So, I wore a red shirt to work today. Didn't really think anything of it. In fact, I chose my clothes this morning in pretty much the same way I do every morning.
Here is how I choose what to wear each day. It's kind of like a Choose Your Own Adventure book: Step 1. Grab a hangar. Is there an article of clothing on the hanger? If yes, continue to step 2. If no, go back to Step 1. Step 2. Is the article of clothing wrinkled, dirty, or otherwise unfit to wear in public? If yes, go back to Step 1. If no, put article of clothing on and continue to Step 3. Step 3. Is the article of clothing you are wearing pants or a shirt? Once determination is made, start back at Step 1 with whichever article (pants/shirt) you're not wearing. Then continue to Step 4. Step 4. Try to open your eyes. Look at yourself in the mirror. Do the pants and shirt sort of go together? Even a little bit? Is at least not too offensive to the eye? If yes, you are dressed. Now try to find breakfast. If no, start back at Step 1.
So, that's how I ended up at work today with what I must say are some pretty crisp black slacks and a very red shirt on. But you're just wondering: What the hell is this post about?
Not that it really went through my head consciously, but in retrospect as I walked into the office today I did see an abnormally large number of red-shirted insurance drones. Some of them even smiled at me, which isn't all that common around here in the morning unless you actually know the person. Normally the predminant color around here on Fridays is blue, because everyone is sort of encouraged to wear company logo shirts and while you can get logo shirts in pretty much any color, most of them are blue. Not red. But anyway.
So I'm here, checking messages, starting up my computer, and generally bemoaning the next eight hours of my life, when a co-worker we'll call shipDit walks by. You don't have to have met shipDit to know him. First of all, he used to be the manager for the entire office. Then he was re-assigned to "special projects." Now he's back working at my level, which is to say about three levels lower than where he was about a year ago. You might think that's rough for shipDit except that ... well, it's just a little bit funny. Seriously, if Bill Lumbergh had been demoted would his employees have really felt for him?
shipDit is the sort of co-worker who always has at least a semi-witty response ready for any situation. How? Well, he has about three semi-witty responses committed to memort and really isn't afraid to use them in any situation. So you might say, "Hi, shipDit, how are you this morning?" and he'll say, "Fine as frog's hair split three ways." He might say it to every person who asks him how he is. All week long. You probably know who I mean.
So shipDit, who still hasn't entirely figured out that he doesn't have any actual authority over anyone anymore, says, "Matt, I'm happy to see you in that shirt." And I just kind of nod and sort of smile and make a slight noise because that's really all I ever do now that my desk isn't right next to shipDit and I don't really have to even pretend to listen. But I'm thinking, HUH? Could shipDit mean that he's happy I didn't come in shirtless? Probably not. I do notice that shipDit is wearing a red shirt himself and that's striking since men of shipDit's, um, stature don't usually wear red. Probably because it's embarrassing to be mistaken for a firetruck, but I'm just guessing about that.
This had me confused for the entire morning. Not that I was dwelling on it, exactly, but surely you can understand how even the slightest potential that a man like shipDit could say something too witty to be understood could cause paranoia.
And then I got the email.
This email was titled "Wear red on Fridays." It took a moment for the synapses to connect, but even before I started reading, I gasped. Out loud. Not too loudly, though. If we actually had cubicles probably no one would have heard. As it is, four people heard but I think they all ignored me.
So apparently the movement is on to get people to wear red on Fridays to show support for our troops overseas. Which is a nice thought, although I do think the whole phrase "Support Our Troops" is now completely divorced from its actual meaning. But I'd rather not get into the politics of the phrase. I'm just here to issue a warning: Be careful what you put on in the morning. If it's not red, you could be inadvertently disrespecting the military. On the other hand, if you do wear red, you could be mistaken for a shipDit disciplea. Or, possibly, a fire truck.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
What I Gained From Working At My College Newspaper
I always used to write out the word okay. Then in a reporting class where we had to study AP Style I learned that AP prefers OK. Probably just to save those two characters, which can be all important. (Sadly, I'm not being saracastic about that). So I knew that if I was writing anything for a journalism class I needed to make sure I used OK instead of okay. Not that you would use that word very often in journalism. You'd cut it from most quotes even. Anyway, I continued to use okay in all other uses. I don't know why, but I remember that I did.
Then I got a job as a copy editor at the student paper and suddenly I had to take AP Style much more seriously than I ever had previously. Plus, by my senior year I was not actually writing very much that wasn't journalism-related.
