I've never used crack.
I never thought that would bother me, but now I have strong feelings about a thing called Trivia Crack and I wish I knew just how closely the two are related.
My guess is that, aside from the superficial, market-y, tongue-in-cheek type comparisons (so addictive! fun to share with friends, but then you get mad at each other for weird reasons!) the two actually have very little in common. Trivia Crack may waste some of your time and strain your eyeballs, but it has not been decimating impoverished communities for the last three decades.
This is where my strong feelings come in: Trivia Crack is dumb. The name is dumb, the questions are dumb, and if my victorious record against strangers can be believed, most of the people playing it are dumb (because seriously, y'all, I don't even know where I am most of the time). And yet, I have played maybe fifteen games since downloading it on Saturday. I've seen and heard of many other people playing it. There are t-shirts featuring "Trivia Crack characters".
I don't get it, but it's a thing in America, and so I care (see also: most politicians, the VMAs, Sex and the City reruns).
Dearest America, why are we getting all excited about something named Crack? Why do we not think it is wack? Would you play a game called Trivia Booze or Trivia Endemic Community Problems?
Actually...America has a strange, long, presumably proud history of naming things in a way that one sincerely hopes never turns out to be literal: Death by Chocolate, the surprisingly web-savvy Slap Ya Momma hot sauce, Kahlua Mudslide, Sex on the Beach (think of the sand, people -- it's not worth it!). Hell, we have a long tradition of just calling things "crack" when what we really mean is "it's really good". I've seen crack pie, crack cookies, crack brownies -- almost all sweets, although I'm sure that there's a bacon crack somewhere - the pinnacle of "add this word to anything to make it sound good" mania.
And I guess the "mania" bit is what's really tying me in knots about this game. I don't know much about crack, but I've been led to believe that it makes you feel PHENOMENAL. And then it makes your life EXCRUCIATING. It's a substance of extremes, of power - it gets hold of you, and then your life cannot be separated from it. Naming the best pie or brownies or bacon in the world pie/brownie/bacon crack is still extreme, but it makes sense. I have been transported by pie! I have felt like I might be willing to shiv someone over some really great bacon! I understand the highs and lows, the agony and the ecstasy of America's relationship with food.
Life-changing pie, however, Trivia Crack is not. I've been, at turns, mildly annoyed and slightly smirky about it, just as I've been about a lunchbox-clammy RingDing. Calling it "crack" goes way beyond normal salesman-like braggadocio. It's utter nonsense that tears at the fabric of our shared language and, thus, our culture.
We all know marketers are lying to us, but the lie is supposed to have some hope of truth in it. If we don't stop this fast-rolling boulder of misnaming now, grocery stores will start labeling day-old bread "loaf o' crack"; my terrible mailman will earn the title "bacon mail crack"; TMZ will be "the crack of television journalism"....and then, all of a sudden, crack will mean bad...and then it will all make sense...
Disregard all of the above, Trivia Crack, and godspeed!
Monday, August 31, 2015
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
My Ovaries Did Not Steal Your Soul
I write about commercials a lot, I know. Here's the thing: ad men speak the hearts and minds of America. That's their job. They know us better than we know ourselves, and they use that knowledge to hypnotize us into a frenzy of purchasing:
"You have a problem with your dad? This nice, bearded, dad-ish-looking (but not too dad-ish because he's also kind of hot) guy will now sell you soap. Use the soap to wash away the metaphorical ickyness you feel about your dad, and you will feel better about that whole real-life problem thing."
That's fine - pensieve me to pieces, ad-men, because I want to be sold products that are appealing. I love soap! And psychological closure! I don't, however, like it when you sell a lifestyle that is in direct competition with me.
For instance, you know that ad where the guy - just your average dopey white dude - has a beautiful wife and healthy, happy kids and a ridiculously grand house in the suburbs that he surely got using his wife's money because he doesn't seem to ever go to work, just drives the kids around and barbecues?
You don't know which one I'm talking about? Come on, the one where the guy has all this, but he's still sad because something's...missing?
You still don't know? No? And the kids grow up, and fake iPhone commercial music plays in the background with hipsters going "Oh oh oh OH" and you maybe want to cry but you're not sure why? That one? You know! You don't?
