For awhile there, I was worried that Jonas was seriously ill. Not only was he acting less like a demon-spawn and more like a “normal dog,” but I noticed something outside that also disturbed me. I’ve refrained from writing about him much, because I think you all were sick of my stories (and because you apparently believe that I am making them up). So that explains the lack of Jonas Posts. Well, that and the fact that we had a bonafide Scooby Doo mystery on our hands here in the OC (Oldham County, if your nasty). But first, FTILFF:

1. Fossil’s Phillip S+arck O-ring watch - Oh yes. Yes indeed. This watch has swanky written all the hell over it. Methinks I’m in love. And to be fair, I only own one watch, and it’s my dress watch, so…oh. It’s $110? Damn it.
2. Dave Chappelle’s Block Party - I meant to see this when it hit theaters way back when, but Netflix kindly delivered it this past week. Besides the phenomenal performances by The Roots, Dead Prez, Common, Jill Scott, etc, the film simply had a wonderful feeling about it. Embracing both Chappelle’s midwestern “realness” and the true spirit of hip hop, this little film left me feeling so much better about the current state of urban music (and about celebrities within the music scene). I found it charming and also couldn’t stop nodding my head. A nice combination.
3. UPS’s “Request Delivery Intercept” feature - It’s new! And it’s suprisingly cool! I’ve actually needed to do this before, and even though it comes with a fee, I could understand. Being able to return, reroute, reschedule or hold your package delivery anywhere along the process is an awesome testament to their technology. Just don’t let your buyer’s remorse get the best of you.
4. Spring - Without a doubt Spring has landed in Louisville. Every bud and every blossom has come alive with color. We’re in that wonderful period where it’s enjoyable in the Ohio Valley to sit outside in the evening and not be botherd by bugs or wretched humidity. Perfectness.
5. The Gentle Art of Selling Yourself - A short, insightful little article from the Guardian about confidence and the abstraction of presenting ourselves. It struck me because it has ever-so-slightly a relation to what I wrote a few months back. I won’t disgrace the article by trying to sum it up. Suffice it to say, you should read it. I believe it applies to each of us.

I was outside last weekend looking over the back yard and surveying if I needed to lay down any fertilizer when I noticed it. Dotted across the grass were piles. Sure, winter-mode was still in effect and a season’s worth of dog waste had yet to be collected before the first mowing of the Spring. But among the other seemingly normal nuggets were (to be blunt) Fluffy Turds. I’m talking about piles of crap that were engulfed in several inches of pillowy fluff. I got rather concerned.

Long story short, and no thanks to Velma or her Time Machine, it turns out that Jonas is indeed not dying or has not contracted a strange disease from a stuffed animal. Instead, he simply had ripped open one of his Christmas presents and eaten all the stuffing out of it, and then proceeded to lay Fluffy Turds around the yard in a decorative pattern.

He has such the flair for dramatic presentation.

In reading this article this week, I can’t help but disagree with several points that the author, Anthony Robinson, has made. And that’s saying a lot, because I normally don’t question the argument of most writers, as I typically assume that they know more than I.

Robinson’s article takes the stance that the Age of Entitlement is upon us in America, that entire generations of people are drugged with the notion that we have a right and privilege to everything and if things do not go our way, we complain. Loudly. To this thesis, I agree whole-heartedly. What I do not support in his argument is his notion that self-esteem is the syringe for releasing such an obnoxious epidemic.

Every one of us knows the signs. The child who whines about having their favorite television show turned off; the adult who barks about gaining weight; the co-worker who is indignant about being told to arrive at work on time. All feel a sense of entitlement, an unquestionable right to do whatever they desire despite knowledge of what is “right” or even direction from a superior. It’s as if we live in a society where equality reigns supreme, where authority is an out-dated construct and where every one of us is just so darned “special.” We live in a Jack Handey nightmare world where no one can tell us what to do.

Robinson suggests that affluence and consumerism feed this sense of entitlement. I would agree, as they both pander to one’s superficial sense of worth. But I don’t feel that bolstered self-esteem is the reason for whiny children and loud-mouthed adults. Perhaps the opposite. Ego, of the intellectual variety, is. Robinson makes the claim, but fails to differentiate between pride and self-esteem. In my mind, most people’s self-esteem is in decline, as opposed to on the rise. Most people feel badly that they’ve gained weight, that they’re too lazy and watch too much television or even that they are chronically late ever morning. Our sense of self is not dead, but rather our concept of “right” and “wrong” are clouded by moral relativism (in the popular sense) and by pride. We acknowledge that other opinions exist, but refuse to submit to thinking that one view is better than another. Our ego, our intellect has gotten the best of us because we can rationalize the hell out of everything.

