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I sit here pondering, a day after the announcement that Washington Redskins’ safety Sean Taylor is dead from a gunshot wound. By most accounts, he was a vivid, rash young man. By all accounts, he was twenty-four years old.
And no, while I have some very definite views on gun control, that’s not what I’m thinking about.
Rather, I’m thinking about something my mother said to me many times when I was younger. She told me that I would, in life and by many people, be judged by the company I keep. Now, I never thought that was judicious, because it’s entirely possible that I could hang around with several people who are inveterate jerks, but I could be a pretty decent person myself. So for someone to think that I was a shit-heel just because some of my friends fit that classification, well, that’s ignorant on their part.
Then, as I got older, and hopefully somewhat wiser, I understood that this adage was not about reality, but about perception. It’s not about what kind of person I am, how decent and considerate I might be, but about how those who knew of my less than desirable associates would perceive me as a consequence of that association. So now I hear about Sean Taylor, shot in the leg and dead from the wound after a battle for his life. He has a spotty past, with associates who might be looked upon as lower echelon. Despite the contention that he was maturing and attempting to distance himself from the stain of a somewhat questionable past, the circumstances of his attack and subsequent demise point toward, if not a familiarity, then a nodding acquaintance with his assailants.
This brings me to a different, but not new realization. I’ve swung back around and can now acknowledge that it’s not just a matter of perception. The friends you choose, or the associates you allow into your life, can not only determine how others see you as person, but they can also have very real and dire consequences.
In the end, once you’ve sullied yourself, there’s no guarantee that you can leave your past behind. And if life, and specifically, Sean Taylor’s life, is any indicator, that past can rear up and take one huge chunk out of your ass.
Or, it can kill you.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Practically Stupid People
You know, I firmly believe that there are more unintelligent people in the world than intelligent ones.
But even unintelligent people don’t necessarily act stupidly. At least not on a regular basis. Let’s face it, we all have our moments of poor judgment or less than admirable forethought.
It’s the intelligent people acting stupidly that really roast my ass. An unintelligent person, doing stupid things, acting like a dolt, is just delivering on low expectations. I don’t expect to ever be surprised by these people, so their actions don’t disappoint me, and when they do come up bigger than anticipated, it even makes me a little happy in the place inside me that stores the judgmental mercury switch my temperament uses to decide whether to be giddy and content or irate and contemptible.
Yes, those bright folks who you know damned well possess more than the minimum number of IQ points necessary to function daily and not have to rely on the goodness of others not to be taken shameless advantage of, these are the ones who, when they act profoundly stupid, churn the bile forth in copious quantities from the appropriate duct.
Not to belabor what I would hope to be a rather self-evident truth, but take this for example:
I’m at a local supermarket. I’m out wantonly burning off eight dollars or so of gasoline for one reason or another when my wife calls me on my iPhone (shameless plug, because, yes, I love it, and her for giving it to me, but by no means only for that reason) to stop and pick up something food-related. It’s likely milk, as we ingest prodigious quantities and always need a gallon of either whole or skim, but I digress, because the only important note about what I am buying is that there are only two or three pieces in total.
So there I am in line, and in front of me in the express line is a woman who is a principal at a local elementary school. She happens to possess a master’s in one sort of education or another, and while my personal interaction with her is pretty much non-existent to this point in time, I’ve heard other people speak of her as very intelligent, capable, effective, and insightful.
And in this checkout line, which happens to be the express lane with a limit of fifteen items or less, this bright professional woman has decided to blatantly ignore the brightly illuminated threshold and has packed the belt with easily two times the allowable maximum. Of course, I don’t expect the cashier to say anything. The sign may be clear and clearly posted, but in one of the weirdest quirks of customer service ideology, stores would rather advocate the position of the ignorant rule-breaker and thoroughly piss off those behind who are truly in some sort of rush, no doubt bowing to the big spender at the expense of the small shopper. So I feel bad for the cashier, because she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on.
Well, The Principal looks at me, with my three items or so, and professes genuine remorse at having clogged the express lane with her few dozen purchases. She tries to justify it by telling me that there didn’t seem to be many people in the store, and when she got to the checkout area, she noticed nobody in the express lane, so she figured she would be paid and gone before anybody else came in behind her. So, this would be strike one in her exhibition of what I will now call Practical Stupidity. She made a real time, baseless assumption with utter disregard for the way life works in practice.
