We all have, or had, childhood dreams. Most of them focus on what we want to be when we grow up. Popular aspirations include a firefighter, an astronaut, a doctor, a member of the circus. Or maybe something less occupational and more physical, like taller, bigger, stronger, smarter. Me? A baseball player. That's all I wanted in life -- to be a professional baseball player. I vividly remember from my younger days my dad showcasing me around to friends and strangers alike, introducing me as (1) his son and (2) a future star in the major leagues. And I don't think he was trying to be cute either.
Well, that dream was fun while it lasted. Didn't take long for good ol' reality to pop in and inform us all that professional baseball is unfortunately only reserved for people who are actually good at baseball. If only I had known. Sure, I could catch the ball, throw the ball, and occasionally (heavy emphasis on "occasionally") hit the ball, but I wasn't good. Perhaps somewhere on the upper side of mediocre at best.
But, ah, softball. Now that I can play, friends. And I'm of course not talking about your run-of-the-mill fast-pitch softball that comes with harmonized dugout chants, hair ribbons, and sexual ambiguity. God, no, this is man's softball. Old man's softball. What's the difference, you ask? Well, for starters, we don't have any of those things I just mentioned. Rather we have slow bell-curve-like pitches, rock-scuffed bats, unkempt beards, zero game plan, and T-shirt jerseys with unknown stains from factors completely and inexplicably unrelated to softball. In this form of softball, water doesn't exist. Need to warm up? Try cooling down -- with a parking lot beer. Need to stretch? Of course you do, so streeeetch your hand out for a cold lager. Need Gatorade? Sure thing, here's a new flavor called Milwaukee's Best. Enjoy, big guy.
Yeah... old-man softball.
Now, I'll be the very first to admit that when I lose, I'm little fun. My intrinsic competitive nature convinces me that winning matters at the moment and you can't persuade me otherwise in the one-hour span directly following a game. But while I write this with emotions in neutral, I totally understand that these softball games [...deep sigh...] mean nothing. It's true. I mean, where do you go from here anyway? Even if you're in a blood-thirsty league, face it, you're playing old-man softball. You're going home to empty pizza boxes, poopy diapers, screaming kids, DVR-ed reruns, wrinkled Dockers, plumbing problems, and living partners or loved ones (if anyone) at home who just genuinely don't care what the game's outcome was.
Suddenly, hustling seems a little less important. I'm finding myself rationalizing against backing up a bad throw that might not even happen. The value of top-brand equipment no longer exceeds the shrewdness of clearance rack items. ...And yet I continue to slide into base and dive for pop-flies. I have no idea why.
The funniest part to me about this recreation is I distinctly recall as a child seeing these grown men playing this pointless softball game and thinking from the backseat of the car as it drove by, "So that's when you know your life has reached a dead end." I'm not sure if I was prodigiously provocative with that childhood observation or naïve and stupid. Now that I'm here, I'm really hoping it’s the latter.
Honestly, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Is "a professional softball player" an option?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Senior Citizens
If you make it to 75 -- even 65 -- years old, that's a pretty phenomenal feat. Between natural causes and freak accidents, there are just too many ways to die. Life, besides being a box of chocolates, is also a giant gauntlet, where our main focus above all things, whether we consciously think about it or not, is to stay alive. We're constantly on the go, dodging and side-stepping fatal pitfalls, i.e. car accidents, diseases, infections, drowning, natural disasters, terroristic acts, poisonous consumption, improper medication, mechanical malfunction, slipping and falling, getting trapped in a burning building, dropping something electric while in water, taking an athletic object to the head, being subjected to too many Brendan Fraser films, etc. Every day you don't die is a victory in my book. So if you can outlive your joints and smooth, wrinkle-free skin and the full control of your bladder, you should get whatever you want. At that point, you've basically won in life.
This is why I'm a big fan of respecting my elders, specifically senior citizens. Man, they've earned it. They've endured countless hardships and undoubtedly overcome personal tribulations. They've repeatedly kicked the devil in his crotch and just kept going, kept living. For 60 years. For 65 years. For 70, 75, 80 years. Some for 90 years, a few for 100. These are the most remarkable, heroic people in the world. A discounted movie ticket is the very least they should receive; throw 'em a complimentary bucket of popcorn, too.
I HATE to see older people working -- unless of course they simply want to. No elderly person should have to work to live. Not to bark up a political tree here, but I'm not keen on socialistic policies, and yet I find financially assisting a struggling senior citizen a very difficult motion to not support. I mean, they've paid not simply their taxes (presumably) but their dues in life as well. There will come a time in the back-half of life where we’ll all wish we had a little extra help, financial or otherwise. Aspirin and Bengay can only remedy so much.
