My girl posted a thing on Facebook today that reads: You can lead a human to knowledge but you can't make him think, with the picture of a horse standing to the side. If's funny, it's non-partisan and arguably doesn't invite any particular response. It could be taken in any number of ways, including political, ethnic, sporting, educational, etc.
One of Karen's friends from high school posted the following in response to the original post:
That's why one percent of the people are rich and the other 99 percent don't think.
Not being entirely sure what was meant by that, but knowing that (a) I'm not rich but (b) I think, I found the statement a little broad, so I posted:
I think it's a pretty broad generalization to say that because 1% of the people are rich, the other 99% don't think. There is no direct correlation between riches and thinking, although it can be argued that thoughtful people make more money. Heirs, dumb luck, gamblers, athletes whose collective IQ's are in the double digits -- I can point to plenty of dumb or lucky people who are rich through no thoughtfulness. On the flip side, there are plenty of thoughtful people who are middle class or even lower class, economically.
If I say so myself, that's hardly an antagonistic reply, although I certainly disagree with the original post strongly. It certainly leaves the door open to a counter, perhaps even some statistics that show the fallacy of my argument. In no way was it offensive; calling a statement broad is by no means insulting; courts do it all the time when addressing legislation that infringes on private rights. Whatever I was expecting as a reply, I didn't think this was going to be it:
XXXXXX get a life I have free speech so shut the f*** up.
Well.
First of all, I think the reply was disproportionate. I never said the original poster didn't have the right to post what he wanted to post, no matter how stupid. I simply challenged the assertions he made and for that I was told not to infringe his right to free speech and to shut up.
There are, second, lessons to be learned from this exchange:
1. If an argument is to be had, use proper grammar and punctuation. Technically, he should have written:
XXXXXX get a life. I'm entitled to free speech, so shut the f**** up.
The lack of proper grammar and punctuation tends to muddle the message and detracts from the message. I've never thought of free speech as a possession as much as it's a right to be exercised.
Third, don't swear. If there's a linguistic equivalent to Godwin's Law, it's swearing. The first person who swears has basically lost his cool and odds are will lose the argument.
Fourth, don't tell someone else to do something as if one is the parent. I know for me, being told what to do by someone in my age group simply adds to my perception that that person is my inferior. I can't remember the last time I actually abided by someone's instruction to do something in an argument. It's one thing to suggest to an opponent to check out a fact, to read an article or to watch a video or film. It's quite another to tell someone to shut up, to sit down or to perform an unnatural and physically impossible act.
Fifth, don't leave gaping holes in the argument being asserted that provides an opening to counterattack. To wit:
Get a life? That's a pithy retort. You post an inanity like that and expect it to go unchallenged? And who do you think you are to order me to do anything? What's funny is that the same right to free speech that you hoist for yourself you would deny to me. You mistakenly think I'm the government infringing on your First Amendment rights, because the First Amendment doesn't apply to private citizens. So, I renew my statement: Your initial post is overly broad (another legal concept: you can look it up) and therefore must fail scrutiny.
One cannot assert a right that is common to every American citizen and then try to deny the same right to the opponent. Which leads to the sixth suggestion -- make sure what is being discussed is familiar. In our example, my interlocutor would have me respect his right to post something while at the same time he tried to deny me my right to do the same thing. He also can't assert the First Amendment because, as I'm not a government or governmental employee, it has no applicability to the issue at hand.
So in thirteen short words, one of which was my name, my opponent screwed the pooch. Not surprisingly, the coward hasn't returned to argue. Perhaps he's busy, perhaps he's looking up words in the dictionary still, although my last post was about an hour ago. He may well return, in which case the battle will be renewed. Somehow, I doubt it. Because I think that whatever else he may not have learned from our little exchange, he may have learned what is perhaps the most invaluable lesson:
Don't bring a knife to a nuclear war.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, January 31, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Random Musings
No, I'm not going to address last night's SOTU (when did it become this???) since I didn't watch it. Instead, I'm just going to let my mind wander.
-- It took four -- four -- adults, including two veterinary professionals, Karen with her knowledge and experience with bulldogs and me, bringing nothing more to the party than my considerable girth, to subdue Custer so the vet could put some ointment in his ear to alleviate his itching. Good thing there's no video available or PETA or the ASPCA might yank him and Sherman from our house.
-- Spring training is right around the corner. Just make it 106 years and counting and wake me when it's 2015 already.
-- Say what you want about the shows, but The Following and The Blacklist captivate me.
-- I love watching older movies that I've never seen before just to see what young actor or actress was in a lesser role. Sometimes it's interesting to see what humble beginnings some of the larger stars had before they hit it big.
-- When the bulldog we're fostering barks she sounds like Carol Channing.
-- I hate the snow that builds up in the wheel wells behind the tires on my car. Almost every time I drive I have to kick the snow off or out of the wells before I drive again.
-- The books I read for January are probably the best books I've read in a given month in a long time.
-- I've grown tired of Mexican food. I like Tex-Mex better.
-- The number of rewards programs to which I belong is ridiculous. I already carry a second wallet full of just rewards cards as it is. There has to be an easier way.
-- Every time I read a new book, just about, I learn something. For example, I had no idea that Stalin's purge in the '30's was the result of misinformation planted by the Germans.
-- It's award show season, and Jacqueline Bissett is the frontrunner for the wackiest acceptance speech of the year. These shows are nothing more than self-indulgent pap, but every once in awhile, there's pure entertainment in them. What's truly ridiculous, however, is that even awards shows can win awards.
-- Whatever happened to Jo Dee Messina?
-- There's no point in setting the alarm clock, as I continue to wake myself up fearful that either I failed to set it properly or a brownout caused it to reset.
-- I'm glad to know I'm not the only one moderately interested in pens.
-- Hot tea is a perfect winter drink, right after good, Spanish hot chocolate.
-- I miss baking, now that I think about it.
-- Two and a Half Men has become positively raunchy -- embarrassingly so.
-- My girl is an excellent artist. I just thought everyone should know.
-- Joe Biden is a tool.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
-- It took four -- four -- adults, including two veterinary professionals, Karen with her knowledge and experience with bulldogs and me, bringing nothing more to the party than my considerable girth, to subdue Custer so the vet could put some ointment in his ear to alleviate his itching. Good thing there's no video available or PETA or the ASPCA might yank him and Sherman from our house.
-- Spring training is right around the corner. Just make it 106 years and counting and wake me when it's 2015 already.
-- Say what you want about the shows, but The Following and The Blacklist captivate me.
