Instructions:
Perform the following test case to determine the functionality of the piece of software to be released. Use the timer provided and please stay focused.
Important:
If you are a certified QA engineer/Tester, skip to step 5.
If you are the developer, go to Step 1, just for fun.
Step 1. Verify authenticity. Did you write this software? If yes, go to step 2. If no, go to step 5.
Step 2. Verify functionality. Does it work mostly? If yes, go to step 3. If no, go to step 5.
Step 3. Verify usability. Does it make sense to you, generally? If yes, go to step 4. If no, go to step 5.
Step 4. Verify visibility. Do you remember where you put it? Generally? If yes, go to step 5. If no, stop here. You are not a real developer, and should not be conducting this test. See, "would you like fries with that?"
Step 5. Testing complete. Test validated. We're pretty sure it works (if you were a "real" developer you would know that already). Proceed to step 6.
Step 6. Release to public. And call it something that has to do with a view of the world from inside something else. And then deny its a copy of something else from another fruity company.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
WatchWatch 2007: Looks like the jig is up...not stolen
The watch thievin' has become such a big deal that NBC has pursued the story. And it turns out, unless this newest video has been fabricated in After Affects, it looks like indeed, no, the watch was not ripped off. Well it was fun to dream for a while.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
President Bush loses watch to...David Blaine?
From President Bush's most recent, odd visit to Albania, it seems that there is a new video of the President's watch vanishing into the hands of a lucky Albanian (or David Blaine - not sure). Someone with a Timex is going to score big on Ebay. What you don't see in this video of someone in Albania stealing the President's watch, is the secret service rubbing the guy out shortly thereafter. Either that, or the now classified video of the dude getting shipped off to Guantanamo for classified War on Terror reasons....
I wonder if the President gets a new watch every day he's in office? If not, note to the watch industry lobbyists - You need to get on that one pronto, but remember - Its got to be digital. Because the other kind has those arm thingies that the Man Himself is not too sure with...
Monday, June 11, 2007
An open letter from Sir James Lipton to the person with the high waters
Dear high-water-wearing domestic gentleman,
I am posting this letter to the open ranges of the World Wide Web in a vain attempt to both help you, my fellow "man," and to selfishly sooth my reason-wearied mind. You, the one shopping at Market of Choice, paying $6.99 a pound for grilled vegetables that would cost you $1.37 to roast yourself. You, the one sifting through the columnular bins of $40 dollar imported South African Muscat. You, the driver of a shiny new, as their site says, "teensy," silver Volvo C30 (which I am ashamed to admit, I envy). To you, I ask:
Why, oh why, are you wearing a jeans outfit with denim pantalons that are 3 inches too short?
I have spent hours and days trying to answer this question from within the smoothened, bedarkened synaptic funnels of my brain. Like the calculated suggestion of chaos in the aisles of a 7-eleven, my mind is cluttered with floating piles of delectable junk food free-radicals calling out to me to engorge myself in a continual ADHD-like state of savory distraction. But I have rejected the delicious Cheetoh-like mental enticements of work, family, and the Internet in favor of focusing on this single, befuddling question. And I am raw with bewilderment, though not without theory...
Now to be clear, my first inclination was to give you the benefit of the doubt. Standing at the pristine, well-stocked deli counter wearing a jeans ensemble two sizes too small, my first generous estimation was something like, "Ahh. This fine sir must be from abroad. The Adriatic perhaps. Maybe fresh in from my beloved Buenos Aires, or (be still my culinary heart), yes, I flither, a Parisian sous chef for Alain Passard himself on a whirlwind visit to Oregon to acquire the unique ingredients for truffle ice cream with poached pear in an aged balsamic vinegar. Ah, yes, my good man, this shall indeed make for an exquisite evening at the beloved Arpege." But no. An order for a broccoli and onion calzone with a side of ranch blathered shamelessly out of your North American mouth, thus destroying any chance of an exotic explanation for your complete lack of couture.
After abandoning my thoughts of you like so much silky rayon at the end of a bolt of Joann Fabrics 1/2 price taffeta, I was once again forced to confront this question when you distractedly inserted yourself between my cart and the backside of the feminine gentle giant in front of me at the check stand. I did not mind this small societal faux pas, as my cart was loaded down with unmarked fruit and expiring Kombucha, and all you had was your nicely sealed calzone box, a diet Coke, and the Maxim magazine that you acted as if you found so engaging.
As you know, the wait in line was as always, sheer agony. The longer I stood in range of your dated Drakkar Noir scent, the more my mind raced with possible explanations. I wanted to believe that you were impoverished. I wanted to believe that you were in need of government assistance (good heavens). Were these the rags that awaited you after a long awaited innocence-proclaimed 15 year stint in the clink where you, "took the heat," for your invalid and ever-so-delicate younger brother, that ragamuffin? Were you the noble bearer of two new prosthetic limbs, requiring shorter trousers to accommodate the extra long legs you requested (certainly, if I were unjustly robbed of my legs, I would as well have checked the box on the prosthesis application that says, "Optional 3-inch lift kit with adjustable drive time suspension?")? A bout of scurvy due to being lost at sea for months on an ill-fated search for life's meaning, only to be thrown into a volcano from which you in turn were hurled to safety, here, to me, in Oregon?
In those fleeting moments, I would have gambled away my grandmother's eyes that you would pay in food stamps or small, crumpled bills. But no. You barely looked up at the aloof unsmiling checker, who could not even see the ever-whitening fever pitched glow of your tube socks, and paid with a credit card that I wryly surmised had an anagram for, "Yutz," buried somewhere between your middle name and the letters of your PIN. After all of this, you sauntered past the hood of your leather-girded silver beast, gleeked your FOB, and as you prepared to sit down, hiked your pants up even further (my lord and my god) revealing nothing but more, white, sock.
And then, in a fit of brilliance this morning, it hit me. I nearly choked on my beloved Darjeeling. Like a searing aphrodesial vat of Mexican hot chocolate, I was born again into this one, deliciously soluble truth. You, my friend, are quite clearly, not what you appear. You, are not a man of ill-conceived fashion. You, my sweet Crying Game, are simply a pixie in wolf's haberdashery. An imp, my muse, of the most delightfully mischievous sort. Your waggish lingering in front of the cream-on-top yogurt section; Your feigned look of bewilderment at my selection of non-toxic organic free-range cage-free vegan cleaning solutions and egg whites? Your willing, come-hither push-button request for a cleanup on aisle six...Do you take me for a common gudgeon? A mooncalf? A Schmo?
