Sixty-nine days have elapsed since the start of the new year. My most notable accomplishment of 2013 thus far: completing the original Super Mario Bros. trilogy. My eight-year-old self would be incredibly proud of me.
I played all three games last month on my Wii. You know the theory that suggests that when you learn a new fact, it replaces an old one stored in your brain? It is not applicable to Nintendo knowledge. I remembered the location of every 1-Up mushroom, every warp zone, every whistle in the Super Mario games. It's my hope that I'll retain these sort of video game secrets the rest of my life. One day, I'd like to have the opportunity to pass down the Konami code to my future grandchildren.
The premise of the first Super Mario Bros. game is simple: a plumber named Mario travels through the Mushroom Kingdom in an attempt to rescue Princess Peach from the evil Bowser, the leader of the turtle-like Koopa race. The story is loosely based on real-life events that occurred in Japan in the early 1980s.
Bowser is a complex character. He is virtually indestructible, as evidenced by the fact that he's been resurrected in Super Mario games for nearly 30 years. Fell into a lava pit? No problem. Fell into a lava pit again? Who cares? Fell into a lava pit for a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth time? Big deal.
But Bowser obviously has his flaws. For example, he has an unhealthy obsession with lava pit rooms. The easiest way to avoid falling into a pit of lava is to not own a pit of lava.
Oh, and Bowser, perhaps it's time for you to have those question blocks removed from your castles. There's not much sense in letting Mario power up with mushrooms and earn 1-Ups in your own home, with the Princess' freedom on the line. How many castles with lava pit rooms and question blocks do you need, anyway? I know you are the king of Koopas, but one well-designed, booby-trapped castle should suffice.
More on the Super Mario Bros. series. The plot of the original game is recycled in Super Mario Bros. 3: the Princess is captured by Bowser, and Mario comes to her aid.
In Super Mario World, the fourth Super Mario game and the first for Super Nintendo, Bowser kidnaps the Princess, and Mario is forced to save her.
Notice a trend here? The Princess is abducted in Nintendo 64's Mario 64, the Wii's Super Mario Galaxy and New Super Mario Bros. Wii, and countless other Nintendo-produced games along the way.
(I omitted Super Mario Bros. 2 for Nintendo because in that game the Princess is not in peril -- she's a playable character. But you eventually find out that Mario had dreamed the events of the game. He'd fantasized that the Princess is a strong, independent woman who can take care of herself. So you can see how much her personal problems have weighed on his mind.)
What is Mario's incentive to risk his lives for the Princess as often as he does? Well, the answer is pretty obvious, isn't it: He's in love. Isn't that why all men do really dumb things? Would Mario ever have another reason to run past fireballs, duck underneath bullets, and transform into a raccoon? He desperately wants to impress the Princess.
This feels like a slow-building romance that you've watched unfold on countless sitcoms. Except Mario is not Jim Halpert and the Princess is not Pam Beesly. Mario is more comparable to Skippy, and the Princess to Mallory Keaton.
The Princess doesn't let Mario get too close to her, doesn't show much gratitude for his bravery. She simply keeps her conversation with Mario to a minimum. Remember what she said to him at the end of Super Mario Bros.? "Thank you Mario! Your quest is over. We present you a new quest."
What a letdown for Mario. If I were him at that moment, I'd be crestfallen. I'd wonder to myself, "Really? I just conquered a fire-breathing monster for you and all you have to say to me is, 'We present you with a new quest'? What the...?! Alright fine, I'll accept your stupid new quest, but before I go, can I get a hug, or a friendly punch on the shoulder?"
This is the power that women have over men. If they want you to put your lives on the line for them, not once, but twice, you have no choice but to suck it up and hope you win some brownie points with them.
By the conclusion of Super Mario Bros. 3, the Princess can't even stand to be in the same room with Mario. She tells him, "Thank you. But our Princess is in another castle!...Just kidding! Ha ha ha! Bye bye." Good one, Princess. Bye bye to you too, you ingrate.
To be fair, her heart softens a little bit in the later games; she gives him a peck on the head in Super Mario World and New Super Mario Bros. U. But does she send any signals that she's willing to take her relationship with Mario to the next levels? No.
The Princess is nothing but a tease. She toys with Mario's emotions, strings him along just enough to ensure that he'll be there for her the next time she's captured by Bowser. Mario needs to come to grips with the fact that she's using him. And his brother, Luigi, for that matter. She's essentially pit the two against one another. Her story could be the basis of a Jerry Springer episode: "I'm Juggling Two Plumbers -- And They're Bros.!"
I'm a longtime fan of the Super Mario games, but I'm pulling for Mario to break out of his cycle of rescue-rejection-repeat. I want to see him leave the Princess behind, once and for all, and maintain some shred of dignity.
There are many other princesses out there who would appreciate an adventurous but smallish hero. In fact, Mario may want to put in a call to Link; he knows a woman who is Mario's type.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Life Of Qi
A year ago, I signed up for Words With Friends. I did so with one goal in mind: Win Against Friends. Defeat them. Annihilate them. Decimate them. Demolish them. Obliterate them. Outmaneuver them. Prevail over them. Vanquish them.*
* Synonyms for the word "defeat" courtesy of Thesaurus.com.
