I was reading something on the internet recently - exactly what it was escapes me, and it's irrelevant. The author was talking about some group of people he dislikes, or disagrees with, and said (I'm paraphrasing here) that "the time has come to rebute them!" It took a moment, but I figured that the author must have meant either "rebuke" or "refute," mixed them up, and shat out that gem. But I looked it up, and, lo and behold, it really is a word, though I still think the author got lucky. Hell, the word has little red squiggles underneath it as I type this update. Then my eyes seized on the little bit that I've highlighted in this image.
Yep. Usually, Merriam-Webster dot com won't define the word, since it's in the premium, unabridged, paid dictionary. But for this trial period, lowly plebeians like myself can learn all about the secrets of rebute. If I like it, well, I can pay for a subscription, and enjoy the definition of rebute, and 300,000 other premium words, anytime I please!
As one might expect, my first, knee-jerk reaction was indignation and fury. I mean, are they serious? This is 2012, goddammit, and you want me to pay for information I can find in the dictionary? This was followed by a deep sadness.
I feel really bad for Merriam-Webster, and Britannica, and companies like that. Hundreds of years in business, how else can M-W possibly make money anymore? Not only can I find just about any bit of information on any topic, at a moment's notice, whenever I want, I have become entitled to it! The very idea of paying for information like this is utterly laughable.
It's just like pornography. Porn used to be sacred. Over the course of his teen years, from about age 12 up, a boy would pore over books and magazines, looking for a stray nipple, scour the library (what's that?) for sex instruction books that might have a stray diagram of the female reproductive system,and watch scrambled late-night cable transmissions, dick in hand, desperate for some identifiable female pube action. And now, within milliseconds, he can be watching Anal Black Shemale Public Fisting, if he so chooses. Where's the fun in that? Where's the love anymore?
Friday, December 21, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Really? She was flirting?
Writing the last little update was good for me - it reminded me of so many great public transportation stories I have.
As background, you should know that I'm not particularly perceptive when it comes to social cues.I sometimes need things explained to me like I'm a slow child, at least the first time. For example, I changed schools between 8th and 9th grades - from elementary school to high school.Nobody knew me at the new school, and I thought I could "start fresh," and not be such a Dorkus Malorkus all the time. First week of the new semester, I was passed a note in class by some girl. "My friend thinks you're cute!" My response? "Tell her to tell me herself." Yeah, I was a virgin until I was 23.
Point is, I miss some obvious social things.
I remember being on the bus with my wife, this time definitely AFTER we were married. 14-Mission line, standing room only, next to a younger, attractive hipster-looking chick, vintage late 90s-early 2000s. As an aside, I have words burned into my arms - something like this, but on my arms, long-healed so not red and raw, and not stupidly advertising some band. I'm not sure how the conversation started, but at some point, Cute Hipster Girl looked at my arms and said, "You scar well!" There might even have been some touching of my scars - the details are hazy, and I don't remember much else about the whole interaction. Mrs. Arone grabbed me by the arm and said "Our stop, let's go!", and we debarked almost immediately.
I kinda thought my wife was going to rip out Cute Hipster Girl's throat with her teeth. Apparently, in San Francisco, "You scar well" is obvious flirtation, though I had no idea. "Can you believe the balls on her, I was standing right there! You have your wedding ring on! Bitch, that's MY man!" And I honestly don't think I'm making that last sentence up.
She's gotten over it, though, and she sometimes comes up, rubs my arms, and says in a sultry voice, "Oooh, you scar well!"
As background, you should know that I'm not particularly perceptive when it comes to social cues.I sometimes need things explained to me like I'm a slow child, at least the first time. For example, I changed schools between 8th and 9th grades - from elementary school to high school.Nobody knew me at the new school, and I thought I could "start fresh," and not be such a Dorkus Malorkus all the time. First week of the new semester, I was passed a note in class by some girl. "My friend thinks you're cute!" My response? "Tell her to tell me herself." Yeah, I was a virgin until I was 23.
Point is, I miss some obvious social things.
I remember being on the bus with my wife, this time definitely AFTER we were married. 14-Mission line, standing room only, next to a younger, attractive hipster-looking chick, vintage late 90s-early 2000s. As an aside, I have words burned into my arms - something like this, but on my arms, long-healed so not red and raw, and not stupidly advertising some band. I'm not sure how the conversation started, but at some point, Cute Hipster Girl looked at my arms and said, "You scar well!" There might even have been some touching of my scars - the details are hazy, and I don't remember much else about the whole interaction. Mrs. Arone grabbed me by the arm and said "Our stop, let's go!", and we debarked almost immediately.
I kinda thought my wife was going to rip out Cute Hipster Girl's throat with her teeth. Apparently, in San Francisco, "You scar well" is obvious flirtation, though I had no idea. "Can you believe the balls on her, I was standing right there! You have your wedding ring on! Bitch, that's MY man!" And I honestly don't think I'm making that last sentence up.
She's gotten over it, though, and she sometimes comes up, rubs my arms, and says in a sultry voice, "Oooh, you scar well!"
