141. People who write on money.
142. Special washing instructions.
143. Lazy screenwriting where the wisdom of your wise-man character is established by having him answer questions with questions.
144. Not finding all the pins in a new dress shirt.
145. People who make the "How Ironic that Lou Gehrig had Lou Gehrig's Disease" joke.
146. The light nausea you get in highway traffic in a drive-on-the-left country.
147. Using the "1. Mildly creative phrase, 2. Colon, 3. Real Subject" format when titling your research paper.
148. That moment when you pause, swallow, and realize you're getting a cold.
149. Breaking down boxes.
150. Could the Diet Dr. Pepper ads, just once, complete the remainder of their implied sentence? "Diet Dr. Pepper. Tastes more like regular Dr. Pepper.... than an other, typical diet cola would to its own regular counterpart."
151. Guys at the gym who use the adductor machine.
152. Magazine poker ads where some guy in a suit jacket and three-day stubble is holding a royal flush.
153. Trying to ward off the cops with an "I Love Troopers" bumper sticker.
154. Businesses that use multiple AA's to jockey for position in the yellow pages.
155. Sleeping with your pets.
156. The moment, when circling the parking lot looking for a space, when you realize that if you had just taken one of the pain-in-the-ass parking spots that were available when you entered the lot, that you'd already be inside by now.
157. People who have their first name legally changed.
158. Movie ads that boast that a movie is the "Winner!" of a nomination.
159. Wouldn't it be nice to see a woman's back that didn't have a tattoo on it?
160. On all those "tales from the highway-patrol" TV shows and COPS, the suspect is always caught. Always. The guy making a break for it on foot. The speeding car that plows through the median to the opposite lanes. They're all caught. Every time. Am I the only one rooting for the perps to occasionally get away and leave the cops looking like idiots? It's not like the fleeing suspect doesn't occasionally escape, right? Why won't they show it? Are they afraid of us losing respect for the police, or people learning how to game the cops? They don't have to worry about any of that - just show it. Seriously, if some fleeing car ever pulled some real life Blues Brothers moves and left 30 cop cars in a funny pileup, while he rides away scot-free into the sunset, then I have got to see that.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I Need Better Birthday Presents
I had a birthday recently, and the usual roundup of extended family extended the usual feelers to see what they could get me for a gift.
So I get asked: what do I want for my birthday? And what can I really say? If I say "this DVD" or "a nice polo shirt" then sure, I can get it. But then you know what happens? I just end up with a pile of *stuff* that I don't need, that's just going to take up room, that I have to write thank you notes for... what's the point?
Where are all the awesome gifts? When I was nine years old, every gift was awesome. Every new toy or game was a shot of ceratonin right to the cortical stem. Unwrapping a present was a feverish act of pure gluttony and pleasure. What happened? Is there something wrong with me? Nowadays, present opening has lost all the fun. What could you go buy at Eddie Bauer or the Discovery Store that's possibly going to interest me? Nothing! I open a gift now, and it's something like the biography of John Adam's wife, and I'm thinking "Is this what this person thinks that I like? Is this the sort of thing I *should* like? Does this mean I have to read it?" And I'm not blaming my family or mocking their good intentions, I just want to go back to those good old days. That's all.
So in that spirit, I decided to make a real birthday list of things that maybe, just maybe I could really get excited about. To get that nine year old excitement back. Sure, none of these are easy, but if you really want to go the extra mile, here are ten things I want:
1. My own rock anthem.
2. I'd like all power lines to be moved underground. Wouldn't that look better?
3. The Holy Grail
4. A pair of glasses that would provide English subtitles for foreign language conversation. Might also be useful for the deaf.
5. That hover thingy that the Baron floats around in in Dune.
6. I'd like for someone to play me to the desk.
7. To drive an ambulance, at high speeds, sirens blaring, through street traffic.
8. A familiar.
9. More cowbell.
10. A coffee table book that would simply list, page after page, all the different ways that spam has phrased the question: "Would you like a bigger dick?" I think it's a pretty big testament to the English language that after so many years, spammers can still come up with entirely new ways to ask me this question, after so many hundreds of thousands of permutations. I think a big, leatherbound book would really work. Or possibly a ten volume reference set that you could keep up in a shelf, lawyer style.
So I get asked: what do I want for my birthday? And what can I really say? If I say "this DVD" or "a nice polo shirt" then sure, I can get it. But then you know what happens? I just end up with a pile of *stuff* that I don't need, that's just going to take up room, that I have to write thank you notes for... what's the point?
Where are all the awesome gifts? When I was nine years old, every gift was awesome. Every new toy or game was a shot of ceratonin right to the cortical stem. Unwrapping a present was a feverish act of pure gluttony and pleasure. What happened? Is there something wrong with me? Nowadays, present opening has lost all the fun. What could you go buy at Eddie Bauer or the Discovery Store that's possibly going to interest me? Nothing! I open a gift now, and it's something like the biography of John Adam's wife, and I'm thinking "Is this what this person thinks that I like? Is this the sort of thing I *should* like? Does this mean I have to read it?" And I'm not blaming my family or mocking their good intentions, I just want to go back to those good old days. That's all.
So in that spirit, I decided to make a real birthday list of things that maybe, just maybe I could really get excited about. To get that nine year old excitement back. Sure, none of these are easy, but if you really want to go the extra mile, here are ten things I want:
1. My own rock anthem.
2. I'd like all power lines to be moved underground. Wouldn't that look better?
3. The Holy Grail
4. A pair of glasses that would provide English subtitles for foreign language conversation. Might also be useful for the deaf.
5. That hover thingy that the Baron floats around in in Dune.
6. I'd like for someone to play me to the desk.
7. To drive an ambulance, at high speeds, sirens blaring, through street traffic.
8. A familiar.
9. More cowbell.
10. A coffee table book that would simply list, page after page, all the different ways that spam has phrased the question: "Would you like a bigger dick?" I think it's a pretty big testament to the English language that after so many years, spammers can still come up with entirely new ways to ask me this question, after so many hundreds of thousands of permutations. I think a big, leatherbound book would really work. Or possibly a ten volume reference set that you could keep up in a shelf, lawyer style.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Tired, Unimaginative College Dorm Posters
Year after year, decade after decade, college students nail those same old posters up on the dorm room walls. Posters that are tired. Posters that are safe. Posters that are utterly played out. It's sad too, because it's supposed to be a time of creativity and experimentation. A time for expression of the self.
I'm not saying I wasn't guilty of it myself. But now, with a few year's hindsight - let me point out some of the worst offenders, and some of the most common rookie mistakes in dorm poster selection. And here's the disclaimer up front. Not all of these posters are bad (though some are). Some are genius. But it doesn't matter. If HBO showed Lawrence of Arabia every night at 8, eventually you'd want it taken out of the rotation. Some of these posters have been in rotation for 30 years.
Now, that's possibly the greatest college dorm poster of all time. You get no argument from me. But what you also get from me is a lowered opinion of your taste when I see it on your wall. It's just too tired. It's played. This poster needs to be put to pasture, retired like Babe Ruth's jersey.
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Here you've got Scarface and The Shining. Nicholson and Pacino. You could have also thrown in the Pulp Fiction one with Travolta's and Sam Jackson's guns drawn, or the De Niro Taxi Driver one where he's holding two guns and looks insane. I think our nation's young men have long gravitated towards these as sort of a collective way of asserting manhood. Either that, or it's some kind of boast about character by way of movie-appreciation. "The owner of this poster is into The Shining" says the poster, "Pretty sophisticated, wouldn't you say? Perhaps you'd like to have sex with him?"
Again, not saying the posters suck. They're just tired and overused. Send them to the poster hall of fame and let's be done with them.
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Next up are all those posters that had sports cars AND girls in bikinis. These were so popular and I just never understood the idea. With the Shining-style movie posters there was that double message: 1) I'm badass, and 2) I'm sophicated, please sleep with me. With the cars/babes posters, I guess you kind of have number 1, but you can't even pretend to have number 2. I'm left with only one conclusion: that for these dudes, cars and sex are kind of all rolled up into one icky, low-watt desire. I remember in Europe, the few times I visited, the Europeans love to advertise grocery items using naked models. Like a naked woman pouring orange juice, or eating ice cream. And there's something just a little nausea inducing about that. Two pleasures, great individually, but that just don't go together.
Forget the SAT as a predictor of academic performance. Look at students who have posters of exotic, import cars with bikini clad women. There's your predictor of future success.
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Again, the alchohol themed posters have that same, sad commentary. "I am a man. No really, I am. You see, I drink beer! Many different beers! And shots! A guy trying to fake it might only drink one or two. Not me! Lots and lots of alchohol!" These posters need to be retired immediately.
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The highbrow, artsy poster guy at least gets points for effort - but why is it always Salvador Dali? Do you think Dali would be depressed if he knew how easily accessible his art apparantly is to 19 year old boys with no imagination? That's gotta be a punch in the gut. Imagine devoting your whole life to serious artistic expression, and in the end you get a massive teen following.
So what posters do I actually endorse? Well that's tricky. A good dorm poster needs to express something unique about yourself. I can't make anyone a recommendation. It's gotta come from within. So what would I choose if I was magically transported back to college? I think I have just the one.
Cause what the hell. I wasn't getting any anyway.
I'm not saying I wasn't guilty of it myself. But now, with a few year's hindsight - let me point out some of the worst offenders, and some of the most common rookie mistakes in dorm poster selection. And here's the disclaimer up front. Not all of these posters are bad (though some are). Some are genius. But it doesn't matter. If HBO showed Lawrence of Arabia every night at 8, eventually you'd want it taken out of the rotation. Some of these posters have been in rotation for 30 years.
Now, that's possibly the greatest college dorm poster of all time. You get no argument from me. But what you also get from me is a lowered opinion of your taste when I see it on your wall. It's just too tired. It's played. This poster needs to be put to pasture, retired like Babe Ruth's jersey.
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Here you've got Scarface and The Shining. Nicholson and Pacino. You could have also thrown in the Pulp Fiction one with Travolta's and Sam Jackson's guns drawn, or the De Niro Taxi Driver one where he's holding two guns and looks insane. I think our nation's young men have long gravitated towards these as sort of a collective way of asserting manhood. Either that, or it's some kind of boast about character by way of movie-appreciation. "The owner of this poster is into The Shining" says the poster, "Pretty sophisticated, wouldn't you say? Perhaps you'd like to have sex with him?"
Again, not saying the posters suck. They're just tired and overused. Send them to the poster hall of fame and let's be done with them.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Next up are all those posters that had sports cars AND girls in bikinis. These were so popular and I just never understood the idea. With the Shining-style movie posters there was that double message: 1) I'm badass, and 2) I'm sophicated, please sleep with me. With the cars/babes posters, I guess you kind of have number 1, but you can't even pretend to have number 2. I'm left with only one conclusion: that for these dudes, cars and sex are kind of all rolled up into one icky, low-watt desire. I remember in Europe, the few times I visited, the Europeans love to advertise grocery items using naked models. Like a naked woman pouring orange juice, or eating ice cream. And there's something just a little nausea inducing about that. Two pleasures, great individually, but that just don't go together.
Forget the SAT as a predictor of academic performance. Look at students who have posters of exotic, import cars with bikini clad women. There's your predictor of future success.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Again, the alchohol themed posters have that same, sad commentary. "I am a man. No really, I am. You see, I drink beer! Many different beers! And shots! A guy trying to fake it might only drink one or two. Not me! Lots and lots of alchohol!" These posters need to be retired immediately.
.
.
.
.
.
The highbrow, artsy poster guy at least gets points for effort - but why is it always Salvador Dali? Do you think Dali would be depressed if he knew how easily accessible his art apparantly is to 19 year old boys with no imagination? That's gotta be a punch in the gut. Imagine devoting your whole life to serious artistic expression, and in the end you get a massive teen following.
So what posters do I actually endorse? Well that's tricky. A good dorm poster needs to express something unique about yourself. I can't make anyone a recommendation. It's gotta come from within. So what would I choose if I was magically transported back to college? I think I have just the one.
Cause what the hell. I wasn't getting any anyway.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
More Questions
I don't want to stray too far from annoyances here, but I do like airing out these longstanding questions I have about life. Like how come in old movies, casinos have these blocky, rectangular chips? Is that how it really was? And if so, why?
I was watching Nova the other night. I love that show. Nova is like an old man you sit next to on a park bench. At first, you're like "Aw man, why is this old guy talking to me? Is he lonely?" But then, despite yourself, you start getting drawn in to his story. You never, before that moment, had even the slightest, smallest curiosity about the history of gasoline, you could never have even imagined giving a shit about it. But maybe it's his soothing voice, maybe it's the way the old man puts it all into context, maybe it's the clear, lucid presentation of his supporting evidence, but by the end you're on the edge of your seat - tugging on his collar - saying "So what happened to Rudolph Diesel??? Tell me!"
