The best thing about cell phones is that half the time when people (women) are on them it shifts the focus from me having to express what I’m thinking to whatever glowing occasion is emanating from their device.
Without random texting and distracting snaps I’d be cornered into an actual conversation, forced to focus on the present moment, having to pay attention and communicate instead of silently wandering around inside my head. Rather than thumb some extemporaneous and likely vacuous statement to someone across town or across the globe, I would be expected to verbally engage. Urged to reveal my emotions by sharing some quality or anecdote about myself to someone who surely won’t absorb or understand any of it since this particular interaction will not end with some video or emoji.
So we’ll just sit here beside each other but a million miles away and be absorbed by vapid words and rapid images that are astronomically less important than the human who’s actually in front of us.
Whew! (Wipes brow in relief). Thought I was going to have to say something to someone.
I paid money for this show. I worked last night so I could come see this band play live, not on TV, video or anywhere else. Live. So would it kill you people to put your damn phones down and not fill my field of vision of you recording part of the act that you can barely see, anyway? Unless you have a high definition professional video camera, no one is going to want to watch your fuzzy, garbled little snippet of a show that would have been so much better if half the crowd didn’t feel the need to have youtube parties afterward comparing different shaky angles.
Sometimes we forget the here and now as we try to preserve moments for posterity, and we just annoy the people who love live performance more than they like watching a hundred drones pretending their cell phones are video cameras.
I’ve no business talking about how to be classy. I mean none. There is hardly enough paper in the forest to contain the list of dastardly deeds I’ve bestowed upon my opposite gender. Having a decent heart despite acting reprehensible allows you to learn from your mistakes and throughout the years I’ve managed to rectify certain transgressions and hopefully have evolved into a better human and more importantly, a better man.
Class is more than tucking in your shirt or knowing whether a Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Gris goes best with a chunk of Camembert.
Class is knowing when to listen, when to inform, when to interrupt, and when to shut up.
It’s understanding the reciprocity of relationships, the give and take of what’s both abhorred and coveted. If she cooks you dinner, you do the dishes. If she drives, you spring for the gas. If she puts on a dress and swanky shoes, you better iron a shirt and shine your shoes. At the very least.
This li’l tirade stems from seeing far too many women who have obviously gone to extraordinary measures to prepare themselves for a night out on the town only to be escorted by men who appear to have no interest in even trying to be half-way spruced. Cargo shorts and sneakers walking next to heels and a dress topped with hair done to the nines drives this little boy to tears.
Maybe it’s because this little boy isn’t going out on the town with a filly or that he just doesn’t realize that women are mysteriously copacetic with being tight and immaculate while the men they accompany remain unkempt and indifferent.
I love people who were born before 1935 because they can talk about the weather until the seasons change and it’s okay because they’re OLD. That’s what older folks do. Talk about weather and how things used to be. It’s awesome.
Why does an Obama sticker on a bumper automatically make the driver of that car slow and indecisive? Get outta my way! I’m ready for Change. Ready for you to change lanes, slowpoke.
I love the hippies in my town. They have questionable hygeine and certainly don’t spend excessive amounts of money and time on apparel or grooming but they sure dole out cabbage for designer bicycle bags and namebrand, gourmet gluten-free-trade groceries. One wonders why soap is the reviled symbol of consumer America. Peace.
They cross without even so much as turning their head, entitled and brash, their stride resembles the goading of a schoolyard bully, confident with indifference. Their technology isolates them and their seclusion gives them license to assume that every street corner is a crosswalk. There was a time when people who crossed streets were wary of automobiles. A time when large machines of steel caused children and adults alike to heed, when pedestrians were actually cautious of getting hit by a car. Maybe it was the solid chrome bumpers or the heavy fenders that struck fear in those who jaywalked, or maybe we’ve grown into such a coddling, caring, careful bunch of jellyfish that even slow Uncle Jethro with the fanny pack wearing socks and sandals isn’t afraid of getting run over. Nowadays people brazenly walk right into intersections expecting drivers to yield, rarely even acknowledging those behinds the wheel, casually thinking that everyone will stop for their little stroll. No matter how tolerant or civil we would like to be, even a hippie in a Subaru can kill a yuppie douchebag who’s walking in the middle of the street. Sometimes I imagine a rumbling Peterbilt flattening one of these ipod/bluetooth wearing, non-looking-both-ways-before-crossing-a-street grade-A imbeciles so that others like them will realize that things with engineswill always win over things with legs.
Fill ‘er up, sir.
This unruly universe continues to bring glory to those who seek no virtue, the uncommon union of a toiling workforce sometimes, as a whole, contradicts the very reason for its tireless labor. Simply, the concept of money equating happiness seems silly if you hate your job. Money is only as valuable as how you burn spend it.
If you’re generous with your wealth and time, then good things happen to you. If you’re of forthright character and act with well intent, then despite visible shortcomings, good things will happen to you. If you’re a selfish prick with avarice and contempt in your blood then either you eventually change for the better or you just fester in your own sickness. Likely those of strong fiber will determine which direction you go.
If you have a 7,000 square foot house but don’t regard those around you with equity, then that house is little more than a soulless prison and nothing more than a lonely tomb.
Oooh, I really want to write what I want to write about but since it’s a public blog, I gotta be careful about what to say. It is emotionally and financially unsound to vent what’s burning on my tongue at this particular moment and the more I hold it the sweeter the venom becomes in my mouth.
(Did that last part sound funny?) It’s supposed to sound badass and tough, not y’know, ah, whatever.