Thanks to spare tickets given to me by some gracious friends, I got to blow the cobwebs off my adrenal glands recently by revisiting the joys and promised amusement found in an amusement park. While the roller-coasters indeed did their part, I encountered less amusement and more bemusement. Truly, the sights and smells that are most astounding at theme parks aren't the coaster corkscrews or cotton candy but rather the common carnival customer. It is the clientele that will make your head spin and want to vomit.
In my hometown of Frankfort, Kentucky, the amusement park equivalent is the annual Expo (or aptly nicknamed "Rednexpo"). Here, folks come crawling out of the woodwork, emerging like zombies, to introduce themselves to regular, old-fashioned society, while making sure there's enough time to sink their four teeth into a caramel-covered elephant ear or any battered meat on a stick and a belt buckle made with leather, sequins, and the utmost pride in the Confederate flag. Also omnipresent during this four-day festival is some serious ghetto fabulousness, which is curiously on display mostly by people who have never actually set foot within a ten-mile radius of a true ghetto. Pepper in a handful of normal people and you've got yourself quite the misrepresentation of a beautiful cultural melting pot.
Typically, I'd feel a little remorseful for that sort of unfair, unflattering characterization; however, there's nothing unfair about it. Quite true, honestly. Ask any "Frankforter" next time you run into one at the grocery. The Expo's demography is a laughingstock to an otherwise lovely capital city. In other words, it's worth at least one wasted evening of your life.
This inelegant proportion of attendance of freaks -- yeah, I said it, freaks -- appears to be the law of nature for all amusement park-like attractions/events. School festivals, county fairs, state expositions, and any other event whose rides require only an afternoon to assemble... they're all the same and thus seem to attract the same bizarre crowd. That's not to say you're bizarre if you like attending these; rather you know firsthand exactly who and what I'm talking about.
You've heard the theory that television adds 10 pounds, right? Pretty sure that same phenomenon applies to amusement parks. Either that or your clothes shrink two sizes. You might think I'm talking about obese park attendees only, but that's too limiting. While, agreed, there's an unreasonable amount of cellulite on parade all day, there are just as many fat people who feel they can and should wear skimpy clothes as there are boney people who feel they can and should wear nothing at all.
Whereas many people buy attire specifically for occasions like weddings, graduations, and vacations, I'm fairly certain some folks purchase an outfit specifically for their trip to the theme park, because I can’t think of any other lawful public sector where shredded, tattered "tops" with 85% flabby boob protrusion is acceptable. At a quick glance, any similarity between joyous park attractions and joyless, stark unattractiveness may initially be overlooked, but close scrutiny of the physics in both (for example, the defiance of gravity in both the roller-coaster loop and that chunky girl's skin-tight, faded denim shorts) will reveal the inseparable connection.
You just can't escape science.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
PowerPoint Presentations
Picture this: There used to be a time when stapled papers were manually distributed in meetings and the only communal visuals attendees shared simultaneously were images shone on a white wall through a plugged-in box of lights and mirrors -- a contraption called, according to Wikipedia, an "overhead projector." No, seriously, no computers were used. I think this was in the same era as those landline phones and when the sales of alcohol were prohibited -- right after the Civil War.
And then someone came along and invented the personal computer. And then someone else came along and developed a software application called PowerPoint.
Your meetings and conferences have never been the same since.
When I show up to a meeting and the ol' projector screen is pulled down, I just want to shoot myself in the face. Nothing is more disinteresting, more cliché, more perfunctory than a PowerPoint presentation. The equally hackneyed adage "If you've seen one, you’ve seen them all" perfectly describes these trivial slideshows.
The unpleasantness about PowerPoint presentations can usually be summed up by any one (or combination) of these reasons: the font is too small; the pie charts and bar graphs are too detailed; the screaming color scheme hurts my eyes; the ClipArt graphics are cheesy; the sudden, crazed sound effects don't quite match the professionalism supposed within the delivered content; the presentation was made with PowerPoint; etc.
Why do half the design templates remind me of my last stay at a Comfort Inn? Maybe it's because their patterns so closely and inexplicably resemble cheap motel wallpaper. Apparently the artist who designed Genesis album covers didn't have a better offer after Phil Collins peaced.
Not all blame goes to the software alone; matter of fact, most of the shame should fall on the presentation creator(s). I mean, what's with this compulsory final presentation slide simply labeled, "Questions?" ...Really? Do we need an entire slide for you to click to (or left-to-right-horizontal-bar-transition to) in order to ask the audience, who by this point has probably hit the REM stage of their nap, if anyone has any questions to offer up? Is there something wrong with merely asking them without the slide? Or do you fear that they might get lost midway in your plea for participation without a one-word graphic projected on the screen?
It's not that a PowerPoint presentation itself is a bad idea -- it's just tolerable, and that's it. They don't revolutionize, they don't improve material, and they certainly don't secure to memory. As I asked a manager at my office recently, what can you recall from the last PowerPoint presentation you had to sit through?
I'm still waiting on a response from that manager.
