Dogs! Dogs!Dogs!

Irony

Main Entry: iro·ny. Etymology: Latin ironia, from Greek eirOnia, from eirOn dissembler
1 : a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other's false conceptions conspicuous by adroit questioning -- called also Socratic irony
2 a : the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning
b : a usually humorous or sardonic literary style or form characterized by irony
c : an ironic expression or utterance
3 a (1) : incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result (2) : an event or result marked by such incongruity
b : incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play -- called also dramatic irony, tragic irony
(Miriam webster)

Irony appears to be the mot en vogue. Everyone says it. Even my grandmother says it. In a 24 hour period I heard her say it three times. She never once used it correctly. I know that people abuse words hither and thither (can you say irregardless? Well, don’t!) but I can still be pissed about it. The third definition listed above is in recognition that people use the word ironic instead of the word incongruous. Allegedly, incongruous is not a commonly used word. It means, unsurprisingly, not congruous, unharmonious, and not conforming. It suggests that when a logical series of events results in an unexpected result it is ironic. So it would be ironic for 2 plus 2 to equal something other than 4. It would be ironic for a dropped ball not to fall to the ground. But it is an unexpected result, not a rare (or scarce) one. It is not ironic if I eat a mushroom; it is just really really unlikely. However, the mistreatment of the word extends far past incongruity.

A local news broadcaster used it last night. The broadcaster stated, in paraphrase: that it was ironic that a man, charged with abusing a child, had been convicted of abusing a child years before. Well it’s not ironic. It might be ironic when a priest abuses a child because we do not expect a priest to do such things (at least we didn’t used to). But it is not ironic when a criminal gets caught a second time for a similar crime. Maybe it’s “Not surprisingly”... But it’s not ironic. It is, in fact, an expected outcome.

I overheard a lady say it on the bus the other day. She declared it was “so ironic” that she had bumped into her former neighbor on the bus. They women were delighted to see each other after several years, but it wasn’t ironic. It was fortuitous that they happened to get on the same bus. But luck doesn’t have anything to do with irony. It was a nice coincidence, but not ironic.

It isn’t ironic that a missionary worker dies in Afghanistan, it’s tragic. It might be ironic if the same missionary went on a violent killing spree. But death is a predictable result for working in a war zone. The vulgus calls it Cosmic Irony. They say it is ironic that Beethoven was deaf. But isn’t more remarkable than ironic? Let’s not even talk about any song. In fact, the American Heritage Dictionary cites that song as an example of something that is not ironic.

It’s not ironic that dozens of others have ranted about this before me. It makes this unoriginal, but not ironic. It wouldn’t be ironic if someone who hates the misuse of the word misuses it: that’s hypocrisy. Irregardless, of all of this please stick to correct uses of the word (now, that might be irony?).

Things that are ironic:
A surgeon asking a nurse, “Now, where do I start?”
A person who burns their mouth on a hot piece of pizza declaring, “Wow, that pizza is really cold.”
A man jumping off a building to commit suicide is shot dead when a person on the third floor fires his shotgun and misses, striking the falling man instead of his intended victim.

Golden child

In my family favor is bestowed (in a tongue in cheek manner) upon the children by calling them "the golden child". Displeasure can be expressed by demotion to bronze or tin status. It is a coveted position but can be held by anyone - not just a member of the family. Smarts just a little when your father calls your little sister's friend "golden child". But - for good or bad - it is what it is. This system of ranking did not evolve until I was in grad school, so I hope it did not damage my psyche too much.

Golden child status aside. There were favorites in our family. Our parents vehemantly deny this, of course; but it was true. My father sidestepped any questions about favored status by telling me I was his favorite second daughter. I wasn't too old when I realized I was his ONLY second daughter.

For a giggle ask someone who has siblings who the favorite child in their family was. It is especially fun to pose this question in a group. The unfavored (that seems so harsh) can always identify one sibling who was given special treatment. It gets really funny when someone claims, "Oh, my parents didn't have a favorite." The person who makes this claim WAS the favorite. Ask their siblings they won't claim their parents were unbiased.

Obviously you shouldn't ask only children this question - what if they answered? They could say (honestly we hope) that they were the favorite. Or they could say (and we pray it is not so) that the dog was the favorite.

I go to bed each night satisfied that I am my father's favorite daughter who goes fishing with him; and I am my mother's favorite daughter who is also handy with a glue gun. In life, if I can maintain these two illusions I think I've got it made.