Full of confidence and equipped with an extensive vocabulary, I assumed I would learn the nuances of Words With Friends rather quickly and then engage in a series of one-sided games with my closest pals. And the games have been one-sided, though, unexpectedly, not in my favor.
I have played approximately 50 games of Words With Friends in the past year. I've won 10 of them, if that. My winning percentage, at best, is .200. Unacceptable. Mediocre. Inadequate, even. (Exit, stage left!)
I've examined every one of my losses, and there's a common thread among virtually all of them. There was a particular moment midway through the vast majority of these games in which the tide turned and I fell into a deficit I could not possibly overcome. It's a moment that can be summed up with just two letters: "Q" and "I."
As in "Qi," a word I am convinced was created for the sole purpose of allowing my friends to tally an illogically high points total against me in Words With Friends. I never recover from the momentum swing caused by a well-placed "Qi." Just as I'm keeping pace with the other player on the scoreboard, BAM, he or she drops the "Qi" bomb on me: a "Q" on the "TL" tile (a triple letter score) and, if he or she is especially lucky, the "I" on a "DW" (double word score) or "TW" (triple word score) tile.
Seriously, what the heck is a "Qi"? I can guarantee you my opponents don't know. I propose that if an opponent cannot recite the definition of the word before play begins, he or she may not use it during the game.
I haven't the slightest clue what "Qi" means, but I can offer you my own personal definition: a "BS" word that should be banned from the Words With Friends dictionary. I would add a couple of "Qi" synonyms from Thesaurus.com here, but none are listed on the site, which further proves my point that it's a bogus word. Really, "BS" should be a playable combination; I use those two letters together in conversation way more than "Q" and "I."
After my opponent plays the "Qi" card, I wrack my brain in the hopes that I can come up with a word that's equally impressive and equally valuable in the game. Always, I fail. So I then attempt to mish-mash whichever letters I have. Maybe I can string together a bunch of letters, place one of them on a "DW" or "TW" tile and make up some ground that way?
One word I often try -- and I have no explanation for this -- is "Snooki." Yes, the nickname of Jersey Shore star Nicole Polizzi. Words With Friends does not accept "Snooki" as a valid word. I beg to differ. It is a valid word. Look at the cover of any magazine at the supermarket checkout line; it's absolutely valid.
Perhaps if I were to spell the word as "SnooQI," Words With Friends would be more accepting of it.
* Synonyms for the word "defeat" courtesy of Thesaurus.com.
Full of confidence and equipped with an extensive vocabulary, I assumed I would learn the nuances of Words With Friends rather quickly and then engage in a series of one-sided games with my closest pals. And the games have been one-sided, though, unexpectedly, not in my favor.
I have played approximately 50 games of Words With Friends in the past year. I've won 10 of them, if that. My winning percentage, at best, is .200. Unacceptable. Mediocre. Inadequate, even. (Exit, stage left!)
I've examined every one of my losses, and there's a common thread among virtually all of them. There was a particular moment midway through the vast majority of these games in which the tide turned and I fell into a deficit I could not possibly overcome. It's a moment that can be summed up with just two letters: "Q" and "I."
As in "Qi," a word I am convinced was created for the sole purpose of allowing my friends to tally an illogically high points total against me in Words With Friends. I never recover from the momentum swing caused by a well-placed "Qi." Just as I'm keeping pace with the other player on the scoreboard, BAM, he or she drops the "Qi" bomb on me: a "Q" on the "TL" tile (a triple letter score) and, if he or she is especially lucky, the "I" on a "DW" (double word score) or "TW" (triple word score) tile.
Seriously, what the heck is a "Qi"? I can guarantee you my opponents don't know. I propose that if an opponent cannot recite the definition of the word before play begins, he or she may not use it during the game.
I haven't the slightest clue what "Qi" means, but I can offer you my own personal definition: a "BS" word that should be banned from the Words With Friends dictionary. I would add a couple of "Qi" synonyms from Thesaurus.com here, but none are listed on the site, which further proves my point that it's a bogus word. Really, "BS" should be a playable combination; I use those two letters together in conversation way more than "Q" and "I."
After my opponent plays the "Qi" card, I wrack my brain in the hopes that I can come up with a word that's equally impressive and equally valuable in the game. Always, I fail. So I then attempt to mish-mash whichever letters I have. Maybe I can string together a bunch of letters, place one of them on a "DW" or "TW" tile and make up some ground that way?
One word I often try -- and I have no explanation for this -- is "Snooki." Yes, the nickname of Jersey Shore star Nicole Polizzi. Words With Friends does not accept "Snooki" as a valid word. I beg to differ. It is a valid word. Look at the cover of any magazine at the supermarket checkout line; it's absolutely valid.
Perhaps if I were to spell the word as "SnooQI," Words With Friends would be more accepting of it.
Friday, January 18, 2013
The Problem With: "The Wonder Years"
Last week, I introduced a new series on my blog titled "The Problem With," in which I will analyze the inconsistencies I observe in TV shows and movies that I watch. Back to the Future was the subject of the first entry, which you can read here.
I should warn you that I've been on a bit of an '80s kick lately. Back to the Future is an obvious classic from that decade. The Karate Kid is another. I've watched The Karate Kid on cable, without exaggeration, at least seven times in the past three months. I just have an odd fascination with any mid- to late-1980s film in which Elisabeth Shue plays the girlfriend of the main character.
