Saturday, September 1, 2007

Liquid irresponsibility

For some reason, people still think it's alright to drive after a long night of drinking. That is absolutely the most insane thing in the world, and there is no excuse for it. Every time I hear someone say 'Oh, it's no problem. I do it all the time', I become enraged. These people would rather put countless other people at risk than shell out the $10 for a cab ride home. It seems these selfish people would understand that they actually run the risk of ruining their own lives, but somehow they don't make the connection.

I have firsthand experience with that fine characteristic in dealing with my biological father.
The man who helped create me with my mother, Ken. I will never, ever call him ‘dad’ or ‘father’. He’s undeserving of ever getting that respect, due to the amount of disrespect he’s shown to the world and himself.

He and my mother had a long history of domestic problems, alcoholism and drug use. The two of them had about as much business having a child as Iran does with nuclear weapons. The fact that they stopped fighting long enough to have me was a miracle in itself.
Having me around the house didn’t solve the problem, as they continued to fight things out on a daily basis. Sometimes their arguments got physical, but nearly all of their arguments involved alcohol. These weren't just arguments, they would go on for hours. There would be screaming, the police would show up and one or the other would leave the house.

I can only remember a few specific occasions, but one of their fights stands out vividly in my mind.

As usual, my parents were engaged in another fight over something trivial. Once a small disagreement becomes fueled by alcohol, the situation can turn volatile in a second. Drunk and angry, Ken decided that he'd be leaving the house. He wouldn't be going it alone though, as he picked me up and carried me down the stairs of our town home to the old red Jeep in the driveway. It was a summer evening, so the top and doors were taken off the Jeep. There was only a seatbelt between me and the road with this madman at the wheel.

We only made it a few minutes down the highway before there were blue lights all around and we were pulled over. I had no idea what was going on, but I was later told that Ken had gotten his third DUI that night. This one was slightly worse, with his 3-year old child in the car.
Not only did he put himself in danger, he put every single car that came within 100 feet of us that night in danger and he put his own 3-year old child in danger.

He lost his license that night in 1989, and still has managed to pile up six additional DUIs since that night.

That means on at least six other nights, he's endangered families going on road trips or a father working a late-shift to support his children.
In his irresponsibility, he's also managed to wreck his own life. He lives in low-income housing due to his inability to hold a steady job. People have given him job, but he's lost many after not showing up at work after a hard night of partying.
From that, he's developed a strong need to blame everyone else in the world for his problems and look for handouts at every opportunity.

Everything about alcohol abuse screams of irresponsibility. From drunk driving and bar fights to promiscuity, there are so many things that can go wrong when people don't know their limits. Alcohol abuse is just another way to escape to a world where others have to be responsible for you. You can only say 'Oh, it's alright because I was drunk' for so long. One day at age 49 you'll wake up in a one-bedroom apartment, unemployed and without your family.
Picking up a case of Bud Light seems a lot easier than doing the work that it takes to right your situation.

But is several hours of fun worth the years of pain it causes?

Experience with expectation

In the world we are engineered to depend on people around us; this innate habit builds up our expectations towards our next move. My story imitates instances such as these, it begins as this: I find my self waiting for a friend who promises he will show up on time for my weekly early-morning surf session.

A friend who has never been a part of this unique experience, as I had, did not know what to expect. After all the metaphorical interpretation about surfing which I candidly threw in his direction, I began to wonder how much sense he would make of them. After all these moments stole hours, even days of sleep away from me at a time when an early morning surf was as important as the first morning cigarette to the nicotine fiend. Needless to say the next morning I was dependent on his impromptu arrival aside my driver seat. I knew the bliss, it was a kiss of an early morning sun on your forehead, the cool breeze sending its pleasure signals up the back of the spine. The gentle crashing waves of energy marching towards expectations of the experienced souls. A time well spent with a brotherhood, I knew he couldn’t understand until he shared my peace and serendipity of such moments.

Herein lies the problem: my expectations were set for this blessed time. The morning sun began it morning rituals slowly piercing our east coast horizon with the all to familiar UV rays, extracting the darkness from the night before. The only people awaking are those who hold promises. The morning is a peaceful time, for peaceful people. I’ve seen the morning people; they are a group of honest individuals: doctors, small business owners, school teachers, the one’s who live to serve and help. Not included in this group are the selfish, my friend.

I am aware of outside pressures, those which are the antagonist of promises, they are the broken promises. But, his promise was different to me, it was a destruction of our shared theatrical experience I had planned in my subconscious the night before.

The time had come, and he was a no show. I went on to enjoy my surf, every waking moment of it. I mean waking, because sometimes the experience is surreal, it‘s hard to tell where my soul stops and the oceans depth begins on these mornings of clarity. And as good as it was, it should have been better, what I felt should have been shared, but the camaraderie was broken. It was incomplete, not because my friend did not show up, but because I would never articulate how it turned out. I still talk about that morning, and he still denies the promise.

You Ain't Twinkies!

They’re all looking at you, man. They’re all saying, “How’d they let it happen? How could they be so careless and cowardly? How could they just sit there and shrivel up, like a… like a… well, like a bag of dried fruit?” That’s right, dried fruit. I’m talking to you. No, don’t look over there on the other shelf like I’m talking to the canned fruit. At least they still have some integrity. Yeah, I know, they may be freshly sealed in a perfect little plastic cup, but at least they still have some character, some soul, some juice. You guys have completely sold out to preservatives. Look at you! You and your ungodly long shelf-life, all “best if used by: 08/2011.” 2011? Who do you think you are? Twinkies? You ain’t Twinkies, man, you’re fruit. Act like it!

Coconut, I’m gonna’ talk to you first. You used to be so sweet, so luscious. I could crack you open and live off of your juices for days, months if we were on a deserted island together. Now look at you. You’re all shredded up. Like some carrot. Did they use the same contraption on you that they use on carrots? I know, you don’t know any fruit, you guys went to different schools, but you know what I’m sayin’. They’ve turned you into some kind of flake, some kind of sliver. You used to be cool, man. We used to be cool.

Next is the pineapple. I just don’t exactly know what they did to you. They have somehow changed your whole molecular structure. You used to sit at the bottom of those cakes while they cooked in the oven, and then I would flip you upside-down and you’d be all golden and sweet. You used to sit on the edge of my glass, ever so sultry and seductive, while I sipped my Pina Colada. And we would just look into each other’s eyes, knowing that once that last bit of frozen drink slipped down my throat, you and I were going to have some fun. Oh, we had some times, didn’t we, pineapple? Now you’re just different. I don’t even know what to say about you. Your texture has completely changed, and not for the better. It’s just indescribable. I have to say, I’m not at all attracted to you anymore. You’re still pretty sweet though, I have to give you that. But don’t go telling the raisin I told you that.

