I'm applying to graduate school and never mind asking in what subject, because it's not really your business and it's besides the point. What is the point is that I was required, as part of my application process, to take the Graduate Record Examinations, or GREs as they are affectionately referred to by people, like nuns and actors on TV, who refer to things with affection. The GREs are divided into three helpful sections: verbal, math and analytical, and while this is certainly enough to test my ability to answer difficult word problems and analogies, it doesn't begin to address an even more important subject: how low I'm willing to grovel in order to make these grad schools like me. "Oh please, please like me," Happy Stan recommended I write on page one of my applications, but I have too much integrity for that. But I WAS willing to sit in a tiny room with 20 other go-getter types for four hours and answer questions on a computer screen.
I am not a scientist, but I can spell "science" and without question that gives me the authority to say the following: the GREs test your ability to take the GREs and not much else. Sure, some of the questions are difficult [SEE BELOW FOR SAMPLE QUESTIONS], but there are innumerable classes you can take and books you can study in order to improve your score. The verbal section, replete with analogies, antonyms, sentence completions and reading comprehension questions dense enough to make an elephant choke, don't test in any way how well you'll be able to learn science terms if you're going to be a scientist, or even how well you reason. The tests aren't really useful for testing how you'll do in any particularly subject. And they're annoying.
So what are the GREs really testing? It's this: how hard you might work when you actually enroll in graduate school. Which isn't so bad, I suppose, since grad schools are investing in students as much as students are investing in grad schools (except students are investing their life savings, and grad schools are making millions). But some programs don't even use the scores! My programs require them only because they're required by the larger universities to which I'm applying. So that makes it even more annoying that I lost sleep over the buggers. Lots of sleep. More sleep than I'll ever get back (rest assured, I am not going to grad school to study time travel, so that sleep is long gone). Because I hate tests more than I hate mold season. I get nervous preparing for tests, the tests begin to occupy my every thought, action and taste, I can't sleep, or eat, tests, just, test, Tests, TESTS! So why do they make us take these meaningless, painful, tooth-pulling exams? Because those who don't take them will turn to a life of a crime and give the rest of us something to clean up after.
Here are some sample math and verbal questions:
Math:
1) If Ted has six sisters, three are named Elizabeth and one runs for President of the United States, and x = 13, what is the likelihood that Ted had too many raisinettes when he went to see the latest screening of Borat last night: A) 16! B) 16/x C) 16 D) 1.6 E) All of the above.
2) Which is greater, A or B:
x = 13 orangatuns, y = 4 lemon drops
Quantity A =x - y Quantity B = 11
Quantity A is greater
Quantity B is greater
Quantity A equals Quantity B
Relationship Indeterminate Since Orangatuns are not Crustaceans
3) Using the triangle not given and assuming x = 7, let us know if that guy is bothering you. Yeah, that one over there. Yeah, you. What? What did you say? Are you looking at me, because I'll come over there, man. What? Oh no, you di'nt. Just turn your fat head around and finish your test, because you know you don't want to see me mad. A) 90 degrees B) 45 degrees C) Damn, just turn around! D) 10 degrees E) Damn!
Verbal:
1) Rhinoceros is to GRE as
A) Hippo is to GRE
B) Llama is to GRE
C) Caterpillar is to GRE
D) Wallet is to Empty
E) Elapsed
2) Find the word that is most closely opposite in meaning to the following word: Defibrilator. A ) Trophy B) Sponge C) Boutros Boutros Gali D) Kareem Abdul Jabar E) Defibrilator
3) Answer this question after reading the following text which we have reduced to the size of an electron: if Batman had a gun, could he beat up Superman?
11/10/2006
10/08/2006
Dream Seats
If there's one thing in the world I really love, it's going to a spacious theater on a Saturday night, relaxing with a large box of popcorn and a 150 mg Zantac, sitting back to enjoy a movie without annoying disruptions from my phone, my blackberry or other humans. If I had it my way (and I do, but only when I dream), I'd build a giant theater for myself and attend movies daily -- Martin Scorsese style -- and allow only friends and other billionaires into my special cave. But since I'm probably not dreaming, nothing causes my GERD to flare up quite as much as people who arrive at the theater too late to find a good seat, or, even worse, after the movie has begun and ask me to move to accomodate their self-entitled, flabby asses.
I went to see the "Science of Sleep" the other day (a movie apparently made about my entire 20s) and got there early and claimed a cozy seat near the middle-back. Those who filled in the row around me sensed my surlyness and as the theater filled I found myself with empty human-holders on both sides, which was fine with me: more room to stretch my too-long-for-the-movies-or-flying-in-airplanes legs. Happy Stan says I should use the opportunity at the movies to chat with other movie goers, but that's only because HS thinks I secretly like people.
