Could This Be Why Hillary Lost?

The Gender Genie website was developed using a thesis submitted to the Bar-Ilan University in Israel.

They used an algorithm that analyzed and assigned value to certain words. Afterward, the website would announce the author of this text is male! Or Female, depending upon what was submitted.

It’s not whether a person talks about guns or sewing needles. Most men speak about objects while most women speak in terms of relationships.

The Gender Genie has long since gone away, but I saved the analysis. I always used the GG as a writing tool. I never expected it to help me determine the probable winner of a national election.

First, a bit about the tool, one of my critique partners expressed her dislike for a male character in my novel. I did an exhaustive chapter by chapter search of just his dialogue. His dialogue came out female! Two of his sentences were:

“Let see if I can call him.”
“Let me see if I can find you something.”
“If” is identified as a female word & the weight score is 47. So, I changed it to:
“I’ll call him.”
“I’ll find you something.”
That’s his decisiveness, not my indecisiveness.

I wondered what would happen if I inputted the speeches of famous people. I put in Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. It came back with a Male score of 443 and a Female score of 280. The website thought the author was a male. Of course, it was correct.

What about speeches of politicians from our time? I used the speeches of Presidential candidates. Many, many times the candidate’s speech patterns matched their gender, but if the algorithm inaccurately interpreted the speech of that candidate they were the always the losing candidate.

Speechwriters write speeches, but debates are for the most part the words of the candidate.

At first, I tried to input the entire debate, separating each candidate’s speech, but it proved time-consuming. I could achieve the same result with just 1000 words. The GG said it needed at least 500 words to determine the sex.
First, a few guidelines, when I did a word search for example: I searched for space_with_space, so if a candidate said the word withdrawal, it wouldn’t count.

Since the GG has gone away, I wrote a Microsoft Excel Formula. I inputted the number in the cell column next to each word. After I had searched all the words, I hit F9 and Excel calculated the total. What the Formula/algorithm looks like:

gender-genie

Here are the results from various debates throughout the years.
In the Obama versus Hillary debate, then-Senator Obama had a male score of 2386 and a female score of 2270. Then Senator Clinton had a male score of 4153 and a female score of 3060. The losing candidate used language not consistent with his or her gender. I make no assumptions here; I’m just reporting the facts.

Donald Trump: Male words 1209. Female: 873 ******
Hillary Clinton: Male 1389, Female 1257 ******
Kasich: Male 1222, Female 1501 ***
Hillary Clinton: 1580 Male words, 863 Female words *
Bernie Sanders: Male words 1213 VS. Female: 1302 *
Ben Carson: Male 782, Female 564 **
Chris Christie: Male 1061, Female 587 **
Huckabee: Male 727, Female 532 *+
Jeb Bush: Male 934, Female 409 **
Marco Rubio: Male 2305, Female 1236***
Ted Cruz: Male 1384, Female 960 ***

In the McCain versus Obama debate, I used the entire debate.

John McCain: Male score 9701, Female score of 9739 ****
Barack Obama: Male score, 13,005, Female score 12,080 ****
In the George W Bush versus Al Gore debates, it’s pretty much a wash.
Rick Santorium: Male score of 787, Female score of 1254 *****
Newt Gingrich: Male score of 677, Female score of 804 *****
Carly Fiorina: Male score 800, Female 359*+
Ronald Reagan: Male 1159, Female 1060+
Jimmy Carter: Male 1442, Female 736+
Bob Dole: Male 1761, Female 1478
Bill Clinton: Male 1888, Female 1209
Walter Mondale: Male 1460, Female 959+*+
Ronald Reagan: Male 1393, Female 928+*+
George H.W. Bush: Male 1407, Female 735++
Michael Dukakis: Male 1167, Female 1367++

I wrote this blog four years ago but never finished. I revisited the idea before the election. Like everyone else I thought Clinton was going to win, so I didn’t bother. When that didn’t happen, I decided to finish this blog. I had a friend ask me how I would consider the electoral college in this. I have no idea.
Obviously, Hillary has won elections. I looked at that debate between her and Rick Lazio. Hillary always comes out male but so does Rick Lazio. He replaced Rudy Giuliani in May of 2000 due to prostate cancer. NY elected Hillary in November of 2000. I did not look at the transcript for NY Senatorial 2006 debate.
For the record, I am not making any statement about transgender people or the LGBT community. I don’t have anything against anybody. (Unless they cut me off in traffic.) I have simply used this formula as a writing tool and maybe, a way to predict a national election.
The thesis makes a distinction between formal and informal speech which might explain why this blog post comes out male. Unless I intentionally manipulate it, my fiction writing is always female. Male score: 829, Female score 744
I have no current plans to run for election.