That's Nova for you. So I start watching it, and it's about a cave that some Syrian Jews used to hide in during the Roman persecution of Jews around 150AD. And how modern excavation of the cave has uncovered pagan bronze artifacts that may have been used in the famous "Second Temple". And of course, half an hour later, I'm hanging on every word. And it got me to thinking about a question I've had about the Romans for a long time.
The Romans ruled the entire civilized world, right? For what, around 600 years? Undisputed? The United States has been around for about 230 years, and only been a superpower for the last 60. Compared to the dominance of Rome we have a long way to go. And every Roman in the empire believed in the Roman pagan religion. Athena, Apollo and the rest. There were Jews and Christians on the fringes, but think of how many people worshipped the Roman Gods. Millions. For how many centuries? And now, who worships the Roman Gods? No one.
Which means, bear with me, that somewhere, sometime, there was "The Last Guy". I am so fascinated by the last guy. The last guy who worshipped the Roman Gods. Who was this guy? Was he frustrated and depressed all the time? Did he walk around saying "C'mon guys! Zeus! ZEUS! You know what I'm talking about!"
"Doug, your dad was into Zeus, right? Oh, he died? Well c'mon, you want to help me with this burnt offering? Aw, c'mon! Someone! It's for Zeus!"
So if Nova wanted to help me out, they could try to get some history on that guy for a future program. Which brings me to the next question, which concerns Roman numerals and the Superbowl.
Basically, I'm concerned about the superbowl's continued use of roman numerals. I mean, for a long time it's basically been an excuse to throw a lot of X's and V's around the word "Superbowl", and let's face it, X's and V's are big, macho, cool, manly letters. Who wouldn't want to be able to put XXIV after their name, or maybe XXXVI? It just makes you seem cool. But now, you've got X and V - which are cool, the "I" is pretty much neutral, and then you've got C, D, and L - which, I'm sorry, are just pretty gay. And the problem (highlighted this past year) is that we're about to enter an L-rich era of superbowls, and then ultimately, in the distant future, a lot of C's and L's. And I just don't think there's been a lot of foresight about what to do when we enter this 'gay age', which will last hundreds of years. I mean, "Superbowl CLI"? That's not cool at all. It's time to start the conversation.
I was watching Nova the other night. I love that show. Nova is like an old man you sit next to on a park bench. At first, you're like "Aw man, why is this old guy talking to me? Is he lonely?" But then, despite yourself, you start getting drawn in to his story. You never, before that moment, had even the slightest, smallest curiosity about the history of gasoline, you could never have even imagined giving a shit about it. But maybe it's his soothing voice, maybe it's the way the old man puts it all into context, maybe it's the clear, lucid presentation of his supporting evidence, but by the end you're on the edge of your seat - tugging on his collar - saying "So what happened to Rudolph Diesel??? Tell me!"
That's Nova for you. So I start watching it, and it's about a cave that some Syrian Jews used to hide in during the Roman persecution of Jews around 150AD. And how modern excavation of the cave has uncovered pagan bronze artifacts that may have been used in the famous "Second Temple". And of course, half an hour later, I'm hanging on every word. And it got me to thinking about a question I've had about the Romans for a long time.
The Romans ruled the entire civilized world, right? For what, around 600 years? Undisputed? The United States has been around for about 230 years, and only been a superpower for the last 60. Compared to the dominance of Rome we have a long way to go. And every Roman in the empire believed in the Roman pagan religion. Athena, Apollo and the rest. There were Jews and Christians on the fringes, but think of how many people worshipped the Roman Gods. Millions. For how many centuries? And now, who worships the Roman Gods? No one.
Which means, bear with me, that somewhere, sometime, there was "The Last Guy". I am so fascinated by the last guy. The last guy who worshipped the Roman Gods. Who was this guy? Was he frustrated and depressed all the time? Did he walk around saying "C'mon guys! Zeus! ZEUS! You know what I'm talking about!"
"Doug, your dad was into Zeus, right? Oh, he died? Well c'mon, you want to help me with this burnt offering? Aw, c'mon! Someone! It's for Zeus!"
So if Nova wanted to help me out, they could try to get some history on that guy for a future program. Which brings me to the next question, which concerns Roman numerals and the Superbowl.
Basically, I'm concerned about the superbowl's continued use of roman numerals. I mean, for a long time it's basically been an excuse to throw a lot of X's and V's around the word "Superbowl", and let's face it, X's and V's are big, macho, cool, manly letters. Who wouldn't want to be able to put XXIV after their name, or maybe XXXVI? It just makes you seem cool. But now, you've got X and V - which are cool, the "I" is pretty much neutral, and then you've got C, D, and L - which, I'm sorry, are just pretty gay. And the problem (highlighted this past year) is that we're about to enter an L-rich era of superbowls, and then ultimately, in the distant future, a lot of C's and L's. And I just don't think there's been a lot of foresight about what to do when we enter this 'gay age', which will last hundreds of years. I mean, "Superbowl CLI"? That's not cool at all. It's time to start the conversation.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Pop Quiz #2
Here are some questions no one has ever been able to answer to my satisfaction. Someone help me settle these issues once and for all. And who knows? Maybe there'll be a prize in it for you.
1. Is there a good method, when driving at night, to determine if the pair of headlights behind you is a cop?
2. Toilet paper. Underhand or overhand?
3. Why is Colonel pronounced kernel?
4. Why do vitamins and tylenol and other pill-type things "expire"? It's still the same pill, right? Does something bad happen if you take it?
5. Why does the second half of my tank of gas deplete much faster than the first half?
6. I don't understand "suspension" as a school disciplinary method. A kid does something egregiously wrong, and as punishment he gets to... not go to school. And since he's out for three days, or the week, he falls further behind on studies that I'm guessing he wasn't on top of in the first place. I can see that maybe the point is to inconvenience the parents, but I'm guessing, again, they weren't all that involved to start with and they aren't going to change now. Why not just put the kid in the hole for a few days, like in prison?
7. In the song "I Love L.A." does Randy Newman really think he's making a compelling case for L.A?
8. Why doesn't a glass of coffee taste good?
9. Remember how the Sarlacc monster from Return of the Jedi would "slowly digest you over a thousand years"? and how this would be a "new definition of pain and suffering"? You'd be dead after, at most, a day or two in this thing's stomach, so isn't it really an empty threat?
10. One of the most common Vietnamese last names is pronounced "Win". Yet in English, it's spelled "Nguyen". That just doesn't make any sense.
11. Why do criminals get sentenced to 150 years in prison, or "Two consecutive life sentences" or things like that? Isn't that really stupid?
12. What happened to the "cents" symbol? You know, the c with the line through it?
13. Why is there that tire tread pattern on sticks of gum?
14. Why am I so grossed out by the words "Apple Butter" and "Body Butter"?
15. Technically, when you fart, do you gain weight?
16. How do you cast "The Ugly Girl" in your movie? So many comedies have the main character open the door to find his date is hideously ugly, or fat, or repulsive in some way - and that's the joke. Ha ha, she's ugly! How do you audition for a role knowing that your entire purpose in the film is for your face to just be exhibited so people can laugh at its ugliness? How do you advertise for that role, and then who shows up?
17. Is there any piece for piano that actually uses those bottom keys?
18. Do beggars sometimes accidentally beg other beggars? Then what happens? Does it get awkward?
19. How do they get the rubber bands on the lobster?
20. You know that scene in action movies where the good guy has his gun aimed at the bad guy, but the bad guy has a knife to the girl's throat - and the bad guy says something like "Drop it!" and the good guy slowly lowers his weapon and says something like "Okay... let's talk..." and then the bad guy drops his guard slightly and says "Aha! You fool! Now I'm going to kill both of you!" and then the good guy says "I don't think so." and does something clever and kills the bad guy? You know that scene, right? My question is, when the good guy has the bad guy at gunpoint and the bad guy is holding the knife at the girl's throat, why doesn't the good guy just shoot him in the face?
1. Is there a good method, when driving at night, to determine if the pair of headlights behind you is a cop?
2. Toilet paper. Underhand or overhand?
3. Why is Colonel pronounced kernel?
4. Why do vitamins and tylenol and other pill-type things "expire"? It's still the same pill, right? Does something bad happen if you take it?
5. Why does the second half of my tank of gas deplete much faster than the first half?
6. I don't understand "suspension" as a school disciplinary method. A kid does something egregiously wrong, and as punishment he gets to... not go to school. And since he's out for three days, or the week, he falls further behind on studies that I'm guessing he wasn't on top of in the first place. I can see that maybe the point is to inconvenience the parents, but I'm guessing, again, they weren't all that involved to start with and they aren't going to change now. Why not just put the kid in the hole for a few days, like in prison?
7. In the song "I Love L.A." does Randy Newman really think he's making a compelling case for L.A?
8. Why doesn't a glass of coffee taste good?
9. Remember how the Sarlacc monster from Return of the Jedi would "slowly digest you over a thousand years"? and how this would be a "new definition of pain and suffering"? You'd be dead after, at most, a day or two in this thing's stomach, so isn't it really an empty threat?
10. One of the most common Vietnamese last names is pronounced "Win". Yet in English, it's spelled "Nguyen". That just doesn't make any sense.
11. Why do criminals get sentenced to 150 years in prison, or "Two consecutive life sentences" or things like that? Isn't that really stupid?
12. What happened to the "cents" symbol? You know, the c with the line through it?
13. Why is there that tire tread pattern on sticks of gum?
14. Why am I so grossed out by the words "Apple Butter" and "Body Butter"?
15. Technically, when you fart, do you gain weight?
16. How do you cast "The Ugly Girl" in your movie? So many comedies have the main character open the door to find his date is hideously ugly, or fat, or repulsive in some way - and that's the joke. Ha ha, she's ugly! How do you audition for a role knowing that your entire purpose in the film is for your face to just be exhibited so people can laugh at its ugliness? How do you advertise for that role, and then who shows up?
17. Is there any piece for piano that actually uses those bottom keys?
18. Do beggars sometimes accidentally beg other beggars? Then what happens? Does it get awkward?
19. How do they get the rubber bands on the lobster?
20. You know that scene in action movies where the good guy has his gun aimed at the bad guy, but the bad guy has a knife to the girl's throat - and the bad guy says something like "Drop it!" and the good guy slowly lowers his weapon and says something like "Okay... let's talk..." and then the bad guy drops his guard slightly and says "Aha! You fool! Now I'm going to kill both of you!" and then the good guy says "I don't think so." and does something clever and kills the bad guy? You know that scene, right? My question is, when the good guy has the bad guy at gunpoint and the bad guy is holding the knife at the girl's throat, why doesn't the good guy just shoot him in the face?
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Franklin Covey
Let's begin today with another gem from a Starbucks cup. This nugget of wisdom comes from Vik Muniz, Brazilian photographer:
In an age when pictures have become more eloquent than words, schools are still programmed to reduce the child's immersive interaction with the visual world to the practical poverty of the alphabet. Visual literacy should become a pedagogical priority in order to prepare our children to function within the increasingly visual complexity of our environment.
Ohhhhh man. What's the hell is wrong with these Brazilians? First they give us Blanca from Street Fighter and his unnatural ability to electrically charge his entire body, and now we get Vik Muniz and his bald idiocy. Though I really want to deconstruct every single phrase of his cup quote, I think we've beaten that horse enough. I'll only point out that Vik chose to make his argument using (gasp) words! Shouldn't he have expressed his thought through a photo of a Sao Paulo slum, or something? You know, what with the practical poverty of the alphabet and all?
Okay. So, Franklin Covey sells "Time Management". ... And maybe, maybe I could just end this post right there. Everything I'm going to tell you in the next eight pages of text is pretty much all there in the first sentence.
My friends from my old job will know what I'm talking about - and yes, this still steams me and gets me agitated to this day - but one day at work I was told to attend this surprise all-day workshop being held by Franklin Covey, mandatory for all staff, to learn about time management and better productivity.
The four hour presentation that followed can only be described as useless, boring, frustrating, awkward, and whatever the adjective for bullshit is. Seriously, with the hindsight I now have (having gone through two years of MBA schooling where I have sat through enough management theory and productivity theory to almost be able to speak that zombie language myself) I can tell you with certainty that the Franklin Covey shtick is as pure as bullshit gets. It really is bullshit. If you can truly come away from a Franklin Covey workshop on time management with a bold new outlook on getting your life in order, then a) your life is in bad shape, and b) you are an easily dazzled fool.