My generation has been raised (by parents who gave birth to a counter-cultural movement which railed against authority) being told that we live in America where our cup of rights overfloweth, where everything is equal, and that we should not be slighted anything. Dead are the days of the nuclear family with strong parents, rules and structure. Upon us are those of lenient parenting, “wanting the children to blossom with their fullest potential” and seeing discipline as limiting and just plain mean. Parents are to be best friends, not headmasters. Children should be encouraged and not put in their place. And while I certainly don’t advocate a return to harsh physical control, I fear the day that I have to tell my child, with eyes that are filled with tears, that no, they cannot have more chips. And that is because I said so.

One of the first lessons my mother ever taught me was that there will always be people that are greater and lesser than myself. I try an see myself as better than no one and willing to receive authority whenever appropriate. By this I am not denying my self worth in willingly subjugating myself. Every day I remind myself that I do not deserve anything that I have, and that if it were to all be taken away from me I should utter no complaint as life has it’s ways with everyone. Does this make me a great person? Hardly. It makes me someone who is simply trying to come to grips with his place in the world. I am probably just not working hard enough to get that raise or taking my daily runs too softly to see bigger gains. The world isn’t out to get me, I’m just too proud to admit my own failures.

As always, I fear I’ve drifted far off topic, ruining any chance of a coherent line of argument. I simply feel that self-esteem should be nurtured and not regarded as the downfall of our society. Pride and egotistical grand-standing are what have gotten us into this mess, into living in this Age of Entitlement. Our children (and our fellow adults) need to learn the fundamental lesson that we are owed nothing in this life.

I just don’t want to explain that to a four year old.

Sometimes it seemed like we drove for hours, with no direction and no reason except that we could. Matt, who was my partner-in-crime, my laid-back, carefree counterpart for the final two years of high school, was obsessed with cars and consequently with being out of the house. Usually he didn’t have a car of his own, but he did have a father that let us take his new Chrysler Concorde, which to us was a veritable Bentley. For a pair of 16 year olds, this made us feel like royalty. We were two sons of middle class parents with dreams of affluence clouding our eyes.

With any amount of free time on our hands we would seize the opportunity to drive. I would arrive at Matt’s house to find him already washing the Concorde in preparation for our departure, dressed in his various Abercrombie layers and barefoot. We’d grab a handful of sodas from the ‘fridge, some sunflower seeds and hit the road, going nowhere. Our rounds were set: the girls high school (to see who was at the softball or volleyball games), the mall (to visit working friends and to feed Matt), the used record stores (solely for me). Weekend visits to Devils Lake, endless trips out to Swanton to see girlfriends, to work to deliver drywall, you name it. We squandered away hours doing nothing but driving, with all the windows down and not caring a bit about anything.

The thing that made Matt such great friend-material was that he was fun. Unlike all of my other friends, he didn’t stress about GPAs and AP classes. His only goal in life was to have a good time and make sure you were as well. And the over-anxious ball of stress that was teenage me needed such a polar opposite. I latched on to Matt with clenched fists in the winter of my junior year (thank you Andrew), and proceeded to forge some of the best memories after that. He allowed me to turn off the voice in my head for once, to not be so severely caught up in life. He taught me to hope, even for small things like the weekend. And if we’re being brutally honest, that saved me during some pretty rough times.

While we did typical, boneheaded adolescent things as well, one of the greatest (and now seemingly odd) things we would do was to cruise through well-to-do neighborhoods simply to gaze at the uplit homes on hills. Matt would drive, smoking a Swisher Sweet that was obscenely stale from trying to hide them from his father. I would lay the seat back, inhale his vanilla fumes and let the cool summer night air blow over me. Matt always had the radio on (we wouldn’t be friends, otherwise), and it was almost always filled with an album by Biggie, Puff Daddy, or Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony. Occasionally he’d grant me control of the music, which meant we were listening to Erasure, Dave Matthew’s Band or Faithless (but never Bad Religion, as he hated them). We never spoke. He would drive slowly through the night and we would take it all in. We would kill extra time before a curfew with this routine, or spend a Saturday evening while waiting for phone calls. But it was never done in desperation or apathy. This was a strange, sacred but welcomed ritual for us, and we almost never talked about it.

