I Love My Parents, I Don't Like Being on Fire, and Other Truisms

Who doesn't love Facebook? It's a masterful procrastination tool, a great way of keeping in touch with friends you otherwise wouldn't have wasted your breath on, and by and large is the reason most people my age spend way too much time on the Internet. And while I have grown to like Twitter, the fact that you actually (presumably) know everyone that's Facebook friends with you makes the announcements far more urgent. It's instant content at its craptacularly finest.

But this whole fandom thing? Either I'm getting old or my cynicism is creeping up on my recent bout of optimism, but I just don't follow it anymore.

At first, it was marvelous. It gave me an opportunity to become fans with some of my favorite artistic personalities -- the Dave Matthews Band, Jimmy Eat World, The Decemberists, Kevin Smith -- and, because of the personal nature of Facebook, you could hold on to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, these people were actually listening to you. Amazing!

Then the tide turned. I have to say it was probably a few weeks ago, when the recommendations box suggested I become a fan of Sleeping. Okay, that's fine. I do love sleeping. Fair enough. I won't add it -- I've always been a bit more selective about my Facebook associations than others -- but I get it.

Next came "I Love My MOM." (Yup, emphasis on the MOM. That's just asking for trouble.) This time, I was confounded. Because really, unless your mother did something awful to you as a child -- the kind of awful that gets said mom on the news, and the same kind of awful that few people ever find themselves capable of -- you're going to love your mom. Ditto to "I Love My DAD." Once again, it's pretty self-evident.

I think the straw for me was "Not Being on Fire." Seriously, what the fuck? Are there really enough people who have been on fire before that we passionately need to embrace not being engulfed in flames? And sure, in my Facebook comment stream, Tina made a case that was equal parts preposterous and legitimate (PREPOSTIMATE!), but I still don't buy it.

Just don't burn me at the stake for hating. I'm not a fan.

When Epigraphs Attack

It's no secret that my motivation has been plummeting ever since the light at the end of the Master's tunnel became bright enough for me to see. And even though I've only got a few more days left to pull together (what I hope to God will be) the last seminar paper I'll ever write, I still sit here and procrastinate because I'm unwilling to get the job done.

This has led me to two of my favorite pastimes: baseball (which is back...huzzah!) and reading for pleasure. Both of these things have caused me a little bit of grief as of late.

Considering the latter first, I realized yesterday during a spate of Web surfing that Chuck Palahniuk's most recent book, Snuff, was finally released in paperback. I immediately decided (as I'm wont to do) that a trip to the Barnes and Noble was necessary. I went. I saw. I purchased. Not a problem, right?

Not until I brought it home and decided to start reading it right away. (I really hope my professor doesn't read this...) So I open it up, look over the title page, and flip it to the epigraph.

And what is that epigraph? An excerpt from Act I of John Webster's play The Duchess of Malfi.

The same play I'm writing that aforementioned seminar paper on.

Apparently, the universe was trying to tell me something. Something I didn't listen to, since I proceeded to read the whole book in one sitting. (LibraryThing review forthcoming, for those interested.) And for the record, I regret nothing.

As for my other obsession, let's just say I'm in the midst of an operation -- yes, for those of you curious, Operation 9 -- that should fix a glaring problem with my fandom. In the interest of not sabotaging the success of this mission, I'll not divulge too many details at this time. But suffice to say that details will be forthcoming (likely on Friday morning), along with a backstory and a complete explanation as to why I've been so surreptitious.

Until then, the consider the alert level at orange. Just don't ask me what that means.

Quality Quote Clearinghouse #1

The postmodern world is occasionally not a horrible thing. When one lacks easy access to pen and paper, for instance, one can whip out their cell phone and type out the ridiculous line they just heard, so as to remember it for posterity.

The problem is, when I reach a certain number of "drafts" in my Message menu, I get a little weirded out. They're just sitting there, waiting to be shared, but mostly going untouched. And their number, like bunnies, is multiplying. This must end.

