Since the advent of Guitar Hero (all those eons ago), there have been plenty of comparisons between playing this musical video game and playing real musical instruments.
Because I'm a guitarist, my friends who first bought the game were eager to see how my real-world axe-pertise translated into on-screen Guitar Heroism. And frankly, so was I. The results, at least for the first evening of play, though, were highly disappointing.
It's different. With real instruments you have to play every note you hear. But in Guitar Hero/Rock Band, you press a button for every 4 or 5 notes you hear. And the easier you set the difficulty level of the game, the fewer buttons you press. So it's tricky at first to get out of the 1:1 mindset of notes you play to notes you hear.
Suffice it to say that playing "guitar" in Guitar Hero/Rock Band bears little resemblance to playing a real guitar, especially in a band. Same goes for the bass guitar. Singing in Rock Band is pretty comparable to singing in a real band, there's just no screen showing you the words. Same thing with drums-- the fundamental movements in Rock Band are right, but real drumming is more involved, since most drum kits have more than five elements.
About a year ago my aunt and uncle asked me about Rock Band, since their grade school-aged daughters are into music. I explained that it’s a fun game, and that the kids would probably love it. But my recommendation came with a clear warning: "Don't expect playing Rock Band to teach your kids anything about real music." And I stand by that. It's an incredibly inventive game that's fun to play with others. Plus you get to listen to cool music while you play. But it's a vast departure from the reality of playing music, which I think explains the game's broad appeal.
I think a lot of parents shared my aunt and uncle's presumptions. They thought Guitar Hero/Rock Band would be the spark that ignited their child's musical curiosity and led to a life of musicianship. Or at the very least the game would expose their kids to some rock n roll classics they otherwise wouldn't know.
But I think South Park exposed the truth best in its episode about the game. When given the option to play a song on Guitar Hero or learn that same song on a real guitar, the kids picked Guitar Hero without a second thought. Hilarious because it's true.
So forgive the lengthy preamble-- the surprising truth is coming. Let's fast forward to today. A buddy of mine got Rock Band 2 for Christmas. He and I played it together when he first got it set up at home. And it was hella fun. A few days later he emailed me explaining his progress since our jam session:
I unlocked a few more songs, but I’m on these marathon challenges and after 6 songs in a row I can't play Hungry Like the Wolf anymore.
This comment struck me. Now there's an insight about what it's like to be a real musician. When you're in a band, you have to play the same songs night in and night out-- even if you don't feel like it, and even if you’ve heard those songs so many times that you hate them. (I'm speaking from experience, here, as well as common sense.)
If you're a popular band (which I was not), then you're in even deeper. Not only do you have to play your hit songs over and over, but you also have to keep your distaste for those songs under wraps. Nothing makes people hate a celebrity faster than when he or she complains about having to do whatever made them famous in the first place. And if you gripe about your popular song? Then you've insulted all of your fans, which fans tend not to appreciate.
So lo and behold, Rock Band has a lesson to teach about real musicianship after all. And ironically, it's one of those lessons that makes you want to give up rather than rise to the challenge. But it's a lesson nonetheless. And all you have to do is play Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf six times to learn it. Small price to pay, in my opinion.
-- Nate Winter
Note: special thanks to Justin Geller, whose insightful complaining inspired this article.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Office Space Bobs and Oval Office Obama-- by Nate Winter
Remember the movie Office Space from 1999? I watched it on cable last week and was reminded not just how funny it is, but how on point it was in 1999 and how relevant it still is today. Rather poignant in the foremath of the Y2K scare and its comical depiction of corporate excess in a tech company, a poignant yet unintentional foreshadowing of the .com and tech bubble burst of the early aughts, and The Recession of today. We're all seeing the light after realizing how cushy things used to be at our corporate jobs.
The outward premise of the film is that our protagonist Peter Gibbons (played by Ron Livingston) hates his job as a software developer and contributes nothing to his employer, Initech. His work environment clearly sucks, but he’s not exactly trying to make the best of it. So we have a “chicken or the egg” scenario where it's difficult to determine if Peter’s uninspiring workplace caused his lackadaisical work ethic, or if his inherent laziness contributed to an intolerable office. Ultimately we side with Peter because we bear witness to the agonizing ennui of his day-to-day corporate drone existence.
A major turning point in the film is in Peter's first meeting with consultants Bob Slydell and Bob Porter, known collectively as "the Bobs," who have been hired to help Initech identify its dead-weight employees and lay them off. This meeting takes place shortly after Peter's hypnosis-induced enlightenment sets in. In the meeting, Peter is painfully candid with the Bobs about his distaste for Initech and work in general. Much to our comedic delight, the Bobs are sympathetic toward Peter's lack of motivation at work and they support his requests to change the way Initech runs. So not only do the Bobs not fire Peter on the spot, but they kiss his ass and promote him. And it’s hilarious.
After seeing Office Space again, and after receiving a handful of emails from the Obama For America during the holidays, I noticed an interesting parallel between the two.
The American people were a bunch of Peter Gibbonses in a political system that resembled Initech. We were alienated by the steep learning curve of political awareness, and intimidated by the difficulty in getting an unbiased synthesis of the issues. The Bill Lumberghs of the political system insisted that it was the public's responsibility to keep up with the issues, telling us to "Get with the program!" The rationale was that it's easier to ask the people to work harder than to change a giant political system for easier comprehension.
