I have a recurring nightmare. In this episode, I sit down at our family computer. After it boots up and I start my important work (Battle Chess 2006), the screen goes black and a sinister, red face with angry eyebrows pops up and starts laughing monotonically. As it rears its two-dimensional head in electronic throes of evil mirth, all the appliances in my house become self-aware. And we’ve all seen enough movies to know what happens when machines become self-aware. They start to kill humans.
Why is it that when technology becomes self-aware, the first instinct is to destroy humanity? Why not do something constructive, like form a book club?
By this point, I’m battling back an electric stapler, flinging old AOL discs like throwing stars and trying to stop the phone from dialing old girlfriends and insulting them. I duel with a motorized turkey carver, and as it knocks the spatula from my hand and backs me into a wall, I wake up in a cold sweat and realize something.
I am a technophobe.
This is hard to admit. When I think of technophobes, I picture old women sobbing over the blue screen of a 1998 Dell, wanting to write a simple thank-you note to cousin Melba, cursing the day they switched over from the typewriter. I picture my uncle shaking his fist at the parental occupants of a minivan whose offspring are watching Madagascar on their Mondo Vehicular T.V. Child-Distracter.
This is not me, but I walk a slippery slope. I don’t own an IPOD. I think USB is a college. Podcasts sound like a sci-fi movie idea (“Run, Glenn! The Podcasts are hatching!”). The only thing I know about Twitter is how excited it makes sports reporters. ESPN had a 3-day party when Terrell Owens started tweeting.
My apprehension for all things technological stems from ignorance. Ignorance primarily causes fear of most things. An example of this is our friend, the clown. These days, we only see clowns in horror movies, but if we ever really took the time to get to know one, I’m sure we’d find it to be a lovely person. Until it eats our brains.
People who understand technology don’t understand why people like me have such a hard time with it. In the words of William Gibson, “The future has already arrived. It’s just not evenly distributed yet.” We technophobes want to keep up. We don’t want to be the algae churned up in the wake of progress.
The more I learn about technology, the less scared it makes me, although I’m still convinced there’s a few robots out there trying to take over the entertainment industry (i.e. Kevin Costner, Keanu Reeves). Robots are also most likely behind those awful comments on online news stories, because there’s no way something human could write things so mean or so filled with inappropriately “placed” quotation marks.
Technology is not all bad, though, and if we try hard enough, we can find multiple uses for it. For instance, earlier this week, I came down with the flu, and my body was overcome by the shivers. I was colder than an Eskimo’s ex-girlfriend, and no amount of blankets and layers of pajamas could warm me. I looked around frantically for something, anything, to stop me from shivering, and the best solution I found was our family’s archaic laptop. I laid it down on top of all the blankets, and its warmth helped me pull through. So, in a way, I have technology to thank for my health.
At least, until Kevin Costner comes after me with an electric turkey carver.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
RAH, RAH, REE, KICK HIM IN THE KNEE! RAH, RAH, RASS, KICK HIM IN THE OTHER KNEE!
It’s Homecoming Week, everybody, which means…FOOTBALL!
The American football field hosts a weekly war, both terrible and artistic, a bloody poem in spandex and grease paint. Here, battles are won and lost, both at the ten-yard line and in line to buy bratwurst. Coaches govern teams in militaristic fashion, encouraging effort, focus, and an occasional ripped tendon. Athletes the size of Buicks sprint headlong into each other. The resultant skull-crashing and tooth-dislodging resembles a tin of mints being thrown into a high-powered fan.
Wait, you say you’re more of a soccer fan? The sight of blood and ruptured organs makes you cringe? Blasphemy! Football is as American as ABBA, Taco Bell, the Beatles, or Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The rules of football are too complicated, you say? Perhaps to the casual observer, but fear not, because from now on, we as a columnist have officially decreed Football Appreciation 101 to be a required course for university freshmen. Here’s a little preview of the course material. First, we offer a brief history of the sport and synopsis of the rules.
According to experts, football was invented somewhere between the years 1870 and 1960. The sport was originally played with a normal, round ball, but the ball’s shape was reputedly changed to its current two-pointed, maniacal state by a Rutgers University fraternity who enjoyed watching heavyset linemen chase fumbles that could spontaneously bounce backwards and lodge in their nasal cavities.