The thesis that started it all: http://u.cs.biu.ac.il/~koppel/papers/male-female-text-final.pdf
NYTimes article: http://www.nytimes.com/2003/08/10/magazine/the-way-we-live-now-8-10-03-sexed-texts.html

+Oct 28, 1980, Cleveland, Ohio
+*+ Oct 7, 1984 Louisville, Kentucky
++ Sept 25, 1988, Winston, NC.
*Feb 5, 2016, Durham N.H
*+Oct 28, 2015, Boulder
**Feb 6, 2016, New Hampshire
***March 11, 2016, Florida
****Sept 2008, Mississippi
*****Feb 12, 2012, Arizona
****** Sept 25, 2016, Hempstead, NY.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Effed up

In one of my writer’s groups, we had a discussion about the “F” word. Actually, the discussion was about the overuse of the “F” word.

Years ago, I watched the movie Midnight Run with Robert DeNiro and Charles Grodin. I loved the movie. It was incredibly entertaining. It wasn’t just about a bounty hunter but a man still in love with his ex-wife. It was also filled with the F-word, and I do mean filled.

Before I returned the movie to the video store, back when people went to the video store, I thought I would watch it again, but this time keep an accurate count of just how many F-words there were.

The problem with so much colorful language was the incredible task of trying to keep score.

There’s not only the dialogue of the major players, there’s also the dialogue of the person in the background. What if someone leans their head out the window of a passing car and screams an obscenity? Then I had to decide if I should keep track of all the other foul words.

I did. This experiment wouldn’t work without it.

I had this enormous sheet with tic marks everywhere.

Then I had to try to figure out the many variations of the words to keep track of. There’s effing, effed, just plain straight up eff. There are plural effs, and singular eff’s, which brings up another point. Were there possessive eff’s? I don’t remember.

Sometimes the eff’s, and “B’s” and “P’s” were flying so fast I couldn’t keep up. I had to pause the VCR, back when people had VCR’s. I had to rewind, run it back and play it forward. Then, there’s the issue of did I already count that effing eff?

Phew, what a workout.

I don’t remember the count for sure, but I think it was in the neighborhood of 240. So, I took the figure & divided it into the total minutes of the movie. If it was a 100-minute film, that makes 2.4 foul words per minute.

Imagine a trip to the grocery store. “Where’s your effing cottage cheese?”

Clerk: Behind the effing sour cream, you ungrateful stupid b*+ch.

In everyday life, that means I’d come into work, and my co-worker would greet me.

“Good morning, Rhonda, how the eff are you?”

“I’m effing fine. How the eff are you? You effing rag, why can’t you leave me the eff alone?”

In an eleven-minute phone call, that means I have to fill the conversation with 26.4 curse words. I’d probably have to just let out a string of curse words. I wouldn’t even be able to use them all in a complete sentence. So: Eff, eff, eff, eff, eff, eff, effing b*+ch, pr*+k, eff, eff, eff.”
Customer: What was that for?
Me: Just filling my quota sir.

Of course, the point four would mean an interrupted or unfinished curse word.

“F…f…f…f…f…f….f….f ..a…aa…”

Oops, can’t finish it. Only a .4 curse word.

Yes, I see the need for 240 curse words in a two-hour movie.

I had found this little experiment so interesting, that I tried to do it with another flick. A real two thumbs up film, back when we had two thumbs up reviews, Spike Lee’s, Do the Right thing.