And, three years later, it occurs to me that I never write out okay anymore. I just don't. So, apparently that's the lasting mark the Wildcat has left on my life.
(Oh, and Diana. I found her there, too.)
In other news of me and words, I just moments ago learned that fierce is a really awkward word to spell. Seriously. It's not hard to spell, it follows the basic rules. But it just looks wrong. So that's another strike against you, fierce. First Tyra Banks and now this. One more and you're done.
Then I got a job as a copy editor at the student paper and suddenly I had to take AP Style much more seriously than I ever had previously. Plus, by my senior year I was not actually writing very much that wasn't journalism-related.
And, three years later, it occurs to me that I never write out okay anymore. I just don't. So, apparently that's the lasting mark the Wildcat has left on my life.
(Oh, and Diana. I found her there, too.)
In other news of me and words, I just moments ago learned that fierce is a really awkward word to spell. Seriously. It's not hard to spell, it follows the basic rules. But it just looks wrong. So that's another strike against you, fierce. First Tyra Banks and now this. One more and you're done.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Cookies Are a Sometimes Food
I’ve said it before and I just need to point it out again: whether or not you like a given work of art (whether it’s a painting or a movie or a song) isn’t a function of good/bad, it’s just your personal taste. There’s no right or wrong. So get over yourself. Argh. (As you might guess, I think maybe I’ve been spending too much time on message boards again.)
On an unrelated note, my wife makes the best cookies ever. You should definitely ask her to make you some because then I can sneak up behind her in the kicthen and have some of the cookie dough. And maybe even an actual cookie or two. Thanks for your help on this.
On an unrelated note, my wife makes the best cookies ever. You should definitely ask her to make you some because then I can sneak up behind her in the kicthen and have some of the cookie dough. And maybe even an actual cookie or two. Thanks for your help on this.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Like a Corona ad ... but not
This might seem self-evident but: I miss Hawaii.
I just kind of expected the feeling to fade, as the romantic memories you have of anything (a place, a relationship) do over time. They haven’t.
I came back from Maui feeling like life there was a life I could live. Simple. Expensive but not especially complicated. Slower. I had relished it in for the days we were there and I thought seriously that it was something I could do. Would do, if it didn’t require leaving so many people behind who I don’t want to leave. But I expected the feeling would diminish. I would grow again accustomed to cheap groceries and freeways and high-speed Internet and uncountable channels on the TV.
And I suppose I have welcomed most of that back into my life. But also I haven’t.
I was writing to a friend today about how I’ve lately felt, not sad, but just bland. I’ve been uninspired. I am tempted to blame it on the coming summer, or my wife’s illness, or my inability to use my left arm for pretty much anything. That’s not really it, though. It’s been a month we’ve been back now and I’ve felt this way the entire time. The islands have never been far from my thoughts. The memory of the ocean still seems close. I miss the place in a way I’ve never missed anything, even home.
Could we really move there? I do think we could. Whether we would is an entirely different matter. To be sure it would be hard. But I think we could. Will we? Almost certainly not. We would miss our friends. Sooner or later we will move or our friends will, that’s true. But moving to Hawaii would be almost like abandoning everything – friends and family – and I don’t think either of us is willing. But the pull is strong, the idea still there even weeks later.
I miss the ocean, the sunsets, the permanent warm of the air. I miss the green and the food. I miss the sound of waves. It seems almost ridiculous that I thought coming back to my life of office work and television and e-mail could compare to that sound, that feeling, that world. I’m not mystical. I don’t get caught up in ideas of what natural life is or should be. But living that way feels better, feels more right. I would still check email, still write on a laptop, still watch TV. But I’d spend a lot more time on the beach than I would doing any of those things.
I suppose I should make of it what I can. And so maybe tonight I will take a book and sit in a chair on my patio and feel the Arizona spring air and watch the sun turn the sky orange and pink. I will have to imagine the sound of the surf, though.
I just kind of expected the feeling to fade, as the romantic memories you have of anything (a place, a relationship) do over time. They haven’t.
I came back from Maui feeling like life there was a life I could live. Simple. Expensive but not especially complicated. Slower. I had relished it in for the days we were there and I thought seriously that it was something I could do. Would do, if it didn’t require leaving so many people behind who I don’t want to leave. But I expected the feeling would diminish. I would grow again accustomed to cheap groceries and freeways and high-speed Internet and uncountable channels on the TV.
