Is it just me or are other people sick of the "new look" shiz? Yes, shiz is my family-friendly way of saying that FCC-forbidden look alike (you know, the one that ends in T?).
I log in today to write this post and am greeted by the most hideous interface I've ever seen. Google thinks it's cool. I have no idea who's telling them these lies. Their designers? Their IT department? The entirety of Google is probably an IT department that has no concept of beauty (not to say that all IT people are like that, just Google's, maybe?).
Anyway, in case Google and Facebook missed it, THEIR NEW LOOKS are shiz. No one likes them. I represent the everyman, the everywoman and if I don't like it, NO ONE DOES.
Change for the sake of change is merely a nuisance. Don't they get it? EVERYTHING in our normal, day to day life changes, constantly. We can't stop it. It flows and ebbs around us like an annoying tide when all we want is for our sand castles to stay put. We spend hours and hours building them. We get everything just the way we want it. And what happens? The damn tide comes in and washes away our efforts.
We want some things to stay familiar. Google, you know that our mail accounts AND our blogging accounts could stay the same and no one would complain.
Most likely.
Things that stay the same, especially when they work, are nice. Comforting. Like a Seinfield episode after trying to get into Suburbagotory. Suburgatory*? I have no idea. But there, you see how annoying that title is? It's supposed to be cute and clever all wrapped up into a perfect cupcake, while really, it's just difficult and annoying and NOT Seinfield.
That's what this new Blogger is. Blugly. Blooger. And not Seinfield. It's trying to be clever. Like Suburgatory but without Alan Tudyk. Therefore, I shall call it Blugly. Or Blooger. And you will know that I mean Blogger.
And that's what the stupid new Facebook Timeline ("timeline, timeline, timeline" [those are echoes. Echoes of horridness]) is. Crapline.
And the new Gmail look. It's now called Crapmail, for those in the know. Because, why? Because it's shiz. It bites. It blows. It sucks. It's crappy crap. It's like an irritating little animal that once offered cuddles and comfort but now all it does is the majority of derogatory verbs. Look, I'm down at the very bottom of this NEW AWESOME Blooger screen and my neck is getting a kink in it. Instead of having half a window, I have a whole window, and it's that embedded crap kind of window where you have to use a scroll bar to move down. It used to be that when I got to this point, I was still looking at the middle of my computer screen and I didn't have to press return a hundred times to get some white space on my page so I wasn't blowing my neck out (you can blow your neck out these days because of computer screen wear and tear. It's true).
So what do I have to do? Blugly Blogger and Google and Facebook make ME adapt to their fancy. For some whimsical reason, they've adopted the mantra of constant improvement. It's like the new corporation, where it's all about profit margins. So rather than continue to give a good profit, the modern corporation gets the consumer addicted to their product, then slowly proceeds to cut corners until that sweet iPad you spent ten gajillion dollars on is now a fancy slab of cardboard with some dust in the middle pretending to be a processor.
In this metaphor, the profit margin is the addiction to "new and improved" and despite no complaints (most likely), these companies that I once loved (well, Google anyway), they feel it their duty to continually make improvements. For what purpose, I ask?
Google, Blogger, and Facebook are my heroine. But they're losing me. I'm considering going back to Hotmail, or transferring my blogs to Wordpress. I hate Wordpress. Why? Because it wasn't Blogger. And I hated Hotmail because it wasn't Gmail. But now that Google's been messing with it, they aren't Gmail and Blogger either. They're some ugly piece of shiz that's supposed to look neat, white, and streamlined.
B.S.
And also, I will throw in the Timeline version of Facebook. And the horrendous new Gmail look (oh wait, I already mentioned it, oops!). Even though I plastered Google with vitriolic feedback, they still made me switch. It looks just like this ugly, crap Blogger posting page. What's the point? So when I'm blogging, I feel like I'm emailing and vice versa?
This is called hubris. Get over yourself, Google. I was in awe of the space elevator plans, but now I just think you've impaled yourself on your own sword. Pride goeth before the fall, and I can see this giant toppling. Sadly, I want them to topple. They've messed with my mail account and now my blogging world. They've GONE TOO FAR!!!!!!!!!!!
*Yes, I know they have Alan Tudyk and I love him, but that doesn't make the show a shoe-in for the most awesome show award.
EDIT: Oh. Huh. Looky here. A button to revert to the old look. Ah. Brilliant. Much better. Anyway. Still. I know they'll force me to change to the new look, just like they did with Gmail.
Showing posts with label pet peeves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pet peeves. Show all posts
Monday, April 23, 2012
Monday, April 09, 2012
Dork
So here's my big question of the week. Is it that hard to not be a dork?
Something set me off on this philosophical musing but I can't remember what. I have some serious concerns, however.
Here are some ways that people surprise me with behavior I can only label dorky. Also, dorky is a really ridiculous word if you use it more than twice in a blog. It suddenly looks absurd. Is it even English?
A) I can't remember what happened, but don't hold an eternal grudge against me. Like, say I said or did or DIDN'T do something that bothered you. I no longer remember, plus, remember, for a while there I was pregnant and if you've never been around a pregnant woman OR equally, if you've never BEEN a pregnant woman, well then you wouldn't know, would you. I will tell you. Everything is a bit more insane when you're pregnant. You can't rely on the normal course of things, like the sun rising, the sun setting, etc., because pregnancy throws all that to crap.
So say we had an appointment and I forgot, WAY back when I was pregnant. Might have been because I was pregnant. And you might not have known, because, if it was in the beginning, well, how could you have known? I wasn't tell everyone. Or, say I, in an attempt to be polite, returned a book to you before I finished reading it because I didn't want to forget. Well, might have been because I was pregnant and I was trying to sell my house and you had no way of knowing that because I was keeping that shit a secret. So, really, let's bury the hatchet. I didn't know it would destroy the mutually decent feeling between us and I couldn't really explain at the moment.
Yes, so there is that. Pregnancy. Wow. Really rough. Not that I think a person should just be able to use that excuse carte blanche, because that's annoying. But I'm using it here. Because. It's true.
B) There was something else. Some things. Hard to remember. Not enough sleep. Baby keeping me up all night. Memory shot to hell.
Oh yes. Please. For the love. THE LOVE. Don't let your dog crap in my yard. That's right. Yes, for sure we share the same teensy plot of land in front of our houses, but maybe you can either pick up the poop like responsible people do (with the inside-out bag) or you can monitor your dog and restrain him from pooping on my side of the lawn. See, I have a kid, and when summer comes, I'd love to let him play in the grass, but with your dog crapping all over it, I don't see that happening.
So. Please. Don't a crappy crap neighbor. Don't be a total dork and make me loath you.
I should probably go talk to this neighbor. I just hate confrontation. Is there a passive-aggressive way to deal with this? I mean, besides writing about it here?
C) Don't be a dork and ignore me like this is high school. I know. I was just talking about being passive-aggressive, so how I can make this type of request? I'm not sure how it works, but I'm doing it.
So yeah, maybe I always liked you way more than you liked me. How am I to know? Let's just not play games and accept stupid FB friend-requests and then proceed to ignore any other communication. For the love. That's just stupid. Unfriend me, because I don't care THAT much about it, and so I'm not under the illusion that the lines of communication are open and we are friends, or, um, I don't know, write back?
I mean. Really. Facebook. I get it, I understand that it's easy to forget to do something (see A, for example). I'm just saying, why even HAVE Facebook if you're never going to use it (and that leads to me getting paranoid because you haven't acknowledged me and I want to write a little rant like this).
Wait. I actually know the answer to that because I'm constantly threatening to delete my account and then never do—I don't use it enough and I'm always putting my foot in my mouth and offending someone. But still, I don't delete it. Because I might miss out on something awesome. Like, I don't know, suddenly Facebook gives everyone a free Mac or Ipad or something. Or the great Millennium is first announced on Facebook. That could totally happen.
And that is why I want to delete my Facebook account (but haven't).
Hmm. That's it. For today. I guess. Wow. I usually have so many more complaints. Welp. Now I feel mysteriously satisfied and empty. Like, I could just go through the rest of the day totally mellow, despite that had to wake up every two or three hours last night and am therefore very tired and head-achey.
Huh. Who would have thought. I only had three complaints today.
Amazing. Huh. Well then. I guess I'll just go over here, in this corner. And sit. For a while. Huh.....
*Silence*
Something set me off on this philosophical musing but I can't remember what. I have some serious concerns, however.
Here are some ways that people surprise me with behavior I can only label dorky. Also, dorky is a really ridiculous word if you use it more than twice in a blog. It suddenly looks absurd. Is it even English?
