How Are Kids Even Alive Today?

I should be writing my dissertation on the finale of LOST but that’s just way too much work. Instead, I’m dragging out the old soap box for another edition of “THOSE DAMN KIDS!” This week I want to look at a couple of stories, old and new, about trends in what could be considered the end of civilization.


First off, the hot dog. For what it’s worth, these things are going to kill you anyway. American hot dogs are probably one of the worst foods to ever be created. The hot dog looks at the Double Down and says, “Pfft, amateur.” Besides being lovingly referred to as “containing lips and assholes” the amount of nitrates and salt in the things would probably make Ghandi say, “No thanks. I’m full.” In fact, the one thing that sticks out in my mind from being a child and loving hot dogs was the notion that if I eat too much, I’ll get ass cancer.

But the biggest “Damn Kids” moment comes from a recent story about the changing the hot dog. According to multiple sources around the Internet, which is never wrong, pediatricians are asking for a change in how the hot dog is designed. Why? Because of the threat of kids choking on one. In a wonderfully monochromatic pie chart, the percentage of food related, non-fatal choking hazards was around 60%. Actually, I’d be worried if that number was any lower. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to see kids choke but if they are looking at things that kids actually choke on, food better be above coins and toys or anything else. If not, then what the hell are kids putting in their mouths and why are we not addressing that?

Now get this, one of the solutions was thought up by the guy who invented Steakums. I am astounded by this. I lived on Steakums my freshman year of college. It was a food group alongside Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, Rama Noodles, Pizza, and Beer. I almost lose respect for the guy because he is enabling people to be idiots. I suspect the number one reason kids choke on food is attributed to parental stupidity. Still, the fact that kids choke on anything is terrible and I’ve been through that scare with my daughter. She was still an infant and I was feeding her applesauce mixed with rice cereal and she got a little stuck in her throat. Did I panic? No. Did I do the Heimlich? No. I simply reached in with my finger and removed the obstruction. Now, my daughter is almost three and loves hot dogs. Hell, we had them for dinner last night. And you know how she ate them? My wife cut the hot dog in half and told her to take small bites. When that became too messy as the bun disintegrated from being too wet from the juice in the dog, she held the hot dog and said, “Here take a bite.” Otherwise, we cut the hot dog up into small bites and she can eat them off her plate.

So, spending millions of dollars on redesigning the hot dog, which has been the same since probably the 1400s, seems silly when the proper solution would be to use a fork. It costs less and does the trick nicely.

Next up, “THOSE DAMN KIDS AND THEIR FADS.” When my sister was in her teens there was a fad that swept the nation. One little toy became a must have among people in her generation. It was called the pet rock. It was literally in a bock with an instruction manual. Genius! When I was in school ten years later we had fads, too. They were called friendship pins. Do you know what they were made out of? Safety pins and beads. Now we have things called Silly Bandz which is a rubber band bracelet. KIDS ARE WEARING OFFICE SUPPLIES AS FASHION!?!?!? But, But, I say BUT, again, they are becoming band in schools? Why? They are a distraction. No…. School is boring.

You have to understand that a typical kid around the age of 9-13 has little attention span and that’s mostly the fault of today’s parenting and tech savvy-instant gratification-technology. Kids are already being made to conform to a dress code, sometimes even stricter than office casual Fridays. Their identity and individuality is being stripped from in pieces right down to how they can wear their hair. The more you try to jam them into a one size fits all container the more they will bust out of that mold. They’re growing and evolving and we’re trying to stop that. I’m all for rules but let’s not be crazy here. My generation didn’t disrupt classes or learning by sporting a safety pin with colored beads on our shoe. Why is it so hard today? Why are we just fine and kids today are so screwed up that they have to be threatened by the fun vampires?

I understand there was a some kind of bracelet debacle a couple of years ago where the bracelets had some kind of hidden meaning for how far the wearer would go, intimately, but come on, you could code the same messages with anything. I have a red pony tail holder today, I go all the way. I’m wearing a yellow one, that means I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Hell, the way someone wears their hair could be code for stuff like that. It doesn’t matter because there is something inherently wrong with the way kids process information today. There’s too much out there and parenting doesn’t have a good governance plan put into place.

