Spirit animals–I’m not sure if this is actually a real thing…or one of those fake things that your friend who invented it insists is real while making you feel insignificant for not knowing what it was already. But, without doing any sort of research on the subject, let me posit it as a real thing: “you know, a spirit animal? Like what animal your spirit is.” Again, you’re welcome for using the words in the definition.

Now, let me be the first to say that, like most of America, I don’t believe in this sort of witchcraftery otherworldy shit, unless of course we’re talking about John Edward of Crossing Over fame, who clearly is blessed with the gift of being able to communicate with dead second cousins. But, I’ve always been interested in finding my spirit animal (as the quest gives me a well-deserved opportunity to think about myself for an extended period of time, harping in particular on the qualities that make me great). And last week, incapacitated by a series of television marathons (more on that in a minute), I think I finally found my spirit animal: the Vogelkop Bowerbird. Just watch the clip:

A skilled interior decorator, an excellent communicator versed in many languages, and a somewhat-complicated name with just the right air of pretention…As far as I can tell, this bird has got it all, and it screams Christopher Katsaros IV. Just look at that “nest” it’s built (nest doesn’t do it justice…it’s a masterpiece). I’ve actually had a very similar design in mind for my villa in Cabo, with the open floorplan and inviting veranda he’s crafted. While the integration of funghi is something I hadn’t thought of, you can bet I’ll certainly be considering it. The second Bower, on the other hand, seems to have made a poor choice with the deer dung and charcoal; while I’m traditionally a fan of earth tones, he has taken this a bit too far, though it might just be a cultural difference between he and I (for the time being, I’ll reserve my judgment). I’m particularly enamoured by the courtship between the males and the females (see here): when the female arrives at Mr. Vogelkop’s hacienda, he vacates the premises so that she can inspect it, like some sort of open house. Incidentally, that is exactly how I would like to structure my next few dates–a sort of Room Invaders, but without the slutty blacklights and semen stains.

Checking the receipts

Next on the stream-of-conscious train is the clip itself. When I first searched for this clip, I came across this version. Now, if you’re an Oprah Winfrey fan like myself, you would have thrown up your arms in protest after hearing that clip from Life. That’s because you’re presumably well aware of the fact that when Oprah got the text from Gayle that the makers of Planet Earth were filming a follow-up series, she instantly demanded that they let her narrate the whole series, squeezing out poor Sigourney Weaver, who had proven herself perfectly capable of navigating the complexities of bullfrog mating calls. But, as you just noticed, the narrator for that clip is anything but a portly African American hostess with the mostess. I played the clips side-by-side, and realized that while it was visually the same content, the narrations were completely different. The Oprah version seemed lighter on the facts and less bound to the truth. It even had a more playful bed of music beneath it. But, it didn’t seem unreasonable to dumb it down for an American audience. If I were the BBC, I would do exactly the same. Let’s remember, this series aired on a network that would probably sandwich it between classics like Toddlers & Tiaras and I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant (and, embarrassingly, you’re thinking right now–“I love those shows!” So do I, my friend…there’s just something really satisfying about a major dump that turns out to be a baby). We are, how you say, dumber. But as I continued to fact check, I discovered the most shocking thing: the two clips presented different facts (Oprah says the Bower took weeks to build his nest, David Attenborough says it took years).

Gasp. It’s like when a child finds out Santa doesn’t exist…and the cruel reality that his parents will no longer be showering him with gifts. Suddenly, images of a coked up Winfrey, sitting there in her recording booth, willy nilly making shit up as a venus fly trap engulfs an ant on screen. If I can’t take a BBC Documentary at face value anymore, what else in this cruel, cruel world have I been accepting as fact? I quickly took a mental scan of the countless elite European cocktail parties I’m known to frequent, zeroing in on the portions where I’d save the conversation with my brilliant recitals of facts from these documentaries. No doubt the Brits had been looking down on me all the while, sneering at this American with his Oprah Winfrey made-up-isms. I’ll talk the liberty of assuming that you’re not familiar with these upper-crust parties I speak of, so to offer an analogy–while you talk of street cred, we talk of salon cred (pronounced sah-lun). And let’s just say it’s safe to assume my salon cred went down.

Naturally, I did what anybody would do in this situation–I ignored it completely and quickly changed the channel. Did it take the Bowerbirds weeks or years to craft their nests? I don’t know, and just like Oprah Winfrey before me, I will present either as facts at the next opportunity, because luckily for me, TLC was just kicking off a marathon of Dog the Bounty Hunter, and I knew that would be my new focus for the rest of the day.

As my célébrité continues to grow at an alarming rate, I find myself inundated with social invitations and formal appearance requests. It often boggles my mind that people expect an on-the-fly response to their invitation. I don’t think they realize the complex social calculations that are involved in drafting and executing someone of my social standing’s calendar. I can’t be expected to compute these equations that fast…do I look like Watson, the IBM supercomputer and Jeopardy-ien extraordinaire?

