A few weeks ago, the New York Times published a long piece about an awful socialite nobody’s ever heard of and called her “The New Queen of L.A.” One of the descriptive terms applied to her that I enjoyed was:  Ms. Staudinger is a voracious content consumer.

In the same conversation, she’ll recommend a documentary on music in 1971, a book on Los Angeles in 1974 and a TikTok she saw about brain vibrations.

Whoever she is, there were 650 comments complaining about her lack of appeal and importance. But I now refer to myself as a voracious content consumer, because I can’t stop trying to consume “content” in the hope that I will become a better person once I know everything about everything.

This compulsive consumption takes up nearly all my waking hours. I subscribe to fifty thousand newsletters covering politics, art, pop culture, psychology, books, even one from a Christian Ministry for its philosophical essays. I have to read all of them or at least scan them. I get the NYT online, and I have to read all the breaking news, then I have to decide which features to read: the Op-Eds, the heartbreaking human interest pieces, the latest celebrity-adjacent suicide, the film reviews, the health tips, the latest tech, the bemused shit about Those Kids and Their TikTok, and more. Basically, everything but sports. Thank god I hate sports.

Then I have to open all the email from shopping sites that promise to help me look like a French It-Girl. Then I have to scroll through Instagram before googling Pete Davidson.

I still worry that I’m missing  something important. It makes me anxious. But I haven’t been able to stop or even cut back in this stupid endeavor. My brain is filled with information that I don’t have time to process or make use of.

And it stops me from writing! I can’t tell if the stuff I’m dwelling on is interesting to anyone but me. And I don’t want to regurgitate the accepted wisdom of the day. Because we live in “an Attention Economy” according to a billion think-pieces.

Here’s what is foremost in my mind though:

How long will Donald Trump be tormenting us with his existence?
Why won’t Gym Jordan wear a jacket?
Are they kidding about Hunter Biden’s fucking laptop?
Why does Elon Musk want the whole world to hate him?
Is Morpheus8 better than Softwave?
Is silicone really that bad for your hair?
Why aren’t religious people concerned about who made god?
Why did Jane Aldridge marry that creepy gay guy?
Why do we take antidepressants when they’re only slightly more effective than placebos?
Why do people now say “If I’m being honest” instead of “to be honest” ?
Why is everybody writing about the crisis facing men and boys?*
Can we value any experience without documenting it?
Why can’t we explain the persistence of antisemitism?*
Why are people still impressed by luxury brands?
What happens when young people aspire to be Influencers instead of astronauts?
Why can’t we ever get enough of Jeffrey Dahmer?

* I plan to write about these topics because they continue to fascinate me, as soon as I stop voraciously consuming more content. Do you think I should bother? Let me know.

Meanwhile, I’m compiling a file of all-new stupendously egregious denim! Stand by for that too.

We were watching a true crime drama about a gullible family who let a pedophile into their midst like inviting a fox to a hen-house, and my husband was exasperated. “Oh please, no one is that stupid,” he complained. I started to defend the family, saying that ultra-religious people in a small town might actually be that naive. Privately, I wondered if he was right; maybe the story was exaggerated for dramatic effect.

Later, we watched part 2 of The Vow, a documentary series about a cult whose leader made women get branded. The members of the cult were people with money, relatively sophisticated people with jobs in Hollywood or tech or marketing. I couldn’t believe how stupid they were to buy into this guy’s shit, when he is so clearly a manipulative little conman.

The next day, I read something about Trump supporters and then it hit me: People are SO FUCKING STUPID! I mean, the level and scope of stupidity all around us is just staggering.

Were people always this stupid? Did they just hide it better? Are we so desperate for a guru or daddy or deity to guide us that we’ll surrender all logic and critical thinking?

I’m at the point where if someone doesn’t despise Donald Trump, I don’t want to waste time on them. They’re too stupid. Recently, two acquaintances have explained to me that they don’t really hate Trump because “They’re all the same.” They elaborated by stating that all politicians are corrupt, blah blah blah. So they’re telling me that a cold is like Ebola? Where is the sense of proportion or discernment?

It’s not a Tribal thing; it’s not that I only like people with my politics or opinions. It’s just the stupidity. Make it stop!

I have started following the Kanye West debacle, because as in most debacles, it’s hard to look away. Actually, in this case I am constantly refreshing my google to see if I missed anything. I know you’re thinking, Ha ha, look how stupid YOU are! But I will only admit to an immature fascination with spectacle. And crazy people.

