"Paul Walker honored at car show"
Nope. Haven't heard a peep about Mandela today, but plenty about (looking up his name) Paul Walker. So young, so beautiful, so tragic.
I'm saddened by Nelson Mandela's passing, perhaps the first and last politician about whom I'll ever be able to say that. I'm grateful for (and more than a little amazed by, given his life) his 95 years on earth. He's perhaps the most transformative historical figure of my lifetime. There is no upside to his passing.
Maybe now the media will stop fawning over Paul Walker, of whom we were only marginally aware a week ago, and toiling to transform him into the next James Dean.
Anna is coming out of a brutally awful marriage. Uneducated, unqualified, inexperienced, and kinda dim, she's now in the unfortunate position of having to support herself and her kids. It's been bumpy.
I like her. She's a kind person. I'm rooting for her. I'd date her in a heartbeat if it weren't for the circumstances. Date a mom with a psychotic ex, and you pretty much date the psychotic ex. Pass.
"Set me up with a computer geek," she texted me last night.
I was trying to think of a computer geek who might possibly be interested in dating a smoking hot personal trainer when the follow-up text arrived.
"Because I really hate working."
Of my two dogs, Fredo is known as "the dumb one." Sure, he's charming when you meet him. He's a happy, friendly dog. He seemingly swats at swarms of hornets with his tail. But he's also the one who wags happily when I'm yelling at him for the abomination on the kitchen floor, the one who pees on his sister, the one who after three years has yet to learn that I need to open the car's hatchback before he can jump in.
Fredo taught me that there are owners who root against their pet, and that I am one of them. I take a special delight when my deck freezes over and I see the little moron faceplant on his way to the yard, then, having no understanding of what just happened, faceplant on his way back inside.
"You idiot!" I cackled this morning as he wiped out three times in rapid succession. Seconds later, my own feet shot out from under me and I fell hard to the deck. It was the damnedest thing.
Normally I take this week off because, well, I get like 12 hits. But I'm coming out of semi-retirement to post this link.
Like yourself, I despise how instant cocoa mix lumps up. No matter how hot the water, no matter how vigorously stirred, those lumps bubble up like so much flotsam. This morning, clearly possessing no other problems, I decided to remedy this once and for all. I dare say no woman would have tried this technique, for reasons that will be clear in the next sentence.
Reaching around my immersible blender, I grabbed a metal martini shaker.
I filled the shaker with boiling water, added the cocoa, and affixed the shaker's top. Now, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too. Which is why I was putting a silicone pot holder on my hand when the steam inside the martini shaker built up sufficient pressure to blow the lid and lacerate the air in all directions with boiling chocolate napalm.
Prior to Phillip's birth, there were just screwdrivers. Then Phillip came along and invented the wrong kind of screwdriver. I've been blaming him for all manner of stupid crap ever since. The strangulating seat belt that tightens up every time you twitch? Phillip did it. The splashless gas pump that you have to hold the whole time? Task-stopping error messages shoved to the edge of the screen where you won't notice them? Recipes with 600-word steps that delve into the entire prehistory of brining? Phillip, Phillip, Phillip.
Last night, it was the rounded casing of my old PS3, which makes it impossible to stack anything in my AV cabinet without the aid of velcro. So atop my component stack is a gleaming, rounded PS3 wallpapered in velcro, with modems and routers and a burglar alarms randomly stuck to it like ornaments in a Christmas tree. Thanks, Phillip.
This morning, it's all of the message boxes in my life. No, Phillip, I don't want to download your bloody app. No, you irredeemable fucker, I still don't want to allow your app to monitor my location. And I won't tomorrow or the next day, either. Likewise, I don't want to give PayPal, Google+, and Facebook access to the GPS-tracker in my pocket, nor the contact information for everyone I know.
Phillip, you seriously need to step off. It used to be just an extra trip to the toolbox, but now you want my soul.
"My God," I thought in 1985 when I first saw the Chicago Bears' Super Bowl Shuffle. "I am witnessing a bona fide miracle: something worse than actual rap music."
