Stupid instrumental music

I think that I have written before on the subject of my unerring promptness but I don’t mind repeating myself and besides, this time I have a new slant on the topic. My “slant” is that since I am unfailingly prompt I have exhausted my sleigh of Christmas related gripes and anecdotes prematurely and find myself with nothing to say about the holiday. (Further inspections shows that this is not a new slant on the topic, but actually a poor excuse for a lead-in to an entirely unrelated topic.)

The new and, I imagine, not particularly interesting topic is film trailers and more specifically, my overly emotional reaction to them. In order to justify the seeming left-fieldness of the topic I will begin with a small story about my day that ends with me getting teary over a YouTube clip and dribbling snot all over my brand new laptop (!!!).

So today I was doing what I generally do during the day. I wrote a little, screwed around on the internet a little, read all of the features sections of all of the hippest websites and completely ignored any of the pressing economic or political news, and then stared at a variety of blogs. One of these blogs (and I’m not a blog name dropper) discusses the Edwardian period, fashion and social trends of the 19th century and a whole slew of other literary nerd topics. Today the bloggist was on about the movie The Young Victoria, which I had never heard of. My ignorance is not startling as I rarely know about movies because I do not patronize the ugly younger brother of film, television, but I like to think that I keep abreast of high-budget period pieces.

Anyway, so I was watching the trailer that the blogger posted and the usual trailer dramatics unfolded: swelling music, cutaways to bold words on a black background, lovers staring at one another in ecstasy, someone walking purposefully with a pistol, ect. Exactly the sort of cookie-cutter antics that you would expect someone with the frightful disposition that I’ve got to get all disdainful about. But here’s the thing: I never get disdainful about movie trailers; I tear up, I giggle, and my heart throbs in time with the stupid instrumental music.

I honestly think that I have the exact susceptible disposition that they use to gauge the effects of images and sound on the rampant, impressionable masses. When the trailer director wants sympathy, he gets it from me by the bucketful; when he wants me to feel uplifted by the idea that Sandra Bullock is saving some impoverished future footballer, I feel uplifted. And when someone stares into the camera and yells something about how their lover is their whole life and how their fate belongs to their country and the music gets louder and hyperboles flash across the screen like an ugly, sentimental crack dream? Sometimes I get a little emotional.

Afterwards I might re-watch the trailer to recapture a little of that prosthetic emotion but I never want to watch these movies. The whole thing is very funky and definitely un-Christmasy.

I am way too topical

I am sometimes too frantic – being a mean spirited person who works from home is very time consuming – to remember that there are mildly pleasant people around who endeavor to be even more pleasant around the holidays. My neighbor just delivered a Christmas present for my dog and reminded me of this.

Don’t worry; I haven’t gone all sappy and cheerful. I could say a million things on the topic of courtesy gifts that would scorch the ears and blight the souls of blog passersby. I could list the many work events that I have attended in my (admittedly short lived) career, the different tins of crappy candy and cheap wine that I have brought to each, and the excuse that I made to duck out early. I could dream up recollections of roommates passed, gifts bought at random and short-notice and gift cards run rampant.

I could probably even talk about that Christmas when everyone in my extended family gave me flannel pants. (Two notes on this topic. First, there is no better way to imply that someone is frumpy and mysterious than to give them flannel pants. Secondly, I think that was the last year that we exchanged gifts with extended family. Coincidence?)

But I won’t go through the trouble of detailing these stories because I will still be a little touched by the fact that my neighbor brought over a present for my dog when I finish. Even though I know that my name was probably written on a holiday to-do list under the category of neighbor as “Kevin and ????” and even though I know that the other neighbors probably received baked goods, I still think it was a very nice thing to do.

I am going to make my neighbor a pie. And I will endeavor to make it attractive. As penance for my previous unpleasant association with courtesy gifts I will try to not make fun of people in Christmas sweaters today. But people with Christmas socks are still fair game.

The holidays make me cranky

I am starting off this particular post with a fair forewarning: I plan to be awfully negative so people sensitive to that sort of shenanigans would do well to shield their eyes. Actually they would do well to click along elsewhere; the internet is boundless. Go ahead and click that alluring “Next Blog” button at the top of the screen. We don’t need any positive people here, anyway.

