Saturday, October 29, 2005 :::
The definition of "nonpareil"? It followed me home today.
Posted by Ben at 8:01 PM
Here we are, Friday, the semicolon to a grinding week and even more proof, I'm reluctant to admit, of our inability to have five conversations in a row. The very keyboard I'm unceremoniously jabbing right now forbids me to produce more than a preapproved number of words each week. Should I muster a single extra consonant, that's it. There is no quarrel, no system of appeals. The monitor shuts off and the scene fades to black.
What are your thoughts on customer service? Since you can't really share yours, I'll simply tell you mine. In trying to help grow the e-commerce division of the company, I've had to place two fingers uncomfortably close to the pulse of customer needs. What this means is I get some clinically retarded phone calls.
Those of you who are committed to customer service full-time have my unwavering respect. Empathy, too. If the dozens of people I've "serviced" in the past three weeks are representative of what's average, then sweet Simon of Cyrene. There are stupid questions--they exist, I assure you--and they often find passage through big people lips.
I got a call from a woman today. Thick southern twang. Sounded like she didn't have no use for book-learnin', seeing how the Devil dun drenched them thar letters in black ink and iniquity. I picked up the phone, gave my brief introduction, and waited. Silence.
"Are you a recordin'?" she asks in all seriousness.
A pause.
"No, ma'am. I'm a real person," I reply, rubbing my temples and replacing my batteries.
Another pause as she processes this.
"Alright."
Unfair as it may seem, she was my personal ambassador from Dunwoody, Georgia. There was a kind of negative bias forged that moment, and if someone were to ask me for a tour of Dunwoody, I'd tell her to shut her eyes and slam her head violently on the kitchen counter. There. Tour's done.
Obviously the compulsion to judge is strong and convenient, so it's probably more civil to ignore this particular cut of society. Sounds snotty, right? If that's what being a snob means, well, buy me a bulk pack of monocles and lose the gift receipt.
Posted by Ben at 12:14 AM
Thursday, October 27, 2005 :::
This is apparently the time of year when soliciting for sports, usually in cash for M&M's barters, is an inevitability in parking lots and storefronts. It's like a force of nature, something that would invite ample diagramming and gesticulation on the Weather Channel. The grocery store, the bookstore, the computer store, it doesn't matter--it's clearly the season for basketball. I've seen people accosted while they're getting into their cars, which is excellent salesmanship because chocolate is certainly at the forefront of my mind when I'm fastening my seatbelt. I'd like to complain tonight. Wasn't sure if you were getting the vibe, so I wanted to clarify.
My main issue? Perhaps I'm just old-fashioned, but I'd prefer to know where my money's going. I mean, "supporting [your] team" is too nebulous for me. Am I paying for part of the basketball? Is it the good part? Or will my cash go the distance and maybe inflate the ball? I need a receipt or something. More importantly, will you hit me back if I ever decide to become a professional luger? Because, you know, luging uniforms. Vital. Also a luge. It's a passion.
Another one of my hobbies, and I'm posing this as dire necessity, is collecting stamps. You there, ma'am! You look like you're coming off a long day of work. Could you maybe spare a few dollars to buy me stamps? Who's hopelessly entwined with my leisure activities? You are, yes you are.
Am I being too heavy-handed? Let me rephrase all this in a more tactful manner: Get a part-time job and stop fucking around with bulk candy from Costco.
Either that or secure some free entertainment. Do you know what free entertainment I've been revisiting, dear reader? This one. It's an audio drama I linked a while ago, the fruit of a massive alternate reality game employed as a marketing scheme by Microsoft. I never participated in the ARG with fellow geeks--hunting for payphones across the world to piece together audio clips requires effort--but the end result is riveting. Now give me a quarter.
Posted by Ben at 12:16 AM
Wednesday, October 26, 2005 :::
There are compelling reasons to upgrade our printing press, this coarse forum where we convene night after night, and those reasons basically rhyme with F.E.A.R. You see, my computer will be a decade old soon, which in tech years doesn't even translate into anything remotely intelligible. I don't think you can express this phenomenon in English, never mind alphanumerics.
