but seriously folks, what the hell was up with that house?

I’m not big on small talk. I know, right? Shocker. A typical mindless social convention I can’t wrap my head around. That just might be the theme of my life. Anyway, on Monday, when buying a new pair of hiking shoes for camp this summer, I ran into something I never expect but always dread—a talkative fellow patron. A TFP is typically an older man, probably white, a little bit fat, and wearing some kind of plaid. He will probably use words that no one uses any more (“dungarees,” “chums”) and remind you why you worry when your dad goes to a store alone to buy something for the whole family. He might be in front of you in line, next to you on a plane, or in this case, also trying on shoes. “I can never find anything here,” he’ll say to you, “what kind of shoes are those?” He remembers the halcyon days of yore when salespeople spoke English and had any idea where anything was—two things that we modern shoppers no longer expect. “What are the ones I had before the ones I had last time?” he asked “Manuel.” “Manuel” did not know.

As annoying as a TFP is, there is a sense of inevitability to it all. A TFP tends to be harmless and good-natured, in no way trying too hard. I’m sure when I am his age, I will have no idea how to get the robot to fix my rocket car. So karma will eventually get me. I like a different approach in stores—avoid the store employees as much as possible. This might be an extension of the whole not-wanting-grocery-store-cashiers-to-know-I’m-making-enchiladas-for-dinner branch of crazy. But it is also a different thing. I don’t want to bother them. I know that working retail is generally awful, and I don’t want to open up a big bunch of crazy on them (I recently started a phone call to a receptionist in San Jose with “so, I have a series of potentially stupid questions” and then took her on a little journey through my orthodontic history and my love of dental hygiene before dropping the fact that I had moved to New York seven years ago).

Even when I have a list of things to buy, I attack it with the Associate Justice Potter Stewart philosophy (you know, “I know it when I see it”). So any store trip takes a few inefficient laps around, just getting a feel for what is there, before I even get down to business. It also turns into a hide-and-seek horror movie scene as I actively try to avoid the salespeople. (Why did he go upstairs? Why do they always go upstairs? There’s no escape! Don’t go into the clearance racks! Doesn’t he know there’s a short girl hanging shirts in there? “Hi, do you need any help?” Run! Run! She has a 10% off your purchase today pending approval of a Gap Credit Card offer!)

I also had an old man ask me for a pair of sandals in a size 8. But he was not a TFP as much as an old, old man who probably had no idea where he was or why some people here wore matching white polo shirts with the Sports Authority logo on it and why some people wore blue hoodies that say “Old Navy Surplus” on them.

In any case, when I go shopping, I am perfectly content finding everything myself and not interacting with anyone. I am not looking to meet a friend as much as I am looking for a reasonably priced pair of sneakers that I like. I suppose that is what a TFP is looking for too—just with a different philosophy. Something like, I am going to find these shoes, and if I make a friend or two along the way, well that’s just fine by me! Something he learned when he lived in Mayberry. The TFP really is just an outdated social convention trying to buy shoes in this cruel modern world. Not the worst thing in the world.

No, the title is held by something else. The worst social interaction of the modern age (and potentially, the worst thing in the world) is the forced nostalgia conversation. You know, when a bunch of people who probably don’t have much in common besides physical location at that moment and, possibly, age, sit around and talk about the things they remember from ten, fifteen years ago. But not remembering shared experiences. No, no. You just sit around and list the movies and TV shows that you all watched as a kid like an unfunny version of a VH1 series.

It starts out better than it ends, for sure. Typically, it begins with more personal anecdotes (“My brother and I used to watch that show after school every day,” “I remember listening to that album over and over on cassette tape in my Casio tape player!”), which is just fine, if told well. Then, midway through, you get to the analyzing the odd logic of old things section (“I know your mom died, but don’t worry, her brother is moving in, as well as this…other guy! But don’t worry, it’s not so creepy because he can do Bullwinkle impressions”), which is sort of like hearing stale stand up comedy. And eventually it just reduces down to naming things (“Remember Ren and Stimpy?”). You don’t even have to qualify it. Just name something! Smurfs! Slap bracelets! Hammer pants! Doesn’t even have to be from the right decade! No one even cares any more! Zack Morris mobile phone! Sophie B. Hawkins! Kurt Cobain’s suicide! The Little Mermaid!!