And I suppose I have welcomed most of that back into my life. But also I haven’t.
I was writing to a friend today about how I’ve lately felt, not sad, but just bland. I’ve been uninspired. I am tempted to blame it on the coming summer, or my wife’s illness, or my inability to use my left arm for pretty much anything. That’s not really it, though. It’s been a month we’ve been back now and I’ve felt this way the entire time. The islands have never been far from my thoughts. The memory of the ocean still seems close. I miss the place in a way I’ve never missed anything, even home.
Could we really move there? I do think we could. Whether we would is an entirely different matter. To be sure it would be hard. But I think we could. Will we? Almost certainly not. We would miss our friends. Sooner or later we will move or our friends will, that’s true. But moving to Hawaii would be almost like abandoning everything – friends and family – and I don’t think either of us is willing. But the pull is strong, the idea still there even weeks later.
I miss the ocean, the sunsets, the permanent warm of the air. I miss the green and the food. I miss the sound of waves. It seems almost ridiculous that I thought coming back to my life of office work and television and e-mail could compare to that sound, that feeling, that world. I’m not mystical. I don’t get caught up in ideas of what natural life is or should be. But living that way feels better, feels more right. I would still check email, still write on a laptop, still watch TV. But I’d spend a lot more time on the beach than I would doing any of those things.
I suppose I should make of it what I can. And so maybe tonight I will take a book and sit in a chair on my patio and feel the Arizona spring air and watch the sun turn the sky orange and pink. I will have to imagine the sound of the surf, though.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Am I really this educated?
On the heels of my earlier post about college, I feel like mentioning how nothing can make you feel worse about your degree than actually being out in the real world.
Maybe it seems sort of ungrateful to say this, but I was never really that proud of my degree. The truth is I didn’t have to work that hard to get it. That’s not a swipe at my school or the classes I took, though certainly there were harder classes and more difficult schools. But it just always seemed inevitable. I never considered not finishing college. So finishing wasn’t that big a deal. Plus, let’s be honest, how many people graduated from college in 2002? I did. And a lot of other people did, too. Unfortunately, Google isn’t helping me out with any specific numbers right now, though. Google does tell me that the 2000 Census found that 24% of the over-25 population claimed to have at least a bachelor’s degree. Which seems like a disturbing low percentage but is still a really hige number of people.
Now, where I work you have to have a bachelor’s degree. They don’t much care what it’s in, but to have a job that’s at all above clerical work you have to have a four-year degree of some kind. Let me tell you: Nothing is more depressing than knowing that. This isn’t a shot at my co-workers in particular. Most of them are genuinely intelligent, and really you need to be able to think to do our job. (Really, it’s all you have to be able to do but that’s another story.) But it’s not just people in subrogation – everyone here has to have a four year-degree. Claims representative, accountants, underwriters, everyone. And yet.
Now, it’s not that I don’t make typos or occasionally misuse grammar. And I don’t expect everyone who works at this company to be an encyclopedia of knowledge about all things in the universe. But you should at least know about things that have to do with your job. For instance, a “tenet” is an opinion (or the former head of the CIA when capitalized). Tenets have nothing to do with insurance. But a “tenant” is a person paying rent to live in someone else’s property. We deal with tenants in insurance all the time. So it’d be nice if you could learn to spell the word. I find examples of ridiculous things like this literally every day. To wit, “plumbers” fix water pipes in homes; “plummer” isn’t a word, except that when capitalized it’s the quarterback for the Broncos. A pipe has never, not ever, “bursted.” Or “splitted.” Or “failured.” And, I promise, no matter how strong the wind blows, trees never get “blowed” over.
Maybe it seems sort of ungrateful to say this, but I was never really that proud of my degree. The truth is I didn’t have to work that hard to get it. That’s not a swipe at my school or the classes I took, though certainly there were harder classes and more difficult schools. But it just always seemed inevitable. I never considered not finishing college. So finishing wasn’t that big a deal. Plus, let’s be honest, how many people graduated from college in 2002? I did. And a lot of other people did, too. Unfortunately, Google isn’t helping me out with any specific numbers right now, though. Google does tell me that the 2000 Census found that 24% of the over-25 population claimed to have at least a bachelor’s degree. Which seems like a disturbing low percentage but is still a really hige number of people.