-- I love watching older movies that I've never seen before just to see what young actor or actress was in a lesser role. Sometimes it's interesting to see what humble beginnings some of the larger stars had before they hit it big.
-- When the bulldog we're fostering barks she sounds like Carol Channing.
-- I hate the snow that builds up in the wheel wells behind the tires on my car. Almost every time I drive I have to kick the snow off or out of the wells before I drive again.
-- The books I read for January are probably the best books I've read in a given month in a long time.
-- I've grown tired of Mexican food. I like Tex-Mex better.
-- The number of rewards programs to which I belong is ridiculous. I already carry a second wallet full of just rewards cards as it is. There has to be an easier way.
-- Every time I read a new book, just about, I learn something. For example, I had no idea that Stalin's purge in the '30's was the result of misinformation planted by the Germans.
-- It's award show season, and Jacqueline Bissett is the frontrunner for the wackiest acceptance speech of the year. These shows are nothing more than self-indulgent pap, but every once in awhile, there's pure entertainment in them. What's truly ridiculous, however, is that even awards shows can win awards.
-- Whatever happened to Jo Dee Messina?
-- There's no point in setting the alarm clock, as I continue to wake myself up fearful that either I failed to set it properly or a brownout caused it to reset.
-- I'm glad to know I'm not the only one moderately interested in pens.
-- Hot tea is a perfect winter drink, right after good, Spanish hot chocolate.
-- I miss baking, now that I think about it.
-- Two and a Half Men has become positively raunchy -- embarrassingly so.
-- My girl is an excellent artist. I just thought everyone should know.
-- Joe Biden is a tool.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Abandon Ship
There is nothing that says that a voter must continue to support a candidate for whom he voted no matter what. There are plenty of voters who have been disabused of the error of their ways when the rubber met the road, both liberal and conservative. It even happens with Supreme Court Justices: Earl Warren famously surprised Dwight Eisenhower by turning out to be more liberal than anyone would have believed possible when Ike nominated him to the Chief Justice position. In politics, on any level, it's possible for a leopard to change its spots.
Even so, the gnashing of teeth, the rending of garments and the pulling of hair among the Hollywood elite is fascinating, if not downright entertaining. What pushed me to this post was the recent emergence of Charlie Sheen, poet. He just sent out a poem taking the President to task for not providing armed guards at schools and lashing out at Obamacare, albeit obliquely.
Mr. Sheen is just the latest self-assured celebrity to criticize, grudingly, the President whom he supported ardently in two separate elections. That Mr. Sheen is late to the party should not be held against him; compared to some of his guild members, he's positively early.
Ed Asner has the gumption to say out loud what many in Hollywood wouldn't:
A lot of people don't want to feel anti-black by being opposed to Obama.
Barbara Walters joined the bandwagon a few months after Mr. Asner's comment:
We all thought he was going to be...the next messiah.
Of course, after having heard Jamie Foxx describe the President as our Lord and Savior, Ms. Walters' comments aren't as laughable as they might seem.
In a way, seeing all these supporters express their disappointment is hilarious. These same people -- not necessarily the aforementioned celebrities, but certainly some of their peers -- were insistent that those of us who opposed Mr. Obama were wrong, deluded, biased and even racist. There wasn't a chance we were looking critically at the President's policies and rhetoric and --gasp! -- making our minds up for ourselves instead of listening to the self-appointed spokespeople and simply take their word for it. It was almost as if they were friends of the most popular person in school who was running for student body president and to oppose him would result in public shunning.
How the tables have turned.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...or a celebrity disappointed. Sure, there are hardcore supporters like Bill Maher, Alec Baldwin and that nutjob Melissa Harris-Perry who, despite the fact she blindly continues to stump for the President doesn't have a clue how to pronounce correctly Semper Fi. But hey, even Goebbels stuck by his buddy until the end. The last two elections had nothing to do with electing the most qualified candidate but electing the most popular candidate. And the President did his part, providing an electable minority candidate who spoke well (as opposed to rhyming his way through the campaign like Jesse Jackson), was educated well and presented a wholesome image with some youthful missteps in his past that many in the electorate could share with him.
But now, the cool kids are disillusioned because the promises in which they put so much trust have turned out to be illusory. Attempts to blame the uncool kids, also known as the Republicans, have met with little success because, thanks to the cool kids' own efforts in supporting the President, his visibility is so great that it magnified his errors. Now, the cool kids are in danger of being held complicit and they don't like it.
There are some notable critics within the cool kids camp. Matt Damon, just smart enough to get himself in trouble with his double standards, has distanced himself publicly from the President. Robert Deniro is trying to walk a fine line between criticism and acknowledgement. Jane Lynch is angry at him, Barbra Streisand is disappointed.
Lost in all this is any acknowledgement that perhaps Mitt Romney was in fact better qualified. I think that in 2008, it was the lesser of two evils. I wouldn't vote for John McCain if he was the only candidate; he's the Republican version of Dick Durbin, doing or saying anything that's politically expedient. His service for this country doesn't necessarily qualify him for the White House. Mr. Romney is a good man. One can disagree with him but he can't criticize him for being unkind, uncaring and unintelligent. In that, he's at least the President's equal. He also has more experience for the Presidency than the President did when he was first elected. The President's first term should have been an indictment, not an endorsement, for a second term.
Well, the sheep's clothing has come off and the President is being revealed for what he truly is. Hollywood is aghast, shocked, to see that their champion isn't descended from Mount Olympus. Taking up Mr. Asner's candor, they're at a loss how to criticize the President and still qualify for their ultra-liberal union card. To put it bluntly, the President has underperformed. Some say he's lied. Others say he should be impeached. But in no way, contrary to Mr. Foxx's suggestion, should we be equating the President with the likes of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln.
There's no shame in that, actually. Few presidents have ever measured up. But liberals should take note of what happened to their now-tarnished icon, John F. Kennedy. As historians dig deeper and reveal more about the charismatic president assassinated in the middle of his term, warts appear, stories take their true shape, illusions are blown away as if they were mist. That it's happening to the President during his second term is unfortunate for him, but more unfortunate for his supporters.
At least with President Kennedy, many of his most ardent supporters are dead and can't hear the criticism. This President's supporters are very much alive and likely to remain so for a couple of decades more. Historians, as is their wont, will do to him what they've done to Mr. Kennedy. When that happens and more unseemly material is published, the President will no longer justify all those lofty accolades heaped upon him as if he were an Olympic champion.
