War of the Worlds

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  The cicadas are coming—they are coming, and they will arrive in my area in 2021 after a 17 year hiatus.  I’ll be 73 then—WTF!  God only knows how I’m going to handle them the next time around.   The last time they were here, I almost lost my mind, almost broke my leg after falling down my deck stairs while running from their attack against my body, almost got into a car accident, and almost went deaf at the sound of their horny cacophony.  Left to my own devices, I’ll probably break a hip fleeing from them in my garden and be eaten alive!

Image from cicadainvasion.com||andersondesigngroup

 “WAR OF THE AL-CICADA INVASION” RADIO SHOW

By E.L. “Orson Wells” Tomczyk

I know now that I should have anticipated their arrival—should have felt them watching me beneath the ground—waiting, growing, and listening for the call from their leaders to break through the surface of the Earth and terrorize my very existence.   They had been here before in 1987 on a mating mission, but I lived near the ocean then where their kind cannot survive.  But I swear they swore to return—swore to attack me where I lived in the future.  What had I done to them to warrant such hatred, such scorn, such vitriol?

I know now that I was being watched by the aliens for my atrocities against the insect, reptile, and fish world.  In my naiveté, I foolishly thought that my experience with being able to squish a bug every now and then in my own home with a fly-swatter, or mutilate a snake here and there in my garden to keep from being bitten, or dispense with a half-dozen gold-fish in my aquarium because they were getting on my fucking nerves, made me an expert when it came to thwarting the invasion of a massive alien attack.  Hadn’t I helped kill a water moccasin underneath an azalea bush with my bare hands and whacked a coiled 5-ft black rat snake into oblivion, armed only with a fly-swatter and a yardstick?  Hadn’t I flushed Pokey and Ramona down the toilet when I could no longer stand being the only caretaker of the goddamn family fish tank that WW and the kids swore they’d be responsible for but quickly abandoned after two weeks?  Could I be blamed by the Universe for having told a little white lie to the children that Ramona had begged to be set free to return to her peeps down under the sea while we sang “born free” as the swirl took her down, down, down into that great waterway via the sewers, praying that Jesus would give her safe travels?  Would any adult, having walked in my shoes, really judge me when subsequently the last living goldfish (Pokey) in our algae covered aquarium that everyone refused to clean, “ran away” to be with Ramona in her love-sea nest beneath the toilet seat?   Apparently, the Universe could forgive me, but “billions of black, shrimp-size bugs with transparent wings and red beady eyes” could not.  They saw what I did, they knew where I lived, and they swore I would pay.

Cicada Brood X|Image by maryland.sierraclub.org

That night in May of 2004 was like any spring night when the cold-hearted beasts began to emerge.  My hibiscuses were flourishing, my petunias were springing, and my roses were impeccable.  We had had some warning about the subsequent invasion, but like all pre-war attacks, my area treated it like it would be a game and no big deal.  After all, we were the humans—they were simply insects.  How hard would it be to keep them under control?  And then they began to emerge in the night.  Thousands upon thousands of them came up through my lawn, poking their heads up from the soil in the dead of night, crawling up everything that was vertical until they reached the tops of the tallest object in their path (bar-b-que grills, walls, decks, and trees).  Here’s what I have discovered about nature:  5 bugs are a nuisance, thousands of bugs is a horror story!

This is a swarm of locusts, not cicadas, but it best illustrates what the cicadas looked like on the trees surrounding my house|Image from dailymail.co.uk

Oh God, the horror!  They crawled to the top of the highest trees, singing their love song in one accord as they searched for a mate before their cycle of death within the 24 hour period.  As they flew from tree top to tree top, they blocked out the sun, and as they screamed their high-pitched love song, no conversation could be heard for miles around.  I hid in my house as much as I could, using an umbrella and hats with veils when I needed to venture out to water the garden or run an errand.  Many times they flew right at me and when I swatted them with my umbrella their high-pitched screams were otherworldly.   My method of getting to and from the car when I went to work was to run like hell and zig and zag in the hopes that I would make them dizzy, only to be driving down the highway after getting gas one day, hearing the “ZZZZZZ” buzz of their wings and having two of them (one perched on my left ear and one zip-lining down my bangs) crawl toward my left eye and smile in unison.  As my car ran off the road toward the ditch, all three of us let out bloodcurdling screams as I shouted “Jesus, take the wheel” six years before that title ever entered Carrie Underwood’s brain.  What kind of arch nemesis was this?  What purpose on Earth could God have created them for?  Where could I run and hide from this insanity?

