More Dumb Fun on the YouTubes

I'm not sayin' YOU are batshit stupid for blindly running out and buying the iPhone 4. Or maybe I am. At any rate, this is pretty fucking funny.



There's a rebuttal, too (there are actually a ton of these things out there, I think incongruous, foul-mouthed Xtra Normal movies may be the Hitler meme of the new decade). But it's not as funny.

Once you get done cursing the crap wireless or exercising the Phone Death Grip or whatever it is you iPhone 4 users do, check it out.

Indiana--finally trendy

Go Big Red

You can't swing a bunch of heirloom beets these days without hitting a site, a blog, an article or an advocacy group dedicated to the joys of locally grown, organic food. It's exhausting. I mean, who doesn't love tasty vegetables that you know are the product of some kindly farmer's hard work and emotional investment. There's something about buying your vegetables at a market stand from the folks who grew them that makes them taste better than the ones you rescue from under the fake thunderstorm in the Safeway produce aisle.

But a trip to the San Francisco Ferry Plaza market or the Boulder Farmer's Market is a journey through Pretentiousville. The self-righteous yuppies, hippies, and hipsters, oy. The prices, double oy. It's enough to make you want to tackle Alice Waters and beat her to death with Michael Pollan. Love-hate doesn't even begin to describe my relationship with the upscale town farmer's market.

But this weekend I went back to my roots. Literally. I was back home (again) in Indiana and realized something. For the first time in like, EVER, Indiana is cool. The buzz is all about locally grown, community supported, sustainable agriculture and the whole country is trying to make it happen. And this is where it all started. In terms of food, everyone wants to be Indiana.

I walked through my hometown farmer's market and thought, now THIS is a freakin' farmer's market. People grow stuff and sell it here not because it's trendy, and not because it's correct--it's because people GROW SHIT here. They always have. And they can't help it--whatever you stick in the ground here is gonna grow knee-high by July and yield a bumper crop of goodness. There are tables and tables of juicy beefsteak tomatoes, giant roasting ears of corn, pints full of shiny wild blackberries, and let's not even talk about the homemade cheese, beans, zucchini, oh my god I have to go lie down. And you know who is selling them? AMISH PEOPLE, that's who. I defy you to think of anything more realz than homegrown produce sold by Amish ladies.

And everything costs like three dollars. BAM!

No one dogs their home state more than I do (I mean come on), but I have to admit there's a certain satisfaction to watching upscale people pour lots of time, effort, money and activism into trying to live and eat like my peeps have for a couple hundred years. I mean, both of my parents grew up raising chickens and growing backyard vegetables--mostly because if they didn't, they'd fucking starve. And I've taken it for granted for so long. Well, Indiana, I have to give this round to you. Keep on growing, and show the rest of the country what REAL tomatoes and sweet corn taste like.

Knock it off

Every ad concept has its day. As a writer in the advertising and marketing bidness and a viewer of stuff, I'm here to say this: All those ads where people say or email or tweet something, only to have a truck show up at their door and transform their lives with product/money/conversion to the Right Side of consumer preference? Their day was some overcast Wednesday in the late 70s, when Ed McMahon still had a pulse and wasn't broke.

And yet we got two guys in a van ignoring the NO SOLICITORS sign from several agencies who can (and have) done better. This year CB+P did it with Domino's:



And then Wheat Thins came along, courtesy of Escape Pod:



I just spent some time checking out the advertising winners at Cannes. I gotta say, there is a bunch of cool stuff out there. But this concept? Not it. Not new, and never really that interesting in the first place. But wait, you say! It works! And this time it's different! Because we incorporate The Twitters! And skywriters! Um, yeah.

Plus, can anyone really top Publisher's Clearing House pulling up in the good times van with a giant million-dollar check for housewives all over mid-America? Never! Don't even try! I mean, I'm sure Claudia is happy to know that Domino's sucks marginally less now and Tabitha is now tiling her bathroom with Wheat Thins, but compared to a million bucks and some flowers from a marginal celebrity? Uh-unh.

Sometimes it does work. When Conan O'Brien picked one ordinary person to follow on Twitter, that was fairly awesome as a one-off. The only other way I've seen this done cleverly in recent times is this year's season's greeting from Mother, a smaller agency in London, New York, and a few other cool places. Basically, they played Nigerian prince for a day and sent out an email to their clients, partners and other supporters saying they were giving away $10,000 to one person. All that person had to do was respond with three bits of information--including, yes, their banking details. One guy answered. Then stuff happened. It's all here:



Yeah, maybe it's about as real as my hair color. But, like my hair color, it's bright and it makes me happy. And whether real or bogus, someone deserving gets 10 grand. That's always real.

But in general? Park the van, stop knocking and find a new schtick.

That's Entertainment

One of the things I love about Funemployment is being able to hang out more with my kids. After having to basically ignore them for 6-12 months for the sake of my stoopid job, I figured that when I quit, my kids deserved something for the pain. So I vowed to take each of them away for a week, just me and them. A few weeks ago, I took my 5-year-old daughter to live it up in NYC for a week. My daughter came out of the birth canal with jazz hands--as you can only imagine, her natural reaction to the Big Apple was, "I WANT TO LIVE HERE. NOW." It was a fabulous trip for all involved. I have many good friends in NY, most of them with daughters around the same age. It was a time of pink dresses, good coffee, great bagels, and BFFs.

My son is 9, and a little more discriminating. I told him he could pick anywhere he wanted to go. His choice? Seattle. Why? I'm not really sure. Something to do with the Space Needle. And iCarly. And the Monorail that only goes about 1 mile, then turns around and comes back. But who am I to argue with a trip to a gorgeous place with delicious food, awesome wine and nice people, whose fatal flaw is that it rains ALL THE FUCKING TIME? I'm game.

We are on day 4 of the trip and it's been great. I tried to hit all of the tourist destinations in the first few days, and now we're working on the more fun stuff, like meandering around neighborhoods, poking around in weird stores and today's adventure, taking the ferry to nowhere in particular and then back again. In other words, stuff that I like. I think it has been a resounding success. Evidence? Tonights dinner.

We were tired, so we went to the place across the street from our hotel. Which happens to be an AMAZING restaurant, I think one of the better ones in the city. Fortunately, it has a counter, so we were able to sneak in for dinner. The food was awesome, but the conversation was even better. I know this because about a third of the way through our dinner, a lone gentleman, a sort of Wallace Shawn-looking dapper dude, sat down next to me and G. I took note of his presence and then we resumed our conversational path, which wound its way from:

--The world's most expensive toilet and why one would really NEED a 24K gold commode in the first place, to:

--What would happen to someone in the U.S. who was in possession of Illegal Cheese, to:

--Whether or not Ernest Hemingway's six-toed cats would be any better at getting open a slice of Kraft Singles than your average cat:

--And so on.