The Hub has become one of my favorite channels, because its lineup is brimming with '80s sitcoms: Family Ties, The Facts of Life, ALF. And until recently, it aired one of my personal favorites, The Wonder Years.
I was a fan of The Wonder Years during its original run from 1988 to 1993. I didn't know it at the time, but many of the story lines would parallel what I would soon experience in my teen years: the connections I made with my family, the bonds I shared with close friends, the loves I won and lost.
Boy, I wish I could have Daniel Stern repeat that last line to me. "I didn't know it at the time" is a quintessential Wonder Years phrase, isn't it? I'm fairly certain the narrator, the adult Kevin Arnold -- voiced by Stern -- used it at least five times over the course of the series.
There was another popular phrase that the older Kevin Arnold would say whenever he recalled a life-changing moment: "And then...it happened." You knew the show had a compelling or entertaining twist in store for you whenever the narrator said that.
The Wonder Years had a great theme. I didn't know it at the time, but it's Joe Cocker's version of The Beatles song "With a Little Help from My Friends." The accompanying intro was fun, too -- it was "home video" of Kevin, his family, and his friends, playing, arguing, fighting, and generally being in one another's company. To this day, when I hear "With a Little Help from My Friends" -- the Joe Cocker version -- I have flashbacks to family barbecues, neighborhood football games and the time Jason Hervey punched me on the lawn. (No, that last part didn't happen.)
I watched The Wonder Years quite a bit when it was on The Hub. I remember one night in particular I tuned in to the network and caught the beginning of the show's intro. And then...it happened.
I noticed a person I'd never seen on The Wonder Years before. Jump to the 44-second mark of the video above. Kevin accepts a football from a bespectacled Winnie. They're both smiling. It's a very cute moment.
But...who is that sitting on the curb next to Winnie? I haven't the slighest clue. I have no recollection of this person from any of the episodes. Obviously, this is someone who played a role in Kevin's life, someone who is at least an acquaintance of Winnie's and somehow managed to sneak onto the Arnold family home video collection.
How come older Kevin, the narrator, never addressed this? He had to have remembered this person 20 years later. He could easily describe every friend he ever had, every girlfriend, every teacher, every vacation, every game of one-on-one basketball he played with Paul. I can name you two of my high school teachers and maybe three or four other students who were in my graduating class. Kevin's memory was flawless.
And adult Kevin told so many stories. Six seasons' worth, as a matter of fact. And not one of them addressed the mystery person in the intro. This is a glaring oversight on his part.
Who is this person? Daniel Stern, help me out here.
I should warn you that I've been on a bit of an '80s kick lately. Back to the Future is an obvious classic from that decade. The Karate Kid is another. I've watched The Karate Kid on cable, without exaggeration, at least seven times in the past three months. I just have an odd fascination with any mid- to late-1980s film in which Elisabeth Shue plays the girlfriend of the main character.
The Hub has become one of my favorite channels, because its lineup is brimming with '80s sitcoms: Family Ties, The Facts of Life, ALF. And until recently, it aired one of my personal favorites, The Wonder Years.
I was a fan of The Wonder Years during its original run from 1988 to 1993. I didn't know it at the time, but many of the story lines would parallel what I would soon experience in my teen years: the connections I made with my family, the bonds I shared with close friends, the loves I won and lost.
Boy, I wish I could have Daniel Stern repeat that last line to me. "I didn't know it at the time" is a quintessential Wonder Years phrase, isn't it? I'm fairly certain the narrator, the adult Kevin Arnold -- voiced by Stern -- used it at least five times over the course of the series.
There was another popular phrase that the older Kevin Arnold would say whenever he recalled a life-changing moment: "And then...it happened." You knew the show had a compelling or entertaining twist in store for you whenever the narrator said that.
The Wonder Years had a great theme. I didn't know it at the time, but it's Joe Cocker's version of The Beatles song "With a Little Help from My Friends." The accompanying intro was fun, too -- it was "home video" of Kevin, his family, and his friends, playing, arguing, fighting, and generally being in one another's company. To this day, when I hear "With a Little Help from My Friends" -- the Joe Cocker version -- I have flashbacks to family barbecues, neighborhood football games and the time Jason Hervey punched me on the lawn. (No, that last part didn't happen.)
I watched The Wonder Years quite a bit when it was on The Hub. I remember one night in particular I tuned in to the network and caught the beginning of the show's intro. And then...it happened.
I noticed a person I'd never seen on The Wonder Years before. Jump to the 44-second mark of the video above. Kevin accepts a football from a bespectacled Winnie. They're both smiling. It's a very cute moment.
But...who is that sitting on the curb next to Winnie? I haven't the slighest clue. I have no recollection of this person from any of the episodes. Obviously, this is someone who played a role in Kevin's life, someone who is at least an acquaintance of Winnie's and somehow managed to sneak onto the Arnold family home video collection.
How come older Kevin, the narrator, never addressed this? He had to have remembered this person 20 years later. He could easily describe every friend he ever had, every girlfriend, every teacher, every vacation, every game of one-on-one basketball he played with Paul. I can name you two of my high school teachers and maybe three or four other students who were in my graduating class. Kevin's memory was flawless.
And adult Kevin told so many stories. Six seasons' worth, as a matter of fact. And not one of them addressed the mystery person in the intro. This is a glaring oversight on his part.
Who is this person? Daniel Stern, help me out here.
