I have done a craptastic job of blogging lately. I can think of a number of reasons for it but none of them are very good.
In the time I have spent online not blogging, I have been indulging a guilty pleasure. I am slightly addicted to the "Missed Connections" section on Craigslist. Have you ever looked at Missed Connections?
The concept is a simple one. You're out somewhere - a club, a grocery store, a gas station. You see someone, you make eye contact, maybe you say hi. And then the moment is gone, and so is the person you connected with. So you go to Missed Connections, write up what happened, and see if that person responds.
If I'm honest, I don't read Missed Connections because I have missed any connections. My purposes are much more nefarious than that. I do it for entertainment. Because there are an awful lot of idiots in the world, and these days most of them have internet access.
I stick to m4w, Men for Women, because I've found that men tend to be a bit more ridiculous and maudlin in their posting. I've only gotten a laugh out of Women for Men once or twice. M4w? The world is a scary place, ladies and gentlemen.
I am slightly worried that so many men seem to find "hot" women shopping at Wal-Mart. Especially West Valley Wal-Marts. The West Valley is where 99.9% of violent crimes in Phoenix seem to occur. And Wal-Mart is ... well, have you been to the People of Wal-Mart website? It's a leper colony.
But overweight hoochies aside, there is a sort of poetic stupidity in the subject lines I've encountered. I've been collecting them for a while, and I'd like to share my favorites with you, faithful reader.
I think my favorite so far is "You returned a Derek Jeter Halloween Costume." Brilliant, isn't it? There'll be no mistaking that one. How many people returned Derek Jeter costumes? Actually, I'm not sure, but I think this one is still brilliant, and I never even read the posting, just the headline. The headline is all I ever read, if I'm honest.
Equally brilliant (in its stupidity, anyway) is "You startled me in the alley while I was peeing." Kind sir, while I don't doubt you may have been stumbled upon by a beautiful woman in the alley, do you really think that said woman is going to be interested in a man who urinates in public? Is she going to be sitting home, thinking to herself, "You know, that guy who was peeing in the alley was pretty hot. I wonder if he noticed me?"
There has to be a story behind "I can't believe you bossed your grandma around" and I, for one want to know what it is. I read the listing for this one and I'm still not sure what was going on. Or why a man would be interested in a woman who bosses her grandma around.
"No Tip was big enough, Emily." Was it because Emily was beautiful or because Emily was an unusually competent waitress? The world will never know, because I never read the posting and the listing's expired. Alas. Rest assured, Emily, your efforts didn't go unnoticed.
I have a few questions for the man who posted "T-BIRD ER WAITING ROOM." Sir, who sits in an ER waiting room and checks out the women there? Especially T-Bird. Their patients are either criminals or the elderly. I realize you're stuck there for four or five hours, but maybe you ought to let the doctors reattach the woman's severed hand before you attempt to hit on her. Just a thought.
When I read "I bought eggs from you =)" I sincerely hoped it wasn't from the same people who post every day offering 8 grand to a Jewish egg donor. Perhaps it was a trade, as the same day, posted in w4m, was "to the kind stranger who bought my pumpkin."
Ah, Craigslist. You give so much and ask so little. Idiots of the world, post on. And please be specific.
Showing posts with label internet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label internet. Show all posts
21 November 2009
19 September 2009
Talk Like a Pirate Day
Today is, apparently, Talk Like a Pirate Day.
I don't know how I missed this earlier. I can't believe it's not printed on my Audobon Backyard Birds calendar. And it wasn't in the newspaper.
Maybe if I'd turned on the TV. I think this sort of thing is right up Channel 3's alley. They've probably got Beverly Kidd on location somewhere in a tricorn hat and an eyepatch.
You may say, Jill, isn't this the sort of ludicrous hilarity in which you typically revel? Well, if you do, you'll have to speak up, because I can't hear you. Maybe consider sending it by e-mail next time so my ears don't strain.
But I digress. I do indeed enjoy a bit of juvenile frivolity every now and then. But I do not participate in Talk Like a Pirate Day.
There are two main reasons for this, which I shall elaborate for your reading pleasure. The first is that, despite the recent pop-culture success that it has enjoyed, I do not think piracy is funny or cool. Perhaps if actual piracy was a thing of the past I could bring myself to laugh about it. But there are plenty of places in the world where actual human beings are attacked, brutalized, and killed by actual pirates, and I don't find it the least bit funny or cute. These pirates do not have a skull-and-crossbones flag on their ships, and they do not dress like Johnny Depp in one of the wildly popular Disney films based on an amusement park ride. Real pirates are much more dangerous and ruthless than that. They are cruel, they are terribly violent, and some of them are downright evil.
So forgive me if I don't think that pirates are cute or funny or simply pop-culture. I haven't been able to forget an article I read about a British civilian who was savagely and brutally slain in front of his terrified wife. Maybe when I can, I will find pirates cute and amusing.
