Spelling Counts!

Valentine’s Day is over; next stop, St. Paddy’s Day. So, as winter clings to the Northern Hemisphere like a drunk clinging to a lamp post, and Mother Nature and Old Man Winter fight it out to see who marks the calendar this month, let’s find a cozy place out of the wind and rain, take a page out of Puck’s book and wonder “what fools [we] mortals be!”

Celebrity tattoos are as common as hen poop in a barnyard, so it’s no big deal that Orlando Bloom got a new one the other day. You remember Orlando Bloom: he’s the “actor” who played Legolas, a Middle Earth elf with an emotional range of .07 on a scale of 1 to 1,000. Anyway, it seems Mr. Bloom was having a little trouble remembering his son’s name (Flynn) and, rather than constantly bother his entourage about it, he decided to get it permanently inked into his arm. Problem solved? Not quite! First of all, Standard Written English wasn’t cool enough for Bloom, so he had it printed in Morse code, a form of communication that’s been dead since Roy Rogers roamed the Earth. Unfortunately, something got screwed up in the translation, and they spelled the name wrong. Okay, a “dot” here, a “dash” there; it was an honest mistake. But here’s the good part. Nobody noticed! Obviously, tattoo artists are not known for their cryptographic skills and there’s no app I know of that spellchecks Morse code, but … here’s the deal!

You’re an A-list (high B-list?) movie star.
You’ve got a ton of people around you every day with nothing better to do than suck up to you.
Every single one of them has an iPhone, iPad, iWatch, iWhatever.
Yet, not one of them, from your publicist to your personal assistant, cared enough about you to take 30 seconds and say, “Siri, what’s Flynn in Morse code?”

That, boys and girls, is a cold and lonely life.

Anyway, the ink dried, and there’s Orlando on Instagram, proud as a puppy with a chewed-up slipper. He’s selfie-d a forearm shiver with what looks like a surgical diagram drawn on it, and the teasing caption reads “new #tattoo can you guess who?”

And here is where we veer off into the land of WTF!

Apparently, Orlando’s Instagram audience includes more than a few people who took the time and trouble to figure out his body art was Morse code (Remember: it’s not a written language.) and then were willing to spend even more time translating it. (I doubt if many people can do Morse code from memory, these days.) Plus, they know enough about the life and times of Orlando Bloom to realize that this was his son’s name and that the dolt had misspelled it. Then, they felt morally compelled to publicly point that out to him – a number of times.

At last glance, Orlando and son are doing fine, despite the looming years of therapy. But honestly, folks! Our world has a bunch of people with way too much time on their hands.

Young People Are Grim

For years, I’ve been trying to figure out why young people are so relentlessly grim. And, I’m not just talking about millennials — the You-Can’t-Have-Any-Ice cream generation. It’s their children as well, now called Generation Z, as if this is the end of the line for the human species. These folks — pretty much anyone born after 1980 — spend their days acting like corporate accountants who’ve just had a root canal. They could give lessons to Puritans, for God’s sake! And (have you ever noticed?) they always laugh with their teeth clenched – kinda like a Terminator trying to smile.

And there’s no reason for it. We live at the apex of human achievement. There’s more good stuff now — and less bad stuff — than at any other time in history. There should be dancing in the streets. So, what’s the deal? Simple: cell phones. Most young people wander around with a stick up their ass because they know if they step out of line, somebody’s going to video record it, and 20 seconds later they’re going to look like total morons – across the entire planet! Plus, the Internet never forgets. Whatever they say or do today, may come back and haunt them, 10 years from now, when social standards change. This is peer pressure to the N^th degree, and the only way to escape it is keep your head down. Don’t give the cybermob an excuse to come after you. In other words, bland is best.

When I was a kid, I did some stupid things. In my generation, we all did. It was part of growing up. You learned, sometimes painfully, not to be a jackass. However, there was no permanent record in those days. My transgressions were shared, laughed at and admonished by a very small group – who (mostly) had my best interests at heart. Now, time on, they’ve been forgotten, except on rare occasions when old friends get together and play Remember When. I carry no brand for strangers to judge.

These days, young people don’t live with that luxury. They’re all sitting under a cyber Sword of Damocles, one upload away from, at best, humiliation and at worst, disgrace and total ruin. They not only have to fly right, right now; they have to see into the future and measure up, and that has got to be a full time job. It’s no wonder they’re all trudging along as if somebody just shot their puppy.

Our Imaginary World

Here in the West, we live in the most luxurious, benevolent society in history. On a daily basis, most of our needs, wants and desires are fulfilled without any of us having to lift a finger. (Well, that’s not strictly true: we do have to tap a screen or click a mouse.) Our ancestors may have had to wake up in the morning, hunt, kill and cook their own breakfast, but our world isn’t built that way. In fact, our survival is so totally guaranteed that the major activity of most folks west of the Vistula is the relentless pursuit of entertainment. We spend hours playing video games, binge-watching television and scrolling along with that good old-fashioned standby, “surfing the Net.” The problem is humans aren’t supposed to live in a virtual utopia. As a species, we dominate this planet because the heart of our existence is adversity. We need problems the way a shepherd needs sheep. Without them, he’s just some guy sitting on his ass in a pasture, no purpose in life and no meaning. A dismal existence at best. So, when the most perplexing decision we make every day is which Netflix series when, we’ve started to make things up. We’re manufacturing trouble, hardship and bother to satisfy an intrinsic need in our soul. Here are just a couple of examples of imaginary difficulties we’ve created out of thin air.

Last week, some YouTube influencer broke up with her boyfriend. No big deal: romantic drama is one of the high octane fuels we use for Cyberspace travel. However, after the tears, a lot of emojis and changing her Facebook status, our girl discovered she had an even bigger problem. She had no idea how to break the sad news to her cat. That’s right – her cat! Her concern was Fluffy (not the cat’s real name) would be devastated by the breakup, and she wanted to smooth over the emotional trauma. Apparently, she’s been soliciting opinions over several social media platforms and, — here’s the weird part — people are trying to help with actual advice.

Meanwhile, in another part of the cyber-forest, there’s a growing concern that quite a few YouTube celebrities and reality TV stars (male and female) are being offered money (a lot of money) for sex. These offers are coming through Social Media and are sparking a lot of debate over the nature of 21^st century privacy, the liberties taken with celebrities and what exactly constitutes prostitution. Fair enough, but seriously, money for sex is not a nuanced philosophical question. It’s pretty straightforward: yes, let’s negotiate; and no, you’re an asshole — end of story. And, although one celeb who took the money called it “a targeted relationship that progresses over time,” most of the rest of us are under no such illusion.

And finally:

Last Monday was “Blue Monday” which, according to thousands of anonymous sources, is the saddest day of the year. WTF? Has our world become so emotionally bland we need to designate a day to crack out the Kleenex?” In a more civilized time, this kinda crap would never even come up on the panel. These days, we’re discussing it as if it were real. It’s not. And just for the record, Blue Monday was actually invented in 2005 by a vacation company called Sky Travel to sell — wait for it! – vacations.

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