Perspectives

“Nobody else has it as hard as I do.”

Seems I’ve been watching a lot of reality TV lately.  I used to watch American Idol, but like my previous radio industry job, it’s becoming less and less about the music and more about the drama and the dollar.

Idol was bad enough with J-Lo and Steven Tyler.  Don’t get me wrong: J-Lo was a sweetheart, and Steven…well, he was fun to watch, but I never felt that when it came to the competitors, these two were anything more than big name fanboys.

“That was amazing!”

That was something all right. It could have been great, if you’d have said something constructive.

Now the show has new hosts. We have Hurricane Mariah, Nicki Who, and Mr. Kidman playing the role of Cousin Oliver. Yeah, I can’t wait to watch this year’s first act jump the shark. And yet so far this year’s buzz maelstrom has had nothing to do with talent. It’s about which diva started which catfight.  And no matter which witch started which, we’ve been assured there’ll be more claws and candy where that came from.

And I thought this was about music.

So now I’m tasting the Voice. I have to say, as far as talent shows go, the flavors here are authentic. The recipe is simple. Four judges whip a froth of talented vocalists until the best sets, and the rest settles to the bottom.  The winner gets sprinkles, accolades, and a cherry on top. Ok, I’m assuming the accolades, but I know there’ll be cherries and sprinkles.

The thing that works for the Voice, is that the judges are competing against each other. You’d think that might create more cattiness, but it doesn’t. See, these are trained professionals, and they know how to get what they want. To do that,  they need to show sweetness on the top so they can slide the knife in from underneath. Cuz it’s not just the contestants who want to win, so do their coach/judges.

So I watch. And so I learn. See so far every contestant bio for every person who’s mounted the stage includes these words: “Nobody else has it as hard as I do.”

Wha?  I thought this was a singing contest not a whining contest. If it’s a whining contest, then somebody get me an application. I’m gonna go show them what a whiny ass is all about.

Yeah every contestant has a “hard” background unlike any other.

“I’m a waitress.”

“I come from a small town.”

“I’m a washed up child star.”

“I’m poor.”

“I was kidnapped at gunpoint when I was five.”

It’s like the Breakfast Club review, except maybe that last one. And yes, she is a still a contestant. Not because she was kidnapped, but because that girl can sing. The girl who lost her house in Katrina? She went home. The Sympathy card doesn’t play as well on the show called the Voice.

That doesn’t stop people from using their voice to pitch it though.  And I do get it. It’s TV. But as a frustrated artist myself, this sounds less like TV and more like the voices in my head.

By the end of the show I find myself shouting at the screen, “Really? I’ve got two unpublished novels and a read- by-family-only blog. What makes you any more deserving than I am? Talent?  OK, well you’ve got me there…”

All the while the Pirate Queen is hiding all the hurlables until she finally changes the channel to Hoarders “Honey, here. These people have it harder than you do.”

She’s right.

And yet I can still say, “Nobody else has it as hard as I do.”

Why?

Because apparently it takes at least one hour of hard-luck television to give my life perspective.

Thesaurus Claus

Halloween’s at hand, Thanksgiving’s on our bellies, and the election hurts us where we sit. What does all this mean to you? Christmas is just two months of white stubble away from becoming a full beard.

Speaking of beards I’m growing one again, but that’s another story for another day after things grow in. Today we’re talking about Christmas. Specifically Christmas and how it relates to me.

What? This is the season of giving.  And what better way to give than send a present to your 145^th favorite blogger? That’s right. And to show you my Christmas spirit, I’ll give you a list of what I want.

I know! My love is limitless! I’m one of the good ones!  Santa thinks so too, but he always gets me the wrong thing. He’s always stocking my stocking with pre-diamond coal and pre-packaged cow Pringles. This year I decided I’d be pre-emptive. I’ll express my Christmas desires pre-Christmas.

I’ll tell ya what I want, what I really really want.

