The Reason for the Season

Guess 'tis not the season to be jolly, after all...

Alas poor Yorick--he had to work with idiots...

'Tis the season for breaks from regular office routine, including such exciting alternatives as dreary parties, team-building events, and "professional development" days. Rather than getting into the inherent pointlessness of any of these, I'll let this example do the illustrating:

A motivational speaker at a recent out-of-office day-long seminar was going on about the importance of renewal. He claimed that sleep was the perfect way to renew oneself, and offered the following quote as proof, claiming Shakespeare, who was truly a genius, even then knew the importance of getting enough sleep:

To sleep, perchance to dream
Hamlet (III, i)

'Course, maybe he should have kept reading (although I have the feeling he still wouldn't get it):

To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come...

And the best part? Everyone there thought this motivational speaker was brilliant. They loved everything he had to say and have been going on about it ever since, they were just that inspired.

Anyone got a poison-tipped sword handy?

Epiphania

I think I've stopped fighting my demons and have started just letting them have their way with me.

Why people and their kids suck, Reason #5689

This is a tale not involving me, but involving my best friend as related by him...

So, last night as S was leaving work after a long day dealing with idiots (did I mention he's a fellow misanthrope?) he boarded the subway and settled into the niche around the unused doors. A couple of stops later, two women and a kid box him in, the kid standing right next to him in the niche. As the train stopped at the next station, the kid, being useless as kids tend to be, bumped into him. S looked down and noticed that part of the reason why the kid wasn't holding on to anything to keep from bumping into other people was because he was eating. A peanut butter sandwich.

Fine, S thought to himself. It's inevitable the kid's going to get peanut butter on me; I'll just clean it when I get off the train.

At the next stop, the kid bumps into him again. At this point, the kid's mother pipes up and says that S has got peanut butter on him and (amazingly) offers her own gloves to help clean it off. So far, so good.

Now S is an incredibly decent person (he must be if I like him as much as I do when I can't stand most other people). He doesn't make a big deal of things, even when he's annoyed. So he smiled in a friendly way and said no worries and that he had napkins he could use to clean off the peanut butter, but thanks for the offer of the gloves.

The train starts again and S immerses himself in the paper, only to hear the other woman pipe up a few seconds later: "She didn't have to tell you, you know!"

He decided to ignore this and continued reading the paper, although he could hear the two women talking in low tones until they got off the train. Maybe the mother was telling her friend to shut the hell up. Maybe both women were talking about what as asshole S was. Whatever.

But S's rightful reaction (and mine when he told me) was What the Fuck? So your friend's kid (who, by the way isn't being held on to by either of you--why? And is eating something sticky on a rush-hour subway train--why???) gets his crap on someone else's clean clothes and you cop an attitude about it?

Note to parents and those who are sympathetic to them: Your kid is not universally cute. Your kid is not entitled to behave any way it wants to in public, even if watching the kid and, oh, I don't know, actually doing some parenting makes more work for you. And if your kid inconveniences a stranger in any way, be glad the brat didn't get a swift kick, and have the decency not to give the inconvenienced person any fucking attitude!

A breeding license is looking better and better...

How soon is now?

It's sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew. --Henry Rollins

I think it's safe to say that I qualify as an adult. I've got my own place, bills, responsibilities. I'm well past the age when mommy and daddy (or anyone else, for that matter) get to have a say in what I do. But allow me to let you in on a little secret, boys and girls: there is no magic moment when you become a "grown-up." You know--that supposed point in time when a metaphorical light goes on over your head and you've suddenly got everything figured out: who you are, where you're going, what the point of everything is. You don't suddenly become mature, happy, stable, sensible. That teenage angst driving you crazy? It never really does go away. Hell, for most people, high school never really goes away.

In my experience, it seems everyone starts figuring this out (or at least acting on it) around the same age. And there are two initial responses to this newfound and unwanted knowledge: depression or panic.

