1. Hashtags (words or strings of words preceded by “#”) are the Twitter convention for “tagging” toots (140-character updates) and making them easily searchable.
2. On Twitter, you talk directly to other user by appending an “@” symbol to their screen name in your normal 140-character update. For example, if @lonelysandwich wanted to say something to me, he’d type “@thisisconlan You’re a jerk.”
3. In the previous example, “@thisisconlan You’re a jerk.” would appear as a normal update in the individual timeline of @lonelysandwich. However, to eliminate clutter in your general timeline (where you see the collected toots of everyone you follow), Twitter doesn’t include toots that begin with an @ mention of users who you don’t follow. So, for someone who follows @lonelysandwich and not @thisisconlan, they wouldn’t see the response in their general timeline. This eliminates a lot of superfluous, out-of-context junk from users’ general timelines.

I thought it would be funny if these responses to other people appeared in the general timeline—not just out of context, but also without any way to gain the needed context (as you could normally do by clicking on the other user’s profile). This seemed like a funny premise, and it kind of reminded me of the passive-aggressive stuff people post on Twitter anyway (e.g., vague complaints about people being mean to them or how people are ugly, etc.). So I called it Passive-Aggressive Friday (“Friday”, because I wanted to make a day of it—not because I planned to make it a regular thing).

On Friday morning, I initially described the game^[1] in a toot to my followers:

Today’s “Passive-Aggressive Friday”, a Twitter game I invented where you carry out normal Twitter conversations, but never @reply. #PAFriday

But that wasn’t very clear (stupid 140 characters^[2]), so I added this:

If you’re just joining us, Passive-Aggressive Friday is a game where you respond to toots normally, but without the @reply. #PAFriday

I reminded people to tag their toots with “#PAFriday” so anyone could follow the fun with a simple search.

People seemed to get on board pretty fast. I was happy about that, and there were some great posts. Here are some of my favorites (remember: these appeared entirely without context to everyone, but especially to casual observers).

@abelopez:

you would. #PAFriday

@kieltfs:

That statement offends the unemployed #PAFriday

@SteveYears:

Dude, you’re repeating yourself #PAFriday

@hootz:

I’ve had dreams that start like that. #PAFriday

@kieltfs:

I’ve crushed dreams that start like that. #PAFriday

(I love jokes like this that are funny on their own, but even funnier if you know that they’re a callback to something else.)

At its core, the whole thing was just an exercise in absurdity: taking toots out of context for comedic effect. Many people used #PAFriday to its specified purpose (i.e., responding to actual toots without mentioning the user). But it was fun to see how other people took this (really quite vague) idea into entirely different directions. Some people seemed uncomfortable that the game wasn’t following any clearly defined set of rules. As I explained, in a toot to no one in particular: “The point was never to really be passive-aggressive, but just to laugh at the idea of it. #PAFriday”

And that’s where, beyond the absurdism, a bit of social commentary crept in. There were a few undertones that seemed to pervade the game (at least from my point of view).

Making fun of people who actually are passive-aggressive on Twitter.

Twitter is notorious, in my mind, for passive-aggressive sniping. It’s designed to be an outlet for short statements about what you’re doing or thinking, and that inevitably leads to people complaining about others in their lives without naming those people. Plenty of people who participated in #PAFriday took the opportunity to actually complain stuff that bothered them (with the enhanced self-awareness of explicitly tagging the complaints as passive-aggressive).

Making fun of people who assume other people are being passive-aggressive toward them.

It was also fun to lampoon our own oversensitivity to what other people post on Twitter (or the flip side: the assumption that other people know what we’re talking about when we make vague statements). People have asked me what I was talking about in certain toots, or even if I was talking about them. Our brains are just wired to be self-centered. When someone makes an ambiguous statement, we go to great lengths to figure out how it might be about us. For #PAFriday, there was an overload of these ambiguous statements. It was fun trying to figure out which toots might be in response to which other toots. And it also reminded me that, in fact, not everything is about me.^[3] I hope others had the same kind of realization.

What does “passive-aggressive” mean?

Interestingly, the most typically passive-aggressive toots of the day seemed to from people complaining about the game itself (either sincerely or ironically). Multiple people mentioned that others didn’t seem to understand the definition of passive-aggressive.

