Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

Okay. I know you are out there. I’m getting over a thousand hits a week, which is pretty exciting for me — unless I write a total schlock post; sorry for those.

Although I did have one person who, in response to “The Post Period Peeve,” reminded me that I could remove the two-spaces with the find/replace function — thanks, Nancy — only three of you make any comments, which is fine, because I rarely comment on the blogs I read, myself.

I am looking for a bit of a dialogue. So I am asking for your help.

What I would like is topics. Topics, topics, topics.

Some weeks I feel pretty topic-fertile, but other weeks I feel like I’m a barren tundra of writer’s block.

So my request to you is this: please, either by comment or the contact button at the top, send me some topics for discussion. They can be anything, really: specific stories from my youth (if you know any), recipes, general topics like bubblegum or man-thongs, philosophical meanderings, whatever.

My payment to you is this —and I know my wife will kill me, but I think it’s a fun idea: If I use any of your suggestions, I will send you an “I supplied the word hoard” shirt. You read that right. A shirt for the use of a suggestion (one shirt per person only, though).

So help supply the BlahBlah Blog’s word hoard and feed my addled creativity!

Popularity: 9% [?]

Sometimes I love getting my tightie-whities in a bunch over a relatively stupid or insignificant issue. Well I’ve got some bunching going on. I mean I’ve got a real briefs-as-thong kind of issue.

When typing on a computer—you only put one space after the end of a sentence. I will offset this to be clearer.

You ONLY put ONE space after a period, question mark, or exclamation point.

The crazy thing about this is that once vibrant and loving relationships between English teachers across the country have soured into acrimonious enmity and name-calming or silent-treatments. I love it.

Here is the deal.

If you are over 35 years old, you may —may— have learned to type on a typewriter. If you are between 14 and 35 you were probably taught to type by someone who learned to type on a typewriter. That means you were probably taught the two-space rule. Erroneously taught the two-space rule.

Now, there are some of you who may already be feeling that heat rising up your neck. The percolating rage slowly squeezing your throat. That righteous indignation firing the lobes of your ears to a fuchsial ire.

But, alas, in this case I am right. And, trust me, that is not always the case.

Look, I’m gonna pull out the proof for all-y’all.

From the Chicago Manual of Style Online:

“There is a traditional American practice, favored by some, of leaving two spaces after colons and periods. This practice is discouraged by the University of Chicago Press, especially for formally published works and the manuscripts from which they are published.”

And even clearer:

“[I]ntroducing two spaces after the period causes problems: (1) it is inefficient, requiring an extra keystroke for every sentence; (2) even if a program is set to automatically put an extra space after a period, such automation is never foolproof; (3) there is no proof that an extra space actually improves readability […]; (4) two spaces are harder to control for than one in electronic […]; and (5) two spaces can cause problems with line breaks in certain programs.”

And from the Modern Language Association (MLA) web site:

“Publications in the United States today usually have the same spacing after a punctuation mark as between words on the same line. Since word processors make available the same fonts used by typesetters for printed works, many writers, influenced by the look of typeset publications, now leave only one space after a concluding punctuation mark. In addition, most publishers’ guidelines for preparing electronic manuscripts ask authors to type only the spaces that are to appear in print.”

And just for shiggles, Grammar Girl:

“Although how many spaces you use is ultimately a style choice, using one space is by far the most widely accepted and logical style. The Chicago Manual of Style , the AP Stylebook , and the Modern Language Association all recommend using one space after a period at the end of a sentence.”

These are three organizations that deal with writing and, furthermore, writing about writing.

Now, for those of you still reading, I must say that the APA (American Psychological Association) has just changed to the following:

“The new edition of the Publication Manual recommends that authors include two spaces after each period in draft manuscripts. For many readers, especially those tasked with reading stacks of term papers or reviewing manuscripts submitted for publication, this new recommendation will help ease their reading by breaking up the text into manageable, more easily recognizable chunks.”

First of all, I call bullshit on an extra space “breaking up the text into manageable, more easily recognizable chunks.” My guess is that some traditional two-spacer has gotten control of the APA and is having their way with the organization. My second problem with following the APA on this one comes from an experience I had in grad school.

I was in a history class (which traditionally used APA style) doing a paper on the poetry of John Donne — I think I called it “God is Some Sexy Love,” or something like that— anyway, the APA didn’t have a rule for citing poetry. Let me write that again. The APA didn’t have a rule for citing poetry. My professor said, “Do it however you want then.” Seriously?