Do you think maybe that in an age with Blackberrys and mobile officing and wireless networks and mobile conferences, etc. that the entire business concept of Franklin Covey - based around the idea of a bulky day-planner system of time management, complete with multi-colored pens to assign different levels of task importance - well, that it's about as current and relevant as a wood paneled station wagon?
Real management theory is about the balancing act of using incentives, positive reinforcement and mental stimulation to get the maximum productivity out of your workforce. It's about fostering a culture of teamwork, camaraderie and loyalty in the workplace and getting everyone invested.
Bullshit management theory is about buzzwords, catchphrases, quotes from great men, acronyms that spell out positive messages, and, frankly, the idea that a four hour workshop on time management can do a single, goddamn thing. Bullshit management theory is the idea that you can put up a poster that offers Buddha-lite advice like this:
Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up.
It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed.
Every morning, a lion wakes up.
It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death.
It doesn't matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle.
When the sun comes up, you better start running.
...and think that it's going to make anyone file or collate or data-sort or word-process just a little bit better. Ironic, don't you think, that we were pulled away with no warning from actual pressing tasks to hear a four hour lecture on time management? It's like the old joke about the nurse who wakes up the patient to tell him it's time for his nap. Bullshit management theory is about thinking you can hire some doofus with a powerpoint show to come in and talk to your staff, and suddenly everyone's going to give you more productivity.
Let me tell you something about the message I got from Franklin Covey in the workshop. Franklin Covey would have you believe that you need to plan out every minute of every day with gestapo efficiency - backing up their philosophy with non sequitur bromides like "Put the big rocks in first!" - all the while treating you like you must have the mental capacity, patience, and attention span of a screech monkey. It's one thing to be pulled out of work to hear a seminar with lousy advice, it's another thing to get lectured to like a schoolchild, and it's yet something else to find out that in the end it was all just a four hour sales pitch for a spiral binder.
Look, here's the real truth. You want more productivity out of the team? Block the internet. I know it would be cruel, and you'd hear no end of it - but there it is. If someone has the choice of a) doing some tedious task, and b) going to espn.com, (and they're not being supervised) they will go to espn. If the choice is between the tedious task and staring at the ceiling tiles, they'll do the tedious task. There's your four hour seminar, and it was free.
And if you want even more efficiency, get some of them four colored pens! You know, the pens where you push down on a particular side to get a different color? One pen - that does the work of four! Think of the desktop space you could save; space that was previously taken by so many, many pens! One pen! One beautiful, glorious pen! Yes!
In an age when pictures have become more eloquent than words, schools are still programmed to reduce the child's immersive interaction with the visual world to the practical poverty of the alphabet. Visual literacy should become a pedagogical priority in order to prepare our children to function within the increasingly visual complexity of our environment.
Ohhhhh man. What's the hell is wrong with these Brazilians? First they give us Blanca from Street Fighter and his unnatural ability to electrically charge his entire body, and now we get Vik Muniz and his bald idiocy. Though I really want to deconstruct every single phrase of his cup quote, I think we've beaten that horse enough. I'll only point out that Vik chose to make his argument using (gasp) words! Shouldn't he have expressed his thought through a photo of a Sao Paulo slum, or something? You know, what with the practical poverty of the alphabet and all?
Okay. So, Franklin Covey sells "Time Management". ... And maybe, maybe I could just end this post right there. Everything I'm going to tell you in the next eight pages of text is pretty much all there in the first sentence.
My friends from my old job will know what I'm talking about - and yes, this still steams me and gets me agitated to this day - but one day at work I was told to attend this surprise all-day workshop being held by Franklin Covey, mandatory for all staff, to learn about time management and better productivity.
The four hour presentation that followed can only be described as useless, boring, frustrating, awkward, and whatever the adjective for bullshit is. Seriously, with the hindsight I now have (having gone through two years of MBA schooling where I have sat through enough management theory and productivity theory to almost be able to speak that zombie language myself) I can tell you with certainty that the Franklin Covey shtick is as pure as bullshit gets. It really is bullshit. If you can truly come away from a Franklin Covey workshop on time management with a bold new outlook on getting your life in order, then a) your life is in bad shape, and b) you are an easily dazzled fool.
Do you think maybe that in an age with Blackberrys and mobile officing and wireless networks and mobile conferences, etc. that the entire business concept of Franklin Covey - based around the idea of a bulky day-planner system of time management, complete with multi-colored pens to assign different levels of task importance - well, that it's about as current and relevant as a wood paneled station wagon?
Real management theory is about the balancing act of using incentives, positive reinforcement and mental stimulation to get the maximum productivity out of your workforce. It's about fostering a culture of teamwork, camaraderie and loyalty in the workplace and getting everyone invested.
Bullshit management theory is about buzzwords, catchphrases, quotes from great men, acronyms that spell out positive messages, and, frankly, the idea that a four hour workshop on time management can do a single, goddamn thing. Bullshit management theory is the idea that you can put up a poster that offers Buddha-lite advice like this:
Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up.
It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed.
Every morning, a lion wakes up.
It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death.
It doesn't matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle.
When the sun comes up, you better start running.
...and think that it's going to make anyone file or collate or data-sort or word-process just a little bit better. Ironic, don't you think, that we were pulled away with no warning from actual pressing tasks to hear a four hour lecture on time management? It's like the old joke about the nurse who wakes up the patient to tell him it's time for his nap. Bullshit management theory is about thinking you can hire some doofus with a powerpoint show to come in and talk to your staff, and suddenly everyone's going to give you more productivity.
Let me tell you something about the message I got from Franklin Covey in the workshop. Franklin Covey would have you believe that you need to plan out every minute of every day with gestapo efficiency - backing up their philosophy with non sequitur bromides like "Put the big rocks in first!" - all the while treating you like you must have the mental capacity, patience, and attention span of a screech monkey. It's one thing to be pulled out of work to hear a seminar with lousy advice, it's another thing to get lectured to like a schoolchild, and it's yet something else to find out that in the end it was all just a four hour sales pitch for a spiral binder.
Look, here's the real truth. You want more productivity out of the team? Block the internet. I know it would be cruel, and you'd hear no end of it - but there it is. If someone has the choice of a) doing some tedious task, and b) going to espn.com, (and they're not being supervised) they will go to espn. If the choice is between the tedious task and staring at the ceiling tiles, they'll do the tedious task. There's your four hour seminar, and it was free.
And if you want even more efficiency, get some of them four colored pens! You know, the pens where you push down on a particular side to get a different color? One pen - that does the work of four! Think of the desktop space you could save; space that was previously taken by so many, many pens! One pen! One beautiful, glorious pen! Yes!
Sunday, March 12, 2006
These Stupid Starbucks Cup Quotes
Back to my stormy, love-hate, Moonlightingish relationship with Starbucks. Just when I thought everything was fine and we had learned to live with each other's faults, they hit me with these cup quotes that are just driving me stark raving insane.
Some aren't all that aggravating, and some are really just bland, but here's what happened to me. My local Starbucks that I swing by on the way to work every day must have gotten a jumbo-surplus shipment of cups featuring quote #74, because every day it's that same quote on my cup - taunting me, provoking me, haunting me. Shall I share it? It's the stupidest paragraph of text I've ever read.
"In a time when even our soil and air might not know the truth, the only solace we can take in decision-making about our inner peace is through honest, organic and sustainable farming. I guarantee that if you know the name of the person who picks your carrots and peas, you will feel better and so will your grandchildren." -Mario Bateli - Chef, author and host of Molto Mario and Mario Eats Italy on the Food Network.
Now for most of us, that statement is prima facie stupid, de facto stupid, and possibly other latin phrases stupid, and a line-by-line analysis of the stupidity is not necessary. But this is Petty Annoyances, and careful probing of why something is bullshit is what we're all about here.
Now look, I understand what Mario, in his senility, is getting at here. He's saying "Organic farming, people. Support it - you'll feel good." Putting aside the actual merits of the organic farming argument, and putting aside the notion that a political cause is worth supporting if it merely makes you "feel better" on a gut level, Mario and others like him need to understand that if you make your case with this tiedye-wearing, tambourine-waving bullshit approach about what the "soil knows" that you've instantly alienated me. You've made me far more emotionally invested in seeing you humiliated, upset, abused, depressed and utterly defeated than in the merits of what you were actually proposing.
If you say to me: "Join me in spreading the word about forest-fire prevention; because every time a forest burns, a sylph of the woodland sheds a silent tear." you've actually made me want to go out and set a forest fire. The satisfaction I would get from seeing your face as all the forests of the world lie in smoldering ashes around your feet would be worth all the carnage and destruction.
Mario would have us believe that the only solace we can take in decision making about our inner peace is through honest, organic and sustainable farming. To which the obvious rebuttal, clearly, is "huh?". Or possibly "Que pasa?" What the fuck does that even mean, Mario?
It means - bear with me - that we desire inner peace. But we are sometimes forced into decision-making as to how to achieve this inner peace. The decision making process, as implied by Mario's sentence, is an arduous one - one from which we would seek solace. Now, we're no longer talking about inner peace, we're talking about how to seek solace from the despair that accompanies the decision-making process that governs inner-peace acquisition. And to get this solace, there is only route - to farm honestly, organically and sustainably. Mario describes it as "the only solace". So, according to Mario, after a long day of frustrating decision making with regard to your inner peace, the only way you're going to get any relief from your personal turmoil is by finding the man who picked your carrots, and shaking his hand. Or possibly by engaging in some farming yourself - that distinction wasn't clear. Remember, this is in a time when our air, and even our soil might not know the truth. And if a cloudy vapor of nitrogen and oxygen doesn't know what's going on, what hope do we have?
Mario Batali, you are an imbecile and a fool. You know nothing, and your mystic, authentic-Italian, garden-Yoda routine impresses no one. If we're going to get the soil and the air caught up on current events, we should explain to them how an ass like yourself was permitted to opine on thousands of cups, with the full blessing of the Starbucks Corporation.
So, okay then. Organic farming. What's the story? Should we support it? Now of course you know that I'm already biased against it thanks to Mario - but is there actually a good case for knowing the guy who picks your peas? If you found out that your grandfather was on a first name basis with his pea-picker, how would you feel? Better? Consoled? Does Mario's guarantee hold up?
I caught an episode of Penn & Teller's "Bullshit" on this very subject a while back, where if I recall, they took the position that the best way to feed the global population of the future would be through synthetically enhanced produce, livestock pumped full of hormones to maximize grain yield, and efficient, industrialized mega-farms where the "person" picking my carrots would probably be a sterilized robotic claw. I remember thinking that they had good points (and this is all pre-Mario and his inner-peace plea). Maybe I can find a link to what they were talking about...
Yeah, they were talking about Nobel Peace Prize winner Norman Borlaug, his advocacy of high-yield, bio-engineered wheat, and how low-yield organic farming can't meet the nutritional needs of the world's population and how it actually contributes to global deforestation. I particularly like this quote: "Some of the environmental lobbyists of the western nations are the salt of the earth, but many of them are elitists. They've never experienced the physical sensation of hunger. They do their lobbying from comfortable office suites in Washington or Brussels. If they lived just one month amid the misery of the developing world, as I have for fifty years, they'd be crying out for tractors and fertilizer and irrigation canals and be outraged that fashionable elitists back home were trying to deny them these things."
Read the whole thing here: Norman Borlaug
There are other Starbucks cup quotes that are plenty annoying. There was one I can't quite remember about "Traditional Peoples" and another one about Teddy Roosevelt that had me going. Feel free to read them on your own and be infuriated. What do you think Starbucks is really doing here? What's the motive? Do you think maybe they're worried, from a PR standpoint, about getting a Walmart-y or a Microsoft-y reputation and so they're cantering hard in the opposite direction, trying to make with the tree hugging and the kum-ba-yah to nip any values-criticism in the bud? I mean it does seem like a lot of these quotes have an environmentalism focus; sort of what you'd expect to see if you figure that the most likely attack on Starbucks is that they exploit farmers.
Is that what's going on, Starbucks? You want to own up?
Some aren't all that aggravating, and some are really just bland, but here's what happened to me. My local Starbucks that I swing by on the way to work every day must have gotten a jumbo-surplus shipment of cups featuring quote #74, because every day it's that same quote on my cup - taunting me, provoking me, haunting me. Shall I share it? It's the stupidest paragraph of text I've ever read.
"In a time when even our soil and air might not know the truth, the only solace we can take in decision-making about our inner peace is through honest, organic and sustainable farming. I guarantee that if you know the name of the person who picks your carrots and peas, you will feel better and so will your grandchildren." -Mario Bateli - Chef, author and host of Molto Mario and Mario Eats Italy on the Food Network.