I’m not sure if these remarks were directed at individuals who were participating in unexpected ways, or if they were directed at me for calling it “Passive-Aggressive Friday” (please refer to the previous point). I know some people are sticklers about stuff like that.

The actual definition of passive-aggressive is along the lines of: an indirect resistance to the demands of others and an avoidance of direct confrontation. Technically—because written statements are an active act, not a passive one—none of the toots could be truly passive-aggressive.

A strong case could be made, however, that in the popular vernacular (rather than the clinical), the term passive-aggressive is understood more as an avoidance of direct confrontation. This view is typified online at PassiveAggressiveNotes.com, which even includes an explanation and mea culpa for English prescriptivists.^[4]

I, like PassiveAggressiveNotes.com, was using the popular definition, trusting most people would understand what I meant. Many people didn’t follow the “rules” of passive-aggression, but that was kind of the point all along. It was just an excuse to laugh at some stupid stuff.

As far as I’m concerned: mission accomplished.

1. Not really a game.
2. Just kidding. I love you, 140. So much.
3. Or is it?
4. For my short explanation of language descriptivism versus prescriptivism, see this post.

I wonder if they’re trying to seem more cultured or informed than they really are. If they really do “read” a lot, I suspect they’re doing it wrong. Maybe they’re skimming, without actually absorbing anything. Maybe they just ignore the words they don’t understand. Maybe they only read stream-of-consciousness absurdist poetry. There’s just something incongruous about a person who reads a lot but isn’t able to articulate thoughts into written words. I can’t help but suspect there’s a disconnect somewhere.

Most of all, I suspect they need to read more.

1. I’m not expecting eloquent, complex, scholarly essays (and I’m not complaining about occasional typos, or not remembering whether it’s “Jimmy and me” or “Jimmy and I.”) I’m talking about basic, junior-high level sentence structure—with nouns, verbs, and adjectives in their proper places—and correctly spelling common words.

I wonder if they think it’s normal. I suspect it happens because the friender rushes to love people (not romantically, but like, “Jimmy’s so cool. I love that guy!”) and then, when the person turns out to be an actual person (rather than some idealized version of themselves) the friender feels duped, and the love turns to hate. I suspect there’s a lot of perceived backstabbing in the friender’s life.

Most of all, I suspect I wouldn’t want to be friends with them.

I wonder if they actually get paid to do any of those things. I suspect they suck at most of them. There’s nothing wrong with sucking at something. To paraphrase a smarter person than I: anything worth doing is worth sucking at. That’s what hobbies are all about. But we don’t generally use job-titles to describe hobbies. People who like cooking at home don’t usually describe themselves as chefs. People who post funny pictures on Tumblr don’t usually call themselves internet journalists. I suspect these multi-jobbers aren’t happy with their real jobs and don’t want to be associated with them.

Most of all, I suspect their Arby’s shift supervisor would be pissed about the omission.

A lot of my friends and associates (and others) are complaining about the joyous response of many Americans to the killing of another human being. It’s a feeling I agree with. I think the correct response is solemnity and a quiet understanding that justice was done.

Having said that, I won’t condemn anyone for feeling a sense of jubilation.

Tens of thousands (if not hundreds of thousands) of people were directly affected by 9/11—meaning they had family and friends who were killed as a result of the planning and direction of this man. Many millions more empathize and recognize that their own families could easily have been killed but for the happenstance of geographical location.

Some wanted revenge (which is a petty desire; though perhaps understandable as an emotional reaction). Many others simply wanted justice—the knowledge that this crime would not go unanswered. And the assurance that this man would be unable to hurt anyone else.

Justice has now been served.

Terrorism will continue, yes. But the person most responsible for these individuals’ own personal nightmare has finally had to answer for his actions. They are relieved. A decade-long nagging weight has been lifted from their shoulders. They at last have closure, however symbolic it may be.

Would you condemn the family and friends of Sharon Tate for celebrating the sentencing of Charles Manson? Or any family who has finally seen justice done in the murder of their loved ones?

Celebration may be in poor taste. It may be irrational. It may even be dangerous. But I don’t think it is immoral.

I’ve never had anyone I cared for violently taken from me. But I can imagine it. I can imagine how I’d feel, and I imagine that my imagination can never compare to the reality. That’s why it’s hard for me chastise others in this situation for being emotional, for being indelicate, and for being honest about their feelings.