[Anecdotal observation: the people that demand these sort of split-second responses are the same people that accuse you of not calling them. Umm, hi. Last time I checked, a phone call takes two players. And as far as my call log can tell, you called me just as little as I called you. So it seems like we're both on the same page WRT our friendship…it's definitely not a priority. And frankly, guilting me is only reaffirming why I didn't call you in the first place]

So let me help you interpret and navigate some common responses:

Response #1: “Oh, defffinitely.”

“Oh, defffinitely.” Definitely, eh…that’s like 100%, right? Wrong. Notice how their voice went up midway through definitely. That’s extreme unease you’re hearing. This person is absolutely not coming to your event/house party/quinceanera. And to be honest, you’re not even a good enough friend to get a courtesy excuse later. Awwwwk—waaaaard.

Response #2: “Sure, email me the details.”

“Sure, email me the details.” No doubt, you’ve encountered this. And we all know what it really means: umm, you caught me in the middle of a brain fart and I can’t think of a single excuse…yet. But by the time you send me the details, I’ll have manufactured something extraordinary. Either that, or you’ll forget to follow up, sparing us both the awkwardness that will inevitably follow. [Note: always carry an excuse in your back pocket—you never know when a drive-by ambush might happen. I keep three]

Response #3: “Definite maybe!”

“Definitely, maybe!” Though this implies extreme hesitation, this is actually one step away from solidly penciling you into their schedule. What it’s really saying is this: “I don’t actually think of you as a close friend, but I’d like to fix this and the first step towards doing that is attending your somewhat intriguing soirée.” You’re lowering your guard…being genuine with the host: you’re trying to repair the years of neglect you’ve paid to this relationship by sincere honesty. And gosh darnit, it just feels good…doesn’t it?

Response #4: “yeahhh, Nope.”

Or, you can do what I do: “yeahhh, Nope.” Said with a completely straight face and no excuse after, I find it really keeps people on their toes and reaffirms who’s holding the strings in this friendship. “Can you believe that, he flat out said no. He’s probably going to just sit at home, watch a Dateline child predator story and go to sleep.” And you’re probably right, but I’ve got you talking about me later, and that’s all that matters.

You’ll notice that this list is completely devoid of a definitive “yes” response. It simply doesn’t exist. Why? Because deep down, we’re always waiting and hoping for a better invitation—a backstage pass to a Lindsay Lohan cocaine bender, a surprise sexual rendezvous with a Craigslist Killer….any opportunity to climb that social ladder higher and higher.

Every once in a while, I try and serve my community by unexpectedly showing up to an event which I didn’t solidly RSVP to. I do it not just because of my court appointed community service requirement; no, it’s worth it just to see the host’s face as she says “Oh, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I said defffffffinitely, didn’t I?”

One of the most exciting parts of joining the professional world: professional e-mail.

In my two years as a somewhat-productive member of the real world, I’ve learned quite a lot WRT e-mails. Consider this the first in a long series of postings about the matter.

No need for pronouns.

A romcom about the trials and tribulations of crafting the perfect message.

You use pronouns in your e-mail? Fool! I’ve learned to talk like this: “Think should do this…” Is this any quicker? No, absolutely not. Because in your brain, you’re still adding in the pronouns (eventually you probably translated that sentence to “I think we should do this”)—for the reader, they’re still there, and for the writer, you now have to consciously remember not to type them in the e-mail.

You probably do this anyway, because your superiors started doing it. So you thought, “wow—losing pronouns must be a step in the right direction toward mid-level management.” Well, you’re right. It is. But, might I remind society that pronouns were invented in part to shorten proper nouns. We’re shortening something, which on average, ranges from 1-3 characters to begin with. That’s like shortening John to Jack or Rob to Bob—it just doesn’t make that much sense when you think about it.

Abbreviations

I’ve also learned some great abbreviations: WRT = with regard to, IMHO= in my honest/humble opinion. That second one really threw me off when I first saw it. “Ummm, lol? WTF is that?” I sat there staring at it for what felt like 3 minutes. Then I googled it. No—he couldn’t have meant “in my honest opinion.” Surriously? Sure enough, it fit. Anyway, I throw that one around liberally now, in the hopes that I send someone else off on a confusing quest to figure out what I’m talking about. Because let’s be honest: abbreviations—at their heart—are about making your life easier and the person reading’s life harder.

Proofread.

Ha! She said “their” when she meant “they’re”! Oh em gee, classic Lemon. I’m totally going to forward it out to everyone I know so I can mock her. Or better yet, I’m going to call her out in front of everyone at the next staff meeting. God this is going to be great. I can’t wait for the public humiliation that’s about to take place. (And yes, I chose to make the person making this mistake a woman; I find it makes the example more believable; I tested it with “him” and it just didn’t resonate the same).