At this point I happened to look up at our neighbor, and he was: LAUGHING. HIS. ASS. OFF. at us. And I was overjoyed that someone else was as entertained by our conversation as I was. We love to provide amusement to the solo diners of the world with our extreme inanity. But more so, I feel so privileged that I get to have these kinds of stupid conversations EVERY DAY. And I wouldn't have it any other way. And I will miss them when my kid is too cool to hang out with me in a decent restaurant, and would rather hang out with the dudes we've seen skating and smoking in Pioneer Square than with me.

These are the things I treasure most about not working. They are priceless. And I will miss them when (if) I am gainfully employed again. Which I both hope and don't hope happens soon.

A Few Comments About Spam

Imagine you're me. No, really, it's going to be okay. Imagine you're me, and you check your email and see that someone has commented on your blog. Hooray! Someone actually reads this! Someone reads it for more than .5 seconds! What could they possibly have to say?

And then you click on the comment e-mail and see that Mr. or Ms. Anonymous has left a little gem on your blog about their new product, or internet service, or some brand new super awesome porn that you have just GOT to see. In other words, the spammers are taking over blog comments. Either that, or my ramblings are very, very popular with porn peddlers who just like to stop by and say "Hi!"

Hey! Assholes! I hate spam--in e-mail, on the phone, in real life, and ESPECIALLY in blog comments. Do I head over to your blog or site where you're trying to sell nekkid boobie pictures or increase someone's dick size and leave comments about my kids or my dead dog or my business trips? NO I DO NOT. SO CUT. IT. OUT. (Yes, I realize I am yelling at bots. But the kids are at school and you have to yell at something.)

Admittedly, even *I* don't show up on my blog all that much. So imagine my joy today when I saw a little tab called "Comment Moderation" on Blogger. Goodbye, anonymous posters! Hello,
word verification! Suck it, spammers! May this blog soon get back to normal, where real, flesh-and-blood people are busy ignoring it. I can't wait.

Keep America Safe

I was in New York last week. While I was there, I witnessed something frightening. Something unsafe. Something that threatens the American way of life. I'm not talking about this:

Which also did happen while I was there

I'm talking about this:

The three most dangerous words in the English language: ACID WASH JEGGINGS

They're jeggings. They're at Bloomingdales. And they're terrifying.

Jeggings, for the uninitiated or those in denial, are leggings--printed up to look like jeans. That's right. Leggings that look like jeans. HOW LAME IS THAT? You can't just wear skinny jeans that are really stretchy? You have to wear these? What do you pair them with? One of those shirts that's printed with a tuxedo? I mean seriously. Who wears this stuff?


I think the designers intended for people like this to wear them:


Based on my informal research, the real buyers look more like this:


But the real bottom line is that NOBODY should be wearing jeggings. They are a danger to society. If you care about America, hell, if you care about the whole world, please don't buy these. Buy a pair of supertight jeans that you need pliers to zip up, and suffer for fashion. Better you than the rest of us.

My day

Today I:

Went for a hike.

Cleaned the house.

Fixed my bike.

Rode my bike.

Stretched.

Ate three balanced meals.

Grilled.

Sat down to dinner with my kids.

Watched half of a movie.

Got my daughter to bed.

Actually learned about what my son is doing in school.

Watched my daughter rehearse for a ballet recital.

Found out there was a ballet recital.

Brought cupcakes to class.

Ate on the patio.

Today I did NOT:

Work.

Thanks for Noticing. FINALLY.

The most e-mailed story on the Times Web site today is about the possible illegality of unpaid "internships." The story posits that more and more companies are using unpaid internships to squeeze free labor out of college students and recent college grads.

To which I have two things to say. First: Doyyyyyyyyyy. And second: What the hell has taken people so long to voice the opinion that this practice is fucked up? I have been saying it for years, 20 in fact, since I graduated from school well prepared for an entry-level job in journalism and had to spend years working for free to prove that I was work risking a $18,000 per year salary on.

People are outraged. There's the whole idea that it's a classist and racist system where the poor and underprivileged don't have the means or the time to fritter away working for free to gain "exposure" at these gigs. (To quote a friend of a friend when he was told such work is good exposure: "You can die from exposure, you know.") Well you know what? That ain't a new development and it has nothing to do with working for free. You think all those publishing houses and magazines that have long paid $14K a year for an edit assistant job are hiring Horatio Alger to work for them? They are self-selecting. Same old same old.

And the more outrageous outrage is this. The article itself goes on to say that well, the journalism field and film have always been known for this kind of exploitation, and it's expected. But now--gasp--REAL industries are doing it, and it's JUST WRONG. Trudy Steinfeld, director of N.Y.U.'s office of career services, says, “A few famous banks have called and said, ‘We’d like to do this.’ ”

“I said, ‘No way. You will not list on this campus.’ ”

Hey Trudy! So it's okay for people to bust their asses preparing themselves for writing or film careers and work for free, but for aspiring BANKERS, that's just wrong? Sorry, but fuck that. Work is work. Whether it's crunching numbers in a quant job or writing captions or sharpening pencils. And if work is being done, fork it over. And college counselors and placement officers, if you're going to protect one group, protect them all. Remember when you worked for free? Oh, that's right, you probably DIDN'T.

I did. This whole story takes me back to the good old days right after college, when I myself had the pleasure of feeling fucked-over and exploited by not one, but TWO different magazines. I'll say this--no, it's not okay to hire someone for an internship and make them clean the bathroom. But it's equally not cool to hire someone for an "internship" when they're actually doing the work equivalent to that of a full-time staffed fact-checker, or a salaried assistant editor. And that's what I did.

At my first "job" out of college, for a small, independent city magazine, I wrote stories, copy-edited pieces, did research for the on-staff editors, delivered magazines, and put up with mistreatment from a bat-shit crazy publisher and a narcissistic senior editor who mistakenly thought she had more talent than anyone else who worked there. I delivered an ultimatum that I wanted to get paid, and when that didn't pan out, I went to my second job, at a national magazine owned by a huge, huge media conglomerate (whose name rhymes with "rhyme") who gave me a fact-checking job and a raise to a whopping $25 a week. That was an interesting job, but I was not learning, I was "doing"--the same thing as the two staff fact-checkers.

