Own goal

The writer of one blog, a blog  I not so much follow as read for its folly, has lost the plot. Actually, make that two bloggers and their commentators. They warm each other in the same bed. When they talk politics. Birds of a feather. Plucked.

It must be so “nice” to surround yourself with those who always nod at even the most idiotic assertion of yours – not reflecting, dumb.

One of my father’s friends (Austrian Hungarian) was a Russian spy (no shit). He stayed with us for a few weeks when I was in my early teens. This, obviously, well before the vile and guile of the internet. Boy oh boy, not that my parents ever knew (or may they pretended not to), did he teach me the skill of observation and other tricks of the trade.

Yes, so little wool being pulled over my head. And even if – quickly unravelled.

The only thing about the spy that vaguely baffled me when he said I had a footballer’s calves. When my gym teacher had told me I had a ballerina’s legs. Maybe both need muscle. Who knows. Never put either skill to the test. Do I look like someone who chases a ball or jeopardizes her toes? Though do love dancing. Full on.

Back to the subject: Forgetting that one shouldn’t discuss politics and religion in “polite” society, how can any blogger even consider doing so when most (though not all)  comment boxes allow only sound bites rather than proper discussion?

Anyway, mustn’t be too hard. If you want to read a truly impassioned intelligent well argued piece on American politics you won’t waste your time reading

http://shackman-speaks.blogspot.com/2018/07/what-frustrated-you-most-last-week-and.html

And if you want to argue YOUR corner, not only will he let you but listen.

U

Calling

Before I get back to the Sculptor and pronouncements on my compromised mental state and lack of humour, here is a thought. Maybe something you’ll recognize. And it touches on many areas in life but one in particular, namely how you earn(ed) your living.

It appears many”fall” into a profession/job/career; little choice being exercised. It just happens. I dare say that way a great deal of potential unhappiness and dissatisfaction lies.

How many times, when you are a child, do you hear some visitor, making your eyes roll, “And what do want to be when you grow up”? I shall refrain from imagining the Sculptor’s answer: “Rude. Lacking in imagination, manners, charm. Not being affable”. That’s not a job, Tom. “Ok then, I’ll take out my frustrations on stone and metal, with my chisel, forging any material into submission, imposing my will. That’ll show them.”

The thought that inspired this post’s subject was something I have heard often in reply to someone voicing how much they dislike their day job. It has a whiff of tragic about it:

“Yes, BUT (!) you are so GOOD at it”. It’s almost like the ultimate trap. Just because you are good at something doesn’t mean you like it. Ask the Sculptor. According to him I am scrubbing toilets at Chambers*. Which I am very very very good at. Do I like it? Sure … I am good at it.

Did you plan, did you fall [into], did you have a calling you followed or had to abandon, are you happy with your choice – in hindsight, at the time?

U

*The Sculptor will deny all knowledge that he said that. But then, as his self confessed pisshead will confirm, the length of a glass is as short as an addled brain’s recall.

794 words

The last few days haven’t been good. I shouldn’t admit to it since those who are less than well disposed towards me will make good use of it.

Still, shame is mine, so admitting to having made a mega mistake serves me right.

The Angel thinks blogging isn’t good for me, isn’t my medium. He was pretty pissed off seeing me under the weather because of some blogging fockers making me into something I am not. What the Angel doesn’t understand is that I don’t mind the fockers. Let them gorge themselves on my innards. What’s it to me? I can go without. The prospect of forty days in the desert amounting to bliss. Make it eighty.

No, what pisses me off big time and put me out of sorts the last few days that people in blogland can make up any old story about you. Well, I suppose even that is digestible. What upset me the most how one Rachel turned on me, again, just as I thought she and I had turned a corner. It was good while it lasted.

Over the years I got to know her, via her blog and comments she left on others, I often thought her vaguely unhinged; so are many people. Doesn’t make them lepers to be avoided. But to actually, on the strength of one post of mine nothing to do with her (now deleted), to get her claws out again, her throwing my offer of friendship aside,  is unsettling. And yes, upsetting. I replied something to the effect that she isn’t the center of my universe and that that post was actually addressing someone else. Didn’t wash. It’s incredible that someone thinks all revolves around them. I suppose a psychologist would have field day. Which reminds me … oh dear, now I am laughing. Why I am laughing is for that circle to never find out (I am sworn to silence) and for me … well, laugh, I suppose. Yes, Circle Sweethearts, you don’t know the half of it. In the meantime stick to Chloe.

Yes, Chloe. She is an interesting character. I am not saying that because John and Rachel have decreed that I am Chloe.

Chloe is a character in her own right. She is a thorn in some sides. To the tune that some call her a troll. As we all know any self respecting blogger does have to have a troll. A bit like the Sculptor who – beast that he is – grabbed me, in despair and absence of anyone else, to be able to claim that he has a stalker. Stalkers (ask Nick – he reads all the right papers and magazines) are the latest fashion accessory. If you can’t claim you are being stalked you amount to nothing, nada, zilch. In absence of a real life stalker just make one up, a bit like what sculptors do. Making it up. With their chisel.

