Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Does everything happen for a reason?




I did not write this, but I agree with every word of it. I only paste it here, along with a link to the original, because it's my experience that people don't click on links, or if they do they merely scan the piece. Pasted, it grabs more attention, or it might. The article is from a blog called The Adversity Within: Shining Light on Dark Places by Tim Lawrence. I plan to explore this blog to more depth because it speaks to me and my own personal load of pain and damage, and the ludicrous, hurtful things people continually say so that they can walk away saying, there, I did my bit. Again, I didn't write this, I merely reproduce it here because if you're like me, y'all have the attention span of a gnat and won't follow the link.

http://www.timjlawrence.com/blog/2015/10/19/everything-doesnt-happen-for-a-reason






I emerge from this conversation dumbfounded. I've seen this a million times before, but it still gets me every time.

I’m listening to a man tell a story. A woman he knows was in a devastating car accident; her life shattered in an instant. She now lives in a state of near-permanent pain; a paraplegic; many of her hopes stolen.

He tells of how she had been a mess before the accident, but that the tragedy had engendered positive changes in her life. That she was, as a result of this devastation, living a wonderful life.

And then he utters the words. The words that are responsible for nothing less than emotional, spiritual and psychological violence:

Everything happens for a reason. That this was something that had to happen in order for her to grow.





That's the kind of bullshit that destroys lives. And it is categorically untrue.

It is amazing to me—after all these years working with people in pain—that so many of these myths persist. The myths that are nothing more than platitudes cloaked as sophistication. The myths that preclude us from doing the one and only thing we must do when our lives are turned upside down: grieve.

You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've heard these countless times. You've probably even uttered them a few times yourself. And every single one of them needs to be annihilated.

Let me be crystal clear: if you've faced a tragedy and someone tells you in any way, shape or form that your tragedy was meant to be, that it happened for a reason, that it will make you a better person, or that taking responsibility for it will fix it, you have every right to remove them from your life.

Grief is brutally painful. Grief does not only occur when someone dies. When relationships fall apart, you grieve. When opportunities are shattered, you grieve. When dreams die, you grieve. When illnesses wreck you, you grieve.





So I’m going to repeat a few words I’ve uttered countless times; words so powerful and honest they tear at the hubris of every jackass who participates in the debasing of the grieving:

Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.

These words come from my dear friend Megan Devine, one of the only writers in the field of loss and trauma I endorse. These words are so poignant because they aim right at the pathetic platitudes our culture has come to embody on a increasingly hopeless level. Losing a child cannot be fixed. Being diagnosed with a debilitating illness cannot be fixed. Facing the betrayal of your closest confidante cannot be fixed.

They can only be carried.





I hate to break it to you, but although devastation can lead to growth, it often doesn't. The reality is that it often destroys lives. And the real calamity is that this happens precisely because we've replaced grieving with advice. With platitudes. With our absence.

I now live an extraordinary life. I've been deeply blessed by the opportunities I've had and the radically unconventional life I've built for myself. Yet even with that said, I'm hardly being facetious when I say that loss has not in and of itself made me a better person. In fact, in many ways it's hardened me.

While so much loss has made me acutely aware and empathetic of the pains of others, it has made me more insular and predisposed to hide. I have a more cynical view of human nature, and a greater impatience with those who are unfamiliar with what loss does to people.

Above all, I've been left with a pervasive survivor’s guilt that has haunted me all my life. This guilt is really the genesis of my hiding, self-sabotage and brokenness.

In short, my pain has never been eradicated, I've just learned to channel it into my work with others. I consider it a great privilege to work with others in pain, but to say that my losses somehow had to happen in order for my gifts to grow would be to trample on the memories of all those I lost too young; all those who suffered needlessly, and all those who faced the same trials I did early in life, but who did not make it.





I'm simply not going to do that. I'm not going to construct some delusional narrative fallacy for myself so that I can feel better about being alive. I'm not going to assume that God ordained me for life instead of all the others so that I could do what I do now. And I'm certainly not going to pretend that I've made it through simply because I was strong enough; that I became "successful" because I "took responsibility."

