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It’s just a cupcake!

October 5, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I am by no means a strict self-dietitian. My overall diet is only healthy because the food I find most enjoyable happens to be healthy. I’d pick an avocado/tomato/garlic sandwich over a steak and cheese almost every time. I do enjoy a few unhealthy splurges, especially in the realms of chocolate and cheese, but these are kept to a minimum for gastrointestinal reasons.

Given my inadvertent propensity towards the healthier side of things, I find fast food cravings and junk food crazes indefinably alien. I have never been so wont for a cheeseburger that I might consider selling my body to get one. I have also never considered sweets to be anything more than the occasional treat, no matter how many rice krispies are involved. I have never actually escaped feeling downright ill after a few rounds with most baked confections and greasy sandwiches.

So it comes as no surprise that I find this recent cupcake fad to be completely absurd. Not only have we become so obsessed with these sugary treats that we have allowed the birth of some strange cupcake hybrids (yes, that is bacon) but we’re also willing to shell out obscenely large amounts of money for what is little more than a glorified Hostess product.

I wish someone could explain standing in line for 40 minutes to get a giant cupcake, and then also explain paying upwards of $2.75 for it. Donuts, the strange, less uptight cousins of the cupcake are at least priced to reflect their nutritional status. Why are we so willing to spend so much money on something so simple and obviously self-destructive? It’s like Starbucks all over again, but with fewer beans and more frosting.

I then ponder the logic behind a giant cupcake. While it is a clever psychological trick, does no one else realize that a “giant cupcake” is also a “small regular cake”? Adding “cup” before the word does not make it cute or forgivable; you’re still eating a small cake, by yourself, in one sitting. Wilford Brimley will be pleased to have you join his little club.

If you must gorge on small, colorful cakes, at least have the decency to stay home. Cupcakes are cheap, easy and fast; you can probably make 8 home made cuppity cakes for the price of one “luxury” cupcake and all you have to do is pay enough attention to not burn your kitchen down.  I recommend funfetti.

Only in America.

I hope your next cupcake is named Balnazzar and looks like this.

Did you see my “Sign”?

September 29, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Dear Franklin Romano, Uncle Frankie, “friend”,

I am writing you to make certain you saw my “sign”. I placed the “sign” in a location that I knew most “family members” would see it. As you may know, due to recent “lifestyle changes” I am forced to sell many of my “belongings”, as are two of our other mutual “acquaintances”.

I am planning a “family” “yard sale” this weekend to “clean out  my basement”. Make sure that you only bring “family members” to the “yard sale”, as most of the goods for sale have very high “sentimental value”. I would hate for these expensive “heirlooms” to fall into the “wrong hands” because someone had “loose lips” about the “family” “yard sale”.

I’d be pleased if you would “stop by” and check out what we have to “offer”. Don’t call me about the “yard sale” as I think my phone is “broken”. Be sure to park around back as well, as to not draw “unwanted neighbors” to the “sale”.

Hope to do “business” with you soon.

-“Jimmy”

P.S. We’re also offering “carpet cleaning” in case any “family members” suffer any “accidents” during or after the “yard sale”.

A Matter of Tradition (and Privacy too)

July 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I am a gamer. I openly admit this to anyone, as I am quite passionate about my hobby and excitedly follow the play-style and design trends that permeate this often misunderstood culture. I have played a little bit of everything, dating back to the early 90s; obscure 8-bit NES titles, pre-GUI text adventures, modern first person shooters, Jap-RPGS…you name it. I was even heavily involved in the poorly understood Compact Disc Interactive (CD-i) movement of the late 90s, but that is fodder for another post.

I love to discuss gaming, whether it be the nuances of game design philosophy, overarching lore that hearkens back to some of my favorite literature, or sharing stories of the sheer fun and challenge of playing against people online. I’m pretty much always up for a gaming conversation, assuming the present company is equally interested, or noticeably tolerable. But my favorite thing to discuss is the societal trends of gaming and the industries impact on how we socialize and entertain ourselves. I will defend gaming as a legitimate hobby until the day I can no longer accurately use WASD.

Gaming from its onset, was solitary. Early consoles required you sit within a cords-distance of your TV. Games were designed with one, possibly two, gamers in mind. The term “single-player” did not exist, only “one-player” or “two player”. But as technology became more sophisticated, it became easier to include more than just a few gamers. Arcades allowed up to 4, 6, 8 players at once, which led the industry towards a social gaming movement. Remembering the 6-person X-Men arcade game of the late 90s (Colossus was my favorite), it was not difficult to see that the future of gaming involved multiple people playing simultaneously.

Our modern systems have embodied this idea perfectly. The Wii is social gaming at its very finest. In fact, the “single-player” component of the Wii is severely lacking. Even the Playstation 3 and Xbox 360 heavily rely on multi-player gaming, assuming the majority of players seek human interaction in their gameplay. Not even PC gamers are safe; MMOs have taken over the RPG market with only BethesdaWorks titles like Elder Scrolls: Oblivion and Fallout 3 holding it down for the single-player crowd.

This is not necessarily bad. In my college days, I gamed online for arguably unhealthy periods of time. It was my relaxation, my escape from the sometimes boring realities of being a student. I played Starcraft and Diablo 2, Unreal Tournament, Counter-Strike and most importantly for this discussion: World of Warcraft. I was hardcore; gaming hours every night, raiding with 39 other people, running a section of my “guild” and loving every second of it. WoW was my first foray into the dark, mysterious land of MMOs that I had always figured was not for me.