I have been adamantly stating that I was born too soon and that being a kid in today’s world would be awesome because of all the things available to make life fun but I don’t know now. I think life would suck because people can’t be trusted… correction some people shouldn’t be trusted with raising a child. They are ruining it for everyone else. I mean we played with lawn darts! LAWN DARTS! We stood twenty feet apart and threw pointy objects at each other for fun! You never heard us complain about toys. We rode big wheels in the streets and baked real cakes with 100 watt bulbs. We ate dirt and played tackle football at recess. And you know what? Not everyone got to play at every soccer game and there were winners and losers. We learned that from day one. At the end of the game someone’s taking a lap because they couldn’t hit the cut-off man from right field. Hell, kick ball is too dangerous now? We used to climb ropes to the ceiling of the gym.

Classroom safety, there’s another one. “In the event of an emergency, everyone exit the room, except you Johnny. Make sure you open the windows and turn off the lights before leaving the room.” Remember that one? Yeah, there’s a big ass funnel cloud coming at the building and some poor bastard gets left behind to try and salvage the electric bill. Of course, our parents had it worse. In the event of an atomic bomb, they were supposed to hide under their desks. Apparently, desks in those days were shielded for radiation, regardless of the open space beneath them.
Honestly, how are kids even living today?

Nevermind the Smell of Teen Nirvana

Apparently, Satan is checking the thermostat in hell. I just agreed with a 17 year old. In an a twist of irony I was listening to a story on NPR yesterday about Spencer Elden. For those you who do not know who that is, consider this. Over 26 million people have seen him naked. Oddly enough, it isn't illegal to own the only published picture of his au natural pose. That's because he's the baby swimming towards a dollar on the cover for Nirvana's Nevermind album. That's right you old farts, that baby is now 17 years old. Not only is it hard to believe has been 17 years since Nevermind changed the music landscape, it's funny that this story was being told on NPR instead of MTV. In fact, I hardly listen to music on the radio anymore because it all sucks, in my opinion. Instead, I opt to listen to NPR and the interview he gave yesterday produced a very good point that I just had to find agreeable. Here's the snippet.

Life in general isn't quite as "cool" as it was when he jumped naked in the pool in the early '90s, though, he says. These days, his peers are too stuck on the Internet and video games. Ironically, he yearns for the era that gave Kurt Cobain, the lead singer for Nirvana, so much angst.

These days, Elden says, his peers concentrate on"playing Rock Band on Xbox, like, that's not a real band! That's the difference between the '90s and kids nowadays; kids in the '90s would actually go out and make a [real] band.

Now before you start climbing into the bomb shelters or encasing the homestead in duct tape and plastic, take a moment and breathe. Ok, better now? I agreed with his point, but not his sentiment. I'll explain. Yes, it is very true that we live in a world where anyone can be a "rock star" just by playing a video game like Rock Band or Guitar Hero. In fact, South Park had a great commentary on the matter in the episode "Guitar Queer-o." We also live in a world where fame is just as tangible a concept for George Clooney as it is for anyone with a gimmicky YouTube clip. Again, South Park does a great job of lambasting our addiction to the craze in "Canada On Strike." Granted, it was more about the WGA strike, but the whole battle royale between Internet Memes was priceless. Elden is right. Kids today would rather sit back and virtually do all the things that kids in the 90's would have actually done. But, being a teen in the 90's was not, something I would consider, a goal to yearn for.

Let's think back to 1991. I was a junior in high school and someone in my homeroom had this CD with a naked baby on swimming towards a dollar. At this point in time, Grunge was on the verge of destroying Heavy Metal. Soon everyone was on their way to taking the flannel off their shoulders and wrapping it around their waist. By the time I had graduated and started college, music was a in sad but necessary state. Soon, came the downward spiral into the Dawson years and Wuss Rock. Boy Bands and Pop Tarts soon took over and we barely recovered. Now, at the end of the first decade of the new millennium we have tried to reinvent the wheel, so to speak. New Kids on the Block went back out on tour, The Eagles just released an album last year, and everybody and their brother has upped the sampling of old songs in order to produce a hit.

