Editor's note: Below is what I wrote earlier this week, before the ice storm that has hit a large portion of the country forced hundreds of thousands of people in Louisville (and certainly many other cities) to lose power. Our local news is reporting that the electric company won't have power fully restored to the area for at least a week. I know the inconveniences of losing power for that long, but only in early September. Not late January.
I hesitated with this week's posting because given these latest developments, writing about my "problem" seemed a little out of touch, slightly self-centered and a tad insensitive. But I had written it before storm conditions made a huge impact on people, and the message is very tounge-in-cheek, so I thought maybe it could provide some levity. With that said, I do hope conditions improve quickly for those without power and life can return to normal for everyone.
Usually I reserve this space for light-hearted topics, but I’m going through something that I feel I should share in hopes that it will bring me understanding and offer you, the reader, some perspective. My TV is busted.
I’ve asked myself over and over, “How is this fair?” and “What have I done to deserve this?” especially considering the thing is only three years old, but I’m slowly coming to grips with the reality. I lost her on Monday and it’s time to move on.
Fortunately my daughter was born last Friday, so that joyful news has served as a nice distraction. But it’s hard to truly grasp my feelings when an event so wonderful is followed by one so tragic. To make matters worse, a snow storm came through on the day it went out, making it too dangerous to venture out to buy a new one. The city is asking everyone to stay off the roads unless you have an emergency. But come to think of it, if a broken television doesn’t constitute an emergency, I don’t know what does.
Let’s face it, watching your TV completely give out is like holding a friend in your arms while he dies. Only in this instance, it’s also like having to share your living room with your dead friend’s body for two days afterwards.
I’m not the only one who’s been hurt by this; the whole family is suffering. During those times when my two-year-old son’s “playful energy” and “good-natured restlessness” are a little too much to take, my wife and I like to pop in a Baby Einstein DVD. And he likes them even more than we do. But living with a two year old and not being able to watch television is like spending the night in the woods without food and water – there are ways to survive, but you’re really going to wish you had brought along food and water.
The poor kid is still struggling to accept the loss. He’s spent the better part of two days exhibiting OCD behavior by fruitlessly pushing the power button on and off and muttering, “TV broken.”
Sadly, when I think about it, there is so little on TV that I like to watch anymore. I never would have guessed that losing her would be this hard. With all the reality shows and spinoffs of original shows that we never watched in the first place (I’m looking at you, CSI and Law & Order), most of what we tune in for are the few sitcoms left and reruns of extinct sitcoms. And yet, the silence is deafening.
I guess what I miss is the satisfaction of holding the remote in my hand and zipping through the channels as my fine motor skills morph into gelatinous goo. I miss turning it on and seeing promos for future shows that block out half the action of the show I'm trying to watch. I miss cable news and sports channels taking the phrase "sensory overload" to a new plateau by running scrolling tickers, side-panel previews and roundtable discussions, and I miss hearing Jon Stewart make fun of them. And even though I don't watch them, I miss knowing that if I wanted to, I could tune into a number of talk shows in which people excel far more at yelling than they do at composing a rational thought (now I'm looking at you, Bill O'Reilly). It’s true what they say – you never really appreciate something until it’s gone.
Ah well, she had a good run. I think I hear a plow truck outside my window now. If I can survive the night, the roads should be passable by sun up. Then we’ll welcome an even newer member to our family.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Party On Wayne, Party On Prez
Last week when I mentioned that this year's Presidential Inauguration was something so weighty and momentous that it was hard to find humor in it, that was because I hadn't yet seen any of the proceedings. Then later during the weekend, I watched about 30 minutes of the pre-Tuesday celebration before I realized it wasn't MTV's coverage of Spring Break. Other than all the winter coats, everything else was virtually identical, right down to the Madeline Albright keg stands.
