Joy Ride

Vic on Gypsy Motorcycle

“There is no bad weather, just bad gear.” said by many Seattle-ites

Keeping this in mind, I put on my dark brown Frye Boots, heavy black sweat pants, two hoodies and a black army-navy surplus outer shell. I strap on my sparkly orange helmet and lined gloves, swing one leg over the leather seat and mount my Suzuki TS250X. It is a cold but sunny Sunday and I have a rare 6 hours free.

Sudden October winds almost push me off of Green Bay Road, and into the oncoming traffic, as yellow and orange leaves swirl down onto the road ahead of me. “All Things Considered” streams into my white earbuds, as I drive further and further north, away from my gorgeous but draining home.

“The Field Museum will sponsor a lecture about the shrinking bee population world-wide, and how this has affected pollination and reduced crop yields”, and then, “The Ebola virus has come to America and the implications are frightening,”

The silver gas tank warms the inside of my thighs as I speed up, hitting the open road. Mile by mile, I increase the distance between my body and mind and the city. Somebody, somewhere, has a wood stove or a fireplace working, and I peal through a short corridor of distant smoke.

“According to the Farmer’s Almanac, this winter in Chicago could be even colder than last, with record-breaking temperatures.”

I wonder why I always listen to NPR, a constant stream of words and ideas, many of them negative and fearful, and about things I can’t even control anyway.

Here it is early October, and just last night we had snow and freezing temperatures. It feels as if the city is standing on a precipice, staring down into a canyon of fear about the future: cold, broke, sick, under or unemployed, mad about government policies and spending, afraid of drive-by’s and concealed weapons and worried about saving up enough money for Christmas.

Hand on throttle, wind slipping in under my plastic face shield, loud noise of the engine drowning on the radio as I accelerate, I balance myself on the bike and speed off into the unknown, away from mini-malls, mail boxes with overdue bills and a sink full of dirty dishes.

On the bike, I am a solo traveler, an adventurer out for a weekend ride, a dark-clad image speeding through small towns and down country roads, a kind stranger who is up for anything.

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What’s your Message?

laptop iphone devices graphic (1)I did it. 95 hours later, after completing a “Design your Own Website” class at my local library, and breaking down 20 years of work as a teacher, writer, career coach and motivational speaker, I finally finished my website:

http://www.prosperitycareercoaching.com/

The process was exhausting, revealing and liberating. After actively listening to and coaching 100’s of clients on how to clarify and convey their Personal Brands and Messages, here’s what I know for sure:

WORDS ARE POWERFUL!
Strong messages stand out from the crowd!

Are you a…….
VISIONARY?
ENTREPRENEUR?
Soon to be – High School and College GRADUATE?
CAREER CHANGER?
MIDLIFE RE-INVENTOR?
Professional seeking WORK/LIFE BALANCE?
BUSINESS OWNER?

Fantastic! Prosperity Career Coaching offers a unique blend of Mindful Mentoring and Pragmatic Business Expertise.

If you are in a place where your story and life path are keeping you up at night – random thoughts at the end of your tongue searching for the clear message – let me know.

We will sit together over coffee or at our respective computers. I will listen while you do a “brain dump”, bringing the unconscious to the forefront. I will sort with you through the rubble and we will

FIND
YOUR
VOICE.

That is the first step to building the life/career/vision/body/health/prosperity you want.

Take the leap.
Connect: WordsmithVictoria@gmail.com

Civil Rights and the Future of America

 


“Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.”  Eleanor Roosevelt

I would like to add “powerless”, “victimized”, “hopeless” and 100 other words to her empowering statement.  On this day when I see my beloved United States of America portrayed as a racist, xenophobic, heartless oligarchy in the international media, I am embarrassed to be an American.

I am a white woman married to a black man.  I have a bi-racial son.  As an English as a Second Language Teacher, I have worked with clients from Japan, China, Taiwan, Korea, Jordan, Iran, Turkey, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Mexico, Brazil, Italy, and Poland for the past 20 years.

Diversity is intertwined in the fabric of WHO I AM.

When I engage, connect, and unify with these sacred members of the human family, we transcend race, religion, country of origin, politics, education.  We find that place of familiarity, that sisterhood and brotherhood that is imminent, powerful, transformative.

