CAN'T GET THERE FROM HERE
First, a little background -
Bruce is in Texas. He is moving to Richmond, where he will be living with Mike L., who goes to school there. Being in school, he is currently on break and is heading to Texas to help Bruce move. They are packing a truck (a big one that happens to be going to Richmond anyway in which Bruce has rented space). The truck will depart under its own power, and then the two of them will be roadtripping in Bruce's car to Charlottesville, where they will meet the rest of us on Monday for lunch, followed immediately by snowboarding and/or skiing.
A few more details -
The original plan (pay attention this gets complicated) was for Mike to drive to Bruce's girlfriend's (Colleen) work. Colleen would get a ride to work from a friend. She would, when she met Mike at work, drive him (in his car) to Dulles airport for his flight. Then she would drive Mike's car back to her place and leave it there until Monday, when she would drive it to Charlottesville to meet up with the snowboarding crew. Bruce and Mike, meanwhile, would pick up Lissie (Mike's girlfriend) on the way to Charlottesville (in Bruce's car). In Cville, the rightful owners would be returned to their cars. Mike would drive Lissie in his car for the rest of the trip. Bruce would drive Colleen in his car for the rest of the trip and ultimately back to her place after the trip is over (although odds are good neither Bruce nor Mike will be interested in doing anymore driving at this point and the girls will most likely be the ones behind the wheels). Did you catch all that?
The reason I have a story to tell -
The Plan, as they say, is often the first casualty of battle. Mike missed a turn on his way north from Richmond. He did not realize for a long time that he had missed a turn. He did not realize it, in fact, until the highway he was on stopped. He probably suspected something was up, but the end of the highway confirmed it for him. When he finally found the road he was looking for (in his defense the directions gave him the wrong road - well, right road, but wrong name for that stretch of it), it was rush hour and he was pretty much stuck. He did eventually make it to Colleen's work, and she did eventually drop him at the airport, but it was too late.
This is where our hero finally appears in the story -
Bruce called me at 6:30 Wednesday night and states "Mike missed his flight." To which I responded by laughing, because it's Mike and it's funny. I then agreed to a) go get Mike from the airport and b) make sure he was returned to the airport for his new flight. At the time, I thought this might mean calling up my brother, who was working night shift at the time, and asking him to drive Mike to Dulles sometime mid-morning while I was at work. I was wrong. A few phone calls later, we had both pick up and drop off arrangements straightened out. Mike's new flight was at 6:11 AM. I dropped him off at the airport at 4:30. They say you should be at the airport two hours early. I said pthbbbb! to that and probably still got him there earlier than he needed to be. I then went to work. One of my coworkers needed help with some delivery stuff, so I was supposed to be in early anyway. The timing actually worked out pretty well.
Epilogue -
Mike's car is in the right place. Mike is in the right place. I am also in the right place, but for some reason, am rather tired (so, probably, is Mike who slept even less than I did that night). I decided to take a nap when I got home that afternoon, and a shower too, since I skipped that as well that morning. Once I did that, I figured we would have officially achieved Happily Ever After (where Ever After is an unspecified amount of time which could include forever, but is neither required nor likely to do so). Unfortunately, I had to work late that day, of course, so I missed the nap. I did get the shower, though, so while it wasn't quite Happily Ever After, it was at least Adequately Ever After.
Saturday, December 20, 2003
PIZZA PIZZA
I am, for those of you who have not yet noticed, something of an odd duck at times. I have several quirks, habits, and preferences that occasionally make my friends shake their heads and wonder if maybe I shouldn't be kept under closer watch. For instance, I do not like Seinfeld. I have nothing against the man personally, but I'm not a fan of the show. I will occasionally quote it at you and I have seen enough episodes that I can pick up most references. I think I used to like it, but I do not anymore. If you turn it on, I'll usually go find something else to do. For this, I have been accused of being un-American.
The topic of discussion today, however, is not Seinfeld, it is pizza. I like pizza. I am, in fact, remarkably unpicky about what goes on my pizza. I'll eat anything. Although I do have to admit that I tend to avoid olives and pepperoni. Avoiding pepperoni is one of those acts that gets raised eyebrows. Where I get squawks of indignation regarding pizza is not the pepperoni, though, it's the cold pizza. I love cold pizza. It is, in my humble opinion, the only way to eat leftover pizza. I absolutely prefer cold pizza to reheated pizza. You might even, if you caught me off guard, get me to admit that there are times when I prefer cold pizza to heated pizza in general (not always, but sometimes). I think cold pizza is the glorious epitome of what is possible in a leftover. All leftovers should taste this good the second time around. And with so little effort! It is an amazing and joyous thing to discover that the food I put in the refrigerator the night before has not lost any of its appeal AND that to partake of this marvelous victual one has only to remove it from the refrigerator and place it in one's mouth. Instant satisfaction. There are no intermediate steps necessary. No plates, no silverware, no pushing that single large button on the microwave, no waiting thirty seconds to a minute for food to heat up! Immediate, simple, delicious: cold pizza is one of my favorite ways to start a Saturday morning.
I have discovered that pizza, like Seinfeld, is one of those inane things about which people can get quite passionate. My fondness for cold pizza is simply a preference in taste, and one that does not inflict itself on others. Just because I choose to eat it that way does not mean others have to (the genius of the slice system), nor is there any smell for them to find distasteful. And yet, hot pizza is one of those things people feel the need to defend. I am not the only person who likes cold pizza, but I do believe we are in a minority. People watching me eat cold pizza feel the need to tell me that there's a microwave nearby, that it works, that it's available, that heating it there doesn't really complicate or slow down the fridge-to-mouth process all THAT much, as if I was only eating cold pizza because I had not yet discovered a way to efficiently heat the pizza. I try to explain that I like my pizza this way, but it's difficult. They shout, they wail, they threaten and cajole. Then they physically attempt to remove the pizza and put it in the microwave for me. There's a scuffle and I have to beat them off with a stick. They cry for a while, and then life goes back to normal, until the next person notices that my pizza is cold. Actually that's not true. People are generally pretty peaceful in their objections. And in the meantime, I finish the pizza at which point they'll shrug, smile, and nod as if they understand, and then tell me I'm weird. But I've heard that before.
I am, for those of you who have not yet noticed, something of an odd duck at times. I have several quirks, habits, and preferences that occasionally make my friends shake their heads and wonder if maybe I shouldn't be kept under closer watch. For instance, I do not like Seinfeld. I have nothing against the man personally, but I'm not a fan of the show. I will occasionally quote it at you and I have seen enough episodes that I can pick up most references. I think I used to like it, but I do not anymore. If you turn it on, I'll usually go find something else to do. For this, I have been accused of being un-American.
The topic of discussion today, however, is not Seinfeld, it is pizza. I like pizza. I am, in fact, remarkably unpicky about what goes on my pizza. I'll eat anything. Although I do have to admit that I tend to avoid olives and pepperoni. Avoiding pepperoni is one of those acts that gets raised eyebrows. Where I get squawks of indignation regarding pizza is not the pepperoni, though, it's the cold pizza. I love cold pizza. It is, in my humble opinion, the only way to eat leftover pizza. I absolutely prefer cold pizza to reheated pizza. You might even, if you caught me off guard, get me to admit that there are times when I prefer cold pizza to heated pizza in general (not always, but sometimes). I think cold pizza is the glorious epitome of what is possible in a leftover. All leftovers should taste this good the second time around. And with so little effort! It is an amazing and joyous thing to discover that the food I put in the refrigerator the night before has not lost any of its appeal AND that to partake of this marvelous victual one has only to remove it from the refrigerator and place it in one's mouth. Instant satisfaction. There are no intermediate steps necessary. No plates, no silverware, no pushing that single large button on the microwave, no waiting thirty seconds to a minute for food to heat up! Immediate, simple, delicious: cold pizza is one of my favorite ways to start a Saturday morning.
I have discovered that pizza, like Seinfeld, is one of those inane things about which people can get quite passionate. My fondness for cold pizza is simply a preference in taste, and one that does not inflict itself on others. Just because I choose to eat it that way does not mean others have to (the genius of the slice system), nor is there any smell for them to find distasteful. And yet, hot pizza is one of those things people feel the need to defend. I am not the only person who likes cold pizza, but I do believe we are in a minority. People watching me eat cold pizza feel the need to tell me that there's a microwave nearby, that it works, that it's available, that heating it there doesn't really complicate or slow down the fridge-to-mouth process all THAT much, as if I was only eating cold pizza because I had not yet discovered a way to efficiently heat the pizza. I try to explain that I like my pizza this way, but it's difficult. They shout, they wail, they threaten and cajole. Then they physically attempt to remove the pizza and put it in the microwave for me. There's a scuffle and I have to beat them off with a stick. They cry for a while, and then life goes back to normal, until the next person notices that my pizza is cold. Actually that's not true. People are generally pretty peaceful in their objections. And in the meantime, I finish the pizza at which point they'll shrug, smile, and nod as if they understand, and then tell me I'm weird. But I've heard that before.
Friday, December 05, 2003
HOLLA, HOLLA, HOLLA
I like snowboarding. Once I learned how to turn left last season, a whole new world opened up for me and I loved every white packed inch of it. Enough to go get my own snowboard. The inaugural trip for this season (and my new board) is already scheduled. I have new snowpants, good goggles, a good jacket, excellent gloves, and a variety of hats from which to choose (and did I mention the new board?). Bruce and I (mostly Bruce) have also completed the work on our snowboard mix CD (I can say no more at this time). All of this is ready and waiting, and I still have two and a half weeks to go before I can get on the slopes. The ski resort webpage is still telling me the same thing it said twelve minutes ago and I am about to burst with anticipation if I don't find some other way to prepare for the upcoming trip. Of course, I already have an idea, or I would not be writing this blog entry.
I have considered every angle of this inaugural adventure and identified the one factor I and my cohorts have thus far overlooked: Battlecries. We have given serious thought to our gear, our transportation, and even our music, but not to our battlecries. While not absolutely necessary, a good battlecry can significantly enhance the skiing or snowboarding experience. Nothing makes barreling down the mountainside more fun than shouting incoherently while you're doing it. It really is the perfect accessory to a good careen.
Because I refuse to do anything simple when I can make it complex, I have divided battlecries (or hollers) into several categories. I have presented these categories below for your amusement and education. Those of you planning on snowboarding soon should pay close attention and think carefully before designing your own hollers for use on the slopes this season.
