So recently I made a very innocent comment. It was just an opinion, one that wasn't malicious in nature or intent, nor was it intended to change anyone's mind about anything. It was just a fact. I simply said I don't care about the Kindle. Now, I love Amazon.com. LOVE. I think I singlehandedly kept them in business between 2005 and 2010, or at least looking at my bank and credit card statements it appears that way.
Anyway, I love books. I love buying them, I love looking at them piled on my shelves, I love the way the binding breaks when you pass a certain page. I even love the smell. Everything about books, I love. All of this is lost on the Kindle.
I was told that my argument didn't make sense, which brings me to my point. I wasn't making an argument. I simply said I don't care about the Kindle. I'm not sure how or why that was taken as an attempt to change anyone's mind.
I think people are just so obsessed with being on the "right" side of a debate, or are just so insecure that they need to be validated that they need to try to convince you that you're wrong. "Hey, this new technology is great! I like it, so I must be great! If you don't like it, you're judging me, and that's not great."
I mean, I couldn't care less if you want to buy a Kindle. I think that's terrific. Buy 10,000 and build a house out of 'em. I hope it makes you happy, and I hope that Amazon makes a billion dollars. I love them and want them to be around forever. The point is, why do people get so angry when someone else expresses a conflicting viewpoint, especially over something so unimportant?
Why does a conflicting viewpoint threaten certain peoples' sense of worth and fill them with such a sense of self-loathing that they feel the need to point out all the reasons that a conflicting opinion is wrong?
The Kindle debacle (though calling it a debacle makes it seem like a bigger issue than it is/was - I'm just obsessive) is just a small example. The next thing you know you're standing outside of a town hall - where a newly married couple is trying to celebrate their special day - wearing a Jesus t-shirt and holding a sign that says "God hates gays."
I suppose it's hysterical on my part to insinuate that someone will go from arguing about the validity of a Kindle to the above. I'm just trying to make a point, one that people have been trying unsuccessfully to make since the dawn of time. Do your thing, be happy, and don't hurt anyone else.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Macca and Me
So today Paul McCartney called me out of the blue. We haven't spoken since a disastrous New Year's eve party where I hit on his daughter but told her that her clothing designs were probably too impractical for the average woman to wear. Paul told me I was forgiven and wanted to know if I'd help him move a sofa into his new apartment. What was I gonna say? So, I drove to meet him and found him waiting in the parking lot wearing one of those gray, collarless suits he wore on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964. "Cute One", I said, 'cause that's what his friends call him, "what's with the suit?"
"Oh, I dunno," he replied sheepishly, 'me Sergeant Pepper costume needs a wash."
"OK", I said, still a little perplexed, "well, what about a pair of jeans or running pants? You're gonna get that dirty." So Paul rounds on me and shouts "are you here to help me move a sofa or enforce a dress code? I'm Paul FUCKING McCartney."
I just sighed and decided to let the matter drop. Paul can get really mad when he wants to.
"Oh, I dunno," he replied sheepishly, 'me Sergeant Pepper costume needs a wash."
"OK", I said, still a little perplexed, "well, what about a pair of jeans or running pants? You're gonna get that dirty." So Paul rounds on me and shouts "are you here to help me move a sofa or enforce a dress code? I'm Paul FUCKING McCartney."
I just sighed and decided to let the matter drop. Paul can get really mad when he wants to.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
A letter from Santa
Dear Timmy,
Thank you very much for your letter. I hope you've been a very good boy this year. I would assume you have, considering all the toys you've asked for. You know, Timmy, years ago, kids would be satisfied with a ball, or a baseball glove, or a doll. I can't even pronounce half of the things on this list. Also, the PSP you requested.... you are aware that we make all the toys up here at the North Pole ourselves, right? Have you ever seen an elf? Do you think one of these brain damaged midgets has the technical skills to create a piece of equipment of that level? I've seen them staple their hand to their other hand when trying to assemble a paddle ball racket.
Another thing I noticed in your letter, despite the horrible handwriting that leads me to believe you are the offspring of a never to be discussed union between brother and sister, is that you don't at any point actually ask how I might be doing. None of you little brats ever does. Well, I'll tell you. A steady diet of milk and cookies, while it may sound like a dream come true to a child of limited intelligence such as yourself, has taken a huge toll on my body. I have diabetes, gout, lumbago, and the onset of berri-berri. You know why I fly a sleigh, Timmy? Because my foot was amputated 11 years ago. To make matters worse, I can't go to a real doctor in the city because they think I'm some sort of crazy person in a Santa costume, so I had to drink a bottle of brandy and let one of the elves go to town with a hacksaw while Rudolph held me down and stuck a bag of roasted chestnuts in my mouth to keep me from biting my tongue off.
