Tag Archives: culture

Jan 05 2012
6 Comments
Humorous, Modern Life, Open Letters, Three minute read

I’m Unhappy About This Free Service

this is just how it turns up on my news feed. Is that weird?

Dear Facebook,

Recently I’ve been unsubscribing with remarkable pace from many so-called friends I am connected with on your social networking website. After debating for months over whether or not I wanted to hear about these acquaintances’ marriages, babies, or fun nights staying in with a blanket and cup of cocoa, I have decided against the mundane and released myself from hundreds of people and their accompanying facebook drivel.

I expected my newsfeed to become a haven, a place where I could go and see what was happening in the lives of people who are close to me and the interesting or laughable lives of others I am not close to. Alas, this has not happened. One reason is that as I unsubscribe from my facefriends, friends that lurk deep within my friend well have come to the surface, gracing me with one status update or a tagged photo before I try to recall who they are and then unsubscribe from them. This is obviously my fault. You didn’t force me to accept their friend requests or friend people after knowing them for one evening, after which we never saw each other again except for on the sidewalk where we both maintained awkward silence and averted our eyes.

However, another chief reason for my dissatisfaction with the “cleaned up” newsfeed is the garbage facebook continually highlights. I speak, of course, of the continual promotion of prof pic changes, the ubiquitous “so and so and 10 other friends changed their profile picture.” To be frank, I don’t care who changed their profile picture after spending hours and possibly weeks mulling over which snapshot succinctly captured their humor, beauty, or relationship status.

Actually, I can’t think of anything more uninteresting. It might as well read “so and so and all of your other friends used their computers today.” Honestly, what’s the purpose in knowing who changed their profile picture? Not only does it not reflect in the least bit any change for better or worse in their own lives—it’s quite possible to dig out a prof picture from happier months—it is anti-news. It provides no new information while making one feel vaguely anxious and insufficient: “Should I be changing my profile picture so I can appear to be moving forward in my life?” It is iceberg lettuce, the filler in Taco Bell meat, and worse than Yahoo! news.

Facebook, I know that you provide a free service. I know that I have trapped myself into a cycle where living without this service would be undesireable, if not impossible.  Furthermore, I realize that I am powerless against you and that you  will have your way with the facebook-using pawns and wreak whatever kind of layout changes and privacy destruction you wish. That’s why I’m not asking you to stop highlighting profile picture changes on my newsfeed. This letter is actually an urgent request that you do not harm me or my family once you take over the world. This profile picture thing is my only complaint and despite it I will always be loyal to you.

Your eternal and groveling servant,

Emily

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Jan 02 2012
6 Comments
Humorous, Modern Life, Three minute read

Country Music: Proud of Itself

wranglers at Deer Valley Ranch, the former vacation destination of our family

In many parts of the country, a fondness for country music brings a plague upon one’s career and friendships. Country music, outside its native habitat, is as popular as pungent body odor in small vehicles. It is to be masked and not spoken of, its producer’s cheeks reddening in shame and the rest embarrassed to be in the presence of such a foul substance.

Despite the widespread prejudice, country music actually isn’t all that bad. While growing up in OK, I listened to and resented country music all the time, since most of my family members enjoyed it and would play it relentlessly on the radio and at home. Years later at Boston University, this caused the bizarre sensation of both revulsion and pride whenever I heard a country song.

The revulsion resulted from years of carefully practiced loathing, and the pride came from me belonging to something different than the rest of my mostly coastal colleagues. Eventually I came to appreciate the twang-infested music as something unique to the specific subculture in which my adolescence was submerged and an art form that can be quite beautiful in those rare instances where it is done properly. And when it is not beautiful, it is generally hilarious.

Mostly for the ha-has, I’ve been drinking in the country music as much as possible during these short weeks in Oklahoma, but I have realized that a lifetime would not be enough to fully understand the breadth and depth of the genre. Where else do you find such tender descriptions of trucks, tractors, and other vehicles of labor? In this modern music wasteland, what other than country music will dare to describe innocent love in barns, hayfields, and blue jeans? What about all the myriad ways whisky, Jesus, and America are intimately connected with the problems one has while courting the farmer’s daughter?

What I most admire about country music, however, is its ability to admire itself. Since the dawn of the genre, it has been lauding the country lifestyle and the country way, in small towns full of simple, country men and women that like to do country things.

