It Only *Sounds* Like Gum

I've been seeing this commercial a lot during prime time.



Okay, sex sells. I dig. But every time I see this commercial, I'm waiting for a disclaimer that Dentyne Ice does not protect against pregnancy or STDs. But there is no such warning.

Now I'd like to imagine that nobody is so stupid as to think this. Certainly not you and I, gentle reader; we are of the intelligent kind, let alone the kind with basic common sense.

And yet, ads for birth control pills remind users that "[Brand of OCP] does not protect against sexually transmitted infections and diseases." Let me reiterate: common sense. If you're mingling essences, so to speak, you're at risk. If you're mature enough to decide to use oral contraception, you should be smart enough not to need a warning. But there it is.

There are similar warnings, arguably more disconcerting because not attached to as taboo a subject as sex, on food packaging. You know, "remove plastic and cardboard backing from pizza before placing it in the oven." Really? I mean, there's a difference between not knowing about safe sex because you're too embarrassed to ask and being an utterly oblivious moron who has to be reminded not to melt the plastic on the pizza.

When I consider that something as common sense and *not* controversial as food preparation has to be explicitly stated, I can't imagine how soon we're going to be hearing the news story about some kid suing Dentyne Ice because he thought it would keep his girlfriend from getting pregnant.

For The Person Who Has Everything...

This holiday season, why don't you treat your favorite friend to a Snuggie... for DOGS?



Yes, that's right, for the four-legged friend-of-a-friend who needs to keep his chest warm and his paws free, the Snuggie for Dogs is the perfect invention.

Except for the following problems:
~Dogs can sit, stand, or lie down, just as humans can, but humans do not go about dorsal-upward in two of these situations; the Snuggie for Dogs would *fall forward off the dog's back* if it were lying down or walking around!
~More importantly, dogs, unlike humans, have no reason to "keep their paws free," because they have no opposable thumbs: they do not need to hold a book, telephone, remote control, or any number of other activities that humans are pictured as enjoying from the confines of their backwards-sweater-blanket.

I've never particularly thought the Snuggie was a useful invention. This leaves aside the problems that arise when you consider that the Slanket came first, or that you might resemble alternately a lazy monk or a hoodless Klansman in your ridiculous blanket-gear of choice.

But this? I'm sorry. There's no excuse. This is a new low in cultural failure.

"When You're Here, You're Hammy"

Recently, young gentleman Chase Pearsall brought my attention to a particularly obnoxious and stilted ad campaign. Stop me when you've heard this: "When You're Here, You're Family."

Okay, you've stopped me. Now I'm going to go on about why the Olive Garden ad campaign makes me never want to eat there again. Let me for a moment ignore the, um, political implications underpinning "Sicilian Cooking" and "Part of the Family." Let's just look at a sampling of the commercials:



Figuring out all the permutations of pasta and sauce that a person could order. Who would do that? Let me rephrase: who would do that at a full table, surrounded by supposed friends, possibly coworkers, while everybody is obviously squirming in their seats to order some food so they can just eat and shut up the idiot who thinks this is the time for elementary mathematics? These people are not his friends: they pity him for not having anything better to do with his time. Some of them probably regret having invited him.

waitress: So what'll you have?
horrible d-bag: [upon seeing a passing entrée] I think I just saw it!
[everybody laughs]

waiter: More salad and breadsticks?
ravenous postmenopausal women: Always!
[everybody laughs]

white dude: You know what always gets us together?
token ethnic friend: Endless soup and salad!
[everybody—including the white dude, white chick, and token ethnic friend who comprise this bizarre love triangle—laughs]

brat princess: I like it. And soooo do my roommates!
[cut to overfed-freeloader roommates & family laughing]
creepy dad: I just want to make sure my little girl's okay.
brat princess: [with decidedly inflected Electra Complex overtones] Daddy!

Okay, forgive me if I'm being rude in rejecting mafioso hospitality, but I want no part of this family. My family does not laugh forcedly at jokes that aren't funny, and we don't stuff ourselves stupid on never-ending soup, salad, and pasta. In one of my favorite iterations, one character seriously says "Sometimes we're so busy eating, we forget to talk."

Wow, that does sound like fun. Sign me up for the next time those social geniuses get together to stuff so many breadsticks in their gobs that they nearly choke.

Weighty Issues

I sometimes wonder about the efficacy of such reality television shows as 'The Biggest Loser' or 'More to Love'.

The former is post-scripted (briefly, to my dismay) with the notice "All participants have been supervised and monitored by medical professionals during their participation. Consult your doctor before embarking on a weight-loss regimen." The latter seemed to suggest alternately that you should be comfortable and confident with the person you are, but also that it's ridiculously difficult to do that when confronted with all sorts of media representations that lie beyond your control (not to mention that the intended "prize" of the show was the love of a man who was already self-confident enough, suggesting that women should be more concerned with self-image than men should).

