Oh fear and "the Media." How well you do together. You go hand and hand like death and taxes. While FOX News may have perfected the art of scaring parents and good Samaritans into locking their doors at midday and arming themselves with anti artillery weaponry for the inevitable gang wars baring down upon their uptown Suburbia gated communities, no Media outlet is immune to, or above, the call of scaring the shit out of normal people (that read the news.)
"The Body Odd" (a segment on the MSN News website) has recently run an article titled "Turn down the thermostat, your heater may be making you fat." It's not the type of scare-tactic I'm used to, but it worked--it's certainly something special.
The article is essentially about possibilities--not substantiated evidence, but research currently suggests that a warmer room may actually slow down your metabolism. (According UK Health Behavior Research Centre at University College, London.) "Lowering your thermostat may reduce not only your spending, but also your weight, a new study suggests." (That opening line would have been a more positive, and friendly heading for the MSN reader, but it doesn't make you want to run away screaming, so the editor couldn't, in good conscience, use it as a title.)
I understand the premise, for example, it is a proven fact that humans (really most creatures) eat more in cold weather (i.e. the winter.) We do so to warm up our cores (stomachs, heart...internals) and build more fat, to keep toasty and generally less frozen. It's pretty simple. However, it's also been researched into that, in the warmer parts of the year, our metabolisms do not slow down, rather our intakes change. We eat less voraciously but consume higher quantities of liquid to supply our sweat glands with...the stuff that makes sweat.
In fact, the research in this article is limited to warming up your house in the winter, stating that, due to the cold weather outside (blah blah) you'll still eat more, because you are genetically inclined to do so, but when you get into the warmth, your body will stop metabolizing as quickly, because it's not cold anymore. The moral of the entire article comes down to this: if you feel like the heat or lack of heat is contributing to you gaining all that winter weight (not the copious amounts of turkey and bake goods you ate throughout the Holidays) you should turn down the thermostat and wear a sweatshirt.
It all ends up being moot anyway, because the researcher states that the main factors of obesity and health in general will still be food and drink intake and exercise. She was just interested in temperature and needed to do research, it's that or not get paid by the University. The writer for MSN, in similar fashion, realized that without writing an article, she would not get paid. Soon after the MSN editor hopped on board and said "if she does research, and she writes an article, and people click it, we (more likely 'I') get paid" so the editor put "making you fat" in the title, and boom, instant website traffic.
Because while we may hate it, the American people have a morbid fascination with their (our) own doom. We wait for it, watch for it, almost expectantly, with all the power of the deer so famously stuck in the onrushing headlights. Scare tactics sell papers, get viewers and readers. It works. So they do it.
It worked for me, I clicked. But I took the path less traveled, I clicked the link with my eyes squinted and a part grimace part sarcastic grin thing going on, so hopefully my click counted for less, because I was being facetious (and that made all the difference.)
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Nick Cage is on my Website, and he's Angry About It (or should be...)
Guys. Guys. I have an advertisement on my blog.
This isn't unexpected, I've had google ads running on the site for about a month in some vain hope that eventually, inevitably (hopefully), people would start reading everyday, I would start writing more, and we (you as the reader, me as the writer, as expected) would grow a pair and take a not-so-literary journey of uproarious comedy and covered-up in-the-cafe-laughter (or maybe only giggles, depending on the blog and your poor taste in humor) through time, space and hyperbole. Oh, and i would get paid.
That's right, paid. Let's not sugarcoat anything here, I love writing, and no matter how bad, unfunny, or generally lousy I can be at it (with it?), I always hold onto the belief that I can do better, be better. I can make you cry, I can make you laugh, I can get a stalker (who maybe takes weekends off to keep the creepiness factor low and the thrill factor high.) But, I need money, for to buy things.
However, up until now, my advertisements have mirrored the actual blog. Things about writing blogs, or targeted ads that take out keywords in each piece, so dental hygiene when I talked about my root canal or funeral homes when I talked about my grandmothers funeral (that one seemed inappropriate and raised all sorts of questions about automated advertisements.) But this one? This one is a movie! And not just any movie, it has Nick Cage in it (so it's even a real movie!) With his recent track record, it's altogether likely that it's a (really) horrible movie, but...guys, it's a movie.
Does this mean I'm internet famous?
Probably not, but it's still nice.
The thing that strikes me as the most 'interesting' tidbit is that, in looking at the advertisement (the movie is Drive Angry) I didn't think:
"Guns and Nick Cage, a recipe for a fun disaster!" No, I thought: "Oh look, that hot girl that had about ten-seconds of human screen time and fifty of zombie screen time got a feature role in a movie. Good for her. She's hot."
Okay, okay, so I thought "she's hot" first (and about a dozen other times throughout my 'thinking process.') I'm only human but, I totally have a humor blog with movie advertisements on it, so, yeah, I'm e-awesome.