About 17 seconds before the movie began I felt a tap on my shoulder and as I turned to bite off the offender's arm I heard him say, "would you mind moving over one so my girlfriend and I can sit together?" He had an English accent, long stringy hair and a vibe like Keith Richards, only without the rock stardom and years of drug abuse to back it up. In short, he was a lightweight hipster. Dude, where the hell were you when I was taking this sit 35 minutes ago? I didn't show up early to save you a seat. I couldn't help myself, I actually said that. He was flustered and I saw for a moment a flicker of fear: oh no, this guy is crazy. In New York anything is possible and he didn't know if I was about to stand up and cut off his head with a machete. But I moved over one, finally, because -- wait, why did I move? Perhaps because that moment, over a single movie seat, wasn't the best time to make a stand on principle. But then, when is? If we don't stop the bleeding, the decay, soon, if we don't prevent the ones who live in a cloud (and don't have their own blogs), the ones who do not realize other people exist, from destroying what little sense of humanity our culture has, who will? And don't tell me Paris Hilton, because I'll just slap you.
What gets me about these people is that they're oblivious to their own obliviousness. They think it's okay to inconvenience others to compensate for their laziness, tardiness or whatever -ness they're full of. I was waiting in line the other day at the movies with a friend (I have two) and the line stretched around the block. When they finally let us in a middle-aged woman tried to turn the corner and jump into line. Fortunately, a fellow cranky-panter was on the job and stopped her short with, "do you think I was born yesterday, lady?" What's wrong with her? I know what's wrong. She thinks she's more important than everyone else. She has no empathy, no capacity for love: she's all greed and American go-get 'em-ness. Another -ness taken to extremes. Makes me want to drift off, to sleep, to escape into my own moldable reality.
I often dream of being lost in large, empty buildings, of stumbling up dark steps, of winding through cavernous rooms. I'm invariably alone on these treks, slightly out of sorts, but not completely panicked. Is my brain telling me I'm lost? Or that too often my own psyche is unknowable, even to myself?
The movie was very good, as it turned out, and told the sad story of a boy-man who can't deal with the reality of dating, or of any other people, because he lives his entire life in a dream. The irony struck me only later, but then I wondered if I might not be better off disappearing into my own psychosis, like the protagonist of the film. At least I'd get a nice seat in an empty movie theater every time. I'm so close.
I went to see the "Science of Sleep" the other day (a movie apparently made about my entire 20s) and got there early and claimed a cozy seat near the middle-back. Those who filled in the row around me sensed my surlyness and as the theater filled I found myself with empty human-holders on both sides, which was fine with me: more room to stretch my too-long-for-the-movies-or-flying-in-airplanes legs. Happy Stan says I should use the opportunity at the movies to chat with other movie goers, but that's only because HS thinks I secretly like people.
About 17 seconds before the movie began I felt a tap on my shoulder and as I turned to bite off the offender's arm I heard him say, "would you mind moving over one so my girlfriend and I can sit together?" He had an English accent, long stringy hair and a vibe like Keith Richards, only without the rock stardom and years of drug abuse to back it up. In short, he was a lightweight hipster. Dude, where the hell were you when I was taking this sit 35 minutes ago? I didn't show up early to save you a seat. I couldn't help myself, I actually said that. He was flustered and I saw for a moment a flicker of fear: oh no, this guy is crazy. In New York anything is possible and he didn't know if I was about to stand up and cut off his head with a machete. But I moved over one, finally, because -- wait, why did I move? Perhaps because that moment, over a single movie seat, wasn't the best time to make a stand on principle. But then, when is? If we don't stop the bleeding, the decay, soon, if we don't prevent the ones who live in a cloud (and don't have their own blogs), the ones who do not realize other people exist, from destroying what little sense of humanity our culture has, who will? And don't tell me Paris Hilton, because I'll just slap you.
What gets me about these people is that they're oblivious to their own obliviousness. They think it's okay to inconvenience others to compensate for their laziness, tardiness or whatever -ness they're full of. I was waiting in line the other day at the movies with a friend (I have two) and the line stretched around the block. When they finally let us in a middle-aged woman tried to turn the corner and jump into line. Fortunately, a fellow cranky-panter was on the job and stopped her short with, "do you think I was born yesterday, lady?" What's wrong with her? I know what's wrong. She thinks she's more important than everyone else. She has no empathy, no capacity for love: she's all greed and American go-get 'em-ness. Another -ness taken to extremes. Makes me want to drift off, to sleep, to escape into my own moldable reality.