The true problem is that most the time, people are lying. For some reason, these conversations turn into a big “if you don’t also remember this, you are not cool” party. So, of course you watched every single show that ever played on television between 1982 and 1996, despite the fact that you were born in 1991. Of course you were watching R-rated movies when you were 6. Why wouldn’t you remember music from when you were a baby? I mean, I’m sure that my parents played Madonna and Wham on repeat to me as I lay in the crib, trying to figure out what my toes were. I was singing along the whole time.

Again, there is something to be said for bridging the gaps between people with whom you have nothing in common besides the decade of your birth. That is fine. The problem is when it turns into a desperate attempt to earn the collective approval of the group by inventing a childhood that was not yours. This is not some noble attempt to forget your abusive past. This is pretending you watched a TV show you did not. Way to go. I’m pretty sure if you admit to not watching Rocko’s Modern Life, they will still believe you were born in 1986.

So, really, I’d take a TFP in line with me in the vestibule of a bank any day over a FNC with high school kids ten years my junior. Also, how do you like those initialisms? I hear the kids use them today. Why the face?

and of course, i end up being the miranda

When I decided to start blogging, I wanted it to be whimsical musings about the inconsequential and a hyperbolic retelling of the things that happen in my life. Entries were supposed to have a beginning, middle, and an end, as well as a title and a theme. The one thing I did not want my blog to be was the “why didn’t he call me back????????????????????????????” sort of nonsense that plagues the internet—and the minds of people everywhere. “This song speaks to exactly how I feel (which is sad)!!!!!!!!!”

But, I started my blog on a Monday night, and on that Tuesday (also known as, less than 24 hours later), I got laid off. But, it was the holidays and hope was high and on and on. But now, hope is low. The “why didn’t he call me back” applies to every employer in New York City. Like, sure, I would love to come in for three interviews and just never hear from you again. My life has sort of a Sex and the City vibe—living in NYC, meeting up with men and women all over for lunchtime rendezvous, giving strangers my phone number and wondering why no one calls. Except without any of the alcohol, friends or sex. He’s just not that into you, indeed.

Job-hunting is not so dissimilar from the world of dating, except instead of wondering if you are going to die alone, you sit around and wonder if you should give up things like health insurance or dental floss or Netflix (for the record, Netflix would go before dental floss but probably after health insurance). So instead of blogging about iPads and dry cleaners and my Justin Bieber haircut, I only really feel like I think about Corinda (my unemployment specialist), which toiletries I could do without (I’m thinking razors and cotton balls), and what sort of daily activities can I do that are free (go to the library, walk the dog, watch Designing Women clips on Youtube) (Dixie Carter, rest in peace).

So, as much as I try not to be a downer to everyone I meet and everything I touch, it just spills out everywhere like the inside of a jelly doughnut. Go ahead and ask, “So, what’s new?” It begins with an exaggerated sigh, followed by an emphatic “nothing AT ALL.” Then we go through the journey of my last couple of fruitless interviews (he answered his cell phone in the middle!) and new life plan (which are sounding more and more like defeatist get-rich-quick schemes). My apologies to anyone I’ve interacted with since, say, mid-February.

I am sure the grass really is greener on the other side, but I find myself looking at people working and feeling like a street urchin staring in on a glorious Sunday Roast—my face pressed up against the window of a Citibank, looking longingly at the desks and phones and mindless Solitaire playing. Please, sir, can I have an interoffice envelope and a Rolodex?

So, what do we do? Stop by the local Dunkin’ Donuts and offer to take the midnight to eight AM shift? Find a senile heiress and marry her on the quick? Learn how to drive a cab? I mean, I live the life that I assume most people would kill for—I get a solid 12 hours of sleep a night, I read books and watch all the TV I want and have plenty of time to do my hair in the morning (and by morning, I mean mid-afternoon). So, I could be doing a lot worse. But soon enough, something’s got to give.