While our older brothers and sisters were classified as Generation X, we really had no generation. Although, there were attempts to reclassify Generation X as consisting of children born between 1958 to 1965 and 1975 to 1981, I refuse to lump myself into those Reality Bites, Winona and Ethan wannabes. Some will call us the MTV Generation but that's branding and I think it's wrong. You might as well call us the VHS Generation. Maybe it was this lack of placement in the Generational Dewey Decimal System that led to our identity crisis. Our parents' younger siblings kind of fell into the We Generation that lived in the 70's. The Yuppies and Brat Packers all lived out the end of the Me Generation in the 80's. In a pinch I tended to see us as the Re Generation. Why? In the 90's, after Grunge seemingly started to get stale, the state of popular culture experienced a shift. Blame Oasis, blame the post-grunge movement, whatever. America went through a rehashing of the last three decades over the last half of the 90's. With the death of Kurt Cobain, we all kind of went through this crisis of faith about our lives and our place in the world. Now, normally, I wouldn't give that much credit to Cobain. After all, his death had no effect on me and a good portion of the American people. I didn't fall into that percentage of youth that made up a majority of the buying power in the U.S. But there was a huge number of vigils over his death. The kind of thing you would expect over a major tragedy like the Virginia Tech Massacre or 9/11. I mean, really, how could you be surprised that he would commit suicide? Between his lifestyle and drug addiction this was a ticking time bomb about to explode. How could you be in shock? Were you in shock when Anna Nicole Smith died? Hell, the only thing that surprises me is that Courtney Love is still alive? I am in no means lumping Anna Nicole in with the Kurt Cobain in terms of importance and talent. I'm just saying, he was no John F. Kennedy or John Lennon for that matter. He was in the right place at the right time.

Then again, maybe I'm wrong. Again, I didn't conform to that group of people that made up record sales or made trends popular. I didn't belong to any group or style. I wasn't grunge or goth or emo or any of that. I was in that small minority of people who just said, "You know what? I don't care what you think is popular, I like a little bit of everything and I won't play your game." My tastes in music and movies weren't considered mainstream and I don't care how much some goth or punk looking kid says they are unique, they're probably standing right next to someone dressed just like them. Guess what, Mini Morrissey, you're just like everybody else. Stop being a wuss and just be yourself, lose the eye shadow, get over your parent issues, and get a friggin' job.

So, there we were in a world without Cobain, so what happened? We went back in time and drudged up Woodstock. Then, immediately after we shifted into the 70's with the release of Pulp Fiction, and soon, everyone was jumping on the 70's bandwagon. It was like we didn't know what to do with our lives so we clung to whatever recycled trend from the past 30 years we could find. Then with the popularity of the Internet and the ability to play digital music on computers we shifted into this 80's phase. 80's throwback sites with trivia and clips from cartoons and television shows began cropping up on the web. Entertainment Weekly provided their subscribers with a two disc set of nostalgia from the 80's. It was amid a bunch of 80's box set CDs released in the 90's. By the end of the 90's we had exhausted every decade and started looking back further. Early sprinklings of "Swing" music dotted the 90's landscape with Swing Kids and The Mask. Swingers made an underground cult splash in 1996. Then after the 80's fads died down there was the huge "Swing Revival" with the GAP ads featuring Brian Setzer Orchestra. Other bands like The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and The Squirrel Nut Zippers became well known as we crossed into the new millennium. By then, we had stretched our palettes so thin that NSYNCand Britney Spears had an easy time attracting our attention.

When Spencer Elden says that being a kid in the 90's would be better because there was an actual motivation to go out into the world and do something, he's right. To say that in the 90's there was something to actually better to do is a bit misguided. He was just a baby. I give him credit for pointing out what is wrong with his generation but I think he shouldn't look to my generation for something to model his life after. My parents may talk fondly about walking to school through three miles of snow, uphill, both ways, just to come home and work to help feed the family, but THAT WAS LIFE. In the 90's we spent our time reliving what we thought were the greatest parts of other generations' lives. Now, we just pretend to do everything and never leave the house. Perhaps Spencer's kids will just stay In Utero.

Do Not Call...Waiting Into That Good Night

Do Not Call Waiting into that good night,

Telemarketers should burn on weekend days,

Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.



Though wise men turn off their ringer and know that it is right,

Because their peace is valuable and want no interruptions they

Do Not Call Waiting into that good night.



Working men, the last hours by, crying "Enough, All Right!"

The answering machine keeps the evil at bay,

Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.



Tired men who get caught by a survey about their next flight,

And learn, too late, Caller ID would show the way,

Do Not Call Waiting into that good night.



Desperate men, with sleeping babies, who tip toe around at night.

Red eyes blaze at the sight of "Out of Area" on their phone display,

Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.



You, my phone company, there on lofty height,

Curse you, Private Callers still come through. Bless me, I pray.

Do Not Call Waiting into that good night,

Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.

Ok, so I just murdered Dylan Thomas' most accessible work. Seriously, though, with the onslaught of political phone calls I've been getting, someone needs to die. I'm not going to go into my own personal views on politics. Save that for the blogs who cater to that kind of thing. This is about the phones and how they ring incessantly when I have just put my daughter down for a nap.