Mrs. Claus hasn't looked at me in years, much less touched me. I have to satisfy myself with DVDs of reindeer porn that some of the less reputable reindeer put together in a small, homemade studio in the woods outside the house. Ever see reindeers f**k, Timmy? It's horrifying - the stuff nightmares are made of, but it's the closest I'll ever come again to a sexual experience. I've even considered joining them on one of their video shoots. I'm just that desperate, Timmy, and if I had a gun you know I'd blow my fat brains out right now, but try getting one of those little asshole elves to actually make a gun and they'll probably come back to me with a stuffed kitten. A stuffed kitten, Timmy, which at this stage of my sad, pathetic existence, I'd probably try to f**k.
But, that's probably more than you wanted to know. You probably just want me to hobble back to the workshop and make sure your MP3 player is ready to be delivered to you on Christmas morning so you can listen to your gangster rap and drown out grandma's voice as she falls down the stairs because mom and dad were too cheap to get a ramp installed for her wheelchair.
Merry f*****g Christmas, Timmy.
Santa
Thank you very much for your letter. I hope you've been a very good boy this year. I would assume you have, considering all the toys you've asked for. You know, Timmy, years ago, kids would be satisfied with a ball, or a baseball glove, or a doll. I can't even pronounce half of the things on this list. Also, the PSP you requested.... you are aware that we make all the toys up here at the North Pole ourselves, right? Have you ever seen an elf? Do you think one of these brain damaged midgets has the technical skills to create a piece of equipment of that level? I've seen them staple their hand to their other hand when trying to assemble a paddle ball racket.
Another thing I noticed in your letter, despite the horrible handwriting that leads me to believe you are the offspring of a never to be discussed union between brother and sister, is that you don't at any point actually ask how I might be doing. None of you little brats ever does. Well, I'll tell you. A steady diet of milk and cookies, while it may sound like a dream come true to a child of limited intelligence such as yourself, has taken a huge toll on my body. I have diabetes, gout, lumbago, and the onset of berri-berri. You know why I fly a sleigh, Timmy? Because my foot was amputated 11 years ago. To make matters worse, I can't go to a real doctor in the city because they think I'm some sort of crazy person in a Santa costume, so I had to drink a bottle of brandy and let one of the elves go to town with a hacksaw while Rudolph held me down and stuck a bag of roasted chestnuts in my mouth to keep me from biting my tongue off.
Mrs. Claus hasn't looked at me in years, much less touched me. I have to satisfy myself with DVDs of reindeer porn that some of the less reputable reindeer put together in a small, homemade studio in the woods outside the house. Ever see reindeers f**k, Timmy? It's horrifying - the stuff nightmares are made of, but it's the closest I'll ever come again to a sexual experience. I've even considered joining them on one of their video shoots. I'm just that desperate, Timmy, and if I had a gun you know I'd blow my fat brains out right now, but try getting one of those little asshole elves to actually make a gun and they'll probably come back to me with a stuffed kitten. A stuffed kitten, Timmy, which at this stage of my sad, pathetic existence, I'd probably try to f**k.
But, that's probably more than you wanted to know. You probably just want me to hobble back to the workshop and make sure your MP3 player is ready to be delivered to you on Christmas morning so you can listen to your gangster rap and drown out grandma's voice as she falls down the stairs because mom and dad were too cheap to get a ramp installed for her wheelchair.
Merry f*****g Christmas, Timmy.
Santa
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The cats are recruiting me
I was not a fan of the feline growing up. Any animal that you can leave alone for a week, and upon returning home find it smoking a cigar, eating a pizza and watching a pay-per-view movie doesn't really need me. My feelings toward cats were reinforced by my friend Wayne's cat, a little orange, cross-eyed guy who had an amazing vertical leap, employed solely to bite my finger if I was standing, as well as a story my mother didn't hesitate to tell any time a cat was mentioned ("It tried to get the milk from your uncle's crib! It tried to kill him for his milk!"). Dogs, on the other hand, were where it was at. Dogs at least warned you when you were going to get a whuppin'. To say cats were high on my list of favorite things would be like saying kryptonite was high on Superman's list, or Father's Day high on Luke Skywalker's.
