I'm not feeling it.
The idea of allowing an over-grown rodent to predict the near meteorological future isn't flying with me. I get it- believe me- I get it. The pomp and circumstance of hauling this groundhog - who no longer lives in the ground, by the way- out every year, the ceremony, the pictures... it's very dear, and I'm sure he enjoys it immensely.
So legend has it- if the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he gets scared and goes back in and it's six more weeks of winter. I've got a problem with this. If he sees his shadow, then there's gotta be some semblance of sun out, so how does that constitute more wintry days ahead of us? Don't insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of groundhogs. There must be some sort of international allegiance (or at least a Facebook page) for groundhogs who are furious over the fact that human kind has invented a scenario in which these hogs of the ground don't understand the basic principles of seasons; or that they are such cowardly creatures as to be scared into six weeks of self-imposed imprisonment by the sight of their own shadow. I mean, honestly. Honestly.
I would love for one uppity groundhog to walk out, and declare "It's February 2nd, of course there's about six more weeks of winter left. Look at a calendar, douche bags." And then walk back into his domicile with his middle claw extended in the air for all to see. Such a groundhog would have my admiration.
But until then, it's Punxutawney Phil, every February 2nd forever and ever- or at least until the groundhogs rise up and destroy us.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
The year we made contact?
2010. I mean- man! 2000 and 10. Twenty-ten. Geez Louise. Remember when that number was just total science fiction? Flying cars, vacations to the moon, not to mention the 1984 movie: "2010: The Year We Make Contact" - the title of which having something to do with making contact with a lost spacecraft, as well as making new discoveries on the moons of Jupiter (that's if memory serves, as it's probably been 20 years since I've seen the movie). And while flying cars have yet to hit the market, and outer-space trips are available only to the mega-rich, I do believe we are still waiting on that whole "making contact" thing.
Not to say we are out of touch, per se- Facebook and text messaging and the world wide web itself keep us abreast of even the menial details of each other's lives: Who-had-what for breakfast, or who's-wearing-what on which red carpet... we what's going on, for better or worse. But this isn't really one of those, "how connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so I digress.
Recently, while trying to resolve a matter of supreme annoyance in regards to a present I had ordered for my wife for Christmas- I did what anyone might do these days. Go to the website I ordered from, and look for the "Contact Us" link to try and right the situation. Now with all the technology at all of fingertips these days, this should make the whole Contacting-us thing a simple transaction. But, no it's- "press 1 for this, press two for that." Or in this case, it was "leave a message and we'll get back to you within 48 hours..." Or for faster service, "visit our website or send us an email, and we'll return your message within 24 hours." And while these response times are extreme for nowadays, the actual the fact that the contacting part of "contact us" seems harder than ever is the norm. (At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man) There is no contact when it comes to customer service- and some prefer that way these days- but how hard is to make eye contact with someone across the counter at the drug store. If that's too much to ask for, then hoping for a little virtual-face time for an internet or phone transaction is probably a pipe dream. So perhaps we just change "Contact us" to- "See if we care" or "You've got to be kidding."
2010 has brought us to a world that is indeed uber-connected, but we've got a long way to go before we've actually made contact. Sorrowfully, this has turned into one those "How connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so feel free to stop reading now.
Not to say we are out of touch, per se- Facebook and text messaging and the world wide web itself keep us abreast of even the menial details of each other's lives: Who-had-what for breakfast, or who's-wearing-what on which red carpet... we what's going on, for better or worse. But this isn't really one of those, "how connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so I digress.
Recently, while trying to resolve a matter of supreme annoyance in regards to a present I had ordered for my wife for Christmas- I did what anyone might do these days. Go to the website I ordered from, and look for the "Contact Us" link to try and right the situation. Now with all the technology at all of fingertips these days, this should make the whole Contacting-us thing a simple transaction. But, no it's- "press 1 for this, press two for that." Or in this case, it was "leave a message and we'll get back to you within 48 hours..." Or for faster service, "visit our website or send us an email, and we'll return your message within 24 hours." And while these response times are extreme for nowadays, the actual the fact that the contacting part of "contact us" seems harder than ever is the norm. (At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man) There is no contact when it comes to customer service- and some prefer that way these days- but how hard is to make eye contact with someone across the counter at the drug store. If that's too much to ask for, then hoping for a little virtual-face time for an internet or phone transaction is probably a pipe dream. So perhaps we just change "Contact us" to- "See if we care" or "You've got to be kidding."
