The Post Peak Phone Era and Monkeys Smelling their Fingers

Peak phone is similar to peak beard, a point reached a few months ago where fewer people thought beards were handsome and more people felt they were just places for last night’s spaghetti. But peak phone is more than just itchy neurotic stroking.  To truly understand peak phone, you have to go back to a period when  apps were still sperm swimming in technology’s testicles.

The first cell phones were called car phones because they were about as big as an AMC Pacer. But they were cool because they were new. Plus you could be driving and call someone to tell them you were driving and almost finish that sentence before you were cut off. Then, in just a few short years, people were walking around with iPhones in their pockets, ready at a moment’s notice to send and/or receive videos of monkeys smelling their fingers. But even cooler than the phones themselves was talking about phones and how advanced we were downloading the latest app that could tell you how many eggs were in your refrigerator.

That age of innocence is past. Today anyone who announces that cell phones have more computing power than a 1970’s IBM machine the size of a brick apartment building is followed by awkward silence because everyone is ignoring him while they see when their eggs expire. No one is impressed by how amazing cell phones are. We have reached that peak and we are on the way down the other side.

I know this because the other day I was sitting alone in a restaurant assuring the waitress that my friends were really coming and I was sure I had the right place and I wasn’t sitting by myself looking at a warm beer on purpose, when I pulled out my Nokia flip phone and noticed I had 23 unread messages. Later that evening when I finally sat down to a table filled with empty plates and half finished glasses of wine, I got very limited sympathy from my friends. See it turns out that in the post-peak phone era, I have an obligation to check messages every five minutes to find out which restaurant were are going to and see the latest picture of someone’s cheesecake. And if by some chance I wait a full hour to check messages, I am a Luddite who will be fired from my job and forced to work as a typist in a museum diorama.  

Post peak phone is here and we are faced with the stupid predicament that all that time we were supposed to be saving is now time we are obligated to spend. Sorry I can’t write more, but I have to see when my eggs expire.   

The Irony of Figgie Pudding and Beating Up Scientists

For years scientists have been trying to figure out why our kids go to school so early. Recent breakthroughs indicate it’s because they have to milk cows or do farm stuff in the afternoon, but this has been highly contested because no one knows how to milk cows or what “farm stuff” means. Others have hypothesized that it’s something to do with football, but most scientists usually got beat up by football players when they were in high school, leading them to reject this theory. Whatever the case may be, I have to get up in the dark every morning before Dunkin Donuts turns their lights on, so I can walk my daughter to the bus stop.

Getting up at 6 a.m. makes sense for some people, like really old people that go to bed at 6 p.m. or people that perform needed services - like liquor store clerks. But every morning when I look out at the moon shining on empty streets with an occasional stray dog running across them, I am completely baffled why I am awake. I talked to the principal of my daughter’s school and he assured me they are working on the problem, but there was this thing he called “tradition,” the same phenomenon that forces us to sing about Figgie pudding, and tradition states kids must go to school before roosters set their alarms.

The irony of this situation is that kids actually don’t like to get up early. I did a survey of my two daughters this morning and it turns out that getting them out of bed is synonymous to having the dentist remove all their teeth and rub salt into their bleeding gums. Later interviews I did with them, yelling at the bottom of the stairs that they were going to miss the bus, seem to indicate they would like to get up at 9 or 10 or like just stay in bed all day and not even go to stupid school.

So the other day when I was trying to find the Little Dipper, waiting for my daughter to put her shoes on, I had this brilliant idea. Why don’t we start school with the rest of the world? Normal people like data entry technicians and post autistic economic theorists go to work long after daylight has been established. Why don’t our kids? It was such an epiphany, like the sun had just come out, which it hadn’t. I’m going to research this idea - right after I’ve had a nice long nap. 

The Age of Stuff

Sorry I’ve been gone so long. My wife, two daughters and I just successfully moved out of Taiwan after nine years and now we live in Indiana, which, of course, is in Pennsylvania. This whole move - packing and unpakcking - has made me ponder the deep questions of life. Mostly: where does all this stuff come from? Which has made me realize something very profane. We live in “The Age of Stuff.”

To explain this intriguing concept, we should probably start with a timeline. First there was the Age of the Dinosaurs – cool!, then along came The Age of Computers, followed a few minutes later by The Age of Internet Porn, which was spurred on when Lindsay Lohan got drunk with Paris Hilton. But somewhere back in the 80’s stuff was invented by Sharper Image, who is extinct, but you can still find remnants of  them at Ross. The Age of Stuff enabled the rise of countries like China and India and Walmart, who made a enormous amounts of stuff that we buy every time we go camping and/or to the beach. Today the Age of Stuff even has its own holiday.It’s called Xmas.

Back in the pioneer days, at Xmas kids would get a straw doll their mother had made out of tree bark because straw was too expensive. At dinner pioneer families would all gather to feast on their only chicken, all quietly realizing they would not have eggs the rest of the winter.  

Today at Christmas, kids open so many presents their hands get sore and they get bored and have to take a break to play video games. “Ooos” and “Ahhs” are reserved for items starting at 100 dollars, and only then if gifts are electronic.

But stuff is more than just buying to give to people who don’t want it. Stuff is about buying things to sell at garage sales. Golf clubs, exercise equipment, and DVD’s were never meant to actually be used. They are purchased for the sole purpose of being passed from one garage sale to the next - sort of a spring tradition.

In the Age of Stuff you don’t have to do anything to get stuff. It just sort of accumulates around you. You go out for a walk, and you come back with stuff stuck to you like a bad case of static clean. If you go for a drive with your windows open, people will hurl stuff into your car. People have so much stuff they are paying to fill garbage dumps and mini-storages. Stuff is everywhere. Stuff is everyone. (Whatever that means. It sounded profound.)

Which brings me back to my present state. My family just spent months getting rid of stuff. Then we move into our new home in Indiana (Pennsylvania, not Indiana), it’s been a month, and already we’re thinking storage shed. In the age of stuff, you can’t stop it. Stuff is. (also profound sounding).

nathan lindberg

Moving to America: Putting My Life in Boxes

I heard somewhere, probably Paris Hilton’s tweet, that the top three most traumatic events in life are 1) death of a spouse 2) public speaking (especially when no one is in their underwear) and 3) Donald Trump holding public office of any kind. Shortly after those is “moving,” which my family is in the middle of.

The concept of moving is deceivingly simple because it can be put in one pithy sentence. “Put things in boxes and send them away.” But it’s kind of a like a hippie saying “Stop war.” After the initial declaration, it gets complicated. 

The thing about moving is that all those things you put off until tomorrow, all those miscellaneous drawers filled with stuff from your pocket, all those piles of papers from lawyers you’re trying to forget, all those broken novelty figurines you were going to glue the heads back on, and all those gifts you never exchanged, well all of them have to be dealt with. It’s a procrastinator’s nightmare. Tomorrow has arrived.

My house now is a mess of boxes and piles of stuff and piles of stuff in boxes and piles of boxes in stuff. If an IED went off in my house right now, no one would notice. Unfortunately, the end is nowhere in sight. A single drawer can take up an entire afternoon, no alcohol involved. Each knickknack has to be reminisced about and sighed over before it can be throw in the garbage. Sometimes things might even need to be saved.

Do I save the first book I ever read to my daughter? Do I save out of focus photos my dad took of family sitting on sofas looking overfed at Thanksgiving? Do I throw away all those letters from the IRS I never opened? Normally, I’d just put those things in a drawer to sort tomorrow, most likely by my grandkids - not yet born.  But with moving, you have to put off being a procrastinator.

My family’s move is compounded with the fact we are shipping our things from Taiwan to Pennsylvania, and we have to pay by the pound. That means sending a can of Coke would cost about fifty cents – not really worth a can of Coke – but is it worth a giant bottle of glitter glue I bought at Costco? Each minute brings a new decision, and stuffing it in the closet is not an option.

