"Samsung HD46N600 Where Are You?"

It has been awhile since I felt the urge to vent, but this holiday season my struggles with massive retail technology conglomerates, have been enough to make me want to chew my own foot off. As usual this battle with anonymous, sanctimonious brain dead techno geeks was able to reduce me to a sobbing lump of carbon based life form, crying like a little girl and rueing my actual birth.

As usual, the situation began sedately enough, with the decision the day after Thanksgiving to venture (finally) into the wonderful world of high definition television. No more showing up at the homes of friends or strangers begging to be let in just in time to catch the Super Bowl (oops, copyright violation, sorry NFL, I meant "The Big Game"). Friends will usually (grudgingly) permit access, however it is a real gamble with strangers. They generally can seem a tad put out.

When I made the decision I had forgotten the cardinal rule of moving up in the technology world (for anything) which is, I would have been much better off just going out back and setting fire to $1000. My bouts with keeping up with advances are legend. Over the years, I have taught my children a whole new language(something between a cross of English and drunken marine corps ese), kicked enough inanimate objects (hard ones) to produce an arthritic lump on my big toe the size of a blimp and alienated more customer service techs than Dick Cheney at gun control convention.

I, after several years of computer and internet use, felt very comfortable in purchasing my product online and having it shipped within my lifetime to my home. So confidently I signed on to one of the larger electronics mega stores website, found a TV that would suit my modest needs (serving cold beers seemed a needless frill) and made my purchase with our credit card. Steeeeerrrrrriiiiiiikkkkkkke One!

Now this crud example of an electronics store which shall remain nameless (although its name is BEST BUY!) gave me a delvery date of either Monday or Tuesday of the following week. Ha ha what great kidders those people at Best Buy are. After waiting both days for my new TV and having heard squat from the store I decided to investigate. Long story short, by Thursday I was able to determine (from several "customer service" reps whose Xmas card lists I can safely say I am no longer on) that my new TV is at least, somewhere in the galaxy. I was able to cancel the order with little problem (I guess they've had some experience with cancelled orders) and embarked foolishly on another quest for the latest in sports viewing maginificance, such was my passion to be able to see all my favorite Cleveland teams get the living beejesus kicked out of them, in all of their 1080p glory.

After an online search we were able to find a store at a place called "Van's Electronics" which had the exact same TV for $100 less than Best Buy. They promised delivery in approximately 10 days. And sure enough UPS showed up 10 days later with a box that could have been used to ship aircraft carriers, containing our new TV.
Whilst waiting for the arrival of the television, I drove to the local purveyor of hi def cable television goodness and aggravation, a company well known for intelligent technological staff and customer service, who shall likewise be nameless but in reality is called Time Warner Cable. I was assured by the brain dead lump of carbon which passes for "customer service representative" at TWC, that the cable box (had to be replaced within a day) and HDMI cable she gave me was all that I would need for a "complete hi def TV experience." Strrrrriiiiiikkkkkkkkke TWO!

But I, the eternal and patient optimist (just ask my kids, they'll tell you) drove home and awaited the delivery of my TV with baited breath. Once the TV arrived and was unpacked and assembled, the real fun began. I can safely say my experience with Time Warner over the next several days was equivilent to the treatment reveived by Groucho Marx in this clip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2ZpJkK-ZbM which you need to cut and paste to view. Suffice to say I spent roughly as much time asking, pleading, begging and ranting with customer service, techs and total strangers (again, off the xmas card lists) than I spent preparing for the bar exam. During that time I discovered that the TV I bought, which supposedly has the highest resolution out there, is worthless because no one actually broadcasts in 1080p, the HDMI cable I got from the kind rep at TWC, was not the kind of cable I actually needed, and my wife (who is a tad more tolerant than I) succeeded in being bilked out of $80 to buy the absolute best HDMI cable in the universe from a Best Buy "expert" in a laudable attempt to reduce my blood pressure to somewhere below 5,000/4,000.