Football was sustained in its conceptual years by various males with lots of free time on weekends, and continued in relative obscurity until around the year 1998, which is the year we as a columnist started watching football (Go, Colts!).
To help further your football understanding, this new course will go into a position-by-position analysis.
The Quarterback: Usually the best-looking player (if teen movies are still accurate), quarterbacks are the trigger. They date supermodels, endorse Rolexes, and control everything that happens on offense, unless something goes wrong, in which case it was completely the fault of…
The Offensive Line: Arguably the most affable athletes in sports, offensive lineman are the true heart of the team, sacrificing both knees and years of their life to gain large amounts of weight, all to keep the quarterback in Rolex ads.
The Wide Receivers: Receivers start training early in life to be noticed. This is why they are always on television giving interviews. They develop expensive hobbies, complain, and are always about to be traded.
The Running Back: The RB’s job is to run two yards up the middle on every play, making football more boring to watch for the casual observer. Also, they are keeping a large wing of the drug industry afloat.
The Kicker: This guy’s like your 8-yr. old sister. He can do or say whatever he wants to you, but as soon as you rough him up a little or call him a name, you’re the one who gets penalized.
And on defense…
Linebackers: The linebacker always has a funny name, like Dick Butkus, or Brian Urlacher, or Ray “Nancy” Lewis, but you would never make fun of one. They are the most curious footballers, in that they are always trying to rip off the Quarterback’s helmet and examine its contents.
Defensive Line/Ends/Backs/Safeties: Also big and scary.
Special Teams: Not what you think.
And there, in a nutshell, is the first week of our Introduction to Football course. Remember to support the team this week in the Homecoming game. For help with authentic cheers and taunts, see page 38 in the course textbook (Chapter 3: “Are You Blind, Ref?...And Other Helpful Yelling Hints).
The American football field hosts a weekly war, both terrible and artistic, a bloody poem in spandex and grease paint. Here, battles are won and lost, both at the ten-yard line and in line to buy bratwurst. Coaches govern teams in militaristic fashion, encouraging effort, focus, and an occasional ripped tendon. Athletes the size of Buicks sprint headlong into each other. The resultant skull-crashing and tooth-dislodging resembles a tin of mints being thrown into a high-powered fan.
Wait, you say you’re more of a soccer fan? The sight of blood and ruptured organs makes you cringe? Blasphemy! Football is as American as ABBA, Taco Bell, the Beatles, or Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The rules of football are too complicated, you say? Perhaps to the casual observer, but fear not, because from now on, we as a columnist have officially decreed Football Appreciation 101 to be a required course for university freshmen. Here’s a little preview of the course material. First, we offer a brief history of the sport and synopsis of the rules.
According to experts, football was invented somewhere between the years 1870 and 1960. The sport was originally played with a normal, round ball, but the ball’s shape was reputedly changed to its current two-pointed, maniacal state by a Rutgers University fraternity who enjoyed watching heavyset linemen chase fumbles that could spontaneously bounce backwards and lodge in their nasal cavities.
Football was sustained in its conceptual years by various males with lots of free time on weekends, and continued in relative obscurity until around the year 1998, which is the year we as a columnist started watching football (Go, Colts!).
To help further your football understanding, this new course will go into a position-by-position analysis.
The Quarterback: Usually the best-looking player (if teen movies are still accurate), quarterbacks are the trigger. They date supermodels, endorse Rolexes, and control everything that happens on offense, unless something goes wrong, in which case it was completely the fault of…
The Offensive Line: Arguably the most affable athletes in sports, offensive lineman are the true heart of the team, sacrificing both knees and years of their life to gain large amounts of weight, all to keep the quarterback in Rolex ads.
The Wide Receivers: Receivers start training early in life to be noticed. This is why they are always on television giving interviews. They develop expensive hobbies, complain, and are always about to be traded.
The Running Back: The RB’s job is to run two yards up the middle on every play, making football more boring to watch for the casual observer. Also, they are keeping a large wing of the drug industry afloat.
