A Fun Night Out At The Movies? You Bet Jurassic It Was!

            During the course of my married life, I have had the chance to experience many new and exciting things.  Watching my wife have three children in two pregnancies has definitely opened my eyes wider than my sockets thought was possible.  I have seen firsthand how precious life is and how wonderful multiple tax deductions are.  Of course being parents of three kids with a collective age of 11 years old, has been quite a drain as well.  Our bank account has shown this.  Our schedules have shown this.  Our arguments over how much time should be spent enjoying DVD sets of It’s Garry Shandling’s Show have shown this.  (I for one think there aren’t enough hours in the day to watch Shandling, she thinks that 24 hours in a day are more than sufficient.)

            One of the new and intriguing things we thought we’d try doing was to actually go out for “dinner and a movie”!  We had heard this was a popular form of “going out and doing something” that many “normal people” enjoy even though they “have children”.  My wife had eagerly brought this fresh concept up for my consideration.  I admittedly was hesitant due to my fear of new things.  Only recently have I accepted that Richard Dawson is not coming back to Family Feud and that the McRib is not a regular menu item.  Needless to say, I was hesitating to procrastinate on delaying my decision.  My wife of course was patient with me, grabbing my ear and saying in her loving way, “Look buddy, we can do this the easy way or the other way.  What’ll it be, you chump?”  Bending over at an awkward angle with her fingernail digging into my cochlea, I helpfully suggested she look up a restaurant she would like to visit.

            After I stopped the bleeding, I stood my ground and said that I wanted to see a stupid movie, preferably with explosions of some sort.  My bride lovingly waved me off and replied with a heartwarming, “Ok, fine, whatever.”  She looked up a place to eat that we had never been to, had the babysitter all ready to go, and looked over what was currently playing at the local budget cinema.  She suggested that they had the latest offering in the Mission: Impossible franchise.  However as they still hadn’t brought Martin Landau in to guest star, I declined.  Then the new Avengers movie was showing but as Dame Diana Rigg was not asked to guest star, I demurred at that choice immediately.  Displaying her ever-growing patience with a mask of ever-increasing rage and hostility, my wife suggested that we see the latest movie to feature people running away from dinosaurs: Jurassic World.  Eureka!  A choice emerged and it only took a swift kick to my left shin by my loving spouse in order for me to make a choice.

            I decided to read up on this newest installment in the franchise.  But I then decided to tool around YouTube instead, trying to find at least some reaction to the new Star Wars: The Box Office Awakens trailer.  But amazingly, the interwebnet has been completely silent about this movie.  You’d think there would be some reaction from the web denizens, but I couldn’t find a single positive or negative word about it.  (For those of you playing along at home, please read the previous two sentences in a very obnoxiously sarcastic manner.  You’ll be glad you did!)

Even more sadlier, I also found out that just typing Jurassic Park IV: Citizens On Patrol on Google brings up nothing, which is disappointing that no one thought to combine those great franchises.  However, upon 5^th thought, I realized that no matter how entertaining the idea of watching Steve Guttenberg and a triceratops dive into some good natured hijinks might be, it would never come to fruition.  This is after all is said and done quite a foolish idea.  Like Universal and Warner Brothers could ever get their acts together to make the megamovie that I demand.

            So after a rather good dinner and wonderful slice of cheesecake that I shared with my radiant other half, we adjourned to the movie theater.  After the interminable ads and movie trivia, the film metaphorically unspooled before my eyes and here dear reader is where I swing into high and give you my thoughts on this blockbuster.  And as always, you are welcome!

           

First a positive thought: Chris Pratt acquits himself rather well amidst all of these shenanigans.  I was more impressed with him than with the CGI.  Apparently Spielberg has said that if the part of Indiana Jones were ever recast, he could see Pratt in the role.  I know it is heresy to say this, given how much I love the Raiders franchise and having Harrison in it, but I would not be angry if Chris Pratt was Dr. Henry Jones.  If he can fight dinosaurs believably, he can fight Nazis without an issue.

            Whew!  Glad to get all of the one good thing out of the way first.  But as long as I’m speaking of actors in this flick, I only recognized Pratt and Vincent D’Onofrio.  Oh and there’s also that one Asian scientist who was in the first Jurassic Park whose name I didn’t learn back in 1993, so I won’t start memorizing it now.  The rest of cast is a sea of complete nobodies to me.  From that one kid to that older other kid to Opie’s daughter to the woman that played the mom of the two kids to the black guy that was Chris Pratt’s buddy, it was a veritable cast of “Hmmm…didn’t I see you serving me at the Caribou Coffee the other day?” 

Now, compare that amazing cast list to the first movie where you had Sam Neill, Laura Dern, Jeff Goldblum, Richard Attenborough, Samuel L. Jackson, and Wayne “Newman” Knight from Seinfeld.  I even remembered the little girl was from Tremors for crying out loud!  Then look at the second movie, not the whole thing mind you, just skip around, but there you get Jeff “I Want A Paycheck” Goldblum, Richard Attenborough, Julianne Moore, Vince Vaughn, that one guy from The West Wing and Pete “Mr. Kobayashi” Postlethwaite.  And the third one had Sam “I Want The Same Goldblum Paycheck” Neill, Laura Dern, William H. Macy, Tea “I’m NOT Sharon Stone, dammit!” Leoni, and John “Boy, I Got Killed Early In This” Diehl.  Now I’m sure some of these Jurassic World castaways are familiar to some who actually pay attention to the current pop culture trends, but as I don’t, they’re not.  Personally I would have brought back Samuel L. Jackson with a robot arm but I digress.*

Am I supposed to believe that rational people think that using dinosaurs as weapons is a terrific idea?  Then again this is InGen, the corporation that thought bringing a T. Rex to San Diego was a thumbs-up notion.  After hearing Private Pyle repeat this idea several times, I just thought that he had survived basic training and this was his final glory.  But no, they were serious?!  “Yeah Bob?  I would like you to train this ankylosaurus to carry a platoon of men whilst firing the anti-aircraft guns on its back.  Can you get a test demonstration put together by the end of the month?  That’d be great, thanks.” 

Speaking of ridiculousosity, I can take the leap of faith that Chris Pratt could actually train raptors, but why would D’Onofrio think that these animals that he had never trained let alone spoken to would ever listen to him and not disembowel him?  This would be akin to my walking into a tiger cage, taking away the trainer’s chair and whip, and saying “Hey, I’ll take it from here Roy, you take five, all right?”  Is there a measurement device available to measure the size of Vincent’s cojones in doing this?

