Why isn't there a 'Dislike' option?

If I had to pinpoint the single greatest cause of wasted time and potential, and quite possibly the downfall of humanity and the eventual facilitator of the Apocalypse, it would be Facebook.  I hate Facebook.  I also love Facebook.  It's like the Ring of Power, and I am Gollum.  I don't want to need it, but I do, just like air and beer.  Would I be a stronger, more awesome person if I did not need it?  Undoubtedly.  But I do.  I have actually caught myself checking my homepage less than five minutes after I browsed away from it, as if I am so popular and my life is so rife with moment-to-moment intrigues and social upheavals that something significant and urgent might have occurred in the lapse.  In point of fact, Facebook panders to the complete opposite: it fosters the illusion of a thriving social life for those who have none.  If we were really as busy and socially-committed as our FB profiles suggest, we would not have time for "Facebooking" (the mere fact that this is a semi-legitimate verb, or at least an acceptable meme, is a testament to just how insidious the phenomenon is).  We even invented the term "social networking" to justify aimlessly clicking our way around terabytes of information we mostly already know for hours at a time.  Why do we do this?  I don't know, but I am as guilty as any of doing it.

For a while, it was a novelty.  Years ago, I recall actually learning things about people on Facebook.  "Gee, I never knew Terrence, that kid I once made eye-contact with in third grade, was a platypus enthusiast."  There was even a feature, which I am not sure still exists and am too lazy to investigate, that generated random quizzes on your friends.  Basically, it was an unending stream of questions about your contacts gleaned from their profiles.  "Which one of your friends enjoys Blacking out on Arrow peppermint schnapps?"  (A trick question in my case, as most of my friends liked doing that, but a good illustrative example nonetheless).  This had the added benefit of boosting your self-esteem, because it proved how smart you were and what a good friend you were.  One of my friends was also fond of randomly inviting hot girls to our parties back in Facebook's early days, thus inaugurating the era of "Facestalking."  He is, of course, too humble to claim that invention, so I will refrain from naming him here.

I am, however, pleased to say that I have not fallen into the abysmal chasm of digital inanity that Facebook has become in recent years.  I think it first began with 'Gifts' and 'Applications.'  I am fairly certain Facebook invented the term 'Application,' meaning 'worthless program of dubious intent,' before Macintosh, Verizon, and every other goddamned company with a single microchip to its name jumped on the bandwagon.  Shrewd and cynical observer that I am, I was quick to point out that, hey, this is kind of . . . stupid.  I refused all application invitations on principle and urged others to do the same, lest their lives be consumed in vicarious nonsense.  Little did I know how blithely the masses would ignore my dire warning.  The apps multiplied like rabbits.  Then came that six-month period when I had to reject roughly seventeen invitations per day to join Mafia Wars.  Farmville was soon to follow.  Now, when my sidebar ads are not urging me to nail hot, scantily-clad single Christian mothers, they insist I must join The Best Facebook Game Ever!!!!!  At the risk of sounding cliche, isn't that like being the smartest kid with Downs' Syndrome?  I seem to be the only human being who realizes that, brace yourselves, none of this is real.  It's all fake.  And it doesn't even stimulate or numb the senses as a properly violent and flashy video game would.  Why bother?

But the latest thing is perhaps the most annoying to me, or is at the very least foremost in my mind.  'Liking.'  As with so many mundane and once-acceptable words, the Internet has turned the simple, versatile term into a trademarked pseudo-activity.  Apparently, the 'Interests' and 'Activities' portions of my profile are not enough; the world must know everything that I like, and have a separate outlet to broadcast that vital information.  I was actually asked to register my opinion on 'The Great Pizza Debate,' which is evidently a fulminating hot-button topic revolving around crust-preference, a bitter discourse rivaling abortion and gun control in the public mind.  Or something.  Seriously?  Then they ask me to 'Like' this.  Really?  Why isn't there a 'Dislike' option?  I would find that infinitely more useful when I am perusing Facebook.  Or maybe a 'Loath' button.  Better still, a 'Fuck This Shit' button.  What sort of digital democracy is this where I am given only one option, to 'Like' or have no vote at all?  What is this, the Soviet Union?  I suspect Mark Zuckerberg and company are planning to slowly implement a new world order by gradually dulling our minds and perceptions of reality with a miasma of pseudo-information.  How long until they install jacks in the backs of our skulls and plug us in?  The Social Network be damned.  Mark Zuckerberg, consider yourself Unfriended.

