Today is prog Rock Day at ScienceFictionTwin. Why? I don't know. But I'm blasting out the neighborhood by listening to this at ear-bleeding levels. It started by listening to a song from a different album (Real Media File) at deafening levels.
Now I'm happy.
But my ears are ringing.
And I'm seeing dead relatives.
That's not really bad, per se. But even in death Uncle Leon is incontinent.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Five Things I Do Not Plan On Doing in 2004 (Though I Won’t Rule Them Out Completely)
1. Smothering myself if spray cheese and smashed crackers, walking into a local Jack in the Box and doing a song and dance routine to the Leo Sayer classic “Dancing the Night Away”.
2. Starting my own band, comprised solely of people named Gary.
3. Contracting any disease named after the person who discovered it. Screw that. Cure the damn disease, then you can name it.
4. Order a pizza under the name of John Ashcroft and tell the pizza boy he better give me a discount because “We saw what you did to yourself in your bedroom”.
5. Write another list of five things I’ll do in 2004.
Bonus: One thing I would like to do is become a Muppeteer. I wonder how one becomes a Muppeteer. Is there a school for that?
2. Starting my own band, comprised solely of people named Gary.
3. Contracting any disease named after the person who discovered it. Screw that. Cure the damn disease, then you can name it.
4. Order a pizza under the name of John Ashcroft and tell the pizza boy he better give me a discount because “We saw what you did to yourself in your bedroom”.
5. Write another list of five things I’ll do in 2004.
Bonus: One thing I would like to do is become a Muppeteer. I wonder how one becomes a Muppeteer. Is there a school for that?
Monday, December 29, 2003
Christmas Time is Gone
I can’t explain why, but I’m always happy when Christmas is over. It’s almost like leading up to a blind date, where you spend hours getting ready to meet Audrey Hepburn but it turns out that you’re meeting Ma Kettle.
It rarely turns out that way, but you spend so much time preparing that your expectations of the day can never be what you want. Either the presents you bought for your family don’t go over well, the ham dries out or a giant bird commits suicide in your front yard and you don’t know how to deal with it. Plus, the holidays being what they are anyway, you have a hard time dealing with anything.
You stand sobbing in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“The freezer is measured in Fahrenheit not Kelvin! Waaaaaaah!”
Everyone goes nuts at Christmas. To the point where familial psychosis seems to be the norm.
The kids had a great time. Christmas Eve is always an orgy of presents, food and playing with cousins. There are kids oozing out of the walls at my sister’s house and the beer flows, the cheese ball is consumed and the little weenies roast over an open stove. We run the kids to exhaustion and then throw them in bed so that we can loudly prepare our Christmas Bacchanal for the next morning.
Christmas morning came at 6 a.m. for Matilda, who was bursting with such excitement that she couldn’t stand it. So she climbed in bed with us and promptly fell back asleep, snoring and drooling all over our pillows. The three of us got up around 8 a.m. Mom put the coffee cake in the oven and we waited for the baby to wake up. 8:15 . . . 8:30. Is she still alive?
There she was, in her crib, butt sticking up in the air, face firmly planted in the mattress, as if she were running, shot with a tranquilizer and came to a crashing, skidding halt into this position.
Matilda was about to burst, so we woke Gertrude up. “Go away,” she told us.
“It’s Christmas morning,” Matilda said. “Santa came!”
“Santa?” I’ve never seen a toddler run faster in my life. They were both out of the room and in front of the tree within seconds. They squealed with a glee that can only mean they were given guiltless presents, gifts with no expected return gratuity.
My girls are very patient. Matilda hands out the presents and we each open one at a time. Their excitement builds into a gentle fury as each gift from Santa gets more and more magnificent. But as time moved on, Gertrude was overcome by the spirit of the day and started tearing into gifts that weren’t for her. She opened her uncle’s gifts, friends’ gifts, even those fake gifts that are used as decorations.
The surprise hits of the day were Matilda’s Spirograph, which she wasn’t even expecting and Gertrude’s teddy bear, which she hugged with the ferocity of a child who had never experienced love. “I really love it,” she said.
By day’s end, exhaustion had set in. Matilda went to her dad’s, Gertrude drifted off to sleep. I watched pieces of the Indiana Jones boxed set. Mom played with her PDA.
For all the gifts I received, including my groovy new telescope, the greatest thing I was given was the joy of my children. Christmas has always been a strange time for my family (both my parents died shortly before Christmas). But each year, as I see the joy on these kids’ faces, I remember what it’s all about.
Discuss
It rarely turns out that way, but you spend so much time preparing that your expectations of the day can never be what you want. Either the presents you bought for your family don’t go over well, the ham dries out or a giant bird commits suicide in your front yard and you don’t know how to deal with it. Plus, the holidays being what they are anyway, you have a hard time dealing with anything.
You stand sobbing in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“The freezer is measured in Fahrenheit not Kelvin! Waaaaaaah!”
Everyone goes nuts at Christmas. To the point where familial psychosis seems to be the norm.
The kids had a great time. Christmas Eve is always an orgy of presents, food and playing with cousins. There are kids oozing out of the walls at my sister’s house and the beer flows, the cheese ball is consumed and the little weenies roast over an open stove. We run the kids to exhaustion and then throw them in bed so that we can loudly prepare our Christmas Bacchanal for the next morning.
Christmas morning came at 6 a.m. for Matilda, who was bursting with such excitement that she couldn’t stand it. So she climbed in bed with us and promptly fell back asleep, snoring and drooling all over our pillows. The three of us got up around 8 a.m. Mom put the coffee cake in the oven and we waited for the baby to wake up. 8:15 . . . 8:30. Is she still alive?
There she was, in her crib, butt sticking up in the air, face firmly planted in the mattress, as if she were running, shot with a tranquilizer and came to a crashing, skidding halt into this position.
Matilda was about to burst, so we woke Gertrude up. “Go away,” she told us.
“It’s Christmas morning,” Matilda said. “Santa came!”
“Santa?” I’ve never seen a toddler run faster in my life. They were both out of the room and in front of the tree within seconds. They squealed with a glee that can only mean they were given guiltless presents, gifts with no expected return gratuity.
My girls are very patient. Matilda hands out the presents and we each open one at a time. Their excitement builds into a gentle fury as each gift from Santa gets more and more magnificent. But as time moved on, Gertrude was overcome by the spirit of the day and started tearing into gifts that weren’t for her. She opened her uncle’s gifts, friends’ gifts, even those fake gifts that are used as decorations.
The surprise hits of the day were Matilda’s Spirograph, which she wasn’t even expecting and Gertrude’s teddy bear, which she hugged with the ferocity of a child who had never experienced love. “I really love it,” she said.
By day’s end, exhaustion had set in. Matilda went to her dad’s, Gertrude drifted off to sleep. I watched pieces of the Indiana Jones boxed set. Mom played with her PDA.
For all the gifts I received, including my groovy new telescope, the greatest thing I was given was the joy of my children. Christmas has always been a strange time for my family (both my parents died shortly before Christmas). But each year, as I see the joy on these kids’ faces, I remember what it’s all about.
