Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Something about teats.

Hardly worth noting, yet something I’m unable to ignore.  Sample last.fm tags for the Ritalin-and-tequila-fueled Weezer song “Hash Pipe”:

  • rock
  • alternative
  • alternative rock
  • indie rock
  • power pop
  • punk rock
  • alternative punk
  • geek rock
  • nerd rock
  • rockin
  • rock out
  • drugs
  • weed
  • marijuana
  • under the influence
  • cali baby
  • this is it [This is what?]
  • fucking awesome
  • needs to be in guitar hero
  • songs that should be in rock band
  • know how to play on guitar
  • rev my engine
  • cryptic lyrics
  • hooky rock
  • fire in the hole
  • druuugs
  • songs especially familiar to jordain
  • Sorry, Jordain.

    Advertisements

    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?

    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