But don't think me disrespectful. Underpowered as this machine may be, I've rebuilt and tinkered with it again and again, to the point where only a few stickers hearken back to a time when you asked not what you could do for your country, but what could MMX™ do for you? Of course, we wouldn't be having this conversation if the primary responsibilities of my box were word processing and, on holidays, possibly playing an entire MP3.
Here's the problem. I have a weakness for games, particularly tense and spooky games. This wasn't always the case, but that's the way things are now. And F.E.A.R.? It's a rare breed that commands approbation from professionals and real people alike. Click intently enough and you will discover an entertainment upon which horror extraordinaire John Carpenter has stamped his imprimatur. The best thing to do, I believe, is simply to see the full thing in motion.
That's the temptation: to spend hundreds of dollars on a glistening altar of technology for the sole purpose of sacrificing more money in pursuit of shiny trivialities. The only issue is computers don't exactly hold their value. Buy a brand new one, and you might as well invest in a type of gold that rapidly transforms into Monterey jack the moment you sneeze.
Posted by Ben at 12:33 AM
Monday, October 24, 2005 :::
Our discussions were apparently so good, they thoroughly evacuated the room of both host and guest. That's the official explanation, at any rate, and heaven knows you'll need to wait three weeks from this Thursday pending a half-crescent moon to hear the truth of the matter.
How are you? It's been a few. You probably expect an apology lined with oaths most severe--and rightfully so, because that's the procedure de rigueur. But things are different now. I realize I can't promise you commodities like consistency and frequency because, vital as this medium may be, there are other things. It's just a blog, not a full-time gig. What I can assure you is, should we ever careen near the verge of closing, you may take comfort in portents large and defined. There will be long bouts of silence, similar to the one we experienced, followed by posts like this:
Saturday, October 24, 2015 :::
Dear Diary,
Ate breakfast today. It was good.
Went to work. Came back.
Ate. Washed my hands.
Real wife yells too much. Comparison-shopping for android model w/out voice synthesizer module.
I would also put up a "condemned" sign or something.
Posted by Ben at 10:56 PM
Wednesday, October 19, 2005 :::
"It's like this," explains your boss as he graphs nonsensically on the whiteboard. "When we bifurfab the investment quotient with the local Y-factor, which is to say your free time, we maximize results well beyond initial projections."
One of the interns turns green and runs to the bathroom, and like a chorus Kristy begins to cry. Pete slams his fist on the table.
"Now, I love investment quotient as much as the next fella," he offers, "but I'd prefer to love it on a weekday. My son's got a game this weekend. I promised I'd go watch."
"I hear you, Pete," your boss responds magnanimously, "which is why I'm going to buy everyone pizza."
Pete rubs his temples in despair.
"What's more, I've secured something that will give my troops--that's a metaphor for you guys--an effort-positive, hotdesking-friendly incentive. The person who componentizes the best report by Sunday will get these."
He flashes two tickets to the sold-out Sox game.
"You deliver the deliverables, you put the "O" in ROI, and you get dugout seats."
There it is, you tell yourself. Exoneration. You raise your hand.
"Yes!" your boss exclaims and points to you. "Do you have something to add to our quarterly learnings?"
A. Start slowly.
B. Start quickly.
C. Hoot like a hooty owl.
D. Start mediumly.
E. Nachos BellGrande con carne, por favor.
You chose A. Stress level => 32
"Although your turnkey plan to repurpose our Saturday and Sunday is actionable, to a degree," you hold forth, "I have a scalable solution that should please all parties."
"You've certainly repurposed my ears," says your boss with a smile. "Go ahead, I'm listening, which is a metaphor for I'm ignoring you."
A. Parry.
B. Thrust.
C. Riposte.
D. Dodge up.
E. Wonder why those fencing kids are always so goddamn weird.
You chose C. Stress level => 25
"It all starts with a quick-win proposal," you say. "Uh, value-added."
"Did...did I hear 'value-added'?" your boss begins to fan himself.
It's time to...
