Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
Heartbleed Brainbleed
Call me old. Call me a curmudgeon. Call me old-fashioned. But I don’t believe technology can replace human assistance. I also don’t believe we will ever be a paperless society. Here’s one reason why.
1. Heard about heartbleed virus.
If you haven’t, check out this link. You can type in a website address to see if it’s at risk. If there’s a risk, change your password for that site — and for any site where you have used the same password. And, yes, Last Pass is trying to sell you their service, but the website checker is free and easy to use.
2. Used the site mentioned above to start checking the websites that I use.
3. Discovered that lifelock.com was a “possibly” infected site. Yikes!
4. Went to lifelock.com to change my password.
5. Could not remember the password (because I made it a really complex one, of course).
6. Used the site’s “forgot your password” feature. Got a pop-up saying an email had been sent and that I should contact customer service if I did not receive the email.
7. Checked email, including spam folder, etc.
8. Waited. Checked email again.
9. Waited. Checked email again.
10. Called customer service. Explained. She gave me a temporary password.
11. Tried to log in with the temporary password. It didn’t work.
12. Called customer service again. Different rep gave me a temporary username — which was the exact same series of letters and numbers as the temporary password the other rep had given me (so, yeah, perhaps technology could replace a few people, but . . .) — and a new, different temporary password. The second rep also emailed the information to me.
13. I got logged in and changed my password to something that included lower case letters, capital letters, and numbers. It didn’t work — because I didn’t include a symbol. (The symbol I want to use does not exist on a keyboard.)
Whew. That was for ONE website. I’ve spent most of the morning navigating websites in search of the “change password” button. My brain is spinning like a Mac rainbow dot trying to recall every site I’ve ever used. And I’ve grown a tumor or two on the right side of my cerebral cortex trying to come up with complex passwords. If I now need a unique password for every site I use, you know and I know, I won’t be able to remember half of them by this evening.
So, I need to write them all down on a piece of paper.
Made a Man Cry Today
It’s a rather long story, but last year did not go well with the fellow who cut grass for me and my neighbors, (let’s call them) the Smiths and the Johnsons.
His work was shoddy. There were times when he didn’t show. He once told me he’d cut my hedges for $180 and then charged me $350. (He also told me I shouldn’t attempt this work myself due to it being tricky business — because wood is alive and can feel pain.)
I overlooked the BSing because I initially took it as more quirky and dimwitted than deceitful. I overlooked the shoddy work because of some combination of kindness and I-need-someone-to-cut-the-grass-and-he’s-here-ness. Make your own judgment about the ratio. (But, in an effort to be honest in the face of human foibles, perhaps I should suggest that you withhold that judgment ’til the end of the story.)
Then grass guy had a blow-up with my neighbors, the Smiths. Nutshell: Grass guy was rude and argumentative. He dropped F-bombs. He called the good and kind and dear-to-me Smiths “the jackasses of the street.” This ding-dong of a 20-something-year-old very nearly came to blows with a man in his late 60s who has, in recent years, undergone knee surgery, back surgery, arm surgery, and heart surgery. Luckily another neighbor stepped in before it came to that.
I decided I would not have grass guy working for me anymore. But, since the scene occurred at the very end of grass-cutting season, I had not yet told him that. Well, he came by today to tell me he’d be back to cut grass again. Upon which, I explained, very politely, that I would be doing it myself now since I have more time and am trying to save money.
I tried to leave it at that. To be polite. To spare his feelings. To put it on me.
But he wouldn’t go away. He stayed at my front door, arguing with me, cajoling me, bugging me, bugging me, bugging me and repeatedly asking if there was some other reason.
I eventually told him that I hadn’t been all that pleased with his work. And I told him I also knew about what had happened with the Smiths.
He, of course, told a dramatically different (ahem, preposterous, ahem) version of the tale. Among quite a bit of other ridiculousness and lies (which I will not go into here to spare you the tedious details of a conversation with a world-class BS-er, who could, in my grandfather’s words, “Talk the latch off a sh*thouse door”), he told me he had apologized to the Smiths and that they had already hired him back to cut their grass this year.