But I was wrong. Something in the magical combination of story, character development, accessibility, strategy, challenge and social interaction hit every primal  and intellectual urge I had ever tried to fill when playing a game. It turned out that the thing missing from all those single-player console RPGs was other people! Traditional RPGs like the the Final Fantasies and Breath of Fires will always hold a special place in my heart, but after a certain point, you want to share your accomplishments with friends; something not so easily done when you have to invite them over to your house to check out your characters.

It also gave me an avenue to stay in touch with some of my closest friends, without the need for awkward “update” phone calls or expensive and lengthy trips. We could hang out, albeit in another alien world. We could work collaboratively towards something exciting and abstractly tangible. We could have all the fun we used to have sitting in someone’s basement in high school, all while dong our own thing as we explored our collegiate careers. It was mainly this aspect that kept me involved. Exciting stories and exotic fantasy lands helped, of course.

I had companies like Blizzard to thank for their beautiful creations. Their creativity let me maintain a social life with those who meant the most to me while subsequently fulfilling my every possible wish for content and playstyle in a video game. I commend them for creating what I could argue is the best video game I have ever played. I am normally one to support their ideas, as they often lead to fresh trends in the gaming industry that other companies can’t help but adopt if they want to stay competitive. Their history of successes is testament enough to their design philosophy, so I do no quickly dismiss public announcements of their new ideas.

RealID at a glance seemed like a brilliant concept. Tie in the “real-life” social aspect of gaming so that players could easily meet up with their friends to play a game. For someone like me, this was incredible. I could see if my friends were playing, and if so, what game, and was even given the tools to communicate with them across platforms to organize a mutual session. If only it had stopped there.

Digital privacy is a sensitive topic, and many social networks take heat for any slight aberration of information sharing policy. Social networking is opt-in, but even people who choose to partake expect some level of data privacy. On sites like Facebook, you can offer as much (or as little) information about yourself as you would like, and even set decently strict parameters about just who can see that information. While your digital security is at risk by posting anything about yourself online, at least social networking sites offer some level of protection.

A recent development suggested that Blizzard would be using RealID in a capacity that no one expected – or more importantly – wanted. Their brilliant plan was to have all official forum posts include an identifying title, to make gamers accountable for their thoughts and language. While tame in theory, the problem entered when they disclosed that the identifying title would be the gamer’s real first and last name. Needless to say, the throngs of nerds were unhappy that their privacy, no matter how minor, was being breached.

The defenders of the idea argued that everyone knows your full name; the government, your employer, your friends and neighbors. They also claimed that many who were upset with the change were hypocrites who embraced other forms of social networking. The main distinction is that social networking sites are generally benign. People are not openly inflammatory for fear of social repercussion, and “dramatic” flame-wars on the likes of Facebook are over esoteric nonsense that has no real impact on the world. Sure, people get divorced and fired due to things said on Facebook, but they openly offered that information and actively allowed it to be associated with their name; they were never forced.

The idea of being forced was the problem with RealID. Many gamers do not wish to associate their everyday existence with something that carries such a social stigma. It is a sad fact that we as a culture are more harsh on gamers and the accompanying alt-lifestyle than we are on the degenerate swarms of morons that clog our TV channels during prime time hours. Steve from finance might not want his coworkers to know that he exists as a powerful mage after hours, just like your project manager might not want to let slip that he too enjoys to unwind in a 3v3 ladder match.

Couple these kind of privacy issues with the intrinsically competitive nature of gaming, and you have a recipe for an article on Fark. Facebook promotes e-stalking, but it rarely invokes enough passion in a person for them to seek physical confrontation with another person. Gaming however, can lead to unbelievable fits of “nerd-rage” (yes, that is exactly what it sounds like) where many already socially damaged individuals could easily lose control over an online loss. Displaying names gives these people an extra resource, should their online bloodlust follow them offline, adding an unnecessary risk for all gamers. The last thing I need is “DeathRogueX” pounding on my front door because in his opinion, I cheated my way to victory in a perfectly legitimate competition.

The above theoretical scenario only needs happen once, to some poor sap, and online gaming would immediately be hit with a wave of uneducated opinions about its safety. It would inescapably become the scapegoat for all things evil, and take even more of the brunt than it currently does as an excuse for adolescent violence. If the above scenario happened to a girl or child, we may see the entire gaming world shift radically; and probably not for the better. It has already happened on smaller scales in other countries, so all it needs is one mainstream US exposure and we all as gamers, take one huge step backwards.

Regardless of these obvious flaws in the plan, the one thing that bothers me is that Blizzard, a flagship of the gaming industry, ignored one very important piece of tradition in gaming culture. Almost everyone I know that is an avid gamer, goes by a handle. Mine for example is “Rumbeard”, but also includes mutations like “Rum” and “Rummy”. Very few people know my actual name, nor I theirs, and this is perfectly acceptable. Handles, tags, aliases and guises are inextricably tied to the basic fun elements of gaming. Some choose to be witty with their names, others edgy, others downright weird. We take pride in our alter-egos and are given a clean slate to be who we want to be, completely separate from who we are. Gamers want that disconnect from the ordinary, it lets them escape and enjoy, in whatever capacity they choose.

Why Blizzard was oblivious to this is seemingly obvious, given their recent deal with Facebook. They did not forget it at all, instead they made a greedy grab for a popular tie-in and attempted to force social networking onto gaming, when almost all gamers did not want it. The two functions are not mutually exclusive despite whatever superficial similarities they might have. The entire world of  gaming relies on anonymity, at least from your true earthly identity.

