Yesterday,

over coffee,

a friend and I got into a discussion of

ta da-

the Id.

Well actually,

it started with the ides,

as in-

quick, stab me, I’ve got one of those classes-

went through a progression of bad puns-

ide-ology,

ide-olotry

ide- rather be in Kansas,

progressed through a series of discussions on frogs

and Roman paganism,

linked them all to the id,

and ended up with Melanie Safka

“a steak’s a phallic symbol if it’s longer than it’s wide,”

(as the id goes marching on.)

Yeah, I know,

but it’s one of those songs that’s an endless source of fun,

especially when sung in a squeaky “Bridget The Midget” voice,

with a soup spoon as a microphone.

Did I mention this person is part of a college teachers’ group-

yeah, it does make a difference-

and that the problem at the moment here is the id-

ie

“the kids are alright,”

but,

the more the technological

and plastic

values

move into our society,

the more push meets shove,

the more the id,

squished at one end like a water balloon,

says Freud,

will splash out somewhere else.

Violence after elections,

people yelling at each other all over the internet…

and what really stands behind it?

My Dad was a journalist.

A photo journalist, actually.

And one of the finest.

He taught at a university,

journalism,

and insisted,

with vehemence,

that a course in ethics be included.

I know of no school in California,

or Illinois,

or anywhere else in the states, for that matter,

that offers such a course any more.

Maybe I’m wrong.

I hope so.

The point being,

journalists used to fairly report both sides of a situation.

It was the basis of their being.

A sort of holy grail.

Then came Woodward and Bernstein.

And the first investigative reporters.

And those who wished to be.

Or, unfortunately,

thought they were.

There was the time, for example,

when my Dad had to call the mayor of our little town,

and profusely apologize for the fact that

two idiots he tried to  train:

had not taken no for an answer,

and forced their way into the office

of a supposedly absent mayor,

to take a picture of him on the toilet seat.

Yes, seriously.

And what they thought they were doing was anybody’s guess.

But in the end,

they had to make an appointment,

march down there again,

wait an hour,

present the negatives, and apologize…

Today,

no matter what your political beliefs,

(and please, I’m not ignoring some very serious problems in society that have to be

handled,)

with the press taking umbrage at the fact that someone actually went to dinner without

them,

we are in for a long ride,

in my opinion.

What exactly is wrong with people,

press, or press related,

that they think they have the right to control others?

Or to know every ridiculous little detail of our lives,

no matter how trivial?

My “personal stalker,”

as this idiot likes to call him/her/self,

has released ugly little inuendos about my health,

nothing wrong there, guys.

Strong as a horse,

and still working.

And the best is,

the work is something so positive,

so strengthening,

it is good in all ways.

And that makes me so happy

I don’t have to try to control others

without their permission,

or make everyone understand how terribly old,

sick,

and worthless they really are

so we can be friends.

LOL-

So far the toll is:

A friend’s health has been exposed,

my google history is being commented on at a blog page where I used to write-

what do you think you will find?

That I don’t buy much, but am curious about God and the world,

and often cruise the net for ideas for a column,

or for the goldsmithing course I am taking

so I can make something personal for a nephew for his wedding without spending an arm

and a leg?

(I was actually at the point, at one moment,

where I thought it would be fun to google mixed articles:

coal, bananas, natural lava saunas, dogfood, chakra points,

then I thought,

why not get really creative,

and google things that are all harmless,

but can be combined into menacing objects-

that thought lasted about three seconds-

you never know who is going to read it, and get on board,

in your name.)

One of the nicest things I have heard in a while,

just to get back to what, in my opinion,

we should be doing with our time on this planet,

is the hashtag living rocks thing on NCIS-

yes, I admit it-

I am a big fan.

And I really really like the idea of telling someone,

while they are still alive,

just how much you think of them.

So…

Family, you have come a very long and very very hard way in the last five years.

And I am proud of you all.

And love you dearly.

Hubby…

you DO put up with a lot, don’t you?

And you always try to do the best.

And laugh at all my jokes.

Love doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I have friends from kindergarten time to now.

Every few years one true, honest, loyal, special one.

You each mark a time in my life.

And a special relationship I had to you.

And a time I go back to when I see you, no matter how much you have changed.

These are the ones that you call,

in the middle of a tornado,

with rain falling and wind howling,

or in one case,

sending her husband in a cub piper to pick us up

since she was pregnant in the ninth month.

(He’s a pilot at a small airport)

And you would do the same for them.

Then there are the dear friends from each of the many places I have lived.

And the many weird jobs I have done.

Ditto.

These are the good people in life.

People of strong values

and strong beliefs,

not always mine,

who can tell you their feelings

without criticizing yours.

They don’t attack,

they don’t whinge,

they don’t whine,

the just do.

And then there are the good people,

who are old, sometimes old old friends,

who  are doing bad,

and injuring you,

for reasons beyond their control.

I’ll just put it on hold for a while and let God sort it out.

Which He will do.

No matter how the id marches.

Why not rock a friend today ?

copyright Dunnasead.co 2016

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