Those who get depressed will carry on with their lives doing whatever they were doing before, making the same plans, moving forward. Only they're not quite themselves anymore. They've got a shadow hanging over them, weighing them down, reminding them that This Is It. Things don't suddenly start making sense, the way is not suddenly illuminated. Their obnoxious co-workers are not suddenly going to grow the fuck up, and their spoiled 30-something siblings are not going to see the error of their ways. They won't get the key to happiness and fulfillment handed to them along with their university/college degree and parking pass. The shadow reminds them that happiness comes at a price, and that price is the damn hard work of finding out who they are and creating, if they can, the life that's right for them.

The ones who panic are like victims succumbing to some kind of monkey virus. One day they are whoever they were; the next they're just a statistic. They're sure the answers are out there, and the only way to find them is to stay on the prescribed path, the one (they believe) everyone else is on. They latch on to a group, a belief, a theory, and cling to it with a death grip. Those are the friends who suddenly start talking like they got their hands on a script: it's all cliches and catchphrases, the topics all safe and common. They start acting the same scripted way. They buy a house when everyone else is doing it, they have kids after they've been to a couple of friends' baby showers. It doesn't matter what they do with their lives as long as they're doing it exactly the same way everyone else is. The only good thing about losing these friends (and you will, unless you let yourself get infected too) is that you won't be around to watch the inevitable mid-life crises.

Grey Area

Remember when you were a kid and you were told the good guys always win? In fact, forget about the bizarro-world of childhood--even as adults, we're told the same thing. Watch just about any popular movie; at their heart, they're all about the battle between good and evil (even if good is the girl next door and evil is the homewrecker with the implants)--and guess which one is winning. Well, winning onscreen, anyway. In real life the black hats have coaches and PR people, they know how to work the system, and they're not afraid to do whatever it takes to get what they want. The good guys, on the other hand, show up at the cage match with reason, ethics, and an outdated rule book. The heroes don't even get the crowd's support anymore; at least, not the ones who don't care about reason and ethics. They're too busy bullying everyone else for the good seats, running the bad guys' errands, and believing they'll get the big reward for their loyalty. Every day, the black hats gain a little more and the white hats care a little less.

It turns out the homewrecker gets the guy in the end, after all--the girl next door didn't put up much of a fight.

Worker and Parasite

There are way too many people in the world (learn to use birth control, overpopulaters), which, unfortunately for the rest of us, means there are way too many human leeches. These are people born with the same potential as their peers, but they constantly feel hard-done-by. They complain about everything and never offer solutions (or ever admit solutions exist). Everywhere they go, they spew a cloud of gloom and negativity. If that was the sum of it, they wouldn't be a problem--we could just ignore them and let them stew in their own ineffectualness. Unfortunately, there is one thing and one thing only that they get off on, and that's taking from everybody in their proximity. If they're kleptos, they'll take things of value only to their owners--things designed to cause maximum hurt. Most of them aren't kleptos; however, they're just assholes. They'll find the thing that you're in love with at the moment and tear it to shreds. If they suss out what they perceive to be your personal weakness, they'll pick at it and pick at it and pick at it, constantly bringing it up, commenting on it, reminding you of it. They don't feel good unless someone else feels bad. They're pathetic.

I'm finding myself beset upon by a leech. I think I've managed to find the solution to dealing with it, though. The advantage to being a depressed misanthrope, is you just don't give a shit what the average person thinks or says--even less so when it comes to these dreary hangers-on. My leech can blather and bluster at me all it wants--I don't care (nor, in fact, do I believe a word it says). Even better, I can get up and walk away at any time. The thing with leeches is, they wither as soon as they're cut off from their blood supply.

Mass confusion

It is said that not understanding something leads to fearing it. Well, maybe not understanding people leads to misanthropy. I don’t get the thousands of things people do every day. I don’t get their thought processes. I don’t get them.

I don’t understand why people (usually women) are so desperate to get married that who they marry is practically irrelevant. I don’t get why anyone would spend tens of thousands of dollars on a party no one but the couple will remember in a year’s time. Yeah, I’ve been to plenty of weddings—no one remembers them (there was a woman in a white dress of some sort, right?) Why not spend that money on something worthwhile, like a house or a trip, or, hey, give it to charity. Wouldn’t it be a better use of the money to give it to those who need it, rather than stressing over flowers and table settings and the font on the invitations? If that’s the best day of your life, you’re in trouble.

