Some seasonal scrapings from the burnt bottom of our coffee pots. Enjoy!
• Please, please stop trying to give old Christmas carols "hip" and "cutting edge" arrangements. I'm not a purist, it just sounds like crap and never works.
• I'm really tired of indie bands all trying to look like lumberjacks. DUDE. You play a mandolin and you sing about tea cups. You're NOT a lumberjack.
• Q: What' determines if a song is considered "dated" or "definitely of its time"?
A: Whether the person you ask likes the song.
• Definition of frustration: When you go to buy a personalized keychain or mug, and they have every name under the sun, even the oddball ones, but they don't have yours. "What? They have Glenniford and Glenncort but they don't have Glenn??? What the HELL!"
• Most people believe their intelligence is "above average," which is a statistical impossibility. Also, smart elitists annoy me because I keep thinking that, metaphorically speaking, even the smartest ant on the anthill is still pretty freakin' stupid.
• Last night, my seat on the bus was broken and wouldn't recline, so I asked the bus driver to "pop-a-wheelie" the whole way home.
• Never listen to mean-spirited critics. Most of them have no vision to speak of, and since they can't see yours, they only want to tear it down.
• Dear TV and internet: Please stop asking for my "comments" or "feedback" and acting like you care what I think just because some marketing guru told you that you need to be more "interactive" in the era of social networking. You don't care what we think; I don't care what I think; and I CERTAINLY don't care what Joe Blow down the street thinks.
• Definition of irony: Michele Bachman said she wanted to return "character" to the White House. When asked twice (TWICE!) if she meant to suggest that President Obama lacks character she dodged the question while basically insisting she's a straight shooter of character who "says what she means." Okay, so if you're such a straight shooter who "says what she means" why the hell doesn't she ANSWER THE QUESTION?
• Which reminds me, candidates constantly saying that "people are sick of politics as usual" IS politics as usual.
• 2012 is almost here. Hey Def Leppard! That "Armageddon It" song ain't SO FUNNY NOW is it? IS IT?!?!?!?
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Coffee Grinds Part 5: A New Beginning (More Random Gunk Scraped from Our Coffee Pots)
* My idea for a detective show: A mother who has a hit cooking program and her chef daughter who runs a restaurant get involved in murder cases and decide to open a detective agency on the side - It's called "Hard Boiled." (as in "hard boiled detectives.") Okay, it's not the best.
* Aren't you tired of people walking around at work with (just) t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and no socks? Okay, I dress "casual," but there's a difference between "casual" and DRESSED LIKE YOU'RE GOING TO A GODDAMN PHISH CONCERT.
* If someone at Nick Jr. or Cartoon Network or Disney isn't developing an animated series called "Baby Gaga - The Young Adventures of Lady Gaga" then someone's not doing their job.
* I just traversed the fabled "Perilous Gauntlet of Trying to Avoid Eye Contact with Strangers" - otherwise known as the excessively narrow hallways at work.
* THE PERFECT SONG: After years of research - across hundreds of cultures and social strata - a top team of MRI specialists, biologists, neurologists, psychologists and physiologists have scientifically proven that the human brain recognizes one series of pitches as the perfect melody - and it belongs to "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimora. After announcing their findings, they killed themselves in a mass suicide pact.
* Modern-Day Afflictions, #478 - Acute Green-Recyclo-Complex:- The paralyzing fear that someone will spot you putting your empty carton of apple juice in the wrong recycling bin because you can't figure out which of 46 garbage cans is the right one to put it in to, or, even worse, that they'll spot you giving up and running into the bathroom where the cannisters have no marking for recycling.
* Here's an argument that never seems to persuade me: "Well, they said the same thing when we were kids, and LOOK AT ME, I turned out FINE!!!"
* Which do you suppose is ugliest: a face that could stop a clock, a face made for radio, or a face only a mother could love?
* 311th Law of Pop Music, sub-dictum k: Approximately 47.6 percent of all pop songs you hear and immediately go, "GOD! This song SUCKS!!!" are the same songs that, in three weeks time, you will be telling anyone who'll listen, "You KNOW, this song has REALLY grown on ME!" as you play drums on your steering wheel and crank it loud enough to render people deaf three counties away.
* Just think - 5 years ago, before I had a facebook account, I would have had to make it through the entire day WITHOUT knowing what that guy I worked with at Pizza Hut for three weeks in 1986 is having for lunch today. I shudder just thinking about it...
* Actually, THIS is the alternate universe.
* Aren't you tired of people walking around at work with (just) t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and no socks? Okay, I dress "casual," but there's a difference between "casual" and DRESSED LIKE YOU'RE GOING TO A GODDAMN PHISH CONCERT.
* If someone at Nick Jr. or Cartoon Network or Disney isn't developing an animated series called "Baby Gaga - The Young Adventures of Lady Gaga" then someone's not doing their job.
* I just traversed the fabled "Perilous Gauntlet of Trying to Avoid Eye Contact with Strangers" - otherwise known as the excessively narrow hallways at work.
* THE PERFECT SONG: After years of research - across hundreds of cultures and social strata - a top team of MRI specialists, biologists, neurologists, psychologists and physiologists have scientifically proven that the human brain recognizes one series of pitches as the perfect melody - and it belongs to "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimora. After announcing their findings, they killed themselves in a mass suicide pact.
* Modern-Day Afflictions, #478 - Acute Green-Recyclo-Complex:- The paralyzing fear that someone will spot you putting your empty carton of apple juice in the wrong recycling bin because you can't figure out which of 46 garbage cans is the right one to put it in to, or, even worse, that they'll spot you giving up and running into the bathroom where the cannisters have no marking for recycling.
* Here's an argument that never seems to persuade me: "Well, they said the same thing when we were kids, and LOOK AT ME, I turned out FINE!!!"
* Which do you suppose is ugliest: a face that could stop a clock, a face made for radio, or a face only a mother could love?
* 311th Law of Pop Music, sub-dictum k: Approximately 47.6 percent of all pop songs you hear and immediately go, "GOD! This song SUCKS!!!" are the same songs that, in three weeks time, you will be telling anyone who'll listen, "You KNOW, this song has REALLY grown on ME!" as you play drums on your steering wheel and crank it loud enough to render people deaf three counties away.
* Just think - 5 years ago, before I had a facebook account, I would have had to make it through the entire day WITHOUT knowing what that guy I worked with at Pizza Hut for three weeks in 1986 is having for lunch today. I shudder just thinking about it...
* Actually, THIS is the alternate universe.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
10 Types of Open Mic Performers You're Sure to Encounter
1. OVERPLAYED CLASSIC ROCK GUY - Sure, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, James Taylor and Van Morrison are legends. But enough is enough! You might think you've heard "Brown Eyed Girl" or "Carolina in My Mind" enough to last you 889 lifetimes and a few millennia into your final death, but this guy sure as hell doesn't think so - you need to hear them a few thousand more times! Who cares if there are literally thousands of well-known, phenomenal songs in the history of Western music? Let's break out "Ohio" or "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" one more time! Yes, when you hear those wailing, plaintive harmonica notes, you know yet another rendition of "Heart of Gold" is on the way, tempting you to dunk your face directly into your scalding-hot, overpriced coffee drink.