Yet through all the despair, I think there are good life lessons in moving. Learning to let go of CD’s I haven’t listened to in seven years. Facing the fact I will never wear size 32 Levi’s again. Realizing throwing away a Christmas card from 2004 is not insulting my friend’s family. And, yes, okay, the edible thong was probably not as romantic as I thought. But more than anything, I’ve learned how much moving sucks. In fact if anyone has any public speaking to do, it sounds like a nice break right now.  

Old Person Guide to New Fangled Music

I was at a hoedown called Spring Scream a few months back looking for some good old fashion death metal when a thumping sound attracted my attention. At first I though someone’s Ford had blown a rod, but then I realized it was music. The only trouble was I didn't see a band. There was just one guy on stage with a laptop. I asked a whippersnapper standing nearby what was up and he explained to me that I was listening to techno. Whatever happened to good old fashion gansta rap, I asked him. Unfortunately he had already run away before his friends saw him talking to me.

Have you been asking yourself why it is that no one listens to the radio but there seem to be DJ’s everywhere? Have you noticed “rock and roll will never die” is now being sampled in songs without instruments? Have you wondered what music will sound, or look like, in the next few decades? Well I have no clue. But a few friends at Spring Scream did, and they told me.  

DJ’s are the easiest to explain. You remember when you were at a party (yeah, that long ago) and there was one person whose job was to change the record every 20 minutes? Well, that’s a DJ. Maybe you were a DJ and didn’t even know it. Of course, on stage, DJ’s push buttons not flip discs. Their job is to select music, then synchronize all the beats together so you never know one song has ended and another has begun. That way you never realize how high on meth you are. Some DJ’s do extra stuff like shout “hey” in a microphone or have studio photos taken of them looking really serious.

The mystery about DJ’s is how to tell if one is good or not. Do they push buttons very auspiciously? Even more puzzling is that sometimes they brag to have been voted number eight DJ in all of Queensland. What does that mean? What actually is a good DJ? What is Queensland? Well, my friend Michael told me a good DJ feels the crowd and is able to select the perfect music. It’s like when you were at a party and everyone was laughing and drinking and wanting to do the Macarena and you put on Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” At that point everyone would say you had failed to “rock the house,” but more or less were a “buzz killington.” Fortunately for DJ’s, all techno-house music-trance sounds exactly the same, so it’s really hard to put on something inappropriate.

If, like me, you are still not convinced being a DJ is nothing more than saying “Hey, look at me! I’m on stage!” then you need to hear another young person’s advice. I think her name was six Jagermisters-Red Bulls, because at that point of the night that’s the only name I remember. The first thing she told me about DJ’s was really pragmatic. She said if you hire a DJ, you don’t have to worry about music at your party. They figure it out, or they are fun suckers – and don’t get paid. The second thing she said made a surprising amount of sense. She said DJ music takes everyone’s eyes off the stage and on to the people in the crowd. I mean, who wants to watch some dude standing in front of a lap top? I can get that at any Starbucks. So with DJ’s it’s like. “Look at me, I’m dancing with you, and oh my God I’m so high on meth that I’ll never get an erection.”

Okay, like most of life, the role of DJ becomes gray very quickly. While some DJ’s yell out “hey” a lot, others actually mix songs in what is called a mash up, smash up, bastard pop, or about 30 other terms invented five minutes ago. Remixes are another thing where you actually change stuff in a song, so it sounds not as good as the original. At some point you have to admit that these people change songs so much they are actually making new music, and thus can’t be sued. At that point they are called artists.

It’s easy for an old timer like me to criticize these so called artists. The Sex Pistols never remixed anything. Nirvana didn’t have computers. The Clash never dubbed stuff... However, I actually like the idea. It used to be that actually playing an instrument got in the way of playing music. Guitar is hard to play. Consequently, you got guitar virtuosos like Yngwie Malmsteen who really knew how to play but whose music was as boring as a 30-minute blow job in a porno. Now people can bypass instruments and get right down to what really matters. “Look at me! I’m on stage!” 

Remember AOL, Tandy, "the Jackson 5ive," and waffle shoes? No? Well don’t bother reading this.

For all you old 40 – 50, and even a few 30, somethings trying desperately not to feel old, here’s a few memories sure to ensure you fail.

Dig this, man, I remember when…

-I bought my first computer, turned it on, typed “do something” and it did nothing,

-I sat down at my brother-in-law’s computer, and did my first Internet search on something called “AOL.” Suddenly there were pictures of bare naked ladies all over the place,

-having an email address was a sure ticket to prestige and respect,

-computers in high school were “Tandy,” a Radio Shack brand that saved information on cassette tapes,

-microwaves were new, really big, and some were made that would “brown” things for housewives that didn’t trust them,

-there were housewives,

-CD’s came out and friends of mine said they totally gagged them with a spoon and they would never part with their eight-tracks,

-Pong was the only video game you could play at home and for some reason it was fun,

-only rich people had “color” TV and remote controls were the size of a Snoopy lunch box and we got four channels, two of which were Canadian,

-my brother-in-law got a “car phone” bigger than a snoopy lunch box,

-my parents bought one of the first Toyotas sold in the States and it was such a piece of junk they garbaged it a year later,

-the Russians were the Dark Side, and we all watched “The Day After,” a TV show about nuclear holocaust, then had discussion groups at the high school about how we did not want to die nor glow in the dark,

-Communists were lurking behind every hippie ready to turn us into mind slaves,

 -I typed my homework on a typewriter and had to use one of those stupid typing erasers which inevitably tore the page and I ended up handing in something that looked like the dog had digested it,

-I got my first “correcting” typewriter” that had a little digital screen to preview what I printed, or erased until I made a hole,

-cameras used something called “film” which ensured 90 percent of your pictures were out of focus,

-cartoons were mostly on Saturday morning, and all had morals like “love is all you need – dig, man?”

-Michael Jackson was a boy in one of those cartoons called the Jackson 5ive,

-looking up the spelling of Jackson 5ive, or looking up anything for that matter, entailed going to the library, looking in the card catalogue, copying down some cryptic code, then wandering around basement for hours before you figured out someone had already checked out The History of Cartoon Spelling,

-gas hit a dollar a gallon, and we all thought cars would soon be studio apartments (check out a movie called “Americathon” – people live in their cars – oh, and on a complete tangent, Jay Leno boxes his mother – see YouTube),

-minimum wage hit $2 an hour!

-the first local mall opened, then closed because three others had opened, then re-opened, then closed again, now it’s a box store,

-people smoked cigarettes not only in bars, but in restaurants, elevators, movie theaters, and bathrooms,

-people drank beer while they smoked and drove in cars that didn’t even have seat belts,

-Playboy magazine first showed pubic hair,

-the first McDonald’s came to town and suddenly all high school students had a goal to cruising,

-some shoe company named Nike had big “waffle” soles, used for the new invention of “running,”

And, furthermore, that was one really long sentence.

But I also remember when we still used these stupid combustible engines that actually burned fossil fuels and made smoke and… oh, yeah. And I also remember when Israel was at war with all its neighbors and Muslims swore they would desecrate it and no one got along and it was like one never ending crisis… oops. And the Soviets were bogged down in Afghanistan and could not escape and… well, it’s a little different. Oh, and I remember when the economy plunged and no one could get a job and… well, I guess that’s more like déjà vu. Also, there was prejudice everywhere, 3D movies were all the rage, and no one liked politicians.

All right. Whatever. I’m looking forward to writing this in about 30 years when I remember the time when people still had wars, there were energy crises, and people hated each other because God told them too. Those would be good memories to have in the far distant past. 

Chinese Language Torture

In the past nine years of attempting to learn Chinese, I have finally come to this conclusion: Mandarin Chinese was made to make people feel stupid – particularly me.