As Peter Gibbonses, we were slogging through our political lives, doing the bare minimum we could get away with as citizens-- voting in occasional elections and watching the nightly news, but not really understanding the details of what was going on. We understood and did just enough to not embarrass ourselves at the office water cooler. And in the face of our underachievement, Obama took our side instead of telling us to shape up and get with the program.
Obama treated us in his campaign like the Bobs treated Peter in Office Space. Obama's overarching message was that it wasn't our fault we didn’t understand or care about our own political system. But if we wanted to make things better, he'd walk us through it every step of the way. And when he finally got what he’d been leading us toward like sheep the whole time (his election), we got all the credit. No wonder people loved Obama.
-- Nate Winter
The outward premise of the film is that our protagonist Peter Gibbons (played by Ron Livingston) hates his job as a software developer and contributes nothing to his employer, Initech. His work environment clearly sucks, but he’s not exactly trying to make the best of it. So we have a “chicken or the egg” scenario where it's difficult to determine if Peter’s uninspiring workplace caused his lackadaisical work ethic, or if his inherent laziness contributed to an intolerable office. Ultimately we side with Peter because we bear witness to the agonizing ennui of his day-to-day corporate drone existence.
A major turning point in the film is in Peter's first meeting with consultants Bob Slydell and Bob Porter, known collectively as "the Bobs," who have been hired to help Initech identify its dead-weight employees and lay them off. This meeting takes place shortly after Peter's hypnosis-induced enlightenment sets in. In the meeting, Peter is painfully candid with the Bobs about his distaste for Initech and work in general. Much to our comedic delight, the Bobs are sympathetic toward Peter's lack of motivation at work and they support his requests to change the way Initech runs. So not only do the Bobs not fire Peter on the spot, but they kiss his ass and promote him. And it’s hilarious.
After seeing Office Space again, and after receiving a handful of emails from the Obama For America during the holidays, I noticed an interesting parallel between the two.
The American people were a bunch of Peter Gibbonses in a political system that resembled Initech. We were alienated by the steep learning curve of political awareness, and intimidated by the difficulty in getting an unbiased synthesis of the issues. The Bill Lumberghs of the political system insisted that it was the public's responsibility to keep up with the issues, telling us to "Get with the program!" The rationale was that it's easier to ask the people to work harder than to change a giant political system for easier comprehension.
As Peter Gibbonses, we were slogging through our political lives, doing the bare minimum we could get away with as citizens-- voting in occasional elections and watching the nightly news, but not really understanding the details of what was going on. We understood and did just enough to not embarrass ourselves at the office water cooler. And in the face of our underachievement, Obama took our side instead of telling us to shape up and get with the program.
Obama treated us in his campaign like the Bobs treated Peter in Office Space. Obama's overarching message was that it wasn't our fault we didn’t understand or care about our own political system. But if we wanted to make things better, he'd walk us through it every step of the way. And when he finally got what he’d been leading us toward like sheep the whole time (his election), we got all the credit. No wonder people loved Obama.
-- Nate Winter
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Hyper-Commercialization of Halloween
Greetings, America.
It won't be long now until the pundits, fundits and screaming heads of television have their immaculately ironed Brooks Brothers boxers in a bunch over the commercialization of Christmas. They'll decry our consumer culture's emphasis on gifts, blaming the godless, hyper-liberal, left-wing media that has driven us to this point. And that's one way to go, I guess.
Personally, I blame the Magi. Even before the advent of Christmas, these gold-knuckled giftsters and would-be present presenters began their journey to subvert the universe's holiest day into the wealth-swaddled mega corp known as Christmas, Inc. (Not to be confused with Disney's ill-fated attempt at child trafficking, Kids Incorporated.)
But Christmas is a decoy. So let's wisen up and get our priorities straight. Historically, Halloween predates Christmas by approximately two months. So first things first.
You've no doubt noticed that Halloween Fever (a.k.a. H1F1) has descended upon our beloved nation, and our descent into pre-December indecency and moral decimation is all but decided.
Everywhere you look it's crazy costumes, haunted houses, devilish desserts, dastardly décor, 17-hour all-you-can-binge drink tickets and corn mazes to tickle our homophone-loving humeri. And nowhere amidst this carnival of commercialism do you hear about the very traditional foundations of this hallowed holiday-- the institution of family and type 2 diabetes.
What happened to the good old days when Halloween was about going to an All Saints Day midnight mass and having the fear of God Bible-beaten into you? Or trick-or-treating to a few neighborhood homes to collect a moderate, tasteful amount of candy to snack on measuredly and responsibly until Christmas? And then visiting the Hinsdale Hospital emergency room to have all 26 pieces meticulously x-rayed for razor blades, rohypnol and NutraSweet?
The Nate Winter of 1985 would scarcely recognize Halloween 2009. In fact, my most assured reactions would be bed wetting and shame, my reactions to most things at that age. This purely subjective and unprovable speculation is as sure a sign as any that today's Halloween has lost sight of its past (perhaps due to an ill-fitting mask). And the only way to restore the sanctity of Halloween and strike fear in the hearts of the offending corporate villainy is with swift, rash, unchecked radicalism. Fear not, I'm working on a plan for that as we speak.