So this new Latiny sounding crossbred dinosaur was brought about because people were getting bored with seeing dinosaurs?  I’ve got some evidence that this is a load of hooeyness.  Jurassic World has made $1.6 billion.  That’s billion with a big old “B”.  I don’t think people would get tired of seeing live dinosaurs.  But as the plot's park data says otherwise, I’ll go with whatever your hastily wedged together script says at that moment.  So you then develop another huge killing machine that people would love to see, which makes sense.  However you also spliced in the ability for this thing to camouflage itself, which doesn't make sense.  What’s the point of a major attraction that you can't see?  Besides you already cooked up a spinosaurus that thoroughly kicked a T. Rex’s petooty in the 3^rd movie.  Why cook up a different super-killer dino in the first place?  Especially since the only ones that saw it and lived were Sam Neill’s party.  Just bring Spiny to the party and save yourself the time and research money and development.

Ooooh the kids in the movie are talking!  Their parents might get divorced!  Thanks for just throwing that in at a random moment so I’ll all of a sudden supposed to care about these two scallywags, Mr. Joe Screenwriter, Esquire!  The moptopped younger child might cry!  Let’s suddenly get invested in these characters without having to deal with labor intensive plot development! 

What was the age group for this movie?  I don’t mean to be stick in the mud parent here, rightfully passing judgment on those of you who decided this would be a great night out for the kiddos, but I’ve got a question.  The rating is PG-13 which is amazing considering the toys that I saw on store shelves were for kids far younger than 13.  How are these kids getting in the theater because it was seemingly a bit much for even that age group?  I mean sure the children will adore seeing a massive horrifying pterodactyl attack on the throng of helpless attendees, but I must draw the line somewheres.

So we come to the end where in order to stop the hybrid Interminablelous Rex, a raptor and a T. Rex decide to activate their wonder twin powers and go after the common enemy.  So just like a random Marvel comic from 1976, the heroes put aside their differences to team-up and win.  The makers of the movie then stop just short of having the two victorious dinos give each other a fist pump or a “three raps on the back” man hug.  I actually thought the T. Rex would have Sam Elliott’s voice dubbed in saying “Thanks, pardner.” as they go their separate ways into the sunset.

And with that dinosaur roar, it was done, with future sequels promised since this movie literally printed money at the box office throughout the planet.  My wife and I drove home to relieve the babysitter that we were sure had started writing Jack Nicholson’s book verbatim from The Shining after dealing with our brood for over 6 hours.  I sat back as I drove our pontiaciful chariot home, thankful that I had indeed watched a big summer blockbuster.  It had fulfilled my hopes and dreams by being dreadfully stupid, but oddly nostalgically entertaining.  It took me back to my wide 1993 eyes when I watched the first Jurassic Park movie in the theater.

  But I knew in my heart of hearts there was only one way to improve upon this franchise.  Get me Bobcat Goldthwait’s number now!  Police Academy 8: Assignment Jurassic World cannot die in vain!


* I just wanted to give proper props to my lovely bride for providing that wonderful Samuel L. Jackson idea.  So thank you dear for badgering me at length to give you credit for that one.

If All The World’s Indeed A Stage, Where Are The Dressing Rooms Again?

            Yes, dear sweet, voluminous, voluptuous reader, I have once again decided to peer into the murky depths of my factual inaccuracies and reveal even more of my downright illustriously fabricated stagebound past.  I am retreading the boards so to speak to use a phrase per se and together we shall all grow as people, as carbon based lifeforms, and as expert salesmen of vinyl all-weather siding.  Well, perhaps I have exaggerated.  We are definitely made up of more than just carbon.

             Given the figurative volumes that have attempted to compile my vast stage background, I have once again decided to take everyone on a Poseidon Adventure of sorts into the Towering Inferno of my past heights and down through on a Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea of my past depths so that the Swarm of memories can overtake each of us up until the moment When Time Ran Out.  Yes, through these memories we can all get Beyond the Poseidon Adventure of my past stage experiences.  Now if all of those Irwin Allen references aren’t enough of a clue that I don’t know what I’m talking about, then I don’t know anything about The Story of Mankind. 

            The year was 1988 and my parents, determined to scar my fragile emotional make-up decided to move from the “City of Brotherly Love” also known as Milwaukee, WI to the “Biggest Moderately-Apportioned City in the World of Washington County”, also known as Hartford, WI.  Hartford is of course known for three things: 1) W.B. Place, where you can tan your hides, 2) The Mineshaft restaurant and bar, where you can hide your tans, and 3) the ability to cruelly disprove the comedy rule of threes.

             My new school was Peace Lutheran School and upon entering 5^th grade there, the only thought I had was fixating on escaping back to my old life.  This was going to prove difficult as I didn’t know even rudimentary German.  My brother’s ability to make a fake passport for me proved to be a dead-end as he was more interested in beating Super Mario Brothers.  Lightbulbs for my tunnel proved to be difficult to smuggle out past my eagle-eyed father in mass quantities.  My parents, showering me with love and concern probably in an effort to distract me in my efforts, had shown themselves to be more than worthy opponents.  I was broken, dejected, and despondent.  In a word that I created through my distraughtness, I was disconsolable.

            Despite the world weighing my little ten year old shoulders down, I could take comfort in a tiny glimmer of hope.  One infinitesimal light in the gloomy darkness could lead me out of this doom and gloom.  Peace Lutheran happened to have some really cute girls in attendance.  Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Man, does this guy drone on in a shallow and sad way!”  However I would counter with the clever bon mot of “Oh, you think so?!  Well, you ain’t read nothing yet!”

             Now what in the name of all that is moderately sacred has any of this to do with relaying      my past stage experience?  I’m glad that someone like me had the nerve to ask myself this very question that I asked moi.  What draws people to the stage?  Is it the passion for acting? Maybe.  Is it the drive to portray wonderful well-written characters?  Eh, sure.  Is it the wanting to become rich and famous?  I think this is closer to the mark.  Is it to meet ladies?  Yes.  There I said it.  Yes, this is the reason to act.  “But wouldn’t being a football player be a better route to gaining the attention of toothsome lasses?” you might assuredly inquire.  Sure, if you have a modicum of athletic ability.  But the gridiron attracts the manliest of male men and the stage, well, doesn’t.  For someone like me, who is enchanted with the concept of being surrounded by ladies without any testosterone laden buffoons in shoulder pads to compete with, the stage is a perfect setting!  Sure in a locker room I wouldn’t get a second glance from the opposite sex.  But when I’m surrounded by other guys that can best be described as “noodly drama nerds”, I am a demigod by comparison.