He left my house. I called another of his ex-clients, the Johnsons, to say, “Guess who was just here?” And Mrs. Johnson says, “Yep. He’s here now. He’s around back talking to Mr. Johnson.” The Johnsons feel exactly the same way as I do about how he treated the Smiths. And they told him pretty much the same thing, that they would not be needing his services.
Meanwhile, I called the Smiths. They have not hired him back to cut their grass this year. (Mr. Smith’s actual response, for those who might like a bit more detail, was a roar of laughter and, I quote, “If he shows up here with a lawn mower, I’ll weed his whacker with a weed whacker.”)
And so, in the end, we all said No to grass guy today. He did, finally, shut up and walk away — in tears. Mrs. Johnson told me he had cried in front of them. And I saw him walking back down the street, wiping his eyes.
I’m honestly not sure if the tears were crocodilian or real, but it is hard to see a man cry. Harder still to feel somewhat responsible. I care about people’s feelings. I do not like conflict. And, so, as I watched him cry, I felt kind of bad. I felt uncomfortable. And I felt a little guilty that I laughed so hard.
So, anybody know where I can buy a cheap electric mower?
Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day – Driving Tips Book
Remember when you got your license? Of course you do! Learning to drive is a milestone in any teen’s (and parent’s) life.
My new book “Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day” welcomes new drivers to the open road with wisdom and humor. Blending useful driving tips, advice, and lessons learned with imagery that captures the adventure of cars and driving, this book tells a new driver, “Be safe. I love you!” A fun and informative gift for teens that parents will appreciate, too.
{Note: I have to thank a friend of mine for writing the above book description for me. Funny how I’ve spent my career helping other people promote themselves and their products, but, when it came to my own, I had trouble putting it into words without feeling as if I were being an obnoxious braggart.}
This book was a labor of love, inspired by my own nephew turning 16. Should you be so inclined, it’s on sale at amazon.com.
A few excerpts:
Baked Potato Soup
On this cold and wintry day, I’m preparing homemade Baked Potato Soup, one of my favorite comfort foods. I highly recommend you try it sometime.
Now, before you let yourself feel some sort of inadequate next to the wonderment of my ambition, any speculation of culinary skill, or an image of me that includes a cute apron and matching spatula . . . consider the following:
- The idea to make this soup came to me because I noticed that the potatoes in the cupboard were close to growing ears and feet.
- I was pleasantly surprised to find a hunk of onion in the veggie drawer. And it was about the right amount of onion . . . until I finished cutting off all of the dry and/or rubbery bits.
- Instead of bacon, I used turkey bacon. Instead of sour cream, I used yogurt.
Multiple Choice:
I chose the alternatives above because:
A.) I only buy super-nutritive and planet-responsible foods like vegetables grown in natural sunlight while listening to Enya and meat from non-methane-producing cows.
B.) I did not feel like going to the grocery store to get the right things.
- Sharp cheddar cheese is the perfect choice for this recipe. Yep. I chopped up some nearly stiff slices of swiss foraged from the back of the lunchmeat drawer. Then, I tossed in a bit of parmesan that I’m still not sure about.
- Had no chives, so I used parsley and dillweed. Parsley because, you know, it kind of looks like chives. Dillweed because it’s the funniest thing in the spice rack.
- I did not parboil the potatoes. (I’m not 100 percent sure I know what parboil means.) I just dumped everything into a crock pot and turned it on.
- First, I had to go get the crock pot, from where it has been sitting in the basement, just inside the door to the garage, since Thanksgiving.
- Yes, Thanksgiving 2013, and, yes, it was clean. (But these are not unreasonable questions.)
With any luck, when I sit down to eat this, um, variation of Baked Potato Soup, I will not just spit it out with a grimace and a gag. ‘Cause then I’d probably have to get up off the couch to go change this lovely sweat pants and T-shirt ensemble.
Happy Friday. Bon Appétit!
Super Bowl Commercials
Okay, I watch the Super Bowl because I like football. And it annoys me that it has become an advertising show interspersed with a few minutes of football. There was a time when the few commercials run during the big game became a sort of delightful surprise. But, as too often happens when advertisers discover a spark of cool (and misinterpret its appeal), Super Bowl advertising has become an overdone, over-hyped display of the mostly weird.