There’s a lot of “take responsibility” platitudes in the personal development space, and they are largely nonsense. People tell others to take responsibility when they don’t want to understand.

Because understanding is harder than posturing. Telling someone to “take responsibility” for their loss is a form of benevolent masturbation. It’s the inverse of inspirational porn: it’s sanctimonious porn.

Personal responsibility implies that there’s something to take responsibility for. You don’t take responsibility for being raped or losing your child. You take responsibility for how you choose to live in the wake of the horrors that confront you, but you don't choose whether you grieve. We're not that smart or powerful. When hell visits us, we don't get to escape grieving.

This is why all the platitudes and fixes and posturing are so dangerous: in unleashing them upon those we claim to love, we deny them the right to grieve.





In so doing, we deny them the right to be human. We steal a bit of their freedom precisely when they're standing at the intersection of their greatest fragility and despair.

No one—and I mean no one—has that authority. Though we claim it all the time.

The irony is that the only thing that even can be "responsible" amidst loss is grieving.

So if anyone tells you some form of get over it, move on, or rise above, you can let them go.

If anyone avoids you amidst loss, or pretends like it didn’t happen, or disappears from your life, you can let them go.

If anyone tells you that all is not lost, that it happened for a reason, that you’ll become better as a result of your grief, you can let them go.

Let me reiterate: all of those platitudes are bullshit.

You are not responsible to those who try to shove them down your throat. You can let them go.

I’m not saying you should. That is up to you, and only up to you. It isn't an easy decision to make and should be made carefully. But I want you to understand that you can.

I've grieved many times in my life. I've been overwhelmed with shame and self-hatred so strong it’s nearly killed me.





The ones who helped—the only ones who helped—were those who were there. And said nothing.

In that nothingness, they did everything.

I am here—I have lived—because they chose to love me. They loved me in their silence, in their willingness to suffer with me, alongside me, and through me. They loved me in their desire to be as uncomfortable, as destroyed, as I was, if only for a week, an hour, even just a few minutes.

Most people have no idea how utterly powerful this is.

Are there ways to find "healing" amidst devastation? Yes. Can one be "transformed" by the hell life thrusts upon them? Absolutely. But it does not happen if one is not permitted to grieve. Because grief itself is not an obstacle.

The obstacles come later. The choices as to how to live; how to carry what we have lost; how to weave a new mosaic for ourselves? Those come in the wake of grief. It cannot be any other way.

Grief is woven into the fabric of the human experience. If it is not permitted to occur, its absence pillages everything that remains: the fragile, vulnerable shell you might become in the face of catastrophe.

Yet our culture has treated grief as a problem to be solved, an illness to be healed, or both. In the process, we've done everything we can to avoid, ignore, or transform grief. As a result, when you're faced with tragedy you usually find that you're no longer surrounded by people, you're surrounded by platitudes.





What to Offer Instead

When a person is devastated by grief, the last thing they need is advice. Their world has been shattered. This means that the act of inviting someone—anyone—into their world is an act of great risk. To try and fix or rationalize or wash away their pain only deepens their terror.

Instead, the most powerful thing you can do is acknowledge. Literally say the words:

I acknowledge your pain. I am here with you.

Note that I said with you, not for you. For implies that you're going to do something. That is not for you to enact. But to stand with your loved one, to suffer with them, to listen to them, to do everything but something is incredibly powerful.

There is no greater act than acknowledgment. And acknowledgment requires no training, no special skills, no expertise. It only requires the willingness to be present with a wounded soul, and to stay present, as long as is necessary.





Be there. Only be there. Do not leave when you feel uncomfortable or when you feel like you're not doing anything. In fact, it is when you feel uncomfortable and like you're not doing anything that you must stay.

Because it is in those places—in the shadows of horror we rarely allow ourselves to enter—where the beginnings of healing are found. This healing is found when we have others who are willing to enter that space alongside us. Every grieving person on earth needs these people.

Thus I beg you, I plead with you, to be one of these people.

You are more needed than you will ever know.

And when you find yourself in need of those people, find them. I guarantee they are there.

Everyone else can go.