Okay, now, strangely enough, Grammar Girl really got to the crux of my issue:

“Furthermore, page designers have written in begging me to encourage people to use one space because if you send them a document with two spaces after the periods, they have to go in and take all the extra spaces out.”

I cannot tell you how many extra spaces I have removed from other people’s documents before printing or layout work. It has made me go momentarily blind.

So, I guess, as all things seem to go, it’s all about me. What a selfish bastard I am. All for the hate of two-space.

Popularity: 10% [?]

Okay. First let me apologize for the paltry posts from earlier this week. But wow… what a week.

And to my friends with two kids who said, “You know, it’s not really that different having two kids than having one,” I have one thing to say. The sheep lies!

Even today — or perhaps I should say still today — I am hurting and tired and tired. So tired that I could barely scratch out a few lines for Monday and Wednesday. And honestly, right now, it has taken me at least five minutes to write this.

I am fading and I find myself staring at the screen with my fingers sitting on the keyboard. I’m afraid it’s going to take me another good week to get my writing back on.

I forgot how much the first few weeks were simply about survival.

I’m hoping to get some fire back over the weekend and come to Monday pumped with vigorous and interesting writing. Perhaps I will write about the time my father streaked down to end of our driveway and back shouting, “Sooners won! Sooners won! Sooners won!”

Popularity: 6% [?]

So, yeah. I thought I knew what we were in for. I mean we did it once, right?

I did know what we were getting into. I just forgot how much the lack of a full night’s sleep affects me.

Whoa, Nelly. I am tired.

The baby wakes up. He wakes my wife and me up. She takes off her CPAP (a machine she detests that helps her with her sleep apnea and allows me to sleep). She feeds the baby and they both fall asleep (without her CPAP). She begins snoring like drunken and debauched sailor. I move to the sofa.

So, as I lay on the couch last night I remembered, “Oh…right. This is what I do. I sleep on the couch periodically for several months trying not to lose my mind.”

Then I woke up, still on the couch, and heard my oldest son, who turned two yesterday. He was in his new room on his big boy bed quietly singing “Happy Birthday.”

Suddenly the couch was pretty comfortable.

Popularity: 6% [?]

Brought baby home.

Tired.

Tired.

Nothing but tired.

Popularity: 6% [?]

Boy.

Friday, 17th at 00:02.

8lbs 4oz.

21 inches.

Pointy elf ears.

Love it!

Popularity: 5% [?]

So yesterday I was on the phone with … well, it was mostly a machine. I don’t mind saying who I called because it was such an interesting experience. I was on the phone with the call-answering machines of Interval International.

Several years ago my wife and I purchased this timeshare in Las Vegas. We haven’t used it once. In fact, it has been a bit of a weight around our necks. And now that we have two young boys under four, the chances of using it in the next few years are pretty slim.

So…

I called our timeshare people to bank this year so we could, perhaps, use it later.

I was, of course, instantly put on hold.

And then came the music. It was the single worst music I have ever heard while languishing in the corporate purgatory of customer service on-hold. I am not using hyperbole. Hyperbole is impossible to attain in describing the vomitous music displayed to my ears like the cloven carcass of some monstrous sea beast splayed open on a bone-cold rocky beach.

Seriously.

There was one piece, a Rachmaninoff piano concerto, I believe that sounded as if the pianist was into his second year of lessons, or perhaps he was Igor or Cousin It, heavy handing his way through the notes.

And then…and then!

The sound quality of the recording was so bad that I nearly hung up, twice, just out of aesthetic nausea. I am not kidding. It created a sense of aesthetic nausea.

Now you may think I am just turning a fun phrase, “aesthetic nausea.” Well, it is a fun phrase, but I really did find the mix of poor sound quality and poor pianist skill to be overwhelmingly nauseating.

Then I realized, that’s what they want me to do. They want me to hang up, because they are part of the customer service pathosia, the corporations who are degrading customer service so much that we thank god when we actually get to speak to a breathing, caring human being, even if we can’t quite understand what they’re saying.

TANGENT: I remember calling some credit card company a couple of years back and was connected to an overseas call center. A man with a very thick Indian accent answered and said, “Hello, thank you for calling XXX Card, my name is Steve. How can I help you today?”

I said, “Hey Steve, my name Rajiv and I have a problem with my card.”