A) I can't remember what happened, but don't hold an eternal grudge against me. Like, say I said or did or DIDN'T do something that bothered you. I no longer remember, plus, remember, for a while there I was pregnant and if you've never been around a pregnant woman OR equally, if you've never BEEN a pregnant woman, well then you wouldn't know, would you. I will tell you. Everything is a bit more insane when you're pregnant. You can't rely on the normal course of things, like the sun rising, the sun setting, etc., because pregnancy throws all that to crap.
So say we had an appointment and I forgot, WAY back when I was pregnant. Might have been because I was pregnant. And you might not have known, because, if it was in the beginning, well, how could you have known? I wasn't tell everyone. Or, say I, in an attempt to be polite, returned a book to you before I finished reading it because I didn't want to forget. Well, might have been because I was pregnant and I was trying to sell my house and you had no way of knowing that because I was keeping that shit a secret. So, really, let's bury the hatchet. I didn't know it would destroy the mutually decent feeling between us and I couldn't really explain at the moment.
Yes, so there is that. Pregnancy. Wow. Really rough. Not that I think a person should just be able to use that excuse carte blanche, because that's annoying. But I'm using it here. Because. It's true.
B) There was something else. Some things. Hard to remember. Not enough sleep. Baby keeping me up all night. Memory shot to hell.
Oh yes. Please. For the love. THE LOVE. Don't let your dog crap in my yard. That's right. Yes, for sure we share the same teensy plot of land in front of our houses, but maybe you can either pick up the poop like responsible people do (with the inside-out bag) or you can monitor your dog and restrain him from pooping on my side of the lawn. See, I have a kid, and when summer comes, I'd love to let him play in the grass, but with your dog crapping all over it, I don't see that happening.
So. Please. Don't a crappy crap neighbor. Don't be a total dork and make me loath you.
I should probably go talk to this neighbor. I just hate confrontation. Is there a passive-aggressive way to deal with this? I mean, besides writing about it here?
C) Don't be a dork and ignore me like this is high school. I know. I was just talking about being passive-aggressive, so how I can make this type of request? I'm not sure how it works, but I'm doing it.
So yeah, maybe I always liked you way more than you liked me. How am I to know? Let's just not play games and accept stupid FB friend-requests and then proceed to ignore any other communication. For the love. That's just stupid. Unfriend me, because I don't care THAT much about it, and so I'm not under the illusion that the lines of communication are open and we are friends, or, um, I don't know, write back?
I mean. Really. Facebook. I get it, I understand that it's easy to forget to do something (see A, for example). I'm just saying, why even HAVE Facebook if you're never going to use it (and that leads to me getting paranoid because you haven't acknowledged me and I want to write a little rant like this).
Wait. I actually know the answer to that because I'm constantly threatening to delete my account and then never do—I don't use it enough and I'm always putting my foot in my mouth and offending someone. But still, I don't delete it. Because I might miss out on something awesome. Like, I don't know, suddenly Facebook gives everyone a free Mac or Ipad or something. Or the great Millennium is first announced on Facebook. That could totally happen.
And that is why I want to delete my Facebook account (but haven't).
Hmm. That's it. For today. I guess. Wow. I usually have so many more complaints. Welp. Now I feel mysteriously satisfied and empty. Like, I could just go through the rest of the day totally mellow, despite that had to wake up every two or three hours last night and am therefore very tired and head-achey.
Huh. Who would have thought. I only had three complaints today.
Amazing. Huh. Well then. I guess I'll just go over here, in this corner. And sit. For a while. Huh.....
*Silence*
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
The Spectacular Decline of All that Is Holy
So I just saw a piece on the terrible excuse for a talk-show, The View, about how any old average Joe can create porn in their homes and make a killing. I guess the segment is a teaser for another show on some network called Own, by some chick named Lucy Ling or the like. I usually never watch The View, partly because I don't relish morning talk shows, or afternoon talk shows to be fair (unless it's Ellen, but then, I always forget to tune in, don't I), and I especially loathe The View.
Frankly, as far as I've seen, there are never any views expressed on The View save complacency for the decadent ride into hell our country is taking (unless Whoopi's going on some rant wherein she displays her total lack of understanding for any serious issue, and it's never about the most pertinent points, like how the country's on a steady course for moral destruction). Honestly. To borrow a favorite phrase from the motherland across the pond, the country's going to the dogs.
The ONLY way the subject of Ms. Ling's segment is newsworthy is in fact to exhibit the total and utter lack of morals which our society possesses. Generally on this blog, I prefer to be somewhat tame in the expression of my values. You may laugh, because, well, because I'm probably always transparent and obvious. But let me just say, I usually hold back. Unfortunately, I'm a powder keg waiting for a spark and . . . . well, these days it seems there's a spark every day.
Anyway, is it surprising that a bunch of morally loose idiots are MAKING money by selling their sexuality on a camera in their bedroom? No. This has been going on for centuries. That's why it's not newsworthy. And hello? Does anyone out there have ANY standards these days? And by standards, I don't mean that you like to save the whales, though that is good to do, it's not going to save the humans from self-destruction. Well, it is, possibly, through preserving a salvageable eco-system. But there's more going on that's rotten in the state of Denmark than just animals being targets of poachers and the like.
The problem is selfishness and the reason the moral fabric of my society matters to me is because of, as Reverend Lovejoy's wife would say, "the children."
I love the Simpsons and it's for clever satire such as Reverend Lovejoy's wife obsessing about the children that I profess such admiration. She's always there to cry out at any mob gathering, like when a bear is in Springfield and the town is trying to decide what to do, "Who will think of the children!" It's the trump card. How can you be so heartless as to not care about the children?!? They're helpless!
I know, this all boils down to parents and how involved parents are in their children's lives. Parents should monitor what their kids are doing. Parents should be alert 24/7, they should ask questions, they should do thorough research, and essentially run a police-state in their home so their kids don't bump into porn on the computer, the laptop, the PS3, the Wii, the Xbox, the Kindle Fire, the Ipad, mom or dad's smart phone, the neighbors house, or in the ditch out back*, at school, on the street, in the mall, in the grocery store, at the restaurant, at the Starbucks, or any one of the other apparently millions of places porn prevails in our world.
We definitely need to be better parents.
And we can try our best to overcome or undo any harm that might be inflicted upon our kid by him or her bumping into it at a very innocent, tender age.
But what a world we live in, where the individual always eclipses the group. And by group, I mean family. Because I certainly believe in individual rights, and I believe that censorship shouldn't be enforced by the government or any other form of big brother.
Call it a wish, or a longing, that the individual wasn't such a jerk and that they could see that they are part of a larger fabric that consists of more than just a bunch of separate units acting independently of each other. It is exactly the inability to see that all things are connected that our society has ended up here. For a society to work well and to flourish, individuals must realize that there is a social obligation for each person to behave in a way that benefits society in the long run.
Which brings me to another reason there's so much crap being created and sold online and elsewhere: society is too big. How can one person make a difference in a huge world teeming with scores and scores of people? Exactly. That's why it's so easy to fool ourselves into believing that what we do, these tiny infractions against a moral code (such as the Ten Commandments, because, come on, what other code is out there?), even make a difference to any one but us. We think, "Oh, no one else is being harmed by this decision to video myself doing this and then broadcasting it live to those willing to pay to see it, right?"
When the things you're doing in public or even in secret are not being subjected to the scrutiny of your village or family, then there IS less of a reason to behave in a way often dubbed decent by those around you. And since there are fewer families, and cities are so large, and well, the ways to do things in secret (while somehow simultaneously being public) are abounding, then we have a problem.
So, I think everything I've said can be expressed in the following equation:
No Censorship + Individual With No Concern for Society as a Whole + Internet - Small Villages - Family = A Problem
Let me end with an illustration of how all that once delineated the boundaries of decency has frayed and unraveled to a frightening degree. Part of the segment by Lucy Ling and the fabulous porn-made-at-home story featured a 50-year-old woman who makes interactive videos with her clients. Her husband produces the live-web-cam events and Ms. Ling described how a large portion of this woman's "clientele" is "men" between the ages of 19 and 25. And what is their most common request?
That they can call the 50-year-old woman "mommy."
*Truly. If you're going to dump your porn collection, please don't throw it in a ditch. Or the gutter. You think it just "goes away" when you do that? No. It inevitably falls into the hands of children**. Yes, children. You're not the center of the universe and that ditch is most likely frequented by children pretending they're the Swiss Family Robinson or something like that.
**This is based on anecdotal evidence. While I never stumbled across porn in the ditch myself, as a child, I've heard several accounts from others who did.
