Rant 972

A picture is worth a thousand words.  Why, then, do so many images appear to be mis-matched with the underlying story and the personalities involved?

Today’s aggravation – a man is alleged to have done something wrong, and the imaging is about his family or his wife, as if they were somehow being held accountable for another’s choices.  For example:

Julie Chen.


(Note that the caption under her image doesn’t even give her credit for her own name).

Les Moonves.


(Note that he gets to keep his name as his image is tagged for blasting all over the internet).

But, to get back to our original topic…  Can we all see that they are different people?  That they are not interchangeable, even though they are married?

Different genders.

Different races.

Different ages.

Why then, ESPECIALLY in this day and age, does a story about an alleged philanderer show not a picture of the accused, but default to his wife?!!!


(While I am attaching a link to the article in question, I also attached a screenshot in the event that CNN realizes and corrects its wildly inappropriate imaging, whereby a man’s wife is used in imagery as a prop for her husband’s alleged infidelities.  Allegations that begin 20 years prior, long before wifey was even in the picture).


Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of the “stand by your man” school of life, whereby Bill and Hillary and the media so ably demonstrated since 1998 why it’s all Hillary’s fault that Billy, good ole Billy Boy, couldn’t keep his pants zipped.


The problem I have with the Moonves scandal is, however, that very much like Clinton’s Lewinsky affair, it’s clearly his wife’s fault… given the wide variety of hits on Julie Chen’s image when one types a search engine query seeking information on Moonves.

(Go ahead, I’ll wait while you type your own query into your favorite search engine).

When we talk about powerful people, the conversation is very different based on the gender of the person being ridiculed:


We also seem to see nothing wrong with implying the women in men’s lives are willing props to whatever the man desires:


Granted, many of the images of Ivanka show her in Daddy’s lap, a willing accomplice to his ego and the purient incest fantasies which seem to run rampant in Society’s lowest common denominator memes.  But, if the woman in question hadn’t worn garment X or posed in photo X, there would not be imaging to back up the tribal, conquering hero, droit de seigneur priviledge which still seems implicit and accepted across the board for all modes of communication regardless of the relevance of the imaging to the underlying story arc – infotainment has blended so seamlessly into current affairs where malicious gossip is mistaken for news.

Anyway, I had a point before this rant began.  Something about the erasing of an accomplished woman’s career due to scandals involving her husband, but I need to go wash out my brain.  Googling images based on a topic can be quite unsettling to my mental health…



Thanks to Sparks


Photo artwork by Marlyn Armstrong, author of:

Teepee12.com blog

Fellow blogger, SparksFromAcombustableMind, shared some of my posts today in a blog of her own, which lead me to a fellow New Englander, Marilyn Armstrong, who made me happy with her beautiful photography.  Yes, even the snow pictures !

Being a refugee from the snow, I picked her lovely Rockport, MA, sunset to share with you.

I recently had one of my favorite photographs made into a metal mounted 8×8 picture for hanging on the wall in my home.  When nature’s beauty speaks to you, you’re blessed.



With Credit to Ashe Vernon, who is – I believe – the original author.  I’m apologizing in advance for the violent imagery.  I kept it because it was accurate, even if I abhor the encouragement it sends subliminally to people struggling to cope with life.


“when they talk about the tortured genius, somebody always brings up van gogh— how he swallowed yellow paint because he wanted to put the sunshine inside himself. how his psychosis was probably the result of lead poisoning. they call him a miracle, but what i see is a man who was so sad, he found a beautiful way to kill himself.

they say, “it’s awful isn’t it?” they say, “it’s always the talented ones who go before their time.” and me, a nine year old kid who’s always been told they were so talented wonders when i am going to die.

we study them in school, the tortured artists. look at all the poets who killed themselves what would their work have been without their depression? it’s it beautiful, isn’t it sad? as if depression is a parlor trick— pull it out at parties, impress all your friends. as if depression isn’t seeing how long you can go between showers before somebody notices or pizza rolls for dinner three nights in a row and then nothing the night after, because going to the store is an impossibility that you have not yet gathered the courage to conquer.

it is the least beautiful thing i’ve ever seen and we call it the mark of an artist to stand in the center of an ocean and see nothing but desert. to be seated at a feast, but still swallowing sand.

depression is the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint, the yellow paint—

art is a coping mechanism. van gogh is good because when he had nothing, he had paint. when he was empty, he had paint. when the world was awful, he had paint. when he hated himself, he didn’t hate the paint. he whitewashed over his own masterpieces, because it was never about being famous, it was about doing the one thing that made sense when everything else didn’t.

and they say, “without his illness, we never would have gotten all—this.” because they value his art more than his sanity because god forbid you lead a happy life and leave nothing to remember you by.” — VINCENT, by Ashe Vernon






Who, me?

