Star Trek vs. The Big Bang Theory: Mainstream Media Stole My SF

Does anyone remember when being a geek was stigmatized? When I was a teenager I didn’t talk about how I spent most of my childhood reenacting the Star Wars trilogy (the good one) with my action figures nor did I openly admit as a twenty-something that I was completely obsessed with Deanna Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation (shout out to Marina Sirtis for helping me come out of the closet.) It’s only been within the last ten years or so that “geeking” on traditionally nerdy SF media has become a mainstream phenomenon.

There are so many “fandoms” now, I can’t even keep track. Doctor Who has such a mainstream following, not liking it is almost more nerdy than liking it. (Okay, I like it, but I already told you I’m a geek from way back, so that shouldn’t be surprising.) Similarly, SF series that might have had a limited appeal a decade or more ago, like The Walking Dead or The Avengers films, are wildly popular. The problem with all this is that real geeks hate poser geeks for stealing our things. Okay, we don’t hate posers, but still; they stole our thing. Geeks have been forced way back into the geek closet of super nerdy-nerdom like pencil and paper role playing games, and even those have been co-opted by mainstream media, partly because of the worst sitcom ever in the history of not-that-funny television: The Big Bang Theory.

Here’s the thing about that show: If you like it and find it funny you’re probably not a real geek. Every geek I know with any “nerd cred” hates that show. Why? Because it makes fun of actual geeks. Some of us were ostracized and bullied as kids for being the kind of nerds that the show depicts. It’s not funny. There’s a difference between laughing with and laughing at. The Big Bang Theory is laughing at us. Stop that. (This blog escalated quickly, didn’t it?)

In summation, Counselor Troi is an empathic goddess, Tom Baker is the best doctor ever (because scarves are way cooler than bow ties), and please stop stealing our things.

Neil Young is a Rock Star: Referencing Pop Culture to Youngsters

I was teaching one of my college classes this week and in the course of the discussion (on analyzing advertising and popular culture) I made a reference to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. It was a brilliant joke about “supergroups” completely relevant to what we were doing in class at that moment. Everyone in the class looked at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Not a single one of my students (whose ages range from 19 to 23) had ever even heard of CSNY. I was shocked and saddened that Neil Young’s folksy vocals and guitar prowess needed explanation. Also, I had to explain what a supergroup is. 

As I struggle to remain informed on current popular cultural trends, I am always a bit surprised when my students (and other people I encounter who are younger than me) aren’t hip to fairly well-known pop cultural references from earlier times. I do get it when my obscure references go over the heads of the youth. Sometimes I do it in class as a means of conveying a lesson. Case in point, I was discussing setting up a summary with a brief introduction to medium and genre with my students the other day. I used the example of two films, The Lion King and Clarence the Cross-Eyed Lion, as my examples because I was certain they had all heard of the former and none had heard of the later. Also, because Clarence is a cross-eyed lion! I have also enjoyed showing old television shows like Fantasy Island and The Partridge Family in class as a way to analyze pop culture separate from preexisting ideas about the artifact in question. The point is, obscure references are often useful lessons.

But when students don’t recognize really famous pop cultural icons like CSNY or celebrities like Linda Hamilton then I get flustered. How can they not know who John Connor’s mom is? Don’t they have Netflix? I am very familiar with icons from my mom’s generation who I am not into myself. For example, I know who The Beatles are and I have seen Dr. No. When students don’t get my pop culture references they just make me feel old. Durn kids.

In summation, if I can learn to recognize Taylor Swift and Avril Lavigne on sight, my students should know who Neil Freaking Young is and not force me to sing Ohio during class.

I’ve Made a Huge Mistake: I Forgot to Uncheck SUBSCRIBE

If you forget to uncheck ‘subscribe’ when you enroll on a site or purchase an item online, the good news is you’re going to get spam. I love spam! (No, not the wildly popular in Hawaii canned meat product, the emailed junk mail. I’ll blog on Hormel another time.) Yes, it’s true—spam is great. Stick with me here.

