Cheeky's Hideaway

If You Must Fear Anything In This World, Fear Disney

We interrupt the laziness that has defined this blog of late for an urgent message regarding an insidious evil which threatens the very fabric of Western civilization.

I'm not talking about cyberterrorism or the apparently unkillable Tony Almeida.  I'm talking about Disney.

Yes that Disney.  The one with the mouse ears, cuddly woodland creatures and the majority ownership in ESPN.

I'm compelled as a parent to protect my child from the swirling winds of crappiness and loserfication which buffet her every day.  I valiantly and successfully kept the purple dinosaur at bay, and I've saved her from the cuddly suckiness of Boobah and Teletubbies until the day I pass her a joint for the first time.  But I was blind to that old friend, who every Sunday night of my childhood dished out healthy, wholesome doses of Chip 'n' Dale, the Apple Dumpling Gang, and Escape to Witch Mountain. 

Unbeknownst to me, Disney's marketing team was not content to roll back and forth on their private islands made of Krugerrands and fairy tears.  Sensing a vulnerability in the o-ring of the young female psyche, they stole a page from George Lucas, wrapped their hands firmly around the withered, chapped teats of their glorious past, and squeezed out a dastardly plot to desecrate their legacy for spectacular profits.  

Thus was spawned the bane of my existence -- Disney Princesses

Don't ask me how this malevolent force swept past my defenses.  I've rocked back and forth late into the night, my knees clutched close to my chest, trying to comprehend how it gnawed through our floorboards, crawled into my daughter's ear, and wrapped itself around her cerebral cortex.

I've tried to gently steer Cheeky towards the finer, cooler things in life but once Disney had her in their clutches, resistance became futile.

Every morning is a debate over not whether to wear a princess dress, but which one (thanks a lot, ECG!)  I'm constantly corrected over the difference between Cinderella and Aurora (Cinderella, apparently wears her hair up).  And for the love of god what sadistic fuck invented the Pretty Pretty Princess game?  You've already taken my daughter, Disney...must you also take my dignity?

And what sort of lessons are these Princesses teaching?  You'll never be happy with out a big, strong handsome prince?  Living in the woods with seven vertically challenged miners is a good idea?  And let's not forget that if life kicks you in the teeth you should just suck it up, cause eventually a fairy godmother will materialize and fix it all?  You know, just like in real life. *

I'm all for introducing my child to strong female role-models. I think Disney even dabbled in some of their own for a day or two.  But from what I can tell these cel-animated bitches have done nothing but reinforce the importance of coordinating jewelry with your gown, which might cut it in fairy-tale land but not in my house.  Much more of this and I'm shipping her off to Dagobah to "unlearn what she has learned."

And one last thing...don't even get me started on the impending whoring of my beloved Muppets, whose de-coolification began with their last Christmas special and will probably continue until Fraggle Rock is revealed to be behind the auto shop at East High School.

* By the way, have you ever gone back and read the original fairy tales these princesses are based upon?  Holy crap, there's some seriously messed up shit going on!  At the end of Snow White the wicked Queen has to wear heated iron shoes until she's dead!  I read one version of Cinderella in which her step-sisters were struck blind!  And there's a lot of huntsman with axes roaming around doing things that would get you a part in the Cannibal Holocaust sequel.  Grimm times, indeed...

The Rational Liberal's Guide to How You're Feeling This Election Year

If you're a thoughtful, rational liberal you can be excused for being a little emotional and confused right now.  You're used to having your candidate lose to people with different beliefs or questionable values.  Things that seem logical and obvious to you are dismissed by a huge chunk of the population in favor of simplistic talking points and funny math.  You're tired of sputtering about the electoral college and Bin Laden vs. Hussein, because doing so hasn't made you feel any better about the downwardly spiraling economy.  And no matter how many polls come out supporting your guy, you just can't shake the feeling that something is going to come up and ruin it all.

You want to be open-minded.  You want to listen to other side, hear their arguments, even be willing to question your own assumptions.  The last think you want to be is an asshole about your beliefs.  But deep down, you still really really really want to win. 

There's a struggle inside, between reason and emotion, ego and id, Odysseus and Achilles, and you never know which one has the upper hand at any given time.  Let me see if I can help explain it to you:

Rationally, you legitimately like Obama's policies.  You believe in progressive taxation and think he's serious when he talks about middle-class tax cuts.  You think the Iraq war was a distraction, but have no problem with Afghanistan and wouldn't mind doing a little cave exploration in Pakistan.  You know oil is finite and are willing to make sacrifices to achieve energy independence.  And frankly, you like a candidate that doesn't talk to you like you're a four year old.

