The mobile phone: my closest friend

Literally. I take him everywhere I go because I feel vulnerable without him. He sleeps beside me, wakes me up, tells me that it’s raining outside. During the day, he sits squarely in my pocket. Perhaps you have a similar friend?

Every now and then I teach him a new skill. He learns it in seconds, kind of like how Trinity in The Matrix learnt how to fly a helicopter. Only, unlike Trinity who’s human and will grow old and stop learning things, this companion of mine will continue to learn until the day his heart stops beating - or battery stops charging. 

But I can’t teach him everything;  this one has a limited knowledge capacity. Nonetheless, he’s sturdy, cheap to run, fast. You might as well say that he’s… no; he isn’t perfect. He gets close.

When I introduce him to friends, I say he’s this super nice internet-connected gizmo who does amazing things. The downside is that he occasionally buzzes and wants me to talk to someone. I’m not fond of those moments. Not fond at all.

We’ll be hanging out, he and I – writing things, reading other things, playing games – when all of a sudden: Vvvvrrrrnnngggggg! The name of a person I probably know interrupts my aloneness, and my friend here sings a song – loudly – to break the silence. It’s a song I’ve grown sick of. In fact, I’ve grown sick of every one of his songs.

I get it, he’s warning me – like your dog yapping to warn you that someone’s on your property. And that someone will keep coming back unless you deal with him now. It’s a universal truth that it’s better to deal with him now. But as that damnable song screeches through the pores of that tinny speaker, I’m less inclined to appease it and more inclined to question why I live in a society that insists on answering - answering doors, answering questions, answering phones - and why I have a problem with it. Actually, why do I keep a device whose fundamental purpose is to make answering stuff easier? Why would I do that to myself?

I’m an introvert; I choose my friends carefully. But this friend – this closest friend – isn’t so good at discriminating. He sings for everyone. Every single one. If only I could live without him.

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"It's not instant enough!"

Snappy and passion-filled, these were the words of a friend speaking on the subject of reheating food in the oven as opposed to the microwave.

The oven, I'd argued, retains the crispiness of a pizza base or the stability of a pie pastry - and we all know that a pie's pastry is make-or-break, literally. I said if we didn't have to contend with time, the oven would win.

But she was quick to remind me that we are always contending with time, and so, whenever we juxtapose the quick-start blitzer with the oven's knobs, fan-force and backlight, most of us will simply give shrug to the latter and declare, "It's not instant enough."

Little did I know then, but she had it right. In another time I was content with waiting for my dial-up internet connection to load my Neopets profile or that Homestar Runner episode, even though the latter's audio would run ahead of the video by dint of, you know, the dial-up. Things like this were far from instant, but they were more than enough.

In another time, there was this thing called 'patience'; and even when it came to technology - even when a web page would load in its stop-motion-style unveiling as each bit by literal bit of content appeared onscreen - I remained content.

Now, jump forward to last week: I did not remain content. There was an internet outage - or rather, an internet hissy fit - and it just wouldn't sit still. I tell you, the web of 2014 was as sporadic as a flickering dim light swinging on a cord in a horror film, and had this fit lasted any longer than it did, I would've had a case of hissy to call my own.

See, I'd been promised broadband with download speeds that made one's face alight. But on that day, during that bout of internet indecision, it was more akin to dial-up, albeit without the electronic scratching noises that many of us can play by ear. This wasn't right, I said. This wasn't instant enough!

Even when the connection appeared to have fixed itself, web pages would load in a jittery slowness. It was like coming early to the airport, expecting it to be empty, and finding an impossibly long queue leaking into the foyer because everyone else had had the same idea. It was the bane of the first world, and I was its unsuspecting victim.

But yet, in this moment of strife was an afterimage of reminiscence. I recalled my old dragon from Neopets - now starving to death from a lack of sausage omelette - and asked him, "At what point did this all start to change?"

Coffee will never be instant enough. Not ever.

Technology is meant to help, not hinder; it's the magic of the modern world; it's there to astound and to surprise us on a planet which grows increasingly destitute of wonder. And indeed, it does astound - once. But following that, it becomes common place - so much so that even wonder itself may soon wither into novelty.

Somehow, over the last two decades, our expectations have become so inflated that they now coincide with basic rights. Our soons have been superimposed onto nows, and our needs and wants have become so interlaced as to remove all difference. The time bracket has become our worst enemy, and technology's best selling point. Wonders are no longer appreciated but expected.

However means through which this change has occurred, it's been slow and insidious, a usurper who for years we never knew was king. And if we are the masters of ourselves, then we have only ourselves to blame. Ironic, isn't it, that in many ways my twelve year-old self was more mature than I am now at twenty-five? A small part of me knows that this isn't how life is meant to work.