So, gentle reader, I do apologize for blog as of late. You know what they say about our best-laid plans. I had great ideas (and by great, I mean “not pathetic”) that just never came to be. I do have a couple of things cooking, though. So, stay tuned. I do have thoughts on Tiger Woods and new airline fees and the fact that I am wearing a pair of basketball shorts underneath obscenely torn pants because I’m too poor to buy new ones. You’re all on the edges of your seats, I’m sure.

also, i apparently equate winning dancing with the stars and passing health care reform. in my life, i'd really take either

I have now been unemployed for over a quarter of a year. That’s an entire season. My unemployment baby is now in his second trimester. It took Donny Osmond less time to win Dancing with the Stars. We actually got the House to approve the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act faster than it took me to get a job. Also, the next person who refers to it as “Obamacare” gets punched in the face. In the Netflix queue of words that make me want to vomit all over myself, Obamacare is somewhere in between Brangelina and FTW (pretty high up the list, in case it isn’t obvious).

So, in these three months, I have discovered what surely others have discovered—people have an endless supply of bad advice. I don’t mean bad as in advice that could have been fruitful but went the other way. You know, the “sure, yeah, invest in that stock” or “I am pretty sure she said fifteen feet” or “I think his name is Martin” kind of advice. Nor am I talking about the kind of advice that was, I’m sure, helpful back in 1955 or whenever this person is drawing knowledge from. Like my grandmother, who suggested instead of buying I desk, I make one out of orange crates. Which is great advice for the Okies making it across the country from the Dust Bowl, I’m sure. But seeing as I question the quality and safety of the actual oranges from most stores, I doubt that a crate is anywhere to be seen. Not to mention the scene of me stacking together these crates sounds like beginning of the story of how I managed to nail my foot into my hardwood floor.

I am talking about the sort of bad advice that is just never good. It didn’t spoil over the fifty years that have passed since it was opened. It was just always useless. And not only is it never good, it is not even advice. I’m talking about one specific thing: the “oh, I wish I had that kind of free time! You must be getting all kinds of things done.” Thus is born something I have deemed the unemployment curse.

Now, the worst parts of unemployment are obvious—no money, no health insurance, not much reason to leave the house daily, job hunting is actually crushing my soul, and every time you write a cover letter, an angel loses its wings. But people seem to think that is a great opportunity to find yourself and to do something you’ve always wanted to do. I think these are the same kind of people who bet they would get tons of reading done in prison. So, they believe, instead of focusing on negative, take a good look at the positive!

I think the problem really is that people have this expectation that the only thing stopping them from writing a novel or selling all their worldly possessions and backpacking in the Andes or finally learning how to play tennis is the fact that they spend the day in the office. Remove that, and dreams can come true. What I think people fail to remember is that you don’t leave the layoff meeting thinking, yes, I am ready (to plagiarize) to cease to be earthbound and burden by practicality. What you are thinking is, wow, if I don’t find a job very soon, I won’t be able to pay rent after next month. What a great time to start making hemp necklaces and selling them on Etsy.com!

So, while you spend your day changing the recipient’s address on your cover letter and trying not to use too much shampoo, you are also laden with the guilt that you should be reading more, visiting more museums, taking more walks, doing the sort of things that everyone should be doing. But instead of the typical excuse that work takes up too much of your time and energy, you have “nothing stopping you.” So why wouldn’t you finally tackle classic Russian novels or clean out that closet you’ve been meaning to clean? Think of it as your very own stay-cation (also on the vom-word queue)!

The curse is exactly that feeling that you are somehow wasting this horrible experience, that somehow when you finally do get a job again, you will look back at these few months and rue not having better used your time. Which is just mean. Why would you do that? You, that person who is down, let me kick you! Not only are you feeling rejected and useless and sad, you should also feel lazy and uninspired! Forget that you have trouble finding a reason to get up in the AM and put on clean clothes, you really should be trying to visit as many cultural institutions as possible. You’ll regret it if you don’t! People think that they are being helpful, but really, they are just being mean.

There are positive, optimistic people who see life in a way that is both joyful and enlightened. And then there are just stupid people who fail to see things as they really are. They are the sort of people who think that a smile and a dream can get them through anything, while at the same time they are unaware of their own pathetic tendencies. You know, the person who thinks that falling down all the time makes them endearing, not difficult to be around. These are the kind of people who cheerfully serve up what they feel is positive, optimistic advice that is actually terrible not-advice, specifically because they are stupid.