Monday, December 17, 2012
They say romance is dead?
I don't think about my looks very often - I'm a guy, and we're trained from birth to let the womenfolk worry about that stuff. But for as long as I can remember, when I have thought about my looks, the thoughts have been negative. I'm a fat guy, and I don't like it. But I've been losing weight recently, and I happened to pass a mirror the other day, and thought, "Y'know, Cheech, you're not the worst looking guy out there. And that reminded me of something that happened ages ago.
My wife and I - though this happened before we were married, I believe - were riding the SF Muni, specifically the J Church line, inbound toward the city, after running errands or something. Pretty full streetcar, some standers, all seats occupied. I was in the aisle seat of a 2-seat bench, next to my wife. As people board and debark, there is necessarily a lot of jostling in the aisle - the sheer volume of humanity made it unavoidable. I was reading a book or magazine, trying to just chill out and enjoy the ride.
I remember it was at the Dolores Park stop. During the rush of people to get off the train, my hand and reading material were suddenly kind of manhandled and knocked around, way more than necessary. "What the fuck, man?" is what I said out loud, I'm pretty sure. I tried to see who had knocked into me, but he/she/it was gone, out the door, I never even saw them. A second later, I notice that a piece of paper had been shoved into my hand. I've committed the message to memory:
"Hi There!
I really like redheads and "YOUR TYPE!" Call me!
Shephan 415-123-4567"
I don't remember the phone number, but the words are verbatim. At the time, I looked very much like this, so I assume that "YOUR TYPE" meant "fat."
It brightens my day a little to think that, no matter how ugly I think I am, someone out there is home alone, beating off, wishing they had someone just like me.
My wife and I - though this happened before we were married, I believe - were riding the SF Muni, specifically the J Church line, inbound toward the city, after running errands or something. Pretty full streetcar, some standers, all seats occupied. I was in the aisle seat of a 2-seat bench, next to my wife. As people board and debark, there is necessarily a lot of jostling in the aisle - the sheer volume of humanity made it unavoidable. I was reading a book or magazine, trying to just chill out and enjoy the ride.
I remember it was at the Dolores Park stop. During the rush of people to get off the train, my hand and reading material were suddenly kind of manhandled and knocked around, way more than necessary. "What the fuck, man?" is what I said out loud, I'm pretty sure. I tried to see who had knocked into me, but he/she/it was gone, out the door, I never even saw them. A second later, I notice that a piece of paper had been shoved into my hand. I've committed the message to memory:
"Hi There!
I really like redheads and "YOUR TYPE!" Call me!
Shephan 415-123-4567"
I don't remember the phone number, but the words are verbatim. At the time, I looked very much like this, so I assume that "YOUR TYPE" meant "fat."
It brightens my day a little to think that, no matter how ugly I think I am, someone out there is home alone, beating off, wishing they had someone just like me.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Comcast = Stupid People
Sorry for the strong language in the title. If any of my young nieces are reading this, I apologize for using a bad word like "stupid." to describe the people at Comcast. But really, they are complete fucking morons.
I've been watching less TV lately, ever since this internet thing has arrived on the scene. But make no mistake, I am a fan of television, as is my wife. We don't have much "appointment viewing," but she definitely loves to watch, among a few other pet shows, "Project Runway." What can I say? That's a stop on her journey through life, and I'll try not to judge her for it. Point is, she has a DVR subscription to record the show weekly, and our DVR recently shit the bed. I called Comcast, from whom we receive cable, internet, and phone service, explained the problem, and set up an appointment for (IIRC) the next day, for a technician to come and examine the box, and either repair or replace it. Four hour time window, from noon to 4 PM.
Now, I know you, and you're pretty smart. You're thinking, "I see, the technician will be late, or not show up, leading to an angry Cheech Arone!" You're right - the technician never showed, and Mrs. Arone had to schlep her ass downtown to pick up a box in person the next day, since her show was on, and all appointment slots were taken for that day. Major clusterfuck. But that's not the issue.
After the four hour window expired, I gave a fifteen-minute courtesy window, and then called Comcast. They said that they called to confirm the appointment several times that morning and afternoon, and got no response, so they cancelled the appointment.
"But, wait a minute! I've been here all day, and the phone hasn't rung once!"
"I'm sorry sir, that's what the paperwork says."
"What number did they call?"
"(559) 564-ABCD."
"What? No, That's the number from when we lived in East Bumblefuck, four hours away from here."
"What is the new phone number, sir?"
"Wait, what? The new phone number? We've lived here for five years. You installed our cable, and you need our phone number? Wait a minute, DON'T YOU PROVIDE OUR PHONE SERVICE?? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm sorry, sir. What's the new number?"
And the angels wept.
I've been watching less TV lately, ever since this internet thing has arrived on the scene. But make no mistake, I am a fan of television, as is my wife. We don't have much "appointment viewing," but she definitely loves to watch, among a few other pet shows, "Project Runway." What can I say? That's a stop on her journey through life, and I'll try not to judge her for it. Point is, she has a DVR subscription to record the show weekly, and our DVR recently shit the bed. I called Comcast, from whom we receive cable, internet, and phone service, explained the problem, and set up an appointment for (IIRC) the next day, for a technician to come and examine the box, and either repair or replace it. Four hour time window, from noon to 4 PM.