If gamers are comfortable identifying themselves, it should be their choice to do so, not the discretion of the company who makes the game. As seen by the events of the past few weeks, companies will lose massive amounts of players (and in turn money) if they try to so radically change a paradigm that has been around since you could enter the name of your character at the beginning of an RPG. Digital privacy is important, nay paramount, in the gaming culture and to betray that idea is to forcefully shake the foundations of the industry.

Seeing that they decided not to use real names, some of my faith in Blizzard has been restored. My copy of Starcraft II is still pre-ordered and I will still gobble up any details I can about the future projects from Blizzard. I do however hope that this RealID fiasco is enough to prove to companies that they need to listen to their customers. Some of them are warlocks, after all.

This post requires more Vespene Gas.

Poor Tuesday

June 22, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

A conversation with one of my new coworkers brought to light the under-appreciation/presentation of Tuesday. Every other day has some kind of emotional or symbolic significance. Sunday is a day of rest, laziness, and relaxation, unless you own a home. Mondays are the notorious herald of the coming week of hell. Wednesday is hump day! Thursday is a night when well scheduled college students go out, and on top of that carries the pleasant feelings of an impending weekend. Friday is obvious; the bastion of all things good and awesome. Saturday means freedom and excitement and possibly the opportunity to make fun of people at your local mall or Walmart.

But poor little Tuesday, he isn’t anything! Even his historical significance is limited; Tuesday is named after the Norse god of war, Tyr, who only had one hand. Not only does nothing special happen on Tuesday, but it also serves as a constant reminder that we could lose our limbs at any time. The Roman and Greek variations of Tuesday are Mars and Ares, who are also gods of war, suggesting the Tuesday embodies violence, strife and death. Good times.

“But wait!” some say, “there are some good things that happen on Tuesday! What about Mardi Gras or ‘Fat Tuesday!?'” While this is a clever argument, Mardi Gras in fact represents the end of a celebration, which is followed by a day of painful fasting. A festive celebration in preparation for a day of harsh spiritual penance; not my idea of a redeeming quality for the day.

In a similar vein, I have heard the argument that elections take place on Tuesday! Is this really a legitimate argument? Based on my completely experiential and mostly made up statistics, only 15% of people actually care about voting, 45% pretend to care about voting, 30% only vote if their voting center is on the way to work and the last 10% don’t even know what they’re voting for. Elections are barely cool, even within the groups of people who think politics are super cool. Even when combined with Mardi Gras, this definitely does not give any real substance to Tuesday.

I sit here, on a Tuesday, lamenting over the lack of real meaning for the day. How can I be empowered to work hard and strive for excellence when the day itself can’t do the same? It’s had a lot longer than me to figure it out. It’s time to pick up the slack Tuesday; pretty soon you’ll just be considered Monday 2.o, which is a terrible, terrible fate.

I will continue to plan exciting life events on Tuesdays in an attempt to counteract it’s otherwise void of purpose, who’s with me?

Soy Pirata!

June 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Someone asked me why I am dressed like a pirate in my profile picture.

The answer is simple: because I am a pirate.

I’m not particularly vicious, nor greedy to a fault,
I’ve never buried treasure, nor sought an ancient vault,
I’ve only sailed one little sea so seven seems a lot,
No lawmen have pursued me so I never have been caught.

I do however live my life in a manner quite pronounced,
A jolly roger waves with me so I’m never unannounced,
In my sail-less ship of black I pillage the otherwise mostly boring,
Satire, humor; wit and rumor is where I do my exploring.

My normal dress does not fit the style of early brothers,
But on occasion I have been seen in a hat with many feathers,
My cape and boots in a closet hide, waiting for some fun,
Which normally comes around after several rounds of rum!

See? I just burst into an impromptu sea chantey. If that doesn’t prove my intrinsic pirate nature, I’m not sure what does.

I should clarify that I am an anachronistic pirate, and share only a very loose connection with modern day, AK-47 toting pirates. The aforementioned pirates have lost the whimsical, fantastic essence that comes with being truly piratical and to top it off, most of them don’t even know how to sword fight.

To fit in with main-stream society and hold things like a bank account, driver’s license, or steady relationship, I am forced to curtail my constant wont to drink rum and be rowdy. I also have to be careful, as my innate spirit gravitates towards the ocean, often at inappropriate times (read: during my lunch hour).

I even have to actively fight my urges to mark all my things with pirate-code. See the below exhibit:

Pirate Art

I was supposed to be painting a nice manly brown (like the planks of wood from a ship) over the girly pink, but could not keep myself from inscribing the walls with assorted pirate symbolism. I thought they turned out pretty well. I did have to eventually paint over them, which was ok, because even their sheer awesomness couldn’t counteract all of that pink.

I also crudely drew my favorite galleon, my favorite sea beast and the final location of my sacred treasure (hint: it’s beer and it’s in the fridge):

Ahhh Squid...thing!

Maptofridge

Ultimately, the room ending up being my sanctuary and the place where I spew forth most of my nonsensical rambling. For anyone who cares, below is a near perfect representation of a place that brings me near perfect peace. The only thing missing is a cat laying across my desk:

Santcu-haven

I acknowledge that this room is not particularly pirate-y. Even a captain needs his quarters to retire too after a long day of sailing and debauchery. I do however manage to retain my pirate values when sailing the asphalt oceans, as can be seen from the stern of my ship at midnight:

Jolly Roger

Sick as a Dog

June 4, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I never understood this phrase. I’ve seen a lot of dogs barf, but afterward they are usually quite chipper and ready to play. I have never been ready to play after being sprawled in front of the toilet/sink/bathtub for an hour. I’m usually ready to sleep, or possibly roll around on the floor pathetically. If the term was, “Sick as a Leper” I might be more understanding.