The second reason I will be speaking in my normal hybrid of American and British English today is because of the TV show "Wife Swap." Yes, "Wife Swap." I'm rather embarrassed to admit that I have actually seen that show, but the fact remains that I have actually seen probably a dozen episodes. There was a time when I needed something to fill my TV-watching gap of 4 to 6pm, and Lifetime had the answer in the form of shrill, nasty women torturing the families of other shrill, nasty women.
In one episode, one of the families involved in the swap is headed by a man whose real name eludes me because he insisted on being called Chumbucket. Yes, *the* Chumbucket. The one responsible for this august occasion known as Talk Like a Pirate Day.
How can I describe Chumbucket? Out of touch with reality is the first phrase that comes to mind. Chumbucket, and his wench - I mean, wife - are a good argument for fewer personal freedoms in America. They dress like pirates (or rather, like the Disney version of pirates), talk like pirates (or rather, like Disney pirates), annoy their neighbors, and raise their psychologically damaged children by ignoring their problems, allowing them to curse wildly, and teaching them that there is no reason to aspire to do anything to contribute meaningfully to society (or "pirattitude," as they call it). They stage pirate plays in the backyard of the hovel they call a house, they have pirate friends (Say hello to Cap'n Slappy), they wave swords. Here's a family begging for matching prescriptions for lithium if ever I've seen one.
I won't go into detail on the episode featuring this family. Suffice it to say that Chumbucket and Mrs. Chumbucket are two of the most reprehensible human beings I have ever encountered (and I went to a community college). The fact that one of them created this holiday and stands to profit from it, even in a non-monetary fashion, repulses me like a pus-oozing face wound.
So no, I will not be talking like a pirate today. And be advised, those of you who know me, that if I hear that you have spoken like a pirate today, you will land on my spreadsheet of respect somewhere in between Dr. Phil and the man who invented Esperanto. And I think we all know how I feel about Dr. Phil
I don't know how I missed this earlier. I can't believe it's not printed on my Audobon Backyard Birds calendar. And it wasn't in the newspaper.
Maybe if I'd turned on the TV. I think this sort of thing is right up Channel 3's alley. They've probably got Beverly Kidd on location somewhere in a tricorn hat and an eyepatch.
You may say, Jill, isn't this the sort of ludicrous hilarity in which you typically revel? Well, if you do, you'll have to speak up, because I can't hear you. Maybe consider sending it by e-mail next time so my ears don't strain.
But I digress. I do indeed enjoy a bit of juvenile frivolity every now and then. But I do not participate in Talk Like a Pirate Day.
There are two main reasons for this, which I shall elaborate for your reading pleasure. The first is that, despite the recent pop-culture success that it has enjoyed, I do not think piracy is funny or cool. Perhaps if actual piracy was a thing of the past I could bring myself to laugh about it. But there are plenty of places in the world where actual human beings are attacked, brutalized, and killed by actual pirates, and I don't find it the least bit funny or cute. These pirates do not have a skull-and-crossbones flag on their ships, and they do not dress like Johnny Depp in one of the wildly popular Disney films based on an amusement park ride. Real pirates are much more dangerous and ruthless than that. They are cruel, they are terribly violent, and some of them are downright evil.
So forgive me if I don't think that pirates are cute or funny or simply pop-culture. I haven't been able to forget an article I read about a British civilian who was savagely and brutally slain in front of his terrified wife. Maybe when I can, I will find pirates cute and amusing.
The second reason I will be speaking in my normal hybrid of American and British English today is because of the TV show "Wife Swap." Yes, "Wife Swap." I'm rather embarrassed to admit that I have actually seen that show, but the fact remains that I have actually seen probably a dozen episodes. There was a time when I needed something to fill my TV-watching gap of 4 to 6pm, and Lifetime had the answer in the form of shrill, nasty women torturing the families of other shrill, nasty women.
In one episode, one of the families involved in the swap is headed by a man whose real name eludes me because he insisted on being called Chumbucket. Yes, *the* Chumbucket. The one responsible for this august occasion known as Talk Like a Pirate Day.
How can I describe Chumbucket? Out of touch with reality is the first phrase that comes to mind. Chumbucket, and his wench - I mean, wife - are a good argument for fewer personal freedoms in America. They dress like pirates (or rather, like the Disney version of pirates), talk like pirates (or rather, like Disney pirates), annoy their neighbors, and raise their psychologically damaged children by ignoring their problems, allowing them to curse wildly, and teaching them that there is no reason to aspire to do anything to contribute meaningfully to society (or "pirattitude," as they call it). They stage pirate plays in the backyard of the hovel they call a house, they have pirate friends (Say hello to Cap'n Slappy), they wave swords. Here's a family begging for matching prescriptions for lithium if ever I've seen one.