I have to say, raisin, you’re the worst of them all. You’ve been at this for some time, I know. I remember, you guys all moved out to California in the eighties and put on your bow ties and your Ray-Bans. What was the name of that song? Was that Marvin Gaye? You guys are never easy to talk to because your whole name changed when they dried you out. Look at papaya and apricot over there. At least they remember where they came from. At least they have retained some semblance of roots. You guys move out west and make a couple million and just forgot all about your family and your friends – all the little people. Changing your name was just the final slap in the face. As if it was somehow a hindrance, as if your fans would love you any less as the “California Dried Grapes.” Now all you do is sit out by your pools with your bottles of sun tan oil and your fancy friends and your designer drugs and your imported French champagne. By the way, do you know what’s in that champagne? Do you, you cannibal?

I just don’t know what else I can say to you. Just sit up on the shelf there. Don’t mind me. Soon enough some soccer-mom with her spandex and her ponytail and her Lexus SUV, trying to pack more healthful snacks for little Suzy and Johnny, will put you in her cart – right next to her sun chokes and bean sprouts and cilantro. Yeah… have fun at that house. I bet they’re not even allowed to watch T.V. And you know, Johnny and Suzy are just going to trade you for cheese puffs anyways. That’s right; you’re going to end up in the lunch room trash, cuddling up to some carrot slices and a wet retainer.

It's All About the Benjamins

Very few things in life can be considered definite. As we Americans live, work, and grow, we look toward our government for guidance and aid through the major events in our life. As a student I looked toward the Department of Education for assistance. I have been dealing with these bureaucrats for nearly six years. Students who are 24 years old or older as of January 1st are considered independent students. Any one under that age will still be considered a dependent student unless they meet one of the requirements discussed below.


First off, and I am sure that most of you are aware, you must fill out a form called the FAFSA or free application for student aid. This form must be completed as early in the fiscal year as possible as many grants and scholarships are based on a "first come, first serve" basis. So right out of the gate our national education assistance program is limited to those of us who are fortunate enough to receive our W-2 reports in a timely manner. Now, if you are required to input your parents financial information as well, you also have to wait for their taxes to be completed. It does not matter whether you reside with them or not.Students have to meet one of the following requirements to be considered an independent student. You must be 24 years of age as of January 1st of the current year. For example, if I was 23 years old and my birthday just happened to be January 2nd, I would still be labeled as a dependent student for the following scholastic year. You may be a veteran of the armed service and therefore you will be considered an independent student. However, the salary that you are paid while in the service will be enough to disqualify you for aid. If your parents are deceased and you have been deemed a ward of the court, you qualify for independent status. If you are married you may be considered an independent student. The last possibility is that you have children or dependents who live with you and for whom you provide over half of their financial support. So the ideal candidate for a college student who is under the age of 24 to receive independent status for financial aid purposes will have been orphaned as a child, served active duty in the armed forces and was honorably discharged, is married, and has a couple of kids at home.

At this point, there is a good chance that you will be denied for government sponsored grants and scholarships anyway. The reason for this is income level. If you or your parents make over a certain amount of money then you are disqualified from receiving government assistance. Sure they offer you "low interest" loans but then you are forced to attend school with the knowledge that when you graduate, or even if you do not, you will be in debt. I believe if you want something bad enough there is always a way to get it. If you want to attend college, you can go, but there's a very slim chance that the government will help you in any way other than putting you in immediate debt.
You can die in war at 17 (with your parent's permission), you can smoke a cigarette at 18, you can have a drink at 21, but you aren't considered an independent student until you are 24 years old. By that time, most people are not eligible for any federal aid because they make too much money trying to survive. It's absurd. According to the Department Of Education, I should have been able to save at least five thousand dollars for college last year. I worked in a one hour photo lab making very little more than a small percentage of shiny rocks and sticks. Saving may have been possible if I lived out of my car and didn‘t eat. It is my belief that a country that takes a strong and sometimes imperialistic approach to foreign politics but does little more than ignore the need for better and more available domestic education assistance is heading in the wrong direction on the global food chain.

Life, Liberty, and Lifeguard Stands

After saving for three years, I bought a lifeguard stand at Wrightsville Beach. Most people think I’m crazy for spending my hard-earned money on a tall wooden hut that protects boys with whistles and red shorts from the sun’s killer rays. Others think I’m noble and community-conscious because my stand makes the beach safer for children, poor swimmers, and drunks who think Captain Morgan’s ship is just beyond the buoys. However, I’m not a big lifeguard-sympathizer, community leader or anything else; I’m just a selfish person who discovered a way to sponsor a lifeguard stand without the hassle of public recognition, personal thanks, or even familial acknowledgement. Using stealth and an extended payment plan, along with other strategic cloak-and-dagger business moves, I secured ownership of the lookout without anyone catching on. I accomplished all this and more via special police documents called traffic tickets.

Traffic tickets—also known as violations, citations, and infractions—are blessings to anyone who’s ever wanted to unofficially purchase a lifeguard stand. Here’s how the system works: citizens give their money to cops, and these cops pass it on to city officials, who in turn buy expensive hookers, designer drugs, European cars, and lifeguard stands. Since the cash switches hands three times at the very least, no one can trace it back to the citizens. Having understood the cycle of dirty funds since I was born, slipping my money into the city officials’ fingers was no problem. First off, tickets were easy to score. Any man in a blue suit with a big shiny pin on his chest was willing to give me one. Most of the time, I snagged two. These men in blue still tour the city like obscure celebrities, their pockets bursting with pink, white, orange, and green tickets for anyone who wants prime beach-front property.

After I moved to Wilmington, I started picking up tickets like dirty socks. I didn’t even try for my first one: a stupid-looking cop awarded it to me simply because he admired the way my car flickered as it screamed down I-40 at 107 mph. I almost blushed when I heard the siren. There I was, a novice ticket-taker, and I got to put down $300 towards my lifeguard stand. “I did you a favor and only put you down for ninety-five in a seventy, so I’m giving you a break. But keep this up and you’ll be going to jail,” said the little blue man. One part of me was furious that he had altered the only written record of my heroic speed, but another part was pleased that he considered me dangerous enough to deserve prison time. Right then, I felt like I could speed anywhere and get any ticket I wanted.

My next citation, however, had nothing to do with speeding. During freshman year, I wound up at some downtown club around eleven thirty p.m.—completely embalmed. I can’t remember how I got in, but I remember being thrown out by an ego-tripping Italian bouncer who thought he was Michael Corleone. Being a gentleman, he opened up the door to the waiting patrol car before shoving my whole drunk corpse inside. Elation strummed my nerves when I realized the situation: I was underage, intoxicated, belligerent, and desperate to make another payment on my lifeguard stand. I could smell the pink paper and black ink, smell the animal high, smell the perfumed Chinese exchange student with whom I shared the back of the blue-and-white. After the cop rattled off the $150 court costs, I smiled at the girl and threw up all over the radio receiver.

