"It seems like once people grow up, they have no idea what's cool."

   I’ve been trying to figure out how to be (more?) hip and modern, and I know this isn’t going to shock anyone, but…I suck at it.

   For one thing, I know it’s super important to understand all of the new, of-the-moment social media outlets, and I understand that these sites and apps are important for branding, selling, marketing, networking, etc. I get that. But I can’t get over the idea that taking pictures of your day and posting them on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest are truly beyond narcissistic exercises. I’m sorry. I can’t get over it.

   Maybe it’s because most of the people I know (not all, but most) are taking pictures of their laundry and posting them on Instagram or mentioning on their Twitter feed how brilliant their toddler is. Maybe it’s that.

   Part of me is suspicious that I just feel super left out because I don’t understand any of the modern lingo. For instance, “meme.” I have no fucking clue in hell what a “meme” is.

   I looked it up on Wikepedia, and here’s the answer:

“A meme (/ˈmiːm/; meem)^[1] is "an idea, behavior, or style that spreads from person to person within a culture." A meme acts as a unit for carrying cultural ideas, symbols, or practices that can be transmitted from one mind to another through writing, speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena. Supporters of the concept regard memes as cultural analogues to genes in that they self-replicate, mutate, and respond to selective pressures.”

   Okay, I can accept that. But…what? What does it have to do with the Interwebs? Am I too stupid to understand it? What does it have to do with Keanu Reeves in that picture where he’s looking sad on a park bench? Is it only a meme because everyone sent it to everyone else when it happened? I’m so confused!

   And then there’s that word “wheelhouse” that everyone’s whipping out all the time now. I have figured out, through context, mind you, that this is a term for “something I’m good at.” As in, “Ceramics are totally my wheelhouse.” But I don’t understand why or how it came to mean that.

   And so I looked this up and OED had only the classical definitions for it, i.e. it said, “A house or structure containing a steering wheel.” THANK YOU. That’s what I thought. But then I found this article. This article made me feel better…and then it made me feel worse. On the one hand, I’ve got a handful of smarty-pants professionals that are just as confused as I am. On the other hand, why am I one of the too-old-to-get-it types? For crying out loud, how old am I? I’m all convinced I’m hip and young! Am I delusional?

This is terrible, even for me. I'll update it later. Maybe. But probably not.

   Alright, so I could go on and on about words and phrases like this (meta, hashtag, et al), and feel really, super butt-hurt about how un-cool I’ve become. But I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself on Saturday.

   See, on Saturday night I went to a bar in my parents’ neighborhood that used to be a hardware store when I was a kid. And then it was some sort of restaurant, and then it was another restaurant and now it’s a bar called Beer and Loathing. Cute. Get it? Get it? Cute.

   It was all wall-to-wall industrial carpet with random seats set up in corners to affect a sort of “booth” situation or two, and a horseshoe bar in the middle and lots of darts and lots of space and lots of 22-year-old clients. And I felt like I was at a frat house in college: the music was rap, the boys were young and wearing shorts and polo shirts, the girls were young and wearing really short skirts and bitching about the expense of the upcoming Justin Timberlake concert.

   It occurred to me in that terrible, terrible bar, that I felt exactly the same way I felt when I was 22: out of the loop, annoyed, anxious, and bored. I felt no animosity or fear regarding these people; after all, I’m nearly a decade older than they at this point. But I did feel like I could not have given any fewer shits about their lingo, garbage, problems or bullshit.

   Maybe that’s why I don’t get the current vernacular. There’s nothing sadder to me than seeing a group of people at a table in a restaurant or bar, every single last one of them on their cell phones, ignoring the shit out of each other. And these are the people who know what “meme” means and who can run social media circles around me. I’m not saying they’re bad kids or that they aren’t going to do things that change the world…I’m just not super envious of them anymore.

   So for now, I’m just going to devote my time to meming in my wheelhouse with all my pet hashtags, because I’m super meta.

 
*Bill Watterson...artist, cartoonist (Calvin and Hobbes creator). 

