I want to tell you a joke. But I lack all comic timing. So I'll have to set it up really well or simply never tell it.
I want to tell you a joke. Not that I have a particular joke in mind, I just want to tell one well. I just don't want to be seen as overbearing and aloof which is what happens whenever I try. I have a sense of humor, and it isn't all rueful and dark and mean-spirited and overly ironic, I promise. I love to tell jokes, and yes, they all roll off pathetically, misunderstood or misinterpreted through no fault of the listener. I love to tell jokes, but sometimes I'm just not feeling it, which is of course exactly when I want to talk about it, like now.
I like "The Simpsons". Jam-packed with jokes. I like what I've seen of "M*A*S*H". I went back and watched the Wayne Brady sketch of "Chappelle's Show" about a hundred times. To me, it's about as good as comedy gets. It moves you in directions you might not want to go, and yet, at the end of the day, you are sent in those directions, laughing all the way. Again and again. That's what humor is supposed to be, in my view.
Humor's a syringe full of truth serum and a mask full of laughing gas but you have to get the timing and coordination right between the two and so few are capable doctors. All I can tell you is that there's a veil of absurdity around the straightforward and a logic to all absurdities that bear upon the real, and any comic worth his/her salt can tap that. What I'm saying is that there's a lot of comedic mileage basically in being alive. And yet to take the stick-shift and actually get in gear with the comedy is the most difficult thing in the world. The art, the science, the... the craftsmanship. I can't get enough of the craftsmanship.
July 23, 2013
July 21, 2013
Sensory Experiments
I'm getting mixed messages from everyone I know. They tell me I'm crazy and they tell me I'm cool. They don't know if I'm just trying to be weird or if that's the way God made me and I'm just living the dream. They suspect the former process, but respect the end result just the same.
They tell me I'm not as different from everyone else as I think, but they tell me the way I enjoy things is fundamentally different from the way they do. They tell me the vast tracts of undiscovered land they catch me veering into in every moment of silence is really this common-and-well-worn world we all inhabit, but they wonder what compels me to reach into the undiscovered. They don't get my affinity for the timeless even in the most ephemeral of settings, and they don't get my relentlessly stupid ephemeral humor when I finally do buy in.
They say I'm mad, friends. They say I'm normal, in almost the same sentence. They say it's hard to tell the difference with me, to be fair, and that maybe that inscrutability is the difference itself. Inscrutably polite and inscrutably inattentive. Irrationally there and irrationally not-there at the same moment, I drift and do not. I cannot rationally attain the common knowledges and experiences of others but still, while I'm not attaining, I'm working: ever-better do I make my craft, practicing piano in my head when I should be listening to the song on the car radio and engaging it.
They don't know what to do with me. Everyone I know suspects some sort of odd neurological damage above which they gracefully float while I stumble yet again, but also some sort of odd neurological compensation that makes them the stumbling and me the graceful. You know, depending on the context. And a lot of contexts involve both, and we alternate facilities with competitive anything-you-can-do contests and with cooperative picking-up-one-another's-slack situations.
We get along but I also get the sense that maybe I'm straggling behind for too long and diving ahead for too long for anyone to really identify with my flow. My memory's long and I've got a wicked four-dimensional proprioception w.r.t. my body of work and my mind is sharp, but when it comes to obvious things about life and living, I'm as clumsy as anyone.
They tell me I'm not as different from everyone else as I think, but they tell me the way I enjoy things is fundamentally different from the way they do. They tell me the vast tracts of undiscovered land they catch me veering into in every moment of silence is really this common-and-well-worn world we all inhabit, but they wonder what compels me to reach into the undiscovered. They don't get my affinity for the timeless even in the most ephemeral of settings, and they don't get my relentlessly stupid ephemeral humor when I finally do buy in.
They say I'm mad, friends. They say I'm normal, in almost the same sentence. They say it's hard to tell the difference with me, to be fair, and that maybe that inscrutability is the difference itself. Inscrutably polite and inscrutably inattentive. Irrationally there and irrationally not-there at the same moment, I drift and do not. I cannot rationally attain the common knowledges and experiences of others but still, while I'm not attaining, I'm working: ever-better do I make my craft, practicing piano in my head when I should be listening to the song on the car radio and engaging it.