Forgiveness and reconciliation are noble virtues that should be pursued individually and collectively. But humility is also a virtue, and one that’s often overlooked when we rush to judge others.

Lately, in my role helping out with local concert promoters Love The Captive, it’s rare that I get to simply watch a cool show. Because we’re in charge of most of the cool shows I attend, which means there are always odds and ends that need doing—ticket-taking, facility issues, or just the tension of knowing you might be called away at any moment (and I’m not even the one with the real responsibilities). This usually results in being distracted while the bands are playing, or missing out on it altogether. It can be a bit of a bummer, but it’s nice knowing I’m helping in some small way to showcase great talent in an underserved market.

That being said, the idea of a night off was appealing. And tonight, I was all set to go enjoy a relaxing night of great music without the responsibilities.

The awesome local band Fierce Creatures was having an EP release show. This wasn’t a Love The Captive show. We had helped them secure the venue (Frank’s Place, where we’ve been having most of our recent and upcoming shows) by acting as a liaison, but were otherwise uninvolved. The band was handling their own ticketing, sound, the works. It should have been a laid-back night.

Cue the two drunk girls.

The opening band hasn’t even started yet, but these two stumble through the crowd, arm-in-arm, bumping into chairs and people. They’re obviously under the influence of something, even though no alcohol is being served at this show. They arrived this way.

Even better, it appears they’re underage.

This is a problem. I don’t know the exact legal issues at play here—whether the venue can be held accountable for the presence of idiots—but I do know what’s at stake from a public relations standpoint.

Love The Captive is trying to establish something good. By partnering with this new venue, we’re aiming to be in a position to bring to town the mid-size touring acts that usually bypass Fresno. By essentially handing over control of the venue on these nights, the non-profit organization that’s in charge of Frank’s Place is taking a big risk. We’re doing our best to ensure their trust isn’t misplaced.

The headlines flash through my mind.

Underage drinking at Love The Captive show

Police respond to drunken brawl at new venue

Stupid girl falls and cracks her head open at local concert

Forgive my lack of faith in the reliability of gossip, but I doubt any of these scenarios would highlight the fact that LTC wasn’t really in charge here, or that no alcohol was served to anyone, or even that 99% percent of the attendees were perfectly behaved.

No, it would simply be, “See? Those damn kids and their rock music. Who’s letting them have these orgies of blood at this place downtown?”

We’ve only held three shows at this place so far. It’s not hard to imagine some bad press persuading the venue’s board of directors to terminate the relationship with Love The Captive.

So we’ve got to do something about these two idiots.

The girls stagger into the ladies’ room. When others enter and exit, we can see the drunk girls sitting on the restroom floor.

I convene with Turtle, an LTC colleague, about what to do. Like it or not, we’re the ones responsible. The bands hadn’t planned on having security (which they shouldn’t need to), and any problems will reflect directly on LTC anyway, which means we need to take care of it.

We decide to give them one warning: quit being idiots or you’re out of here. We have to send a girl into the restroom to tell the drunk ones to come out. Turtle talks to them. It turns out only one of them, apparently, is under 21. The underage one is the girlfriend of a guy we know (she seems to think this will impress us). It also turns out they weren’t bumping into anyone. All the witnesses and people they knocked into were mistaken. I’m not sure they aren’t high on something. Turtle explains that they are a liability and can get us in trouble if we let them stay, acting stupid. We can’t have this going on. He gives them the ultimatum. Shape up or ship out. They say they understand.

Within 10 minutes, we see them again. Laughing, bumping into each other, then they go in the men’s restroom. Turtle and I look at each other; that’s it, they’re done.

I follow them in. I tell the 21-year-old they need to leave. She asks why. I say they’re wasted and in the men’s room. They’re just going the bathroom, she says. What’s the problem? A guy washing his hands helpfully tells her, she’s in the men’s room.

I bring them out. We tell them they must leave. They say they have to go to the bathroom. We graciously allow them to go (the ladies’ room this time) before leaving the building. They go in and don’t come out.

We send in another of our female friends to bring them out again. We tell them they had their chance and now need to leave. They’re incredulous. What did they do wrong? I explain that they went into the men’s room. I’m mistaken, the older one says. They were just in the ladies’ room. I explain that they were in the men’s room before they went in the ladies’ room. Why would they do that? she says. No they weren’t. I explain that I was there when they were, other people saw this take place. They didn’t go in the men’s room, she says.