Not today.

Get up.

Show up.


Rinse and repeat.

There has to be more to life than this.

On bad days, though, there’s online gambling.


Life is what it is.

The insanity continues in the world, so I’m still on haitus.

This is my hiaitus haiku.




Hugs are toxic

At least to me.


via Daily Prompt: Toxic

I live in a senior park.  The last thing I expected when moving here was all the demands for time and attention.  And hugs.


I moved here for cheap rent and affordable housing in my “golden” years.  Who knew the park was going to be some crazy blend of High School, Summer Camp, and the lunatic asylum?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy enough here.  It’s easy to be happy when your expectations are minimal (be pleasant when passing by, don’t involve me in your drama, and keep moving if you must interrupt whatever it is I’m doing).

I’m not anti-people as a whole, I’m more anti-people as individuals.

With the friend’s dog in my house, though, I’m running into the neighbors more.  Especially B.


(The above is not B, but it’s close enough to her Baby Jane appearance to not make much difference).  B, for whatever reason, has glommed on to me.  It wasn’t enough that I was pleasant in passing; now she wants to add me to her life, and I’m not interested.

First off, I have manners so I can be pleasant to anyone.  I was raised in a civilized household, so I can smile and wave brightly to anyone demanding my attention, even when my natural impulses are telling me to run in the opposite direction.

B’s incessant demands for attention any time she leaves her yard (or, I pass by her space) have me regularly heading in the opposite direction in the hope that I won’t draw her focus.

If it’s not questions about my spiritual enlightenment (I’m not a believer, thanks, and – no – I don’t want to hear how Jesus Christ is your personal savior), it’s nosy questions about everything and anything that is none of her business, all wrapped up in the, “I’m a harmless old woman with mental health and depression challenges – be nice to me!” persona.

No.  Just no.

You’re allowed to be crazy and I’m allowed to refuse to play your victim games.  It’s not personal; it’s self-care to refuse to be sucked into your drama filled stratosphere.

B already has 1-5 ladies of the grief committee (yes, that’s a real group around here) involved in her suffering; she doesn’t need my audience participation beyond a breezy “hi” or a cheeful and brief “morning” as I pass by.

For whatever reason, B decided that Easter Sunday / April Fools would be all about her and her widowhood.  Her husband passed away a year ago in April, on the 19th, I believe, yet she chose a major holiday to remind folks she’d be all alone, and to embellish it with a memorial service.  (Hey, she’s got 8 kids, their spouses and grandkids – it’s not being a mean girl when they’ve already abandonded ship, too).

So, nope.  I’m just not that nice.  I’m busy.  I will always be busy when it comes to avoiding drama.

Anyway, B was walking through the park with her two yippy dogs, one of the grief committee women by her side.  S (the grief committee woman, who just lost her husband in January) finds comfort in filling up her spare hours tending to strangers.  So not my gig.  Anyway… B and S are standing outside my home as I’m coming back from an evening walk, and the challenges start over my status as a non-religious person.

”Well, didn’t your mother take you to church as a girl?  Don’t you worry about your immortal soul?”  (Great, she’s got an audience.  This isn’t going to be pretty).

”B, we’ve talked about this.  I was raised Roman Catholic, with Jewish and Protestant and Buddhist believers in my family, but that early training doesn’t mean I have to go through the motions as an adult if I don’t have the same feelings of faith.” I replied patiently, knowing she was showing off a Heathen for our audience of S.

”Well, I know Jesus loves you, sweet girl.  Give me a hug!”


Eek !

No, just not going there.  Hugs are toxic, at least in my book.



Daily Prompt: Inefficient


via Daily Prompt: Inefficient

I am now covered by Medicare, after 2 years of being on disability.  Of course, they start this mid-year, after I’ve already been working to meet my deductible for 2018 ($13,000 under 3 different categories.  I call that “coverage refusal roulette” for the uninformed).

My favorite bit of inefficiency today was to receive two (2) letters on the insurance company’s coverage portal, and only be permitted to reply to one (1).  Inefficiency at its most obvious.


My favorite part of this whole thing was having to try and educate the insurance company that my employer has over 100,000 employees and they are not allowed to make themselves secondary in terms of coverage behind Medicare.

I hate fighting over insurance issues.  What’s the point of having insurance “just in case” when they refuse to cover anything?  I guess that’s the height of inefficiency.  Believing that coverage might actually work.