A. Make the coffee.
B. Schedule a conference call.
C. Ignore a voicemail for three weeks.
D. Follow up with a one-two punch.
E. Feint left.
You chose D. Stress level => 19
"We need to exorcise the ghosts in the wetware with a win-lose-draw paradigm shiftstall, as it were," you outline in broad strokes.
Your boss clutches his heart and stumbles a bit.
"That's right. We need to triangulate the profit matrices for a delayed, 20-sigma staggered return on spend. A cakewalk, really."
He coughs violently and lurches to the table, clutching a corner for dear life.
"So, like, synergize?" he gasps.
A. Go for the kill.
B. Go for the kill.
C. Go for the kill.
D. Go for the kill.
E. Go for the kill.
You chose all of the above. Stress level => 0
"More like winnergize, am I right?" you let fly with the silver bullet, adrenaline singing in your ears.
With a piercing cry he falls to the floor as if dead. Your colleagues cheer and dash out the door. You fish the tickets from your boss's hand.
Woof would be proud.
Posted by Ben at 11:40 PM
Monday, October 17, 2005 :::
"Don't think of me as your boss, think of me as your friend. Your confidant. Your leader, fearless and true," says your boss with a twitch of his shoulder. "We're all on this boat--that's a metaphor for this company--and I'm your captain. We're proactively setting sail for a market-guided, paracollinear journey."
Kristy from HR rummages through her purse for an opportunity to yawn covertly. Pete the sales guru clicks his tongue in agreement and slugs 32-year-old fratboy T.J. in the shoulder, while T.J. looks at Kristy and tries to catch her eye. Meanwhile, Sue the biz dev princess interjects with a question about something, and in response the two interns take notes feverishly. During all of this, Marty the resident weirdo--
"...something to add?" your boss looks straight at you, yanking you out of your reverie. "The Captain cares. The Captain is open to suggestions."
Shit. Busted.
A. "Just spitballing here, but how about the finer points of blow me down."
B. "This is the best meeting of all time and we can go home now."
C. "Actually, I think T.J. has something to share, namely herpes."
D. "Sorry, never got the memo about caring."
E. "Indeed."
You chose E. Stress level => 38
"You're the best," proclaims your boss. "Flaky at times, but I can always count on you. There are team members, and then there are performance-centric, procedurally flexible team members."
Sue glares at you. She secretly wants her nose to be the brownest.
"We're in a vast jungle, and I'm the results-cognizant platoon leader," continues your boss. "There are snipers--they're metaphors for our competitors--in the trees, but I've come up with a plan to keep you all safe and maximize ROI. It's genius, really--"
"I couldn't agree more, boss," interrupts Sue, pouting her lips. "In fact--"
"You're all coming to work this weekend and the next."
There is a collective gasp. Sue shuts her mouth. Kristy looks like she's about to quit. T.J. snorts and Pete starts coughing uncomfortably. Marty begins mumbling to himself. The interns whip out their planners.
"I feel the synergy in this room," he says contentedly. "Am I syncing with everyone?"
No, you think, I need to fix my car this weekend. Sleep under my bed. Maybe even talk to Frank. You clear your throat and...
A. Sob uncontrollably.
B. Swallow.
C. Put your plan into motion.
D. Cough all over the danishes.
E. Crawl under the meeting table.
You chose C. Stress level => 39
Out of the blue comes the solution to your weekend problem: your boss has a heart condition, which is really a metaphor for a heart condition.
Posted by Ben at 11:36 PM
Saturday, October 15, 2005 :::
"Damn it!"
You slam your palm on the steering wheel in frustration, wondering why they chose today to renovate the parking structure. A black hole would be less dense at this point. Even the handicapped spots are taken, with two of them occupied by that chubby loser who drives the Infiniti FX.
But who's to judge? You spot a gap and squeeze next to the SUV, managing to scratch it only a little bit. Now it's time to improvise, time to...
