Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 51

Facebook's Timeline (for Dummies)

(Now this is something new: software that hates you back)

It's Tuesday, about 10am, and in case you hadn't noticed, Facebook has changed its look-and-feel again. Seriously. Again. That's the third time they've reworked themselves this week. And it's only Tuesday, about 10am.

Facebook is the only website on Earth that's rendered in pencil.

This week's new version of the Facebook interface is being marketed as the "Timeline," because "Timeline" sounds futuristic and hip, and because "Irritating Piece of Junk" was already taken.

Now, we're not here to pass judgment on Facebook; after all, there are now an estimated 700 million Facebook subscribers, as of Tuesday, about 10am. To put that in perspective, if Facebook was a country, it would be the third largest country on the planet, and Ron Paul would be demanding that we get our troops out of Facebook.

Over 700 million subscribers. That's a staggering success story, not to mention the potential religious implications of 700 million people all typing OMG at the same time.

So, before the next Facebook makeover (scheduled for Tuesday, about 11am), let's review some of the new features of Timeline!

Timeline is a way to let you share your entire life's story online, by posting an embarrassing amount of personal information on a non-secure website that's potentially available to more bipeds than are listed in Madonna's rolodex.

The genius underpinning Timeline can be encapsulated by reviewing this list of Timeline's design goals:

Analyze which features users like, and then hide them
Analyze which menus users like, and then rename them (if it's a Friday, or an HR-designated "Marquis de Sade Day," remove the menus entirely)
Randomly shuffle sections of the user's profile page so the sections show up in rude, nonsensical locations (including entirely different websites, or universes)

Timeline now allows you to customize your Facebook page based on what type of Facebook user you are. Most Facebook users fall into one of these categories:

The Steno: Champion of the sentence fragment, which is sometimes no more than just an acronym, like LOL, OMG, TMI or ROTFLMAO. The Steno hasn't composed a complete sentence since the second grade. (the sentence was "Feed me.") Probably works in network television advertising, or toxic waste management, which is redundant. IMHO.
Captain Lockjaw: This is the guy who finds it impossible to complete a train of thought without tacking on a little smiley face caboose. Without the smiley face, Captain Lockjaw can't say anything, or reply to anything, or perform internal bodily functions like generating enzymes.
The Poster Child: Never offers any actual syllables, but just spends all day forwarding giant images of family, forest animals, pets, blurred office parties, or witty, trenchant quips and bromides like "There is No I in Team" and "I Heart Vampire Topiary."
Rasputin (aka, The Lurker): This is the mysterious, mute friend who never makes himself known. Never says a word. Never posts, never replies. Just…lurks. You know he's there, watching…waiting. Rasputin's like an ex-girlfriend that wants her albums back.
Debbie Detritus: Debbie is that friend who invites you to events like the Obese Toenail Festival (next weekend in Rancid Gutter, Oklahoma). Debbie also sends you things…things that make you want to send Debbie to a very strict Spanish Inquisition revival: Debbie has sent you a Yak Cookie! Debbie has sent you a Timothy Leary Cocktail! Debbie wants you to have a Beaver Gland Corsage Inhaler!
The Shrieker: TWO WORDS – CAPS LOCK
The Exclaimer!: You love 'em!! Or you hate 'em!!!! But you can always gauge the intensity of their excitement, agreement, or anger by counting the number of exclamation marks they use!!!!!
The Adam Sandler Trump Card: This friend can't help himself. He must reply to every comment, and he thinks his replies are hilarious. It's because of people like this that mankind invented euthanasia.
The Reality Show Star: You know this one, too well. "I'm dropping little Tad off at soccer practice!" "I have to go to work!" "I'm on the way to work!" "I'm about to have some soup! Yum!" "I'm almost at work!" "My organs are generating enzymes! LOL!" "I'm growing faint from an internal hemorrhage! LOL!"
The Giver: Here's that friend who says nothing, but shares everything. The Giver hasn't had an original thought since naming their first pet (Spot). It makes you wonder if they even own a keyboard.
Bouncy Betty: Betty demands that you "like" something she saw because it's just the cutest thing you ever saw in your whole life! (Betty is closely related to The Exclaimer!)
The Followers of Saint Biden: This is the group that can't string six words together without cursing. They're also known for their ability to turn any conversation into a double entendre: if someone comments, "I read where Eleanor Roosevelt once paved her driveway," a Follower will snort and toss back, "Yeah, I'd like to pave her driveway."
The Free Thinkre: This free spirit believes they exist on a plane beyond literacy, and that spelling, grammar and punctuation are too Victorian for social media. They likely stare into the sky a lot and wear loose-fitting clothes. For the record, may I say this about the Free Thinkres:  there wrong

Security, of course, is paramount in Timeline, and by paramount we mean insanely complicated. To take full advantage of the new security settings, follow these easy steps:

Click "About"
Curse mildly, then click "About" again, because while you were clicking "About" the first time, Timeline updated your status
Click "My Secure Stuff"
Buy two Farmville un-hatched yak egg coupon biscuits from the Mafia dwarf, after you've unlocked the Level Two cabbage dragon formerly held captive by the Deviated Septum of Ortho.
Click "My Yak Yolk"
Mop up the yak yolk with the dwarf
Click "My Secure Stuff" again
Choose "Encrypt Me"
Facebook will generate a security code, which you should remember
Log out and log back in
Click "y-May ecure-Say uff-Stay"
Enter your security code, which you forgot
Choose who can access your medical records, your banking information, and your fully-mapped genome
Click "Save"
Curse mildly, because your Timeline session has timed out
See Step 1

Alternatively, here's a little "geek insider" secret; a fun way to take full advantage of the tightest Facebook security possible:

Click "About"
Take note of all that highly personal information of yours, that's potentially available to over 700 million people (as of 10am)
Google the customer support phone number for Facebook
Call the number
Unsubscribe

Anyway, we hope this little primer helps, and we just know you'll enjoy the new Timeline!

If you hurry.

