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
Monday, August 16, 2010
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
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
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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
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
Friday, August 6, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
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
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
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