Discuss
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Five Pseudonyms I Will Adopt in 2004
1. Chip McSweeny
2. Link Sawsayje
3. Spanky McFarlane
4. Sesquah X. Listerline
5. Murray Wiggle
2. Link Sawsayje
3. Spanky McFarlane
4. Sesquah X. Listerline
5. Murray Wiggle
Five Self-Help Books I Plan to Write, Publish and Market in 2004
1. Is This Bad?: A Guide to Refrigerator Leftovers
2. Will You Check My Mole?: An Amateur’s Guide to the ABCs of Party Mole Checking
3. You’re Not Going To Eat That Whole Gallon of Ice Cream?: 1001 Things Not to Say To A Pregnant Woman
4. Marrying Your Maid for Green Card Purposes For Dummies
5. No I Won’t Fix Your Computer: How To Change Your Name, Address, Telephone Number and Social Security Number for Geeks Who Want to “Disappear” and Not Update Their Sister-in-Law's Virus Definitions While Farscape is On Ever Again
2. Will You Check My Mole?: An Amateur’s Guide to the ABCs of Party Mole Checking
3. You’re Not Going To Eat That Whole Gallon of Ice Cream?: 1001 Things Not to Say To A Pregnant Woman
4. Marrying Your Maid for Green Card Purposes For Dummies
5. No I Won’t Fix Your Computer: How To Change Your Name, Address, Telephone Number and Social Security Number for Geeks Who Want to “Disappear” and Not Update Their Sister-in-Law's Virus Definitions While Farscape is On Ever Again
Five Country Songs I Plan To Write, Perform and Market in 2004
1. I Gave Her My Heart, She Gave Me the Clap
2. Honey Don’t (I Just Painted That)
3. Drop Kick Me Linus Torvald Through the Production Kernel 2.6.0 Patch of Life
4. I’ve Got Friends (Who Use Windows 3.1)
5. The Monkey Ate The Nachos
2. Honey Don’t (I Just Painted That)
3. Drop Kick Me Linus Torvald Through the Production Kernel 2.6.0 Patch of Life
4. I’ve Got Friends (Who Use Windows 3.1)
5. The Monkey Ate The Nachos
Five Movies I Plan to Write, Shoot and Market in 2004
1. Showgirls 2: The Return of Myra Breckenridge
2. My Goiter, My Love
3. Once Bitten, Impetigo
4. Monkeys With Guns
5. Indiana Jones and the Linux Server Cluster
2. My Goiter, My Love
3. Once Bitten, Impetigo
4. Monkeys With Guns
5. Indiana Jones and the Linux Server Cluster
Monday, December 22, 2003
‘Tis the Season To Be Jolly
Or maybe not. Most people I know aren’t jolly this time of year. In fact, they are downright stressed out and bitchy. The exception to the rule being my favorite coffee shop who gave me some brandy chocolates to thank me for being such a great customer. What a great group of people! Eat that Charbucks!
This time of year I find myself getting depressed. Everyone else is going off to office parties. My wife, in fact, is attending what I believe is her office’s thirtieth holiday party of the year. They get cheese and pastries and more cheese.
I work alone. In my basement. I don’t get an office party. I considered dropping by a local office and pretending to be one of the IT guys, but was afraid I’d get busted right as I was dipping my chip into the nacho cheese.
So, I’ve decided to throw my own office party. Starring: Me.
It starts at three this afternoon with a rousing game of charades. At 3:30 we’ll trot out the margaritas, the Holiday drink of choice. By 5:00 we’ll be toasting a happy non-descript, non-religious, non-denominational, inoffensive Holiday of Your Choice to everyone.
At 5:30, after having consumed 13 margaritas, I will meet myself in my supply closet and touch myself inappropriately.
At 6 p.m. I’ll report myself for harassment and fire myself tomorrow morning.
Just like every other company, we’ll be having holiday layoffs.
I’ll promptly hire myself back on Wednesday as a consultant, charging offensively high rates but happy that I won’t have to give myself benefits.
Merry whatever you celebrate!
Happy New Year!
Unless you’re Chinese. Then I’m either too late or too early. Damn!
This time of year I find myself getting depressed. Everyone else is going off to office parties. My wife, in fact, is attending what I believe is her office’s thirtieth holiday party of the year. They get cheese and pastries and more cheese.
I work alone. In my basement. I don’t get an office party. I considered dropping by a local office and pretending to be one of the IT guys, but was afraid I’d get busted right as I was dipping my chip into the nacho cheese.
So, I’ve decided to throw my own office party. Starring: Me.
It starts at three this afternoon with a rousing game of charades. At 3:30 we’ll trot out the margaritas, the Holiday drink of choice. By 5:00 we’ll be toasting a happy non-descript, non-religious, non-denominational, inoffensive Holiday of Your Choice to everyone.
At 5:30, after having consumed 13 margaritas, I will meet myself in my supply closet and touch myself inappropriately.
At 6 p.m. I’ll report myself for harassment and fire myself tomorrow morning.
Just like every other company, we’ll be having holiday layoffs.
I’ll promptly hire myself back on Wednesday as a consultant, charging offensively high rates but happy that I won’t have to give myself benefits.
Merry whatever you celebrate!
Happy New Year!
Unless you’re Chinese. Then I’m either too late or too early. Damn!
Thursday, December 18, 2003
My Cockles Are Sufficiently Warmed
Last night, young Gertrude wasn’t feeling well. It started during dinner, when in the midst of eating a yummy biscuit, she decided she needed to sit on my lap and stick her fingers in my potatoes. She whimpered and cried throughout the meal, switching parents frequently.
After dinner, we watched an episode of Jo Jo’s Circus which I had Tivoed for her. She seemed happy, but completely flat. She laid on my chest, limp and tired, periodically getting up to “drum on her tum”.
After her bath, she was almost inconsolable. She’d whimper, cry and moan. She didn’t want to sit, walk, stand, lay down or anything. So I wrapped her in a blanket and said we’d go watch the Wiggles Christmas special. “Okay,” she said.
With Gertrude on my lap and Matilda at my side, we watched the show for about a half hour. Gertrude started drifting, her eyes were drooping and she was no longer lucid . . . Mommy asked her if she wanted to go to bed.
“No,” she answered, “I sleep in Daddy’s arms.”
Wrap it, put a bow on it and get it under the tree, because I don’t need presents now. Damn if that didn’t make me feel good. That one simple sentence made my entire year.
Eventually, she relented to Mom and went off to rock in the rocking chair and go to bed.
Matilda and I were left there with a Wiggles Christmas special and fifteen minutes until bed time.
“Maybe we should turn it off,” I said.
“Why? I like the Wiggles.”
“We’ll get in trouble,” I said. “We’re too old to watch the Wiggles.”
“Who cares? We can make fun of the dancers.”
That’s my girl. So we decided to watch the end of the show. We knew all the words and we sang, sang, sang.
When mom came out of the baby’s room she shot us a dirty look. “Gertrude is upset.”
“Why,” we asked.
“She said, ‘what are Dad and Matilda doing? They still watching it!’”
“See,” I yelled. “I told you we’d get in trouble!”
Discuss My Christmas Present
After dinner, we watched an episode of Jo Jo’s Circus which I had Tivoed for her. She seemed happy, but completely flat. She laid on my chest, limp and tired, periodically getting up to “drum on her tum”.
After her bath, she was almost inconsolable. She’d whimper, cry and moan. She didn’t want to sit, walk, stand, lay down or anything. So I wrapped her in a blanket and said we’d go watch the Wiggles Christmas special. “Okay,” she said.
With Gertrude on my lap and Matilda at my side, we watched the show for about a half hour. Gertrude started drifting, her eyes were drooping and she was no longer lucid . . . Mommy asked her if she wanted to go to bed.
“No,” she answered, “I sleep in Daddy’s arms.”
Wrap it, put a bow on it and get it under the tree, because I don’t need presents now. Damn if that didn’t make me feel good. That one simple sentence made my entire year.
Eventually, she relented to Mom and went off to rock in the rocking chair and go to bed.
Matilda and I were left there with a Wiggles Christmas special and fifteen minutes until bed time.
“Maybe we should turn it off,” I said.