Irrationally, you're angry at McCain because you used to like him a little.  You did, didn't you?  Admit it.  You probably thought about voting for him a few years back, and laughed at him on Jon Stewart and SNL.  Remember how there was talk of him being Kerry's VP and you were sorta OK with that?  Then you look at all the flip-flopping and selling out he's done to the conservative wing of the Republican party over the last few years and are mystified at what happened to his principles.  And you know in your heart that if it were anyone else Obama would be wiping the floor with them, but McCain is actually making this a contest.  You've changed, man...you've changed.

Rationally, you're horrified at Sarah Palin's lack of experience.  You watch her interview with Katie Couric and are gripped with a mixture of shock and schadenfreude.  You're up in arms that the Republican ticket would risk putting someone a heartbeat away from the presidency with such a feeble grasp of basic policy issues. It's not about her being a former beauty queen or "sharing a maritime border" with Russia, it's about common sense choices for the most important jobs in the country.  If Obama is labeled inexperienced, then how can they say Palin is better?

irrationally, you're pissed off that her selection threw the race into a media tizzy and completely drowned out Obama's speech.  You know in your gut that picking her was a desparate but genius move, exciting the Republican base and throwing a wink at all those Hillary supporters who are still a little bitter.  You didn't see it coming, you were surprised she gave such a good speech at the convention, and you're terrified that all those People magazine cover articles might be enough to swing the election.  It's a crazy plan, but it just....might....work....

Rationally, you hunger for a change in tone in politics, and you believe that Obama legitimately represents this.  You applaud when he stays above the fray, cheer when he confronts tough issues, and sweat profusely when he gives one of his lofty, visionary speeches.  He just feels like a guy you want running things, who isn't going to rush headlong into anything but clearly knows what's broken (which is a lot) and plans to fix it. 

Irrationally, you're so mortified at the last eight years, and so angry that you totally voted for the right guy both times and still lost, that you'd vote for Jeffrey Dahmer or Jar Jar Binks if he was the Democratic nominee.  Sure you want a candidate who won't stoop to bending the truth or smearing his opponent, but you don't mind Obama throwing a few elbows now and then if it gets the job done.  Besides you don't trust Rove's henchman a bit, and have no problem using whatever means necessary, including conventional weapons, to take them on. 

So tonight you'll be watching the vice-presidential debate looking for policy differences and reassurances that Biden's foreign policy experience is as thoughtful and erudite as you hope.  But deep down you're really hoping that Palin looks like a complete moron and praying that Biden brings the smackdown and not the crazy.

It's OK...you can have it both ways.  Just drink lots of milk and take some anti-inflammatory medicine in the meantime.

Rarely is the question asked, is our children learning?

This weekend, in a desperate attempt to find something--anything--to do that didn't involve squishing Playdough into our carpets, we visiting Packer, a local private school, for their annual "Pumpkin Patch."

Our main objective was to give Cheeky a chance to cram toothpicks into apples and squirt paint onto spinning paper, but the excursion had an unexpected effect on me.

As we walked through the wood-paneled halls of what looked like Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and stepped out into that rarest of Brooklyn spaces--a giant, leafy yard--I was caught up in images of Cheeky prancing down the halls, storing her lunch-pail in a little nook and learning from a caring teacher whose best friend isn't a talking monkey.

The snide egalitarian in me turned to Oodgie and sarcastically asked, "Doesn't pre-school cost $25,000 per year here?"

"No, pre-school is only $13,000 per year.  Kindergarten is $25,000."

To put things in perspective, the MBA program at Stanford is only $20,000 per year.

WTF??????????????????

There's absolutely nothing I value more than a quality education (not even nachos).  It's so blindingly obvious to me that having access to caring teachers in a safe, nurturing environment is the key to long-term success in life that I'm perpetually astounded and enraged that it's not an inalienable right of every child in America.  The sheer arrogance of schools espousing the values of personal growth and diversity but restricting admission to investment bankers and trust-fund babies turns me makes my head want to explode.