**Bravado** - aka The "Look Out World Here I Come" Shout
This is what you shout when you're full of zest and ready to conquer the mountain. Often heard at the top of the trail immediately before or simultaneous to the beginning of a rider’s descent. Examples include: "Geronimo!", "Let’s get this party started!", “Bombs away!", and "Hail to the king, baby!"
**Warning** - aka the "No, Seriously, Look Out, I can't find the brakes on this thing!" shout
This is saved for those occasions when everything is going to hell in a handbasket, you're not enjoying the ride, and you want people to know that they'll be involved shortly if they don't move a few feet to the left. It is very difficult to prescript these particular hollers, but improvisation is highly effective. Examples include: "Get out of the way!" "Look out!" "Help!" and "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Can also be a wail of dismay. Often accompanied by wild arm waving.
**Incoherent** - the "Nyaaarraaaaagghhh"
This is a battlecry for those moments when you can't think of anything better to say, you're experiencing a rush that is so intense you can't spare time for syllables, or fear has frozen your tongue to the roof of your mouth. This is a very versatile cry. It can be used to express Joy, Rage, Exultation, Frustration, or Sheer Mindnumbing Terror. As with the Warning, when prompted by unanticipated events, these can be very hard to prescript. In such instances one will often resort to the simpler cries of "Yeaaah!", "Bah!", "Argh!", and "whoaaa!" However there are times when a prepared Incoherent cry can be used to great effect, such as the "Eulailailailai!" of The Long Patrol, the Cavalier "Wahoowa!", and of course Goofy's infamous "Woooooohoooohooohoohoo"
**Mockery** - the "Nyanyanya"
This battlecry is used when one rider has outperformed another by pulling off a better trick, by reaching the bottom of the mountain first, or simply by remaining upright, unmangled, and unmaimed for a longer period of time than his opponent. It is very similar to Bravado, but with less narcissism and more inferiority complex. It should be used with caution because the fates have a sense of humor and strangers might not. Examples include "Ha, take that!", "I rule!", "You suck!", and "Booyah!"
**Smug** - the "hmpf"
On second thought, smug battle cries are very hard to hear. Let's skip those.
**Triumph** - the "ALLLLLLLLLRRRRRIIIIIIGGGGHHHT!!!!!!!!!!!"
This is the finishing cry, for those times when a rider has just accomplished some spectacular feat against all odds, such as a rail slide, a tough jump, or reaching the bottom of the mountain relatively intact. The sentiment expressed is equivalent to "That mountain just tried to knock me over, but it DIDN'T. It's roughly a million times my size, and I beat it. HA! I survived! Let's do that again." Shorter examples include "Yes!", "Sweet!", "I did it!", "That completely rocked!", "Bring it on!", and "Aaawwwwww Yeaaaahhhh, Baby!" No matter how tempting it is, one should always refrain from shouting "I am the king of the world!" if at all possible
These categories and the examples provided should serve as a useful starting place for those of you who wish to craft your own snowboarding battlecries. Now I must attend to my own hollers. Look out world, here I come.
I like snowboarding. Once I learned how to turn left last season, a whole new world opened up for me and I loved every white packed inch of it. Enough to go get my own snowboard. The inaugural trip for this season (and my new board) is already scheduled. I have new snowpants, good goggles, a good jacket, excellent gloves, and a variety of hats from which to choose (and did I mention the new board?). Bruce and I (mostly Bruce) have also completed the work on our snowboard mix CD (I can say no more at this time). All of this is ready and waiting, and I still have two and a half weeks to go before I can get on the slopes. The ski resort webpage is still telling me the same thing it said twelve minutes ago and I am about to burst with anticipation if I don't find some other way to prepare for the upcoming trip. Of course, I already have an idea, or I would not be writing this blog entry.
I have considered every angle of this inaugural adventure and identified the one factor I and my cohorts have thus far overlooked: Battlecries. We have given serious thought to our gear, our transportation, and even our music, but not to our battlecries. While not absolutely necessary, a good battlecry can significantly enhance the skiing or snowboarding experience. Nothing makes barreling down the mountainside more fun than shouting incoherently while you're doing it. It really is the perfect accessory to a good careen.
Because I refuse to do anything simple when I can make it complex, I have divided battlecries (or hollers) into several categories. I have presented these categories below for your amusement and education. Those of you planning on snowboarding soon should pay close attention and think carefully before designing your own hollers for use on the slopes this season.
**Bravado** - aka The "Look Out World Here I Come" Shout
This is what you shout when you're full of zest and ready to conquer the mountain. Often heard at the top of the trail immediately before or simultaneous to the beginning of a rider’s descent. Examples include: "Geronimo!", "Let’s get this party started!", “Bombs away!", and "Hail to the king, baby!"
**Warning** - aka the "No, Seriously, Look Out, I can't find the brakes on this thing!" shout
This is saved for those occasions when everything is going to hell in a handbasket, you're not enjoying the ride, and you want people to know that they'll be involved shortly if they don't move a few feet to the left. It is very difficult to prescript these particular hollers, but improvisation is highly effective. Examples include: "Get out of the way!" "Look out!" "Help!" and "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Can also be a wail of dismay. Often accompanied by wild arm waving.
**Incoherent** - the "Nyaaarraaaaagghhh"
This is a battlecry for those moments when you can't think of anything better to say, you're experiencing a rush that is so intense you can't spare time for syllables, or fear has frozen your tongue to the roof of your mouth. This is a very versatile cry. It can be used to express Joy, Rage, Exultation, Frustration, or Sheer Mindnumbing Terror. As with the Warning, when prompted by unanticipated events, these can be very hard to prescript. In such instances one will often resort to the simpler cries of "Yeaaah!", "Bah!", "Argh!", and "whoaaa!" However there are times when a prepared Incoherent cry can be used to great effect, such as the "Eulailailailai!" of The Long Patrol, the Cavalier "Wahoowa!", and of course Goofy's infamous "Woooooohoooohooohoohoo"
**Mockery** - the "Nyanyanya"
This battlecry is used when one rider has outperformed another by pulling off a better trick, by reaching the bottom of the mountain first, or simply by remaining upright, unmangled, and unmaimed for a longer period of time than his opponent. It is very similar to Bravado, but with less narcissism and more inferiority complex. It should be used with caution because the fates have a sense of humor and strangers might not. Examples include "Ha, take that!", "I rule!", "You suck!", and "Booyah!"
**Smug** - the "hmpf"
On second thought, smug battle cries are very hard to hear. Let's skip those.
**Triumph** - the "ALLLLLLLLLRRRRRIIIIIIGGGGHHHT!!!!!!!!!!!"
This is the finishing cry, for those times when a rider has just accomplished some spectacular feat against all odds, such as a rail slide, a tough jump, or reaching the bottom of the mountain relatively intact. The sentiment expressed is equivalent to "That mountain just tried to knock me over, but it DIDN'T. It's roughly a million times my size, and I beat it. HA! I survived! Let's do that again." Shorter examples include "Yes!", "Sweet!", "I did it!", "That completely rocked!", "Bring it on!", and "Aaawwwwww Yeaaaahhhh, Baby!" No matter how tempting it is, one should always refrain from shouting "I am the king of the world!" if at all possible
These categories and the examples provided should serve as a useful starting place for those of you who wish to craft your own snowboarding battlecries. Now I must attend to my own hollers. Look out world, here I come.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
TAKING OVER THE WORLD, PART I
First, I have to apologize for taking so long to update this column. I have a good excuse, though. I’ve been plotting my rise to power as an evil overlord. Turns out it’s more complicated than I thought. You really need to put a lot of thought into something like that. Enough of you (it turns out I have three loyal readers) have berated me for not updating this page that I have temporarily abandoned my quest for world domination in order to concentrate on the column once again. I decided, however, that I couldn’t just let all this research go to waste. I may as well put it to use and share some of my conclusions with you. I’m not going to do any of the footwork for you, of course, but I can give you some tips to help you get past those early hurdles that slowed me down.
We’ll start with some of the big ones. What kind of villain do you want to be? Do you favor the “Silent but deadly” approach of your more nefarious villains or “The Bigger the Better” philosophy popular with the brute crowd? Subtly terrifying or terrifyingly massive? Think carefully, your answer here will set the tone for the rest of your villainy. Once you get that out of the way you can concentrate on the details.
Like your name. That’s an important detail. “But I already have a name!” you say. To which I respond, “Yes, but does it command the attention you want as a potential Evil Overlord?” Probably not. Take my name for instance: Robert Smith. Not really suitable for inspiring fear or obedience. Unless I was going for Terrifyingly Normal (which I haven’t ruled out, by the way), in which case it would be quite effective. As it turns out MOST parents are not usually inclined to give their child an evil sounding name. Of course there are exceptions; Richard Simmons managed to become terrifying without any adjustments to his name, but very few of us are as talented as he is.
So there’s a good chance you’ll have to change your name. Vin Diesel got it right. So did Dr. Evil. Neither name is very subtle, but they work. Vanilla Ice did not get it right (who’s afraid of vanilla anything?) but then again it’s not much worse than Robert van Winkle so at least it wasn’t a step backwards for him. Some successful names include Mugatu, Sauron, and the entire Darth line (Maul, Sidious, and Vader – although if “sidious” held the same relationship to “insidious” that “capable” holds to “incapable” then it would be a much less successful name).
Another way to enhance your name is to add a title. Ivan the Terrible is a perfect example. Ivan, by itself, is not a very interesting name. Facing Ivan is not a frightening prospect but if someone tells you you’re on your way to see Ivan the Terrible, well that’s a little more intimidating. Likewise, Vlad is the foreign exchange student next door. Vlad the Impaler, however, is a guy you’d rather not have living anywhere nearby. Dr., Baron, and Count are also titles that can add to the strength of a name. Even a simple Mr. or Mrs. can be frightening if used well (Miss Havisham is a good example of this). Try experimenting with a few variations of your own.
I’m afraid that’s about all I have time for now. I hope you found this useful. Perhaps in a future column I will be able to discuss lair design, subordinate selection, and the importance of an appropriate color scheme.
First, I have to apologize for taking so long to update this column. I have a good excuse, though. I’ve been plotting my rise to power as an evil overlord. Turns out it’s more complicated than I thought. You really need to put a lot of thought into something like that. Enough of you (it turns out I have three loyal readers) have berated me for not updating this page that I have temporarily abandoned my quest for world domination in order to concentrate on the column once again. I decided, however, that I couldn’t just let all this research go to waste. I may as well put it to use and share some of my conclusions with you. I’m not going to do any of the footwork for you, of course, but I can give you some tips to help you get past those early hurdles that slowed me down.