I started feeling strange on Wednesday morning. I have a generally strong immune system, so feeling sick is an uncommon affair. I did not present with the normal symptoms of sickness, but instead felt strangely detached, almost “floaty” if you will. The closest thing I can relate it to is the late stages of a hangover or the early stages of a pain killer high. Either way, it was quite unsettling and made it very hard to focus on anything. I went through my workday pretending I was fine, trying to remember what spreadsheet I was looking at, forgetting, and having to remember again. I was confused as to actually how confused I was. I was in a bad way, but did not even know it.

My mind would not focus on the things I needed it to, instead I would begin to remember things from my distant childhood that made no sense in my given situation. I remembered a small playhouse that my sister and I had played in and a big spider that had made a nest near my water guns. A brief flash of a rat eating a Snickers bar at a terminal in Baltimore-Washington International airport shot into my brain, and was gone just as quickly. I even at one point remembered things from events that I had made up in writing or exaggeration. It felt like Salvador Dali had ripped a hole in my brain with a knife made of chocolate covered bumble bees.

I had made myself a promise to go for a run that day, in an attempt to negate the beer I drank over the weekend. Despite the strangeness of my aura, I donned my running attire and began to stretch. The sun seemed ridiculously overbearing, and my already rampaging mind made loose connections to Camus. I began to jog my normal circuit, but quickly realized I should not be exerting myself in any way, given my current state. My mind continued its frantic wandering, while my legs screamed in lactic objection. I finished a mile and a half before my body painfully demanded I stop.

Instead of continuing and completing another circuit, my exhausted mind decided to cut across a piece of grassland that separated two office buildings. It seemed a good plan; I would run about 1/3 of the circuit, return to my car and rest. My mind reached for the shade of the nearby trees, but my legs kept a straight and true path across the grass. About 10 paces in, my right foot sank – ankle deep – into a nasty bog. I surveyed the land around me. In my stupor, I had to failed to notice that this “grassland” was not in fact solid, but a mire of awful smelling water. I daintily crossed to the other side, attempting not to step in any more of the foul liquid.

Sweaty, exhausted, sort-of-high and stinking like a swamp, I managed to make it back to my office. I pulled my soggy shoes off and threw them in the back of my car. I drove, or floated, to pick up Tiffany from the Metro then somehow all the way home. I was completely lucid, but definitely not the person I usually recognize as myself.

At home, the feeling continued and made the entire evening very surreal. I believe we were watching “Hoarders” on TV, but I may be blurring one of the previous evenings into this one. The next logical thought was that drinking a beer might settle my brain. One Stella Artois later, I was ready to pull a Rip Van Winkle. I mumbled something incoherently to Tiffany and glided peacefully up the stairs.

The last thing I remember is trying to read the Transition of Juan Romero and thinking I was in Mexico. I may have also heard thunder, or read about thunder, one of the two. The next 8 hours involved some of the most vivid, border-line hallucinogenic dreams I have ever experienced in my short life. I was at one point searching from a Troll doll in a dessert (yes, like a giant hot fudge sundae), at another arguing IT with several of my bosses, present and prior, in a hotel swimming pool. The content of the dreams was not any more random than usual, but the sheer reality of the whole thing made me unsure what was waking and what was not.

I woke up to Tiffany’s lovely face, assuming it was another dream about waking from a dream. I slowly realized it was the real reality, not the weird time-loop one from the night before. Tiffany asked me if I felt well enough to go to work. I think I responded with nearly inaudible whimpers. My head still felt detached from my body and I was incredibly hot. I crawled to my computer, and apparently (even though I still don’t remember) sent an email to my supervisors telling them I wouldn’t be coming in. I promptly passed back out of consciousness but do remember Tiffany kissing me goodbye for the day.

The rest of the day was full of more confusion and dream-laden sleep. I went to eat breakfast, and mixed two kinds of cereal together, for no real reason. After Tiffany suggested I drink some lemonade for Vitamin C, I almost poured myself a glass of white wine. I attempted to play a video game on my computer, but only managed to open 10 instances of the same program without realizing what I was doing. I decided bed was the safest place for me. I spent the next 11 hours watching 15 minutes segments of random TV shows while slipping in and out of my strange coma. I really have no idea what else I did on Thursday.

It was not until 10:00 PM that I regained some level of mental composure. I informed Tiff of my crazy dreams. She very kindly nodded, smiled and gasped in disbelief at the appropriate times. She’s pretty awesome; most people would think I was just out of my mind. I fell asleep again at 11:30 PM and slept all through the night, remembering only a few crazy dream/nightmares this time.

I woke up this morning feeling mostly human. I was all reattached in the proper places and could actually focus on things for more than 2 seconds. I excitedly prepared for work; not because work is exciting, but because I didn’t feel half-way to zombification for the first time in ~40 hours. I put on one of my favorite shirts, grabbed my other work junk and skipped out the door to my car.

I opened the driver’s side door.

My nose was hit with a smell more rancorous than the set of the Sex and the City movie.

My swamp shoes were still in the trunk of my car and had been for 2 whole days; in direct sunlight plus 90 degree weather.

I may need a new pair of running shoes.

