Greg Proffit Writing

Tag: humor

  • Try Not To Learn Anything New Today — It’s Harder Than It Looks

    Try Not To Learn Anything New Today — It’s Harder Than It Looks

    How I imagine my mind. (How’d that girl with the vinyl backpack get in here?) Photo by Darwin Vegher on Unsplash

    # 18  on my 99 Life Tips–A List is: ”Try to learn something new every day,” is often included on lists like this. Instead, try not to. By trying not to, you’ll become aware of how much you learn everyday without even trying, you just have to be awake enough to catch it.

    I enjoy “life-tips” lists. Invariably, they advise us to try to learn something new each day. I read those words and hear Yoda in my head, “There is no Try! There is only Do or Do Not!”

    Still, my tip condenses to this: Try not to learn anything new today. I’m a professional non-conformist. I’m not plagiarizing that usual worn-out tip. Instead, we’ll try the opposite.

    I’m sure I must have let some days pass without learning anything new. The likelihood of that seems like a reasonable assumption given a span of some 15K days. But I’d be stunned if I’ve failed to learn something in more than 1% of them. The other 99% of the time, new facts and information falls on me, follows me home, and piles up.

    If you’re awake, you learn without trying. If. You’re. Awake.

    I’m not going all woo-woo metaphysical here. You don’t have to be the Dalai Lama, or Buddha himself. You’ll learn stuff if you remain just reasonably alert and half sober.

    But, I’m contradicting my tip, which is to dis-courage your attempts to learn. Here, I’ll put it in bold letters. 

    You’re supposed to try NOT to learn

    A confession. This is the only rhetorically facetious tip of the entire 99 on my list. How’s that for some purple adjectives? (ProWritingAid and Grammarly are gonna love that). And it is the only one I don’t practice regularly. In fact, I’ve never practiced this one at all. I’ve never made the active effort not to learn something for even one day. 

    And see, I just proved the point of my tip. You just learned several things in that one paragraph without trying. You learned some things about me. And you gained the bonus knowledge that even pro writing software doesn’t have a sarcasm or satire mode. See?

    Comic Relief

    I’m curious about all kinds of things. One of my favorite comics of all times is a scene in a doctor’s office. In the office, we  see a serious looking doctor wearing a lab coat, stethoscope draped around his neck. He is peering intently at a chart and and standing beside his patient, who is seated on the exam table. The patient is a worried looking cat, brow knit with anxiety. Tension is etched on both faces. The doctor speaks, “I’m afraid it’s curiosity.”

    Cute, huh? I’m curious to know. I’ve got a motor to learn. I’ve got more questions than answers  and the more answers I get the more questions they breed.

    As a writer, I’ve heard of an affliction called writer’s block in which the writer is stuck and has nothing to write about. It’s hard to imagine. That must be the same feeling as having nothing to live about. I have way more ideas than time. Way more time than talent. 

    Most likely, I’ll just keep on learning and letting ideas and information pile up in my mind where all the rooms look like an episode of Hoarders. See, my advice is not for everybody. It just won’t work for me. 

    But your mileage may vary. So, you go ahead and try not to learn anything new today. Feel free to return and comment below with all the ways your efforts failed. Other readers may learn something. Oh, shoot!

  • The Virus Hi-Jacked My Brain: Fear & Loathing In The Land Of Covid–or, How to Become A Zombie in One Small Step

    Sage advice, from Hunter S. Thompson, one of the best

    So, the Feel Like A Stranger portion of the Covid Trip began last night when the virus hi-jacked my brain.

    In a matter of moments, I went from savoring a couple tablespoons of Jalapeño Pimento cheese, to not being able to smell Vick’s Vap-O-Rub. At. All. Recognizing this, I popped a Goldfish cracker in my mouth, and damn if taste hadn’t bounced too. They just ran off together.