Now for most of us, that statement is prima facie stupid, de facto stupid, and possibly other latin phrases stupid, and a line-by-line analysis of the stupidity is not necessary. But this is Petty Annoyances, and careful probing of why something is bullshit is what we're all about here.
Now look, I understand what Mario, in his senility, is getting at here. He's saying "Organic farming, people. Support it - you'll feel good." Putting aside the actual merits of the organic farming argument, and putting aside the notion that a political cause is worth supporting if it merely makes you "feel better" on a gut level, Mario and others like him need to understand that if you make your case with this tiedye-wearing, tambourine-waving bullshit approach about what the "soil knows" that you've instantly alienated me. You've made me far more emotionally invested in seeing you humiliated, upset, abused, depressed and utterly defeated than in the merits of what you were actually proposing.
If you say to me: "Join me in spreading the word about forest-fire prevention; because every time a forest burns, a sylph of the woodland sheds a silent tear." you've actually made me want to go out and set a forest fire. The satisfaction I would get from seeing your face as all the forests of the world lie in smoldering ashes around your feet would be worth all the carnage and destruction.
Mario would have us believe that the only solace we can take in decision making about our inner peace is through honest, organic and sustainable farming. To which the obvious rebuttal, clearly, is "huh?". Or possibly "Que pasa?" What the fuck does that even mean, Mario?
It means - bear with me - that we desire inner peace. But we are sometimes forced into decision-making as to how to achieve this inner peace. The decision making process, as implied by Mario's sentence, is an arduous one - one from which we would seek solace. Now, we're no longer talking about inner peace, we're talking about how to seek solace from the despair that accompanies the decision-making process that governs inner-peace acquisition. And to get this solace, there is only route - to farm honestly, organically and sustainably. Mario describes it as "the only solace". So, according to Mario, after a long day of frustrating decision making with regard to your inner peace, the only way you're going to get any relief from your personal turmoil is by finding the man who picked your carrots, and shaking his hand. Or possibly by engaging in some farming yourself - that distinction wasn't clear. Remember, this is in a time when our air, and even our soil might not know the truth. And if a cloudy vapor of nitrogen and oxygen doesn't know what's going on, what hope do we have?
Mario Batali, you are an imbecile and a fool. You know nothing, and your mystic, authentic-Italian, garden-Yoda routine impresses no one. If we're going to get the soil and the air caught up on current events, we should explain to them how an ass like yourself was permitted to opine on thousands of cups, with the full blessing of the Starbucks Corporation.
So, okay then. Organic farming. What's the story? Should we support it? Now of course you know that I'm already biased against it thanks to Mario - but is there actually a good case for knowing the guy who picks your peas? If you found out that your grandfather was on a first name basis with his pea-picker, how would you feel? Better? Consoled? Does Mario's guarantee hold up?
I caught an episode of Penn & Teller's "Bullshit" on this very subject a while back, where if I recall, they took the position that the best way to feed the global population of the future would be through synthetically enhanced produce, livestock pumped full of hormones to maximize grain yield, and efficient, industrialized mega-farms where the "person" picking my carrots would probably be a sterilized robotic claw. I remember thinking that they had good points (and this is all pre-Mario and his inner-peace plea). Maybe I can find a link to what they were talking about...
Yeah, they were talking about Nobel Peace Prize winner Norman Borlaug, his advocacy of high-yield, bio-engineered wheat, and how low-yield organic farming can't meet the nutritional needs of the world's population and how it actually contributes to global deforestation. I particularly like this quote: "Some of the environmental lobbyists of the western nations are the salt of the earth, but many of them are elitists. They've never experienced the physical sensation of hunger. They do their lobbying from comfortable office suites in Washington or Brussels. If they lived just one month amid the misery of the developing world, as I have for fifty years, they'd be crying out for tractors and fertilizer and irrigation canals and be outraged that fashionable elitists back home were trying to deny them these things."
Read the whole thing here: Norman Borlaug
There are other Starbucks cup quotes that are plenty annoying. There was one I can't quite remember about "Traditional Peoples" and another one about Teddy Roosevelt that had me going. Feel free to read them on your own and be infuriated. What do you think Starbucks is really doing here? What's the motive? Do you think maybe they're worried, from a PR standpoint, about getting a Walmart-y or a Microsoft-y reputation and so they're cantering hard in the opposite direction, trying to make with the tree hugging and the kum-ba-yah to nip any values-criticism in the bud? I mean it does seem like a lot of these quotes have an environmentalism focus; sort of what you'd expect to see if you figure that the most likely attack on Starbucks is that they exploit farmers.
Is that what's going on, Starbucks? You want to own up?
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Thank You Notes
Have you ever actually been disappointed to get a present because of the obligation it creates to write some bullshit letter? You stare at it - it's probably a shirt... or a fullscreen DVD of The Aviator - and you immediately resent it. You look at it with frustration and a resigned annoyance. Because there you were, enjoying your day, not a care in the world, and now you've got shit to do. Now you've got to pull out your nice stationery and go through this formal little dance and curtsey.
Well I hate it. I hate writing thank you notes. If society permitted some kind of opt-out, like maybe you send me a present and I give you a $5 paypal deposit, I would definitely take it. It's not that I'm some ungrateful sumbitch. I do appreciate the present. But it's just the case, and I really need to stress this, that if your generosity results in the creation of a tedious chore for me then you haven't done me any favors. In the case of your standard gift - like a shirt - it's a net loss. I'd rather have no shirt and no chore.
Here's what I can offer, and I think this is reasonable. The next time I see you... the next time we talk on the phone... the next time we're emailing or I see you at work or I bump into you on the street, I'll give you some warm and sincere thanks. That's a promise. Isn't that a good system? It passes the golden rule test - I'd be perfectly happy if people did it for my gifts. In fact, with any gift I'd send, I'd include a little card that said "TM/SM" - thank me when you see me.
I just think the standard thank-you-note system is the relic of a much different era. A time with no computers or phones, or cars. Where the handwritten letter was the standard form of communication and you might not see the other person for months. Probably also an era when a gift was a real pain in the ass to give. You want to give someone some socks? Have a seat at the loom here and make a pair. I can see, if I had to shear my own sheep to get the raw materials to physically construct your sweater, I might appreciate a note.
But if some aunt swings by Barnes and Noble on the way home to pick up six $10 gift cards to give to the peripheral family members for Christmas, do I really need to sit down and compose a letter? Can't I just mention my appreciation the next time I see her?
And even if I do write the thank you letter, there are annoying rules to follow. You can't say "Thank You" anywhere in the first sentence. Have you ever stared at a blank sheet of stationery, wondering what the hell you were going to put in that first sentence? I've been there man. "Dear Pat, Wow. Can you believe it's January already?" "Dear Mrs. Stevens, How are you? Today I found out that a potato is not, in fact, a vegetable." And so on. I think the point of the no "Thank You" in the opening remark rule is so that the letter doesn't appear to be some unwanted, mercenary task - even though that's exactly what it is. The letter has to at least pretend to be genuine, voluntary correspondence. Because, you know, every day around 4:00 I sit down and write letters.
A secondary problem with a full thank you letter is that this may not be a person I want to stimulate a real conversation with. Let's say you're really not that close to great uncle Fred and in fact you think he's a little creepy and weird. But, alarmingly, he sends you a shirt for Christmas. What do you do? Let's face it, you're screwed any which way. Don't send him a note, you're a jerk. Do send him a note, hello creepy great uncle Fred. It's lose lose.
When I was 13 I had a Bar Mitzvah and got over 100 presents. Oh, pooooor me, right? Well, first of all, you've never seen so many atlases in your whole life. I mean, I got a shitload of atlases. I can't figure out why. Maybe I came across as someone who desperately needed an atlas. Maybe I said things like "I can't wait till I'm old enough to drive to Germany." But whatever the reason, I got around 7 or 8 of them. Couldn't tell you where any of them are now though. But secondly, my parents sat me down and wouldn't let me get up until I had written at least the first 50 thank you notes, making sure I didn't make them all too similar (in case the relatives compared notes). Just try to imagine a 13 year old kid trying to come up with a seventh unique way to thank someone for a book of maps. It was pure hell.
So you think I'm just some ungrateful little snot? Fine! Spare me your little Dilbert calendar! Ooooooooohhhh, what else are you going to deprive me of? A shoe polish kit? A comical tie? An ice cream scoop with a sound effect on the handle? I'm soooooo scared!!! What will I do without these precious gifts?
I will thank you the next time I see you or talk to you, and if that's not good enough, then you're a mentally warped, insecure, preening little fussbudget.
Good day.
Well I hate it. I hate writing thank you notes. If society permitted some kind of opt-out, like maybe you send me a present and I give you a $5 paypal deposit, I would definitely take it. It's not that I'm some ungrateful sumbitch. I do appreciate the present. But it's just the case, and I really need to stress this, that if your generosity results in the creation of a tedious chore for me then you haven't done me any favors. In the case of your standard gift - like a shirt - it's a net loss. I'd rather have no shirt and no chore.
Here's what I can offer, and I think this is reasonable. The next time I see you... the next time we talk on the phone... the next time we're emailing or I see you at work or I bump into you on the street, I'll give you some warm and sincere thanks. That's a promise. Isn't that a good system? It passes the golden rule test - I'd be perfectly happy if people did it for my gifts. In fact, with any gift I'd send, I'd include a little card that said "TM/SM" - thank me when you see me.
I just think the standard thank-you-note system is the relic of a much different era. A time with no computers or phones, or cars. Where the handwritten letter was the standard form of communication and you might not see the other person for months. Probably also an era when a gift was a real pain in the ass to give. You want to give someone some socks? Have a seat at the loom here and make a pair. I can see, if I had to shear my own sheep to get the raw materials to physically construct your sweater, I might appreciate a note.
But if some aunt swings by Barnes and Noble on the way home to pick up six $10 gift cards to give to the peripheral family members for Christmas, do I really need to sit down and compose a letter? Can't I just mention my appreciation the next time I see her?
And even if I do write the thank you letter, there are annoying rules to follow. You can't say "Thank You" anywhere in the first sentence. Have you ever stared at a blank sheet of stationery, wondering what the hell you were going to put in that first sentence? I've been there man. "Dear Pat, Wow. Can you believe it's January already?" "Dear Mrs. Stevens, How are you? Today I found out that a potato is not, in fact, a vegetable." And so on. I think the point of the no "Thank You" in the opening remark rule is so that the letter doesn't appear to be some unwanted, mercenary task - even though that's exactly what it is. The letter has to at least pretend to be genuine, voluntary correspondence. Because, you know, every day around 4:00 I sit down and write letters.
A secondary problem with a full thank you letter is that this may not be a person I want to stimulate a real conversation with. Let's say you're really not that close to great uncle Fred and in fact you think he's a little creepy and weird. But, alarmingly, he sends you a shirt for Christmas. What do you do? Let's face it, you're screwed any which way. Don't send him a note, you're a jerk. Do send him a note, hello creepy great uncle Fred. It's lose lose.
When I was 13 I had a Bar Mitzvah and got over 100 presents. Oh, pooooor me, right? Well, first of all, you've never seen so many atlases in your whole life. I mean, I got a shitload of atlases. I can't figure out why. Maybe I came across as someone who desperately needed an atlas. Maybe I said things like "I can't wait till I'm old enough to drive to Germany." But whatever the reason, I got around 7 or 8 of them. Couldn't tell you where any of them are now though. But secondly, my parents sat me down and wouldn't let me get up until I had written at least the first 50 thank you notes, making sure I didn't make them all too similar (in case the relatives compared notes). Just try to imagine a 13 year old kid trying to come up with a seventh unique way to thank someone for a book of maps. It was pure hell.
So you think I'm just some ungrateful little snot? Fine! Spare me your little Dilbert calendar! Ooooooooohhhh, what else are you going to deprive me of? A shoe polish kit? A comical tie? An ice cream scoop with a sound effect on the handle? I'm soooooo scared!!! What will I do without these precious gifts?
I will thank you the next time I see you or talk to you, and if that's not good enough, then you're a mentally warped, insecure, preening little fussbudget.
Good day.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Mmmm... Potpourri.
Sharing My Food
This is a really touchy subject for me. I mean, sharing food is fine - and there are different ways to share food. In general, a family style meal like you'd get at a Chinese restuarant or a Buca di Beppo is okay. The problems only occur when, through the magic of sharing, I'm simply not allowed to eat the food I want to eat. There was a recent situation at a sushi dinner that illustrates it exactly. "Hey," says my friend, "Let's go out for sushi!". Great idea. The thought of two spicy tuna rolls dipped generously in soy sauce and wasabi sounded perfect. I'm on board. So a whole bunch of us go to my absolute favorite sushi restuarant: Sumo. Now, it's important for the story if you remember: I just want my two spicy tuna rolls.