I don’t comprehend people who spend their entire lives in school. Education is a good thing. Over-education is a waste of time. I’ve known people who go back for degree after degree, in the most useless subjects you can think of, and never do anything with them. Or they keep changing their areas of study, never finishing anything, but always claiming to be a student (it’s a good excuse for why they haven’t done anything else with their lives—like move out of their parents’ basement). On the other hand, I don’t get the people who refuse an education and then complain that there are no opportunities for them (they think that’s a good excuse for why they’re not doing anything with their lives).

I don’t get roller derbies, or HumVees outside of military use, or Dr. Phil. I don’t get really upscale restaurants that try to convince you to re-mortgage your house for a plate of organ meats (or the people who pay and rave about it). I don’t get those wooden cutouts of fat people bending over that people put in their gardens. I don’t get why Gen X is trying so hard to emulate the most pathetic of all generations, the Boomers. I don’t get plastic surgery that makes you look like a blow-up doll. Or girls who dress up their tiny dogs and carry them around like the latest cool accessory. Or TV networks that cancel the amazing shows after a few episodes (RIP Firefly) and let the dreck go on and on (and then turn it into movies). I don’t get yummy mummies or tanning salons or curling (the sport). I don’t get oenophiles or raw foodists or freegans.

Mostly, I don’t get how everyone else gets this stuff.

Human Nature

I am sick of feeling like my insides are being torn out after hearing stories about assholes abusing, torturing, and killing pets*. The latest involves a pair of soulless teenagers in Alberta, the neighbour’s cat, and a microwave. How broken do you have to be to feel good about torturing a helpless creature to death? How fucking pathetic are you to think tormenting something smaller than you makes you strong? These two sat through the trial, listening to what they had done and how much the cat suffered, without even showing any emotion. And you know what kind of sentence these serial-killers-in-training got? A year of probation and 100 hours community service. Yeah, that’ll learn them. I think a human-sized microwave and fifteen minutes on the clock would be more appropriate. This isn’t about animal rights, it’s about basic human decency—something that seems to be in shorter supply every day.

*I'm talking about any companion-type animal here, including the ones that don't actually belong to anyone.

Du hast mich

I had a dream about you last night. You were the way you used to be, back before you lost yourself. You were smiling like you did before you were crushed. Before you let yourself be crushed. And you looked at me like you still cared. When I woke up, I could still feel you against me. I want to find you and make things right. I want you to find your way back on your own. But you’re trapped inside what you think you should be. And I’m trapped where you left me, writing to empty air.

For a minute there, you had me worried

On the subway today, I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of great affection for all the people I saw on the platform. They all seemed fascinating, and I wanted to get to know them and hear their stories.

I got myself home and lay down until the feeling went away.

Just like a normal person

I'm sad a lot. I'm sad that Douglas Adams died young while Anne Rice lives on, like one of her effete characters. I'm sad that people I love keep dying or leaving or losing themselves. I'm sad that the animals at the zoo look so depressed, and more so that it's still probably the best place for them. I'm sad that idiots can kill endangered animals for sport (or at all). I'm sad that young women care more about their purses and shoes than anything of real value. I'm sad that young men seem to think it's okay to be useless. I'm sad that people think being a spoiled brat is something to aspire to. I'm sad that in an overpopulated world people will go to ridiculous lengths to overpopulate it even more. I'm sad that religion is used (and accepted) as an excuse for all manner of atrocities. I'm sad that the people who should be leading are more concerned with attaining and maintaining power.

But, you know, I just can't bring myself to give a shit about the real or manufactured woes of attention-seeking celebrities (it's interesting that they suddenly feel the need to "share" their stories just as their new movie/album/reality show is coming out). Can we go back to actual news now?

Ich habe Sie

Mason: If people think that you don't like them, they want it even more, it's pathetic really, isn't it? ... Okay so that was today's lesson from Der Waffle Haus, withhold the love and you gain the power.
--Dead Like Me, "The Shallow End"

Mason might be a fuck-up, but he’s right. I’m generally a nice person. I’m polite and helpful and try to keep my evil glare under wraps. I avoid confrontation; hell, sometimes the angrier I am, the nicer I’ll be (particularly with my boss, who’s a worse fuck-up than Mason but who I can’t afford not to be nice to). And in my niceness, people are nice back, but I rarely have them chasing after my attention.

