How to share a meme

My FaceBook feed continues to be deluged with shared memes. They are mostly political. Many exhibit faulty logic, or worse, down-right falsehoods. Too many people simply hit “share,” and move on without a second -- or even first -- thought. If you're about to hit that share button, DON'T! But if you absolutely must, here are five types of memes, and guidelines for whether or not to hit that tempting share button.

• LIKE AND SHARE IF  YOU AGREE: If it says that, you should probably  do neither. 

• OPINION: Fictional example: “The Flintstones cartoon depicted a sexist and unrealistic suburban stereotype that warped the minds of an entire generation.” Before you hit share, stop. Think. Do you really agree? And do you want all your FB friends to know this is your belief? If so, go for it! Tell the world! Adding a comment, “I’m glad I was able to shake off the Flintstones mind-washing!” tells your friends you at least put a little thought behind the share. Don’t get upset if someone politely disagrees. It’s just an opinion.

• FACT: If the meme purports to state fact, do a smattering of homework before sharing. “Suicide rates increased during every single airing of The Flintstones.” Debunking wild claims takes about two mouse clicks. Remember, the wilder the claim, the more it makes you upset or angry, the more likely it is either exaggerated or not true. Sharing a false meme perpetuates ignorance, makes the universe a little bit sadder, and will  make your friends think you’re an idiot. If a well meaning friend demonstrates that a “fact” is false, pull the post! It’s the right thing to do. (As an aside, Snopes is not a tool of the liberal media. There are plenty of Snopes entries debunking falsehoods about Republicans, including Trump.)

• WHATABOUTISM: This one is the worst, and perhaps most common, particularly in politics. Sometimes the meme will actually use the words “What about.” “What about the Jetsons? That show was even worse than the Flintstones, and nobody complains about it!” Whatever the Jetsons were up to doesn’t change what the Flintstones were. A current, political example: Just because Bill Clinton was an accused sexual predator doesn’t change the fact that Trump is too. So if the meme you’re about to share is Whataboutism, Don’t. Just. Don’t.

• CUTE ANIMALS: Everyone loves cute animals being cute. Share away!

So please, please, PLEASE THINK before you click to share a meme. And then don't. I’d much rather see something actually about you -- even selfies, or pictures of meals.  Except  cute animal memes. Always share cute animal memes.

Haight and Love in San Francisco

“San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not in the long run… but no explanation, no mix of words, or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world…
“Every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash…There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning...
“We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave…
“So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- that place where the wave finally broke, and rolled back.”

-- Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971)

Those words had a profound impact on me in the late seventies. Having been only ten- years -old during the fabled 1967 Summer of Love, I was late to the game, a neo-hippie. Nonetheless, in 1981, I made a pilgrimage to the epicenter of the sixties counterculture: the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Streets in San Francisco. I had hopes of seeing the high-water mark with my own eyes. Part of me fantasized that I would find a remnant of that time, an extant backwater, and magically manage to become part of it. The more realistic part of me knew better. Thompson knew it ten years earlier and tried to warn me.

By 1981, the high-water mark was gone. Or maybe, despite my best effort, I just didn’t have the “right kind of eyes.” All I found were shabby buildings and homeless people. The “energy of a whole generation” was all washed away. The only scrap I found was sidewalk graffiti saying “Thank you, John,” presumably Lennon, who had been assassinated just six months earlier. A homeless woman gave me the finger for no reason. I was crestfallen, but not surprised.

The counterculture died when the sixties ended. By late 1970, The Beatles had broken up; Jimi was dead; Janis was dead; four students were shot dead by their own government at Kent State. The counterculture had failed.

Raw consumerism and unbridled capitalism prevailed. The military-industrial complex raged on.

From 1981, fast forward nearly 40 years.  In 2019, My wife and I visited The Haight district, but as tourists, with no grand illusions about Thompson’s “High and Beautiful Wave.”