Beers

June 2, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Below is a list of all the beers I’ve appraised to date, in alphabetical order by company:

(Note that some of these are not “reviews” in the traditional sense, but short stories or other beer-inspired writing)

Boulevard Single Wide IPA
Boulevard Double Wide IPA
Brooklyn Brown Ale
Brooklyn East India Pale Ale
Brooklyn Lager
Brooklyn Pennant Ale ’55
Budlight Platinum
Dogfish Head 61
Dogfish Head My Anotina
Dogfish Head Noble Rot
DuClaw Devil’s Milk
Evolution No.3 IPA 
Flying Dog Classic Pale Ale
Flying Dog Lucky SOB Irish Red
Flying Dog Old Scratch Amber Lager
Flying Dog Road Dog Porter
Flying Dog Snake Dog IPA
Flying Dog Tire Bite Golden Ale
Fordham Copperhead
Gordon Biersch Blonde Bock
Gordon Biersch Czech Style Pilsner
Gordon Biersch Marzen
Gordon Biersch Sommerbrau
Harpoon Belgian Pale Ale
Harpoon IPA

Harpoon Munich Style Dark
Harpoon Rye IPA
Harpoon UFO White
Heavy Seas Black Cannon IPA
Heavy Seas Classic Lager

Heavy Seas Gold Ale
Heavy Seas Loose Cannon IPA
Heavy Seas the Great Pumpkin
Kilkenny Irish Cream Ale
Magic Hat #9
Magic Hat Encore Wheat IPA
Magic Hat Heart of Darkness Stout
Magic Hat Wooly ESB
Milwaukee’s Best Premium (April Fools Day 2013)
New Belgium Ranger IPA
Newcastle Founder’s Ale
Newcastle Werewolf
O’Haras Irish Pale Ale
Sam Adams Belgian Session
Sam Adams Blueberry Hill Lager
Sam Adams Cherry Wheat
Sam Adams East West Kolsch
Sam Adams Noble Pils
Sam Adams Summer Ale
Smuttynose IPA
Smuttynose Old Brown Dog
Smuttynose Shoals Pale Ale

Smuttynose Star Island Single
Stoudts Revel Red
Troegs Dream Weaver Wheat
Troegs Hop Back Amber Ale
Troegs Pale Ale
Troegs Sunshine Pils
Yards Brawler Pugilist Style Ale
Yards IPA 
Yards Thomas Jefferson’s Tavern Ale 

Worth a Thousand Words

June 1, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

In homage to the old saying, I present 5  free-thought short descriptions, based entirely on random photos I took with my phone:

1. When Life Gives you Lemons

Since childhood, Edgar had hated lemonade. On the warm summer days when his friends would cool off with a glass of the tart-but-sweet concoction, he would pretend he wasn’t thirsty. He never understood the appeal; it looked like urine, had to be ice-cold to be any good, and the sugar seemed only necessary to mask the taste of the main ingredient. As he grew up, he began to avoid lemons entirely, worried they would taint the pleasant mental connections he had with certain foods. At an Asian friend’s picnic, he had accidentally eaten some lemon chicken and the sourness did not dissipate for many hours. Life was very uncertain for him as a boy, but he was certain that he did not like lemons.

Post-College, Edgar lived the dream. He excelled at everything he did, made the right connections, flirted with the prettiest girls. He landed a job with a prominent corporation, improving internal processes and winning over several affluent clients. His superiors took note, promoting him handsomely in both responsibility and pay. This new level of authority put Edgar in direct contact with the committee that oversaw international business and he was invited to share his ideas about the future of the company. Excitedly, Edgar donned his best suit and appeared in front of the distinguished committee. As he astutely gave his speech, a pitcher sitting on the conference table caught his eye. There, taunting him, wishing him nothing but failure, was a carafe of lemonade. The chairman of the committee noticed that the liquid had gained his attention. He offered a glass to Edgar. Surprised and aghast, Edgar refused. The committee sat slack-jawed by his sudden change in behavior. One older, stubborn gentleman noted that, “everyone likes lemonade!” This comment launched the rest of the group in a cacophony of argument. Accusations that only terrorists disliked lemonade flew wildly. Edgar was at the epicenter of a maelstrom of confusing, but hateful nonsense.

After he was laid off, Edgar  fell from a position of prominence to one of lowly servitude. Needing some kind of income, and not being welcome at many other corporations due to his “Anti-Lemonade thus Anti-American” attitude, he was forced to take a job as a nighttime stock boy for a local grocery store. Depressed, he trudged to work everyday, remembering his once wonderful existence. On one particularly warm May afternoon, his supervisor asked him to update the signs for the fruit area in the produce section. Apprehension forced stomach acid into Edgar’s throat. He knew what vile, yellow skinned monstrosities lurked in the produce section.

Edgar grumbled and angrily stomped his way into the computer room near the back of the store. In a moment of clarity, he suddenly knew how he would earn his revenge against the accursed citrus, as he opened the a new Photoshop file. A wicked smile crept across his previously sullen face, as he watched the green and yellow sign come sliding out of the printer.


2. “Poke” stands for “Pocket”?

Being the spawn of an old, forgotten god and a primal element is not easy. Most people do not understand you, especially when you have a reputation for shocking people to death or burning things down. Having a body made entirely out of electricity also makes things like dating or holding a job rather difficult. Years of torment and nonacceptance had crushed the spirit of an otherwise bright and energetic entity. Sparky, as he had been dubbed by cruel, flesh-based children, was on the verge of ending it all. That was until the day that he heard of a wonderful country named “Japan”.