Frankly, as far as I've seen, there are never any views expressed on The View save complacency for the decadent ride into hell our country is taking (unless Whoopi's going on some rant wherein she displays her total lack of understanding for any serious issue, and it's never about the most pertinent points, like how the country's on a steady course for moral destruction). Honestly. To borrow a favorite phrase from the motherland across the pond, the country's going to the dogs.
The ONLY way the subject of Ms. Ling's segment is newsworthy is in fact to exhibit the total and utter lack of morals which our society possesses. Generally on this blog, I prefer to be somewhat tame in the expression of my values. You may laugh, because, well, because I'm probably always transparent and obvious. But let me just say, I usually hold back. Unfortunately, I'm a powder keg waiting for a spark and . . . . well, these days it seems there's a spark every day.
Anyway, is it surprising that a bunch of morally loose idiots are MAKING money by selling their sexuality on a camera in their bedroom? No. This has been going on for centuries. That's why it's not newsworthy. And hello? Does anyone out there have ANY standards these days? And by standards, I don't mean that you like to save the whales, though that is good to do, it's not going to save the humans from self-destruction. Well, it is, possibly, through preserving a salvageable eco-system. But there's more going on that's rotten in the state of Denmark than just animals being targets of poachers and the like.
The problem is selfishness and the reason the moral fabric of my society matters to me is because of, as Reverend Lovejoy's wife would say, "the children."
I love the Simpsons and it's for clever satire such as Reverend Lovejoy's wife obsessing about the children that I profess such admiration. She's always there to cry out at any mob gathering, like when a bear is in Springfield and the town is trying to decide what to do, "Who will think of the children!" It's the trump card. How can you be so heartless as to not care about the children?!? They're helpless!
I know, this all boils down to parents and how involved parents are in their children's lives. Parents should monitor what their kids are doing. Parents should be alert 24/7, they should ask questions, they should do thorough research, and essentially run a police-state in their home so their kids don't bump into porn on the computer, the laptop, the PS3, the Wii, the Xbox, the Kindle Fire, the Ipad, mom or dad's smart phone, the neighbors house, or in the ditch out back*, at school, on the street, in the mall, in the grocery store, at the restaurant, at the Starbucks, or any one of the other apparently millions of places porn prevails in our world.
We definitely need to be better parents.
And we can try our best to overcome or undo any harm that might be inflicted upon our kid by him or her bumping into it at a very innocent, tender age.
But what a world we live in, where the individual always eclipses the group. And by group, I mean family. Because I certainly believe in individual rights, and I believe that censorship shouldn't be enforced by the government or any other form of big brother.
Call it a wish, or a longing, that the individual wasn't such a jerk and that they could see that they are part of a larger fabric that consists of more than just a bunch of separate units acting independently of each other. It is exactly the inability to see that all things are connected that our society has ended up here. For a society to work well and to flourish, individuals must realize that there is a social obligation for each person to behave in a way that benefits society in the long run.
Which brings me to another reason there's so much crap being created and sold online and elsewhere: society is too big. How can one person make a difference in a huge world teeming with scores and scores of people? Exactly. That's why it's so easy to fool ourselves into believing that what we do, these tiny infractions against a moral code (such as the Ten Commandments, because, come on, what other code is out there?), even make a difference to any one but us. We think, "Oh, no one else is being harmed by this decision to video myself doing this and then broadcasting it live to those willing to pay to see it, right?"
When the things you're doing in public or even in secret are not being subjected to the scrutiny of your village or family, then there IS less of a reason to behave in a way often dubbed decent by those around you. And since there are fewer families, and cities are so large, and well, the ways to do things in secret (while somehow simultaneously being public) are abounding, then we have a problem.
So, I think everything I've said can be expressed in the following equation:
No Censorship + Individual With No Concern for Society as a Whole + Internet - Small Villages - Family = A Problem
Let me end with an illustration of how all that once delineated the boundaries of decency has frayed and unraveled to a frightening degree. Part of the segment by Lucy Ling and the fabulous porn-made-at-home story featured a 50-year-old woman who makes interactive videos with her clients. Her husband produces the live-web-cam events and Ms. Ling described how a large portion of this woman's "clientele" is "men" between the ages of 19 and 25. And what is their most common request?
That they can call the 50-year-old woman "mommy."
*Truly. If you're going to dump your porn collection, please don't throw it in a ditch. Or the gutter. You think it just "goes away" when you do that? No. It inevitably falls into the hands of children**. Yes, children. You're not the center of the universe and that ditch is most likely frequented by children pretending they're the Swiss Family Robinson or something like that.
**This is based on anecdotal evidence. While I never stumbled across porn in the ditch myself, as a child, I've heard several accounts from others who did.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Head Staples
There's a serious problem in the world today. I can't fix it. I wish I could, but, sadly, I'm just one woman. And this problem is an avalanche.
What is that problem, you ask? I know. You long to hear about problems because you haven't enough in your own life. You love whining. You love listening to people complain about avalanches, snowballs, and landslides of problems.
So that's why I'm going to tell you. Also, it does me good to get it off my chest. I can barely breathe and it's not just the baby being all selfish with the limited space in my torso and crushing the air out of my lungs (can you believe this baby?!).
The problem is clarity. Let me give you an example. This is from a story I read on a news site:
I know I tread on dangerous ground to criticize someone else's writing. It invites scrutiny of my own writing and I'm sure there are several areas where I could improve, however, I'm not being paid to write. Nor am I part of the machinery of the AP or any of those behemoths producing material for the news agencies.
And I understand that journalists are often given assignments they resent. I'm sure it's crappy to have to create an article from material you don't care about. That's why I'm not a journalist. I did it for a few weeks, loathed it, and quit.
So this paragraph I shared with you. It's so horribly done, I can barely stand it. So C.H. received seven staples in his head, you know, like when I receive a package in the mail. Aside from receive being a terrible choice of words here, what's worse is the stupid doctors apparently didn't realize the real wound was in his shoulder! Where the car nicked him!
Then, of course, the doctors put his arm in a sling. I think somehow that must be related to the shoulder wound, which got scant attention after his head was stapled seven times (for no reason whatsoever). I imagine the shoulder will heal, because of that sling, but I don't know how long his recovery will take. Shoulder-nickings are on the rise, yet no studies have been done to determine lasting damage and whatnot.
I jest. Surely this is no laughing matter, surely. But the poverty of writing skill demonstrated in the article steals the attention. I'm sure you didn't even notice that what happened in the paragraph is that A CAR WAS FLYING THROUGH THE AIR AND NARROWLY MISSED C.H.
Yeah. That's right. It was difficult to determine the exact details, but what I gathered from the badly tangled story is that a family was out in their front yard on Sunday when a vehicle, recklessly careening down their street, bounced off a couple other stationary vehicles, soared through the air over the small gathering (nicking C.H. in the shoulder) and crashed into the house.
But don't expect such a concise summary of what happened in the original story. If you read it (after somehow finding it, bwah ha ha ha), you'll feel like a prisoner of the labyrinth, picking up a scattered trail of breadcrumbs, which lead you nowhere. It's like the minotaur sneezed and you've got to find where the crumbs were originally placed. That's how scattered the details are.
Of course, you might argue that C.H.'s head injury is implied by the fact that it received seven staples. So there's no need to clutter up the paragraph with unnecessary details like the fact that while his shoulder was simply nicked, his head bore the brunt of the impact. Like, you know, his shoulder was nicked by the passenger-side mirror and his head was smashed by the windshield.
But if that's the case, wouldn't the greater injury demand more attention? And while I agree that it's clever and interesting to leave some mystery in the telling, there's an immense difference between clarity (bringing back my original complaint) and obscurity. And besides, news articles are hardly the place to concoct a mystery for eager readers to solve. We don't read the paper to get the satisfaction of deciphering meaning. That's the job of fiction.
There are more offenses in the original story. Another paragraph:
The main point of the article seems to be that this couple is living the story of Job. Any possible complication that could happen has happened. And then out of nowhere, a car flies through the air and nicks C.H. in the shoulder (requiring seven staples to the head). It does seem rather implausible, but I'm not questioning that. I am, however, questioning the sentence structure of this paragraph.
First of all, sometimes people TRY SO HARD (bless their hearts) to use active verbs that they sacrifice (once again) clarity for ACTION. As though I read the newspaper to get a rush. Yes, the active voice is great. I agree. But what's even better than that? Making sense.
Maybe there's no way to write this paragraph so that it reads smoother*. There are, after all, several makes and models of cars and about a million names. It's like proper noun city in this paragraph. To complicate matters, the writer appears desperate to relate the sequence of the accident while also making sure to paint an accurate picture of the types of vehicles (very important!), but, not only that, he/she also wants to litter the sentences with exciting words like catapult. I question the use of catapult.