I won't go into detail on the episode featuring this family. Suffice it to say that Chumbucket and Mrs. Chumbucket are two of the most reprehensible human beings I have ever encountered (and I went to a community college). The fact that one of them created this holiday and stands to profit from it, even in a non-monetary fashion, repulses me like a pus-oozing face wound.
So no, I will not be talking like a pirate today. And be advised, those of you who know me, that if I hear that you have spoken like a pirate today, you will land on my spreadsheet of respect somewhere in between Dr. Phil and the man who invented Esperanto. And I think we all know how I feel about Dr. Phil
13 August 2009
It’s that time again, boys and girls!
It’s been well over a month since the last list, so here we are: things that are bothering me right now!
-What is the point of a heat advisory in the Phoenix area? It’s Phoenix. It’s hot. Don’t we all know that? But Jill, you might say (which would be stupid because I can’t hear you), sometimes it gets a bit hotter than normal, and people need to know to stay indoors. To which I say (or I would, if I’d heard you object), is 114* really that much more dangerous than 110? Do the risks of heat rise exponentially with every degree of heat over 109? And do people really need to be told to stay inside when it’s really, really hot? I think that if you don’t know that, that if you’re the sort of person who would cheerfully go for a run when it’s hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk, this is what’s known as natural selection. Survival of the smart-enough-to-avoid-heat-stroke.
-When someone admits to being an unapologetic (fill-in-the-blank), it tends to be the sort of thing for which they should probably consider apologizing.
-I’m never sure whether, when writing, I should use the passive voice or end a sentence with a preposition.
-Ninety-five percent of the American population wouldn’t know a preposition if it bit them in the collective arse.
-The difference between a perfectly browned grilled cheese sandwich and a blackened mess seems to be about ten seconds. Maybe it’s my stove. Maybe I’m too bloody stupid to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Either way, I’m irked.
-I want to smack the next person to speak or write the phrase “natural childbirth.” Ten times out of ten these people think that childbirth is only natural if it’s drug-free, and that the only admirable, good, acceptable birth is a natural one - otherwise, you have failed as a woman. I had an IV painkiller and an epidural and finally a C-section because my body didn’t want to birth a baby. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that and I’m sick of certain people judging me for not wanting to be in excruciating pain. They’ll say that drugs aren’t good for the baby. Well how the hell is my suffering and being exhausted any good for the baby? I got drugged and I got sliced and my baby was pink and healthy and aced her APGAR. I’ll probably blog about all this later because it really bothers me.
-I watched a few episodes of “Toddlers & Tiaras” last Saturday. The fact that this show exists at all just kills me. (In my defense, there wasn’t anything else on TV.)
-The media seem incapable of using the right words when discussing Twitter. The verb is “tweet,” not “twitter.”
-The fact that the preceding bothers me, bothers me.
-My neighbors’ dogs are at it again, which mystifies me. Doesn’t the barking at 3am bother them, too? Because it sure as heck bothers me. I need to replace the battery in my Dog Silencer Pro, and all will be right with the world again.
-A few days ago “Access Hollywood” named Madonna as one of the sexiest women over 40 in show business. They said she had the body of a woman half her age, or something like that. This makes me wonder if they have seen Madonna lately, because as near as I can tell she has the body of a med school skeleton.
-I had a funnier comparison than “med school skeleton” yesterday but I’ve forgotten what it was.
-I have the Stanley Steemer jingle stuck in my head.
-I’m not very funny anymore.
-What is the point of a heat advisory in the Phoenix area? It’s Phoenix. It’s hot. Don’t we all know that? But Jill, you might say (which would be stupid because I can’t hear you), sometimes it gets a bit hotter than normal, and people need to know to stay indoors. To which I say (or I would, if I’d heard you object), is 114* really that much more dangerous than 110? Do the risks of heat rise exponentially with every degree of heat over 109? And do people really need to be told to stay inside when it’s really, really hot? I think that if you don’t know that, that if you’re the sort of person who would cheerfully go for a run when it’s hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk, this is what’s known as natural selection. Survival of the smart-enough-to-avoid-heat-stroke.
-When someone admits to being an unapologetic (fill-in-the-blank), it tends to be the sort of thing for which they should probably consider apologizing.
-I’m never sure whether, when writing, I should use the passive voice or end a sentence with a preposition.
-Ninety-five percent of the American population wouldn’t know a preposition if it bit them in the collective arse.
-The difference between a perfectly browned grilled cheese sandwich and a blackened mess seems to be about ten seconds. Maybe it’s my stove. Maybe I’m too bloody stupid to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Either way, I’m irked.
