The Incredible Importance of Retiring Gracefully

So... I just saw The Social Network.  And... I loved it.  It accomplished the ultimate challenge in storytelling: it created characters so compelling that in the end you’re not sure who’s the good guy.  Actually, I was so turned around at the end that I even felt semi-sympathetic towards the twin douche bags.  But the reason I bring it up has more to do with how it made me think about technology and the direction it’s taking our society.  (Yep, it’s one of those columns, so hang on to your proverbial britches.  And also your actual britches.)

No one is ever going to accuse this guy of being curmudgeonly about technology.  I love gadgets in general, my iPhone in specific, and am thoroughly giddy about some of the things we can do because of technology.  Case in point, my Starbucks card is on my phone now.  They scan my phone at Starbucks; totally bitchin’.  (And let me tell you, wow, do the girls swoon over that.)  But I’m definitely not the guy who’s excited about getting a personal bar-code tattoo, which is where we’re headed if you believe the naysayers, or the neigh-sayers, for that matter.

I’m more in the middle ground, like a Libertarian, or a shortstop.  I’m all for being “old school”, but I am thoroughly convinced there are a few things that we can give up on, and allow them to go quietly into the night/oblivion, hence the Brett Favre reference.  

And the first of these needs to be phone books.  I will say one thing for Hagadon Directories et al: they’re sticking with it.  They are tenacious holding on to this most archaic form of communication, and there is honor in that.  But there can’t possibly be money in it.  I came home to find the 2011 Moscow/Pullman phone book on my doorstep, and a tumble of different emotions overtook me.  The first was annoyance, because I had to bend down and pick it up.  Next came sadness at the thought of how many times this particular phone book would be opened (zero.)  And then finally just a tinge of anger at the thought of what a waste phone books are.  Please raise your figurative interweb hand if you’ve used a phone book in the last month... I’m sure there’s a few of you, but it was probably because you didn’t have internet access at the time, or you were trying to remember your home phone number from, you know, when you had a home phone.  I wonder if the only thing phone books are good for is sitting on if you’re wicked short.  It must be easier to sell skywriting ads than ads in the phone book.  Where is the money in this game?  It’s time to call it quits on the phone book.  The internet has killed this one something fierce, so why not save me the hassle of throwing it away.

There’s too many similarities between the Favre and the Phonebook (great name for an album title).  Imagine how fondly we could remember them if they had just bowed out gracefully.  This is the conversation I picture, using my PLP Matt as the other end of it --

Me:  “Hey, remember phone books?  Those were the bees knees back in the day!”

Matt:  “We used to have a jolly good time flipping through that thing, looking for funny name combinations!”

Me:  “Whatever happened to those?  You used to get a new one every year.”

Matt:  “I don’t know, but we seem to be doing just fine without them.  We don’t need them anymore now that everybody texts.  Although, they did have those ads in them for plumbers and stuff.”

Me:  “That’s right!  I forgot that there were businesses in there.  But if I need a plumber I can just google plumbers.”

Matt:  “I suppose you could, but I judge you for that.”

Me:  “You are very judgemental when it comes to plumbers.:

Matt:  “I feel passionately about the subject!  A man’s got to have a cause to fight for!”

Me:  “I suppose.”

Matt:  “Alright, I’ll call you later.”

Me:  “How will you get my number without a phone book?”

Matt:  “Touche.  But I’m just kidding, I’m not gonna call.”

Me:  “Oh, I’m not gonna miss you.”

See how nostalgic that could be?  And it would be the same with Favre.  The problem with holding on too long, is that inevitably our final memories involve the sad, like Brett Favre throwing sad interceptions and limping off the field like he’s me, or the sad phone book sitting on my doorstep, as if someone said to me, “Here, you throw this away.”  And I did, I put that phone book out of it’s misery, right into the trash can where it belongs.  If I respected it I would perhaps recycle it, but why is it my fault that someone still thinks this is a viable advertising medium?  Don’t judge me; after all, it’s not like I’m googling plumbers...

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Superpowers

So, it turns out that I’m a superhero.

Look, I’m as shocked as you are.  But before we all get carried away here (you know, expecting me to start fighting crime and responding to bat-signals) allow me to temper your excitement, because I’m not a “traditional” superhero.  They’re probably not going to make a movie about me.  I have no superpowers, per se (except the power of the written word, which doesn’t get the ladies all a-flutter.)  Chances are fair to middlin’ that I will not be on a lunchbox anytime soon.  Which is fine, because I don’t think they make those anymore.  Anyway, I’m more Clark Gable than Clark Kent.  Oh, why kid ourselves, probably more Clark Griswold.  

I guess what I’m saying is that I only have one superhero trait, but every superhero has it.  I have a nemesis.  This is not to be confused with an arch enemy, or the Swedish metal band Arch Enemy.  My nemesis is my worst enemy, my most hated rival.  Evil and perfect in all the ways I’m not; my exact opposite, especially when you consider that my nemesis is not a person.  It’s a utility pole.  (Yeah, a telephone pole, how’s that for a let down!)