Now, where I work you have to have a bachelor’s degree. They don’t much care what it’s in, but to have a job that’s at all above clerical work you have to have a four-year degree of some kind. Let me tell you: Nothing is more depressing than knowing that. This isn’t a shot at my co-workers in particular. Most of them are genuinely intelligent, and really you need to be able to think to do our job. (Really, it’s all you have to be able to do but that’s another story.) But it’s not just people in subrogation – everyone here has to have a four year-degree. Claims representative, accountants, underwriters, everyone. And yet.
Now, it’s not that I don’t make typos or occasionally misuse grammar. And I don’t expect everyone who works at this company to be an encyclopedia of knowledge about all things in the universe. But you should at least know about things that have to do with your job. For instance, a “tenet” is an opinion (or the former head of the CIA when capitalized). Tenets have nothing to do with insurance. But a “tenant” is a person paying rent to live in someone else’s property. We deal with tenants in insurance all the time. So it’d be nice if you could learn to spell the word. I find examples of ridiculous things like this literally every day. To wit, “plumbers” fix water pipes in homes; “plummer” isn’t a word, except that when capitalized it’s the quarterback for the Broncos. A pipe has never, not ever, “bursted.” Or “splitted.” Or “failured.” And, I promise, no matter how strong the wind blows, trees never get “blowed” over.
Of math and whiskers
So I haven’t written much of anything lately. No blogging, obviously. And not much else, either. A few months ago I excitedly wrote a little note about how I couldn’t stop writing, how I just had stories and ideas and inspiration coming at me from every direction. That was a very stupid thing to do. Clearly, I pissed off someone, somewhere. Sharon Stone, maybe? I don’t know. But someone is pissed.
So I’ve been wanting to write, but can’t find the drive, and I’ve been wanting to blog but just haven’t found the inspiration. I don’t really have the inspiration now, either, but I’m writing this post anyway.
I haven’t shaved in, oh I don’t know, quite a few days now. Which is weird because I don’t really enjoy having a scruffy face. A few times in college and during the winter I let it grow out to the point it was a full beard and that was OK, I guess. But in general I don’t enjoy it and yet I still haven’t mustered the will to actually shave either of the last two mornings. (It’s not that uncommon for me to skip a day or even both days of shaving over the weekend.) Yesterday, since Diana was sick, I basically just stayed in bed with her and then was running late and didn’t have time. Today I went stereotypical and was actually reading the paper, which not only took up the time I should have been shaving, but considering that I live in Phoenix and subscribe to the Republic, was pretty much a colossal waste of time on all counts. Now the whiskers are long enough that it’s going to take a good bit of time when I actually do find the time in my busy schedule. I suppose I could just get up earlier and have more time in the morning, but … no, sorry, even I can’t take that suggestion seriously and I suggested it.
This reminds me a little of freshman year of college. When I registered for my first semester, an 8 am class seemed like a great idea. After all, in high school class started at 7:25 and I had to be up way earlier than that to get ready and walk or drive to school. So I figured a class that started at 8, that was literally across the street from my dorm, would be no problem. I mean, it couldn’t have required more than 150 or 200 steps to get from my bed to a seat in this lecture hall. It should also be noted, however, that I registered just a few weeks after graduating from high school – by the time I was midway through the summer I was starting to suspect the early class was a bad idea. Anyway, I’d be surprised if I went to that class even half the time. I know that sounds bad but not only was I generally sleeping through it, I figured out pretty quickly that I didn’t actually need to go. It was an anthropology class and there wasn’t much going on there I didn’t know already. Moreover, the professor didn’t do much but go over the reading, so I just read and showed up on days when we had tests or papers due and I got an A in that class. Which is sad in many ways, but especially so considering how poorly I did in most of my classes that I attended that semester.
Anyway, I decided I was done with that 8 am shit and only took one other class that started so early the rest of college (it was required). I tried as best I could to not really have anything going on before noon, though usually I had to. Second semester freshman year I took a math class that started at 9. I wasn’t keen on it starting that early, but that was the only time open and I really wanted to get my math requirement out of the way. Now, I’m really pretty good with math, but I’m not one of those to whom math comes naturally. I know someone, somewhere was actually the first person to discover (invent? Whatever) algebra, but that wouldn’t have been me. It’s not intuitive to me. Still, once given a very basic starting level of instruction, I pick it up pretty quickly and do well. This particular math class had a lot to do with statistics, which seemed pretty simple. It only took me one missed class to realize it wasn’t going to be as simple as anthropology, however. So I made it a point to at least be there, even if I was barely coherent. But the professor didn’t help. It was like he knew we were all barely awake and reveled in his ability to put us all back to sleep. Which was fine, except I would tend to look at a question in the homework that asked something about scheduling airplane routes and think, “I don’t know. That’s a good question.”