We’ll start with some of the big ones. What kind of villain do you want to be? Do you favor the “Silent but deadly” approach of your more nefarious villains or “The Bigger the Better” philosophy popular with the brute crowd? Subtly terrifying or terrifyingly massive? Think carefully, your answer here will set the tone for the rest of your villainy. Once you get that out of the way you can concentrate on the details.
Like your name. That’s an important detail. “But I already have a name!” you say. To which I respond, “Yes, but does it command the attention you want as a potential Evil Overlord?” Probably not. Take my name for instance: Robert Smith. Not really suitable for inspiring fear or obedience. Unless I was going for Terrifyingly Normal (which I haven’t ruled out, by the way), in which case it would be quite effective. As it turns out MOST parents are not usually inclined to give their child an evil sounding name. Of course there are exceptions; Richard Simmons managed to become terrifying without any adjustments to his name, but very few of us are as talented as he is.
So there’s a good chance you’ll have to change your name. Vin Diesel got it right. So did Dr. Evil. Neither name is very subtle, but they work. Vanilla Ice did not get it right (who’s afraid of vanilla anything?) but then again it’s not much worse than Robert van Winkle so at least it wasn’t a step backwards for him. Some successful names include Mugatu, Sauron, and the entire Darth line (Maul, Sidious, and Vader – although if “sidious” held the same relationship to “insidious” that “capable” holds to “incapable” then it would be a much less successful name).
Another way to enhance your name is to add a title. Ivan the Terrible is a perfect example. Ivan, by itself, is not a very interesting name. Facing Ivan is not a frightening prospect but if someone tells you you’re on your way to see Ivan the Terrible, well that’s a little more intimidating. Likewise, Vlad is the foreign exchange student next door. Vlad the Impaler, however, is a guy you’d rather not have living anywhere nearby. Dr., Baron, and Count are also titles that can add to the strength of a name. Even a simple Mr. or Mrs. can be frightening if used well (Miss Havisham is a good example of this). Try experimenting with a few variations of your own.
I’m afraid that’s about all I have time for now. I hope you found this useful. Perhaps in a future column I will be able to discuss lair design, subordinate selection, and the importance of an appropriate color scheme.
Friday, April 18, 2003
CHEESE
"Say Cheese!" apparently means the same thing as "Please smile." It has become a ritual of photography. Gather a group of people and pose them. Place another person behind a camera to take photos of the posed group. Nine times out of ten* the cameraman will start by asking everyone to "Say Cheese!" and nine times out of ten* the group dutifully responds by doing just that (*I made this statistic up). I always assumed there was something about the word that automatically shaped your mouth into a smile. Recent experimentation, however, has suggested otherwise. I have found myself capable of saying "cheese" numerous times without ever smiling or appearing to smile. I can even hold a pretty decent frown while speaking this word. (On an unrelated note: my coworkers recently sent a petition to Office Services to improve the sound proofing on my cubicle or move me into an office of my own. They're such great people).
So where did this idea come from, that saying the word "cheese" is the best way to get people to smile for pictures? I don't really think it's the idea of cheese itself that is supposed to do the trick. After all, it does not carry a whole lot of inherent humor value, like orangutans or kumquats. "Cheese" isn't exactly synonymous with "fun." As for inspiring warmly pleasant thoughts, it is not generally the first thing one would think of for that purpose. I'd go as far as to say that cheese is a rather ambiguous food. Most people are okay with it, some are not, but neither its supporters nor its detractors are very vocal about their opinions, for the most part. Thinking about cheese does not generally inspire the delight of, say, thinking about chocolate or maybe thinking about sex. But then again I do know some people who are militantly opposed to chocolate, and some who are militantly opposed to sex. I do not think I know anyone militantly opposed to cheese. Maybe that's why it's so popular as the "please smile" word of choice; it's not likely to offend anyone.
Although, it does still carry a certain amount of risk to ask people to think about cheese. The category of cheese is quite broad and contains more than a few examples which, instead of inducing smiles, might induce wrinkled noses, depending on what type of cheese one chooses to think about.
It just seems to me that there are better alternatives out there. The photographers (the good ones at least) who take family portraits seem to have caught on to this. Many of them have various toys and silly outfits to inspire smiles and smirks in their subjects. They have also come up with more unique and funnier things to say than "cheese." For instance: "pickle nose." When I was little, my brother and I had our picture taken with our Grandmother. The photographer's phrase of choice was "pickle nose," an amusing concept. I am smiling in the picture. My grandmother is firmly holding my brother's arms to his sides and he looks slightly confused. This is because he thought the photographer was telling him, "Pick your nose." That picture took several tries. Perhaps it really is safest just to say "cheese."
"Say Cheese!" apparently means the same thing as "Please smile." It has become a ritual of photography. Gather a group of people and pose them. Place another person behind a camera to take photos of the posed group. Nine times out of ten* the cameraman will start by asking everyone to "Say Cheese!" and nine times out of ten* the group dutifully responds by doing just that (*I made this statistic up). I always assumed there was something about the word that automatically shaped your mouth into a smile. Recent experimentation, however, has suggested otherwise. I have found myself capable of saying "cheese" numerous times without ever smiling or appearing to smile. I can even hold a pretty decent frown while speaking this word. (On an unrelated note: my coworkers recently sent a petition to Office Services to improve the sound proofing on my cubicle or move me into an office of my own. They're such great people).
So where did this idea come from, that saying the word "cheese" is the best way to get people to smile for pictures? I don't really think it's the idea of cheese itself that is supposed to do the trick. After all, it does not carry a whole lot of inherent humor value, like orangutans or kumquats. "Cheese" isn't exactly synonymous with "fun." As for inspiring warmly pleasant thoughts, it is not generally the first thing one would think of for that purpose. I'd go as far as to say that cheese is a rather ambiguous food. Most people are okay with it, some are not, but neither its supporters nor its detractors are very vocal about their opinions, for the most part. Thinking about cheese does not generally inspire the delight of, say, thinking about chocolate or maybe thinking about sex. But then again I do know some people who are militantly opposed to chocolate, and some who are militantly opposed to sex. I do not think I know anyone militantly opposed to cheese. Maybe that's why it's so popular as the "please smile" word of choice; it's not likely to offend anyone.
Although, it does still carry a certain amount of risk to ask people to think about cheese. The category of cheese is quite broad and contains more than a few examples which, instead of inducing smiles, might induce wrinkled noses, depending on what type of cheese one chooses to think about.
It just seems to me that there are better alternatives out there. The photographers (the good ones at least) who take family portraits seem to have caught on to this. Many of them have various toys and silly outfits to inspire smiles and smirks in their subjects. They have also come up with more unique and funnier things to say than "cheese." For instance: "pickle nose." When I was little, my brother and I had our picture taken with our Grandmother. The photographer's phrase of choice was "pickle nose," an amusing concept. I am smiling in the picture. My grandmother is firmly holding my brother's arms to his sides and he looks slightly confused. This is because he thought the photographer was telling him, "Pick your nose." That picture took several tries. Perhaps it really is safest just to say "cheese."
Sunday, March 30, 2003
THIS TOO SHALL PASS
My father was the one who first explained to me the concept of the fad. He used the word in a discussion we were having about the musical merits of M.C. Hammer. I had never heard the word before and he explained its meaning to me. He then reiterated his point, which is that the affection much of America's youth held for the musical stylings of M.C. Hammer, an affection that was quite widespread at the time, was simply an example of a fad and that it would pass in time. History was to ultimately (and quickly) prove him correct, although I did not believe him at the time. After all, this was the man who had tried to tell me that Superman would be able to beat He-man in a fight, should the two heroes ever have reason to quarrel. I found both these notions, that M.C. Hammer was anything but timeless and that He-man was anything but invincible, to be laughable. I argued with him on both counts and attempted to make him see reason. He would not. We agreed to disagree and remained amicable despite our differences of opinion. I now see, as I have already stated, that he was correct regarding M.C. Hammer (later known as "Hammer", later known as "who?"). I see it as a sign of my growth and maturity, an indication of just how far I have come from that foolish youth I was, that I now also understand that Superman's ability to fly and to shoot lasers from his eyes would give him a clear advantage over He-man, whose sole talents lie in his incredible strength and massive sword.
Fads are a funny thing, though (and I don't just mean right after they collapse when everyone cool is mocking everyone else for their blind participation, forgetting that just months before, they too, were sporting about six neon snap-bracelets on each arm). They burst brightly onto the scene, burn intensely, and then flicker and crumble to ash. Wait long enough, however, and they shall rise again. People with bad memories decide that things were better "back then" and in a fit of misplaced nostalgia attempt to recreate the atmosphere. Witness the resurgence in the platform shoes and even, briefly, bell-bottoms that one saw not too long ago. Now, 80's trends are starting to reappear. That 70's Show has spawned That 80's Show. Jean Jackets are showing up in malls. A new He-man cartoon has appeared on cartoon network. In the cycle of fads, a cycle that is sped up when reapplied as "retro", we could soon be seeing the time when M.C. Hammer and his amazing pants could make a return.
Did I say fads are a funny thing? I meant fads are a scary thing. I buried my hammer-pants a long time ago. Do not make me take them out again.
Oh, and for the record, yes The Man of Steel could defeat The (misnamed) Most Powerful Man in the Universe, but I think Prince Adam could take Clark Kent pretty handily and I KNOW Princess Teela could lay a serious smackdown on Lois Lane.
My father was the one who first explained to me the concept of the fad. He used the word in a discussion we were having about the musical merits of M.C. Hammer. I had never heard the word before and he explained its meaning to me. He then reiterated his point, which is that the affection much of America's youth held for the musical stylings of M.C. Hammer, an affection that was quite widespread at the time, was simply an example of a fad and that it would pass in time. History was to ultimately (and quickly) prove him correct, although I did not believe him at the time. After all, this was the man who had tried to tell me that Superman would be able to beat He-man in a fight, should the two heroes ever have reason to quarrel. I found both these notions, that M.C. Hammer was anything but timeless and that He-man was anything but invincible, to be laughable. I argued with him on both counts and attempted to make him see reason. He would not. We agreed to disagree and remained amicable despite our differences of opinion. I now see, as I have already stated, that he was correct regarding M.C. Hammer (later known as "Hammer", later known as "who?"). I see it as a sign of my growth and maturity, an indication of just how far I have come from that foolish youth I was, that I now also understand that Superman's ability to fly and to shoot lasers from his eyes would give him a clear advantage over He-man, whose sole talents lie in his incredible strength and massive sword.