Pictures in Search of a Caption

"Okay, lady. Okay," conceded the single guy. "Man. The things some women will do to get me to ask them out."
Reviews were mixed for the French remake, A Chorus Maginot Line
"I hate her," fumed the window mannequin. "I just HATE her!"
When The Jersey Shore Meets The Hitler Youth
True, Tamiqua had commitment issues, but my, how she loved to shop.
Nancy Pelosi explained the Commerce Clause in her usual way: interpretive dance
Pedestrian's Smart-Phone Camera Captures Birth Of Bob Fosse
June 1998: The Day Bill Clinton Walked Into A Manhole
Physicians had their doubts about ObamaCare's "drive-thru OB/GYN" scheme
The Mayans were right. Sorta. Earth's gravity did reverse, but only for Susie.
How To Hail A Cab, Chapter 3

Seasonal Affective Disorder Defection

(Going out like a lamb? I think not.)

As one grows older, new things begin to weigh on one's mind. I suppose that's one of the inevitabilities of becoming a mature adult, like living with eyebrow dandruff, or hoping that somebody who used to give you wedgies in Junior High School gets indicted for a major crime and has to spend his golden years in a dank, poorly-ventilated penal facility "making new friends."

Pondering such thoughts is as unavoidable as the thoughts themselves, and as unavoidably disturbing. For example: what is the point, the life-enhancing benefit, of eyebrow dandruff? Frankly, I'm missing it. And other thoughts bubble up: must one really be warned that, after a package spends 45 minutes in a 400-degree oven, its "contents may be hot?" If one wants to say the word "slut" in the news media, does one have to donate a million bucks to a presidential re-election campaign? And at what age, exactly, does one get so stuffy and stodgy that one starts referring to oneself as "one?"

Real posers, these, especially for someone like me, whose idea of a wild week is to buy more than three ripe bananas … at the same time. But with the passage of time, I've also modulated socially and politically. Values shift, priorities adjust. And so, I've come to a decision, and I want to share that decision with all of you. I've decided to become a Liberal.

I think it all began when I was watching the news, and it just hit me. Liberals have learned a new debating tactic, and I like it. When confronted by "the other side" with pesky details, like, say, facts, Liberals have figured it out — just shake your head back and forth, slowly, with a pitying half-smile. I like it. You can practically hear the subtext: "Tsk, tsk. Ah, these poor, stupid people who don't agree with me. Good thing I'm here to manage their lives. Oops! Aw, that's okay – let him get up by himself." I like that. Any defense can be flattened if hit by enough condescension bombs.

Liberals, it seems, have an edge in our political discourse. They may not be winning the war, but they seem to be winning all the battles. And they've added a new twist to their rock-solid logic: repetition. Whatever their stance on whatever issue, they just parrot it over and over and over until, like some fake rock exposed to clever medieval alchemy, it becomes true. These days, what wins the day is not what's reported – it's what's repeated. Also, Liberals will blame anybody (else) for anything. And Republicans are too busy blaming each other to duck. Liberals counsel, "We'll take care of you because you're really stupid, but that's not your fault." Republicans counter with, "Look, we know we're not the solution, so re-elect us and we'll fight for term limits."

For you stubbornly neurotic black helicopter-ites out there who will want to somehow shoehorn racial issues into my defection decision, please allow me to counter with this indestructible Aristotelian bulwark: Shut up.

Often, far too often, a point that gets missed by cerebral flatliners, raw-meat-gnawing knuckle-walkers, and other MSNBC anchors, is this: a person – regardless of political persuasion or ideological bent – can sometimes disagree with someone else, and it's not because that someone else has more (or less) melanin. It's because that someone else is a moron. Racism is stupid, yes. But stupidity can be color-blind. But let's move on – we could spend weeks just talking about stupid. Why, MSNBC alone…

Of course, my defection is going to mean that I may alienate friends, family, and citizens of facebook. Well, maybe not facebook. To alienate facebookers, you need to announce your allegiance to much more horrid things, like books that don't have any pictures, or beef, or Christianity. (To fall out of favor at facebook, you need to commit some virtual faux pas in Farmville or Frontierville, like trying to hoard magic baby carrots before unlocking the non-rideable Bicycle Coupon that unleashes the Button Dwarf by picking twelve repeatable Blue Ribbon Mafia missions all at once instead of four at a time. Pfft. As if.) Here: here's an anecdote from my past will give you an idea of what I may be up against — once, while was I was at university, my girlfriend jokingly mentioned to her family that she'd be home for Thanksgiving, and bringing a guest: a transsexual Somali Liberal Rastafarian ex-con who was a practicing cannibal, had eleven fingers and no ears, and was born with kneecaps in the place where people usually have eyebrows. Her family was aghast: "Don't you dare bring home a Liberal."

Lastly, then, if you'll look back and take note of the first letter in each paragraph, you'll understand why I've come to this decision, and why I feel driven to share it with you. Please wish me well.

Skirts v. Skins

(Men are from Mars. That's what can happen when you won't ask for directions.)

As an adult (sic), one discovery I keep making, over and over, is that most of what they taught us as kids in school is bunk. Reams of facts with a Real World Reusability Factor of zero. I don't know about you, but in my social circles, the per capita income of pre-industrial Europe almost never comes up.

Not once in all my years have I ever been asked, "What, again, is the Latin third person plural form of the verb 'to love'?" I've never had to face a social pre-qualification that began with, "Okay, I'll go out with you, but only after you discuss, in 250 words or less, the broad use of irony in the short stories of O. Henry. Include examples."

For over half a century now, I've been avoiding responsibility, and salads, and I have yet to get myself out of a fix by knowing the value of pi.

(True, I did say 'hypotenuse' once, but I meant something else.)

Public education should prepare us for life, not just tests; school should arm us with knowledge, not just information. Take, for instance, the timeless, burning question:

Why do guys act like that?

Our public education curriculum never prepares us for guys; specifically, American guys, who differ in many ways from guys in non-NASCAR countries. For example, in the culture of the graceful African Maasai, women all do the hard labor — including, well, labor — not to mention building their homes, cooking, cleaning, and driving off George Clooney.

So let's talk about guys. Take a moment to focus, and then have a go at our "What Would A Guy Do?" quiz.

And if your score's lousy, don't blame us. Blame public education.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Scenario: There are two grocers near your neighborhood. How does a guy choose between the two?