The thing about Chinese is that it’s not like English. In fact the only thing it has in common with English is that English is really hard for Chinese speakers to learn. You see, Chinese has these things called tones. What that means is you can say the exact same word but at a different time of day, and it will change from “ask” to “kiss.” Which meant I made my teacher less than excited every time I raised my hand.

With tones you can attempt to say you ate some dried fruit and end up copulating with it. But more likely you’ll confidently try out some new phrase and end up spouting complete gibberish, which will garner a few polite nods and glossy smiles. Like I do every time I go out in public.

Luckily I have two expert helpers: my eight and 11 year old daughters. My wife, who’s Taiwanese, gave up helping me a long time ago, but my daughters are in public school and so they sympathize. They patiently tell me to stop being naughty with fruit and then translate to stupefied neighbors. It’s helped me navigate the supermarket, but I have yet to look seriously at a newspaper.

You see, as hard as speaking Chinese is, it’s as easy as a Texas gun license compared with writing. Chinese don’t have letters; they have lots of pictures that are so badly drawn you really have no idea what they are. A picture of a pig looks like a sea monkey, not the kinds on back of comic books, but the real ones, you know, brine shrimp that look like baby tapeworms. Those pictures are combined with random lines in such a manner so that no human, except my eight-year-old daughter, could ever remember them. Writing them is humanly impossible – with the exception of 1.2 billion people who don’t count because they had Chinese Tiger Moms.

Needless to say, I’m not the best student. Luckily the Taiwanese are nice enough to smile glossily and nod instead of shake their heads. They understand because they are all required to studied English starting in the 3^rd grade, and they know how stupid English spelling iz. Now pass the dried fruit, I’m in the mood.  

Cut the Military

Cut the military! Cut the military! Cut the military! I'd like to say that so loud it would start a war. I’d like to put it to a song and sing it on YouTube, but it doesn't fit with Lady Gaga’s tunes.

Want to save money? Why hack social security? Why slash education? Why indeed when the US spends more money on our military than the rest of the world put together? Cut, cut, cut, like a rabbi with a new born son, cut, cut, cut that military budget. Why not?

Why not stop shoving money down a toilet in Afghanistan? Why not pull the plug on military bases like Japan? Remind me, why are we in Japan? Didn’t that war end with sock hops? And what are we doing in Germany? staving off the Soviets? What about terrorist? How are we doing against Osama Bin Laden? Not much better than the war on drugs. Well, at least we won in Iraq, so…why doesn’t it feel very good?

It’s time to stop this nonsense. We ship off our young so they can have their limbs blown away and come back psychotic. And what is it all for? When we help, everyone hates us. We don’t help, and everyone hates us. We win, and everyone hates us. We lose; we hate us. We can’t please any of the people any of the time. Why bother?

Let’s build up our infrastructure. Let’s make sure our bridges don’t collapse. Let’s finally figure out how to stop using oil. It’s a much worse drug addiction than crack-cocaine. Let’s do what we are good at. Let’s make more cool movies, awesome video games, and ridiculous apps. Let’s go to Mars. Let’s pay out record bonuses to teachers. Let’s take all the money we blow up on the military and give it back to the people.

Oh sure, there are all sorts of reasons we should spend money on the military. But it’s time to face the fact that most of them are psychotic. We have this illusion that we are running around solving the world’s problems and the world would fall apart with out us. Who is going to make people like Israel? Who is going to foil Kim Jung Ill’s diabolic plan to rule the world? Who is going make the Moslems shop at Walmart? Probably not us. We can’t even balance our own budget.

Let’s face it; no one really likes us. We run around with our big guns, big boats, and unmanned drones attempting to solve problems, but people just put up with us because it’s easier than making us upset. People have to solve their own problems. It doesn’t work if we try to solve them for us. And right now we have a bunch of problems at home. It’s time to make like a Catholic and withdraw. Tea Party superheroes, stop attacking unwed mothers. The real Cadillac is the military. It sucks up a quarter of our budget and gives back a massive world headache. You really want to cut spending, cut bombs. Sure someone is going to hate us for doing it, but they already do anyway. It’s time to retreat and get back to reality. Sing it with me to whatever tune you like, even country. 

Advice from a Pussycat Father

If my wife is a Tiger Mother, I guess I am a Pussycat Father, which inevitably will be abbreviated.

You may have heard about Professor Amy Chou's book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" which was briefly in newspaper headlines as "You're a Terrible Parent." I didn't read the book either, nor do I have any intention of lying and saying I will. But I did see her interviewed on the Colbert Report, and I think that pretty much entitles me to comment on it. Besides, my children's mother is a Tiger Mom, and that's nothing compared to a Tiger Wife. 

According to Chou, and Steve Colbert, her book is supposed to be funny, but newspapers only quoted the serious parts. She discusses Asian mothers who won't let their kids be in school plays, go to slumber parties, and/or smile. That is why Asian kids do well in school and the rest of us smoke pot and play video games. Already many American editorials have come out criticizing Chou and saying how kids need to have a social life and freedom to express themselves, get high and play Call of Duty. My blog is pretty late in the game, so late that Chou’s 15 minutes were about 20 minutes ago, but I feel since my wife is Chinese, my two daughters go to Taiwanese public elementary school, and I have taught in Taiwanese public schools, maybe my 2 cents is worth three, even with deflation. 

I've seen both sides up close and personal. I’ve seen my students come in looking like zombies, studying seven days a week, 10 or more hours a day. The better they are, the more they have to study. The reason is because their whole education is based on tests. Starting in the second semester of first grade, nearly all Taiwanese students nation-wide have competitive tests about every seven weeks. Many parents will do anything to get their kids ahead. And this of course includes no slumber parties, no school plays, no video games, and no smiling.

The result is they are amazing students whose math ability passes mine in the fifth grade. I know that first hand because when my daughter asks me to help her with her math homework, I have no clue. But there are side effects to this kind of education. They include severe lack of sleep and any resemblance to a childhood.

It would be easy for me to criticize the whole system, step up to the pulpit and tell all Tiger Mom’s they need to allow their kids to play more video games and smoke more pot, but I can’t do that. See, I went to public school in Anacortes Washington in the good old USA. Although I had a good time, it had its faults. Athletes were worshiped and scholars were put upside down in garbage cans. Wearing the right clothes was almost as important as not admitting you studied. Cliché groups roamed the halls bullying anyone who looked different, and getting a C meant showing up most of the time. I think we could do better, but for Americans, it works. Over confident and cocky, Americans have come up with such things as the Internet and MTV. We can’t do math, but we think of really cool things when we are high.

And in Taiwanese society, as well as what I know of many Asian cultures, their systems works for them. Think about their economies right now. Is someone from the West going to start preaching to China, Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Singapore, etc. they need to get rid of school uniforms and start football leagues? Sure I agree that their education systems could be better too, but just like ours, that does not make them bad.

That said and done, I bitch about Tiger Moms all the time, just ask my wife. Slumber parties are fun, school plays are cool, and I’ve even heard video games are awesome. Why not take part in them? Life is not only about trying to get the best test score so some day you can get a job making tests for kids. However, Chou and Asian Tiger Moms do have some good points. Studying can be very rewarding in the long run, even if getting stoned and playing video games might be more appealing in the next 15 minutes. Personally, it would be nice to have a mixture of both. Yes, you can go to the slumber party… if you finish your homework first.

  

SuperBowl XLV Champions: Homeland Security

It was a hard fought battle, but in the end I would say that Homeland Security put in the extra effort it needed and pulled it off. I know there are those who would dispute, but I think when all is said and done, Homeland Security won the Superbowl. 

