OK, Christmas is over, so now it’s time to write down your resolutions for 2003. No, it’s not enough to think them up and leave them in your noggin – that allows for “online editing,” forgetfulness, denial, all those strategies we use to avoid any potential for trying to make some improvement in us and our lives.
For many years I would sit down a couple of days before the new year, create a list of really boring statements about my intended goodness in the next twelve months. Statements like
“Get More Sleep,” “Lose Weight,” and “Exercise More” showed up on these early attempts dedicated to failure, and more often than not, the piece of paper disappeared in the frenetic clean up around the house (also on the list but without the adjective frenetic), and rarely turned up again.
Time, which seems endless when one has accumulated little of it on life’s odometer, suddenly becomes as scarce as the proverbial hen’s teeth when your bones begin to tell you that your odometer is beginning to wobble. If you don’t receive that message clearly, you will get it when you hear a colleague who is no longer working regularly (such a nicer way to put it than “he’s retired, you know”) say something like, “You know, I thought when I ceased crushing grapes in my chosen vineyard, I would have more time, but – by golly [or some equally assertive phrase of emphasis] I just don’t seem to have any time at all.”
Further investigation is needed as to whether he is spending his afternoons organizing his collection of trout flies by color, size, weight, region, and history of success, and entering it into an inheritable data base, polishing the Christmas tree ornaments before placing them into stout plastic boxes filled with crushed tissue paper, or writing a very short book on “Discernible Political Philosophies of Contemporary American Politicians” or a long book called “Family Anecdotes To Bore My Descendants To Tears.”
As time shortens, it should be well spent. Period.
Last year, I sat down and wrote out my goals for 2002 for such categories as work, health, travel and stuff I need to do around the house. I slipped the sheet into one of those plastic sleeve thingies and kept it on the top of my desk. The only goal not achieved will be the renovation of the upstairs bathroom, and that should be done by March of ’03.
So now I have a new sheet, well two actually - one is for 2003, and the second is a preliminary list for 2004.
I’m getting so organized, I think I’d better go lie down for a bit.
Cheers!
Friday, December 27, 2002
Sunday, December 1, 2002
Holiday Shopping
Lately, we’ve been reminded that this year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, there are the fewest shopping days possible. Normally, Thanksgiving is earlier, and so we have more time... as if time to shop was the primary purpose of the season.
Television and newspapers report the current guess as to whether “holiday shopping will save the fourth quarter,” on which businesses have come to rely for a “successful” year. And the traffic reporters tell us about available parking space at area malls. Even technological cognoscenti are telling us that “this is the year for internet retailers.”
To all that, I say, “Bah! Humbug,” but my judgment may not be quite what you think.
This is the time of year to shed the carapace of cynicism, ennui, even despair, and take time to return to the basics of what you believe…or believed, once upon a time.
No matter how many times you have heard the story, whatever story you celebrate, pretend as though you have never heard it before, let it roll into your being and stir the damped fire which sits somewhere deep inside you. Sing the songs, chant the chants, dance the dances as though you have just discovered them – that will be a great gift to the generations waiting and watching you as they learn about your traditions and how to carry them forward into their own time.
Each year when I take out the decorations, some of which go back several generations in my family, I feel graced by the care and affection of those before me who also tended the holiday we celebrate.
And that is the most important gift we can give – the gift of love. It smoothes anxiety, diminishes fear, and quiets the wobblies we feel in these troubled times. Love needs no warranty, is always the right color, size, and style, and – if well tended - lasts, in all its forms, for generations and generations.
May you and yours enjoy and care for your holidays - to the hilt!
-----------------
P.S. On December 24th at 3:00 pm in England and 10:00 am in New York, affiliated stations of Public Radio International will offer the 24th American broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” live from the chapel of King’s College at Cambridge University in Cambridge, England. The choir of King’s College will sing carols and representatives of the community of Cambridge will read lessons from the Old and New Testaments. The service is also broadcast live by BBC Radio in the UK and the BBC World Service both in the UK and around the world on shortwave.
Television and newspapers report the current guess as to whether “holiday shopping will save the fourth quarter,” on which businesses have come to rely for a “successful” year. And the traffic reporters tell us about available parking space at area malls. Even technological cognoscenti are telling us that “this is the year for internet retailers.”
To all that, I say, “Bah! Humbug,” but my judgment may not be quite what you think.
This is the time of year to shed the carapace of cynicism, ennui, even despair, and take time to return to the basics of what you believe…or believed, once upon a time.
