So I'm feeling old and dried up like a prune. Partly it's my own fault for spending time at the pool, the summer nesting spot of teenagers looking nubile and a little bit pimply.
During the course of the rest of the year, I barely come in contact with teens: I have no idea what they do or where they live September to May. I guess they spend a lot of time at Abercrombie & Fitch or at the movie theater, either watching vampire flicks (girls) or action-thriller-fart films (boys). I''m assuming they also go to school and have part-time jobs in shops I can never afford to shop at.
Obviously I was a teenager at one time, in a proterozoic period in a distant galaxy, before the invention of cell phones. Talking of which, according to a recent study, if I want to be more like a teen, I shouldn't be using my phone for voice calls; instead, I should be pounding the teensy keys like a texting automaton, preferably blindfolded.
In an effort to avoid the onslaught of middle age, I've identified several changes I can make to my life to give me the appearance of being young and vibrant:
1. Drink Arnold Palmer Half and Half Iced Tea: don't mistake this for a lesser Red Bull - this 23 oz of iced tea/lemonade is like an elixir of youth, or at least I think so. Teen girls in the know knock this back like it's crack cocaine.
2. Slather up with Proactiv: yup, if I use products for spotty teenage skin, I can transform my increasingly creased dermis into skin like a spotty teenager. Again, fountain of youth stuff, right?
3. Refuse to watch anything on television. Screw the cinema-screen-surround-sound-home-theater experience, that's for oldsters. From now on, I'm only gonna watch viral videos on my blinged-out cellie.
4. Talk in Lady Gaga lyrics. I swear, I recently overheard a young buck at the snack bar chatting to the lady behind the counter using only Ke$ha and Lady Gaga songs. I am not joking about this. Snack bar chick replied in monosyllables, so I couldn't be sure if she was quoting Timbaland or just stupid.
5. stop using punctuation and capital letters thats just for people born before the internet and im all about social networking so there
6. Supersize my Facebook friends list. See 5 above for fuller explanation. It's actually better to know more people through Facebook than to actually, well, know those people in real life.
7. Wear Silly Bandz in an ironic way.
8. Buy a twin bed and pretend I live at home with my parents. I'll even make my husband pretend he's my boyfriend and have him sneak in the house to share my bed. He'll have to leave early in the morning before my "parents" catch him. As a trainee teenager, I know that I'll have to adjust my definition of "early morning" to mean around 10 AM.
That's my shortlist for now. If all goes well, I'll be starting twelfth grade in a week or two and I'll find out what teens do in the winter months.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Drive from Planet OBX
Each summer, I've felt inadequate when people ask what we're doing and it doesn't involve the Outer Banks. For some reason, around the nation's capital, there are two socially acceptable places to go to the beach: the Cape and North Carolina.
I'll state for the record that people who vacay on the Cape, don't mean the one in South Africa; instead, they're referring to the area around Cape Cod, including Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket and another less fancy island that I forget the name of for now. A stint on the Cape involves a lot of money (usually old, but new hedge fund wealth is accepted in these recessionary times), extended family named "Preston" and "Buffy" and madras pants, none of which I'm in possession of.
Anyway, moving down the social scale a few notches, the Outer Banks is the other check box on the beach-bound survey of summer. This summer, the family and I packed a bathing suit and an iPod and headed south of the border to the Outer Banks.
To be fair, North Carolina is perfectly nice. There's nothing dreadful about it - beaches are sandy, skies are generally blue, rental houses are decorated in lighthouse and shell motifs . . . it's the journey that's the problem. Starting at the Virginia/North Carolina border, traffic trickled like molasses to its destination. It took several hours to reach the bridge optimistically linking the Outer Banks with the North Carolina mainland. Driving - and I use that word loosely because it implies speed - up Route 12 to Duck, a jogger in 90 degree heat overtook us. The only solace I could find in this slow-moving, single lane pilgrimage was that it perfectly replicated the Hamptons in summer experience, but at half the price.
