Something I Hate

I don't really have an overarching, "Things Ed O Hates" list. I have a grumpy streak, like everyone else, but I tend to see the positive in people and things... or I try to avoid those people and things. Maybe I just say all of this so I believe it, but I try to be that way.

Unfortunately, some things are unavoidable. At the risk of missing about 95.34% of the things that I hate, I came up with this list of ten items, normalized to the level of hatred (or, alternatively, disgust/revulsion/whatever), of the top item:

The one thing that I wanted to comment on is number five on the list: early-to-mid-20's guys.

I'm not saying all of them are jerks... I've got some friends who are early-to-mid-20's guys. For the most part, though? The less I say to them (and the less I hear them speak), the better. (And by "them" I mean early-to-mid-20's guys generally... not my friends.)

I was at a housewarming party on Sunday night. I had been invited by one of the two hostesses and wasn't that familiar with most of the people there. Part of the fun was determining who knew whom and who was hanging out with whom, and while most people in my place would have asked, but I was having fun observing and guessing.

The party was stuffed to the gills (at least at first) with hairstylists (I choose my housewarming parties carefully; I'm not purchasing tulips willy-nilly) but as the crowd thinned, it became both easier to contextualize the remaining people and more confusing regarding what I was seeing.

Confusing because there was trio of dudes who looked out of place. In their (yeah, you didn't see this coming) early-to-mid-20's, they were walking around the party, holding on to a pair of Ranier twelve packs.

This wasn't exactly a wine-and-cheese-only party, but I think they were the only ones who were drinking cheap bear from cans, and they were definitely the only ones who didn't want to put their beverages down for fear of someone else lifting them.

Which... OK. Fine. I don't want to fling stones. I was wearing black fingernail polish, for crying out loud. Live and let live. Etc.

But. They're early-to-mid-20's guys. They can't help but annoy me.

As the party continued to thin and I was settling into a chair with the hostess's dog in my lap and one of her friends engaging me in conversation, there was a mix-up involving drinks. It was not a big deal, but someone put their red cup o' booze down and someone else evidently started drinking it.

Like I said, no big deal. I think the confusion was cleared up within 30 seconds, in spite of unhelpful lines of investigation like this:

Person One: What were you drinking?
Person Two: It was in a red cup.

Of course, almost all of us were drinking from red cups. Except the dudes with the Raniers.

Dude with Rainer Number One (DWR#1): What? You had a red cup?!?
Everyone else at the party: ...
DWR#1: [leaning in towards the woman who'd lost her drink] A red cup!?!
Everyone else at the party: ...
DWR#1: [motioning at the large stack of red cups and the prevalence of them in the room] A RED CUP!?!

It was an odd thing, what happened next. No one cared about his mockery/joke/whatever it was, and after building up to some sort of crescendo with no response, he ... deflated.

He deflated and then he sulked.

A bit later, my friend's brother showed up. He's a nice guy who just happens to be shorter than me. And shorter than DWR#1, which provided the impetus for this delightful exchange:

Dude with Rainer Number One (DWR#1): Hey. Is that your brother?
My friend: Yes, it is.
DWR#1: So "short" runs in the family, huh?
My friend: That's it. One more and you have to get out of my house.
DWR#1: ...

There was no apology for being a dickhead, which ampliphied the dickheadedness.

Partially because of the presence of the early-to-mid-20's guys, and partly because of the fact that I didn't really know anyone there, I had sent out some feelers via txt to see what else was happening. One of the txts was to a friend at Ozzie's, to see how busy it was. Her response was that "People are here" ... which is far from a given on a Sunday night.

So, when the early-to-mid-20's guys decided to leave (or at least talk about leaving... the talking about leaving took about 45 minutes, and the leaving took significantly less time), they mentioned Ozzie's.

Me: Oh, Ozzie's?
DWR#1: Yeah.
Me: A friend told me there were people there tonight.
DWR#1: There usually are.
Me: Uh...
DWR#1: People like karaoke.

It was the sort of semi-drunken ignorant condescension that few humans outside of that gender and age range can pull off. It definitely cemented early-to-mid-20's guys on my "Things Ed O Hates" list... actually it might have pushed them past Keith Olbermann and into a dead heat with Scary Clowns.