And then someone came along and invented the personal computer. And then someone else came along and developed a software application called PowerPoint.
Your meetings and conferences have never been the same since.
When I show up to a meeting and the ol' projector screen is pulled down, I just want to shoot myself in the face. Nothing is more disinteresting, more cliché, more perfunctory than a PowerPoint presentation. The equally hackneyed adage "If you've seen one, you’ve seen them all" perfectly describes these trivial slideshows.
The unpleasantness about PowerPoint presentations can usually be summed up by any one (or combination) of these reasons: the font is too small; the pie charts and bar graphs are too detailed; the screaming color scheme hurts my eyes; the ClipArt graphics are cheesy; the sudden, crazed sound effects don't quite match the professionalism supposed within the delivered content; the presentation was made with PowerPoint; etc.
Why do half the design templates remind me of my last stay at a Comfort Inn? Maybe it's because their patterns so closely and inexplicably resemble cheap motel wallpaper. Apparently the artist who designed Genesis album covers didn't have a better offer after Phil Collins peaced.
Not all blame goes to the software alone; matter of fact, most of the shame should fall on the presentation creator(s). I mean, what's with this compulsory final presentation slide simply labeled, "Questions?" ...Really? Do we need an entire slide for you to click to (or left-to-right-horizontal-bar-transition to) in order to ask the audience, who by this point has probably hit the REM stage of their nap, if anyone has any questions to offer up? Is there something wrong with merely asking them without the slide? Or do you fear that they might get lost midway in your plea for participation without a one-word graphic projected on the screen?
It's not that a PowerPoint presentation itself is a bad idea -- it's just tolerable, and that's it. They don't revolutionize, they don't improve material, and they certainly don't secure to memory. As I asked a manager at my office recently, what can you recall from the last PowerPoint presentation you had to sit through?
I'm still waiting on a response from that manager.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Retail Security Systems
In every trip to the mall or mostly any retail store, I am awestruck at the lack of attention and credibility given to the security systems that were installed in order to elicit some sort of attention and credibility. An overwhelming response of nonchalance tends to be the reaction employees give to the various sirens and bleeps emitting from the tall, slender checkpoint security systems at the door whenever these go off.
These "Star Trek" gateway thresholds appear to really be nothing more than an intimidation factor. So, if you can summon up the gall to walk through with unpaid merchandise and endure some questionable looks from fellow shoppers upon the triggering of those obnoxious shrieking beeps, seems to me that you've got yourself a new sweater free of charge.
Now, please don't misinterpret this as encouragement to steal. I wouldn't dare say that. "Thou shall not steal" is how the ol' Commandment goes, I do believe, and that's what I live by. (Still trying to get that "Thou shall not kill" one down, though.) I'm just pointing out that the scot-free possibility is there. At worst, you might receive a "Hey, stop!" warning from the cashier from behind the counter, by which point you’ll be halfway to either your getaway Honda or your large cup of Dippin' Dots a couple shops down; but I'd say most sales attendants just don't view it as worth the chase's time and efforts. I think the general consensus of these folks is, "I’m just here to sell _______, not to chase criminals. F that, that's for the Blue & White." To an extent, I can sympathize with that. I mean, how's the shrink cost of that cardigan going to affect their hourly wage anyhow? Who really cares?
And what if the sales attendant is wrong in his assumption? What if he approaches someone in the vicinity of the beeping security system and falsely accuses this person of shoplifting? Whoa, big trouble. No one wants to shout a string of demands to open shopping bags, empty pockets and purses, unzip jackets, and unbutton shirts, only to wind up as wrong as leopard print fashion in front of his coworkers and surrounding bystanders -- not to mention making the wrongfully accused person momentarily look guilty and embarrassed. Unless you just enjoy being a big turd.
Wal-Mart remains one of the few exceptions to this joint retail security system disinterest, planting an employee at the front automatic sliding doors as the welcome mat. Though labeled "greeters," their ultimate purpose is served far less as a deliverer of insincere salutations but rather much more as a (typically elderly) hawk, encircling the entrance/exit area with a radio and yellow highlighter in hand, awaiting the sudden, rampant beeps that signal a possible shoplifter.
But isn't Wal-Mart always the exception to every societal norm that exists seemingly everywhere else?
These "Star Trek" gateway thresholds appear to really be nothing more than an intimidation factor. So, if you can summon up the gall to walk through with unpaid merchandise and endure some questionable looks from fellow shoppers upon the triggering of those obnoxious shrieking beeps, seems to me that you've got yourself a new sweater free of charge.
Now, please don't misinterpret this as encouragement to steal. I wouldn't dare say that. "Thou shall not steal" is how the ol' Commandment goes, I do believe, and that's what I live by. (Still trying to get that "Thou shall not kill" one down, though.) I'm just pointing out that the scot-free possibility is there. At worst, you might receive a "Hey, stop!" warning from the cashier from behind the counter, by which point you’ll be halfway to either your getaway Honda or your large cup of Dippin' Dots a couple shops down; but I'd say most sales attendants just don't view it as worth the chase's time and efforts. I think the general consensus of these folks is, "I’m just here to sell _______, not to chase criminals. F that, that's for the Blue & White." To an extent, I can sympathize with that. I mean, how's the shrink cost of that cardigan going to affect their hourly wage anyhow? Who really cares?