RIP

Resquiescat in Pacem Madison Kilber.

You had the most amazing eyelashes.

Braggy McBraggerson

www.wetwebmedia.com/ca/CaHompage.htm
www.wetwebmedia.com/ca/volume_3/cav3i2/Snorkeling/Snorkeling_Culebra.htm

And I got PAID

Rear View Carlos

Copyright 2006 LFWADE

Cars shout loud and clear facts about their drivers. Bumper stickers make literal statements of politics, humor, or lifestyle. Even drivers who go to great lengths to not make a statement with their car are, in fact, making a statement.

You know the type: they drive maroon Honda Accords that only have a parking sticker on the glass and don’t even have spare change in the console. I generally fall in this category though I often wish I had witty or esoteric bumper stickers. I really like one that says “if this bumper sticker turns blue you are going too fast” – ask a physicist. Though I am a fan of “Republicans for Voldemort”.

Dashboard knick-knacks primarily make religious statements; but sometimes are collected to spoof gluing religious icons to the dash board. I have seen some impressive collections of happy meal toys riding the front dash of disenfranchised 20-somethings (natch). A rear dash full of trucker caps screams a male over 55 years old. Contrastingly a rear dash full of stuffed animals could be a teenage girl or a retired couple (or the driver could be suicidally wishing that an item might become a death missile during a sudden stop).

But what I am really interested in are rear view mirrors. I have nothing hanging from my rearview mirror. Maybe I don’t have anything hanging in my line of site because I am safety conscious; or maybe it’s because I don’t possess the requisite items to hang. The items hanging from a rear view mirror fall into four categories; Symbolic: indicating to the others a point of view; Decorative: being pretty to look at; Functional: serving some function real (or imagined); and Ironic: conveying something other than, and especially the opposite of the literal meaning.

Smokers go for function and hang air fresheners. I think I would be partial to the classic pine-tree; but I am not a smoker. Invariably the smell of cigarette smoke mingles with whatever cloying scent that was cheapest at walmart last month; creating an aroma that you only find in the cars of smokers. Some argue that the suspended CD is a functional accessory that diverts police radar beams (I have never been given any other reason for hanging old CDs.). But a driver who asserts that an old CD will trick the cops is fooling himself. I am still willing to call the suspended CD functional, if it makes the driver feel better about speeding.

Symbolic accessories; unlike functional accessories are not subject to being used or used up, they exist to make a statement for the driver. These items tell the world who you are and where you’ve been. There are plenty of patriots who like to hang flags from their nation of origin – I would have to hang about six flags so I am avoiding them – I would never be able to see out the back of my car. Symbolic accessories tend to fall into two subcategories (1) life achievements and (2) religion. Life achievements are symbolized by school graduation tassels, mardi gras beads, or a garter. The tassel tells the world that you managed to attend enough US history classes to graduate from high school. The mardi gras beads tell the world you showed some guy your tits. The garter tells the world that at least at one point you got to feel up some woman’s leg. Religion generally shows up as prayer beads. Religious drivers might argue that their rosaries are functional; do they pray when traffic is bad? Or when they get in a crash? I think they are hung as tickets to heaven in case of an accident – better than an airbag if you are a believer.

Decorative options are anything that is pretty but not functional, symbolic, or ironic. Prisms are the archetype for this category. But anything lovingly hung for its beauty falls in this category. People hang seasonal decorations – but only people with WAY more time and energy than I have. I can’t even imagine that mistletoe hanging from the rear view mirror could be functional… but some people are more flexible than I am.

Ironic options include fuzzy dice and their close cousin the fuzzy eight ball. Irony is generated by the synthesis of the item hanging from the rearview mirror and the car itself. A pair of fuzzy dice in a 1970 Cadillac coupe might be a decorative statement; but in a beat up 1986 Yugo they take on their own whimsy. Some items that are otherwise functional become ironic by application. For example a driver who hangs a multitude of air fresheners makes a self deprecating statement about how much his car stinks.

The mirror, in and of itself, originated as a statement. It happened to be a statement that in 1911 a racecar driver named, Ray Harroun, couldn’t find a co-driver to spot other racers during the inaugural Indy 500! So, I don’t really need anything hanging from my mirror. I’m going to think of it as my co-driver from now on. Maybe it needs a name. I think I’m gonna call it Carlos for reasons that will remain mine.

