Sorry. No pet peeve this week. I know I kind of set a precendent, but I am out of town at noon tomorrow on my annual weekend in the woods doing whatever the heck I feel like doing, and have way too much that I need to get done before then.
Ciao.
I am:
At the grocery store yesterday, I noticed a door leading to the outside. Above it was an illuminated sign that read in bold red letters "EXIT".
On the wall to the left was another sign that read in smaller, more subdued letters "Exit".
And affixed to the door itself was a third sign which stated "No exit - Store employees only". And a guard was posted alongside it.
I hope by now my question is obvious.
Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me. If you look through the output in these articles, I think you'll find a statistically higher percentage of references to toilets and bodily evacuations in these pages than the average blog output.
Maybe that should bother me. Maybe I should be worried that I am going to get labeled "scatalogical" or "anal-retentive." But it doesn't, and I'm not.
For today's pet peeve, I need walk only about 50 paces into the shared mens room in the building where I work.
It now sports a sign above the urinal that says something to the effect of "PLEASE FLUSH ME! It makes it significantly more pleasant for the next guy if you just do the right thing and flush when you're done."
I hated having to put that sign up, but a fellow can only take so much before he cracks. In the weeks prior to putting up that sign, I can't count how many times I went to take a leak and the terlet was still filled with the prior slob's drippings. But the straw that broke the camel's back was when I personally observed one of my co-workers leave the urinal without even attempting to flush.
I gave him the evil eye, but that was a little dangerous, as the evil eye can be mininterpreted in a public mens room. And, to tell the truth, he didn't even notice it.
Up until that point, I had chalked it up to the fact that the flush valve on that urinal was a little tricky -- you had to pull down pretty hard to get it to do its stuff. But this dude didn't even TOUCH the handle.
That was too much.
Worse is when you enter a stall and find that the previous occupant was too skeeved out by their own produce to do a proper flush. Or fails to realize that a wimpy single flush ain't cutting it, and fails to complete the job.
So, this pet peeve goes out to all of you slobs who don't bother to flush. Ya sickos.
I'll hunt you all down one by one and give you each a Swirly you'll never forget.
* If you don't get the reference in the title, that tells me that you have never lived in a rural area that relies on a well for water. I had rural relatives who used to tell me that their well couldn't handle all the flushing that would go on, and the mantra there was "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down."
I am a homebody. I like my cave. It bugs the pootooty out of me when I can't retreat to my cave when I am feeling overwhelmed.
So, in looking at my social calendar over the next few days, I wonder what the living hell happened...
Tomorrow -- Fantasy Football Draft. Yes, I do. My second year. I'm not all that great at it, but it brings an added dimension to watching the games... So, call me a geek or a dork. I don't really care.
Thursday -- Dinner at Peddlar's Village with Sarah and Drew. More friends/co-workers of Mrs. P's. I don't know them all that well, so I'll have to be on my best behavior. I can do that, and I know them well enough that I know it will be fun. But it's certainly more work than sitting on my couch with the remote in my hand.
Friday -- communal dinner at the pool. This is the one that I might be able to bag out on, but this has the best opportunity over the next few days (other than the draft) for me to let my hair down, as it were. That said, I'm not especially "Dinner at the pool" people. I don't swim. (I can, I just choose not to.) I do it because the wife and kids like it.
Saturday -- Cookout at the L's. Same people I always hang out with, plus a few more.
Sunday -- Back to school night at the daughter's high school. Skipped it last year. Really should make it this year.
Monday -- cookout at the B's. I don't know the B's well at all, so I'm back to my best behavior. And it's like 25 minutes from the house, so an early exit isn't an option.
I'll make it. But at some point, I don't know when, I'm going to take a real vacation on a long weekend, in which I just wander around doing what I want to do. I imagine that it will take until the kids have all moved out. Or at least are at the point where they are responsible enough to have their own cars and jobs and lives...
We'll see.
That said -- it's nice to have so many people wanting me to be in their lives. So, I know it could be a ton worse.
Saw an item on Yahoo! that caught my attention...
9-year-old boy told he’s too good to pitch
In case you're too lazy to click over and read the story, a 9-year-old Connecticut boy has a strong fastball, too strong for a developmental league, and was told he needed to:
a. play a different position
b. play in a league that better matches his talent
The parents and coaches kept him at pitcher, and now the league is taking action. They are disbanding the team.
