Dr. Leon Funkenheimer of Miami, Florida, has just published a paper on a rare muscle disorder that seems to be tied to the “selfie.” In a study of 100 men and women he has determined that the angle required to take such a photograph and the irregular shape that the hand must take is causing a cramp in the forearm that could result in permanent paralysis.
He first noticed it when trying to interview women sun-bathing on the beach. He originally thought that they were using the age-old method of blocking the sun when talking to someone, but then he recognized that the sun was coming from a different direction yet their arms needed to be in that straight position. So he began an exhaustive study where he asked women to take various photos of themselves in the mirror from different angles and stressed that they needed to be in bikinis because this was, after all, a study in anatomy. After six months and seven thousand, four hundred and fifty two downloads he added men to the study in order to satisfy his colleague’s criticism of the scientific data. So he got fourteen photos of men.
Regardless, the results are interesting. It seems that those individuals that found it essential to take more than three photos per day of themselves were definitely suffering from muscle cramping but the study was not lengthy enough to know if there would be long term damage. The other interesting finding is the somewhat reverse of the stress factor known to affect people’s health, i.e those that seem to think they are “all that” appear to allow those hormones to affect their condition in a strange twisting of the old mother’s warning “your face will freeze like that.”
Obviously Dr. Funkenheimer recognizes that this is still a phenomenon in its infancy and has dedicated the next ten years to the study.
“You’re in a good mood.”
“You know, I was just thinking how easy things used to be. Been here for so long and I have not missed anything. I’ve never taken a selfie.”
“Never sent an email.”
“Never Googled anyone.”
“I second that.”
“And I never was so lazy I used a television remote. All these people with so many remotes they don’t know what each one does.”
“I programmed my kid to think that changing the channels would help him get girls.”
My codename is Fussy Pants*. I’ve just broken a big case and it has to do with the Nordstrom store in Woodfield Mall, Schaumburg, Illinois. I don’t yet know the reprecussions.
My investigation began while another in my party was paying for an item in the men’s department. It was then that I first noticed the motif for the display. There was a pool table underneath a light that might be found in a pool hall. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Well maybe the fact that the mannequins in stores now have no faces at all and it’s just creepy as all get out. I found that out after I had flirted with one of the ones in the women’s lingerie department for fifteen minutes.
But what really struck me in the display was a rather large Marshall guitar amplifier in front of the pool table. Ok, I thought maybe it’s just a case and there’s no “guts” inside, but upon giving it a slight nudge it belied the fact that it was indeed a real amp or there was a dead body inside. But I’ll leave that theory for one of the thirteen CSI television shows. I’m concerned with the mystery of the use of the musical equipment.
Upon further investigation, meaning I looked around, I saw there were indeed a number of cases that would carry musical instruments, cables, microphones, and other assorted audio equipment. Now here’s where my Spidey sense started to tingle—the display was not made up of guitars and drums being held by the mannequins to associate rock and roll with the fashions being displayed. So what was the point of just those pieces of equipment that would be associated with backstage or the roadies?
And then it dawned on me. The floor designer was in a band! Genius! He, or she, could get the store to foot the bill for all the “boring” equipment a band needs, mainly the ATA cases that carry the equipment as well as a few high priced amplification units. And said designer could convince the store owners that it was trendy, industrial, hip, edgy, or retro— any word delivered with a great amount of arm movement and descriptions of color and the store owner is lulled into a false sense of believing they’ve hired a visionary. And the designer’s band hits the road when the fall collection comes out.
That is unless they want to stick around long enough to incorporate ramen noodles into the new line so they’ve got food to last the whole tour.
*Full disclosure, I have been reading a Dan Brown thriller so I could have written too much into this.
Weekly random thoughts. Since I’m self-employed it’s my version of water cooler talk: no one to talk to so it goes out to cyberspace.
Do you suppose there’s times when chinchillas wish they didn’t have such a cute name?
If spouses were temporarily removed from the institution of marriage and placed in a psychiatric institution, would the divorce rate go down?
They always have the lobster tails displayed so nicely at grocery stores; is there a museum somewhere where the bodies that have given those tails are also on display?
I’ve never gone into a “family restroom” in a store. Are single people allowed? How about same-sex couple families?
I wonder if cut flowers are really squeezing inside trying to will themselves not to look pretty?
I don’t know why puppeteers don’t do something with all the coffee cups that end up with lipstick prints on them—seems like a whole new Caffeine Street just waiting.
Are all the lawn jockeys that were once so popular standing in a group somewhere all smoking because they can’t get any more inappropriate?
Humpty Dumpty must be lying somewhere, a broken man, having to relive that rhyme over and over again.