And no.  In light of election season, My Queen has vetoed the spice girl fantasy. That’s ok. I saw The Spice Girls at the Olympics. Baby Spice looks a little more Old Spice these days.  I already have a cabinet of Old Spice.  I don’t need any more smells from another generation.

What I need is a thesaurus. 

That’s right.  I need to reload my word gun. 

My old thesaurus has been around since High School. It was great then but that was back when the English language consisted of five grunts, and Roget was still alive. Now language is so much more diverse.

WTF?

Yeah, we had a phrase for that when I was a kid, but it took three words and one of them I couldn’t say in front of my parents.

“What the fu—OW! Dad!“

That’s why I need a new Thesaurus, so I can talk to my parents.  I also need one to talk to you, and that’s why I think you should get one for me.  Are you taking notes, cuz my thesaurus needs are very specific.

I don’t want one of those stupid Dictionary/Thesauri/Wastes of paper things.  I can get the same results from Microsoft Word or iPhone’s spell correct. See, Dic-sauri are like redneck village wife searches: The choices are small and all related.

I need a category organized thesaurus that doesn’t transform into a dictionary. I have a dictionary already. I need list of words broken into subject tables with an index in the back.

That’s another important thing:  My thesaurus needs a good index.  See, how can I find the right words with a shoddy index? That’s like trying to Google proper tourniquet procedures using only the word “bind.” A bad index makes a good Thesaurus useless.

I do believe books should be flawless, but a Thesaurus should at least reference a "flaw's" existence.

There ya go.  See? I kept my list and my blog simple, easy, uncomplicated, effortless, minimal, basic, streamlined, uncluttered…

Dead Poets and Dragons

Somewhere in my college years I fell in love with the English language. I’ve always had a respect for it, but in my younger years it was more of a hands off style of respect, much like I respected the scorpion or girls, because both had consequence.

I mean I wrote, but words?  They were dull tools meant to thump ideas into shape. Vocabulary and grammar? Those were pretty words used by silly girls making up for poor math and science skills.

Stick that in your hypotenuse!

I know.  That makes no sense, but it’s how I proved superior math words over vocabulary drivel. That was me in High School. Yeah, I was popular with all the ladies.

Maybe that’s why I changed my perspective in college. Ladies loved dead poets. OK, no, let’s be honest: It’s not. Ladies do love dead poets, but no, that’s not why I changed teams. I want to blame some cool dead poet, but I can’t. It was a dude, and he wasn’t even a poet.

But he was dead.

 I blame Ernest Hemmingway.

Teams...? What?  You thought I was…No!  Not that team! And maybe that’s why I never was good with the ladies before college: poorly chosen words. And maybe that’s an even more important reason for loving words later: precision.  As a writer, people like to know what I mean. 

What am I saying?

I wish I knew.  That’s why I love Hemmingway. He used single words to cast multiple meaning shadows so that nobody knew what he was talking about.

Throughout school, teachers tried to get me to interpret writers’ motives. I can tell you that according to my English teachers “cuz it was a cool story” was never a motive that crossed any worthy writer’s mind.  I can also tell you “cool” never crossed Charles Dickens’ mind either. He lived in a really cool era and never wrote a cool story.

“Please sir, might I have some more.”

“Why yes, there’re 500 more grueling pages where that one came from. Here, enjoy”

Yeah, that never got me far with the ladies either.  Ladies love Dickens. They find him romantic.

Ladies didn’t find Hemmingway romantic. Reading him never got me in with ladies. But understanding him gave me a chance.  See I knew if 1,000 monkeys could hammer out Shakespeare over time, 1 halfwit college kid could create Hemmingway.

“Dog-pillaged carnivals canter endless dirges into sunset.”

I found that sentence by rolling Dungeon & Dragon dice and then picking corresponding pages in a Thesaurus.  College girls thought they found somebody clever. They did, just not how they thought.

“Are you saying that American society is dying?”

