Why is the Wave a thing?

Of all the stupid, pointless things that happen at sporting matches, the Wave is among the stupidest and most pointless.

Are you really that bored?  Go home, go get a beer, or take a nap.  Do anything but convince your friends to start the Wave.  And if you're not that bored, still, do anything but convince your friends to start the Wave, because the Wave is dumb and awful.

Why, when I google "Seneca," is "Seneca Crane" the first auto-complete?

America, World, everyone: you have failed.

At everything.

Why are muffins rarely any good?

I speak of the American breakfast-type muffin, which is a caloric bomb of sugar and butter and still usually fails to taste good.

How is this possible?  It has basically the same ingredients as cake, because it is a cake, plus poppy seeds or bran or something, but it tastes awful.  It's either dry or gummy, and everything but the top is totally not worth eating.

I'll accept instant heart disease if a pastry is delicious.  As a rule I'd kill a man for a napoleon.  But those mediocre, meretricious muffins are evil, I tell you.

Why don't people understand the point of this blog?

On angry-face's fifth birthday, it seems appropriate to get slightly meta.

Every so often, someone comments to point out indignantly that the things I bemoan are trivial, absurd, and very definitely First World Problems.  As if I didn't know.

First off, those are the problems I have, so those are my complaints.  At least I'm not dishonest.

Second, this is a humor blog, and Problems of the Not First World variety are not very amusing.  "Why do I have malaria?"  "Why doesn't my family get enough to eat?"  "Why does all the humanitarian aid get cut off by the warlords?"  See?  Not hilarious.

So yes, I know, and no, I don't care.

On a slightly different note, it also seems appropriate at this juncture to acknowledge Dr. Ford, without whom this blog would not exist.  Little did he think that his little scroll of stuff I hate (cheap beer, domestic cheeses, something that might be "puppies," "hippies," or "happiness") would have such a long life.  Thanks, Ford.

Why do people neglect to respond to invitations?

Generally people are all right on saying they will come to a party.  There is, however, a curious--and unfortunate--reticence to say they will not.

It feels rude to decline an invitation.  But it is much better to decline outright than to leave the hostess in doubt.  As a rule, it helps to know how many people to expect, and who they are.

Not replying to an invitation out of fear of giving offense is like not breaking up with a girl in order to spare her feelings.  Unless you are actually Horatio Hornblower, and are willing to marry the girl, fake tenderness at every opportunity, and doctor your reports to the Admiralty all in the name of not hurting her feelings, you are only making it worse.

And it doesn't even take a phone call or a stamp.  An e-mail that takes thirty seconds to compose and send will do admirably.

Why is road construction following me around?

You know what's awful?  Cycling on a milled road.  It's bad enough in a car, but when your suspension system is actually just your own tailbone, it's much worse.

And it's good that roads are being re-paved.  I just don't see why it has to be all the roads between me and wherever I'm going.  It doesn't matter which direction I go when I leave my house.  All the roads are in a disastrous intermediate stage of repair, and they fake me out.  There was one that was closed for a week, and then it reopened, and that was exciting, but now it's hosed again.

They're also repaving one that loops and meanders and is damn near impossible to circumvent without going miles out of my way.  And, once I manage to do that, the next road is also being repaved.

Can we just do one at a time?  Please?


(Yeah, I complain about cycling problems a lot.  Well, I spend most of my time on a bike, and the rest of my time is spent in a library, and you're not interested in questions like, "Why does it matter whether or not the Carthaginians cut off Regulus' eyelids?")

Why was Immortals so terrible?

I knew it would be bad, so I avoided paying money for it, which is why I haven't seen it until now.

Oddly enough, I'm not going to complain about the costumes.  They were deeply bizarre, but they really went for it, and I respect and admire them for that.  Ares' crest made of swords was rather neat, and certainly effective.

I don't even know what that movie was about.  I mean, Theseus, it was claimed.  But not a Theseus I recognize--and there are many.  Where was Ariadne?  Or Aegeus?  Or the black sail?  And who the hell is King Hyperion?  And what is wrong with his face?  Because it's more than is natively wrong with Mickey Rourke's current face, and that's saying a lot.