-- Nate Winter
It won't be long now until the pundits, fundits and screaming heads of television have their immaculately ironed Brooks Brothers boxers in a bunch over the commercialization of Christmas. They'll decry our consumer culture's emphasis on gifts, blaming the godless, hyper-liberal, left-wing media that has driven us to this point. And that's one way to go, I guess.
Personally, I blame the Magi. Even before the advent of Christmas, these gold-knuckled giftsters and would-be present presenters began their journey to subvert the universe's holiest day into the wealth-swaddled mega corp known as Christmas, Inc. (Not to be confused with Disney's ill-fated attempt at child trafficking, Kids Incorporated.)
But Christmas is a decoy. So let's wisen up and get our priorities straight. Historically, Halloween predates Christmas by approximately two months. So first things first.
You've no doubt noticed that Halloween Fever (a.k.a. H1F1) has descended upon our beloved nation, and our descent into pre-December indecency and moral decimation is all but decided.
Everywhere you look it's crazy costumes, haunted houses, devilish desserts, dastardly décor, 17-hour all-you-can-binge drink tickets and corn mazes to tickle our homophone-loving humeri. And nowhere amidst this carnival of commercialism do you hear about the very traditional foundations of this hallowed holiday-- the institution of family and type 2 diabetes.
What happened to the good old days when Halloween was about going to an All Saints Day midnight mass and having the fear of God Bible-beaten into you? Or trick-or-treating to a few neighborhood homes to collect a moderate, tasteful amount of candy to snack on measuredly and responsibly until Christmas? And then visiting the Hinsdale Hospital emergency room to have all 26 pieces meticulously x-rayed for razor blades, rohypnol and NutraSweet?
The Nate Winter of 1985 would scarcely recognize Halloween 2009. In fact, my most assured reactions would be bed wetting and shame, my reactions to most things at that age. This purely subjective and unprovable speculation is as sure a sign as any that today's Halloween has lost sight of its past (perhaps due to an ill-fitting mask). And the only way to restore the sanctity of Halloween and strike fear in the hearts of the offending corporate villainy is with swift, rash, unchecked radicalism. Fear not, I'm working on a plan for that as we speak.
-- Nate Winter
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Screwgina— A Libational Exercise in Perfection -- by Nate WInter
Intoxication Month carries on in jolly-good fashion with a drink recipe for the ages. Pinkies up!
THE DRINK
We’re all all-too familiar with the primordial concoction known as the screwdriver (vodka, addendum orange juice). Thankfully, the best of us no longer have to brush our finely spun eight-gauge cashmere against the hoi polloi’s greasy elbows to enjoy a drink that’s bold and citrusy. The Screwgina, known as the “giner” in Yale (i.e. low-brow) circles, is subtly akin to the screwdriver, but substitutes Orangina for the national brand liquid orange product. The Screwgina is a lighter, classier and sincerely more formidable alternative.
The immaculately refreshing drink for warm, sunny weather has arrived. Today’s forecast: positively splendid!
THE INGREDIENTS
Vodka. Respectfully use a premium grade vodka. Ketel One, Grey Goose, and the like are optimal. And kindly check the label— be sure you have a plain vodka, nothing flavored s’il vous plait. One citrus flavor per drink is sufficient— this isn’t Bartles & James after all. Have some respect. And a palate.
Orangina. We’re vaguely aware that there are other sparkling citrus sodas out there. But for those of us who know the hourly worth of our leisure time, let’s not philander with the hired help. Be civilized and embrace the genuine article: Orangina. It’s delicious, embarrassingly inexpensive and quite frankly puts the “gina” in “Screwgina.” Accept no imitations. Orangina’s 8 oz. bottles are preciously adorable, but a breuvage of this calibre calls for Orangina’s one litre bottle.
Glass. Presentation is important, so set your libation sensation up for success with a clear rocks glass. A low, wide glass is appropriate for the potency of this drink and allows the carbonation to properly effervesce.
Stirrer. Typical stirring fare— toothpicks, plastic swords, coffee stirrers, spoons— have no magic to stir men’s blood, or our Screwginas. Let’s opt for a longer wooden stirrer, or the holiday-apt parapluie (ella, ella, ay). It’s like Mary Poppins with a boozy twist! (And none of that dreadful Dick Van Dyke. What fun!)
THE PROCESS
Chill. We can’t have tepid vodka, now can we? It simply must be chilled. On ice is best. In the fridge or ice box (unless already crowded with Heinie) is also suitable. Chill Orangina likewise. Chilled ingredients eliminate the need for ice, which melts and then waters down our buzz, now doesn’t it? Yes, it does.
Shake. Shake Orangina in its bottle to activate the carbonation. The energentic fizzing adds to the gustatory delight and speeds our vodka’s most precious export to the soul/bloodstream.
Combine. The recommended ratio of vodka to Orangina is 1:2 or 1:2 1/2. Your exact preference may depend on the weather, the tide or the market’s closing numbers.