They may find out, instead, that he's nothing like the man they touted to the general public.
And by then, the President's political career will have ended. He'll write books, open a museum, tour the world, sit on highfalutin boards and earn gobs of money doing it.
The celebrities will have their support thrown in their faces at every opportunity, like Hanoi Jane still hears about her support for the North Vietnamese in 1970.
To paraphrase Shakespeare -- and yes, that's intentional -- uneasy sits the mouth that supported vigorously but stupidly the wrong candidate.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Even so, the gnashing of teeth, the rending of garments and the pulling of hair among the Hollywood elite is fascinating, if not downright entertaining. What pushed me to this post was the recent emergence of Charlie Sheen, poet. He just sent out a poem taking the President to task for not providing armed guards at schools and lashing out at Obamacare, albeit obliquely.
Mr. Sheen is just the latest self-assured celebrity to criticize, grudingly, the President whom he supported ardently in two separate elections. That Mr. Sheen is late to the party should not be held against him; compared to some of his guild members, he's positively early.
Ed Asner has the gumption to say out loud what many in Hollywood wouldn't:
A lot of people don't want to feel anti-black by being opposed to Obama.
Barbara Walters joined the bandwagon a few months after Mr. Asner's comment:
We all thought he was going to be...the next messiah.
Of course, after having heard Jamie Foxx describe the President as our Lord and Savior, Ms. Walters' comments aren't as laughable as they might seem.
In a way, seeing all these supporters express their disappointment is hilarious. These same people -- not necessarily the aforementioned celebrities, but certainly some of their peers -- were insistent that those of us who opposed Mr. Obama were wrong, deluded, biased and even racist. There wasn't a chance we were looking critically at the President's policies and rhetoric and --gasp! -- making our minds up for ourselves instead of listening to the self-appointed spokespeople and simply take their word for it. It was almost as if they were friends of the most popular person in school who was running for student body president and to oppose him would result in public shunning.
How the tables have turned.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...or a celebrity disappointed. Sure, there are hardcore supporters like Bill Maher, Alec Baldwin and that nutjob Melissa Harris-Perry who, despite the fact she blindly continues to stump for the President doesn't have a clue how to pronounce correctly Semper Fi. But hey, even Goebbels stuck by his buddy until the end. The last two elections had nothing to do with electing the most qualified candidate but electing the most popular candidate. And the President did his part, providing an electable minority candidate who spoke well (as opposed to rhyming his way through the campaign like Jesse Jackson), was educated well and presented a wholesome image with some youthful missteps in his past that many in the electorate could share with him.
But now, the cool kids are disillusioned because the promises in which they put so much trust have turned out to be illusory. Attempts to blame the uncool kids, also known as the Republicans, have met with little success because, thanks to the cool kids' own efforts in supporting the President, his visibility is so great that it magnified his errors. Now, the cool kids are in danger of being held complicit and they don't like it.
There are some notable critics within the cool kids camp. Matt Damon, just smart enough to get himself in trouble with his double standards, has distanced himself publicly from the President. Robert Deniro is trying to walk a fine line between criticism and acknowledgement. Jane Lynch is angry at him, Barbra Streisand is disappointed.
Lost in all this is any acknowledgement that perhaps Mitt Romney was in fact better qualified. I think that in 2008, it was the lesser of two evils. I wouldn't vote for John McCain if he was the only candidate; he's the Republican version of Dick Durbin, doing or saying anything that's politically expedient. His service for this country doesn't necessarily qualify him for the White House. Mr. Romney is a good man. One can disagree with him but he can't criticize him for being unkind, uncaring and unintelligent. In that, he's at least the President's equal. He also has more experience for the Presidency than the President did when he was first elected. The President's first term should have been an indictment, not an endorsement, for a second term.
Well, the sheep's clothing has come off and the President is being revealed for what he truly is. Hollywood is aghast, shocked, to see that their champion isn't descended from Mount Olympus. Taking up Mr. Asner's candor, they're at a loss how to criticize the President and still qualify for their ultra-liberal union card. To put it bluntly, the President has underperformed. Some say he's lied. Others say he should be impeached. But in no way, contrary to Mr. Foxx's suggestion, should we be equating the President with the likes of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln.
There's no shame in that, actually. Few presidents have ever measured up. But liberals should take note of what happened to their now-tarnished icon, John F. Kennedy. As historians dig deeper and reveal more about the charismatic president assassinated in the middle of his term, warts appear, stories take their true shape, illusions are blown away as if they were mist. That it's happening to the President during his second term is unfortunate for him, but more unfortunate for his supporters.
At least with President Kennedy, many of his most ardent supporters are dead and can't hear the criticism. This President's supporters are very much alive and likely to remain so for a couple of decades more. Historians, as is their wont, will do to him what they've done to Mr. Kennedy. When that happens and more unseemly material is published, the President will no longer justify all those lofty accolades heaped upon him as if he were an Olympic champion.
They may find out, instead, that he's nothing like the man they touted to the general public.
And by then, the President's political career will have ended. He'll write books, open a museum, tour the world, sit on highfalutin boards and earn gobs of money doing it.
The celebrities will have their support thrown in their faces at every opportunity, like Hanoi Jane still hears about her support for the North Vietnamese in 1970.
To paraphrase Shakespeare -- and yes, that's intentional -- uneasy sits the mouth that supported vigorously but stupidly the wrong candidate.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Daily Nuisances
In everyone's life, there are nuisances that repeat themselves on a weekly if not daily basis that serve to frustrate, annoy or even anger us. They're not as dire as having an auto accident, or losing one's wallet, but they add up, especially if you have several occurrences of the same ones in a day. I noticed this the other day when every little thing that could go wrong went wrong, amounting to death by a thousand paper cuts...although obviously, I didn't die.
Here then are a few of mine. Perhaps I'm just a clutz. But I wonder if anyone else has these happen to him.
Step on shoelaces while trying to tie shoes: I can walk around, up and down stairs, with my shoes untied and never trip. But get ready to tie my shoes and a lace or two invariably ends up under the shoe. I can't remember the last time I had an errorless shoe-tying.
Electric cord twisting: Each and every time I vacuum, the electric cord tangles. It doesn't matter if I hold the cord while I'm vacuuming. At some point, I get it twisted around the vacuum, the furniture or myself. It's a miracle I don't work the cord into a noose and hang myself, inadvertently.
Typing: I'm probably larger than the average male, but by no means am I gargantuan. My hands are probably normal for my body size, but they were always too small to throw a football properly. Be that as it may, if there are four keys within proximity of my thumb, I'll hit all four of them at once, either reformatting what I'm typing or causing the screen to go dark. I hate Bill Gates.