Growing up we didn't have all the luxuries that we have not. I'm not talking about having to walk to school, uphill, both ways, through three feet of snow. I'm talking about call waiting, call forwarding, and additional phone lines in the house. In fact, my parents still do not have call waiting at their house. Until a couple of years ago, they still had the same phone in their kitchen. It was a rotary phone with a 500 ft cord that was only usable short of two feet. It was coiled and knotted up into something that resembled a dreadlock. Let me give you an example of how bad this was. The phone rings and you go to answer it. You go to take a couple of steps from the phone trying to utilize that football field long cord, only to have it bunch up. As you reach for a pen and paper, the phone pulls off the wall and onto the floor. You could spend days trying to untangle that cord. To put it bluntly, Stevie Wonder would have better luck at solving a Rubik's cube.

When we moved into our new house circa 1985, my parents installed an additional phone line for my older brother and sister, who were in late teens. It was a phone line that existed in all the bedrooms but my parents'. That way, they could talk to whomever they wanted and not tie up the regular phone. Being that my father is an insurance agent, he tends to get calls from his clients in the evenings, especially if they've had a car accident or otherwise. Still, they had one phone, another rotary model, and they had to share it. So, it sat outside one of their bedrooms on the floor near the stairway so you could hear it. Then, if you went to bed early, you ended up killing yourself after tripping on the phone cord and falling down the stairs. Still, I told all my friends and a few that weren't that they could call me on my private line. Just as long as it wasn't during dinner and after I was done with my homework. Oh, and not on Monday's at eight, either. I'll be watching MacGyver. I felt so empowered that at the age of 11, I had my own phone line. Although, my name wasn't listed alongside my siblings in the phone book and, if they were home, I couldn't even look at the phone, let alone use it.

The next issue we had was that our phone number, which has been my parents’ phone number for more than 33 years, was so similar to a lot of other phone numbers. We had calls from people looking for AT&T. They had the same prefix and last four digits as us but had the 1-800 in front of their number. We also had people looking for the driver of a local senator. For years, I asked my parents why they never changed their number if it was such a pain in the ass to get a lot of calls from people with the wrong number. Their response was, "Let AT&T change their number. We had ours first." Of course, to this day, you always hear how AT&T continually gets calls looking for my father. "I'm sorry sir. I feel bad that someone hit your car, but we are the phone company."

We also didn't have an answering machine. Let me rephrase that. We didn't have an answering machine that worked properly. The outgoing message sounded like it was recorded with the same equipment that was used during Watergate and the incoming messages were better interpreted by someone at NASA than in my house. When I began my five year mission to graduate from college I got my first taste of voice mail. I spent hours coming up with the perfect messages that would be funny yet entice people to leave me praise in lieu of an actual message. "Hello, we called to let you know you are in delinquent on your student loan. But, you know what? That was such a fantastic greeting that we are going to just rip up your records. Have a nice day." I ended up spending more time recording the messages than I ever did on the phone.

When it came time for me to finally have a phone of my own I was in my mid twenties. My carefree nature began to dwindle and this once social moth soon became a hermit. Don't call me. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit alone in the dark and get old. Why is it that we go from an age of wanting to have access to a private phone line and the recognition of our name in the phone book that would make Navin Johnson say, "Simmer down," to an age where we want our number unlisted and Caller ID and answering machine have replaced the normality of picking up the phone and saying, "Hello" to someone? Is it us or is it THEM. You know who I mean. Those bastards that want to sell you something. Those freaks that want to discuss your long distance or credit card habits. I'm not talking about bill collectors. I mean Telemarketers. While I feel bad for the poor bastard on the other end of the phone line when I go off on them, I am reminded that they chose to work in that field and they chose to call me. Gloves off, game on, it's go time, mofo. "My prediction? Pain."

I love how telemarketers have gone to great lengths to get around Do Not Call regulations. You think if they put that much time and energy into contacting me about my long distance carrier, think about what they could accomplish for worthwhile causes. They could be calling foundations and other trusts getting grants and donations for medical research. When will they learn that no one is going to embrace a telemarketer? If they do, it's probably someone who is lonely and hasn't had a phone call in years. I remember a particular incident where I was trying to call a bowling alley to get information for a group of friends. I misdialed the number and ended up talking to this sweet old lady in a nursing home. It was right around Christmas and I felt sorry for her. She was alone and her family hadn't even come to see her for the holidays. I put aside my hurried nature and spent five minutes letting her talk. She understood that I called the wrong number but was overjoyed that she got to speak to someone after such a long time. At the end of the call, I wished her Happy Holidays and went on my way. I'm sure she's no longer around but for one brief moment, I felt as if the phone was finally used in the manner to which is was meant. Instead of using it to sell something or ask someone if their refrigerator is running, I used it to communicate. I reached out and touched someone and they didn't have to pay $5.95 a minute for it.