Tonight on 'The Biggest Loser,' I realized a particular facet of the show that makes me decidedly uncomfortable. During the elimination round, practically everyone was crying. I understand the emotional bond that forms between people when they are thrust together for an extended period of time (further speculations on this subject as applicable to my studies abroad are in line). What struck me, though, is that during this weight loss program, the body is suffering all sorts of physical, hormonal, neurological, and psychological trauma.

Of course these people are going to be emotional! The body does strange and unexpected things during extreme weight loss.

My concern now has shifted from the dangerous D.I.Y. implications of "weighty issue" shows, and have come to rest on the social, psychological, and emotional exploitation of people who, on account of side-effects, literally can't control themselves.

Call Me Christopher Because I'm Walkin'

Okay, does anybody else have this problem?

You're heading down the street, and someone comes veering into the pedestrian walkway out of nowhere. They're walking right in your peripheral vision, so you lengthen your stride to leave them in your wake, but they speed up, nearly unconsciously, to match you. Then you try to slow down to let them pass, but they stay directly at your side. So *then* you have to do a full stop and look like a fool, or slacken your pace to an unnatural slowness, which is even worse, *or* you have to freaking truck it and start sweating from the exertion because *some* idiot doesn't understand personal boundaries and *why* would they walk so close to you anyway?!

My point is, these people are probably the same jerks who get reckless driving citations.

Jason and the Jargonauts

This week and last, I and my cohorts have been involved in a rigorous and exhausting teacher training "boot camp." For now, let's leave aside my own frustrations (i.e. it is entirely impossible to learn theories of teaching without practice, and it is impossible to practice without students, and it is impossible to practice *on* students during the summer when they are all enjoying their last vacation days).

I know a lot of teachers. A lot. Including people whose job descriptions never seemed to indicate any teaching component. I understand the need for specialized language in different disciplines (e.g. it is impossible to talk about mathematics without "algebra," "calculus," "quotient," and the like). But there's a certain painful confusion amongst teachers when the conversation turns to The Language of Teaching.

Do you call it: (a) syllabus, (b) curriculum, (c) course plan, (d) course description, (e) semester plan, (f)... you get the point.

And this is the tip of the iceberg. It doesn't even deal with uncertainty *within* a given discipline: for Freshman Composition, do you call it "exposition," "argumentation," "claim-making," "position-staking," "debate"? Do you hand out "assignments," "prompts," "topics," "drills," "essay questions"? Grading scale? Rubric? Scoring chart? Conference? Discussion? Office meeting?

I've seen organization, arrangement, "flow," paragraphing, construction, control; thesis, claim, position; cogency, originality, rigor, innovation, invention; support, evidence, examples, outside source, quotation; style, diction, tone, word choice, vocabulary, fluency... the lists suffer constant growth (expansion, accretion, lengthening...).

This is not to be confused with academic tendencies to create b.s. words that mean what they sound like they say (incorporealness?). That's a different beast and blog post altogether.

Why, save my soul, do institutions not normalize a language of teaching?

A provisional answer: 'We're a unique institution. Nobody does it quite like us.' Translation: 'We figured out the RIGHT WAY to do things! U-S-A! U-S-A!'

Angelinos' Ten Commandments

...And Charlton Heston descended from the Hollywood Hills with the following commandments sent directly to his iPhone Twitter app:



•I am the Jerry your Bruckheimer, who brought you out of the land of reading, into the house of reality television and explosions; you shall have no other producers before me.

•You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them or serve them; unless it’s an Oscar, a Golden Globe, or, to a lesser extent, an Emmy.

•You shall not take the name of the Arnold your Governator in vain.

•Remember the premier night, to keep it wholly a media circus; you shall not be seen at any event, be it a premier or grocery shopping, without full makeup and designer fashion.

•Honor your freeway system with your middle-finger.

•You shall not kill, unless you know Kato; or in an act of gang violence, in which case everyone will dehumanize you anyway, so it won’t matter.

•You shall not be stupid enough to get caught if you commit adultery.

•You shall not steal from anyone living in Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Pacific Palisades, or Malibu; nor from any stores on Rodeo Drive; nor if your name is Winona Ryder. Everything else is fair game.

•You shall not bear right or left while driving without first refusing to signal the turn to your neighbor.

•You shall not covet your neighbor's industry connection, nor his trophy wife, nor his Ferrari.

Forget Paris!

I wonder if my biggest transformation is not having transformed….

So ModCloth is doing this terrific transformations contest, and I wanted to come up with something witty yet heartwarming, perhaps that would make my reader tip her head slightly, gazing fondly into the distance, a smile just at the corner of her mouth. You know, that “best blog ever, could’ve won me any college scholarship, what I did on my summer vacation” kind of entry. Uh, yeah. Easy.

No. Transformations are not so apparent. It’s not all black and white.

Or is it?



In high school, I went to Paris with some classmates and our French teacher. I’m sure I imagined walking away from the trip unbearably chic: a fantastic haircut, new unique clothing, some je ne sais quoi. Instead, of course, we were shuttled around like a certain twelve little girls in two straight lines. No freedom for high schoolers.