One day, after most of the class did particularly poorly on a test, the professor showed some liveliness. He always wore a big straw hat to keep the sun off him and oftentimes he would not remember to remove it even while teaching. Well, on this day he was so upset with our collective inability to understand even these simple concepts that he was actually keeping everyone awake. I mean he was really fuming, all pink in the face and steam coming out of his ears. OK, steam wasn’t really coming out of his ears but it would have if he’d been a cartoon. Then he grabbed the brim of his hat, ripped it off and threw it on the floor. He let out a kind of moan. It wasn’t that he was screaming, he just wanted us to care. I thought for a moment he might jump up and down on top of the hate, like a manager arguing with an umpire. And for a moment I felt really bad. I’d actually done fairly well on the test, but I still felt implicated by his frustration because I knew I wasn’t taking the class seriously and that I could barely stay awake. I made up my mind to change my ways. I would get up well before class started. I would shower. I would eat breakfast. I would pay attention!
Then the professor stopped and said he was moving on with the next chapter. And just like that he was insufferably boring again. People around me drifted away, maybe some even fell asleep. And I was flat out pissed. Not at the students, but at the professor. Didn’t he understand that for just a few minutes he’d been somewhat lively and actually had our attention? Didn’t he understand that if he remained lively while actually teaching that those who chose to show up to class might actually stay awake? Then it hit me. He didn’t want us to learn. Maybe as long as people did poorly it confirmed some preconceived notion he had of us as a slacker generation. Maybe it made him feel intelligent. He was trying to keep statistics his own little secret!
And he’d nearly fooled me, the rat. Anyway, the moral of my story here is I really, really need to shave, because my neck itches and it's driving me crazy.
So I’ve been wanting to write, but can’t find the drive, and I’ve been wanting to blog but just haven’t found the inspiration. I don’t really have the inspiration now, either, but I’m writing this post anyway.
I haven’t shaved in, oh I don’t know, quite a few days now. Which is weird because I don’t really enjoy having a scruffy face. A few times in college and during the winter I let it grow out to the point it was a full beard and that was OK, I guess. But in general I don’t enjoy it and yet I still haven’t mustered the will to actually shave either of the last two mornings. (It’s not that uncommon for me to skip a day or even both days of shaving over the weekend.) Yesterday, since Diana was sick, I basically just stayed in bed with her and then was running late and didn’t have time. Today I went stereotypical and was actually reading the paper, which not only took up the time I should have been shaving, but considering that I live in Phoenix and subscribe to the Republic, was pretty much a colossal waste of time on all counts. Now the whiskers are long enough that it’s going to take a good bit of time when I actually do find the time in my busy schedule. I suppose I could just get up earlier and have more time in the morning, but … no, sorry, even I can’t take that suggestion seriously and I suggested it.
This reminds me a little of freshman year of college. When I registered for my first semester, an 8 am class seemed like a great idea. After all, in high school class started at 7:25 and I had to be up way earlier than that to get ready and walk or drive to school. So I figured a class that started at 8, that was literally across the street from my dorm, would be no problem. I mean, it couldn’t have required more than 150 or 200 steps to get from my bed to a seat in this lecture hall. It should also be noted, however, that I registered just a few weeks after graduating from high school – by the time I was midway through the summer I was starting to suspect the early class was a bad idea. Anyway, I’d be surprised if I went to that class even half the time. I know that sounds bad but not only was I generally sleeping through it, I figured out pretty quickly that I didn’t actually need to go. It was an anthropology class and there wasn’t much going on there I didn’t know already. Moreover, the professor didn’t do much but go over the reading, so I just read and showed up on days when we had tests or papers due and I got an A in that class. Which is sad in many ways, but especially so considering how poorly I did in most of my classes that I attended that semester.
