Day Three:
Cabo San Lucas- We’ve arrived at our first port and we are excited to get off the ship and experience Mexico. We have a shore excursion planned but not until later, so we will be doing a bit of shopping first. Due to the shallow nature of the pier in Cabo the ship must dock off shore and we have to take tenders to the dock. If you’ve never experienced this, it is as much like a cattle call as I have ever seen- not that I’m a cowboy and have driven a herd across the prairie, but I have seen a few westerns and this has all the earmarks of a cattle drive. You have the cattle whose part is being played by all the cruise ship passengers grunting in protest and occasionally taking a swipe at their fellow cattle as they are herded down the passageways by the cowboys who are adorned in yellow t-shirts and blue wind-pants.
Once on land we made our way around the harbor to the shopping district. All along the way we were bombarded by people wanting us to ride in their water taxi or glass bottom boat. There were also plenty of vendors peddling their wares. Plenty of them were trying to sell wooden whistles that were shaped like turtles and painted in vibrant colors. The problem I had with this was that they would blow on a whistle to attract attention to themselves, but (and I watched carefully for this) they didn’t use one designated whistle. They would pick up any random whistle and blow into it. I have no desire to purchase a pre-blown whistle. While in town we scored some awesome souvenirs. My favorite was the Mexican style wrestling masks we picked up for my bros. in law and the one that looks just like Nacho Libre’s for my father in law. Can’t wait to see them don their masks and fly off the top rope.
We went on our shore excursion which was a coastal highlights tour. It was nice at first but it dragged on a little too long. We got to see Giorgio’s which is a beautiful restaurant situated on a bluff overlooking the cape of Saint Luke (Cabo San Lucas for all you non-Spanish speaking people). The view was gorgeous and well worth the price of the tour. We went to a glass factory where we saw a young man blow and mold hot glass into a sea turtle in just moments. My wife even got to serve as apprentice and blow a piece of hot glass into something that resembled Snoopy in a Picasso.
After this we took a 25 minute bus ride (the bus driver did an excellent job and I will allow him to come aboard and serve as my lifeboat pilot) to San Jose Los Cabos which you may recognize as the home of Speedy Gonzalez’s girlfriend, Rosita. Along the way several stars homes were pointed out to us. We saw Julia Roberts’ place, Sammy Haggar’s abode and a home that O.J. Simpson owned before he sold it and moved into the more secure community where he currently resides. This is where tour started to drag on and on. They dropped us off in a little Plaza that had more of an Ensenada feel than a Cabo feel to it. Its main claim to fame is a little mission which is most notable (it even has a mural over the front door depicting the event) for its founder being brutally slain by the Pericues Indians which he was trying to “convert” (which is apparently Spanish for forcing them to wear clothing and enslave them to work their gardens and build their missions). Great “highlight” Mexico! What- was the museum of the atrocities of the Spanish conquistadors closed for renovation?
After this we were all too happy to get back to our ship and relax. Before we could do that, we had to be subjected to a woman who, if called on to be such, was annoying enough to serve as the Devil’s mother in law and do justice to the title. Allow me to set the scene. We are standing in line to get back on a tender to return to our ship. There is a young couple in front of us and a Persian couple in front of them. The Persian man made the mistake of bumping or interrupting (I’m not quite sure how it went down) the woman in front of him who of course is Cruella De Vil to the infinite power. Instead of ignoring the slight like normal people, this woman went apocalyptic on this guy. She was so condescending and abrasive that everyone around them was embarrassed, including her grown son whom she repeatedly shushed and scolded for trying to rein her in. She lectured this couple on how in America we are known for being friendly and we are polite to one another and we just don’t go around interrupting anyone we want to without apologizing. As the hypocrisy oozed from her every pore, she continued all the way through the line (at least a 15 minute wait) and on to the tender where mercifully enough she was separated from the couple. I wanted to point out a couple of errors in her thinking. One, despite her assertion that we behave a certain way in America, we weren’t even in America so I’m not sure if the same rules apply across the board and I don’t know where she lives but we aren’t overly friendly and polite to one another. Two, her offense against this couple and everyone else in hearing distance was far more egregious than any offense they could have perpetrated on her. Not only will I exclude her from my life boat but I will offer her a life jacket with the foam floats replaced with lead bricks. To Davy Jones’ wit ye! My only fear is that you will think that I have embellished this story for humor’s sake. I have not! If anything I have failed to do it justice. It really was embarrassing!
Before dinner, we went to one of the ship’s song and dance shows. It was supposed to be a varied collection of music across the spectrum and for the most part it was. I am not offering a spot on my life raft to any of the singers and dancers, but I am especially excluding Reese. He was the one dancer whose moves were always less dramatic and about a half second behind everyone else’s. When they’d step, he’d kick. When he finally kicked, the rest of them would drop to the floor. When he finally got down, the rest of the cast had rolled across the floor and were back up on their feet kicking and stepping again. By the end of the show he was so far behind that the theater was completely empty before he finished his routine.
After Dinner we walked the promenade for a little bit and went to another show. This time it featured the Misfit of Comedy, Ed Alonzo. For those of you, who like me, recognize the name but can’t exactly place him, he is a comedian/magician and, at least to me, is most notable for his gripping and realistic portrayal of a diner owner in Saved By the Bell. I can’t remember if he was the original Max or the replacement Max but either way, he played the zany, magic trick performing owner that gave such sage advice to those poor young souls trying to find their way in the hardened atmosphere of Bayside High School. He was pretty good, had a couple of good tricks and told a few funny jokes-not lifeboat material, but pretty good.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
My Cruising Musing: Day Two
Day Two:
This is our first day at sea. We will not be docking today. We took advantage of this relaxing day with nothing scheduled and slept in. It is extremely easy to sleep in when you have an interior room. I’ve heard the expression “it’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face,” but I’ve never actually experienced it until now. Our room is so dark with the lights off that there is no way of knowing what time of day it is. It seems really weird for it to be 9:30 in the morning but feel like it could still be 3:30 am.
So with nothing scheduled today, I set about to find someone whom I was willing to allow in my life boat. I could find no man. Instead I found plenty of people I was willing to set adrift. You know that commercial with the guy walking down the street while some upbeat music plays-the top half of his body is still but his legs are all over the place? Well, there is a kid walking up and down the promenade who fancies himself like that commercial. As he walks he moves his body (arms mostly) to some imaginary beat that only he can hear. Part of me feels sorry for this kid because he is here on a cruise with his parents and apparently he is an only child forced to entertain himself. The other part of me realizes that there are plenty of things to do and for someone who tries so desperately to be noticed (albeit a feeble attempt) he goes about it in all the wrong ways. Instead of grooving your way up and down the promenade waiting for Russell Simmons to recognize you and put you in a music video, why don’t you go to one of the plethora of activities that are geared for and overflowing with kids your age and make a friend or two. Here’s hoping that all those nifty dance moves help you tread water longer.
There was a three on three basketball tournament today. I was in need of a little exercise so I thought I might run a little bit with the big boys. I got there early to work on my game. Instead of an hour early I should have come a year early but I doubt I would have been any more ready. I signed up and got placed on a team with an older guy with a bad knee and no hands, and a younger guy with a couple of 1 carat cubic zirconium earrings (which really tells you all you need to know about him). They sent us to the court to warm up and shoot around. This is really a waste of time. All that happens during these shoot arounds is that bad players show how bad they are but blame it on a different court/rim/ball then they’re used to using, and the good players just thoroughly intimidate the marginal players like me.
My team was up first and we went to the court to meet our opponents. The shortest guy on their team stood two inches taller than me. The guy that I had to defend was 6’5” and massive. He was also one of the good players. I was as intimidated as a freshman on his first day in gym class. Trying not to show it, I stepped on to the court and took my position next to Goliath. The ball was tossed in and the game was under way. I was certain of one thing: My guy may score all the points for his team but he was going to have to do it as far away from the basket as I could push him. I hustled and pushed and he wasn’t sure what to expect. I ended up holding my own against him for a while. I even scored one really nice basket that generated “oohs” from the crowd and stunned looks on the faces of my opponents and team mates. But then the Big Friendly Giant realized that even when I jump and wave my hands he can still see the basket clearly. He sank a couple of threes and the game was over like that. He was a little bruised and broken but he was a good sport about it so I will happily allow him into my life boat.
