Road Rage!

For as long as I can remember, I've been witness to the phenomenon we call road rage. Why call it a phenomenon, you ask? It's simple. The experience of driving has the ability to make even the most meek, soft-spoken, good-natured person scream heinous obscenities at some jerk as they mercilessly pound on the steering wheel. It doesn't really matter if you know the object of your ire can't hear a word you're saying, nor does it that you've just used words that would make a sailor blush. What matters is that, after the hissy fit you just threw... you feel better!

I came to learn road rage from my father. While generally a good-natured fella, his temper is prone to excitability, and the many trials and tribulations of the road only exacerbate it. Nary a day went by when I wasn't in the car with him, jamming out to classic rock and listening to him beseech the other fine users of the U.S. highway system to quit being idiots (although his preferred term was "c***sucker"). I am twenty-one years old now, and things haven't changed a bit. In all of my twenty-one years, however, I have only seen him extend his middle fingers once; both at the same time. I can't recall why or what it was about, but that isn't important. What is important is that the moral compass of my youth unwittingly demonstrated to me that even he was not above flipping the bird to the self-involved drivers on the road that dared to cross him, who did so at times quite literally. I remember being appalled and yet fascinated all at once by my dad's blatant display of anger and exasperation through the use of just two fingers which hold the power to say so much. If you can't be heard you can certainly be seen, right?

I'd like to be able to use the above preamble to illustrate how I have not inherited that particular personality trait from my illustrious father. I'd like to be able to tell the reader that I am a rock, that I am stoic in the face of deranged drivers who cut me off or don't let me into the left lane to get onto 635 when I so desperately need to. But... I can't say that. And if I did, not only would I be lying through my teeth, but you wouldn't have another Bridget blog to read in your boring downtime.

Those who live in the midwest, namely Kansas, namely Kansas City, understand - unless they are one of the myriad of awful drivers who ever sat behind a steering wheel. If that's the case then they're probably of the opinion that everyone else sucks anyway, because it's never their fault, right? The problem is that it's already a chore for the directionally-challenged to drive in Kansas City; it'd be a chore if every KC driver was the picture-perfect example of considerate and skillful driving. The scary truth, however, is that everyone within the greater Kansas City area probably has trouble leaving their driveways in an orderly fashion. I have no clue why so many people fail so epically at driving where I live, nor why I must deal with it. I mean, maybe I did something wrong in a past life and Karma has finally caught up to me. Perhaps I clubbed a baby seal, or cursed in the presence of a nun, or found a cuter nun and seduced her. Who knows?? But it definitely seems like I'm atoning, folks.

I have to say that one of my chief concerns is the Soccer Mom Phenomenon. This phenomenon occurs when you (the good, mostly law-abiding driver) are in the leftmost lane and going with the flow of traffic, maybe a wee bit faster. Maybe the speed limit is a posted sixty-five miles per hour and you are traveling at a solid seventy-one. Everything is going smoothly; you are singing along to the latest Britney Spears comeback song that you aren't quite willing to admit you actually like, no one has irked you since you set out on your journey, and all is well with the world... the planets seem to be aligned. But then, much to your dismay, something looms in your rear view. Ahh! It's a luxury SUV (insert Lexus/Acura/Cadillac/Infinity/BMW brand here) being driven by the most feared organism on the road - the storied Soccer Mom. She is on her cell phone screaming something to someone on the other end, holding some kind of overpriced, ice-blended coffee beverage in the other hand, and is steering with her knees. She has three children in the back seat all yelling and vying for her attention, probably demanding ice cream or a toy. She has to get her eight year-old to soccer practice, her daughter to piano lessons, and her infant son home to change his recently soiled diapers. She is going over ninety miles per hour, and she is out to get you. You glance into your rear view mirror in horror at how quickly she is gaining on your Focus. You attempt to suppress a terrified schoolgirl scream, looking frantically to the right for an opening to merge and be safely out of the way of this barreling, environmentally-detrimental, worth-more-than-your-house monstrosity... but no relief comes. Upon seeing your signal the douche to your right smiles and speeds up, thwarting your attempt to avert certain death. It is at this moment you conclude that not only are you probably going to die, but this d-bag is also almost certainly in cahoots with the deranged soccer mom behind you who is so close to your bumper you can feel her breathing down your neck. If you're a sissy, a tear might even come to your eye.

It is only after this debacle is over that you have time to gather your senses and realize that you managed to be out-driven by someone steering with their knees. You remember looking behind in wonderment, curious as to how in the world she was managing to pilot her ludicrously expensive vehicle with each hand being occupied with something other than the steering wheel. You slowly pull into the lot at your destination, put the car in park, and emit a string of obscenities that not even Robin Williams would utter. This is a prime example of PIRR, or Post-Incident Road Rage. It's a less common form, substantially fueled by the realization that only a miracle saved you from the presence of Saint Peter at the pearly gates and having to explain your sins. And it just makes you irate!

The most common form of road rage is what I like to call IRR, or Immediate Road Rage. This occurs when, for example, one is cut off on the highway when heading for an exit. The most common symptoms are uncontrollabe cursing, wild flailing of limbs, pounding/honking of the steering wheel, throwing up of the hands, or a combination of all. There might even be some stern lecturing or diatribes directed at the offending driver, who most often cannot hear these words. This lack of ability to hear the offended driver may be the top contributor to brain-dead or thoughtless driving. Then again, it may just be that the offending driver really is brain-dead (the most likely explanation). Either way, the manner in which one's anger is dealt with is often quite cleansing. I myself sometimes feel somewhat accomplished and self-satisfied upon the completion of an elaborate engineering of verbal vulgarities directed at a person who not only cannot hear what I'm saying, but whom I will most likely never meet or see ever again. Don't ask why; it's an enigma to us all.

