Accusations XVIII

People who keep posting the following as their Facebook statuses in response to the earthquake and tidal wave(s) off the coast of Japan:

´¯`·.´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸PRAYER WAVE¸.·´¯`·.´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸ Going out to all those affected in Japan, the Pacific and everywhere else affected by the earthquake and tsunami. Keep this going ♥

Isn't this a bit like wishing a "gas chamber of peace and happiness" would envelop Jews after the atrocities they experienced in the death camps? Using the word "prayer" before the explicit (and illustrated) reminder of the devastating waves washing away Japanese coastal buildings and towns doesn't actually make it okay, dudes.

Sensitive response fail.

"Saint Andrew, I've been true."

I have believed in story arcs: conflict, climax, resolution. I have believed that life is secretly like The Wonder Years, needing only a voice-over narrator to balance the story and smooth over the edges. I have not believed in chaos.

This certainty, this reliance on a grand-design narrative, is the hallmark of a True Believer, and I have been one. I have attributed actions and events variously to God or to the devil, to testing or trials or punishments or sin or saintliness. I have been reassured by identification of causes, and their effects.

I have repented and been washed of my doubts.

I have turned from repentance, and embraced them.

If God had allowed me to go to Vietnam when I most wanted to – when I had wanted to for ten years – I might have forgiven him. But he sent me to China instead.

If God had not broken apart the plans to live together, with friends, after college, I might have forgiven him that – or if God had not so drastically altered the school at which I taught in DC, I might have been merciful.

If God had allowed me to move to York and start a community, I may have been at peace. But I could not, and so I wasn’t.

If God had not included so many stories of these breaks and alterations and disappointments in the Bible, I might have had the strength to leave him – but they anticipate my complaints, my accusations, my enraged confusion, so I cannot. I cannot purge my body of this understanding that God, some God, exists.

It has been slowly coming into me that God, some God, is not causes and not effects, but something else. This God may be mystery; this God may be the strange harmony of coming into a new place and recognizing, and being recognized. This God may not care what I do or who or why I am the way I am. This God may happen to everyone, regardless. This God may want to love choice and complexity instead of steadfast, earnest purity. This God -- capricious and strange and real -- may allow me, out.

I cannot prevent myself believing in God -- I only don’t know which God is true -- but I am departing the first to be received by the second. I only need to come to terms with chaos, with my id-love for it. I need to embrace mystery and harmony and no-explanations.

At the crux of my soul, I am as I have always been. I believe, and I protect my belief, my innocence from fatal, soul-killing error, with walls and walls and walls -- the same walls, and the same beliefs. Only the walls are changing.

The center still holds.

Accusations VII

The regional manager of the Pizza Hut, who threw out my blue plastic sheepdog cup Friday morning when I left it sitting where I always do in the back room. (I had to fish it out of the trash.)

Celine Dion, for covering Heart's "Alone." And somehow, unimaginably, making it whinier -- and not in a good way.

Whoever left all those rubber bands on the sidewalk in Cambridge, MA last week -- not for littering, no, but for giving false hope to rubber band shooters who then found those bands brittle and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. For shame, sir. For shame.

Accusations II

I accuse:

Jeans manufacturers, who insist on making jeans only in sizes that don't fit me, resulting in my tightening belts in ridiculous ways. Try a little harder, please, so I don't have to pleat my casualwear in order to leave the house in the morning.

The two women who left the ladies' room at the paper today without washing their hands. (I know it was two different women by shoes.) I know that urine is sterile from watching Waterworld, but still.

The movie Waterworld, for existing.

Accusations IV

Singers or bands that include siren-y sounds in their mixes, then release them as singles to be played in the radio: If I get whiplash from looking around for an ambulance or fire truck every time your chorus comes back around, I'm sending you my medical bill.

Singers or bands that include ring-tone-like sounds in their mixes, then release them as singles: If I start missing my calls because I assume it's just your song, you'll be getting a letter from me. (Or a call, if you're Mike Jones.)

People who download ring-tones of their favorite songs, especially those who pause when receiving a call to listen until "the good part": Stop doing that.

