On Facebook, it’s ‘Look at what my kids did!’

Twitter: ‘Listen to my opinion!‘

Instagram: ‘Look at what I ate / am eating / have eaten…and this is my cat.’**

Tumblr: ‘Look who/what I like to look at in an animated gif repeating forever and ever!‘

None of this is necessarily a bad thing, I would never argue that.  I think it’s great that finally we all have our own little platform to stand on and voice our own opinions and concerns about what’s going on in the world, or what’s going on in our lives.  It’s good to let off a little steam, now and then.  I mean, look at this blog I write.  It’s always about what I want.  I choose my topic, I choose my tone, and clearly, I also choose my own timetable because I haven’t written in months.***

I think one of the problems lying behind our technological narcissism is that it’s starting to eek its way into real life.  People who tweet about themselves, voicing their opinions, posting pictures on Facebook of little Teddy who had a ‘wunny nose wast night but feewing lawts better today‘, who expect the world to stand up and pay attention with the instant gratification of a ‘like’ a ‘heart’ a ‘reblog’, a ‘favourite’ are having a harder and harder time getting along with people in the 3 dimensional world.

Not long ago, I met up with someone I knew solely from Twitter, which is not the first time I’ve met a Twitter friend, but I sat in a bar with this person for a couple of hours while she talked about herself the entire time.  She didn’t even pause to draw a breath, but that wasn’t what troubled me about our meeting.

It was the way she talked as though she were giving an interview to a glossy magazine, or telling Oprah about her life’s work.  She gave me her entire biography, and while I sipped (read: gulped) down drink after drink while she spoke, I noticed that she was repeating the questions in answer format that I should have been asking…the ones Oprah would have asked: ‘My career in xxx started when…‘, ‘My biggest fear is…‘, ‘Growing up in my family was…‘.

It wasn’t until we said our goodbyes at the end of the night, as I huddled deep into my coat, bracing against the cold spring air that it dawned on me that she hadn’t once asked a single question back, but more importantly, our conversation wasn’t a conversation at all.  It was a 3 hour monologue performed in a busy, dimly lit pub for an audience of one.

There was no discussion, no bonding over our likenesses or sharing stories.  After a few hours together, she knew absolutely nothing about me.  Sure, you can know a little bit about me from Twitter, what I like (coffee, cupcakes, full moons) what I hate (cat vomit, cleaning up cat vomit, listening to my cat vomit) and sometimes what my general pet peeves are.  But can anyone ever really know me (or anyone) from Twitter alone?

Four hours together and I can say, ‘No.’ because I certainly didn’t know she was going to be how she was. It wasn’t that I necessarily thought she was being arrogant, I just thought maybe she needs to get out more and have more friends.

So is social media breeding a new generation of the socially inept?  The generation in demand of the instant gratification of ‘You like me! You really like me!’?  Perhaps.  But maybe this is just me being afraid of change again.  Because we all know I just despise change.

But after all, if it weren’t for things I dislike, what else would I need this blog for?

* Guilty.

** Also guilty.  My cat is the cutest thing in the whole wide world.

*** Sorry.

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I had no idea what to expect, but actually, so many movies are filmed there, that I was already familiar with it before I’d even stepped foot out of the airport shuttle.  Suffering jetlag in the worst way I ever have before, I did exactly what you’re not supposed to do:  I went to bed.

So, I woke up on my first night in LA, at 2.30am, bright as a button, shiny as a new penny, bright eyed and bushy-ta…oh you get the idea.  The frustration of watching out my window at the new world below me, waiting for it to wake up, nearly crippled me.  I was jittery, anxious to explore, and god, somebody give me coffee! (The hotel had supplied a coffee maker and 1 filter of coffee.  ONE.  What good is that supposed to do?  What if there had been two of us in that room??  What’re they supposed to drink?)

Finally, the sun came up, and I burst out of my hotel like being shot out of a cannon; walking the sparsely populated Hollywood Blvd, looking at all of the stars at my feet.  I walked myself straight to a Starbucks (of course), as most of the shops I wanted to look in (namely a massive 2 story vintage clothes s

tore) wouldn’t be opening for at least a few more hours.  Having sufficiently topped up my bloodstream with the necessary amount of caffeine, I explored and charted the area; every once in a while stopping to gape and star at some monument or other (there’s an awful lot of Scientology buildings in that area.  A frightening amount, actually).

