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.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Popcorn
Most snacks you can keep secret. Stash a few Oreos away deep in the food pantry, behind the oatmeal packets and sugar-free cereals, and unleash 'em every now and then -- who'll know? Keep some Little Debbie cakes in your desk drawer at work and munch 'em down when no one's near your cubicle -- you're in the clear. But with popcorn... the secret is out, man. With each kernel's pop and the scented trail of chemical buttery goodness, you're officially stepping out of your snacking closet. Popcorn is a public declaration that, yes, I'm snacking, and, yes, you know exactly what it is.
As long as you're okay with the outright attention, you get the green light on popcorn.
Now, to eat popcorn you must know that you face two problems right off the bat. The first problem is your teeth. No matter how delicately or strategically you attempt to chew popcorn, its pieces -- the popcorn shrapnel, as I like to call them -- will inevitably, indubitably find their way between your teeth. And they will not seek a gaping crevice or a moderate-size space between teeth; rather, they will unapologetically push and squeeze their thin, little way through the smallest of spaces, ensuring dental discomfort. If not painful enough, they will happily penetrate that ultra tiny crevice that separates your gums and enamel -- perhaps even pierce some surrounding flesh along the way -- really just to piss you off. Dental floss by your side is recommended.
The second problem is the odor. This is a big one. If you don't mind upsetting your own nervous system with the occasional accompanied bouts of pain from the shrapnel, then you must weigh the likelihood of upsetting the olfactory system of everyone around you with the lingering, overwhelming stench of popcorn, especially if this is in an office or otherwise public setting. It might smell good at first, but when the odor's intensity hasn't waned in a half-day, tempers tend to flare.
And if you burn the popcorn, whoa buddy, it's a whole new ballgame. Find a trashcan and sacrifice that bag of popcorn quickly -- and then just get the heck out of there. If you're spotted as the culprit, repercussions range anywhere from being the recipient of office contempt and cold shoulders to possibly being dragged beyond the city limits and stoned.
Enjoy with caution.
As long as you're okay with the outright attention, you get the green light on popcorn.
Now, to eat popcorn you must know that you face two problems right off the bat. The first problem is your teeth. No matter how delicately or strategically you attempt to chew popcorn, its pieces -- the popcorn shrapnel, as I like to call them -- will inevitably, indubitably find their way between your teeth. And they will not seek a gaping crevice or a moderate-size space between teeth; rather, they will unapologetically push and squeeze their thin, little way through the smallest of spaces, ensuring dental discomfort. If not painful enough, they will happily penetrate that ultra tiny crevice that separates your gums and enamel -- perhaps even pierce some surrounding flesh along the way -- really just to piss you off. Dental floss by your side is recommended.
The second problem is the odor. This is a big one. If you don't mind upsetting your own nervous system with the occasional accompanied bouts of pain from the shrapnel, then you must weigh the likelihood of upsetting the olfactory system of everyone around you with the lingering, overwhelming stench of popcorn, especially if this is in an office or otherwise public setting. It might smell good at first, but when the odor's intensity hasn't waned in a half-day, tempers tend to flare.
And if you burn the popcorn, whoa buddy, it's a whole new ballgame. Find a trashcan and sacrifice that bag of popcorn quickly -- and then just get the heck out of there. If you're spotted as the culprit, repercussions range anywhere from being the recipient of office contempt and cold shoulders to possibly being dragged beyond the city limits and stoned.
Enjoy with caution.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Children's Books
Much to my surprise, and truthfully personal satisfaction, I've recently rediscovered the joys of reading. I say "rediscovered" because, as an English major, I read an extraordinary amount of forced literature -- forced meaning I had no say about it. Basically, read it or fail. And I think I speak for most when I say it's immensely difficult to pleasurably benefit from reading when a metaphorical gun by way of a letter grade is held to your head.
I say "rediscovered" also because there was a period when reading was synonymous with enthusiasm, imagination, suspense, comfort, actual participation, and thus fun. I'm talking about the era of children's books, a time defined by sitting Indian-style (or whatever the politically correct euphemism in today's world) before a book with knees supporting elbows, elbows supporting open hands, and open hands supporting chin, signifying unmitigated awe and wonderment at the words and vibrant colors before me.
