Christmas bitching

 

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Spectrophobia

Or

Accessible Codes

A friend of mine made fashionable cloth facial coverings for the plague and was selling them on line; mentioning them on FaceBook, she said that they were available on line but if we were in the neighborhood we could pick them up less expensively. Cool, I thought, and tried messengering her back about info on where to pick them up. Picking up my cell I received the instructions: “Please sign into your FaceBook account, user name and password” Me: “Hell, I don’t know; I’ll do this later”.

Later I couldn’t remember where I saw the darn info on the FaceBook so I looked on Intsagram; didn’t find it there so I went to her Intsagram page to send her a message. I received similar admonitions precluding the preceding of my proceeding: “Sorry. That message is not sent. Please sign into Intsagram using your … username and password”.

Please enter your special pin number if you want to use your Debit card, pay a bill on line, get technical support for your computer, get a bank balance over the phone or log onto your web address. “Please punch in your Social Security number and pass code” Can’t remember your user name or password? “Reset by clicking here. Enter the email and phone number associated with this account and we’ll send you a one-time passcode of six numbers, enter them below to reset your password. Your new password should be 8-16 characters, at least one upper case and one or more symbols i.e: !#$%&*”.

Periodically, a seemingly innocent message is sent to my phone advising me to open an attachment sent by a ‘friend’ (“I think I saw you in this tell me what you think! Click here to open attachment”) open it and I’m hacked! I need to change all my passwords. Where do I start?

I have three bank accounts (savings, checking and credit card), I have two debit card numbers to remember; I have three email addresses, I have FaceBook, Intsagram, Paypal, Ebay, different websites that I purchase things from (yes, even that one). I have my cell phone password, a keypad front door, username and password to file for unemployment, contact my healthcare provider, open my laptop, check with my auto insurance company and check the status on my covid19 testings.

I log on to stream shows, I use three different remote control thingies for three different screens, I identify myself by license, passport, voter registration, I need to show my ID when I buy beer at Winn Dixie and enter and leave Cosco.

I punch a keypad at Walgreens, Petco, CVS, AutoZone and I’ve got to punch in my zip code when I buy gas. I never wanted this. Then there’s the keys.

I have two keys for my car, one each for front door, back door, side yard, back yard and I have the neighbor’s in case they lose theirs; instead of leading a simple life, I’m a frickkin’ hostage!

I foresee a possible future where I have a microchip imprinted in my left palm, a barcode tattooed on my right wrist, an MP3 implanted behind my right ear and my cell phone attached to my medulla oblongata; implanted behind my left breast nipple is an ALEXA-like device connected to my ocular lenses.

I’ll buy beer with the wave of my wrist and pump gas with abandon; ALEXA will make and break my appointments and direct my deposits and automatically withdraw my expenses all to the soundtrack of my life pumping into my cerebral cortex. The guesswork will be taken out of an exercise routine, I’ll learn to speak Italian and play the piano. Life will simply be a matter of whatever I wish, I’ll be free to evolve spiritually; “ALEXA, book a yoga class for me with my guru and a reservation for a vegan late lunch, block out some time for a nap and have a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape 2015 delivered. Oh, and remind me that the dog’s been promised a long walk this afternoon. Thank you.” Naturally ALEXA will answer “No problem Boss” ( Master, Biatch, Honey or whatever I might be calling myself that day).

I’ll get up in the morning and coffee will be made, the paper delivered and the thermostat set on a lovely seventy-eight degrees; the laundry service will have come and gone and I’ll be free to take my sketch pad to the park (with pup in tow) and capture nature as it’s intended, pausing just long enough to apply some sun block to my solar paneled bald head. If I’m approached by a friend ALEXA will remind me of their name and where I know them from. I’ll invite them for tea, we’ll wear tiaras. Oh, I will sing the body electronic.

The only challenge is that that would be too perfect. You see, objectively speaking, for every stress that I‘ve created there is a compensation and each compensation comes with a responsibility to accept or not. Some stress I create, others just come with the turf; that’s the beauty of it, that’s the gift of the Magi, the Christmas miracle. Life is what you make it or make of it. Within you, without you.

I have a friend that when confronted by another’s less than perfect condition (weakness) usually counters with cutting sarcasm, I’m sure if he reads this, he’ll make fun of my complaints and my complaining. It’s okay, I know his heart, we both listen to Tim Buckley. I’ll think of him when I edit, do a word count, go to my editor’s website, write a brief note, attach the article and push the ‘send’ button.

I’ll stop counting the ways I dwell on paying attention to annoying minor insignificant details in my life and focus on counting the blessings that I have with the people around me that have my user name and pass code: it’s simply: “Where y’at Phil!”