And then something bizarre began to happen:  the alien dudes sang, the females responded by twitching their wings, the male and female cicadas did the “wild thing,” and then the dudes keeled over and died, falling by the thousands out of the sky.  While the putrid rotting flesh of the male cicadas piled up in heaps on the ground, females laid 600 eggs or so per invader into the slit branches of our best trees leaving behind scores of dead
limbs while the females soon followed their lovers to their graves.   I am told that 6 weeks later the “nymphs”
crawled down the trees and into the ground to feast on tree roots until 2021 when Brood X will take their revenge on other unsuspecting humans.  It scares me to think of them underground as I garden, waiting, growing, and planning their invasion.

Cicadas mating|image from mycologista.blogspot.com

One morning we woke up and there was silence.  As my neighbors and I wandered outside in sheer wonderment and began to shovel up mountains of rotting cicada carcasses, in between holding our noses and vomiting, we told tall tales of the invaders that were both uproarious and horrifying.  When we regaled each other about our cicada invasion survival, we were neither black nor white, Indian or Arab, gay nor straight, female nor male.  We were simply the survivors of the “war of the worlds” between the Cicadas and our neighborhood, and we helped each other clean up the mess.

Primed and ready to go||image from cicadamania.com

I am discovering that there is a hell of a lot of things coming down the pike that we know nothing about that the “cicada invasion” is a euphemism for, and we will only be able to get through the mayhem if we hang tough together.

We are currently being attacked by what I’ve dubbed the “Brood Y-Insanity/Chick-fil-A” invasion.  Guess what?  I am a “born-again Christian,” and I don’t agree with Mr. Cathy’s viewpoint on gay marriage, BUT he has right to say what he wants to say and spend his money how he wants to spend it.  I have a right not to patronize Mr. Cathy’s restaurant along with others who think his ideology is not biblical or even human.  However, IMHO the mayors of San Francisco, Boston, and Chicago ought to be ashamed and held accountable.  They were grandstanding—it cost them nothing to showboat their support of gay marriage while whipping up an invasion of protest against the Chick-fil-A restaurants.  They cannot keep out a legitimate business from their boundaries—period!  It’s unconstitutional.  The self-serving Mike Huckabee and Rick Santorum were also showboating with their rallying call for the Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day.  They knew exactly the message of hate they were whipping up with a portion of self-righteous, Christian-fascists within the Church (not everybody who calls themselves Christian fit this description so don’t harass me, a Christian, with your hate mail) who could so easily delude themselves into thinking they were protecting God’s honor while gorging themselves on chicken.   (I agree with the columnist who wondered how many of them donated their chicken sandwiches to the starving people in their cities—I’m just askin’?).  Other bloggers have said and I concur, Christians who participated in this chicken appreciation day will someday come to regret this empty gesture much as many have come to regret their intransient stance during the civil rights movement (God, I can only hope and pray).

And to my Gay and Lesbian sisters and brothers, you did not help your cause by falling into the stereotypes that the Christian-fascists have painted of you with the chicken kiss-in.   Huckabee and Santorum baited you and you bit, dog-gone-it.  And no, this is not the same as when my peeps and I couldn’t eat at the Woolworths counter in the 60s (we couldn’t eat anywhere), or drink from water fountains, or swim in pools, or live in decent neighborhoods, or go to the same schools where whites existed.  The day Chick-fil-A stops you and yours from working or eating in their restaurants, I’ll be the first to pick up a protest sign on your behalf.

Gabby Douglas|Image from rollingout.com

And speaking of my peeps, I’ve got a bone to pick with some of them about the “Brood Z-Nappy Hair Invasion” that has descended upon Gabby Douglas from SOME of the short-sighted, vain brothers and sisters from the black community.  (My white sisters and brothers, you might want to skip to the cartoon below because this has nothing to do with you—you’re totally innocent—and what I have to say is not going to be pretty.) 

