Closed Craptioning

Why is that when you watch some TV shows, usually syndicated ones, they show you a bunch of commercials, then show a logo for the show you're watching and say "Closed captioning provided in part by..." and then go to another commercial?

I'm not even sure I know what closed captioning is. Is it the text that comes up on the screen, misspelled and delayed 30 seconds, when you hit the mute button? Why do I need to know that one of the many sponsors specifically paid for that awesome feature, as opposed to any other part of the show? How come there's no mention of what keeps Alex Trebek looking so svelte after all these years? That, to me, seems more important.

The reason that little blurb bothers me is because it's always a mini-fake out. I see the logo - Seinfeld, Jeopardy, what have you - and for a split second I think the show's back on, only to be whisked away for another ad for Stovetop Stuffing. My impatience roars.

And if closed captioning is sponsored "in part by" this company, then who's paying for the rest of it? Don't they deserve some airtime too? Do you really have to tell me who specifically provided for some of a function that only deaf people use?

I guess the lesson here is that this wouldn't really be an issue if I just Tivo'd Jeopardy instead of watching it live.

Red Means Go

Apparently, they don't cover this on the driver's exam anymore, so allow me to do society a service, free of charge, and explain to all you uneducated motorists a little-known rule of the road.

A flashing red light is the same thing as a stop sign. It is not some sort of "super" red light that requires you to sit in front of it at a continuous dead stop when no other cars or pedestrians are crossing in front of you. I know this can be confusing, because it's red and flashing, two things you probably associate with stopping and staring. But after you come to that full and complete stop, you can feel free to not have to wait until I blare my horn at you to drive off again.

On a related topic, green arrows, pointing either right or left, also indicate that you can safely drive off in that respective direction. These lights, while pretty to look at, must not distract you from your objective of getting the fuck on with your life and not inspiring me to buy a grenade launcher.

PS - Kaptain Kvetch is now 100 kvetches old! Thanks for reading!

Writer's Block

A week without progress, a week (in fact) walking backwards, devoid of excitement, or newness, or inspiration is very bad for the human's creativity. Another falling out with the faith in your partnership with the rest of mankind, one in a sequence of thousands, leaves you feeling like fighting another time. Not today.

Every television show, song on the radio, advertisement in a magazine, story in a newspaper...it's all just someone else succeeding, somehow. Mario Lopez. Heavily made up young women being televised at the Grove discussing Snooki, a crowd around them, taking time out of their day just to hear what they might be saying (including me). Vanna White, night after night, decade after decade, touching letters that light up, always smiling. An American icon.

Fire engines. Sunshine. Women. Traffic. One long smear.

I like it better when something pisses me off than when things just go on and on and on...

Requiem for a Turtle

This post is a couple weeks overdue, but as I reminisce tonight, I realize that some recognition is in order for the creature who claimed the crown of the Worst Pet of My Life.

I came into ownership of Terry the Turtle by way of a Facebook post. A friend's roommate was looking to get rid of her small turtle because she was moving and couldn't take him with her. She offered to bring the little guy over, along with his tank and the rest of his accoutrements, and show me how to care for him, which promised to be relatively simple. So I agreed to adopt Terry.

I can't point to any sort of horribleness that occurred during Terry's brief stay with me. Sure, I had to purchase well over a hundred dollars worth of stuff shortly after acquiring him, including a new tank, because his current one was much too small. Yes, I had to constantly change his filter just to be blessed with looking at a few days worth of transparent water, before the tank became a disgusting, algae-filled swamp again. And there was the one morning I arrived to feed him, only to find the tank empty and, after much searching, discovered Terry hiding in a corner of the closet, thus foiling his lone escape attempt.

My main problem with Terry was his absolute lack of value as a pet. Most pets have some sort of return on investment: they're loyal, or cute, or cool to look at - something. Terry did nothing, provided nothing. His head disappeared into his body any time I came within ten feet of his tank. I couldn't hold him, pet him, or interact with him. I could only provide for him and feel sorry for him that his life wasn't better. He made me sad.

The only time Terry did anything worth watching was when I released a bunch of small goldfish into his tank, and he went about murdering them, one after another, biting their heads off and eating them. But that was a rare treat, for both him and me. There are only so many killing sprees you can go on.

In the end, I put an ad on Craigslist, offering to give away the whole lot. An eager Asian teenager showed up a couple days later, boasting of his knowledge of turtles and remarking on the timing: it happened to be his birthday.

Well, happy birthday, Asian kid. And Terry: I sincerely hope you're enjoying your new existence more than I enjoyed yours with me. It was real. It was nice. But not real nice.

Not You, Drew

I was just watching my current favorite show, Celebrity Rehab, when Dr. Drew expressed his concerns about his patients once they leave treatment, because many of them live in Los Angeles, where "drugs and alcohol can literally be found on every street corner."

I went downstairs and walked out to the corner my building is on - Hawthorn and Fuller - and looked around. There were zero drugs or alcohol. The first LA street corner I check, and nothing.

How can I ever listen to Love Line again? For shame, Dr. Drew. I always thought you were the smartest, most Clooneyesque medical guru around. I guess you were so busy scoring all those accolades and diplomas, you never bothered to take a fucking English class.

Happy F'ing New Year

You want to know how I know you're an unoriginal, insincere sonuvabitch? It's New Year's Eve. You're a fringe friend who I haven't spoken to in months. You live on the East Coast. And at about 9:04 PST, I get a text from you that says "Happy New Year!"

What a crude social gesture. Not only am I insulted that you would ever consider me stupid enough to think you actually texted me individually to express that uninspired sentiment. Not only did I waste some precious remaining seconds of the year reading your bullshit text. The real tragedy is that, as the ball dropped and a hallmark of time passed over you, your main concern was getting out your iPhone and blandly spamming everyone you know in the most basic of ways.

Why? So that you might briefly be on my mind before I forget about you again? So that you might selfishly inject yourself into as many people's lives as you can for just an instant with as little effort as possible?

Here's a suggestion: next New Year's Eve, at midnight, have a drink. Kiss a girl. Run screaming into the night. Or at the very least, use your mouth to speak the words "Happy New Year" to someone - be it on the phone to a loved one, or to a total and complete stranger. You'll find it much more rewarding.