Now that I think of it, though, my list might be a tad off. In spite of those guys, I had a good time at the party. If there were three scary clowns walking around, I am less sure I could say the same thing.

Ways to Hold a Basketball

There are many ways to hold a basketball.

One can cradle it to one's chest with both arms, embracing it.

One can hold it under one's elbow, holding it casually against the hip.

One can, assuming large hands with some strength, palm it with one hand.

One can use three fingers of one hand as a tripod.

One can also hold a basketball with one finger... by spinning the ball.

No spin? It falls off. Not enough spin? It wobbles and becomes unstable and falls off.

But get it spinning and it becomes significantly easier. Get it spinning and all one needs to dedicate is the tip of one finger and an occasional well-placed slap... and it keeps spinning.

Until one becomes distracted. Or one simply gets tired of it and lets the ball drop.

Hairshirts, NASCAR, and Fingernail Polish

I'm not a big fan of religion. I'm not a big fan of motor sports. I am not a big fan of wearing makeup.

And that set of facts is one of the reasons I'm writing this blog.

You know how some people say they're "spiritual, but not religious"? Or that "things happen for a reason"? I don't say those things (at least without irony). While I am slow to mock religious people (at least not as quick as some), I am not a religious person.

When I was in college I went to three Indianapolis 500's. I was going to school in the region, and my friend/roomie was generous enough to let me visit his home and attend the race with him and his family. I was impressed by the speed and the sound and the sheer number of people present, but in an abstract, "I'm just visitin' these here parts" kind of way. I have no plans to ever attend another race, and I certainly would not spend an afternoon watching--let alone attending--a sport that has become more popular than Indy racing: NASCAR.

There are a couple of pictures of me from a couple of years ago where I was wearing a fair bit of makeup. "Guyliner" can be a subtle way to create a "pop" of the eyes... or it can be a horrifically over-applied mess that makes one wonder what the eff they were thinking. I wore black fingernail polish when I dressed up as Adam Lambert for Halloween a couple of years ago, too, but in any event with the exception of occasional (very lightly applied, after learning my lesson) guyliner, I'm not really much of a "wear makeup" kinda guy.

(And, yes, I know that is logically akin to saying, "Other than those sixteen people I smuggled in from El Salvador and held them against their will, forcing them to stitch together fanny packs, I'm not really much of a 'break the law' kind of guy.")

In spite of my lack of faith ("Faith", perhaps, is more appropriate) I can recognize some value in religion--organized or otherwise. I also find myself curious about certain traditions (some of which make me wonder if defining tradition as "accepted continuation of stupidity" is more fair than I'd originally taken it to be)... one of which is the Christian/Catholic tradition of the cilice: wearing a very uncomfortable item--a shirt made of hair or a spiky leg bracelet-like thing--to impact one's own life.

Something that I didn't initially understand in NASCAR is the use of restrictor plates. I'm not at all interested in the mechanics of automobiles (although I could be, if she had a dazzling smile and a nice body), but restrictor plates restrict an engine's intake to reduce its power. In spite of the fact that everyone in NASCAR is trying to go faster than everyone else, NASCAR makes everyone use restrictor plates.

Lately I've had a renewed interest in talking to girls in social settings. It's a long story, but while I'm pretty consistently around women, most of the time I am content to be reasonably passive. There are lots of fish in the sea and if you don't try then you don't fail. All that sort of good stuff.

If you've seen the Da Vinci Code, then you've seen a kind of cilice in action. The albino monk fastens and tightens a metal strap that cuts into his skin. My understanding of why someone would use a chain or a hairshirt within a religious sense is rather limited: I get the sense that it's a way to punish oneself for sins and this penance offers some level of absolution.

NASCAR, like governmental or trade-level organizations, have to place restrictions on the abilities of entities to stray too far from competitors. The NBA has a salary cap so the Knicks or Blazers or whomever can't simply hire all the best players. The SEC places burdens on corporations to ensure that investors are more protected. NASCAR reduces the speed limit of all the racers to level the playing field and to make competition safer.