Haight-Ashbury has become a tourist trap, albeit with more grit than most of the city (and it still has its fair share of the homeless). Shops catering to hippie nostalgia crowd Haight Street. The house where Hendrix formerly lived is a smoke/vape shop (The Red House). There are ethnic restaurants of all stripes.

A ripple of sadness shimmered through me. So this is what it came to? All the hippie dreams of a better world came down to nostalgic sales of tie-dye shirts? At least there isn’t a McDonald’s, or even a Starbucks -- yet.

But really, what else should one expect? If the Hippie-Utopia was not to be, then what? Should the whole Haight-Ashbury district have been walled off and made into a museum? That seems impractical. Or perhaps razed to make room for a high-rise? That would be tragic.  With nostalgic commerce came rejuvenation. The architecture is still delightfully eclectic and in much better shape than in 1981.

The clock at Haight/Ashbury is permanently stopped at 4:20.

We spent a fair amount of time, and a fair amount of money, on Haight Street.  I bought a driver’s cap, of a style that could be purchased anywhere, but I found one I liked in a hat store that looked like it may have been there in 1967.  I wanted something to distinguish it as being from Haight-Ashbury, and came upon the idea of a small, enameled metal peace-sign pin.

Easy, right? There are literally dozens of shops up and down Haight that sell similar trinkets. I checked at least ten -- including The Red House smoke shop. There were hundreds of other enameled pins featuring pot-leaves, the Golden Gate Bridge, rainbows, etc., but no peace-sign anywhere. (Sign of the times: The pin I sought was two mouse clicks away on Amazon.)

Sigh. No Haight, no peace. Know Haight, know peace? Apparently not. No peace, no matter what. Too much money to be made to mess with that.

Yes, I bought a hat, and we bought a couple of over-priced meals, but I did not succumb to the temptation to buy a tie-dye shirt. Besides, I still have a couple.

Trump's Taxes

Many political issues are complex: Abortion; Guns; Taxes; Healthcare. Thinking people can disagree. Each of those issues -- and a host of others -- contain much to digest, can have nuanced positions, and offer much fodder for debate.

But I like to believe that thinking people of all stripes can agree that it is in our mutual best interest to know, beyond doubt, that our leaders are financially transparent. That means releasing past tax returns. All past presidents going back to Jimmy Carter, have done so -- until now.

Trump is fighting a congressional subpoena for his financial records. That is not the action of an innocent man. What is he so desperate for the public not to know?

What is he hiding?

Take partisanship out of it; is it too much to ask that the American people be assured their leader is not beholden to foreign countries? Is not beholden to foreign banks? That our leader is not personally profiting from diplomatic machinations?

No matter your political leaning, these questions are cut and dried. Virtually every member of congress has agreed -- until now. Going back forty-years, every presidential candidate has done so -- including the current crop -- except one.

What is he hiding?

Jimmy Carter sold his peanut farm to avoid the appearance of impropriety. He and every president since have voluntarily released their tax returns -- until now.

Why does it matter? Again, let’s take partisanship out of it. The taxpayers deserve poof that the person in charge of diplomatic relations around the world -- relations that can literally mean life and death for millions -- doesn’t have a personal stake in the outcome of that diplomacy. Imagine if Jimmy Carter had secretly kept his peanut farm when he was President. Imagine that he happened to owe billions of dollars to a bank in India. India is the world’s second largest producer of peanuts. Could we trust that Mr. Carter would do what was best for the country when entering into diplomatic negotiations with India -- a nuclear power?

Don’t the American people deserve -- need -- financial transparency in their leader? There doesn’t seem to be any nuance in that question. Maybe if you close one eye, tilt your head, and try and look at it from another angle… NO! No matter how one turns it over, the answer is a rousing YES! Yes, we need and deserve total financial disclosure from any of our leaders, regardless of party.

During the primary campaign, Trump promised to release his tax returns when he won his party’s nomination. That was a lie.

After the nomination, he promised to release his tax returns after the election. That was a lie.

After the election, he promised to release his tax returns after the inauguration. That was a lie.