Fads are a funny thing, though (and I don't just mean right after they collapse when everyone cool is mocking everyone else for their blind participation, forgetting that just months before, they too, were sporting about six neon snap-bracelets on each arm). They burst brightly onto the scene, burn intensely, and then flicker and crumble to ash. Wait long enough, however, and they shall rise again. People with bad memories decide that things were better "back then" and in a fit of misplaced nostalgia attempt to recreate the atmosphere. Witness the resurgence in the platform shoes and even, briefly, bell-bottoms that one saw not too long ago. Now, 80's trends are starting to reappear. That 70's Show has spawned That 80's Show. Jean Jackets are showing up in malls. A new He-man cartoon has appeared on cartoon network. In the cycle of fads, a cycle that is sped up when reapplied as "retro", we could soon be seeing the time when M.C. Hammer and his amazing pants could make a return.
Did I say fads are a funny thing? I meant fads are a scary thing. I buried my hammer-pants a long time ago. Do not make me take them out again.
Oh, and for the record, yes The Man of Steel could defeat The (misnamed) Most Powerful Man in the Universe, but I think Prince Adam could take Clark Kent pretty handily and I KNOW Princess Teela could lay a serious smackdown on Lois Lane.
Friday, February 21, 2003
SNOWBOUND
I am a Yankee, and proud of it. I didn't even realize that it was an insult until college. I'm still not positive that it is, although I do know people who use the word (or fear to use it) as if it were one. I don't see it that way. I used to make fun of my friends from Texas who lit up anytime their state ever came up in conversation. I stopped teasing them when I realized I do the same thing whenever someone mentions New England. I pretend to be all knowledgeable about the North ("The Presidential Range? Yeah, I know the area... Boston? Great city....") and act offended when people express ignorance of the region. Although, to be honest, I have received some dubious questions that maybe deserved the disdain (for instance, I should point out that New England is not one of the fifty states since I have gotten that question a few times).
Beyond the lip-service I pay to the region where I grew up, there are a few areas of my life where my Yankeeness makes itself known through my actions more than my words. For instance, country music. I have spent the last five years of my life south of the Mason-Dixon line. I have dated or had serious crushes on several girls who really dug country music. I've lived with people who owned it. I still cannot bring myself to listen to it for any great period of time (great period of time being defined as more than two songs). I have learned to tolerate it when others choose it (and that is the fault of various females in my life more than anything else) but when I have a choice, I'll change the channel. Even when I'm trying not to (for her sake), I tend to forget and change it anyway. It's just not for me (and even if, craziest of crazy thoughts, I did happen to enjoy an occasional song from the genre I would never admit it...)
Another area where it becomes apparent that I am a Yank is winter. I like winter. I love being out in the snow. I know which kind is best for snowballs and snowmen, and which kind is best for whitewashes (if you don't know what that is, ask me sometime and I'll show you). I know which sleds to use on which days. I love cross country skiing (common response: who would ever want to ski sideways!?!?). I know how best to shovel a driveway (oh do I ever know how to shovel a flippin' driveway), and I will probably never fail to point this out to you if we ever start talking about snow (like here for instance). I know how to drive in snow. More importantly, I know when NOT to drive in snow.
This is something a lot of people in the DC area do not appear to know. This weekend dumped over a foot and a half of snow on the areas hit the lightest. Up to two feet or more in the harder hit areas. There have been a surprising number of accidents in the past few days. The natives are surprised that snow can cause that many accidents. I am surprised that so many people were dumb enough to try driving in it. A man nearby dug out his driveway so his car, a Honda Civic, could get purchase. A good idea. The bad idea came when he tried to drive into the street where there was still about sixteen inches of snow. My roommate helped push him back into his driveway.
The newspeople don't seem to know what to do with the weather either. I watched one reporter stationed at an airport. She managed to get the relevant information across pretty quickly: this one is shut down, that one has one runway open but call first before trying to catch a flight. Then the snow shock got to her. She started explaining what it was like to be waiting at the airport in the snowstorm. "There are a lot of people here, sitting, resting. Some people are reading books to pass the time. They're trying to go all sorts of places - Florida, California, Kansas, I even spoke to one person who wanted to go to Europe!" Wow. So that's what an airport is like in a snowstorm, huh? She, at least, was smart enough not to try to go anywhere else for a while.
I'll tell you this, in New England, we know what to do with snowstorms like this one. I'll give you a hint, it involves hot chocolate and a snowfort or two. It does not involve driving.
I am a Yankee, and proud of it. I didn't even realize that it was an insult until college. I'm still not positive that it is, although I do know people who use the word (or fear to use it) as if it were one. I don't see it that way. I used to make fun of my friends from Texas who lit up anytime their state ever came up in conversation. I stopped teasing them when I realized I do the same thing whenever someone mentions New England. I pretend to be all knowledgeable about the North ("The Presidential Range? Yeah, I know the area... Boston? Great city....") and act offended when people express ignorance of the region. Although, to be honest, I have received some dubious questions that maybe deserved the disdain (for instance, I should point out that New England is not one of the fifty states since I have gotten that question a few times).
Beyond the lip-service I pay to the region where I grew up, there are a few areas of my life where my Yankeeness makes itself known through my actions more than my words. For instance, country music. I have spent the last five years of my life south of the Mason-Dixon line. I have dated or had serious crushes on several girls who really dug country music. I've lived with people who owned it. I still cannot bring myself to listen to it for any great period of time (great period of time being defined as more than two songs). I have learned to tolerate it when others choose it (and that is the fault of various females in my life more than anything else) but when I have a choice, I'll change the channel. Even when I'm trying not to (for her sake), I tend to forget and change it anyway. It's just not for me (and even if, craziest of crazy thoughts, I did happen to enjoy an occasional song from the genre I would never admit it...)
Another area where it becomes apparent that I am a Yank is winter. I like winter. I love being out in the snow. I know which kind is best for snowballs and snowmen, and which kind is best for whitewashes (if you don't know what that is, ask me sometime and I'll show you). I know which sleds to use on which days. I love cross country skiing (common response: who would ever want to ski sideways!?!?). I know how best to shovel a driveway (oh do I ever know how to shovel a flippin' driveway), and I will probably never fail to point this out to you if we ever start talking about snow (like here for instance). I know how to drive in snow. More importantly, I know when NOT to drive in snow.
This is something a lot of people in the DC area do not appear to know. This weekend dumped over a foot and a half of snow on the areas hit the lightest. Up to two feet or more in the harder hit areas. There have been a surprising number of accidents in the past few days. The natives are surprised that snow can cause that many accidents. I am surprised that so many people were dumb enough to try driving in it. A man nearby dug out his driveway so his car, a Honda Civic, could get purchase. A good idea. The bad idea came when he tried to drive into the street where there was still about sixteen inches of snow. My roommate helped push him back into his driveway.
The newspeople don't seem to know what to do with the weather either. I watched one reporter stationed at an airport. She managed to get the relevant information across pretty quickly: this one is shut down, that one has one runway open but call first before trying to catch a flight. Then the snow shock got to her. She started explaining what it was like to be waiting at the airport in the snowstorm. "There are a lot of people here, sitting, resting. Some people are reading books to pass the time. They're trying to go all sorts of places - Florida, California, Kansas, I even spoke to one person who wanted to go to Europe!" Wow. So that's what an airport is like in a snowstorm, huh? She, at least, was smart enough not to try to go anywhere else for a while.
I'll tell you this, in New England, we know what to do with snowstorms like this one. I'll give you a hint, it involves hot chocolate and a snowfort or two. It does not involve driving.
Thursday, February 13, 2003
TRU LUV
I am a huge fan of those little candy hearts you always see around Valentine's Day. Actually, due to a fun little quirk of market-forces, I see a lot of them right after Valentine's Day, too. I don't care if the holiday is past or not, the post-holiday sales are just an added bonus to an already excellent package. I pop these suckers like they're CANDY. I mean these things are made of pure sugar AND they massage your ego? How can you go wrong?
Actually, you'd be surprised. Here's one way - using the hearts to predict your romantic future. I used to do this in highschool (notice that I did not say that I have stopped doing this - I'm just going to let you infer that I have and then not bother to correct you). I'd start by asking a question about whatever girl had caught my attention. Then I would pick a heart at random and use the message as my answer, kind of like a Magic 8 Ball, but with no bad answers (or so one would think). It never worked out quite as well as I hoped. It turns out that it's a lot easier to get depressing answers than I had expected. I thought I had this whole thing locked up. I was using candy made for Valentine's Day for relationship advice, candy designed for romance (hey, my friends hadn't been doing me much good there and I certainly wasn't getting anywhere by trying to apply logic . . .). I thought it was a foolproof plan. I was wrong. Those little hearts look so innocent, but the suckers can be MEAN.
I asked once, "Should I kiss Lauren?" I was thinking here primarily of the hearts that said "Yes." I had seen several in the bag earlier, so I knew they were there. The answer that came back, however, was, "Stay good." (I hate that message) Okay, so maybe the question was poorly worded. I tried again. "What would Lauren say if I asked her to go out with me?" to which I received the oh-so-helpful response "UR Nice." Ha! "You're a nice guy" in my experience, is almost always followed by a "but." Once again, the messengers of love had instead delivered a message of luke-warm tolerance. I tried a third time because (and you have your pick of reasons here): a)I'm a sucker for punishment; b) tragedies must always come in threes; c) I'm the king of wishful thinking; or d) all of the above. Regardless of the reason(s), I thought up a third question. I knew, of course, that I already had two less-than-ideal responses but I wasn't too worried. I also knew that any positive responses I might receive would automatically negate any and all unpleasant answers I had already heard. One positive answer would mean all the negative answers were flukes or misinterpretations of the omens (That's how good fortune-telling works). So I had a lot riding on this third question. I thought for a while and finally came up with a winner. "What does Lauren think about me?" I was pretty proud of myself for that one. Any of the answers I already had would be good answers to get for that question. I couldn't think of a heart that wouldn't, really. I closed my eyes and picked one out of the bag. Slowly, I opened my eyes again, "Wise up." (I am not kidding, there really are candy hearts that say "wise up.") I told you those suckers could be mean.