And what if the sales attendant is wrong in his assumption? What if he approaches someone in the vicinity of the beeping security system and falsely accuses this person of shoplifting? Whoa, big trouble. No one wants to shout a string of demands to open shopping bags, empty pockets and purses, unzip jackets, and unbutton shirts, only to wind up as wrong as leopard print fashion in front of his coworkers and surrounding bystanders -- not to mention making the wrongfully accused person momentarily look guilty and embarrassed. Unless you just enjoy being a big turd.
Wal-Mart remains one of the few exceptions to this joint retail security system disinterest, planting an employee at the front automatic sliding doors as the welcome mat. Though labeled "greeters," their ultimate purpose is served far less as a deliverer of insincere salutations but rather much more as a (typically elderly) hawk, encircling the entrance/exit area with a radio and yellow highlighter in hand, awaiting the sudden, rampant beeps that signal a possible shoplifter.
But isn't Wal-Mart always the exception to every societal norm that exists seemingly everywhere else?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Hotels
Unless you have a relative, friend, or a hookup on a free condo close by, traveling will likely result in a hotel (or motel) stay. There isn't a bigger gamble involved in traveling than exchanging money for keys to a hotel room, especially if you blindly booked the room over the phone or internet, and double especially if you know nothing about the area you're visiting. Even with a chain you trust, you're rolling the dice on a 50/50 chance of a pleasant stay or a scene from Psycho.
Pleasant or not, the idea of thousands upon thousands of people taking turns sleeping in the same bed is extremely weird to me, and to a point uncomfortable. We don't know these (literal) strange bedfellows, nor do we know the history of that bed. And, like the ingredients of a hotdog, those mysteries are probably best left unsolved. We instead just close our eyes and hold tight, horizontal between those Egyptian-cotton bed sheets, to the extraordinarily minute likelihood that perhaps the laundry detergent the hotel used eradicated every microbial bit of evidence of any previous human contact with those sheets.
The best part about staying in a hotel room is, outside of holding a rock star after-party, you are virtually free of any normal, humane responsibilities. Included in the outrageous price of the room (which somehow tends to rate about ¼ of a monthly mortgage payment per night) are limitless laziness and irresponsibility. Leaving the room looking like a train wreck is not only acceptable, it's expected. Not that I am encouraging anyone to depart from a hotel with their room resembling an al-Qaeda hideout, but the option is basically there. You just can't beat hotel housekeeping.
Now, that said, I personally try my very hardest to upkeep my room while visiting. Besides the fact that I prefer not to voluntarily subject myself or my living quarters to filth, even if only temporarily, I have immense empathy for people who are subjugated to housekeeping duties for 40 hours a week, cleaning up the mess and debris of others while trying to maintain their own self-respect, so I always put forth some effort in not coming across as a total slob.
I wonder how clean housekeeping employees' hotel rooms are when they're on vacation. It would make my day to know they unapologetically wreak havoc, strewing towels, bedspreads, and toiletries across the room in a free-spirited, rebellious rage.
Pleasant or not, the idea of thousands upon thousands of people taking turns sleeping in the same bed is extremely weird to me, and to a point uncomfortable. We don't know these (literal) strange bedfellows, nor do we know the history of that bed. And, like the ingredients of a hotdog, those mysteries are probably best left unsolved. We instead just close our eyes and hold tight, horizontal between those Egyptian-cotton bed sheets, to the extraordinarily minute likelihood that perhaps the laundry detergent the hotel used eradicated every microbial bit of evidence of any previous human contact with those sheets.
The best part about staying in a hotel room is, outside of holding a rock star after-party, you are virtually free of any normal, humane responsibilities. Included in the outrageous price of the room (which somehow tends to rate about ¼ of a monthly mortgage payment per night) are limitless laziness and irresponsibility. Leaving the room looking like a train wreck is not only acceptable, it's expected. Not that I am encouraging anyone to depart from a hotel with their room resembling an al-Qaeda hideout, but the option is basically there. You just can't beat hotel housekeeping.
Now, that said, I personally try my very hardest to upkeep my room while visiting. Besides the fact that I prefer not to voluntarily subject myself or my living quarters to filth, even if only temporarily, I have immense empathy for people who are subjugated to housekeeping duties for 40 hours a week, cleaning up the mess and debris of others while trying to maintain their own self-respect, so I always put forth some effort in not coming across as a total slob.
I wonder how clean housekeeping employees' hotel rooms are when they're on vacation. It would make my day to know they unapologetically wreak havoc, strewing towels, bedspreads, and toiletries across the room in a free-spirited, rebellious rage.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Free Food
Already I bet you're alert and interested in reading because of the subject matter alone. Perhaps you're thinking about the last situation in which you encountered a smorgasbord of free food, or how freaking sweet it would be if you turned your head 90 degrees right now and saw a mountain of whatever your culinary vice mysteriously piled upon a plate with a small sign on top that simply read, "Free." Perhaps you're even salivating right now. Wait, what's that? Was that a stomach grumble I just heard electronically through the computer monitor despite the fact that that's impossible and also you're not reading this in real time as I write? Amazing.