The Kicker: This guy’s like your 8-yr. old sister. He can do or say whatever he wants to you, but as soon as you rough him up a little or call him a name, you’re the one who gets penalized.
And on defense…
Linebackers: The linebacker always has a funny name, like Dick Butkus, or Brian Urlacher, or Ray “Nancy” Lewis, but you would never make fun of one. They are the most curious footballers, in that they are always trying to rip off the Quarterback’s helmet and examine its contents.
Defensive Line/Ends/Backs/Safeties: Also big and scary.
Special Teams: Not what you think.
And there, in a nutshell, is the first week of our Introduction to Football course. Remember to support the team this week in the Homecoming game. For help with authentic cheers and taunts, see page 38 in the course textbook (Chapter 3: “Are You Blind, Ref?...And Other Helpful Yelling Hints).
WE'RE ALL AS CRAZY AS THE PRINCE OF POP
Recently, Michael Jackson died.
I don’t know if you heard about this, and I’m sorry if I’m the one to break the news. I mention his passing in passing, merely to demonstrate a point.
We all know that he wasn’t exactly a normal guy. We get that. We’ve heard all about it. And yet, while viewing the hours of memorial media coverage, I was fascinated to hear how many times people mentioned he was crazy.
Ok, fine, he slept in an oxygen chamber. His gender was, at times, indiscernible. His best friend was a python. Only a couple of his siblings had real names. He might have been an alien (further study is required). But what we really need to look at, folks, is how different from Michael Jackson we are not. The only difference between Michael Jackson and us is that he had absurd amounts of money. And he could moonwalk.
Don’t believe me? Fine. I will provide proof showing why the average person is completely bonkers.
We go to amusement parks and worry about whether or not the Macho Doom Coaster is safe, and fasten ourselves into the seat six different ways, and scream and throw up and cry, and when we’re done, we strap ourselves into two-thousand pound death machines and hurtle down the freeway at high speeds, weaving through construction barriers, all while driving inches away from other cars, while simultaneously phoning our friend about the Mets’ starting rotation, munching a bag of chocolate-covered cinnamon bears, and singing “Hey Jude” at the top of our lungs, all without even getting sweaty palms.
We spend hundreds of dollars and hours in preparation of our high school prom, and actually dance for maybe one song (usually “With Or Without You” by U2).
We continue to support the L.A. Clippers as a professional sports franchise.
We still think that local sports radio call-in shows are a good idea. (“Well, I’ll tell you, Tom, here’s why I think that Jerry Sloan should run for governor…”)
We think that no one will notice our toupee.
We spend millions of dollars on home exercise equipment, healthier cookbooks, organic ingredients, gym memberships, and Tae Bo videos, and then get in our car and drive for thirty seconds to church. Or take the elevator for two floors.
We elected (insert whichever person your favorite news channel tells you to hate here) to be (President/Vice President/Senator/American Idol). Man, that person is/was such a (Nincompoop/Tyrant/Philanderer/Marxist/George W. Bush/Child-Devouring Ogre).
We’re more scared of the swine flu than heart disease.
We support/have supported the careers of the following people: Carson Daly, Winona Ryder, Michael Bolton, Tara Reid, Kenny G, Orlando Bloom, Neil Diamond, Pauly Shore, Allen Iverson, Matthew McConaughey, Kevin Federline, Vince Carter, and Ben Affleck.
Also, Carrot Top.
Probably the biggest indicator of our societal nuttiness is how unnecessarily difficult we make the dating process. Men will pretend to like Enya. Women will lure men in by feigning complete disinterest in them.
So Michael Jackson only wore one sequined glove. Some of us wear windshield-sized sunglasses. Maybe Michael had an altered nose the size of a Hershey’s kiss. Some guys walk around their whole lives with their stomachs sucked in. Michael had a theme park in his backyard. Some people like professional wrestling.
And to anyone out there who thinks they are nothing like Michael Jackson, I say to you: “Just beat it (beat it), beat it (beat it).” (Beat It, 1982)
I don’t know if you heard about this, and I’m sorry if I’m the one to break the news. I mention his passing in passing, merely to demonstrate a point.
We all know that he wasn’t exactly a normal guy. We get that. We’ve heard all about it. And yet, while viewing the hours of memorial media coverage, I was fascinated to hear how many times people mentioned he was crazy.