"My God," I thought this morning when I first saw the Super Broker Shuffle. "I am witnessing a bona fide miracle: something worse than the original Super Bowl Shuffle."
With all due respect to Tom Cruise's dancing, this may well be the whitest thing I have ever seen.
I find these mostly hilarious, in a self-loathing sort of way. But the anatomically correct nude costumes are disturbing, and the family stacked naked on one another like firewood makes me want to claw my eye-sockets empty.
I used to work at Encarta, Microsoft's disc-based encyclopedia that was utterly destroyed by the advent of the Internet. For two years, I documented how to use a product that was excruciatingly easy to use. Worse than that, I worked for a manager, so two of us were being paid to document a product that's slightly less difficult to intuit than a kitchen faucet. For two years, I waited for them to discover the absurdity of this and fire us. Finally, I got bored and quit.
I shared an office with Dave, a content editor. That means he edited the actual encyclopedia content and worked with subject matter experts. Our jobs and friends didn't overlap, but proximity being the social elixir that it is, we bitched about our worlds to one another. And he had to put up with a ceaseless parade of programmers, testers and marketers coming into the office to keep me informed about something. And girls. Lots of girls. I was dating a lot, and I was fishing the company pier.
The content editors were barely compensated slaves, pressured into working unbilled hours. The chief mechanism of this coercion was the word-count chart posted in the hallway. You could see how many words people edited in a given month—and where they ranked relative to one another. People weren't allowed to work overtime, so naturally, some worked for free to buttress their numbers, which pretty much meant everyone had to work for free if they wanted to keep their jobs. But I digress.
About a month after I left that job, I started hearing howls of laughter from my former colleagues. The chart had just been posted. Dave's production hadn't doubled. Nor tripled. Nor even quintupled. As a result of my leaving, his productivity had shot up 1200%.
"Remember the Dave effect?" I was reminded last week, when I was blathering on about some girl and preventing Katrina from working.
Nearly as soon as I set foot in Atlanta, I was in a lengthy conversation with a random stranger. She was a middle-aged woman working the concession stand of a high-school game, and I was her customer. She raved about my voice, asked me if I do radio (code for "I've seen less homely yak butt"), asked me where I'm from, why I was there. She showed more interest in me than have the sum of all strangers in Seattle over the past four years.
It was uncomfortable. I used to be at ease around the socially healthy, but now I am unpracticed and awkward. I have become more like the very people I despise, and I hate myself for that. As the weekend passed and I dealt with more strangers, I loosened up. Perhaps I am not permanently damaged.
I marveled at the easy interactions in airports, stores, games and sidewalks—people making eye contact and nodding, saying "excuse me" unnecessarily. Just to be courteous! Imagine! Just to acknowledge they had entered the space of another human being. I marveled at how jarring I found it.
As I boarded my return flight to Seattle and surveyed the ancient plane in which I would be flying the next four hours, I was disappointed. "I flew the new Airbus here," I said to my seat-mate. "It was amazing. Have you ever?" She averted her eyes and pretended not to have heard me, despite having looked directly at my yak-homely face when I was talking to her.
Idiot! I thought. You're on a plane to Seattle. Just stare straight ahead for four hours and pretend you're alone in the universe.
My first stop when home was the grocery store. I'd been to several over the last couple days, and the contrast was amazing. Those of you who live anywhere but Seattle, you know how when you say "excuse me," even when the other person is at fault, they acknowledge it with a "No problem," "My bad," or a polite grunt? Yeah. We don't do that here. We move mountains of plausibility to pretend we don't notice anyone else.
As I left the parking lot, pedestrians walked in front of my car, exercising their right of way but nonetheless making me brake. They stared straight ahead, pretending to have never seen me, to have never made the decision to make me brake. God forbid they burn a calorie acknowledging the deference of another human being. Next thing you know, that person will be asking them how their day is going, and we can't have that.
I don't know if anyone even likes these posts, but they're useful to helping me remember details later, so here we go.