Readers may be interested to know that road rage can also extend to the parking lot, growing pretty intense in such a place, in fact. Nothing is more infuriating than driving around the mall parking lot for twenty minutes in order to find any place to park, only to come across a newly vacated spot which some other lucky jerk has already taken advantage of. Or maybe you've been patiently waiting for someone to pull out of their space when some jackass quickly zips in and steals it from you, as if to say, "HA HA, sucker!" It's happened to me. I recall one particularly angering time when two parking spaces were available, one on my side of the row and one on the other side. They were arranged in such a way that I would have been able to pull through without having to back out when my shopping was finished. I'll be darned if some idiot jerk "meanie face" wasn't thinking the same on the other row. I know he saw me with my blinker on at least intending to get the spot on my side. So what does he do? He pulls all the way through to my side. The prognosis for this was going all the way around to the side he was originally on to get the parking space through which he had driven to steal mine. But by the time I arrived, the spot had already been taken! Needless to say, I was irked. I was furious. I was all of the synonyms for the opposite of happy you can think of off the top of your head or even look up in the thesaurus. I was all of them, and all at once. I threw up my hands and looked at him as if to say, "WTF?!" I even just might have mouthed the words which that acronym indicates. And then I might have loudly cursed as he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, stepped out of his Porsche SUV (Yes, his Porsche SUV) and clicked his remote to arm the alarm. I really am not sure I am able to actually do literary justice to the intensity with which I bellowed my atomic, weapons-grade version of the F-bomb upon seeing that man exit his vehicle with his smug grin headed for the mall entrance, no doubt with the intention of buying the most expensive clothing Nordstrom's had to offer and possibly attending a Homeowner's Association meeting at his gated community later that evening. I felt I was very close to doing something I might (not) regret later, such as keying his Porsche gas guzzler. Reserve your judgments, though - I refrained. And I'm almost positive I have the F-word to thank.

I thank my dad for showing me what it means to be a true road-rager, one who does not back down from any opportunity to yell vulgarities so loud they might hear me in Japan. You could say I've become a road rage poet, reciting eloquent and well put-together successions of curses and swear words that might be considered brilliant works of oratory art, were ninety-nine percent of the words used in said phrases not looked down upon in polite society. But when dealing with the interstate and the various and sundry highways and byways that make up a majority of our great road system, you have to remember that we are not, in fact, dealing with polite society... for those minutes or hours that anyone is on the road, they becom harbingers of inconsideration and stupidity, no longer the polite, loving family man or the attentive, warm multi-tasking mother. For just a fleeting time, we all get to be the tough, blunt, and aggressive people that we wish we could be everywhere else. For a great many of us, it's cathartic.

Last of all, the important lesson in of all is this, ladies and gentleman, is that I did not in fact flip the bird to any of the people in these stories. And that is something which I consider an accomplishment.

Bridget Harman: Gay Recruiter!

As a child, I never planned to grow up to become a gay recruiter. Hell, I didn't even know it was an option; my high school guidance counselor never mentioned this career possibility. Despite my efforts earlier in the year, I was also unsuccessful in finding a Gay Recruitment 101 course at the local college I attend. Disappointed but unphased, I decided to embrace this profession anyhow... and soon it all seemed to make sense. This is precisely why I have recently become a proud member of the GRC - the Gay Recruiter Coalition.

After stumbling out of bed at approximately 6 am every morning, my day begins by humbly kneeling in front of a life-size photo of K.D. Lang, revelling that anyone could be that gay! If only I could aspire to that level of gayness... oftentimes, I think that this would make my mission much easier. Nevertheless, I am just your run-of-the-mill homo, nothing flashy or spectacular to behold. I bathe and then shower to rinse off the bathwater - everyone knows how particular we are about being clean, after all. After a few quick sips of tea it's essential to get myself all "butched up" for the day, sporting my wrist cuff, man wallet, black leather studded belt and, just to be clear about things - my rainbow-hued Make Your Yuletide Gay t-shirt. This is followed by the finishing touches of putting entirely too much product in my hair and tossing on whichever Birkenstocks match the cut-off camouflage shorts I have adorned.

Lastly, I find myself feeding the animals, hanging my huge rainbow flag from the porch, and grabbing an armload of literature to help my cause. Passing out literature to innocent bystanders has worked wonders for various religious groups; it's high time we implemented this strategy ourselves. Hopping into my pick-up truck covered in stickers decrying the perverse nature of heterosexuality, I unfold my map and target a new area. En route to the target I do usually stop for coffee as well (I mean, hey, even us gay folk like coffee now and then) and give my best effort at avoiding sickness when I see those straight people holding hands... hugging... kissing... do they not know how disturbing that is?!

After purging those horrid visions from my eyes, now declared safe to drive, I head out with Melissa Etheridge or Joan Jett blaring out of my windows and soon arrive at the target neighborhood. These neighborhoods usually tend to be more upscale in nature; obviously, we only want to recruit new gays with tons of disposable income. The reasoning for this lies in that these recruited gays can then hook up with slightly less financially well-off "pure" gays, thereby serving to balance everything out. Parked at whatever road I plan to start on, literature in hand, I step out of the truck and make my way up to the first house.