“He taught me to hope, even for small things like the weekend. And if we’re being brutally honest, that saved me during some pretty rough times.”

After high school, in the valley of time where old friendships often slip and wither away, we inevitably lost touch. I moved south and never came back while he stayed in Toledo. I still see him at friendly get-togethers or weddings and there’s a sadness in my heart at what I lost. I dearly need more of that carefree attitude pushed upon me, as I apparently failed to learn my lesson in high school.

But as warm nights return during weekends like this, I still get chills thinking about it. I pass similar neighborhoods and still allow my thoughts to wander and dreams unravel. For a moment, I can relax. Matt may not be riding shotgun with me, but I hope he’s somewhere doing the same thing. Thanks for teaching me to let go, Matt.

When I was in the third grade, my father built a sunroom (or four-season room depending on what you call it) and a deck on the back of our house. I remember being really impressed that he could do this with the help of one guy. I was old enough to “help out,” which really just included being in the way.

1. 213 Things Skippy Can’t Do - Many years old, this list of military no-nos is hilarious. It was originally created by a guy stationed in Bosnia in order to relay stories to his friends back home. According to him, none of these are made up. If true, it’s fantastic. “68. I may not line my helmet with tin foil to ‘Block out the space mind control lasers’.”
2. Carnavas by the Silversun Pickups - While I stumbled across their 2005 EP thanks to Woxy, I hadn’t listened to this band much in the past year or so. Their new full-length album though is fantastic. Giving a very apparent nod to The Smashing Pumpkins (Siamese Dream era), this quartet can rock the hell out. A beautiful dichotomy of driving guitars and melodic, restrained vocals brings back many memories of sullen high school days. I love it.
3. Egg “muffins” - In an act of sheer laziness, I stumbled across a way to prepare my two-egg-breakfasts an entire week at a time, with little effort. A little non-stick spray, a 350F oven, a jumbo-sized muffin tin and a dozen eggs is all it took. Now every morning I just pull one out of the ‘fridge, ready to eat. And they’re seductively symmetrical too.
4. Mahna Mahna cover by Cake - My love for Seasame Street runs deeply. And as I’ve posted vintage clips of the original sketch on FTILFF before, this far surpasses the original. Brilliant, funky and playful. Cake does a fantastic job with this short, rare cover. [direct link to mp3]
5. Cardboard Cameras from “This American Life” - A four minute clip (beautifully illustrated by Chris Ware) presenting a sweet, sad story about childhood, playgrounds and the herd mentality. It’s poignant and worth watching.

As I tooled around the back yard while my father was hammering away, I failed to pay attention to where I was walking. Stepping squarely on a dead blue-jay, I was showered with…well…the insides of the blue-jay. My mother, so appalled at what just happened, made me get straight into the shower with no questions.

I just thought it was awesome that I was taking a shower with shoes on.

Want to know how to make a web designer very, very angry? Put the following on your site or refer in conversation. Then duck and cover:

“Adobe is needed to view this,” or

“I wish Adobe wasn’t so expensive so that I could play with my photographs with it.”

ADOBE IS A COMPANY, NOT A PIECE OF SOFTWARE. A thousand curses on you and your mouse-controlling fingers, you clod.

I sure as hell don’t refer to my iPod as simply “Apple.” I certainly don’t say, “Dear, would you please turn on Panasonic.” I would be punched for such idiocy (or at the very least looked at like I have a hole in my temporal lobe).

Now I’m off to have a cup of Folger’s.

Honesty in a person is about as rare as someone without self-pity. At least that’s a mangled form of the quote from Stephen Vincent Benet. I know I should find the actual quote, but frankly I feel less than 100% today. But don’t feel badly for me.

This past weekend, two separate occurrences left me pondering the concept of self-absorbed unhappiness. I hate pity, largely because I loathe it in myself the most. Yet this psychological response to adversity is something that few of us can escape.

Saturday morning I was to host a group of sleepy 14 college students who had been stranded in New Orleans with no flights back to Philadelphia. Opting to drive the 1,300 miles home to Buffalo instead, the group (headed by my friend Andrew) were looking for a place to crash for a few hours of deserved sleep. They chose to drive straight through, but did stop in Louisville for breakfast. This unfortunate series of events isn’t the point here.

“How are we supposed to overcome this automatic response that is seemingly inherent, programmed into our heads? We want to be coddled like children, we want others to empathize with our misfortune.”