People partied in Washington for days leading up to the Inauguration. And not just your average Joes and political big wigs. So many musicians and Hollywood celebrities were on hand I thought an intervention for Robert Downey Jr. had broken out. From the first speech given sometime Saturday or Sunday to the last Inaugural Ball Tuesday night, the length of the entire event just missed beating out the Oscars in terms of TV coverage.
By the time Tuesday rolled around, we all saw the images of the massive number of people gathered on the Mall in front of the Capitol. The crowd was so large it nearly rivaled what is usually found at the DMV. For some, the experience had to be a little like going to the DMV - like the inability to see the front of the crowd or to clearly hear what was being said. Of course despite those pratfalls, most people were filled with incredible hope and optimism, whereas the DMV leaves most people feeling like souless, vindictive, spine-crushing creatures. Kind of like a less powerful Vladimir Putin - "If all you people don't get out of my way, I will poison you."
I say "less powerful" because Putin actually has his goons poison people, while I'm not able to rely on goons. Not yet, anyway. (I hope he's not a regular reader of this blog.)
Anyway, I forget my point. But I bet Madeline Albright could drink Putin under the table. And he's Russian, so that's saying something.
People partied in Washington for days leading up to the Inauguration. And not just your average Joes and political big wigs. So many musicians and Hollywood celebrities were on hand I thought an intervention for Robert Downey Jr. had broken out. From the first speech given sometime Saturday or Sunday to the last Inaugural Ball Tuesday night, the length of the entire event just missed beating out the Oscars in terms of TV coverage.
By the time Tuesday rolled around, we all saw the images of the massive number of people gathered on the Mall in front of the Capitol. The crowd was so large it nearly rivaled what is usually found at the DMV. For some, the experience had to be a little like going to the DMV - like the inability to see the front of the crowd or to clearly hear what was being said. Of course despite those pratfalls, most people were filled with incredible hope and optimism, whereas the DMV leaves most people feeling like souless, vindictive, spine-crushing creatures. Kind of like a less powerful Vladimir Putin - "If all you people don't get out of my way, I will poison you."
I say "less powerful" because Putin actually has his goons poison people, while I'm not able to rely on goons. Not yet, anyway. (I hope he's not a regular reader of this blog.)
Anyway, I forget my point. But I bet Madeline Albright could drink Putin under the table. And he's Russian, so that's saying something.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Nothing's Getting Through
I have writer’s block. Well, I guess I can’t really call it “writer’s block.” It’s actually more like “guy who occasionally posts nonsensical ramblings to a web page” block. Or “blogger's block,” if you insist. Whatever you call it, I’m out of ideas.
I contemplated writing about the freezing temperatures and how it’s so nipple-twisting cold outside that the government should make it legal to insulate our homes with whale blubber, grizzly bear fur and spotted owl brains. But that’s the only thing I could think to say. Probably because it’s too damn cold to think.
Then there’s the big story this week about the US Airways flight that was brought down by some birds. But aside from the remarkable job done by the pilots and crew to keep anyone from getting hurt, the one thing I kept coming back to with that story was how much I would hate birds if I was on the flight. I mean, it’s one thing when they poop on your car, but when they force your plane to crash into the Hudson River in the middle of January… that’s out of line. I think after that I’d buy a monkey and train it to throw its feces at every bird it sees, whether the bird pooped on my car or not.
Yesterday I thought about how 30 Rock is quickly becoming my favorite show, thanks in part to the character Dr. Leo Spaceman who, on Thursday’s episode, asked “When will modern science find a cure for a woman’s mouth?”
Another one of his finer moments came last season when he was called upon to help a man who slipped into a diabetic comma. The less-than-reputable doctor picked up the phone and dialed 411 instead of 911, and when the operator asked him, “What listing?” he furrowed his brow in a confused manner and replied, “Uh… diabetes repair?”