"People who read the tabloids deserve to be lied to."*

   I haven’t written a lot in the past few weeks. I’m sorry. And you’re welcome because you know what? Sometimes I just don’t have anything to say. I think it’s important for me to shut the fuck up when I don’t have anything to say. It’s something I’ve been working on my entire life, and I think I may just be getting ever so slightly better at it.

   But see now I have a bunch of things to say and they’re, as usual, unrelated. So this is one of those rambling-type posts. Oh no.

   Let’s start with this cover from US Weekly:

Why wouldn't I buy this magazine?

   This pretty much says everything I love about US Weekly. Here we have a cover that gets right to the (embellished) point and almost makes it seem as though Lindsey Vonn has been quoted as saying, “I’m in love with a sex addict!” Which, as far as I know, she’s never said. But I like how US Weekly has no scruples

(PAUSE: I think my downstairs neighbor has recently taken up weed smoking. It wafts into my apartment in the afternoons and then, about an hour later, I hear him playing the very first line of chords from “Fly Like an Eagle” over and over and over again. You would have to be high to not be bored by just the first few chords, right? But who am I to keep a person from learning an instrument?)

about making the cover all about Lindsey Vonn and her penchant for sex addicts. They just know how to sell a magazine. And they don’t care if any of the things they write have to do with anything. And that’s why it’s fun in much the same way as comic books or psychic friends networks. Because it can’t possibly be real. And even if it were real, none of the stories in the magazine matter in the real world. But I have to read it every week anyway. And that’s why I call it the news: because it’s all the news I can handle (aside from my intense and sad efforts to read the WSJ). (Sort of like how this guy I once went out with told me he liked to pretend The West Wing was the news. He probably had a better case than I do.)

   And then there’s this magazine called Real Simple that is so amazing: all the articles are about organizing and cleaning and getting your finances in order and cooking recipes with only 3 ingredients. The fact that I love this magazine makes me feel at turns both mature and unbelievably lame. For instance, this month’s cover is a picture of cleaning products, which I may not have found exciting in past times but these days it’s like porn. I can’t wait for them to tell me how to clean my floor with bacon grease and Epsom salts. I can’t wait for them to instruct me on which documents to keep and which to throw away. I really can’t wait for them to tell me what delicious meal I can make from the three items that are always in my fridge (eggs, pickles, and string cheese, in my case). I really get on board with this magazine. And last night, they helped me figure out how to put one of my deeper concerns to rest:

I'm jealous of everyone on Facebook.

   I DO have Facebook envy. Everyone else on FB is always doing fun stuff and traveling places and I’m never doing anything! But now I know it’s because people only put good things on Facebook. People don’t brag on FB about how they skipped class Tuesday and made deviled eggs and watched the entirety of Burning Love Seasons One and Two. Because why would you tell anyone about that unless you were mild-to-moderately insane? Quit bragging about your baby or your job promotion! I painted my toenails green and refilled my water filter!

   And one more thing: and get ready, because this is one of those things where I try to put my life into some kind of manageable perspective by pointing out the adversity that others go through while I can’t tolerate waiting in line at the grocery store.

   Yesterday I took two of the kiddos to the Third Street Promenade to visit the Apple Store. We had some questions about a computer. We waited a while, and nobody came. While we waited, I pointed out the fellow that I hoped would wait on us. He was across the room, but you could see him from a mile away. He had short, wavy black hair and star-spangled skinny jeans and bright red lipstick. But he was helping another customer.

   We eventually talked to the “host” (William) at the front of the store who told us he would send someone over momentarily.

   Within moments (well done, William!), William brought over the very man I’d hoped we’d get. William introduced him as Dickie and explained that Dickie was deaf so he would have to type all of his responses.

   What he didn’t mention, but what Dickie soon explained, was that we’d have to type our responses as well. Dickie was very funny and very helpful. He typed the way you know he would’ve spoken, if he spoke. He wrote things like, “Totes. 8 GB is completely sufficient for photo editing.” And “No worries. You probably just need an external HD for storage.” And he didn’t make fun of my typos or my inability to articulate anything that has to do with anything technological.

   And here’s how Dickie’s life relates to me (because everything does, right?): I had this outfit all planned for the next day that I wasn’t sure I could pull off. The outfit involved different patterns and a slightly out-of-the-norm color palette. And I really wanted to wear it, but I wasn’t sure if I could make it happen without feeling silly. I haven’t been fashionably adventurous since I was a teenager.

