Horses and bayonets.
I watched the debate last night, and all I can think about was that snide comment that President Obama made to Mitt Romney.
Did President Obama think he was being witty?
Did he feel the jab made him seem more presidential?
Was it intended to put Mitt Romney in his place?
Was it meant to make him seem old and out of touch?
Tsk, tsk.
Not cool, and not presidential.
Once upon a time, in this country I call home, people were considered innocent until their guilt had been proven.
But that was the old days. The pre-Internet days. Innocent until proven guilty no longer applies.
Don’t believe me?
Oh, then you must not have heard about the Boy Scout Perversion Files scandal that all the news agencies around here can’t stop talking about.
It seems that the Boy Scouts organization has kept a file documenting every accusation of impropriety within their ranks. The file goes back to the 1960s.
A judge ordered that the files be made public, so they have been put up on the Internet for all to see. I think the idea is that if you hide wrong-doing, the wrong-doers have the opportunity to reoffend elsewhere.
But here’s the deal. These names that have been released are names of people ACCUSED of wrong-doing, not necessarily names of people PROVEN of wrong-doing.
Get the difference?
Each and every name on that list represents a person who is being labeled as guilty, whether anything had been proven or not. Even worse, since this goes back to the 1960s, some of those names represent people who have died, leaving the icky cloud of unsubstantiated guilt hanging over the heads of their children.
Some justice.
I believe in protecting children, but I also know that we do not live in a perfect world. False accusations are sometimes leveled against perfectly innocent people for a variety of reasons.
Someone seems to have forgotten that accusations do not necessarily equal guilt.
And someone has also forgotten that posting a list on the Internet is not the same as posting a piece of paper in the village green.
Accusation equals guilt, published to all. No court date needed.
The new law of the land.
I just posted this on the “About the Author” page.
I have a code of ethics. Among the rules that govern my behavior is one that requires me to work hard and give credit where credit is due. So you can be sure if I claim work as mine, it is mine. I don’t cheat or steal.
Unfortunately, not everyone lives by that same code.
I was shocked to find an ad on Craigslist that claims to be posted by a graduate student who wants to hire a writer to write his/her papers. The ad states that there is plenty of work to be done, and that the assignments will continue for a number of years.
Oh, and the writer must have a graduate degree, because the poster only wants graduate level papers, which can only be written by someone who has a graduate degree.
Obviously the poster knows that this is a shady deal, since he/she will only pay in cash through a bank, allowing him/her to cover his/her tracks.
This goes way past plagiarism! Way past!
“Where do you get your hair done?” the waiter asked as he picked up a lock of my hair and twirled it around his finger.
“Gene Juarez,” I answered, a little confused. Why was this strange man touching my hair?
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I could do a much better job for less money. You should let me do your hair. I’d fix it.”
As the waiter walked off I had to wonder if I had just been insulted. But since I was at the restaurant to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday, I decided to ignore the odd little conversation I had just had.
Only the waiter would not let me. He returned for round two about ten minutes later.
“Excuse me,” the waiter said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I just realized that I might have been rather insulting before. I just meant that I hate to see my girls spend all that money on their hair when they don’t need to.”
I nodded, confused by the “my girls” comment. Whatever did he mean?
He moved away and went about his business, so I turned my attention back to the birthday party.
It was a full thirty minutes before round three occurred.
“Take this,” the waiter said as he stuck a business card in front of my face and scared the wits out of me. “You should come to me and let me do your hair for you.”
I took the card.
“I really want to play with your hair.”
We left about ten minutes later.
For whatever reason, people talk to me. I know this and I’m accustomed to it. For some unfathomable reason people tell me things. I once sat down in the audience to wait for my child’s concert to begin, and within just a few minutes the person beside me had told me about her impending divorce and custody battle.
But I found the whole hair thing odd. I’m not really sure what I should think about it.
Ahhhh! I can’t think!
At 8:00 this morning (a Saturday morning no less) utility crews pulled into my street with four or five huge trucks. At 8:30 they began work with that machine that slams against concrete until it breaks it up. (I usually know the name of this noisy piece of equipment, but as I said, I can’t think right now.)