Some of you with normal TV might have missed the action. What happened was a couple of days before the Superbowl The U.S. Attorney's Office of New York and Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (a.k.a. "the man") closed down a bunch of websites that stream sports for free. Undoubtedly, some of you are saying "I get sports streamed for free all the time; it's called TV."  But I live in Taiwan, and for some reason the only games on ESPN Asia seem to be billiards and cricket, two sports I will never live long enough to understand - or care about. Anyway, thanks to the Internet, my friends and I can actually watch the Superbowl, although due to the time difference, we are forced to drink beer on Monday morning. 

So yesterday, at 7 a.m., on the last day of Chinese New Year vacation, I drug my wife out of bed and we drove to our friends Kevin and Rayne for a traditional Superbowl party. Everything started fine. We had bacon and eggs, dried fish snack, Japanese Pringles, and spiked coffee. It looked as though we were going to run away with a clean victory, watching the Superbowl online problem-free, but then at the beginning of the second quarter, Homeland Security struck. Like a juggernaut, it struck swift and hard as the screen went blue and the fatal words "disabled due to copyright infringement" popped up. We scrambled, trying other reliable streaming sites and even regular TV (I think a rerun of the Northern Thailand Billiard Titleship was playing) but all to no avail. It appeared that the tide had turned, Homeland Security was going to steal away a victory, and spiked coffee stomachaches were all for not. 

However, England pulled through. Accented commentators taking a day off from the other football (a.k.a. soccer) were streaming steady, and the picture was better also. Again we felt in control of the game, and we thought victory was ours. That's when Homeland unleashed its counterstrike. Flash! Blue screen! ...  disabled. The battled continued to Sweden, then Spain, then a language no one could identify. Sometimes there was sound, sometimes none. Sometimes players were in high definition, and sometimes the looked like old 70's cop shows. But time and time again, we were slammed by the blue screen as Homeland Security relentlessly shut down our offense.

In the final two minutes we were back to British commentators who were wondering why everyone had some much padding on. We thought we had finally pulled off a victory, but BAM! The connection sucked and just as Roethlisberger was hailing Mary, all froze. Then the game was over. 

Some may argue that we watched, and thus we won, but I would argue frantically and constantly trying to find a new link in between Spanish commentary pretty much means we lost. Homeland Security was successfully able to make it inconvenient to illegally stream the biggest sporting event in American history. It just goes to show that when the government wants to, they can actually do stuff on computers. What's next? making it slower to steal songs? Blotting out naughty parts in porn? Who knows what tricks Homeland Security and the American entertainment industry has in store. But there is one thing we can all count on: Making affordable legal online options to expand business models and actually bring some new services that don't just try to duplicate old media will be fought tooth and nail until victory is Achieved! Go Homeland Go! ...or, maybe just until Google finds a way around them. 

By the way, who won the game?

100 years of giant bunnies

I was thinking about how similar Chinese New Year is with Christmas. Everyone gets a week off, people exchange gifts, and families gather to overeat. But as my mother-in-law put fish eggs with scallions, stewed pig’s knuckles, pickled jelly fish, and fried chicken feet on the table, that thought quickly scampered away.

Happy New Year, by the way. February 3 marked year 100, and the year of the rabbit. That means it’s been 100 years since there was a Chinese emperor, and for some reason rabbits are important. I think it’s because it marks a whole new season of marketing cartoon bunnies. It probably also means in about three months there are going to be a lot of unwanted pet rabbits. I think it’s my 13th Chinese New Year as an expat in Taiwan. And while it’s a lot of fun, a lot of it I just don’t get.

Lantern Festival, for instance, is this day during Chinese New Year when lots of people display lanterns and the rest of us stand in line to see them. These are not your ordinary lanterns you use for an evening walk to the outhouse, these lanterns look more like floats in the Macy’s Parade. This year, appropriately, they’ll all look like giant rabbits. Some of them are fun, but after you’ve seen a dozen or so bunnies the thrill is pretty much gone and I’m ready to go home and watch TV. My wife tells me that I become bored so quickly because Lantern Festival was not part of my childhood, like making handprint turkeys or getting pillowcases full of candy while dressed as a zombie. She’s right, and that’s probably why a lot of the Chinese holidays don’t make sense to me. I just don’t have the history for them.

But this is also why they are really fun. I’m completely free of the guilt and weight of tradition. You know what that is. Something like, “It just wouldn’t be Christmas if we didn’t make those terrible cookies no one has ever liked.” Or, “We have to invite Uncle Larry. Even if he sits alone smelling funny, ‘tis the season.” Instead, of awkward commitments and overworking, I get a week of unmitigated rest. Which is great, but leads to both the best and worst part of the holiday.

Taiwan is about the size of Maryland, but four times as many people. China is much more so. When all Chinese get a week off, everywhere gets real busy. Every road, park, shopping center and bathroom is overflowing as more and more people try to enter. However, this gets back to one of the best points. Since every place is so crowded there is absolutely no reason to try to go anywhere or do anything – even see giant lighted bunnies. If you are going to sit in your car and not move, you might as well just sit on your sofa and not move. As I said, unencumbered laziness takes over.

So, Shin Nyan Kuai Le, spring is just around the corner, I’ve got about 30 old science fiction movies to watch, and mama just cooked up some sea slug. Cheers!

Nathan Lindberg

The Financial Crisis Was Your Fault

by Nathan Lindberg 

Whose fault was the financial crisis? Look no further than the mirror you’re lying under. We are all to blame for the financial crisis, but especially you. It’s time you faced it. You caused the financial crisis.

Sure you want to blame high profile players like Countrywide CEO Angelo R Mozilo who not only orchestrated one of the biggest financial disaster in the world, but skipped away with a 57 million dollar bonus by doing so. Sure you want to rant and rave against the financial “gurus” who played public companies like slot machines. But it’s time to confess. We all did it. All you have to do is listen to the sophisticated TV people trained to never say “um.” They’ll tell you that we were all the greedy. We all wanted to make money. We all wanted to get rich. And we all bundled subprime loans which we sold off as falsely labeled triple A bonds. We are all to blame. Especially you.

Take a deep breath. I know how you feel. Right now you are trying to say Goldman Sachs were the ones who sold shares of subprime bundled loans that they themselves were betting against with an innovative scheme called credit swap defaults. But face it. We were all greedy. We all wanted EZ money. And we all invested in company retirement funds. Especially you. You saved every month, thinking matching 401K contributions were going to make you as rich as a Bernie Madoff pre-prison gala. Your greed to retire at 65 caused this mess. You did this, and you have to pay.

Still in denial? Still blaming the Wall Street fat cats?

Now, now, just because the bankers are doing great again, and their bonuses are back with a vengeance. It does not give you the right to blame them for your troubles. Do you know how bad that can make them feel? When they drive by protesters, they have to lock their Carrera doors and tip extra at valet just to ensure their safety. It’s truly awkward for them at times. Think about it. They worked hard to have their fathers pay for their elite schooling and be nurtured by some of the most pompous fraternities. Clearly they deserve bonuses bigger than your, your extended family’s, and miscellaneous friends’ yearly salaries put together. Think about it. If they didn’t get those lard-laden bonuses, they might just quit and work somewhere else – like the Mafia. Then where would we be? No more innovations like exchange traded derivatives used to make money off the real estate crash. Don’t blame the Wall Street fat, bloated, gaseous cats. Can’t you see now – it’s all your fault.

Now that you’ve read it in a blog, I think you get the picture. If you really want to protest, stand outside your own house with some hate sign and yell at yourself. You’re the one who didn’t bother to investigate exchange traded derivative contracts. You’re the one who allowed hedge funds to go unregulated. You’re the one who wanted to retire at some point before death. Now, the real question is, what are you going to do about it? Well, I would suggest you do what you do best. Work hard, save your money, and please, give it to the people who know how to deal with these things. Then relax and leave the rest to them.   

by Nathan Lindberg

I am a Christmas Failure

By Nathan Lindberg

Christmas is a wonderful time of year when everything is wondrous and special and magical and stuff. Which is why it sucks.