As I met the groggy group of co-eds at the Lagrange Cracker Barrel, I was taken aback. Almost all of them seemed totally consumed with their own plight of being cramped and cranky from the past 13 hours in the van. Andrew and a few others were surprisingly cheery, providing sharp contrast to the others who sat sullen and lifeless at the surrounding tables. In fact, I was repeatedly struck by Andrew’s demeanor. Here was someone who himself is a student was leading them all, yet looking past the bad hand that they had been dealt. He seemed to have it in perspective, framed in the larger context that they were, after all, returning from a week’s work of service in New Orleans and thus had not a thing to complain about. He seemed at peace with the task at hand, especially considering he had to do the majority of the driving. Yet his fellow students still wanted to be left alone to wallow in grits, gravy and self-pity.

It’s hard to discuss this without appearing judgmental. True, these students may have just been exhausted, and who am I to play magistrate of moods? God help me if I were to stand trial for my own frame of mind in such a situation.

The rest of the weekend was filled with little else beyond housework. The Wife was couch-ridden due to an illness that, to be fair, was considerably more than your typical cold. But again, for as much congestion as she had, there was equally as much self-pity. She never gets sick, and likely hasn’t been this ill in years. And as human nature would allow, she felt badly that she felt badly. No blame is rendered to her, for she was a good sport in not demanding my care or even my own consolation. But again, what a curious position self-pity puts us in. Instead of realizing that illness is as inevitable as the coming work week, she was tangled up in her own misfortune. Perspective is lost as wrap ourselves in the warm blanket of pity.

How are we supposed to overcome this automatic response that is seemingly inherent, programmed into our heads? We want to be coddled like children, we want others to empathize with our misfortune. I’ve been struggling for years with this and yet have no plan of attack myself. The most I’ve been able to achieve is simply realizing my own pity, pointing out to myself when I am cognizant of wallowing in my own shallow puddle of sorrow. I think that I’m much better at spotting the warning signs and trying to cut them off, but yet I couldn’t be further from perfection still. The ability of some to deactivate this coping mechanism, to not yearn for the compassion of others, leaves me truly, truly baffled.

So as tired legs climbed into vans and sickly bodies waited for relief, time moved forward as always. At the end of both journeys their minds will likely erase the events of the weekend, forgetting that too many hours were spent as prisoners of their own sorrow. I don’t want to live my life like this. I just don’t know how to opt out.

So I finally went to the dentist yesterday, the first time since I moved to hilljack country Kentucky. I thought I needed to distance myself from the yokels by having my teeth (of which all are present and accounted for) cleaned. Unfortunately, I had the Slowest Technician Ever, one who took over an hour and a half to do a cleaning and who spent entirely too much time scraping my teeth with a sharp hook WHILE LOOKING SOMEWHERE ELSE BESIDES AT MY MOUTH. I’m pretty sure that’s one skill you can’t perform whilst not looking. On a cell phone, maybe. But looking is required. At least my gums say so.

Needless to say, I had much time to consider the five things that I thought were swell this week:

1. Mini-documentary of Rodney Mullen, the Godfather of street skating - I’ve been jaw-dropped by Rodney for years. He does things on a skateboard that are unbelievably beautiful, and his comprehension of three-dimensional space is beyond me. Split into three parts for easy viewing. To boot, the guy seems genuinely nice and still in love with what he does, all those years later.
2. Gilmore Girls - *sigh* My wife has converted me. Now one of the few shows that we actually agree on (Scrubs and Jon Stewart being the other two), I’ve come to really like the characters. True, I think that Logan is a douchebag, but the plot lines have remained rather endearing over the years. I hope it doesn’t jump the proverbial shark before it ends. (Lauren Graham ain’t too hard on the eyes, either)
3. Band Madness - This is so much more fun than doing an NCAA bracket. Same concept, it pits bands from different generations against each other in a playful battle of taste. Biggest surprise in this round for me was seeing The Streets vs. Captain Beefheart be so close.
4. Benedryl - An odd addition to FTILFF, but a solid one. Seeing as how my broken nose prevents me from breathing out of one whole nostril, my allergies and sinus problems are understandably bad. And spring brings pain. Two of these little pills restore my sanity, and my faith in all things good in the world.
5. George Lange, photographer - I know, another photographer. But I swear I could look forever and longingly at work like this, knowing there’s no way in hell I’d ever be that good. His work seems intimate and stripped down, little pretense. I like that.

After Vicky the Butcher finished cleaning my teeth, the doc entered for round two. She was less surprised to find that I had my wisdom teeth than she was to learn that I have a tooth that is entirely backwards. You would have thought that I told her I had a third nipple or webbed feet. I was just happy to get the hell out of there with some gums left.