“Wha—are you topless? Sure! That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Yes, that’s right, dear reader, I found a way to utilize teen years of Dungeons & Dragons that make me look cool. And for that I thank Ernest Hemmingway.

And yes, I am saying that my love for language didn’t spring from a completely altruistic well.  Those waters were tainted long ago. They were corrupted by the trickling blood of authors and poets: some living, some dead, all thirsty for more than pretty words with women.

Pretty words and D&D have a lot in common.  For one thing, we use them to fill the time we’d rather spend with women. For another, we use them to create worlds. Worlds where we embody either heroes or villains, but worlds where we’re in command. 

Words are superpowers.

So now I find myself a more mature word powered man. I’m no longer a college kid spinning yarns for games of naked twister. I’m older, and hopefully wiser. I have a wife. I have responsibilities.  I have words, I should use them appropriately.

Hemmingway taught me that words were fun. I love them. Time and experience have taught me that the things you love, you treat with respect, because like girls and scorpions, they sting.

This blog you read. I hope you enjoy it. This is where I try to find that balance. This is my refuge of words: my laboratory of love, respect, and whimsy. This is where I return the gift that has been given to me, and hopefully where I make you think, feel and smile. That’s what I’ve learned from the words that were taught to me. And where I give them back to you, out of love.

Inner Struggle

Breaking news: I’m writing again!

Ok, so I never stopped, except as far you the reader can tell.

If a writer writes alone in the woods, does he have a voice? Thoreau would argue yes, and then drown me beneath the Walden waters.  Yeah, little known Thoreau fact: He had a mean streak. No really, he was admired for his naked pond prance before running into the water for a match of splashy-splashy. Mean streaking aside, Thoreau was also rather idealistic and seemed to believe thoughtful action for having purpose. 

My thoughtful quiet writing actions have had purpose. That appeases my inner Thoreau. I’m writing a young adult novel.  It takes up most of my time.  It’s gonna take up a lot more too, I’m only on chapter 2. That means little time for naked splashy-splashy. Thoreau isn’t so happy with that.

Still, I like what I’ve written.  It just takes a lot of refinement to get where I like it. 

I once saw an interview with Nile Rogers. During the 80’s, he talked with Madonna about producing her “Like a Virgin” album. She played him a demo of the title track and told him he had to like it if he wanted to work with her. She was that convinced that the song was a hit. Nile wasn’t as convinced, but he said later that he knew that the song would be a hit when he was done with it.

So sitting in my Starbucks tapping out a day’s work, I’m a little bit Niles and a little bit Madonna. I know that I’m working on something good, and I also know that it will be really good when I’m done with it.

Unfortunately my inner Madonna doesn’t have the real Madonna’s checking account or unlimited resources. I’ve got me, and my Pirate Queen fan base. I don’t have the ear of top producers or publishers telling me, “This won’t work, try this.” I’ve got a writers’ group of people just like me: just as convinced of their unique voice to tell the tale that only they can tell.

My inner Niles isn’t as convinced. My inner Niles says that the story is solid, and it will be fantastic when I’ve shaped it into the glorious golden work he has planned. 

And then there’s my inner critic.  He’s seen two other books come and go from head to paper with nothing to show for it but black ink on white paper. “What’s the difference?” He says.  He’s seen Madonna and Niles collaborate before, and hasn’t found the results impressive—at least not in terms of sales.

Over the years, I’ve belonged to and led several writers groups.  I’ve seen proud writers bounce in with their new babies, and I’ve seen other writers tear those ugly babies to shreds.  I’ve seen blind parents leave in blind rage, never to return because they’re too proud to see, and I worry.  Not about them.  I’m far to self-centered for that. Besides, they’ll be fine. They have an ugly baby to keep them warm.

I worry about me.

Am I the proud parent of an ugly baby too?

See I can’t take everything everybody else says as law. This is a peer group. This isn’t an agent or publisher telling me what they will or won’t buy. I have to have confidence. 

I don’t know. My inner Madonna is suckerpuncking my sickened ego for even suggesting an ugly baby, right now.  I feel sorry for my ego: it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask the question.