Anyway, I decided I was done with that 8 am shit and only took one other class that started so early the rest of college (it was required). I tried as best I could to not really have anything going on before noon, though usually I had to. Second semester freshman year I took a math class that started at 9. I wasn’t keen on it starting that early, but that was the only time open and I really wanted to get my math requirement out of the way. Now, I’m really pretty good with math, but I’m not one of those to whom math comes naturally. I know someone, somewhere was actually the first person to discover (invent? Whatever) algebra, but that wouldn’t have been me. It’s not intuitive to me. Still, once given a very basic starting level of instruction, I pick it up pretty quickly and do well. This particular math class had a lot to do with statistics, which seemed pretty simple. It only took me one missed class to realize it wasn’t going to be as simple as anthropology, however. So I made it a point to at least be there, even if I was barely coherent. But the professor didn’t help. It was like he knew we were all barely awake and reveled in his ability to put us all back to sleep. Which was fine, except I would tend to look at a question in the homework that asked something about scheduling airplane routes and think, “I don’t know. That’s a good question.”
One day, after most of the class did particularly poorly on a test, the professor showed some liveliness. He always wore a big straw hat to keep the sun off him and oftentimes he would not remember to remove it even while teaching. Well, on this day he was so upset with our collective inability to understand even these simple concepts that he was actually keeping everyone awake. I mean he was really fuming, all pink in the face and steam coming out of his ears. OK, steam wasn’t really coming out of his ears but it would have if he’d been a cartoon. Then he grabbed the brim of his hat, ripped it off and threw it on the floor. He let out a kind of moan. It wasn’t that he was screaming, he just wanted us to care. I thought for a moment he might jump up and down on top of the hate, like a manager arguing with an umpire. And for a moment I felt really bad. I’d actually done fairly well on the test, but I still felt implicated by his frustration because I knew I wasn’t taking the class seriously and that I could barely stay awake. I made up my mind to change my ways. I would get up well before class started. I would shower. I would eat breakfast. I would pay attention!
Then the professor stopped and said he was moving on with the next chapter. And just like that he was insufferably boring again. People around me drifted away, maybe some even fell asleep. And I was flat out pissed. Not at the students, but at the professor. Didn’t he understand that for just a few minutes he’d been somewhat lively and actually had our attention? Didn’t he understand that if he remained lively while actually teaching that those who chose to show up to class might actually stay awake? Then it hit me. He didn’t want us to learn. Maybe as long as people did poorly it confirmed some preconceived notion he had of us as a slacker generation. Maybe it made him feel intelligent. He was trying to keep statistics his own little secret!
And he’d nearly fooled me, the rat. Anyway, the moral of my story here is I really, really need to shave, because my neck itches and it's driving me crazy.
Friday, April 15, 2005
I just got an email from one of the higher-up-type people at work talking about our goals as a company and as a department. It included these following choice turns of phrase: “this is a good map of our strategy for victory,” “continue our quest,” and “keep your teams focused on our mission!” Now, if you’re wondering, I don’t work at the Pentagon. I’m not fighting any way here from my little desk. I’m collecting money back on behalf of an insurance company. On my cheerier days I attempt to convince myself there’s some good in making sure companies don’t turn out crappy products without consequences, but even that’s a stretch. I have a desk job. In insurance.
This particular email I quoted from above didn’t go so far as to actually use the word “war” or any other synonyms. But I’ve heard that word used before by certain superiors of mine, and the email above is certainly reminiscent of that for me.
Does anyone else remember right after 9/11 when there was a lot of talk about a societal shift and the end of irony and a bunch of other stuff that we knew was pretty much BS even then? Well, one thing I really hoped would be true is that we might start using language appropriately again. I hate it when someone describes a football team’s conference before a draft as a “war room” or talks about football with terms that are supposed to relate to the military. Or, for that matter, when my boss tries to equate my desk job with some kind of covert mission.
It’s not so much that I’m offended because I think it does a disservice to every soldier risking their life everyday (though I think it does and I am offended a little bit for that reason). Mostly I’m just offended on behalf of the language. I think words should mean what they mean and while I support the idea that using words in unique ways can be a powerful rhetorical device, this doesn’t apply. For one thing, it’s not unique anymore. The language of war is everywhere and that’s the problem. It’s lost its power now.
With my apologies to the family of the AFL player who was killed last weekend, football is not a war. Coaches are not generals. My job is not a quest or a mission. It’s a job. I have goals. I will work to meet them. Maybe I’ll delay in calling someone back from time to time as a bargaining tactic. That’s fine. But I am not “letting them bleed.”
I’m sure I’m guilty of this, too, in the same way I’m sure I like say “like” more than I wish I did even though I like hate that. Being hypocritical is the cost of being a critic sometimes. Anyway, it annoys me. I understand that languages change and meanings drift and even grammar can be redefined – I’d much rather have a continually evolving English than end up with a council like French has that actually makes rules about what words can be used in print. But admitting that language is somewhat fluid shouldn’t be a license for abuse. Words have to mean what they mean. OK, that's it.