Metrodad wrote a thoughtful entry on this a few days ago (and curse you, Pierre, for yet again beating me to the punch on a topic I've been planning for a while) but he and I have somewhat different perspectives on this.  He went to a private school and is consciously electing to send his daughter to a public school, for a wealth of very good and noble reasons.  I'm a product of public schools, and although I came out freakin' great and have no real issue with sending Cheeky to one, I'm furious that in the eyes of the New York education establish I'm apparently an unwashed peasant, and I therefore have no choice.

I'm the first to admit that I'm a Marxist towards the 'elites' in our society, who (with a handful of notable exceptions) seem to be primarily skilled at being well-connected and making me want to punch them in the face.  And our neighborhood is full of them!  Everybody is sending their kids to one of the local private grade schools, which means all of Cheeky's "friends" will be heading off to places with the words "academy" and "institute" in the title while she's choosing between home ec and auto shop.  Meanwhile, we're hearing rumors that there may even be a waiting list for the local public school. 

We're looking into good Islamic schools just in case.

This whole thing has got me freaked out.  I feel like we have to plan years in advance, bringing cupcakes to kindergarten administrators and wearing a shtreimel to interviews to impress the faculty.  It's even raising the specter of moving to the suburbs just so we have a fighting chance of giving our child the education she deserves. 

I whole-heartedly agree with MD that this whole mess would be better if public school teachers were paid something remotely resembling their worth.  With all the money going into blowing other people up, I don't see that changing much in my lifetime, and certainly not before Cheeky's giving her valedictory speech at graduation.  I'll do whatever it takes within my admittedly limited power to give Cheeky the best possible educational opportunities, and to compensate for what she lacks at school with the some first class tutoring at home. 

It just infuriates me that it has to be this way. 

Anyone have any words of encouragement or, better yet, vouchers?

Remembered

Six years is a long time.  Most of us don't remember our emotional response to 9/11.  As often as not, our recollections are twisted and warped to fit with everything that's happened since.  Some are encouraging us to look forward, while others insist on looking back.

I was reminded the other day of the gulf between those who lost loved ones and those, like me, who did not.  I was having a casual conversation with a friend about movies, and I recommended United 93, which is one of the most emotionally wrenching, utterly horrific, and masterfully executed films I've ever seen.  My friend, who is a pretty relaxed guy, became visibly agitated, and began arguing that no matter how good the film might be it did a disservice.  People who saw it, he argued, would think they'd gain some connection to the events of that day and to those who suffered the worst of fates.

I began to argue, but I stopped.

I suddenly remembered this same friend's face in a dark bar in the East Village in mid-September, 2001. He and I had been working from home for two weeks, as our offices--across the street from Ground Zero--were inaccessible, horribly damaged and covered in the ashen remains of the two towers and their occupants.  I remember asking how he'd been, and he told me he'd been better.  That day he'd been to his sixth funeral in two weeks.

Many of his close friends coming out of college had promising careers at Cantor Fitzgerald, a powerful bond-trading firm on the 101st through 105th floors of Tower One, eight floors above the impact.  He spent weekends with them, knew their spouses, and had played with their kids.  He's spent two weeks with those people, coming to terms with the fact that they would never come home and sweep them into their arms again.

I watched the towers falls from the highway north of Ground Zero.  I hugged a woman who I haven't seen since as we watched the cloud rise over the site.  I spent the day frantically trying to reach friends, slowly but surely hearing from each of them that they were OK. 

But what I went through was nothing.

And as my friend pressed his point about the movie, I fell into silence.  True-life tragedy as entertainment, regardless of how it may inspire or move us, is not victimless.  The talking heads on TV or Capitol Hill may summon the date like some powerful ancient spirit to conjure fear and anger.  We can ask our friends, "Where were you?" or "Do you remember life before that?"  We can even pause, light a candle, and say a prayer.  But afterwards we will move on.  We will look forward.  We will rebuild.

But there are some that cannot.  Who will never be the same.  Who will always feel a pain and loss deeper than the rest of us can imagine.

It's with them that our thoughts should be today.

The Fruits of a Life in Politics

We have a good friend who lives in Washington D.C.  She was part of Oodgie's wedding party, and has always been able to make us laugh.  To be one of our friends, you have to be able to take a lot of teasing, and we incessantly tormented her about her vegetarianism, sobriety, and furniture (when we last visited her, she still had her "My First Stereo" next to her TV).  She always took it with a laugh and played it up.  But there was one topic about which she was always a little touchy.

She's a Republican. 