Having a 9 year old son who was in a developmental baseball league this year, the options offered by the league to the parents don't sound unreasonable to me. Having been a coach of sports where there was one kid who clearly dominated the league, it still makes sense to me.
But the parents and coaches are making it out like the league doesn't want the kid to play.
Newsflash - in a developmental league, it isn't about winning - it's about learning. And this boy isn't going to learn anything continuing to pitch in the developmental league other than how to humiliate the competition, and there will be plenty of opportunities for him to learn that later.
My guess, and it is only a guess since everything I know about the situation is in that Yahoo! article, is that the parents and the coaches are really getting a kick out of dominating the competition, and are pissed that the league won't let them get away with it.
There is an argument to be made that the kid just wants to play ball with his friends. And that's a valid argument. Sometimes that is the case -- a dominant kid doesn't want to play up because then he'll be with a bunch of people he doesn't know. If that were really the case, my guess is that they would all be okay with him playing outfield instead of pitching.
My guess is that's not really what's going on.
Okay, one of those things that makes me grind my teeth down to bloody stubbs pretty regularly is when someone apparently forgets how to read when storing a food jar of some kind or another.
Generally, there are pretty clear directions. "Refrigerate After Opening." "Do Not Refrigerate." "Does Not Need Refrigeration."
If I come to your house and I find a jar of jelly or jam in the cupboard, please don't be offended if I decline your generous offer of a PB&J sandwich. I've had my fill of salmonella or whatever other bacteria might be growing in there.
And another thing -- a refrigerator is not a miracle device that keeps all food fresh forever. Those expiration dates mean something. And leftovers generally don't stay edible much longer than a week or so. On occasion, it is not a crime to go through the fridge and toss things that are no longer the right color, smell, or texture. Really. I know you spent good money on that ... whatever it is. But that thing gave up its life weeks ago, man. Just let it go!
(No. This is not a secrets of the home article, FYI. But it MIGHT be a secrets of the workplace.)
Think about it...
Is it possible that the greatest crime against English speaking humanity is the fact that the words "Free" and "me" rhyme?
How many bad songs, poems, etc contain some sort of variation on the theme "I gotta be free and I gotta be me..."?
Enough, I tell ya. From now on, you are NOT allowed to be "free" and "me" unless you are doing so several stanzas apart!
My dear spouse and I are at times on opposite ends of a certain continuum -- that being the Entertainment Satisfaction Quotient. Don't bother looking that up -- I just made it up. But what it means is that often what *makes* a movie for me turns her off completely.
Case in point: I love the movie Punch Drunk Love. It is not a feel good love story, but it is a portrayal of how truly screwed up people can find love even when they do not believe that they are worthy. Or even perhaps when they actually aren't worthy. I found that to be a very powerful thing. But it depressed her, as all she could think of was how hard the rest of their story was going to be.
But that's what real life is all about.
Years ago, I was subjected to a movie that my spouse (and my daughter) loved -- Notting Hill. If you are not familiar with the film, allow me to summarize. Hugh Grant is a charming befuddled British fellow (if you can believe that) who runs a strange little book shop that specializes only in travel books. One day super famous actress Julia Roberts enters the store, and through a series of super unlikely embarrassing situations, they sorta hook up while she's filming a movie in London. And then they split up cause her life is so complicated. And then they get back together. And get married. And have a baby.
And everyone lives happily ever after.
[puking noises ensue]
There is a key scene right before Hugh and Julia break up (the first time) in which Julia invites Hugh up to her hotel room. But because she's famous and can't be seen with a British bookstore owner, she tells him to wait five minutes and then come up to her room.
When he arrives, the door is opened by her current paramour, Alec Baldwin. Alec thinks Hugh's the room service guy, and Julia plays along with that. As does Hugh. And when he leaves, he knows that that relationship was not meant to happen.
I have always told my wife that if the movie had ended there, then it would have been a satisfying movie to me. Because that's a tragic story arc. That was real emotion.
Not to get all dark on you, but darn it, things frequently don't work out the way we want them to. Life is compromise, not triumph.
But chick flicks can't do that. They have to be happily ever after.
So, one of the main reasons why I loved Once, now that I have ruminated on it (yes, this movie made quite the impression on me) is that it waded into chick flick territory, but dispensed with it in the first half hour. And the rest of the time, it was pretty real. And happily ever after - in the Disney/chick flick sense - didn't factor.