A)     High quality

B)      Low prices

C)      An aesthetically pleasing space designed to promote a leisurely inspection of fresh produce

D)     Distance from the parking lot to the beer

Scenario: What should a movie include to ensure that a guy will love it?

A)     Cars

B)      Women in cars

C)      Women in cars, with weapons

D)     Nearly-clothed, heavily armed, space alien gladiator women with massive, uh, glandular disorders

Scenario: What production element guarantees that a guy will hate a movie?

A)     Subtitles

B)      Subplots

C)      Animated forest animals, unless they're heavily armed

D)     Hugh Grant

Scenario: At the grocer's, there are forty-eight check-out lanes, of which three are actually open. All three are busy, to varying degrees. How does a guy calculate which lane he should use?

A)     The one with the least customers

B)      The one with the least overflowing carts

C)      The one with the most magazines discussing drastic diets, ditzy Kardashians, and Hugh Grant

D)     The one with the check-out clerk named Amber

Scenario: As advertisers have discovered, what does a guy consider to be a new car's most important selling point?

A)     Great miles per gallon

B)      Great safety ratings

C)      Free pizza with any test drive

D)     The car co-starred in a TV commercial, where it got hand-washed by a cheeseburger-eating blonde

Scenario: When shopping for a television, what technical feature is most important to a guy?

A)     A crisp, bright picture

B)      A long-lasting display

C)      A remote control where, roughly, the number of buttons = pi

D)     A screen the size of your average pre-industrial European nation

Scenario: To save a little time, a guy with just a few items in his basket decides to use the grocer's self-check-out. Of course, there's one item that won't scan correctly, because it was never meant to scan correctly, because the psychos who designed the whole self-check-out process are evil mutant space alien bridge trolls who hate Earth civilization and never trim their nose hair.

That was not part of the quiz – I just needed to get that off my chest.

Scenario: When it comes to job interviews, what is a guy's greatest fear?

A)     An unattractive salary

B)      An unattractive benefits package

C)      An unattractive but flirty boss

D)     An unattractive but flirty boss who's a guy

Scenario: When it comes to eating out alone, what is a guy's greatest fear?

A)     The big-screen TVs might all be tuned to professional league bowling

B)      Those pitying sidelong stares from other restaurant patrons

C)      The dreaded self-Heimlich

D)     That fight-or-flight moment at the salad bar when he contemplates just exactly why they call it a "sneeze guard"

Scenario: When it comes to eating out with a group of people, what is a guy's greatest fear?

A)     Being asked to pronounce any entrée that has diacritical marks or words ending in 'eaux' or 'que'

B)      Being asked to calculate the tip without consulting a computer

C)      Being seated next to any guy involved in professional league bowling

D)     Being seated next to any woman who subscribes to the pre-industrial European school of au naturel underarm self-expression

Scenario: According to the Creation story in the book of Genesis, God took a rib from Adam, the first guy. What happened to the rib?

A)     It became Eve, Adam's helpmeet

B)      It became Eve, whom Adam called the 'apple of my eye,' although that little term of endearment soured quickly

C)      It became the first body part to be represented by celebrity divorce attorney Gloria Allred

D)     No one really knows, but ever since then, guys have had this thing about barbecue

~-~-~-~-~-~

By the way:  Initially, I didn't intend to just discuss guys. Initially, my topic was some of the major differences between males and females, but nobody I asked could agree on the female equivalent of the word 'guy.'

To me, both 'girl' and 'gal' carry potential connotations that won't work. 'Ladies' is corny, as is 'the other half.' 'Distaff' is pretentious; besides, half the people on Facebook would think I was talking about a stick. 'Sista' would work, unless the discussion ever included my mother — that sort of thing could send a guy spiraling into therapy.

One can't say 'babe,' one can't say 'chick' and, though it worked well once upon a time, one can no longer say 'dolls.'

And don't even ask Rush Limbaugh what one can't say.

Pictures in Search of a Caption

Calling on all her skills, the zoo's psychiatrist tried to talk Corbu down off the ledge.
"I haven't had a nibble since dawn. Let's call it a day. First trough of beer's on me!"
Lindsay Lohan Spotted With New Beau; Claims This Time It's The Real Thing
"What is it you call this thing, small human? A…what? A parade? Bo-ring."
Like all cartoons, most frequent flier plans, and Joe Biden's teeth, Babar was tired of being fictional.
Homeland Security Unveils New Border Fence Scheme; PETA Clamors For Taxpayer-Funded Giant Butt Cushions
Tonight! On an all-new 24! Chloe recruits really large Tibetan rebels to help extract Jack Bauer from his evil Chinese captors!
Reviews were mixed for Dr. Suess's latest rhyming primer, "Humpty Dumbo."
"Look," huffed the rabbi, "I'm all for some May/December romance, but this is off the chart!"
Sadly, the Republican Party never noticed the subtle shove from Code Pink's dastardly dwarf.
"See, here's the deal," Vishnu cajoled, "last Saturday, Shiva got ticked at Ganesha…you know how he can get…and I, well, I'm gonna need your head."

What Is A Hustings, Anyway?

(Some notes on Stupor Tuesday…and beyond)

Last weekend I went to an oyster roast, a yearly fundraiser held in my home town. It was an excellent evening, with family, good friends, live music and great food. And a great opportunity to take a much-needed break from American politics.

Right…

The oysters were flown in from the coast of Mississippi. And at one point during the evening, I grabbed a freshly-steamed oyster from the nearest bucket, used my nubby little knife to pry it open, and saw a tiny campaign poster from Mitt Romney.

Unless you're dead, or watching American Idol, you may have noticed an ongoing Presidential election campaign. (Here in my home state of South Carolina, even if you are dead, you can still vote. And buy a gun. After all, there's a reason half of Charleston is haunted.)

American politicians. The ultimate used-car salesmen, but with one major difference – politicians never paid for the cars they're trying to get you to buy.

And now America has just come through one of the more odd highlights of every campaign season: Super Tuesday. This is a day when ten (eleven?) states vote (or caucus) to designate delegates (which may or may not be binding) for Presidential candidates (if their paperwork is in order). It's like some kind of low-budget, fast-paced caper flick, starring expensive haircuts grafted on to grinning rich people.