On Friday I got my haircut. I've documented that my hair was becoming shaggy, and I'd been 50/50 about getting it cut for some time. I was generously given a gift card for a free haircut, and that pushed me over the edge. I got my haircut. And, to be more specific, I got them all cut.

Penance and absolution are fine, and I guess I can see why humans feel the need for them. To me, though? It seems that wearing a hairshirt is a way to ground oneself. To humble oneself and be reminded, with every uncomfortable moment, that God is divine, and man lives only by his grace (or whatever... I'm not particularly good at sounding smart about religion). Wearing nice-looking clothes is great, but if you've got something underneath that just... keeps... itching, I can see how it would knock you down a peg or two.

The thing about restrictor plates is that, while they limits the high end of speed and performance, it does create better competition, since more teams can compete. It also lowers insurance rates and (almost certainly) saves lives. The races are better, presumably, by placing limits. NASCAR improves itself by humbling itself.

Friday night I was out. I was feeling good, and my haircut had elicited multiple positive bits of feedback from friends. I was interested in talking to people (meaning: women; men are, at best, sort of a 3/5 compromise type of deal for me in social settings).

But you know what? I was feeling TOO good. I was sitting at a table, drinking my alcohol and watching people. Txting with friends and checking Facebook. Feeling so cool and so much better than nearly everyone in the room that I didn't feel like talking to anyone.

And so I didn't.

It was still a very fun night, but upon reflection the next day, I determined that I needed a hairshirt. I needed restrictor plates. I needed something to knock me off-balance and humble me and, by making me feel less good, improve things.

So I busted out the black fingernail polish from Halloween. I applied it (unskillfully, of course... precious few of us are born with a priori abilities to apply fingernail polish). And I went out as normal.

It will be gone before I get to work tomorrow, and I won't be in a massive rush to wear it again, but it was an interesting (and, perhaps, slightly twisted) way to spend a couple of social evenings.

At least it wasn't itchy.

An Outrageous Claim (Or: A History of My Work Study)

Sometimes people claim to be the first at something.

Richard Lewis, in Curb Your Enthusiasm, claimed to be the first to use "The ___ from Hell."

Ridiculous? Sure. Hiliarious? Absolutely.

I have few illusions that I am particularly original. I remember a series of conversations in college with The Ex where I explained that I can't believe that many (if any) ideas are really original. It was a depressing perspective that I still sort of ascribe to.

Anyway.

I went from a very small public school system to a pretty expensive private post-secondary institute. My parents did everything they could, and I am indebted to them, but we didn't have a college fund to dip into, and while some dudes were cruising around Evanston in nice cars and chick-impressive accoutrements, I was getting by with the assistance of a National Merit scholarship, school grants and loans.

And work study.

I'm no expert on what work study is or was, but I'm going to lay it out as jobs that were filled by students... and the students were paid more then they otherwise would have been because of governmental assistance.

I was work study all four years of undergrad. I dimly recall the process of selecting which positions I would apply for... it was (a) what sounded cool, and (b) what paid the most per hour.

Should I have sought something that might have, someday, helped me in a career I was interested in pursuing? Sure. But that sort of thinking is clearly beyond me, as evidenced by my life both before and since undergraduate study.

I had a pair of jobs, each of which I occupied for two years.

The second job was working in the library. My title escapes me, but my job was to take a stack of cards that represented books that were overdue... and to look in the stacks for books that were out of place. If I could not locate the books, I was to call the people with late books and give 'em a heads up. Maybe I was supposed to threaten 'em.

I currently really do NOT like talking on the phone. Unless you're a chick I'm at least semi-wild about, I really don't want to talk to you on the phone. (Exception: immediate family. Mother/father/siblings are excepted.)

This is true today, whether it's a call from my credit card company to my cell phone offering me a special offer, or a client on my office phone informing me of the latest talented Flash developer... I don't want to talk to them. Email? Sure. Meeting in person? Absolutely. Chat? I can do that.

Phones, though? They freak me out. I don't like them.

So... given that half of my job was to call people that had overdue books, and given my reluctance to call people, and given the lack of accountability... I simply didn't do that part of my job.

I'd do the first half... sure. I'd do it with a vengeance.