The final straw came several days after Christmas (which was great with the family by the way) when, in attempt to modify my office phone set up (provided by guess who? TWC) and using the automated system when I pressed the "0" key as instructed by the mechanical voice, and found myself speaking with some bewildered lady from St. Louis who had been checking her voicemail on service provided by...I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count, and who suffered through the same service I had foolishly signed up for. STRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIKKKKKKKE THREE! GAME, SET AND FREAKIN' MATCH.

Well, as you can see some people (me) never learn, now if you'll excuse me, I hear that somewhere, someone is selling something called 3D TV and I can't wait to have Eric Mangini (evidently not for long) right there in my living room and within booting range!

Love
Dad

That's Entertainment?

We have a new game in town. Well, maybe not in town, but definitely on my street in the tiny little Cleveland suburb, Concord Township. By the way, township officials and developers describe Concord as "semi-rural". This is a euphemism for "semi-overcrowded, semi-overdeveloped and semi-where the f*&$%@* did all this *%&#$*ing traffic come from." But, as ususal, I digress.
The new "game" on my street, actually consists of a pool, the wagering on which consists of guessing the exact number of times Sandy and I will exit our house (usually in the morning) and then go back for whatever damn thing we have forgotten. You know, keys, purses, trousers and the like. The game evidently has gotten quite sophisticated and morphed into sides betting which of us will go back into the house more times, and having a tie breaker which consists of guessing how far up the street the car will actually get before turning around and coming back some forgotten item.
For those of you not from Cleveland, you can see how desperate Clevelanders are for some form of actual competition from its sporting teams (by the way, this game is not to be confused with Milton Bradley's popular "Where the Hell Is My Coffee Cup" game or Hasboro's "Who's Got the Most Cuts and/or Bruises From Unkown Sources" game). On weekends the atmosphere has gotten positively festive. In the summers, neighbors have taken up sitting on their lawn chairs, waving Bob or Sandy banners, signs saying "We Are Witnesses" and cheering each of us on. Several unruly "tailgaters" have had to be dispatched by threat of incarceration or being forcibly made to watch C-Span for an hour. Any more than an hour has been determined by the Supreme Court to be "cruel and unusual" punishment. Sandy's fan base is, as God has seen fit to bless me with the physical attractiveness of a gnu, much more than mine. Although, I have cornered the "short, fat, bald guy" demographic.
I can't speak for Sandy, but I find that the best way to increase my score is by not hanging around the front door, scratching the top of my head thinking "What am I forgetting..." No, that wastes crucial seconds. I boldly stride to my car get in, sit down and apply pine tar to the steering wheel. Sure enough, as soon as my ass hits the seat, I remember and dash back into the house for my sunglasses, regular glasses or my actual eyeballs. In my prime, Sandy clearly had me beat for sheer numbers of return trips, but as I get older I find my capacity for thinking of two things at once as well as my curveball, alas diminishing. This means that nowadays there is real competition between us.
I'm sure none of you other "boomers" play this game but, we have been struggling to come up with a name for this soon to be national pastime and would appreciate your input. In memory of my dear mother I was thinking something like "You'd Forget Your Head If..."well, you know the rest. For those one or two of you actual readers any post your ideas in the "Comments" section below. The winner will receive two free tickets to absolutely nowhere and the decision of the judges is moronic.
My original intent in all of this (but I forgot) was to let you know that I have finally figured out the meaning of life. It's entertainment. We are put here to enterntain others. First we entertain our parents, then our friends, neighbors and co-workers and in old age we entertain our children. Everyone, from the lowest to the greatest among us is put here to make people laugh. Except maybe congressmen.
So much for pathos, I gotta get going except I forgot where.

Love
Dad

They're Gonna Put Me In The Movies, and All I Gotta Do...