Performing Skill: 6 out of 10
Creativity: 2 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 8 out of 10
2. WAILING, JAZZY, SUNDRESS GIRL - Holy crap! This girl can really sing! This open-mic performer is blessed with an amazing set of pipes and, by god, she's not afraid to use 'em. Her pitch is dead on, and she effortlessly belts out standards like "At Last" and "Unforgettable" LOUD ENOUGH to blow down the back wall of the coffee house. She's humble and sweet and makes you want to slit your wrists for ever thinking you could warble your way through any song with more than a 3 whole-step range. You won't mind the loud singing, but you may not hear the oncoming traffic as you walk home later in the evening.
Performing Skill: 9 out of 10
Creativity: 6 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 10 out of 10
3. RAMBLING, QUITE POSSIBLY MENTALLY ILL GUY - This is the "musician" that gets up and "sings" three "songs" which are completely atonal - and not in an experimental avant-garde sort of way. In fact, the words sound more like someone reading the local paper's editorial section backwards. Come to think of it, there's a good chance that's what it is. This fellow is the single most powerful argument against the democracy of the open mic, but no one will say anything because, well, they're scared sh*tless.
Performing Skill: 10 out of 10 - in creeping people out
Creativity: Maroon out of Chimpanzee
Crowd Approval: N/A - More like abject terror mixed with a singular desire to avoid eye contact.
4. THE BAD CHECKS - Three self-involved musicians and/or singers (x, y, and z) who arrive together and, by going up individually AND in every possible combination (x plays guitar while y sings; y and z both sing with no x; all three go up together, etc. etc.), manage to keep coming back, thereby turning the three-song-per-artist limit into a four-hour (albeit spread-out) Springsteen-final-night-at-the-Garden-length extravaganza.
Performing Skill: 5 out of 10 - but only when you add the three together.
Creativity: 3 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 7 for the first set, plummets to 2 by the time they hit the stage for the 6th or 7th time.
5. AMERICAN IDOL WANNA-BE - Her friends told her she should be on Idol! Her mom told her she should be on Idol! Her teachers told her she should be on Idol! There's only one small problem: She sucks. And you're the only one who knows it, so you get to listen to her bleating "Jesus Take the Wheel" heinously off-key to a grand total of 8 people (three who are her relatives).
Performing Skill: 1 out of 10
Creativity: Negative 8 out of 10
Ego: 578 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 7 out of 10, except for you
6. DEADHEAD OUT-OF-TIME - He's a young man of only 17, decked out in flip-flops, cargo shorts and a tie-dyed t-shirt. He sports trendy, barely-there facial hair, smells vaguely like oregano, and while he does enjoy more recent jam-band Phish, his heart truly belongs to the Dead. How this is possible, no one knows, considering the band passed their artistic zenith almost 25 years before he was born, but there he is, trotting out such chestnuts as "Casey Jones," "Ripple" and "Uncle John's Band." No "Shakedown Street," though.
Performing Skill: That's not what it's ABOUT, MANNNN
Creativity: Depends on what sort of a night he's having
Crowd Approval: 10 if they had some, er, "oregano" earlier that evening. 4 if not.
7. THE POET - Ah, yes, we DO all try to indulge the poet, don't we? Haha! That cute little limerick about coffee was sort of cute, but uh oh, now he's doing his magnum opus... oh no... he's got reams and reams of pages... how long does this thing go on? Are we going on 10 minutes for one poem here? Is this supposed to be profound? I guess that part was important, he just used a really bad curse word... oh, there it is again. Maybe it's the name of the poem. Sigh. What's all this stuff about birds in maple syrup? Man, I really need to read more poetry... maybe I'd appreciate this stuff more...people are laughing, I guess THEY get it. Damn it!
Performing Skill: 7 out of 10
Creativity: 8 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 8 out of 10, because we don't want to look like idiots
8. MEGA-MONSTER-EXTENDED -VERSION GUY: Closely related to The Bad Checks (See #4), this is the cat who was told there's a "three song limit." (as opposed to a time limit) so he's going to turn every song into "Inna Gada Davida," even if it kills him and you. Sure you'll be sitting there thinking, "I could have sworn `Take It Easy" only has 3 verses, not 27," but that's your tough luck.
Performing Skill: 5 out of 10
Creativity: 2 out of 10
Crowd Approval: They're usually on the verge of rioting by verse 22
9. INSTRUMENTAL GUY - With rapturous intensity and a nuanced touch, he executes beautifully sculpted and tender lead lines on his classical guitar, breathing new life into vintage melodies. With each delicate note, some say it's as if this virtuoso is channeling the gods of music themselves. In other words, bathroom break.
Performing Skill: Off the charts
Creativity: 10 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 6 out of 10, the philistines
10. THE SENSITIVE SOUL - He trots out every top 40 love song (or quasi-love song) from the last 10 years - stuff like "You're Beautiful", "Your Body Is a Wonderland", and "Apologize." If things get really rough, he'll whip out a "She Will Be Loved." Anything with the wavering, aching falsetto in the chorus will do, really. As long as it gets him laid.
Performing Skill: 9 out of 10
Creativity: 1 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 10 out of 10 (women) 0 out of 10 (men)
Photo by: Brian Richardson
Performing Skill: 6 out of 10
Creativity: 2 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 8 out of 10
2. WAILING, JAZZY, SUNDRESS GIRL - Holy crap! This girl can really sing! This open-mic performer is blessed with an amazing set of pipes and, by god, she's not afraid to use 'em. Her pitch is dead on, and she effortlessly belts out standards like "At Last" and "Unforgettable" LOUD ENOUGH to blow down the back wall of the coffee house. She's humble and sweet and makes you want to slit your wrists for ever thinking you could warble your way through any song with more than a 3 whole-step range. You won't mind the loud singing, but you may not hear the oncoming traffic as you walk home later in the evening.
Performing Skill: 9 out of 10
Creativity: 6 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 10 out of 10
3. RAMBLING, QUITE POSSIBLY MENTALLY ILL GUY - This is the "musician" that gets up and "sings" three "songs" which are completely atonal - and not in an experimental avant-garde sort of way. In fact, the words sound more like someone reading the local paper's editorial section backwards. Come to think of it, there's a good chance that's what it is. This fellow is the single most powerful argument against the democracy of the open mic, but no one will say anything because, well, they're scared sh*tless.
Performing Skill: 10 out of 10 - in creeping people out
Creativity: Maroon out of Chimpanzee
Crowd Approval: N/A - More like abject terror mixed with a singular desire to avoid eye contact.
4. THE BAD CHECKS - Three self-involved musicians and/or singers (x, y, and z) who arrive together and, by going up individually AND in every possible combination (x plays guitar while y sings; y and z both sing with no x; all three go up together, etc. etc.), manage to keep coming back, thereby turning the three-song-per-artist limit into a four-hour (albeit spread-out) Springsteen-final-night-at-the-Garden-length extravaganza.
Performing Skill: 5 out of 10 - but only when you add the three together.
Creativity: 3 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 7 for the first set, plummets to 2 by the time they hit the stage for the 6th or 7th time.
5. AMERICAN IDOL WANNA-BE - Her friends told her she should be on Idol! Her mom told her she should be on Idol! Her teachers told her she should be on Idol! There's only one small problem: She sucks. And you're the only one who knows it, so you get to listen to her bleating "Jesus Take the Wheel" heinously off-key to a grand total of 8 people (three who are her relatives).