I've thrown a few quotes up on my Twitter lately, but I need to clear out my phone and my brain and put a few beauties up here. Credit given where I can, though some may hate me for attributing it to them. (That's the risk you take saying silly things around me. Deal.)

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"There's no mistaking for the lush feel of a vagina."
-Karen, regarding drunken gentlemen who fuck couches when they're trying to fuck women
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"It's not that bad. I had pants on!"
-Alicia (like that attribution really shocks anyone)
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"Prepare to suck the cock of karma!"
-Kung Fu dude from Pineapple Express (included for being the only line in the movie that actually made me laugh out loud)
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"I literally just LOLed. And then I ROFLcoptered a little. It was awkward."
-Darrell, in response to what I thought was a rather clever text message of mine
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"Loose slots? We've got 'em!"
-a billboard for an Indiana casino
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"I don't know how to write phonetically. I didn't take that class."
-an anonymous Penn State senior, lamenting her inexperience at writing her name down so that the people at graduation would pronounce it correctly
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Can't make this shit up, folks. And if my life is any indication, this won't be the last time I do something like this. Hope you LOLed a little. Just watch out for those low-flying ROFLcopters.

Welcome to God's Country, Pop. Ignorant Assholes

Despite my general hatred for most things Pennsylvania, I've actually been an outspoken advocate for the city of Pittsburgh. In my three visits there, I've made a few trips to Kennywood (which is one of my favorite parks), taken in a baseball game at PNC Park (which is a surprisingly gorgeous park for such a subpar team), and enjoyed some of the fine waterfront dining establishments that the city offers. Sure, it may strike some as "dirty," but most cities are, and the idiosyncrasies of the place, in my mind, add to its charm.

The problem from my standpoint is that, from State College, the easiest way to get to Pittsburgh is via Rt. 22, a four-lane highway that treks alternately through mountainous beauty and spots of civilization (typically marked out by Walmarts and McDonald's, unsurprisingly). Once you get past the hideous fog at its start near Hollidaysburg, the drive is actually quite nice. But there are landmarks along the way that one wishes one could unsee.

No, I'm not talking about the super-sketchy 1940s "pool and lounge" that looks like it's been abandoned for decades. Or the Tattoo Barn. Or Climax, which is (I shit you not) the world's only drive-thru strip club -- rather ironically located in a town called Congruity. (Why oh why are there not more of these?)

I'm referring to a set of billboards, one of top of the other, that are about the most ignorant and incomprehensible things I've ever seen in my short, cynical life.

On top, we have plain text against a green background. Nothing striking, except its argument: "Global warming is all about money and politics -- NOT science!"

Okay, fair enough. It's funny because it's trying so hard to be politically charged, all while offering nothing of substance except bile. And given its location in central-western Pennsylvania, it's easy to associate it with the stereotypically bumblefuck atmosphere.

But juxtaposed with this stupidity, directly underneath, is a billboard that manages to trump it in every way imaginable.

The text: "Abortion is this generation's HOLOCAUST!" The image: a grey background atop, with a graveyard of crosses below, most adorned with Stars of David atop them.

Just ask Alicia how enraged I was to see these things. While it's impossible to recreate the instinctive and genuine ire these billboards arose in me, one comment was rather worth repeating: "Are we still in the United States of America? How does this happen?"

Granted, I shouldn't be surprised that things of this nature would appear in a place notoriously known for inflammatory religiosity and intellectual backwardness. But it sure does explain a lot. Like why next time I head for the Steel City, I think I'll stick to the interstate.

O Sweet, Glorious Irony!

I've had Guitar Hero: World Tour for a mere five days now. I've already logged twenty hours of playing time.

As far as I'm concerned, my productivity coming to a screeching halt is the gravest concern that I'll be dealing with in regards to the game over the next six weeks.

But last night, as Darrell and I enjoyed a gig just a few short minutes after the start of my apartment complex's "quiet hours," a knock at the door beckoned yet another concern.