These weren't simply tales of a cat in a hat or a big red dog. I'm talking pop-up books, books with puzzles and sounds, and books where you got to determine the fate of the main character -- you literally got to play God -- by simply choosing to continue on page 14 or 39. It kind of makes me wish that all books followed suit.
Think about how much better every piece of publication would be if it was solely comprised of pop-up pages. Open that math textbook up and, POW!, the quadratic formula in your face! Unfurl the Wall Street Journal and, look out!, here come the stock indices! Unfold the church bulletin and, sweet Moses!, the dedication of today's flowers all up in your business! It would just never get old.
If you can walk by a pop-up book today without feeling the slightest temptation to open it up, lock yourself up in a morgue because you have officially taken life way too seriously.
I say "rediscovered" also because there was a period when reading was synonymous with enthusiasm, imagination, suspense, comfort, actual participation, and thus fun. I'm talking about the era of children's books, a time defined by sitting Indian-style (or whatever the politically correct euphemism in today's world) before a book with knees supporting elbows, elbows supporting open hands, and open hands supporting chin, signifying unmitigated awe and wonderment at the words and vibrant colors before me.
These weren't simply tales of a cat in a hat or a big red dog. I'm talking pop-up books, books with puzzles and sounds, and books where you got to determine the fate of the main character -- you literally got to play God -- by simply choosing to continue on page 14 or 39. It kind of makes me wish that all books followed suit.
Think about how much better every piece of publication would be if it was solely comprised of pop-up pages. Open that math textbook up and, POW!, the quadratic formula in your face! Unfurl the Wall Street Journal and, look out!, here come the stock indices! Unfold the church bulletin and, sweet Moses!, the dedication of today's flowers all up in your business! It would just never get old.
If you can walk by a pop-up book today without feeling the slightest temptation to open it up, lock yourself up in a morgue because you have officially taken life way too seriously.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Movie Trailers
I recently had a back-and-forth with a friend about movie trailers and how simply preposterously they've evolved. I'm not referring to the 30-second commercial spots that just show spliced segments of emotions and explosions; I'm talking about the full-blown mini-movies shown prior to your cinematic feature presentation on the silver screen.
I realize I may be coming across as if I don't enjoy movie trailers. False. I actually thoroughly enjoy them. Even more, I look forward to them and am immensely disappointed if I miss any. But I think I enjoy them for the same, ironic reason that they're problematic: Most of them are essentially a condensed version of the movie.
Let's see, they introduce the characters, reveal the plot, explain the ups and downs, unveil the special effects, and unload all the best scenes and quotes; and from there I can pretty much surmise the obligatory plot twist and conclusion in my head. All in two and a half minutes, or roughly 2% of the two-hour flick. Perfect! I mean, what's left to see in the movie? The unnecessary characters, the plot filler, the expanded edition of the ups and downs, the much less interesting special effects, and all the other scene moments and chiefly forgettable quotes that reinforce the good scene moments and funny/dynamic quotes divulged in the trailer.
You can view this through two different lenses: (1) Well, that movie is spoiled -- thanks. Or, my personal recommendation, (2) I more or less just watched six other movies at no additional cost -- I'm really efficient and shrewd!
And while some movie trailers are blatantly forthcoming about the content and script details, they seem to omit one important, specific item: the friggin' release date.
"In theaters this fall." "Coming Summer 2011."
What am I supposed to do with this info? Am I supposed to run home and start circling entire months on the calendar as a reminder and round up friends a year in advance? Should I set up a notification on my Outlook application to start looking for this movie beginning that season's solstice?
If I could crush grapes and let the juices age into wine in the span of time between the release of a movie trailer and the release of the actual movie, perhaps that's too much of a notice. Decide on a date and give me a two- or three-week heads-up. The least of my concerns right now is if that comic book movie's sequel is due in June or July of 2012.
I realize I may be coming across as if I don't enjoy movie trailers. False. I actually thoroughly enjoy them. Even more, I look forward to them and am immensely disappointed if I miss any. But I think I enjoy them for the same, ironic reason that they're problematic: Most of them are essentially a condensed version of the movie.
Let's see, they introduce the characters, reveal the plot, explain the ups and downs, unveil the special effects, and unload all the best scenes and quotes; and from there I can pretty much surmise the obligatory plot twist and conclusion in my head. All in two and a half minutes, or roughly 2% of the two-hour flick. Perfect! I mean, what's left to see in the movie? The unnecessary characters, the plot filler, the expanded edition of the ups and downs, the much less interesting special effects, and all the other scene moments and chiefly forgettable quotes that reinforce the good scene moments and funny/dynamic quotes divulged in the trailer.