Sparky knew that there must be a place for him in this kooky land; these were people had embraced a giant fire-breathing lizard, eating raw fish and humor that centered around stealing a lady’s underpants. After doing some research, Sparky was determined to save up his money to buy a plane ticket to Tokyo. Most airlines had a strict, “no beings made of a raw form of nature” policy, so it was some time before Sparky secured his passage to the Land of the Rising Sun. After rejection by US Airways, Air Japan, and United Airways, Sparky received a positive response from Virgin Pacific Airways, who apparently catered to the “unusual” crowd.

Upon arriving, Sparky immediately set out for the Nintendo headquarters. While his exposure to video games was limited, as he tended to melt any device he touched, Sparky was sure he could provide an invaluable service to the company, even if it were just to generate perfectly green energy. While sitting in the waiting room, Sparky noticed a poster for “Pokemon”; an eccentric game that focused on collecting and working collaboratively with various “monsters”. His heart leapt. Perhaps he could be one of these Pokemon!

Soul-crushing grief passed over him as a Nintendo employee informed him that Pokemon was a fictional, video game fantasy. If liquids did not disagree with him so violently, he would have liked a stiff drink. Dejected, he wandered the streets of Tokyo, reminiscent of a rolling black out. He cried tears of pure lightning, lamenting his social plight and cursing his immortal father.

A young Japanese marketing exec found Sparky wallowing on a street corner. He saw in Sparky a young elemental spirit, capable of informative advertising. It was not long before Sparky had landed a contract; his main focus, alerting people of the danger and death associated with being anywhere near him, or his baser parts.


3. The Hazards of Climbing the Corporate Ladder

“The presence of children in a workplace often forces safety into the spotlight. Many claim that children are the future. We all know that robots are the future. Robots are made of metal, don’t need things to protect them and consequently care little for safety. But we do not live in the time of robots yet, so safety for our children, who will eventually be us, is paramount.”

This is the kind of  safety description that until the mid 1990s, was included with many Occupational Safety and Health Administration (O.S.H.A.) approved products. They had little to do with the product itself, and often spiraled into misdirected tangents about nothing relevant or important. Many found the descriptions comical, and wished more government sectors would take the “silly” approach in administering their respective area. Being a particularly dry area, many O.S.H.A. manual writers began to interject their own personality into their work.

Unfortunately for people with a sense of humor, O.S.H.A. eventually decided to locate the root of the problem in an attempt to look more professional. In doing so, they upset a lot of writers who after many years in their positions, had become disenchanted with the daily grind. These writers were harmless on the surface, but held much power over the internal workings of the organization. As several prominent wordsmiths were let go for this silly digressions against the administration, other writers decided to take revenge for their fallen comrades in ink, in the most appropriate way possible.

Using their career long connections, they managed to get the following product information included with all sales of a certain brand of ladder that was known for its instability and inability to achieve O.S.H.A. approval:

“The wonder ladder will save your life. Jobs you thought impossible before, you can now do without even thinking. While the wood on the ladder may look thin and cheap, it is in fact a space-age composite built for strength. It may sway wildly when you stand on it, but that is just the nano-technology of the physics driven stability matrix taking effect. The more beer your drink before you use the ladder, the safer it becomes. The metal parts may seem sharp or rusty, and they are, so don’t cut yourself on them. Only stupid people cut themselves on ladders. Lastly, please use the top rung as a step, as often as possible. You’re not using the ladder to its full potential or theoretical height unless you precariously perch yourself atop this amazing ladder.”


4. One Flew Over the White Fungus Bird’s Nest Drink

This is just totally gross.

I can only imagine what it tastes like, and why in any capacity, someone would pay money to drink it. I once accidentally consumed some Indian beef tea which was arguably the worst experience of my life. I somehow think drinking a can of this stuff would be worse.

My friend Justin and I located this product at an Asian grocery market in Philadelphia, PA. We were waiting for some of our fellow cohorts to arrive to eat a delicious helping of Pho soup-stuff. Obviously, I had to take a picture of this drink as it was odd, even for an Asian market.

I assume the marketing meeting for this went something like:

Marketing Director: “Ok, we have a new product to promote in the US, but we need to translate the Chinese characters for the description of this drink into English, and we gotta do it fast…does anyone know how do to that?”
Group of employees: ::silence::
Marketing Director: No? Ok well, let’s just make something up. Bob! What’s the first word that comes into your head?
Bob: “err…White!”
Marketing Director: “Oh, how Aryan of you Bob, great. ‘White’ it is. Susan, you next!”
Susan: “Fungus?”
Marketing Director: “What? For real? The first thing you think of in a board meeting is ‘fungus’? Ok, whatever, no time, moving on. Kelly, you’re young, hip, what can you add?”
Kelly: “Birds are pretty!”
Marketing Director: “Yes they are Kelly, but we’re selling a drink here…a weird Chinese drink. Help me out!”
Bob: “Birds live in nests!”
Marketing Director: “OK…I can’t argue that. A little weird, but let’s roll with it. Steve, read me back what we’ve got.”
Steve: “White Fungus Bird’s Nest Drink.”
Marketing Director: “…You’re all fired.”

The thing that impresses me the most is that they correctly used the possessive apostrophe.


5. If I only had an Arm

Political correctness has reached an all new high (or low, depending on perspective). You can’t call anyone anything anymore, for fear that they have been branded the next, previously unheard of, protected class. Long gone are the days of little people being “midgets”, mentally challenged people just being “slow” and handicapped people being “freaks”. We have to fall all over ourselves to make sure everyone is happy and never even remotely offended by anything we might begin to consider thinking about possibly saying.