Having acquainted myself with the streets around the area where my hotel lies, I felt confident enough to walk from A to B without the help of The Maps.

The people around me were all very lovely; I had forgotten about the high standards of customer service that America holds.  I was near coddled in one shop, when a store clerk followed me around the racks of clothes, Oooh-in and Aaah-ing over everything I picked out.  It was a little unnerving at first, but eventually I re-learned how to evade the over-eager clerks.  Wasn’t easy though.  I find it terribly hard to be rude to anyone, and ignoring anyone is one such offense.

Along Hollywood Blvd, the sidewalks were teeming with tourists.  Massive groups of people, stopping every so often to take a picture of a sign or a star on the pavement; which meant that there were also scores of permanent residents who were selling something (probably a bus tour).  I can only describe this clash as a giant school of fish being invaded by a slew of sharks.  Evasive maneuvers!  And as hard as I tried, that first day, to look like a resident rather than a tourist, inevitably, I would get caught by Pavement Marketing for an open top bus tour, which promised to take me around to the stars’ homes*.

By the third day, I was walking, talking and acting like an American again, so I was largely ignored by the pushy salesmen of Hollywood.  Phew!  Of course, a Saturday night in Hollywood isn’t all that different from the rather rough streets of Glasgow, so I then had to swap back to my adopted Glaswegian carriage and get my elbows out, lest I get felt up by some strange guy who just stumbled out of a bar.  Also, the tough-guy Glaswegian twang is just as formidable in LA as it is in Scotland.  Just saying…

All in all, though, the people were lovely, the place was lovely and I had enough to fill nearly every minute of every day I was there.  All you can eat sushi?  Why yes, I think I shall.

* I find the idea of taking a bus to go around and look at the homes of famous people to be slightly unnerving.  I know that celebrity is often compared to being in a fishbowl, but I honestly don’t think it should be taken literally.  Besides, why do I want to see someone’s wrought iron gate and overgrown hedge?  Leave them in peace, I say!

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Last year was a pretty good year.  I learned a lot; I made new friends; I won a film contest; and I made up my mind finally, that since the role of ‘superhero’ has been filled by a far more qualified candidate, that I will be a filmmaker instead.

So, I’ll try to keep you all updated on the progress of that very simple and not at all daunting goal, but I can’t guarantee that it’ll be every week.

We’ll see.

  ♥

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Or at least I’d hoped it would be.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a poor trip or anything, it was ok.  I got the train down (and edited all the way, la la la) and then had the pleasure of remembering all over again how to negotiate the underground.  Glasgow’s underground has two trains which go in a circle: one clockwise, and one counterclockwise.  Taking the wrong train, or missing your stop means  that you can either get off at the next stop and catch the next train going in the opposite direction or, if you’ve got 40 minutes to kill, just staying on the train you’re on until you come back around again.

The labyrinth that is the London underground hasn’t beaten me yet (I stress ‘yet’ as I’m sure it will beat me one day), so I don’t know why I always get nervous.  But yet, there I was again, getting the right train, at the right time, to the right station like a boss.  Yeah, bitch, fuck yeah.

I managed to find my hotel ok, and then on to work!  Of course, though, I walked along with the address of the venue safely entered into the googlemaps, and walked in the direction The Maps told me to go; carefully glancing at my phone every now and then to make sure that the blue dot was still moving in the right direction.  But the streets were getting more sparse, the night was drawing in quickly, and even though instinct  was telling me to pick up the pace, unfamiliarity with my surroundings kept me edging along slowly and unsure.

A quick glance at my phone: blue dot still right on a target to intercept.

A few more blocks.

Checking The Maps again.  Still right on course.

Why do I have such a distrust of The Maps?

I couldn’t help thinking during my perambulation, that I grew up in a time where there were no mobile phones (only car phones, which only yuppies and fictional characters on Miaimi Vice had)  and there was certainly no such thing (to us civilians, anyway) as GPS.  It really is a wonder that I’ve been through that transition, and then started to think, (in my pre-middled-aged way) ‘Kids nowadays have it too easy.’

Or…maybe there’s something of a safety net there.