Trump recently banned asylum for Syrian refugees for 90 days.  This makes me think of my Syrian clients and friends, their divided families and the possibility of loved ones abroad dying from violence, starvation, illness.

Trump’s supposed “Wall” will directly and indirectly impact the 100’s of Mexican factory workers who were part of my ESL classes on the South and West Sides of Chicago – their families, the Pilsen neighborhood, or their aged mother or father back home in Cuernavaca who is dependent on that monthly wire transfer.

These are not abstractions on Fox News – these are real people and real stories. Trump’s ridiculous policies will have financial, medical, educational and life threatening implications on these mothers, fathers, employees, students, voters and community members.

Working with this global population over the years, there have been hundreds of intense discussions of geopolitical issues.  In this context, I am often called upon to act as a cultural liaison and to “represent”.

BUT I

CAN

NOT

REPRESENT:

  • This administration.
  • These distorted “values” of divisiveness, isolationism, poverty consciousness (we have to protect US interests) and oppression of everyone who is not a white, male, conservative Christian.
  • This pervasive hatred and this narrow-minded view of our global reality.

I can not take this sitting down.  These impostors in the White House do not represent me or millions of other loving, conscious, intelligent American citizens.

THE PERSONAL IS POLITICAL, so here’s what I will do:

I will love my neighbor.  I will yield to merging traffic.  I will say “thank you” to my Starbucks barista.  When the weather turns, I will once again sit outside of Barnes and Noble with my “Open Discourse – Weigh in on the State of the Nation” sign.  I will set up a card table and chairs and wait to see who sits down.  Then I will give each brave participant 5 minutes to share their thoughts – to vent or cry or celebrate.  This is how I can effect change in my own community.  This is how I can contribute to empowerment, hope and equality.

This is what democracy looks like.

The Importance of Storytelling

 

lifepath coaching image
The Journey Awaits

“Laptop open and hair pulled back, I sip on an Americano and act as a conduit for my clients.  Being present is a gift.  We all just want to be heard over the noise.”

First appointments are usually tentative, as we find commonalities, craft a path and map out goals. Subsequent sessions often involve hugs or tears, and delightful transformation.

Participating with gratitude and humility, I sit back and watch the rainbow of humanity cross my path at my “Starbucks office”.

Who do I work with and why do they come to me?

Engineers, CEO’s, accountants, teachers, lawyers, pharmacists, graphic designers, sound designers, construction workers and restaurant managers – all of whom want to: edit a resume or LinkedIn page, discover their “special sauce” or Personal Brand, reinvent themselves professionally or actualize entrepreneurial dreams.

At least these concrete tasks are what usually motivates clients to send me a text or email in response to one of my many online ads.

Students also seek out my consultation: high school students trying to write better papers, undergraduates applying for select graduate programs, and PhD candidates writing complex dissertations.

American and international geniuses from Europe, Asia and South America all show up, with carefully crafted documents and hopeful dreams of change for the future.

These are the demographic markers of the hundreds of people I have worked with for over 20 years, as a writing coach, editor, academic/business/life coach, content creator, and personal brand consultant. I have titles and my clients have titles, which bring us together and help propel our careers, but underneath it all is the PROCESS.

What I really DO, on a spiritual and “deep dive” level is hold out the metaphorical microphone to whoever is sitting in front of me – provide the time and space and silence and patience for them to FIND THEIR VOICE.

Putting words around:
memories-dreams-accomplishments-fears-realizations-stories-conclusions-assumptions-facts-theories. I hyphenated that list because that is what stream of consciousness feels like, one long, continuous idea that is like an audio loop in our MINDS, an undercurrent or theme that seems disconnected except that it wakes us up in the night and recurs in our journal entries. Pulling on our shirt tails like an insistent child that needs something.

So what I do is provide the container for my clients to finally slow down long enough to give that child a chance to be heard, to elaborate on that whim or to clearly spell out that conclusion. It is cathartic and rewarding and satisfying. Being heard. Realizing that you actually have something to say and that you matter.

Words are powerful. Clarity brings about change. Taking a mental sabbatical, whether for 2 hours or a year, gives us the opportunity to let go of the grocery list mentality and take a broader view of our lives.