It used to be that people looked at phones as an instrument of evil. These electronic gadgets will cause the death of human interaction. Then as we moved into the end of the 20th century, people looked at email as the death of human interaction. Now, instead of speaking to someone, you can send them an instant letter. Cell phones in all their razr sidekick chocolatey goodness has replaced both instruments by allowing us to talk to someone or text them. I mostly use my cell phone for taking pictures. I bet there are people out there that have replaced their talking minutes with text and data minutes. If we continue this trend, in 1000 years or so, we may have lost the ability to speak, altogether. Some scientists theorize that we may evolve into eight toed mammals just like our appendix has become a vestigial structure, not really having a purpose other than to be removed when it gets infected. Since we are so bent on using technology to communicate with each other, the art of writing as well as proper grammar will disappear as we tend to type most communications, disregarding writing standards, to which I am a repeat offender I'm afraid. Who knows? Perhaps aliens will travel to our planet and find fossilized human remains consisting of eight toes, no vocal cords, and enlarged thumb bones. They will ponder why our culture needed big thumbs. They may postulate that maybe it were a civilization of hitchhikers or maybe because of the deep space transmission of television waves we were a cult that worshipped Arthur Fonzerelli, yet lacked the ability to say "Ayyyy!" They won't understand that we lost the need to speak due to our enlarged thumbs perfect for texting. They will find drawings on ruins and strange lettering. They will try to piece together our language from the phrases, "OMG" and "ROTFLMAO."

Of course, this is all speculation and I'm sure nowhere did Nostradamus write, "IMHO teh world will be FUBAR from to BFF n00bs who got pwned in WOW and decided to say WTF, let's flame this POS world." At least he could get through one of his writings without a phone call from someone claiming that he was signed up for their service and they wanted to do a courtesy call to check on them while his nine month old daughter is trying to nap. They didn't disturb his five minutes of peace from chasing her around the living room after the cats' tail and trying to put a piece of lint in her mouth. No. No. He didn't have to collect all the phones and turn down the ringers in hopes that she got a full two hour nap and didn't wake up cranky. I'm just saying. By the way, anybody else getting hang up calls from (484)-548-6400 or (610) 571-2709. These bastards keep calling and there is no one there. They always call during the baby's nap and I want to rage, rage against the phone's blinking light!

Ok, so I just murdered Dylan Thomas' most accessible work. Seriously, though, with the onslaught of political phone calls I've been getting, someone needs to die. I'm not going to go into my own personal views on politics. Save that for the blogs who cater to that kind of thing. This is about the phones and how they ring incessantly when I have just put my daughter down for a nap.

Growing up we didn't have all the luxuries that we have not. I'm not talking about having to walk to school, uphill, both ways, through three feet of snow. I'm talking about call waiting, call forwarding, and additional phone lines in the house. In fact, my parents still do not have call waiting at their house. Until a couple of years ago, they still had the same phone in their kitchen. It was a rotary phone with a 500 ft cord that was only usable short of two feet. It was coiled and knotted up into something that resembled a dreadlock. Let me give you an example of how bad this was. The phone rings and you go to answer it. You go to take a couple of steps from the phone trying to utilize that football field long cord, only to have it bunch up. As you reach for a pen and paper, the phone pulls off the wall and onto the floor. You could spend days trying to untangle that cord. To put it bluntly, Stevie Wonder would have better luck at solving a Rubik's cube.

When we moved into our new house circa 1985, my parents installed an additional phone line for my older brother and sister, who were in late teens. It was a phone line that existed in all the bedrooms but my parents'. That way, they could talk to whomever they wanted and not tie up the regular phone. Being that my father is an insurance agent, he tends to get calls from his clients in the evenings, especially if they've had a car accident or otherwise. Still, they had one phone, another rotary model, and they had to share it. So, it sat outside one of their bedrooms on the floor near the stairway so you could hear it. Then, if you went to bed early, you ended up killing yourself after tripping on the phone cord and falling down the stairs. Still, I told all my friends and a few that weren't that they could call me on my private line. Just as long as it wasn't during dinner and after I was done with my homework. Oh, and not on Monday's at eight, either. I'll be watching MacGyver. I felt so empowered that at the age of 11, I had my own phone line. Although, my name wasn't listed alongside my siblings in the phone book and, if they were home, I couldn't even look at the phone, let alone use it.