And what happened?  Is anyone clear on this?  Who is responsible for what, and why?  And what is the deal with the bow?  Are people more convinced by a temple that no one can navigate than by a labyrinth built for the purpose?  Or by a man with a barbed wire bull head on his shoulders more than an actual minotaur?  In a world where visions are real and there's a magical bow, that actually makes less sense.

What was at stake in the climactic battle?  Do you know?  Does anyone?  Where were the rest of the Olympians?  I feel like they could have helped out.  Why was Zeus hardly old enough to be Athena's most junior uncle?  Why is Kellan Lutz allowed to exist?

Honestly.  You had Henry Cavill, who was sometime aptly cast as a character who, from a certain angle, looks like all the Greek gods at once, and this is the best you can do?

Why are Jordan almonds so gross?

Almonds are nice.  Sugar is also nice.  And pretty colors are quite charming.  But Jordan almonds just taste like paste.  Which is not a thing that is pleasant to eat.

And my sister broke a tooth on one.  That has to be the worst candy ever.

Why do people read so many awful books?

I used to ask why people wrote such awful books, but then I realized that the incentive is there--they sell them.  Often in enormous numbers.  So that end of the equation makes perfect sense, even if it's morally reprehensible.

This isn't really about any particular terrible book, though I could name many, some of which I have read in their entirety, some of which I have skimmed, and some of which--of course--I would not touch with a pair of tongs.  Most of the wildly popular awful books have enough vocal enemies that I will not dignify their existence by mentioning them.

There is never any reason to read a bad book, because there are so many good books out there.  There are good books of every kind.  For every bad book, I daresay, there is a good book that does largely the same thing, only better--with more fluid prose, more lively characters, more original verve.  It is the difference of a perfect apple from a green Jolly Rancher.

You do not have to read Martin Chuzzlewit just because Dickens is said to have thought it his best.  In fact, you do not have to read any book that has had status conferred on it by longevity and swanky authorship.  Many swanky authors and many authors of days past have written dreadful books.  And you needn't read a long book, either.  Plenty of good books read quickly.  You don't have to read a serious book, about orphans, or wars, or any other kind of Issues.  Lots of good books are funny, sweet, and entertaining.

You aren't required to read Hemingway, or Ishiguro, or Eliot, or Maupassant, or Saramago.  Just please--please--stop reading bad books.

Why are people such idiots about bike helmets?

Lately I've been seeing a lot of chatter about how, if bike helmets were lighter, or more stylish, or if they interfered less with vision, everyone would stop driving his car and hop on a bike.  Really?  This is not just rampant excuse-making?  The only thing separating us from universally tiny carbon footprints is vanity?

Yes, it is far more chic to bike with one's hair blowing picturesquely in the breeze.  One feels much more like a pre-war undergraduate.  A bike helmet tends to make everyone look a bit like the Predator.  And sometimes it makes awkward little red marks on the forehead.  It's bulky, it has to be carried around, and it only comes in bad colors.

The peripheral vision thing, though, is a canard.  People who say, in that uppity way, that they can't ride with a helmet because it compromises their range of vision have never tried.  Sure, it hides the dive-bombers coming from directly above you, but you're probably screwed in that department even without a helmet.  Any (tiny) decrease in your range of vision comes down to the same thing as all the other minor disadvantages:

This is all a pretty small price to pay for your brains.

Why doesn't my Economist arrive on Friday any more?

Slow Saturday mornings with coffee and slightly musty news are the best.

Why do people wear headphones while on their bicycles?

One of the best clues a cyclist has to his safety as measured by proximity of automobiles is engine noise.  Cars are behind him, and even if he has a little rear-view mirror on his helmet the roar of internal combustion is an extremely helpful tip-off.

Riding with headphones is stupid and risky.  Anything that robs a cyclist of any of his senses makes him more likely to be killed, and he should not rob himself.  The things other people do to him are scary and dangerous enough.

Stop being boneheads, cyclists of the world.  It lets people call you boneheads.

Why do journalists think that Twitter feeds are newsworthy?

Lots of people tweet.  Lots of famous, newsworthy people tweet.  What people tweet--whether those people are famous or not--is not newsworthy.

This problem is worst, probably, in sportswriting.  There's always material for journalists, because many athletes tweet, and many athletes are idiots, and famous people with no filter apparently have a massive hold on our collective imagination.