Phrases that Never Help, II

Again, below are instructions on how to use these phrases effectively as a joke, and why and how to avoid them under other circumstances.


“Stop obsessing.”
As a joke: You can say this as the culmination to a series of unfounded accusations that the mockee is obsessing over person X or event Y, which is effective particularly if the supposed object of obsession is you, the mocker.

For real: By definition, an obsession is all-consuming, and rare is the two-word-combination that can stop it. (“I do” and “fuck off” are likely exceptions.) The person obsessing is likely in actual distress, but probably does not realize or will not admit it—the state of obsession seems natural and good to them.

Do not attempt to mock the obsessed—who have proven that they have enough focus and drive to take you out if they choose—directly; instead, ascribe the obsessed’s actions to the object of the obsession, i.e. “I bet person X is writing his first name with your last name on every page of his notebook right now, too”; “Person X probably followed you home tonight and rifled through your trash to see what you had for dinner”; etc.

You may also consider inventing your own parallel obsession, countering each of the obsessed’s revelations of minutiae with your own: “Person Y read four out of five of the ‘Humor in Uniform’ stories in the bathroom today.”

It’s possible that through this the obsessed will recognize their personal excesses, but more likely that you will simply be amusing yourself.

That’s all right. It’s important to take time out for yourself in the midst of a crisis.


“Stop worrying.”
As a joke: Similar to “stop obsessing,” though on the whole, less funny.

For real: Telling a worrier to stop worrying will have the opposite of the intended effect, since you’ve now shown them that you are not willing to share the necessary work of preventing disaster through worrying it away. Now they’ll have to do your part of the worrying, too.

The only way to unclench a worrywart is to beat them at their own game. For every new anxiety they mention, respond, eyes wide with concern, “I know—we’re probably all going to die! Probably from this!”

If they object, up the ante until they give up: puppies will be born with grotesque birth defects; well water everywhere will be poisoned; “owls will deafen us with their incessant hooting,” etc.


“Chill out.”
Var. “calm down”—see previous entry.


“No offense, but…”
As a joke: You can use this phrase in select company when you are sure the listeners are in agreement with you, against a third party who is not present, if you follow with something obviously offensive. This is only funny when it is directed at a famous figure for whom none of you have much sympathy, such as the president or Pat Robertson; otherwise, it is cruel.

For real: You will never fail to offend if you begin your remarks with this phrase. Whatever its original meaning, it has now become the verbal equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet; you are signaling your intention to offend while indicating that you refuse responsibility for the offense, which is offensive in itself. Upon hearing it, listeners will immediately begin being offended. This phrase, which is supposedly meant to disarm, is additionally annoying because it’s disingenuous.

Instead of feigning respect for the person to whom you are speaking, then, you might try some refreshing honesty: “I was just thinking something rotten about you and wanted to let you know” or “I feel an obligation to the world at large to tell you to take a bath/discipline your child/go to hell.”

Or you could just keep your mouth shut.

Accusations XIV

People who have 8 flower-girls at their weddings

People who pay the babysitter $5/hour

People who curse out your boyfriend because they wanted to play professional-style, full-rules Texas Hold 'Em and he expected just a good time hanging out with friends

Accusations XIX

My FB friend who CONTINUALLY writes status updates that show that he doesn't believe in vaccinations for his infant child, even though it's clear he decided they wouldn't vaccinate over a year ago during the pregnancy. What makes this most annoying is not only that the decision was made long ago, not only that his sources are fringe science on the internet, not only that he's clearly trying to convince others to also not vaccinate their kids, but that he insists somehow that he's still "looking for the truth" and "trying to find evidence that vaccines work -- but just can't."

Try looking at the entire rest of the internet, or medical science, dude.

Facebook, for not allowing me to select out of my feed status updates from this particular friend that contain the word "vaccine" and still see the occasional non-vaccine-related updates.

Fox News, which by calling themselves "fair and balanced" have brought the meanings of all possible words into question and furthered the ability of people who find fringe groups to shore up their a priori beliefs, to consider themselves "mainstream" despite their obvious fringiness.