Songs like “I Got My Country On,” by Chris Cagle, “These Are My People,” by Rodney Atkins, “Where I Come From” by Montgomery Gentry, and “Where I Come From” by Alan Jackson, among many others, celebrate a rustic problem free, healthcare free lifestyle. In this highly fictionalized country world, there’s a lot of front porch sitting (AJ) with preacher men in cowboy shirts (MG). It’s where people do things with their own two hands (CG) and give this life everything they have and then some (RA). It’s a wonderful, wonderful, place, and anyone listening to this music would probably imagine a haven of small town goodness, unspoiled by the modern world.

While modernity may not have touched it, the world in which country music lives and from which it sprouts has unfortunately been spoiled by high divorce, obesity, diabetes two, and poverty rates.

However, I am confident that a genre with such hits as “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” “Jesus Take the Wheel,” and “Somethin’ Bout a Truck” will have the creative energy necessary to face this rampant decay with some great ho-down tunes that will get knees a poppin’, heads a bobbin,’ and boots a stompin’.

If you have any other winning country music titles, please feel free to pass them along and I’ll see you down at the barn for the next line dance.

Picture Credit: Trip Advisor

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Dec 27 2011
6 Comments
Humorous, Open Letters, Two minute read

Dear Santa, You Suck

Santa Claus is a bad dude

Hey Santa! Yeah you, ya big stink. What the nark is wrong with you?? You think that just because you’re your own boss and don’t take no orders from nobody that you can stomp on my Christmas wishes, and leave me a freakin’ pile of junk?

Did you even read the letter I sent you? What about my tweets, facebook messages, or emails? Did you not see the comments I left on your blog? Surely you must have gotten at least one of the numerous text messages or missed phone calls I gave you. I even SKYPED with Mrs. Claus and told her exactly what I wanted and still you come and dump wrapped up garbage beneath our evergreen.

You know what? You suck. I’m not sure if you’re incompetent, lazy, or mentally impaired, but you certainly are not fit for my future children to worship.

Look. My request was not unreasonable: The only thing I wanted was the very same 16 oz. jar of Teddie Crunchy Old Fashioned All Natural Peanut Butter that was taken from me as I was going through security at the Boston Logan International Airport on Wednesday, December 21 at approximately 11:15 am, and the security team that had confiscated it after briefly arguing with me to be punished by you stealing all their toilet paper.  But you ruined everything by being awful.

Even if my request had been over the top, which it wasn’t, I still thought the pieces of trash I found under my tree were completely uncalled for. What kind of mean-spirited old crank leaves Dunkaroo wrappers and beef jerky bags with bows on top of them? And as for the box of Ritz s’mores, well I thought there was actually something in there until I opened it and you had replaced my favorite road trip treat with dog food. You’re just a bad guy. I hope the years of tax evasion finally catch up to you and you’re sent to a minimum security federal prison where you meet a whole new crop of lap sitters.

Wishing you a nasty case of shingles,

Emily

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Nov 20 2011
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Modern Life, Three minute read

Perspectives on Life, Courtesy of Facebook

This place, with fire and protestors and McDonald’s, 69 years later

Tahrir square, November 20, 2011, 19:26: It looks like a war zone out there, people scurrying ant-like against a backdrop of sporadic fires, tear gas and smoke covering the entire scene. Gun shots are heard, rumors of live ammunition circulate.

Apartment in Doqqi, November 20, 2011, 19:26: My feet are a little cold.

So stuff is still going down in a big way in Tahrir, but this scene differs dramatically from the life I continue to live in the ‘burbs away from all the crazy action. The main way the protests affect my life is through the interesting variety of facebook status updates on my newsfeed and the fact classes will now be held somewhere else.

For those of you who are familiar with facebook, you know that the newsfeed is a sacred timewaster. I find myself perusing it for hours despite the fact that I care very little about both what I am reading and the people who have posted it. Some people have edited their newsfeeds in order to only include people they actually want to hear from. I have not done so because I can’t decide if I really hate looking at my high school classmate’s photos of her baby girl or not, despite the fact I can’t remember who either of them are. This is just one example out of hundreds.

Recently, because of the quite serious political events that have been occurring here in Egypt and the banality that characterizes the rest of my facebook friends’ lives (or many of them at least), my feed has become an eclectic mix of urgent messages and the same old inanities from some people I love and some I barely remember.