I actually think it’s more important to proofread for tone rather than mistakes in grammar (though while you’re at it, please do both). That’s because it’s all too easy to come across as angry or condescending in an e-mail. I take a number of approaches to make sure I sound like no one else other than Mother Teresa in my e-mails, by doing the following things:

  • -Compliment sandwich! Find two very superficial things you liked about an idea/presentation (as hard as that might be) and smash it in between one piece of brutally honest feedback. Because our generation was raised with showers and showers of compliments, and we don’t understand the concept of constructive criticism. If you’ve applied this method correctly, they’ll forget the criticism and focus exclusively on the compliments (which sounds ineffective, but when their idea inevitably falls flat, you’ll have that e-mail thread to point back to as you yell “see, I told you so!” in their face during the quarterly performance reviews).
  • -Emoticons: use them liberally. I feel so gay at the end of the proof reading process after adding one happy face followed by a winking face. “Am I trying to seduce my coworkers?” (answer: sometimes, yes). But they’re necessary, simply to soften the blow of the unnecessarily harsh criticism you just leveled on them 12 seconds ago. This isn’t an invitation to get super creative and add noses, eyebrows, or depictions of sexual exploitation; as far as I’m concerned, you have three options: happy, sad or winking. It’s my little way of adding a bit of light-hearted cheer to an otherwise depressing e-mail.
  • -Exclamation points: they can make or break an e-mail. I try to use at least one, and only when it’s absolutely clear that the sentence they are attached to is happy and not angry. Never use multiple exclamation points for the same reason as the next point. Also, when it comes to question marks, using two of them for one sentence is just obnoxious and comes off condescending. Example: what were you thinking using two question marks (you jerk)??
  • -DO NOT USE CAPS. Mr. Qwerty is probably rolling over in his grave right now every time Kanye West types an e-mail (Kanye: when you type exclusively in caps, you are no longer emphasize anything). Some people think it’s an effective way to highlight an important message. Nope. It is an effective way to convey screaming, though.

Bullet Points & Headers

People don’t read anymore. In fact, I’m surprised you made it this far. Actually, you probably didn’t.

But if you did (congratulations on wasting what could have been a productive 6 minutes of your life), it’s because of my fantastically innovative use of headers and bullet points. I’ve discovered that’s the only way to keep people engaged in these tough economic times.

Italics, bolding and underlining mid-sentence are absolutely not an effective tool—you come across looking like your Aunt who just learned how to forward chain mail. You know, the Aunt that also still uses AOL and has a bible verse in her signature line (amen for figuring out the signature line, though). You might as well change the font color, while you’re at it.

Coming up in the next addition:

  • -how to appropriately sign off your e-mail without sounding like an Australian person
  • -interpreting who your boss is talking to based on the position of your e-mail address in the “To:”, “Cc:” and “Bcc:” lines
  • -And more…



[I wrote this on November 3, 2010, but forgot to publish it. Meh, it's not that stimulating, but enjoy]:

I’m as pissed as a tea partier at Christine O’Donnell’s Victory Party. Not because of Tuesday night’s election results; they sucked, but whatever, I’m ovah it. Rather, I’m pissed because of the awful election returns coverage.

As soon as I got home, I turned on NBC—it’s no secret that Brian Williams is the most trusted name in news in my book. My friends—Joe Scarborough and Mika Brezinski—had braced me for some amazing coverage across the networks of NBC. And I was pumped. But what did I find? Mario Lopez. Ugh. For those of us that consider watching election returns a sport—and I absolutely do—Tuesday night was horrible. My grievances below.

  • Biggest Loser: NBC decided to push their coverage back an hour so we could watch the latest episode of Biggest Loser. Are you surrious?? I know everyone likes to point at one thing and say “This is what’s wrong with America”, but fo real: THIS is what’s wrong with Ehmurrika…that we’d rather watch clinically obese people try and do exceedingly easy tasks like climbing a flight of stairs than see where our country is headed politically.
  • Chuck Todd—where you at? One of the only reasons I turn to the networks of NBC—aside from Brian Williams’ glorious tan—is to see Chuck Todd’s brilliant commentary. That man is a genius. And yet for some reason, he got like 20 seconds of airtime. Come on–the man who’s normally on TV throughout the day, from the Today Show to the Nightly News and everything in between (including his own show)–and you pick tonight of all nights to give him the night off? Ugh.
  • Where were the charts? The graphs? I need graphics, people! And I’m not talking about CNN’s holographic bullshit. I’m talking about moving pie charts and bar graphs engulfing the commentators and taking over the studio. Instead, I got a hologram of the Capitol building. Useless…utterly useless. Come on people, what am I supposed to do: listen to you?

Love me a good celebrity mug shot.

It’s no secret that I try to model myself after the celebrity that I no doubt will one day become—whether it be consistently refreshing my wardrobe so I’m not photographed in the same outfit twice or changing my cell phone number every 90 days to protect my privacy, I’m always staying three steps ahead of the paparazzo. So in the midst of this epidemic of celebrity unruliness and misbehavior, it’s refreshing to hear an updated list of excuses for me to add to my vocabulary. There’s nothing I love more than a good excuse.