You can view this through two different lenses: (1) Well, that movie is spoiled -- thanks. Or, my personal recommendation, (2) I more or less just watched six other movies at no additional cost -- I'm really efficient and shrewd!
And while some movie trailers are blatantly forthcoming about the content and script details, they seem to omit one important, specific item: the friggin' release date.
"In theaters this fall." "Coming Summer 2011."
What am I supposed to do with this info? Am I supposed to run home and start circling entire months on the calendar as a reminder and round up friends a year in advance? Should I set up a notification on my Outlook application to start looking for this movie beginning that season's solstice?
If I could crush grapes and let the juices age into wine in the span of time between the release of a movie trailer and the release of the actual movie, perhaps that's too much of a notice. Decide on a date and give me a two- or three-week heads-up. The least of my concerns right now is if that comic book movie's sequel is due in June or July of 2012.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Shop Class
I often look back at high school and just laugh. The laundry list of reasons why could fill your grade school Trapper Keeper. Scholastically, one class stands out: shop class.
What is the good expected from shop class? What is a student supposed to walk away with at the end of the semester? That wood can be cut and carved and filed and stained and -- yes, the rumors are true -- burned? That a hammer will drive a nail into wood, that a saw will cut a board in two, and that disciplining a student with detention in the same room as a hammer and a saw is pretty much a bad idea?
I don't want to say that the public school system failed me with shop class, but... the public school system failed me with shop class. I literally learned nothing. It's not that I was unwilling to learn and showed up to class daily with a bad attitude; it's that nothing was taught. It always made me laugh when my shop class teacher tried to give a written test, as if that was supposed to imply that there was actual teaching going on. C'mon, a test? You mean, with paper and a pencil? Who are you kidding, man -- shop class is recess with tools.
P.E. teachers are often classified as the easiest occupations and the laughingstock of education, but shop class teachers can’t be too far behind. Really, how strenuous is setting out some boards and a box of screws and ensuring that the power tools are returned at the end of the period? Is there a lot of lesson plan preparation to such a curriculum?
The only recollections I can recall with precision from shop class are throwing chunks of wood as hard as possible at a wall, skipping class at least once a week to play pick-up ball in the gym, classmates dipping and smoking outside the classroom's back doors, lots of Carhartt jackets, and actually making a heart-shaped coin bank with a scroll saw.
Unfortunately, I've not technically needed to recall any of this information in any life situations. Yet. I'm still awaiting the moment where my experience with launching wood blocks at painted brickwork at overhand high speeds falls to my advantage.
What is the good expected from shop class? What is a student supposed to walk away with at the end of the semester? That wood can be cut and carved and filed and stained and -- yes, the rumors are true -- burned? That a hammer will drive a nail into wood, that a saw will cut a board in two, and that disciplining a student with detention in the same room as a hammer and a saw is pretty much a bad idea?
I don't want to say that the public school system failed me with shop class, but... the public school system failed me with shop class. I literally learned nothing. It's not that I was unwilling to learn and showed up to class daily with a bad attitude; it's that nothing was taught. It always made me laugh when my shop class teacher tried to give a written test, as if that was supposed to imply that there was actual teaching going on. C'mon, a test? You mean, with paper and a pencil? Who are you kidding, man -- shop class is recess with tools.
P.E. teachers are often classified as the easiest occupations and the laughingstock of education, but shop class teachers can’t be too far behind. Really, how strenuous is setting out some boards and a box of screws and ensuring that the power tools are returned at the end of the period? Is there a lot of lesson plan preparation to such a curriculum?
The only recollections I can recall with precision from shop class are throwing chunks of wood as hard as possible at a wall, skipping class at least once a week to play pick-up ball in the gym, classmates dipping and smoking outside the classroom's back doors, lots of Carhartt jackets, and actually making a heart-shaped coin bank with a scroll saw.
Unfortunately, I've not technically needed to recall any of this information in any life situations. Yet. I'm still awaiting the moment where my experience with launching wood blocks at painted brickwork at overhand high speeds falls to my advantage.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Drive-Thru Windows
Convenience can sometimes be really inconvenient.