My 2 million cents.
Bruce Willis Honda Hug Commercial
Hi, we’re Honda. We sell cars. But we spent a trunk load of money on a commercial to say that what’s really important isn’t a car but to watch the Super Bowl with people you care about and give them a hug. Oh, and here are two guys who will make that potentially sincere message feel silly and odd.
T-Mobile (Simple pink background with text.)
“Maybe next year we’ll hire a big celebrity.” Loved it. Brilliant.
Coke/America the Beautiful
I get and like America’s melting pot personality, and I appreciate Coke’s world view. They did it so well with “I’d like to teach the world to sing.” But America the Beautiful? Hmm. For Coke’s global audience, isn’t that a tad rude? And for Coke’s American audience, wasn’t that a little preachy, bordering on unpatriotic?
Bob Dylan for . . . (was it Chevy?)
“Nothing is more American than America”? Huh. Also, nothing is more sliced and bready than sliced bread.
Budweiser Puppy-Horse Commercial
I almost loved it. But I wouldn’t have picked “Puppy Love” as the theme song. (Are the dog and horse “best buds” as the clever tagline says or are they in love?)
Were I the creative director, the friendship between the horse and dog would have brought the farmer and dog breeder together. (Wouldn’t that have been better than, as one friend put it, a carjacking?)
Pistachios
In a word, Wonderful. One of the few ads in which using a celebrity meshes perfectly with their existing advertising campaign. And Colbert was his normal, deadpan hilarious self. (Pistachio!)
Matrix Car Commercial
Today, I am going to turn Nessun Dorma (one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written) up loud and hope that Pavarotti can help me forget I ever saw/heard this commercial. (Also, interesting, using a song about not knowing a name to run a commercial for which I cannot remember the brand.)
Go Daddy’s Muscle Men Running to Tanning Salon
I thought this one was fun—and a much more appropriate campaign for the Go Daddy target audience than their previous ads aimed at those needing a domain name for a porn site.
Cheerios Little Brother and a Puppy
I still don’t have any idea why people are so upset about the depiction of this mixed race family. But I’m never a fan of portraying children as manipulative little brats who get their way.
Butterfinger Candy Ménage
Saved the worst for last. Creepy concept. Creepy people. And the worlds worst marriage therapist.
P.S. If the name of your candy bar includes the words butt and finger, perhaps you should avoid the deviant sex analogy?
Richard Sherman, May I Call You Dick?
I once dropped an enormous F-bomb in the midst of a heated softball game. A reporter and cameraman were not in the stands that day. But my parents were. It is difficult, even now, all these years later, to share what they said to me after the game, but I can tell you, they did not say, “Well, you played well, so we’re still thrilled to be your parents right now.”
True, an amateur softball game cannot compare to an NFL playoff game, but that’s not my point.
When I saw Sherman’s outrageous outburst following Sunday’s NFL playoff, I thought it was surprising (and kind of hilarious). I thought, “Boy-oh-boy-oh, this guy is going to be mortified once he calms down.” And I thought, “The media is going to have a field day with such a blatant display of poor sportsmanship.”
But he isn’t. And they haven’t.
His explanation has been, well, less than apologetic. (“I’m most sorry about the coverage this has received.”) Many are standing up for him. (“That’s the kind of guy I’d want on my team.”) And the Beats commercial featuring him rolling his eyes about his bad image has begun to run more often.
What the heck?
Despite what the talking heads seem to be implying in their coverage of negative reaction among fans, I am not a stupid, single-minded automaton who can’t understand the situation.
Guess what, regular folks know that competition can be emotional, that spirits run high when your adrenalin is pumping. We’re actually quite capable of understanding why Sherman lost his mind. We’re even capable of feeling bad for him that it happened in front of a reporter and a cameraman.
(Oh, and btw, most of us don’t make millions doing what we do, but we all face challenges with far greater consequences than a trophy. Just sayin’.)