I have an email address that I’ve had for pretty much forever. It’s a generic free internet account that doesn’t have my name in the address but rather a catchy though somewhat misleading nickname. Most people who see it think it references tattoos. It doesn’t. Anyway, I use it for things like buying stuff off of Craig’s List and inquiring about products on commercial websites. For that reason, most of the inbox for that email is advertising and promotional garbage I delete without reading. The spam filter redirects hundreds of emails a day to the spam folder, which I empty daily, usually without looking. Typical emails in there have subjects lines like “Jessie Nicole wants to be friends on Facebook” and “Get $100,000 quick and easy!” Obviously, the links in these emails will either direct me to a porn site or a pyramid scheme, or a pornographic pyramid scheme. Hence the delete-without-reading I do on a daily basis.

The inbox, however, contains actual “opt in” emails. Currently, I receive at least ten emails a day that are newsletters I have, for some reason, intentionally signed up for. Occasionally, when I am internet browsing, I forget to unclick the “Yes, I would like to be notified” button when I purchase something or register with a site. Why do I do this? I NEVER read these emails. My inbox is always just a bunch of garbage. And, of course, once you opt in, you can never opt out. Essentially, the inbox as well as the spam folder is all just full of spam. That said, let me tell you why I love spam.

It’s paperless, weightless, easy to filter, and easy to dispose of.  Actual junk mail pissed me off. I have to deal with actual stupid hunks of trash in the mail box outside my house. MediaCom is the WORST offender. I hate them so much. I will NEVER use their service but they send me junk every week. Yesterday, I got a postcard sized credit card thing. It was made of weird composite plastic material so I couldn’t even drop it directly in the recycle bin like I do with the letters about term life insurance. (Does anyone under 80 years old buy term life insurance? I can’t imagine planning for my own death within the next ten years.)

So, whether recyclable materials or not, I have to deal with actual physical garbage. Spam is so much more polite. It tells me it’s garbage and filters itself into its own handy virtual garbage bin. (Yes, I realize this is a function of my email client. Don’t rain on my parade.) The point is, if I want to hook up with Jessie Nicole, I know where to find her, and if I don’t, I can click “delete all” to make her and all her friends vanish into oblivion.

In summation, never forget to uncheck the subscribe box, but if you don’t it’s okay because spam is the best kind of unsolicited advertising, and MediaCom is Satan’s lapdog.

A Comma Walks Into a Bar: Semi-Colon as the Designated Driver

WARNING: This post has a lot of mixed metaphors and anthropomorphic punctuation marks.

Let me introduce you to the semi-colon. SC, as I lovingly refer to it (and because I don’t want to retype “semi-colon” twenty times) is the mark that is a hybrid of a comma and a colon—dot on top, curve on the bottom—sort of the mullet of punctuation marks. Sadly, SC is the most misunderstood of the punctuation marks, the black sheep of the sentence family, so to speak. SC often gets left out of the family gatherings in favor of the more popular member, Comma. Comma gets a lot of attention—it’s a real go-getter, a must-have at the sentence parties. No one wants to go out on the town without Comma. Unfortunately, Comma often winds up in places it doesn't belong. SC really needs to go along too and make sure everyone gets home safe.

Commas are just too social and irresponsible. SC has got its act together—it knows where it belongs. SC is always having to cover for Comma’s excessive partying. Too many Commas already on the dance floor? SC steps in and makes sure everyone’s sticking with the right clique. SC is a great matchmaker too. Independent clauses need a hook-up? Boom, SC is setting up that date. SC is kind of like a chaperone. It makes sure independent clauses are appropriately separated, and it makes sure too many commas in one place don’t cause excessive confusion.

In summation, don’t sprinkle commas into your text like you’re shaking salt on a baked potato. Let the semi-colon be your Mrs. Dash.

Facebook's Suggestions: Needs More Cat

So, Facebook’s “suggested post” algorithm is apparently on crack. Today, it suggests I might want to browse “big, strong men” in my area. Yesterday, it was “big, black men.” The day before that it was “good-looking, single men” and before that “single, Christian men.” There is nothing wrong with any of these except for the fact that my Facebook feed and my timeline are literally filled with comments about, posts on, and videos by lesbians. Nowhere in sight is there a post about “big men” of any kind. Also, Facebook's idea of "good-looking" is suspect.