They don't know what to do with me. Everyone I know suspects some sort of odd neurological damage above which they gracefully float while I stumble yet again, but also some sort of odd neurological compensation that makes them the stumbling and me the graceful. You know, depending on the context. And a lot of contexts involve both, and we alternate facilities with competitive anything-you-can-do contests and with cooperative picking-up-one-another's-slack situations.
We get along but I also get the sense that maybe I'm straggling behind for too long and diving ahead for too long for anyone to really identify with my flow. My memory's long and I've got a wicked four-dimensional proprioception w.r.t. my body of work and my mind is sharp, but when it comes to obvious things about life and living, I'm as clumsy as anyone.
June 25, 2013
Eulogy
The priest addresses the church, filled to the brim with everyone I've ever known. All have their attentions directed utterly to the podium.
"WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, KITH AND KIN, TO THE FUNERAL OF ALEX DEWEY."
The crowd is silent.
"IN THE COURSE OF HIS LIFE, I SAY UNTO YOU, ALEX'S BLOGS AND SONGS APPEARED TO ALL OF US AT SOME POINT, PERHAPS IN A SURREPTITIOUS "REPLY TO ALL" OR A HAND-DELIVERED, FRAMED POSTER-SIZED VERSION OF ONE OF HIS BLOGS."
The crowd is silent, though a general nodding sweeps the stage.
"ALSO DON'T FEEL GUILTY IF YOU DIDN'T GET THROUGH THEM, ALEX TOLD ME JUST BEFORE HE DIED THAT WAS ALRIGHT. HIS LAST WORDS. LET'S GIVE HIM A HAND!"
The crowd roars with approval.
"SOME OF THOSE SONGS AND BLOGS WERE CRAP, WEREN'T THEY. WHAT ALEX TOLD ME IS IT WAS LIKE PART OF A PROCESS, AND IF IT DIDN'T GO WELL SOMETIMES, WELL, THAT'S THE PRICE TO BE PAID, AND HE HOPES YOU ENJOYED WHAT YOU READ."
The crowd continues to cheer.
"BUT NOW, OF COURSE, ALEX IS DEAD."
The crowd is silent again.
"ALEX IS BATHED IN LIGHT, NOW, ALEX IS WANDERED TO THE GREAT BEYONDERED. HE IS DEAD, BUT ALIVE, IN ANOTHER SENSE." The priest is visibly pleased with his own wordplay, unaware that "beyondered" is only a word in a better world than this. The priest raises his shoulders with confidence now, though. "ALEX IS ALIVE IN ALL OUR HEARTS, IN ALL THE SPRIGHTLY AND AWKWARD AFFECTS OF THE YOUNGER GENERATION. YOU CAN SEE A CHILD STUMBLE AND SMILE ABOUT IT AND REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO HAVE HIM."
The crowd cheers. A child falls over, seemingly from the sheer unendurable ennui of having to listen to eulogies for someone's child he never knew. He also appears to forget how to stand. He is that clumsy. The crowd laughs affectionately, remembering the departed.
"AND IN THE END THAT'S WHAT MATTERS, THAT WE HAVE SOMETHING TO HOLD ON TO. BUT ALEX HAD DOUBTS, MY FRIENDS, ALEX HAD DOUBTS."
"What about? WHAT ABOUT DEWEY'S DOUBTS, PREACH?" one of my drunk friends asks.
"ALEX DOUBTED THAT HE WOULD GET TO HEAVEN, MY YOUNG FRIEND. HE DOUBTED HE WOULD GET TO WALK IN THE PATH OF THE LORD. AND HE DOUBTED THAT HE HAD DONE RIGHT WITH HIS ART, MY FRIENDS."
The crowd gasps. Self-doubt from this gregarious titan of artistic industry? Unimaginable!
"DOUBTFUL, ALEX SAID IT WAS TOO METATEXTUAL, THAT THE METATEXTUAL ELEMENTS OVERWHELMED THE TEXTUAL ELEMENTS! HE SAID IT WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO SHOW THE CROWDS IT NOW ADORNS. HE SAID THAT HE JUST NEEDED TO STOP TALKING ABOUT TALKING AND START TALKING ABOUT THE WORLD ITSELF."
The crowd boos my doubts.