            Now did this ever help me achieve a legendary reputation with the lovely ladies of the stage?  I can answer with a clever and resounding “Nope!”  Oh sure I gave some wonderful backrubs to some very lovely shoulders indeed, but most if not all of those ladies did in the end enjoy the company of those linebackers who ultimately thought that Shakespeare was something you drank and Molière was something you had a dermatologist examine.

            Ah but this bitterness was the result of future dramatic enterprises on the stage, not necessarily whilst in my remaining halcyon grade school years.  In fact from fifth through eighth grade I never was in a school production.  Oh sure there were many offers from all throughout the extensive Lutheran parochial grade school drama circuits for me to return, but I declined all offers, imagined or fictional.  Why this vacancy of my presence from the stage?  I like to think that as I was being mandatorily encouraged to take up a musical instrument by my parents, my dedication to being a mediocre at best saxophone player was my driving, albeit at slow to moderate speed, focus at the time.  However, upon some research I discovered that this was hopelessly inaccurate and in fact libelous to me, whom I didn’t want to sue in the first place.  Upon further review I believe that laziness combined with apathy made a wonderful cocktail that I downed liberally at the time and this was in fact the reason.

            Yet I was in two forensics competitions at the time of 7^th and 8^th grade however, so my instincts remained sharpened by that experience.  In 7^th grade, I handpicked a fellow student to give me straight lines as I delivered an Abbott and Costello routine that I had transcribed from a worn cassette tape.  This of course is shocking to most readers that will grudgingly admit that I am their acquaintance.  I of course have incredible disdain for Bud & Lou.  Sure, there are some funny moments in Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein and Who’s On First is a routine that if performed correctly shows that you have incredible comic timing.  But beyond that, I have always viewed them as lower rung Three Stooges mimics that appeal to the lowest common denominator, which is why their films made money as brighter talents such as W.C. Fields and the Marx Brothers withered and died, but not that I’m bitterly angry about that.

            I had heard this routine on tape many times and as it wasn’t Who’s On First and as I knew it more or less from memory already, I could dazzle the judges and blow away the competition at the Lutheran grade school forensics meet with my mad verbiage skills.  I handpicked my straight man Jeff from a literal crowd of 4 other guys in my class and after a smidgen of rehearsal and a practice run in front of the class, we went into the throng of competitors a few weeks later.

            I don’t know if you’ve ever had what some would call the agony of having to sit through a classroom filled with grade school forensics presentations, but allow me to dissuade your fears and apprehension and tell you the truth.  It is appalling in its badly applied mediocrity.  Ye gods.  Oh sure, the parents were gleaming with pride for their little moppets that were all most certainly going to be the next lighting stand-in for the next Haley Joel Osment, but for the rest of us it was a trial by badly memorized fire.

            However, I knew that we were going to amaze with our shocking maturity and comic timing.  So the moment had come and we proceeded to go through the routine, beat for beat, laugh for laugh.  We followed the same technique that Bud & Lou had and knew where the laughs were and it all fell into place.  I thought we had a lock for a first place blue ribbon of achievement and wonder.  And then the judges came back with their results and the red ribbon of a second place, the first place for failures, was handed to us.  I was stunned.  My ego is not that terrific to begin with but I thought we were a lock.  When I asked a judge what we could have done differently, she said “It was just great and funny but then you swore, so I had to dock you.”

            What?  I swore?!  When was that?  She said that it was when I said someone did something just for the “hell of it”.  I then reminded her that as the entire performed piece is a collection of bad fish puns and fish-related jokes, I actually and truthfully did say the person in question just did it for the halibut.  HALIBUT!  A bad fish pun.  Not a cuss, mild as it would have been IF I actually said it.  So we weren’t being graded on performance but on single misheard pun?  Alas, she couldn’t be swayed and as this was being held at a Lutheran grade school forensics competition at a Lutheran high school, the self-righteous nonsense from the religiously indignant cloth-eared buffoon judges held firm. 

           (Not that I’m still bitter, mind you.  I’ve come to realize that the level of humor needed to amuse most Lutherans hovers somewhere between an off-color joke from the late 1700s about Catholics and the mid-1990s masterworks of Sir Adam Sandler.  Sadly even Abbott and Costello must be Bollinger compared to the stale Bud Light of Mike & Molly they’re used to imbibing.)

Did this setback set me back?  Not at all!  For I knew I would be back that next year and perform yet again.  I most certainly would show them and go out in a blaze of glory that would rival anything that Jon Bon Jovi sang about Emilio Estevez playing a cowboy.  But that is another story that I need time to enhance with dramatic fiction.  You’re welcome as always and stay tuned for the thrilling penultimate conclusion!

Your Lion Eyes, Or A Horse Is A Corpse Of Course Of Course

This just in: Cecil the lion and Barbaro the non-lion horse just met in animal heaven and talked things over.  The meeting was amicable but short because lions and horses don’t share a common language, unlike dolphins and woodchucks of course.  After using the obvious choice of a swan as an interpreter, both Cecil and Barbaro realized that humanity is very strange indeed.

 

Then Cecil ate Barbaro.  Oh, cruel fate!  Fortunately the fake outrage in animal heaven is quite loud right now.

 

Why are you still reading this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fifteen Years After Freedom

          Fifteen years ago this week, I was sitting in my bedroom upstairs reading a compendium of every Sherlock Holmes story that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written.  I had picked up the volume from Barnes and Noble during one of my “Well, this is famous, guess I had better read it to find out why” moments that occur semi-frequently.  This would explain the eclectic library that I own which makes any sort of cataloguing a nightmare to anyone outside of my dented psyche. 
 

I was turned on to Holmes at a young age due to Gene Wilder’s comedic homage in The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother.  The Granada TV series that starred Jeremy Brett as Sherlock then turned out to be a revelation.  Quite a career-defining role for Brett and those series definitely set the bar quite high when it comes to any other Holmes adaptations.  Then my brother encouraged me to actually read the stories, which is what I was doing at that moment. 

 

            Nearing the end of the book, I knew I would finish it that night.  It truly had been quite a journey that I had taken with Mr. Holmes.  From a sign of four to demon hounds to a death by waterfall to a resurrection to a solitary cyclist, a drawing of dancing men, and Bruce Partington’s submersible plans, it had been quite a ride.  And soon it would be over with just another turn of the page.  As I reached the end of the story, I heard from downstairs that it finally happened: my mother had passed away.

