I’m Not a Cat Lady

All Twitter, All the Time

  The New York Times' obsession with Twitter is getting a little creepy. Since May 1st, it has racked up seven articles about Twitter, including, confoundingly, a blog entry about how a U.S. commander in Iraq doesn't use it. And that's not even counting the references: In his Bits blog entry What Annoys Me About Twitter on April 22, Saul Hanson provided his own count of 32 references that day—one of them being, serendipitously, Why I'm Obsessed With Twitter. What might have pulled the proverbial finger from the dyke—oops, dike—was Oprah Winfrey's decision to become a late adapter a few days earlier—live! AND ALL IN CAPS!—which caused Twitter traffic (Twaffic?) to jump by 43 percent.

It's okay to get all excited about new-fangled phenomena, but this is a little extreme. Yesterday's Sunday Styles piece, A Night Out With the Twitter Guys, is like the New York Times starring in an episode of MADE called "I Want to Sit at the Cool Table!" It's The Real Housewives of New York's Ramona dressing like her daughter. It's a little pathetic. The average age of the NYT's reader is 45.9, which falls in the age range that makes up 5 percent of Twitter's demo. The average NYT reader doesn't need 24-hour bulletins on Twitter, nor to hang out with the Twitter Guys, who, by the way, seem like fabulous dinner companions—they spent most of the evening staring into their phones, tweeting. (And, um, look at them. This is the cool table?)

The NYT needs to calm down already and to stop trying to be as hip as its kids. Their brains are wired differently, they're moving faster than you are, don't be so desperate to keep up. You might rip a tendon.

photo via New York Times

UPDATE: Browsing through Gawker this morning I came across this item about writer Dan Baum Twittering his experience of getting hired and fired by the New Yorker. Unfortunately, Gawker's also gone all breathless over Twitter in recent months too—no doubt a result of its shift into its more advertising-friendly corporate environment of late—and applauds this gimmicky move as the future of journalism, right here right now. Except: Come on. He's just writing an essay 140-characters-at-a-time, creating serial tweets that can't possibly hold up individually but require a separate forum to string each tweet together. It's an embarrassingly transparent gimmick. It ain't tweeting, it's twatting.

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: Dan Baum explains his rationale behind the micro-serialization here. It's an interesting argument. Still, I call bullshit.

Word Watch: All of the Sudden

Call me old fashioned but I'm a stickler for good spelling and proper use of language. I was a copy editor for years and old habits are hard to break.

It's ancient history, of course, that the blogging/texting/Twitter generation don't care to be bogged down by such petty concerns. They need to get their messages out tout suite, and if that means a their instead of they're, or a your instead of you're, or a then instead of a than—you know, whatevs, who cares? Only old people, right? Not to mention the whole "leetspeak" culture popularized sometime last century by gamers along with texting abbreviations that even the mombloggers use now, like ur and LOL and pwn and srsly.

But every so often, on a blog or in a forum or among some comments or other, I come across the casual flaying of an extremely common word or phrase that is just too egregious to ignore. Like per say. Which, I guess, is a little like here say. Or low and behold. That's a good one. Because, you know, when you wish to draw extra attention to a certain fact or observation, you shall gaze upon it and low like a cow. Lo and behold is such an archaic expression, it really doesn't belong in the realm of casual online conversation at all. Why is anyone under 85 saying it? Yet I see it all the time.

Another one I see constantly, and have done for years, is all of the sudden. Not all of just any sudden, you see—it's got to be all of a very specific sudden. I mean, sheesh! Whoever uses this phrase probably should have stuck to using suddenly in the first place.

Like Cindy Sherman. Unbelievably, I saw this error very recently in old media. New York magazine, to be exact, in the cover story My First New York. I was curious to know all about Ms Sherman's first impressions of New York City back in the day, so I settled in to read. Here's what I saw:

It was the summer of 1977, and I was terrified of the city. The Son of Sam was going around murdering couples, the city blacked out for 24 hours, the transit strike stopped all the buses, and all of the sudden women who used to wear little pumps to work now started wearing sneakers. I don’t remember leaving the apartment much. I was just like, “Oh my God, here I am in the city!”

