-mail. Sometimes you have to just step away from Bluetooth and stop talking or texting. The bathroom is one of those places.

I say this even though the conference I attended had umpteen sessions on Social Media. The digital fungus of social media sites are spreading around the world. Our worldview is being condensed into 140 characters or less. Pretty soon we'll be saying, "Johnny can't read...but he cn txt!"

Other than my Blackberry, I have resisted wading into the smart phone world. I suppose eventually I'll give in. Then I too will relentlessly look for "apps" that will make the thing indispensible. God knows I need my phone to tell me I've walked 100 paces and burned three calories in the past ten minutes.

Oh well, I have to stop and go tweet everyone that I've blogged and make sure my RSS feed gets it on Facebook as well.

Mad as a hatter

First, I want to state that I like Johnny Depp. I don't personally know him, but I have always admired his acting if not always his choice of movies. I thought he was brilliant in Dead Man, the quirky Jim Jarmusch western. You can't diss on Edward Scissorhands and he played an uncanny Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing. And he has become synonymous with pirate for his role as Captain Jack Sparrow.

But he has made a few films of questionable quality such as Don Juan De Marco in which he co-starred with a Jabba the Hut looking Marlon Brando. And his interpretation of Willy Wonka in the remake was just downright creepy.

I write all of this because of the way Depp looks in his latest Tim Burton film, Alice in Wonderland. I haven't seen the movie yet (since it hasn't be released) but from the trailers, I have to say it looks as though he has taken his Willy Wonka character and ratcheted up the creepy factor threefold. Look at his photo and tell me he doesn't look like a drag queen version of Madonna (or maybe just Madonna).

I will likely still see Alice in Wonderland (when it makes it's way to cable). But I am betting I will be disappointed. It's not because it won't be true to the book. I always found the Lewis Carroll original incomprehensible and a bit creepy too. My daughter was given a pop-up version that gives me nightmares.

Now having said all this, I have to get something else off my chest about Johnny Depp. He was recently voted the sexiest man alive. Okay, I will admit that Depp, in his prime, was a pretty handsome guy. But he is only five years younger than me and from some of the photos I've seen of him on the red carpet, he looks like he should be holding up a cardboard sign and asking people for spare change. How is long, stringy hair and an untrimmed beard sexy? And speaking of untrimmed facial hair, somebody has got to tell Brad Pitt to lose the stupid beard.

I know this must sound like sour grapes on my part. I long ago gave up on the goal of becoming the sexiest man alive. But at least I try to comb my hair and shave once in awhile. If I'd known looking like I lived in my car was sexy, I would have given up bathing years ago.

BTW, did you know that the term mad as a hatter is thought to stem back to the days when people who crafted beaver top hats went a bit daft from inhaling the chemicals used to cure the beaver pelts.

I digress, but Johnny Depp still needs a makeover.

Fear or flight

Although I love to travel, I pretty much can't stand flying. Like everything, 9-11 and the recession have takend most of the fun out of it. I say this after having just returned from a business trip to Florida and having spent about 12 hours travelling yesterday (if you factor getting to the airport, checking in, waiting in security lines, cooling your heals at the gate waiting to board, standing in line on the plane while morons block the aisles trying to get a steamer trunk into the overhead bins, getting out of your seat four times to let the customer of size sitting in the center seat get up to go to the bathroom, cruising to the gate and waiting for your luggage).

Flying used to mean adventure (the good kind). There was a time when everything was included in the cost of your ticket. Even in coach you could get something that resembled a meal. The flight attendants used to treat you nicely and not like cattle. Now you have to pay to check luggage (which is why the morons try to bring luggage the size of Texas on board as a carry on and squeal like a stuck pig when they can't get it down the aisle). You have to pay for a snack. You have to pay for a drink other than soda or juice. Pretty soon I imagine they will make you pay to go to the bathroom (though that might deter that customer of size seated next to me from getting up four times in one flight).

I was fortunate on this trip to be able to upgrade to First Class on my way to Florida. But the perks of First Class have been reduced to being able to board first (after the wheel chairs, babies and old people with walkers), sitting in comfortable seats that aren't making you intimate with the person seated next you, free drinks and your own bathroom. Oh you do get that warm towelette before your premium snack.