But those are just rehashes of some funny moments from a sitcom, not the source of a blog posting. So then I thought how poignant and fitting it is that this year our first African-American president will be sworn in just one day after we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. day. But I couldn’t find a lot of comedy in that, and offering serious insight on weighty, historic political moments isn’t really my forte (buuuuurrrrrrrrp).
I could always follow up on my plan to list my New Year’s resolutions, but two weeks into the new year is usually when people start breaking their resolutions, not making them. So I missed the boat on that. Maybe next year.
There was an embarrassing moment earlier this week when I went out for lunch and tried multiple times to secure a cup lid to the top of my fountain drink. I finally decided that none of the lids were the right size, so I asked the woman behind the counter to set out some more of the appropriate-sized lids. She immediately popped the same lid on the cup that I had struggled with for 20 minutes. Her advice of, “Don’t be afraid to break a nail,” seemed unnecessary.
I could have made that incident the subject of this posting, but it was really more pathetic than funny. However, I realized that my inability to attach the cup lid to the accompanying cup is sort of a metaphor for my inability to come up with something to write about after two weeks. Now is not the time to come up short on ideas because it’s only going to get worse. After my daughter is born in a little over a week, I’ll barely have the brain capacity to tie my shoes or remember how to get to work every day, let alone pop on cup lids (write new blog posts).
Maybe I should stick to bottles and cans. Not metaphorically speaking, just when I’m thirsty. If my creative problem persists, I’ll just start posting links to porn.
I contemplated writing about the freezing temperatures and how it’s so nipple-twisting cold outside that the government should make it legal to insulate our homes with whale blubber, grizzly bear fur and spotted owl brains. But that’s the only thing I could think to say. Probably because it’s too damn cold to think.
Then there’s the big story this week about the US Airways flight that was brought down by some birds. But aside from the remarkable job done by the pilots and crew to keep anyone from getting hurt, the one thing I kept coming back to with that story was how much I would hate birds if I was on the flight. I mean, it’s one thing when they poop on your car, but when they force your plane to crash into the Hudson River in the middle of January… that’s out of line. I think after that I’d buy a monkey and train it to throw its feces at every bird it sees, whether the bird pooped on my car or not.
Yesterday I thought about how 30 Rock is quickly becoming my favorite show, thanks in part to the character Dr. Leo Spaceman who, on Thursday’s episode, asked “When will modern science find a cure for a woman’s mouth?”
Another one of his finer moments came last season when he was called upon to help a man who slipped into a diabetic comma. The less-than-reputable doctor picked up the phone and dialed 411 instead of 911, and when the operator asked him, “What listing?” he furrowed his brow in a confused manner and replied, “Uh… diabetes repair?”
But those are just rehashes of some funny moments from a sitcom, not the source of a blog posting. So then I thought how poignant and fitting it is that this year our first African-American president will be sworn in just one day after we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. day. But I couldn’t find a lot of comedy in that, and offering serious insight on weighty, historic political moments isn’t really my forte (buuuuurrrrrrrrp).
I could always follow up on my plan to list my New Year’s resolutions, but two weeks into the new year is usually when people start breaking their resolutions, not making them. So I missed the boat on that. Maybe next year.
There was an embarrassing moment earlier this week when I went out for lunch and tried multiple times to secure a cup lid to the top of my fountain drink. I finally decided that none of the lids were the right size, so I asked the woman behind the counter to set out some more of the appropriate-sized lids. She immediately popped the same lid on the cup that I had struggled with for 20 minutes. Her advice of, “Don’t be afraid to break a nail,” seemed unnecessary.
I could have made that incident the subject of this posting, but it was really more pathetic than funny. However, I realized that my inability to attach the cup lid to the accompanying cup is sort of a metaphor for my inability to come up with something to write about after two weeks. Now is not the time to come up short on ideas because it’s only going to get worse. After my daughter is born in a little over a week, I’ll barely have the brain capacity to tie my shoes or remember how to get to work every day, let alone pop on cup lids (write new blog posts).