The first time I read it (and I had to read the paragraph several times to understand it), the thing that stuck out the most was the Jaguar. One of the main points of this short article is to let readers know that a fund has been established to help these people out. But, then there's a Jaguar in the driveway.
I'm not saying it belongs to C.H. It probably belongs to his wife's parents. And if they can afford a Jag, cool. No big deal. But there's a Jag in the driveway. And then there's a fund where I can donate money to help them out. But there's a Jag in the driveway. A Jag. And it's a Jag. Starting at $50,000 for the low-end models. A Jag. In the driveway.
My point is, it doesn't make sense. I'm not saying the writer should lie about things, but too many unnecessary details weigh the story down and all the active verbs in the world don't help me slog through them. And especially it doesn't increase my sympathy to the point of donating when I read that there's a Jaguar in the driveway.
It's like all the scammers in Nashville. One time, Stoker and I were in a parking lot, sitting in our truck and a van with a family in it pulled up. Stoker was on the phone with a client or his boss, but that didn't dissuade the female driver. She left her van to come to our window and asked us to help her out. She needed money for gas to get to Atlanta. Her husband remained in the van, on his very nice cell phone, and the lady left her van running. She'd been driving around the parking lot. Quite a bit.
We didn't have any cash. She left. My question for scammers like that is, how do you afford that cell phone? It's a luxury. If you have no money, sell what you have. Cut back. It's not that difficult.
So when an article asks for my money, but there's a Jag in the driveway, seven staples to the head and an arm in a sling doesn't illicit enough sympathy for me to donate. Perhaps I'm a cold-hearted jerk (I totally know that's not true, but I had to say it, you know, so I don't look like a jerk), but that's not how the relationship works.
I work hard to earn my living, and yes, I know I'm blessed and that it's not all me. Nevertheless, to make me want to part with (basically) my blood, sweat, and tears, you're going to have to show me that your need is desperate. And a Jag or a cell phone tells me things aren't quite as bad as you're trying to portray.
Anyway. Perhaps the author of the article WANTED me to feel like C.H. doesn't truly deserve my money. If so, bravo. If not, maybe, I don't know, the writer should sign up for some writing courses. Or don't. You're not the only one (you, meaning the writer) suffering. You're in good (or bad?) company. The entire community of journalists is on a swift course downhill in terms of good writing. It's an avalanche.
*Police say A____ G____J_____, 20, drove a Cadillac in a reckless fashion down D____ street on Sunday, careening into C.H.'s parked Honda Civic and a tree, which launched the Cadillac onto two other vehicles parked in the P___'s driveway. But the Cadillac didn't stop until it crashed into the P___'s house where it (describe the damage in a three words).
What is that problem, you ask? I know. You long to hear about problems because you haven't enough in your own life. You love whining. You love listening to people complain about avalanches, snowballs, and landslides of problems.
So that's why I'm going to tell you. Also, it does me good to get it off my chest. I can barely breathe and it's not just the baby being all selfish with the limited space in my torso and crushing the air out of my lungs (can you believe this baby?!).
The problem is clarity. Let me give you an example. This is from a story I read on a news site:
Meanwhile, C____ H_____ received seven staples in his head after the car nicked his right shoulder as it went airborne into the front porch. Doctors put his arm in a sling. His wife, S____, is still reeling from the experience.I took the names out, obviously. I don't know these people and besides, I might complain about the entire story and I have nothing against them as individuals. It's the quality of the story itself and lack of a theme. Lack of everything, really.
I know I tread on dangerous ground to criticize someone else's writing. It invites scrutiny of my own writing and I'm sure there are several areas where I could improve, however, I'm not being paid to write. Nor am I part of the machinery of the AP or any of those behemoths producing material for the news agencies.
And I understand that journalists are often given assignments they resent. I'm sure it's crappy to have to create an article from material you don't care about. That's why I'm not a journalist. I did it for a few weeks, loathed it, and quit.
So this paragraph I shared with you. It's so horribly done, I can barely stand it. So C.H. received seven staples in his head, you know, like when I receive a package in the mail. Aside from receive being a terrible choice of words here, what's worse is the stupid doctors apparently didn't realize the real wound was in his shoulder! Where the car nicked him!
Then, of course, the doctors put his arm in a sling. I think somehow that must be related to the shoulder wound, which got scant attention after his head was stapled seven times (for no reason whatsoever). I imagine the shoulder will heal, because of that sling, but I don't know how long his recovery will take. Shoulder-nickings are on the rise, yet no studies have been done to determine lasting damage and whatnot.
I jest. Surely this is no laughing matter, surely. But the poverty of writing skill demonstrated in the article steals the attention. I'm sure you didn't even notice that what happened in the paragraph is that A CAR WAS FLYING THROUGH THE AIR AND NARROWLY MISSED C.H.
Yeah. That's right. It was difficult to determine the exact details, but what I gathered from the badly tangled story is that a family was out in their front yard on Sunday when a vehicle, recklessly careening down their street, bounced off a couple other stationary vehicles, soared through the air over the small gathering (nicking C.H. in the shoulder) and crashed into the house.
But don't expect such a concise summary of what happened in the original story. If you read it (after somehow finding it, bwah ha ha ha), you'll feel like a prisoner of the labyrinth, picking up a scattered trail of breadcrumbs, which lead you nowhere. It's like the minotaur sneezed and you've got to find where the crumbs were originally placed. That's how scattered the details are.
Originally, Ariadne used a ball of thread to help Theseus in the labyrinth. But for my purposes, bread crumbs have an inherent comedic element that thread lacks. Should you find yourself in a labyrinth, I suggest you follow Ariadne's lead.
Of course, you might argue that C.H.'s head injury is implied by the fact that it received seven staples. So there's no need to clutter up the paragraph with unnecessary details like the fact that while his shoulder was simply nicked, his head bore the brunt of the impact. Like, you know, his shoulder was nicked by the passenger-side mirror and his head was smashed by the windshield.
But if that's the case, wouldn't the greater injury demand more attention? And while I agree that it's clever and interesting to leave some mystery in the telling, there's an immense difference between clarity (bringing back my original complaint) and obscurity. And besides, news articles are hardly the place to concoct a mystery for eager readers to solve. We don't read the paper to get the satisfaction of deciphering meaning. That's the job of fiction.
There are more offenses in the original story. Another paragraph:
On Sunday, police say A____ G____ J____, 20, recklessly drove a Cadillac down [a street], hit the H____’s parked Honda Civic, and then hit a tree. That catapulted the vehicle J_____ was driving on top of a Toyota Corolla and Jaguar parked in the P___'s driveway. Then it hit their house, further impacting their lives.So, there are a lot of blanks in there, but you can just substitute any names in. The Civic was C.H.'s car. In a line before this paragraph, we learn that C.H. and his wife were forced to move in with his wife's parents because they've been having difficult health problems.
The main point of the article seems to be that this couple is living the story of Job. Any possible complication that could happen has happened. And then out of nowhere, a car flies through the air and nicks C.H. in the shoulder (requiring seven staples to the head). It does seem rather implausible, but I'm not questioning that. I am, however, questioning the sentence structure of this paragraph.
First of all, sometimes people TRY SO HARD (bless their hearts) to use active verbs that they sacrifice (once again) clarity for ACTION. As though I read the newspaper to get a rush. Yes, the active voice is great. I agree. But what's even better than that? Making sense.
Maybe there's no way to write this paragraph so that it reads smoother*. There are, after all, several makes and models of cars and about a million names. It's like proper noun city in this paragraph. To complicate matters, the writer appears desperate to relate the sequence of the accident while also making sure to paint an accurate picture of the types of vehicles (very important!), but, not only that, he/she also wants to litter the sentences with exciting words like catapult. I question the use of catapult.
Here's why I question the word catapult. Stationary object becomes a projectile....
The first time I read it (and I had to read the paragraph several times to understand it), the thing that stuck out the most was the Jaguar. One of the main points of this short article is to let readers know that a fund has been established to help these people out. But, then there's a Jaguar in the driveway.
I'm not saying it belongs to C.H. It probably belongs to his wife's parents. And if they can afford a Jag, cool. No big deal. But there's a Jag in the driveway. And then there's a fund where I can donate money to help them out. But there's a Jag in the driveway. A Jag. And it's a Jag. Starting at $50,000 for the low-end models. A Jag. In the driveway.
My point is, it doesn't make sense. I'm not saying the writer should lie about things, but too many unnecessary details weigh the story down and all the active verbs in the world don't help me slog through them. And especially it doesn't increase my sympathy to the point of donating when I read that there's a Jaguar in the driveway.