Friday, January 11, 2013
The Problem With: "Back To The Future"
What? How?
I'm a curious man. I like to ask questions, and I do not relent until I feel I have received a satisfactory answer. I cannot accept ambiguity in my life.
You wouldn't want to watch a TV show or a movie with me. I'm constantly picking apart plot holes, character inconsistencies...whatever seems flawed, in my opinion. Whatever seems wrong.
Allow me to offer two examples off of the top of my head. I followed the 1980s sitcom Small Wonder as a kid. If you're not familiar with the show, you can brush up on it by watching this trailer for the season-one DVD release. I can raise all sorts of questions based on the trailer alone.
The patriarch of that family is called a "genius engineer." What? How? Listen closely to how his robot, Vicki, speaks. Is that really the work of a "genius"? And while I do enjoy the show for its kitsch factor, I am confident it was not a "classic beacon of '80s culture."
The second example: the George Clooney movie The Descendants. When I left a screening of the film last year, my first thought was not, That was an Oscar-worthy performance by Clooney. (He was nominated but didn't win.) I was more concerned with the fact that his character's wife was stolen from him by Matthew Lillard. What? How?
With all due respect to Lillard, who is a fine actor and I'm sure a fine human being, he has little chance of having an affair with a girl romanced by a two-time People magazine "Sexiest Man Alive" winner. A woman choosing Shaggy over Clooney? I don't think so.
There's a reason why I'm mentioning all of this. I'm starting an occasional series of posts titled "The Problem With," in which I'll write about the inconsistencies I observe in the TV shows and movies, past and present, that I watch.
I promise not to bore you with arguments you've heard many times before. So there will be no discussion of Saved by the Bell, whose track record of unresolved story lines and haphazard character development is unmatched.
With that disclaimer out of the way, it's time to address "The Problem With: Back to the Future," my all-time favorite movie. The time-traveling aspects of the entire trilogy make sense to me; it's clear the producers put a lot of thought into making sure there were no glaring flaws. If you feel differently, the DVD collection has a wonderful FAQ that will probably answer your questions.
What puzzles me about the Back to the Future series is Marty McFly's first encounter with the 1955 version of his mother, Lorraine. This is right after he is struck by his grandfather's -- his mother's father's -- car.
You may recall that it was Marty's father, George, who was meant to be hit by the car. George had fallen from a tree while watching a woman in a state of undress using binoculars. After realizing what his dad was up to, a disgusted Marty referred to him as a "peeping Tom." But he was nice enough to push George out of harm's way anyway.
Cut to a bedroom in Lorraine's house, where Marty wakes up after having been knocked out from the accident. She's there, watching him in the dark. OK, that's a little creepy, but whatever. She informs him that he's "safe and sound now, back in good old 1955." Marty is startled not only by the fact that he's 30 years in the past, but also by the fact that he has no pants on. He asks her where his pants are, like any logical man would in that situation. Her only response: "Over there, on my hope chest." What?
See, at this point, if I were Marty, I would've asked, "Why did you take off my pants?" It's a reasonable question, I feel. How would taking off his pants aid in his recovery? I'm no Doc Brown, but I don't think it would.
I've never heard a doctor say, "In the event that a friend or a loved one blacks out, you must assist them first by removing their clothes. Please don't be shy, it's all medical procedure." Had Marty known there would be even the slightest chance that he might suffer a concussion one day, I highly doubt he would've ever worn purple underwear.
Say what you will about your old man, Marty, but your mom was out of control as a teenager.
I'm a curious man. I like to ask questions, and I do not relent until I feel I have received a satisfactory answer. I cannot accept ambiguity in my life.
You wouldn't want to watch a TV show or a movie with me. I'm constantly picking apart plot holes, character inconsistencies...whatever seems flawed, in my opinion. Whatever seems wrong.
Allow me to offer two examples off of the top of my head. I followed the 1980s sitcom Small Wonder as a kid. If you're not familiar with the show, you can brush up on it by watching this trailer for the season-one DVD release. I can raise all sorts of questions based on the trailer alone.
The patriarch of that family is called a "genius engineer." What? How? Listen closely to how his robot, Vicki, speaks. Is that really the work of a "genius"? And while I do enjoy the show for its kitsch factor, I am confident it was not a "classic beacon of '80s culture."
The second example: the George Clooney movie The Descendants. When I left a screening of the film last year, my first thought was not, That was an Oscar-worthy performance by Clooney. (He was nominated but didn't win.) I was more concerned with the fact that his character's wife was stolen from him by Matthew Lillard. What? How?
With all due respect to Lillard, who is a fine actor and I'm sure a fine human being, he has little chance of having an affair with a girl romanced by a two-time People magazine "Sexiest Man Alive" winner. A woman choosing Shaggy over Clooney? I don't think so.
There's a reason why I'm mentioning all of this. I'm starting an occasional series of posts titled "The Problem With," in which I'll write about the inconsistencies I observe in the TV shows and movies, past and present, that I watch.
I promise not to bore you with arguments you've heard many times before. So there will be no discussion of Saved by the Bell, whose track record of unresolved story lines and haphazard character development is unmatched.
With that disclaimer out of the way, it's time to address "The Problem With: Back to the Future," my all-time favorite movie. The time-traveling aspects of the entire trilogy make sense to me; it's clear the producers put a lot of thought into making sure there were no glaring flaws. If you feel differently, the DVD collection has a wonderful FAQ that will probably answer your questions.