I am pleased to say that now even Anna Wintour is done with him. Today, he said that denouncing him only proves his point about Jews controlling everything, an old antisemitic canard he has evidently stumbled upon in his mania.

I am so fascinated by Kanye’s meltdown that I’ve started following an account on Instagram that covers everything he says or does. I’ve seen all the video clips that were edited out of his recent interviews, and he is one angry dude operating on some kind of messianic delusion, burning all his bridges as fast as he can.

The real stupidity here lies in the comments from his fans. The more antisemitic and aggrieved he is, the fiercer is their support. He speaks the truth! He’s the only one brave enough to call it out! Watch out, the Jews gonna kill him! Every millionth comment, someone will express  dismay. I praised one of these people for trying to explain antisemitism, and I received this reaction: “You’re an OLD cat lady who will die alone!” (LOL, I hate cats.)  She turned out to be a white lady who keeps showing her pregnant belly and her flock of Aryan looking kids. At least she’s open minded enough to stick up for a deranged Rap icon.

Drowning in stupidity, I have turned to Middlemarch, which I read as an 18 year old stoner. It was great then but even better now, because I’m more appreciative of the narrator’s stinging wit. Thank god I can still read, when I’m not watching crime TV or scrolling on my phone. Mostly, I am trying to navigate through the daily ennui of being an old cat lady who will die alone, so writing this has been cathartic.

How are you surviving the stupidity? Confessions or helpful hints? Let’s hear from you!

When I think about the internet and how it has distorted the reality of day to day life, first I think about social media. Nothing matters unless it can be documented, or liked. Every  few hours, a gigantic wave of rage erupts on Twitter, all aimed at someone who crossed an invisible line with a thoughtless comment, or maybe an R. Kelly type figure who serves as a scapegoat for all the seething self-hatred that can never be examined or depleted, since it regenerates with every moment of inaction toward Facebook for selling your personal data and reminding you what you posted last year.

Next I think of all the time it has robbed from me, time I could spend doing anything offline, like clean the house or engage with a person face to face, not to mention generate my own thoughts. In the last two days, I have learned about Swedish preschools, rehab statistics, Japanese phonemes, Tucker Carlson’s misogyny, maternal infection and autism, restaurants that accommodate fat people, and the challenges faced by Uniqlo. This is just a small fraction of what I’ve consumed while sitting anxiously at my computer, wondering how I can find out everything about everything before it’s too late.

Do you do this? Maybe you don’t have the time, or if you do, you use it more constructively. Me, I don’t know how to discern what’s useful or important from garbage. I’m trying to resist the temptation to click on the worst crime stories, with some encouraging results. I did read about the little girl stuffed in a suitcase, and I read the comments on the mother’s fb page, calling her a piece of shit, etc. I already know not to click on the secrets of productive people or the truth about diets. That’s just instinctive knowledge. I’m not an idiot, after all. I’m just a person who has forgotten how to be present in my own life.

With all my desperate hunting and pecking online, I would have missed something noteworthy if it hadn’t been forwarded to me: the harrowing writing of Patricia Lockwood, who describes her own descent into internet lunacy, and it is terrifying. I don’t want to end up too immersed in online culture to find my way out. I’m not sure if there’s an antidote to the damage it’s done to my attention span and short-term memory.

Maybe blogging isn’t really writing or communicating. I’m not sure. I need to think it over.

Thoughts, anyone?

Let’s take a break from the Donald and turn our attention to his glamorous wife, Frau Trump.

If you missed Greta Von Susteren‘s probing interview with Melania Trump, you’re in for a treat! From the moment Greta asks if it’s true she speaks several languages, and Melania confirms this fiction in broken English, it is pure fawning bullshit.

The more I get to know Melania, the more I feel compelled to adopt her heavy accent and delivery, which is like Zsa Zsa Gabor after a lobotomy. Once I start channeling her, it’s hard to let it go.

When Greta asks her if she’s okay with the nasty fight between her husband and Hillary Clinton, Melania says smugly,

Eetz chust beezinuss.

What a perfect wife for Donald Trump! A steely heartless moron who sold her Slovenian soul for a hideous penthouse and some Louboutin heels.

How many dicks did she suck to make it to the top of her third-rate modeling career and get invited to a party where men like Trump could ogle her? I say this with all due respect.

I have already written about Melania for my day job here, here and here, but I just can’t quit her. I am fascinated by her transformation, and by her self-satisfaction. Like her husband, she feels entitled to everything the world has to offer, including the White House.

