This holiday season I’d like to share with you a few of my not-so-closely-guarded secrets to happiness. They’re not all that earth-shattering, but they do make sense. At least to me they do.
1.) Stay regular – constipation is a sure way to have a bad day. Gotta keep the pipes clean. I recommend a weekly cup of senna tea to flush out the exhaust and keep the engine running smoothly.
2.) Make time for yourself EVERY DAY. Even if it’s just a half hour right before bed (wink), make sure you’ve got a little time every day to do the things you enjoy. Read, do a crossword puzzle, take a bath, watch your favorite television program, go for a jog. Whatever it is you enjoy, set aside time for it and stick to the plan. Tell people “no” if you have to. You can’t very well be expected to please everyone else in your life if you can’t make yourself happy first. That's why clowns are so miserable. Didn't you know?
3.) Hang out with people you like. There are a lot of people in this world. Find the ones you get along with…the ones whose company you enjoy. The ones who make you laugh. The ones you feel comfortable with. These are your friends. Friends are like medicine when you’re sick, and multi-vitamins when you’re not.
4.) Love the people you don’t like. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m serious. Life’s too short to spend any time at all pissed off at people – especially people you know aren’t going to change. We all know people who spend their lives questioning the intentions and cursing the actions of others. What a miserably unconstructive way to spend the day! We’ve all got our faults, so accepting one another for the horrible creatures we are makes all the petty bullshit that much more bearable. Trust me. If something or someone rubs you the wrong way, the healthiest thing you can do is shrug it off. As a beloved, pot-smoking college roommate of mine used to say, “Acknowledge…and move on.” It’s a philosophy on life that’s as simple to remember as it is hard to live by.
5.) Accomplish something. Few things give us that sense of self-worth as when we actually FINISH something we started. It doesn’t have to be your life’s masterpiece. It just has to be something you started. Read a book someone recommends, even if it’s not something you’d normally read. Make that trip you’ve been promising someone you’d make (that’s what I’m doing next week!). Make a doctor’s appointment. Shave your head once and for all. Try sushi. Make up your mind to do something and do it. You'll feel sweet.
Enjoy your holidays - we'll be in touch soon...
AYNtK
Thursday, December 21, 2006
HOLIDAY FEAST
Just a friendly reminder that it's okay to pass on second helpings. Eat well this holiday season...just not too well.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
A HIT-AND-RUN CHRISTMAS
I got back from my trip to San Francisco last week in one piece to find that I could not say the same for my car.
I’d parked it on a side street outside of Geri’s place prior to leaving town on business, and while I was gone, some assclown clipped the rear driver-side quarter panel pretty good and drove off.
Was there a note? Please. Is there ever a note? Of course not. Who would leave a note unless they’d been caught red-handed?
Official estimates place the damage somewhere in the neighborhood of $1700. The good news is that I pay insurance for these types of things. The bad news is that I like to keep my insurance premiums low each month, which means a higher deductible – in this case $1,000. That’s out-of-pocket cost to me before the insurance company will even think about getting their checkbook out.
There’s never a good time for something like this to happen, but the holidays have got to be the worst time. In addition to the normal hustle and bustle of the season, the gift buying and wrapping, shopping, unbearably cold weather and unbearably slow traffic, now I have to deal with a fucking hole in the rear end of my car. A hole that, I discovered almost immediately, had been left by one of the neighbors – a maroon van always parks on the same street.
Needless to say, I marched right down to the police station to let them know I’d been the victim of a hit-and-run accident. I filled out a police report and asked them what I needed to do. I did not like what I heard next.
The way I understand it, as explained by the friendly folks at Belmont and Western (Precinct 19), is that anybody can drive around the city hitting anybody they want to and unless someone actually SEES it happen, it didn't really happen. Never mind all of the circumstantial evidence, physical evidence, and common sense evidence. Such as? Let’s see here. The van was witnessed as parked right behind my car on the morning the accident happened. That same afternoon it was parked on the other side of the street, and a huge gash bearing the van's paint color suddenly appeared on my car, which had not moved one inch. Further, the gash was the exact same size and shape as a hinge on the side of the van, which now appears to bear the same silver paint color that is missing from MY car! I didn’t have to call Matlock for help on this one.
But because no one actually SAW it happen, the police said they couldn’t do anything about it – a policy perhaps best summed up as “complete and utter bullshit.” They could do something about it if they wanted to. They could come inspect the damage and confront the driver of the maroon van. If they put just 15 minutes into investigating it, they’d be able to help “serve and protect” the interests of the people they say they serve and protect.
The fact is, they don’t WANT to help me, because they have more important things to be taking care of, like securing the perimeter of the Dunkin Donuts on Ashland and Wellington, and handing out parking citations to the absent-minded, but otherwise law-abiding, folks who don’t put enough change in the meters on Southport.
But I’m not that easily put off. We’re talking about $1000 here. That’s a lot of kick ass Christmas gifts for the people I love.
So I sat down and wrote a letter to the owner of the van – a letter I plan to leave on the windshield of his broken down piece of crap vehicle the next time I spy it riding curbside on west Oakdale. The letter even includes photographs of the damage, as well as the number of the police report I filed implicating his van in a hit-and-run accident.
I close the letter with my phone number and an appeal for him to call me with his insurance information so I don't have to pursue criminal charges. The idea is to let him know that *I* know he hit me…and hope better sense prevails (if not the fear of prosecution).
So we'll see what happens. He could just ignore it or call me up and tell me to fuck off, in which case I'm no worse off than I am now. Or he might just play ball and I'll have saved myself a grand.
Here’s the letter and some photos for your files. I’ll keep you posted on this friendly neighborhood quarrel as it unfolds.
**********************
December 20, 2006
Re: Illinois license plate #1122136
Dear Neighbor,
This vehicle was recently identified as having been involved in a hit-and-run accident at the west end of the 1900 block of west Oakdale.
On Wednesday, December 13th, 2006, the vehicle was parked on the north side of the west-bound, one-way street behind a silver sedan. Preliminary forensic evidence, including photographs, paint samples, and other metrics have revealed that the silver vehicle incurred damage between the daylight hours of 9:30 am and 3pm, and that the damage was sustained by this vehicle as it was moved into or out of a parallel parked space.