But you see, we're all sharing. One of us becomes the sushi order-slip MC and starts writing down all our sushi requests. When it comes to me, I say "Put me down for two spicy tuna rolls." This is where the trouble begins.
MC: "No no, we already have a spicy tuna roll."
Me: "Yes, but I'd like to eat two spicy tuna rolls."
MC: "So you want to put another spicy tuna roll on there? Are you sure?"
Me: "Well actually, if you already have one, you'll have to add two more, because I want two spicy tuna rolls."
MC: "But the first one was for sharing. You can already have the first one."
Me: "Well, no... Look, I want two spicy tuna rolls. Order as many as you have to so that when the food comes, I get to eat two spicy tuna rolls."
MC: "You know we're ordering family style. I think two spicy tuna rolls is more than enough for the whole table."
Me: "No. I want two spicy tuna rolls. For me. I want two dedicated spicy tuna rolls for my own personal use."
MC: "So what, you're just going to eat your own private meal in the corner while the rest of us share?"
Me: "I don't mind sharing. I just want to be able to eat a quantity of spicy tuna roll equal to two. Let's just order three of them."
MC: "Why don't we order two, and then if you're still hungry, we'll order another round."
Me: "Why are you trying to stop me from eating two spicy tuna rolls? Why are you so motivated to block me from eating this food? I don't give a shit about your caterpillar roll, or your unagi, or your salmon roe. I just want two goddamn spicy tuna rolls, that I can eat myself. Put me down for two separate rolls or so help me I will dunk your head in a boiling pot of edamame."
Well no, I didn't say the last part. But you see where I'm coming from right? "Sharing" is fine if at the end of the day, I ate the food that I wanted to eat. But if sharing means I have to cut back on my spicy tuna roll so that we can round out the order with a Philadelphia roll that no one's going to eat anyway, well fuck that. What ended up happening is that we did order three spicy tuna rolls, but then I ended up in the confusing position of having to numerically keep track of how many I was eating, because everyone else was taking from the same plate. It was like "That was my tenth piece... no no, eleventh!"
The Politically Correct Bastardization of My Beloved Zebra Puzzle
There's this incredible, fiendishly challenging puzzle known as the Zebra Puzzle or the Einstein Puzzle. (Einstein supposedly authored it, but it wasn't published until the 60's) I first encountered it about ten years ago in college. It starts out fairly simply, but requires increasingly nuanced deductive and logical abilities to solve. There are few puzzles that have been more satisfying to crack than this one. I'll just cut and paste the puzzle here, in case anyone wants to try it.
There are five houses in a row. Each is a different color and is inhabited by men of different nationalities - with different pets, drinks and cigarettes.
The Englishman lives in the red house. The Spaniard owns the dog. Coffee is drunk in the green house. The Ukrainian drinks tea. The green house is immediately to the right of the ivory house. The Old Gold smoker owns snails. Kools are smoked in the yellow house. Milk is drunk in the middle house. The Norwegian lives in the first house. The man who smokes Chesterfields lives in the house next to the man with the fox. Kools are smoked in the house next to the house where the horse is kept. The Lucky Strike smoker drinks orange juice. The Japanese smokes Parliaments. The Norwegian lives next to the blue house. Now who drinks water? And who owns the zebra?
The puzzle is often used as a educational tool, and this of course is where the hippies step in and make me furious. You see, kids can't be permitted to see this. No no no. People smoking cigarettes? Houses inhabited by men? People drinking coffee? A Japanese man being called A Japanese? Where are the positive messages about women in the workplace? Where's the affirmative imagery of senior citizens maintaining active lifestyles? Where are the necessary lessons about the handicapped meeting all of life's challenges? Does the puzzle at least offer a cautionary reminder about our historical treatment of Native Americans? Sadly, the zebra puzzle lacks any of these things. But all that has changed, thanks to our nation's educators. Now the zebra puzzle can teach us all something about cross-cultural understanding and recognizing the hidden potential in every human heart. Let's look at a few of the new versions, shall we?
http://64.233.179.104/search?q=cache:L5E3bjOF7ZsJ:www.lib.fit.edu/pubs/librarydisplays
/puzzle2.pdf+%22who+owns+the+zebra%22&hl=en&gl=us&ct=clnk&cd=5
(Becuase in case you didn't know, a woman really can become an engineer.)
http://www.skonline.org/website/mathonline/logic/zebra.htm
(The orange juice drinker hang-glides? Get outta town!)
http://mathforum.org/library/drmath/view/55627.html
(The "Japanese person" "grows gardenias.")
You pussies. The "Japanese person" doesn't grow gardenias. He smokes Parliaments. He will always smoke Parliaments. You know who says so? ALBERT EINSTEIN says so. Not Andrew Dice Clay. Einstein. You don't just take Einstein's zebra puzzle and substitute flowers and career women wherever you want. The Japanese smokes Parliaments!
(And just as a side note: Frenchman = fine, Englishman = fine, Chinaman = offensive. Someone want to explain that to me?)
These Widescreen TVs
I mentioned this over a year ago in one of the annoyance lists, but since then the problem has just gotten worse and worse. It's out of control now. People buy these widesreen TVs. They're really big and expensive. Unless they're watching one of those very few channels that broadcasts in widescreen (those HDTV channels) they're getting a normal, square TV, 4:3 ratio picture on their screen.
So what the widescreen TV does is either blow up the image and crop it on the top and bottom, or it stretches the image horizontally to fit the whole screen. a newer method I've seen recently is even uglier: the middle slice of the screen shows a non-distorted picture, and the edges of the screen do a superstretch to compensate. It creates a fishbowl effect where if the camera moves around, the stuff in the middle of the TV pans at a normal speed - while the image on the edges whips around really fast. It looks like absolute butt.
Here's the message that the opulent, luxury, forward-looking TV crowd needs to hear: If you truly claim to care about resolution and fidelity and clarity and crispness, and S video and all of that bullshit, then you do realize that the crappy distortions you put up with as your TV performs sleight of hand to take a square broadcast and fill the whole screen - you do realize that the distortions completely, utterly, entirely outweigh any benefits you get from improved picture quality?
You do know that right?
It's like getting the crispest, clearest television image on earth, but having to view it through a fun house mirror. The one alternative you have (with some brands) is to choose to view the broadcast in 4:3 as it was intended, with vertical black bars on the side of your TV. But as it's been pointed out to me - if you do that for an extended period of time, the black bars will burn the screen. So you're really pretty much just screwed.
This is a really touchy subject for me. I mean, sharing food is fine - and there are different ways to share food. In general, a family style meal like you'd get at a Chinese restuarant or a Buca di Beppo is okay. The problems only occur when, through the magic of sharing, I'm simply not allowed to eat the food I want to eat. There was a recent situation at a sushi dinner that illustrates it exactly. "Hey," says my friend, "Let's go out for sushi!". Great idea. The thought of two spicy tuna rolls dipped generously in soy sauce and wasabi sounded perfect. I'm on board. So a whole bunch of us go to my absolute favorite sushi restuarant: Sumo. Now, it's important for the story if you remember: I just want my two spicy tuna rolls.
But you see, we're all sharing. One of us becomes the sushi order-slip MC and starts writing down all our sushi requests. When it comes to me, I say "Put me down for two spicy tuna rolls." This is where the trouble begins.
MC: "No no, we already have a spicy tuna roll."
Me: "Yes, but I'd like to eat two spicy tuna rolls."
MC: "So you want to put another spicy tuna roll on there? Are you sure?"
Me: "Well actually, if you already have one, you'll have to add two more, because I want two spicy tuna rolls."
MC: "But the first one was for sharing. You can already have the first one."
Me: "Well, no... Look, I want two spicy tuna rolls. Order as many as you have to so that when the food comes, I get to eat two spicy tuna rolls."
MC: "You know we're ordering family style. I think two spicy tuna rolls is more than enough for the whole table."
Me: "No. I want two spicy tuna rolls. For me. I want two dedicated spicy tuna rolls for my own personal use."
MC: "So what, you're just going to eat your own private meal in the corner while the rest of us share?"
Me: "I don't mind sharing. I just want to be able to eat a quantity of spicy tuna roll equal to two. Let's just order three of them."
MC: "Why don't we order two, and then if you're still hungry, we'll order another round."
Me: "Why are you trying to stop me from eating two spicy tuna rolls? Why are you so motivated to block me from eating this food? I don't give a shit about your caterpillar roll, or your unagi, or your salmon roe. I just want two goddamn spicy tuna rolls, that I can eat myself. Put me down for two separate rolls or so help me I will dunk your head in a boiling pot of edamame."
Well no, I didn't say the last part. But you see where I'm coming from right? "Sharing" is fine if at the end of the day, I ate the food that I wanted to eat. But if sharing means I have to cut back on my spicy tuna roll so that we can round out the order with a Philadelphia roll that no one's going to eat anyway, well fuck that. What ended up happening is that we did order three spicy tuna rolls, but then I ended up in the confusing position of having to numerically keep track of how many I was eating, because everyone else was taking from the same plate. It was like "That was my tenth piece... no no, eleventh!"
The Politically Correct Bastardization of My Beloved Zebra Puzzle
There's this incredible, fiendishly challenging puzzle known as the Zebra Puzzle or the Einstein Puzzle. (Einstein supposedly authored it, but it wasn't published until the 60's) I first encountered it about ten years ago in college. It starts out fairly simply, but requires increasingly nuanced deductive and logical abilities to solve. There are few puzzles that have been more satisfying to crack than this one. I'll just cut and paste the puzzle here, in case anyone wants to try it.
The puzzle is often used as a educational tool, and this of course is where the hippies step in and make me furious. You see, kids can't be permitted to see this. No no no. People smoking cigarettes? Houses inhabited by men? People drinking coffee? A Japanese man being called A Japanese? Where are the positive messages about women in the workplace? Where's the affirmative imagery of senior citizens maintaining active lifestyles? Where are the necessary lessons about the handicapped meeting all of life's challenges? Does the puzzle at least offer a cautionary reminder about our historical treatment of Native Americans? Sadly, the zebra puzzle lacks any of these things. But all that has changed, thanks to our nation's educators. Now the zebra puzzle can teach us all something about cross-cultural understanding and recognizing the hidden potential in every human heart. Let's look at a few of the new versions, shall we?
http://64.233.179.104/search?q=cache:L5E3bjOF7ZsJ:www.lib.fit.edu/pubs/librarydisplays
/puzzle2.pdf+%22who+owns+the+zebra%22&hl=en&gl=us&ct=clnk&cd=5
(Becuase in case you didn't know, a woman really can become an engineer.)
http://www.skonline.org/website/mathonline/logic/zebra.htm
(The orange juice drinker hang-glides? Get outta town!)
http://mathforum.org/library/drmath/view/55627.html
(The "Japanese person" "grows gardenias.")
You pussies. The "Japanese person" doesn't grow gardenias. He smokes Parliaments. He will always smoke Parliaments. You know who says so? ALBERT EINSTEIN says so. Not Andrew Dice Clay. Einstein. You don't just take Einstein's zebra puzzle and substitute flowers and career women wherever you want. The Japanese smokes Parliaments!
(And just as a side note: Frenchman = fine, Englishman = fine, Chinaman = offensive. Someone want to explain that to me?)
These Widescreen TVs
I mentioned this over a year ago in one of the annoyance lists, but since then the problem has just gotten worse and worse. It's out of control now. People buy these widesreen TVs. They're really big and expensive. Unless they're watching one of those very few channels that broadcasts in widescreen (those HDTV channels) they're getting a normal, square TV, 4:3 ratio picture on their screen.
So what the widescreen TV does is either blow up the image and crop it on the top and bottom, or it stretches the image horizontally to fit the whole screen. a newer method I've seen recently is even uglier: the middle slice of the screen shows a non-distorted picture, and the edges of the screen do a superstretch to compensate. It creates a fishbowl effect where if the camera moves around, the stuff in the middle of the TV pans at a normal speed - while the image on the edges whips around really fast. It looks like absolute butt.
Here's the message that the opulent, luxury, forward-looking TV crowd needs to hear: If you truly claim to care about resolution and fidelity and clarity and crispness, and S video and all of that bullshit, then you do realize that the crappy distortions you put up with as your TV performs sleight of hand to take a square broadcast and fill the whole screen - you do realize that the distortions completely, utterly, entirely outweigh any benefits you get from improved picture quality?
You do know that right?