Humans — regular or famous — are silly, emotional, passionate, imperfect creatures. We all make mistakes. We take our turn being stupid or angry or mean or thoughtless. But some of us? When we screw up, we acknowledge our mistake and aspire to do better. It’s likely the main reason our species has continued to exist.
Mistakes make us human. Admitting our mistakes and trying to do better makes us lovable. Acting as if you are exempt from the endeavor has the opposite effect.
And that is why people like me will carry on, knowing what’s really important in life, and understanding football quite well enough, thank-you-very-much. For example:
- This Sherman fellow is just one man among fewer than 1,700 players in the football world (and 7 billion people in the real world).
- Sherman is only 25 years old, with time to learn.
- The Seahawks team doctor has stated that Sherman’s aggressive behavior stems from having a tiny penis.
- I shouldn’t have written that last bullet. I need to be a better person.
- Let’s go, Broncos!
B-attitude
Blessed are the kind-hearted.
Blessed are the imperfect.
Blessed are those who trust in goodness – but learn from experience.
Blessed are the funny, the witty, and the droll.
Blessed are the stupid, for they doth be amusing.
Blessed are those who preserve and run old movies.
Blessed are those who use a turn signal.
Blessed are the misunderstood; one day they shall be vindicated. Or at least learn not to give a rat’s ass.
Blessed are those with their head up their arse (because at least that shuts them up).
Blessed are they who do not forward chain letters.
Blessed are those who hope despite all of the evidence.
Blessed are those creative enough to design a bumper sticker that isn’t in the shape of a looped ribbon.
Blessed are they who still make, sell, buy, and read real books.
Blessed are the cheese makers.
Blessed are the silly for they lie closest to understanding the world.
Blessed are the lapsed Catholics.
Be Nice.
Today’s epiphany is: I like Garbage Men. They’re like Santa in reverse.
Make a list of the things you really don’t want. Old stuff, ripped stuff, smooshed stuff. The stinky, the rotten, the gross. The used, the broken, the empty. Check your waste baskets, check them twice, and gather up everything, naughty or nice, and then, by dark of night, place it all at the curb. And go quietly, serenely to bed.
When you awake, you can run down the stairs, throw back the shutters, and press your nose against the glass to see if it’s true. Yes! Yes! They came! They were here! It has all disappeared. The banana peels and apple cores; the can and jar labels; the evidence that you ate an entire box of cookies and a pizza; the moldy bread, shrimp tails, bits of lunchmeat; the shredded junk mail, discarded envelopes, and snipped circulars; the soggy paper towels, cigarette butts, earwaxed Q-Tips, and boogered tissues; even the clumps of cat poo. It has all gone away. Like magic.
Almost.
I was driving down my street this morning and had to stop behind the garbage truck to wait for a chance to pass as men picked up their sacks. And I saw it happen. An overstuffed wimpy-wimpy-wimpy bag fell to pieces. And I heard the garbage man yell. It was an involuntary roar. It was a cinematic No! It was a resonating moment of human angst, as real as any of us feels when a rotten, stinking workday goes from bad to worse.
Were he anything like me, he probably would have considered going up on the rooftop to drop garbage in this person’s chimney. But he didn’t. He went to the truck and grabbed a shovel to scoop it all up.
As he made it to the back of the truck with a third shovel full, I saw my chance to pass and pulled away, noticing, as I drove through the neighborhood, how many more garbage bags there were to be picked up. I couldn’t help but think about what it must be like to do his job every day, picking up stinking bags in the middle of August or hanging onto the side of a steel truck in early February.
Starting next garbage night, I am going to double-bag the messy stuff and triple bag the used kitty litter. I’m not going to try to fit quite so much into each bag. And I’ll be more aware of the awkward and the heavy. I don’t suppose it would be sanitary to leave them a glass of milk and a plate of cookies, but these good elves will be getting a better tip from my house come Christmas.
P.S. I would like to acknowledge, for perhaps the first time ever, how very nice it is to work indoors at a computer.