2010 has brought us to a world that is indeed uber-connected, but we've got a long way to go before we've actually made contact. Sorrowfully, this has turned into one those "How connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so feel free to stop reading now.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Take two (or three) and call me next season...
What is our fascination with the TV hospital drama? Obviously this is not a new thing, they've been around forever, but in recent years it seems to be getting out of hand. Some go off the air, only to be replaced by two, three, or four replacements in the same slightly-tweaked format. NBC itself, after finally shutting down the long running show ER- replaced it this fall by introducing to new shows "Trauma" and "Mercy" - which seem to be the old ER split into two different shows.
Now this is not to say I'm immune to the hospital genre. I watched ER back in its infancy, and currently watch Grey's Anatomy. But for anyone who has spent any amount of time in a hospital, as patient or visitor, these shows take an enormous suspension of disbelief to take them seriously. How many times have you been put off by a show or movie because of something like - Oh come on, that's sooo unrealistic it's ridiculous. Well, these hospital shows that we know and love are the worst offenders- and yet we keep coming back for more.
On the shallowest level- I have never been treated by a doctor in a hospital who looked like any of these people. Yes I know it's TV, but come on- dial it back a little; perhaps at least one "normal" looking character. Nor have I ever seen nurses in the hallway pleading with and fighting the doctors for patients' rights or needs, or the emotional connections to said patients that invariably happen on these shows. Hell, I'd settle for nurses who at least act like they want to be there.
Although, I am willing to believe that they're all sleeping with each other in empty OR's and broom closets- this at least explains why it take so friggin' long to be seen.
So as another television season descends upon, against the backdrop of the country's battler over health care, we'll tune into visions of what health care isn't. And why the hell not, TV's a good form of escape- right? Or is it what we'd hope it to be? Might as well set the next hospital drama on the moon or Mars- or would that be too unrealistic?
Now this is not to say I'm immune to the hospital genre. I watched ER back in its infancy, and currently watch Grey's Anatomy. But for anyone who has spent any amount of time in a hospital, as patient or visitor, these shows take an enormous suspension of disbelief to take them seriously. How many times have you been put off by a show or movie because of something like - Oh come on, that's sooo unrealistic it's ridiculous. Well, these hospital shows that we know and love are the worst offenders- and yet we keep coming back for more.
On the shallowest level- I have never been treated by a doctor in a hospital who looked like any of these people. Yes I know it's TV, but come on- dial it back a little; perhaps at least one "normal" looking character. Nor have I ever seen nurses in the hallway pleading with and fighting the doctors for patients' rights or needs, or the emotional connections to said patients that invariably happen on these shows. Hell, I'd settle for nurses who at least act like they want to be there.
Although, I am willing to believe that they're all sleeping with each other in empty OR's and broom closets- this at least explains why it take so friggin' long to be seen.
So as another television season descends upon, against the backdrop of the country's battler over health care, we'll tune into visions of what health care isn't. And why the hell not, TV's a good form of escape- right? Or is it what we'd hope it to be? Might as well set the next hospital drama on the moon or Mars- or would that be too unrealistic?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Bathroom couplet...
Methinks that I shall never see,
A lovelier place 'n which to pee.
Okay, not that kind of couplet- more of a couple different musings both centered on the bathroom at my place of employment.
THE SMELL!!
And no, it's not what you think.
Ten floors up, our bathroom faces out toward the backs of buildings on 48th Street. Often times the window is left ajar a bit, so as to air out the goings on that go on in a bathroom. Well, somewhere down below there is restaurant, from which delicious smells waft up into the air, seeping through the open window and into the bathroom- burgers, chicken, onion rings, and other fried goodies...