I often dream of being lost in large, empty buildings, of stumbling up dark steps, of winding through cavernous rooms. I'm invariably alone on these treks, slightly out of sorts, but not completely panicked. Is my brain telling me I'm lost? Or that too often my own psyche is unknowable, even to myself?
The movie was very good, as it turned out, and told the sad story of a boy-man who can't deal with the reality of dating, or of any other people, because he lives his entire life in a dream. The irony struck me only later, but then I wondered if I might not be better off disappearing into my own psychosis, like the protagonist of the film. At least I'd get a nice seat in an empty movie theater every time. I'm so close.
9/18/2006
Happy Fitness
I've taken to exercising along with fitness programs on television in an effort to find ways to stay in shape while avoiding paying half my salary to a gym where I have to wait in line ten minutes to tone those hard to reach lats. After watching a bunch, I realized something was off, and it wasn't just my right hip. It was THEM.
I have nothing against the TV exercise instructors, because their crunching their abs to make sure I don't turn into a tubby ball of goo. I respect 'em. But what burns my buns more than Ellen Barrett after an hour long workout is this: they can't stop smiling. It's relentless. It's as if they've been hypnotized by Ms. America, it's like they're auditioning for Valley of the Dolls, it's as if their brains have been sucked out through a straw and replaced by vanilla milkshakes. What's with all the smiling, kids? You're sweating! Just once I'd like to see Ellen lean over her knee, wipe her forehead and exclaim, "fuck, this workout is kicking my ass!"
Wouldn't that make you feel better (and by you, I mean "me")? Because you're not even bending over, wiping your forehead and exclaiming anything, because you stopped about halfway through the workout, walked outside, kicked the neighbor's cat and bought yourself an ice cream Sundae. You're a human being, after all, and wouldn't it be easier to finish one of those workouts if the person you were following was human as well? No, it wouldn't, who are you trying to kid? You're lazy, stop blaming Ellen Barrett.
Wait, I've gotten off track again. Okay, I would marry Ellen. She's perky, in shape and she says things like, "You're doing great," which, lets face it, is something most guys want to hear in as many contexts as possible. But I'd love to see her after the show, clutching her side: "Damn, I've got a cramp, I've got a cramp." That would make her endearing, lovable and more like you, me and everyone else. So what's with all the phony smiling?
I think it's because we're living in a culture where nothing is supposed to be difficult. If it's hard to do, it's not worth doing. My Uncle Abe was over my house the other day to watch football and eat me out of nachos when he said, in between bouts of terrible gas, "There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering." It sounded like something Theodore Roosevelt would say, but my Uncle has a way of exceeding the intelligence of our collective human history. His point is that no one gets anything done unless he applies himself, but marketing people know they can convince you that it's not true. They put a shine, a gloss on everything -- they want you to waste your life, to sit in front of the television and get excited by the Dustbuster, they want you to go to your computer and order a thighmaster, they want you to eat McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken and put enough pressure on your poor heart to turn a coal into a diamond. They want you to pin a numb smile on your face, go through life like a dummy, smiling meaninglessly all the way into the dirt. They want you -- us -- to believe life is SUPPOSED to be easy. Life, lets face it, isn't easy, and in our culture there are too many reasons for giving up, for addicting yourself to Ally McBeal, cocaine or self-love blogging.
The fitness experts know what's going on, they're on the front lines, because that body they have took a shitload of work. Someone, I suspect, is forcing them to do all that smiling. The producers are convinced it's the only way audiences will stick with it: "Make it seem easy, Ellen." The experts need to get their own channel, run by fitness gurus, owned by fitness gurus, where they can whisper to us honestly: "Look, this is going to take a lot of work, you slob. But after a few months, if you stick with me, you might be able to climb down a flight of stairs without losing your breath. You and I are just alike except for one thing. I do 500 crunches a day and you can't lay off those Twinkies. You disgust me!"
Ellen, don't hesitate to say hi!
I have nothing against the TV exercise instructors, because their crunching their abs to make sure I don't turn into a tubby ball of goo. I respect 'em. But what burns my buns more than Ellen Barrett after an hour long workout is this: they can't stop smiling. It's relentless. It's as if they've been hypnotized by Ms. America, it's like they're auditioning for Valley of the Dolls, it's as if their brains have been sucked out through a straw and replaced by vanilla milkshakes. What's with all the smiling, kids? You're sweating! Just once I'd like to see Ellen lean over her knee, wipe her forehead and exclaim, "fuck, this workout is kicking my ass!"