This is forgivable when a random blogger or commenter commits this kind of language abuse. A mature,  celebrated artist? Well, maybe Cindy's more of a visual person. And that's okay. But New York? I'm sure everyone there is overworked and stressed out there, like anyone in the dismal world of magazine publishing right now, but this is, in my view, super sloppy. New York, you are not just a blog yet. Bad New York! 

Consider this the first part of an occasional series. I'll be watching...

Saying New York Is Over: Over.

Another day, another facile New York Times Styles trend piece. Sadly, Eric Konigsberg's eloquent piss-take of the perma-craze known as absinthe did not herald a new day and a more discerning voice for Times trend reporting.

Written by Alex Williams—whose sole purpose seems to be tarting up obvious old tropes with a few fresh quotes from random twentysometings, usually delivered by "e-mail message" (see the one about how nobody keeps their New Year's resolutions, or the one about how conspicuous consumption is out of fashion, or the one about how it's dangerous to email when drunk, or dozens more like 'em)—now tries to recycle the classic chestnut that New York is over. What with all the layoffs in New York–centric industries like finance and real estate and publishing and advertising and all, New York ain't what it used to be.

There is probably some truth in this, and indeed, Williams begins to build the argument by stringing  together a few factoids and a bunch of unrelated quotes, like one from some guy who claims that Sixth and 55th was deserted on a recent Tuesday morning, and some girl who proclaims that "there is a sense that the thrill of paying $20 for a cocktail is over," and some other guy who says the city is “definitely shedding whatever New York was a few years ago”… whatever that was.

But then, after several more corroborations regarding shuttered Broadway shows and storefronts and constructions sites, comes this: "Can a city be considered 'over,' like Pete Doherty?" Okay, first of all: Pete Doherty? What's he got to do with anything? (A) He's not a New Yorker; he hasn't even visited lately; and (B) he's not over—just because he's not big in America, where he's not allowed in thanks to all those crack convictions, doesn't mean he's over.* Why not "over like Rudy Guiliani" or "over like Sarah Jessica Parker's marriage," or "over like saying 'saa-weeet!'", or, for that matter, "over like absinthe"?

Clearly Williams is grasping here, perhaps trying to best Konigsberg's clever allegorical mélange a couple of weeks earlier:

"If absinthe were a band, it would be Interpol, third-hand piffle masquerading as transgressive pop culture. If absinthe were sneakers, it would be a pair of laceless Chuck Taylors designed by John Varvatos for Converse. If it were facial hair, it would be the soul patch. If absinthe were a finish on kitchen and bath fixtures, it would be brushed nickel."

Over like Pete Doherty. Not even close.

But perhaps the most irritating of all is how with that sentence, Williams then turns the argument around on a dime. Is New York over? Nah! People are always saying that! You know, fictional people, like Kristen Johnson on Sex and the City that time, like, five years ago. Oh, and Joan Didion,way back in 1967. Who, by the way, still lives here. So you know that 1,000 words I just used up making the case that New York is over? All bullshit! Hah-hah!

And this is what these NYT trend pieces always do. Posit the question, string together a load of quotes that support the case, and then zap the reader with a bunch of "on the other hand" scenarios. Don't stick with the courage of your convictions or anything like that, NYT writers. Go ahead: Be wishy-washy!

photo courtesy of Jeremiah's Vanishing New York. And let's have a moment of silence for Love Saves the Day, which may just be a throwback to another era but you know what? It was a really great era to be in NYC.

* I'm sorry but that really struck a nerve: I happen to be a huge fan, and I'm pissed off that I can't watch the new documentary 24 Hours With Pete Doherty showing this week on UK's MTV.