Maybe I should stick to bottles and cans. Not metaphorically speaking, just when I’m thirsty. If my creative problem persists, I’ll just start posting links to porn.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Ringing In Some Self Improvement
Hope everyone had a safe and happy New Year’s celebration.
New Year’s Eve is one of those few occasions when nearly every sector of the worldwide population has a reason to party. Saying goodbye to the current year and gleefully sharing in the optimism that is a “fresh start,” even though the next year will likely bring more of the same crap, gives everyone an excuse to go nuts until the wee hours of the morning.
However, if you live with a two year old, and you and your wife – who is eight months pregnant – are still awake at 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, you’re probably saying to yourself, “Man it’s getting late.”
And if you are like me, the only reason you’re still up at 11 p.m. is because you’re trying to get the two year old back to sleep. Otherwise you would have been resting comfortably in your bed at 7:30 p.m.
It was during this time that my mind drifted away from vengeful thoughts toward my crying child and instead began to think about New Year’s resolutions. I thought that for 2009 maybe I should resolve to be a better husband or be a better father or to work harder at my job or to help my fellow man in need whenever possible. But for me, those are highly unrealistic goals and the New Year’s experts (who disseminate their vast knowledge in checkout counter magazines nationwide) always say not to make resolutions that are too lofty or unattainable. So then I thought I’ll stick with my original plan to wear socks with fewer holes in them.
I was content to go with this until I caught a few minutes of Deal or No Deal yesterday that made me feel like my resolution is a little lame and self serving. During a break from the regular brain-teasing action, the women who open the suitcases were talking about their resolutions and one of them – Cinnamon or Jasmine or Fibula; can’t remember – said she hopes to be able to surf more. At that moment I’m sure everyone who was watching thought the exact same thing, “The world is lucky to have you, Fibula.”
So now I feel obligated to try something more challenging and meaningful. Leave it to a show hosted by Howie Mandel to cause me to reflect on my life and push me to better myself. My hat’s off to you, Howie. So stay tuned for my revised resolutions. Right now I’m thinking of something along the lines of relieving my butler from polishing my car so that he can have some time off. Besides, the nanny can do it.
New Year’s Eve is one of those few occasions when nearly every sector of the worldwide population has a reason to party. Saying goodbye to the current year and gleefully sharing in the optimism that is a “fresh start,” even though the next year will likely bring more of the same crap, gives everyone an excuse to go nuts until the wee hours of the morning.
However, if you live with a two year old, and you and your wife – who is eight months pregnant – are still awake at 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, you’re probably saying to yourself, “Man it’s getting late.”
And if you are like me, the only reason you’re still up at 11 p.m. is because you’re trying to get the two year old back to sleep. Otherwise you would have been resting comfortably in your bed at 7:30 p.m.
It was during this time that my mind drifted away from vengeful thoughts toward my crying child and instead began to think about New Year’s resolutions. I thought that for 2009 maybe I should resolve to be a better husband or be a better father or to work harder at my job or to help my fellow man in need whenever possible. But for me, those are highly unrealistic goals and the New Year’s experts (who disseminate their vast knowledge in checkout counter magazines nationwide) always say not to make resolutions that are too lofty or unattainable. So then I thought I’ll stick with my original plan to wear socks with fewer holes in them.
I was content to go with this until I caught a few minutes of Deal or No Deal yesterday that made me feel like my resolution is a little lame and self serving. During a break from the regular brain-teasing action, the women who open the suitcases were talking about their resolutions and one of them – Cinnamon or Jasmine or Fibula; can’t remember – said she hopes to be able to surf more. At that moment I’m sure everyone who was watching thought the exact same thing, “The world is lucky to have you, Fibula.”