Often times I have walked into the bathroom, and for moment thought -- Mmmm, what's that smell?-- and then immediately remembered where I was, and felt very strange about the sensory contradiction I have encountered. And I'm not the only one- I have spoken to a few other co-workers who have faced the dilemma of the delicious-smelling bathroom. It just feels wrong to walk into bathroom and be made to feel hungry.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes it stinks like a bathroom usually does. But it's almost a comfort when it does. Ewww, that's more like it.
A SIGN OF THE TIMES?
On the mirror above the sink, there's a sign that states "It's flu-fighting season, don't forget to wash your hands!" Because it's flu-fighting season- that's why you should wash your hands. Not because you're in a bathroom, having done your business where countless others have done similar business.
And if it's the type of person who doesn't wash their hands after using the restroom- does this sign even register? Is the fact that it's "flu-fighting season" a deal-breaker? As if it's like, "Oh I don't mind a little fecal matter or the like on my hands- but the flu? I just can't have that!! Better wash my hands." I don't know. I would think this person is comfortable in his savagery enough to think himself impervious to such petty things as the flu, or say, social convention.
So, thanks for the "reminder," but you're probably preaching to the choir with this one.
A lovelier place 'n which to pee.
Okay, not that kind of couplet- more of a couple different musings both centered on the bathroom at my place of employment.
THE SMELL!!
And no, it's not what you think.
Ten floors up, our bathroom faces out toward the backs of buildings on 48th Street. Often times the window is left ajar a bit, so as to air out the goings on that go on in a bathroom. Well, somewhere down below there is restaurant, from which delicious smells waft up into the air, seeping through the open window and into the bathroom- burgers, chicken, onion rings, and other fried goodies...
Often times I have walked into the bathroom, and for moment thought -- Mmmm, what's that smell?-- and then immediately remembered where I was, and felt very strange about the sensory contradiction I have encountered. And I'm not the only one- I have spoken to a few other co-workers who have faced the dilemma of the delicious-smelling bathroom. It just feels wrong to walk into bathroom and be made to feel hungry.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes it stinks like a bathroom usually does. But it's almost a comfort when it does. Ewww, that's more like it.
A SIGN OF THE TIMES?
On the mirror above the sink, there's a sign that states "It's flu-fighting season, don't forget to wash your hands!" Because it's flu-fighting season- that's why you should wash your hands. Not because you're in a bathroom, having done your business where countless others have done similar business.
And if it's the type of person who doesn't wash their hands after using the restroom- does this sign even register? Is the fact that it's "flu-fighting season" a deal-breaker? As if it's like, "Oh I don't mind a little fecal matter or the like on my hands- but the flu? I just can't have that!! Better wash my hands." I don't know. I would think this person is comfortable in his savagery enough to think himself impervious to such petty things as the flu, or say, social convention.
So, thanks for the "reminder," but you're probably preaching to the choir with this one.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I know it's hot out, but...
Come on...
This is what I saw at Starbucks this morning:
He was with his family, and seemingly not homeless or crazy. So what's your excuse, pal?
And note, if you can see it, the shirt flung over his left shoulder- so it's not like he doesn't have one. If you're so freakin' hot, how about putting a pair of shorts on?? How about that? Or are the jeans the next to come off? Pity the poor people in the next store he goes into.
This is what I saw at Starbucks this morning:
He was with his family, and seemingly not homeless or crazy. So what's your excuse, pal?
And note, if you can see it, the shirt flung over his left shoulder- so it's not like he doesn't have one. If you're so freakin' hot, how about putting a pair of shorts on?? How about that? Or are the jeans the next to come off? Pity the poor people in the next store he goes into.
Friday, August 14, 2009
That guy, that's me
I'm a sweater. Not that I'm made of woven or knitted wool, I just sweat- and saying I'm perspirer doesn't really roll off the tongue or the page (in fact according to spellcheck, it's not even a word). In any weather, in any amount of clothing I can work up a certain lather. This is one reason I never like to make plans for after having gone to the gym. Sure I can shower. What I can't seem to do is dry off. In fact it seems worse when I do shower. Especially in the summer.