The next issue we had was that our phone number, which has been my parents’ phone number for more than 33 years, was so similar to a lot of other phone numbers. We had calls from people looking for AT&T. They had the same prefix and last four digits as us but had the 1-800 in front of their number. We also had people looking for the driver of a local senator. For years, I asked my parents why they never changed their number if it was such a pain in the ass to get a lot of calls from people with the wrong number. Their response was, "Let AT&T change their number. We had ours first." Of course, to this day, you always hear how AT&T continually gets calls looking for my father. "I'm sorry sir. I feel bad that someone hit your car, but we are the phone company."

We also didn't have an answering machine. Let me rephrase that. We didn't have an answering machine that worked properly. The outgoing message sounded like it was recorded with the same equipment that was used during Watergate and the incoming messages were better interpreted by someone at NASA than in my house. When I began my five year mission to graduate from college I got my first taste of voice mail. I spent hours coming up with the perfect messages that would be funny yet entice people to leave me praise in lieu of an actual message. "Hello, we called to let you know you are in delinquent on your student loan. But, you know what? That was such a fantastic greeting that we are going to just rip up your records. Have a nice day." I ended up spending more time recording the messages than I ever did on the phone.

When it came time for me to finally have a phone of my own I was in my mid twenties. My carefree nature began to dwindle and this once social moth soon became a hermit. Don't call me. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit alone in the dark and get old. Why is it that we go from an age of wanting to have access to a private phone line and the recognition of our name in the phone book that would make Navin Johnson say, "Simmer down," to an age where we want our number unlisted and Caller ID and answering machine have replaced the normality of picking up the phone and saying, "Hello" to someone? Is it us or is it THEM. You know who I mean. Those bastards that want to sell you something. Those freaks that want to discuss your long distance or credit card habits. I'm not talking about bill collectors. I mean Telemarketers. While I feel bad for the poor bastard on the other end of the phone line when I go off on them, I am reminded that they chose to work in that field and they chose to call me. Gloves off, game on, it's go time, mofo. "My prediction? Pain."

I love how telemarketers have gone to great lengths to get around Do Not Call regulations. You think if they put that much time and energy into contacting me about my long distance carrier, think about what they could accomplish for worthwhile causes. They could be calling foundations and other trusts getting grants and donations for medical research. When will they learn that no one is going to embrace a telemarketer? If they do, it's probably someone who is lonely and hasn't had a phone call in years. I remember a particular incident where I was trying to call a bowling alley to get information for a group of friends. I misdialed the number and ended up talking to this sweet old lady in a nursing home. It was right around Christmas and I felt sorry for her. She was alone and her family hadn't even come to see her for the holidays. I put aside my hurried nature and spent five minutes letting her talk. She understood that I called the wrong number but was overjoyed that she got to speak to someone after such a long time. At the end of the call, I wished her Happy Holidays and went on my way. I'm sure she's no longer around but for one brief moment, I felt as if the phone was finally used in the manner to which is was meant. Instead of using it to sell something or ask someone if their refrigerator is running, I used it to communicate. I reached out and touched someone and they didn't have to pay $5.95 a minute for it.

It used to be that people looked at phones as an instrument of evil. These electronic gadgets will cause the death of human interaction. Then as we moved into the end of the 20th century, people looked at email as the death of human interaction. Now, instead of speaking to someone, you can send them an instant letter. Cell phones in all their razr sidekick chocolatey goodness has replaced both instruments by allowing us to talk to someone or text them. I mostly use my cell phone for taking pictures. I bet there are people out there that have replaced their talking minutes with text and data minutes. If we continue this trend, in 1000 years or so, we may have lost the ability to speak, altogether. Some scientists theorize that we may evolve into eight toed mammals just like our appendix has become a vestigial structure, not really having a purpose other than to be removed when it gets infected. Since we are so bent on using technology to communicate with each other, the art of writing as well as proper grammar will disappear as we tend to type most communications, disregarding writing standards, to which I am a repeat offender I'm afraid. Who knows? Perhaps aliens will travel to our planet and find fossilized human remains consisting of eight toes, no vocal cords, and enlarged thumb bones. They will ponder why our culture needed big thumbs. They may postulate that maybe it were a civilization of hitchhikers or maybe because of the deep space transmission of television waves we were a cult that worshipped Arthur Fonzerelli, yet lacked the ability to say "Ayyyy!" They won't understand that we lost the need to speak due to our enlarged thumbs perfect for texting. They will find drawings on ruins and strange lettering. They will try to piece together our language from the phrases, "OMG" and "ROTFLMAO."