Finding my hand braces: I have nerve damage in my hands. I don't know if it's carpal tunnel, but when I sleep my hands hurt so much I wake up, unless I'm wearing my braces. I put them behind my pillows when I wake up. When I go to bed, I put the braces somewhere on the bedding so I can find them. After I put the first one on...I can't find the other one. It's either wrapped up in the bedding, down behind a pillow or on the floor beside the bed. But the best part is that I can never find it until after I'm already under the covers, necessitating me to get out of bed and start the process all over.
Cursor obstruction: You know when you're going to type something in an online form, say for a contest or an application, and you click in the space you're about to fill? Well, whenever I do that, the cursor covers up what I'm typing, partially, so that I can't see whether I've typed a mistake or not. I realize that techies all think we're Japanese and make everything as small as possible, but someone should figure out a way to remove the cursor once we've clicked on the blank so that we have a cursor-free space in which to type.
Accessing phone contacts: Knowing my cyber-challengedness, Karen lovingly programmed the more common phone numbers into a list for one-touch dialing. I don't care what any of the techies say: When I hit the (micro-small) square X next to Karen's name, it sends me to another screen that displays her phone number, which I then hit only to be sent to yet another screen, where I can either choose not to call her or call her. What's the point of having a shortcut?
Reading documents on the computer: It never fails: If I need to see what was back on page eleven when I'm on page twenty-three, it'll take me three times as long to locate page eleven on the computer than it would were I have to have the paper document in my hands.
Filled pens that won't write: At least half the time I pick up a pen that has ink in it, it won't write.
Parking lot parking spaces: If anyone can miss vacant parking spaces and pass them up, or just miss the one that opened up after I passed it, it's me. I spend an inordinate amount of time looking for parking spaces.
Misplacing my coupons: No matter how diligent I am about bringing home my coupons from the grocery store, I somehow lose them. Currently, they're misplaced either in Karen's car, my car, the garage or the house.
Forgetting the one thing I told myself to remember: Today, I had to vacuum my office, get the file I left at the office yesterday for tomorrow's meeting, go the store and get the things on Karen's list and return the movies to Redbox. I forgot the movies and had to go out again after I returned home. I could easily have forgotten any of the other things without penalty, but I forgot to bring the movies.
Plugging something into a socket: This won't come as a surprise to many who know me, but I don't know the names of the two prongs on most electrical plugs that are put into the wall sockets. One of them is fatter than the other. Invariably -- an almost statistical certainty -- I will try to put the fatter end into the narrower socket hole. It.never.fails.
Pulling the wrong lace when untying a shoe: Because of my funky feet, I have to double tie my shoelaces. When I try to untie the laces, I invariably pull the lace end that does nothing to release the knot.
There are more, no doubt, but these are the daily nuisances that I can remember for now.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Here then are a few of mine. Perhaps I'm just a clutz. But I wonder if anyone else has these happen to him.
Step on shoelaces while trying to tie shoes: I can walk around, up and down stairs, with my shoes untied and never trip. But get ready to tie my shoes and a lace or two invariably ends up under the shoe. I can't remember the last time I had an errorless shoe-tying.
Electric cord twisting: Each and every time I vacuum, the electric cord tangles. It doesn't matter if I hold the cord while I'm vacuuming. At some point, I get it twisted around the vacuum, the furniture or myself. It's a miracle I don't work the cord into a noose and hang myself, inadvertently.
Typing: I'm probably larger than the average male, but by no means am I gargantuan. My hands are probably normal for my body size, but they were always too small to throw a football properly. Be that as it may, if there are four keys within proximity of my thumb, I'll hit all four of them at once, either reformatting what I'm typing or causing the screen to go dark. I hate Bill Gates.
Finding my hand braces: I have nerve damage in my hands. I don't know if it's carpal tunnel, but when I sleep my hands hurt so much I wake up, unless I'm wearing my braces. I put them behind my pillows when I wake up. When I go to bed, I put the braces somewhere on the bedding so I can find them. After I put the first one on...I can't find the other one. It's either wrapped up in the bedding, down behind a pillow or on the floor beside the bed. But the best part is that I can never find it until after I'm already under the covers, necessitating me to get out of bed and start the process all over.
Cursor obstruction: You know when you're going to type something in an online form, say for a contest or an application, and you click in the space you're about to fill? Well, whenever I do that, the cursor covers up what I'm typing, partially, so that I can't see whether I've typed a mistake or not. I realize that techies all think we're Japanese and make everything as small as possible, but someone should figure out a way to remove the cursor once we've clicked on the blank so that we have a cursor-free space in which to type.
Accessing phone contacts: Knowing my cyber-challengedness, Karen lovingly programmed the more common phone numbers into a list for one-touch dialing. I don't care what any of the techies say: When I hit the (micro-small) square X next to Karen's name, it sends me to another screen that displays her phone number, which I then hit only to be sent to yet another screen, where I can either choose not to call her or call her. What's the point of having a shortcut?
Reading documents on the computer: It never fails: If I need to see what was back on page eleven when I'm on page twenty-three, it'll take me three times as long to locate page eleven on the computer than it would were I have to have the paper document in my hands.
Filled pens that won't write: At least half the time I pick up a pen that has ink in it, it won't write.
Parking lot parking spaces: If anyone can miss vacant parking spaces and pass them up, or just miss the one that opened up after I passed it, it's me. I spend an inordinate amount of time looking for parking spaces.
Misplacing my coupons: No matter how diligent I am about bringing home my coupons from the grocery store, I somehow lose them. Currently, they're misplaced either in Karen's car, my car, the garage or the house.
Forgetting the one thing I told myself to remember: Today, I had to vacuum my office, get the file I left at the office yesterday for tomorrow's meeting, go the store and get the things on Karen's list and return the movies to Redbox. I forgot the movies and had to go out again after I returned home. I could easily have forgotten any of the other things without penalty, but I forgot to bring the movies.
Plugging something into a socket: This won't come as a surprise to many who know me, but I don't know the names of the two prongs on most electrical plugs that are put into the wall sockets. One of them is fatter than the other. Invariably -- an almost statistical certainty -- I will try to put the fatter end into the narrower socket hole. It.never.fails.
Pulling the wrong lace when untying a shoe: Because of my funky feet, I have to double tie my shoelaces. When I try to untie the laces, I invariably pull the lace end that does nothing to release the knot.
