Old Man Vilhauer strikes again

February 8, 2010


Dear Person Ahead of Me on 69th Street in Sioux Falls, South Dakota,

Yeah, I get it. You’ve got kids and so you’ve got a serious need for a minivan. No qualms there. I may have the same need someday. Kids get bigger and soon they don’t fit in the backseat of a Volkswagen Jetta anymore and also it’s hard to have to bend down all the time to get them strapped in and ready to move. Like I said, I get it.

I also get the DVD player. I can understand that. Long trips can be exhausting for everyone involved, and there’s no shame in slapping in a copy of Little Einsteins because, let’s face it, it makes the seven-hour drive down I-90 a little more bearable, even if the theme song for Little Einsteins manages to get lodged in your head every thirty miles.

But, you see, there’s a problem.

You, Person Ahead of Me on 69th Street in Sioux Falls, South Dakota; you live in town. I know this because your license plate gives it away. And you’re currently IN town, a town that, while one of the nation’s fastest growing, is still only a 15-minute drive from one end to the other.

And yet, there you are. You. At the corner of Western and 69th. Plugging in a DVD. For your kid to watch. On the 15-minute ride home. A DVD. FOR THE RIDE HOME.

What’s more, you’re reaching back, fiddling with the screen, adjusting it to his or her pleasure, oblivious to the fact that you’ve not only screwed up the delicate rhythm of one of the city’s worst 4-way stops, but also infuriated the rest of us.

The rest of us, none us driven to put our children in a coma state because GOD FORBID they go without their favorite DVD for the few minutes it takes to get from daycare to home.

You’re in town. Turn on the radio. Better yet, talk to your kids. Here are some starter questions: “How was your day?” “What would you like for dinner?” “What did you learn today.” BONUS! Here’s a starter comment: “Why don’t we wait until after dinner before we watch more television – we’re only 15 minutes from home.”

I mean, I’m not trying to be Old Man Vilhauer, the guy who knows how to parent your children, but COME ON.

At least start the DVD BEFORE YOU GET ON THE ROAD.

Tags: Annoyances |

1 Comment

RT @UserName Tweets are real content, you guys #srsly

January 26, 2010


The following post touches on three things: Twitter, overreaction and a tidy little moral.

On Twitter, and its Place as Serious Content

There are two schools of thought on the validity of Twitter’s content. One school sees Twitter comments as banal, throwaway lines, not worthy of archiving or protecting. They’re the bottom of the barrel, resting comfortably next to Facebook updates and MySpace pages.

The other understands that Twitter continues to serve as a micro-microblog. There may only be 140 characters, but that limit doesn’t downplay the merit of the thought. In other words: you say it in 140 characters or 140 paragraphs – there’s no difference in the hierarchy of importance.

Those that tweet about breakfast are in the first group. Those that spend time crafting brilliant non-sequiturs are in the second. Those that pooh-pooh Twitter as a waste of time are in the first. Those that see Twitter’s value as a depository for new information are in the second.

I’m in the second group.

Which is why I get so upset when a tweet is mishandled. My tweet. My words. My thoughts.

My Overreaction

See, it was cold outside. It was snowing. It was a blizzard; as in, the snow was blowing sideways. And I could have said this. I could have said, on Twitter, “THE SNOW IS BLOWING SIDEWAYS,” and gotten on with my life.

I didn’t. Because I’m in that second group of Twitter users. Instead, I wrote this.

Not high on the LULZ Meter, but still, better than just saying “THE SNOW IS BLOWING SIDEWAYS.”

I continued on with my day. And then, I was re-tweeted.

A subtle change – and a change made in good faith – but enough of a change to upset the timing, lose the sarcasm and render my former tweet spayed and neutered. Just like that, my mood went black. Tired of being nice, I respond with this passive aggressive gem.

I felt better. For a while.

And Here’s Why I’m a Cranky Twitter User

If I write a blog post and someone wants to link back to it, I expect to be quoted accurately. Not out of context. I expect that what I say will be represented just as well on someone else’s blog as it is on my own – in fact, maybe even more so, since my work is being passed along with additional helpful comments attached.

I expect this because it’s what should be done. It’s what you do in print. It’s what you do at newspapers and magazines. It’s what you do when you’re blogging. It’s good, clean attribution.

On Twitter, however, things are still rolling like the Wild West. Tweets are seen as a thought, not a carefully worded message. That I wrote my original in a certain tone, with specific punctuation, isn’t taken into consideration. After all – it’s just a tweet, and it’s free to be passed along, truncated to allow for a RT and a hashtag and attribution even though, if you think about it, the tweet no longer represents what I said in the first place.

It’s why I don’t care for re-tweeting “with comments,” and why I rarely do it.

I’ve since apologized for the passive aggressiveness. The person who RTed me didn’t mean harm. It’s just that the perception of Twitter as a playground for creative content is still in its infant stages. And, thanks to its ever-expanding use, it may never reach that point.

Which is too bad. One spin through the old Favrd (now Favstar, I guess) community is enough to see the promise that Twitter holds in the form of one-line, creatively penned tweets, as valuable as any long form blog post or magazine article, whether for information, humor or truth.

Until that day, I’ll be over here, fighting for Twitter standards and burning bridges I never knew existed.

Tags: Annoyances, Technology, Words, Writing |

4 Comments

*cough*

November 16, 2009


*cough*

It isn’t so much the cough itself, though it’s persisted for 10 days, comes and goes as it pleases, creates excruciating bad breath and fills my throat with an occasional rattle.

It’s the noise.

As in, a sharp warning to all around me. “Watch out,” it says, “Sicko coming through. Take cover and hide your children.”