It's like getting the crispest, clearest television image on earth, but having to view it through a fun house mirror. The one alternative you have (with some brands) is to choose to view the broadcast in 4:3 as it was intended, with vertical black bars on the side of your TV. But as it's been pointed out to me - if you do that for an extended period of time, the black bars will burn the screen. So you're really pretty much just screwed.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Women That Are Just a Little Too Into the Karaoke
I've kept a polite silence on this for a long time, but just last week I went out for some Karaoke with friends from work and now I think I've had enough.
There was a moment, in childhood, when I was at a wedding and made a startling realization. The wedding isn't about the couple. It's not about their love, or their future. Weddings are about the bride. And I was always kind of disgusted at that. The wedding is ostensibly about two people and the connection they're forging, but the facade is thin. It's really just the bride and how beautiful she looks and how this is her big day, and well, the groom is her cute little accessory.
Karaoke is the junior varsity version of this. It's supposedly about getting drunk and having a great time and letting loose, etc. etc. But no. That's not really what it's about, is it. It's about these women (and we know who they are) fulfilling some kind of deep-seated, quasi-sexual fantasy where they're the big pop star.
Now let me be clear on one point. I'm not saying these women suck at singing. That's not it at all. I would describe them as good. Competent. Satisfactory. Perfectly adequate. A solid B+. You gotta figure all that hairdryer-as-microphone practice paid off. So no, they don't suck. But are they wildly talented, diamond-in-the-rough gifted singers? Hellllllllll no.
And that's exactly what they think they are. Every single one of these women is under the full impression that they're unparalleled and peerless. They truly believe it. There's no pretense there. They think they're God's gift.
You can see this narcissism on display all night at the karaoke bar. Women sit at tables together. They gossip together - they go to the bathroom together. But as soon as that karaoke songbook gets passed around, there's no more camaraderie. Notice how they don't share the book. They study it carefully, alone... strategizing. Planning out about 4 songs. The first one will be a tour de force ballad, stunning everyone with their full vocal range. The second one will be lighter and more fun - cause she's versatile after all. The third one will be a duet or trio so she can pull some friends onstage. After all, she's not vain - she's willing to sing with others.
This all gets planned out like Rommel moving his tanks around in Morocco. Then after she hands the list to the DJ it's back to the socializing until yes! It's showtime! Notice how the eyes glaze over and the smile plays across the face. Is it my turn? Right now? Already! Well shucks!
It's my guess - and this is just conjecture - it's my guess that the basis of their confidence in their singing talent is their ability to hit the high note. Cause all these songs they choose have the one high note toward the end. And believe me, they can hit that high note. I feel like when the music starts, every one of them is thinking "They don't think I can hit the high note. Well they're about to find out I can."
On behalf of everyone in the karaoke audience, let me say the following: We know that you can hit the high note. In fact in any one of these interchangeable slow ballads where a man done you wrong but now you're standing on two feet - you can hit the high note. We will further concede that you can sustain the high note at an impressively loud volume. Even more than that - you can hit the high note, sustain it, and then relapse it into vibrato whenever you feel the moment is right. There. We acknowledge it. Now please finish the song because your assertive, 0n-key, loud twang of a voice is fatiguing, and you're standing too close to the mike.
I just don't like involuntarily being made a part of someone's personal fantasy. Cause look at them up there. They aren't with us, they're in their own little world. They truly think they're dazzling us with their secret talent. And if you hang out with the same people enough, you'll see the same women sing karaoke a dozen times. And each time, it's the same fantasy - "They don't think I can sing. Well they're about to find out how wrong they are." Give it a rest, karaoke women. Take it down a notch.
Still haven't been paid back by that friend, by the way.
There was a moment, in childhood, when I was at a wedding and made a startling realization. The wedding isn't about the couple. It's not about their love, or their future. Weddings are about the bride. And I was always kind of disgusted at that. The wedding is ostensibly about two people and the connection they're forging, but the facade is thin. It's really just the bride and how beautiful she looks and how this is her big day, and well, the groom is her cute little accessory.
Karaoke is the junior varsity version of this. It's supposedly about getting drunk and having a great time and letting loose, etc. etc. But no. That's not really what it's about, is it. It's about these women (and we know who they are) fulfilling some kind of deep-seated, quasi-sexual fantasy where they're the big pop star.
Now let me be clear on one point. I'm not saying these women suck at singing. That's not it at all. I would describe them as good. Competent. Satisfactory. Perfectly adequate. A solid B+. You gotta figure all that hairdryer-as-microphone practice paid off. So no, they don't suck. But are they wildly talented, diamond-in-the-rough gifted singers? Hellllllllll no.
And that's exactly what they think they are. Every single one of these women is under the full impression that they're unparalleled and peerless. They truly believe it. There's no pretense there. They think they're God's gift.
You can see this narcissism on display all night at the karaoke bar. Women sit at tables together. They gossip together - they go to the bathroom together. But as soon as that karaoke songbook gets passed around, there's no more camaraderie. Notice how they don't share the book. They study it carefully, alone... strategizing. Planning out about 4 songs. The first one will be a tour de force ballad, stunning everyone with their full vocal range. The second one will be lighter and more fun - cause she's versatile after all. The third one will be a duet or trio so she can pull some friends onstage. After all, she's not vain - she's willing to sing with others.
This all gets planned out like Rommel moving his tanks around in Morocco. Then after she hands the list to the DJ it's back to the socializing until yes! It's showtime! Notice how the eyes glaze over and the smile plays across the face. Is it my turn? Right now? Already! Well shucks!
It's my guess - and this is just conjecture - it's my guess that the basis of their confidence in their singing talent is their ability to hit the high note. Cause all these songs they choose have the one high note toward the end. And believe me, they can hit that high note. I feel like when the music starts, every one of them is thinking "They don't think I can hit the high note. Well they're about to find out I can."
On behalf of everyone in the karaoke audience, let me say the following: We know that you can hit the high note. In fact in any one of these interchangeable slow ballads where a man done you wrong but now you're standing on two feet - you can hit the high note. We will further concede that you can sustain the high note at an impressively loud volume. Even more than that - you can hit the high note, sustain it, and then relapse it into vibrato whenever you feel the moment is right. There. We acknowledge it. Now please finish the song because your assertive, 0n-key, loud twang of a voice is fatiguing, and you're standing too close to the mike.
I just don't like involuntarily being made a part of someone's personal fantasy. Cause look at them up there. They aren't with us, they're in their own little world. They truly think they're dazzling us with their secret talent. And if you hang out with the same people enough, you'll see the same women sing karaoke a dozen times. And each time, it's the same fantasy - "They don't think I can sing. Well they're about to find out how wrong they are." Give it a rest, karaoke women. Take it down a notch.
Still haven't been paid back by that friend, by the way.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Lending Money to Friends
Let's set the record straight on this one. Lending money to friends is a no win situation. It's an arrangement that cannot possibly work out well. In the last 5 years, I've lent what I consider a serious amount of money (say, over $500) to friends on about 6 occasions. I've observed two broad results: 1) That the % of the time I get paid back promptly and at the prearranged time is exactly 0.00%, and 2) that somehow, perversely, I've gotten this reputation as some stingy tightwad who cracks the whip on his friends for every last cent.
Addressing the second point first. I stepped up. I opened my wallet and lent out hundreds, and sometimes thousands of dollars to friends in need. Where the hell were the rest of you? I have never denied anyone a personal loan, ever - except when they have a history of burning me on loans in the past. I once drained my checking account to the last $100 so that a friend could fix his car, with only the friend's word as collateral. And then, months later, when I corner the guy and insist on being paid back - now I'm a tightwad. Now I'm an asshole.
That's the strange result of my generosity. Somehow, it makes me the asshole. I've observed this a dozen times. All I want is to be paid back at the time we agreed on - and by insisting, suddenly I'm Satan himself. And the attitude I get from the lendee's. How dare I ask for my money back. Don't I know they're going through a rough time? They slink away from me. They avoid me. When I confront them they get defensive and accusatory.
A typical scenario is this one: The date of repayment has been pushed back a second time. The new repayment day is approaching. Gingerly, and with extreme sensitivity, I broach the subject with the lendee. "Hey bro. Just wanted to ask. Is everything still cool for giving me $200 on this payday?" And the reply: "Dude - how am I supposed to pay you back this week? They're going to shut off my water in two days if I don't make a payment. We need to wait two more pay periods."
So many things fly through my head when this happen. What's the point of sitting down and commiting to a repayment schedule if you can't anticipate something like "the water bill". "Oh no, the water bill! Who could have seen that coming! Damn you water company and your surprise bills out of nowhere! How can we possibly plan and budget our lives when at any time - say once a month - you hit us with a bill!" Secondly, if you're going to miss a payment, shouldn't you be volunteering that information to me? Shouldn't you find me, get me up to date on the situation, a propose a new repayment schedule out of your own initiative? Why is it up to me to hound you? And the attitude of frustration and annoyance with my gentle requests to have my money back? WTF?
I BAILED YOUR ASS OUT. The only attitude I should ever see from you is gratitude. Every conversation should start with profuse thanks. My very appearance should elicit a warm smile and a hearty hello. And if you presented me with a small gift - say a box of homemade pecan sandies in that white crinkly paper - well that would be entirely appropriate.
My friends don't deliberately set out to burn me. None of them ever thinks "Hah, that's the last he'll see of his money. I'll never pay him back!" That's not how it works. The reason they burn me is simple: shit comes up. Shit will always come up. Shit cannot fail to come up. Any loan arrangement between friends has to be predicated on the idea of a certain amount of shit coming up, and must deliberately take that into account. What happens is that when the shit comes up (Oh no, the water bill! Damn you cruel fate!) paying back the generous friend becomes the last priority on the list. The water company can shut off your water. The repo man can come take back the car. What the fuck can I do? Basically all I can do is gingerly and gently prod you, falling over myself with politeness and sensitivity, as you swat me away like some enormous, Jewish horsefly.
So I should just stop giving anybody a loan, is what you're saying? I should stop being naive? Stop giving money to degenerates. Well, I don't know. I can't do that. It's ingrained in me to help a friend in need who sincerely and honorably asks for my help. Money in the bank is nothing but a tool to make things happen. Helping a friend in need is what money is for. I can't say no. Then at least I should have some sort of contract drawn up, right? Make them sign something? Get their signature? Well, that's smart advice. But it leads you to a dilemma a bit like asking your fiance for a pre-nup. You can't ask your fiance for a pre-nup. And similarly, it's very difficult to ask your friend for a document that will hold up in court, should you ever have to sue them.
And make no mistake. I will sue you. I will spend $2000 to get back $500. Why, you ask? It's a bit like this. You know all that worthless shit you buy all the time? Rims? Designer clothes? Down payments on cars you don't need? Huge televisions that don't even make sense given the size of the room? Why do you buy all that worthless shit? Because it makes you happy, right? Well you know what makes me happy? Spending thousands of dollars to show you what happens when you burn me on a loan. That's what makes me happy. Having your paycheck garnished for a year and a half so that every week you can be reminded what happens when you burn me. That's what makes me happy.
I make the same $12 an hour that you do. I open my wallet and give you weeks worth of pay so you can get your life back on track. I do it because you ask me, and ask for nothing but your word in return. Then you burn me. Not once or sometimes, but every single time. And when I ask for the cash, I'm an asshole.
It's a raw deal, is what I'm saying.
Addressing the second point first. I stepped up. I opened my wallet and lent out hundreds, and sometimes thousands of dollars to friends in need. Where the hell were the rest of you? I have never denied anyone a personal loan, ever - except when they have a history of burning me on loans in the past. I once drained my checking account to the last $100 so that a friend could fix his car, with only the friend's word as collateral. And then, months later, when I corner the guy and insist on being paid back - now I'm a tightwad. Now I'm an asshole.
That's the strange result of my generosity. Somehow, it makes me the asshole. I've observed this a dozen times. All I want is to be paid back at the time we agreed on - and by insisting, suddenly I'm Satan himself. And the attitude I get from the lendee's. How dare I ask for my money back. Don't I know they're going through a rough time? They slink away from me. They avoid me. When I confront them they get defensive and accusatory.
A typical scenario is this one: The date of repayment has been pushed back a second time. The new repayment day is approaching. Gingerly, and with extreme sensitivity, I broach the subject with the lendee. "Hey bro. Just wanted to ask. Is everything still cool for giving me $200 on this payday?" And the reply: "Dude - how am I supposed to pay you back this week? They're going to shut off my water in two days if I don't make a payment. We need to wait two more pay periods."