So now I feel obligated to try something more challenging and meaningful. Leave it to a show hosted by Howie Mandel to cause me to reflect on my life and push me to better myself. My hat’s off to you, Howie. So stay tuned for my revised resolutions. Right now I’m thinking of something along the lines of relieving my butler from polishing my car so that he can have some time off. Besides, the nanny can do it.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Should Have Gotten an A
In keeping with the spirit of the season, I thought I might share one of my old term papers from college that I dug up over the weekend. It’s from my Philosophy class, when we were asked to research the life of a saint. Below is my final draft. The grade I received is not important.
Nicholas’ childhood was in many ways reflective of his adult life, but in many ways quite different. Nicholas was born in what is now known as Death Valley, California to very loving parents who provided a modest lifestyle for themselves and their son. His father was a cobbler, while his mother ran a daycare that catered exclusively to midgets.
Growing up without any brothers or sisters, the midget children often served as Nicholas’ playmates. As he grew older, he often got them to do his chores by compensating them with the allowance money he earned for supposedly doing the chores himself.
In school, he was a very good student, but not very social; preferring on most occasions to concentrate on his studies rather than engage in extracurricular activities. Try as he might, his father could not persuade him to play any sports, but he frequently found young Nicholas timing himself as he climbed in and out of the windows to the family home. The boy would climb through a window as quickly as possible, then repeatedly try to break his own record.
“You’re a strange kid,” his father often remarked.
Nicholas was a very obedient son, rarely getting into trouble, and he grew to enjoy the company of the midget children for more than just their agreeable nature and strong work ethic. Other than delegating the responsibilities of his weekly chores, the only time his parents could recall him acting out was as a teenager, when he complained of the heat.
“Do you have any idea how #*&@ing hot it is here?” Nicholas would ask.
“Are you hot? I never really notice the heat,” his mom would say.
After graduating high school, Nicholas decided to change the circumstances of his environment and attend college up north. He received a full academic scholarship to Harvard, but turned it down to instead attend the University of Vermont. He preferred Vermont because of its higher ranking on the Princeton Review’s list of Top 100 “Party Schools.”
He could feel his social shell chipping away. He didn’t want his college career to be just about studying. He felt he needed to meet people and let his hair down once in a while. A lifetime spent in the desert will do that to a person.
Upon arriving on campus, he was an instant hit. Classes were a breeze, which left plenty of time to attend parties and enjoy a beverage or two. And enjoy them he did. While many of his classmates fell into the trap of packing on the “Freshman 15,” Nicholas out did them all and quickly added the “Freshman 35” to his once wiry frame.
For years the elder Claus repeated this sentiment whenever the subject came up. Nevertheless, Nicholas soon married the farmer’s daughter, Conchita, and they made plans to start a life of their own together.
Being that they were both social misfits, the newlyweds didn’t feel the need to live in a big city or bustling suburb. So, coupled with its virtually non-existent tax laws, the North Pole seemed like an inviting place to settle down. With the few dozen reindeer that her father had given them as a wedding present, Conchita and Nicholas packed their things and made the top of the world their ultimate destination.
Once they settled in, the Clauses found their new home much to their liking. Mrs. Claus took up baking and, thanks to her husband’s insistence, started a daycare that was eerily similar to the one Nicholas’ mother ran when he was a child. A few years later, Nicholas began to oversee a highly successful toy manufacturing operation. Following the ambition he discovered after leaving school, he went on to engage in unprecedented world-wide philanthropy. It was his devotion to giving year after year that earned him his sainthood.
He was lucky enough to earn the honor while still alive, yet the matter of his current existence has been a hotly debated topic. Despite no real evidence indicating his death, and the fact that his number of reported sightings is even greater than that of Elvis, many people question whether Nicholas was ever born. The sheer physics required to achieve his generous feats is often sighted as the reason why his existence must be fabricated. But to this day his story lives on. As do his appearances at the mall.
He typically limits public visits to this time of the year, due to the ever-growing media scrutiny, but he’s out there. So if you see him, be sure to wish him and Conchita a Merry Christmas. And a Happy Hanukkah.