It was about this point that I stopped distrusting The Maps and started to walk with a bit more confidence.  And you know, The Maps didn’t let me down.  In fact, the little blue dot and I landed right on the doorstep of where I was supposed to be.  Ha!  We win!  I never doubted you, The Maps!  Not once, not one second!

It’s interesting, as I continue thinking about it, that even without the full address, The Maps seem to know where I want to go.  From locating that restaurant in Bristol, or finding a meeting room in Birmingham, The Maps have seemingly got it all.

[Aside: I'm just going to stay away from the debate about the new iOS and it sending people 6 miles away from their destination.  I haven't tested it out yet, so I can't talk with any authority about that.  But I have heard the stories...]

So, for my 2 night-3 day stint in the big city, I walked about with confidence.  Who cares about the ‘only left turns’ rule?  or Leaving a trail of breadcrumbs?  Or making note of landmarks and street names so you can find your way back?  Who cares about all of that boring nonsense?  Me and The Maps: we’re gonna conquer this city!

I never had to feel that jolt of ‘oh shit’ at looking around an not knowing where I was.  The Maps always knew where I was.   The Maps had my back.

Of course, when I left my hotel on the last day, walking along with my wheelie suitcase trundling along behind me, I took a turn, contrary to where The Maps would have told me to go (I didn’t even check with The Maps first.  I was a pro by now).   So I took a left, when I knew in my heart that The Maps would have wanted me to go straight on.

And there I saw it:  the shortcut.  My hotel was around the corner from the underground station the entire time.  Not 10 mins walk away like The Maps had told me.  I had been walking out of my way to go around the block the entire time when I hadn’t needed to.  And there was one night in the pissing rain when I could have really used a shortcut.

Ah, but I can’t be mad at you, The Maps.  You taught me that no matter how much I’m ready to depend on and trust you, there’s still no substitute for keeping your  eyes open and being aware of your surroundings, instead of following that damned little blue dot all of the time.

I still love you, The Maps.  But maybe we should try seeing other people for a while.

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These pop ups would say the standard things that internet protection software does, such as ‘Your computer may be at risk!’ and other such gems until, after about a day of ignoring it, I presume my virus got fed up and bored and then unceremoniously spat out, ‘You have a virus because you have downloaded PORN!’

I’ve never laughed so hard at a virus in my life.  I mean, if you’re going to go through all of that trouble in coding a virus to attack the innards of some stranger’s computer, at least be funny.  That was pretty funny.  I laughed until I realised I had absolutely no control over my computer.  I was a normal user with reduced privileges.  That virus might as well have put on the parental control.

Ok, so 26 or so gruelling hours later, I had finally rid my poor laptop of all viruses and regained the helm; but it wasn’t the same again.  I eventually had to reformat the entire thing (it was pretty full anyway) and then sought about buying a new laptop, promising myself not to be so careless with my computers EVER AGAIN.

Anyway, as I was relaying this, at times, hilarious, information to my colleague, I started to wonder about just what sort of person would make up viruses for a living.  It’s definitely a malicious sort of thing to do…wanting to destroy someone’s personal property without ever having to enter their home.  It’s like keying someone’s car after the football game.  ‘This is the bastard that cut in front of me at the beer stand! *skreeeech*’.  If I’m honest, there has maybe been once or twice in my internet experience that I’ve wished I could really zing someone with a virus.  These were usually the culprits of ignorant and offensive remarks on the old newsgroup forums back in the day.  But I’ve never followed through on anything as malicious as a virus, not that I’d know how to code one if I tried.

But viruses are targeted en masse at the nameless and faceless users of the internet; without prejudice.  I’ll refrain from making a general metaphorical comparison here, but hackers don’t want to hurt one person, they want to hurt many; and they think it’s a laugh.  It’s not so funny to those of us who’ve been hit with it, much funnier with the porn comment, but on the whole, not funny at all.

I’m happy to say that I’ve been virus free ever since I got my Macbook.  But I don’t walk around with a smug look on my face just because I’m not faced with the virus issues that PC users have.  I know the hard work.  I know the annoyance of having firewall software popping up on your screen every five minutes.  But what I don’t understand is…why does Windows have such a problem with virus attacks?  What makes Macs so difficult to penetrate?  I’m sure there is a very long, technical explanation, so if you can keep it into plain English that I can understand, that’d be great.  But really, I’m starting to get a whiff of conspiracy here.  Does Windows have a deal with antivirus programs that they’re trying to keep in business?  With hackers spiderwebbing the internet universe and multiplying at every click, why doesn’t Windows find a way to shut the whole thing down by making a platform which is locked down, loophole-free, and immune from such attacks?  Or would forever protecting the computers of their consumers just not be worth the money or the hassle?