The Wife™ started getting Cosmo a few months ago as a “prize” for drinking so much Diet Coke. Normally this would cause me to hemorrhage from the face with anger because I loathe this magazine. But I figured, hey, why not get something in return for my money? If I’m spending 30% of my monthly salary on her sugar water addiction I might as well be as informed as a wide-eyed 14-year old girl from Omaha on those totally cool makeup tips. You never know when that knowledge might come in handy. That’s how McGuyver got to be so damned awesome you know.

Anyway, after a few months of seeing these adbooks magazines laying around, it has become painfully clear that there are indeed no editors involved with the making of this publication. Instead, a team of monkeys hyper off of ginseng tea cranks out each issue with brilliant execution following the same, tried-and-true template that I’ve outlined below. You may think I’m bluffing, but these are SO the actual blueprints for the magazine:

Advertisements - The first step is to gather as many ads as possible in order to reach the required weight of 22lbs. of paper per issue. Assemble a collection from whatever products are being hawked by Beyonce, Sara Jessica Parker and that chick from Desperate House Wives. Pair these with 15% lingerie ads, 20% smelly perfume/cologne pages with requisite “dudes with no shirts” pictures, and 12% ads from various haircare vendors. Make sure that the table of contents for the issue doesn’t start until page 412.

Cover - Ah, the cover. It’s what sells each issue, right? Well thankfully our monkeys don’t work too hard because even this has a formula. Take a current actress or model; photograph her with her hands on her hips wearing prohibitively expensive clothes. Photoshop the hell out of the final picture and place on a background that is of a bright pastel color you selected via spinning a wheel (default to pink in case of broken wheel). Add the following teasers:

• 99 HOT SEX/SEX TRICKS/or SEX FACTS YOU NEVER KNEW EXISTED – Yes, you ran this story last month. Jumble the list up. And whatever these pointless tips are, make sure to mention that they’ll “blow his mind” or “leave him begging for more.”
• Confessions of…, Someone Spills Their Guts…, or other such tell-all exposes. – Stereotypically this panders well to the fact that all red-blooded women love gossip. Feed this, Seymour.
• Cheating Men! Stupid Things Men Do! or The Lies They Tell! – Paint men as brainless and bumbling hornballs. It will help boost pity shopping for one of your advertisers. And ice cream.
• Hidden Dangers of…, 5 Warning Signs…, or The Crime Story Every Young Girl Must Read – Fear mongering goes very nicely with eyeshadow tips. Duh, everyone has known that since like the dawn of time or something.
• Some mention of fat, weight or diets. It is statistically proven that every woman is entirely too insecure and will actually believe that this month is the month that your workout/diet tips will make her look sexier.

Reader Content - Why do the work yourself when you can cut and paste stories that readers email you? Get some free stock photos of some chick lounging in the grass reading, rotate them on the page and flow the text around it. Call-out type needs to be 48pt and pink. This should make up 60% of the 12 actual pages of content each issue. Also: mention the words “period,” or “menstrual cycle” at least 55 times in these sections.

Celeb Photo Roundup - This should fill out the rest of the issue whenever needed. Getting AP photos of celebs on the red carpet is easy. Now just have an “expert” (Ted, that’s you, even though you’re not) to comment on their hair, makeup or wardrobe. It doesn’t even matter what you say or if it’s even coherent, as long as you mention things in simplistic terms as “DO’s” and “DON’TS.”

The overall breakdown of each issue should include the themes of fashion, fear of something, shopping, sex, shopping, sex, dumb dudes and relaxation techniques. You’re guaranteed to sell millions each month in almost every country with people that have eyes if you follow The Manual.

So, as the March issue recently made it’s hefty way into our household, I am again not disappointed. For as much as I hate this piece of garbage “magazine,” it’s mindless drivel requires no neural activity whatsoever to digest. So when I finish the current book that I’m reading even I will be sucked into reading this crap, screaming at the pages in front of me for their idiotic anecdotes and shockingly nasty reader sex stories.

And then I’m going to archive an issue so that I can one day point to it as evidence to my future children of what single-handedly ruined modern women.

In Louisville, at least, it would appear as if winter is finally over. And if we’re going to judge weather solely based on people’s behavior, then we’re damn near part-way through summer. People here have gone bat sh*t crazy.