So many things fly through my head when this happen. What's the point of sitting down and commiting to a repayment schedule if you can't anticipate something like "the water bill". "Oh no, the water bill! Who could have seen that coming! Damn you water company and your surprise bills out of nowhere! How can we possibly plan and budget our lives when at any time - say once a month - you hit us with a bill!" Secondly, if you're going to miss a payment, shouldn't you be volunteering that information to me? Shouldn't you find me, get me up to date on the situation, a propose a new repayment schedule out of your own initiative? Why is it up to me to hound you? And the attitude of frustration and annoyance with my gentle requests to have my money back? WTF?
I BAILED YOUR ASS OUT. The only attitude I should ever see from you is gratitude. Every conversation should start with profuse thanks. My very appearance should elicit a warm smile and a hearty hello. And if you presented me with a small gift - say a box of homemade pecan sandies in that white crinkly paper - well that would be entirely appropriate.
My friends don't deliberately set out to burn me. None of them ever thinks "Hah, that's the last he'll see of his money. I'll never pay him back!" That's not how it works. The reason they burn me is simple: shit comes up. Shit will always come up. Shit cannot fail to come up. Any loan arrangement between friends has to be predicated on the idea of a certain amount of shit coming up, and must deliberately take that into account. What happens is that when the shit comes up (Oh no, the water bill! Damn you cruel fate!) paying back the generous friend becomes the last priority on the list. The water company can shut off your water. The repo man can come take back the car. What the fuck can I do? Basically all I can do is gingerly and gently prod you, falling over myself with politeness and sensitivity, as you swat me away like some enormous, Jewish horsefly.
So I should just stop giving anybody a loan, is what you're saying? I should stop being naive? Stop giving money to degenerates. Well, I don't know. I can't do that. It's ingrained in me to help a friend in need who sincerely and honorably asks for my help. Money in the bank is nothing but a tool to make things happen. Helping a friend in need is what money is for. I can't say no. Then at least I should have some sort of contract drawn up, right? Make them sign something? Get their signature? Well, that's smart advice. But it leads you to a dilemma a bit like asking your fiance for a pre-nup. You can't ask your fiance for a pre-nup. And similarly, it's very difficult to ask your friend for a document that will hold up in court, should you ever have to sue them.
And make no mistake. I will sue you. I will spend $2000 to get back $500. Why, you ask? It's a bit like this. You know all that worthless shit you buy all the time? Rims? Designer clothes? Down payments on cars you don't need? Huge televisions that don't even make sense given the size of the room? Why do you buy all that worthless shit? Because it makes you happy, right? Well you know what makes me happy? Spending thousands of dollars to show you what happens when you burn me on a loan. That's what makes me happy. Having your paycheck garnished for a year and a half so that every week you can be reminded what happens when you burn me. That's what makes me happy.
I make the same $12 an hour that you do. I open my wallet and give you weeks worth of pay so you can get your life back on track. I do it because you ask me, and ask for nothing but your word in return. Then you burn me. Not once or sometimes, but every single time. And when I ask for the cash, I'm an asshole.
It's a raw deal, is what I'm saying.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Overhyping Your Cafeteria Food
I work for a casino here in Las Vegas. I've worked for several casinos. And I'm a veteran of numerous academic institutions. The common thread? Mediocre cafeterias. Steam tray after steam tray of questionable foodstuffs - enchildadas that are too dry, pasta still floating in water, chili con carne masquerading as chili colorado.
But none of that's important. Cafeteria food will always be mediocre. What does piss me off is the way the food is all served with these impressive, boffo names on the steam tray placard: "Shanghai style beef tips", "panache of vegetables", "Scottish style salmon"... Cafeteria food sucks and these names just don't belong. You know why prostitutes were called tarts? Because they were a bunch of whores, and they were all tarted up. Yeah, I'm talking to you Panache of Vegetables.
So today's post is basically going to just me be venting and ranting about some of these tarted up cafeteria food names. First on the list: "Oven Roasted Tom Turkey". What you need to picture here is an aluminum tray filled with turkey slices. To be scrupulous and fair, the placard should really just say "Here is some Turkey". But no, it's oven roasted Tom Turkey. Now, I'd have to go look this up I guess, but doesn't "Tom" turkey mean that it's a male turkey? That's all it means, right? So 1) Why did I need to know that, and 2) Why was I supposed to be impressed? Frankly, it grosses me out just a bit. Chicken and cows are all female. That's what I'm used to. Why do I need to know about the gender of the animal that is now my food? The only thing "Tom Turkey" is really saying to me is "Recently, close to this food, there was a turkey penis." Thanks, placard. Good job.
In college, the soft serve machine said "Double Dutch Chocolate". Now, what makes soft serve chocolate ice cream Dutch, and how does one then double what is Dutch? Could you make triple Dutch ice cream? Or would there have to be a copy of the diary of Anne Frank hidden somewhere in the cone? I believe this is related to the broader trend of just slapping the word Dutch in front of various nouns to make them more interesting. A Dutch treat, going Dutch, Dutch doors, double Dutch, and of course the infamous Dutch oven.
Then there's the gravy. Oh my do they try to make you impressed with the gravy. I'd say probably the largest disparity between quality of food and pretense on the placard has to be in the gravy department. Picture, please, a warmed tub of your typical, industrial, processed beef gravy. You know - the musky, brown, syrupy sort. The kind that sits next to the tub of instant mashed potatos. The kind that is always congealing at the top. There you go... you got it. The sneeze shield is all fogged up. There's dried gravy caked on the ladle. Perfect.
Now why the fuck would you call that "Natural Pan Gravy"? It's not natural pan gravy. And I'll be honest, natural pan gravy isn't really so great either. It's watery, oily, and not that flavorful. The real placard, in my world, would read: "Brown Fluid - which, you'll admit - can pretty much pass for gravy." There you go. That's honest. None of this Orwell-lite trickery.
It's like they can't bring themselves to have a placard that just says "Rice". It has to be "Jasmine Rice". Tomatos have to be "Blistered Tomatos". And they must have a whole room full of potato related placards. "Idaho Russet Sweet Scalloped blah blah blah Fingerling Potatoes".
You know, I'm just going to go in there one day with some stealth placards and just replace them all when no one's looking. We'll all come in to work one day and it'll be "Rigatoni with Yesterday's Shrimp", "There's-Fish-at-the-Bottom Soup", "Fruit", and "Here are your Goddamn Potatoes".
But none of that's important. Cafeteria food will always be mediocre. What does piss me off is the way the food is all served with these impressive, boffo names on the steam tray placard: "Shanghai style beef tips", "panache of vegetables", "Scottish style salmon"... Cafeteria food sucks and these names just don't belong. You know why prostitutes were called tarts? Because they were a bunch of whores, and they were all tarted up. Yeah, I'm talking to you Panache of Vegetables.
So today's post is basically going to just me be venting and ranting about some of these tarted up cafeteria food names. First on the list: "Oven Roasted Tom Turkey". What you need to picture here is an aluminum tray filled with turkey slices. To be scrupulous and fair, the placard should really just say "Here is some Turkey". But no, it's oven roasted Tom Turkey. Now, I'd have to go look this up I guess, but doesn't "Tom" turkey mean that it's a male turkey? That's all it means, right? So 1) Why did I need to know that, and 2) Why was I supposed to be impressed? Frankly, it grosses me out just a bit. Chicken and cows are all female. That's what I'm used to. Why do I need to know about the gender of the animal that is now my food? The only thing "Tom Turkey" is really saying to me is "Recently, close to this food, there was a turkey penis." Thanks, placard. Good job.
In college, the soft serve machine said "Double Dutch Chocolate". Now, what makes soft serve chocolate ice cream Dutch, and how does one then double what is Dutch? Could you make triple Dutch ice cream? Or would there have to be a copy of the diary of Anne Frank hidden somewhere in the cone? I believe this is related to the broader trend of just slapping the word Dutch in front of various nouns to make them more interesting. A Dutch treat, going Dutch, Dutch doors, double Dutch, and of course the infamous Dutch oven.
Then there's the gravy. Oh my do they try to make you impressed with the gravy. I'd say probably the largest disparity between quality of food and pretense on the placard has to be in the gravy department. Picture, please, a warmed tub of your typical, industrial, processed beef gravy. You know - the musky, brown, syrupy sort. The kind that sits next to the tub of instant mashed potatos. The kind that is always congealing at the top. There you go... you got it. The sneeze shield is all fogged up. There's dried gravy caked on the ladle. Perfect.
Now why the fuck would you call that "Natural Pan Gravy"? It's not natural pan gravy. And I'll be honest, natural pan gravy isn't really so great either. It's watery, oily, and not that flavorful. The real placard, in my world, would read: "Brown Fluid - which, you'll admit - can pretty much pass for gravy." There you go. That's honest. None of this Orwell-lite trickery.
It's like they can't bring themselves to have a placard that just says "Rice". It has to be "Jasmine Rice". Tomatos have to be "Blistered Tomatos". And they must have a whole room full of potato related placards. "Idaho Russet Sweet Scalloped blah blah blah Fingerling Potatoes".
You know, I'm just going to go in there one day with some stealth placards and just replace them all when no one's looking. We'll all come in to work one day and it'll be "Rigatoni with Yesterday's Shrimp", "There's-Fish-at-the-Bottom Soup", "Fruit", and "Here are your Goddamn Potatoes".
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Ordering a Cheeseburger for Your Death Row Last Meal
Well, obviously, you shouldn't do that. But surprisingly, cheeseburgers and fries is the #1 requested last meal on death rows nationwide. This is one of those factoids that I was always sort of aware of, but I was never sure if it wasn't some urban legend canard. Well, sadly, it's true. Condemned prisoners want cheeseburgers and fries over all other choices. Cokes and vanilla ice cream is the standard accompaniment.
To all of you death row prisoners: shame on you. I don't know, maybe pop culture is responsible, but I was somehow under the impression that your typical mass murderer was a Hannibal Lecter type with exquisite gourmet tastes. I was wrong. Most mass murderers, when given a once in a lifetime opportunity to have any meal they want, want a cheeseburger. Where's the imagination? Where's the zest for life? Where's the joie de vie? When they hatcheted that family they had some zest. Where did it go?
Here are two websites I visited for the cheeseburger confirmation by the way.
http://www.thememoryhole.org/deaths/texas-final-meals.htm
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/foodmonthly/story/0,9950,1166252,00.html
Some of the sites I visited had amusing anecdotes. One guy apparantly ate his cheeseburger, then got a stay of execution. Over the next few weeks while his case was reconsidered, he got nothing but jeers and mockery from the rest of death row for his unimaginative choice. On his new execution day, he got a new last meal and had the good sense to order a steak. Another prisoner asked for spaghetti-os but the request was misunderstood and he ended up with regular spaghetti. His last words in the death chamber? "I wanted spaghetti-os and I didn't get them."
To be fair, I'll play devil's advocate for a minute and say that it's possible that the prison kitchen may not be able to do a gourmet meal justice. It's like those times - not often - when maybe you're at some Mexican dive restaurant on the side of the highway, and the menu is the usual assortment of taco shop junk food. But then you notice in the corner of the menu that there's also Herb Crusted Salmon with Mango Salsa and Seasonal Chutney. And you think "Okay, that does sound good.... but do I trust these guys?" You know it's the standard crew of hairy, fat, tank topped Mexican short order cooks back there. There's no sous chef. They're flipping burritos, yelling at each other and listening to something way way up on the AM band.
I guess what I'm saying is, let's say you're about to be executed and you order lobster thermidor. You're dealing with the same prison kitchen that's been serving you slop for 20 years during your appeals process. Oh, sure - they'll get you a lobster. It'll be from the tank at a Chinese Buffet half an hour down the road. They'll get the cheese and the mushrooms locally. They'll get their hands on a recipe and they'll make it. But will it be a decent thermidor? Probably not.
And, another pro Cheeseburger argument might be that what you need during those final hours is comfort food. Something you know. Something you love. It may not be the time to branch out.
For the record, I think I'd like a plate of assorted standard and jumbo shrimp, on ice, with a cocktail sauce whose brand I'd have to specify (don't make me choose now). Follow it with a porterhouse, medium rare. (Horseradish and maybe bernaise on the side). Wrap it up with hot chocolate chip cookies and milk.
That's a one-two-three punch that would be tough to beat, plus it's not too demanding for the kitchen staff. It would be tough to screw that meal up.
Maybe, what these prisoners need in their last few days, in addition to the chaplain, is a kind of last-meal consultant. Someone to make sure they're fully aware of the entire range of choices. I think maybe I could be that man.