Nicholas’ childhood was in many ways reflective of his adult life, but in many ways quite different. Nicholas was born in what is now known as Death Valley, California to very loving parents who provided a modest lifestyle for themselves and their son. His father was a cobbler, while his mother ran a daycare that catered exclusively to midgets.
Growing up without any brothers or sisters, the midget children often served as Nicholas’ playmates. As he grew older, he often got them to do his chores by compensating them with the allowance money he earned for supposedly doing the chores himself.
In school, he was a very good student, but not very social; preferring on most occasions to concentrate on his studies rather than engage in extracurricular activities. Try as he might, his father could not persuade him to play any sports, but he frequently found young Nicholas timing himself as he climbed in and out of the windows to the family home. The boy would climb through a window as quickly as possible, then repeatedly try to break his own record.
“You’re a strange kid,” his father often remarked.
Nicholas was a very obedient son, rarely getting into trouble, and he grew to enjoy the company of the midget children for more than just their agreeable nature and strong work ethic. Other than delegating the responsibilities of his weekly chores, the only time his parents could recall him acting out was as a teenager, when he complained of the heat.
“Do you have any idea how #*&@ing hot it is here?” Nicholas would ask.
“Are you hot? I never really notice the heat,” his mom would say.
After graduating high school, Nicholas decided to change the circumstances of his environment and attend college up north. He received a full academic scholarship to Harvard, but turned it down to instead attend the University of Vermont. He preferred Vermont because of its higher ranking on the Princeton Review’s list of Top 100 “Party Schools.”
He could feel his social shell chipping away. He didn’t want his college career to be just about studying. He felt he needed to meet people and let his hair down once in a while. A lifetime spent in the desert will do that to a person.
Upon arriving on campus, he was an instant hit. Classes were a breeze, which left plenty of time to attend parties and enjoy a beverage or two. And enjoy them he did. While many of his classmates fell into the trap of packing on the “Freshman 15,” Nicholas out did them all and quickly added the “Freshman 35” to his once wiry frame.
It was during this time that the newfound heavyweight let his devilish side come out. He loved to take his friends out to the local pubs, order a few rounds, and then slyly ask every co-ed that walked by, “So, have you been a good girl this year?”
But besides his fun-loving wild side, Nicholas was also popular for his gullible nature, and willingness to please. Perhaps feeling the need to make up for all the chores he didn’t really do, he frequently offered to write all of his friends’ papers, and managed to earn very good grades for each of them. His academic legend only grew once his peers learned that he always waited until the last minute to start each assignment, regularly finishing two dozen term papers in a single night.
While he enjoyed impressing his classmates, Nicholas eventually became bored with school and suspected he didn’t have many real friends. His suspicions were confirmed when the knocks on his door stopped after he refused to do anyone else’s homework. It was at this time, midway through his junior year, that he discovered the co-op program offered by the university and jumped at an opportunity to work in Norway with a reindeer breeder.
Nicholas soon found Norway’s climate to be even more to his liking than Vermont’s. He also discovered that reindeer can do some things he never dreamed possible.
He enjoyed working on the farm and spending time with the farmer and his family, particularly his daughter, who was in the same year of school as Nicholas. The work was much different than his studies, and it didn’t come as easy to him, but he still felt at peace there. He felt like he was home.
But despite his new surroundings and responsibilities, Nicholas’ fiendish side never really left him. Upon seeing published reports of a new American invention that was getting world-wide attention, he couldn’t help but taunt the two brothers responsible from clear across the ocean. He sent many a letter to North Carolina that went something like this:
But besides his fun-loving wild side, Nicholas was also popular for his gullible nature, and willingness to please. Perhaps feeling the need to make up for all the chores he didn’t really do, he frequently offered to write all of his friends’ papers, and managed to earn very good grades for each of them. His academic legend only grew once his peers learned that he always waited until the last minute to start each assignment, regularly finishing two dozen term papers in a single night.