If any of the above applied to you right now -- without so much as seeing a picture of anything edible -- you have just witnessed the power of food. Especially when the word "food" is preceded by the single qualifier "free."
So powerful is free food that it entices you to do, say, or attend things you normally wouldn't. I can't say with scientific certainty this is true, but I would guess there is more scientific truth to that claim than anything you tried proving with your grade school baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano.
Mmm... baking soda and vinegar. With rainbow sprinkles? For free?
Think for a moment about the last wedding you attended that you really didn't want to but did anyway because the food and beverages at the reception were both catered and free. Or how about that banquet or conference to which you begrudgingly showed up only because your taste buds talked you into it. Or that date you went on with that not-a-snowball's-chance-in-hell creepy dude because you knew you were getting a free gourmet dinner out of him (whatever "gourmet" means).
The folks at Klondike nailed it. They knew that human beings would do darn near anything for free food, primarily a chocolate-covered handheld square of ice cream. I mean, what would you do for a Klondike bar? Wrestle a grizzly bear? Call up an ex you detest just to say hi? Bungee jump into a swamp of alligators while wearing only the harness? Hmm... how many Klondike bars again?
Free food also just brings people together. It unites. I mean, how many conversations have you had in your life with people you honestly couldn't care less about but, hey, there was free food involved so... if having to listen to their family vacation story again meant an opportunity to enjoy some red velvet cake, you suddenly encouraged more wacky tales of that baby cousin's first attempt at putt-putt? Again, it just unites.
You could probably end a war if you posted flyers advertising "Free Peace Treaty Potluck" around war trenches or heavy combat zones. Maybe even advertise a "Free Enemy Mixer/Ice Cream Social." Military conflict resolved.
If any of the above applied to you right now -- without so much as seeing a picture of anything edible -- you have just witnessed the power of food. Especially when the word "food" is preceded by the single qualifier "free."
So powerful is free food that it entices you to do, say, or attend things you normally wouldn't. I can't say with scientific certainty this is true, but I would guess there is more scientific truth to that claim than anything you tried proving with your grade school baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano.
Mmm... baking soda and vinegar. With rainbow sprinkles? For free?
Think for a moment about the last wedding you attended that you really didn't want to but did anyway because the food and beverages at the reception were both catered and free. Or how about that banquet or conference to which you begrudgingly showed up only because your taste buds talked you into it. Or that date you went on with that not-a-snowball's-chance-in-hell creepy dude because you knew you were getting a free gourmet dinner out of him (whatever "gourmet" means).
The folks at Klondike nailed it. They knew that human beings would do darn near anything for free food, primarily a chocolate-covered handheld square of ice cream. I mean, what would you do for a Klondike bar? Wrestle a grizzly bear? Call up an ex you detest just to say hi? Bungee jump into a swamp of alligators while wearing only the harness? Hmm... how many Klondike bars again?
Free food also just brings people together. It unites. I mean, how many conversations have you had in your life with people you honestly couldn't care less about but, hey, there was free food involved so... if having to listen to their family vacation story again meant an opportunity to enjoy some red velvet cake, you suddenly encouraged more wacky tales of that baby cousin's first attempt at putt-putt? Again, it just unites.
You could probably end a war if you posted flyers advertising "Free Peace Treaty Potluck" around war trenches or heavy combat zones. Maybe even advertise a "Free Enemy Mixer/Ice Cream Social." Military conflict resolved.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Coffee
To those whose offers for a freshly brewed cup of coffee I've denied -- nay, scoffed -- over the decades of my existence, I have good news: I'm slowly putting on my big boy pants and adapting a taste for coffee. I've been around its influence and propaganda for years, but its scent, its aromatic fumes I enjoy, is finally finding a soft spot in my gustatory system. This doesn't mean, though, that I'm seeing any further logic in the consumption of this dark bean juice.
Let's start there: bean juice. That's what it is. The ground extraction of a bean in a liquid format, supplemented with water. I guess that's okay. I mean, I like both chocolate and vanilla beans and their extractions. But, I don't know. Willingly drinking the juice of a pulp-free product just doesn't sound right to me. Makes me wonder when lima bean smoothies and pinto bean shakes will catch on.
Additionally, I partially fear materializing manila-folder-yellow teeth that so many coffee drinkers acquire over time. But probably not as much as I fear developing a permanent case of that horrendous halitosis yielded after downing a cup. You know these people (perhaps you even share an office space with them): they're carrying -- and cheerfully sharing -- coffee breath every minute of that 24-hour day, and they don't mind speaking closely enough for you to know it. I mean, how could a scent once so delectable, so inviting produce a "back the F away!" odor in a matter of minutes?