That was it, I'd had enough. Telling me what I didn't want to hear was one thing, mocking me outright was quite another. I ate the rest without asking any questions and trying (and failing) not to notice how good THOSE answers would have been ("marry me", "my teddy bear", "email me"). I decided that instead of asking the candy hearts, maybe I should just ask Lauren herself.
She told me I was a nice guy...
I am a huge fan of those little candy hearts you always see around Valentine's Day. Actually, due to a fun little quirk of market-forces, I see a lot of them right after Valentine's Day, too. I don't care if the holiday is past or not, the post-holiday sales are just an added bonus to an already excellent package. I pop these suckers like they're CANDY. I mean these things are made of pure sugar AND they massage your ego? How can you go wrong?
Actually, you'd be surprised. Here's one way - using the hearts to predict your romantic future. I used to do this in highschool (notice that I did not say that I have stopped doing this - I'm just going to let you infer that I have and then not bother to correct you). I'd start by asking a question about whatever girl had caught my attention. Then I would pick a heart at random and use the message as my answer, kind of like a Magic 8 Ball, but with no bad answers (or so one would think). It never worked out quite as well as I hoped. It turns out that it's a lot easier to get depressing answers than I had expected. I thought I had this whole thing locked up. I was using candy made for Valentine's Day for relationship advice, candy designed for romance (hey, my friends hadn't been doing me much good there and I certainly wasn't getting anywhere by trying to apply logic . . .). I thought it was a foolproof plan. I was wrong. Those little hearts look so innocent, but the suckers can be MEAN.
I asked once, "Should I kiss Lauren?" I was thinking here primarily of the hearts that said "Yes." I had seen several in the bag earlier, so I knew they were there. The answer that came back, however, was, "Stay good." (I hate that message) Okay, so maybe the question was poorly worded. I tried again. "What would Lauren say if I asked her to go out with me?" to which I received the oh-so-helpful response "UR Nice." Ha! "You're a nice guy" in my experience, is almost always followed by a "but." Once again, the messengers of love had instead delivered a message of luke-warm tolerance. I tried a third time because (and you have your pick of reasons here): a)I'm a sucker for punishment; b) tragedies must always come in threes; c) I'm the king of wishful thinking; or d) all of the above. Regardless of the reason(s), I thought up a third question. I knew, of course, that I already had two less-than-ideal responses but I wasn't too worried. I also knew that any positive responses I might receive would automatically negate any and all unpleasant answers I had already heard. One positive answer would mean all the negative answers were flukes or misinterpretations of the omens (That's how good fortune-telling works). So I had a lot riding on this third question. I thought for a while and finally came up with a winner. "What does Lauren think about me?" I was pretty proud of myself for that one. Any of the answers I already had would be good answers to get for that question. I couldn't think of a heart that wouldn't, really. I closed my eyes and picked one out of the bag. Slowly, I opened my eyes again, "Wise up." (I am not kidding, there really are candy hearts that say "wise up.") I told you those suckers could be mean.
That was it, I'd had enough. Telling me what I didn't want to hear was one thing, mocking me outright was quite another. I ate the rest without asking any questions and trying (and failing) not to notice how good THOSE answers would have been ("marry me", "my teddy bear", "email me"). I decided that instead of asking the candy hearts, maybe I should just ask Lauren herself.
She told me I was a nice guy...
Thursday, February 06, 2003
SINGLE-SERVING FRIENDS
Some people exist as moments in time. They're temporary, showing up in our lives long enough for us to notice then exiting stage left (or stage right, depending on which side of the stage they came in on, I guess). I'm thinking, in particular, of a pair of girls my brother and I met when we were on a cruise last summer. Now they may have a different take on the whole thing, they may, if they recall us at all, consider US the temporary ones. But since I knew them for maybe forty minutes of my life and have no proof that they still exist while I'm reasonably certain both my brother and I still exist, I am going to exercise my authorly powers and declare them to have been the temporary part of this particular relationship.
It was late-night buffet night on the ship. Actually, every night was late-night buffet night, but on this particular night they made a bigger deal of the buffet than usual (even giving it a fancy title which I cannot recall). It was, in fact, beautiful. Several ice carvings sat along a VERY long set of tables. The food itself was no less attractive than the ice carvings. The chefs had taken pains to cut and arrange the food into some absolutely delightful designs, plus a few bizarre ones (if you've never seen a mermaid carved out of a watermelon, you're missing out). There was an aquarium of fish in the middle of the table and it took me several minutes to realize that the fish were made out of cantaloup, carrots, and other fruits and vegetables. Certainly prettier and much more creative than any of the sculptures I've made out of my mashed potatoes.
This whole set-up - the size of the buffet, its general location, and the mass of people gawking at it - interrupted the typical table arrangement in the dining room so the staff came up with a new arrangement. As we came off the line they funneled us, with speed and efficiency, to the nearest available table of their choosing. My brother and I found ourselves sitting across the table from a pair of high school girls. I can hear some of you rolling your eyes already. (Yes, hear. I can't very well see you from where I'm sitting, but enough people have rolled their eyes at me that I KNOW what it sounds like...)
Now for those of you who are not rolling your eyes, I should probably explain why the others are. See, it has become something of a running joke amongst my friends that my girlfriends tend to be younger than I am. Now this might be because I dated a freshman each of my four years at college (college freshman, you sickos!). I did, also date girls my age or older during this time, but for the purposes of mockery, my friends (even those who I actually dated, or tried to date as the case may be) conveniently manage to forget such things. Hence the collective eye-rolling when I mention that my brother and I met a pair of highschool girls on a cruise. It's unjustified, in this case (and really in any case involving highschoolers). I'd like to remind everyone that I had nothing to do with the choice of seats.
I don't remember most of what we talked about except for their theory about jello and dreams (alright knock it off, this was an entirely platonic discussion). They claimed that if you eat jello right before going to bed, you have some really freaky dreams. They try to do it as often as possible (and were, in fact, eating a fair amount of it as we talked). Thinking about it, I have to agree with their theory, although I'd say ice cream instead of jello. That might be because I buy ice cream fairly often, but really haven't made jello in a while. So my experience with the jello dream phenomenon is rather limited, but I can tell you ice cream right before bed does make for some weird dreams. Try it sometime.
Really I don't remember the rest of the conversation. I just remember it was a lot of fun. The four of us sat there talking and laughing (about some really dumb things) for a long time. And that was it. We left and went one way. They left and went another. Never saw them again (and on a cruise ship that's quite a feat - part of the reason I'm convinced they only existed for those moments we talked with them). To be honest, I had no real desire to spend any more time with them. I'm pretty sure that with more exposure they would have gotten pretty annoying pretty quickly (kind of like me). But for that brief moment in time, the four of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Some people exist as moments in time. They're temporary, showing up in our lives long enough for us to notice then exiting stage left (or stage right, depending on which side of the stage they came in on, I guess). I'm thinking, in particular, of a pair of girls my brother and I met when we were on a cruise last summer. Now they may have a different take on the whole thing, they may, if they recall us at all, consider US the temporary ones. But since I knew them for maybe forty minutes of my life and have no proof that they still exist while I'm reasonably certain both my brother and I still exist, I am going to exercise my authorly powers and declare them to have been the temporary part of this particular relationship.
It was late-night buffet night on the ship. Actually, every night was late-night buffet night, but on this particular night they made a bigger deal of the buffet than usual (even giving it a fancy title which I cannot recall). It was, in fact, beautiful. Several ice carvings sat along a VERY long set of tables. The food itself was no less attractive than the ice carvings. The chefs had taken pains to cut and arrange the food into some absolutely delightful designs, plus a few bizarre ones (if you've never seen a mermaid carved out of a watermelon, you're missing out). There was an aquarium of fish in the middle of the table and it took me several minutes to realize that the fish were made out of cantaloup, carrots, and other fruits and vegetables. Certainly prettier and much more creative than any of the sculptures I've made out of my mashed potatoes.
This whole set-up - the size of the buffet, its general location, and the mass of people gawking at it - interrupted the typical table arrangement in the dining room so the staff came up with a new arrangement. As we came off the line they funneled us, with speed and efficiency, to the nearest available table of their choosing. My brother and I found ourselves sitting across the table from a pair of high school girls. I can hear some of you rolling your eyes already. (Yes, hear. I can't very well see you from where I'm sitting, but enough people have rolled their eyes at me that I KNOW what it sounds like...)
Now for those of you who are not rolling your eyes, I should probably explain why the others are. See, it has become something of a running joke amongst my friends that my girlfriends tend to be younger than I am. Now this might be because I dated a freshman each of my four years at college (college freshman, you sickos!). I did, also date girls my age or older during this time, but for the purposes of mockery, my friends (even those who I actually dated, or tried to date as the case may be) conveniently manage to forget such things. Hence the collective eye-rolling when I mention that my brother and I met a pair of highschool girls on a cruise. It's unjustified, in this case (and really in any case involving highschoolers). I'd like to remind everyone that I had nothing to do with the choice of seats.
I don't remember most of what we talked about except for their theory about jello and dreams (alright knock it off, this was an entirely platonic discussion). They claimed that if you eat jello right before going to bed, you have some really freaky dreams. They try to do it as often as possible (and were, in fact, eating a fair amount of it as we talked). Thinking about it, I have to agree with their theory, although I'd say ice cream instead of jello. That might be because I buy ice cream fairly often, but really haven't made jello in a while. So my experience with the jello dream phenomenon is rather limited, but I can tell you ice cream right before bed does make for some weird dreams. Try it sometime.
Really I don't remember the rest of the conversation. I just remember it was a lot of fun. The four of us sat there talking and laughing (about some really dumb things) for a long time. And that was it. We left and went one way. They left and went another. Never saw them again (and on a cruise ship that's quite a feat - part of the reason I'm convinced they only existed for those moments we talked with them). To be honest, I had no real desire to spend any more time with them. I'm pretty sure that with more exposure they would have gotten pretty annoying pretty quickly (kind of like me). But for that brief moment in time, the four of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Monday, February 03, 2003
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING
You know what the problem with today's society is? No quality control when it comes to naming holidays. None. Used to be you had to get martyred, rule an empire, or declare national independence in order to create a new holiday. Then Hallmark got into the fray and started naming their own holidays. Even that wasn't so bad. See, Hallmark recognized the need to keep the holidays distinct in time as well as theme. Who would buy new cards if they could still use the old ones, or if they had just bought cards for a different holiday the week before? So Hallmark didn't push too hard. They created a few well-spread holidays and concentrated on making celebration of each one important, crucial even, to the fabric of our relationships. Insidious bastards, but at least these new holidays were well decorated.
