I’m Just Not Doing this Hashtag Shit

I know–I said the same thing about Facebook. But the hashtags must be stopped. They’re awful. People use them in media that don’t support click-through or linkage for hashtags. In fact I’m willing to bet they are used far more in media that don’t support them, than they are in those which do. We’ve got a fucking guy at work who uses them in internal communications in an apparent attempt to be “current”. Hashtags 1000% aren’t supported at my company. Cannot click on #programmingdivision and see if those nerds are trending within the firm. Sometimes in life you have to stand for something. If you don’t, then you end up standing for nothing. I stand for being a goddamned grownup and not using hashtags to inform the world, sans spaces, that I am having a #pizzaandbeernight, that I #lovemyboo, that I’m vacationing in Hawai’i #livingalohamaui, am constipated #needmoreproduce, got a promotion #climbdatladder/#stackinpaper, or that I’m day drinking #happyhourhero. A line must be drawn in the sand of this juvenile technology womb, everyone look at what I’m doing beach we live on. Hashtags is that line. I have a long and storied career of allowing brutally awful trends to pass me by, and I’m a stronger, more credible man for it. Examples? I’ll give you some fucking e.g.’s:

Button flaps and loud art on the back pockets of jeans. Didn’t own one fucking pair of True Religions. No white and yellow horseshoes or fleur-de-lis emblazoned on my ass cheeks. Granted, I cannot show my face in a bar in northeast Ohio because of it, but I can live with that.

Skinny jeans. If you are 5’10″, 139lbs, by all means wear skinny jeans. But if you know in your heart of hearts that you can’t pull them off, then roll them slowly and painfully down your legs kemosabe, this trend wasn’t for you. Be careful you don’t fall over when trying to pull your foot back through the ankle opening. Go buy some straight fits, you’ll be much happier. We all will. I’ve been accused of wearing skinny jeans myself, but it is a bald-faced lie. The lie was perpetrated by friends from my hometown where bootcut jeans had yet to fade from the fashion landscape as they had in the rest of the world, so a “straight leg” to them seemed like what they must have read about “skinny jeans” somewhere. If the lower legs were not creating a swishing noise as the flared fabric rubbed, they must be skinny. I proudly inform the world on this page that I have never owned skinny jeans.

Fashion scarves. I was buying a leather jacket at a store in Rome 3 years ago, a store so fucking trendy I was astonished I wasn’t hauled away to the nearest Gap by the Italian Fashion Police (IFP). I was being assisted by an impish little elf who brought me two jackets, both of which made me look like Chris Farley in the “Fat guy in a little coat” scene from Tommy Boy. He assured me both fit great, the smaller of the two being “perfetto” (perfect). I couldn’t breathe in the perfetto jacket. We got into an argument, ultimately me winning, that resulted in him bringing out two larger jackets, both of which were still too small. He said some things in Italian which sounded malicious, said he could no longer responsibly take part in this sale, waved his hand in an Italian show of “You are an American brute, fuck off now”, and refused to assist any further due to my refusal to consider a leather jacket that fit like a power-lifting “supersuit”. He was replaced by a man so handsome I found myself questioning my sexual orientation. He reiterated that the sausage casing look was the right way to go, but acquiesced to my desire to be able to breathe when I was wearing a coat. As I decided on which still-too-small coat was best to drop a small fortune on, Fabio was searching the back wall for something. He ambushed me from behind while my hands were busy trying to zip up the jacket as I sucked in every inch of fat on my body, coiling a fashion scarf around my neck and tying it off with an assassin’s precision. As I stood there in shock viewing myself in the mirror wearing leather body paint and a dainty silk scarf, Fabio stepped back as though he’d just put the last brush stroke on the Sistine Chapel and declared, with an unfamiliar hand gesture, “PERFETTO!” Um, Fabio, you have any clue how fucking kicked my ass will be the first time I hit the street in Chicago looking like a backup singer in a “John Tesh Christmas in Rome” concert? I tried, several times and including many hand gestures, to explain this to Fabio. Remarkably he understood. He muttered something about how stupid and barbaric Americans are, and to take my oversized jacket and get the fuck out of here. (And I’ll be a goddamn sonofabitch if his warnings that the coat would “stretch and be too big” didn’t come true).

So my point is that my judgment regarding which trends to hop on versus trends to wait patiently until cooler heads prevail and allow them to pass by, is air fucking tight. This hashtag thing is an embarrassment, it is weakening a nation, and it makes girly cowards of us all (not that girls are cowards, it is a figure of speech. #ifearpcpolice). Keep the hashtags on Twitter only, and even then limit yourself to 1 per tweet, and really think–I mean think very hard–if #jayzandnetsownnybitchez is how you want to represent yourself in life.

#imightownapairof”slim”jeans
#itsnotthesameas”skinny”
#theyretotallywider
#andflattering
#gotshitloadsofcardigans
#gotawooldrivingcap
#cuzisawtombradywearingoneinapicture
#didn’tlookliketombradywheniworeit
#morelikeaguywithapumpkinheadinadrivingcap
#:(

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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