No! More! Whiskered! Jeans! EVER!

I love Martha Stewart for this. Now that we've finally broken 70 degrees, summer fashion faux pas are here! This year it's especially appalling, with the micro-mini and short-shorts trends being embraced by many who have no business even thinking about them. For in a town that prides itself on being a world-class style capital, New York is teeming with walking fashion disasters. Rules need to be laid down. And Martha has done it.

What does it say about women in the workplace that such a screed is even necessary? Perhaps that we've gotten a little too comfortable in the office place? Whatever it is, personally, I've seen one too many crusty bra straps and pasty thigh expanses at the conference table and have been subjected to so much obnoxious thik-thok thik-thok thik-thoking as a clueless flip-flop princesses flap up and down corridors, I have actually contemplated murder. So you tell 'em, Martha. Bitches need guidance.

Herewith, the email:

How to Wear: Jeans
Save ripped, stained, bleached, whiskered, or otherwise overly distressed denim for the weekend. Ditto for any styles that sit so low that they reveal flashes of your midsection when you reach up to grab a book, or your bottom when you bend down to grab your bag. Sometimes, wearing a longer top can be the solution. But the basic rule is, no peeks of skin between the top of your jeans and the bottom of your shirt. Pair jeans with a nice shirt and shoes (not a T-shirt and sneakers).

How to Wear: Sundresses
Many summer skirts and dresses are made from gauzy material, so make sure the fabric's not see-through (don't forget the back view). Coworkers should never be aware of what color/cut of undergarments you are wearing. Wear a cardigan over a dress that's strapless or low-cut. Bra straps should never be visible. Putting on leggings does not make a super-short hemline any more appropriate. Keep hems somewhere right above the knee, or lower.

How to Wear: Sandals
Feet should be clean, well-groomed, and generally presentable. If you aren't sure what this means, stick to closed-toe footwear. Flip-flops can be worn in a fashionable way, but the rubber kind--generally associated with the beach, the pool, and the dorm shower--should be saved for the weekend.

How to Wear: Tank Tops
Those tight, ribbed cotton tanks are usually better as layering items than as stand-alone tops. Bra straps should never be visible. Wear a cardigan over a strapless top.

How to Wear: Shorts
Capris and "city shorts" (the type that reach the knee) are fine, especially when paired with nice flats or heels. Short-shorts, cargo shorts, board shorts, and pretty much any other kind of shorts, are not.

Source: Gawker

So WHAT?

There’s something that’s been bothering me for a really long time now, and it’s about time I shared.

It’s the way everybody has started using the word so. They’re using it all the time. People of all ages, from coast to coast, north to south, overuse this word, but it is especially prevalent in among the under-thirtysomethings, i.e., Generation MySpace.

Spacers are using the word so instead of um or y’know and sometimes but, and what’s even worse, it always comes out in a really flat note an octave or two lower than the rest of the sentence. It makes everyone sound vaguely Chinese. 

It can be delivered in a long, barnyard sound, with extra syllables thrown in--seeeyyoooowwwwww--or a short, sharp yelp, like an airhorn blast, or Homer Simpson’s “D’oh!”

So gets arbitrarily tacked onto the end of a sentence; used to string sentences together;  sometimes it is the sentence. You’ll hear it bleat from the sticky glossed lips of young women everywhere yabbering vacantly on their cell phones. “Sooooo. Yeah, where are we meeting later?” “I just got out of work, so.” It’s used to fill in a void, to provide  a declarative end to an uptalker’s statement (“I don’t think he’s going to show up? So...”). It can suggest an apology, a challenge, or a studied nonchalance. Whenever someone on the street is coming towards me yakking on their cellphone, I place a silent bet with myself that just as just as they pass by, they’ll say it. And about 9 out of 10 times they do! Are they doing it on purpose? Am I causing it? I’m not so sure anymore. 