The trouble really started when the lobbyists caught on to what Hallmark was doing. That was the beginning of the end. Soon everyone (activists, special interests, organizations, fan clubs, neighborhood watch groups) was clambering for a holiday to recognize their favorite hero/founder/animal/meal/hobby/TV show/personal-grooming-device. I've been doing some research on this and am constantly amazed at the sheer number of subjects people feel compelled to celebrate. A few examples: Bagel Day, Ballet Day, Inventor's Day, Girl Scout Thinking Day (okay, I understand "Girl Scout Day" but why "Girl Scout THINKING Day"?), American Pie Day and Eat Right Day (these two are, interestingly enough, on the same day), Laugh and Grow Rich Day (one of my favorites, though I have yet to figure out how to celebrate it properly), Give Away Pennies Day, Ferris Wheel Day, Dump-a-Jerk Day, Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day (your guess is as good as mine), and (another personal favorite) Public Sleeping Day. And that's just February. Now how are the legitimate holidays supposed to compete with this inundation? How is a national treasure like Groundhog's Day to rise above the morass of home-grown holidays and still retain its former dignity and shine? It will be difficult, I tell you, and Groundhog's Day will not be the only holiday to suffer.
Now, I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinking we don't HAVE to celebrate these holidays and, if I hadn't told you, you wouldn't have known most of them existed. For purposes of moral clarity I am going to ignore the second part of your argument. I will however address the first part by asking this question: What about the holidays that inflict themselves upon others? Like Hoodie-Hoo Day. Those who celebrate this holiday are supposed to walk out of their houses at noon and shout "Hoodie-hoo!" as loud as they can in a concerted national effort to scare away winter. I don't know about winter, but it might scare me if my neighbors tried this. "Well, that's just one holiday," you say. Yes, but there are more! That's my point. For every Hoodie-hoo Day (February 20th) there's a Pop Goes the Weasel Day (June 14th), a "Yell Fudge at Cobras Day" (June 2nd - whoever dedicated this holiday was under the impression that cobras are mortally afraid of fudge and will flee at its mere mention), and a Kick Butts Day (April 4th). Okay so that last one might be fun, but you get my point. This insanity has already gone too far and it will only get worse unless we do something about it. So I propose this: anyone that Hoodie-hoos, you smack. Doesn't have to be hard, just a warning smack will do. Then they won't do it again, and hopefully (if you explain your reasons well enough) they'll think twice about some of those other days, too. The more people we can get involved in this plan, the better it will work. In fact, to increase national awareness of the event, I think I'll make it a holiday.
You know what the problem with today's society is? No quality control when it comes to naming holidays. None. Used to be you had to get martyred, rule an empire, or declare national independence in order to create a new holiday. Then Hallmark got into the fray and started naming their own holidays. Even that wasn't so bad. See, Hallmark recognized the need to keep the holidays distinct in time as well as theme. Who would buy new cards if they could still use the old ones, or if they had just bought cards for a different holiday the week before? So Hallmark didn't push too hard. They created a few well-spread holidays and concentrated on making celebration of each one important, crucial even, to the fabric of our relationships. Insidious bastards, but at least these new holidays were well decorated.
The trouble really started when the lobbyists caught on to what Hallmark was doing. That was the beginning of the end. Soon everyone (activists, special interests, organizations, fan clubs, neighborhood watch groups) was clambering for a holiday to recognize their favorite hero/founder/animal/meal/hobby/TV show/personal-grooming-device. I've been doing some research on this and am constantly amazed at the sheer number of subjects people feel compelled to celebrate. A few examples: Bagel Day, Ballet Day, Inventor's Day, Girl Scout Thinking Day (okay, I understand "Girl Scout Day" but why "Girl Scout THINKING Day"?), American Pie Day and Eat Right Day (these two are, interestingly enough, on the same day), Laugh and Grow Rich Day (one of my favorites, though I have yet to figure out how to celebrate it properly), Give Away Pennies Day, Ferris Wheel Day, Dump-a-Jerk Day, Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day (your guess is as good as mine), and (another personal favorite) Public Sleeping Day. And that's just February. Now how are the legitimate holidays supposed to compete with this inundation? How is a national treasure like Groundhog's Day to rise above the morass of home-grown holidays and still retain its former dignity and shine? It will be difficult, I tell you, and Groundhog's Day will not be the only holiday to suffer.
Now, I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinking we don't HAVE to celebrate these holidays and, if I hadn't told you, you wouldn't have known most of them existed. For purposes of moral clarity I am going to ignore the second part of your argument. I will however address the first part by asking this question: What about the holidays that inflict themselves upon others? Like Hoodie-Hoo Day. Those who celebrate this holiday are supposed to walk out of their houses at noon and shout "Hoodie-hoo!" as loud as they can in a concerted national effort to scare away winter. I don't know about winter, but it might scare me if my neighbors tried this. "Well, that's just one holiday," you say. Yes, but there are more! That's my point. For every Hoodie-hoo Day (February 20th) there's a Pop Goes the Weasel Day (June 14th), a "Yell Fudge at Cobras Day" (June 2nd - whoever dedicated this holiday was under the impression that cobras are mortally afraid of fudge and will flee at its mere mention), and a Kick Butts Day (April 4th). Okay so that last one might be fun, but you get my point. This insanity has already gone too far and it will only get worse unless we do something about it. So I propose this: anyone that Hoodie-hoos, you smack. Doesn't have to be hard, just a warning smack will do. Then they won't do it again, and hopefully (if you explain your reasons well enough) they'll think twice about some of those other days, too. The more people we can get involved in this plan, the better it will work. In fact, to increase national awareness of the event, I think I'll make it a holiday.
Sunday, February 02, 2003
WHY I LOVE VALENTINE'S DAY
Valentine's Day is coming. For those of you with significant others, that usually means some sort of night on the town and a gift or two - the more significant the other, the more impressive the dinner and the gift. Admittedly many people are largely indifferent to this holiday, but there are some for whom it is a Big Deal, people who plan their year around this one day. These people fall into two categories. The first group (and here I am referring to girls) is the delirious group. These are the people who begin planning months in advance to make sure they have the Perfect Day. They do this by watching romantic movies and reading novels you can buy in a grocery store until they believe that this is the way the world actually works. These are the same people who are singularly responsible for driving the wedding industry. The other group (and here, again, I am referring to girls) hates the first group. These people also have very elaborate Valentine's Day plans. These often include a gathering of like-minded individuals who spend the evening mocking the poor sods who actually buy into the holiday, making brownies, and occasionally burning effigies of the opposite sex. Some historians think the Salem Witch Hunts began as a result of one of these gatherings that got out of control (though other historians have argued against this by pointing out that the Puritans didn't celebrate Valentine's Day because Hallmark didn't exist at the time). Despite the mutual antagonism of these two groups, their members switch places often. The intensity of their allegiance to the new group is usually inversely proportional to the amount of time it has been since they were members of the old group.
I, too, await the holiday this year with great expectations. Though, being male, I fall into neither of the aforementioned categories. My interest in the day is an indirect result of the relationship of two of my good friends, Erik and Molly. The priest who married them probably thought Valentine's Day was covered under the bit about "for better or for worse." I think he should have mentioned it separately. The two of them seem to have difficulties with Valentine's Day, or indeed any romantic day in which gifts are exchanged. This happens for a number of reasons. First, Molly fits into the first category of Valentine's celebrators, although, in her defense, she is one of their less fanatic members (but I do believe it is possible she only got engaged to Erik so she would have an excuse to look through wedding books). In other words, she has high expectations for Valentine's Day. Unfortunately, Erik is male and while this is useful enough in other aspects of their relationship, it does not help his judgement regarding gifts. This is further compounded by the fact that along with being male, he is also a computer scientist. Now I know that there are lots of male computer scientists out there who do just fine when it comes to buying gifts for their significant others. Erik is not one of them. This is due in large part to the fact that he does not have a clear grasp of the concept of "romantic."
Exhibit A: The gift he gave Molly for Valentine's Day the first year I knew them. He gave her, and I am not making this up (not even exaggerating a little), a statue of a hooded death figuring looming over a grave and raising a skeleton-soldier from the dead. The whole thing is about half a foot tall. Needless to say (for everyone but Erik), this isn't exactly what Molly was hoping for. As far as Halloween statuettes go, it's pretty cool. As far as Valentine's Day gifts go, well...not so much. She kept it at his apartment...
Exhibit B, three years later. He hasn't gotten a whole lot better. For their anniversary that year, their sixth since they started dating (I think), he bought her a triple segmented silver ring that covers her entire finger, accented with blue gems and ending in a claw. Very expensive and very cool, but again lacking in the romantic department (though she did actually keep this one at her place). By this time, however, Molly knew what to expect and had her own gift picked out with that in mind. She bought him a color changing angel for the top of the Christmas tree. For most couples, this would have been a lovely gift. Except that in this case, Erik is atheist and believes in neither angels nor Christmas trees.
And it is exchanges like this that make Valentine's Day such an exciting time for me.
Valentine's Day is coming. For those of you with significant others, that usually means some sort of night on the town and a gift or two - the more significant the other, the more impressive the dinner and the gift. Admittedly many people are largely indifferent to this holiday, but there are some for whom it is a Big Deal, people who plan their year around this one day. These people fall into two categories. The first group (and here I am referring to girls) is the delirious group. These are the people who begin planning months in advance to make sure they have the Perfect Day. They do this by watching romantic movies and reading novels you can buy in a grocery store until they believe that this is the way the world actually works. These are the same people who are singularly responsible for driving the wedding industry. The other group (and here, again, I am referring to girls) hates the first group. These people also have very elaborate Valentine's Day plans. These often include a gathering of like-minded individuals who spend the evening mocking the poor sods who actually buy into the holiday, making brownies, and occasionally burning effigies of the opposite sex. Some historians think the Salem Witch Hunts began as a result of one of these gatherings that got out of control (though other historians have argued against this by pointing out that the Puritans didn't celebrate Valentine's Day because Hallmark didn't exist at the time). Despite the mutual antagonism of these two groups, their members switch places often. The intensity of their allegiance to the new group is usually inversely proportional to the amount of time it has been since they were members of the old group.