It's like all the scammers in Nashville. One time, Stoker and I were in a parking lot, sitting in our truck and a van with a family in it pulled up. Stoker was on the phone with a client or his boss, but that didn't dissuade the female driver. She left her van to come to our window and asked us to help her out. She needed money for gas to get to Atlanta. Her husband remained in the van, on his very nice cell phone, and the lady left her van running. She'd been driving around the parking lot. Quite a bit.
We didn't have any cash. She left. My question for scammers like that is, how do you afford that cell phone? It's a luxury. If you have no money, sell what you have. Cut back. It's not that difficult.
So when an article asks for my money, but there's a Jag in the driveway, seven staples to the head and an arm in a sling doesn't illicit enough sympathy for me to donate. Perhaps I'm a cold-hearted jerk (I totally know that's not true, but I had to say it, you know, so I don't look like a jerk), but that's not how the relationship works.
I work hard to earn my living, and yes, I know I'm blessed and that it's not all me. Nevertheless, to make me want to part with (basically) my blood, sweat, and tears, you're going to have to show me that your need is desperate. And a Jag or a cell phone tells me things aren't quite as bad as you're trying to portray.
Anyway. Perhaps the author of the article WANTED me to feel like C.H. doesn't truly deserve my money. If so, bravo. If not, maybe, I don't know, the writer should sign up for some writing courses. Or don't. You're not the only one (you, meaning the writer) suffering. You're in good (or bad?) company. The entire community of journalists is on a swift course downhill in terms of good writing. It's an avalanche.
*Police say A____ G____J_____, 20, drove a Cadillac in a reckless fashion down D____ street on Sunday, careening into C.H.'s parked Honda Civic and a tree, which launched the Cadillac onto two other vehicles parked in the P___'s driveway. But the Cadillac didn't stop until it crashed into the P___'s house where it (describe the damage in a three words).
Friday, April 17, 2009
Why Make Men Work for a Look? Just Give Them the Summer Dress and End the Charade.
My friends, you can't believe how ecstatic I am to have summer dress season upon us. Already the girls are wearing them, strolling down streets with their breasts spilling out of the spaghetti strap nightmares. Every step they take nearly graces other passerbys with butt cheeks or more. Why even wear a dress at all? I ask you. Why not simply wear bra and underwear? Why not go a step further and simply take the mystery out of it and go nude?
What is the point of clothes, I wonder. It's simply an imagined commandment from a non-existent God (as we've begun to discover, after all). To paraphrase: and God fashioned clothes for them out of animal skins. See, it's been forced upon us by a figurative Creator. There's no reason for us to wear clothes. We are all enlightened enough by now to realize that the beauty and art of the human form should be shared and adored by everyone. It's simply a left over, prudish, Victorian edict that we cover ourselves. We're beyond that now. We now see how unhealthy the Victorian perspective was, how it perverted values and turned out a population of warped individuals who somehow naively believed that each person influenced society by their actions.
We've arrived, my friend. Here we are, in the modern century, where we now know that each man (and woman, let us not forget) IS an island. The ancients, the poets, the great thinkers of those backwards generations had it all wrong. What I do has no bearing on anyone else. If a woman wants to wear a thong and a bra as her daily attire, no one should raise a voice against her. I mean, who does that hurt? Really?
In fact, the other day I went shopping for some new lingerie because I'M going to really give the fashion world a shake. Remember the episode of Seinfield with the bra-less wonder? When Elaine gives Cindy Whoever a bra as a present and she wears it as a top? That's where I'm going. I've got the body for it, why not? I mean, I never feel so valued as when men ogle me. I love nothing more than to walk into a room and have every head turn and give me the once or twice over. It makes me feel so powerful.
Married men, old men, fathers with daughters, my own father, priests, gay men, I want them all to want me. Why stop there? I want all the women to want me too. There are no boundaries when it comes to sex appeal.
The truly enlightened individual does not need clothes out in the world. Society. Family. Self-respect. Any respect. None of these are required for true happiness. So let us unravel each of them.
What is the point of clothes, I wonder. It's simply an imagined commandment from a non-existent God (as we've begun to discover, after all). To paraphrase: and God fashioned clothes for them out of animal skins. See, it's been forced upon us by a figurative Creator. There's no reason for us to wear clothes. We are all enlightened enough by now to realize that the beauty and art of the human form should be shared and adored by everyone. It's simply a left over, prudish, Victorian edict that we cover ourselves. We're beyond that now. We now see how unhealthy the Victorian perspective was, how it perverted values and turned out a population of warped individuals who somehow naively believed that each person influenced society by their actions.
We've arrived, my friend. Here we are, in the modern century, where we now know that each man (and woman, let us not forget) IS an island. The ancients, the poets, the great thinkers of those backwards generations had it all wrong. What I do has no bearing on anyone else. If a woman wants to wear a thong and a bra as her daily attire, no one should raise a voice against her. I mean, who does that hurt? Really?
In fact, the other day I went shopping for some new lingerie because I'M going to really give the fashion world a shake. Remember the episode of Seinfield with the bra-less wonder? When Elaine gives Cindy Whoever a bra as a present and she wears it as a top? That's where I'm going. I've got the body for it, why not? I mean, I never feel so valued as when men ogle me. I love nothing more than to walk into a room and have every head turn and give me the once or twice over. It makes me feel so powerful.
Married men, old men, fathers with daughters, my own father, priests, gay men, I want them all to want me. Why stop there? I want all the women to want me too. There are no boundaries when it comes to sex appeal.
The truly enlightened individual does not need clothes out in the world. Society. Family. Self-respect. Any respect. None of these are required for true happiness. So let us unravel each of them.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Bike Shop Ruins Customer
I feel like the guys at the bike shop were talking smack about me.
You know how it is. You ask one of the sales people a bunch of questions. You let them know what you're looking for and why. And then one of the sales guys' girlfriends comes in and they've put you up to asking her about some women's cycling club and the two sales guys retreat to behind the counter. You're left standing near the front door talking to the girlfriend and you happen to notice the sideways glance of one of the sales guys. Like he's talking about you to the other guy.
How else can this sideways glance be interpreted? You know what a sideways glance is. It's the indirect look that's supposed to disguise the fact that a person is talking about you (we've all done it). The "I'm looking at the cash register here, not at you. See, my head is even angled downwards." As though you can't see the whites of the eyes that are so obviously fixed on you. It's hilarious.
But also incredibly disconcerting. As I left and got in my car, all I could think about was "What the hell were they saying?" And then I'm left to run through everything I said and everything I did. I replay it over and over in my head. I said this and this. He said this and this. And then it's like, "Wait, he kept mentioning his girlfriend. Did he think, somehow, that I was picking up on him just because I was asking questions?" And then I’m like, "Why the hell would he think that? I have a ring on and I didn’t flirt and it's his job to answer my questions." Then I wonder if I unintentionally sent signals.
And then I become a wreck. Then I wonder if I was one of those annoying customers who dream big but never do a damn thing. Then I remember how he said something like, "Yeah, tons of people come in here looking for triathlon bikes . . ." And there's that elliptical phrase, the unspoken, "but they never buy them and I doubt if they ever actually do a triathlon."
And then I think, "Well, I'll show you, Mr. Arsehole." And then I'm calling him names without actually knowing whether or not he was talking crap about me to his stupid co-worker and, after I left, the girlfriend too.
See, you can't ever do that. Unless you really hope a customer like me never comes into your stupid specialty shop again (I was the only customer in the store, by the way), you can't go behind the counter and have a word about the customer. And if you're not having a word about the customer, you really shouldn't do the eye thing, the sideways glance. Because it LOOKS like you're talking crap about someone. This goes for all social interactions.
By the way, the nice girlfriend: ripped as hell. I couldn't believe my eyes. There were veins popping out of her biceps. That sounds like an exaggeration but it completely isn't. She's probably nice as hell, too. I just couldn't believe my eyes, that's all.
You know how it is. You ask one of the sales people a bunch of questions. You let them know what you're looking for and why. And then one of the sales guys' girlfriends comes in and they've put you up to asking her about some women's cycling club and the two sales guys retreat to behind the counter. You're left standing near the front door talking to the girlfriend and you happen to notice the sideways glance of one of the sales guys. Like he's talking about you to the other guy.
How else can this sideways glance be interpreted? You know what a sideways glance is. It's the indirect look that's supposed to disguise the fact that a person is talking about you (we've all done it). The "I'm looking at the cash register here, not at you. See, my head is even angled downwards." As though you can't see the whites of the eyes that are so obviously fixed on you. It's hilarious.
