Meccanized

…but getting a nut-punch instead.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse have left me no choice. Do I even need to say it?

I think the title of this post sums it all up. 5 years (I started a year late)…countless hours on the message boards…a failed first date (anyone who implies during dessert that I am immature for being so into a TV show is not long in my life…at least get to know all the other ways I am immature before blaming Lost)…FOR WHAT?!

FOR A FINALE THAT ESSENTIALLY FELT LIKE IT WAS MEANT FOR A DIFFERENT SHOW.

Here is a step-by-step guide for Meccanization:

1) Cast Matthew Fox (I’m 100% a Jack girl, but being the whiniest person on an earlier show that included Lacey Chabert, Jennifer Love Hewitt and Scott Wolf is a feat worthy of this blog).

2) Create a show that hooks me so much initially that I watch all 29 episodes of the first season straight through, pausing only to get tissues to wipe away my tears when Boone bit it.

3) Develop an entire mythology that fascinates me enough to occupy at least 25% of my mindshare every day.  EVERY DAY. I only regret that neither job I occupied during the last 4 years had a billable category for mentally masturbating about Lost.

4) Vomit all over that intricately created mythology, ignore it entirely and instead cap the series with a 2.5 hour string of cheesy one-liners, weird facial ticks and an awesome but entirely misplaced jump-punch by Jack Shephard.

To me, Lost was like that boyfriend you should have dumped years ago but you stuck with him because you had hopes that the glimmer of light (that’s inside every man…see what I did there?) you saw in the first few months would come back. Instead, you came home from a hard day at work and found him fat, unshaven and jobless, eating your food, watching your TV, spending your money and in bed with your best friend.

I’ll take Desmond’s advice and just let go, but before I do:

Lost…Meccanized.

My main goal in life these past few months has been to become mayor of something on Foursquare.

For this very reason, when I realized that a location near my apartment that I frequented wasn’t yet on Foursquare, I created  it. And I started checking in. I was on my way to a mayorship.

But then someone – who doesn’t live anywhere near me and who I know for a fact doesn’t visit this location near my apartment EVER – thwarted my plans. He began checking into MY LOCATION twice a day. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late — I was an honest checker-inner, and as such, was way behind. My mayorship was lost.

Now, people told me I was being paranoid, that no one lies about their location Foursquare. Tonight, these wearers of rose-colored glasses were wrong. I got a ping that said person checked in at MY LOCATION…but…see…the funny thing is…MY LOCATION CLOSED TWO WEEKS AGO!

I am so disillusioned that I’ve lost the will to try for another mayorship. Consider my gears ground and my chances of occupying a virtual political office down to nil.

Also consider my Foursquare nemesis Meccanized.

Dear Woman On the 3,

You are so griding my gears right now.  Sitting across from me, yelling into your cell phone, repeating the phrase “O.M.G.  It was Hi-Larious, Becky.”

I don’t know who Becky is, but if she thinks your stupid story about how you passed some guy your number at Rickhouse is, indeed, Hi-Larious, I hate her too.

I am the first person to champion loud phone conversations on the street.  In fact, I’d say that more often than not, if I’m walking around, I’m on the phone.  Walking from Point A to Point B provides the perfect dead time to make and return phone calls.   But on the sidewalk, with a zillion people caught up in their own chats, said phone calls are unobtrusive.

On the 3, a small enclosed space that is bad enough without your whiny voice, high-pitched chortle and staggering insecurities being broadcast through it, they are pretty damn obtrusive.

Where is the bus justice in the world?  I sit quietly and always give up my seat for the elderly and am repaid by the universe by getting sat on, drooled on and groped by middle-aged men just “trying to find the ‘stop requested’ button on the bar by the back door” (here’s a hint — it’s not anywhere near my chest).  You’re using Muni as your own personal phone booth and the worst you get is a written slap on the wrist on this blog.

If the guy you met at Rickhouse actually calls, I sure hope I’m not on the bus when you answer.

Meccanized.

Sincerely,

Lindsay

I think people show their true colors in laundromats.

I, for example, despite feeling under the weather, gave up my seat for a woman with a cane.  Because I am awesome.

But for every sweet, there’s a sour.  Another woman, we’ll call her “Selfish Bimbo With No Soul,” decided that she was entitled to use 7 dryers for her laundry.  7 dryers in a laundromat with only 12 dryers total, 5 of which were already being used.

This was annoying in and of itself, but, to make matters worse, she only put a few items in each dryer.   Apparently, in her mind, it’s perfectly acceptable to waste enough energy to power a small country and make everyone else cool their heels so that one pillowcase doesn’t need to be dried next to the other.

