Last night I finished Hurt: Inside the World of Today’s Teenagers and I must say that the author did an outstanding job of not sucking. With a topic that could have very easily been approached sloppily, with disinterested motivations or misplaced and stereotypical conjectures, he did a phenomenal job. I can say this because every night reading it, I was shouting out loud, “He nailed it!” or “Finally, someone gets it!” And I never do that, mainly because The Wife™ does it ALL THE DAMNED TIME and it grates on my last nerve. Payback is hell, babe.

Anyway, one of the final exploratory chapters in the book is on partying. The author acknowledges that of all the areas he was not given complete access to in his research at this high school, was the party culture. As the last line, students still saw him as a parent in this realm, and confined their comments to the all-too-familiar world of defensive humor or flippancy. But the inferences that the author makes based on overheard conversations and the little data he had is spot-on.

My entire life, I’ve wondered why I’ve felt such a strong pull to spend an inordinate amount of time with my friends. In high school, once my work was done, I wanted nothing else (and even before work was complete, ala The Senior Slide). No amount of contact time seemed to quench my desire to hang out with my friends. It was the most important thing in my life. Even in college this held true, but living with close friends helped ease the desperate longing. Post-college has been terribly rough, as all of my friends are peppered around the country and we must keep out interactions to a few select times of year.

So what’s the deal? Everyone likes to hang out with their friends. Right. And according to Hurt, it is a totally natural part of midadolescent psychosocial behavior and development. They trust friends more than adults, and they feel at ease (and have fun) with people their own age. Normal.

But what was striking in this chapter was the notion that the lack of community in this country over the past 30-40 years has left adolescents searching for this sense of belonging. Neighborhoods no longer bond together, dance together or eat together. Your barber shop no longer knows or cares that your thinking of college. Your parents have fewer close friends that live nearby, that stop over for dinner and share their stories. The chasm between the adult world and child’s has widened so alarmingly that it has left an entire age bracket with no sense of belonging. So they search out for what they know and feel at home with: their friends.

Looking back at my own life, I can say that much of this is identifiable. When at a friend’s house, I always was the one in the kitchen talking to their parents. I always was saddened by my mother’s stories about her childhood, the streets in Philly that she grew up roaming, and her neighbors and parent’s friends. So much of my parent’s development included these people. Mine, did not.

Furthermore, according to Davies, partying is less about the alcohol and more about the connection. Alcohol merely helps create the stories that teens share (that are missing from the community). Think about it? What do most kids talk about each time they return from college? Drinking stories, bar stories, drunk escapades. Alcohol frees inhibitions for people to relate on a level that they wouldn’t normally. That close interaction creates stories and bonds. Those bonds strengthen loyalty because there is such an urgent need for this sense of family.

As the author points out, sitcoms like Cheers or Friends (or Saved By The Bell as The Wife™ points out) were so popular because they tapped into the psyche of the American people and their yearning for community, for belonging, for a close group of friends who know them. And while I don’t have a clue how to cross this bridge with future children of my own, I hope something in this country changes. And for the better.

Below you’ll find a fool-proof method, field tested, that will turn any of your dinner party plans into instant crap:

1. Schedule your party on an evening where monsoon-level rains will grace your area. Not only will your guest be soaking wet, it’s harder to get them to leave when you’re done.
2. Decide to grill when weather systems are favorable for the above conditions.
3. Invite your mother-in-law.
4. Have your 3 year old niece as a guest, but fail to have a single toy in the house for her to play with. Besides your new refrigerator.
5. Ask your sister-in-law with her 1 month old infant who is strangely projectile vomiting to join you.
6. Spend 10 hours cooking in 90-degree heat so that your already ailing air conditioner will perform at spectacularly sub-par levels when your guests arrive.
7. Attempt to give your dog Benedryl to calm him down. Fail to have a backup plan when this does NOTHING to alter his hyper state.
8. Pretend that your dog’s barking is helping the mood, not hurting.
9. Combine a guest list including elderly people, newborns and selectively deaf adults. The symphony of wailing babies, raucous laughing and a TV set maxed out at full volume makes for wonderful ambiance.