“Why? I like the Wiggles.”
“We’ll get in trouble,” I said. “We’re too old to watch the Wiggles.”
“Who cares? We can make fun of the dancers.”
That’s my girl. So we decided to watch the end of the show. We knew all the words and we sang, sang, sang.
When mom came out of the baby’s room she shot us a dirty look. “Gertrude is upset.”
“Why,” we asked.
“She said, ‘what are Dad and Matilda doing? They still watching it!’”
“See,” I yelled. “I told you we’d get in trouble!”
Discuss My Christmas Present
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Living Art
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m addicted to music. The consumption, experience and discussion of music are part of my daily existence. Whether it’s listening to one of the greatest albums of all time or discovering a new band that no one seems to know about, music makes life a little bit happier for me.
Music, to me, is something that can’t be owned. Once the music leaves the speaker and you start to hear it, the music becomes yours. The images, thoughts, feelings it makes inside of you are yours. The music is, if it’s good, a catalyst. Music, at its worst, is background noise. At its best, it’s a package of time that can remind you of something that was great, terrible or sentimental.
Because of the argument between the record industry and the general consumer, including lawsuits, discovering new music isn’t as fun as it once was. It used to be that I’d be an album on an independent label and be happy about having something that was undiscovered. Now I buy the album and say, “Ha! Screw you, RIAA. This label isn’t a member. Ha!”
However, the joy of discovery is mine once again. Because of a website known as Opsound. Opsound is an “open source” record label that publishes music under the Creative Commons License, which allows artists, writers, musicians and more to publish their works with “some rights reserved”. Through this creative arrangement, artists can put their work out for consumption, and more.
The greatest achievement of the Creative Commons is that it allows artists to collaborate on work, without knowing it. You could post a photo of your painting under the CC and another artist could one day contact you with a “remix” of your work. They could have taken your painting and turned it into a mosaic, a fresco, 3D art or more. It isn’t stealing, plagiarism or ripping off. It’s living art. Your art does not stop the moment you complete it under the Creative Commons License. Rather, it becomes an organic entity.
For example, guitarist and composer Colin Mutchler recorded a track known as “My Life”. It’s a lovely acoustic guitar melody. Colin finished his work and posted it to Opsound under the Creative Commons License. One day he received and email from a violinist named Cora Beth. Cora heard “My Life” and loved it. But when she listened to it, she heard another melody that provided a counter to Colin’s guitar. So she added her violin melody to Colin’s song and called it “My Life Changed”. She took an already beautiful song and built upon it by reacting to what she heard in the song, making it a more organic entity. Colin was thrilled. He hopes that someday the music can be taken even further.
Both songs can be heard here.
Three people can listen to the same song and hear different things. One can hear a child laughing, another can see an elephant marching and another can hear a full orchestra behind it. With Opsound, and the Creative Commons, art doesn’t stop at consumption. It takes a life of its own, ever-changing, ever-morphing, ever-living.
Opsound is filled with talented song-writers, musicians and remixers. I plan on spending quite a bit of time listening to the offerings there. But more importantly, I’m excited about what Opsound means. That I can hear music from the source and enjoy it, and then find out that someone else heard the song differently, altered it to reflect their ideas and experiences. Some may think that it would take away from the original artist’s work, but that’s far from the truth. It is not unlike a director looking at a play’s script and seeing a tension that another director didn’t see, or a theme that was not apparent on the first read. You can see the same play a thousand times, by a thousand different directors and get a different experience each time. Because it’s always open for interpretation. If anything, this application of the Creative Commons shines a light on that work by drawing out elements I wouldn’t have noticed, adding nuance that I wasn’t aware of or a counter-melody that seemed to be buried just below the surface.
Living art may not be for everyone, but I’m certainly intrigued by it. The artist and the listener can work together, creating an ever-evolving piece of art.
And I find that amazing.
Discuss Living Art
Music, to me, is something that can’t be owned. Once the music leaves the speaker and you start to hear it, the music becomes yours. The images, thoughts, feelings it makes inside of you are yours. The music is, if it’s good, a catalyst. Music, at its worst, is background noise. At its best, it’s a package of time that can remind you of something that was great, terrible or sentimental.
Because of the argument between the record industry and the general consumer, including lawsuits, discovering new music isn’t as fun as it once was. It used to be that I’d be an album on an independent label and be happy about having something that was undiscovered. Now I buy the album and say, “Ha! Screw you, RIAA. This label isn’t a member. Ha!”
However, the joy of discovery is mine once again. Because of a website known as Opsound. Opsound is an “open source” record label that publishes music under the Creative Commons License, which allows artists, writers, musicians and more to publish their works with “some rights reserved”. Through this creative arrangement, artists can put their work out for consumption, and more.
The greatest achievement of the Creative Commons is that it allows artists to collaborate on work, without knowing it. You could post a photo of your painting under the CC and another artist could one day contact you with a “remix” of your work. They could have taken your painting and turned it into a mosaic, a fresco, 3D art or more. It isn’t stealing, plagiarism or ripping off. It’s living art. Your art does not stop the moment you complete it under the Creative Commons License. Rather, it becomes an organic entity.
For example, guitarist and composer Colin Mutchler recorded a track known as “My Life”. It’s a lovely acoustic guitar melody. Colin finished his work and posted it to Opsound under the Creative Commons License. One day he received and email from a violinist named Cora Beth. Cora heard “My Life” and loved it. But when she listened to it, she heard another melody that provided a counter to Colin’s guitar. So she added her violin melody to Colin’s song and called it “My Life Changed”. She took an already beautiful song and built upon it by reacting to what she heard in the song, making it a more organic entity. Colin was thrilled. He hopes that someday the music can be taken even further.
Both songs can be heard here.
Three people can listen to the same song and hear different things. One can hear a child laughing, another can see an elephant marching and another can hear a full orchestra behind it. With Opsound, and the Creative Commons, art doesn’t stop at consumption. It takes a life of its own, ever-changing, ever-morphing, ever-living.
Opsound is filled with talented song-writers, musicians and remixers. I plan on spending quite a bit of time listening to the offerings there. But more importantly, I’m excited about what Opsound means. That I can hear music from the source and enjoy it, and then find out that someone else heard the song differently, altered it to reflect their ideas and experiences. Some may think that it would take away from the original artist’s work, but that’s far from the truth. It is not unlike a director looking at a play’s script and seeing a tension that another director didn’t see, or a theme that was not apparent on the first read. You can see the same play a thousand times, by a thousand different directors and get a different experience each time. Because it’s always open for interpretation. If anything, this application of the Creative Commons shines a light on that work by drawing out elements I wouldn’t have noticed, adding nuance that I wasn’t aware of or a counter-melody that seemed to be buried just below the surface.
Living art may not be for everyone, but I’m certainly intrigued by it. The artist and the listener can work together, creating an ever-evolving piece of art.
And I find that amazing.
Discuss Living Art
Thursday, December 11, 2003
We're Sorry, The Blogger You're Trying to Reach is Insane
It's that time of year. When my clients change the rules and the schedule I was working from becomes pointless and I have to spend stomach acid-producing hours rushing to get my projects done before they were supposed to be done. That I have to depend on other people to give me material is beside the point. I have to get them done. So I have to threaten people with psychic violence (I'm a physical pacifist, but I have no problem with thinking really hard about breaking someone's knee caps).
So, blogging will be at a minimum for the next few weeks, as I try to complete these projects two weeks earlier than I was planning. Sigh.