Back to Chloe. Whilst often I don’t get her point (say, when she mentions that Rachel, Cro and John are old – what’s that got to do with the price of cheese?), she also delivers some absolute pearls. Laugh out loud pearls. And she appears to be well read, intelligent. Yesterday, she recommended Rosa von Praunheim to John. John who doesn’t know whether he or his bulldog Winnie has farted, can’t differentiate one bit of snot from another, immediately dismissed her suggestion to google RvP. That’s what he does. Dismiss. Think again, John. Rosa (not his real name, his assumed name) did make films. Acclaimed films. Maybe that is what brought him to Chloe’s mind considering that your blog is called “Disasterfilm”. Or maybe the fact that Rosa is gay.  Which influenced material matter of his films. What the hell am I doing? Next I know Chloe will berate me for second guessing her intentions. Never mind. I am getting it from all sides. One more won’t matter.

Lost my thread there. Yes, Rachel. I am upset that dinghy overturned. Wonder what would have happened, as has many times in my life on account of my father’s career us moving every five minutes, if I had come up to her, on my first break in my new school, never shy being forward: “Would you like to be my friend?” She’d probably spat at me.  Her being full of fear, suspicion. Always seeing the bad instead of giving the good a chance. Fast forward a few decades and something that never happened to me has happened to me. Rejected outright. Maybe Chloe will have me.

I’ll shed one more tear on behalf of Rachel gone wrong and then put her – between John and Nick – into my hall of shame. The key is under the mat.

Hugs, hisses and general disenchantment,

U

Real

My mind firmly nailed to the cross all bloggers have to bear [blogging] one question:

Some bloggers appear to make a distinction between “real” people and those they meet in cyberspace.

Do you?

U

Alternative Comment Box – Concept(ion) and Implementation

Sometimes one falls so much in love with an idea you forget why it was conceived; what its purpose is.

To remind myself: I conceived, and fell in love with, “Alternative Comment Box” when I realized that whilst people can, and will, arbitrarily, shut you up on their turf [comment boxes] – not by putting up a valid point but taking the short cut of the delete button – I can be their fog horn.

My Alternative Comment Box initially concentrated on the Three Muscle Tears (Gray John, Joyous Rachel and Charmless Sculptor). However, the Alternative Comment Box’s magic that I can comment on anything any way I like.

So before my interest vanes in those whose comment boxes I no longer soil: Foam, put your view, foam, don’t put your view. Sulk instead. Sully my name further by weeping at each others’ shoulders. The latter, only yesterday, so weakly illustrated by Gray John, lost and without direction, throwing himself at Spineless Nick’s mercy with: “Speaking of arguing… U has now turned on me rather than you! How delightfully boring “. Let’s leave aside that I didn’t “turn” on anyone. Nick, ever ready to jump to the defense of damsels in distress, hands John a starched handkerchief with the immortal words of comfort: “Oh dear. She seems to be fixated on you for some reason. What can you do but delete?”

Indeed, what CAN you do? You ain’t exactly spoiled for choice, are you?

If only you knew how much amusement the two of you provide me with you’d go back to the drawing board and devise a new ball game. Not, of course, that balls is your game.

I won’t dissect Gray John’s comment. It smacks of despair and, as he said, it’s “boring”. So not “delightful”. And, hadn’t you made thundering announcements in recent days that you were finished with me? Never mind. You are only human. Let’s turn to Spineless Nick’s reply instead. Nick appears to not have grasped why I am “fixated” on Gray John. Do some revision, Nick. Leave “fixated” out and concentrate on matter in hand. Where poor Spineless Nick lets himself down is his inspired, if lacklustre, advice of “What can you do but delete?” Indeed, Nick, what can YOU do? One may suggest engaging in discussion but don’t test yourselves to the limit.

Other than that, Nick, and take it slowly as not to test your faculties of comprehension: There is nothing to “delete”. Why? As I don’t comment on your respective patches any longer there is nothing to delete; the matter being out of your hands. The ACTION, Nick, the ACTION is all here. Here, where no one can delete me as I will NOT delete YOU. Got anything to say? Say it. Here. On The Alternative Comment Box.

And before you start, Nick: Don’t push it by sniffling “yes, but I never deleted you”. No, you didn’t. You outsourced. If you wish me to go into detail I will – though I’d rather not as not to disillusion WWW who considers you a friend. Not, of course, that one can’t entertain vaguely questionable friends.

U

The Alternative Comment Box, Finals – Weed control

Let’s do the twist, Sweethearts, and put a different spin on “trolling”.

Not yet widely recognized, largely unacknowledged, there are bloggers trolling their commentators … usually the very same bloggers who cry “troll” at anyone who displeases them in the comment box. 

Got that? Bloggers trolling their commentators …

Leaving aside that most true trolls are men, the same study goes into some detail, and it doesn’t make comfortable reading, WHY (some) male bloggers troll their female readers/commentators.