I am full of writing rage today (not unrelated but not identical to my frequent bouts of retail rage) and I plan to make full use of it here. I am having a hard time getting anything done despite vast improvements in my internet dependency. (I lightly compressed the small internet button on my keyboard and disabled the whole scenario.) Also, what is with my apparent overwhelming love for parenthesis today? I could expand this to talk about how I am thinking in small asides instead of in strong narrative threads and therefore being unproductive, but since that would probably require several snide asides (detailing my extensive love of metaphor, undoubtedly) it seems absolutely counterproductive.

Without further (or parenthetical) ado, here is a list of things besides writing that are pissing me off this morning:

• People/media outlets making their list of “Best of _____” for 2009. I know this is the easy and obvious piece to write but I’m quite tired of reading lists of albums, movies, books, and celeb scandals. Let’s try, for the sake of reflection and variety, to limit these lists to every other year, or every other obvious category. *
• People in my neighborhood who have those huge inflatable Christmas things. What’s wrong with lights? Lights are classy. Snowmen on sailboats with Santa hats are just damn ridiculous. And ugly. And probably a phenomenal waste of electricity. (See I told you: I am pissed off AND I love parenthesis today.)
• Finally, I hate how people are so perplexed by the fact that a person might want a decaf coffee beverage. Some of us can’t handle the caffeine, you know. If we had caffeine we’d be twice as rowdy as I am being on this blog.

* I offer full amnesty to the Whitney-and-Kevin Best Person of 2009 contest. The current favorite to take the title is Lisa from Fun Cuts, the crazy masseuse who once charged me half price because I was short and can only identify me as part of “that cute couple.” The winner for 2008 was either PJ from the T-Mobile Store or the hostess at Applebee’s whose perfect first date ends with a platonic game of Twister…I can’t recall.

In which I use the word "adorable" in earnest

Yesterday while at work I attempted to help – and markedly failed to help – some guy that had an absolutely adorable Christmas problem. I know what you are thinking and it’s true: I can only be urged to use silly adjectives like “adorable” when something beyond heartwarming occurs. But this seemed to me very heartwarming. Further inspection reveals that it is probably par for the holiday course for a more seasoned retail worker, but I’m going to ignore that unfortunate logical tangent.

So there was this fellow at my place of work last night who wanted to buy a purse for his girl friend for Christmas. Since I was wandering around doing my “Are you finding everything alright?” shtick and because I possess the general appearance of a lady (though none of the purse-related instincts) he came to me asking for assistance. As we pondered the purses he gave me a short rundown of his girl. Apparently she rides horse but is no cowgirl, currently sports a canvas tote, wears black or grey converse sneakers at all times, and likes classic rock.

I was so ecstatic that someone would describe their girlfriend by saying that she liked classic rock that I forgot for a few moments that I have no working knowledge of purses.

“Which of these purses call out to you?” I said, trying to seem like I believed the purses had the personality and the metaphysical ability to call out. My charge replied that he liked them all exactly equally and I began a small private panic when he asked which models were most popular among young, white women.

This fellow obviously had money to spend and was eager to do so; when I gratefully relinquished him to my boss she persuaded him to get a purse, a few accessories and explained to him where he could get some good perfume.

When I got home I excitedly explained this endearing scenario to my own grumpy boy-person, who was less impressed than I. He thinks that you shouldn’t spend money on whatever the sales people (however helpful) tell you to if you aren’t sure that the person you are buying for will like it. He advised taking the girl in question to the store, observing what she likes, and then returning to buy it. I argued that this was far less romantic. He argued that he did this with me all the time and that I never seem to mind.

Obviously, my life is far less romantic than that of some random classic rock loving girl who is getting a purse for Christmas.

I'm intimidated by all kinds of bikers

Please be amazed, devoted followers, I’m about to write something in (and about) a coffee shop. I know that I have harped on about this topic too often and that I have – on several occasions, I think – vowed to never do it again. But I can lie as often as I want; this is my blog and I do as I please here.