But also incredibly disconcerting. As I left and got in my car, all I could think about was "What the hell were they saying?" And then I'm left to run through everything I said and everything I did. I replay it over and over in my head. I said this and this. He said this and this. And then it's like, "Wait, he kept mentioning his girlfriend. Did he think, somehow, that I was picking up on him just because I was asking questions?" And then I’m like, "Why the hell would he think that? I have a ring on and I didn’t flirt and it's his job to answer my questions." Then I wonder if I unintentionally sent signals.
And then I become a wreck. Then I wonder if I was one of those annoying customers who dream big but never do a damn thing. Then I remember how he said something like, "Yeah, tons of people come in here looking for triathlon bikes . . ." And there's that elliptical phrase, the unspoken, "but they never buy them and I doubt if they ever actually do a triathlon."
And then I think, "Well, I'll show you, Mr. Arsehole." And then I'm calling him names without actually knowing whether or not he was talking crap about me to his stupid co-worker and, after I left, the girlfriend too.
See, you can't ever do that. Unless you really hope a customer like me never comes into your stupid specialty shop again (I was the only customer in the store, by the way), you can't go behind the counter and have a word about the customer. And if you're not having a word about the customer, you really shouldn't do the eye thing, the sideways glance. Because it LOOKS like you're talking crap about someone. This goes for all social interactions.
By the way, the nice girlfriend: ripped as hell. I couldn't believe my eyes. There were veins popping out of her biceps. That sounds like an exaggeration but it completely isn't. She's probably nice as hell, too. I just couldn't believe my eyes, that's all.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Red Lights, Bad Moods, and Bakery Sweets
Oh man I'm in one of those moods. I'm liable to bite someone's head off if they try to speak to me. I'm mentally lashing out at everything. My question is how can I feel like I didn't sleep a wink when I have a bed, a pillow, and air conditioning? It's not like I slept on a park bench or on a cot at a shelter.
Sometimes it's stupid. I get that I'm in one of those moods, but I just keep the bad mood going. It's like I relish it and fuel it by thinking worse and worse things. It all started this morning when I ran a red light. Obviously I blamed it on the damn delivery truck in front of me. I couldn't see the light! It was his fault, the bastard. I would have made the light if I'd been in front of him, and I would have made the light if he'd been a bit quicker to accelerate.
And then I got irritated when Stoker called right after I realized I'd run the light: the ring startled me; I thought it was a policeman. Then when I tried to tell Stoker I had run a red light, he had his own agenda for conversation and talked over me and didn't hear what I said. That's always been a pet peeve of mine. When he stopped talking I was too annoyed to explain that he missed what I said. So I went along with what he said and tried to suppress my irritation. I got off the phone, but was still irritated as hell. Yes, nursing the bad feelings I had for the delivery truck driver who made me run a red light.
As I pulled into my work parking lot, my irritation increased. A co-worker who I quietly compete with was here before me! How could it be? I was five minutes early, even. The way I compete with this guy is by trying to beat him to work (he didn't know about it until I accidentally told him and now he gloats every time he arrives before me). And I always want to arrive before another co-worker too, a girl. Today I arrived before her, so I was okay there. But this other dude.
Then I realized why he was here early. He must have gone to the bakery for sweets (as he calls them) for the party (as everyone calls it). It's someone's birthday today. See, I forgot to get something last night and I didn't remember I'd forgotten until I was already in my pajamas and dozing on the couch while trying to watch The Simpsons. It was too late to go out at that point. I figured it was a lost cause and I'd just grab something at the gas station in the morning (it's like this every time we have a "party").
Then, as I was trying to fall asleep last night, I had a revelation and was saved. Starbuck's cupcakes! I love them, those beautiful, vanilla cupcakes. They're delicious and everyone will love them. They'll be a big hit! I could see it all, unfolding in my mind. I'll be a big hit, too! Though I knew someone else was planning to bring a cake, I could also toss in a few mango-pineapple empanada's with my order, and it would all work out. And then I slept. I think. I don't feel like I slept, but I assume that's what I did.
This morning, when I got inside the building, this cold dungeon of cubicles, I saw that the guy who beat me to work had, in fact, gotten sweets from the bakery. Oh, the downfall. Which brings me to this moment, this present irritation.
Now what am I going to do? We can't have bakery sweets, a cake, AND cupcakes and empanadas! And if I ran, really quick, to a gas station and got my other favorite, Lays plain potato chips, I'm certain someone else will end up bringing them too (at the last party we had, two of us brought the enormous size bag of plain potato chips).
In rebellion of all things against me today, I'm not going to go try to find something for the "party." And I'm not going to eat any of the sweets, the cake, or even the plain potato chips someone else will most likely bring. Besides, on top of all these frustrations, I'm growing a zit the size of Jupiter on my cheek, next to my nose. Of all things!
p.s. Let this be no reflection on Stoker, who is a dear, even when I'm in one of those moods.
Sometimes it's stupid. I get that I'm in one of those moods, but I just keep the bad mood going. It's like I relish it and fuel it by thinking worse and worse things. It all started this morning when I ran a red light. Obviously I blamed it on the damn delivery truck in front of me. I couldn't see the light! It was his fault, the bastard. I would have made the light if I'd been in front of him, and I would have made the light if he'd been a bit quicker to accelerate.
And then I got irritated when Stoker called right after I realized I'd run the light: the ring startled me; I thought it was a policeman. Then when I tried to tell Stoker I had run a red light, he had his own agenda for conversation and talked over me and didn't hear what I said. That's always been a pet peeve of mine. When he stopped talking I was too annoyed to explain that he missed what I said. So I went along with what he said and tried to suppress my irritation. I got off the phone, but was still irritated as hell. Yes, nursing the bad feelings I had for the delivery truck driver who made me run a red light.
As I pulled into my work parking lot, my irritation increased. A co-worker who I quietly compete with was here before me! How could it be? I was five minutes early, even. The way I compete with this guy is by trying to beat him to work (he didn't know about it until I accidentally told him and now he gloats every time he arrives before me). And I always want to arrive before another co-worker too, a girl. Today I arrived before her, so I was okay there. But this other dude.
Then I realized why he was here early. He must have gone to the bakery for sweets (as he calls them) for the party (as everyone calls it). It's someone's birthday today. See, I forgot to get something last night and I didn't remember I'd forgotten until I was already in my pajamas and dozing on the couch while trying to watch The Simpsons. It was too late to go out at that point. I figured it was a lost cause and I'd just grab something at the gas station in the morning (it's like this every time we have a "party").
Then, as I was trying to fall asleep last night, I had a revelation and was saved. Starbuck's cupcakes! I love them, those beautiful, vanilla cupcakes. They're delicious and everyone will love them. They'll be a big hit! I could see it all, unfolding in my mind. I'll be a big hit, too! Though I knew someone else was planning to bring a cake, I could also toss in a few mango-pineapple empanada's with my order, and it would all work out. And then I slept. I think. I don't feel like I slept, but I assume that's what I did.
This morning, when I got inside the building, this cold dungeon of cubicles, I saw that the guy who beat me to work had, in fact, gotten sweets from the bakery. Oh, the downfall. Which brings me to this moment, this present irritation.
Now what am I going to do? We can't have bakery sweets, a cake, AND cupcakes and empanadas! And if I ran, really quick, to a gas station and got my other favorite, Lays plain potato chips, I'm certain someone else will end up bringing them too (at the last party we had, two of us brought the enormous size bag of plain potato chips).
In rebellion of all things against me today, I'm not going to go try to find something for the "party." And I'm not going to eat any of the sweets, the cake, or even the plain potato chips someone else will most likely bring. Besides, on top of all these frustrations, I'm growing a zit the size of Jupiter on my cheek, next to my nose. Of all things!
p.s. Let this be no reflection on Stoker, who is a dear, even when I'm in one of those moods.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Harleys and Pool-Whores
Let it be said that loud motorcycles bug the hell out of me. I don't know what happened. There was a time when I thought, "Oooh, cool Harley." But now that everyone has one and now that there isn't a two year waiting list to get a Harley and now that every city great or small has a Harley dealership (my word even the small Valley of Cache has one. I'm just teasing, mixing up the words to give you a hard time, it's really Cache Valley), I think they suck. What sucks about them isn't the motorcycle itself because some of them are still cool. It's the choppers. The ones that go "thwup thwup thwup thwup" all up and down the street. It's the ones that disturb my peaceful reverie at the side café as they roar by.
My question for the riders is, "Who do you think you are?" I guess you think you're the bomb because you can drive around a loud-ass bike. Do you consider yourself different? Do you think you're part of a counterculture? I'm just asking because you don't look cool to me. You're not interesting. You're loud and obnoxious. And just to enlighten you, you look creepy with all those tattoos, the shaved head, and the wife-beater. I don't have time to get to know you, so this will never be proven otherwise.
