On Thursday, November 21, a social media fanatic named Nick Starr entered Lost Lake wearing Google Glass, only to be asked by a manager to remove the nonprescriptive glasses or leave the restaurant. At which point, Starr writes on Facebook, he “asked to see where it was policy for Glass to be disallowed at Lost Lake. [The manager] said she couldn't provide any.” As Starr was leaving the restaurant, he noted that the Lost Lake menu encourages customers to “Post photos on our website via Instagram by using #LostLake.” Starr asks rhetorically: “So how is an establishment which is REQUESTING photos be taken, not allow me to bring a device which takes photos and can post to Instagram?”
At this point, you're probably asking yourself, who's the bigger asshole in this situation? Let me clear that up for you: Starr is the bigger asshole. Not only do restaurants reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, but Starr's request that the manager be fired for daring to ask him to remove his stupid Glass(es) pretty much cinches it: “I would love an explanation, apology, clarification, and if the staff member was in the wrong and lost the owner money last night and also future income as well, that this income be deducted from her pay or her termination,” he writes on Facebook.
That's exactly the kind of asshole response you'd expect from someone wearing Google Glass.
But wait! The story doesn't end there! Today Lost Lake sent out a Facebook message and corresponding tweet clarifying its stance on Google Glass:
We kindly ask our customers to refrain from wearing and operating Google Glasses inside Lost Lake. We also ask that you not videotape anyone using any other sort of technology. If you do wear your Google Glasses inside, or film or photograph people without their permission, you will be asked to stop, or leave. And if we ask you to leave, for God's sake, don't start yelling about your "rights". Just shut up and get out before you make things worse.
And it's not over. It'll never be over.
@NickStarr We like you, just not when you wear Glass inside. We thought it was understood wearing them inside is uncomfortable for others.
— David Meinert (@davidmeinert) November 26, 2013
Frank Bruni found Courtney Love's cell phone in a cab. A play-by-play from New York Magazine.
"My five-year-old cut off my three-year-old's hair," writes NPR reporter Jeff Cohen on the Public Radio Exchange. "A few weeks later, I decided to interview them and get their explanations." What follows is a serious, edited interview about the terrible haircut.
Assorted questions/answers include:
Dad: "And what did you do with the hair?"
Sadie: "I hid it under the radiator."
Dad: "Did you think we were gonna like it?"
Sadie: "No. I didn't know you gonna scream like that, though."
Sadie: "That was really, really, really terrible, but everyone does that kind of stuff sometimes. It happens like once... or twice... or three times in every life. Or twice. I mean, once."
Enjoy! (A picture of the haircut is at the link.)
...but sometimes I can't help myself. An ongoing email exchange:
Hope you get AIDS Fagget
Best illiterate than a cock sucker with AID. Hope you get AID fag.
Let me help you with that: "Better illiterate than a cocksucker [one word!] with AIDS. Hope you get AIDS, fag."—Dan
Dear family I nannied for: Thank you for firing me. Seriously. Because if you hadn't fired me for having my husband bring over a pizza (which he paid for with his own money) and our dog (which your kids love) for some Sunday night fetch, you probably would have fired me for some other ridiculous reason, like forgetting to polish the bars on the windows or neglecting to arm the land mines in the front yard after it got dark.
Just so you know: (1) I was GOING OUT OF MY WAY to do something nice for your children. I have worked with literally thousands of kids over the past 10 years, and not a single one of them has died or been raped or kidnapped while under my care. (2) I didn't invite a stranger into your house; I invited my husband of 10 years. Thanks for your faith in my taste in men. Clearly, I married him because he is a drunk, violent, murderous pedophile. (3) If you really think that I "betrayed your trust" and "invaded your home," then I truly feel sorry for you. You must live in a world so full of paranoia that you cannot sleep. If the bogeyman doesn't kill you, the stress certainly will...
Read the whole thing here.