Simply put, privilege should come with age. You seniors should be commended for weathering time. You wanna cash in on your 10% senior citizen price markdown? I say take 20% off. Yeah, it's cool. You want me to turn that darn music down? Consider it done -- I'll not only turn it down, I'll use headphones. You want that thermostat at 82 degrees? You got it -- and, hey, here's a wool sweater and a space heater, too. Heck, you can drive whatever glacial speed you want. Enjoy yourself out there. And this is coming from someone who freely admits to suffering periodic bouts of road rage (but with good reason: I mean, how hard is it for common, everyday drivers to (1) drive while talking, (2) stay out of the left-hand lane when not passing, and (3) not brake on an on-ramp? Idiots.).
The elderly are exactly what we all aspire to be: still alive many years past our current age. They have achieved mankind's underlying goal. We want it, and they did it.
Go ahead, park as close to the entrance as you want, old man. I'll walk.
This is why I'm a big fan of respecting my elders, specifically senior citizens. Man, they've earned it. They've endured countless hardships and undoubtedly overcome personal tribulations. They've repeatedly kicked the devil in his crotch and just kept going, kept living. For 60 years. For 65 years. For 70, 75, 80 years. Some for 90 years, a few for 100. These are the most remarkable, heroic people in the world. A discounted movie ticket is the very least they should receive; throw 'em a complimentary bucket of popcorn, too.
I HATE to see older people working -- unless of course they simply want to. No elderly person should have to work to live. Not to bark up a political tree here, but I'm not keen on socialistic policies, and yet I find financially assisting a struggling senior citizen a very difficult motion to not support. I mean, they've paid not simply their taxes (presumably) but their dues in life as well. There will come a time in the back-half of life where we’ll all wish we had a little extra help, financial or otherwise. Aspirin and Bengay can only remedy so much.
Simply put, privilege should come with age. You seniors should be commended for weathering time. You wanna cash in on your 10% senior citizen price markdown? I say take 20% off. Yeah, it's cool. You want me to turn that darn music down? Consider it done -- I'll not only turn it down, I'll use headphones. You want that thermostat at 82 degrees? You got it -- and, hey, here's a wool sweater and a space heater, too. Heck, you can drive whatever glacial speed you want. Enjoy yourself out there. And this is coming from someone who freely admits to suffering periodic bouts of road rage (but with good reason: I mean, how hard is it for common, everyday drivers to (1) drive while talking, (2) stay out of the left-hand lane when not passing, and (3) not brake on an on-ramp? Idiots.).
The elderly are exactly what we all aspire to be: still alive many years past our current age. They have achieved mankind's underlying goal. We want it, and they did it.
Go ahead, park as close to the entrance as you want, old man. I'll walk.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Cereals
If you're like me (oh boy, and consider yourself lucky for several reasons if you are!), you've got your normal grocery store route charted, with nearly every shopping cart stop plotted. I know what I like, and I know what works for me. An occasional detour for something new to spice things up, sure, but not often.
I think we sort of figure out early in life what our taste receptors customarily dig and find repulsive. Marketers and "new product developers" know this. They know we're slow to venture out on completely foreign taste bud excursions. They also know what food items are familiar and comfortable to us by culture. And with these key generalizations in pocket, they tweak and dabble and spin off what has already been consumer-approved. Think of it as song remixes as opposed to previously unreleased compositions.
Look no further than the cereal aisle for a wide range of examples. This sucker used to be a section comprised of a handful of choices. Then that section expanded to a whole aisle. Then that aisle expanded to the opposite side of the aisle. It's now just a hallway of pretty, colored, rectangular boxes on display. Thing is, Kellogg's and Post and General Mills and all the brains behind the discipline of cereal creation have hit a wall. Nothing in these aisles is new. Everything's a repackaged, reshaped, re-colored twist on what already exists. I wonder if they think we haven't caught on yet.
Every children's movie, cartoon, and pre-teen fad comes out with its own cereal. But what is the cereal? The same darn thing sitting three boxes away, except this one has ghost shapes instead of clovers. Or vanilla clusters instead of cinnamon clusters. Or dehydrated blueberries instead of dehydrated bananas. Or purple, dried marshmallows instead of green ones with a yellow star in the center.
Or it's covered in chocolate. All foods eventually get the chocolate-covered makeover. When your food product sales begin to decline, dunk it in chocolate and stamp "New!" in one of those exclamatory, zany talk bubbles on the package. This is a relatively fail-safe plan B. And plan C. You can never go wrong with chocolate.
...Scratch that -- ever had Chocolate Lucky Charms? Lord, it's like punishment. Feels like you got busted for cussing and have to stand in the bathroom with a bar of soap in your mouth. And not even soap with a delightful scent. I'm talking Lava soap, the kind that mechanics use to scour week-old engine grease off their fingers.
