Some "Do's" For Good Behavior

A little while ago, I posted some “don’t” regarding social interaction, at least as it relates to me. I touched on some annoying linguistic patterns and gave some advice on proper body shape. This counsel was pretty well received, but some thought that the negative tone lacked something, and requested some “do’s” as well. Here they are. 

Stay out of politics

Low voter turnout is a perennial concern in American politics, but some think that is changing. Barack Obama’s historic election energized millions of young voters, and accessible, fun new shows like the Daily Show are provided many youngsters with news and opinion in an engaging way. Millions of Americans now feel empowered and part of the political process. 

Too bad. Following politics may be fun for some, but it’s annoying for everyone else, or at least me. There are exactly two main kinds of political observers: young Democrats, and old Republicans. There are exceptions, but these groups comprise about 80% of the political scene. 

Young Democrats are always really energetic and talkative, ready to spread the truth and right wrongs. Unfortunately, since they get most of their facts from the Daily Show and Michael Moore documentaries, their facts tend to be a bit suspect, like that the Bush family is secretly allied with Israel and the bin Ladens in order to corner the world’s oil supply and establish a One World government from a mountain base in Luxembourg. (If Luxembourg has mountains; if not, then the conspiracy is centered in Switzerland). And they try to tell you stuff about human rights crisis’ that you a) already know about (Darfur) and b) don’t really care about either (I mean, Darfur is sad and stuff, but it’s not like anyone you know really gets too upset, especially in this economy. You simply don’t have the luxury of worrying about people halfway across the world when there is a good chance that your next trade-in might have to be a Camry instead of a Prius or Suburban). 

Our young Democrat friends also think that they are the nonconformist bright lights of the revolution of the proletariat, though they get all their opinions pretty much straight from the exact same professors all their peers do. And the fact that they depend on their parents to pay for their dorms undercuts their independent status. 

Eventually, they grow up. Into Republicans. This is not an improvement. 

Somewhere along the way, they get rich, and start putting on a bit of weight, and growing a family and an ego. Then they starting talking to people about their prosperity, and that person seems to be me a disproportionate amount of the time. 

After a bone crushing handshake, they always effortlessly segue into a “diverting” (read: horribly boring) discussion of their money. An example: “How are you? Fine? Just like my business, I made $1.4 million in the last quarter alone.” Then they tell me exactly how they did it, which never makes the least bit of sense to me, or probably to them either. 

They always have two kids, one male, one female, both either in college or about to be in college or just left college. The son is always in some business program and is going to make lots of money (“he’ll have his first million by 30” Mr. Republican says, usually with another mangling handshake or crushing arm grip to emphasize his point), while the daughter is always majoring in something completely useless like English or Liberal Arts and is “going to make the world a better place”, says Dad, with an indulgent smile for the foibles of the young. Listening to how amazing Mr. Republican’s kids are is pretty worrying, considering that I’m college age and no one talks that way about me, so I wait till he mentions something I’m better in and innocently (with a touch of smugness) point it out (“Yep, it must have been hard for Junior to get that 3.8 GPA. I had all sorts of trouble keeping my 4.0). That usually shuts him up. 

Occasionally, you run across a young Republican or an older Democrat. The older Democrat is usually a shrill harpy with few friends, but is otherwise like her (it’s usually her) younger counterparts. Younger Republicans tend to be either snake handling lunatics or staid, humorless Babbits (little literary allusion there. Translation: @$$hole)

Stay away from sports, too. 

There are two kinds of sports fans—fans of good teams and of bad teams. Fans of bad teams have listless, despairing features and spend hours recycling complaints about the management of their teams, like they could do any better. 

Fans of good teams are intensely paranoid about any criticism of their teams, and will spend hours trying to browbeat passersby into an admission of their city’s sports superiority. I once spent a hour talking to a passionate Jimmy Brown fan about whether possibly Brown wasn’t the greatest football player ever. Then, (mercifully) I didn’t see him for about two years. But when I did see him, he rushed over to me and continued our discussion like we’d never separated. 

See what sports does to you? 

Enjoy music, at least a little. 

The present musical scene isn’t anything to make Beethoven smile, but it’s not too bad. Decent variety, cheap (at least if you steal it off Limewire, and you probably do), portable, all in all, not too bad. Unless you talk to a real music fanatic, who will be laboring under the impression that we live in a musical Sahara enlivened only by the occasional oasis of some really obscure band you’ve never heard of. 

Music geeks hate our era because they feel that modern music all sounds the same and has no imagination. They see the Seventies as a musical utopia, ignoring the fact that all the music then sounded exactly the same and took most of its ideas from Brian Eno and the Beatles (is this right? I have no idea, really, but it sounds good). Listen to David Bowie, Elton John, and Bob Dylan—they sound pretty much identical, except the first two whine in British accents. 