Okay, my Peeps :  WHAT THE FUCK!  WHAT THE FUCK!!   Sixteen-year-old Gabby Douglas, with a smile that could light up the darkest room, is one of only a handful of African-Americans who has ever been able to compete in the Olympic Games, and she is the first African-American woman to take “all around gold” for her individual title.  AND she is a superb representative of her country as well as our race.  She will grace the covers of Time, Sports Illustrated, and multiple branding deals making millions of dollars—more than your sorry-ass couch-potatoes could ever dream of in ten lifetimes.  But after accomplishing something none of her critics could ever do, the focal point on social media and comments to stories about her brilliance is criticism about her “nappy hair” (TRANSLATION FOR MY WHITE READERS WHO DIDN’T OBEY ME AND ARE READING ALONG:  hair around the edges of the scalp resorting back to its African roots of really tight curls due to the copious sweat from extreme heat and exertion [rent Chris Rock’s “Good Hair” for more details].)

Oh God . . . oh my God:  Martin, Malcolm, and Medgar are rolling over in their graves!  All those who posted this crap online—shame on your own nappy-headed ignorant minds!

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Here’s the deal America:  “United we stand, divided we fall.”  Gay marriage, chicken sandwiches, a misguided old man, Christians, Muslims, Atheists, Republicans or Democrats, nappy heads or not—these are not the issues that will destroy us—being unable to love our neighbor or to focus on the majors rather than the minors are the things that will eventually tank our country from within.  When our love for each other truly grows cold—like the man who shot his neighbor in the face the other day out of spite and was surprised when he got arrested but immediately declared his hatefulness to the police, “What’s the deal; I only shot a Ni@@er?”—we, as Americans, are sitting ducks for an “al-cicada” soul invasion in the making.  Peace!

Nick Anderson|image from Houston Chronicle

“The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”—James Baldwin

 “We have learned to fly the air like birds and swim the sea like fish, but we have not learned the simple art of living together as brothers.”—Martin Luther King, Jr.

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Thanks to www.nationalgeographicnews.com (“Cicada Invasion Begins: Eastern U.S. Beset by Bugs”)  for their wonderful education on cicadea or cicadias.  All definitive quotes about this amazing creature are to be attributed to them.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Bracket and Blog It!

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  March Madness—and Sarah Palin drove me to it!  What you need to understand is that I don’t know a damn thing about basketball (I mean, I’m black, so I KNOW about basketball, but I could care less about hoops in my old age).  I haven’t been to a basketball game in 45 years, not to mention that I pretty much hate all sports.  I’d much rather be attending a Broadway show or reading a book, so if I’ve currently lost myself in basketball madness, then you know I am close to losing my freakin’ mind.

Here’s what happened.  Recently I was going along my merry way—minding my own damn business—when I got a chance to check out the HBO production of Game Change.   I thought I knew what to expect; I thought I was prepared for the horror, but I was wrong.   The picking of Sarah Palin to run for vice president, who would be a heartbeat away from the presidency of a running mate who was 72 years old at the time, turned out to be one of the most reckless, cynical, and arbitrary things that has happened in recent American history.   I was once a fan of McCain’s (war hero and all; you know how much I love “true grit”), and had actually considered voting for him (a black woman voting for a white Republican male, right?—go figure), but I got to see enough behind the curtain of Ms. Palin to send me fleeing to the left before it was too late.  I had no idea that I had only glimpsed a token amount of what the writer, Richard Cohen, calls Palin’s “great talents to deny the truth,” her sheer ignorance about simple foreign affairs, and her petulant, childlike ability to sulk away, shut down, and go into a catatonic state, not to mention her arrogant hard-headedness when she didn’t want to study and absorb what was being taught to make her a viable candidate.   And since Game Change has been endorsed by most of Palin’s top campaign staff as accurate, according to Mr. Cohen, Miss Sarah can’t deny its veracity; she can only accuse them of being disloyal.   That is a very small price for her to pay to have awakened us all to the fact that we escaped a self-absorbed, celebrity seeking, clueless ex-beauty queen, ersatz Born-Again Christian who had heard “God say” she was called to save our country for the “real Americans” through her vice presidency because she “so didn’t want to go back to Alaska.”

