What makes you proud right now? What is it in your life in this very moment that burgeons forth a rush of pride, a feeling of personal satisfaction?
Here, I'll take a stab: It's your job, right? You dig your job, you feel like you got a great career on your hands. Or, no, it's something tangible -- your car, or your closet of clothes, or your vast collection of whatever oddball artifact that's keeping you perpetually single. ...Wait, I've got it, there's some talent or physical trait that you love about yourself, like your face. It's your face. Nailed it, didn't I? Knew it. (Look, I don't mean to disappoint, but that face of yours... it's only, eh, okay.)
Now tack 30-50 years on to that, throw in some grandchildren -- heck, sprinkle in a dash of great-grandchildren if you so desire -- and forget whatever the source of pride that came to mind a few moments ago because it doesn't matter anymore. Boom, you're now a grandparent.
Unfortunately my grandfathers nearly entirely survive in my mind through series of storytelling and not from a wealth of firsthand experiences. One died before my worldly arrival and the other died when I was of a young age where I could only focus on his dentures. But from what I understand, these guys were two workhorses full of virtue, savvy, respect, and raw, unadulterated manliness (I'm actually not sure if that last one applies, but it sounds good, doesn't it?).
Therefore, "grandparents" for me has almost exclusively referred to grandmothers, as they were seemingly always around, spoiling me at Christmas; keeping their candy dishes full; stuffing cash in my pockets; profiting Hallmark by sending cards on nearly every holiday, save for maybe Canada Boxing Day; letting tons of mysterious refrigerated beverages and condiments expire; and granting me all the wishes to which my parents otherwise objected.
And then there was the cooking. Man, oh man... What age is it when a woman's cooking goes from pretty good to everything she touches in the kitchen turns to succulent, salty gold? Meats, rolls, side dishes, desserts -- you name it, grandmothers universally can whip it up beyond your taste buds' wildest dreams. Maybe it comes with cooking for children and then their children and then their children's children. I don't know, and quite frankly I don't care. The fact remains that grandmothers always unfailingly churn out the tasty delights in the kitchen. You see someone's grandmother standing over a stove and you just know good things are happening. Mine were no different.
Above all, though, my grandmothers laid it all out when it came to showing loads of love and imparting equal loads of wisdom.
This was all until the passing of both within a two-and-a-half-year span. Sure, it's not ideal, but, man, they lived astoundingly full lives at 90+ years each. You can't be mad at that. If I make it to 50, I'll wonder how; as stated in a previous "take," it's just too darn easy to die.
But what grandparents leave behind is the legacy they created in the branches stemming out of the family tree. And, as I've recently learned to appreciate, these branches are the source of their pride. All that other crap from 30-50 years ago faded away, and now it's all about the direct and indirect offspring. It's gotta be a good life to sit on a patio, soak in the rays of retirement, and watch your family carry out everything you instilled.
Maybe that's not exactly how it plays out in your tree, and if not, I hate that for you. But I'm blessed that the collective trunk of my tree was strong, was sturdy, was very giving, and, as a result, bore happily intertwining branches and some really beautiful fruit.
Cheers to grandparents.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Restrooms
People who know me know I don't typically subject myself to filth on any level. I keep a relatively clean home, a relatively clean car, and a relatively clean demeanor. Which is why I hate visiting most restrooms.
Whatever happened to restrooms being a room of rest? Shouldn't each visit to a restroom be relaxing, stress-free, and comfortable? If I'm in a state of rest, I have to be positioned in a means where all three of those descriptors depict my current condition. The presence of filth tends to serve as a rest blockade.
My second crap job out of college was working in a lumber yard, and since I didn't know jack squat about lumber other than it floats and burns (c'mon, people, I was out of college with an English degree and just needed a job), I opted to daily clean the two poor excuses for restrooms in the warehouse that otherwise probably wouldn't have ever seen a bottle of Comet in its life span. Now, I didn't daily clean the restrooms because I have some sort of restroom-cleaning fetish; rather, I couldn't stand knowing that there was bound to be a day where I, while on the clock, would need a true closed-door restroom session while also knowing there would be a very strong likelihood that both restrooms would be coated with grime, mold, urine, and tobacco spit, unless someone intervened beforehand. So, there stood I everyday with a sponge, a brush, and a bottle of chemicals. It also served as a convenient escape from having to answer inquiries about what size of galvanized nails someone should buy.
And while we're on the topic of restroom aesthetics and the general environment therein, why do restrooms have to be so darn loud? The echoic reverb bouncing off those porcelain commodes and ceramic tiles is unsettling. Shouldn't restrooms be engineered to yield the least amount of noise of any other room? But, no, rather than suppress the usual sound waves commencing from stalls, the room amplifies them for the adjacent world to hear. That's comforting. And by "comforting" I mean quite contrary to its "restroom" name.
I love how Britons cut to the chase and call it a toilet. "I need to go to the toilet." There's no beating around the bush there. To us Americans that somehow comes off as a bit crass and unrefined, as if we know what's in there but would daintily prefer to call it something prettier and much more polite. But Britons understand that acknowledging the room encasing the commode isn't what's important. There's one goal of everyone going into the restroom and it's finding that toilet, so why call it anything else? It is what it is. Thankfully they stop just short of calling it by its bodily purpose.
You know, the pooproom.
Whatever happened to restrooms being a room of rest? Shouldn't each visit to a restroom be relaxing, stress-free, and comfortable? If I'm in a state of rest, I have to be positioned in a means where all three of those descriptors depict my current condition. The presence of filth tends to serve as a rest blockade.
