Posts Tagged ‘silliness’
Silly Victory
“I win.” Simple as that. When engaged in meaningless banter with Cyndie, particularly if my point has no basis for accuracy, I will swiftly blurt, “I win.” The debate is over.
Most accurate at that point of our back and forth is that I have totally lost. It served well for many years in introducing humor into our interactions but not so much anymore.
Pretending to win when you obviously haven’t isn’t funny after a certain grift leader managed to make it to the highest office in our country and then inspired his minions to violence in an attempt to keep his position.
One of the safeties of a home is the opportunity to be silly in ways that might come across poorly in public. [loud belch]
This morning, to occupy Asher’s mind for a moment of distraction, Cyndie assembled a hidden treat vessel from found materials. He would need to figure out a way to get to the delicious bites he could smell wrapped inside paper and resting in the 12 pockets of an egg carton.
I watched as he was trying to figure out how to open the carton, surprised that he didn’t just bite into it to rip it apart. As he picked up his head to see what Cyndie was doing, his paw rolled across the carton and it popped open. When he looked back down, there were all the wads of paper.
The exercise lasted maybe 5 minutes and certainly won’t help to discourage him from scrounging in our trash in the future, but it was something new and different to entertain his food-driven curiosity and distract from his whining for attention.
Even a mere five minutes of re-occupying his mind can feel like a silly victory sometimes.
“We win.”
.
.
Asher Interviewed
An idea was born through the miracle of modern technology and the wickedly wild unveiling of ChatGPT Artificial Intelligence answering questions with increasing believability. Maybe Chatbots could ask questions, too. Add to that idea the greatest new invention ever achieved, the ability to translate barking to text.
Asher was willing to participate in the bizarre experiment to see if it could work. He donned the high-tech brain wave reader and entered into a conversation with a computer that produced the following:
AI: Mr. Asher, can you hear me through the headgear?
Asher: Whoof!
AI: Somebody needs to turn on the translator.
Asher: You can call me Ash for short. This thing itches.
AI: It works! Okay, Ash, what do you think of your new home?
Asher: I think I could get used to this. These two hoomans seem like they like me. I think one is called, “What?” and the other one answers to, “You ready yet?”
AI: Do you think you will be able to train them?
Asher: Oh, yeah. I’ve got them going to a class in the big city where they practice and practice figuring out how to react to my every need. It’s wild because as they do their drills I get to eat non-stop treats. It can be exhausting but I’m able to take a nap while they pilot the go-fast machine back to our house.
AI: Are you getting used to all those acres of forest and field?
Asher: In fits and starts. Sometimes they free me from that dang leash and I can race after the tree rats that run rampant. The hoomans get all excited about it and try to convince me they’re called “skwerls.” The backyard is good for zooming but the hill tends to tire me out sooner than I like. If I don’t keep running the hoomans tend to take me back in the house. Not that it’s bad in there. Every time I roll a ball under the furniture they just give me a new one. I’ve got so many squeaky things to chomp on stashed around the place, I’ll never be able to destroy them all.
AI: Sounds like you are living a life of luxury.
Asher: Oh, it’s not all bully sticks and squeaking toys. The hoomans are outside every day working on something and their progress gets so pathetic I can’t help myself but help them out. Digging up diseased bushes? I can help dig. Planting new plants? I can dig those up, too. Cutting out dead branches? Oooh, I can chew ’em to bits.
AI: Our batteries are running low. Is there anything you want your humans to understand before we have to shut down the translator?
Asher: I’m sorry I chewed up both pads and both covers you guys put in my crate and the cool tapestry you had draped over it, too. It’s just… well, somethin’ has to give. When I get all riled up, I do what I do best… chew.
.
.
My City
I live in a city in the country. A place characterized by a specific attribute. My city is populated by leaves. Leaves and sticks. And mud, when the weather is wet. My city is constantly changing. There are animals and animal dung. There are births and deaths.
Is it murder when one animal kills another?
Not according to this definition:
“the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another.”
Doesn’t apply to animals.
My city has common routes of travel shared by many. There are also back alley shortcuts to get from one place to another. There is traffic night and day.
Our house is the city center, the hub of all activity. From here, energy radiates in every direction. There are constant battles waged against unwelcome invading plants and critters.
The invasion of cold temperatures appears to have quashed the zeal of microorganisms living in the only remaining active pile of composting manure. I won’t fight the issue. The pile will be there when warmth returns next spring. I’ve witnessed piles that cook through the winter and seen many more that go dormant and freeze solid.