The ending portion of last week finally saw a snap in the cold weather of winter, but I think everyone was initially wary of the climb in mercury. As is customary, the first day or so of a seasonal turn leaves people skeptical, distrusting and cautious so as not to have their hopes dashed again. Even though we hit 70F, the fact that it was overcast spelled “freak warm spell” and not a ceremonial close to winter. I suppose that we here in the Land of ‘Tucky are used to 24-hour periods that can range from blizzard to heat wave and back again. That’s just one on a list of few that makes this place so…awesome?

This weekend though, the training wheels came off. Saturday was overcast for the first part of the day, but that stopped no one. People were convinced. They were determined. They alone were going to make it spring, come hell or high water. Granted, it was only in the 60’s, but everyone got the memo. Out came the sandals, the shorts and the tank tops. Convertibles with retracted tops cruised the streets next to freshly washed coupes. The women with their huge Jackie-O sunglasses went shopping in droves. The men filed out of their homes like a Zombie Nation to return to their manly yard-work duties. Children roamed the streets, unsure of what this “sun” was overhead, all barefoot bleary-eyed and armed with sporting equipment. Screaming throngs of little ones even danced around their sprinkler gods, bathing suits wet with delirium. Ok, maybe I made that last part up. But by any measure, it was an all-out war on winter, a warning shot as if to say, “Do you see this? This means we’re serious, so don’t even THINK of coming back again, winter.”

What I find so endearing about these first few seasonal trial runs is how we attempt to fool ourselves into believing that things are better than they actually are. Sure, 65F is a nice break from the cooler 45F we’re used to. But is it really deserving of sleeveless shirts? Driving with all the windows down surely is a liberating freedom that warm weather affords us…that is at least until the sun goes behind the clouds or dips below the horizon at sunset. At some point, the small bit of warmth that we’ve been pinning our hopes onto fades and we’re back to the cold, back to the darkness that has kept us hibernating for so long. But somehow it doesn’t deter people or slow them from trying to convince themselves of better days to come. This collective resolve to move beyond the sad days of winter is charming. It makes you wonder if that alone is what powers the changing of the seasons.

So this week, facing a forecast of hopeful highs (77F tomorrow?!), we will all likely continue our dreaming. We will still play catch in the streets and walk our dogs willingly. All outdoor activities will seem new and infinitely more appealing than anything done inside. And you certainly will find me driving, windows retracted and music blaring, down I-71, trying to soak up every last ray being offered. It may be just a dream, premature and possibly spoiled by next week. But I’ll take it. Perhaps I’ll leave the tank tops for April, though.

Recently someone asked me what “5 Things I Love for Friday” is all about. Most people misinterpret it as “Things…About Friday,” and it’s not. Instead of doing a predictably trite piece about why Friday is awesome, I wanted to do something a bit more, self-serving? After my honeymoon I decided that I really needed to change the eternally-pessimistic mindset that I was born with, and the best way that I’ve found to do that is to contemplate the good, small things that happen in my life, things rather inconsequential but that brighten my week nonetheless. So in an effort to add up tiny portions of goodness so as to equal a sum of larger goodness, FTILFF was born, and I picked Friday because it fit the alliteration, as well as giving me 6 days of material to focus on.

1. As Cruel As School Children by Gym Class Heroes - Damn I’m hooked on this album. I enjoyed The Papercut Chronicles last spring, but this album is in another league. Currently getting press for being moronically labeled “emo rap,” Travis McCoy and Company actually peddle a brand of hip hop that simply refuses to be categorized. Owing more to the culture of indie bands than to ghetto gangsters, the resulting music is just simply fun. They don’t take themselves too seriously, but their talent is nothing to joke about (their future, hopefully, as well). On this album, even the interludes demolish anything on modern hip hop radio.
2. The Power (and Peril) of Praising Your Kids - This NY Magazine article, though long and slightly dense, is pleasantly on-point. It presents the thesis that children that are raised being praised for their intelligence end up setting the bar low for themselves in an effort to not disappoint and ruin the illusion that their gifted. Very thoughtful and a great read for introspective purposes, as well as for anyone that has children, is thinking about having children, or teaches children.
3. Birdies - I was standing in my kitchen yesterday reading about sponge yeast starters when I was interrupted by a cacophony of birds. Live birds. Birds heralding a much-anticipated and impending spring season. It made me so happy (and Jonas as well, who was outside trying to figure out where the hell they were so he could play with them). Bring it on, spring!
4. Ira Glass on Storytelling - I’ve mentioned Ira Glass before, as the host of This American Life on NPR (soon to be Showtime as well). Glass, who’s program centers around the art of storytelling and short vignettes, speaks about the art behind this. I have miles to go before I even get to the lowest, “lameass storyteller” stage.
5. These brilliant billboard ads in San Francisco - This Flickr set shows several new billboards around the SF area that are promoting earthquake preparedness. Stunning. Startling. Definitely worth a look.