Roundabouts: not just for Britain anymore

A quick tutorial for my fellow Americans in the use of roundabouts:

For those who do not know, roundabouts are those places that look like four-way intersections in the road, but where a reassuring, familiar four-way stop would be there is instead a baffling circle.  Many of you regard these phenomena as terrifying, alien vortices of traffic-confluent death, and so they can become for the uninitiated.  Judging from what I have seen at the two roundabouts just down the block from my house, approximately nine in ten Americans view the mysterious "traffic circles" this way.  But it is not so difficult to navigate them as you might think.
First, the vehicles in the roundabout always have the right of way.  There are no exceptions to this.  If you are in the circle, do not yield to incoming cars, no matter how polite and deferential you feel like being.  Not only does this utterly defeat the streamlining intent of the roundabout, it is actually extremely lethal to those motorists behind you in the loop, who may be clipping along at a good 25 miles per hour, based on the assumption that there will not be a parked car before them.  Your act of Good Samaritanism may in fact endanger the lives of every driver in the traffic circle.  Way to go.
Second, if you are outside the roundabout waiting to get in, you must yield to the left.  That means that if you see a vehicle coming along from your left, you must make an assessment: is said vehicle far enough around the loop for you to enter without forcing said vehicle to brake in dramatic fashion?  If so, go for it.  If not, wait until the fucking car is past you.  Remember what I said about the motorists in the roundabout having the right of way?  Well, that applies to everyone, not just you, Paul Walker.  And trust me, your low-riding 2001 Honda Civic does not accelerate fast enough for such maneuvers just because you put a whale-tail spoiler on the trunk and racing stripe decals down the sides.
Third, roundabouts are one-way.  Period.  For fuck's sake.
For the nation that can proudly, drunkenly claim to have invented NASCAR, we sure seem to have difficulty grasping the basic concept of driving in a circle.  Let's not give those snooty, tea-sipping, crown-worshiping Brits another reason to besmirch us, friends.  Rise up, and responsibly use a roundabout!

I love my job

I work at a casual dining restaurant where I serve and tend bar, much to my chagrin.  For the protection of parties both innocent and guilty, and to avoid getting fired and/or sued, I will not say which one or where.  If there is one thing I learned in five years of college, racking up some $29,000 in student debt, it's that you don't need even a GED to serve.  However, it there is one thing I have learned from serving, it is that the average human being is an annoying, unobservant, selfish, impossibly stupid creature.

Actual interactions I have had/witnessed with customers:

Customer: (pointing at menu item labeled 'Chicken Fajitas') These chicken fajitas, are they beef?

Me: (stare for approximately two seconds to determine whether she is joking, giving her ample opportunity to either laugh and/or correct herself, then stare for another two seconds as I realize she is not joking and my brain threatens to implode) Nope, (pointing at the item, with particular emphasis on the 'chicken') it's chicken.

Customer: Oh, ok.

****

Taking a to-go order over the phone from someone who is trying to find out just how late she can pick up her food (ie. just before we lock the doors for the night).

Customer: Do you have zucchini fries or anything?

Me: (struggling not to burst out, “What the fuck are zucchini fries?”) Uh, no, they're just regular.

****

Another to-go order, at the dinner rush, during one of the busiest days our restaurant has seen in weeks.

Customer: You have ribs?

Me: (mildly irritated that they would call with such woeful knowledge of the menu, right when I have three people asking me to help get food and drinks to roughly seven different tables) Yes, we do.