Last Friday, I met Bubba in Atlanta. Now that the Seahawks are world-beaters, he didn't feel the need to put on a different jersey in every town. His whole "love the one you're with" philosophy has been supplanted by true love. He and the Seahawks are now a "we," at least until Russell Wilson is broken in two. Then, I suspect, Bubba will want to see other people.
Friday night kicked off with a blowout high school game, as Catholic high school Marist crushed Carver. Surprises: I finally found a seat I hate worse than aluminum bleachers (concrete); this teensy Atlanta high school's fight song is Ohio State's alma mater; Carver, whose punter seldom kicked the ball more than 10 yards, was somehow 7-2; a uniformed football player singing the national anthem; and zero students in the stands. I swear every student at Marist is in the band or on the team. Not a surprise: the Marist crowd was almost all white, and the Carver crowd was entirely black. Welcome back to the South. I wanted to move to the visitors' stands, where they were having more fun losing than the home crowd was having winning, but native son Bubba would have none of it. I deferred to his judgement.
Of the Highland Inn, I will only remember this step out of the bathroom. Those are six-inch tiles. My fall was spectacular.
Saturday, we drove to Tuscaloosa for this week's Game of the Century, LSU at Alabama. Another blowout. Alabama has the best program, players and coach in college football, and their fans are loud indeed. That said, what a crushing disappointment the environment was. There were only pockets of tailgating. There were literally miles of roadside booths selling nearly identical merchandise. We looked for hours for something to do and found nothing. At the four hour mark, we actually discussed which patch of grass we would like to sit upon to kill more time. Once in the stadium, I was only slightly less disappointed. For a program of such rich history, Alabama has no apparent traditions. They have little but the team. Instead of chants or rituals or the band playing, they blare music over the PA during gaps in action. In other words, it's as generic and corporate and, yes, deathly dull as an NFL game. But oh, those fans. What a bunch of spoiled douchebags. Their sneering disdain extends even to their own players, especially quarterback AJ McCarron. The kid has won back to back championships and is cruising easily to an unprecedented third. He was a nearly perfect 14/20 with three TDs and no picks. And when he threw each of his six incompletions, the crowd around us erupted with rage, cursing his insolent imperfection. Bubba and I just stared at one another in complete disbelief. The highlight for me was while (what else?) looking at merchandise, when I came upon the below t-shirt. Note that perpetually overrated #2 Oregon had been upset a mere 30 hours before.
Oh yeah. The miniskirt/do-me-boots combination prevalent in Tuscaloosa among women of all ages was a highlight, too. As was the local radio program which conceded that Nick Saban "might find Austin a more desirable place to live than Tuscaloosa." Yeah, and I might prefer the taste of peanut butter to that of taxi carpeting.
On Sunday, we zipped to Atlanta for the Seahawks/Falcons game. Boy, do I love the Georgia Dome. What a great facility. Ample footroom, short rows, great sightlines, restaurants with great views of the field, close action. The Falcons employ every gimmick imaginable to attract fans, too, from door prizes to parachuting t-shirts to kiss cams. It doesn't help. For this playoff rematch, the stadium was a third empty, and those fans were stunningly quiet. I can't recall ever seeing such utterly listless fans. No one even gave Bubba crap about his Seahawks jersey. I don't think anyone noticed or cared. The Seahawks mercifully crushed the Falcons, so we left early to catch our plane to New Orleans for the game that night.
Oh, Delta airlines, my arch-nemesis, fuck you also. I would be more understanding about your needing to switch out my malfunctioning plane if the adjacent gate's plane wasn't being switched out too. Have you ever considered, like, maintenance?
We folded our legs into the two inches of legroom beneath our ass-decimating seats just before halftime, right when the Saints blew out the game. Dallas was so unremarkable as to be barely present in my memory. They were cannon fodder. So yes, four games, four massive blowouts. That was unfortunate. As for the Superdome, this was my second and hopefully last visit. The fans are boisterous and fun and incredibly loud, but oh, that building. When I first saw post-hurricane reports about mass-defecation and disease in the Superdome, my reaction was "You can't really blame them. I don't know what else the place is good for." What a horrible stadium. Physically painful seats, most of them very far from the sideline. A single entrance. No mass-transit solutions. Cabs won't even go near the place, despite the bullshit PA announcements that they're waiting on Poydras Street. When? Wednesday?
