Since Anderson Cooper told me that "Micro Blogging" is the thing to do now I have been in a class 23 hissy.  I cannot get my thoughts out in 140 characters.  It just doesn't happen.  By the time I am just getting to the meat of my amazing insights about cheddar cheese, discrimination toward the short man, or why I think Homeland Security is tailing me because  I listened to an old Cat Stevens album I find myself out of room.  I get it.  I know that we live in a fast world where we need to get information out faster and more concise than ever...but really do we have to put the restrictions so low?  140 characters is not even close to enough room to get me started on how I once drank a glass of lake water because I was told it would grant me the power to talk to fish.  (turns out the only thing a glass of consumed murky lake water will give you is some sort of growth on my tongue, a three day fever, visions of talking bacon, and some severe moments of Bipolarism of the tummy)

Yes, I twitter...but I am really bad at it.  I cannot find anything to condense into 140 characters.  I just cannot do it.  Here on this blog I can fill the space with random observations that have nothing at all to do with the topic of the entry.  For example, did you know that I have not tied my shoes since I was like eight?  These days I wear shoes without laces...and if I am forced to have clod-hoppers that I have to tie I just ties them in a magical unbreakable knot that only the Lord has the combination for.  Seriously if you see me in adult shoes take a gander down at my feet and see the Navy like knot that I have fashioned around my shoes.  It is like some sort of Chinese Puzzle in order to untie them.  If someone ever is able to I would probably feel compelled to notify the paper.  Now, see??  With a limitation of the 140 characters I would never ever been able to talk about my anti-shoelace stance.  I promise you that your life would have been less richer than it is now without that information.  You are welcome.

Most of the time I begin to type one of these entries I have no idea where exactly they are headed.  I need to let my keys dance on the keys before I have a direction.  With micro-blogging I don't have the luxury to open up my mind and see what shakes out.  I have to be careful with my words and even omit things that might not be essential to the message I am sending.  For some of you Type-A's out there that is probably perfect for you.  A quick message that is organized and is able to be easy stored into your brain.  For messy minded freaks like me it is very difficult to pare down my thoughts into such a vehicle.  Twitter for me is like being on Top Chef and only being given 7 minutes and a microwave to cook a turkey.  I have so much I want to blather on about and only 140 keyboard strokes to get it out.  I am not Mcgyver...I can't make a miracle out of such dire surroundings!  I need time and space to let my mind graze for a bit....

I have a reader who loves Twitter.  I have no doubt she will email me or message me with some harsh words about my lack of Twitterablility.  Maybe you too, are ready to fire off a comment to me that will try and educate me in the Jedi ways of the Twitter.  So let me practice a bit here and let's see how it works.  Here are some practice Tweets for your consumption.

This is  a Twitter Approved Tweet:

How is it that I actually look older than Regis Philbin? Compared to him I look like the son of The Crypt Keeper.

What I actually want to say is:

I am 42 years younger than Regis Philbin!  I look like I am his older brother who comes back to visit him while I am away at college.  Is he hunting Unicorns and drinking his blood to keep him looking like he is ready to go to prom?  Should we be worried that maybe just maybe JK Rowling was using him as the model of the character Voldermort??  Is Regis the TV host who "shall not be named?"  Is he a product of reverse alien engineering??  Or has he managed to keep himself so young looking by bathing in his money?  I don't know how he does it...but his never ending youth frightens me.  When I am 70 he will be 112 and probably show up at my funeral to host it looking like just got done jogging around the park.  Uh..paging Brad Pitt...you should have based Benjamin Button after him!!!!  If the two of us were hanging out and he forgot his wallet I bet I would have to go buy booze for him.


