A perplexing observation.

Dear the bearded shirtless man (a.k.a., the patriarchal figure (presumably) of the Next Doors),

By all accounts, it is still October.  When I left this morning, barely beating out the sunrise, it was approximately thirty degrees, not even counting windchill.  I was wearing multiple layers and a winter coat.  You were… not.  You were, at seven in the morning, in October, in the Northeast, sitting on your porch, as bearded and shirtless as ever.  I appreciate that you bustled indoors once you heard me emerging from the safe cocoon that was my warm (oh so warm) abode, but it did not spare me the image of your vast, fleshy, perplexingly naked back shuffling off.

Does the beard keep you warm in the winter?  Is that it?  You don’t need all of those flashy Halloween decorations you put up circa-September.  When the small children approach your house tonight seeking candy, they’ll see you and be frightened enough.

Yours,

the Brain

Behold the interwebitubes.

Dear my coworkers,

Internet use ‘good for the brain’.  So sayeth BBC News, at least, and they’re all British and stuff, so you know they’ve got their heads on all straight-like.  (Bet you thought I was going to make a joke about British dentistry right about here, didn’t you?  Well, this is a classy establishment, kids.  We have standards.  Leave your shoes by the door and use a damn coaster, mmkay?)  I mean, these are the people who’ve brought us that Willy Shakes dude.  And… tea, I think.  And the Queen!  So, I mean, clearly.  (Are we clear?)  The point is, science.  If you’re going to listen to “scientific” claims that an all-butter diet is going to save your heart/waistline/butterlust, then you can listen to some British nerds and maybe try and figure out how to work your printer, or not close down your virus scanning program in the middle of a scan just because “all those pop-ups are annoying.”

Speaking of annoyance, I wear mine on my sleeve.  Here’s hoping someone somewhere learns something.

Peace out,

the Brain

Plug and play.

I make no claims to be a technological genius.  One of my gentleman associates (you might call them “dude bros”), a stalwart Mac user, knows more about PCs than I could ever hope to, despite them being the only thing I use.  Technology doesn’t much interest me beyond turning it on and reaping the benefits.  But here’s the thing: I can, in fact, turn it on.

I’m not afraid of machines.  I don’t really care about machines, but I make the effort to learn what they do (and if I’m feeling good, how they do it), and at the very least, how I can make them do it.  The same cannot be said for my coworkers, one of whom I’ve had to teach, on several separate occasions, despite her writing the information down, how to send documents to the non-default printer.  Just today I had to help out someone with an audio CD that wouldn’t play.  The problem?  The volume on the computer was set to mute.  And when I figured this out and turned it on, they acted as though I was the second coming.  It’s not brilliance so much as the application of common sense.  Or what I would have previously considered common sense, before I started interacting with the commonfolk and realized this sense was not present.

I recognize that I’m the youngest person in the office.  By a good twenty-odd years in my department alone.  But just because I’ve whiled away the purported best years of my life in this technological age doesn’t mean I’m any more capable than anyone else in this building.  Theoretically.  Right?  It’s ageist or something.  I mean, the fatherperson is older than all of my coworkers (not that I’d tell him that), and he’s constantly buying technology or downloading new programs to futz around with and master.  So if it’s not an age thing, than what?  Fear of a robot planet?

Hey guys, I’ve seen the future.  Fear not.  Will Smith saves us every time, be it from robots, aliens, or vampires.  That’s one less thing for you and I to worry about.  So don’t you think we owe it to him to at least learn how to program our VCRs?

Waiting for Godot.

When I was a youth, my best friend, who also happened to be my neighbor, and I were inseperable. We were practically family, to the point where we could just waltz in and out of each other’s houses. I was an invited guest at family picnics, had been to all of her siblings’ homes, and had spent time at her house quite by myself the summer I took care of her dog.

Why the delightful skip down memory lane, Brain?, you may be asking yourself. Because, reader-type person, in my inescapable habit of watching my neighbors and shaking my head in shame, the other day I happened to notice a black station wagon, piloted by a newly-minted Teen Driver, sitting at the curb (directly across from my front window, don’t look at me like that). For five minutes. For ten minutes.

Little Timmy sat in his mom’s borrowed car for thirteen minutes (keep in mind, he was already there when I happened to peek out of Jason the Window Guy’s brand-spanking-new windows, so it’s more like 13+ minutes) before the high school aged McAcrosstheStreet came out and hopped in. Little Timmy straightened and slumped, dangled an arm out of the window to pretend to be cool, flipped his cell phone open and shut to pretend to be busy. But not once did he get out of the car and go to the McAcrosstheStreets’ front door to ring the bell. I should be grateful he didn’t honk at the house, I suppose, but you’ve gotta wonder why he couldn’t ring the doorbell. That’s what they’re for, right?