That's all I want to say about it, because I think that the characters did wind up happily ever after, but not in the way that Notting Hill audiences demand.
So, one of the big reasons that I, and a bunch of other people too, went to Netflix over my neighborhood Blockbuster store was that whole "late fee" thing. Blockbuster charged you when you brought stuff back late, Netflix didn't. Simple math.
So, to woo me back, Blockbuster did away with "late fees."
But not really.
Now, if you bring a movie or a game back late, you don't pay a late fee, but after a certain time, they charge you for its purchase.
Okay. I'm down with that. You have TWO due dates, one when they'd like it back, and one when I HAVE to have it back by.
So, why do they even bother with the first due date? I guess it's supposed to be a sort of a rumble strip that alerts you to the impending real due date, but who pays any attention to that? I imagine that most people are like me - just let me know when it's gonna start costing me.
Today I was returning a couple of games my boys rented, with a real due date of Friday. I noticed a sign in the window as I did that begged me to please return things by the due date. And I thought, "Which due date?"
And when I got home, there was a nag message on the machine ..."please bring us back our games or we'll have to charge you." And I thought, "I already did! And who needs this headache, anyway." I much prefer the direct approach to this dysfunctional crap - when's it due, and what's the consequence if I screw up?
Seriously, I'd rather pay late fees then be told there are no late fees but ...
But, that may just be me.
Generally, I don't like musicals. Although I may sometimes appreciate the musical artistry, the act of interrupting a story to break out in song has always seemed ... odd. Sweeney Todd was the biggest violator of this in recent memory, but pretty much anytime someone breaks out in song, with a lush orchestrated symphony in the background bugs me... unless that person happened to be standing on a stage in the course of the story and an actual orchestra is present.
So, I found it odd that my current crop of Netflix movies were all musicals... of a sort.
The first was a pretty standard musical -- Enchanted, put out by Disney, but was sort of an attempt to be a modernization of the whole Disney princess formula. I, believe it or not, had somewhat high hopes for this, as the concept of a Disney princess movie spoof was pretty ripe for the picking. Plus it starred Amy Adams, who has at times been absolutely brilliant (see Junebug for proof). Not surprisingly, this fell far far short of my expectations. Err, perhaps I should say "hopes" rather than "expectations," as I didn't really expect Disney to go whole hog on self mockery. It certainly was not the movie I would have written had I been given the assignment, but then again, I doubt that Disney would ever hire me to write a princess movie. Odd as that might sound. The musical numbers were too frequent and contextually incongruous, and yes, I realize that for lovers of musicals, that's sort of the point. But that don't mean I have to like it.
My rating: ********** (three out of ten stars)
The second movie in my Netflix pile was Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. Although I generally am not a fan of Judd Apatow style raunchy comedies, I again had high hopes for this movie. Mostly because, having seen Walk The Line and Ray and that Cole Porter biopic, I realized that biopics are incredibly formulaic, and again, were just ripe for the mocking. And, through a lot of Walk The Line, I found myself laughing at the jokes. I especially enjoyed Tim Meadows, who's role was quite clearly to point out all of the cliches they were lampooning. The music was okay, nothing special, but at least when Dewey broke out in song, he had a band and a guitar around him. My laptop DVD player application has an interesting feature -- in the first two or three fast forward modes, you can continue to hear the sound as the movie plays at 1.2x, 1.4x, and 2x speed. I use this when I just want to get through a movie. Maybe I'm previewing it to see if it is appropriate for my kids. Maybe a friend recommended it and I am just trying to finish it so that we can discuss. All told, this was better than Enchanted, but I think it's pretty telling that I watched the majority of the second half of this movie at 1.4x speed.
My rating: ********** (five out of ten stars)
The last movie I watched was also a musical of sorts, a story of an Irish street musician who meets a pianist/vocalist who kicks him in the pants and gets him moving toward getting his career going. There is a love story, of sorts, but in the end, it seems, that wasn't really what it was about. It was about the music. And the music was, to me, absolutely mesmerising. The movie is called Once. It is shot in a style that makes it look like a documentary, but it isn't, although the lead actors aren't actors. They are the singers and songwriters who wrote the music for this movie. The length and tone of the film were absolutely perfect, and the characters were so charming that I am able to readily forgive and forget the once or twice where I could tell that they were "acting" when it veered into melodrama for a moment. Luckily, in these cases, it quickly righted course and launched into another heartbreaking, emotionally wrenching song. I highly recommend this film. Unless you hate the Irish, Czechs, singer/songwriter type music, or low budget production values (and this film has a lot of all of the above), you can't help but be charmed by this movie.