I still haven't figured out if Wyoming is included in Super Tuesday, because the political pundits have even figured out alternative methods for counting to 'ten.'

You may not know it, especially if you went to public school, or are watching American Idol, but Wyoming has a rich history. Wyoming is the only territory granted statehood solely due to having lots of potential hamburgers. Wyoming, as a voting bloc, has more cows than voters; in fact, there are more cows in Wyoming than there are cows in India, even though we eat ours. (our cows, not our out-sourced computer help desks)

But either way, when compared to delegate-rich political plums like California and Texas, Wyoming is unfairly ignored. Wyoming only wields something like three delegate votes (five, if you weigh them on the hoof).

Anyway – here we are, in March 2012, a Mayan-calendar-expiration election-season end-of-the-world leap year (whew – talk about 'March Madness!'). End-of-time prophets are selling short. Rogue solar flares are threatening to disrupt smart-phone communications, which could result in citizens having to count, remember appointments, and speak directly to each other. All over facebook, people are talking about brooms that apparently can stand up without assistance, and a Georgetown law-school coed that apparently can't.

And the 2012 campaign, which actually began around 7:01pm, 4 November 2008, is in full swing. The candidates are, as the expression goes, out on the hustings. It's a gargantuan, obscene and obscenely expensive exercise in comparison shopping.

See, right there is a clue. This candidate has fewer miles, but that one is safer. Could be ten elections today, could be eleven. All of them count, or not, depending. But check out those floor mats! The whole thing reeks of used car.

But the Washington wannabes continue to bustle about the countryside, smiling and frowning, explaining and complaining, balking and talking, weaving, waving and wavering.

And no matter what the topic, no matter how irrelevant the news item, political pundits will find a way to work it in to the story – with a negative slant, if at all possible.

Here are some sample Super Tuesday state-by-state snapshots:

Georgia

Newt Gingrich appears to have won Georgia.
Mitt Romney appears to have purchased Georgia.
Herman Cain has been accused of dating Georgia.
Bill Maher called Georgia a slut.
And President Obama, at a $8-billion-a-plate fundraiser, sang nine notes from "Georgia."

Vermont

Mitt Romney was expected to have won Vermont.
Ron Paul was checking the price of gold and drove right past Vermont.
Ethan Allen, the founder of Vermont, was pardoned by Bill Clinton.
Rick Santorum pointed out that Mitt Romney's name can be rearranged to spell "Memory Tint," after which Santorum was given a calming medication.
And Rush Limbaugh called Ethan Allen a slut.

Oklahoma

Rick Santorum looks to have won Oklahoma.
Mitt Romney looks to have purchased front row seats to the musical "Oklahoma."
Joe Biden pointed out that Tulsa spelled backwards "a slut."
Rick Santorum accused Joe Biden of chanting words backwards within 100 feet of a church.
And President Obama promised 666 congaskillion dollars to General Motors for their new crossover vehicle, "The Solar-Powered Surrey with the Fringe Benefits On Top."

By the way – I don't know what a hustings is or are, but whatever it or they may be, if you take your cues from the news, you can be sure of several things:

Mitt Romney will have several
Rick Santorum will be the only candidate with true hustings
Newt Gingrich will know its definition, three synonyms, and will have regularly discussed the topic with Reagan
Ron Paul will be strongly against America's presence in the hustings
And President Obama will expect you give your hard-earned hustings to somebody else who doesn't have so many

So, get out there and vote! If you're dead, vote anyway!

And if you vote for our candidate, we'll throw in the floor mats.

Living to Death, Part 3

(The high cost of free health care)

Not long ago, I told you about my doctor's insistence that I get yearly checkups weekly, in order to ensure my ability to keep having health, and her ability to keep making boat payments.

I also told you about her directive for me to switch to a 'non-generic' drug. I didn't think much about it at the time, though I do remember noticing that, during the whole 'non-generic' discussion, she refused to look me in the eye. It gave me that same nervous feeling you get at a used-car lot after pointing out some weird stains on the dashboard, causing the used-car salesman to nonchalantly mention the car's low mileage, due to the previous owner's recent incarceration in a maximum security compound for the criminally insane.

But I never finished the story. Because I couldn't. I literally, physically couldn't. For several weeks after the 'non-generic' episode, every time I'd think back on it, I'd black out.

Therefore, my therapist insists, I need to face the fear. I need to get the story out, lest I morph into some rage-filled fiend with a suspiciously shrinking collection of friends, and odd dashboard stains.

Now, normally, my monthly visits to the pharmacy are a quick in-and-out.

Me:  Hi, I called in a prescription refill.

White Lab Coat Person:  Do you have your Super-Saver Drastic-Discount Big-Bonus-Bucks preferred customer card?

Me:  I didn't think the card applied to prescriptions.

Lab Coat:  It doesn't.

Me:  Pardon me for a minute. I need to black out.

But this time, I had this new 'non-generic' prescription to fill. I'd brought the little tear-off sheet they gave me at the doctor's, imprinted with their office location and phone, and bearing what was either my doctor's handwriting or some kind of ink-based performance art. On faith alone, I assumed the unintelligible scribble was my prescription, though, for all I knew, it could have been an equation challenging special relativity, the Pentagon's nuclear launch codes, or a line drawing of a hysterectomy performed during a hurricane.

Me:  Hi, I have this new prescription to fill.

Lab Coat:  Do you have your Super-Saver Drastic-Discount Big-Bonus-Bucks preferred customer card?

Me:  Fine, thanks. How are you?

Lab Coat:  Do you have your Super-Saver Drastic-Discount Big-Bonus-Bucks preferred customer card?

Me:  I do. But enough about me – let's talk about you for a while!

Lab Coat:  May I see your little tear-off sheet?

Me:  Well, okay. But at this point I still think we should see other people.

Lab Coat:  Sir, this prescription is for a non-generic drug!

Me:  Yeah, that's what my doct … Hey! Why did you stop looking me in the eye?