While I understand that the Twitter Approved (TA) content is easier to read and convey roughly the same sentiment...I don't feel good when I am done with it.  The TA feels cold, quick, and heartless.  I cannot relay my true feeling about how I believe that Mr. Philbin has made a pact with the Dark One for immortality.  (yes..by "The Dark One" I am referring to Barbara Walters)



Here is another Twitter Approved comment:

I wish I would have been a better piano student when I was little.  Instead of becoming a better player I tortured the poor nun who taught me  (whew barley made it under 140 characters)


What I actually want to say is:

We all have things we feel bad about doing in our early life.  Maybe it was a little fib we told our parents.  Or perhaps it was the time we picked on the kid next to us because his mom gave him bad hair cuts.  Most of us by the time we reach adulthood we give ourselves a blanket pardon over the crud we did when we were young.  I cannot grant myself the pardon because of the following:

Imagine if you will you are walking in my shoes for a bit.
It is 1984 and you are in a Convent that is brimming with Sisters of the cloth.
They are all there because they love two things; Jesus and Children.
You are sitting on a piano bench with Sr. Marie who is for the fourth year in a row trying to teach you how to play "Row Row Your Boat" for the upcoming recital.
She is an older sister who is desperately trying to impart a sliver of her vast musical knowledge so that she prove to your parents that these lessons justify the price tag.
Despite your lack of interest in piano, and your obvious lack of skill you convince her that when you go home you will practice for the recital that is on the following evening.
She gives you a hug and tells you that you should pray so that maybe "Jesus will help me with my fidgety fingers"/
You go home and decide that instead of practicing you should watch "The Love Boat" and then "Fantasy Island".
The next night when you arrive at the recital  in your cool red and blue striped sweater you tell the obviously nervous Sr. Marie that you are "all set".
When it is your turn you walk calmly up to the bench and sit down for a moment and try to channel your inner Bach.
You bow your head trying to remember the opening notes to the tricky beginning of "Row Row Your Boat".
Nothing comes.  You think maybe you should have practiced the night before instead of watching Gopher try and fall in love for the 350 time.
You look up and notice that both your mother and Sr. Marie have the same expression on their faces.  It is a combination of "I will kill you in a manner that only a Yeti could be a suspect" and "Oh, Lord how have I wronged Thee??"
It is time for action.  So you give both of the shaking women a wink and stand up.
You turn the moment over to the more juvenile part of your brain.
With a quick purse of your lips you know you have to fill the awkward silence that is hanging over you and the room full of blinking eyes that are zoomed in on you.
You then decide it is a good idea to stick your hand up your sweater and into your strangely dry armpit.  
Before anyone in the audience realizes what you are doing you begin to play "Row Row Your Boat" with horrible gaseous sounds from the collaboration of your hand and 10 year old armpit.
You see your mother try and force her soul out of her body and into the great beyond.
You see your older brother look at you with a profound look of pride and sorrow because of the punishment that will await you.
You see the other parents try and cover their children's eyes from the dancing, vaporous criminal that is now playing for tips in front of them.
You see your dad stand as if he wants to stop you, but something stops him.  He is paralyzed as he watches your performance unfold.
Then it happens.
Your eyes catch Sr. Marie's.  Her face is blank.  There is no emotion.  She is broken.
You expected her to react as if you were her personal Linda Blair...but you get not reaction.
Before you get to the second verse you feel the hand of your father's on your shoulder.
The show is over.
So are your piano lessons.
When your mother comes to you all slink out of the recital.
You catch your dad laughing about it on the drive home.
Your mom gives your dad the Yeti death look that she gave you earlier...so he stop smiling for a while.
Sr. Marie finishes the year and then quits teaching piano...forever.
Years later when you see her at a Church Service you introduce yourself to her.
She looks at you and says "Oh yes, I remember you and your noises"
You grimace.
She then informs you "You broke my heart with those noises"
You squirm.
You apologize.
She shakes your hand and tells you to "shape up".
You promise you will.
Then on the drive home as you think about your performance all those years ago you start to laugh.




I can't do that with Twitter.



I completely see the commercial and informative  need for Twitter.  I am hip to it.  I am just trying to figure out where I fit into it.  I will keep trying to keep my thoughts to 140 characters.

But...if Gary Larson would have kept "The Far Side" to 140 characters it would not have been as good.  I am just sayin'.......