My second crap job out of college was working in a lumber yard, and since I didn't know jack squat about lumber other than it floats and burns (c'mon, people, I was out of college with an English degree and just needed a job), I opted to daily clean the two poor excuses for restrooms in the warehouse that otherwise probably wouldn't have ever seen a bottle of Comet in its life span. Now, I didn't daily clean the restrooms because I have some sort of restroom-cleaning fetish; rather, I couldn't stand knowing that there was bound to be a day where I, while on the clock, would need a true closed-door restroom session while also knowing there would be a very strong likelihood that both restrooms would be coated with grime, mold, urine, and tobacco spit, unless someone intervened beforehand. So, there stood I everyday with a sponge, a brush, and a bottle of chemicals. It also served as a convenient escape from having to answer inquiries about what size of galvanized nails someone should buy.
And while we're on the topic of restroom aesthetics and the general environment therein, why do restrooms have to be so darn loud? The echoic reverb bouncing off those porcelain commodes and ceramic tiles is unsettling. Shouldn't restrooms be engineered to yield the least amount of noise of any other room? But, no, rather than suppress the usual sound waves commencing from stalls, the room amplifies them for the adjacent world to hear. That's comforting. And by "comforting" I mean quite contrary to its "restroom" name.
I love how Britons cut to the chase and call it a toilet. "I need to go to the toilet." There's no beating around the bush there. To us Americans that somehow comes off as a bit crass and unrefined, as if we know what's in there but would daintily prefer to call it something prettier and much more polite. But Britons understand that acknowledging the room encasing the commode isn't what's important. There's one goal of everyone going into the restroom and it's finding that toilet, so why call it anything else? It is what it is. Thankfully they stop just short of calling it by its bodily purpose.
You know, the pooproom.
Monday, June 20, 2011
B-sides, vol. 7
For your leisurely pleasure, some "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:
- If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, where are hermaphrodites from?
- I feel sorry for bagels. They so badly want to be a doughnut but end up falling immensely short. They're round, they have a hole, and they even don that fresh tan, all exactly like their enviable breakfast counterpart, the doughnut. But they know good and well that if they're sitting on a table within an arm's reach of a doughnut, they're going to be ignored, shunned, and counted as a shamefully inadequate plan B -- or a plan C if an apple fritter is in the vicinity.
- Anyone who has ever sent an e-mail has sent one with a typo or bad information or the wrong attachment. It's bound to happen. But the worst next course of action you can take is to try recalling that e-mail because, buddy, I'm all over it now. There's a good chance I wouldn't have noticed whatever typographical error or nonsensical ClipArt image you mistakenly included, but with your self-admittance of fault and simple plea to cover it up, you've just sparked my full curiosity in your initial, doomed e-mail. Requesting a message recall is like having a pimple on prom night that may drive you crazy but is likely unnoticeable to most people and yet insisting on wearing a gigantic sandwich board sign that reads, "I HAVE A ZIT ON MY NOSE BUT PLEASE DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO IT." I've actually deleted an e-mail without reading it, received a request to recall, and sifted through my Deleted Items e-mail folder to peruse the credibility-damaging evidence. If it's a small error, let it ride -- most people probably aren't reading it anyway. If it's a major error, follow it up with a self-deprecating joke about how stupid you are and, hey, here's what you meant to send. But don't request to take it back, because, hahaha... no.
- Is it just me or do you find yourself thinking every time you see a person with a turtleneck that there's probably a hickey hidden under there?
- A word we for far too long have taken for granted is landlord. Isn't "landlord" a bit of a pompous title? I mean, lord of the land, really? What are they, a bunch of hobbits on an adventure? Most of the landlords I've had are barely lord of their own grooming, much less a piece of property. So, what, simply owning something and allowing someone else to use it for a period of time grants you lordship? In that case, any future visitors to my apartment can refer to me as "couchlord." And, no, that's not an option.
- Do airlines consider fanny packs as carry-on items? If so, that's ridiculous -- how many valuable things can a person actually stow away in a fanny pack? But if not, I intend on finding out the answer to that last question. Looks like I might be shopping for a leather-bound executive edition.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Baggage Checking
Every single one of the few times I check baggage at the airport, I quickly remember why I seldom check baggage at the airport. It's a nerve-racking part of air travel to hand over your precious cargo to some uniformed stranger, who in turn passes it down a conveyor belt to some merely half-uniformed, unseen strangers, who stuff it into a given (hopefully your) plane so that more merely half-uniformed, unseen strangers in a different geographical location can unload the luggage and send it on another conveyor belt that, God willing, leads to the slow-rotating, lifeless carousel called baggage claim.
You're really putting a lot of faith in voluntarily surrendering -- and after paying, no less! -- your packed possessions and travel essentials over to the hands of total strangers in hopes they'll actually give them back to you -- and in the correct city. I typically struggle with putting a fraction of that level of faith in just handing my camera to an unknown passerby to take my picture -- much less a week's worth of necessities and a dresser drawer's worth of clothes. So, in that luggage transaction with the check-in attendant, I always give it away with the inkling that I just saw my bag and belongings for the last time. It's a scary moment realizing right then that you may currently be wearing your only underwear for the entire trip.
Of course the real scare is awaiting in baggage claim for any sign of your luggage rearing its loose straps, half-zipped pockets, and monotone shell from the baggage chute -- and seeing nothing but a sea of indistinct, homogeneous, black and navy luggage landing on top of each other and purposelessly circumvolving a rounded square, at which point you promise yourself a seventeenth time that you're going to finally replace that black bag with something a little more distinguishable.
Ah, baggage claim... Is there a sadder, more depressive place on Earth? I've been in libraries louder and funerals peppier than the air of utter disenchantment you invariably find in baggage claim. Everyone stands restlessly, having just come off a flight, encircling and waiting with arms folded, faces blank, and overall demeanor sullen, as if they're all mentally drafting their suicide notes. There are no opportunities to cheer, no wonderful surprises -- either you get exactly what you expect from a service whose sole purpose is to deliver your luggage, or you leave disappointed and bagless. Baggage claim is the lamest game of roulette you'll ever play.