It’s like eating a bag of crushed up tea cookies and spiced peanuts that is either delicious or revolting, but addicting nonetheless. And now you can judge for yourselves. Without further ado, a sampling of my newsfeed and its sources.

“hope i didn’t over spice my chili!” -close friend from university

“Tahrir looks like a war zone, and a couple Molotov cocktails just lit up the air near my building.” –friend here in Egypt living in Doqqi, where there was recently an outbreak of violence

“This is just sad: Baylor scored six touchdowns on the night. The average touchdown drive covered approximately 80 yards in four plays and took 64 seconds.” –classmate from high school; last talked to him 4.5 years ago

“My beautiful 6 month roses from my wonderful boyfriend! I am such a lucky girl to have such an amazing guy that encourages me in the pursuit of my dreams, wipes my tears when I feel defeated, and makes me smile all the time! I am truly blessed.” –best friend from middle school; last talked to her 4.5 years ago

“Dear Comcast, why do you SUCK?!”- peer from university

“Dug and I are watching UP with a Starbucks coffee and Kitty. Best Sunday EVER!” -peer from university; number of times I talked to her: 6

“#Tahrir square is ours again we are 10-15000 if not more”- activist in my current program

(picture of a girl kissing someone’s pregnant belly) – co-worker from 5 years ago; number of times I talked to her: 7

“Day One of our cross country road trip! Here we go!” – peer from university; last talked to him 4 years ago

“The square is under attack. Please be careful #Tahrir huge crowds of people are back they are very brave” – activist in my current program

“I really love my church!!” – co-worker from last summer

“Being chased in alleys with birdshots/tear gas TT: @TaherNagaty:” -activist in current program

Needless to say it’s all a bit confusing. Do I love hearing about my old friend’s happiness in her love life? Do I need to see a stranger’s preggo belly being kissed by someone I talked to 6 times? Should I tell them their lives and my life pale in comparison to what is going on in the world?

Just a bag of cookie crumbs and peanut pieces to munch on.

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Nov 18 2011
5 Comments
Anecdotes, Travelling, Two minute read

Desert Madness: S’more Edition

Illicit s’more innovation

Desert madness manifests itself in many ways. Some bury themselves neck deep in the sand and drool. Others lose the ability to internally narrate. In our cozy group of four, however, desert madness took the form of wild and, at times irresponsible innovation in the s’more field, urged on in particular by one go-getter we’ll call Stew.

Stew is an active young man of about 22, and though I had only met him briefly before our trip, by the end of it I knew two important things about Stew: he’s hungry, and he never settles for second best. Whereas I always leap at the chance to settle, Stew refuses to even look at the second tier of life.

This is a man that used to drink multi-thousand calorie protein shakes before bed in high school in order to put on weight. Wait! Can you hear that? It’s the gooey sound of millions of dieting men and women exploding from rage. Eighty percent of his conversation revolved around things he had once eaten, liked to eat, or was planning on eating very soon. While listening to his culinary fantasies, one was also drawn into his passion and shown an eatable world of which only geniuses and madmen could conceive.

Since we are real, red-blooded Americans, each night we would crack open a couple bags of marshmallows, Hershey’s chocolate, and graham crackers and get our s’more on. The first night passed quite lamely, featuring the usual discussion about how we like to roast our mallows: charred or golden brown and melted all the way through, etc. And just when I had accepted this level of normality, Stew remembered there was an unopened jar of peanut butter sitting on the sand. He hatched a plan, and then the magic began.

The next three nights were a kaleidoscope of different, almost unimaginable combinations of peanut butter, chocolate, marshmallow, twinkies, jam, and both roasted and unroasted banana.

Stew would be silent, and then burst out with a statement like, “What if wrapped this twinkie in foil with chocolate and peanut butter and then roasted it? You know what? Yes! I’m going to do it. Yes.” Never have I seen such a go-getter. There was no delay between the formation of his food wishes and their realization. In one night he ate nigh on 10 twinkies, all prepared different ways. It was a wonder and a blessing to behold. Were I a business person, I would hire Stew for any job that I had, especially if it involved him walking around without his shirt on or grabbing pushups on the go, two things he also excelled at

I once even heard him utter the words: “I’m going to impregnate this marshmallow with chocolate and then roast it.” This is the kind of literary and functional innovation that has made America great. Thank you, Stew. You make me proud to be an American.

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