For whatever reason, I googled my name this morning. I thought - "Hey, I've got some stuff out there on the internet now. I'm on facebook. I have a few sermons floating about in cyberspace. What would happen if I were to search for myself?" Well, I found out what would happen. Nothing.
I did discover with some astonishment that there are a lot of other Matt Howells out there. Pretty strange. They are a lot more famous on the internet than I am. I even scrolled down to the bottom of the page and none of the Matt Howells had anything to do with me. Just a cluttered list of faceless clones. I hope they are nice. I don't want any Matt Howell out there doing something stupid and ruining the name that I have worked so hard to protect.
Towards the top of the page was a link to go to matthowell.com. I was intrigued. And so I went. Go there with me. Go right now. Click here.
You'll notice that the link takes you to a singular page of a simple photograph. No other distracting tabs or pop-up ads or things to click. Just an idyllic snapshot of white sand, clean turquoise waters, and a pillowy-clouded sky. Just looking at this page relaxes your nerves, you find your heart beat slowing down, your eyes get heavy, and you sink into your chair with the cares melting off of your heart. You feel at peace, finally. Your limbs feel like they are barely dangling off of your mellowed torso. Your brain tingles with mossiness. You are content. You have no worries or thoughts. Only bliss. Pure, peaceful, rested bliss.
And so I thought this was an appropriate website because that is typically what happens to people when they think of me. Matthowell.com captured it pretty well.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Completion. Commencement. Consummation.
One a day for all of May Madness
Done.
So many C's. So many opportunities. So much madness.
As is our Madness o' May custom, we review the month's madness, reflecting upon the insanity, rolling the flavors of mania around in our mouths and drinking deeply of the lunacy. This is what we do at the end of May. We also sigh deep, billowy grunts of relief and question why we put ourselves through such creative torture for one of life's busiest months. We then think about why we even own blogs, how utterly self-indulgent they are, and we ponder shutting it down completely. And in those dark, despairing moments, a soft and mellifluous whisper speaks truth: "You can't stop now. You have years invested into this. Keep going. And make next year's May Madness even madder. Do it."
And I submit...again...to the soft, mellifluous voice.
1. It's All About C!!
2. Corn Syrup is the Key to Utopia
3. Couch Cushion: Just Flip it!
4. Thinking About Fruit Again
5. I Want Your iPhone
6. Gene and Oliver Strike Back
7. Cankers
8. Laughing Courteously at Bad Jokes
9. Captain Hook
10. (I Got Nothing)
11. Self-Check Out Aisles at Grocery Stores Make Me Mad
12. MC Hammer Has Quit (Negating His Legitimacy)
13. Chicken Wing, Chicken Wing, Chicken Wing Stew
14. Craigslist....ugh....WOW
15. Carbon Copy Terminology in a Digital-Cyber Universe
16. Chicken Empanada Counting Problemo
17. My C-Movie Ratings
18. Meat Liker's Pizza
19. Digital Chores (Email Cleaning)
20. Coffee. Camomile. Crustaceans.
21. Tipping Guilt
22. Sight for Sore Eyes....Undetermined Meaning
23. Picking Up Dog Poo
24. Doctors' Office Waiting Room Artwork
25. Wingdings
26. Chester Cheetah vs. Joe Camel
27. Cell Phones
28. That Boy is a Chef!
29. A C-Novella About Birds
30. The Case of Cluttered Conscience
31. This.
Done.
So many C's. So many opportunities. So much madness.
As is our Madness o' May custom, we review the month's madness, reflecting upon the insanity, rolling the flavors of mania around in our mouths and drinking deeply of the lunacy. This is what we do at the end of May. We also sigh deep, billowy grunts of relief and question why we put ourselves through such creative torture for one of life's busiest months. We then think about why we even own blogs, how utterly self-indulgent they are, and we ponder shutting it down completely. And in those dark, despairing moments, a soft and mellifluous whisper speaks truth: "You can't stop now. You have years invested into this. Keep going. And make next year's May Madness even madder. Do it."
And I submit...again...to the soft, mellifluous voice.
1. It's All About C!!
2. Corn Syrup is the Key to Utopia
3. Couch Cushion: Just Flip it!
4. Thinking About Fruit Again
5. I Want Your iPhone
6. Gene and Oliver Strike Back
7. Cankers
8. Laughing Courteously at Bad Jokes
9. Captain Hook
10. (I Got Nothing)
11. Self-Check Out Aisles at Grocery Stores Make Me Mad
12. MC Hammer Has Quit (Negating His Legitimacy)
13. Chicken Wing, Chicken Wing, Chicken Wing Stew
14. Craigslist....ugh....WOW
15. Carbon Copy Terminology in a Digital-Cyber Universe
16. Chicken Empanada Counting Problemo
17. My C-Movie Ratings
18. Meat Liker's Pizza
19. Digital Chores (Email Cleaning)
20. Coffee. Camomile. Crustaceans.
21. Tipping Guilt
22. Sight for Sore Eyes....Undetermined Meaning
23. Picking Up Dog Poo
24. Doctors' Office Waiting Room Artwork
25. Wingdings
26. Chester Cheetah vs. Joe Camel
27. Cell Phones
28. That Boy is a Chef!
29. A C-Novella About Birds
30. The Case of Cluttered Conscience
31. This.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Call me Crazy. Seriously. Do it.
One A Day For All Of May.
"I went to the car dealership the other day for an oil change (I have free coupons there). Big mistake. I never have pleasant experiences there. A simple oil change ends up taking over an hour. And I bring a book with me to read while I wait...only I can't read it because the Today Show is cranked up to unheard of (pun) volume levels. Very distracting. And the coffee is bad. And it smells weird. And people talk too loud on their cell phones."
This is how I wanted to begin this morning's blog post. I was going to pry deep into my irritation of car dealerships. Call me crazy, but I am going to hit the brakes (pun) and not go there. Call it conscience. Call it conviction. I realized today that my blog posts are simply forums for venting irritation and frustration. I hop on here, think about something that has recently bugged me, and I aim my lasers, tasers, and rockets at it (pun), pouring out hot, steamy, poisonous satire. And today, I will refrain (at least in part....I did include that paragraph at the top, didn't I? (pun)). Today I will write about something that I enjoy:
I like ice cream.
Hmmm. Not too much comedic mileage on things that are pleasant.
"I went to the car dealership the other day for an oil change (I have free coupons there). Big mistake. I never have pleasant experiences there. A simple oil change ends up taking over an hour. And I bring a book with me to read while I wait...only I can't read it because the Today Show is cranked up to unheard of (pun) volume levels. Very distracting. And the coffee is bad. And it smells weird. And people talk too loud on their cell phones."
This is how I wanted to begin this morning's blog post. I was going to pry deep into my irritation of car dealerships. Call me crazy, but I am going to hit the brakes (pun) and not go there. Call it conscience. Call it conviction. I realized today that my blog posts are simply forums for venting irritation and frustration. I hop on here, think about something that has recently bugged me, and I aim my lasers, tasers, and rockets at it (pun), pouring out hot, steamy, poisonous satire. And today, I will refrain (at least in part....I did include that paragraph at the top, didn't I? (pun)). Today I will write about something that I enjoy:
I like ice cream.
Hmmm. Not too much comedic mileage on things that are pleasant.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Countless Captive Curlews and Cormorants
one a bird for all of may
Countless captive curlews and cormorants (chicks comparable to canaries) cried for compassion cause they were chained up in copper cages. Their corrupt and criminal captor, Captain Crunch (contra the commercialized cartoon), caterwauled in contemptible contentment. The Captain, a celebrated crow and chick capturer (and curiously, a clarinet competitor), cackled with cheer at his current collective conquest (his capturing the curlews and cormorants) cause his cook called for chicks to be chopped to concoct his chicken coconut chowder.
Christopher Columbus caught the close cries of the captive crows, currently (and conveniently) confessing his care to a certain Catherine. Consequently, Christopher cast Catherine and charged on course for their crying calls, compelled by compassion. (Catherine was cross at Christopher's choice!)
Courageous Christopher convened a crowd of cannon craftsmen and upon his command, they caused a combustion (creating a caliginous cloud), and a cluster of cobalt cannonballs careened, coming toward Captain Crunch's chest cavity. Conversely, Captain Crunch was callow and credulous - he couldn't confer a care for the coming cannonballs, choosing to chop carrots for the captured chicks to consume.
With a cluttering clamor (comparable to castanets), the cannonballs crashed upon Captain Crunch's chest cavity, crushing him to crumbs. While Captain Crunch had collapsed into a crude clutter, Christopher Columbus cursorily came upon the copper cages containing the captive curlews and cormorants (currently cawing and clawing). He cut the cords of the cages and the captive curlews and cormorants came out!
But Christopher was consequentially crestfallen. A concealed and covert, carnivorous crocodile cropped up and chomped the credulous chicks.
Countless captive curlews and cormorants (chicks comparable to canaries) cried for compassion cause they were chained up in copper cages. Their corrupt and criminal captor, Captain Crunch (contra the commercialized cartoon), caterwauled in contemptible contentment. The Captain, a celebrated crow and chick capturer (and curiously, a clarinet competitor), cackled with cheer at his current collective conquest (his capturing the curlews and cormorants) cause his cook called for chicks to be chopped to concoct his chicken coconut chowder.
Christopher Columbus caught the close cries of the captive crows, currently (and conveniently) confessing his care to a certain Catherine. Consequently, Christopher cast Catherine and charged on course for their crying calls, compelled by compassion. (Catherine was cross at Christopher's choice!)
Courageous Christopher convened a crowd of cannon craftsmen and upon his command, they caused a combustion (creating a caliginous cloud), and a cluster of cobalt cannonballs careened, coming toward Captain Crunch's chest cavity. Conversely, Captain Crunch was callow and credulous - he couldn't confer a care for the coming cannonballs, choosing to chop carrots for the captured chicks to consume.
With a cluttering clamor (comparable to castanets), the cannonballs crashed upon Captain Crunch's chest cavity, crushing him to crumbs. While Captain Crunch had collapsed into a crude clutter, Christopher Columbus cursorily came upon the copper cages containing the captive curlews and cormorants (currently cawing and clawing). He cut the cords of the cages and the captive curlews and cormorants came out!
But Christopher was consequentially crestfallen. A concealed and covert, carnivorous crocodile cropped up and chomped the credulous chicks.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Chef Boyardee
...may of all for day a one
Meat in a can. This is no different from Spam. And yet I'm repulsed by Spam. Won't eat it. Won't touch it. And yet, back in the day I would throw down some Chef Boyardee. Rip open that aluminum top, dump that can-shaped-congealed-mess of noodles and meat into a bowl, heat it up in the microwave (only to have the pseudo-tomato-based paste splatter everywhere), and 2 minutes later you have an amazing meal. Meat from a can.
Meat that has been sitting unrefrigerated in the grocery store for 3 months. Meat that has since been sitting in your pantry for 5 weeks. Meat that is now being chewed by your back molars and soon to be entering your colon (only to wreak havoc there). Meat in a can.
I should have known that any "chef" who has the name "boy" in it isn't going to be experienced enough to know not to make that mistake. You've got a "boy chef" throwing meat in a can and selling it to children. Of course they will buy it. They don't know better. Neither did the boy chef. He is just a boy.
Simple mistake, boy chef. But please learn.
Meat in a can. This is no different from Spam. And yet I'm repulsed by Spam. Won't eat it. Won't touch it. And yet, back in the day I would throw down some Chef Boyardee. Rip open that aluminum top, dump that can-shaped-congealed-mess of noodles and meat into a bowl, heat it up in the microwave (only to have the pseudo-tomato-based paste splatter everywhere), and 2 minutes later you have an amazing meal. Meat from a can.