Then came the revelation. Lab Coat Person tapped for a bit on his computer screen, then spun the screen round, averted his eyes, and showed me the price of my new, 'non-generic' prescription.

Whoa.

Some drug company somewhere is awfully proud of that little pill.

I thought there was some mistake. I thought maybe Lab Coat had mistakenly googled census statistics, or the Greek debt. I couldn't get my head around it. I didn't want to marry the little pill; I just wanted to occasionally ingest the thing. Was I filling a scrip or funding a Spielberg epic? Was I buying a month's supply of pills or a member of Congress?

Turns out this drug is so expensive, my neighborhood pharmacy doesn't even bother stocking it. People in my income bracket don't rate that level of health care. Demographically speaking, nobody that lives near me can afford to get that well.

It looked like I would have to go to some other pharmacy. No big deal, that. When it comes to city planning, my neighborhood follows the plan of every other neighborhood in the American South. At any given four-way intersection in the South, if there's a traffic light, the real estate layout is the same:

Corner 1:  a pharmacy

Corner 2:  a different pharmacy

Corner 3:  a Spinx gas station

Corner 4:  a Baptist church

(Very few laymen realize the integral role that intersections have played in the growth of the Baptist church in the South. Without corners, we might all be Lutherans. And that would be the end of NASCAR as we know it.)

So I had a decision to make: I could walk across the street to the competitor's pharmacy (Soylent WalGreen) and fill out "new customer" paperwork for about eleven weeks, or I could drive to the next nearest "sister" store of my own pharmacy, which, thanks to the Baptist Intersection Theory, was a trek of almost two whole blocks. Suddenly, Lab Coat closed the deal by offering to call the sister store for me, if I promised not to tell anybody that he'd shattered protocol by actually assisting me before I presented my Super-Saver card.

What a selfless gesture! I'll admit – it touched me. But then, I'm in monthly therapy twice a week.

Despite being located in a much tonier neighborhood, the sister pharmacy was a clone of my own…for the most part. But there were some subtle differences. For instance, this pharmacy stored the cartons of cigarettes just below the boxes of nicotine patches, rather than just above.

This upscale druggist's had six cash registers with only one register open, as opposed to the 3/1 configuration at my usual haunt. (Both pharmacies, however, still had just the one on-duty teenage clerk with face piercings.)

There at La Pharmatique, they barely let you through the accordion doors before bombarding you with the gauntlet of garish magazines dedicated to celebrity stupidities and female insecurities. One front cover's screaming headline managed to tease to both audiences:  "Sex so good, you'll think you're with two-and-a-half men!"

Whatever. At my age, I don't need help having massive sex. At my age, I need help having matching socks.

The staff pharmacist there at Chez Drug was a very nice woman, who hailed from some country that doesn't have a future tense.

Lab Coat:  You, I am welcoming! May I be helping you?

Me:  Hi, here's my Super-Saver Drastic-Discount Big-Bonus-Bucks preferred customer card.

Lab Coat:  Are you having your Super-Saver Drastic-Discount Big-Bonus-Bucks preferred customer card?

Me:  Really? Seriously?

Lab Coat:  I shall be waiting. I am being here all day.

Me:  I drove over from your low-rent cousin pharmacy – you know, over there in the shady part of town, where we have open sewers, closed minds, no feng shui, and we drink Cokes straight out of the can, without a straw.

Lab Coat:  Yes, we are having your prescription filled already. Please be seating yourself for thirty minutes.

Me:  Thirty minutes? But you said it's already filled!

Lab Coat:  That is what you are getting for that 'future tense' crack, Mr. Smarty.

Touché. Big pharma karma.

And so, thirty-one minutes later, my staggeringly expensive pills and I drove home, where we eyeballed each other for a while, and then split a tuna fish sandwich. Later, I hit the streets to try and land a second job. When I left, the pills were curled up on the couch, watching a Jacqueline Susann film festival on Lifetime.

Well, there it is. That's the story, and my therapist was right – I do feel better. And I'm glad to get that behind me, before my two monthly therapy sessions this week.

After all, therapists have boat payments, too.

The Stupiding of America

(Would you, like, like fries with that?)

Everywhere you look lately, doomsayers and storm crows are keening about the end of the world. As evidence, they variously point to predictions, asteroids, scriptures, other storm crows, extremely pessimistic fortune cookies and, if you can believe it, a Central American rock.

And those are the "scientific" theories! Other jeremiads are more, well, let's say speculative. Kind of caroming between the miraculous and the maudlin. The internet is full of such theories, allegedly proving that the end is near:

A Mayan calendar predicted the end of a 28,000 year rinse cycle
Punxsutawney Phil saw his own shadow
Punxsutawney Phil saw some other groundhog's shadow
A Mayan calendar predicted the final season of Meso-American Idol
In an Ozark grocery, someone claimed they saw Earth's picture on a milk carton
Gas prices in Florida hit a spooky, all-time-high of $6.66
Oprah gained forty pounds, and lost forty pounds, in the same day
Bill O'Reilly's latest book was titled Killing Lincoln, Kennedy, and Everybody Else
In a Memphis diner, someone spotted an omelet that looked like Elvis. Unfortunately, before it could be photo-documented, it was eaten by a guy that looked like Elvis.
President Obama's ego saw its own shadow

But I have an alternative theory. I think we may simply be getting too stupid to survive. For example, look at some of the so-called "social" networks, like Facebook. Forget, for a moment, the content – it's so full of LOL, OMG, B4U, ROFLMAO, BTW, and RU2, it's hard to tell if you're having a conversation or collecting license plates.

Instead, take a notice, some time, of all the spelling suicides and grammatical train wrecks. Facebook now has an estimated 800 million users – that's more "residents" than most countries – and far too many FB'ers spell as if they're typing with their elbows.

And all the stupid isn't trapped online, either. It's in politics:

Here's an actual quote from a politician in a news interview: "I'm really gonna work really, really hard."

In case you missed the lead-in here – this was an adult, talking to an adult.

It's in the workplace:

Last year, I worked for a bipolar corporate dwarf for a brief period, though not nearly brief enough. Here's one of his little gems: "I just want to make sure everyone's singing Kumbaya on the same page."