I couldn’t keep up. There were eff’s flying so fast it boggled my mind and my tick calculator. I had to turn it off. I don’t know if the movie made me sick or the idea I had to be a math wizard.

Rhonda H.

I said I was going to write this as a blog post, and I effing did.

Posted in Foul Language, Foul words, Humor, Movies, Writing | 4 Comments

The Annual Family Reunion/Trek

We held our annual family reunion in Gordon Nebraska this year, just like we did three years ago. We have one every year, and we always have a great time. Three years ago, one of my cousin’s took us on a trek/tour of all the places our grandparents lived near Rushville Nebraska.

  • DSCN1266 This was one of their residences.

We had lunch in the Rushville’s park and some of us played on the slides.

DSCN1290 Here’s a less than graceful picture of me…

We were looking for one particular house. We saw a few places they lived, then we went down a sandy side road. I’m generous when I call it a road.DSCN1296

We pulled up, 8-10 cars at least 20 or more of us. I was the last car, everybody said they liked that. My bright green car meant they could tell at a distance if we were all there. Other cars all saw us coming and would pull over. Apparently, we looked like a funeral procession, which was ironic because of all the fun we were having.

DSCN1270 Some of our cars.

We took pictures. We went to one home and chatted with the owner. She said no, it wasn’t their house, but thought the place we were looking for was down the road.

Off we went. At one point, my uncle, who is celebrating his 60th wedding anniversary this year, got out of the procession. He sped up way too fast, keeping on the opposite side of the road to pass me and get back to his place in line. Don’t disturb the order.

We went down another side road. This little boulevard had grass growing up past the undercarriage of most of the SUV’s. My little Mazda was not built for country driving. It took a beating. I could only hope and pray nothing fell off.

Green Mazda My cousin took this picture of my car.

We bumped and glided along. I had three of my female cousins with me. We pulled up to another farm-house. They had a sign that said they welcomed tours. Once again, this crazy group of relatives all piled out. My aunt, the other half of the 60th wedding anniversary party, came running over to us and begged for a ride. She said her husband was driving crazy. Or maybe she said he was crazy. No matter. No one offered her a ride. Sorry, you made your bed 60 years ago.

One of my male cousins got out wearing his mother’s wide brim, red hat. The people from the house all came out. He, my male cousin, spent the next several minutes explaining to them that he was a normal red-blooded American male and pulled his recent bride close to him. He didn’t take off the hat.

The owners were very generous, but they too said it was not the right house. We had some great laughs, and then the matriarch of the place told me that they sometimes get people out looking around because she happened to be Mari Sandoz’s granddaughter.

She said many people want to see the places that her grandmother wrote about. It was incredibly fascinating to me as a writer that people would travel long distances to seek out the places an author wrote about.

She was very sweet. I took her name & took her picture. While looking around, her handsome grandson walked over. My family teased me for speaking with the good-looking guy, but as I pointed out, he talked to me.

We left on a worse road, all sand ruts and grass. My cousin, in the red hat, made a wide swing around, and I made a lesser swing and cut him off, so he had to follow me. (Snicker)

Going uphill, my little car dug in and wouldn’t move. I backed down and tried again, we just spun. Unbeknownst to me, some of my cousins saw we were no longer with them and started honking and flagging down the rest of the family.

My three female cousins piled out, and I tried to make it up the hill without them in it.  Still, I spun. This time, I told them to push. Another cousin came running back to help. The pushing got my car up and over the hill. My cousins piled back in and were spent. I looked at my passengers, and they were all fast asleep. That sand took its toll.

After the Bike Ride Across Nebraska, I raised my bike over my head. (A lot of bicyclists do.) My relatives wanted to lift my car over their heads and get their pictures taken.

On the final day of the reunion, I gave my 81-year-old aunt a ride home to Omaha, and everyone told her she’d better watch out cause I might make her get out and push.

DSCN1281This was an old gas station my grandparents also lived in.

 

Posted in Family, Humor, Reunions, Writing | Leave a comment

The Newspaper Thief

When I lived in an apartment, I had the Sunday morning newspaper delivered. One morning, as I headed out the door, I discovered my paper was missing. I called the Omaha World-Herald and they brought me another one.