Meat that has been sitting unrefrigerated in the grocery store for 3 months. Meat that has since been sitting in your pantry for 5 weeks. Meat that is now being chewed by your back molars and soon to be entering your colon (only to wreak havoc there). Meat in a can.
I should have known that any "chef" who has the name "boy" in it isn't going to be experienced enough to know not to make that mistake. You've got a "boy chef" throwing meat in a can and selling it to children. Of course they will buy it. They don't know better. Neither did the boy chef. He is just a boy.
Simple mistake, boy chef. But please learn.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Cell Phones
one a day for all of may
I have a call dropped at least once a day when talking on cellular telephonic devices. (I don't like the terminology of "dropped" calls by the way. What? Is my conversation a hot potato? Alas, I digress.) You are talking with someone and...suddenly....they are a bit less responsive. You aren't receiving those intermittent, affirming "uh-huh"s like you were receiving during the first half of your conversation. You know something is odd. So you ask, "You there?" And you are met with silence.
And then you are met with frustration.
And then you call them back. But of course....they are simultaneously attempting to call you back. So when you are calling them, your phone call goes straight to their voicemail since they are currently busy (calling you). How this is possible, I'm not really sure. You hang up. You try again. And of course, your second attempt at calling them back receives the familiar voicemail salutational message. So you hang up for a second time. Frustrated.
And now your strategy changes. You think, "Ok. I'll just wait for them to call me now." So you sit there in silence. Waiting. And after a few moments you begin to wonder, "Maybe they are doing the exact same thing....waiting for me to call them." And you don't know this, but they are in fact doing that very thing. Waiting on you. So you take up the phone again for a 3rd attempt. You even begin to think cliches to yourself like, "Well, 3rd time's a charm!" You even begin to speak it aloud. After all, you have been in silence for well over 2 minutes now and something must break the awkwardness.
But of course, the moment you decided to pick up the phone was the exact moment that it crossed your friend's mind that maybe you are waiting on them. And now you are locked up again in a battle of call backs. Like two ram's horns gripped together. Neither is budging. Neither is getting through.
All because of our stupid cell phones and their inability to manage an interruption-free phone call.
I have a call dropped at least once a day when talking on cellular telephonic devices. (I don't like the terminology of "dropped" calls by the way. What? Is my conversation a hot potato? Alas, I digress.) You are talking with someone and...suddenly....they are a bit less responsive. You aren't receiving those intermittent, affirming "uh-huh"s like you were receiving during the first half of your conversation. You know something is odd. So you ask, "You there?" And you are met with silence.
And then you are met with frustration.
And then you call them back. But of course....they are simultaneously attempting to call you back. So when you are calling them, your phone call goes straight to their voicemail since they are currently busy (calling you). How this is possible, I'm not really sure. You hang up. You try again. And of course, your second attempt at calling them back receives the familiar voicemail salutational message. So you hang up for a second time. Frustrated.
And now your strategy changes. You think, "Ok. I'll just wait for them to call me now." So you sit there in silence. Waiting. And after a few moments you begin to wonder, "Maybe they are doing the exact same thing....waiting for me to call them." And you don't know this, but they are in fact doing that very thing. Waiting on you. So you take up the phone again for a 3rd attempt. You even begin to think cliches to yourself like, "Well, 3rd time's a charm!" You even begin to speak it aloud. After all, you have been in silence for well over 2 minutes now and something must break the awkwardness.
But of course, the moment you decided to pick up the phone was the exact moment that it crossed your friend's mind that maybe you are waiting on them. And now you are locked up again in a battle of call backs. Like two ram's horns gripped together. Neither is budging. Neither is getting through.
All because of our stupid cell phones and their inability to manage an interruption-free phone call.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Cool Cheetahs and Camels
One a May for all of day
Chester Cheetah and Joe Camel - the two smoothest and coolest animated animals with addiction problems.
Chester Cheetah is the official mascot for Cheetos - a crunchy snack of puffed corn, dusted with powdered cheese (the very fact that it contains "powdered cheese" makes one hesitant to continue purchasing these). He wears sunglasses. He has cool looking tennis shoes. He listens to jazz music. He probably drinks vermouth straight up. And he has a troubling addiction. He needs to eat Cheetos. You will find him getting tricked by children in TV commercials as he continues to fail in his quest for Cheetos. But he is still cool and smooth. And the ladies love him. But if they only knew about his harrowing problems.
Joe Camel is the official mascot for Camel Cigarettes - a cigarette made from actual Camel tongues. He wears sunglasses. He wears tight T-shirts to showcase his camely physique. He drives nice cars and plays pool. And he smokes those cool-enhancing cigarettes. He probably listens to jazz music too. And you will find him living out his addictive personality as well - he can be seen in advertisements (or at least, he used to be seen) constantly puffing away on those cool cigarettes, luring adults and children alike to be apart of his cool revolution.
Cheetah. Camel. These are not the animals one would expect to be the icon of coolness. Especially the camel. I can't think of a more awkward animal on the face of the planet. Their bodies are oddly shaped, they chew their food really weirdly, their tongues are enormous, they have built-in water vats on their backs, and the joints on the legs bend the wrong way. Not cool at all. But slap some shades on their faces and throw a lit cigarette in their mouth and now you've got something you can work with.
Chester Cheetah and Joe Camel - the two smoothest and coolest animated animals with addiction problems.
Chester Cheetah is the official mascot for Cheetos - a crunchy snack of puffed corn, dusted with powdered cheese (the very fact that it contains "powdered cheese" makes one hesitant to continue purchasing these). He wears sunglasses. He has cool looking tennis shoes. He listens to jazz music. He probably drinks vermouth straight up. And he has a troubling addiction. He needs to eat Cheetos. You will find him getting tricked by children in TV commercials as he continues to fail in his quest for Cheetos. But he is still cool and smooth. And the ladies love him. But if they only knew about his harrowing problems.
Joe Camel is the official mascot for Camel Cigarettes - a cigarette made from actual Camel tongues. He wears sunglasses. He wears tight T-shirts to showcase his camely physique. He drives nice cars and plays pool. And he smokes those cool-enhancing cigarettes. He probably listens to jazz music too. And you will find him living out his addictive personality as well - he can be seen in advertisements (or at least, he used to be seen) constantly puffing away on those cool cigarettes, luring adults and children alike to be apart of his cool revolution.
Cheetah. Camel. These are not the animals one would expect to be the icon of coolness. Especially the camel. I can't think of a more awkward animal on the face of the planet. Their bodies are oddly shaped, they chew their food really weirdly, their tongues are enormous, they have built-in water vats on their backs, and the joints on the legs bend the wrong way. Not cool at all. But slap some shades on their faces and throw a lit cigarette in their mouth and now you've got something you can work with.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Commercial Break
~one a day for all of may~
Does anyone use the "wingdings" font? I don't understand why this is even an option.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Cartoons of Chest Cavities
¡¡¡una dia para todos los mayo!!
When you go to the doctor and you are waiting in the waiting room (that is what you do there), have you ever looked at the "artwork" on the walls? Decorating the walls are cartoon pictures of nasty, internal human organs. Do I really want to look at that? No, I don't. So I force my eyes away from the pink and green jumbo-shaped spleen in front of me and the multiple layers of epidermis with enormous, pencil-like hair follicles protruding out.
I was already sick before I got here. That is why I am here. I am sick. I don't need that nausea reinforced and encouraged by disturbing and disgusting cartoons of the inner-workings of my heart ventricles. Or my folded up bag of intestines. Or my nervous system.
Spare yourselves the vomit-cleaning that is impending and take those pictures down. How about replacing them with calming photographs of bunny rabbits and dandelions?
When you go to the doctor and you are waiting in the waiting room (that is what you do there), have you ever looked at the "artwork" on the walls? Decorating the walls are cartoon pictures of nasty, internal human organs. Do I really want to look at that? No, I don't. So I force my eyes away from the pink and green jumbo-shaped spleen in front of me and the multiple layers of epidermis with enormous, pencil-like hair follicles protruding out.
I was already sick before I got here. That is why I am here. I am sick. I don't need that nausea reinforced and encouraged by disturbing and disgusting cartoons of the inner-workings of my heart ventricles. Or my folded up bag of intestines. Or my nervous system.
Spare yourselves the vomit-cleaning that is impending and take those pictures down. How about replacing them with calming photographs of bunny rabbits and dandelions?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Collecting Canine Crap
One a day for all of May...
I have the given responsibility of going into our backyard and removing our dog's poo. Yes, that is my job. I am the Poo Man. Dog Poo Man. I slowly walk around in the backyard, meticulously combing through the grass looking for canine excrement. And when I find it, I reach down and grab it through the back of a plastic bag. I feel the texture (sometimes the warmth, depending on how fresh), though there is no direct contact with skin and poo. All that to say, it is a pretty terrible job to do. But so they say - someone has to do it.
Today as I was walking around in the backyard Poo-Pooin (as I call it), I couldn't help but notice our dog watching me do this. She just sits there at a comfortable, poo-safe distance watching me clean up her waste. And I had to wonder what in the world was going through her mind. Was she embarrassed? You know, "Matt, I'm really sorry that you have to do this. I feel really awful, seriously. I hate that I can't take advantage of the indoor plumbing." Or was it rather more sinister - a subtle snickering under her breath as she surveys me collecting her crap?
And I had to wonder - what would go through my mind if I had to sit there and watch someone pick up my #2 through a plastic bag? And an idea struck me. I can do this. I can accomplish this and see how I might react. I think I am going to 'take my business to the backyard' and make Kathryn clean it up and see what happens.
I have the given responsibility of going into our backyard and removing our dog's poo. Yes, that is my job. I am the Poo Man. Dog Poo Man. I slowly walk around in the backyard, meticulously combing through the grass looking for canine excrement. And when I find it, I reach down and grab it through the back of a plastic bag. I feel the texture (sometimes the warmth, depending on how fresh), though there is no direct contact with skin and poo. All that to say, it is a pretty terrible job to do. But so they say - someone has to do it.
Today as I was walking around in the backyard Poo-Pooin (as I call it), I couldn't help but notice our dog watching me do this. She just sits there at a comfortable, poo-safe distance watching me clean up her waste. And I had to wonder what in the world was going through her mind. Was she embarrassed? You know, "Matt, I'm really sorry that you have to do this. I feel really awful, seriously. I hate that I can't take advantage of the indoor plumbing." Or was it rather more sinister - a subtle snickering under her breath as she surveys me collecting her crap?
And I had to wonder - what would go through my mind if I had to sit there and watch someone pick up my #2 through a plastic bag? And an idea struck me. I can do this. I can accomplish this and see how I might react. I think I am going to 'take my business to the backyard' and make Kathryn clean it up and see what happens.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Cliché Confusion: Complementary or Condemnatory
one c a day for all c of may
"You're a sight for sore eyes."
This particular expression/cliche has caused quite a bit of confusion/frustration in our marriage lately. To remain anonymous, one of us (Person A) believes that this expression is complementary. To translate - You are a beautiful and welcomed sight for my somewhat exhausted eyes.
The other of us (Person B) believes that this expression is condemnatory. To translate - You are a terrible sight, so much so that you are making my eyes sore.
Which is it? We have been doing a poll amongst our friends and even the poll remains divided. Some say - "Oh this is extremely complementary. You would say this if you were away at war and when you came back and saw your beautiful bride waiting for you - you would say - You're a sight for sore eyes." Others have disagreed. They've said - "Only when someone emerges from a deep sleep with unkempt hair, bed wrinkles pressed into their face, and crusty drool on their shirt would you say - Ew, gross - you're a sight for sore eyes."
Which is it? Your thoughts?
"You're a sight for sore eyes."
This particular expression/cliche has caused quite a bit of confusion/frustration in our marriage lately. To remain anonymous, one of us (Person A) believes that this expression is complementary. To translate - You are a beautiful and welcomed sight for my somewhat exhausted eyes.