Using any of the above ingredients at your own shin dig, and all will undoubtedly flop with great speed. Trust me, I know.

When I was a kid, there were but a few cartoons that I genuinely enjoyed. My problem (as I recall now) was that I would get too frustrated with the inane and poorly written ones. I can vividly recall being annoyed at the Roadrunner & Coyote for the fact that the dumbass Coyote never learned from his mistakes. Hello? Do you realize everything you purchase from Acme (with drug money? what’s your source of income?) is broken? Stop buying from them!

1. Tommyknocker Imperial Nut Brown Ale - I know, another beer. Getting old, right? Well sorry but this one’s great because it’s made with pure maple syrup. A chocolate hops finish that’s smooth makes this an awesome beer, perhaps for the holiday time?
2. The feeling of relief that comes from age - Obscure, perhaps. But this week I really am thankful for the relentless march of passing years. It allows us to be able to look back on things that we’ve been through, things that we are sure would kill us, that time eventually erases or breaks down. The train keeps moving.
3. Jedi Mind Tricks sampling from indie wunderkid Sufjan Stevens - A SS track that I haven’t heard, but stunningly appropriate and well-placed as a sample. I have other JMT albums, but this particular track is better than any of them entirely!
4. Floor to Heaven - Handmade rugs that are jaw dropping. While I can’t believe that I now find rugs desireable (what’s next? better denture cream?), you can’t help but appreciate the design.
5. Slow motion shopping at Home Depot - 200 people in a collaborative effort for Improv Everywhere. Some of the videos are absolutely hilarious…and even a bit touching, somehow. Watching other shoppers whiz around them makes me realize just how focused we all can be on speed and efficiency.

Scooby Doo and his band of misfits also never figured out that it was the creepy old white dude that committed every crime. I wanted to reach through the TV screen and break it down for them so that they wouldn’t waste any more of their time, thus being able to hang out with the Globetrotters more. Apparently I was just as ridiculous at age five as I am at 26.

Last night was our final session of Puppy Kindergarten, which is held at the vet right down the street from our house. Jonas has run the gamut of being a star pupil and class clown entirely, making his Ma and Pa right proud.

Jackass.

All in all, I’m fairly surprised that he’s learned as much as he has. The eternal cynic in me initially projected that the class would be a complete waste of hard-earned dollars that could better be spent on things like CDs or music. Or albums. Instead, Jonas has actually startled us with how intelligent he is. Over the past six weeks he has learned to respond (via hand signals or verbal commands) to “sit,” “down,” “stand,” “leave it,” “stay,” “come” and “pants off dance off.” Ok that last one we’re still working on, but still…

While we were waiting for class to start (of course we were there early, to show how overachieving his parents our dog is), we decided to weigh The King on the nifty scale that I’ve been dying to use since day one. 45 freaking pounds. Our dog is without a doubt, on ‘roids. There is no other way to explain it. In the past month he has gained 15 pounds, likely all muscle, moxy and some generic Cheerios. Since we got him he has gained 25 pounds. At this rate, according to my calculations which may or may not be accurate so your mileage may vary, he will clock in at roughly 297 pounds by Christmas. Give or take.

Our little guy did graduate after all. He may have been the loudmouth in the corner barking his head off but they still gave him the diploma as well as a sweet new toy for winning some games (which he promptly destroyed 20 minutes after getting home).

Despite his freakish growth rate, we still love our little horsie. That is until he gets big enough to actually strap a saddle on. Then the love gets replaced by responsibility, and he is put to work like a good farm animal. Until then we’ll continue to rent him out for birthday parties and bar mitzvahs billing him as a miniature pony. Afterall, Pa needs to find a way to bankroll his apparent addiction to performance-enhancing drugs.

If you’ve ever been to Toledo, I’m sorry. Or at least that’s my canned response when people ask where I grew up. I suppose it’s a derivative of what natives say in Ireland about where my family is from: “Mayo, God help us…”

Growing up there was truthfully not as horrific as I often paint it to be, though recalling my youth’s years often conjures a line from Tool’s Maynard Keenan, one about growing up under dead Ohio skies. And for anyone who’s ever lived there, they know the spot-on extent of this overcast truth.

