Today in the things I worry about:

Like I mentioned, I moved. I was living in a studio apartment that was attached to someone's house, but now I'm in a complex. It's a concept that dates back thousands of years to Ancient Rome, and yet nobody's yet been able to solve the "living with other people" aspect of it.

Pictured: the best we can do...evidently.

Yeah, the whole post is about laundry.
It's been fourteen years, I'm out of ideas.

Mine is a question of laundry etiquette. The washers and dryers are available between eight in the morning and nine at night, after which you're not supposed to use them because of, I assume, the noise. This morning, I went to put my laundry in at eight sharp. Yeah, I'm that guy. Look, I just want to get it out of the way, you know? So I put mine in the washers, but the dryers are still full of someone's clothes. Ok, so presumably they put a load in last night and didn't take it out, and that's whatever. So I start the washers and come back in half an hour.

Like, for four full minutes...

Of course that person's stuff in still in the dryers. Of course it is. I have two options before me: to wait while my wet laundry slowly molders away and picks up that gross musty smell that wet laundry is want to do, or pull their stuff out, set it on top and get on with my day. I chose the latter. Their clothes were still damp which is a whole other story about handling a strangers' unmentionables, but I took them out anyway, and then washed my hands, like for awhile. And I mean, I don't know what heat settings they want, and I kind of don't want to pay for their load.

In case anyone was unclear where
the line must be drawn, it's here.

There are four washers and four dryers for a building with something like twenty-two apartments. There are one and two bedroom units, possibly three bedrooms, but let's be conservative--as in estimate on the low end, not storm the Capitol building--and guess that there are eleven one-bedrooms and eleven two-bedrooms, so maybe, I don't know, between forty and fifty humans in total generating two loads of laundry a week. What's the protocol here? Just wait while they sleep in? Total anarchy and musty laundry.

So am I the worst? I ask as I sit in my apartment waiting for my stuff to dry, racked with worry that someone is going to be mad at me for touching their laundry. What should I have done? Well, ok, sought therapy. Fair enough. I shouldn't be rehearsing imagined encounters with my neighbor over their laundry habits. But seriously, did I do the right thing? Validate me!

"You wrote about this experience on your blog?
That's interesting, and do people still read...blogs?"

-some therapist

Today in pretentious betrayals:

Pictured: me or, or at least what I think you
think I look like. Also, how dare you?

So it might surprise you to know that I can sometimes be a little...what's the word? Pedantic? Pretentious? Pretentiously pedantic? Yeah, that one. At times I can--what? Why are you stifling a chortle...oh, I get it. Well, my next sentence isn't going to help my case, but here goes: I'm starting a community theatre company with some friends and--ok, let it out. Let me know when you're finished. I'll wait...well? Done? Ok, let's more--what do you mean one more? Fine, see you on the next paragraph.

Above: riches, seen here in their
natural habitat: a yacht. 

So like I was saying, starting a community theatre company, and that necessarily entails asking for money from rich people. Politely. I mean, it shouldn't feel like a mugging, and that means grant writing. Which is not something I know anything about, but luckily for me, one of my partners in this endeavor does. We outline what the company will do: put on plays. Why it will do this: because everybody loves going to plays (humor me). And what we need: funding. Everything was going just fine until we came to the the question of whether it's a theatre company or a theater company. See the issue?

Yup. Is it "-er" or "re." My very sensible collaborators--that is the people I'm working on this with, not like a puppet French government or anything--feel that since this is America, theater with an "er" is correct. I, being a pretentious snob, am riding for theatre: "re." No, I'm not British, but I think sometimes I kind of wish I were British. 

Pictured: me, or at least what I aspire to look like.
Note the daintily raised pinky finger.

I think we all figured out we could just
watch movies at home and sit real close.

My understanding is that the difference is not at all a U.S. vs. British spelling thing, and that both are 100% acceptable and interchangeable in the States. I personally believe that theatre with an "re" should refer to the art form and also the physical building in which plays are performed. Meanwhile theater "er" is exclusively the building regardless of whether or not it's for movies or plays. Like, you wouldn't say IMAX Theatre. Also, are IMAX theaters even still a thing?

Pictured: stampeding wildebeests
subbing in for ear poison.