She could, of course, have offered to let me go in front of her. The belt is turned off, and the groceries aren’t going anywhere. I could have snuck by and paid and been gone before her first container of yogurt had been scanned. But she doesn’t make the offer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t even consider it. She carries on in her obviously world-issue-level important shopping event. That would be strike two.
She watches as the cashier scans her items. As it’s the express lane, the cashier is conditioned to bag as she goes, so the mints and meats and chips and dips are passed over bagged and ready to carry. Eventually, the last loaf of bread is rung up, and a total has been derived. The cashier relays this information to The Principal.
Now, this is where most people have the money already close at hand. Or the debit card out and prepared to swipe. At the least, they’re sliding the wallet from the purse or pocket with minimal delay, having arrived at the wholly expected moment when one, as the purchaser, makes good on his or her side of the transaction and remits payment, whether real or virtual, and brings the whole blessed happening to its inevitable conclusion.
No, The Principal, this allegedly able administrator of some hallowed hall of our youngsters’ educations, apparently does not firmly grasp how this progression of little processes is supposed to play out. So when the cashier speaks to her of the total due, The Principal’s face takes on the guileless, blank look of a person so utterly out of her depth that she should never be allowed to cross any street, busy or otherwise, without the closely attendant assistance of at least the village idiot. And after she’s overcome her comprehension issue and understands what exactly is being asked of her, her hands scramble clumsily and her arms flutter pathetically as she searches for the purse that is, for whatever reason, hiding in plain sight on her shoulder. And when she realizes where her purse has been hiding, (and without my help because by this time I am morbidly entertained by her unwitting idiocy) she whips it from her shoulder, brushing against the candy and gum point-of-sale display and knocking a Snickers bar from its cozy berth. She ignores this act of confectionery ignominy and digs through her purse, looking for her wallet, locating it before too long, then sliding from it her debit card, which she subsequently passes through the pad and completes the whole sordid drama. And then she leaves as though the universe is still as it should be, canted beneficially in her direction to mitigate her Practical Stupidity.
What frightens me, and what sends this person back to the bench unceremoniously after whiffing incompetently on strike three, is the inexplicably vast degree of surprise she seemed to display when asked to pay for her booty. I have no idea, but would love to have some inkling, of what was on her mind as she walked the aisles, placing each piece in her cart, proceeding to a checkout, loading the items on the belt (in the express lane, in case I haven’t mentioned it) and observing the cashier tally each UPC into one grand sum. She wasn’t indignant, she wasn’t irate, and she wasn’t angry. No- instead, she seemed absolutely clueless that the task upon which she’d endeavored would have one very specific, eventual end.
Oh, and I picked up the Snickers bar. The cashier told me I could have it, gratis. That’s when I realized the universe was about as balanced as I could ever hope for it to be.
But even unintelligent people don’t necessarily act stupidly. At least not on a regular basis. Let’s face it, we all have our moments of poor judgment or less than admirable forethought.
It’s the intelligent people acting stupidly that really roast my ass. An unintelligent person, doing stupid things, acting like a dolt, is just delivering on low expectations. I don’t expect to ever be surprised by these people, so their actions don’t disappoint me, and when they do come up bigger than anticipated, it even makes me a little happy in the place inside me that stores the judgmental mercury switch my temperament uses to decide whether to be giddy and content or irate and contemptible.
Yes, those bright folks who you know damned well possess more than the minimum number of IQ points necessary to function daily and not have to rely on the goodness of others not to be taken shameless advantage of, these are the ones who, when they act profoundly stupid, churn the bile forth in copious quantities from the appropriate duct.
Not to belabor what I would hope to be a rather self-evident truth, but take this for example:
I’m at a local supermarket. I’m out wantonly burning off eight dollars or so of gasoline for one reason or another when my wife calls me on my iPhone (shameless plug, because, yes, I love it, and her for giving it to me, but by no means only for that reason) to stop and pick up something food-related. It’s likely milk, as we ingest prodigious quantities and always need a gallon of either whole or skim, but I digress, because the only important note about what I am buying is that there are only two or three pieces in total.
So there I am in line, and in front of me in the express line is a woman who is a principal at a local elementary school. She happens to possess a master’s in one sort of education or another, and while my personal interaction with her is pretty much non-existent to this point in time, I’ve heard other people speak of her as very intelligent, capable, effective, and insightful.
