A Cunning Plan That Cannot Fail

I got so sick of misplacing my USB flash drive that I put it on my keyring. Perfect! Problem solved! What could go wrong? There's no way I'd leave the drive plugged into a client's server downtown and not notice until I got home at 2:00 AM costing me $86.92 in taxis. That would just be stupid.



In other news, did you know that a darkened, deserted conference room with lovely nighttime views can be an oddly peaceful place to collect your thoughts? If you're stressed and trying to cope, I suggest a lovely Chardonnay / Sauvignon Blanc blend to relax the soul and lubricate the mind.

A Study In Contrasts

The constant misuse of email by the unwashed masses makes me crazy. So let me just say a few things in defense of the poor behavior by me that I'm about to showcase.

My email is now tipping the scales somewhere around 50,000 messages per month. I just spent a month and a chunk of change upgrading all my mail systems to handle this volume. This problem is created entirely by stupid people. People who forward kitten photos and lists of jokes, people who "Reply All" to every message they get and people dumb enough to buy things from spam or fall for scams have nearly ruined email for the rest of us.

Back in the days when the Internet was just us nerds there was netiquette, a set of generally accepted understandings on the use of communication technology that helped people not drive each other crazy. I remember the day when ISP installers actually made you take a netiquette tutorial before they'd let you have an email account. Of course, the slobbering hoard of idiots complained or just ignored them and these tutorials were quickly abandoned.

Each time some distant relative or casual acquaintance gets their first email account I try to explain that while email is a fun new adventure for them, it's a business tool and a burden for me. Despite my reliance on it, I now loathe email. But someone who gets 12 messages a month, just does not understand why I don't want messages from them. It's cost me two friendships.

Recently I acted on two of my email pet peeves in very different ways and there's a lesson to be learned from the responses I received.

DALE'S GRACIOUS REPLY TO A "WORDS OF WISDOM" EMAIL

Hi sweetheart,

Do please feel free to write me anytime. I'm delighted to hear from you. However, may I please ask to not be included in forwarded messages like these? I'm so sorry, but as a professional computer consultant I get about 50,000 emails per month. So I have to ask everyone to please not send me jokes, inspirational stories, etc. I do hope you understand it's not personal.

THE REPLY

Who could word something more thoughtfully than you? And, for the freedom to know I can write to you when I'm feeling glad or sad, makes me very grateful. So I can do without the rest.

DALE'S SARCASTIC REPLY TO A "REPLY ALL" EMAIL

Oh my god! This is sooooo cool. I just realized that my email software has two different buttons for reply, REPLY and REPLY ALL. This rocks! I’m so glad I just discovered this. From now on whenever I need to reply to someone who sends out a party invitation that I can’t attend because my aunt has herpes or I just shot my boss, I’m going to be sure to click the REPLY BUTTON and not the REPLY ALL BUTTON.

Isn’t the Internet awesome? I love it!

THE REPLIES

dude - i don't know you and honestly i don't really want to. get a life or some friends because obviously you have neither.

i don't know who this idiot is, but make him stop emailing me.

In each case I got exactly the reply I deserved.

Learn from me. Don't be a dick.

Ancient History

Standing amidst 2,000 year-old monuments and buildings of the Roman Forum, I overheard this conversation between American high-school students.

“Wow! I found a penny in my wallet from 1987.”

“Oh my God! That’s so old.”

Travel Diary of a Moron, Continued

(This post will make more sense if you read the one immediately prior first.)

When I wrote the previous post I thought my travel misadventure had concluded. Pero no. There was more to come.

When I got to my flight, the one two hours later for which I’d volunteered on which I was supposed to be flying first class, I was told I couldn’t have the seat printed on my boarding pass. “That’s the pilot’s seat.”

Um, what? He’s not going to in the cockpit? This bird must have a helluva cruise control.

“We have three pilots.”

So the third one sits in first class and … what? … Pilots the champagne? Pilots the Sandra Bullock movie? What?

But I didn’t say any of that.

So apologies were made, along with further concessions, and I was downgraded back to coach an escorted to the back.

When the flight attendant and I got there, it emerged that an aisle seat was not available because quite a few of the passengers had rearranged themselves to reunite several families. This exasperated the attendant who proclaimed that this just wouldn’t do and began demanding to know where people had started.