This is the work of honing our vision, setting, re-setting and course correcting when our compass is off track. Assisting others in this clarification process is impactful and important work. My obsession with story-telling began as a kid. I remember listening to Studs Terkel on the radio, and reveling in how he drew out the oral histories of regular Americans. Now, at 52, I am blessed to have a calling that involves encouraging and assisting others to find their true north.

In the end – what else do we have to show for our time here on earth but our story, our message and the tribe we leave behind?

What is your story and how do you support your tribe in sharing theirs? I would feel honored if you could share your story or any other feedback with directly with me or with all of us – in the Comment Section below.

Getting Noticed

funky older women group


We all know that society treats women differently after a ‘certain age’. As younger women, many of us enjoyed the external validation that comes from turned heads, smiles or extra attention when we asked for assistance at stores. Even if we identify as feminists, it still feels good to go through your day like Marlo Thomas in ‘That Girl’! We may not even have realized how good this attention made us feel, until it was suddenly gone or reduced.

However, after about 50, there is often a feeling of invisibility around men, as if they don’t need or want to work for our attention any longer. Suddenly, we may have to wait longer at a counter to get help or go through an entire day with no banter with random men, like we had before. Continue reading “Getting Noticed”

Seattle to Chicago – Speeding Up and Slowing Down

imageAfter struggling to survive in the fourth most expensive city in the USA (Seattle) for the past 6 years, we finally decided to pack up our meager belongings and take the 2000 mile journey back to our hometown, Chicago. Chicago, where the average salary is closer to $40,000 a year vs $100,000 for an entry level engineer at Amazon. Chicago, where plumbers, gardeners, teachers, lawyers and Walmart workers all live on the same street. Chicago, where I can hear 5 languages when I enter the Harvest Time Foods family grocery store, including Spanish on the piped-in radio station.  Chicago, where I just experienced a glorious month of August, swimming in Lake Michigan and spending every day at the beach, reading fun novels and letting the sun heal me.

I have done this journey before, always alone with my son Avante, packing up a truck full of stuff, attaching a tow dolly, driving the car onto it and hauling the entire load across mountains, deserts and lone stretches of road where “no services” signs bring up fears of breaking down on a 90 degree day far from a town. My husband Johnny always flew before us, setting up a job, a place, finding a community.

I have moved from Portland to Chicago, from Chicago to Seattle and now from Seattle back to Chicago, criss-crossing the country over a 10 year period of time, trying to find a home where all three of us (mom, dad and son) can find our way, make friends, learn, grow, prosper, and be healthy. If I could get back the expenses for gas, hotels, truck rentals, security deposits, and start up fees for utilities, we could have probably put it down on a house somewhere, set up shop,
built a home and a business and a life for ourselves…

But we didn’t. We were and are gypsies, acquirers of experience and friends and music and art and festivals and new foods and new languages. We are rich in memories and references, great at conversation and story telling, funny and vibrant and full of life. We have always done what we wanted to do and followed our bliss and up until now, this act of ‘living our right livelihood’ has made perfect sense.

Up until now. In about 30 days, I will have the honor of celebrating my 50th birthday, and this has brought up all sorts of questions about where a person is supposed to be at 50, what they should
have accomplished, what they should OWN and what this birthday means in a global/celestial sense. Lots of fun topics that used to keep me up at night before I enrolled in this 35,000 Calorie Challenge at my YMCA. I have to exercise, hard, for an hour a day, for 100 days straight. Today is day #10 and I have alternated with water aerobics and 10 mile bike rides, every other day. These days I sleep like a baby, out of exhaustion.

However, the questions still tug at me.

Who evaluates our success? Us or society? How much is enough to have earned, accomplished, experienced? Why are we satisfied with what we have at certain points, and woefully disappointed in our lot on other days? Especially when it is the same lot, the same job, the same apartment, the same family.

But it is not the same. I am new here, in my old/new city. Trying to find work and friends and sanctuary in a fast-paced world. Trying to fill my days with structure and purpose and productivity, whether it’s cooking for my family, working with a student or sculpting my body at the Y. Either way, I just want to feel at home in my skin, in my relationships, in my two-flat apartment with it’s wood floors and 1902 wainscoting trim around the ceilings. Waiting to exhale and hopefully stay put for a while – my spirit and pocketbook can’t endure much more change.