 

            My mother had been fighting what started out as ovarian cancer for close to three years at that point.  She had been through the surgeries and the chemotherapy.  Everything seemed to work and in fact her count had showed remission.  However the cancer then came back.  Her count spiked up.  Another round of chemotherapy.  Her oncologist said that the chemo wasn’t working the second time through and this was just delaying the inevitable.  Then she made the decision to leave, have hospice care, and barring some miraculous event, pass away at home.

 

            I never viewed it as giving up the fight or some other such nonsense definition.  She and my father had been through so much already in battling this disease.  If nothing else, my mother had amazing willpower and had endured horrendous treatments in trying to beat back cancer.  I think she just reached a point of acceptance with her situation.  I also believe that it gave her two months to not focus on the disease, but rather to focus on her faith in and to demonstrate that faith to others.

 

            Leaving the hospital for the last time with her is burned in my memory.  It was just the two of us taking that short trip together.  My mother looked out the window of the car as we drove along.  I don’t remember us talking about anything.  I do remember just the look on her face as we passed familiar landmarks that she knew she would never see again.  The look she had was one of quiet peace with just a tinge of sadness.  Thinking back on it now, I’m just amazed that my 21 year-old self managed to keep it together as well as I did.  I’m more amazed at how my mother kept everything together.

 

            I don’t know how one without faith would handle knowing that you are going home to die.  What horrors those people must go through.  Even having faith, it must be quite the trial.  Yet I remember my mother showing not false bravery, but resignation and confidence.  I have often said in the past, that I pray that I have just a modicum of the faith that my mother displayed during that time.

 

            My mother never met my wife and never had a chance to treat her like the daughter she never had.  My mother never met my children and never had the experience of being a grandma.  They will only know of her via pictures and home movies, which isn’t much of a connection at all.  Even my memories have started to fade since so much time has passed since she died.  It is also hard to remember a time when she wasn’t sick.  But since writing this, certain thoughts pop into my mind.

 

            I will always have an affinity for movies thanks to my mother.  Some of her favorites are still my favorites.  The Bishop’s Wife is my favorite Christmas movie.  The Thing From Another World is still a great sci-fi film.  Her love of The Quiet Man prompted me to contact Maureen O’Hara and she graciously signed a photograph for me.  Thankfully my mom and my dad taped a lot of Marx Brothers films from the late shows on TV and that started a lifelong love of their work too.

            My mother had a sense of humor that could go towards the dark at times, which I love.  I remember she would be getting testosterone with her cancer treatment.  She wanted to have dad get her a fake moustache to put on for the oncologist so she could say, “Doc, you have to cut back on the treatment!”  Even at her funeral that sense of humor prevailed.  My father turned to me prior to the service and said, “Your mom isn’t here.”  To which I replied, “I know, she’s dead.”  My father elaborated, “No, I meant that the funeral home didn’t get her ashes ready in time, so the memorial box up front is empty.”  I said, “So mom is late to her own funeral?  That is great!”  And we both started laughing because she would have found that hilarious.

 

            She was a paranoid driver.  Ever since she got into an accident years ago, she would have white knuckles on the wheel just driving to the store for groceries.  As you might imagine, it was rather tense when she would go out with me to practice driving for my license.  We would just go out into a vacant parking lot and she would tense up like I was about to attempt some James Bondian car stunt of legendary proportions.

 

            My mother was a great cook.  I can still taste her homemade apple pie and nothing since comes close to it.  She also wasn’t afraid to experiment with dishes.  My brother and I still have nightmares about a quiche Lorraine she tried to make where the eggs never set.  Only a year ago did I attempt to make one on my own.  That it came out is a testament to her watching over me from afar.

 

            I hope that my loyal readership allows me this posting, as it is quite a left turn from my usual fare of nonsensical natterings and exquisite blather.  But all of a sudden 15 years just blinked by and I felt the need to reflect upon them.  The ultimate knowledge that my mother and I will be reunited in paradise someday is a comforting thought.  Without faith there is no such comfort.  One day my mother will meet her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren.  One day we will all be brought together.  What a day that will be! 

 

            If time permits, I’ll get my mom to watch the Sherlock Holmes shows with Jeremy Brett.  I think she’ll love it!

The Deck Is Always Stacked Against You

          After spending what I believe to be the appropriate amount of time to mourn the loss of the wonderful Christopher Lee, I have decided much to the appreciative chagrin of my semi-adoring public to return to write yet another irreverent and scattershot post.  Before I get started however, I just wanted to reiterate what a loss not having Christopher Lee around is to this world.  He was such a delight onscreen in any number of roles.  My only hope is that his passing is only temporary and that at some time in some vague European nation some weary travelers will make the mistake of staying at the wrong castle and a devoted servant will use them as the bloody means to resurrect Lee from the grave.  Of course then Peter Cushing will have to be resurrected to kill him all over again, but what a ride that would be!

 

          Thank you for indulging my initial digression and let me get to the meat of what I wanted to write about today.  At some point in your life, you may find yourself living in a house that you are attempting to own despite voluminous mortgage bills and property tax payments.  This house may be blessed with a deck somewhere on it.  The previous owner might have been just great and slathered on a layer of dirt cheap paint to make everything look good enough to sell but not to last beyond 2 days after the house sale closed.  This might be good enough for a time, but then if you’re extremely blessed, you might have a wife that continually says, “Wouldn’t it be great if the deck were repainted!”  You might even reply with an agreement as I did that went along these lines: “Yep, Honeybunch!  That sure would be nice if that deck were repainted!”  You then might be dealt a stare that would drive all the warmth from your body due to the day of reckoning atmosphere that accompanies it.  You then might think: “Oh, no.”

 

            Well, if you happen to be the poor sod that is stuck with such a dilemma, fear not!  For I am a survivor of such an ordeal and am living just long enough to give all of you some tips and tricks on how to get out of staining your deck.  Whoops!  Please replace “out of” in the previous sentence and replace it with “started on”.  I forgot my wife sometimes reads these posts and she’s probably reading this sentence right now.  Hi, dear!  Doesn’t the deck look great?  Whew, I think she’s gone now, so here we go!

 

·        When I asked a friend of mine who owns a painting company what would be the best way to attack repainting/staining a deck, his first response was “Get rid of the deck.”  He did have a point.  After all, I live in Wisconsin, which does get to experience the effects of a season known as winter some six months out of a year.  If we’re lucky, sometimes even more!  Why in the name of Cthulhu would one own a deck in the Dairyland?  However my wife wouldn’t buy my “accidentally” destroying the deck even with my vast technological ineptitudeness at my disposal.  The chances of a tornado just taking the deck out are slim and a fire would be hard to control with such precision, but never say die.  Perhaps if I hired some guys to dismantle it while my wife was out and when she asked about it, I would reply bravely, “What deck?  This house never had one!  Why do you think we got such a deal?!”  But that would never work as the kids would rat me out in a heartbeat, the little punks!