Accusations VIII

Vanilla extract, fennel seed and chili powder, for not going together with anything. (Especially the fennel.) Why can't you all just find a way to work together?

Hot dogs, for tasting good. Anything that started out as intestines shouldn't advertise itself as something delicious, let alone actually be delicious.

Fried rice, for not being plain white rice. How could you mess this up? All you have to do is not fry it.

Accusations IX

People who like "Missed the Boat" better than "Parting of the Sensory" or "We've Got Everything" on Modest Mouse's We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank. You're just so, so wrong -- morally and aesthetically.

Snow Patrol, for putting out an album with several half-good songs and a 16-minute track at the end that proves they could have done a lot better on all the other tracks.

Winterpills, for showing up at Iron Horse Music Hall before I knew Iron Horse Music Hall existed, for the tour for an album I didn't know existed at the time. (I know that's unfair to them, but think of how it affected me.)

Accusations XVII

Extreme stupidities found in the online training I had to go through to be certified in safety, and prevention of abuse, neglect and exploitation of disabled individuals:

1. the multiple-choice question that asked examees to select
A. [answer]
B. [different answer]
C. both A and B
D. only A

That's right: A is A, and D is also A.

2. the closed captioning for the audio files that didn't work on my computer, which occasionally read "a direct service provider telling about a time when safety was an issue on the job. Preferably someone with an ethnically diverse voice," instead of giving an actual transcript of the selected audio file.

3. the chapters of the training in which the closed captioning actually advised trainees to "listen to the clip below and then go to the next page." In a training for people learning how to interact with those with various physical and mental disabilities, assuming that anyone who needs to use closed captioning to access the test can still hear the voice clip calls into question your right to teach the material.

Accusations XV

People who let their dogs poop in the middle of the sidewalk chute formed by mountains of snow piled on one side by plows (from the street) and on the other side by yards and the snow removal from the sidewalk -- and then don't clean up their dogs' mess. It is disgusting, and at the very least, it should not be everywhere.

My own ears, which often require me to immediately listen to some song stuck in my brain, or else torture me with phantom music and obsessional thoughts until I'm able to. You're over-zealous; I will get you to a CD player as soon as I can. In the meantime, chill out.

The snow, which will not stop.

Local Trivia, Accusations edition: Stupid Ap-man*

*I've deleted a key letter from this person's trail name, in case he ever Googles himself...because I suspect that that's the kind of person he is.

There's a fellow letterboxer who started before me who cannot spell; this is important because the way to find clues to the box you're looking for is to read them online. He often capitalizes random words in the middle of sentences and believes that every time an 's' ends a word, an apostrophe should come before it.

He sometimes writes clues on how to get to the letterbox "in character"...which is one case is "as a caveman," i.e. "Ooh, ooh, ooh, wood, walk, walk, wood, ooh, ooh, ooh, what's this hard thing?"...which could mean you're supposed to walk over a wooden walkway, then walk for awhile, then find a large stone behind which is the letterbox, but how would one know that? How??

One of his clues says to "go diagonal from the brown building." This is not a direction -- "diagonal" is not north, south, east, west, left or right, up or down; you can't "go" it.

That is not a clue, Ap-man.

Add to these offenses that Ap-man often puts his letterboxes nearby other letterboxers' letterboxes, which is taboo and considered very rude.

He sometimes plants store-bought stamps instead of homemade ones, which is considered kind of low-class unless you're a four-year-old.

Add to that that he has planted over 100 boxes, and all radiating out from Local Town, where I live, so that I almost can't go on a letterboxing hunt without attempting to find at least one of his ill-clued boxes, and you'll begin to see why I can't help ranting about this guy. He's terrible, and inescapable.

Every area has a Goofus for letterboxing Gallants to deal with. I guess as a neurotic, OCD-tending, poison-ivy-phobic, fastidious and nerdy letterboxer, I just wish he didn't seem so carefree and optimistic, assuming he wasn't stepping on anyone's toes, assuming everyone would be glad to find his hidden treasures, scattering boxes wherever he goes like a Johnny Appleseed for rubber stamps.