Wouldn't that make you feel better (and by you, I mean "me")? Because you're not even bending over, wiping your forehead and exclaiming anything, because you stopped about halfway through the workout, walked outside, kicked the neighbor's cat and bought yourself an ice cream Sundae. You're a human being, after all, and wouldn't it be easier to finish one of those workouts if the person you were following was human as well? No, it wouldn't, who are you trying to kid? You're lazy, stop blaming Ellen Barrett.
Wait, I've gotten off track again. Okay, I would marry Ellen. She's perky, in shape and she says things like, "You're doing great," which, lets face it, is something most guys want to hear in as many contexts as possible. But I'd love to see her after the show, clutching her side: "Damn, I've got a cramp, I've got a cramp." That would make her endearing, lovable and more like you, me and everyone else. So what's with all the phony smiling?
I think it's because we're living in a culture where nothing is supposed to be difficult. If it's hard to do, it's not worth doing. My Uncle Abe was over my house the other day to watch football and eat me out of nachos when he said, in between bouts of terrible gas, "There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering." It sounded like something Theodore Roosevelt would say, but my Uncle has a way of exceeding the intelligence of our collective human history. His point is that no one gets anything done unless he applies himself, but marketing people know they can convince you that it's not true. They put a shine, a gloss on everything -- they want you to waste your life, to sit in front of the television and get excited by the Dustbuster, they want you to go to your computer and order a thighmaster, they want you to eat McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken and put enough pressure on your poor heart to turn a coal into a diamond. They want you to pin a numb smile on your face, go through life like a dummy, smiling meaninglessly all the way into the dirt. They want you -- us -- to believe life is SUPPOSED to be easy. Life, lets face it, isn't easy, and in our culture there are too many reasons for giving up, for addicting yourself to Ally McBeal, cocaine or self-love blogging.
The fitness experts know what's going on, they're on the front lines, because that body they have took a shitload of work. Someone, I suspect, is forcing them to do all that smiling. The producers are convinced it's the only way audiences will stick with it: "Make it seem easy, Ellen." The experts need to get their own channel, run by fitness gurus, owned by fitness gurus, where they can whisper to us honestly: "Look, this is going to take a lot of work, you slob. But after a few months, if you stick with me, you might be able to climb down a flight of stairs without losing your breath. You and I are just alike except for one thing. I do 500 crunches a day and you can't lay off those Twinkies. You disgust me!"
Ellen, don't hesitate to say hi!
8/18/2006
Damn machines
I was in the post-office picking up my hate mail (one from my mom), when I happened to pass by an average young man depositing quarters into a stamp machine. One of the quarters fell all the way through for no apparent reason and the man let out a hissing, exasperated moan and if I hadn't been right there I'm fairly certain he would have whipped out his manhood and peed on the contraption. By the way, I don't typically use the word "manhood" in any context, but Happy Stan says his kids have been reading my blog for tips on how to avoid a miserable adulthood, so I'm occasionally censoring my lingo.
Where was I? Oh yes, the post-office. I was right there with that poor guy, remembering the many times I've deposited change into the snack machine at work, my mouth watering, my eyes growing large at the site of the peanut butter cups just behind the plastic. And I remembered the many times the machine wouldn't take my quarters (and the one time I slammed my fist against the plastic sheild and swore revenge). I remembered all the times my computer crashed just as I was about to send a brilliant email to my girlfriend explaining why I was right and she was wrong about everything we'd ever discussed, including my tendency to ignore what she was saying after several sentences. I remembered the times my computer had a small glitch and all I had to do to fix it was to clean up a few things, but cleaning up a few things caused 7 new problems to arise, and then when I tried to clean up those 7 things, 49 new problems arose until finally I tossed my computer in front of a Sprite truck that happened to be speeding by the dumpster where I sleep. I remembered the time my Grandpa Schlomo got parking tickets for parking in a space when the parking meter was broken. Does that really make sense?
What's going on here besides my own slippery descent into madness? It's machines. Computers. Automated answering services. Televisions. Blackberrys. Cell phones. Parking Meters. They're everywhere and they're making life even less personal than it already is. We're turning into anti-social, isolated creatures, on par with sharks and TV talk show hosts. Whenever I'm at the airport, I always try to get into the line that will allow me to talk to a human being, even though checking in electronically might be a tad faster and less likely to lead to a conversation that would include the word "carry-on." I do this because I work with computers and I know computers fuck up all the time. And they're inflexible. You can't push an incorrect button on a machine and expect it to say, "hey, that's okay, you're just a squishy, idiotic human being, like me, I'll just switch your seat so you get to sit next to that hot tomato after all!" I like to be able to say to a human being, "I'd like the burger medium rare, but hold the fries and can I get a salad?" Even the least intelligent human being understands nuance. Machines understand 1 and 0.