I am getting a lot of reading done, though.

in his defense, he is an indian guy with a beard

Sometime in your life, and likely, sometime during your day today, someone has complain-bragged to you. There are few things that turn me off more than a complain-brag. I doubt I am the first person to coin that term or decry this behavior, but it came up again in a recent conversation that started with “do you know what I hate?” In this case, it was sequels that use another form of the word “two.” (Yes, I’m looking at you, Tyler Perry). From there, we took a little journey of things that answer that question: the overpopulation hipsters in Soho, those Old Navy mannequin ads, skinny jeans, NYU freshmen, the way that the Village keeps changing, and, among others, complain-bragging.

Complain-bragging is exactly what it sounds like it is. Someone frames a brag in the form of a complaint. So, instead of smacking you in the face with a wave of overconfidence, they force your hand. You have to commiserate with the complaint, thereby affirming the brag. Let’s use an example. “Ugh, I have so much work to do this week because no one else in my department can be trusted to handle this material!” Or, “I’m so tired from working out so long at the gym last night!” Or, “It is so hard to find size 0 jeans in this store!” Or, “I can’t believe how expensive it is to get a BMW repaired in this city!”

The most egregious form of complain-bragging comes from, as the most egregious form of anything does, from annoying girls. You know how it goes. “Oh my god, I went out to this bar last night and these guys would not stop hitting on me!” Yeah, okay sweetie. Strangers thought you were attractive and told you so? Wow, your life sure sounds tough. You know the cure for that complaint. You go out one night, wear your short skirt and your low-cut top, you go do your hair and makeup and put on your heels, go out that night and have no guy hit on you all night. Sit around with your friends and have no guy pay any attention to you. Is that really what you want? No. No it isn’t. So just shut up.

But complain-bragging is not just the hallmark of an annoying girl. It is also deep in the pocket of any academic douchebag. “I can’t believe how heavy the seventeen books I checked out for my thesis were!” Here, in case it isn’t obvious, you are supposed to be impressed about the seventeen books. You are supposed to sympathize with the struggle of carrying all those books at the same time relate your awe that someone read seventeen books and is working on a thesis. How impressive! You managed both to carry home a bunch of crap, but also, you are really, really, really, really smart! Seventeen books worth of smart!

I like to play a different game. “Maybe you should have made a couple of trips.” Perhaps we can’t learn everything from books.

A complain-brag also has an equally ugly cousin with a longer, more hyphenated name (as ugly cousins often have): the self-deprecating-but-actually-self-aggrandizing joke. It follows the same sort of philosophy as the complain-brag. Instead of hailing the conquering hero (i.e., yourself), you make some comment that makes the other person inadvertently affirm you. It goes something like this:

A-hole: Yeah, I was so dumb. I was like “imagine libertarianism is a whale.” Look how fun and fancy free I am!

[Expected response]: Yeah, you are just a free-wheeling academic. Your whimsical references are at once silly, but also really insightful. Thanks for being both fun and smart!

Jesse response: Yeah, remember when you said used the word libertarianism in an English Lit class? Ew.

Let’s be clear. This is not the “does this shirt make me look fat” question. Nor is it the I-say-mean-things-about-myself-so-you-can-tell-me-good-things-about-me game. While those are also hallmarks of both annoying girls and academic douchebags, they are the tools of lesser such, well, tools. There is something more sinister, more calculated about the complain-brag. You are not just openly asking people for affirmation that you are so great (or at least perpetuate the myth that you are not fat). You are almost trying to trick people into giving it. You choose your words carefully and craft a conversation in which you steal from people both sympathy and admiration.

Person: Oh, I wish I could have done X in high school, but I was too busy with all my AP classes. (HA HA now you feel sorry for me for not doing whatever you were talking about, you will be impressed with how smart I was slash am!)

Now some of you keeping score may try to point out that I complain-brag about being called a high school student. Let me show you the distinction. I know I look younger than I am, and I enjoy that. But there is a huge difference between someone saying “oh, you look youthful and vibrant, full of life!” and “Oh, you look like you have not yet taken the SAT and are really looking forward to (junior) prom next year!” I especially loved when I was asked if we, my volunteers and I, were all high school volunteers. I would make big gestures, swirling my arms around everywhere: “THEEEEEEEY ARE; I graduated college. I have voted in multiple presidential elections. I have a 401k!” I try to list things that make me sound old. “I try to include extra fiber in my diet. I once had to see a doctor about acid reflux!”