This isn't unexpected, I've had google ads running on the site for about a month in some vain hope that eventually, inevitably (hopefully), people would start reading everyday, I would start writing more, and we (you as the reader, me as the writer, as expected) would grow a pair and take a not-so-literary journey of uproarious comedy and covered-up in-the-cafe-laughter (or maybe only giggles, depending on the blog and your poor taste in humor) through time, space and hyperbole. Oh, and i would get paid.
That's right, paid. Let's not sugarcoat anything here, I love writing, and no matter how bad, unfunny, or generally lousy I can be at it (with it?), I always hold onto the belief that I can do better, be better. I can make you cry, I can make you laugh, I can get a stalker (who maybe takes weekends off to keep the creepiness factor low and the thrill factor high.) But, I need money, for to buy things.
However, up until now, my advertisements have mirrored the actual blog. Things about writing blogs, or targeted ads that take out keywords in each piece, so dental hygiene when I talked about my root canal or funeral homes when I talked about my grandmothers funeral (that one seemed inappropriate and raised all sorts of questions about automated advertisements.) But this one? This one is a movie! And not just any movie, it has Nick Cage in it (so it's even a real movie!) With his recent track record, it's altogether likely that it's a (really) horrible movie, but...guys, it's a movie.
Does this mean I'm internet famous?
Probably not, but it's still nice.
The thing that strikes me as the most 'interesting' tidbit is that, in looking at the advertisement (the movie is Drive Angry) I didn't think:
"Guns and Nick Cage, a recipe for a fun disaster!" No, I thought: "Oh look, that hot girl that had about ten-seconds of human screen time and fifty of zombie screen time got a feature role in a movie. Good for her. She's hot."
Okay, okay, so I thought "she's hot" first (and about a dozen other times throughout my 'thinking process.') I'm only human but, I totally have a humor blog with movie advertisements on it, so, yeah, I'm e-awesome.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
A Heated Commerical
It’s important to remember, as we play our various fantasy sports game and idolize our heroes and memorize their Hall-of-Fame-statistics that in the phrase “professional athlete” the word “professional” comes first. They are just (overpaid) working men and women like anyone else, the fall of the previously near-deified Brett Favre has shown us that (although, I suspect the media had to do with that circus than Favre himself.) The Mythos of the Athlete has been building since Ancient Greece and the first marathon. Americans idolize the greats of whatever game it is we choose to love, if not more than one.
But we, the fans, are stuck in another age. We believe that we are still living in the era where athletes were normal citizens like us, people to relate to, people we could drink with and talk shop with. This is no longer the case, the “everyday” heroes of the past are now the exception to the rule, the days of the “down to Earth” athletes have left us behind, only, most of us are too star-struck to realize it.
I bring this up because of a recent commercial I saw on TNT advertising that they do in fact have NBA basketball available for our viewing pleasure. This particular commercial used the major cast of the Miami Heat, due to their upcoming game, or more likely because even LeBron commercials garner high ratings.
I have a few “beefs” with this commercial, and none of them so serious as to cause any actual disgruntlement, rather, it has given me a severe case of simple bewilderment, or near-amazement even. That either the athletes themselves (I don’t want to believe that) or the producers/directors of the ads (I want to believe that) actually think any of this is close to reality, or will help sell the NBA (which needs very little help, but maybe this commercial will do that) is outside of the realm of my understanding.
First up in the commercial is our ever ego-friendly LeBron. The first thing he says is “I’m redefining myself.” Really? Does he really believe that’s what he’s doing?
Let’s look at the list of what Lebron was in Cleveland:
1) Hero to a City. (That’s pretty huge. Cities are big places, normally. Hence being called cities rather than towns, or “places where people sometimes gather and or live.”)
2) NBA Super Star on the level with the greats like Michael, Kobe and Larry. (There are others, but I felt like acting like a first name basis was merited, or even possible.)
3) Future Hall of Famer (This won’t, and honestly shouldn’t, change.) Franchise Player (Sadly, for he City and him, the only one.)
4) An incredibly rich young man with legitimate NBA title aspirations and a baby powder fetish.
Now let’s look at his Miami self-makeover.
1) One of three “Heroes” to a City.
2) NBA Super Star on a level with…
3) Future Hall of Famer (Possibly with an asterisk beside his name.)
4) One of three "Franchise players."
5) A slightly more incredibly rich slightly older young man with legitimate NBA title aspirations (but now with a Yankee-like stigma of just out-spending the competition) and a baby powder fetish (that fans are losing a taste for.)
I’d say I’d like to take the first list, but honestly, I’d take either, or just the first part of number five.
However, we can (and should) agree, that no real changes have taken place, LeBron simply is now what he was then, but in a warmer climate. I think LeBron got the words “relocate” and “redefine” mixed up somewhere, an understandable mistake.