Ok, fine, he slept in an oxygen chamber. His gender was, at times, indiscernible. His best friend was a python. Only a couple of his siblings had real names. He might have been an alien (further study is required). But what we really need to look at, folks, is how different from Michael Jackson we are not. The only difference between Michael Jackson and us is that he had absurd amounts of money. And he could moonwalk.
Don’t believe me? Fine. I will provide proof showing why the average person is completely bonkers.
We go to amusement parks and worry about whether or not the Macho Doom Coaster is safe, and fasten ourselves into the seat six different ways, and scream and throw up and cry, and when we’re done, we strap ourselves into two-thousand pound death machines and hurtle down the freeway at high speeds, weaving through construction barriers, all while driving inches away from other cars, while simultaneously phoning our friend about the Mets’ starting rotation, munching a bag of chocolate-covered cinnamon bears, and singing “Hey Jude” at the top of our lungs, all without even getting sweaty palms.
We spend hundreds of dollars and hours in preparation of our high school prom, and actually dance for maybe one song (usually “With Or Without You” by U2).
We continue to support the L.A. Clippers as a professional sports franchise.
We still think that local sports radio call-in shows are a good idea. (“Well, I’ll tell you, Tom, here’s why I think that Jerry Sloan should run for governor…”)
We think that no one will notice our toupee.
We spend millions of dollars on home exercise equipment, healthier cookbooks, organic ingredients, gym memberships, and Tae Bo videos, and then get in our car and drive for thirty seconds to church. Or take the elevator for two floors.
We elected (insert whichever person your favorite news channel tells you to hate here) to be (President/Vice President/Senator/American Idol). Man, that person is/was such a (Nincompoop/Tyrant/Philanderer/Marxist/George W. Bush/Child-Devouring Ogre).
We’re more scared of the swine flu than heart disease.
We support/have supported the careers of the following people: Carson Daly, Winona Ryder, Michael Bolton, Tara Reid, Kenny G, Orlando Bloom, Neil Diamond, Pauly Shore, Allen Iverson, Matthew McConaughey, Kevin Federline, Vince Carter, and Ben Affleck.
Also, Carrot Top.
Probably the biggest indicator of our societal nuttiness is how unnecessarily difficult we make the dating process. Men will pretend to like Enya. Women will lure men in by feigning complete disinterest in them.
So Michael Jackson only wore one sequined glove. Some of us wear windshield-sized sunglasses. Maybe Michael had an altered nose the size of a Hershey’s kiss. Some guys walk around their whole lives with their stomachs sucked in. Michael had a theme park in his backyard. Some people like professional wrestling.
And to anyone out there who thinks they are nothing like Michael Jackson, I say to you: “Just beat it (beat it), beat it (beat it).” (Beat It, 1982)
OF FREEDOM AND PARKING
Like so many of you, I was driving around campus one morning from 9:20 to 10:35, trying to find a parking space with my special W pass.
Owning a W pass is like scoring backstage passes to a concert, then arriving at the concert and realizing that Burger King handed out a free backstage pass to anyone who purchased a large soda. I was driven to that expletive precipice, cursing the driver of the white 1992 Honda Civic (you know who you are) who just snaked my parking space. I had been following a woman from the Browning Center to her car to get this space. I don’t understand why the Honda felt he deserved this spot, since my license plate numbers were nearly imprinted on the back of this woman’s legs several times.
I sat in the middle of the parking aisle, wishing flaming, hot death upon the Civic’s driver, and bemoaning my oppressed existence. College students have no freedom, I grumbled. Our schedules are slave to the number of parking spots on campus. Our professors heap homework upon us, severely limiting occasions for guys like me to be rejected by women. Our employers forget what it was like to be in college. We’re already poor, but we still get ticketed by cops in Rawlins, Wyoming, for driving 84 in a 75. Honestly? On a rural Wyoming freeway, where the nearest car to me could have stopped, gotten out, danced the entire Macarena on the freeway, and then driven off before they even saw my headlights?
