1000 Words: On Birds and Security

Why do we take pictures? Why do we care?

Obviously, we need to care about what we photograph. If we didn't, we wouldn't. Every picture means something to the person on the other end of the lens, whether it's a loved one, a beautiful place, or a particularly exciting meal. Everyone has their own reasons for wanting to remember something. Never mind, I just answered my own question. 

New question: Why do people share photos? What part of our brain thinks that everyone wants to see our selfies or our lunch or our best friend passed out drunk on the floor? If a photo represents a memory or a story or an emotion - a hidden part of ourselves - then when are we not more selective in what we share? Why do we not take the time to explain the why? 

As you may have noticed, the blog is back. After four and a half years, it's time to write again. I'm starting by taking pictures that mean something to me, and explaining the why. It's entirely possibly that I will post food, or selfies, or passed-out friends; as long as it means something to me, and I can share it with the interwebs, everything is fair game. 

My first thousand words -- below the break!

How Not To Eat: CHOCOVINE

After evaluating the critical acclaim that my last "How Not To Eat" post garnered from nearly four people (in at least TWO different tax brackets!), I decided to attempt to make this a regular feature. After all, it's not as if I've suddenly gone health nut on you -- and, once I reach Britain, I could do a seven-part series on Mushy Peas (which I loathe) and doner kebabs (which I ashamedly love) alone.

Now, who wouldn't want to eat that??

Today's instalment, however, focuses on the wonders of less-than-quality alcoholic beverages. On the whole, I'm very fond of "good" alcohol of all types (and may make a few posts here with some new cocktails/beers I've discovered that would be worth your time), but let's not forget that not only did I spend a long and mostly fruitless period of my life hovering around the college "scene," I also spent a month touring the hostels and pubs and Threshers of the UK, so it's not as if I've never drank a Pabst, or 4-Loko, or Carling, or... 

Well, you get the idea. I'm not going to make it a hobby of drinking crates of shit alcohol and blogging about it, but if I come across something particularly memorable, you can expect that the experience will eventually make its way to this corner of the internets. 

This week's monstrosity occurs after the jump. 

Happy 2011!

And, as usual, I welcome the less-than-tens of people who read this drivel to the new year a full month late.

Welcome to 2011, the year many consider to be the penultimate annum of our existence.

If this doesn't kill us all BEFORE the games, Sarah Palin still will.

She may beat London to it, come to think of it.

My resolution is to write more. For the children (but not the British children). I have a number of topics up in the ol' noggin that I just need to, you know, write into real people words, and then you all can resume rolling on the floor laughing (or ROFL, in the common tongue -- well, mine at least). 

As MacArthur told the Filipinos, I shall return. Hopefully in less than four months this time.

Spam and the Social Network

I have to admit this straight up: I'm a twitter-holic. Not as bad as some people I follow, mind you -- Stephen Fry (@stephenfry), for example, has practically reinvented himself as the most prolific tweeter in Britain, and on this side of the pond, people like Wil Wheaton (@wilw) regularly keep in touch with the masses, no matter the level of banality -- but for some reason, I find the 140-character update simultaneously convenient and challenging; convenient because I don't have to commit to a full conversation, challenging because my natural flow of speech is not conducive to such small chunks (as anyone who's read even one entry of this blog can confirm). That last sentence, for example -- double-dashes, semi-colons and all -- wouldn't have fit into two twitter entries, let alone one pithy statement exemplifying what exactly is on my mind at that exact moment.

I love Twitter. I love the celebs who feel that this is the "hip" thing to do, regardless of whether the rest of the world gives a crap who they are (I'm looking at you, @stephenathome!). I love the "real people" who happened to make a random MST3K search while I was watching "Prince of Space," and now I know exactly what they're doing at any given time (Hi, @devtony!). I love the people who started following me because I was super-excited about seeing "Beer Wars" one night, and I followed them because they were fairly interesting (@rumandcokefloat and a number of beer mags). I love the new art of Twitter satire, with fake public figures commenting on the deep shit they've found themselves buried in (@pac16conference, not to mention all that BP stuff). I love following friends, knowing that if I have something semi-urgent to say to them, I can just tweet and they'll get the message (when I lived with @darkcupid and @palintir, we communicated via Twitter more times than I would care to admit). I love experiencing world events in real time with people all around the world; where else can you talk to sports columnists about a USC game, Germans about the World Cup, and random Brits about their elections?

It's so awesome, my brain does this.

But I think what I love more than anything is that it's not Facebook. Good lord, I hate Facebook.

Excitement!! Loud Noises!! And an update!!

Far too many exclamations in the header, but what can you do?

First of all -- eight months from today, I'll be on a plane to London. I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know (as they say) when I'll be back again. I'm going to Britain, and I'm staying until I get bored (un-bloody-likely) or I get deported (much more bloody likely). It's really exciting -- or, at least, I'm excited -- and I want you, the viewing several, to share in the excitement.

No worries, I'll be maintaining this blog -- hopefully more than it's been maintained in recent months, my bad -- but I'll be phasing in a new blog, "Stranger in a Strange(r) Land," dedicated to the preparation, trials, and perils of my voyage. It's a wordpress blog, so everyone can comment (a problem with these blogspot ones), and I'll try and update that one at LEAST once a week. I'll probably even put a bit of my research on there, if you're interested in British History between the two World Wars. 

The New Blog (not completely live yet): http://thecore28.wordpress.com

You can also follow the adventure on Twitter or Facebook. Username? thecore28. I know, I'm super-original. But if you follow me on Twitter, I'm amusing AND I'll post updates to both blogs. 

...oh, and LOUD NOISES!!

Better than a pants party, I guess.

Postcards From the Edge of Sanity: "Do You Work Here?"

The worst part about working in retail, as anyone who has worked retail will tell you, isn't the shit hours or the pittance the company tries to pass off as a living wage. It's not the lack of a regular schedule, or the revolving door of turnaround for employees and management, or even the degrading nature of being attached to a brand name or a corporate Satan for the duration of your employment.

Nope, it's the customers. It's the cussing customers and the idiotic things they do to your store and to you as a person. It's the evolution of the phrase "The customer is always right," from "The customer has a right to be respected" to "The customer has a right to be the center of attention at all times, and can treat the people who work around them like second-class citizens." Most of all, it's the annoying passive-aggression that makes you want to slap them.

This guy probably shops at our store.