We are mammals; we adapt; and we adapt far faster than it does us good. We rip the extraordinary into its constituents, but the re-assemblage thereafter is a chore that takes too long. A web page used to take thirty seconds to load; now, if it asks for more than three, my instinct is to hit refresh repeatedly and with increasing violence, rather than give it the time of day.

You can sit on a seat thirty thousand feet in the air and travel at over 900kph, and that was wondrous, too, once. Now, along with the cramped seating and the lacklustre movies, human flight is an age-worn oven. It's not instant enough.

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Column for Blacklisted: Chicken in a Rut

The second edition of a magazine called Blacklisted has just been published. I wrote a column for it!

The first edition's column is here.

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Limbo

Chicken in a Rut

You are a godsend, a spirit of goodwill. Your mission is to serve, and you must snuff out every spawn of evil.

Last year you came home from a wedding only to find the tag of your underwear protruding full sail. You wondered if it had begun to show before or after your speech, as no one was bold enough to enlighten you. But you embraced your humility. You donned it like a sword, and now you’re loath to see any man’s cheeks reddened by the hands of shame.

Since then, life has been easy, and an absence of the enemy has dulled your blade. The café in which you now find yourself seems harmless enough, though your eyes are wary; the evil one can be as elusive as a whisper within shadows.

A chance meeting with an old friend promises to be a fine occasion, but you gasp when he opens his mouth to speak, for there, betwixt his lower incisors, the darkness festers.

“How do you do?” he asks, oblivious of the parasite invading his mouth. The simple-minded would call it a fragment of poultry caught between two teeth, but you know better than them. If left untended, this ‘fragment’ will become the peak of humility for your innocent friend. You could strike now – a clean and swift cut – but this friend isn’t particularly close, and spilt blood might wound skin and pride both. It isn’t my job to fix this, you tell yourself, but you know that it is. You don’t carry a sword for nought, and a blunt sword is still a sword. Rid him of shame now to spare a greater dose later. But what if he can’t carry on with his pride all banged up? The tension makes you shudder.

“You okay?” he asks.

“There’s something in your teeth.”

If only you’d said those words. Instead, you turned away and pointed to the waitress approaching with coffee and tea. You avoided eye contact with your friend as often as you could, and not once did you mention the affliction. Now, on the car ride home, your sword sits in its scabbard. The parasite has been allowed to feed, and when your friend discovers and removes it himself, confidence and trust will too be severed. Your friend will be scarred and your sword will be blunt, all because you chose not to act.

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Column for Blacklisted: Fire and Ice

A friend of mine recently published the first edition of her magazine, Blacklisted. I wrote a column as part of the content, and now that the magazine has been printed, I'm allowed to post the column on here!

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Limbo

Fire and Ice

The warmth of my bedcovers is like the perfect fire, soft light flickering off the log-cabin walls. I could sleep forever on this recliner; listen to the crackles of those everlasting flames.

Outside, the blizzard rages. Volleys of ice pelt the windows; trees sway in the tempest. The landscape is a piling blanket of white. Yet this sanctuary cannot fall. It has everything I need to outlast the storm. Everything… except a bathroom.

My bladder is a rising storm cloud: mounting, murmuring.  What better place to strike than the roof of my refuge?  Wood provides a hopeless defence, and yet the fire’s embrace captivates me. To think that I must abandon this peace…

A ghostly wind preludes the inevitable. One more moment, I say. One more moment.

Up above, the rafters rattle and shake. The storm won’t pause for me, and even if I return this serenity will be lost; sheer cold will render the fire useless. But if I stay? If I stay, this sanctuary will be destroyed.

I rise from my recliner, relinquish the hearth and march for the door. Pulling it open amounts to instant regret. The wind lashes at my skin like a thousand whips of ice. Against them my garments are as rags, and my teeth chatter in time with the rafters. Soon every bone in my body joins the chorus. Close the door, they plead. Close the door and stay inside!

But a flash of light floods the scene. It lasts half a second, yet it shocks my mind into high alert. There’s a life to live; work to do.

But… can’t I just… five more—

The clouds rumble in protest, so deep that the very earth tremors beneath me. Keep moving, they warn. There isn’t time.

There never is.

In that moment between asleep and awake, the one thing wrong with life is the fact that last night’s water wants somewhere to go. Each morning I’m reminded of the same truth; every comfort is plagued by an equal and opposite tension. It’s only as I dress that I realise the bedcovers were a prison - a comfortable and cosy prison. And you know what else? I’m returning to that prison tonight.

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Just for the lolz

Text communication is a wonderful thing. Obviously. Writing is communication, and I love to write. Unfortunately, a casual text conversation does not account for body language or tones of voice, most notable when it comes to one word responses like "lol", or short phrases like "okay then". Such comments are useful and quick, but they're also terribly vague; and, more often than not, they don't mean what they're supposed to mean.