Doesn't matter, the point is that I thought I was on firm pedantic ground with this one. But then this. No, it's an article, you click on--never mind. I'll sum up: it's an article my friend sent me from Backstage Magazine. While it backs me up on the idea that either is just fine, it also points out that William Shakespeare, as in the guy who wrote Hamlet, and by extension The Lion King, used theater spelled with an "er." God. Damnit. 

To be clear I'm not a conspiracy person.
He definitely existed. I'm just leaving
the door open for the idea that we
might all be living in a simulation.

I am betrayed, by a dead guy who almost certainly existed. The company's name, which is a secret, so don't even ask me to--oh, you weren't? Ok. Anyway, we're going to name the theatre company after a line from one of Shakespeare's plays. It sounds cool and sums up what we're doing, but also people will ask what it's from and then we get to explain it. See? Pedantry. So there's a strong case for the Shakespearian spelling, and we'll use it for grant purposes. I mean, it is admittedly less pretentiously off-putting, and I'll still push for the "re" down the road when we're printing programs or whatever.

But what I'm arguing is that Shakespeare couldn't spell his own name. At least not consistently. Sometimes he wrote it "Shaksper," sometimes it was "Shakspe," and once it was "Shakp." It's like he couldn't be bothered, so why then should I care how he spelled theatre? I mean, he also spelled porcupine as porpentine. Which is objectively ridiculous, so for me it's not super important that we defer to him on this point.

Also he's dead and doesn't get a vote.

Today in judgmental spyware:

What? How dare they? It? I mean, to come out of no where and--huh? How dare who? How dare Facebook's algorithm, that's who. I've made a lot of my lack of understanding of how the thing chooses what ads to throw at me, but I mean:

It's not, as the image would suggest, an ad for a new season of Archer,
but instead an ad for an app that helps you get over porn addiction.

"Wow, my feet are so clean! He really does
get us...you know, maybe I will keep the baby..."

Yeah, an app for people addicted to porn. Well, ok, an app for people who are addicted to porn and want to quit. And if the name of the app, Covenant Eyes, sounds a little Jesus-y to you, that's just because it is indeed super Jesus-y. But not in a you're going to hell you filthy pervert--although you are going to hell, you filthy pervert--but in a Jesus is cool and He gets us kind of way. Which is to say they try and keep the religious angle somewhat on the down low so as not to freak out the normies, but it's definitely there. And a little creepy.

Pictured: just a couple of regular
straight, Christian dudes who keep
tabs on one another's porn habits.

The app tracks your internet usage and then reports it to your "accountability partner." It can be anyone and the website even breaks it down by relationship. Covenant Eyes is for friends, couples, families, and individuals. All you have to do is look someone you care about in the eye and then tell them that you'd like to install an app on your phone that will alert them when you're looking at pictures of genitals on the internet. Then, I guess they're suppose to give you a call. You know, during, and talk you out of it. 

Oh...I don't? Because I absolutely do.
Have it memorized, that is. There aren't
follow-up questions, right? Ok, cool.

Oh, and good news: you don't even have to be a porn addict to use Covenant Eyes. Maybe there's somebody in your life whose interest in porn is bothering you, you know, religiously. Thanks to the app, you can now offer to help. Which I'm sure will be welcome and not at all regarded as an offensive overstep. You don't, as the website helpfully mentions, even have to have The Book of Proverbs memorized. Which I'm sure comes as a great relief. You can just call them up and ask them to download some judgmental spyware.

Look, I know that there are people who find great solace and community in their religion, and that it doesn't matter that I think Covenant Eyes is a creepy, intrusive, and dangerous tool made for people who's worldview doesn't 100% align with my own. That's fine, but what did I search for or click on that made Facebook think I would be interested in this? It's enough to make me wish there was some kind of app I could get a friend to download that would allow them to hold me accountable for what I'm doing--oh...I hear it now.

"All I'm asking is that you let me track your internet usage to
ensure that it aligns with my religious worldview. As a friend."

-definitely a thing friends ask of one another

Clearly pointless!

Sometimes I think we're on the wrong track about the parts of the future that are worth inventing, do you know what I mean? Huh? No? Yeah, that was rather vague.

Above: our grim future...today!

Pictured: a transparent screen.
Not pictured: why.

