(via museumofusefulthings)Source: thisiscolossal.com
I nearly gagged from a severe case of cliche-itis when Apple decided to dub its fancy and new-fangled cloud service “iCloud.” Really? Apparently the only thing a company that holds more cash than the U.S. Government has to do to get people in a plastic-swiping frenzy is to slap a lowercase “i” to whatever they produce. Wow, some poor product marketing president in Cupertino is probably wallowing in the big bucks as he suffers from a sever case of creative muscle atrophy. Of course, we should all be grateful to those wonderful folks at Apple for making it so cool for everything from tube socks to life itself to be smothered with that pesky letter i. The only thing is, that was cool like ten years ago when high schoolers were jogging around the track in P.E. with one hand holding up sagged sweatpants and the other clenching their Sony Walkman. Sadly, the infestation of cliche-itis grows stronger and will spread into 2012 with BMW’s line of electric cars dubbed, surprise, the “i3” and the “i8.” Nintendo also will continue their twist on the lowercase i popularity with their “Wii” successor but are adding “U” to the mix. Oh brother. Let’s hope that doesn’t give birth to a new strain of the creative impairment virus or my next blog entry might be written on my new Apple “PadU.”
My symptoms also worsen when at the local movie house. I dread the day when a new boxing or horse racing movie trailer invades the silver screen - they all have the same retarded story. Some looser reject Shetland pony gets picked up by a lonely outcast first-grader and is magically bibbity-bobbity-booed into a bet-upsetting champion thoroughbred with a strict diet of hugs and sappiness. But the “macho” boxing flicks are no different or better. They all feature the same copy and pasted instant oatmeal plot as their equine counterparts except the main character probably eats his carrots cooked rather than raw. But carrots dangled in my face, no matter how prepared, won’t entice me to lay down $10.50 for a evening showing nor $8.50 for the matinee. And that’s probably why these “inspirational” films always come out during the holiday season - it doesn’t take much to compete with the Santa Claus 16 and the 300th Scrooge. Sorry Ocean Muffin, War Mare, Snow White-Man, or whatever your names are, I’ll gladly put my stock in a Christopher Nolan movie which actually requires brain cells to write and to watch.
But in the spirit of celebrating unoriginality, I will leave you with mashup lyrics of the stereotypical hit song on your favorite radio station:
“Put your hands in the air as I go on the floor,
Voices in my head tellin’ me no no don’t go,
But in this see of faces and all the critics I see,
There ain’t a hot lovin’ mess like you and like me.”
After discovering a strand of German Shepherd hair in my fork while unloading the newly washed dishes, I decided again that I will never own a pet. This decision was also made every night when I came home and suffered an intrusive wet nose and over zealous tongue bursting my personal bubble, took a whiff of canine b.o. in the carpet at every touchdown of push-ups, and had to face guilty eyes whenever I ate my hard-earned human food. I’m sure lots of people would say that those are all the wonderful things of owning a pet. Hmmm…well to all the pet-lovers who savor those types of things, be my guest at drinking it all in yourself! This guy who appreciates things like Febreze freshness and elbow room will steer clear of it like a hippie runs from a shower.
I recently activated my first digital copy of Wired magazine on my iPad and was enamored that it greeted me with an introductory video. While printed magazines will always be my literary first love, I was so entranced by this new level of interactivity. Cover stories open with a video montage, ads come to life with swiping and scrolling features, and readers can now get lost in a strangely mapped digital interface just like in Tron! Despite the technological advances made in the e-magazine realm, there is another aspect of magazine subscriptions that has sadly remained stone age cold: first delivery. The happy subscriber at last places his 12-month order (carefully timed in anticipation of the release of the latest edition) after days of contemplation. Days go by and then weeks. Finally, on that rainy day he at lasts receives not one, but two soggy and wrinkled copies of his new magazine - that are now editions two months old. Good thing there are twelve months in a year, because 17% of his subscription is already used up. Let’s hope he doesn’t relocate in the next ten months or else the only fresh and current copy of the magazine he may see is in the dentist’s office (nix the “fresh” part of it).
Figuring out what to eat three (ok, sometimes four) times a day makes me cringe like putting away a load of laundry. You know, it was really nice to have all my meals pretty much planned or set before me for 22 years by mom, sister, or college - though some of course received higher marks than others. For the first time in my life I have had to consciously plan what I was going to eat every meal of every day. Weird. The funny part of it is that cooking meals for myself means that I eat the same thing or two for the whole week. At work, they probably chuckle around their Lean Cuisines as I pull out my 13th serving of shepherd’s pie within the past 40 hours. But come to think of it, this “dilemma” is not really one I should fuss about. Even though I may go home to my 14th serving of shepherd’s pie, there are millions who face a dilemma of fare where it is not a question of “what I’ll eat,” but a question of “will I eat?” Thank you God for this 15th serving of pie, I think I’ll take the cringe.