Television Hypnosis

Copyright 2006 LFWADE

If you take a two year old and show them minimal television (let’s say less than one hour a week) then you expose them to TV; they get hypnotized. I am not talking David Blaine, act like a chicken, hypnotized. I am talking night of the living dead, practically catatonic, hypnotized. Even if I reduce my television exposure to nil for a long period of time; I do not drool on myself when sesame street is on TV (well, I don’t drool too much).

I would say I am a high TV user, but a low TV watcher. I have it on, often, sometimes as much as four to six hours a night. But it is more about keeping me company than watching the content. I regularly watch only one show in prime time (Frontline) and that is only if I remember to turn it on. Mostly, I require another activity to occupy myself if I am sitting in front of the TV. Sometimes I crochet. Sometimes I sew or mend. I do the crossword almost every night, and by the end of the week that can take me all night. When I am really behaving I run on the treadmill*.

However, there are three things that induce the sort of mind sucking hypnosis that the “deprived” two year old will suffer from. They are surf movies, footage of volcanoes, and televised Texas Hold’em Poker. I can relate the first two to each other, but I have no idea where the poker fascination comes from. They are the only things on TV that I can wait out commercials for. Otherwise I am a chronic ‘flipper’. But if any of the above dance across my TV screen I am enraptured.

Surf movies entirely capture my attention. I don’t watch them like a fan. I can’t tell you who made The Endless Summer nor can I tell you who surfed the biggest wave ever in Step Into Liquid. But I can tell you that I have stood, mouth open, in the middle of a Sears watching some surfing footage until my dear husband rescued me from my stupor.

I have never surfed, never so much as gotten a knee up. I don’t really know any surfers. I don’t secretly harbor surfing fantasies. In fact, I always say, “I could never do that” when I see them. Not because of the amazing skills or athleticism required, but because I could never sit on a surf board with my legs dangling unprotected in the sea. Hello, Mr. Shark, why don’t you come and eat my feet? For that reason alone, I think surfers are nuts.

I think that my fascination centers on an appreciation or envy of such risk taking individuals (I am so risk averse I stop at all stop signs, even in empty parking lots). Also, I try to comprehend the power involved with surfing. By power, I really mean force in an F = MA way. The force of a large wave is monstrous; I am obviously attracted to the act of balancing on the precipice of disaster on a six foot long board. There must be something more to it than the risk taking. I am almost just as happy watching the waves alone, as those crowned by surfers.

Nature also rules my second televised heroin. Shows about volcanoes often show hot lava flowing down the sides of a mountain. I can watch that forever. My attraction to volcanoes is more aesthetic than the surf movies. I can’t even begin to comprehend the temperatures and extremes involved in hot lava. I don’t look at it at all on an intellectual level; I can’t. Who can understand what it means to be more than 1000 degrees Celsius? You might as well ask me to understand what a billion means.

I am deeply drawn to the contrast of the luminescent hot rock and the dark skies it is often filmed against. The constant motion of flowing lava (like the motion of the sea) is highlighted by changes in color, pattern, and texture. Even once the rock has ceased moving it has the fascinating characteristic of leaving behind exotic and beautiful formations. It is hypnotic and I can never pass it up.

The last of my trio is televised Texas Hold’em Poker. This is perhaps the most bizarre. I can’t relate to it intellectually – I only kind of know what beats what. I don’t play poker myself, I have NO poker face; you can read me like a book. And I don’t really approve of gambling (tax on stupidity if you ask me).

Unlike the surf or lava there is nothing aesthetically pleasing about televised poker. It is usually filmed in some dingy casino with bad lighting and worse décor. The players are a strange mix of people with poor grooming and worse social skills. On top of that there are very few I would classify as attractive; so I am not watching it for the scenery either.

Once I stopped to think about it I was puzzled. Why do I like watching it at all? The only thing I can come up with is that there is a thrill in the anticipation of the flop (the revelation of the ‘shared’ cards). Games can change radically with the flip of each card. I might be just as entranced by watching televised games of War or Go Fish. Maybe I should check out what’s on the Ocho.

I don’t indulge in my television weaknesses often. I don’t have any surf movies on tape or dvds (I might have one or two about volcanoes). Televised Poker usually comes on late at night. Maybe their rarity adds to some of their power. Just like the ‘deprived’ two year old, I don’t get exposed to my favorites often, so when they are on I stand hypnotized.



* I find it is physically impossible to watch my favorite junk TV show, America’s Funniest Home Videos (with Tom Bergeron, NOT that other guy) and run at the same time – can’t laugh and exercise at the same time. It doesn’t work.