He was not amused. But who the hell did he think he was fooling? Honestly, I don’t care who I’m talking to as long as they can help me. And as long as they don’t pretend they’re my next door neighbor. Because they’re not my helpful neighbors, not even the nice little old ladies pretending to be twenty-something hotties from my 900 number calls…but I digress.

Anyway, I was in advertising for a while. I have studied marketing and advertising. That’s why I’m so …how can I put this … cynical: cynical about American corporations.

I’m pretty sure the music sucked so bad and the quality of the recording was so bad because they wanted you to give up and do the stuff online.

I was on the phone because I could not figure out how to do it online and was already frustrated. So, customer service, job well done.

Popularity: 5% [?]

I love my wife. I mean I love her more than I can even describe. Even when she’s confused me or made me angry or sad or disappointed, I still love her so much it hurts.

I must digress:

We get one of the greatest periodicals in the world, Mental Floss. It is a bit of a trivia magazine with twist. You really should check it out.

Anyway, this month they had an article about mating rituals from the past. The one that stood out was an old Austrian ritual.

I did a little investigating because, quite frankly, I did not believe it. Boy, did that send me down some funky rabbit holes. Remind me of acarophillia sometime.

The courtship ritual works something like this: The citizens of the Austrian town would gather for a festival dance. These were usually all night affairs. The young unfettered women of the town would, at the top of the evening, place an apple slice in their armpit. Yes…the young unfettered women of the town would, at the top of the evening, place an apple slice in their armpit.

They would dance the entire evening…in old Austria…in a sweltering town hall…before the invention of the safety razor.

At the end of the evening, the young lady would give what was left of the surely sodden, sticky, hair encrusted apple slice to the young man of her choice.

As a sign of his love for her, he would eat the apple slice.

Hell yeah. That would be a sign of affection.

Would I do that? Tomorrow…probably not. Back then, having lived the convention of the times, I would like to say yes.

But schmoleyboly, what a mushy sweet and salty mess that little slice of love must be.

Popularity: 6% [?]

Hey, gang. I don’t have much writing for today. And it’s not because our kid was born yesterday, his due date. No, no.

I had stomach flu over the weekend and over did it a little too much Wednesday.

Thursday I was pretty yucky. The wife really needed help getting the house together for the impending birthing mayhem, and all I wanted to do was lay down. I was worthless.

As in this writing. Sorry. Worthless.

But perhaps Monday I will feel better, write something interesting for you, and be a Daddy version 2.

Popularity: 5% [?]

I am often happily stunned by the creativity of the human mind. Especially the creativity of the bored human mind.

If you don’t really know what I mean, you must check out the video entitled “Extreme Sheep LED Art.”

These guys have really gone outer-limits. I really hope you watch it, because I’m not going to describe it. Just know that it’s genius: the bored kind of genius. It makes me want to coin a new phrase, which I’ll get to in a moment.

Soldiers and students know this: There is something electrically stimulating about boredom.

That’s how so many bizarre and folkorish games get created. Some schools and some military units have odd little games that have become tradition. I’m pretty sure that’s how highlander games started, along with most Scottish food traditions.

I remember two games that some MS/HS friends and I created. I still look fondly on those games.

One was a roller skating game (yes, I said roller skates. I am that old). We put roller skates on, placed a five gallon bucket against my parents’ garage door and played a form of full-contact roller skating basketball: we used a tennis ball and no helmets or pads.

We also had a game that we called Pillow Toss (don’t let your mind go there). We would stand with our feet apart, holding two corners of a pillow, swinging it between our legs. then we would toss the pillow into the air. We attempted to make the pillow land as flat as possible — all four corners at the same time. We had wild variations: distance tosses, multiple flips.

A teaching friend and I would play a bizarre handball game in the halls of the school after hours. We actually began naming the shots. Hitting the confluence of the floor and the wall, making the ball bounce directly back to you was The Bumper. Banking the ball off the confluenced corner between two walls and the floor, then bouncing off lockers 3453-3443, hitting the floor again, bouncing off the lockers 3432 -3422, then catching the ball was called The Sword of Cthulu.

Creativity inspired through boredom.

I would like to coin it “lighting up the sheep.”

But that has become a problem for me. Because I have been so swamped with projects that I haven’t really had the time to get bored. And what that really means is that I haven’t gotten my creative batteries recharged.

I’m a bit spent.

So I am looking for a little boredom.

However…

I have a play beginning rehearsal this week.

I have a pregnant wife due this week.

I have a two-year old boy.

I’m not sure those sheep will get lit.

Popularity: 9% [?]