And in this checkout line, which happens to be the express lane with a limit of fifteen items or less, this bright professional woman has decided to blatantly ignore the brightly illuminated threshold and has packed the belt with easily two times the allowable maximum. Of course, I don’t expect the cashier to say anything. The sign may be clear and clearly posted, but in one of the weirdest quirks of customer service ideology, stores would rather advocate the position of the ignorant rule-breaker and thoroughly piss off those behind who are truly in some sort of rush, no doubt bowing to the big spender at the expense of the small shopper. So I feel bad for the cashier, because she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on.
Well, The Principal looks at me, with my three items or so, and professes genuine remorse at having clogged the express lane with her few dozen purchases. She tries to justify it by telling me that there didn’t seem to be many people in the store, and when she got to the checkout area, she noticed nobody in the express lane, so she figured she would be paid and gone before anybody else came in behind her. So, this would be strike one in her exhibition of what I will now call Practical Stupidity. She made a real time, baseless assumption with utter disregard for the way life works in practice.
She could, of course, have offered to let me go in front of her. The belt is turned off, and the groceries aren’t going anywhere. I could have snuck by and paid and been gone before her first container of yogurt had been scanned. But she doesn’t make the offer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t even consider it. She carries on in her obviously world-issue-level important shopping event. That would be strike two.
She watches as the cashier scans her items. As it’s the express lane, the cashier is conditioned to bag as she goes, so the mints and meats and chips and dips are passed over bagged and ready to carry. Eventually, the last loaf of bread is rung up, and a total has been derived. The cashier relays this information to The Principal.
Now, this is where most people have the money already close at hand. Or the debit card out and prepared to swipe. At the least, they’re sliding the wallet from the purse or pocket with minimal delay, having arrived at the wholly expected moment when one, as the purchaser, makes good on his or her side of the transaction and remits payment, whether real or virtual, and brings the whole blessed happening to its inevitable conclusion.
No, The Principal, this allegedly able administrator of some hallowed hall of our youngsters’ educations, apparently does not firmly grasp how this progression of little processes is supposed to play out. So when the cashier speaks to her of the total due, The Principal’s face takes on the guileless, blank look of a person so utterly out of her depth that she should never be allowed to cross any street, busy or otherwise, without the closely attendant assistance of at least the village idiot. And after she’s overcome her comprehension issue and understands what exactly is being asked of her, her hands scramble clumsily and her arms flutter pathetically as she searches for the purse that is, for whatever reason, hiding in plain sight on her shoulder. And when she realizes where her purse has been hiding, (and without my help because by this time I am morbidly entertained by her unwitting idiocy) she whips it from her shoulder, brushing against the candy and gum point-of-sale display and knocking a Snickers bar from its cozy berth. She ignores this act of confectionery ignominy and digs through her purse, looking for her wallet, locating it before too long, then sliding from it her debit card, which she subsequently passes through the pad and completes the whole sordid drama. And then she leaves as though the universe is still as it should be, canted beneficially in her direction to mitigate her Practical Stupidity.
What frightens me, and what sends this person back to the bench unceremoniously after whiffing incompetently on strike three, is the inexplicably vast degree of surprise she seemed to display when asked to pay for her booty. I have no idea, but would love to have some inkling, of what was on her mind as she walked the aisles, placing each piece in her cart, proceeding to a checkout, loading the items on the belt (in the express lane, in case I haven’t mentioned it) and observing the cashier tally each UPC into one grand sum. She wasn’t indignant, she wasn’t irate, and she wasn’t angry. No- instead, she seemed absolutely clueless that the task upon which she’d endeavored would have one very specific, eventual end.
Oh, and I picked up the Snickers bar. The cashier told me I could have it, gratis. That’s when I realized the universe was about as balanced as I could ever hope for it to be.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
I Love Me a Parade
Saturday night after Thanksgiving is the time for the Audubon Fire Engine Parade.
Miles of brightly lit, obnoxiously loud emergency vehicles travelling small town streets.
Dozens of firemen uncomfortably far from their station house bars for entirely too long a time on a weekend evening.
Thousands of people lining the street, most with children, some without, all lost in the blaze and cacophony for 45 minutes or so.
Traffic intermittently halted on a major suburban thoroughfare.
Convenience stores making their monthly nut in one night on coffee and hot chocolate sales.
Fezzed Shriners slewing lazy slaloms in their tiny clown cars.
Well, alright, no Shriners, no fezzes, and no clown cars. But there should be.
People who once lived in the town but moved away to bigger, better places return like swallows back to Capistrano. Drawn inexplicably like Roy Neary to Devil's Tower.
Young hearts flutter from too much caffeine.
Old hearts flutter from, well, from old age.