I did my job so well that I was fact-checking complicated political stories and stories on the L.A. riots, and I actually caught a plagiarist among the writers (for those keeping score, Plagiarist: $1 a word, several hundred words a month. Me: $25 a week.) For my hard work, I was given a second three-month tour of duty and a raise to $75 a week--and an opportunity to apply for a staff position when one came open. Did I get it? No. It went to another deserving candidate who had been working as an intern for a paltry sum...for at least nine months. What I did get was a thank you and an invitation to keep working for another couple of cycles until another staff job came up. What I gave was a hearty "Up Yours" as I made other--paying--arrangements, aka working at the mall. Go, me.

You might say, well, I had free will. Why did I take these jobs? Eleven percent unemployment, that's why. And a desire to work in publishing. I did get a paying editorial job, by the way--after I took a few years off to walk the earth and waited for the economy to improve. (Another option not really available to the truly poor and struggling of the world).

I'll leave you with one more sad cautionary tale, one brought about by my own desire to stop getting butt-fucked by the magazine industry. As I was leaving the second magazine, one of the senior editors took pity on me and said he knew of another magazine starting up in the city--one run by smart people, that sounded really interesting, and they were looking for people. He gave me the name of the magazine and the phone number of his friend, who I called the next day. He called me back and we chatted about the job--an internship that would possibly turn into a full-time position as the magazine grew. The work was exciting, great exposure and they could afford to pay $100 a month. I had heard that song before, I was tired of it, so I said no.

The magazine? Wired. The journalism equivalent of saying, "Hey Larry and Sergey, this Google idea sounds great, but don't we already have ENOUGH search engines out there?"

Would I have become employee number [single digit] at one of the most influential magazines of the past 30 years? Or would I have cycled through and OD'ed on top ramen and gotten a job at the mall anyway? I dunno. But it sure would be nice, now that the Times has NOTICED and all, if companies would put an end to short-changing young aspiring whatevers--and keep them from short-changing themselves by thinking that that next Wired job or Google job is not just yet another opportunity for someone with more power than them to get something for nothing.

Not-so-good Friday

The best of all possible dogs. 1998-2010.

I hope your Friday was good. Because mine sucked. I lost my best friend. And I mean that seriously, not in the Precious Moments bullshit sense of the word. I had to make the call to end the life of my beloved dog. But it was the right thing to do. It was time.

I meant to update here this past week, but things happened faster than my fingers could type. First the hospitalization. Then the surgery. Then the survival. Then the complications. Then more survival. Then the downslide. Then the decision. It happened during a week. But it was a helluva week. And it was just me and him.

Bottom line? Pancreatitis. It's a horrible, horrible disease. Don't ever get it. Don't let your pets get it, if you can help it. Vito fought and fought to get past the pancreatic inflammation, the shutdown of the intestines, the bacteria that wanted to creep into his liver. And for a while it looked like he was winning. But it was too much. He held on for Rick and the kids to get back into town, so they could have a few great, love-filled visits. And that was all he had.

Today, the doctor called me with news that his body was fighting new infection. And that his pancreas was rearing its nasty self again. And that his gallbladder was not picking up the slack from the biliary drainage tube they pulled. We could have done surgery to put in a feeding tube that bypassed the pancreas. We could have seen how that would have done. We could have kept him alive. But I have been with him every day for the past two weeks. I have seen him suffer, and I have made decisions that I thought were positive and that would prolong his life. This was not one of those decisions. So we decided to let him go. It was time. He was ready.

So we went up today and said our goodbyes. I told him what a special dog he was and what a privilege it was to know him. And how I wanted only what was best for him and that I thought it was time he was at peace. Everything in his body language and his eyes agreed with me.

I could not be with him for the final moments. I could not watch him die. He died in Rick's arms, outside, under a nice big tree. He felt no pain. He had no agitated moments. He just went. I had one more moment with him after he was gone, to say goodbye. To say, I love you little one. You were my firstborn. Go in peace. I closed his eyes. And it was over.

Vito was a superlative dog. He has received love, and is receiving it now, from around the world, from the hospital, from Boulder, from his family in San Francisco, from everyone who ever touched him. And that is what life is about. The people you touch and the joy that you spread. And Vito gets an A plus for that.

Godspeed, little puppyhead. I love you. Forever.

In dog we trust

I'm hanging here on the couch tonight. I've got my computer, my blanket, my glass of wine, and I'm watching the snow dump from the sky. It's comfortable, I won't lie. But I'm missing the special little something that keeps my feet warm. Vito isn't here.

Those of you who know our dog, Vito Polito, know that he is the best fucking dog who ever lived. And that is an unbiased statement. He really is that good. Vito is up in Fort Collins tonight at the CSU veterinary hospital, resting comfortably. In the past week, he has been not so fresh. He hasn't been eating. He doesn't feel like walking, even in 60-degree weather with squirrels running amok in our 'hood. He doesn't even lift his head for human food. In other words, he has been: not himself. The vet isolated his issues to his liver and gall bladder, so we've sent him up to Fort Collins for further observation and possible gall bladder surgery tomorrow.

I've watched Vito this week and I've seen the looks on the doctors' faces. This is not "sometimes dogs just puke." It's not "oops, Vito didn't chew that burrito enough before stuffing the whole thing down his piehole." This is pretty serious. As in, elevated liver functions. As in, surgery with risk. As in, he's 12 years old. As in, please peruse this "do not resuscitate" document before we proceed.

Does that mean this is the end? No--he may be fine, hopefully he will be fine. But this is the first time I've actually seen the end for Vito come out of the distance, and that. is. scary.

There are dogs in this world who live a life of great privilege--sleeping in beds that are replicas of their owner's beds, dressing better than I do, eating lovingly prepared organic meals every night. Vito is not one of those dogs. He is not a child substitute. I have two children who make perfectly good child substitutes. He is my dog. But he is an amazing dog. And he is the first living being other than myself that I ever vowed to take care of through good times and bad, for a lifetime.

So I'll be driving back up to Fort Collins tomorrow in the snow to be in the waiting room when he wakes up. I'll be shaking the cash loose from my savings to do whatever it takes to keep him around. As a dog, as a companion, as a foot warmer, he is so worth it. I want there to be another day when I take for granted his little body burrowed under the covers. Another morning at 6 a.m. when I get to think, "oh for god's sake SHUT THE FUCK UP and let me sleep."

As I hear news, I will post updates. But for now, he is resting comfortably and there is nothing new. And my feet are cold.

On the Bright Side...

I could get used to this

There are so few real advantages to recuperating from knee surgery, but there are some silver linings. The drugs, for one thing. It's also a free pass to sit on the couch and watch movies all day. And you can also burst into tears and have a good cry and people will blame it on the fatigue or the stress and not the fact that you're, y'know, a FROOTBAT. But the best perk of all is the one that's small and red and hangs from my rearview mirror. Yes, I'm talking about the joy of the Temporary Handicap Placard.