Driving to work this morning, I reached for my bloated iPod and began to play Pearl Jam’s Ten album, one very dear to my heart (and not too shabby musically, as it seems to have stood the test of time thus far). What hit me, for the first time, is just how much I remember being subconsciously affected by the emotional presence of Eddie Vedder’s voice.

Truth be told, I consume far too much music. Being so, I can tend to not linger on albums for prolonged periods, as I used to when I was younger. When you’re ten, having a dozen albums on tape seems like a treasure chest of limitless music. Now I go through at least that many during a single workday. Lost in all of this is my familiarity with every single note and intonation in each song. I’ve traded quality for quantity with regards to my musical appreciation skills.

But as I rounded the bend on I65 South, I was floored at how much sadness and longing seemed to arc from the speakers, with Eddie’s voice groaning for release. And how much I remember connecting with that. Immediately I was transported back to 1993, standing at the end of my driveway waiting, wishing for the school bus to whisk me away from another depressing and leaden dawn. Like remembering the adrenaline rush of your first kiss or the stomach twist of disappointing your parents…I sat in awe of just how ingrained the passionate crooning of dear Eddie was in my early teenage years. It defined many, many months in my life, and the aching in his voice will forever be linked to my often confusing (and depressing) pre-teen experience.

So whether Pearl Jam has noteworthy talent for evoking such raw emotion in their music or whether I simply no longer pay close heed to the poignant underpinnings of today’s albums, I miss having that relationship with my music. Like reconnecting with a lost friend, the sting of years gone, the feeling upon meeting again is spectacular. And even seeing those dead Ohio skies every once and awhile still makes me smile. After all, it is where I’m from. God help me.

Attention customers: This site is still jacked up. The staff was too lazy to redesign more than the index behind the scenes. So we went live while still needing to build all the other templates. Think of it as putting your pants on before your underwear. Both are just about as embarrassing.

Nonetheless, the staff here for this week’s installment of FTILFF promises not to drop the ball [like they did last week…hello you insolent jerks!].

So without further ado, and a much needed “thanks for your patience” —

1. Tudor’s Biscuit World - Best name for a restaurant. Evar. And the fact that I got to have a sausage biscuit for the first time in four years and not break my fast-food boycott gets them an extra +2 points. Get the sandwich called “The Ron” — it comes highly recommended.
2. The TtV photo phenomenon - The latest craze to hit the blogosphere (ok, I’m a wee bit late), and the cool kids have some boffo work to show. Using an older square format camera and shooting a picture of what is in the viewfinder, it produces some dreamy and artsy pics.
3. The time between late summer and early fall - As I eagerly anticipate my favorite season here in the US, I can’t help but wonder if the few weeks just before the summer heat ends isn’t even more magical. Certain days, without choking humidity, pepper lingering heat spells. Like the sound of an old 45 nearing the edge of the record, there’s something exhilarating about it.
4. Bill Watterson, Rare Finds - It’s no secret that I loved Calvin & Hobbes as a kid. In fact one of the first gifts I ever gave my wife was one of my treasured C&H collection books. Some fun (and sad) rare finds about the genius behind the boy. [via]
5. Photos of stuff being destroyed at high speed - These kinds of things make their way around The Internets every few months. But I still find them oddly fascinating. [via]

Again, we here at FTILFF and the parent company of denyingphoenix do hereby pledge to work out all the kinks and bumps over the next week or so. At least as soon as Trevor the copy boy stops wearing his Underoos around the office.

Though the mines were long-since shut down, the fine dust of self-detachment still lingered, thickly blanketing rooftops and hearts with indiscriminate recourse. And as we slowly drifted downstream, there was a part of me stricken with jealousy.

We came from all directions, each with the expressed purpose of celebrating a friend’s impending nuptials. I sigh knowing that at least I left with a renewed sense of passion for just about everything.

With our evenings around a dying fire (and good beer in hand), we recounted our daily adventures. But what lingered in my head later while dressed in my old sleeping bag was not our acrobatic hijinks from the river, but rather the life decisions of a stranger who was our river guide.