Now, I have lots of Republican friends, and we always get into spirited discussions around politics and issues.  But it's good-natured and respectful; we often agree on much more than the talking-heads would have you think.  I never let politics get in the way of a friendship.

But this particular friend is a little more active in politics than the rest of us.  She helped run the successful re-election campaign of a New England senator (who apparently is crazy and has a weird psychological aversion to staples).  Then she moved to Washington and worked for the EPA.  Then she worked in the communications department at Homeland Security.  While working there in late August 2005, she had planned to come visit us in New York, but things got a little busy at the office and she had to cancel.  Although she loves her career, she seems to have a knack for taking jobs that explode around her, and for some inexplicable reason (to me) she's now taken another local job in a slightly higher-profile department.

One the one hand, my sympathy for the catastrophes that happen to her is somewhat limited.  After all, I have loathed the current administration since day one.  I think they are incompetent liars who have always put personal or dogmatic interests ahead of logic, reason, compassion, or accountability.  I take great pleasure at watching the catastrophe's pile on top of them--it reinforces my sense of karmic justice. 

But I also see first hand the impacts that this has on the individuals who have to deal with it every day.  Our friend is a good person trapped in a tough place, trying very hard to make ends meet and do the right thing for this country because she believe in it.  She doesn't agree with the way things have been handled, but she's doing more than me...trying to repair the damage and keep the wheels moving so the benefits we all reap (and take for granted) are there when we need them.

Despite all the vitriol I spit towards our current government, she's a stark reminder that there are thousands of people like you and me who aren't evil, who have to not just shoulder the burden of protecting our way of life, but bear the hatred of people like me who curse their names and unfairly blame them for all that's wrong with the world.

So next time your knuckles get white over the state of our union and the decades it will take to undo the damage, take a moment to remember all the good people who are toiling away in the trenches of government, trying to do things right.

Did you have your moment? 

Good. 

Now let's get fired up to send the rest of those jokers packing in '08.  Let's hope the damage is reversible.

I Regret to Inform You You've Been Eliminated from the Race

Amazing Race fans may remember David & Lori, two self-proclaimed nerds who listed "good at taking tests" among their qualifications.  About mid-way through that season there was a challenge in Greece where each team had to assemble a sculpture like a giant 3-D puzzle, but what the racers didn't know was that there was two extra pieces in each pile.  I remember looking at Oodgie and saying, "Uh oh...this is going to kill the nerds!" 

Sure enough, as the frat boys, hippies, and abusive couples all completed their statues and shrugged off the extra pieces, the nerds struggled and lamented late into the night, because there cannot be extra pieces.  All variables in an equation have a purpose, all chips in a computer serve a function, and all pieces in a puzzle by definition must have a place.  That is the nerd world-view.  Sadly, that night they were Philiminated.

It's April 2007, and history repeats itself.  Cheeky's obsession with sticker-books has taken on dimensions that some would consider unhealthy (Dateline filmed her on "To Catch a Toddler" when Chris Hansen pretended to be a sticker-book online).  All day and all night she matches stickers to their logical place in the book, uncannily identifying shapes and colors and awkwardly placing the stickers sorta-kinda over the spot they belong.

I like to help Cheeky with this because I like playing with stickers I value the father-daughter time together.  It's my job to find the right page in the book to put the sticker on.  The other night she pulled off a sticker of a dog playing with a cat, so I quickly memorized the shape and flipped rapidly through the book looking for the page it belonged on.

Then I flipped through the book again.

Then a couple more times. 

Cheeky sat patiently, a sticker stuck to her index finger.

I page through again.

Nothing. 

"Hold on, Sweety...it's here somewhere..."

Now Cheeky is a pretty mellow child, but she had a sticker on her finger and dammit she was going to put it in her book.  The fact that her dad wouldn't slow down on a page was annoying. 

I page through again.  The spot it belong isn't there. 

That's OK with Cheeky, mind you.  She's willing to find something close, e.g. a dog playing with a ball, or a dog playing with another dog, or our coffee table, or my shirt.  But it had to belong somewhere.  It came out of the book, so there must be someplace in the book that it was supposed to go.

I pause for a second, muttering to myself like I'm pushing a frocery cart full of empty cans across Clark Street.  "Ragem fraggem goddamsticker ragem fraggem wherethehellisit ragem fraggem."

Cheeky puts the sticker in the middle of the page I'm open to.  Not a match. 

"Hold on, kiddo...Daddy will find it..."