And should your luggage actually arrive, you can guarantee there will always be a new defect added to its costly exterior thanks to the slapdash handling of the baggage. A black blotch of blatant blunder. A small, smeared smidgen of smudge. Or a rip torn -- you know, a gash of some sort, not the actor.
If I never checked baggage again, I'd be a happy man. But it's just so darn hard to fit 20 folded pairs of Zubaz pants in the overhead compartment.
You're really putting a lot of faith in voluntarily surrendering -- and after paying, no less! -- your packed possessions and travel essentials over to the hands of total strangers in hopes they'll actually give them back to you -- and in the correct city. I typically struggle with putting a fraction of that level of faith in just handing my camera to an unknown passerby to take my picture -- much less a week's worth of necessities and a dresser drawer's worth of clothes. So, in that luggage transaction with the check-in attendant, I always give it away with the inkling that I just saw my bag and belongings for the last time. It's a scary moment realizing right then that you may currently be wearing your only underwear for the entire trip.
Of course the real scare is awaiting in baggage claim for any sign of your luggage rearing its loose straps, half-zipped pockets, and monotone shell from the baggage chute -- and seeing nothing but a sea of indistinct, homogeneous, black and navy luggage landing on top of each other and purposelessly circumvolving a rounded square, at which point you promise yourself a seventeenth time that you're going to finally replace that black bag with something a little more distinguishable.
Ah, baggage claim... Is there a sadder, more depressive place on Earth? I've been in libraries louder and funerals peppier than the air of utter disenchantment you invariably find in baggage claim. Everyone stands restlessly, having just come off a flight, encircling and waiting with arms folded, faces blank, and overall demeanor sullen, as if they're all mentally drafting their suicide notes. There are no opportunities to cheer, no wonderful surprises -- either you get exactly what you expect from a service whose sole purpose is to deliver your luggage, or you leave disappointed and bagless. Baggage claim is the lamest game of roulette you'll ever play.
And should your luggage actually arrive, you can guarantee there will always be a new defect added to its costly exterior thanks to the slapdash handling of the baggage. A black blotch of blatant blunder. A small, smeared smidgen of smudge. Or a rip torn -- you know, a gash of some sort, not the actor.
If I never checked baggage again, I'd be a happy man. But it's just so darn hard to fit 20 folded pairs of Zubaz pants in the overhead compartment.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Personal Space
Okay, man, just back up. Back up!
How many times do you think that in the line at the grocery store or the coffee shop or the post office or the concert venue or church for communion or the Girl Scout cookie table outside Walmart, or in the doctor's office waiting room, or in the doctor's office patient room with your pants around your ankles? There is something inside us -- some sort of hypersensitive internal security system -- that goes absolutely haywire when we feel someone's presence creep in and consume that one extra inch of personal space we mentally apportioned to our physical person. And if you're like me, there's no rebounding or refocusing that can occur until that inch has been reclaimed and reestablished.
Everyone has a different "bubble" size -- some several inches off their epidermis, some several feet -- but 99% of us can agree that there's a delicate orb of airy cushion encapsulating our mortal being that should stay observed and respected by all strangers, if not all people. And, man, that 1% of humanity who somehow doesn't get it drives us up a wall of frenzy.
Ever been herded into that metal-barred labyrinth of a winding queue that at some unforeseen point in the distance leads to an amusement park ride, only to constantly feel the random guy who's preoccupied with his phone behind you standing within a couple inches of your soul with each step forward? Or, worse, waiting in that same line and getting bumped into by the two enraptured teenage coeds who split from their youth group trip so that they can suck face conveniently directly in front of you at every two-foot advancement through the line? It's all a bit much. The pressure applied to your comfort zone is enormous, even overbearing. At that point, I just want to reach the line's end, not for the ride but for the psychological rest.
But that personal space-infringing experience pales in comparison to that of the dentist office, where your personal space suffers a most vicious beating. There are few non-child-birthing events where your personal space issues are confronted headlong like laying back in a chair with your mouth helplessly agape as eyes, fingers, and tools peer into it and explore the oral crevices you didn't know existed. It also doesn't help when the hygienist lording over your pried mouth is a large, unattractive woman who decides to rest her behemoth mammaries on your cheek and shoulder -- a comically predictable, utterly unerotic nuance that seems to happen to me with every visit to every dentist office I've had the displeasure of visiting. Yep, that epitomizes personal space violation.
Unluckily, the only thing worse than a personal space violation is confronting the personal space violator, as nothing good ever comes from that. There simply isn't an easy way to ask a stranger, "Do you mind stepping back a bit? You're in my bubble," without sounding sort of arrogant and overly dramatic.
...Eh, screw it -- back up and give me room. Please. No, really! I can't breathe! I can't think! Aaahhhhhh!
Oh, hey, great. Cheers.
How many times do you think that in the line at the grocery store or the coffee shop or the post office or the concert venue or church for communion or the Girl Scout cookie table outside Walmart, or in the doctor's office waiting room, or in the doctor's office patient room with your pants around your ankles? There is something inside us -- some sort of hypersensitive internal security system -- that goes absolutely haywire when we feel someone's presence creep in and consume that one extra inch of personal space we mentally apportioned to our physical person. And if you're like me, there's no rebounding or refocusing that can occur until that inch has been reclaimed and reestablished.
Everyone has a different "bubble" size -- some several inches off their epidermis, some several feet -- but 99% of us can agree that there's a delicate orb of airy cushion encapsulating our mortal being that should stay observed and respected by all strangers, if not all people. And, man, that 1% of humanity who somehow doesn't get it drives us up a wall of frenzy.