According to the Wright Brothers Memorial, it took Orville and Wilbur nine days to travel from Dayton, OH to Kitty Hawk - they had a plane to haul and no Wright Brothers Memorial Bridge to travel across - but I'm sure it seemed quicker than my journey last week.
I'll state for the record that people who vacay on the Cape, don't mean the one in South Africa; instead, they're referring to the area around Cape Cod, including Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket and another less fancy island that I forget the name of for now. A stint on the Cape involves a lot of money (usually old, but new hedge fund wealth is accepted in these recessionary times), extended family named "Preston" and "Buffy" and madras pants, none of which I'm in possession of.
Anyway, moving down the social scale a few notches, the Outer Banks is the other check box on the beach-bound survey of summer. This summer, the family and I packed a bathing suit and an iPod and headed south of the border to the Outer Banks.
To be fair, North Carolina is perfectly nice. There's nothing dreadful about it - beaches are sandy, skies are generally blue, rental houses are decorated in lighthouse and shell motifs . . . it's the journey that's the problem. Starting at the Virginia/North Carolina border, traffic trickled like molasses to its destination. It took several hours to reach the bridge optimistically linking the Outer Banks with the North Carolina mainland. Driving - and I use that word loosely because it implies speed - up Route 12 to Duck, a jogger in 90 degree heat overtook us. The only solace I could find in this slow-moving, single lane pilgrimage was that it perfectly replicated the Hamptons in summer experience, but at half the price.
According to the Wright Brothers Memorial, it took Orville and Wilbur nine days to travel from Dayton, OH to Kitty Hawk - they had a plane to haul and no Wright Brothers Memorial Bridge to travel across - but I'm sure it seemed quicker than my journey last week.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Day the Earth Shuddered
Back at the pool again today, this time with only the senior water aerobics workout to keep me company. Those ladies sure do know how to cover up their torsos.
For those unaccustomed to water aerobics, it mainly involves bouncing up and down in the water while the instructor plays bad eighties music and leads the group. Aside from the bouncing, there's really not much more to it aside from a few arm movements and the occasional leg kick. We're not talking an Olympic sport here.
All was fine and dandy and I was keeping snippy comments to myself until time for the "dry land" portion of class. Well, let me tell you, those ladies might look trim from the clavicle up, but everything below is a little gelatinous. I backed away, determined not to look back, but a sudden burst of Bruce Springsteen and I whipped around, only to see the ladies doing sit ups with their legs straight up in the air.
I was treated to a vision of water aerobics seniors from the undercarriage side. It's a bit like the ocean floor - not something that sees the light of day and definitely not for the faint of heart. I raced off, ready to throw myself at the mercy of a Diet Coke and Nutty Buddy.
For those unaccustomed to water aerobics, it mainly involves bouncing up and down in the water while the instructor plays bad eighties music and leads the group. Aside from the bouncing, there's really not much more to it aside from a few arm movements and the occasional leg kick. We're not talking an Olympic sport here.
All was fine and dandy and I was keeping snippy comments to myself until time for the "dry land" portion of class. Well, let me tell you, those ladies might look trim from the clavicle up, but everything below is a little gelatinous. I backed away, determined not to look back, but a sudden burst of Bruce Springsteen and I whipped around, only to see the ladies doing sit ups with their legs straight up in the air.
I was treated to a vision of water aerobics seniors from the undercarriage side. It's a bit like the ocean floor - not something that sees the light of day and definitely not for the faint of heart. I raced off, ready to throw myself at the mercy of a Diet Coke and Nutty Buddy.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
More Itching than a Bikini Filled with Ants
After slouching off for a few months, I'm back - and in a bikini. Before you shriek in horror (well, go ahead), I should add that it's July and the pool's open. Since I'm at my watery gulag from dawn 'til chlorine clouds my contacts, I've had plenty of time to observe the teen generation and I'm here to report on my findings, gonzo style.