Not until I stop being nice.

The couple I mentioned who are friends with my friends, the ones who are smug and pretentious and live in squalor—the ones I want nothing to do with—seem to really like me. Okay, I’m not particularly rude to them. I’ll talk to them if there’s a common point of interest. But I have been known to snap at stupid statements he’s made. I’m not enthusiastic about anything they do or say. I roll my eyes at his idiot jokes or their hippie idealism. And yet they keep inviting me to things. Groups they form, events they host, gatherings at their filthy apartment. I keep saying no and they just invite me all the more.

It’s not the first time, either. I met a good friend of mine back in university when she sat next to me in class, and I think she would agree that I didn’t project the friendliest aura when she chose to sit next to me rather than the empty seat farther away (and I’m amazed she wanted to get to know me after that). Another friend admitted that I initially scared him (that damn evil glare again). A third someone seemed happier to be around me the meaner I was (the meanness in that case stemmed from some serious frustration with him; he, on the other hand, has his own issues).

So, withhold the love and gain the power? Pass the dictatorship, hold the benevolence.

Shiny

I don’t get happy people. I don’t understand them in the slightest. It’s not that I haven’t had my share of happiness—bliss, even, but for me it’s an occasional emotion, not a constant. And yet some people wear it like a favourite pair of jeans. No matter what happens to them—loss, sickness, the latest Good Charlotte album—they’re always so bloody cheery. Nothing can get them down—they have a song in their heart and some Pollyanna-esque personal motto to get them through the darkest days. While Susie Sunshine beams from her full-body cast, I’m out of it from hearing bad news of the middling variety. It’s not even that I’m necessarily upset or depressed about it (yeah, even a depressed misanthrope takes a break once in a while) but being okay is not the same as being happy. I might not be crying in my beer, but I’m also not grinning like an idiot at everyone who passes my way. Hey, world—isn’t everything awesome! Isn’t life great? Gosh golly gee!!!

I can’t decide if these people are completely stupid or if they’ve discovered the key to life.

Bugging Out

On the subway today I saw an insect crawling on the floor. It would pause on sticky spots like there was something interesting there. Every so often someone, not realizing it was there, would knock it over with their shoe, and it would flail wildly on its back trying to regain its equilibrium. At one point it got stepped on and I was sure it was dead, but it started flailing weakly, and then with more energy until it righted itself and started moving around again. I can relate to that bug.

Enemies of the State

I know a couple (met her first, but he and I get along too) who are cool, outgoing people. As such, they always have a crowd over at their place—a crowd I’m unwillingly a part of. I forbear in order to enjoy their company, but I’m not sure how my friends ended up with so many gross, obnoxious losers as buddies.

Maybe it’s because they met most of their other friends through an organization that's basically a club for hippies who like to play dress-up and pretend they live in the era when not bathing was socially acceptable. Since they all come from the same place, I guess they’d all be similar shades of annoying.

Luckily, I don’t encounter too many of them that often. Some live out of town, some only show up occasionally. There’s the sturdy goth girl who has to state every opinion at top volume. She works with animals, so every other sentence is somehow related to dog and horse penises. There’s the chick who drones on at length about how bourgeois everything is; meanwhile she’s going for her post-grad in medieval bookbinding (medieval bookbinders were at the forefront of the proletarian revolution, don’t you know). There’s her boyfriend who left his pregnant wife for her and likes to rest his disgusting bare feet (what the hell is going on with his toes?) on every surface. There’s the nerd who doesn’t say much until he’s interested in the topic and then his belief is the only right one.

Unfortunately, there is one couple I find myself repeatedly interacting with, a pair who are everything I hate. They’re on welfare more than they’re off it (not because they need to be—they just don’t like working all that much). They live in squalor and decided it was a good idea to bring a child into it. They’re dirty, rude, pretentious, and smug. They clearly find themselves terribly droll and witty. He also thinks he’s a gentleman, and she a lady. I think they’re twits who add nothing to the world and should be wiped off the face of the planet.

So what do you do when your friends’ friends are morons?