In the mean time, you can look at the book I'm reading and tell me if I should even be reading it. I mean, considering that M Theory now exists, should I be reading this book? There are now eleven dimensions, not ten. Besides, M Theory tells us that all versions of String Theory are just different ways of looking at the same thing (Much like Feynman, Schwinger and Tomanga's separate work, with unification by Dyson,on QED many decades ago). Besides, Kaku has kind of become a media whore, spewing out silliness about "the science" of the Matrix and other dorky things for Tech TV. Not only are the topics silly, but he never actually says anything meaningful or remotely scientific (the guy is a theoretical physicist . . . You'd think he couldn't help being scientific). But his hair always looks finely coifed.
So, you tell me. Should I still read this book (hell, I'll still read it no matter what, it's interesting)? Or is it just a diversion from my overall quest? Should I still read it so that my understanding of M Theory will increase?
Or maybe I should find out more about how a beam of light was stopped in its tracks, with all its photons in tact. Now there's something to see.
But, odds are you aren't interested. So here are some punk rock kittens instead. Enjoy.
Huzzah!
Discuss
So, blogging will be at a minimum for the next few weeks, as I try to complete these projects two weeks earlier than I was planning. Sigh.
In the mean time, you can look at the book I'm reading and tell me if I should even be reading it. I mean, considering that M Theory now exists, should I be reading this book? There are now eleven dimensions, not ten. Besides, M Theory tells us that all versions of String Theory are just different ways of looking at the same thing (Much like Feynman, Schwinger and Tomanga's separate work, with unification by Dyson,on QED many decades ago). Besides, Kaku has kind of become a media whore, spewing out silliness about "the science" of the Matrix and other dorky things for Tech TV. Not only are the topics silly, but he never actually says anything meaningful or remotely scientific (the guy is a theoretical physicist . . . You'd think he couldn't help being scientific). But his hair always looks finely coifed.
So, you tell me. Should I still read this book (hell, I'll still read it no matter what, it's interesting)? Or is it just a diversion from my overall quest? Should I still read it so that my understanding of M Theory will increase?
Or maybe I should find out more about how a beam of light was stopped in its tracks, with all its photons in tact. Now there's something to see.
But, odds are you aren't interested. So here are some punk rock kittens instead. Enjoy.
Huzzah!
Discuss
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Yes, Virginia, The Fat Man is Looking For You
It’s Christmas time again. Glass balls hang from slowly dying trees in living rooms, greedy children conspire to get expensive toys, people bring in homemade candy as you wonder about their daily cleansing ritual (are those scabs?). Yes, it’s the time of giving and caring, but not really.
This is the first year that Gertrude is really aware of Christmas. The last two years she was still too much of a baby. But now, she gets it. There are presents involved and she will be getting some. Seems like a sweet deal to her, despite the fact whenever she sees a gift she sings “Happy Birthday to Mommy.” And, because she told me this morning that she “really likes” me, she gets extra presents. (She also described her breakfast as “pretty yummy”.)
But, for all of her zeal, she just doesn’t get the idea of Santa, that Jolly Old Elf. In fact, in Gertrude’s mind, she sees Santa as more of a mafia boss. An enforcer. When asked what Santa says, Gert responds, “Gimme da presents.” So, in her mind, Santa comes in and takes your presents away. Not a good thing, at least in my mind. I mean, if Santa is such a jolly guy, why the hell is he stealing our stuff? For that matter, if he has an entire slave force making him toys year round, why does he need our toys?
My theory, based on Gertrude’s idea, is that Santa is blackmailing us with this whole naughty/nice thing. Santa giveth, Santa taketh away. Jolly bastard.
Matilda is another story. She is eight. And doubtful. This whole Santa thing (along with the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny) doesn’t sit well with her. She questions everything.
“So, uh, we don’t have a chimney. How does Santa get in?”
“He has a master key. He can open any door in the world.”
“Damn. Okay, okay, how does he know if we’re naughty or nice? Huh? He can’t possibly know that.”
“He’s omnipotent. He can do anything, including making your hair turn green, if he sees fit.”
“Okay, so if he’s so all powerful, why did he leave the Toys-R-Us tag on my present last year?”
“Like anyone else, Santa has had issues in this economy. The elves organized early in 2002 and started demanding all sorts of things, higher wages, better gingerbread, no more pointy shoes. You know, typical labor disputes. Santa, rather than bowing to organized labor, decided to outsource the entire operation and contracted with Toys-R-Us to distribute their merchandise. That’s why if you stay up until Santa comes, you’ll see the Toys-R-Us logo plastered to his sleigh. It’s economics.”
“Huh?”
But I know she doesn’t believe anymore, despite her posturing and feigning. It’s clear she’s not into the make-believe element. Why doesn’t she tell us? Yellow-freaking fear. She’s terrified that if she lets on that she knows that the Jolly Fat Man is really me that would spell the end to getting gifts on Christmas morning. Then the balance of power would rest in the hands of her sister, who clearly wouldn’t be able to handle it. So Matilda has sacrificed her knowledge for the tradition.
I mean, let’s face it, the kid is too damn smart to believe that some magic old man comes into our house to eat cookies and leave us gifts. She’s not stupid. Hell, I figured it out in first grade when I looked it up in the dictionary (I had to check the definition of “Fictional” as well, to fully understand).
So this year we’re having a different tradition. No Santa. This year, Abe Vigoda is coming to leave our gifts. I’ve actually hired him. Seriously.
The kids are going to sit on his lap and tell “Santa Fish” what they want for Christmas.
“Daddy! Santa Fish already looks dead. Do we have to touch him?”
“He’s still alive honey. Don’t worry.”
There’s nothing like Abe Vigoda to put the fear of Christmas in these damned modern kids.
Discuss Santa Fish
This is the first year that Gertrude is really aware of Christmas. The last two years she was still too much of a baby. But now, she gets it. There are presents involved and she will be getting some. Seems like a sweet deal to her, despite the fact whenever she sees a gift she sings “Happy Birthday to Mommy.” And, because she told me this morning that she “really likes” me, she gets extra presents. (She also described her breakfast as “pretty yummy”.)
But, for all of her zeal, she just doesn’t get the idea of Santa, that Jolly Old Elf. In fact, in Gertrude’s mind, she sees Santa as more of a mafia boss. An enforcer. When asked what Santa says, Gert responds, “Gimme da presents.” So, in her mind, Santa comes in and takes your presents away. Not a good thing, at least in my mind. I mean, if Santa is such a jolly guy, why the hell is he stealing our stuff? For that matter, if he has an entire slave force making him toys year round, why does he need our toys?
My theory, based on Gertrude’s idea, is that Santa is blackmailing us with this whole naughty/nice thing. Santa giveth, Santa taketh away. Jolly bastard.
Matilda is another story. She is eight. And doubtful. This whole Santa thing (along with the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny) doesn’t sit well with her. She questions everything.
“So, uh, we don’t have a chimney. How does Santa get in?”
“He has a master key. He can open any door in the world.”
“Damn. Okay, okay, how does he know if we’re naughty or nice? Huh? He can’t possibly know that.”
“He’s omnipotent. He can do anything, including making your hair turn green, if he sees fit.”
“Okay, so if he’s so all powerful, why did he leave the Toys-R-Us tag on my present last year?”
“Like anyone else, Santa has had issues in this economy. The elves organized early in 2002 and started demanding all sorts of things, higher wages, better gingerbread, no more pointy shoes. You know, typical labor disputes. Santa, rather than bowing to organized labor, decided to outsource the entire operation and contracted with Toys-R-Us to distribute their merchandise. That’s why if you stay up until Santa comes, you’ll see the Toys-R-Us logo plastered to his sleigh. It’s economics.”
“Huh?”