Customer: How much do those cost?

Me: (growing more impatient as people yell for help, remembering that my own guests have not seen me for at least five minutes) About 17 dollars for a full rack.

Customer: Ok, so do they come with sides?

Me: (feeling an aneurism coming on, as indicated by the throbbing blood vessel right behind my twitching left eye) Yup, any two sides (bearing in mind that we offer eight or nine different sides).

Customer: So what are my choices?

Me: I'm very sorry, but everyone who answers the phone is a server with tables. We are extremely busy right now. If you go to our website, you can read our entire menu, and even order online if you want. Sorry. Goodbye. *click*

****

Customer: Do you have Mellow Yellow?

Me: No, sorry.

Customer: You had it last time.

Me: Maybe at another location, but not here. I've been here almost three years.

Customer: Oh (looking confused).

****

Customer: Blah-blah-blah-inane-bullshit.

Their Child (which is gender-neutral and resembles Gollum, from Lord of the Rings): *using its mother's cell phone as a pestle and the cracker-caddy as a mortar, grinding the saltines contained therein to dust*

Me: Yeah (numb, staring at this blatant display of child mismanagement).

Later . . .

Their Child: *choking on something, coughing, only furthering its resemblance to Gollum*

Me: (since its parents seem oblivious) Hey, buddy, you all right?

Their Child: *instantly stops coughing and eyes me warily, a strange look on its face*

Me: (restraining the urge to burst into laughter, as the toddler now looks more like Gollum than ever) All right, I'll be right back.

More to come, I can promise, sadly.

Into the darksome rabbit-hole we plunge . . .

Blogs. How stupid. When the phenomenon-to-be of blogging first entered the sphere of my consciousness half a decade ago, I had difficulty grasping it. I could not wrap my head around the idea that people, the general population no less, was under the impression that (1) their thoughts were worth sharing via a global forum and (2) other people, mostly strangers, would actually read such thoughts. This involves actively seeking out others' drivel and stupidity, as opposed to just randomly encountering it in line at the bank, on the roads, and more or less anywhere else humans might be found. Granted, it can be temporarily amusing (or quite exciting, when mental flatulence and vehicular maneuvers converge), but were people really out there searching for ways to further immerse themselves in the miasma of idiocy? It didn't seem plausible, and I kept trying to figure out if there was some kind of secret payoff nobody wanted to tell me about. Like maybe free animal crackers. Well, I don't like animal crackers (which are truly cookies), and I like mindless self-indulgence even less. And that was what blogging seemed to be: self-congratulatory, pointless bullshit, a further debasement of the great tool Al Gore intended the Internets to be (enjoy my savvy, bipartisan, outdated political jokes? Just wait).

Well, now I am older. A lot older, or at least it feels that way. And, as wise as I thought myself back then, I am now fairly certain I am even wiser. So, I decided to look into this blogging thing afresh . . .

First off, really original visual scheme, blogspot.com. That blue masthead with the reassuringly rounded white letters, it is all so familiar and friendly . . . because it looks just like Facebook. Brilliant. Already, my fears of mediocrity are allayed. Next, I come across the official explanation of blogging, which assures me that, while some private citizens (read: imbeciles) simply use Blogger to share their profound emo-ness with the world, some important people (read: empowered assholes) “command influential, worldwide audiences of thousands.” They are promising me Hitler-like powers. For free. Then, they tell me it's not only free, but easy. I don't have to learn HTML. No knowledge of website design required. A highly-trained monkey may be sent to my house to type for me. In other words, I am being offered supreme potency for minimal effort on my part. It's like those fantastic diet pills they sell on TV late at night, alongside amateur porn, that promise me I don't need to change my self-destructive, lazy habits to lose weight and achieve all my goals. Except Blogger isn't selling me this American Dream; they are giving it to me. Free.

So it is with a heavy heart and much self-resentment that I take up my imaginary pen and indulge in this digital form of hedonism. No promises . . .