Estelle Costanza's Cell Phone Redundancy

So my blog for today is going to be short, sweet, and directly to the point; which is (ironically) the antithesis of the subject toward which I'm about to rant.

Does anyone else have Alltel (its entirely possible I'm spelling this wrong and it should read "Altell". It's definitely a 50/50) as their cell phone carrier? If so, please comment on here and back me up on this.

Now, I'm not setting out to complain about Alltel's service. Sure, I get dropped calls and in select places my service is better than others; but hey, that's going to happen with all carriers, right? (note: I tried Cingular once and I LOATHED their service; but other friends of mine have Cingular and swear by it. Luck with cell phone carriers is definitely a 50/50).

No, instead of criticizing my service (which seems pointless), I want to talk about the new automated voice recording system(which is pointless) that was implemented about three months ago when Alltel "did maintenance" on their network-wide voicemail system. Suddenly, after this "maintenance" was done, our voicemailboxes began featuring the same computerized woman from before, only she suddenly began speaking with incomprehensible redundancy.

Here is what my voicemail now says to me when I go to retrieve my messages: "You have three unheard voice messages... the following messages have not been heard... first unheard message..."

Why, pre tel, is it necessary for this nasally-pitched-automated-drone-of-a-woman (who sounds a bit like George Costanza's mom, Estelle) to tell me 3 times that which is patently obvious: that I have not listened to the upcoming message? Is it really that important? No, it's not.

So there must be another reason. And, after talking to my friend Chase the other day, I think I know what that reason is: I think it is to get us to stay on the phone longer and to, consequently, expire our precious minutes.

Think about it, phone companies use a similar maneuver everytime you call someone and get their voicemail. Whereas once upon a time you were put directly through to that person's voicemail where you could quickly say your piece and hang-up, now it's far more complicated.

Today, you first have to listen to the automated woman say something like: "..push 1 to page this person (Now, why on earth would anyone want to page the person? Who even knows what a page is anymore--other than Congressman Mark Foley?).

Then, after that option, it tells you to push two for something else, than three for something else... and then, it informs you that if you would like to leave a message, then you should just simply "stay on the line" (umm, duh), and, when you're finished leaving your message, push other buttons for more options.

Give me a second to collect my thoughts here...

...

WHAT OTHER OPTIONS?! It's a freaking voice message! This isn't a Senate Committee Hearing on Nuclear Defense Strategies. Just let me leave the message and hang up; you know, like I used to do before my cell phone was the size of a raisin and my "circle" referred to the culdesac I lived in.

All I'm saying is that the redundancy and the option-overkill is likely part of a grand conspiracy: I think it is geared toward screwing we consumers out of our minutes, and thus, out of our money. Call me a cynic, but I think that's why Estelle Costanza tells me, three different times, that my messages haven't, as of yet, been listened to.

Or, I suppose it's entirely possible I'm wrong about this. It could just be that the American public really is so stupid that we need a little computerized woman to walk us through every single step of how to leave and check a message like we're three-year-olds watching Sesame Street. Who knows.

I suppose it's a 50/50.

Today's Christian Article

So...

Just this afternoon I received word that an exclusive piece I wrote for Today's Christian (a sister magazine, or I suppose, to be more accurate, a brother magazine, of Christianity Today) has just been published. It is viewable at www.christianitytoday.com/todayschristian.

At the bottom of the article there is a short bio about me that includes this blog. So if any of you are newbies to this blog and are coming via the TC article, welcome! And if any of you are among the three (I may be up to four) readers who frequent this not-even-two-week-old blog, then shoot on over to TC's site and check out the new article!

The piece was written about a trip I made in March over to the Far East as a speaker/missionary/discipleship mentor/beachbum.

This article may be interesting to you for a variety of reasons, and it may be tedious and trite to you for many reasons; but the article is cool (universally) for one very specific reason: I am featured in a picture right beside one of my all-time heroes: Tony Dungy. This is likely the only time I will ever be referenced (in any capacity) with/beside Tony D, and therefore, this is cool.

If you're unfamilar with me or my writing (which, I'd venture to speculate, is 99.9% of the population) please continue stopping by this blog. This blog is not as "Christian" in content as the TC article (or the book my literary agents and I are about to submit to publishers), but all my thoughts and views recorded here (and those to come) are colored by my faith, and will sporadically include thoughts regarding my Christianity and my life.

So, enough rambling. Thank you for stopping by and please, reach out and say hello. Either at my Myspace or my email address: austin@austincarty.com.

I respond to all emails, so it shouldn't take me long to respond. And if it does... blame it on Tony Dungy... because, now that we're tight buds, I imagine he'll be occupying alot of my time...