And like her husband, she has no idea of how stupid she is, which I find incredible. Why doesn’t she know? Someone needs to sit her down and explain.

And you know what, her antisemitism is icing on the cake. Please enjoy her while you can.

Death Cafe is sort of a coffee klatch for would-be coroners. At present, it’s more of a movement than a physical space, with pop-up Death Cafe’s in 31 countries.

Here’s how Death Cafe defines itself:

At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’

How nice! Because, who doesn’t like death? You can never have enough death, evidently. But here’s what Death Cafe isn’t:

It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.

It’s not a spelling class either, but that’s okay. What isn’t okay for me is the concept of death as something cool because, you know, it’s so dark and transgressive. It’s like one big memento mori festival, full of arty skull motifs and and Victorian post-mortem photos.

Death Cafe is a ‘social franchise’. This means that people who sign up to our guide and principles can use the name Death Cafe, post events to this website and talk to the press as an affiliate of Death Cafe.

Yay, we can all host a Death Cafe if we follow the guidelines. I like this one: The main qualities of a host are enthusiasm for talking about death and dying and high ethical standards. That rules me out, since I have ethics but no enthusiasm.

I’m aware that a fetishistic interest in morbid things has long been a feature of hipsterism.  Taxidermy, Day of the Dead artifacts, the Morbid Anatomy Museum, zombies, all those tumblr pictures of dead girls in bathtubs. I get that it seems cool to embrace the taboo.

But this Death Cafe thing, no. A big No.

What a bunch of fatuous fuckers.

Cat Cafes, fine. *Baby Cafes, even better (*as soon as I get the idea off the ground. Contact me if you want to fund my business plan!)

Death is a drag and there’s already so much of it. It isn’t really cute. Let’s not trivialize it.

Tonight we watched what my husband and I call ‘Our Sunday Shows.’

We’re like decrepit retiree’s, with nothing more exciting to do at night than watch TV. I can’t remember what young people do at night.

Anyway, Sunday night is packed with Cable series that are always ending or beginning a new season. One show will have its season finale, leaving me feeling anxious and abandoned, but another one will start up. Mostly they’re crap but we watch them faithfully.

Tonight we watched True Detective, Ray Donovan, and Ballers, all stupid and disappointing, but we’ll be back for more next Sunday. Despite the stupidity of these particular shows, we feel we have standards. I will never, and I mean never, watch Game of Thrones. I know in my heart that I don’t want to see dragons or women on horseback yelling at their armies.

Likewise, I didn’t watch Madmen because I can’t stand that guy’s face and I’m not interested in advertising or period irony.

True Detective was so magnificent last year! This year, it’s a big mess that’s hard to follow and doesn’t make sense anyway. No one can act, the dialogue is lame and stilted, and the Chinatown aspects are forced and idiotic. Plus, I miss every other line of dialogue because no one will fucking enunciate.

Ray Donovan is a truly terrible show but I’ve come to appreciate how bad it is. The best part is how Liev Scheiber refuses to make a facial expression. All the characters are repellent and all the accents are laughably inept.

Ballers is new but it seems promising in the stupid department. There’s a lot of male posturing and a lot of girls in bikinis, since it’s a Mark Wahlberg production. But it stars The Rock, who is always compellingly strange: Is he black or Mexican or Asian? Why is his head so small that he looks like a dinosaur? Is he gay or what? What is the source of his obscure charm?

During the week, we try to find things on Netflix that might actually be good but it’s hit and miss. If nothing is on, we are happy to play with our computers or read.

But Sunday night is special because Our Shows are on, and we hate to miss a single unintelligible moment.

What shows do you guys like to watch?

Facebook has responded to a petition by eliminating the status option of ‘feeling fat.’

If only I’d known about this option! And now it’s gone, thanks to political correctness.

The Change.org petition said this:

Did you know that Facebook lets you tell all your friends just how much you hate your body?

Uh-oh, body hatred! Make it stop!

And this:

Having these word choices completely normalizes using derogatory descriptive terms in the place of real feelings. How can a person feel ‘fat’ or ‘ugly’ when these aren’t actually feelings?” …What’s worse is that these adjectives are judgmental and forced on us by society to make women (and increasingly men) feel negatively about their otherwise healthy bodies!

Well, Facebook is sorry and never again will it allow us to fat-shame our own selves. Here’s the Facebook statement:

We’ve heard from our community that listing “feeling fat” as an option for status updates could reinforce negative body image, particularly for people struggling with eating disorders. So we’re going to remove “feeling fat” from the list of options. We’ll continue to listen to feedback as we think about ways to help people express themselves on Facebook.