Or am I just terribly, terribly old?

Grilled cheese on the radiator.

You know what they say. (You know, because they only say the one thing.) ‘Art imitates life.’ Wait, no, that doesn’t apply here. Hold on, I’ll think of it. Tortoise and the hare… nah… Um, a stitch in time… that’s not it, either… A watched pot never… nope. It’s on the tip of my tongue, here… Ah, yes. ‘If you make fun of your hillbilly neighbors often enough, you too will become a hillbilly.’

In my defense, the enormous couch on my front porch is just there for a few days, a transitional thing because it can’t go out to the curb for pickup until Wednesday. And because by actually physically moving it out of the living room, I am officially One Step Closer to actually getting rid of the damn thing. It’s temporary hillbillyism.

Of course, that was before Jason the Window Guy came to redo the windows. Now there’s a bunch of leftover wood from the frames and a smidgen of pink insulation (honestly, I don’t know why that’s there) on the porch. BUT, the Next Doors took a look at that and decided to up their ghetto quotient by removing the screen from their front door, so they can just climb in and out without opening it.

Who is the real winner in this scenario?

Moments of Aggravation, Part III.

clickaclickaclickaclickaclickaclickaclicka

This is the sound of my coworker checking her email. You see, she has approximately an inch (maybe an inch and a half) high window in which to read her email. And given that most of her emails are from eBay (I know this because I have to help her print them once a month), they use an excessively large font, so she can read approximately one line (of three words) at a time. So she scrolls down. Manually. clickaclickaclickaclicka.

There are several potential solutions to this. She could: A) use the neat little double-arrow cursor to drag her (three inches plus tall) inbox window up so she has more space to read actual content; B) maximize the entire window (they got this button thingy in the corner that does just that, I hear); C) use that neat little ’scroll’ feature on the side of the window; D) use those cute little arrow keys designed for this sort of thing; E) move her finger a centimeter to the right and use the mouse wheel. She does F) none of the above. She probably doesn’t realize she can do G) any of the above. And my best guess is she wouldn’t even care should I snap and bring this up.

(Although, what does one say in this situation? ‘Your refusal to apply logical thought to basic technology is producing a sound that makes me want to punch a baby.’ Would that help? Or would she just think I’m crazy?)

I don’t know, I think it’s the sheer refusal to learn or change that makes me crazy, moreso than the sound itself.

Nope, it’s not.

clickaclickaclickaclickaclickaclickaclicka

Hilarious! Could it be true? See inside.

Honestly, it’s like an addiction. Spam the Brain: Celebrity Edition!

The body of this particular email informed me, Research has shown that 85% of women love a bigger, juicer and longer man meat. Honestly, if my boyfriend came with a bonus juicer, I would never let him go. Fresh fruit juice! Think of all the smoothie potential.

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Another suggested, When his wife is angry with you seen this chemist‎. If you ignore the grammar, this is pretty intriguing. Like the start to a novel. Why is his wife angry with me? Why isn’t she angry with him? Why isn’t he angry with me? Why isn’t my wife angry with me? Why aren’t I angry with anyone? And why do I need to see a chemist?

+

If I was ever to write a book about Paris Hilton (an unlikely scenario), this would be the story I’d tell.

Paris Hilton’s Vagina is #1‎
Paris Hilton: I will give my Body to the Winner of the French Open‎
Paris Hilton Becomes Mormon — Marries Paparazzi‎
Paris Hilton Diagnosed As “Insane”‎

I imagine I’ll be like the Judy Blume of the new generation.

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And some more drive-bys, to brighten your day.

• Vagina Vague about Spears’ Return to Concert Form‎ (I note we’ve decided to skip the middleman and engage in discussion strictly with Britney’s vagina now.)
• Prove your manliness! Take ÜberDik and be a man!‎ – The reflection of your size will stay forever in her eyes (This is almost poetic, actually.)
• Hey man, you ever try pheromones? (You want a black market organ while you’re at it? I like the looks of ya; I’ll give one to ya cheap.)
• Angelina’s Newborn Twins Marry Each Other‎ (I don’t care what country they were born in, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.)
• Cindy Mccain Talks About Her Boobs‎ (Well. Okay.)
• Mike Tyson To Fight Michael Jackson‎ (I think I know who’s gonna win.)
• Yes it gets big, yes it gets strong, yes you can do it.‎ (If I wasn’t 99% positive they were discussing my manhood/sexual ability, this would actually be a pretty decent motivational speech. Actually, it still is.)
• John McCain Takes the Olympic Gold in ‘Gymnastics’‎ (It’s the derisive, disbelieving use of the quotes around gymnastics that amuses me. Like the sender doesn’t quite believe that small girls jumping and twirling about is really a sport. Like cheerleading. Or figure skating.)

