I have a cartoon I clipped out and pasted in my journal. Charlie Brown and Peppermint Patty are sitting underneath a tree discussing the meaning of life when Snoopy strolls into the frame. “Snoopy, what do you think the secret of living is?” Peppermint Patty asks. Without saying a word, Snoopy walks up and kisses her on the nose.
Brilliant.
I love Snoopy. Always have. Some people are all about Disney and Mickey Mouse. Not me. I’m all about Snoopy. The dog is smart and imaginative and witty. He takes on the Red Baron while wearing goggles and flying a dog house. He plays hockey while wearing a knit hat and no skates. He imagines himself a writer. Mostly, though, what I love about Snoopy is that he’s funny. If he’s in the cartoon, chances are I’m going to laugh.
We have a dog like that. Dusty, so named because he looks, well, dusty. He has a second name, as well, his Native American name: Dog Who Runs in Circles. He earned that name because when you say the word “walk,” his floppy ears perk up, his head tilts to one side and then, after about two seconds, a switch flips. His eyes get wide, his tail starts wagging a million miles per hour and he starts running around in circles. All the way down the hall and all the way to the door. Cracks me up.
We used to have a cat who made me break into a smile every time I saw her. Annie, so named because she was a little orphan. Whenever I would sit in the chair with my feet up and this one particular blanket over me, she would stop whatever she was doing and come running, jump up on my lap and make herself at home. She would work herself into the crack between my legs, turning the blanket into a hammock. Unfortunately, Annie died a few years ago and I buried her out back near the shed, wrapped up in that favorite blanket. I cried like a baby the entire time I dug the grave.
We have a new cat now. A couple of months ago when my wife came home for lunch, she got out of her car and heard a meow. She looked around and a cat came running up to her like they were old pals. When Beth walked onto the screened-in porch, the cat followed. When she walked into the house, in came the cat—never minding that Dusty was so excited he was running in circles. It was too cold to send the cat back outside, so we kept it while we searched for an owner. We took it to the vet to see if it had a microchip in its shoulder. Nope. We looked for “Lost Cat” signs that are prominent around here whenever a pet goes missing. Nothing. I walked around the area knocking on doors and asking strangers if they lost a cat or knew who the owner might be. “Oh, it tried to run inside our house, too,” was the only response I got.
After three weeks, we gave her a name: Zia, so named because, well, Beth likes that name. Then we took her to the vet to be fixed only to find out that—oops—Zia was a he-a not a she-a. So we renamed him Zeke. I call him Z.
Last night I was sitting in my chair reading a book when Z came bounding down the stairs, jumped up on my lap and settled in. He sat down, put his head on my chest and started purring. I put the book down and just took it all in. I’m not sure who was happier, me or Z.
Funny thing about pets: They steal your heart without even trying. And, you know, it seems to me that we could learn a thing or two from our pets. They don’t try to be something they’re not. They don’t go behind your back or have a bad hair day or hate you because you have different political beliefs. They love you because, quite simply, you’re you. Imagine if we all behaved like that.
Yes, there’s a lot of crap that happens in life that makes it messy, but, really, is there anything else that genuinely matters? No, I would say. Love is what life's all about. Love is why we are here. Love is the secret of living. Snoopy got it right.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Oldest Generation
I went to a funeral today. A good friend of mine, Doug, buried his father. His name was Paul. Paul battled cancer for four years before it finally won. He reminded me in many ways of my own dad. They battled the same kind of cancer and they both never met a stranger. It would take my dad an hour and a half to walk his dog around the block because he would always stop and strike up a conversation with a stranger. Or two.
Paul was the same way. Although I didn’t know him that long or that well, it was easy to see that there were three things he loved: Racing, beer and people. When we went to a Nascar race, Paul would disappear for hours at a time. He’d eventually return and tell us about the people he just met and it would sound like he was talking about a long-lost friends.
I didn’t inherit that gene. Sometimes I wish I had.
During the homily, the priest kept reminding us that Paul was with God now, and I must plead guilty to missing part of the Mass because I was daydreaming about what that initial meeting must have been like.
God: Welcome to heaven, Paul.
Paul: Thanks for letting me in.
God: I didn’t let you in, Paul. You let yourself in. Your faith was the key. Plus, you did well. Good family. Honest, hard-working life. This is your reward. Make yourself at home—after all, this is your new home. Any questions?