My rating: ********** (eight out of ten stars)
Mrs. P and I lived in Hawaii when we had our first child. We lived on Wheeler Army Airfield, and a lot of the people who lived around us were friends and co-workers, and we would often walk the neighborhood, dropping in on people. That was the sort of neighborhood we lived in.
So there I was, putting a second coat of paint on the nursery walls when the wife of a co-worker knocked on the door. I don't remember why she stopped by, but she invited herself in. She looked into the room I was painting.
"Is this the nursery?"
"Yup," I replied.
"It's nice. I don't actually like yellow, but it looks nice in there."
Before I continue, let me just say that this particular couple was not known for their social graces. So this statement she just made was not "I like it." as much as it was "I would never choose yellow, but hell, it's your house."
So I was already on edge with her.
Her next stop was the living room. We had a sleeper sofa next to a Pier One futon that used to be our bed, until I put my foot down and refused to sleep on it any longer.
"Oh, a futon in the living room. That's a good idea. I've always wanted to get a real futon..."
"That is a real futon," I offered.
"No it's not. I've been to Japan."
So what do you do with that? She's been to Japan. That seals the deal for me... (Not.)
And see, I don't really mind learning something new every now and then. I kind of like it actually. What I don't like, what is my pet peeve of this week, is the style of educating that this woman chose to employ. Namely, "No. You're wrong. I am right."
This is the hallmark of the true know-it-all. A know-it-all is not someone who necessarily knows a lot, but someone who thinks that YOU are an idiot for disagreeing with what he/she thinks he/she knows. And while it is true that there are many know-it-alls who do actually know a lot, I have met many know-it-alls who don't know much of anything.
The biggest thing that distinguishes a know-it-all from someone who knows a lot is a know-it-all assumes that what he/she does not know is not very significant. Whereas it seems to me that the more I learn, the less I know.
Last night, there was a break in the beach volleyball action, and NBC did one of their fluff pieces. Bob Costas was sitting next to a horsey faced woman with a deeper voice than Martha Stewart's. And they were talking about Chinese culture.
And the whole time, there was a tone that was half incredulous and half mocking.
They were talking about cuisine, specifically, and it went like this.
"First I went to this restaurant and ate something really weird and gross, and then I went to another restaurant and had another weird gross thing, and then another," etc etc.
When they cut back to the two talking heads on the couches, Mrs. Ed (I swear she's part horse) confessed that she didn't really eat any of the things she supposedly tried. But she brought back a deep fried scorpion for Bob, who flat out refused to try it.
I'm not a fool -- the western and eastern cultures are very different. And Asian cultures will seem very peculiar to a westerner. But what I saw came across as a complete lack of respect for the Chinese culture in this fluff piece.
It made me wince. It made me want to distance myself from my fellow countrymen.
Maybe I'm making a bigger deal out of it then needs to be there. I wouldn't be offended if a Chinese TV crew did a fluff piece detailing how weird it is that we eat Buffalo Wings, or something, so maybe the Chinese won't care.
But here's the thing ... and again maybe it's just me ... but it came across to me as less"You can eat weird food in China" and more "Chinese people are so weird. Look what they eat."
And I think that's a crappy perspective.
A few months ago, Dave at Rather Than Working posted about having lunch at Five Guys, a chain burger joint. Given that Philly and Atlanta are around 850 miles apart, I was surprised to discover that the chain had spread this far north.
I put "Try Five Guys" on my To Do list.
I finally got around to it today.
Maybe it was my mood, but the food was completely forgettable. Boring, standard, greasy fare. I had written an article about a place called "Great Burger" that I felt should have been called "Okay Burger." And all I can say is that either Great Burger ripped off Five Guys, or vice versa, because there was little to no difference between the two places. Decor - same. Food - same. Atmosphere - same.