   But Dickie, the deaf guy with red, star-patterned skinny jeans and bright red lipstick who went and got a job at the ENORMOUS Apple Store on 3^rd Street Promenade, made me feel stupid for worrying about it. Of course I could wear my outfit. And then I started getting all deep, a few hours later, thinking about how we only live once and all that and what if, one day when I’m 80, I regret not wearing more often the things I felt like wearing? What a sad, avoidable regret. So I wore my neat, fun outfit today and I felt really good about it, and I’d like to give Dickie a mental high-five. He is getting it done.

 

Dickie's patterns + my patterns = America. Coincidence? I think not.

That’s all I’ve got for now. 

*The quote is from Jerry Seinfeld. 

"The casual conversational tone of a blog is what makes it particularly dangerous."*

   Here are the things I like about blogs:

   1. They’re free.

   2. There are 8 bajillion of them, so you never need to be bored, even if you have no friends and can't afford a magazine or book.

   3. They are a voyeur’s wet dream.

   I’d like especially to talk about number three.

   Sometimes, in the course of cruising the Interwebs for new reading material, I’ll stumble upon a blog so completely full of one person’s minute-by-minute experiences that I can’t really fathom it. It’s a lot like watching a train wreck: it’s awful, but you can’t look away. (Only it's not as exciting as a train wreck. It's more like a tricycle collision. It's way too boring to be a train wreck. That was a terrible simile.)

   I felt this way about Facebook when I first joined. Actually I still sometimes feel this way about Facebook. You know when you get on Facebook, you usually look to see if anyone “Liked” anything you did, said, or were tagged in? You want to know if anyone thought you looked hot in a picture or thought something you said was witty. At least, that’s why I go on Facebook.

   But some people get on Facebook every minute of every day to let you know what they’re up to:

“Just finished my run. Boy, am I tired!”

“I’m about to do laundry, but I’m out of quarters.”

“I just pooped, and wanted you all to know about it.”

   Or they comment in the voice of their baby or dog:

“I’m so happy because Mamma just changed my diaper!”

“I love my new chew toy.”

   Barf.

   Just show me pictures of your amazing vacation, tell me you had a kid or bought a house, or invite me to attend a party you’re hosting. Don’t tell me about anything else. I don’t want to know anything more specific than that.

   Anyway, there are blogs out there that take the idea of over-sharing to a whole new level. This one chick--I’ll call her Eunice--wrote a four-thousand-page (I’m exaggerating, sue me) blog post about giving birth. I read it this morning and I wanted to stop but I couldn’t. She talked about her cervix and blood and gunk and poop and doulas and dilating until I wanted to puke. But it was impossible to look away. I could’ve shut the computer easily, but I didn’t. I just kept reading.

   Ok, I think this isn’t a perfect example of what I’m talking about. Experiencing natural childbirth and then talking about it is actually pretty epic and exciting, even if I don’t know you or care about you in any way. You shoved a human being through your vagina without pain meds? Just to see what it felt like to be a woman giving birth? Good for you. Seriously. That sounds like a hot nightmare.

   What I’m really talking about are the bloggers out there (and Eunice is usually one of them) who will talk about ANYTHING and EVERYTHING, most of it completely useless, boring, and unimportant.

I've created a faux blog post below as an example of what I'm talking about:

   Today I woke up and brushed my teeth. 

  

 Then I used the toilet. It was only number one.

   I washed my hands in the sink.

   I went to Joann Fabric because I’ve decided to build a couch out of cotton balls and a swing set out of pipe cleaners and tell you all about it (wait until next week). While I was there I bought these spoons.

   And this crafty kit. I know what I'll be doing tonight!

   I was hungry so I had some licorice.

   I found a fork by my TV set.

   I wrote "BOOBS" on my calculator.

   I went to a store and took a picture of a sign.

   Then I had a couple drinks before going to bed.

  

   I did a lot of other things I didn't write about, including going to the bathroom and brushing my teeth again. I guess I'll write about that tomorrow.

