"Are you happy?" I don't know, ask me after my coffee and some blow Life is too crazy to guess how one feels when there's way too much death Won't you pass me my pills? But ask me later when the sun goes down And I'll tell you the truth even if you're no longer around
“Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their common sense.” — Gertrude Stein
Do you agree?
I used to know my way around this big city
It was quite easy to go from point A to point B
but now that I have this thing called a smart phone
I can no longer find my way anywhere on my own
I know all about what’s happening all over the world
I can tell you where in Morocco you can find the best gold
But don’t ask me where to take the little one to play
If I didn’t have my smart phone, I wouldn’t know what to do all day
And at night when it’s time to sit down for dinner
The menu’s from the web, of course – and that’s a slice of liver
It’s good for you, my smart phone says and I believe it
They say it’s the world’s most potent food, so don’t just stare at it!
When it’s time for bed, why don’t we read a bedtime story?
My online library’s overflowing, Oh here’s Sleeping Beauty!
The words, they dance on the screen – isn’t that amazing?
Till my smart phone dies – now that’s a fate worse than a spindle sting!
So charge it up, for tomorrow’s another day
We know so much, yet we no longer know what to say
to the ones around us, our eyes glued only to the screen.
Technology’s great, isn’t it? Yet it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen
Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?
I can’t pick my grandmother to narrate this blog because she’s dead -
dead now for quite a few years
and even if she were alive, she’d kill me because
I’ve kinda incriminated her in a few blog posts.
And if there’s anything you do not do with my grandmother,
it’s to incriminate her -
And I can’t really pick Samuel L. Jackson either because, well -
he’s Samuel L. Jackson,
and I doubt he could do the whining that I normally do on this blog
as well as I can.
So it might as well be me -
for no one does MorrighansMuse as well as, well -
And that’s me.
So you’ll just have to make do with me then,
Clothes and toys, recipes and jokes, advice and prejudice: we all have to handle all sorts of hand-me-downs every day. Tell us about some of the meaningful hand-me-downs in your life.
So many regrets,
of a life long lived in fear
Too many desires
ignored till they disappeared
Life half lived, year after year
So you pass them on
Like they’re trinkets in a box
Regrets and old fears
Weighing us down like they’re rocks
As we push against the locks.
Do movies, songs, or other forms of artistic expression easily make you cry? Tell us about a recent tear-jerking experience!
I don’t know about you – but that music video and song does it for me every time. And I don’t even have to explain why…
You’ve just been named the casting director of your favorite television show (or movie franchise). The catch: you must replace the entire cast — with your friends and family. Who gets which role?
The only franchise I’ve watched on TV of late is Hannibal and no way – no way – would I change the cast. Ever. Not even if I had to cast them using friends and family. Nope. No nepotism here.
Because a perfect show – is just that – perfect.
500 years from now, an archaeologist accidentally stumbles on the ruins of your home, long buried underground. What will she learn about early-21st-century humans by going through (what remains of) your stuff?
I have way too much stuff,
more than can fit in this little cottage.
Too many books, more than I can ever read -
of stories, there is no shortage
and if someone might one day dig in
should they really be that interested
they’d find nothing but dust where paper had once been
belonging to one so terribly afflicted
for the love of words, and of wondrous tales
if only they’d been passed on and on
for paper, it crumbles into dust and nothing more
just dust, and then it’s gone.
In a reversal of Big, the Tom Hanks classic from the 80s, your adult self is suddenly locked in the body of a 12-year-old kid. How do you survive your first day back in school?
I could look at it two ways, being 12 again -
it’s like standing at the gates of hell
where the choice is still not mine, and when
others will only tell me what to do
again and again and again
Or I could see this as a second chance
another moment for me to shine -
even though I could never shine back then,
and I doubt it will happen again
But it’s worth a try
what else can I do -
but do 12-yeard old things again,
even if it’s the last thing
I want to do.
In April 1946, Theodore Lustig was discharged after serving three years in the army in World War II. Heading home on a train to New Jersey, he had grand plans for his new life. First, he bought a white shirt: a symbol of his return to a normal routine. The next step? Finding the girl of his dreams: his high school crush.
In his very short piece — “What If?” — he writes:
We got on the same bus — hers — and sat together reminiscing about the past and talking about the future. I told her of my plans and showed her the shirt I had bought — my first step toward making my dream come true. I didn’t tell her that she was supposed to be step two.
“What If?” is just one story among the 180 true stories in I Thought My Father Was God: And Other True Tales From NPR’s National Story Project, a compilation of the best submissions to Paul Auster for this story project on All Things Considered. Each tale is a small window into one stranger’s life: a glimpse into the American mind and heart. The stories are grouped into broad themes: animals, objects, families, slapstick, strangers, war, love, death, dreams, and meditations.
I’ve been a fan of NPR’s National Story Project since it began, and each story they aired always made me cry. You heard their voices, felt their emotions – and now you can read their stories! This is definitely one that I’m getting for myself!
What’s the best (or rather, worst) backhanded compliment you’ve ever received? If you can’t think of any — when’s the last time someone paid you a compliment you didn’t actually deserve?
“Don’t be fooled when someone tells you that you’re photogenic,” my mom said. “It means you’re only pretty in pictures. If you were pretty, they’d say you were pretty, not photogenic.”
Peste! I thought then. That’s what most everyone says I am. Photo-genic.
Since then, I’ve never really believed compliments thrown my way. And because of where I’m from, where the stereotype is that of a caring, loving mail-order bride, or a caring, loving caregiver, housekeeper, or nanny, the only reason they’re probably giving me that compliment is because they want something from me. I once worked at a physical therapy office where we treated these big Hollywood legends, and sometimes they’d bring their camera crew in to document their ‘journey’ to healing.
One day, I got called in from another client’s session to do something for Ms. Former Legend. When I walked into the the cramped treatment room, spotlights blinding and all, she cooed, “Oh, you’ve got such great hands!”
“Why, thank you,” I said. I’m a massage therapist, I thought. Of course I’ve got “great” hands.
She asked me to come over and handed me a nail polish bottle. “Can you fix my nail? The paint chipped.”
I looked around me. Fifteen people in the room, and not one of them could fix her damn nail because they weren’t Asian, nor were any of them, apparently, a manicurist.
So, no, I don’t believe compliments at all. But if it’s about my writing, and it moves you (or not), I’ll pay attention. Just don’t say anything about my hands…