Thursday digest

- My pal Dave over at the Parking Lot takes issue today with one of the most egregious forms of social sloppiness known to mankind today: shop talk.

I couldn't agree more.

No one cares about your workplace anecdotes. What you do to earn a living is really of no issue to anyone else because you're not that important. And don't throw names into the conversation that I've never heard before assuming I know them, because I don't.

Typical conversations about the workplace (with those who you don't work with) should go like this:

"How's work?"
"Meh. It's up and down, just like anything, you know?"
"Yep, I know."

Or:

"Things OK at work these days?"
"Ah, busy, you know."
"But you're hangin' in there?"
"Yup, hangin' in there. Got no choice, really."
"Yup, ain't that the goddamn truth."
"What can you do, ya know?"
"Yeeep, what can ya do."

And then it's time to move on, because that's all really anyone cares to acknowledge about the daily grind when you get right down to it.

Now, career is a different story. Discussing career issues with a trusted counselor is very rewarding and can deepen friendships and bonds between people, especially men, because careers are a reflection of goals and values. But when it comes to the day-to-day ins and outs of the 40-hour week? We all live it, we all tolerate it to varying degrees, and we all know exactly what is talking about when the ceremonial post-work brewski is referred to as "just a little something to take the edge off".

It's time that we recapture the lost art of knowing when to leave certain mundane topics where they are best dealt with and that's in the hushed tones of the cubicle bitching session or the blue streak of coarse language that often accompanies the post-morning meeting coffee run.

Nowhere else.

Your fellow humans will thank you.

- Now this is truly farcical: Cindy Sheehan is a finalist for the Nobel Peace Prize. In my view, if she wins, she'll be just below Jimmy Carter and right above Yasser Arafat on the list of worst recipients ever.

- Have you ever seen a review of something that is designed to make you hate the item being reviewed it but in actuality makes you want to consume it?

For instance, older Hammerheads will be able to think back to the mid-1970s when some horn-rimmed Birkenstock wearing college drop-out from Greenwich writing for the Village Voice went to see KISS at MSG and complained that there was too much pyro and not enough Joan Baez-like introspection.

You know the type.

As if you didn't want to get down there and snap up a pair of tix for your zit-faced, 14-year old, rollerskating ass after reading that.

I have the same feeling about this.