The other of us (Person B) believes that this expression is condemnatory. To translate - You are a terrible sight, so much so that you are making my eyes sore.
Which is it? We have been doing a poll amongst our friends and even the poll remains divided. Some say - "Oh this is extremely complementary. You would say this if you were away at war and when you came back and saw your beautiful bride waiting for you - you would say - You're a sight for sore eyes." Others have disagreed. They've said - "Only when someone emerges from a deep sleep with unkempt hair, bed wrinkles pressed into their face, and crusty drool on their shirt would you say - Ew, gross - you're a sight for sore eyes."
Which is it? Your thoughts?
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Check Please
oNe a DaY FoR aLL oF MaY.
I have never been very secure as a tipper. What I mean by that is - I always feel a bit awkward when it comes to filling out the "Gratuity" line on the bill at a restaurant. It makes me uncomfortable. What is going to be insulting? What is going to be gratuitously generous? I have been told that 15% is the average. But that always feels too minimal. Why am I so insecure?
My insecurity flares into hyper-insecurity (that is borderline dangerous) when it comes to take-out or pick-up orders. You go the restaurant, wait at the designated "pick up" line, pay for your meal which has been nicely wrapped up for you in a bag, and then it is time to fill out the check. And there is that haunting line. Gratuity. Now, who in the world is supposed to receive this tip? The guy at the register? Should he really get 15% for handing me a bag of food? I think not. So I don't tip. I'm not eating there. Nobody is serving me. This makes sense. What doesn't make sense to me is the feeling of guilt that I have when I hand the check back to the register guy. That makes no sense to me. Should I really let this 16 year old summer intern make me feel guilty for not tipping him for something he didn't do?
Oh, the guilt. If only I believed the gospel.
I have never been very secure as a tipper. What I mean by that is - I always feel a bit awkward when it comes to filling out the "Gratuity" line on the bill at a restaurant. It makes me uncomfortable. What is going to be insulting? What is going to be gratuitously generous? I have been told that 15% is the average. But that always feels too minimal. Why am I so insecure?
My insecurity flares into hyper-insecurity (that is borderline dangerous) when it comes to take-out or pick-up orders. You go the restaurant, wait at the designated "pick up" line, pay for your meal which has been nicely wrapped up for you in a bag, and then it is time to fill out the check. And there is that haunting line. Gratuity. Now, who in the world is supposed to receive this tip? The guy at the register? Should he really get 15% for handing me a bag of food? I think not. So I don't tip. I'm not eating there. Nobody is serving me. This makes sense. What doesn't make sense to me is the feeling of guilt that I have when I hand the check back to the register guy. That makes no sense to me. Should I really let this 16 year old summer intern make me feel guilty for not tipping him for something he didn't do?
Oh, the guilt. If only I believed the gospel.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Coffee, Camomile, and Crustaceans
one a day For all oF may
Coffee. Does coffee not work after a while? I had 3 cups of coffee yesterday and by 5 pm I was exhausted. Is something wrong with me or has my caffeine tolerance gotten so high that multiple cups of liquid-adrenaline can't touch me anymore? Or perhaps my tiredness is so strong that the coffee can't handle it? Or perhaps the coffee that I'm consuming isn't as strong as I think it is? I am glad to inform you of this though - despite coffee's recent caffeine deficiency, it's digestive effects are thoroughly consistent.
Camomile. I enjoy tea, one could say. One could also say that I don't enjoy tea. But they would be lying. The first person would be telling the truth. I enjoy tea. I go in and out of enjoyment phases though. So perhaps if the second person were to strategically say that I don't enjoy tea at the certain moment that I didn't like tea - then that would be true. If I am in a don't-like-tea-right-now phase and the second person said that I didn't like tea - he or she would be telling the truth. And the first person would be lying. But I was in a I-like-tea phase, which I am currently in, then it would be just the opposite. I'm glad we're all clear on that.
Crustaceans. I feel sorry for this type of aquatic animal. They have the word "crust" in their name. That just sounds gross. They are crusty. But I think a better adjective to describe them would be "crunchy." I think we should change their name to Crunchtaceans. That it more fitting and a bit more appetizing. I don't want crusty shrimp for dinner. But oh! Crunchy shrimp?!? Now we're talking.
Coffee. Does coffee not work after a while? I had 3 cups of coffee yesterday and by 5 pm I was exhausted. Is something wrong with me or has my caffeine tolerance gotten so high that multiple cups of liquid-adrenaline can't touch me anymore? Or perhaps my tiredness is so strong that the coffee can't handle it? Or perhaps the coffee that I'm consuming isn't as strong as I think it is? I am glad to inform you of this though - despite coffee's recent caffeine deficiency, it's digestive effects are thoroughly consistent.
Camomile. I enjoy tea, one could say. One could also say that I don't enjoy tea. But they would be lying. The first person would be telling the truth. I enjoy tea. I go in and out of enjoyment phases though. So perhaps if the second person were to strategically say that I don't enjoy tea at the certain moment that I didn't like tea - then that would be true. If I am in a don't-like-tea-right-now phase and the second person said that I didn't like tea - he or she would be telling the truth. And the first person would be lying. But I was in a I-like-tea phase, which I am currently in, then it would be just the opposite. I'm glad we're all clear on that.
Crustaceans. I feel sorry for this type of aquatic animal. They have the word "crust" in their name. That just sounds gross. They are crusty. But I think a better adjective to describe them would be "crunchy." I think we should change their name to Crunchtaceans. That it more fitting and a bit more appetizing. I don't want crusty shrimp for dinner. But oh! Crunchy shrimp?!? Now we're talking.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Cleaning Out My Inbox
one A day for All of mAy
As of this morning, I have 473 messages in my inbox. Why am I saving so many emails? Will I ever go back and re-read these things? Probably not. But the fact that I am going to have to carve out an afternoon and work through all of these emails makes me think....
With the rise of technology, I now have digital chores. Before, the only cleaning that I needed to do involved real, tangible, concrete things - clean my room, clean my teeth, dust the counter, wipe down the table, spray the cat, etc. And now, my cleaning responsibilities have spilled over into maintaining a cyber account. It needs a bit of tidying up. And so I will sit down, read through my inbox and determine which emails need to be deleted. This will take at least an hour of my life. And there will be those emails, I know, that I will think - ooooh, I have got to keep that one.
And so maybe after this cleaning, I will end up with an inbox of...say....85. That's a thorough overhauling. 473 to 85. That is a serious slim and trim. But I am still keeping 85 emails that I will never read again until 3 years from now when I will need to clean out the inbox again. And then, probably only then, will I erase them. Why don't I spare myself the trouble and just delete them all? If they are going to be erased in 3 years without having been read any in the mean time (who goes back to previous emails and re-reads them? I don't even do that with good literature.), it makes sense to clean house. Ship shape.
Tip top.
Hip hop.
Trip hop.
As of this morning, I have 473 messages in my inbox. Why am I saving so many emails? Will I ever go back and re-read these things? Probably not. But the fact that I am going to have to carve out an afternoon and work through all of these emails makes me think....
With the rise of technology, I now have digital chores. Before, the only cleaning that I needed to do involved real, tangible, concrete things - clean my room, clean my teeth, dust the counter, wipe down the table, spray the cat, etc. And now, my cleaning responsibilities have spilled over into maintaining a cyber account. It needs a bit of tidying up. And so I will sit down, read through my inbox and determine which emails need to be deleted. This will take at least an hour of my life. And there will be those emails, I know, that I will think - ooooh, I have got to keep that one.
And so maybe after this cleaning, I will end up with an inbox of...say....85. That's a thorough overhauling. 473 to 85. That is a serious slim and trim. But I am still keeping 85 emails that I will never read again until 3 years from now when I will need to clean out the inbox again. And then, probably only then, will I erase them. Why don't I spare myself the trouble and just delete them all? If they are going to be erased in 3 years without having been read any in the mean time (who goes back to previous emails and re-reads them? I don't even do that with good literature.), it makes sense to clean house. Ship shape.
Tip top.
Hip hop.
Trip hop.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Clogging Arteries with Meat
One day a for the month May of...
Meat Lover's Pizza. Come on, people. Do we really need that much animal? I was recently at a pizza joint and considered the "Meat Lover's." I felt that this was an appropriate decision because I love meat. I haven't ever thought to label myself as a "Meat Lover," but once I thought about it, sure, I would label myself that. Meat Lover Matt. Maybe that could be my new nickname.
So, after reflecting about my new identity in relation to loving meat, I perused the toppings on this pie. Bacon, sausage, hamburger, italian sausage, pepperoni, ham, canadian bacon. I've seen this thing ordered before. It is simply a heaping mound of assorted meats resting atop some dough. Seriously, people? Granted, I love meat (see my new nickname), but even I cannot see a reason to ingest entire mouthfuls of animal for a whole meal. Does one really need that much?
And then it hit me. This is what really separates the "Meat Lovers" from the "Meat Likers." Because if someone truly loves meat - loves it so much that they are willing to eat nothing but various meat combinations for a meal - then this pizza is for them. I shouldn't flatter myself and call myself a "Meat Lover" and then scoff at an all-animal pizza. This is truly for the Meat Lovers. I, after some reflection, am nothing but a "Meat Liker."
Meat Liker Matt - my new(er) nickname.
Meat Lover's Pizza. Come on, people. Do we really need that much animal? I was recently at a pizza joint and considered the "Meat Lover's." I felt that this was an appropriate decision because I love meat. I haven't ever thought to label myself as a "Meat Lover," but once I thought about it, sure, I would label myself that. Meat Lover Matt. Maybe that could be my new nickname.
So, after reflecting about my new identity in relation to loving meat, I perused the toppings on this pie. Bacon, sausage, hamburger, italian sausage, pepperoni, ham, canadian bacon. I've seen this thing ordered before. It is simply a heaping mound of assorted meats resting atop some dough. Seriously, people? Granted, I love meat (see my new nickname), but even I cannot see a reason to ingest entire mouthfuls of animal for a whole meal. Does one really need that much?
And then it hit me. This is what really separates the "Meat Lovers" from the "Meat Likers." Because if someone truly loves meat - loves it so much that they are willing to eat nothing but various meat combinations for a meal - then this pizza is for them. I shouldn't flatter myself and call myself a "Meat Lover" and then scoff at an all-animal pizza. This is truly for the Meat Lovers. I, after some reflection, am nothing but a "Meat Liker."
Meat Liker Matt - my new(er) nickname.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
C this Movie: Or Don't!!
one a day for all of may.
Castaway: The worst movie ever. Tom Hanks stuck on an island for 90% of it, talking to a coconut. He gets off and his wife leaves him. Absolutely terrible.
Capote: Haven't seen it in a while. Remember liking it. Remember thinking - This guy had a weird voice.
Caddyshack: I didn't grow up on this movie but watched it about a year ago. First viewing. Absolutely terrible. I realize that some of you think this is probably sinful. But humor seems to be culturally stamped and dated. It comes with an expiration date on it. Just try going back and watching Saved by the Bell. Sure, it was enjoyable then. Now....just terrible.
Child's Play: I can still vividly recall one of those final scenes where little Chuckie slices through that guys ankle with an exact-o-knife. It went down so smoothly like butter. I remember the slicing motion being somewhat slow and dramatic. Now that I think about it, why didn't the guy move his ankle after the initial piercing? Why did he sit there still to let the knife sink in about 3 more inches before yelping out for help?
City Slickers: I used to watch this A LOT on VHS growing up. I remember when Billy Crystal helped deliver that calf (later to be named Norman) from the pregnant cow. Even then I wondered why human assistance was necessary in the birth of cows. How do cattle manage without us?