But I digress. I write this humble epistle as a call unto thee to reveal thyself. I must know. Was your beshortened garb a tease, a tantalizing suggestion, a cock-and-bull story of the most enticing and scabrous sort? Was it a suggestion to only the most refined of eye of the capri pant that was so devishly chic (and desirable) in my youth, that only a woman of such refinement as yourself would know? If so, I must tell you: I am intrigued. Such a beguiling mind as one that could come up with this, this elaborate, perfectly executed ruse, simply to trap my knighted mind's eye even for a short time, is one worthy of deeper, fuller exploration. Please. For the love of my dear friends and dare I say, colleagues, Hanae Mori, Christian Dior, and Miuccia Prada, shower me with your sweet, delicate reply.
Lovingly and with great anticipation,
S...JLo.
I am posting this letter to the open ranges of the World Wide Web in a vain attempt to both help you, my fellow "man," and to selfishly sooth my reason-wearied mind. You, the one shopping at Market of Choice, paying $6.99 a pound for grilled vegetables that would cost you $1.37 to roast yourself. You, the one sifting through the columnular bins of $40 dollar imported South African Muscat. You, the driver of a shiny new, as their site says, "teensy," silver Volvo C30 (which I am ashamed to admit, I envy). To you, I ask:
Why, oh why, are you wearing a jeans outfit with denim pantalons that are 3 inches too short?
I have spent hours and days trying to answer this question from within the smoothened, bedarkened synaptic funnels of my brain. Like the calculated suggestion of chaos in the aisles of a 7-eleven, my mind is cluttered with floating piles of delectable junk food free-radicals calling out to me to engorge myself in a continual ADHD-like state of savory distraction. But I have rejected the delicious Cheetoh-like mental enticements of work, family, and the Internet in favor of focusing on this single, befuddling question. And I am raw with bewilderment, though not without theory...
Now to be clear, my first inclination was to give you the benefit of the doubt. Standing at the pristine, well-stocked deli counter wearing a jeans ensemble two sizes too small, my first generous estimation was something like, "Ahh. This fine sir must be from abroad. The Adriatic perhaps. Maybe fresh in from my beloved Buenos Aires, or (be still my culinary heart), yes, I flither, a Parisian sous chef for Alain Passard himself on a whirlwind visit to Oregon to acquire the unique ingredients for truffle ice cream with poached pear in an aged balsamic vinegar. Ah, yes, my good man, this shall indeed make for an exquisite evening at the beloved Arpege." But no. An order for a broccoli and onion calzone with a side of ranch blathered shamelessly out of your North American mouth, thus destroying any chance of an exotic explanation for your complete lack of couture.
After abandoning my thoughts of you like so much silky rayon at the end of a bolt of Joann Fabrics 1/2 price taffeta, I was once again forced to confront this question when you distractedly inserted yourself between my cart and the backside of the feminine gentle giant in front of me at the check stand. I did not mind this small societal faux pas, as my cart was loaded down with unmarked fruit and expiring Kombucha, and all you had was your nicely sealed calzone box, a diet Coke, and the Maxim magazine that you acted as if you found so engaging.
As you know, the wait in line was as always, sheer agony. The longer I stood in range of your dated Drakkar Noir scent, the more my mind raced with possible explanations. I wanted to believe that you were impoverished. I wanted to believe that you were in need of government assistance (good heavens). Were these the rags that awaited you after a long awaited innocence-proclaimed 15 year stint in the clink where you, "took the heat," for your invalid and ever-so-delicate younger brother, that ragamuffin? Were you the noble bearer of two new prosthetic limbs, requiring shorter trousers to accommodate the extra long legs you requested (certainly, if I were unjustly robbed of my legs, I would as well have checked the box on the prosthesis application that says, "Optional 3-inch lift kit with adjustable drive time suspension?")? A bout of scurvy due to being lost at sea for months on an ill-fated search for life's meaning, only to be thrown into a volcano from which you in turn were hurled to safety, here, to me, in Oregon?
In those fleeting moments, I would have gambled away my grandmother's eyes that you would pay in food stamps or small, crumpled bills. But no. You barely looked up at the aloof unsmiling checker, who could not even see the ever-whitening fever pitched glow of your tube socks, and paid with a credit card that I wryly surmised had an anagram for, "Yutz," buried somewhere between your middle name and the letters of your PIN. After all of this, you sauntered past the hood of your leather-girded silver beast, gleeked your FOB, and as you prepared to sit down, hiked your pants up even further (my lord and my god) revealing nothing but more, white, sock.
And then, in a fit of brilliance this morning, it hit me. I nearly choked on my beloved Darjeeling. Like a searing aphrodesial vat of Mexican hot chocolate, I was born again into this one, deliciously soluble truth. You, my friend, are quite clearly, not what you appear. You, are not a man of ill-conceived fashion. You, my sweet Crying Game, are simply a pixie in wolf's haberdashery. An imp, my muse, of the most delightfully mischievous sort. Your waggish lingering in front of the cream-on-top yogurt section; Your feigned look of bewilderment at my selection of non-toxic organic free-range cage-free vegan cleaning solutions and egg whites? Your willing, come-hither push-button request for a cleanup on aisle six...Do you take me for a common gudgeon? A mooncalf? A Schmo?
But I digress. I write this humble epistle as a call unto thee to reveal thyself. I must know. Was your beshortened garb a tease, a tantalizing suggestion, a cock-and-bull story of the most enticing and scabrous sort? Was it a suggestion to only the most refined of eye of the capri pant that was so devishly chic (and desirable) in my youth, that only a woman of such refinement as yourself would know? If so, I must tell you: I am intrigued. Such a beguiling mind as one that could come up with this, this elaborate, perfectly executed ruse, simply to trap my knighted mind's eye even for a short time, is one worthy of deeper, fuller exploration. Please. For the love of my dear friends and dare I say, colleagues, Hanae Mori, Christian Dior, and Miuccia Prada, shower me with your sweet, delicate reply.
Lovingly and with great anticipation,
S...JLo.
Traveling with Children: Part 1 -or- The Unbearable Lightness of Bagging
We are now officially traveling as a family band of four: two parents on guitar and backup, a toddler on lead vocals, and an infant on drums (3 mos. old). After a little trial and error, we've discovered a few things about flying with our children that may make it a little easier on our next excursions. We've traveled a fair amount with our firstborn (our toddler and lead singer), but vagabonding with two is a whole different ball of wax.
Every time I go through the plane ticket ordering process, I have a bunch of the same questions - which seats: front, middle, or rear of the plane? Stop for a toddler runaround break or non-stop power flight? Do we like MD-80's? Or is that a band name?
Same goes for packing for the plane. Before kids, I had a dialed in, precision system of packing, with the mantra being carry-on only no matter what. That system, thanks to life's little changes, has now completely flipped on its head.