First though, I think I should start off with an example of what not to do, presented in perfect clarity to us by Charlie Sheen. Can I be the first to say that man, I had no idea Charlie Sheen was such a train wreck. But oh my god, wow—that man is truly horrifying. And to think he’s CBS’s shining star, a network which caters to 60-year-old Jewish grandmothers in Florida.

Let’s be clear: I’m not saying that it would be beneath me to freak out at a prostitute I hired and accuse her of stealing my wallet—that’s actually the first thing I think about, traditionally, when I hire them (“oh fuck, I forgot to hide my wallet—is it still there? Did she steal it? She stole that shit! Oh wait. Sorry. False alarm. It’s right where I left it. Well, I got lucky this time…”). If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years and years of watching Law & Order and CSI (Miami and Vegas, NOT New York), it’s that you can never trust a prostitute. Bitches be shady!

But, unlike Charlie Sheen, I’d like to think that I’d have the wherewithal to have a competent entourage in place to take the fall for me. If I’m making $2 million per episode, you better believe my empire would be appropriately staffed.

An allergic reaction to some medication you were taking. Really?

So let me get this straight: not only did Mr. Sheen not have anyone on the front lines, ready to either take the fall for him or hide all of the evidence before the police arrived, he didn’t even have the appropriate back office in place to come up with a plausible excuse for his behavior.

Mr. Sheen, and Co.: as someone who takes fistfuls of pills and is perfectly capable of operating heavy machinery and/or caring a baby in my fetus to term, I’d like to point out how ludicrous your excuse is. An allergic reaction to medication is an awkward outbreak of bumps on your chest or a severe case of lethargy—it’s not going ape shit in a suite at the Plaza Hotel. Couldn’t you think of something better? You were in character for an upcoming role; you were distraught of your recent series of divorces…hell, just say that prostitute actually did steal your wallet. Like I said, everyone could relate to that.

Anyway, the best thing to come out of this is a handy reflection by the NY Daily News on celebrity excuses over the years. Or as I prefer to call it, a cheat sheet.

Ich bin ein Berliner

[I invited my friend Allie to help me write this post, because more so than anyone I know, she values the sort of ruthless efficiency her German ancestors are known for. And because, as a fellow elitist traveler, she enjoys discussing the trials and tribulations that jetsetters like us must endure on a bimonthly-basis. She's blogging in blue; I'm in blogging in green.]

I’m sitting in the airport in Las Vegas at 9PM on a Sunday. I’ve made this mistake before—for some reason, I always think I can squeeze out a couple more hours of fun/sluttyness/sin. That’s never the case—it always turn into one long—very, very long—walk of shame home.

There’s a portly, homely-looking lady in her late-unmarried thirties sitting next to me (you know the type: high-wasted jeans, light pink crocs paired with a “slimming” black Haines beefy tee). She’s talking loudly on her cell phone; not because of bad reception—no…it’s clear that she wants us all to hear her conversation so that we think she’s cool (we’ve all used that voice before, let’s be honest). But here’s the deal: she’s asking if the person on the other line has any Plan B. Now I see why she was talking loudly—she wanted us to know she was sexually active. You would think fat-sex would be something you’d try to block out of your mind, and you’d be right. But still, it’s like a train crash—you gotta watch. Or listen.

After listening closer, I discover that the person on the other line is her Mother. “But Mom, I’ve borrowed some from you before. …. You don’t have any? OK, well I think I have some at my house, but it might be expired.” Evidently, this lady is clearly not making the sort of life choices that merit a trajectory away from the double-wide where she rests her head at night.

But, to be honest, her impending pregnancy is not the worst of her problems right now; her fly is down. I kind of want to tell her, but I’m afraid to draw even more attention to her FUPA than it deserves.

Which brings me to my point: Airport Etiquette. Now I’m not going to glamorize the good old days, when we used to get dressed up for flights and flight attendants would Rockettes-style welcome you onto the plane. But a little bit of ruthless efficiency wouldn’t hurt anybody…

#1 Travelators – Slower Traffic: Keep Right.

Pretty clear, right? This mostly applies to couples, groups and

Sidenote: travelator is one of my favorite words. I first developed a love for them in Hong Kong, where 1.5km of travelators carry British expats down from their apartments on a hillside and into the financial districts in the morning, and then switch directions in the afternoon to carry them back home.

especially groups of couples who are EFL—please don’t monopolize the entire walkway. And if you do, when I gently clear my throat 12 inches behind your neck, it’s not because there’s something caught in it—that’s a polite indication that you should step aside, biotch. There’s nothing worse than an abrupt roadblock whilst travelating at a cool 3 km/hour—it kills your flow.

I can be as lazy as the best of them, but I’ve never stepped on a travelator and just stopped walking. That takes some intense laziness, especially as more able-bodied walkers pass by on the other side.

#2 Security Check Points.

What's the world coming to when you can't bring butane, brass knuckles or a loaded pistol onto a plane?