No matter how many times you have heard the story, whatever story you celebrate, pretend as though you have never heard it before, let it roll into your being and stir the damped fire which sits somewhere deep inside you. Sing the songs, chant the chants, dance the dances as though you have just discovered them – that will be a great gift to the generations waiting and watching you as they learn about your traditions and how to carry them forward into their own time.
Each year when I take out the decorations, some of which go back several generations in my family, I feel graced by the care and affection of those before me who also tended the holiday we celebrate.
And that is the most important gift we can give – the gift of love. It smoothes anxiety, diminishes fear, and quiets the wobblies we feel in these troubled times. Love needs no warranty, is always the right color, size, and style, and – if well tended - lasts, in all its forms, for generations and generations.
May you and yours enjoy and care for your holidays - to the hilt!
-----------------
P.S. On December 24th at 3:00 pm in England and 10:00 am in New York, affiliated stations of Public Radio International will offer the 24th American broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” live from the chapel of King’s College at Cambridge University in Cambridge, England. The choir of King’s College will sing carols and representatives of the community of Cambridge will read lessons from the Old and New Testaments. The service is also broadcast live by BBC Radio in the UK and the BBC World Service both in the UK and around the world on shortwave.
Thursday, November 14, 2002
The Breath Of Life
Last week in London I saw a new play by David Hare called “The Breath of Life,” starring Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench. Smith plays a woman who chose a profession, never married and never had children; Dench one who chose home and children, and the play is an extended conversation between these two English women of “a certain age,” and is introduced by an observation of Paul Gauguin: “Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.”
The link between them is the source of the play’s energy, and in spite of the sensitivity of a male playwright writing for women’s voices, the real strength of the play – for me - lay in the performance by two actors whose performances were so natural that one would hardly have thought they were acting, and that is, without doubt, the best acting of all, and I shall remember their work that evening for a long time.
But all of that is beside my point: Early in the play when the two characters are circling each other verbally, one of the topics which they settle on is “Americans.” A number of the lines are funny, but in the context of our present situation, the following exchange continues to resonate and disturb.
Madeleine: Their politicians always put on that tone of special shock. “This situation endangers American lives.” As if American lives were automatically different from any other kind….
Frances: But isn’t that what they believe?
Madeleine: That’s how they are. Because they’re richer than everyone else, so they have to insist their dramas are more significant.
(An example of trivial “ugly American” behavior follows, and the dialogue continues)
Madeleine:…At once the most powerful people on earth and now it appears the most fearful…
Frances: Perhaps that’s why.
Madeleine: The most risk averse. Life with all the life taken out of it.
Frances: Perhaps they just feel they have more to lose.
Madeleine: Well, they don’t.
Frances: Of course not.
Franklin D Roosevelt told us that we had nothing to fear but fear itself. Several decades later, the great political philosopher and cartoonist, Walt Kelly, observed through his character Pogo who was running for President, “We have met the enemy, and they is us.” The truth, of course, lies outside the boundaries which we have created for ourselves. Look beyond the President, the play, and Pogo, and decide what it is you see and believe.
The link between them is the source of the play’s energy, and in spite of the sensitivity of a male playwright writing for women’s voices, the real strength of the play – for me - lay in the performance by two actors whose performances were so natural that one would hardly have thought they were acting, and that is, without doubt, the best acting of all, and I shall remember their work that evening for a long time.
But all of that is beside my point: Early in the play when the two characters are circling each other verbally, one of the topics which they settle on is “Americans.” A number of the lines are funny, but in the context of our present situation, the following exchange continues to resonate and disturb.
Madeleine: Their politicians always put on that tone of special shock. “This situation endangers American lives.” As if American lives were automatically different from any other kind….
Frances: But isn’t that what they believe?
Madeleine: That’s how they are. Because they’re richer than everyone else, so they have to insist their dramas are more significant.
(An example of trivial “ugly American” behavior follows, and the dialogue continues)
Madeleine:…At once the most powerful people on earth and now it appears the most fearful…
Frances: Perhaps that’s why.
Madeleine: The most risk averse. Life with all the life taken out of it.
Frances: Perhaps they just feel they have more to lose.
Madeleine: Well, they don’t.
Frances: Of course not.
Franklin D Roosevelt told us that we had nothing to fear but fear itself. Several decades later, the great political philosopher and cartoonist, Walt Kelly, observed through his character Pogo who was running for President, “We have met the enemy, and they is us.” The truth, of course, lies outside the boundaries which we have created for ourselves. Look beyond the President, the play, and Pogo, and decide what it is you see and believe.