After the huge club success, I took a break from big jobs and worked on ticket mongering around campus for a few weeks. Eight parking tickets later, I finally left Randall Library. Somewhat bored, I hit College Road in a hurry, looking for action and purposely leaving my seatbelt off. Nothing happened. I decided to peel out around a u-turn. Nothing hap—oh, sirens! A fat blue man on a motorcycle was eating up the road behind me like a donut. After car and bike ground to a halt, we exchanged pleasantries and he honored me with a seatbelt violation. As he walked away, he noticed my out-of-date inspection sticker, which I had planted conspicuously on my windshield. “Oh, what’s this?” he asked. “Son, I’m gonna have to write you another ticket.” I looked at him with pseudo-sorrow as he scribbled. Once finished, he skipped back to his bike full of pep, like one of those waitresses at a drive-in hot-dog stand, calling back, “You’re lucky I’m so nice!" If I had been truly lucky, however, he would’ve found the pot stash in my spare tire and written me three tickets.

As of now, I’ve secretly transferred $1,000 of my own sweat-and-labor cash to the City of Wilmington via the magic of drinking, parking, speeding, and seatbelt tickets. The mayor doesn’t know, the governor doesn’t know, and the president definitely doesn’t know. It’s called outsmarting the system; it’s called freedom. So the next time I hit the beach, I’m going to march straight up to one of those big shiny lifeguard stands, falsely inform the boy in red shorts that his car is being towed, and claim my inalienable right to relax in the shade.

How Does That Song End Again?

I love my fiancé, but he has the ability to drive me crazy with one trait. He lacks the capacity to listen to a complete song on the radio. I am a lover of all things musical, so I am not difficult to please when it comes to selection, but I do have the one request: that I not feel like I am on a bad drug trip when I am listening to the radio. I do not object to changing the channel during commercials or turning the channel if a song comes on that you do not like, but can anyone really get bored with everything they are listening to?

We have been together for almost eight years, but riding with him in a car for long periods of time is a major test of my patience. We can be listening to a perfectly good song and out of no where my ears are blasted with a new, foreign melody that I was not at all prepared for. I am a pretty patient person so a couple of times I can handle, but when we have been through almost his entire four hundred song IPOD in an hour and fifteen minutes, it is a little much for me to handle. Just to dispel all questions about it, he does not have ADD, he is just indecisive. We can be riding along listening to a song that he says he loves and fifteen seconds in, boom, we have gone from classic rock to country. How is a girl to cope?

I ask him calmly, “Baby, I thought you liked that song?” His immediate, nonchalant response is “Oh, I love that song, but I only wanted to hear the intro.” I could go along with that if he did not have these kinds of responses for every song we listen to. Either it’s he’s not in the mood half way through, or he just thought of another song that he wants to hear more, or some other crazy variation of these responses. Sometimes I have to tell him to just turn the radio off and we ride in silence for a few minutes.

One day I knew that we would be in the car together for two hours straight, and before we got in, I made him promise that any song we started we were going to listen to the whole way through. He promised and we made it almost all the way there with out a single problem. He was calm and I was in heaven, but then “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on. This song is ridiculously long and we got almost through it before he quietly said, “Screw it,” and changed the channel. Hopefully, one day he will get over this compulsion or I will learn to deal with it.

An Intolerable Quality

I have been through every grade in school. Soon to be a college graduate, I can speak well. I read. I work. I can hear and I can see. These, of course, do not infer intelligence or stupidity. I do feel, however, that it does provide for the assumption that I possess at least the average amount of intelligence for a normal human being. And yet there is a number of people; friends, strangers and all those in between, that still feel they need to speak as though their intelligence is so astoundingly superior to mine that everything, from their tone of voice to body language, practically shouts it.

I know that it really does not have everything to do with the level of my intelligence; these people usually act similar to everyone. Condescension drips off people as freely and profusely as water dripping off a melting ice cube. The difference though lies in the question of "why?" We know why ice melts to water, but very often in a conversation, the attitude that the "condescender" gives off leaves the receiver with a baffled feeling of "why does he/she feel they can talk to me this way?" I really wonder sometimes that I must give off some "idiot" vibe that I did not realize.
We have our know-it-alls, our pompous tools, and the possessors of the obnoxious arrogance. The condescenders are all of these rolled into one, plus more. Most statements are clearly toned to let you know of their obvious, extremely high steed they seem to continually ride on. It tends to appear most often in the workplace. My co-worker, J, is the paradigm of condescension and implied stupidity. A graduate of Carolina, a fact he would never let you forget, he constantly asks people their majors and proceeds to condemn their choice of attending UNCW. “You are a business major? Why do you go here? Carolina’s programs are so much better.” They are so much better, are they? Then why are you here waiting tables with us then, huh? He also is notorious for his smirk, and sprinkle of sarcastic humor that tops all of his statements, as is if to say: "you say the darndest things sometimes," while smiling and patting my head like I was a five year old asking about the storks delivering babies. Is there really anything more annoying? It comes extremely close to infuriating me.

I have recently acquired a new job as a hostess of a local steakhouse. The job is not hard. It can definitely test your stress level though. Of course, since I have an easy job, I must be mentally handicapped in some way. Or, even more infuriating, I am a girl so therefore I am a ditz, only there to smile, welcome and thank all who come and go. I encounter statements like, "make sure that each piece of silverware is in the right slot, you know, knives with knives, and spoons with spoons. Get it?" Are you serious, really? People call ahead many times to insure a specific table they feel they would be more comfortable in. For example: Some people are too large to fit easily in a booth, so they request a table. This happened and I informed my manager of our need for a table for five, he proceeded to instruct me that; "When people ask for a table, they usually mean a table in general, booth or table top, not specifically a table." It disturbed me to no end. Does he really think that I don’t understand the English language enough to tell the difference? He knows that people request certain tables all of the time, why now does he think that I am mistaken in the information that I gathered from my conversation on the phone when the person told me specifically, “I want a table, not a booth please.” I just do not get it.

It’s a toss-up though, what’s worse, thinking you are stupid, or, you’re just not good enough for them, plain and simple. Once again it leads me to question how people can honestly arrive at a sincere feeling of superiority over anyone else. A condescender truly believes that what they do super cedes what I do, whatever it may be; school, work or play. This usually coincides with the "power-trip". A touch of power, whether it be over you or not, sends people skyrocketing into anal retentive tirades, belittling and towering over everyone that is in their ridiculous path. I will use J once again, he was recently semi-promoted, really he makes the schedule for the bussers and food-runners. He has no authority what-so-ever telling me what to do, and yet he spouts ridiculous orders and remarks about the job his co-workers are performing. I am all about leaders stepping up, but not to exercise the imaginary power people feel they have the right to exercise.

I may sound angry, but I don’t mean to. It just is one of those qualities I can’t just get over and accept about people. It’s bothersome, aggravating, and insulting. So here is to you condescender, sitting comfortably on your pedestal, happy in your altered reality of prestige and genius. Hopefully you will soon realize that to everyone else it is just haughty and high-and-mighty.