I’m always surprised by the things people forget to take out of their pockets. Really?? You didn’t think your cell phone would set the alarm off? Or that block of lead you had in your fanny pack—you thought that was kosher? I can vaguely understand not being aware of the 3-1-1 rule (no I can’t), but some of the things people get stopped for just baffle my mind.

I was at one airport that had separate “experienced” and “casual” flier lines. Unfortunately, this wasn’t as self-selecting as I would have liked it to be. Ma’am, your walker with tennis ball guards automatically qualifies you as a casual flyer.

As a rule of thumb, I used to pick the line that had the fewest amount of elderly people / families / EFLers. Now, to the inexperienced traveler, this seems like it would be the smart move, right? Wrong. EFLers are usually so scared of American authoritarianism that they’re virtually naked by the time they get to the machines. Parents are so embarrassed of their bratty kids that they’ve got the whips out and ready to use (which, mind you, aren’t metal and can easily pass through the screener). And elderly people are accompanied by TSA employees who can stream them right through the machines. No, it’s the other line—the one with the baby boomers and the middle Americans who seem to blend right in—that’s the worst. And businessmen…don’t even get me started—that laptop never comes out of their briefcase until the last minute, and they’ve got like 25 things they have to unholster from their belts before they can go through the line.

Don’t worry, if you take a long time, I’ll just roll my eyes at the other people in line in an effort to make sure we’re all on the same page: when we collectively get to the other side, and Jeff Probst is standing there waiting with his lit tiki torch, we’re voting YOU off the island.

Great, so now that Chris has covered the perils of checking in, getting through security, and making your way to the gate, we should discuss the terror that awaits at the gate. That almost rhymes. But that’s where the fun ends.

#3 – Gate Lurkers.

We can't all be elite. Seriously, we can't.

You know who they are. When the sassy flight attendant tells people that flight 1512, non-stop service to Houston is about to begin boarding, a line forms faster than you can say “First Class and Gold medallion members Only.” Obviously, none of these people are gold plated (hell, even Fools gold ) Medallion members, but there they are, completely blocking the gate for those whose turn it is to board. What’s that? Oh no, I’m never flying first, nor am I elite (yet…), but I like to think that when I am, the path will be clear and I don’t have to aggressively ask people to move out of my way. Even when the flight attendant gets on the speaker to say that people need to move and make a clear path, they don’t. Let’s get something clear people. Seats are assigned. Getting on first will not make you get to your destination sooner. Further, you are zone 7. You will be boarding in 15 minutes. Sit. Down. I realize there is limited overhead space, but you wouldn’t be so concerned if you hadn’t packed your oversized, overstuffed suitcase that you snuck through security for your 48 hour trip to Vegas. Who wears clothes there anyway?

#4 – Extra Jetway Time

By now you know I hate the boarding process. The fact that some airlines board by zones and others back to front just screams to the inefficiency that is inherent to the process, since obviously the high paid consultants that did studies for the different airlines came up with different results. When the boarding process starts, people naturally get excited (see above), but first, the elite folks get to board. Then, a terrible thing happens. Priority boarding for fatties. Sure, they don’t call it this, but that’s what it is. “People who need extra time getting down the jetway may now board.” The occasional handi-capable person uses this alloted time to board, and rightfully so. But, more often than not, you see Bess and Carl, 700 aggregate pounds of fun, using this chance to waddle their way up to the gate attendant. Oh, I’M SORRY, I didn’t realize eating yourself into an early grave offers the chance to cut in line while you are still on earth. By all means, go ahead, but god help you if you are sitting next to me. Because I will demand that you pay for an extra seat for your girth. Really.

I’ve already written about how I don’t think it’s productive having celebrities on Twitter—if anything, we need less access into their empty brains. But it’s becoming increasingly clear that C-list celebrities and obscure politicians are using this solely as a tool to find relevance. When no one else cares about their meaningless lives, they can always turn to their tens of followers on Twitter to gently brush their forehead and tell them “@RamonaSinger u dont hve #bugeyes. There not to big, their hott. #bethanysux”

Case and point—the Real Housewives of New Jersey Reunion last week (and lately, the last three reunions from that show have featured a segment where the housewives discuss their “adoring” fans on Twitter). Which reminds me—does anyone feel the need to take a Xanax before watching that show these days? These girls are stressin’ me out rulll bad:

First of all, Here’s what Andy Cohen: you don’t “send a Twitter.” You Tweet. Yeah, I think it’s stupid, too, but let’s try and stick to the nomenclature that the tweeple are using, mkay?

But, in general, surrrrriously?

Danielle, just because you get a retweet from some psycho pedophile in Kansas doesn’t mean you’re right or that you’re not crazy. To be sure: you’re certifiable, and anybody telling you otherwise probably also doesn’t know the difference between “their, there and they’re” or “two and too” and certainly can’t be trusted. If it’s riddled with grammatical errors, no doubt it’s riddled with errors in logic as well. Countess LuAnn–your performance sucked; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And Speidi, same goes for you—they’re followers in the sense that they’re laughing at you, not fans that are adoring you. I think we’re just trying to keep tabs on your krazy-ness so we can forward it around the office for a good laugh or two. Plus we’re waiting for your beach ball breasts to explode, because we know you’ll have live tweeting coverage of the subsequent spill as events unfold.