-I want to smack the next person to speak or write the phrase “natural childbirth.” Ten times out of ten these people think that childbirth is only natural if it’s drug-free, and that the only admirable, good, acceptable birth is a natural one - otherwise, you have failed as a woman. I had an IV painkiller and an epidural and finally a C-section because my body didn’t want to birth a baby. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that and I’m sick of certain people judging me for not wanting to be in excruciating pain. They’ll say that drugs aren’t good for the baby. Well how the hell is my suffering and being exhausted any good for the baby? I got drugged and I got sliced and my baby was pink and healthy and aced her APGAR. I’ll probably blog about all this later because it really bothers me.
-I watched a few episodes of “Toddlers & Tiaras” last Saturday. The fact that this show exists at all just kills me. (In my defense, there wasn’t anything else on TV.)
-The media seem incapable of using the right words when discussing Twitter. The verb is “tweet,” not “twitter.”
-The fact that the preceding bothers me, bothers me.
-My neighbors’ dogs are at it again, which mystifies me. Doesn’t the barking at 3am bother them, too? Because it sure as heck bothers me. I need to replace the battery in my Dog Silencer Pro, and all will be right with the world again.
-A few days ago “Access Hollywood” named Madonna as one of the sexiest women over 40 in show business. They said she had the body of a woman half her age, or something like that. This makes me wonder if they have seen Madonna lately, because as near as I can tell she has the body of a med school skeleton.
-I had a funnier comparison than “med school skeleton” yesterday but I’ve forgotten what it was.
-I have the Stanley Steemer jingle stuck in my head.
-I’m not very funny anymore.
17 May 2009
In Your Face … book.
I will admit to being vain enough that I have “friended” people on Facebook just to see my number of friends go up. I won’t send out requests, myself, but I have accepted friend requests from people I don’t really care about.
For the most part, it hasn’t been a problem. Most people don’t spend an inordinate amount of time or effort on their Facebook profiles, and it’s easy enough to hide updates on Mafia Wars or other applications that I find inane.
But there are a few friends I have – one in particular, who shall remain nameless – who don’t fit into that “most people” category, and whose updates I am seriously considering hiding on my friend feed. This one friend is someone I haven’t seen in the better part of nine years, someone who I was only acquainted with in high school. And yet I know more about her personal life than I do about clipper cuts, and I’m a licensed hairstylist.
This person – let’s call her “Jane” – is under the mistaken impression that everyone she has friended on Facebook is on tenterhooks for more intimate details of her stunningly unremarkable life. You know that video, “The Trouble with Twitters,” where people Tweet things like “Watching TV with my cat” and “I forgot how much I like pickles?” Well, Jane is like that on Facebook. Nothing is too unimportant for a status update, including household chores and her husband’s bowel movements.
For instance, Jane recently baked a fruit-filled cake. How do I know this? Because she had no less than three status updates about said cake, and a photo album of the cake and the people who ate it. We see Jane in the kitchen. Jane mixing the cake batter. Jane pouring the batter into a cake pan. Jane adding the fruit filling. Jane putting the cake into the oven. The cake coming out of the oven. The cake on a cooling rack on the counter. The cake being iced. The cake being decorated. The decorated cake. Several women standing around the cake, smiling. Jane next to the cake she baked. Someone slicing the cake. Someone holding a slice of cake. Someone putting a forkful of cake into her mouth. And several more random shots of … you guessed it. The cake. I exaggerate a bit, but there were nearly twenty pictures in the album and I got a little teary-eyed at the thought that some poor bandwidth somewhere died to put those pictures on the internet.
And the status updates? “Just baked a yummy cake!” “Everyone loved the cake!” “Fruit filling is so yummy!” I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the idea. To hear Jane tell the story, it all started in a Betty Crocker mix factory in Des Moines.
You know what, Jane? It’s a bloody cake. And no one cares.
The cake is only the most recent of her over sharing. Every single picture she has ever taken is on an album on her profile. Yes, your baby may be cute (in an awkward, let’s-hope-he-grows-into-his-looks sort of way), but do I really need to see ten nearly identical photographs of him making funny faces? Here he is in a diaper, smiling. Here he is in a diaper, smiling again. And here he is, this time smiling, in a diaper. I don’t mean to sound cruel, here. But I don’t even know the kid. If I had more than three similar-looking photos of my own nephew, I’d get a little bored. And this woman has more than thirty photo albums on her profile, each more superfluous than the last.
And I have noticed that the people who clog up my friend feed the most (Jane and those like her) seem to have the worst grammar and spelling. I’m reasonably certain these people have graduated from high school, but I’d never guess that if I were to judge on their ability to put more than three words together. These are the people who randomly ad Os to the word “so” in an effort to convey emotion. “I am sooooooooo excited!!!!!!!!!!!” They might say. Because they also enjoy overusing punctuation marks. After all, they think, if one exclamation mark means I’m excited, then twenty of them must mean I’m super (or sometimes suuuperrrrrr) excited. Exclamation mark! My recent rant about grammar and spelling was a direct result of too many illegible status updates by two specific people.