A. Key the other side of the SUV to give it matching scratches.
B. Leave a note with your contact information disguised as a death threat.
C. Shrug while a canned laugh track plays.
D. Construct a handicap decal with stuff you find in the backseat.
E. Call Geico and ask whether you must itemize when insuring circus midgets.
You chose D. Stress level => 37
Using paste, elbow macaroni, and crayons, you craft a stunning replica of a handicap permit and stick it on your windshield. As for the Infiniti? There's no "I" in FX, so too bad. You step out of the minivan and immediately catch wind of the cat vomit on your shirt. You need to clean yourself.
90 seconds left.
You swipe your keycard, run into the nearest bathroom, and nearly collide with your boss.
"Heya, champ!" he booms, slapping you on the back. "How was your weekend?"
A. "I spent it typing cover letters for, uh, a friend."
B. "Touch me again and I will break your fingers."
C. "I don't know, slugger, and you forgot to zip up again."
D. "It was a two-day journey of soul-searching and discovery."
E. "On Saturday I wrote your name 50 times. On Sunday I added hearts."
You chose C. Stress level => 38
"It was fine," you reply. "I'm really looking forward to this meeting."
"Yeah?" he raises his eyebrow. "That's what Henderson said. And I'm not one to disagree."
He chuckles and scratches his crotch.
"It's going to be a big one," he says, shadowboxing and looking in the mirror. "We're heading into Q4, and you fellas need a clear idea of where I'm steering this ship, where I'm pointing the rudder. Have I ever sailed you wrong?"
A. "Every single minute, babycakes."
B. "Yaargh."
C. "Well, there was that one time when revenue plunged 23%."
D. "Rudder? I don't even know her!"
E. "I still can't believe you called me 'champ.'"
You chose E. Stress level => 39
"Never," you shake your head for emphasis. "You're the best boss I've ever had."
"Don't I know it," he slaps you on the back again. "Robust team dynamics. A clear vision. Goal-oriented, process-driven logistics. That's me. Do I smell vomit?"
Stress level => 40
Posted by Ben at 11:52 PM
Thursday, October 13, 2005 :::
Remember the promise I made on Tuesday? We may have to go into overtime--yes, I'm speaking of a Saturday edition--to make good on it.
They say you aren't supposed to get a flu shot when you already have the flu. What's the worst that could happen if you got one anyway, huh? You'd basically be collecting more of the same. It'd simply be a bonus, and all that talk about breeding a mutant strain or getting even sicker? Balderdash.
I need to tell you something. The Shins just don't cut it when you're sick--some would argue even when you're well. I'm listening right now and I periodically get mad at them. It's like, "Thanks for helping my congestion by pumping more of your goddamn mumbling through my speakers."
Posted by Ben at 10:47 PM
"It's not like Frank deserves the tickets, even if they existed in the first place," you declare halfheartedly over the din of the radio. "Right? I mean, he's a total schmuck."
Slightly remorseful, your conscience in the throes of near turnaround, you sigh as you make a right onto Wendhart Avenue, a full five minutes before your biz dev meeting starts.
The minivan lurches with a sickening crunch. You check your rearview mirror and...
A. Chortle softly.
B. Cough and pretend nothing happened.
C. Chortlecough to save a few seconds.
D. Luxuriously brush your hair and neigh like a colt.
E. Fake a look of horror for the driver next to you.
You chose E. Stress level => 25
Good thing it was only a cat, perhaps distantly related to Woof. Some people are seized by guilt if they run over so much as a ladybug, but not you. Well, there was that one time last Thursday when you hit the guy in the wheelchair or, more precisely, the guy in the wheelchair who wouldn't share the road. You felt a twinge of something upon impact. Turns out it was hunger.
Four minutes left. Who invented the three-strikes policy? Total rubbish. Why couldn't they round it to five strikes? And were you just cut off by that bastard in the '89 Accord with the busted muffler?
Caught in a fit of rage, you switch to the other lane, pull up next to the fella, and give him a wicked look. There is a need for verbal justice. You roll down your window and shout, "Hey, assho--"
It's your pastor.
In a decidedly inspired moment, you...