The middle-upper class is most responsible for this role, as they are the first to be labeled “discriminatory” even if they are less guilty than other people around them. They cannot even be politically correct about themselves and must often refer to themselves as imperfect, to make weird looking people feel better. In an attempt to make everything P.C., we have reached a level of correctness that borders on the absurd.

Some modifications make sense. A handicapped ramp for example; a wheelchair is a poor staircase navigator. Others make significantly less sense. Removing the word “brainstorm” in attempt to not offend people with epilepsy is a good example. It would not take long before people with one-in-a-billion mutations would require their own sort of social protection.

Why are all statues carved in the form of the “ideal” human; where are the homages to the classic man-monsters like Centaurus or Enceladus? Because people don’t like to look at ugly things. It seems unfair that creatures of equal importance and influence would fade into historical obscurity, simply for being ugly. But it is the truth, and it is this history that drives our current, inane political correction movement.

Soon we will see door knobs for people of all kinds of varying heights, regardless of how they impede the function of the door. We will have urinals placed on the ceilings of Men’s restrooms, for those random few who can’t seem to urinate downwards. We will see safety and protocol abandoned, just so no one gets their feelings hurt. Hell, some might even argue that one day we will have models, statues and even manikins that reflect all manner of physical deformity, just so we can see how cute that sweater would look on someone with a 4 foot long arm.

The Latent Evil of Fundraising

May 26, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

My fortress of cynical introversion is constantly under siege by coworkers who want me to do “good things”. As a non-Christian, non-conforming, non-proselytizing young man, I am clearly only committing hate crimes in my free time and sewing my seeds of hate at every opportunity. Due to my rampant bad behavior, many of those I work with daily feel I should repent in some form or another, whether I actually want to or not. I am unswayed by mindless spiritual zeal and their persuasive logic is far inferior to mine, so they are forced to fall back on the tried and true way to win someone over: cookies.

Everyone loves cookies, even diabolical people like me.

Enter the fundraiser. We’ve all been witness to these poor attempts at entrepreneurship; whether for a church, a school, a youth sports club or some other sickeningly wholesome, suburban cause. They flout brand-name candy and cookies, overtly labeled with some contact information about the so-called charity you are supporting. The illusion of helping out a “good cause” allows a buyer to ignore the heinous inflation that is imposed onto otherwise cheap goods. People fall all over themselves to buy assorted crap from these cardboard boxes of deceit, in hopes that their indirect, incredibly minor contribution will somehow lead to salvation.

Despite this seemingly benign reasoning, there is a clear hypocrisy in the snack distribution world. If a box of random goods is put out for sale in an office on the honor system, there will be at least a 30% loss of inventory. I know this first hand from stocking the snack box at my office for 6 months. If the exact same box is put out with a fund-raising label, the pilfering all but completely stops. It is not that people want to feel good, it is that they don’t want to feel bad. Stealing from some guy who supplies snacks at no profit is no big deal, but stealing from kids or a church is just flat out wrong. I love double standards, especially where my own money is involved.

Using psychological tricks is not the only underhanded tactic these “good causes” employ to peddle their overpriced junk. They also pull the strings on more innate, primal responses, like hunger and sympathy.

Hunger and greed is the obvious one; have you ever seen a generic fundraiser that sells fresh fruit? Salads? Anything remotely healthy? No. Because people don’t want healthy. They want to justify their disgusting face-stuffing habits by misdirecting their gluttony onto their now inflated sense of charity. It’s OK if I eat this entire sleeve of Oreos™, the money I paid for them is going to help a youth basketball team from the derelict inner city. I’m such a good person, even though I think I can literally hear my heart and circulatory system crying out in tortured anguish. People in this country have horrendous diets anyway, but at least when they buy the overly processed sugar that they don’t need from a fundraiser, they can say they did it to support a good cause.

The one I really loathe, as I cannot personally control it like I can hunger, is sympathy. There is a niche group who has literally cornered their respective market with this tactic: the goddamn Girl Scouts. These little girls don’t even need to try to sell you their product, in fact most can be found twirling mindlessly in circles while their mothers try their hardest to collect the money that people are literally throwing at them. It does help that the cookies are very tasty, but the fundamental truth cannot be denied. Girl Scouts line up in the best of public places, showing off cute little girls whose innocence will be destroyed if you don’t financially fund their futures by purchasing an absurd number of boxes of cookies. The bottom line is it works; a Google result for “girl scouts of the usa” returns 322,000 results, which is impressive until you compare it to a search for “girl scout cookies” which yields a staggering 833,000 results. A well-played, sympathetic cause will have people “awwwing” as they open their wallets faster than you can say “Thin Mints”.

And even with these two powerful emotional strategies, some fundraisers are not satisfied. The main tool, especially of office related fundraisers is the ever present idea of guilt. If you don’t buy some expensive yet disgusting candy from us, the church might go under, and then all of the poor parishioners will have no one to guide their sheepish spirits. If that happens, my kids will grow up in a heathen world, never know god, and eventually writhe in the pits of hellish damnation. Is that what you want? You want my kids to go to hell? What kind of person are you? Never mind the scary irrationality, this is basically the main idea people put forth when presenting you with random goods to buy. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want them, can’t afford them, don’t actually support whatever cause it is, or any combination. You must buy something, otherwise you are just a bad person.

Seriously, buy something. There are kids out there with diseases (deadly diseases) who desperately need the 13 cents profit we will make from you buying this candy bar. The same candy bar that will eventually put you into the hospital with advanced symptoms of diabetes. But rest easy, some one can have a fundraiser to raise the money to pay your medical bills.