The main entrance to our building stood four feet away from my front door. As the delivery man/boy entered the building, the door would swing open with a squeak. Then, I’d hear the heavy bundle of papers dropped outside my door. They’d scurry down the aisle dropping Sunday morning papers as they went. I still recall that plop, plop noise echoing throughout the building. For some reason, my paper seemed to be missing a lot. I finally realized, my building had a newspaper thief. Cue the ominous music.

I went through the five stages of loss and grief.

Denial! Someone couldn’t possibly have stolen MY paper. Maybe, the newspaper gods forgot to deliver it? Perhaps, the person across the hall thought it was their paper. Did I pay the bill?

Anger/Outrage. Okay, maybe I wasn’t outraged. How about annoyed? Yes, I was annoyed.

Bargaining: Maybe, if I had gotten up earlier, the paper wouldn’t have been so tempting. Perhaps, they were anxiously awaiting that new potato soup recipe.

Depression: Now, I have to trample off to the store to buy another paper. It’s not the World Herald’s fault criminals abound. I did pay the bill. I did, I did.

Acceptance: I guess I can live without my paper.

I really enjoyed the Women’s section. Ann Landers, Dear Abby (this was 20 years ago) and Hints from Heloise. Ask Andy and cartoons! I loved reading Snoopy.  Sometimes, when I couldn’t stand my job, I’d pour over the want ads. I read the Midlands news and the world news. World peace has always been a priority.

I really didn’t want to accept this, this blatant theft, this manipulation of my time and money. Besides, it was wrong, wrong, wrong! Stealing is wrong!

It became a struggle to get up earlier than the thief. I had to set my alarm at six a.m. ON SUNDAY MORNING! It was the only way to get the item I paid for. I really wanted to catch the thief in the act, but I never could.

I got tired of this cat and mouse game. So, I decided to set a trap.

This must be the sixth stage of Grief. Revenge. I’m not a vengeful person and I don’t like vigilantes. When someone takes the law into their own hands, all our lives are lessened. But mind you, I was pretty teed off.

I took some old newspapers and sorted them the way they normally are arranged. I placed the World news first, then the Midlands and then the Sports. Except I included two Sports sections. I figure they might have found this amusing. They might comment to their roommate/spouse, “Why look, the World-Herald added two sports sections! Ha, those crazy journalists.”

I then included carrot scrapings and old potato peels. I did this a few days in advance so I imagine the carrot scrapings and potato peels were pretty brown and smelly. I did hope for smelly.

Then I took a black magic marker and wrote, “Thy Shalt Not Steal.”

The night before, I slept in my living room by the door. That way, when I heard the paper flop down, I could grab it with lightening speed. It was right out of Mission Impossible. I carefully eased open the door, still in my jammies, mind you. I didn’t want to be seen. Not only because I was in my pajamas, but because this was a stealth operation. With one arm, I grabbed my Sunday morning paper and slipped out the fake one.

Until this posting, I never thought about what it must have been like for them. Maybe, they were the kind of person who stood to read the paper. They would fan it open and potato peelings would land on the floor and the dog or cat would get into it. Or maybe, it would land on her open toe shoe. (Who says newspaper thieves are men?) Envision a brown, possibly moldy potato peel lodged between her painted toes.

What if the wife insisted the husband bring the paper home and since he was a lazy, cheap clod, he grabbed mine instead. Imagine if will, the wife was the kind of reader who opened her favorite section while sitting down. Blackened carrot scrapings would land in her lap. In the end, they didn’t save any money. I’ve heard couples therapy can be expensive.

Needless to say, no one ever stole my paper again.

 

Posted in Humor, Newspapers, Stealing, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Untimely Demise of Elmer Fudd

I was out for a jog the other afternoon, or my attempt at jogging, and I noticed a man up ahead. Then I saw a rabbit doing the hundred yard dash right towards me. That’s when the man pointed at the rabbit and a dog chased after it. He was egging the dog on.

When I got close to the guy, I could only think of one word: Bully. I didn’t say it, but that’s what I was thinking. If the man had been starving, then I would understand. The circle of life and all that, but I could clearly see he wasn’t starving. If the dog looked like he was famished, I could appreciate the situation, but the dog was just as chubby as the owner.