Thanksgiving Remembered...
In my memory, which is better than it used to be because I make up more interesting stuff to fill in the blanks which arrive more frequently these days, I have this recollection of Norman Rockwell’s well loved painting of a Thanksgiving Day Celebration.
In my memory, the father is carving a gorgeous turkey surrounded by the animated faces of his children, the whole making up the impossibly happy family.
In truth, however, the painting shows Grandpa standing at the head of the table watching Grandma place the roasted bird in front of him for carving, with all those around the table looking happy, if not downright excited.
Well, I got the animated faces right.
Nowadays, gramps and gramma are having Thanksgiving in Vero Beach, Mom and Dad are divorced, and sons would rather spend Thanksgiving watching a football game or playing video games, and daughters would rather be anyplace but here. In general, nobody has time to get together anymore. Or so it seems.
The Rockwell painting is called “Freedom from Want,” one of the four freedoms about which Franklin Delano Roosevelt spoke decades ago.
Safe to say that we have almost achieved freedom from want in this country, although there are too many among us who do not have enough of food, of shelter, of clothing, of education, of security, of love. We would do well on Thanksgiving to eat less and donate what we save to the Salvation Army or a local food shelf. Better yet, find someone who’s alone on that day and invite them to join in. Sometimes a stranger vitalizes the usual gaggle of relatives who have become so accustomed to seeing each other that they can almost repeat jokes telepathically.
I don’t know whether all those tales about the rugged pilgrims and the helpful natives gathering for a feast are true, but I like to think so. I do know it took a good deal of religious commitment and several dollops of genuine courage to leave England and sail to the New World to make a new life in a strange and often hostile land.
One of my ancestors was in the group that founded what we now call New Haven, and you have to know that name was well and carefully chosen. All we know of him was that he was a gunsmith and signed the document which governed the colony there. But if he hadn’t left his village in England, fled to Holland to escape religious persecution, and made the long voyage here, I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my computer writing this today.
This year on Thanksgiving, I shall be thinking of him and his wife Margery and the long chain of Nashes between them and me. And next year I shall visit his home town in Bewdley, near Ribbesford, in the English countryside and see some of the family ironwork in a local church, and I shall be thankful again…as we all should be, every day, for some aspect of our lives.
In my memory, the father is carving a gorgeous turkey surrounded by the animated faces of his children, the whole making up the impossibly happy family.
In truth, however, the painting shows Grandpa standing at the head of the table watching Grandma place the roasted bird in front of him for carving, with all those around the table looking happy, if not downright excited.
Well, I got the animated faces right.
Nowadays, gramps and gramma are having Thanksgiving in Vero Beach, Mom and Dad are divorced, and sons would rather spend Thanksgiving watching a football game or playing video games, and daughters would rather be anyplace but here. In general, nobody has time to get together anymore. Or so it seems.
The Rockwell painting is called “Freedom from Want,” one of the four freedoms about which Franklin Delano Roosevelt spoke decades ago.
Safe to say that we have almost achieved freedom from want in this country, although there are too many among us who do not have enough of food, of shelter, of clothing, of education, of security, of love. We would do well on Thanksgiving to eat less and donate what we save to the Salvation Army or a local food shelf. Better yet, find someone who’s alone on that day and invite them to join in. Sometimes a stranger vitalizes the usual gaggle of relatives who have become so accustomed to seeing each other that they can almost repeat jokes telepathically.
I don’t know whether all those tales about the rugged pilgrims and the helpful natives gathering for a feast are true, but I like to think so. I do know it took a good deal of religious commitment and several dollops of genuine courage to leave England and sail to the New World to make a new life in a strange and often hostile land.
One of my ancestors was in the group that founded what we now call New Haven, and you have to know that name was well and carefully chosen. All we know of him was that he was a gunsmith and signed the document which governed the colony there. But if he hadn’t left his village in England, fled to Holland to escape religious persecution, and made the long voyage here, I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my computer writing this today.
This year on Thanksgiving, I shall be thinking of him and his wife Margery and the long chain of Nashes between them and me. And next year I shall visit his home town in Bewdley, near Ribbesford, in the English countryside and see some of the family ironwork in a local church, and I shall be thankful again…as we all should be, every day, for some aspect of our lives.