The second part of the commercial (for LeBron) has him saying:
If winning was the only thing that mattered the Magic would have collapsed as a franchise a long time ago, and I’m pretty sure Cleveland would have imploded in a tidal wave of self-pity and sports related woe decades ago.
Wade goes onto say some things about how proud he is to wear the Miami uniform (a sentiment that Bosh and LeBron followed with) and I don’t mind this. He should be proud, he brought the team a Championship years ago. More importantly, he hasn’t betrayed (whether you feel LeBron and Bosh did that or not) any fans, or gone against his roots in any way. But, it’s important to remember that Miami isn’t a city to be proud of (that’s not saying it’s a city to be ashamed of, but it is no “City Upon a Hill.) It’s the home of public thongs, amateur porn, Mickey Rourke and retiring New Yorkers, it’s pride left when Marino started doing commercials for car dealerships.
Bosh took a different approach with his screen time:
It's implied that these players consider themselves (or are told to consider themselves) heroes of their respective cities. Cleveland may have needed one, and every city loves a super star, we (the fans) love the greats, we’re Americans and we can’t help ourselves, but let’s not get carried away. Ask anyone who their hero is and they’ll say something about firemen or the troops overseas, police officers and paramedics.
I love Dwight Howard and I can and do mention Turkoglu (I even pronounce his name correctly!) at least twice a day, once at breakfast, and once beside my bed, before I go to sleep--but my heroes they are not. They are incredibly talented athletes who play for a team that I consider “my own” and have somehow managed to apply the word “we” to so often that some people might believe I’m actually a part of the Magic organization. However for Bosh, James and Wade to consider themselves heroes in a city (we're gonna' go with the positive side of Miami now, as I've already used up my negatives for the day) so massive it takes up most of the southern tip of Florida (this may not be a positive), a city that calls itself the Winter Home of every super model on Earth (yes!) and better Cuban food than you could get in Cuba is almost laughable (in fact it is laughable. I laughed, and then decided to write this, and now it has been read. Ha ha ha. Laughable.) For me it’s important to rationalize the entire thing. Professional athletes, I imagine, are required to do PR bits like this. It’s like when an author has to go on a book tour and sign half a million (he or she hopes) of his book, or a movie star has to walk the red carpet to go watch a movie s/he just spent two years working on and has watched half a thousand times already.
It’s a part of the job, they get paid in the millions (yearly) and if they are told to act like complete tools so as to continue receiving those paychecks, they will.
But we, the fans, are stuck in another age. We believe that we are still living in the era where athletes were normal citizens like us, people to relate to, people we could drink with and talk shop with. This is no longer the case, the “everyday” heroes of the past are now the exception to the rule, the days of the “down to Earth” athletes have left us behind, only, most of us are too star-struck to realize it.
I bring this up because of a recent commercial I saw on TNT advertising that they do in fact have NBA basketball available for our viewing pleasure. This particular commercial used the major cast of the Miami Heat, due to their upcoming game, or more likely because even LeBron commercials garner high ratings.
I have a few “beefs” with this commercial, and none of them so serious as to cause any actual disgruntlement, rather, it has given me a severe case of simple bewilderment, or near-amazement even. That either the athletes themselves (I don’t want to believe that) or the producers/directors of the ads (I want to believe that) actually think any of this is close to reality, or will help sell the NBA (which needs very little help, but maybe this commercial will do that) is outside of the realm of my understanding.
First up in the commercial is our ever ego-friendly LeBron. The first thing he says is “I’m redefining myself.” Really? Does he really believe that’s what he’s doing?
Let’s look at the list of what Lebron was in Cleveland:
1) Hero to a City. (That’s pretty huge. Cities are big places, normally. Hence being called cities rather than towns, or “places where people sometimes gather and or live.”)
2) NBA Super Star on the level with the greats like Michael, Kobe and Larry. (There are others, but I felt like acting like a first name basis was merited, or even possible.)
3) Future Hall of Famer (This won’t, and honestly shouldn’t, change.) Franchise Player (Sadly, for he City and him, the only one.)
4) An incredibly rich young man with legitimate NBA title aspirations and a baby powder fetish.
Now let’s look at his Miami self-makeover.
1) One of three “Heroes” to a City.
2) NBA Super Star on a level with…
3) Future Hall of Famer (Possibly with an asterisk beside his name.)
4) One of three "Franchise players."
5) A slightly more incredibly rich slightly older young man with legitimate NBA title aspirations (but now with a Yankee-like stigma of just out-spending the competition) and a baby powder fetish (that fans are losing a taste for.)
I’d say I’d like to take the first list, but honestly, I’d take either, or just the first part of number five.
However, we can (and should) agree, that no real changes have taken place, LeBron simply is now what he was then, but in a warmer climate. I think LeBron got the words “relocate” and “redefine” mixed up somewhere, an understandable mistake.