First, it seems that we are in the midst of a severe fabric shortage. The teen girls at the pool have been reduced to wearing triangles held together with string, so when they shimmy down the steps to the pool area, it's like watching a puppy prizefight in a handkerchief.
But the good news is that the girl teens do not need to get their swimsuits wet. Apparently, string bikinis are exclusively worn when hanging out at the snack bar, sipping bottled water, or when sunbathing on loungers, far, far from the splash of the pool.
There's an exception to this sartorial axiom: when freshly graduated senior boys show up to play water polo, teen girls hit the water, faster than a BP oil spill. I snarkily observed this phenomenon the other day - the teen bikini chicks had been prostrate on the loungers like sun-dried tomatoes for several hours with only their cell phones for shade, when the boy posse shows up, their board shorts stuffed full of testosterone.
No sooner had the board shorts jumped in the pool, than the girls suddenly realized there was a pleasant pool filled with water 30 feet away. Wow! And did that game of water polo look fun!
Naturally, lots of splashing occurred. Fun, eh? I soon noticed that the girls were clustered around one guy - the best player, perhaps? - wearing Aviators and spiking up his hair between plays. Not long after I noticed, his Lady Gaga girlfriend noticed. She idles over, installs herself on the side near the goal and emits laser beam death rays in the general area of the water polo game.
At that point, I had to leave. There was a snack bar emergency and I needed to swallow a Diet Coke and ice cream, but later, I saw Aviator boy and Lady Gaga drive off from the pool in a Much Better Car Than Mine. It was just like "Thelma and Louise."
I don't quite know what happened to the teen bikini chicks, but I'll be sure to report back. I've got many more pool days before the final curtain comes down on Fun at the Pool, Redux.
First, it seems that we are in the midst of a severe fabric shortage. The teen girls at the pool have been reduced to wearing triangles held together with string, so when they shimmy down the steps to the pool area, it's like watching a puppy prizefight in a handkerchief.
But the good news is that the girl teens do not need to get their swimsuits wet. Apparently, string bikinis are exclusively worn when hanging out at the snack bar, sipping bottled water, or when sunbathing on loungers, far, far from the splash of the pool.
There's an exception to this sartorial axiom: when freshly graduated senior boys show up to play water polo, teen girls hit the water, faster than a BP oil spill. I snarkily observed this phenomenon the other day - the teen bikini chicks had been prostrate on the loungers like sun-dried tomatoes for several hours with only their cell phones for shade, when the boy posse shows up, their board shorts stuffed full of testosterone.
No sooner had the board shorts jumped in the pool, than the girls suddenly realized there was a pleasant pool filled with water 30 feet away. Wow! And did that game of water polo look fun!
Naturally, lots of splashing occurred. Fun, eh? I soon noticed that the girls were clustered around one guy - the best player, perhaps? - wearing Aviators and spiking up his hair between plays. Not long after I noticed, his Lady Gaga girlfriend noticed. She idles over, installs herself on the side near the goal and emits laser beam death rays in the general area of the water polo game.
At that point, I had to leave. There was a snack bar emergency and I needed to swallow a Diet Coke and ice cream, but later, I saw Aviator boy and Lady Gaga drive off from the pool in a Much Better Car Than Mine. It was just like "Thelma and Louise."
I don't quite know what happened to the teen bikini chicks, but I'll be sure to report back. I've got many more pool days before the final curtain comes down on Fun at the Pool, Redux.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Boy, that was a really short iPad focus group
I'm not going to pretend to review the non-existent iPad that I'm holding, but I have to register my surprise at Apple's naming faux pas. Seriously, did they not conduct any focus group testing? Perhaps there are no women who work at Apple?
