Why I Hate Blogging

“No, ‘hate’ is not too strong,” he said, raising his voice.  “I think it is perfectly descriptive.  I.  Hate.  Blogging.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause it gives me hope,” he lamented.  “I hate that I sit there, typing away on those loud keys, pouring out myself in words, and afterward I discover a few other humans ‘like’ or ‘follow’ the blog.”

“Not makin’ sense friend.”

“Okay, let me put it this way,” he continued laboriously.  “I feel alone in the world sometimes.  You know, the whole ‘misunderstood’ crap people talk about?  Yeah, that’s how I feel sometimes-”

“We all do, dude.”

“-Right.  But there is a difference.  I can write.  I can communicate myself to others.  I can waive a flag letting people know ‘I’m alive.  If you are, too, let me know.’  Not everyone can do that.  So I started writing.  I started putting myself out there–no holding back.  I even wrote a post which taught some of my senior-citizen followers a new curse-word, which I have since made private because it was so shameful.”

“The ol’ ‘fucktard’.  I remember that one.”

“Yeah.  Anyhow, every once in a while people respond favorably.  I was shocked that people responded at all.  So, you can imagine how it feels when people respond favorably.  More than favorably, sometimes people will comment in a way that shows they got it.  And in getting it they get me.”

“I see, Pete.  I see.  You hate blogging because it gives evidence that there are people out there who get you.  But, you think this doesn’t really count, because you only know this via the computer.  And this digital evidence, as it were, downgrades it to little more than hope.”

“Exactly.  See, that’s why I’m telling you this.  You get me.  I get you.  But I don’t feel like there’s many others out there.  And so this blog, then, is little more than the force that propels the emotional pendulum which swings from ‘Hey, life’s great.  It’s filled with people who live on this planet’ to ‘how is this world even self-sustaining?'”

“Well, as you know, I don’t know what to tell you.  Cheer up.  I like reading your stuff.  It makes me laugh.”

“Yeah, yeah.  I know.  Thanks.”

Come See My New Blog!

I can’t lie.  I’m pretty excited about this.  I’ve recently decided to create several new blogs.

While WordPress is great, I’m going to employ other hosts.  Slightly different from this one, my new blogs don’t have a dedicated URL, but I think it might actually be better this way.  To find them, you’re going to need to visit either OKCupid, eHarmony, or Match.com.  Now, other people blog there too, so you’ll have to search for me.  Since I know you like my writing already, at least a little, I’ll give you my screen name to make it easier:  meanknowitall2637864473.  (It’s the same for all three sites).

You’ll find that the posts will be a bit different than you’ve grown accustomed to.  To be blunt, they’ll be more personal.  I guess I feel this “Captain’s Log” concept is a little too lofty at times, and that that loftiness limits me from being, well, me.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going anywhere, I just also want to create posts where I can really paint an accurate portrait of myself for the world to see.

Oh, and pictures.  I can’t figure out how to post pictures on here, so that’s another reason for the additional blogs.  On these sites you’ll be able to see pictures of me.  Trust me, they will be recent and not taken from too great a distance.  Along with pictures, another new feature will be a safe way to contact me.  I feel like sometimes some of you would like to send a personal note, and as of now, the only way to contact me is via the not-exactly-private comments section.  So there’s that to look forward to.

I guess, I’m being a little vague about the content of these new blogs.  The new content is going to be written for a singular purpose.  I am going to write posts that I believe will attract women to me.  The posts will attract women to me so fully that they will never want to leave me–even after they discover I have major imperfections that I view as strengths.

If this is something that interests you, but you’re not a member of these sites, don’t worry.  While yours is the more difficult path, all you have to do is demonstrate your devotion to me through good ol’ fashioned creativity.  What do you think?  Do you have what it takes?

Regardless, I’m overly flattered that you read this, though, I have to admit it is pretty good.  Maybe see you soon.