·        Realize that the people that suggest the deck needs repainting are never the ones eager to grab a brush or slosh a roller down.  Just understand that!  You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache and anger by avoiding the clever retort, “Oh yeah, well why don’t you do it!”  Not that I can speak from experience, but I bet my grandmother would have grabbed that brush and would have done a better job than me.  Hmmm…come to think of it, let me revise this thought.  Challenge anyone that you think could do a better job than you at painting a deck.  You’ve got a 50/50 shot of getting out of doing it yourself.

·        Speaking of not doing it yourself, don’t let yourself be talked out of hiring someone else to do this task.  Although I did find it odd that when I mentioned the deck painting to the painting company friend, he didn’t violently leap at the idea of getting paid to do it for me.  Quite the contrary in fact.  However, there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction that comes from a job well done…by someone you’ve hired.

·        If you dare your wife that you’ll paint the deck but only if she picks up the paint in the color she wants, you will have that brush in your hand quicker than you can say “Sherwin Williams”.  You won’t get to the “Williams”.  Even with having to drag 3 children under the age of 5 into a Home Depot, she’ll have 9 gallons of paint waiting for you when you get home from work that very day.  Again, this is purely hypothetical and has nothing per se to do with my individual set of circumstances of course.

·        Delay tactics are a must at this point.  Even if there is a hint of rain coming from two states over, bring it up and say something along the lines of “Oh, shoot!  Sweetie, I just don’t want to waste the paint and have it all wash away!”  This will work a surprising amount of times.  Unless of course your wife gets a smartphone, links up to three different weather sites, and calls up the local weatherman every 6 minutes to get her personal “Weather on the sixes, because the eights take too long” reports.  At this point, you are defeated.  The only available out is if you can come up with a plausible arm break.  Inevitably failing that train of thought, prepare for paint day!

·        You might think that you have supplies for the forthcoming day of painting and you probably do, but they won’t be enough.  Oh no.  The cost of the paint was cheap compared to the brushes, rollers, roller brushes, brusher rollers, stirring sticks, brush extension poles, brushes, paint trays, paint tray liners, knee pads, brushes, handheld paint cup, handheld paint cup liners, brushes, paint remover, and of course brushes you’ll need.  Also, be sure that your paint is far too thick to make the use of a sprayer effective in any way, shape, or form. 

·        Also if you think something would be great to be covered with a roller, grab the hand brush because the roller will work like garbage.  If you think something would be best covered with a brush, you’re right.  Who would have thought that after all this time, the paintbrush would be the best application for getting paint on things?  So why’d you buy all that other stuff?  You fool!  Take it back to the store and get a refun…oh, wait.  You say that everything’s covered in paint because you tried to use it?  Oh, well, that’s different.  You’re screwed.  Never mind.

·        Examine your deck.  Did the builder make simple railings that were easily accessible from all angles?  No, of course they didn’t.  Never in a bazillion years would they ever think to do that!  I happened to have some sort of double decker railing with little 2 X 2 supports in-between them that were not only impossible to effectively paint, but they were also impossible to paint effectively too.  I think if they had the option, they would have hired those carvers that make ornate sculptures out of elephant tusks to work on the wood as well. 

·        Given your concern over the weather being a factor in your painting experience, have you ensured that the day will be breathtakingly scorchingly hot?  Please do so.  If you start to feel sick while out there for hours on end, don’t worry.  You’re just experiencing the effects of heatstroke combined with inhaling paint fumes from 8 AM until 5:30 PM.  Other than that, you are fine!  Keep pushing that brush, slacker!

·        If your wife gives you a tasty sandwich and a nice cool beverage as a pit stop after your hours of painting and you then immediately hear a loud thunderclap, please be sure to laugh uncontrollably.  You’ve earned that release, partner!  If you are extremely fortunate, the rain will come down in drenching sheets and you will laugh even louder.  Let the laughter heal you.  Doing so will prevent you from strangling the first person that asks you, “Hey, how’s the painting going?”

·        Now if you’re like me and I know I am, you’ll want to make sure that you’ve covered all bits of the old paint job so that nothing shows through.  At this point, be assured that you’ll discover that you definitely have a form of OCD!  I never even knew I had it this badly despite my need to alphabetize and chronologicalize everything I own.  Even my children cannot be addressed out of order.  I never thought that I could get nightmares about having to touch up a deck, but I just kept on learning new things through this experience!  A good way to battle this problem is to have plenty of ice cold beer around!  Sure, the paint won’t be spread as evenly but you’ll start to care less and less.  Also alcohol is a scientifically proven thirst quencher.  Science: The Stuff You Think You Know!

·        After the end of the third day spent painting, when you’ve used the last bit of your current gallon after a rationing effort that mirrors how you’d dole out the remaining fresh water while stuck in a lifeboat, definitely take a moment to sit back now.  You’re done!  Take a well-deserved break.  Sit in the shade and just admire your handiwork.  I bet you never thought you had it in you!  I bet you never thought that it would never turn out looking that good!  Better yet, call your wife over to share in this moment.  Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to have her bring up certain areas that still need touching up.  Take a well-deserved moment to cry.  Start blubbering like a toddler that was told that Thomas the Tank Engine was killed in a horrible derailment accident.  If you don’t have kids and/or that Thomas illustration won’t suffice, try crying like Howard Dean. 

·        I suggest using nothing short of an industrial belt sander to help you remove the paint that now covers 86.9% of your body.  Those cute antibacterial soaps that smell like woodland fairy flatulence are nice and all, but they cannot remove paint whatsoever.  If you cannot find a soap that works for you, simply shave the skin away.  At least the scar tissue will be clean of paint and you’ll have a physical memory of your deck painting adventure!

 

          Well, I do hope that these tips and tactics will assist you in making the right decision for your deck adventure.  Remember the best tip is to not have a deck in the first place.  However if you’ve been saddled with a deck that needs repainting and certain members of your household won’t stop bringing this up, do the responsible thing.  Get your supplies, starting with the beer, and go watch Sir Christopher Lee in something, anything.  Did you know he was a bad guy in a Chuck Norris movie?  It was called An Eye For An Eye and Chuck is great!  You might catch a little grief, but all the better to waste even more time in the hopes that a twister will take that deck right off the house.