I know the sound of a cough is lost in the din as things get colder – and, therefore, better filled with the sound of a billion additional coughs. But I still imagine others hear it as I do.

Loud. Filling the room like a Labrador bark. Dripping with disease, stagnating in the air, presenting a biological hazard as it floats through doorways.

I cough, and I know others roll their eyes. I cough, and I imagine the backhanded comments. I cough, and I feel the glare of overprotective mothers, of health care professionals, of cubicle-mates who would rather not end up with bronchitis.

I’ve been branded. And until this scarlet “C” has been wiped away, I’ll always feel self-conscious.

*cough*

Tags: Annoyances, Vilhauer |

Comment

Frosted animal crackers

October 4, 2009


Today, on the way back from the South Dakota Festival of Books, Kerrie purchased some frosted animal crackers from the Al’s Oasis grocery store.

Up until this point, it had been a rough ride. Kerrie was riding shotgun with a 103-degree fever. I was still feeling the after-effects of a restless night bouncing between two beds. Isaac was tired of the car, and Sierra was simply tired. No one was happy. Everyone was frustrated. The car ride needed some lightening up.

The animal crackers were supposed to be that lightening up.

Hopping back in the car and turning out of the parking lot, Kerrie grabbed the bag of crackers. Anticipation peaked.

Kerrie opened them up and groaned.

Because the package revealed nothing of the product’s actual makeup, we were expecting the classic frosted animal crackers. True animal crackers with a slight streak of frosting. These weren’t frosted; they were dipped in mediocre cake frosting, dotted with sprinkles and lacking anything remotely like a classic animal cracker. In fact, in the fine print, we realized they were, in fact, “animal shaped shortbread cookies.”

Kerrie took one bite. “Ugh.” She threw the other bite back in the bag.

I took a bite. “Gross.”

Kerrie, without thinking, reached in and took another bite, this time to confirm her suspicions. “Ick.”

We sulked. Yet, a few hours later, I found myself snacking on them.

What’s more, so did Kerrie.

And while she had the good sense to stop after a handful, I kept shoving them in my mouth. I didn’t like them, but at the time, I had nothing else to go by.

As I was driving, I thought to myself, “There’s a life lesson here somewhere.”

I flipped on my blinker, passed another car, and kept on my way.

Tags: Annoyances, On... |

1 Comment

Mirar fijamente

August 27, 2009


nullEvery question is followed with a soul-piercing stare.

Deep brown eyes, round like a Fiestaware bowl, with a raisin of a black dot floating in the center. Occasionally blinking, but always staring. Right at you. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for the right words.

The stare is partnered with a wide smile – the kind of smile that’s cute when alone, but unsettling when paired with two burrowing eyes. A stare that isn’t swayed by time, either – it will continue to burrow through your brain until it feels it should stop.

And it’s not just once. It happens several times over a half hour. A question. A look to the audience. A sidekick mimicking the act, failing to grasp the same creepiness but still working in concert with the original. Two stares now. TWO STARES.

That’s what unnerves me. I’d have thought the DVD was frozen if it wasn’t for the unfeeling blinks that accompany each stare.

Where’s the answer, kids?

Keep trying.

Staring. Staring. STARING STARING STARING.

This is why I’m thankful it’s taken two years for Sierra to get into Dora the Explorer. The songs, the repetition, the odd mix of Spanish and English – these don’t bother me.

But those stares. * shudder *

Tags: Annoyances, Sierra, Television |

Comment

The most hideous creatures

August 17, 2009


You never forget the first time you see an earwig.

Slimy without actually being wet, like the traditional stereotype of a used-car salesman; creepy in a way that most modern horror films wish they could emulate; as invasive as spilled mercury through the slats of hardwood flooring.

If you haven’t seen them before, consider yourself free. Free from the knowledge that such hideous squirming insects can even exist. Free from the horror of uncovering one in a peach; or between two rocks; or frantically writhing toward water, searching for salvation from the heat and dryness that seem to be their only downfall.

1984’s Winston Smith surely never knew about earwigs. There’s no way his final cage would have been filled with rats, otherwise.

They aren’t harmful (aside from creating earsplitting screams within your psyche). But they’re despicable little creatures, able to flatten to unimaginable depths, able to crawl THROUGH THE RIDGES OF A TUPPERWARE LID - indeed, they enter where even the last gasps of an airtight burp are driven out.

I first experienced them while spending time with my grandparents in Wyoming - they were brought in by hiding in foreign wood, deposited unceremoniously in our backyard, where they would squeeze through the threads of my grandmother’s hummingbird feeder and drown in a soupy mess of sucrose.

They are awful. And they’re in my backyard.

If you’re still curious, click here. I won’t sully this site with their repulsiveness.

Tags: Annoyances, On..., Science, Vilhauer |

1 Comment

A poor return on investment

August 15, 2009


If you’re lucky, you only have to hop online and fill out a 30-field Web form.

Most of the time, though, it’s not that easy. It’s copying a receipt. Filling out a registration card. Cutting out a proof of purchase. Reading a complex set of directions written by a legal department, deciphering a stream of nonsense and piecing together the elements that make up a completed project. Three slips of paper; an address that doesn’t even have a department number or company name, just a random product code and P.O. Box.

You find an envelope. You add a stamp. You scribble the address, taking careful pains not to write the wrong zip code or product number or other impossible integer/letter combination.

You check and recheck your contents. You wait four weeks.

You get a check for four dollars. And as you’re endorsing it, you wonder if product rebates are even worth the trouble. Gauging from the return on investment, you suspect you know the answer.

Tags: Annoyances |

1 Comment

Next Page →