Happy Friday!

Moments of Aggravation, Part II.

How does Miss Manners suggest one deals with coworkers that don’t shut up? In my little 9-to-5 world, I do not get paid after 5. So why, at 5:10, am I still standing there? Because for the past ten minutes, one of my coworkers has been regaling me with tales of their sister/cousin/vague relative of some sort. Someone that she knows, that I most definitely do not. And this is not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last. So there I stand, bag in hand, sunglasses perched on forehead for split-second ease into the ‘ready’ position at the bridge of my nose, rattling my keys and looking, to anyone with eyes, like someone who has clocked out and wants to go home. Except my coworker does not have eyes, and I’m stuck there, studying her every sentence for a definitive end where I can cut out and I can make a graceful exit. “Oh, your sister’s ex-boyfriend’s neighbor’s cat has liver cancer? Yes, that is a shame. Well, I should run. Wouldn’t want to catch it myself.”

But really, how is one expected to counter these attacks? Should I keep a plethora of small and shiny objects at my desk to distract her with? Rig up an elaborate system of lights and mirrors to bream pretty lights every time she drops by? The worst part is, on particularly boring and seemingly endless days, I embrace her ability to chat forever on completely unrelated topics as to distract myself from tedium for a half-hour or so. It’s like saying, “Well, I hate money, except for when it’s buying me stuff.”

By the time all these thoughts are done dancing about this Brain’s brain, it’s already 5:20 and I’m already thinking about lying on my time sheet and saying I worked for those extra twenty minutes. This should count as overtime.

I had the radio on.

Dear Tom Petty,

Don’t ever stop being awesome.  I recognize that in a lot of ways, it’s like asking a dolphin to stop swimming or a tree to stop undergoing photosynthesis.  It’s pure science, baby, pure chemistry.

Tp +  Gu + 5Hb +2Hb → Aw

(Tom Petty + Guitar + various Heartbreakers over the years → Awesome.  Can you tell it’s been a long time since I’ve taken any science classes?  My chemistry teacher is rolling in his grave right now.  If he were dead.  He might just be retired, now that I think of it.)

Anyway, I was having a conversation with a gentleman friend earlier about Tom Petty’s ability to write incredibly sad songs, to the point that even his happier songs have a faint trace of melancholy.  And yet, they never particularly go out of their way to make the listener unhappy.  It’s remarkable.  That, and the guitar on ‘Mary Jane’s Last Dance’ still makes me shiver.  But maybe I’m just a big ol’ softie.

What was my point, again?  Oh, right.

Thank you for being awesome, Mr. Petty, for being the common musical thread between all the people I hold dear, whether they love inoffensive white boy rap or eighties synth pop, whether their CD collection includes Donovan or Death Cab for Cutie.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Please don’t ever change, and please don’t ever stop runnin’ down your dream.

Yours,

the Brain

Moments of Aggravation.

I like to think of myself as relatively easy-going. (Stop laughing.) Still, there’s a part of me, some might say my patience, that comes to a grinding, screeching halt, like a cat getting caught in an engine, when certain scenarios come to light.

For example, the associate who does not know the words ellipsis/ellipses, and refers to them as “a dot dot dot.” You know, that one, even, I’ll let slide. Punctuation has a lot of big, elaborate names for what is essentially a handful of dots. And it’s not as though I don’t know what is meant by the phrase (all right, maybe sometimes it takes me a minute, but I’m a Brain, after all, and therefore terribly elitist, and expecting the same from my compatriots).

Or there is the individual I know with the absolutely abysmal grammar, the don’ts instead of the doesn’ts, and the frustrating ability to drop vowel sounds at random (and in a non-ironic way. I cut a lot of slack for poor spoken language skills when used for intentionally comedic effect).

And then there’s the person who likes to send emails such as the following,

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE
RESET THE MACHINE AFTER RUNING SEVERAL COPIES
BACK TO ONE.

The second-line indentations, the misspelled verbs, and the unforgivable capslock sin. Rest assured, that one is committed every time. My skin, how it crawls. My only consolation is that the way this body is arranged, it might be the sender’s misguided attempt at poetry. (Aren’t all attempts at poetry by definition misguided? Ignore previous posts.)

How can I ever achieve a Zen state when faced with these situations?