Netflix Laughs Out Loudest

Groggy only began to describe his morning.  This was confusing because this was the morning after he was given the gift of time.  One whole hour to use as he saw fit.  Like any good American, he used the time to watch movies he’d already seen.  Not movie, movie-zz.  He had just read Joseph Conrad’s seminal Heart of Darkness for the first time on Friday, so afterward he was motivated to re-visit Francis Ford Coppola’s seminal Apocalypse Now: Redux.  Unfortunately, he didn’t possess the staying power to make it through the additional 49 minutes this version contained Friday night, so last night was the night to finish that off.  Next, he felt like regretting that his relationship with his brother wasn’t that great, so he turned on Warrior.  It worked.  And it gave him hope that maybe someday he and his brother could have some metaphorical fight which causes them to live happily ever after until the credits scroll.  Wanting to immerse himself deeper in hope, he decided–for a reason he’s never going to explore–to run with a desire for more Tom Hardy and naturally began watching TDKR.  (Mother: that’s the latest Batman movie–you know, the one that came out on my birthday last year).  Taking great pride in his level of discipline, even before the caped crusader made his first appearance, he realized it was late, and went to sleep.

Opening the laptop this morning then, he stared at Netflix’s homepage.  Then it happened.  Nirvana.  The sound of his jaw hitting the floor was the only thing that brought him back.  Excited beyond belief, he saw staring back at him in Netflix’s personalized “Top Ten for Pete” category Miley Cyrus and Demi Moore’s LOL.  How does Netflix do it?  He didn’t even know LOL was out, and yet Netflix knew to place it where he couldn’t miss it.  Immediately, though, not wanting to give Netflix too much credit–they were still just a group of flawed individuals doing their best–he began unraveling the mystery.  After all, he did watch Mission Impossible’s 1-4 in a ten hour window that one night.  Oh, and There Will Be Blood has streamed down to his screen more than a few times.  Now that he really thought about it, anyone who has watched The Avengers is sure to have a Demi Moore poster or two on their bedroom ceiling.  Now he was starting to actually reconsider whether he should so readily praise Netflix.  And come to think of it, he did recently read that the people behind Mel Gibson’s latest film, Get the Gringo, were coming out with a similarly flavored mother-daughter how-did-you-become-such-a-screw-up-when-I-put-all-my-energy-into-raising-you-to-not-be-just-like-me-even-though-I-am-still-a-screw-up-to-this-day chick-flick starring two females who people actively hide their children from.  It seemed there was no mystery to Netflix’s methods after all.

Resigned, he closed the laptop and took his cereal bowl to the counter.  “I’ll get around to it,” he thought to himself, preempting the angel that was about to tell him to just put it directly in the dishwasher.

Falling into the couch, he shed a tear.  Like every other company, it seemed that Netflix was succeeding by simple logic.

****

Incidentally, if you’re not aware, here is a link to a third party site that connects directly to Netflix and actually makes sense.  www.instantwatcher.com

Life Without Money

No, he didn’t mean to conjure up some imagination-land inspired by John Lennon.  He simply meant to capture some observations about life.  Sometimes he had lots of money, and sometimes he had just enough money.  He figured this made him similar to other people.

Of late, he found himself in the “just enough money” category.

Maybe it was just him, but when he had lots of money his problem was perfection.  In both situations he spent all that he had, but when the dollar amounts were great, he took time away from some things he now values tremendously to find “the perfect” item.  First, the perfect piano (really, it is amazing).  Second, the perfect guns.  Then there was the baseball phase.  He bought the authentic Babe Ruth replica mitt.  He found the greatest soft-toss machine, and accompanied it with an on-the-field hitting net the MLB itself uses in spring training.  And just before the money ran out he bought the perfect motorcycles.  One black-and-chrome American classic, and one dirt-cheap faux sport-bike.  Not to mention the top of the line protective gear.