Now that's stupid. Even for a dwarf.

It's in the shops:

Overheard by a youngster at a table at a fast food joint: "Omigod, like, ummm, these fries so taste like potatoes."

Yep. That's, like, America's future and stuff.

Nor are we waiting around to get bombarded by meteors, or rogue solar flares, or evil alien death rays. No, we're bombarding ourselves, daily, with some seriously sinister stuff. An endless barrage of mind-numbing messages, as deadly as anything conjured up by galactic bad guys.

No, not Adam Sandler movies. The other deadly stuff.

Commercials.

In commercials, life can be strange, confusing, even dangerous. But, here – I'll let you decide:

You're expected to make critical purchasing decisions about bathroom tissue based on the endorsement of grinning, dancing, imaginary blue bears.
If you attend anybody's wedding reception, you risk being cornered by a shortish woman who is obsessed with constipation. She also annoys passengers on planes.
A company offering "do-it-yourself" pest control wants you to call them. Why?
Happy young adults are running around in some farmer's field, making crop circles. And that's why you should buy potato chips in a tube.
You're warned that a possible side-effect of your sleeping pill is "morning drowsiness." To the casual observer, this would seem to mean the sleeping pill didn't work.
You should prefer a particular cell phone because it has "4G." 4G is a secret telecommunications enzyme that lets your cell phone morph into a lightning bolt you can throw like a spear.
You're besieged daily with dire, cryptic threats about your intake of Bifidus Regularis, your supplemental levels of Ester-C, and your glycemic index. On the plus side, though, you must be getting wealthy, because now you have gout.
You're encouraged to buy an anti-snoring device, although the thing looks like an oral appliance designed by Hannibal Lector. It may or may not keep you from snoring, but if you show up with that thing on your face, your partner definitely won't be.
You watch helplessly as a man selling something he calls "liquid rubber in a can" cuts a hole in a rowboat, replaces the hole with a screen door, and then paddles around in the boat, grinning like someone who took a poison-tipped Mayan dart in the neck. What liquid rubber man really needs is some time in a rubber room.
Someone wants you to buy a miracle device that will slice bread, handy for those among us who can't quite grasp that whole "sandwich" concept. These are probably the same people who need liquid soap in a dispenser, having not yet evolved to the point where they can be trusted with deceptively complex entities like bar soap.
You need to buy gold, and you need to buy it right now, according to an extremely irritated G. Gordon Liddy, who has taken up the odd (but oddly reassuring) hobby of attacking stacks of American currency with a chain saw. I don't know about you, but when I need sound financial advice, I immediately riffle the Yellow Pages, looking for an indicted Watergate felon.
Right now, there are people out there, perhaps people you live or work with, who are pondering calling a toll-free number so they can get a free hair analysis. Imagine the post-analysis debrief. "Yep. That's a hair, all right. Come on back next week – we're giving away a free eye exam!"
Meanwhile, on TV, someone's son is being disciplined for riding his bike along his paper route and lobbing boxes of high-fiber cereal in neighbors' yards. OMG. Obviously, the truant has snapped, IMHO. Let's hope he doesn't own a rowboat and a screen door.

See what I mean? Kinda scary, huh? So let's get it together, America. It's time to de-stupid. Let's take control of our future…however much future we have left.

Because when 800 million people stop caring about intelligence, that can only lead to one thing.

More 'Die Hard' sequels.

OMG.

Nibiru, Eris, and Fred

(My, how time flies. Has it been 28,000 years already?)

Remember the Y2K scare? When the world ended and everybody died, except people who had a Mac? Remember?

Of course you do. You remember – that ultimate eleventh-hour event that would herald the collapse of civilization, because billions of computers would forget how to add one day to today, as if all the world's laptops had suddenly become Liberal Arts majors.

Entire careers were spawned (or slain) by that Y2K threat, and the worst we got was an anti-climax the size of Bill Gates' divorce settlement.

It was one of those earth-shattering (figuratively) non-events (literally) where everybody got emotionally invested, for zero return. Great huge network teaser, followed by no show. Much ado about much nothing. It was a lot like the over-hyped director's cut of 'Star Wars,' or Bill Clinton playing the sax. (though he still insists he did not have sax)

And now, the doom-mongers are at it again. And, like in 1999, it's a date-based doom. This time, though, they're trying to group-scare us to group-death with an ancient computer – a dysfunctional calendar carved out of stone. Well, nearly carved.

Enter (well, re-enter) the Mayans, a Central American civilization so ancient that they still used Windows XP; a culture so primitive that they signed on as extras in a Mel Gibson movie without first consulting their agent. (The film was 'Apocalypto Now', starring Johnny Depp as Xmzrptlktlotl, and Michael Moore as Central America)

But the Mayan version of Windows (Windows VII BC, codename 'Abattoir') only told us that the world would end in late 2012. It didn't tell us how. And before anybody could find the instructions, the Mayan's entire operating system crashed, resulting in the first-ever American cultural reboot (literal translation: smallpox).

Fast-forward to today. If we can trust the date as prophesied by the Mayans, the world will likely deep-six itself during one of the 2012 college football post-season bowl games – maybe the Leon Trotsky Yak-Flavored Taco/Sumerian's Revenge Fiesta Dip Bowl – brought to you by those fine folks at Fred's Drive-Thru Parvo Vaccine And Tax Preparation Service, located just off the railway spur in Spine Fungus, Iowa!

"Folks, we'll be right back after this brief commer … arrgghh." [extremely bright light]

This would definitely qualify as one of the best – not to mention last – halftime shows ever. Total global destruction – now that's what I call a 'wardrobe malfunction.'

But here at the corporate headquarters of Don't Worry About It, our advice to you is simple: Don't worry about it. Despite the doomsayers and the 'last chance' car commercials, we're pretty sure that December 21 2012 won't be the end of the world as we know it. It will, however, be another winter solstice. (literal translation: the end of December 21 as we know it)

So, in an effort to calm everybody down, we've assembled a crack team of credentialed scientists, confirmed said credentials (Has unkempt hair; Owns tweed jacket with elbow patches; Has elbows), and asked them to field several of your concerns about 2012 AD, particularly those involving scary predictions and potentially frightening events. (Meteor strike; Mitt Romney getting unkempt hair; Super volcanoes; Rick Perry starring in a remake of 'Hamlet')

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Q: Are there any threats to the Earth in 2012?