Now seems like a good time to interject a quick remark regarding the smell of urine excreted directly after drinking a cup of coffee. It's just... bad. No need to search for a grander adjective; "bad" pretty much sums it up. It's quite honestly disturbing. Let's be fair, I've not stood over a toilet of urine that I wanted to bottle as a fragrance (repulsive visual, my apologies), but I'm mortified by coffee's version. Again, simply bad.
Yet somehow this coffee stuff is growing on me. Gradually. Maybe it's the caffeine.
So, yes, I will take you up on your cup of coffee offer. The one I rejected back in the fall of '98.
Cream and sugar, please.
Let's start there: bean juice. That's what it is. The ground extraction of a bean in a liquid format, supplemented with water. I guess that's okay. I mean, I like both chocolate and vanilla beans and their extractions. But, I don't know. Willingly drinking the juice of a pulp-free product just doesn't sound right to me. Makes me wonder when lima bean smoothies and pinto bean shakes will catch on.
Additionally, I partially fear materializing manila-folder-yellow teeth that so many coffee drinkers acquire over time. But probably not as much as I fear developing a permanent case of that horrendous halitosis yielded after downing a cup. You know these people (perhaps you even share an office space with them): they're carrying -- and cheerfully sharing -- coffee breath every minute of that 24-hour day, and they don't mind speaking closely enough for you to know it. I mean, how could a scent once so delectable, so inviting produce a "back the F away!" odor in a matter of minutes?
Now seems like a good time to interject a quick remark regarding the smell of urine excreted directly after drinking a cup of coffee. It's just... bad. No need to search for a grander adjective; "bad" pretty much sums it up. It's quite honestly disturbing. Let's be fair, I've not stood over a toilet of urine that I wanted to bottle as a fragrance (repulsive visual, my apologies), but I'm mortified by coffee's version. Again, simply bad.
Yet somehow this coffee stuff is growing on me. Gradually. Maybe it's the caffeine.
So, yes, I will take you up on your cup of coffee offer. The one I rejected back in the fall of '98.
Cream and sugar, please.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Pro Wrestling
It is with great pride that I can profess having no childhood obsession or even minor infatuation with professional wrestling. I recall several of my neighborhood buddies owning toy bins filled to the brim with WWF (as it was then referred to) action figures, masks, outfits, trading cards, video games, and other random bits of painted, polymeric paraphernalia.
The video games were always good. Quite honestly, 95% of the 3% I know about pro wrestling was learned through the early video games. The Ultimate Warrior, The Big Boss Man, Andre the Giant, The Undertaker, and of course Hulk Hogan -- these names, Royal Rumble, and a couple moves like the piledriver or the Boston crab are all I knew, mostly thanks to the Frankfort Wal-Mart's miniscule arcade. That's about as far as I got, though.
Something about grown men, who are otherwise overflowing with machismo, and their awestruck sons paying top dollar to see buff, festooned, long-haired men in skin-tight spandex is rather disturbing to me. Personally, the only air-tight packages I'm interested in paying for say "Rubbermaid" on the side. But, hey, maybe that's just me.
Growing up, I frequently played the role of the childlike equivalent to an atheist, trying to throw human reasoning as a nonbeliever at my WWF-smitten playmates to convert them to what science and the rest of the world recognized as truth: The wrestling events and everything about them were completely fake. I think, though, at the time there was still an air of mystery and confusion as to the proclaimed falsehoods surrounding pro wrestling, as if no one was entirely confident that the shows were merely theatrical productions. But now there's no question. In fact, the WWE, or whatever organization acronym the big dogs of pro wrestling are hiding behind now, make no bones about it: they openly admit each show is storyboarded. Yet this has obviously failed to soften the interest of its fans. I don't know the statistics, but I would venture to say pro wrestling is as popular as it ever was. To me, bewildering.
Critics to my bewilderment would probably argue that it's merely entertainment -- a testosterone-infused, Broadway-style show upon a stage enclosed with stretchy ropes. Still ridiculous, but okay. However, most fans call this a "sport" -- it's clearly not. Entertainment, sure. But there's no competitive event taking place. Find a new term.
Mostly I feel sorry for the wives and mothers who have to deal with this obsession in their households and/or are dragged to the shows and also for the parents who are still subletting their basements to their fanatical 40-something-year-old sons.
The video games were always good. Quite honestly, 95% of the 3% I know about pro wrestling was learned through the early video games. The Ultimate Warrior, The Big Boss Man, Andre the Giant, The Undertaker, and of course Hulk Hogan -- these names, Royal Rumble, and a couple moves like the piledriver or the Boston crab are all I knew, mostly thanks to the Frankfort Wal-Mart's miniscule arcade. That's about as far as I got, though.
Something about grown men, who are otherwise overflowing with machismo, and their awestruck sons paying top dollar to see buff, festooned, long-haired men in skin-tight spandex is rather disturbing to me. Personally, the only air-tight packages I'm interested in paying for say "Rubbermaid" on the side. But, hey, maybe that's just me.
