I don’t go on Facebook every day, but I checked in the other day to give people who could give a flying rat’s butt whether I live or die, reassurance that I am still alive and well.
I don’t say that with bitterness. Most of the people in my network used to work for Pan Am, which employed thirty thousand people, six thousand of whom were flight attendants.
So, while I know a lot of my ‘friends’, and was happy to reconnect, there are many people that I wouldn’t be able to name at an Anti-American Activities Hearing under threats from McCarthy that he’d ‘disappear’ my family if I didn’t ‘name names.’
At least, until Facebook arrived. Now, he can just go on there himself if he wants to know who we know.
I inquired on one post if that person’s blog was still functioning, because I have the link to it on my blog, and it seemed to be kaput. He responded by asking me if I was ‘Trying to be funny or if I had liver cancer?’
Naturally, I was confused. I’m no doctor, but those two things seem mutually incompatible.
(Maybe I should have approached his question from the perspective of a high school graduate taking the SAT. It was one of those trick questions we were sure was on the test. Then, I could have checked None of the Above.)
I wondered if he had forgotten his own blog and was asking if I was drunk. We all grow older, and sometimes I forget my own phone number. To be accurate, that’s been happening most of my life. I don’t call my own phone.
Then, I asked him if he had knowledge of some physical condition of mine of which I was unaware, and that, no, I wasn’t trying to be funny. For once.
Then, he told HE had liver cancer! How was I supposed to know that?
It’s all getting to be too much. When did it become okay to assume someone you haven’t seen for thirty years knows everything about you, simply because you both share a thin and shifting, electronic quasi-relationship?
Without a shot being fired, Hitler, Chamberlain, Roosevelt, and Mussolini could have indulged in all sorts of immature behavior online as Facebook friends. Would this have prevented a real war?
Not.
It would have happened much sooner as they debated politics and the Rhineland, blocked and unfriended each other, and otherwise acted like ass-hats.
On a completely unrelated subject, and with an awkward segue, I was watching Unsolved Mysteries this morning, looking up various things on my laptop while I lounged in bed in my usual attire.
This attire is an old, over-sized, bleach-splattered tee shirt I bought years ago at the Spy Museum in Washington, DC. I don’t wear anything under it when I lounge, because it’s hot in Vegas, even with the AC on.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Literally.
On the front of this shirt it says: Deny Everything in that font you see on old documents and wooden crates from Indiana Jones movies.
I love this shirt. It covers all my sins, and says what I need it to say. If someone accused me of being irresponsibly nude in a too-short shirt, I can just point to my shirt slogan. I also could have denied that I’m lounging in nudus delicto under this shirt, I guess. I mean, how would you know otherwise?
Deny Everything is a slogan men live by, men both righteous and not so righteous, and one that Pan Am flight attendants swore by. If there is no Grand Jury convening to decide if there is enough evidence to try you for something you’ve allegedly done, then denying everything will keep you out of hot water once more.
After I checked in with Facebook and got bitch-slapped, I turned my attention back to my writing (doncha just love how that sounds?) and Unsolved Mysteries. Always on the lookout for fodder for a blog post, I heard the words ‘Massage Therapy Hall of Fame.’
My head comes up like a wolf in the woods scenting prey.
Or that wolf that scented a bicyclist who thinks he’s perfectly safe on our highways and byways.
I heard this story on NPR. This young guy was out ostensibly for his health, bicycling with friends on a forested highway in Alaska. Alaska has lots of wildlife, and it’s cold there, and there aren’t many convenience stores for wildlife to shop in, so they are frequently hungry.
This guy almost fell prey to a wolf.
A big one came loping out of the woods as he cruised past on his ten speed, and started chasing him. His friends were way ahead, so he was on his own. They would wait and wait for him, and when he never caught up, they’d go back and discover his bike laying in the road.
(Unless the wolf needed a ride and liked the two wheeled kind.)
The bicyclist himself would become an unsolved mystery. On the Update of the show, the wolf would call in, picking his teeth, and explain he saw this guy last on Highway 193 near Lake Tahoe.
That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. And it’s sticking to his ribs.
The bicyclist tried spritzing bear spray at the wolf a few times, which slowed the wolf down for a few seconds. Then the wolf then realized he was a wolf, and that bear spray wasn’t the boss of him, and he kept running after his target.
Our intrepid bicyclist was getting pretty desperate. Cars kept passing him, and taking his picture. They thought he was out for a spin with his really big dog loping behind.
Finally, an RV driver realized something didn’t look right and pulled in front of him, stopped, and threw the door open. The bicyclist jumped off his bike, jumped in the cab of the RV, and pulled the door closed just as the wolf slammed against his window.
Whew, huh?
The wolf revenged himself by ripping up the bicyclist’s duffel and spare tire, which seems reasonable. He’d worked up an appetite, and his breakfast had gotten away from him.
But back to Unsolved Mysteries and the Massage Therapy Hall of Fame. Without resorting right away to Google, which tends to clamp down on inspiration and imagination, I had to wonder how full this Hall was, and where it’s located. Is it even a stick-and-brick hall? Maybe it just exists on the internet.
And how does a massage therapist get voted in?
The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the only other one I know about besides the football one, is self-explanatory. The members, I’m guessing, are voted in based on number of hit songs, longevity in the biz, and general popularity. Everybody knows who the members of this hall are, even if you live in the Amazon jungle.
Don’t tell me those little half-dressed people lounging in hammocks under shady trees don’t listen to the latest music.
How would one get into the Massage Therapy Hall of Fame? And, why did someone think an entire Hall was necessary? Why isn’t there a Plumber’s Hall of Fame, or a Nurse Hall of Fame, or a CPA Hall of Fame?
In the 70s, there were lots of massage parlors. It was the ‘Free Love’ era in spite of there not being anything that was free. A certain type of massage was going on in these, and the parlors frequently got busted by cops.
That takes care of the ‘hit parade’ and general popularity portion of the criteria needed for inclusion.
Longevity in the biz? Are only older therapists being voted into this Hall of Fame? Did they stay with one wealthy old client for fifty years, who had enormous influence over the board of directors for all things massage-related?
Or, did they have hundreds of clients over a period of time, and handed each one a card that said ‘Please fill this in if you were satisfied with your massage today and send it directly to the Hall of Fame. For your convenience, a stamp has been included’?
What about eclectic tastes? Rock and Roll is rock and roll, and covers a lot of territory. Heavy metal, pop, soul. Again, I’m not looking up either one yet on Google, so I don’t really know if the kinds of music and musicians admitted into the R and R Hall of Fame are from narrower categories, or not.
The reason Unsolved was talking about the Massage Therapy Hall of Fame, was because there was a woman who massaged tigers. She’s setting the bar high for up-and-coming therapists.
What must they massage after this to add their name to the roll call of fame? A hungry, hungry, wolf?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Google is calling, and then I should get dressed.
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The post Denying Everything, Chronic Nudity, Facebook Blundering, And Massage Envy appeared first on Chez Gigi.