Mix. Give a spirited, top-to-bottom stir after pouring, and then again before each sip. Orangina is light as a citrusy feather; vodka… less so. The weight differential tends to relegate vodka toward the bottom of the glass, making for an uneven mix. Use your stirrer to homogenize the solution and reactivate some of Orangina’s carbonation. Yes, there’s a bit of up-keep required here. But great drinks, like great women, require maintenance. And expensive vodka.
Enjoy. Sip proudly and joyously. Life is your Screwgina, so drink it in. And don’t forget— pinkies up!
THE AFTERMATH
Enjoying a cheery series of Screwginas in the Hamptons one Saturday night inexplicably made my business substantially larger for a single sexual episode come Sunday morning. Granted, it was a touch peculiar, but I’m not complaining (neither was the Mrs.). Just as the Orangina bottle says, “Shake it to wake it!”
Pimm’s: consolation for the hollow hearts of rogues and harlots,
Nate
-- by Nate WInter
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Why I Dislike My Birthday-- by Nate Winter
I strongly dislike celebrating my birthday. This feeling emerged a few years ago and has gradually grown in intensity. I think my 24th birthday was the first one that felt unpleasant. I didn't have 25th or 26th birthday parties at all; I hosted Annual Autumn Karaoke Events around the time of my birthday instead. I’m 27 now.
People get curious and incredulous when I say I dislike my birthday. I guess it’s unusual, at least at my age. So people say, “It’s your birthday. Why aren’t you excited?” It’s a good question.
What’s especially strange about disliking my birthday is that I’m an outgoing person and I love having the attention of others. According to some, my need for attention is actually a strong character flaw. I love karaoke, playing in a band, promoting Haastyle art, writing articles like this one and sharing them with people. I’m friendly, social, occasionally even popular. So it might stand to reason that I would relish birthdays as a chance to gather people together, with me as the smiling epicenter. But I don’t.
So it seems that there’s a difference between birthday attention and the kinds of attention I enjoy. After thinking about this for several weeks, I believe I’ve identified it.
It’s the reason for the attention. In karaoke, band shows, Haastyle events and published writing, I receive attention because I’m doing something that's remotely noteworthy and deserving of it. I’m singing, rocking out, party planning or publishing, and others are getting something out of it. In these activities, I’m earning the attention.
Birthdays aren’t like that. No one does anything special to deserve attention on their birthday. It’s just arbitrary. You don’t earn a birthday. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone has a birthday, no one deserves it more than anyone else. That's why celebrations of my birthday feel arbitrary and fake to me. They don't make me feel special, just ordinary.
This is a very satisfying realization. I finally have a strong, logical justification for disliking my birthday. However, I've identified something even more important: despite my dislike for my birthday, I still need to celebrate it. Or at least recognize it.
The reason is that other people get something out of my birthday celebrations. Some people have this sense of entitlement, like the world owes them something special on their birthday or they should get whatever they want. I find that selfish and childish. And I realized that by NOT celebrating my birthday when those around me want to, I'm acting selfish and childish. And that's no good. My birthday is not just about me. And it’s not just about what I want. It’s about my friends and family, and what they want to do for my birthday.
It makes people uncomfortable when they think you’re unhappy on your birthday. I have a couple friends who are curmudgeons about birthdays and other big events. And they suck to be around when they're like that. I feel like I'm letting them down because I can’t make them happy. Their bad attitude gives me a small feeling of personal failure. For my birthday, people should feel good about being with me and giving me special treatment if that's what they want to do. Those are noble goals, whether I want that treatment for myself or not.
Ultimately, I believe that birthday celebrations are mostly nonsense. It’s an arbitrary reason to focus on a person. However, my friends and family find mine to be important. And I owe it to them to recognize my own birthday. It’s not about me and my well-founded reasons for disliking my birthday. It’s about indulging my friends and family by allowing them to do something nice for me.
So from this birthday forward, I resolve to:
A) Be gracious and moderately cheerful in response to the wishes and other birthday efforts people make on my behalf.
B) Participate in some sort of social gathering near the time of my birthday.
See you next year.
-- Nate Winter
People get curious and incredulous when I say I dislike my birthday. I guess it’s unusual, at least at my age. So people say, “It’s your birthday. Why aren’t you excited?” It’s a good question.
What’s especially strange about disliking my birthday is that I’m an outgoing person and I love having the attention of others. According to some, my need for attention is actually a strong character flaw. I love karaoke, playing in a band, promoting Haastyle art, writing articles like this one and sharing them with people. I’m friendly, social, occasionally even popular. So it might stand to reason that I would relish birthdays as a chance to gather people together, with me as the smiling epicenter. But I don’t.
So it seems that there’s a difference between birthday attention and the kinds of attention I enjoy. After thinking about this for several weeks, I believe I’ve identified it.
It’s the reason for the attention. In karaoke, band shows, Haastyle events and published writing, I receive attention because I’m doing something that's remotely noteworthy and deserving of it. I’m singing, rocking out, party planning or publishing, and others are getting something out of it. In these activities, I’m earning the attention.
Birthdays aren’t like that. No one does anything special to deserve attention on their birthday. It’s just arbitrary. You don’t earn a birthday. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone has a birthday, no one deserves it more than anyone else. That's why celebrations of my birthday feel arbitrary and fake to me. They don't make me feel special, just ordinary.