There are more, no doubt, but these are the daily nuisances that I can remember for now.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Saturday, January 25, 2014
A Trip to the Casino
Karen and I aren't gamblers. I bet no more than five dollars when the lottery hits $100M, a dollar or so for anything between $50M and $100M. Other than that, I don't gamble. The reasons for my abstinence are set forth in an earlier post.
Last Wednesday, Karen and I went to a casino for a show of one of our favorite comedians. Because of the distance, we left with plenty of time to spare, since we would have to fight through rush hour traffic and the weather. We arrived at the casino about two hours before the scheduled start of the show, and Karen, as only Karen can do, giggled about playing the penny slots.
At this point, it should be noted that I have absolutely no experience whatsoever with slot machines. I've never tried my hand at one. I thought I understood the general concept, but that was before we entered the casino last Wednesday night.
This being but the second time I've visited a casino, the first being the time we bought the tickets for this show, I must admit that the general appearance of the fellow gamblers in the casino was somewhat improved over the first time. That's not to say that they were of the same model quality that appear typically in the commercials seen on television, but they were a cut above what I saw the first time. To be kind, most of the gamblers didn't need walkers or oxygen bottles this time. Still, no one was getting a call from Sports Illustrated or GQ for a cover shoot.
Karen and I wandered aimlessly -- more like cluelessly -- through the rows of machines with blinking lights and obnoxious beeping until we found one that caught Karen's eye. For me, one was as good, or as poor, as the next. But Karen found one that she liked and sat down to try her hand at it. I sat in the chair next to her, with a longtime gambler on the other side of me. She paused for a nanosecond, sized me up with a sneer and went back to gambling. Ah, society.
For a few seconds, Karen looked at the machine trying to determine how to play the game. There were directions, but she might as well have been reading the launch codes for an intercontinental missile. There was no rhyme or reason to them. This is a rough approximate of what we were looking at:
I suppose we could have blown the whole two hours before the show trying to decipher the vagueries of the machine, but we decided to wing it. We were only playing penny slots, and we only had five dollars to blow on it, so why not?
Karen put in her money and pulled the bandit's one arm. The discs rotated and came to a stop not in a line, but with three lines unevenly displayed in the window. For example, sometimes it would read across the main line: 7, Wild Card, Bonus, 7 and a 7 with a flame underneath it and we'd lose. Our tab would be subtracted by some weird amount, say .18 cents, and we'd look at each other and ask what just happened. Karen would pull the lever again and roughly the same line would appear, but now we added back in .6 cents. There was absolutely no logic, no consistency to the outcomes Karen was getting.
Sometimes, items in different rows would light up, signifying that we had won something by getting three or four of a kind, diagonally. I didn't even know you could do that. Again, the Humpty-Dumpty directions provided no guidance. Karen pulled the arm or pushed the oversized button and she either won a few cents or lost more than a few cents. Largely, it was like watching the stock market ticker during the Great Depression. Still today I have no idea what was going on. Were a Martian to ask me to explain how the machine worked, I'd have better luck explaining the nuances of Sanskrit.
The more this went on, the more I thought of the Germans' Enigma machine from World War II:
At least that machine had a purpose: Type in a G, and the rotors, electrically manipulated, would spit out a P from one of the four rotors contained in the box. Had the Allies not had the Poles to help them with the initial bombes, the masterful minds at Bletchley Park, the brave Royal Navy men who sacrificed their lives to get one of the machines out of a U-boat sinking in the Atlantic and the IBM computer sorting machines, we might never have won the war. The Enigma machine was designed to encipher messages and keep the enemy in the dark. The Royal Navy men lost their lives getting the machine out of that sub, but they helped win the war with their sacrifice. I wasn't about to risk my life to help us beat a penny slot machine.
We switched machines trying to figure out less complicated schemes, but it got progressively worse: Bet five, bet seven, bet twenty-five. It didn't matter. Karen lost money algebraically, offset by incremental wins, which she sardonically noted with every five or eight cent increase. I sat there bemused, noting the elderly couple behind Karen, where the wife was seated gambling at another one-armed bandit while her dutiful husband stood vigil behind her, hand resting on the backrest. That's me in twenty years, I thought to myself.
Karen lost her five dollars and got another five dollar credit on a different machine, although her results never changed. It was beginning to seem as if only Stephen Hawking or the NSA super computer was going to defeat the machine. The losses kept mounting, the slight wins only delayed the inevitable. There would be no jackpot for us tonight.
We decided to seek guidance on the machines from an employee of the casino, not so much to increase our odds but to eliminate us as the only fools in the place who didn't know how to gamble. The television ads now made sense to me: The people in the ads were neophytes who were attracted by the bright lights and jingly bells. The people we saw now in the casino were those same people who had stayed in the casino for months if not years learning how to play the machines. The dour, expressionless faces silently told us Abandon hope all ye who enter here.
As Karen sought directions from the helpful casino employee, I waited until she'd shown Karen some of the basics to using the machines to ask where the comedian's show was being held.
The show's been cancelled, she told us. The comedian had been bedridden with pulmonary embolisms for the last three weeks. Somehow we, and other patrons, never got an email telling us the show'd been cancelled.
And that pretty much sums up our trip to the casino.
Ironically, however, we left the casino with more money than we entered, since we were able to get a refund for the show tickets.
It's probably the only time I'll leave a casino with more money than I enter it.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Last Wednesday, Karen and I went to a casino for a show of one of our favorite comedians. Because of the distance, we left with plenty of time to spare, since we would have to fight through rush hour traffic and the weather. We arrived at the casino about two hours before the scheduled start of the show, and Karen, as only Karen can do, giggled about playing the penny slots.
At this point, it should be noted that I have absolutely no experience whatsoever with slot machines. I've never tried my hand at one. I thought I understood the general concept, but that was before we entered the casino last Wednesday night.
This being but the second time I've visited a casino, the first being the time we bought the tickets for this show, I must admit that the general appearance of the fellow gamblers in the casino was somewhat improved over the first time. That's not to say that they were of the same model quality that appear typically in the commercials seen on television, but they were a cut above what I saw the first time. To be kind, most of the gamblers didn't need walkers or oxygen bottles this time. Still, no one was getting a call from Sports Illustrated or GQ for a cover shoot.
Karen and I wandered aimlessly -- more like cluelessly -- through the rows of machines with blinking lights and obnoxious beeping until we found one that caught Karen's eye. For me, one was as good, or as poor, as the next. But Karen found one that she liked and sat down to try her hand at it. I sat in the chair next to her, with a longtime gambler on the other side of me. She paused for a nanosecond, sized me up with a sneer and went back to gambling. Ah, society.
