Internet friendships are hard.
I’d start taking bets now on how long before the neighbors call the cops, but the neighbors burn more 2-liter bottles in a week than I burn wood in a year.
So.
“The Paris of Appalachia” indeed, my brand spankin’ new Pittsburgh driveway fire pit.
And now for something completely different.
First quarter report cards came home today.
If you have kids in elementary school, you may be forgiven for wondering what happened to the grades: C, D, and F. When I was younger, the debate was whether C meant “average” or “you got 75% of the answers correct.” No more. Nowadays, grades are all about performance compared to “grade level expectations.” It’s not enough to build expectations into course material and exams. Actual grades have to be expressed in terms of the norm as well. Think about that for a few minutes. Let it sink in. It’s devastating.
Alright. Here’s the new math:
Advanced (A) - Exceeds grade level expectations
Proficient (P) - Performing at grade level expectations
Basic (B) - Progressing towards grade level expectations
Below Basic (BB) Improvement needed to meet grade level expectations
So, look: I don’t know what any of these really mean. Depending on how far grade level expectations have slipped, my kids could be earning A’s while failing to learn a thing. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen such inflation at my kids’ school.
Why does this bug me? Well, picture our kids’ future: Outmoded notions like excellence, mediocrity, and failure have been discarded. The drive to excel has been muted by our evolved inability to define excellence in the first place. My kids have grown up, not knowing the triumphant feeling of having really nailed something, but instead striving to say to themselves, “at least I did better than the rest of these chumps.” And why not? Raises and promotions are given out on exactly this basis, even as the businesses of tomorrow unwittingly race one another to the bottom of an ever deepening achievement pit.
And I’m about 70, and I’ve had two strokes already, having watched our culture crumble far faster than I’d ever imagined it would. So I’m driving to the one brick and mortar pharmacy left in town, to try to get my ancient Clotnomor script filled before another week goes by. It’s a retro place - built in the 2030’s as a kind of Hard Rock Café tribute to big pharma government - but by some legislative quirk, it’s allowed to fill prescriptions. Sure, they only stock a handful of drugs, and most are only there as props and are fifteen years past their expiration date, but they’re better than taking my chances with standard meds. Those pills from OmniAll Pharmaceuticals, no one knows what you’re going to find in them.
Everyone’s honking and passing me as I drive. I get the finger 20 times inside of a two minute span. It’s like that one old film movie with that Wilson brother, I think. But I’m doing 85 mph and that’s more than fast enough. These impatient kids can stuff it. And they do! A quarter mile up the road, it’s as if the cars are just disappearing. And in the final seconds that pass before I, too, plunge over the edge of the unmarked, destroyed bridge, I remember when I first realized the world was going to hell. It was 1990. I was a freshman at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. My 4-D class watched as Shane concluded his performance piece by shitting on the classroom floor. I gagged and smiled. It was so disgusting, a flagrant middle finger at the very idea of art. Yet it was received with adulation by nearly everyone in that classroom audience. In fact, I recall, Shane’s “piece” was awarded an A.
And that was back when an A meant something.
Thanks, Matt. That 4th password reset finally worked, although it took several attempts and I experienced errors along the way. (One such screen shot attached.)
Overall, filling out this form was hands-down the single worst technology-assisted process I have ever experienced. That’s a mouthful too, because as a UX professional, I go looking for user experiences at both ends of the quality spectrum. I am not exaggerating when I declare this the worst. It is simply, profoundly abominable.
From the OS and browser constraints, to the authentication issues, to the form design, to the confusion over whether or not clicking next (when there’s a save button right next to it) will erase my data, to the intrusive workflow - I mean, Matt, ALL THE WAY AROUND, THIS THING STINKS.
I can only hope that [insurer] offers CONSIDERABLE discounts to organizations that subject their staff to this misery.
Still, thank you for your help getting in. It’s a mixed thanks, considering what horror awaited me on the other side, but without your help I never would have been able to complete my application.
Sincerely, Geoff
Jason, you might want to ask Adam and Jesse for a second opinion here - after all, this is rightfully their domain of expertise. But my strong opinion is that, if the meeting is truly important to you, you should make sure to wear your very best leaf blower.
Unexpectedly have something this afternoon with someone it would behoove me to impress. Not knowing of this meeting when I got dressed this morning, I threw on a b-or-maybe-c level suit. Should I instantly, in a self-deprecatingly amusing way. apologize for my shabby appearance? Or should I just be confident and project that even when I look like crap, I look darn good?
My lord, that’s a lot of set-up for a dumb GPOYW post. Just post the picture already.
