More Fashion Crap

For as long as I gave a dang, I've been confused about the term "short waisted." I thought I was short waisted, because most pants look like the dreaded mom jeans on me.

Now, thanks to this promotional knitting blog, I now know what short waisted really means . . . maybe.

"...measure from your "neckbone" (collarbone) to your waist, and then from your waist to your crotch. Compare the two measurements. Is your neck-to-waist measurement longer than your waist-to-crotch? This is the traditional definition of "long waisted." Other way around? Short waisted! This makes sense if you study yourself in the mirror: The closer your waist is to your armholes and bust, the shorter (higher) it is; the further away from your armholes and bust, the longer (lower) it is."

Of course, the comments on the promotional blog have a few quibbles with this definition.

The mom jeans effect stems from my shorter torso and the "legs that won't quit"/"where's the flood?" bottom, not from a short waist.

Outerwear without Virtue, a Consumer Rant

Yesterday, I was shopping for a spring/fall jacket online. Among the usual size and price frustrations and the latest unflattering trends, I kept running into a bunch of cropped nonsense.

To me, outerwear must perform one function above all others: keep my body at a comfortable temperature. When I see an outerwear design that does not fulfill its essential role, it bothers me deep down inside. I do not understand the 3/4 sleeve jacket. Why wear a jacket that leaves my arms exposed?

I know that some styles that seem pointless today have practical origins. I can understand the down vest, because nature loving people need to keep their core warm while leaving their arms free to paddle a canoe or flail about. I also understand the much maligned capris, also known as claim diggers, because if I ever find myself walking on the beach, I don't want my pants getting all wet and sandy. Even stirrup pants had a purpose before people started wearing them with flats.

What is the essential virtue of the the 3/4 sleeve in outerwear? It may be flattering (not so much on me), but unless I'm going to be building a sandcastle or gutting a fish in a spring dress coat or sporty outdoor jacket, I want those garments to have real sleeves.

I have a bunch of 3/4 sleeve shirts and sweaters that I bought because the stores weren't carrying anything else during my last shopping spurt. Every time I put on one of my 3/4 sleeve sweaters, I wish I could throw it out, but I can't because I need things to wear to work.

I also am disturbed by sleeveless cotton shirts with hoods.

Drilled and Filled

Today I went to the denist.

Grocery Store Art

This weekend I was struck by two drawings on display at the grocery store.

What am I Giving Away for Scrabulous?

What media outlet brought me programs such as TV Nation and The Simpsons? Rupert Murdoch's own Fox Network.

And who let's me play counterfeit Scrabble with my liberal friends, publicly express support for Democratic candidates, and get cause messages from some socialist guy I went out with a couple of times? The Facebook.

Am I sticking it to the Man or what?

When I first heard of the Facebook from work/study students obsessed with checking their friend counts, I said, half jokingly, "The Facebook is evil." Anyone who's read or heard an interview of Facebook's so-called wunderkind Mark Zuckerman can tell he's a tool. But whose tool is he? This alarmist piece in The Guardian and another more tempered essay from Inside Higher Ed raise some interesting questions about the Facebook and social networking in general.

Here's one part of the Guardian piece that no one can deny. From a purely capitalist standpoint, these social networking sites are genius. I run a social network online, the audience creates the content, I sell their attention. Why pay writers and such? All I have to do is set up my site and tweak it every so often (or throw bananas at some code monkey to tweak it). After that, I just lap up the gravy.

In return for contributing content and demographic data to Facebook, Blogger, OKCupid, Gmail and the like, I get to play games with friends, reconnect with long lost friends (or at least send them little notes and pictures of yams), express myself, and meet guys --creepy and decent-- without having to get all tarted up and go outside.

What's wrong with that little social contract? The Guardian guy traces Facebook capital to a bunch of wing nuts and even the CIA, but what popular entertainment outlet can't be linked to kookoo right wingers? Just because I enjoy the sleek classic styling of Facebook (Myspace looks like a yard sale in a trailer park) doesn't mean I'm going to become some neocon sheep, even if I am tempted by a competitive streak to boost my friend numbers.

How is being on the Facebook any different from me watching The Simpsons on Fox TV? Both media show ads, which I can chose to ignore or block. When I watched the Simpsons and didn't pay attention to the commercials, I kind of liked the idea that I was putting one over on old Rupert by letting him entertain me for nothing. But the Facebook and other social networking services ask more from me than my attention. I give the Facebook things I can never really take back, such as some rather embarrassing Scrabulous plays.

