"Leeeaavin', on a jet plane..."

 

Well, this is it! I'm heading up to my new home so I'll be offline for a couple of days. But...

I'll be baaa-aack!

Have a great weekend everybody!

What the...?

Troll (n): One who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup, message board or other forum with the express intent of causing maximum disruption and argument.

Trolls...trolls...trolls. They're like traffic: a sad fact of life that we bitch about but can't really do anything about.

Most of us who have spent any time at all on a public forum, blog or in any open online community have had to suffer a troll. Our coping mechanisms in dealing with these digital degenerates has ranged from open, bald-faced hostility ("WTF? What a f*ckin' loser!"), to confusion ("I wonder if...? Are they in the right place?"), revenge ("I wonder how hard it is to actually develop and send a virus?"), frustration ("What the...?"), derision ("Get a LIFE!"), and finally to resignation ("Crap. Here we go again...").

I didn't really know what to expect when I began this blog. I mean, I know what I hoped for: a place to voice my thoughts about this and that. And, maybe if I was lucky, a place to share those thoughts and ideas if anybody bothered to show up. The one thing that never really occurred to me was that, along with you all, the trolls would show up. We engage in discourse — sometimes heated, often funny, always enlightening — and like silent flatulence in a crowded room, they show up and stink up the room. And no matter how much hand-fanning and breath-holding we engage in, we can't ignore them. We just have to wait patiently until the air clears and we can breathe free again.

But who are these people? Who are these Dandies of Dumb who insinuate themselves upon us with virtual impunity? And why do they do it? Well. We all know who they are. These people are morons with too much time, too little sense and questionable hygiene. Losers who don't have much of a real life that entertain their fevered yet smallish minds by swooping into random blogs, puking on said blog, and swooping back out, giggling maniacally to no one but themselves.

But recently I've discovered that, though this theory may be true for some, it is not true for others. I've discovered that some trolls are wives and husbands, aunts and uncles, brothers- and sisters-in-law, co-workers, even friends. My goodness, some of them are seemingly normal people! Surprising? Yes. Disturbing? You betcha. Fascinating. Yeah, well, that too. It fascinates me that folks that ought to have something better to do choose to waste time trying to bug strangers or even people they know when they ought to be spending time with family and friends.

The only remedy I've found for these...people is something I heard right here: "Don't Feed the Troll". It seems apparent that ignoring them is the best way to get rid of them, at least temporarily. Of course (as Christy ironically noted), by posting this discourse I've just given them far more attention than they deserve. But what the hell – f*ck em.

Oops Upside Your Head!

Little Denny coulda used a little more rod.

My parents spanked me. I didn't like it, but it worked.

I just got back from visiting my mom and my girlfriend. So how did corporal punishment pop into my head, you may ask? Well, I'll tell you. The flight there and the flight back. Kids. Annoying, hyperactive, earbud-wearing, laptop-using, seat-kicking, snot-nosed little mini-people. That's how.

I'll just focus on "Tommy". I wanted to put a ballpoint pen through Tommy's eye. Tommy was about eight and decided that he had to comment on everything. EH-VEH-REE-THEENG. Now I can't blame him for being fascinated with air travel. The first time I was on an airplane – I think I was three or four – I loved it. I loved everything about it. I loved the smell of jet fuel, the way the planes looked, the sound of engines revving up before takeoff, the thump of the wheels on the tarmac as we touched down, the view out the window ("Mom, why are the buildings so small?"), the way the seats reclined, the way clouds looked close-up. So I don't blame Tommy for any of the random, enthusiastic observations he made throughout the two-and-a-half-hour flight. But did he have to muse so loudly? Did he have to push, bang and kick my seatback during at least half the flight at irregular intervals, usually just as I was dozing off? The answer, apparently, is yes.

But I can't really blame him for that either. I've gotta blame somebody though, so I'm gonna tag his dad, who was sitting right next to his precocious offspring the whole time. I wanted to put a pen through his eye too. Because Dad was the one that let Tommy get away with yelling over the sound pumping into his oversized head from the buds pressed into his ears. Because he was the one who let his son test the tensile strength of the tray table's hinge by opening and closing it compulsively and with ever-increasing vigor. I kept twisting my body around to shoot Dad the your-kid's-bugging-the-shit-out-of-me look and he ignored it. At one point little Tommy was leaning forward and had his face mashed up against the window, inches from my ear and decided to make a tsk'ing sound with his tongue and teeth. Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk. Now three minutes may not seem like a long time – it's only about the length of your average Beatles song –  but it is when an oversize-headed eight-year-old is tsk'ing a staccato into your ear at 37,000 feet while you're vainly trying to sleep away a cramped flight in coach.