The one advantage Five Guys holds over Great Burger is the name... When I went in there, there were indeed five guys working there. And one gal. I was hoping that wouldn't be the case, and that I could complain to the manager about it. That's the kind of mood I'm in. (And yes, I really would have done it. When I was serving my time in college around New Hartford, NY, there was a place in the food court called The Philly Steak and Sub Company. Without even trying the food, I complained to the manager of the place, telling him that in Philly, subs are called hoagies. He summarily blew me off, which would be what I would have done were I the manager and some snot nosed kid from that snooty school up the road told me something like that.)
We used to have a discount store in the Philly area called "Two Guys*" and it used to tick me off, because they always had a great many more than two guys working there. But Five Guys -- they're honest.
Unlike Great Burger. To call yourself Great Burger, your burgers better be more scrumptious than the ones I make for myself at home. And they weren't even close.
* Hey, I found an old Two Guys ad. What a weird strange treasure trove YouTube can be...
I like edgy alternative underground type music. The kind of music you're not likely to hear as a jingle on a commercial for any products your father is likely to buy. Flaming Lips. Eels. Gogol Bordello.
You get the idea, I hope.
Last summer, I found out about a group out of LA that has been getting a lot of buzz in the indie circles and with whom I fell in love almost immediately. They have a sort of a Smashing Pumpkins meets the Killers sort of a feel. They're called the Silversun Pickups. And the following is the video for the song that drew me in:
The video isn't stellar, but it serves the song well enough. It was the music that got me -- the Quiet to Shriek dynamic is always something that gets me when it is done well. And they do it as well as any that I have heard. In fact, it may be the best since "Smells Like Teen Spirit", in my never to be considered humble opinion.
In the last year, I have run into only a handful of people who have heard of SSPU (that's 'in' speak for Silversun Pickups...) and so have been acting as a sort of self-styled prophet, spreading the SSPU word to everyone willing to listen. And I have been enjoying that role.
Over the past weekend, I was watching something on TV -- maybe the Olympics, maybe preseason football. And there were a ton of commercials for the Chevy Malibu.
I don't like Chevy's. I don't really care if you love Chevy's, which you are perfectly free to do. I don't. I don't hate them, like I hated my Windstar, but I would sooner give a kidney than own a Chevy, if I had the option.
One of the commercials for the Malibu showed a Malibu being assembled by machines while a rockin' tune was being played in the background...
Lazy Eye.
By Silversun Pickups.
That song up there.
[sigh]
I'm all for them getting nationwide exposure, and more success, and all that, but for them to have whored themselves to Chevy... I'm not crushed. Just disappointed.
Deeply disappointed.
You just can't make s-s-s-stuff like this up.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20080811/od_afp/switzerlandoffbeatart
I don't know how long that link will work, so for posterity's sake, I will quote the pertinent parts here.
"A giant inflatable dog turd by American artist Paul McCarthy blew away from an
exhibition in the garden of a Swiss museum, bringing down a power line and
breaking a greenhouse window before it landed again, the museum said Monday."
I know. It isn't Thursday. And I'm early. If you depend on ritual to keep you sane, I am sorry for mucking with the schedule. But I needed to get this out there before I forgot...
You know, there's a reason why people spend a lot of money to paint big horking arrows on the pavement of their parking lots and put up "One Way" and "Do Not Enter" signs and all that. They probably have done research that indicates that traffic flows smoother when it is all going in one direction. And in parking lots, they often angle the parking spaces accordingly.
I have noticed that they also tend to use these techniques when there is really only enough room for one car to slip by at a time. It helps prevent accidents to put these arrows down.
So why, for the love of Pete, do some people ignore these signs and just go whichever the hell way they want?
Okay, sometimes it's an accident. Even I, Mr. Perfect, have made such errors on occasion. But when it is an error or accident, the appropriate response when encountering a car coming the correct way is to wave sheepishly, apologetically, sometimes even backing up the rest of the way down the aisle so as to restore order as quickly as possible.
Yet often as not, the looks on the faces of these drivers are defiant, angry, a visual representation of "What's your problem, Bud? You don't own the road!"
These are the bastards that make me want to mount a missile launcher in my car and, ummm, eradicate the problem.
This morning at the gas station, where they have eight sets of pumps, and a bunch of one way signs and arrows on the ground, I saw a woman swing around to the Exit and pull her car in the wrong way next to a pump so that she wouldn't have to wait in line for a pump wit the hose on the driver's side of her car. I was already at my pump, so I wasn't directly filled with zeal, but I noticed the line of cars that she had just cut in front of, and I was angry on their behalf.