They can barely stand up without leaning on each other.

I’m done arguing. You need to leave now, I say. They tell us, “Fuck you,” flip us off, and leave. This is a victory, although they remain just outside the entrance. It’s not over.

The opening bands have started playing by now, but I’m hanging around by the entrance, far from the stage. Ten, twenty minutes pass. Turtle goes backstage to deal with other issues. In walk the drunk girls.

I intercept them just inside the door and remind them they’ve been kicked out. They want to know why. I give a brief rundown of why, but explanations don’t seem worth much to them, despite their insistence on them. Next, she tells me that Turtle told them they could come back in. It’s hard to tell where the lies end and the delusions begin. No, he didn’t, I say. And they need to leave now.

I may have mentioned calling the cops. I really wanted to call the cops. The thought of these two 90-pound tarts spending the night in the drunk tank was beginning to seem just about perfect. But, like I said, that probably wouldn’t be good for appearances.

Throughout the whole thing, the poor 19-year-old is looking very confused. When we tell them to leave, she says OK and starts to lead her friend out, but when the 21-year-old stays put and talks back, the 19-year-old changes her posture and joins in with the “Fuck yous.” This happens over and over.

When it’s clear I’m not going to let them in, they curse at me again, flip me off again (one of them may have flipped me off with her index finger, I’m not sure), and walk out. They’re just as wasted as when they first walked in an hour ago.

Soon, they try to come in again. The 19-year-old tries to make the argument that her boyfriend is “in charge of all this,” referring, presumably, to Love The Captive (which he’s not). At some point, Alise, the young woman taking money at the door (herself a tiny girl around the same age as the idiots), talks to them, expertly guiding them outside before explaining, again, that they’ve been kicked out. The drunk girls continue to have difficulty understanding this, as well as difficulty standing up of their own accord (when anyone tries to keep them from falling over, they yell, “Don’t push me!”).

While they’re outside, reports trickle in though the door from others. People who step out for a smoke mention the drunk girls insulting them, peeing in the street, pushing people.

When Fierce Creatures finally take the stage, I agree to watch the door so the friends-of-the-band who had been handling it can go watch the show. From where I am, I can’t see the stage. This is not the relaxing fun show I had anticipated.

The drunk girls rush in again before I can stop them. Because I’m alone at the door with the cash box, I can’t go after them. I flag down my pal Joey, but the drunks are already lost in the crowd. Rather than hunt for them and make a scene escorting them out, we decide to let them stay. The show will be over soon, and hopefully we’d scared them enough to keep them from misbehaving.

We hadn’t.

After a song or two, I see the two idiots being escorted toward the exit by a couple Citizens On Patrol (i.e., regular concertgoers). When I ask what happened, the citizens say the drunks were “doing drugs.” I don’t know if this is true, but I do know (I learned later) they had climbed on stage and momentarily stopped the show.

I think they tried to come in again after that (it’s all blurring together by this point). This time Joey intercepts them. The older one complains that she’s 21, so there shouldn’t be a problem with being drunk and disorderly. And the 19-year-old helpfully explains that it would be legal for her to be drunk if she was in “Candada [sic].” Next, the 21-year-old eloquently explains how this shit would never happen in LA where she would be treated as the belle of the ball, and might I add, “Fuck you Fresno.” (Somehow they’re still as wasted as they were 3 hours before.) They leave for the last time, finally, to hopefully go choke on their own vomit somewhere.

At 12:30, I’m taken off door duty in time to catch the last couple songs of the night, which are fantastic. It would have been nice to catch the whole set, but I’ll take what I can get. And, despite having my night ruined, disaster was averted, so I guess there’s something to be said for that.

Anyway, the moral of this story is, Don’t be a piece of shit like these two.

Update 7/13/10: In the interest of full disclosure, I want to note that I’ve since received apologies from both girls (one directly and one indirectly). I hope they’ve learned from this.

It was a sunny day in ATLANTA, GEORGIA [pause for applause] when Tommy’s 1972 Mercury Bullet High-Life pulled into the parking lot of the Busty Blonde Diner in Pro-bowl, Utah. Tommy, who was the driver I may have forgotten to mention, walked into the diner and sat at a booth. The green vinyl seat was strategically duct taped in a few places, but all-in-all it was no big deal.