TRICK QUESTION! You will never figure out which one I am talking about, America, because it is ALL OF THE ADS that are designed to appeal to my husband:
"Are you a man? Are you a man with ABSOLUTELY NO PROBLEMS because you are in the charge of the entire world? Buy this thing anyway - just in case."
The SadWhiteDude-ificiation of America continues. Cars, soaps, watches, cheeseburgers - it doesn't matter what the product is because the thing being sold is a man and the maintenance of his manliness. Man-tenance seemed silly but harmless, until I realized that somehow, some way, the thing getting in the way of every man's manliness - according to the commercials - is me. A man's living his life, growing chest hair, polishing guns, whatever, until some lady shows up. Then, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she drops a cute farmhouse on his head, and it's all over for him (although, you know, he lives in the farmhouse with babies instead of shriveling up underneath).
There's a car commercial out now that exemplifies this whole "women are master hunters of the man beast" thing. The commercial tracks the relationship of a man with his automobiles. There are other human people somewhere in this guy's life, but they are irrelevant to his trajectory. He is a meteor of manliness streaking across the night sky in his shitty foreign car, and none may touch him in his glory. He gets his first car when he is 16 because, of course, privilege. Then he goes to college (like, of course! white dudes!) where he majors in grilling and pranking. Then marriage. There's a fleeting shot of a babe in a white dress; SHE DOES NOT MATTER. Then kids. Gotta drive them around for, like, ever. But then, THEN -- praise God who is clearly a dude -- those little turds go off somewhere, the wife is...out (shopping? who cares!), and Man Guyly can finally go back to driving his little red roadster, which is all he's wanted his whole life so leave me alone, okay? Gawd! The tagline is something like, "Be yourself again."
What kind of gaslighting has that babe in the white dress been running on this poor man for all of these years? Did she clunk him on the head each morning? Convince him his name was Darren? Force him to stay at home grilling all those nights when really all he wanted was a nice Panera salad?
In other words, how in the world did having a wife and kids and a billion new cars over the last 25 years stop this guy from feeling like "himself"? How much more himself would he have been living alone in his roadster on the edge of a picturesque cliff? Either this commercial is demented or I need to reevaluate my entire understanding of the man psyche.
"The old ball-and-chain" is a weird idea to be reintroducing to the American public right now. Poor old Man Guyly and his roadster do not have to sneak off to the Elk Club to get a little peace and quiet, and I'm not sitting at home in fluffy slippers fretting over whether he'll like my Jell-o salad. I'm not trying to be married to a guy who hides his true identity from me for decades or who turns into DadBot3000 (generic model, no upgrades) the moment our family gets too big for a two-seater coupe.
Yet, thus spake the ads, and thus my concern. Is this what dudes really feel like? As they circle the board in the Game of Life, do they feel not victory but
? If so, what can I possibly do to stop it?
It's almost enough to make me want to go out and buy some stuff - you know, fun things, cars, cheeseburgers, make-up - just to improve my life a little bit. Just in case. So I can feel like myself again.
"You have a problem with your dad? This nice, bearded, dad-ish-looking (but not too dad-ish because he's also kind of hot) guy will now sell you soap. Use the soap to wash away the metaphorical ickyness you feel about your dad, and you will feel better about that whole real-life problem thing."
That's fine - pensieve me to pieces, ad-men, because I want to be sold products that are appealing. I love soap! And psychological closure! I don't, however, like it when you sell a lifestyle that is in direct competition with me.
For instance, you know that ad where the guy - just your average dopey white dude - has a beautiful wife and healthy, happy kids and a ridiculously grand house in the suburbs that he surely got using his wife's money because he doesn't seem to ever go to work, just drives the kids around and barbecues?
You don't know which one I'm talking about? Come on, the one where the guy has all this, but he's still sad because something's...missing?
You still don't know? No? And the kids grow up, and fake iPhone commercial music plays in the background with hipsters going "Oh oh oh OH" and you maybe want to cry but you're not sure why? That one? You know! You don't?
TRICK QUESTION! You will never figure out which one I am talking about, America, because it is ALL OF THE ADS that are designed to appeal to my husband:
"Are you a man? Are you a man with ABSOLUTELY NO PROBLEMS because you are in the charge of the entire world? Buy this thing anyway - just in case."