The attendant informed everyone that I had been in first class and had suffered the ignominy of a downgrade and was therefore entitled to an aisle. As tensions rose, arguments began, objections were made, the demands, voices were raised and a mother was, quite literally, about to be separated from her two children.

I hadn’t asked or wanted everyone to be dislodged for my comfort. I’d just wanted help finding a seat on a very crowded plane. I had this moment of absolute clarity.

I could now be the hero or the jackass from first class. I picked hero. While I do often enjoy being the magnificent bastard, being just a plain ‘ole bastard is a bummer (Plus, I didn’t want to baby sit.)

In my most magnanimous voice I announced I had no desire to separate this good lady from her children and would be happy to take the only remaining seat, a window.

I was hailed as the savior of Flight 718. The mother thanked me repeatedly over the course of the flight. I was complimented by many. I received more apologies and concessions. The crew gave me freebies the whole flight. And at the end of the flight, one of the attendants, the gay one of course, shoved a bag at me and said, “Your duty free, sir.”

I had purchased no duty free. But this has happened to me before. I knew exactly what was in the bag (left over goodies from first class) and exactly what to do (nonchalantly say thank you and do *not* look at your loot until after exiting the plane).

There’s something about both traveling and putting on a sport jacket that turns me into a gentleman. I find myself using more pleasantries than usual, saying things like, “I’d be most grateful,” “You are too kind”. I call people “ma’am” and “sir” and I perform more acts of random kindness.

What I did on the plane was barely worth notice. I don’t relate it here to hold myself up as some shining example or to seek praise. It was the obvious thing to do … the only thing, really.

My point is this … I like this version of me. I’ve noticed this in the past. And I try to find ways to remind myself to be this “Dale” instead of selfish, pushy, contrary “Dale”. There are many factors that affect which “Dale” shows up on any given day. But the most reliable one is so very simple.

Dress the gentleman, act the gentleman.

I find if I overdress just slightly, whether it’s work, a party or just putting on a jacket when the rest of the tourist schleps are wearing shorts with black socks, I am a better version of myself.

And that feels good.

So let’s make a final accounting of the travel misadventure that started with me missing my flight as a direct result of being a colossal idiot.

If there were any sense in all this, the airline’s attitude to me would have been, “look, stupid white boy, you missed your non-changeable flight ‘cause you’re a moron and you should be on your hands and knees thanking us for getting you to your vacation at all.”

I’d hang my head in shame and accept my well-deserved ridicule.

Instead I walked away with:

Two bottles of wine
A dozen mini-bottles of liquor
A sack full of sweets and munchies
And a whopping one THOUSAND three HUNDRED dollars in free travel vouchers

I win.

Don’t try this at home kids, I am a free travel perks professional.

Me + iPhone = A Very Special Kind of Stupid

Yesterday I went LaGuardia to head to Mexico for my fabulous Mexican scuba holiday. And now ... 24 hours later ... here I sit ... still in America ... at Newark Airport.

I wish I had a great story to tell, like, “A gang of May Kay Stylists hijacked the plane because they ran out Final Net Hairspray on Long Island and it was the fastest way to get to New Jersey.” Alas the explanation is far more mundane.

I am an idiot ... a huge, raving, colossal idiot.

I arrived at the airport a healthy hour in advance and had no problems with check in or security. And then, thanks to listening to music videos on my iPhone, I missed my flight while they paged me repeatedly over the P.A.

I’ve missed subway stops plenty of times thanks to my iPod/iPhone. But never have I missed a plane.

I was terrified that my ultra-not-changeable, not-refundable, frequent-flyer ticket would mean I lost out on my whole holiday. I watched my plane pull away without me. And when I failed to get the standby seat on my last chance to make my connection, I left the airport filled with despair and shame.

But travel gods smiled on me. The airline rebooked me onto a flight the next day, this one non-stop! But it gets even better. I got upgraded to first class and also received $800 from the airline for volunteering to get bumped to a flight 2 hours later. Ever the travel perks schemer, I made them throw in a pass for the first class lounge and a meal.

Stupid never felt so good.