It’s interesting how commercial content gets promoted in my feed. I get it when I see an ad for shoes when I have recently looked at shoes online. It even makes sense when Facebook asks me if I’m “still interested” in an eBay item for sale that’s actually my own listing. (Yes, I’m still interested…in selling that thing on eBay that I currently own.) It’s stupid, but I get it. I even get it when I see promoted content for political figures and news items that are completely contrary to my own beliefs because at some point I have mocked these figures and items publicly. (Last week’s post about Joni Ernst flooded my feed with ridiculous “trends” in politics.) Yes, I get these suggestions—I see where the algorithm is drawing its information from, even if it doesn’t connect its content to context.

What I don’t get is where the “big men” are coming from. Seriously, why have I never seen a suggestion for browsing “sexy lesbians” in my area or even “lonely housewives” looking to experiment? Now, don’t get me wrong: I don’t actually want to browse for sexy, lonely housewives. Now, cats? Sure. I could go for some browsing of “big, strong cats in my area.” Why aren’t I getting that suggested post in my feed? Who wouldn’t want to curl up with a sexy cougar? (Seriously, do not Google “sexy cougar.”)  My photo albums are overflowing with cat pictures. Clearly Facebook has no idea what my type is. Here’s a hint: What has four legs and wears a furry tuxedo to bed?

In summation, I already sold that Star Wars action figure on eBay, there aren’t nearly enough cats on the internet, and Facebook is a terrible, terrible matchmaker.

SkyMall: When Bankruptcy is Hilarious

Coming as a surprise to no one, the mile-high shopping outlet, SkyMall, has officially declared bankruptcy today, producing mostly LOLs from the business world and ROTFLOLs from the internet. Apparently, SkyMall’s parent company now owes several major airlines like a bajillion dollars because exactly no one in the history of ever was stupid enough and rich enough to by any of their crap. Seriously, who did they think was going to order a remote controlled tarantula or a heated cat shelter (I didn’t make these up) while flying somewhere over the Atlantic? (I am contented to make do with my manually controlled tarantula and I cruelly force my cats to rough it in unheated cat beds inside of a room temperature house.)

The real loss here is the void this bankruptcy leaves in our list of companies deserving of mockery. The SkyMall catalog was such fertile ground for the seeds of a quick witted culture jam: What will we parody now?  My favorite was Kaspar Hauser’s SkyMaul, which is featured in one of my classroom textbooks, and includes products like the "Llama-cycle" a half-llama half-bicycle that is clearly the next big thing in rural transportation. Although business sources are citing the rise in smart phone and tablet use on airplanes as the reason for SkyMall’s decline, I argue that customers couldn’t tell the difference between the parodies of the catalog and the actual catalog itself. People had been ordering llama-cycles rather than zombie-themed garden gnomes and were frustrated when their items never arrived.

In summation, if you're going to have a company that makes useless garbage for useless rich people, at least make it distinct enough from the made-up crap to keep your company afloat. 

Things and Stuff: Rick Grimes’ Limited Vocabulary

My recent metaphor comparing the reading of Atlas Shrugged to a competitive food competition (okay, it was more of a simile than a metaphor) reminded me just how awesome figurative language can be. That’s not really surprising coming from a writer and professional communicator, I realize, but still. Metaphors are probably my favorite kind of linguistic trope, right up there with neologism and anaphora. (Here is a handy link to Dictionary.com.)

This made me think about The Walking Dead. Rick Grimes isn’t exactly known for his discursive eloquence.  If there’s one thing the zombie apocalypse needs, it’s an English professor. I mean, really—so many of Rick Grimes’ problems could have been solved with better communication. Not that I’m blaming him—really, he’s a product of his environment. Let’s face it: The guy is a rural Georgia law enforcement officer (and a cuckolded one at that, though I doubt he knows that word.) At best, he got a C in high school English. Plus, he’s got a lot on his plate as a single father keeping track of his angsty teenage son, Carl.