Prophetic

I’ve been away for the last week. Not much to say: spoiled tourists, annoying locals. Next time I think I’ll skip the family vacation. But sucky vacations aside, the real disappointment didn’t hit until I got back and caught up on the news. Among other things that happened while I was away, Random House has decided to scrap a book that was on the verge of publication because it might be offensive to some extremists. Right.

The book is a romance novel featuring the prophet Mohammed’s first wife. Apparently no one saw a problem with it until it was sent to some professor for a cover blurb and the professor took offence. From there Random House decided Muslim extremists might also get offended and could cause trouble.

Subject matter aside (exactly how romantic can a book be about a pre-pubescent girl who's sent off to be the first wife among many?), what the fuck is going on here? So now we bow to the psychos? We subjugate our beliefs to their unreasonable whims just to avoid any possibility of pissing them off? In a world where people kill each other over mundane differences of opinion, how can it be remotely sane to try to never offend anyone? As far as I’m concerned this is the worst kind of censorship; Random House might as well just close their doors now and find a less-contentious business to be in (Beekeeping? Nope, that’ll upset the animal rights faction. Modelling agency? Well, feminists won’t care for that. Office supplies? Oops—irritated environmentalists. Never mind…)

Maybe Random House is a little gun shy (no pun intended) after the whole Salman Rushdie fatwah debacle. Makes me wonder now why they kept that book in print and continue to publish his work (guess he brings in more coin than a single romance novel ever will). Of course, the fact that he’s alive and writing is reason enough not to give in to those who would bully you. Maybe that’s just me.

The writer, by the way, thought everything was going smoothly until she was told the book was axed. There go two years of research, not to mention however long it took her to write the thing. But you know—wouldn’t want to risk upsetting anyone. Too bad they hadn’t yet reached the printing stage—they could have held a good old-fashioned book burning in the RH courtyard.

Lament for the broken

No surprise, but I don't tend to get close to people. Misanthropy + introversion= shiny happy fun time! When I do manage to form a bond, though, it's a lasting one. I don't throw the word love around carelessly, using and discarding it on a whim. There's a person in and out of my life (more out than in at the moment) who, much as I don't want to admit it and wish it wasn't the case, has left me shattered. He probably doesn't realize what he's doing, but that would be because he doesn't want to realize it. He's a coward, unfortunately. He'd rather fit in than really be happy. I'd rather be happy. Guess no one wins.

Defender of the Faith

The people who care about me also worry about me. They can't understand why I feel the way I do. They ask why I don't just laugh things off. It's funny when people act like idiots, they say. But, other than the odd departure, I just can't laugh at people's stupidity. I don't find it amusing when adults who supposedly have gone through elementary school (and beyond) don't know basic math, science, grammar. It doesn't entertain me when people settle for a life of utter mediocrity (not if they have even a hint of a choice in the matter). It sure as hell isn't enjoyable when people not only don't try to improve things, but actively endeavour to make them worse.

Angel: Nothing in the world is as it ought to be. It's harsh and it's cruel. But that's why there's us. Champions. Doesn't matter where we come from, what we've done or suffered, or even if we make a difference. We live as though the world were as it should be, to show it what it can be. (Angel, "Deep Down")

Not saying I'm a Champion (at best, maybe the small-c champion-slash-cheerleader of people using their brains), but I just can't accept the world the way it is. And I sure as hell don't find it funny.

Sidewalk Art

(Photo by me)

Whence my misanthropy

No doubt many of you have heard about the seriously horrifying beheading on a Canadian Greyhound bus. The victim, a 22 year old man, was sleeping when his attacker suddenly got up--unprovoked--and started repeatedly stabbing him. As passengers fled, the attacker finished the job by cutting off the poor kid's head.

What's even more disturbing to me than the twisted horror of this crime is that people are even capable of such a thing. Human beings are unsurpassed in their capacity for lies, murder, torture, rape, abuse--if it's traumatizing and immoral, human beings will do it with a smile, no logic or reason necessary.

My misanthropy isn't rooted in hatred. It comes from deep disappointment.

Enough about you, what about me?

Jack/Narrator: When people think you're dying, they really, really listen to you, instead of just...

Marla Singer: - instead of just waiting for their turn to speak?