For a few seconds, Karen looked at the machine trying to determine how to play the game. There were directions, but she might as well have been reading the launch codes for an intercontinental missile. There was no rhyme or reason to them. This is a rough approximate of what we were looking at:
I suppose we could have blown the whole two hours before the show trying to decipher the vagueries of the machine, but we decided to wing it. We were only playing penny slots, and we only had five dollars to blow on it, so why not?
Karen put in her money and pulled the bandit's one arm. The discs rotated and came to a stop not in a line, but with three lines unevenly displayed in the window. For example, sometimes it would read across the main line: 7, Wild Card, Bonus, 7 and a 7 with a flame underneath it and we'd lose. Our tab would be subtracted by some weird amount, say .18 cents, and we'd look at each other and ask what just happened. Karen would pull the lever again and roughly the same line would appear, but now we added back in .6 cents. There was absolutely no logic, no consistency to the outcomes Karen was getting.
Sometimes, items in different rows would light up, signifying that we had won something by getting three or four of a kind, diagonally. I didn't even know you could do that. Again, the Humpty-Dumpty directions provided no guidance. Karen pulled the arm or pushed the oversized button and she either won a few cents or lost more than a few cents. Largely, it was like watching the stock market ticker during the Great Depression. Still today I have no idea what was going on. Were a Martian to ask me to explain how the machine worked, I'd have better luck explaining the nuances of Sanskrit.
The more this went on, the more I thought of the Germans' Enigma machine from World War II:
At least that machine had a purpose: Type in a G, and the rotors, electrically manipulated, would spit out a P from one of the four rotors contained in the box. Had the Allies not had the Poles to help them with the initial bombes, the masterful minds at Bletchley Park, the brave Royal Navy men who sacrificed their lives to get one of the machines out of a U-boat sinking in the Atlantic and the IBM computer sorting machines, we might never have won the war. The Enigma machine was designed to encipher messages and keep the enemy in the dark. The Royal Navy men lost their lives getting the machine out of that sub, but they helped win the war with their sacrifice. I wasn't about to risk my life to help us beat a penny slot machine.
We switched machines trying to figure out less complicated schemes, but it got progressively worse: Bet five, bet seven, bet twenty-five. It didn't matter. Karen lost money algebraically, offset by incremental wins, which she sardonically noted with every five or eight cent increase. I sat there bemused, noting the elderly couple behind Karen, where the wife was seated gambling at another one-armed bandit while her dutiful husband stood vigil behind her, hand resting on the backrest. That's me in twenty years, I thought to myself.
Karen lost her five dollars and got another five dollar credit on a different machine, although her results never changed. It was beginning to seem as if only Stephen Hawking or the NSA super computer was going to defeat the machine. The losses kept mounting, the slight wins only delayed the inevitable. There would be no jackpot for us tonight.
We decided to seek guidance on the machines from an employee of the casino, not so much to increase our odds but to eliminate us as the only fools in the place who didn't know how to gamble. The television ads now made sense to me: The people in the ads were neophytes who were attracted by the bright lights and jingly bells. The people we saw now in the casino were those same people who had stayed in the casino for months if not years learning how to play the machines. The dour, expressionless faces silently told us Abandon hope all ye who enter here.
As Karen sought directions from the helpful casino employee, I waited until she'd shown Karen some of the basics to using the machines to ask where the comedian's show was being held.
The show's been cancelled, she told us. The comedian had been bedridden with pulmonary embolisms for the last three weeks. Somehow we, and other patrons, never got an email telling us the show'd been cancelled.
And that pretty much sums up our trip to the casino.
Ironically, however, we left the casino with more money than we entered, since we were able to get a refund for the show tickets.
It's probably the only time I'll leave a casino with more money than I enter it.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Racist Code
This past weekend the NFL held its conference championship games. As anyone who reads this space knows, I'm at best a casual fan of the NFL, I abhor the Super Bowl but I love the draft. I can't explain it, but there it is. Consequently, I paid next to no attention to the games on Sunday.
Afterwards, however, there was little avoiding one incident that took place after the Seattle Seahawks beat the San Francisco 49ers. Richard Sherman, regarded by many as the best cornerback in the NFL, ranted about Michael Crabtree, a 49ers receiver with whom he'd had a week-long verbal battle prior to the game. The tirade, which frankly I found to be pretty standard macho fare from an NFL player, was much criticized afterwards by people across the country. Some, apparently, found Sherman's behavior unacceptable, referring to Sherman as a thug.
For the record, here's what Sherman said:
I'm the best corner in the game. When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that's the result you going [sic] to get.
He went on to refer to Crabtree as a mediocre receiver.
It should be noted that although this outburst was given at maximum volume to a startled Erin Andrews, the network's startled sideline reporter, it lacked any profanity or threats. Frankly, I don't see what all the fuss was about.
But on social media, people are allegedly ripping Sherman for being a thug. I find this so far out there that I'm agog at it. Thug? I guy says the above, albeit in a loud voice, and he's a thug? Really? I find a player like Richie Incognito a much likelier thug than Richard Sherman. I don't like what Sherman did, and I wouldn't do it myself, but I understand the emotion behind it. The only thing that was wrong about it in my estimation was the delivery.
If people are looking for thugs, there are better examples in the NFL. The aforementioned Mr. Incognito, for example, qualifies. But if thuggery is really sought, try the NHL. Check out this game between the Calgary Flames and the Vancouver Canucks which took place the day before the Seattle-San Francisco game:
A mere two seconds into the game, the players on the ice began fighting. The teams put out their fourth lines, not their most talented players and ones usually populated by enforcers, on the ice for the puck drop. Hockey touts the manly nature of its game to justify fighting, and sometimes, sadly, there may be good reason for a fight. But two seconds into a game?
So those critics who labeled Mr. Sherman as a thug were wrong. One may disagree with his delivery -- odd for a communications major from Stanford -- but by no means was what he did thuggish.
Mr. Sherman, however, couldn't leave it alone. Tired of the complaints that came in the aftermath of his post-game comments, Mr. Sherman said this:
The reason is bothers me is because it seems like it's an accepted way of calling somebody the N-word now. It's like everybody else said the N-word and then they say thug and that's fine. It kind of takes me aback and it's kind of disappointing because they know.
Essentially, I disagree on this point with Mr. Sherman.