The second part of the commercial (for LeBron) has him saying:
If winning was the only thing that mattered the Magic would have collapsed as a franchise a long time ago, and I’m pretty sure Cleveland would have imploded in a tidal wave of self-pity and sports related woe decades ago.
Wade goes onto say some things about how proud he is to wear the Miami uniform (a sentiment that Bosh and LeBron followed with) and I don’t mind this. He should be proud, he brought the team a Championship years ago. More importantly, he hasn’t betrayed (whether you feel LeBron and Bosh did that or not) any fans, or gone against his roots in any way. But, it’s important to remember that Miami isn’t a city to be proud of (that’s not saying it’s a city to be ashamed of, but it is no “City Upon a Hill.) It’s the home of public thongs, amateur porn, Mickey Rourke and retiring New Yorkers, it’s pride left when Marino started doing commercials for car dealerships.
Bosh took a different approach with his screen time:
It's implied that these players consider themselves (or are told to consider themselves) heroes of their respective cities. Cleveland may have needed one, and every city loves a super star, we (the fans) love the greats, we’re Americans and we can’t help ourselves, but let’s not get carried away. Ask anyone who their hero is and they’ll say something about firemen or the troops overseas, police officers and paramedics.
I love Dwight Howard and I can and do mention Turkoglu (I even pronounce his name correctly!) at least twice a day, once at breakfast, and once beside my bed, before I go to sleep--but my heroes they are not. They are incredibly talented athletes who play for a team that I consider “my own” and have somehow managed to apply the word “we” to so often that some people might believe I’m actually a part of the Magic organization. However for Bosh, James and Wade to consider themselves heroes in a city (we're gonna' go with the positive side of Miami now, as I've already used up my negatives for the day) so massive it takes up most of the southern tip of Florida (this may not be a positive), a city that calls itself the Winter Home of every super model on Earth (yes!) and better Cuban food than you could get in Cuba is almost laughable (in fact it is laughable. I laughed, and then decided to write this, and now it has been read. Ha ha ha. Laughable.) For me it’s important to rationalize the entire thing. Professional athletes, I imagine, are required to do PR bits like this. It’s like when an author has to go on a book tour and sign half a million (he or she hopes) of his book, or a movie star has to walk the red carpet to go watch a movie s/he just spent two years working on and has watched half a thousand times already.
It’s a part of the job, they get paid in the millions (yearly) and if they are told to act like complete tools so as to continue receiving those paychecks, they will.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Nerd vs. Norm
As many of you may know, I am a nerd. I have been fitfully unable to keep this side of myself repressed, or as they say, in the closet--it's just so hard.
I got into reading because my mother took me to see the Star Wars series when the movies were remastered or broken (depending on how long you had been a fan, and how hardcore you were.) After that I read and reread any book I could get my hands on. Starting with the extended Star Wars Universe and working my way into more adult science-fiction fantasy. Eventually I began reading literature and "real" fiction (despite the oxymoron therein) because my teachers told me to, and reading a lot isn't the same thing as being well read.
I've played at other things, like football and basketball, and truly enjoyed and excelled at them. I am, deep down, quite competitive. However, in Today's world, one can be just as competitive in the previously "nerd-centered" market of video games as in "real" sports (honestly though, golf, bowling and poker are now listed among those "real sports".) The difference being that the nourishment of choice tends to be anything that will help you stay awake and ply your "trade" into the wee hours of the morning.
Like all people who age, I've grown up, and therefore, in some sense, matured. I still go to the basketball courts and I still log into all of my favorite video games, I just do so now with that itching feeling that I had forgotten something.
Oh that's right, I forgot that I don't have a mortgage!
I suppose the point, in itself, is moot. We all play games or have hobbies because they're fun, because they give us a sense of relief or release from a world we feel thrust, largely unprepared, into.
I have a hard time seeing myself not reading geeky books and playing video games and attending conventions. But at the same time, I can't seem to see myself without football or basketball, a family and Thursdays at Applebee's--the currently mainstream and accepted things.
My personal battle really comes down to my entire dream/goal of writing for a living. Do I split blogs? Do I write one on Logic Fails about all the nerdy, geeky and "Star Warsy" goings on and keep this "the Dave Effect" more open to things in politics, sports, Oxford Commas, and life in general? Do I go for freelance or sports journalism and leave the world of comics behind, to other minds that have already made it? How do you balance a plurality of goals within goals and dreams upon dreams?
I think the answer (probably) lies in following the footsteps of great men like DaVinci and Danny DeVito, (yes, I made a Renaissance Man joke) and just doing everything I want to. Or at least trying.
I got into reading because my mother took me to see the Star Wars series when the movies were remastered or broken (depending on how long you had been a fan, and how hardcore you were.) After that I read and reread any book I could get my hands on. Starting with the extended Star Wars Universe and working my way into more adult science-fiction fantasy. Eventually I began reading literature and "real" fiction (despite the oxymoron therein) because my teachers told me to, and reading a lot isn't the same thing as being well read.