Ever been herded into that metal-barred labyrinth of a winding queue that at some unforeseen point in the distance leads to an amusement park ride, only to constantly feel the random guy who's preoccupied with his phone behind you standing within a couple inches of your soul with each step forward? Or, worse, waiting in that same line and getting bumped into by the two enraptured teenage coeds who split from their youth group trip so that they can suck face conveniently directly in front of you at every two-foot advancement through the line? It's all a bit much. The pressure applied to your comfort zone is enormous, even overbearing. At that point, I just want to reach the line's end, not for the ride but for the psychological rest.
But that personal space-infringing experience pales in comparison to that of the dentist office, where your personal space suffers a most vicious beating. There are few non-child-birthing events where your personal space issues are confronted headlong like laying back in a chair with your mouth helplessly agape as eyes, fingers, and tools peer into it and explore the oral crevices you didn't know existed. It also doesn't help when the hygienist lording over your pried mouth is a large, unattractive woman who decides to rest her behemoth mammaries on your cheek and shoulder -- a comically predictable, utterly unerotic nuance that seems to happen to me with every visit to every dentist office I've had the displeasure of visiting. Yep, that epitomizes personal space violation.
Unluckily, the only thing worse than a personal space violation is confronting the personal space violator, as nothing good ever comes from that. There simply isn't an easy way to ask a stranger, "Do you mind stepping back a bit? You're in my bubble," without sounding sort of arrogant and overly dramatic.
...Eh, screw it -- back up and give me room. Please. No, really! I can't breathe! I can't think! Aaahhhhhh!
Oh, hey, great. Cheers.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Public Transportation
If you are in, or have ever been in, a big city and have used public transportation, I'm willing to bet you've had that head-slapping epiphanous moment where you're sitting or standing within that confined space of selected mode of transit asking yourself, "What am I doing here? Why did I buy that ticket? Taking this bus/train/subway sounded like a good idea at the time..." And then cue the self-loathing. It's inevitable.
No one can blame you for such a reaction -- or your urge to buy the ticket in the first place. The convenience of public transportation always supersedes the discomfort, lack of safety, awkwardness, and predictable freak show bound and waiting within that windowed cage in motion.
That is, until you're also within it.
When you're waiting to get on public transportation, your prioritized focus is getting to work or buying groceries or finding the right airport stop. But once you're actually on public transportation, that focus is immediately shifted to the same as every fellow rider's: don't die. Simply staying alive and not getting stabbed are essentially the primary objectives of everyone on public transportation, especially in large cities. All other concerns instantly diminish into laughable obscurity.
Using public transportation is all about obeying unwritten rules while ironically never chastising anyone for disobeying them. For example, you're totally free to look at and observe anything you want, as long as you refrain from making eye contact with any strangers -- especially the one uneasily rocking back and forth and mumbling to no one in particular. But if you happen to glance over to find someone staring at you, reciprocating the gesture is not recommended, much less making a remark or asking the person to stop. Unless of course you enjoy verbal/switchblade altercations.
I guess an unadvertised benefit of taking public transportation is its entertainment at no additional cost. Virtually all forms of public transportation, primarily rail, provide a talent show stage for the untalented. An un-talent show, if you will. You have people playing (well, haphazardly blowing) the harmonica; singers singing aloud either unintentionally due to their headphone volume or intentionally and simply without care; drunk monologue deliverers; amateur photographers attempting to snap "artistic" upskirt or cleavage shots of strangers with their iPhone; daring displays of coital exhibitionism; and, oh, many, many more. Really whatever your heart desires -- and your five senses don't.
Fortunately for you, there are seats to relax in. Unfortunately for you, those seats haven't been cleaned since their installation. To make matters worse, a large percentage of seats found on buses and trains are upholstered, which undoubtedly sounded perfectly sensible in their inception. What their creators failed to account for, however, were the generations between their cleanings. Look at that Cosby-sweater upholstery and tell me how much antibacterial confidence a person can place in its ability to repel quintillions of germs and filth from a nonstop influx of random bottoms and crotches.
That's right, bottoms and crotches. And I can't think of any better way to close a look at public transportation than that.
Bottoms. And crotches.
No one can blame you for such a reaction -- or your urge to buy the ticket in the first place. The convenience of public transportation always supersedes the discomfort, lack of safety, awkwardness, and predictable freak show bound and waiting within that windowed cage in motion.
That is, until you're also within it.
When you're waiting to get on public transportation, your prioritized focus is getting to work or buying groceries or finding the right airport stop. But once you're actually on public transportation, that focus is immediately shifted to the same as every fellow rider's: don't die. Simply staying alive and not getting stabbed are essentially the primary objectives of everyone on public transportation, especially in large cities. All other concerns instantly diminish into laughable obscurity.
Using public transportation is all about obeying unwritten rules while ironically never chastising anyone for disobeying them. For example, you're totally free to look at and observe anything you want, as long as you refrain from making eye contact with any strangers -- especially the one uneasily rocking back and forth and mumbling to no one in particular. But if you happen to glance over to find someone staring at you, reciprocating the gesture is not recommended, much less making a remark or asking the person to stop. Unless of course you enjoy verbal/switchblade altercations.
I guess an unadvertised benefit of taking public transportation is its entertainment at no additional cost. Virtually all forms of public transportation, primarily rail, provide a talent show stage for the untalented. An un-talent show, if you will. You have people playing (well, haphazardly blowing) the harmonica; singers singing aloud either unintentionally due to their headphone volume or intentionally and simply without care; drunk monologue deliverers; amateur photographers attempting to snap "artistic" upskirt or cleavage shots of strangers with their iPhone; daring displays of coital exhibitionism; and, oh, many, many more. Really whatever your heart desires -- and your five senses don't.