I also used to wait until the absolute last minute to board, lounging strategically at the bar until the final, really final boarding call to reduce time sitting in the swirling vat of recirculation that is a jet. But now, I have officially and unceremoniously sunsetted my time-honored tradition of bar stool warming and libatious nerve numbing. When it comes to nerves now, I wouldn't use the word, "numb" generally; "raw" at times might be a better word, or the phrase, "on my last." Of course, it is coupled with the palpable soft and gushy, "wow I totally love these kids," thing that I never really understood in the singular company of a vodka tonic or two, so I guess you could say I traded up.
These days when we fly, we line up for the pre-game show and I find myself repeating in my head, "please dear airline gods let's get this show on the road and get that freaking door open." I pray for other parents with children who appear slightly louder than ours. I give the sympathy-parent-head-tilt-and-smile (the "tilt-a-whirl" as I like to think of it) when I see a desperate parent chasing their laughing child through the armed and alarmed security checkpoint. I have tried travel strollers, DVD players, and straight-up candy bribery, with varying degrees of success. We have experimented with the front of the plane, mid-plane, rear of the plane, and contemplated strapped to the top of the plane.
In light of these things, I'm building this list partly to share, and partly to remind us of what we should and shouldn't do the next time. Keep in mind that like the FAA rules on liquids and women's pumps or the recent Passport waffling, the rules are subject to change at any moment. But so far, these tips seem to be the ones that we want to remember for the next opportunity we take to force ourselves to be trapped in an aluminum cylinder hurtling across the sky at subsonic speeds toward another part of the continent, or other continents if my company stock goes up.
1. Keep it simple.
The fewer, smaller carry-ons the better. OH, and get over it: DVD players are manna from Panasonic (I'll tell you why in a minute). It can be tempting to want to pack everything you think that your children might point their brains at, but generally we've found that with packing, the simpler the better. Its that whole holistic approach theory - If your stress level is lower because a) you have less to keep track of, b) you have two hands free to wrangle the squirrelly but lovable 2-foot part-time conversationalist/acoustical test engineer, and c) you are generally more physically comfortable because you didn't sweat as much trying to get to the terminal, the odds are that your child will be a little less tightly wound too.
Our best example of this: A family almost identical to ours that we sat next to going to Paris. They had a single, small backpack between two parents and an infant - just enough supplies for the flight - no more, no less. No coats, no laptops, just a baby and a pack. They slept much of the way, and when we landed at CDG in the winter, they simply unpacked their coats from the top of their larger checked suitcase, and that was that. Of course, it was a direct flight from their home airport so the chance of lost baggage was slim, but they were much better off having kept it simple.
The one exception to lightness of bags: Buy and haul a portable DVD player (gasp). Yes, you heard my self-righteousness just get tossed out the pressurized cabin door like a pair of ill-fitting 80's (warning: pun imminent) parachute pants. The days are gone of naively saying, "When I have kids I will never be one of those parents who use a DVD player to keep my children occupied." It is modern technology that has solved the problem of how to keep your kids from varying degrees of screaming for hours on end. Embrace it. Give in. Parental sin? maybe. Sanity preservative? Definitely. You and your co-flyers will thank you, or at least not wish you ill faring in the stories they tell about you for the rest of the week. (See, honey? Sometimes, as with the Twinkie, preservatives are good for you.)
2. Check on car seats before you travel, and ask ridiculous questions like, "do you wash them?"
When you ask about whether a car rental company offers car seats, "Yes we do" is not good enough. In some states (like Oregon), companies will not generally offer car seats at the rental office. California does, but watch out...rentals can be questionable back-door-of-the-thrift-store contraptions that are often VERY used car seats that are barely legal (if at all) and filthy. And I don't mean moderately dirty. I mean stinky, sticky, and uncleaned ever since they were pumped out of the plastic factory 15 years ago. Ask about the age and condition of the seats, if they have the latch system, if they are clean, and so forth. Some rental companies do a much better job than others, and it pays to ask a few questions.
Example: We flew to Coos Bay/North Bend, OR, not realizing that the rental agencies do not offer car seats. So we were stuck at the airport until I could figure out a way to get to Walmart (not our first choice, but effectively the only game in town) to buy a car seat. The saving grace of that adventure was that the employee was so helpful that he offered to first let us borrow an extra seat that he and his wife had, and then when that didn't work out (his manager threatened to fire him if he did, citing lawsuit reasons), he offered to drive me to Walmart and back.
The worst car seat mistake so far? Advantage car rentals "at" LAX. (WARNING: DO NOT RENT FROM ADVANTAGE AT LAX - despite what their listings say, they do NOT have a desk at the terminal - it is 20 minutes away, and the night time shuttles are infrequent at best). The infant seats had no bases to attach to the car (except 1 that I found by digging through the piles in the storage room myself), the seats were covered in sticky oozy putrescence, and each seat offered a unique olfactory experience, namely urine mixed with a few unidentified scatological aromas. In addition, the attendant was completely helpless, uninterested, and was coughing all over the transaction. I didn't anticipate any of that when I chose them because they "have a desk in the terminal (LIE LIE LIE)." Their price? $5 bucks each per day. I would gladly have paid more for a clean one.
3. Travel mid-day if you can, believe it or not.
Now this one, granted, might vary from child to child, but in general we've found that midday is best for us and many parents we know. Don't travel super early unless you are normally up at an unusually early time. Being up too early is the easiest way to lose something in the airport - not the least of which might be any semblance of sanity. We actually lost track of my wife's purse at the Burbank airport at 6AM - it got left near the check-in counter, complete with her only ID, keys, and wallet. We were lucky - it was still there when we raced back to look for it.
In our experience, the same applies for traveling late at night - unless you are all used to late hours, its probably best to avoid the late night flights if you have a choice. Between kids being at the end of their daily patience quotient and business travelers who are hoping to rest on the flight home, late at night can be a stress-filled extravaganza of frantic attempts to keep the babyheads quiet, mixed with visual balls of fire being hurled at you from multiple directions.
Of course, as I said, this one varies a little; but on our most recent trip, our toddler was too excited to sleep on our late night flight, which put him in a sleep deprived state for the next couple of days of the trip. However, he did nod off on the afternoon return flight, which surprised us. And when we think about it, this guideline has been generally true for us and a number of parents we know. Not to mention, when our little one goes down for the evening, he HATES to be woken up to get off the plane, wait for luggage, etc., and he makes that painfully clear while we wait for an inexplicably long time for the door to open (can someone PLEASE invent a plane offloading system with more than one usable door?).
4. If you have to catch a shuttle anywhere, and the shuttle is not right there, think about springing for the cab instead.
This is especially true at LAX. Don't think you can afford it? To find the cash, just try to eat before you get to the airport. The money you save by not buying overpriced mediocre meals will nearly pay for the cab ride (9.00 sandwiches and 3.00 bottles of water add up quickly).