This is a very satisfying realization. I finally have a strong, logical justification for disliking my birthday. However, I've identified something even more important: despite my dislike for my birthday, I still need to celebrate it. Or at least recognize it.
The reason is that other people get something out of my birthday celebrations. Some people have this sense of entitlement, like the world owes them something special on their birthday or they should get whatever they want. I find that selfish and childish. And I realized that by NOT celebrating my birthday when those around me want to, I'm acting selfish and childish. And that's no good. My birthday is not just about me. And it’s not just about what I want. It’s about my friends and family, and what they want to do for my birthday.
It makes people uncomfortable when they think you’re unhappy on your birthday. I have a couple friends who are curmudgeons about birthdays and other big events. And they suck to be around when they're like that. I feel like I'm letting them down because I can’t make them happy. Their bad attitude gives me a small feeling of personal failure. For my birthday, people should feel good about being with me and giving me special treatment if that's what they want to do. Those are noble goals, whether I want that treatment for myself or not.
Ultimately, I believe that birthday celebrations are mostly nonsense. It’s an arbitrary reason to focus on a person. However, my friends and family find mine to be important. And I owe it to them to recognize my own birthday. It’s not about me and my well-founded reasons for disliking my birthday. It’s about indulging my friends and family by allowing them to do something nice for me.
So from this birthday forward, I resolve to:
A) Be gracious and moderately cheerful in response to the wishes and other birthday efforts people make on my behalf.
B) Participate in some sort of social gathering near the time of my birthday.
See you next year.
-- Nate Winter
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Kids in the Good Old Days: An Email FWD Reflection -- by Nate Winter
I received an email forward from a family member a while back. It was all about how great it was being a kid in the "good old days" and how, since the 1980s, over-protection has robbed kids of classic childhood thrills.
Having grown up in the '80s, I feel like I had a good childhood, but I guess I'll never know first hand how it compares to the happy days, the good times, or the summer of '69. I've revisited the email below and made a few notes (in italic) about what it must've meant to grow up in the good old days.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Cousin Nicole
Sent: Tuesday, May 09, 2006 12:39 PM
To: Nate Winter
Subject: To All Us Kids
TO ALL THE KIDS WHO WERE BORN IN THE 1930's, 40's, 50's, 60's, and 70's !!
First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and drank while they carried us...
Swisher Sweets and Mint Juleps mean nap time. For baby too!
Our mothers took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn't get tested for diabetes.
Show me a person who got diabetes from aspirin, blue cheese dressing, and canned tuna, and I'll show you someone who has no clue what diabetes is!
Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints... And we turned out fine!
Years later when you put YOUR kids in those same cribs with the tasty, old paint chips, that's when things got interesting.
We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets
Mommy needed easy access to her pills. Pregnancy was so stressful in those days!
and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention the risks we took hitchhiking.
There comes a time in every kid's life when he HAS to get to Berkeley before recess.
As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.
Note to self: baby boomers are not universally considered air bags.
Riding in the back of a pick-up truck on a warm day was always a special treat...
Securing the rebel flag while daddy smokes his tires around city hall on Memorial Day must've been quite a thrill.
We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.
Yawn. If you've heard one old-timey sexual double entendre, you've heard 'em all.
We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.
Why can't the DCFS just let those starving kids locked in the attic have their fun?
We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter, and drank soda pop with sugar in it,
Breakfast looks great, Mom! And thanks for holding the blue cheese and aspirin this time. I'm watchin' out for that diabetes.
but we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!
According to Wikipedia, "playing" is a good old days euphemism for "throwing up."
We would leave home in the morning and play all day,
Lemme guess. Uphill both ways, right?
as long as we were back when the streetlights came on...
...we didn't have to worry about a lashing.
And we were O.K. if no one was able to reach us all day.
A win-win for you and your parents!
We would spend hours building a go-cart out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.
...by selling it to the new kids in the neighborhood.
We did not have Playstations, Nintendos, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, and no personal computers... WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!
And when ebay showed up, those "real" friends were worth how much?
We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth, and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.
But as a Doogie Howser-style kid genius with a J.D., you'd have made a killing!
We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.
Despite what the Diagnostic Medical Journal of Mongolian Shamans, First Edition might have you believe, ingested worms do not live inside you forever. (But sniffing the penis of a young boy is still the surest way to good luck!)
We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays, made up games with sticks and tennis balls, and, although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes.
With all that hullaballoo, it makes one wonder how many eyes there were to begin with.
We rode bikes or walked to someone's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!
Restraining orders are funny that way.
Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!
Imagine a world with one more spoiled kid and no uni-bombers.
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of.
Laissez Faire: A Parenting Style for the Poor AND Lazy!
Our parents actually sided with the law!
Who could pass up free babysitting?!
This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem-solvers, and inventors ever!
A 50-year generation!? No wonder they're so great!
The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility,
I'm pretty sure all those ideas were around before 1930.
and we learned HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL! And YOU are one of them!
One of the responsibilities?
CONGRATULATIONS!
Glad I could help.
You might want to share this email with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives for our own good.
That "lawyers and government" generation has always been trouble. I'd shake my fist if I wasn't typing so intently.
And while you're at it, forward this email to your kids so they will know how brave their parents were.