Had he stayed in that position, his next plan to relieve himself of money was race-car driving lessons.  Yep, it was going to be great.  Oh, and not that he was the boastful type, but this was on top of saving for college, having a nice home etc.  But today?  Today, he doesn’t plan out his expenditures.  He pays for what needs to be payed for.  And there’s something more.  It’s difficult to describe, but for him there is a very tangible, attractive quality to the dream of returning to wealth.  It’s almost as if he finds the dream of wealth more gratifying than the possession of wealth.   There are times when he really, really, really hopes to have lots of money again.  Sadly, though, he knows that when he does, the dream will end.

Halloween’s Terrifying Origin – What The Internet Is Too Afraid To Tell You

Terrified, he found himself surrounded by his familiar bedding.  He had made it out alive.  He was convinced that with each nightmare he was coming closer and closer to not waking up.  But each nightmare revealed a truth, so he knew he must persevere.  Upon wake-up, the truth was never immediately clear, and this morning was no different.  He remembered bits and pieces.  He remembered an enormous building.  He remembered doors twice a man’s size.  He remembered enormous symmetrical staircases.

The lighting was particularly notable.  From the outside of the castle, he believed he must have been in the dark ages, but the interior was lit up like a Christmas tree.  Oddly, there were no light fixtures, just floating candles emanating tremendous amounts of purifying light.  Nearly blinded, he had to hold his hand up to look toward the flames.

“What is this place?” he thoughtlessly wondered aloud.

“Right this way, Peter,” said a voice, startling him out of rationality.  He followed a women whose appearance was that of a nurse, though her genuine warmness caused him to doubt his senses.  She led him down a corridor.  He followed her silent lead and soon began noticing the muffled sounds of whimpering.  He was so focused on not losing sight of his guide that he failed to perceive that along either side of the corridor were doors.  The whimpering was coming from behind those doors.

“Hey, do you think you can slow down?” he questioned.  She only turned her head slightly, letting him know she heard him.  “Fine,” he thought to himself.  He resolved to jog a bit to catch up and then pause to open one of the doors.  The jog took longer than he expected, but he finally was nearly to her, when he again heard a whimper.  Twisting the door handle, he braced for anything.  It was a couple.  They looked at him with an uncommon determination.  He could tell they were there by choice, and that the whimpering was simply their conviction manifested.

A loud cry caused him to look back to the corridor and realize the nurse was barely visible any more.  It sounded like a child.  He ran and he ran to catch her.  The faster he ran, the louder the cry became.  Soon, he heard many cries.  Soon, the cries became familiar.  Soon, he made sense of the scene and could guess where he was.  Until this moment, he had only heard about the practice he believed he was witnessing.  As he finally caught up to the nurse, she slowed to a stop and pointed overhead.  The sign read, “Parents, thank you for your courage.  You’ve done great so far, and we’re here to help with the rest of the process.  Please leave your baby here and find yourself a comfortable room to wait in.  When the process is complete, we’ll bring your baby back to you.”

Recalling the delightful smile she gave as she told him the inside joke, he finally stumbled upon this nightmare’s truth.  She said, “Don’t tell anyone, but among the staff, we call this corridor the ‘Hall o’ Wean.’  Tee-hee!”  In that instant it all became clear.  Today’s witches were clearly descended from the nursing staff.  The rarely seen doctors come to us, surely, as ghosts.  But most certain was the development of trick-or-treating.  A smirk formed as he pictured all those poor babies being carried from door to door in search of their parents.

In the end, with medical science’s resounding defense of weaning, he could finally see that this holiday, which he previously thought to be ridiculous, was well-founded and rightly deserved memorialization.

****

Happy Halloween!

Review of The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, by Jean-Dominique Bauby

In The Autobiography of Mark Twain, Twain quotes John Hay regarding the imperative to write an autobiography.  Hays says,

And he will tell the truth in spite of himself, for his facts and his fictions will work loyally together for the protection of the reader: each fact and each fiction will be a dab of paint, each will fall in its right place, and together they will paint his portrait; not the portrait he thinks they are painting, but his real portrait, the inside of him, the soul of him, his character (223).