Music geeks tend to bill themselves as crazy rebel listeners who painstakingly seek out only the most obscure bands, but fortunately they all get their music recommendations from the same Internet forums, so when you come across one you can sound knowledgeable by reciting a few hip bands. Mention Radiohead (their songs are pretty much totally unintelligible, which makes music geeks think there must be all sorts of layers of hidden meanings there), the Shins (no idea who they are, but I know that they are cool), the Hive (most people haven’t heard of them, and they have sort of an indie name. If anyone asks you what their music sounds like, just say “Y’know, kind of alt glam rock”, which is probably close enough), and either John Cage or Philip Glass. That should get you through a conversation okay. 

Stay away from Apple too. 

Sure, Apple makes great products, but then Blackbeard was ahead of his time on facial hair and that doesn’t make him a great man either. The people at Apple are a bunch of thieves. I got (well, my parents got me, graduation present) a Mac computer, which was about twice what a Windows computer was. Then it turns out that a word processing program is another hundred dollars. A mouse? Thirty-five. A warranty? Another hundred. So basically, if you want to actually use your computer, it will be about three hundred dollars (or whatever, I’m not a math major over here) more than they say it will. 

An iPod Touch was part of the deal. But it I want to load applications to get support for him, I’ve got to pay $10 into the coffers of Steve Jobs. Bunch of pirates. 

Life Among the Rednecks

Since birth, I’ve have lived in the small town of Felicity, which is so rural that it doesn’t even have turnip trucks to fall off when residents move to the big city. (We make do with tobacco wagons). There are some disadvantages, such as the fact that every one there seems to see Deliverance as a model for life; or that most of the residents thinks the Beverly Hillbillies were city slickers before they moved, but there is at least one advantage—it presents a fascinating and instructive look into the lives of our country fried friends.

Many people think that country life is all chicken fries, souped up cars, and tractor pulls. Of course, that narrow, stereotyped view is outdated and snobbish, as there is much more to country living, such as drunken brawls, tobacco spitting contests, and Larry the Cable Guy marathons on CMT.

One of the activities most enjoyed by young Felicitians (Felictites? Feliciench? Felicitish? Felicitis? Futch?) is cruising, where you get in your car, drive up and down main street, and…that’s all really, it’s not a very intellectual activity. They enlivened it by shouting stuff at each as they drive by, but thanks to the Doppler effect (or is the Doppler effect only on trains?), you can never decipher anything they say. But that doesn’t stop them from trying, because you never know when the laws of physics might suddenly bend and permit conversations from cars traveling thirty miles per hour in opposite directions.

When not shouting out of cars, it is considered very fun to pump music really loud using just bass. You can’t really understand any of the music, but it’s probably just Nickelback anyway so they’re not missing much.

There are three kinds of cars in Felicity—new mega-gas-guzzler-climate-changing-enormo-pick-ups, smaller pickups, and decrepit sedans. The big pickups are driven by prosperous farmers, who usually have noticeable Southern accents but are actually very educated (to run a farm, you need an education). So it’s really confusing to see a guy dressed like Jed Clampett’s younger brother step out of his pick-up and start talking in a hillbilly voice about soil acidity. “Well, if the Ph o’ that thar soil in the north forty don’t not get above 6 or therebouts, we jest won’t have a tobaccy crop.”

The smaller pick-ups are driven by common farm workers. They aren’t very interesting, since they aren’t prosperous or educated, and will be doing menial, underpaid work till the end of their lives, so they mostly just look forward to Friday night down at Felicity Pub and Bar. They don’t take a very wide view of the world, and are the people Garth Brooks sings about. (See the American Honky Tonky Bar Association for example).

The sedans are driven by everyone else, and they are always American made. Which means that if they’re over five years old—and they are—they are always practically falling apart with rust patches, missing exhaust pipes, and occasionally a broken axle. Their final resting place is someone’s front yard, and they do work as serviceable yard ornaments. (At least, they’re better than plastic flamingoes, which are their main competition). And they keep away door-to-door salesmen, because no one with a car in their yard has any money to spend. Unless it’s for a subscription to Guns and Ammo magazine.

Whenever a teenaged Felicitian gets one of these sedans, he always tries to soup it up, and make it a real “hot rod.” Unfortunately, since it’s a 1995 Cavalier, he doesn’t have much to work with.

So no matter how much he works on his future General Lee, it never gets much faster. But it does get louder, because everyone revs their engine whenever possible, which would be much cooler if the speed limit along Main Street wasn’t twenty-five miles per hour.

The only memorable thing about Felicity is the Feed Mill.

With a few exceptions, everything in Felicity is about twenty years out of date—in fact, the town just heard about 9/11 two weeks ago. (The general consensus was that we need to teach the Soviets a stiff lesson). All the signs for pop (the soft drink, I mean, not what Britney Spears sings) and what not have the old logos from about seven years, ago, and the gas stations don’t have pay at the pump, so you have to go in and tell them how many gallons you need, which is not something I usually know off the top of my head, so I always way overpay or underpay.

Many of you will never make it out to Felicity. So hopefully this post will let you vicariously experience country life, although come to think of it I have no idea why you would want to. But I’ve already written it, and there’s no way I’m going to just delete it, so you might as well read it anyway.