I appreciate when I get carded at a bar. One such story:

Jesse: Can I get a beer?

Waitress: Sure, do you have ID?

Jesse: Sure. Do I look especially young or something?

Waitress: Oh, no we have to card anyone who looks under 30.

Jesse: Oh, okay.

Waitress: Great! [Checks ID].

Friend: Can I get a beer, too?

Waitress: Sure! [Leaves].

Jesse: HAHA YOU LOOK 35! I LOOK NINETEEN AND YOU LOOK OLD!

Also, I love the idea that it was like a 35-year-old and his 19-year-old friend, hanging out in some unromantic interracial version of Harold and Maude (yes, apparently a 35-year-old is now a Maude).

In any case, this is an epidemic that can stop with you! Be on the lookout for them and do not indulge them. If you see something, say something! (And by something, I really mean nothing).

my favorite line from hamlet: oh, i am slain!

Be yourself. So say Chris Cornell and the genie from Aladdin and at least one episode of every family sitcom or teen drama ever written. Plus, that Polonius guy did. It remains one of those ubiquitous morals that we are supposed to take away from every awkward middle schooler who stuffs her bra and every high school nerd who tries to fit in with the jocks for a day by making fun of his once-and-future friends. I think the idea is supposed to be that “everyone is different, and that’s okay.”

But, it’s not. Be yourself is really “everyone is different, and different people shouldn’t interact with each other (so just accept your lot in life, you flat-chested nerd).” Be yourself is more often than not a request to stop something than it is to be anything. It is actively being passive, as opposed to actively being.

Not only that, it is doled out as advice in the toughest of decisions. Don’t know what to do, don’t know which path to take? Well, just be yourself! Oh, okay! Thank god. I thought I might actually have to choose between things. Now, the answer is clear. I should just be myself!

…

…

…

Now what?

I just don’t understand why it continues to be a thing. Has anyone ever been told that and then felt elucidatory sense of revelation?

I have a problem with the idea that we have one true self that was somehow created upon birth. From the moment we emerge from the womb (or, depending on your religious and scientific belief, when sperm meets ovum) engraved into our being is some immutable self that is more pure and more true than the eventual socialization that occurs with, well, living. And we can talk Plato and Aristotle all we want, but it is still a ridiculous idea.

Worse yet, to me, is the idea that people shouldn’t have to change themselves ever. Just be yourself! I mean, people mean that to a point. Just be yourself (unless you’re a racist, then don’t be yourself)! Yes, obviously. But, be yourself, even if you don’t fit in, even if no one likes you, even if everyone actually hates you. Sure, okay. That’s fine, if that’s what you want to do. Fair enough. But the idea that “well, if people don’t like you, maybe the problem is you (and it probably is)” is somehow cruel advice is beyond me. Some things are just not likable. So you either got to change them or own them. One or the other. But changing them does not make you a bad person. In fact, you just might be the better person. I know several people who could better both themselves and the world by changing who they are.

And ultimately, it is nonsense. Be yourself. Oh okay. Hold on. Right now I am embodying this host body like a body snatcher, but if you give me a minute, I can return to my true form. You are always yourself! It’s just that sometimes that self is a self-involved, pandering, trying-too-hard douchebag. But, yes, that is still being yourself! And certainly, I do not want you to be that self more. Don’t be yourself!

I think what they mean is to tell the truth. Don’t lie. Sure. I’m against the idea of people, say, pretending they’re doctors and treating people. I am also against people pretending they have had experiences that they have not. You did NOT grow up watching that TV show that ended before you were born! Don’t become a fan of it on Facebook! Some people just love to participate in experiences that they don’t belong to, desperately glomming onto every tragedy or joke, trying to suck the marrow out of it like the starving cavewoman in the video they showed us in sixth grade to show us how cavepersons survived (apparently, by sucking the marrow out of bones) (also, Microsoft Word did not accept “cavepeople” as a word, but was fine with “cavepersons,” and I am inclined to let them have it).

One thing that KILLS me is Americans who use the world “football” to describe soccer. Unless you also say “lift” and “rubbish” and bin” and “tube” and the other goofy words that British people use to describe things with much more normal names (Brolly? Really?), you can’t say football. Also, if you did not grow up within the British Commonwealth, you cannot say any of those words. We don’t queue up. We don’t eat crisps. We don’t put petrol in our lorries. We don’t wear jumpers or trainers that our mum bought us. Sorry, you live in America.