Tonight was the first formal dining evening. I would at this point like to offer a life jacket and a life saver (not a life boat) to all the people who have no idea what the word “formal” means. Please allow me to define it as follows: Formal Wear-Men should wear Suits with a shirt and tie (tuxedos are acceptable), Ladies should either wear a dress or skirt. Now you may not agree with me on this one, but I don’t really care whether you do or don’t (if you haven’t figured out by now that I don’t need your validation to express my opinions then you just haven’t been paying attention). I don’t think it is asking too much for people to dress up once in a while, and I mean dress up. Even if you are a “jeans and t-shirt” kind of person-a collared shirt and nice jeans is NOT dressing up. Some of you troglodytes may be thinking, “To me that is dressing up.” Guys, how big of a baby do you have to be if you can’t wear a suit and tie once in a while. No one’s asking you to run a marathon or change out the flywheel on a ’71 Chevy Chevelle, just walk around with your lady for a while and sit down to a fine dinner. So for all of you Neanderthals, who can’t bring yourself to look nice even for your beloved, be prepared to jump ship in the event of an emergency because you aren’t getting on my boat. Hey, I’ll even let you wear a t-shirt and jeans, sharks are far more accommodating that way. Babies!
I also wish to set all old women adrift. Not because I believe in casting aside unwanted members of society (okay I do but it has nothing to do with their age) but because they think that a pair of slacks and a blouse with a garish number of sequins on it constitutes formal attire. It does not! You just look like a fancy crossing guard with your reflective shirt. Also, try using about a gallon less of whatever industrial strength perfume you bathe in so as not to give anyone within a 5 mile radius an instant headache. It’s particularly pungent when you step into an elevator in which one of these olfactory assailants has been riding.
Bon Voyage old gals, the good news is that I understand that sharks have a highly developed sense of smell and that should keep you safe. On the other hand it may also kill every fish around you.
This is our first day at sea. We will not be docking today. We took advantage of this relaxing day with nothing scheduled and slept in. It is extremely easy to sleep in when you have an interior room. I’ve heard the expression “it’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face,” but I’ve never actually experienced it until now. Our room is so dark with the lights off that there is no way of knowing what time of day it is. It seems really weird for it to be 9:30 in the morning but feel like it could still be 3:30 am.
So with nothing scheduled today, I set about to find someone whom I was willing to allow in my life boat. I could find no man. Instead I found plenty of people I was willing to set adrift. You know that commercial with the guy walking down the street while some upbeat music plays-the top half of his body is still but his legs are all over the place? Well, there is a kid walking up and down the promenade who fancies himself like that commercial. As he walks he moves his body (arms mostly) to some imaginary beat that only he can hear. Part of me feels sorry for this kid because he is here on a cruise with his parents and apparently he is an only child forced to entertain himself. The other part of me realizes that there are plenty of things to do and for someone who tries so desperately to be noticed (albeit a feeble attempt) he goes about it in all the wrong ways. Instead of grooving your way up and down the promenade waiting for Russell Simmons to recognize you and put you in a music video, why don’t you go to one of the plethora of activities that are geared for and overflowing with kids your age and make a friend or two. Here’s hoping that all those nifty dance moves help you tread water longer.
There was a three on three basketball tournament today. I was in need of a little exercise so I thought I might run a little bit with the big boys. I got there early to work on my game. Instead of an hour early I should have come a year early but I doubt I would have been any more ready. I signed up and got placed on a team with an older guy with a bad knee and no hands, and a younger guy with a couple of 1 carat cubic zirconium earrings (which really tells you all you need to know about him). They sent us to the court to warm up and shoot around. This is really a waste of time. All that happens during these shoot arounds is that bad players show how bad they are but blame it on a different court/rim/ball then they’re used to using, and the good players just thoroughly intimidate the marginal players like me.
My team was up first and we went to the court to meet our opponents. The shortest guy on their team stood two inches taller than me. The guy that I had to defend was 6’5” and massive. He was also one of the good players. I was as intimidated as a freshman on his first day in gym class. Trying not to show it, I stepped on to the court and took my position next to Goliath. The ball was tossed in and the game was under way. I was certain of one thing: My guy may score all the points for his team but he was going to have to do it as far away from the basket as I could push him. I hustled and pushed and he wasn’t sure what to expect. I ended up holding my own against him for a while. I even scored one really nice basket that generated “oohs” from the crowd and stunned looks on the faces of my opponents and team mates. But then the Big Friendly Giant realized that even when I jump and wave my hands he can still see the basket clearly. He sank a couple of threes and the game was over like that. He was a little bruised and broken but he was a good sport about it so I will happily allow him into my life boat.
Tonight was the first formal dining evening. I would at this point like to offer a life jacket and a life saver (not a life boat) to all the people who have no idea what the word “formal” means. Please allow me to define it as follows: Formal Wear-Men should wear Suits with a shirt and tie (tuxedos are acceptable), Ladies should either wear a dress or skirt. Now you may not agree with me on this one, but I don’t really care whether you do or don’t (if you haven’t figured out by now that I don’t need your validation to express my opinions then you just haven’t been paying attention). I don’t think it is asking too much for people to dress up once in a while, and I mean dress up. Even if you are a “jeans and t-shirt” kind of person-a collared shirt and nice jeans is NOT dressing up. Some of you troglodytes may be thinking, “To me that is dressing up.” Guys, how big of a baby do you have to be if you can’t wear a suit and tie once in a while. No one’s asking you to run a marathon or change out the flywheel on a ’71 Chevy Chevelle, just walk around with your lady for a while and sit down to a fine dinner. So for all of you Neanderthals, who can’t bring yourself to look nice even for your beloved, be prepared to jump ship in the event of an emergency because you aren’t getting on my boat. Hey, I’ll even let you wear a t-shirt and jeans, sharks are far more accommodating that way. Babies!
I also wish to set all old women adrift. Not because I believe in casting aside unwanted members of society (okay I do but it has nothing to do with their age) but because they think that a pair of slacks and a blouse with a garish number of sequins on it constitutes formal attire. It does not! You just look like a fancy crossing guard with your reflective shirt. Also, try using about a gallon less of whatever industrial strength perfume you bathe in so as not to give anyone within a 5 mile radius an instant headache. It’s particularly pungent when you step into an elevator in which one of these olfactory assailants has been riding.
Bon Voyage old gals, the good news is that I understand that sharks have a highly developed sense of smell and that should keep you safe. On the other hand it may also kill every fish around you.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
My Cruising Musing: Day One
Day 1:
So after weeks of anticipation (not the mark days off on your calendar kind but the little kid waking up 20 times on Christmas Eve ready to burst forth and open all his presents only to find its only been two hours since he went to bed), the day of embarkation has finally arrived. We are even more excited. We’ve left the boys with Grandma (Grandpa will be there too but let’s not kid ourselves about who will be doing the lion’s share of the babysitting this week) and we’re headed to Long Beach to board our luxury cruise liner. I am a little stressed out at this point because through some unforeseen events we are leaving a little later than planned and are dangerously close to being too late to start the boarding process.
I am driving like a madman, and Nicole is praying for Divine intervention and safety (although the safety prayers were more shouts and they were generally screamed in my direction). We follow the directions we’ve obtained perfectly; the only problem was they were directions to the port of Los Angeles, not to our specific berth. The entire port is enormous and our directions have taken us to an area that is reminiscent of every dock or pier scene I’ve ever seen on 24. I am waiting for some deranged terrorist who has gotten his hands on a nuclear weapon and been able to smuggle it into the country with the help of some high up government insiders and one strategically placed member of CTU, to come out and destroy my vacation plans. I’d like to see him try. He’ll be begging for Jack Bauer’s merciful ways once I am through with him. We called the cruise hotline and they got us directions to the proper berth and we made it to the parking area with 21 minutes to spare.
We went through the security check point with complete ease. These people have it down so much smoother than TSA. We found our appropriate boarding line and walked right up to the counter (mostly because everyone else was on the ship and had been for several hours). Our boarding assistant was an extremely jovial woman. I love it when someone enjoys themselves while they work. If you don’t like your job, then why subject the rest of us to your misery? Just find a different one where you either enjoy your work or you aren’t around other people trying to ruin their good moods. She asked us the standard set of questions: Yes, our bags have been in our possession the entire time; no, we have never had swine flu or any other sickness related to livestock; Yes, I am married, and no, I am not available Saturday night. Now it’s time to board and begin our adventure.
The first thing that strikes you about a cruise ship is its enormity. These things are huge. I think they said it weighs about 138,000 tons. It is an entire city floating on the ocean. We follow directions and stop and ask for more and eventually we find our stateroom. Now the first thing that strikes you about your stateroom is definitely not its enormity. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s very much like being a cabbage patch doll in a Barbie house. You fit, but you know it was designed with someone much smaller in mind.
Our first official act as cruisers is to report to our Muster stations to go through the whole emergency drill. We set off to our muster station to meet the people with whom we will be sharing a life raft in the case of some extreme emergency that requires us to abandon ship. The life boats are rather large and can hold up to 150 people, but I am not taking any chances. I don’t want just any 150 people; I want 150 people who are going to be worth saving. I have decided to start compiling my own muster list of the people I will allow in my life boat, should we be struck with some calamity that forces us to “man the long boats”.