I've played at other things, like football and basketball, and truly enjoyed and excelled at them. I am, deep down, quite competitive. However, in Today's world, one can be just as competitive in the previously "nerd-centered" market of video games as in "real" sports (honestly though, golf, bowling and poker are now listed among those "real sports".) The difference being that the nourishment of choice tends to be anything that will help you stay awake and ply your "trade" into the wee hours of the morning.
Like all people who age, I've grown up, and therefore, in some sense, matured. I still go to the basketball courts and I still log into all of my favorite video games, I just do so now with that itching feeling that I had forgotten something.
I suppose the point, in itself, is moot. We all play games or have hobbies because they're fun, because they give us a sense of relief or release from a world we feel thrust, largely unprepared, into.
I have a hard time seeing myself not reading geeky books and playing video games and attending conventions. But at the same time, I can't seem to see myself without football or basketball, a family and Thursdays at Applebee's--the currently mainstream and accepted things.
My personal battle really comes down to my entire dream/goal of writing for a living. Do I split blogs? Do I write one on Logic Fails about all the nerdy, geeky and "Star Warsy" goings on and keep this "the Dave Effect" more open to things in politics, sports, Oxford Commas, and life in general? Do I go for freelance or sports journalism and leave the world of comics behind, to other minds that have already made it? How do you balance a plurality of goals within goals and dreams upon dreams?
I think the answer (probably) lies in following the footsteps of great men like DaVinci and Danny DeVito, (yes, I made a Renaissance Man joke) and just doing everything I want to. Or at least trying.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Analysis Paralysis
I am afflicted by an odd mental disorder that my father has termed "analysis paralysis." Basically, it's what happens when you can't make decisions because you have too many ideas in your head. It's not quite as bad as being really, really stupid, but oddly, far more annoying to anyone in the vicinity when the person in question (i.e. me) is ordering food, deciding how much money to take out of the bank, deciding what graduate program he wants to go to (oh God, oh God, what am I going to do?), discussing anything (you specifically want to avoid conversations about women) or having a slow moment filled with "deep" thoughts.
Because...we've been here for like two hours...
This has been my personal demon since I was a small child and spent the better part of many an evening frozen, staring at an over-sized box of crayons, unable to decide which shade of green to color the grass in with. (Thankfully Boise State wasn't playing those nights or we would have run into a whole other host of problems.)
As of late the problem has risen up specifically with my previously mentioned "graduate education" issue. It's a multifaceted problem that I have attacked with a relentless apathy. First, I have to decide what I actually want to get a graduate degree in (this results in me muttering "do not want" over and over and eventually retreating to my room teary-eyed and pouting), where I want to attend or where I can even afford to attend in the first place. This, of course, completely leaving out the all too likely fact that I might not get accepted to my first school of choice (or, to be a realist, I might not get accepted to any of my choices.) Intellectually, I know this to be the case, but I still get caught up in reading fifteen different programs a day, calling the schools, and then going through a self-destructiveness and self-confidence building that shouldn't go hand and hand but do. "You can't get in here...Why not call them? They don't want you there...But, you could do so well there..."
It's not only vicious, it's time consuming.
My father is of the opinion that (I'm an idiot and) I should just apply for anything I feel like, anywhere I want, because it's just the paper (and proof that you went and did what the school told you to go and do,) not the degree itself, that matters. I'm actually afraid of him being right. I feel like if I spend fifty thousand dollars on something, not to mention time, that the education itself should matter too. If everything is going to end up just being "on the job" training, then why do so many possible employers turn down people for their "lack of work experience?" Because said people don't have shiny Graduate Degrees hung on their walls, I suppose. I've taken the test (and may have to take the horrible thing again) and decided to move forward with applying and getting reference letters, so we're now officially beyond the point of whining and complaining (it's just so hard.)
On top of that relatively depressing indecisiveness, I've also been unable to decide what to write about for, this, my humble blog column thing. I've spent most of the New Year staring at my computer screen and vainly begging some higher power to give me direction and possibly entrance into a school of their choice--that or a winning lottery ticket.
Of course, that could just end up being more of the same.
One thing you may have noticed, in reading this here blog/column is that I've added comics. I'm going to try to keep this up from post to post as it didn't take me much longer than an hour to do, and I'm notoriously slow (meaning it might get faster!)
It's been a fun year, and I'm hoping this next one is as good. Thank you to everyone who has read my work, and continues to do so. I appreciate it.
-D
This has been my personal demon since I was a small child and spent the better part of many an evening frozen, staring at an over-sized box of crayons, unable to decide which shade of green to color the grass in with. (Thankfully Boise State wasn't playing those nights or we would have run into a whole other host of problems.)