Of course, the economic answer is: why make something that lasts when you can get people to buy more, more often?

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I’m not innocent of passive-aggressive tweeting.  In fact, I just sat here staring at this blank screen (back when it was blank) trying to think of a way to passive aggressively get back at the four or so people who unfollowed me on tumblr the other day due to, I presume, a quote by Frank Turner that I reblogged the other day which criticised a former Beatle.  The mother-fucking Beatles!  How dare you, Frank Turner! That’s shocking.**

One twitter friend at least thought enough of me to send me to an article explaining in no less than 10 points why Frank Turner is a dick.  I don’t disagree.  But as I pointed out to my friend (who is still following me, by the way), that just because I blogged one quote doesn’t mean I necessarily have to or do subscribe to everything the man says.

Now that I’m done with that wee tangent…my point is, that we are all passive aggressive sometimes, even outwith the internet (my cats like to wreck the toilet roll while I watch, as a protest for being fed Go-Cat rather than their favourite Whiskas); I sometimes let the paper run out in the photocopier because I feel like I’m the only one who re-fills it.  That sort of thing.

On twitter though, it seems like everyone makes a comment in order to retaliate against someone else’s comments.  It’s pretty amusing if you’re watching from the sidelines and a little aggravating if you’re the target.  It’s almost as though there is a primal need to then passive aggressively tweet back.  Usually in all caps.  It’s like being in the schoolyard all over again, ‘Well, I  don’t try to be a teachers pet, unlike some people.’ [flick of the hair] [snarky look in the direction of the so-called 'teacher's pet']*

None of this is news; in fact, poets are some of the worst for it; Wordsworth vs. Milton;  Shakespeare vs Marlowe.  Let me tell you, there’s nothing like a little passive aggression in iambic pentameter.   In fact, we celebrate it; we study it; and we hold up these snarky couplets as a standard for good (read: great) poetry.  So, no wonder we do a little digging on social media nowadays.  Some of the best tweets/posts I’ve ever read have been a direct result of someone being a snide cow.  It invokes that ‘Oooooh, burn!’ response, and then we all quickly turn our heads to the target and see what clever little gem they’ll come up with in retaliation.

It’s a bloodsport; like Gladiators, but with words.

*optional

**[For the record, I don't think that people who say 'Imagine' is their favourite song are tasteless, I just think they're unimaginative.  It's probably due to the fact that when someone asks you what your favourite song is, you wistfully think back to only that morning, singing Britney Spears' 'Womanizer' in your dressing gown and you know you'll be ridiculed incessantly if you own up to it.  So the only song that seems like a reasonable response is 'Imagine'.  It's the coward's way out.  Yes, I am a coward, too.  But my go-to answer  to that question is usually to say 'Hallelujah' and then make a distinct and pointed follow-up statement: 'The Leonard Cohen version.'  just to make sure that my cool status goes unquestioned.]

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There was no ‘summer’ to speak of.  A few days dotted here and there where it would be almost warm enough not to wear a jacket, but only as long as you were in the sunshine.  Move over into that slightly shady area, and you might as well get out your earmuffs.  It was wretched.

And all I could think about was some scorching sunlight, sweating nonstop and even the risk of a sunburn.

Oh yes, I actually wished for a sunburn.

But no…after the mildest ‘summer’ that I’ve ever seen, which actually felt like autumn minus the colour reds and oranges, the actual autumn is finally here and I’m sitting at my desk with a space heater on full blast.  Who wouldn’t dream of sunshine right now?  Hmm?

My friend is off to Spain, and I’m practically seething with jealousy.  If the UKBA didn’t have my passport, I’d be off like a shot.  She’s going to some village not far from Ibiza, staying in a flat that some friend of her parents owns.  A budget holiday!  No ‘all-inclusive’ greasy buffet food for her!