I, too, await the holiday this year with great expectations. Though, being male, I fall into neither of the aforementioned categories. My interest in the day is an indirect result of the relationship of two of my good friends, Erik and Molly. The priest who married them probably thought Valentine's Day was covered under the bit about "for better or for worse." I think he should have mentioned it separately. The two of them seem to have difficulties with Valentine's Day, or indeed any romantic day in which gifts are exchanged. This happens for a number of reasons. First, Molly fits into the first category of Valentine's celebrators, although, in her defense, she is one of their less fanatic members (but I do believe it is possible she only got engaged to Erik so she would have an excuse to look through wedding books). In other words, she has high expectations for Valentine's Day. Unfortunately, Erik is male and while this is useful enough in other aspects of their relationship, it does not help his judgement regarding gifts. This is further compounded by the fact that along with being male, he is also a computer scientist. Now I know that there are lots of male computer scientists out there who do just fine when it comes to buying gifts for their significant others. Erik is not one of them. This is due in large part to the fact that he does not have a clear grasp of the concept of "romantic."
Exhibit A: The gift he gave Molly for Valentine's Day the first year I knew them. He gave her, and I am not making this up (not even exaggerating a little), a statue of a hooded death figuring looming over a grave and raising a skeleton-soldier from the dead. The whole thing is about half a foot tall. Needless to say (for everyone but Erik), this isn't exactly what Molly was hoping for. As far as Halloween statuettes go, it's pretty cool. As far as Valentine's Day gifts go, well...not so much. She kept it at his apartment...
Exhibit B, three years later. He hasn't gotten a whole lot better. For their anniversary that year, their sixth since they started dating (I think), he bought her a triple segmented silver ring that covers her entire finger, accented with blue gems and ending in a claw. Very expensive and very cool, but again lacking in the romantic department (though she did actually keep this one at her place). By this time, however, Molly knew what to expect and had her own gift picked out with that in mind. She bought him a color changing angel for the top of the Christmas tree. For most couples, this would have been a lovely gift. Except that in this case, Erik is atheist and believes in neither angels nor Christmas trees.
And it is exchanges like this that make Valentine's Day such an exciting time for me.
Tuesday, January 21, 2003
SNOWMEN
I went snowboarding with a group of friends this weekend. Snowboarding, for those of you unfamiliar with the concept (which is probably none of you, but for the sake of discussion I am going to ignore that little fact), is kind of like skiing, only not. It is like skiing in that the ultimate purpose is to slide rapidly down snow covered slopes. Not like skiing in that there's only one plank, and that one missing plank changes things significantly (like, say, removing one wheel from a bicycle might make the bike riding experience a little different).
Of course, I wore all the required layers (including the all important puffy snowpants) that skiers and snowboarders share. To that, I added the snowboard boots. They're kind of like moonboots only . . . okay so they're almost exactly like moonboots. Thus attired, I trudged out into the snow and started to attach myself to my board. First, I strapped in my right foot. Most people strap their left foot in first but I happen to be what is called "goofy-footed." What that means technically is that I use my left foot to steer instead of my right. What it means practically is that my "friends" get to make comments like "GOOFY footed, huh? Well I, for one, am not at all surprised that you're GOOFY footed. huh huh" You know you're thinking of a few similar comments. Go ahead, make your "goofy" jokes here. I'll wait. Done? I'll wait some more. Okay, I'm not waiting any longer, whether you're done or not . . .on with my story...
So, with my right foot firmly strapped in (and I do mean firmly), I proceeded to strap in my left foot, also quite firmly. This was to ensure that my legs could no longer move independently of one another. I promptly fell down. Actually, this is not the first time I've been boarding (it's somewhere around my fifth), so once I got back on my feet and got moving, I fell down again. This happened several times. There is lots of falling down early in one's snowboarding career (this is where the puffy snowpants are KEY). Dave, for whom this WAS his first time, and I decided to take the double-green trail on our first downhill attempt. Green means gentle, blue means moderate, black means death - or difficult, but at my skill level that amounts to the same thing. Double-green, apparently, means flat.
Our friends waited for Dave and I at the bottom of the slope, having taken a regular green trail. They waited half an hour. Then they went back to the top to look for us again. My roommate found us on his third run. See, double-green is really meant for skiers. Skiers with poles. Really, cross-country skiers with poles. Snowboarders with both legs strapped to a board without poles don't go anywhere fast on flat to almost flat terrain. We did, however, get good at hopping (the snowboard hop is a very amusing thing to witness). There were many places where we had to unstrap one foot and push until we got to the next area that vaguely resembled a slope. We were both sweating pretty seriously by the time we reached bottom. I had a thin film of fog inside my goggles from sweating so much. This is more impressive when you stop to think that it was cold enough outside that the aforementioned film froze to my goggles moments after I took them off. We had a good laugh, and swore never to ride a double-green again. Then we fell down.
The rest of the weekend improved from there. I fell down several more times, but less and less often as the weekend progressed. After two days of practice, I can now do several things on a board that I couldn't before, like turn left (and I thought snowboarding was fun BEFORE I could steer...). Overall, I'd have to say it was a good trip (and thank goodness for puffy snowpants).
I went snowboarding with a group of friends this weekend. Snowboarding, for those of you unfamiliar with the concept (which is probably none of you, but for the sake of discussion I am going to ignore that little fact), is kind of like skiing, only not. It is like skiing in that the ultimate purpose is to slide rapidly down snow covered slopes. Not like skiing in that there's only one plank, and that one missing plank changes things significantly (like, say, removing one wheel from a bicycle might make the bike riding experience a little different).
Of course, I wore all the required layers (including the all important puffy snowpants) that skiers and snowboarders share. To that, I added the snowboard boots. They're kind of like moonboots only . . . okay so they're almost exactly like moonboots. Thus attired, I trudged out into the snow and started to attach myself to my board. First, I strapped in my right foot. Most people strap their left foot in first but I happen to be what is called "goofy-footed." What that means technically is that I use my left foot to steer instead of my right. What it means practically is that my "friends" get to make comments like "GOOFY footed, huh? Well I, for one, am not at all surprised that you're GOOFY footed. huh huh" You know you're thinking of a few similar comments. Go ahead, make your "goofy" jokes here. I'll wait. Done? I'll wait some more. Okay, I'm not waiting any longer, whether you're done or not . . .on with my story...
So, with my right foot firmly strapped in (and I do mean firmly), I proceeded to strap in my left foot, also quite firmly. This was to ensure that my legs could no longer move independently of one another. I promptly fell down. Actually, this is not the first time I've been boarding (it's somewhere around my fifth), so once I got back on my feet and got moving, I fell down again. This happened several times. There is lots of falling down early in one's snowboarding career (this is where the puffy snowpants are KEY). Dave, for whom this WAS his first time, and I decided to take the double-green trail on our first downhill attempt. Green means gentle, blue means moderate, black means death - or difficult, but at my skill level that amounts to the same thing. Double-green, apparently, means flat.
Our friends waited for Dave and I at the bottom of the slope, having taken a regular green trail. They waited half an hour. Then they went back to the top to look for us again. My roommate found us on his third run. See, double-green is really meant for skiers. Skiers with poles. Really, cross-country skiers with poles. Snowboarders with both legs strapped to a board without poles don't go anywhere fast on flat to almost flat terrain. We did, however, get good at hopping (the snowboard hop is a very amusing thing to witness). There were many places where we had to unstrap one foot and push until we got to the next area that vaguely resembled a slope. We were both sweating pretty seriously by the time we reached bottom. I had a thin film of fog inside my goggles from sweating so much. This is more impressive when you stop to think that it was cold enough outside that the aforementioned film froze to my goggles moments after I took them off. We had a good laugh, and swore never to ride a double-green again. Then we fell down.
The rest of the weekend improved from there. I fell down several more times, but less and less often as the weekend progressed. After two days of practice, I can now do several things on a board that I couldn't before, like turn left (and I thought snowboarding was fun BEFORE I could steer...). Overall, I'd have to say it was a good trip (and thank goodness for puffy snowpants).
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
BRAKE FOR BRUCE
My friend Bruce is a large man. He is, you could say, larger than most people. Not all of them, but a lot of them. Bruce knows this. It is something he takes into account in his actions, like moving through crowds. Bruce wades through crowds. He doesn't push or shove, he just walks forward and those who notice him automatically get out of his way. I, being a somewhat smaller individual, do not have this imposing influence upon others. Those who do notice me rarely feel any primitive compulsion to move aside. When it comes to crowds, I don't wade through so much as slip between. Or I just follow Bruce, which is generally easier. It's nice to have a large friend. There are other times, however, when it is vaguely alarming. For instance, crossing roads.
Bruce, for some reason, appears to have come to the conclusion that since he is bigger than most drivers he must also be bigger than most cars. He doesn't generally challenge semis on this and he'll usually concede some of the larger SUV's, but for the most part, when it comes to crossing the road, Bruce tends to walk first and look later, or not look at all. His concept of the right-of-way laws (and here I am paraphrasing an actual comment) is that A) right-of-way laws are absolute and everyone WILL stop when they are supposed to and B) he always has the right of way ("All others are number two or lower"). He has told me on multiple occasions, when I try to debate this point with him, that he is likely to do more damage to the cars than they are to him anyway, so it's up for them to watch out for HIM. Now, like I have said, Bruce is a big guy, but he's not THAT big. Thus far, however, his philosophy has not been challenged. For a variety of reasons, which I think might have more to do with insurance premiums than any fear of Bruce, every car he was walked in front of has stopped without hitting him.
I have another friend, this one named Mike (which doesn't tell you much, since most of my friends appear to be named Mike), who has been hit by a car, even though he was doing all the right things at the time. He was in a crosswalk, and had the walk signal. All the cars were stopped. Theoretically, he should have been safe. About halfway across however, Mike notices that the car to his right is verrry slowly rolling forward. Mike turns, looks at the driver, meets his eyes, and gives him a Look. (Those of you who know which Mike I am referring to will know what I am talking about when I say "a Look." The rest of you should just feel free to make something up). The driver looks back at Mike, notices him, and completely fails to stop rolling forward until after he has already bumped into Mike's shins. Mike was shocked, but unhurt. The driver was still oblivious. For his pains, Mike (and through him, his friends) got an amusing story to tell. We have no idea what happened to the driver, but we're hoping reality has caught up to him by now.
So, quick recap: Mike stays in the crosswalk, waits for the walk signal, waits for cars to stop, and still gets hit by a car (albeit very softly). Bruce crosses where and when he pleases, ignores oncoming traffic, and gets off scott-free. Maybe Bruce has something there. I think, though, that I'll wait to see the results of a few more trials before taking up the practice myself.