But I know she doesn’t believe anymore, despite her posturing and feigning. It’s clear she’s not into the make-believe element. Why doesn’t she tell us? Yellow-freaking fear. She’s terrified that if she lets on that she knows that the Jolly Fat Man is really me that would spell the end to getting gifts on Christmas morning. Then the balance of power would rest in the hands of her sister, who clearly wouldn’t be able to handle it. So Matilda has sacrificed her knowledge for the tradition.
I mean, let’s face it, the kid is too damn smart to believe that some magic old man comes into our house to eat cookies and leave us gifts. She’s not stupid. Hell, I figured it out in first grade when I looked it up in the dictionary (I had to check the definition of “Fictional” as well, to fully understand).
So this year we’re having a different tradition. No Santa. This year, Abe Vigoda is coming to leave our gifts. I’ve actually hired him. Seriously.
The kids are going to sit on his lap and tell “Santa Fish” what they want for Christmas.
“Daddy! Santa Fish already looks dead. Do we have to touch him?”
“He’s still alive honey. Don’t worry.”
There’s nothing like Abe Vigoda to put the fear of Christmas in these damned modern kids.
Discuss Santa Fish
Monday, December 08, 2003
If You Must Know . . .
Yes. I am being a total geek. I am taking the day off on December 17th. Why? Because Return of the King opens. And it's much easier to take the day off than find a time when I can see it on a weekend or in the evening.
And, for the record, except for caring for the kids, I haven't taken a day off since May. Therefore, I believe that seeing Return of the King is a very worthwhile project.
Plus, it's geekalicious.
And, for the record, except for caring for the kids, I haven't taken a day off since May. Therefore, I believe that seeing Return of the King is a very worthwhile project.
Plus, it's geekalicious.
Kids: Are They Brain Damaged?
This weekend was a veritable cornucopia of childish strangeness. It all started innocently enough. Matilda wanted to have some friends over to practice a dance routine she and her friends hope to bring to the school’s talent show at the end of the year.
“Sure. How many kids did you want to invite?”
“Eight.”
Heart seizure as visions of sugar-high eight year old girls are dancing through my house, tearing things off the walls and ganging up on the weakest girl and eating her alive. While I was seizing on the floor, mommy sat down and discussed the whole deal with Matilda and had the number reduced to four girls, three of whom could make it.
I love it when Matilda has friends over. I get to act weird and embarrass her. And every parent knows that the actual event is never quite as stressful as leading up to the event, which is often painful. You have to clean, prepare for your house to be judged by other parents (and we were in mid-Christmas decorating), awkward conversations at the door with parents you really don’t know, kids with strange fears, etc.
But this time it was different. Because they were going to be working on a dance, Matilda had been practicing the song non-stop all week. It’s a song by Hillary Duff. A former Disney Channel Sweetheart, now full-fledged Pop-Tarte. Oddly enough, most of her songs were co-written and produced by the same people who worked on Liz Phair’s new album. It’s cute when Hillary Duff sings about puppy love, but downright disturbing when Liz Phair does the same.
“Matilda, do you want oatmeal for breakfast?”
“Ready for the big time, ready for the small / Whatever's comin' to me, I'll be ready for it all / Sometimes it ain't easy, sometimes its not polite / Some days I don't get it, some days I get it right . . .”
“Does that mean no?”
It was non-stop, twenty-four hours a day belting out of this tune. In the car, in the bathtub, in the hallway, watching TV, while reading, going to the bus stop, brushing teeth or, worse, singing LOUDLY over whatever is being played in the car. I think I know the words to this song better than she does now.
Now, Matilda is a very talented girl. She’s smart, funny, artistically creative, and sensitive. You name it, she has that talent. She can do almost anything.
Almost. Singing, I fear, is not her strong suit. To be fair, none of us can. But by the time Saturday rolled around I would have done anything to have gotten her not to sing.
We were sitting in my office, burning the song onto a CD so each girl could practice the routine at home. Whenever I would check the disc to make sure it burned properly she’d launch into singing it, at the top of her lungs.
“Please. I’m trying to burn the CDs! Can we give the song a rest for a while? Even Hillary Duff didn’t sing it that much.”
“Why do they call it burning? How does it work?”
Ah. She asked a geek question. I was so proud. I launched into an explanation of resins, aluminum platters, lasers, digital encoding, ones and zeros, spin speeds, you name it. The whole process right down to explaining how CD players read the data on the disc.
“So,” she said finally, looking a little glassy-eyed, “nothing actually melts? There’s no fire in the computer?”
Sigh. I should have known she just wanted to know why they called it “burning”. Not a technical discussion of CD technology.
The girls arrived, and they practiced in the basement. Poor Gertrude was beside herself. She desperately needed to be part of this group. But she was separated by six years in age, and a thousand years in motor skills. But still, she tried. She sat on the stairs in the basement, watching the big girls practice dancing. Sometimes she’d stand up and shake a leg a little, but for the most part she watched patiently. Hoping against hope that they might need her. That they might see her inner dancing talent and ask her to joining the group. And, for their part, those eight year old girls were fantastic. When they were finished they included Gert in their play, dressing her up, chasing her around and treating her like a little mascot. It was sweet.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they were playing some sort of hiding game. Walking through my house, I saw one of the girls hiding behind a bed (there was a mirror on the wall behind her, effectively making hiding useless). At the foot of the bed was Gertrude. She was laying face down on the ground, arms at her side perfectly still, her head under the bed, but the rest of her body sticking out into the room.
“Gert, what are you doing?”
“I hiding under the bed!” And she was, effectively. She was face down on the floor. She couldn’t see anyone; therefore no one could see her. And she was still. Totally still. Except for her left foot, which was wiggling back and forth as if to announce her inner giggle.
Ten minutes later the other girl was back with the gaggle of kids. But Gertrude was still missing. I went to find her and there she was, still partially under the bed. Face down. Still.
“Gertrude, come on. We have to get moving.”
“I,” she said emphatically, “hiding under the BED!”
Discuss
“Sure. How many kids did you want to invite?”
“Eight.”
Heart seizure as visions of sugar-high eight year old girls are dancing through my house, tearing things off the walls and ganging up on the weakest girl and eating her alive. While I was seizing on the floor, mommy sat down and discussed the whole deal with Matilda and had the number reduced to four girls, three of whom could make it.
I love it when Matilda has friends over. I get to act weird and embarrass her. And every parent knows that the actual event is never quite as stressful as leading up to the event, which is often painful. You have to clean, prepare for your house to be judged by other parents (and we were in mid-Christmas decorating), awkward conversations at the door with parents you really don’t know, kids with strange fears, etc.
But this time it was different. Because they were going to be working on a dance, Matilda had been practicing the song non-stop all week. It’s a song by Hillary Duff. A former Disney Channel Sweetheart, now full-fledged Pop-Tarte. Oddly enough, most of her songs were co-written and produced by the same people who worked on Liz Phair’s new album. It’s cute when Hillary Duff sings about puppy love, but downright disturbing when Liz Phair does the same.
“Matilda, do you want oatmeal for breakfast?”
“Ready for the big time, ready for the small / Whatever's comin' to me, I'll be ready for it all / Sometimes it ain't easy, sometimes its not polite / Some days I don't get it, some days I get it right . . .”
“Does that mean no?”
It was non-stop, twenty-four hours a day belting out of this tune. In the car, in the bathtub, in the hallway, watching TV, while reading, going to the bus stop, brushing teeth or, worse, singing LOUDLY over whatever is being played in the car. I think I know the words to this song better than she does now.
Now, Matilda is a very talented girl. She’s smart, funny, artistically creative, and sensitive. You name it, she has that talent. She can do almost anything.