It's things like this that make me proud to be of Irish descent. I think. The lede:
An Irish publican has been prosecuted after police found dozens of "nuns" drinking illegally, several hours past closing time on his premises.
Christy Walsh, who runs the bar in Listowel, County Kerry, has been fined a total of 700 euros (£605) after his pub was raided twice in one night.
He had helped to organise a charity event in the town last July, in which hundreds of people dressed up as nuns.
This just in from Last Days' Hot tipper ArmadilloMeat:
Please allow me to take the horror of your public grooming stories to the next level: I was in a busy Capitol Hill salon, getting my hair done. This business has been a long-lived independent presence in the Broadway community, and given your popularity one would think that the world had been appropriately shamed into NOT CLIPPING YOUR GODDAM NAILS IN PUBLIC. But no: Every stylist in the house was busy save for one, who was sitting in the dryer chairs directly next to the front door clip-clip-clipping away, much to the chagrin of every customer, other stylist, and in particular the poor receptionist who looked like she wanted to die from a combination of repulsion and mortification.
Finally, another stylist went over and told her to stop. My point, though, being: who are these people? Who are not only these people who don't know it's inappropriate to clip your nails in public? I know you've been off the public grooming beat for a bit, but I would urge you to pleasepleaseplease, for humanity, call this woman out. I fear the forces of darkness will prevail if you don't.
Dear ArmadilloMeat: Your wish is my command.
If you want more celebrity bullshit posts, post 'em. And please note that the two Seahawks posts were by regular actual employees of The Stranger, and one of them was so disdainful as to actually constitute a Golden Globes post.
And the Seahawks game was more important: There's a Golden Globes every year. The Seahawks do not make the post-season every year.
A friend of mine who lives near 23rd and Madison just captured this fascinating glimpse of modern life. We both agree on our favorite part of the footage, which happens at 4:06:
Lady #1: "I'm going to be the bigger person and move my car."
Lady #2: "Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch."
Stranger alumnus/best friend/sister wife Lindy Motherfucking West brings us the best story on the interwebs all day. It starts like this:
A Reddit user going by the handle "european_douchebag" posted a surreptitious photo of a Sikh woman with the caption "i'm not sure what to conclude from this." The user's apparent confusion stems from the fact that the woman—bound by her religion not to cut her hair or alter her body—has an abundance of dark, untrimmed facial hair.
It continues with the woman from the photo, Balpreet Kaur, posting a reply on Reddit—a most eloquent and friendly and wonderful and informative reply, explaining her religious beliefs and reaching out to everyone who might have questions/comments for/about her.
By transcending societal views of beauty, I believe that I can focus more on my actions. My attitude and thoughts and actions have more value in them than my body because I recognize that this body is just going to become ash in the end, so why fuss about it?
It ends, for now, with an also-great apology from the original poster.
Please go, now, READ THE WHOLE THING.
Lost sunglasses. Maybe they are in good condition. Maybe they will make me look cool.
Suddenly I see two moments for a piece of junk to become yours. One is clear; the other is murky. One is the moment you pick it up; the other is the moment you recognize it. I recognized a piece of junk and didn't transport it to its proper place - a waste container. My entire walk to Columbia City Station was bothered by this thought, this newly discovered guilt.
I've received a couple tips about a robo-call that reportedly features Secretary of State Sam Reed. I'm told it starts off with him reminding you that the primary is this Tuesday, and instructing you to send in your ballot. You know, just the kind of civic minded public service message you'd expect from the secretary of state in his official capacity overseeing our state's elections.
And then, out of nowhere I'm told, he reminds you to vote for Republican Bill Finkbeiner for Lt. Governor.
Yikes. That sounds a tad inappropriate. Certainly more so than Rick Steves just reminding you to vote. But since I haven't heard the call myself, I'm hoping somebody who has it saved to voicemail might do me the favor of forwarding it my way.