 

Tha Duchess

 

Po-Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Old Iron

Or

The Duchess

            The Duchess of Lincolnshire is twenty-four years old and has seen a lot in her few years; of course if you measured her in human years she would probably be as old as your new president. She is sleek, fast and cheap (much like myself); she’s at home in any neighborhood and gets waves and whistles as she passes by. She can cruise the hood or take to the road like a warrior; she’s thrifty on gas, her brakes are good and the tires are fair. She’s got 205,000 miles on her and she roars like a tiger when pressed; she’s got power under the hood and in her spirit; I wouldn’t trade her for a yard full of Jaguars.

            The Duchess came to us a few years ago after the demise of her predecessor, who was a few years her senior and had to be put to pasture as an organ donor. They both came from the same family, the Fords of Detroit. Her predecessor was simply named The Stinkin’ Lincoln and was retired at 253,000 miles because (much like myself) the engine ran like a teenager but the body was quickly falling to pieces. Both were/are four doors, power everything, boat like maneuverability and equipped with Mafia trunks that had/has a four body capacity.

            I come from a time of ‘Old Iron’. Cars that idled high and traveled well in which families comfortably took on long trips. Vehicles with names like Roadmaster, Bonneville and Couger; the Bel Aire, Coupe de Ville, Fairlane, Camaro, Monte Carlo,  Sting Ray and Impala; they were all made of heavy gauge metal and had speedometers that read up to 130+ and were not kidding!

            Well, that was then and this is now. A program called Cash for Clunkers took most of the old iron off the road and people started settling for smaller, more efficient, cramped, fiberglass and tin midgets that cannot be distinguished one from the other as far as I can tell.  I swear, sometimes I look at some of these pieces of miniature motorcars and think: “boy, you get hit in that thing and the next thing you’ll be driving is a pine box!”

            Here’s another one of ‘in my day’ stories: in my day people went out for ‘drives’; there were drive-in movies, diner and ice cream pull up and get served destinations; full service gas stations where they’d check your oil and tires (gratis); and open roads where you could sit back, guide the car with one hand completely relaxed in the driver’s seat while whoever was riding ‘shotgun’ could easily slouch with their feet out the window. Air conditioning was the rolling down of windows and vents; heat was a fan connected to the motor. Cars came in primary colors and were long enough to haul lumber. You could make your car into a pickup truck by sawing off the back half which gave manufacturers the idea for the El Camino and Ranchero, which you could close in to make a station wagon (another dinosaur).

            Those were the days of 501s, pomaded hair and unfiltered cigarettes, before seatbelts and motorcycle helmets. Dangerous days. They were also the days of kids with skinned knees and bruises from playing games now thought of as lethal. Days of playground equipment that could (and did) really put a hurt on you: seesaws, monkey bars, metal slides that could get really hot in the summer and those little merry go rounds that you’d have to run to get started and then hop on quick before you were jettisoned. Fun.

            So, you, now that you’re still hampered by the plague and you have only electronic devices to amuse, tutor and instruct you, here’s something that you can and might find fun in doing: call up a person of a certain age and ask what it was like when they only had dial up phones, played board and card games, jumped rope, threw jacks and played something called “Red Rover, Red Rover, let me cross over!” Ask what car they had. If you want to really start a conversation, ask what it cost to fill it up the tank.

            It’s a new year and you’re bored. I’m so sorry. Why don’t you take a drive to, say, Fairhope and back; throw some drinks in a cooler, pack a blanket, take old highway 90 and slow the heck down, stop at Dom Phong for sandwiches, cruise through the Rigolets and stay off the freeways and interstates. Or drive up to Memphis for some barbecue and take the Blues Trail (highway 61). See some country, crank up the tunes, hang your head out of the window, leave your cell phones in the trunk and talk to each other. Evacuate your mind. Drive to a beach, bring some egg salad sandwiches or stop at a Waffle House for a stack and a couple of over easys, put your feet in the sand, take the dog. Then come home and use your bike for the next week to assuage your ‘carbon footprint’ guilt.

            Every time I get behind the wheel of the Duchess I feel like taking a drive, hit the open road, put the pedal to the metal and drive it like I stole it. And here’s a little secret: I have a ’97 Lincoln Towncar that runs like a top and is as comfortable as a sofa; the mechanic gives it thumbs up with every visit, and you know what? She cost me less to purchase than six months payment on your new sissy car.

            So this New Year when you spy the Duchess, rollin’ smooth, easy (and loud) resolve to get some old iron in your life and, like me, live the dream; don’t just dream about living. Happy New Year!