What puzzles me about the Back to the Future series is Marty McFly's first encounter with the 1955 version of his mother, Lorraine. This is right after he is struck by his grandfather's -- his mother's father's -- car.
You may recall that it was Marty's father, George, who was meant to be hit by the car. George had fallen from a tree while watching a woman in a state of undress using binoculars. After realizing what his dad was up to, a disgusted Marty referred to him as a "peeping Tom." But he was nice enough to push George out of harm's way anyway.
Cut to a bedroom in Lorraine's house, where Marty wakes up after having been knocked out from the accident. She's there, watching him in the dark. OK, that's a little creepy, but whatever. She informs him that he's "safe and sound now, back in good old 1955." Marty is startled not only by the fact that he's 30 years in the past, but also by the fact that he has no pants on. He asks her where his pants are, like any logical man would in that situation. Her only response: "Over there, on my hope chest." What?
See, at this point, if I were Marty, I would've asked, "Why did you take off my pants?" It's a reasonable question, I feel. How would taking off his pants aid in his recovery? I'm no Doc Brown, but I don't think it would.
I've never heard a doctor say, "In the event that a friend or a loved one blacks out, you must assist them first by removing their clothes. Please don't be shy, it's all medical procedure." Had Marty known there would be even the slightest chance that he might suffer a concussion one day, I highly doubt he would've ever worn purple underwear.
Say what you will about your old man, Marty, but your mom was out of control as a teenager.
Friday, December 21, 2012
'Tis The Season For Post-Christmas Discounts
"I haven't finished my holiday shopping yet." It's a line I've heard from many of my friends over the past week. A thoughtful bunch, they are. They care so much for their loved ones that they spend weeks contemplating the perfect gifts before resolving to battle the crowds and buy whatever's left at Walmart on Christmas Eve. That's what the season of giving is all about.
Christmas just has a way of always sneaking up on them. This year, it's scheduled for December 25. I don't think my pals were expecting that, which is why they're behind on their shopping. "Christmas is on the 25th this year? Really? Seems early, doesn't it? Thanksgiving was just a few weeks ago."
Perhaps it would be less confusing for them if Christmas was referred to more often as the "25th of December," much like Independence Day is commonly referred to as the "Fourth of July." It's very easy to remember when the Fourth of July will be held on a year-to-year basis. It's always scheduled for the Fourth of July. Fourth of July: buy fireworks. 25th of December: buy gifts. Simple enough.
Websites like Amazon give lazy folks like my friends an excuse to wait until the last minute to buy presents. Buy a product on the 21st, and it will still qualify for two-day shipping; the 22nd, one-day shipping; and the 24th, local express delivery. You're out of luck on Christmas morning, but you can still purchase e-gift cards that can be emailed immediately. 'Cause who doesn't love the feeling of waking up early, running down the stairs and to the Christmas tree with laptop in hand, and checking their email to discover a gift card waiting for them?
I am not celebrating any of the gift-giving holidays this month, so I'm under no pressure. But I do have big shopping plans nonetheless. Specifically, I will visit my local drugstore the day after Christmas.
Why? Because all of its Christmas items will be discounted. The sales are ridiculous. December 26 is like a second Black Friday for those of us who didn't receive any gifts 24 hours earlier.
On Christmas night -- around 11 p.m. or so -- I'll line up outside my nearest drugstore, with a cup of coffee in my hand, anxiously waiting for the clock to strike midnight so I can take advantage of the post-holiday doorbuster deals. The best part is the store is open 24 hours, so I don't even need to bust down the door.
When I enter the store, the adrenaline really kicks in. It feels like Christmas has come 364 days early. Holiday cards, wrapping paper, Santa hats, replica Charlie Brown Christmas trees...the prices are slashed on all of them, plus so much more.
And it's all stuff I can use. For example, Christmas wrapping paper is festive no matter the time of the year. The look on my one friend's face each summer when I give him his birthday present, wrapped in paper decorated with reindeer and ornaments, is priceless. It's like Christmas in July!
The Santa hats...with the help of a pair of scissors, they can be fashioned into extra pairs of underwear, if you're running low and don't have time to do laundry. You just have to remember to cut off the white puffy ball at the top of the hat.
More than anything, I stock up on the holiday candy. I don't understand why the stores are so eager to get rid of them. Is it wrong to eat candy canes after Christmas? Do they all expire at the end of the year? Are they no longer fresh after that? I don't ever remember seeing a "sell by" date on candy canes.
What about other seasonal candy, like the Reese's Peanut Butter Trees? Are they not as tasty in January as they are in December? I don't think so. I like the idea of eating peanut butter candy shaped like trees in late winter or early spring, while everyone else is eating boring Peanut Butter Cups shaped like a circle.
This isn't a completely selfish shopping expedition, by the way. I do pick up one special item for my friends, something I know they will appreciate: Amazon gift cards. No shipping required. I just cover them in my newly-purchased Christmas wrapping paper and hand them over. My guess is they save the gift cards until December 21 of the following year.
Christmas just has a way of always sneaking up on them. This year, it's scheduled for December 25. I don't think my pals were expecting that, which is why they're behind on their shopping. "Christmas is on the 25th this year? Really? Seems early, doesn't it? Thanksgiving was just a few weeks ago."