I guess what happened to me is that I got older. My tolerance for noise and crowds and traffic has gotten lower, probably because I've had to be around those things for so long now. When I was a kid everything was a new experience and I was really into feeling things and seeing things. But now I would like a bit of peace and quiet, a glass of lemonade by the pool with a few other quiet, unassuming types like myself, people who are also drinking ice cold lemonade—or, I'd even allow that they're drinking iced tea—and who are not smoking or wearing bikinis that barely cover their flesh; who are not tanned to a crisp, leathery complexion; who are not sporting a big butt-crack tattoo (you know the kind, the kind that span the cheeks like an arch—yeah, I like to call them butt-crack tattoos just for the hell of it, maybe because for the tattoo to be showing, a butt-crack is almost peeking out too). I realize that some might consider me crass, even as I pontificate against crassness. But let it be said I am not crass just because I say ass and hell. If I am crass, it's for other reasons.
When I think about the annoying people at my apartment pool (whose tiny bikinis barely cover their withered and sagging flesh—it's withered from the sun, not because they're old—and who bring a cooler full of beer and who chain smoke while laying out), I realize they bear the same mentality as the guys with the loud Harleys. They are rooted in materialism. And frankly, I am not a material girl*.
*To a degree. I have my weaknesses. I enjoy a few material pleasures, such as books. I love a new book and will buy one just for the sheer pleasure of finding the book, smelling the new ink and paper, and feeling the weight of it in my hands, and then I won't read it for years. Eventually I do. But the thrill is in the experience of buying it.
My question for the riders is, "Who do you think you are?" I guess you think you're the bomb because you can drive around a loud-ass bike. Do you consider yourself different? Do you think you're part of a counterculture? I'm just asking because you don't look cool to me. You're not interesting. You're loud and obnoxious. And just to enlighten you, you look creepy with all those tattoos, the shaved head, and the wife-beater. I don't have time to get to know you, so this will never be proven otherwise.
I guess what happened to me is that I got older. My tolerance for noise and crowds and traffic has gotten lower, probably because I've had to be around those things for so long now. When I was a kid everything was a new experience and I was really into feeling things and seeing things. But now I would like a bit of peace and quiet, a glass of lemonade by the pool with a few other quiet, unassuming types like myself, people who are also drinking ice cold lemonade—or, I'd even allow that they're drinking iced tea—and who are not smoking or wearing bikinis that barely cover their flesh; who are not tanned to a crisp, leathery complexion; who are not sporting a big butt-crack tattoo (you know the kind, the kind that span the cheeks like an arch—yeah, I like to call them butt-crack tattoos just for the hell of it, maybe because for the tattoo to be showing, a butt-crack is almost peeking out too). I realize that some might consider me crass, even as I pontificate against crassness. But let it be said I am not crass just because I say ass and hell. If I am crass, it's for other reasons.
When I think about the annoying people at my apartment pool (whose tiny bikinis barely cover their withered and sagging flesh—it's withered from the sun, not because they're old—and who bring a cooler full of beer and who chain smoke while laying out), I realize they bear the same mentality as the guys with the loud Harleys. They are rooted in materialism. And frankly, I am not a material girl*.
*To a degree. I have my weaknesses. I enjoy a few material pleasures, such as books. I love a new book and will buy one just for the sheer pleasure of finding the book, smelling the new ink and paper, and feeling the weight of it in my hands, and then I won't read it for years. Eventually I do. But the thrill is in the experience of buying it.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
"Give Me Some Privacy": Things Not to Do in the Workplace Bathroom
Finally. The post you’ve all been waiting for.
But first. A warning for the sensitive reader. See below.*
And now.
Allow me to explain a few things. At home, some activities in the bathroom are completely acceptable. That’s why we put the toilet and the shower in the same room. My contention is that the rules at home don’t apply at work. Am I right, or am I right? If I'm right, then by all means, read on. If I'm not, by all means, stop reading.
So I’ve compiled a short list of things I’ve noticed happening that break the unwritten, social rules of public bathroom use:
1. Make-up application**
Now, I don’t wear make-up. Generally. There was a brief stint of insanity during my 18th year which extended to my 22nd year. But I grew out of it when I realized the futility of putting on base, blush, mascara, lipstick, eyeliner and etc. Every single day. Just wasn’t worth the time and effort. So I stopped. In my defense, the company I kept heavily influenced me. It was this boyfriend I had. Anyway. It was stupid.
Years after him I looked in the mirror and realized I’m beautiful without it. How valuable is that? To be able to say, “Hell, I don’t need it.” Not that my self-esteem is based on whether a man wants me or not, but I’m still desired by men and without any make-up EVER (see How Stoker Proposed). The point of this is that I don’t have it in me to empathize with the girls and their spread of make-up on the bathroom counter. Get up earlier to put it on, or just forget about it. OR, you could even take a mirror with you to your desk, so that I can eliminate my bowels in peace, and if not by myself, at least with other women who are also eliminating their bowels (and would most likely prefer to do it in peace, but simply don’t have the courage to post a blog entry about it. Or don't even know what a blog is).
2. Teeth brushing
Again, there are things we do at home, in our bathrooms, that we probably shouldn’t do in public bathrooms. Being the sole proprietor of your home equals the peace of mind knowing that your bathroom is clean. This means your toothbrush is also kept relatively clean (and even then, I’ve heard tell that you kick up a cloud of germs when you flush without putting the toilet lid down, which hovers over and coats the head of your toothbrush, standing there innocently in its little cup. True? Not true? I don’t know, but that’s what I heard).
That’s why it’s okay to brush your teeth in the (potentially) dirtiest part of your home. The bathroom at work is not clean. You don’t know if the last woman who took care of business and flushed got anything on her hand before she touched the handle of the toilet or sink faucet -- which you just touched to turn on the water, and then you touched your toothpaste to squeeze the tube, and then you put the toothbrush in your mouth and began brushing with the (potentially) dirty hand holding the toothbrush which is now in your mouth, and as you hold it, germs are multiplying by the thousands, crawling up your toothbrush, LOOK YOU CAN SEE THEM!!! AND NOW THEY’RE IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!! Disgusting. This story ends in the resolution that it’s the exact same thing as having licked the toilet seat.
You might as well do that and save me the embarrassment of having to poop while you’re out there brushing your teeth.
3. Cleaning your pet fish’s bowl out
Uh, I have no idea what this person was thinking when they brought a fish to work. But they did. And while it seems cute, what isn’t cute is me having to (again) poop while someone is just outside the stall, rinsing out a fish bowl, cleaning the little rocks and marbles, refilling the bowl, putting in some drops of water purifier, rinsing the cleaning tools and putting the fish back in. All while other women and I enter the bathroom, immediately uncomfortable with our intentions of using it for the bathroom’s sole purpose, defecation. Uh, should I leave? Should I stay and, to hell with it, stink up the air? Or is that rude? Maybe I should wait. I don’t know. I don’t know.
4. Reuniting with friends from other departments
So maybe you do happen to run into Barbara from downstairs (what are you doing up here? Ha ha, don’t you guys have a bathroom on your floor? Well, it’s so good to run into you!). I can empathize with running into old friends. But can you empathize with my performance anxiety? Can you? Because when you stand in front of the sink or by the paper towel dispenser and chat away, I can hear you and I can’t bear the thought of adding my symphony of body noises to your conversation. It’s psychologically impossible. I’ll be forced to sit, waiting, waiting until you take your delightful reunion outside.
That’s what halls and break rooms are for, conversations.
And also, break rooms are for cleaning out fish bowls and brushing your teeth. Same with eating or filling your water bottle.
In summation, anything that’s not directly related to urination and bowel movements should be taken to the break room or your desk. I didn’t make these rules up. They willed themselves into existence out of sheer propriety. The workplace bathroom is not your private sanctuary, powder room or vanity table. It’s dirty (but not visible-dirty like with towels strewn about and whatnot), it usually stinks, and your best bet is to take care of your business and get the hell out of there. For my sake as much as yours.
* Sensitive readers, be warned. This post will contain references to the bathroom and biological processes that occur there, namely urination and defecation (or, as some of my less sensitive readers like to call it, “pooping”). My attempt isn’t to achieve hilarity through "potty humor." It’s to point out the inappropriateness of some of the bathroom activities happening in my workplace, public bathroom.
** Not necessarily applicable to men’s bathrooms. Necessarily. But still possible.
But first. A warning for the sensitive reader. See below.*
And now.
Allow me to explain a few things. At home, some activities in the bathroom are completely acceptable. That’s why we put the toilet and the shower in the same room. My contention is that the rules at home don’t apply at work. Am I right, or am I right? If I'm right, then by all means, read on. If I'm not, by all means, stop reading.
