Random And Annoying Parsing of Common Human Practices

So on Thursday, at about 1:00 PM, I realized that I should write a new post. To pinpoint a reason for such a sudden and powerful impulse would be difficult; anyone who's seen Titanic knows that the heart just wants what it wants. Sometimes it's sex aboard a doomed megaship with an urchin in a Model T, and sometimes it's writing a post on the internet. Still, if I had to venture a guess, I'd say it had something to do with the fact that I was at a Rockies game, and it was just about Star Spangled Banner time. Y'know, that obligatory pre-sporting event ritual where everyone puts on their best self-consciously solemn face, turns toward Old Glory, and sings out of key along with a (choose one):

-long-winded, run-loving American Idol hopeful.
-church choir.
-military veteran in full military veteran regalia.
-child with an iron will, a golden voice, and six months to live.

Don't get me wrong: I love me some jingoistic pomp. It's a good-thing, too. Because just as the announcer was asking us to please rise and kindly remove our caps, the guy next to me asked me a favor. He wanted me to help him remove his cap (he'd figured out the 'rising' thing all on his own). Sometimes in the space of about two seconds you can do about a written page's worth of thinking. In this case, I immediately thought that this guy had some sort of physical disability. Maybe he didn't have hands. I even thought about what an asshole I was for thinking that the word "handicap" contains both "hand" and "cap". Anyway, I said "sure" and surreptitiously looked down to figure out this guy's plight. And immediately the burden of assholery shifted away from me, because it turns out his only notable disability was that he is apparently an incredibly messy and impatient eater. Because in his (fully-functioning and fully-fingered) hands he held an overloaded, half-eaten footlong hot dog, which was overflowing with all your standard hot dog accouterments.

As I stood there clutching the hat of this ketchup-fingered douchelord (I'd already said "sure", and I was way too amused to do anything but laugh and peel his stupid hat off his stupid head), listening to him boisterously sing along with the choir-du-jour, I suddenly, after all these years, knew exactly how it feels to be fully and hopelessly American, with a capital 'G'. (Because when someone would rather ask a complete stranger to awkwardly remove his hat from his head than simply leave it on through an overwrought song about the War of 1812, the fear of God just has to be to blame). But just like that, all my empathy was gone. It was just one of those zoom-out moments when your subjective understanding fades away and you're left wondering why the fuck everything is so weird. I couldn't really shake it for the rest of the game - especially as I watched a fat, middle-aged woman a few rows down who felt it necessary to stand and do the macarena every half-inning, whether the song was, in fact, the macarena, or whether it was Tim McGraw.

Clapping in particular is fucking strange. I'd just love to be able to see the moment in the history of mankind when we decided that while grunts of approval and virgin sacrifices were all well and good, nothing better serves to honor those we hold in high esteem than to hit ourselves repeatedly. Somewhere as you read this, a bunch of sophisticates are dressing up nice, sampling Brie, and banging their hands together to signal scholarly appreciation. Still, I think you can learn a lot about a person based on the way he/she claps. It sounds like the start of a Cosmo article or something. But it's not. It's much worse. Sorry:

• First, we have your wannabe trendsetting clapper. This person badly wants to be the one to spur a large round of applause, but lacks the social awareness to pick opportune moments, leading to a puny smattering at best. Only the weak-willed follow this person. Additionally, this person might have a tendency to start knee-jerk facebook groups before gathering all the facts. 9 people join, and they all leave within a week. Let's run through a few others, because I'm not tired yet:

• your Johnny-come-lately clapper, who, once the applause has been safely established, jumps in wholeheartedly and vociferously, staying on until he/she is the very last one clapping. Is likely known to still "raise the roof", make fun of Viagra's "erections that last more than 4 hours" disclaimer, and write "Wash me" on dirty car windows.

• your intense, smart clapper, who, unlike the wannabe-trendsetter, is smart enough to know when to start, and determined enough to stay on until the very end. Likely to wear down his/her loved ones until he/she ends up broken and alone.

• clapper who claps outside of the social settings for which clapping is generally allowed and expected. A grab bag:
  
1. may be overly self-conscious about how he is perceived, and must let others know exactly how he feels about something. May see everyone laughing at a movie, and must one-up them, leading to clapping in broad, exaggerated motions, as if smashing two giant cymbals together. Possibly accompanied by a tilting back of the head and a lifting of one leg off of the ground.
2. person who disdainfully pantomimes clapping, often raising the hands unnaturally high and close to the face, as if to say, "Look, what you said is so uninteresting that I'm willing to make an enormous douche out of myself in order to show you. I rule."
   
3. person who claps while urging you on toward some possibly unattainable or lame-ass goal. Is almost certainly your boss. Not only does the exhortative hand-clapping fail to rile you up, it actually makes you want to strangle the clapper, because your job sucks and you are hung over.

• finally, we have the biggest douche of them all: the single-clap guy. Rather than sit there in stony silence, he claps but once. Confronted with the prospect of being regarded as the prick who didn't clap, he chooses instead to be regarded as the prick who made a mockery of clapping. He lifts his arms ever-so slightly, starting with his hands almost together in his lap. He then proceeds to slowly spread his hands apart, as if he is holding a slowly expanding object. When his hands are about a shoulder's width apart, he pauses, then casually flings each one toward the other, to illustrate that he doesn't even really care whether the appendages actually hit each other. Generally, though, they at least make glancing contact. The second the hands hit each other, they fall lifelessly back into the asshole's lap, communicating the fact that he is so bored by whatever he is watching that it has drained all of his strength, and the last little bit he could muster was used to throw one disapproving clap. In the aftermath of such a display, the asshole will typically either yawn or check his watch. The recipient of the one-clap should not be too offended, though. It is entirely possible that the clapper's arms are tired from a late night of beating the homeless, which accounts for the one clap and the yawn. And the watch-checking could simply indicate that he is late for traffic court, or that he needs to pick up his kids for their monthly visit.

• and not to be forgotten, the non-applauding whistler, who eschews clapping in order to demonstrate at every possible juncture the ability to produce an ear drum-piercing whistle. Is possibly the devil.

Anyway, I'd like to leave you with a word of advice. Maybe I'll make it a recurring feature. Probably not:

If you're ever lucky enough to win a penis-measuring contest, you definitely shouldn't rub it in the loser's face.

That advice may be a bit male-centric. Couple that with my sporadic use of gender-neutral pronouns during this post, and it's clear that I'm not being very forward-minded here. But have no fear - I'll dispense some advice for the ladies, too:

If you ever happen to win a penis-measuring contest, you'd better fucking rub it in the loser's face. Because that shit will be hilarious.

Goodnight.