See, I see those other proud parents and I worry because they don’t see the ugly. If I’m going to succeed, I need to see the ugly, so I can change it. 

As a parent, if your son steals, you need to know it. Not because he’s a bad kid and you need to hide your jewelry. You need to know it so you can correct his ugly actions. You need to see what’s wrong with your children so you can make them better. You also need to see what’s right with your children and embrace that.

“Last night you stole the neighbors car without setting off the alarm.  Good job.”

The important thing isn’t necessarily your child, but your vision. Can you see? Do you know the difference between good and bad?

I used to believe Madonna did, she just chose whichever course gave her what she wanted. I’ve heard Madonna’s latest CD. I’m not so sure I believe anymore. And if I can’t believe in the real Madonna, what does that say about my inner Madonna?

“Rob, that torpedo tip bra looks marvelous!”

Right now my ego is suckerpunching back.

This is where my inner Thoreau comes back out and reminds me of the focus.

And my psychiatrist offers me and my inner voices a nice quiet place to finish my book.

55 Cancri E or Bust!

I’ve been watching a lot of TV lately.  It’s amazing, the educational value of television. I used to learn from Big Bird. Now I learn about him.  Did you know that Mitt Romney hates Big Bird? It’s true! The TV told me. It’s also true that Obama hates economic recovery! TV told me that too! Don’t even get me started on Lindsey Lohan! Did you know that she’s not a virgin? I swear!  I saw it on TV. 

You know what else I saw on TV? It’s unbelievable!  I saw a Rob-piphany. That’s right! Last night, while the Pirate Queen underwent dreamland mutiny complete with real-land flailing, kicking, and punching her RobBlogger, I retreated to the couch.  That’s when I saw it, as I flipped through channels.

“…unwanted facial hair to your husband’s scalp!”

No not that.  This was real.  This was about 55 Cancri e.

The diamond planet. That’s where I’m taking my next spaceship.  It’s where my parents hid the Boyd millions. The TV didn’t tell me about the millions, but It did tell me about the planet, and I’m quite capable of reading the stars.  It’s as easy as connecting the dots.

Come along! I’ll explain everything…

Ring! Ring!

Ring! Ring!

Ring! Ring!

“mmm…yello?”

“Hi Dad!  It’s me, Rob!”

“mmm…yah…er…who?”

“Me! Rob. Your son!”

“My son doesn’t call before 4 am.”

“He does when he’s found the hidden family fortune!”

“I told you son, your grandfather said he was taking his accordion with him, and that’s where we’re leaving it.”

“Not those riches. The family diamonds.”

“The wha--? Are you talking to Dr. Phil again?”

So the phone call was off to a rocky start, but that’s how most planets are. My dad’s smart, he picks things up quickly, so I explained about the Boyd diamonds:  a whole planet of them waiting to be discovered.  See, they’re technically not Boyd diamonds, yet, but they’re in the news, and they will be Boyd diamonds. Oh yes they will be mine.

See there’s this planet, 55 Cancri e, we’ll call it Boydtropolis for now, cuz that’s what I’ll name it when I plant my flag there, so to speak. Boydtropolis, it’s a Super-Earth circling a sun in cancer. That’s the crab constellation, not the melanoma.  The planet is about 40 light years away, about 280 years in cat years so I’ve told Persephone she can’t come.

Mew-mew.

She took it well.  So did my Dad. See for him family is everything.

“So, let me get this straight. You called me at 3:30—“

“3:35.”

“Yeah. 3:35 to tell me that you’re leaving for a planet 40 light years away to claim it and collect diamonds.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you know how long that will take you?”

“40 light years.”

“I see you’ve thought through this.”

Most dads would hang up here. Not my Dad. My dad keeps going. He knows a good idea when he hears one.  See, once I travel those 40 light years, there’s a planet on the other side made of diamonds. A planet of diamonds? That’s enough to make Ernst Stavro Blofeld sit up and take notice.

