Is it just me, or are people suddenly beginning every sentence with “So…”?
Is “so” the new “um”?
Is it just me, or are people suddenly beginning every sentence with “So…”?
Is “so” the new “um”?
Today is my birthday and the delightful barrage of social media love has kept me glued to my facebook notifications all day. I noticed a new tab has been added to the status update interface: a “Life Event” tab. It provides the drop-down menu convenience of letting people know you’re knocked up, buying a house, receiving an award, and the like.
However, there seems to be an imbalance of what I consider significant and what Mark Zuckerberg’s code monkeys deem worthy.
According to Facebook, a “Life Event” could include a new tattoo/piercing or even new reading glasses/contacts. Thrilling stuff, really.
Hope you celebrated your vile pants off today, Readers.
In related news, Google is a creep.
Awesome New York City Mayor Spectacular Mike Bloomberg has been upset about gun control lately. He is ripshit that any moron with a wad of twenties and a smile can pick-up some milk, eggs, and a semi-automatic at their local street corner. Bloomberg co-founded Mayors Against Illegal Guns in 2006 when he realized people were popping way too many caps in the asses of others. I don’t know about you, but I have some neighbors who should not be allowed to purchase a brick of ammo. Alas, I’m sure they could.
However, I have a vague idea why so many feel encouraged to kill, kill, kill. Here are a few shots (heh, pun intended) I took at just ONE subway station. One visually violent advertisement after the next.
I get it. Violence for entertainment is “fun”. When they melted those bodies in acid on Breaking Bad, that was awesome. But wouldn’t you agree it’s getting to be enough? Cable channels can now air the kind of violence only previously seen on premium channels. Back in the 1960′s the character Sheriff Andy Taylor prided himself on never carrying a gun. Today, 34 Americans are murdered with guns every day. How has our view of acceptable violence slid so far since then?
While you’re here and since it’s important, why not see where your state stands on gun control laws at Demand A Plan. Ask President Obama, that twit Mittens, and your state’s governor to get his or her head out of their ass and keep our communities safe. Yea, do that. Thanks in advance.
< /soapbox >
The NYC Subway token was phased out in the Spring of 2003 and the display screen on the turnstiles now all read “No Token”. Even if you had an old token, you couldn’t jam it into the slot anymore because the Metrocard has taken it’s place.
But, do you ever feel like the Metropolitan Transit Authority is fucking with you just because they can?
Such existentialism, Metropolitan Transit Authority. I took this as an invitation to jump the turnstiles.
Rumor has it that the entire population of the Pacific Northwest straight down to Southern California is full of shit. What do I mean by this? Well, it’s my understanding that every resident is incredibly warm and welcoming and helpful but in actuality, they secretly hate you and want you dead. By their own hands.
I vacationed in Seattle recently and found the people to be so kind, that after learning of this theory, I couldn’t wait for the plane to depart back to Newark. Newark, naturally, home of lax gun control and drug-related violence abound. Now, of course, you see where I’m coming from.
Several disgruntled East Coast transplants explained this phenomenon to me during the trip. One bartender, a man originally from Queens now slinging drinks at a popular pub in the Pike Place Market spoke frankly about the region once he learned we were visiting from Manhattan.
“All the people here are fuckin’ sketch,” he declared as he wiped down the bar before us. “Sure, they’re nice to your face, but you can’t trust any of these fuckers.” I’m so glad he spoke in his native Queens tongue so we New Yorkers could fully understand his sentiment.
In contrast, I have a handful of former New York/Northeast friends who, as I realized late in the game, were not only untrustworthy but quite easy breezy with betrayal and overall injustice. Alas, I’d been schooled on the ways of the Seattlite (Seattlean?).
So, what is the protocol when you’ve spotted an inauthentic citizen of this region? I selected the “Play Along” strategy.
In our travels one night my fella and I found ourselves gawking at something referred to as the “Gum Wall”. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s a tourist spot; an alleyway containing a brick wall thoroughly covered in chewing gum. Some is adhered artfully, others just affixed with a thumb. The entire area has a minty-saliva scent which is not disgusting or nauseating at all, promise.