I suppose they don't really treat you first class in First Class anymore because no one actually pays to be in First Class. Most people use frequent flyer miles to upgrade. Because the airlines are putting more and more restrictions on using the miles that prevent you from actually getting a free ticket anywhere. So First Class is basically filled with a coach class of people taking their shoes off and letting their dogs breath on the bulkhead.

Regardless, I used all of my First Class karma on the trip to Florida and had to suffer the indignity of coach on the way back. There isn't even a a pretense of treating people decently in coach anymore. At one point after forcing my way to my seat strategically located at the back of the airplane I wanted to scream, "I'm a man, not an animal" or "Soylent Green is people." But I am sure no one would have got either reference or cared. They were all just focused on getting their fair share of the coveted overhead bins.

I know I rant about airplane travel every year or so, but it just kills me that the airlines -- who I am sure are struggling financially like everyone else -- continue to pretend to give a rip about customer service. They could stop making the stupid announcements about "We know you have many choices in what airline you use and we sincerely appreciate you flying ______." For one none of us have any choice. We are at the mercy of who flys to where we want to go for the cheapest price. Two if you truly appreciated us flying your airline you wouldn't treat us like mindless cattle (though I admit most people in coach are mindless cattle).

Don't waste our time with the safety talk before each flight. If someone doesn't know how to buckle a seatbelt in this day and age, they shouldn't be let out unescorted. And if there really was an emergency you can bet it would be everyman for themselves the way it is trying to get your crap into the overhead bin.

I also don't care to hear from the flight crew. I don't give a rip about what altitude we'll be cruising at or the airspeed. And if I want to see the Grand Canyon, I'll visit the damned thing, so don't tell me it is visible out the left side of the plane because I've got a fricking customer of size blocking any view I'll ever have of the window.

And stop telling us to turn off and stow any electronic devices for take off and landing. My iPod and Kindle won't make the airplane drop like a stone if they are turned on. Nor will my tray or seat being in the full upright position really affect anything either. You are just yanking our chains for having to wait on people in the sky without getting tipped.

This is all my impassioned plee for high speed rail.

Your post here

I used to think it would be funny to order things like t-shirts and coffee mugs with "Your Name Here" on them instead of your actual name. It was one of the many impulses I have curbed over the years in order to cruise under the radar while navigating life and avoid drawing too much attention to my quirky side. Having a quirky side isn't something that plays well in a job interview.

Although it is likely pretty obvious to people around me that I am quirky, I am by nature a shy soul and do not like draw attention to the fact. For that matter, I don't like drawing attention to me in general. At the same time I am closet rebellious soul and look at ways to voluntarily cull myself from the herd. I have a tattoo, but it is on my upper arm and is only seen when I am at the beach or working out at the gym. My ears are also pierced (a reaction to having to wear a suit everyday in the early 80s) but it has been quite some time since I have worn an earring. It just seems pathetic to me for a man over 50 to sport earrings....or ponytails or dyed hair or anything that reeks of resisting the ravages of time.

I have always resented being told what to do. But growing up fearing authority and recognizing that conforming brings home the bacon I usually do what I'm told and mutter under my breath about it. And yes, I realize that I am passive aggressive.

Speaking of resenting being told what to do, I hate signs. Nothing makes me want to do the opposite more than an obnoxious sign demanding I do or not do something obvious. We recently rented a vacation home for a couple of days at a beach resort. The first thing that greeted you when you got to the door was a cardboard sign that shouted: NO SHOES IN THE HOUSE. There were several more signs inside the house repeating the commandment. I was paying several hundred dollars to stay there plus a hefty cleaning fee. So I think I had paid for the right to wear shoes in the house if I wanted to.

All of this is a roundabout way to point out that a blog is a perfect medium for a shy, conforming non-conformist, passive aggressive personality looking for a creative outlet that doesn't require direct human interaction. I can expose my quirky nature in a safe environment without having to dye my hair blue or pierce exposed body parts. And since no one reads it, pays for it or directs it, I can experience the freedom of writing about whatever I want whenever I want.

And I do.

But god help me if anyone ever subscribes to my blog for Kindle. Flattering as that would be, it would put this burden of quality control on my whole quirky nature. Then I'd start resenting the yoke of oppression writing for a paying audience (although .99 a month for the pearls I toss out here is a pittance in the grand scheme of things) would place upon me.

I am such a tortured soul.