Having a dry cleaners right by your house that starches everything regardless of your vocalized preference: conveniently located, inconveniently inattentive. Having a tee time that meets the schedule of everyone in your foursome but is directly behind a group of very amateur old women: conveniently available, inconveniently slow. Having a drive-thru window at your eatery of choice, but hating yourself for a plethora of reasons once in it: conveniently accessible, inconveniently... well, inconvenient.
And, boy, can that plethora of reasons run far and deep.
Yes, the drive-thru window: America's fat, lazy answer to fat, lazy people who want fat, lazy food without having to stop being fat and lazy. I include myself in that less-than-elite source of demand. And why not? The drive-thru window is actually a really good idea. Sometimes the weather isn't cooperative, making the dash inside overwhelmingly undesirable. Or you have kids in the car, and getting them out of the car and into the store and back into the car is hair-pullingly frustrating. Or, again, you're just fat and/or lazy. I have no problem with any of those.
What I do have a problem with are people who act like complete, selfish d-bags in the drive-thru. It takes one drive-thru order to see how people really are -- when friends, coworkers, and fellow church members aren't around -- when it's just them and Ralph with the drive-thru headset and crooked nametag.
What several drive-thru customers fail to realize is that not knowing Ralph or the other folks in line behind you by no means permits you to act like a turd. Whether it's placing four separate orders, or ordering the entire left side of the menu, or rifling off your barely discernible order in a fashion that's somewhere between a militaristic command and an auctioneer's blabbering, consider the employees and the other customers who are trying to use the drive-thru service for what it was intended: a service by which you drive "thru" -- not park and place a complicated order and park again and inch up and park some more and get your food and go and park to check the bag and... Just go inside and let me get my Value Menu sandwich already.
Having a dry cleaners right by your house that starches everything regardless of your vocalized preference: conveniently located, inconveniently inattentive. Having a tee time that meets the schedule of everyone in your foursome but is directly behind a group of very amateur old women: conveniently available, inconveniently slow. Having a drive-thru window at your eatery of choice, but hating yourself for a plethora of reasons once in it: conveniently accessible, inconveniently... well, inconvenient.
And, boy, can that plethora of reasons run far and deep.
Yes, the drive-thru window: America's fat, lazy answer to fat, lazy people who want fat, lazy food without having to stop being fat and lazy. I include myself in that less-than-elite source of demand. And why not? The drive-thru window is actually a really good idea. Sometimes the weather isn't cooperative, making the dash inside overwhelmingly undesirable. Or you have kids in the car, and getting them out of the car and into the store and back into the car is hair-pullingly frustrating. Or, again, you're just fat and/or lazy. I have no problem with any of those.
What I do have a problem with are people who act like complete, selfish d-bags in the drive-thru. It takes one drive-thru order to see how people really are -- when friends, coworkers, and fellow church members aren't around -- when it's just them and Ralph with the drive-thru headset and crooked nametag.
What several drive-thru customers fail to realize is that not knowing Ralph or the other folks in line behind you by no means permits you to act like a turd. Whether it's placing four separate orders, or ordering the entire left side of the menu, or rifling off your barely discernible order in a fashion that's somewhere between a militaristic command and an auctioneer's blabbering, consider the employees and the other customers who are trying to use the drive-thru service for what it was intended: a service by which you drive "thru" -- not park and place a complicated order and park again and inch up and park some more and get your food and go and park to check the bag and... Just go inside and let me get my Value Menu sandwich already.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Snow Delays
There is no disappointment in the world like looking out your window and seeing serene, unwrinkled blankets of snow and ice and then reading "one-hour delay" or "two-hour delay" adjacent to your county, college, or employer on the news ticker at the bottom of your TV screen. For crying out loud... talk about anticlimactic.
Albeit I'm no meteorologist, or any other -ologist whose salaried and leisure time is dedicated to the study and advancement of a science that touches the stratosphere or the molecular activity within accumulated moisture, but I can't possibly rationalize the benefit of a snow delay. What in the world is one hour going to do? One measly hour? Two measly hours ain't gonna accomplish much more. Is the temperature rising 25 degrees in that 60- or 120-minute span, unearthing the roads and sidewalks from its wintry layers enough to suddenly declare them "travelable"? If it was too dangerous a soap opera episode ago, aren't you still running the risk of hitting areas that aren’t clear enough for safe passage now? It's absurd to me.