I wrote a simple guide to clarify the kinds of physical and verbal responses that I, and many other people, exhibit when we make these types of comments.

Response: hi; hey; hello; hiya; hi there; herro

Expression: Smile

What I might be thinking: How wonderful to hear from you, you awesome person, you; please don't think me sad for not adding an exclamation mark. I greeted you, didn't I?

Response: good; good thanks; well

Expression: N/A

What I might be thinking: I am good. That is all.

Response: not much; nothing much

Expression: N/A

What I might be thinking: Quite a lot, actually, but I lack the energy to explain.

Response: uh huh; mhmm; mm; m

Expression: N/A

What I might be thinking: Please, go on.

Response: huh; I see

Expression: Possible head nod

What I might be thinking: Interesting; I have nothing else to say; I hope you don't think I want you to stop talking to me; I'm playing a game and you're distracting me.

Response: busy

Expression: Frown

What I might be thinking: I'm playing a game and you're distracting me, but you're still awesome.

Response: interesting

Expression: Possible head nod

What I might be thinking: I have nothing else to say, but I've said "huh" three times already.

Response: k; kk; riteo; yes sir; yessum; yes boss; yes m'lord

Expression: N/A

What I might be thinking: Okay; agreed; confirmed; roger.

Response: lol

Expression: Possible snicker; possible half smile; possible nothing

What I might be thinking: I see; funny; acknowledged.

Response: ha

Expression: Smirk

What I might be thinking: Good one.

Response: haha

Expression: Potential silent laughter

What I might be thinking: That was funny. It certainly deserved more than a "lol", but it was no "hahaha".

Response: hahaha; LOL

Expression: Audible laughter

What I might be thinking: You and your funniness; this is why we're friends.

Response: mwahaha; kekeke; fufufu

Expression: Rubbing of hands; malicious smile; wide eyes; cackle

What I'll be thinking: I eat my friends.

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Speaking with robots will be socially awkward

Sometimes I ponder what the future might be like, you know, after I'm dead. I think about the things I'll never get to experience, which you might argue impossible, since I've never experienced them. Either way, it's kinda sad.

Recently I thought of those annoying automated phone operator thingies that force you speak to make conversation with them. They suck, mainly because I never know what to ask for until I'm given the choice. And instead of giving you choices, they simply ask, "What's your enquiry?"

And I reply "I received a letter telling me to-"

And they cut me off, "I don't understand whatever it is you just said," which, of course, defeats their very purpose. So frustrating. But what if this didn't just occur on the phone but everywhere else, too? The future would suck. Take, for instance, the following scenario.

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Deep down, we all know that machines will rule the world one day. And even if not 'rule', then at the very least replace checkout operators.

Self-service checkouts are only the beginning. Supermarket franchises will soon be offered human-like robots to replace checkout staff. They'll be individually groomed (by other robots, who work in factories), so that no two robots look the same. They'll even have nametags, like 'Sue' and 'Hal' - mostly three-letter, one-syllable names to cater to a wider audience; but on occasion you'll meet a 'Maximilian' or a 'Jacqueline'. It's more realistic that way.

Say, for instance, you reach the checkout with your trolley of groceries, and Hal greets you with a wave and a smile, and says, "Hi there, Jesse." (He knows your name from an online passport database).

As this is the future, the world is overpopulated and supermarkets are perpetually aflood with customers. Naturally, quite the queue is lined up behind you: impatient eyes watch as you formulate your generic response to Hal's equally generic, albeit automated, greeting. And in those split seconds between voice prompts, you ask yourself, "How do I do it?"

Not minutes ago, you heard the previous discourse between man and machine, and you shake your heard as your mind replays the scene.

"Hi there, Geoffrey!"

"Hey, Hal."

"How is your day going, Geoffrey?"

"Well, my car broke down on the way to work. But a man pulled over to help out, so I stole his car and ended up making it in time. It was hectic, but I'm here now, so that's good, right?"

"I'm sorry, Geoffrey. I do not understand, 'Well, my car broke down on the way to work. But a man pulled over to help out, so I stole his car and ended up making it in time. It was hectic, but I'm here now, so that's good, right?' Please try a shorter answer, like 'Good, thanks.'"

"Oh, well… it was good."

"Wonderful. Cash or credit, Geoffrey?"

You shudder at the memory of Geoffrey walking off, an abashed expression pasted onto his face. It was so awkward. Everyone was laughing at him, except Hal. Hal doesn't laugh.

Years ago, when you called the tax department, they didn’t ask for verbal responses, only numbers. '5' for general enquiries. It was always general enquiries.

Then businesses got all obnoxious with their tech, forcing people to talk instead of push buttons on the keypad. As if saying 'general enquiries' in a tone that implied the recipient was both foreign and deaf was ever easier than pressing 5. Half the time you'd get a response, "Sorry, was that 'student loans' or 'tax returns'? The answer, of course, was neither. And it certainly wasn't fun if you were in a public space.