But you get the idea. The cereal aisle is full of repeats and Hollywood sequels. Alas, the well of morning gastronomic innovation has run dry for these cereal scientists in their cereal labs, adding and subtracting artificial flavors and red dyes to their beakers of rice, corn, and wheat. There are only so many times you can duplicate the core originals: Cheerios, Wheaties, Fruity Pebbles, Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, Corn Pops, Honey Smacks, Honey Bunches of Oats, Chex, Trix, Lucky Charms, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Cap'n Crunch, and Cookie Crisp.
The rest are dirty imposters. They should sit scuffed, dented, clearance-priced, and ashamed next to the Pop Tart rejects, like Frosted Strawberry Milkshake and Cherry with printed Pictionary clues. This is your Breakfast Hall of Shame.
I think we sort of figure out early in life what our taste receptors customarily dig and find repulsive. Marketers and "new product developers" know this. They know we're slow to venture out on completely foreign taste bud excursions. They also know what food items are familiar and comfortable to us by culture. And with these key generalizations in pocket, they tweak and dabble and spin off what has already been consumer-approved. Think of it as song remixes as opposed to previously unreleased compositions.
Look no further than the cereal aisle for a wide range of examples. This sucker used to be a section comprised of a handful of choices. Then that section expanded to a whole aisle. Then that aisle expanded to the opposite side of the aisle. It's now just a hallway of pretty, colored, rectangular boxes on display. Thing is, Kellogg's and Post and General Mills and all the brains behind the discipline of cereal creation have hit a wall. Nothing in these aisles is new. Everything's a repackaged, reshaped, re-colored twist on what already exists. I wonder if they think we haven't caught on yet.
Every children's movie, cartoon, and pre-teen fad comes out with its own cereal. But what is the cereal? The same darn thing sitting three boxes away, except this one has ghost shapes instead of clovers. Or vanilla clusters instead of cinnamon clusters. Or dehydrated blueberries instead of dehydrated bananas. Or purple, dried marshmallows instead of green ones with a yellow star in the center.
Or it's covered in chocolate. All foods eventually get the chocolate-covered makeover. When your food product sales begin to decline, dunk it in chocolate and stamp "New!" in one of those exclamatory, zany talk bubbles on the package. This is a relatively fail-safe plan B. And plan C. You can never go wrong with chocolate.
...Scratch that -- ever had Chocolate Lucky Charms? Lord, it's like punishment. Feels like you got busted for cussing and have to stand in the bathroom with a bar of soap in your mouth. And not even soap with a delightful scent. I'm talking Lava soap, the kind that mechanics use to scour week-old engine grease off their fingers.
But you get the idea. The cereal aisle is full of repeats and Hollywood sequels. Alas, the well of morning gastronomic innovation has run dry for these cereal scientists in their cereal labs, adding and subtracting artificial flavors and red dyes to their beakers of rice, corn, and wheat. There are only so many times you can duplicate the core originals: Cheerios, Wheaties, Fruity Pebbles, Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, Corn Pops, Honey Smacks, Honey Bunches of Oats, Chex, Trix, Lucky Charms, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Cap'n Crunch, and Cookie Crisp.
The rest are dirty imposters. They should sit scuffed, dented, clearance-priced, and ashamed next to the Pop Tart rejects, like Frosted Strawberry Milkshake and Cherry with printed Pictionary clues. This is your Breakfast Hall of Shame.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Orbitz
What in the world could ever sound better than being on vacation on some sunny, sandy beach, slumped in a plastic chair with a fruity drink and utterly mentally detached from that thing back home you call your job? Oh, I don't know, maybe being spontaneously visited by a man in a jumpsuit by way of a hovercraft to deliver a partially reimbursed check with your name on it for that vacation you booked.
Sounds spectacular, doesn’t it? Seriously, who could say no to that? That's like Tiger Woods's wife giving him a list of contact info for her Swedish model friends and saying, "Just give me a call Monday morning when you're done."
Some deals are just too darn good to be true.
And so is the deal guaranteed by Orbitz, a travel-booking website and owner of the aforementioned pledge for partial reimbursement should your exact same trip be booked by someone else at a cheaper rate (probably doesn't guarantee the hovercraft delivery guy as depicted in their commercials unfortunately). And you know, when you present it like that, that's a no-brainer of a deal. Book your trip with them, and you've basically dropped your name in a raffle basket for a possible chance at some money-back action. Oh yeah!
Well, hold on there, Orbitz, let's unveil that marketing mechanism of yours to showcase it for the scoop of horse poop it is. First, your promise to reimburse a portion of my trip's expense if someone should book the same trip through your little site is preposterous. Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius. Because I know that you know that I know that you know that there's absolutely, positively no way for me to ever know if someone did in fact book a trip at a cheaper rate. So if you just decided to not give me my small percentage of sweat-labor cash back should that scenario indeed occur, well, how would I know I was supposed to receive a refund? Am I supposed to walk around the hotel and the beach asking my fellow vacationers how, for how much, and for how long they booked their trip?