Performing Skill: 1 out of 10
Creativity: Negative 8 out of 10
Ego: 578 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 7 out of 10, except for you
6. DEADHEAD OUT-OF-TIME - He's a young man of only 17, decked out in flip-flops, cargo shorts and a tie-dyed t-shirt. He sports trendy, barely-there facial hair, smells vaguely like oregano, and while he does enjoy more recent jam-band Phish, his heart truly belongs to the Dead. How this is possible, no one knows, considering the band passed their artistic zenith almost 25 years before he was born, but there he is, trotting out such chestnuts as "Casey Jones," "Ripple" and "Uncle John's Band." No "Shakedown Street," though.
Performing Skill: That's not what it's ABOUT, MANNNN
Creativity: Depends on what sort of a night he's having
Crowd Approval: 10 if they had some, er, "oregano" earlier that evening. 4 if not.
7. THE POET - Ah, yes, we DO all try to indulge the poet, don't we? Haha! That cute little limerick about coffee was sort of cute, but uh oh, now he's doing his magnum opus... oh no... he's got reams and reams of pages... how long does this thing go on? Are we going on 10 minutes for one poem here? Is this supposed to be profound? I guess that part was important, he just used a really bad curse word... oh, there it is again. Maybe it's the name of the poem. Sigh. What's all this stuff about birds in maple syrup? Man, I really need to read more poetry... maybe I'd appreciate this stuff more...people are laughing, I guess THEY get it. Damn it!
Performing Skill: 7 out of 10
Creativity: 8 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 8 out of 10, because we don't want to look like idiots
8. MEGA-MONSTER-EXTENDED -VERSION GUY: Closely related to The Bad Checks (See #4), this is the cat who was told there's a "three song limit." (as opposed to a time limit) so he's going to turn every song into "Inna Gada Davida," even if it kills him and you. Sure you'll be sitting there thinking, "I could have sworn `Take It Easy" only has 3 verses, not 27," but that's your tough luck.
Performing Skill: 5 out of 10
Creativity: 2 out of 10
Crowd Approval: They're usually on the verge of rioting by verse 22
9. INSTRUMENTAL GUY - With rapturous intensity and a nuanced touch, he executes beautifully sculpted and tender lead lines on his classical guitar, breathing new life into vintage melodies. With each delicate note, some say it's as if this virtuoso is channeling the gods of music themselves. In other words, bathroom break.
Performing Skill: Off the charts
Creativity: 10 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 6 out of 10, the philistines
10. THE SENSITIVE SOUL - He trots out every top 40 love song (or quasi-love song) from the last 10 years - stuff like "You're Beautiful", "Your Body Is a Wonderland", and "Apologize." If things get really rough, he'll whip out a "She Will Be Loved." Anything with the wavering, aching falsetto in the chorus will do, really. As long as it gets him laid.
Performing Skill: 9 out of 10
Creativity: 1 out of 10
Crowd Approval: 10 out of 10 (women) 0 out of 10 (men)
Photo by: Brian Richardson
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Bed Bugged (Or: I Survived My Sleep Study, and All I Got Is This Lousy CPAP Machine)
So I went for a sleep study last week. For those of you who don't know what a sleep study is, you may be surprised to learn that it's not the term used to describe my old method of studying back in college (that is, passing out with my face in the textbook at 5am the night before an exam and hoping the material will somehow magically seep into my brain via osmosis).
No, a "sleep study" is when you're having trouble sleeping properly (or having trouble staying awake during the day without mainlining lattes) and someone decides the best way to cure this is to glue cumbersome electrodes and wires to your every appendage, then stick you in an unfamiliar bed and watch you all night with an infrared camera ala' Ted Levine stalking Jodie Foster in "Silence of the Lambs." In this way, they can observe you in your "natural" sleep state and hopefully figure out what-the-freak your problem is.
Needless to say, this approach doesn't generate the most, er, "organic" results. I can be quite nervous and restless to begin with, and it doesn't exactly send me spiraling into a state of Calgon-like zen when there's an unknown member of the female persuasion peering at my supine form and drooling cake-hole all night. Krist, I have a hard enough time with people looking at me in the daytime after I've primped myself obsessively for hours on end; there's no way I'm going to chill out while being scrutinized on a bed-sized microscope slide overnight.
At any rate, I reluctantly went for my sleep study, where the technician hooked me up to about a thousand color-coded wires and a hundred various devices that perform god-knows-what to tell them who-the-hell-knows about my sleep patterns. (Stop me if I get too technical at any point.) In fact, I had so much damn apparatus draped over me that I started to feel like a Borg on Star Trek, but without all the bad-ass leather or ability to assimilate alien races. Now if only I could have teleported the hell out of there like they do on Star Trek, I would have been golden.
No such luck! She finished hooking up my jumper cables and I managed to clamber into my appointed lair for the evening. At this point, the sleep technician - let's call her "the sleep technician" - vanished into an adjoining room, leaving me to contemplate if her boyfriend was going to show up so they could spend the evening watching movies, making out, and occasionally taking a break to laugh at the idiot on the monitor. However, that thought didn't have a chance to fully form because her voice suddenly filled the room, blaring out at me from a set of hidden speakers like a very aggressive McDonald's drive-through clerk. "ARE YOU OKAY IN THERE????" she queried, effectively boosting my systolic blood pressure well into the triple-digits and leading me to wonder if they were getting kickbacks from the cardiologist next door.
After a series of "calibrating" procedures - code word for "Simon Says" with breathing, coughing and snoring sounds - I was told it's "time to go to sleep." Well, I'm glad they cleared that up; I thought the purpose of a SLEEP STUDY was to play a little shuffleboard with the staff. Regardless, I did my best to dutifully "go to sleep," as requested.
As I lay there all kinds of thoughts plagued me: What if I scratch my crotch in my sleep? It could happen you know - I can't control where and when an itch will strike. I'd be half-asleep and people would be watching! I could easily forget my usual amount of discretion and end up doing something pretty unseemly. Normally, during the day, I just yell "LOOK! IT'S BALKI FROM PERFECT STRANGERS!" and then give myself a good scratch in the ensuing chaos. Unfortunately, I knew that wouldn't really work in this situation. (Or would it?)
Even worse, I thought, what if I were to break wind in my sleep? Jeezuz Krist, the horror! Mind you, this isn't normally an issue for me, but with all the stress I was under… well, anything could happen. I wondered just HOW sensitive the electrodes all over my body were; would I end up blowing out some poor lab tech's ear drums with one ill-timed toot? What if she turns up the monitor at the precise wrong moment; would it be like a sonic boom going off in her headphones? Would she run from the lab screaming and clutching the sides of her head, then burst through the emergency exit and fall to her knees in the freshly fallen snow? You gotta think about this kind of stuff, folks.
Despite my nagging concerns, I did manage to eventually drift off to sleep. And, based on the 14 minutes or so I slept (by my generous estimation), I was informed the next morning that I needed to start using a "CPAP" machine, or what's commonly referred to in the literature as a "vacuum cleaner on your face." I was actually really happy to receive this news, because, as my closest friends know, it's always been my lifelong ambition to look like I just stepped off the cover of Black Sabbath's "Never Say Die" album.