Conversation, something that should be an opportunity for people to really connect with one another, seems to be, more often than not, yet another cause for frustration. Fight Club got it right—when you’re talking to most people, all they really care about is getting a word in. The problem is compounded if you happen to be on the quiet and/or polite side: people just assume you’ve got nothing to say. And if they don’t care in the first place even when you do have something to say, well, you end up listening to a lot of self-centred crap.

I had a “friend” who redefined self-centred. I don’t know if she assumed I had nothing to say, but it was pretty obvious she didn’t care one way or the other. This was a typical conversation:

Me: Hello?

Her: Oh, hi. Are you busy?

Me: (Yes, always). I have a few minutes to talk.

Her: I’m working and I’m bored, so I thought I’d give you a call.

Me: Um, thanks.

Her: So, what are you up to?

Me: Well, I saw this great movie…

Her: [long silence]

Me: Hello?

Her: Oh, sorry—I was just… [The next 20 minutes are spent listening to her describe in depth the work that was too boring to keep her interested, prompting her to call you in the first place.]

You: Sounds like fun.

Her: Not really. Oh, the other line’s beeping—hold on. [Switches lines before you get a chance to respond.]

You: [Stare at the wall for what feels like forever, listening to the blank line, wishing you had a sharp object handy with which to stab yourself.]

Her: Oh, sorry—it’s a long-distance call. Can I call you back in 10 minutes?

You: Actually, I have a lot to do. Sorry.

Her: [sounding miffed] Oh. Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow, then.

You: Um…great.

Yeah, that was when my habit of screening calls started. Much like a guy, I expect my phone conversations to have a point. If you’re going to call, at least have the decency not to use me as background noise.

The friendship didn’t officially end until a year or so after this conversation, but this was really the beginning of the end. After going through a particularly difficult interlude of depression, I got some really happy, exciting (to me, anyway) news. The same day, I got a call from Miss “The Universe Revolves Around Me, Bitches.”

Her: Hi. What’s up?

Me: [Practically singing with enthusiasm] Actually, I just got some really great news, something I was hoping for but never thought would happen.

Her: That’s nice. So, I’m having problems with my boyfriend.

Me: [Feeling my enthusiasm deflate by the minute as she describes all the issues she’s having with her recently acquired boyfriend. Almost an hour later, I get to say something.]

Her: What do you think I should do?

Me: [Offer advice that’s logical, but not what she wants to hear.]

Her: But everyone else is telling me blah blah blah

Me: [Explain the reasons why I gave the advice I did.]

Her: [Realizing I’m not going to tell her what she wants to hear] So that’s exciting what happened to you today!

Me: I’ve got to go make dinner.

The relationship finally fell apart over something fairly minute, but after far too many years of putting up with her lack of caring for anything or anyone that didn’t directly relate to her and what she wanted, it was overdue. Partly because of her, I still have trouble letting my guard down, still don’t feel comfortable letting people too far in. Because when you let them in, they nest like parasites and take, and take, and take. At the time, I was worried about ending the friendship because we’d known each other a long time. But you know what? I don’t miss her. Not at all.

And the idiot of the day award goes to...

Reading through random blogs provides a wealth of entertainment. On one, which shall go unnamed, supposedly written by a journalist, I found the following statement: Accept for the fact that there are no sidewalks.

Okay, the sentence fragment I can forgive, but "accept for the fact..."? Just proves that you don't need writing skills to be a journalist (and also that editors are really under-appreciated).

By the way, I don't really find this sort of thing entertaining; in fact, it contributes greatly to the "depressed" in Depressed Misanthrope.

Just Passing Through

I've been scrolling through blogs, just trying to get a feel for what's out there. Wow. There sure is a lot of mediocre crap in the world. Some of these blogs really shouldn't be available for public consumption. Fascinating as your baby/wedding shower undoubtedly is, I'm not certain a detailed play-by-play is something the world at large wants, needs, or cares about. Even more questionable are the blogs chock full of photos, personal details, and full names of the blogger's children. How much lead do you have to ingest before you start thinking it's a nifty idea to tell everyone with an internet connection that little Sally Smith in Gander, Newfoundland has swim practice every Thursday? Don't forget the colour pic of Sally in her bathing suit!