Second, what is the honest-to-God probability two people would even book the exact same trip at the exact same place for the exact same dates through the exact same website -- and at different rates? (Again, and know it?) Those are lottery odds, man. Matter of fact, you may as well just play the lottery -- I hear the return on investment is marginally higher.
But I got to give you credit, Orbitz, because while creating a campaign that seemingly puts the "treat" in "holiday retreat," you have successfully -- to paraphrase one of the many legendary quotes from that great cinematic staple of business education called "Tommy Boy" -- took a dump in a box and stamped the word "guaranteed" on the side of it, and no one can call you a liar because we'll never know.
Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius.
Sounds spectacular, doesn’t it? Seriously, who could say no to that? That's like Tiger Woods's wife giving him a list of contact info for her Swedish model friends and saying, "Just give me a call Monday morning when you're done."
Some deals are just too darn good to be true.
And so is the deal guaranteed by Orbitz, a travel-booking website and owner of the aforementioned pledge for partial reimbursement should your exact same trip be booked by someone else at a cheaper rate (probably doesn't guarantee the hovercraft delivery guy as depicted in their commercials unfortunately). And you know, when you present it like that, that's a no-brainer of a deal. Book your trip with them, and you've basically dropped your name in a raffle basket for a possible chance at some money-back action. Oh yeah!
Well, hold on there, Orbitz, let's unveil that marketing mechanism of yours to showcase it for the scoop of horse poop it is. First, your promise to reimburse a portion of my trip's expense if someone should book the same trip through your little site is preposterous. Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius. Because I know that you know that I know that you know that there's absolutely, positively no way for me to ever know if someone did in fact book a trip at a cheaper rate. So if you just decided to not give me my small percentage of sweat-labor cash back should that scenario indeed occur, well, how would I know I was supposed to receive a refund? Am I supposed to walk around the hotel and the beach asking my fellow vacationers how, for how much, and for how long they booked their trip?
Second, what is the honest-to-God probability two people would even book the exact same trip at the exact same place for the exact same dates through the exact same website -- and at different rates? (Again, and know it?) Those are lottery odds, man. Matter of fact, you may as well just play the lottery -- I hear the return on investment is marginally higher.
But I got to give you credit, Orbitz, because while creating a campaign that seemingly puts the "treat" in "holiday retreat," you have successfully -- to paraphrase one of the many legendary quotes from that great cinematic staple of business education called "Tommy Boy" -- took a dump in a box and stamped the word "guaranteed" on the side of it, and no one can call you a liar because we'll never know.
Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Toll Collectors
There have been several stories in the news lately about harassment or otherwise hostile actions exemplified by toll collectors to various drivers. You know, unwanted sexual advancements, verbal abuse, and even offers to "step out of the car and fight." Some observers and readers probably call this insanity; I call it the inevitable result of being caged up in a tall box for eight hours with a stool and money they don't even own, day after day. Keep me in there long enough with no professional end in sight, and I'd probably do the same thing, only with my face painted and no clothes.
I mean, where's the humanity in that job? Paycheck aside, that job's about a slow water-dripping faucet away from classified torture.
What exactly is the career outlook for toll collectors? Grim, I suppose. But what's the end game there -- what's the incentive for doing well versus simply handing 50 cents change with a middle finger back to each driver? I would surmise there's about as much opportunity to move up in that occupation as there's opportunity to move around in that toll booth.
Put it this way, if you're a toll collector who calls in sick, you're simply replaced by a metal basket and a different neon light indicating exact change only. Your backup is a two-inanimate-object combo. If that's not salt in the open wound of a dead-end job, I don't know what is. And now you have a couple EZ-Pass lanes breathing down your neck, just itching to take your toll bridge lane. No pressure.
Not that I'm saying your life sucks if you're a toll collector. I'm just empathizing with your depressive situation. Heck, it's a paying job and you've got to make ends meet -- you've got yourself, maybe a family, and definitely a tragically indebted government to support -- so, hey, take what's available. But I empathize with you. Truly. If you're a toll collector and you never smile, or you hate people, or you hate yourself, or you've lost your identity, or you don't bathe, or you spend half your day mentally weighing crimes you could get away with, or your favorite part of the day is reading "Ziggy" and doing the Jumble at lunch, I'm not condoning your feelings or actions, but I certainly don't blame you.
I guess what I'm saying is, just don't kill me, please.
I mean, where's the humanity in that job? Paycheck aside, that job's about a slow water-dripping faucet away from classified torture.
What exactly is the career outlook for toll collectors? Grim, I suppose. But what's the end game there -- what's the incentive for doing well versus simply handing 50 cents change with a middle finger back to each driver? I would surmise there's about as much opportunity to move up in that occupation as there's opportunity to move around in that toll booth.
Put it this way, if you're a toll collector who calls in sick, you're simply replaced by a metal basket and a different neon light indicating exact change only. Your backup is a two-inanimate-object combo. If that's not salt in the open wound of a dead-end job, I don't know what is. And now you have a couple EZ-Pass lanes breathing down your neck, just itching to take your toll bridge lane. No pressure.