When I was Tommy's age, my parents never let me get away with stuff like that. No, they didn't slap me upside the head in public, but they did spank me. And that would make it clear that inappropriate behavior simply would not be tolerated. I'm all for corporal punishment. Absolutely. Totally. 100%. Spare the rod, spoil the child? Nope. I got whacked. And it worked. (My mom could accomplish this kind of discipline with The Look.) I realize that being a parent can be frustrating, challenging, daunting and plain old tiring. Parents pick their battles and sometimes have to decide to look the other way when their kid acts like Charlie Sheen's love child. But if people choose to have children, and choose to take them to the mall, the movies, on a flight, out in daylight amongst other humans anywhere, they're responsible for doing their best to keep their kids from bugging the crap out of everyone within eye- or earshot.

I still love air travel. I still love the way clouds look as I pass through them en route to cruising altitude. I still like the way jet fuel smells. And I still had an amazing vacation. But lazy parents with obnoxious kids on planes bug the crap out of me.

So yes, my parents spanked me. I didn't like it, but it worked.

I'm baaa-aaack!

Hey Folks! I'm back to the land of heat and humidity and rarin' to go with...something. I have nary a clue what to post anew, but I'm thinkin' about it. Always thinkin'... 

Stay tuned!

Vay-kay-shee-own!

 

Y'all come back now, y'hear!

 

Karma's Kool

I was in the shower the other morning, and I started...pondering. (The acoustics in the shower are great and it's easier to hear my mind think.)

I was thinking about karma. I'm not Buddhist and don't really know much about karma other than what I imagine most people know casually. What goes around comes around; do unto others – that sort of thing. I suppose my definition of karma is along those lines. When I'm contemplating doing or saying something I'm not sure I want to do or say, I work it through my mind by asking myself how it could potentially come back and bite me in my ass.

What I ended up musing about in the shower was motivation. What is my usual motivation for doing the right thing? And are those motives pure or self-serving? I mean, from a karmic standpoint, am I doing something good because I'm just a nice guy? Or do I do the right thing because I just don't want something bad to happen to me later?

Looking back, a lot of my thinking about karma started when I began to learn about religion. And before anyone gets their hackles up, this isn't about to turn into a rant about religion. I do have my problems with certain organized faiths, but this ain't about that. What it is about is reward-based good works. How many people do stuff so they can get stuff in return? From what I've learned, many religious belief systems are based on retribution for not doing what we're told. If you don't believe this or believe that; do this or do that, you're going to hell. Well then, of course you're going to do what you're told. Who wants to spend eternity in eternal damnation? But is doing the right thing for the wrong reason – or out of fear – still the right thing? Does the end justify the means? "Yeah, yeah, I'll volunteer at the soup kitchen, but only because I don't wanna go downstairs when I die."

I'm still not clear on my reasoning for doing the right thing sometimes. When I find myself questioning my motivation, one thing I do is try to figure out how I can help someone without their knowing it. It's not easy. More often than not, I think most of us expect – or at least hope – for some recognition or acknowledgement when we do something for someone. But what if we did someone a favor behind their back? What if we borrowed a friend's car and filled up the gas tank and got a car wash and didn't tell them? (Call that one carma.) Would we be pissed if they didn't thank us? Would we be disappointed if they didn't notice? Well, yes and yes. But should we be? Shouldn't the self-gratification of doing something nice be enough reward in and of itself? Should we really need a pat on the back for doing what's right anyway?

I say yes. Sort of. Being grateful to ourselves for doing the right thing is self-rewarding. But those we help should express their gratitude to us as well. In my little Steven World, that's karma. When you do unto others, they'd better thank you for it, dammit!

However, there are times when a tiny kindness perpetrated on an unsuspecting neighbor can inoffensively go unacknowledged. Grab your buddy's trash when you're taking your own out to the Dumpster; hang the new phone book delivery bag on her doorknob because you know she has trouble bending over.

So karma's cool. It keeps me honest. On those occasions when I'm not sure what I should do, karma helps me decide. I figure if I spend half my time doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing do, and the other half doing the right thing because I don't want a karmic slap in the face, I'm doing okay. Ultimately, I believe the ends do justify the means, regardless of motivation. If I help someone out of altruism or fear, in the end, that person's still been helped.

Thank you still makes it go down easier, though.