Social Media Links to my Sense of Outrage, or What Does it Even Mean to Like?

I cannot tell a lie. I am on Facebook. And the twitter. I waste too much time on them catching up on people who no longer matter in my life and following links that end up both boring me and contributing to my ever-shrinking attention span. I started an 800 page novel in May and I'm still not done. You mean it's all here in one place? THIS MAKES NO SENSE TO MY INTERNET ADDLED BRAIN! However, I have also found a lot of things through these mediums to engage my mind, enough so that, for now at least, I carry on. I allow them to pull me down into their void, scrolling down through just a few more tweets, seeing if there is one more link worth clicking on. I read old Paris Review author interviews, check out photo montages of current news events (Egypt, anyone?), and generally faff about looking for interesting tidbits posted by likeminded internet dwellers. Let us not speak of the time spent cackling at photos of grown men dressed as Peter Pan, or the lost moments of clicking on self-serving, poorly disguised commercialized links. BUT I DIGRESS.

Lately I have become more aware and annoyed with all the interconnectedness of what I do on the world wide web of wonder. I can't even get through a moderately short article without being directed to at least five others via hyperlinks. The temptation to click and open that new window and break the flow of reading is so great, I'll end up with 16 open windows and no idea how anything connects back to my original interest anymore. More recently, the integration of twitter and facebook with the internet at large has led to a new, even easier way to share your opinions. Did you enjoy this montage of celebrity plastic surgery gone wrong? SHARE IT! Click the twitter avatar and tweet the link to all your followers! Feeling particularly enamoured of that article on spring's new fashions? TELL YOUR FRIENDS! Look how many other people already like this! Be the first of your friends to LIKE THIS by clicking on the facebook thumbs up "like" icon! Are these things worth "liking"? Is this even relevant?

I do not understand why anyone would care that I "like" something that I wouldn't waste time in a face to face encounter telling them that I like. Please note the lack of quotations in the latter like. So is there some ironic connotation to "liking" something, one that does not exist when we actually like something? I'M CONFUSING MYSELF NOW. More importantly, what does "like" even mean? If I am speaking to a friend and I tell them I like a particular film, for example, we might then engage in a conversation on the film's merits, and I might explain my enjoyment in more detail, juxtaposing it against some small points of detraction, but ultimately confirm my, for lack of a better word, liking of the movie. However, if I said that I sure "liked" --AIR QUOTE ALERT-- a film, we would then no doubt embark on a scathing review of the latest 90 minute misogynistic barrage that Judd Apatow has released upon unsuspecting and unprepared young think-they're-feminists.

But online, when all I am encouraged to do is click a "like" button, the nuance is lost and dialogue is surely discouraged. QUICK! Move on to the next thing you might "like," and tell people all about it by clicking! Sure, we could take the time to compose a more detailed and thought out critique of whatever it is that we "like," but we don't. That is why there is a "like" button, and to eschew its simplicity would be to turn our collective back on the emergence of bigger, better, and easier that internet connectivity offers each and every day.

So what happens when the word "like" shows itself to be comletely inadequate? I'm not even talking about the not so subtle distinction between sincerity and irony. What if, in our haste to show some kind of support for a situation or issue, we click on the "like" without considering what that means? There is no button to click to show our emotional connection to a story, or our dismay. Heaven forbid we should take the time to leave a clear comment, or take the dialogue offline and discuss consequences and potential action. Nope, JUST CLICK "LIKE"! Which I am starting to think may just mean "I have read this, and had some ill-defined reaction to it!"

Take this article, for instance. http://http//www.nypost.com/p/news/local/brooklyn/man_dies_after_falling_into_tortilla_4kNCqfH3R3Toodk3aYZoYP
Essentially, a 22 year old man died in a work place incident that should have been preventable. I'm not here to judge work safety issues, or comment on his family's grief, both of which the article touches on. What I want to point out is that, so far, 1838 people have "liked" this story. I'm sorry, perhaps you didn't hear me. ONE THOUSAND, EIGHT HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT PEOPLE HAVE "LIKED" THIS STORY. This story about a young father DYING at work. He fell into an industrial sized dough mixer and his neck was broken. I'm sure his wife, baby, and the family he supports back home in Gautemala will appreciate your ADMIRATION for his death. WTF? How can you "like" this story? What exactly are these "likers" trying to say? What are they trying to convey to their 800 acquaintances on facebook???

Sure, if you are a twelve year old boy, I can see how you might find a modicum of amusement in the fact that someone fell into a big mixer. I'm pretty sure the Road Runner did it at some point. The problem here guys, is that THIS ONE DIDN'T COME OUT. This isn't the Onion. It's a reputable news source reporting on a tragic death with potential ramifications for government workplace safety issues. But by all means, go ahead and share your amusement with all your old high school buddies on facebook!