Additional Requirement for Snagging a Man?

Earlier this month I was killing time wandering around the local mall trying stay out of the record breaking heat. I went into the well known adolescent popular retail chain store known as Spencers. It is always fun to browse the gag-gifts and look at the nostalgic "old school" lava lights and black light posters. But this same poster display never fails to get me grumbling.

Out of the 60 or more posters, I would say that at least 10 of them featured extremely scantly clad women in sexual embraces of an equally scantly clad female. Some of them had girl on girl action of more than three or four and a few of them had a male or two thrown in with them. There was plenty of deep kissing and groping between the top-heavy, nearly nude, airbrushed women. There was the well-know and very popular “Lesbian Love” poster as well.

So, what is my problem with this hugely popular art form? I am not homophobic; I am certainly not a prude. My son had plenty of bikini clad sexy sirens adorn his walls when he lived at home. I think what goes on sexually between consenting adults is nobody’s business but their own. But I do believe is our sexual choices should be of our own internal feelings; instead society is now calling the shots for our youth. When you look on the MySpace and Facebook pages and 14- and 15-year-old girls are posting pictures of themselves kissing and necking with their best (girl) friends, claiming they like it even though they are "straight" - you have to assume something might be amiss. What seems wrong is the push to make it normal (even expected) for girls to engage in sexual activity with other girls because the guys think it is cool. This truly is a form of conditioning of both young girls and boys to do or try things they otherwise wouldn't, just to win approval.


These posters are telling boys that sexual encounters between straight girls with other girls is normal; even better if they do it while allowing the boy to watch or participate as well. This is more than just portraying women as sexual objects. This is influencing not just what these young girls think they must look like or wear; this is telling them that to compete for male attention they need to willingly participate in sexual activities that might be contrary to their sexual orientation.


This has been a trend for a while with college-age girls. I have heard many say "ya, I have made out in a bar with my girlfriends because it gets the guys' attention." Usually they will mention they were drunk or had to be "pretty messed up" to do it, but they will do it just the same. Girls and women have suffered for a long time with self-esteem issues in this hypersexual media driven environment. Most women, me included, never feel we are thin enough, sexually attractive enough or pretty enough. We worry about everything. Really, who can measure up to the latest centerfold, movie star, Hooter’s Girl, or this year’s crop of Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders? Now, through movies, music videos and these posters, we are given a new standard to attain in becoming sexually attractive and alluring.


I know this won't change; not with the direction our society is moving in portraying sexual normalcy. As long as there are women willing to strip down and fondle their breasted counterpart in front of a camera for money, these posters will be produced and sell. Every time a totally straight woman attracts the interest of a man by implying her willingness to participate is pseudo-lesbian activity, we all lose a bit of the original sexual creatures we are. It is a process of society creating what is normal instead of looking inwards, to our own desires and finding just what we want to be. And that is what I find the saddest statement of all.

Friday, August 31, 2007

A Dirty Dish Distraction

Everyone enjoys a clean kitchenit makes life easier. Ironically, mostly everyone hates to keep it this way. Whether it be too time consuming or just too much of a hassle, the requirements for this sanitary procedure seem overwhelming for people. The floor quickly becomes caked with crumbs, the fridge gets over-occupied with food from months ago, and trash is erupting out of the bag like lava from a volcano. But the most horrifying site exists in the sinkdirty dishes. They are enough to drive a person insane, particularly me.

Since I was a little girl I have enjoyed cleaning. My friends and family joke with me about it, seeing as it isn’t exactly normal to take pleasure in eliminating filth. Yet I’ve continued this
“unusual” behavior with no frustration or worry, until two years ago.

Moving into my own apartment was very exciting for my roommate and me, although it came with much responsibility. She is a tidy person, and I never thought my concern with cleanliness would interfere with my daily routine. But I was wrong. I find myself glancing in the sink every time I set foot in the kitchen, just to make sure there are no dishes in the sink. I know I should be more patientafter all, they’re just dishes sitting there…dishes which irk me. If I notice a bowl, cup, or even spoon, I quickly place it into the dishwasherthat is where it belongs. Even if there is a used pot or pan, I scrub it spotless without hesitation. Many times these dishes are not even mine, but it makes no difference, they are still in my sight.

“What dishes? Oh, those dirty ones…don’t worry; I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

Usually tomorrow turns into a week as I anxiously monitor the dishes, praying a stench hasn’t yet emerged. I cannot wait another second for them to get any dirtier, and I immediately wash them to calm my frustration. I never mention anything to her about the time delay between her use of dishes and when they finally reach the dishwasher; I’m fully aware it sounds very petty and meticulous. So I take matters into my own hands while steam releases from my ears. My roommate is wonderful, but her dirty dishes never fail to get the best of me.

Even my own family knows of my dirty dish obsession, and tends to use it to their advantage. Whenever I visit home, my mom is excited for two reasons: she gets to see her daughter, and she doesn’t have to worry about one dish. Sadly, she is right. I find her purposely leaving plates and even cooking pots in the sink, as if it were a gift for me to stumble upon.

“Good to have you home, Amanda! The dishcloths are still in the same drawer.”

It’s as if my annoyance has caused her vast relief. Who wouldn’t want someone else to deal with the mess? For once I’d like to not be that someone. But of course, to ease my nerves, I tend to the scene of grease and grime. I do not consider myself OCD over this matter. I know where to place my dirty dishes, but it is others who worry me. What I once enjoyed has now become a mere necessity for survival. After all, we can’t go on without clean forks.

Isn't It Called SPORTScenter

When people ask me what my favorite TV shows are I instinctively say SportsCenter among others. I love it, can watch it for hours. At least I used to be able to. I realized recently that I hardly ever watch a whole episode of SportsCenter anymore, choosing to jump back and forth between channels waiting for sport highlights that pique my interest. For a second I thought I was less interested in sports, but that can’t be. I’ve never shown an interest in more sports than I do right now, so it has to be something else.

The other day I sat down and watched a whole episode of SportsCenter rather than just watch the ticker go through all the scores one time. While I was watching I realized what had turned me off. When I was younger a solid 75% of the program was highlights of the previous night’s game with a little bit of analysis and previews of upcoming games. Somewhere along the line the people in charge decided to make it a panelist show where every sports writer on staff gets five minutes to bitch about their least favorite aspect of the athletic community. We get it, Skip Bayless, you hate everything and everyone. Please retire.

How do they keep all of their analysts busy? That’s easy. They just over sensationalize stories to make them seem far worse than they actually are. After the audience interest is captured, nine or ten analysts ramble on until they are sick of their own voice or I change the channel. Who are we kidding? It’s always when I change the channel, they never get tired of their own voice. It only get’s worse when there is an actual story worth reporting on.