Of course, to get a Temporary Handicap Placard, one does have to be Temporarily Handicapped. And that's kind of a bummer. But I have to admit there is kind of a thrill going to the museum on a Saturday or to a jam-packed mall and being like, " 'scuse ME, bitches," as I pull into the front row. It's been nice. And the Pepsi Center? CANNOT WAIT. Only Melo has a better spot.

My husband is disgusted with me. He thinks that anything less than paraplegia means you should suck it up and hoof it. To that I say, hey, Joan of Arc, when someone cuts open YOUR knee and pulls out half of YOUR hamstring to tie it all together, you can hobble to and from the back lot at Costco all you want. But while I try to balance parenthood and recuperation, while I have to settle for a 1-degree improvement in my range of motion and the reappearance of my shinbone in my leg as major causes for celebration, I'm going to enjoy my status as a member of the handicap row. You gotta take what you can get.

Resolved

Ten years ago today, I rang in the new millenium on the roof of my friend Suzanne's amazing penthouse loft, watching fireworks explode over the city of San Francisco. We stayed out all night--we had no kids to come home to. I was milking the dot-com explosion for all it was worth and socking away half of every paycheck. Given the events of the next year, that turned out to be an incredibly smart move--savings really come in handy when one has a new baby and no work.

But at the start of 2000, we had no idea what was coming. And it's easy to say now, in hindsight, after eight years of presidential ineptitude, two downed buildings, a bust, another boom, another bust, and countless personal challenges later, that this decade kind of blew. But it didn't suck entirely. At the other end of the aughts, I have scars, but I also have two beautiful, amazing children; the fruits of a wise investment; a decent career; some mad skillz; a mountain view; my health; and the wisdom of a survivor.

I have no idea what to expect from the teens. I'm taking it one year at a time. As I am fond of saying, 2009 was a year to get through. No stopping. It was a year to hang on by your fingernails until there was solid ground to stand on. Or even shaky ground, as long as it wasn't about to cave. And we all did it. I don't think it's too much to ask that 2010 be the payoff for the struggles of the year before, bringing prosperity, love, joy, opportunity, and all those other good things we're all so desperate to savor. As for me, I'm not asking for too much. Above all, continued health and progress for my family. But I do have a few resolutions. In 2010, I resolve to:

--Work as hard as I can to bring my knee back to 100 percent strength, so that the only evidence of this injury is that pesky little scar down the front of my leg.

--Find my balance. I seem to have lost it somewhere in the last 2.5 years.

--Write about stories and actual humans at least as much as I do about machines.

--Take time away from my job and give it back to my kids.

--Change what isn't working and strengthen what is.

--See the world, and as many friends as I can.

--Be well.

--Be good.

No promises, but I'll do my best. Happy New Year, and New Decade.

Touch typing is awesome (if you have $1200)

It only took me 7 hours to type this post. But it was free.

When I was in high school, my parents didn't give a crap what classes I took--except for one. Physics? Feh. Calculus? Yeah whatever. But my dad insisted that I take at least a year of touch typing by the time I graduated. He and my mom both said that as long as I could type upwards of 70wpm, I could get a job doing....something. At least, something that didn't involve welding or operating a ferris wheel. Considering it was one of the few things they were totally sound on, and that my mom had started out in a typing pool and seemed to be doing pretty darned well for herself, I humored them. After a semester of typing, most of which I spent goofing off with my friend David, I actually did learn to type pretty quickly and talked my dad down to a semester of typing so I could have a period free during my senior year to fuck off even more.

In years to come, it turned out my parents were right. Typing served me very well. In journalism school, where everything was deadline-driven, I blew the hunt n peck kids away. I was able to get jobs doing data entry and other exciting James Bond-level jobs. And today, I can type up in the triple-digit wpm range. At least, I could until yesterday.

I still can--just not on this computer. Because this keyboard has had a keyboard lobotomy. A few days before xmas, I spilled some soup on the counter. My computer was also on the counter and had a little sip, which shorted out part of my keyboard. Not the WHOLE keyboard, just the parts I actually use. I no longer have a functional Return key. Or a Shift key on the right. Or a Delete key. All I need is for the F, U, C and K keys to crap out and I'll be completely paralyzed.

Of course, everything has a fix. We took the computer to the Genius Bar and they said they could fix the broken keys....FOR TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS. If they regularly get people forking over 12 large to fix three keys on a keyboard, they really are geniuses.

The poor man's fix is way cheaper but far, far more annoying. I can still have a Return key if I just use the Enter key instead. That's simple enough. (Why does my computer have both a Return key and an Enter key? I DON'T KNOW.) For the Shift key, I can use the caps lock key to cap all of the letters on the left side of the keyboard (RIGHT??). And for Delete? I bring up the Keyboard Viewer on my Mac, which activates a teeny tiny version of my keyboard that enables me to not only see what I'm typing, but enables me to mouse-click the teeny tiny Delete key whenever I want to backspace.

If you think this is the most RETARDED thing you've ever heard, I'm right there with you. But it's also $1200 cheaper than the next alternative. Anyway, the net result of these stupid, stupid fixes is that touch typing? Mostly out the window. I'm forced to have to think about every other word that I type and make random complicated moves to compensate for the dead keys, thus slowing my typing at least in half. That I am even typing this now is a testament to how much I love you all. Or how narcissistic I am. Or something.

The thing is, this computer is only three years old. And because it's a Mac, it's still going strong. So I'm stuck with this ridiculous situation for quite a while. This is the computer equivalent of someone T-boning your 2002 Nissan Sentra at a light so that it's seriously fucked up, but not totalled. So your insurance makes you fix it but it's never, ever the same. And it's still a 2002 Nissan Sentra. I cannot in good conscience spend $1700 on a new laptop, or $1200 for a fully functioning keyboard. But here I am.

So if you need me to type anything for you, be patient. And let this be a lesson to you--if you're going to spill soup near your computer, go big or go home.

What would Santa do?

Gianni has unwittingly forced a moral dilemma in our house. A few days ago, while I still had two functioning knees, I went out to Pearl Street Mall to stock up on stocking stuffers for the kids. I went to their two favorite stores, Into the Wind (cool tchotchkes) and Powell's Candy (uh-huh), and picked out some choice trinkets and treats.

I try to be reasonably mellow about the holidays but I am pretty psycho about the stockings. It all goes back to the year when my dad forgot to pick up stocking stuffers for us and had to make do with whatever was available at the nearest gas station convenience store. We woke up the next morning and discovered that Santa had deemed us worthy to recieve a pecan divinity log, some circus peanuts, a pine tree air freshener and a can of Turtle Wax. It was almost as traumatizing as Christmas at Denny's, which I still can't bring myself to talk about here.