But she'd moved on.  She was back on the sticker page looking for another sticker. 

So I go back to helping her find where the new sticker goes.  But I linger on every page, looking for that stupid dog playing with a cat.

Nothing. 

Soon it's dinner time, and Cheeky's off to eat ketchup.

I'm still on the couch.

Looking for the damn dog and cat.

Seriously, WTF?

I can barely focus on how angry I am that a children's book company would include stickers in their sticker-matching book that don't have a match--I assume just to torture children--because I am completely focused on how I can't find the damn thing.

Because it has to be in there.

It's day three.  The sticker is hanging from our counter.  I shall look again tonight.

It has to be in there.

Curse you, Phil...curse you....

There's One for You, Nineteen for Me...

I just got off the phone with the IRS.

A couple weeks ago we received a nice letter from them stating that the return we submitted last year didn't align with their records.  They wanted to give me the opportunity to review the information and make any "amendments" necessary to my 2005 return in case there were errors.

How nice of them!  I wonder if Texas oil billionaires get the same courtesy...

You see, last year I decided to do our taxes myself.  We fired our accountant when they tried to charge us for two separate returns by filing my wife and I individually as "single," and when the state of New York asked why we didn't file with them the same week the state of Connecticut asked why we'd sent them a check.  This looked like a job for TurboTax!

As it turns out, TurboTax is great for a single person who doesn't change jobs or have Cayman Island gambling winnings to worry about.  At one point, while filling out the questionnaire, I believe it said, "Your return is too complicated for our software.  Would you like to make shit up and hope for the best?  If 'yes' then click 'continue.'"

"Click"

We've got a new accountant now, and I sent him the notice and a copy of our taxes.  I imagined him reading them, chuckling, and saying "what a retard" under his breath.  But he's optimistic that we won't, in fact, have to pay $312,475 in back taxes, and since he's already uncovered some new deductions for us this year I'm hoping he'll figure something out.  (Did you know you that if you're a business owner and you drive across the Brooklyn Bridge you can deduct a portion of the depreciation and maintenance of the bridge?  Nice!)

I just hope that we don't get hit again with the "grab your ankles" tax targeted at wiping out the middle class so Haliburton executives can take government-funded helicopter rides to the country club without us complaining.  Every time I think about it I recall Lewis Black's observation of our tax code: "You'd have been better off if your Congressman just came to your door and pissed on your foot."

Maybe the Quakers are on to Something

Remember a month or two ago when Bill Gates tried to ruin my life?  I thought I'd finally defeated the enemy, and for the last month we've had a functioning computer in our den that didn't exude the stench of brimstone. 

Not so much.

A couple days ago, while it was turned off, it picked up the Solanum virus, and is now intent on eating my brain.  I've exhausted all my technical skills, have stumped computer über-geek who sits next to me, and have begun praying to every major religious totem I can find.  I'm now sure I'm being punished.

I think it's time to get a new computer.  I should hurry up while they're still on sale!

Memo to the Asshole in the Car in Front of Me

Dear Dickhead,

I can see you.  Don't think that staring forward makes you invisible.  And I know you can see me, because my headlights are lighting up your dashboard like it's at a Kiss concert. 

I know you watched me try to squeeze into the parking space behind you.  Maybe you didn't notice how carefully I was twisting my car so I didn't scrape yours.  Perhaps you missed the fact that I'm the most pathetic parallel parker in the history of humanity, so bad that the guy giving my licensing exam jumped into the back seat for protection both times I was tested.  I thought the twelve failed attempts were a dead give-away.

But would it kill you to move your ass couple inches to help a guy out?

Seriously, we all hate alternate-side parking rules, and getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to fight with a bunch of crazed neighbors for the 23 feet of available parking on our block isn't anyone's idea of a good time.  But you've got enough room in front of you to set up a grocery display of detergent (with browsing space); is it so hard to take your prick foot off the brake and roll forward a foot?  Is your front bumper that sensitive?  Will it feel crowded?

Are you conscious of the fact that I'm trying harder to avoid damaging your car than you are?  And do you realize that I'm driving a vehicle which would swallow and consume yours in the wild?  I could let my car follow it's instinct, and all that would be left of your would be it's bleached skeleton.

It would take so little effort to give in to the Dark Side of the Force and ram you so hard you'd wake up in the car in front of you.  It's taking all my muscle control to keep that from happening, because my id has got a giant rock and is threatening to brain my ego if it doesn't let it have it's way.  But unlike you, I actually give a shit about my neighbors, and recognize that living together in harmony means making space for those around you.