I kept thinking about it and wondered why I had such an adverse reaction. Then, I flashed on an event from my childhood.

My sister and I had pet rabbits.

Elmer

Mine is the little black one.

Rabbits really don’t do much of anything, but eat and poop. My dad decided to put our rabbits to work. He delivered refrigerators part-time, so we had lots of refrigerator boxes. We took the boxes, after cutting them down about waist-high and we moved the rabbits along in the box. They’d eat the grass and fertilize as they went along. It worked great. We didn’t have to mow the lawn as much and we had a great fertilizer.

It wouldn’t behoove me tell you the rabbit’s real name because of all those security questions I have answered over the years that ask for your first pet’s name. That being said, we shall just call my childhood rabbit, Elmer Fudd.

One day, my mom and I went for a walk. We stopped to talk to our next door neighbor. He happened to say how much he missed the old days. He said he could sit on his front step with a rifle and shoot any offending critter he wanted, like squirrels, mice, and rabbits. He pointed down the hill and said, “See, there’s a perfect example. A rabbit is running amuck.”

I looked and sure enough, a little black bunny was running for its very life. Hot on the rabbit’s tail was a dog giving chase. I stepped closer to realize the rabbit, was none other than my own little Elmer Fudd.

I reached out and pulled Elmer to me. His heart was beating quite rapidly.

We figured out what happened. The refrigerator box/makeshift cage sat on an uneven patch and little Elmer squeezed underneath.

I put Elmer in his pen and we watched. And waited. He sat close to his little house and just stayed there. We were so worried my brother crawled in the pen. It took some maneuvering. He had to get his back low enough so he wouldn’t get caught up in the chicken wire of the cage. He had to crawl and not end up splayed out in rabbit dodo. I remember thinking at the time, what a good brother he was/is. As worried as I was about Elmer, I wouldn’t have crawled in a pen of rabbit crap.

He grabbed Elmer and brought him inside. He was thumping around a bit and seemed to be limping. Not long later, little Elmer died.

By then, my dad, my brother and a friend of my brother’s, Jim, were all in the garage. My father stood at his workbench. I think I announced Elmer’s death. Jim was up on a ladder and jumped down. They didn’t say much, in fact, I think they were pretty speechless. My dad gave me a comforting side hug with an arm pat. Life isn’t like a television sitcom. My parents didn’t try to replace the rabbit without me knowing. They didn’t tell me rabbits went to heaven. They were just WITH me.

My dad got out his shovel and dug a hole in a little patch of lilac trees. I don’t remember if we used the universal sign of pet death, a shoe box. We put up a little cross made out of twigs. The next day, we went to church and while singing, I broke down crying. My mom  gave me the side arm hug and pulled me close.

I don’t have any wise words for this little story. It just was what it was. So, back to the guy on the trail, I didn’t see the rabbit’s bloody carcass, so I assume the rabbit made it to safety, or did he? It’s like I said the first time. Bully.

Elmer1

 

 

Posted in Fading Memories, Rabbits, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Writer’s Block? Pooshaw! Have you met our awesome God?

I’ve heard many a writer proclaim there is no such thing as writer’s block. As a writer, I have suffered from something every now and then, but I never named it that. I usually coin it, life block.

I never really thought much about it. I just knew every now and then, something would prevent me from moving forward. Sometimes, it is because I am profoundly depressed as a writer. The task seems too great. I have often said, I have a ten foot story, but I’m only a six-foot writer. It may sound weird, but sometimes I don’t feel up to the task of conveying my own story as best it needs to be described.

Sometimes, I just can’t write. I can rewrite, but I can’t add new pages.

Oh, sure, it’s probably because I’m a pantser. For you non-writers, that’s a person who writes by the seat of their pants. There’s also plotters. They write by outline. I have an outline in my head, but I don’t usually peg it down. Sometimes, the story and the characters lead me where I need to go. And sometimes, they don’t.