Christmas is so magical it makes me feel stupid. I rarely feel magical, especially in the morning. In fact, when I wake up I feel, and look, extremely unmagical, even on Christmas. Which makes me feel even less than unmagical. Because I'm supposed to feel magical, and I don't, so I end up feeling sub-unmagical. And you can't get less joyous than that.

Sometimes you have to work on Christmas, or you have to work the day after Christmas, which is almost as bad depending on how much magical eggnog you drink on Christmas Day. Sometimes you don't feel like hanging out and being magical and wonderful with people. Sometimes you just feel ordinary on Christmas. Then you’re a Christmas failure.

Christmas must be the most wondrous time of year. If you feel just ordinary, you are obviously doing something wrong. If you don't have the Christmas spirit, you are like the mean old people on Christmas cartoons.

Even this blog should be warm and wonderful and magical. I should talk about how commercialized everything is and how we really need to think of all the wonderful parts of Christmas like sharing and caring and borrowing money through treasury bonds to send to Afghanistan: i.e. money black hole. I should tell people of all the wonderful things we have to be thankful for and how we all love each other and are glad for the Tea Party. Maybe I should come up with some magical story. Or maybe I should talk about how special it is to be patriotic and drive a large truck. Instead I'd like to talk about how I'm actually looking forward to January.

It's too easy to fail at Christmas. You don’t spend enough money on your kid. Your gift for your spouse was not difficult enough to buy. You burn the figgy pudding. You accidently blurt out in public how much you hate Christmas music. You drink too much hot buttered rum before the church Christmas play and wish you were a Jehovah’s Witness. Last, you get your credit card bill before the holidays are over.

If you really want to capture the Christmas spirit, you should buy everyone, including your mailman, plumber and proctologist, gifts. And you should bake cookies and send out cards before January and put up decorations and buy your kids better gifts than last year and if you don't… you must be a Christmas failure.

Christmas success is something some people work on all year. They start buying presents in July. They plan their dinner in October. They get cards ready in November. Those people think they are going to be Christmas dynamos, but they are even more prone to failure. After all those hours of work, something as stupid as one drunk uncle at the Christmas party can ruin everything, and then an entire year of planning goes down the drain.

My friend Dale always gives me the perfect present. He buys a six pack of beer, gives it to me and then asks for one. Then we sit and drink and talk about football or 2 X 4s or something. Together we are absolute Christmas failures. And it really feels nice. Not magical, just nice.

By Nathan Lindberg

America loves big “buts”

by Nathan Lindberg 

We Americans like news with a big “but.” Have you ever read Chinese newspapers? They’re all so positive. How unsophisticated. Daily reports from the rice paddies to the Nike sweatshops highlight satisfied Chinese workers who are convinced their government is honest and sincere, allowing proletarians to work happily, hand in hand raising abundant supplies of cabbage. Obviously, this means everything is terrible.

We in the West know the real truth. We know the Chinese government has one focus: dupe the people. And the people are either blathering idiots wondering in barren cabbage fields or enrolled in “education-reform” slave camps making golf shoes. We know because we know when all you hear is good news… someone is hiding something. Reliable news, like a hippo, is always followed by a great big but.  

Let’s take this example I’m making up right here. Say the lead news story was that unemployment had dropped to zero. The first part of the story would be auto workers “ye-hawing” in a bar, while they do si doed. BUT if the story ended there, we would be sure that the whole thing had been staged by Hollywood Communists. Or Republicans – take your side. So reporters would have to find someone angry to interview. Maybe a CEO’s bonus did not double. Maybe supporters of equal rights for tapeworms were protesting cheap rum. Maybe someone just invested in a triple latte and spilled it. Whatever the case, as soon as we see someone unhappy “butting” the happy story, we can all sleep content that we were informed unbiasedly.

But-news is so ingrained that if the “but” is absent, it’s either the cooking channel or we just add one ourselves. For instance if you told someone that comrades in Mainland China had just recorded a record crop of cabbage and then stopped without adding a “but,”  Americans would automatically think, “But cabbage makes people flatulent. Those Chinese are going to feel very awkward at the dinner table.”

Now on the other side of the ocean the Chinese are all convinced we can’t do anything right. They watch our news and just shake their heads. Even when we have total happy employment, we spill nine dollar coffee on our sweaters. They call it failure and inharmonious hostility. All I can say to them is, “But…” 

by Nathan Lindberg

Bedtime for Columbus Day

by Nathan Lindberg

Of all official American holidays, Columbus Day is the 30 year old at the high school keg party; no one knows why he’s there but most people agree its embarrassing. Columbus discovered America and all the people living there. It’s like taking a road trip and telling your friends you discovered Canada. Columbus is the reason we have the Cleveland Indians, and probably the Red Skins. Most people have forgotten about him, and besides a few rivers and capitals… bye bye. 

No one will miss Columbus, they haven’t in a few hundred years, but everyone will miss a good day off. It’s time Columbus Day faded like YK2 – an embarrassing moment we all denied participating in – and we got a new reason to stay at home with a hangover. Anyway, through a recent poll (me and my cat), a list of alternative holidays has been compiled. Congress will decide which holiday is suitable as soon as it can find someone to blame Columbus Day on.

1. Ronald Regan Day. On Ronald Regan Day very rich people will have lavish parties and poor people will be encouraged to wait outside the kitchen door anticipating some delicious “trickle down,” delicacies such as half eaten cheese cake, re-regurgitated foie gras and vomit. In honor of the Gipper himself, all copies of Bedtime for Bonzo will be officially labeled libelous and those found in possession will be sent to North Korea. It’s a lousy holiday, but for some bizarre reason its one congress would actually agree to.

2. Hugh Wood, ex-mayor of Lyman Day. Hugh thought he had mouth cancer once so he went to the doctor. After examining him, the doctor asked Hugh what kind of cigarettes he smoked, and he told him Camel bareasses. “Damn it, Hugh,” the doctor said, “you got to put ‘em out before they burn your lips.” That’s a true story and I figure it’s as good as anything Columbus did. On Hugh Wood day we could all bite the heads off of smoked pheasant heads and suck the brains out - something he also used to do.

3. Rush Limbaugh Day. He’s not dead yet, but Glenn Beck pretty much made him look that way. On Rush Day we can all get fat, take prescription drugs and then convince people to buy gold. It’s a stupid holiday, but if everyone paid 10 minutes of attention to Rush, his ego would re-inflate, expand past its limits and then blow up. Now that would be a holiday.

4. John Holmes Day. The 70’s porn star was egotistic and probably misogynistic, but he was hung like a donkey on Red Bull. Personally I (and my cat) can’t think of anything better to celebrate than that.

Well, that’s pretty much all that’s left. If you have any better ideas, I doubt it, anonymously contribute a zillion dollars to Newt Gingrich’s campaign for world domination of him and his friends regurgitated foie gras and he’ll get things straightened out. Bye bye.

by Nathan Lindberg

The Paper Clip Guy still haunts me

by Nathan Lindberg

Every time you buy a sexy new gadget, it means getting a bunch of very non-sexy problems. That new cell phone? It has a 73 page manual called “Downloading the Getting Started Manual.”  Eventually you have to ask your extremely not sexy acquaintance to help you find the “on” switch. He does so, but then he thinks you’re friends and wants you to come to his Doctor Who costume party and he’s going to bug you about not showing up every time you buy another stupid gadget and need his help.

In electronics, everything is always on the cutting edge, which means basically that the bugs haven’t been worked out yet. As soon as the bugs have been worked out, then a Chinese company steals the design and sells it for $20, which inspires mainstream companies to move on to something even more cutting edge which means new bugs. If you attempt to hold on to your old technology not only will people in coffee shops smirk at you, but you won’t be able to buy batteries for it and eventually it will be dead by default. The end result it that we live in a technology world continuously infected by bugs.