It is filling my house with irritating sound. Even worse, my house is shaking, like we are experiencing a series of small earthquakes.
I know why they are here, my next-door neighbor wants to have a gas stove so they are putting in a gas line. Of course, she hasn’t moved in yet. So the noise isn’t bothering her one iota.
I hope this is an efficient crew that finishes quickly. Before I go batty.
Wait…I think the name of that horribly noisy machine is coming to me. It is a…it is a… it is a…come on, you can do it, it is a…jackhammer! That’s right. That’s what it is called!
Whew!
Now, if I can just get my brain to ignore the noise long enough to remember how to make breakfast.
I spend a good bit of time on the Internet. I read things written by people of all walks of life, stages of education, and mental abilities.
When someone understands that writing is all about communication, it shows. Sentences are well structured. Spelling is correct. Actual punctuation is used.
In other words, people can read and understand it.
What a concept!
But many of those who plaster the Internet with their ramblings in the big bad world of the Web are lazy. What pass for paragraph are litters with grammatical errors. Speling is slopie. Sentences any old way no real structure or punctuation Homonyms create chaos weather ewe no watt is mint or knot.
Some sentences go on and on and never seem to stop but just keep running on as if the person writing never has to take a breath and never plans to stop because they just have so much to say. Sometimeseventhespacesbetweenwordsareleftout.
This writing business is odd.
I want to submit my script to a contest, and I want it to be the best possible script I can write. So yesterday I looked over the last comments my instructor made about my script so I could decide what changes I need to make.
It looked, frankly, unmanageable! I felt I was done, but she suggested deleting some scenes, writing a few new ones, and redoing several others. I couldn’t do it! I was too overwhelmed just thinking about it.
But I figured I would put in a few hours, just to get it a tiny bit closer to “perfect”. I’ve learned that the one-step-at-a-time system will get any project done, if I had the patience to keep plugging away.
I got out my computer and began to work. By the time I’d finished for the day I’d put in six very satisfactory hours.
Today I put in another five hours, and I’m amazed to see that I actually got it all done.
Now this in no way means that the script will not get any more rewrites. It is really difficult to put it aside and say that it can’t get any better.
But I won’t be ashamed to submit it to the contest. I actually like it!
And that’s what is so odd about writing. How did I get from overwhelmed to finished in a mere eleven hours?
Odd. Truly odd.
Workers arrived today to work on the neighbor’s roof. The bad news is that it is the house we share a driveway with.
The last time they had roof work done all the materials were unloaded in front of our front door. Or to be more precise, our only door. Nothing like being trapped in your own house by inconsiderate neighbors who have no concept of private property.
These workers unloaded everything into our yard, but at least they didn’t block our door. So I went down and told them that the area they were using did not belong to the house they were working on. The workers gladly agreed to move everything off of our bushes and grass.
And then the neighbor stuck his head out and asked what the problem was. He had the smuggest look on his face, as if he had been waiting just around the corner for a chance at a confrontation.
Because a confrontation was what it was.
I told him that the problem was that my yard should not be used as a staging ground.
He laughed. It was a rather sinister laugh. What was wrong with this guy?
Words were exchanged, right there in front of the workers. My wonderful neighbor took the opportunity to give me a long list of things he didn’t like. He informed me that our fence made the driveway unusable, and that that was why he allowed his bushes to grow two feet into the driveway. He complained about my dog, and accused me of things that frankly he must have pulled directly from his imagination.
All while maintaining that smug look.
And just to make things perfectly clear, this is the same neighbor who I’ve only talked to once in five years. He found me outside four years ago and took the opportunity to try to yell at me for daring to put up a fence in my own yard.
The same neighbor who’s wife will hide in the bushes rather than risk having to say good morning to me or my husband.
What type of people are they? What bitterness festers in their souls to make them so sour, cranky, and thoroughly unpleasant?
Bleh!
On a good note, I think I’ve found inspiration for my next villain.
Ever have one of those days when trying to do anything productive is useless?