Accusations X

Drivers who go 35 mph on Route 10 in Cheshire, where the speed limit is 45 mph.

People who complain about their neighborhoods being boring but never take a walk to see what's actually there.

Amateur climbers who go to Yosemite "to climb El Cap!" and get themselves or others injured or killed through amateurish behavior.

Special Features Commentary: Calendarsthenics on CU

Well, all, on the eve of failing for a second month to do all I tacitly promised to do here on CU, I decided my first month of meeting my post-number goals should end with a listing of all I haven't done, and more.

Over the last eight months or so, I've built up a set of expectations that have slowly congealed and eventually hardened into requirements for CU. You may have sensed the presence of these internal regulations already, but thanks to my not always following them, you might have figured they were more like guidelines than rules.

You were wrong. They're rules. I just keep breaking them.

So as to keep your scorecard more accurately riddled with my errors, and to cleanse my guilt over not posting a movie review for two months in a row, now, here's what you can expect from CU, both in the past and in the future.

Remember, though, the telos of Continue Unprotected: My posting a schedule of events is just as likely to cause me to aspire to offend you by continually flouting it as it is to keep me on task.

Posting frequency: I expect myself to post two items a day, ideally one long and one short.

Type of post, and frequency:

Once a week: At least one PSA and one Local Trivia; SYD reviews in season

Twice a month: Confessions

Once a month: Movie Review, In Defense of Poppery, Quantifiable Living, Accusations, Unsolicited Advice, New word, something involving Freud, something involving my personal life or family

Special features, to be posted as inspired: Phrases That Never Help, Mix CD lists, Carte Blanche answers

Anyone who wants to count up the percentage of this schedule I've stuck to and give me some kind of score is welcome to.

Just don't tell me about it.

Accusations VI

I accuse "Olay Ribbons Body Butter with jojoba" of having a stupid name. Body butter? Am I bathing, or basting?

I accuse it also of being purple for no reason.

Finally, I accuse it of squirting me directly in the eye with its non-tear-free ingredients whenever I open the cap; when I squeeze some onto my pink squishy bath sponge; when I squish it into said bath sponge; when I close the cap. Invariably (unless I avert my eyes).

Local Trivia: I accuse my neighbor!

Turns out the subject of the trifecta-from-hell that inspired my first "Accusations" post is my neighbor. Somehow I hadn't noticed this before, but there it was this morning -- the Honda Element with the full-window ad for Fire Prevention on its back window.

It figures, I guess.

Accusations XVI

The librarian who kicked me and the girl I work with out of the library last week, for eating -- which it turns out is against the rules, though we were never reprimanded in three years of eating lunches there, and there are no signs posted -- in the most rude and humiliating of tones. If you're being rude, ma'am, you don't get to also be humiliating; you should be ashamed, instead. For frack's sake, you're a LIBRARIAN.

The school bus driver today who took a left turn in front of me, while talking on his cell phone.

Carlos Mencia, for replacing Stella with his unoriginal brand of idiocy.

Accusations III

Journal manufacturers, for not making journals that I'd want to write in: How hard is it to come up with an attractively-covered, lined, spiral-bound hardcover journal? Until you get your act together, I'm making my own.

Newspaper companies, for cutting staff and then continuing to expect the paper to go out, with no attention to excellence in stories, editing, production or employees: You corporate managers deserve what you're going to get. Move out from on top of everyone else so they don't get crushed when your clay feet give out -- preferably to an old-fashioned leper colony, and continually shouting "unclean! unclean!" so the rest of us can keep a good distance from whatever infection has addled your brains.

The Connecticut state FOI commission: For making it safe for city and town governments to pretend that "freedom of information" means "freedom to keep information from you, city and town residents."

Accusations V

I accuse my elbow -- specifically my right elbow's funny bone -- of slamming itself against my car door. Twice. This afternoon.

I accuse James Taylor. (Of being himself, and singing.)

I accuse all shirts with the "built-in bra" feature. I don't consider myself a hyperbolic person, so I'm serious when I say these never work.