With the first little ring of the doorbell comes a little rush of excitement anticipating my first encounter of the day.

"Have you heard the good word? Gay is okay! We currently have many openings available, and we think you would be a great fit for at least one of them!" The men tend to be somewhat skeptical, perhaps confusing me with a Jehovah's Witness and running me off of their property. At least I'm pretty sure that's what's going on... I mean, why wouldn't someone want to receive the flattery of being invited into the world of the gays? Other times it works out that they will listen for a time, accept my literature, and resist setting the attack dogs on me (which, you know, is always pleasant).

When a woman answers the door, things invariably go a bit better. Honestly... there is a reason I don't start recruiting until 9 am. I find it unethical to physically recruit these women, but some would argue that it's only for the good of the movement; we always need more fresh bodies and votes so we can further our agenda of fuining family values and morality. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I get a kick out of knowing that I am the smile on a lonely housewife's face her husband will never understand.

After ruining a dozen or so marriages, I figure I can call it a day. Staying hydrated is always a problem, and you can only cure so many straight ills before your batteries must be recharged. Of course, the best way to recharge them is by hanging around in a busy public venue with fellow gay recruiters, shoving literature in the hands of people that don't want it and telling them they are sick. It is imperative that heterosexual people hear this and know that we are only saying it because we care. These mob recruiting tactics we employ seem to be popular; people are always staring at us, so it must work.

Finally, we often venture to a straight bar for its great money-saving qualities. Straight single men always seem to be easy targets to buy us drinks and dinners. All we have to do is kiss each other, smile, and the next thing you know... we're set for the night! Yeah, yeah, we pretend to make their fantasies come true, but we never do. We simply get them inebriated enough to slide into the backseat of a car with a gay drag queen so we can ease them into the homo lifestyle. Sure, they may complain the next day or deny it ever happened, but they keep coming back. It's just too easy.

I've learned a lot about grassroot efforts in the past few years. My hope is that with an increasing number of gay recruiters going door-to-door and working the clubs, we can turn this country gay one county at a time. Admittedly, it's somewhat of a thankless job, but to help so many confused people really makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Not all gay recruiters are as blessed, and officially the GRC does not condone resorting to "straight bashing"... but, you know. As long as the ends justify the means.

Trip to Store = Faith in Humanity

We live in an age of crumbling faiths. Everywhere I look, beliefs are battered and belittled – belief in God, belief in human goodness, belief in public transportation. Even faith in our president is wavering – just today I received an email informing me that my beloved Barack Obama (and I quote), “IS a muslim and IS a racist and this is a fulfillment of the 911 threat that was just the beginning.” My God, why hast thou forsaken me (and my preferred politician)?

Amidst these trying times, I am happy to say that this evening, I experienced a restoration of faith in one of the most fundamental institutions of modern society: the grocery store. First of all, in an era when the echoes of far-off bombs and gunfire resonate through my withered conscience, I long for the sweet, serene sounds of simpler times. Tonight, while shopping for shallots, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the vegetable and fruit section. There, enraptured in an alternate universe, I nuzzle the organic carrots as a mechanized Mother Nature sprays a soft mist of hygienic H20 and serenades her vegetative wards with midi thunder sounds. That’s right – in today’s supermarkets, tumultuous audio storms are invoked for the benefit of the zucchini and beets. Oh ye, bard of broccoli, let thine sweet symphony seduce my singed senses!

After I satiate my tastes in fresh produce, I move on to the rest of my grocery list. Alas, there is no crème fraîche. But I eschew bitterness in lieu of tolerant understanding. Let the plebeians devour their Half and Half; I will not lose heart! (There is no lemon thyme, either, and no halibut. Even the “Ethnic Foods” aisle is a bust. Grocerial segregation? Nay – not at this grocery store, surely. But I digress.)

At long last, I clothe myself in pretenses of economic security and prepare to pay for my indulgences. Because of my deep-seated inability to relinquish control, I select the self check-out line. As it turns out, my choice is richly rewarded.

There is a brilliant feature on the “do it yourself” checkout lines involving an automated voice. If you have, say, neglected to weigh and catalog your fruits in the produce section, you are given a second chance at checkout. The automated voice extends an olive branch of mercy and understanding. First you must enter the product number, and then, as if by magic, the oracle speaks. Ever the stereotypical woman, she wants to communicate with you.

“Please place your muffins on the belt,” the voice chides in monotone, like a knowing lover. “Place your muffins on the belt.”

So I place my muffins on the belt. Then the mysterious voice gets even more familiar.

“How many melons you have?” Um, two. Two melons. “Please place your melons on the belt.”

Okay. As I nervously place my melons on the belt, I can’t help but eavesdrop on the chorus of neighboring commands.

“Please place your avocado on the belt.”

“Please place your banana on the belt.”

“How many kiwis do you have? Please place your kiwis on the belt.”

Suddenly, I am seized by an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I cannot contain myself – I am possessed by the thought of countless adjacent customers placing their bananas, muffins, melons, and God knows what else on the belt. It’s ridiculous. This virtual woman has no shame.

As I roll my cart out into the parking lot, I am still chuckling. I hardly notice the kiwi man’s truck as it pulls up beside me.

