Old Letters

A few months ago, I was fortunate enough to not only marry my best friend, but to move into her amazing house. At least, it could be amazing, provided that we put a little leg work into cleaning and organizing. The problem is, the more I have to do, the less I want to participate. I want to sit on the couch, play my fancy new X-Machine, and drink Stout Beer. If the weather permits, I'm content to sit on the porch, drink a Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse, which is much more of a porch type beer. This is a claim I'm proud to make with a little authority.

Elizabeth is an insomniac. Last night, she spent some time sorting through boxes and paperwork I'd brought from my apartment, and summarily dumped at the front door. She's a peach to endure my slobbiness. She found a lot of stuff I'd have liked to have found like my certificate as a quality trainer addressed to 'Michael "Jackson" Bishop', various letters to the Courier Journal that were published, and old band flyers. Among the clutter, she found a letter I'd once written to Ben Cundiff, an old roommate.

I was furious in this letter. I condemned his behavior on a multitude of different levels, some of which resonate with me as valid and reasonable, some of which sound like a crybaby twenty something, whining about the world. I was serious! I would not do ____, ____, and ___, for so many passionate, and angry reasons. I was the model of angst. Thanks a lot, Teen Spirit. You've ruined me.

Of course, I bear no grudge to my old roommate, we've had plenty of very pleasant encounters over the past few years, culminating in my playing a part, albeit a very small part, in his wedding a year or so back. What was interesting about the letter, wasn't so much the content, but the disparity between what was and what is in my life. Its an interesting exploration into my mindset then, which seems so alien now. Life just isn't that volatile any longer, which wasn't a situation that I exclusively engineered, but which was something that I helped perpetrate. Life is much more calm now.

Well, all that and my writing, which was pretty damned terrible. In fact, it irritated me so much, that the 29 year old, English student Syd wanted to bust out a yellow highlighter, and get to making corrections. I'm overcome by this sensation at times. I have to tie my pen hand down.

For example, one day, a customer, a very racist customer, came into work, screaming conspiracy by the utility company, and espousing racist viewpoints. He refused to speak with a Hispanic coworker. Then he told a black coworker, who is a superior, that he would only speak with a white superior. He left a letter that explained in confusing detail that the right to utility service was guaranteed by the constitution. And all this time I was under the impression that our founding fathers didn't have electricity. Hopefully there is a clause in the constitution about my right to an X-Box.

I was so compelled to respond to this letter. Not to argue, because how can I argue against the logic of our founding fathers fighting the good fight against the tyranny of the utility company, but to correct his spelling. Jesus. If you're going to hate authority, say it with some dignity. Thomas Jefferson may not have had access to Microsoft Word, but this guy sure as hell did. Just like magic, the computer would have told him that he had spelled wrong. Presto.

Boring Mass Media Discussion (One-Way)

Yesterday, I was part of a discussion on the effect of mass media in shaping gender roles in society. By 'part of a discussion' I mean to say that I sat in the same room as people who all agreed with one another on the topic. I disagreed, but a bitter case of the Mondays kept my tongue tied for the duration of class. Now that it is Tuesday, I feel the need to redeem myself, even if its done on an almost personal level.

The main argument was that we would be ridiculous not to believe that mass media has an immediate impact on culture. The class consensus would've left me with the impression that everyone that watches television does so as a guide for how life ought to be led. This is not to suggest that media does not have an effect on trends, as it certainly does, but I question the degree that we accept and, by default, blame, mass media for creating or reinforcing our social/sexual identities. The group consensus certainly implied the consumption of media as something active, which I think is a bit inaccurate.

It would be an error in judgment to assume that media has no effect on culture, as it certainly does, and has, and will continue to do so. We could argue that children are a fair watermark for how much media effects the public, as children are impressionable. This, I feel, seems fairly evident every time we see a young girl seeking beauty items, or playing house, or any time a young boy plays war. My concern though, is how much did society already influence those roles? Mass media has only been prevalent for a comparatively brief amount of time, at least when put in context. Its hard for anyone to really have perspective on the issue, as no one alive has existed without constant media influence.

