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.

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.

[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?”

]]> http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/05/navigating-non-committal-responses/feed/ 0 http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/02/e-mailing-in-the-real-world/ http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/02/e-mailing-in-the-real-world/#comments Tue, 08 Feb 2011 17:29:24 +0000 Christopher Katsaros http://votingwithmyfeet.com/?p=784 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…



]]> http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/02/e-mailing-in-the-real-world/feed/ 0 http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/01/election-returns-a-varsity-sport/ http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/01/election-returns-a-varsity-sport/#comments Mon, 31 Jan 2011 03:30:09 +0000 Christopher Katsaros http://votingwithmyfeet.com/?p=782 [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?

]]> http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2011/01/election-returns-a-varsity-sport/feed/ 1 http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2010/12/the-disney-vault-a-terrifying-place/ http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2010/12/the-disney-vault-a-terrifying-place/#comments Thu, 09 Dec 2010 17:44:49 +0000 Christopher Katsaros http://votingwithmyfeet.com/?p=767 The Disney Vault. It could have been a beautiful place: fields of grass, a never-ending chorus of some of our favorite songs, and Bambi’s mother, alive and well and basking in the golden rays of the sun with her beloved son.

But in a cruel kowtow to American capitalism, Disney didn’t choose this path. They close a steal barricade and twist the comically large lock at the end of their commercials: “Get it before it goes [dun dun dunnnnn...] back in the vault.”

What goes on behind those close doors? I’m still waiting for the Jane London Dateline Special–I’d even settle for a congressional investigation led by the esteemed Michelle Bachmann–but in the meantime, I might as well let my (terrifying) imagination run wild.

Ebenezer Scrooge, as played by Academy Award Winner Daffey Duck, leads you down a dark hallway, his torch flickering. You pass by an emaciated Aladdin, gnawing at the remains of what I suspect to be his monkey-sidekick, Abu.

Next comes a locked door, with only a sliver of eerie red light creeping out beneath the door. Suddenly, you hear the distinct cry for help of what has to be Belle, her melodic voice muffled by what I imagine to be a gang of handicapped pirates straight from Captain Hook’s boat, having their rough way with her. Daffey explains that the enterprising Mrs. Potts has organized a brothel in this cruel underworld, and instantly, all my doubts about the deceptiveness of Angela Lansbury are validated.

Another room, another horror: Mowgli, from the Jungle Book, and his gaggle of feral African creatures, passed out on the couch watching reruns of CSI and Law & Order, the remnants of drugs littered around the room. And not even classy drugs like cocaine or ecstasy….no no, the metallic smell that can only come from burning meth and empty bottles of oxycodone strewn about make it clear that these wretched souls have ingratiated themselves with some of Western Appalachia’s best, as they claw at the pot marks on their faces.

Then, you arrive at the end of hallway: steal bars separating you from a faint outline of those two iconic circular ears, barely lit by Daffey’s flickering torch. Mickey’s turned around in his cell, and you grab the torch from Daffey and run to the bars:

“Mickey, is that you? Say it isn’t so, Mickey!”

Without turning his body, Mickey turns his head a complete 180 degrees. There’s just a blank expression on his face, his face even whiter than normal, and as he opens his mouth, a terrible demonic voice comes out:

“What an excellent day for an exorcism.” Then he just spews fluorescent green bile on your face, like a horrible Nickelodeon game show.

Lock Fantasia In The Vault…Please

Yes, the Disney vault is a terrible place. I’m only heartened by the fact that the next video slated to go into the vault after this holiday season is Fantasia, a horrible movie haunting the nightmares of children and adults across this country for generations. Seriously, can you think of anyone who likes this movie? What were our parents thinking when they showed it to us? And more importantly, what was Disney thinking when they created it?:

“Umm, ok, I like this scene, but can we make the mops multiply at an alarming rate and dance around like possessed zombies in a horrifyingly dark cave? I think that’s what you’re missing here. Also, give Mickey a dark cape—let’s make him less lovable. Thanks!”

Disney, I make a plea to you: lock Fantasia in the vault, and throw away the keys. That would be the only redeeming function of that horrible place you created.

]]> http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2010/12/the-disney-vault-a-terrifying-place/feed/ 1 http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2010/11/on-celebrity-excuses-entourages/ http://votingwithmyfeet.com/2010/11/on-celebrity-excuses-entourages/#comments Thu, 18 Nov 2010 17:50:15 +0000 Christopher Katsaros http://votingwithmyfeet.com/?p=758

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.

Armed with ample amounts of couch time and an underwhelming to-do list which was just asking to be put off until next weekend, I found myself in the dangerous underworld of Comcast OnDemand. “An entire season of Life? Don’t mind if I do.”

For those of you that don’t know, Life is the less-interesting follow-up series to Planet Earth (Yeah, it’s narrated by Oprah Winfrey, but I think the jury is still out on that decision—she gets a little too self-righteous: “come on Oprah…it’s a tree owl, not your Angel Network”). And for those of you that don’t know what Planet Earth is, get out of my house.

Some of my friends once commented on the joys of smoking pot and then watching an episode of Planet Earth. If you’ve ever seen the “Arctic Forrest” episode, you can only imagine the calming effect this combination must have (I wouldn’t know, though, as I take a hard-line stance against marijuana. Not because of the health effects; I just think it’s horrifically tacky). But throw on one of the more jarring episodes—like “Shallow Seas”–and you’ll suddenly find yourself in a paranoid panic attack clawing at the arm rests of your sofa. For that reason, I think these DVD box sets should come with some sort of warning: do not watch episode alone or dangerous mental injuries can occur.

I present to you “Creatures of the Deep,” Life’s version of “Shallow Seas.”

First of all, as far as I know, “creature” is not proper scientific nomenclature when it comes to taxonomic hierarchy. No, it’s the Discovery Channel’s cruel joke to present you with a buffet of disgusting and horrifying animals just waiting to meet you in a dark alley; mainly, it’s their way of introducing you to the terrifying Humboldt Squid.

Humboldt Squid. These disgusting “creatures” can grow as long as 6′ feet, all in their short two-year life span. They can swim at speeds of 25 mph. And they have these gross beaks that they use for attacking, and not just their prey, they eat each other, too. But that’s not even the worst of it. On top of all of that, their skin blinks:

When attacking their prey, Humboldt squid are able to make their skin pulsate red and white. WHAT?? How does skin blink?? And of all colors, you picked red? Terrifying. Needless to say, I’ll never approach a glittery strobe light at a gay club the same way again in my life. Scientists don’t know why they blink their skin; they think it confuses their prey. Which brings me to another point: why is it that we keep hearing scientists say they don’t know why something is happening–hello, what are we paying you for??

It used to be the Humboldt Squid were contained to the Sea of Cortez. But, to my chagrin, their numbers have been increasing dramatically lately, and their range now stretches up the west coast and as far north as Alaska. Comforting.

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.

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