Even then those were the good old days. You know, when supermarkets had real humans at checkouts. Now, not only are there less jobs, but you have to contend with robots everywhere you go! They don't even blink, and the ones that do are always on a five-second timer. Sometimes, if you're at the end checkout, you can look down at all the other operators and notice that they all blink in time with each other.

It's not right; the conversations aren't even real! But if you don't greet them back, they stare at you in a perpetual stasis, wide eyes and creepy smiles waiting for your reply.

Hal is no different. As you reminisce on times past, he looks at you with false anticipation on his plastic face, and crane-like hands hover over the conveyor belt, set to move upon your reply. But who wants to talk to a robot and risk looking like a total loser? Who wants to converse with someone who doesn't really converse? It's then that you remember the scarcely advertised 'code' for a free discount.

"Hi," you then reply, all moping and whatnot.

"How was your day, Jesse?"

"Bad."

"Oh!" Hal pauses. You take his creased brow as a sign of pity. "Well, let me offer you a box of Coke Zero for 25% off."

The black box of sugar-free goodness sits atop all other items as you wheel your trolley across the car park. You realise you were only given the discount because you spent over $100 on everything else. Below that, and Hal would've said, "Oh, that's too bad," and nothing more. You wonder if the awkwardness was worth it. I mean, you only get the discount every three months, and it doesn't roll over if you don't use it.

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If we think of the future in this light, it doesn't seem so amazing after all. Of course, though, the deeper meaning underlying whatever it is you just read is the overarching metaphor about the mundane uniformity with which we live our lives. Jokes. I just made that up at the end.

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The pros and cons of wearing prescription contacts

While cooking dinner last week, I noticed I wasn't tearing up while cutting onions. Granted, 'tearing up' is a bit of an exaggeration, but, to clarify, I was completely unaffected. Then it dawned on me: I was wearing contact lenses.

Then, because I've worn them for seven years, and because cooking was relatively unexciting, I thought of a pros and cons list for wearing said lenses!

Pro:

Since you're wearing something non-human in your eyes, you become slightly less human yourself, and slightly more cyborg... and therefore more awesome.

Con:

You're 5 times more likely to get an eye infection - 15 times if you sleep in your contacts.

Pro:

You acquire a moderate resistance to tears while cutting onions. (Cut onions with confidence!)

Con:

They cost you about $250NZD/year, $350 counting the stuff you put them in when not in use, $420 counting the recommended annual check-up.

Pro:

You get to enjoy 20/20 vision without the blurry border, a la glasses.

Con:

Applying and removing them (each) requires an extra minute out of your day.

Pro:

Instantly obliterates the common fear of touching one's own eyes. (Touch slimy surfaces with confidence!)

Con:

Deciding which side is up can occasionally be a pain (literally).

There are two methods to tell whether or not you have them in the right way.

1) Sight

If they're inside-out they look less like a bowl and more like a pitcher plant.

2) Touch

The pitcher plant is carnivorous, much like the Venus fly trap, or the inside-out contact lens. If method (1) doesn't work for you (and there are days where the visual difference is so minimal you end up guessing), then the subsequent sensation that your eye is being eaten and/or stabbed by daggers will no doubt eliminate the ambiguity.

Of course, if you don't experience this feeling, then you can rejoice, because it means you guessed right! 

All in all, you can't go wrong.

Pro:
If one falls out (or you only wear one for whatever reason), you can see clearly and blurry all at once! But that's not all. If you shut one eye, everything's perfect; if you shut the other eye instead, everything's fuzzy! Not bad if you're bored on the bus ride home.

Con:
If one falls out, that's a loss of $18.

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Cockroach vs Conscience

"Murder the damned thing!" My voice hammered at the walls of our flat like a drum at an execution.

The creature was a spawn of hell, a black scourge brooding against the cream-white fibreglass. People bathe in that. My crooked smile warped into a grimace. That cockroach has to die.

"I can't find the fly swat, or the spray," Douglas announced. His news spelled doom for us all. I turned to him and frowned, but my gaze was never far from the creature. Its monstrous antennae lashed and lurched in my peripherals.

"I found the spray." Thank God.

Josiah soaked the thing, which, minutes later, tumbled onto its back with a light pat. I've always hated that sound.

The ordeal laboured in silence; not a single word was spoken save a few eughs and hmms. And then Douglas decided he wasn't through with it.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he reached for the faucet. "It's already dying!"

"It's not dying fast enough!"

The rush of water muffled the critter's pleas for mercy. I couldn't watch, yet my eyes wouldn't stray; the same eyes that glared with fear now trembled with pity.

The dying critter lifted with the current, helpless and scared, and then stuck in the drain.

"Stop, you're drowning it!" In truth he was water-boarding it.

"It's a cockroach!"