If you did a quickfire word association game in a roomful of women between the ages of 18 and 50, you'd find out pretty soon that the iPad is a feminine hygiene product with a touch screen. I'm not the first to point this out . . . yesterday, iTampax was a Twittering trending topic, plus there's already a plethora of jokes and spoof ads online at Apple's expense.
I just finished reading David Ogilvy's "Confessions of an Advertising Man" and a point he discussed is particularly apt in this instance:
"Perhaps the most important operation agencies are ever called upon to perform is to prepare a campaign for a new product which (sic) has not yet emerged from the laboratory. . .
. . . As I write I am engaged in just such an operation. It has taken more than a hundred scientists two years to find out how to make the product in question; I have been given thirty days to create its personality and plan its launching. . .
. . . It they would just invest half as much in the creative work of launching new products as they invest in the technical work of developing them, they would see fewer of their conceptions abort."
This kind of reminds me of the Chevy Nova (in Spanish = doesn't go) and the Ford Penis, I mean Pinto, (in Brazilian Portuguese slang = small penis) . . . but at least these names worked in one culture. The trouble with the iPad is that it fails at the first hurdle. Will it be an iFlop?
If you did a quickfire word association game in a roomful of women between the ages of 18 and 50, you'd find out pretty soon that the iPad is a feminine hygiene product with a touch screen. I'm not the first to point this out . . . yesterday, iTampax was a Twittering trending topic, plus there's already a plethora of jokes and spoof ads online at Apple's expense.
I just finished reading David Ogilvy's "Confessions of an Advertising Man" and a point he discussed is particularly apt in this instance:
"Perhaps the most important operation agencies are ever called upon to perform is to prepare a campaign for a new product which (sic) has not yet emerged from the laboratory. . .
. . . As I write I am engaged in just such an operation. It has taken more than a hundred scientists two years to find out how to make the product in question; I have been given thirty days to create its personality and plan its launching. . .
. . . It they would just invest half as much in the creative work of launching new products as they invest in the technical work of developing them, they would see fewer of their conceptions abort."
This kind of reminds me of the Chevy Nova (in Spanish = doesn't go) and the Ford Penis, I mean Pinto, (in Brazilian Portuguese slang = small penis) . . . but at least these names worked in one culture. The trouble with the iPad is that it fails at the first hurdle. Will it be an iFlop?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
So long egreetings, I barely cared for you
It's come to my attention that my mailbox is no longer filled with those slightly underwhelming egreetings I used to receive back in the early part of the new millennium.
Not that I mind. I found those missives via email link slightly disappointing. Nothing says, "I nearly forgot your birthday" or "I can't be bothered to write with a pen" like a hasty ecard.
There's a singular tepidness of feeling when you send something that's really just clip art and a few data fields. And on my part, the sentiment is reciprocated with a cursory click, skim, delete, often without clicking on the actual link to the card.
I'll come clean - I've sent ecards. I like to think that my selection was usually superior to most, speed-chosen witty cartoons from the New Yorker expressing slight disengagement.
But of late, I've noticed the decline of the ecard. They are going the way of the free t-shirts you got when an old-line organization first launched their websites [the t-shirts inevitably featured their crusty old logo with ".com" in Courier].
Struck by a last-minute greeting emergency recently, I found many of my old go-to websites no longer helpfully offer the service of a branded card. I also observed - gasp! - some sites are starting to charge for customized artwork.
And when I send an ecard, there's the added anxiety that my greeting will be the subject of suspicion, filed under "phishing," "spam" or "the sort of email that falls between blanket group emails and forwarded jokes."
The ecard's had a short life. It began at MIT, created by Judith Donath in 1994 as "the Electric Postcard." The project launched December 1994, and a year later, about three-quarters of a million cards had been sent; six months after, it was close to 1.7 million. During the 1995-96 Christmas season, there were days when over 19,000 cards were sent.
Fast forward to modern times, and according to the Greeting Card Association "Worldwide, an estimated 500 million e-cards are sent each year."