I haven’t written an original word in over six months. Like I said, I can pull up an old story and rewrite the dickens out of the thing, but the new story is stagnating.

One of the novels I am writing is tentatively titled, Air Conditioning is Ruining America. In the story, a family has suffered severe financial difficulty and then their four-year-child is accidentally run over and has to have her leg amputated. The fourteen-year-old brother, who was driving the car, runs to the top of a radio tower in an attempt to jump off. His older sister and father chase after him. When they catch up, he is several hundred feet in the air. He sits calm, cool and collected as if spending a day at the beach. He confesses he intended to jump but changed his mind when God told him to become a doctor.

The family loses everything, their home, and their business. Now, the family must move heaven and earth to make this a reality. They are dirt poor, but they have a son who is supposed to be a doctor. And God himself has said to make it so.

For the past six months, I have had this family sitting in a campground. I could not get them out of that darn campground!

And then, in stepped God. That’s right you heard/read me. In more ways that I can count, I have had God urging me on and telling me to keep writing. This is not only what I like to do, I believe it is what God desperately calls me to do. There’s a truth in this story. A truth, a reach, a laugh and a smile that needs to come out.

This Sunday, we heard a sermon on Healing. Our pastor, at West Hills Presbyterian Church in Omaha, NE, Derek Richman, preached from the Bible verse: Mark Chapter 5 24-34. I will quote the last few lines.

34 He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

The sermon wasn’t just on healing, but believing you were healed. It may not happen overnight but over time.

Pastor Derek advised we could stand where we were and he would hold his hands up and pray for us. Our church doesn’t normally do alter calls, (for you non-religious types, an alter call is when people come forward if they want to make a commitment to Jesus) and we were short on time. After the service, if we wanted, we could come forward and be anointed with oil.

My sister stood. So, I stood too. And you know what, lots of people stood. I wanted help and healing for another matter.

Afterwards, I turned to my sister and I said, “You know, I totally feel my writing problems are over. I feel my dry spell has been healed.” I wasn’t even thinking about writing. I would never ask for prayers for my  that. It seems so silly. Presumptuous. Pretentious. People are struggling in this life. Why would I ask or need help with something like that?

I wasn’t going to get anointed with oil, but my mom and sister went. I didn’t really need it, but somehow I stood in line. Afterwards, I could smell the oil throughout the day. That sweet smell lingered with me. The sermon had a profound impact on me.

Later, I grabbed my flash drives and sat down to write, but I didn’t have them. I searched the couch and the floor where I was sitting. I scanned the kitchen counter where the flash drives had been, but they were not there. I looked on my bed. I actually crawled all over it, feeling for them. I scoured under the bed. I was almost late to work looking for them.

Let me explain what my flash drives mean to me. They have in their hot little memory banks both of the current novels I am working on. They have countless blog posts, short stories and novels I started but haven’t finished. Screenplays, critiques of writing partners, passwords, paychecks, plays, pictures, classes I’ve taken, homework and recipes. When I go anywhere, I bring my flash drives with me, but in my pocket. Should I be robbed, they can take my purse, my wallet, my car keys, but I will keep my flash drives. They are the one thing, I am prepared to fight for. And buddy, I do mean fight.

I was a bit panicked. Oh, sure, I felt healed, but here was the very tool I needed to advance the story and I lost it. Maybe, it was divine intervention. Maybe, I needed to stop what I usually do and not rewrite but just move forward.

A blank page sat in front of me.

A big, white, blank page.

Staring.

Getting whiter by the minute.

So, I wrote a summary kind of sentence that basically said here we are, sitting in this campground. Then, I wrote. I didn’t finish the novel, but I wrote four or five pages. I’m not even sure of the count. So, this is what I need to do to move forward. Instead of rereading where I’ve been, I need to just look at the blank page. It occurred to me, give the protagonist a boyfriend. Sure, they are living in a campground, but that doesn’t mean she can’t meet someone. And now I have a complication. The story moves forward.

The next day, I said to God and Jesus, thank you for what you did to help me, but I have commitments. I had pages due to a writers group and they are waiting for them.