"BUT I SAY UNTO YOU THAT ALEX IS BATHED IN LIGHT NOW AND, THOUGH BESET BY SIN AND DOUBT, SPOKE ONLY FROM A PLACE OF TRUTH, FROM HIS EARLIEST, FORLORN EXPERIMENTS. I SAY UNTO THEE, MY FRIENDS, THAT ALEX WAS NEVER TOO METATEXTUAL AND HE WAS NEVER TOO TEXTUAL. HE WAS ALWAYS JUST METATEXTUAL ENOUGH. IN THE WORDS OF THE BOBBY TROUP STANDARD HE WAS SO FOND OF... "HIS HEART WAS... FULL OF SPRING" REJOICE AT THE FALLEN, MY FRIENDS!"
Big cheer for this. The priest wraps up.
"Thank you all for coming out. There is food and refreshments at the back. Eat, drink, and be merry. Oh, and one more thing... he didn't die."
Audible gasps.
"In fact, he's right here." A spotlight shines on the very center, front row of the church. I go up to the podium, wearing a huge grin. I speak directly into the mic, obviated the need for shouting. I speak with perfect calm. Everyone is happy.
"I didn't die, after all." I put some shades on just as the spotlight hits me, I reflect light, for a moment, like the sun and begin to rap. "YO I BROUGHT ALL YOU HERE SO YOU COULD HEAR MY RAP. I'VE BEEN WORKING ON MY FLOW, JUST THOUGHT THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW, I'M NOT ONE AND DONE IN THIS LAND OF ENDLESS SUN. I COULDN'T HAVE DIED JUST TRY TO THROW THE SHADE... ON A MAN THAT DOESN'T HIDE, YO I GOT IT MADE. IT'S ALL THANKS TO YOU... SUPPORT THAT HELPED MAKE THE GRADE... YOU READ MY STUFF WHEN I WAS LITTLE... NOW I'M IN THE WALL STREET JOURNAL... OF HIP-HOP. PEACE..."
The crowd is totally silent. No one knows what to say. Except me.
I drop the microphone and it falls into the center of the Earth. I'm cold like that, and no obstacle prevents the mic from reaching its destination. No one can say anything to that.
The End
Epilogue: The act was a tremendous success. Owing to a couple producers I'd invited less-than-scrupulously, the priest and I now embark upon a 67-funeral tour spanning three months.
"WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, KITH AND KIN, TO THE FUNERAL OF ALEX DEWEY."
The crowd is silent.
"IN THE COURSE OF HIS LIFE, I SAY UNTO YOU, ALEX'S BLOGS AND SONGS APPEARED TO ALL OF US AT SOME POINT, PERHAPS IN A SURREPTITIOUS "REPLY TO ALL" OR A HAND-DELIVERED, FRAMED POSTER-SIZED VERSION OF ONE OF HIS BLOGS."
The crowd is silent, though a general nodding sweeps the stage.
"ALSO DON'T FEEL GUILTY IF YOU DIDN'T GET THROUGH THEM, ALEX TOLD ME JUST BEFORE HE DIED THAT WAS ALRIGHT. HIS LAST WORDS. LET'S GIVE HIM A HAND!"
The crowd roars with approval.
"SOME OF THOSE SONGS AND BLOGS WERE CRAP, WEREN'T THEY. WHAT ALEX TOLD ME IS IT WAS LIKE PART OF A PROCESS, AND IF IT DIDN'T GO WELL SOMETIMES, WELL, THAT'S THE PRICE TO BE PAID, AND HE HOPES YOU ENJOYED WHAT YOU READ."
The crowd continues to cheer.
"BUT NOW, OF COURSE, ALEX IS DEAD."
The crowd is silent again.
"ALEX IS BATHED IN LIGHT, NOW, ALEX IS WANDERED TO THE GREAT BEYONDERED. HE IS DEAD, BUT ALIVE, IN ANOTHER SENSE." The priest is visibly pleased with his own wordplay, unaware that "beyondered" is only a word in a better world than this. The priest raises his shoulders with confidence now, though. "ALEX IS ALIVE IN ALL OUR HEARTS, IN ALL THE SPRIGHTLY AND AWKWARD AFFECTS OF THE YOUNGER GENERATION. YOU CAN SEE A CHILD STUMBLE AND SMILE ABOUT IT AND REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO HAVE HIM."