The SadWhiteDude-ificiation of America continues. Cars, soaps, watches, cheeseburgers - it doesn't matter what the product is because the thing being sold is a man and the maintenance of his manliness. Man-tenance seemed silly but harmless, until I realized that somehow, some way, the thing getting in the way of every man's manliness - according to the commercials - is me. A man's living his life, growing chest hair, polishing guns, whatever, until some lady shows up. Then, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she drops a cute farmhouse on his head, and it's all over for him (although, you know, he lives in the farmhouse with babies instead of shriveling up underneath).
There's a car commercial out now that exemplifies this whole "women are master hunters of the man beast" thing. The commercial tracks the relationship of a man with his automobiles. There are other human people somewhere in this guy's life, but they are irrelevant to his trajectory. He is a meteor of manliness streaking across the night sky in his shitty foreign car, and none may touch him in his glory. He gets his first car when he is 16 because, of course, privilege. Then he goes to college (like, of course! white dudes!) where he majors in grilling and pranking. Then marriage. There's a fleeting shot of a babe in a white dress; SHE DOES NOT MATTER. Then kids. Gotta drive them around for, like, ever. But then, THEN -- praise God who is clearly a dude -- those little turds go off somewhere, the wife is...out (shopping? who cares!), and Man Guyly can finally go back to driving his little red roadster, which is all he's wanted his whole life so leave me alone, okay? Gawd! The tagline is something like, "Be yourself again."
What kind of gaslighting has that babe in the white dress been running on this poor man for all of these years? Did she clunk him on the head each morning? Convince him his name was Darren? Force him to stay at home grilling all those nights when really all he wanted was a nice Panera salad?
In other words, how in the world did having a wife and kids and a billion new cars over the last 25 years stop this guy from feeling like "himself"? How much more himself would he have been living alone in his roadster on the edge of a picturesque cliff? Either this commercial is demented or I need to reevaluate my entire understanding of the man psyche.
"The old ball-and-chain" is a weird idea to be reintroducing to the American public right now. Poor old Man Guyly and his roadster do not have to sneak off to the Elk Club to get a little peace and quiet, and I'm not sitting at home in fluffy slippers fretting over whether he'll like my Jell-o salad. I'm not trying to be married to a guy who hides his true identity from me for decades or who turns into DadBot3000 (generic model, no upgrades) the moment our family gets too big for a two-seater coupe.
Yet, thus spake the ads, and thus my concern. Is this what dudes really feel like? As they circle the board in the Game of Life, do they feel not victory but
? If so, what can I possibly do to stop it?
It's almost enough to make me want to go out and buy some stuff - you know, fun things, cars, cheeseburgers, make-up - just to improve my life a little bit. Just in case. So I can feel like myself again.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Not a Funny Post
My dog died Sunday afternoon.
It seems stupid to write about it - like some New Agey closure workshop - and it seems stupider to write about it here. I know that if the one, lone hopeful who may still check this page comes here looking for chuckles, she will be disappointed. Sorry, lone hopeful -- I can't think of anything to do right now that doesn't make me cry, and at least here I won't lose what all I'm trying to say.
I just accidentally read a great essay about this very thing by Actual Professional Writer Meghan Daum, in her book The Unspeakable. I will do my best not to mindlessly plagiarize, but I do want to emphasize a point she made about dogs being adult security blankets. The thing I am saddest about (and I know this is selfish) is that there's no one for me to talk to or hug whenever I want. My husband wouldn't mind too much, until I started expecting him to greet me at the door and uncontrollably kissing me whenever I came within range. It wouldn't be the same.
Of course, I don't just feel bad for me. I feel bad for my husband, who also has no one that will sit stoically beside him while he pats her head and yammers about his day, his drive, his crazy wife. I feel bad for the dog, who got very sick very fast and had a tough go of it in the last week of her life (although on that last day, she was hand-fed an entire can of food - her first full can since hospitalization - and then held in my husband's lap for a good twenty minutes while we cooed and giggled and gave her as much coddling as any dog could hope for). I hate that she was alone when she died, and I also hate that I am sort of guiltily glad we weren't there to see it.