First off the list is all the college kids who are here on spring break. Not because they are raucous and rowdy, but because they are on a cruise for spring break. This totally defeats the whole “poor, starving college student” mentality. If you’re that poor and starving, then why in the world would you be on a cruise? Pay your student loans off! Do you not do enough partying during the course of the semester that you have to come and exude youthful rambunctiousness all over my cruise ship? Don’t you have a dissertation to write or a project to complete?
Next off my muster list is the dad and son standing next to me in our muster line. The dad is wearing a Seattle Mariners hat and the son is donning a Chicago White Sox cap. My curiosity got the better of me (as it often does) and I had to ask how one family could support two geographically different teams. There reply was that they don’t support either, they don’t even care for baseball (a travesty to be sure), and that they forgot their hats when they packed so they purchased a couple at the store before they boarded. You couldn’t find some generic hat with the cruise ship’s name on it, or at the very least some nondescript markings. All I’m saying is that if you don’t want someone making casual conversation about the sports teams you apparently support then don’t wear their gear! What this tells me is that you really don’t think things through and when lives are on the line you can’t be counted on. Enjoy going down with the ship guys. I hope it was worth it.
We’ve just met the Captain. His name is Johnny, and despite the fact that every time the crew introduces him they say, “Heeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” and he comes out pretending to swing a golf club (what I feel is an infringement on copyrighted material), he genuinely tries to be funny and he is mildly entertaining. (That, and he has a bunch of shiny medals on his coat which I think is really cool). This is a considerable step up from the last cruise ship captain, whose draconian command was slightly annoying and certainly unapproachable. So instead of going down with the ship I will allow him into my life boat. As for the rest of his crew, no one else has won me over and as of now, they are all left to float.
We’ve just finished dinner. It was delicious. I had the slow roasted prime rib and a baked potato. I had an onion tart for appetizer and a delicious peach and blueberry cobbler for dessert. We are seated at a table with four other people, a couple from Salt Lake City who are on their honeymoon and a couple of spring breakers from Stanford. The spring breakers have moved to the standby list of my life boat. They are both smart and engaging, not at all like the rest of the rowdy group. The honeymooners are nice and I’ve decided that they can have a spot on my lifeboat; mostly because they are infinitely more engaging conversationalists than the addle-pated nincompoops we were forced to dine with on our first cruise.
Well, we’re headed to bed. The first day of our cruise has come to a close and many, many people have voluntarily removed themselves from the muster list. We plan on sleeping in, having breakfast and relaxing. G’night!
So after weeks of anticipation (not the mark days off on your calendar kind but the little kid waking up 20 times on Christmas Eve ready to burst forth and open all his presents only to find its only been two hours since he went to bed), the day of embarkation has finally arrived. We are even more excited. We’ve left the boys with Grandma (Grandpa will be there too but let’s not kid ourselves about who will be doing the lion’s share of the babysitting this week) and we’re headed to Long Beach to board our luxury cruise liner. I am a little stressed out at this point because through some unforeseen events we are leaving a little later than planned and are dangerously close to being too late to start the boarding process.
I am driving like a madman, and Nicole is praying for Divine intervention and safety (although the safety prayers were more shouts and they were generally screamed in my direction). We follow the directions we’ve obtained perfectly; the only problem was they were directions to the port of Los Angeles, not to our specific berth. The entire port is enormous and our directions have taken us to an area that is reminiscent of every dock or pier scene I’ve ever seen on 24. I am waiting for some deranged terrorist who has gotten his hands on a nuclear weapon and been able to smuggle it into the country with the help of some high up government insiders and one strategically placed member of CTU, to come out and destroy my vacation plans. I’d like to see him try. He’ll be begging for Jack Bauer’s merciful ways once I am through with him. We called the cruise hotline and they got us directions to the proper berth and we made it to the parking area with 21 minutes to spare.
We went through the security check point with complete ease. These people have it down so much smoother than TSA. We found our appropriate boarding line and walked right up to the counter (mostly because everyone else was on the ship and had been for several hours). Our boarding assistant was an extremely jovial woman. I love it when someone enjoys themselves while they work. If you don’t like your job, then why subject the rest of us to your misery? Just find a different one where you either enjoy your work or you aren’t around other people trying to ruin their good moods. She asked us the standard set of questions: Yes, our bags have been in our possession the entire time; no, we have never had swine flu or any other sickness related to livestock; Yes, I am married, and no, I am not available Saturday night. Now it’s time to board and begin our adventure.
The first thing that strikes you about a cruise ship is its enormity. These things are huge. I think they said it weighs about 138,000 tons. It is an entire city floating on the ocean. We follow directions and stop and ask for more and eventually we find our stateroom. Now the first thing that strikes you about your stateroom is definitely not its enormity. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s very much like being a cabbage patch doll in a Barbie house. You fit, but you know it was designed with someone much smaller in mind.
Our first official act as cruisers is to report to our Muster stations to go through the whole emergency drill. We set off to our muster station to meet the people with whom we will be sharing a life raft in the case of some extreme emergency that requires us to abandon ship. The life boats are rather large and can hold up to 150 people, but I am not taking any chances. I don’t want just any 150 people; I want 150 people who are going to be worth saving. I have decided to start compiling my own muster list of the people I will allow in my life boat, should we be struck with some calamity that forces us to “man the long boats”.
First off the list is all the college kids who are here on spring break. Not because they are raucous and rowdy, but because they are on a cruise for spring break. This totally defeats the whole “poor, starving college student” mentality. If you’re that poor and starving, then why in the world would you be on a cruise? Pay your student loans off! Do you not do enough partying during the course of the semester that you have to come and exude youthful rambunctiousness all over my cruise ship? Don’t you have a dissertation to write or a project to complete?
Next off my muster list is the dad and son standing next to me in our muster line. The dad is wearing a Seattle Mariners hat and the son is donning a Chicago White Sox cap. My curiosity got the better of me (as it often does) and I had to ask how one family could support two geographically different teams. There reply was that they don’t support either, they don’t even care for baseball (a travesty to be sure), and that they forgot their hats when they packed so they purchased a couple at the store before they boarded. You couldn’t find some generic hat with the cruise ship’s name on it, or at the very least some nondescript markings. All I’m saying is that if you don’t want someone making casual conversation about the sports teams you apparently support then don’t wear their gear! What this tells me is that you really don’t think things through and when lives are on the line you can’t be counted on. Enjoy going down with the ship guys. I hope it was worth it.
We’ve just met the Captain. His name is Johnny, and despite the fact that every time the crew introduces him they say, “Heeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” and he comes out pretending to swing a golf club (what I feel is an infringement on copyrighted material), he genuinely tries to be funny and he is mildly entertaining. (That, and he has a bunch of shiny medals on his coat which I think is really cool). This is a considerable step up from the last cruise ship captain, whose draconian command was slightly annoying and certainly unapproachable. So instead of going down with the ship I will allow him into my life boat. As for the rest of his crew, no one else has won me over and as of now, they are all left to float.
We’ve just finished dinner. It was delicious. I had the slow roasted prime rib and a baked potato. I had an onion tart for appetizer and a delicious peach and blueberry cobbler for dessert. We are seated at a table with four other people, a couple from Salt Lake City who are on their honeymoon and a couple of spring breakers from Stanford. The spring breakers have moved to the standby list of my life boat. They are both smart and engaging, not at all like the rest of the rowdy group. The honeymooners are nice and I’ve decided that they can have a spot on my lifeboat; mostly because they are infinitely more engaging conversationalists than the addle-pated nincompoops we were forced to dine with on our first cruise.
Well, we’re headed to bed. The first day of our cruise has come to a close and many, many people have voluntarily removed themselves from the muster list. We plan on sleeping in, having breakfast and relaxing. G’night!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
My Conversation Killers
Saturday Night Live once did a skit featuring the extremely funny Rachel Dratch as a character named Debbie Downer. No matter what the topic, it seemed that whenever it was her turn to continue the conversation she would impart some melancholy and tragic fact that would cast a pall over the entire group, followed by the appropriate Wa-Wa-Waaa! No matter how hard the biggest optimist among them tried, she was always able to defeat their attempts at lifting the spirits of her com padres. I remember this skit so clearly because I saw it recently on Youtube and it is one of my favorites. I love it when the cast crack each other up. Jimmy Fallon could barely carry on. Those have always been my favorites. I loved watching the Carol Burnette Show to watch how Tim Conway would inevitably over power Harvey Korman's sense of restraint and cause him to convulse in a failed attempt to mask his laughter. But I digress, for my point is not the quality of the skit but the subject.