The Matriarch has Retired

As if thinking of a stranger, I remember the days of lovingly peeling potatoes, listening to world music and preparing dinner for my family of 3. Day after day, I stood in the small kitchen and created delicious entrees out of simple ingredients, trying out recipes from books I’d borrowed from the library or bringing back old favorites along with the nostalgia that only food can evoke. I felt a certain humility, as if a cog in a machine, and that my role was to be the bringer of health – the one who thinks “what’s for dinner?” early on in the day. I was maintaining the sacred, traditional custom of the family dinner, confident that this act would keep our 13 year old off of drugs and out of some girl’s pants.

I prepared breakfast and lunch with the same reverence, standing on a support pad that chefs use, buying myself new dish towels and other sparky tools to keep my kitchen fresh and exciting. I would listen to NPR each morning, and my (unpaid) daily shift from 6-7am went something like this:

boil up water for rice and coffee/ make coffee to keep myself going while I do the other tasks/wash the dishes from the night before/wipe off the counters,so I can make room for breakfast/feel grateful that I’m doing this in a developed country, with electricity and running water/stare at the fridge/figure out what I can make them for lunch that will be

healthy
portable
cheap

“Mom, I need you to sign this paper that was due 3 days ago, and pay for something” my son would say, handing me a totally wrinkled field trip permission slip, a yearbook order form or some other paperwork that would demand mental focus and the writing of a check.

“Just leave it on the counter, I’ll get to it later. Out of the kitchen.” I’d grunt, in the nicest voice I could muster.

Scramble the eggs for breakfast/put toast in the toaster/check the rice/sauté up some veg/sip the coffee/think about the world/prep the breakfast plates/throw out the half-eaten lunches from yesterday. (Wasted food and energy – try not to think about it, it’s already 6:45… and they have to leave soon.)

A voice on the radio says, “Women’s work contributes to an unacknowledged, un-paid labor force, supporting the nation but somehow not integrated into the Gross National Product.”

“Breakfast is ready” I’d pronounce, placing the steaming plates on our 50’s style metal table with the mis-matched chairs.

“Thanks” one of them would mutter, as they stood primping in the mirror and planning for their day ahead, like you would say to a waitress or a teen at the drive-through, who I now had a new appreciation for.

Passing a mirror, I would see my frizzy hair sticking out, the mascara from yesterday smudged below my eyes, and my paisley mumu hanging off of me in what used to be a funky way. Now I just looked dowdy. I’d think about my day and what I needed to prepare, who I was going to see later, but there was no time for that now.

Next I’d whip through the lunch project, assembling today’s entree, all the while trying to remember to sip my (now cold) coffee and prepare my 10 daily supplements. I did this same routine every day for years.

Then I turned 49 and

all

hell

broke

loose.

I began to ride the emotional and physical wave of shifting hormones. The veil between what I thought and said had always come down during PMS, but now my brassy and intrepid edge was seeping out on a daily basis. Acting like a sacrificial matriarch annoyed me, as my decreasing levels of estrogen revealed a self-protective, guilt-less, woman with a clear voice.

A war had begun in my body, my mind and my apartment.

Maybe I should install a time-clock on my kitchen wall, and punch in every time I am of service.

“Hey, guys, I’m going to put a dollar amount on all of the tasks that I do each day.” I said one day at breakfast.

“Pretty funny baby.” my husband said. “You know we appreciate your cooking, your cleaning, how you show your love for us.” We had been down this road many times before.

I realized that no amount of praise or number of “thank you’s” could make up for the sacrifice of wifehood, motherhood, womanhood. Before this massive shift, watching my child at a soccer game and noticing his new haircut/clean clothes could give me a feeling of satisfaction. Now I was tired of being a bystander.

I saw time passing and with it, my spirit, my ideas, and my energy. All of that cooking represented unrealized creativity, as the food was simply prepared, ingested, and turned to waste.

I equated each meal with a potential:

essay

article

memoir

I wanted to invest my energy in creative projects that had an actual outcome. Like a man. My inner child was tugging at my shirt tails, begging for attention and a voice.

My un-edited anger seeped into other parts of our lives too. I began delegating housework.

“Mom, where is my black Nike t-shirt?” my teen son demanded one busy morning at 6am, “I asked you to wash it last night!”

The indignant tone in his voice surprised me and forced me to question the division of labor in our home.

“Why is it MY responsibility to wash, dry and keep track of your clothes?” I said, thinking this was yet another watershed moment in our mother-son journey.