Companies like Microsoft are continuously trying to help out on this issue. Microsoft was the inventor of such pundits as that weird cartoon dog and of course the paper clip guy. Remember that Office feature? Every time you typed the word “dear” this little cartoon paperclip popped up and it wanted to help you write a letter. Unfortunately, using the feature was much harder than writing a letter, and who writes letters anyway?

Not long ago, I was sitting at the airport with an MP5 player trying to watch a movie that turned out not to be compatible with my player and so after a few minutes that words got a minute faster than the actors. Eventually everything got all choppy and digitally and I had to stop the movie and start it again. As I was restarting the House Bunny for the sixth time, looking at a three-inch screen, with actors talking like old kung fu movies I marveled just how far technology has taken us.

An old joke used to be the blinking “12:00” on the VCR because no one could figure out (or really cared) how to set the time. Now that joke has expanded to the array of downloaded programs on a computer that were used for one frustrating hour and abandoned, 90 percent of cell phone features never touched, a row of F-numbers on top of computers with dust on them, lights on a vehicle dashboard that must mean something, an abandoned website set up by a nephew, and vague notions of things like Skype and Twitter that must be great because everybody talks about but who has (or wants to have) three days to figure them out? And now that joke has ceased to be funny.

What I want more than anything is for these companies to go away. The less I see of them, the better. Make things as easy as opening a book, turning on a black and white TV, or tuning a radio. Things with more than three buttons are disturbing.  And anything that you have to learn new words just to operate it, is a total time suck. You don’t need urban dictionary to know what that means.

by Nathan Lindberg

Swimming in Bodily Fluids

by Nathan Lindberg
Even at 11 years old I could tell that bobbing for apples was just plain wrong. It happened at the grade school Halloween party when I watched Wendy Tillinghouse, infected with a cold, wipe her snotty nose on her sleeve and then plunge her face into a tub of cold water trying to bite an apple. After several unsuccessful nips and a freshly cleaned nose, she came up for air and promptly gave up. “Your next,” she told me. I swear I could see some of her phlegm floating next to a red delicious with a bite taken out of it. No apple was worth dysentery.
Now as an adult I go to the public swimming pool in summer time when it’s as full as a Lollapalooza toilet. Babies are naked, old people in diapers, kids who have to pee pee one minute and the next don’t at all. Then I dive in. That water that was just bathing someone’s perineum, the same liquid just ejected by two adolescents having a spitting contest, that same water is now surrounding me, going in my ears, seeping in my nose, tricking into my mouth… it’s like I am licking all the people around me.
But I reassure myself; everyday life involves bathing in germs. It starts in my bed filled with dead skin and mites. Did you know your mattress doubles in weight every eight years? Your pillow does the same in only two years. They are plum full of dead skin and bugs that if they were as big as you and I, they would make Segorni Weaver whimper.
Perils of your toilet do not need to be explained, but did you know your kitchen sink makes your commode look like a dinner plate? In fact your own body after a normal day will be ridiculed with feces. Touch a bathroom door, rub your eye, pick your nose, scratch yourself, and you’ve just left a trail of someone else’s faces all over your body, in and out.
Now imagine yourself stepping into an elevator where someone just took the chance to pass gas. There you are with no choice but to breathe. And that gas continues from the other person’s bowels, into your nose and down your throat. It’s like you are eating parts only tea baggers see. In fact you can think of the air as one big swimming pool and all sorts of floaties are coming your way.
You can kill an occasional cockroach, but face it, we are all immersed in disgust, even if you we use handi-wipes.
So I dive in the public pool, take a breath and swim to the other side. Swimming does have its advantages. You never sweat, or if you do, it doesn’t stay on your body. And chlorine effectively kills everything and so you can be assured of swimming in dead dysentery. And if you have a cold? We’ll try not to think about it. At least we can all feel comforted that the water will turn blue. Won’t it?
by Nathan Lindberg

Airports the new bus stations

by Nathan Lindberg
I have distinct memories of going with my parents to the airport to see my sister off. I clearly remember walking down some long hall and to the gate, then watching her actually get on the plane. I remember it clearly because I was thirsty and Cokes in the vending machine were one dollar! It was a third of minimum wage! Anyway, I was too young to be high on acid, and my mom actually confirmed my memory. It really happened. We really went all the way to the gate and stood watching the airplane leave.

Back then it was a treat to go to the airport, like visiting new baseball stadium in April. It was just cool to be there. I can’t even remember going through customs. I think it was some guy nodding to you. And on the plane you actually got food, your choice brown or gray, but there was always a decent chance you would have a seat empty next to you, even a whole row you could lie down on.

I say this now so you young people will realize there once was a day when airports were rather actually rather friendly, not some place where you stand barefoot trying to explain why your wife’s yeast infection medication tube is 5 ounces. There was a time when we actually walked to the gate – yes the gate, where the planes took off. And you could wave goodbye and see the plane leave. It felt a lot more sentimental than watching your love one get moved to the body cavity search line for having beef jerky and then give you a sheepish wave as the customs officer puts on rubber gloves.

Airports are the new bus stations. Sweaty, tired travelers intent on saving $100 by transferring three times to get from L.A. to Seattle. Airline employees who make you feel exactly like a number because that’s what they feel like. Planes jammed full of people who are offered a cup of water, a napkin and a shopping catalogue. Forget animal rights. Airports make me want to start mooing.

Of course you could go first class. A ticket from New York to Tokyo starts at $8,000, or $22,000 for real first class and not some petty budget first class. The same flight starts at $1,700 for economy, probably less if I check Travelocity every 10 minutes. Hmmm, I’m a teacher. I make enough money a year to almost buy a really high class ticket to Tokyo. What am I going to do? Obviously not go to Tokyo.

Economy class. What a spin. It might have fooled price conscious grocery shoppers in the 1970’s, but we all know it now it means “cheap.” And if you are cheap, you have no rights. You deserve to be stuck in a chair that every year gets an inch smaller until now the only way to sit next to an adult is to cross your legs, clutch yourself and pray you don’t need to breathe. You are poor and you will be treated as such. The waitresses, sorry stewardesses, sorry, sorry, flight attendants, hate you as much as their jobs. At least waitresses get tipped. They hate you and all you want to do is get drunk, but beer is $8 a can and if you drink one you might have to go to the bathroom and 78 people using one bathroom guarantees a line up for certain smells if not fluids sloshing around in a closet.

Air travel is our modern form of torture. It starts out by being degraded at customs, removing clothing, exposing all your personal items, then going off to the special room because you did not pack your douche medicine in a clear plastic bag. Then it turns to blatant cheating as you pass customs and get into the “duty free” zone where food is priced to compete with Yankee Stadium. Further humiliation is guaranteed sitting in uncomfortable airport chairs waiting for three hours because that’s how long you have to arrive at the airport or you might get bumped. Or maybe you get bumped anyway because airlines always oversell seats to insure someone will get bumped –sort of like the unlucky lottery – but don’t worry, they’ll give you a coupon good for $100 off your next trip on a weekday, before 7:30 a.m. or after 3:33 p.m., January through March - holidays and North America excluded.

But we all understand. After all, airlines have it tough. Three years ago gas was really expensive. And congress is doing terrible things to them, like making them take people back to the airport terminal if people get stuck on a plane for more than three hours on the runway. How can airlines make profits with restrictions like that! Besides, the economy, tarp, incumbents, fat cat Wall Street derivatives, and the terrorists. Obviously they have to charge more! Just look around the airport at the hordes of red-eyed prisoners, sorry passengers. Can’t you see business is terrible? Airlines have been forced to cut down on flights until even the baby bassinettes are sold out.