Here's a quote from a New York Times article that I read on line: "A study by sociologists at Duke and the University of Arizona that gained wide attention this summer found that too much computer use can isolate one further from a shrinking circle of confidants." No, really? Cleary, those who funded this study either don't get out much or they're wild surfer dudes wondering why fewer and fewer folks are hitting the shore every week to catch a few tasty waves.
So when I slam my hand against the plastic casing of the snack machine, I'm really expressing the frustration of all humanity. I'm desperate for human interaction, for someone to say, "sorry sir, here's your peanutbutter cups, now why don't you go sit down in the kitchen and think happy thoughts about streams and squirrels."
All of this is our own fault. We thought machines were making our lives easier, but instead we're turning existence into one isolated, numbing experience after another. There are too many so-called humans, now, that are more automated than any machine you'll ever meet. That's not life. That's more like war, just with slower deaths. Which reminds me: a friend of mine produced a TV show (speaking of isolating electronic devices) recently about ways the world might end. One of them was: "machines take over." Maybe that's already happened...
Where was I? Oh yes, the post-office. I was right there with that poor guy, remembering the many times I've deposited change into the snack machine at work, my mouth watering, my eyes growing large at the site of the peanut butter cups just behind the plastic. And I remembered the many times the machine wouldn't take my quarters (and the one time I slammed my fist against the plastic sheild and swore revenge). I remembered all the times my computer crashed just as I was about to send a brilliant email to my girlfriend explaining why I was right and she was wrong about everything we'd ever discussed, including my tendency to ignore what she was saying after several sentences. I remembered the times my computer had a small glitch and all I had to do to fix it was to clean up a few things, but cleaning up a few things caused 7 new problems to arise, and then when I tried to clean up those 7 things, 49 new problems arose until finally I tossed my computer in front of a Sprite truck that happened to be speeding by the dumpster where I sleep. I remembered the time my Grandpa Schlomo got parking tickets for parking in a space when the parking meter was broken. Does that really make sense?
What's going on here besides my own slippery descent into madness? It's machines. Computers. Automated answering services. Televisions. Blackberrys. Cell phones. Parking Meters. They're everywhere and they're making life even less personal than it already is. We're turning into anti-social, isolated creatures, on par with sharks and TV talk show hosts. Whenever I'm at the airport, I always try to get into the line that will allow me to talk to a human being, even though checking in electronically might be a tad faster and less likely to lead to a conversation that would include the word "carry-on." I do this because I work with computers and I know computers fuck up all the time. And they're inflexible. You can't push an incorrect button on a machine and expect it to say, "hey, that's okay, you're just a squishy, idiotic human being, like me, I'll just switch your seat so you get to sit next to that hot tomato after all!" I like to be able to say to a human being, "I'd like the burger medium rare, but hold the fries and can I get a salad?" Even the least intelligent human being understands nuance. Machines understand 1 and 0.
Here's a quote from a New York Times article that I read on line: "A study by sociologists at Duke and the University of Arizona that gained wide attention this summer found that too much computer use can isolate one further from a shrinking circle of confidants." No, really? Cleary, those who funded this study either don't get out much or they're wild surfer dudes wondering why fewer and fewer folks are hitting the shore every week to catch a few tasty waves.
So when I slam my hand against the plastic casing of the snack machine, I'm really expressing the frustration of all humanity. I'm desperate for human interaction, for someone to say, "sorry sir, here's your peanutbutter cups, now why don't you go sit down in the kitchen and think happy thoughts about streams and squirrels."
All of this is our own fault. We thought machines were making our lives easier, but instead we're turning existence into one isolated, numbing experience after another. There are too many so-called humans, now, that are more automated than any machine you'll ever meet. That's not life. That's more like war, just with slower deaths. Which reminds me: a friend of mine produced a TV show (speaking of isolating electronic devices) recently about ways the world might end. One of them was: "machines take over." Maybe that's already happened...
8/03/2006
Spam
Some days I have profound thoughts, like the day I realized that Mel Gibson is not my real father, as my mother insists, because he couldn't possibly be Jewish -- what Jew ever had an Australian accent, come on! But today is not a day I'm having any profound thoughts, which has led me to write about something that anyone who has ever had email finds annoying: spam. And not the kind that's tasty to eat with eggs, jam and toast, but the kind that pours into my email inbox at every hour of the day. Spam for Vioxx, for Viagra for estranged generals looking to use my bank account to make me a multi-bazillionaire. I hate spam like tall men hate airplane seats, like construction workers hate powerful winds, like my skin hates the rest of my skin when I'm watching Oprah Winfrey on television.