The Right to Drive a Miata

So... today I (fortunately, divinely, appointedly) happened to see one of the most outrageously inexplicable paradoxes of all time; I mean, it was even more shocking than Jennifer Lopez marrying the medical cadaver above (with the Soul-Glow perm). I honestly believe that Providence directed my every step today just so I could bear witness to this mind-blowing phenomenon. It was a scene so completely devoid of logic, so wholly lacking in credibility, that I almost missed its blatant irony. And so, it is with much gratitude, that I now relay this event to you:

I was waiting for a stoplight this afternoon behind an otherwise insignificant car driven by an otherwise insignificant man. Now, this was not just any car this man was driving; this dude was driving a hunter green Miata (with the top down).

Unfortunately, I could only get a solid look at the back of the guy's head, so I can't offer you much physiological description; BUT, I can conclusively tell you that the dude in question was rocking an illustrious mane: it seriously looked as if homeboy was headed to an audition for Dynasty (it was a coiffure very similar to the feathered mullet Jefferson Darcy wore on Married With Children).

Now, my intention is not to take a cheap shot at the notion of men driving Miatas. This moment would not necessarily hold any inherent humor if what I've just told you was the totality of what I witnessed.

I mean, for all I know, the driver in question could very well have been nothing more than a down-on-his-luck-dude whose car had broken down that morning and who was, consequently, stuck driving his wife's car. I mean, in the mid-90's my mom had a Miata; and my dad often drove the diminutive little bullet when his car was in the shop (and trust me, follically speaking, my dad could easily have passed for either Max Weinberg or Scott Baio). There are any number of scenarios for how/why this man was driving a Miata today. Maybe he just likes Miatas; who knows?

No, the humor did not lie (directly) in either the man's car or his (perfect) hair. And due to the changing of the light, I almost missed the true magic of the moment. But, thankfully, just as the red light changed to green, I happened to look down at the man's bumper.

And right there, pasted just above his license tag like a poster of Brad Pitt over Sen. Larry Craig's dresser, was a bumper sticker that read:

Guns Kill People...
Just Like Spoons Make Rosie O'Donnell fat

I swear to you: this is true. Down to the very wording of the bumper sticker (I know this is the proper rendering because I immediately grabbed a pen and and copied the slogan verbatim).

Now, I hope I don't need to spell out the moment's irony. The unspoken dichotomy of the scene is, in fact, almost epic in proportion. Seeing a Miata with a pro-arms bumper sticker is akin to hearing Michael Vick cite Old Yeller as his favorite book. It's like walking into a Biker bar in podunk South Carolina and finding Barry Mannilow's "Copa Cabana" playing on the juke box.

Listen, I'm totally impartial on the whole gun control issue. As far as I'm concerned, if someone wants to believe that our nation's right to bear arms is what makes societal violence so pervasive, then I'm happy to consider their logic (I suspect there is a decent measure of truth in that argument). But if someone wants to pull out his shotgun and pop a couple nutcase activists protesting on his property, I suppose I'm all for that, too.

But despite my indifference on the issue, I do know one thing for sure... if I were staunchly in favor of gun control, I'd probably move far away from the rural South (and I doubt I'd wear any camouflage hats or mount any seven-point bucks anywhere in my house). And if I were staunchly opposed to gun control, I'd probably wear lots of Old Spice deodorant and bathe my face in Brut aftershave... and then I'd probably elect to drive something other than a hunter green Miata.

But, then again, if I had the cojones to rock a 70's-style-porn-mullet, I guess I wouldn't be very worried about other people's perceptions, would I?

I suppose if I had the cojones to rock a mullet like that then I'd just throw some soul-glow in it, hide from the sun until my skin turned the color of silly puddy, and then head for the Border and propose to Jennifer Lopez.

At which point we'd hop in my Miata and ride off into the sunset...

My Name is Bucky Covington, Prepare to Fiddle

So today I was riding in my car listening to country radio (which is not at all abnormal) when Bucky Covington's new song "A Different World" came on. Now, never before has this song seemed seminal to me in any way: I've heard it numerous times and never once has it occurred to me that it might be saying something important about life (well, other than the line about how his pregnant mother smoked and drank, and how Bucky still turned out alright; I imagine that line probably gave Britney Spears considerable encouragement for the future). BUT ANYWAY...

Today, as I listened to his song, I started thinking about how ridiculous it is for Bucky (who, in the above picture looks very much like Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride) to be singing about "how things used to be." Not only do I find this ludicrous because he is my age (26), but because, honestly, how many times does art (if you can call this art) have to explore this same theme?

I mean, Bucky's definitely not breaking new ground here (I seem to recall something about tradition and generational pride and generational ethics and generational morals coming from that dude who liked to play his fiddle on the roof).

No matter how often this generational-pride-topic surfaces (which, if you have parents or grandparents, you know is very often) it seems that it is always our generation (Generation X/Y) that is being told how much better the world was before we came along and spoiled it (or before it spoiled us with its technological advancement and cultural acceleration).