Monday, October 26, 2015

The book of love is long and boring




Shall we be sentimental? Yes, we shall. Shall emotion well up and spill over, just a little? Yes, it will. And it has.

When I first saw this movie in a theatre years ago, I was taken aback by how profoundly I blubbered. I mean, it was real crying, not just the furtive splashing you do at the movies while you scramble around and realize you don't have a kleenex.  It got right inside me. A gusher. I know why. Try being married for a long, long time, and realizing you're nowhere near the finish line.

The few lines in this are in German, but trust me, they require no translation.




The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts and figures
And instructions for dancing




But I
I love it when you read to me
And you
You can read me anything




The book of love has music in it
In fact that's where music comes from
Some of it's just transcendental
Some of it's just really dumb

But I
I love it when you sing to me
And you
You can sing me anything




The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we're all too young to know




But I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings

And I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings
You ought to give me wedding rings


Psycho - The Shower Scene With And Without Music




This was a real surprise. I was sure before I even saw this that the infamous shower scene from Psycho would fall completely flat without that eeeek, eeeek, eeeek, eeeek music by Bernard Hermann that helped make it so famous.

Not so, in my books.

Hitchcock knew the power of sound. He knew we hear before we see (in the womb), so sound is much more primal, even though we live in a culture which is almost 100% visual. The soothing shhhhhh sound of the shower is broken by the sssssst of the curtain being scraped back, and then the most godawful movie sound ever: the tip of the knife repeatedly entering flesh with a ruthless chttt, chttt, chttt. Though it's hard to pick up in the original, Janet Leigh's screams become increasingly erotic-sounding, with gasps and sighs interspersed, as if she's just having a particularly lusty bout of sex (illicit sex being very big in this movie, with bad women like Marion Crane paying with their lives).

Hitchcock did nothing by accident. This scene stands just fine by itself, and is maybe even an improvement because it strips back any interference with the extremely disturbing sounds of the original. The ping-ping-ping of the shower curtain being pulled down is a nice touch (though as usual with YouTube, this was clumsily edited and left out the best shot of the scene: Janet Leigh's open-eyed, staring face lying flat on the cold bathroom floor).

Which see.




TITBIT (or tidbid): I was to learn this, after the fact:

Herrmann biographer Steven C. Smith writes that the music for the shower scene is "probably the most famous (and most imitated) cue in film music," but Hitchcock was originally opposed to having music in this scene. When Herrmann played the shower scene cue for Hitchcock, the director approved its use in the film. Herrmann reminded Hitchcock of his instructions not to score this scene, to which Hitchcock replied, "Improper suggestion, my boy, improper suggestion." This was one of two important disagreements Hitchcock had with Herrmann, in which Herrmann ignored Hitchcock's instructions. The second one, over the score for Torn Curtain (1966), resulted in the end of their professional collaboration. A survey conducted by PRS for Music in 2009, showed that the British public consider the score from 'the shower scene' to be the scariest theme from any film.

It's that time of year again: squicky gifs!
















Nosferatu?. . . I don't know. Do you?











Skeletal squick: Halloween gifs!











Sunday, October 25, 2015

Squicked out?

   


I just love this, though I haven't seen the original movie (from 1959, directed by the crazily brilliant William Castle who also brought us my all-time fave horror film, Mr. Sardonicus), nor the more recent one from which this came. Anthony Perkins isn't even in this, for God's sake, but it makes a great poster, doesn't it? Probably a lot better than the movie.


Thursday, October 22, 2015

Russian Dashcam Theatre: the mating of the cows





I heart Russian dash cam video. There's reams of it on YouTube, and so far it's more entertaining than the last words of pilots while the plane goes down. What amazes me most is how nobody seems to die, but maybe they wouldn't post those.







Wednesday, October 21, 2015

I have some good memories of Pierre




"Ne me quitte pas. . . " Pierre Trudeau sticks it to the Separatists. He argued passionately for a united Canada. And he won, too.


Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Wondercar: the 1948 Davis Divan





Davis Motorcar Company

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia


Davis Motorcar Company
Automobile Manufacturing
IndustryAutomotiveMilitary
GenreThree-wheeled cars
FateDefunct
Founded1947
FounderGlenn Gordon "Gary" Davis
Defunct1948
HeadquartersVan Nuys, CaliforniaUnited States
Area served
United States
ProductsVehicles
The Davis Motorcar Company was an American automobile manufacturer based in Van Nuys, in the San Fernando Valley region of Los Angeles, California, which produced three-wheeled automobiles from 1947 to 1948. In total the company produced 15 to 17 vehicles.[1]

History[edit]

Founder Glenn Gordon "Gary" Davis (d. 1973) acquired a prototype called "The Californian" from designer Frank Kurtis, who built it for millionaire racecar driver Joel Thorne.[1]
Davis operated in a 57,000 sq. ft. former aircraft assembly building in Van Nuys, where a prototype three-wheeler named "Baby" was built. Baby was powered by a 47 hp Hercules 4-cylinder engine coupled to a Borg-Warner 3-speed transmission and Spicer rear end. Baby was unique in that it featured four-across seating. It was planned that production, beginning in 1948, would start at a minimum of 50 cars a day later increasing to 1000. A second prototype called "Delta" was built, and a third prototype, the model 482, was completed later. The third model, the "Divan", established standards for the production Davis cars.



The company closed down in 1948, as workers and engineers were not being paid, and lawsuits were threatened by investors and dealers. Former employees then filed suit for back pay, and the company was investigated on allegations of fraud. Soon after the Davis plant was shut down, Gary Davis was convicted on 20 of 28 counts of theft (he was acquitted on four counts of theft and four of fraud) and was sentenced to 8 months to two years in jail.
Davis developed a variant for military use. The Model 494 was a Jeep-like version of the Divan with an open body. Arrangements were ongoing with the Pentagon to run tests at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland. Ultimately three 494s were built in less than a week, two of which were shipped to the Army for testing.

Blogger's Observations. I'm going to ask Bill about this thing. I'm going to ask Bill about it because he knows everything about every kind of car - I mean, he scary-knows, he's never wrong, especially about dates. But will he know about this one, only 15 to 17 of which were ever manufactured, let alone sold?




There's a surprising amount on the internet and YouTube about the 1948 Davis Divan, making me suspicious that these are recreations based on existing blueprints or plans or whatever-it-is-they-call-those-things-you-use-to-make-a-car-with. Doesn't it make you suspicious that the number they say they manufactured is so imprecise? Well, what WAS it - 15, 16 or 17? I want to know!






And if so few were made, why did I find so many pictures and videos and stuff, including a whole half-hour YouTube video of Jay Leno driving one around in Van Nuys, wherever that is? I didn't watch it cuz it looked pretty boring, and I don't like Jay Leno and am glad he's gone. The little clip I found of the Davis at a car show (which I turned into a gif, the green one on the green grass) had an announcer claiming the idea of the car came from Howard Hughes. My ass it did. Howard Hughes was too smart to invest in a company that lasted barely a year, spat out 15 cars or so, and sank in a quagmire of lawsuits and jail sentences. 




The little bit at the end of the Wiki blurb says something about developing a prototype for the military, but I find that even harder to swallow, unless they wanted a car small enough to fold up and store in an officer's kit bag or whatever it is those guys cart around with them when there's a war on.





To me it looks a bit like Ollie of Kukla, Fran and Ollie, a friendly dragon puppet with big nostrils. I always think it looks like cars have faces. They have faces coming, and they have faces going. This one is more strange than any I've seen.




POST-BLOG GLOB: As usual, I've found out some more about this subject. No doubt if I kept digging, I'd keep finding more. Books may have been written about it, but I'm almost afraid to find out: all I need is another obsession in my life. This Gary Davis guy was either a visionary with a brilliant plan to revolutionalize the automotive industry, or a crook out to bilk as many people as possible. (Bilk has nothing to do with Sergeant Bilko, played by Phil Silvers whom I hate.) He convinced a lot of people to back him big-time and came up with a big splashy ad campaign, probably pre-selling a lot of vehicles which never materialized. He even jumped into the infant medium of television, featuring his car-of-the-future on an early police show. An opportunist, either brilliant or sociopathically crooked, there were whispers he was merely the puppet of the insane Howard Hughes. Surely he took the dive, as they say in boxing, for the short-end money (and the jail sentence).