We spent Monday in Last Month's Maxipad, or "Nawlins" to some. The cuisine and live music were typically sublime, the people perfectly segregated by race, and the smell is only now dissipating from my lung cells. For all the flying and driving and walking and money, the highlight of the entire trip was simply listening to the tight jazz of The Yisrael Trio at Mojitos Monday night. Oh, and the Miami @ Tampa game I refused to go to because the teams both stink? A 22-19 squeaker.
I leave you with the state of my big toe Monday night. It was a joy to walk 18 miles on.
I'm back from Football Weekend, and I have conflicting interests this morning. I want to insult Seattle, Atlanta, Tuscaloosa and New Orleans, but I also want to get unburied in email. Since the former task makes me nothing and the latter includes paying myself, I choose the latter.
In the meantime, hell yes. It's about time someone built this.
In my 11 years in Metamuville, I've gotten zero trick-or treaters and 22 visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses. I know this because, like family bitching about one another, they show up every six months precisely. Doubtlessly Metamuville is targeted because of all the old farts running out the clock.
So when it became necessary to hang a "don't knock" sign outside my door—my dogs are constantly being set off during work meetings—I also fired a warning shot.
Place your bets now. Will they be deterred by either sentence?
I am, or at least I was, a decent athlete. Skill-wise, I'm capable but nothing special, mostly because I'm slower than election season. Football, basketball, soccer, racquetball, volleyball...I played them all and won my share.
But oh, baseball. My nemesis.
Yeah, I'm slow. I have a pansy throwing arm. I somehow manage to hit to the shortstop no matter how I change my stance, including batting left-handed. One time my streak was something like 20 at-bats in a row hit to the shortstop. He was actually visibly agitated when I stepped up to the plate. I don't know what percentage of the time I've been on base were due to shortstop error, but if someone told me it was in the 90s, I wouldn't argue. Clearly, this pattern sucks in games. But man, I'm awesome to have around during fielding practice.
As I alluded last week, my biggest liability is not understanding the nuances of the game, at least not without thinking it through. As a kid, I played baseball only in gym class, and I never watched it on TV. Nothing is instinctive. So when I'm fielding a ball, I have to either 1) pause for 20 seconds and think through my options or 2) throw it and take my medicine. Both choices have a tendency to enrage teammates and delight opponents.
"AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH!" shrieks every teammate I've ever had, as soon as the ball leaves my hand.
Let's say you've logged 20 years as an accountant. How much patience would you have with a GED-wielding 24 year-old who, upon encountering you, presumes you cannot do basic arithmetic, and he cannot be dissuaded from condescendingly walking you through it, even after you smack him over the head with the Arzelà–Ascoli theorem?
This is my feeling every time I have to report that my Internet is down.
"Hi, I'd like to report that I've lost Internet connectivity. I've disconnected all routers and boxes, restarted the modem by unplugging it for 30 seconds, and tested it using a laptop and an Ethernet cable. The Online light refuses to blink."
(A child reads from a script)
"Sigh. Yes, the modem is plugged in. Seriously, I have 20 years in techn—"
"Sigh. Yes, as I said, I'm hard-wired into it."
"Yes, goddamit, I just told you I reset it by unplugging it for 30 seconds. And in answer to the next question in your scri—"
"—pt YES I UNPLUGGED ALL MY OTHER DEVICES! JESUS CHRIST!"
(Whimpering now) "No. Like I said. The Online light is off."
(Child asks about the hard-wiring again)
"Seriously, is your mommy or daddy there?"
What I need, I've decided, is a secret handshake that identifies myself as someone who actually knows when his Internet is down and would not, in fact, inflict vacuous children upon himself unless he had exhausted all other recourse.
Or a code word. Yeah, a code word!
"Hi, I'd like to report that I've lost Internet connectivity. Oh, and...kompetentaj."
(Automated voice of Morgan Freeman) "Identity confirmed. We'll send someone right out."