5. Travel on a Tuesday or Wednesday.
Again, this dilemma comes up in my mind every time I book a flight. In general, I've found that flights on Tuesdays and Wednesdays are cheaper, you have better seat selection, there is a greater chance that the flight isn't packed, and there are fewer commuters to disturb with the anomaly that is a traveling family.
6. The three P's: Pajamas, Pull-ups and Pre-flight Potty (wait...that's four P's. Or six, if you think about it).
This one is pretty obvious, but if you are in potty training mode, the three P's are your creed. Don't wait until the flight is rolling out onto the tarmac to realize the 4th and 5th P's (you know what I'm sain') are imminent (which are strangely numbered 1 and 2, but you get the idea). And although we all want to be optimistic when it comes to our faith in the urinary control of our toddlers, this is one time that you should abandon all optimism in favor of a pragmatic 3-4T pull-up.
7. When choosing seats, sit as close to the front as possible.
We've really experimented with this one, and in the end, the front seats load and unload quicker (since you get to pre-board - also a must), which is pretty much what it all comes down to. It also guarantees that you will not be sitting near the loudest parts of the plane. Although sitting near the drowning sounds of jet engines may seem like a good idea in sound-dampening theory, it often turns out badly: Kids simply ratchet up their volume to speak over the noise, an effect that is not good for pretty much everyone.
Generally, we've also found that rows 15-20 are typically over the wings, which blocks the visual distraction that a toddler can get into. Row 1 in economy has a lot of leg room, but no under-seat stowage (diaper bags are a pain to manage when they are in the overhead bins). Rows 2-7 (economy) are the sweet spot for us. You?
And finally, # 8: Don't expect to get anything done on the flight - you won't.
Yes, gone are the days when a flight meant a few uninterrupted hours of precious time to catch up on reading, checking out the newest junk in the inflight magazine, or sleeping to make up for the party last night. Bye bye now sleep and productivity. Thanks for flying Southwest.
Next time: Planes we like::Stop or non-stop?::packing list
Every time I go through the plane ticket ordering process, I have a bunch of the same questions - which seats: front, middle, or rear of the plane? Stop for a toddler runaround break or non-stop power flight? Do we like MD-80's? Or is that a band name?
Same goes for packing for the plane. Before kids, I had a dialed in, precision system of packing, with the mantra being carry-on only no matter what. That system, thanks to life's little changes, has now completely flipped on its head.
I also used to wait until the absolute last minute to board, lounging strategically at the bar until the final, really final boarding call to reduce time sitting in the swirling vat of recirculation that is a jet. But now, I have officially and unceremoniously sunsetted my time-honored tradition of bar stool warming and libatious nerve numbing. When it comes to nerves now, I wouldn't use the word, "numb" generally; "raw" at times might be a better word, or the phrase, "on my last." Of course, it is coupled with the palpable soft and gushy, "wow I totally love these kids," thing that I never really understood in the singular company of a vodka tonic or two, so I guess you could say I traded up.
These days when we fly, we line up for the pre-game show and I find myself repeating in my head, "please dear airline gods let's get this show on the road and get that freaking door open." I pray for other parents with children who appear slightly louder than ours. I give the sympathy-parent-head-tilt-and-smile (the "tilt-a-whirl" as I like to think of it) when I see a desperate parent chasing their laughing child through the armed and alarmed security checkpoint. I have tried travel strollers, DVD players, and straight-up candy bribery, with varying degrees of success. We have experimented with the front of the plane, mid-plane, rear of the plane, and contemplated strapped to the top of the plane.
In light of these things, I'm building this list partly to share, and partly to remind us of what we should and shouldn't do the next time. Keep in mind that like the FAA rules on liquids and women's pumps or the recent Passport waffling, the rules are subject to change at any moment. But so far, these tips seem to be the ones that we want to remember for the next opportunity we take to force ourselves to be trapped in an aluminum cylinder hurtling across the sky at subsonic speeds toward another part of the continent, or other continents if my company stock goes up.
1. Keep it simple.
The fewer, smaller carry-ons the better. OH, and get over it: DVD players are manna from Panasonic (I'll tell you why in a minute). It can be tempting to want to pack everything you think that your children might point their brains at, but generally we've found that with packing, the simpler the better. Its that whole holistic approach theory - If your stress level is lower because a) you have less to keep track of, b) you have two hands free to wrangle the squirrelly but lovable 2-foot part-time conversationalist/acoustical test engineer, and c) you are generally more physically comfortable because you didn't sweat as much trying to get to the terminal, the odds are that your child will be a little less tightly wound too.
Our best example of this: A family almost identical to ours that we sat next to going to Paris. They had a single, small backpack between two parents and an infant - just enough supplies for the flight - no more, no less. No coats, no laptops, just a baby and a pack. They slept much of the way, and when we landed at CDG in the winter, they simply unpacked their coats from the top of their larger checked suitcase, and that was that. Of course, it was a direct flight from their home airport so the chance of lost baggage was slim, but they were much better off having kept it simple.
The one exception to lightness of bags: Buy and haul a portable DVD player (gasp). Yes, you heard my self-righteousness just get tossed out the pressurized cabin door like a pair of ill-fitting 80's (warning: pun imminent) parachute pants. The days are gone of naively saying, "When I have kids I will never be one of those parents who use a DVD player to keep my children occupied." It is modern technology that has solved the problem of how to keep your kids from varying degrees of screaming for hours on end. Embrace it. Give in. Parental sin? maybe. Sanity preservative? Definitely. You and your co-flyers will thank you, or at least not wish you ill faring in the stories they tell about you for the rest of the week. (See, honey? Sometimes, as with the Twinkie, preservatives are good for you.)
2. Check on car seats before you travel, and ask ridiculous questions like, "do you wash them?"
When you ask about whether a car rental company offers car seats, "Yes we do" is not good enough. In some states (like Oregon), companies will not generally offer car seats at the rental office. California does, but watch out...rentals can be questionable back-door-of-the-thrift-store contraptions that are often VERY used car seats that are barely legal (if at all) and filthy. And I don't mean moderately dirty. I mean stinky, sticky, and uncleaned ever since they were pumped out of the plastic factory 15 years ago. Ask about the age and condition of the seats, if they have the latch system, if they are clean, and so forth. Some rental companies do a much better job than others, and it pays to ask a few questions.
Example: We flew to Coos Bay/North Bend, OR, not realizing that the rental agencies do not offer car seats. So we were stuck at the airport until I could figure out a way to get to Walmart (not our first choice, but effectively the only game in town) to buy a car seat. The saving grace of that adventure was that the employee was so helpful that he offered to first let us borrow an extra seat that he and his wife had, and then when that didn't work out (his manager threatened to fire him if he did, citing lawsuit reasons), he offered to drive me to Walmart and back.