I don’t mean to pick on oversharers like Jane, though. There are plenty of other annoying friend habits that make me want to log off for good (although I’ll concede that some of it has to do with how Facebook is set up). There’s the obsessive quiz-taking that several friends practice. I have hidden many of them from my feed, but, like a particularly virulent strain of the Hantavirus, for every one quiz I stamp out three more seem to emerge in its place. No offense, Facebook friends, but I don’t give a crap what color your aura is, what supernatural creature you are, who your Twilight soulmate is, or what your Native American/Redneck/French/Scottish name is. You’re a fan of not being shot in the face? Of not catching on fire? Congratulations. You’ve acquired common sense. Now, how about becoming a fan of shutting the heck up?
I’m not saying I’m perfect and none of my updates are ever annoying. I’ll admit to being guilty of some of this, myself. I had to find out what Golden Girl I am (Dorothy). But I do those for me. Half the time I don’t post my results on my wall, and I figure when I do it annoys people so I limit myself to one, maybe two a week. And I post other things. I’ve found that I’m most annoyed by repeated quiz-taking when it’s done by people who never do anything else on Facebook. I have friends I know nothing useful about, but I could tell you what their Barbie name is, and that annoys me.
So take heed, potential Facebook friends. I will accept your friend request, yes. But I can only hold back my snarky commentary for so long, and if it’s only a matter of time before you post one too many cake pictures, beware. I will comment. And I will not hold back the snark.
For the most part, it hasn’t been a problem. Most people don’t spend an inordinate amount of time or effort on their Facebook profiles, and it’s easy enough to hide updates on Mafia Wars or other applications that I find inane.
But there are a few friends I have – one in particular, who shall remain nameless – who don’t fit into that “most people” category, and whose updates I am seriously considering hiding on my friend feed. This one friend is someone I haven’t seen in the better part of nine years, someone who I was only acquainted with in high school. And yet I know more about her personal life than I do about clipper cuts, and I’m a licensed hairstylist.
This person – let’s call her “Jane” – is under the mistaken impression that everyone she has friended on Facebook is on tenterhooks for more intimate details of her stunningly unremarkable life. You know that video, “The Trouble with Twitters,” where people Tweet things like “Watching TV with my cat” and “I forgot how much I like pickles?” Well, Jane is like that on Facebook. Nothing is too unimportant for a status update, including household chores and her husband’s bowel movements.
For instance, Jane recently baked a fruit-filled cake. How do I know this? Because she had no less than three status updates about said cake, and a photo album of the cake and the people who ate it. We see Jane in the kitchen. Jane mixing the cake batter. Jane pouring the batter into a cake pan. Jane adding the fruit filling. Jane putting the cake into the oven. The cake coming out of the oven. The cake on a cooling rack on the counter. The cake being iced. The cake being decorated. The decorated cake. Several women standing around the cake, smiling. Jane next to the cake she baked. Someone slicing the cake. Someone holding a slice of cake. Someone putting a forkful of cake into her mouth. And several more random shots of … you guessed it. The cake. I exaggerate a bit, but there were nearly twenty pictures in the album and I got a little teary-eyed at the thought that some poor bandwidth somewhere died to put those pictures on the internet.
And the status updates? “Just baked a yummy cake!” “Everyone loved the cake!” “Fruit filling is so yummy!” I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the idea. To hear Jane tell the story, it all started in a Betty Crocker mix factory in Des Moines.
You know what, Jane? It’s a bloody cake. And no one cares.
The cake is only the most recent of her over sharing. Every single picture she has ever taken is on an album on her profile. Yes, your baby may be cute (in an awkward, let’s-hope-he-grows-into-his-looks sort of way), but do I really need to see ten nearly identical photographs of him making funny faces? Here he is in a diaper, smiling. Here he is in a diaper, smiling again. And here he is, this time smiling, in a diaper. I don’t mean to sound cruel, here. But I don’t even know the kid. If I had more than three similar-looking photos of my own nephew, I’d get a little bored. And this woman has more than thirty photo albums on her profile, each more superfluous than the last.
And I have noticed that the people who clog up my friend feed the most (Jane and those like her) seem to have the worst grammar and spelling. I’m reasonably certain these people have graduated from high school, but I’d never guess that if I were to judge on their ability to put more than three words together. These are the people who randomly ad Os to the word “so” in an effort to convey emotion. “I am sooooooooo excited!!!!!!!!!!!” They might say. Because they also enjoy overusing punctuation marks. After all, they think, if one exclamation mark means I’m excited, then twenty of them must mean I’m super (or sometimes suuuperrrrrr) excited. Exclamation mark! My recent rant about grammar and spelling was a direct result of too many illegible status updates by two specific people.