Fortunately for you, there are seats to relax in. Unfortunately for you, those seats haven't been cleaned since their installation. To make matters worse, a large percentage of seats found on buses and trains are upholstered, which undoubtedly sounded perfectly sensible in their inception. What their creators failed to account for, however, were the generations between their cleanings. Look at that Cosby-sweater upholstery and tell me how much antibacterial confidence a person can place in its ability to repel quintillions of germs and filth from a nonstop influx of random bottoms and crotches.
That's right, bottoms and crotches. And I can't think of any better way to close a look at public transportation than that.
Bottoms. And crotches.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Hairpieces
Do you have cancer? Are you undergoing chemotherapy? ...Oh, seriously? Okay, wear that hairpiece unapologetically. The wig is yours, you deserve it. Matter of fact, it looks great on you! Also, immediately consider yourself prayed for.
Now, all the rest of you, though... What are you doing? Take that carpet remnant off, man. Who are you fooling? Sorry, what human are you fooling? Your dog that's barking at its own reflection in the window doesn't count. Just because you're getting a little thin up top doesn't mean you've earned the right to don an oversized, furry yarmulke.
I cannot believe we are still sporting and tolerating hairpieces. Toupees, wigs, weaves, extensions... anything foreign to the cranium and supposedly resembling hair. It's one thing -- I guess -- to wear it like fashion, but to try to pass it as an authentic, God-crafted trove of protruding filaments is lunacy. And, quite frankly, awkward. For everyone. And I mean everyone, because we're all looking at it -- nothing but it -- trying to make sense of it. That thing. That amassed coiffure of what appear to be dyed fiber optics.
Look, its pattern isn't even following the same direction of your real hair. And the color's not the same. Nor is the way light shines off your hair and your "hair." Also, I think it just moved by its own will.
When you're wearing a hairpiece, aren't you constantly living in fear of the next aggressive breeze? Or any sudden, jerky movement? Or a low overhead clearance? Or being given an unexpected noogie? I mean, how can you even concentrate on anything but the abrupt, uncontrollable disclosure of your faux fur? I just don't see how that in any shape or form trumps whatever discomfort a person may feel due to hair loss. I say own that hair loss! Trust me, your pride would much prefer you be a little shiny up top than living under a hair hat.
And hair weaves... Whatever cultural significance or heritage aside, what in God's ever-loving name are these things? And why? Also, why? And perhaps most importantly, why? I need an explanation, ladies -- preferably one that makes sense. I need to understand why a woman would cover up perfectly fine, natural hair with someone else's scalped, natural hair -- or, far worse, glimmery synthetics. Again, sure, you can claim fashion as the justification, but I honestly have never heard one male utter anything along the lines of, "Whew, that girl's weave is smokin'!" But, hey, call it fashionable if you'd like. That's the only justification I can think of for parading cropped, chin-length blonde hair one day and a black mane down to the chest the next.
Here's another idea: how about we start being natural? Even if that means naturally less attractive than others or our former self, yet still more attractive than our unnaturally, outlandishly hairpieced alter ego.
Now, all the rest of you, though... What are you doing? Take that carpet remnant off, man. Who are you fooling? Sorry, what human are you fooling? Your dog that's barking at its own reflection in the window doesn't count. Just because you're getting a little thin up top doesn't mean you've earned the right to don an oversized, furry yarmulke.
I cannot believe we are still sporting and tolerating hairpieces. Toupees, wigs, weaves, extensions... anything foreign to the cranium and supposedly resembling hair. It's one thing -- I guess -- to wear it like fashion, but to try to pass it as an authentic, God-crafted trove of protruding filaments is lunacy. And, quite frankly, awkward. For everyone. And I mean everyone, because we're all looking at it -- nothing but it -- trying to make sense of it. That thing. That amassed coiffure of what appear to be dyed fiber optics.
Look, its pattern isn't even following the same direction of your real hair. And the color's not the same. Nor is the way light shines off your hair and your "hair." Also, I think it just moved by its own will.
When you're wearing a hairpiece, aren't you constantly living in fear of the next aggressive breeze? Or any sudden, jerky movement? Or a low overhead clearance? Or being given an unexpected noogie? I mean, how can you even concentrate on anything but the abrupt, uncontrollable disclosure of your faux fur? I just don't see how that in any shape or form trumps whatever discomfort a person may feel due to hair loss. I say own that hair loss! Trust me, your pride would much prefer you be a little shiny up top than living under a hair hat.
And hair weaves... Whatever cultural significance or heritage aside, what in God's ever-loving name are these things? And why? Also, why? And perhaps most importantly, why? I need an explanation, ladies -- preferably one that makes sense. I need to understand why a woman would cover up perfectly fine, natural hair with someone else's scalped, natural hair -- or, far worse, glimmery synthetics. Again, sure, you can claim fashion as the justification, but I honestly have never heard one male utter anything along the lines of, "Whew, that girl's weave is smokin'!" But, hey, call it fashionable if you'd like. That's the only justification I can think of for parading cropped, chin-length blonde hair one day and a black mane down to the chest the next.
Here's another idea: how about we start being natural? Even if that means naturally less attractive than others or our former self, yet still more attractive than our unnaturally, outlandishly hairpieced alter ego.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Lottery Tickets
We humans, for all of our achievements, ain't real bright. We downward traverse slick, snowy mountainsides on two even slicker blades or a wheel-less skateboard at high speeds -- and no brakes -- for essentially no reason. We ingeniously hide our keys and wallets in our shoes on the beach -- undoubtedly the first place a beach-wandering thief would look -- while a football field away we splash around in the ocean, home to jellyfish and sharks. We stand out on our porches or by glass windows during a tornado so that we can capture footage of consummate devastation on our ironically named smartphones. Oh, and we buy fireworks. Basically we do the mental math to determine percentage-wise how bad of a decision a singular action is -- and then we put a helmet on and say, "Screw it."