I figured I wouldn’t look. It seems when you look for something, you can’t find it. I would just start cleaning. I cleared off my kitchen table, which led me to sweep over here and over there. I took the dinner trays at the back of the bed and put them behind my refrigerator.

And there they were. At least a foot from the doorway, behind the refrigerator. Which meant, somehow, while I was walking to the living room, the flash drives leapt from my hands and flew back there. I’ve been calculating in my mind if the trajectory of merely just dropping them would land them that far. I doubt it.

I needed this. I needed to move forward, and I believe God wanted it as well. Is our God awesome or what?

Maybe, he just wants to know the end of the story.

Posted in God's Help, Healing, Hope, Voices From Heaven, Writer's Block | 8 Comments

Don’t be Stupid and other Dadisms

I was out for a jog or my attempt at jogging. A song came on my IPOD. I thought how did I let this no talent wind up on my list of favorites? I don’t want to name her, in case you find yourself saying, “Why, I love her. She’s fabulous.”  But we all have different opinions, so rest assured it’s some girl with skinny legs singing rap.

Do you sing rap, or do you rap rap?

I love all music, but let’s face it. When white people rap, it’s embarrassing.  Frankly, I’m embarrassed for the entire human race.

This girl always seems to be wearing hot pants and go-go boots. Her clothing doesn’t bother me so much; it’s the lack of lyrics, the lack of meaning. All I hear is grunts and oohs, and whatever else that noise is. I hate to sound like the old folks talking about Elvis and his gyrations, but seriously, her songs sound an awful lot like someone reading an eye chart.

I suppose anybody could put gibberish to a beat and call it evocative, moving, and a statement piece. Just remember to place the microphone to your lips, (as if eating an ice cream cone), hold your fingers in gang symbols and make jerky motions while sitting on your haunches. Sway from side to side and you just might be a hip-hop star.

The song got me thinking about my dad & the things he used to say like, “I wouldn’t walk across the street to see her/him/them/it.”

The saying always sounded so mean. He might have said he wouldn’t walk across the street, but the emotion, the tone in his voice said, “That pile of doggie doo-doo? That walking, singing pile of monkey excrement? Are you kidding me? Yes, Dad. You nailed it. “I wouldn’t walk across the street to see her.”  So, if Miss Go-Go boots were playing across the street in a free performance, because why would I pay?  I wouldn’t walk across the street to see her.

My dad lived through a time when political correctness was well, a walking pile of monkey excrement. He probably wouldn’t have said that in front of her, or her family, but he didn’t mind stating his opinion about what he liked or disliked.

Dad had lots of sayings. This isn’t another S**t my Dad says, by Justin Halpern. My dad wasn’t prone to foul language, but he still had sayings. Like, Don’t be Stupid. He said that to my brother when he got his first vehicle. My brother saw that enormous bill for car insurance and refused to pay. My dad said, “Don’t be stupid.”

When I was a kid I liked chocolate malt balls, my brother told my dad he was going to buy me a case of them for Christmas, my dad said, “Don’t be Stupid.”

When my sister and I said we were going to quit college, my dad said, “Don’t be Stupid.”

If we sat behind a car at a green light, my dad would say, “It doesn’t get any greener.” (Although, Don’t be Stupid would also fit.)

Again, Dad nailed it. It was simple enough. But really, why do people sit at green lights?  They are daydreaming, texting, talking to the love of the life, or contemplating not paying their car insurance. But they could truly be sitting there saying to themselves, the bottom light isn’t exactly the right hue. I will not go through the intersection until I see chartreuse, sea foam or parakeet green.

I asked my sister if she remembered any sayings from my dad. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”  That’s right. We can’t be wasting our money on dumb concerts of people we can’t be bothered to watch on television.

My brother said the only thing he remembered my dad saying was, “Girls, leave your brother alone.”

Not likely.

On the way home from lunch, that dreaded song came on the radio, and, unfortunately, the song stayed with me while I mowed the lawn. An hour later, that stupid tune was still going through my head and that’s exactly why I can’t be bothered to walk across the street to hear her sing rap. It never goes away!

 

Posted in Dadisms, Humor, Sayings, Things My Dad said | 3 Comments