Roll 'Em Up or The How-Not-To Survive Wild Animals Survival Guide

            Hello and welcome back to the most pleasant blog in the whole wonderful world wide webnet!  After taking the majority of May off to pursue other interests, such as getting caught up on reading the instruction manual to my car stereo and killing moles in my lawn with the ruthless efficiency of Stalin’s NKVD, there was a story that came up that was so compelling, I believe it needs addressing.

 

            This story was a feature during the broadcast of the most objective, reliable and thorough morning news show in the country, let alone the Milky Way: Good Morning America or GMA as their many tens of fans call it for short.  I mean how could there be any kind of conflict of interest whatsoever when George Stephanopoulos has to report on anything revolving around the Clinton family?  I’m sure he’s as unbiased as they come!  (Kids, check out Wikipedia or *shudder* an actual book regarding those wacky Clintons to see why my sarcasm is cascading over the top of the cup at this moment.)  Aside from bushel baskets full of money, I don’t see how ABC got Robin Roberts over to this AM dog and pony show.  I mean with the flimsy and sometimes laughable façade of journalistic integrity at ESPN, Roberts always was a head above the rest over there.  Why would she leave that?  Aside from being offered the boatloads of cash, I mean.

 

            Anyway, this titan among the morning broadcast journalism shows, which my wife can stand for some goshawful reason that I know I never saw coming when I married her, had reported about a woman from the U.S. who was killed by a lion at an animal park in South Africa.  While I in no way want to belittle this tragedy (even though I am with good reason going to do so before my post is over), it appears that the woman was killed because in order to take a better picture, she had rolled her car window down all the way and a lion lunged and attacked her.  Ahem.  Let that sink in for a moment: “she had rolled her car window down all the way and a lion lunged and attacked her.”  I think right there the moment has arrived where Darwin’s theories get the juice of proof from the fruit of actions like these.

 

Aside from blaming the lion, which is the obvious oblivious reaction to be sure, let us reconsider while I take the admittedly revolutionary tack of blaming the victim.  Oh sure, I can hear some of you saying now, “WHAT?!?  All victims are pure and blameless creatures of bad luck and horrible timing, right?  How dare you, you hater! #lionvictimsrightsnow (Insert Random Emoticon of Disapproval Here).”  Okay, I know none of you really said that, but I’ll play devil’s advocate anyways.  This was not an infant or a child or a mentally challenged individual, all of whom know nothing about lions aside from fuzzy cubs and cuddly toys, that was killed.  This was presumably a full grown adult female that went to South Africa, now that it is all nice and joyous there, in order to witness full grown wild animals in a park.  She had to have some idea that lions were dangerous no matter how many times she saw The Wizard of Oz, right?  Right?

 

Of course since this was a U.S. citizen, the question was immediately raised about the safety of the park.  Because no one cares if some random Belgian takes a header into a bear pit, but heaven forbid an apple pie eating American doesn’t know how car windows work.  The South African park officials said that their rules for visitors actually had to include the heretofore unneeded edict: “Don’t Roll Your Windows Down”.  Amazingly, this actually had to be told to tourists with a straight face conceivably along with the similar edicts of “Don’t Pet The Rhinos” and “Don’t Ride The Cheetahs”.

 

The bottom line is that nature is trying to kill human beings.  No matter how you slice it, nature wants to maul you and leave your carcass hanging in a tree, ripping your skull out to keep as a trophy while camouflaging itself in the jungle to hunt down Carl Weathers and Jesse Ventura.  Perhaps this isn’t how nature works at all now that I think about it.  At least it wouldn’t have that good of a soundtrack.  Hmm.  Mayhap I should rethink some of the ground rules when dealing with our soulless friends of nature.  And no, I don’t just mean PETA.  And as always, you are welcome!

 

1.     Don’t roll down your car window when near large cats that can kill you.  This includes lions, tigers, pumas, mountain lions, cheetahs, any cast member of the show Cats, leopards, panthers, Garfield, lynxes, Persian cats, saber-toothed tigers, bobcats, wildcats, any sports team that had to change from their Native American mascots over to a random cat icon instead, Snagglepuss, and rabid feral kittens.  I know what you’re going to say because I’m writing words into your fictional mouths, but as werewolves are canines, they do not apply to this rule. 

2.     Orcas are just plain old killer whales that got a better PR firm to handle them.  They are still killers no matter how they want to soften their image.  Now they want to say that they are just big dolphins?  Sure, sure.  Whatever you say.  I still remember that you’re the real reason Richard Harris died.

3.     As long as we’re in the ocean, don’t open your shark cage for any reason, unless of course you want to get a clearer picture.  What, too soon?

4.     Don’t flush your still living crocodile/alligator/caiman into the toilet.  I don’t want to get my wedding tackle bitten off one day by a sewer-bred goliath that is seeking revenge on little Billy who once went to Orlando on vacation.  Gently eliminate your reptile baby by seeking out a blender and going all Gremlins on its scaly rear.  Then flush it.

5.     How close exactly do you want to get to a bison in the wild?  Every year there seems to be some buffoon that is looking to get up close, seemingly trying to ride one of these things.  Did you notice the horns?  Did you ever see Dances With Wolves?  Oh, you did?  Sorry to hear that.  Well, enjoy the time you have left by not grabbing a tatonka selfie.

6.     Ah, bears.  Remember point number 1?  Okay, well then ibid the hell out of it because the same applies here.  Do yourself a favor and see the 1997 movie The Edge with Anthony Hopkins.  Realize these facts:

a.     Elle Macpherson was actually in a David Mamet-penned movie.

b.     No one would say dialogue like this when stuck in an actual bear attack or an actual bear attack movie.  I’ve seen Grizzly and no one is pontificating that much onscreen.

c.      Did you see fact #a?  It is true!  And she plays a supermodel!  No, really!

d.     If you happen to be the third wheel along with Alec Baldwin and Anthony Hopkins in a disaster movie, regardless of skin color although it helps, you are a meal.  If the bear doesn’t eat you, the scenery will be too chewed up for you to have a meaningful life anyway.  Embrace your fate.

e.     Bart the Bear did not get an Academy Award for “Best Bear In A Bear Attack Movie” that year.  Oddly enough Alec Baldwin won but it was a close race in the voting.   

f.       I just can’t get over that first fact!

7.     When driving through an animal park that has baboons roaming wild, don’t take your demon-spawned child through there.  The screaming alone isn’t worth the trip.  Same goes for mysterious black dogs that show up unannounced at the house.  I know I’m going out on a limb, but it might be the child.  Gregory Peck realized this a bit too late, David Warner even later than that.