People dream their whole lives about going to Paris. Why did it seem like I was getting a dull version? Oh yeah, because everyone in Paris, it seemed, dressed in black and white. No subtle shades of color, no subtle shades of grey, even. Heaven forbid mad couture dresses flouncing down the Champs Élysées. The hub of fashion, right? Maybe they’re saving their fancy outfits for clubbing. Maybe they’re going for a minimalist look.

Maybe ::gasp!:: they don’t really care what other people think of their clothing.

Not just clothing. Slowly, of course, the trend caught. I don’t mean the black and white, I mean the devil may care attitude. Because seriously, why should they wear rainbows just because a schoolgirl tourist expects it? And why should I want to transform myself into a grande dame when I’m not?

So yeah. My transformation was not to transform: no pretending, no phonies, no Parisian savoir faire for someone who’s not from Paris. But strangely, after this trip, I did live differently. I laughed more, I danced more, I found it easier to socialize, and I finally (uh, eventually) figured out how to be myself.

Maybe you’d wear bright green in a crowd of black and white to be noticed, but maybe you won’t be. Maybe if you dress similarly to everyone else, you’ll feel like you belong. Maybe if you’re cynical, you won’t care what other people think of you because usually they don’t think of you. Or maybe you’ll find something subtly unique about each person, in the cut of the fabric or the breadth of the stride.

A Short(-Rib) Cut

A little while ago, I remember watching Paula Deen's Food Network show. I was certainly enthralled and mildly concerned at all the butter and oil going into the dishes, but what caught my attention most was the following sentence:

"Sprinkle some kosher salt on the bacon."

If you aren't already marveling that Ms. Deen is salting an already salty food, you might have noticed the irony of using kosher salt with bacon. In fact, she does in many of her recipes. I understand that the texture of kosher salt is different, but so is that of flaky sea salt.

Ms. Deen, could you please stop offending my sensibilities? I mean, I consider myself a religious tolerant, and a multiculturalist. I believe in unlikely friendships that transcend cultural expectations (see also, Romeo & Juliet). Still, I draw the line when "multicultural" means "making cross-cultural alliances between two foods that were never meant to be friends."

Cab Drivers: A Hate Song

Los Angeles is well known for its hoards (and hordes) of terrible drivers. Last night, I met one of them.

My friend Stew gave me a statistic about the number of people in this city that drive without a license. I don't remember the number, but I do know it was staggering, and also that I wholeheartedly believe it. Since I moved here eleven months ago, I have watched countless red lights run with impunity, have been cut off without a blinker to warn me that someone doesn't find it necessary to check his/her blind spot before switching lanes, have had two people scrape my car in parking garages without leaving a note, have enjoyed weekly car chases on the news, and have even had a man sideswipe me and drive away.

Once I overestimated my knowledge of the Vue's proportions and scuffed a woman while I was trying to get into a left-hand turn lane; more than being upset with myself, I was filled with rage for a city in which I could be made to feel bad for being the responsible one. Oh no, we can't have that in this city. Let us instead reward those who screech about in thousands of pounds of forged metal heedless of their surroundings. They are the true heroes of Los Angeles.

Even after Stew gave me the statistical factoid, I found a new level of motorist excellence. I had dropped off the guys who came to the Smog Cutter for karaoke, and was exhaustedly heading home for sleep. Driving south on Edgemont avenue, about to stop at the Hollywood boulevard intersection, the light turned green. I had enough green light to think, "My lucky stars! This stop-light changed for me because it wants me to get home more quickly!" How long did it take you to read that thought? About five seconds. I had a green light for five seconds, and a taxi cab comes barreling eastbound along Hollywood blvd. so quickly that I wonder if he's going to stop. He does not. He coasts, still at about 25 miles per hour, into the intersection although he has had a red light for that same five seconds. More in fact, because there is a second delay before the lights switch.

After he almost broadsides my car and I warn him off with the horn, he turns behind me, and tailgates me for half a block. I am driving 25, which at this point is probably over the speed limit because it's a hospital zone. Instead of learning his lesson (i.e. "Don't get upset with someone who has honked at you for disobeying the law."), he floors the gas and speeds past me. In a hospital zone. Over a double-yellow line. And he gets caught by the next red light, so it was a good thing he passed me, or he would have had to wait longer in order to... wait. At the red light.

For any other car, this would be a moment of disgust. Cab drivers, on the other hand, openly ask you, in text, on the back and sides of their vehicles, "How's my driving?" Oh, I'm glad you asked. I dial the number, which LA Taxi lists as "Checker Cab" company and let their call center receptionist know that taxi #3619 is driving like a maniac, disobeying traffic signals, right of way, posted speed limit, and no passing zones. Victory is mine, "Cab Calloway." Don't you forget it. My project to censure Los Angeles drivers is off to an auspicious beginning.

The moral of this story: Don't get into Checker Cab #3619. He does not deserve to share the road.