Everything sucks right now. My dog is gone, I'm almost thirty, I'm on my period, and I have a mere three days until I am shunted into the void of summer, where, instead of spending days sharing secret margaritas with Ella while Gerard is at work, I now have nothing but time to miss that beast. She deserves to be thought about a lot, but I don't know if I can bear it. The same way we deserve to have a clean house but haven't been able to sweep up the last of her hair or scrub the last of her drool from the walls. We even agreed today not to wash the shorts Gerard was wearing when he cuddled and fed her that last day - even though they are covered in slobbery food crumbs.
I know that this feeling will subside. The emptiness -- as though we'd tied a string from her to our us and, when we drove away from the animal hospital, she yanked our insides out like bloody baby teeth -- it will fill in. Mostly. With different stuff. But it will. Now, though, it is hard, and it seems so, so unfair and unreal. Like some Game of Thrones shit.
Unlike HBO, though, real life has no magic reset button (also wayyyy fewer titties - sorry dudebros), so I'm just going to quickly write down things I loved about Ella so they're always here for me to flip back to when I'm ready. In no particular order:
1. Sharking: This is what we called it when she would circle around the bed or the ottoman, just waiting for us to dangle a body part over for her to lick.
2. All the snorting (and other disgusting noises). We were frequently awoken by her snorting just outside our closed door, the cute version of this:
3. Her adorable freaking face...
...which remained adorable...
4. Her accommodating nature. You could do anything to this dog - pick her up, use her as a pillow, stick your fingers in her mouth - and she wouldn't do anything to stop you. I mean, she might jump in your lap and try to lick you to death if you poked and prodded her too long, but really, she was here to please.
5. Hence, The Dance: her greeting for everyone who walked through the door involved much bouncing on the back paws and punching with the front. Oh, and snorting.
6. Agility! This dog could jump like a freaking gazelle. And then she would get very sleepy and drooly.
7. The drool, oh the drool! Man could this dog drool! At the park, it was a deeply disturbing, particularly slime-like form, that would shoot up in long strands that covered her muzzle when she shook. Sometimes it got so thick and long leaves and branches would get stuck in it.
Indoors was more normal. Sometimes it was a steady, faucet-like drip (like when she was watching us cook), sometimes a long, viscous drool stalactite. She was particularly drooly when we ordered Indian food, which she loved. If there is chicken tikka masala in heaven, I know a dog who is swimming in a pool of it Right Now.
8. And while she's doing that, she's going to be making the most crazy, loud eating noises. This dog worked her jowls like Elvis worked his hips. And the smacking and crunching and glormphing that resulted (especiallywith potato chips) was way better than "In the Ghetto".
9. I also liked how she passive aggressively sneezed at cigarette smokers.
10. And how she was a certified idiot at fetch. You could throw something, she would chase it, and then, after making sure it was dead, she would run off. It probably didn't help that her mouth was the worst at all mouth things. She couldn't catch or pick up anything, and she certainly couldn't bite (not that she wanted to).
11. One tap on the couch, and she was up beside you. She knew it was wrong, but she knew what she liked.
12. My god did this dog like comfort. Pillows, blankets, carpets, more pillows -- if it was soft, she was on it.
13. She also liked riding in cars - a throwback to her first day with Gerard, when he drove her all the way to Atlantic City to meet his brother. Our car has drool splotches all of the back windows that we are not ready to clean off yet.
14. Sleeping on dirty clothes. I guess this fits under "comfort-loving", but I like to think she also liked us and our smells so much that she was willing to forgo her bed if she could have our dirty sheets and t-shirts instead.
15. In fact, she loved us so much, she (with the help of a life vest) spent most of one summer in Maine repeatedly conquering her fear of water to save our lives! She would see us splashing in the lake, cry, groan, run up and down the dock, and then gracelessly leap in. She flailed over to use, herded back to shore, and crawled out of the water seething with disgust and fear.
16. Although she could be strong and semi-athletic, one of the best things about this dog was her gentleness. She would never, ever hurt anyone on purpose, and she was surprisingly good with puppies and kids - even the strange little boy who ran up to her on Newark Avenue, grabbed her face and kissed her right on the mouth with no warning. She looked a little shook up after that one, but she allowed it.
a. I mean, for goodness sake, this dog loved holding hands. She would put her paw in your hand and actually squeeze with her little foot pads.