This letter has been drafted as a courtesy to let the owner of this vehicle know that a police report has been filed with the Chicago Police Department (RD# HM-774156) and an investigation into this incident will be forthcoming.
As you may be aware, hit-and-run offenses are felonies that can carry substantial penalties. Since a note was not recovered from the crime scene, you are encouraged to call me at [312.NUMBER] regarding this accident to prevent criminal charges from being filed.
We believe this is a matter best settled by insurance companies, and your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
AYNtK
Neighborhood Watch
I’d parked it on a side street outside of Geri’s place prior to leaving town on business, and while I was gone, some assclown clipped the rear driver-side quarter panel pretty good and drove off.
Was there a note? Please. Is there ever a note? Of course not. Who would leave a note unless they’d been caught red-handed?
Official estimates place the damage somewhere in the neighborhood of $1700. The good news is that I pay insurance for these types of things. The bad news is that I like to keep my insurance premiums low each month, which means a higher deductible – in this case $1,000. That’s out-of-pocket cost to me before the insurance company will even think about getting their checkbook out.
There’s never a good time for something like this to happen, but the holidays have got to be the worst time. In addition to the normal hustle and bustle of the season, the gift buying and wrapping, shopping, unbearably cold weather and unbearably slow traffic, now I have to deal with a fucking hole in the rear end of my car. A hole that, I discovered almost immediately, had been left by one of the neighbors – a maroon van always parks on the same street.
Needless to say, I marched right down to the police station to let them know I’d been the victim of a hit-and-run accident. I filled out a police report and asked them what I needed to do. I did not like what I heard next.
The way I understand it, as explained by the friendly folks at Belmont and Western (Precinct 19), is that anybody can drive around the city hitting anybody they want to and unless someone actually SEES it happen, it didn't really happen. Never mind all of the circumstantial evidence, physical evidence, and common sense evidence. Such as? Let’s see here. The van was witnessed as parked right behind my car on the morning the accident happened. That same afternoon it was parked on the other side of the street, and a huge gash bearing the van's paint color suddenly appeared on my car, which had not moved one inch. Further, the gash was the exact same size and shape as a hinge on the side of the van, which now appears to bear the same silver paint color that is missing from MY car! I didn’t have to call Matlock for help on this one.
But because no one actually SAW it happen, the police said they couldn’t do anything about it – a policy perhaps best summed up as “complete and utter bullshit.” They could do something about it if they wanted to. They could come inspect the damage and confront the driver of the maroon van. If they put just 15 minutes into investigating it, they’d be able to help “serve and protect” the interests of the people they say they serve and protect.
The fact is, they don’t WANT to help me, because they have more important things to be taking care of, like securing the perimeter of the Dunkin Donuts on Ashland and Wellington, and handing out parking citations to the absent-minded, but otherwise law-abiding, folks who don’t put enough change in the meters on Southport.
But I’m not that easily put off. We’re talking about $1000 here. That’s a lot of kick ass Christmas gifts for the people I love.
So I sat down and wrote a letter to the owner of the van – a letter I plan to leave on the windshield of his broken down piece of crap vehicle the next time I spy it riding curbside on west Oakdale. The letter even includes photographs of the damage, as well as the number of the police report I filed implicating his van in a hit-and-run accident.
I close the letter with my phone number and an appeal for him to call me with his insurance information so I don't have to pursue criminal charges. The idea is to let him know that *I* know he hit me…and hope better sense prevails (if not the fear of prosecution).
So we'll see what happens. He could just ignore it or call me up and tell me to fuck off, in which case I'm no worse off than I am now. Or he might just play ball and I'll have saved myself a grand.
Here’s the letter and some photos for your files. I’ll keep you posted on this friendly neighborhood quarrel as it unfolds.
**********************
December 20, 2006
Re: Illinois license plate #1122136
Dear Neighbor,
This vehicle was recently identified as having been involved in a hit-and-run accident at the west end of the 1900 block of west Oakdale.
On Wednesday, December 13th, 2006, the vehicle was parked on the north side of the west-bound, one-way street behind a silver sedan. Preliminary forensic evidence, including photographs, paint samples, and other metrics have revealed that the silver vehicle incurred damage between the daylight hours of 9:30 am and 3pm, and that the damage was sustained by this vehicle as it was moved into or out of a parallel parked space.
This letter has been drafted as a courtesy to let the owner of this vehicle know that a police report has been filed with the Chicago Police Department (RD# HM-774156) and an investigation into this incident will be forthcoming.
As you may be aware, hit-and-run offenses are felonies that can carry substantial penalties. Since a note was not recovered from the crime scene, you are encouraged to call me at [312.NUMBER] regarding this accident to prevent criminal charges from being filed.
We believe this is a matter best settled by insurance companies, and your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
AYNtK
Neighborhood Watch
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
TURBULENCE
Today I write you from not-so-sunny California. Traveling on business, I had about an hour to relax in my hotel room before heading out for another meeting. After treating myself to myself, I now find I have 54 minutes left to play with.
So yeah - traveling on biz. Not my bag, really. Being successful in business, no matter what you do, is all about relationships. Unfortunately, I tend to be more on cthe introverted side until I've got about three martinis in me. In other words, not very good at small talk. I'm more of a typer than a talker. If business meetings involved people sitting around texting clever comments back and forth, I'd probably have a shot at the cover of Forbes. But sit me down with clients over a relaxing dim sum lunch and I've got about as much to say as Paris Hilton. But my boss says I sell myself short - that I'm actually quite good with people, who tend to like me because I come off as genuine. And so many people in business are anything but.
I suppose that's why I'm here today. Meeting clients. Shaking hands. Smiling. Nodding. Laughing. Providing punchlines where awkward pauses paralyze uneasy conversation. I'm a social favor. A reliable sidekick. An able crutch.
Before we departed from O'Hare yesterday, I must admit I had my reservations about this journey. First off, it involved getting on a plane - which, as you know, I don't do very often. Second, there were some very clear signs from the heavens that this mission might not be in my best interest. Like when my boss's boyfriend picked us up to take us to the airport. We walked up to the car to get in and the back passenger side door was locked. So I tapped on the window to get their attention. The car slowly pulled away from me and rolled down the street. I stood there in the middle of the street with my bags wondering how far they would get before realizing they had just left without me. The answer, in case you are curious, is two blocks. I actually got a big kick out of that.