I’ve been writing for the last two days in the biker bar of all coffee shops…biker as in 10-speed. After months of Starbucks mothers and indignant hippies at the Coffee Republic, I have finally found a coffee shop frequented by mobile people, none of whom want to stick around inside the shop. That’s where I come in. It’s true, I am a little ashamed since I haven’t been on my bike in months and when I did bike it was in the stately commuter way, not the hardcore/spandex fashion.

Regardless, it is quiet here and although there is Christmas music playing it isn’t too loud and the employees seem annoyed by it as well. The chairs aren’t all that comfortable but the internet is free.

Mostly the people who frequent this place make me wish that I was more into nature than I am. They are all talking about how many miles they’ve ridden and they drink the regular drip coffee. Last night while at work I contemplated buying some hiking boots (they were a good deal and I was cold) and then I forced myself to stop and contemplate when I was likely to wear them.

Sure, I could wear them stomping around town, leaving large muddy tracks all around the grocery store. But it was unlikely that I would be out in nature with them, hiking around and getting them properly broken in. It is also not likely that I will ever ride a bike for several miles...but I don't mind stealing wifi like I will someday.

Remember I-Macs?

My new computer is coming in the mail tomorrow. If I can manage, I would like to say without any trace of the usual flippancy that adorns my discussion of my love/hate relationship with technology, that I am hellsa excited.

I haven’t had a computer of my own for a few years, ever since my old computer (a beautiful and faithful over-sized Toshiba laptop that I’d invested heavily in repairs to over three years) finally croaked. The manner of the croaking was thus: the wire between the computers “brain” and the computer’s “face” had frayed resulting in the “face” to display everything that should have been black in a searing red. For a person who already has radically bad vision, this was a death sentence.

From that time on I’ve been mooching heavily from my domestic companion. First I stole his old computer – blue, dell, chunky – for my use at home during the last stint of my academic phase. Later, when we moved in together and the pretense of domestic bliss allowed me to be so forward I began using his main laptop. And I’m using that very laptop to type this blog.

But my next blog entry will undoubtedly be typed from my new laptop.

I remember the first time that I had my “own” computer. It was a purple I-Mac and I was 13 years old. (Remember I-Macs?) The idea of possession thrilled me more than my computing abilities. I was more excited to pick a desktop background than anything else. The joy was only more pronounced because I had never used a Mac before and had absolutely no idea how to go about changing it.

I love desktop backgrounds in the same way I love car safety kits: both are the minor perks that make owning something important more palatable to the mind of a feeble sentimentalist.

Desktop background suggestions for my new computer are welcome. Until then I’m just hoping that the “fly fishing” default option is still available.

Contains the worst joke on THE INTERNET

My internet is acting strangely today, which seems irritating but is probably good for me. I find that the internet is the greatest media hurdle one encounters when working from home. That is probably because it encompasses all of those other media thingers; however, I’m going to keep saying it as though it wasn’t obvious.

My main complaint with my internet acting freakishly is that it seemed remarkably cold when I got up this morning and I wanted to know the temperature. Computer dependent as I am, my first instinct was to turn on my computer and pull up a weather site. My computer chose to respond to this (rather reasonable, I think) request by giving me some blank-screened nonsense about “resolving hosts.” As a result, I have no idea what the temperature was on 12-3-09 at 7:35 in Orangevale. And that bothered me.

Parsing out why exactly the weather was the upmost of my computer priorities this morning is harder to do. I wasn’t planning on changing my clothing or my plans to suit the weather. My daily agenda included writing, working (indoors), and writing; little opportunity in that tight schedule is allotted for weather sensitive hobbies like camping, swimming, or penguin hunting. (Oh man, that was probably the worst joke on all of THE INTERNET.)

I’m just neurotic and I like to know what the temperature is so that when I am outside I can think to myself, “This is what 45 degrees feels like.” Knowing the exact temperature also helps if you frequently get stuck in uncomfortable conversations. After you get done talking about the economy and what kind of fancy mattress you own (Sleep Number, suckers!), you can always talk about the weather. It’s not a conversational cliché when you come prepared with actual data.

As a matter of interest I thought that I might mention that there is one of those little outside thermometers on the porch of my house but I don’t trust it. It doesn’t tell me the exact hour of the day when it will rain like my computer will, provided that it gets all of its little hosts resolved.