Growing up, I frequently played the role of the childlike equivalent to an atheist, trying to throw human reasoning as a nonbeliever at my WWF-smitten playmates to convert them to what science and the rest of the world recognized as truth: The wrestling events and everything about them were completely fake. I think, though, at the time there was still an air of mystery and confusion as to the proclaimed falsehoods surrounding pro wrestling, as if no one was entirely confident that the shows were merely theatrical productions. But now there's no question. In fact, the WWE, or whatever organization acronym the big dogs of pro wrestling are hiding behind now, make no bones about it: they openly admit each show is storyboarded. Yet this has obviously failed to soften the interest of its fans. I don't know the statistics, but I would venture to say pro wrestling is as popular as it ever was. To me, bewildering.
Critics to my bewilderment would probably argue that it's merely entertainment -- a testosterone-infused, Broadway-style show upon a stage enclosed with stretchy ropes. Still ridiculous, but okay. However, most fans call this a "sport" -- it's clearly not. Entertainment, sure. But there's no competitive event taking place. Find a new term.
Mostly I feel sorry for the wives and mothers who have to deal with this obsession in their households and/or are dragged to the shows and also for the parents who are still subletting their basements to their fanatical 40-something-year-old sons.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I have a feeling this "take" will generate the most perusals.
And why shouldn't it? Facebook has taken over the world -- literally. It, with the combined forces of text messaging, literally has changed the way we socialize and, in some cases, rearranged our priorities. Not just we Americans, but we the world. Sure, there are other social networking sites, but I'm addressing Facebook as (A) it's the largest, most used one right now and (B) it's the only one I use; I haven’t yet ventured out to "tweeting" on Twitter or posting nude pictures of myself in hopes of seducing 11-year-olds on MySpace.
Facebook is the lazy man's answer to "keeping in touch." If you despise phone conversations, have little time for lengthy discussions, or only contact certain people at a certain frequency out of some amiable obligation, Facebook is there for you to sum up that hour-long call in 13 words and a smiley face. There you go, friendship intact. Matter of fact, thanks to Facebook, I hardly call anyone anymore. Sorry, but some acquaintanceships are really only worth an occasional approval of the other's status update.
But like pairs of escalators, there are downsides. (Get it?)
You open yourself to stalkers; beware, they no longer lurk simply in sunglasses and a trench coat (with Facebook, your coworker is probably one of them). Various relationships you have may falter due to Facebook content. You may see and read things that you had hoped to never come across.
Some people just flaunt their true colors on there, don’t they? Man... Withholding and reserved for years, but give 'em a keyboard and monitor to hide behind and suddenly -- [cue loud, explosive mouse click]!! -- they'll throw out their life wishes and sexual preference and relationship status and current employer and alternate means of being contacted and photos, hobbies, moods, fears, regrets...
Oh, wait. That's all of us, isn't it?
I mean, where's the bashfulness in Facebook? Nowhere. It's out the window. No physical space intrusion, no awkward face-to-face confrontations, no social demand for chivalry. And virtually no censors, baby. Post whatever the capital f you want. Go ahead, cuss someone out -- typographically key someone's vehicle -- what can they do? Upload a risqué (albeit within reason) picture, talk sensually to anyone you feel, adamantly promote any agenda you care to -- you can be the real you that you can't be at work, or you can be the desired you that you can't be when being the real you at work.
According to Facebook, as of this writing, I have 589 friends. I know I don't actually have 589 friends. I don't make enough money to have 589 friends. But Facebook has redefined the word "friend." A friend now can range anywhere from someone who knows all your darkest secrets to a friend's friend's friend whom you think is hot and with whom you happen to share equal interest in a local indie band. If you think of the reason why you initially got on Facebook, you'll probably laugh. Most everyone got on there to either find long-lost friends from yesteryear or to supposedly network. Or both. But here’s the conventional depreciation in Facebook friendship acceptance: childhood friends > current friends > people you sort of know > some chick with whom you hazily recall splitting a pitcher last night.
Tweet that.
And why shouldn't it? Facebook has taken over the world -- literally. It, with the combined forces of text messaging, literally has changed the way we socialize and, in some cases, rearranged our priorities. Not just we Americans, but we the world. Sure, there are other social networking sites, but I'm addressing Facebook as (A) it's the largest, most used one right now and (B) it's the only one I use; I haven’t yet ventured out to "tweeting" on Twitter or posting nude pictures of myself in hopes of seducing 11-year-olds on MySpace.
Facebook is the lazy man's answer to "keeping in touch." If you despise phone conversations, have little time for lengthy discussions, or only contact certain people at a certain frequency out of some amiable obligation, Facebook is there for you to sum up that hour-long call in 13 words and a smiley face. There you go, friendship intact. Matter of fact, thanks to Facebook, I hardly call anyone anymore. Sorry, but some acquaintanceships are really only worth an occasional approval of the other's status update.
But like pairs of escalators, there are downsides. (Get it?)
You open yourself to stalkers; beware, they no longer lurk simply in sunglasses and a trench coat (with Facebook, your coworker is probably one of them). Various relationships you have may falter due to Facebook content. You may see and read things that you had hoped to never come across.