    ”So what?” you may ask. Well, here’s what: I still have both a tongue and a nose; so, it’s safe to assume all my olfactory equipment is still in place. Yet, even with the physical pieces still there, the big interpreter between my ears is AWOL. 

    You don’t smell with your nose, or taste with your tongue. You smell  and taste with your brain. And this Covid virus hi-jacked my brain.

    It’s not just smell and taste that are on the fritz

    This morning, I’m f o g g g g y y y . I mean noticeably – s l o o o o w. The virus is affecting my brain, and I know it.  Knowing it is a curse; the curse of knowing too much, because, I cannot simply retreat into a pleasant cocoon of blissful ignorance.

    It’s possible some of my fog is self-induced, because fear and stress definitely impair cognitive function. But look, I’ve had self-induced paranoia before, and plenty of stress, but these have never impeded my sense of taste, or smell. And…in the absence of congested sinuses, neither has a common cold. You?

    Because of all this, I’m freaked in the way you freak when the acid kicks in, and it gets a little too weird, and you have those first indications that someone else is in the control room pulling the levers and fiddling with the reception; and if it gets too strange, you have that horrifying question in back of everything, ”What have I done this time, will I ever be right again?” You feel like a stranger in your own head. And you are. Like I am.

    This morning, there’s no good answer to the question, ”Will I ever be right again?”

    Covid has hi-jacked my brain, or kidnapped it, or whatever, and I don’t know what the ransom might be. But, I’d sure as hell pay it. There are no reliable estimates for how long people go without smell and taste. It varies. For that unknown amount of time, a virus is running amok in that portion of your brain…at least.

    So yeah, I’m afraid now. Fear and Loathing in the Land of Covid. Talk about the going getting weird…Sheesh!

    Anything that can burrow into my brain and shut down the command-control for smell and taste could be doing God knows what else(!) in there. Which means anyone who is not a practicing neurophysiologist (with large side of biochemistry) can save the, ”you know this is nothing to be afraid of,” crap. That statement belongs in the large plastic bin of Unknowns. 

    Can I get the old me back please?

    What I do know, is that the Greg sitting here typing this morning, isn’t the same Greg that was sitting here typing yesterday.

    For now, He’s Gone. This stranger, sitting in his seat, is w-a-a-a-y-y slower-on-the-draw mentally. I suppose I’ll get used to having to actually think my way through my morning coffee ritual, but I sure don’t relish having to stop every few minutes with my jaw agape, searching for the right word to plug into a sentence. I’m not used to conjuring words. In fact, they usually appear to my mind effortlessly, at the speed of legal-speak in a bad commercial. I’m used to suppressing them and weeding them out. So, I sure don’t like this… faltering… hesitant… impairment!

    More great advice from a true American hero

    I’d compare it to that eerily similar, artificially-self-aware-deliberateness you affect when you’re half-drunk and trying your hardest not to slur. Which is closely related to that feeling of “should I drive or not?” Maybe after a few too many drinks? A toss-up question, because you probably could, but on the other hand, you also probably shouldn’t. You know that feeling? With uncanny similarity, I’ve got the very weird, very real feeling that maybe I shouldn’t. I mean, I could…Yeah, I’m pretty sure I could. But I would be Driver’s Ed me; thinking of every. single. thing.

    It’s unnerving to be stone sober at 9 a.m., and yet, I’m uncertain about whether I should drive to the office to get a check, then on to the bank to deposit it. On one hand, it’s only an eight minute drive which I’ve done thousand times. On the other hand, I’ve never attempted it with steel wool buffing my thoughts and a foot gently pressing down on the back of my head. And finally, never with a virus hi-jacked brain, ya know? Especially one that makes me feel like maybe I’m leaning slightly to the right.

    The unpredictable future got a little more so

    I don’t want to write about this anymore. This is too personal. Covid is not about me. I’m trying to make it a little funny because I’m more than a little scared. I really hope this doesn’t happen to you.