The crowd cheers. A child falls over, seemingly from the sheer unendurable ennui of having to listen to eulogies for someone's child he never knew. He also appears to forget how to stand. He is that clumsy. The crowd laughs affectionately, remembering the departed.
"AND IN THE END THAT'S WHAT MATTERS, THAT WE HAVE SOMETHING TO HOLD ON TO. BUT ALEX HAD DOUBTS, MY FRIENDS, ALEX HAD DOUBTS."
"What about? WHAT ABOUT DEWEY'S DOUBTS, PREACH?" one of my drunk friends asks.
"ALEX DOUBTED THAT HE WOULD GET TO HEAVEN, MY YOUNG FRIEND. HE DOUBTED HE WOULD GET TO WALK IN THE PATH OF THE LORD. AND HE DOUBTED THAT HE HAD DONE RIGHT WITH HIS ART, MY FRIENDS."
The crowd gasps. Self-doubt from this gregarious titan of artistic industry? Unimaginable!
"DOUBTFUL, ALEX SAID IT WAS TOO METATEXTUAL, THAT THE METATEXTUAL ELEMENTS OVERWHELMED THE TEXTUAL ELEMENTS! HE SAID IT WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO SHOW THE CROWDS IT NOW ADORNS. HE SAID THAT HE JUST NEEDED TO STOP TALKING ABOUT TALKING AND START TALKING ABOUT THE WORLD ITSELF."
The crowd boos my doubts.
"BUT I SAY UNTO YOU THAT ALEX IS BATHED IN LIGHT NOW AND, THOUGH BESET BY SIN AND DOUBT, SPOKE ONLY FROM A PLACE OF TRUTH, FROM HIS EARLIEST, FORLORN EXPERIMENTS. I SAY UNTO THEE, MY FRIENDS, THAT ALEX WAS NEVER TOO METATEXTUAL AND HE WAS NEVER TOO TEXTUAL. HE WAS ALWAYS JUST METATEXTUAL ENOUGH. IN THE WORDS OF THE BOBBY TROUP STANDARD HE WAS SO FOND OF... "HIS HEART WAS... FULL OF SPRING" REJOICE AT THE FALLEN, MY FRIENDS!"
Big cheer for this. The priest wraps up.
"Thank you all for coming out. There is food and refreshments at the back. Eat, drink, and be merry. Oh, and one more thing... he didn't die."
Audible gasps.
"In fact, he's right here." A spotlight shines on the very center, front row of the church. I go up to the podium, wearing a huge grin. I speak directly into the mic, obviated the need for shouting. I speak with perfect calm. Everyone is happy.
"I didn't die, after all." I put some shades on just as the spotlight hits me, I reflect light, for a moment, like the sun and begin to rap. "YO I BROUGHT ALL YOU HERE SO YOU COULD HEAR MY RAP. I'VE BEEN WORKING ON MY FLOW, JUST THOUGHT THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW, I'M NOT ONE AND DONE IN THIS LAND OF ENDLESS SUN. I COULDN'T HAVE DIED JUST TRY TO THROW THE SHADE... ON A MAN THAT DOESN'T HIDE, YO I GOT IT MADE. IT'S ALL THANKS TO YOU... SUPPORT THAT HELPED MAKE THE GRADE... YOU READ MY STUFF WHEN I WAS LITTLE... NOW I'M IN THE WALL STREET JOURNAL... OF HIP-HOP. PEACE..."
The crowd is totally silent. No one knows what to say. Except me.
I drop the microphone and it falls into the center of the Earth. I'm cold like that, and no obstacle prevents the mic from reaching its destination. No one can say anything to that.
The End
Epilogue: The act was a tremendous success. Owing to a couple producers I'd invited less-than-scrupulously, the priest and I now embark upon a 67-funeral tour spanning three months.
June 19, 2013
On Consciously Rejecting Paranoia and Its Safety Net
"Has he simply run out of things to say?" the malicious voice inside Alex Dewey asks, knowing the effect it will have on him.
"Has he simply run out of things to say?" the paranoid voice repeats, revealing in its pathetic refrain the banality of the supposition to him.
When your paranoid voice speaks to you and it's talking about whether that vagrant is positioning himself near you to mug you? You listen - it's a voice possessed of bigotry and instincts, after all, but sometimes that's the only thing that matters.