Who among us hasn't secretly believed that we could have been the next (insert movie star's name here), if only we had not gotten married, got a job, overslept or any of a thousand other rationalizations that keeps us from the real reason, which is that we have all the acting talent God gave gravel. I know whereof I speak.

As a result of my recent addiction to Craig's List, which I still contend is the most dangerous site on the Web, I found myself upping my humiliation quotient to new highs by voluteering as an "extra" in a locally produced independent film. The ad requested bald people for a quirky comedic film to be entered in film festivals around the world. Bald, eh? Since that is one thing I am pretty good at, I volunteered. "What can it hurt? Who's gonna know?" I thought. This midlife crisis is getting out of hand. The name of the flick? "The Head of the Company."

My "role" consisted of showing up for several hours on Saturday and Monday at the offices of the Cleveland Plain Dealer (motto, "On a clear day, you can hear our toilets flush in Afghanistan.") and participating in the main pastime of actors everywhere, waiting. I am guessing that real actors movies are a lot like being a soldier at war. 99% of the time is consumed by sheer boredom, followed by short periods of intense fear, insecurity and other generally pleasant emotions.

I did however learn several cinematic "secrets" which I will reveal unless the film's producer/director/cameraman/writer/hall monitor..., who shall remain anonymous, (although his real name is Butch Maier) sends me much cash in small unmarked bills. Since I know that Butch was working on a budget that consisted of nearly $0, I will continue.
The first and most obvious thing I noticed about movie makers is that they have created one of the world's greatest lies. It ranks right up there with "I did not have sex with that woman", "Saddam has WMD" and "We here at Congress are committed to lobbying reform". That lie is uttered by the director after each segment of filming in which they say "Let's do that ONE MORE TIME!" "One more time" in movie parlance, evidently means "ad nauseum." The consequence of this phrase became painfully ingrained when we filmed the "office" scene on Monday evening. More on that later. Butch would shoot a half nanosecond of film followed by "One more time!" so often that some scenes seemed to take as long as extended space travel.

On this first day of shooting in the Plain Dealer's meeting room, I actually got a "line" to speak in the movie. This caused a bit of consternation on my part as I thought I was just going to be sitting or walking around in the background. I can do that. However, I can no more memorize a line and act it out on a second's notice than I could convince Nancy Grace that she is creepier than a bucketful of Dennis Rodmans. Anyway, the line was about 10 words, but it seemed that it was the Gettysburg Address. So I stumbled on the line a tad.

On Monday evening, the main scene of the movie was to be filmed and Butch, who operates on the premise that "Anyone can make a movie if they have actual money," needed to create the illusion that about 15 bald guys were actually about 150 bald guys. This clever bit of Hollywood magic is acheived by having those 15 guys sprint around the camera, while changing jackets, sweaters or shirts running maniacally around the moving camera to get into the next part of the camera shot in about as much time as it takes a congressman to accept a bribe. So, Butch was pushed along a corridor of cubicles with his camera taking a "tracking" shot while 15 crazed bald guys essentially perform what used to be called a "Chinese Firedrill" behind the camera. Jackets flying, people bouncing off walls and stumbling over discarded garments, huffing and puffing to get into the next cubicle these bald guys, several of them a tad past their prime, anxious for the 15 minutes of fame, executed the shot flawlessly. If you ask me, Butch should have filmed us as we flailed around the cubicles trying to get to our places and act casual for the shot, because that was really funny. We executed the scene flawlessly about 20 times. As Butch had the phrase "One more time" recorded and played over the loudspeaker system. By the time we had finished the scene, the combined weight loss of this group of actors could be measured in gross tonnage.

So that's it. My foray into the wonderful and magical world of movies. I guess I'm really excited, despite it all, as I am sure that my line in the film is destined for the same cinematic immortality as "Frankly Scarlet...", "E.T. phone home," and "I'll have what she's having." OK, maybe not. What was my line you ask? If you are asking that question, you have way too much time on your hands but I'll tell you...


"THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY!"

Love
Dad