I hear it absolutely everywhere. I’m walking down the street and this guy behind me says to his friend, “I like Shake Shack but there’s usually a wait but it’s worth going online to check first, so.” I’m  at the hair salon and I hear a hairdresser instruct his client, “Just shampoo and leave it in, you don’t really have the kind of hair that needs layered conditioning, so.” 

And I just want to scream, “So WHAT???”

It’s driving me a little bit crazy, in case you haven’t noticed. In fact, it’s been tweaking my nerves for well over a year. I’ve always been sensitive to other people’s verbal tics. Like, I once knew a guy who ended all his sentences with “… but still.” As in, “I thought he was going to call me at 3, but still.” And this girl who had a stutter, so used to run up to every sentence with “But though...” Sometimes she’d get stuck: “But though, but though, but though...” God bless ’er, she couldn’t help it. But there was this other girl with a broad, flat California accent who had a way of ending “-ing” words with “-een”. Once she listed all the activities she was looking forward to in an upcoming action-packed vacation: “We’re going hikeen and fisheen and bikeen and golfeen and horse-back rideen and swimmeen and kayakeen…” I had to stop being friends with her, it was so annoying.

Now I am being driven crazy every day by this irritating Tourette’s-like tic that the whole world seems to have adopted. I hear the superfluous so whenever people on reality shows are talking to camera. I hear it on the radio and TV news whenever people are being interviewed. I hear it said by the British—seeewww; the Australians—soooooiiee; the French, the Arabs, the Pakistanis. Everybody has their own unique little phonetic flourish. I’ve even heard it scripted into commercials, movies and TV shows. If you want a classic example, check out this clip from The Office, when David Brent makes an ass of himself with The Dance. See if you can count the sos.

And I love The Office. But still... But though... It’s sooooo annoyeen!!

UPDATE: Now this is a perfect example. I love Emily Gould,  I really enjoy her writing on gawker. As this clip started I thought, God I hope she doesn’t say it. We get three-quarters of the way through, no so. And then, ack! Out it comes. For no reason. It didn’t need to be there.

Can’t everybody stop? Pretty please?

Crappy-Headed Man-Ho

And speaking of Courtney Love’s butchered stomach… Hello, Don Imus! This ravaged, revolting, freaky little man is all over the news for describing the members of the Rutger women’s college basketball team on his radio show as “nappy-headed hos.” I don’t listen to Don Imus—never have, never will. In fact, I thought he went off the air years ago. But today, everybody’s talking about him because of that comment and the fact that Al Sharpton raised a rallying cry, organizing a protest outside Imus’s MSNBC studio and demanding his resignation. “He has mainstreamed the most vile, sexist, racist words in America,” Sharpton thundered. “I'm going to be on this until something is done.”

What Imus said was vile, no question about it. And what most pundits picked up on was, of course, the remark's flagrant racism. But I couldn’t help but wonder which aspect was worse—the racism or the misogyny? The Rutger team is made up of predominantly black, but not all black, women. He was calling all these women hos, nappy-headed or not. It’s doubly insulting.

But the issue of misogyny was completely eclipsed by the issue of racism as commenters speculated whether Imus should be fired or whether MSNBC and/or parent company NBC should be held accountable. Interesting that Sharpton called him on sexism, too. Nobody else did.

I pondered on this for a while. Misogyny seems simply to have become an acceptable part of the cultural landscape in this golden age of Slut Culture, in which young women clamor to get boob jobs as high-school graduation presents and think that flashing their waxed vadges just like Paris, Britney and Lindsay is all super-cool and empowering. Most young women consider shopping and pole-dancing a legitimate form of exercise. They'll lap-dance a guy at a bar for a drink. Why waste your time, right?

Then, completely by accident, I switched on The Tyra Banks Show this afternoon and, lo, her subject was “Kids Growing Up Too Quickly.” She interviewed a 13-year-old girl whose goal is to dress like a slut “like all the celebrities do”; a young boy who likes playing a video game in which he can slap prostitutes; and an 8-year-old girl whose mother was quite worried because her mature young daughter’s puberty commenced at the age of 5. I thought to myself, Go Tyra!