Then as we were preparing to board the airplane, the PA announcer at O'Hare International informs us that the Department of Homeland Security had just raised its threat level to orange. That has to be one of the top 5 things you don't want to hear as you are stepping onto an airplane. Right up there with: "Free samples of baked beans for all passengers."
Speaking of beans, about half way to San Francisco my entire mid section was swollen with gas. For some reason, sitting in that cramped position with a seat belt fastened for hours on end makes my entire gastrointestinal system cramp up. I tried to hold it as long as I could, but eventually couldn't any longer. I let out a "tester" to see how absorbant the cushions were. They tell you in the safety literature to use them as flotation devices should the plane land on water. I figured they must be able to contain a couple of long-winded farts for a couple of hours.
I was wrong, of course, and the plane began to fill with a rapidly spreading, putrid stench. A malodorous wind I actually came to enjoy, to be honest. There's just something about the smell of my own gas that I don't mind so much. You know how it is. Anyhow, the guy next to me leans over and says: "People who pass gas on planes ought to be hung."
Staring directly at the Time magazine in my hands I calmly replied, "Actually...I am."
I don't fly airplanes to make friends - another reason I'd never cut it in sales. Networking is for IT specialists.
But the trip is winding down and I do feel it has been a successful one. I've been in front of a lot of people who can now put my adorable face with my name when we converse via conference call. I'm told it makes a lot of difference in developing strong client-agency relationships. And I believe it. But I'm still not looking forward to the 5 hour flight back.
In fact, I'm getting stomach cramps just thinking about it. You smell me?
So yeah - traveling on biz. Not my bag, really. Being successful in business, no matter what you do, is all about relationships. Unfortunately, I tend to be more on cthe introverted side until I've got about three martinis in me. In other words, not very good at small talk. I'm more of a typer than a talker. If business meetings involved people sitting around texting clever comments back and forth, I'd probably have a shot at the cover of Forbes. But sit me down with clients over a relaxing dim sum lunch and I've got about as much to say as Paris Hilton. But my boss says I sell myself short - that I'm actually quite good with people, who tend to like me because I come off as genuine. And so many people in business are anything but.
I suppose that's why I'm here today. Meeting clients. Shaking hands. Smiling. Nodding. Laughing. Providing punchlines where awkward pauses paralyze uneasy conversation. I'm a social favor. A reliable sidekick. An able crutch.
Before we departed from O'Hare yesterday, I must admit I had my reservations about this journey. First off, it involved getting on a plane - which, as you know, I don't do very often. Second, there were some very clear signs from the heavens that this mission might not be in my best interest. Like when my boss's boyfriend picked us up to take us to the airport. We walked up to the car to get in and the back passenger side door was locked. So I tapped on the window to get their attention. The car slowly pulled away from me and rolled down the street. I stood there in the middle of the street with my bags wondering how far they would get before realizing they had just left without me. The answer, in case you are curious, is two blocks. I actually got a big kick out of that.
Then as we were preparing to board the airplane, the PA announcer at O'Hare International informs us that the Department of Homeland Security had just raised its threat level to orange. That has to be one of the top 5 things you don't want to hear as you are stepping onto an airplane. Right up there with: "Free samples of baked beans for all passengers."
Speaking of beans, about half way to San Francisco my entire mid section was swollen with gas. For some reason, sitting in that cramped position with a seat belt fastened for hours on end makes my entire gastrointestinal system cramp up. I tried to hold it as long as I could, but eventually couldn't any longer. I let out a "tester" to see how absorbant the cushions were. They tell you in the safety literature to use them as flotation devices should the plane land on water. I figured they must be able to contain a couple of long-winded farts for a couple of hours.
I was wrong, of course, and the plane began to fill with a rapidly spreading, putrid stench. A malodorous wind I actually came to enjoy, to be honest. There's just something about the smell of my own gas that I don't mind so much. You know how it is. Anyhow, the guy next to me leans over and says: "People who pass gas on planes ought to be hung."
Staring directly at the Time magazine in my hands I calmly replied, "Actually...I am."
I don't fly airplanes to make friends - another reason I'd never cut it in sales. Networking is for IT specialists.
But the trip is winding down and I do feel it has been a successful one. I've been in front of a lot of people who can now put my adorable face with my name when we converse via conference call. I'm told it makes a lot of difference in developing strong client-agency relationships. And I believe it. But I'm still not looking forward to the 5 hour flight back.
In fact, I'm getting stomach cramps just thinking about it. You smell me?
PHOTOSHOPPING SPREE
Here's a video that may help explain why so many people have a poor self-image. It's called Evolution and you gotta know it goes on all the time.
Friday, December 08, 2006
FUMBLING THE BALL
I've been offline a lot lately.
Working hard. You know how it is.
Taking charge. Running the show. Being all I can be.
Taking it to the streets. Being the ball. Rocking the Casbah.
Breaking Benjamins. Counting Crows. Whistling Dixie. Sitting on the dock of the bay. Kissing the ring. Making the donuts. Burning the midnight oil. Bringing home Kevin's bacon. Jumping the shark. Holding the line. Burying the hatchet. Raising the roof. Lowering the floor. Widening the walls. Expanding the corners. Singing the blues. Running the table. Spilling the beans. Pleading the fifth. Playing the fool. Joining the club. Honing in. Maxing out. Cornering the market. Collecting the rent. Searching for Bobby Fischer. Flying the coop. Paying the piper. Making the grade. Cutting the cheese. Folding the laundry.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've been busy doing other shit. And that means I have a lot to tell you...in due time, of course. Stick with me.
More to come.
Working hard. You know how it is.
Taking charge. Running the show. Being all I can be.
Taking it to the streets. Being the ball. Rocking the Casbah.
Breaking Benjamins. Counting Crows. Whistling Dixie. Sitting on the dock of the bay. Kissing the ring. Making the donuts. Burning the midnight oil. Bringing home Kevin's bacon. Jumping the shark. Holding the line. Burying the hatchet. Raising the roof. Lowering the floor. Widening the walls. Expanding the corners. Singing the blues. Running the table. Spilling the beans. Pleading the fifth. Playing the fool. Joining the club. Honing in. Maxing out. Cornering the market. Collecting the rent. Searching for Bobby Fischer. Flying the coop. Paying the piper. Making the grade. Cutting the cheese. Folding the laundry.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've been busy doing other shit. And that means I have a lot to tell you...in due time, of course. Stick with me.