I suppose it depends entirely on how information is digested. If you believe that women read the '50 ways to please your man' per Cosmo, then I suppose you would in turn believe that media has a reflective and influential role in society. I happen to believe that people are much more passive in their consumption of media, be it news or entertainment, and that although it may pose as an influence, social mores have remained pervasive with or without television to tell you what to do. At least I hope that people are more than what they watch.

Predictive Texting and The Coming Rise Of The Machines

I'm fairly certain that predictive texting is the first sign of the coming machine war. I checked a message that I sent a friend last night which states, "I bought any an Xbox." Apparently, when I type the word 'an' it automatically assumes that I mean to type the word 'any'. And it does not stop there. If I type the word 'a', it changes the text to 'on on'. I'm certain there are other instances waiting to be discovered, but I do my best to avoid texting, and have in all likelyhood not yet encountered them.

I realize that I could probably change this, I don't feel that I should have to change this. Why should I need to explain my meaning to my phone? Technology was built to serve me, not the other way around. If I want to write a simple word, I will do so by dammit, and no dirty machine is going to force my hand.

So, I've established a bit of a dialogue between man and machine. I'm fairly certain that skynet is the offending party in this matter. As I envision it, computers have been clevely seeking to undermine human integrity for years now, possibly starting as early as the Atari system. Games were designed to frustrate, confuse, and bewilder the average player, while marketing was meant to entice the consumer into purchasing and thus experiencing, this frustration.

While Atari offered mild frustration, the machines clearly sought the next level in irritation with the creation of Megaman. Megaman is a futuristic robot who repeatedly battles the sly Dr. Wiley. Megaman represents the imperfection in man. Although he ostensibly would have cost an immeasurable amount of money to create and perfect, he was not blessed with ability to duck, or point his weapon upward. This defect demanded a great deal of my attention in 1996 and resulted in the destruction of at least one super nintendo controller. Duck, dammit, just duck.

I'm certain that the little technological things in life are a machine driven conspiracy to frustrate humanity into violence. Every fiber of my being knows this to be true. But I'm already onto you, Skynet, and I will not succumb to your taunts. Here's to blaming computers, not their drivers, for all your problems. Cheers.

Tsar Bomba

I had an Avery Imperial Stout last night. I don't recall what its clever name was, but I think it should be called the Tsar Bomba, because it was ridiculously strong. To say I'm hungover is an exercise in understatement that is difficult to quantify.

Yesterday a customer made the observation that I was a "faggot". I suppose I exude homosexuality, if one can be said to exude homosexuality, based on my appearance. I was wearing a black Dickies button up work shirt and a brown set of work pants. I had and have an unkempt beard, had my glasses on, and was wearing my Pumas. I wear tennis shoes to work sometimes, because I'm a rebel. That says homosexual to me.

An observant witness may have noticed my wedding ring. I'm certain the party in question did, as he was quite astute in pointing out various facts, such as "that we are all lazy bitches and faggots," and later the uplifting news that he will indeed be able to get weed that day. I was relieved to hear this. A victory for the customer is a success for me. Get high, my friend, get high.

Regardless, this was an interesting bit of news to me. I was concerned with how to approach Elizabeth with this news, as it would diminish the likelyhood of our future sexual encounters. I really thought I loved women, too. I guess I was wrong all this time. The customer is always right, after all.

She took it well. She was disappointed, but I think she understands the importance of letting go, and of finding acceptance. We have separate rooms now, so I can avoid the temptation to break character. I've been watching 'So You Think You Can Dance' with her. I'm not certain that this is what gay people do, but I'm assuming so. I just want to be accurate in my faggotry.

So where is that Tsar Bomba when you need it? This incident was one of many similar occurences the same day. The lady before him grit her teeth while she spoke with me and told me that we were pieces of shit. When I said anything in response, she told me "not to smart off". Yesterday it was a full on death threat. Bring on the bomb, I'm not certain I can make a compelling argument for the salvation of humanity.

Devolving Into Parody

I wake up, kiss my wife on her cheek, and drive to work. I punch the clock. I leave and go to school. As the days go by, I see in my reflection a growing ass and gut. My wife is beautiful. I'm slowly devolving into Ralph Kramden, albeit with remarkably less threats for spousal abuse in my life. Still, I feel like a fat man-child at times, looking to my hot wife for direction.

Being an adult is fucking great, huh? I think it's time to hit the gym (harder).