We all know Debbie Downers. People who, no matter how good you feel, have a way of bringing your gleeful optimism to its knees. In every day life we will come in contact with three or four. If you don't agree that that's right, then just think for a moment. If you don't come into contact with them, its because you most likely avoid them. You direct your path all the way around the office just to avoid them. You use the restroom on the third floor because the restroom on your floor is too close to their office and you don't want to run the risk of them assaulting you with their depressionisms. If at this point in reading this note, you say to yourself, "Self, I don't know what this guy is talking about. I go out of my way to talk to people. If anything, they are avoiding me, not the other way around!". Then please note: YOU are the downer!
It is easy enough to avoid these people in the real world. If they do happen to catch you, you can always fake a phone call or a heart attack to end the conversation more quickly (if you do fake the heart attack, don't expect them to help you. Rather, I would expect them to tell you that heart disease is the number one killer of people your age and how everything in your lunch is related to various onsets of cardiac arrest).
In the virtual world such as Facebook, your words are left on display for your friends to come by at their convenience to give answer to your queries and statements. This is great for those people who are a little slow with their retorts as it conceals the length of time it took them to come up with their pithy remarks. The drawback is that the Debbie Downers of this real, virtual world have the same ability to come along on their own time and stop the flow of your conversation dead in its tracks like a sticky bomb on a Panzer tank (sorry I just watched Saving Private Ryan). Allow me, if I may, to present a hypothetical illustration.
Let's say you have posted a status which was intended to be light-hearted in nature. Let's say you made reference to a couple of bums hanging out in the financial district, philosophically discussing their situation and how they were at the top of the corporate ladder a week earlier and now thanks to our economy, they're at the top of the heap (if at this point you are upset with me for this hypothetical situation, I believe you're really missing the point of this note). Now let's say that one of your witty brothers makes a comment on your status and spurs on the humor. It's not that you hate bums or don't care about them, its just a joke and it's not like any bums are gonna jump on their smartphone and register their offense.
Now is when Debbie Downer appears. For sake of illustration, let's call her Anita (I choose this name because I don't have any FB friends named Anita and its sounds like someone who would be a wet blanket. If you're reading this and you're named Anita and you're offended and getting ready to write me a strongly worded rebuke, then read this again because I'm talking about you). Anyway, let's say that after you and your friends have had a good time and a couple laughs, Anita comes on and tries to educate all of you insensitive people as to the real plight of these societal outcasts. She throws cold water all over your friendly conversation and subtly condemns anyone who would think like that. You made a joke about the lack of cleanliness and Anita explains how hard it is to find rescue centers with adequate shower facilities. You make mention of their lack of desire to work and Anita points out that jobs are hard to find. No matter what you say, Anita will counter it with some depressing fact, as if you were unaware of the true nature of these denizens of skid row. The point I'm trying to convey is that she acts like the fun police insuring that everyone shares their depressing world paradigm and lives in a constant state of miserable realism.
The whole point of FB is to connect with old friends, make new ones and escape from the "Anita"s of this world for a few minutes. But Debbie Downer doesn't care about those things, she only wants to rain on your happy parade. These types find it necessary to often write in ALL CAPS to stress the seriousness of their statements. They will also give references to defend their opinions, even though you didn't challenge their credibility, just in case you didn't take them seriously enough. I hope you are starting to see how annoying this can become.
It becomes necessary for you to find a way to avoid them on Facebook. Which usually means that these people have alienated themselves in two different worlds, a difficult assignment to be sure. You can start by blocking them from your wall, but that doesn't exclude them from commenting on your status which is the real problem in the first place. You can try unfriending them in the hopes that they won't notice that you no longer appear on their friend list. The problem with this is that much like the real world you are one of the very few friends they have and you would be missed. When you have 768 friends, no one notices if the number drops to 767. But when you only have 4, it is all too apparent when that number slides to 3. The best course of action is to not friend them in the first place. But as is the case in our hypothetical, that ship has probably already sailed.
So I guess the question is: How do you solve a problem like Anita? How do you take a cloud and pin it down...sorry it was just a little catchy. Anyway, what should you do? Well, when you figure that out let me know and I will pass that information on to those people who are too nice to unfriend the Debbie Downers of FB. I on the other hand am not afflicted with a nice gene and will let the people who annoy me know that they are doing so. I will just look them in the face and say, "You annoy me."
If in the course of this monologue I have offended you and you feel that I owe you an apology, then lean in closely, and listen really well. "I am Sorry...that you annoy me!"
We all know Debbie Downers. People who, no matter how good you feel, have a way of bringing your gleeful optimism to its knees. In every day life we will come in contact with three or four. If you don't agree that that's right, then just think for a moment. If you don't come into contact with them, its because you most likely avoid them. You direct your path all the way around the office just to avoid them. You use the restroom on the third floor because the restroom on your floor is too close to their office and you don't want to run the risk of them assaulting you with their depressionisms. If at this point in reading this note, you say to yourself, "Self, I don't know what this guy is talking about. I go out of my way to talk to people. If anything, they are avoiding me, not the other way around!". Then please note: YOU are the downer!
It is easy enough to avoid these people in the real world. If they do happen to catch you, you can always fake a phone call or a heart attack to end the conversation more quickly (if you do fake the heart attack, don't expect them to help you. Rather, I would expect them to tell you that heart disease is the number one killer of people your age and how everything in your lunch is related to various onsets of cardiac arrest).
In the virtual world such as Facebook, your words are left on display for your friends to come by at their convenience to give answer to your queries and statements. This is great for those people who are a little slow with their retorts as it conceals the length of time it took them to come up with their pithy remarks. The drawback is that the Debbie Downers of this real, virtual world have the same ability to come along on their own time and stop the flow of your conversation dead in its tracks like a sticky bomb on a Panzer tank (sorry I just watched Saving Private Ryan). Allow me, if I may, to present a hypothetical illustration.
Let's say you have posted a status which was intended to be light-hearted in nature. Let's say you made reference to a couple of bums hanging out in the financial district, philosophically discussing their situation and how they were at the top of the corporate ladder a week earlier and now thanks to our economy, they're at the top of the heap (if at this point you are upset with me for this hypothetical situation, I believe you're really missing the point of this note). Now let's say that one of your witty brothers makes a comment on your status and spurs on the humor. It's not that you hate bums or don't care about them, its just a joke and it's not like any bums are gonna jump on their smartphone and register their offense.
Now is when Debbie Downer appears. For sake of illustration, let's call her Anita (I choose this name because I don't have any FB friends named Anita and its sounds like someone who would be a wet blanket. If you're reading this and you're named Anita and you're offended and getting ready to write me a strongly worded rebuke, then read this again because I'm talking about you). Anyway, let's say that after you and your friends have had a good time and a couple laughs, Anita comes on and tries to educate all of you insensitive people as to the real plight of these societal outcasts. She throws cold water all over your friendly conversation and subtly condemns anyone who would think like that. You made a joke about the lack of cleanliness and Anita explains how hard it is to find rescue centers with adequate shower facilities. You make mention of their lack of desire to work and Anita points out that jobs are hard to find. No matter what you say, Anita will counter it with some depressing fact, as if you were unaware of the true nature of these denizens of skid row. The point I'm trying to convey is that she acts like the fun police insuring that everyone shares their depressing world paradigm and lives in a constant state of miserable realism.
The whole point of FB is to connect with old friends, make new ones and escape from the "Anita"s of this world for a few minutes. But Debbie Downer doesn't care about those things, she only wants to rain on your happy parade. These types find it necessary to often write in ALL CAPS to stress the seriousness of their statements. They will also give references to defend their opinions, even though you didn't challenge their credibility, just in case you didn't take them seriously enough. I hope you are starting to see how annoying this can become.
It becomes necessary for you to find a way to avoid them on Facebook. Which usually means that these people have alienated themselves in two different worlds, a difficult assignment to be sure. You can start by blocking them from your wall, but that doesn't exclude them from commenting on your status which is the real problem in the first place. You can try unfriending them in the hopes that they won't notice that you no longer appear on their friend list. The problem with this is that much like the real world you are one of the very few friends they have and you would be missed. When you have 768 friends, no one notices if the number drops to 767. But when you only have 4, it is all too apparent when that number slides to 3. The best course of action is to not friend them in the first place. But as is the case in our hypothetical, that ship has probably already sailed.
So I guess the question is: How do you solve a problem like Anita? How do you take a cloud and pin it down...sorry it was just a little catchy. Anyway, what should you do? Well, when you figure that out let me know and I will pass that information on to those people who are too nice to unfriend the Debbie Downers of FB. I on the other hand am not afflicted with a nice gene and will let the people who annoy me know that they are doing so. I will just look them in the face and say, "You annoy me."