More to come.
HAVE YOU EVER REALLY TAKEN A DUMP?
The phrase confuses me. I've left more than my share of dumps over the years, but I've never once so much as contemplated, for even a second, taking one. Where would I take it? And what would I do with it when I get it there? Sorry. I'm perfectly content leaving my dumps...wherever they may fall.
Good day!
Good day!
HOLIDAY TRADITIONS VIA SPAM
Here's a little humor that was sent to me this week from Hawaii Steve-O. In addition to a prosaic stream of porno bloopers and pin-up powerpoint presentations (most of which I know to delete without opening by scanning their filename), he's also good for something fun every once in a while - like this dandy tale.
It's a story explaining why we place an angel atop the Christmas tree every year. If you've ever wondered about that tradition, here's a little history by way of viral online storytelling.
************
When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.
Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth (Dasher, no doubt) and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where. More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.
When he went to the cupboard he discovered that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink.
In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor.
He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw end of the broom. Just then the doorbell rang, and a very irritable Santa trudged to the door. He opened it and there was a little angel standing there holding a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to put it?"
*****************
It's a story explaining why we place an angel atop the Christmas tree every year. If you've ever wondered about that tradition, here's a little history by way of viral online storytelling.
************
When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.
Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth (Dasher, no doubt) and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where. More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.
When he went to the cupboard he discovered that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink.
In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor.
He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw end of the broom. Just then the doorbell rang, and a very irritable Santa trudged to the door. He opened it and there was a little angel standing there holding a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to put it?"
*****************
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
SNOW DAZE
Amazing how a little snow brings out the best in people. In case you couldn't pick up on the tone there, that was sacrasm. As you probably know, the midwest is getting hammered by its first big snowstorm of the season and, predictably, people are losing their minds. Most of it has to do with getting around...and the fact that you can't really get around. At least not with the ease you normally would - which is a joke in itself considering congestion on the roads these days.
This morning I woke up and looked out my 20th floor window at the Chicago skyline. It was shrouded in a white haze, like someone had just shook up our snowglobe and set it back down on the table. As I type this from the comfort of my desk, I watch the flurries turn to flakes, crisscrossing in mid air in their relentless assault on everything glass, concrete, and steel. Surprisingly, my drive in to the office was uneventful. Took me a few extra minutes to make the drive - so around 20 minutes instead of the typical 15...and only because I was driving slower than I normally drive (which many would consider slow to begin with). Even though the roads were relatively clear, I couldn't help but detect drivers were on edge. I heard a lot more car horns. I saw people making ill-advised decisions. A guy turning from the 90/94 off-ramp onto Lake Street nudged a pedestrian, who slammed his fist on the hood as he walked by. The window of the vehicle rolled down and some words were exchanged. It was not a pleasant morning commute.
And then what happens is that everyone shows up to work grumpy. Instead of everyone being thrilled that it's Friday, people are frustrated and anxious and tense. The snow is calming to watch - but if you have to deal with it in any fashion, it can be quite stressful. I parked in the garage across the street from my office this morning - which I never do. I figured it was worth the $9 to keep the car dry and off the street...and to guarantee A.) it wouldn't get snowed in, and B.) it would start at 5pm when I leave.
And so here I sit. Watching the snow fall. Barely able to see the buildings across the street for this veil of streaming cotton. Wondering how long it will take me to get home tonight. But I accept it as something I can't change - and why would I want to? Snow is part of the beauty of life. Weather is a big part of the human experience. We give it a huge chunk of time on the nightly news. We allocate space on the back pages of newspapers. We discuss it with strangers when nothing else comes to mind. Climate is something people of a region have in common - it should bring us closer together, not whip us into a blustery frenzy. Snow is our common enemy today. a beautiful, majestic foe with billions of tentacles. But she can be defeated - if we arm ourselves with peace, love, and Gap.
Damn, that commercial is stuck in my head.
Shit break.
This morning I woke up and looked out my 20th floor window at the Chicago skyline. It was shrouded in a white haze, like someone had just shook up our snowglobe and set it back down on the table. As I type this from the comfort of my desk, I watch the flurries turn to flakes, crisscrossing in mid air in their relentless assault on everything glass, concrete, and steel. Surprisingly, my drive in to the office was uneventful. Took me a few extra minutes to make the drive - so around 20 minutes instead of the typical 15...and only because I was driving slower than I normally drive (which many would consider slow to begin with). Even though the roads were relatively clear, I couldn't help but detect drivers were on edge. I heard a lot more car horns. I saw people making ill-advised decisions. A guy turning from the 90/94 off-ramp onto Lake Street nudged a pedestrian, who slammed his fist on the hood as he walked by. The window of the vehicle rolled down and some words were exchanged. It was not a pleasant morning commute.
And then what happens is that everyone shows up to work grumpy. Instead of everyone being thrilled that it's Friday, people are frustrated and anxious and tense. The snow is calming to watch - but if you have to deal with it in any fashion, it can be quite stressful. I parked in the garage across the street from my office this morning - which I never do. I figured it was worth the $9 to keep the car dry and off the street...and to guarantee A.) it wouldn't get snowed in, and B.) it would start at 5pm when I leave.
And so here I sit. Watching the snow fall. Barely able to see the buildings across the street for this veil of streaming cotton. Wondering how long it will take me to get home tonight. But I accept it as something I can't change - and why would I want to? Snow is part of the beauty of life. Weather is a big part of the human experience. We give it a huge chunk of time on the nightly news. We allocate space on the back pages of newspapers. We discuss it with strangers when nothing else comes to mind. Climate is something people of a region have in common - it should bring us closer together, not whip us into a blustery frenzy. Snow is our common enemy today. a beautiful, majestic foe with billions of tentacles. But she can be defeated - if we arm ourselves with peace, love, and Gap.
Damn, that commercial is stuck in my head.
