The first criterion I apply to breakfast cereal is price–anything more than $2.00 a carton is unconscionable in my book–and coming in a close second is, I’m ashamed to admit, the prize buried in the box. This part of my selection process should’ve stopped more than a decade ago, but it’s a habit impossible to shake.
I recently bought some Kellogg’s Smacks on the promise of a free Disney “Wobbler,” which turned out to be plastic rubbish in the form of a gigantic Tylenol capsule, only with a Disney luminary stamped on it in place of a dosage count. Put the Wobbler on your desk, give it a push, and watch it rock back and forth after multiple beatings, so went the appeal. 50 characters were mine to collect, proclaimed Kellogg in bold letters on the box, and I eagerly ripped into the package to discover–kiss the girl!–Ursula from The Little Mermaid.
I was all like, “Sha-la-la-la-la-holy shit that’s a lot of woman and octopus to love-la-la.” Can you think of a viler way to start the morning? I suppose if obese anthropomorphic seafood is your thing, well, perhaps we can trade Wobblers or something. But for now, I’m pleased to say I approached the problem with a despot’s confidence and a consultant’s ingenuity. Ursula is basically the sole outlet for all my aggression. Stub my toe? I’m gonna hum a little song called “Under the Sea BACK OF MY HAND.” Mental block? I have this ditty entitled “Part of Your World BACK OF MY HAND.”
Ho ho! You’ve got the nerve to bounce back, dear? KA-POW! What ever will you tell the girls at the Evil Convention tomorrow? Oh, I know. BAM! Tell them you swam into the dock, you disgusting purple octoslut. Again.
“You’ve been going to the city a lot,” observed my buddy. “You know what that means.”
“What?” I asked, excited at the prospect of unlocking urban lore.
“It means you’re moving to the city.”
Wrong. Tomorrow I will go to the city for the last time in a while, hopefully, with the noblest of causes in mind: to celebrate with an old suitemate over her engagement. Friends who marry at this age have my utmost respect because, if I may employ Super Mario Bros. parlance, it’s like they found a warp pipe to Level 8-1, even as the rest of us poor schlubs scrabble for magic flowers in the backwoods of the Mushroom Kingdom.
I went to Border’s tonight hoping for some measure of silence and, in a failed bid to find anything approximating peace and quiet, I stumbled upon a kind of shrine to Harry Potter. Patrons from kindergarten through high school swarmed the place, parents in tow, and there were tables installed throughout the store, each one promising an activity roughly related to the world of Rowling. Face painting. Bertie Bott’s beans, suspiciously purveyed by Jelly Belly. Costumes. A guy dressed in ring mail, who probably was waylaid on his way to the Renaissance fair. Lines and lines of fans. I swore I saw Voldemort or maybe just a hideous boy, given my limited knowledge of the Potter universe. There was also a middle-aged man dressed as Dumbledore. If you don’t think that’s in the least bit creepy, well, it’s been said you can probably shed your clothes and step into the nearest trench coat.
This was the perfect cue to leave. Night driving is a satisfyingly tactile experience sharpened by the lack of things to see. You’ve basically got darkness and headlights. But there’s also the solid feel of the steering wheel. The give and resistance in your gas pedal. You can sense the road rushing under your feet. The texture of things, that’s the crux of the matter. I imagine it’s similar to the pleasure Hagrid derives from murdering little children and stuffing them in his woodshed for later consumption. Have a great weekend! I mean it.
Quickly now, take a seat and prepare for a harrowing journey through the fetid underbelly of the Internet, dear reader, from which you will emerge changed and honest. You reviewed the chart I mentioned yesterday, I assume, because it was the one thing you were supposed to read. Plus, I asked. If you forgot to read it, then look smart and pay heed to the summary I’m about to give: we’re all implicated in the great geek expanse, every one of us, simply by virtue of this very moment. Weblogs, mainstream as they’ve become, are still measurably less cool than saying, “Oh, uh, I sometimes log onto AOL to check my mail and download some recipes.”
That’s not us. We’re here, “here” being a rough triangulation somewhere above science fiction and, at the very least, 40 miles west of filthy Digimon fan fiction. We keep our hands to ourselves in this house, for we do not suffer the touching of other people’s phazers. I’d like to think we’re simply another pitch added to our angsty generation, a tiny frequency supplementing that cynical voice in which our zeitgeist intones, ever sardonically, over pints and pints of irony. Or something.
A forum would’ve taken this frequency and amplified it, but such a leisure will have to wait. Readership must grow to a point where self-moderation will obliterate online stupidity instantly, with minimum muss and fuss. “What kind of stupidity?” you ask. Let’s consider three types of Webizens, mainly because three is the largest number I care to know.
The Savvy Shopper
We’re consumers, I don’t think this is any sort of revelation, but what’s interesting is how the Web magnifies our consumerism and sense of entitlement. Visit a few forums and you’re guaranteed to meet people who are dicks about shopping. They usually can’t be bothered with intelligent sentences, probably because coherent clauses weren’t on sale this week.
man what. ebay has it for cheaper than amazon. i got it at ebay. you didn’t. you paid more than i did, lol.
i am contacting the bbb because buy.com is out of stock.
the coupon code for 90% off worked, but i don’t get free shipping. why. OH GOD WHY DO I NOT GET FREE SHIPPING.
In truth, this Netizen is only slightly insufferable, especially when compared to…
The Emotercon
It’s a curious spectacle, watching people replicate real-life interaction on a glowing computer screen, and I believe there’s a cadre of pasty folks campaigning from their mothers’ basements to replace interpersonal communication entirely with emoticons. It begins innocently enough with this:
:o)
I’m told it represents mirth, whereas the following suggests unequivocal despair over the human condition:
:o(
Assuming we’re on the same page, and ecstatically so (:oD), let’s follow the natural progression of the Emotercon. There comes a point where smiley faces don’t offer the same rush anymore, and that’s when the subject starts to surround single actions with asterisks.
*laughs*
*blushes*
*dies*
Normally you’d regard this with the same sentiment reserved for unwashed children, but it doesn’t stop there. The Emotercon eventually graduates to asterisking complex interactions.
*begins 8-hour digestion process*
*hands over mouth in embarrassment*
*laughs uncontrollably, requires exorcism*
*hands in pants*
But if there’s one thing the Internet encourages more than human action, it’s expertise.
The Expert Savant
Being wrong on the Internet doesn’t mean you have to admit your shortcomings or explain yourself. Mistakes are really licenses to become experts, scientists, professors, and armchair philosophers.
Say a guy starts a website dedicated to pictures of exotic beasts, but after a lot of pomp and marketing, he’s got nothing to show for his effort. His audience starts to question him.
Savvy Shopper: i paid for a discounted membership, but i don’t see a single picture. give me my money back. or i call FTC.
Emotercon: dog dog lol. :o8 *expresses confusion over lack of pictures*
Expert Savant: Indeed, perhaps all too often in the verdant tapestry of our multifaceted history, the propensity toward visual stimuli overpowers our “better” instincts in a pitched war of attrition. Preference of–and assuredly for–the aesthetic, amalgamated with an imbalance away from non-pictorial pleasures, is not only an affront to sensorial traditionalists hailing from the classic school of le visuel admis, but a defiling of the final vestige of those would-be Neo Jungians, the bitterly charred husk of la visuel bizarre. The ideal human being, as it were the artiste spectaculaire, forsakes the optical component altogether and immerses himself in wondrous auditory overtones, what I prefer to designate the wondrogen. Also, I don’t own a camera.
[/pedagogy]
I’ve learned a lot today, how about you? It’s a question of time, dear reader. We’ll have a real forum one day, just not now.