I don’t hate Twitter; I just don’t like how celebrities use it.

But really, it’s no surprise that celebrities have flocked to a medium which requires the absolute minimum amount of work for them to maintain—140 characters of meaningless text. The way that they use it makes it clear: Twitter is for people who are too lazy to organize their thoughts into a clear and structured argument. It’s for people who are too lazy to blog but think that their thoughts are still important enough to be heard.

If you’re not going to put any serious time into your arguments, it’s pretty self-righteous to think I should bother reading them. #justsayin

Lindsay Lohan went to jail. And got out like 25 seconds later. BP splooged all over the Gulf of Mexico. Obama continued to weave his master plan of infecting this country with socialism/communism/fascism/dictator-ism. And the World Cup happened.

Yes, yes, we get it. But there were other stories that happened this summer that I think were just as interesting, if not more. They didn’t really make the headlines, but armed with the tens of readers that follow me on this blog, I know I’ll be able to change that. So, Nation, here they are:

British Man Hoards Chocolate. Drives Prices Up to a 33-Year High

What?!?! I know, right? Anthony Ward, a commodities trader in the UK, has quietly been purchasing futures contracts of Cocoa since last October. Cocoa beans make chocolate—not to be confused with coca (no 2nd “O”) leaves, which make cocaine. Though that would be kind of fun.

When a futures contract expires, most traders choose a cash settlement. However, Mr. Ward made the unusual move to take delivery of the Cocoa, moving the 240,000+ tones to a warehouse in the UK.

This move drove the price of Cocoa to a 33-year-high. Mr. Ward argues that it’s not speculation that’s driving the prices up but a poor crop-yield in the Ivory Coast, one of the main producers of the beans.

But like, ok, what?? I’m not a huge chocolate fan, but still. I’m rulll scured…

But I’m also really intrigued. I eagerly await the AMC Original Movie story of the life and times of this real-life Willy Wonka character.

Sink Holes are the New Rogue Waves…

I love cruising. Call me a Middle American or an elderly Jewish woman from Florida, but I don’t care. All you can eat meals, jackpot-crackpot bingo and nightly entertainment—where do I sign? But one thing I was always scared of was the illusive rogue wave. I’ve watched one too many Discovery Channel documentaries on them to know that A) they exist and B) they’re out to kill happy cruisers like me. In fact, they estimate that at any given moment, there’s one rogue wave lurking out there. Terrifying….

So you can understand my fear when I saw this pop-up on the front page of National Geographic:

Petrified. I didn’t leave the house for three days. And then came this (it’s harder to make out, but it’s a sink hole 100 feet deep, 300 yards wide and almost a third of a mile long):

What in the name of unexplained science is happening here?? Apparently these sink holes just unexpectedly happen, and can be triggered by something as small as a fly. And no one knows why they happen. I’d like to make a resolution for scientists: no more travelling to other planets until we figure out what the fuck is happening on this one. As my Mom once said, you can have your desert once you’ve finished your veggies. So stop pigging out on tiramisu and start focusing on the broccoli that’s turning my life turn into one anxiety-filled infomercial.

Anyway, if you can take one thing away from this today, it’s this: sink holes—they’re real, and they’re coming to an area of land near you.

The Tour de France – It Happened

The famous bike race, which takes place during the month of July and winds through France and it’s neighboring countries, happened. And no one seemed to care. Probably because the beginning of the Tour started just at the height of the World Cup. And, as difficult as it is to believe that anything can be even MORE boring than watching a soccer game, watching a 20-day bike race actually takes the cake.

In case you were wondering, Lance Armstrong didn’t win. He came in 23rd place. It kind of sucks that we force athletes to leave at the top of their game; I enjoyed the fact that Lance was basically just like “eff it. I like biking so I’m going to do this.” Yeah yeah yeah, he did it for cancer and yada yada. Mainly, I’m just happy that we got to see a lot of Lance advertising. God, he’s just such a winner. Even if he did use performance enhancing drugs.

Here are some good/cute ones; Lance–you have such wise observations:

[Disclaimer: I feel the same way about performance enhancing drugs as I do about artists lip syncing at a concert: if it’s going to help you create a more interesting spectacle for me to watch, than go right ahead.]

The Sea Lions @ Pier 39: They Came Back

In the 1970s, a large group of sea lions plopped themselves down on some docks at Pier 39. No one knew why they randomly showed up and what made them choose that spot. And, in the spirit of American capitalism, we turned this into a tourist attraction.

But around Thanksgiving time last year, they mysteriously vanished. A couple weeks later, it was reported that they had showed up on the coast of Oregon. Why had they left? And were they coming back? No one knew.