My personal favourite, though, are the blogs that blast you with cheesy music as soon as you open the page. What the fuck gave you the notion I want to be screeched at by Debbie "Call me Deborah" Gibson ever, let alone when I randomly click on someone's blog. Wouldn't you just love to be at a party hosted by these people? I can just picture them standing off to the side, grooving to the song stylings of Joan Osborne*, while their guests clutch at their bleeding ears. Yeah, um, thanks for foisting your musical "taste" on hapless strangers, but I'd like my blogs to be warble-free. Since that's not going to happen, I'm off to permanently mute the sound on my laptop.

*Feel free to replace with the name of any other awful, often perplexingly popular, singer/group from the multitudes infecting the world.

Riddle Me This

So, let's say you have a friend, let's call him Dr. C, who has become smitten with a tofu-bland creature who we'll call Maris. Maris fancies herself an artist and Dr. C thinks she's a great talent, mostly because he's thinking with something other than his brain. Dr. C thinks she's such a great talent, in fact, that he arranges a showing of her work--at his non-artsy place of business, no less. You're invited, so you go to the art show to be polite, and also to see Dr. C, because the only way you get to see him anymore is under Maris's watchful eye. To be supportive (hey, you're not opposed to art), you plan on shelling out a couple of hundred dollars on a painting. When you get there, however, you feel like you've suddenly lost the ability to read numbers. The price tags have a lot more zeros on them than you expected: Maris is asking thousands per mangled canvas. That's right--her work is a mediocre waste of paint (it's clear this was a hobby before Maris decided to take it to another level). Even if you had that kind of money, there's no way you'd pay that much for something you wouldn't hang in your basement. Dr. C, meanwhile, is running around playing host and beaming with pride as he asks people what they think. This is doubly sad because Dr. C actually does have artistic talent, which he wastes in order to be the person Maris wants him to be. Speaking of the artiste, Maris spends the night asking everyone if they found the place okay and fretting that the poor turnout is due to people getting lost in the elevator. You desperately try to think of something good to say about the work because you know they're going to ask. Then you see another painting over by the copy machine, only to realize it's actually a child's drawing (one of the employee's). You only manage to tell because it's not framed. You leave wondering what happened to Dr. C's eyesight and hoping you never get invited to another of these shows again.

A couple of weeks later, you get together for dinner with Dr. C--only to have Maris join you as well. You spend the evening listening to her try to figure out why nobody bought any of her paintings (except for her rich mommy, of course, who still only bought one). She comes to the conclusion that charging less might be a good idea. Hallelujah, you think, she's realizing that she's not quite at the level she thought she was. Maybe she can work at it, get better, be more realistic about what she's capable of and what she can charge. Then she says, yes--she'll make her paintings smaller and then charge less for them. She doesn't get it. She doesn't think her work is overpriced--she thinks people are cheap. And Dr. C nods his head like the brainless automaton he's become, telling his precious that it's just a matter of time and more shows and exposure. Next show they'll give people better directions so they won't get lost on the way over.

The only question left is whose head do you bang against the wall: his, hers, or your own?

No doubt

You know what the world needs? More cutesy comic strips about life with kids. Hell, why not extend the fun to books, movies, tv shows, broadway musicals... Awesome!

My life is a WTF moment

People don't make sense to me. The older I get, the less sense they make. Given the option between something sensible and something idiotic, most people seem to take the idiotic option. I've lost track of the number of people I know who get into the most ridiculous relationships--you know the kind: you can see it falling apart from a mile away; they're in it for all the wrong reasons and they spend as much time (or more) complaining about each other as getting along, but they still think getting married/having kids/entangling themselves in huge financial obligations is just the bestest idea ever! And then once they've trapped themselves, they spend inordinate amounts of time crying on your ever-patient shoulder, whining about the other person and all the problems they're having. Well, not all of them whine. Some do their best to completely subsume their individuality in order to "make it work." You don't hear from them (they know you remember they used to have a mind of their own and a personality, and they don't like seeing the disgust in your eyes) until the whole mess has imploded, leaving them a broken shell only vaguely resembling the person they used to be. Then they start whining. And then you just want to beat them with a nail-studded club.