Several readers wrote to ask about "Outside of sports, I don't start altercations." I suppose that was a tease, so here's more detail: inside of sports, I start altercations.
Blessed with a body type that's been described on the basketball court as "a barely moving washing machine," I have never been the star of any team. I have, however, been the player most likely to be remembered. I'm a hack. A goon. An enforcer. The only advantage I have in athletics is a low center of gravity and freakishly strong thighs, and I use them to equalize the players with actual talent.
The greatest non-older-brother beating I ever took in my life was on a baseball diamond. It was not for the usual reason, that being me throwing to the wrong base or cutoff man. No, this was because I was a baserunner when there was a close play at home plate. "Finally, it's John's time to shine!" I thought as I plowed into the catcher. I hit him so hard, he flew several feet before his body started its descent toward the ground.
And he got up and beat the crap out of me. Oh, how he beat me. I remember lying on the ground with him straddling me, pummeling my face from all directions with a speed I could not even fathom. It was like he had four fists. He hit my eyes and nose and mouth and then worked the eyes again. I was seeing vibrant splotches of color where there was none. Stunned and hopelessly out of my league, I pretty much just lay there and took the beating until friends pulled him off me eight days later. Dignity torn and mangled, I hobbled off to the bench.
And then two innings later, there was another close play at the plate and I plowed into him again, just as hard. And he pummeled me even worse.
I'd like to say I did it out of courage, or sticking up for myself, or revenge, but the truth is I gave it no thought at all. I was as surprised as anyone. I found myself hitting him and thinking "Uh oh. This is really gonna cost me."
It's the price one pays for being me, I guess. The Hack Tax.
Longtime reader d'Andre asks, "So, do you get your clothes off dead vagrants' corpses?"
Ok, I admit that's a lie. He doesn't read.
Glad. Unbelievably glad. The glad courses through my body like so much pepperoni grease.
Fact: during this weekend's loss to a wretched Raiders team, my power went out mid-play. All I felt was gratitude. It was like someone pulled a needle out of my eye.
Longtime distinguished Stank troll Marta asks, "You must get punched a lot." Which isn't really a question, come to think of it, so much as a diagnosis. Screw you too, Marta.
It happens. It hasn't happened in years, though. Living in Metamuville helps. Geriatrics may shake their fists at you for being on your own lawn, but they don't actually hit you.
Not counting a violent drunken shove at the Super Bowl, the last two times I've been punched were 1) in my right ear 2) by drunks from whose verbal abuses I did not wilt. I don't understand the ear thing. Maybe they were aiming for my face but were that drunk.
Outside of sports, I don't start altercations. And I don't finish them, either. Thanks to my older brother, I can take a punch to the face. Also thanks to my brother, I don't have a flight reflex. When you're punched every day of your entire childhood, it becomes part of the background noise of your existence. So someone will pop me one, and it hurts like hell, and then I look at them quizzically and go "Really?" This usually enrages the person more, but my confusion and response are genuine.
Remember mailstorms? When someone would accidentally email a distribution list of thousands of strangers, each of whom replied-all Please take me off this thread/Me too/Me too? Inboxes overflowed! Mail servers crashed! Mailstorms were common at Microsoft and other corporations in the 90s, but I hadn't seen one in a while. I'd like to think this is because people learned, but it was probably because IT groups devised a filter.
Now I'm experiencing a throwback, an honest-to-goodness, old-timey mailstorm. So nope, people aren't any smarter. The jokes are better, though. My two favorite reply-alls follow.
Someone graphed the correlation between employee newness (high employee number) and replies.
And then this. I almost proposed on the spot.
Sent: Wednesday, October 23, 2013 6:54 AM
To: [redacted](mailer list)
Subject: How to unsubscribe
Here's how to unsubscribe from this mailing list.
1. Go to http://hr.redacted.com/
2. Select 'My Job Info'
3. Select 'All other tasks'
4. Select 'Employee Services'
5. Select 'Resignation Confirmation.
6. Fill in and submit the form. Be sure to include the phrase 'Too stupid to live' in the comments section.
Thanks everyone, I hope this helps.
