On Gender Inequity

I must say, I get a little frustrated by gender barriers some times. Specifically, purses.

I don’t understand why a woman can use a purse to hold her keys, her wallet, her cell phone, a box of mints, a book, an iPod, a Nintendo DSi, a couple pens, and various papers, while a man must use pockets and look like he has Lumpy Legs.

I know I’m going to catch a lot of flak for this, because “A small bag carried on the shoulder? WOMEN ONLY, MISTER!” And as a man, I have some options for carrying things. But, much like the choice between a basket and a shopping cart at the grocery store, my options, as a man, are either comically tiny or comically massive.

1. Pockets. Barely and room and give you Lumpy Legs.
2. Cargo pants. When I was in 9th grade I wore cargo pants. This was not for fashion, but for utility: I used the hell out of those massive pockets. I put cargo in them. But, that is a thing for young boys. I am a Man now, and cargo pants would be unseemly; it was long ago time to put aside childish things. Also they give you Lumpy Legs.
3. Messenger bag. I’ve been told I can carry a messenger bag, but the only messenger bags I can find are still comparably huge. I don’t need to fish in the bottom of an 18-inch deep satchel when I could have a 6-, 8-, or 10-inch-deep purse.
   

Here’s the thing. When you are a boxer and you punch the other man better than he punches you, that is considered very manly AND YOU WIN A PURSE. It is a purse full of money.

So maybe I can carry a purse. Maybe it just needs to be stuffed full of hundos.

Keep or Sell?

I am having a bit of an internal struggle. I need to be re-sold on my Amazon Kindle.

A little over a year ago, I bought my Kindle. I used it quite regularly; it actually caused me to read more than I had been. I was using the Kindle to its exact purpose: bringing around many books at the same time, reading two or three at a time as suited my fancy, never spending more than ten dollars on a book, and doing it all from my bed.

Recently, my Kindle has crapped out. I stopped using it for about four months (give or take--maybe six? Probably six), and then got so sick of not being able to use it that I called Amazon support, who informed me that it will cost either $20 for a new battery (which may solve the problem) or $180 for a new device.

This has got me thinking about all the things I don't like about the Kindle.

Actually, it's just one thing I don't like, but it's a biggie: I cannot share books. When I read a book that I like (which is most of them, as I usually quickly set down books that I don't like) I become an evangelist for that book and I am usually quick to offer to lend it out once I am finished. That's the nature of the bibliophile, I believe: to be libraries for our friends. The Kindle robs me of this elemental joy.

So, share your insight. Do I stick it out and invest $20 in a device I enjoy using and which allows me to read more books for fewer dollars, or do I sell it on eBay with a bum battery and return to the ways of the physical book?

Lorem Ipsum

Fun with Semantics

I take this sign to mean that, while it may be a violation to park in the lot overnight, I will not be towed if I do.

Why I am moving part 4: my roommates

This post is the fourth in a series about why I am moving. You can read part 1, part 2, and part 3.

When I moved into this house, part of the excitement was that I would be living with artists. I graduated from the Arts High School and I missed having artists around. The fact that I would have six roommates was actually counted as a plus in favor of moving into this house. Surely at least some of the six people will be interesting, fun artists to hang around with on a Friday night.

That excitement lasted for about a week.

When I first had Emily over to my place, the first thing she heard, shouted angrily from another room, was "You don't know shit about Burning Man!" Hilarious. Truly.

The first week or so I lived there, the girl in the room next to me had a dog. That dog had puppies. Four puppies.

Now, imagine if you took two yard sticks and made an L with them, and then made two imaginary lines that went from each end of the L to the area directly across from the corner of the L. You have a square yard! That is the space all four puppies were living in. By "living" I mean eating, crapping, and pissing. Fully half of the "living" space was covered by pee pads.

It began to reek a foul stench throughout the upstairs hallway. It was nasty. Eventually (and just before I was about to), someone posted a note on the puppy haver's door saying if the puppies weren't gone within 24 hours, Animal Control would be called.

The puppies were gone within 24 hours.

And then there were the passive aggressive notes, including one on the top of the mirror in the bathroom saying "If you're splattering toothpaste up here you're doing something wrong" and another in the kitchen, in February, saying "I've been noticing a lot of people coughing and sneezing in the house. My health insurance runs out next week. Please try to keep the coughing and sneezing to a minimum and be sure to wipe off all surfaces you use. Also, please don't piss or shit on the toilet seat." I assure you, there were plenty of others for this to be--not an annoyance so much, more of a hybrid of amusement and bemusement.

Why I Am Moving Part 3: Common Space Part 2

This post is the third in a series about why I am moving. You can read part 1 and part 2.

It has come to my attention that I have forgotten some pretty glaring aspects of the common space in this house. This is beyond the fact that none of the front doors are ever locked (or even closed), and that there isn't a kitchen table to eat at, and that the living room is not for TV.

First, there's the issue of the refrigerator: there's no room in it. At all. Six other people trying to store their perishables makes for about six cubic inches for me to store my food. This does not leave room for me to bring home leftovers from a restaurant (I've been keeping those at Emily's), nor does it allow me to buy actual fresh food at the grocery store and keep it.

Next, there's the issue of the laundry. Now, I'm loathe to complain, because there is free laundry in the house. However, the laundry is in the basement, where two of my roommates live. Together. This means I must announce myself when I want to do my laundry, and then I must walk through their living space, which has never once been uncluttered or remotely safe-feeling. For example: scissors on the floor, glass on the floor, other sharp, blunt, otherwise potentially painful (to start with) objects for my foot to be bashed, pierced, or scraped by. I ended up doing laundry at Emily's more than once in the past months.

Why I Am Moving Part 2: The Common Space

This post is the second in a series about why I am moving. Part 1 is here.

When I first moved into the house, I was told there were a few simple rules. One of them was no parties, which, while it disappointed me slightly (it would be a great party house), I definitely understood. But I was less clear when I was told, "Yeah, the dining room is really more of an artist space... so precedence is given to our various projects."

Yes, that is correct: "No, Art, you cannot eat dinner at a table like a human being. That is for welding glass together to make a double-vase or something else 'modern.'" And by "modern" they mean pretentious/useless/totally unfunctional and unattractive.

So, I can't use the dining room table. Fine. At least I can have my nice TV in the living room, right?

Nope.

Half of the six other people of the house wanted the TV, half of them didn't. So I decide, instead of causing a fuss, I'd just put my 30 inch flat screen in my room. Problem solved.

Besides, keeping the TV in my room with the door closed is probably a good idea, because the front door is never locked. And by never locked, I mean the screen door and porch door are generally unclosed, and the door to the house has only been deadbolted three times and is only closed about 80% of the time. This means that fully 20% of the time, you don't even have to lift your arm to enter the house where I live.