There Goes Honey Boo Boo

I can’t even really tell you what Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is. As near as I can tell, it’s a reality show about some blond woman and her blond daughter, and I have absolutely no desire to know any more. My desire to know registers at 0 degrees on the Kelvin scale — absolute zero. I could not be more pleased at being completely in the dark as far as our national cultural conversation regarding this show. I don’t care who Honey Boo Boo is or where she’s coming from or where she’s going. I am completely apathetic about the nature of this girl’s nickname. I am incurious about every member of this family. I do not want to know how they live. I do not want to know what they think. I do not want to know about their family history. I do not want to know their dreams or fears. And I certainly hope to God I never actually have to watch any of their show. The following is a partial list of things I’d rather do than watch Here Comes Honey Boo Boo: Scrub the toilet, wait in line at the DMV, get a cavity filled, sit in traffic for several hours, stub my toe, shovel snow, stay late at work on a Friday or clean the litter box. I have complete torpor about watching these people on a serious or ironic level. I refuse to watch them just to laugh at them. I cannot bring myself to appreciate them as any sort of cultural phenomenon. I do not understand in general that things are “like a car crash — horrible but you can’t look away” because I never stop to look at car crashes so I refuse to rubberneck at these people’s lives. I regret to say that I will not be participating in any kind of sociological analysis of Honey Boo Boo as a person or analysis of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo as a TV show. I cannot watch these people and wring my hands and make them into a synecdoche about American culture because I cannot even muster the truly negligible effort required to hit “guide” on my remote to find out when and where the show airs. Because I just don’t care. At all. Likewise, I cannot use Here Comes Honey Boo Boo as a lament of what television has become because even by hate-watching a show to make fun of people or complain about the depths of reality TV culture, you’re still participating in that culture and you might be better off picking up a book once in awhile.

The Roof Over My Head

The weird split in our upstairs ceiling is like a metaphor come to life. I often get the pervasive sense that so many things in my life are rickety. The creaking floorboard means we will crash down into the basement. The hitch in my engine means my car will break down. Everything seems fragile and my fear was always that someday we will notice a crack on the ceiling — the ultimate symbol of a lack of security. And now it’s happening. It’s almost funny if I think about it.

It’s not really a crack on the ceiling. It appears to be some sort of thick wallpaper that the previous owners painted over and now that wallpaper is splitting at the seams. So there’s no damage to the ceiling that I can see but this is a cause of concern or curiosity. There’s a very faint halo of water damage but it’s only something you can see if you turn the lights on and really look for it. For all I know, it’s old damage that somebody fixed and covered up.

There haven’t been any drips, even with the heavy rain we had last Saturday, so I’m not noticing an actual leak. It’s the only place in the house that it’s happening so maybe we’re catching whatever it is early. This is right outside the bathroom so maybe the steam from the shower is collecting and that’s what’s making the wallpaper split at the seams. Is it my imagination or does the ceiling feel just slightly damp after a shower?

Who knows? Maybe this isn’t a big deal in reality. But it is in my mind.

Steve told me not to worry about it until we get an answer because he knows how I’ll get. My mind can be like a runaway freight train and I go from zero to worst-case scenario in four seconds. I know it’s irrational but the split is bigger in my mind’s eye.

This is not something that keeps me up at night but it does chip away at my sense of security. I worry that this little crack will foretell roof work that will cost thousands. I worry that this problem will be something that I could have solved a long time ago if I’d been more vigilant and then I will hear a voice in my head saying, “How long did you know you had this homework assignment due?” I worry what festering threat a roofer will uncover. Of course, we could also need a minor resealing, which I don’t think costs a lot for rowhomes.

Yeah, I know I signed up for this as a homeowner but it would be nice to get a break for at least a little while since the last year or two, it’s been one thing after another with replacing appliances and needing other work done. On the bright side, needing a new roof is like the biggest thing a homeowner can replace and once we deal with that, we’ll have gone through it and hopefully won’t need to face that fear again.

147%

Many people have pointed out that Mitt Romney’s assertion that 47 percent of people pay no taxes is true but there’s more nuance as far as who makes up that 47 percent. Those numbers include a healthy total of people who do pay payroll taxes (which support entitlement programs), the elderly and people who don’t make enough income to be taxed. I’ve read that the total of 47 percent includes people who owe nothing due to tax breaks and the very wealthy. (I found a helpful article on this at http://www.theatlanticwire.com/politics/2012/09/who-are-47/56965/ )

So it’s not as if almost half the country is sitting around on the couch eating bon-bons, waiting for the welfare checks to come in and laughing at those suckers who work for a living. These 47 percent do pay, or have paid, something. There is more nuance there and what bothers me is that Romney didn’t acknowledge that in his speech to donors. The fact that older people living on income tax-exempt Social Security comprise part of that 47 percent should be obvious to most of us. I don’t know what’s more disturbing: That Romney actually didn’t know that or that he chose to gloss over it in order to be divisive.