Penny candy tossed becomes legal tender for a few minutes.
Old friends separated by time and space fall together again for a short evening.
Regrets are reversed and jagged grudges sanded smooth.
We can still be frustrated and petty, talk behind each other's backs, and let jealousy eat away at life's fiber like the irresistible corrosive it is. But not this night. Not until tomorrow.
So maybe we should do this a bit more often.
Miles of brightly lit, obnoxiously loud emergency vehicles travelling small town streets.
Dozens of firemen uncomfortably far from their station house bars for entirely too long a time on a weekend evening.
Thousands of people lining the street, most with children, some without, all lost in the blaze and cacophony for 45 minutes or so.
Traffic intermittently halted on a major suburban thoroughfare.
Convenience stores making their monthly nut in one night on coffee and hot chocolate sales.
Fezzed Shriners slewing lazy slaloms in their tiny clown cars.
Well, alright, no Shriners, no fezzes, and no clown cars. But there should be.
People who once lived in the town but moved away to bigger, better places return like swallows back to Capistrano. Drawn inexplicably like Roy Neary to Devil's Tower.
Young hearts flutter from too much caffeine.
Old hearts flutter from, well, from old age.
Penny candy tossed becomes legal tender for a few minutes.
Old friends separated by time and space fall together again for a short evening.
Regrets are reversed and jagged grudges sanded smooth.
We can still be frustrated and petty, talk behind each other's backs, and let jealousy eat away at life's fiber like the irresistible corrosive it is. But not this night. Not until tomorrow.
So maybe we should do this a bit more often.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
The early bird catches...what?
It's Thanksgiving afternoon. And yes, I'm typing on my computer, but that's only because I'm waiting for the rest of the family to get ready for our short trip to a dinner that's sure to be a gustatorial extravaganza.
And I'm looking out a nearby front-facing window, and I see a couple neighbors laboring over Christmas decorations. Or, since I love the way the British version of the words look in print, neighbours labouring.
I find I'm stuck in the middle of a race in which I have no interest in running. The Thanksgiving turkey hasn't even reached worm-free temperature yet, and people are outside stringing already-tested lights, driving stakes for those monstrous inflatables, and monkey-gripping ladder rungs 25 feet up while they vie to see who can mount the decorations most likely to alter holiday air traffic approach patterns.
And my wife, bless her heart, as soon as she's seen these pre-emptive efforts, will start to feel the itch. And that means I crawl into the attics, retrieving boxes and containers and well-stored (meaning, inaccessible) lighted structures and sundry decorations. And tomorrow, while it will have to suffice, still will not be soon enough.
I'll admit that, once the work is done and the last string is plugged in and no dead lights remain to obscenely sully the presentation, there is a certain feeling of, if not accomplishment, then contentment that the race is over. And sure, we didn't win, but we did at least finish.
And in roughly 40 days, on January 1, 2008, when the first neighbor steps into what I hope will be the brisk wintry air of the new year and unplugs the first electrical decoration, a new race will begin.
And I do not care that we won't win that one either.
And I'm looking out a nearby front-facing window, and I see a couple neighbors laboring over Christmas decorations. Or, since I love the way the British version of the words look in print, neighbours labouring.
I find I'm stuck in the middle of a race in which I have no interest in running. The Thanksgiving turkey hasn't even reached worm-free temperature yet, and people are outside stringing already-tested lights, driving stakes for those monstrous inflatables, and monkey-gripping ladder rungs 25 feet up while they vie to see who can mount the decorations most likely to alter holiday air traffic approach patterns.
And my wife, bless her heart, as soon as she's seen these pre-emptive efforts, will start to feel the itch. And that means I crawl into the attics, retrieving boxes and containers and well-stored (meaning, inaccessible) lighted structures and sundry decorations. And tomorrow, while it will have to suffice, still will not be soon enough.
I'll admit that, once the work is done and the last string is plugged in and no dead lights remain to obscenely sully the presentation, there is a certain feeling of, if not accomplishment, then contentment that the race is over. And sure, we didn't win, but we did at least finish.
And in roughly 40 days, on January 1, 2008, when the first neighbor steps into what I hope will be the brisk wintry air of the new year and unplugs the first electrical decoration, a new race will begin.
And I do not care that we won't win that one either.
McSlippery
This morning I'm watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with my 16 month old daughter. The colors and music and choreography have her riveted, and while she watches from my lap, I try to sneak in sips of coffee and peeks at the newspaper.