Gary Davis envisioned Davis Divan dealerships springing up all over the United States and perhaps Canada, which is pretty hard to pull off if you have no cars to sell. The fact that so many of them still exist is curious, but hey, these cars never sold, as far as I know, and were either warehoused or bought up by someone who loves to collect curiosa. The more I think about the 1948 Davis, the stranger it seems: FOUR adults could sit next to each other on the bench seat, including, I guess, the driver, and I don't see how that could happen in a car that small. (Of course people were a lot skinnier in those days.) Nowadays we'd want to know the gas mileage, and if it could maybe be converted to electric or at least a hybrid. I saw many three-wheeled vehicles in my long-ago trip to Italy, but there was nothing glamorous about them: they were grubby little trucks narrow enough to get through laneways so skinny you could reach out and touch them on either side. 



  Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!


Will it blend? Find out, NOW!









Monday, October 19, 2015

First Justin Trudeau Blingee!

   


First, let me say that I remember when this kid was born. It was Christmas Day 1971, I was 17 years old and my Dad was on the sauce, serenading us from The Messiah:

"For unto us a child is born. . . a son is given. . . and the government will be upon his shoulder. . . "

Well, kind of, yeah. It sort of DID work out that way, didn't it? 

At least now, I hope, people will stop yammering about Harper, fulminating and showing him with Hitler moustaches and giving Nazi salutes and wielding giant dildos. (Dildoes?). I got so royally sick of all this shit, along with all the ads that are being shoved down my throat, that I came near to bailing on social media altogether, and I still might. I've never seen such rancour, such sourness and mean-spiritedness all in one place, and I hope to never see it again.

But I now await the Justin Trudeau schmooze-fest, which should last just about until he actually starts to rule the country. At that point, the country will turn him into the same elitist asshole we thought his father was (only to give him a massive state funeral and declare he united the country as never before).

OK, this is as political as I will ever get. Good night.


Survival of the meanest




What I object to are very obscure statements that seem to come from the middle of a thought, that "only certain people" will "get". This is Facebook, folks, it's social media, not a private email, and you should have gotten over whispering secrets to "certain people" in the schoolyard so that everyone else will feel left out.




This was one of the things I got testy about (not that I ever get testy! Jeeeez.) The original from HOT 104.5 (radio, I assume) had half a million likes and comments, etc., and even my own "share" had many more than I usually get, although I was surprised. It was an admission of something that goes on as standard practice, though obviously a lot of people object to it.

It ties in to the snickering-on-the-playground nature of social media, and it really hurts young people and has even triggered suicides, but nobody tries to do anything about it. Humans are elitist by nature: we're in, you're out. If we're herd animals, some of us just don't make the cut.

I deleted a couple of recent posts because, to be honest, I didn't want to put out that kind of negative energy. This blog is for my own enjoyment, and though a very few times I've had a very large (for me) number of views, these are aberrations. The rest of the time, the process is all. But I salvaged this image, because I felt it was worth keeping and thinking about.

So you can make up your own mind about this. Most people say, oh yes, isn't that awful, I just hate it, then go right back to doing it. Survival of the meanest, I guess.


Misadventures on Facebook: the "other" file




Good morning, gentle readers. Since I must constantly keep you updated and informed on the fascinating details of my dull, disappointed life, here's two cents' worth of stuff on a phenomenon you may or may not have heard of.

It's called "other".

You may have heard of catfishing (or "catphishing", a more accurate term) in which someone on social media assumes the identity of an imaginary person, hooking in somebody who is lonely, vulnerable and easily deluded. This happens for obvious sexual, emotional and/or financial purposes which are always self-serving, and sometimes sadistic. It happened to Meri Brown of Sister Wives, no less, and a watered-down version of it happened to me, sort of, but I wasn't aware of it for years.