These snow delays only screw up schedules and throw your whole day off kilter, trying to make up five minutes here and eight minutes there, simply so that you could wait around long enough for the visible ice to melt down to black ice. And the false benefit to a snow delay is the implied "extra sleep." Bold face lie. Perhaps if you knew about this delay the night before, but c'mon now... You gotta examine the situation outside, check the TV, wait for your county or institution to appear, and by then you hardly have enough time to get back in bed and fall asleep. And if you're like me, once you're up, you're up.
Snow delays are like those low-carb, lettuce-wrapped Thickburgers from Hardee's: You think slicing off a bit is going to make a difference when it's really not any more beneficial to you -- plus it's not even as enjoyable -- so just say "F it" and go all out.
Albeit I'm no meteorologist, or any other -ologist whose salaried and leisure time is dedicated to the study and advancement of a science that touches the stratosphere or the molecular activity within accumulated moisture, but I can't possibly rationalize the benefit of a snow delay. What in the world is one hour going to do? One measly hour? Two measly hours ain't gonna accomplish much more. Is the temperature rising 25 degrees in that 60- or 120-minute span, unearthing the roads and sidewalks from its wintry layers enough to suddenly declare them "travelable"? If it was too dangerous a soap opera episode ago, aren't you still running the risk of hitting areas that aren’t clear enough for safe passage now? It's absurd to me.
These snow delays only screw up schedules and throw your whole day off kilter, trying to make up five minutes here and eight minutes there, simply so that you could wait around long enough for the visible ice to melt down to black ice. And the false benefit to a snow delay is the implied "extra sleep." Bold face lie. Perhaps if you knew about this delay the night before, but c'mon now... You gotta examine the situation outside, check the TV, wait for your county or institution to appear, and by then you hardly have enough time to get back in bed and fall asleep. And if you're like me, once you're up, you're up.
Snow delays are like those low-carb, lettuce-wrapped Thickburgers from Hardee's: You think slicing off a bit is going to make a difference when it's really not any more beneficial to you -- plus it's not even as enjoyable -- so just say "F it" and go all out.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Magic Eye
I've always been a fan of puzzles and optical illusions. What growing boy hasn't stood in awe, mouth agape, at a card trick or a vanishing act of some sort? Something about the challenge of figuring out the hows and whys behind a tangible or visual conundrum have intrigued the holy crap out of me for as far back as my feeble memory recalls.
It's why I fell head-over-heels for Magic Eye pictures. Remember those bad boys? You know, the sinfully tacky color arrangements that contained a 3-D image somewhere within its pattern. Staring and crossing your eyes at the illustration long enough produced an obscure, shadowy shape -- in retrospect, a rather weak reward for the life wasted staring inanimately at a hideous spread of graphic art.
Was that a Tyrannosaurus Rex eating an ascending Pterodactyl or two koala bears performing an indecent act? No one really knew. But that didn't really matter. What mattered is that you were one of the few who could claim, "Ooh, I see it! I see it!" and then ridicule those who ogled the picture for seven minutes with head shaking and shoulders shrugged in frustration and despair. That's all any of us were really after.
You always kind of felt like an idiot staring at those illustrations, didn't you? I did. But it was like a bowl of M&M's: if it's there, I'm partaking -- you can't just walk by without indulging your senses. Arms folded, posture bent, eyes squinting, head slightly tilted, all in the name of feeding curiosity. And what did we gain in the end? Nothing. Usually disappointment in (a) our failure or (b) its lameness.
The real humor in Magic Eye is that so many people actually had the posters framed and hung in their house or office as if it was serious art. The designs, collages of repeated graphics or intersecting squiggly lines immersed in multicolored computer vomit, were undeniably repulsive -- too ugly to exist on the face of the earth for any other reason than, hey, inside it somewhere is a fighter jet in mid-combat.
And now Magic Eye is nowhere to be seen -- unless you look hard enough. Rather self-prophesying, wasn't it?
It's why I fell head-over-heels for Magic Eye pictures. Remember those bad boys? You know, the sinfully tacky color arrangements that contained a 3-D image somewhere within its pattern. Staring and crossing your eyes at the illustration long enough produced an obscure, shadowy shape -- in retrospect, a rather weak reward for the life wasted staring inanimately at a hideous spread of graphic art.