From now on when I arrive at the airport I am setting an alarm on my iPhone twenty minutes before boarding that will interrupt whatever trash, europop boy band videos are conspiring to turn me into a retard.

Would You Please Dumb That Down?

Tonite I tried to submit a movie review to Netflix and received this reply,

"This review contains one or more words that is larger than 25 characters. All words in a review must be smaller than 25 characters. Please change any words that exceed this length."

Apparently we Americans need to be protected from fancy words.

My Mother Is Either a Comic Genius or Bat-Shit Insane

This morning, as I drowsily sipped my coffee and opened my email, I got the living daylights scared out of me when the first thing I saw was the subject line "Donna Lynn Sorenson Obituary".

Turns out my Mom is not, in fact, dead. Nor is she dying.

The message was my mother sending the obituary she has written for herself out to all five of her children.

Because it's written in the past tense, I find reading it to be mind-bogglingly creepy.

In this obituary, my mother, a former English teacher, misspelled her own first name.

She also had this to say about it, "I tried to keep it somewhat short since every word "costs"--always the bargain-hunter 'til the end!"

Either this is the best practical joke she's ever pulled, or she is out of her fucking mind. And as the universe is my witness, I have utterly no idea which it is.

Poor, poor, sad, pathetic breeders!

ZOMFG!

(That's "Z'oh, my fucking god!")

I am sooooo glad I'm gay.

I can't believe the sad, uptight crap straight people believe about sex.

I was listening to Attack of The Show: In Your Pants just for laughs. It's a sex advice column by perky girls for fan boys. It include gems like.

"Ew! I think if ever saw an uncircumcised penis I'd freak out. It's not too late to have it done.

"If your boyfriend every calls you by his ex-girlfriend's name cut off his penis."

"If you're not well endowed just tuck it between you legs and stay home because we're all gonna find out."

"Don't ever have group sex. It'll release hormones that'll ruin your relationship."

Holy shit!

Girls are such bitches. If I was straight guy and had to deal with attitudes like this I'd turn into a chauvinist asshole in about a month.

I also just can't believe heteros' preoccupation with "the number", which is how many sex partners your current partner has previously had.

"What's your number?"

"What's his number?"

"Did she tell you her number yet?"

For progressive, sane, useful sex advice for breeders, fags and lesbos alike, I recommend Dan Savage's Savage Love Podcast. He's brilliant and hilarious.

Bless You ... Times a Hundred ... Times a Million ... Times Infinity

I have a problem.

Multitudes of friends and total strangers are under the impression that I am suffering from either The Black Plague or evil spirits leaving my body.

Thanks for your concern. But it's just allergy season.

Sneezes being cause by evil spirits is no longer a widely held view. So it strikes me very odd that the "Bless You" is still practically compulsory.

When I point this out to people, they say they're just being polite.

Fine.

But ...

Why is the sneeze the only bodily function that demands a ritualized comment from complete strangers?

It's stupid.

And what's more, it's presumptuous.

"Sneeze."

"Bless You."

"No thanks. You can keep your religious superstition to yourself. I don't need it."

As I'm sure you can imagine, this reply wins me lots of goodwill.

So I'm trying to come up with something less confrontational.

"Sneeze."

"Bless You."

"No thanks. My sneezes aren't that important."

If Madonna or The Pope sneezes in your presence ... bless away!

But me?

I'll pass, thanks.

Die AOL! Die! Die! Die!

I loathe AOL.

Such are my feelings for AOL that I looked up "loathe" in a thesaurus to see if there is a word that is stronger. There isn't. But I can do this....

I abhor AOL.
I despise AOL.
I detest AOL.
I deplore AOL.
I deprecate AOL.
I disapprove of AOL.
I disdain AOL.
I disfavor AOL.
I execrate AOL.
I scorn AOL.
I Mother-Fucking Hate AOL!

It wasn't always this way. I joined AOL almost 20 years ago when it had 70,000 users. Back then it was a super-cool, Mac-only service. Steve Case sent us a personal email every month thanking us for our support, for referring our friends and giving us a status update.

But now I hate them. The mere mention of AOL sends me into a rant. Which is ironic because I've actually made tons of money from helping clients with AOL. The worse a service is, the more money I make providing support.

So by all rights I should love AOL. But I don't.