/rant
This particular email I quoted from above didn’t go so far as to actually use the word “war” or any other synonyms. But I’ve heard that word used before by certain superiors of mine, and the email above is certainly reminiscent of that for me.
Does anyone else remember right after 9/11 when there was a lot of talk about a societal shift and the end of irony and a bunch of other stuff that we knew was pretty much BS even then? Well, one thing I really hoped would be true is that we might start using language appropriately again. I hate it when someone describes a football team’s conference before a draft as a “war room” or talks about football with terms that are supposed to relate to the military. Or, for that matter, when my boss tries to equate my desk job with some kind of covert mission.
It’s not so much that I’m offended because I think it does a disservice to every soldier risking their life everyday (though I think it does and I am offended a little bit for that reason). Mostly I’m just offended on behalf of the language. I think words should mean what they mean and while I support the idea that using words in unique ways can be a powerful rhetorical device, this doesn’t apply. For one thing, it’s not unique anymore. The language of war is everywhere and that’s the problem. It’s lost its power now.
With my apologies to the family of the AFL player who was killed last weekend, football is not a war. Coaches are not generals. My job is not a quest or a mission. It’s a job. I have goals. I will work to meet them. Maybe I’ll delay in calling someone back from time to time as a bargaining tactic. That’s fine. But I am not “letting them bleed.”
I’m sure I’m guilty of this, too, in the same way I’m sure I like say “like” more than I wish I did even though I like hate that. Being hypocritical is the cost of being a critic sometimes. Anyway, it annoys me. I understand that languages change and meanings drift and even grammar can be redefined – I’d much rather have a continually evolving English than end up with a council like French has that actually makes rules about what words can be used in print. But admitting that language is somewhat fluid shouldn’t be a license for abuse. Words have to mean what they mean. OK, that's it.
/rant
Old
I'm old.
Forgive me for that, first of all. I know most you who might ever read this are actually older than me, I've always been among the youngest of my friends. But I'm not talking chronologically here. Most 24 year-olds are not old. I am on my way crotchety-old-man-bent-over-his-cane-yelling-through-his-dentures-at-those-darn-kids-to-keep-it-down-so-he-can-sleep-already-damn-it status by the time I'm 26. Or, put another way, I just can't party like a rock star anymore. Well, let's be clear that I never in my life have actually partied like a rock star. But I'm nonethless pretty sure there was a time when I could have.
Last night I went to the U2 show at Glendale Arena, which started at 8, and I was yawning before the band even took the stage. There were moment during the show when I found myself noticing that I was tired, or hungry, or found myself thinking I could use a bottle of water. That is so not rock star. We didn't sit down from the time the lights went down until it was all over and we'd walked back to the car, which speaks highly of the show, but sadly meant my feet were sore and my back ached and I really wished my wife was with me so I could have had someone rub my shoulders. So not rock star. And then I didn't get home until 12:45 and felt like hell then and felt even worse this morning.
It's not just the staying up late because while D sleeps next to me I'll often stay up reading or writing or watching a movie until midnight or later. But it turns out it takes a lot more energy to stand through a concert and sing along than it does to sit in bed. Maybe that seems like an obvious point, but I swear when I was 22 it was easier to be up than it was to be in bed. What the hell happened in two years? Two little years!?!
The upshot is, despite having a good time last night and being excited to go back and see the show again - and even though I have cheap, good tickets for tonight's show - I woke up this morning feeling like, "Nope, not doing that again." If there were actually anyone besides me in the office today I might have tried to sell the tickets. (Maybe it's just as well no one is around because as I am slowly waking up more and more, the more interested I am in using those tickets tonight.)
Oh, and my ears are not ringing exactly, but everything is just slightly on the fuzzy side. And let me tell you, it's quiet enough in this office when more than half the people are out, but it's truly ridiculous when everything I should be able to hear is fuzzy.
Damn kids and this obscene noise they call rock music.
Forgive me for that, first of all. I know most you who might ever read this are actually older than me, I've always been among the youngest of my friends. But I'm not talking chronologically here. Most 24 year-olds are not old. I am on my way crotchety-old-man-bent-over-his-cane-yelling-through-his-dentures-at-those-darn-kids-to-keep-it-down-so-he-can-sleep-already-damn-it status by the time I'm 26. Or, put another way, I just can't party like a rock star anymore. Well, let's be clear that I never in my life have actually partied like a rock star. But I'm nonethless pretty sure there was a time when I could have.