First off, who the hell likes spam? I have trouble conjuring an image of someone pathetic enough to happily open any email that hits his Inbox: I picture a large, shaggy man with no pants and grizzlybear back-hair sitting in a ragged trailer set down in the middle of the desert with a cable running from his computer to the nearest city (probably Nevada). I believe it was The Beatles who wondered where all the lonely people come from. I don't know that they ever got an answer to that question, but I do know this: those folks aren't lonely anymore, they have THOUSANDS of new friends who write them every day.
It might be presumptious of me to assume that anyone likes spam, but I'm giving the spammers the benefit of several doubts. Why would they keep spamming if it didn't work? Either they're crazy (well, they are crazy), or they're drumming up business this way. So lets assume there is a segment of the population of the earth who like nothing more than receiving email ads for things that they absolutely must have. And how would they know they needed those things if they didn't get emails announcing their existence? How stupid am I? Or, as Grandpa Schlomo would say, "You're a schmuck, now pass the pork chops and the magic markers."
I read somewhere, probably in the New York Times during a dream, that the number of spam emails is greater than the number of real emails sent by real people. Which begs at least one metaphysical question: which are the "real" real emails? Huh? Ponder that! No, don't. Spam is not real email and quantity is only better than quality when it comes to champagne, ice cream and Zsa Zsa Gabor. But it does make me wonder about the quality of email in the first place. Remember a time way, way back, when people wrote carefully crafted letters? Those days are gone -- suggest writing a letter to someone and you'll be crushed by their manic laugh and soul-crushing punch to your solar plexus. Folks don't have time to write anything of substance anymore. In fact, most folks (especially lazy bloggers) don't even have the time to even think anything of substance anymore. They're too busy watching shows with words like "ghost," "spirit," "telepathy," and "Jay Leno" on the television. And lord knows we have to be fed constant stimulation: in my office building they recently put up ridiculous TV screens in all the elevators that shout out useless statistics and news all day. Who cares what Brad and Angelina are doing, besides their press agent and 2.4 billion people?!
Oh wait, I was talking about spam. Err, spam. So what to do about it. I have several suggestions. First, make it illegal. I know, that probably treads on at least one amendment to the Constitution, but I wonder if the founding fathers or the various amenders ever envisioned their lofty ideals being used principally to sell erectile dysfunction medication (though Happy Stan points out that those guys NEVER smile in paintings, so who knows...). Do democratic principles necessarily even go with capitlist ones? An unoriginal thought to be sure, but worth pondering next time some spam hits your Inbox. Like now. And now. Now. Another thought to stop spammers: track 'em all down, put them in a city that no one is using anyway (Phoenix?), build really high fences and then force feed them all the medication they've been selling. Then film it. Now that's some television that'd be worth seeing. Now I'm getting hungry -- yup, for spam and eggs.
First off, who the hell likes spam? I have trouble conjuring an image of someone pathetic enough to happily open any email that hits his Inbox: I picture a large, shaggy man with no pants and grizzlybear back-hair sitting in a ragged trailer set down in the middle of the desert with a cable running from his computer to the nearest city (probably Nevada). I believe it was The Beatles who wondered where all the lonely people come from. I don't know that they ever got an answer to that question, but I do know this: those folks aren't lonely anymore, they have THOUSANDS of new friends who write them every day.
It might be presumptious of me to assume that anyone likes spam, but I'm giving the spammers the benefit of several doubts. Why would they keep spamming if it didn't work? Either they're crazy (well, they are crazy), or they're drumming up business this way. So lets assume there is a segment of the population of the earth who like nothing more than receiving email ads for things that they absolutely must have. And how would they know they needed those things if they didn't get emails announcing their existence? How stupid am I? Or, as Grandpa Schlomo would say, "You're a schmuck, now pass the pork chops and the magic markers."
I read somewhere, probably in the New York Times during a dream, that the number of spam emails is greater than the number of real emails sent by real people. Which begs at least one metaphysical question: which are the "real" real emails? Huh? Ponder that! No, don't. Spam is not real email and quantity is only better than quality when it comes to champagne, ice cream and Zsa Zsa Gabor. But it does make me wonder about the quality of email in the first place. Remember a time way, way back, when people wrote carefully crafted letters? Those days are gone -- suggest writing a letter to someone and you'll be crushed by their manic laugh and soul-crushing punch to your solar plexus. Folks don't have time to write anything of substance anymore. In fact, most folks (especially lazy bloggers) don't even have the time to even think anything of substance anymore. They're too busy watching shows with words like "ghost," "spirit," "telepathy," and "Jay Leno" on the television. And lord knows we have to be fed constant stimulation: in my office building they recently put up ridiculous TV screens in all the elevators that shout out useless statistics and news all day. Who cares what Brad and Angelina are doing, besides their press agent and 2.4 billion people?!