The other night, I walked out of the gym- freshly showered- into the humid air of an August evening, on my way to dinner with my wife and friends. As I walk to the train, the moisture on my face graduates to dampness. By the time I get downstairs at Columbus Circle and on the platform, my face can now be classified as wet. I get on the crowded train, and it's not quite as cool as one would hope in my ever-increasing aqueous condition. And as we pull out of the station, it is Niagara Falls. Water is dripping off my face, and people are now looking at me. I'm THAT guy. As in: "Oh my, is that guy okay?" or "Woah, look at that guy!"
As the train moves on, I thought to myself I knew this was going to happen, I should have borrowed (see also: stolen) a towel from the gym to bring with me. Then, I remember that earlier in the day I had bought a roll of paper at the drug store, and had jammed it into my gym bag. Genius! So now here I am, sweating profusely, tying to keep my balance in the middle of crowded subway car, rifling through my gym bag to pull out the plastic Duane Reade bag which holds my immediate savior. Got it! Now I'm still keeping my balance, and trying to rip open the plastic wrap which covers the paper towels, all the while condensating like a can of beer left out on the picnic table. And again, I see people watching me struggle, and I realize that I'm THAT guy again. As in: "What the hell is that guy doing?," or "See kids, you could end up like that guy."
The paper towels out of their wrapper, everything back in its place, I can finally mop myself down. In my mind, the people around are so happy for me ("Good for that guy!"), and my stop comes and I head up to street level and to some very welcome breezes. After arriving for dinner, I feel the need to apologize for my saturated state- although it's a vast improvment over just a few minutes ago. Once we get inside and I can sit in the air conditioned dining room, I finally start to dry off. Ah, sweet AC and chairs. That's really all THIS guy can ask for in the summer. Someday I'll learn.
The other night, I walked out of the gym- freshly showered- into the humid air of an August evening, on my way to dinner with my wife and friends. As I walk to the train, the moisture on my face graduates to dampness. By the time I get downstairs at Columbus Circle and on the platform, my face can now be classified as wet. I get on the crowded train, and it's not quite as cool as one would hope in my ever-increasing aqueous condition. And as we pull out of the station, it is Niagara Falls. Water is dripping off my face, and people are now looking at me. I'm THAT guy. As in: "Oh my, is that guy okay?" or "Woah, look at that guy!"
As the train moves on, I thought to myself I knew this was going to happen, I should have borrowed (see also: stolen) a towel from the gym to bring with me. Then, I remember that earlier in the day I had bought a roll of paper at the drug store, and had jammed it into my gym bag. Genius! So now here I am, sweating profusely, tying to keep my balance in the middle of crowded subway car, rifling through my gym bag to pull out the plastic Duane Reade bag which holds my immediate savior. Got it! Now I'm still keeping my balance, and trying to rip open the plastic wrap which covers the paper towels, all the while condensating like a can of beer left out on the picnic table. And again, I see people watching me struggle, and I realize that I'm THAT guy again. As in: "What the hell is that guy doing?," or "See kids, you could end up like that guy."
The paper towels out of their wrapper, everything back in its place, I can finally mop myself down. In my mind, the people around are so happy for me ("Good for that guy!"), and my stop comes and I head up to street level and to some very welcome breezes. After arriving for dinner, I feel the need to apologize for my saturated state- although it's a vast improvment over just a few minutes ago. Once we get inside and I can sit in the air conditioned dining room, I finally start to dry off. Ah, sweet AC and chairs. That's really all THIS guy can ask for in the summer. Someday I'll learn.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Gems abound...
In my opinion New York is the best place in the world to overhear some of the best quotes by everyday people. Like the time in Starbucks a few years back I heard a seemingly upper-middle class woman sitting at the adjacent table state, "But I'm not an American , I'm a New Yorker." It doesn't always need to be this substantive, or catchy- sometimes it's just a casual exchange or turn of phrase that sticks with me. This week I've had a few of these gems floating in my direction, which for one reason or another tickled my fancy.