“Hey, muffin girl,” he calls. I look up mid-chortle. “Can I have your number?” he drawls out his window.

I think he’s drunk, but I’m in too good a mood to care. I cheerily explain that I'm presently involved, but thanks anyway.

He responds in a tangled mass of supplication, but I only catch the words “nicest,” “sex,” and “construction.” God only knows what that means.

I wave, and he drives away. I unload my groceries – now broadcast to the world – and keep giggling as I shift into first gear.

Thank you, grocery store, for renewing my faith in humanity. And if the offer still stands… my muffins are yours for the taking.

Horror Movie Lessons

I've always assumed that if I were ever to be confronted with the dangerous and supernatural (ghosts, zombies, vampires hockey mask-wearing killers and the like) that my vast knowledge of horror films and an iota or two of common sense would save me. The fundamental lessons learned can invaluable in various deadly (albeit rather unlikely) circumstances.

Haunted house? If I were to walk into a new home and see the walls drip with blood while a voice whispered "Get OUT..." I would happily oblige the nefarious entity. Far be it from me to step on any ectoplasmic toes and bring down the furniture-flinging wrath of some pissed off spirit.

It's very simple... nice ghosts who don't wish you any ill will (think Casper) can be lived with peacefully, perhaps bring about a fond smile when they move around the coffee mugs or change the T.V. channels. Mean ghosts (i.e. anything that opens a portal to Hell in your basement and wants to drive you mad, kill your family, and cost you thousands in plumbing repairs with all that congealed blood running through the pipes) are better dealt with by taking a loss on the house and re-selling CHEAP and as quickly as possible. Just walk away. End of problem.

Zombies? A real scourge, but but with a little planning and a rifle equipped with a silencer, not completely catastrophic. All one might need would be a planned escape route and a place at least 200 miles away from any civilization in which to set up a small fortress with 15-foot walls, enough food for at least 10 years, medical supplies, a good generator, and an adequate arsenal. Unfortunately, that's where it gets a little tricky.

Sure, banks will give you loans for houses and cars. But walk in and tell them, "I need $700,000 to buy land, fly in supplies, and build my zombie-proof compound. I refuse to tell you where because in case of an invasion I don't want you and your family showing up and using all my rations. Just trust me and hand over the money." and you won't get so much as a complimentary pen as they hustle you toward the door.

I tell you, for lending institutions they sure are picky about what they'll lend money for. New boat? Sure. 1,500 grenades and a couple dozen elephant rifles? Not so much.

Vampires? There is an upside and a downside to everything in life, but never moreso than with vampires. Eternal youth, superhuman speed and strength, and a cellulite-free waif-thing physique are all definite perks. And let's not forget the Euro-aristocrat tone that the voice takes on (must be a side-effect to the neck trauma), and the power to make leather and velvet fashionable year-round!

However, with the sweet comes the sour. Food, other than blood, is pretty much out of the question. That means no more cheesy pizza or lasagna. No more cheesecake! If I'm not willing to forgo cheesecake for thinner calves now... I really doubt I'd be happy to give up my pulse for a cheese-free eternity. The most heinous thing of all would be the awful Goth-rock. According to all the newest vampire flicks, when not sleeping or hunting my languid black lipstick-wearing brethren and I would spend our time just hanging around loud clubs flashing fluorescent eyes at humans, looking bored while the DJ played Evanescence.

Sure, it might be fun for a few decades, but eventually it would wear pretty thin. I would soon lament my misbegotten years and crave a Coke and some Funions badly enough to take a last walk into the sunrise. It seems like a lot of bother when just carrying a bit of garlic spray and wearing a cross after dark would save me all that introspection and glam-rock.

Hockey mask-wearing killers? Two words... FRONT DOOR. I cannot stress that enough. How many times have foolish non-virgins run right past salvation, up a flight of stairs... and trapped themselves on the second floor. That leaves only two possibilites: 1) Be mercilessly hacked, stabbed, bludgeoned, etc. by the madman, or 2) Jump out the window and die on impact, or perhaps the good fortune of being skewered with a fence post or the pointy hat of a garden gnome.

And finally... the woods are wonderful, and camping is a great way to spend a weekend. But whenever you stop for gas and locals begin giving directions like "Dat der be an evil place. People who dare leave da highway never come back. No one knows what happens, but we's can hear der screamin' sometimes on a still night. So... first you take a left past Devil Mountain, den right after you cross Screaming Children Bridge. Go 2 or 3 miles don Mutilation Avenue... and you's be at Death Trap Pouring Blood Campground before you knows it."

Folks who can't take a hint shouldn't complain when Machete Bill and his inbred family of cannibalistic sadists steal their RV and leave parts of them hanging from the trees. Personal accountability must come into play here somewhere, people. No amount of horror film observation can make up for that much stupidity.

Having armed you with at least a cursory knowledge of the macabre things that go bump in the cinematic night, I shall bid you farewell. Take care, and remember to always wear your silver crucifix... and NEVER, EVER run through the woods in your underwear. It just looks silly.

The Invisible ZX4 Focus

I own an invisible car.

I know. I understand your doubt. It was hard for me to believe, too. But it's the only thing left that makes any sense at all. This many drivers can't all be out to get me, and they can't all be out of their minds. Invisibility is the only remaining rational explanation.

It certainly makes more sense than trying to believe in some kind of coordinated, punitive pan-galactic anti-Bridget attack, or the sheer mathematical improbabilities required to support the existence of that many insane people.