Jay was the embodiment of someone who lives on no one else’s terms. Twice degreed, he surrendered the Cubicle Life of stock trading for an office with a much nicer view, albeit a more demanding schedule. As he deftly steered and paddled our crew along, he shared the history of nearby towns and offered us a glimpse into why he seemingly dropped out of a “regular life” before he turned 30.

As I lay in the tent at night, I couldn’t help but be envious. I drifted to sleep wondering what-if’s and why-not’s. Instead of a life flourescent, chronicled by Post-It Notes and chasing away the chains of The Desk by miles on treadmills, I had all but forgotten that another path even existed. Had I sought inner peace instead of future security… Had I listened to my heart and not my head… Had I…

Even now, surrounded once again by it all, there is a part of me so envious, so covetous that it almost makes the renewed daily grind unbearable. But deep down I know that dropping out, wrapping myself in picturesque landscapes and sleepy coal towns is not an answer to my life’s question. And as I drove home yesterday, leaving the trees and water to my back, I was again thankful for the life that I do have and the one that I actively chose.

So while my office may not be a slice of history, and my treadmill may not be as enthralling as a level five rapid, I am luckier than I think I even realize.

And besides, there will always be those trips, those friends and those bottles of fireside beer to make me remember. At least I hope so.

I am a firm believer in push-pull, on-off type relationships. Balance, if you will. However, what makes me want to scratch the inside of my eyelids is when these yin yang (not the Twins) moments bump into karma, thus taking one relatively positive aspect of my life and pairing it with an equal-yet-annoying trait. Like a Oreo from hell.

I submit to the jury the fact that I like water. A lot, in fact. I drink up to two gallons a day (water, people…water). Nature handles this in an appropriate fashion, something that I’ve grown to accept. However, there seems to be an unfair balance between the amount of water that I consume and how often I need to void. Point being: I can hold it if I need to.

Unfortunately for me, I married The World’s Smallest Bladder™. If we are out to eat, she will undoubtedly visit the ladies room more than once during the meal, once when we get there (the 10 minute car ride is a doozey, apparently), and once before we leave. And then again whenever we get to our next destination. All I can say is I couldn’t be happier to have found a woman who doesn’t drink The Beer. Because the thought of bar-hopping with The World’s Smallest Bladder™ makes me want to do that thing with the eyelids again.

I have never fully accepted this Teeny Weeny Bladder scam, but nonetheless have to live with it. I curse and fuss, much like my father used to on car trips when I was a child and someone, GOD FORBID someone needed to use the restroom ONCE in 10 hours. If only you could witness the look that I get from The World’s Smallest Bladder™ when I suggest that she just learn how to pee in a bottle so that I don’t have to stop the friggin car at yet another rest stop. Obviously, I now see where my camel-like tendencies stem from, as well as my current impatience with frequent urination. (thanks Dad!)

Enter Jonas. Spawn of The World’s Smallest Bladder™, he has somehow assimilated her “technique” and now finds it of utmost hilarity to ring the bell to go out every 3-5 minutes. And it wouldn’t be bad if he just grazed it, but no. He indeed pulls out all the guns, and plays a living room game of Whack-a-Mole with them, producing a clanging cacophony that makes my fingers itch with desire to do that thing with the eyelids again. And what I cannot figure out is just where he learned this. He’s only once had a mistake in his crate overnight, and is left every day for 10 hours without once slipping up. It is proven by history alone that this dog can indeed handle his liquid. Hell, I bet he would even do fine with The Beer and might be a good bar-hopping buddy (note to self…). But where his newfound urgency to pee has come from, I haven’t a clue. Maybe he and The World’s Smallest Bladder™ hold secret club meetings in their treehouse when I’m in bed, to discuss their sneaky tactics to drive me straight into insanity (with no pee breaks, naturally).

All I know is that yet again, a once positive aspect of my life has been unfairly been paired with an opposing one, like peanut butter with. And people, the jelly has to go because it’s bringin’ the peanut butter down. I say that it’s high time that we stop accepting jelly and frequent urination as acceptable entities in our society! Rise! Go forth and spread the news!