As we deliberated our next move, two women approached us asking if we’d take their photo in front of the gum. Given the request, we assumed they were tourists. Instead, they were both natives who worked together. One handed me her phone with the photo app at the ready. The case was a shiny black rhinestone number, which I outright told her I planned to steal. She asked what my case looked like and despite its’ inferiority, she agreed to a trade. I was immediately onto her scam.
“We’re on a two-person pub crawl tonight!” rhinestone phone girl exclaimed. Without even a criminal background check on us, her friend continued, “If you come with us, we’d be a four-person pub crawl!” What abhorrent behavior! Inviting us tourists along for drinks and fun!? To understand this repugnant culture, we tagged along.
They showed us around their city all night as we took turns buying rounds and exchanging stories about our lives. As the evening came to a close, Rhinestone decided she wanted us dead so badly that she stole for me a fistful of tulips. I couldn’t believe the nerve she had, that faux sweetness, that I shoved it right into my purse only to safely dispose of her kind drunken gesture the following day on a ferry to Victoria, British Columbia.
I thought we were safe, but the inane friendliness continued! As we set sail to Canada, I began feeling green with motion sickness. A woman seated in the next aisle noticed it my pallor from afar and had the nerve to sympathetically approach me to ask, “Are you feeling OK?” I spoke slowly for fear of barfing on the concerned citizen, who I understood secretly wanted to shove me overboard. She then offered me some ginger candies to settle my stomach and some suggestions for keeping my lunch down.
She explained a small dose of Xanax relieves her seasickness immensely and disappeared to the bathroom only to return with a pill wrapped in a tissue, “this will help you for the trip back.” Xanax or strychnine? I was really starting to see what all these naysayers meant; this place was crawling with graciously friendly people! How awful!
Days later, the ride back was even worse! The seas were calm and the skies were clear and the Seasickness Doctor approached yet again! “Please, take my binoculars so you can have a look at the Seattle skyline.” We obliged and reluctantly enjoyed the marvelous view. We exchanged contact information as we docked and said our good riddance. Just when I thought we were safely tucked away from this Seattlean’s overzealous niceness, she said, “Next time you’re in town, my husband and I will take you guys out sailing!” which was obviously another shot at the opportunity to drowned us.
As we landed in Newark holding our belongings close at the hip and weary of getting stabbed in a random yet popular act of violence, I wondered how anyone could live amongst residence who acted so cordial and caring. I can only hope that bartender from Queens survives his harshly thoughtful environment.
Seattle’s Motto? Watch Out! We’re nice!
I overheard a woman in her late-40′s/early 50′s seated behind me yammering on with friends on an Amtrak train last Sunday. Unaware of her volume, it was impossible to focus on anything else but their recap of the weekend in NYC. She suddenly made a frantic call on her cell phone.
“I just got your text, what is happening with Daddy?”
(I presumed she was speaking to her kid.)
“When was he brought to the hospital? Oh my god, oh my god!”
Pause for caller response
“Pneumonia!? … What do you mean it doesn’t look good!? Oh, my god. I can get there by 7.”
Pause for epiphany
“Wait a second, do you mean dad or grandpa?”
“Oh, it’s only grandpa!” with inappropriate relief, “Whew! Ha! Okay. Well, let me know what happens!”
Hangs up, chuckles some more over the mix-up and returns to the unnecessarily loud conversation with her friends
I was aghast yet still in the dark as to the familial hierarchy here. Sure, maybe “Grandpa” is in prison or he beat her as a child and she can’t wait to put him in the ground, who knows? But the conversation seemed incongruous. I really loved my Grandpa. He put together my tricycle, albeit with many leftover parts; he taught me how the stock market works, how to tie a tie, told stories about the War and Normandy, and loved my grandmother until the moment he died. What has happened to people in this country and their relationships with their families?
She and her noisy friends got off at New Haven laughing the whole way and I wondered how drunk she’d get at this poor man’s funeral.