But how dumb are we really? Well, we play the lottery. Picked numbers, scratch-offs, pull tabs... it doesn't matter. We just like to test the odds. Those immoderate, insurmountable odds. Yes, even I, your finger-wagging blogger, occasionally dabble in the capricious frivolity that is scratch-offs. Maybe, maybe even a pull tab. There's just something about scratching away or pulling open to reveal a formerly concealed picture or message (even if, say, "You suck, try again") that human beings inherently dig. It's why we have advent calendars.
I think what gets lost among all the lottery noise, especially among Powerball, is that you're playing the pre-authenticated odds of the game itself, not the odds of the other players. For example, you are just as virtually hopeless to win the Powerball if you were the only player on Earth as you are with a million other players who have purchased a billion other tickets. The odds don't change based on participant pool -- more people playing may mean you get fewer weeks before someone wins, but those numbers you selected based on your birthday, horoscope, and body measurements hold the same .00000000007 chance of sending you to an early retirement if no one else played. Sorry, kid.
The people who wait until the lottery jackpot is nine figures before deciding to play particularly intrigue me. We've all heard this retarded retort before from that buddy who suddenly decided to buy a Powerball ticket for the first time: "I never play, but, you know, the jackpot is $180 million now." Doesn't the Powerball jackpot reset to $20 million after each big win? As in, $20 million is the absolute bare minimum amount a Powerball jackpot winner can be awarded? Yeah, pretty sure that's true. Guess I wasn't aware $20 million was such a feeble flaming bag of poo for a one-dollar gamble. But, see, $20 million isn't enough for these people to play; such an ineffectual, lackluster prize purse is only good enough for, like, six lives of worriless comfort. No, what these folks so reasonably require is at least 40 lives' worth. Count these people out until they know those hard-earned stakes can buy them more Bugattis than merely one for every day of the week. I mean, what kind of ROI is $20 million on a buck anyway? Inconsequentially anticlimactic, obviously.
Regardless of the exact enormity of millions rendered, we all know how it ends for the winners. And for several reasons it's usually not good. The story is mostly the same: family, friends, exes, enemies, and strangers all come out of the woodwork abruptly needing cash; Nicholas Cage-like spending habits quickly develop; and all privacy, and thus trust, is lost, only to be replaced by loneliness and an attic of Sharper Image crap. Years later in where-are-they-now interviews, the winners disclose that winning the lottery was quite possibly the worst thing that ever happened to them. And then we the general public, a.k.a. the lottery losers, empathize and wish them well. ...Wait, no, scratch that -- we loathe them. We curse their indiscretion and swear that we'd be better, smarter winners. We'd pay off debts, we'd help others out, we'd invest in the future. Because we're responsible. We're smarter.
So responsible and smart, in fact, that we go back out the next day and purchase more lottery tickets.
But how dumb are we really? Well, we play the lottery. Picked numbers, scratch-offs, pull tabs... it doesn't matter. We just like to test the odds. Those immoderate, insurmountable odds. Yes, even I, your finger-wagging blogger, occasionally dabble in the capricious frivolity that is scratch-offs. Maybe, maybe even a pull tab. There's just something about scratching away or pulling open to reveal a formerly concealed picture or message (even if, say, "You suck, try again") that human beings inherently dig. It's why we have advent calendars.
I think what gets lost among all the lottery noise, especially among Powerball, is that you're playing the pre-authenticated odds of the game itself, not the odds of the other players. For example, you are just as virtually hopeless to win the Powerball if you were the only player on Earth as you are with a million other players who have purchased a billion other tickets. The odds don't change based on participant pool -- more people playing may mean you get fewer weeks before someone wins, but those numbers you selected based on your birthday, horoscope, and body measurements hold the same .00000000007 chance of sending you to an early retirement if no one else played. Sorry, kid.
The people who wait until the lottery jackpot is nine figures before deciding to play particularly intrigue me. We've all heard this retarded retort before from that buddy who suddenly decided to buy a Powerball ticket for the first time: "I never play, but, you know, the jackpot is $180 million now." Doesn't the Powerball jackpot reset to $20 million after each big win? As in, $20 million is the absolute bare minimum amount a Powerball jackpot winner can be awarded? Yeah, pretty sure that's true. Guess I wasn't aware $20 million was such a feeble flaming bag of poo for a one-dollar gamble. But, see, $20 million isn't enough for these people to play; such an ineffectual, lackluster prize purse is only good enough for, like, six lives of worriless comfort. No, what these folks so reasonably require is at least 40 lives' worth. Count these people out until they know those hard-earned stakes can buy them more Bugattis than merely one for every day of the week. I mean, what kind of ROI is $20 million on a buck anyway? Inconsequentially anticlimactic, obviously.
Regardless of the exact enormity of millions rendered, we all know how it ends for the winners. And for several reasons it's usually not good. The story is mostly the same: family, friends, exes, enemies, and strangers all come out of the woodwork abruptly needing cash; Nicholas Cage-like spending habits quickly develop; and all privacy, and thus trust, is lost, only to be replaced by loneliness and an attic of Sharper Image crap. Years later in where-are-they-now interviews, the winners disclose that winning the lottery was quite possibly the worst thing that ever happened to them. And then we the general public, a.k.a. the lottery losers, empathize and wish them well. ...Wait, no, scratch that -- we loathe them. We curse their indiscretion and swear that we'd be better, smarter winners. We'd pay off debts, we'd help others out, we'd invest in the future. Because we're responsible. We're smarter.