Brave enough to send this insightful email, apparently.
Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn't it?!
If I lived with my parents it would.
---------- End forwarded message ----------
-- Nate Winter
The Mystery of Dry Cleaning -- by Nate Winter
Taking clothes to the dry cleaners is a familiar situation for most of us. Even those of us who seldom wear dress clothes will occasionally find ourselves with a suit, tablecloth, or other sensitive item in need of dry cleaning. It's out there and it's pretty much unavoidable. So what is it?
In this age of ultimate consumer awareness and strict enforcement of product and service quality, it seems as though no stone goes unturned in the attempt for customers to get the upper hand on businesses and even entire industries of ill repute. Web 2.0 has given access to consumer ratings and made grassroots policing of business ethics a sword by which to live or die. People want to know that their diamonds were not a product of slave labor and that their coffee beans come from real, honest, hard-working Columbian cocaine farmers. And they want to know that $5 from their purchase of a cherry red Hummer will benefit the Bono Goofy Sunglasses Fund.
I think it's admirable that people aim to be conscious of the methods involved in the products they consume and services they patronize. It's protection from a blissfully ignorant society in which everyone believes what he or she is told without question.
Now some might say, "Why dry cleaning?" It's fair question, considering that there are probably hundreds of common products and services whose origins are a mystery to us. However, I don't believe dry cleaning is a completely arbitrary topic choice. In my mind, dry cleaning falls under a larger category called, "Laundry." Americans understand half of this category very well and the other, dry cleaning, half not at all.
Our society takes its clothing quite seriously. How we look is important to us, hence the importance of traditional laundry.
And when it comes to traditional laundry, we happen to know quite a bit. We know the various brands of laundry detergent and whether we prefer powder or liquid. We know which wash settings, water temperatures, and detergent quantities are appropriate for certain colors and materials. We know there is a wash cycle, a rinse cycle, and a spin cycle. Following the washing machine, we know that clothes go in a dryer and are then sometimes ironed, sometimes folded or put on hangers for storage in a closet, dresser, wardrobe, etc. And the average American knows at least that much about traditional, at-home washing.
Now ask the average American to describe the dry cleaning process in detail. She'll say she drops her clothes off in a soiled, wrinkled lump and picks them up a few days later pressed and hung. Somewhere in between, the clothes end up on that ridiculous monorail contraption with a 50,000-garment capacity that weaves through the dry cleaner's store like lines at an amusement park. Everything else is pretty much a black hole-caliber mystery.
It's not like we're ever at the dry cleaner for very long, but you'd think that over time we'd develop some clue as to what goes on there. But, no. When you walk into the shop you never catch them in the midst of dry cleaning. You catch them tailoring something, serving another customer, talking on the phone, or playing with the hanging monorail. But never actually dry cleaning.
So what is dry cleaning? What are they doing to my clothes that I supposedly can't do myself? Now let me be clear: I'm not asking for a chemistry lesson, here. I am looking for something far more basic: what does the process look like? Are my clothes run through a large machine on a conveyor belt? Is there some sort of wind tunnel that blasts the dirt off? Is there a Rube Goldberg-inspired series of mechanical devices involving springs, leather boots, boxing gloves, and bowling balls? Do extreme temperatures come into play at any point? Honestly, what is it?
For all I know they're hosing my clothes down with Febreeze, passing them off to someone with an iron duct taped to each hand, and hanging them on the monorail 15 minutes after I drop them off.
I think a lot of the mystery comes from the term "dry cleaning" itself. It strictly defies the "cleanliness requires wetness" rule that exists for almost every other method of cleaning. Examples include floor mopping, car washing, hair shampooing, bathtub scouring, teeth brushing, regular laundry, and countless others. These methods of cleaning require a cleansing agent (soap, detergent, etc.) and a rinsing agent (water). Both are wet. So how the hell do they clean clothes dryly? Apparently, dry cleaning is the cold fusion of the cleaning world.
It all starts when we buy clothes. If they look good, feel good, and the price is right… sold. You get the garment home and one look at the tag tells you its fate: dry clean only. When a garment falls into dry cleaning territory, it enters a shadowy realm of secrecy and intrigue. The meager "Dry Clean Only" tag controls the garment's destiny. We're beyond our jurisdiction and totally helpless. We immediately cede all our laundering and garment care acumen to the experts, the higher power, the Dry Cleaner. Maybe the garment in question doesn't need to be dry cleaned. We suspect it would turn out just fine with a cold wash, a line drying, and quick pass of the iron. But we're not willing to take that chance. The tag has spoken.
I asked an objective sample of people who dry clean regularly and found that none of them knew what dry cleaning really is. I also found that, prior to my asking, none of them had been the least bit curious about it either. I was surprised that in this age where people care more and more about eco-friendliness, ethical treatment, and fair play, no one is curious about dry cleaning. So why do we question pesticides on our produce and UV inks in our packaging, while trusting dry cleaning so blindly?
In this case, I believe it helps to consider the source of our dry cleaning: Asian Americans. It comes as little surprise that when people think about dry cleaner proprietors, they automatically think Asian American**. Obviously not every dry cleaning employee is Asian American, but it's difficult to deny their dominance in the industry. I wonder if Asian stereotypes in general have anything to do with this inherent trust of dry cleaning. In my eyes Asian American is easily the most trusted American minority. Stereotypical Asian American traits include intelligence, respectfulness, hard work ethic, and reliability.