Maybe it happens to you, too. You're driving along, going the speed limit, in your own lane. You're not eating, or texting, or applying makeup. You're not contorting into the backseat to discipline misbehaving short people. Then, suddenly, off to the right, a grandmother launches her dust-streaked rice rocket right past that confusing, apparently optional, octagon-shaped red road sign, completely oblivious to you and your optics-challenged car. You shriek and slam on the brakes, just prior to soul-kissing her "I Heart My Grandkids" bumper sticker.

On other occasions, drivers ahead of me (who obviously can't see me) will just stop in the middle of the road. Just stop. Just brake, hold, pop a window and strike up a conversation with somebody in the adjacent yard, or the oncoming lane.

And then there's Testosterone Boy and his gothic date, The Attack Of The Mascara Monster, abruptly discharging his multi-story, metal-bar-enclosed, monster truck out of the Smokes Plus parking lot, directly into the eyelashes of my headlights, causing me to emit extremely non-Sunday language.

Not that road rage helps. It does no good to yell. Remember - you're invisible. Now, you're wildly waving at passing clouds and birds, and the future parole candidate just keeps on weaving down the road, checking in on his text messages, and checking out his young coed co-pilot with the sweater-threatening upper body assets. Now, you're in need of blood pressure meds at 20, and Captain "Yes, In Fact I Do Own The Whole Darn Road" just keeps veering toward his mustard-stained destination at the nearby McDonald's, totally angst-agnostic.

I think that's part of the problem: in our current culture, I have a relatively small car. And it seems that I own one of the few remaining one-story motor vehicles on Earth. Trust me, I am a nowhere near a Luddite on any level; on the contrary, I am a humongous nerd with a deep affection for technology... It's the creation of gas-guzzling American monsters perpetuating our addiction to foreign oil while simultaneously destroying the environment that I despise. And in turn, I suspect, their intentional attempts to intimidate everyone on the highway with their pimped-out trucks and SUVs.

I'm still at sea about how the physics work out to support this potential invisibility phenomenon. There may some car-park-particle versus road-rage-wave battle going on. Maybe my car is participating in some parallel existence-based, self-serving quantum pinhole experiment, as performed by the ancient Titans, or the neo-Republicans. Maybe my car is only visible within certain time-space-pavement parameters, only evident at the far points of some cosmic cul-de-sac continuum.

I bet Einstein would know. After all, Albert operated on a whole different level than the rest of us... I mean, he was out there. The guy saw time as a yo-yo, and space as a foldable frisbee.

Here's how out there Einstein was. According to family accounts, Albert was slow to speak. He just didn't communicate as a small child – he simply spent his time walking around, looking around, and occasionally teasing his hair.

Legend has it that young Albert never spoke until he was three or four years old, and that his first words were "this soup is cold." Later in life, when asked why he hadn't spoken pre-soup, Albert stared quizzically at his questioner for a second, finally replying, "Because, until then, nothing was wrong."

As they might say in recent public education standardized tests, that's just way cool.

If ever there was a thinker who drew Heaven's appreciative eye, here was that thinker. On a slow day, an Angel Third Class (Way Cool Science division) might have reviewed Albert's next-level notes and picked up the phone. "Not bad, Albert. Not bad. Hey, come 'ere. Watch this. I'm gonna make Edison's new phonograph say 'I buried Paul.' Wait for it ... wait for it ..."

But meanwhile, back here on Earth, I need to figure out how to un-stealth my car before somebody gets hurt. One day, I'm going to leave home to drive somewhere, and just "plink" out of existence, or arrive before I leave, or side-slide into some alternate universe where, for all time, I have to watch John Wayne movies.

Actually, my little Road Reality arcade game often begins before I ever even leave home. Sometimes I might have a need to go to the grocery store, when I discover some panel truck in my apartment complex parking lot blocking my spot. Hell, maybe I'm invisible. Maybe I really have gone where no respectable woman has gone before, and no, I don't mean to a John Wayne movie.

The People of Facebook

If my friends read this they are going to kill me, because I sometimes point this out to them. It's all in good fun! Everyone, including myself, is guilty of doing at least one of these... and if you're really talented you can pull off two or three at one time. What am I talking about?

The Facebook Status.

So I offer up another "list blog" as my formatting writer's block can only produce at the moment:

1. The Quote Dude: Everyone loves a killer lyric or memorable quote, especially if it has some sort of sentimental meaning to the poster, but reading long drabble of dead people and the chorus of a bad Lady Gaga song doesn’t make you look any cooler or smarter. And who am I kidding… all Lady Gaga songs are pretty horrible. Just my humble opinion.

2. The Popular One: Not so bad on Facebook, but sign onto the disappearing MySpace and this is all you see. Little girls (and guys) who just want attention. You want me to go comment on the picture of you in the skimpy cheerleading garb flashing hand signs with your tongue hanging out? Two things: You look like an idiot and you need to get a life.

3. The Model: This kind of ties in with #2. So you’re somewhat attractive and your mini digital camera loves your face. This doesn’t mean you should plaster 841,654 pictures of yourself in your album with puckered lips, hand signs, no shirt, and your new aviators you got off of eBay. You’re on Facebook. I know you. I see you way too much. If I start having nightmares about the shape of your nose I’m going to shoot myself... seriously.