"It's unnecessary!"

"You're unnecessary!"

He fitted the plug on - not an easy task with the thing you're trying to murder in the way.

"Masking your sins is no way to deal with them!"

He just laughed.

We returned to the scene minutes later to find our victim twitching helplessly. I think one of us must have freighted it to the bin. It was over two years ago; the memory becomes hazy where the emotions start to wane. Yeah, even I wonder how manly our seven-man flat must have been, or not been.

Those emotions were real, and they revive every time I think of the ordeal. When there isn't a swat in reach, when the horror takes but one second too long to die, my perception instantly transforms, injecting compounds of sympathy and guilt, convicting me. The horror becomes a helpless soul sacrificed for convenience.

I once drowned a moth - a large moth - because it was perched on my towel and I had just got out of the shower. Thank goodness for manoeuvrable shower heads, I thought. Curse it for this damnable conscience.

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The Rulebook for Facebook. Ten things you should never do.

It's something of a virtual garden, this Facebook. Out of the soil we call newsfeed grows fruits, vegetables, flowers and weeds. The weeds are villains, as you will know, strangling every flower of life and substance, capturing every fruit beneath stem and sprout. I try to hide them myself, but the task is no lasting cure, and the routine is growing ever more onerous. Perhaps I should quit this garden altogether. Or… or I could share the following list with the world. Yes. Yes I see it now. This is the cure! Uh, right. Ahem.

You should never…

1. Facebook your problems

You won't get my attention, no matter how vague you are. In fact, you'll get my UN-attention. That is, I will hide you.

2. Send people game requests

Every time I get a game request, I a) block said request, b) consider blocking the requester, and c) think to myself, "I'd rather play a real game." And then I do.

3. Instagram photos of food

Trust me, honey, you ain't gonna make that fried chicken look any less nasty no matter which photo editing programme's ass you worship.

4. Say "Hi" to me (and nothing else) after years of silence

Crickets chirping. Tumbleweed hovering. A vulture squawking. Me ignoring (you).

5. Upload photos of yourself posing in front of a mirror

Look at yourself! Oh wait, you are, all the time. That's admirable.

6. Use a false name

I will likely forget who you are and unfriend you.

7. Ask me why I unfriended you

I might be tempted to use a false name so you can't... oh wait.

8. Write something entirely unrelated to the status under which you're commenting

Status: Bought our first house!

Appropriate comment: Nice!

Inappropriate comment: Did I leave my phone in your car? *hic*

9. Add me even though you've never met me

If you do this, I'll have to go through the tiring process of clicking on your profile, scanning your friends list for any mutual friends, your timeline for anything familiar, and my memory for some past event involving you. After having zero success on all accounts, I'll see that you've added anyone and everyone. Well don't, stranger! It's annoying!

10. Upload a photo of yourself with the caption, "Lol, I'm so ugly" (or some variation that implies the same thing).

Lol, I'm such a noob at grammar. Lol, I don't know the first thing about spelling. Lol, what is English? Lol. WE AREN'T IDIOTS.

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Words that aren't words. Stop using them.

I have put together a list of eight words that, quite simply, aren't words. If you say/write them, you should probably stop. Some are spoken correctly but spelled horrendously, while others on paper look fine, but when spoken, make the earth cringe.

(Yes, every time you misspeak a word, somewhere, there's an earthquake).

It would be a top ten, but the highest ranking, 'yous' and 'totes', have achieved such infamy that they each have a post of their own. Links are at the bottom. As promised, here are the other eight.

Alot

Alot is not aword. Neither is apony or apoptart. Weird, right?

Aswell

It’s ‘as well’, with a gap for personal space in between.

Alright

You might not get the red underline for this one. Know why? Because it’s so disgraceful you should know better. ‘All right’ - now there’s a breath of fresh air.

Aks

As in, "Aks him for the cash."

It's entirely possible that at some point in my past, I heard this very command and thought, To what culture does this person belong? Surely killing is illegal there too, right? More importantly, why do they always axe their friends? Note to self: do not befriend this person.

Then it hit me. Oh, they meant 'ask'. Yet I folded my arms, brow creased. Note to self: do not befriend this person.

Dieing

Just look at the three vowels in the middle there and tell me that it makes even a smidgen of sense to pronounce that mutation of letters as ‘die-ing’. I’d probably go for ‘deeeng’, like a doorbell with an Australian accent. 

(The correct spelling of the word that describes someone whose health is presently waning to the point of no longer living is ‘dying’).

Ragland

When someone says "Ragland," I think of a meadow filled with old shirts and car engine-stained flannels, and then I say, “Oh, you mean Raglan. Yeah, sure, let's go.”