Anyway, no matter what, I try to make an effort to show that Santa Cares with some good candy and decent toys, quality rather than quantity (pine air fresheners are a dime a dozen--no, REALLY.) So again this year, I chose with care and stashed the stocking stuffers in the garage, out of sight. OR SO I THOUGHT.

I discovered yesterday, thanks to my friend/spy GerRee, that Gianni 'fessed up to her that he went a-snooping in the garage and found the stocking stuffers. But he doesn't KNOW that they're for the stockings, he just assumes they're cool loot. And therein lies the dilemma. Gianni is nine--I suspect he knows there's no Santa, but we're in that awkward period where either the secret is somehow out, or they still believe, or more likely everyone is playing in an elaborate charade to keep the Santa thing going and extend childhood just a little longer.

So in terms of stocking stuffers, what do I do? I have neither the time nor the mobility to go out and pick up different stocking stuffers. Nor do I want to--I'm not buying more stocking stuffers just because that little fucker can't stay out of the hidey hole in the garage. Do I just give him the original stuff and we all acknowledge that Santa time is over for G? Do I withhold the stocking because he was such a stinker? (NONONO I cannot do this. A pine air freshener pales in comparison to not getting ANY stocking at all.) Or do I try to cobble something else together? The Conoco station is just down the street.....

I'm leaning toward the first option. Gianni is a smart kid. I have a hunch he figured out this whole Santa thing long ago. It just makes me feel a twinge that we are at the point where Santa becomes an acknowledged myth and not the magic that the little kids experience. It's just another sign that my little boy is not so little anymore. But I also feel that it's time to acknowledge that and give him a role in the next phase of Christmas--giving and planning and keeping Santa cool for Tea for at least a few more years. After all, she just lost her first tooth--her own transformation from little girl into big one is not far behind.

I think it's just harder this year because I'm sitting here with my knee propped up and wrapped in ice and I feel like I'm just barely holding this Christmas together anyway. But in the end, it's all about the fundamentals--getting to spend time together after months of crazy work hours. Laughing about traditional Christmas craziness. Eating tamales. Seeing friends. That stuff is still here, and will be long after Santa is just some dude at the mall. And if I can hang on to that this crazy year, of all years, it will all be okay.

How to Ponder, Parts I and II

Thinking rock, Table Mountain, Cape Town

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Shut up. I didn't sprain my brain. For the past six months, I've been going, going, going without much thought to anything. Go here. Work on that. Help this kid. Now help the other one. Run. Eat. Sleep. Get up and do it all over again. It has been, to put it mildly, unsatisfying. Aside from the obvious reasons for being excited about South Africa--a chance to work on a standout project at work, and to see some bona fide awesome stuff--the trip was a chance for me to be alone. To stop. To think. About stuff.

Once I finished up in Jo'burg, I wanted to take a few days to not travel (four days of flying plus only four days on the ground in SA = tired, old me.) So I booked a cheap flight and a cheap, cute hotel in Cape Town to just get away. From everything. Cape Town is gorgeous--like suck-in-your-breath, ohmigod, GORGEOUS gorgeous. And I say that after living in nothing BUT gorgeous places for the last 19 years. The waterfront reminds me of Santa Monica, with a nice big promenade, a worn-out little area for train rides and Putt Putt and other activities, an eclectic mix of folks, and an inordinate number of people sleeping under trees. After Jo'burg, where the main afternoon activity seemed to be stressing out about whether you were going to be mugged, it was nice to be in a city where, at least during daylight hours, the main goal seemed to be bagging a few z's in the sunshine.

Yet another perfect day for a stroll.

I spent the first few days just walking. Exploring the shops, watching the people, talking to laid-back locals about their favorite topics--namely, wine and how much Jo'burg sucks. The last day I took a tram to the top of Table Mountain--the big flat mountaintop that casts a protective shadow over Cape Town. After days of driving and working and a series of seriously crappy phone calls, I knew what I wanted to do--WALK. So I walked and walked and walked through the low-lying fog and dry mountainscape, on trails that wound their way through an explosion of wildflowers. When my feet were covered with blisters and I could walk no more, I sat on a rock that overlooked the Cape of Good Hope and the blue, blue water and attempted to process the enormous amount of information that has been swirling in my head for a year. Life. Work. Knees. I had no answers, but at least I got to finally ask the questions.

.

Amazing, yes?

I prefer to think while I'm moving, or at least outside. But now I am neither. This morning I went into a nice hospital-like place where they knocked me out and repaired this nasty little ligament in my knee that has been cramping my style for several months now. The surgery went very well--according to my doctor, I have the hamstrings of a 200-pound-man (my first thoughts: 1. But then how does he walk? [Really, I crack myself up.] and 2. I certainly hope we're talking about strength and quality and not girth. I rarely hear men talking about women and their hot big hamstrings.)

But now, I am here on my couch with my leg nicely propped and icing, in a pleasant Vicodin haze. And with nothing to do but think. It is the anti-me. But it is a golden opportunity for me to: JUST. STOP. Stop moving or feeling responsible for the world. Stop worrying about work sucking or whether or not my knee is going to blow out on me--because god knows that train has left the station. I get to rest and be taken care of. And hopefully I get to blog often, and on Vicodin, which could be quite amusing for you all. But I've really never done this before. I'm not very good at it. I'd like to see improvement. So we shall see.

When Animals (and Clients) Attack

Take a picture of this, asshole

When we go on location for video shoots for my job, we often use local crews rather than truck a bunch of crap halfway around the world. Ty did bring his own NTSC camera from the States so we wouldn't have to convert video (Quoth the customs agent in NY, when clearing the camera to go to Jo'burg: "You are going to be killed.") But our crew booking agency also found us a nice, experienced South African crew to do the sound and camera work, as well as make the local production arrangements at the stage.



There doesn't seem to be much of a booming commercial and television industry in South Africa, and compared with the U.S. or Europe, not much of a business market. So I wondered--what does a local crew do down here for work? What do they shoot?



Fuckin' leopards, that's what.



Not leopards as in Leopard, my company. REAL . GODDAMN. LEOPARDS. Preferably ones who are trying to rip your arm off.



"We do a lot of work for the Discovery Channel," Alan, the head of the production company, told me. "We specialize in animal attacks. Crocodile attacks, monkey attacks, leopard attacks. We just did a shark attack a few months ago."