4. The Jesus Lover: Don’t get me wrong, I’m sincerely happy that you have faith in something, but updating your status with exclusively biblical quotes and “I love Jesus” phrases makes you look like a mindless zombie. “Oh no, I broke a nail but it’s okay because Jesus has a plan for everything. Go Jesus!”

5. The Angry One: Damn it, your best friend hit on your boyfriend again so you decide to finally take action. Let your fingertips fly! Let everyone see how pissed you are with your CAPS, extensive curse words, and racial slurs until everyone sees just how much of a backstabber your ex friend is. Take that, you meanie you!

6. The Need You To Know Every Five Minutes One: I couldn’t think of a better title for this one. So you’re about to play some Modern Warfare 2 online. Sweet! Maybe I’ll join, but unless you’re actually in a movie where the action never ceases, I don’t want to know what you’re doing every five minutes. Walking the dog and taking a bathroom break are some events I relatively don’t care about. Now if the dog magically dons a cape and tells you ‘there’s nothing to fear’ or a blue alien leaps from the murky depths of the toilet then type away, my friend!

7. The Novelist: Just like #6 but longer. So you’re going to a huge MMA fight tomorrow. That’s awesome! But if that’s the only amazingly interesting thing happening, then why must you add everything else? “OMG going to the mall tomorrow to get a book I’ve never read signed by that Twilight chick! But now I’m sipping a latte, watching Oprah, and wishing that tomorrow would come faster. Txt me!”

....No, I will not text you.

8. The Cryptic One: "Going out with a certain guy tonight!’ Oh your mysteriousness baffles me… even though just an hour earlier you called me and told me everything you were doing tonight with Johnny boy down the street. Including how cute he is, what cologne he wears, and how expensive his shirt is. Have fun tonight with that certain someone at a certain place during a certain time. While you’re at it make sure you wear a certain pair of shoes because it’s cold.

9. The One Who Types Ghetto: Dis iz Mizz G’Money Fabulous ‘ere wid dis ‘portant message. I writ3 wid #s. If you’re normal you probably can’t decipher the intricate codes typed by these people. The only reason you might be able to read the first part of this is because I’m a little white Irish girl from the suburbs and I didn’t do it right. Everyone has at least one of these people, don’t lie. As a certified Grammar Nazi who once had her heart set on becoming an English teacher, that shit just makes my head spin.

10. The Depressed One: Everyone has bad days and everyone loves getting some sympathy from a caring friend, but most people don’t care THAT much. Especially if all of your updates are depressing. So your boyfriend canceled on you, your cable screwed up just seconds before the new episode of ‘I’m a Rich Bitch On Drugs Pt.1,’ and you have cramps. It happens. I’m sorry, but get over it.

11: The One Who Will Never Find Love: AKA the Emo Kid. This one is last because it is very possible that this is the one that irritates me the most. So your girlfriend dumped you after two weeks and now you’re truly convinced that you will never find love. You rant about how much life sucks, how you want to die, how much love you gave that special girl during those everlasting two weeks, how all girls MUST be the same, and how much you fail because you’re such a nice guy. I might have just puked (If I wanted the interesting version of this, I'd rent "100 days of Summer" again). Now because of your status I will officially become #10. “Tears bleed down my cheeks as my heart breaks...”


Agree or disagree about any of these things? Have more to add? Well then tell me what you think! Haha it's very possible that I should have added "The Sarcastic Bitch One" to describe myself ;-)

Life Lessons From Spongebob

Spongebob Squarepants has been a favorite show of children for over ten years now. While many see it as pure animated silliness devoid of any educational value, I beg to differ. There are numerous lessons to be learned from SpongeBob, Patrick, Mr. Krabs, Squidward, and the gang, some of which could only be learned from them. The list below is just a sample.

Lesson 1: Even if you're a total moron, being especially talented in one particular area will keep you employed. Just look at SpongeBob himself. He's not the brightest of characters (though, I'll say, he's probably the smartest sponge I know of), but he sure does know how to make Krabby Patties. Mr. Krabs would have a hard time replacing him. Whenever he tries, it never really works out. SpongeBob has found his niche and manages to use what little skill he has to make enough of a living to have his own place and take care of himself.

Lesson 2: David Hasselhoff has superpowers. Witness the SpongeBob Movie. While the world has always suspected that Mr. Hasselhoff was something more than human, his powers were on full display there as he zips SpongeBob and Patrick across the ocean and launches them back to Bikini Bottom with his super-pectoral muscles.

Lesson 3: Crustaceans can father whales. Witness Mr. Krabs and his daughter Pearl. Who knew that such an unlikely event was possible before SpongeBob showed us?

Lesson 4: There are underwater beaches where sea creatures of all kinds gather. Really, I think this is a revolutionary find, about which you would think The Learning Channel or some other educationally-minded outlet would have some sort of special.

Lesson 5: Squirrels can live underwater if properly attired. Sandy actually seems to really like it there, in fact, as long as she keeps her helmet on. She even has her own air-filled home.

Lesson 6: You can avoid a Sea Bear attack by drawing an Anti-Sea Bear circle and standing within its perimeter. If you are attacked, however, be sure you are wearing Anti-Sea Rhinoceros Undergarments, as the Sea Rhinoceros is attracted to such attacks.

Lesson 7: Even if you cause grievous bodily harm to your friends, in the end you are still friends, and it will heal quickly. See the many fights between SpongeBob and Patrick as examples.