BUY ME!

Turning the “P” in “Please” into a little, concerned looking man does not sway me, candy demons.

Quirking Out

May 21, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Everyone has some odd habits that help define their personality, whether it be a nervous tick or an inability to filter thoughts in a public situation. Most of these things are boiled down to “quirks” of some sort; some endearing, some pitiful, some annoying and some arguably dangerous. I am no exception, and some who have met me may even argue that I have more quirks than the average reclusive, borderline misanthropic nerd.

Most of my eccentricities come from being a creature of habit. My morning routine is almost tragically perfunctory. As I am normally battling The Grump, it is impossible for me to get anything done if I do not stick to a set order of tasks. Upon gaining consciousness, I stumble to the bathroom, find a towel, turn on the shower (hot water first) test the water, find it to be too hot, turn on the cold water, test the temperature again by splashing the water on my legs, turn on the shower, brush my teeth with my eyes closed, shampoo my hair, blow my nose (one nostril at a time), rinse the shampoo out of my hair, condition my hair, turn in circles under the water in an attempt to wake up, rinse the conditioner out of my hair, turn in a few more circles, gargle, and then turn the shower off. I then receive a towel from Tiffany, step out of the shower, pick up my hair brush, brush all my hair back (50s Greaser style), dry myself off with the aforementioned towel, dry my hair halfway with the same towel, brush my hair again, dry it the rest of the way, brush it again, then stagger into the bedroom to find whatever clothes I am going to wear that day.

This happens every weekday, exactly as listed above, without fail. Occasionally, if The Grump is beaten early, I will sing in the shower. A poorly sung rendition of Don McLean’s American Pie is my go-to (I know like, all the lyrics). I have also been known to bust out a soulful recreation of an 80s classic with my own lyrics inserted. On especially groggy mornings, I have conditioned my hair before I shampooed. Short of these few rare anomalies, my mornings define banality.

As the day progresses, my routine slowly loses cohesion. My commute by its very nature is repetitive, but I do find myself playing, “Cut off the School Bus” or “Shout obscenities at Captain Slow and the Slow-mobile” as I zoom along to work. Upon arriving, I drop my keys on the left side of my desk, unpack my laptop, plug in my mouse, plug in my keyboard, plug in my headphones, plug and unplug my Cat-5 cable until I actually get a network connection, attempt to open Microsoft™ Outlook, open Mozilla™ Firefox, visit my favorite web-comics, look back at my work email once Outlook has finally opened, and lastly open Gmail™ to see what I’ve missed during the hours that I, and everyone I know, was asleep. I then use the bathroom, get a cup of coffee or tea and fill my water bottle. From time to time I will chat with a coworker about something completely random and often nonsensical, just because I am not yet awake enough to do any real work.

My day-time hours have little routine, as my job has little specific definition. The card I was given after several months of working here says, “Business Writer” but I do very little actual writing. I jump from assorted IT tasks, to quality control, to file management or web design. It keeps me on my toes, and starts to tear at the fibers of my structured schedule. By lunch time, my meticulous schedule has been completely demolished. Think “Undone” by Weezer, but having nothing to do with a sweater or being naked.

I make up for a lack of structure by doing repetitive little things throughout the day. Every time I walk out of my office to use the bathroom/get lunch/free myself from the soul-killing monotony, I have to jump up and touch the second Exit sign in the little hallway that leads to my office door. I have to touch the sign. If I cannot, for fear of landing on a coworker or looking “unprofessional”, it eats away at me until I can get back to the sign to touch it. On casual friday, when my attire is less constrictive, I will sometimes do a full olympic style run-and-jump to touch the sign. Even when I am completely encumbered with laptop bag, lunch box (I wish) or sometimes a musical instrument, I will try to feebly hop to touch the sign. One of these days I am going to hit it too hard, break it and be very sad. I probably need some kind of mental help, but instead of seeking it, I will just consider touching the sign “good luck”. Here is a good shot of my approach angle:

I also have to keep everything on my desk very organized and if possible, perpendicular. A book or pile of papers slightly askew will keep me from performing any other task throughout the day. I will even start to straighten things on other people’s desks, without their asking. I feel I deserve a “cleanest desk award” since we have a “clean desk policy” but no one seems to listen when I start talking about it.

By the time I make my way home, my formerly obsessive habits have degraded into complete chaos. I struggle to be organized, unless I have some very specific tasks that have a very specific deadline. I am like a ball of string: tightly and perfectly wound in glorious sphere in the morning; thrown all about with random knots as if an imaginary cat has played with me all day by the evening.

My most relevant major quirk has been with me since the latter days of high school. I cannot, in any possible situation, write anything of any substance if the things around me are not very organized and clean. This probably connects with my desire for things to be perpendicular, but I don’t like to draw conclusions too hastily. In college I would spend hours cleaning my apartment before writing anything, as I knew my papers or projects would be complete drivel if there were any dirty dishes in the sink. I do not feel comfortable committing my mind to something I am passionate about if there are things like dust and bacteria to distract me.

As my brain is unraveling and beginning “weekend mode” early, I do not know how to end this post. In a move of desperation, I will refer to one of my other quirks that appears when I want to stop a conversation that has gone on too long: referencing something completely arbitrary that few can relate to in an attempt to kill the dialogue.

This is a picture of a 80s PBS painter and marijuana enthusiast, Bob Ross:
Bizz Rizzle

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