But it is not journalism to trawl Twitter and see that Lance Armstrong was cranky about something for the five seconds it took to tweet about it.  That is not news--literally or figuratively.  It is not news to blow up the Brandi Chastain vs. Hope Solo spat into a major sports story, because there's no there there.  Sure, it's public, but there is no substance to it, either in the production or the harvesting.

So people are twits on Twitter.  Let's not give them a bigger platform.

Why are we so excited about the ascendancy of women's boxing?

Yes, it's all to the good that a women's sport is enjoying greater publicity, support, and interest.

However.

The problem here is that no form of boxing should be on the up.  Aside from how it's fixed out the wazoo, boxing is a barbaric holdover.  At a time when we are starting to freak out about concussions in football, baseball, soccer, and every other sport in which they are incidental (if frequent), why is there not an outcry about a sport whose purpose is to punch the other guy in the head?  Until he is unconscious or at least unable to continue?  Hello?

Most of the other blood sports have been sanitized or eliminated.  Fencing has protective gear and a little button on the point.  No one takes out his duelling pistols at dawn for fun any more.  The pankration has been abandoned.

Yeah, boxing's about the technique, and grace, and all that.  Sure.  Float like a freaking butterfly.  Whatever.

Why is a whole banana too much banana for a bowl of cereal?

Half a banana is the perfect amount of banana, but then there's nothing to do with the other half.  Slicing the whole banana leads to a pile of fruit on top of the cereal, rendering it impossible to achieve an optimal cereal-to-banana ration per spoonful.

Sure, the cereal bowl is rather a johnny-come-lately on an evolutionary scale, but banana trees should really get it together here.

Why is Mini making the Countryman?

That thing is godawful.  No one in his right mind ever thinks, "You know what's wrong with that Mini?  It doesn't look enough like a truck."

Because that's not the point of a Mini.  It's called a Mini!  It's supposed to be small!  It is not supposed to be a bulbous monstrosity.

There is a simple test for Minis.  Can you imagine a young Michael Caine driving it?  If not, back to the drawing board.

Why has "evaporated cane juice" become a listed ingredient?

And why does this make people buy cereals and feel smug about them?

You know what evaporated cane juice is?  It is sugar.  That is all.  Because, when you harvest sugar cane, you get this gloppy liquid, and then you pass it through some evaporators, and you get sugar.

It's not even a creepy substitute, or a different process.  Evaporated cane juice is just sugar.  Plain old sugar.  It is not better or worse for you than sugar, because, again, it is sugar.

But I think marketers are successful with this stratagem, which does nothing but make me shake my head.

Why has White House Black Market lost its conceptual clarity?

No, it was never going to sell you the greatest dress you've ever owned.  No, it was not ground-breaking or trend-setting.

It was, however, the perfect place if you required a new LBD in a pinch, or desperately needed a plain white--actually white--wrap for a wedding this weekend and everyone else for some reason had only cream or a wacky fringe or ruffles or something.  They would have one, and it would work perfectly and it would not cost the earth.

And then they started selling jeans, which are blue, and I think the next step was touches of red.  And after that, le déluge.  Beige, blue, it's all fair game.

So now they are still not ground-breaking or trend-setting, they are still not going to sell you the greatest dress you've ever owned, and they are no longer useful for problem-solving in the clutch.  Whoops.

Why are today's children incapable of using crayons?

Crayola now makes "Twistables," which take a crayon and put it inside a plastic tube that propels it when it wears down, so that one's crayon is never dull.

In my day, we had two solutions to the dull crayon problem.  One was a sharpener.  That, however, required organization and got the pencil sharpener all waxy, so it was seldom used.  The second solution was to draw with the crayon strategically, wearing it down evenly at an angle all around, so that it never got dull.  This was a system beaten into a child as soon as he could understand it, and we rarely had stubby crayons in our house.

The plastic tube also bothers me.  A crayon was brilliant and created almost no waste, because the wax was taken up with drawing, and the paper (what there was of it) probably biodegraded after serving the very useful purpose of teaching a small child what color "umber" is.  The plastic thingumabob must presumably be thrown away.

Our children are now apparently too stupid and averse to basic problem-solving to cope with a crayon, and we have introduced a sissifying, wasteful engine to do it for them.  Well done, us.

Why do people use "curate" willy-nilly?