A. Flip him the birdie.
B. Tithe.
C. Do that thing where you pretend to be a bunny on Noah's Ark.
D. Go monk.
E. Act like a reasonable adult, ignore him, and continue on your way.
You chose A. Stress level => 27
"You old coot!" you scream. "Lemme tell you about the hermeneutics of 2 Middlefingerkiah 4:11."
You preach it, and his eyes widen in shock as you peel off to your exit. Oh, well. He gave stale communion wafers anyway.
Your perceived victory is cut short, however, when you hit a speed bump at 55 MPH. Divine retribution. The trash in the backseat animates with a pronounced fury, launching a bit of cat vomit onto your shirt in the process. Why, Woof, why? Why can't it ever be easy? Two minutes left.
Stress level => 34
Posted by Ben at 12:25 AM
Tuesday, October 11, 2005 :::
Them digits just ain't going today. I've been sick since Friday, and I'm convinced there's a secret nerve that connects my throat to my fingers. The arc we've been entertaining will conclude this week--it's only about halfway done right now--and really it needs to be put to bed soon. Just. Like. Me.
Posted by Ben at 11:39 PM
Monday, October 10, 2005 :::
Stress level => 50
Struck by the craftiest of ideas, you roll down your window and say, "Frank..."
A. "I'm just kidding. Wrestling is completely real."
B. "I'm only joshing. I can get you free skybox tickets."
C. "Those shorts really go well with nothing much at all."
D. "Please stop balding on my lawn."
E. "I got you a present. Check my trunk."
You chose B. Stress level => 45
Frank scans the area warily for his wife before running to you with the air of a desperate man, his face the very picture of neediness.
"You gotta help me," he gasps. "Sheila says I can't have any ticket money until I put my kid through college. I told her, 'But that's not for another year!' She made me sleep on the couch for a month."
"Listen..." you begin.
A. "Sheila's pregnant. I helped."
B. "Anytime you're hungry, y'know, I dropped my Pop Tart for you."
C. "I double-checked and I still don't care."
D. "If you lend me your car, I'll pick up the tickets on my way home."
E. "My car will actually turn into a ticket if you get behind and push."
You chose D. Stress level => 35
"Really?" he says incredulously. "You'd do that for me?"
"Of course," you nod and shake his hand.
He stealthily enters his house through the back porch, sneaks through the den without alerting his wife, and returns to you whipped but proud, triumphant in his impromptu guile.
"Here," he whispers as he hands you his keys. "I--"
"Frank! I'm doing the dishes right now," Sheila shouts through the front door, "and I'm not sure what part of 'drying' you don't understand."
"Be right there, dear!"
Frank turns to you, a wild look in his eyes.
"Please. I need this. Promise me."
You look at the key, then look at him.
A. "I'm sorry. Who are you?"
B. "What's that, Sheila? Your husband's getting tickets behind your back?"
C. "You have my word."
D. "The real question is, 'How do they know when to shoot the puck?'"
E. "I...I love you."
You chose C. Stress level => 30
"Thanks," he sighs. "You're the best neighbor a guy could have."
Frank trudges despondently to his house. You turn your attention to his minivan, which to any onlooker would resemble a shiny galleon of the suburbs, its backseat awash in glittering wrappers, sunbaked clothes, and magazines. You unlock the car and climb into the driver's seat. Your nostrils reel at a foul stench.
Like a bad omen, the keys jangle in protest and drop through a crack, finally coming to rest in the backseat. What a time to be clumsy. You reach behind and stick your hand deep in the pile of trash, only to be surprised.
Cat vomit.
The garbage heap gives an angry shake and out pops a cantankerous tabby. Did Frank lock his beloved Woof in the car again?
"C'mere, Woof! Do you want to go home?" you say in your best feline voice.
Woof spits at you and hisses.
"Alright, you little fucker. I don't have time for this."
You grab the cat by the scruff of her neck and...
A. Set her free through the window.
B. Twist.
C. Cram her in the mailbox.
D. Wish she were declawed.
E. Talk to her as if she truly understands and gives a shit.
You chose C. Stress level => 30
"Frank is busy right now," you tell the cat. "Let me show you the waiting room."
