Monday, January 30, 2012


The big social media news1 of last year was the launch of Google+, a new social network promising to, like the social networks of yesteryear, connect you with people whose interests diverge completely from your own.2

No, I kid. I love Google+, because it tells me what my friends who are Google employees are up to. Like the motto goes: Google+, the social network by googlers for googlers.

Everyone I know is on Google+, and everyone I know at Google actually uses it.

One great thing about Google+ is its use of the plus character to indicate approval or evangelism of something. This is better than Facebook's Like button, because instead of being forced to say in conversation, "did you see that Bob Liked my latest blog post?", and feeling like a dork because you had to give double emphasis to the word liked or be forced to verbalize that yes, you are talking about a social network like saps, you can say things like, "did you see that Bob plussed oned my latest blog post?", and instead of feeling like a dork you can feel like a complete idiot because you just used the most uncomfortable expression invented in modern times and yes, grammar nazis, I conjugated everything wrong, but I did it on purpose to illustrate how MUCH OF A PAIN THAT IS TO SAY.

Protip: you want people to use your network? Try coming up with expressions that don't make your users look like alien dorks.

Also, plus one this because yes, I am a hypocrite. But at least I get smoochies. Right honey? No hard feelings about that tech news addiction, right?

1. Heaven forbid you, like me, follow tech news around like a mangy dog. If you find yourself turning on your phone the minute the plane touches down to check hacker news instead of paying attention to your fiancée next to you who you could smooch and gross out the lady behind you who spent THE ENTIRE FLIGHT SHUFFLING A DECK OF CARDS, may God have mercy on your soul.

Friday, January 20, 2012

presidential elections

Every four years we get to deal with the grand charade that is watching national leaders go around the country pretending to care about things they have spent their entire lives ignoring; things like "the deficit", "due process", "Iowa", "monogamy", "my fellow Americans", and today, "South Carolina".1

We then get to vote on who we think looks the most attractive, then they spend the next four years playing golf, giving our closest ally the tackiest gift ever, and pretending like our country isn't headed for almost certain financial collapse in the next decade.

This year the race revolves around President "I've spent three months of my presidency golfing" Obama,2 Mitt "I own those golf courses" Romney, Newt "I've cheated on every one of those golf courses" Gingrich, Rick "please google golf courses and not my last name" Santorum, and Ron "a golf course is more likely to win the nomination, but do you think I'm going to give up my national rantbox?" Paul.

I wish you well in your voting decisions, and urge you to consider all of the relevant factors, because your vote counts, especially if you live in a state like California which will vote for secession before it votes for a Republican.

1. I'm sorry South Carolina, but nobody cares about you. The last thing you did that anybody noticed occurred in April of 1861, and that's only because you were backed up by your homeboys North Carolina and Virginia. Also: who the freak designed your flag? The local masonic lodge?
2. I learned this stat from the elevator conversations of the fine employees of Goldman Sachs, the accuracy of which I am completely secure, because, be honest: when has Goldman Sachs lied to anyone? Incidentally, if you are related to me, and your name includes the title of 'my mother', please don't click on that and read anything else. I swear I did not scan through that den of filthy language.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

the holidays

I love the holidays. The holidays are probably my favorite time of year, right behind Spring, Fall, Summer, any time it's warm and I'm not sitting outside in San Francisco trying to type this post while the fog rolls in and I want to die from the piercing cold that is sucking the life dry from my bones,1 times when I get punched in the face, and times when I really need to pee and the nearest bathroom is somewhere five miles from here and there's this really weird dude standing five feet away from me talking to someone on the phone in a kermit voice.

No, I kid. I kiiid. I love the holidays. Who doesn't love the holidays? I love sappy Christmas music, I love being taught the definition of "lumber" by every single person walking in front of me on the streets of San Francisco, and I especially love the clanging sound I'm subjected to every time I want to go to the store in peace and quiet for the love of everything holy.2

But my favorite part of the holiday season is sitting down in front of a nice old-fashioned Christmas movie, all of which appear to have been made by a society of people who had absolutely no conception of the value of time, and decided, for reasons which are incomprehensible to people who enjoy doing things that don't take centuries to finish, to make them in claymation.

Claymation is the process wherein someone with nothing left to live for spends the rest of his life manipulating clay for a camera, in the hope that he will cause all who watch to go insane with complete bewilderment and weep for the lost productivity of the world and spend the entire film trying to keep from descending into a pit of mindless oblivion baffled as to why someone would do such a thing and HOW MUCH TIME DID YOU WASTE ON THIS AND WHY DO YOU DO THIS??! YOU CAN GET ACTORS TO DO THIS AND IT WILL TAKE YOU FIVE MINUTES AND YOU DON'T NEED TO HUNCH OVER PUDDLES OF CLAY AND MAKE YOURSELF LOOK LIKE AN ALIEN HERMIT CRAZY PERSON.

The other great thing about the holiday season is coming back to reality and finding your gym invaded by the kind of people who should really just give up now instead of wasting everyone's time and flooding exercise equipment in a hopeless and futile pursuit of accomplishing a resolution. If you're not going to be here in February (and you won't be), you can just give up the charade now, folks.

1. Realizing, of course, that about fifty percent of my readers, that is, my brother, live in actual frozen wastelands (Chicago) where you can legitimately freeze instead of just complain about fifty degree weather.
2. Yes, I realize they are clanging those satanic bells of misery for a good cause, but couldn't they wish well with noises that didn't make me want to commit felonies?