A few began to trickle back in late February, and by May most had returned. Anyway, case closed. Collective sigh of relief…

All in all, a pretty successful summer thus far. I would say the only thing that fell short of expectations, aside from BP, was Miley Cyrus’ summer single. Umm, excuse me Miley, I was depending on you for a light-hearted pick-me-up, a perfectly executed follow-up to Party in the USA and See You Again. Wtf is this Can’t Be Tamed crap!–Bullshit if you ask me.

It’s the end of an era tonight: the Hills series finale. Normally, series finales don’t move me very much. But this one’s different. They were the same year as me, and consequently, we shared many of the same life experiences together: Prom night, challenging internships with difficult bosses, having our sex tapes splashed over the internet. Who will help me process these life experiences now that they’re leaving? Kim Kardashian? I think not.

If you don’t watch The Hills religiously, don’t worry: neither do I…neither do most people. That’s why it’s in its series finale. In fact, if you’ve watched one episode, essentially you’ve watched all 6 seasons of it. There are usually three plot lines per episode; here they are:

Plot Line #1: LC/Kristin endlessly speculate with their friend, Lo/Whitney, about the likelihood of them dating serial polygamist Brody Jenner, all the while remaining steadfast that really they “see him more like a brother than a lovah.” Here’s the thing, though, about brothers: when they call you on the phone, you don’t drop everything you’re doing to go hang out with them. You don’t write their name over and over again in your notebook and scribble hearts around it. And you don’t get wasted at Les Deux and then go home and make out with them. Kristin/LC: you probably should look into your relationship with your brothers.

Plot Line #2: Idiot Spencer Pratt does something douchey to his wife, idiot Heidi Montag. Heidi seeks out the advice of a member of her family, who gives her the exact same advice that all of us at home are screaming into the television (dump Spencer!!) and then, after 25 seconds of careful deliberation, she gets back together with her husband.

Plot Line #3: Audrina/Justin Bobby “Drama.” I use air quotes here because Audrina uses the term “drama” extremely lightly; she clings on to any form of communication with Justin Bobby and then spends the next 2-6 weeks dissecting it. “He looked at me, what do you think that means?” Umm, that he has sensitive corneas? You see, the problem is that Justin Bobby doesn’t like Audrina enough to date her, but, as Audrina so astutely points out, he has eyeballs. And like any self-respecting male, he cannot pass on that nice piece of ass. On numerous occasions, I’ve contemplated purchasing He’s Just Not that Into You for Audrina, but I’m waiting for the icon-based version of that text to come out as I believe that will be easier for her to grasp.

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned (or rather, relearned) from watching The Hills it’s that:

  1. “Boys can be jerks. Huge jerks. Boys sucks, girls rule” and that
  2. Girls are pretty bad at picking up on consistent trends in their love lives; they excel at repeating the exact same mistakes and expecting dramatically different results.

So, cast of The Hills, I’d like to individually bid you one last farewell, even though I’m fairly convinced your lives will continue to play out on the cover of US Weekly for at least another 15 or so seconds.

Stacie the Bartender Roommate.

Stacie, I think I’ll miss you most of all! I thought you were just a fleeting character when you played Spencer Pratt’s mistress in Season 5. But then, miraculously, you reappeared with the subtitle “Kristin’s Friend” in Season 5. Although MTV gave no indication that you were in fact the same Stacie, us prolific Googlers were able to quickly ascertain that you were in fact the Stacie of Bartending fame. We also discovered topless photos of you. I can only imagine that you tested well in the 18-24 demographic. To that, young lady, I say bravo! Look at you translating a minimum wage job where you get harassed by C-list reality-TV stars into a maximum wage job where you get harassed by C-list reality-TV stars. A promotion’s a promotion, and for that, we salute you.

The Pratts

Thank you for making my family look less dysfunctional, that’s quite an accomplishment. Stephanie Pratt—while you are probably the biggest idiot in a family that uses retardation as currency, I’m fairly certain that you will find some other member of the reality television world to cling to. You’ve demonstrated a keen ability to do so thus far, even if it requires throwing members of your family under a bus. Though, to be fair, many of your family members deserved a hearty bus trampling, so no judgments coming from this corner.

Heidi and Spencer—I feel like the further you two slip into obscurity, the louder and more desperate your shenanigans become. And I eagerly await the next one. As a matter of accounting, I believe you’re at your legal limit for divorces/annulments, but I’m fairly confident you’ll manufacture some new vehicle for getting yourself on the cover of tabloids. Maybe Heidi will push the boundaries of plastic surgery even further and install a third boob between the beach balls she already has on her chest. Or Spencer might self-draft himself to be Sarah Palin’s Vice Presidential candidate. Do I have ESP? No, I’m not saying that. But are these plausible plot lines for the Montag-Pratts? Based on the course of their lives thus far, absolutely.