He knew all along that he wasn’t obligated by law to release his returns, and had no intention of doing so. Which leads to the obvious question:

What is he hiding?

Can any thinking person make the case for our president to keep his finances secret? Can anyone defend his actions? Let’s hear it.

There was no legal obligation to release the returns -- but there is now. A congressional subpoena is about as legal as it gets. Still, he refuses. Our president would rather foment a constitutional crisis than let the American people know the truth.

The constitution is very clear about the separations of powers between the three branches of the federal government (Executive, Judicial, and Legislative). No branch holds sway over the other two. Checks and balances. It’s about the most important aspect of our government.

The Treasury Department (under the Executive branch) does not have the authority to declare that a congressional subpoena has no merit, that is solely the purview of our democratically-elected Congress. Yet, by Trump’s order, Treasury is defying Congress. That is the essence of a dictatorship.

Release the tax returns. Not doing so imperils our Democracy, our Republic and everything we stand for.

What is he hiding?

Montana Gold

Life is a series of trade-offs.

I awoke with the birds at the municipal campground in Malta, Montana. It was a crisp and clear summer morning. I was nearly 1000 miles into my solo, cross-country bicycle adventure. It had rained hard overnight, but stopped early; my tent and equipment were dry. 

The evening before, another touring cyclist was setting up in the site next to mine. We naturally struck up a conversation, and ended up walking the short distance downtown together to get dinner. Dan was about my age, had a similar story, and was also on a cross-country tour, though taking a slightly different route than mine. We compared notes, and solved all the world’s problems over burgers and beer. 

My Cycling Pal Dan

Even though we were both headed the same direction for the next few hundred miles, we agreed to each take our own pace. If we met up again on the road, great. If not, well… it was great meeting. 

A short while after turning in, the rain started. While listening to the patter on my small tent, I researched my options for the next day on my phone. I always strove to find quirky independent eateries over the ubiquitous chains. Yes, the Golden Arches of the world are consistent, though mediocre, and the calories-to-dollars ratio is high (important when long-distance cycling), but the one-off joints are far more likely to provide a unique experience. The downside is having to endure the occasional bad meal. There was a small independent diner just a few miles away in the right direction. Perfect. 

I wasn’t carrying cooking gear, nor much food (outside of snacks). I didn’t want the extra weight and didn't want to spend the time and effort involved with preparation and clean-up. I preferred simply eating at restaurants. A credit card is way lighter than food and cooking gear. But damn, the expense added up, so I was always looking for cheap eats. 

As I was striking camp the next morning, Dan emerged from his tent and started heating water. 

“Do you want some coffee?” he called.

“Yes! Thanks!” I eagerly proffered my semi-clean travel mug. "Semi-clean” means I thought wholesome thoughts while heartily rinsing it with cold well water at the nearby pump.

My “breakfast” consisted of a yet another Clif Bar; just something to fuel me to the nearest restaurant. 

Dan took the opposite tack, and embraced the full camping experience. He began cooking up some oatmeal with almonds and raisins. It smelled divine. He was in no hurry. I, on the other hand, was eager to get rolling, munching my Clif bar and gulping coffee while continuing to strike camp. 

As I labored, I envied my new friend’s contented demeanor as he sat in his camp chair (something else I didn’t carry), eating his breakfast, and enjoying the early light. It was the picture of serenity. Maybe my strategy of getting to a restaurant as quickly as possible was wrong headed. 

I finished packing and said goodbye to Dan. We were both headed to Glasgow, about 70 miles away. Dan sat and savored the morning and his breakfast as I pedaled away to the diner I had discovered the night before.

If you took all that was good about the great vastness that is Montana -- Big Sky included -- and distilled it down to one golden drop, it would be the Hitching Post Cafe just outside of Malta. One rarely gets great food, great service AND great prices. The Hitching Post delivered all three.