I was rolling in my gutter of self-pity, when I remembered my assignment to write in reflection of the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I screwed up my face and deliberated. What did I have to feel emancipated about? I’m about as majority as it gets around here. The last time my ancestors really needed emancipating was when they were coming through Wyoming on handcarts and amputated feet (I have to say, Wyoming, you’re not so welcoming). More recently, my ancestors only needed emancipating when they forgot their Café Rio punchcard and had to pay for what they thought would be a free burrito.
I flipped on the radio, seeking guidance. It was tuned to a political pundit who is fierce and unrelenting, his opinions shooting forth like unmerciful hellfire. Cringing, I switched the station to public radio, which is about as fierce as taffy. There was a reporter talking about some horrible explosion in some country East or West of here. Meanwhile, two journalists were still missing after publishing their new tell-all about a corrupt Slavic government. And miraculously, the victory in another country’s election went unanimously to the bully already in power.
Just ahead of me, a tan Suburban left the two parking spots it had been occupying, and I gleefully tiptoed into one of them. Feeling more appreciative, I started the tardy scurry, my mind racing along with my feet. What freedoms do I enjoy, after all?
I have the freedom to get a college education, in whichever study I choose. I drive there in my car, which is one of my family’s four vehicles. I can write whatever I want (within reason) in this column without going missing, and if I can’t write it here, I can go online and join the Blowhard Blogger Society. I can drive through Wyoming and get ticketed without being dragged to prison or beaten to a pulp.
I stopped mid-campus and smiled. I also have the freedom to leave a passive-aggressive note on the windshield of a white Honda Civic.
Owning a W pass is like scoring backstage passes to a concert, then arriving at the concert and realizing that Burger King handed out a free backstage pass to anyone who purchased a large soda. I was driven to that expletive precipice, cursing the driver of the white 1992 Honda Civic (you know who you are) who just snaked my parking space. I had been following a woman from the Browning Center to her car to get this space. I don’t understand why the Honda felt he deserved this spot, since my license plate numbers were nearly imprinted on the back of this woman’s legs several times.
I sat in the middle of the parking aisle, wishing flaming, hot death upon the Civic’s driver, and bemoaning my oppressed existence. College students have no freedom, I grumbled. Our schedules are slave to the number of parking spots on campus. Our professors heap homework upon us, severely limiting occasions for guys like me to be rejected by women. Our employers forget what it was like to be in college. We’re already poor, but we still get ticketed by cops in Rawlins, Wyoming, for driving 84 in a 75. Honestly? On a rural Wyoming freeway, where the nearest car to me could have stopped, gotten out, danced the entire Macarena on the freeway, and then driven off before they even saw my headlights?
I was rolling in my gutter of self-pity, when I remembered my assignment to write in reflection of the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I screwed up my face and deliberated. What did I have to feel emancipated about? I’m about as majority as it gets around here. The last time my ancestors really needed emancipating was when they were coming through Wyoming on handcarts and amputated feet (I have to say, Wyoming, you’re not so welcoming). More recently, my ancestors only needed emancipating when they forgot their Café Rio punchcard and had to pay for what they thought would be a free burrito.
I flipped on the radio, seeking guidance. It was tuned to a political pundit who is fierce and unrelenting, his opinions shooting forth like unmerciful hellfire. Cringing, I switched the station to public radio, which is about as fierce as taffy. There was a reporter talking about some horrible explosion in some country East or West of here. Meanwhile, two journalists were still missing after publishing their new tell-all about a corrupt Slavic government. And miraculously, the victory in another country’s election went unanimously to the bully already in power.
Just ahead of me, a tan Suburban left the two parking spots it had been occupying, and I gleefully tiptoed into one of them. Feeling more appreciative, I started the tardy scurry, my mind racing along with my feet. What freedoms do I enjoy, after all?
I have the freedom to get a college education, in whichever study I choose. I drive there in my car, which is one of my family’s four vehicles. I can write whatever I want (within reason) in this column without going missing, and if I can’t write it here, I can go online and join the Blowhard Blogger Society. I can drive through Wyoming and get ticketed without being dragged to prison or beaten to a pulp.
I stopped mid-campus and smiled. I also have the freedom to leave a passive-aggressive note on the windshield of a white Honda Civic.
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