Click: I never saw it. But the previews convinced me that Adam Sandler had made another poor career move.
Crocodile Dundee: This capitalized on a popular movie premise: Place a person of one culture inside a different culture. (Other movies to play on this cross-cultural comedic experiment - Encino Man, Rush Hour, Coming to America, and Curious George)
Castaway: The worst movie ever. Tom Hanks stuck on an island for 90% of it, talking to a coconut. He gets off and his wife leaves him. Absolutely terrible.
Capote: Haven't seen it in a while. Remember liking it. Remember thinking - This guy had a weird voice.
Caddyshack: I didn't grow up on this movie but watched it about a year ago. First viewing. Absolutely terrible. I realize that some of you think this is probably sinful. But humor seems to be culturally stamped and dated. It comes with an expiration date on it. Just try going back and watching Saved by the Bell. Sure, it was enjoyable then. Now....just terrible.
Child's Play: I can still vividly recall one of those final scenes where little Chuckie slices through that guys ankle with an exact-o-knife. It went down so smoothly like butter. I remember the slicing motion being somewhat slow and dramatic. Now that I think about it, why didn't the guy move his ankle after the initial piercing? Why did he sit there still to let the knife sink in about 3 more inches before yelping out for help?
City Slickers: I used to watch this A LOT on VHS growing up. I remember when Billy Crystal helped deliver that calf (later to be named Norman) from the pregnant cow. Even then I wondered why human assistance was necessary in the birth of cows. How do cattle manage without us?
Click: I never saw it. But the previews convinced me that Adam Sandler had made another poor career move.
Crocodile Dundee: This capitalized on a popular movie premise: Place a person of one culture inside a different culture. (Other movies to play on this cross-cultural comedic experiment - Encino Man, Rush Hour, Coming to America, and Curious George)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Confusion over Chicken Empanadas
¡¡One a day for all of May!!
I was at Trader Joes "shopping" aka "doin my thang," and I came upon a frozen bag of "Chicken Empanadas." The picture on the front was enticing enough to make me inquire more. So I did. I picked up the package. I looked at the picture a bit closer. Sure enough, that does look appetizing.
And so I went to phase 2 of my investigation: price. After a little searching, I discovered that this pouch of empanadas was $3.95, a bit pricey for what appeared to be a meager portion of empanadas. So of course, phase 3 was to determine exactly how many empanadas were contained in said pouch.
Nothing on the front revealed the quantity, so I flipped it over and checked out the nutritional value. At the top, it tells you how big the servings are: 1 empanada. Ok. Keep going, Matt. Don't stop here. The following line tells you how many servings this particular pouch contains. Ok, this makes sense. Simple logic leads me to conclude that if 1 serving = 1 empanada, then the number of servings it contains tells me how many empanadas are in there. But this is when I got a bit confused.
It read "Contains about 5 empanadas."
"About"? That is not really informative, is it? How can something contain "about" 5 of something? Are there 4 fully-intact empanadas and a few crumbly bits to round it out to about 5?
Furthermore - the number is so low, that is quite a big difference between 4 and 6 in a package. If there were like 50 in there - ok. I understand. Round it out to "about" 50. But if I'm buying a package of empanadas for $4.00 thinking there is a chance that I may strike gold and get 6 empanadas, only to really get 4 - that makes for a bad day. A bad day indeed.
Furthermore, does Trader Joes not count or regulate the number of empanadas in there? If it isn't exact, what is to prevent someone from stuffing 15 empanadas up in that pouch? One could argue that there are "about" 5 in there if you have a large enough scale. Between 0 and 1,000 empanadas - 15 is roughly "about" 5, you could say.
Joe, if I am going to keep trading with you, you're going to have to be upfront with me.
I was at Trader Joes "shopping" aka "doin my thang," and I came upon a frozen bag of "Chicken Empanadas." The picture on the front was enticing enough to make me inquire more. So I did. I picked up the package. I looked at the picture a bit closer. Sure enough, that does look appetizing.
And so I went to phase 2 of my investigation: price. After a little searching, I discovered that this pouch of empanadas was $3.95, a bit pricey for what appeared to be a meager portion of empanadas. So of course, phase 3 was to determine exactly how many empanadas were contained in said pouch.
Nothing on the front revealed the quantity, so I flipped it over and checked out the nutritional value. At the top, it tells you how big the servings are: 1 empanada. Ok. Keep going, Matt. Don't stop here. The following line tells you how many servings this particular pouch contains. Ok, this makes sense. Simple logic leads me to conclude that if 1 serving = 1 empanada, then the number of servings it contains tells me how many empanadas are in there. But this is when I got a bit confused.
It read "Contains about 5 empanadas."
"About"? That is not really informative, is it? How can something contain "about" 5 of something? Are there 4 fully-intact empanadas and a few crumbly bits to round it out to about 5?
Furthermore - the number is so low, that is quite a big difference between 4 and 6 in a package. If there were like 50 in there - ok. I understand. Round it out to "about" 50. But if I'm buying a package of empanadas for $4.00 thinking there is a chance that I may strike gold and get 6 empanadas, only to really get 4 - that makes for a bad day. A bad day indeed.
Furthermore, does Trader Joes not count or regulate the number of empanadas in there? If it isn't exact, what is to prevent someone from stuffing 15 empanadas up in that pouch? One could argue that there are "about" 5 in there if you have a large enough scale. Between 0 and 1,000 empanadas - 15 is roughly "about" 5, you could say.
Joe, if I am going to keep trading with you, you're going to have to be upfront with me.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Carbon Copy
One a DAY for all of MAY
I've come to realize that people don't seem to know that the "CC" feature of sending emails harkens back and stands for "Carbon copy." Are we really utilizing this outdated technology and terminology to refer to our current system of duplication? Just think about it:
Carbon. Copy.
This is the technology that was available in the early 1990s to procure a reliable imprint on someone's credit card. You certainly didn't swipe this piece of plastic through a little machine at the register. No, you handed your card to the person checking you out, they whipped out a clunky rectangular shaped device that was underneath the register, inserted your card into its designated spot, and with a quick and simple, back and forth "cha-chunk," the necessary information was imprinted into a strip of carbon paper. Is this primitive technology really what we are going to compare with our modern version of CC'ing someone when we send non-physical data across the universe via cyber space?
It's kin to referring to the power of our automobiles as "horse power." Why don't we just throw it all back and refer to our cell phones as "sea shells", our web sites as "papyrus" or "vellum", and our grocery stores as "Trader Joes"?
I've come to realize that people don't seem to know that the "CC" feature of sending emails harkens back and stands for "Carbon copy." Are we really utilizing this outdated technology and terminology to refer to our current system of duplication? Just think about it:
Carbon. Copy.
This is the technology that was available in the early 1990s to procure a reliable imprint on someone's credit card. You certainly didn't swipe this piece of plastic through a little machine at the register. No, you handed your card to the person checking you out, they whipped out a clunky rectangular shaped device that was underneath the register, inserted your card into its designated spot, and with a quick and simple, back and forth "cha-chunk," the necessary information was imprinted into a strip of carbon paper. Is this primitive technology really what we are going to compare with our modern version of CC'ing someone when we send non-physical data across the universe via cyber space?
It's kin to referring to the power of our automobiles as "horse power." Why don't we just throw it all back and refer to our cell phones as "sea shells", our web sites as "papyrus" or "vellum", and our grocery stores as "Trader Joes"?
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Craigslist: And Our Love/Hate Relationship
One a day for the entire month of May
Dear Craigslist,
I was attracted to you the first time I heard about you. I was informed about the ways that you work, the ways that you bring people together and enable us to get money from crap we don't want anymore. I thought this was an amazing idea. So I looked into you. I found your website. Sure, at first it seemed rather simple and quite outdated as far as layout and design, but I never like to judge books (or websites) by their covers (or designs). So I keep looking. And what I found, I loved.
I found myself rounding up crap around the house, taking pictures of it in flattering poses, and uploading the pics onto your website. I was overjoyed. I thought - someone is actually going to give me money for this stuff. That old TV = cash money. That old raggedy doll = vintage collector's item. That old electric razor = someone else's prized possession. I saw dollar signs on everything I owned. Surely, somebody would want to buy those dried out flowers. Surely, somebody wants to purchase my old Method Man CDs. I was excited.
But the excitement faded in time. I waited. And I waited. And so it seemed, nobody really wanted to buy my stuff after all. I guess people aren't interested in televisions, cds, and dog igloos. I guess people don't really want old muppet dolls.
And so I found myself hating you. You offered the world to me and let me down. Your promises were too large. Your eyes were bigger than your stomach.
Love/Hate,
Irascible Customer #524
Dear Craigslist,
I was attracted to you the first time I heard about you. I was informed about the ways that you work, the ways that you bring people together and enable us to get money from crap we don't want anymore. I thought this was an amazing idea. So I looked into you. I found your website. Sure, at first it seemed rather simple and quite outdated as far as layout and design, but I never like to judge books (or websites) by their covers (or designs). So I keep looking. And what I found, I loved.
I found myself rounding up crap around the house, taking pictures of it in flattering poses, and uploading the pics onto your website. I was overjoyed. I thought - someone is actually going to give me money for this stuff. That old TV = cash money. That old raggedy doll = vintage collector's item. That old electric razor = someone else's prized possession. I saw dollar signs on everything I owned. Surely, somebody would want to buy those dried out flowers. Surely, somebody wants to purchase my old Method Man CDs. I was excited.
But the excitement faded in time. I waited. And I waited. And so it seemed, nobody really wanted to buy my stuff after all. I guess people aren't interested in televisions, cds, and dog igloos. I guess people don't really want old muppet dolls.
And so I found myself hating you. You offered the world to me and let me down. Your promises were too large. Your eyes were bigger than your stomach.
Love/Hate,
Irascible Customer #524
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Chicken Wing Stew
One a day for all of May...
It would be criminal (subliminal) to dedicate May to the letter "C" without any regard for Chicken Wing Stew. Thus, not wanting to be criminal (the subliminal kind), I shall here make regard to aforementioned stew.
Chicken wing, chicken wing, chicken wing stew. First, note that this is not a soup. Soups are thin and...well....soupy. You can eat soups with a straw. But this is a stew. Thick, robust, hearty. One might prefer a fork and knife while enjoying this entree. Second, note the fact that it is Chicken WING stew. Not simply chicken stew. That is too bland, too cliche, too kosher. But I'm talking chicken wing. Hot. Spicy. Wingy.
I've been asked this many times, "What is your deal with chicken wing stew?" My response is what it has always been: "I don't know." This concept mysteriously imprinted itself on my mind years ago and I haven't been able to shake it. I write about it. I sing about it (often). It comes up in social situations when it shouldn't.
I believe St. Paul was experiencing something similar when he spoke of a "thorn in his flesh." This nameless, faceless "thorn" has troubled scholars for years....what is he actually talking about there? But while they are confused, I know. I know the kind of issues he was facing. It is that reoccurring phrase or concept or entree item that renders you helpless before its freight. It doesn't stop to ask questions or permission. It just comes out. Chicken wing stew. You like me. I like you.
It would be criminal (subliminal) to dedicate May to the letter "C" without any regard for Chicken Wing Stew. Thus, not wanting to be criminal (the subliminal kind), I shall here make regard to aforementioned stew.
Chicken wing, chicken wing, chicken wing stew. First, note that this is not a soup. Soups are thin and...well....soupy. You can eat soups with a straw. But this is a stew. Thick, robust, hearty. One might prefer a fork and knife while enjoying this entree. Second, note the fact that it is Chicken WING stew. Not simply chicken stew. That is too bland, too cliche, too kosher. But I'm talking chicken wing. Hot. Spicy. Wingy.