Shit break.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
GET IN LINE
Torn up over which game console to buy for your kids this holiday season? Check out this handy guide provided by the folks at the Onion.
A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR
Everyone's entitled to a cranky day. I know I have my share of them. Even the 6-year-old H-Man will wake up in a funk from time to time, as he did this morning. I remember flopping about in my sheets on school mornings, dreading the thought of a long day in class. The shortened days of November have a way of depressing even the most cheerful of children. It's hard to get excited when it's cold, dark, and gray outside. Getting the H-man motivated was going to require a heavy dose of good cheer.
"I think you're going to want to get up soon, do you know why?" I asked him.
"Why?" he asked from beneath the comfort of a heavy pillow.
"Because today is going to be the best day ever."
"No it's not," he rebutted, as though the suggestion were another one of my ludicrous overstatements. Anyone who's read AYNtK for any length of time is familiar.
"Yes, it is. I just know it is."
"Today is going to be the worstest day," he shot back.
"That's not even a word!" Geri shouted out from the closet.
"Actually, H. Today is supposed to be the bestest day," I said in his native firstgradese.
He rolled over, getting the sense that I just might be serious.
"It's true," I continued. "And the reason is because of all the great things that could happen today. I have no idea what they are, but there are tons and tons of great things just waiting to happen. Stuff I can't even imagine, they're so good. And I need to be out there to enjoy them all. I'll tell you what. I'M excited about today because something very fun is going to happen. I can feel it. Yep. Today could be the best day ever - and I am not going to miss it." I slapped the edge of the mattress a couple of times and walked off confidently.
Three minutes later the H-Man was in the shower.
And now, as I sit here at work, I find myself hoping nothing bad happens to the little guy today or he'll never believe another word I say for as long has he lives.
"I think you're going to want to get up soon, do you know why?" I asked him.
"Why?" he asked from beneath the comfort of a heavy pillow.
"Because today is going to be the best day ever."
"No it's not," he rebutted, as though the suggestion were another one of my ludicrous overstatements. Anyone who's read AYNtK for any length of time is familiar.
"Yes, it is. I just know it is."
"Today is going to be the worstest day," he shot back.
"That's not even a word!" Geri shouted out from the closet.
"Actually, H. Today is supposed to be the bestest day," I said in his native firstgradese.
He rolled over, getting the sense that I just might be serious.
"It's true," I continued. "And the reason is because of all the great things that could happen today. I have no idea what they are, but there are tons and tons of great things just waiting to happen. Stuff I can't even imagine, they're so good. And I need to be out there to enjoy them all. I'll tell you what. I'M excited about today because something very fun is going to happen. I can feel it. Yep. Today could be the best day ever - and I am not going to miss it." I slapped the edge of the mattress a couple of times and walked off confidently.
Three minutes later the H-Man was in the shower.
And now, as I sit here at work, I find myself hoping nothing bad happens to the little guy today or he'll never believe another word I say for as long has he lives.
Monday, November 20, 2006
KRAMER JUMPS THE SHARK
Wow. This is really bad. Michael Richards, the frizzy-haired comic actor who played Kramer on Seinfeld, was caught on tape making a complete ass out of himself.
On stage.
Apparently, he was getting heckled by a couple guys at a recent stand-up comedy show at the Laugh Factory when he completely lost all control and made a number of incredibly insensitive racial comments about the hecklers.
I personally think heckling sucks, but it doesn't sink to this level.
Be warned, the link is vulgar in its depiction of Michael Richards ceremoniously ending his own career. Click on the movie link to view the whole thing yourself. I hope he made a call to Mel Gibson's publicist after this shocking performance, because he's going to need a PR miracle to survive this Apocalytpo stumble.
On stage.
Apparently, he was getting heckled by a couple guys at a recent stand-up comedy show at the Laugh Factory when he completely lost all control and made a number of incredibly insensitive racial comments about the hecklers.
I personally think heckling sucks, but it doesn't sink to this level.
Be warned, the link is vulgar in its depiction of Michael Richards ceremoniously ending his own career. Click on the movie link to view the whole thing yourself. I hope he made a call to Mel Gibson's publicist after this shocking performance, because he's going to need a PR miracle to survive this Apocalytpo stumble.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
MILLIONS OF PEOPLE LIVING AS FOES
Here's something that breaks my heart.
We were at Barnes & Noble Bookseller yesterday afternoon, browsing for Christmas gift inspiration, when we decided to stop in their second floor cafe for a gingerbread latte. As we waited for the barista to whip up our seasonal specialty beverages, we pulled up chairs at a nearby table. At the table behind us, three young boys were talking to each other while one of their mothers read quietly beside them.
"Yeah, I know. We're ALL going to go to war."
"Yeah, like, in 10 years it's going to be World War 3."
"I know. I'm going to be 19. We're going to have to go to war."
"I heard World War 3 is already started, but we won't have to go for 10 years."
"Yeah. It's started already. But the real world war won't be for 10 years."
As we got up to get our warm spiced coffee drinks, I suddenly felt terribly depressed. "Did you hear that?" I asked. "Those kids were talking about going to war. They were NINE years old and talking about World War 3."
It was startling, and made me wonder what kind of world we had created - that war was the expectation of our nation's youth. And not just any old war, but the mother of all wars...global smackdown numero tres.
I wasn't worried about going to war when I was a kid. We had the evil Russians to fear, not war. War back then was a handful of mysterious men in smoke-filled rooms without windows, pushing big red buttons and bringing armageddon to places thousands of miles away. It was a fear we couldn't imagine, so we didn't imagine it. We played Frogger and Pitfall and spun around on broken down cardboard boxes to people rhymically making fart sounds with their mouths. The human beatbox age was a simpler time.
But today's kids see news reports every day of American soldiers dying in a faraway place. They have family members, or friends with family members, serving extended tours of duty in the Middle East. And what are we telling our kids when they ask why we're at war? Do we tell them the truth? Or do we tell them what George Bush tells us because the Administration's soundbytes are hardwired into our polluted stream of consciousness? Do we reflexively demonize the nation of Islam? Do we define them all as "terrorists"? Do we say, "Because they hate us"? Or do we take the time to explain to our kids the way of the world - detailing our complex cultural differences, outlining our very different histories, and making an attempt to tell both sides of the story. They don't hate our people, kids. They hate our policies. There's a difference. They don't hate our way of life. They hate that our way of life is sustained at the expense of theirs. The responsibility for our current conflict is shared, depsite what you may hear from the righteous brothers at arms.