Likewise, Bauby’s The Diving Bell and The Butterfly uses, perhaps unknowingly, modernistic techniques to embody his essence.  Like Twain before him, though likely for different reasons, Bauby discards the stifling form of realism.  Bauby’s condition renders him able to write only through arduous dictation.  Bauby foregoes strict chronology, instead opting for the easier, modernistic stream of consciousness form.  As Hay predicted, this form captured Bauby.  Lacking any appreciable context, we discover a man full of life.  More than that, we find simply a man.  Absent is the big-shot editor, the fashion mogul, the womanizer, the playboy, the failed husband, and the absentee father.  These simplistic generalizations vanish precisely because Bauby writes within the shattering framework that is modernism.

Beginning with the title’s juxtaposition of the movement continuum’s two ends, Bauby transports the reader to the depths—and heights—which he experiences after entering his condition.  Necessarily, Bauby begins with how he learned of his condition.  When the story reaches terminal velocity, the slightest thread of a chronological timeline acts as a scarcely visible trace of footsteps which keep us certain that we’ve never strayed far enough to become lost.  Besides this, Bauby’s style has the effect of placing us on the wing of his butterfly.  We climb, we fall, we climb again; flight without consequence.  What does a man like Bauby have to lose if the truth he tells is rejected?  Through the book Bauby proves what should–but never will–be common knowledge: the uniting power of truth–not just truth, but being comfortable telling your truth.  Through his memoir, then, Jean-Dominique Bauby proves like many before him that courageously announcing to the world that you exist has the power to break down the barriers we build for ourselves over a lifetime.  The only question remaining is why won’t we let Bauby move us to act on this lesson?

****

Twain, Mark, Harriet Elinor. Smith, and Benjamin Griffin. Autobiography of Mark Twain. Vol. 1. Berkeley: University of California, 2010. Print.

Juxtaposing Pejorative Conventions

Sitting in class, he found himself amazed how the successful application of the words juxtapose, pejorative and convention made it abundantly clear these people were serious scholars.  Try as he might, over the course of a lifetime he never would discover non-academics offering such tidbits of wisdom as, “Ghetto simply meant neighborhood.  It only became pejorative in the 20th century.”  Or, “I was just thinking about the ridiculous modern conventions which require us to see differences where there aren’t any.”  Or, “More than simply two women having coffee together, the author juxtaposes timeless love with unsustainable passions of the flesh.”

These scholars, in their own right, were a group deserving marvel.  They believed they would boldly lead humanity to the Utopian future that always sits ripe for the picking, if people would only reach for it.

Returning from a brief break, he happened upon a group of these beings that had surrounded his chair with the never-ending favorite discussion topic of Americans–diet.  Quelling his nausea, he sat down and calmed himself with the reminder that the subject usually provided uncommonly hilarious statements, most often centering around rationalizing some form of a stunning lack of discipline.  These intellectuals didn’t disappoint.  Below is a record of the dialogue.

“Yeah, I tried doin’ the whole cook-everything-for-the-week-on-Sunday-to-try-to-eat-healthy-during-the-week thing.  It just didn’t work.  I ended up wasting a lot of the food.”

“Me too.  I always start the week off strong, but by Wednesday I get bored with the food.”

“I agree.  What I didn’t like was having to thaw things.”

Thawing.

More proof that the saying was true–“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”

Thank The Doctor

For Paul.

Like any pilot, he feared hospitals.  Any fool knew the buildings themselves were stable and not prone to injure their inhabitants, so he knew his fear must have been generated by something inside the buildings.  It was.  For this pilot, the doctor was the root of the fear.  The doctor was the one person who could take away, without him having any say, what he worked so hard to achieve–the wonder of flight.

He couldn’t help but notice that his fear was never lonely.  The other pilots feared the doctor too.  More than that, he noticed that even some civilians feared entering those sterile buildings and visiting this flesh expert.  “But what would give the civilians pause?” he wondered, now distracted by the thought.  Quick as lightening, the horrible truth revealed itself: doctors were omnipotent.

