Laundry Day

Title Story

I love to sit and think about baby names. Why do I do this?

I’m not married, or any in danger of becoming pregnant. I’m not even being courted as a girlfriend. I am as single as it gets, and closer to menopause than puberty. And, yet, I love to imagine what I would make with a baby name.

It’s usually a baby girl. I like girl names. They have personalities with subtle differences. Not like boy names, that fall into coarser categories. Troy, Chase, Dominic — probably athletes with a drive to succeed. Evan, Warren, Sol — more like poets in beatnik coffee shops. Michael, William, John — no frills types of guys.

But the difference between Helen and Helena, Elle and Ellen, Vicki and Victoria — these feel like worlds to me. The difference between black leather and black patent leather.

I string the names together — first, middle, and my last name — and imagine classmates calling them out. Nicknaming them. Forming them into their own interpretations of my original work of art. Sampling and revising and making more modern, this vernacular image I nailed down so perfectly.

And then I see that little girl ebbing and flowing with those changes. Coming into the world, pristinely polished with her given name. Then trying it on with her clothes, her makeup, her interests and thoughts. Seeing if they match. Making it her own.

And me, always wondering if I got it right.

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Laundry Day

Being Nice

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I flew home today from Vegas, and a friend was on the same flight. We walked through the concourse to our terminal, after a standard bout of frustration with some especially barky security screening personnel. As we walked alongside and past people of varying speeds, he made a comment about hating people. There is so much dissonance between us. So much grappling for resources with perceived limitations. So many opportunities for human connection that instead become rife with miscommunication and misplaced anger.

Not wanting him to stew in hatred, I tried to argue most people were interesting and good. That society was still capable of getting along and maybe even liking each other. Then we asked a lone female in headphones, sitting in the center of a row of seats, whether or not we could join her. She sneered without even trying to hide it, moved over, and never said a word when we thanked her.

I didn’t know people actually sneered at nice, normal strangers.

This whole interaction was foreshadowed by a brunch conversation from earlier that morning. He argued that society was ruining men by discouraging them from the masculine drive to pursue challenges and conquests. In so doing, they lost their biological predisposition of defending against foes. Whether that took the form of men protecting their resources, women, or even just their pride, men who no longer cared to enter into battle over something, no longer really cared about life.

Men now find their outlet for this inclination in first player video games and overt violence over skewed principles. In the most extreme examples, these are red pill incels whose hero figures slay the women and hot “Chads” who impeded their ability to get laid. As part of a lighter fare, they are the dudes who fail to launch from their parents’ basement and are eventually featured in a documentary about guys in relationships with sex dolls. In either case, these are not one offs. In fact, I would guess they are becoming the rule more than the exception.

Men who don’t care about life don’t care about the mates, resources, and goals they would naturally desire and protect. As a result, a vacuum occurs and societal balance is shaken. Men–and women–begin to behave in ways that seem to defy logical norms.

Seth Godin made a name for himself when he wrote the book, Tribes, a 2008 tome about social and professional leadership. Godin was certainly onto something, but he chose to focus on the whipped cream and rainbows version of this concept. The dark side of his theory is how easily one can use it to appeal to darker minds. Even the Klu Klux Klan has a leader.

Tribes are everywhere. They are Taylor Swift’s stans, Starbucks devotees, and even the part of society who crowds around the luggage carousel before the belt turns on. Tribes bond around a perceived truth, whether or not it can be objectively substantiated. They create ideals around virtues, goals, and enemies.

But from an evolutionary perspective, tribes were meant as sort of a macro-scale Darwinian marker. The tribes that bested one another were able to expand and spread their social seeds. Today’s good-hearted tribes are more concerned with Instagram likes than biological fitness and world domination. They essentially retard the social, physical, and psychological progress of mankind by dumping it into the virtual, and neglectful, Bio-Dome of the internet.

What this means is that technological and ideological progress actually have the potential to destroy its makers if they lose site of why they made it in the first place. When we create advantageous systems and then use them to escape our responsibilities, rather than further our progress, we make ourselves vulnerable to the influences of tribes—good or evil—that know how to put them to work.

In short, everything can be weaponized, whether through intent or neglect.

So be nice to strangers.

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Laundry Day

Fit to Print

I would never say I’m a purist, but part of me favors the decadence of simplicity. Freshly painted white walls, a solid gold band, 100% Kona coffee — all examples of how concision and focus make a simple product superb.

When I was very young, my Dad gave me a typewriter he had acquired as a hand-me-down from our babysitter’s family. It was an old, very basic machine; just a ribbon and keys. Heavy metals, stiff levers, and black-blue ink. Initially, I spent as much time typing on it as I did untangling the long arms of letters when they crossed. Not only that, but the ink was not erasable, so every click had to be intentional and true. Mistakes were annoying and unsightly to correct, so I learned to type gracefully and with a purpose.

As an older child, I was introduced to electronic typewriters (word processors, in some circles), which amazed me for a lot of reasons. First, they were much better at feeding paper, the whole key-tangling thing was never an issue, and many of them came with an especially exciting feature: the backspace key.

Backspace was a point of contention for me, though. Frankly, it felt like cheating. Any pride I had ever taken in my carefully coordinated typing was suddenly moot. Errors were incidental rather than ruinous. One could type with reckless abandon and never worry. In one easy tap, backspace could lift its eraser-y ribbon and stamp over the mistake, leaving only its ghost on the page.

My love for typing suddenly felt cheapened, and even a little hollow. What I had once considered a craft was now just a rote means to an end. Versus the heavy metallic slap of the typewriter, the diminished clicks of plastic buttons seemed to look up at me and say, “What’s the big deal?”

Oddly enough, I was reminded of this early disappointment today when a girlfriend of mine texted me in a flurry. She had gone out with a guy a couple times and given him her home address, right before he flipped a switch and turned into a supercreep. She started Googling him to confirm his identity, and found that he didn’t seem to exist online. This only served to freak her out more, and she was seeking advice on what to do next, all the while admitting that she had been too quick with her trust.

It made me wonder if the typewriter gives us all a big hint about life: that the best course of action for a desired outcome is slow, measured, and practiced, and adding features to hurry through life just waters down the simply sublime. Mike Powell addressed this beautifully in his New York Times Magazine article, Washing Dishes, where he debates the purchase of a dishwasher for his family over losing the lovely, normal ritual that washing dishes can be. In it, he recalls the solace that activity had been on occasion, and reflects on how mechanizing the mundane further disconnects us from the hidden gifts of ordinary life.

Life doesn’t have a backspace key, and even if it did, it wouldn’t completely erase our errors. Rather, it would just cover them up and move on like they never happened. The mistakes are obviously still there, though: butting curves up against lines; creating unintelligible symbols out of conflicting letters; subjugating the text you meant to write, but rushed through the first time.

Silently reminding you, with each finger stroke, that nothing you do is inconsequential.

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