I don’t know about you, but I, for one, am tired of Steve Jobs

When Steve Jobs died the internet exploded.

His name was unavoidable on Twitter and Facebook.

The public outpouring of praise and admiration for him, his success, and how he revolutionized modern technology was overwhelming.

The way people were reacting, you’d think they’d received their Apple products for free as a gracious gift directly from the hands of Jobs himself, or that they spent Sunday afternoons with Jobs shooting the shit over some football and beers.

Personally, I found the outpouring annoying.

I’ve always liked Apple products just fine (the ones I could afford, anyway). And as someone who used a Mac for about 10 years spanning my time as a collegiate journalist and as a real-world journalist — before switching careers (and computer brands) — I always found myself defending and touting Macs to PC die-hards (remember them?).

A few years back I even got an iPod. It’s supremely wonderful. And I still do want a Macbook Pro.

But those are just products.

Steve Jobs, on the other hand?

I never cared about him one way or another. I was aware of him, however. I knew his name, at least.

To me, it wasn’t until the media and general public went into full-on gush mode over him that I developed so much as an opinion regarding him.

But the opinion isn’t really about him so much as it’s about mentality of praising him as nearly godlike simply because he helped bring us a bunch of touch-screen computerized handheld devices.

It’s bullshit.

Nowadays, very, very few people, IF ANY, get the kind of unconditionally-beloved treatment Jobs has been getting, even in death. All it takes for most people in the spotlight is to say one politically incorrect thing once, or do something borderline mean once, and their image is ruined forever by the media.

And there was at least one good piece to come out following Steve Jobs’ death (via Gawker, which, while I’m sure there are others, does well to summarize the viewpoint) that outlined his flaws and the negative things he did over the course of his career. Yet, even it was titled “What Everyone Is Too Polite To Say About Steve Jobs.”

Too polite? Really??? Since when exactly have people in the internet age been polite?

Why not title it, “Steve Jobs Was Actually An Asshole, But No One Gives A Shit Because He Gave Us Fun, Glowing Toys To Play With.”

Because that’s really the bottom line.

The funny thing is that a reaction piece in Forbes defending Jobs’ flaws that were listed in the Gawker article, nearly serves as a companion piece via contrast to prove the point that no one cares what kind of guy Jobs was because he produced a good product.

Nonwithstanding, I was amused the reaction sequence:

Internet: ‘Steve Jobs died! NOOOOO!!! iPods, iPads, and MacBooks are awesome! I’ll miss Steve Jobs!
Gawker article: ‘Actually, you’d probably hate Steve Jobs if you actually knew him. Dude was a total prick. Sweatshops and everything.’
Forbes article: ‘Yeah, actually? Being a prick is what made him and his products awesome. Suck it.’

My question is where was all the praise before he died? If people cared about him and his legacy at the level the reaction to his passing would have us believe, where was that, even to a slightly lesser degree, before he died?

And don’t tell me that simply buying Apple products while he was alive served that purpose. No one making purchases at an Apple Store, or downloading songs off iTunes, is doing so thinking, “Thank you, Steve Jobs. This is awesome and I will remember you forever.”

I didn’t know Steve Jobs, so I refuse to join in the gushing about him or the defense of his flaws, and I tend to think it’s foolish that others have done so to the level they have.

Apple’s products are, in fact, pretty awesome, but at the end of the day, they’re just products.

I always feel like somebody’s watching me-eee

I live in an apartment complex, and I have this neighbor.

He’s just one of those neighbors.

He recently called the cops to my apartment for a welfare check while I was out of town on a week-long vacation. Apparently, he decided it was his responsibility to make sure my apartment got unlocked and was given a walk-through by the police.

According to what he told me when he revealed that he’d called in the welfare check (which I wouldn’t have even been aware of if he hadn’t told me), he was concerned I’d keeled over due to the following factors:

• My truck was parked in its spot all week without moving
• He hadn’t seen or heard any signs of me coming or going
• I was off work sick with mono for three weeks in July

Firstly, I received a ride to the airport, which is why my truck didn’t move all week, not that it’s any of his business. Secondly, my regular (and predictable) patterns are none of anyone’s business but my own. And thirdly, well, I guess I sort of get the mono part of his logic; however, mono’s not quite The Plague, and I had been back to work for an entire month.

If it were any other neighbor in my complex, I would’ve thought it a strange and premature, but kind gesture. With this guy, I thought it to be a well-intentioned manifestation of his invasive nature, yet uncomfortably invasive.

One of the things that bothered me the most was how he told me he’d called the police:

“I had to call the cops in for a welfare check on you.”

He said it with a shrug and an expression on his face like it was a reluctant duty he was obligated to carry out.

He’s nosey. He’s a busybody. He’s unemployed. He’s on disability. He stands outside to smoke cigarillos at least five times per day, rotating entrances he stands near, so as to (I assume) make sure he chats it up with as many apartment residents as he can.

I’ve willingly chatted with him at times, I’ve avoided him at times, and I’ve failed to avoid him at times.

He knows who everyone is, and he knows at least a little bit of what they’re up to. He’s not unpleasant; he’s just a bit too curious about everyone, as well as a  little too dramatic about his own situations, for my preference.

Since he happens to be my next-door neighbor, my ex-girlfriend and I went so far as to assign him a fake name so he could be freely mentioned within the confines of my paper-thin-walled apartment. Sometimes I still forget his actual name and think of him by his fake name.

Whenever my ex-girlfriend would visit my apartment, we would go out of our way to avoid him if he happened to be standing outside to avoid him trying to suck us into an invasive conversation. I know one particular time I didn’t appreciate him trying to gauge where mine and my ex-gf’s relationship stood by cracking wise about the possible reason she and I left for a chunk of time together was because we’d made a trip to a chapel in Vegas.