Marching bands, Broadway shows, Sesame Street: they come and go in a flash, certainly noted more by my girl than by me. But then along comes one of the countless marketing portions of the Parade, this one McDonald's, represented by none other than Ronald McDonald himself.
And I couldn't help but notice that the world's most famous corporate clown seems to have undergone a bit of a make-over.
Now, his clothing still seemed to be the same, time-worn yellow and red outfit that I've been seeing all along. The shoes are still outlandishly large and floppy. Yes, these are close enough to unchanged to appear as such to my untrained, and admittedly cautious eye. (Clowns, I admit, freak me out.)
But I ask, what happened to his hair?
The Ronald I last remember specifically had almost Bozo-esque locks springing explosively from his head in a frightening blood red splat of combed chaos.
And now he sports a slicked-down, more contemporary, if caricatured, coif. Even the color seems re-cast, perhaps even more bloody now, but deeply nourished blood, rich and almost claret.
And the thing is, this morph is the result of millions of dollars of marketing research. It was instituted because the research found that people will find Ronald more homey, more huggable, and dare I say, more lovable.
And people, the research will have found, will respond positively not only with their hearts and minds, but with their wallets and purses as well.
Yes, Ronald's new 'do will prompt more people to more often muck up their digestive tracts and circulatory systems with the sludge the world's most adroit, successful food corporation peddles.
And in the end, I really don't care about Ronald's hair all that much. If I want McNuggets, it's not because the clown's tresses have changed. It's because, for those few moments of my life, I happen to care very little about my long-term health and I dearly crave whatever tasty drug it is they inject into their product.
But the New and Improved Ronald is, I can guarantee, raking in new adherents every day.
So while I applaud the humanist endeavors upon which McDonald's embarks, and the global Good they seem to want to do with what I will leerily grant might be altruistic intent, I'll say that the Old Ronald would work just as well in his ambassadorial role as does the New Ronald.
And that means the new locks on the block are there for one reason.
And rest assured, The Sheep are doing their best to make MickyD's research and marketing dollars well and wisely spent.
Meanwhile, clowns still freak me out. But lately, people freak me out even more.
Marching bands, Broadway shows, Sesame Street: they come and go in a flash, certainly noted more by my girl than by me. But then along comes one of the countless marketing portions of the Parade, this one McDonald's, represented by none other than Ronald McDonald himself.
And I couldn't help but notice that the world's most famous corporate clown seems to have undergone a bit of a make-over.
Now, his clothing still seemed to be the same, time-worn yellow and red outfit that I've been seeing all along. The shoes are still outlandishly large and floppy. Yes, these are close enough to unchanged to appear as such to my untrained, and admittedly cautious eye. (Clowns, I admit, freak me out.)
But I ask, what happened to his hair?
The Ronald I last remember specifically had almost Bozo-esque locks springing explosively from his head in a frightening blood red splat of combed chaos.
And now he sports a slicked-down, more contemporary, if caricatured, coif. Even the color seems re-cast, perhaps even more bloody now, but deeply nourished blood, rich and almost claret.
And the thing is, this morph is the result of millions of dollars of marketing research. It was instituted because the research found that people will find Ronald more homey, more huggable, and dare I say, more lovable.
And people, the research will have found, will respond positively not only with their hearts and minds, but with their wallets and purses as well.
Yes, Ronald's new 'do will prompt more people to more often muck up their digestive tracts and circulatory systems with the sludge the world's most adroit, successful food corporation peddles.
And in the end, I really don't care about Ronald's hair all that much. If I want McNuggets, it's not because the clown's tresses have changed. It's because, for those few moments of my life, I happen to care very little about my long-term health and I dearly crave whatever tasty drug it is they inject into their product.
But the New and Improved Ronald is, I can guarantee, raking in new adherents every day.
So while I applaud the humanist endeavors upon which McDonald's embarks, and the global Good they seem to want to do with what I will leerily grant might be altruistic intent, I'll say that the Old Ronald would work just as well in his ambassadorial role as does the New Ronald.
And that means the new locks on the block are there for one reason.
And rest assured, The Sheep are doing their best to make MickyD's research and marketing dollars well and wisely spent.
Meanwhile, clowns still freak me out. But lately, people freak me out even more.
Welcome...
I am prone to hyperbole.
I am sarcastic.
I speak before I think.
But it is a major holiday today, and time is short, so in time, just not today, I will begin.
Or something.
I am sarcastic.
I speak before I think.
But it is a major holiday today, and time is short, so in time, just not today, I will begin.
Or something.
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