I'd take a stack of cards with overdue books and I'd go to where they SHOULD be and I'd look for them. Sometimes I'd find them exactly where they ought to be. Sometimes I'd find them close (but not exactly) to where they should be. Sometimes? I wouldn't find them at all.

But I'd find something that was otherwise worth my time. And my $7 an hour (or whatever I was making).

You know how some people have jobs where they sit at a computer all day and can read CNN and Huffington Post and Drudge Report and The Onion all day? Where they can google anything that they want, and the whole Internet is their oyster?

This was before ALL of those sites. This was at the dawn of the Internet, and before the World Wide Web was really in place.

But I didn't need Google. I had tens of thousands of books I could open and peruse. I could start reading an Asimov book or a study on Western taboos... and be pretty confident that my supervisor wasn't going to come and find me.

It was awesome.

I did the library gig my last two years of undergrad. It was a breath of fresh air compared to my first two years.

My first two years? I was a Sound and Sight Technician. I was well-paid ($18 an hour? Something silly like that...) and I worked in big chunks, rather than two or three hours a day. I was responsible for setting up and managing events on campus... setting EQ levels for speakers, playing movies on the Evanston and Chicago campuses, etc.

In terms of learning and "real-life" experience and money/minute... it was awesome. I'd work a weekend or two a month and be done.

But it was stressful.

Shit went wrong. Feedback happened. Speakers would grab a mic and start walking around the room. People would want to play music when it wasn't planned. A co-worker would be sick and I'd have to fill in on a Friday night (never mind that I really didn't have anything else going... it's the principle...)

It was good. It was terrible.

It did, though, form the basis for this blog entry. I can make an outrageous claim. Please feel free to disbelieve.

You know how people occasionally bring laser pointers into movies? How they annoy other movie-goers by flashing them on the screen, putting their spin on the movie and basically spoiling it for everyone else?

Well... I will submit that I was one of the first people to do that. EVER.

"Yeah, yeah," I hear you say, "sure you are. Assholes have been pointing laser pointers at movie screens FOREVER. Why do you think you were one of the first?"

Well, the movie was Terminator 2. We were able to see the film as a second-run movie... it came out in 1991,  but I think that we watched it on campus in 1992.

I was working as a Sound and Sight Technician, and we had access to ... equipment. Microphones (including lav mics) and ... laser pointers.

Laser pointers, twenty years ago, were NOT something that you'd pick up in the checkout line at a grocery store for your kitties to play with. They were bulky pieces of machinery that took up considerable space. Imagine an old, old wireless phone.... and then imagine a red dot coming out of it. That was the laser pointers.

So I "checked out" (*ahem*) a laser pointer from our equipment closet, and my roomie and I went to see T2.

I knew that there were scenes with laser pointers, and I was immature enough to use the gadget to enhance my own experience, even at the expense of my fellow viewers.

When the sniper was about to take out the scientist? I hunched over in my seat and pointed my (oversized) laser pointer at the screen. I could hear the crowd murmur... they hadn't experienced this before.

I felt akin to a god.

Not God. Not THE god.

But a god.

When Linda Hamilton got to her "It's men like you" speech... I was warmed up. I countered her anti-man/anti-human speech by putting my laser pointer right on her fucking forehead.

I thought it was great. My roomie thought it was hilarious.

But we had to be quiet, because I was holding a rather large piece of equipment that was altering--and potentially spoiling--the movie-going experience for hundreds of other students.

(The quote that I disrupted, from IMDB:

Fucking men like you built the hydrogen bomb. Men like you thought it up. You think you're so creative. You don't know what it's like to really create something; to create a life; to feel it growing inside you. All you know how to create is death... 

Who wouldn't want to disrupt that ridiculous piece-of-horseshit bit of dialogue?)

I heard giggling. I heard the rustle of confusion. I heard the barely-suppressed laughter of my roomie as I aimed the little red dot at Linda Hamilton's forehead.

But I didn't think THAT much of it. Until the next day.

We were in the cafeteria. I was probably getting Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries and my roomie was probably having a salad... but we overheard people in front of us in line talking. About the movie.

About the laser pointer.