As I waited – standing no less – I had a lovely daydream of hearing the roar of her 7 dryers buzzing “off” simultaneously, running over and dumping all of her clothes onto the dirty laundromat floor in an act of defiance.  Of course, I’m not that kind of person.  Instead, I emptied just the one dryer I needed — a pair of sweatpants, a blanket and some socks.  And while I am above throwing other people’s things on the floor, I am definitely below smushing them together so they are good and rumpled.  It’s the small victories…

Selfish,  inconsiderate, wasteful and Meccanized.

I was having an interesting conversation with someone about how two people can view the same situation entirely differently, and it sparked an idea.

What if two near-strangers decided to travel together for two months and separately blogged about their experiences?  Neither person would be allowed to read the other’s blog until the end of the trip.

Would this be an interesting read for outsiders?  It’s gimmicky for sure, but get the right two people traveling and blogging and I think it could be pretty awesome.

Of course, I think the idea of traveling for two months with a total stranger is a little rapey-stabby.  Beyond that, finding the right travel companion could make or break the success of this venture.  This made me think I should opt for someone who I at least vaguely know or who one of my trustworthy friends can vouch for.

So, for the people reading this who want to help me find the best travel partner, here are a few key criteria.  He/she needs to:

* Write.  Well.  And with an engaging voice.

* Be willing to do something a little nuts with a gal who is…a little nuts?

* Be financially sound enough to pay for plane tickets and living expenses for 2 months.  OR…

* Be a smooth enough talker to convince someone else (a publisher, a family member) to fund the trip.

* Not be a serial killer…or at least not be shady beyond redemption.

Of course, there is plenty of potential for disaster here.  But if I can find the right companion, I’m thinking this could be a lot of fun.  Definitely an adventure.  And believe it or not, the two people I have talked to about this idiotic idea (one of whom is a potential candidate who meets all but the last of the above criteria) actually think it has legs.

So start recommending travel companions.  The actual trip wold be a ways out, given that I have saved up only about 2 days of vacation time in my new job thus far, but the planning should start now.

I’ve been thinking too much lately.  It’s time to get back to some actual Meccanization.

A few minutes ago, I began putting my newly-washed clothes into “Quentin,” my favorite dryer at my nauseatingly-cute laundromat.  I was about halfway through my load when a woman stalked over and told me she was already using “Quentin.”  I pointed out that there had been no clothes in it before I began putting in my items.  She then responded with “Well, I claimed it, and my washer is almost done.”

Wet sock clutched in hand, I stared back at her.  Here was a 45-year-old woman basically calling “shotgun” on a dryer.  There were at least 5 other open dryers that she could have used, and a critical mass of my clothing had already taken up residence inside “Quentin.” (That sounds so pervy.)

Now, normally I would have been nice (you say pushover, I say nice) and would have just moved my stuff to another dryer.  But, as you know from my last post, first impressions don’t mean that much to me, and this woman and her sense of entitlement just pissed me off.  So I stood up tall (stop laughing), threw my Bounce sheet into “Quentin,” hit start and said “Sorry, I’m using this one, but I think ‘Peter’ is open.”

Not quite the razor sharp remark I had hoped for, but on the spot it was the best I could do.  I walked out of that laundromat – head held high – to the woman leaning over to her companion and muttering something about “no apology” and “selfish.”

Meccanized…though I’m a little worried that when I go back down my clothes will have met some terrible fate in payment for my insolence.

In the last few weeks, I feel like I’ve made more inaccurate first impressions than I ever have before.  Normally, I would lump them in the “can’t be everything to everyone all of the time” bucket and forget about them, but the stream of them has reaffirmed my belief in the importance of second chances.

I, like everyone else, have off moments.  I also have a long list of things I wish I had done, not done or done differently, some significant enough to evoke a twitchy, squirmy, grimace-filled gesture when thoughts of them fly through my head.  I probably tend to dwell on these more than the average person, but usually they become lessons or funny stories pretty quickly.

As a direct result of my propensity for awkward, I make it a point to shelve my opinions of other people until I get a crack at a second impression.  (This obviously doesn’t apply if the person is clearly a nutjob based on the first encounter.  ”Nutjobs” include anyone who threatens me or makes awkward comments on a date like “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend accused me of physical assault, but I’m totally over that bitch.”)

I’ve had off first meetings with a lot of people.  One or both of us seemed boorish, rude, slutty, obnoxious, boring, shallow, whiny, etc.  About 50% of those impressions ended up being totally accurate in my opinion.  The other 50% and I now laugh about those awkward initial encounters right before we have some sappy moment where we talk about how happy we are that we didn’t let iffy first impressions become non-starters for our relationships.

Do I care that the woman at the laundromat thinks I’m selfish for inadvertently taking her dryer?  No.  But, in general, I do care about presenting myself in a positive light that at least in most ways matches my own self-perception.  Of course, the accuracy of that self-perception is pretty subjective, but that is a subject for anther post.

I was huffing and puffing up the Fillmore St. hill today, when a guy rolled up next to me in a BMW.  In as non-shady of a way as possible, he asked me if I wanted a ride to the top of the hill.  I was thrilled for the after school special moment, but I politely declined.