Or maybe these "likers" are really just trying to convey some kind of deeper connection to the story. Yes, thats clearly conveyed by one commenter, who wrote "As soon as I saw the headline I was like 'Ohhhh boy' and already felt guilty for the fact that I was about to laugh at some of the comments." FANTASTIC. Of course there is no way to know what each of those 1838 people intended when they clicked "like." The law of averages would suggest at least some of them meant something more sincere than an enjoyment akin to kaughing at fart jokes. But there is simply NO WAY to know.

The inadequacy of a "like" button to indicate anything beyond "I have read this and had a reaction to it" is astounding, as is people's inability to refrain from using it in a situation which clearly does not warrant "liking." Why everything needs to be connected is beyond me. Can't I just read my twitter feed, click on links that may or not interest me, and read them while trying to avoid clicking through to other distracting stories? Why must I also know who "liked" what, and be left apalled, wondering at their sense of humour, decency and compassion? Though does it really matter what my "friends" think? Are they even my friends at all? But THAT is, yet again, a subject for another post all together.

Context is dead. Long live context.

I Know For A Fact You Are Wrong

You know when something truly tragic happens and the media gets its hands on it and tries to play the sympathy angle but just comes off like a total asshole? That is today.

As I type, the RCMP are diving in a lake looking for the body of a kid who is presumed drowned after the canoe he and two other boys were in capsized. Two of the boys were saved, but, hours later, it would appear the third has been lost to the water, his life over, his family bereft. In the piece being played on a loop throughout the dinner hour on the national television channel, the reporter repeatedly refers to the police as saying that "the most tragic thing about it is that none of the boys were wearing lifejackets or flotation devices." Really? REALLY? That is what you see as the most tragic aspect of this horrific day? Because I am absolutely certain that the most tragic thing is that ONE OF THOSE KIDS DIED. Police believe that this all could have been avoided if the kids had just put on life jackets. Right. This is THE PERFECT TIME to point that out. The fact that kid is dead? ALL HIS OWN FAULT.

Let's be realistic here: the news is a business, and announcers want your attention. They will play on your sympathies and interview a poor tearful boy about his probably dead friend, which is tasteless, perhaps, but at least relevant. But is this really the time to preach to the public about proper water safety at the cottage this summer? Yes, that information should be shared, but now? Now, when divers are underwater trying to find him? Now, when surely his family are lost in despair and prayer, making deals with any deity who will listen, hoping against unrealistic, fading hope that they may see him again? Now, when the people he came to the lake with are still clustered around the shores, not having eaten or gone to the bathroom since that canoe capsized because they cannot bear to walk away?

He is dead. Here are the facts. There is nothing you can do. Breathe. Let the mourners come. Breathe.

Leave the water safety for tomorrow.

Snooze Button Hell: Dreamscape Gone Mad

I love sleep. Not going to lie, I love it like I love candy. When I don't have enough I get very crabby, and pine wistfully for those halcyon days when I could have as much as I wanted. Aaaah, weekends in junior high! When my parents were just happy I wasn't giving them the black eyeliner death stare while moping about begging for money. I can hear my mother now, whispering loudly outside my door, "Richard! Just let her sleep for Christ's sake. I know it's 2 p.m., but at least the air in here isn't quite so rank with teen ennui when she's under the covers!"

I particularly love that moment right before succumbing, and actually fight to stay awake in that suspended, half asleep state to enjoy it more. I find if I think about just the right things in just the right way I can sometimes induce a great dream, wherein I'm a pretty princess on a white pony, or some such awesomeness.

So there I am, maybe being fed crab meat off a diamond spoon by a silent smiling man, when that buzz intrudes. The siren call of morning. Only I tend to ignore it, and go back to sleep. WHERE'S MY MAN SERVANT? Oh, there he is. But wait....why does he have a bulbous red nose now? And where is my crab meat? Oh, he's going to massage my feet. Only he's not. Now he's pulling the skin off my toes to feet to his pet half goat/half dog. WHAT?!?

How does that brief interlude of wakefulness morph my dream into some nightmare landscape where ugly fish walk by waving top hats at me while I slowly drown in rancid butter? Is this punishment for not greeting the day with an immediate puritan work ethic? I ONLY WANTED 8 MORE MINUTES!!!!!

And it only gets worse from there. After the next snooze, it's a leprous goat eating my feet. Then 14 little people from the cast of Wizard of Oz are waving wands over my head, showering me with that original crab meat while goats walk over me, pushing me into the dirt. Etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum. Or at least until I get fed up and get up, totally unrested and weirded out by my own subconscious.

I'M SORRY, sleep gods. Next time I'll get up. Next time I'll sage my damn room before dreaming. Because I am really NOT IMPRESSED with your nightmare version of my blissful rest. Suck it, snooze demons.

I need a nap.

Spare Change Can Buy You Rage

I like to believe I am a tolerant person. In fact, I am . Race, religion, level of physical ability...all these things fade into the gorgeous, grand mosaic of humanity. I'm like Ghandi. However. BIG however. I do not consider douchebaggery to be something we as a people need to accept, all willy-nilly like, as if it's just a cross some people have to bear, like a heart murmur, or a club foot. So when that very special person comes along who makes me wish I were in the second circle of hell instead of in his presence, I'm going to tell you. Yay! I have a blog.