So, it's kind of a transition to go from that to, years later, someone who adores cats, owns one (sort of), and has an army of others ready to fight for him when the revolution eventually comes. Below is a picture of the troops in the mess hall (back porch) at breakfast.
Really, my love of cats began with a matted, skinny little guy in a tuxedo.
One day I noticed him on the stairs of my back porch. He was just sitting there, watching the world go by in that unique cat way. I immediately noticed he wasn't in the least bit afraid of me. He was obviously used to people because he was very laid back and not at all skittish. Just in case, though, I approached him very slowly, and when he just sat there staring at me, I pet him. The little guy seemed really thin, something I didn't expect because he looked so much bigger underneath his mass of fur. I put a can of tuna in a bowl for him and he went right at it. I couldn't believe how hungry he was. So over the next few days I would see him sitting out there and would feed him once a day. Finally after a couple of weeks, I decided I'd like to let him inside, but not knowing whether or not he had fleas, I made an appointment for him to get a checkup. My boy got a dose of flea meds, a rabies shot, a feline leukemia test, a stool test - $300.00 worth of attention, really. So after all that, I bought him a collar, a name tag (having newly christened him Mr. Mooch), a litter box, and all sorts of toys. Of course, the day after I put his new collar and name tag on I got a call saying "we live next door to you. You might have thought our cat was a stray because we found a name tag on him."
Yes, I did think this sweet, malnutritioned, flea-infested boy (at the time) was a stray.
Turns out Mr. Mooch (which 18 months later I, along with all of his new friends, still call him)is actually named Meow Meow. When I asked why I was told it was because that was the first sound he made. That makes about as much sense as naming a child "Scream" or "Poop". Regardless, Mr. Mooch essentially became my cat. His "owners" still live next door, but they don't seem to care. I keep him in at night, I take him to the vet, I feed him, I buy him his monthly flea and heart worm medication. In return, he runs to me excitedly from his perch in the backyard every time my car pulls into the driveway and proceeds to brush against my legs, snuggles on my lap every night, puts his paw on my head when I lean over him, and licks my hand when I hold it out to him. I think he knows I belong to him.
As for the troops..... that's an interesting story, too. I think that'll be a separate post, though.
So, it's kind of a transition to go from that to, years later, someone who adores cats, owns one (sort of), and has an army of others ready to fight for him when the revolution eventually comes. Below is a picture of the troops in the mess hall (back porch) at breakfast.
Really, my love of cats began with a matted, skinny little guy in a tuxedo.
One day I noticed him on the stairs of my back porch. He was just sitting there, watching the world go by in that unique cat way. I immediately noticed he wasn't in the least bit afraid of me. He was obviously used to people because he was very laid back and not at all skittish. Just in case, though, I approached him very slowly, and when he just sat there staring at me, I pet him. The little guy seemed really thin, something I didn't expect because he looked so much bigger underneath his mass of fur. I put a can of tuna in a bowl for him and he went right at it. I couldn't believe how hungry he was. So over the next few days I would see him sitting out there and would feed him once a day. Finally after a couple of weeks, I decided I'd like to let him inside, but not knowing whether or not he had fleas, I made an appointment for him to get a checkup. My boy got a dose of flea meds, a rabies shot, a feline leukemia test, a stool test - $300.00 worth of attention, really. So after all that, I bought him a collar, a name tag (having newly christened him Mr. Mooch), a litter box, and all sorts of toys. Of course, the day after I put his new collar and name tag on I got a call saying "we live next door to you. You might have thought our cat was a stray because we found a name tag on him."
Yes, I did think this sweet, malnutritioned, flea-infested boy (at the time) was a stray.
Turns out Mr. Mooch (which 18 months later I, along with all of his new friends, still call him)is actually named Meow Meow. When I asked why I was told it was because that was the first sound he made. That makes about as much sense as naming a child "Scream" or "Poop". Regardless, Mr. Mooch essentially became my cat. His "owners" still live next door, but they don't seem to care. I keep him in at night, I take him to the vet, I feed him, I buy him his monthly flea and heart worm medication. In return, he runs to me excitedly from his perch in the backyard every time my car pulls into the driveway and proceeds to brush against my legs, snuggles on my lap every night, puts his paw on my head when I lean over him, and licks my hand when I hold it out to him. I think he knows I belong to him.
As for the troops..... that's an interesting story, too. I think that'll be a separate post, though.
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