Of course, it’s far enough away from the party island to get the peace and quiet but yet close enough with the car hire in Ibiza to delve into the flurry of tourist activity in that nest of party wild-childs.  She was telling me about her trip, when it was only a week away, and already flashing a nice base tan (probably from the sun beds), and that’s when I began to feel the all-too-familiar pangs of jealousy.  She’s gonna get to see the sun!  Oh!

I even started dreaming about clubbing, but let’s face it, I’m not a club type of girl…ok, maybe every once in a while, but actually am more likely to see the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, than I am to get all tarted up for a night out in heels that are so high you’d need a balancing stick that someone walking a tightrope might use.

But still, there I was, drifting off into space, my eyes glazing over as I imagined beautiful sunlight, sparkling off of an ocean horizon; surf, the coconut smell of tanning lotion, sunglasses…

And at that moment, as I stood on the pavement with my pal, in the busy west end of a dreary day in Glasgow, I was shaken awake by the sudden onslaught of rain pelting down as though it was out to kill.  We ducked under an awning of a nearby cafe and she turned to me and said, ‘I can’t wait to get out of here.’

I pushed my hair, matted from too much hairspray mixed with fresh, icy rain, out of my face and looked up at the sky of unending clouds and said hopefully, ‘Maybe we’ll get a few sunny days while you’re away.’

She gave me a look.  ’Don’t think so.  I think we’re stuck with winter now.’

My heart sank, and I trudged home with a useless broken umbrella shielding me only halfway from the rain, and my boots soaked, and lamented a time in July when the sun was supposed to shine but didn’t, and wondered why I’d ever moved here at all.

But then I remembered: I love it here.  And if anything, a week away in Spain might be nice, but it is always, always good to be home.

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We’ve all done it.  In fact, I maintain that I was practically born with my foot in my mouth.  I’m so used to embarrassing myself, (usually trying to make a joke) that I rarely even get embarrassed anymore.  It’s old hat. It’s such a ‘me’ thing to do.

Well, take that ‘foot in mouth’ gaff and turn it around.  Instead of insulting the person you’re talking to, imagine that you’re giving a compliment to that person, and therefore insulting everybody else.  Ooooh…that smarts.

I’ve done it.  I was telling my best friend, a singer, about another singer I heard the week before and said, ‘She’s got the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.’  My friend’s eyes narrowed, and a dark cloud passed over her face.  The second that offending sentence was out of my mouth, I knew I’d fucked up.  Shit shit shit.  I still feel that pang of ‘Goddammit, Lis’ when I think about it now.  This was years ago, but I’ve learned my lesson, I think (I hope!).  I haven’t done it to anyone since, and fingers crossed I won’t do it again.

I was on the receiving end of such an offending error not long ago.  A friend of mine said to another, ‘You’re the best [insert talent here] that I’ve ever seen!’.  And I stood there like, ‘What the fuck…?’  I mean, what in the actual fuck?!

I felt as though I had been slapped right in the face.

What he was trying to do was to give this other person a compliment, but what he really did was offend everyone else.  Including me.   I was then broken, suffered from chronic bouts of low self-esteem, and it took a long time for me to get back to [insert talent here].  It was a set back.  But one over which I had no control.

I’ve seen it again recently; that ‘compliment turned insult’ phenomenon.  Maybe people don’t realise they’re doing it, but honestly, think about what you’re saying.  Think about the consequences of making a remark like that.  You’ve gained one friend, and lost all the others.

You might as well go around, take people aside one by one and say, ‘You’re shit and horrible at what you do.’ because that’s the effect that a remark like that will have.  You think you’re doing something nice by giving a compliment, but really, you’re a dick.

I suppose that this means that even the lightest and selfless of deeds can be construed as wrong in the eyes of others.  But honestly, if you’re going to single out one person above all of the others, then all of the others are going to feel that knife churning and turning in their chests.  Maybe some won’t get over it.  Some will.  But that feeling, which goes well beyond jealousy and spirals down into the feeling of self-loathing and self-consciousness always sticks around.  It never goes away.  The same way that I feel that kick of shame at saying what I said to my friend; she will always feel a similar kick of the insult that I smacked her in the face with.

So, not all compliments are harmless.  They’re not all ‘Oh the world is beautiful, and so is everything in it’.  You might have given the gift of flattery to one, but you have driven a dagger into stomachs of everyone else.