If in the course of this monologue I have offended you and you feel that I owe you an apology, then lean in closely, and listen really well. "I am Sorry...that you annoy me!"
Sunday, March 7, 2010
My LAX Observations
It has been said, "If men were intended to fly, then they would have hatched and had feathers and wings and beaks and other birdlike features". Okay I'm sure who ever actually said it, did so in a much more eloquent manner. But you get my point. I feel that airports, such as LAX, are a great argument in favor of the thinking that man should have remained a flightless mammal.
Our church is having a family crusade this week (every one is, of course, invited) and the responsibility of picking up the preacher fell to me (no surprise there). Unfortunately for me, he decided to fly into LAX. I don't blame him, although I passed two perfectly good airports on my way to pick him up. Oh well, that's neither here nor there.
It's about a two hour trip from my house to LAX. It can be done in a shorter amount of time if there is no traffic and the weather cooperates. Neither of those things were true last night. I am not sure that there is ever a time when there is not traffic on the 91 freeway. Even at 10:00 at night it is a virtual parking lot. Why all those people feel the need to be out and driving on the same road I need to be on at the same time I need to be on it is beyond my comprehension. I occasionally yell this at the top of my lungs while sitting in traffic. I am what I would call an impatient driver. I am what my wife calls a bad driver. I disagree with this designation. I am a good driver. I don't cause accidents (that is to say that I've never been found at fault in an accident and since I was 17 I've not even been in one). Although, I have seen a few occur directly behind me. I just have little tolerance for people who refuse to drive what I like to refer to as "the right way!"
I left my house just as Southern California went into Storm Watch. This occurs every time there is the slightest drizzle in LA. Every one in the community goes into panic mode. The mayor takes a break from trying to see how much of his foot he can swallow and declares a state of emergency. The collective I.Q. of LA drivers (which is significantly low in the first place) plummets to idiotic levels (and any one with an I.Q. below 20 is officially categorized as an Idiot, I'm not just trying to insult them).
I arrived at LAX (no small miracle there)and began looking for the appropriate terminal. Now, LAX certainly isn't the biggest airport in the country. It does, however, accommodate just as many flights, if not more, than some of its mid-west cousins that seem to stretch on endlessly. The problem is that the terminals are all on the right which diverts your attention that way so that you find the right one. But the parking for the terminals is on the left, leaving you to scramble across a couple lanes of traffic if you're not paying attention. It only complicates the matter when you add in all of the people who are playing their own personal game of Frogger as they try to get from the terminal to the parking lot alive (I here confess to the desire to leave more than a few of them as little green splats on the airport roadway). I finally found my terminal and its corresponding parking lot, chose a spot (being careful not to ding the vehicle next to me, ever vigilant) and walked over to the cross walk to begin my own round of Frogger.
Having made it across the road, barely escaping with my life, I entered the baggage claim area and took a seat to wait for the plane to arrive. As I was people- watching (one of my favorite past times), I decided to make myself an honorary TSA agent so that I might make the world a better place and screen these people more closely. It became necessary to relax my personal standards as it would have meant putting almost everybody on the no-fly list.
I looked across the terminal and noticed the group of men and one woman who were dressed similarly with black coats and ties on white shirts. They were each standing behind one of those luggage carriers holding signs with someone's name written across it. I decided to no-fly all of the people whose names appeared on the signs. I don't know what makes a person so important that they can't either get a friend to pick them up or use public transportation like the rest of us. I do know that they aren't nearly as important as they think they are and that they don't need a personal driver. I will also no-fly the drivers for encouraging this kind of behavior.
I will also no-fly the man who keeps waiting at the 3rd baggage claim which is out of order and so declared by several signs posted around it. I can hear him mumbling something under his breath about incompetent airport personnel. He keeps standing there like he's waiting for Denise from Taco Bell to appear and give him a special deal. What a tool!
A plane just arrived; not the one I'm waiting for but it does provide me with more fodder for this blog. I'm torn as whether or not to no-fly this next gentleman. He is wearing a leather coat with patches sown all over it. Sort of a grown-up version of a letterman jacket. The redeeming quality is that the name across the back reads "Stunts Spectacular". Which leads me to believe that he is either a stunt man or capable of beating up a stuntman and taking his jacket. Either way, I'm impressed with this guy. Up until I got a closer look at the patches on the jacket. Each one was a title of a movie on which he worked, I assume. This is where I have a problem. Some of the movies make me scratch my head. I didn't see Austin Powers Goldmember, but I can't imagine how dangerous any of the shots were to merit a stunt man. I also can't possibly conceive how necessary a stuntman was for The Incredibles. Which leaves me to believe that this guy just bought a leather jacket and a bunch of patches and got his mom to sow them on- definitely not fit to fly!
The baggage claim was littered with the usual suspects. There were parents reunited with their children and couples in each others arms again. There were pregnant women looking happy to be off the plane. Kids who were eager to have more room to run around and their parents who were all too willing to let them. Business men who appeared to be at the end of their patience, no doubt from exercising restraint and not throttling the rowdy kids or the seemingly apathetic parents. There was that one guy who seems to get incredible rest on an airplane looking insouciant after his flight.
I was aware that LAX was the intended destination for Oceanic flight 815. I began to peruse the denizens of the baggage claim looking for these poor LOST souls. I found a guy that who looked very much like Hurley but he was definitely not as jovial as the plucky comic relief. One of the pregnant ladies slightly resembled Claire (if you closed one eye, squinted the other and stood on your head until all the blood rushed to your eye sockets) and there were a few of the mothers who were a dead ringer for the new crazy Claire. I was disappointed not to find a Ben lookalike, but then I suppose a man as tricky as that wouldn't just saunter out with the general public. He probably sneaked onto his flight and left disguised as a stewardess, with no one ever the wiser.
The preacher arrived and we waited for the baggage carousel to start up and begin cycling the luggage around just slow enough to be agonizing but fast enough to be to far away if you fail to get a good grasp on it at your first grab. After a couple of rounds of "grab that bag" we secured all of the necessary items and made our escape from this terminal prison. I made it safely back to the valley being sure to point out every possible airport on the way.
Our church is having a family crusade this week (every one is, of course, invited) and the responsibility of picking up the preacher fell to me (no surprise there). Unfortunately for me, he decided to fly into LAX. I don't blame him, although I passed two perfectly good airports on my way to pick him up. Oh well, that's neither here nor there.
It's about a two hour trip from my house to LAX. It can be done in a shorter amount of time if there is no traffic and the weather cooperates. Neither of those things were true last night. I am not sure that there is ever a time when there is not traffic on the 91 freeway. Even at 10:00 at night it is a virtual parking lot. Why all those people feel the need to be out and driving on the same road I need to be on at the same time I need to be on it is beyond my comprehension. I occasionally yell this at the top of my lungs while sitting in traffic. I am what I would call an impatient driver. I am what my wife calls a bad driver. I disagree with this designation. I am a good driver. I don't cause accidents (that is to say that I've never been found at fault in an accident and since I was 17 I've not even been in one). Although, I have seen a few occur directly behind me. I just have little tolerance for people who refuse to drive what I like to refer to as "the right way!"
I left my house just as Southern California went into Storm Watch. This occurs every time there is the slightest drizzle in LA. Every one in the community goes into panic mode. The mayor takes a break from trying to see how much of his foot he can swallow and declares a state of emergency. The collective I.Q. of LA drivers (which is significantly low in the first place) plummets to idiotic levels (and any one with an I.Q. below 20 is officially categorized as an Idiot, I'm not just trying to insult them).
I arrived at LAX (no small miracle there)and began looking for the appropriate terminal. Now, LAX certainly isn't the biggest airport in the country. It does, however, accommodate just as many flights, if not more, than some of its mid-west cousins that seem to stretch on endlessly. The problem is that the terminals are all on the right which diverts your attention that way so that you find the right one. But the parking for the terminals is on the left, leaving you to scramble across a couple lanes of traffic if you're not paying attention. It only complicates the matter when you add in all of the people who are playing their own personal game of Frogger as they try to get from the terminal to the parking lot alive (I here confess to the desire to leave more than a few of them as little green splats on the airport roadway). I finally found my terminal and its corresponding parking lot, chose a spot (being careful not to ding the vehicle next to me, ever vigilant) and walked over to the cross walk to begin my own round of Frogger.
Having made it across the road, barely escaping with my life, I entered the baggage claim area and took a seat to wait for the plane to arrive. As I was people- watching (one of my favorite past times), I decided to make myself an honorary TSA agent so that I might make the world a better place and screen these people more closely. It became necessary to relax my personal standards as it would have meant putting almost everybody on the no-fly list.