It's official: my incessant Guitar Heroics have already pissed off the neighbors.

Unfortunately for said neighbor, she failed on two counts. Firstly, because when trying to ask someone to stop the noise, it's probably best to be as civil and humane as possible. Try, say, "Could you please quiet down? We live right downstairs and it's late." Or maybe, "Do you think you might wrap it up soon? It's after quiet hours."

Not, "Will that banging ever stop?"

Which is an issue because, secondly, if there's anyone in the complex who has no claim to complain about annoying noises emanating from someone else's apartment on account of the annoying noises coming from her own, she's the one.

I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the "Will that howling ever stop?" conversation.

This Time, I Sing Amazon's Praises

Let's dispense with a few things, right off the bat.

One: I know I totally have a hard-on for Barnes & Noble's online store. That has not changed. I still stand by the awesomeness of bn.com.

Two: I know in that very same post linked above, I crapped on Amazon a little bit. They deserved it. Especially after they shipped my semester's worth of textbooks in SEVEN separate boxes. That's just a bit excessive.

Three: I know that, while I haven't posted about this in any of my blogs, I have gone on record numerous times in opposition to Guitar Hero and games of its ilk. I don't need some fucking computer telling me I don't know how to play a song that I could totally play if I had, oh, a real guitar in hand. (I mean, Jimmy Eat World tweeted the other day [March 14, 2009, 10:55am] that they couldn't get through 20% of "Sweetness" on Expert -- and they wrote the damn song!)

All that having been said...

Amazon e-mailed me on Monday morning with an extremely enticing deal. The Guitar Hero: World Tour full band set, on sale for $119.98. A savings of $70.

Anyone who followed my Twitter, my Facebook, or my discussions pre-seminar knows that I actually did ruminate extensively over my decision. Should I get Rock Band instead? Is it worth the investment, even at the price?

In the end, I said yes. Pulled the trigger. Placed the order. I then figured on needing the 5-9 days it would take to ship it to let the purchase regret really sink in. But I figured wrong.

Last night at 5:38pm, I got an e-mail from Amazon saying my order shipped. A little over a day, but still not bad. Then I look at the shipping estimate. March 18, 2009. "That's tomorrow!" cried yesterday-me, who couldn't help but think there was a typo there somewhere.

But there wasn't. FedEx had my package in Lewisberry, PA -- just south of Harrisburg, which is a little over an hour south of State College -- so next-day delivery was a totally reasonable possibility.

This morning, as I sat in office hours, I decided, what the fuck? Let me track it. Clicky-clicky...oh, how nice. It's on my doorstep!

It took Amazon less than 48 hours to receive my order and put the product on my stoop. That's pretty darn impressive, especially since I decided to take the free shipping to save a little more coin. A small price to pay for my soul, since I anticipate my productivity plummeting as of about 4:00pm today.

Holy Crap, It Worked!

Back in my Princeton days, whenever I thought I was the laziest, most unmotivated student in the joint, there was always one person I could count on to make me feel procrastinatorily inferior.

His fervent refusal to make headway on perhaps the most quintessentially Princetonian of all assignments was so legendary, in fact, that I created a Facebook group to celebrate his effort at effortlessness.

It was called, "I Am More Concerned about Ruben Pope's Thesis Progress Than Ruben Pope Is."

It was so beautifully conceived and masterfully executed that, recently, Ruben texted me. His friend had seen the group and told him, and I quote, "Your buddy should send that Facebook group description to the Hall of Fame for Satire. I'm inviting my friends to join it."

I was excited that the group was to gain additional exposure, but, as has always been the case, I wished that it would have resulted in the paper's successful completion. That was the whole idea of the group in the first place and, like all good satires, this one was aimed not for the cheap laugh but for the betterment of society.

Today, I received a missive that led me to believe I needed to check the records of the Mudd Library. And sure enough, when I did, my heart skipped a beat.

Do you believe in miracles? He actually did it!

I'm speechless. And sad, since the finest satire I've ever created has now served its usefulness. But really, I'm glad I, and twelve others, don't have to be concerned anymore.