U

The Alternative Comment Box, 4 – Update

Catch up:

For those of  you barely able to contain yourself  in anticipation of the next instalment of my misadventures with Ms Misery (“Joy” for short), Demented Sculptor and John (Hansel to my Gretel): My post of 6 Feb, namely “Crash Landing”, briefly withdrawn for refurbishment, has once more been made available to the public eye under the enviable flag of

bitchontheblog.wordpress.com/2018/02/06/crash-landing/

For the uninitiated: “Crash Landing” kicked off, unnoticed by its main players, that which, a couple of weeks or so later, morphed into “The Alternative Comment Box” – a continuing saga. One which I gather the main players take much pleasure in unfolding as Ms Misery aka Joy, Demented Sculptor and John aka Hansel like nothing better than being given strokes to even out assorted dents in their egos. This is almost pathological in both Miserable Joy’s and Demented Sculptor’s case; and whilst Demented Sculptor occasionally torments John’s Hansel for being “needy” (his word not mine), at least John’s Hansel craves them (strokes) for understandable primal reasons as some, though not all of us, do.

So, yes, all is marvellous in wonderland. If, for light relief, you want white stuff, the romance of it, the inspiration of it, you’ll find it round the corner just like any self respecting and perfectly formed snowball, dispatched with perfect timing, will.

U

The Alternative Comment Box – Adjournment 1

The reckoning will resume shortly.

Alas, Ms Misery, Demented Sculptor and Man of No Name have provided so much material (evidence) to sort through, and quote from, I find myself spoilt for choice as to how best to paint them in the colours that will do their respective shadow sides the justice they so clamour and richly deserve.

U

The Alternative Comment Box, 3 – Making Hay

Call me naive. If you call me “stupid”, several attempts of which have been made, I won’t take you seriously. If there is one thing I KNOW I am not it’s stupid. If you insist I suggest that you are too lazy to counter anything of mine you don’t agree with in well reasoned argument. Taking shortcuts with me rarely pays. Unless I think you beyond redemption.

You may remember my recent piece “Crash Landing” which, despite being lauded as “excellent”, I decided to take down, albeit briefly. It will be reinstalled; I need to edit the bit on the Samaritan quite heavily as he does deserve better. It’s not his fault that he has fallen for the lure of both the charmless Demented Sculptor and the even less charming Ms Misery. Blessed be those (the Samaritan) who know no better. As I said the other day, in the motherland’s forests of old “it’s mitgefangen, mitgehangen” – roughly translated as “if you are caught among thieves you’ll hang too”. Such are the realities of the world. Which is why, see above, you may call me naive. Naive is a good starting point in blogland; plenty of scope for my eyes to pop wide open in wonderment.

Far be it from me to elicit pity for either Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery who have no compunction to share their respective, though small, miseries with the world. Ms Misery’s misery rarely stretches beyond her local weather report, amply if not ably, supported by one of her photos taken in the middle of nowhere in Outer Siberia or equally miserable places. If all else fails she will tell you what she had or is going to have “for tea” (no foreign muck for her). That’s in between advocating hanging, deriding the EU, stroking Trump’s ego’s bald and bold spots and spouting off on conflict in lands far and beyond [her comprehension]. If you want to know where the world is at go to the Oracle aka Ms Misery. Leaving aside that the Bible’s Rachel was one of two wives and a mother (the latter surely a source of joy) neither of which applies to our Rachel, let’s consider the meaning of her name: “Ewe” – a female sheep. I like Feta, very much so – my most recent revelation the delights of frying it.

Where were we? The assorted miseries of Demented Sculptor and Ms Misery. Now, Demented Sculptor (who would make a most entertaining friend of mine if only he let himself) is more subtle than Ms Misery when displaying his miseries. He makes attempts, with varying results, to send himself up with a smidgen of what he prides himself on, namely “humoUr”. I do find that people who harp on about the abundance of their OWN humoUr, and lament lack of same in others, tend to be bores. To put it another way, if you need to point out props for others to appreciate you you may be better off without them [props that is].

The above will suffice for the moment. Gently does it. More instalments about my misadventures with Ms Misery and Demented Sculptor to look forward to. I hope Demented Sculptor will forgive me if I concentrate mostly, though not exclusively, on Ms Misery as her fountain of absent charm and attempts to bulldoze her readers into submission give me a lot of bone with plenty of meat to put my fangs into.

In the meantime let me drizzle a little sunshine on the miserable and a lot of sunshine on the less than miserable,

U

Doing and stalling

Why is it that even a “doer” (someone who gets things done) stalls on occasion?

Remember, the French can’t pronounce aitch (“h”) so if you book a room you book it in an otel. Which is why I love French because instead of saying “I hate” (the drama of it) you find yourself saying “I ate it, I ate it, I ate it!” May indigestion be ours.

And that is, so I believe, where the crux lies. You stall because you, maybe not so much as “ate” it, but you sure don’t want to eat it. Which, neatly, brings us to one of my pet subjects, no not pet “ates” – just an inconvenience, namely self sabotage.

Why oh why oh why, wise ones?

U