As of late the problem has risen up specifically with my previously mentioned "graduate education" issue. It's a multifaceted problem that I have attacked with a relentless apathy. First, I have to decide what I actually want to get a graduate degree in (this results in me muttering "do not want" over and over and eventually retreating to my room teary-eyed and pouting), where I want to attend or where I can even afford to attend in the first place. This, of course, completely leaving out the all too likely fact that I might not get accepted to my first school of choice (or, to be a realist, I might not get accepted to any of my choices.) Intellectually, I know this to be the case, but I still get caught up in reading fifteen different programs a day, calling the schools, and then going through a self-destructiveness and self-confidence building that shouldn't go hand and hand but do. "You can't get in here...Why not call them? They don't want you there...But, you could do so well there..."
My father is of the opinion that (I'm an idiot and) I should just apply for anything I feel like, anywhere I want, because it's just the paper (and proof that you went and did what the school told you to go and do,) not the degree itself, that matters. I'm actually afraid of him being right. I feel like if I spend fifty thousand dollars on something, not to mention time, that the education itself should matter too. If everything is going to end up just being "on the job" training, then why do so many possible employers turn down people for their "lack of work experience?" Because said people don't have shiny Graduate Degrees hung on their walls, I suppose. I've taken the test (and may have to take the horrible thing again) and decided to move forward with applying and getting reference letters, so we're now officially beyond the point of whining and complaining (it's just so hard.)
On top of that relatively depressing indecisiveness, I've also been unable to decide what to write about for, this, my humble blog column thing. I've spent most of the New Year staring at my computer screen and vainly begging some higher power to give me direction and possibly entrance into a school of their choice--that or a winning lottery ticket.
One thing you may have noticed, in reading this here blog/column is that I've added comics. I'm going to try to keep this up from post to post as it didn't take me much longer than an hour to do, and I'm notoriously slow (meaning it might get faster!)
It's been a fun year, and I'm hoping this next one is as good. Thank you to everyone who has read my work, and continues to do so. I appreciate it.
-D
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The Airport
Yesterday I was told two seemingly separate, relatively important things. First, I would be able to pick my car up from the shop the next day at around noon. And secondly, I would be driving my friend to the air port at around eight (AM.)
The math didn't line up properly, and so, eight o'clock I found myself walking out into the (quite literally) freezing morning to ride shotgun to the airport in my friend's car.
Mind you, the last time I was at the airport I was in my early teens. I've now managed to avoid it for the better part of a decade. The closest I've come to the runway is driving by the surrounding fence on the way home from a (mind-numbingly) distant interview. My last memory of the drop-off terminal came from the back seat of my mother's minivan.
For those of you who haven't utilized Orlando International in the past ever, the entrance itself is a puzzle of Rubix cube-like proportions. It can be figured out, with time, and a healthy dose of logic (some argue that there is a pattern, that has been planned, but I disagree,) so long as you do not fall pray to using your GPS (despite what it tells you, the south runway is not where you turn right.)
After you've finally figured out where the elusive path that leads to the terminals actually is, you've built up so much nervous energy that finding the correct drop off is nearly impossible. This inevitably forces you back into the vehicular maze for round two, where you place all of your Faith in the belief (and that's what it essentially equates to when driving with me) that eventually you will arrive at your destination.
Then, you (in this scenario the drafted chauffeur to the now worldly-seeming friend) have to find your way back out of the labyrinthine roadways of the airport just to find yourself back on the highway, which is where(any officer of the law or worried mother will tell you) the real problems begin. It's entirely likely that you own one of the various gadgets the electronics corporations (seemingly, in a race to cause the most car accidents in the shortest amount of time) have developed "streamlining" their products. Now we have cell phones that tell us where to go, play our music, movies and books on tape. The only way they could be more dangerous is if they also offered alcoholic drinks and pointed out really interesting bits of passing scenery at very inopportune moments.
Some of you "old pros" (I'm sure) are reading this and wondering exactly how it is I've made it this far in life if I'm having problems with a simple airport trip. Well I can assure you it's not by making rookie mistakes similar, if not exactly like:
Not going to sleep until four AM the morning you're expected to drive your friend to the airport at eight.
Not familiarizing yourself with the directions to and from your destination.
Not familiarizing yourself with your friends car before driving.
Not adjusting the mirrors, seats and various music and air-conditioning settings of said vehicle until you have already thrown yourself headfirst, salmon-like, into the upstream battle that is exiting Orlando International.
Having a nearly complete lack of knowledge of the highways near to your lifelong home.
Making mistakes like these are exactly how one (someone I certainly have nothing to do with and in no way resemble) doesn't make it past his or her twenty-fifth year, so I make absolutely sure I do not to make them.
The math didn't line up properly, and so, eight o'clock I found myself walking out into the (quite literally) freezing morning to ride shotgun to the airport in my friend's car.
Mind you, the last time I was at the airport I was in my early teens. I've now managed to avoid it for the better part of a decade. The closest I've come to the runway is driving by the surrounding fence on the way home from a (mind-numbingly) distant interview. My last memory of the drop-off terminal came from the back seat of my mother's minivan.