Perhaps all of these positive stereotypes* contribute to our unquestioning attitude toward dry cleaning. I envision the first stereotype-based dry cleaning thought process from years ago went something like this: "Hmm, an Asian dry cleaner. How novel. Well, Asians are smart. This guy was probably a chemical astrophysicist in his country of origin. I bet he dry cleans a damn nice shirt."
Today the Asian influence on the dry cleaning industry is so strong that people think twice about using a non-Asian dry cleaner: "Hmmm, there's a white woman behind the counter at this place. I'm not sure she really has the doctorate level credentials necessary to press my dinner jacket. I better find an Asian dry clea—oh, there's one across the street."
So we trust the dry cleaner despite our complete ignorance with regard to what he actually does. How did it get to be this way? How did this "don't ask, don't tell" culture of dry cleaning come about? And why hasn't anyone gotten to the bottom of it?
I have a theory that brings it all together. Here goes. The tag on our garment tells us if it needs to be dry cleaned or not. Where are most of our clothes made? Asia. Who sews those "Dry Clean Only" tags into our clothes? Asians. Who runs the dry cleaning industry in America? Asian-Americans. Are you starting to catch on?
It's a self-perpetuating cycle that assures an Asian stranglehold on dry cleaning and overall garment care in America. It's genius. Well done, Asians and Asian-Americans. You make a hell of a team. You're just quietly going about your day-to-day business of monopolizing a multi-billion dollar industry right under everyone's noses. Bravo.
And because dry cleaning is a service that people rely on so heavily, who would dare to question it? Who wants to jeopardize inexpensive, high-service dry cleaning? A strike from the International Brotherhood of Asian-American Dry Cleaners would cause utter chaos. The very fabric of our civilization would unravel: business people without properly pressed shirts, gravy-stained table cloths, ties bearing the indelible mark of raspberry vinaigrette. Oh the humanity! To that donnybrook I say, "No thank you."
So that is the result of my investigation. And while we're no closer to understanding what dry cleaning actually is, at least we understand the complex socio-economic structure that keeps it a secret. And now that I know that dry cleaning's secrecy is vital to an underground conspiracy of international clothing production and care that goes back generations, my well-pressed suits and I will be blissfully ignorant on the matter forevermore.
-- Nate Winter
*In the term "positive stereotypes," positive refers to the characteristics of the stereotype: intelligence, hard-working, etc., not the use or existence of stereotypes.
** I'm told that this is the result of discrimination from a few generations ago that forced Asian immigrants out of most other work industries. Seeing opportunity in tailoring and laundry, Asian immigrants capitalized on it and the result is no further than three blocks from you at any given time.
In this age of ultimate consumer awareness and strict enforcement of product and service quality, it seems as though no stone goes unturned in the attempt for customers to get the upper hand on businesses and even entire industries of ill repute. Web 2.0 has given access to consumer ratings and made grassroots policing of business ethics a sword by which to live or die. People want to know that their diamonds were not a product of slave labor and that their coffee beans come from real, honest, hard-working Columbian cocaine farmers. And they want to know that $5 from their purchase of a cherry red Hummer will benefit the Bono Goofy Sunglasses Fund.
I think it's admirable that people aim to be conscious of the methods involved in the products they consume and services they patronize. It's protection from a blissfully ignorant society in which everyone believes what he or she is told without question.
Now some might say, "Why dry cleaning?" It's fair question, considering that there are probably hundreds of common products and services whose origins are a mystery to us. However, I don't believe dry cleaning is a completely arbitrary topic choice. In my mind, dry cleaning falls under a larger category called, "Laundry." Americans understand half of this category very well and the other, dry cleaning, half not at all.
Our society takes its clothing quite seriously. How we look is important to us, hence the importance of traditional laundry.
And when it comes to traditional laundry, we happen to know quite a bit. We know the various brands of laundry detergent and whether we prefer powder or liquid. We know which wash settings, water temperatures, and detergent quantities are appropriate for certain colors and materials. We know there is a wash cycle, a rinse cycle, and a spin cycle. Following the washing machine, we know that clothes go in a dryer and are then sometimes ironed, sometimes folded or put on hangers for storage in a closet, dresser, wardrobe, etc. And the average American knows at least that much about traditional, at-home washing.
Now ask the average American to describe the dry cleaning process in detail. She'll say she drops her clothes off in a soiled, wrinkled lump and picks them up a few days later pressed and hung. Somewhere in between, the clothes end up on that ridiculous monorail contraption with a 50,000-garment capacity that weaves through the dry cleaner's store like lines at an amusement park. Everything else is pretty much a black hole-caliber mystery.
It's not like we're ever at the dry cleaner for very long, but you'd think that over time we'd develop some clue as to what goes on there. But, no. When you walk into the shop you never catch them in the midst of dry cleaning. You catch them tailoring something, serving another customer, talking on the phone, or playing with the hanging monorail. But never actually dry cleaning.
