On Hatred

If this were a high school essay, it would start: Random House Webster's College Dictionary (Newly Revised and Updated) defines Hatred as: "the feeling of one who hates; intense dislike or extreme aversion or hostility."
Hatred (the definition of which is much shorter than that of "hate," by the way) is something that seems to plague this civilization more and more. It stands in the way of communication and compromise. Hatred and meanspiritedness seem to flow from some sort of pride issue. One would rather be angry than to admit that the other guy might have a point.
As someone who thinks that hatred is tearing this world apart, I feel a certain shame at admitting a real hatred that I have. It is based on experience and frustration and personal contact, but that does not excuse it. I have tried to work with it and sooth it. I have been gentle and I have been tough. I now feel that it has broken my faith in basic goodness.
It must be obvious by now that I am talking about weedwackers. Or Weedeaters, or line trimmers, or whatever you call them. They hated me first, but that's no excuse.
I'm sorry. Please try to love your enemies; if you can't do that, at least try to be friends--maybe go have a drink. But you don't have to go any further than that.

The Self Involvement Begins to Gain Momentum--If Only the Content Would

As someone who has never even seen an MP3 hoozit,* all of this blogging (digression--I have been torn between the worlds of prescriptive and descriptive linguistics (this is not the imply that I have a firm grasp of the subject or anything--I know just enough to talk myself out of bar fights), so neo-verbs such as "blogging" leave me in a quandary. Though I am annoyed by these words ("interface" as a verb is another that jumps to mind), I also know that language is an evolving thing. I must accept that one day night will be spelled "nite" in places other than outside mud wrestling venues. It is pretentious and narrow to scoff at such things. Being narrow and pretentious myself, you can see the difficult situation this puts me in. Or the one in which it puts me----if you went to high school before the nineties (I hope to Jesus that they are not still teaching that old myth about prepositions)...okay which parentheses are we on?) stuff is pretty exciting. One feels an obligation to say something interesting and do it often.
One (told you I was pretentious) begins to see why the world is so full of so much misinformation and anger. It is awfully easy to say that certain world leaders, public figures, and neighbors with huge mutant dogs and Lynard Skynard fixations are engaging in activities that one finds loathsome. Or that they are having thoughts that the world should know I think are misguided. Rather than pissing and moaning or grinding our molars into dust, we can now sit down and let the world know of our mundane little stressors
And it also seems that the dreaded and bedraggled media have seen what the world looks at on their computer screens and attempted to keep up with it. Thus, though the amount of information continues to grow, the quality and focus begin to suffer. Actually, the amount of information--as defined by one as facts of relevance or real interest or use --does not grow; we are just hearing it more.
What does all this mean?
Not a hell of a lot.
Bugs and Fishes.

*Surely someone has already called his or her band this.