To Twitter or not to Twitter, That is the Question

Am I the only one who’s noticed how so many of our species (humanoids) are becoming increasingly self-absorbed, especially the younger of the species? Surely someone else has observed this trend. Then again, given that so many people today are increasingly self-absorbed, I imagine they’re been too caught up in themselves to pay attention to developing cultural trends, even those reflective of their own behavior. (Did that make sense?)

Granted, we humans are all at least somewhat self-absorbed and tend to concentrate more upon our own lives than those of other humans, well, that is, unless those other humans happen to be celebrities, in which case, some of us, based upon the popularity of tabloids, tend to concentrate more upon those lives, perhaps because those lives—the lives of the rich and famous—are more colorful and not quite as boring.

And that brings me to my point.

“There’s a point?” you ask and roll your eyes.

Yes, there’s a point, and it’s this newfangled thing called “Twittering.”

“Twittering,” you echo. “And just how can Twittering be a point?”

Trust me, it is, because in case you haven’t noticed, which you probably haven’t if you’re part of the problem, this fad called “Twittering” has become a wildfire raging out of control. (That happens to be an analogy, which is a literary device we writers employ to make a comparison between two dissimilar things; in this instance, it’s between Twittering and wildfire.)

What is it with this Twitter phenomenon, anyway? How can a person twitter? For that matter, how can a person tweeter? Don’t birds twitter? Don’t they emit “tweets,” making them “tweeters”? I didn’t know a twitter or a tweet or a tweeter could be anything other a term used to describe how birds express themselves; for example, the robins twittered at dawn. Well, at least that’s what I thought until recently when people began twittering and tweeting all over the place.

Since I really didn’t know much about Twittering, I did a little research (very little), and what I learned was that Twitter is an online site or service (something like that), which people can join (at least people with too much time on their hands) and become known as “Tweeters” (Or is it Twitters?). Then, as Tweeters (Twitters?), they can post “tweets” (messages limited to 140 characters or less) as often as they wish, which means they can inundate the World Wide Web with their day-to-day, hour-to-hour, or minute-to-minute comings, goings, and musings. Moreover, Tweeters (Twitters?) can opt to “retweet” messages if they so choose, whatever the heck that means, although I think perhaps it means that a Tweeter (Twitter?) can repeat a tweet he or she previously tweeted because he or she found it particularly tweet-worthy.

Now, I have a question for you: Who on earth wants to know what someone else is doing and/or thinking every moment of every day? I mean, face it, I don’t even care to know what I’m doing and/or thinking every moment of every day, so why would I want to know your comings, goings, and musings? Come on, do you really think anyone cares if you just grabbed a double-cheeseburger and large order of fries at Burger Doodle? I don’t think so. What’s that? You just spilled coffee on your laptop? Tough luck. You’ve just decided that your cat is the reincarnation of Albert Einstein? Yeah, right, and maybe another Tweeter (Twitter?) can recommend a good shrink.

My point, such as it is, is that this Twittering craze is merely some profit-minded entrepreneur’s way of capitalizing upon people’s innate need to feel important and to believe that what they do and what they think matters to someone, somewhere, even if that someone is a complete stranger. Hmm, now wait a minute; as I wrote that last sentence I experienced an epiphany of sorts: Maybe, just maybe, one could make the same argument about bloggers. What do you think? Never mind. I don’t want to know what you think, so go tweet your opinion on Twitter.

Childhood Tantrums and Bullying

I really enjoy reading the newspaper, not only because it keeps me abreast of current events, both nationally and internationally, but also because I learn so many interesting things. For example, in reading an article by John Rosemond (noted expert on parenting) in the People section of The Advocate, my newspaper of choice, I learned that tantrums beyond a child’s third birthday were a rarity before the parenting revolution of the late 1960s and early 1970s when parents’ common sense was “drowned in a tsunami of psychobabble.” Until this time, although loved and cherished by their parents, at least for the most part, children were not the center of the family—parents were—nor did children believe they were these tiny planets around which the entire universe revolved. On the other hand, today’s children “are generally worshipped by parents who face the center rather than occupy it;” and, as everyone knows, “kings, queens, demigods, and dictators have always been given to tantrums,” although today’s rulers are “wearing pull ups” (Advocate, 2008, p. 1D).

Next, in reading an article by Leanne Italie (Associated Press), I learned there has been a drastic increase in bullying by little children. In fact, according to Meline Kevorkian, researcher and public speaker on bullying, “Research indicates that three-quarters of 8-t0-11-year-olds report they’ve been bullied, with more than half identifying it as a ‘big’ problem.” Moreover, Trudy Ludwig, author of four books on bullying, says that although parents might think such behavior is normal for little children, it isn’t normal at all. The reality, however, is that we, as a society, have “normalized this abnormal behavior.” (Advocate, 2008, p. 1D-2D).