Unemployment Benefits
So, I lost my job a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve yet to fully comprehend all of the documentation I’ve received from the Unemployment Compensation program, Cobra, and the 401(k) people, but tonight I’m taking a moment to celebrate the following benefits:
1. Winter clothes in storage. Yes, it’s mid-August and I’ll start switching back in a month or so anyway, but what the heck, it feels good.
2. Alterations on misfit clothing begun. The key benefit represented here being that this means I figured out how to run a bobbin all by myself.
3. House is tidy.
4. I’ve been eating homemade meals. (And there aren’t any dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter or in the oven.)
5. Files from my first home computer, which hasn’t been plugged in since 2004, have been transferred to my current computer.
6. My purse has no extra lint, receipts, expired coupons, or 10-pound lump of pennies.
7. My garden looks as if I know what I’m doing.
8. Xenosaga III completed.
9. My home laptop now has the latest version of itunes loaded, my music is in The Cloud, and I have synced my iPod shuffle that I got for Christmas 2 years ago.
10. Caught up on laundry, email, facebook, and sleep.
11. It’s Sunday night. And I have no nasty black-pit feeling in my stomach.
12. Last but not least, my favorite benefit: Time to write.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
I Got a Charge Out of It
When iPods first came out, I did want one. However, as the current or former owner of two portable record players, three transistor radios, approximately seven different clock radios, two boom boxes, a stereo (with tuner, turntable, cassette player, CD player, then dual cassette player, then five-disc CD player), a Walkman, three different portable cassette players, a portable CD player, a CD player-radio that hangs on the wall, a TV cable package with stations that play uninterrupted music, and two computers able to operate iTunes — not to mention a piano, a harmonica, an accordion, and a decent singing voice — I wasn’t exactly camping out or breaking open the piggy bank to be among the first to own one.
In fact, I only got an iPod Shuffle about five years ago. Thanks to Apple’s annoying habit of updating iTunes so often that sorting out which computers had which music and which version to sync with, it was actually 2013 before I had an iPod — with music on it.
I used it exactly once. And forgot to turn it off.
So, the next time I went to use it, a couple of months back, it would not play. I read the instruction booklet and realized I needed to charge it using the USB cable that it came with. Hmmm. I checked the box it came in. I searched the drawer where the box was stored. I searched the rest of my home office. I searched other rooms and other drawers and even dragged from the living room closet the big, bad basket of tangled, writhing, Indiana-Jones-awaiting, possibly-useful-but-unlabeled gadget cables.
I did not find it. I could not think of where else it might be.
To be fair, my thinking is done with a brain old enough to have bounced in my skull as I danced in the backyard with my little sister and a transistor radio playing that cool, new hit single, Benny and the Jets. My memory being what it is, I couldn’t be sure enough to call Apple and say it hadn’t come with one; I couldn’t be sure enough that it had come with one to justify additional searching. Feeling a bit despondent about the charger — and my mental faculties — I gave up.
After stumbling over the big basket of miscellaneous cables for a couple of months, I decided to sort out all of The Things that creep and crowd into the living room closet when I’m not looking. (And the things I cram in there when company is coming.)
As any one who has owned a home for more than two years knows, efficient, effective clean up is all about moving your stuff from one place to another. And, so, I decided to move all board games from the closet onto some living room book shelves. (Think of it as a game of Blockhead and Jenga and Old Maid cussing.) Among the stacking and fitting of various (why the hell can’t the board game people decide on a standard size?) boxes, there was a card box. Just a little wooden box, decoupaged by my Mom back in the Elton John days, to hold a deck of playing cards. The last time I recall opening the box was when I placed an un-used, souvenir deck into it and closed the lid, probably eight years ago or so.
I truly do not know what compelled me to open the box. Sentimentality? A Pandoric curiosity? Some not-dead-only-sleeping brain cell? Who knows. But, I opened it, and, lo and behold, it held: a deck of cards. And the iPod Shuffle charger!
How in the heck did it get there? I’ve had no Eureka moment, no recollection, no memory. Nor can I think of one reason why, on any given day, in any situation, I would have considered a deck of cards as the right spot for part of my Shuffle.
Today’s life preserver is: The giggle-inducing discovery of an unintended pun.
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June 5, 2014 at 6:29 pm Leave a comment