My friend Bruce is a large man. He is, you could say, larger than most people. Not all of them, but a lot of them. Bruce knows this. It is something he takes into account in his actions, like moving through crowds. Bruce wades through crowds. He doesn't push or shove, he just walks forward and those who notice him automatically get out of his way. I, being a somewhat smaller individual, do not have this imposing influence upon others. Those who do notice me rarely feel any primitive compulsion to move aside. When it comes to crowds, I don't wade through so much as slip between. Or I just follow Bruce, which is generally easier. It's nice to have a large friend. There are other times, however, when it is vaguely alarming. For instance, crossing roads.
Bruce, for some reason, appears to have come to the conclusion that since he is bigger than most drivers he must also be bigger than most cars. He doesn't generally challenge semis on this and he'll usually concede some of the larger SUV's, but for the most part, when it comes to crossing the road, Bruce tends to walk first and look later, or not look at all. His concept of the right-of-way laws (and here I am paraphrasing an actual comment) is that A) right-of-way laws are absolute and everyone WILL stop when they are supposed to and B) he always has the right of way ("All others are number two or lower"). He has told me on multiple occasions, when I try to debate this point with him, that he is likely to do more damage to the cars than they are to him anyway, so it's up for them to watch out for HIM. Now, like I have said, Bruce is a big guy, but he's not THAT big. Thus far, however, his philosophy has not been challenged. For a variety of reasons, which I think might have more to do with insurance premiums than any fear of Bruce, every car he was walked in front of has stopped without hitting him.
I have another friend, this one named Mike (which doesn't tell you much, since most of my friends appear to be named Mike), who has been hit by a car, even though he was doing all the right things at the time. He was in a crosswalk, and had the walk signal. All the cars were stopped. Theoretically, he should have been safe. About halfway across however, Mike notices that the car to his right is verrry slowly rolling forward. Mike turns, looks at the driver, meets his eyes, and gives him a Look. (Those of you who know which Mike I am referring to will know what I am talking about when I say "a Look." The rest of you should just feel free to make something up). The driver looks back at Mike, notices him, and completely fails to stop rolling forward until after he has already bumped into Mike's shins. Mike was shocked, but unhurt. The driver was still oblivious. For his pains, Mike (and through him, his friends) got an amusing story to tell. We have no idea what happened to the driver, but we're hoping reality has caught up to him by now.
So, quick recap: Mike stays in the crosswalk, waits for the walk signal, waits for cars to stop, and still gets hit by a car (albeit very softly). Bruce crosses where and when he pleases, ignores oncoming traffic, and gets off scott-free. Maybe Bruce has something there. I think, though, that I'll wait to see the results of a few more trials before taking up the practice myself.
Thursday, January 02, 2003
THE TRIAL
I have this dream where I am in a large courtroom confronted by The Powers That Be. If I were to peer over the side of the table where I sit, I would see golden letters forming the word "Defendant." I do not peer over the side of the table, however, because The Powers That Be intimidate me and I feel like it is very important that I act Decorous and not do Undecorous things like peer over the side of my own table. So I stand there, waiting, nervous and trying to look meek and properly respectful. Then The Powers That Be speak. They say to me, "Robert Smith, you stand before this court in order that you may be tried for the Crimes of Humanity." At this point, shock prompts me to forget the "meek and respectful" bit and I respond, "Whoa." Then, to be sure they understand my position, I repeat this line a few more times. Eventually, in the interest of clarity, I rephrase my objections, "Wait a minute. You're charging me with the Crimes of Humanity? What have I done that this burden should fall to my shoulders? Isn't there someone better suited to this? Isn't there someone who perhaps had a hand in the Crimes of Humanity that you might want to charge instead?"
The Powers That Be smile at me indulgently and I realize two things. One, it is probably not a good idea to be yelling at The Powers That Be. Two, I do not have a lawyer, or if I do, he is incompetent for letting me yell at The Powers That Be. Neither of these realizations fills me with much hope for the outcome of this trial. "Actually," say The Powers That Be, who can be very nice when it suits them, "You're not being charged with any crimes. You have been chosen as a representative of Humanity that you may defend, justify, or explain certain actions of your species. Before you raise another eloquent objection, other trials have already addressed the Greater Crimes like Genocide, Greed, and Boy Bands. We have also addressed most of the lesser crimes. Your trial addresses humanity's repeated violation of basic sense." I look around once more for a lawyer and see no one who will explain to me what is really going on and how I should respond. I bite the bullet and say, with complete honesty, "I do not understand."
The Powers That Be try again. "We would like you to serve as humanity's representative in helping us determine humanity's guilt or lack-thereof in what, We suppose, would basically boil down to ‘the perpetuation of bizarre quirks.'" Comprehension completely fails to dawn on my face. They go on, "For instance, there are the timeless questions: Why do people park in driveways and drive on parkways? Why isn't phonetics spelled the way it sounds? Why is there brail on the keypads of drive-up ATM's? You've heard all of these questions before."
"Yes, and I believe I can at least answer the last one. It's for blind people in taxicabs."
"Then tell Us, have you ever seen a speaker on a drive-up ATM?" I admit that I have not noticed such a thing. "Then how do these blind people in taxicabs know what is displayed on the screen of the ATM?" I have no answer to this and say so. The Powers That Be consider their point proven and continue, "Really, however, these issues are tip-of-the-iceberg cliches but they illustrate, We think, the concept We wish to examine at today's trial. But enough explanation. We shall now proceed with the trial. You have heard the accusations against you. How do you wish to plead?" I think for a moment then settle upon an answer I believe fits the situation.
"I wish to plead Contemporary Insanity." This is not what The Powers That Be had expected. They ask me to repeat my plea. "I believe that humanity should be acquitted of these accusations due to the fact that we were all Contemporarily Insane at the time these acts were committed."
The Powers That Be shrug, "Okay."
"Okay?"
They nod. "Yes. We find humanity not guilty by reason of contemporary inanity."
"Insanity." They shrug again and ignore my interruption. "Now, having so ruled, We order that you must submit yourself to treatment."
"I what?"
"Treatment." I look around for a lawyer again hoping that maybe he was just late and would, at any moment, rush into the courtroom to save me. He fails to do so and The Powers That Be continue, uninterrupted by timely legal objections, "We order that you should observe these acts of contemporary insanity and report your findings to Us regularly for the next year. At that time We shall reconvene to determine whether the therapy has been successful. Case closed" Then I am led away by the bailiff who turns out to be my fifth grade gym teacher who takes me to a McDonald's filled with smurfs that all look like John Malkovich, or at least how he would look if he were blue and really short. Ultimately, it's a pretty weird dream.
I have this dream where I am in a large courtroom confronted by The Powers That Be. If I were to peer over the side of the table where I sit, I would see golden letters forming the word "Defendant." I do not peer over the side of the table, however, because The Powers That Be intimidate me and I feel like it is very important that I act Decorous and not do Undecorous things like peer over the side of my own table. So I stand there, waiting, nervous and trying to look meek and properly respectful. Then The Powers That Be speak. They say to me, "Robert Smith, you stand before this court in order that you may be tried for the Crimes of Humanity." At this point, shock prompts me to forget the "meek and respectful" bit and I respond, "Whoa." Then, to be sure they understand my position, I repeat this line a few more times. Eventually, in the interest of clarity, I rephrase my objections, "Wait a minute. You're charging me with the Crimes of Humanity? What have I done that this burden should fall to my shoulders? Isn't there someone better suited to this? Isn't there someone who perhaps had a hand in the Crimes of Humanity that you might want to charge instead?"
The Powers That Be smile at me indulgently and I realize two things. One, it is probably not a good idea to be yelling at The Powers That Be. Two, I do not have a lawyer, or if I do, he is incompetent for letting me yell at The Powers That Be. Neither of these realizations fills me with much hope for the outcome of this trial. "Actually," say The Powers That Be, who can be very nice when it suits them, "You're not being charged with any crimes. You have been chosen as a representative of Humanity that you may defend, justify, or explain certain actions of your species. Before you raise another eloquent objection, other trials have already addressed the Greater Crimes like Genocide, Greed, and Boy Bands. We have also addressed most of the lesser crimes. Your trial addresses humanity's repeated violation of basic sense." I look around once more for a lawyer and see no one who will explain to me what is really going on and how I should respond. I bite the bullet and say, with complete honesty, "I do not understand."
The Powers That Be try again. "We would like you to serve as humanity's representative in helping us determine humanity's guilt or lack-thereof in what, We suppose, would basically boil down to ‘the perpetuation of bizarre quirks.'" Comprehension completely fails to dawn on my face. They go on, "For instance, there are the timeless questions: Why do people park in driveways and drive on parkways? Why isn't phonetics spelled the way it sounds? Why is there brail on the keypads of drive-up ATM's? You've heard all of these questions before."
"Yes, and I believe I can at least answer the last one. It's for blind people in taxicabs."
"Then tell Us, have you ever seen a speaker on a drive-up ATM?" I admit that I have not noticed such a thing. "Then how do these blind people in taxicabs know what is displayed on the screen of the ATM?" I have no answer to this and say so. The Powers That Be consider their point proven and continue, "Really, however, these issues are tip-of-the-iceberg cliches but they illustrate, We think, the concept We wish to examine at today's trial. But enough explanation. We shall now proceed with the trial. You have heard the accusations against you. How do you wish to plead?" I think for a moment then settle upon an answer I believe fits the situation.
"I wish to plead Contemporary Insanity." This is not what The Powers That Be had expected. They ask me to repeat my plea. "I believe that humanity should be acquitted of these accusations due to the fact that we were all Contemporarily Insane at the time these acts were committed."
The Powers That Be shrug, "Okay."
"Okay?"
They nod. "Yes. We find humanity not guilty by reason of contemporary inanity."
"Insanity." They shrug again and ignore my interruption. "Now, having so ruled, We order that you must submit yourself to treatment."
"I what?"
"Treatment." I look around for a lawyer again hoping that maybe he was just late and would, at any moment, rush into the courtroom to save me. He fails to do so and The Powers That Be continue, uninterrupted by timely legal objections, "We order that you should observe these acts of contemporary insanity and report your findings to Us regularly for the next year. At that time We shall reconvene to determine whether the therapy has been successful. Case closed" Then I am led away by the bailiff who turns out to be my fifth grade gym teacher who takes me to a McDonald's filled with smurfs that all look like John Malkovich, or at least how he would look if he were blue and really short. Ultimately, it's a pretty weird dream.
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