I looked across the terminal and noticed the group of men and one woman who were dressed similarly with black coats and ties on white shirts. They were each standing behind one of those luggage carriers holding signs with someone's name written across it. I decided to no-fly all of the people whose names appeared on the signs. I don't know what makes a person so important that they can't either get a friend to pick them up or use public transportation like the rest of us. I do know that they aren't nearly as important as they think they are and that they don't need a personal driver. I will also no-fly the drivers for encouraging this kind of behavior.
I will also no-fly the man who keeps waiting at the 3rd baggage claim which is out of order and so declared by several signs posted around it. I can hear him mumbling something under his breath about incompetent airport personnel. He keeps standing there like he's waiting for Denise from Taco Bell to appear and give him a special deal. What a tool!
A plane just arrived; not the one I'm waiting for but it does provide me with more fodder for this blog. I'm torn as whether or not to no-fly this next gentleman. He is wearing a leather coat with patches sown all over it. Sort of a grown-up version of a letterman jacket. The redeeming quality is that the name across the back reads "Stunts Spectacular". Which leads me to believe that he is either a stunt man or capable of beating up a stuntman and taking his jacket. Either way, I'm impressed with this guy. Up until I got a closer look at the patches on the jacket. Each one was a title of a movie on which he worked, I assume. This is where I have a problem. Some of the movies make me scratch my head. I didn't see Austin Powers Goldmember, but I can't imagine how dangerous any of the shots were to merit a stunt man. I also can't possibly conceive how necessary a stuntman was for The Incredibles. Which leaves me to believe that this guy just bought a leather jacket and a bunch of patches and got his mom to sow them on- definitely not fit to fly!
The baggage claim was littered with the usual suspects. There were parents reunited with their children and couples in each others arms again. There were pregnant women looking happy to be off the plane. Kids who were eager to have more room to run around and their parents who were all too willing to let them. Business men who appeared to be at the end of their patience, no doubt from exercising restraint and not throttling the rowdy kids or the seemingly apathetic parents. There was that one guy who seems to get incredible rest on an airplane looking insouciant after his flight.
I was aware that LAX was the intended destination for Oceanic flight 815. I began to peruse the denizens of the baggage claim looking for these poor LOST souls. I found a guy that who looked very much like Hurley but he was definitely not as jovial as the plucky comic relief. One of the pregnant ladies slightly resembled Claire (if you closed one eye, squinted the other and stood on your head until all the blood rushed to your eye sockets) and there were a few of the mothers who were a dead ringer for the new crazy Claire. I was disappointed not to find a Ben lookalike, but then I suppose a man as tricky as that wouldn't just saunter out with the general public. He probably sneaked onto his flight and left disguised as a stewardess, with no one ever the wiser.
The preacher arrived and we waited for the baggage carousel to start up and begin cycling the luggage around just slow enough to be agonizing but fast enough to be to far away if you fail to get a good grasp on it at your first grab. After a couple of rounds of "grab that bag" we secured all of the necessary items and made our escape from this terminal prison. I made it safely back to the valley being sure to point out every possible airport on the way.
Friday, March 5, 2010
My Application Frustration
I Facebook. (Should he really be using a proper noun as a verb?) I have Facebooked for several years now (now he's even using it in the past tense). I am not against Facebooking (present perfect, tsk, tsk!), but Facebook, I have somewhat against thee(now it's a noun again-I'm so confused).
Oh sure, Facebook has brought endless hours of entertainment into my life. It's helped me reunite with long-lost friends (Although, if they weren't important enough for me to maintain contact in a physical sense, then how close of a friend were they in the first place?), it's helped me keep in better contact with friends not so long-lost, and it's spawned an entire new group of friends we refer to as FB-friends (these are people we would never associate with outside the virtual boundaries of FB, causing us to deny their very existence much like a popular jock would do if it were discovered by his fellow classmates that he used to sleep in the geeky, fat kid's tree house and play soldiers every other weekend as children).
There are some problems with Facebook and I am not referring to the new layouts they roll out every 6 months or so. I don't really see those as a problem. I don't necessarily like them but after about a day or two I adjust and move on. What bugs me are the countless number of addle-pates who get their underpants in a knot every time it happens. It's a vicious cycle. Facebook engineers a new layout, they unveil it and your in-box is flooded with a copious amount of requests to join groups to protest the new look or a "cut and paste" status update with directions to return your homepage to its former version, which I imagine has become not unlike Linus' blanket for most of these dunderheads. What I would like to point out is every time they roll out these new looks two things are true: 1. No amount of protestation has ever succeeded in convincing the movers and shakers of FB to repent of their actions and return your homepage to its original look. 2. Each time you protest, you are actually advocating the very layout that you once so vehemently protested the last time they changed everything.
But that is not the source of my frustration. My chief annoyance is applications. Forgive me, I generalize. I am not against all applications. There are many that I use. I like applications such as: photos, friend finder, video, notes, events, etc.
I even play a few games: Scrabble, WordTwist, and on occasion Farkle. These games are fun to me (whether they are to you is of little consequence to me), and they still manage to stimulate my brain. What I am trying to say is applications should be useful, helpful and not make your friends rue the day they accepted your friend request! There are many applications that are a complete and utter waste of gray matter.
One that comes to mind is Farmville. In a recent survey conducted by the creators of Farmville and that ilk of games, it was established that the average user of Farmville is a 43 year old woman. That's right, I didn't make that up, it's official (I don't bother to cite my sources here because I believe I am safe in assuming this blog isn't mainstream enough to have someone call me on it and if you don't believe me-although I don't really care- you can Google it just like I did). It was also estimated that of the over 200 million people who use Facebook, 80 million are involved with Farmville and 69% of those play it everyday. It is said that one in four (that's 20,000,000 for those of you who play Farmville and obviously never made it past 4th grade math) actually spend money on Farmville. After the recent Haiti disaster Farmville players raised one million dollars for the relief effort by purchasing imaginary farm equipment (there was no indication whether the money went to the actually country of Haiti or some virtual Haiti, I assume it was the former). This is becoming cultish. There was also an unprecedented number of livestock exchanged on Valentine's Day, which in some countries is the equivalent to a marriage proposal.
But I am not here to sit in judgment of you (although I have become pretty good at it). If you wish to waste your time and (gulp) money on this silly game, then go right ahead. I'll not stop you. You may be wondering why I have such a problem with this. I play other games that are just as big a waste of time (not money, I refuse to spend any money on applications)and you don't care. That's right, but outside of those whom I may have challenged to a game of wits over a scrabble board, none of you are largely aware that I play them. And do you know why? Anyone...Anyone...Bueller? BECAUSE I DON'T POST A STINKING ANNOUNCEMENT OF MY LATEST ACTIONS IN SCRABBLE!!!!!! (deep cleansing breath) That is to say, I don't notify you every time I throw down a 7 letter word in Scrabble or win a game of WordTwist. No, I leave you out of it! I don't call for help every time I need to figure out what words the letters "ppitex" can be rearranged to spell. In other words, I don't bother you!
Now some of you may be on the defensive already. I can hear you now: "You don't have to get every notice!"; "You can just block the application and you'll never be bothered." I know this and trust me I have blocked all of the stupid applications that are out there. Why should I have to go out of my way not to be bothered by you? I shouldn't have to click on your post and scroll to the right and click hide and then click hide Farmville. Besides, that doesn't always work anyway. Some of you have the audacity to enter your mafia requests or Farmville requests as your status updates. That is why I have just bypassed all of that hullabaloo and either blocked you altogether or deleted you as friend.
It used to be that the people who spent all day on their computers were usually male, roughly 30 years of age and resided in their parents' basement. Well, those men (if you can really call them that) have put their wasted life to some use. The more "talented" ones have become programmers. Guess what they make- games like Farmville and Restaurant-land and Fish-town and Zoo-opolis. They have taken their time wasting to a professional level and spread their disease to their moms, apparently.
I have entertained the thought of creating some game that would allow me to hack into other people's games and cause trouble. I call it Riot-ville. In Riot-ville you can lay waste to some one's farm, demolish their mafia, poison their fish or let all the animals out of their zoo. Best of all it would generate exactly zero posts. That's right it would be covert. No one would know about it. Then I think some more and realize: a)I am not a computer programmer, and b)I have a wife, a family and a life.
Like I said before, I don't really care what you do. If you choose to relax with Farmville, I say more power to you. But please have the common decency to only afflict those who share your predilections with all of your (insert second life type game here) spam. If I have some how offended you, please don't take it personally. I can easily separate the game from the gamer. We'll always be FB friends.