I had already decided to vote for President Obama, despite the fact that I am not entirely thrilled with his first four years, but after Romney’s speech, my 100 percent certainty became 147 percent. I have no patience when anyone who aspires to leadership can make a blanket statement about 150 million people. To do so reveals a limited mind.

I can be as judgmental as any human sometimes but I hesitate to make judgments about such large swaths of people. I understand the impulse to vote for Romney and I would never try to brush off his voters as having one mind. But Romney did. He metaphorically looked 300 million Americans in the eye and told them he knew their mindset: victimhood. That’s an obnoxious, condescending view and it’s not worthy of someone who wants to be a leader.

It kills me to see people who are wealthy complain about their taxes. Sure, they might pay a higher rate than someone with less income but you think they could look around at their nice house and car and vacation souvenirs and think, “I’m doing OK so maybe I should quit moaning.” If Romney thinks there are people in this country who see themselves as victims, he might want to take a closer look because many of those victims are probably his peers with more money than they know what to do with who are still whining because someone else might be getting a welfare check and taking 57 cents of their tax money.

There are important conversations to be had about tax reform in this country but calling people victims or freeloaders isn’t it. The tax system is so complicated that we can’t simply divide people into makers and takers. At times, all of us are both. I might pay school taxes for someone’s child and that person might pay for the road I’m driving on. We pool our resources for the good of the country. It’s the way government has to work and anyone with a lick of sense should understand that.

I complain about not having money like any middle class person, since we’ve had our fair share of having to spend on our house and cars, but I have been trying to look around and be grateful for what I have. We’re doing OK. We’re not living the lifestyles of the rich and famous, but we have jobs, a house, food on the table and an occasional vacation. I’m not going to waste my time being bitter or angry that someone might be getting more for less.

This country would be better off if we all worried about ourselves and not that the guy down the street might be getting a little more than he contributed. Too many people sound like kids at a birthday party, jealous that somebody is getting a bigger piece of cake than he deserves. It’s not a flattering look.

Oh, I really wish you wouldn't

Hey, could you do me a favor? Please don’t use the phrase “off of.” It’s always just “off,” as in, “Come off it, Brian.” Saying “off of” really sets my teeth on edge so I’d appreciate it if you would stop doing it.

And while you’re at it, would you be so kind as to use the subjunctive mood correctly? It’s always “if I were” and never “if I was.” Likewise, you really should say “I wish I were” rather than “I wish I was.” This is a minor quibble but it does bother me so be a pal and please try to be more aware. Thanks so much.

I hate to be a pest about it but could you please be aware of your run-on sentences? A number of times, I’ve seen you string together several thoughts with commas. If I might make a suggestion, you’d be better off making these disparate thoughts into separate sentences. If you’re cognizant of how to use a semicolon properly, you could also take advantage of that mark of punctuation. That would be great.

Once again, just as a friendly reminder, the writer or speaker implies; the reader or listener infers. For example, you can infer that I am implying that you do not use these words correctly. If you would kindly keep them straight, it would be a huge help.

Also, permit me to point out that “loose” is an adjective while “lose” is a verb. Furthermore, the past tense of “lead” is spelled “led,” not “lead.” Just thought I’d throw that out there.

Let me also just point out that sometimes one should use “me” instead of “I.” One should say “between her and me” rather than “between she and I.” It’s counterintuitive since we perceive that the use of “I” is somehow more correct or smarter-sounding but it can make one seem less educated if one misuses first person pronouns. Forgive me if I seem pedantic.

You might also want to lay off the passive voice. Your writing will carry much more force and be less stilted if you use the active voice. But that’s just my opinion.

Finally, let’s have a quick review. “They’re” is a contraction of “they are.” “Their” is possessive. “There” denotes a place. If you could keep these straight, I’d be eternally grateful. You’d be surprised how many people confuse these three homonyms.

Thanks in advance.  