Perhaps it would be less confusing for them if Christmas was referred to more often as the "25th of December," much like Independence Day is commonly referred to as the "Fourth of July." It's very easy to remember when the Fourth of July will be held on a year-to-year basis. It's always scheduled for the Fourth of July. Fourth of July: buy fireworks. 25th of December: buy gifts. Simple enough.
Websites like Amazon give lazy folks like my friends an excuse to wait until the last minute to buy presents. Buy a product on the 21st, and it will still qualify for two-day shipping; the 22nd, one-day shipping; and the 24th, local express delivery. You're out of luck on Christmas morning, but you can still purchase e-gift cards that can be emailed immediately. 'Cause who doesn't love the feeling of waking up early, running down the stairs and to the Christmas tree with laptop in hand, and checking their email to discover a gift card waiting for them?
I am not celebrating any of the gift-giving holidays this month, so I'm under no pressure. But I do have big shopping plans nonetheless. Specifically, I will visit my local drugstore the day after Christmas.
Why? Because all of its Christmas items will be discounted. The sales are ridiculous. December 26 is like a second Black Friday for those of us who didn't receive any gifts 24 hours earlier.
On Christmas night -- around 11 p.m. or so -- I'll line up outside my nearest drugstore, with a cup of coffee in my hand, anxiously waiting for the clock to strike midnight so I can take advantage of the post-holiday doorbuster deals. The best part is the store is open 24 hours, so I don't even need to bust down the door.
When I enter the store, the adrenaline really kicks in. It feels like Christmas has come 364 days early. Holiday cards, wrapping paper, Santa hats, replica Charlie Brown Christmas trees...the prices are slashed on all of them, plus so much more.
And it's all stuff I can use. For example, Christmas wrapping paper is festive no matter the time of the year. The look on my one friend's face each summer when I give him his birthday present, wrapped in paper decorated with reindeer and ornaments, is priceless. It's like Christmas in July!
The Santa hats...with the help of a pair of scissors, they can be fashioned into extra pairs of underwear, if you're running low and don't have time to do laundry. You just have to remember to cut off the white puffy ball at the top of the hat.
More than anything, I stock up on the holiday candy. I don't understand why the stores are so eager to get rid of them. Is it wrong to eat candy canes after Christmas? Do they all expire at the end of the year? Are they no longer fresh after that? I don't ever remember seeing a "sell by" date on candy canes.
What about other seasonal candy, like the Reese's Peanut Butter Trees? Are they not as tasty in January as they are in December? I don't think so. I like the idea of eating peanut butter candy shaped like trees in late winter or early spring, while everyone else is eating boring Peanut Butter Cups shaped like a circle.
This isn't a completely selfish shopping expedition, by the way. I do pick up one special item for my friends, something I know they will appreciate: Amazon gift cards. No shipping required. I just cover them in my newly-purchased Christmas wrapping paper and hand them over. My guess is they save the gift cards until December 21 of the following year.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
May The Odds Of Getting Married Be Ever In My Favor
It was my birthday earlier this month. I turned 32. It was fairly memorable, for a couple of reasons.
One, I had over 70 friends wish me a happy birthday on Facebook. Seventy! Not to brag, but I'm popular on there.
My friends anticipated my birthday as much as I did. It was really sweet -- they logged on to Facebook a few minutes before the clock struck midnight on the day of my birthday. They refreshed the site at 11:57 p.m., 11:58 p.m., 11:59 p.m. Then, at 12 a.m., in the upper right hand corner of their home page, four magical words appeared: "Shane's birthday is today." And the birthday wishes started flowing onto my wall.
I don't know for certain that this is what happened, but it's my birthday and I'll lie if I want to.
My one birthday wish every year is for all of my friends on Facebook to wish me a happy birthday on my wall. For whatever reason, their acknowledgement of my big day on my wall is important to me. I don't have an explanation for it.
Of course, I've set an unrealistic goal for myself, but I do expect a healthy number of friends to send along their birthday wishes. How many, exactly? To answer that question, I divide the total number of friends I have by two, then add seven. I use similar formulas to determine the minimum age of women I can date, and the maximum number of hours of Big Bang Theory reruns I should watch per week.
I can always count on my most distant Facebook friends to wish me a happy birthday on my wall. It's why I'm friends with them in the first place: so they can pad the total number of birthday posts on my wall. And I do the same for them. The relationship is strictly quid pro quo.
Oddly enough, it's my closest friends who let me down by not leaving birthday wishes on my wall. They tend to send me a private message instead. That's no good, because it won't help me reach my "birthday wishes on my wall" quota.
Some of them bypass Facebook altogether and call me. They tell me, "I hope you have a great day, you deserve all the happiness in the world, let's celebrate soon." And I think to myself, That's nice, but couldn't you have said all of this on my wall, where it would have counted for something? I want the Facebook friends who I don't care about to see that I have real-life friends who care about me.
The other reason why my latest birthday was memorable -- though not in a positive way -- was that it provided another opportunity for my family to remind me that I'm not married. "You're 32...it's time you met someone." Their watches are set to GMT: "Get Married Time."
Time is ticking, I understand that. I'm not getting any younger, etc., etc. I have actually discussed these concerns with a few of my closest friends, who aren't nearly as panicked as my parents are about my single status. Their response was, "I wouldn't worry. I know guys way worse than you who've gotten married."