At this gas station, this happens all the time, but usually no one says anything, and the miscreants get away with their disorder. Today though the attendant on duty was on the ball.
"Ma'am," he said to her. "You can't pull in here like that."
"What?" she asked, looking around at all the arrows and one way signs and angry faces staring at her. "I'm not allowed to pull in like this?" She was trying to play innocent, and sweet, hoping he'd say something like "Don't let it happen again," but her demeanor gave away the fact that she knew what she was doing and was trying to get away with it.
"No," he replied. "You have to wait in line just like everyone else."
She fumed silently, then got in her car and pulled around. The people at the pumps near me and I shared semi-concealed smirks which said to each other "I'm glad he said something about that. Things like that have been pissing me off for months," or "She really thought she was going to get away with that, didn't she?"
Now, if we, rather than the attendant, had said something to her, do you think she would have moved her car? Or do you think that she would have ordered us to perform some physiologically impossible act upon ourselves and continued to pump her snaked-spot-in-line gas?
I'm pretty sure I know the answer, so I'm not going to beat myself up over letting it go on so long, but I still continue to wonder if these people are merely rude or if they are actually sociopathic.
I have a small handful of regular readers that I am aware of. Mostly readers I unabashedly prostituted myself to by means of following blog roll links on someone else's blog and leaving a comment. Although it wasn't my original intention, I soon discovered that if you leave a comment on most people's blogs, you will soon get one in return. Not always. But most often.
And I guess I was decent enough of a writer to have people come back. So that's nice.
But this isn't about one of those types of readers. This is about another reader. I honestly don't know how this reader came upon my pointless ramblings here, but she did. I don't know when it was either. What I do know is that after Dave lured me out of my figurative cave of obscurity and I was starting to get comments, I decided to do a "wholinkstome" search and discovered that it wasn't just Dave who linked to me. Someone else, of whom I had never heard, linked to me as well.
So, I scanned her writing and was hooked. And I was so incredibly flattered that this person, who write MUCH better than me, and much more often than me, deemed me worthy of linking to.
I was ruminating the other day about this whole "commenting" phenomenon. When I leave a comment on someone else's blog, I tend to want to leave some sort of an impact. I want to have a ZING of some kind. Whether it is an (in my opinion) insightful comment, or something funny and snarky, or something that will help the poster in some way, I won't comment if I feel like I am going to be lost in the soup. Most often, the first method of leaving an impact that occurs to me is to be a snarky little smartass.
And I probably don't really know most of you well enough to do that.
There are people out there who can probably take a little good-natured smartassedness from me, but I have misjudged people in the past. And the last thing I want to do is piss off some anonymous stranger halfway across the country (or across the world). So sometimes I regret a comment I have left. Sometimes I hold back from making the comment I want to make.
The reason I have dragged you down this seeming tangential topic with me is that, as I was contemplating whether or not to leave a snarky comment on another's blog, a comment that would have been fine if I had said it verbally to a good friend, but which may have seemed nasty or mean to someone who does not know me well, a comment came in from this reader, the one about whom I was speaking a couple of paragraphs ago. And her comment was kind. And flattering. And in general made me feel "valuable" and "worthy." Which is, actually, the biggest ZING most of us ever get.
On further reflection, I couldn't remember a time when I received a smartass, snarky comment from her. Sure, I have seen her leave them on certain other blogs, but those writers and her already knew each other in the "real world" so I can only assume that they have that sort of friendship.
So anyway, back to my point... (what was my point again?)
Thank you. If you know who you are, I appreciate your support. I appreciate your comments.
Thank you.
A couple of weeks ago, I got two books from the library... Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and Hemingway's Chair by Michael Palin. (Yes, that Michael Palin.)
I was feeling a bit out of sorts and thought what I needed was a good book to curl up with.
I couldn't get past the introduction of Frankenstein. Although I was an English Lit major, I am incredibly impatient with antiquated modes of diction. Anything from the 18th century or earlier drives me crazy, and I find myself re-reading paragraphs over and over trying to determine what the writer is talking about. Mary Shelley may have been a wonderful writer. I will possibly never know.
Hemingway's Chair had a lot more promise, but I was still only able to get a couple of chapters in, and these books are due back on the 11th.
So, what the heck is my problem?
The title says it. Noise. Interference.
Work has been crazy busy. Some insane deadlines coming up. Lots of other sales support meetings.