For the record: the argument that “it’s football, you kick the ball with your foot” is nonsense. I refuse to even acknowledge that as a thought. Just like whenever someone brings up the parkway / driveway nonsense. Things have funny names. Get over it. Don’t even mention it because it is neither observant nor comedic. Just shut up.

But all of that does not fall under “be yourself” but “stop being a douchebag,” which again, is not “be yourself” but “CHANGE yourself.” And that is change we can believe in. Yes! We! Can! (Seriously, stop.)

in related news, the number in the FreeCell sentence was updated twice while writing

Anyone who has been unemployed for a while knows that your days just begin to meld together. Weekend. Weekday. It’s all about the same, especially when you are still awake at 4 AM and still asleep at 12 PM. So, day in and day out, there isn’t much to report. Today, I ate some food! Although, my winning streak on FreeCell has now passed 450. Excitement abound.

But, with all this free time, I have taken up to reading only the finest writing available on the internet—Facebook fan pages, comments on Youtube videos, ew.com articles, you know, generally high brow material. And can I just ask, what is with people and spoilers? Like, HA HA HA I know something about this show that you don’t (but will become public knowledge in like two weeks anyway). Wow. That is so impressive. I cannot even believe how cool that is. You really must be a better person than I am to have that soon-to-be-moot and ultimately inconsequential information.

There is this whole culture out there of “I know something you don’t know” or, worse, “I knew something that you now know before you knew it, which still makes me a better person.” There is a whole Facebook page devoted to something like “I knew that band before it was big!” Like, the number of people who openly brag about knowing about Owl City before he became mainstream is pretty astounding. How is that impressive? How is that something that you would say out loud (or, you know, to the internet). It’s not like you have exclusive Stones demo tapes or something. It is a dude with one album and a runaway hit. Yeah, I heard Owl City before he made it big, too. It was called Death Cab for Cutie. (Har har har).

Spoilers are worse though. The whole name-dropping game of hey I knew about this person before you did is just being ass for being an ass’s sake. Which is annoying enough. But, people who insist on posting spoilers on comment pages or Facebook news feeds are showing off to the detriment of others.

Person A: Oh wow I’m so excited to read this book! I can’t wait.

Stranger: I ALREADY KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THIS HAPPENS AND THEN THIS HAPPENS I’M SO MUCH COOLER BECAUSE I ALREADY KNEW SEE I KNEW I KNEW IT I KNEW IT FIRST.

Person A: … page one …

Whatever happened to just watching or reading or seeing something and enjoying it? Is that not okay any more? I don’t think it is a ridiculous thing to ask. I mean, isn’t that the whole point? Do people now go into movies thinking, wow I can’t wait to see this but good thing I already know everything that happens? And whom are you trying to impress, internet? I mean, who is like, oh wow that DID happen! Thanks, superguy2125 (worst fake internet alias ever)! You ARE smarter than I am!

I do remember once as a kid spoiling the end of the movie Phenomenon to a friend. With fury in his eyes, he tried to ruin the ending of something I was excited about and had not yet seen: Independence Day. Sad for him, he had not yet seen it either. EARTH WINS, he shouted. Turns out, he was right. Sorry if that was a spoiler, but if you haven’t seen Independence Day yet, what the hell is wrong with you?! (But you totally should).

My brother, on the other hand, took a different route. Every birthday party or Christmas morning or any other present opening time (what other present opening times are there? Damn you, rule of threes), he would state, as a person began to open a present, “I know what it is!” And after the present was opened, he would announce, “I knew it!” Now, if you want to drive an eight-year-old Jesse absolutely nuts, do that. NO YOU DIDN’T! YOU DID NOT KNOW! TELL ME NOW. WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS? WHAT! JUST SAY IT FIRST! SAY IT FIRST! (Eight-year-old Jesse was pretty high strung). His game was simply to say he knew more than the room, despite any evidence either way. Part of his game was also probably to drive me nuts.

Now, maybe these people actually do know more than I do. Maybe they have some insight into why they are not the worst people ever. Maybe the great spoiler in life is that blessed are those who ruin the endings of movies, for theirs is the kingdom of God. But if it is, just don’t tell me.