A: Nothing bad will happen to the Earth in 2012. Our planet has been getting along just fine for more than 4 billion years, and credible scientists worldwide know of no threat associated with 2012. Of course, these are the same scientists who said eggs were good for you.

Q: Is there any danger of Earth being hit by a meteor in 2012?

A: Well, there's always the possibility of impact by a meteor, or a comet, or a rogue Italian cruise ship. But the odds against it are very high, except for the cruise ship. The last big cosmic impact was 65 million years ago, and that led to the extinction of Charles Darwin.

(See 'Why you need not fear a supernova before 10:30 AM')

Q: How do scientists feel about all these claims of pending doomsday?

A: When faced with such queries, the first question out of the mouth of any credible scientist is, "Where is the evidence?" which is why scientists rarely get invited to keg parties. Scientists also have a nasty habit of shoving in footnotes … worrisome cross-references with the sole purpose of pointing out things that we would've never known we needed to be scared of, had they just kept their mouths shut.

(See 'Breathing: what your doctor won't tell you')

Q: What is the origin of the prediction that the world will end in 2012?

A: There are several such predictions, because, as a global culture, we have pretty much failed at eradicating hophead stupidity. However, one such end-of-all-things story starts with the Sumerians (literal translation: hopheads with sandals), who claimed to have discovered a planet called Nibiru. And supposedly, according to one obscure researcher (Fred Sumerian), Nibiru is barreling toward Earth. Initially, the catastrophe was predicted for May 2003, but when nothing happened, Fred rescheduled doomsday for December 2012. Obviously, Fred is not well.

Q: Many Internet websites say the world will end in December 2012. Should I be concerned?

A: No. But since you're the type of fringe whack that believes those websites, your coworkers should be concerned. Most of the internet is garbage, not gospel. Remember, there are also websites for naked biker conventions, for learning how to cheat at Scrabble, and for finding out how to get a government-backed discount mortgage rate if you're an under-aged legally blind female Sumerian vampire in prison.

(See 'The truth about super volcanoes and our penal system')

Q: I heard there's a planet called Eris that could collide with Earth this year. Is this true?

A: Eris is a real planet, but it's a dwarf (like Pluto, Thorin Oakenshield, or the measurable value of the UN). Eris would never make it into to the inner solar system, due to planetary physics and intergalactic carry-on baggage restrictions. The closest Eris can come to Earth is about 4 billion miles, which make Eris the perfect place to relocate the UN.

Q: Is there a danger from giant solar storms in 2012?

A: Solar activity has a regular cycle, with peaks approximately every 11 years. To give that some context, the last time there was a giant solar storm, Detroit was still part of the United States, and Saturday Night Live was still funny. Usually, the worst thing that can happen during increased solar activity is some interruption in communications. On the other hand, we could see a rise in lunar activity, which could cause some interruption in Fred.

(See 'Increased lunar activity and heavily-armed library workers')

Q: What is the polar shift theory? Is it true that the earth's crust does a 180-degree rotation?

A: A reversal in the rotation of Earth is impossible. (If that happened, cartoons would begin three hours later on the East Coast, and Congress wouldn't stand for it.) However, from time to time, the magnetic polarity of the Earth does reverse. This last happened 400,000 years ago. (It was a Tuesday, about 10:30 in the morning.) As far as we know, such a magnetic reversal wouldn't cause any harm to intelligent life on Earth. (It could, however, doom Congress. This is why, every day at 10:30, Congress goes home and watches cartoons.)

(See 'Polar shift and bipolar vampire health care')

Q: Doesn't the Mayan calendar end in December 2012?

A: Yes. As does the calendar on your kitchen wall. And the one in your cube at work. And the one in your boss's office that has 'long golf weekend' scribbled all over it. And that 'Leather-Clad Street-Bike-Riding Chest Mutant of the Month' calendar at the tire store. All calendars end, every year. See how it works?

Q: Is there really a planet called Nibiru that is approaching Earth and threatening widespread destruction?

A: Look, if Nibiru were real, astronomers would have been all over the story, not to mention Bruce Willis and Roland Emmerich.

Q: But I read that Nibiru could be in disguise, going by the name Eris, or Planet X!

A: Did you now.

Q: By the way, why do you keep qualifying them as 'credible' scientists?

A: Oh, that's an easy one. I have two words for you. Global warming.

(See 'More about Exploding Skin Syndrome')

Q: Hey, how about you NASA scientists? What do you guys think?

A: Oh, hi, America! Thanks for remembering us! Here at NASA, we're just kind of watching this whole 'doomsday thing' play out … though we're not getting to watch much of it. Thanks to budget cuts, we can now monitor a portion of the cosmos about the size of Rhode Island. (not the state – the hen)

But we'll be fine. Years ago, we started stocking up on MREs and Twinkies. (right after somebody turned us on to Fred's article)

And remember – we invented Tang.

Bread and Circuses

(We'll be right back to our commercials after this brief game!)

Picture it: Thundering noise erupts and bubbles in the Coliseum. Thudding, unseen drums pound out a hypnotic heartbeat as rank after rank of bronze-girded warrior slaves slog into the arena, bearing a mighty flaxen-haired Queen, masked by a screen of giant feathers fetched from some monstrous mythical raptor. The eager, madding congregation pulses with anticipation, hungering for the long-awaited Queen. Suddenly, she rises above her captive coterie and unleashes her…

…polyester pompoms.

And that was just the Patriots' backup quarterback.

Super Bowl XLVI. In case you missed it, it was actually a pretty good commercial, if you could stand all the game interruptions. And with an obscene price tag like seven million dollars per commercial minute, I'm surprised they bothered to show the actual game at all.

According to this year's Super Bowl pre-game show, which began approximately XII minutes after last year's Super Bowl, Madonna was slated to perform, but only at halftime. Fans could hardly wait to see the superstar singer at Super Bowl XLVI, even though she's now VII years older than the Super Bowl itself. However, she's still Madonna and guys are still guys. So, before the game, to keep the athletes and fans focused on the game, she agreed to be dipped in saltpeter.