Not that I'm saying your life sucks if you're a toll collector. I'm just empathizing with your depressive situation. Heck, it's a paying job and you've got to make ends meet -- you've got yourself, maybe a family, and definitely a tragically indebted government to support -- so, hey, take what's available. But I empathize with you. Truly. If you're a toll collector and you never smile, or you hate people, or you hate yourself, or you've lost your identity, or you don't bathe, or you spend half your day mentally weighing crimes you could get away with, or your favorite part of the day is reading "Ziggy" and doing the Jumble at lunch, I'm not condoning your feelings or actions, but I certainly don't blame you.
I guess what I'm saying is, just don't kill me, please.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Clip Shows
Think of your favorite TV show. Go ahead, I'll wait.
[Thinking... thinking...]
Got it? Excellent. Now think about sitting down in great anticipation to watch a new episode of that show or perhaps a randomly selected episode of that show’s syndication. You're kicked back on the couch with snacks or a meal at a ravenous hand's quick grasp, ready to consume and devour your day's troubles away for the next 30 to 60 minutes. It's just you, calories, and your seven remote controls, and, by God, all is right with the world. TV on, receiver on, sound on, brain off, and--
Wait, what's this? Is this a clip show? Are you effin' kidding me, that's what this is? A waste-of-time, buzz-killing clip show?
And then, sourness... followed by an immense sense of betrayal.
If the phrase "clip show" means nothing to you, don't feel stupid. You actually know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been duped by one before. We all have. You see, a clip show is a TV show episode where all the writers decided that another week of bong hits trumped their moral obligation to present to you, the faithful viewer, a full episode of new material. While indeed technically fulfilling their contractual agreement to produce an episode containing some new, unaired footage, it's a scathing insult to their viewership that assumes those who watch the show are so intellectually aloof that they'll have zero qualms with accepting spliced segments of already broadcasted episodes as sufficient filler for at least 80% of the "new" episode as long as surrounding these recycled one-liners and otherwise highlights is a paper-thin plot that allows for multiple, conjoined "flashbacks" sandwiched between maybe three minutes of newly shot footage.
More or less, the writers pussed out and lackadaisically served up previously seen items and called it new. It's analogous to your grade school cafeteria, when one day's "fresh casserole" looked and tasted eerily similar to several of the previous day's leftover courses, only now there are sprinkled breadcrumbs and far too much mysterious cream sauce added in.
There are really no acceptable excuses for clip shows. The writers, producers, and network would like to sell you on the idea that a clip show is "a chance to bring everyone up to speed on the show" or "a celebration of the show's greatest moments." Yeah, or we can just wait for the series to come out on DVD to relive it all on our own time.
Even if there was somehow a legitimate reason for its existence, there's absolutely no good justification for rerunning a clip show. It's a rerun of an episode of reruns. No one wants to see that crap the first time, much less regurgitated in syndication. I'd like to have the great dishonor of meeting the person who's saving space on his DVR for the rebroadcasted clip show episode of "Frasier."
[Thinking... thinking...]
Got it? Excellent. Now think about sitting down in great anticipation to watch a new episode of that show or perhaps a randomly selected episode of that show’s syndication. You're kicked back on the couch with snacks or a meal at a ravenous hand's quick grasp, ready to consume and devour your day's troubles away for the next 30 to 60 minutes. It's just you, calories, and your seven remote controls, and, by God, all is right with the world. TV on, receiver on, sound on, brain off, and--
Wait, what's this? Is this a clip show? Are you effin' kidding me, that's what this is? A waste-of-time, buzz-killing clip show?
And then, sourness... followed by an immense sense of betrayal.
If the phrase "clip show" means nothing to you, don't feel stupid. You actually know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been duped by one before. We all have. You see, a clip show is a TV show episode where all the writers decided that another week of bong hits trumped their moral obligation to present to you, the faithful viewer, a full episode of new material. While indeed technically fulfilling their contractual agreement to produce an episode containing some new, unaired footage, it's a scathing insult to their viewership that assumes those who watch the show are so intellectually aloof that they'll have zero qualms with accepting spliced segments of already broadcasted episodes as sufficient filler for at least 80% of the "new" episode as long as surrounding these recycled one-liners and otherwise highlights is a paper-thin plot that allows for multiple, conjoined "flashbacks" sandwiched between maybe three minutes of newly shot footage.
More or less, the writers pussed out and lackadaisically served up previously seen items and called it new. It's analogous to your grade school cafeteria, when one day's "fresh casserole" looked and tasted eerily similar to several of the previous day's leftover courses, only now there are sprinkled breadcrumbs and far too much mysterious cream sauce added in.