You furtively look around for any card-carrying ASPCA members before stuffing Woof in the mailbox, making sure to put up the little red flag. 8:21 AM. You still have nine minutes to make it to work.
"Poor guy. He simply doesn't get it," you mutter. "And what's a skybox?"
Stress level => 22
Posted by Ben at 10:03 PM
Thursday, October 06, 2005 :::
Stress level => 0
You wake up...
A. On the wrong side of bed.
B. In a dumpster for the second day in a row.
C. Under your bed.
D. Next to a hideous goblin.
E. Clutching the arm of the hooker you partially hid in your trunk.
You chose C. Stress level => 1
Darkness, a world inverted and a morning not at all promising. Sunlight pierces your peripheral vision, framing a very real sense of claustrophobia. Your alarm clock suddenly rings, so you...
A. Promptly begin salivating.
B. Reach for a pillow that's actually where it's supposed to be.
C. Emerge from under the bed and turn off your clock in one swift motion.
D. Sigh.
E. Bang your head so hard, your clock falls off the ledge, thereby silencing it.
You chose D and E. Stress level => 5
"Shit. Monday," you mutter, rubbing your forehead painfully.
You stumble into the bathroom and...
A. Promptly begin salivating.
B. Mistake the Lysol for shampoo.
C. Can't be bothered with raising the toilet seat, let alone the cover.
D. Conserve water by not showering.
E. Have a flashback filmed at 60 fps to heighten tension.
You chose A. Stress level => 5
The social construct of "showering," flimsy as it has always been, crumbles beneath the voracious might of your hunger. You compromise by splashing some water on your face and flossing your favorite teeth. Now it's time for breakfast. Monday is...
A. Just like Friday, only not.
B. Pop Tart day.
C. The day you pay homage to the Burger King.
D. Who also lives in the White Castle.
E. When you have that biz dev meeting earlier in the morning.
You chose B and E. Stress level => 15
You can already picture it in your mind.
"Strike three, buddy. Congratulations, this is the first day of the rest of your unemployed life," your boss will say in front of everybody else.
Out the door you dash in a frenzied rush to prove him wrong, wallet and keys in one hand, Pop Tart in the other. You run straight into your neighbor, who for some reason is watering your lawn in his Panama Jacks and obnoxious hat. The Pop Tart lands frosting-first onto the grass.
"Look who's late again!" he declares in that loud, chummy voice. "Hey, did you catch the game last night? Great time to be a Sox fan, eh?"
You look him in the eye and...
A. Run straight back to your house.
B. Invest five minutes in mindnumbing conversation.
C. Give the hooker in your trunk a new trunkmate.
D. Pretend you're deaf and maybe a little blind.
E. Ignore him.
You chose E. Stress level => 20
"I used to love wrestling," you reply, "until I found out it was all fake."
You make it to your car. Safety. It's time to go. You turn your key. But the car doesn't start. The battery died.
Stress level => 50
Posted by Ben at 11:31 PM
Wednesday, October 05, 2005 :::
Oh, mang. That sound you heard? It was as if a million nerds cried out--and then scurried back to their favorite online forums to debate in true Internet fashion. Peter Jackson looks different these days. Previously he boasted an eccentric yet huggable quality, like a bespectacled teddy bear who could capably direct movies and cuddle your children at the same time. Judging from interview footage I saw recently, he looks and dresses like a proper auteur now, and if he came anywhere near your children you'd have him properly arrested.
So, H5N1. A decade ago, could you have attached implications so dire and remedies so urgently needed to this jumble of consonants and numbers? Whenever I hear about epidemics, particularly those involving the flu, my mind procures a woefully inadequate picture from Dr. Quinn, Medicine Women in which many people die. But the numbers you hear today--50 million, 150 million, even a billion--are the type that wouldn't fit so neatly into an episode. A billion. That's a tsunami with hydrogen bombs attached to it.
They're having a luncheon or a meeting or something at the White House, I don't know the specifics, and really I'm not one to judge. My own deliberations take the form of deciding what meats are still safe to eat. Quarter Pounder? It'll liquefy your brain. 9-Piece? You should just ask for a coffin in your Happy Meal. Thank goodness the Fulminating Fish Plague isn't due for at least another year.