In case you were wondering who the HELL films this shit? Alan's your man. I immediately texted my husband, who has "monkey attack" at the top of his Google news alerts, to tell him that I just spoke to his hero and the source of 90 percent of his Internet entertainment.



Alan told me about the time that his crew went with a safari group to look for leopards. "The guide knew there were leopards there," he said. "She brought everyone up close anyway. And suddenly this leopard jumps out and GRABS HER BY THE SCALP. It was awful." So awful, so what do you do? FILM IT, OF COURSE. Aieeee.



Then Alan shows us his incredibly scarred up arm, apparently caused by an extremely pissed off leopard. Unclear whether it was the same scalp-lovin' leopard. I kind of forgot to ask.



Ah, well. In Omaha, you film Warren Buffett. In Orlando, you film oversized Disney characters. In Africa, you get mangled by leopards. All in a day's work.

Sawubona, Soweto

After, oh, about 12 hours of being in our fancy-schmancy W-style hotel in the middle of our fancy schmancy shopping complex, Ty and I decided--we need out. Like I've said, it's not that it wasn't lovely. But if I wanted to sip cocktails in a hip bar surrounded by white people, it's a lot cheaper to go to Cherry Creek. As long as we were in Africa, we wanted to see real Africa stuff. So we went to Soweto.

What most people, including me, know about Soweto, we learned from the news. Or heartfelt books. Or crusading fundraising rock stars. And what we heard about is the uprising, struggle, the symbolism, the hope. But there's a lot I didn't know about Soweto. For instance, this collection of townships forms a city of between 3 and 5 million people. It's HUGE. They don't know exactly how many because much of the population is undocumented. And Soweto is not all tin shacks and dirt roads. It's as varied as any city, with dirt poor slums sitting beside brand new housing developments, across from neat 4-room houses, down the street from bona fide mansions with BMWs in the driveway. It's home to many people from the native South African ethnic groups, like the Zulu--also to a huge immigrant population from other countries in Africa. I didn't know any of that stuff. Until I spent four hours biking through the place.

There are lots of tours of Soweto, but we didn't want to see the area from an air-conditioned bus. I'm also wary of tours in general, especially tours whose main theme seems to be, "Let's point and take pictures of poor people!" So I did some looking (thank you, Lonely Planet!) and found a good alternative--a bike tour of Soweto. Over the course of four hours, a guide will pedal with you around the neighborhoods of Soweto, where you'll see everything, smell everything and talk to everyone. The tour also included all of the major Soweto sights like the Hector Petersen Memorial, Nelson Mandela's house and all the stuff that you really shouldn't miss if you're going to go all that way. So we booked spots for the next day.

At 9am, a van picked us up from our hotel for the 20Km or so trip to Soweto. The van trip itself was a fascinating journey. First it took us through the posh northern suburbs of Johannesburg and wound down the main drag (a Sunset Boulevard of sorts) past the leafy green--but empty--parks closer to downtown. We passed the zoo. Apparently Johannesburg has a lovely zoo, but seriously--a ZOO? In AFRICA? I just can't get down with that. Then we got on the freeway that closely bypasses downtown. I wouldn't call Jo'burg a beautiful city--it's more concrete jungle than architectural treasure--but it's intriguing, with its towers and a deserted amusement park called Gold Rush City in the shadow of the skyscrapers. The mean streets we heard so much about were down there, looking burnt out and ghetto-ish. It reminded me of the scariest parts of West Oakland or Chicago's South Side, with trash-strewn vacant lots, sad looking corner stores and people hanging out on those corners without much to do. But we saw signs of the impending World Cup--sparkling new plazas and loft-like apartments standing out amidst the blight.

The new Soccer City is just past downtown on the way to Soweto. The main stadium for the World Cup is designed--no joke--to look like a traditional clay pot of African beer, down to the canvas roof with its many peaks looking like the foam at the top. There is so, so much right with a football stadium designed to look like a giant beer. Well done, South Africa.

mmm....beer

The first thing you see when you get to Soweto is a rolling sea of red--the red tile roofs of the classic 4-room houses. Most of the homes have tin shacks in the back yard, additions to hold extra family members or to rent out to the many recent immigrants from other parts of Africa. There are thousands of these houses with their shack appendages, stretching out far along the horizon. Look back the other way and you see the towers of Jo'burg in the distance, and thestripped out yellow mounds left over from gold mining.

Soweto, far as the eye can see

The hostel that runs the bike tour is across the street from a neat little park and playground full of local children. The hostel is like a little oasis on a quiet street, with neat rooms and a plant-lined patio with a hammock, a mini-cantina and a foosball table.

Chillin' in da backyard

It looks like a terrific place to spend the night, and many backpackers do. There were about 15 people on our tour, and they soon issued us bikes and helmets. My bike was no-frills, to say the least. About 1.5 of the gears worked and about halfway through the ride my quick-release seatpost stripped out. I could either pedal out of the saddle or in low position with my knees akimbo, like I was riding my daughter's bike. But it got me from place to place, and I'm all about the flow.

For the next four hours, we pedaled in and out of different worlds--the first one full of modest 4-room houses and paved roads. It was simple, but there were signs of at least the second world, if not necessarily the first.

We turned a corner and we were somewhere else. Tin shacks outnumbered brick houses. Trash littered some areas and piled in others. An open sewer ditch ran along the road. We stopped in front of a tumbledown main "street," in front of a tiny tin shack. This was a "shebeen," a small illegal tavern. I've seen storage sheds larger, but the shebeen was packed to the gills. About a dozen older African men sat on benches that ran along all four walls, all smoking and trading jokes. We joined them and soon there were a couple dozen of us squeezed into the tiny space. In summer. In Africa. The term "sweat lodge" comes to mind. It was smoky. And sweaty. And dark. And fascinating. I lost my sunglasses through a crack in the floor. I didn't go after them because I truly wasn't sure what was living down there. I looked at the older guy next to me and we both smiled and shrugged.

"Shebeen," African for "dive bar"

Our guide brought us two white buckets. One contained a non-alcoholic beverage (bootleg African root beer, if you will.) The other contained fermented hooch. The contents of the first bucket smelled like bubble gum and tasted vaguely like a day-old papaya smoothie. The stuff in the second bucket tasted like finely aged vintage ASS. Really gross. I took a polite sip and passed it along to my quiet, smoking hosts. Cheers, fellas.