But when you're paranoid about big-picture stuff, like conspiracies, impossible surveillance, gigantic state secrets without a rational reason to exist? Then you hear it, stop in your tracks, and you walk in the opposite direction. When your paranoid voice is lecturing you about the meaning of life, you silence it like the zealot it is. And almost as soon as you make this commitment to silence the paranoia and see the good in a person or a situation, it's like watching a flash flood as the self-deceptions erode and what you are left with may be unpleasant, but closer to truth than when you started.
"Has he simply run out of things to say?" the paranoid voice repeats, revealing in its pathetic refrain the banality of the supposition to him.
When your paranoid voice speaks to you and it's talking about whether that vagrant is positioning himself near you to mug you? You listen - it's a voice possessed of bigotry and instincts, after all, but sometimes that's the only thing that matters.
But when you're paranoid about big-picture stuff, like conspiracies, impossible surveillance, gigantic state secrets without a rational reason to exist? Then you hear it, stop in your tracks, and you walk in the opposite direction. When your paranoid voice is lecturing you about the meaning of life, you silence it like the zealot it is. And almost as soon as you make this commitment to silence the paranoia and see the good in a person or a situation, it's like watching a flash flood as the self-deceptions erode and what you are left with may be unpleasant, but closer to truth than when you started.
May 21, 2013
Yet Another Richard Jefferson Post on Pearls of Mystery
As ultimately derivative and deprecating as we are of Free Darko at our core, we (okay; it's just me) at Pearls of Mystery are aware of the cosmic irony of this pronouncement. Being about ten years Shoals' younger, we're not oblivious to the fact that Pearls of Mystery is ultimately destined for a still more farcical conclusion than anything we've published yet, or any interaction yet, be it with Shoals or RJ or Burl Ives or even with the gnawing belief that "maybe it's wrong the things I wrote there." Who knows how it will happen? How will Pearls of Mystery die? Well, no one knows. Who by water and who by fire? Who by sword? Who by beast?
Who by simultaneously vindicating and deconstructing happenings in the world of basketball? Enter Richard Jefferson and his amazing series against the Spurs, his former comrades. Frig. In 2:44 of Game 1 against the Spurs, Warrior Richard Jefferson put up a -14, and his only contribution statistically was to miss two free throws. In this void of meaningful basketball activity, the Spurs struck with an inspiring comeback, ultimately helping the Spurs to finish the Warriors off after a strong series. Granted, the entire series was not his fault, but the one time Jefferson did visibly play defense, he botched it so badly I had to laugh. In transition against Tony Parker, he either committed to the lane (but didn't actually help) or committed to the corner (but didn't actually cover the corner), giving the Spurs either an easy layup or an easy corner three. Even the Warriors that could have stopped one of the options were hurt by Jefferson's defense, as they assumed he'd be covering something. It was amazing, guys.
Who by simultaneously vindicating and deconstructing happenings in the world of basketball? Enter Richard Jefferson and his amazing series against the Spurs, his former comrades. Frig. In 2:44 of Game 1 against the Spurs, Warrior Richard Jefferson put up a -14, and his only contribution statistically was to miss two free throws. In this void of meaningful basketball activity, the Spurs struck with an inspiring comeback, ultimately helping the Spurs to finish the Warriors off after a strong series. Granted, the entire series was not his fault, but the one time Jefferson did visibly play defense, he botched it so badly I had to laugh. In transition against Tony Parker, he either committed to the lane (but didn't actually help) or committed to the corner (but didn't actually cover the corner), giving the Spurs either an easy layup or an easy corner three. Even the Warriors that could have stopped one of the options were hurt by Jefferson's defense, as they assumed he'd be covering something. It was amazing, guys.
May 5, 2013
Spurs vs. Warriors Part I
Ah, what is there to write about in the NBA? Nothing, it seems. At present there are four series presenting themselves. First found Kevin Durant having to go it alone against the Memphis Grizzlies, in the wake of Russell Westbrook's injury! Second, we have the Knicks and Pacers deciding whether they would grind it out or would shoot the ball; in other words, who would win the series. Third, we have the Heat looking to sweep the Bulls without Rose, and the Bulls - on whom Nate Robinson is literally the best offensive player - were looking to... not get swept? And finally we have the Spurs in the second round of the playoffs. Ho hum. But what is this? They would be facing Richard Jefferson-led Golden State Warriors? This I have to cover.