I don’t mean to pick on oversharers like Jane, though. There are plenty of other annoying friend habits that make me want to log off for good (although I’ll concede that some of it has to do with how Facebook is set up). There’s the obsessive quiz-taking that several friends practice. I have hidden many of them from my feed, but, like a particularly virulent strain of the Hantavirus, for every one quiz I stamp out three more seem to emerge in its place. No offense, Facebook friends, but I don’t give a crap what color your aura is, what supernatural creature you are, who your Twilight soulmate is, or what your Native American/Redneck/French/Scottish name is. You’re a fan of not being shot in the face? Of not catching on fire? Congratulations. You’ve acquired common sense. Now, how about becoming a fan of shutting the heck up?
I’m not saying I’m perfect and none of my updates are ever annoying. I’ll admit to being guilty of some of this, myself. I had to find out what Golden Girl I am (Dorothy). But I do those for me. Half the time I don’t post my results on my wall, and I figure when I do it annoys people so I limit myself to one, maybe two a week. And I post other things. I’ve found that I’m most annoyed by repeated quiz-taking when it’s done by people who never do anything else on Facebook. I have friends I know nothing useful about, but I could tell you what their Barbie name is, and that annoys me.
So take heed, potential Facebook friends. I will accept your friend request, yes. But I can only hold back my snarky commentary for so long, and if it’s only a matter of time before you post one too many cake pictures, beware. I will comment. And I will not hold back the snark.
24 March 2009
And now, the fake news
Anyone who has seen firsthand the exquisite pastiness of my face would not be surprised to learn that I’ve got a bit of Swedish blood in me. I might be off a generation or so here, but I’m pretty sure that it was my grandmother’s grandfather who left Sweden back in the late 1800s. (He married an Englishwoman, which explains my teeth.) The story that I’ve heard from family members is that he and his brother fled Sweden to avoid the draft. However, after discovering The Local, Sweden’s news in English, I think I know the real reason: Sweden is a very, very boring country.
I don’t mean to sound rude. I’m sure it’s lovely there – this is, after all, the country that gave us ABBA and IKEA. But judging by the headlines – the things that The Local considers to be important and pertinent – Sweden just isn’t very exciting.
Consider a few recent headlines:
-Hunter charged over toilet seat shooting
-Regular tobacco use falling in Sweden: study
-McDonald’s wins right to serve beer at Stockholm airport
-Group rules against Swedish swimmer on ‘sexist’ swimsuit ban
-Liberal Party looking to reduce Migration Board’s influence
So, to recap: a man shot a toilet seat, Swedes aren’t smoking as much as they used to, the airport Micky D’s has booze, a woman can’t wear something under her swimsuit, and the Migration Board has more influence than the liberal party likes.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is news.
Granted, I’ve left out a few interesting headlines for effect. For instance, a man died at a nuclear plant, and there was something about a psychotic art student. But the first day I ever read The Local, one of the biggest headlines was something about one of the guys from ABBA – I think it was Bjorn, and he had something to say about illegal music downloads. And that was a leading story.
Maybe I’m desensitized to hard news stories, living near as I do to Phoenix, a city where people are more apt to shoot you than they are to stop at a red light. I guess I’m just accustomed to reading news stories that are … well, newsworthy. Rapists on the loose. Bodies found in the desert. Car accidents in the West Valley. Stories such as those in The Local strike me as novel … and dull.
I think I know why.
I grew up in a town that had, on a good day, a population of about 5500 people. The news stories in the local paper – a weekly that cost a quarter until I was a teenager – made the headlines in The Local look like hard-hitting super-journalism. Usually it was something about the DARE program or tourism or the mayor being a crook (they were all crooks, by the way). The lack of news was just another stark reminder that I lived in the middle of nowhere, where nothing ever happened and no one cared. One of the nice things about moving to the Valley was that things happened. Sure, plenty of them were bad, but these things, good and bad, were proof that people live here. Lots of people. And they do other things, and people care. It’s exciting in a way. So many people live around where I do that there isn’t just one psychopathic felon, there are dozens of psychopathic felons. You can’t beat that. Page didn’t even have any psychopathic misdemeanor-committers.
So, sorry, Sweden, but you can keep your Bjorns and your falling tobacco use and your Saab factories and your booze-filled fast-food restaurants. I like things busy and messed up. And I think my great-great-great-grandfather did, too. Why else would he have left the only country in the world where people were as pasty as he was?
I don’t mean to sound rude. I’m sure it’s lovely there – this is, after all, the country that gave us ABBA and IKEA. But judging by the headlines – the things that The Local considers to be important and pertinent – Sweden just isn’t very exciting.