What a relief it is to know that there are men in this world who are less desirable than I am. I ought to use that fact as a selling point for myself. "Why wouldn't you date me? Do you want to be one of those women who's stuck with a guy who's way worse than I am? Why hitch your wagon to a below-average man when you can be with an average man?"
I watched The Hunger Games on DVD a little while ago, and it had me thinking, This is what my parents would want. This is what the parents of all single, 30- and 40-something-year-olds would want. An event that would punish all men and women who did not marry within the first 10 years after college.
Let's call it The Bachelor Games. Each year, the names of all single men and women between the ages of 32 and 48 are entered into a lottery. The older a person is, the more entries he or she has in the drawing. A man and woman from each state are selected and forced into a televised game of survival, the sole winner of which is permitted to stay single for the rest of his or her life. I can think of at least five networks that would air this.
Or, using the Katniss-Peeta relationship in The Hunger Games as inspiration, the event could have the contestants from each state work as a team. They could look after each other, defend one another from enemies, treat each other's wounds, and ultimately (if all goes according to the parents' plan) fall in love. It could all culminate in an After The Bachelor Games TV special and wedding.
My family wouldn't be opposed to watching me participate in a Bachelor Games and put my life at risk, if there was the slightest possibility that I might tie the knot at the end of it. I can imagine them hugging me as I board the train to the Games, exclaiming, "May the odds of getting married be ever in your favor!"
If I were to win a hypothetical Bachelor Games and marry on live TV, it would undoubtedly be a very exciting time for them. And, I admit, for me, too. I'd get to update my relationship status, and I'd expect at least 70 Facebook friends to wish me a happy marriage on my wall.
One, I had over 70 friends wish me a happy birthday on Facebook. Seventy! Not to brag, but I'm popular on there.
My friends anticipated my birthday as much as I did. It was really sweet -- they logged on to Facebook a few minutes before the clock struck midnight on the day of my birthday. They refreshed the site at 11:57 p.m., 11:58 p.m., 11:59 p.m. Then, at 12 a.m., in the upper right hand corner of their home page, four magical words appeared: "Shane's birthday is today." And the birthday wishes started flowing onto my wall.
I don't know for certain that this is what happened, but it's my birthday and I'll lie if I want to.
My one birthday wish every year is for all of my friends on Facebook to wish me a happy birthday on my wall. For whatever reason, their acknowledgement of my big day on my wall is important to me. I don't have an explanation for it.
Of course, I've set an unrealistic goal for myself, but I do expect a healthy number of friends to send along their birthday wishes. How many, exactly? To answer that question, I divide the total number of friends I have by two, then add seven. I use similar formulas to determine the minimum age of women I can date, and the maximum number of hours of Big Bang Theory reruns I should watch per week.
I can always count on my most distant Facebook friends to wish me a happy birthday on my wall. It's why I'm friends with them in the first place: so they can pad the total number of birthday posts on my wall. And I do the same for them. The relationship is strictly quid pro quo.
Oddly enough, it's my closest friends who let me down by not leaving birthday wishes on my wall. They tend to send me a private message instead. That's no good, because it won't help me reach my "birthday wishes on my wall" quota.
Some of them bypass Facebook altogether and call me. They tell me, "I hope you have a great day, you deserve all the happiness in the world, let's celebrate soon." And I think to myself, That's nice, but couldn't you have said all of this on my wall, where it would have counted for something? I want the Facebook friends who I don't care about to see that I have real-life friends who care about me.
The other reason why my latest birthday was memorable -- though not in a positive way -- was that it provided another opportunity for my family to remind me that I'm not married. "You're 32...it's time you met someone." Their watches are set to GMT: "Get Married Time."
Time is ticking, I understand that. I'm not getting any younger, etc., etc. I have actually discussed these concerns with a few of my closest friends, who aren't nearly as panicked as my parents are about my single status. Their response was, "I wouldn't worry. I know guys way worse than you who've gotten married."
What a relief it is to know that there are men in this world who are less desirable than I am. I ought to use that fact as a selling point for myself. "Why wouldn't you date me? Do you want to be one of those women who's stuck with a guy who's way worse than I am? Why hitch your wagon to a below-average man when you can be with an average man?"
I watched The Hunger Games on DVD a little while ago, and it had me thinking, This is what my parents would want. This is what the parents of all single, 30- and 40-something-year-olds would want. An event that would punish all men and women who did not marry within the first 10 years after college.
Let's call it The Bachelor Games. Each year, the names of all single men and women between the ages of 32 and 48 are entered into a lottery. The older a person is, the more entries he or she has in the drawing. A man and woman from each state are selected and forced into a televised game of survival, the sole winner of which is permitted to stay single for the rest of his or her life. I can think of at least five networks that would air this.
Or, using the Katniss-Peeta relationship in The Hunger Games as inspiration, the event could have the contestants from each state work as a team. They could look after each other, defend one another from enemies, treat each other's wounds, and ultimately (if all goes according to the parents' plan) fall in love. It could all culminate in an After The Bachelor Games TV special and wedding.
My family wouldn't be opposed to watching me participate in a Bachelor Games and put my life at risk, if there was the slightest possibility that I might tie the knot at the end of it. I can imagine them hugging me as I board the train to the Games, exclaiming, "May the odds of getting married be ever in your favor!"