There are really no acceptable excuses for clip shows. The writers, producers, and network would like to sell you on the idea that a clip show is "a chance to bring everyone up to speed on the show" or "a celebration of the show's greatest moments." Yeah, or we can just wait for the series to come out on DVD to relive it all on our own time.
Even if there was somehow a legitimate reason for its existence, there's absolutely no good justification for rerunning a clip show. It's a rerun of an episode of reruns. No one wants to see that crap the first time, much less regurgitated in syndication. I'd like to have the great dishonor of meeting the person who's saving space on his DVR for the rebroadcasted clip show episode of "Frasier."
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Hotel Paintings
There are two things I routinely think the moment I step inside my hotel room for the first time: "I wonder who stayed here last night and what sort of unspeakable debauchery occurred," and "Seriously, where do they get these paintings?" Both ponderings tend to remain unanswered, but that doesn't mean I don't try drawing my own conclusions. The former thought, though, mostly by choice, is given little rumination time as I usually just figure it's probably best that I remain in the dark about the events of my room's previous night. The latter thought, on the other hand, is a brainwave I'll bet each of our inquisitive cerebral cortexes has fired off at one point or another.
If there's a majestic, awe-inspiring hotel painting out there hanging above a very bland, wooden headboard bolted to the wall or a basket filled with packets of complimentary mud-flavored coffee, I have yet to see it. I'm not saying the paintings in hotel rooms lack a trace of genuine talent, but I'm fairly confident that in several cases you could wind up with a near replication if you blindfolded a kindergartener afflicted with ADHD and handed him the same '70s-influenced subdued paints and no brush.
I would be interested to know the reaction of one of these paintings' artist as he stumbled upon a print of his work in the corridor of a Holiday Inn Express while vacationing. Is there an immediate sense of pride or dejection? Would he be overcome with artistic acceptance or career-ending humiliation? I feel as if either of the two -- or maybe both -- sentiments would be understandable. I mean, granted, it's no Louvre exhibit, but at least the painting is no longer sitting with a clearance sticker in the corner of TJ Maxx. And, you know, someone found it appropriate (okay, tacky) enough to purchase it and hang publicly.
I say puff your chest, Picasso, and wear that badge of misguided artistry with delight! Someone's painting had to suspend over that handcuffed, balding businessman and his transsexual escort in leather, so why shouldn't it be your canvas print of a coyote atop a queerly zigzagged mesa, howling into the pastel moonlight? High five!
If there's a majestic, awe-inspiring hotel painting out there hanging above a very bland, wooden headboard bolted to the wall or a basket filled with packets of complimentary mud-flavored coffee, I have yet to see it. I'm not saying the paintings in hotel rooms lack a trace of genuine talent, but I'm fairly confident that in several cases you could wind up with a near replication if you blindfolded a kindergartener afflicted with ADHD and handed him the same '70s-influenced subdued paints and no brush.
I would be interested to know the reaction of one of these paintings' artist as he stumbled upon a print of his work in the corridor of a Holiday Inn Express while vacationing. Is there an immediate sense of pride or dejection? Would he be overcome with artistic acceptance or career-ending humiliation? I feel as if either of the two -- or maybe both -- sentiments would be understandable. I mean, granted, it's no Louvre exhibit, but at least the painting is no longer sitting with a clearance sticker in the corner of TJ Maxx. And, you know, someone found it appropriate (okay, tacky) enough to purchase it and hang publicly.
I say puff your chest, Picasso, and wear that badge of misguided artistry with delight! Someone's painting had to suspend over that handcuffed, balding businessman and his transsexual escort in leather, so why shouldn't it be your canvas print of a coyote atop a queerly zigzagged mesa, howling into the pastel moonlight? High five!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
VIP
Everyone wants to feel important, don't they? Everyone wants to carry weight in the mind of others. It's just something all people desire. No one wants to be perceived as unimportant (although there are a few folks who are so good at it, you have to wonder if they're actually aiming for insignificance). Feeling important is important.
But, oh, throw the adverb "very" in front of "important" and it's a whole new ballgame. It's like a phrase that signifies an echelon sought by most but attainable to few. Once the "very" is tacked on, "important" is no longer a feeling but a social status. People lose their friggin' sense for it.
Very Important People require very important things -- like very important areas, very important entrances, and very important company. An insecure state of mind needs such reaffirmations.
Take red carpets and velvet ropes -- they're hardly just tacky cinema décor or items that can be found next to the zebra-print couch in your sleazy bachelor pad brimming with polyester and shag. Lord, no, they're segregators of privilege, showcases of rank. They snobbishly declare that you, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, may step right this way, but please step aside, Mr. Bland-Scruffy-and-Mediocre.
Maybe the most quizzical dimension of this notion of VIP is that the value in being held in VIP regard isn't found in what you get to eat, where you get to sit, or where you're allowed to park, but instead the access to those things. You know, just the fact that you have a privilege that others can merely observe but not partake. That faaaaar outweighs all the bestowed "betters" -- the better tastes, the better views, the better service, etc. People want that social status imprinted across their forehead, large and legible for all to read and recognize. That's the point of VIP: not what you get but what you feel.