For the next hour or so we wandered through this neighborhood, and it. was. AMAZING. This is how the rest of the world lives. The poverty was jarring at times. There's nothing happy about children playing directly next to a spot where six dead rats are rotting. But the thing is--the children are playing. Just like children do everywhere. They were thrilled to see us. They smiled, hugged and gave us hearty welcomes. They tried on our helmets and sat on our laps and looked at our photos. Africans have the most genuine beautiful smiles. All of the people we met in Soweto greeted us with smiles and handshakes, and I'd like to think it's not just because we had tourist dollars to spend. Even in the poorest, hardest corners of Soweto I felt more welcome than I have in some U.S. cities, and definitely safer than I did in Jo'burg

.

our hosts

We continued to ride and walk through the lower-rent district of Soweto, down back alleys and past hanging laundry and throngs of children giving us high-fives as we walked by, until we got to a small food stand with piles of fruit and veggies and some cooked meat on a plate. They invited us to dig in. My basic philosophy on food is: is it a mushroom? No? Then eat. I will try anything once. So with out looking too closely or asking too many questions, I grabbed a piece of the meat, rolled it in salt and ground red pepper, and popped it into my mouth. First impression? Hot as HELL. Holy holy. The meat wasn't bad at all. I steeled myself to hear that it was some kind of brain or intestine or foreskin, but it turned out to be the meat of the cow's head, around the skull. Wives tale has it that if you eat the meat of the head, it will make you wise. I think I ate at least 5 IQ points' worth, so I've got that going for me.

Don't ask, just eat

After our, uh, tasty snack, we pedaled out of the slum and wound up at a modern town square for the historic portion of the tour. We were at the Hector Petersen Memorial, the site where, in 1976, Soweto schoolchildren were gunned down by police for protesting the mandatory teaching of Afrikaans in schools. Hector Petersen was the youngest boy killed, at age 12, and a museum and memorial fountain now stand a few hundred yards from the site of the shooting. It was incredibly emotional, I teared up looking at it, thinking of my own son, who is not much younger than Hector was. We spent 15 to 20 minutes here, mostly in silence.

We went from there to a neighborhood that is clearly the Beverly Hills of Soweto--big gates, swimming pools, movie stars...or at least political and musical luminaries. We saw Desmond Tutu's sleek modern home and a couple of phat pads that were bigger than our home in Boulder.

We ended up at Nelson Mandela's home, which has been turned into a museum next to the Mandela Family Restaurant. It was lunchtime and nearly the end of our tour. We sat down and chatted with our tourmates, a really interesting bunch. They included a doctoral student from Luxembourg who was researching the effects of Chinese economic growth on the South African economy, and three young women--two English, one American--working at NGOs and on fellowships in Swaziland. They had driven over for the weekend to see The Killers in Jo'burg. We were all starving and watched excitedly as our neighbors were served heaping plates of very African-looking dishes of meats, curries and rice.

So imagine our shock when we each got one of these:

That's right, a big starchy bun stuffed with French fries, topped with a hot dog and a few Kraft singles, and then topped with more bread. It was like a processed food sundae. And it was perhaps the weirdest, most out-of-context lunch I've ever seen. It was like, hey, Whitey's coming, get out the hot dogs and American cheese! And African ketchup? Don't ask. It's the thought that counts but it actually made me nostalgic for the cow's head.

Right before we got back to the hostel, we pedaled up a hill and hiked up a small ridge to look down on the expanse of Soweto once more. Our guide pointed out a very large house on a well-appointed lot directly below us. It was Winnie Mandela's house. After two days in Jo'burg, we had seen big walls coiled with razor wire on every dwelling we passed. But at Winnie's house the walls were low and not festooned with spikes and barbs. We were perhaps 30 feet and a simple stucco wall away from the yard of the former first lady of South Africa. Can you even imagine standing less than 50 feet away from Hillary Clinton's back yard without at least a dozen people trying to tase you? But no one, not military, not law enforcement, not civilian, tried to so much as ask our intentions. It was just us and Winnie. It implied a trust that doesn't seem to exist in the rest of the country and I'm surprised it existed there of all places. Not because people are untrustworthy, but after so many years of shit, why should the people of Soweto trust anyone? But there we were, in the bars, on the roads, eating the food. And it was all good.

Yep, Still Here

Downtown Jo'burg, in daytime: C.H.U.D.-free

Ms. Dorrie Fletcher of Newnan, Georgia, would have pooped her pants tonight. We ventured out of the mall to go to a real restaurant in what we heard was a real neighborhood, according to a very fascinating doctoral student from Luxembourg. Melville is the one neighborhood in Jo'burg that is actually a neighborhood, in that Highlands, Cole Valley, Park Slope sense of a neighborhood. It has shops, bars and restaurants. On actual streets. With sidewalks. Where people actually walk. What a concept. Done and done. We made a reservation at a restaurant that Lonely Planet seemed to like a lot and considered it a plan.

Of course, to get to this walkable neighborhood, you have to drive there. So we got in our cute little African-issue VW, with Ty behind the wheel because I am an idiot who can't drive stick, and headed out of the gate--literally. Melville is by all accounts in a relatively safe area, but it is very near downtown. The same downtown that everyone, from the guys out front to the guidebooks to the guy behind the rental car desk, tells you, FOR GOD'S SAKE NEVER GO THERE. AND NEVER EVER GO THERE AT NIGHT. Because, apparently the zombies and C.H.U.D.s and bad people come out at night and you will not come out alive, or at least not with your wallet.

So where were we at about 7:15 pm? In the dark, driving around, the only thing we're sure of is that we're headed downtown. Yeah, that downtown. How did this happen? Well, here's how. Johannesburg is missing a few key elements that enable people to get from Point A to Point B. They are:

1. Proper directions. You can ask 17 different people in Jo'Burg how to get somewhere, and you'll get 17 different routes. And none of them will be exactly right, failing to take into account extra streets here and there, one-way roads, and entire buildings in the way. If you're going anywhere in Jo'Burg, plan on stopping at gas stations. A lot. Sometimes the same one twice. I think that people don't actually know how to get anywhere in Jo'Burg because they don't actually go anywhere. How can you get lost OR know the city when you're behind walls and in malls? We actually had one gas station attendant give us directions to the next gas station so we could get directions to where we were going. Which, in the end, turned out to be about 1/4 mile away from where we were speaking to him. Oh, well. it's a journey.

2. Street signs. When giving directions, people in Jo'burg tend to forget that there are NO STREET SIGNS on streets. We get a lot of, "turn right, then go past one robot, two robots, three robots...and then turn on Main Road." But not all robots are created equal. Do the ones that aren't lighted count? And when you pass three or four robots and you still haven't seen a street sign, then what? Downtown Johannesburg, that's what. Eep. Anyway, a little pre-World Cup advice, J'Burg--for the love of god, street signs!

