>I'm Pissed.

Fashion
So, as an adult male, I have a “sport jacket.” I like it, too. But the other day, as I donned it, along with a nice, pressed, button-down shirt and a pair of chinos, I wondered, “what sport am I prepared for?”

Baseball? Basketball? Football? No, I don’t remember any players in sport coats there. Hockey? Running? Triathlon? Gymnastics? Synchronized swimming? Curling? Skiing?

I HATE things with misused labels and descriptions.

It’s not only sport jackets that drive me nuts—it’s also khakis. Go to the GAP or some other peddler of mass-produced, sweat-shop clothes and you’ll see a whole array of pants called “khakis” in lots of different colors. It makes me want to slap people. KHAKI IS A COLOR. This would be like going to a grocery store and looking at a bunch of fruit, all called oranges, all in different colors. Get a clue.

Social Events
Remember that kid that you used to make fun when you were growing up? You know the one who used to take dancing lessons while you were playing sports, or doing something else—anything else? Well, he’s back, and he’s making you, me and just about everyone else look like assholes.

Like most white men, I can NOT dance. I have no rhythm, no moves, no style. I have some sort of mental block—even when I’ve got instruction. I don’t know what the problem is! I could have someone give me a complicated set of steps for just about any procedure, and after a hearing them a couple of times, then practicing a couple of times, they will be committed to memory—at least short term memory.

But I’ll be damned if I can remember to step forward with my left foot within 10 seconds of doing it 15 times in a row.

Nothing in my background helps. Flatland freestyle, much like dancing, is more about balance than rhythm. Moshing? Well, there is music and bodily movement, but that’s not going to fly at swank holiday parties. I’ve got nothing.

And as I’m on the floor, floundering with my three left feet, or on the sidelines, contemplating my ineptness, there’s some jackass out there waltzing, gliding, flowing, twirling and cha-cha-ing. I’m not talking about stupid line-dancing, monkey crap, I mean real Danny Tario/Solid Gold moves. No, scratch that—I mean real Gene Autry, Mikhail Baryshnikov, or Michael Flately moves.

Damn.

What is it about dancing that is so elusive to straight white men? Everyone else on the planet—every other sex/sexual orientation or race can dance. Not the straight white men—not unless they’ve had extensive lessons. Aaarrgh.

Technology
If I bought a car, and it didn’t work, I’d take it back to the dealer to have it fixed. If I bought a TV, and it didn’t work, I’d take it back to the store, to have it replaced. If just about anything I bought didn’t work, for whatever reason, the place that I bought it from would fix or replace it. Period. That’s how customer service should work.

However, since I’m having trouble with my stupid Dell computer, I’ve been calling and e-mailing tech support, and now I’ve got to download and run some 32-bit hardware diagnostics. What the hell is that? If I knew, I probably wouldn’t need them!

NO doubt this will result in more calls and more e-mails to tech support, and more work on my part.

What did I just shell out $1600 for? Headaches?

I eventually spent so much time on hold, that I've given up. I spoke to probably 10 different "techs" and every one of them assured me that they figured out the problem, and that I just needed to do what they said to fix it. After going around and around, I realized I was wasting too much of my life with this. Instead, I'll tell everyone I can about my experiences with Dell in hopes that they will look elsewhere for a computer. I know I certainly will.