A perfect example: At any given professional sports team facility, there's at least one bar or area of bars that's reserved strictly for ticketholders deemed VIP. Those tickets are hot sales -- who doesn't want to be part of the ultra limited inclusion of invitees to the guarded bar? And then walk in there and find what? That, well, it's a bar -- a bar with dimmer lighting, slightly sleeker wall fixtures, stringy copper plants that aren't really plants, and higher-priced beer. The big win here? That I have access and you don't. Cool, thanks for the admission.
The V, the I, and the P are just marketing tactics, guys. The allure is fictionalized. I've been behind the velvet ropes and the tinted doors before -- the food ain't that much tastier. Sure, the interior design is less IKEA and there are fewer peopleofwalmart.com patrons inside, but all you bought was a fleeting state of mind that essentially means nothing.
I guess it's all in what you classify as important. And very important.
But, oh, throw the adverb "very" in front of "important" and it's a whole new ballgame. It's like a phrase that signifies an echelon sought by most but attainable to few. Once the "very" is tacked on, "important" is no longer a feeling but a social status. People lose their friggin' sense for it.
Very Important People require very important things -- like very important areas, very important entrances, and very important company. An insecure state of mind needs such reaffirmations.
Take red carpets and velvet ropes -- they're hardly just tacky cinema décor or items that can be found next to the zebra-print couch in your sleazy bachelor pad brimming with polyester and shag. Lord, no, they're segregators of privilege, showcases of rank. They snobbishly declare that you, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, may step right this way, but please step aside, Mr. Bland-Scruffy-and-Mediocre.
Maybe the most quizzical dimension of this notion of VIP is that the value in being held in VIP regard isn't found in what you get to eat, where you get to sit, or where you're allowed to park, but instead the access to those things. You know, just the fact that you have a privilege that others can merely observe but not partake. That faaaaar outweighs all the bestowed "betters" -- the better tastes, the better views, the better service, etc. People want that social status imprinted across their forehead, large and legible for all to read and recognize. That's the point of VIP: not what you get but what you feel.
A perfect example: At any given professional sports team facility, there's at least one bar or area of bars that's reserved strictly for ticketholders deemed VIP. Those tickets are hot sales -- who doesn't want to be part of the ultra limited inclusion of invitees to the guarded bar? And then walk in there and find what? That, well, it's a bar -- a bar with dimmer lighting, slightly sleeker wall fixtures, stringy copper plants that aren't really plants, and higher-priced beer. The big win here? That I have access and you don't. Cool, thanks for the admission.
The V, the I, and the P are just marketing tactics, guys. The allure is fictionalized. I've been behind the velvet ropes and the tinted doors before -- the food ain't that much tastier. Sure, the interior design is less IKEA and there are fewer peopleofwalmart.com patrons inside, but all you bought was a fleeting state of mind that essentially means nothing.
I guess it's all in what you classify as important. And very important.
Monday, November 30, 2009
B-sides, vol. 6
Yep, you guessed it, some more "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:
- Remember those old, recurring Looney Tunes cartoon props? A huge, red rocket; a glass cutter; a box with a spring-loaded, fist-clinched boxing glove? I loved 'em. The fictional distributor of these animated common goods was Acme, but I have no idea where their existence and design was stereotyped. I mean, when was the last time you saw an actual red-painted, white-tipped, U-shaped magnet? Me? Oh, about the last time I came across a long-wicked black bomb shaped like a bowling ball/hockey puck hybrid.
- In speaking of Looney Tunes, I always thought as a little Claude that you could in fact pick yourself up by your shirt collar or the scruff of your own neck, as depicted by Bugs Bunny and friends. I tried this several times in the house -- and failed. I also thought you could actually burrow a treaded circle in your floor if you paced around long enough. I also tried this several times in the house -- and failed. Needless to say I thankfully grew too discouraged to ever try running off a cliff and testing my ability to suspend and return to the cliff before realizing my impending doom.
- I often hear people wondering aloud if God has a sense of humor. I don’t know, the fact that we lose hair where we want hair and gain hair where we don’t want hair seems like a pretty good sign to me.
- If being obese was considered attractive and healthy, how awesome and delicious would life be?
- Recently, while driving on the interstate, I saw a digital, flashing message board that read "Distracted driving is deadly driving" in scrolling text. Oh, you mean like trying to read a warning on a digital, flashing message board that also uses scrolling text while driving?
- I wonder if any Jehovah's Witnesses have one of those "No Soliciting" signs above a door to their house.