Oh wait, I was talking about spam. Err, spam. So what to do about it. I have several suggestions. First, make it illegal. I know, that probably treads on at least one amendment to the Constitution, but I wonder if the founding fathers or the various amenders ever envisioned their lofty ideals being used principally to sell erectile dysfunction medication (though Happy Stan points out that those guys NEVER smile in paintings, so who knows...). Do democratic principles necessarily even go with capitlist ones? An unoriginal thought to be sure, but worth pondering next time some spam hits your Inbox. Like now. And now. Now. Another thought to stop spammers: track 'em all down, put them in a city that no one is using anyway (Phoenix?), build really high fences and then force feed them all the medication they've been selling. Then film it. Now that's some television that'd be worth seeing. Now I'm getting hungry -- yup, for spam and eggs.
7/05/2006
Elevator Buttons
I was recently visiting the home of my arch-nemesis Dr. H -- there to plant destructive ideas -- and as I was leaving I noticed the elevator in his building had a display telling me exactly what floor each elevator was on. So while it was still moderately annoying having to wait for the elevator, I found my blood pressure remained fixed and dilated because I at least knew when the next elevator would be stopping on my floor. Yes, if this suggests to you that I'm a controlling freak, I'd say you're right about at least one thing: you do hate yourself.
Which brings me to the point at hand: why can't all public modes of transportation deliver information that will keep my blood pressure from shooting through my eyelids? The monorail at Newark Airport tells me down to the second when the next train will arrive! If you miss a bus or train in New York City, you have several choices: 1) patiently wait for the next to arrive; 2) write a screenplay; 3) pace back and forth until you can't take it any more and punch the nearest wall as an expression of your rage; 4) invent a time machine, build it and then transport yourself forward in time to the moment the next train arrives; 5) leap on to the train tracks and await your demise (but bring a novel and something to eat); 6) perfect the cello.
I remember reading in a New Yorker article a year or so ago that the man who "saved" the New York City subways in the 80s was going to London to help them with their mess. I can't believe that man got another job! Saved? The tracks are perpetually under construction, there is little rhyme or reason to the work (the G line tracks have been under construction for the entire 16 years I've lived in Greenpoint) and clearly no one cares about the passengers. There are many, many other problems with the subway and bus systems, but a neon sign declaring the innumerable delays would at least allow passengers to attempt to make productive plans during delays, like walking to work or having a picnic.
Uncle Abe was visiting my apartment last week to use the toilet and when I mentioned all this to him he said, "Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish." And even though it appears John Quincy Adams stole this notion from my Uncle I have to admit: they're both right. But who cares about being right. I want to live in a world as pristine as the one inside my head, where I never have to wait for anything, except pop culture references. I like it when elevators and trains talk to me, and I have too much time on my hands for my own obsessions anyway -- I have a tendency to carry on conversations with my imaginary selves, and most of them have ill tempers, bad manners and terrible posture. So I could really, really use someone else to talk to while I wait. If nothing is done, I'm afraid my own tenuous psyche will split into several irreparable pieces. And we don't want that, do we?
Which brings me to the point at hand: why can't all public modes of transportation deliver information that will keep my blood pressure from shooting through my eyelids? The monorail at Newark Airport tells me down to the second when the next train will arrive! If you miss a bus or train in New York City, you have several choices: 1) patiently wait for the next to arrive; 2) write a screenplay; 3) pace back and forth until you can't take it any more and punch the nearest wall as an expression of your rage; 4) invent a time machine, build it and then transport yourself forward in time to the moment the next train arrives; 5) leap on to the train tracks and await your demise (but bring a novel and something to eat); 6) perfect the cello.
I remember reading in a New Yorker article a year or so ago that the man who "saved" the New York City subways in the 80s was going to London to help them with their mess. I can't believe that man got another job! Saved? The tracks are perpetually under construction, there is little rhyme or reason to the work (the G line tracks have been under construction for the entire 16 years I've lived in Greenpoint) and clearly no one cares about the passengers. There are many, many other problems with the subway and bus systems, but a neon sign declaring the innumerable delays would at least allow passengers to attempt to make productive plans during delays, like walking to work or having a picnic.