Actually, can we take a potty break first? I’ve had WAY too much coffee this morning. Just a sec…

Jonas was sitting at the front door waiting for The Wife™ to come home from work when he noticed this motley crew walking down the street. By the time The Wife™ got to our driveway, they had trucked it to our front lawn, as if on a mission from God.

Needless to say, Jonas’ head almost exploded, as he had never seen ducks before, let alone a troop of ducks that seemed to be able to fashion a reasonable chorus line.

And in case you were wondering, yes, ducks do indeed respond well to dog-training commands. Except for that one on the far right with the jacked-up wing.

It’s too freakin’ hot to come up with an intro for this week’s FTILFF. The staff is in the back room with their heads in the freezer.

1. We Are The Web - Still not sure what the issue of Net Neutrality is about? This site pretty much sums it up. Yea. That’s about it. [via]
2. Orange Chiffon Ice Box Cake - Made one for a friend’s BBQ/dog party last Sunday. Besides having the orange buttercream icing melt on the way there (and having to repair it once it cooled), it was fantastic. Way to go, Southern Living.
3. Hurt: Inside the World of Today’s Teenagers - I’m a quarter of the way through this book and it’s a nice blend of concurrently depressing and insightful. I myself am concurrently scared sh*tless at the thought of having a teenager and saddened by seeing the proof in action.
4. Cars (the movie) - The Wife™ and I saw it this past week (finally) and I quite enjoyed it. Not as side-splitting as Monsters Inc. and a tad slow in some places. All in all, very enjoyable. Larry the Cable Guy’s character carried it, I think.
5. Vintage Record Bowls - No use for them right now, and a tad pricey for me. But they’re still hipsteriffic!

Don’t worry, things around here will be back to normal next Friday. Assuming #4 gets his tongue unstuck from the icetray.

I really need to stop taking on non-paying freelance jobs for friends. Otherwise I’m going to end up in the looney-bin talking to my fist and singing that Mananana song while rocking back and forth.

The problem that I continually face as a designer is boundaries. I’ve been trained and operated for years based on principles, foundational ideas that are resolute and non-wavering. The rule of thirds, placement issues, typography rules, size relationships, etc. These are the laws of design that I’ve learned to operate within. And much like civil laws that judges, lawyers and officers are paid to uphold, designers are to do the same. To violate this is to go against everything you’re trained to do, and everything you believe in.

The problem in this civil law vs. design law model is: money. See, with design, the client pays you to do what they want. Actually, the set up is that they’re paying you for your “expertise.” However, since desktop publishing singlehandedly signed over the “right” to do “design” yourself, professional designers are really just paid to do things that clients don’t have the time to do, or the technical prowess. Little is left for “professional advice.”

So when a client tells you that this font must be 200% larger, purple and blink…what choices are you facing?

1. Tuck your tail between your legs, roll over and do whatever they say. To hell with doing what’s right!
2. Artfully inform the client that perhaps this is not the best choice, and suggest a better one.
3. Drop the job, fly the bird, and take a shot of whiskey. You’re going to need to be intoxicated when the reality of your actions sets in.

Obviously, #2 seems logical and professional. The problem is, however, that it never works in reality. Every Tom, Dick and Jane out there is absolutely convinced that they know what they want, and that they in fact know better than you. So you’re left with no choice (if you want to please the client/get paid) but to violate principles of good design. Like nails on a chalkboard or writing with your opposite hand, it feels completely against human nature.

My current issue is with non-paying clients. Normally, since you’re getting a check in return for your “professional service,” there is at least mild comfort for your dissidence. If you’re going to intentionally make something suck, at least you’re getting paid, right? But with a pro-bono job, there’s not a ton of incentive to throw years of training out the window. And when your name is attached to a job that looks like a second grader off his Ritalin did it, when other people see it you might as well lock yourself in your room and cry until it no longer hurts inside. Or until the voices stop. Because yes, yes the other designers will laugh at you when they see what you’ve done.

Some days I just don’t think I’m cut out for this. Working against people’s egos and ignorance is single-handedly the worst part of being a designer.