And yet more Attitude Challenge

Now this is gay. "Liberace Colour Allan Warren"
by Allan Warren (own work). Licensed under
CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Possibly the final installment of the Attitude Challenge: (More) Phrases that I No Longer Want to Hear, Part 2.

A suggestion from my sister, the Journo: "Next let's hear from Senator Lindsey Graham . . . ." Good ol' Lindsey "I do declare I'm gettin' the vapors" Graham.

In a related vein, "That's so gay!" Unless you're talking about talking about a group of rainbow-flag-waving LGBT people singing a rousing rendition of "We Are Family" or about Liberace's rhinestone undergarment collection, I just don't want to hear it.

In summation: Gay = homosexual, OK. Gay = camp, also OK. Gay = stupid, very much not OK.

And more of the same: "We're tired of having homosexuality forced/shoved/crammed down our throats." Hey, have you met my good friend, Dr. Freudian S. Lip?

But let's not be one-sided: "We can get married! We have overcome!" Well, we've got the two grooms or two brides on the top of the wedding cake, but we haven't even begun to deal with ingredients for the cake itself. Get crackin' some eggs and siftin' some flour.

Or even "He's hot!" said my gay men everywhere. Really? That's not much of a matrix for happiness, love, safety, satisfaction, and comfort in a relationship.

Also applicable to gay men: "I was watching Sex and the City, and I think I'm just like Carrie!" No. You're one part Charlotte, two parts Samantha. I'm a Miranda (first name, Carmen). Carrie is either dead or a myth.

"Now that we have a black [fill in the blank], we live in a post-racial society." Ha bloody ha.

"A young black man was killed during an altercation with a police officer today . . . ." See what I mean?

"Newt Gingrich." No way, no how, no where, no time.

"There was another mass shooting in the U.S. today . . . ."

"It's my Second Amendment right to . . . " muster a state militia? Sure. Own an assault weapon and carry it to a shopping mall "for effect"? No.

"Poor people are just lazy. They just need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps. I know one poor person who is now a millionaire!" By the way, bootstraps will not be provided. You'll have to make your own. What, you can't afford the ingredients for bootstraps? Well, try harder!

"Trailer trash." There is nothing wrong or trashy about living in a trailer. I did it myself for the first six years of my life. Sometimes that's the only housing available. Sometimes that's all people can afford. Sometimes it's just a trailer. Hell, half of America's retirees live in trailers in Florida. Try to be less judgy.

"The secret to losing weight is . . . ." Does anyone really know anymore? Could it be a different "secret" for each of us, depending on body type, lifestyle, food preferences, heritage, etc.?

"I'm a librarian" = "I love cats" and/or "I love Star Trek/Star Wars/gaming/Neil Gaiman/books/etc." Not necessarily. My nerdy stuff is probably different to your nerdy stuff. South African soap operas, ABBA, '70s disco, Belgian-made breakfast spreads. And I love cats along as they act like dogs.

"Open access" will set us free/destroy Elsevier/turn water into wine/create cold fusion/etc. It has its role to play, but . . . . let's just say I'm wary of evangelism and fundamentalism of all stripes. And I have to talk about this professional topic every damn day.

"Muslims are [complete negative stereotype]." I happen to know some lovely people who are Muslim, online and in person. Just as I know some wonderful Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, atheists, agnostics, questioners, non-joiners, pagans, and what have you. No one group represents all the evil or stupidity in the world except in the simplest of minds.

"There is no god. It's all just science." Personally, I have no idea. I don't even think I care. To me, it's all about what you want it to be, what gets you through the day, what adds structure to your life, what helps you to help others, what prevents you from doing harm to others. As long as you don't impose your beliefs on others in a way that causes misery and suffering, you're probably doing OK.

And if it does turn out to be all about science, I am going to be really bored well into eternity. (Assuming there is one.) As it was, I barely got through high school biology and chemistry.

I'm sure I have others, but this should do for now.

For now.

Still more Attitude Challenge

Girl, you know it's not true. "Believe Tour 13, 2012"
by Joe Bielawa; uploaded by MyCanon -
Justin Bieber. Licensed under CC BY 2.0
via Wikimedia Commons.