Game Change/Movie Trailer (Julianne Moore as Sarah Palin)

“At some point while watching HBO’s absolutely smashing (and terrifying) movie “Game Change.”  It occurred to me that Sarah Palin has ruined America . . . With her selection as John McCain’s running mate, American politics lost its way—and maybe its mind as well . . . Après Palin has come a deluge of dysfunctional presidential candidates (Herman Cain, Michele Bachmann, Rick Perry, Rick Santorum—parenthesis mine).  They do not lie with quite the conviction of Palin, but they are sometimes her match in ignorance.”—Richard Cohen (“Sarah Palin’s Foolishness Ruined U.S. Politics”—The Washington Post)

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I couldn’t breathe.  I was depressed for days!  And when I thought about sorry-ass John Edwards on the left who had cheated on his cancer-ridden wife all during his campaign, sired a child with his mistress, lied about it, and even campaigned to be President Obama’s vice president until he was exposed (just in time):  I threw up!

Normally, when I am scandalized by things like this—white people acting the fool—I write about something absurd that will make me laugh at the sheer craziness of it all.  So I searched all my news sources and the only thing that was absurd, but not sad, this week (because absurd plus sad usually equals mental illness and isn’t funny to me) was:  mantyhose (a.k.a “brosiery”).

“This is the flagship men’s pantyhose style by Ohio-based Comfilon’s Activeskin Legwear for Men. The company, which has seen a steady increase in sales, uses the tagline, ‘This is NOT your mother’s pantyhose.’” By Vidya Rao (Today)

Oooooookay!?!   What?  WTF!  AAAUUUGGH!

Picture pinned by Eric Xiao Ming/Pinterest

As I went screaming into the night, it was at that exact moment (as it almost always is when one is being seduced) that two junkies saddled up to me and whispered in my ear the “fix” they could provide to break me out of my misery:  “Psst!  We got just what you need, girlfriend—March Madness.”   I put up a struggle—I really did.  But they told me “everybody was doing it,” and the more I fought, the more terms like “seed the field,” “bracketology,” “ratings percentage index,” NCAA, ESPN—to name a few—started sounding a little less foreign to me.  And the more things started making sense, the more I came under the March Madness spell.  Then the coup-de-grace, the hook, the manipulation: One of the junkies told me I could have “diva shoes” for the entire March Madness season if I just played along, and Lord have mercy, I lost my soul.

OH, SNAP!

…AND DOUBLE SNAP!

I found out about this new “March Madness” drug at 11:00 a.m. on March 15th (the final day to finalize one’s bracket), and I only had an hour to submit my choices once the junkies clued me in on the wonderment of getting high off bracketology.   I had no idea what to do, but like true junkies, my suppliers said they’d give me this year’s instructions for “free” and walked me through the process.  They said it didn’t matter that I didn’t know my ass from my elbow as far as the basketball teams were concerned, because that really wasn’t necessary to “get high”—I just needed to go with the flow to get hooked.  So I picked teams according to whether I liked the colors of their school (Syracuse), or if I didn’t like their state politics, or if they were an underdog due to extreme economic hardship (Michigan State), or if WW and I ever lived in the state.  With everything chosen and in place, I submitted my NCAA Bracket under the pseudonym, “Big Mama’s Picks,” and then I slid into a catatonic state of basketball euphoria.

 

BIG EAST ACC TOURNAMENT/clotureclub

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BIG MAMA’S PICKS (as of 10:00 p.m. 3/15)

Big Mama’s Champion Pick:  Syracuse University

Why?  Because their school colors match a pair of my favorite shoes!

I am discovering that “sometimes a baby’s got to do what a baby’s got to do” and join in on the fun—especially where new shoes are involved and shattered nerves from movies about monsters almost taking over the White House can be soothed.   Whatever it takes, I say (within reason), and the ability to purchase kick-ass shoes is always a plus.

…AND TRIPLE SNAP, BABY!

“When I went to Catholic high school in Philadelphia, we just had one coach for football and basketball. He took all of us who turned out and had us run through a forest. The ones who ran into the trees were on the football team.” ~ George Raveling

“When it’s played the way is spozed to be played, basketball happens in the air; flying, floating, elevated above the floor, levitating the way oppressed peoples of this earth imagine themselves in their dreams.” ~ John Edgar Wideman

A special “shout out” to my “March Madness Junkies”:  Jean W. and Kathy P. (thanks for the title, KP)