I don't get a lot of FB messages except from one person, a close friend I keep in touch with because he has been sick lately and not given to talking about it unless I ask him. Then I read a post from another FB friend which said something like, "I don't know if you're aware of it, but your Facebook messages have a category called 'other' which functions like a junk email/spam file. It automatically files suspicious messages and isn't obvious to access. Most people don't even know about it."  I just had to find out what this was about.






There were a few dozen messages, some of them of the "unclaimed money" variety where you only have to send the person $5000.00 to get your billion-dollar "lost" inheritance.

Some were nonsensical, and a few were generic "hi, let's be friends" messages that hoped to snag me very easily, the hook being barely baited.

I've picked out a few favorites. Some of these went back several years because I simply didn't know they were there: it's not obvious at all, and as with so many Facebook features, you have to be born knowing about it, unless you're me. Then you never find out until it's too late.






2 mutual friends: Genni Gunn and Linda Clay

I do everything at I AM A GENERAL CONTRACTOR

June 29, 2012 11:27 pm



HELLO PRETTY LADT I WAS JUST PASSING WHEN I SEE YOUR WONDERFUL BEAUTIFUL FACE I WAS CATIVATED IF YOU DONT MINE CAN WE BE FRIENDS


This has got to be one of my favorite Facebook messages ever. Never before have I been called a "PRETTY LADT", and I never will be again. These things are sent out in bulk in the hopes that one in ten thousand might "bite", take the bait, be completely convinced this guy (? Could be anyone) is interested in her personally, is truly "CATIVATED" (speaking of "catfish" - maybe this was an encoded warning of sorts). And I have to admit, I "DON'T MINE", never have mined and probably never will mine because I simply don't have the equipment. 

This reminds me of something from the old TV series WKRP, in which someone filled out a dating service form with hobbies that included "logging", a much more rugged activity than low-impact running. There are usually details to pad out the profile and give an impression of prosperity, reliability, whatever. A "GENERAL CONTRACTOR" who does "everything" (including a lot of vulnerable women) must seem like a good thing: this is a self-employed, financially solvent guy who writes all in caps and can't spell.





hi,
my name is Grace, i saw your profile and i became interested to know more about you, please can you give me the chance to know more about you? i will be very happy to be your good friend . this is my private E_mail ( babegrace222 (@) yahoo.co.uk )

PLEASE DON'T REPLY ME HERE. CONTACT ME THROUGH MY PRIVATE E_MAIL, SO THAT I WILL SEND YOU MORE PRIVATE PICTURES ( babegrace222@yahoo.co.uk )



You and Justine Favour aren't connected on Facebook
Lives in Kharkov, Ukraine


Now this one is really strange.  Why would a person named Grace (not a friend, of course) take special notice of my profile, saying she "became interested to know more about you" (then repeating the phrase)? The "babegrace222" alone is very strange and emanates the possibility of porn-y pictures. But then there is that "PLEASE DON'T REPLY ME HERE" which is in urgent caps, and the reference to "MORE PRIVATE PICTURES" - ay ay ay! What sort of private pictures, and how much do they cost? (But remember she wants to be my "good" friend, so it must be OK). But the strangest thing of all is that this message isn't from "babegrace222" at all, but someone named Justine Favour who is NOT on my Facebook page and lives in Kharkov, Ukraine. If she exists at all, I very much doubt her name is Justine Favour.

Chat Conversation Start



April 16, 2013 9:30 am

Hi, How are you doing? hope you are doing great..Iam John, from Austin,Texas.Am 9year widower,i live with my pet dogs wamma and sandy. I need a long term relationship a woman who will love me for whom Iam..caring,loving,nice.passionate,romantic honesty,with a great sense of humor.sure,Am a gentle man,caring,lovely,respectful,passionate,romantic,good manners with a great sense of humor.distance doesn't matters in any relationship,what matters is the heart and love shared.i love traveling,going to the beach,playing pool games,camping,fishing,drawings,watching movies and sunset. you caught my attention.i will love to know more about you..keep safe and God bless. John,

This is the closest thing to classic catfishing I've ever received. Probably sent by some cash-strapped middle-aged woman desperate to squeeze someone (anyone!)so she can pay her overdue bills and her drug dealer. Every detail in this thing has been stage-managed: the up-front phony well-wishes, the mention of living in Austin, Texas (somehow a solid, wholesome-sounding place),and the nine years being a widower - such a long, long time to be lonely and bereaved (though he has two dogs, golden retrievers who bound around their master, eager for a walk to go score some wallets in the park).