The person said something along the lines of, "Yeah... Terminator 2 was pretty good. But some guy pointed a laser pointer at the screen a couple of times... it was hilarious!!"

You have to remember. This was new. This was original. This was like the fucking Beatles.

I was the first.

You better believe dat.

Storytelling

I enjoy telling stories.


Most of the time I keep a lid on the telling of tales, because my stories are often inappropriate for the people with whom I'm speaking--because they make me sound callow or a braggart (or callow for thinking it's bragging).

Part of the value in telling stories is the release, right? Having something happen and then just having to get it off my chest. Catharsis to some extent.

The other part of the value I receive is in the response to the story: affirmation that it was an interesting happening, or perhaps even feeling that I entertained the listener.

Unlike some story tellers, I really prefer not to embellish. I don't want to blow things out of proportion. I'd prefer to tell honest stories that are ridiculous enough without having to stretch the truth.

Not all stories I tell are ridiculous, and they can be quite mundane at times.

This weekend, in fact, I had an encounter that I might relay to friends in person or over chat, but only through a story I heard this morning is it rendered blog-worthy.

Here's my story. I'll then tell you the story I heard... and how it dwarfs (even if in a mundane way) mine.

[story]I get emails every morning from Groupon and Living Social. I buy something every couple weeks or so. In case you're not familiar with these websites, they offer local coupons that you can buy... and they're often "$25 worth of food and drink for $10" types of deals.

I recently subscribed to another website, Tippr, and purchased a "$25 worth of food and drink for $10" at Papa John's. I enjoy that pizza, and there's no place that delivers to my apartment, so I made a deal with TM2000 that he'd drive if I bought the coupon.

OK. Fine.

Fast forward to Saturday. TM2000 and I order food and we drive there to pick it up. I have my Nexus One with the Tippr coupon (including certificate number) up on my phone. I'm ready to pay tax, etc., as needed. I even had planned to tip.

When we got to the counter, I was told I needed to have a printout of my coupon.

I've successfully used coupons from other services and not had to print anything out. I don't even own a printer, for heaven's sake. (Actually, I do; I just don't own a printer cable... maybe I do embellish my stories.)

I asked why I needed a printout. She said that they needed the certificate number. I showed her the number on the phone. She asked her manager... or some older-looking dude who may have been the manager. I was told I needed a printout.

I told them to forget it and that I thought it was ridiculous.

And TM2000 and I went to another place where we ate lots of pizza.

I plan on emailing Tippr to complain and see if I can get my money back or what. It's nice to have something to complain about, but I would rather have had pizza from Papa John's as I'd planned.[/story]

This morning at work we had a weird staff meeting with a very strong Valentine's Day theme, and my bosses (who are married) talked about their plans for tonight. Their story makes mine seem even more boring than it is.

[story]About five years ago, my bosses went to a restaurant with a group of people. There were eight people all told, and their group was placed between two other loud and active groups. While the food was very good, the service was terrible. They were all but ignored, and when a group spends $1200, being ignored is not very nice.

One of my bosses expressed her concern through an email. She stated that the food was excellent, but that it would be hard to return if that was the level of service that should be expected.

It appears she was fishing for something... free dessert? An apology? Something to let her know her business was valued.

Instead, she got a very defensive email from the owner. I don't know what was written, but it was enough to keep her (and her friends) from attending the restaurant from that night until now.

She did, though, receive a gift certificate to the new location, and my bosses made reservations for dinner tonight. It had been years, after all, and they had a gift certificate to use.

Fine, right? Seems fine unless you're the owner of the restaurant... because you've got a very long memory.

He emailed my boss and let her know that he remembered her and her complaints and hoped that she wouldn't cause trouble. (A paraphrase on what I was told; I don't know the actual language that was used.)

They have reservations, and after being assured by my coworkers that it was unlikely that there will be spit in their food (at least more than normal), I think they plan on going. They do, after all, have a gift certificate to use.[/story]

Both stories have a similar theme: patient and understanding customer ruthlessly discriminated against by food service entities. My story is based on a financial transation that's about 0.08% as large as theirs, though, and Papa John himself was not carrying a grudge.

At least not yet. That would be a good story.