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

News You Can’t Possibly Use

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  I’m a crawl-news-line crack addict.  For those of you unfamiliar with this addiction, it is the inability to watch the news without simultaneously reading the news ticker line that scrolls along the bottom third of most TV news that features minor pieces of irrelevant shit (i.e., “Sex tape of John Edwards and his mistress to be destroyed following trial”).   And I know the exact date I got hooked.  When Sarah Palin was questioned by Katie Couric about what newspapers she read to form her political opinions and Sarah couldn’t answer that simple, non-threatening question, I panicked!  How could a person running for the second highest office in the land not know her news sources?  I was a woman, and a Christian.  Would the media think that we all were that out-to-lunch and misinformed?  I had nightmares of being stopped on the street by Katie, or Anderson, or Bryan, or Wolf and being asked the same question as “Miss-I-can-see-Alaska-from-my-house-Palin.”  Well, hells-bells Charlie Brown, I made a pledge to not only beef up my extensive news reading list, but I made a declaration to never go without news input—in any form ever again—as God is my witness. So every morning I get on the treadmill and for 60-75 minutes I listen to the news, religiously read the news crawls at the bottom of the screen, and give running commentary as if being interviewed by Mika Brzezinski while I pace myself to Bruno Mars and the Black Eyed Peas.   I am queen of the news crawl world, hear me roar!

Google Image/themavesite.com

It was a few years ago when I started the trend of keeping up with the crawls, and all was going well until recently.  You could ask me anything about anything and I could fill you in at a moment’s notice.  Katie Couric wasn’t going to catch me unawares—no siree, babe.  But last week something dreadful happened:  I discovered I could no longer see the news crawl scrolling by from my position on the treadmill!  At first I thought my glasses were dirty but after maniacally cleaning them with every solvent in the house, I fled to my ophthalmologist’s office shaking from head to toe and unable to keep the tremor from my voice and my hands as I screamed:  “I NEED A FIX, DOC!”

 “You’ve got to help me.  I can’t take this.  I can’t see the news crawl on Morning Joe and the Today Show, anymore.  How the hell am I supposed to stay informed?  What if Rachel Maddow invites me on her show for an in-depth interview and I end up being compared to Sarah Palin?  You’ve got to help me, dude!”

******

All’s well that ends well, because the doc was able to give me a temporary “fix” of a new prescription for my glasses.  And just in the nick of time, too.  I had missed so much information!   One day of by-passing the news crawl and you’re out for the count.  Just today as I was charging up my 8.0 incline, the news crawls gave me the Inner City Blues and, like Marvin Gaye said, “made me want to holler and throw up both my hands!”  As my readers, I wanted you to know what I’m up against every day.  Below is a sample of the news crawls I followed this week to keep myself entertained.

Buttfire/The Car Lounge/Google Image

NEWS CRAWL:  Extended exposure to car seat heaters can cause Toasted Skin Syndrome. . . .

Me:   “WTF!  I love my butt-seat warmer in my Chrysler minivan.  The government better not make a ruling banning these, no matter how many asses are set aflame.  This is where I draw the line with government involvement:  feed the poor, house the homeless, job the jobless, educate our children well,  but keep your hands of my ass-warmers.  I will have to become a Republican and fight them on this if my seat-warmer is disconnected.  My ass is my ass and if it goes up in flames on a cold winter’s morn on my way to work, then so be it!”

Skyline Drive—Blue Ridge Mountains/Photo by J Tomczyk

NEWS CRAWL:  East Coast asking:  What the heck happened to winter . . . ?

Me:  I know what happened to winter; I bought my husband, WW,  a snow blower!  And not just any ol’ snow blower—one that is the size of a small house and is self-propelled with its own headlights.  I did this because, unlike Rick Santorum, I believe in global warming and the past two snow storms have been proof of it.  Snow was up the wazoo on our property, and all I could see in my mind’s eye was my man keeling over from a heart attack from shoveling endless snow because of the extreme weather we were having due to the shift in the global climate patterns.  Of course, everyone from my Cambodian electrician to my corporate exec boss told me that by purchasing a snow blower of such magnitude, I was guaranteeing the East Coast a winter without snow.  Works out well because it’s allowing more time for WW and me to do what we love:  travel!  (Thank you notes can be sent to my blog email expressing gratitude for me being the reason for this season.)

Google Image/newsoverseas.com

NEWS CRAWL:  Anti-gravity yoga lets you hang head-first like bats to ramp up workout. . . .