“Right idea Mr. Bond.”

“But wrong pussy.”

Of course. I’ve told you. Persephone can’t make the trip. That’s why I’m going alone. I’m like a miner 49er rushing to California only to discover it amok with hippies.

“Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape.”

Wrong “folly of man” discovery, sorry. The coffee must be wearing off. Or maybe I’m soaking in all this TV rays. They say there are a lot of rays in space.

Anyway, they may have rays in space, but they don’t have apes or hippies on Boydtropolis.  First, the crust is made mostly of diamonds; diamonds are as attractive to apes and hippies as Bernie Madoff trading cards.

“Ooh, look! They form a pyramid!”

Second, Boydtropolis circles its sun a little closer than Earth circles our sun. The surface temperature is right around 3,900 degrees.  Hippies and Apes don’t do well in that kind of heat. Me? I’m not worried; it only gets that hot during the summer. And it’s a dry heat. Besides, the days are shorter, I’ll work at night, and wear a mining light.

“And you have a space ship that travels the speed of light?” Asks Dad.

“Not yet, Dad.  That’s where you come in.”

“Of course it is…Hang on” There’s a rattle on the other side of the phone.

“What’s that sound?”

“Aspirin bottle [gulp, swallow]. Continue.”

“I need to borrow some money from you—you know for the spaceship.”

“Have you tried your mom? She might be more willing to help.”

“Because Grandpa worked with NASA?”

“OK. That works.  Sure, because her father worked with NASA is a great reason. Call your mom.”

“I already did.”

“Oh.”

“She said to call you. She said that if anybody knew about coal to diamonds and the tight pressure required for that, it would be you.”

“I see...”

He did see.  He said a little more about how he missed Mom’s opinions and other things like that.  If this were TV there’d be a laugh track here followed by a slow fade to commercials here.

When we came back from commercial we’d wrap things up.  This is where Dad would reach through the phone, rub my head, call me a “scamp” and give me the money I need for Boydtropolis.

“Son, you can’t be a moron all your life.”

“That’s not what you told me in High School.”

“Yes, well my perspective has changed.  So you really think you can endure 4,000 degree—“

“3,900 degree, Fahrenheit.”

 “--temperatures to mine diamonds and bring them back home in ship with a---what did you call it—An FTL drive?”

“Yeah, FTL, Faster Than Light.  They have them on Stargate.”

“Of course they do.”
“And no, I know I can’t take 3,900 degree temperatures. That’s silly. I’d burn up.  I have a different plan.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“I’ll tow the planet back to Earth, that way I can mine it in safe, short intervals. I got the idea from Bugs Bunny.”

“Brilliant.  Well unfortunately I don’t have the kind of money required to tow a planet. We’re strapped, and it’s a little outside my range.  See, it requires a special laser lasso that needs to be licensed and permitted by the space towing commission.  The permit alone is far more than I can pull together on such short notice.”

“And that’s why I wanted to talk to you about digging up Grandpa. We need his accordion.”

This is where my dad hangs up.

See, there comes a point where we all have to shut out the noise. What? You’re looking for more meaning here?  Don’t you know, blogs are as trustworthy as television. We reel you in with facts about diamond planets, then wander off on our own agenda. My agenda? A little time away from the TV, a good nights sleep and the Boyd

F.B.M.

I want a fat batman.

Detroit needs one. No, the world needs one, but I’m a selfish self-indulgent Rob-blogger, bring the fat batman to me, and then maybe, for a box of bearclaws, I’ll share him with you. We’ll see.

Petoskey on Michigan's Bat Mitt

Regular batman? He’s overrated.  Multimillionaire playboy playing with toys, cuz he can.  Fat batman? He’s for real. He’s part of the city.

Well, a real part of the city of Petoskey anyway. That doesn’t make him any less real though. And like the real fake batman he fights criminals, and is treated like a criminal by the police.  Earlier this week, it was the state police.