I have been coaching my kid's roller hockey team again, and we were just in playoffs.
Every night, I spend my evening driving kids here there and everywhere, finally getting time for me at around 11:30. At which time the energy I had before is gone.
I haven't been writing. Riding. Reading. Etc.
But, roller hockey is done. And after Tuesday, a lot of the work pressure will back off for a month or so. And school starts later this month for my kids, which means no more gallavanting around the world every night.
Don't tell me "I can't"
When what you really mean is
"I won't"
Or, "I want you to do it instead."
"I can't" means, "I am unable,"
Not "I am indifferent."
Don't tell me "I need"
When what you really mean is
"I want"
Even if you want really, really badly.
"I need" means it is a necessity
As opposed to a comfort
Or a luxury.
As of August 7th, 2008, I have exceeded my entire article production count from last year. Last year, 170 articles in toto. This (very short and nearly pointless) article makes 171 for 2008.
EDIT: And I see that I am still four behind Dave on the year. (Sigh)
As always, thank you for your continued support.
In one swell disastrous foop, I deleted the text file that had all my notes on future article ideas. It was one of those slow motion moments. Select the file. Aim for the backspace, but hit the Delete instead. And when the "Are you sure you want to delete?" question appears, out of pure force of habit, hit the confirm.
And then that still small voice in the back of your head says "Nooooooooooooo!" Your eyes widen. Your pulse speeds. You begin to sweat.
You watch your text file disappear. Forever.
On an iPhone's Notes app, there is no Trash function. Or an Undelete function.
That file is gone, baby. Gone.
I was depressed, despondent, woeful. I had lost all those great ideas, I fretted. But it turns out, that queue was piled up with dead wood. Ideas that sparked long enough to get noted, but not sparky enough for me to actually sit down and commit an article to them.
Or maybe, I started an article on one of the topics, got frustrated with it, and abandoned it unfinished. When that happens, I rarely am able to return to the topic without feeling the same old frustration.
So, yeah. I lost ideas. But then I was free. And yesterday, while eating my breakfast, I started a new queue. And added three items to it. The first item on that list? "I lost my queue"
And all is once again right with the world.
Have you ever been involved in a conversation with someone you have just met, when you drop a paraphrastic reference to some obscure movie or song or book or news event from the 70’s, and they don’t even blink before following that up with a culturally relevant reference of their own? And you know, from that moment, that this is a person who is wired similarly to you?
This happens to me. Not as often as I like, but often enough. The challenge is, I don’t know ahead of time what my criteria for assigning the rank of “instant cool” are, but like members of congress who know pornography when they see it, I know these criteria when I see them.
I can’t even think of any recent examples, because the specific arcane references are not the point. The point is that at long last I know that I am not the only cross-wired weirdo on the planet. And there is a great comfort in that.
It’s like, no matter what our varying backgrounds are, because of these similarities, we are members of the same tribe. And people who are not in our tribe don’t understand the strange manners of communication we employ. These oddball references become our membership cards. Our proof of verisimilitude. Our shibboleth.
So. Am I the only one? Do you have Shibboleths of your own? Any shortcuts to instant cachet?
Just wondering.
Some time in the last few weeks, wild rabbits yielded offspring in the shady area under the trampoline in our back yard. This is actually the second time we have had baby bunnies running around our yard, the first being about five years ago.
This is, however, the first time it has happened when we were owners of a dog.
The other day I was walking through the yard and witnessed Max snuffling around after something. Mrs. P was standing over him, willing him away with her voice. "Max, stay back," she intoned calmly and reasonably.
Reasonably, that is, if she were talking to me, or one of the kids. Not so reasonably when you realize she was trying to counteract the dog's innate hunting instinct with a calm vocal supplication.
"You do realize," I asked her "that you own a dog. Right?"
"But I don't want him to scare the bunnies."
"Agreed. But if you want to keep him away from the bunnies, you're going to have to leash him or bring him inside. Dogs are hunters. And bunnies are one of the things that I believe they hunt pretty well."
Her blank stare informed me that either she didn't agree with my answer, or she didn't like my answer and was going to continue to try to will the dog away from the terrified little leporid.
In the end, she brought the dog into the house.
I don't know if the rabbits still live back there. Between the dog and the weedwacking and the mowing, I personally would have moved on myself, but I will not make the mistake of anthropomorphizing the motives and will of an animal.