Lesson 8: Don't trust plankton. It is small and looks harmless, but only because it wants to get past your defenses.

Lesson 9: There is a rather sophisticated system of currency in use by undersea creatures, and various underwater, independently-owned fast food outlets battle to get as much of it as possible.

The Twilight Fanbase: Revealed

Here I am on my lunch break, munching away on my salad and thinking about the trip to the store I need to make after work tonight. And somehow this ridiculously random brain of mine recalls the last time I was in the check-out line at Target, when I saw the DVD release of "Twilight"... which has brought forth the topic of my latest blog post.

So we've all heard of Trekkies and Comic-Con and of course the first images you get are of NWGs, or Nerds Without Girlfriends. Visions of pasty-faced tweens, teens and even adults dressed in homemade capes and alien masks come to mind... but just in case you need perspective on what I'm referring to, I list Augie Farks in the movie "Role Models" as a prime example - "The whispering eye!"

With all of the fantasy/sci-fi gamers role-playing their way to large conventions, I guess it's not all that surprising that a book about a teen and a vampire would gather a cult following.

Haha... and here I thought goth went out of fashion when Nine Inch Nails went techno. The Vampire Underground (or should I say "Vampyre Underground?") has been around since the 1970's and includes goths who may actually think they are vampires. They gather in the darkness, do rituals, drink blood, and hang around looking pale-faced and creepy.

Twilighters, fans of Stephenie Meyer's teen vampire series, are what I'd call Vampire Lite. They wear black clothes from Hot Topic and jewelry from Claires. They may wear scary black nail polish and fake Doc Martins. They stand in line waiting for the movie release, shivering with cups of Starbucks and chattering about how adorably sexy Edward Cullen is. Maybe they paint their faces white. Maybe they wear a leftover cape from Halloween. Maybe they even listen to music with explicit lyrics.

Twilighters are to the Vampyre Underground as Harry Potter fans are to The Lord Of The Rings (Don't get me wrong, I love Harry Potter and I think that JK Rowling is a brilliant writer). A Harry Potter Avada Kedavra curse and Lord Voldemort would pale in comparison to Sauron and Mount Doom. And a Twilighter would probably go screaming back to their Abercrombie and Fitch jeans if confronted by a real Vampyre.

I've dabbled in Sci-fi and Fantasy and I read Stephenie Meyer's Twilight books.... I thought they were "meh" at best. The story idea was respectable, yet marred by long drawn out beginnings and action only appearing in the last third of the book. Still, movie producers saw dollar signs in the new crop of Vampire Lite tweens needing something to tide them over until Harry Potter 6 comes out, and managed to crank out a decent movie after all. (The scenes were beautiful and the characters matched the book. But there was still a lot of staring and I wanted to yell out "Blink! Blink you obsessed idiots!" every so often.)

Perhaps I just don't get Vampire Lites, being that mentally I'm way past my teen prime and about over the twenty buzz. Besides, I think a mortal dating a vampire would be like me dating a donut... Many times I stare longingly at the donuts behind the glass, not daring to blink, and imagining what it would be like to sink my teeth in one.

A Very Random Reflection on Feminism

Viva La Feminista! If anything women are more prominent and dominant in the workplace and on the political stage than ever before. Feminism is alive and well but has been redefined and revamped for a new generation of women bringing a different female awareness to their psyche. Being a "feminist", or aware of one's rights as a woman does not mean being dressed up like a nouveau hippy in socks and birkenstocks espousing the works of Ms. Greer and Simone De Bouviour any more. Today women who speak out against domestic violence, protect women's rights and value women's role in society like demanding equality in the work place, equal shares in property and land, equal pay and voice their objectives for help with child care and domestic chores are all following traditional feminist ideas but don't necessarily have to label themselves as "feminists" per se.

Indeed, the positive success of this movement as pioneered decades ago by Emily Pankhurst and the Suffragette movement is seen throughout the daily lives of women all over the United States and Western world in general. The progress that has been made is reflected throughout society at all levels from school girls being allowed to play soccer to women being licensed as truck drivers on the road, but as with all social movements, feminism still needs to reach the most vulnerable and the most needy. Feminism by its very nature is a highly controversial concept in new democracies or places where women have no access to freedoms in the most conventional sense.

Women still, however, need support in education, skills and training programs to ensure they remain within the work place and further, women still need to be treated on an equal footing with their male counterparts in traditionally male dominated professions. How often, for example, do we see a road construction builder who is female or a plumber or forklift driver?

Running parallel to this idea is that "real" feminism is steeped in the fundamental belief that women are not only equal but often superior to men, and this is easily expressed in contempoary lifestyles and the concept of "power females" similar to and analagous with "alpha males." For instance, Madonna as an iconic figure in female liberation has revolutionized the classic notion of feminism without losing her sass and style. In the earlier part of her career she used her overt sexuality to challenge barriers in the music world and then in the boardroom. Later on as her career progreseed she relaunched herself as a music diva and became the benchmark of the new female generation. These women were the ones who shopped hard, played hard and worked hard, brought up on a diet of "Sex and the City" fast living and feisty independence. These women didn't rely on men to buy their Cosmopolitans or their Harry Winston watches -- they did it all themselves. Que Destiny's child and their famous song which had all the women "proud to be independent", "Sisters doin' it for themselves " no longer meant ditch the lipstick and burn the bra, it meant celebrate and enjoy being a woman. The essence of feminism had radically altered as women realized that now they could have their cake and eat it too. They didn't have to adopt machoistic qualities to be respected; they could still wiggle around in their Christian Loubtins, have a "mani" and a "pedi" and still be treated with due deference.