It seems that fat batman was assisting the police in a stolen car case, only the police didn’t see his selfless dedication as “assistance.” They saw his efforts as “contaminating a crime scene.” His bat-style clue search maneuvers confused the tracking dogs. They had not been trained to differentiate between “criminal scent” and three-day-old “bat-suit scent.”

I was impressed that the state troopers have dogs who can track down car thieves. I want one of those too.

“Where’s the taco truck, Rex? Where’s the taco truck? Good boy!”

I bet fat batman wants one of those too. The dog, I’m sure he already owns a taco truck. He’s fat batman, FB to his friends.

Who is this FB man? I can’t tell you that. It’s an alter ego, those are secret.  In real life he’s not so much fat as kinda chubby. Also, according to a local news report, FB has a wife who owns a small shop in Petoskey. Bet you can’t guess where the bat cave is!

“I am the guardian of the bat cave,” said Mrs. Batman. Ok no she didn’t, but I so wanted her to. 

We’ll the bat cave has been a little empty lately. Batman spent an evening in jail, and no, this isn’t the first time Mrs. Batman has slept alone.  Like any true vigilante, fat batman has spent more than one night in jail. Last May police arrested FB for rooftop surveillance without rooftop permission from said rooftop owner.

Strike another one up for the bad guys.

Strike one for cool batman perch poses too though! Squatting on a roof watching for crime? Can’t you see that? The police did, and they arrested him.

I’m sure they’ll do it again. Me, I say, hey, this is Michigan, if a bat guy’s squatting on a rooftop doing something other than dropping bat guano, give him a medal. Let’s take a positive where we can find it.

That’s why Detroit needs a fat batman.  Right now, for every good thing that goes right in Detroit, we have Google map pages with gun toting thugs, news articles about corrupt public servants, or another Kwame Kilpatrick trial sprinkling over the good spotlight.

Let’s fight sprinkles with jelly-filled. You can’t cover fat batman’s light; fat batman’s bat-light glows like the brightest donut of all.  Don’t even try, you’ll fail.

See, I like Detroit. It’s a city with attitude, but we’ve got so much attitude that we’ve become entitled, like Los Angeles, without the sparkle. At least in LA you can roll your eyes and say “arrogant jerk.” Sure that arrogant jerk will then sue you for your soul and probably own it by the weekend, but at least he’ll keep in a trophy case next to all the other souls he’s stolen over the years. Here, they’ll just shoot you in the face. There’s no soul involved.

That’s attitude.

And that makes this a job for fat batman.

Detroit takes itself too seriously. Yes, times are tough. Yes, we have been before. Yes, we will be again.  Does that mean we should forget how to laugh at ourselves?

“I am fat batman.”

Ok, he probably doesn’t call himself “fat” but “Big Boned” batman isn’t gonna fit on the bat belt buckle either. And how can you not smile knowing that? The point is, I want some dude sitting on a roof, watching criminals in neighborhoods that aren’t zoned for police. I want to watch. I want the wonder.

Will he catch the bad guy?

Will he get shot?

Will he fall through the roof?

“Holy structural integrity, batman!” The suspense is killing me!

I want somebody we can depend on for something, even if it’s just making us smile.

Please, fat batman, come save us from ourselves.

Prisoner Cell Block 3G

Today the Pirate Queen left her cell phone at home.  A forgotten cell phone at home required that we meet up over lunch so I could give it to her.  (The phone, pervs. We all know it’s a Monday. All my other giving duties are done until next week.)

When I was a kid my dad never met up with my mom to give her anything other than extra keys, if she’d locked hers inside the car.

“Hello?”

“Honey, I left the phone at home.”

“Well it is attached to the wall with a cord. I sort of expected that you would leave it at home.”

“Well yes…  Could you meet me at home so I can pick it up?”

“Well OK…”

That conversation never took place between my parents. Why? Cell phones didn’t exist when I was a kid.  If I wanted to make a call away from home, I needed a dime for the payphone.  If I wanted to play video game away from my Atari, I needed a quarter.  That was life in the Corded Age.

