Bumper Sticker People
I find myself often irritated when sitting behind a older, Japanese vehicle with self-righteous slogans spattered all over its behind. That, after all, should say it all - how serious would you take a human who chose his bum to display his pithy, profound sentiments? Humorous bumper stickers are ok then, being appropriately placed. But those political, religious, and philosophic aphorisms are but(t) paper on the ass-end of a filth-spewing coupe.
I suppose these people started with T-shirts, but eventually grew weary of the scornful or pitiful countenances of the multitude they pined to enlighten. So now, from a detached distance, they can retroactively regale us with their plagiarised perspicacity. I wonder if they think these mobile mottoes change any opinions, sway any voters, or send any of us home contritely from our coarse and boorish commutes. As I pass these four cylinder oracles, I steal a glance at Pythia or Dodona, imagining that sublime moment they peeled back the paper from the adhesive, lovingly smoothing that placard on their bumper, smugly grinning, inwardly fulfilled.
In Lieu of Plot, Pyrotechnics
I have noticed over the past decade or so that when things start blowing up in movies, I have a tendency to drift off. I have developed one of my many conspiracy theories around the notion that "period pieces", movies about antiquity, have declined, at least those predating the invention of gunpowder. For if there is not an adjacent volcano, what could be blown up to entertain us? It seems ironic that the most explosive elements in a movie bore me the most. Perhaps it is the knowledge that an overpaid, soft and spoiled star will outrun the eruption, probably the most prevalent and enduring violation of general physics in the genre. Perhaps it is the awareness that all this combustion also consumes any prospect for intelligent dialogue that would be no doubt lost in the cacophony of the over amped theater surround sound. Or, perhaps, it is just that I outgrew the allure of arson the first time I saw a mother trying to claw her way through a fireman's arms to get to her child in an all too real inferno on the local news. And just as I thought my distaste for the banal cliche had peaked, I have discovered the double-derision of the CGI detonation - an explosion that doesn't quite look like an explosion, generated from a laptop computer. What is worse than something you hate? An attenuated version even less worthy of your disdain.
Scope and Sequence at Subway
Santa Claus knew how to arrange his reindeer, coaches know who to put on the line and who to send to the backfield, and band directors know who to grace the violin and who to harness with the tuba - oh that my local Subway restaurant employed any such process introspection. I go in every three or four days, the refractory period of my deli frustration, naively thinking things will change. Yet over the course of nearly a year now, I have never successfully navigated a smooth and expeditious sandwich experience. On most days, only one of the three "sandwich artists" is anywhere about, and she is usually washing a pot or chopping some kind of plant, blissfully unaware of my presence at the plexiglass tube plastered with the plethora of sub preferences. When I do manage to gain her notice, subtly or otherwise, she bellows out to some unknown peer who emerges almost magically from nowhere, who gives me the minimum wage stoic stare before ambling over to start my order (or ordeal). If I am lucky, this bubble-gum chewing, chronically bored teenager will take and complete my order. It will take some time, and I will have to suffer the penultimate insult of "anything else honey?" before being allowed to escape. If I am not lucky, I will end up in a long line, watching the third triumvirate (or three stooges, depending on your education I suppose)interact ineptly, testing the appetite of even the most ardent health conscious consumers. Although there are five or six women who work there regularly, there are only three types: one who is competent; one who is new and knows nothing, least of all about the computer called a cash register; and the third who is the slowest, most meticulous employee not working as an editor for the NY Times. And, of course, there are three stations in the sandwich system: the order taker, sandwich starter; the one in the middle who assembles the subs from the myriad of possibilities; and finally the cashier. Invariably, my sandwich gets off to a strong start, as the competent artist takes my order and toasts my wheat bread, but then things go horribly awry. The snail is always in the middle, gumming up the entire flow of things. She scrutinizes the tomatoes, perseverates over the pickle pattern, spreads and smooths the unsmoothable lettuce, equitably allocates olives, and wraps my sub like it was a present to some august dignitary. Finally, my reward for this process patience, is the green cashier who has no idea how to execute any order - and there is always a woman ahead of me with two frequent buyer cards with seventy-five cents on each, a few dollars in cash, and a battered and bruised debit card, willing to wait five minutes to orchestrate her transaction, possibly the apogee of her day. Still, I go back, vainly dreaming I will catch the three at their appropriate posts, and that I will sail through with my footlong veggie toasted on wheat with lots of lettuce, provolone cheese,pickles, tomatoes, a modicum of onion, black olives, salt and pepper, culminating with the redundantly named Southwest Chipotle sauce. I have a dream.