No Wonder They're Bankrupt!

I don't know a lot. But I do know this.

The phrase "multi-sensory haircutting experience" is one that never needs to be said. EVER.

And yet, there it is.

I'd do what I normally do best in this space, which is to pick apart that article and make jokes about how completely asinine this idea is, but words are actually failing me. This concept is so fucked up to me that I can't even type out anything to live up to its ineptitude.

I need a drink.

Merry Marchmas!

Those who know my family understand how bad my mother's memory is. In fairness, she doesn't really forget the important stuff -- and with a family history of Alzheimer's, I feel we'd take such a thing very seriously -- but it's still lots of fun to pick on her when relatively simple stuff slips her tender mind.

Today, the "stuff" happened to be her driver's license. It seems she misplaced it sometime after work on Friday and hasn't seen it since. Now, yesterday, while driving to recycle (the Disneyland of Momville), she pointed out to me that she didn't have her license and wasn't sure where it was. So we know that she misplaced it between the end of work Friday and Saturday morning. A pretty small window, one that shouldn't contain that many different places.

Silly me.

While I spent the better portion of the morning (post-awakening, of course, which didn't leave much left) reading the paper, drinking coffee, and working on the crossword puzzle, she ran around frantically seeking out her missing ID. She tore through pocketbooks, all the pockets of clothes she'd worn, all the places she normally frequents -- yes, the laundry room got a thorough once-over. Alas, no license.

I observed all this with mild indifference and even less concern. Knowing my mother, these things tend to just work out. And besides, she wasn't freaking out too much, so why should I?

So given my lack of caring, imagine my surprise when my mother walks into the kitchen with her hands filled with clothing and other such paraphernalia. She plopped it all on the counter and presented it to me in sequential order:

• a black Life Is Good hat featuring a guitar and the line, "Let's get together and feel alright"
• a white t-shirt with an acoustic that reads, "There are things that come before guitar...I just don't know what they are."
• three Disney World pins:
  • a recreation of the famous Partners statue, in front of Cinderella Castle
  • a Rock 'n' Roller Coaster pin shaped like a guitar pick
  • Goofy laughing out loud, with the letters LOL underneath
• and a $25 Starbucks gift card

After her presentation, she said, "Merry Christmas!" and ran off to continue searching for her license.

Turns out, in an effort to hide the swag she bought me from Disney World (which she'd planned to give me for Christmas), she hid them at the bottom of the ironing basket -- the last place she figured I'd look (and rightly so). Unfortunately, she never got to the bottom of the basket in all this time and, you guessed it, she forgot they were there. Until she found them today.

While looking for something that else that she forgot where it was.

Suddenly, the idea of Christmas in July doesn't seem like an unreasonable expectation.

(I'll close by sharing that she did end up finding her license -- in her car, right where she normally puts it. It just slid farther back into the console than it normally does, so she didn't see it upon first glance. Can't say that she isn't a creature of habit, even if that is to a fault.)

Why Is Twitter So Damn Addictive?

At the risk of stepping on the toes of I Hate Everything, I have to lodge an only-kinda-sorta-serious complaint.

At its core, the concept of Twitter explicitly exacerbates our current cultural communication breakdown. People don't think through things, they just type out short bursts. Everyone follows one another instead of, you know, actually talking to each other. And it reinforces our attachment to technology at the expense of the real world: when it's so easy to post, you never know when someone important (broadly defined, of course) is going to say something that you'll clearly want to read.

And yet, like a car wreck, I just can't turn away from it.

Thus why I'm posting here. Because even though this blog is specifically designed for my less-well-thought-out ideas, I would probably need to tweet at least 9 times to get the entire content of this post onto my Twitter. (I just word counted it. Because I'm a sad, sad little man.)

But while I'm at it, you know...go check out my Twitter. And follow me too. You wouldn't want to miss out on any of my useless ramblings, would you?

I fear I'm a hopeless case.