As I continued on with my huffing and puffing, I had a thought about city living as a female — no matter the city, no matter the female, most decisions are made based around one key criterion: the likelihood that the scenario you are considering will become a rapey/stabby situation.

It’s not a conscious thought most of the time.  Take the common (ego alert) scenario of a guy asking to buy me a drink.   Each decision I make seems to be based in evaluating circumstances in the immediacy.  If I’m attracted to him, I’ll accept the drink.  If I want to keep talking to him, I’ll accept his invitation to go to another public venue.  But the subconscious question accompanying every move I choose to make is “will this night turn into an homage to ‘The Accused?’”   Asking this question is no different from weighing the safety pros and cons of any situation, but I think the rapey/stabby benchmark is especially relevant for ladies.  

Of course, it isn’t foolproof.  It’s easy to lose focus for one reason or anther (usually sleep-deprivation, alcohol, the euphoria of an epic trivia win, or some combination of all three), end up in what could be shady situations and then have to retroactively take steps to protect against potential rapey-ness and stabby-ness.  Usually, this involves a phone call or a text message to one or more friends saying something along the lines of “I’m getting into a blue Ford Taurus license plate 507-PLU.  The driver has dreamy eyes and a winsome smile.  If you don’t hear from me in 24 hours, please alert the authorities.”

I think spinning the bad decision wheel on occasion, especially at this age, is healthy and often leads to the most fun, memorable times and the best stories.  But the key to having this result as opposed to…well…you know…is being able to read situations, and I would argue that a sensitive, well-tuned rapey/stabby-meter is the best tool for this.

Fortunately, living in a city like San Francisco, you can’t help but fine-tune your sense of the rapey and stabby.  And I have total faith in mine.  So the next time I find myself wandering the Tenderloin at 6 am, I’ll know I’ll make it home safely.

It’s late on a Thursday night, and I’m in a McFlurry haze.  Introspection time.  Not even repeated viewings of “Kitten Mittens” can pull me out of my own head.

I found out last week that a friend from college passed away.  Very sad and also very jarring.  Whenever anyone dies — especially someone so young — it inevitably leads to the rolling “am I living my life right?” thunder.  It seems like all of a sudden, it becomes clear how much time and energy are wasted on comparatively insignificant things.  Then, come the promises of no longer sweating the small stuff.  Then, some variation of “I’m going to do it…really, finally, I’m going to…”  It all has the feel of a movie trailer — a brief, few poignant scenes, capped with a euphoric moment where everything seems to fall into place.  Set to, of course, Solsbury Hill.

The scary thing is how fleeting those thoughts are.   About a day after I heard about my friend, the mental masturbation began.  There were broad, generic questions:

-       How can I invest so much of my life worrying about silly stuff?  (Not to overstate my readership, but I am saddened by the number of people who are likely reading this and nodding in agreement that I do, in fact, obsess about silly stuff…and all thinking of different examples.)

-       Am I living my life to the fullest?

-       Will I look back on this time in my life and feel like I should have done anything differently? 

And then came the equally broad, generic resolutions:

-       I’m not going to waste one more second or iota of energy on silly things that I can’t control.

-       I’m not going to take anything or anyone for granted.

-       I’m not going to regret anything – if things work out, great.  If they don’t, they are still learning experiences.

It took all of 24 hours for me to toss my lofty ideals out the window.  Actually, as far as the “not taking anyone for granted” ideal, at least I can sort of follow through: Thank you to all who have been willing to listen to me prattle on about one stupid thing for the last week.  I appreciate it more than you can imagine.

I’ve always thought that life realizations that come neatly packaged in moments of clarity are bullshit.  No matter what the movies tell us, you rarely just “get” something…and even if you do, the resultant change in behavior rarely sticks.  But it still bums me out how quickly I lost sight of two-thirds of my goals that not long ago, in a fairly significant moment, seemed both logical and tangible.  

Nothing to Meccanize here.  Just needed to vent.

This made me so happy.  It’s like a glorious little game of “Who Should I Hate More?”

To my left is Michael Bay, who I used to think was the world’s shittiest director.  Then, I discovered Matthew Barney (who I’ll count as a director for his horrible forays into art-films) and McG, both of whom suck infinitely more than MB.  I actually enjoy MB’s movies (I’m a total sucker for mindless action), but I’m stubborn and feel the need to cling to my thirteen-year dislike for him for the sake of consistency.  

To my right is Megan Fox, world’s dumbest woman.  Nothing she says makes sense, and when she does manage to string a few words together properly, it’s usually pretty offensive.  But not offensive in a fun “best team name at trivia” kind of way; offensive in a “I’m rock stupid and really don’t get it” kind of way.  

I think I have to give this round to Megan Fox, if only for the pyramid quote.  I also re-watched “The Rock” late last night and was so into it that I’ll give Michael Bay a bye for today.