Consider a few recent headlines:
-Hunter charged over toilet seat shooting
-Regular tobacco use falling in Sweden: study
-McDonald’s wins right to serve beer at Stockholm airport
-Group rules against Swedish swimmer on ‘sexist’ swimsuit ban
-Liberal Party looking to reduce Migration Board’s influence
So, to recap: a man shot a toilet seat, Swedes aren’t smoking as much as they used to, the airport Micky D’s has booze, a woman can’t wear something under her swimsuit, and the Migration Board has more influence than the liberal party likes.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is news.
Granted, I’ve left out a few interesting headlines for effect. For instance, a man died at a nuclear plant, and there was something about a psychotic art student. But the first day I ever read The Local, one of the biggest headlines was something about one of the guys from ABBA – I think it was Bjorn, and he had something to say about illegal music downloads. And that was a leading story.
Maybe I’m desensitized to hard news stories, living near as I do to Phoenix, a city where people are more apt to shoot you than they are to stop at a red light. I guess I’m just accustomed to reading news stories that are … well, newsworthy. Rapists on the loose. Bodies found in the desert. Car accidents in the West Valley. Stories such as those in The Local strike me as novel … and dull.
I think I know why.
I grew up in a town that had, on a good day, a population of about 5500 people. The news stories in the local paper – a weekly that cost a quarter until I was a teenager – made the headlines in The Local look like hard-hitting super-journalism. Usually it was something about the DARE program or tourism or the mayor being a crook (they were all crooks, by the way). The lack of news was just another stark reminder that I lived in the middle of nowhere, where nothing ever happened and no one cared. One of the nice things about moving to the Valley was that things happened. Sure, plenty of them were bad, but these things, good and bad, were proof that people live here. Lots of people. And they do other things, and people care. It’s exciting in a way. So many people live around where I do that there isn’t just one psychopathic felon, there are dozens of psychopathic felons. You can’t beat that. Page didn’t even have any psychopathic misdemeanor-committers.
So, sorry, Sweden, but you can keep your Bjorns and your falling tobacco use and your Saab factories and your booze-filled fast-food restaurants. I like things busy and messed up. And I think my great-great-great-grandfather did, too. Why else would he have left the only country in the world where people were as pasty as he was?
22 February 2009
Friend is a four-letter word
I have a confession to make - I feel like a pathetic loser making friendship requests on Facebook. “Golly gee, will you please be my friend? If it’s okay with you,” is what it feels like. I’ve never made friends easily and I guess clicking on “add as friend” just feels too desperate – instead of trying to get to know someone personally, I’m asking outright, will you be my friend? So I have sort of an unwritten personal policy about making friendship requests. If it’s someone I used to know, I won’t send them a request. They know my name. If they want to be my friend, they can find me. Let them be the pathetic, groveling idiot for a change. I’ve played that part to death.
Rule aside, I must admit I find it curious that I get friend requests from people who had no interest in being my friend before. If they didn’t want my friendship eight years ago, why want it now? Have the rules changed and being short and chubby and neurotic is “cool” now? And how do they expect me to respond? I admit, I was rather wretched in high school, but I’m not such a sad sack now that I’ll be friends with anyone who clicks on my name. I haven’t forgotten the nasty things that were said and done and I don’t reckon I ever will.
I expect that many of them are simply curious as to what I’ve been up to all this time. I’ll admit to a bit of that myself. On more than one occasion I’ve looked up people I used to know to see how their lives have turned out, although my motives are less than pure. Usually I just want to see if their lives have turned out horribly as I’d hoped they would because they were such horrible people and I don’t think they deserve success or happiness. They deserve to be miserable, just like I was – just like they made me. They’ve been Dorian Grays too long and it’s time their outward lives reflected what nasty little people they are inside.
But Jill, you might say – in which case I’d tell you not to interrupt while I’m ranting – But Jill, you might say, don’t you think that maybe some of them feel badly about how they treated you and they really would like to be your friend (even though as it’s Facebook, “friendship” is a subjective term on account of I can be “friends” with one of thirty Josh Grobans out there, or with something abstract like a TV show for example)?
Well, you rude little cutter-inner, if that were the case, they could at least send me a message to that effect. Otherwise I’m forced to assume that the only reason they sent me a friend request is because they want to make sure I know they’re getting married (to a man more than a decade older who has the same name as her absentee father; I don’t need Freud to help me with that one) or they’ve graduated college (pity I differentiate and discriminate between education and intelligence, and know for a fact that they cheated in high school and therefore likely did so in college as well) or are doing exciting and wonderful things with their lives (in the words of George Costanza, “well good for the tuna”). Or as is the case with many people, they just want as many friends as they can get as a pathetic measure of their personal popularity. I'm sorry, but I don't think anyone is really good friends with seven hundred people, spoilsport that I am.