So enjoy that big fat chasm in front of your car while you can, buddy.  Plant a garden there or something.  Because next week we'll all be out here again, keeping ourselves warm in our idling cars, waiting for the witching hour when Johnny Law can no longer extort us with parking fines.  And if I see your piece-of-crap blue sedan roaming the streets looking for a spot, or there's a space that's just a liiiiitle bit too small behind me, you'd better hope I'm in a generous mood, 'cause I just might set out a lawn chair and a cooler and squat there with a big-ass grin on my face.

Sincerely,

The guy staring daggers into the back of your head.

Bill Gates Can Kiss My Big Hairy White Ass

It's been busy busy busy at Casa de Cheeky.  For the last few days The Girls were in town, promising endless hours of the hard-lovin' only Cheeky's cousins can give.  This week I'll be at a conference for three days, and several luminaries from my company are making a rare appearance in New York for this boondoggle golden opportunity to improve our offering.  We've spent numerous hours removing stickers from furniture and body parts around our apartment (a small price to pay to for shockingly effective toddler entertainment) and are working feverishly to get Oodgie's business up and running (I know I keep hinting at this, but I promised not to reveal it officially until just the right moment).  It's 11:15 and I should be in bed, getting my beauty sleep and recharging my batteries.

Instead, I'm reformatting our family computer.  For the second time today.

(At this moment I'm forced to pause, reconsider any urges I have to thrust my index finger into my optic nerve or crush the keyboard beneath my tiny, squarish feet.  Only because either would wake Cheeky and give her something else to try to eat.)

Our computer has been lumbering towards obsolescence for well over a year now.  You'd hit the START button, go make a sandwich, and by the time you'd eaten half of it the menu would appear.  I had to stop using some programs--like e-mail and minesweeper--altogether because they were too "resource-intensive" (which is tech-speak for "that which makes the fan on your hard-drive gasp and wheeze", like playing World of Warcraft on a VIC-20).  I was ready to give up and buy a new one (with money from some as yet unhatched scheme involving blackmail and/or kidnapping of one of the Bush twins) but I decided to suck it up, format the damn thing, and see if I couldn't breathe new life into the old thing.

For a few hours there, I thought I had it.  Everything was working great!  I reloaded the whole operating system, and it was cruising.  I downloaded all the updates necessary to get the computer up to snuff with all the newest gizmos and security protection.  I even took a break to watch Family Guy while the final update--the enigmatically named "Service Pack 2" from Microsoft--installed.  Ah, how relaxing it was to know that not all technology was doomed to failure.

Wrong.  WRONG!

I walked back in to find my computer in an endless loop, failing to launch Windows, rebooting, flashing an instantaneous blue screen, and periodically turning off the keyboard in an attempt to make me throw it out the window.  It hissed and spit at me as that final update ate away at it's insides, chewing up code and giving me the binary equivalent of the finger.

This is NOT a result of user-error.  I had that damn update on the hobbled version of my computer this morning, and at least I could get a pulse.  This is a malicious assault from Redmond, specifically designed to foil me and me alone.  Cyber-terrorism!  Where's Homeland Security!?!

(By the way, why do computer companies tell you to "just visit our website" or "download the latest patch" when YOUR COMPUTER ISN'T WORKING?   If I could get to your damn site do you think I'd be calling you?  And don't you EVER ask me if I rebooted again, you pencil-necked little shit.  I'm not one of those idiots who thinks their mouse is a foot-pedal, you know.)

And while I was typing the above paragraph, the second attempt to reinstall Windows failed, I assume because of a fail-safe to prevent me from maintaining a shred of sanity pirating the software which everybody on the planet already has and I wouldn't be needing if the damn thing worked right the first time.  GAH!

The only reason I'm able to share this with you is because I had the foresight to buy a Mac last year as the stumbling beast looked more and more like an endangered species.  Now I'm staring at the dead hulk in the other room--which this morning was on life support but alive, and earlier this evening looked like it would at least be playing murderball, if not full-contact rugby--and calculating the likelihood of getting the leaders of Microsoft and HP alone on an island where some black smoke and a mysterious band of "others" can wreak havoc on their psyches. 

In the meantime, if any of you have any functioning computers lying around you'd be willing to share, I'm taking offers.  I need something else to smash.