I've been asked this many times, "What is your deal with chicken wing stew?" My response is what it has always been: "I don't know." This concept mysteriously imprinted itself on my mind years ago and I haven't been able to shake it. I write about it. I sing about it (often). It comes up in social situations when it shouldn't.
I believe St. Paul was experiencing something similar when he spoke of a "thorn in his flesh." This nameless, faceless "thorn" has troubled scholars for years....what is he actually talking about there? But while they are confused, I know. I know the kind of issues he was facing. It is that reoccurring phrase or concept or entree item that renders you helpless before its freight. It doesn't stop to ask questions or permission. It just comes out. Chicken wing stew. You like me. I like you.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Can't Touch This
One a day for all of MAY...
MC Hammer once announced to the world that he was "Too legit to quit." There is a glaring problem with this assertion.
Hammer has quit. He is not making music anymore to my knowledge. Maybe he is recording tracks in his home studio or something, but he has officially fallen out of the public conscious. He has quit. Therefore - he is a liar. He is not too legit to quit. His legitimacy is compromised. He has quit.
And what is the relationship between legitimacy and longevity. He is saying - I am legit. I am authorized. I am authentic. Does this therefore obligate Hammer to work for the rest of his life incessantly? Can he not rest or take a break? Apparently not. Legitimacy equals workaholism. His very authenticity is what drives him to never quit.
Honestly, I don't see the logical connection. I think you can be legit and still, after some time, quit. Quitting does not necessarily compromise legitimacy. But it does in the mind of Hammer.
And we must remember that at the end of the day, he has quit.
MC Hammer once announced to the world that he was "Too legit to quit." There is a glaring problem with this assertion.
Hammer has quit. He is not making music anymore to my knowledge. Maybe he is recording tracks in his home studio or something, but he has officially fallen out of the public conscious. He has quit. Therefore - he is a liar. He is not too legit to quit. His legitimacy is compromised. He has quit.
And what is the relationship between legitimacy and longevity. He is saying - I am legit. I am authorized. I am authentic. Does this therefore obligate Hammer to work for the rest of his life incessantly? Can he not rest or take a break? Apparently not. Legitimacy equals workaholism. His very authenticity is what drives him to never quit.
Honestly, I don't see the logical connection. I think you can be legit and still, after some time, quit. Quitting does not necessarily compromise legitimacy. But it does in the mind of Hammer.
And we must remember that at the end of the day, he has quit.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Check it Out Yourself
OnE A dAy fOr All Of mAy
One of the most frustrating things about grocery shopping is the "Check it Out Yourself" aisles. I am usually in a hurry (which should inform you that something is probably very wrong with me). You rush in to the parking lot to find the best spot. You hustle into the store. You quickly and efficiently navigate the aisles for your only-on-my-list items. You are making great timing. One last step. You file into the line waiting to use the self-checkout machines. And the speed of your experience just got wrenched into a sudden and aggravating stop.
People don't know how to grocery shop and self-checkout in a society, I've come to realize. And they don't really understand the concept of courtesy to your fellow shoppers behind you, waiting to use that very machine. They treat it like it is an arcade game or something - "When I've had my fun, then you can take a turn." There is really no awareness of other people relying on their speed to get out and along with their day.
And when they do slumberly and sluggishly decide to start scanning their products, they can't figure it out. They're flipping their item every which way to find the barcode, when it is visibly ON THE BOTTOM. I can see it from way back her, Mister. Why can't you? And when they do figure it out, they slowly slide it over the scanner thing, only to have it not work time and time again. So after a while they get confused or frustrated and give up. Then they turn their attention to the attendant for help...only the attendant is busy trying to help someone else "check it out themselves" because that person, too, is an idiot.
Am I mad about this? Yes. Am I crossing the line here? Probably. Do I think that America is ready to "Check it Out Yourself"? No. No, we are not ready. Obviously, not. At the very least there should be some sort of standards for who can operate these "confusing" machines. There should be a hierarchy (like Sam's Club does it) and only the Golden Elite Members can operate the self-checkout machinery. They are efficient and they know what they are doing.
But as for the rest of you, please wait in line to have the humans help you.
One of the most frustrating things about grocery shopping is the "Check it Out Yourself" aisles. I am usually in a hurry (which should inform you that something is probably very wrong with me). You rush in to the parking lot to find the best spot. You hustle into the store. You quickly and efficiently navigate the aisles for your only-on-my-list items. You are making great timing. One last step. You file into the line waiting to use the self-checkout machines. And the speed of your experience just got wrenched into a sudden and aggravating stop.
People don't know how to grocery shop and self-checkout in a society, I've come to realize. And they don't really understand the concept of courtesy to your fellow shoppers behind you, waiting to use that very machine. They treat it like it is an arcade game or something - "When I've had my fun, then you can take a turn." There is really no awareness of other people relying on their speed to get out and along with their day.
And when they do slumberly and sluggishly decide to start scanning their products, they can't figure it out. They're flipping their item every which way to find the barcode, when it is visibly ON THE BOTTOM. I can see it from way back her, Mister. Why can't you? And when they do figure it out, they slowly slide it over the scanner thing, only to have it not work time and time again. So after a while they get confused or frustrated and give up. Then they turn their attention to the attendant for help...only the attendant is busy trying to help someone else "check it out themselves" because that person, too, is an idiot.
Am I mad about this? Yes. Am I crossing the line here? Probably. Do I think that America is ready to "Check it Out Yourself"? No. No, we are not ready. Obviously, not. At the very least there should be some sort of standards for who can operate these "confusing" machines. There should be a hierarchy (like Sam's Club does it) and only the Golden Elite Members can operate the self-checkout machinery. They are efficient and they know what they are doing.
But as for the rest of you, please wait in line to have the humans help you.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Captain Hook
on ea da yfo th emon tho fma y
One of the most famous (infamous) villains in all of American folklore is Captain Hook. He is the Captain of a boat which, mind you, is a very lucrative position. He is at the upper echelon of the nautical hierarchy. He is prominent, prestigious, and popular. And yet for all of his pedigree, he is...well....unfortunately maimed.
Apparently it was the work of some crocodile (or alligator) that chewed off his hand. And his chosen substitute of this gnarled appendage was....a hook. Poor choice.
You don't have to see Arrested Development to discover that this is not the most efficient prosthetic. How is one supposed to peel a banana? Or pop the top on a coke can? Or pick your nose? Or check your email? Or perform open heart surgery?
But, on the other hand (pun), there is at least one benefit to possessing a hook appendage: You can't get tricked in one of those Chinese finger traps.
One of the most famous (infamous) villains in all of American folklore is Captain Hook. He is the Captain of a boat which, mind you, is a very lucrative position. He is at the upper echelon of the nautical hierarchy. He is prominent, prestigious, and popular. And yet for all of his pedigree, he is...well....unfortunately maimed.
Apparently it was the work of some crocodile (or alligator) that chewed off his hand. And his chosen substitute of this gnarled appendage was....a hook. Poor choice.
You don't have to see Arrested Development to discover that this is not the most efficient prosthetic. How is one supposed to peel a banana? Or pop the top on a coke can? Or pick your nose? Or check your email? Or perform open heart surgery?
But, on the other hand (pun), there is at least one benefit to possessing a hook appendage: You can't get tricked in one of those Chinese finger traps.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Courtesy Laughs
One a day....
You know you've done it. Someone is telling a joke or a story that is obviously not going anywhere, and you are trying to be polite. You don't want them to look stupid. You are looking out for them. So you laugh. You didn't really think it was funny, but you somehow contorted a smile and mustered out a chuckle. You didn't want them to just be hanging out there in that awkward post-story-silence. You threw them a bone. And an acorn.
Have you ever had this person that you just protected throw you under the bus (after you just threw them a bone, mind you) and call you out on your courtesy laugh? I have. I'm like - Wait a second! I was just trying to spare you the embarrassment and you are going to directly embarrass me over it? I don't understand this.
It's like somebody is holding your friend up at gunpoint. You jump in and knock out the gunman, only to have your friend pick up the weapon from off the pavement and then take the opportunity to point it at you demanding your wallet.
I always want to say - "Hey, I'm doing you a favor by courtesy laughing. Your story really sucked. I was trying to help you."
And then I'd giggle and say - "Just kidding."
You know you've done it. Someone is telling a joke or a story that is obviously not going anywhere, and you are trying to be polite. You don't want them to look stupid. You are looking out for them. So you laugh. You didn't really think it was funny, but you somehow contorted a smile and mustered out a chuckle. You didn't want them to just be hanging out there in that awkward post-story-silence. You threw them a bone. And an acorn.
Have you ever had this person that you just protected throw you under the bus (after you just threw them a bone, mind you) and call you out on your courtesy laugh? I have. I'm like - Wait a second! I was just trying to spare you the embarrassment and you are going to directly embarrass me over it? I don't understand this.
It's like somebody is holding your friend up at gunpoint. You jump in and knock out the gunman, only to have your friend pick up the weapon from off the pavement and then take the opportunity to point it at you demanding your wallet.
I always want to say - "Hey, I'm doing you a favor by courtesy laughing. Your story really sucked. I was trying to help you."
And then I'd giggle and say - "Just kidding."
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Canker Sores
One a day for all of C-May...
Can there be any more mundane, boring and yet utterly annoying ailment as a canker sore? What in the world are these things anyway? They are white, super-sensitive, lumps that magically appear on the inside of your lips, cheek and mouth and torment you for the 2+ weeks they choose to stick around. Tomatoes are off limits. Orange juice is a no-go. Don't even think about brushing your teeth either. And then suddenly, as randomly as they arrived, they disappear.
Just like that.
It is the in-between-canker-sores that really mess with your mind. You get to thinking - will one pop up tomorrow, making that pizza lunch I had scheduled a disaster? They play mind games with you. They trick you into believing that they are just around the corner, so you brace yourself. And then nothing. And just when you least expect it...the inside of your lower lip gets blitzkrieged with one the size of a quarter. And you might as well just rule out Italian food for the month now.
Can there be any more mundane, boring and yet utterly annoying ailment as a canker sore? What in the world are these things anyway? They are white, super-sensitive, lumps that magically appear on the inside of your lips, cheek and mouth and torment you for the 2+ weeks they choose to stick around. Tomatoes are off limits. Orange juice is a no-go. Don't even think about brushing your teeth either. And then suddenly, as randomly as they arrived, they disappear.
Just like that.
It is the in-between-canker-sores that really mess with your mind. You get to thinking - will one pop up tomorrow, making that pizza lunch I had scheduled a disaster? They play mind games with you. They trick you into believing that they are just around the corner, so you brace yourself. And then nothing. And just when you least expect it...the inside of your lower lip gets blitzkrieged with one the size of a quarter. And you might as well just rule out Italian food for the month now.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Conversation: A Relapse
One a day for all of May
Gene: So I was enjoying chewing on a strip of leather the other day, and out of nowhere I spot this cat stuck up in a tree.
Oliver: Really? A cat up in a tree?
Gene: Yeah. A real cat stuck up in a tree.
Oliver: So what did you do?
Gene: Well, I did what anyone should do. I called the fire department.
Oliver: You really called the fire department? You tied up the fire department for a freakin' cat? People's homes could be burning and they might be 20 minutes late because you have them climbing up in trees trying to help cats??
Gene: Hey - who else is going to do it?
Oliver: I don't know....you climb up and do it.
Gene: That is crazy. I need one of those big ladders that they have.
Oliver: So, go buy a ladder from the hardware store.
Gene: Ok, so I go buy a ladder. And I climb up. What if the cat is rabid or something and bites me? I need that fire-proof protective gear they wear.
Oliver: So, ok, go buy some protective fire-proof outfit.
Gene: Now let me get this straight: You want me to essentially dress up like a fireman instead of actually calling a fireman and once I am dressed up like a fireman - then I climb up a tree and let this cat down myself.