The worst car seat mistake so far? Advantage car rentals "at" LAX. (WARNING: DO NOT RENT FROM ADVANTAGE AT LAX - despite what their listings say, they do NOT have a desk at the terminal - it is 20 minutes away, and the night time shuttles are infrequent at best). The infant seats had no bases to attach to the car (except 1 that I found by digging through the piles in the storage room myself), the seats were covered in sticky oozy putrescence, and each seat offered a unique olfactory experience, namely urine mixed with a few unidentified scatological aromas. In addition, the attendant was completely helpless, uninterested, and was coughing all over the transaction. I didn't anticipate any of that when I chose them because they "have a desk in the terminal (LIE LIE LIE)." Their price? $5 bucks each per day. I would gladly have paid more for a clean one.
3. Travel mid-day if you can, believe it or not.
Now this one, granted, might vary from child to child, but in general we've found that midday is best for us and many parents we know. Don't travel super early unless you are normally up at an unusually early time. Being up too early is the easiest way to lose something in the airport - not the least of which might be any semblance of sanity. We actually lost track of my wife's purse at the Burbank airport at 6AM - it got left near the check-in counter, complete with her only ID, keys, and wallet. We were lucky - it was still there when we raced back to look for it.
In our experience, the same applies for traveling late at night - unless you are all used to late hours, its probably best to avoid the late night flights if you have a choice. Between kids being at the end of their daily patience quotient and business travelers who are hoping to rest on the flight home, late at night can be a stress-filled extravaganza of frantic attempts to keep the babyheads quiet, mixed with visual balls of fire being hurled at you from multiple directions.
Of course, as I said, this one varies a little; but on our most recent trip, our toddler was too excited to sleep on our late night flight, which put him in a sleep deprived state for the next couple of days of the trip. However, he did nod off on the afternoon return flight, which surprised us. And when we think about it, this guideline has been generally true for us and a number of parents we know. Not to mention, when our little one goes down for the evening, he HATES to be woken up to get off the plane, wait for luggage, etc., and he makes that painfully clear while we wait for an inexplicably long time for the door to open (can someone PLEASE invent a plane offloading system with more than one usable door?).
4. If you have to catch a shuttle anywhere, and the shuttle is not right there, think about springing for the cab instead.
This is especially true at LAX. Don't think you can afford it? To find the cash, just try to eat before you get to the airport. The money you save by not buying overpriced mediocre meals will nearly pay for the cab ride (9.00 sandwiches and 3.00 bottles of water add up quickly).
5. Travel on a Tuesday or Wednesday.
Again, this dilemma comes up in my mind every time I book a flight. In general, I've found that flights on Tuesdays and Wednesdays are cheaper, you have better seat selection, there is a greater chance that the flight isn't packed, and there are fewer commuters to disturb with the anomaly that is a traveling family.
6. The three P's: Pajamas, Pull-ups and Pre-flight Potty (wait...that's four P's. Or six, if you think about it).
This one is pretty obvious, but if you are in potty training mode, the three P's are your creed. Don't wait until the flight is rolling out onto the tarmac to realize the 4th and 5th P's (you know what I'm sain') are imminent (which are strangely numbered 1 and 2, but you get the idea). And although we all want to be optimistic when it comes to our faith in the urinary control of our toddlers, this is one time that you should abandon all optimism in favor of a pragmatic 3-4T pull-up.
7. When choosing seats, sit as close to the front as possible.
We've really experimented with this one, and in the end, the front seats load and unload quicker (since you get to pre-board - also a must), which is pretty much what it all comes down to. It also guarantees that you will not be sitting near the loudest parts of the plane. Although sitting near the drowning sounds of jet engines may seem like a good idea in sound-dampening theory, it often turns out badly: Kids simply ratchet up their volume to speak over the noise, an effect that is not good for pretty much everyone.
Generally, we've also found that rows 15-20 are typically over the wings, which blocks the visual distraction that a toddler can get into. Row 1 in economy has a lot of leg room, but no under-seat stowage (diaper bags are a pain to manage when they are in the overhead bins). Rows 2-7 (economy) are the sweet spot for us. You?
And finally, # 8: Don't expect to get anything done on the flight - you won't.
Yes, gone are the days when a flight meant a few uninterrupted hours of precious time to catch up on reading, checking out the newest junk in the inflight magazine, or sleeping to make up for the party last night. Bye bye now sleep and productivity. Thanks for flying Southwest.
Next time: Planes we like::Stop or non-stop?::packing list
Thursday, June 7, 2007
How to make an @ss of yourself, old guy style
I've been thinking a lot about how I'm getting old. I am worried that I am going to start to, hell, that I already do, look like that creepy balding older guy hanging out at rock shows with all the young hip kids. And I don't mean Eddie Vedder or Nick Harcourt, both of which I have seen hanging out as the resident old guy at a rock shows - though I can't say either way on the state of their bald spots (or lack thereof).
In light of this, I need some advice on what to do about it (or what not to do) without bumping up the creep factor. I am a black t-shirt and non-jeans kind of guy, but I don't think of myself as the waterskiing dad of teenagers type who wears my casual garb as though I am trying to be cool for the kids. I also don't seem to fit the button down shirt mold too well, and certainly not the golf shirt thing. Although I've been thinking about playing golf again. But that I think is mostly because the guys in Green Day do it. And they are old, but in Rock years, which I can't honestly say that I have in common (although I do have the perpetual ringing in my ears from amplifiers and out-of-control drummers that we surely must share).
I have decided that I need to start doing some things that will make me feel what I'm going to call, "edgy," like when I accidentally set off an entire bag of illegal fireworks inside a 100-year old historical landmark-ish dry barn (and I stress, ACCIDENTALLY), or when I ran inebriated down the top of a wall that lined the 3 story stair drop after a Frank Black and the Catholics show, and in my drunken logic picked up an empty Trident Cool Ice package on the sidewalk as, uh, "proof" (what?). You know what I mean; slightly unpredictable or stupid (although I am SOOOO predictable these days what with a pre-school schedule, a work schedule complete with corporate meetings every week, and swallowing handfuls of Prilosec OTC every morning with toast) but not so out there that you ruin your children's future, or get arrested.
So here's my first stab at a list. This, by the way, is an open call to readers. If you find it interesting, please, leave a comment. I need suggestions. Because that in itself, is soooo edgy.