Alright, let's back up. Just like RJ, not a starter. He is a back-up. I lied about that leadership thing. At 32 or 33, Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds the oldest and most experienced player of the young Warriors, and simultaneously their best and worst role model imaginable. He is definitely not their leader. Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds not the Warriors' leader.
But, carrying himself with class and dignity, the not-so-young Jefferson conducts every interview trying to root out all things he cannot possibly be held accountable for, and then apologizes for each of them in turn. "Do you feel they were giving the other team cheap fouls?" he'd be asked, and without hesitation would respond, "You know who gets cheap fouls? Savvy vets. I don't care if I wasn't on the floor, you know, I failed to teach these younger guys how to draw and avoid cheap fouls. It's on me." Savvy of him to note - he takes a burden of fault off the young players and places upon himself, while still putting that burden on them in the future. Savvy of him to note also because it reinforces that he has some reason to exist. And, really, he does. He genuinely tries his best to teach the young players, not just about being savvy but about the subtle margins and compensations every player must make in order to succeed. Jefferson notes with a laugh that he has one of the biggest hitches in his shot in the league, and one of the worst handles. He openly admits it because he doesn't expect to join another team. Even the Spurs he kept this information from, but now, he laughs about it. His punchline: "I never got into a conversation that would end in HORSE or a one-on-one. I avoided those conversations with wily cleverness. I got into a lot of dunk contests, though, haha."
Alright, let's back up. Just like RJ, not a starter. He is a back-up. I lied about that leadership thing. At 32 or 33, Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds the oldest and most experienced player of the young Warriors, and simultaneously their best and worst role model imaginable. He is definitely not their leader. Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds not the Warriors' leader.
But, carrying himself with class and dignity, the not-so-young Jefferson conducts every interview trying to root out all things he cannot possibly be held accountable for, and then apologizes for each of them in turn. "Do you feel they were giving the other team cheap fouls?" he'd be asked, and without hesitation would respond, "You know who gets cheap fouls? Savvy vets. I don't care if I wasn't on the floor, you know, I failed to teach these younger guys how to draw and avoid cheap fouls. It's on me." Savvy of him to note - he takes a burden of fault off the young players and places upon himself, while still putting that burden on them in the future. Savvy of him to note also because it reinforces that he has some reason to exist. And, really, he does. He genuinely tries his best to teach the young players, not just about being savvy but about the subtle margins and compensations every player must make in order to succeed. Jefferson notes with a laugh that he has one of the biggest hitches in his shot in the league, and one of the worst handles. He openly admits it because he doesn't expect to join another team. Even the Spurs he kept this information from, but now, he laughs about it. His punchline: "I never got into a conversation that would end in HORSE or a one-on-one. I avoided those conversations with wily cleverness. I got into a lot of dunk contests, though, haha."
Interlude: Pearls of Mystery Tackles the Big Questions
So I get to this site, and it asks me to take a survey to see the page. I just wanted to, you know, see the cap space on all the teams in the league, you know? I'm (theoretically) making the NBA world a little more comprehensible. I'd been asked a direct question, and I wanted to answer. And so I get to this site. And this site has the audacity to ask me a fairly personal question, you know, or share the page with all my little friends on Facebook or Twitter, so now everyone knows I'm reading this page (I haven't read it yet!) or some anonymous marketer somewhere gets to look at his quarterly numbers and say "Thank God for Alex Dewey; we can go to Aruba now." I don't even know where Aruba is, and, frankly, you know, I don't think I'd want to. I thought about it and closed the web site without getting that information. Other places would have it.
But like, here's the thing... like, I was curious, because, like, I've seen this a few places, newspapers and all that, and it pissed me off every time, right? So I started researching it. I was curious, you know, what's the protocol for society when someone invents something that immediately annoys us? What's the proverbial ventilation for our social irritants?
But like, here's the thing... like, I was curious, because, like, I've seen this a few places, newspapers and all that, and it pissed me off every time, right? So I started researching it. I was curious, you know, what's the protocol for society when someone invents something that immediately annoys us? What's the proverbial ventilation for our social irritants?
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