How do we raise our children so they don't make the same mistakes we've made? I don't quote Ozzy Osbourne very often - not because he isn't quoteworthy, but because his exact words are usually subject to great debate - but "maybe it's not too late...to learn how to love and forget how to hate."
The alternative may be exactly as those precocious 9-year-olds put it.
We'll be going off the rails on a crazy train.
We were at Barnes & Noble Bookseller yesterday afternoon, browsing for Christmas gift inspiration, when we decided to stop in their second floor cafe for a gingerbread latte. As we waited for the barista to whip up our seasonal specialty beverages, we pulled up chairs at a nearby table. At the table behind us, three young boys were talking to each other while one of their mothers read quietly beside them.
"Yeah, I know. We're ALL going to go to war."
"Yeah, like, in 10 years it's going to be World War 3."
"I know. I'm going to be 19. We're going to have to go to war."
"I heard World War 3 is already started, but we won't have to go for 10 years."
"Yeah. It's started already. But the real world war won't be for 10 years."
As we got up to get our warm spiced coffee drinks, I suddenly felt terribly depressed. "Did you hear that?" I asked. "Those kids were talking about going to war. They were NINE years old and talking about World War 3."
It was startling, and made me wonder what kind of world we had created - that war was the expectation of our nation's youth. And not just any old war, but the mother of all wars...global smackdown numero tres.
I wasn't worried about going to war when I was a kid. We had the evil Russians to fear, not war. War back then was a handful of mysterious men in smoke-filled rooms without windows, pushing big red buttons and bringing armageddon to places thousands of miles away. It was a fear we couldn't imagine, so we didn't imagine it. We played Frogger and Pitfall and spun around on broken down cardboard boxes to people rhymically making fart sounds with their mouths. The human beatbox age was a simpler time.
But today's kids see news reports every day of American soldiers dying in a faraway place. They have family members, or friends with family members, serving extended tours of duty in the Middle East. And what are we telling our kids when they ask why we're at war? Do we tell them the truth? Or do we tell them what George Bush tells us because the Administration's soundbytes are hardwired into our polluted stream of consciousness? Do we reflexively demonize the nation of Islam? Do we define them all as "terrorists"? Do we say, "Because they hate us"? Or do we take the time to explain to our kids the way of the world - detailing our complex cultural differences, outlining our very different histories, and making an attempt to tell both sides of the story. They don't hate our people, kids. They hate our policies. There's a difference. They don't hate our way of life. They hate that our way of life is sustained at the expense of theirs. The responsibility for our current conflict is shared, depsite what you may hear from the righteous brothers at arms.
How do we raise our children so they don't make the same mistakes we've made? I don't quote Ozzy Osbourne very often - not because he isn't quoteworthy, but because his exact words are usually subject to great debate - but "maybe it's not too late...to learn how to love and forget how to hate."
The alternative may be exactly as those precocious 9-year-olds put it.
We'll be going off the rails on a crazy train.
THE WONDER YEARS
FYI - the world is in the process of selecting a new list of 7 World Wonders, and you can vote for your favorites here.
Some of the structures that made the list baffle me. The Eiffel Tower? One of the 7 Wonders of the World? I don't think so. Even the Parisians thought it hideous when it was first constructed. Others on the list make complete sense. Stonehenge. Easter Island. Truly magnificent "wonders" that defy explanation and instill us with a sense of awe.
A large number of contenders are up for consideration, and the world wants your opinion. Which was a greater world wonder - the Great Wall of China or the Eiffel Tower? No question in my mind that the largest man-made monument on the planet nabs that honor...but you may not see it that way. Read the short blurbs on all of the nominees (there are a bunch I personally wasn't even aware of) and then cast your vote today!
Some of the structures that made the list baffle me. The Eiffel Tower? One of the 7 Wonders of the World? I don't think so. Even the Parisians thought it hideous when it was first constructed. Others on the list make complete sense. Stonehenge. Easter Island. Truly magnificent "wonders" that defy explanation and instill us with a sense of awe.
A large number of contenders are up for consideration, and the world wants your opinion. Which was a greater world wonder - the Great Wall of China or the Eiffel Tower? No question in my mind that the largest man-made monument on the planet nabs that honor...but you may not see it that way. Read the short blurbs on all of the nominees (there are a bunch I personally wasn't even aware of) and then cast your vote today!
Saturday, November 18, 2006
ESPN Motion Sickness
I need to vent.
Is there anyway to disable that stupid-ass ESPN Motion player on the espn.com homepage?
You know what I'm talking about - that little video screen in the upper right hand corner of the page they use to replay sports clips and commercials they presume I am interested in watching. I'm not.
I don't want it. I don't use it. I don't like it. Every time I visit that site, I get down to the third or fourth headline and the stupid player kicks in. It's distracting. It's annoying. Sometimes it's very loud. I hate it. And I immediately have to go up and click on the stop button to make the madness end.
I like to be in control my browsing expoerience, and ESPN won't let me. They keep forcing that audio/vidio shit down my throat. I'd boycott the site if it weren't the gold standard in sports news. Looks like I'm stuck with it. Just wish they'd let me OPT IN to the movie player instead of forcing me to opt out every single time.
Give me a dramamine - I've got ESPNMotion Sickness.
Is there anyway to disable that stupid-ass ESPN Motion player on the espn.com homepage?
You know what I'm talking about - that little video screen in the upper right hand corner of the page they use to replay sports clips and commercials they presume I am interested in watching. I'm not.
I don't want it. I don't use it. I don't like it. Every time I visit that site, I get down to the third or fourth headline and the stupid player kicks in. It's distracting. It's annoying. Sometimes it's very loud. I hate it. And I immediately have to go up and click on the stop button to make the madness end.
I like to be in control my browsing expoerience, and ESPN won't let me. They keep forcing that audio/vidio shit down my throat. I'd boycott the site if it weren't the gold standard in sports news. Looks like I'm stuck with it. Just wish they'd let me OPT IN to the movie player instead of forcing me to opt out every single time.