Monday, October 14, 2002
We're High On Speed
Everybody’s in such a hurry today. From my pespective as a morning pedestrian on my walk around the lake, I walk on the road or on a path right next to it, and the vehicles race by, with no special regard for me – or for the speed limit for that matter.
I worry about that cup of coffee or cell phone in the right hand, or the paper in the briefcase that the driver might be reaching over to get as he or she approaches me. In my mind’s eye, I see the car swerve toward me and then I have to change the channel.
This perception of being completely defenseless against these missiles going by me, three feet away, at forty miles an hour, has made me intolerant of speeders, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness of tires spinning by me and sound systems with the insistent beat of juvenile idiocy pouring out the windows.
I’ve tried to persuade the city administrators to stop by the road, walk with me, stand where I walk, but either they do not deign to visit or they stay safely ensconced in their own multi-ton missiles.
The police make an attempt at enforcement every once in a while, but they have other priorities.
It is no longer a personal priority to understand that speed limits are set for a reason and that to obey them is desirable. We are all too important (yes, me too, but only on occasion) so that when late for that important appointment, we bend the rules in our favor and race down the road. Much easier than allowing sufficient time to arrive without breaking the unenforced law.
But here’s the point: Speeding doesn’t really get you there significantly faster than just going the speed limit. Probably isn’t too good for your blood pressure, either.
When I’m out walking, all the late people speeding doesn’t do one damn thing for my language or my blood pressure. I walk for exercise and for the loons and their chick, the ducks and the geese and the egrets and the sunrise and the wind in my face and the ever-changing clouds.
But you’re in a hurry and don’t see a bit of it. You think you’re on your way to more important things, but you would never convince me of it.
Thing of the fragile pedestrian just off your right fender; drive safely – and slowly – and how about starting today...now?
I worry about that cup of coffee or cell phone in the right hand, or the paper in the briefcase that the driver might be reaching over to get as he or she approaches me. In my mind’s eye, I see the car swerve toward me and then I have to change the channel.
This perception of being completely defenseless against these missiles going by me, three feet away, at forty miles an hour, has made me intolerant of speeders, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness of tires spinning by me and sound systems with the insistent beat of juvenile idiocy pouring out the windows.
I’ve tried to persuade the city administrators to stop by the road, walk with me, stand where I walk, but either they do not deign to visit or they stay safely ensconced in their own multi-ton missiles.
The police make an attempt at enforcement every once in a while, but they have other priorities.
It is no longer a personal priority to understand that speed limits are set for a reason and that to obey them is desirable. We are all too important (yes, me too, but only on occasion) so that when late for that important appointment, we bend the rules in our favor and race down the road. Much easier than allowing sufficient time to arrive without breaking the unenforced law.
But here’s the point: Speeding doesn’t really get you there significantly faster than just going the speed limit. Probably isn’t too good for your blood pressure, either.
When I’m out walking, all the late people speeding doesn’t do one damn thing for my language or my blood pressure. I walk for exercise and for the loons and their chick, the ducks and the geese and the egrets and the sunrise and the wind in my face and the ever-changing clouds.
But you’re in a hurry and don’t see a bit of it. You think you’re on your way to more important things, but you would never convince me of it.
Thing of the fragile pedestrian just off your right fender; drive safely – and slowly – and how about starting today...now?
Tuesday, October 1, 2002
The Maul, er, Mall of America
Recently, Karen and I paid a rare visit to The Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota, located not far from our airport and nearly as big as. The Mall of America is celebrating its tenth anniversary which, according to those who are paid to invent meaningless declarations, is a Big Deal.
If you like a great big shopping mall with every national chain you can find in separate malls in other and more sensible parts of the country. If you must buy your shirts from a start with a 1957 Buick halfway through the show window, then by golly, the Mall of America is the place for you. If you watch Entertainment Tonight, believe Las Vegas to be one of the great places to pass more than about six hours, then you should hitch up your britches and move your tush in the direction of – yup – The Mall of America.
Or if you think that an indoor roller coaster is the cat’s meow, then point your roadster toward The Mall of America.
What I can’t figure out is this: If you are a beautiful person, the Mall of America cannot do a thing for you. If you are not a beautiful person, all the gewgaws and gimcracks which you might acquire by ripping your credit card through a card reader at warp speed ain’t gonna help.
I understand that for some shopping is therapy, entertainment, a chance to get together and waste time with people you like. It is also a delusion – surrounding yourself with stuff is not the freeway to bliss.