Some-think, any-think and every-think

A friend who needs better arguments recently uttered that words ending in ‘ing’ are sometimes pronounced with a ‘k’ stuck to the end to help conclude without having to trail off, since the ‘ng’ on its own doesn’t really 'finish'. I remained unconvinced, replying that any word ending with a vowel doesn’t ‘finish’, and therefore we should add a ‘k’ to them, too. (I was being sarcastic. Don't even think about it.)

Also, no one says 'think' when they mean 'thing'.

Some-pink

No one says this, either, except my childhood neighbour friend. He had a permanently-blocked nose and parents who didn't feel the need to correct him. He was trying to say “something”, but his ‘th’ became ‘p’, and then he added the ‘k’ like an epilogue to his verbal diarrhoea. I must have lost my note.

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Totes

http://sanctuaryofsynonyms.blogspot.co.nz/2012/04/totes.html

Yous

http://sanctuaryofsynonyms.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-yous-epidemic.html

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Three pet peeves of mine that seem to be social norms

1. When someone fails to make eye contact despite their job in customer service

Some stores are better than others, but, every now and then, I approach the counter of a shop, and the man or woman at the checkout fails to look at me once, especially if there's a queue. A few days ago I bought some CDs from the Warehouse. When I took them to the counter, the woman there retrieved them to scan and mumbled something like, "Hi there." I returned the greeting, while thinking, I hope she was talking to me. She wasn't looking at me, but those CDs sure as hell don't talk back. Then she said "Eftpos?" while looking at the table with weary eyes.

I was thinking, retard?, but found myself saying, "Yes," to her hair-covered scalp, since her head was so low that I would've had to squat to see her face.

Finally, with as much energy in her voice as there was visibility of her eyes, she said, "Have a nice day." I looked at the time. It was 5:30pm.

2. When someone insists on texting during a person-to-person conversation

Why does almost everyone drop everything to reply to a text message? I'll be talking to someone when suddenly their text tone sounds, they frantically say, "Hang on," and they pause the conversation while they text, as if the text is somehow more important than you, as if it's less rude to keep the person on the other end waiting rather than you, the person they're talking to. Two minutes later, they're back at it, texting away again. Can't you just, you know, not text them?

I know there's a time and a place for it. It could be work-related, or family issue-related; but 90% of the time it's not. It's just another friend they're probably going to 'catch up' with after they're finished with you. Where's the fun in that if they're texting the whole time? Scratch that. Where's the fun in texting? Text typing has to be the most boring thing ever, that is, besides the enduring process of watching someone else finish their text.

3. When someone thinks they're cooler than you despite the fact that they're driving a bus

I was recently driving down a main road when a bus turned in from a side road. It pulled out in front of me, and I had to brake (and almost stop) to avoid hitting it. During these pivotal seconds, I stared at the driver: a middle-aged, sun glasses-wearing individual who simply stared back. I kept staring as he slowly turned and I hastily slowed, until finally we'd gone our separate ways. My thoughts during this brief period were as follows.

Pulling in front of me doesn't make you cool, buddy. You drive a freaking bus, all day, around and around, yet you fail to give way. Every time you do that, you're like a cop being pulled over. Really ironic, and it doesn't make you any less uncool.

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YOLO and Idiocracy

I recently saw a film called Idiocracy, in which Joe Bauers gets cryogenically frozen for 500 years, only to reawaken to a world full of idiots. The premise makes the assumption that families who are more productive tend to be less intelligent, more intelligent couples produce less kids, and, therefore, the intelligent die out, and the stupid survive.

Makes sense, I thought; but it wasn't until the year 2505 that I was rendered fully petrified.

In this new society, Starbucks is a brothel of sorts, rubbish dumps reach higher than Everest, and plants are 'watered' with Gatorade because "it has electrolytes". When Mr Bauers asks a bunch of loiterers for directions, they get mad and one of them says, "You're starting to sound faggy." When he pleads with a stranger to help him, and promises gold for his assistance, the stranger replies, "I like moneys." And when Joe enquires where he can get water to drink, the response is, "What, like, water from the toilet?"

I can't speak much for the film's premise since, as it happens, I'm not exactly playing my part in spawning a formidable team of mini-Matts. But needless to say, this extreme decline in human intelligence (and with it, the English language) left me asking, "Could this be happening right now?" And you know what? I think it could, evidenced by the infamous term "YOLO!"

It's a shame it's white. There'll be no hope of concealing my vomit.

Aside from the fact that saying YOLO makes whatever you've just said, are saying, or are about to say contain 100% less integrity, it's also a contradiction. You only live once, yes, so why are you wasting your breath (and reputation) saying YOLO? The term destroys itself, yet no one seems to notice.

Thankfully, not one of my friends takes it seriously. For instance, when Naomi says it, she puts on an extremely pompous English accent and drags the word until you've forgotten whatever it is she was on about. And then we all laugh.