Phrases that I hope never to hear again, Part 1.

"Our special guest tonight is . . . Adam Levine!" Seriously, dude, are you gonna do ribbon-cuttings at nail salons and gas stations next? P.S. I hate your music.

"He's my soulmate!" Any contestant on The Bachelor. Actually, I think he's his own soulmate, dear.

"Looks like Rihanna and Chris Brown are back together again!" I get the whole moth to the flame thing, but this is more like a moth to the firebombing of Dresden. No, girl. Please, no.

"We need to teach men not to rape."

OK, this one drives me crazy for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I don't remember anyone actually teaching me this; I just kinda knew it from the get-go not to do so.

For another, it makes men sound incredibly stupid.

And finally, if you have to repeat this phrase over and over again, then many men are, in fact, incredibly stupid. Not to mention venal, clueless, cruel, delusional, hateful, ignorant, bullying, lacking in empathy and common decency . . . .

Alright you win: We'll keep repeating this one until everybody gets the message.

"Next up, the Steelers . . ." (Also acceptable, "Next up, the Stillers . . .").

I know I'm on thin ice here (and for some this is a worse offense than the previous comment), but do come the effin' on.

Not every newscast has to mention the Steelers. Not everyone has to react like Pavlov's pooch every time they are mentioned. Not everyone wants to see a couple of sweaty, over-muscled jocks pound each other into the ground (unless it's in a porno, of course--hey, what can I say? I know my audience).

"Buhraaack Obaaahmuh"--as pronounced by U.S. Senator Michele "Glassy-Eyed" Bachmann in her usual Ambien-induced hangover.

"Today John McCain said . . . " absolutely nothing worth reporting on ever, unless he recited his own epitaph just before he croaked it.

"I pay my taxes/I'm a taxpaying citizen/as a taxpayer/whatever." Hey, guess what, most of us are taxpayers, too!--except for the corporations and oligarchs that get away with not paying taxes because they pander to your fear that someone out there is getting one over on you. (Pssst. The ones who are telling you that someone is getting one over on you are the ones who are getting one over on you.)

"Congress went on recess." Enough said.

"Today Justin Bieber was involved in another slapfight with Orlando Bloom." OK, you're right, that one is worth hearing again. And again and again and again.

Another Attitude Challenge

"People sleeping in a train" by Correogsk.
Licensed under CC BY-SAe 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Sleep.

Or the lack thereof.

The fact that I am writing this before 7 am should give you a clue to my feelings about sleep. That noncommittal bastard.

Used to, I could sleep through anything and everything, for hours on end. A car accident happened outside my door? Didn't hear it. A thunderstorm crashed down around me? No problem. Fireworks? Pffft. Try harder. The glow of streetlights nearby? Ha. Hahaha. You amuse me. The dull rumble of a nearby train? You have me intrigued . . . but no.

Nowadays--at least over the last couple of years--it's more the case that practically everything wakes me up in the middle of the night. A creaky floor. The wind. A car engine. A bird. Light pollution. The temperature being above 72 F degrees in my bedroom. A ceiling fan. A partner turning over. The dull rumble of a train anywhere in a 20-mile radius of my consciousness.

Grass growing. A butterfly exhaling. A slightly perturbed dust mite. A gopher with a headache. The formation of a stalactite or a stalagmite in Mammoth Cave. A half-remembered black-and-gold ensemble from Steelers game day. The fact that Nadine's on the Southside makes me think I'm living out some sort of Deer Hunter Mystery Weekend Package nightmare (with Meryl Streep's role now played by Honey Boo Boo's mother). Kim Kardashian's floral dress choice during her pregnancy. Dick Cheney's pacemaker. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict as told through a Punch and Judy show. An unsatisfactorily resolved plotline on Coronation Street. (A year later, I still think the way the Karl and Stella story ended was lame. As was this summer's Nick and Leanne breakup saga.)

And kale. Above all else, kale.

I may be exhausted at 10 or 11, I may fight going to bed until 11:30, I may fall asleep with a thud, but chances are I'll be wide awake by 3 am. Or 2:30. Or 4. Or 1:45. Or 4:30. Or in this morning's case, 5:12.