While he enjoyed impressing his classmates, Nicholas eventually became bored with school and suspected he didn’t have many real friends. His suspicions were confirmed when the knocks on his door stopped after he refused to do anyone else’s homework. It was at this time, midway through his junior year, that he discovered the co-op program offered by the university and jumped at an opportunity to work in Norway with a reindeer breeder.
Nicholas soon found Norway’s climate to be even more to his liking than Vermont’s. He also discovered that reindeer can do some things he never dreamed possible.
He enjoyed working on the farm and spending time with the farmer and his family, particularly his daughter, who was in the same year of school as Nicholas. The work was much different than his studies, and it didn’t come as easy to him, but he still felt at peace there. He felt like he was home.
But despite his new surroundings and responsibilities, Nicholas’ fiendish side never really left him. Upon seeing published reports of a new American invention that was getting world-wide attention, he couldn’t help but taunt the two brothers responsible from clear across the ocean. He sent many a letter to North Carolina that went something like this:
Dear Orville and Wilbur,
Congratulations! I hear that you managed to keep your “flying machine” airborne for up to 100 feet. Sounds like you boys will be zipping around the world in no time flat. Ha ha! Losers.
Sincerely,
Nick Claus
After a few months, he also sent a letter to his parents telling them he would not be returning to school. In it, he described finding what he was meant to do, and how he had fallen in love. Despite his good fortune, the fact that he would not be finishing school did not sit well with his father.
“I told you we should have raised him Jewish,” he exclaimed to his wife.
Congratulations! I hear that you managed to keep your “flying machine” airborne for up to 100 feet. Sounds like you boys will be zipping around the world in no time flat. Ha ha! Losers.
Sincerely,
Nick Claus
After a few months, he also sent a letter to his parents telling them he would not be returning to school. In it, he described finding what he was meant to do, and how he had fallen in love. Despite his good fortune, the fact that he would not be finishing school did not sit well with his father.
“I told you we should have raised him Jewish,” he exclaimed to his wife.
For years the elder Claus repeated this sentiment whenever the subject came up. Nevertheless, Nicholas soon married the farmer’s daughter, Conchita, and they made plans to start a life of their own together.
Being that they were both social misfits, the newlyweds didn’t feel the need to live in a big city or bustling suburb. So, coupled with its virtually non-existent tax laws, the North Pole seemed like an inviting place to settle down. With the few dozen reindeer that her father had given them as a wedding present, Conchita and Nicholas packed their things and made the top of the world their ultimate destination.
Once they settled in, the Clauses found their new home much to their liking. Mrs. Claus took up baking and, thanks to her husband’s insistence, started a daycare that was eerily similar to the one Nicholas’ mother ran when he was a child. A few years later, Nicholas began to oversee a highly successful toy manufacturing operation. Following the ambition he discovered after leaving school, he went on to engage in unprecedented world-wide philanthropy. It was his devotion to giving year after year that earned him his sainthood.
He was lucky enough to earn the honor while still alive, yet the matter of his current existence has been a hotly debated topic. Despite no real evidence indicating his death, and the fact that his number of reported sightings is even greater than that of Elvis, many people question whether Nicholas was ever born. The sheer physics required to achieve his generous feats is often sighted as the reason why his existence must be fabricated. But to this day his story lives on. As do his appearances at the mall.
He typically limits public visits to this time of the year, due to the ever-growing media scrutiny, but he’s out there. So if you see him, be sure to wish him and Conchita a Merry Christmas. And a Happy Hanukkah.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Looking For Bling in All the Wrong Places
By virtually all accounts money is hard to come by these days. People are losing money on home sales, stores don’t have any due to lagging retail numbers, and penny pinching will only increase as job losses continue to soar.