I hate them because their service is so bad that it offends me, philosophically. I hate them because their user base is a cesspool of stupid. They have 35 million customers, all of whom seem intent on personally forwarding messages to me on topics like how to cure a heart attack by coughing.

When I try explain to people, as gently as I possibly can, why forwarding this crap around is actually harmful and not helpful, somehow I end up as the bad guy. (Go figure.)

"Gee, Dale, I was just trying to help. It seemed important and I know you like the Internet, so I thought you'd want to know about the Olympic Torch Virus. Why are you being such a jerk?"

It doesn't matter how polite I try to be, people don't like being told that they've been duped and that their messages are not welcome. After losing a couple casual friends after asking to be left out of such forwards, I've stopped trying.

And no matter how times I repeat it, people just don't seem to think I really mean it....

IF A MESSAGE WAS FORWARDED TO YOU, PLEASE, DO NOT EVER FORWARD IT TO ME.

Why is this simple concept so difficult for people to grasp?

Even people I've told, in writing, repeatedly, still forward me crap. They just put a comment on it, "I know you don't usually like these. But this one seemed important / urgent / dangerous / funny / whatever."

My monthly email volume is now 5,000-10,000 messages. I have been forced to implement four stages of spam filtering using the best software available. Four! And I still have trouble separating the messages I vitally need from the ones I don't.

But I digress.

This started as a rant about AOL and it's degenerated into a rant about stupid people clogging up my inbox. So let me return, if I can, to my point.

The fact that a person still uses AOL for professional email is such a clear and reliable indicator of total technological incompetence that when someone at a conference hands me a business card with an AOL address on I throw it away. Experience has borne out again and again that "technodude8124@aol.com" and "designerchick3317@aol.com" are neither useful business contacts nor desirable clients.

If you're still reading this I have a few thoughts for you, dear reader.

1. I admire your stamina.
2. I am aware that all this makes me sound me sound like an arrogant and unmitigated techno-snob.
3. I do actually have some productive suggestions for the poor, beleaguered among you still chained to the AOL monster.

AOL has announced they intend to transition into providing many of their services (email, IM chat) for free. This means if you already have DSL or a cable modem for your Internet connection, you can stop paying AOL and still keep your screen name.

Actually, it has been possible for a couple years now to cancel your AOL account and keep your screen name. They've just been very quiet about it.

Both email and IM continue to work on a "cancelled" account. You don't even have to do anything special. Just cancel and then keep using their free services on the web and using AIM.

Really.

Do it. Do it now.

You can only cancel by phone. Here's the number. 800 827-6364.

I did it a few years ago and the AOL screen name I never use any more still works to this day.

While you're at it, get GAIM, the free Instant Messenger program without all the damn ads. It supports AIM, doesn't crash your computer all the time like AIM does and it doesn't install all that adware/spyware crap. Actually, you should switch to GAIM whether or not you cancel your AOL account. It's just better.

Finally, for about $50 a year over at GoDaddy, you can get your own domain. It's easier than you think. And then instead of being "CluelessCompuTard@aol.com" you can be "you@yourdomain.com".

Imagine just how cool you'd be then!

If I help just one person cancel AOL, being this much of a jackass will all be worth it.

A Fun Little Parody

You Are A Fucking Moron presents a roast of Tom Cruise & Scientology.

Dale Visits The Bronx

This week I decided to go to The Bronx for a couple hours.

Well ... "decided" may not be quite the right word.

I went to The Bronx, at 3:00 a.m., wearing a really, really gay shirt, which made me feel really out of place, really white and really ... well ... gay.

I do this about once a year, in the wee hours of the morning. These adventures are usually the result of alcohol combined with an iPod and Palm games. This deadly trio of distractors tends to cause me to not look at the train when it pulls into the station. Rather, I just blithely climb on board the first train that arrives and ride it for an hour or so until I notice out of the corner of my eye that the stations don't look familiar.

Usually what finally makes me realize I'm far, far, far from anywhere I want to be or should be is the color of the tiles on the walls. This triggers a sinking feeling as I calculate just how long it will take me to get my sorry ass home.

The adventure before this most recent one took me to Queens for about three hours in the middle of the night.

I'm going to have "Look at the fucking train, Dale!" tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

I am such a space cadet.