Walking down 80th Street past a brownstone, I noticed two little girls and what looked their mothers conversing on the stoop. The moms were quietly discussing something while the girls interacted. One girl was struggling with a biggish toy rocket-ship like thing, that lit up and made noise. The other little girl was struggling to get rocket-girl's attention, in a very pronounced, proper British accent: "What's your name? What's your name?" To which rocket girl, finally in control of her contraption looked up and said in drawn out tones, "Scaaarlet..." The exchange made me smile. The British girl, the American girl named Scarlet playing with a rocket-ship; it could have been out of a movie, but here it was- out on a stoop, on a sticky New York summer evening.
Earlier this week I heard two guys at the gym talking about wrestling- like the Grecco-Roman variety, not WWE or the like- and different moves and holds or locks they knew. The one guy, who didn't really look like a wrestler- kind of lanky- claimed he busted his shoulder because he's always "rolling guys like way outta my weight class." The conversation turned to people trying to pick fights with them on the street or what have you (This portion instigated by the feather-weight). "Who would you rather fight [on the street]," he asked. To which the other, more husky gentlemen replied, "Usually somebody my size or bigger than me... if some guy starts in with me and he's a little guy- I don't want no part, because he's gotta be crazy, or ninja or something." Sound advice grasshopper, you have passed the test... beware the little, crazy ninjas loose in the city!
And finally, one that happened at Duane Reade- New York City's most prevalant purveyor of drugs and sundries. It so entertained and awed me, I actually posted this exchange as my status on Facebook shortly after it happened. I called it, "The Power of Listening."
Cashier: What?
Customer: Duct tape...?
Cashier: Tape?
Customer: Duct tape.
Cashier: Like scotch tape?
Customer: DUCT tape.
Cashier: (points upstairs) Uhhh, aisle twelve-
Customer: (looks upstairs) Aisle what?
Cashier: Twelve.
Customer: Twelve?
Cashier: Yes.
I'd like to point I was in an isoceles triangle with these two gents, meaning I was equidistant from each of them as they were to eachother- and I could hear each of them just fine. Maddening, yet so entertaining.
Walking down 80th Street past a brownstone, I noticed two little girls and what looked their mothers conversing on the stoop. The moms were quietly discussing something while the girls interacted. One girl was struggling with a biggish toy rocket-ship like thing, that lit up and made noise. The other little girl was struggling to get rocket-girl's attention, in a very pronounced, proper British accent: "What's your name? What's your name?" To which rocket girl, finally in control of her contraption looked up and said in drawn out tones, "Scaaarlet..." The exchange made me smile. The British girl, the American girl named Scarlet playing with a rocket-ship; it could have been out of a movie, but here it was- out on a stoop, on a sticky New York summer evening.
Earlier this week I heard two guys at the gym talking about wrestling- like the Grecco-Roman variety, not WWE or the like- and different moves and holds or locks they knew. The one guy, who didn't really look like a wrestler- kind of lanky- claimed he busted his shoulder because he's always "rolling guys like way outta my weight class." The conversation turned to people trying to pick fights with them on the street or what have you (This portion instigated by the feather-weight). "Who would you rather fight [on the street]," he asked. To which the other, more husky gentlemen replied, "Usually somebody my size or bigger than me... if some guy starts in with me and he's a little guy- I don't want no part, because he's gotta be crazy, or ninja or something." Sound advice grasshopper, you have passed the test... beware the little, crazy ninjas loose in the city!
And finally, one that happened at Duane Reade- New York City's most prevalant purveyor of drugs and sundries. It so entertained and awed me, I actually posted this exchange as my status on Facebook shortly after it happened. I called it, "The Power of Listening."
Customer: Excuse me, where is your duct tape?
Cashier: What?
Customer: Duct tape...?
Cashier: Tape?
Customer: Duct tape.
Cashier: Like scotch tape?
Customer: DUCT tape.
Cashier: (points upstairs) Uhhh, aisle twelve-
Customer: (looks upstairs) Aisle what?
Cashier: Twelve.
Customer: Twelve?
Cashier: Yes.
Customer: Thanks.
I'd like to point I was in an isoceles triangle with these two gents, meaning I was equidistant from each of them as they were to eachother- and I could hear each of them just fine. Maddening, yet so entertaining.
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