As for the commercials, all the usual suspects were there – the beer Clydesdales, the cola Polar Bears in red scarves, Elton John in his street clothes.

But the Super Bowl commercials have gotten so complex, so over-produced, so…well, so Hollywood, we don't know what they're selling. They're not very clever ads anymore – they're just very short movies. They're just high-budget, star-studded, non-feature-length films. Now I'm watching a movie, not making a shopping list.

Other than the occasional familiar face (see "Clydesdales"), I can no longer remember what product(s) they're pushing. And even then, I don't know. I don't know if the horses are hauling Bud, or Bud Lite, or Bud Light Platinum, Bud Super-Extra-Light, Bud Flashlight, Bud Light Saber, Bud Extra Premium Ultralite Acolyte, Bud Disguised As Michelob, or Buddy Ebsen. Are those mute, nearly-naked, ice-skating polar bears strung out on Coke? Or New Coke? Original Coke? Coke Zero? Coke Too Low For Zero? Bud Disguised As Coke? Meth? (see "ice-skating naked")

Here, I'll let you decide. Here are a few actual Super Bowl commercials — the plot and then the pitch. You tell me who's selling what:

The Plot: Polar bears that wear scarves and watch television sometimes have to walk away and yell in the night to relieve their angst.

The Pitch: Drink our cola!

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The Plot: Due a some unnamed disaster that apparently involved Ford trucks, everyone in the world is dead, except for nine nondescript rednecks.

The Pitch: Buy a Chevy!

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The Plot: Sometimes our employees run around in a warehouse and throw paint balloons at a wall, perpetually grinning as if they had some kind of mandible disorder.

The Pitch: Fly our airline!

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The Plot: A grandmother launches a small child from a slingshot, in order to steal food from an obnoxious brat in a tree house.

The Pitch: Eat our corn chips!

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Then we watched a commercial starring naked M&Ms in a disco.

Naked candy.

We should've known. We should've seen it coming. If pole-dancing chocolate managed to make it past the censors, halftime was gonna be a full-on Caligula moment.

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And then, Halftime. Sic infit. We should've known.

After Madonna flashed her polyester pompoms from atop her bare beer bier (see "Bud Light"), she walked across a bridge of bronzed centurion-ish extras to the stage, where she proceeded to not really sing and not really dance, while only tripping once. (Which still impressed me. Madonna and I are the same age and I tripped more than that just walking to the fridge for more queso. And nobody paid me to sing; in fact, like Madonna, I'm often paid not to.)

Overall, the halftime show was a non-threatening event. We did have to put up with some infantile Brit twit named AWOL, who showed her appreciation for being invited to perform at the world's most-watched TV show by flipping off 111 million viewers. If that's her attitude, she might as well move here and run for Congress.

And all the costume changes confused me. Romans, Brits, Pharaohs, choirs. I wasn't sure if Madonna was invading the Vatican, annexing Egypt, or channeling Hannibal.

In one particularly obscure segue, this Richard Simmons-type character began crotch-bouncing on some kind of semi-tightrope thing (I've since learned that it's called a Slack Wire). Every time I think about it, I still wince and want to assume the fetal position. Had that been me on the Slack Wire, the bidding for my remains would've been a battle between the Vienna Boys Choir and Tyson's Deluxe Chicken Parts (Lite). Sans nuggets.

For the record, the looming threat of a "Wardrobe Malfunction" never materialized. This was fortunate, particularly for NBC's defense attorneys, though it was unfortunate for fifteen-year-olds, or those in charge of America's foreign policy with Iran, which is the same thing, except fifteen-year-olds have more common sense.

We all recall that infamous event during Super Bowl XLVI minus VIII, when Janet Jackson only displayed a breast for IX-XVIths of a second, forcing men everywhere to rush out and buy a TiVo so they could auto-loop.

It was the ultimate instant replay, not to mention history's most monitored mammogram.

Not to worry. This year, we didn't have to collectively blush when someone's yay slipped out of her boostie. This year, we were treated to a much more elegant act.

Right.

This year, we just stared at SNAFU's one-finger salute, waited for somebody somewhere to sing a decipherable syllable or two, and watched a stageful of prone, nearly-clad women repeatedly thrusting their navels in the air, as if they'd just laid back on a rogue heating pad or an overcooked Hot Pocket.

But all unholy spectacles must come to an end…especially when seven million blings are at stake.

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The Plot: A mutant two-headed black man argues with his other head, which then sings in falsetto.

The Pitch: Buy our dependable German car!

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The Plot: Youngish vampires are at a campfire party in the woods, waiting for an undead pusher to show up with some blood. Dead Dude arrives and pulls a bag of plasma out of the glove box. Suddenly, all the vampires explode.

The Pitch: Buy our luxury Japanese car!

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The Plot: An incontinent kid relieves himself in a swimming pool.

The Pitch: Use our tax software!

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The Plot: A sultry foreigner dresses herself in public, then mumbles something unintelligible in an accent so thick it could stop ants.

The Pitch: Order our flowers!

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The Plot: Jaded young people standing in line on a city street suddenly erupt into song and dance and are joined by emaciated rock guitarists, chunky gospel choirs, and stuntmen, as if the Occupy Wall Street scab warriors had mated with the cast of Glee during an audition for a movie by Quentin Tarantino.

The Pitch: Switch to our phone plan!

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Did Arby's, those "roast beef" guys, really just spend 3.5 million bucks to promote a fried fish sandwich?

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And so it ended. Football season is now officially over. Now, sports fans eagerly move on to that action-packed, Olympian crowd-pleaser…

Bowling.

Moriituri semi Brunswickia liga te salutant. (We who are about to face a VII-X split salute you.)

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By the way – before this year's game, one sponsor proudly announced that "aerial coverage of tonight's Super Bowl" would be brought to you by Bud Light.

Aerial coverage.

Aerial coverage of a game that was being played in an enclosed building. An enclosed building with a roof. That doesn't retract.

Thanks a lot, Bud.