In short, the function of the CPAP machine, which comes with a long tube and a face mask you wear to bed every night, is to make you look both extremely frightening AND incredibly ridiculous to your mate at the SAME TIME, which is no small feat. (Oh yeah, it's also supposed to help you breathe better, or something.) So I've been making a good faith effort to use this, er, contraption, but so far, the results have been less than stellar. It's quite discouraging really; I mean, what the hell is wrong with me!??! I can't even sleep right?!!? Man, you know you're really a failure when you can't even lie down and be unconscious correctly.
No, a "sleep study" is when you're having trouble sleeping properly (or having trouble staying awake during the day without mainlining lattes) and someone decides the best way to cure this is to glue cumbersome electrodes and wires to your every appendage, then stick you in an unfamiliar bed and watch you all night with an infrared camera ala' Ted Levine stalking Jodie Foster in "Silence of the Lambs." In this way, they can observe you in your "natural" sleep state and hopefully figure out what-the-freak your problem is.
Needless to say, this approach doesn't generate the most, er, "organic" results. I can be quite nervous and restless to begin with, and it doesn't exactly send me spiraling into a state of Calgon-like zen when there's an unknown member of the female persuasion peering at my supine form and drooling cake-hole all night. Krist, I have a hard enough time with people looking at me in the daytime after I've primped myself obsessively for hours on end; there's no way I'm going to chill out while being scrutinized on a bed-sized microscope slide overnight.
At any rate, I reluctantly went for my sleep study, where the technician hooked me up to about a thousand color-coded wires and a hundred various devices that perform god-knows-what to tell them who-the-hell-knows about my sleep patterns. (Stop me if I get too technical at any point.) In fact, I had so much damn apparatus draped over me that I started to feel like a Borg on Star Trek, but without all the bad-ass leather or ability to assimilate alien races. Now if only I could have teleported the hell out of there like they do on Star Trek, I would have been golden.
No such luck! She finished hooking up my jumper cables and I managed to clamber into my appointed lair for the evening. At this point, the sleep technician - let's call her "the sleep technician" - vanished into an adjoining room, leaving me to contemplate if her boyfriend was going to show up so they could spend the evening watching movies, making out, and occasionally taking a break to laugh at the idiot on the monitor. However, that thought didn't have a chance to fully form because her voice suddenly filled the room, blaring out at me from a set of hidden speakers like a very aggressive McDonald's drive-through clerk. "ARE YOU OKAY IN THERE????" she queried, effectively boosting my systolic blood pressure well into the triple-digits and leading me to wonder if they were getting kickbacks from the cardiologist next door.
After a series of "calibrating" procedures - code word for "Simon Says" with breathing, coughing and snoring sounds - I was told it's "time to go to sleep." Well, I'm glad they cleared that up; I thought the purpose of a SLEEP STUDY was to play a little shuffleboard with the staff. Regardless, I did my best to dutifully "go to sleep," as requested.
As I lay there all kinds of thoughts plagued me: What if I scratch my crotch in my sleep? It could happen you know - I can't control where and when an itch will strike. I'd be half-asleep and people would be watching! I could easily forget my usual amount of discretion and end up doing something pretty unseemly. Normally, during the day, I just yell "LOOK! IT'S BALKI FROM PERFECT STRANGERS!" and then give myself a good scratch in the ensuing chaos. Unfortunately, I knew that wouldn't really work in this situation. (Or would it?)
Even worse, I thought, what if I were to break wind in my sleep? Jeezuz Krist, the horror! Mind you, this isn't normally an issue for me, but with all the stress I was under… well, anything could happen. I wondered just HOW sensitive the electrodes all over my body were; would I end up blowing out some poor lab tech's ear drums with one ill-timed toot? What if she turns up the monitor at the precise wrong moment; would it be like a sonic boom going off in her headphones? Would she run from the lab screaming and clutching the sides of her head, then burst through the emergency exit and fall to her knees in the freshly fallen snow? You gotta think about this kind of stuff, folks.
Despite my nagging concerns, I did manage to eventually drift off to sleep. And, based on the 14 minutes or so I slept (by my generous estimation), I was informed the next morning that I needed to start using a "CPAP" machine, or what's commonly referred to in the literature as a "vacuum cleaner on your face." I was actually really happy to receive this news, because, as my closest friends know, it's always been my lifelong ambition to look like I just stepped off the cover of Black Sabbath's "Never Say Die" album.
In short, the function of the CPAP machine, which comes with a long tube and a face mask you wear to bed every night, is to make you look both extremely frightening AND incredibly ridiculous to your mate at the SAME TIME, which is no small feat. (Oh yeah, it's also supposed to help you breathe better, or something.) So I've been making a good faith effort to use this, er, contraption, but so far, the results have been less than stellar. It's quite discouraging really; I mean, what the hell is wrong with me!??! I can't even sleep right?!!? Man, you know you're really a failure when you can't even lie down and be unconscious correctly.But I won't go gently into the night! I'm going to press on with the CPAP machine a little while longer, Snuffleupagus comparisons be damned. Maybe after a few more nights, I'll get the hang of this whole "sleeping" thing and begin to reap the benefits of my unwieldy bedside companion. Rest assured, I'll probably let you know how it goes, provided I don't dream the air tube is a large boa constrictor and wake up screaming and flailing, inadvertantly tangling the tube around my neck, and then crashing backwards through a second story window so they can find me dangling with my feet 4 inches off the ground the next morning. (What are the odds of that, anyway? Gotta be at least 10 to 1.)
In the meantime, take my advice: If you're gonna have a sleep study, don't eat Mexican food for dinner that night.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Coffee Grinds, Part One
You know what it's like when you're drinking a nice, hot, soothing cup of java and then suddenly you get a big old mouthful of greasy, nasty coffee grinds? And you know what it's like when you end up spitting the coffee out all over the place because you're completely revolted? And then the coffee gets on your boss' shiny 5000 dollar Armani suit, and he gets so mad that he tosses you out of a plate glass window from 30 stories up, causing your body to tumble like one of those oh-so-obvious movie mannequins, but it's not a mannequin, it's really you, and you end up smashing headlong into the hood of a taxi cab driven by someone who just made a pithy comment about things falling from the sky, and then the taxi's horn starts blaring endlessly as horrified onlookers scream and scramble at the sight of your crumpled, useless, heap? You know what that's like?
Yeah, you know how much that sucks.
Well, that's what this new ongoing entry is all about (the coffee grinds part, not the smashing into a cab part); this is all the nasty sludge, coffee residue and left-over stuff that we found at the bottom of the NiteOwlz pots after a long day of brewing up the finest blogs anywhere on the web. In other words, these are some of the random odds and ends that we couldn't fit anywhere else and so we deicided to dump them here.
We know that many of you are accustomed to the finest "coffee" we have to offer, but who knows? SOMEONE might enjoy this stuff. After all, aren't there people who drink coffee out of a civet's ass? Hey, one man's nasty, oily grinds is another man's delicious cup of wild-animal feces.
So, here it is: part one of the stuff we scraped off the bottom of the cup... YUM!
• Why don't they make saliva-flavored gum? Then it would never run out of flavor.
• Whenever my friends think I'm daydreaming they say, "Hello, Earth to NiteOwl, HELLO??? EARTH TO NITEOWL!" I never answer though, because I know they don't work for NASA.
