There’s got to be something wrong with ability to recognize faces. Sometimes I come across people who look to me like someone I know. Or I chance upon someone whose face is familiar, but I am slow to match a name to his face. At Wal-Mart today, I made eye contact with a woman I thought I know. I waved I smiled and waved at her; she gave me a weak smile of bemusement.
I’ve been reading Plastic Ocean by Charles Moore. The descriptions of fish and other animals eating plastic reminds me of a dream I used to have. I’ve always been a collector. Books are my latest passion in terms of collecting, but I used to collect wrestling action figures. I’d have dreams of eating the wrestlers. Then, in those dreams, I would suddenly realize that I shouldn’t be eating plastic. A silly yet scary dream.
Jones is arrested for allegedly stealing ice cream from a child, and is booked into jail. The judge sets his bond at $30,000, which is beyond what Jones can pay to get out of jail, so he stays in jail, awaiting trial. The jail charges Jones $55 every day he spends in jail.
Jones is presumed innocent, so is he jailed? It’s as though he’s being punished because if something the police think he might have done. The bail is set too high for Jones to get out of jail, waiting for his trial at home rather than in jail; spending that time in jail is not only physically and mentally painful — no, he is billed for being someplace (jail) he’d rather not be.
The bail is set at $30,000 to protect both Jones and the general public. But how can Jones both be presumed innocent and treated like a criminal?
I don’t like sweet potatoes, mostly because they don’t taste good. They’re not palatable to me. But we didn’t have much for supper tonight, so I got some of the sweet potato tater tots — whatever they’re called. I thought they might actually taste all right; the color looked good, like barbecue sauce, even though I knew that sweet potatoes just happen to be a similar color to BBQ sauce.
So I ate a few, and they didn’t taste too bad. So I ate a few more. I started to gag at that point, but I wanted to finish them off. A few more of those sweet potato things had me on the verge of puking.
And that was that. I’ll never eat a sweet potato again.
My brother is an aspiring comedian, showing up at improv and open-mic nights in the Los Angeles area. There’s an online comedy contest that he has entered, and you can find the link here http://indi.com/episode/8176d7fb-e400-48bd-80cf-ee825f660550
He flew back here to Iowa for Thanksgiving with the family. I critiqued some of his jokes and told him that his timing seemed off. He took this to mean that I think he sucks at comedy, making his point using humor.
I was going to vote for another one of the comics, which seemed to anger my brother. I told him that I was going to vote for someone else who I thought did marginally better (none of the comedians in the contest was very good). “You’re not supposed to vote for others, you’re supposed to vote for people you know!” my brother exclaimed.
Despite my having intimated that my brother “sucks at comedy”, I ask all my readers to vote for him. http://indi.com/episode/8176d7fb-e400-48bd-80cf-ee825f660550
With everyone else in bed, I took over the TV remote and tuned into the WWE show Total Divas. This was my first time viewing the program. One scene has one of the divas and her boyfriend seeing a sex therapist. Some doofus (from the night staff) came around and said:
What the hell is this you’re watching? Why do they put that crap on TV? That’s not my kind of thing.” Or something like that.
He came close to pissing me off, but I’ve learned to bridle my aggressive side; I must unless I want to go to jail yet again.
My anger, though bridled, still had the possibility of turning violent, so I was happy with myself to have gone back to my room, not without self-restraint; I would miss the rest of the show, after all.
I think that my former probation officer wears a toupee. That’s fine; whatever he wants on his head does no harm to me (unless his hair contains cnidarians that would sting me).
But this isn’t about the probation officer. He was only here to support his wife, who was singing here tonight. It’s nice to have someone sing to us, the residents at a care facility. But this was Gospel music, and it’s a genre that I don’t understand.
It’s more than just lacking an understanding Gospel music; it’s more that I don’t understand Christianity at all. Or maybe I understand it too well. How gullible must you be to be persuaded by childish or schizophrenic characters (God, Jesus Christ, angels, etc.); magic (walking on water, healing by laying on hands, turning water to wine, etc.); or the whole storyline (picking up where the Old Testament left off, a virgin birth, the idea that God turned himself into a person to be subjected to capital punishment to forgive you for whatever you did and doing so when he could just as easily said, “You’re forgiven.”
So I laughed when the singer told us that God is everywhere and knows everything about you. Was she, and others who say they believe in God serious? It’s been established in surveys, polls, books, and elsewhere that they do truly believe in God.
But how? Seriously, folks.
Sometimes a compliment can make your day. One of the nurses out here at the RCF may have made my day this morning when, after I cleared my lunch tray, she put her arm around my back, which I reciprocated by putting my arm around her back. She said, “You’re a good egg.”
Yesterday, somebody asked if I love myself. I told her that I was ambivalent in terms of self-esteem, but I suppose I don’t have much choice because, as Oscar Wilde put it, “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.”
So I’ll be myself and do my best to be a good egg.