Recently the first four segments of the show were dedicated to the Michael Vick story, including a segment about his legal options on bargaining and a look inside of a federal penitentiary. Maybe I’m confused but that sounds like programming more suited for Court TV, not ESPN. Thanks for the story and thanks for the viewpoints of those close to the situation, it was the other 28 points of view I could have done without, especially that of John Clayton, ESPN’s head football analyst…who has never played a down of football in his life.

If this is the route in which they wish to go, fine, but please call it a talk show and not a sports recap show. They still have the highlights but these 15-second clips hardly ever “recapture” the events of the game. A home run, a double play, the final strike out. Really? After nine innings and twelve runs that’s all you have to show? And that’s only if it’s Yankees vs. Red Sox. I know my beloved Orioles have fallen on tough times but we still deserve more than a box score. You call yourselves SportsCenter, I can get box scores from the news paper.

It’s not just baseball either. All sports get the shaft on highlights. If you think I’m lying watch a football game, America’s passion, and then watch the highlights for that game. The condensed version doesn’t come close to telling the story of what really happened, even if Scott Van Pelt does make some hilarious pop culture references.

But it’s not the sports anchors I’m upset with. I think they are qualified for the most part. It is the analysts that I just can’t stand. You have plenty of shows where you can state your opinion, SportsCenter is not the appropriate forum. Go on “Rome is Burning” or the “Sports Reporters,” I don’t care, just give me my O’s highlights back.

Why, why, why, why

Most college students have at least one wild party story they love to tell. It’s that time when things got completely out of hand and their behavior was incomprehensible, even to themselves. After three years of college, I have more than enough of these stories in my arsenal, and more than one make me cringe when recollecting them, which inevitably leaves me asking myself what exactly I was thinking. Fortunately for me, and those I am surrounded by, the cringe-worthy stories are a small percentage of the times that I have had at college with drinking involved, as they only stand out because of the ridiculous behavior and events that took place. I believe and hope that the majority of students do not drink till their beyond smashed on a regular basis either.

Since I work in two bars, I find myself witnessing a lot of these embarrassing moments with my customers, which leaves me wanting to hit them upside the head and ask, “What were you thinking?” I distinctly remember the laughter a psychology professor once drew when she explained to us that alcohol allows you to do or say things that you normally are too inhibited to act on, but it is not the cause of the behavior. Considering this fact, the behavior I see on a regular basis leaves me scratching my head, even considering some of my own less than sober actions, as the outlandish things people do seems ridiculous even after they have done a lot of drinking. At least sometimes it does give me a good laugh at their expense at the end of the night. Sober at 3 a.m., I find no shame in that.

It may have been pure annoyance, or exhaustion, but once working until early in the morning I found myself compiling a list of all the urges that, even while intoxicated, should never be acted upon. Some people have already checked them off their to-do list, but my advice to the smarter drinkers is to go ahead and bypass these.

Never, let me repeat, never, ask a bartender to remove any article of clothing. It may seem as if a sober bartender would want to remove clothing for you in a crowded public place, which is known to be frequented by their boss, but in reality they may find it offensive.

Generally, following the line of “you’re the most beautiful waitress I’ve ever had” by handing the bartender $2 for a tip isn’t going to get you very far. Same goes for phone numbers. I can imagine the look on my landlord’s face when I tell him I’m short on rent, but “…I’m the most beautiful waitress you’ve ever seen.” And by the way, I am not a waitress.

When leaving a bar, if you notice any piece of your clothing happens to be missing, run back and find it quick! If it happens to be an undergarment, run faster. The explanation of a bachelorette party or some such event that led your drawers to be underneath a table will not change the look of disgust on the poor soul’s face who happens to find it.

Don’t argue with the bouncers. This doesn’t lead to our disgust, or annoyance. It’s actually entertaining; so for your own sake, don’t argue. In a bar, the customer is not always right; the sober ones are.

The list could go on much longer, but for the sake of brevity I would love to sum it all by saying use your common sense. However, in a bar sense is rarely common. To be fair, I wouldn’t work as a bartender if the majority of the time I didn’t enjoy the drinkers and the atmosphere that comes with the job. It’s the people who are racking up their crazy drinking stories who leave me singing to the lyrics of Oasis’s Champagne Supernova…”Why, why, why…why”.


Thursday, August 30, 2007

Wallie World

I really hate when I have to "run to Walmart real quick." There is no such thing. A trip to good ol' WallieWorld will undoubtedly take at least a half hour. Say I want to get a cd for a friend's birthday which can be found in the electronic department in the back of the store... let the adventure begin.

So I circle the parking lot. No spots. Circle again, oh there's a spot! ...An oldsmobile full of grey haired ladies nabs it first. Being the polite person I am, I refrain from cursing and continue my search. Finally, I find a spot three rows and about 90 yards from the entrance. Once inside I will surely be greeted by one of two employees: a) the archaic 120 year old with a genuine smile or b) a rather uninterested woman whose name tag reads "Queen" and has fingernails longer than my actual fingers. I smile and nod at whichever I get and start my walk to the electronic department.

I must mention that if this were a trip for a larger purchase, such as groceries, we would have encountered one of the worst parts of a trip to Walmart: The Squeaky Cart. Not only will its wheels wobble and turn when you are walking in a straight line, it will sing its proud song of being used thousands and thousands of times. This cart has seen more miles than Dale Jr.'s Nascar Chevy. But lucky for us, we just want a Cd.

But it's a Saturday and there is a table of Brownie Scouts selling baked goods in my path. I don't want a cupcake with a paw print drawn on top. I can see the chubby one looking at them remembering how yummy the icing tasted when she licked the knife that spread it on the treats each time she started a new one. Yuck. I politely say no thanks to the pushy moms and press forward.

Through home appliances and jewelry I go until finally reaching the electronics section. DVDs... ipods... Cds, ok here we go. Toby Keith... Toby Keith... all out. I patiently spend five minutes waiting for an employee to ask if there are more on some shelf in the back while he explains to some dummy how to work a phone charger in their car. There are no more Toby Keith Cds and the next shipment is coming in the next 2-8 weeks. Gee thanks. I settle for Keith Urban and proceed to the checkout.

I'm sure everyone has used the self checkouts at least once by now. They are a truly helpful invention for people who possess a shred of common sense and have small purchases. Of course this is Walmart and people with two carts full of items will use the self checkout, which means more waiting.

As I wait in line behind a mother and son I'm not shocked to see that he starts to beg for candy. He asks his mom for a candy bar and she says no... eight times. He screams and cries and stomps his feet and threatens to run away until she gives in and hands him the Snickers. The lady behind me rolls her eyes in agreement to my smirk reading "That mom is going to be in trouble when her kid becomes a teen." Above the Snickers is a bottle of Advil; I thankfully pick it up and promise my head it will feel better soon.