Everyone appears to have his "curated" collection of pie recipes, or lamps, or assemblage of small objects indispensable to an artistic lifestyle.  I submit that it has gotten out of hand.

A curator creates, expands, and looks after a museum collection.  Someone who puts together a subscription service of colored paper clips and whimsical sticky notes is not doing that.  He is, rather, "choosing" or "selecting" things.  He may do so with care and taste (although it appears he generally does it with a slavish devotion to current trends), but he is still not curating.  And he should get over it.

As usual, this blog is opposed to language inflation.

Why was The Mysteries of Udolpho so offensively lacking in incident?

I find Northanger Abbey extremely charming and humorous, so I thought I would sample the genre--and the particular novel--it so engagingly parodies.

My friends, do not do this.

The Mysteries of Udolpho is, to begin, much too long.  It would still be too long even if twice as much happened.  But that is to come to its main weakness: nearly nothing happens, and most of what does happen actually occurred decades ago, offscreen.  And, even if there were plot points, the tenor of the prose is so dully consistent that I would forgive you if you missed them completely.  For instance, one of the female characters overhears a conversation of brigands in which they discuss how to murder and rob her and her party.  The tone of the passage is no different from any of the rest, and excites the reader about as much as Mrs. Radcliffe's earlier (extended) description of a plane tree.

Next, Emily (our heroine, more or less) is useless.  She spends all of her time weeping, fainting, or feeling guilty about weeping and/or fainting.  Also she both withholds information and refuses to ask for it when appropriate, which leads to a large number of important misunderstandings, even apart from the ones she creates herself by theorizing drastically in advance of her data.  (Honestly, no, Valancourt is not the man who left you sonnets in the fishing-house, because he has manifestly never been there, you twit.  And not every Frenchman who can sing is your long-lost lover, either.)

Emily's frustration with the servants, at least, is justified, but only at a cost.  Every time her lady's maid, Annette, speaks, I am filled with a desire to throw something, because Mrs. Radcliffe thinks that it is engaging to have the lower orders speak for pages to no purpose, since that is a thing that we have all often observed peasants to enjoy.  Right?  Fortunately for Annette, though inexplicably to us, the gallant (and surprisingly capable) servant Ludovico seems to agree with Mrs. Radcliffe.

Mrs. Radcliffe does give us a solution to the problem of Emily's shortcomings: three-quarters of the way through the book, she introduces a new slate of characters!  Of course!  That's just what we needed!  And they are champions in assisting Emily to weep and feel guilty, because they repeat malicious gossip as fact and she is prone to casting aside a lover because she hears from people hitherto unknown that he has--gasp!--fallen into debt in Paris.  I was under the impression that it was the duty of all minor noblemen to fall into debt in their youths, so that they could lecture their sons about it later.  But apparently this spectre of vice paints a lurid portrait of Valancourt among the fleshpots, and only through the intercessions of an also hitherto unknown character, and after much heart-rending and idiocy, is he exonerated.  Amid considerable weeping and a fair amount of fainting.

To sum up: everyone is an idiot, nothing happens, Udolpho itself figures surprisingly little and rather less mysteriously than many other locales in the novel, and the prose is absurdly flat.  That he enjoyed it is the only thing I know that stands against Henry Tilney.

Why did the coffee shop play so many hours of Bob Dylan today?

Three hours of Bob Dylan is too many hours of Bob Dylan for me.  It is really too many hours of Bob Dylan for anyone, I suspect.

It's like water torture, except instead of drops of water on your head, it's a constant incisive whine needling at your eardrums.  So it's really entirely unlike water torture, except in its effects.

So...I'll cry "uncle."  What do you need know?

Why have people stopped wearing black to funerals?

Unless the deceased has left specific instructions that folks are not to wear black, or the deceased belongs to a faith or people for whom black is inappropriate funeral wear, you show up in your best black togs.  Grey is also acceptable; if necessary, sometimes a muted purple.

This is a simple mark of respect, and has been for centuries.  It is not complicated or elaborate.  It is not confusing or bizarre.  Quite possibly the first suit you owned was black, or a dark grey.  And, ladies, don't pretend you don't own something appropriate, because pretty much every woman anywhere owns a black dress and a black cardigan, at the very, very least.  You can even wear your good black trousers.  Those are fine.  Stop lying.

It is no excuse that this is the summer, because they make linen in black.