The issue is that he’s now the leader of the free world. As a leader, he really needs a speech writer. Perhaps a more well-planned speech would have enabled Rick and The Governor to reach some sort of arrangement, and Hershel might have kept his head. Oh, sorry…SPOILER ALERT…Hershel dies. Rick is always talking about what’s best for “the group” so he’s clearly concerned about his constituency, but he doesn’t seem to know how to talk to them or about them. The Governor may have been an insane jerk, but he had that Reagan-like verbal charisma going for him. Even Andrea bought into it, and she was the one with the most education. (Don’t get me started on Andrea’s character arc though… turning interesting, capable female characters into annoying idiots...grumble grumble…) The point is, Rick needs some help with his communication skills.

With that in mind, here is a list of synonyms for “things” and “stuff” that Rick Grimes (or whoever ends up in charge when Rick inevitably gets eaten) may find useful for maintaining control during the post-apocalyptic reformation: Try using an actual noun that describes what the hell you’re talking about, like “can of pudding” or “12-gauge shotgun” or “weeping silently in a corner while talking to ghosts.” These are obviously just a few examples. You can substitute your own as the situation merits.

In summation, Rick Grimes is a cuckold with a high school education and a limited vocabulary, the writers of The Walking Dead are total dicks, and figurative language is better than chocolate. (See what I did there?)

Sci-Fi Slash Fiction: Joni Ernst and Ayn Rand

I am imagining a fantasy sci-fi adventure in which the newly elected and probably bat-shit Senator Joni Ernst travels through time and meets Ayn Rand. Rand, who has traveled through time herself, has discovered the secret recipe for manufacturing methamphetamines decades earlier and has begun to produce and distribute them to the lazy masses as part of her long-term plan for the dominance of laissez-faire economics and her presidency over ungoverned pharmaceutical corporations. It’s clearly love at first sight and together the two battle the forces of socialist propaganda, and have an elicit same-sex love affair, which they somehow justify in the name of conservative Libertarian causes (I haven’t worked that part out yet) and then settle down in the surreal mountainous region of WTF-dom where Rand’s main characters find themselves in the third part of Atlas Shrugged. This is perhaps the least sexy lesbian slash fiction ever written. They eventually break up because Rand won't wear bread bags on her feet.

But let me back up. On behalf of my home state of Iowa, I wish to apologize for Joni Ernst. I am not certain how the castration of pigs is actually relevant to…anything…other than the reproductive rights of swine, but there are some other issues that need clearing up. If you did not grow up in the Midwest you should know that wearing bread bags on your feet actually is really a thing that some of us did. It basically meant you were poor and your family could not afford waterproof snow boots. The bread bags went over your socks before you put your shoes on so your feet stayed dry while you were out in the snow. Rand might consider such bag-wearers deserving of their soggy plight since clearly the parents of these children were not working hard enough to buy proper boots. Ernst is simply confused about how bag wearing may or may not create conservative political ethos. (Hint: it doesn't.)

With that in mind, I don’t understand how this marker of lower socioeconomic status is actually beneficial to whatever the hell the Republicans were discussing.  Honestly, the act of wearing bread bags on your feet is indicative of how poorly Reaganomics actually worked in the 1980s. Trickle-down theories just made my toes freeze. Socialist approaches to economic inequality actually work better than “folksy” epistemology that doesn't actually have any real meaning.

 But that’s not what this is about. I actually want to talk about Atlas Shrugged. Have you read it? I wonder how many people actually have. It’s really long. I mean like, Ayn Rand really could have done some rigorous editing with the text. I read it. I did it to catch the eye of a romantic interest. That right there is grounds for involuntary commitment. But that’s my story. At any rate, once I started reading, I felt like I had to finish it. The experience of reading the entire novel of Atlas Shrugged is like participating in a food eating competition: At the start you feel pretty good and you put away a good number of hot dogs/chapters. After a while, you begin to feel a little nauseous but you keep motoring through. At some point, you really want to quit, but you’ve committed to the finish line and you just keep forcing the yeast-encased pork anus meat down your gullet as fast as you can until you finally reach the end. Then you vomit and brag to your friends that you made it through. Well, that was my experience anyway. The romance did not blossom.

In summation, bread bags on the feet are a thing, Joni Ernst is a crazy person, and we are all cleared to continue mocking Ayn Rand’s magnum opus.