He wondered if they knew.  Perhaps they did, then again perhaps they didn’t.  Prior experience told him that this wasn’t exactly the kind of information that should be shared lightly.  Who could he tell?  If doctors didn’t know their power, upon being told, they might begin to abuse it.  But if they did know?  Wow.  What a benevolent group of individuals they were!

More than soldiers, more than policemen, more than politicians, more than clergy, it is doctors that hold this life ransom.

“Take this,” they say, knowing full well its a crap-shoot.

“Do that,” they command, never feeling resistance.

“You’ll live,” they pronounce so matter-of-factly that the recipient of even the worst boo-boo’s spirit is lifted.

“You’re going to die,” they deliver, never betraying whether this is good news or bad.

Truly more powerful than the caped crusader himself, these lab-coated demigods hold all of life’s keys.  With a sure-grip they hold humanity’s heart in their stable hands.  And yet they choose not to squeeze too tightly.

He realized, then, that it’s okay to be afraid.  But he knew he should also be grateful.  He should be grateful that these quiet professionals choose to meekly implement their duties with reserve.  He wouldn’t allow himself to consider the other option; it was too terrible.

So go on being afraid, it’s justified.  Just the same, never forget to thank the doctor.

LinkedIn All-Stars Discover Bosses Furious

Earlier this year LinkedIn celebrated its tenth anniversary.  With ten years under its belt, the Silicon Valley tech giant has finally fallen prey to researchers.  The findings aren’t pretty.  Among a newly released 500-page report there are some notable discoveries:

  • 63% of LinkedIn Users report spending time each day to see if the infinite scroll really is infinite.
    • Of those users, 25% admit feeling “genuinely disappointed” when, upon reaching the end, they read “There are no more updates at this time” instead of congratulations for beating the game.
  • 84% of Users have achieved All-Star Profile Strength.
    • Of those Users, 100% believe they are more likely to receive a promotion within the next 6 months because of it.
      • Of those Users, zero worked in companies whose promotion decisions factored in their employee’s LinkedIn Profile Strength.

And most damning,

  • After not having the heart to crush their employee’s hopes and dreams and tell them, “No, browsing LinkedIn is not what I’m paying you to do,” 100% of Bosses spend at least 10-minutes wishing for the “good ol’ days” when employees earned their pay.

Finally, the researchers noted first, that despite these findings, employees generally felt that they were more productive because of LinkedIn and second, that more research should be done to validate their findings.

1 + 1 = 2. Right?

Tony was a nice enough looking guy.  A new member to Gold’s Gym, he sat across from me with a look of genuine interest.  He, the student.  Me, the teacher.

He liked to laugh.  I could tell that right away.  That was always a relief when starting the process.

“We’re going to start by using what we call the 10-10-10.  Ten exercises, ten workouts, ten times.  While it seems easy, and not very manly, we need to start somewhere and this is it.”

“Okay, sounds good…  I really want to know about about dieting too,” Tony furthered the conversation.

“What questions do you have?  I’m kinda particular about diet advice.”

“Well, I guess I just want to get my six-pack back.”

“That’s it?  That’s simple.  No bread, no fruit, no dairy.  If you’re on a budget, spend all your money on protein powders, tuna, and rice.”

“Really?  It’s that easy?”

“Yep, I’ll tell you how much rice to eat a day, and you can eat as much tuna and protein powder as you can afford.  The fat will be gone in no time.”

“That’s cool.  When I have my six-pack back, the hair on my stomach will go away too, right?”

“Huh?”

“When I had my six-pack, I didn’t have any hair on my stomach.  And the bodybuilders that are all ripped in the magazines don’t have any hair.  I just figured that being that muscular prevented the hair from growing.”

“Uh-huh.  Well, unfortunately, in this part of the country, at this time of the year, no, that isn’t the case.  You’ll have to shave like the rest of us.”