The sob story of this past week bordered on the surreal as we learned that Wall Street guru Bernie Madoff lost $50 billion of other people’s money. (The stress must have done something to Madoff’s brain because the New York Times reported that days before being arrested, he actually invited two senior employees to his home to tell them his business was all a big scam.)
Let’s not forget that governors are trying to sell vacated Senate seats, and auto makers and giant lending institutions are asking for loans from Congress. Which, when you think about it, is absurd because Congress will only pull the funds from the public and, as mentioned earlier, the public doesn’t have any money, indicated by slipping home values, lagging retail sales and mounting job losses.
It’s getting so bad that a guy can’t even rob a pro shop with underwear on his head anymore.
But believe it or not, there’s someone these people could have turned to - a group that could have helped them all, if they had just thought to ask.
The New York Yankees.
In the midst of this economic black hole, the Yankees are, to use a term that’s well out of my 30-ish white guy vernacular, “making it rain.” Six hundred million-dollar contracts are being handed out to every free agent on the market, including to those that don’t even play baseball.
Instead of wasting their time in front of Congress, the big three automakers should have asked for a few billion from the Steinbrenners. Then in exchange, each company could have offered the team one of its automobiles and the Yankees could have been the first organization to welcome back the bullpen car.
If the governor of Illinois was so hard up for some dough, I’m sure the Yankees could have slipped him some under the table and then have taken control of the vacant Senate seat. Once in power they could permanently designate the Cubs as their Double A affiliate.
And Madoff could have benefited the most of all of them. All he had to do was get in front of the team’s general manager, Brian Cashman, and tell him that with a little money up front, he could create the appearance of magnificent returns without actually producing anything of real value or substance. The next thing you know, Bernie Madoff would have been the new Alex Rodriguez.
If only all these poor saps had realized this before stepping in it so deep. After all, the Yankees love to grant wishes. For the past eight years, they’ve been making dreams come true for everyone who lives outside of New York by not winning the World Series.
Thank you Yankees!
The sob story of this past week bordered on the surreal as we learned that Wall Street guru Bernie Madoff lost $50 billion of other people’s money. (The stress must have done something to Madoff’s brain because the New York Times reported that days before being arrested, he actually invited two senior employees to his home to tell them his business was all a big scam.)
Let’s not forget that governors are trying to sell vacated Senate seats, and auto makers and giant lending institutions are asking for loans from Congress. Which, when you think about it, is absurd because Congress will only pull the funds from the public and, as mentioned earlier, the public doesn’t have any money, indicated by slipping home values, lagging retail sales and mounting job losses.
It’s getting so bad that a guy can’t even rob a pro shop with underwear on his head anymore.
But believe it or not, there’s someone these people could have turned to - a group that could have helped them all, if they had just thought to ask.
The New York Yankees.
In the midst of this economic black hole, the Yankees are, to use a term that’s well out of my 30-ish white guy vernacular, “making it rain.” Six hundred million-dollar contracts are being handed out to every free agent on the market, including to those that don’t even play baseball.
Instead of wasting their time in front of Congress, the big three automakers should have asked for a few billion from the Steinbrenners. Then in exchange, each company could have offered the team one of its automobiles and the Yankees could have been the first organization to welcome back the bullpen car.
If the governor of Illinois was so hard up for some dough, I’m sure the Yankees could have slipped him some under the table and then have taken control of the vacant Senate seat. Once in power they could permanently designate the Cubs as their Double A affiliate.
And Madoff could have benefited the most of all of them. All he had to do was get in front of the team’s general manager, Brian Cashman, and tell him that with a little money up front, he could create the appearance of magnificent returns without actually producing anything of real value or substance. The next thing you know, Bernie Madoff would have been the new Alex Rodriguez.
If only all these poor saps had realized this before stepping in it so deep. After all, the Yankees love to grant wishes. For the past eight years, they’ve been making dreams come true for everyone who lives outside of New York by not winning the World Series.
Thank you Yankees!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Don't Expect Miracles
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