Oh sure, Facebook has brought endless hours of entertainment into my life. It's helped me reunite with long-lost friends (Although, if they weren't important enough for me to maintain contact in a physical sense, then how close of a friend were they in the first place?), it's helped me keep in better contact with friends not so long-lost, and it's spawned an entire new group of friends we refer to as FB-friends (these are people we would never associate with outside the virtual boundaries of FB, causing us to deny their very existence much like a popular jock would do if it were discovered by his fellow classmates that he used to sleep in the geeky, fat kid's tree house and play soldiers every other weekend as children).
There are some problems with Facebook and I am not referring to the new layouts they roll out every 6 months or so. I don't really see those as a problem. I don't necessarily like them but after about a day or two I adjust and move on. What bugs me are the countless number of addle-pates who get their underpants in a knot every time it happens. It's a vicious cycle. Facebook engineers a new layout, they unveil it and your in-box is flooded with a copious amount of requests to join groups to protest the new look or a "cut and paste" status update with directions to return your homepage to its former version, which I imagine has become not unlike Linus' blanket for most of these dunderheads. What I would like to point out is every time they roll out these new looks two things are true: 1. No amount of protestation has ever succeeded in convincing the movers and shakers of FB to repent of their actions and return your homepage to its original look. 2. Each time you protest, you are actually advocating the very layout that you once so vehemently protested the last time they changed everything.
But that is not the source of my frustration. My chief annoyance is applications. Forgive me, I generalize. I am not against all applications. There are many that I use. I like applications such as: photos, friend finder, video, notes, events, etc.
I even play a few games: Scrabble, WordTwist, and on occasion Farkle. These games are fun to me (whether they are to you is of little consequence to me), and they still manage to stimulate my brain. What I am trying to say is applications should be useful, helpful and not make your friends rue the day they accepted your friend request! There are many applications that are a complete and utter waste of gray matter.
One that comes to mind is Farmville. In a recent survey conducted by the creators of Farmville and that ilk of games, it was established that the average user of Farmville is a 43 year old woman. That's right, I didn't make that up, it's official (I don't bother to cite my sources here because I believe I am safe in assuming this blog isn't mainstream enough to have someone call me on it and if you don't believe me-although I don't really care- you can Google it just like I did). It was also estimated that of the over 200 million people who use Facebook, 80 million are involved with Farmville and 69% of those play it everyday. It is said that one in four (that's 20,000,000 for those of you who play Farmville and obviously never made it past 4th grade math) actually spend money on Farmville. After the recent Haiti disaster Farmville players raised one million dollars for the relief effort by purchasing imaginary farm equipment (there was no indication whether the money went to the actually country of Haiti or some virtual Haiti, I assume it was the former). This is becoming cultish. There was also an unprecedented number of livestock exchanged on Valentine's Day, which in some countries is the equivalent to a marriage proposal.
But I am not here to sit in judgment of you (although I have become pretty good at it). If you wish to waste your time and (gulp) money on this silly game, then go right ahead. I'll not stop you. You may be wondering why I have such a problem with this. I play other games that are just as big a waste of time (not money, I refuse to spend any money on applications)and you don't care. That's right, but outside of those whom I may have challenged to a game of wits over a scrabble board, none of you are largely aware that I play them. And do you know why? Anyone...Anyone...Bueller? BECAUSE I DON'T POST A STINKING ANNOUNCEMENT OF MY LATEST ACTIONS IN SCRABBLE!!!!!! (deep cleansing breath) That is to say, I don't notify you every time I throw down a 7 letter word in Scrabble or win a game of WordTwist. No, I leave you out of it! I don't call for help every time I need to figure out what words the letters "ppitex" can be rearranged to spell. In other words, I don't bother you!
Now some of you may be on the defensive already. I can hear you now: "You don't have to get every notice!"; "You can just block the application and you'll never be bothered." I know this and trust me I have blocked all of the stupid applications that are out there. Why should I have to go out of my way not to be bothered by you? I shouldn't have to click on your post and scroll to the right and click hide and then click hide Farmville. Besides, that doesn't always work anyway. Some of you have the audacity to enter your mafia requests or Farmville requests as your status updates. That is why I have just bypassed all of that hullabaloo and either blocked you altogether or deleted you as friend.
It used to be that the people who spent all day on their computers were usually male, roughly 30 years of age and resided in their parents' basement. Well, those men (if you can really call them that) have put their wasted life to some use. The more "talented" ones have become programmers. Guess what they make- games like Farmville and Restaurant-land and Fish-town and Zoo-opolis. They have taken their time wasting to a professional level and spread their disease to their moms, apparently.
I have entertained the thought of creating some game that would allow me to hack into other people's games and cause trouble. I call it Riot-ville. In Riot-ville you can lay waste to some one's farm, demolish their mafia, poison their fish or let all the animals out of their zoo. Best of all it would generate exactly zero posts. That's right it would be covert. No one would know about it. Then I think some more and realize: a)I am not a computer programmer, and b)I have a wife, a family and a life.
Like I said before, I don't really care what you do. If you choose to relax with Farmville, I say more power to you. But please have the common decency to only afflict those who share your predilections with all of your (insert second life type game here) spam. If I have some how offended you, please don't take it personally. I can easily separate the game from the gamer. We'll always be FB friends.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
My Grocery List
"Men and grocery shopping" used to be a phrase that was comedy gold, on par with that other vaudevillian four word phrase "take my wife, please!". But in this day and age of stay at home dads and liberated women, this phrase has moved from the comedy to horror category. I am a man, and as such it is my manly duty to despise shopping. Numerous jokes and comedy bits have been done on the difference between men and women, especially when it comes to shopping. Women like to take their time and find the best deal possible, even if it means spending hours on end searching for that perfect pair of shoes at the ideal price or scouring through the Sunday paper for that $.50 off coupon on sponges (at which point I think they should be free; even Mr. Squarepants can't be commanding that much money). Whereas men subscribe to the "time is money" philosophy and deem spending an extra $1.oo on refried beans a greater value and savings than spending 10 minutes going through the peeled label section examining each can, trying to determine which one sounds the most like the Mexican side dish when shaken.
This is not to say that I do not appreciate that my wife happily takes on this lugubrious task. It is something that is ingrained in the psyche of women. My lovely doesn't spend as much time as most women but she does delight in a good saving as much as the next lady. Many times she has returned from her shopping trip with her receipt, with the total in savings circled in red ink, clinched tightly in her fist, raised high above her head in a display of pride that is on par with a man returning from a weekend golfing tournament with a trophy (I don't specify here which trophy is won- for a man it is enough that he has a trophy. It could even be for last place but so long as they give a trophy, he will burst forth with pride). I will note that we men are way more proud of returning home with a good deal than most women are. Our wives could have saved $100,000 over the course of a year but they would not flaunt it as much as a man who returns home after stumbling onto a sale at which he saved 75% on any particular item, even if it was only originally $10.
I know that this is a lengthy introduction to my topic but I felt it was prudent. Now to my point, My son Henry is sick and like all men when sick, he is acting like a baby ( I know he is in fact a real baby, I am just trying to make a point) and clinging to momma. Because of that, it has fallen on me to do the grocery shopping. My wife still made the grocery list and because I had already left for work when we decided that I should do the shopping, I was without the coupons, much to her chagrin. I have done the shopping before. I often go with her to accomplish this task because it is easier to go with her than to be left at home being solely responsible for my boys. So, you see, I don't mind doing the grocery shopping and I have done it solo before. It is not something I prefer, but I am capable.
My assignment began yesterday as I arrived in the parking lot. Now, it is no secret that men take just as much, if not more, pride in finding a good parking spot as they take in seeing their son's first baseball game. However, knowing the task ahead of me, I decided to forgo circling the parking lot several times in search of the perfect spot for the first available one I could find. I parked a little farther than I desired but I was anxious (and I am using the proper word here) to begin my task. I double checked my phone for the shopping list my wife had emailed me and psyched myself up with that jumping and punching routine boxers go through right before a big bout. With the surge of testosterone and confidence, I began my assault on the grocery store. The glass doors, in recognition of my manliness and determination, slid out of my way in anticipation of my entrance into the store. I grabbed a cart and began checking things off the list.
My wife loves me dearly and even went through the trouble of listing the items I needed to pick up in order as they appeared in the store. So the first thing was produce. There are no less than 25,000 different varieties of apple and our Winco happens to carry all of them. Undaunted, I chose the cheapest ones knowing that my wife would be pleased by my savings. I didn't actually get the cheapest because I decided my wife would rather me pay $.05 more per pound for Gala apples than to review the receipt and see that I had purchased something called a "pink lady" which to me sounds more like a drink you would buy at a pretentious "yuppie" night club than a type of apple.
