Thursday, April 23, 2009

Don't hate the player, hate the game

I don’t much talk about my job. I like to keep my private life separate from my business life. But what the hell. I’ll jump the line this once.

My company recently updated it’s employee names directory so that it looks more like a social networking site like LinedIn or FaceBook. Very hip. You can add in contact info, a biography, a list of your skills, your past experience.

Unfortunately, for my skills, I want to list nunchuck skills and drawing ligers, because they’re pretty much my favorite animal. And for my biography, it would start out “I was born a poor black child . . .” And experience? I told ya, my private life is my private life and my bidness life is my bidness life. Unfortunately, I don’t think many of my co-workers would find that as titter-worthy as I do. And there’s a button to report inappropriate content.

This my friends is why I’ll never be a captain of industry. I know when I should play the game. I just choose not to.

T'aint funny, MacGee

Okay, I think they lost me here. I'm usually behind the push for innovation and freedom of expression. But this writer seems to think that a company doesn't have the right to dictate it's own professional standards.

I get that the Baby Shaker app could be seen as black humor. I don't have a black sense of humor. I lean more towards blue myself. But I get that there are people out there who like dead baby jokes. And if you want to tell one, I support your right to free speech.

But Apple gets a right to say, "No shoes, no shirt, no service", and no dead baby jokes. And that means that no, they don't have to make it available to the public, and allow their customers to download it at their discretion if they don't want to. They have a right to project a company image. And saying that they don't think child abuse is a laughing matter, that's their business.

And if they lose market share because they aren't cool enough to take a joke, that's a hit I'd bet they're willing to take. But I'm thinking that they're not going to lose any business, or sleep, over this one.

From Lovelorn to Porn

Why do the freaks have to ruin everything?* Craigslist used to be a fun place to find somebody who’d let you have a nice pool table for $100. Now it’s a good place to find somebody who’s willing to ventilate your skull for you, no charge.

And until all the stuff that’s come out recently with people being robbed, raped and murdered, I wasn’t even aware that Craigslist had personals. In spite of it all, I had this moment of memories of reading the local alt newspaper personals. I used to pick up the City Paper in DC or the New Times in Phoenix in high school and college, and sit to giggle and groan over the ads. Truly an education.

Originally, they had them all mixed together. SHM seeking BiF. MWF seeking SBM. GWM seeking SWF (What? Why?) Some were sweet. Some were twisted. Some were twisted and sweet. Whatever creamed your coffee, you could probably find in the personals. But I hadn’t even thought to look at the ads in years. I heard Craig’s had personals. What the heck? Take a click down memory lane.

I went straight to my old time favorites – missed connections. “You – blonde in red convertible, doing 115 on 75 Expressway. Our eyes met . . .” People can be so charmingly optimistic. I clicked on the first ad and discovered they’re also exhibitionistic. Evidently, the aluminum soda can is the new standard of measure. I clicked 3 links and discovered that, in order to show perspective, men are now photographing their personal attributes next to cans. (The range appears to Red Bull, Rock Star, Guinness. If you’re a Donald Duck orange juice, I guess you just keep it to yourself.) This is in the “missed connections” section! I’m not talking about the “casual encounters”. I can’t even imagine what they’re taking pictures of over there. Aren't the MCs supposed to be shy folks? Evidently not any more.

Gone are the days of innocence, my friends.

* Let me make this distinction: There are freaks, and there are freaks. Some freaks, or Free-ks, are fun loving individualists who let their flag fly. The other kind are just spoilers who can’t let a good time get in the way of making an ass of themselves. And I think, deep down, everybody knows which one they are.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


Well, the rennovation is coming apace. New kitchen countertop yesterday. Yeah! Or shoot! Depending on your perspective. And when your perspective is standing inside the kitchen door, shoot seems more appropriate. In comparison with the pretty new granite, the cabinet doors and wallpaper look all the worse. I'll have pictures tomorrow. Though I'm not sure I want to document this particular phase for posterity. It really does look like hell.

I'm at a point where I'm constantly rearranging furniture in my head (this could go there, but where would that go?). It's getting exhausting. I think that once I get things to a livable state, I'm going to have to take a breather. Live with the new state of the union for awhile, until I get things figured out. But I'm really convinced that it's going to take 4 to 6 months to get things to a point where they are livable. Work, work, work.

I'm kind of at the point where I'm tired of people tromping in and out of my house. I'm tired of losing brain cells to fumes. I'm tired of seeing every new little thing that needs to be done. The one little comfort is that I'm having these little insights. Pop - coral solves the accent problem. Pop - use that curtain as a sheer in the other room. Pop - you can use that book shelf downstairs. Every time I get just to the flusterated point, I get another little pop that nudges me through.

And speaking of changes - I'm an aunt once again. My sister-in-law delivered a 7 lb 11 oz baby boy this morning. My second nephew. I'm lobbying for him to be named Clay, because of Earth Day. But given the fact that my baby brother has spent his entire life doing the exact opposite of what his bossy big sister says, I don't hold out much hope. Anway, welcome to the world, Baby Boy. We're so happy you're here.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Are you not entertained? Why, yes. Yes, I am.