For those of you who haven't utilized Orlando International in the past ever, the entrance itself is a puzzle of Rubix cube-like proportions. It can be figured out, with time, and a healthy dose of logic (some argue that there is a pattern, that has been planned, but I disagree,) so long as you do not fall pray to using your GPS (despite what it tells you, the south runway is not where you turn right.)
After you've finally figured out where the elusive path that leads to the terminals actually is, you've built up so much nervous energy that finding the correct drop off is nearly impossible. This inevitably forces you back into the vehicular maze for round two, where you place all of your Faith in the belief (and that's what it essentially equates to when driving with me) that eventually you will arrive at your destination.
Then, you (in this scenario the drafted chauffeur to the now worldly-seeming friend) have to find your way back out of the labyrinthine roadways of the airport just to find yourself back on the highway, which is where(any officer of the law or worried mother will tell you) the real problems begin. It's entirely likely that you own one of the various gadgets the electronics corporations (seemingly, in a race to cause the most car accidents in the shortest amount of time) have developed "streamlining" their products. Now we have cell phones that tell us where to go, play our music, movies and books on tape. The only way they could be more dangerous is if they also offered alcoholic drinks and pointed out really interesting bits of passing scenery at very inopportune moments.
Some of you "old pros" (I'm sure) are reading this and wondering exactly how it is I've made it this far in life if I'm having problems with a simple airport trip. Well I can assure you it's not by making rookie mistakes similar, if not exactly like:
Not going to sleep until four AM the morning you're expected to drive your friend to the airport at eight.
Not familiarizing yourself with the directions to and from your destination.
Not familiarizing yourself with your friends car before driving.
Not adjusting the mirrors, seats and various music and air-conditioning settings of said vehicle until you have already thrown yourself headfirst, salmon-like, into the upstream battle that is exiting Orlando International.
Having a nearly complete lack of knowledge of the highways near to your lifelong home.
Making mistakes like these are exactly how one (someone I certainly have nothing to do with and in no way resemble) doesn't make it past his or her twenty-fifth year, so I make absolutely sure I do not to make them.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Grandmommy's Gifts, When I'm Right, I'm Right.
Like most Christmases, this Christmas was over by the 26th, and it now being the 27th means that I only have so long to write about it before it becomes old news, or worse, old fake news.
I don't know why I was so surprised to be exactly right about something, as I so often (Ha!) am--yet again, my grandmother managed to fill up multiple boxes worth of gifts, wrap them in Holiday themed paper, and hand them over to us with a huge smile on her face while she sung out the oh-so-familiar chorus of "this Christmas is the last Christmas I'm doing." I have a feeling that just as she said that last year, and this year's Christmas still arrived with a doting Grandmother in tow, so too will next year's Christmas drag her into the Holiday festivities, kicking and screaming--or, entirely more likely, she will find herself at a garage sale, or in front of a product at a store that she knows one of her grandchildren just has to have, and she will buy that product saying: "This is the only thing I'm buying so-and-so this year. And they can just deal with getting only one gift." She is likely to repeat this process two dozen times (per grandchild) throughout the year until this happens yet again:
You might notice the very practical nature of some of these gifts. I'm relatively sure my cousin got six pairs of scissors. Well, five. I stole a pair. I think she noticed, because she gave me a very questioning look that asked: wait, you actually want one of them? Go right ahead. How do you feel about this whisk?
It might sound improper, or even borderline rude, to complain or joke about a gift, and sometimes it is, but in all seriousness, I have a paring knife sitting at the bottom of my shorts drawer, that has been sitting there since I was twelve. It's not that we don't like the gifts, it's not even that we don't need them. What it comes down to, in truth, is that she gives me and my cousins these incredibly useful packages, for that mythical day she just calls "the day you own your own home." While it may be a buyers market, none of us are, or anytime soon will be, in the market for an actual house. And yet, each and everyone of us are now the proud owners of a fully stocked and decked out gourmet kitchen, even if the kitchen itself is (and for the near future, is like to remain) entirely imaginary.
We all love these gifts, we always have and always will, and seriousness, that paring knife will find use someday, maybe even in paring, if I ever figure out what that is. It's almost impossible for us to even consider not getting "grandmommy's boxes."