So I’ve compiled a short list of things I’ve noticed happening that break the unwritten, social rules of public bathroom use:
1. Make-up application**
Now, I don’t wear make-up. Generally. There was a brief stint of insanity during my 18th year which extended to my 22nd year. But I grew out of it when I realized the futility of putting on base, blush, mascara, lipstick, eyeliner and etc. Every single day. Just wasn’t worth the time and effort. So I stopped. In my defense, the company I kept heavily influenced me. It was this boyfriend I had. Anyway. It was stupid.
Years after him I looked in the mirror and realized I’m beautiful without it. How valuable is that? To be able to say, “Hell, I don’t need it.” Not that my self-esteem is based on whether a man wants me or not, but I’m still desired by men and without any make-up EVER (see How Stoker Proposed). The point of this is that I don’t have it in me to empathize with the girls and their spread of make-up on the bathroom counter. Get up earlier to put it on, or just forget about it. OR, you could even take a mirror with you to your desk, so that I can eliminate my bowels in peace, and if not by myself, at least with other women who are also eliminating their bowels (and would most likely prefer to do it in peace, but simply don’t have the courage to post a blog entry about it. Or don't even know what a blog is).
2. Teeth brushing
Again, there are things we do at home, in our bathrooms, that we probably shouldn’t do in public bathrooms. Being the sole proprietor of your home equals the peace of mind knowing that your bathroom is clean. This means your toothbrush is also kept relatively clean (and even then, I’ve heard tell that you kick up a cloud of germs when you flush without putting the toilet lid down, which hovers over and coats the head of your toothbrush, standing there innocently in its little cup. True? Not true? I don’t know, but that’s what I heard).
That’s why it’s okay to brush your teeth in the (potentially) dirtiest part of your home. The bathroom at work is not clean. You don’t know if the last woman who took care of business and flushed got anything on her hand before she touched the handle of the toilet or sink faucet -- which you just touched to turn on the water, and then you touched your toothpaste to squeeze the tube, and then you put the toothbrush in your mouth and began brushing with the (potentially) dirty hand holding the toothbrush which is now in your mouth, and as you hold it, germs are multiplying by the thousands, crawling up your toothbrush, LOOK YOU CAN SEE THEM!!! AND NOW THEY’RE IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!! Disgusting. This story ends in the resolution that it’s the exact same thing as having licked the toilet seat.
You might as well do that and save me the embarrassment of having to poop while you’re out there brushing your teeth.
3. Cleaning your pet fish’s bowl out
Uh, I have no idea what this person was thinking when they brought a fish to work. But they did. And while it seems cute, what isn’t cute is me having to (again) poop while someone is just outside the stall, rinsing out a fish bowl, cleaning the little rocks and marbles, refilling the bowl, putting in some drops of water purifier, rinsing the cleaning tools and putting the fish back in. All while other women and I enter the bathroom, immediately uncomfortable with our intentions of using it for the bathroom’s sole purpose, defecation. Uh, should I leave? Should I stay and, to hell with it, stink up the air? Or is that rude? Maybe I should wait. I don’t know. I don’t know.
4. Reuniting with friends from other departments
So maybe you do happen to run into Barbara from downstairs (what are you doing up here? Ha ha, don’t you guys have a bathroom on your floor? Well, it’s so good to run into you!). I can empathize with running into old friends. But can you empathize with my performance anxiety? Can you? Because when you stand in front of the sink or by the paper towel dispenser and chat away, I can hear you and I can’t bear the thought of adding my symphony of body noises to your conversation. It’s psychologically impossible. I’ll be forced to sit, waiting, waiting until you take your delightful reunion outside.
That’s what halls and break rooms are for, conversations.
And also, break rooms are for cleaning out fish bowls and brushing your teeth. Same with eating or filling your water bottle.
In summation, anything that’s not directly related to urination and bowel movements should be taken to the break room or your desk. I didn’t make these rules up. They willed themselves into existence out of sheer propriety. The workplace bathroom is not your private sanctuary, powder room or vanity table. It’s dirty (but not visible-dirty like with towels strewn about and whatnot), it usually stinks, and your best bet is to take care of your business and get the hell out of there. For my sake as much as yours.
* Sensitive readers, be warned. This post will contain references to the bathroom and biological processes that occur there, namely urination and defecation (or, as some of my less sensitive readers like to call it, “pooping”). My attempt isn’t to achieve hilarity through "potty humor." It’s to point out the inappropriateness of some of the bathroom activities happening in my workplace, public bathroom.
** Not necessarily applicable to men’s bathrooms. Necessarily. But still possible.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Suicide is for Wimps
So Hunter S. Thompson kills himself and suddenly he’s a hero. Suddenly I go to a bookstore and there are his books, strategically placed at the front of the shop, on the counter, very near the cash register, as if to say, "We’ve always loved this man. We’ve always thought his writing was piercing, ironic and bursting with dramatic statements about the corruption of the American political system." Stuff like that. Like what Nick Hornby says about kids who were always punk rock. The employees of the independent bookstore were always liberal, open-minded, idea-worshiping people and it didn’t happen the day they found the independent coffee-shop with all the cool vintage-contemporary furniture and the thoughtful looking chess-player with his tweed jacket and elbow patches, as if that day wasn’t also the very day they discovered Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and the complete works of Hunter S. Thompson. A very loaded day, but all the same. It’s all the same. A bunch of crap.
If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. I think it’s ridiculous that the media worships the weak artistic type whose life is finalized in a culminating moment marked by self-murder. What kind of mixed message is being promoted through idolizing "artists" who blow their brains out, while imprisoning the sociopath who blow out the brains of their neighbors? Anyway, that’s not exactly what I’m so annoyed about. I don’t really have a huge problem with suicide unless it directly affects me. I feel bad for the people left behind, but I can think of a few people who ought to just do themselves in. I won’t name names. The main problem I see is that some celebrity-jerk is immortalized because he/she is weak and takes the easy way out, while the strong celebrities who survive and die of natural causes just fade away and are mentioned in a stupid blip at the edge of the newspaper as in: Deaths today: Bill Rosenrosen, star of the daytime hit "Sand through the Hourglass" etc. Instead of the suicide headline like:
BILL ROSENROSEN BLOWS HIS BRAINS OUT,
MAID FINDS BODY IN BATHTUB
followed by a lengthy description of the death scene, his family situation, and a detailed account of every major or minor work or influence he’s had on anything from television to salad dressings.
Celebrities who live long lives and dedicate a portion of their funds and time to charity are sorely overlooked, to the detriment of the masses. Celebrities who remain faithful to their spouses and families, put them first, are ignored. Writers who are not manic-depressive and die of natural causes are thought to be boring. A writer with too many demons for good mental health is worshipped regardless of the amount of destruction he might have caused in his life. And obsessing over celebrities is unhealthy.
Here’s my disclaimer for anyone who might actually read anything I’ve written: I have nothing personal against Hunter S. Thompson. I’ve never seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, nor have I read any of his writing. I was using his suicide as an example of a malaise in the media. Nothing more. Thank you.
If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. I think it’s ridiculous that the media worships the weak artistic type whose life is finalized in a culminating moment marked by self-murder. What kind of mixed message is being promoted through idolizing "artists" who blow their brains out, while imprisoning the sociopath who blow out the brains of their neighbors? Anyway, that’s not exactly what I’m so annoyed about. I don’t really have a huge problem with suicide unless it directly affects me. I feel bad for the people left behind, but I can think of a few people who ought to just do themselves in. I won’t name names. The main problem I see is that some celebrity-jerk is immortalized because he/she is weak and takes the easy way out, while the strong celebrities who survive and die of natural causes just fade away and are mentioned in a stupid blip at the edge of the newspaper as in: Deaths today: Bill Rosenrosen, star of the daytime hit "Sand through the Hourglass" etc. Instead of the suicide headline like:
BILL ROSENROSEN BLOWS HIS BRAINS OUT,
MAID FINDS BODY IN BATHTUB
followed by a lengthy description of the death scene, his family situation, and a detailed account of every major or minor work or influence he’s had on anything from television to salad dressings.
Celebrities who live long lives and dedicate a portion of their funds and time to charity are sorely overlooked, to the detriment of the masses. Celebrities who remain faithful to their spouses and families, put them first, are ignored. Writers who are not manic-depressive and die of natural causes are thought to be boring. A writer with too many demons for good mental health is worshipped regardless of the amount of destruction he might have caused in his life. And obsessing over celebrities is unhealthy.
Here’s my disclaimer for anyone who might actually read anything I’ve written: I have nothing personal against Hunter S. Thompson. I’ve never seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, nor have I read any of his writing. I was using his suicide as an example of a malaise in the media. Nothing more. Thank you.
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