Something for you.
Something for me.
Something for the football team?
Now what to make of this? A related search “How do I get my girlfriend to” turns up some similar, unsurprising and funny results. Among the ten: to let me go down on her, to kiss me, to respect me, to take me back — and my favorite: to break up with me. But for some reason, this permutation returns only three. And of those three, one is “how to ask my girlfriend to homecoming.”
Ah, high school, before we knew what the hell we were missing and age made a mess of things down there. When asking your best girl to the pep rally was the be-all, end-all. But wait. Homecoming? Shouldn’t it at least be, like, prom or something? I grew up in Manhattan; I just don’t get the whole homecoming thing. Our homecoming party was at a club where I got frisked so intently at the door I may have walked out of there technically not a virgin. I don’t remember any sports games, but I can only assume we lost, and I sure as heck don’t remember it being a big deal who you went with. Just who kept grabbing your ass and who you made out with in the bathroom.
Maybe I really missed out on something. Maybe there’s a bit of Grease and the Wonder Years still lingering in high school campuses despite the cynicism that modernity brings. A timeless awkward profundity immune to Silly Bands or BBM. Let homecoming anxiety remind us of a gentler age, when the little things were the biggest things, before we became the hairy, unsatisfied selves we are today. Then rip off that strip and get back to business — we’re not getting any younger.
No! Bad, mommy! Bad!
If you have questions about how to take care of your newborn, or whether the kid’s within the range of normalcy, ask a doctor. Ask your mother, your neighbor, your grocer. Ask anyone with any baby-rearing experience, but for Pete’s sake ask a human.
When you talk to people — like actually, physically talk — your brain automatically makes certain judgments about the quality of information you’re getting from them. Does this person seem reliable? Does she have the background needed to speak authoritatively on the matter? Is her hygiene reflective of the kind of person I ought to take advice from?
When you’re reading online, you have to actively pose these sorts of discretionary queries, and most people don’t think to do so, or simply don’t bother. You have no idea who’s writing most of the crap that populates atop Google’s search results. It’s one thing to use unverifiable information to guide you on how much you should spend on rent or a ring, or whether you should feel good/bad/OK about your relative heft (things that, let’s face it, aren’t entirely in your control anyway). But when it comes to caring for a baby, please don’t listen to Google.
For that matter you shouldn’t be listening to me, either.
Well, one thing’s for damn sure: 2011 will not be the year the internet swings toward a return to innocence. Bill Cosby, if you’re reading this, please go no farther. Alt+Tab. For the love of god, Alt+Tab.
Granted, as a child there were few things that could so reliably deliver me to giggles as dessert and a well timed poot, but there is nothing endearing about a modern day combination of the two. Continue reading
The theme of today’s Google Game may not be readily apparent upon first glance. It wasn’t to me. But a little rumination on this selection of seemingly disparate searches revealed that many of us are looking for very much the same thing: rebirth and renewal.
Google grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.
Or maybe what we really need: The serenity to walk slower, the courage to wear bug spray and the wisdom to keep our personal shit under control.
When I started this search I wasn’t prepared for such a striking contrast between issues of great import and cooking marginally exotic vegetables.
I’m certainly no expert on any of this stuff, but I’m pretty sure that for the first and the last queries Step One is the same: Bend over.