Welcome, Readers! It only took seven years, but I finally have a proper domain name and everything has been transferred here to Vile’s new home at www.vilemoods.com.
You’ll notice a Facebook “like” button is now in place along with a slew of “share” buttons. I encourage you, for the love of social networking and/or Christ, to click those guys and share this noise whenever you have a laugh.
In researching other blogger sites to create the new Vile, I found most requested to follow us, like us, stumble us, pin us… even if the site is written by one sole person. So, with the intent for Vile to look as though it’s a Fortune 500 corporation, I followed suit.
As I’m still in the neophyte learning stages of “How To Make A Website”, I would be delighted to hear any suggestions or tips you may have. However, I must give credit to my good friend and techie-nerd Sarah Brown; without her patience and IT knowledge I wouldn’t have been able to string this together. You may also notice the logo in place. That was whipped up by a guy I’ve known since 1st grade named Dave Fields. He claims it took him 5 minutes; I question such skill. While I’m at it, I should also mention my fella who encouraged me to quit my job in order to write more. None of this would have happened without that kind of support.
We hope you like the new lay-out and simpler web address and hope you keep tuning in so we can remain e-BFFs.
Us (Sarah Sweeney)
I signed onto LinkedIn.com this morning to attempt networking or stalking, whichever you prefer, and in my browsing I came upon the “People You May Know” list. Most of the time the People I May Know are generally People I’d Like To Forget; ex-boyfriends and undesirable bosses have a way of worming into these lists. However, LinkedIn reminded me today about my good friend Kevin Bacon. I had forgotten we were so close… three degrees, to be exact.
How could I forget the man who taught me how to lead a team of wolves across Alaska, hijack a river raft, fight off underground creatures, conduct a lunar module landing, sodomize minors, commit a murder, prosecute a murderer, seduce Jennifer Aniston, serve in the military, solve a murder, solve another murder, scientifically develop invisibility, commit another murder, contact an unsettled ghost, rebel against my father through dancing, and play guitar with my brother in a part-folk, part-soul, part-rock, part-country band?
Shame on me. Kev is awesome.
In my efforts to drink less coffee this New Year, I’m sipping from a much smaller coffee cup.
Today, I’ve only had 9 tiny cups of coffee.
“Whenever you’re around your kids, talk wrong.” Steve Martin
It occurs to me that most mothers of recent generations are deliberately breeding morons. Despite the 14 children born into my circle of friends in recent months–yes, help me, months–I don’t interact much with anyone who can’t yet vote. There’s only one kid I see once in a while who I can level with. We discuss organic vs. store-bought milk and the challenges of rug burn when learning to crawl. We bond. And then she goes in for her nap because she’s 8 months old. She’s cool because I’m almost positive her mother never talks as though she didn’t complete the fourth grade.
Even if the mommies hold back their bizarre child-speak amid their childless friends, I’m certain behind closed doors the unnecessary drivel spews out; that cutsie jargon that would never fly in a boardroom or conversational exchange with say, a gas station attendant. In the same vein, I’ve also got it figured that mothers speak to their toddlers as they would foreigners, exercising the theory that the louder they project the more the pint-sized folk will comprehend. This is most apparent in enclosed spaces such as public transportation, movie theaters, or restaurants; really any space where it’s inappropriate to shout-coddle.
I’m currently seated on a south-bound Amtrak train from Providence to New York listening to a woman in her 30’s speak to her toddler in a way that reads straight out of Flowers for Algernon. It’s nagging at me to explain to her if she keeps up this behavior her sweet little boy may grow into a man still referring to his 2% as “Moo Juice” and anything dirty as “Ucky Wucky”. In short, I want to punch her. As she speaks to him as loud as she would her illegal gardener, I wonder if she can fathom the grammatical damage she’s done. So many of them are the same; nauseating aural ambiance hijackers.
It’s my understanding from everyone I know with kids that parenthood is extremely difficult. But is it so difficult that you lose your ability to form grammatically-sound proper sentences with words that actually exist?