Give me a dramamine - I've got ESPNMotion Sickness.
Friday, November 17, 2006
AM RADIOACTIVE
I was headed to the Bears game with my dad last month and, stuck in traffic en route to Soldier Field, we tuned in to some pre-game AM talk radio to get us fired up in advance of kick-off. The analysts and broadcasters were mercilessly criticizing someone's performance from the week prior, drilling down to the minutest details in offering explanations for why that player was under-delivering on the field. As the headless talking heads went back and forth, my dad offered up some food for thought.
"Imagine," he said, "if there were people in this world whose jobs were to analyze and criticize your work performance every day."
"Right," I said, catching his drift immediately. "And they'd question your salary, and your work ethic, and your desire. Every single day."
"Exactly. And then they'd do it over the radio so that millions of people could hear about how you messed up. And how you should have done something differently. And how you're not trying hard enough. Imagine being under the microscope like that."
It all seemed kind of absurd when we thought about it. These sports radio guys get paid to pick apart player performances day in and day out. They question absolutely everything. They orchestrate call-in programs where fans can get in on the bashing. They openly discuss details considered private in most employment agreements, like medical information and salaries. And they're constantly stirring up controversy by questioning commitment, dedication, intentions, and motivation. And, in many ways, high-profile sports figures are demonized by members of the media who don't know them personally - but who presume to for the sake of making a point.
Many of these folks say it comes with the territory - that professional sports figures are fair game because they're in the public eye. And because they make a LOT of money.
Then I imagined how I would feel if I turned on the radio this evening on my way home from work and heard people talking about ME.
"...that's exactly what I'm talking about, Mike. He clearly lacks focus. Let's go back to the conference call he had this morning. Completely unprepared. Hardly said a word. Mentally absent."
"No, you're right. But maybe that's because he's just not ready yet. He's too young."
"Too young? He's not a rookie anymore. By now, this kid needs to know how to handle a simple client call."
"But even the best have bad days. He's still learning the ropes. And let's give that conference call some props - those clients threw some real zingers at him today. Estimates? Schedules? I can guarantee you he wasn't prepared to handle those. Whose fault is that? The director."
"I agree. But he's got to have better instincts when he's under the gun. Period. But aside from the conference call. That's just one example. I'm talking about a pattern of behavior here that forces us to have to ask the question - maybe there's someone better out there. Maybe the agency should consider waiving him and re-staffing that position with some more proven talent."
"It always comes back to this. Keep him. Get rid of him. I still think he's going to be spectacular one day."
"One day, yes. But when? And how long is this agency willing to sit on his potential. He spends half his morning checking fantasy sports online. He spends another hour every day checking personal e-mail. And then there are the long coffee breaks. This is a guy who doesn't have the passion that is required to become great. Tons of natural talent - but no motivation."
"Well, we disagree again. Although I think he's overpaid, too. I'll agree with you there. They spent a ton of green when they went out and nabbed this guy. Signed him to a lucrative deal and have yet to see the investment pay off."
"Unless they figure out a way to bill clients for trips to the coffee machine."
"Right. That's right. Although he'll tell you he needs it to take his morning dump. Okay. Let's take a break. But when we come back we want to know what YOU think about AYNtK. Revenue-raising star or water cooler bust? We'll talk about the day he came in late because he couldn't find parking, the long lunch he had last Friday, his bad breath, and more. Stay tuned!"
"Oh man, the breath. That alone is grounds for dismissal. We'll be right back."
And then I'd flip the station and there'd be two more jackasses talking about me.
"What was with that sweater he wore to work yesterday? Did you see that?"
"It wasn't the sweater so much as it was the pants. I've never seen such a random dresser in my life. Different colors, styles, patterns. It's like he's dressing out of one of those Salvation Army bins behind the grocery store."
"Did you hear what his co-worker said about his breath the other day?"
OFF.
Most of these sports dudes are pretty tough to begin with, but they must have skin of steel to deal with some of the crap these motormouths are belching out during the morning drive. I don't know how they do it - but I'm glad I don't have to deal with that kind of public criticism.
Anyone have a breath mint?
"Imagine," he said, "if there were people in this world whose jobs were to analyze and criticize your work performance every day."
"Right," I said, catching his drift immediately. "And they'd question your salary, and your work ethic, and your desire. Every single day."
"Exactly. And then they'd do it over the radio so that millions of people could hear about how you messed up. And how you should have done something differently. And how you're not trying hard enough. Imagine being under the microscope like that."
It all seemed kind of absurd when we thought about it. These sports radio guys get paid to pick apart player performances day in and day out. They question absolutely everything. They orchestrate call-in programs where fans can get in on the bashing. They openly discuss details considered private in most employment agreements, like medical information and salaries. And they're constantly stirring up controversy by questioning commitment, dedication, intentions, and motivation. And, in many ways, high-profile sports figures are demonized by members of the media who don't know them personally - but who presume to for the sake of making a point.
Many of these folks say it comes with the territory - that professional sports figures are fair game because they're in the public eye. And because they make a LOT of money.
Then I imagined how I would feel if I turned on the radio this evening on my way home from work and heard people talking about ME.
"...that's exactly what I'm talking about, Mike. He clearly lacks focus. Let's go back to the conference call he had this morning. Completely unprepared. Hardly said a word. Mentally absent."
"No, you're right. But maybe that's because he's just not ready yet. He's too young."
"Too young? He's not a rookie anymore. By now, this kid needs to know how to handle a simple client call."
"But even the best have bad days. He's still learning the ropes. And let's give that conference call some props - those clients threw some real zingers at him today. Estimates? Schedules? I can guarantee you he wasn't prepared to handle those. Whose fault is that? The director."
"I agree. But he's got to have better instincts when he's under the gun. Period. But aside from the conference call. That's just one example. I'm talking about a pattern of behavior here that forces us to have to ask the question - maybe there's someone better out there. Maybe the agency should consider waiving him and re-staffing that position with some more proven talent."
"It always comes back to this. Keep him. Get rid of him. I still think he's going to be spectacular one day."
"One day, yes. But when? And how long is this agency willing to sit on his potential. He spends half his morning checking fantasy sports online. He spends another hour every day checking personal e-mail. And then there are the long coffee breaks. This is a guy who doesn't have the passion that is required to become great. Tons of natural talent - but no motivation."