17. She also allowed us to dress her in costumes and coats of varying levels of ridiculousness. Banella was always good for parties.
18. And she was a lovely hostess (once she got over the habit of peeing everywhere from excitement). She loved everyone except our friend Doug who, for reasons we could not discern, was clearly the DEVIL. So he would get growled at, but everyone else would get kisses.
19. She would even sit in their laps if allowed. Ella, like all great, large dogs, had no idea how big she was. She loved it when people sat on the floor (or let her on the couch) and she could curl up between their legs.
20. Aside from us and laps and pillows and Indian food, Ella also loved nature. Getting that dog into the right patch of grass or sand could bring on the fastest, fiercest, surge of joy I've ever seen. She would run in quick circles, gasping, with her mouth wide open, trying to inhale the scene. When she was spent from running, she would plop, flat on her side in whatever it was that had made her so happy and refuse to move.
21. Another move of hers I really liked was the flop and groan: This dog played it cool. She never begged for belly rubs, but if you happened to come by and give her one, she would look up at you for a few seconds and then heave her whole body over with a groan while her legs started kicking around and her head burrowed into the carpet.
22. She was always scared by her own farts.
23. And finally (for now), even though she was the biggest softie in history - seriously, maybe a big pile of custard in a dog suit - she was a great guard dog. At least, she barked a lot. I don't know what would have happened if anyone made it inside, but I did feel safer with her in the house.
I miss her. I love her. I'll never meet another one like her.
It seems stupid to write about it - like some New Agey closure workshop - and it seems stupider to write about it here. I know that if the one, lone hopeful who may still check this page comes here looking for chuckles, she will be disappointed. Sorry, lone hopeful -- I can't think of anything to do right now that doesn't make me cry, and at least here I won't lose what all I'm trying to say.
I just accidentally read a great essay about this very thing by Actual Professional Writer Meghan Daum, in her book The Unspeakable. I will do my best not to mindlessly plagiarize, but I do want to emphasize a point she made about dogs being adult security blankets. The thing I am saddest about (and I know this is selfish) is that there's no one for me to talk to or hug whenever I want. My husband wouldn't mind too much, until I started expecting him to greet me at the door and uncontrollably kissing me whenever I came within range. It wouldn't be the same.
Of course, I don't just feel bad for me. I feel bad for my husband, who also has no one that will sit stoically beside him while he pats her head and yammers about his day, his drive, his crazy wife. I feel bad for the dog, who got very sick very fast and had a tough go of it in the last week of her life (although on that last day, she was hand-fed an entire can of food - her first full can since hospitalization - and then held in my husband's lap for a good twenty minutes while we cooed and giggled and gave her as much coddling as any dog could hope for). I hate that she was alone when she died, and I also hate that I am sort of guiltily glad we weren't there to see it.
Everything sucks right now. My dog is gone, I'm almost thirty, I'm on my period, and I have a mere three days until I am shunted into the void of summer, where, instead of spending days sharing secret margaritas with Ella while Gerard is at work, I now have nothing but time to miss that beast. She deserves to be thought about a lot, but I don't know if I can bear it. The same way we deserve to have a clean house but haven't been able to sweep up the last of her hair or scrub the last of her drool from the walls. We even agreed today not to wash the shorts Gerard was wearing when he cuddled and fed her that last day - even though they are covered in slobbery food crumbs.
I know that this feeling will subside. The emptiness -- as though we'd tied a string from her to our us and, when we drove away from the animal hospital, she yanked our insides out like bloody baby teeth -- it will fill in. Mostly. With different stuff. But it will. Now, though, it is hard, and it seems so, so unfair and unreal. Like some Game of Thrones shit.
Unlike HBO, though, real life has no magic reset button (also wayyyy fewer titties - sorry dudebros), so I'm just going to quickly write down things I loved about Ella so they're always here for me to flip back to when I'm ready. In no particular order:
1. Sharking: This is what we called it when she would circle around the bed or the ottoman, just waiting for us to dangle a body part over for her to lick.