Things to Remember 2012

Seven days of flawless blue skies
Seven nights of sitting on the deck laughing and drinking
“Fucked It Up Again”
Are you ready for some cursing? Fuck yeah!
Shore Whore ‘12 from Ladytron to “Purple Rain”
Rock Band
douche commercials
Extra soft for me because my cunt's sensitive
Extra cleansing for me because my cunt's fucking nasty
Dogfish Head beer sampler
“Raindrops Keep Falling on My Twat”
Olympic douche torch
Twat Nuggets
National Headquarters of the Jit Face Painting Society
the Playgirl submission
spaghetti and meatballs
telling the woman walking to shut the fuck up
the wind pelting us with sand
hookah
the defaced Dallas Cowboys bottle opener
Dos Equis
phantom drain crotch deedler
no noise complaints
helping the SUV stuck in the sand
a game of Setback
clogged toilet
ribs at Nick’s
hawks circling
convicts putting up fencing at the beach
synchronized masturbating orchestra
gentrified concentration camp
Alabama Hot Pocket
Impractical Jokers and Tosh.0
BBQ burgers
BBQ chicken
spread eagle bald bitches
tater tots
the Indian River Bridge finally finished
128 ounces of beer in the trunk
ice tea vodka shots
chicken leftover tetrazini
a dirty game of Sentences
my ass is bored
zucchini summer
a parade of motorcycles down Route 1
a triathlon on Route 1

Thanks for another great year! I'm grateful that we can still get together at Seatowne 14!

Who Knew?

Here is a partial list of things that I have realized only in the last few years:

There are two spellings for discreet/discrete. “Discreet” refers to discretion of people in sensitive situations. “Discrete” refers to distinct units. I never thought about it before.

There is only one Stanley Cup. I used to think every hockey championship team got its own cup. That’s why I never knew why it was a big deal when the Stanley Cup was in the stadium when a team was about to clinch. I figured there were 70 of them out there.

You should use “farther” to describe distance and “further” to denote progress. It’s embarrassing that an editor didn’t know this for years. Now I can’t not see this when I read something.

The store Staples not only refers to staples that fasten paper but also basic items you keep as staples in your office. I just figured it was referring to the metal staples.

For years I had misspelled ecstasy as ecstacy. For shame.

Sigh. You know what? That’s all I got for this week. I’m burnt out on everything. I need to get out of here for awhile. I need to disconnect my brain and absorb some late-summer sun and salt air.

I’ll be back Sept. 17, hopefully as a new man.

A Florid Tribute to the Working Class Poet of America

I’m going to complain about something that it’s too late to do anything about and that nobody cares about and that the people who actually could do anything about aren’t reading this anyway. Which is the best type of complaint to make. (I dare you to diagram those sentences.)

I have never been to the National Constitution Center but would like to go sometime. But I can’t understand why it has had exhibits on Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen. Is it because they … sing about America? If so, we should have an exhibit on every person who sings about America. The short list for this is “everybody.”

I’m not getting it. The National Constitution Center should be a place for unspeakably dorky governmental and historic topics. I’d like to see things like a display of James Monroe’s presidential papers, or the evolution of the Third Amendment or a diorama of famous Supreme Court cases. The National Constitution Center should be a place for that kind of thing, which you can’t get everywhere. It should lay off the pop culture, which you can find pretty much anywhere. I wouldn’t even want to go there to see an exhibit on an artist I care about.

I have nothing against Springsteen but can we lay off the Springsteen = America shorthand? I got it. I’ve been hearing this idea ad nauseam for decades now and it’s time to give it a goddamn rest. I said I got it: Bruce Springsteen is the poet of America.

Oh, was that language not florid enough for you? Here, let me top myself and present my case in language that’s a deep shade of purple, as music and culture writers have been doing about the Boss since 1657:

Bruce Springsteen is the Cowboy Poet of Working Class America. Bruce writes the words and sings the notes that give a poetic quality to our everyday yearning, expressed in language that is evocative as fuck. Bruce’s eyes are the highway down which our rheumy eyes stare and wish for a better life. Bruce’s voice is the unpaid bills and working class troubles before which we sigh wistfully. In Bruce’s verses can we find that magical summer at the Jersey shore when we all chased after that girl in the red dress. In Bruce’s choruses can we hear the rain on abandoned buildings that inspires us to get out of this town and yet keep talking about the town after we leave. Bruce is the bard through which we pour our hopes, dreams and fears, as domestic beer pours through the urethra of a weary longshoreman in an Asbury Park dive bar. Bruce is Working Class America.

To sum up, New Jersey. Convertibles. Boardwalk. Blue collar. Blind dates. State fair. Gambling. Jeans. Colanders. Beer.

Auto mechanics.