UPDATE: Finkbeiner writes via email:
The Sam Reed call people received yesterday wasn’t a PSA, it was paid for by my campaign. I haven’t seen the Rick Steves PSA and don’t know anything about it, but it seems very different. Sam Reed has endorsed me and he and I worked closely together on the top two primary, so for him to ask people to vote for me in a message paid for by the campaign doesn’t seem to me to be controversial.
Well, I didn't mean to imply that it was a PSA, just that it comes off as one at the outset. I presumed it was paid for by a campaign, and identified as such at the end.
This week in I, Anonymous:
I work as one of those "direct" fundraisers downtown. We're rewarded for getting in your space, forcing you to shake hands, and doing or saying whatever it takes to get you to give a complete stranger on the street your credit card or bank account number. Most of you don't even really seem to understand how much or how long you're going to pay—you're just so goddamned grateful to get away from me without feeling like a heartless, kitten-drowning, baby-starving, greed-riddled asshole. Why do I do it? Because I LOVE it. I love getting paid to make people uncomfortable. I love forcing my will on another human being. I love that I get to wrap my sadistic longings to control others in a blame-free shroud of sanctimonious self-righteousness and there's nothing you can do about it. The money's okay, I guess, but the truth is that I get this unbelievable rush every time one of you does exactly what I want....
Read the whole thing here.
Our lovely tech wizard Erin, who celebrated a birthday this weekend, was greeted by the most wonderful Monday-morning post-birthday sight:
Every postcard, every pen, even the computer cords, even the curtains. Erin spent the morning with a recycling bin. Now THAT is how you
celebrate a birthday start a prank war! No word yet on how dear Erin plans to retaliate. Suggestions encouraged. The hooligans responsible are known to all (they left a signed card). More pictures are after the jump.
Thank you, Slog Tipper Marti.
"In every friendship, you have to figure out which one of you would be the parasitic twin."
Brian Brown, the head of the National Organization for Marriage, publicly challenged me to a debate in the wake of Bullshitgate. Brown said he would debate me "anytime, anywhere." Brown expected, no doubt, that I would pack a hall with hooting, hollering supporters of marriage equality who would boo and shout him down. (Which was probably what he was after—it would've allowed Brown to play the victim and complain about hypocritical, intolerant liberals.) Instead I invited Brown and his wife to come to dinner at my house and meet my husband and son. No booing crowd, no grandstanding. Dinner. I would have to acknowledge Brown's humanity by extending my hospitality, he would have to acknowledge mine by accepting my hospitality. After dinner, Mark Oppenheimer, a NYT journalist, would moderate an dinner-table debate about marriage, about equality, about the bible, and about religion. Today Brian Brown accepted my invitation to dinner:
It looks like I'm gonna have to clear all the Catholic kitch out of our living room and dining room—my 5' plaster Jesus, our 3' plaster Mary, all my other plaster saints, the dozens of rosaries hanging around their plaster necks, the stack of disintegrating hymnals on the mantle, etc. Wouldn't want Brian to think there's something disrespectful about our collection. Our Catholic kitch is all family heirlooms. My late grandfather's rosaries, most of them prayed to pieces, were headed to the dump when I picked them out of the trash. But will knowing that my 5' plaster Jesus has been evacuated to our bedroom be more of a torment for Brian?
Details about the exact date and time of the Savage/Brown debate to come. The debate will be videotaped and released on YouTube. Stay tuned for more info...
For some people, tomorrow is a big day: no work, no school, no banking, and no shopping as a protest about immigration policy, the wealth gap, and a bevy of other problems the demonstrators see with the status quo. Plus demonstrations. (Schedule here.)
Last month, a Slog poll showed that 28% of you were planning to participate.
How about now?
You need read this piece.
I took a breath, let it out. I hate this part, I said to myself, possibly aloud. And then, definitely aloud: “I have herpes.”
Silence. The word had to be chased with something.
“But before you freak out,” I said as casually as I could, “let me tell you about it.”