So after 60 weeks of FTILFF I think it is certainly fair to say that it has worked for it’s intended purpose. No longer do I have to search my cobwebbed brain to recall the slightest traces of happiness. Instead, I actually am able to recognize them for what they are, when I’m experiencing them. And as idiotic as that may sound, it’s a big step for me. Damnit, one of these day’s I’ll be more optimistic.

If only I didn’t suck do badly at it…

Back when I was in high school, when summers were long, humid days spent with friends, working hard or hanging out, I didn’t realize what I would miss later in life. But I suppose that’s how it always is, and maybe how it’s designed to be.

In those days before real responsibility, my friends and I used to play street hockey. Now an artifact of the late ‘90s, a mere 30-second memory built of old Sunny D commercials, street hockey (or inline skating in general) is sadly past its glory years. Hockey is the organized neighborhood football games that our parents’ generation waxes about. Both will likely seem odd to our future children, though it won’t stop us from reminiscing.

Before we had jobs our pick-up games were infrequent, as the ability to mobilize teams required agreeable mothers willing to drive across the city. Once armed with our own transportation though, our games became a mainstay of evening activity. Matt and I, bruised and tired after delivering drywall and steel, would trek over to Perrysburg and unload at Jason’s house. Tyler would ride down the street and Andy would join us at the parking lot behind the school. There were others, irregulars, that filled out the teams as well, but it never mattered to us if sides were evenly stacked. Flipping over metal drum trashcans to serve as goals, we’d clear the court of debris. I would park my car at the far end, pull the speakers out of the old Reliant and place them on the roof. Hours of Pennywise or Bad Religion thrashed as our soundtrack to these youthful games. We’d wrap sticks with filthy tape, tighten wheels and keep a sharp eye for cops.

I never remember who won or lost, as that was never the point. Even in the heat of competition, I sensed that no one was really out for blood. Atypical as this was for teenage male behavior, it made sense with my friends. There were nights that ended in injury, some terminated by ennui and others that came to a close when the sunset extinguished usable light. In truth I guess the games were simply meant to pass the time, to pass those excruciatingly boring nights that to a teenager were equal to death. We were staving off the following day’s work. And yet the hours we had to ourselves and with each other never seemed quite as precious as they do looking back.

I suppose it’s how it always is, how it’s perhaps designed to be: what seems a curse when you’re young becomes the fodder for nostalgia in later years. Most of us today would likely pay a fortune to have those warm nights back, to be free until next daybreak. So now when I’m at home after work, after watering plants and washing floors, all I can do is look back and put on those old Pennywise albums. These nights aren’t nearly as memorable, but I can still push back the clock, at least for a little while.

You know you’ve reached a special place in your marriage when your wife feels it completely acceptable to forward you emails about maxi-pads and menstrual periods, namely because she thinks you’d find them enjoyable to read.

She’s either sadistic or clueless…

This weekend my parents paid a visit, and as always it was great to see them. In days when it is far too easy to forget who you are, seeing where you came from is quite the grounding point. I needed that.

My parent’s are the easiest house guests to entertain because no real entertaining occurs. They simply don’t require it. In fact, going to Sam’s Club to buy my father V8 was the most activity we really did. And we all know how much of a blast that can be. Woo.

Throughout the weekend, both my mother and my father (whom I respect and love quite deeply) continually commented on our house and how they like what we’ve done with painting, decorating and other updates. The first time or two I was flattered, but the more they made mention of it, the more I questioned if it was all slightly forced. I’m still not sure.

Anyone who’s a mildly regular reader around these parts knows that I have an interest in a compulsion to change everything in our house. I write and talk, often ad nauseum, about completed, bungled or looming projects on The List™. I have friends that think I’m deranged and a wife who thinks knows that I’m unhealthily fixated. The deeper I get in the work, the further I stray from the reality that I’m 26 and on my second house that is far, far too nice for what I actually deserve. But my motivation for it is not what most people believe it to be.