This year, we have noticed an atypical increase in the number of mice seeking to move into the city center now that the leaves have fallen to the ground. Do they know something we don’t about what kind of weather this winter will bring?
We are receiving news now that the whitetail deer population has contracted the coronavirus in substantial numbers. Since they lack the infrastructure for getting vaccinated, it gives us added incentive to get our booster shots. I’d rather not wear a mask when walking through the woods.
Imagine the opportunity for the virus to morph again while it is spreading uncontrolled through the deer population.
We can try to put our city on lock-down but policing the traffic that crosses our borders is beyond the reach of our security forces.
My city will take its chances.
We are more concerned about a threatened strike by the snowplow driver.
.
.
Don’t Click
It’s a game I play with myself almost every day I’m online. Don’t click on that bait. Sure, I’m curious about the 12 most outrageous ways some common thing we are eating/reading/handling/doing leads to these 16 unbelievable/startling/amazing/scary results that some doctor/study/company/environmentalist/yogi has recently revealed/published/announced/proclaimed/guaranteed.
One facet of clickbait-ology I am anxious to find out about is how the “number” is selected for these attention-getting carnival barkings. A quantity of 10 seems like a very dependable collection. It’s an even number. It’s double-digits. If I was making a list, my first inclination would be to shoot for 10. Maybe I just watched too many years of David Letterman and his Top-Ten List.
From that bias, I find myself puzzling over why a title would feature a list with 12 or 13 items, or even bother when there are only 5 or 6. I saw one once that boasted 17, which starts to press the boundaries of believability. I’m skeptical the source was really able to come up with 17 of anything on a topic that worked for a click-baitable headline.
I wonder what I could come up with to entice people to click through to a page of mine that has no redeeming value to offer in return.
“Never ever give in to the urge to read 10 answers to the most essential question ever pondered.”
You know, the number 10 doesn’t seem to work so well, after all.
I get it now. It’s too status quo. It’s ‘ok boomer.’
Instead, the more ridiculous, the better.
“Eleventeen reasons why things you are already doing won’t make enough difference to matter.”
“These 16 ideas never worked before, but they will now after you’ve read this!”
“Take a penny, leave a penny by clicking this article 7 times a day for 13 weeks and feed a hungry kitty that looks exactly like a unicorn.”
For the record, I don’t always win at my own game. One time, I clicked to see the umpteen most amazing images since the beginning of time. Then, I clicked and clicked and clicked about umpteen more times. Each image was on a unique ad-filled page that took a painfully long time to load. Luckily, the first thing to pop into view for each page was the table of new clickbait ads across the bottom with strange quantities of subjects for me to try “ignoring.”
No one said this game was going to be easy.
.
.
It’s Silly
It’s silly, I know, but I can’t help thinking maybe somehow that is the secret to what makes it so. Silly, that is. Like a dream that makes sense, only it doesn’t at all. Time gets all mixed up, and the characters, too. How can the ages of people get all misconstrued? Even those who’ve passed on show up, still doing what they do.
Well, there are those who see this as not dreamy at all. It’s actually explainable in their point of view, with time being hardly linear and spirits always present, yet mostly unseen. It is exactly what is happening, like a coupon being redeemed. There for the taking, if we choose to direct our attention in the general direction of effect.
To be aware, or be not. That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler to notice what is there all along, stumbling and rushing through mere air without care, or bumbling along just the same, yet with a certain savoir faire.
It’s energy, is all. An emanating, radiating field of unscientific particle waves. It’s anger or love that flows with abandon in directions intended, or not, at speeds and distances that defy what’s made sense since the time we left caves.
See, feel, and touch all you can possibly reach, then know, like the molecules too small to detect, there is more making contact than we’ll ever be aware, even those who detect what most of us perceive as not being there.
I choose sending love, whenever I can. Forward and back, even through time, just in case it might work. To those whom I know and even more, those I don’t. It would be silly, I think, to believe it a risk. I’m sending love, yes indeed, even while writing all of this.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Rare Specimen
Last night as I was coming down the stairs from our loft, I stepped over something that I most often ignore, but this time it snagged my attention. I felt it deserved to be recorded for posterity.
There lie before me the rare brown-spotted, long-armed yellow monkey, bandaged with flower print duct tape, face down in peaceful repose.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Relative Something 