- We are such a nosy bunch of people, man. Whenever there's a car accident, traffic stalls. Why? Not because the mangled cars are in traffic's way, but because all the drivers in the traffic want to ogle the damage. They need that payoff glance, so much so that they're willing to perpetuate the delay for all -- as if they've never seen a car accident before. You know, it'd be one thing if the drivers were actually looking to see if any help was needed, but, nah, they just want to tap their brakes, survey the carnage, and hurriedly rush back to 80 MPH. It's like a tour of Christmas lights in the park suddenly popped up on the freeway. I actually make a concerted effort to not look if at all possible. What emergency response teams should do is bring out an enormous curtain stand with the ambulance to wrap around the entire scene like a surgery room so that there's nothing to see.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Halloween
If I may be unapologetically honest, I've really grown disappointed with how holidays have evolved. Commercialism and political correctness have successfully soured everything that was ever fun and personal about any choice holiday.
Except Halloween.
Halloween is one "holiday" that has actually benefited from the marketed hype. It's a day to not be taken seriously in any regard. With free candy, ridiculous costumes, a celebration of pseudo-sadism, and for many an excuse to combine "cute" with "slutty as humanly possible," All Hallows Eve is no longer a day of evil spirits and endless fear but rather just a running gag. It's a day that makes fun of itself -- a self-deprecating joke that never gets old.
That is why Halloween is phenomenal: it will never run out of steam because it only gets more absurd each year. And in Halloween's case, absurdity is the lasting tradition.
Take for example my grocery shopping trip on Halloween this year. While I'm pushing a cart of frozen pizzas around, I scoot past the following costumed people: a black cat, a Bob Ross imposter, and a very obese person in very, very short jorts. (Check that -- I'm not entirely certain that last one was a costume.) And my fellow shoppers' reactions? Complete nonchalance. There is no other calendar day where this happens. Wear an ultra-low-cut Rainbow Brite outfit on October 31 and you're hilarious and curiously sexy; wear it on November 1 and you're a sociopathic whore. And that's the beauty of it. You get one day annually to look, dress, and act as big a fool as your imagination can devise, and the general response from any given passerby is total tolerance. Suddenly the typical freaks are customary and the typically customary are freaks -- and lame.
Imagine working the 11pm-3am shift at Taco Bell or White Castle on Halloween night. Could that not be the greatest gig? Employees must fight for that shift. If I worked there, I'd put in my request for that shift around July. Of the previous year. Think of all the celebrity impersonators, fake blood, outlandish wigs, overflowing cleavage, and costumed innuendos -- most of which reek of booze and other influencing pastimes -- you'd encounter all night. Something about a guy in zombie flesh paint and a mullet made of horse hair sincerely trying to order a beef and bean burrito strikes me as endless entertainment and far better than any Halloween throwdown I've been to.
Which leads me to a shrewd, marketable suggestion to all the late-night joints: throw a Halloween party. Think about that, an all-out Halloween bash at your local Waffle House. Man, they wouldn't be able to cook the batter fast enough.
Except Halloween.
Halloween is one "holiday" that has actually benefited from the marketed hype. It's a day to not be taken seriously in any regard. With free candy, ridiculous costumes, a celebration of pseudo-sadism, and for many an excuse to combine "cute" with "slutty as humanly possible," All Hallows Eve is no longer a day of evil spirits and endless fear but rather just a running gag. It's a day that makes fun of itself -- a self-deprecating joke that never gets old.
That is why Halloween is phenomenal: it will never run out of steam because it only gets more absurd each year. And in Halloween's case, absurdity is the lasting tradition.
Take for example my grocery shopping trip on Halloween this year. While I'm pushing a cart of frozen pizzas around, I scoot past the following costumed people: a black cat, a Bob Ross imposter, and a very obese person in very, very short jorts. (Check that -- I'm not entirely certain that last one was a costume.) And my fellow shoppers' reactions? Complete nonchalance. There is no other calendar day where this happens. Wear an ultra-low-cut Rainbow Brite outfit on October 31 and you're hilarious and curiously sexy; wear it on November 1 and you're a sociopathic whore. And that's the beauty of it. You get one day annually to look, dress, and act as big a fool as your imagination can devise, and the general response from any given passerby is total tolerance. Suddenly the typical freaks are customary and the typically customary are freaks -- and lame.
Imagine working the 11pm-3am shift at Taco Bell or White Castle on Halloween night. Could that not be the greatest gig? Employees must fight for that shift. If I worked there, I'd put in my request for that shift around July. Of the previous year. Think of all the celebrity impersonators, fake blood, outlandish wigs, overflowing cleavage, and costumed innuendos -- most of which reek of booze and other influencing pastimes -- you'd encounter all night. Something about a guy in zombie flesh paint and a mullet made of horse hair sincerely trying to order a beef and bean burrito strikes me as endless entertainment and far better than any Halloween throwdown I've been to.
Which leads me to a shrewd, marketable suggestion to all the late-night joints: throw a Halloween party. Think about that, an all-out Halloween bash at your local Waffle House. Man, they wouldn't be able to cook the batter fast enough.
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