Then I drag through the day, spend most of the afternoon yawning, leave the office, come home, am wide awake, and then do it all over again.

Nothing much seems to help. Melatonin. Less caffeine (for realz, even though I do consider it a basic food group). No local news (and thus limited contact with home invasions, car chases, and the Steelers latest ingrown hair crisis). Reading. Putting down my phone (which I'm still struggling with, admittedly). Alone time (ahem). Keeping the room temperature at 68 F or lower. WD40 for the ceiling fan. Earplugs. An eyemask. The fear that I will be found in bed wearing earplugs and an eyemask with a can of WD40 nearby. A bath before bedtime. Subscriptions to the non-Pittsburgh editions of Bon Appetit and Architectural Digest. Perusing the Amateur's Guide to Demonic Possession and Exorcism: Vice Presidential Edition. Some quickly dashed off clothing designs sent to Kim and Kanye (the MuMu and flats can be your temporary friends, Kimmy). Reading the Coronation Street spoilers. A fiery letter of complaint and an express-delivered Molotov cocktail to the Kale Marketing Association of America.

I suspect this is just one of those "you're getting older" things and, trust me, even for the chance of better sleep, I really don't want to relive, Groundhog Day style, the last 52 years--with the possible exceptions of having danced more in the clubs in my heyday, learned to grow hair in a petri dish, actually taken that radio production course, moved out of the country for a few years when the opportunities presented themselves, and laid off the Nutella a bit, saving myself for my one true love, Speculoos, instead.

But, golly, I feel like if I've made it this far in life, I should be rewarded with more sleep, not less.
Get your act together, universe. But don't wake me when you do.

The Attitude Challenge

Obviously what's needed is a sign. "StopShopCarriageReturn."
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Recently on Facebook--as only Facebook can do--there's been a "Gratitude Challenge" making the rounds: For five days, list three things that you're grateful for.

I like the idea, but it did get a bit overdone after a while. Still, I am hopeful that someone someday will challenge me to express my gratitude over a few things. And believe it or not, despite all the whingeing and whining I do, I am thankful for many people, places, things, events, and moments in my life.

Except for Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh is definitely not something I feel gratitude toward. Instead, I feel an immense amount of attitude toward it.

And thus was born, the Attitude Challenge.

What are the rules? Feh, rules. Rules are for squares! Rules are the hobgobblins of bureaucracy (actual quote from a person I dealt with in Washington, D.C., once, circa 1985). Just issue forth attitude as long as you can stand yourself or until everyone tells you to STHU (Seriously, Think [about a] Happy Unicorn).

Day 1: Attitude Challenge--Pittsburgh (what else?).

Specifically, the inability of anyone in the SMSA (other than yours truly) to return a grocery cart (or buggy, if you insist to speak in Pittsburghese) to the grocery cart "corral" in the parking lot of any grocery store anywhere at any time and to line up said grocery cart in an orderly fashion.

Look--one fits inside another! It's like a Russian nesting doll with wheels!

I mean, come on, this is common practice in most places, isn't it? Even in other parts of Pennsylvania. But not Pittsburgh. I don't know why the local population is incapable of this simple skill.

. . . Although I suspect it's less about capability and more about "I can't be arsed to care" that all the carts are piled up in a jumble and some poor bagboy who barely earns minimum wage has to clean up the mess.

Look 'burghers, learning this simple behavior is not establishment or management vs. union, nor is it exhausting, nor is it (too) anal-retentive, nor does it go against what the old Pope said (but not the new one) or whatever you think is wrong with it. It's just common courtesy and common sense.

Oh. And there's the reason right there, why this doesn't, nay can't, happen in the Steel City.

Against all odds, let me try some logic, regardless: Fewer carts piled up mean more carts in the store. Fewer loose carts in the parking lot mean more spaces and less chance of accidents. (But we rank worst for accidents for a city our size, so I know you don't give a toss about that.) Fewer problems with carts in the parking mean that more bagboys can actually bag your groceries (let's pretend at least) and that you can get home in time to put on your black-and-gold track suit to sit in your trusty Lazy Boy in front of your 90" TV to watch yet another "Stillers" game.

Capiche?

You're welcome.

Stay tuned for more attitude . . .