Paul: Just a couple. Where’s the beer?
God: We keep a cooler on Cloud 9.
Paul: And what time’s the race start?
God: The race?
Paul: Sure. With all the great drivers who’ve died over the years, there must be a race up here somewhere. You know. Mark Donahue, Alan Kulwicki, Dale Earnhardt.
God: Earnhardt?
There in the casket Paul had two things with him: a picture of his dog and his Greg Biffle hat. My dad wanted to wear his Ohio State shirt. We are what we wear, I suppose, but that’s another thought for another time.
Mostly what’s been haunting me since the funeral—and since my own dad’s death a year and a half ago, really—is that my friend Doug and I now share another thing in common: we are now the oldest generation. That’s one of the funny things about life: it keeps turning over. Kind of like a Slinky on an escalator. The old pass on and the young become the old. Generation after generation.
For the most part, we have 40, 50, maybe 60 years if we’re lucky in which we have an older, more experienced voice of wisdom and reason we can turn to for help or advice. Whether we do or not is a separate matter. There are family dynamics that come into play. There’s the fierce belief in independence that dominates society today. There are logistical issues and societal issues. But if nothing else, there’s at least a sense of security in knowing there’s someone there. Someone older.
I’m not sure I’m ready to be the oldest generation. To be the one who people look to for advice and wisdom. I don’t really feel that old, and I’m not really sure I’m qualified. But that’s another funny thing about life: it doesn’t care. It seems to me that you are who life says you are, and when it says you are. Ready or not.
Paul was the same way. Although I didn’t know him that long or that well, it was easy to see that there were three things he loved: Racing, beer and people. When we went to a Nascar race, Paul would disappear for hours at a time. He’d eventually return and tell us about the people he just met and it would sound like he was talking about a long-lost friends.
I didn’t inherit that gene. Sometimes I wish I had.
During the homily, the priest kept reminding us that Paul was with God now, and I must plead guilty to missing part of the Mass because I was daydreaming about what that initial meeting must have been like.
God: Welcome to heaven, Paul.
Paul: Thanks for letting me in.
God: I didn’t let you in, Paul. You let yourself in. Your faith was the key. Plus, you did well. Good family. Honest, hard-working life. This is your reward. Make yourself at home—after all, this is your new home. Any questions?
Paul: Just a couple. Where’s the beer?
God: We keep a cooler on Cloud 9.
Paul: And what time’s the race start?
God: The race?
Paul: Sure. With all the great drivers who’ve died over the years, there must be a race up here somewhere. You know. Mark Donahue, Alan Kulwicki, Dale Earnhardt.
God: Earnhardt?
There in the casket Paul had two things with him: a picture of his dog and his Greg Biffle hat. My dad wanted to wear his Ohio State shirt. We are what we wear, I suppose, but that’s another thought for another time.
Mostly what’s been haunting me since the funeral—and since my own dad’s death a year and a half ago, really—is that my friend Doug and I now share another thing in common: we are now the oldest generation. That’s one of the funny things about life: it keeps turning over. Kind of like a Slinky on an escalator. The old pass on and the young become the old. Generation after generation.
For the most part, we have 40, 50, maybe 60 years if we’re lucky in which we have an older, more experienced voice of wisdom and reason we can turn to for help or advice. Whether we do or not is a separate matter. There are family dynamics that come into play. There’s the fierce belief in independence that dominates society today. There are logistical issues and societal issues. But if nothing else, there’s at least a sense of security in knowing there’s someone there. Someone older.
I’m not sure I’m ready to be the oldest generation. To be the one who people look to for advice and wisdom. I don’t really feel that old, and I’m not really sure I’m qualified. But that’s another funny thing about life: it doesn’t care. It seems to me that you are who life says you are, and when it says you are. Ready or not.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Photographs and memories
Beth’s dad died over the summer. We flew to Texas, of course, to attend the funeral and found ourselves thrust into the unfortunate yet inevitable ugly side of death—the estate wrangling.
Her dad didn’t have a lot, at least in terms of materials possessions. A house whose main value was serving as shade from the hot Texas sun. Whole rooms were emptied and closed off. A window air conditioner was the lone source of cool relief. Meals were served on a folding table and metal chairs. Still, there was haggling. Who would get the furniture? Who would get the house? How would what little money there was in his bank account be divided?