So what is dry cleaning? What are they doing to my clothes that I supposedly can't do myself? Now let me be clear: I'm not asking for a chemistry lesson, here. I am looking for something far more basic: what does the process look like? Are my clothes run through a large machine on a conveyor belt? Is there some sort of wind tunnel that blasts the dirt off? Is there a Rube Goldberg-inspired series of mechanical devices involving springs, leather boots, boxing gloves, and bowling balls? Do extreme temperatures come into play at any point? Honestly, what is it?
For all I know they're hosing my clothes down with Febreeze, passing them off to someone with an iron duct taped to each hand, and hanging them on the monorail 15 minutes after I drop them off.
I think a lot of the mystery comes from the term "dry cleaning" itself. It strictly defies the "cleanliness requires wetness" rule that exists for almost every other method of cleaning. Examples include floor mopping, car washing, hair shampooing, bathtub scouring, teeth brushing, regular laundry, and countless others. These methods of cleaning require a cleansing agent (soap, detergent, etc.) and a rinsing agent (water). Both are wet. So how the hell do they clean clothes dryly? Apparently, dry cleaning is the cold fusion of the cleaning world.
It all starts when we buy clothes. If they look good, feel good, and the price is right… sold. You get the garment home and one look at the tag tells you its fate: dry clean only. When a garment falls into dry cleaning territory, it enters a shadowy realm of secrecy and intrigue. The meager "Dry Clean Only" tag controls the garment's destiny. We're beyond our jurisdiction and totally helpless. We immediately cede all our laundering and garment care acumen to the experts, the higher power, the Dry Cleaner. Maybe the garment in question doesn't need to be dry cleaned. We suspect it would turn out just fine with a cold wash, a line drying, and quick pass of the iron. But we're not willing to take that chance. The tag has spoken.
I asked an objective sample of people who dry clean regularly and found that none of them knew what dry cleaning really is. I also found that, prior to my asking, none of them had been the least bit curious about it either. I was surprised that in this age where people care more and more about eco-friendliness, ethical treatment, and fair play, no one is curious about dry cleaning. So why do we question pesticides on our produce and UV inks in our packaging, while trusting dry cleaning so blindly?
In this case, I believe it helps to consider the source of our dry cleaning: Asian Americans. It comes as little surprise that when people think about dry cleaner proprietors, they automatically think Asian American**. Obviously not every dry cleaning employee is Asian American, but it's difficult to deny their dominance in the industry. I wonder if Asian stereotypes in general have anything to do with this inherent trust of dry cleaning. In my eyes Asian American is easily the most trusted American minority. Stereotypical Asian American traits include intelligence, respectfulness, hard work ethic, and reliability.
Perhaps all of these positive stereotypes* contribute to our unquestioning attitude toward dry cleaning. I envision the first stereotype-based dry cleaning thought process from years ago went something like this: "Hmm, an Asian dry cleaner. How novel. Well, Asians are smart. This guy was probably a chemical astrophysicist in his country of origin. I bet he dry cleans a damn nice shirt."
Today the Asian influence on the dry cleaning industry is so strong that people think twice about using a non-Asian dry cleaner: "Hmmm, there's a white woman behind the counter at this place. I'm not sure she really has the doctorate level credentials necessary to press my dinner jacket. I better find an Asian dry clea—oh, there's one across the street."
So we trust the dry cleaner despite our complete ignorance with regard to what he actually does. How did it get to be this way? How did this "don't ask, don't tell" culture of dry cleaning come about? And why hasn't anyone gotten to the bottom of it?
I have a theory that brings it all together. Here goes. The tag on our garment tells us if it needs to be dry cleaned or not. Where are most of our clothes made? Asia. Who sews those "Dry Clean Only" tags into our clothes? Asians. Who runs the dry cleaning industry in America? Asian-Americans. Are you starting to catch on?
It's a self-perpetuating cycle that assures an Asian stranglehold on dry cleaning and overall garment care in America. It's genius. Well done, Asians and Asian-Americans. You make a hell of a team. You're just quietly going about your day-to-day business of monopolizing a multi-billion dollar industry right under everyone's noses. Bravo.
And because dry cleaning is a service that people rely on so heavily, who would dare to question it? Who wants to jeopardize inexpensive, high-service dry cleaning? A strike from the International Brotherhood of Asian-American Dry Cleaners would cause utter chaos. The very fabric of our civilization would unravel: business people without properly pressed shirts, gravy-stained table cloths, ties bearing the indelible mark of raspberry vinaigrette. Oh the humanity! To that donnybrook I say, "No thank you."
So that is the result of my investigation. And while we're no closer to understanding what dry cleaning actually is, at least we understand the complex socio-economic structure that keeps it a secret. And now that I know that dry cleaning's secrecy is vital to an underground conspiracy of international clothing production and care that goes back generations, my well-pressed suits and I will be blissfully ignorant on the matter forevermore.
-- Nate Winter
*In the term "positive stereotypes," positive refers to the characteristics of the stereotype: intelligence, hard-working, etc., not the use or existence of stereotypes.
** I'm told that this is the result of discrimination from a few generations ago that forced Asian immigrants out of most other work industries. Seeing opportunity in tailoring and laundry, Asian immigrants capitalized on it and the result is no further than three blocks from you at any given time.
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