Like 'yous' and 'totes' and other mutations of language, YOLO must only be said as a joke or a jest. We must expose the mutation for what it is, for there are those who do use the term seriously, and it's these people who serve only to pave the slippery slope down which intellect itself will soon tumble and fall... from a teetering pile of junk (a metaphor for crappy words and acronyms) the size of Mount Everest.

And as for the mini-Matts, well, at least now I have a sensible reason to have kids!

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Introverts 201

Introvertedness is a complicated term. It's also not a word. Needless to say, a few paragraphs about social energy are hardly sufficient to clearly explain the complicated relationship introverts have with their given state of 'limited social capacity'. So, here are some things to consider.

There are those who think they're extroverts (and everyone else also thinks they're extroverts), but, really, they aren't - at least, not entirely. Cynthia, a friend of mine who socialises nonstop and has far too many friends, recently told me that her energy for them is limited like mine, except, until now, she's never admitted it. She's like a fish with too much food, except she hasn't died… yet. You see, next to her social energy tank is an inability to say 'no'. One too many yeses later and she's wondering why she's feeling so drained. Tsk tsk, young Cynthia. "True courage is about knowing not when to [be social], but when to [not be social]." Then I proceeded to give her a sword.

via Memecenter

There are those whose introvertedness clashes with their fear of missing out. I'm one of these. I'll be playing a game, or watching a film when some intrusive friend decides to message me, "U shld come ova 4 a bbq @ Zed's plce! We gt salad, but nd meat." Up until this point, I would be content doing next to nothing. But now that there's a social event going on, I'm torn between accepting and declining, never mind the dwindling energy bank! Something about, "I can watch this film or play that game at any time, but I can't summon barbecues quite so easily. Also, people die."

Added to all this is the issue of who to hang out with. Think of each relationship you have with someone like its own slope. Some friends are easy to get along with. You can be yourself, say whatever, embrace awkwardness rather than shy from it, and there are no lengthy good byes, which are also awkward. These are the downhill-sloped people. They don’t drain social energy. They give it. By contrast, there are those with whom you don't really relate, those who'll stop listening if you talk about anything other than panel beating, or those who will probably judge you for having an interest in biodegradable objects. It quickly becomes a chore to talk to these folk. Some of them will drive you insane! These are the uphill ones. And in between the two are those who don't really give or take energy. Perhaps they don't talk much; perhaps they're mute. In any case, they're flat, like Hamilton. Basically, some people require more social energy than others. A barbecue has more than just food. It has people, too, and those people will impact on whether or not I'll bother. Of course, this is on a bad day.

If anything, be grateful when your introvert friend shows up. More often than not, they decided that spending time with you would be more worthwhile than not spending time with you, and they went to the effort to do so. Believe you me, there's always effort involved. You know, you have to go uphill before you can go down again.

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Introverts 101

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Does Grammar really Matter?

Grammar and Punctuation¹: a volatile blend of simplicity and complexity. Simple in purpose, yet horrendously difficult to master. Each one of us knows what the term means - it isn't rocket science - but when it comes to hearing its application, I oftentimes close my eyes, picturing a cave occupied by men and women. They wear the skins of primitive beasts, and their tools are a collection of stones and bones. Fittingly, like the mammoth they slew and from whose bones they procured, grammar and punctuation is too great a beast to simply tame. It must be laid to rest.

Forsooth, some say that grammar doesn't matter; that it is an old-fashioned mix of arbitrary rules belonging to a minority who refuses to adapt; that those who claim to be well-versed are all compensating for things of actual significance that they lack; or that it is only relevant in some situations, like during a job interview or an exam.²

Such claims are bold, but they are no bolder than the ones proclaimed from those who hold a different view. Indeed, some would go so far as to say that grammar and punctuation might be the Achilles heel of today's Western society.

To those who uphold the former-most view, that language is changing, and that we ought to change with it: I agree. Language is always changing, much like fashion. Yet, no matter the fashion, there are standards; and in every instance, there is a scale ranging from inappropriate to over-dressed, with just right sitting in the middle. It is the same with grammar. There are standards, even today - standards that many people would rather do away with. I might want to wear shorts and a tee shirt instead of a suit to my wedding, but you would all gawk at me (or not attend) if I actually did. Likewise, I gawk at the eight out of ten native English-speaking people who can't differentiate 'have' from 'of'.

Granted, this comparison fails to shed any light as to why grammar and punctuation matters in the strictest sense of the word, and it even appears to support the claim that grammar is only important in some situations, like during a job interview or an exam. Perhaps that is because this claim is spot on. Just like most things, finely-tuned grammar only truly matters when its counterpart, poor grammar, bears unwanted consequences. Applying sun block at the beach matters because, if I don't, I'll get burnt. Correctly-punctuated writing matters in an exam because the alternative is to lose marks. Following is a spam email I recently received.

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T-Mobile Nederland BV
Waldorpstraat 60,
2521 CC Den Haag,
The Netherlands.
online-client service.