Some people just flaunt their true colors on there, don’t they? Man... Withholding and reserved for years, but give 'em a keyboard and monitor to hide behind and suddenly -- [cue loud, explosive mouse click]!! -- they'll throw out their life wishes and sexual preference and relationship status and current employer and alternate means of being contacted and photos, hobbies, moods, fears, regrets...
Oh, wait. That's all of us, isn't it?
I mean, where's the bashfulness in Facebook? Nowhere. It's out the window. No physical space intrusion, no awkward face-to-face confrontations, no social demand for chivalry. And virtually no censors, baby. Post whatever the capital f you want. Go ahead, cuss someone out -- typographically key someone's vehicle -- what can they do? Upload a risqué (albeit within reason) picture, talk sensually to anyone you feel, adamantly promote any agenda you care to -- you can be the real you that you can't be at work, or you can be the desired you that you can't be when being the real you at work.
According to Facebook, as of this writing, I have 589 friends. I know I don't actually have 589 friends. I don't make enough money to have 589 friends. But Facebook has redefined the word "friend." A friend now can range anywhere from someone who knows all your darkest secrets to a friend's friend's friend whom you think is hot and with whom you happen to share equal interest in a local indie band. If you think of the reason why you initially got on Facebook, you'll probably laugh. Most everyone got on there to either find long-lost friends from yesteryear or to supposedly network. Or both. But here’s the conventional depreciation in Facebook friendship acceptance: childhood friends > current friends > people you sort of know > some chick with whom you hazily recall splitting a pitcher last night.
Tweet that.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Award Shows
And the winner is...
Not me. And not anyone watching, really. Or at least that's how I feel about award shows. What a waste of human existence those shows are. Oscars, Golden Globes, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys, you name it. I hate that they're occurring, and I hate that people are watching.
I already know this is an unpopular opinion, believe me, so don't bother attempting to "awaken" me from my discontent. I've (apathetically) heard every argument for award shows that there is. But my mind can never be changed; award shows are meaningless, self-righteous affairs.
There is not a greater ego-stroking exhibition than the telecasted award shows. It's one giant four- to six-hour catwalk in front of ogling cameras and cardboard-cut nobody "journalists" foaming at the mouth for a sound bite from a bejeweled, Botox-infused douche, wrapped in sequined den curtains and hiding behind sunglasses at the darkest hour of the night, and on display on a stage abundantly saturated with overproduction, lame one-line endeavors at comedy, artificial live-yet-pre-recorded-and-lip-synched musical performances, and lengthy, trite soliloquies of thank-yous and meandering political commentary. It's a celebration of pompous nothingness.
And they're just crankin' 'em out, baby: People's Choice, Kids' Choice, Animals' Choice, Ghostly Spirits' Choice...
I can't blame the networks; I mean, they'll broadcast whatever people will watch (essentially and justifiably, this is their approach to anything they air). Nor can I blame the individual institutions/academies; likewise, they'll push whatever sells -- and more appropriately, whatever reinforces their own agendas. The people I blame are we. Us. The audience. The "Access Hollywood" viewers. The checkout-lane gossip readers. The dress-alike, look-alike idolaters. They'll only continue the madness if we continue to support it. Sadly, I think most of us want to.
My point is we laud and applaud the efforts of people we laud and applaud anyway. We intertwine our lives with theirs, and we don't even know these folks. Frankly, I'm not the least bit concerned with who wins Best Actor of the Year any more than I am with who wins Best Auto Mechanic of the Year or any other profession's coveted annual recognition of great achievement.
But lay me down a red carpet on my way to tackle an Excel spreadsheet and maybe I'll reconsider.
Not me. And not anyone watching, really. Or at least that's how I feel about award shows. What a waste of human existence those shows are. Oscars, Golden Globes, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys, you name it. I hate that they're occurring, and I hate that people are watching.
I already know this is an unpopular opinion, believe me, so don't bother attempting to "awaken" me from my discontent. I've (apathetically) heard every argument for award shows that there is. But my mind can never be changed; award shows are meaningless, self-righteous affairs.
There is not a greater ego-stroking exhibition than the telecasted award shows. It's one giant four- to six-hour catwalk in front of ogling cameras and cardboard-cut nobody "journalists" foaming at the mouth for a sound bite from a bejeweled, Botox-infused douche, wrapped in sequined den curtains and hiding behind sunglasses at the darkest hour of the night, and on display on a stage abundantly saturated with overproduction, lame one-line endeavors at comedy, artificial live-yet-pre-recorded-and-lip-synched musical performances, and lengthy, trite soliloquies of thank-yous and meandering political commentary. It's a celebration of pompous nothingness.
And they're just crankin' 'em out, baby: People's Choice, Kids' Choice, Animals' Choice, Ghostly Spirits' Choice...
I can't blame the networks; I mean, they'll broadcast whatever people will watch (essentially and justifiably, this is their approach to anything they air). Nor can I blame the individual institutions/academies; likewise, they'll push whatever sells -- and more appropriately, whatever reinforces their own agendas. The people I blame are we. Us. The audience. The "Access Hollywood" viewers. The checkout-lane gossip readers. The dress-alike, look-alike idolaters. They'll only continue the madness if we continue to support it. Sadly, I think most of us want to.