8.     Speaking of dogs, when a bunch of Norwegians are shooting at a husky from a helicopter whilst in the Polar Regions, let them go ahead and do it.  You’ll thank me later.  If you choose to stop Bjørn, I hope you’ve got plenty of flamethrowers lying around. 

 

There are of course many other points to consider when dealing with our friends of nature.  I know that I didn’t even touch on sasquatches and dinosaurs, but I should hope the ways to interact with those creatures would be rather obvious.  I mean would you roll your window down to get a better picture of a yeti?  I hope the abominable snowman park has good safety standards with signs available telling me to leave my windows up.  Oh, still too soon for this thought?  Well it is too late for at least one person that visited a South African park.    

The Best Bygone Era

It has finally dawned on me: I am old.  Not “getting on in years” or “aging gracefully” or any of those other “euphemisms designed to not blatantly call someone a geezer”, I am just flat out old.  Now the random stranger on the street could run up to me, readjust his homemade tinfoil helmet and breathlessly exclaim, “But you’re only in your mid-thirties!” and then scamper off back into the alley that presumably spawned him.  This obviously aware yet rather insane derelict would be technically correct.  However, I’m not talking about age in years actually lived, or not lived in my case.  (This is also different than cutting me in half to examine the rings of aging that I’ve acquired.  After all, my contents would be far messier than any oak or maple tree so I wouldn’t recommend this method as a first choice in determining my age.)

 

Did this thought about aging come upon me due to the fact that I am steadily approaching 40?  Or is it because I’m married, have three kids, a mortgage, life insurance policies, a steady 40 hour a week job, a lawn to maintain, a broken snowblower, and/or anything else that falls into that getting older cliché?  Is it because I’ve lost a step or two compared to when I was a mere stripling?  Nah, I wasn’t that athletic or agile or even minimally coordinated in the first place.  Maybe it was a different story when I was around 6 or 8 years old, but for the majority of us it was all downhill after reaching double digits.

No, for me this revelation came thundering down while I was in Best Buy, looking at CDs.  I realized then and there that this action was the equivalent of hiking my pants up to my chin all the while demanding a senior discount for awful coffee that I wanted as hot as lava.  I was a doddering old fart and it was irreversible.  “Why then and there?” you might ask if you were still reading this.  Allow me to answer that with a question: have you been in a Best Buy recently?  And a follow up question: were you ever in a Best Buy 5-10 years ago?  Have you noticed quite a difference between then and now?  The CD and movie aisles of the past were titans, taking up floor space like Stalin “liberating” Eastern Europe.  They also filled their acreage with variety as well.  I remember the days when the music area had a jazz section, a comedy album section, and even an actual box set section!  Now the CDs are thrown haphazardly onto whatever dingy gray racks were available.  The only tenuous attachment to categorization is the alphabet, but even that is barely followed.  Unless of course Alice Cooper was in Pink Floyd and that would explain why his greatest hits album is jammed in-between the apparently bottomless supply of Dark Side of the Moons. 

 

Beyond that the selection is disastrous.  Any band with a large back catalogue such as The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, AC/DC, and Black Sabbath all get the shaft in the wide variety department. The same is also true for the Beatles.  Wait a minute, the Beatles?!  I’m definitely used to the Who not getting the love at Best Buy, or anywhere for that matter, but the emmer-effing Beatles?  That is a rather telling barometer.  (However, this barometer might be due to some cosmic karmic justice being served so the remaining Beatles can experience how Pete Best must have felt back in 1962.)  I just never thought that I’d see the day that Barnes & Noble would have a wide and varied assortment of albums and Best Buy would begrudgingly still keep a few of those pathetic CDs around just in case someone wanted to browse something that wasn’t a purple vacuum cleaner or a different purple vacuum cleaner.

 

There isn’t even a real attempt to keep DVD/blu-rays around.  Sure, they devote some space to them, but once again these red-headed media stepchildren are treated like their CD brethren if not worse.  The only movies or TV shows available are the ones that purchasers must have bought at least a decade ago and have been rereleased at least twice in the meantime.  However, stranger things have happened and I won’t begrudge anyone getting their favorite Breaking Bad/The Walking Dead/The Sopranos/Sons of Anarchy/Whatever the Hell is a Supposedly Hip TV Show Now DVD sets.  I just find it hard to believe at this point in time that someone will come barreling in because they finally realized that Billy Madison is on DVD and they just have to have it NOW!  (Of course, the movies that Best Buy overstocks would be Adam Sandler related.  Perhaps Sandler bought a majority of Best Buy stock and demanded that from now on 1) Push those clothes washer-dryer combos that no one really likes, 2) make sure that we hire more tattooed clerks in an effort to look sort of relevant to the fickle times we live in, and 3) only The Waterboy and maybe Little Nicky will be prominently displayed all year.  Eight Crazy Nights will be out in force around Christmas, ironically.)

 

While in the CD area, I took a look at everyone else that was in the media sections and guessed that the median age was about 36 years old.  This was an easy deduction on my part because besides myself standing there, there was only me, so a head count was not difficult.  I also double checked my age with my driver’s license and then called my wife to verify.  So there I was amongst some lonely copies of poorly recorded live Molly Hatchet CDs (for only $4.99!), and more blue polo-shirted Best Buy employees milling around not selling anything than I could record in just one sitting.  To add to my ever-increasing discernment that I was most definitely a duffer in that store: I was also the only person in there sans piercings, not wearing tight hipster-douchebag sperm-killing pants, and not concerned about my tablet/HD TV/iPod/iPad/iDon’tCareAnymore.  Then to make matters worse, my eyes then fell upon a lone copy of the 20^th anniversary edition of Nirvana’s In Utero album.  I recognized then that I am aging faster than milk left in the trunk of a car in Arizona in July that was now being driven to Death Valley in order to be abandoned there after being set on fire. 

 

I guess my generation would be one of the last that still enjoyed handling media, whether it came in the form of VHS tapes, music cassettes or CDs, DVDs or even blu-rays.  On the other hand, I think ours was also the first generation that wanted everything downloadable and right now and why is it taking so long?!  We wanted movies to stream, music to upload, and books that involve batteries and not pages.  Come to think of it, is there anything sadder than a Barnes & Noble employee hocking downloaded books?  Could their fake sales smile be any more forced?  Do they realize they are being paid to make themselves obsolete?  Remember what happened to Blockbuster video stores that were pushing for mailing DVDs and downloads instead of pushing brick and mortar stores?  I guess all the Blockbusters moved next door to the Hollywood Videos, Sam Goodys, and Borders stores…in hell apparently because they sure ain’t around here anymore.