Wuh-ha. Looks like the prospects for Ridley Scott's Robin Hood movie are looking up. I thought we'd lost Russell Crowe to the "Boo-hoo. I'm a character actor trapped in a leading man's body" club (Brad Pitt - charter member). Looks like he's back in fighting form. In fact, he may even be down to his LA Confidential weight.

Alright. I'm a hypocrite. If he wants to sit around and drink Foster's and eat bloomin' onions, that's his right. Big boys need love too. But then again, if it's what's inside that counts, by all reports he's kind of a jackass. He probably needs to a nice exterior to fall back on.

A Texas Birthright.

Yeah, it was the governor of Texas that brought on Ron Paul's secession comments. But let's get the facts straight:
  1. Gov. Rick Perry is a twit.
  2. Regardless of his twitliness, Governor Perry was only engaging in an age old Texas tradition of threatening to secede from the USA. We've had 6 flags over Texas. Piss us off enough and we'll make it a lucky 7. I am soon to be 30-ten, and I've been hearing Texans pitch this particular bitch as long as I can remember. We can say that we're proud to be Americans, the yammer about being quite capable of getting on as our own country, thank you kindly. It's all talk. But we might.
  3. But he's still a twit.

In Praise of the Natural Man

Well, I’ve done the investigative work. And I’m afraid it’s true. I went to the New York Times write up of Blithe Spirit, which has a slide show of pictures from the show. And upon a close review of the evidence, it appears that Rupert Everett is now . . . smooth. What a tragedy.

I don’t know what those plastic surgeons tell people: “Oh, yes, Rupert, I know you’ve seen other people who’ve had major revisions who look like gargoyles. But that’s other surgeons. That’s other patients. But between you and I, my friend, it will be magic. You’ll look 10 years younger. 20! It will be FAB-u-lous.”

No. Not fabulous. Freaky. And not the good kind of freaky.

And it’s almost worse when men get the plastic surgery. It makes them look like women. And I don’t mean that as “effeminate”. Effeminate is fine. I mean feminine. Gyno. Like a woman. With man parts. EEEEuuuuh.

And I understand that being gay and a performer, Rupert may feel some additional pressure to keep up appearances, as it were. But I think same rule applies to anyone who has work done – tweaks! Only tweaks. Did we learn nothing from Michael Douglas? People should whisper, “You look so rested. Did you go on “vacation”?”. Not blurt out “What did you do to your face?”

And really, I’d much prefer to see little to nothing done at all done to a man. What’s wrong with a lived in face? You don’t get a wonderfully rumpled, sexy face like he had working on your counted cross-stitch replica of the Bayeux Tapestry and sipping chamomile tea. You get it doing body shots off a cabana boy. You get it thinking deep thoughts. You get it from knowing. You get a lived in face by LIVING.

But, what’s done is done. Once the historic house is torn down, it can never be built again. Authenticity is gone. It’s time to mourn, and move on. Let us turn our attention to preservation. Let’s stop the madness before anymore of our living monuments are razed. If I hear of a good looking older man thinking of plastic surgery, I’m going to chain myself to him until he comes to his senses. Hell, no, we won’t Bo! Hell, no, we won’t Bo!

Monday, April 20, 2009

Simply Aghast

Suh-weet Jesus. Say it isn't so. Why didn't somebody stop him? It's like somebody put pink stucco on the Sphinx.

A Poem

Kernels of Regret

Mournful I wonder
Why did I do it?
Why did I eat all my corn last night?
My bitter remorse for gratification undelayed.
You fool! You could have snapped that ear in half,
and had the other half to nibble on today.

But no.

I ate it all. In ecstasy of buttery roasted now.
And all I have left is
the memory of sweet, sweet corn
to haunt my empty mouth.

Everybody makes their bones on their own

So, I took my niece for another driving lesson. She’s developed a tendency to ride the curb. Rookie mistake. All part of that learning where the edges of the car are, and how much space there is after the edge. We all went through it. Of course, that means when I’m in the passenger seat, I get a bird’s eye view of just how close she is to the curb.

And there lies the conflict. The protective instinct tells me I should keep warning her, “You’re close to the curb . . . you’re really close to the curb . . . you know that thing over there? It’s the curb.” Because there are few sensations as enervating as scraping the curb. That noise just gives your ears road rash. And the reverb through the car. Ugh. I get a little nauseated just thinking of it. And of course, I want to save her that sickmaking feeling.

The other side of me says, “Let her hit it.” Chances are that it won’t do any serious damage to my car. Barney the Wonder Truck has been through worse. A lot worse. And once she’s kissed the curb, she’ll never want to do it again. Nothing like a hard lesson to bring that one on home. Of course, it’s kind of a dick move, to just let her take her lumps that way. It’ll scare the crap out of her.

I finally decided to keep my mouth shut, and let the chips fall. I’ll tell her once at the beginning of a drive. But after that, she’s just going to have to learn the hard way.

TIME: Quotes of the Day