Another disturbing Facebook friend trend came to my attention a few weeks ago. I was helping my mother with her Facebook account (she only updates her status when I harass her about it). I had a look at her list of friends and saw that more than half of them are people within the same age range as her four adult children (between 25 and 31, if it matters). This naturally reminded me of one of my biggest problems as an adolescent: People in my peer group invariably liked my mother more than they liked me. In church, they would stop to talk to her and ignore me. They LOVED my mom. If I had a dollar for every time I was told, “I just love your mom,” I could have paid for my second semester of college myself instead of borrowing from my parents (I paid for my first, rather expensive semester with my own savings, thankyouverymuch).
I had the same problem with the younger of my two brothers. He attended my high school graduation, and immediately afterward, the two of us were surrounded by my fellow graduates – all of whom wanted to talk to Chris. I decided then and there that I would never attend a reunion – I’ll send Chris instead. I’m sure my classmates would rather see him than me, anyway. He was a senior when I was a freshman so everyone my age idolized him – he was sort of the Head Jerk in school at that time and I think it would have done him a world of good if someone would have just slapped him hard at about age fifteen (hi, Chris!).
Do I sound bitter? Well, I’m bitter. And you know what else? I’m clicking on “ignore” on most of my friend requests until people actually grow up a little and observe the social niceties. A little note goes a long way.
And incidentally, former classmates, so too will I go a long way. Just as soon as I get a job and move out of my mother’s house and get my BA and become a minor celebrity. Then maybe I’ll have my people respond to your requests. After all, that’s what “friends” are for.
Rule aside, I must admit I find it curious that I get friend requests from people who had no interest in being my friend before. If they didn’t want my friendship eight years ago, why want it now? Have the rules changed and being short and chubby and neurotic is “cool” now? And how do they expect me to respond? I admit, I was rather wretched in high school, but I’m not such a sad sack now that I’ll be friends with anyone who clicks on my name. I haven’t forgotten the nasty things that were said and done and I don’t reckon I ever will.
I expect that many of them are simply curious as to what I’ve been up to all this time. I’ll admit to a bit of that myself. On more than one occasion I’ve looked up people I used to know to see how their lives have turned out, although my motives are less than pure. Usually I just want to see if their lives have turned out horribly as I’d hoped they would because they were such horrible people and I don’t think they deserve success or happiness. They deserve to be miserable, just like I was – just like they made me. They’ve been Dorian Grays too long and it’s time their outward lives reflected what nasty little people they are inside.
But Jill, you might say – in which case I’d tell you not to interrupt while I’m ranting – But Jill, you might say, don’t you think that maybe some of them feel badly about how they treated you and they really would like to be your friend (even though as it’s Facebook, “friendship” is a subjective term on account of I can be “friends” with one of thirty Josh Grobans out there, or with something abstract like a TV show for example)?
Well, you rude little cutter-inner, if that were the case, they could at least send me a message to that effect. Otherwise I’m forced to assume that the only reason they sent me a friend request is because they want to make sure I know they’re getting married (to a man more than a decade older who has the same name as her absentee father; I don’t need Freud to help me with that one) or they’ve graduated college (pity I differentiate and discriminate between education and intelligence, and know for a fact that they cheated in high school and therefore likely did so in college as well) or are doing exciting and wonderful things with their lives (in the words of George Costanza, “well good for the tuna”). Or as is the case with many people, they just want as many friends as they can get as a pathetic measure of their personal popularity. I'm sorry, but I don't think anyone is really good friends with seven hundred people, spoilsport that I am.
Another disturbing Facebook friend trend came to my attention a few weeks ago. I was helping my mother with her Facebook account (she only updates her status when I harass her about it). I had a look at her list of friends and saw that more than half of them are people within the same age range as her four adult children (between 25 and 31, if it matters). This naturally reminded me of one of my biggest problems as an adolescent: People in my peer group invariably liked my mother more than they liked me. In church, they would stop to talk to her and ignore me. They LOVED my mom. If I had a dollar for every time I was told, “I just love your mom,” I could have paid for my second semester of college myself instead of borrowing from my parents (I paid for my first, rather expensive semester with my own savings, thankyouverymuch).
I had the same problem with the younger of my two brothers. He attended my high school graduation, and immediately afterward, the two of us were surrounded by my fellow graduates – all of whom wanted to talk to Chris. I decided then and there that I would never attend a reunion – I’ll send Chris instead. I’m sure my classmates would rather see him than me, anyway. He was a senior when I was a freshman so everyone my age idolized him – he was sort of the Head Jerk in school at that time and I think it would have done him a world of good if someone would have just slapped him hard at about age fifteen (hi, Chris!).
Do I sound bitter? Well, I’m bitter. And you know what else? I’m clicking on “ignore” on most of my friend requests until people actually grow up a little and observe the social niceties. A little note goes a long way.
And incidentally, former classmates, so too will I go a long way. Just as soon as I get a job and move out of my mother’s house and get my BA and become a minor celebrity. Then maybe I’ll have my people respond to your requests. After all, that’s what “friends” are for.
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