Bear with me, unless you already checked out with that last sentence, and I can’t say I blame you.  But good things come to those who wait, or so the Heinz company would have us believe.  (Personally, I think that ad campaign was only necessary because they couldn’t figure out plastic bottles, and that’s just lazy.)  That said, at least ketchup has a worthy adversary.  My nemesis is so... incredibly lame, but this particular piece of dead tree just has it in for me, and I’m not really winning the war.  

I’ll set the stage for you.  On the hill behind our office, there is a street that progress has forgotten, and the utilities for the houses are still hung from an old, decrepit utility pole in one of the backyards.  If this utility pole were a person?  Betty White.  Still hanging in there, but no one really wants to put a ladder up there, ya’ feel me?  So for the sake of simplicity, we’re gonna call this telephone pole Betty.  Betty stands in the backyard of 230 ---- St, at the top of a hill that is actually three tiers, 30 or 40 feet above the street.  Betty is at the junction of two fences, so to climb with gaffs you have to stand on top of the fence and start there.  Carrying a 60 pound extension ladder up the hill is the other method of getting there; also not fun.  In the summer, I imagine it wouldn’t be that difficult or annoying of an assignment.  The problem is, I’ve never had to work on Betty in the summer.

I’ve worked at Time Warner for almost four years, and I’ve only had to access Betty during the winter, only in the dark, and only with snow on the ground.  And not once, every winter.  I’ve had to activate 234 twice, and disconnect it twice.  Two houses over, 242, also gets cable from Betty.  242 is occupied by Moscow’s finest college boys, who I think probably like to zip line on the cable when they’re drunk.  Plus the cable hangs under about 100 feet of tree branches which have a tendency to fall on the cable during the winter storms.  Long story short(er), that cable comes down every winter, and I always seem to get the job of hanging it back up.  Please don’t take this as complaining: I always have help, and I get paid a healthy wage and free cable to do it.  But it’s exhausting, and cold, and annoying to have to do it over and over again.

And I’m starting to resent Betty and her offensive cables.  She may be the most difficult pole in Moscow to get to, and she is conspiring to keep me coming back.  About ten times, so far.  She is trying to break me, like Lex Luther (in this analogy, I’m Superman; pretty sweet what you can do when you’re the one typing.) 

So maybe I’m not a superhero.  Maybe I’m reading too much into this.  But I will tell you this for certain: Superman would make a hell of a cable guy...

cable guy!!! out.

The Incredible Importance of Moral Obligation

According to Wikipedia (and let’s be honest with ourselves, this is where 90 percent of the world’s knowledge is housed) the phrase “moral obligation” is applied to an act that is perceived as part of a person’s belief system... and that’s about it.  Seriously, this is the website that brings us hard-hitting articles about impact wrenches, wenches as they apply to British sitcoms, and “Ridin’ Wild” the 1922 western film directed by Nat Ross and starring Hoot Gibson (aside, I am the only person to “like” this on Facebook.  Go ahead, check, I’m no liar.)  And yet Wikipedia can’t give me three lousy sentences on a simple turn-of-phrase.  

All whining aside, I was looking for information on the subject because it’s a weird combination of words.  And I thought of it when searching for a way to describe my recent dabbling in the world of all-you-can-eat sushi.  I think the theory probably applies to all forms of AYCE (BBQ, pizza, chinese, waffles, et al), which might be one of my favorite and least favorite concepts in the world.  All-you-can-eat is a man’s game.  It’s a battle of wits, for the princess, to the death...

I accept.  As did my father, my brother, and our friend Brian.  We did it without hesitation, or any thought to the prudence of the matter.  Boise being so close to the ocean, and thus famous the world over for its sushi skills, how could we go wrong?  Thus, we drop 25 dollars per for the opportunity to cram our mouths with as much Royal California, unagi, and yellowtail nigiri as we can possibly stomach.  In my younger days, it was a small amount for me; I simply didn’t like to eat raw what-nots, irregardless of the freshness or large amounts of soy and wasabi.  Also, I feel as if we’re sort of thumbing our noses at the guys who discovered fire.

And this is were “moral obligation” comes in.  Because that is how Grant and Brian treated that meal.  They knew that dad and I were weak, and would only eat slightly more than necessary to fill our tummies.  For them, it was then gut-check time (blam, double entendre).  It was their moral obligation to ensure that Yoi Tomo lost money, and the only way to offset the rest of us and the prohibitive cost of the hot tea (no bueno, by the way) was to eat their weight in raw foodstuffs.  Which is tough, because rice expands as we all know.  

It was an epic performance.  Even the server started to get a little bit rattled.  I don’t think she was used to such dedication to overindulgence.  But as I’ve said, it was their moral obligation to get dad’s money’s worth; Jesus wanted it that way.  I lost track of how many rolls we went through, but Grant and Brian must have taken down 15 to 20.  It was dining as moral obligation; far beyond working to eat, it was eating as work, and a sight to behold.  It was this type of dedication that sculpted the great pyramids, built the Oregon Trail, and took us to the moon.  So I’m excited to see what Brian and Grant are able to do when they apply their energy something more constructive than putting a sushi joint out of business.  Or maybe that in itself is a worthy goal: after all, if you open an AYCE restaurant, you’re just asking to be eaten out of house and home.  And I know just the men for the job.

rossnation... out.