Here's what Donath says about the project in her thesis:
"The most significant function of the postcard, and the reason, I believe, for the great popularity of The Electric Postcard, is that they allow people to keep in touch without having to actually say anything.
A notable thing about postcards is how trite the messages often are: ``The weather is great. Wish you were here.'' A letter like that would be ludicrous, even rude. Yet the main point of a postcard is its subtext: I'm thinking of you, just checking in, making the rounds remotely."
[my bold for emphasis]
Egreetings left the lab in 1995 when E-cards.com was launched (the code was open source), and graduated to solids in October 1999, when Excite@Home bought the web site Blue Mountain Arts for $780M. On September 13, 2001, Excite@Home sold BlueMountain.com to American Greetings for $35M, three weeks before it filed for bankruptcy and the sound of "pop" could be heard coming from the dot com bubble.
BlueMountain.com is still around, making it "easy and fun to stay in touch with all the special people" in my life with one easy subscription. Unfortunately, I'm looking to "occasionally touch base with acquaintances," so I don't think it's the service for me.
Donath reflects that, "The Electric Postcard lets the user send a piece of the Web as a personal statement . . . the postcards make the information space into a source for personal expression."
So what does that say about me, the lethargic egreeter? I've moved on, the information space has shifted and I'm expressing myself in other ways. Nah, just a bad correspondent.
Not that I mind. I found those missives via email link slightly disappointing. Nothing says, "I nearly forgot your birthday" or "I can't be bothered to write with a pen" like a hasty ecard.
There's a singular tepidness of feeling when you send something that's really just clip art and a few data fields. And on my part, the sentiment is reciprocated with a cursory click, skim, delete, often without clicking on the actual link to the card.
I'll come clean - I've sent ecards. I like to think that my selection was usually superior to most, speed-chosen witty cartoons from the New Yorker expressing slight disengagement.
But of late, I've noticed the decline of the ecard. They are going the way of the free t-shirts you got when an old-line organization first launched their websites [the t-shirts inevitably featured their crusty old logo with ".com" in Courier].
Struck by a last-minute greeting emergency recently, I found many of my old go-to websites no longer helpfully offer the service of a branded card. I also observed - gasp! - some sites are starting to charge for customized artwork.
And when I send an ecard, there's the added anxiety that my greeting will be the subject of suspicion, filed under "phishing," "spam" or "the sort of email that falls between blanket group emails and forwarded jokes."
The ecard's had a short life. It began at MIT, created by Judith Donath in 1994 as "the Electric Postcard." The project launched December 1994, and a year later, about three-quarters of a million cards had been sent; six months after, it was close to 1.7 million. During the 1995-96 Christmas season, there were days when over 19,000 cards were sent.
Fast forward to modern times, and according to the Greeting Card Association "Worldwide, an estimated 500 million e-cards are sent each year."
Here's what Donath says about the project in her thesis:
"The most significant function of the postcard, and the reason, I believe, for the great popularity of The Electric Postcard, is that they allow people to keep in touch without having to actually say anything.
A notable thing about postcards is how trite the messages often are: ``The weather is great. Wish you were here.'' A letter like that would be ludicrous, even rude. Yet the main point of a postcard is its subtext: I'm thinking of you, just checking in, making the rounds remotely."
[my bold for emphasis]
Egreetings left the lab in 1995 when E-cards.com was launched (the code was open source), and graduated to solids in October 1999, when Excite@Home bought the web site Blue Mountain Arts for $780M. On September 13, 2001, Excite@Home sold BlueMountain.com to American Greetings for $35M, three weeks before it filed for bankruptcy and the sound of "pop" could be heard coming from the dot com bubble.
BlueMountain.com is still around, making it "easy and fun to stay in touch with all the special people" in my life with one easy subscription. Unfortunately, I'm looking to "occasionally touch base with acquaintances," so I don't think it's the service for me.