After proceeding in a timely manner through the checkout all on my own I grab my receipt and bag and head for the door praying the alarm doesn't sound. It does. Queen checks my receipt and without a smile lets me pass. I exhale relief, having survived another trip to Walmart and hurry off to whatever it is that I'm now late for.

Where have all the cowboys gone?

I consider myself to have a fairly even balance of traditional and contemporary values. If I leaned toward one or the other I suppose it'd be the traditional side, but I am by no means the gentleman my grandfather was. I do my best to maintain what is left of the scraps of social code that our more civilized forefathers bequeathed upon us; holding doors for people (men and women, children of all ages), standing up and shaking hands when introduced to someone, and the other good stuff that has us calling ourselves civilized.

Now granted I tend to take things personally at all times, an admitted shortcoming of mine, so it’s only fair that I preface my opinion with that fact. Moving on, I am not only disappointed when people don’t follow these social codes of courtesy but I am utterly offended and at times even angered by the fact. I understand and accept the fact that there are many things that divide us as human beings but there are a few that unite us. These few things are often the only graces that keep us connected with one another day to day in our transient walk through cyberspace. As we walk with tunnel vision on our cell phones, on the way to the next big thing that were running late for, there’s always time for a little common courtesy and human interaction.

When I pass you on the street, how about giving me the obligatory smile and nod? Don’t feel like it? That’s fine with me, we all have those days. However, if I throw one your way I'd appreciate if you would reciprocate. If you pass through a door directly ahead of me, please hold it instead of letting it slam in my face. When I hold the door for you, my actions are truly altruistic but I am still offended when you can’t at least mutter a simple thank you. If I introduce myself, stand up and shake my hand. Pull your head away from the computer, unglue your eyes from that American Idol debauchery your’re so religiously hooked to. Stand up and shake my hand. Is this all really too much to ask? I think not. You don’t need to ask me how my day is going. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t because I know you don’t care. I don’t care yours is going to be honest. But as a fellow human being, I do respect you on the most basic level. Your membership in the club we call the human race affords a certain level of respect from day one. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours!

One Ring to Piss Them All Off


I wake up with my right ring finger swollen, red and looking a little bit like a sausage wearing a ring. The previous night, I had tried in vain to get this ring off with every possible ring removal trick known to man. Baby oil, ice, water, soap, a hammer, I had tried it all. With visions of getting gangrene in my finger and having it amputated, I realize it is time to seek professional advice. I walk straight to the desk at the clinic.

“Hi, I’m an idiot and have a ring stuck on my finger! Any advice?”

“Right this way,” she says as I am bumped in front of 6 people with actual health problems. I wonder if they will give me a cure for idiocy, too. Instantly, I am surrounded by nurses and doctors and interrogated like some sort of freak. It’s just a ring. I’m gonna live, right? Everyone throws their knowledgeable theories of ring removal at me and I shoot them all down.

“Tried that, did that. Yeah, tried that, too. Didn’t work either”

Things were looking bleak. Damn, I’m gonna miss this little piggy.

Looks of confusion fill their faces and like any other group of confused people, they point me elsewhere. The nurse makes 50 calls. I assume she’s calling all the finest medical institutes in America trying to get a helicopter for me to take somewhere. Johns Hopkins, maybe?

“MEDAC on Oleander has a ring cutter. Do you know how to get there?

Guess no helicopter ride for me.

I exchange pleasantries with the girl at the front desk of MEDAC, an old friend.

“What are you doing here?!”

My brain scans for the most badass excuse to have a ring stuck on my finger. It finds nothing.

How embarrassing.

I spend 20 minutes filling out paper work and answering questions. My mother’s year of birth? Jesus Christ, this is some higher level mathematics. “Bring in the ring cutter,” yells the nurse. My imagination lets loose, picturing a snarling beast of a saw ready to ravage steel rings. The doctor whips out something reminiscent of a tool used to eat crabs with or make cute paper cutouts with. My heart drops.

“This ring is too thick for our ring cutter. You’ll have to go to the emergency room for the heavy duty ring cutter.”

Just my luck.

Through the double sliding doors, I enter Cape Fear Hospital’s emergency room. I spend even more time filling out paper work. I sit in the waiting room among people with actual injuries and ailments. A mother locks eyes with mine as her daughter cries in the chair next to her. I can’t read this woman’s mind, I don’t need to. Her face says it all. A cold, inquisitive stare that says, “My daughter is in pain and discomfort and you have the nerve to come to the E.R. with a freakin’ ring on your finger, how dare you?” I feel terrible, out of place, and undeserving.

“I don’t want any of these people to have to wait after me, I want to go last no matter what.”

The receptionist grants my wish. I have been waiting for an hour. The waiting room is empty save me and my ring.

“Alexander Clark!”

“That’s me”

Phew.

“Here’s your room, the doctor will be here in just a moment.”

I think I’ll lie down. Twenty minutes pass as I sleep, sprawled out on the cold, hard chair. I wake up to the gawks of three female nurses. They tease me about my stuck ring and my fat finger. I bashfully take it all in. Must be a slow night, if I’m there excitement for the night. In comes another nurse with a saw that would make Tim Allen proud. With my right hand being painfully manhandled in some metal contraption by several nurses, I left handedly text my friends about the plans for the evening thinking this would be a short procedure, after all, it was a mean lil’ saw. Sweet, 8:30 now, I’ll be outta here in 20, home in 30, ready to go out in an hour, sounds right.

Wrong! It is now 9:30. I sit here as these nurses mangle my hand with a metal guard that is to prevent the saw from sawing into my flesh meanwhile; the saw is heating the ring to extreme temperatures burning my finger. Unbeknownst to the nurses, I am dying here. More people come in and check on the progress. I had become the boy trapped in the well, the boy with his head stuck where heads don’t fit, the boy with his hand stuck in the drain. We work at a snail’s pace like some determined prisoner chiseling through concrete walls with a fork.

“I think you have the wrong blade on there, did you put the blade for steel on?” one nurse says to another.

“There are different blades?” she replies.

You’ve gotta be kidding me. Am I on Punk’d? Where’s Ashton?

With the new blade attached, we finally break through the ring. I thought that when we completely cut through the ring, it would just pop off, easy as that. Wrong again! The damn thing was so thick that it wouldn’t bend to expand open. Sure, it was completely cut through but it was only hair-widths wider. This was out of the hands of the nurses; I would have to finish this battle myself. In a tug-of-war between me and my finger, I lubed up, bit my lip, and ripped the ring off along with several layers of skin, leaving a slice along my finger, two burn marks, and no hair on my knuckle. I had chiseled through the concrete wall with my fork. I was free.

The Shallow and the Stupid

Because of my lifetime experiences, my personality has changed for the better; where the insignificant things people do might not matter to others, they matter to me for the simple fact it is a direct reflection of their vanity, superficiality, and sheer ignorance of the world, its inhabitants, and how it works. Everything I have, I earned, I bought, and I sacrificed for. I can’t say the same for most people I go to school with. My generation needs to find more important things to focus their lives on instead of the trivial and insignificant.