Almost. Singing, I fear, is not her strong suit. To be fair, none of us can. But by the time Saturday rolled around I would have done anything to have gotten her not to sing.
We were sitting in my office, burning the song onto a CD so each girl could practice the routine at home. Whenever I would check the disc to make sure it burned properly she’d launch into singing it, at the top of her lungs.
“Please. I’m trying to burn the CDs! Can we give the song a rest for a while? Even Hillary Duff didn’t sing it that much.”
“Why do they call it burning? How does it work?”
Ah. She asked a geek question. I was so proud. I launched into an explanation of resins, aluminum platters, lasers, digital encoding, ones and zeros, spin speeds, you name it. The whole process right down to explaining how CD players read the data on the disc.
“So,” she said finally, looking a little glassy-eyed, “nothing actually melts? There’s no fire in the computer?”
Sigh. I should have known she just wanted to know why they called it “burning”. Not a technical discussion of CD technology.
The girls arrived, and they practiced in the basement. Poor Gertrude was beside herself. She desperately needed to be part of this group. But she was separated by six years in age, and a thousand years in motor skills. But still, she tried. She sat on the stairs in the basement, watching the big girls practice dancing. Sometimes she’d stand up and shake a leg a little, but for the most part she watched patiently. Hoping against hope that they might need her. That they might see her inner dancing talent and ask her to joining the group. And, for their part, those eight year old girls were fantastic. When they were finished they included Gert in their play, dressing her up, chasing her around and treating her like a little mascot. It was sweet.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they were playing some sort of hiding game. Walking through my house, I saw one of the girls hiding behind a bed (there was a mirror on the wall behind her, effectively making hiding useless). At the foot of the bed was Gertrude. She was laying face down on the ground, arms at her side perfectly still, her head under the bed, but the rest of her body sticking out into the room.
“Gert, what are you doing?”
“I hiding under the bed!” And she was, effectively. She was face down on the floor. She couldn’t see anyone; therefore no one could see her. And she was still. Totally still. Except for her left foot, which was wiggling back and forth as if to announce her inner giggle.
Ten minutes later the other girl was back with the gaggle of kids. But Gertrude was still missing. I went to find her and there she was, still partially under the bed. Face down. Still.
“Gertrude, come on. We have to get moving.”
“I,” she said emphatically, “hiding under the BED!”
Discuss
Friday, December 05, 2003
Is Everybody Ready for Boredom?
Yes, today is the obligatory, “Hey-I’m-really-busy-and-everyone-I-work-with-on-a-website-is-all-meeting-in-Disney-World-but-I-couldn’t-go-because-I-bought-a-house-and-have-no-disposable-income-and-my-kids-would-kill-me-if-I-went-anyway-but-here-are-some-stupid-observations-before-I-go-off-and-read-the-second-draft-of-some-chapters-from-an-Epidemiology-book” post.
My new technology was installed yesterday. It’s a Tivo. Groovy. I think I love it.
And today, whilst I work, I’m listening to archives of CDs that various friends have given me over the years. The best one, oddly enough, is probably the oldest. Recorded in Nashville, circa 2000, I think. Again, groovy.
I do have one question, however. Are two-year olds, especially ones that have barely crossed that threshold, supposed to be able to understand the concept of “pretend”?
Gertrude was playing with Play-Dough and started to put it up to her mouth.
“Gertrude, no,” I cried hoping to stop her from putting that brown sludge in her mouth.
“Daddy,” she said, looking at me like I’m an idiot, “It pretend.” She then proceeded to make pretend eating noises.
Well, duh.
Discuss Stuff and Things
My new technology was installed yesterday. It’s a Tivo. Groovy. I think I love it.
And today, whilst I work, I’m listening to archives of CDs that various friends have given me over the years. The best one, oddly enough, is probably the oldest. Recorded in Nashville, circa 2000, I think. Again, groovy.
I do have one question, however. Are two-year olds, especially ones that have barely crossed that threshold, supposed to be able to understand the concept of “pretend”?
Gertrude was playing with Play-Dough and started to put it up to her mouth.
“Gertrude, no,” I cried hoping to stop her from putting that brown sludge in her mouth.
“Daddy,” she said, looking at me like I’m an idiot, “It pretend.” She then proceeded to make pretend eating noises.
Well, duh.
Discuss Stuff and Things
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Upgrading My Life
Well, not really. But there’s a guy here installing an ultragruvan piece of technology in my house, so I won’t have time to write today. Because, of course, when he’s done I have to play with it. Heh.
But I do have a story. Baby woke up in advance of Mom and Dad today. Mom dropped the baby off in our bed on the way to the shower.
Gertrude fell back asleep next to me and seemed to be slumbering peacefully. Then she began mumbling and fidgeting. And then, talking coherently. Though still asleep.
“No hurt Gertrude,” she said frantically. I leaned over to comfort her. As soon as my arm touched her she flinched and yelled.
“Big Bird, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Torn between my need to comfort my child in her terror-inducing dream and my need to laugh hysterically, I hugged her to make her feel better.
But I still have no idea what was going on. During breakfast I asked Gertrude what happened in her dream.
“Puppies nip,” she said. So she was dreaming about Grandma’s dogs. Okay, that explains the “no hurt” comment. I feel better about that since my imagination was running wild.
“What was Big Bird doing,” I asked.
“He thwow Ernie! Big Bird in Big Trouble.”
Wow. In her dreams Muppets turn into the Sopranos. There must be a turf war on Sesame Street. That’s a strange little mind that kid has.
Discuss
But I do have a story. Baby woke up in advance of Mom and Dad today. Mom dropped the baby off in our bed on the way to the shower.
Gertrude fell back asleep next to me and seemed to be slumbering peacefully. Then she began mumbling and fidgeting. And then, talking coherently. Though still asleep.
“No hurt Gertrude,” she said frantically. I leaned over to comfort her. As soon as my arm touched her she flinched and yelled.
“Big Bird, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Torn between my need to comfort my child in her terror-inducing dream and my need to laugh hysterically, I hugged her to make her feel better.
But I still have no idea what was going on. During breakfast I asked Gertrude what happened in her dream.
“Puppies nip,” she said. So she was dreaming about Grandma’s dogs. Okay, that explains the “no hurt” comment. I feel better about that since my imagination was running wild.
“What was Big Bird doing,” I asked.
“He thwow Ernie! Big Bird in Big Trouble.”
Wow. In her dreams Muppets turn into the Sopranos. There must be a turf war on Sesame Street. That’s a strange little mind that kid has.
Discuss
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Opinions
It struck me recently that our world has suddenly become one of opinions more than it ever has been in the past. If you look through history, the people who had the power of opinion were those with access to the written word, be it through the press, or as a mass of agreement through letter writing protests or complaints. Don’t like that Lucy and Ricky sleep in the same bed? Write in to CBS! Did your new Electrolux eat your three-year-old dachshund? Write in to complain to Electrolux! There are stories of people actually changing the mind of a president by writing him a compassionate, moving letter.
The world changed slightly, in that respect, with the wide-spread adoption of the telephone. Now that you could light up a switchboard, the need to spend the time writing a letter seemed pointless.
Now we have the Internet. The vast, sometimes unnavigable, web of information (and disinformation) has the power to move mountains. Or so we think.
As the Internet has grown, we’ve seen the growth of “grassroots” campaigns. You can find a ton of online petitions and movements, from the absurd to the heartfelt. Most online petitions and organizations are pointless and completely powerless. But, there are times when an online movement is powerful and effective. Howard Dean would be nothing without his embrace of technology.