Of course, what I found especially interesting was how this increase in bullying among little children, just like increased tantrums, is the fault of parents. After all, as Barbara Kimmel relates, “Nurturing empathy might be hard for competitive parents who scream at 6-year-olds during soccer games or buy Coach bags for their girls, then wonder out loud who’s carrying the knockoffs” (Advocate, 2008, p. 1D-2D).

After reading these enlightening articles, I poured a fresh cup of coffee, lit yet another cigarette, leaned back in my chair, blew a smoke ring, and began to ponder the implications of what I had just learned. Not that it took much pondering to realize there were no implications, given the meaning of the articles was crystal clear and, no matter how I looked at what I had learned, one and one still equaled two.

The problem, or so I ascertained, is that today’s parents are spoiling their children rotten; and, as a result, they are creating narcissistic little monsters who will grow up to become narcissistic big monsters. Parents are allowing their children to rule the home. They are allowing them to have tantrums (My mama would call it “pitching a fit”). They are allowing their children to be rude, uncivil, and disrespectful. They are allowing them to be greedy. They are allowing them to bully other children. Worst, parents are actually encouraging this kind of behavior by the way they themselves act; and as the old saying goes, “Monkey see, monkey do.”

Italie, L. “Little Bullies Become Concern;” The Advocate; Baton Rouge, LA; Monday, June 30, 2008; p. 1D-2D.

Rosemond, John; “A Brief History of Tantrums;” The Advocate; Baton Rouge, LA; Monday, June 30, 2008; p. 1D-2D.

Punishment, Southern Style

I don’t know about you, but personally I think today’s parents are allowing the lunatics to run the asylum; and when I see children misbehaving, I often recall the various forms of punishment my parents delivered whenever my brother, sister, or I misbehaved.

There was the old soap-in-the-mouth punishment if they heard you utter a word you knew better than to utter in their presence, or anyone else’s, for that matter. In fact, there were certain words you might utter while all alone in the middle of a thicket of blackberry brambles or waist-deep in a kudzu field or standing in a pine forest approximately a mile from the house, that your parents would somehow know you had uttered, and—whoosh—out would come the old Lifebuoy soap the moment you dared show your face back at the house. You say, “So what?” Well, let me ask you something: have you ever tasted Lifebuoy soap? If not, then trust me, it’s a taste you will never forget. In fact, that taste will linger on your taste buds for as long as you live. I should know.

Another form of punishment my parents applied was a good dose of Castor Oil. This was usually meted out whenever we kids dared “sass” our parents. Don’t ask me what how a dose of castor oil was supposed to cure a “sassy mouth,” since it gave you the squirts; but believe me, it worked, perhaps because it tasted almost as vile as Lifebuoy soap. But the worst—even worse than Lifebuoy soap and castor oil—form of punishment my parents delivered was the “Switch.”

I grew up in the Deep South, namely Fairburn, Georgia; and Georgia is known as “The Peach State,” given its rich red soil produces some of the most delectable peaches in the United States, maybe even the entire world. Anyway, my daddy always had peach trees. We kids would eat fresh peaches during growing season; and Mama, she’d make peach preserves, peach marmalade, peach cobblers, and even peach ice cream, although we kids would have to crank the ice cream churn for about half a day until that ice cream was hard enough to eat. Mama would also pickle peaches with spices—they were tangy and went so well with field peas—plus, she’d dry peaches in the sun then package them so we could have fried peach pies in the winter. In other words, my family ate a lot of peaches in one form or another.

But my parents, being innovative, found another use for their peach trees, and that was making “instruments of correction” for their children. In case you didn’t know it, peach limbs—the new green ones, not the old brown ones—are extremely flexible and pliant and make fantastic switches. In fact, they make far better switches than mimosa limbs, which tend to be brittle and snap off after a good whack or two on your child’s behind or bare legs. Let me ask you: have you ever been whipped with a switch off a peach tree? If not, then you have no real understanding of pain. Trust me, it hurts and then some. Fact is, being flailed with a peach limb stings like no other sting you will ever experience. Forget a belt. Forget a fly flap. Forget a wet dishrag. A peach switch is the winner, no hands down.

So, with that in mind, I think today’s children would greatly benefit from a good old-fashioned switching with a pliant peach limb. In fact, I may just start a company—Switches Unlimited—and sell peach limbs on E-bay. Who knows? Maybe it’ll start a fad, and parents all across the nation will begin flailing away at their rotten little kids with peach switches; and before we know it, children will once again be children instead of miniature adults who think the world revolves solely around them.