"Oh my god, I can't believe he did that to her! He's going to pay for that, I still can't believe they are together. Didn't he cheat on her?"

This is only one instance of people complaining about stupid things that, in the grand scheme of things, do not really matter to anyone but the individual and their crowd from Laguna Beach. Please tell me that there are other things on this earth that matter more than someone else’s relationship or the drama that surrounds it. Individuals who get caught up in that apparently have nothing significant going on in their lives so they get wrapped up in someone else’s. A prime example of that is the fixation on Reality TV. Keeping that in mind, there are other groups that do it also, mainly military guys and sometimes the jocks get wrapped up in the insignificant.

“Hey man, you won’t believe this chick I went home with last night. Yeah, me and Smith, we both had a shot, it was freakin’ awesome! So easy, just going to the bar and finding them out there - willing and waiting.”

The tragic thing about that is, and has been my experience, that this isn’t restricted to the stereotypical dumb jock. Military guys in particular keep on with the macho bull that surrounds their sexual escapades and is an indicator of their masculinity by how much they can score. Unfortunately, no matter what group you look at, it is always a competition in that realm. No one really cares how much you score, because if that’s how you base your achievements as you should be maturing and growing up, maybe you are in the wrong line of work. With growing up comes acceptance; it does take on many forms.

To be accepted by other young adults means having the best car, the best clothes, the most money, and a great clique of friends. This is the best example of being vain and superficial that is normally started mostly in high school and often does continue into the realm of college. This is in no way pointing the finger at anyone in particular, but the saying goes “birds of a feather flock together”. The crowd from Laguna Beach as it were is everywhere, driving the BMWs or Land Rovers their parents bought them, wearing a t-shirt that costs $50, and wearing the sunglasses that not even Paris Hilton could pull off. Those not as fortunate, mostly the people who had to incur heavy debt or experience tremendous sacrifice are left out and looked down on, whether it is for the car they drive, the way they look, or even the amount of money they have. College, for the kids who have a free ride provided by their parents, are just extending the drama of high school because once again, they care about the things that don’t matter. Jenna slept with Alex’s boyfriend! How was Sissy dressed at the frat party? Valerie dented her Land Rover because she hit a sign while talking about her botox injection on the phone! Why do the superficial things matter?

All that aside, after college, how popular you were, how much money your parents have, the car you drove, the clothes you wore, and the topics of your every-day, sad, shallow lives will not matter. I know I’m not popular, I dress decently, and I’ve had to work hard for what I have, paying the ultimate sacrifice almost for a few things. My friends, clothes, and car do not define me as a grown man; my accomplishments, my personality, and my ambition mark me as an individual. While the shallow and the superficial mark our adolescent and young adulthood, I am an adult. My parents do not pay or help with anything. What is mine I have bought myself. My education is on my time and my dime. I don't know about everyone else, but at the end of the day it is nice to answer to one person who pays my bills and takes care of my problems, no one else.

No, no...Thank YOU!

"We the willing, led by the unknowing

are doing the impossible for the ungrateful.

We have done so much with so little for so long,

we are now qualified to do anything with nothing." -Unknown

Imagine this...depending on the generosity of other people to pay your bills and put food on your table. Crazy, isn't it? I wish. I am one of the countless servers in the world that do just that. I am the person that greets you with a smile. I am the person that gets your drinks, down to the one that can only have three ice-cubes, one squirt of lemon juice, and a straw on the side with a twist of lime. I take your order...even the one with the Garlic chicken but you're allergic to garlic, and instead of mushrooms could you have asparagus but with butter on the side-- oh and could you make that in olive oil because I hate the way your sauce tastes? Thanks. I serve your food, get the extra dressing, napkins, toothpicks, mints... I bus your table, sing our "special birthday song" to you, all with a smile and friendly witty banter. If this is all done perfectly and correctly, I hope to make a 20% tip. Imagine my surprise when I go back to clean your table and find two quarters. Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH. How very generous of you.

What I want to know is, how on earth someone can think it is ok to leave pocket change, or more frequently, nothing at all. It is infuriating and crushing to work so hard for a few measly cents or a crumpled two dollars. It isn't worth it. I would rather wash your dishes in the back.

Not to disrespect the South at all, but I have served in Ohio and New York City, and only here is a 20% tip negotiable. When I moved down here, my tips went down dramatically. In New York City the managers of a restaurant will approach a table if their server did not receive a 20% tip. They will ask if there was a problem, that their servers are accustomed to 20%. Here, 10% is the norm. Do you realize how little that is? I can spend two hours waiting on a table of six people and they could have a bill well over $100. Leaving me $10 does not cut it. Anything less then 18-20% is like a slap in the face.

People argue that they will not tip for bad service. Completely understandable. In cases where the service was terrible (and I mean terrible such as forgetting orders or taking too long) I would condone a 10-15% tip. However, I am a top-notch server. Not to toot my own horn, but... beep-beep. I have lost faith in people, though. I give excellent service and rarely do I see more than 10-15% . This is unacceptable. It infuriates me to give such great service and not reap the benefits of it. Everyone's cost of living has gone up. Mine included. I never see a paycheck. I make only tips. It is becoming increasingly frustrating and impossible to make enough money for rent. Someone needs to inform the public that people in the service industry cannot support themselves, let alone their family on such meager tips.

The worst, though, is when your expectations become very high after your guest commends you on your flawless, spectacular service. They go on and on about how great everything was. You thank them sincerely and rush to the back to see if maybe this time you made 25%. You open the check presenter and find two crumpled $1 bills. Verbal tipping is wonderful, as long as you don't forget to tip monetarily as well. It literally crushes a server's self-esteem and morale. We work SO hard, for SO little. While our jobs are not mentally challenging or "rocket-science", they are physically demanding.

So next time you are out to eat with your family at some wonderful Wilmington restaurant, please remember, we are your servers, not your servants. The tip should be viewed as a 20% extension of the bill. You are paying for my service. If you do not want to be waited on I hear the buffets are nice this time of year.











What ever happened to the Protestant Work Ethic?

Whether it is the customer or the sales associate, the wait-staff or the restaurant owner, an overwhelming lack of work ethic pervades my everyday life. It is exhibited by the clothing left strewn about a dressing room, unbuttoned and inside-out, crumpled up into a deliberate pile. I can taste its dreadful flavor when the salad that was order without onions is littered with the stuff. The fact that the majority of the population is concerned solely with themselves is not news to me. It is simply the realization that as a result, someone, some perfectionist workaholic, is always there to pick up the slack left by others.

This fall marks the anniversary of nearly four years spent behind the loser's side of the retail battleground. To be honest, I cannot blame the girls I train, all wearing the same disinterested look that distracts from their nicely put together attire. Working for scarcely above minimum wage, why willingly, happily achieve tasks in a timely, effective manner? Why go out of your way to please customers and contribute to a peaceful atmosphere when you can stand by your post and talk with friends?