I find myself often irritated when sitting behind a older, Japanese vehicle with self-righteous slogans spattered all over its behind. That, after all, should say it all - how serious would you take a human who chose his bum to display his pithy, profound sentiments? Humorous bumper stickers are ok then, being appropriately placed. But those political, religious, and philosophic aphorisms are but(t) paper on the ass-end of a filth-spewing coupe.
I suppose these people started with T-shirts, but eventually grew weary of the scornful or pitiful countenances of the multitude they pined to enlighten. So now, from a detached distance, they can retroactively regale us with their plagiarised perspicacity. I wonder if they think these mobile mottoes change any opinions, sway any voters, or send any of us home contritely from our coarse and boorish commutes. As I pass these four cylinder oracles, I steal a glance at Pythia or Dodona, imagining that sublime moment they peeled back the paper from the adhesive, lovingly smoothing that placard on their bumper, smugly grinning, inwardly fulfilled.
In Lieu of Plot, Pyrotechnics
I have noticed over the past decade or so that when things start blowing up in movies, I have a tendency to drift off. I have developed one of my many conspiracy theories around the notion that "period pieces", movies about antiquity, have declined, at least those predating the invention of gunpowder. For if there is not an adjacent volcano, what could be blown up to entertain us? It seems ironic that the most explosive elements in a movie bore me the most. Perhaps it is the knowledge that an overpaid, soft and spoiled star will outrun the eruption, probably the most prevalent and enduring violation of general physics in the genre. Perhaps it is the awareness that all this combustion also consumes any prospect for intelligent dialogue that would be no doubt lost in the cacophony of the over amped theater surround sound. Or, perhaps, it is just that I outgrew the allure of arson the first time I saw a mother trying to claw her way through a fireman's arms to get to her child in an all too real inferno on the local news. And just as I thought my distaste for the banal cliche had peaked, I have discovered the double-derision of the CGI detonation - an explosion that doesn't quite look like an explosion, generated from a laptop computer. What is worse than something you hate? An attenuated version even less worthy of your disdain.
Scope and Sequence at Subway
Santa Claus knew how to arrange his reindeer, coaches know who to put on the line and who to send to the backfield, and band directors know who to grace the violin and who to harness with the tuba - oh that my local Subway restaurant employed any such process introspection. I go in every three or four days, the refractory period of my deli frustration, naively thinking things will change. Yet over the course of nearly a year now, I have never successfully navigated a smooth and expeditious sandwich experience. On most days, only one of the three "sandwich artists" is anywhere about, and she is usually washing a pot or chopping some kind of plant, blissfully unaware of my presence at the plexiglass tube plastered with the plethora of sub preferences. When I do manage to gain her notice, subtly or otherwise, she bellows out to some unknown peer who emerges almost magically from nowhere, who gives me the minimum wage stoic stare before ambling over to start my order (or ordeal). If I am lucky, this bubble-gum chewing, chronically bored teenager will take and complete my order. It will take some time, and I will have to suffer the penultimate insult of "anything else honey?" before being allowed to escape. If I am not lucky, I will end up in a long line, watching the third triumvirate (or three stooges, depending on your education I suppose)interact ineptly, testing the appetite of even the most ardent health conscious consumers. Although there are five or six women who work there regularly, there are only three types: one who is competent; one who is new and knows nothing, least of all about the computer called a cash register; and the third who is the slowest, most meticulous employee not working as an editor for the NY Times. And, of course, there are three stations in the sandwich system: the order taker, sandwich starter; the one in the middle who assembles the subs from the myriad of possibilities; and finally the cashier. Invariably, my sandwich gets off to a strong start, as the competent artist takes my order and toasts my wheat bread, but then things go horribly awry. The snail is always in the middle, gumming up the entire flow of things. She scrutinizes the tomatoes, perseverates over the pickle pattern, spreads and smooths the unsmoothable lettuce, equitably allocates olives, and wraps my sub like it was a present to some august dignitary. Finally, my reward for this process patience, is the green cashier who has no idea how to execute any order - and there is always a woman ahead of me with two frequent buyer cards with seventy-five cents on each, a few dollars in cash, and a battered and bruised debit card, willing to wait five minutes to orchestrate her transaction, possibly the apogee of her day. Still, I go back, vainly dreaming I will catch the three at their appropriate posts, and that I will sail through with my footlong veggie toasted on wheat with lots of lettuce, provolone cheese,pickles, tomatoes, a modicum of onion, black olives, salt and pepper, culminating with the redundantly named Southwest Chipotle sauce. I have a dream.
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