He immediately states what he "needs", "a woman who will love me for whom Iam"(sic). He then goes on to list his reams of good qualities, many of them repetitive. "Loving" and "lovely" may have been conflated, unless he truly is lovely (a slip?). The really revealing statement is "distance doesn't matters in any relationship". This is always a red flag in social media, because it places the other person at a safe (unsafe) remove. If you never look into the other person's eyes (and the photos they send might be of George Clooney's better-looking brother), you never catch their vibes, see into them and figure out if they are sincere.

It goes on and on. "You caught my attention" has a generic feel, and notice he never uses my name. "Caught" has squirmy connotations when applied to catfishing. And it's doubtful he even looked at my profile picture because they're often abstracts, landscapes and pictures of Harold Lloyd. The activities he enjoys, take note, mostly don't cost much, so he's cheap. "Sunset", the last activity mentioned, doesn't cost anything at all. "Keep safe and God bless" is the ultimate irony, because if you in fact answered this thing, I doubt very much that you would be on safe ground. 

A couple of these things had apparently disappeared on me, leaving me wondering just how bad they might be, or who was policing it in the first place:

This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires 

verification.


  You and Loquilla Loca aren't connected on Facebook




Loquilla Loca. Hmmmmm.





Dear Facebook friends, I hope everyone had a nice weekend! This is just a friendly reminder that tomorrow night -- April 24 --  Honoria Birdsong will launch her second collection of short stories, Bad Dope, at the Dakota Tavern (249 Ossington Avenue), and we want you to celebrate with us! Author Kathryn Krackenburger will interview Birdsong live on stage, and copies of Bad Dope will be available for purchase (and autographing!). Plus, it's just nice to have any excuse to go to the Dakota, isn't it? Be there any time after 7 p.m. It's totally free, too! This book launch just gets better and better! --  Neville Tuesday, Publicist, Handcrank Books


Sorry, folks, I had to include this one (with certain details changed to protect ME) which came in and was promptly filed under "other", even if it isn't strictly catfishing.

But it is, most definitely, junk mail. Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam.

Let me tell you just why this offends me so much. I was briefly in an online a "writer's group" (a contradiction in terms, I've always felt) that was based exclusively in Toronto, with the writers doing more nasty, whispering playground-talk and backstabbing than anyone ever did on FB. Most of it involved slagging writers from anywhere but Toronto, a kind of blood sport. I mentioned doing some contract work for a textbook press and was sniggered and sneered into the ground: "oh well, I guess if you want a paycheck that badly", "cheap outfit, shitty pay", and worse. 





This gooey invitation-thing reeks of exclusivity and pathetic CanLit insularity: we seem to think we're big shit, and sadly, we are not.("Plus, it's just nice to have any excuse to go to the Dakota, isn't it?" Oh, my goodness, he's from Toronto so he must be right!) Myself, I thought the Dakota was where John Lennon got shot, but no, it's in that only-place-in-Canada-to-be-a-writer-of-any-importance, Toronto. I was grateful to see the event was "totally free" - I've never heard of anyone with the audacity to charge people for a book signing, but in Toronto, one never knows. (And I never knew there were degrees of "free": partially free, 75% free, totally free?). While I am the first to admit that "this book launch just gets better and better" (didn't anyone tell this guy he's trying too hard? But this is what Toronto authors sound like now), I am also quite eager to pass, since they probably do a retinal scan at the door to make sure you're not from Vancouver.

It ended up in "other", folks. It's a piece of junk, a mass mailing that never should have come to me at all. I'm not about to hop a plane and spend a couple thousand dollars to go see Honoria Birdsong push her dope book. Sorry. Please go fishing for someone else.





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