Unfortunately, it is my belief that just about anything I do that isn't age-appropriate will fail on the, "Gawd that guy needs some help" side. Dying hair for example: Bad, Bad, Bad. Looks stupid on middle-age-ish men, especially when it has multiple colors. Mohawks=bad. Especially because if you try it and you have a baldspot, it looks like Pacman took a bite out of crime - the crime of you trying too hard. And then there's wearing stuff when you can't pull the look off. And believe me, if you have to ask, you can't. Maybe that should be the rule then - if you have to ask, the answer is always, "Yeah, NO. Don't do that - playing lasertag in your mid-30's is a way creepier than you are thinking it is."
In light of this, I need some advice on what to do about it (or what not to do) without bumping up the creep factor. I am a black t-shirt and non-jeans kind of guy, but I don't think of myself as the waterskiing dad of teenagers type who wears my casual garb as though I am trying to be cool for the kids. I also don't seem to fit the button down shirt mold too well, and certainly not the golf shirt thing. Although I've been thinking about playing golf again. But that I think is mostly because the guys in Green Day do it. And they are old, but in Rock years, which I can't honestly say that I have in common (although I do have the perpetual ringing in my ears from amplifiers and out-of-control drummers that we surely must share).
I have decided that I need to start doing some things that will make me feel what I'm going to call, "edgy," like when I accidentally set off an entire bag of illegal fireworks inside a 100-year old historical landmark-ish dry barn (and I stress, ACCIDENTALLY), or when I ran inebriated down the top of a wall that lined the 3 story stair drop after a Frank Black and the Catholics show, and in my drunken logic picked up an empty Trident Cool Ice package on the sidewalk as, uh, "proof" (what?). You know what I mean; slightly unpredictable or stupid (although I am SOOOO predictable these days what with a pre-school schedule, a work schedule complete with corporate meetings every week, and swallowing handfuls of Prilosec OTC every morning with toast) but not so out there that you ruin your children's future, or get arrested.
So here's my first stab at a list. This, by the way, is an open call to readers. If you find it interesting, please, leave a comment. I need suggestions. Because that in itself, is soooo edgy.
- Get arrested. Try to bribe someone, even if its just the janitor for some extra paper towels. Maybe give him the stock picture from a picture frame and ask him to find her, wherever she is - she has the key to this whole trumped up charge thing.
- Pretend I want a new car, go to the dealership, and wreck it on purpose IN THE LOT during the test drive by pretending to have a seizure. The wreck should do no harm to me or anyone else, but it should make the local paper. And yes, I know, someone's gonna have to pay for that.
- Buy a skateboard again, and learn to do crazy ollie kickflip to hand rail tricks like I see on YouTube. Yeah, as if my fat ass could leap the 2 1/2 feet in any direction on wheels to hit a hand rail.
- Burn a flag that has red, white and blue in it. But not an American flag so much; just one that might make people think that's what it is.
- Try to get kicked out of something sporty by using profanity or throwing things. A basketball game is good; a baseball game is a prime opportunity; a hockey game is nearly impossible, which makes it God-like. Of course, the fact that I just said, "sporty," pretty much earmarks me for not so sporty.
- Stare at the sun for a really long time. And then see if it looks like you are watching Cops when you look at the blurred, burnished out faces of everyone. Maybe that is better than being arrested.
- Get dressed up in your old Robert Smith "Emo" outfit and scare the kids in any suburban semi-privileged mall. Get a nose piercing done, some fake tattoos, and a lot more ripped and zippery black clothes, and maybe some dark eye liner, and then get a slightly too small t-shirt made that says, "I'm you, moody kid, 20 years from now. Suck it up."
- One of my favorites: Drink a lot at a Red Robin or Applebees-like suburban food stop and pretend its a game to shoot my wine (it must be wine - this is a legitimate game if it is beer) out of a straw into the, "Bottomless" fry basket. That one is loads of monkey thrills, and may help me get number 5, if sports are on the TV.
- Start a vegan flight club. Since I will only be pretending to be a vegan, I will always win.
- Write a really lame, self-deprecating blog entry about getting old, and then beg people to comment with their suggestions. And then make the last item in the list about that.
Unfortunately, it is my belief that just about anything I do that isn't age-appropriate will fail on the, "Gawd that guy needs some help" side. Dying hair for example: Bad, Bad, Bad. Looks stupid on middle-age-ish men, especially when it has multiple colors. Mohawks=bad. Especially because if you try it and you have a baldspot, it looks like Pacman took a bite out of crime - the crime of you trying too hard. And then there's wearing stuff when you can't pull the look off. And believe me, if you have to ask, you can't. Maybe that should be the rule then - if you have to ask, the answer is always, "Yeah, NO. Don't do that - playing lasertag in your mid-30's is a way creepier than you are thinking it is."
Saturday, June 2, 2007
WordCrap number 2: It's not, "Vintage." It's frickin' old
So if you spend two seconds talking with me, you will rapidly determine that I harbor a dark, twisted secret: I am a self-acknowledged Craigslist junkie.
In a Craigslist context, I fantasize that my Internet alias should be junkhunter2007. But thinking about it for the ten seconds that you have been talking to me (instead of listening to whatever obviously-less-important-than-Craigslist thing that you're saying), I realize that mixing the word, "hunter," with a phrase that uses the word, "junk," like, say, "junk in the trunk," might render my desired moniker already taken for another meaning. So I will stick with the obvious and intuitive huhhuhhuhhuhsillywabbit106432n for now, and continue to think about the Craig while you stare and move your mouth before my vacant eyes.
My rabid addiction to CL ("CL" is what we call it at the meetings) becomes painfully obvious when you mention any object that you have acquired, any tool or trinket that you are looking for, or any service that you would like to solicit, like acrobatic gutter cleaner or high altitude dive instructor. In response to whatever it is you think you are going to finish describing, I may cut you off and rapidly slur, "Oh yeah! I jussssaw a stuffed hippo ezzackly like that on Craigslist today! Hey are you gonnafinish that gum???"
To feed this addiction, I read a LOT of listings for things I of course do not need. I think I may be looking for slightly used and unclaimed winning lottery tickets; I'm not completely sure yet, but that, I suppose, is the allure. Today it was a table saw, a Volkswagen EuroVan, an Isuzu Trooper, a creative writing gig, a Dodge Sprinter van, an espresso machine, a Phil and Teds stroller, two bicycles, a rototiller, and a Land Cruiser. From what I can remember.
Now in my own defense, I also have a job. And a car. Both of which, OK yes I found on Craigslist...But that was before I had this problem. It was not a problem. I mean, IS not a problem. Really. I mean its not really a problem now, so much.
So here's the thing. Unfortunately, even in this Craigslandian Utopia of cheapness, this Valhalla of affordable valuables, there is a thing that is starting to burrow into my skin like a nice tick or a West Indian sand flea:
Everything not NIB (New In Box, which also bugs me), is not called, "older," is not identified as, "slightly used," is not, "barely breathed on." Apparently, everything that has not just been dropped off the back of a large Isuzu delivery van has become, "Vintage."