Last night I went to the U2 show at Glendale Arena, which started at 8, and I was yawning before the band even took the stage. There were moment during the show when I found myself noticing that I was tired, or hungry, or found myself thinking I could use a bottle of water. That is so not rock star. We didn't sit down from the time the lights went down until it was all over and we'd walked back to the car, which speaks highly of the show, but sadly meant my feet were sore and my back ached and I really wished my wife was with me so I could have had someone rub my shoulders. So not rock star. And then I didn't get home until 12:45 and felt like hell then and felt even worse this morning.
It's not just the staying up late because while D sleeps next to me I'll often stay up reading or writing or watching a movie until midnight or later. But it turns out it takes a lot more energy to stand through a concert and sing along than it does to sit in bed. Maybe that seems like an obvious point, but I swear when I was 22 it was easier to be up than it was to be in bed. What the hell happened in two years? Two little years!?!
The upshot is, despite having a good time last night and being excited to go back and see the show again - and even though I have cheap, good tickets for tonight's show - I woke up this morning feeling like, "Nope, not doing that again." If there were actually anyone besides me in the office today I might have tried to sell the tickets. (Maybe it's just as well no one is around because as I am slowly waking up more and more, the more interested I am in using those tickets tonight.)
Oh, and my ears are not ringing exactly, but everything is just slightly on the fuzzy side. And let me tell you, it's quiet enough in this office when more than half the people are out, but it's truly ridiculous when everything I should be able to hear is fuzzy.
Damn kids and this obscene noise they call rock music.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Candyland Conspiracy Theories
Saturday night I had a small packet of Runts and noticed they had a new flavor -- blue raspberry in the shape of the red cherries.
I like the blue raspberry flavor, don't get me wrong. And I'm definitely thrilled that M&M's has fulfilled my lifelong dream of dark chocolate M&M's. But, as a general rule, is it really necessary to tinker so much with successful candy flavor combinations?
I return to the Runts. Because it's not just that blue raspberry has been added. Apparently, they also added watermelon. Now, I'm not against adding flavors as a principal, though I guess it does sometimes come at the expense of pre-existing flavors. Still, as long as the new flavor is good, I have no complaints. And the watermelon Runt is not bad at all. My complaint is this: Watermelon Runts have displaced the lime flavor.
For a moment, I was actually excited. It seemed that the limes in the box of Runts were now HUGE! But where were these new watermelon ones? I was confused. And then I realized. That's not lime anymore. Lime is gone. I will miss you lime. And I will miss you Runts, for what is the point of ever buying Runts again without the lime flavor?
Not that I was really a big Runts consumer, mind you. But this radical flavor elimination really needs to stop. It's not just ruining the potential for me to buy more Runts, it's frankly raping my childhood memories. Moreover, my children may have to grow up in a world devoid of lime-flavored Runts entirely. So it's time to stop with the craziness. For the love of crunchy, sugary candies and all other things holy it is time to STOP!
Unless you're eliminating the bananas. Those are sick.
I like the blue raspberry flavor, don't get me wrong. And I'm definitely thrilled that M&M's has fulfilled my lifelong dream of dark chocolate M&M's. But, as a general rule, is it really necessary to tinker so much with successful candy flavor combinations?
I return to the Runts. Because it's not just that blue raspberry has been added. Apparently, they also added watermelon. Now, I'm not against adding flavors as a principal, though I guess it does sometimes come at the expense of pre-existing flavors. Still, as long as the new flavor is good, I have no complaints. And the watermelon Runt is not bad at all. My complaint is this: Watermelon Runts have displaced the lime flavor.
For a moment, I was actually excited. It seemed that the limes in the box of Runts were now HUGE! But where were these new watermelon ones? I was confused. And then I realized. That's not lime anymore. Lime is gone. I will miss you lime. And I will miss you Runts, for what is the point of ever buying Runts again without the lime flavor?
Not that I was really a big Runts consumer, mind you. But this radical flavor elimination really needs to stop. It's not just ruining the potential for me to buy more Runts, it's frankly raping my childhood memories. Moreover, my children may have to grow up in a world devoid of lime-flavored Runts entirely. So it's time to stop with the craziness. For the love of crunchy, sugary candies and all other things holy it is time to STOP!
Unless you're eliminating the bananas. Those are sick.
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