But what of those women who enjoy using men as "meal tickets" and expect men to provide for them? Are these women betraying the cause or are they just espousing feminism in another context? Quid Pro quo on a very crass level the man with the "trophy wife" gets the "look" the "model" and "make" of woman he wants and in return, she gets all of her bills paid. Is this something that is acceptable to women or do all women feel they have to pay to belong? A Citi executive recently separated from his long-term girlfriend because she had no money and he did not want to support her financially... was he right, or was he wrong? On the flip side a hedge fund CEO supported her unemployed fiancee for 4 years until he eventually found work... why would it be any different in this scenario? Why is it that the woman is usually the one denounced as a "gold digger" when in similar circumstances the man is not?

Then there are those women who actually make a living out of preying on and some would argue even exploiting men: strippers, table dancers, adult entertainers, maybe even the waitress at your local Hooters -- the man gets to gawp, drool and stare for a while but who is the winner in this situation, the femme fatale or the hapless scumbag looking for his next dance? Should women like this be celebrated for their entrepenurial flair, or are they demeaning feminsim? On one level some would argue that these women are at the forefront of the feminist revolution -- they work, they get paid and they rank superior to men in these industries as more men use these industries than their female counterparts.

Feminism takes shape in many forms, but there is still an enormous gap between women living in the affluent West and women living in the developing world. In countries where women are not offered a voice and denied their basic and fundamental freedoms "feminism" does not truly exist. It is a redundant notion, and until all women everywhere have "equal rights", "equal pay" and an "equal say" in their lives the quest for change will continue.

A Closer Look at Christmas Tradition

Every year at Christmas my family watches the same old traditional, beloved movies... you know the ones. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, The Little Drummer Boy, The Grinch (only the old one, at my mother's insistence). Well, this past year I got a little bored during Rudolph and decided to pick out a few of the outdated and odd traits the movie had.

When you think of Santa Claus and that charming movie "Rudolph the Red Nosed Raindeer" I'm betting the last things that come to mind are "stereotypical" and "Santa is a jerk". Well.... maybe they should be among the first things you think, because I just watched this movie with my family and was, quite frankly, appalled.

First of all, since when are Santa and "the Mrs." as she is referred to - since when are they Jewish? (They stereotype, I stereotype). Seriously, Mrs. Claus spends the entire movie encouraging Santa to "eat, eat!" Santa plays the shrewd business aspect of this particular stereotype, irritated at watching the elves' song because he has more important things to do.

In addition, the reindeer and elves are Communists, or something approaching that level of conforming weirdness. Rudolph's own father rejects him on the basis of his nose, and all of the reindeer band together and throw Rudolph out. The same happens to Hermie the elf/dentist. (There are theories floating around that Hermie may in fact be homosexual, but that's a different story entirely...) There is an entire island full of "misfits" - toys that no one wants - because they're different from the other cookie-cutter toys made by the elves. I'm not sure what sort of Stepfordian world the creators of this movie were living in, but I'm going to say it's bleak and terrifying.

Oh and let's not forget the blatant sexist remarks running rampant throughout the story. Get a load of these gems: Rudolph's mother wants to search for Rudolph along with her husband only to be told "No. This is man's work!"
And, once Yukon Cornelius, Hermie and Rudolph have rescued the latter's mother, father and love interest (Clarice), they realize that the best thing to do would be to get the women to shelter.

Indeed. And the whole Santa being a jerk thing? Totally true. Santa's first observation of Rudolph: A fine, sturdy little buck.

Santa's observation of Rudolph after he sees Rudolph's nose is that Rudolph's father should be ashamed of himself for creating this horrid abomination. I mean jesus christ suggestions of murder are brought up! Well ok, not really, but Santa makes it plain that Rudolph won't be pulling sleighs anytime soon. After Rudolph's nose is exposed to all (a "coming out" if you will), Santa reiterates that Rudolph sucks, even though he had the skill to pull the sleigh, and Rudolph's father should jump off a cliff. There might be some slight exaggeration there as well, but try telling that to a heartbroken Rudolph after that scene.

On Christmas Eve, Santa is still bashing the nose, even after the narrator proclaims that all is well with the world. Santa, with the brilliant light of the nose in his eyes, asks Rudolph to tone the thing down in a tone undeniably hostile. Then, the light (metaphorically speaking) comes on: Santa realizes that with this nose, he can see through the storm and deliver all the toys. Suddenly the nose is wonderful, magnificent, praise-worthy and Rudolph will lead the sleigh.

Well, stop me if I'm wrong here, Mr. Claus... did you not say that Rudolph's nose was a source of shame? Come on now, Mr. Conformity-encourager: this nose is an abomination. What's this, Mr. Communist: this nose offers you supply for your demand, and you suddenly want it? Mr. Capitalism, ladies and gentlemen: I present him to you (as well as the reason Communism fails - as Zappa said, people like to own things).

Indeed, once Rudolph's nose becomes a valuable asset, he is a hero: he goes down in history.

I am disgusted by this, let me tell you. Santa, Commie elves and reindeer, you should all be ashamed of yourselves for the performance set forth by you is of a vile, base and crude nature. I shudder on your behalf.

Merry Christmas.

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