My point is we laud and applaud the efforts of people we laud and applaud anyway. We intertwine our lives with theirs, and we don't even know these folks. Frankly, I'm not the least bit concerned with who wins Best Actor of the Year any more than I am with who wins Best Auto Mechanic of the Year or any other profession's coveted annual recognition of great achievement.
But lay me down a red carpet on my way to tackle an Excel spreadsheet and maybe I'll reconsider.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Headlights
Lots of distractions for the common driver these days, aren't there? Cell phones, GPS devices, iPods, DVD players, etc. -- all on top of what we've already been distracted by for years, like stereos/radios, billboards, passengers, eating... among several other attention-grabbers. Last thing we need is one more distraction for our focus toward safe arrival at our destination, right?
Yet we have headlights. Yes, headlights. "Hold on," you say, "headlights are essential to driving. They’re a necessity. They keep us safe!" When used correctly, sure. But so is radioactivity.
The distractive half of headlights is when folks throw the "brights" on in your face. You know what I'm talking about -- you're driving down the highway, you've got everything under control, until suddenly someone steadily approaches you from behind or oncoming with their bright headlights unknowingly on. Now the focus is on trying to awaken them to their blinding traffic infraction while also trying to find the asphalt and keep your car continuing between the painted lines. Personally, nothing boils my blood like some moron's "brights" blocking my vision. I mean, it would seem to me that there's no driving miscue that's more blatant to the offender than having your bright headlights on in a non-bright-headlight-warranted driving situation. (A blinker when not turning ranks a very close second.) This tells me the driver him/herself is obviously distracted. That or just too stupid to hold a driver's license.
But we'll chalk that instance up to inattentiveness -- or, rather, a distraction caused by a distraction. It's slightly more forgiving that way.
What are beyond unforgiving are the headlight bulbs new to the market as of just a few years: purposely discolored headlights (usually some hue of blue) and ultra-bright halogen headlights. When the shade of your headlights could easily be mistaken for a cop's emergency lights, I question their legality -- oh, and usefulness. But apparently I'm the only one as I've never heard them questioned legislatively. Look, people, headlights are universally urine-tinted maize. Not blue. Not white. Like taillights are universally red -- imagine if folks started switching those up ("Does that car in front of me have green taillights? Couldn't be. Probably a green light. I'll just give 'er some gas and -- wait a seco--" Broken glass everywhere.).
And these ultra-bright halogen bulbs I've seen advertised now, where the commercial explains, "Now you can see farther"... Hmm, care to know why? Because they’re brighter. So, while you're now able to see that deer rounding the bend four miles up, you're killing everyone else's vision, blinding us all into becoming the multiple helpless obstacles you were trying to avoid by installing these National Guard floodlights in the first place, and, in turn, leaving us to use shoulder grooves and street reflectors as Braille.
Yet we have headlights. Yes, headlights. "Hold on," you say, "headlights are essential to driving. They’re a necessity. They keep us safe!" When used correctly, sure. But so is radioactivity.
The distractive half of headlights is when folks throw the "brights" on in your face. You know what I'm talking about -- you're driving down the highway, you've got everything under control, until suddenly someone steadily approaches you from behind or oncoming with their bright headlights unknowingly on. Now the focus is on trying to awaken them to their blinding traffic infraction while also trying to find the asphalt and keep your car continuing between the painted lines. Personally, nothing boils my blood like some moron's "brights" blocking my vision. I mean, it would seem to me that there's no driving miscue that's more blatant to the offender than having your bright headlights on in a non-bright-headlight-warranted driving situation. (A blinker when not turning ranks a very close second.) This tells me the driver him/herself is obviously distracted. That or just too stupid to hold a driver's license.
But we'll chalk that instance up to inattentiveness -- or, rather, a distraction caused by a distraction. It's slightly more forgiving that way.
What are beyond unforgiving are the headlight bulbs new to the market as of just a few years: purposely discolored headlights (usually some hue of blue) and ultra-bright halogen headlights. When the shade of your headlights could easily be mistaken for a cop's emergency lights, I question their legality -- oh, and usefulness. But apparently I'm the only one as I've never heard them questioned legislatively. Look, people, headlights are universally urine-tinted maize. Not blue. Not white. Like taillights are universally red -- imagine if folks started switching those up ("Does that car in front of me have green taillights? Couldn't be. Probably a green light. I'll just give 'er some gas and -- wait a seco--" Broken glass everywhere.).
And these ultra-bright halogen bulbs I've seen advertised now, where the commercial explains, "Now you can see farther"... Hmm, care to know why? Because they’re brighter. So, while you're now able to see that deer rounding the bend four miles up, you're killing everyone else's vision, blinding us all into becoming the multiple helpless obstacles you were trying to avoid by installing these National Guard floodlights in the first place, and, in turn, leaving us to use shoulder grooves and street reflectors as Braille.
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