If I were to win a hypothetical Bachelor Games and marry on live TV, it would undoubtedly be a very exciting time for them. And, I admit, for me, too. I'd get to update my relationship status, and I'd expect at least 70 Facebook friends to wish me a happy marriage on my wall.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Rogaine On Lockdown
I have a bald spot. I thought you should know this. I don't mind telling you about my hair deficiency. I'm not embarrassed by it. Not at all. In fact, if this was Facebook, I would post a picture of it right now so you could see it for yourself.
Much like a Facebook picture, though, the novelty of a bald spot wears off after a while. Initially, it made for a great conversation piece. When I would walk into a room, the strands of hair would float off my head in slow motion, and friends would remark, "There's something different about you...did you do something with your hair?" I'd smile and respond, "Yes...I'm losing it."
What can I say? I like to be the center of attention.
Nowadays, for practical reasons, I'd prefer it if I didn't shed like a a Persian cat. There are hair bunnies scattered all over my apartment. It's messy. Sometimes, when it's really quiet, a hair tumbleweed will roll across the floor.
I have one ally in my fight against hair loss: Rogaine. I buy a three-month supply of it every, well, three months, though I try to stock up in advance whenever possible.
Sometimes I forget. Not a good feeling. When I pick up a can of Rogaine and discover that it's empty, and I realize I don't have more in the cabinet, my heart starts to race and for a brief moment I panic.
Fortunately, I buy Rogaine from a 24-hour drugstore. It's reassuring to know that when I have the urge to rub foam on my head before I go to sleep at two in the morning, and I'm all out, I can get my fix pretty quickly.
I do have one problem with buying Rogaine at the drugstore, regardless of the time of day: A huge alarm is wrapped around it. This bothers me. A lot.
It's a slap in the face to bald people. There are no alarms on the mascara, or the candy, or the toilet paper. I don't like the implication that my hair loss has driven me to such desperation that I'd seek out minoxidil at any cost.
If nothing else, the alarm is a nuisance. Last month, I purchased a three-pack of Rogaine using a self-checkout machine, and forgot to ask an employee to remove the alarm. As soon as I walked out the door, a detector went off, a security guard yelled at me and I was chased down the street by a pack of Rogaine-sniffing dogs. I exaggerated that story for effect, but I'll leave it to you to figure out which parts are real and which are fake.
The drugstore has no cause for concern. The vast majority of bald men are not thieves, I am confident of that. And if we all were thieves, we'd be smart enough to pool our resources and pull off one massive Rogaine heist. It would be like the opening scene of The Dark Knight. Except, hopefully, we wouldn't pick one another off in the middle of it.
This is my plea, on behalf of all bald people, to the drugstores of the world: Keep the alarms off our Rogaine, please. We may have less hair than you, but you can still trust us.
Believe me: if someone does steal your Rogaine one day, you'll be able to track him down quickly by following the trail of his hair out the door.
Much like a Facebook picture, though, the novelty of a bald spot wears off after a while. Initially, it made for a great conversation piece. When I would walk into a room, the strands of hair would float off my head in slow motion, and friends would remark, "There's something different about you...did you do something with your hair?" I'd smile and respond, "Yes...I'm losing it."
What can I say? I like to be the center of attention.
Nowadays, for practical reasons, I'd prefer it if I didn't shed like a a Persian cat. There are hair bunnies scattered all over my apartment. It's messy. Sometimes, when it's really quiet, a hair tumbleweed will roll across the floor.
I have one ally in my fight against hair loss: Rogaine. I buy a three-month supply of it every, well, three months, though I try to stock up in advance whenever possible.
Sometimes I forget. Not a good feeling. When I pick up a can of Rogaine and discover that it's empty, and I realize I don't have more in the cabinet, my heart starts to race and for a brief moment I panic.
Fortunately, I buy Rogaine from a 24-hour drugstore. It's reassuring to know that when I have the urge to rub foam on my head before I go to sleep at two in the morning, and I'm all out, I can get my fix pretty quickly.
I do have one problem with buying Rogaine at the drugstore, regardless of the time of day: A huge alarm is wrapped around it. This bothers me. A lot.
It's a slap in the face to bald people. There are no alarms on the mascara, or the candy, or the toilet paper. I don't like the implication that my hair loss has driven me to such desperation that I'd seek out minoxidil at any cost.
If nothing else, the alarm is a nuisance. Last month, I purchased a three-pack of Rogaine using a self-checkout machine, and forgot to ask an employee to remove the alarm. As soon as I walked out the door, a detector went off, a security guard yelled at me and I was chased down the street by a pack of Rogaine-sniffing dogs. I exaggerated that story for effect, but I'll leave it to you to figure out which parts are real and which are fake.
The drugstore has no cause for concern. The vast majority of bald men are not thieves, I am confident of that. And if we all were thieves, we'd be smart enough to pool our resources and pull off one massive Rogaine heist. It would be like the opening scene of The Dark Knight. Except, hopefully, we wouldn't pick one another off in the middle of it.
This is my plea, on behalf of all bald people, to the drugstores of the world: Keep the alarms off our Rogaine, please. We may have less hair than you, but you can still trust us.
Believe me: if someone does steal your Rogaine one day, you'll be able to track him down quickly by following the trail of his hair out the door.
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