A couple of months ago, I started seeing
the words “Harlem Shake” out of the side of my eye at an increasing
rate. Natural, mindless curiosity — which creates the “viralness” of a
cyber phenom — would usually have me clicking to see what this thing — … song? … dance? … video? — was all about.
There’s one reason I’d really like to
have children someday and one reason I want to get my tubes tied the
next chance I get, and they both happen to be the same thing. I don’t want to stop being a kid myself.
The neighbors I have now are no doubt the
friendliest, most interesting and, well, neighborly street-mates I’ve
ever encountered. So why do I sometimes find myself avoiding them, or
any potential friends for that matter? The concept of neighborhood
etiquette (and previously, dorm life) is totally lost on me.
If there’s one thing that Facebook is
good for, it’s learning about stuff that’s happening on the Internet. My
colleague Mike Breen recently posted a humorous comment along with a
story he shared titled, “Mother Tried to Sell Her Kids on Facebook for
$4,000.” Mike’s take: “What an idiot! That’s what Craigslist is for!”
Most people who play poker know more
terminology than applicable math, which you might be surprised to learn
is essential to the game. But because anyone at the table can win any
hand at any time, there’s a misleading allure to the contest. People who
play badly sometimes beat people who play well.
When I think of prejudiced people, I
envision ignorant, ultra-conservative, hateful people out of touch with
modern reality. But fat-shaming comes from all types of people —
including educated, progressive, alternative folks that one wouldn’t
tend to pigeonhole as discriminatory.
Though we’re only about seven weeks into
2013, many of this year’s top stories (or, rather, the stories the media
has made into “top stories”) share a common thread — often, people are
not what they seem.
The other day, you called me just to talk, and it scared the shit out of me. You sat down, somewhere quiet and alone,
gambling a little bit of your evening hoping I’d pick up and gamble a
little bit of mine on you, too.
It’s pretty widely accepted that creative
types — the kind whose work is meant to disseminated — share a common
trait: swollen, bulging egos that must constantly be nursed with
attention, positive or otherwise. The writer writes, of course, because
he likes the sound of his own voice.
I remember riding to Corsi Tree Farm way
out in Hamersville, Ohio, in those seats and stretching my short, stubby
legs. Today, the ride to Corsi makes me
claustrophobic. I can barely move; Dylan’s bony knees clank with mine.
Damn Dad’s long-legged McCartney gene. Toys have been swapped out for
smartphones, which keep us preoccupied on the long, coiling drive there.
One of the main things that holds our
society together is trusting one another. We, as humans, rely on other
humans to follow established rules and do their “jobs,” whether it’s a
surgeon, a pilot, a cop or a politician (go ahead, giggle).
Can women be funny? It’s a question so
brain-numbingly idiotic that it’s best left ignored, but that’s
difficult when multiple facets of the media — from pop culture bloggers
to comedians on Twitter — recycle the “debate” over and over again.