Of course, this is all speculation and I'm sure nowhere did Nostradamus write, "IMHO teh world will be FUBAR from to BFF n00bs who got pwned in WOW and decided to say WTF, let's flame this POS world." At least he could get through one of his writings without a phone call from someone claiming that he was signed up for their service and they wanted to do a courtesy call to check on them while his nine month old daughter is trying to nap. They didn't disturb his five minutes of peace from chasing her around the living room after the cats' tail and trying to put a piece of lint in her mouth. No. No. He didn't have to collect all the phones and turn down the ringers in hopes that she got a full two hour nap and didn't wake up cranky. I'm just saying. By the way, anybody else getting hang up calls from (484)-548-6400 or (610) 571-2709. These bastards keep calling and there is no one there. They always call during the baby's nap and I want to rage, rage against the phone's blinking light!

All Your Free Time Are Belong To Us

Video Games, yeah! I've spent the better part of my youth, and adulthood, escaping work and other chores just to get five minutes of game time. Whether I was twiddling my thumbs over buttons or using my whole body to make my ship fly a different direction, long before a sixaxis controller, I invested a lot of time and money into them. From the Golden Age of Video Arcade Games to the seventh generation consoles, I've watched the meteoric rise of the video game industry. I've seen it come from the humble beginnings of a pong console with only a dial controller all the way to the Nintendo Wii with its "wiimote." I've plunked my quarters into arcade games time and time again while pestering my parents to get me the same game for our Atari 2600 in hopes that I could duplicate the look and feel of the arcade without wasting my allowance. Unfortunately, the Atari 2600 couldn't match the original arcade versions and poor gaming quality and over saturation of the market led to the Video Game Crash of 1983.

Arcade vs. Atari
Comparison of Pac-Man graphics

While Computer Games held my heart in school and beyond, I still yearned for a high quality gaming dedicated console. The NES offered some release but it too fell short in the long run in favor of better technology. As we moved into the 21st century, Sony placated my insatiable taste in gaming but fatherhood denied me the time needed to endeavor on quests and missions in the Seventh Generation of consoles. I detailed my entire life through the video game industry over the course of five weeks and as many posts and here is the complete list as a single entry. Enjoy and feel free to add your own memories.

Part One: Yorgle, Grundle, and Rhindle, oh my!
The early beginnings of gaming on the Atari 2600 and other 2nd Gen. consoles.

Part Two: Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start
Childhood memories of the Nintendo Entertainment System.

Part Three: Ctrl+Open Apple+Alt, 8, 1. Press play on tape.
A look at my computer gaming history from cassette tape to CD-ROM.

Part Four: A Zombie, a Hooker, and Tiger Woods walk into a bar.
Running the gamut of the gaming on Sony Specific Systems.

Part Five: Insert Coin. Valkyrie...is about to die!
The pinnacle and progenitor of my penchant for my playing.

Mongo is 33 and cranky. Grrr Arrgh!

All right, let's get this over with for another year. It's my birthday. I am 33 years old, today, March 6th. At what age do we stop caring about our birthday? At what age do we hope others will, too? I didn't used to be like this. I used to be an attention starved, ham it up, spotlight seeking, dork. Now, I would rather stay home, have a piece of cake and just hope that midnight comes quickly. I mean, shouldn't I be happy that I have survived another year? I shouldn't complain because there are people in this world who didn't make it to my age who would have been quick to trade me places if given the chance. I guess it all comes down to my getting crankier in my years. I used to keep a smooth outlook. I used to see the world through Zen colored glasses. Now, I just want to crawl into a cave and hide. My wife asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday. I said nothing special. I didn't want a huge dinner with all of my family around. It's not that I don't like to visit with family; it's just that I'm lazy and usually the house is wrecked from Tornado Bailey. I don't mind doing a Birthday Dinner out at a restaurant, but I hate to put everyone out of their way driving to meet us. Usually, I like to just go to dinner with my wife at Dave & Busters and then go spend an hour in the arcade. What am I, 33 or 13? I'm a big kid, what can I say? Still, for the life of me I can't believe that I've gotten this cranky at such a young age. I was an actor in college, a regular life of the party on campus, and now I hate to answer the phone or the door for anyone. Somewhere it all went horribly wrong and I think I know where.