Me:  REALLY!?  Seriously, insane people; have you seen my first attempt at being suspended in air?  Do you honestly suggest I do your yoga suspension exercise after viewing this? Really?

Photo by J Tomczyk

(Note Blogger doing long-forgotten pregnancy breathing to keep from fainting.)

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NEWS CRAWL:  Palin’s emails reveal marital problems. . . .

Sarah Palin/Google/Getty Image

Me:  Really?  R-E-A-L-L-Y?  Wait a minute, here.  Didn’t McCain say she had been fully vetted before being picked as his sidekick?  Also, I thought Sarah vociferously denied that she and ol’ Todd were ever in a divorcing state of mind when confronted by her low-life “soon to be son-in—law’s” news crawl, “Levi says:  ‘I’m hiding “HUGE” things about the Palins.”  She hunkered down and called him a liar (of course I would have done the same thing with that piece of work.)

Hum . . . but where there is smoke there is fire, so I hopped off the treadmill with 30 minutes left of my workout in order to look up this story online just to learn that that particular news item was slightly misleading (you have to watch out for these types of teaser crawls—they are not always accurate).  The news crawl was referencing a time before John McCain screwed the country over with his cynical pick of Sarah for VP.  Becky Boher from Huffingtonpost states that “The emails indicate her (Sarah Palin) job had taken a toll on her marriage long before she even became McCain’s running mate.  In a Sept. 26, 2007, email to Kris Perry and her husband Todd, titled ‘Marital Problems,’ Palin writes: ‘So speaking of… If we, er, when we get a divorce, does that quell “conflict of interest” accusations about BP?’ Her husband was a former BP employee on the North Slope.” 

Google Image/I am luscious download

NEWS CRAWL:  GOP Virginia Lawmaker says wife wouldn’t have sex because of his support for transvaginal ultrasound bill

Me:  I literally fell off the treadmill from laughter when I read this crawler.  NO SEX FOR YOU, MY REPUB BOY!  I found the story in Huffingpost and it made my day.  Apparently State Del. Albo was one of the supporters of the mandatory transvaginal ultrasound bill that a bunch of crusty ol’ white men put together that Virginia Governor (“I’ve lost my freakin’ mind”) O’Donnell had promised to sign once it reached his desk.  After significant push-back from the women of Virginia and signs that O’Donnell’s political career was sinking faster than a cinder block dropped into the Rappahannock River, the “rape by instruments” portion of the bill was modified, although the remainder of the bill still leaves much to be desired.  On the day of the modification of the bill, good ol’ Del. Albo was feeling a little randy (a man can get that way from thinking about how to invade vaginas) and went home to seduce his wife.  He dimmed the lights, poured some wine, popped in the Luther Vandross CD, and turned on the Redskins’ Channel (apparently The Wife gets turned on by watching the Washington team)—hey, whatever floats your boat!  Just as good ol’ boy Albo was ready to do the wild thang, a news story about the machinations of Governor Bob McDonnell’s career-terminating “modified” bill emphasized that it bullies women with medically unnecessary waiting periods and ultrasound requirements.  Del. Albo’s wife, had an “aha” moment upon realizing her husband’s part in the debacle, turned off the TV and announced, “I have to go to bed,” according to Del. Albo’s recounting of the scenario in the House of Delegates.  The news crawl tomorrow should read:  State delegate fails to “score” due to news of vaginal probe; one less Republican will be joining the ranks.  I think I’m going to put this story in Rick Santorum’s suggestion box for the Republicans to utilize in place of contraception:  Threaten to yank women back to the 1950’s, “no nookie for you!”

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I am discovering that my regular news sources (8—count them Sarah—8) give me the serious fleshed-out news that I need to sound intelligent and stay informed, but my news crawlers, more often than not, give me a huge laugh because they are simply theater of the absurd.  Which begs the question, why the hell do we have them in the first place?  They move much too fast to catch the first go round and if you have an anal personality like mine, you become obsessed with waiting for the particular news crawl to circle back so that you can catch the second half of the sentence of something that you didn’t need to know in the first place.  Aren’t there better things to do in life?

Author/J Tomczyk Photo

“The one function that TV news performs very well is that when there is no news we give it to you with the same emphasis as if there were.” David Brinkley

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Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.