Kristin Cavalliri

I must say that was quite the shock when you entered Speidi’s wedding in that blue dress. And boy had I missed you. Thanks for coming back.

You know how dogs can hear really high-pitched noises? Or how ants communicate with each other through smell. Well, I think girls are like dogs/ants. Before you jump up in arms, just bare with me through this analogy.

There are some girls that just rub every other girl they come in contact with the wrong way. Kristin is one of those girls. As guys, we can’t understand why. Cute chick, likes sports and enjoys hanging out with the guys. What’s not to like? Well, guys—I have the answer: Kristin emits a really high-pitched noise/off-putting pheromone that’s undetectable to our testosterone-infused bodies. But rest assured, it’s there. And that’s why she can never get along with other girls. I think I’ll call it Cavalliri syndrome.

I leave you with one last prediction for tonight’s episode: LC returns. And then the show ends. Probably with a pink suitcase in the back of a black convertible.

Birthdays: they’re never as fun as you think they’re going to be. Actually, scratch that—they are a lot of fun, and I absolutely hate people that complain about birthdays. “Fine, we don’t have to celebrate your birthday if it’s really that much of an inconvenience to you. I can absolutely think of a better use of my hard earned $40 than chipping in for part of your Hibachi steak at Benihana’s.” (OK, poor example; there isn’t a better use of $40 than Benihana—their chicken fried rice is amazing, and that onion volcano they build, you know…with the vinegar smoke stack? Priceless).

But they are stressful, you have to agree with me on that. Organizing multiple birthday events (one for your close friends, one for your filler friends, and one for co-workers), registering for gifts, picking out your birthday outfits, oy vey I’m getting faklempt just thinking about it. But there’s one thing that stresses me out the most during the lead-up to my birthday: my Facebook profile.

In the same way that you make sure your room is clean and presentable right before you have people over, I always make sure my Facebook profile is tidy, up-to-date, and expressive of all that I’ve accomplished in the last 12 months (and by “expressive” I mean you should never let the truth get in the way of spinning an illustrative story).

Because think about how much traffic your profile gets on that day. This is your one chance to make sure that your “friends” can appropriately answer the “What’s Christopher doing with his life?” question when it inevitably comes up during cocktails. You want to arm them with the best info/scantily-clad body shots that you’ve got. Tens of people visit it on that day; here’s what you need to do to put your best foot forward:

Set a nice default photo.

I cringe when I find people that have the same photo up as they did from last year. “What? You couldn’t take a good picture all year. That sucks, and you should probably consider getting into a committed relationship now because clearly your looks have begun to plateau.”

I usually try to pick a photo from a trip I’ve been on recently; it beckons the visitor to linger on my profile a bit more and see how the rest of said trip went.

For this past birthday, I had just returned from Vancouver for the Winter Olympics. Obviously, I needed to make sure all of my contacts knew this—why else do you go to the Olympics, really? This was the best picture I could find:

While the Olympic flags haloed our heads quite appropriately, I was very nervous that this picture would give the impression that we were dating, as do most pictures of two people standing in front of a picturesque backdrop with moderately close body contact. Of course, a photo that presented me as anything BUT single would be absolutely unacceptable. Quick thinking, though, solved the problem: I captioned the photo with “We’re not dating.” Problem solved; single and ready to mingle.

[Note: Mashable recommends against changing your default photo often. I actually agree with this; maintaining one photo for a sustained period gives your brand consistency. That being said, I think it’s safe and recommended to update your profile once per quarter; I’d hesitate doing it more/less than that.]

Clean up the first 100 photos in which you’re tagged.

OK, you’ve set an interesting default photo—you’ve piqued their interest, congratulations! The next place everyone goes is the photos section. Woops; you got black out drunk two weeks ago and now a bunch of photos where your eyes are looking in opposite directions are plastered all over Facebook. Or worse yet, your idiot friend Rebecca just put up an album from the summer/your childhood, ruining the perfectly chronographic sequence you’d been building with your photos over the past few months (note: if people open up your photos and the first 10 they see are from the summer and it’s February, they’re going to assume you haven’t done anything worth documenting low these past 6 months). Time to start de-tagging!

I’m pretty liberal with the detag: as a rule of thumb, if you have to ask someone if you look good in this photo, you don’t. I usually prune the first 100; even though most people usually get about 20 photos deep before they move on to someone else, you have to protect against the crazies like me, who can roll through 40 photos a minute (when local broadband connections are at their peak).

Update your work info!!

For heaven’s sake, people, I don’t want to actually have to talk to you and figure out what you’re doing with your life. That’s why there’s an Employer section on Facebook. Do us all a favor and fill it out; that way, I can make a quick judgment about whether you’ve succeeded or failed since we last spoke with each other.

One caveat though: please don’t aggressively fill it out; company and dates are good enough. Putting your title in that section is douchey; including a description of your job is nerdy.

Follow these three simple steps and you’ll be well on your way to a successful Facebook profile unveiling upon your birthday. You’ll be thankful you did for the next 12 months.

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