As I wound my way through the store checking things off of the list and picking up a few items that my wife had failed to include (why Oreos and Ice Cream were neglected was beyond my ability to reason), I came upon an interaction between an employee and a shopping couple. The couple were discussing which cereal to choose (no doubt the man advocating the better-tasting Lucky Charms and the woman choosing to go with the cheaper Marshmallow Mateys) and the employee was coming through the aisle pushing a shopping cart with one hand and dragging a pallet behind her. Now, I am involved in customer service so I may be a little more sensitive to this than most people, but what transpired next was a great disappointment in customer relations. The couple were out in the aisle a little but certainly not blocking the entire thing. The employee drew near and instead of saying excuse me or clearing her throat to announce her presence, said, and I quote, "It's okay, I'll watch out for you". Now this text cannot do justice to the saturation of sarcasm that encompassed this comment. The couple was shocked with mouths slightly agape at the audacity of this woman. I took mental note of her name and the location of this incident and I started off for the nearest manager. I am not sure what became of this woman but my recommendation to the manager was for her to be drawn and quartered. I simply cannot abide poor customer service.
Once I had gathered all the items, I made my way to the front of the store with my bounty to check out. I made one stop on my way at the discount carts. There is rarely anything in them that I could use or want but there is just some attraction to seeing items whose prices have been literally slashed with a sharpie and lowered to a more reasonable price. This stop was fruitless, and I continued my way to the front to do the checkout line shuffle. This is my least favorite part of the entire task-finding the perfect line that is moving smoothly and with a minimal number of people in it.
There are several things to be wary of as you choose your line. You want to watch out for people with two shopping carts. This usually means that they have a hard time deciding what exactly to get, and on the off chance they don't have enough money to cover their bill, you will be forced to wait as they determine which items to set aside, which is a major fail for you. You also need to be wary of the person standing in line with just a few items, but who continually looks back over their shoulder. This can be deceptive, as you think that they should be quick since it appears that they are just picking up a couple of things. However, they are looking over their shoulder because they are holding the place in the line for the rest of their family who are getting the rest of the items on their list. Stand behind them if you wish, but you do so at your own peril, knowing that at any moment a number of their family members will burst forth from different parts of the store, all with their own shopping carts filled to the brim with a plethora of items and a coupon for each one. Don't be roped into getting in the line that may have more people but each of those people have just a handful of items. The more people in the line, the greater the chance that the light above the register starts to blink and you are forced to wait for the manager to return from their ten minute break in Outer Mongolia to approve a transaction.
I have learned that it is best to pick a lane next to a vacant one. This increases the chances of a thoughtful cashier (which is almost as elusive as the North American Sasquatch) who may take it upon themselves to open their lane and utter those most sacred of words, "I can help you now on register 3." Which was the case for me last night. I almost hugged her until I realized that it was the same employee whose customer service skills had been in question earlier. Whatever her boss said to her, it worked. She was as sweet as apple pie (golden delicious, not granny smith).
I exited the store and returned home, thankful to have survived the ordeal of shopping, pleased with myself for being so efficient, and down right proud of the $5 I had saved. It is not important how much I spent, only that I saved money. I have vanquished you grocery store and will stand in triumph... until the next time we meet. (shudder)
This is not to say that I do not appreciate that my wife happily takes on this lugubrious task. It is something that is ingrained in the psyche of women. My lovely doesn't spend as much time as most women but she does delight in a good saving as much as the next lady. Many times she has returned from her shopping trip with her receipt, with the total in savings circled in red ink, clinched tightly in her fist, raised high above her head in a display of pride that is on par with a man returning from a weekend golfing tournament with a trophy (I don't specify here which trophy is won- for a man it is enough that he has a trophy. It could even be for last place but so long as they give a trophy, he will burst forth with pride). I will note that we men are way more proud of returning home with a good deal than most women are. Our wives could have saved $100,000 over the course of a year but they would not flaunt it as much as a man who returns home after stumbling onto a sale at which he saved 75% on any particular item, even if it was only originally $10.
I know that this is a lengthy introduction to my topic but I felt it was prudent. Now to my point, My son Henry is sick and like all men when sick, he is acting like a baby ( I know he is in fact a real baby, I am just trying to make a point) and clinging to momma. Because of that, it has fallen on me to do the grocery shopping. My wife still made the grocery list and because I had already left for work when we decided that I should do the shopping, I was without the coupons, much to her chagrin. I have done the shopping before. I often go with her to accomplish this task because it is easier to go with her than to be left at home being solely responsible for my boys. So, you see, I don't mind doing the grocery shopping and I have done it solo before. It is not something I prefer, but I am capable.
My assignment began yesterday as I arrived in the parking lot. Now, it is no secret that men take just as much, if not more, pride in finding a good parking spot as they take in seeing their son's first baseball game. However, knowing the task ahead of me, I decided to forgo circling the parking lot several times in search of the perfect spot for the first available one I could find. I parked a little farther than I desired but I was anxious (and I am using the proper word here) to begin my task. I double checked my phone for the shopping list my wife had emailed me and psyched myself up with that jumping and punching routine boxers go through right before a big bout. With the surge of testosterone and confidence, I began my assault on the grocery store. The glass doors, in recognition of my manliness and determination, slid out of my way in anticipation of my entrance into the store. I grabbed a cart and began checking things off the list.
My wife loves me dearly and even went through the trouble of listing the items I needed to pick up in order as they appeared in the store. So the first thing was produce. There are no less than 25,000 different varieties of apple and our Winco happens to carry all of them. Undaunted, I chose the cheapest ones knowing that my wife would be pleased by my savings. I didn't actually get the cheapest because I decided my wife would rather me pay $.05 more per pound for Gala apples than to review the receipt and see that I had purchased something called a "pink lady" which to me sounds more like a drink you would buy at a pretentious "yuppie" night club than a type of apple.
As I wound my way through the store checking things off of the list and picking up a few items that my wife had failed to include (why Oreos and Ice Cream were neglected was beyond my ability to reason), I came upon an interaction between an employee and a shopping couple. The couple were discussing which cereal to choose (no doubt the man advocating the better-tasting Lucky Charms and the woman choosing to go with the cheaper Marshmallow Mateys) and the employee was coming through the aisle pushing a shopping cart with one hand and dragging a pallet behind her. Now, I am involved in customer service so I may be a little more sensitive to this than most people, but what transpired next was a great disappointment in customer relations. The couple were out in the aisle a little but certainly not blocking the entire thing. The employee drew near and instead of saying excuse me or clearing her throat to announce her presence, said, and I quote, "It's okay, I'll watch out for you". Now this text cannot do justice to the saturation of sarcasm that encompassed this comment. The couple was shocked with mouths slightly agape at the audacity of this woman. I took mental note of her name and the location of this incident and I started off for the nearest manager. I am not sure what became of this woman but my recommendation to the manager was for her to be drawn and quartered. I simply cannot abide poor customer service.
Once I had gathered all the items, I made my way to the front of the store with my bounty to check out. I made one stop on my way at the discount carts. There is rarely anything in them that I could use or want but there is just some attraction to seeing items whose prices have been literally slashed with a sharpie and lowered to a more reasonable price. This stop was fruitless, and I continued my way to the front to do the checkout line shuffle. This is my least favorite part of the entire task-finding the perfect line that is moving smoothly and with a minimal number of people in it.
There are several things to be wary of as you choose your line. You want to watch out for people with two shopping carts. This usually means that they have a hard time deciding what exactly to get, and on the off chance they don't have enough money to cover their bill, you will be forced to wait as they determine which items to set aside, which is a major fail for you. You also need to be wary of the person standing in line with just a few items, but who continually looks back over their shoulder. This can be deceptive, as you think that they should be quick since it appears that they are just picking up a couple of things. However, they are looking over their shoulder because they are holding the place in the line for the rest of their family who are getting the rest of the items on their list. Stand behind them if you wish, but you do so at your own peril, knowing that at any moment a number of their family members will burst forth from different parts of the store, all with their own shopping carts filled to the brim with a plethora of items and a coupon for each one. Don't be roped into getting in the line that may have more people but each of those people have just a handful of items. The more people in the line, the greater the chance that the light above the register starts to blink and you are forced to wait for the manager to return from their ten minute break in Outer Mongolia to approve a transaction.
I have learned that it is best to pick a lane next to a vacant one. This increases the chances of a thoughtful cashier (which is almost as elusive as the North American Sasquatch) who may take it upon themselves to open their lane and utter those most sacred of words, "I can help you now on register 3." Which was the case for me last night. I almost hugged her until I realized that it was the same employee whose customer service skills had been in question earlier. Whatever her boss said to her, it worked. She was as sweet as apple pie (golden delicious, not granny smith).
I exited the store and returned home, thankful to have survived the ordeal of shopping, pleased with myself for being so efficient, and down right proud of the $5 I had saved. It is not important how much I spent, only that I saved money. I have vanquished you grocery store and will stand in triumph... until the next time we meet. (shudder)
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