Was that a Tyrannosaurus Rex eating an ascending Pterodactyl or two koala bears performing an indecent act? No one really knew. But that didn't really matter. What mattered is that you were one of the few who could claim, "Ooh, I see it! I see it!" and then ridicule those who ogled the picture for seven minutes with head shaking and shoulders shrugged in frustration and despair. That's all any of us were really after.
You always kind of felt like an idiot staring at those illustrations, didn't you? I did. But it was like a bowl of M&M's: if it's there, I'm partaking -- you can't just walk by without indulging your senses. Arms folded, posture bent, eyes squinting, head slightly tilted, all in the name of feeding curiosity. And what did we gain in the end? Nothing. Usually disappointment in (a) our failure or (b) its lameness.
The real humor in Magic Eye is that so many people actually had the posters framed and hung in their house or office as if it was serious art. The designs, collages of repeated graphics or intersecting squiggly lines immersed in multicolored computer vomit, were undeniably repulsive -- too ugly to exist on the face of the earth for any other reason than, hey, inside it somewhere is a fighter jet in mid-combat.
And now Magic Eye is nowhere to be seen -- unless you look hard enough. Rather self-prophesying, wasn't it?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Office Refrigerators
Although I'd rather have one than not have one, a community refrigerator, like the one found at your office, screams disaster. It's where culinary packaging, social responsibility, and enzymatic browning all collide within a shared setting. It's where your evolved bad habits of uncleanliness and failure to timetable your expiration dates taint the sanctity of all other brown-bag brunches and leftover lunches. Simply put, it's where your mess is everyone's mess.
These refrigerators don't have to be like this. They can run and cool and preserve without the presence of vomit-inducing sights and odors. The problem is such refrigerators don't seem to exist in any office break room.
Every office refrigerator contains undiscovered horrors, where fruits and vegetables that once donned vibrant hues of red and yellow and orange have waned to greens and browns that Crayola has yet to name. Food textures have altered and grown fuzzier, with their cores and surfaces hardening where soft and softening where hard. And somewhere in the corner, behind that half-eaten office birthday cake and the bottle of lemon juice no one knows who originally brought in lies a small, cubed Rubbermaid container enclosing a now unidentifiable dessert with a questionable glaze and 5 o'clock shadow. Some of the dishes, beverages, and condiments have been imprisoned within the walls of the fridge for so long, for so many consecutive weeks, that they have better office attendance than their owners.
With just a few months of dedicated collective ignorance and rudeness, the office refrigerator successfully transforms from a temperature-controlled safe house for snacks and meals-for-one into a 24.9-cubit foot Petri dish. God knows what's festering on the surface of that chicken salad sandwich that’s been enclosed in a baggie since Labor Day.
If you're going to use the office refrigerator, use it like it's your own at home. And if you use your own at home the same disgusting way, then think about changing your fridge habits, or just scrapping the idea of owning a fridge altogether and relying on take-out nightly. No one wants to see or smell today what you brought in for lunch four months ago.
These refrigerators don't have to be like this. They can run and cool and preserve without the presence of vomit-inducing sights and odors. The problem is such refrigerators don't seem to exist in any office break room.
Every office refrigerator contains undiscovered horrors, where fruits and vegetables that once donned vibrant hues of red and yellow and orange have waned to greens and browns that Crayola has yet to name. Food textures have altered and grown fuzzier, with their cores and surfaces hardening where soft and softening where hard. And somewhere in the corner, behind that half-eaten office birthday cake and the bottle of lemon juice no one knows who originally brought in lies a small, cubed Rubbermaid container enclosing a now unidentifiable dessert with a questionable glaze and 5 o'clock shadow. Some of the dishes, beverages, and condiments have been imprisoned within the walls of the fridge for so long, for so many consecutive weeks, that they have better office attendance than their owners.
With just a few months of dedicated collective ignorance and rudeness, the office refrigerator successfully transforms from a temperature-controlled safe house for snacks and meals-for-one into a 24.9-cubit foot Petri dish. God knows what's festering on the surface of that chicken salad sandwich that’s been enclosed in a baggie since Labor Day.
If you're going to use the office refrigerator, use it like it's your own at home. And if you use your own at home the same disgusting way, then think about changing your fridge habits, or just scrapping the idea of owning a fridge altogether and relying on take-out nightly. No one wants to see or smell today what you brought in for lunch four months ago.
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