So responsible and smart, in fact, that we go back out the next day and purchase more lottery tickets.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Beer Commercials
If I were to throw out the phrase "entertaining commercials," most likely the list of commercials that would not come to mind include anything about life insurance, Wilford Brimley and his "diabeetus," and 5-Hour Energy (seriously, there are webcam videos of lonely people lip-synching to teen-pop songs in their bedroom on YouTube that are of higher quality than the crap the marketing team at 5-Hour Energy pushes onto the airwaves). What might come to mind are beer commercials. Typically they're funny, they're catchy, they inject sex appeal, and they don't make you sprint for the "mute" button.
That said, beer commercials have the credibility of a toddler who has chocolate smeared all over his face but swears he has no idea what happened to that last fudgesicle. Regardless of the brand of beer, these 30-second spots relentlessly flaunt one heckuva nonstop ice-cold, thirst-quenching, perfect-weathered, sweat-free, big-bosomed, velvet-rope-bypassing, rowdy-yet-controlled, happy-go-lucky night among responsible friends and a universal designated driver who would just loooove to have another glass of water while he watches his friends move in closer on the gleefully welcoming posse of ladies.
Speaking of absence of credibility, what's the deal with the ubiquitous hot chick sitting by herself at the bar in these ads? What bar is that, and how did that girl end up happily sitting alone? What ridiculously gorgeous girl squeezes herself into vacuum-sealed skinny jeans and a frilly halter top and spends an hour on the perfect hair curl so that she can grab a cab to the local watering hole to sit solo at the bar and talk to the equally ridiculously gorgeous female bartender? I like how this girl in the commercial always acts initially stunned when a guy talks to her or bumps into her as if, "Oh my, there are guys here, too? And someone actually wants to introduce himself to me?" Put that same girl in that same situation in a real bar, and I'll give her 60 seconds before a wolf pack of guys pounces her with lame come-ons and drink offers. (I would say just four seconds, but the other 56 rightfully allow for the surrounding guys to process the confusion before them and wait to see if her missing boyfriend or band of 17 girlfriends returns from a bathroom trip.)
The advertisers have also conveniently omitted a few things. For example, where are the drunk people? Well, they're not there yet. Ever noticed how everyone in the commercial is on their first beer? You can tell by the wit and levelheadedness of each character. Everyone is wearing that sober, symmetrical grin that can't possibly avoid askewness after a downed six-pack. All clothes are still fully buttoned, and no one is texting an ex in a dimly lit corner of the room. There's no annoying loud-talker or a girl screaming, "Ooh, that's my song!" as the voice of Gwen Stefani poops out of the speakers. No threats of fighting, bottle-breaking, or vomiting.
Just once I want to see a beer commercial where someone's utterly hammered out of his mind. The commercial starts with a dude crushing a beer can against his forehead in anger as he calls his date "a worthless slut" in the kitchen, while the camera pans over to the living room where a shirtless fat guy pounds a beer in between air guitar solos to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" and Greek-lettered girls hold hands as they slur their way though sorority chants. Suddenly the Bud Light logo appears, followed by the slogan "Here We Go" -- just before a final cut to an old neighbor walking across the lawn with a bat, screaming obscenities.
Yeah, that's a beer I'd buy. For its honesty, if nothing else.
That said, beer commercials have the credibility of a toddler who has chocolate smeared all over his face but swears he has no idea what happened to that last fudgesicle. Regardless of the brand of beer, these 30-second spots relentlessly flaunt one heckuva nonstop ice-cold, thirst-quenching, perfect-weathered, sweat-free, big-bosomed, velvet-rope-bypassing, rowdy-yet-controlled, happy-go-lucky night among responsible friends and a universal designated driver who would just loooove to have another glass of water while he watches his friends move in closer on the gleefully welcoming posse of ladies.
Speaking of absence of credibility, what's the deal with the ubiquitous hot chick sitting by herself at the bar in these ads? What bar is that, and how did that girl end up happily sitting alone? What ridiculously gorgeous girl squeezes herself into vacuum-sealed skinny jeans and a frilly halter top and spends an hour on the perfect hair curl so that she can grab a cab to the local watering hole to sit solo at the bar and talk to the equally ridiculously gorgeous female bartender? I like how this girl in the commercial always acts initially stunned when a guy talks to her or bumps into her as if, "Oh my, there are guys here, too? And someone actually wants to introduce himself to me?" Put that same girl in that same situation in a real bar, and I'll give her 60 seconds before a wolf pack of guys pounces her with lame come-ons and drink offers. (I would say just four seconds, but the other 56 rightfully allow for the surrounding guys to process the confusion before them and wait to see if her missing boyfriend or band of 17 girlfriends returns from a bathroom trip.)
The advertisers have also conveniently omitted a few things. For example, where are the drunk people? Well, they're not there yet. Ever noticed how everyone in the commercial is on their first beer? You can tell by the wit and levelheadedness of each character. Everyone is wearing that sober, symmetrical grin that can't possibly avoid askewness after a downed six-pack. All clothes are still fully buttoned, and no one is texting an ex in a dimly lit corner of the room. There's no annoying loud-talker or a girl screaming, "Ooh, that's my song!" as the voice of Gwen Stefani poops out of the speakers. No threats of fighting, bottle-breaking, or vomiting.
Just once I want to see a beer commercial where someone's utterly hammered out of his mind. The commercial starts with a dude crushing a beer can against his forehead in anger as he calls his date "a worthless slut" in the kitchen, while the camera pans over to the living room where a shirtless fat guy pounds a beer in between air guitar solos to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" and Greek-lettered girls hold hands as they slur their way though sorority chants. Suddenly the Bud Light logo appears, followed by the slogan "Here We Go" -- just before a final cut to an old neighbor walking across the lawn with a bat, screaming obscenities.