The waitress, who was brunette, poured a steamy cup of coffee for him. “Do you need a minute to decide?” she asked. She was, in fact, fairly busty, but she was also a pretty large woman so Tommy didn’t think it really counted (from a marketing standpoint)^[1].

“No,” Tommy said. “I like babies. I’m totally serious.”

“And what kind of toast?”

“Wheat.”

The waitress left to put in the order, and Tommy removed his gas mask and set it next to him on the seat. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

“Excuse me,” said the woman at the booth behind him. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you like babies, you’re totally serious.”

“Why, yes,” said Tommy. “Yes, I do. My name’s Tommy.”

“I don’t care,” said @brightcaroline.

THE END

1. Not because large women are not attractive, but because the extra body fat usually translates into larger breasts. It’s biology or something. I’m not insulting anyone. If anything, it’s a compliment.

Wow, this is kind of scary. I’m glad I have a job.

I’m assuming she assumes that anyone sitting at Starbucks at 10am on a Friday is out of work. Despite the “Whuh?” factor of this, I see a few problems with her reasoning.

1. It’s 2009. Get a clue.
2. You’re in your early 30s. Get a clue. Seriously. And,
3. You are sitting in Starbucks at 10am on a Friday! Why are you here?

UPDATE: I am writing this post as I sit at the next table over. She looks around again: “There’s still a lot of people here. And I don’t think anybody’s really doing anything…” Please note: anyone not on their computer is clearly past retirement age, sitting and talking with other old people… except for her and her friend.

Perhaps she believes computers are only used for playing solitaire.

UPDATE 2: She saw a friend of hers in line. They talked for 10 minutes.

UPDATE 3: I’m putting on headphones. I can’t take it anymore.

But really, people. Next time you make an assumption about a subset of people, consider whether or not that subset includes you.

But that’s not my point. My companion for the evening was one Shee-Na: Princess of Power. PoP, for some reason, was drinking beer. For some reason, this gave her the expected gas resulting from the consumption of a carbonated beverage. For some reason, she was burping. For some reason, I said, “Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone,” followed by, “Actually, I’m going to blog about it tomorrow.” For some reason, this became a challenge. For some reason, I was supposed to try to make PoP’s burping sound cool on my blog. For some reason, here we are.

If that doesn’t sound cool enough already, how about this? The burps were wearing leather jackets and sunglasses. Also, later, they hung out on a yacht with whatever Hollywood celebrity is so hot right now.

That sounds pretty effin’ cool to me, don’t you think? I win.

1. Come on, Fresno. Let’s take a stand. Fred’s is dead. It says “Audie’s” on the signs; I’m calling it that. I’m tired of slashing.
2. Why doesn’t anyone refer to female-less bands as “all-guy”? Sexist!

Well, by their silence, my readers have spoken! You’re not interested in self-congratulatory, metaphorically-masterbatory, audience-participatory schlock. No, you want hardcore Con-bashing. That’s understandable. Why should my blog be any different from the inside of my own head? So, I enlisted the help of my favorite hater, my pal Thisisconlansucks over at http://thisisconlansucks.blogspot.com, and he agreed to help me out. I’ll turn it over to him for now…

Thanks for giving me this opportunity to present my case directly to your readers. That’s a pretty respectedable thing to do and made me rethink just how much you do suck Conlan. So I rethought it and concluded that you do IN FACT suck a ton.

So first I’d like to show a limerick I’ve been working on:

There once was a guy named Conlan
Nothing rhymes with Conlan
Because he sucks so damn much!

Thank you.

Also, if your readers hate you as much as I do (and they should), they will love this picture I drew of you (ACCURATE!):

Pretty great, right? I know. I’ve been saving that one for a special occasion, and what could be more occasional than on YOUR BLOG??

I’ve got one more for you. One of those vertical namey poems, you know.

C is for Conlan, who is a stupid lame-o.
O is for Obstetrician
N is for Narcolepsy, which is how boring you are.
L is for Like, a million crappy things!
A is for Abominable Snowman, who smells better than you.
N is for Narcolepsy, because you are still so boring!

Well, there you have it. Hope that helps.

TICS!

Thanks, buddy.

As for you twelve, feel free to leave your own insults in the comments. Although I don’t think you can top Thisisconlansucks. He’s got quite a head-start.