I was working at a hotel as a banquet captain around the turn of the century. It sounds like I'm ancient. OK, fine. It was back in 2000. A local high school was setting up for their prom and I had become annoyed with the teeny boppers running around. I was used to my routine working in the hotel. If I set up a room during the day, I would grab the radio from the office and tune it into 102.5FM, the local classic rock station. It would make the time go faster and I felt that I was more productive with the music in the background. It also drowned out the phone in the office which usually disrupted my work in favor of going to another part of the hotel to fix something. This particular day, I was already fed up with the youth of America being....well, youthful. Did my generation act like that when we were in high school? I know I found it a requirement to make an ass out of myself in public, but I hope I at least was being intelligent and not worried about petty issues. Regardless, Don McLean started playing on the radio. If I have to even tell you what song it was, you should stop reading now. Go away. I will seriously turn this place into the Wild Bunch.

Get out!

Mongo feel better, now.

Anyway, so, the classic anthem of my childhood begins playing on the radio and these girls start singing along word for word. I didn't think much of it until the end of the first stanza when they all got quiet. After the first chorus, they all start up again, singing away like they wrote the damn thing. Then again, after the next chorus, they all got quiet again, looking at each other like, "What the hell? This isn't how it goes." I stopped in my tracks looked at them all and said, "YOU DON'T KNOW THE NEXT VERSE, DO YOU?" They looked at me with a lost look in their eyes. I mumbled something along the lines of, "Damn kids!" and walked off, continuing my work.

You see, in 2000, Madonna released a version of "American Pie" on her Music album. Keeping up with ADD addled youth culture, the lyrics were truncated to accommodate a mere four and a half minute version whereas the original LP has it at eight and a half minutes. However, these kids accepted Madonna's version as the original and thought that the original version was a remake. This is what irks me about the youth of today. I admit I've done it, too. I mistook Manfred Mann's version of "Blinded By the Light" as an original until I heard Springsteen singing it. I was amazed. How did I get this far believing that? But still, both of these versions were released in the 70's. While, Mann's version is better known even though Springsteen is the bigger artist, Don McLean is considered iconic like.....well, like American Pie. Yet, kids with their texting and 'meh' and n00b' and iPods have no appreciation let alone awareness of anything pre Britney Spears...and I don't mean, Britney "Oops I forgot my panties, again" Spears, I mean Britney "I'm too young to act this slutty in a school girl outfit....but with panties" Spears. They seem to think that life didn't exist before the Xbox. Well, guess what, you whipper snappers? You're going to support me when I get old, so get a damn job.

This lack of awareness by a bunch of high schoolers isn't the only instance that makes me nuts. Just recently on television, during the much needed writer's strike, reality TV finally took over. We were bombarded by hordes of competing Dad's and liars strapped to polygraphs and of course, American Idol wannabe Dance Wars: Bruno vs. Carrie Ann. The show, which pitted two judges from Dancing With the Stars against each other in a game of "You Got Served," offered up six weeks of dreck with one stand out dumb ass, Taylor Swift. She appeared during Country Week where both teams offered up dance numbers to what else......remakes of classic songs. Team Bruno performed "Life is a Highway" and Team Carrie Ann performed "These Boots are Made For Walking." When asked what she thought of the performances, Taylor said she liked "Life is a Highway," because she loves Rascal Flatts. I wanted to throw the set through the wall. If anything, the performance was second rate. Why they (TV) consistently try turning rock songs into a Broadway show is beyond me? These guys butchered the spirit of the song. More importantly, it wasn't a Rascal Flatts song! Hello, Tom Cochrane......from Red Rider...1992...oh wait, you were listening to Barney at that age, never mind. Oddly enough, she toured with Rascal Flatts so, chalk it up to shameless plug, I guess.

My point is that you may want to claw your own eyes out because some twenty something thinks Christina Aguilera did a great cover of All Saints' "Lady Marmalade." I know. I know. When that happened I wanted to shoot myself because this girl had never even heard of Patti Labelle. You may even want to hunt down those two coeds who got banned from Southwest Airlines and tell them that it's not because they were, "too pretty" but because the FAA is afraid their already oxygen deprived brains wouldn't pressurize correctly and would cause them to deflate on a later flights. Face it girls, you aren't that pretty and while we can take steps to look better looking, you can't fix stupid. What you can't do is stop the aging process. So, perhaps I should take the hint and try to be more positive about my age. I should see it as a chance to impart the wisdom I have gained in this life onto my daughter and hope that she breaks the trend of these clueless kids. I'm still going to get cranky when I see some kid wearing sweatpants with the words pink written across the ass. If my daughter does that, I'll ground her for life. Still, as I make my way through another March 6th, I am glad that I am in fairly good health and that I have people who want to and are willing to recognize my birthday. As 12:01 appears on the clock, signifying March 7th's arrival, perhaps this good ole boy will drink some whiskey or rye, singing, "This won't be the day that I die."