And then there’s terrorist. For some reason they can’t target a freeway, bridge or refinery. They have to get into airports. Maybe they’re trying to use that $100 coupon that expires in a week. For them we take off our shoes, buy mini-sized bottles of lubrication to pack into clear plastic bags, and feel nervous and guilty but we’re never sure why. You want to catch terrorists? Make them take any shameful, sorry I mean “economy,” flight and they’ll probably confess at the gate just to get to the comforts of Guantanamo.

Going flying used to be fun. You could tell your friends you were going on a plane and they’d be envious, like you found an iPad in a bar last year. But today when you tell people you are going to the airport they shake their heads and offer you their leftover Vicodin.

I’ve heard it will get worse. As fuel gets more expensive three years ago, airlines will have to make many more sacrifices, mostly ours. Soon we will strip completely naked and pay by the pound to have sleep-depraved inmates shove us into planes with cattle prods, offering $100 coupons to anyone who suffocates or loses their ability to walk. But we understand times are tough, and then there’s, you know, terrorist, of course. Bon Voyage.
by Nathan Lindberg

I don’t care about Afghanistan and I want my money back

by Nathan Lindberg
I think I speak for the majority of Americans when another news announcer asks, “What will happen to Iraq and Afghanistan when the US troops leave?” and I mutter to the cat, “I don’t care.” If you missed that I’d like to say it again. Afghanistan and Iraq --- I don’t care. No caring here. Zero. I have more caring about what shoes Britney Spears will wear to rehab than to be told how absolutely terrible everything over “there” is.

It’s not that I am cold hearted and don’t feel for the people. Actually, I truly think if I hung out with the average Afghani or Iranian we’d probably get along all right. Sure, we might have to avoid certain subjects, like religion, women’s lib, eating goat eyes, George Bush (they might like him), and political cartoons…But if we just hung out and talked about our kids and maybe drank some tea, we’d probably get along fine. And if one of them said they needed some helping herding some cattle or adding a harddrive to their PC, I’d be glad to lend a hand. But me and the equivalent of me – a guy who wants his daughters to finish their homework and their wife to stop telling them to not belch at the dinner table – is not what I think of when I think of the United States Army in the Mid-East.

When I think of the US war/aid/nation building/military action/occupation/freedom rescue/whatever-the-term-for-today-is, I think of a lot of really terrible men stealing about 99 percent of the money we are pumping over there. I picture these men stealing our money sitting behind large piles of cash laughing and calling Americans complete idiots. Most of these men I picture live in Texas and/or are named Cheney. Meanwhile the Afghani and the Iraqi who are the equivalent of me might have heard rumors of a public bathroom the marines constructed that unfortunately was bombed 20 minutes after the first flush and no one wants to go outside anymore anyway.

No offense to Afghani guy who is equivalent of me, but what I really don’t care about is sending 800 billion dollars to about 40 men who we have made so filthy rich that my only hope is to mow their lawn some day. Call me cheap, but I’d like some health insurance, some social security checks, maybe even some jobs. I am sick of shipping all our money straight into IED bombs.

Oh, I know, politics, terrorist, Al Qaeda, Exxon’s oil, Haliburton executive bonuses, we will never give up and we are Americans, damn it. Let me repeat. “I don’t care.” Let’s lose. Let them have their own country. It’s very, very, very clear that they don’t want us and we are doing absolutely no good there. If we leave now, everything we have built up will be gone in about 14 minutes. If stay another 40 years then leave, everything we built up will be gone in about 15 minutes. What’s the difference? About 900 billion more dollars, that’s the difference.

Time to leave, go, goodbye, see you later. It’s your country and why were we ever there? Chalk it up to lesson very well learned. Russia did it, so can we. Move over France, it’s time for some good old isolationism. And those men with the big cash piles? Do you need your lawn mowed? I could use a job because I’m broke.
by Nathan Lindberg

Tireless Hours Researching Porn

by Nathan Lindberg
Never before have so many of a single generation viewed so much… porn. According to my own studies (making stuff up), 98 percent of adolescent boys viewed graphic sexual pictures within the first five minutes of being left alone with a computer. The other two percent looked up the term tea bagger on Urbandictionary.com first. Results for girls in their early teens and younger, were slightly different. It took them a total of two hours before they “accidently” stumbled across explicit sexual images while searching for Miley Cyrus. A very small percentage of children forced to listen to classical music at an early age and only given wooden educational toys for Christmas, took an excess of three hours before viewing pornographic images, after clicking toys.

Ahh, I remember back in the day, wondering around the golf course looking in the ditches for golf balls when suddenly one of my friends would shout out in alarm that he had found a – a Playboy! With shaking hands, my friends and I would huddle in a circle, while the lucky discoverer skimmed through 200 pages of articles on the latest cassette players to the apogee - the centerfold - and there she was… a blonde woman, well endowed, standing askew and so you could almost, just barely, if you held the photo a few inches from you sweaty face, see her… pubic hair!

Now kids see more on a downtown billboard or a text message. In fact my own studies (guessing) have revealed that the average 13 year old has seen more pictures of naked people than my father, grandfather and the entire membership of the Masonic Lodge 464 all put together. And this viewing took place within 37 minutes of being left alone with a high speed Internet connection while Mom cleaned the bathroom.

Technology advances have insured that viewing pornography will become far easier for children in the future. 5G phones allow children to down load porn constantly and never get caught trying desperately to close a series of pop-up windows while at the same time covering their groin with a box of tissue as Mom and Dad just walk into the living room without knocking when they should have been at that stupid party until after midnight. If only Dad hadn’t sworn of drinking.

My studies (fabricating) conclude that there is a high probability (probably all) children will be exposed to Japanese water sport cosplay pictures long before their parents thought they had given up playing with Transformers. No longer are children exposed just to the possibility of viewing pubic hair in a rotting magazine found by a golf course, but they are sure to see a surgeon’s view of every bodily crevice being probed by every membrane - animal, vegetable, and mineral.

It is far too late for the local PTA’s to condemn the Internet and vote to abolish it. The times are not ah chang’n. They changed. The beans have been spilled and there’s no getting that pussy – sorry, cat – back in the bag. We have to all face the fact that our children inevitably will see pictures of naked people having sex. It’s now time to ask how much this will mess them up.

My research (this blog) has proven that the number one result of seeing graphic porn will be disappointment. From movies of people moaning and groaning in a crescendo of ecstasy, to the back of your dad’s Prius, trying to hide the pimple on your shoulder that you just popped and it keeps bleeding all over the place, teenagers experiencing their first physical contact will wonder what went wrong? Then there are misguided young men who will approach girls with lines like “Wanna trio, babe?” and be dumbfounded when the girl does not blindly obey, or even worse when she says yes and they end up naked with some guy named Turbo.

Beyond disappointment, many young boys will end up reclusive, locked inside a dark bedroom that smells of fish, filling garbage cans full of tissue. But video games have pretty much ensured that will happen anyway. Ultimately we can add porn to drugs, obesity, lethargy, apathy, and other pitfalls that kids fall in and we just hope we taught them enough that they will have the good sense to get out of, or at least take their Prozac. Other than that, the damage has already been done, and that old Playboy collection you have? It’s safe now to throw it all in the ditch. No one will bother to pick it up.
by Nathan Lindberg

Family Outings: prepared for the Giant Purple Snail

by Nathan Lindberg
Inevitably, most family outings begin by waiting. “Did you get the sun block?” “I’ll go get it.” “What about water? Do we have at least three bottles?” “I’ll check.” “We might need some aspirin. We always need aspirin.” “I think we have a bottle in the car. Why don’t you check?” My wife and I take turns waiting at the door, then outside the door, then at the car, and even in the car while it’s running as we take turns rushing back into our house for more crucial supplies. Finally ready, at least one of us says, “I feel like I’m forgetting something.” And then we realize our kids are still in bed.