Hearing my parents compliment choices in paint, how furniture has been rearranged, ideas for future projects leads me to wonder if they are trying to reassure me that things look good already and that I should slow down and be less aggressive. The quizzical looks and polite smiles of friends belie their thoughts that perhaps I’m some sort of snob about my home or that I’m trying to somehow jump economic brackets by throwing monetary weight behind my decorating. All of this couldn’t be more wrong, and it seems as if the more that I explain it the worse I feel.

Beyond my lineage, beyond the fact that I come from a people that take grave pride in their work as a representation of who they are, beyond all this is what I actually do for a living. I often use this as a way to explain my mania, to friends, family and even The Wife™. Sadly, I don’t think anyone understands.

Loosely speaking, part of what I do for a living as a designer and as a person working in the creative industry (though I still struggle to call myself that) is to gain control of all variables in an attempt to communicate a message with color, shape and spacial relationship. I solve problems day in and day out and am continually on the lookout for possible future issues. Analyze, synthesize, create then critique. If something looks off, you change it no matter how small it is, because it might dramatically impact the final product. The details are where consistency (and ultimate successful design) is developed. And while I always restrain from writing about design, the process or even community, it certainly impacts my every day life. Engineers are often ribbed for being Type-A personalities. Teachers often bring their didactic mannerisms home with them. And similarly, your design friends are likely critiquing every small visual thing—not because they hate it, but because they want to understand how to make it better because they’re so smitten with the visual languages.

I’m not sure I’ll ever convince my parents or my wife that my obsession for redoing everything in the house is out of both love and respect, not dissatisfaction. I wish I could turn off the switch between work and home. It would make things much easier (on both the wallet and the mind). But if I can make it better, why shouldn’t I? If someone knew how to fix a leaky faucet—something not entirely important to the working order of a house—wouldn’t they?

It’s frippery. It’s unnecessary. I should merely be happy with owning a nice home. Everyone tells me this on a routine basis. But if I have the time, energy and funds, I’m going to continue working on it. And I hope someday my parents understand. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me for being sick in the head. They should know that already, but for other reasons.

Why is it that the office is no where near as cool as grade school ever was? No, I don’t miss the inescapable smell of pencil shavings and bleach. Or the homework. But some of the random-as-hell-yet-entralling moments are gone. Maybe it’s just my place of employment. Oh, here’s this week’s FTILFF:

1. Sunny morning commutes - For the majority of the year, when I leave for work the sun isn’t up. This is depressing. But this morning, dawn was already in progress, and for once it wasn’t raining. My commute was happy and hopeful as opposed to depressing and dreary. A refreshing way to start the day indeed.
2. How a lotto winner spent his money - I usually find the content that CNN puts out rather deplorable, but this was a shockingly upbeat article about a 2005 Powerball winner who has actually made the best of his winnings. Giving your nephew your new Jetta to buy a used, older Jetta? Good for you. Oh yea, and that philanthropic stuff too. This is the way to do it.
3. (LESS) campaign - By now everyone has likely heard of the (RED) campaign. I do applaud companies like the Gap for donating proceeds of purchases to charities. But like the newly formed LESS campaign, the idea that you have to buy their stuff to donate seems stupid. Great campaign. Great idea and execution.
4. Sonic Impact T-amp - An amplifier that’s $30? Most people who are into audio would likely punch you in the nose or else laugh at you as they stroll over to hug their Krell or Nad equipment. But a toy this is not. Using digital (chip) instead of analog (resistors) to produce sound, this thing kicks all sorts of ass. The Wife™ got me one for Christmas, after two years of yearning. I’ve never heard more spot-on imaging or clarity from any other equipment I’ve owned. For short-range low/medium-low level listening, you simply can’t beat this thing. And it’s not much bigger than my iPod, which is cool.
5. Fern Wallpaper - I’ll go ahead and say it: I hate wallpaper like I hate colonoscopies—I may never have had them myself, but I know there’s no acceptable place for them in anyone’s life. However, this paper (or wall stickers) is strikingly beautiful. If you’re a fan of the Pier One look (or West Elm et all), these are for you. I could see some of this being used sparingly in our guest bedroom. And that’s the first and last time you’ll hear me speak well of wallpaper. [via]

Seriously though, life was more exciting and unpredictable then. When I was in eighth grade, some poor girl peed herself during an English diagramming lesson. Or during that math final the husky kid broke his desk and cried. And how many times did someone just projectile vomit for no apparent reason? Every day held a potential for something more outrageous and exciting My meetings and never-ending days at work would provide a lot more amusement if adults did this kinda stuff, though I don’t wish the humiliation on anyone. (I didn’t say I wouldn’t laugh, though.)