What I'm talking about is this. And I know you're not going to click on the link, but last month the computer manufacturer Lenovo showed off a transparent laptop at the Mobile World Conference in Barcelona. It is, by all accounts, exactly what it sounds like: a laptop with a clear plastic panel in place of a traditional screen, and your browser window and apps or whatever are displayed on that. Cool looking, yes, but it does beg the question: why would anyone want this. 

Um, ow? Did nobody ever
think this all the way through?

Because the future, that's why. In the same way that playing Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" lets an audience know that a scene is set in the 1940's or blimps hanging over a contemporary city means parallel universe, clear computer screens are a visual cue that establish the future. And since hover cars and jet packs have their own practicality problems--namely three dimensional car accidents and setting one's ass on fire--clear computer screens do, I suppose, suggest the future, right?

Look at that expression of hard work and
creativity, obscured by some primitive, non-
transparent laptop screen. What a waste.

But are they a good idea? Everything I've read about them boils down to "neat, but weird." It seems like it'd be hard to read anything on it, and gone is any semblance of privacy. I mean, obviously one shouldn't be looking up objectionable material in public or at work, and this thing would make it even harder to get away with, but that's basically it. Like, other than giving everyone at the coffee shop a clearer view of your face as you pretend to do work, this doesn't bring much to the table.

It's cool, and that's all. I'm not criticizing, I'm just suggesting that of all the things science fiction uses to tell us it's the future, this is probably the laziest. Don't get me wrong, parts of the 21st century have been spot on. The deteriorating climate, the casually totalitarian political figures, it's a dystopia to be sure. I just wish they'd hurry up with cold fusion and replicators, you know what I mean?

What I'm saying is: get on this.

Adventures in flat-pack

Above: not my apartment, but it
kinda looks like this right now.

What do you mean where’ve you been? I told you, I’m moving. But I’m doing it like ripping off a band-aid. That is, slowly so as to maximize the pain. I’m going over to the old place everyday after work, ostensibly to clean, but mostly I sort of stand there, surrounded by things I don’t need, but for whatever reason can’t throw away. Unnervingly, the psychology of hoarding starts to make sense. Well, after say, forty-five minutes or an hour, I say to myself: job well done get back in my car and leave.

It's best just not to think about it.

The last time I moved, I swore to myself that I would never again buy flat pack furniture. It’s universally junk. It's made from trees that have been cut down, ground up, glued under intense pressure and shaped into boards only to have wood grain painted onto it, it’s the chicken McNugget of lumber and I won’t have it. I’m forty-cough-hrrehww years old, and I am past the flat-pack stage of life. No longer will I endure the ignominy of vague instructions, missing parts, and styrofoam packing material.

They’re cheap, poorly made, and weigh forty times what they’d way if they were just made of, you know, wood. And they’re also shipped here via diesel container ship from China, so in many ways they’re everything wrong with everything.

Sorry about the planet, future generations, but the savings...the savings!

Pfft...who needs craftspeople who
know what they're doing? This particle
board nonsense will last for months. 

Where was I? Oh, right, so after not really accomplishing anything at the old apartment--but making definite, iron-clad plans to absolutely tackle it tomorrow, which is a kind of accomplishment--I go to Target where I buy more flat pack furniture. Yeah, I know what I just said, but we are all of us living in an end-stage capitalist nightmare where "manufactured wood" bookcases are the only option if we want to display all the books we’d like guests to think we’ve read as long as they don’t ask any questions about the content, so Room Essentials 11” 6-Cube organizer it is. May God have mercy on my soul. 

Anyway, all this to say, I’m sure when I’m all settled in, I can get back to voicing my opinions on video games, or Dune or whatever I use this thing for. 

On the upside, Denis Villeneuve downplayed the homophobic characterization
of Barron Harkonnen from the novel. Fat-shaming, however, is on the table, I guess...

The day I became "that guy."

Pizza: the food you eat with your
grubby hands, like a barbarian!

I think I mentioned recently that I'm moving. Moving from the mountain wilderness into civilization and yesterday, sitting in the new place without food, dishes to put food on, and utensils to eat food with, I found myself wanting, you know, food. So I ordered a pizza as is tradition. And I was dimly aware that apps had replaced delivery as a thing. In the last eight years, I think I ordered in exactly twice at my mountain abode. It's hard to find, and at some point it was just easier to go get it myself. Which wasn't really an option last night.