I have not, nor will I seek out, the tweets and other commentary wherein the term thug has been thrown around. If someone has suggested, obviously, that Mr. Sherman is a nigger thug, that is unconscionable. Thug behavior isn't associated with any particular ethnic group, and use of the term nigger is patently offensive. So without the benefit of reviewing a good sample of social media associated to Mr. Sherman's outburst, the first point is that anything transparently racists in the commentary is simply wrong.
Second, as Mr. Sherman's behavior after the game can be expected -- he just helped his team reach the Super Bowl, so his excitement should be anticipated -- so too should the detractors and racists who will come out of the woodwork at any opportunity. There is an element within our society that will never accept true equality between the races, and thanks to social media, they have a forum to express their base views. It's an unfortunate result of living in a free society.
But Mr. Sherman takes things to far by suggesting, without limitation, that the use of the term thug when applied to a black person is a dodge around using the term nigger. Ndamukong Suh, who plays for the Detroit Lions, is often criticized for his on the field play. Here's one such play that was roundly criticized:
Here's Albert Haynesworth, by no means the equal of Mr. Suh on or off the field, doing about the same thing:
I have no trouble accepting the application of the term thug to either of these incidents. I disagree with its application to Mr. Sherman's comments, but I don't see how stomping on another player's head qualifies as anything other than thuggery.
Should I refrain from labeling these incidents as thuggery simply because both perpetrators are black? That makes no sense. To try and cherry-pick racist comments from otherwise race neutral language is dangerous. I fully understand hatred of the word nigger -- although at the same time, I'm mystified and horrified at its continued use within the black community -- but this notion that people have shifted to thug as a suitable replacement strikes me as sophistry.
Martin Luther King said content of character versus color of skin as the factor to be considered in judging. It's a worthy standard. But the standard should be applied equally. To claim that someone using the term thug is being racist simply because the speaker is white is wrong. One can question the judgment of the critic invoking the term thug, but I don't believe racism can be imputed.
Dr. King did not say or even suggest that judgment, or by implication criticism, could not be leveled at blacks. He hoped that it would be a race neutral criticism. He didn't say that the criticism had to be correct, either. Knuckleheads who couldn't see Mr. Sherman's tirade for what it was are out of line to suggest thuggery. Mr. Sherman, likewise, is wrong to find racism in every criticism.
Sometimes, we need to consider the words of that other King, Rodney, and just try to get along.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The reason it bothers me is because it seems like it's an accepted way of calling somebody the N-word now," he said. "It's like everybody else said the N-word and then they say 'thug' and that's fine. It kind of takes me aback and it's kind of disappointing because they know.
Afterwards, however, there was little avoiding one incident that took place after the Seattle Seahawks beat the San Francisco 49ers. Richard Sherman, regarded by many as the best cornerback in the NFL, ranted about Michael Crabtree, a 49ers receiver with whom he'd had a week-long verbal battle prior to the game. The tirade, which frankly I found to be pretty standard macho fare from an NFL player, was much criticized afterwards by people across the country. Some, apparently, found Sherman's behavior unacceptable, referring to Sherman as a thug.
For the record, here's what Sherman said:
I'm the best corner in the game. When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that's the result you going [sic] to get.
He went on to refer to Crabtree as a mediocre receiver.
It should be noted that although this outburst was given at maximum volume to a startled Erin Andrews, the network's startled sideline reporter, it lacked any profanity or threats. Frankly, I don't see what all the fuss was about.
But on social media, people are allegedly ripping Sherman for being a thug. I find this so far out there that I'm agog at it. Thug? I guy says the above, albeit in a loud voice, and he's a thug? Really? I find a player like Richie Incognito a much likelier thug than Richard Sherman. I don't like what Sherman did, and I wouldn't do it myself, but I understand the emotion behind it. The only thing that was wrong about it in my estimation was the delivery.
If people are looking for thugs, there are better examples in the NFL. The aforementioned Mr. Incognito, for example, qualifies. But if thuggery is really sought, try the NHL. Check out this game between the Calgary Flames and the Vancouver Canucks which took place the day before the Seattle-San Francisco game:
A mere two seconds into the game, the players on the ice began fighting. The teams put out their fourth lines, not their most talented players and ones usually populated by enforcers, on the ice for the puck drop. Hockey touts the manly nature of its game to justify fighting, and sometimes, sadly, there may be good reason for a fight. But two seconds into a game?
So those critics who labeled Mr. Sherman as a thug were wrong. One may disagree with his delivery -- odd for a communications major from Stanford -- but by no means was what he did thuggish.
Mr. Sherman, however, couldn't leave it alone. Tired of the complaints that came in the aftermath of his post-game comments, Mr. Sherman said this:
The reason is bothers me is because it seems like it's an accepted way of calling somebody the N-word now. It's like everybody else said the N-word and then they say thug and that's fine. It kind of takes me aback and it's kind of disappointing because they know.
Essentially, I disagree on this point with Mr. Sherman.
I have not, nor will I seek out, the tweets and other commentary wherein the term thug has been thrown around. If someone has suggested, obviously, that Mr. Sherman is a nigger thug, that is unconscionable. Thug behavior isn't associated with any particular ethnic group, and use of the term nigger is patently offensive. So without the benefit of reviewing a good sample of social media associated to Mr. Sherman's outburst, the first point is that anything transparently racists in the commentary is simply wrong.
Second, as Mr. Sherman's behavior after the game can be expected -- he just helped his team reach the Super Bowl, so his excitement should be anticipated -- so too should the detractors and racists who will come out of the woodwork at any opportunity. There is an element within our society that will never accept true equality between the races, and thanks to social media, they have a forum to express their base views. It's an unfortunate result of living in a free society.
But Mr. Sherman takes things to far by suggesting, without limitation, that the use of the term thug when applied to a black person is a dodge around using the term nigger. Ndamukong Suh, who plays for the Detroit Lions, is often criticized for his on the field play. Here's one such play that was roundly criticized:
Here's Albert Haynesworth, by no means the equal of Mr. Suh on or off the field, doing about the same thing:
I have no trouble accepting the application of the term thug to either of these incidents. I disagree with its application to Mr. Sherman's comments, but I don't see how stomping on another player's head qualifies as anything other than thuggery.
Should I refrain from labeling these incidents as thuggery simply because both perpetrators are black? That makes no sense. To try and cherry-pick racist comments from otherwise race neutral language is dangerous. I fully understand hatred of the word nigger -- although at the same time, I'm mystified and horrified at its continued use within the black community -- but this notion that people have shifted to thug as a suitable replacement strikes me as sophistry.