Easy, tiger, with the compliments.

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~~~

Am I an outsider?

I don’t believe in ‘outside’ or ‘inside’.  I’ve always just been me.

In high school, of course there were cliques.  The standard-issue, often stereotypical groups: the popular crowd (cheerleaders, football players), the stoners (self-explanatory), the heavy metalists, with their long hair, rock band t-shirts and ragged jeans, the nerds, the band geeks, the drama kids (those crazy fuckers who would do just about anything to be centre of attention).

I was a member of none of these groups.  But that was because I was a member of all of them.  I’m not quite sure how that happened; I certainly didn’t plan it.  But I suppose it probably started when I accidentally auditioned for the drum line.  (My life is peppered with incidences of me walking into the wrong audition.  I have stories I’ll tell you another time.)

But I auditioned, without knowing exactly what it was I was auditioning for.  I was just told to stand next to this snare, hold these sticks and play what you see on the page there.  I swear, I had never in my life even touched a drum, much less played one.  But I made it.  Into the drumline.  The elite, as it were…

So, there I was about 3 months later, standing on the 50 yard line with a set of quad drums strapped to my chest, a crowd of about 200 people in the stands in front of me, and just as the drum major was about the blow the whistle, counting down the start time, I’m thinking to myself, ‘How in the fuck did I get here?’

Anyway…so I was a band geek.  But that was until I joined the flag line and pranced around on a game day in my little cheerleader skirt.

But going against all other predictions, I went on a date with one of the heavy metalists (he took me to a Def Leppard concert.  I was in love…and I proudly showed off my concert t-shirt the next day).

Already, in just a few months at the start of my sophomore year, I was indefinable.  I was everywhere, and nowhere.

So, I got a reputation as being in my own clique.  I did just about everything that interested me.  I wanted to know more, I wanted to learn more, so I volunteered to work on the school play, and ended up hanging out with the drama kids.  They were fun, if a little messy.

Out of the blue one day, I got asked to the Homecoming dance by the captain of the football team (a shock to everyone, including me)….suddenly I was hanging out with the ‘Popular’ crowd.

Posing on my dad's bike

Once, while walking to my car at lunch, I disrupted a nest of stoners hiding behind a pillar with their joints and pipes.  They sized me up.  I sized them up.  The staring contest was one of complete silence, and I had the feeling they were like a herd of scared deer.  A questioning stare, part defiant, part pleading.  ‘What are you going to do about it?  Who are you going to tell?’

And I just stood there, ignored their question with a question of my own: ‘I’m going to Taco Bell. You want anything?’

And so I returned not with just a burrito for myself; but a burrito and 20 soft tacos.  I had the stoners almost literally eating out of my hand.  They gave me a joint to smoke later; as thanks.

So, here I was…a member of every group; friends with just about everybody, and seriously not the kid you could put into any particular stereotype.  I was the girl who took pottery classes on a Tuesday night, went to ballet on a Wednesday, had karate on a Thursday and was on the field for half-time on a Friday.  I went to raves on a Saturday, after having a drumline competition in the morning, and slept all day on a Sunday.

I was everywhere. And everything.

I think about this now and I wonder where this came from.   Mom.

My mother, who went through some sort of bizarre empty nest syndrome when I up and moved to Glasgow, and who decided then that she would be in a motorcycle gang.  She bought a bike, learned how to ride it, and now my mother, who is pushing 60, is also pushing 60mph on her Yahama V-Star 1100, down a long highway, chasing the horizon in her leather jacket with the fringe down the sleeves.

She goes on long rides to South Dakota with her pals, and they camp here and there along the way.  She doesn’t drink or smoke, so while the rest of them are knocking back bourbons and bottles of beer, my mom is knitting.  She rides a bike, and then she knits.

She knitted some baby booties for a woman in their gang.  They had skulls on them.  No kidding.

It’s that ‘against the grain’ type of thinking that I learned from my mom.  There’s no reason to lob everyone into a group, or define anyone by who they hang out with.  You just have to be yourself.  Because, I’ll be honest here, if you’re trying to be something for somebody else, not only is it wholly unsatisfying, but it just makes you a hypocrite, and inevitably: unhappy.

Just do what you do.  If there is no ‘inside’ then how can you be an ‘outsider’?

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