Even more impressive was the fight to save Farscape, a critically-acclaimed, popular television show on the Sci-Fi network. After its cancellation, fans of the show banded together as Save Farscape to let the Powers That Be know that they wanted more Farscape. Not only were they willing to work for what they believed in, they were willing to spend their own money on advertising to let the world know that “I Am Farscape.” And they’ve succeeded. Farscape is currently in production on a mini-series to air sometime next year. Good for Save Farscape.
But they didn’t stop there. They worked together to provide charities that collect DVDs for a variety of reasons with Farscape DVDs. As of this date they are donating Farscape DVDs to local libraries and the US Navy’s recreation program. Rather than just be another Internet group with a single-minded goal, they are spreading their love of their beloved show in charitable ways.
Sharing of opinions spreads far beyond filling out petitions. Every person with an Internet account is now empowered to provide their opinion to anyone willing to read it. Any product on Amazon, BestBuy.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. is up for your criticism. Didn’t like your DVD player, let people who might buy it know. Didn’t like the movie you saw last week? Surf on over to the IMDB and post your opinion. Can’t find a place to voice your opinion about some specific concept? Go to e-opinions and let your feelings be known.
There was once a time when our opinions about products and services were based on television commercials, word of mouth from friends and, if you were lucky, Consumer Reports. Movies were reviewed by men who were provided with passes before it came out, and they were always hoity toity. And that guy who reviewed your favorite album didn’t know what he was talking about. Why, if you had written that review, you’d do it right. Now you can. Whether you’re a professor of English literature or some half-wit, mono-syllabic moron who broke his DVD player when taking it out of the box and taking his poorly constructed, rambling rage out on the manufacturer?
Now you don’t need your neighbor to tell you about his TV. Jean, from Poughkeepsie can let you know. Or you can go by the average user rating on Cnet, Amazon or any other website.
It’s incredibly empowering for the consumer. Now, if you love or hate a product, you don’t have to settle for simply telling the maker of your feelings. You can pass along your feeling directly to the consumer. It’s almost as good as standing next to the product in the store with a megaphone. Hate it or loathe it, you can shout you feelings to the mountain top.
But there is a danger with so much power. Are we doing our fellow consumers a favor to share our opinions, which in some cases may be biased or rash? Or are we doing some harm?
As John Lennon once said, “Everybody’s talking and no one says a word.”
Are we becoming a large group of voices that is quickly becoming background noise? Or are we really making an impact on the marketplace? Does that online form we fill out to give feedback really work? Do our emails reach the right people? Does my review of Joe Versus the Volcano on Netflix really make a difference? Will people see the movie in a different light?
Or are there too many voices all shouting at the same time? Have we just become crowd noise? Does anything rise above the din of public opinion?
It’s hard to tell. But one thing is certain; when given the opportunity to express an opinion, the public is willing to take the offer. And voice it they will. For better or worse, right or wrong, they will give you their two cents. Whether it’s to get Scott Baio back on television, laud the merits of a Tivo or get justice for a victim of a crime, they will let you know.
Discuss Opinions
The world changed slightly, in that respect, with the wide-spread adoption of the telephone. Now that you could light up a switchboard, the need to spend the time writing a letter seemed pointless.
Now we have the Internet. The vast, sometimes unnavigable, web of information (and disinformation) has the power to move mountains. Or so we think.
As the Internet has grown, we’ve seen the growth of “grassroots” campaigns. You can find a ton of online petitions and movements, from the absurd to the heartfelt. Most online petitions and organizations are pointless and completely powerless. But, there are times when an online movement is powerful and effective. Howard Dean would be nothing without his embrace of technology.
Even more impressive was the fight to save Farscape, a critically-acclaimed, popular television show on the Sci-Fi network. After its cancellation, fans of the show banded together as Save Farscape to let the Powers That Be know that they wanted more Farscape. Not only were they willing to work for what they believed in, they were willing to spend their own money on advertising to let the world know that “I Am Farscape.” And they’ve succeeded. Farscape is currently in production on a mini-series to air sometime next year. Good for Save Farscape.
But they didn’t stop there. They worked together to provide charities that collect DVDs for a variety of reasons with Farscape DVDs. As of this date they are donating Farscape DVDs to local libraries and the US Navy’s recreation program. Rather than just be another Internet group with a single-minded goal, they are spreading their love of their beloved show in charitable ways.
Sharing of opinions spreads far beyond filling out petitions. Every person with an Internet account is now empowered to provide their opinion to anyone willing to read it. Any product on Amazon, BestBuy.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. is up for your criticism. Didn’t like your DVD player, let people who might buy it know. Didn’t like the movie you saw last week? Surf on over to the IMDB and post your opinion. Can’t find a place to voice your opinion about some specific concept? Go to e-opinions and let your feelings be known.
There was once a time when our opinions about products and services were based on television commercials, word of mouth from friends and, if you were lucky, Consumer Reports. Movies were reviewed by men who were provided with passes before it came out, and they were always hoity toity. And that guy who reviewed your favorite album didn’t know what he was talking about. Why, if you had written that review, you’d do it right. Now you can. Whether you’re a professor of English literature or some half-wit, mono-syllabic moron who broke his DVD player when taking it out of the box and taking his poorly constructed, rambling rage out on the manufacturer?
Now you don’t need your neighbor to tell you about his TV. Jean, from Poughkeepsie can let you know. Or you can go by the average user rating on Cnet, Amazon or any other website.
It’s incredibly empowering for the consumer. Now, if you love or hate a product, you don’t have to settle for simply telling the maker of your feelings. You can pass along your feeling directly to the consumer. It’s almost as good as standing next to the product in the store with a megaphone. Hate it or loathe it, you can shout you feelings to the mountain top.
But there is a danger with so much power. Are we doing our fellow consumers a favor to share our opinions, which in some cases may be biased or rash? Or are we doing some harm?
As John Lennon once said, “Everybody’s talking and no one says a word.”
Are we becoming a large group of voices that is quickly becoming background noise? Or are we really making an impact on the marketplace? Does that online form we fill out to give feedback really work? Do our emails reach the right people? Does my review of Joe Versus the Volcano on Netflix really make a difference? Will people see the movie in a different light?
Or are there too many voices all shouting at the same time? Have we just become crowd noise? Does anything rise above the din of public opinion?
It’s hard to tell. But one thing is certain; when given the opportunity to express an opinion, the public is willing to take the offer. And voice it they will. For better or worse, right or wrong, they will give you their two cents. Whether it’s to get Scott Baio back on television, laud the merits of a Tivo or get justice for a victim of a crime, they will let you know.
Discuss Opinions
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Gluttony
So we all survived Thanksgiving. Which, in my mind, is a plus. I was able to start reading a new book which, in my mind, is a plus. Here’s the recap. Starting tomorrow, no more of this mundane, shot-by-shot, “picture of life” crap. Promise.
We had my in-laws over for Thanksgiving lunch. Which meant we were up at the crack of dawn doing things to a turkey corpse that I never thought I would do. It’s strange, but if I were sticking my hand in the gut of any other dead animal I would be horrified. But if I call it “food” then it’s all good. I don’t get it.
But, the good news is the turkey turned out beautifully. Gorgeous, as a matter of fact.
Of course, by the time my wife and I sat down to eat, the food was cold and my in-laws were already leaving the table. It reminded me very much of my childhood, where it was every man for themselves. There were no second servings in my family. May God have mercy on your soul if you happened to be at the end of the serving line. You’d get a tablespoon of potatoes, three peas and a dollop of cold gravy with a hair in it. You look down the table and see your brothers and sisters with plates full of enough food to choke the entire Bolivian Navy. And they were all eating as if the world were about to end in five minutes.