   ********************END OF FAKE BLOG*************************

   Now, I didn't create this faux blog to poke fun, but rather to teach (you're welcome, bloggers of the web as well as all of America at large). I guarantee you that the only people who wanna read that kind of crap are your mom (and only because she loves you and is genuinely interested in your life) and really bizarre people who make pillows out of human hair and collect troll dolls and dead cats. Seriously, you can just share the interesting stuff. And if it's not interesting, take a day off and go out and have some semblance of a life so you can write about it tomorrow. 

   I'm just saying.

*Quote above is from Daniel B. Beaulieu, a businessman/entrepreneur I know virtually nothing about.

"To know how to dance is to know how to control oneself."*

    I make a lot of lists. It’s a longtime habit which started in high school, when I would channel my classroom boredom into either a. filling out and decorating my assignment book; b. making an alphabetical list of the United States and then putting a check next to the ones I’d been to; or c. making lists of anything from plays I’d seen to books I’d read. I’ve always made lists, and, based on what I’ve just written, it would appear that I’ve always been boring. Okay!

    This evening I read over my most recent “to do” list and decided to share it with you, because apparently I need attention or perhaps I just thought you’d find it amusing, as I did. 

My most recent to do list.

Here is the breakdown:

1. I think this is pretty self-explanatory. Note that I spelled “ants” like “aunts” because I suck at spelling words—even words I already know.

2. My car is squeaky clean, thank you for caring.

3. I haven’t dropped off my rent check yet, but I have to do it before I leave for Omaha.

4. Linked In: I did that thing where I accidentally invited everyone I’ve ever emailed to join me on Linked In. I did the same thing when I joined Facebook. It’s kind of great, because now I have a ton of people viewing my sad little resume on Linked In. But it’s also kind of awful because I invited people I don’t really know at all, and people that were cc’ed on emails I received back in 2005, and people I’d rather never see or speak to again for as long as I live. But alas, so far none of the psychos I’m avoiding have responded. Fingers crossed.

5. I got into Pasadena City College! But all the classes I wanted were already taken. Boo.

Numbers 6 through 9 are kind of self-explanatory.

  10. I have begun taking an Arnica supplement because my tendency to run into things is much too obvious: I am covered in bruises. I hope this works.

  13. I bought a turkey leg at Disneyland today and only ate half. But it cost $9 so I thought I’d bring it home and finish it here. But then I left it in the trunk. And I don’t feel like going down to the garage to get it.

      14. AT&T is the devil and I hate that company more than words can express. I don’t owe them $16 because I shut my service off 2/3^rd of the way through the month. So I only paid $32 of my bill out of principle. But they’re the world’s worst pieces of shit, so they might send that bill to collections and destroy my credit just because they have time for crap like that, even if they don’t have time to answer a goddamned phone call. So I fucking paid it.             AT&T: 14. Lacey: 0

     16. I wanted to buy diatomaceous earth, which I obviously misspelled in a serious way. But it isn’t at Target and I really don’t think it’ll be at Trader Joe’s, so I guess I won’t buy it because those are the only places I shop. Also, I was feeling way too guilty about giving those ants a long, torturous death. Even though they might still eat my face off in my sleep. I am a perfect, Mother Teresa-type person.

     17. I want to figure out what people do with their free time on TV shows as a basis of comparison. Maybe through diligent study, I can find better things to do with my free time besides watch people on television. Circular logic, I know. But this is how my mind works. Unfortunately, from watching TV I've learned that people with spare time usually read legal briefs, drink one never-ending glass of red wine, bust criminals on the Interweb, or engage in sexual intercourse. Hmmm...this isn't helpful. No one is ever seen flossing, doing "girl" push-ups, or figuring out the best place to put the fan. Weird.

    Yeah, so the rest of that list is pretty basic stuff.  Just thought I’d give you a voyeuristic treat by showing you that I’m just like the rest of you sickos, except I have lists. I'm so great.

*This is a quote from Swing Time (George Stevens, 1936), one of my favorite Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movies and one that I watched while making this list the other night (I may have also cried a little bit while I was watching it, even though it is in no way sad). I know it has no bearing on this post, but since I can neither dance nor control myself, it seems like it'd fit anywhere in here. I'm such a narcissist. You don't have to read this blog.