• Sometimes the operator asks me for the "correct spelling" of my name. Huhn? Did someone tell her I have a history of misspelling my own name? Just for kicks I like to put the phone down and yell, "Hey BOB! How do you spell my name again?"
• When people get "drawn and quartered," I'll bet the percentages don't usually work out.
• Why does the trouble-shooting guide seem to have only two categories of suggestions: (a) so-obvious-you'd-have-to-be-an-utter-moron-not-to-think-of-it-yourself, and (b) PHD in engineering from Starfleet Academy.
• News Flash: Satirical newspaper makes headline out of mundane activity that's kind of silly but people do it everyday without thinking.
• Lesson learned: Never use an electric razor on a beard made of bees.
• Have you ever been at a rock concert and everyone's bopping their heads like they're REALLY into the music? And then a second later you think, "I can't be the only one here who realizes this band really sucks, can I?"
• Commericalitis: A rare disease often portrayed on medical dramas, this dreaded affliction causes inpatients to suddenly manifest new and disturbing symptoms that signal an impending commercial break.
• I had a really bad nightmare: I dreamt my dream-catcher was trying to kill me.
*A little piece of your soul dies the first time you see an ice cream truck filling up in a gas station. That's when you first realize they actually run on gas, not fairy dust and flower petals thrown into the tank by elves. For me, that moment was last week.
*Enough with "Cheers." If you're not British, I don't wanna hear it; it doesn't confer an aura of class upon you. In fact, it only makes you sound like a pretentious "arse." Sort of like the word "confer."
• It's weird to think that the entire animal kingdom is completely and utterly oblivious to the way they've been used as characters in thousands and thousands of cartoons.
• Speaking of which, do you think real ducks would be pissed if they knew about Donald Duck and Daffy Duck? I'll bet real ducks aren't all assholes, and many of them probably have perfect diction. For a duck, that is.
*Facebook, circa 2017: A frightening, bleak, post-apocalyptic future where all the good quizzes and "gifts" have been done... leaving only stuff like, "Which Pauly Shore Movie Are You?"; "How Well Do you Know 1930's Lace Doilies?" (CanYou Beat NiteOwl's Score of 0.0???); and "NiteOwl sent you some coasters with Paul Stanley's face on them. Click here to see!"
*I'm getting tired of the media trying to promote corporate product by telling me someone has "made a comeback" before they're actually, you know, MADE a comeback.
• The universe is completely indifferent to our pain and suffering. On the other hand, reality TV producers are not.
Yeah, you know how much that sucks.
Well, that's what this new ongoing entry is all about (the coffee grinds part, not the smashing into a cab part); this is all the nasty sludge, coffee residue and left-over stuff that we found at the bottom of the NiteOwlz pots after a long day of brewing up the finest blogs anywhere on the web. In other words, these are some of the random odds and ends that we couldn't fit anywhere else and so we deicided to dump them here.
We know that many of you are accustomed to the finest "coffee" we have to offer, but who knows? SOMEONE might enjoy this stuff. After all, aren't there people who drink coffee out of a civet's ass? Hey, one man's nasty, oily grinds is another man's delicious cup of wild-animal feces.
So, here it is: part one of the stuff we scraped off the bottom of the cup... YUM!
• Why don't they make saliva-flavored gum? Then it would never run out of flavor.
• Whenever my friends think I'm daydreaming they say, "Hello, Earth to NiteOwl, HELLO??? EARTH TO NITEOWL!" I never answer though, because I know they don't work for NASA.
• Sometimes the operator asks me for the "correct spelling" of my name. Huhn? Did someone tell her I have a history of misspelling my own name? Just for kicks I like to put the phone down and yell, "Hey BOB! How do you spell my name again?"
• When people get "drawn and quartered," I'll bet the percentages don't usually work out.
• Why does the trouble-shooting guide seem to have only two categories of suggestions: (a) so-obvious-you'd-have-to-be-an-utter-moron-not-to-think-of-it-yourself, and (b) PHD in engineering from Starfleet Academy.
• News Flash: Satirical newspaper makes headline out of mundane activity that's kind of silly but people do it everyday without thinking.
• Lesson learned: Never use an electric razor on a beard made of bees.
• Have you ever been at a rock concert and everyone's bopping their heads like they're REALLY into the music? And then a second later you think, "I can't be the only one here who realizes this band really sucks, can I?"
• Commericalitis: A rare disease often portrayed on medical dramas, this dreaded affliction causes inpatients to suddenly manifest new and disturbing symptoms that signal an impending commercial break.
• I had a really bad nightmare: I dreamt my dream-catcher was trying to kill me.
*A little piece of your soul dies the first time you see an ice cream truck filling up in a gas station. That's when you first realize they actually run on gas, not fairy dust and flower petals thrown into the tank by elves. For me, that moment was last week.
*Enough with "Cheers." If you're not British, I don't wanna hear it; it doesn't confer an aura of class upon you. In fact, it only makes you sound like a pretentious "arse." Sort of like the word "confer."
• It's weird to think that the entire animal kingdom is completely and utterly oblivious to the way they've been used as characters in thousands and thousands of cartoons.
• Speaking of which, do you think real ducks would be pissed if they knew about Donald Duck and Daffy Duck? I'll bet real ducks aren't all assholes, and many of them probably have perfect diction. For a duck, that is.
*Facebook, circa 2017: A frightening, bleak, post-apocalyptic future where all the good quizzes and "gifts" have been done... leaving only stuff like, "Which Pauly Shore Movie Are You?"; "How Well Do you Know 1930's Lace Doilies?" (CanYou Beat NiteOwl's Score of 0.0???); and "NiteOwl sent you some coasters with Paul Stanley's face on them. Click here to see!"
*I'm getting tired of the media trying to promote corporate product by telling me someone has "made a comeback" before they're actually, you know, MADE a comeback.
• The universe is completely indifferent to our pain and suffering. On the other hand, reality TV producers are not.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Coffee Calamity
My god, what is this world COMING TO?
Earlier today I went to purchase my morning coffee and the sign CLEARLY advertised vanilla, hazelnut and amaretto flavors. Having always been partial to the almond-tinged spirits, I asked the server to brew me up a cup of amaretto-flavored java and he had the utter temerity to inform me - get this - “No, we only have the vanilla and hazelnut.”
Naturally, my response was swift and unmitigated. “WHAT THE …??? No amaretto? What are we, philistines? NO AMARETTO??? That’s downright barbaric!!! Are you suggesting I ONLY drink the hazelnut, or even worse, the REGULAR coffee? What’s next, sacrificing virgins to the volcano god while TALKING TO PEOPLE FACE TO FACE instead of texting them???”
After a moment of palpable silence, which I’m sure was spent in ruminative penance for his barista-based sins, the server ever-so-contritely asked me, “So you want the vanilla or not, buddy? You’re holding up my freakin’ line here.”
Excuse me, VANILLA? HOHO! Can you imagine anything more plebeian? “Good LORD MAN!” I exclaimed. “That’s what the book-sniffers down at BARNES AND IGNOBLES drink, for heaven’s sake! SURELY you’re not suggesting I imbibe that swill? Do you honestly think I can sit in a meeting with the aroma of common VANILLA beans wafting from my mug? I’ll be laughed right out of the room!” Oddly, he seemed singularly unmoved by my fervent argument.