3. Things that would have been nice to know before we started out: that our restaurant changed names entirely. No one ever told us. D'oh! That the onramp sign for the freeway going north is not at all where you would think it should be, and is covered by shrubbery. That the main street you're supposed to turn on actually has an entirely different name. Johannesburg is Dutch for YOU'RE LOST. Little known fact.

All I can say is, thank goodness for Ty's wrong-sided stick shift driving, lighted 24-hour mini-marts and U-Turns. We managed to stay safe and to spend the evening in a terrific little neighborhood, eating great food. It was great to be in a spot where people actually are out and about, with funky little bars and skater shops and a little character. I petted an adorable puppy at dinner. I had a superb chenin blanc with my tasty fish, and a macaroon the size of my head for dessert. I shared half of that with a Zulu security guard who had never eaten a macaroon before and thought he'd died and gone to heaven. It took awhile to get there. But all in all, worth getting lost over. For sure.

Behind the Wall

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

"A visit to Johannesburg? Are you out of your mind? It is possibly the most dangerous city in the world besides Baghdad. I just got back from Durban, and was told by residents of Johannesburg that when our plane stopped there en route, under no circumstances were we to venture beyond the airport...it is irresponsible to blithely suggest Johannesburg as a tourist destination."

--New York Times, letter to the editor, June 30, 2006

So, uh, hello from Johannesburg! You'll all be glad to know that, despite the dire warning of Ms. Dorrie Fletcher of Newnan, Georgia in 2006, I've been here three days and I'm not dead yet. I have crossed the street, I have driven from the airport to my hotel and around Jo'Burg, I have seen townships and stopped at traffic lights (amusingly called "robots," beep boop boop) and I'm still here. And I'm completely fascinated by this city, which is the mother of all case studies on race, class and urban sociology. I've never seen anything like it.

Let's start with the walls. Johannesburg is a city of walls. Walls around homes, around shopping centers, around other walls. I've seen more razor wire and security on this trip than I've seen around most minimum security prisons. Seriously, if I were in one of these houses and peeked over the wall, I'd expect to see no less than 50 zombies trying to get in, like something out of I Am Legend. But what's really outside the walls? Silence. Nothingness. Street after street of sidewalks with no one walking, except the occasional African domestic worker on the way to a job. These are neighborhoods without neighbors. It's creepy, a whole city in hiding.

But of course there are people in Johannesburg. You know where they all are? At the mall. The mall is the neighborhood in Jo'burg. People do all of their eating, drinking and socializing in contained, sterile enclaves protected by armed guards. I am staying in a lovely hotel. It is on a lovely brick courtyard with some lovely bars and restaurants across the way. It is quite idyllic. But it is also a big fakefest, like Main Street USA at Disneyland. It bears no small resemblance to...Broomfield. But imagine Broomfield if the entire city of Denver hung out there and nowhere else. If it were the epicenter of social activity for every man, woman and child. Ready to kill yourself yet? That's what I thought.

As delightful as this mall is, it's still a mall. So I, along with my video producer, Ty, have been pushing the boundaries of the security booth each day, trying to get to the other side of the wall to see what the fuss is about. Yesterday, we headed down to Soweto (the un-mall). Today, we went to the city flea market, which is also in a mall but it's in the parking lot of the mall so I feel like we are branching out. (Scores: a Kaiser Chiefs t-shirt for my son and an awesome Johannesburg Bridge Club ashtray for those special smokers in my life.) We both suspect that a lot of the fear and paranoia that prompts people to build these walls is caused by the walls themselves, and the REAL wall was constructed out of years of hostility and oppression and xenophobia. A hundred years of racism and mistrust takes a long time to dismantle.

But what is the truth? Is Johannesburg any more dangerous to the average person on the street (or behind the wall) than Detroit or West Oakland? While caution is certainly prudent, as it is in any large city, is the razor wire really necessary? On the one hand, based on the people I've met, I'm skeptical. On the other, as a person with a family waiting for me at home, I'm not sure I'm ready to completely test that theory and wander the streets of downtown. So I've been listening to the word on the ground, from bellmen and backpackers and other people who really have a sense, feeling out what's okay to explore and what truly falls under the category of Don't Go There.

What are we finding? A lot of kindhearted people with beautiful smiles. A lot of generous South Africans who invite us to call them and offer to show us the way around this vibrant country. A lot of kids who love to hug. Maybe the World Cup next year will be the catalyst that will get people out of the malls and onto the streets and talking to each other. I hope so. Because it's too quiet here.

Don't dress as a Buzzkill for Halloween

It's Halloween time again. Time to dress up, trick or treat, torch cars, get white Pan-cake makeup smeared all over you from drunkenly making out with someone dressed as Dead Michael Jackson, or whatever creams your Twinkie. (I DON'T JUDGE.)



For us parents, it means watching our kids go out into the snow (yes, SNOW) as, say, Captain Kirk and the cutest little ladybug princess EVAR and come home with a queen-sized pillow case full of sugary goodness. Before the night arrives, I would like to make a proclamation:



If you are a parent who lets your child have one piece of candy and then makes them throw the rest of it out/give it to the homeless/sell it to the dentist for a buck a pound/burn it in a Christian bonfire--

YOU ARE LAME.

(And don't try to deny it. I saw that dentist on Channel 2 this morning. She cleared like 500 pounds of candy from kids turning in hard-won goods last year. That's at least a couple hundred really bummed out little Spider Men, by my count.)

Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you have to be an asshole, too. Yes, the bag of candy weighs more than your children do. Yeah, it's more candy than they need to eat in a year by a factor of four. Yes, it'll rot out the inside of their head IF THEY EAT IT ALL. But they won't. Unless, of course, you tell them they can't have it. Then they'll eat it all and then snort all the granulated sugar in your house as a chaser. Have fun with that.

Here's how we rock Halloween, Polito-style. On Halloween night, I tell the kids: For this night only, it's a free-for-all. That's right, take that bag and stuff as much candy into your piehole as will possibly fit. And they try, oh yes they do. But you know what? They usually can't eat more than 10 "fun-size" pieces of candy anyway before they start to ache.

On November 1 and thereafter, they get one piece of candy a day. That lasts a week, maybe 10 days. And then you know what they do? They FORGET ABOUT IT. That's right. They get all caught up in time off for Thanksgiving and the tidal wave of booty they're going to get in December and they say, "Halloween candy, wha?" And then it's done. And you toss the candy. And they don't spend the rest of the year thinking about what a dick you were about the Halloween candy because you had to go all Alice Waters on their asses.

Try it. Trust me. And there are plenty of other opportunities in parenting to be the Buzzkill. Don't make it your permanent Halloween costume. Embrace the candy, and make it a fun-size evening for everyone. Thank you and good night.