CONGRATULATION!

From T-mobile NL we are proud to inform you that your email address have
won you 850,000.00euros from our online anual coordination.

Chose an option which you will like to receive your winnings presenting
along side your winning reff number: NL/VV5-421/0031012.

(1). Come to the Redemption centre here in the Netherlands.
(2). On-line Bank Transfer
(3). Courier Delivery service

Congratulations once again.
Regards,
Robijn van-kloose.
Award Coordinator for T-mobile NL

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A sore thumb is a grave understatement in illustrating just how jarring this email is to anyone with half a brain. Indeed, it is completely submerged in discrepancy. You might have noticed that the word in capitals is missing a letter. Just one letter of a fifteen-letter word, yet we all notice it, and I'm sure we would all agree that it is unacceptable. Even with the 'S', the word itself, capitalised to grab the reader's attention, is a tell-tale sign of spam, yet the typo (I'll give them that much) is icing on the cake. Then there are 99 others. You see, even if I would have been so easily fooled, this one slip up is the ultimate sacrifice of credibility.

Credibility. It matters.

Things that uphold credibility: research, enthusiasm, confidence, good grammar.

If you can't back up a claim, prepare to be criticised. If your tone is dry and stale, prepare to be ignored. If you sound as confused as the people you're trying to instruct, prepare to be questioned. If your grammar is atrocious, then you can forget about everything else; you're going in the spam folder! Essentially, in all cases where you want to be taken seriously, strong grammar and punctuation strictly does matter.

via cheezburger.com

But what about in all other cases? Does grammar matter on Facebook, on Skype, or in casual emails? Your first response might be: no, it doesn't. You have nothing to prove on these mediums; you type like you talk; and there is no reason to put any effort into it. Fair enough, I say. And once again, I completely agree. In fact, I see no need to comment on the structure of someone's imperfect Facebook status when there isn't any pressing reason for them to write it correctly. If everyone understands it, and it makes sense, then that's all that matters. My hope is that, in cases where grammar does matter, they know what to do, and they'll get it right.

There is a difference, however, between a man who knows better but simply doesn't care, and a man who strives to get his grammar and punctuation correct, yet falters at the last word. My view is that everyone is innocent until proven guilty. In other words, it's only when there's a genuine mistake that I consider addressing the author. In such a case, my train of thought plays something like this: "If John has made a grammatical mistake despite making an effort not to, then he is likely to make the same mistake at a later time when it may prove detrimental." What is the next step upon this realisation? Do I point out the food caught between his teeth, or do I leave it unnoticed, hoping that he won't be too embarrassed when he eventually gets given a mirror?

In essence, grammar and punctuation on mediums like Facebook doesn't matter, or at least it wouldn't matter if these social mediums were the be all and end all of communication. But they aren't. Eventually, you will write something - a report, an essay, a personal statement - in which your understanding of grammar and punctuation will be your backbone. A good performance requires practice. Whether or not your grasp of English needs a polish is entirely up to you. Perhaps you know it well enough; but when it comes down to it, will you know where to place the apostrophe, if any? Should there be a comma before the quotation, or not? And can you properly distinguish its and it's, or there, their and they're? Your lecturer can. Your employer can. If you can't, then teach yourself. Google it, learn it, then practise it. 

Facebook, text, email - they might not matter right now, but they will matter when it's too late. For the sake of a job interview or exam, it's not unheard of to, you know, prepare.

For those times where grammar and punctuation strictly matters, every other instance may or may not matter in retrospect. It is your call to make. But it's all part of a constitution, and governing that constitution is a language that probably stems from your childhood. Do you remember? You learned a 26-letter alphabet, and you came to appreciate 26, not 25, distinct characters as the building blocks for communication. Today, not once do you forget one and replace it with more of the others. You accepted the whole package. It was either that, or nothing at all. Creating your own language, choosing your own rules, it doesn't work. You speak English, a constitution complete with standards and guidelines. Typing "your" when you mean "you're" is like spelling CONGRATULATIONS without the S. It's incomplete and, quite frankly, irresponsible. This, my friends, is why grammar and punctuation matters. It's the same reason the letter 'S' matters in the English alphabet. Forget everything else. You can punctuate and spell how you like on Facebook; you can rebel against your employers with a typo-ridden resume; but you can't then call it English. English has 26 letters; it has spelling and grammar rules; and it has punctuation marks.

If you say "should of" or "yous" or "Some-think", then by all means, keep saying these things. I trust you of all people are the smartest of us all, for your grasp of language is so firm that you feel confident to play with it, as if the tendon above the heel bears no limit to its stretch.

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1. As both nouns are part of the same constitution, I'm treating them as a single term. For instance, "Parks and Recreation" IS a TV program.

2. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7E-aoXLZGY I love this!

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