Last week at the amusement park I was marveling at fellow parent preparations. Mothers and fathers with belts that held two or three or even more water bottles and a fanny pack full of snacks. Strollers with multiple pockets stuffed with a Walmart inventory of clothes, moist towelettes, ointments, and, of course, the camera equipment. Every stage of every outing must be recorded, and that is why dozens of parents lined the edge of the S-Car Go Happy Train with video cameras, phones, and digital 3D stills, all ready to record. It was essential that their child’s first trip in a giant smiling purple snail be recorded then later filed under Amusement Park Part XXI, so someday it could remind a grown up infant that childhood was not as carefree as imagined.

The most bored of all the purple snail riding children was one little boy who brought a total support team with him. Grandma, grandpa, mom, dad, and an odd aunt or cousin or something were all kept at bay by the S-Car-Go perimeter fence and the maximum three-foot entry requirement. All of them were either documenting the historic ride or making preparations for the journey’s culmination, taking out water bottles, and baggies of healthy-type snacks. As soon as the boy disembarked, not even the three-foot limit could keep the support team out.

Grandma was the first to arrive, showing that she was much more diligent than the others by immediately offering the boy sports drink and a fun pack of “kids” trail mix. Mom, not to be outdone, asked the boy if he was too hot, or perhaps to cold, or perhaps his hat was too tight or his glasses fogged. Dad was dolefully still documenting and grandpa was arguing that trail mix was just candy deceivingly labeled. Then the unthinkable occurred. As the boy stepped out of the vehicle, his foot caught the purple snail’s happy lady bug companion, and the boy, unable to keep his balance, fell.

The support team stood in stunned silence as the world stopped for that one quiet moment when a child draws a big breath for the anticipated wail. When the cry came, the support team overcame their shock and immediately began procedure. The mother was first to the boy for inspection, but the grandmother was not to be outdone. She had a wet cloth out the moment the mother discovered a redden palm. She called out for ice, and the aunt-cousin, who up to that point had been pushed out of the front line, was sent on a mission. Meanwhile the father scrambled to put away his recording gear. The situation was far to grave for recording, besides memories should be happy.

The grandpa announced the trip was over and they needed to go to home that instant. The grandmother upped him by suggesting a doctor, and the mother trumped them all by bringing up the emergency room. As they argued they stood the boy up for further inspection, nose whipping, brushing off clothes, and words of comfort. The grandpa began evacuation procedures while the grandma produced three sizes of band aids and disinfectant. As the first aid was administered, the aunt returned with a bag of ice and a look of concern. She suggested the support team move off the S-Car Go train tracks so the ride could continue for other children. There was resentment against the aunt, but when the support team noticed that all the people waiting in line were frowning at them, they consented.

As the support team moved their patient outside the perimeter fencing, I got my camera ready to record my seven year old boarding what looked like a giant drunk weasel, grinning like pay day. I could no longer see the support team. I was focused on the action shot, where the anthropomorphic creature cars went over a bump. I had no time to look back, but I couldn’t help but hear the aunt’s suggestion, so horrifying the team was once again stunned into silence. “It’s just a scratch. He’ll probably be okay. Besides, we just got hear 10 minutes ago.” The mother was the first to admit the redden palm wasn’t so bad. In fact it was more of a pink. The grandmother thought there might be broken bones, unobservable from the outside, but the boy was able to move his hand freely when asked to. The grandpa was all for “better safe than sorry,” pointing out that all of the rides in the park had fatal flaws, and were basically death traps. But the father pointed out that he had just charged all his batteries and bought new memory cards. It would be a shame to leave at 9:30 a.m.

Slowly, the team had to admit, the emergency was not as grave as once imagined, although the grandmother declared it an omen of what potential dangers lie ahead and how none of them could afford to let down their guard. After everyone concurred with her, the mother pronounced the S-Car Go ride far too dangerous to dare repeating. All agreed. They would try the carousel next. It allowed adults inside and the grandfather quickly stated he would be the one by the boy’s side, but the mother said it should be her and the grandmother did not agree with either of them. I heard the voices fade, still arguing as they made their way across the park.

Having captured the S-Car Go whoop-tee-do on film, including my daughter’s smile, I felt fulfilled for the moment, even the day. It was my second daughter’s third trip to the park and I had already filed sufficient memories away. The shots I had been taking were just assurance, or perhaps to chronicle my daughter’s growth in the last six months. I reached down to my fanny pack in between the matching water bottles and took out a bag of tail mix. Chocolates and gummy bears, maybe the grandpa was right, but I needed a candy boost. Amusement parks are hard work.
by Nathan Lindberg

being cool with bald spots

by Nathan Lindberg
Ahh, I remember when I was cool. Well, at least when I thought I was cool. It was at the same time I worked much harder than kids these days, music was really good, and computers were evil creatures bent on killing Captain Kirk. But the other day while I was unclogging the toilet, again, I realized my era of cool was undeniably dead.


Cool is everything I am not and can not be. Cool is being bored. Cool is rebelling. Cool is looking good. Cool is saying smooth lines that actually don’t make people laugh. Now I am a father of two with a full time teaching job. I long to be bored, sitting around with nothing to do, but those dishes are not washing themselves. I no longer rebel, kids rebel against me. If I try to rebel I’ll probably be shunned at the next PTA meeting. My occasional outburst is a spell-checked letter to the editor, or a call to a late night talk show under the moniker of “Ray.” It’s physically impossible for me to look good. If I wear younger clothes I look like grandpa went to the wrong section of the mall. If I put on my best clothes I look like I’m either out for a Sunday jaunt or ready to hit the olde country club. My bald spot and bulging middle say, “Do I get a discount?” not “Hey, baby.”

“Coolness” is dependent on “youngness.” Young people get injured by falling off snowboards, crashing motorcycles, and having too much sex. I get injured by taking out the garbage, sitting in a computer chair, or standing up too quickly. Young people shave their heads. Mine seems to have shaved itself. When young people have to unclog the toilet, it’s funny and a great story to tell their friends. When I unclog the toilet, it the final result of having terrible hemorrhoids.

Coolness has been replaced by practicality. Sexy brands of toothpaste are swapped for whatever was on sale or something I had to buy at an Amway party. My refrigerator is slowly being infiltrated by Low-Fat syndrome. Sugar-free ice cream, bacon substitute, baked corn chips and vitamin supplements – things that used to make me giggle have taken over and now my fridge looks like a lecture from Uncle Harold after his third heart attack.

It’s not difficult to find out you lost your cool. Young people are incredibly very willing to point it out to you. A well-placed snicker at the swimming pool or an overheard joke outside your bathroom can paint a thousand pictures. The first time stings, but eventually you face the inevitable. Old fartness has replaced “youngness.” Oh, I know there are those of you my age denying old fartness, and then there are those of you younger-type folks who swear it will never happen to you. But do not reject old fartness. Let it come to you like gas after an operation. It feels good, despite the smell.

Think off all the benefits that come with not being cool. You never have to feel bad looking in the on sale bin, nor do you need to apologize when the stuff in it is garbage. In fact, you can tell the 19 year old sales clerk that the clothes look like something a pimp and his boyfriend would feel embarrassed wearing. Embrace your old fartness, yell at the neighbor for playing Eminem too loud. And don’t be afraid to add that anyone who constantly sings about his penis must have deep disturbing issues with it. What every happened to the Sex Pistols? Now that was real music. Then tell the cute clerk at the grocery store the same joke you’ve told her 37 times before, and laugh just as hardily. Heck, get a Harley motorcycle and park it proudly in your garage. You might even start it every now and then.

All right, I’m actually only 44. I’m not ready for prescription drugs and day time TV, but I can see it just over the horizon. It’s beckoning me like eating a discounted Denny’s grand slam a 7 a.m. after a full night’s sleep and no hang over whatsoever. And standing around bored, looking cool, rebelling against vegetable eating and reciting things I saw on cable TV – well leave that to Bono or Sting or one of those younger-type folks. After all, those dishes aren’t washing themselves.
by Nathan Lindberg