Except, no. For every question Tyra asked her young guests, she had to bring it all back to—who else? —Tyra. The 8-year-old’s mother mentioned how her daughter already had to wear deodorant. “I had to wear deodorant when I was 9, but I wasn’t going through precocious puberty!” announced Tyra. (Eew! I wish I didn’t know that!) Oh, well, continued the mother, the 8-year-old was already five foot tall. “I was tall when I was 8, but I wasn’t going through precocious puberty!” Tyra persisted. Well, uh, girls stop growing four years after reaching puberty. “I didn’t stop growing until I was about 22!” Tyra goaded. What the fuck was she trying to tell us? That she’s still in puberty? So competitive, that Tyra Banks! If she's the only one speaking out on these issues then, hell, I’ll take Reverend Al any day.  At least he got Don Imus’s ugly ass suspended.

UPDATE: The Rutgers coach Vivian Stringer just held a press conference, redirecting the focus to the damage comments like these do to young women everywhere, regardless of race. Team captain Essence Carson points out that this incient proves that women —regardless of race — have not attained equality yet. Thank you, ladies! The revival of this discussion is long overdue.

ANOTHER UPDATE: Whee! The women are speaking up at last. Two excellent articles, one by Gwen Ifil, a White House correspondent who was the target of a truly revolting slur by Imus nine years ago; and Gwen Knapp, who makes a brilliant point about how women in power — that’s you, Hillary, Condi and Nancy —avoid women’s issues like the plague, lest they jeopardize their standing in the Boys Club. When’s the rally, girls? Count me in!

Phone Rage

For some bizarre reason, in the last month or so I keep receiving daily calls from an online pharmacy advising me that I have a prescription to refill. I don't. I've never used an online pharmacy. And I've told them this, over and over again.

I read somewhere that legally, all it takes to stop telemarketers from calling is to announce calmly and definitively: "Please take my name off your list and don't call me again." I've done that in the past and it has worked perfectly well. But not with this pharmacy. I tried asking nicely, then forcefully, then pleadingly, then angrily; despite being reassured each time that my request was being honored, the calls kept coming.

There's nothing more depressing than when your phone rings several times a day and more often than not, it's a telemarketer. You're hoping it's a friend or someone calling to invite you out or maybe even a great work opportunity you've been waiting for, but no, you check the caller ID and it starts with 1-866 or 1-888. You die a tiny death each time, like when you get a card on Valentine's Day and it's from your mother. (Yep, that's happened to me a lot, I'm sorry to say.) The display might as well just spell out 1-866-NYAHNYAH!

Many people advise that the best way to fuck these callers up is to pick up and then walk away from the phone for a while. Tried that, didn't work. There's also a website where you can go to get on the Do Not Call registry, but have you seen how much detailed information you have to give them? (a) I think there's quite enough information about me out there already, thank you; and (b) Who has time for this?

Anyway, I wanted to get these people on a grassroots level. I wanted to cause them the kind of psychological harm their calls were causing me. So a few days ago, I picked up the phone, held it right up to my mouth and let out  the world's loudest, lung-emptying horror-movie scream.

I terrified the cats and probably the neighbors, but it felt pretty good it a cathartic sort of way. And when I didn't hear from them for a few days, I was convinced it had done the trick. But the calls started again. I screamed some more. I even held the phone up to the speakers to make them listen to Brian Lehrer at full blast. (Pretty crap, I admit, but it's what I had on at the time.) Yet the fuckers keep calling. 

I'm pretty sure I have to give in and go the government-sanctioned route, but before I do, I want to try a little experiment. I'm going out to buy a whistle.

UPDATE 04/04/07: Today my online pharmacy friend got a big old earful of whistle. Take that, pill pusher!