    When I used to take psychedelics, I think some encrypted, temporarily-far-away part of me knew it would metabolize eventually. I knew I could more than likely find my way home from the far side of the Cosmos. That helped me ride out some long, strange trips. I don’t have that same assurance with this. This thing realizes it’s not going to kill me, so now…it what (?); A virus hi-jacked my brain ’cause it wants to BE me? That’s weird! I’m not a Zombie fan, at all! Right now though, I feel like a stranger, just about weird enough to turn pro!

  • On How an Egg Teaches the Fine Art of Patience

    I remain a mere novice at the feet of Patience.

    To aid in my learning journey, several years ago, I purchased a Big Green Egg. (Can you see what I did there. By assigning a moral imperative to an $1100 purchase, I baptized it. As if by magic, I transformed it from a Want to a Need). 

    Sign up for my master classes and I can teach you, too, how to affect this transformation, forever banishing the intrusion of Guilt upon even your most lavish expenditures.

    Alternately, you can ask most any woman from age 12 up. Most already know how to turn Wants to Needs without instruction.

    Anyway, today, I will use this green ceramic Patience Master to achieve a carnivorous Nirvana, along with the much sought after, and ever elusive mental balms: satisfaction, contentment, happiness, and well-being.

    I always think of myself as ‘Grasshopper’, and this beast as my Master Po…

    I will produce this sublimity by means of Prime Beef Brisket. 

    To be accurate, it will be smoked brisket. It will have a nice bark on the outside, and on the inside, it will melt in your mouth like butter.

    Satisfaction, et. al. on a cutting board

    To do that will take about 22 hours of patience. Satisfaction, contentment, happiness, and well-being cannot be hurried. These take take time to conjure. About and hour and a half’s worth per pound. You can do some math to see how big a brisket I’m starting out with.

    Bet you didn’t know that Total Bliss could be shrink wrapped, huh?

    Anyway, I love how the whole process of getting to that succulent, smoky, melt-in-your mouth delicacy makes me think not primarily of the end result, but of the process itself. It’s like a self-replicating loop in computer code. If I follow the process, and allow the loop of a low-temperature charcoal fire, not exceeding 200°, plus good meat, plus a good rub, plus hardwood smoke, plus time, the results will take care of themselves. 

    You just have to let the process run it’s course. No need to think on the outcome at all. In the same way the journey is the destination, the process IS the result!

    It will be like this:

    As you can see by these photos of Briskets Past, I’m NOT thinking about the end result at all…One must guard against such thinking! This is crucial!

    I just need to be there to sip bourbon patiently and massage it along. The danger is in going too fast, and in stopping too soon. (There are other wonderful pleasures in life that have the same dangers, no?)

    Anyway, wish me luck, er patience. Sorry for not posting this with a TW (Trigger Warning) at the top. 

  • The “News”

    Walter Cronkite, signing off for the last time in 1981

    Saturday, March 6, marked the fortieth anniversary of Walter Cronkite signing off the air for the last time.

    And that’s the way it is.

    1981…No worldwide, omnipresent internet…no social media…CNN less than a year old. No news on FOX (well, that hasn’t changed), but, otherwise, it’s a different world.

    I’m old enough to remember Walter Cronkite as the consummate newsman. He was trusted. 

    The anniversary got me thinking about how the word ”news” came to mean the entire apparatus that discovers, curates, produces, and distributes the stuff occurring during a calendar day. It became weird to me that an adjective got turned into a noun and used this way. We don’t say, I’m gonna be doing some “funs” this weekend, wanna join me? Right? So, I got to pondering.

    I figure someone, no doubt a marketer, came up with the word ”news” as shorthand for the Press.

    But then, I thought, ”the Press”, is just shorthand for printing press; the actual machine that was used to press print onto a page using manually placed typeset letters, and ink. The cadre of reporters, editors, producers, etc. could have just as easily been called the ”page”, the ”type”, or the ”ink”. But ”press” became the de-facto, catch-all substitute to mean professional journalism, what is also sometimes called the ”fourth estate” .