"Well, we disagree again. Although I think he's overpaid, too. I'll agree with you there. They spent a ton of green when they went out and nabbed this guy. Signed him to a lucrative deal and have yet to see the investment pay off."
"Unless they figure out a way to bill clients for trips to the coffee machine."
"Right. That's right. Although he'll tell you he needs it to take his morning dump. Okay. Let's take a break. But when we come back we want to know what YOU think about AYNtK. Revenue-raising star or water cooler bust? We'll talk about the day he came in late because he couldn't find parking, the long lunch he had last Friday, his bad breath, and more. Stay tuned!"
"Oh man, the breath. That alone is grounds for dismissal. We'll be right back."
And then I'd flip the station and there'd be two more jackasses talking about me.
"What was with that sweater he wore to work yesterday? Did you see that?"
"It wasn't the sweater so much as it was the pants. I've never seen such a random dresser in my life. Different colors, styles, patterns. It's like he's dressing out of one of those Salvation Army bins behind the grocery store."
"Did you hear what his co-worker said about his breath the other day?"
OFF.
Most of these sports dudes are pretty tough to begin with, but they must have skin of steel to deal with some of the crap these motormouths are belching out during the morning drive. I don't know how they do it - but I'm glad I don't have to deal with that kind of public criticism.
Anyone have a breath mint?
HO HO HO AND A BOTTLE OF CISCO
Pirate Brad sent me this link as explanation for his walking the porcelain plank at our Halloween Party a couple weeks ago. It does seem to explain a lot. Not the site itself, but the fact that Pirate Brad says it's one of his favorites.
The Night Train is leaving the station...all aboard! This link is actually a pretty good resource for college kids looking to drink on a dime. And busy professionals. The only "bumwine" I've ever had, that I know of, is Mad Dog 20/20. The name sends a mixed message of sorts. While I was foaming at the mouth by evening's end, my eyesight was no where near 20/20. I'm thinking it ought to be Mad Dog 20/400 or something like that.
The Night Train is leaving the station...all aboard! This link is actually a pretty good resource for college kids looking to drink on a dime. And busy professionals. The only "bumwine" I've ever had, that I know of, is Mad Dog 20/20. The name sends a mixed message of sorts. While I was foaming at the mouth by evening's end, my eyesight was no where near 20/20. I'm thinking it ought to be Mad Dog 20/400 or something like that.
CHOPPER STOPPER
Screw the Playstation 3.
Here's a fun helicopter game that will keep you occupied for hours.
Or at least several minutes.
Here's a fun helicopter game that will keep you occupied for hours.
Or at least several minutes.
INSERT TWO MORE TOKENS TO CONTINUE
I am old. Old and out of touch. I keep seeing these news stories all over the internet about the debut of a new gaming console called the Playstation 3. Apparently there have been long lines across the country, and a number of heated altercations, as people fight to be the first to own one. And here I am, oblivious to this nation's insatiable hunger for cutting-edge electronic entertainment. I just don't understand the hype at all. It's a GAME box - I'm pretty sure Sony is going to be making more of them. Are these collectors editions? What does this demand for hand-eye stimulation come from?
When I was a kid, we had Atari. 2600, baby. And that was a pretty big deal when it first came out. But it was revolutionary because you no longer had to trek out to the J.J. Peppers convenience mart around the corner from the park to play Space Invaders. For the first time you could play arcade games on your television in your home. It was breakthrough technology that shaped the way we live and interact. The medium, as you know, is the message. Instead of gathering in public places every once in a while to share in the gaming experience, people could now enjoy the same games at home on their own. And these machines soon became an appliance staple, like a toaster or a can opener. Every home had one.
Today, a lot of homes have multiple gaming machines, from multiple makers - in addition to personal computers, which are also chipped and equipped to accommodate a massive PC gaming industry. Where personal gaming had once been an entertainment novelty, it is now deeply woven into our nation's social fabric. Children are often born with them already in the house, and grow up devoting countless hours developing post-modern maladies like "Nintendo Thumb" and "Playstation Posture." And a lot of parents don't mind because, as every parent knows, Nintendo is a relatively cheap babysitter.
I understand the dazzling allure of modern gaming consoles - the graphics are so real they stop me sometimes when I'm doing laps at Best Buy. But when I see people lined up outside of buildings in the cold, willing to fight over an appliance that will still be available tomorrow and next week, I have to wonder what's happening to us as a people.
But then, our parents used to fight over Cabbage Patch Dolls in the aisles of Toys 'R' Us. So maybe it's less about an addiction to new technology and more about a competitive sense of entitlement that comes with life in culture of mass consumption.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a high score of Tetris to beat.
When I was a kid, we had Atari. 2600, baby. And that was a pretty big deal when it first came out. But it was revolutionary because you no longer had to trek out to the J.J. Peppers convenience mart around the corner from the park to play Space Invaders. For the first time you could play arcade games on your television in your home. It was breakthrough technology that shaped the way we live and interact. The medium, as you know, is the message. Instead of gathering in public places every once in a while to share in the gaming experience, people could now enjoy the same games at home on their own. And these machines soon became an appliance staple, like a toaster or a can opener. Every home had one.
Today, a lot of homes have multiple gaming machines, from multiple makers - in addition to personal computers, which are also chipped and equipped to accommodate a massive PC gaming industry. Where personal gaming had once been an entertainment novelty, it is now deeply woven into our nation's social fabric. Children are often born with them already in the house, and grow up devoting countless hours developing post-modern maladies like "Nintendo Thumb" and "Playstation Posture." And a lot of parents don't mind because, as every parent knows, Nintendo is a relatively cheap babysitter.
I understand the dazzling allure of modern gaming consoles - the graphics are so real they stop me sometimes when I'm doing laps at Best Buy. But when I see people lined up outside of buildings in the cold, willing to fight over an appliance that will still be available tomorrow and next week, I have to wonder what's happening to us as a people.
But then, our parents used to fight over Cabbage Patch Dolls in the aisles of Toys 'R' Us. So maybe it's less about an addiction to new technology and more about a competitive sense of entitlement that comes with life in culture of mass consumption.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a high score of Tetris to beat.
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