Donath reflects that, "The Electric Postcard lets the user send a piece of the Web as a personal statement . . . the postcards make the information space into a source for personal expression."
So what does that say about me, the lethargic egreeter? I've moved on, the information space has shifted and I'm expressing myself in other ways. Nah, just a bad correspondent.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
C'mon . . . meta me
About 10 years ago, I was at a design conference in Aspen (harsh, I know), when Razorfish-founder-turned-candy-designer Craig Kanarick gave a presentation on digital design. He wore a gold lurex jacket and strode around the stage telling the less digitally savvy audience how digitally savvy Razorfish was. To be fair, he made a lot more sense than architects Zaha Hadid and Hani Rashid, who were also on the schedule. They showed impenetrable sketches of buildings they designed using a computer, which only a computer could occupy.
One thing Kanarick said has really stuck with me. It's really simple, but really true. Back in 1999, Kanarick, with his bleached hair and flashy jacket, said that Razorfish's guiding principle was simply, "anything that can be digital, will be."
At the time, my reaction was, sure it's easy to say that. Photos, music, film, documents, everything could be digital. I got it. Flip open the scanner, or type into a computer and put it on the web. But I think he was getting at more than the process of taking analog information and making it digital. I think he was talking about anything, I mean anything, being digital.
In the decade since, I have become a digital commodity.
By this I mean, I obviously exist in a flesh-and-blood way, but I increasingly exist in a digital hyper-reality. Through social networking sites I've become an online persona, a digital nexus of old friends and contemporary connections, overlaid by a web of familial linkages. Socially connected me represents past, present, and potential future.
With Second Life, I'm my avatar, whoever I want to be. I can live in a tower of crystals, half medieval castle, half Greek forum; I can have red hair, wear sexy pirate clothes and shop for a pair of wings. Now that's better than a real life trip to the grocery store, now isn't it?
To data mining companies, I'm a pattern of data points. If I were 20 years younger, and texting as fast as my hormones were racing, I'd be Text Me, a collection of messages, reduced to diminutive shorthand. LOL. WTF.
So what's the logical conclusion? Where does it all end? At what point does the psychic apparatus resist the urge to exist in external data form? Will we tire of the technology? Will we want to reclaim some of our internal life? Will privacy become our most valued asset?
Who knows? I'm blogging about this, sending links to Facebook and Twitter, and hoping that someone will read this because, "In the construction of Immortal Fame you need first of all a cosmic shamelessness."*
*Umberto Eco, Travels in Hyperreality
One thing Kanarick said has really stuck with me. It's really simple, but really true. Back in 1999, Kanarick, with his bleached hair and flashy jacket, said that Razorfish's guiding principle was simply, "anything that can be digital, will be."
At the time, my reaction was, sure it's easy to say that. Photos, music, film, documents, everything could be digital. I got it. Flip open the scanner, or type into a computer and put it on the web. But I think he was getting at more than the process of taking analog information and making it digital. I think he was talking about anything, I mean anything, being digital.
In the decade since, I have become a digital commodity.
By this I mean, I obviously exist in a flesh-and-blood way, but I increasingly exist in a digital hyper-reality. Through social networking sites I've become an online persona, a digital nexus of old friends and contemporary connections, overlaid by a web of familial linkages. Socially connected me represents past, present, and potential future.
With Second Life, I'm my avatar, whoever I want to be. I can live in a tower of crystals, half medieval castle, half Greek forum; I can have red hair, wear sexy pirate clothes and shop for a pair of wings. Now that's better than a real life trip to the grocery store, now isn't it?
To data mining companies, I'm a pattern of data points. If I were 20 years younger, and texting as fast as my hormones were racing, I'd be Text Me, a collection of messages, reduced to diminutive shorthand. LOL. WTF.
So what's the logical conclusion? Where does it all end? At what point does the psychic apparatus resist the urge to exist in external data form? Will we tire of the technology? Will we want to reclaim some of our internal life? Will privacy become our most valued asset?