I went to the store and bought 3 small matching hampers. From that day forward, each family member had to wash and dry and sort their own laundry.

Revitalized after letting go of that daily task, I made a list of other domestic paradigms I had unknowingly put myself into the center of, as the “woman” of the house.

Housework was taking away my time to write, think, meditate, be. Fantasizing about driving out of their lives forever on my motorcycle, I also knew that I still wanted to share my life with these male beings. Using my creativity to solve this middle passage challenge, I devoted every spare moment to writing, yoga, solitude and silence. Anger began to slowly dissipate, replaced by a new confidence and knowledge that I deserved to feel joy and a sense of fulfillment.

I began the journey of discovering, accepting and honoring my new self, and wanting to connect with other “older” moms like me. We were and are the new generation of women who are raising teens at a time when our mothers were grandmothers, watching as hormonal tidal waves uproot our homes and searching for a quiet desert island.

 

Walking the Camino – Six Ways to Santiago

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The documentary Walking the Camino – Six Ways to Santiago follows a group of tourists turned pilgrims, as they walk 500 miles across Northern Spain, in the ancient tradition of Christians who have followed this same spiritual path for hundreds of years.  Along the way there are albergues, or hostels, where those who are walking can stay for a very small fee.  You sleep in large rooms with men and women, eat communally and are basically thrown head-long into an international slumber party.

The walkers are a young woman with her preschool-aged son, a pair of senior men who are best friends, and some other young men and women who connect with each other along the way.  The mother actually has a stroller for her son, along with a huge backpack and some other bags, and they both walk (ride) the entire 500 miles!

There are many reflective moments where the pilgrims compare the Camino to the road of life we are walking down:  unpredictable, painful, exciting, humbling.  They speak of not knowing what will happen that day, where they will sleep that night, who they will meet, and how that is why they felt so ALIVE during the journey.

In one scene, the older gentlemen chat about what it is like to pack everything you own and need into one bag, and then start walking for the day.  They spoke about how the trail was their home.  Letting go of possessions enabled them to be free and live in the moment.

Watching this film, from the vantage point of my {mother-wife-teacher-owner of a car and a motorcycle-person with a schedule} perspective, I felt sad.  Living in hostels, on the edge, from day to day was my lifestyle for about 10 years and my current normal life has a repetitiveness that is mind-numbing, predictable, stifling.

I’d like to close with these questions, and I would love to hear your thoughtful responses in the comment section below:

How much do we need to sacrifice for our children/partner/success?

What is the price we pay for consistency?

Are our accomplishments truly significant, if all we are doing is training ourselves to sublimate our true nature, our inquisitive minds, or desire for connection and adventure?

How do you define success?

When do you feel the most spiritual?  The most connected to others and the Universe?

Join the conversation as we question the assumptions that are all around us, and work to re-define our own values, dreams, futures.

The PERSONAL is POLITICAL

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I work with students from around the world, as a private English language tutor.   I am lucky in that I spend my days in cafes, sitting at tables with students from Russia, Japan, Korea, France, Spain, Mexico, and other countries.

Some days we parse out which words are verbs, nouns, adjectives and adverbs.  We construct complex sentences or we deconstruct abstract grammar concepts.  Other days they just want to chat, and we cover everything from politics, to history to cross-cultural communication styles.  These are my favorite sessions, when we can break down the barriers between us and get REAL.

Today, a young student from Russia asked me why I referred to myself as a “Radical Feminist” in  the title of my upcoming memoir –Experiments in Living:  How a Radical Feminist Endured Motherhood on a Suzuki TS250X.

I was happy that he had read my blog and was curious about my writing.

“Great question, which word are you asking about “radical” or “feminist?”  I asked.

“Well, I know what feminist means but radical makes me think you hate men.  It is so extreme.”  he said.

From there a discussion ensued that began with the liberation of African Americans and the MLK Movement.  I told him how many white people felt that any form of “Black Nationalism” or black power was a threat to or indictment of white culture.  We talked about how the liberation of one group does not have to demean or limit another, and how women’s liberation is about empowering women, not hating men.

My journey into feminism began back when I was 13 and going over to a boy’s house to play Monopoly.

As I was leaving, my mom said, “I know you are good at Monopoly, but let him win. Boys like that.”