To all of you death row prisoners: shame on you. I don't know, maybe pop culture is responsible, but I was somehow under the impression that your typical mass murderer was a Hannibal Lecter type with exquisite gourmet tastes. I was wrong. Most mass murderers, when given a once in a lifetime opportunity to have any meal they want, want a cheeseburger. Where's the imagination? Where's the zest for life? Where's the joie de vie? When they hatcheted that family they had some zest. Where did it go?
Here are two websites I visited for the cheeseburger confirmation by the way.
http://www.thememoryhole.org/deaths/texas-final-meals.htm
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/foodmonthly/story/0,9950,1166252,00.html
Some of the sites I visited had amusing anecdotes. One guy apparantly ate his cheeseburger, then got a stay of execution. Over the next few weeks while his case was reconsidered, he got nothing but jeers and mockery from the rest of death row for his unimaginative choice. On his new execution day, he got a new last meal and had the good sense to order a steak. Another prisoner asked for spaghetti-os but the request was misunderstood and he ended up with regular spaghetti. His last words in the death chamber? "I wanted spaghetti-os and I didn't get them."
To be fair, I'll play devil's advocate for a minute and say that it's possible that the prison kitchen may not be able to do a gourmet meal justice. It's like those times - not often - when maybe you're at some Mexican dive restaurant on the side of the highway, and the menu is the usual assortment of taco shop junk food. But then you notice in the corner of the menu that there's also Herb Crusted Salmon with Mango Salsa and Seasonal Chutney. And you think "Okay, that does sound good.... but do I trust these guys?" You know it's the standard crew of hairy, fat, tank topped Mexican short order cooks back there. There's no sous chef. They're flipping burritos, yelling at each other and listening to something way way up on the AM band.
I guess what I'm saying is, let's say you're about to be executed and you order lobster thermidor. You're dealing with the same prison kitchen that's been serving you slop for 20 years during your appeals process. Oh, sure - they'll get you a lobster. It'll be from the tank at a Chinese Buffet half an hour down the road. They'll get the cheese and the mushrooms locally. They'll get their hands on a recipe and they'll make it. But will it be a decent thermidor? Probably not.
And, another pro Cheeseburger argument might be that what you need during those final hours is comfort food. Something you know. Something you love. It may not be the time to branch out.
For the record, I think I'd like a plate of assorted standard and jumbo shrimp, on ice, with a cocktail sauce whose brand I'd have to specify (don't make me choose now). Follow it with a porterhouse, medium rare. (Horseradish and maybe bernaise on the side). Wrap it up with hot chocolate chip cookies and milk.
That's a one-two-three punch that would be tough to beat, plus it's not too demanding for the kitchen staff. It would be tough to screw that meal up.
Maybe, what these prisoners need in their last few days, in addition to the chaplain, is a kind of last-meal consultant. Someone to make sure they're fully aware of the entire range of choices. I think maybe I could be that man.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Dishonesty in Elevator Floor-Numbering
This bugs me more than you might expect. "Yeah yeah," you're saying - "So elevators skip 13. So what? Who cares?" Well dammit, I do. And you know something: if that's all it was, just the whole skipping 13 thing, I might, might let it slide. But oooooh no, elevator floor-numbering dishonesty doesn't stop there. It only begins.
The real problem is much worse. See, once it became commonplace for buildings to pretend that the 13th floor was really the 14th, all responsibility to truth telling in floor-numbering pretty much crumbled. Have you ever paid attention to the extent to which buildings will lie about what floor is what? Or to how common it is?
It's all about height. It's about pretending the building is taller than it really is. It's about inducing people to rent apartment space or office space from your highrise by tricking them into believing they're moving in to a higher floor. But they not! They isn't! They ain't!
For years, I've been sort of peripherally aware that this was going on. I'd be in an elevator in an office building, and I'd see that the floors started at 10 and went up to 50, and I'd be thinking "This building doesn't really have 50 floors, does it?" And then I'd forget about it. But things came to a head just recently here in Las Vegas. We have all these towering hotels here, and all of them are competing to be the biggest and the baddest. I was in an elevator at the Wynn not too long ago, and noticed that the floors went up to 60.
Now you have to realize - no way does the Wynn have 60 floors. 40... 45... maybe 50. That's it. So I went to the front desk and asked how many floors were in the building. "60." I was told. "But are there really 60 floors in the building?" I asked. "Or are you skipping some?" Two clerks went into a huddle, but they didn't know. Ultimately they brought in a security guy who was in the vicinity. The conversation went something like this.
Security Guy: "There are 60 guest floors."
Me: "But there aren't really 60 floors in the tower, right?"
SG: "No, there are only 50 floors in the building."
Me: "So how can there be 60 guest floors?"
SG: "Well, there's no floor 40 through 49."
Me: "Why not?"
SG: "The number 4 is very close to the Mandarin word for death. Or wait, no. It's the Cantonese word for death. It sounds the same as 'four'. Either that, or the written word is the same. I don't know. But the number 4 is very unlucky for the Asians."
Me: "Is there a 4th floor?"
SG: "Yes."
Me: "There are just no Asians on it then?"
SG: "Uh, I really don't know."
Me: "And there's no 13th floor either?"
SG: "Yes, there's no 13."
Me: "So there's actually only 49 floors then. 60 minus 40-49 minus 13."
SG: "No, there's 50 floors."
Me: "Has there been any concern that maybe you're giving people who use the elevators the wrong impression about the height of the building?"
SG: "No, I don't think that's come up."
At this point I was starting to get looks like maybe they wanted me to transact some actual business, or be on my way. Just as a side note here, I am more and more baffled by the stock the Chinese put in their dumb superstitions. Oh no, the color brown! I mean, we have our own superstitions: the cats and the ladders and spilling salt and all that - but no one's really serious about it right? If someone actually, seriously started panicking over a knocked-over salt shaker, wouldn't that be grounds to conclude that they were massively stupid? "It's all part of their rich, ancient culture" doesn't impress me at all. Grow up, Chinese.
So that's it, really. Like a short man padding his shoes, there's just a sad whiff of desperation in a building trying to fool you into thinking it's tall. It's not a bold or inventive lie, it's just pathetic. It's like a guy on the nautilus saying "98....99...." as you approach. It's just another deception that society feels free to throw at you for the simple reason that no one's bothered to call them on it yet.
Lying elevators: J'accuse!
The real problem is much worse. See, once it became commonplace for buildings to pretend that the 13th floor was really the 14th, all responsibility to truth telling in floor-numbering pretty much crumbled. Have you ever paid attention to the extent to which buildings will lie about what floor is what? Or to how common it is?
It's all about height. It's about pretending the building is taller than it really is. It's about inducing people to rent apartment space or office space from your highrise by tricking them into believing they're moving in to a higher floor. But they not! They isn't! They ain't!
For years, I've been sort of peripherally aware that this was going on. I'd be in an elevator in an office building, and I'd see that the floors started at 10 and went up to 50, and I'd be thinking "This building doesn't really have 50 floors, does it?" And then I'd forget about it. But things came to a head just recently here in Las Vegas. We have all these towering hotels here, and all of them are competing to be the biggest and the baddest. I was in an elevator at the Wynn not too long ago, and noticed that the floors went up to 60.
Now you have to realize - no way does the Wynn have 60 floors. 40... 45... maybe 50. That's it. So I went to the front desk and asked how many floors were in the building. "60." I was told. "But are there really 60 floors in the building?" I asked. "Or are you skipping some?" Two clerks went into a huddle, but they didn't know. Ultimately they brought in a security guy who was in the vicinity. The conversation went something like this.
Security Guy: "There are 60 guest floors."
Me: "But there aren't really 60 floors in the tower, right?"
SG: "No, there are only 50 floors in the building."
Me: "So how can there be 60 guest floors?"
SG: "Well, there's no floor 40 through 49."
Me: "Why not?"
SG: "The number 4 is very close to the Mandarin word for death. Or wait, no. It's the Cantonese word for death. It sounds the same as 'four'. Either that, or the written word is the same. I don't know. But the number 4 is very unlucky for the Asians."
Me: "Is there a 4th floor?"
SG: "Yes."
Me: "There are just no Asians on it then?"
SG: "Uh, I really don't know."
Me: "And there's no 13th floor either?"
SG: "Yes, there's no 13."
Me: "So there's actually only 49 floors then. 60 minus 40-49 minus 13."
SG: "No, there's 50 floors."
Me: "Has there been any concern that maybe you're giving people who use the elevators the wrong impression about the height of the building?"
SG: "No, I don't think that's come up."
At this point I was starting to get looks like maybe they wanted me to transact some actual business, or be on my way. Just as a side note here, I am more and more baffled by the stock the Chinese put in their dumb superstitions. Oh no, the color brown! I mean, we have our own superstitions: the cats and the ladders and spilling salt and all that - but no one's really serious about it right? If someone actually, seriously started panicking over a knocked-over salt shaker, wouldn't that be grounds to conclude that they were massively stupid? "It's all part of their rich, ancient culture" doesn't impress me at all. Grow up, Chinese.
So that's it, really. Like a short man padding his shoes, there's just a sad whiff of desperation in a building trying to fool you into thinking it's tall. It's not a bold or inventive lie, it's just pathetic. It's like a guy on the nautilus saying "98....99...." as you approach. It's just another deception that society feels free to throw at you for the simple reason that no one's bothered to call them on it yet.
Lying elevators: J'accuse!
Sunday, December 04, 2005
140 Annoyances
121. A weak dribble coming out of the water fountain.
122. The gratuitous, pointless, just-cause-we-can cussing that permeates every HBO show.
123. The Nokia Ringtone
124. Giving apples on Halloween.
125. Tee shirts boasting about superbowls from four years ago.
126. Unwanted Pavlovian responses - like when I take the occasional nighttime shower and it leaves me unable to sleep, or when I hear a song I normally listen to at the gym and it causes my heartbeat to accelerate.
127. That "Jumpin' Jive'n!" song. For the love of God, swing dance music, GET A SECOND SONG.
128. People who insist on their full first name.
129. Daylight Savings Time
130. The ability of wires and cords, all by themselves, to get tangled in knots of rubik's-cube complexity.
131. Dreams where I just can't find a bathroom.
132. The way that 9/11 is constantly cited, even years later, in corporate annual reports, in any industry, to explain virtually any financial shortcoming.
133. Dr. T and the Women
134. Lawn sprinklers in the pouring rain.
135. Airport security always "recommends" that I remove my shoes. When I choose not to, then they insist. So it wasn't really a recommendation. It was a requirement. Tell you what, let's make a deal. I'll remove my shoes, and you level with me up front and not treat me like a fucking five year old.
136. When you answer the phone and the other person says "Hi! Who is this?"
137. Menus that let me know that a certain entree "goes great with a Bud Light!"
138. How come whenever videogame playing is portayed on TV or in film, the player is always spasming violently with the controller, bashing buttons at high speeds and jerking their arms around?
139. Sucking a lemon seed up the straw and swallowing it.
140. Was it me or was Tracey Ullman never funny, ever? Not even for a second. Not once. Not for one moment over like 3 different shows, spanning deacdes? Never. Just not ever, ever funny.
122. The gratuitous, pointless, just-cause-we-can cussing that permeates every HBO show.
123. The Nokia Ringtone
124. Giving apples on Halloween.
125. Tee shirts boasting about superbowls from four years ago.
126. Unwanted Pavlovian responses - like when I take the occasional nighttime shower and it leaves me unable to sleep, or when I hear a song I normally listen to at the gym and it causes my heartbeat to accelerate.
127. That "Jumpin' Jive'n!" song. For the love of God, swing dance music, GET A SECOND SONG.
128. People who insist on their full first name.
129. Daylight Savings Time
130. The ability of wires and cords, all by themselves, to get tangled in knots of rubik's-cube complexity.
131. Dreams where I just can't find a bathroom.
132. The way that 9/11 is constantly cited, even years later, in corporate annual reports, in any industry, to explain virtually any financial shortcoming.
133. Dr. T and the Women
134. Lawn sprinklers in the pouring rain.
135. Airport security always "recommends" that I remove my shoes. When I choose not to, then they insist. So it wasn't really a recommendation. It was a requirement. Tell you what, let's make a deal. I'll remove my shoes, and you level with me up front and not treat me like a fucking five year old.
136. When you answer the phone and the other person says "Hi! Who is this?"
137. Menus that let me know that a certain entree "goes great with a Bud Light!"
138. How come whenever videogame playing is portayed on TV or in film, the player is always spasming violently with the controller, bashing buttons at high speeds and jerking their arms around?
139. Sucking a lemon seed up the straw and swallowing it.
140. Was it me or was Tracey Ullman never funny, ever? Not even for a second. Not once. Not for one moment over like 3 different shows, spanning deacdes? Never. Just not ever, ever funny.
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