Posted by Ben at 11:44 PM
Tuesday, October 04, 2005 :::
Today I picked up Cinderella for my mum, and while I was waiting in the checkout line it dawned on me: if I were five years old, I could watch the movie a dozen times, possibly in the span of a week. That's the kind of tolerance you possess as a kid, I guess, but the real question is why, 18 years later, the drop-off for my enjoyment of cartoons is so severe.
Certainly my mum doesn't subscribe to a strict regimen wherein she must have Disney, lest she burst into song and computer-generated dance. I imagine she'll appreciate the nostalgia when she receives it. And before you even think it, no, I didn't purchase the movie for myself. I'm not trying to brown wrapper the situation. Hey, I'm man enough to admit to watching Bambi this year and failing miserably. I remember making it to the part where the titular character learns how to walk, but then I had to fast-forward to the sequence where the titular character's mother dies. Then I ejected the DVD.
What was the problem exactly? When I unearth other relics from my childhood, such as an action figure or the old Nintendo, I can still evoke a sense of charm and slight amusement if I try hard enough. But cartoons, especially Disney cartoons? Pure loathing. I'm talking abject disgust.
I began formulating the most complex rationalization for this feeling, ultimately constructing a multi-tiered argument involving thresholds of suspense and the unique demarcations of juvenile entertainment. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Suddenly it struck me. It's the eyes. More to the point, it's the ratio of the iris to the white.
Let's start at a happy place. The animated Batman series.
"Commissioner? I don't even know her!"
Notice how Gordon is modest, even lacking, in the ol' peepers department. Heck, Batman doesn't even have eyes. I could honestly sit down and watch a few episodes right now. I'd probably even enjoy them. Now let's move on to something more sinister.
Borderline appropriate.
This is a symbol, really, for the struggle between Disney and Pixar, crassness and taste. The whites of their eyes are valiantly holding against the encroaching darkness, which lends them some reprieve. It's time to enter the Danger Zone.
Something's wrong here.
The white is losing. Gus apparently woke one morning and decided his eyes needed perverse alteration, right after embarking on his daily cheddar binge. I don't remember the names of the other mice, though the short one looks like an enabler. Before we plunge straight to the ninth, let's pay a brief visit to a token anime character. I have no idea who she is. I found her on the Internet. She could be a man, you can never tell with these things.
"Super-charged, ultra-fusion-powered pupils are hot. Am I right?"
No wonder her hair's totally white! Her eyes clearly drained directly into her scalp. I'd also like to point out the-- Wait, what was that?
Oh hells no.
I don't see an annoying, easily marketable bunny looking at me. I'm actually beholding two vacuous windows into a soulless shell, twin portals to the screaming, dilated depths wrought by Drizzt Quel'Gorath expressly for his dark knights of Sepulchrion. Bambi euphemistically calls this "Thumper," but--
Holy fucking shit.
"Eating greens is a special treat, it makes long ears and--" paused Thumper. "And I'm going to make a gun using carrots and maybe pieces of the Wise Owl so I can kill you and your eyes, Bambi!"
I know you look to me for my prescriptive capacity, so here you go. When you witness such abominations, such grotesque exemplars of cuteness, there's only one thing to do.
Shrink your pupils.
Posted by Ben at 10:38 PM
Monday, October 03, 2005 :::
Do you ever have a string of good days, only to expect, maybe even perversely welcome, a mess of bad? There is a dismal cloud floating on the edge of your vision, slightly out of focus but obvious enough to catch your attention. It's not a question of whether something's floating your way, it's a question of when it will arrive, and within that waiting period lies a taut length of delicious expectation.
When it hits, you notice a complete lack of cosmic reciprocity--the pleasant will always precede the unpleasant, but there are no guarantees of the opposite, no parity in shittiness, no assurance you're leaving the woods soon. It just seems unfair, you know? I'm going to stomp my feet in protest.
Posted by Ben at 11:51 PM