PS Here is a recipe for rainbow cake. http://madefromscratchinbk.wordpress.com/2010/12/26/rainbow-cake/
I've been listening with interest, and admittedly a little self-interest, to the travails of fair Susan as her crap marriage circles life's toilet bowl.
Along the way, I'm learning more about her, and there's definitely a point of diminishing returns on learning things about people. Learning about people is never good for attraction. As a person morphs from unattainable ideal into a real person, that person invariably becomes less appealing to me. I've mentally added about forty pounds to Susan. And back hair.
"She's into CrossFit." +2 pounds
"Actually, she teaches CrossFit now." +8 pounds
"She's really into walking. She walks everywhere." +30 pounds of hairy neck goiters
Karyn's boyfriend is maybe 22, and sometimes he comes along to "help." This help usually manifests in him trapping me in interminable, stupid conversations. I don't know if he has older brothers or even friends, but the limited evidence suggests a scarcity of men in his life. I don't care about NASCAR, or paintball, or websites with revolting videos on them, yet Rob slings these topics into my life. If I know he's coming, I leave the house. I'd rather have him rob me than talk to me.
It's been six years since I last taught, and Metamuville ain't skewin' any younger, so Karyn is the only college-aged person I know well. As such, she's the recipient of anything I don't need anymore. She just received, for instance, a perfectly good Pottery Barn dish set, all for the low, low price of not making me help her carry it to her car. Thanks to my midlife allergy flareup, she's similarly gotten a couch, a never-used down comforter, and a really sweet vacuum cleaner. Karyn is over-the-top grateful and guilty-feeling.
Rob, an unwanted beneficiary of my gifts, has a different reaction. Peering into my cabinet and seeing some dessert plates, he asked "Do you still want these?"
"I noticed some computers in your bedroom closet," he actually said to me after "helping" "clean" my house. He dug his toe into my floor coquettishly. "Do you want to get rid of any of those?"
"The computers currently running? That my business uses every day? Not particularly."
Undeterred, he's continued to ask if I still want other things he covets. It can't hurt to ask, apparently. Mi casa es su smorgasbord.
"I'm going out of my mind," said Karyn when she called me Saturday. Karyn is a girl half my age who helps me out from time to time, running errands for me when work traps me in my house for weeks on end. Or just when I'm feeling especially lazy. Her boyfriend was out of town last weekend, and she was bored. "Do you have anything for me to do?"
Given the magnificent slate of football games I had ahead of me...no miss, thank you, but I don't want you here. "Can I watch football with you, then? You'll have to explain what's going on."
This was even worse.
I said I supposed she could tackle the guest room closet. It was 80% crap that had accumulated over my 11 years here. And thus did she take notes while I designated what was crap destined for the dump.
"Here's Maddie's mom's clock radio. That's junk. Here's Kate's espresso maker. That's junk too. Why do I have coffee filters here? (Drew a blank. I don't know whose those were.) Here's a teapot I got for Allie. Shitcan it. Here's a portrait Sarah drew. Junk it. Here's the camera Pam brought me back from Singapore. Junk. The hell is this? Amy's blouse? Eeesh. Junk it. Here's notes from Khristi. Chuck 'em..."
And so it went, us sifting through my relationship debris. Eventually, a numb Karyn drifted outside on the balcony, where I heard her call her boyfriend on her cell. "I just called to say I love you."
On this, the glorious occasion of director Michael Bay's assault, I share with you a sign that the world is going to hell.
I've taken my share of abuse over installing heated tile in my bathroom, and justifiably so. I'm a fancy boy. But people: do you realize that if you toss your dirty clothes on the bathroom floor during your shower, when you put them back on, they're warm just like they're fresh out of the dryer?
I've said it before, but never with as much conviction: al Qaeda has officially lost.
I can't wait for Gravity: The Play. No longer encumbered by all the needless CGI, these fascinating characters and the rock-solid science will really be able to shine through.
