Massively Stupid

The use of the word massive has finally reached the point where I have to bitch about it.

This is to all you journalists.  Especially those in the automotive world where your job seems to require knowledge of at least 10,000 forms of hyperbole before getting a foot in the door.  To many of you, massive is just another word for “really a super whole bunch”.

Mass is a fundamental concept in physics.  In the most basic sense, mass is a quantity of matter.  The Washington Monument, a peanut M&M, and the air in my car tires (which I should go check) all have mass.  Therefore, the term massive should be applied to things that can be broken, squished, dropped, eaten, thrown, and so on.

Energy is another basic principle in our physical world.  One way to define it is “a state of being”.  Energy is not matter, so it doesn’t have mass.  Although it can be related to mass (think Albert Einstein and the mass-energy equivalence formula E = mc²), it is a very different concept.

So that brings me to my rant.  I was perusing a magazine article about a new hybrid car when I read this darling little sentence.

This process drastically cuts down on production time as well as wasted material and the massive amount of energy that traditional carbon manufacturing requires.

It’s a clumsy collection of words, that’s for sure.  But the guy who wrote it was was probably on a deadline so we’ll let that assessment slide.  (Let’s hope the editor was slammed with work, too.)

But our dear reporter tossed the final straw into this camel’s basket, and I’m not having it.  “Massive amount of energy” is an outrageous phrase.   I don’t care if you got a D in high school physics, you boob.  You can’t have “massive energy”.  You can have super whole bunches of it but not massive amounts.

Furthermore, massive already implies quantity, so it is redundant to add the word amount. 

So stop it.  Stop putting that word on your hot dog along with amazing, awesome, mind-blowing, incredible, and massive amounts of horseradish.

Fragrant Pies From Hell

I have this cheap fabric softener that congeals if it sits too long.  So I give it a good shake before use.

pieface

Tonight, I gave that blue jug one mighty heave and the shit exploded everywhere, mostly in my face.

I guess I didn’t tighten the cap the last time I used it.

A deep primal instinct told me to cry, but i stifled it.  I staggered to the kitchen and stuffed my head under a deluge of cold water from the kitchen faucet.  For a split second, I was frozen in shock.  It was like getting slapped in the face with a soapy pie.

Then I ran to the bathroom to rinse my burning eyes with saline solution.

What a mess.  Lesson learned.

Rolling Stone Magazine’s Stupid Lists

One evening long ago, I was bored with the sites that I habitually surf.  So I went to RollingStone.com. I like RS and I like that I can read some of their better stuff online. (I occasionally buy the actual rag — and miss the original large format.)

I didn’t see anything worth reading on the “front page” so I selected “Music” from the second or third or whatever-level-it-was menu bar.

I don’t know if it was that page or the one after it, but Ho Leek Rap. I couldn’t believe how many “Best Lists” there were. You know: those long ass scorecards of Best Bands, Best Guitar Solos, Best Albums, and Best Best Lists? I can’t stand these things!

All you do (yes, that “you” includes me) is scan the list for your favorites so that you can see where you stand in the grand scheme of Bestness. Bestness is, of course, defined through a democratic voting process whereby People Who Really Know get together and choose what they think is Best.  Your preferences are validated.  Your preferences are ranked on a universal scale of Goodness.  You can put yourself among the Pantheon of Critics and be in a Club of Coolth.

I was all for the Top 100 Albums of the 1980’s back when RS came out with it. The Clash topped the list with London Calling, so right away you figure these guys aren’t suckling at the pop teat, right?  Even if you didn’t like — or know — The Clash, you had to respect the fact that serious rock critics chose it and they explained their choice with authority and eloquence.

So that was a good list to me at the time.  Probably because I was in my 20’s during that decade and it seemed important.  But it wasn’t.  It was just a list.  The kind of list that people waste endless hours of time and breath debating.

But that’s not the point.  The point is that Rolling Stone took a mildly entertaining, occasionally revealing, and always controversial concept and made it … stupid.

Of Mice and Men

Set a few mouse traps in the garage last week. I’ve noticed a mousey smell near the front door of the house since the weather turned cold. I know they inhabit the garage, but I’ve never seen one in the house so it’s always been a live-and-let-live balance. The smell tipped the scale.

I figure they live in the crawl space and in the wall on the garage side of the house. But I know they use the garage because I see the occasional flash of fur out of the corner of my eye when I’m working in there.

Traps set. Three dead mice in the first two days. Then nothing for a couple of days. Then a sprung trap last night, but no kill. Tonight, I saw a mouse at the back of the garage as I rolled the car in. He hopped adroitly over a trap by the door and vanished. Think they’re on to me?