Beth didn’t care about any of it. Life is about people, she said, and death is about memories. The only thing she wanted was pictures.
Yesterday, I spent a bulk of the day scanning more than 150 of those pictures onto our computer, converting into the digital realm the black and white images of a life gone by. It was a fitting thing to do this time of year, I thought, because I spend as much time around New Year’s looking back and within as I do looking forward. This turning of the calendar always causes me to become introspective and aware about life and about time.
When I was a kid there was a beer commercial that boldly proclaimed, “You only go around once in life. Go with gusto.” For whatever reason, that always struck me. Not the beer part or the gusto part. That was marketing. It was the first part, the part about only getting one chance at life, that has haunted me and pushed me over my growing number of years.
Time, I’ve learned, is our most valuable asset and the great equalizer. We all get the same amount, relatively speaking, and there’s nothing we can do to go back and get more. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Money can’t buy you love, according to the Beatles. Nor can it buy you time. So it’s all in how we use it.
Knowing this, of course, can be a curse. While others are rocking around the clock on New Year’s Eve, I’m wondering if I managed to squeeze everything I could out of the year. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the beer part of the commercial. Oh well. If nothing else, an awareness of time at least helps us focus on spending it doing what’s important, because in the end that’s what people will remember about us.
At least that’s been my experience. While at the funeral, I found myself standing next to a woman. “How did you know him?” I asked. They were neighbors in an apartment building, she said. She was young, a recently divorced single mom and they had a lot in common: They were both dirt poor and struggling to get by.
One day there was a knock on the door. It was Beth’s dad.
“Does your son need a bed?” he asked. “My kids have grown, and I have an old one in storage he could have.”
Grateful, she said yes. They couldn’t afford a bed, so they were both sleeping on the floor. A few hours later, Beth’s dad returned and unloaded a frame, box spring, mattress and some sheets from the back of his pickup.
“It’s old,” he said, “but in pretty good shape.”
As she was making the bed, she was stunned by what she found: The price tags. He went out and bought the bed because his neighbor had less than he did.
The woman kept it a secret until the funeral. That was her memory of him.
It seems to me that if the beer commercial is right and we only go around once in life, than how we live it is important. Living it with gusto is fine. But living with character and love for others is even better. Living, in other words, so that people will want your pictures and not just your stuff.
Her dad didn’t have a lot, at least in terms of materials possessions. A house whose main value was serving as shade from the hot Texas sun. Whole rooms were emptied and closed off. A window air conditioner was the lone source of cool relief. Meals were served on a folding table and metal chairs. Still, there was haggling. Who would get the furniture? Who would get the house? How would what little money there was in his bank account be divided?
Beth didn’t care about any of it. Life is about people, she said, and death is about memories. The only thing she wanted was pictures.
Yesterday, I spent a bulk of the day scanning more than 150 of those pictures onto our computer, converting into the digital realm the black and white images of a life gone by. It was a fitting thing to do this time of year, I thought, because I spend as much time around New Year’s looking back and within as I do looking forward. This turning of the calendar always causes me to become introspective and aware about life and about time.
When I was a kid there was a beer commercial that boldly proclaimed, “You only go around once in life. Go with gusto.” For whatever reason, that always struck me. Not the beer part or the gusto part. That was marketing. It was the first part, the part about only getting one chance at life, that has haunted me and pushed me over my growing number of years.
Time, I’ve learned, is our most valuable asset and the great equalizer. We all get the same amount, relatively speaking, and there’s nothing we can do to go back and get more. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Money can’t buy you love, according to the Beatles. Nor can it buy you time. So it’s all in how we use it.
Knowing this, of course, can be a curse. While others are rocking around the clock on New Year’s Eve, I’m wondering if I managed to squeeze everything I could out of the year. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the beer part of the commercial. Oh well. If nothing else, an awareness of time at least helps us focus on spending it doing what’s important, because in the end that’s what people will remember about us.
At least that’s been my experience. While at the funeral, I found myself standing next to a woman. “How did you know him?” I asked. They were neighbors in an apartment building, she said. She was young, a recently divorced single mom and they had a lot in common: They were both dirt poor and struggling to get by.