Uncle Abe was visiting my apartment last week to use the toilet and when I mentioned all this to him he said, "Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish." And even though it appears John Quincy Adams stole this notion from my Uncle I have to admit: they're both right. But who cares about being right. I want to live in a world as pristine as the one inside my head, where I never have to wait for anything, except pop culture references. I like it when elevators and trains talk to me, and I have too much time on my hands for my own obsessions anyway -- I have a tendency to carry on conversations with my imaginary selves, and most of them have ill tempers, bad manners and terrible posture. So I could really, really use someone else to talk to while I wait. If nothing is done, I'm afraid my own tenuous psyche will split into several irreparable pieces. And we don't want that, do we?
6/30/2006
Rain and my brain
I love the rain. Only, I love it when I'm inside, snuggled up with my sweetheart, eating marshmallows out of the bag and exchanging occasional smooches. And since I don't have a sweetheart (though my own heart is scrumptious) this is currently a state of affairs virtually impossible to achieve (I'll leave open the potential for time travel, because humans are really clever at figuring out this kind of stuff). Which makes it even more exasperating that I was caught three times this week in a deluge, and although I had my umbrella with me during all three outbursts I still got soaked -- serious rain. I don't remember it raining this much in June in NYC. Is this being caused by a) Global warming; b) A vengeful god almighty; c) chance; or d) clouds. I'm betting it's some combination of a, c and d. I don't believe in a vengeful god, or of a deity of any sort, alas, though I spend much time damaging my own psyche by blaming him (definitely a guy) for all things that go wrong, proving at least one thing: I hate to take responsibility for my own failures. My favorite thing to blame Him for is losing at computer Hearts. I feel I'm entitled to win every game, so when I don't win, I blame Him. But I blame Him for lots of things. Here's a list of some of those:
1) Failure to achieve a career in writing;
2) Humidity;
3) Pimples;
4) When I trip on the sidewalk and nearly fall, I usually scowl. Damn Him!
5) Mayonaise, but only when it has that funny taste that makes me want to vomit;
6) Lack of girlfriend- ness;
7) Shitty job;
8) NYC subways;
9) That feeling you get when you pass a graveyard;
10) Bad teeth.
11) My negativity;
12) Spilling beets on my pants;
13) Graying and thinning hair (it'll be a race to see which wins);
14) the Yankees;
15) Bureaucracy
Happy Stan says that I should start appreciating the good things in life and stop focusing on the negative, but since HS isn't real I told him to go to hell. When he is out of the room, though, I secretly wonder if he isn't for once making some sense; but when I try to feel happy that my couch is really comfortable and that I have a good apartment, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it means I'm happy, I think, but maybe it means I shouldn't have eaten that tuna sandwich with the bad mayo. The point is: my own brain is often my worst enemy, and it's tough to fight a brain because it knows what you're thinking before you do and it's pretty well insulated inside your skull. Like the rain, it oftens pours on my parade. Perhaps I need to find a mental umbrella? Such as, good work and good people? Hmm, meaning I might have to find more than three people I can stand to be around. Oops, I have to run, Happy Stan is calling. He says the Argentina-Germany soccer match is getting good. I hope it doesn't rain...
1) Failure to achieve a career in writing;
2) Humidity;
3) Pimples;
4) When I trip on the sidewalk and nearly fall, I usually scowl. Damn Him!
5) Mayonaise, but only when it has that funny taste that makes me want to vomit;
6) Lack of girlfriend- ness;
7) Shitty job;
8) NYC subways;
9) That feeling you get when you pass a graveyard;
10) Bad teeth.
11) My negativity;
12) Spilling beets on my pants;
13) Graying and thinning hair (it'll be a race to see which wins);
14) the Yankees;
15) Bureaucracy
Happy Stan says that I should start appreciating the good things in life and stop focusing on the negative, but since HS isn't real I told him to go to hell. When he is out of the room, though, I secretly wonder if he isn't for once making some sense; but when I try to feel happy that my couch is really comfortable and that I have a good apartment, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it means I'm happy, I think, but maybe it means I shouldn't have eaten that tuna sandwich with the bad mayo. The point is: my own brain is often my worst enemy, and it's tough to fight a brain because it knows what you're thinking before you do and it's pretty well insulated inside your skull. Like the rain, it oftens pours on my parade. Perhaps I need to find a mental umbrella? Such as, good work and good people? Hmm, meaning I might have to find more than three people I can stand to be around. Oops, I have to run, Happy Stan is calling. He says the Argentina-Germany soccer match is getting good. I hope it doesn't rain...
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