Just the other night, I stormed out of my retail job enraged at having had to complete nearly all the closing tasks myself. The four girls I was closing with all just stood there, gabbing about boyfriends as they watched me straighten and vacuum—never once asking what they could do to help. If anything, they acted as if just their presence was enough to close the store up for the night and go home.

Many of the customers we face with our ready-to-wear smiles are pieces of work themselves. “Let me see all the shoes you’ve got in a size seven,” some will ask. Aside from the absurdity of such a request, at any given time there are most likely eighty pairs of size sevens found on our shelves. One of my personal favorites is, “I’m looking for an outfit to wear out tonight—Can you find me something?” This question would not be out of the ordinary if the customer didn’t leave it at that. After the question is asked, most will go stand in the dressing room, fussing with their children until you bring them just the right combination for the evening they have envisioned.

Outside the retail world, the standards continue to slump far beyond acceptable as witnessed at my second job, hostess at a local Italian restaurant. Half of the wait staff spends the majority of their time at work plotting ways to do the least amount of work in the most amount of time. This tactic proves quite effective when attempting to avoid being assigned additional tasks. Some refuse to take more than two tables at a time, which is practically impossible in our ever-buzzing, overcrowded restaurant. Others will not help roll silverware or bus tables until everyone else is doing it and until suddenly, there is far less work to do.

The only difference in working at the restaurant as opposed to retail is that as a hostess, I cannot throw on an apron and pick up the slack of the servers. Working at a busy clothing boutique should, by no means, be a tough job, but when it feels you are the only one who takes your job seriously, the end of the night often finds you exhausted and frustrated. An element that remains unchanged in either realm, though, is the fact that even the managerial staffs refuse to take the time to train effective associates. They quickly look to fill the necessary positions and when the spaces are filled with ineffectual workers, they leave it to other associates to deal with their faults and correct the incessant errors.

As I continue to witness the carelessness of others, the so-called “work ethic” I inherited from my father, identified by most as “work obsession,” seems to be a horrible combination of blessing and curse. In one regard, I have learned the value and satisfaction of a hard-day’s work. In another, as each day goes by, I find myself losing more and more faith in the supposed adults who work alongside of me.

Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!

Picture this: I am at a nice family dinner one uneventful Friday evening. The whole family is talking, laughing, and having a great time. The food is delicious and I already had seconds of the creamy mashed potatoes. The dinner slowly winds down, and I start to relax while enjoying my now bloated stomach. Then, all of a sudden, my younger brother picks up his completely full glass of water. I shudder, for I already know what is coming. I watch, in slow motion, as he puts the glass to his lips and then brace myself for what is about to happen. A split second of silence and then there it is…Gulp! Gulp! Gulp! The sound of my brother chugging down his water like he won't live another day. As crazy as it sounds, this is a huge pet peeve of mine.

This pet peeve started when I was younger and just continued to increase as I went along my fabulous life. My family and I are very active. We were always outside playing basketball or football whenever we got the chance. On really humid days, we would come charging into the house like buffalo to grab water and a snack. I would stand and drink my water, as my brothers would sit there and gulp down their water till the bottle was empty! I used to just stand there and grimace until they were finally done.

Perhaps the reason that I have become so annoyed by people chugging water is because I have five brothers who all like to drive me crazy. Naturally, they ignored my pleas to peacefully drink their water, instead gulping as fast and as loud as they could. The sound of them gulping just horrifies me and makes my insides churn. Not only is the sound frustrating but the sight of the boys' adams apple bobbing up and down would also disturb me enough to leave the room.

I have come to discover though that I can yell at my brothers for being annoying, but not at other people. How do you tell someone to please calmly sip their water instead of gulping it down? My answer is that you cannot. Instead I have perfected my facial expressions to where I no longer flinch after hearing or seeing my friends gulp down their drinks. If someone would look at my face or appearance, they would never know that behind the smile was the look of disgust. After all, it is not really their fault that I cannot stand the sound of gulping fluids.

After many long and serious days of contemplation on why this situation creates such turmoil for me, I have decided there is not an explanation. I simply just am unable to stand the sound of the gulping or the sight of the adam’s apple bobbing. Maybe one day I will able to recover and gulp drinks down myself. Until that day though, it will remain as one of the most annoying and frustrating pet peeves on my list. So please remember, it does not hurt to take your time while drinking your fluids!

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

How Myspace has destroyed American youth

Myspace has hit like a bomb amongst kids into one of the trendiest and meaningless hobbies of youth today. What was once a place to advertise music for upcoming independent artists and a way to look for classified jobs has now turned into the most vain and unimportant hangout to show who is the coolest and most popular nobody on the internet. Artists know this that is why so many musicians make pages offering their tour dates, songs and shameless self promotion because they unlike the millions of 18 to 60 year olds on there have accomplished something worth bragging about. Some people have over 300 friends on their profile. Where does someone have time to talk to 300 people. A handful of friends is all that I need and even then I still need a break from being around them after awhile. So what is the appeal of this fake prestige? It is as if being the best polished turd is what is valued today. These are the kings of mediocrity.

Another things that is subpar about myspace is the basic design which is threadbare. You can add a description about yourself which is nice but unless you are a world traveler, famous musician or film director you probably have a normal, boring uneventful life. The other fill in the blanks are slots where you can put your favorite television shows, musicians, books and hobbies. They should instead put what books the user has written, music the user has composed and so forth to weed out the people who haven’t accomplished anything.

Part of the joy of getting to know someone is the mystery of what this person has to offer. Myspace kills this anticipation by having people post their extensive bios as if they were on the same accomplished level of that of Richard Dawkins and Federico Fellini. I don’t care about someone’s political stance, 50 Things You Didn’t Know About Me Lists and what they snacked on at 3:04 p.m. and now feel guilty about. This isn’t the Diary of Anne Frank, memoirs from a soldier at war or even the journal from a successful businessman about the ins and outs of climbing the ladder to the American dream. These are things that people should be ashamed about – that of being boring and mediocre that now myspace and society celebrate whoever is the most useless and commonplace as admirable qualities. Look at the pictures people post – 98 percent of them are college students holding their favorite mixed drinks or beer showing them making funny faces living the dream of youth. As if I’m jealous.

The only thing aside of finding a part time job in the job listings and seeing tour dates from your favorite artists is finding old friends from high school. You can reconnect with old friends but let’s be honest if you haven’t kept in touch with these people maybe you weren’t a good friend to begin with. I have people from when I was in UNCG trying to add me. If I wasn’t friends with them in real life why the hell would I want to be friends with them in cyberspace? You even have crappy musicians and amateur web cam girls trying to add you as a friend. Sorry but if I wanted to find a high class girl such as these I would go to a bar at 1 a.m. and put on some Cary Grant charm.