News Flash: Some Historians are Full of Crap

I've just wasted 20 minutes of my lunch hour looking for substantive analysis and information on HNN. After reading Ralph E. Luker's useful essays, such as this examination of a Harriet Tubman quote, I thought that maybe the rest of the site would give me more to chew on.

It turns out that many pieces on this website contain as much partisan fluffernutter and as many byzantine twists of logic as any newspaper editorial. Even pieces that seemed reasonable at first glance crumbled shortly after that "wait a minute. . ." epiphany that follows a thorough bamboozling.

What a shame! I should have known.

Jumping on the Obandwagon

I am undecided no longer.

With all due respect to the Hillster's tenacity, intelligence, debating skills, and bottomless capacity to put up with crap, I'm backing Barack Obama.

He's a winner. He's a leader. Having witnessed the Clintons's first days in the White House, I know that there are many pitfalls that can screw up a younger President. Still, as a Democrat, I have to back the person I believe will win the election. He's reaching out to swing voters. He's reaching out to people that the Democratic party has mistakenly left for brain dead. If only a fraction of the people Obama has attracted to his phenomenal public appearances vote in November, it could turn things in our favor.

We can play it safe when we get a Democrat back in the White House. For now, I think we should play it smart.

Font Freak

Design fans can get their freak on by watching Helvetica, but everyone else--especially three-year-olds--will probably be bored.

The best parts of Helvetica are the interviews with the original designers, the old uber modernist European guys. I also enjoyed the interviews with some of the baby boomers. The documentary really drags during it's ad naseum shots of Helvetica all around us. Only once is this done in a clever way.

What's missing from this documentary? Motion graphics and animation that bring the typeface concepts to life. It's fine to have some old dude reminisce about how they picked the name Helvetica. It was cool when one of the old dudes referred to his computer screen when describing the anatomy of a new font. But it's a real shame that the filmmakers didn't take advantage of today's inexpensive motion graphics technology to illustrate the concepts at work. A documentary is a movie, for Pete's sake, not a brochure.

I Heart NJ

Here's what I learned during my Saturday trip to New Jersey.

• Willingboro has a lovely hidden public library.
• Home Depot doesn't sell Venetian blind brackets separately.
• It may be impossible to explain the terms "scam" and "rip-off" to a 3-year-old who wants to grab a plush bunny out of one of those coin operated claw toy machines.
• Cilantro smells like BBQ.
• There's a store called Crab Queen that I need to photograph.
  

Thing A Ding Ding

Some crafty minx is participating in Thing-A-Day. I wonder who she is?

A Bunch of Ben Dovers

I am fascinated--the way one might be fascinated by a bloody car wreck--by the people who still like Dubya.

During the last congressional elections, boy wonder was kept under wraps. Now, thanks to short memories, this core group of wackos, and the Ben Dovers who can't let go of their affection for a charming but incompetent over-grown frat boy, the President is on the campaign trail.

The Ben Dovers want to like Dubya so badly, it hurts. . .me. They are exemplified by these two southern newspaper editors I saw on a Newshour panel shortly after the "surge" had reduced the number of American casualities in Iraq. One Lady Ben Dover had this strange doe eyed expression. She basically said, "Well, I guess everything's all right now. Anyway, we don't want to be party poopers." At least the other frosty-haired editor copped to the fact that her conservative readers had no problems devouring the federal pork that was flowing into their defense contractor heavy region. Toot! Toot! Keep that gravy trail running!

Ladies, at the risk of sounding less than gentile, I must say that you need to be smacked upside the head. You may enjoy bending over for some idiot or some cash, but don't force the rest of us to do it.

I Was Just Thinking about This the Other Day

Some fancy cognitive scientist wrote a blog post on stuff I was thinking about the other day.

"Human Nature and Foreign Policy"

I think about this stuff a lot, but I don't have the scientific or philosophical chops to really tear into it.

Boiling

My bathtub faucet was leaking hot water like crazy, so I asked my landlord to fix it.

Yesterday, I came home to find that the faucet had been fixed. I also found a note ON MY BED from the repair guy, letting me know that he had fixed the faucet. It also said to call if I ever need a hand.

WTF!

Does anyone know how I can get my bedroom boiled?

This morning, I went to the landlord's office to report this creeposity, instead of acting on my initial instinct, which was to hunt down the repair guy and knock him in the head with a wrench.