While my life goes on at decidedly subsonic speeds, I'm tossing up an assortment of stuff, with the hope thst some of it might be marginally interesting. This same attitude has informed nearly twelve years of poking through the search logs, but it doesn't show up too often in The Vent. Indeed, actual venting is more the exception than the rule in this section, in case you hadn't noticed.
I am a much poorer typist at work than I am at home. This hasn't always been the case, but it is now. I suppose I could attribute this to my failing vision, but hey, I'm not supposed to be looking at the actual keys, right. Eventually an explanation dawned on me. For about 10 years, I pounded on an IBM 5250 terminal, with twenty-four function keys and a layout similar to Big Blue's legendary Model M keyboard, one of which I have owned (literally: one) for more than a quarter-century. Around Y2k, the office switched me to a PC with 5250 emulation and (yes!) a Model M. Then one year I went on vacation, and they'd bought me a newer PC with no PS/2 keyboard plug: the Model M was taken away, and they brought me a nice shiny new Das Keyboard in basic black. The Das has really good feel, but the keys seem not quite infinitesimally closer together than the old IBMs, and if your touch typing is like mine, seriously dependent on the distances between keys, you might end up on the wrong keys more often than you'd prefer. (If you're a good touch typist, you can ignore this entire paragraph.)
Not so long ago, I heard the doorbell ringing, and ignored it for a period I thought would be long enough for the visitor to decide no one was home and walk away. Often as not, it's someone leaving me a door card, possibly with a handwritten message to the effect of "Sorry I missed you." I popped the door open a smidgen to see what had been left behind; turns out my visitor hadn't actually left at all, and automatically started her standard spiel. I offered two or three excuses for why I couldn't talk to her just then, and finally blurted out the truth: "I don't have any clothes on." To my surprise, she said she didn't mind, and we had a relatively fruitful discussion. And anyway, it's not like she had to gaze upon my naughty bits: the tray on my walker hits me at waist level and deftly concealed said bits. Nor did I risk being seen from the street: there's only about a five-degree angle from which the front door is visible. But the most telling thing was her utter indifference to my lack of garb; about two sentences in, if there had been any discomfiture on the part of either of us, it was pretty much gone. Besides, she had a sweet smile, which does quite a lot to melt away embarrassment. And I figure I've already been forgotten. But this happy-ish result is consistent with previous experience: when women have unexpectedly encountered me at good old Wardrobe Zero, they've invariably been able to dismiss the experience as No Big Deal. Men, for some reason, have always been outraged. And now I wish I'd asked my younger sister about her experiences of this sort before she died: she turned out to be more of a hard-core nudist than I was, and one of her BFFs later tracked me down on Facebook and asked, "Was she always like that?" Well, not until she was 13 or so.
Also earlier this month, for no good reason I can think of, I ordered about 7 lb of candy corn from Meh.com, and, well, this is August and I have a concrete porch. Of the six bags, three arrived with actual discrete kernels, two were a weirdly congealed mess, and one was somewhere in between. I suspect rather a lot of people complsined to Meh, with the result that today they're offering "A Few Pounds Of Melted Candy Corn And A Knife."
I wonder how Taylor Swift, deep in her heart of hearts, desls with the fact that most of her songs, stripped of orchestration and arrangement tricks, sound essentially the same. (Two of them, "Blank Space" and "Style," both from 1989, literally are the same; come to think of it, Rihanna's "Diamonds" comes pretty close to fitting that same scheme.) Maybe that's why in "Look What You Made Me Do," instead of rewriting herself, she rewrites Right Said Fred. She's too sexy for this stuff.
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