    Hmmm. Let’s think for a minute. At some point in past history, say around the time of the Colonies, there were relatively few printing presses, therefore relatively few public information journals. There were only a few existing publications we now refer to as ”newspapers”, and these were limited by the cost and time involved to set up and print an edition. Maybe they could afford to print a two-column, single sheet broadside, once a week. Then, a time came when the publishers realized if they printed a daily edition of their paper, they could charge more to advertisers, and amortize the costs of hiring teams of full-time typesetters, and the ”Daily” was born. 

    These caught on because of course readers wanted access to the most current events; at least those deemed fit to print, which often meant print to fit. So phrases like, ”hot off the press”, and ”scoop”, come into vogue. This created a climate in which reporters and papers were always vying with one another for the freshest information, the newer the better. 

    By 1900, the competition for readers becomes so fierce that papers would print nearly anything as ”News”: not only the newer, the better; the more sensational, the better. The term ”Yellow Journalism” refers to this period. It’s what is commonly called tabloid journalism. Catchy headlines, spotty reporting, and unsubstantiated rumors are the stock-in-trade of this new brand of ”news”. 

    Warning: Rabbit Trail: Unfortunately, the remnants of yellow journalism practicioners have stuck around to this day, and are in the midst of quite the revival. Scandal-mongering, non-factual-salacious gossip, and fear-and-anger-inducing disinformation sells. Sadly, many people take it seriously. Not only is there now no penalty for lying to the public, lying can actually confer benefits to the liar, especially if the liar(s) can obtain the complicity of ”news” organs to help with propagation of the propaganda. Claim anything you want, stamp ”news” on it, and gain instant credibility with the intellectually lazy. By intellectually lazy I mean anyone who gets their information solely from television and/or the internet. I regard print media as the true, last bastion of serious professional journalists. YMMV.

    Finally, the term ”news” is born as that which is reported, distributed, and consumed as the most recent events of the day. It literally gets its meaning from the French plural noun nouvelles used to designate ”things which are new to you”, and ”things you haven’t heard yet.” 

    This usage of nouvelles first applied to current events in French radio broadcasts. Information could be presented by radio more quickly than by print. This was decades before television became the go-to medium for current events, ”news”. 

    But, Cable Things Which Are New To You Network, or Cable Things You Haven’t Heard Yet Network, just don’t have the same ring as Cable News Network or the even shorter, CNN. 

    But presenting only “news” is a dog chasing its tail. Is it okay to sprinkle in some olds for context? Watch news programming, and the most recent information comes with a banner proclaiming, ”BREAKING”. Which, as we know, is to compete with the proliferation of instantaneous information coming from those highly trusted sources Twitter, Facebook Live, Instagram, Snapchat, YouTube, and various live-streaming blogs, which serve as proxies for legitimate, trained, responsible journalists. Yet, most watchers know even when the banner screams, ”BREAKING”, the information could be several hours old. And hours old is hardly current ”news”, right? But ”RE-CYCLED BREAKING NEWS” definitely won’t work as a catchy banner graphic.

    I predict it won’t be long before some clever marketer coins a term for ”Nows”.

    Anyway, like I began, the anniversary of the legendary and trusted Walter Cronkite signing off for the last time got me thinking about the absurdity of the word ”news” as used for current events media. 

    I find it amusing that there is such a thing as the ”24hr News Cycle”. That’s shorthand for anything that can capture the attention of the fickle, ADHD public for one day. Not much!

    The news cycle is so meaningless (in every sense of the word), that I think I’d rather watch the 24hr Olds Cycle. It would be like watching M*A*S*H* and Kung Fu re-runs in the student lounge at my dorm in college.

    Someone could sign on in a deep, serious voice:

    Coming up, an hour of things you’ve undoubtedly seen and heard by now. Just in case you missed it on our sister station when it was News, we present the following Olds.

    An hour later the same serious baritone could sign off:

    And that’s the way it was.

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