 

These up and coming uncombed whippersnappers really truly won’t experience the thrill of discovering an album that you were hunting for with the raw passion of a U.S. marshal going after a suspect that claims a one-armed man killed his wife.  They will not realize that the real fun actually begins after you’ve purchased that disc.  Now you get to deal with the host of security devices that were incorporated to obviously prevent the mass theft of Metallica’s Load and Reload albums.  First, you have a go at attempting to unwrap the plastic that clings to the CD with all the passion of a lonely aunt at a family reunion.  Then you attempt to remove the sticker on top with a switchblade, then a chainsaw, then a bigger chainsaw, and then you finally succeed by melting it with a barbecue lighter.  Then you try to get past that holographic sticker that looked like the satellite from Mystery Science Theater that has welded the case shut.  In the end you would get it opened just long enough to quickly notice that the disc was loose in the jewel case from the get go. This of course resulted in the disc getting horrendous scratches that look like they came from a rabid bobcat that was attacking a reflection of itself in the backside of Green Day’s Dookie album.  And this was a brand new album you just bought.  Ah, memories!

 

I realized in that Best Buy that I was a dinosaur and the meteor that destroyed my way of thinking was already digitally uploaded into the world.  Apparently, I just ignored it and moved on, thinking that the status quo would remain.  I’m sure that fans of Super 8 film and 8-track players thought the same way back in the day.  (Although c’mon 8-track guys…did you really dig listening to Stairway to Heaven and hearing that “chunka-chunk-whirr-chunka-wrank-chunk” sound about 2/3rds of the way through as it switched tracks to finish?  You didn’t, did you?  You can be honest with me.  We’re all here to grow together.  And you’re welcome.) 

 

The fact is I like owning stuff.  Perhaps that is the capitalist American way of thinking which some buffoonish radicals think is an outright evil attitude, but I like holding the album I’m going to listen to, grasping the movie I’m going to watch, and perusing shelves of books to read.  Everything is right there in front of me, at my fingertips whenever I want to use it.  I don’t feel that way about uploaded streaming nonsense.  I think I’m buying nothing but air if I’m buying from the cloud.  It isn’t tangible or tactile; it is an illusion of ownership, a theory that you actually “possess” something. 

This misconception can come crashing down suddenly and without warning; especially if the company decides that they don’t want you to have their media anymore.  For instance look at the following scenario and think if it looks out of the ordinary: Universal Pictures might think that they haven’t earned enough revenue from Jaws (which is impossible to contemplate but bear with me here).  So they yank the availability away, while eliminating it from streaming and also deleting it from clouds.  Universal could then wait to release it later to earn more on a product that they created the demand for in the first place.  Sounds ridiculous, right?  Yet Disney does this very thing every year with their “Cinderella IV: Citizens on Patrol is going back into the Disney vault, so get it now before it is gone!” nonsense.  Why wouldn’t the other studios follow suit?  Perhaps with a movie or TV show or album you happen to love/like/not mind/tolerate?

 

Books aren’t safe either.  Look at the debacle that occurred when Amazon.com simply removed George Orwell’s 1984 from Kindle owners.  They were able to log right in and take it away from people that had rightfully purchased and downloaded it.  How’s that for Big Brother ironical irony?  That little digital event cannot happen with someone that owns a physical copy of 1984 or any book for that matter that is comprised of bound paper pages.  Besides, unlike owning a Nook/Kindle, books on your shelves at least give you the appearance of intelligence even if you haven’t read them. 

Did you know that paper books do not require those “hurtful to the environment” batteries, if that’s a motivation for you, you supposed eco-lovers?  Also as you will have a broken Nook/Kindle at some point: they aren’t very biodegradable either, unlike those seemingly nasty and terrible paper books.  Real books are also safer to take along for air travel.  After all, I don’t mind a terrorist reading a real book because odds are I can survive a paper cut attack, but I get a little twitchy when they come on board with something electronic-y with lots of buttons.  Besides if you survive your plane crashing and end up on an island, books can be used as a ready supply of fuel for your signal fires.  You can’t get that from a Nook.  (You also can’t dogear a Nook.  Well, let me clarify: you can’t dogear a Nook easily.)   

 

Speaking of crashes: What if your computer crashes and your downloaded copies of Laverne & Shirley are all gone?  Now you have to rebuy something intangible again and pray that it stays on your computer, unless you get malware that destroys those shows and replaces them all with episodes of Joanie Loves Chachi instead.  Now you’re even more screwed.  You could just have these shows on your shelf and never have your wallet experience more than the initial purchase price.  Furthermore you would not have to worry about being inundated with a different but still crappy Happy Days spin-off to boot. 

I’ve heard the argument that storage can be an issue when it comes to physical media and that shelves need to be cleared of all this nonsense.  So you download everything you listen to on an iPod and life is good, right?  But now what are you putting on those bare shelves?  Do you have that many photos of wonderful moments to stick around here, there, and everywhere?  Are your friends and relatives attractive enough to warrant spraying your home with images of them?  Are you just going to have a Spartan lifestyle that consists of your iPod, a bedroll, a dish, a bowl, a spoon, and ramen noodles?  Gosh, that does sound fun!        

 

I do realize that this all makes me sound like the crotchety old geezer in my raccoon coat wagging his finger at those teenyboppers and bobbysoxers, knowing that someday they’ll pay for not listening to my sky-is-falling rhetoric.  Meanwhile I’ll be still shuffling around with my cane in the Best Buys of the world, accumulating media that my wife just shakes her head at.  One day perhaps all those uploads and downloads and sidewaysloads will come crashing one day and everything will be irretrievable.  This will be a sad day for the world due to the loss of technology that can provide easy pablum entertainment.

 

It won’t be sad for me however.  I’ll be cackling away in my bunker with my discs and books having a grand old time.  Now that’s how I’m going to get nice and comfy with getting older!  You just wait and you’ll see.  Flocks of entertainment starved peons with amazingly clear shelves are going to be just begging me for a peek at something from the third season of The Dukes of Hazzard.  At that point I will be completely magnanimous and state unequivocally, “Sorry, but those good ol’ boys are back in the vault.”  I would then yell at them to get off of my lawn and scream passionately “Stream THAT, you tight-panted wankers!” 
 

Ah, that felt good to get off my chest!  You know, I think I’m going to like getting older…