In response to this tired discussion, I invariably laugh to myself, thinking how ridiculous these grumblings are and how detached their authors are from current reality.

BUT... listening to Bucky's new song today made me look at this issue from a different angle. You see, Bucky Covington may not just be a walking Bret Michaels tribute; he may also be a visionary.

Bucky may be the first person from our generation who has acknowledged the transition that is currently taking place in society: it is no longer Generation Y that is on the bottom of the totem pole in the generational-degragdation/tradition-devaluing discussion. It occurred to me today that a whole new generation has sprouted up and thus, has usurped our spot as ungrateful, spoiled newbies.

That's right, half those kids you went to kindergarten with and with whom you shared your Happy meals and lice and Little Debbie Snacks, now have little nuggets of their own (likely, many of you reading this). And we (at least I know I) am envious of these little rugrats' new toys.

I'm jealous of their little rollerblade tennis shoes and their motorized scooters and their cell phones and their chat rooms and their multi-buttoned video game controllers and their Zac Efron and their Vanessa Hudgens.

And in my (up until today, unconscious) envy, I often find myself remarking about how it's no wonder that many of today's young kids don't want to go out and play. And then I go on to remark about how things were "back in my day."

I guess what I'm trying to say is that Bucky's marginally listenable song has caused me to face a truth: The culture play has moved forward and with it, our generation has adopted the role of Tevye while Dakota Fanning's generation has assumed our recently-shed role of Tzeitel... only we've been too busy watching The Hills to realize the switch, and they've been too busy rollerblading in their Nike's to inform us about it.

...

Bucky, who is from my home state of North Carolina, seems to be a super dude. Whether he is the genius augur I am (sarcastically) arguing him to be... well, I have my suspicions. But, regardless, I am very happy he has made a career for himself post-Idol (and The Princess Bride).

But then again, if you think about it, musical celebrity was bound to happen for Bucky, right? I mean, when you name your kid Bucky, don't you really only leave him with two options? He can either be a mechanic (which, ironically, Bucky was before Idol) or a country music star.

In which case, if I were a Bucky... I'd say bring on the fiddle.

Gym Law Infringement

Today I want to talk about unspoken societal rules (well, actually, that’s not entirely true. I really just want to talk about one in particular).

There is an unwritten gym law that one doesn't have to be a gym rat to understand (or else I'd be wholly unaware of this law, myself). It is a law one doesn't realize exists until he sees it infringed upon, but once he sees the rule violated, it occurs to him that only incredibly self-unaware individuals would not understand the law intrinsically. This law is just a small tenet inside a larger unspoken code that governs all gyms and workout facilities. And, I bring this law up now, because I saw it broken last night in the most egregious manner possible…

LAW: As a dude, you can't wear weight lifting gloves unless there is physical evidence of your actually belonging in the gym, or in other words: there must be some overt indication of your prowess as a weightlifter (i.e. enviable muscles).

Now, this is a counter-intuitive law, seeing as it would make sense to believe that beginners and lesser able lifters are more in need of protecting their delicate hands; however this is not, in fact, correct. You have to earn your ability to wear weightlifting gloves. Gloves aren't just donned by any person arbitrarily deciding he wants to get in shape. Gloves are a rite of passage (a rite I will never receive). Gloves are the Purple Heart of weight lifting: they signify a level of strength that is only attained through years and years of dedication (and, well, let’s face it… bland lives and copious amounts of steroids). And counter-intuitive though it is, this “no gloves” rule is a law that governs every existing gym and is a law that, to my understanding, all people already comprehended viscerally.

Alas, I was wrong.

Defying all laws of gym etiquette, I saw a guy in the gym last night wearing (I am not making this up): a tightly pressed wife beater (starched and certainly just ripped out of the Fruit-of-the-Loom 3-pack from Target), brand new hundred-dollar-plus Nike kicks (that hadn't the least sign of scuff marks or smudging), hair gel (!), and, you guessed it… weightlifting gloves. The guy was about as physically intimidating as Screech Powers and he was curling what looked to be either a set of headphones or a fully molded banana. The offender in question made the dude in the above image (who looks eerily like Anthony Michael Hall on heroin) look like the Governor of California (circa "Twins" fame).

Therefore, let me spell out the first unwritten rule of gym code so that no one reading this blog will ever accidentally make the same mistake this dude did last night. I cite this law to the offender, personally:

Man law: no weightlifting gloves unless you can back up their suggestion, homey! I mean, honestly; you do understand the concept that girls who haven't been spending any time in the gym shouldn't show up to their first day on the treadmill wearing only a sports bra, right?

Same principle applies, stud... besides, who needs gloves just to touch a banana? Just rinse that thing in the sink and get on with it, Screech...