Why Valentine's Day is a Bit Early

I am not very familiar with the history of Valentine's Day. I could google is and know enough to write reasonably intelligently, but instead I'll just guess that it has something to do with pagan fertility rites that were co-opted by the Christian church.


Or is that Christmas? Or maybe Arbor Day?

In any case, I have never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day. I am not one that will go so far as to say that it's a holiday propped up by the Greeting Card Industry in cahoots with the Chocolate Cartel and the Flower Junta, but I will say that it seems like it's something that people take too seriously.

If one is in a relationship? I can see participating, and maybe it's a nice way to remind yourself to enjoy your relationship, fix it, or gtfo. Treating it like it's a mandatory sentence to buy this or that or do whatever... meh. It's a bunch of bullshit.

If one is not in a monogamous relationship? (And, based on the previous paragraph, you might correctly guess that I fall into this camp...) Valentine's Day might make someone feel alienated and alone. Which is crap, because there are 364.25 other days a year to remind yourself of that... why let one day, in particular, bum you out? So much better to spread out the isolation than to try to cram it all into one day.

Believe it or not, in my previous life, I actually participated in Valentine's Day unironically. Maybe there was never a huge bouquet of flowers, but I usually got The Ex something. Or maybe I'm just being charitable to my past self. I honestly don't really remember.

What I do remember during that time? We never celebrated Halloween. I think that during the time I spent with her, I dressed up once or twice. I wasn't upset about it at the time, but things are much different now.

Halloween is my favorite holiday right now. Not right this moment, perhaps, but in general.

I get to dress up. I get to see women dressed up. People are in a good mood. I get to see women dressed up.

It's just a great holiday.

Valentine's Day is, to me, the polar opposite of Halloween. It tends to be more formalized, and the women who dress up tend to be dressing up for another dude. No bueno.

In my opinion, then, Valentine's Day should be April 31: six months after Halloween.

It makes sense. To whom do I write a letter about this?

Why, yes. One specific problem.

Last week I was talking to Hula Hoop and she asked me a pretty straightforward question:

"Does it cause you problems?"

Now, before I spill the beans on what "it" is, let me compliment my parents for a moment. I don't need glasses. My teeth are pretty straight without ever having had braces. I've never broken a bone nor had an injury more severe than ankle sprains that made me miss a high school basketball game and limp around on crutches for a week or two in undergrad.

So what is "it"?

My hair.

My hair is, at the moment, quite long (for me). I remember in high school always wishing and waiting for it to get long enough in the front for it to reach my mouth. When I got to college I had an "only in Oregon" pledge where I refrained (until I caved in my senior year, when I let my inexperienced and relatively unskilled (but well-intentioned) future ex-wife cut it and die it black) from getting a haircut in Illinois... with a resulting see-saw of partly-shaggy-to-short hair.

Fast forward X years (where X<=17) and my hair is long. As long as it's ever been in the front and much longer in the back than it's ever been. Long enough that my boss cracked jokes about it being long... two months ago. Long enough for TM2000 to make graphs about diminishing returns of hotness with hair length. Long enough for HBK to have to brush it aside to compliment my eyes.

And long enough for Hula Hoop to ask "Does it cause problems?"

My answer at the time was a firm "no". I sweat more, under certain circumstances, but that's unavoidable and not too bad. I couldn't think of any downside (other than shampoo consumption and frequent ridicule for flipping my hair out of my eyes (I CAN'T SEE IF I DONT DO THAT! IM NOT TRYING TO BE COOL! (Sorry. I'm sick of telling people that and lately it's been coming out all-caps in real life, too.)))...

Until today. I was done with work and driving home. I needed to turn left and I looked right and then left and... I noticed I hadn't got enough info quickly enough. So I looked left again. Then right.

My hair was restricting my peripheral vision to the point where I couldn't turn left with certainty. I accelerated after my looks and (thankfully) made it out safely... but I've determined that long hair is definitely safer on pedestrians.

I don't think that I will get it cut for this reason, however. Given that I am a white male below the age of 60, I have an innately superior ability to drive an automobile, so even with long hair impairing me, I expect to remain a standard deviation above the mean.

Of course, if/when I get into an accident due to my inability to see traffic the ER might have to shave my head, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.