Summer has concluded, and with it ends the monthslong battle between the air conditioning, which makes my bathroom tile unpleasantly cold, and the heating element under the bathroom tile, which negates the effects of the air conditioning. I think it was Jesus who said, lo, hark, there is no problem that electricity causes that more electricity cannot solve.
Bad day? Beat this.
I ended a long, miserably long day of work by soberly cleaning up my desk. I placed my lunch plate in the kitchen sink. I was hosing off some crumbs when the braided hose snapped, causing a torrent of ice-cold water to rape every orifice in my face. Eyes stinging, I watched the severed hose shoot snake-like down the faucet stem and into the cabinet below, which it promptly filled with water.
For the fantastically lazy, here's a godsend: Google Maps is plotting the aisles of Home Depot now. This means, of course, no more coin-flips when parking. If all you need is a brick, you can park with confidence by the bricks.
I'm going to take a week off, folks.
If you find this leaves a hole in your life, call some exes and ask them to describe what the problem with you is.
"How exactly did I become the embodiment of everything you can't stand about millennials?" asked Darcy.
"Because you're within reach."
I had just sent her the following text out of the blue.
Gen X: abolished the dress code at work; invented smart phones; invented movie theatres with huge recliners and blankets and waiters; invented the Internet as we know it; invented telecommuting from home; abolished the bellbottom jeans the boomers inflicted upon the world.
You guys: shortened the word failure; lengthened the word creep; invented texting and phone calls in movie theatres; brought back your parents' jeans briefly, then decided you could do even worse and switched to skinny jeans that look ghastly on 99.79% of the world's population.
You're welcome. And we would appreciate an apology.
I own a business where we all work remotely, so instant-messaging is a mainstay of our daily lives. For me, the ritual is this: I stagger downstairs in the morning. By this time, the east coast staff has been creating problems for three hours. I stagger over to my desk. I groggily jiggle the mouse. My presence switches from "Away" to "Online."
It's a chat ambush! I swear they coordinate their attacks. About seven hours later, I realize I haven't eaten or showered. I've taken to calling the chief offenders "polar bears." You know how polar bears stake out seals' air-holes in the ice, waiting to strike the moment the seals' heads pop out of the water? That. That's the exact feeling.
This is my view every morning.
You know your team is sharting its bright yellow pants when your friends who are fans of other teams are consoling you with "Just think about the draft" in Week 3.
I'm accustomed to getting packages from Amazon that I don't remember ordering. This is because when I awaken at night wanting, say, cashews, I groggily grab my iPad and order an 80 gallon drum of them.
When the girls next door recently had a party, their guests woke me up all night. I couldn't find any earplugs. I tried my best to sleep, but I kept being awakened by shrill hooting.
Two days later, I received 200 earplugs. Nay, 200 pair of earplugs.
And an hour after that, I received 200 more.
In honor of the sometimes nearly unusable iOS 7, today I'm writing in off-white on white, and all normal indicators of key functionality and logical subordination
Apple fucked up something previously not fucked up.
Under the hood, I have no complaint, and I'm all for getting rid of the old buttony icons. But usability wise? I find myself constantly straining to differentiate icons that now have meaningless images, to
of critical but nearly invisible text. And what turtlenecked idiot thought huge white backgrounds on an LED screen was a good idea? You have to turn the brightness to minimal just to avoid retinal scarring, and then when you launch an app, and believe me, you launch one as soon as possible to get iOS 7 out of your life, you have to turn the brightness back up. But dang, it sure is pretty. If you think this is pretty.
Attention Apple designers: please stop masturbating at my expense.
In the last week, I've been scolded twice. Harshly rebuked, even. Was it by my employer? My parents? My girlfriend? No. It was by people taking money from me. And not the important ones, either. This is my lawn guy. This is a Goodwill worker.
You would think that a lawn guy with such delicate sensibilities that he complains about a single pile of dog poo would not, in fact, be the same guy who moves your poo-encrusted scoop from the ground to the main footpath on your new deck. Every. Single. Week.
But you would be wrong. Turns out only his feet matter. Don't you know who he is?
Now me, I'm not a class-warrior. I don't think someone's beneath me just because I pay them to do manual labor. I simply don't think they're above me.