Several times we kept driving past my apartment complex if we saw him standing outside. I’ve even done it a few times on my own.

Hell, one time by I even delayed leaving my apartment to go running for about 10 minutes because, just as I was about to open my door to go, I heard his door open and saw him leaving through my door peephole. I waited a minute, walked down the hall, and peered around the corner to the glass exterior door, where I saw him facing away from the door smoking. I went back into my apartment and checked the peephole until he returned to his apartment before I finally left.

There was one weekend my ex-girlfriend stayed at my apartment that we managed to avoid so much as even seeing him. As a matter of fact, I actually hadn’t encountered him or seen his car move for about two weeks at that point. (Note: I didn’t call in a welfare check on him.) The following weekend after my ex stayed at my place, I finally bumped into my neighbor in the parking lot, where he asked me if my “old lady” had stayed over the previous weekend.

Okay, I know the walls are thin, but seriously, dude? C’mon. It’s not like he and I even saw each other from a distance while I was with the ex that weekend, which would allow a socially-acceptable follow-up courtesy chitchat session about it.

I’ve had my sights set on another apartment complex in town for a while now, but these last couple invasive incidents are making me think I need to speed up my goal of getting there.

I thought living on my own meant I didn’t have to check in with anyone regarding my daily comings and goings?

I mean, if I need a welfare check called on me, let my boss or my family do it. If I don’t show up to work and/or can’t be reached, they’ll take care of it. Those are to whom my responsibilities fall, not a nosey next-door neighbor.

A Cracker Barrel of laughs

While down south in Nashville on vacation recently, I met up with a couple pretty wholesome-leaning college friends for lunch at the good ol’ Cracker Barrel.

One of the friends I was eating lunch with told a story about how he was judging a songwriting competition. He continued with an anecdote about how one of the contestants apparently wrote and performed a song titled, “Hide The Beer, The Pastor’s Here.”

I said, “So is that like, ‘Hide The Cocaine, The Cops Are Here’?”

My quip was returned with blank stares.

After a silent moment or two, I tried clarifying that since the cops would likely have drug-sniffing dogs, you’d probably have to flush the cocaine, rather than try to hide it.

More blank stares.

Well, at least I thought it was funny.

If the children are our future, we’re fucked

I really can’t fully and accurately express the sense of rage this commercial fills me with:

Look, if I’m the parents of any of these kids, I’m telling them that if they don’t want these pizzas, I can make sure they never have pizza ever again, and that regardless of what the rest of the family is eating any given night of the week, their options will be broccoli or brussel sprouts.

Fuck. Pizza is a damn treat. And these whiny, spoiled, ungrateful little shits have nothing better to do than to bitch and throw hissy fits about some damn toppings???

Fuck you, you little asshole children.

And fuck your parents for fostering your growth as whiny little bitches. This is an example of exactly what’s wrong with the world today.

None of this even gets at the idea that if the kids don’t like the toppings, there is always the option of picking the damn toppings off the damn pizza!

Oh, and one last thing, if I’m the woman at the end of this ad who got nailed in the face with the soccer ball, I’m grabbing that shit and going Billy Madison on all those miserable little fuckbags.

The dog daze of summer

I was flipping through the channels the other night and stumbled upon some college softball.

Don’t get me wrong: I love me some softball.

In fact, back in my sportswriting days, softball was one of my favorite sports to cover. It was like a quicker, action-packed, pocket-sized version of baseball, but that was being played by women.

Between all the chants from the players, and how intense some of the girls could be while still trying to display girly personalities with their hair up in silly styles, like pigtails or ponytails with cutesy ribbons around them, it was a pretty fun time.

That said, let me tell you about someone who LOVES watching softball, namely of the college variety:

This is a picture of an attractive woman rounding the bases after hitting a walkoff home run to win an important game. Okay, Uncle Micah, now I get it. I see you, player.

My Uncle Micah.

As sure as he can be found sitting in his favorite chair in his favorite loafers, a white undershirt, and some flannel pants or khaki shorts (depending on what time of year it is, of course) every day for at least three hours between when he gets home from work and when he goes to bed, you can count on college softball finding its way onto the TV if a game happens to be airing on a channel his cable subscription happens to receive.

Uncle Micah’s widely known and respected as a solid family man, a strict-but-caring father to my cousins, and an intimidator of his daughters’ boyfriends.

Formerly a military man, Uncle Micah’s not a man of many words. However, you can count on him saying even less when college softball’s on TV.

Softball time is his time with the ladies.

Aunt Maribelle knows better than to try to bother him when college softball’s on. My cousins know better than to bother him. Even my cousins’ friends know better.

You can sit right down and watch it with him, you can walk into and out of the living room every few minutes while he’s watching, or you can just sit in the kitchen and watch him watch it.

Actually — come to think of it — no one really knows if Uncle Micah even likes college softball, or if he just happens to be mesmerized by it like a deer staring at oncoming headlights.

However, what remains consistent with Uncle Micah during college softball time is he does not budge from his chair, he barely even changes his position, and his eyes don’t separate from the screen except for maybe a millisecond here or there when he happens to blink. But I’m pretty sure his blink rate decreases measurably during college softball time.

The only possibilities of preventing Uncle Micah from watching college softball when it’s on are as follows:

• a power outage
• a cable service outage
• a housefire (somewhat likely)
• the robot apocalypse (flip a coin)

One other chance of interrupting Uncle Micah during college softball time could come if someone attempted to grab the remote control and tried to change the channel or turn the TV off.

Personally, I would NOT advise that. It would very likely be the last thing that person does.

Just leave Uncle Micah alone in his loafers with the ladies and their softball. It’s their time to be together. Respect that. Or don’t. But if not, respect yourself and stay out of the way.