Quick poll:

Will everybody without a cell phone please repeat after me:  “I am a compulsive liar.”

The rest of you: How many of you have home phones anymore?

No.  Me neither.

The last one I had was 5 years ago. I offered to give it up in the divorce, but neither of us wanted it. Home phones have gone the way of the Pitfall Harry. 

Remember when cordless phones were all the rage?  You had the range of about 2 rooms before it started to sound like an AM radio…Ok, do I have to explain AM to you as well? And no, not the time of day (I have no concept of that am).  AM was a type of radio signal.  It still exists today, seriously, check your car stereo. It’s that button you never press. No, not “CASSETTE.”

Sigh...

This isn’t a nostalgic blog.  I’m not trying to relive the past. I’m merely failing to take you back to a time without cell phones. 

“…for these are more easily acquired than to get rid of..” – Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau wasn’t talking about cell phones, but if he were around in this cell tower millennia, he’d have wept Walden tears, because nothing so seemingly untethered has ever imprisoned us so willingly.

There’s nothing we can’t do with our cell phones:

Pay bills.

Deposit checks.

Play games.

Take Pictures.

Make phone calls!

Leave them at home--Oh wait, we can’t do that anymore.

So much more than a phone: Nobody phones anymore. It's all about icon driven app-itecture. How many of the apps can you name that are represented by these icons? Answer at the bottom of the post.

You know what’s funny though? Nobody makes phone calls these days. If I were to make up a statistic about that, it would look like this:

“75% of the things we do on our phones don’t include phone calls.”-Imaginary Statistics Weekly.

Even kids don’t phone anymore: they text. They send abbreviated words so they don’t have to face rejection.

See? Cell phones eliminate confrontation. We don’t talk to people. We key a few words, and send them off. Problem solved.  Need proof? How many of your Facebook friends do you really know? How many have actually heard your voice within the past six months? Ever?

We like our cell phones because they allow us isolation. Cell phones are this millenniums’ bubble wrap.  Interesting side note, had bubble wrap existed, it is the one material item that would have snared Thoreau away from Walden.

“One generation abandons the enterprises of an other like—Oooh! Bubble wrap!”

Cell phones are our way of abandoning the previous generations dreams to be free and trading them in for a two-year contract and an icon driven life of isolation.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we toss them in the bay like AT&T tea. Right now my cell phone is so close that I can pinky flick the unlock bar while typing. I’m trapped behind reception bars, just like everybody else.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  The phone is nothing more than a tool. We just need to make the effort to communicate and open up to the world around us. So let’s do that. Everybody, do me a favor right now.  Put down your smart phone that you’re reading this blog on and turn to the person to your left and say, “Hi! Your zipper’s down, and I like that about you.”

And that, my friends, shall set you free.


App answer. Left to right,  Row 1: Miami Dolphins Team app, Pandora, Solebon Solitaire, Urban Spoon, Sudoku, Remote, Twitter, Row 2: Career Builder,  Ease into 5K, Chase, Minesweeper 2, Wordfeud, Angry Birds. Row 3: Skype, Trip Advisor, Superbrothers Sword and Sworcery, Bump, Flashlight, Indeed, Twitterific. Row 4: Lil' Pirates, 8500+ Drinks and Cocktails, Checkers Free, Crowd Beacon, Nike +, Nook, Fandango. Row 5: Weather Doodle, Retro Pinball, Hulu Plus, Orbitz, Blogger, Soundtracking, Kobo. Row 6: TuneIn Radio, Go Daddy, Bejeweled, Good Reads, Ancestry, Touch Tunes, Kayak. Row 7: Vevo, Monster.com, Yellow Pages, Acrobat, Bible Gateway, Pocket Planes, Klout. Row 8: Starmap, Alarm Clock, Errands To-do list, QR Reader, TiVo, Realtor.com, Delta Airlines.