The sight was bad enough. But the sound of twelve people eating as fast as possible is horrifying.
And as soon as the meal had begun, we all started arguing over pudding skins. That was my childhood.
The highlight, at least for my wife, was when her not-so-world-wise brother accepted a glass of wine by asking: “What proof is it?”
My wife’s only response was, “Um, what? I don’t know. Would you be more comfortable with grape juice?” My other brother-in-law, who is a little more traveled, eschewed the “dinky” wine glass and drank his wine out of a large drinking glass.
“Hey,” my wife said, “do you just want a paper bag to wrap around the bottle?”
Meanwhile, the kids were drunk on pie. Bouncing off the walls in their best attempts at impressing “Grumpa” with their best tricks. Grumpa, meanwhile, desperately wanted to go to sleep.
Later in the day we went to my family’s for the same event. Many of the same events unfolded there as well. Except we know our liquor. My nephew, in a desire to out-beer me, was showing off his import beer. I was very proud of him. He’s giving up the typical piss-water combinations that most American males worship and trying something a little higher in quality.
Honestly, I don’t understand why people make fun of me for drinking good beer. If I brought over a really nice bottle of wine instead of drinking Mad Dog, no one would care. But bring a nice six pack of Boulevard Pale Ale and everyone teases you for being a beer snob, or worse. When, in reality, they just can’t handle the stronger taste. Wimps. Heh.
The rest of the weekend was pretty uneventful. Did some shopping, watched some Two Towers extras, finished watching Taken (ending sucked), Matilda had a cousin over for a sleepover on Friday . . . Typical stuff really.
But the highlight came on Friday morning when we had our first snow of the year. Sort of. If you consider six flakes per square foot a “snow”. However, in the midst of the raging flurry, the girls were running around in circles squealing in joy. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”
Sigh. Do you remember those days? When the promise of snow meant a few days of frozen, outdoors, childish debauchery? Snow in your pants, wet sneakers, red cheeks and the promise of mom making a hot cup of cocoa to make you happy? That wonderful feeling of your cold-tightened skin warming by the glowing heating register? The smell of wool gloves drying in the forced air heat?
Now when I see snow, I think if backaches, salt on my car, slick roads. It’s just not the same.
But the girls, they have a purity of joy. It was marvelous to see.
And finally, the heart-breaking moment of the four-day weekend. We were standing in the kitchen on Sunday night. Matilda was at her bio-dad’s, so it was just Mommy, Baby and me. Most of the weekend, Gertrude was being Daddy’s little girl. Always choosing me over anything else. It was great.
We were making dinner. “Up,” she demanded. So I picked her up. Then, a strange look drifted over her face. She looked suspiciously at her mom.
“Don’t take my daddy away,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Mom responded, “I won’t.”
And she hugged me.
That sound of shattering glass you heard was my heart breaking into a million pieces.
But in a good way.
Discuss
We had my in-laws over for Thanksgiving lunch. Which meant we were up at the crack of dawn doing things to a turkey corpse that I never thought I would do. It’s strange, but if I were sticking my hand in the gut of any other dead animal I would be horrified. But if I call it “food” then it’s all good. I don’t get it.
But, the good news is the turkey turned out beautifully. Gorgeous, as a matter of fact.
Of course, by the time my wife and I sat down to eat, the food was cold and my in-laws were already leaving the table. It reminded me very much of my childhood, where it was every man for themselves. There were no second servings in my family. May God have mercy on your soul if you happened to be at the end of the serving line. You’d get a tablespoon of potatoes, three peas and a dollop of cold gravy with a hair in it. You look down the table and see your brothers and sisters with plates full of enough food to choke the entire Bolivian Navy. And they were all eating as if the world were about to end in five minutes.
The sight was bad enough. But the sound of twelve people eating as fast as possible is horrifying.
And as soon as the meal had begun, we all started arguing over pudding skins. That was my childhood.
The highlight, at least for my wife, was when her not-so-world-wise brother accepted a glass of wine by asking: “What proof is it?”
My wife’s only response was, “Um, what? I don’t know. Would you be more comfortable with grape juice?” My other brother-in-law, who is a little more traveled, eschewed the “dinky” wine glass and drank his wine out of a large drinking glass.
“Hey,” my wife said, “do you just want a paper bag to wrap around the bottle?”
Meanwhile, the kids were drunk on pie. Bouncing off the walls in their best attempts at impressing “Grumpa” with their best tricks. Grumpa, meanwhile, desperately wanted to go to sleep.
Later in the day we went to my family’s for the same event. Many of the same events unfolded there as well. Except we know our liquor. My nephew, in a desire to out-beer me, was showing off his import beer. I was very proud of him. He’s giving up the typical piss-water combinations that most American males worship and trying something a little higher in quality.
Honestly, I don’t understand why people make fun of me for drinking good beer. If I brought over a really nice bottle of wine instead of drinking Mad Dog, no one would care. But bring a nice six pack of Boulevard Pale Ale and everyone teases you for being a beer snob, or worse. When, in reality, they just can’t handle the stronger taste. Wimps. Heh.
The rest of the weekend was pretty uneventful. Did some shopping, watched some Two Towers extras, finished watching Taken (ending sucked), Matilda had a cousin over for a sleepover on Friday . . . Typical stuff really.
But the highlight came on Friday morning when we had our first snow of the year. Sort of. If you consider six flakes per square foot a “snow”. However, in the midst of the raging flurry, the girls were running around in circles squealing in joy. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”
Sigh. Do you remember those days? When the promise of snow meant a few days of frozen, outdoors, childish debauchery? Snow in your pants, wet sneakers, red cheeks and the promise of mom making a hot cup of cocoa to make you happy? That wonderful feeling of your cold-tightened skin warming by the glowing heating register? The smell of wool gloves drying in the forced air heat?
Now when I see snow, I think if backaches, salt on my car, slick roads. It’s just not the same.
But the girls, they have a purity of joy. It was marvelous to see.
And finally, the heart-breaking moment of the four-day weekend. We were standing in the kitchen on Sunday night. Matilda was at her bio-dad’s, so it was just Mommy, Baby and me. Most of the weekend, Gertrude was being Daddy’s little girl. Always choosing me over anything else. It was great.
We were making dinner. “Up,” she demanded. So I picked her up. Then, a strange look drifted over her face. She looked suspiciously at her mom.
“Don’t take my daddy away,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Mom responded, “I won’t.”
And she hugged me.
That sound of shattering glass you heard was my heart breaking into a million pieces.
But in a good way.
Discuss
Monday, December 01, 2003
Loads
I have much to write about, but little time. My computer encountered a little glitch that required too much of my time, so I'll return to blogging tomorrow.
I will tell you this. I won the bad parenting award for 2003 yesterday because of my computer problems. At the apex of my frustration I let loose a stream of words that would make Joe Pesci blush. Never has a more foul and wretched sequence of profanity been unleashed in this household.
Lo and behold, it was heard. Later that evening I received a glare from my wife that put icecubes in my veins. There she was, sweet little Gertrude, sitting at the table playing with Play-Dough. When she decided that she did not want to work on a piece anymore, she shoved it away and gleefully said . . .
"F*** it!"
I will tell you this. I won the bad parenting award for 2003 yesterday because of my computer problems. At the apex of my frustration I let loose a stream of words that would make Joe Pesci blush. Never has a more foul and wretched sequence of profanity been unleashed in this household.
Lo and behold, it was heard. Later that evening I received a glare from my wife that put icecubes in my veins. There she was, sweet little Gertrude, sitting at the table playing with Play-Dough. When she decided that she did not want to work on a piece anymore, she shoved it away and gleefully said . . .
"F*** it!"
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