Vintage. Hmph. Vintage. Like wine. only with an older beater motor and a rusty table top that I wouldn't set a can of Western Family baked beans on for fear of cross contamination. Thanks to my beloved C-to-the-L, "Vintage," is rapidly coming to mean, nothing.
Now I don't mind things that are truly vintage. Vintage clothing for example. There is such a thing as that, and I find it interesting and good. Like a nice pair of vintage wingtips from the '40s. Or vintage movie memorabilia. A vintage African Queen poster is more than legitimate. Vintage means something in this context.
But a "vintage" mountain bike? C'mon. Its just frickin' old. How about a "vintage" table saw? I would love a vintage table saw - you know, one of those old ones you see on the Woodwright's Shop on PBS where the guy pumps the saw with his feet and takes 3 hours to cut a sheet of exported then imported Chinese plywood? Yeah those vintage saws are cool. But a vintage mid-80's piece of crap craftsman? Here's the best one I've found so far: a "vintage Dish network satellite receiver." I have no words for this; only slightly annoying hand gestures and punctuation: ? ? ??
Define "Vintage", then, you say, you whining blogging bastard; you, ahem, "blastard," if you will. The dictionary, unfortunately, is of no use to me here. Technically, OK yes, anything that is old can be called vintage. But there is a concept known as the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, which logic my Father often used to his parental advantage to make me decide whether or not the thing I was about to do, or did, was right or not. And I think the principle applies in this case.
In the spirit of this word, don't you think that Vintage should be reserved for things that have intrinsic value, things that are defined maybe as, "collectible," even, "memorable"? Things that appreciators of such things would truly respect as such? I could be sorely mistaken, but the subset of people who appreciate the beauty and function of outmoded Dish network receivers for their stately, vintage qualities, has got to be a small, slightly unspun gene puddle, yes? Why not call the 1970's pre-Costco bulk packages of Charmin that you received as your crappy (pun intended) inheritance from Grandma Whipple, "Vintage"? Because, friend, these packages are not, vintage quality. These now ovular featherlettes of woven wood pulp and chemical bleaching agents are simply old.
And thus and so, to you, misusers of Vintage, I beg of you. Please, just call your used, Craigslisty thing what it is: Old. Slightly used. In good shape. Broken in. You can even say, "Seasoned," where appropriate, or, "Well-liked for what it did for me," and I will not swear in my head when I read it. In fact, if it is the latter, I may even chuckle, which I know you would enjoy knowing if you went to the trouble to say so. To assist you, in case it is hard for you to tell whether the V-word is appropriate, use this simple rule of thumb: When thinking of how to describe your non-collectible but still worth selling item, ask yourself whether or not this object is like Grandpa, and Grandpa is not what most people would describe as, "Vintage." He is good, he is Old, he often smells of Old Spice and bourbon sweat, and we love that about him. And that term, Old, is respectful.
Examples:
Table saw? Just old. Just good old plain Old. NOT vintage. Unless it has foot pedals.
57 Chevy? Vintage. Yes absolutely.
Firewood? Just old and dry. Seasoned? Hopefully. Vintage firewood? No. Just like Grandpa.
Just. Like. Grandpa.
Now back to what I was doing. Maybe it should have been named...OxyCraigIn? CraigsyContin?
In a Craigslist context, I fantasize that my Internet alias should be junkhunter2007. But thinking about it for the ten seconds that you have been talking to me (instead of listening to whatever obviously-less-important-than-Craigslist thing that you're saying), I realize that mixing the word, "hunter," with a phrase that uses the word, "junk," like, say, "junk in the trunk," might render my desired moniker already taken for another meaning. So I will stick with the obvious and intuitive huhhuhhuhhuhsillywabbit106432n for now, and continue to think about the Craig while you stare and move your mouth before my vacant eyes.
My rabid addiction to CL ("CL" is what we call it at the meetings) becomes painfully obvious when you mention any object that you have acquired, any tool or trinket that you are looking for, or any service that you would like to solicit, like acrobatic gutter cleaner or high altitude dive instructor. In response to whatever it is you think you are going to finish describing, I may cut you off and rapidly slur, "Oh yeah! I jussssaw a stuffed hippo ezzackly like that on Craigslist today! Hey are you gonnafinish that gum???"
To feed this addiction, I read a LOT of listings for things I of course do not need. I think I may be looking for slightly used and unclaimed winning lottery tickets; I'm not completely sure yet, but that, I suppose, is the allure. Today it was a table saw, a Volkswagen EuroVan, an Isuzu Trooper, a creative writing gig, a Dodge Sprinter van, an espresso machine, a Phil and Teds stroller, two bicycles, a rototiller, and a Land Cruiser. From what I can remember.
Now in my own defense, I also have a job. And a car. Both of which, OK yes I found on Craigslist...But that was before I had this problem. It was not a problem. I mean, IS not a problem. Really. I mean its not really a problem now, so much.
So here's the thing. Unfortunately, even in this Craigslandian Utopia of cheapness, this Valhalla of affordable valuables, there is a thing that is starting to burrow into my skin like a nice tick or a West Indian sand flea:
Everything not NIB (New In Box, which also bugs me), is not called, "older," is not identified as, "slightly used," is not, "barely breathed on." Apparently, everything that has not just been dropped off the back of a large Isuzu delivery van has become, "Vintage."
Vintage. Hmph. Vintage. Like wine. only with an older beater motor and a rusty table top that I wouldn't set a can of Western Family baked beans on for fear of cross contamination. Thanks to my beloved C-to-the-L, "Vintage," is rapidly coming to mean, nothing.
Now I don't mind things that are truly vintage. Vintage clothing for example. There is such a thing as that, and I find it interesting and good. Like a nice pair of vintage wingtips from the '40s. Or vintage movie memorabilia. A vintage African Queen poster is more than legitimate. Vintage means something in this context.
But a "vintage" mountain bike? C'mon. Its just frickin' old. How about a "vintage" table saw? I would love a vintage table saw - you know, one of those old ones you see on the Woodwright's Shop on PBS where the guy pumps the saw with his feet and takes 3 hours to cut a sheet of exported then imported Chinese plywood? Yeah those vintage saws are cool. But a vintage mid-80's piece of crap craftsman? Here's the best one I've found so far: a "vintage Dish network satellite receiver." I have no words for this; only slightly annoying hand gestures and punctuation: ? ? ??
Define "Vintage", then, you say, you whining blogging bastard; you, ahem, "blastard," if you will. The dictionary, unfortunately, is of no use to me here. Technically, OK yes, anything that is old can be called vintage. But there is a concept known as the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, which logic my Father often used to his parental advantage to make me decide whether or not the thing I was about to do, or did, was right or not. And I think the principle applies in this case.