“The transmission risks are tiny,” I started, and they are: about 2-4 percent from woman to man, depending on condom use. My risks are likely even lower; I got genital herpes from oral sex, and HSV-1 is even harder to transmit to a partner’s genital region. “And one in four or five people have it, even though most people don’t know since a standard STI test doesn’t test for it,” I said.
Silence. Wasn’t this dirty talk?
“It’s much harder for a woman to give it to a man, and to my knowledge, I’ve never given it to anyone,” I finished.
Go read the whole thing. Trust me. Right now. Everyone with herpes, everyone without it, and everyone with it who doesn't know it—everyone—needs to go read this piece. The concluding paragraph—and my thoughts about it—after the jump. (Via Sullivan.)
I'm not sure why I find it so satisfying, but I admire the guy who protested what he saw as unfair treatment by security by taking off all his clothes at the Portland Airport.
Slowly and calmly, the 49-year-old high-tech consultant took off all his clothes. Yes, even his socks… "He asked me to please not do this," John Brennan said. "He asked me to put my clothes on. I said I believed I had a right to be nude."
If you haven't yet, take a second to read Bethany Jean Clement's hilarious interview with Fran Lebowitz, who appears at Benaroya Hall tomorrow night with Dan Savage (tickets still available). It begins:
How are you today?
Compared to who?
There is one thing you should know before you take the stage with Dan Savage: He hates cigarettes.
Yes, well, this puts him in the vast majority of middle-class householders. I don’t expect to be able to smoke on the stage, so he has no concerns.
In Seattle, we have no subways, cabs drive excruciatingly slow, people are unfailingly polite, it’s really hard to find a good deli sandwich, and smoking is tantamount to murder.
This smoking thing—the suburbs have won. It’s a suburban idea, though this idea has extended all over the country, and not just this country.
Are you aware of polar fleece? We have a lot of that here.
I am aware of it, because certainly, you must be aware that the ideas of places like Seattle have spread. Okay? What’s wrong with New York is Seattle.
People here are very invested in snow sports…
Yes, I know, I saw the people who died the other day in an avalanche. This has not dissuaded them, apparently. This is not dangerous, but sitting next to someone in a bar who smokes is dangerous. So clearly, it’s not danger that people fear.
For your afternoon distraction, Eddie Izzard (heart!) riffing on Darth Vader's trip to the Death Star canteen—animated in Legos!
"Did you dry these in a rain forest? Why, with the power of the Death Star, do we not have a tray that is fucking dry?!"
It echoes through the mind while reading this, whereas how many of us can instantly hear Mahler’s Ninth in our heads? (Not me.)
And an UPDATE with an explanation and apology from the front-row-seated culprit.
And thanks, stinkbug!
I just finally found out about this meme that's been running around for the last month or so: "Shit Girls Say," which started as a surprisingly spot-on Twitter feed. It's really just a list of sentences that are often spoken by women. (Samples: "I hate the word 'moist'" and "Are we in a fight?" and "Lindsay, Matt's girlfriend, or Lindsay from yoga?") Simple, and somehow effective as shit at making me laugh. Then they made a series of YouTube videos, and then so did everyone and their sister/brother/grandma/dental hygienist. There was "Shit Black Girls Say," and a million dumb ones, and now—currently blowing up on the Facebook—the truly excellent "Shit White Girls Say... to Black Girls." For your viewing pleasure:
A lot of people find the original and/or its various incarnations not funny and/or offensive (the original was done by dudes, it uses the word "girls" instead of "women," etc.). But this one is pretty unimpeachably awesome.
Once again I'm grateful for a job that doesn't require advice like this:
If you're stuck conversing with a coworker or manager who's had too many drinks, Weintraub recommends walking away as soon as possible before the person gets even more intoxicated. Use your smartphone as an excuse, he suggests. "In a business setting, being careful that we are not associated with people saying or doing inappropriate things is always important in managing one's career."
I can be as drunk and inappropriate as I want in front of my boss at the holiday party because he is probably stoned and handing me Jell-O shots.