The Hitchin' Post

I was greeted with a cheerful “GOOOOOOD MOR-nin’!” by April, the only server. There were about 10 booths and 6 seats at the counter. It was nearly empty but would fill fast. Most of the customers were middle-aged men wearing the farmer’s uniform of blue-jeans, plaid-shirt, and trucker-cap.

April, and customers

Window to the Kitchen

I took a seat at the worn Formica counter, overlooking a wide rectangular window which communicated with the kitchen, populated by one cook. The music of Willie Nelson drifted from the back. All around were plaques and signs with cute homilies. My favorite: “Spoon-knockers, Cup-wavers, and Thumb-snappers pay double!”

April was quick with the coffee, and kept it coming. She chimed the same “GOOOOD MOR-nin!” to every customer who came in, often adding their names. 

“Do you own this place?” I asked.

“NO!” she snapped, “I just act like it! Been here for 17 years!”

Everything she said sounded like it ended with an exclamation point. 

The menu was predictable but practical. The prices were very good. I ordered the Western Scramble, with ham, pepper, onions and cheese, which included toast and hash-browns. Including a cup of coffee and a generous tip, it came to ten bucks! April even offered to fill my semi-clean travel mug before I left. Probably because I didn’t “thumb-snap.”

It may sound mundane now, but my time at The Hitchin’ Post felt like the essence of Montana. Good-hearted people, enjoying a solid meal designed to kick-off a day of honest hard work.

Okay, there was merit to my thinking about not cooking my own meals. Dan had his contentment, but I had the Hitching Post Cafe, something I never would have experienced if I had cooked my own breakfast. I wouldn’t have traded places for all the Sky in Montana. 

Life is a series of trade-offs. 

Big Sky!

Cheap Sunglasses

Now go out and get yourself some big black frames
With the glass so dark they won't even know your name
And the choice is up to you cause they come in two classes
Rhinestone shades or cheap sunglasses
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah
--ZZ Top

Over the years, I’ve lost many, many pairs of sunglasses. By the time I was 30, the unaccounted-for shades must have been in the hundreds. I don’t know how it would happen; it was as if I just threw them out the window of a moving car, and then promptly forgot doing so.

“Where are my sunglasses?” was a lifelong refrain.

A few times I tried buying expensive shades, thinking the the cost would cause me to be more mindful. No luck. Gone within a week.

One day, my now ex-wife came home from shopping while I was gardening in the backyard. I remember the exchange distinctly. She showed me the new pair of sunglasses she had just bought. I admired them. I tried them on. We both agreed they were “me.”

“How much do you want for them?” I asked, tongue in cheek.

“Two bucks,” she answered.

“Sold!” I produced the bills.

“Ha!” she cried victoriously, “I just paid one dollar for them at the drugstore!”

We had a good laugh. But I still have those sunglasses, and that was in 1990 -- nearly thirty years ago.

For obvious reasons, my current wife, Jena, is not fond of the glasses, even though she acknowledges  they are still “me.” Awkward associations with the ex aside, I love those glasses. I’ve misplaced them on a few occasions. Despite Jena’s promise to not hasten their demise, I have suspected foul play. In one instance, they languished for six months under the passenger seat of my car (please forgive my suspicion, Darling!). I’m confident that she would not share my grief if they were to, say, fall into a wood-chipper.

The glasses have been around the world. I’ve replaced the temple screws many times. They have gone in and out of style many times -- not that I care at this point. It’s not like I set out to keep them for three decades; they have just refused to go away. But after all that time, they have become dear old friends.

I hope that when my sunglasses do shuffle off this mortal coil, it won’t be that I left them at a rest-stop 100 miles back, or worse, they just disappeared with no explanation, never to re-emerge. No, I want them to go dramatically, like falling off my face as I lean over the edge of the Grand Canyon, or by somehow diverting a shark attack.

In all reality, I suspect they will outlive me. So I hereby request: Bury me with those cheap sunglasses.

Singapore, 2004. The earliest picture I have of the glasses

Ireland, 2006

Myrtle Beach, 2019

Alaska, 2014