In the spirit of this word, don't you think that Vintage should be reserved for things that have intrinsic value, things that are defined maybe as, "collectible," even, "memorable"? Things that appreciators of such things would truly respect as such? I could be sorely mistaken, but the subset of people who appreciate the beauty and function of outmoded Dish network receivers for their stately, vintage qualities, has got to be a small, slightly unspun gene puddle, yes? Why not call the 1970's pre-Costco bulk packages of Charmin that you received as your crappy (pun intended) inheritance from Grandma Whipple, "Vintage"? Because, friend, these packages are not, vintage quality. These now ovular featherlettes of woven wood pulp and chemical bleaching agents are simply old.
And thus and so, to you, misusers of Vintage, I beg of you. Please, just call your used, Craigslisty thing what it is: Old. Slightly used. In good shape. Broken in. You can even say, "Seasoned," where appropriate, or, "Well-liked for what it did for me," and I will not swear in my head when I read it. In fact, if it is the latter, I may even chuckle, which I know you would enjoy knowing if you went to the trouble to say so. To assist you, in case it is hard for you to tell whether the V-word is appropriate, use this simple rule of thumb: When thinking of how to describe your non-collectible but still worth selling item, ask yourself whether or not this object is like Grandpa, and Grandpa is not what most people would describe as, "Vintage." He is good, he is Old, he often smells of Old Spice and bourbon sweat, and we love that about him. And that term, Old, is respectful.
Examples:
Table saw? Just old. Just good old plain Old. NOT vintage. Unless it has foot pedals.
57 Chevy? Vintage. Yes absolutely.
Firewood? Just old and dry. Seasoned? Hopefully. Vintage firewood? No. Just like Grandpa.
Just. Like. Grandpa.
Now back to what I was doing. Maybe it should have been named...OxyCraigIn? CraigsyContin?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
WordCrap number 1: "I'm sorry, but..." is killing me
I'm sorry, but when you hear someone open a sentence with, "I'm sorry, but...," we all know this one, singular truth: they are not sorry for what they're about to say.
They, are not, SORRY.
This is the first in a series of entries on pretty much anything in the English language that annoys the hell out of me, which I am calling, for now, the WordCrap series. I may change it later if I grow the ca hones to call it something more crass, but for now, WordCrap is the last one on the island.
I'm starting with you, "I'm sorry, but..." You are one of many phrases that are eroding both society as it could be and the lining of my esophagus, as it was. I'm sorry, but what I'm about to say might feel like I'm, as my friend Stevie says, ripping you a new one, but your brand new orifice is something for which, I am not, sorry.
You, phrase, are the equivalent of the southern WordCrap, "Bless his heart, but..." which seems to provide the user with a feeling that they now have the sheer freedom to insult anyone simply because they have used an apologetic phrase first. I have no problem with the insult part. Insult away, by all means. What I have a problem with is that in order to make some phony excuse for the insult (warranted or not), people now seem to feel that they have to preface the statement with you, phrase; they feel that in order to be truthful, they must first lie.
For you, dear user of this phrase: If you are not sorry, please, kind friend, do not say that you are sorry. If you are really sorry, then apologize for your frankness afterward, if you are truly sorry. But odds are you are not. And that is OK.
Examples:
I'm sorry, but that may just be the ugliest baby that I have ever in my life seen. [Sorry? Not sorry. Wouldn't it be more accurate to say, "I'm sad, but..."?]
I'm sorry, but I was here first and you are an inflamed, line-cutting, swollen drinker of my disease-ridden rat's piss. [Sorry? Not Sorry at all!]
I'm sorry, but you look like the bastard child of Dick Cheney and his dog's interpretive dance instructor. [Sorry? Maybe. This one may warrant a post insult apology. Your call.]
And don't get me started on, "Bless her heart, but..." - Southern friends, instead of making a flimsy meaningless excuse to speak your mind about the loved ones you love to hate, why don't you just, yes, you guessed it, SPEAK YOUR MIND. You don't really mean to bless anyone's heart. A heart blessed is not the goal of what you are about to bring to light. What you are about to say is an attempt to wring said person's heart dry, making it devoid of blessings and heart-ish nicey things. So do it, and be honest. As our President says, when it comes to your thoughts, "Shoot first, and - hey - where's my glitter?"
There. better. Number 1 is done. And I am not sorry.
They, are not, SORRY.
This is the first in a series of entries on pretty much anything in the English language that annoys the hell out of me, which I am calling, for now, the WordCrap series. I may change it later if I grow the ca hones to call it something more crass, but for now, WordCrap is the last one on the island.
I'm starting with you, "I'm sorry, but..." You are one of many phrases that are eroding both society as it could be and the lining of my esophagus, as it was. I'm sorry, but what I'm about to say might feel like I'm, as my friend Stevie says, ripping you a new one, but your brand new orifice is something for which, I am not, sorry.
You, phrase, are the equivalent of the southern WordCrap, "Bless his heart, but..." which seems to provide the user with a feeling that they now have the sheer freedom to insult anyone simply because they have used an apologetic phrase first. I have no problem with the insult part. Insult away, by all means. What I have a problem with is that in order to make some phony excuse for the insult (warranted or not), people now seem to feel that they have to preface the statement with you, phrase; they feel that in order to be truthful, they must first lie.
For you, dear user of this phrase: If you are not sorry, please, kind friend, do not say that you are sorry. If you are really sorry, then apologize for your frankness afterward, if you are truly sorry. But odds are you are not. And that is OK.
Examples:
I'm sorry, but that may just be the ugliest baby that I have ever in my life seen. [Sorry? Not sorry. Wouldn't it be more accurate to say, "I'm sad, but..."?]
I'm sorry, but I was here first and you are an inflamed, line-cutting, swollen drinker of my disease-ridden rat's piss. [Sorry? Not Sorry at all!]
I'm sorry, but you look like the bastard child of Dick Cheney and his dog's interpretive dance instructor. [Sorry? Maybe. This one may warrant a post insult apology. Your call.]
And don't get me started on, "Bless her heart, but..." - Southern friends, instead of making a flimsy meaningless excuse to speak your mind about the loved ones you love to hate, why don't you just, yes, you guessed it, SPEAK YOUR MIND. You don't really mean to bless anyone's heart. A heart blessed is not the goal of what you are about to bring to light. What you are about to say is an attempt to wring said person's heart dry, making it devoid of blessings and heart-ish nicey things. So do it, and be honest. As our President says, when it comes to your thoughts, "Shoot first, and - hey - where's my glitter?"
There. better. Number 1 is done. And I am not sorry.
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