Martin Luther King said content of character versus color of skin as the factor to be considered in judging. It's a worthy standard. But the standard should be applied equally. To claim that someone using the term thug is being racist simply because the speaker is white is wrong. One can question the judgment of the critic invoking the term thug, but I don't believe racism can be imputed.
Dr. King did not say or even suggest that judgment, or by implication criticism, could not be leveled at blacks. He hoped that it would be a race neutral criticism. He didn't say that the criticism had to be correct, either. Knuckleheads who couldn't see Mr. Sherman's tirade for what it was are out of line to suggest thuggery. Mr. Sherman, likewise, is wrong to find racism in every criticism.
Sometimes, we need to consider the words of that other King, Rodney, and just try to get along.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The reason it bothers me is because it seems like it's an accepted way of calling somebody the N-word now," he said. "It's like everybody else said the N-word and then they say 'thug' and that's fine. It kind of takes me aback and it's kind of disappointing because they know.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Twit-speak
I don't tweet, or us Twitter. I don't understand the need or the concept itself. Why must anyone know what I'm thinking at a given moment? Is my commentary, instantaneously sent through the ether the minute I witness something, that much more important than anyone else's? I suppose that in an emergency situation Twitter has some use, but why not a cellphone or a CB radio? I guess I'm just old.
One thing that Twitter has given rise to is what I refer to as Twit-speak. From what I glean from discussions about Twitter, individual posts on Twitter are limited to one hundred and forty characters. As a result this is to blame for people abbreviating words like are with R and you with U. For becomes 4. Then there are the unintelligible acronyms that one learns along the way, like TTYL, which stands for Talk To You Later. It's enough to make one's head spin.
In certain realms, abbreviations are necessary due to the need for quick communication. In the military, a QRF is a Quick Reaction Force, and asking for that in three letters is much faster. We all know the IRS as the Internal Revenue Service; it's much easier to spit out the initials than say the dreck that is that institution's full name. Some area's of the country group things together, such as Chicagoland, which refers to the Greater Metropolitan Area of Chicago and Gary, Indiana, although, to be sure, this disgusts some people.
Since I don't engage in Twitter, I don't much care how people talk there. I find it odd and leave it at that. But when it crosses over into mainstream communication, I balk. It's bad enough that most people can't speak English correctly, or even moderately correctly. But to use all these Twit-speak affectations is annoying.
For example, I was listening to sports talk radio in the car and heard about a presser. At first, I thought someone had borrowed this term from the Brits (and they may have, although I can't find out for sure online). What happened to press conferences? Is that too much for people to say? Is it unclear what's going on? When I heard about a presser, I thought they were speaking about someone who worked in a dry cleaner's who'd somehow done something at a sporting event.
Then there are the young folk. This is where I start to feel old. Someone was talking about something being cray cray. I'm not sure what the correct spelling is, but that's how it was pronounced. And what does that mean? Crazy. Yes, crazy. One extra syllable was too much for someone, so they said the first syllable of the word...twice.
There's a commerical with Don Cheadle for some television device, and he refers to an oppo. At least I think he does. Having heard the commercial a couple of times now, I think what he's saying in Twit-speak is opportunity. I don't care enough to look it up, but from the context, that's what I understand. It's ridiculous.
I'm not against language evolving, because that's what languages do. But when language is bastardized because people are too lazy or illiterate to communicate effectively, it's tiresome. I'll never be hip -- I doubt I ever was -- and I'm not opposed to people being so in their dress and language. But this notion that everyone is going to understand abbreviations that are used on Twitter is unsound. I don't know what the numbers are on Twitter usage, but I doubt that every person on the globe is using it.
I'll never tweet. I'm not that interesting. Besides, I doubt I've ever had a post here that was one hundred forty characters or less. So I leave Twitter to those more interesting, more aware, more hip and more technologically advanced than I am.
Besides, I remember when this # was merely the pound symbol.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
One thing that Twitter has given rise to is what I refer to as Twit-speak. From what I glean from discussions about Twitter, individual posts on Twitter are limited to one hundred and forty characters. As a result this is to blame for people abbreviating words like are with R and you with U. For becomes 4. Then there are the unintelligible acronyms that one learns along the way, like TTYL, which stands for Talk To You Later. It's enough to make one's head spin.
In certain realms, abbreviations are necessary due to the need for quick communication. In the military, a QRF is a Quick Reaction Force, and asking for that in three letters is much faster. We all know the IRS as the Internal Revenue Service; it's much easier to spit out the initials than say the dreck that is that institution's full name. Some area's of the country group things together, such as Chicagoland, which refers to the Greater Metropolitan Area of Chicago and Gary, Indiana, although, to be sure, this disgusts some people.
Since I don't engage in Twitter, I don't much care how people talk there. I find it odd and leave it at that. But when it crosses over into mainstream communication, I balk. It's bad enough that most people can't speak English correctly, or even moderately correctly. But to use all these Twit-speak affectations is annoying.
For example, I was listening to sports talk radio in the car and heard about a presser. At first, I thought someone had borrowed this term from the Brits (and they may have, although I can't find out for sure online). What happened to press conferences? Is that too much for people to say? Is it unclear what's going on? When I heard about a presser, I thought they were speaking about someone who worked in a dry cleaner's who'd somehow done something at a sporting event.
Then there are the young folk. This is where I start to feel old. Someone was talking about something being cray cray. I'm not sure what the correct spelling is, but that's how it was pronounced. And what does that mean? Crazy. Yes, crazy. One extra syllable was too much for someone, so they said the first syllable of the word...twice.
There's a commerical with Don Cheadle for some television device, and he refers to an oppo. At least I think he does. Having heard the commercial a couple of times now, I think what he's saying in Twit-speak is opportunity. I don't care enough to look it up, but from the context, that's what I understand. It's ridiculous.
I'm not against language evolving, because that's what languages do. But when language is bastardized because people are too lazy or illiterate to communicate effectively, it's tiresome. I'll never be hip -- I doubt I ever was -- and I'm not opposed to people being so in their dress and language. But this notion that everyone is going to understand abbreviations that are used on Twitter is unsound. I don't know what the numbers are on Twitter usage, but I doubt that every person on the globe is using it.
I'll never tweet. I'm not that interesting. Besides, I doubt I've ever had a post here that was one hundred forty characters or less. So I leave Twitter to those more interesting, more aware, more hip and more technologically advanced than I am.
Besides, I remember when this # was merely the pound symbol.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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