Yeah, that's a beer I'd buy. For its honesty, if nothing else.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Waffle House
When you're a kid who just wants cake-batter waffles and an entire plate of bacon, Waffle House is a dream. Its quirks and filth are to an extent charming. Kind of like how your own quirks and filth as a kid are to an extent charming. But as you grow out of your quirky, filthy childhood lifestyle, the charm of it all quickly wanes. As does the charm of Waffle House.
What I've realized since childhood is everything about the Waffle House experience is demoralizing. No one there working or eating is happy. The atmosphere is as exciting as a Phil Collins album cover. Seriously, there is not one remotely happy person in a Waffle House right now. If anyone is smiling, it's probably because they're drunk. Then again, if they're in Waffle House, it's probably because they're drunk. Even if you enjoy Waffle House food, you're likely marginally miserable while sitting in that booth.
It doesn't help that Waffle House hasn't updated its decor since its inception. This is purposeful, of course, since it's supposed to exude a certain throwback affinity, like several diners do. Except most of those diners aim for a '50s sock-hop/poodle-skirt/neon-lights era. Waffle House is trapped in some '50s/'70s nonsensical limbo, where paper diner hats, indistinct lamp fixtures, and a compilation of unnatural yellow and beige hues conjoin to create this culmination of grotesque interior design. And the plateware in each location is obviously the original set used since that location's grand opening as every plate shows scars from hundreds of thousands of late-night intoxicated attempts to knife through waffles and chunked 'n' smothered hash browns.
I would guess that Waffle House prides itself in its open-air kitchen that allows the customers to watch the preparation of their food and leaves nothing to hide. But is it just me, or is Waffle House the last restaurant to whose kitchen practices you'd want full exposure? The disheveled cook gloveless-ly handling dinner orders while bellyaching to his coworkers about his need for a smoke break hardly enhances my assurance of a quality, sanitary meal. I'd quite honestly rather have no idea how the food is prepared and instead be perfectly fine with not knowing the culinary secrets to that greasy platter of trans fats.
The lone prerequisite for its cooks and servers at Waffle House, I'm most certain, is not experience in cooking or serving but simply ownership of at least one tattoo. And the tattoo has to be on a body part visible to the customer -- the forearm, the bicep, the neck -- somewhere that inked tribute to Mom is in plain view to the untrained patron eye. Waffle House is the place where tattoos go to retire. I've seen more Mighty Mouse tattoos in Waffle House than episodes of Mighty Mouse. There's also something greatly chilling and unsettling about seeing the cook flipping your omelet with tattooed weaponry. At what point in that guy's life did he think embedding a sketch of a scorpion wrapped around a dagger into his forearm was not only a good immediate decision but a decision that most assuredly would not affect any future employment?
And let's not forget the Waffle House jukebox, which showcases a music selection worse than that of a high school talent show. I mean, how many songs with "Waffle House" in the title does a jukebox need?
Funnily enough, all of this seems to work because Waffle Houses are never not crowded. The parking lots are always full, whether it's 3:00 PM or 3:00 AM, so what do I know? Well, one thing: I know I like my waffles with butter and syrup -- hold the quirks and filth.
What I've realized since childhood is everything about the Waffle House experience is demoralizing. No one there working or eating is happy. The atmosphere is as exciting as a Phil Collins album cover. Seriously, there is not one remotely happy person in a Waffle House right now. If anyone is smiling, it's probably because they're drunk. Then again, if they're in Waffle House, it's probably because they're drunk. Even if you enjoy Waffle House food, you're likely marginally miserable while sitting in that booth.
It doesn't help that Waffle House hasn't updated its decor since its inception. This is purposeful, of course, since it's supposed to exude a certain throwback affinity, like several diners do. Except most of those diners aim for a '50s sock-hop/poodle-skirt/neon-lights era. Waffle House is trapped in some '50s/'70s nonsensical limbo, where paper diner hats, indistinct lamp fixtures, and a compilation of unnatural yellow and beige hues conjoin to create this culmination of grotesque interior design. And the plateware in each location is obviously the original set used since that location's grand opening as every plate shows scars from hundreds of thousands of late-night intoxicated attempts to knife through waffles and chunked 'n' smothered hash browns.
I would guess that Waffle House prides itself in its open-air kitchen that allows the customers to watch the preparation of their food and leaves nothing to hide. But is it just me, or is Waffle House the last restaurant to whose kitchen practices you'd want full exposure? The disheveled cook gloveless-ly handling dinner orders while bellyaching to his coworkers about his need for a smoke break hardly enhances my assurance of a quality, sanitary meal. I'd quite honestly rather have no idea how the food is prepared and instead be perfectly fine with not knowing the culinary secrets to that greasy platter of trans fats.
The lone prerequisite for its cooks and servers at Waffle House, I'm most certain, is not experience in cooking or serving but simply ownership of at least one tattoo. And the tattoo has to be on a body part visible to the customer -- the forearm, the bicep, the neck -- somewhere that inked tribute to Mom is in plain view to the untrained patron eye. Waffle House is the place where tattoos go to retire. I've seen more Mighty Mouse tattoos in Waffle House than episodes of Mighty Mouse. There's also something greatly chilling and unsettling about seeing the cook flipping your omelet with tattooed weaponry. At what point in that guy's life did he think embedding a sketch of a scorpion wrapped around a dagger into his forearm was not only a good immediate decision but a decision that most assuredly would not affect any future employment?
And let's not forget the Waffle House jukebox, which showcases a music selection worse than that of a high school talent show. I mean, how many songs with "Waffle House" in the title does a jukebox need?
Funnily enough, all of this seems to work because Waffle Houses are never not crowded. The parking lots are always full, whether it's 3:00 PM or 3:00 AM, so what do I know? Well, one thing: I know I like my waffles with butter and syrup -- hold the quirks and filth.
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