Wednesday, January 26, 2011

in which our heroine engages in some peer review

I think one thing that separates sane people from insane people is that sane people actually expend some effort to make sure they are not insane; to sane people, being sane matters enough to work on it a little. Insane people couldn't give a shit. I know a woman who is pretty much universally agreed to be a little bit batty. Nevertheless, every time I have an interaction with her, I ask myself, "am I crazy?" I go over the situation one more time. Sometimes, I'll check with others, cross-referencing my sanity. I always come out on top. Today, she said something insane in front of a large group of people. There were two or three seconds of awkward silence before the stifled tittering began and someone tried to piece together some kind of response, and I know what was happening during that pause. People were checking to make sure they were not the crazy ones. And they were right. The crazy woman, however, did not question the awkward silence. She didn't question the befuddled response. She just stood there nodding like everything was normal. Because. She is. Insane.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

the persistence of memory

I've been beaten down so long by the corporate bludgeon that is Starbucks that I've forgotten that angrier, eye-rolling-er me who used to ooze resentment all over their faux flagstones and insisted on saying "medium" instead of "grande," verily daring them to pretend they didn't speak my mysterious vulgar cant. NM brought the memories all back earlier this week when she threw up her hands in exasperation and declared "Calm is not a flavor! Refresh is not a flavor! Just tell me what the tea tastes like instead of telling me how to feel!" If she had been a tea, she would have been Rage.

I'd had a little Rage Tea(TM) today when I got to Starbucks for a much-needed post-conference-call sugar shock, and I was reminded of another thing that used to bother a more vibrant, more vital version of me: the Barista Who Thinks You Are Friends. She knows your name! (Well, she knows the Anglo-Frankish version of it.) She remembers that you work in the area! (Or has deduced this from the fact that you're wearing a suit and pumps.) Most of all, she remembers your drink. Except that she doesn't. She has perhaps mixed you up with another person of your gender and ethnicity, but you've never actually ordered that particular proportion of caffeine, sugar syrup, and milk fat that she is currently conjuring onto the side of the white paper cup. So you have to interrupt her tellingly efficient demonstration of intimacy (because really, all this treacle is meant to keep you moving as quickly as possible through the line and out the door before you realize that all this Old World bonhomie is essentially the carcass of a sheep draped grotesquely over the wolf who devoured it). You have to tell her that, in conscious betrayal of all you've been through together, you want to order something else. And for no good reason, you are embarrassed by this. They have tricked you into being ashamed of offering them money in exchange for the thing that you want.

The smartest thing I ever read about Starbucks comes from a article by Jacob Weisberg: "The unappreciated business genius of Starbucks is not charging $4 for a latte but rather giving adults permission to drink milkshakes, on the pretext that they are merely tea or coffee." The baristas' drink-memorization gambit reinforces this notion, that an upside-down caramel macchiato with whip cream and chocolate sprinkles is just the way you take your coffee, in the same way that someone else might have it black with two sugars. Rather than a liquified candy snack (presaging a wider movement away from solid food), it is something that you can reasonably be expected to drink every morning and not tire of; it is a 300-calorie part of your routine, and therefore your identity. And changing that, suddenly and without warning, is a betrayal. It's a betrayal of yourself, and a betrayal of your friend, the barista.

Sunday, January 9, 2011


You don't have to be insane to take a shot at a politician. You just have to honestly believe in your heart what so many people keep saying on the news: that that person is essentially a Nazi who is going to kill your grandmother. This is where the unconscionable state of our political discourse has gotten us.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


So, because I'm only sporadically diligent about blogging, I've decided to become a fully integrated web personage and connect my Twitter feed to my Blogspot* and Facebook* Wall. Now, if I ever need to create a downloadable** version of my personality based on my digital footprint, a la CAPRICA, I will have an easier time of it.

*Apparently Blogspot's spell-check doesn't recognize the word "Blogspot," which, ya know, it coined. Similarly, Facebook's spell-check doesn't recognize the word "Facebook."

**This is really a silly way to recreate someone's personality. Think of all the web applications you share, or all the things you've purchased online for other people. If someone tried to do this to me based on my Amazon and Netflix accounts, they might very well end up with a marathon-running homosexual man who really, really likes children's art supplies.