The only problem with my grandmother's gift giving system (outside of the obvious storage issues that inevitably occur) is what I've come to call "the Favre Effect." Brett Favre has long been one of my favorite players in the NFL, however, it is widely known that the man throws a put ton of interceptions. When you hold the record for touchdowns, and passes thrown, it's logical that you'd also at least be "up there" on "picks" as well. My grandmother has come across this same problem, in regards to her own unique sport. Each year, every one of her many giftees receives somewhere around a half-thousand individual presents. Statistically, not every gift will be a hit. And even if the gift is perfect, it might not be entirely applicable. For example, take one of the pictures above. It is widely known that I am an avid gamer. I enjoy the video games. However, I do not now, or have not ever, owned a Zelda game. Despite my love of that particular platform, I haven't ever owned a system with that series even on it. My experience with Zelda comes entirely through friends and their respective experiences. And yet, this Christmas Eve found me the proud owner of a Zelda strategy guide. (Strategy guides being one of the five great gamer sins non-withstanding) I had no way of using this. But throwing it away, or giving it away, seems somehow wrong. Plus, I find it entirely too cute that I got a video game guide from my grandmother. She clearly had the thought process of "He plays video games. So he plays this video game." But beyond even that, the cutest thing of all (or most insulting, depending on where you sit) is that she thought, well, if he plays video games, he probably needs help. And so I came into ownership of a guide, for a game I've never touched.
However, the awesome reality of it all still remains: I'm overjoyed that my grandmother continues to think of me, it's great to know that someone does, that there is a veritable wall of love always lurking, looming, somewhere in the distance, ready to shower me with gifts and mixed statements about what I should be doing with my life and who I should vote for in the next election, with a pinch of "I love you" thrown in for good measure.
I don't know why I was so surprised to be exactly right about something, as I so often (Ha!) am--yet again, my grandmother managed to fill up multiple boxes worth of gifts, wrap them in Holiday themed paper, and hand them over to us with a huge smile on her face while she sung out the oh-so-familiar chorus of "this Christmas is the last Christmas I'm doing." I have a feeling that just as she said that last year, and this year's Christmas still arrived with a doting Grandmother in tow, so too will next year's Christmas drag her into the Holiday festivities, kicking and screaming--or, entirely more likely, she will find herself at a garage sale, or in front of a product at a store that she knows one of her grandchildren just has to have, and she will buy that product saying: "This is the only thing I'm buying so-and-so this year. And they can just deal with getting only one gift." She is likely to repeat this process two dozen times (per grandchild) throughout the year until this happens yet again:
You might notice the very practical nature of some of these gifts. I'm relatively sure my cousin got six pairs of scissors. Well, five. I stole a pair. I think she noticed, because she gave me a very questioning look that asked: wait, you actually want one of them? Go right ahead. How do you feel about this whisk?
It might sound improper, or even borderline rude, to complain or joke about a gift, and sometimes it is, but in all seriousness, I have a paring knife sitting at the bottom of my shorts drawer, that has been sitting there since I was twelve. It's not that we don't like the gifts, it's not even that we don't need them. What it comes down to, in truth, is that she gives me and my cousins these incredibly useful packages, for that mythical day she just calls "the day you own your own home." While it may be a buyers market, none of us are, or anytime soon will be, in the market for an actual house. And yet, each and everyone of us are now the proud owners of a fully stocked and decked out gourmet kitchen, even if the kitchen itself is (and for the near future, is like to remain) entirely imaginary.
We all love these gifts, we always have and always will, and seriousness, that paring knife will find use someday, maybe even in paring, if I ever figure out what that is. It's almost impossible for us to even consider not getting "grandmommy's boxes."
The only problem with my grandmother's gift giving system (outside of the obvious storage issues that inevitably occur) is what I've come to call "the Favre Effect." Brett Favre has long been one of my favorite players in the NFL, however, it is widely known that the man throws a put ton of interceptions. When you hold the record for touchdowns, and passes thrown, it's logical that you'd also at least be "up there" on "picks" as well. My grandmother has come across this same problem, in regards to her own unique sport. Each year, every one of her many giftees receives somewhere around a half-thousand individual presents. Statistically, not every gift will be a hit. And even if the gift is perfect, it might not be entirely applicable. For example, take one of the pictures above. It is widely known that I am an avid gamer. I enjoy the video games. However, I do not now, or have not ever, owned a Zelda game. Despite my love of that particular platform, I haven't ever owned a system with that series even on it. My experience with Zelda comes entirely through friends and their respective experiences. And yet, this Christmas Eve found me the proud owner of a Zelda strategy guide. (Strategy guides being one of the five great gamer sins non-withstanding) I had no way of using this. But throwing it away, or giving it away, seems somehow wrong. Plus, I find it entirely too cute that I got a video game guide from my grandmother. She clearly had the thought process of "He plays video games. So he plays this video game." But beyond even that, the cutest thing of all (or most insulting, depending on where you sit) is that she thought, well, if he plays video games, he probably needs help. And so I came into ownership of a guide, for a game I've never touched.
However, the awesome reality of it all still remains: I'm overjoyed that my grandmother continues to think of me, it's great to know that someone does, that there is a veritable wall of love always lurking, looming, somewhere in the distance, ready to shower me with gifts and mixed statements about what I should be doing with my life and who I should vote for in the next election, with a pinch of "I love you" thrown in for good measure.
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