Then the server – by sheer accident, I’m sure - reached over the counter, knocked my blackberry out of my hands, and proceeded to spill a full pot of piping hot hazelnut coffee all over it. I know he immediately regretted his error because he loudly announced, “OOPS! SORRY!” while looking me straight in the eye. Sadly, he must have been having a bad day because he somehow managed to grab a SECOND brimmin’ pot of coffee (praline flavored) and likewise spill ITS contents all over my helpless “berry.”
Wow. Talk about clumsy! I almost felt bad for the poor schlub. Can you imagine being that clueless?
Consequently, my feet and lower legs are now are scorched with disfiguring third degree burns from the coffee splashing off the counter and soaking straight through my clothes. However, that indignity is but a trifling when compared to the social shame that comes from being forced to drink a rather pedestrian blend of medium-roast coffee beans.
Never mind that throwing some fancy flavors into a pot of coffee hardly makes it the epitome of refined living. The important thing is that I FEEL enlightened and cultured while continuing my endless descent into being a mindless tool. I’ll tell ya, it’s not easy being an upwardly-mobile pretentious a-hole in today’s fast paced society. You can’t even get a decent cup of overpriced amaretto coffee when you want one!!!
I have gazed into the inky black bottom of the coffee pot, and I have seen non-flavored coffee staring back at me.
The horror, the sheer horror of it all.
Earlier today I went to purchase my morning coffee and the sign CLEARLY advertised vanilla, hazelnut and amaretto flavors. Having always been partial to the almond-tinged spirits, I asked the server to brew me up a cup of amaretto-flavored java and he had the utter temerity to inform me - get this - “No, we only have the vanilla and hazelnut.”
Naturally, my response was swift and unmitigated. “WHAT THE …??? No amaretto? What are we, philistines? NO AMARETTO??? That’s downright barbaric!!! Are you suggesting I ONLY drink the hazelnut, or even worse, the REGULAR coffee? What’s next, sacrificing virgins to the volcano god while TALKING TO PEOPLE FACE TO FACE instead of texting them???”
After a moment of palpable silence, which I’m sure was spent in ruminative penance for his barista-based sins, the server ever-so-contritely asked me, “So you want the vanilla or not, buddy? You’re holding up my freakin’ line here.”
Excuse me, VANILLA? HOHO! Can you imagine anything more plebeian? “Good LORD MAN!” I exclaimed. “That’s what the book-sniffers down at BARNES AND IGNOBLES drink, for heaven’s sake! SURELY you’re not suggesting I imbibe that swill? Do you honestly think I can sit in a meeting with the aroma of common VANILLA beans wafting from my mug? I’ll be laughed right out of the room!” Oddly, he seemed singularly unmoved by my fervent argument.
Then the server – by sheer accident, I’m sure - reached over the counter, knocked my blackberry out of my hands, and proceeded to spill a full pot of piping hot hazelnut coffee all over it. I know he immediately regretted his error because he loudly announced, “OOPS! SORRY!” while looking me straight in the eye. Sadly, he must have been having a bad day because he somehow managed to grab a SECOND brimmin’ pot of coffee (praline flavored) and likewise spill ITS contents all over my helpless “berry.”
Wow. Talk about clumsy! I almost felt bad for the poor schlub. Can you imagine being that clueless?
Consequently, my feet and lower legs are now are scorched with disfiguring third degree burns from the coffee splashing off the counter and soaking straight through my clothes. However, that indignity is but a trifling when compared to the social shame that comes from being forced to drink a rather pedestrian blend of medium-roast coffee beans.
Never mind that throwing some fancy flavors into a pot of coffee hardly makes it the epitome of refined living. The important thing is that I FEEL enlightened and cultured while continuing my endless descent into being a mindless tool. I’ll tell ya, it’s not easy being an upwardly-mobile pretentious a-hole in today’s fast paced society. You can’t even get a decent cup of overpriced amaretto coffee when you want one!!!
I have gazed into the inky black bottom of the coffee pot, and I have seen non-flavored coffee staring back at me.
The horror, the sheer horror of it all.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Starbucks Mints Better Be Made Out of Gold
AKA: What's It All About, Owlzie?
The Nite Owlz All Night Blog Spot has been open about a month now, and a lot of people (read: my mom) keep e-mailing and asking, "What the heck is this place? And when are you going to get your junk out of my basement?" Well, I'd like to take this opportunity not to clear up any confusion about the nature of this blog, nor to make arrangements for removing junk from my mom's house, but rather to whore myself and engage in a little shameless branding, all under the transparent guise of savagely satirizing those very same behaviors in corporate America. Cool how that works, huhn?
With that in mind, I'd like to extend a warm Nite Owlz welcome to everyone out there, and kindly ask you to think of us as your newest, and favorite-ist, coffee house. That is, a place to hang out, sup on some overpriced java, and get a little reading done. Since the internet offers unlimited access from almost anywhere in the world, we're now available in ALMOST as many places as real, free-standing Starbucks stores. So, the next time you're in "town" be sure to come on in and get yourself an inhumanly hot cup of overflowing coffee, even though I actually serve nothing of the kind, and offer no real means of getting any. (This is theater of the mind, folks! Go with it!)
Like all trendy coffeehouses, be sure to plop down in one of our big comfy chairs next to the other "customers," and try to look all bohemian and interested in what you're reading just in case that cute number from up the street comes sauntering in the door. For God's sake, you don't want her/him to think you actually couldn't care less about Nietzsche, and have really been thinking about getting splash-wild with her/him all day??!!! Try to look intellectual for once in your life, will ya??? Have another double-espresso-vanilla-mocha-almond-assante-twist-latte and bury your nose in whatever you're reading. If you have to look, try not to take more than six furtive glances a minute and act like you're contemplating the price of a nutmeg and stinging nettle frappuccino. Pretend you really ARE grooving to the pretentious Elliot-Smith-rip-off mewling in the overhead speakers. You know, the music that's so "indie" it's only playing in 98 percent of the corporate coffee chains throughout the country.
While you're here, be sure to check out our oversized stuffed toy owls and gargantuan "Nite Owlz" coffee mugs (large enough to hold six days' worth of coffee). Then, on your way out, you can purchase some eight dollar breath mints. Sure, you COULD get the same mints for about 50 cents at the corner grocery store. But hey! These are in a snazzy little tin with a Fleur-de-lis pattern, and it sort of looks like an antiquated snuff box from England. After all, everybody knows that anything from England automatically confers "style" and "class" upon the owner, even if he's just a bad-breathed schlub who likes over-priced coffee!
So get with it! Stop standing outside in the cold. Come on in, check out my latest ramblings, leave a comment or two, and while you're at it, try to figure out if that nine dollar cup of coffee is SUPPOSED to taste like the burnt underside of a rusted diesel engine, or if you're just too bourgeois to appreciate true gourmet excellence.
I should point out, however, I don't have internet access here at the Nite Owlz all night blog spot. I did for awhile, but everyone kept logging on and going to some OTHER dude's coffeehouse while sitting in MY coffeehouse! I'm sorry, but I find that a bit disrespectful.
Have fun!