Now, I know you, and you're pretty smart. You're thinking, "I see, the technician will be late, or not show up, leading to an angry Cheech Arone!" You're right - the technician never showed, and Mrs. Arone had to schlep her ass downtown to pick up a box in person the next day, since her show was on, and all appointment slots were taken for that day. Major clusterfuck. But that's not the issue.
After the four hour window expired, I gave a fifteen-minute courtesy window, and then called Comcast. They said that they called to confirm the appointment several times that morning and afternoon, and got no response, so they cancelled the appointment.
"But, wait a minute! I've been here all day, and the phone hasn't rung once!"
"I'm sorry sir, that's what the paperwork says."
"What number did they call?"
"(559) 564-ABCD."
"What? No, That's the number from when we lived in East Bumblefuck, four hours away from here."
"What is the new phone number, sir?"
"Wait, what? The new phone number? We've lived here for five years. You installed our cable, and you need our phone number? Wait a minute, DON'T YOU PROVIDE OUR PHONE SERVICE?? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm sorry, sir. What's the new number?"
And the angels wept.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
I Love Living in the Internet Age
I know that there is a stereotype of men hating to shop, but damned if it isn't true in my case. I just can't stand shopping. There's nothing new to say about it - dig up Henny Youngman's corpse for that stuff. But I was recently reminded of a humorous shopping incident that happened to me and my wife a few years ago
It was at Walgreens. Drug stores depress me. They're always laid out in a weird way - never simply parallel aisles like a grocery store, but a layout like Kowloon Walled City, directing me into dead ends and secret glory-holes. I can never find anything, and all I ever want to do is leave.
Anyway, my wife and I were at Walgreens, doing what must have been some holiday shopping. In the cart were greeting cards and a perfume set (White Shoulders? Something like that), as well as standard fare - Kleenex, Advil, soda, etc. And sex lube. No need to laugh, we're all adults here, more-or-less. We needed lube, so we threw it in the cart with the other stuff, and didn't even give it a second thought.
After about eleven years, we were ready to check out. Holiday lines stink, but this was a big Walgreens, with about a half-dozen checkers, all in use, and we managed to make it to the cashier without incident. Beep - Kleenex - $2.99. Beep - Advil - $5.69. Beep. Beep. Beep. Item not scanning. So the cashier grabs her phone and pushes the PA button to make a storewide announcement :
"Kenny, can we have a price check on the Kama Sutra Love Liquid?"
Silence. Crickets. Even the Muzak went mute for our Special Moment. Perhaps I'm dramatizing, but time stopped. The cashier looked like a fish, mouth opening and closing as if she'd lost all speech ability once she realized what she'd announced. I just said, "Great, thanks," and shot myself in the head.
No, not really. But would you blame me? After a second of silence, there was some laughter, but people mostly just got on with their business. That's nice of them, but I know full well that if I'd heard that announcement, about someone else, I'd have wet myself with laughter. And then when I saw that the victim was a 350-pounder with a Grizzly Adams beard like I had at the time? Forget about it, I'd've been done.
And that's why we buy lube online now.
It was at Walgreens. Drug stores depress me. They're always laid out in a weird way - never simply parallel aisles like a grocery store, but a layout like Kowloon Walled City, directing me into dead ends and secret glory-holes. I can never find anything, and all I ever want to do is leave.
Anyway, my wife and I were at Walgreens, doing what must have been some holiday shopping. In the cart were greeting cards and a perfume set (White Shoulders? Something like that), as well as standard fare - Kleenex, Advil, soda, etc. And sex lube. No need to laugh, we're all adults here, more-or-less. We needed lube, so we threw it in the cart with the other stuff, and didn't even give it a second thought.
After about eleven years, we were ready to check out. Holiday lines stink, but this was a big Walgreens, with about a half-dozen checkers, all in use, and we managed to make it to the cashier without incident. Beep - Kleenex - $2.99. Beep - Advil - $5.69. Beep. Beep. Beep. Item not scanning. So the cashier grabs her phone and pushes the PA button to make a storewide announcement :
"Kenny, can we have a price check on the Kama Sutra Love Liquid?"
Silence. Crickets. Even the Muzak went mute for our Special Moment. Perhaps I'm dramatizing, but time stopped. The cashier looked like a fish, mouth opening and closing as if she'd lost all speech ability once she realized what she'd announced. I just said, "Great, thanks," and shot myself in the head.
No, not really. But would you blame me? After a second of silence, there was some laughter, but people mostly just got on with their business. That's nice of them, but I know full well that if I'd heard that announcement, about someone else, I'd have wet myself with laughter. And then when I saw that the victim was a 350-pounder with a Grizzly Adams beard like I had at the time? Forget about it, I'd've been done.
And that's why we buy lube online now.
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