2. All the snorting (and other disgusting noises). We were frequently awoken by her snorting just outside our closed door, the cute version of this:
3. Her adorable freaking face...
...to the end
4. Her accommodating nature. You could do anything to this dog - pick her up, use her as a pillow, stick your fingers in her mouth - and she wouldn't do anything to stop you. I mean, she might jump in your lap and try to lick you to death if you poked and prodded her too long, but really, she was here to please.
5. Hence, The Dance: her greeting for everyone who walked through the door involved much bouncing on the back paws and punching with the front. Oh, and snorting.
6. Agility! This dog could jump like a freaking gazelle. And then she would get very sleepy and drooly.
7. The drool, oh the drool! Man could this dog drool! At the park, it was a deeply disturbing, particularly slime-like form, that would shoot up in long strands that covered her muzzle when she shook. Sometimes it got so thick and long leaves and branches would get stuck in it.
Indoors was more normal. Sometimes it was a steady, faucet-like drip (like when she was watching us cook), sometimes a long, viscous drool stalactite. She was particularly drooly when we ordered Indian food, which she loved. If there is chicken tikka masala in heaven, I know a dog who is swimming in a pool of it Right Now.
8. And while she's doing that, she's going to be making the most crazy, loud eating noises. This dog worked her jowls like Elvis worked his hips. And the smacking and crunching and glormphing that resulted (especiallywith potato chips) was way better than "In the Ghetto".
9. I also liked how she passive aggressively sneezed at cigarette smokers.
10. And how she was a certified idiot at fetch. You could throw something, she would chase it, and then, after making sure it was dead, she would run off. It probably didn't help that her mouth was the worst at all mouth things. She couldn't catch or pick up anything, and she certainly couldn't bite (not that she wanted to).
11. One tap on the couch, and she was up beside you. She knew it was wrong, but she knew what she liked.
12. My god did this dog like comfort. Pillows, blankets, carpets, more pillows -- if it was soft, she was on it.
13. She also liked riding in cars - a throwback to her first day with Gerard, when he drove her all the way to Atlantic City to meet his brother. Our car has drool splotches all of the back windows that we are not ready to clean off yet.
14. Sleeping on dirty clothes. I guess this fits under "comfort-loving", but I like to think she also liked us and our smells so much that she was willing to forgo her bed if she could have our dirty sheets and t-shirts instead.
16. Although she could be strong and semi-athletic, one of the best things about this dog was her gentleness. She would never, ever hurt anyone on purpose, and she was surprisingly good with puppies and kids - even the strange little boy who ran up to her on Newark Avenue, grabbed her face and kissed her right on the mouth with no warning. She looked a little shook up after that one, but she allowed it.
a. I mean, for goodness sake, this dog loved holding hands. She would put her paw in your hand and actually squeeze with her little foot pads.
17. She also allowed us to dress her in costumes and coats of varying levels of ridiculousness. Banella was always good for parties.
18. And she was a lovely hostess (once she got over the habit of peeing everywhere from excitement). She loved everyone except our friend Doug who, for reasons we could not discern, was clearly the DEVIL. So he would get growled at, but everyone else would get kisses.
19. She would even sit in their laps if allowed. Ella, like all great, large dogs, had no idea how big she was. She loved it when people sat on the floor (or let her on the couch) and she could curl up between their legs.
20. Aside from us and laps and pillows and Indian food, Ella also loved nature. Getting that dog into the right patch of grass or sand could bring on the fastest, fiercest, surge of joy I've ever seen. She would run in quick circles, gasping, with her mouth wide open, trying to inhale the scene. When she was spent from running, she would plop, flat on her side in whatever it was that had made her so happy and refuse to move.
21. Another move of hers I really liked was the flop and groan: This dog played it cool. She never begged for belly rubs, but if you happened to come by and give her one, she would look up at you for a few seconds and then heave her whole body over with a groan while her legs started kicking around and her head burrowed into the carpet.
22. She was always scared by her own farts.
23. And finally (for now), even though she was the biggest softie in history - seriously, maybe a big pile of custard in a dog suit - she was a great guard dog. At least, she barked a lot. I don't know what would have happened if anyone made it inside, but I did feel safer with her in the house.
I miss her. I love her. I'll never meet another one like her.
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