If you’re going to look at stuff, you’d be better off looking at great paintings, sculpture, or furniture at a local museum. That visit won’t cost you very much, and in the process you might find your spirit uplifted by the beauty and creative vitality which surrounds you.
I used to wonder why my father always wore clothes which were thirty years out of date and shoes which were half a century old. It took me a while to discover that he was not much for fashion (although he was interested in style), and his shoes were handmade in London, cost him a fortune, but he amortized that expense over a lifetime of comfort, so they were cheap in the long run (And yes, I wear them now, so they’re now in their eighth decade of active use. )
Clothes do not make the man, and an active intelligence is never out of date – unless it falls into desuetude (God, I love using that word!), through lack of use. Maybe you learn that only after your fourth decade on the planet.
Watching the shoppers at the Mall of America, now celebrating its tenth anniversary, made me sad – sad about the impact marketing has on our lives, sad about anybody believing they were acquiring some harbinger of happiness in such a place, sad about the fact that our government is trying to sell us on a war on Iraq with the same flimsy propositions and lack of evidence used to sell us on the latest model of (fill in the blank here).
If you like a great big shopping mall with every national chain you can find in separate malls in other and more sensible parts of the country. If you must buy your shirts from a start with a 1957 Buick halfway through the show window, then by golly, the Mall of America is the place for you. If you watch Entertainment Tonight, believe Las Vegas to be one of the great places to pass more than about six hours, then you should hitch up your britches and move your tush in the direction of – yup – The Mall of America.
Or if you think that an indoor roller coaster is the cat’s meow, then point your roadster toward The Mall of America.
What I can’t figure out is this: If you are a beautiful person, the Mall of America cannot do a thing for you. If you are not a beautiful person, all the gewgaws and gimcracks which you might acquire by ripping your credit card through a card reader at warp speed ain’t gonna help.
I understand that for some shopping is therapy, entertainment, a chance to get together and waste time with people you like. It is also a delusion – surrounding yourself with stuff is not the freeway to bliss.
If you’re going to look at stuff, you’d be better off looking at great paintings, sculpture, or furniture at a local museum. That visit won’t cost you very much, and in the process you might find your spirit uplifted by the beauty and creative vitality which surrounds you.
I used to wonder why my father always wore clothes which were thirty years out of date and shoes which were half a century old. It took me a while to discover that he was not much for fashion (although he was interested in style), and his shoes were handmade in London, cost him a fortune, but he amortized that expense over a lifetime of comfort, so they were cheap in the long run (And yes, I wear them now, so they’re now in their eighth decade of active use. )
Clothes do not make the man, and an active intelligence is never out of date – unless it falls into desuetude (God, I love using that word!), through lack of use. Maybe you learn that only after your fourth decade on the planet.
Watching the shoppers at the Mall of America, now celebrating its tenth anniversary, made me sad – sad about the impact marketing has on our lives, sad about anybody believing they were acquiring some harbinger of happiness in such a place, sad about the fact that our government is trying to sell us on a war on Iraq with the same flimsy propositions and lack of evidence used to sell us on the latest model of (fill in the blank here).
Friday, September 20, 2002
The Remote
There are times when I feel imprisoned - by rules and regulations, the expectations of others, unsatisfying but required demands on my time, even by goals I have set for myself during one of those occasions of unreasonable optimism. We've all "been there," to use the current argot, haven't we?
I've worked on recognizing the symptoms early, and when I feel an attack around the corner, I head for the room where the television is allowed to exist and pick up the remote control.
Well, not the remote control. ALL THE REMOTE CONTROLS....the one for the satellite dish which also controls some but not all of the functions of the VCR and none of the controls of the DVD player. Let's see, I am now holding three remote controls...what have I forgotten?
Oh, the remote control for the home theatre audio receiver, without which none of the other machines can generate sound. I sit in the Media Command Center, with the La-Z-Boy's leg lifter fully deployed for intergalactic travel with a remote on each chair arm, and the two key modules in my lap for instant access in case of unwanted contact with commercials, program promos, station breaks, and other electronic debris which impede my sense of electron dominance. My heaven, how I love those clickers!
As if the remotes weren't enough, the television has multiple inputs which must be properly chosen, and the set itself must be set on channel 3, but I these are the last things I check before every Media Launch.
Pick up the satellite remote, make sure the satellite system is on, then press the tv selector and the on button to turn on the tv. Then press the satellite button in order to change channels for Hawaiian Music, old quiz shows, pay per view, world cup soccer,news from almost too many place, and movies from places like Home Box Office and its ilk.