I’m going to call bullshit on this and I don’t expect a single person to agree with me. But still, this is a disturbing trend. It’s not good to censor feelings, and fat is indeed a feeling, no matter what any petition says.

I feel fat RIGHT NOW. I’m not actually fat but I feel fat. I also feel guilty much of the time. I feel depressed most days and often angry, too. Naming these feelings  actually makes me  feel better. I know that I don’t need to live in denial, that self-expression is healthy and liberating.

Positivity is nice but shouldn’t be enforced by word police. Fat-shaming is a big deal at the moment but it’s a made-up problem created by scolds, overly sensitive crybabies who think Everyone Is Beautiful even though we’re not all beautiful.

At the same time experts are urging people to talk about mental illness to dispel the stigma, Facebook is now telling us we can’t confess to feeling fat.

Fuckers. Fascists. Fat-phobic fascist fuckers.

P.S. You can’t ‘feel ugly’ anymore on Facebook, either. Because, I don’t know, it’s mean to people struggling with ugliness issues.

“Stupidity is the devil. Look in the eye of a chicken and you’ll know. It’s the most horrifying, cannibalistic, and nightmarish creature in this world.”   ~Werner Herzog

Many years ago, I was sitting in my car, waiting to make a right turn. A disheveled man on a bicycle came toward me, and I could see in the distance that he was yelling. As he rode past my car, I saw that he was literally foaming at the mouth. “I hate niggers!” he screamed, spitting some foam.

I have never forgotten this incident. The image is embedded in my brain. It’s hard to describe how it made me feel. It shook me to the core. It was an encounter with fierce, virulent stupidity. It was like staring into the eye of a murderous chicken.

Yesterday, I was confronted again by that chicken, and it was horrifying. I thought we all agreed on basic laws of human decency. How could I forget that frothing bigot?

I don’t believe in censorship but I am against “hate speech.” I love a rousing debate or an exchange of ideas, but I’m not a martyr. I don’t mind insults, even nasty ones, but I’m not here to soak up the free-floating rage of the mentally unhinged. Who would ever think that mocking a spoiled rich kid would invoke an avalanche of crazed taunts about my worthlessness as a human being?

This reign of terror was launched on facebook by a self-avowed friend of the Aldridge women. This friend can’t stop firing off comments along the lines of   “You have sand in your cunt LOL LOL, come shop at my store any time!” Today, she’s still at it. Karen Aldridge has been firing off her own brand of histrionic garbage.

I admit that these women scare me. I haven’t been exposed to this level of vindictiveness or indecency.   It reminds me of prison stories where the inmates are reduced to throwing their own feces to express themselves. It’s not okay. I would like the good citizens of Texas to get back to whatever they were doing, and to let the Aldridge women fight their own war of words with me.

I did say that Jane’s face is fat. However, it does not rate as an attack worthy of the ones I received last night, to the tune of: “I sucked your son’s cock in hell!” and “I’m glad your kid died.”

Stupidity is a funny thing. At one level, it can be amusing. Max loved to watch Sean Hannity on Fox News during the last presidential election. He chuckled each time Hannity pretended to be making a point. Personally, I love the New York Housewives for good basic stupidity.

But the stupidity of these pro-Aldridge people is another matter. It is the devil. And I’m not letting the devil have his say here. I will publish any and all comments that respect my right not to be taunted about my private parts or the loss of my precious child.

That shouldn’t be too hard, right, chickens? For those people complaining that it used to be more fun here, I can only say, No shit, Sherlock.   But we’ll still have fun again. I will, anyway.

Please forgive me Jesus, I can’t stop myself without Your help!

First, I was upset to see these $595 boots ( or rather, “kicks”) that have gotten so much press. Why does this poor girl need to spend so much on, let me quote here, “…my first piece of Alex Wang.”   “Alex??” Is that like someone buying the knock-off version by “Jeff” Campbell?

But then I am referred to an online magazine where the girl is featured in an interview and replying to the question, “What was the last thing you’ve bought?” the poor girl answers:

“A crew neck t-shirt from Obesity and Speed with ‘Choose Death’ printed on it. Can’t go wrong with that!”

Aaaah. Help me, help me, Jesus. Give me the courage, the wisdom, the serenity prayer, anything. The brand names, the goth cluelessness, no no no, take it away. Or help the poor girl to wise up.