Five or six more days and
I'll think about saying something.

You see, my new apartment has a parking spot, but like, nothing to stop randos from parking in it other than common decency and a vague letter "B" stenciled on it. And that should be enough, but people are the worst, and there's been a Jeep Compass there for two days. I've been formulating a carefully worded passive aggressive note, but haven't quite worked up sufficient frustration to stick it under the windshield wiper. 

Legend has it,* it's actually a Canadian
invention, making it the pizza of my people.

So I ordered a small Hawaiian--the correct pizza, and I will fight you on this--and waited. The app texted me that it was on its way and would I like to track it? Why, of course! So I spent the next few minutes watching as the little car icon wended its way towards me, stopping at my building. "Apartment?" came a text from Everett he driver. "Why, 11 good sir." Said I. But then nothing. No knock, no shout. Just a follow up text saying that my order had been delivered. Which, I mean, it had not.

Thanks Everett...ok, this is not
actually Everett, but you get the idea.

I texted Everett, but no response. I called the restaurant who, despite the din of a very busy night very kindly took the time to inform me that I'd have to take it up with Door Dash. "But it wasn't DoorDash who delivered, and the order tracking screen says to call the restaurant if there's an issue." "That's so weird. Welp, there's nothing we can do, you'll have to take it up with DoorDash." Which, I mean, I could take it up with DoorDash, but I hardly think they'll be able to help since, as I previously indicated, it wasn't DoorDash who didn't deliver the pizza.

And "there's nothing we can do?" Sure there is. They could, I don't know, give me a refund or send another pizza or write an existentialist one act about the futility of life. My point is it's not so much that they can't do anything, it's that they don't feel like doing anything.

Pictured: a pizza chef making what I am given
to understand is a very rude gesture.

"What ever happened to the customer is always
right? And how come kids swear so much?"

-noted that guy, Andy Rooney

To say there's nothing they could do was a bit of an overstatement. And I don't want to be that guy. That guy being an old who complains about how things were better in the past which is far from true. The past had polio and no internet, but I mean, some things were better, right? Like, traditionally, when one ordered pizza delivery, said pizza would arrive eventually. And if it didn't, they'd at least give you a refund or something. I'm just not sure that throwing one's hands up and saying "that's DoorDash for ya..." and then keeping the money, is the best customer service. Oh god...I'm that guy, aren't I? 

*legend being my word for I think I saw a YouTube about it once. Also, I'm only a quarter Canadian, so I guess 

Mountain folk no more!

Pictured: the stunning natural
beauty I'm so sick of.

So I'm moving to Santa Cruz, which, if you recall, is where I've been saying I live, but it's not, it's a lie. You see, this area is, for reasons passing understanding expensive. Like, New York City expensive, but without all the character, energy, and cool things to do. Don't get me wrong, Santa Cruz is perfectly lovely, it's just that due to exorbitantly hight rents, I have to live twenty minutes outside town in the Santa Cruz mountains which is...well it's nature. And I'm not a particular fan of nature. Like, I would prefer that it exists, I just don't want to live in it. 

Yeah, I'm the worst. Anyway, after nine years of power outages, insect bites, and tree limbs crashing down from above, I'm out of here and into Santa Cruz proper. 

Pictured: the aforementioned natural beauty, seen here taking
out the power lines and blocking the only way out of our street.

Above: unmitigated gall.

It's not like they're making more coast.But then an apartment cropped up that costs more or less what I'm overpaying now, but has a room for food preparation that's separate from where I sleep. In my hunt for a new place to live, I encountered a shocking number of places where the owner threw a mini fridge and a microwave into a closet and called it a kitchen. They then had to unmitigated gall to ask two thousand dollars a month. Can you imagine? The cheek ofit. But that's scarcity for you. Everyone want's to live by the sea and it's not like they're making more coastline. 

Oh, sorry, I'm getting tedious again. Blaming everything on capitalism, but in my defense, it is capitalism's fault. Oh well. I shouldn't be complaining. Railing against the evils of the unfettered capitalism that's been destroying the country for the past forty years, and ensuring that mine and every generation to come will be crushed by corporate feudalism, sure, but not complaining. Anyway, if you're free on Saturday, want to help me move?

Pictured: that time Reagan ruined everything forever.