Once everything is fully deployed, I can feel the wind blowing through my follicular remnants as I achieve complete command of my system at Warp Speed, tearing through the world of electrons, truly the King of My World.
Need to tape something....find a blank tape from the pile of unlabelled tapes, jam it in the machine, click more buttons on the satellite remote to set up the auto timing device. Ah-hah, victory is mine...unless I taped over that really fascinating BBC documentary on the Estonians who won the Eurovision Song Contest last year (true!). Well, it will be on again...just check the monthly satellite program guide which is the size of the Grand Forks, North Dakota telephone book.
So you can see why I am The Captain of the Remotes in my house, and here's the best part: Nobody, repeat nobody - except perhaps for any 10 year old boy - can decipher my system! Only I can manage this complex community of electrons. "Well, Jim, me hearty, whadya think about that?" I imagine myself saying in the voice of Robert Newton as Long John Silver in a long ago British film of "Treasure Island."
As these feelings of power rush through me, I know that the home theatre remote can learn from all the other remotes (allegedly), but I am too busy managing My World of Entertainment to take the time. There are places to go, people to see, and besides, I would have to Read the Manuals, and when you're in charge, you just don't have The Time. It's part of the challenge of being in charge of something, anything.
A rainy day perhaps, when exploring fills me with ennui or even gas. Until then, I will juggle my remotes cleverly, creatively, and carefully, heh-heh-heh.
But I must be quiet about all this....part of the Guys' Oath for Remote Control Commanders, or she won't let me clean out the garage.
Jim, boy, be still, and maybe we can crank up the barbecue grill soon....
I've worked on recognizing the symptoms early, and when I feel an attack around the corner, I head for the room where the television is allowed to exist and pick up the remote control.
Well, not the remote control. ALL THE REMOTE CONTROLS....the one for the satellite dish which also controls some but not all of the functions of the VCR and none of the controls of the DVD player. Let's see, I am now holding three remote controls...what have I forgotten?
Oh, the remote control for the home theatre audio receiver, without which none of the other machines can generate sound. I sit in the Media Command Center, with the La-Z-Boy's leg lifter fully deployed for intergalactic travel with a remote on each chair arm, and the two key modules in my lap for instant access in case of unwanted contact with commercials, program promos, station breaks, and other electronic debris which impede my sense of electron dominance. My heaven, how I love those clickers!
As if the remotes weren't enough, the television has multiple inputs which must be properly chosen, and the set itself must be set on channel 3, but I these are the last things I check before every Media Launch.
Pick up the satellite remote, make sure the satellite system is on, then press the tv selector and the on button to turn on the tv. Then press the satellite button in order to change channels for Hawaiian Music, old quiz shows, pay per view, world cup soccer,news from almost too many place, and movies from places like Home Box Office and its ilk.
Once everything is fully deployed, I can feel the wind blowing through my follicular remnants as I achieve complete command of my system at Warp Speed, tearing through the world of electrons, truly the King of My World.
Need to tape something....find a blank tape from the pile of unlabelled tapes, jam it in the machine, click more buttons on the satellite remote to set up the auto timing device. Ah-hah, victory is mine...unless I taped over that really fascinating BBC documentary on the Estonians who won the Eurovision Song Contest last year (true!). Well, it will be on again...just check the monthly satellite program guide which is the size of the Grand Forks, North Dakota telephone book.
So you can see why I am The Captain of the Remotes in my house, and here's the best part: Nobody, repeat nobody - except perhaps for any 10 year old boy - can decipher my system! Only I can manage this complex community of electrons. "Well, Jim, me hearty, whadya think about that?" I imagine myself saying in the voice of Robert Newton as Long John Silver in a long ago British film of "Treasure Island."
As these feelings of power rush through me, I know that the home theatre remote can learn from all the other remotes (allegedly), but I am too busy managing My World of Entertainment to take the time. There are places to go, people to see, and besides, I would have to Read the Manuals, and when you're in charge, you just don't have The Time. It's part of the challenge of being in charge of something, anything.
A rainy day perhaps, when exploring fills me with ennui or even gas. Until then, I will juggle my remotes cleverly, creatively, and carefully, heh-heh-heh.
But I must be quiet about all this....part of the Guys' Oath for Remote Control Commanders, or she won't let me clean out the garage.
Jim, boy, be still, and maybe we can crank up the barbecue grill soon....
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