Who knows? I'm blogging about this, sending links to Facebook and Twitter, and hoping that someone will read this because, "In the construction of Immortal Fame you need first of all a cosmic shamelessness."*
*Umberto Eco, Travels in Hyperreality
Sunday, January 3, 2010
This Goes to 11?
The latest unemployment figures from the Department of Labor are due Friday (Jan. 8), and here's hoping the rate stays under 11 percent.
Chances are, it's likely, given that the last two months were down (10.2 percent in October and 10 percent in November). But if you live in some places, it already goes to 11. In November, Michigan again recorded the highest unemployment rate at 14.7 percent, with Rhode Island (12.7 percent), California, Nevada, and South Carolina (all 12.3 percent) nipping at its heels. And Florida's not far behind the pack at 11.5 percent.
So when was unemployment last over 10 percent? The early 1980s (hitting highs in November and December 1982) - fast times for joblessness, eh?
Just in case Friday's figures are worse than expected (and if they are, watch out for the double dip recession), here's a list of goodies we could relive from 1982:
January 17:
"Cold Sunday" in the United States sees temperatures fall to their lowest levels in over 100 years in numerous cities.
February
Late Night with David Letterman debuts (hey, not all bad)
March 5:
John Belushi found dead in Bungalow 3 of Chateau Marmont
April:
Falklands War begins: Argentina vs. United Kingdom
May:
The Hacienda, Manchester, UK club, dubbed "the most famous club in the world" by Newsweek, opened its doors
June:
Graceland opens to the public
July:
Lawn Chair Larry flies over California in a homemade flying machine: patio chair + helium balloons; strangely reminiscent of 2009's Balloon Boy; oh, but wait, that was a hoax - Larry was real
August:
Eye of the Tiger (Survivor) and Fame (Irene Cara) are big hits . . . compact discs first produced
September:
Grace Kelly dies
November:
Mr. Maverick (John McCain) first elected to US House of Representatives; end of the early 1980s recession
December:
TIME's Man of the Year: the personal computer
Funny old world.
Here's hoping that we can relive the recovery of 1982-83, but this time without the Survivor soundtrack.
Chances are, it's likely, given that the last two months were down (10.2 percent in October and 10 percent in November). But if you live in some places, it already goes to 11. In November, Michigan again recorded the highest unemployment rate at 14.7 percent, with Rhode Island (12.7 percent), California, Nevada, and South Carolina (all 12.3 percent) nipping at its heels. And Florida's not far behind the pack at 11.5 percent.
So when was unemployment last over 10 percent? The early 1980s (hitting highs in November and December 1982) - fast times for joblessness, eh?
Just in case Friday's figures are worse than expected (and if they are, watch out for the double dip recession), here's a list of goodies we could relive from 1982:
January 17:
"Cold Sunday" in the United States sees temperatures fall to their lowest levels in over 100 years in numerous cities.
February
Late Night with David Letterman debuts (hey, not all bad)
March 5:
John Belushi found dead in Bungalow 3 of Chateau Marmont
April:
Falklands War begins: Argentina vs. United Kingdom
May:
The Hacienda, Manchester, UK club, dubbed "the most famous club in the world" by Newsweek, opened its doors
June:
Graceland opens to the public
July:
Lawn Chair Larry flies over California in a homemade flying machine: patio chair + helium balloons; strangely reminiscent of 2009's Balloon Boy; oh, but wait, that was a hoax - Larry was real
August:
Eye of the Tiger (Survivor) and Fame (Irene Cara) are big hits . . . compact discs first produced
September:
Grace Kelly dies
November:
Mr. Maverick (John McCain) first elected to US House of Representatives; end of the early 1980s recession
December:
TIME's Man of the Year: the personal computer
Funny old world.
Here's hoping that we can relive the recovery of 1982-83, but this time without the Survivor soundtrack.
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