Oliver: That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying buy a ladder and a fire-proof outfit.
Gene: Would I need to buy one of their fireman hats?
Oliver: Yes.
Gene: Exactly.
Gene: So I was enjoying chewing on a strip of leather the other day, and out of nowhere I spot this cat stuck up in a tree.
Oliver: Really? A cat up in a tree?
Gene: Yeah. A real cat stuck up in a tree.
Oliver: So what did you do?
Gene: Well, I did what anyone should do. I called the fire department.
Oliver: You really called the fire department? You tied up the fire department for a freakin' cat? People's homes could be burning and they might be 20 minutes late because you have them climbing up in trees trying to help cats??
Gene: Hey - who else is going to do it?
Oliver: I don't know....you climb up and do it.
Gene: That is crazy. I need one of those big ladders that they have.
Oliver: So, go buy a ladder from the hardware store.
Gene: Ok, so I go buy a ladder. And I climb up. What if the cat is rabid or something and bites me? I need that fire-proof protective gear they wear.
Oliver: So, ok, go buy some protective fire-proof outfit.
Gene: Now let me get this straight: You want me to essentially dress up like a fireman instead of actually calling a fireman and once I am dressed up like a fireman - then I climb up a tree and let this cat down myself.
Oliver: That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying buy a ladder and a fire-proof outfit.
Gene: Would I need to buy one of their fireman hats?
Oliver: Yes.
Gene: Exactly.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Can You Give Me Your iPhone?
One a day for all of iMay
I want your iPhone. I know you have one. Everyone does. I see you using it. Heck...I've even been trying to actually converse with you in person...and yet you cannot divert your eyes away from your toy. You are like a 3 year old. You cannot look away. It has you hypnotized. What are you even doing with it that it requires such focus? I see you scrolling through things. Is that your email that you are checking? People who write you words are a bigger priority than a person standing right in front of you speaking? Ok, you are sick. I can help you though. Just give me your iPhone. I can free you of this obsession. I can break its curse. Just slowly give it to me. Wait. Not too quick. Nice and easy. Just slowly lift your eyes from its flashy screen and look into mine. See. There. No that's better. Now we are actually making eye contact. Good. That is step one. Now fight the urge to look back down. Fight hard. I know you want to look down and scroll around a bit more. I know you want to update your Twitter or your Facebook status real quick about how you made eye contact with an actual human. Fight the urge. Now. Just slowly hand the iPhone over to me. Yes. That's it. Real slow like. That's good. Oh. It's not as heavy as I thought it would be. Oh, wow. The screen is very pleasant to look at it. It is soft on my eyes. Oh, the pretty colors. I have to update my Facebook status.
I want your iPhone. I know you have one. Everyone does. I see you using it. Heck...I've even been trying to actually converse with you in person...and yet you cannot divert your eyes away from your toy. You are like a 3 year old. You cannot look away. It has you hypnotized. What are you even doing with it that it requires such focus? I see you scrolling through things. Is that your email that you are checking? People who write you words are a bigger priority than a person standing right in front of you speaking? Ok, you are sick. I can help you though. Just give me your iPhone. I can free you of this obsession. I can break its curse. Just slowly give it to me. Wait. Not too quick. Nice and easy. Just slowly lift your eyes from its flashy screen and look into mine. See. There. No that's better. Now we are actually making eye contact. Good. That is step one. Now fight the urge to look back down. Fight hard. I know you want to look down and scroll around a bit more. I know you want to update your Twitter or your Facebook status real quick about how you made eye contact with an actual human. Fight the urge. Now. Just slowly hand the iPhone over to me. Yes. That's it. Real slow like. That's good. Oh. It's not as heavy as I thought it would be. Oh, wow. The screen is very pleasant to look at it. It is soft on my eyes. Oh, the pretty colors. I have to update my Facebook status.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Cantaloupes Can't Elope
One a day for all of May
Every so often my mind drifts to fruit. And how utterly ridiculous this stuff is. And how utterly ridiculous our obsession of it is. And how utterly amazing it is to pierce the skin of a plump pear, only to let its fructose-laden juices drip down our chins, slide down our necks, and into our chest hair. And how utterly easy it is to gorge yourself on handfuls of blueberries if they are 1) present and 2) free. And how utterly useless the bulk of a pomegranate is.
That gets me thinking. Some fruits make you work for their...fruit. Grapefruits, oranges, kiwi, melons, heck, even bananas require some amount of work to peal, break, rip and tear just to get to what we want on the inside. They are making us savages. Here we were - civilized aristocrats - wanting to merely enjoy a bit of the earth's pleasures. Is that so wrong? And we must roll up our sleeves, sink our fingernails in, twist and scrape off layers of pulp and marrow just to enjoy but a taste of its sweetened core. Why do we do this? We are so committed to it? Why will we trade our dignity for savagery - only for the benefit of a morsel of fruitness? Why are we content to shred an orange into pieces, leaving its fragments strewn about our lunch tables? Why are we ok with gnawing helplessly at a stubborn banana peel?
Why?
Every so often my mind drifts to fruit. And how utterly ridiculous this stuff is. And how utterly ridiculous our obsession of it is. And how utterly amazing it is to pierce the skin of a plump pear, only to let its fructose-laden juices drip down our chins, slide down our necks, and into our chest hair. And how utterly easy it is to gorge yourself on handfuls of blueberries if they are 1) present and 2) free. And how utterly useless the bulk of a pomegranate is.
That gets me thinking. Some fruits make you work for their...fruit. Grapefruits, oranges, kiwi, melons, heck, even bananas require some amount of work to peal, break, rip and tear just to get to what we want on the inside. They are making us savages. Here we were - civilized aristocrats - wanting to merely enjoy a bit of the earth's pleasures. Is that so wrong? And we must roll up our sleeves, sink our fingernails in, twist and scrape off layers of pulp and marrow just to enjoy but a taste of its sweetened core. Why do we do this? We are so committed to it? Why will we trade our dignity for savagery - only for the benefit of a morsel of fruitness? Why are we content to shred an orange into pieces, leaving its fragments strewn about our lunch tables? Why are we ok with gnawing helplessly at a stubborn banana peel?
Why?
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Couch Cushion
One a day for all of May
There is a common domestic strategy for cleaning up those unwanted spills on your couch cushion - you flip the cushion over to the other side. What once was the blemished fabric of a rorschach-esque wine splot, is now the purified, back-to-normal fabric - courtesy of the cushion's clean underbelly.
Gross on one side, clean on the other. Flip it. And now you retain the respect of your neighbors.
What an American solution, now that I think about it. Let's not actually fix the problem. Let's not remove the stain. Let's just hide it. Let's preserve the image over preserving the couch. Let's make sure that what other people see is clean, even though beneath it all is utter filth. Let's smile and pretend. Let's start more sentences with "Let's."
If only all other problems could be solved by a simple flip. Imagine how the world would benefit: You eat that rueben too hastily and get mustard on your new neck-tie. Flip it. Problem solved. You get that white, cakey, dried toothpaste residue on your lips that you can't seem to get rid of no matter how many times you lick your lips. Flip it. Problem solved. You step in a mound of dog excrement. Flip it. Problem solved.
Flip it.
There is a common domestic strategy for cleaning up those unwanted spills on your couch cushion - you flip the cushion over to the other side. What once was the blemished fabric of a rorschach-esque wine splot, is now the purified, back-to-normal fabric - courtesy of the cushion's clean underbelly.
Gross on one side, clean on the other. Flip it. And now you retain the respect of your neighbors.
What an American solution, now that I think about it. Let's not actually fix the problem. Let's not remove the stain. Let's just hide it. Let's preserve the image over preserving the couch. Let's make sure that what other people see is clean, even though beneath it all is utter filth. Let's smile and pretend. Let's start more sentences with "Let's."
If only all other problems could be solved by a simple flip. Imagine how the world would benefit: You eat that rueben too hastily and get mustard on your new neck-tie. Flip it. Problem solved. You get that white, cakey, dried toothpaste residue on your lips that you can't seem to get rid of no matter how many times you lick your lips. Flip it. Problem solved. You step in a mound of dog excrement. Flip it. Problem solved.
Flip it.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Corn Syrup
One a day for all of May
I was in the shower this morning thinking about corn syrup. Now, I must admit a certain level of ignorance in regard to this stuff. Is it actually made from corn? Is it actually syrup? These are the questions I would want to explore if I had more time (or lime) in life.
So, let's just suppose it is made from corn. Someone ('they') extracts sugar from corn and boils it or do whatever 'they' do to it - and it makes this sticky, sweet syrup. This is brilliant. If 'they' can make glue from horse parts and 'they' can make syrup from corn stalks, what can't 'they' do? The possibilities are endless:
- Making coca-cola from rubber tires
- Making sea salt from tree bark
- Making leather couches from leather fabric
- Making polyurethane from urinals
The creation of corn syrup signals to me to optimistic future of humanity. Perhaps I am buying into the Enlightenment project too deeply. Perhaps I truly am Modern. Perhaps I have not given up on the dream. But if we can make syrup from corn, we can do anything.
There is that one little snafoo (sp?)....in that corn syrup sucks, it's really hard to clean up, and it doesn't really taste like syrup. Aside from that....humanity is on course to utopia.
I was in the shower this morning thinking about corn syrup. Now, I must admit a certain level of ignorance in regard to this stuff. Is it actually made from corn? Is it actually syrup? These are the questions I would want to explore if I had more time (or lime) in life.
So, let's just suppose it is made from corn. Someone ('they') extracts sugar from corn and boils it or do whatever 'they' do to it - and it makes this sticky, sweet syrup. This is brilliant. If 'they' can make glue from horse parts and 'they' can make syrup from corn stalks, what can't 'they' do? The possibilities are endless:
- Making coca-cola from rubber tires
- Making sea salt from tree bark
- Making leather couches from leather fabric
- Making polyurethane from urinals
The creation of corn syrup signals to me to optimistic future of humanity. Perhaps I am buying into the Enlightenment project too deeply. Perhaps I truly am Modern. Perhaps I have not given up on the dream. But if we can make syrup from corn, we can do anything.
There is that one little snafoo (sp?)....in that corn syrup sucks, it's really hard to clean up, and it doesn't really taste like syrup. Aside from that....humanity is on course to utopia.
Friday, May 01, 2009
C is for Sea
One a day for all of May
If 3 is the magic number, C is the magic letter. After all, C is the 3rd letter. And it rhymes with 3. And it looks like a C (only flipped around with a little thingy sticking out the middle). And therefore C is magical.
In light of the magical nature of the letter C, I shall Commit myself to this letter for the month of May. I shall make it my theme. My Constant, Continuing Current underlying this entire enterprise. Am I really up to this Crusty, Crunchy Challenge?
Could I do it?
Can I really do it?
Copper is better than gold?
Crunch Bars are Crunchier than Chunkys?
This is my task. This is my Crazy Commitment to make this May madder than it has ever been. May is mad, mind you.
[Was Francis Assisi a sissy?]
If 3 is the magic number, C is the magic letter. After all, C is the 3rd letter. And it rhymes with 3. And it looks like a C (only flipped around with a little thingy sticking out the middle). And therefore C is magical.
In light of the magical nature of the letter C, I shall Commit myself to this letter for the month of May. I shall make it my theme. My Constant, Continuing Current underlying this entire enterprise. Am I really up to this Crusty, Crunchy Challenge?
Could I do it?
Can I really do it?
Copper is better than gold?
Crunch Bars are Crunchier than Chunkys?
This is my task. This is my Crazy Commitment to make this May madder than it has ever been. May is mad, mind you.
[Was Francis Assisi a sissy?]
Friday, April 17, 2009
It is Nigh
For my one post for the month of April, I shall merely notify. Consider this a notification blog. A nlog.
May Madness approaches.