The other day I was in Safeway, picking up a few essentials, and chose the shortest express line in an already fairly empty store. The woman in front of me was questioning her bill, but I had already emptied my basket, and figured she didn't have too many things, so how long could this possibly take to resolve? She insisted on viewing a printout of her receipt BEFORE she would pay, and finally agreed on a total. I'm not sure when Safeway switched to the barter system, but next time I'll bring my crazy skills for debating the relative merits of shaved turkey.

As this woman made a move for her wallet, I breathed a sigh of relief, because someone had at this point put his things on the belt behind mine, so I really couldn't switch lanes without being disruptive and annoying, which, as a rule, I try not to be. Okay, so I at least try not to be annoying. But I digress. As she proceeded to count out 54 pennies toward her $11.54 total, I grimaced with my face down and bit my lip a little. You know, to distract myself from the psychic pain with the physical. Great, 54 pennies counted. Now things will move along.

Only they didn't, internet. I am not making it up when I tell you she then counted out $4 in dimes, with no signs of urgency or of switching to bills at any time in the future. And all this in the EXPRESS LANE.

Yes, I do realize that coins are legal tender. Yes, I realize that people are on fixed budgets and sometimes, every cent counts. In fact, I am also on a budget. Money is often on my mind, and I think very carefully about what I buy. But that doesn't give me the right to be a COMPLETE JACKHOLE and hold up everyone else for (no exaggeration) 10 minutes while spelunking in a backpack for cash. Maybe it was less the incessant counting than the complete disregard for the people behind her, but at this point I wanted to reach over and count out the damn money myself. Ripping the coins out of her hands would have been very satisfying in a very mean spirited way, but I would have savoured it like I do a particularly 80's episode of Glee.

Sadly, I hadn't the time for counting, as at this point I realized I was about to miss my bus, so I rather loudly pushed past her, telling the cashier I didn't have time to keep waiting and would have to leave my items on the belt. The crazy counter did not even acknowledge me, but the cashier did say sorry, though in a voice that suggested I was the bitch in this situation. WTF? Seriously? I'M the crazy one in this waiting for Godot to learn how to count scenario? If there's a look I've perfected in my time on earth, it's definitely my WTF? look, and I gave it mightily as a small consolation.

The moral of the story is this: I'm an impatient bitch and get yourself to a mother f*%^ing bank with your goddamn coins before hitting the store. The End.

p.s. If she had been an elderly woman this whole post would be moot, as I would have dissolved in tears and offered to pay for her, but that's a whole other rant.

Soap Will Not Cleanse You Of Your Sins

I've though about this blog for a while. Set it up, thought about possible first posts, and then left them unwritten. But here it is! Finally, a product that angered me enough to leave my apathy behind and put words to internet. A product that angered me MORE than the disposable one-use hand towels, which angered me mightily. Here it is, the subject of my inaugural rant: Lysol's No-Touch Hand Soap System! Because I'm sure you too have been found, bereft, standing at the sink thinking about how clean your hands would be, if only you didn't have to touch the soap dispenser!

Um, WHAT? So, Lysol, what you're telling me is that I might NEVER have to touch another dirty soap pump again? Well thank CHRIST for that! I can't tell you, internet, the sleepless nights I have spent wondering how on earth I could possibly succumb fully to the obsessive complusive need to wash wash wash my hands when they were CLEARLY not getting cleaned by soap I had to pump myself!

Sorry, indulge me for a moment. My hands are dirty. I go to the sink. Touch the clearly rancid and unholy spectre of the soap pump, thus soiling myself even further. BUT THEN I WASH MY HANDS, RIGHT??? The devil I see in my unclean palms is thus smited, no? Am I mistaken here, thinking that soap cleans? Curious.

Now I am unsure which of the other offensive angles to discuss next. Because obviously, the soap pump is full of anti-bacterial soap, as opposed to useless old regular soap. So let's kill ALL the bacteria we can. ALL OF IT! Except we can't, and now we have no immunity and the plague comes back and we're all dead. Or I could talk about how such an automatic beast must be solar powered, right? Only not, as the No-Touch Hand Soap System (TM, am I right?) requires 4 (yes four!) AA batteries. Which we all dispose of properly when they run out, instead of throwing them, leaking chemicals, into landfills near water sources. AAAGH!

Sometimes I just want people to lick old spots they think might possibly be chocolate off their hands and hope for the best. And by sometimes I mean all the time. And if I can talk a No-Touch Hand Soap System buyer into doing this, I sincerely hope it's not chocolate.

Oh, wait. I'm feeling a little better. I hated, I ranted, and now I feel...slightly cleansed. Aaaah. Sweet, sweet anger relief. Especially when I think about the No-Touch users trying to figure out how to turn the water off without touching that filthy tap! Although I DO know what could be used to dry their hands. I hear Kleenex makes a great new, one use disposable hand towel for at home use!

I feel another rant coming on already. This blog's going to be exhausting.
Go, internet. Run. Get dirty!