I proceeded to purchase many houses and hotels,  and to buy up all the properties on the board.

I cannot blame my mother, whose rhetoric was steeped in her 50’s upbringing and the fact that she attended college just to get her M.R.S. degree.

I am not my mother.  I am not my grandmother.

Now that our son has turned 13, I can see how this formative time will set the foundation for many of his decisions and relationships.

Last month my husband and I threw him a birthday party.  Both boys and girls came to his “dinner and a movie” event,  which started at a local hamburger joint.  After eating, the boys all stood up to go and the girls started to clean up the wrappers and cups.

“Woah.  Hold the phone!”  I intercepted.  “Here’s how it works, boys, you ate the food – now you must help clean up too.”

My husband proceeded to assign duties, role modeling.

I re-direct and educate and empower and discuss and enlighten others on a daily basis about the role of women in our society, in our homes, in our schools, and at our jobs.

This is a daily choice and by having these discussions I encourage myself and others to question our assumptions about what it means to be a girl or a boy, a woman or a man.

Who decided that females must cook and clean for men?  Who decided that, in order for men to feel confident, women must be less than, demure, apologetic?

Any real man can handle a woman who is powerful,  and will support his woman in developing her intelligence and creativity.  He will see her evolution as an asset to his own life.

As women, we were born into these bodies and into this American culture at this period of time, but we do not have to accept others’ ideas about what that means for us, what we can (or cannot) do, how we should dress or what we should say.

We are free, and yet we also have the legacy of those who came before us, setting the stage for that freedom and remembering that the each day we make decisions and statements that show us:  the Personal is indeed Political.

That’s Not Funny

The blonde and the brunette (Beth Behrs and Kat Dennings), from CBS’s Two Broke Girls, were on the Rachel Ray Show yesterday.  Sitting in a booth that was part of a mock restaurant set, clad in stilettos and push-up bras, they were discussing their show with Rachel.  Kat, in her cliche way of acting like a raunchy urban slut who has no boundaries, referred  to her “crotch” more times than a team of football players in a locker room.  The “dumb blonde” (Beth)  giggled and occasionally denigrated herself, just like on the Two Broke Girls.  Rachel tried (and failed) to make a connection between their show and real life waitresses who are broke and have to deal with rude customers.  Of course real-life waitresses probably cannot afford designer jewelry or bleached out high-maintenance hair do’s, and certainly can’t schlep heavy trays around for an 8 hour shift, in 5″ heels.

They performed some kind of skit where all three “girls” had to get pie, dishes, water and silverware from a counter to individual tables, in record time.  It was ridiculous and didn’t do much to further the cause of respecting waitresses or servers.

Then they began a discussion of the comedic timing of the cast and the fact that the show is filmed with a live audience.  Beth referred to the audience as a “third character” and made more (sexual) jokes about playing off of the other members of the cast.  Rachel finally made a comparison between Beth/Kat and Carol Burnett/Vickie Lawrence, in terms of the witty reparte and improvisational creativity bouncing back and forth between the women onstage.

What?  Carol Burnett and Vickie Lawrence never referred to their “vaginas”, their “boobies”, or talked about their periods.  They never resorted to giving extremely graphic descriptions of their sex lives, while referring to cocaine use and stealing from their jobs, to get a laugh.  The writers of the Carol Burnett Show gave their actors unique and eccentric characters to play, who were involved in surprising and ironic situations.  The actors, who could rival the early Second City, interpreted the scripts with magical stage presence and pure wackiness.  Winning 22 Emmies during the 11 year run of the show, they were obviously doing something right.  Many of their laughs came from slapstick comedy or outlandish characterizations of stereotypes like the crazy grandma or a Southern Belle who is codependent on her family.

Modern television has taken comedy to a new low.  When we watch prime time TV with our 13 year old son, I have to keep my index finger hovered over the mute button.  Even I am embarrassed by the sexual references to “rods”, “parking my car in your garage” and others that are not fit to print.  Does our sound-byte-oriented, over-stimulated and unimpressed society need this much shock value to be entertained?  Remember when humor was related to irony or that statement that was so universally true that it was funny – like Jerry Seinfeld’s observations on human nature that made you laugh at yourself?  Perhaps I’ll just get Hulu and hide in the past, where it’s safe and Rated PG.