While you are turning in your taxes (late), turning in your final projects and papers, turning your AC back on, turning your butter (or rather churning), I will be turning my attention to the daily production of blogs for an entire month. One a day for the month of May.
The 3rd Annual May Madness is nigh.
And this year....there is a surprise. A twist. A shock. An awe. A tire.
It is guaranteed to confuse, to inspire, and to console. It is madness, I tell you. Pure Madness.
May Madness approaches.
While you are turning in your taxes (late), turning in your final projects and papers, turning your AC back on, turning your butter (or rather churning), I will be turning my attention to the daily production of blogs for an entire month. One a day for the month of May.
The 3rd Annual May Madness is nigh.
And this year....there is a surprise. A twist. A shock. An awe. A tire.
It is guaranteed to confuse, to inspire, and to console. It is madness, I tell you. Pure Madness.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Moon is Undone
I think blogging has already gone out of style (fashion). I remember back in the day (2007) when blogging was all the rage. Everyone wanted one. Everyone had one. Everyone wrote constantly. Everyone read constantly. I think we overdid it. Because now everyone is simply exhausted and no one cares about blogs anymore.
Blogs are dropping off the cyberspace universe. People have quit writing. People have quit reading. It is already an outdated form of media/self-expression. You wait. Within one year, blogs will have been replaced by something else. What it is, I couldn't tell you. But blogs are on the way out. They are going out as quickly as they came in.
[Excursus: I'm surprised CDs have hung on as long as they have. I expected iPods and what not to completely make this primitive form of digital entertainment obsolete. But no. They are still around. They aren't the powerhouse they were. But they are still some sort of house. Maybe a duplex of sorts.]
I wonder if there will be some type of blog Renaissance. I can see it now - a mass flooding of people back to the Net-O-Inter, just to document their thoughts for the world to see. And there will be an equally ambitious movement of people rising from the darkness who are eager to read about these irrelevant thoughts people are publicly documenting. It will be great. People will spend hours on end reading and writing. Literacy rates will increase. Some blogs may make it big (stuff white people like). Others will collapse into oblivion (Corbin).
Others will putter along (mine).
Blogs are dropping off the cyberspace universe. People have quit writing. People have quit reading. It is already an outdated form of media/self-expression. You wait. Within one year, blogs will have been replaced by something else. What it is, I couldn't tell you. But blogs are on the way out. They are going out as quickly as they came in.
[Excursus: I'm surprised CDs have hung on as long as they have. I expected iPods and what not to completely make this primitive form of digital entertainment obsolete. But no. They are still around. They aren't the powerhouse they were. But they are still some sort of house. Maybe a duplex of sorts.]
I wonder if there will be some type of blog Renaissance. I can see it now - a mass flooding of people back to the Net-O-Inter, just to document their thoughts for the world to see. And there will be an equally ambitious movement of people rising from the darkness who are eager to read about these irrelevant thoughts people are publicly documenting. It will be great. People will spend hours on end reading and writing. Literacy rates will increase. Some blogs may make it big (stuff white people like). Others will collapse into oblivion (Corbin).
Others will putter along (mine).
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Initials, Initially
There are a lot of things out there that I don't know. And a lot of things that I should.
I don't know what the initials of the following list stands for, but I will venture a guess:
1) JC Penny - Julius Caesar Penny
2) AT&T - Atlanta, Tallahassee, and Tulsa
3) CNN - Celebrity News Network
4) PF Changs - Peanut Funk Changs
5) TNT - Teenage Ninja Turtles
6) A1 Steak Sauce - Albert 1 Steak Sauce
7) MGM Studio - Milk Guv Magnesium Studio
8) TJ Max - Tyrone Jamal Max
9) REI - Reggie's Energy Institute
10) LL Bean - Larry Loves Bean
I don't know what the initials of the following list stands for, but I will venture a guess:
1) JC Penny - Julius Caesar Penny
2) AT&T - Atlanta, Tallahassee, and Tulsa
3) CNN - Celebrity News Network
4) PF Changs - Peanut Funk Changs
5) TNT - Teenage Ninja Turtles
6) A1 Steak Sauce - Albert 1 Steak Sauce
7) MGM Studio - Milk Guv Magnesium Studio
8) TJ Max - Tyrone Jamal Max
9) REI - Reggie's Energy Institute
10) LL Bean - Larry Loves Bean
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thanks (I think)
Gratitude can take many faces. And shapes. And cans.
But what I am particularly interested in exploring is the pluralization of gratitude. Let me explain:
Person A (let's call him "Jack") says to Person B (now, let's call her "Jill") a casual, "Thank you for the peppermint." Jack told Jill "thank you." Ok. Let's continue.
Now let's suppose Jack (let's now call him "Edgar") says to Jill (let's keep her as "Jill") on a different occasion: "Thanks." Edgar tells Jill "thanks."
One time - thank you
Another - thanks
Why the pluralization? Was the first time only the offering of one, singular piece of gratitude? And then on the second time, was it a collection, a cluster, if you will, of gratitude? What makes the need to switch these?
Why couldn't you legitimately say, "Thanks you"? Or why couldn't you say, "Thank" after someone gives you their peppermint (or spearmint)?
From here on out I am only going to offer the collection/cluster of gratitude. I feel like you get a little bit more for your words when you pluralize them. (For example, I would much rather have 5 dollars then 1 dollar). So hold me to it.
Thanks you.
But what I am particularly interested in exploring is the pluralization of gratitude. Let me explain:
Person A (let's call him "Jack") says to Person B (now, let's call her "Jill") a casual, "Thank you for the peppermint." Jack told Jill "thank you." Ok. Let's continue.
Now let's suppose Jack (let's now call him "Edgar") says to Jill (let's keep her as "Jill") on a different occasion: "Thanks." Edgar tells Jill "thanks."
One time - thank you
Another - thanks
Why the pluralization? Was the first time only the offering of one, singular piece of gratitude? And then on the second time, was it a collection, a cluster, if you will, of gratitude? What makes the need to switch these?
Why couldn't you legitimately say, "Thanks you"? Or why couldn't you say, "Thank" after someone gives you their peppermint (or spearmint)?
From here on out I am only going to offer the collection/cluster of gratitude. I feel like you get a little bit more for your words when you pluralize them. (For example, I would much rather have 5 dollars then 1 dollar). So hold me to it.
Thanks you.
Friday, February 20, 2009
You Tell Me (Round Two: Exploration)
Well after your provided period of creative brainstorming, I have made my selection. For this blog, I will be writing about....
Morning Breath (thanks Keely). Help me understand this one, people. You wake up from a nice sleep and for no good reason at all, your mouth smells like the inside of grandpa's shoe. Or a cadaver's opened chest cavity. Or your dog's silent-but-violent after getting into an onion patch.
And this makes no sense. Why does the aroma of your mouth undergo such a radical transformation? Think about this: Before you go to bed, you brush your teeth, leaving your mouth minty fresh (or 'pepperminty,' as some have said). And with this minty mouth, you lay there for 8 hours (on a good night). You don't do anything. You don't get up in the middle of the night and hit the buffet at Golden Corral. You don't gargle tuna juice. You are simply laying there. And after said 8 hours of non-eating, your mouth is now exuding fumes so raunchy that your spouse has to turn aside in horror.
And here's the crazy thing - why does this only happen at night? Why isn't stank-breath summoned in the day time hours? You can go throughout the whole day and not eat anything stanky and your breath is relatively fine by the time bed time rolls around. And you have been eating!! But for some reason, you lay down, don't eat anything, and in a few hours - poof! - stank breath. It's like the cinderella story...backwards. At 10:45 pm, the breath is a beautiful princess. Glistening, clean, pepperminty princess. When the clock strikes 6:30 am the magic leaves and the rot returns. Grandpa's shoes.
Nothing can stop it either. It is a plague. It is a poison. It is a curse. No midnight mints can prevent it. No late night mouth wash can hold its power back. When the alarm clock goes off, the stank will arrive - inexplicably, uncontrollably, irritatingly.
I can only hope that tomorrow things will be different. But I know they won't.
Morning Breath (thanks Keely). Help me understand this one, people. You wake up from a nice sleep and for no good reason at all, your mouth smells like the inside of grandpa's shoe. Or a cadaver's opened chest cavity. Or your dog's silent-but-violent after getting into an onion patch.
And this makes no sense. Why does the aroma of your mouth undergo such a radical transformation? Think about this: Before you go to bed, you brush your teeth, leaving your mouth minty fresh (or 'pepperminty,' as some have said). And with this minty mouth, you lay there for 8 hours (on a good night). You don't do anything. You don't get up in the middle of the night and hit the buffet at Golden Corral. You don't gargle tuna juice. You are simply laying there. And after said 8 hours of non-eating, your mouth is now exuding fumes so raunchy that your spouse has to turn aside in horror.
And here's the crazy thing - why does this only happen at night? Why isn't stank-breath summoned in the day time hours? You can go throughout the whole day and not eat anything stanky and your breath is relatively fine by the time bed time rolls around. And you have been eating!! But for some reason, you lay down, don't eat anything, and in a few hours - poof! - stank breath. It's like the cinderella story...backwards. At 10:45 pm, the breath is a beautiful princess. Glistening, clean, pepperminty princess. When the clock strikes 6:30 am the magic leaves and the rot returns. Grandpa's shoes.
Nothing can stop it either. It is a plague. It is a poison. It is a curse. No midnight mints can prevent it. No late night mouth wash can hold its power back. When the alarm clock goes off, the stank will arrive - inexplicably, uncontrollably, irritatingly.
I can only hope that tomorrow things will be different. But I know they won't.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
You Tell Me (Round One: Invitation)
Here at MattyMattSax Dot Blogspot, aka Matthryn, we are going to try something new. We are going to be innovative, edgy, fresh. We are going to be hip and relevant. We are going to be saucy and spicy. We are going to be liquidish and corporeal.
And here is what that entails:
You tell me.
Exactly. You make a comment on this (very) blog about a particular topic or observation in life that you find amusing. You merely state it in the indicative. No further decorative description is needed. What I mean is this: You state a naked observation and/or topic in the world.
For example, you could comment like this: "People getting too close to my buggy in the checkout line at the grocery store." Or another one might be: "Nose hair." Or perhaps another example could be: "Mustard vs. Mayo." That's it. Don't tell me what you think about this particular topic/observation. Don't vent. Don't spill anguish. Just comment. You tell me.
After a week of compiling these observations/topics, I will pick what I find to be the most "blog-worthy" and then fill you in on what I, yes I, think about it in a subsequent blog. (Does this sound selfish? Like I get to make up the rules to a game that only I can play? Yes, this sounds just like that.)
So....what do you think? You tell me.
And here is what that entails:
You tell me.
Exactly. You make a comment on this (very) blog about a particular topic or observation in life that you find amusing. You merely state it in the indicative. No further decorative description is needed. What I mean is this: You state a naked observation and/or topic in the world.
For example, you could comment like this: "People getting too close to my buggy in the checkout line at the grocery store." Or another one might be: "Nose hair." Or perhaps another example could be: "Mustard vs. Mayo." That's it. Don't tell me what you think about this particular topic/observation. Don't vent. Don't spill anguish. Just comment. You tell me.
After a week of compiling these observations/topics, I will pick what I find to be the most "blog-worthy" and then fill you in on what I, yes I, think about it in a subsequent blog. (Does this sound selfish? Like I get to make up the rules to a game that only I can play? Yes, this sounds just like that.)
So....what do you think? You tell me.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Mr. Ed - Pinnacle of Bad Television
My wife made a good point tonight - "How did a TV show like Mr. Ed ever make it? A talking horse? Please."
Certainly worthy of a blog post to explore that question. Here you have a television show that lasted five years. Let me repeat that: FIVE YEARS. The entire premise revolved around a talking horse. Come on, people. How do you squeeze out 5 years of crappy episodes about a talking horse?