Nite Owl
The Nite Owlz All Night Blog Spot has been open about a month now, and a lot of people (read: my mom) keep e-mailing and asking, "What the heck is this place? And when are you going to get your junk out of my basement?" Well, I'd like to take this opportunity not to clear up any confusion about the nature of this blog, nor to make arrangements for removing junk from my mom's house, but rather to whore myself and engage in a little shameless branding, all under the transparent guise of savagely satirizing those very same behaviors in corporate America. Cool how that works, huhn?
With that in mind, I'd like to extend a warm Nite Owlz welcome to everyone out there, and kindly ask you to think of us as your newest, and favorite-ist, coffee house. That is, a place to hang out, sup on some overpriced java, and get a little reading done. Since the internet offers unlimited access from almost anywhere in the world, we're now available in ALMOST as many places as real, free-standing Starbucks stores. So, the next time you're in "town" be sure to come on in and get yourself an inhumanly hot cup of overflowing coffee, even though I actually serve nothing of the kind, and offer no real means of getting any. (This is theater of the mind, folks! Go with it!)
Like all trendy coffeehouses, be sure to plop down in one of our big comfy chairs next to the other "customers," and try to look all bohemian and interested in what you're reading just in case that cute number from up the street comes sauntering in the door. For God's sake, you don't want her/him to think you actually couldn't care less about Nietzsche, and have really been thinking about getting splash-wild with her/him all day??!!! Try to look intellectual for once in your life, will ya??? Have another double-espresso-vanilla-mocha-almond-assante-twist-latte and bury your nose in whatever you're reading. If you have to look, try not to take more than six furtive glances a minute and act like you're contemplating the price of a nutmeg and stinging nettle frappuccino. Pretend you really ARE grooving to the pretentious Elliot-Smith-rip-off mewling in the overhead speakers. You know, the music that's so "indie" it's only playing in 98 percent of the corporate coffee chains throughout the country.
While you're here, be sure to check out our oversized stuffed toy owls and gargantuan "Nite Owlz" coffee mugs (large enough to hold six days' worth of coffee). Then, on your way out, you can purchase some eight dollar breath mints. Sure, you COULD get the same mints for about 50 cents at the corner grocery store. But hey! These are in a snazzy little tin with a Fleur-de-lis pattern, and it sort of looks like an antiquated snuff box from England. After all, everybody knows that anything from England automatically confers "style" and "class" upon the owner, even if he's just a bad-breathed schlub who likes over-priced coffee!
So get with it! Stop standing outside in the cold. Come on in, check out my latest ramblings, leave a comment or two, and while you're at it, try to figure out if that nine dollar cup of coffee is SUPPOSED to taste like the burnt underside of a rusted diesel engine, or if you're just too bourgeois to appreciate true gourmet excellence.
I should point out, however, I don't have internet access here at the Nite Owlz all night blog spot. I did for awhile, but everyone kept logging on and going to some OTHER dude's coffeehouse while sitting in MY coffeehouse! I'm sorry, but I find that a bit disrespectful.
Have fun!
Nite Owl
Monday, December 10, 2007
Phrased Out, Part 3: "Sexy"
AKA: I'm Taking Sexy Back.
This week, in our ongoing series about words that need to be excised from common parlance, we examine the word "sexy." Now, don't go spilling your fat-free mocha-chinos all over your laptops, I'm NOT talking about "sexy" as in the Victoria's Secret ad "What is sexy?" although something tells me that's less of a question than it is a command.
No, what I'm speaking of are the corporate tools and other dunderheads-at-large who insist on using "sexy" to refer to things that are about as far removed from actual sex as a pack of fanboys arguing over the recent decision to change Clea's costume from purple to off-purple in the upcoming big-screen adaptation of "Dr. Strange."
At some point, someone decided that "sexy" could be used metaphorically to describe ANYTHNG viewed as "new, alluring, exciting or scintillating," especially in the realm of business. It doesn't even matter if the subject in question is diametrically opposed to sex, like a picture of Donald Trump doing the frug in a polka-dot speedo. If there is something frighteningly boring, corporate, or unsexy, you can be certain some creatively-bankrupt drone will plaster the label "sexy" on it to in effort to artificially induce excitement.
As a result, the following items (and many more) have become "sexy" under this terrifying new worldview: spread sheets, computer software, casserole dishes, toenail fungus cream, toxic waste dumps, stocks and bonds, bathroom porcelain, Taco Bell coupons, slide projector transparencies, mp3 technology, Kenny G, cheese doodles, office buildings, Hong Kong Phooey toilet brushes (ok, maybe that last one IS a little bit sexy), and just about anything else you can think of. As a result, the word has lost all meaning, vitality and potency. It could probably use a little Viagra itself.*
Like most of the words we examine here, "sexy," as applied to the business-world,was probably pretty clever and novel the first few times it was used in a non-traditional sense. For example, "We are unveiling a sexy new business model this week" probably sounded pretty good the first 9,547,648 times it was said. It also makes sense at a deeper level, if you figure about 98 percent of the time media and big businesses are trying to exploit our baser impulses in a continuing effort to fuel the engine of consumerism.
Consumerism and sex are so deeply intertwined in this country I suppose it was only a matter of time before they were completely fused in everyday language. After all, it's only a hop, skip and a hump from dubbing a sheet of paper in a magazine "sexy" to calling a deep dish pizza or a 4th quarter sales graph the same thing. (By extension, a pie chart, which conceptually combines both pizza AND graphs, is probably about the sexiest damn thing there out there. I often find myself in need a cold shower after reading USA TODAY'S breakdown of where we're buying our odor-eaters this week.)
But I digress. Most of these stooges aren't saying "sexy" because of some deeper symbolic intertwining of sexuality, consumerism and commerce. No, in all likelihood they're merely parroting someone else with more birdseed and brighter plumage who they heard squawking the same empty adjective while hovering around the corporate birdbath. True to their nature, these scavengers couldn't resist the urge to pluck the semi-digested linguistic morsel from the larger bird's mouth and roll it around on their own tongues for awhile. Mind you, half the flavor had already been sucked out, but hey, no one ever accused these birds of having discerning palettes.
The bottom line is this: Despite what you're being told, flow charts aren't sexy. Frozen, imitation bison cutlets aren't sexy. Your local paper's obituary column isn't sexy. Heidi Klum wearing a French maid costume at the breakfast table and arguing with a bikini-clad Jessica Alba over who gets the last of the waffles before settling their differences with a good old-fashioned boysenberry syrup fight isn't sexy. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention on that last one.**
There's nothing wrong with trying to spice up everyday language with words that don't normally apply in a given context. However, when it's done repeatedly and with little thought, words like "sexy" quickly devolve into cliches and meaningless job-speak with little impact on anyone. Let's stop neutering words like "sexy" by using them indiscriminately to prop up our flaccid conversations. I think it's time to leave "sexy" where it belongs, at the NiteOwlz All Night Waffle House.
Oh, and one more thing: I'm glad Justin Timberlake has been single-handedly "bringing sexy back" given the relative dearth of sexually-oriented material in the media. How refreshing!
Footnotes:
* I'd also like to stress here that I'm NOT talking about infusing typically non-sexual things WITH sexuality, like painting erotic art on the side of a toaster, or running toaster ads with lingerie models in them. I am specifically objecting to people who think the toaster's extra heat setting qualifies as a "SEXY!" new feature. Well, it's not sexy unless you're intimately involved with your toaster, I suppose. For most of us non-toaster-philes, it's just another setting for us to accidentally burn our toast.
** I am aware that "Heidi/Jessica" is a gender-centric example. If I had tried to make a universal example, or presented an "or" scenario featuring Brad Pitt and Jude Law, I would have seriously diminished the comedic effect of the passage. SO THERE!
This week, in our ongoing series about words that need to be excised from common parlance, we examine the word "sexy." Now, don't go spilling your fat-free mocha-chinos all over your laptops, I'm NOT talking about "sexy" as in the Victoria's Secret ad "What is sexy?" although something tells me that's less of a question than it is a command.
No, what I'm speaking of are the corporate tools and other dunderheads-at-large who insist on using "sexy" to refer to things that are about as far removed from actual sex as a pack of fanboys arguing over the recent decision to change Clea's costume from purple to off-purple in the upcoming big-screen adaptation of "Dr. Strange."
At some point, someone decided that "sexy" could be used metaphorically to describe ANYTHNG viewed as "new, alluring, exciting or scintillating," especially in the realm of business. It doesn't even matter if the subject in question is diametrically opposed to sex, like a picture of Donald Trump doing the frug in a polka-dot speedo. If there is something frighteningly boring, corporate, or unsexy, you can be certain some creatively-bankrupt drone will plaster the label "sexy" on it to in effort to artificially induce excitement.
As a result, the following items (and many more) have become "sexy" under this terrifying new worldview: spread sheets, computer software, casserole dishes, toenail fungus cream, toxic waste dumps, stocks and bonds, bathroom porcelain, Taco Bell coupons, slide projector transparencies, mp3 technology, Kenny G, cheese doodles, office buildings, Hong Kong Phooey toilet brushes (ok, maybe that last one IS a little bit sexy), and just about anything else you can think of. As a result, the word has lost all meaning, vitality and potency. It could probably use a little Viagra itself.*
Like most of the words we examine here, "sexy," as applied to the business-world,was probably pretty clever and novel the first few times it was used in a non-traditional sense. For example, "We are unveiling a sexy new business model this week" probably sounded pretty good the first 9,547,648 times it was said. It also makes sense at a deeper level, if you figure about 98 percent of the time media and big businesses are trying to exploit our baser impulses in a continuing effort to fuel the engine of consumerism.
Consumerism and sex are so deeply intertwined in this country I suppose it was only a matter of time before they were completely fused in everyday language. After all, it's only a hop, skip and a hump from dubbing a sheet of paper in a magazine "sexy" to calling a deep dish pizza or a 4th quarter sales graph the same thing. (By extension, a pie chart, which conceptually combines both pizza AND graphs, is probably about the sexiest damn thing there out there. I often find myself in need a cold shower after reading USA TODAY'S breakdown of where we're buying our odor-eaters this week.)
But I digress. Most of these stooges aren't saying "sexy" because of some deeper symbolic intertwining of sexuality, consumerism and commerce. No, in all likelihood they're merely parroting someone else with more birdseed and brighter plumage who they heard squawking the same empty adjective while hovering around the corporate birdbath. True to their nature, these scavengers couldn't resist the urge to pluck the semi-digested linguistic morsel from the larger bird's mouth and roll it around on their own tongues for awhile. Mind you, half the flavor had already been sucked out, but hey, no one ever accused these birds of having discerning palettes.
The bottom line is this: Despite what you're being told, flow charts aren't sexy. Frozen, imitation bison cutlets aren't sexy. Your local paper's obituary column isn't sexy. Heidi Klum wearing a French maid costume at the breakfast table and arguing with a bikini-clad Jessica Alba over who gets the last of the waffles before settling their differences with a good old-fashioned boysenberry syrup fight isn't sexy. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention on that last one.**
There's nothing wrong with trying to spice up everyday language with words that don't normally apply in a given context. However, when it's done repeatedly and with little thought, words like "sexy" quickly devolve into cliches and meaningless job-speak with little impact on anyone. Let's stop neutering words like "sexy" by using them indiscriminately to prop up our flaccid conversations. I think it's time to leave "sexy" where it belongs, at the NiteOwlz All Night Waffle House.
Oh, and one more thing: I'm glad Justin Timberlake has been single-handedly "bringing sexy back" given the relative dearth of sexually-oriented material in the media. How refreshing!
Footnotes:
* I'd also like to stress here that I'm NOT talking about infusing typically non-sexual things WITH sexuality, like painting erotic art on the side of a toaster, or running toaster ads with lingerie models in them. I am specifically objecting to people who think the toaster's extra heat setting qualifies as a "SEXY!" new feature. Well, it's not sexy unless you're intimately involved with your toaster, I suppose. For most of us non-toaster-philes, it's just another setting for us to accidentally burn our toast.
** I am aware that "Heidi/Jessica" is a gender-centric example. If I had tried to make a universal example, or presented an "or" scenario featuring Brad Pitt and Jude Law, I would have seriously diminished the comedic effect of the passage. SO THERE!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
New York Quotes You'll Never Hear (Ever, Ever, Ever).
Ten quotes you can bet were never uttered in (or about) New York City:
10. "My, that's quite the ambrosian fragrance emanating from this corner street grate!"
9. "Hang on, let me take my ipod off and hang up the cell phone... I want to be able to focus on my surroundings in such hectic, chaotic surroundings."
8. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't mean to bump into you."
7. "You know what? We better TRIPLE check the (choose one) steam pipes/buildings/electricity/falling dumpsters. It would be REALLY bad if something went wrong, and we'd be responsible."
6. "Don't worry; we've got plenty of money to fix these problems!"
5. "You saw some rats in the storage room? Oh my god. We better close the restaurant IMMEDIATELY and call the exterminator!"
4. "Wow! What a bargain! We could rent TWO apartments!"
3. "Man, I honestly can't remember the last time I heard someone make a quasi-ironic or cynical, knowing comment!"
2. "I gotta tell ya, this overpriced coffee in cups designed for image-obsessed, unwitting corporate shills really tastes like ass! Let's just buy a cup at McDonald's!"
1. "You know, all these deep-rooted, irreparable problems have really made me reconsider my ill-advised romanticization of a city based on the fact I can get good pizza at three in the morning and I saw a catchy musical here when I was in college."
10. "My, that's quite the ambrosian fragrance emanating from this corner street grate!"
9. "Hang on, let me take my ipod off and hang up the cell phone... I want to be able to focus on my surroundings in such hectic, chaotic surroundings."
8. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't mean to bump into you."
7. "You know what? We better TRIPLE check the (choose one) steam pipes/buildings/electricity/falling dumpsters. It would be REALLY bad if something went wrong, and we'd be responsible."
6. "Don't worry; we've got plenty of money to fix these problems!"
5. "You saw some rats in the storage room? Oh my god. We better close the restaurant IMMEDIATELY and call the exterminator!"
4. "Wow! What a bargain! We could rent TWO apartments!"
3. "Man, I honestly can't remember the last time I heard someone make a quasi-ironic or cynical, knowing comment!"
2. "I gotta tell ya, this overpriced coffee in cups designed for image-obsessed, unwitting corporate shills really tastes like ass! Let's just buy a cup at McDonald's!"
1. "You know, all these deep-rooted, irreparable problems have really made me reconsider my ill-advised romanticization of a city based on the fact I can get good pizza at three in the morning and I saw a catchy musical here when I was in college."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)