Kathryn just asked me - "Didn't the horse give advice?" I don't remember. But I really wanted it to. Like - so-and-so was in a jam, and Mr. Ed was able to talk them out of it. Kathryn is now fairly convinced that this was the point of the show. People would get in jams, consult the horse, and crisis would be averted. The horse was the wise sage. The guru. Mr. Ed.
How is this possible in a post-Enlightenment, educated, Western civilization? Entertainment derived from watching a horse talk? Come on.
It did say "Wilbur" a lot. And the voice was all wobbly. W-w-w-w-i-i-i-l-l-l-b-b-b-urrrrr!! Somehow the horse, though able to speak English, was not able to overcome its "horsey" nature, and thus its "horsey" accent. Ahhh, the sage does have his limitations.
I did just find out via Wikipedia, that Mr. Ed was euthanized due to increasing poor health.
Mr. Ed became Elmer's.
Certainly worthy of a blog post to explore that question. Here you have a television show that lasted five years. Let me repeat that: FIVE YEARS. The entire premise revolved around a talking horse. Come on, people. How do you squeeze out 5 years of crappy episodes about a talking horse?
Kathryn just asked me - "Didn't the horse give advice?" I don't remember. But I really wanted it to. Like - so-and-so was in a jam, and Mr. Ed was able to talk them out of it. Kathryn is now fairly convinced that this was the point of the show. People would get in jams, consult the horse, and crisis would be averted. The horse was the wise sage. The guru. Mr. Ed.
How is this possible in a post-Enlightenment, educated, Western civilization? Entertainment derived from watching a horse talk? Come on.
It did say "Wilbur" a lot. And the voice was all wobbly. W-w-w-w-i-i-i-l-l-l-b-b-b-urrrrr!! Somehow the horse, though able to speak English, was not able to overcome its "horsey" nature, and thus its "horsey" accent. Ahhh, the sage does have his limitations.
I did just find out via Wikipedia, that Mr. Ed was euthanized due to increasing poor health.
Mr. Ed became Elmer's.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Maxims, Axioms, and Chicken Salad
I know I have written about onions in the past. On several occasions, actually. But I have no problem writing about them again. Frankly, I cannot get over these things. Every time I find myself chopping them (and subsequently barreled over holding my eyes), I wonder why on earth these things are on earth. Maybe my eyes aren't quite "broken in" yet, but every time I split their bodies in half, peal that stupid brown paper off of them, and begin "finely chopping" them, I soon find myself in pain. And I begin cursing them in my heart. And I start thinking things like, "Onions are stupid. Why do we even eat these things. I hate them." And the curse-fest continues.
But tonight something new happened. Aside from my internal torrential hate affair, I thought about our forefathers and how a primitive generation would first experience the pungent face-punching fumes of opened onions. You have to wonder what this would be like. You're walking along the field/garden/vesta and you come upon an onion. So you pull it from the ground (they do come from the ground, right?) and take it back home to enjoy it. Maybe you think to peal the stupid brown paper. Maybe you don't. Either way, you somehow get into this newly discovered vegetable only to newly discover its ability to bring you to your knees. So you huck it from your presence like a baseball (or hot potato), cursing it as a "vile weed." Who would want to return and try it again - knowing it will burn out your retinas with its poisonous fumes? Why did our forefathers give it another shot? Maybe they thought, "Next time, it won't set my eyeballs on fire."
Or maybe they thought, "I really like that stupid brown paper that covers it."
Or perhaps they thought, "If we keep eating them, our children's children's children will eat them, thinking it is normal to sit over a kitchen counter weeping for 15 minutes."
But most likely they thought, "Why does 'Llama' have two L's in it? A silent "L"? Come on."
But tonight something new happened. Aside from my internal torrential hate affair, I thought about our forefathers and how a primitive generation would first experience the pungent face-punching fumes of opened onions. You have to wonder what this would be like. You're walking along the field/garden/vesta and you come upon an onion. So you pull it from the ground (they do come from the ground, right?) and take it back home to enjoy it. Maybe you think to peal the stupid brown paper. Maybe you don't. Either way, you somehow get into this newly discovered vegetable only to newly discover its ability to bring you to your knees. So you huck it from your presence like a baseball (or hot potato), cursing it as a "vile weed." Who would want to return and try it again - knowing it will burn out your retinas with its poisonous fumes? Why did our forefathers give it another shot? Maybe they thought, "Next time, it won't set my eyeballs on fire."
Or maybe they thought, "I really like that stupid brown paper that covers it."
Or perhaps they thought, "If we keep eating them, our children's children's children will eat them, thinking it is normal to sit over a kitchen counter weeping for 15 minutes."
But most likely they thought, "Why does 'Llama' have two L's in it? A silent "L"? Come on."
Thursday, January 01, 2009
The Awkward Parts About Being Human
The following is a list of instances that are most awkward in the human experience:
1. Realizing that there is an insufficient amount of toilet paper on the roll after completing your "business." So, you stretch it out to make every bit count. And it gets down to the wire of you having to pull those last little scraps of paper that are glued down to the little cardboard roll.
2. Having to refer to another human as "you" because you have forgotten their name and they have remembered yours.
3. Junior High.
4. Not being able to get that last ice cube at the bottom of your glass. The drink is finished, the ice is consumed, and that last one seems to be stuck on the bottom rim. What is it hanging onto? No one knows. But it is. So you tap and you shake and you pound. And you look like a fool. All for the reward of one little cube of ice.
5. Purchasing feminine products.
6. Using the restroom at a very large house party. Number two. And that is not the awkward part. It is when you exit the bathroom and run into someone that you know right there out in front of the restroom. And you proceed to have a conversation 3 feet away from the very spot you just completed your "business." You are both thinking about this throughout the duration of your conversation but neither alludes to it. You can't. So you grit your teeth, smile, ask them about what "they've been up to lately" and pray your guts out that someone rescues you.
7. Asking someone about how their grandparents are - only to find out that their grandparents have recently passed away. This happened to me the other day. It was not a fun experience.
8. Getting mad at a car on the road for whatever reason, letting them aware of your frustration with them, and then pulling into the same parking lot with them to discover that you are both going to the same place.
9. Going to a tanning bed place.
10. Walking out of the grocery store to your car. Only there is a woman who has exited the grocery store before you who is walking to her car as well. And it so happens that your car is just beyond where she parked. So you are essentially following her to her car. And she continues to turn her head to look at you - suspiciously - as if she is worried that you are in fact following her. And you are, sort of. You can sense the panic she is feeling and you hate it. But you have to get to your car and don't see the point of taking a long detour around several other parked cars to get to yours. So you keep following her. And she keeps looking back. And she starts picking up her pace. And you cringe - thinking that you probably need to shave or at least wear something that doesn't give off the impression that you could potentially hurt people in grocery store parking lots.
1. Realizing that there is an insufficient amount of toilet paper on the roll after completing your "business." So, you stretch it out to make every bit count. And it gets down to the wire of you having to pull those last little scraps of paper that are glued down to the little cardboard roll.
2. Having to refer to another human as "you" because you have forgotten their name and they have remembered yours.
3. Junior High.
4. Not being able to get that last ice cube at the bottom of your glass. The drink is finished, the ice is consumed, and that last one seems to be stuck on the bottom rim. What is it hanging onto? No one knows. But it is. So you tap and you shake and you pound. And you look like a fool. All for the reward of one little cube of ice.
5. Purchasing feminine products.
6. Using the restroom at a very large house party. Number two. And that is not the awkward part. It is when you exit the bathroom and run into someone that you know right there out in front of the restroom. And you proceed to have a conversation 3 feet away from the very spot you just completed your "business." You are both thinking about this throughout the duration of your conversation but neither alludes to it. You can't. So you grit your teeth, smile, ask them about what "they've been up to lately" and pray your guts out that someone rescues you.
7. Asking someone about how their grandparents are - only to find out that their grandparents have recently passed away. This happened to me the other day. It was not a fun experience.
8. Getting mad at a car on the road for whatever reason, letting them aware of your frustration with them, and then pulling into the same parking lot with them to discover that you are both going to the same place.
9. Going to a tanning bed place.
10. Walking out of the grocery store to your car. Only there is a woman who has exited the grocery store before you who is walking to her car as well. And it so happens that your car is just beyond where she parked. So you are essentially following her to her car. And she continues to turn her head to look at you - suspiciously - as if she is worried that you are in fact following her. And you are, sort of. You can sense the panic she is feeling and you hate it. But you have to get to your car and don't see the point of taking a long detour around several other parked cars to get to yours. So you keep following her. And she keeps looking back. And she starts picking up her pace. And you cringe - thinking that you probably need to shave or at least wear something that doesn't give off the impression that you could potentially hurt people in grocery store parking lots.
This Page Intentionally Left Blank
I was combing through an official document the other day (an activity that I love doing. Seriously, I clear out my schedule so that I can comb through official documents. My wife has to literally pull me away from these "official" activities sometimes.) And upon my combing through said official document, I reached a page that caught my attention. Right there in the middle of a somewhat empty page was one sentence typed:
This page intentionally left blank.
Hmmm. Now, let's think about this. Here is a sentence printed on a page declaring that this page is left blank. (Intentionally, by the way.) But it isn't blank....is it? The very fact that there is a sentence printed in the middle of the page contradicts the sentence's claim, right? It's like writing, "This is not a complete sentence." It's like saying, "Never say never." It is self-referentially contradictory. The page isn't blank at all. Don't tell me that it is.
Why waste a page in the first place if you were going to print on it any way...albeit with a disclaimer that you weren't going to print on it? Just go ahead and print whatever you were going to print on the next page. Why waste the paper (and the ink) informing us that you are wasting paper (and ink)?!? What's the point in skipping a page for no good reason?
[This paragraph intentionally left blank.]
And why the added adverb: "intentionally"? Oh, that is helpful. You did this on purpose. That is clarifying. I would have been confused if you simply wrote "This page left blank." I would have been like - "WHAT?!? How did this happen?!? How did this page get left blank and yet simultaneously be informing me that it isn't blank?!? Is the universe folding in on itself?!??!" But with that one little word "intentionally" now I know - oh, thank goodness. This insanity does have a purpose to it.
All in all, this is stupid. Just use the page that you were going to "intentionally" leave blank. Don't skip over it.
Nothing like bringing in the new year with criticism and cynicism. (Put together: Crytnicism)
This page intentionally left blank.
Hmmm. Now, let's think about this. Here is a sentence printed on a page declaring that this page is left blank. (Intentionally, by the way.) But it isn't blank....is it? The very fact that there is a sentence printed in the middle of the page contradicts the sentence's claim, right? It's like writing, "This is not a complete sentence." It's like saying, "Never say never." It is self-referentially contradictory. The page isn't blank at all. Don't tell me that it is.
Why waste a page in the first place if you were going to print on it any way...albeit with a disclaimer that you weren't going to print on it? Just go ahead and print whatever you were going to print on the next page. Why waste the paper (and the ink) informing us that you are wasting paper (and ink)?!? What's the point in skipping a page for no good reason?
[This paragraph intentionally left blank.]
And why the added adverb: "intentionally"? Oh, that is helpful. You did this on purpose. That is clarifying. I would have been confused if you simply wrote "This page left blank." I would have been like - "WHAT?!? How did this happen?!? How did this page get left blank and yet simultaneously be informing me that it isn't blank?!? Is the universe folding in on itself?!??!" But with that one little word "intentionally" now I know - oh, thank goodness. This insanity does have a purpose to it.
All in all, this is stupid. Just use the page that you were going to "intentionally" leave blank. Don't skip over it.
Nothing like bringing in the new year with criticism and cynicism. (Put together: Crytnicism)
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