One day there was a knock on the door. It was Beth’s dad.
“Does your son need a bed?” he asked. “My kids have grown, and I have an old one in storage he could have.”
Grateful, she said yes. They couldn’t afford a bed, so they were both sleeping on the floor. A few hours later, Beth’s dad returned and unloaded a frame, box spring, mattress and some sheets from the back of his pickup.
“It’s old,” he said, “but in pretty good shape.”
As she was making the bed, she was stunned by what she found: The price tags. He went out and bought the bed because his neighbor had less than he did.
The woman kept it a secret until the funeral. That was her memory of him.
It seems to me that if the beer commercial is right and we only go around once in life, than how we live it is important. Living it with gusto is fine. But living with character and love for others is even better. Living, in other words, so that people will want your pictures and not just your stuff.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Lord of the Rings
I’m writing this from an unusual location, at least for me: in front of the television. I really don’t have time for a lot of television, but for the last week and a half I’ve been sitting on the couch, glued to the tube. I’ve been putting off studying and chores and just about everything else more productive than television, and for good reason.
The Olympics are on.
I must admit, I love the Olympics. I love the pageantry. I love the competition. I love the playing of national anthems when they hand out the medals. I think the greatest thrill in the world would be to be in the Olympics and take part in the Opening Ceremonies. I think the absolute worst thing in the world would be to be in the Olympics and finish fourth.
Right now ski jumping is on. On any given day, I couldn’t give a hoot about ski jumping, but for some reason when it’s the Olympics I find myself mesmerized by crazy people jumping off a big hill. The same with biathlon, speed skating and even something called Nordic combined, whatever that is. (I may draw the line at curling. It’s shuffleboard on ice. I can’t figure out why is this a sport?) And I’m on the edge of the couch when the speed and insanity sports come on. Luge, bobsled, downhill skiing. I’m fascinated by them all. There’s something about living on the edge that I can't get enough of. And I love the new sports they’ve added to the Olympics: halfpipe, snowboard cross, short track speed skating. What were once X Games are now some of the most exciting parts of the Olympic Games.
I must admit that I’m also taken in a little by the nationalism of it all—performing for your country and not because you signed a multimillion dollar contract and are getting paid to be there. Yes, yes, I fully understand that the whole thing has become overly commercialized and politicized. The innocence that the Olympics once had has long been lost, if it ever really existed at all. There will never be another Miracle on Ice, because the miracle of it all was the players on the U.S. men’s hockey team were innocent college kids taking on a Soviet machine that hid its professionalism behind a façade of amateurism.
In some ways, that’s OK. Now you truly have the best athletes in the world competing against each other. The National Hockey League even puts its season on hold so its players can scatter around the globe, return to their home countries and perform in the Olympics.
But it seems to me what makes the Olympics so compelling is not so much the sports as it is the athletes behind them. I’m particularly drawn to the athletes in the lesser-known sports because they practice just as hard and just as often as the better-known athletes, but they do it out of the spotlight and away from the endorsements. There are endless stories about people who live on the edge of poverty so they can compete. They spend four years living for this one moment. And there are stories like the figure skater who performed two days after her mother died. That’s what the Olympics are about. That’s what the Olympics do—they bring out that kind of will in people. And they keep me glued to the tube for 16 days.
The Olympics are on.
I must admit, I love the Olympics. I love the pageantry. I love the competition. I love the playing of national anthems when they hand out the medals. I think the greatest thrill in the world would be to be in the Olympics and take part in the Opening Ceremonies. I think the absolute worst thing in the world would be to be in the Olympics and finish fourth.
Right now ski jumping is on. On any given day, I couldn’t give a hoot about ski jumping, but for some reason when it’s the Olympics I find myself mesmerized by crazy people jumping off a big hill. The same with biathlon, speed skating and even something called Nordic combined, whatever that is. (I may draw the line at curling. It’s shuffleboard on ice. I can’t figure out why is this a sport?) And I’m on the edge of the couch when the speed and insanity sports come on. Luge, bobsled, downhill skiing. I’m fascinated by them all. There’s something about living on the edge that I can't get enough of. And I love the new sports they’ve added to the Olympics: halfpipe, snowboard cross, short track speed skating. What were once X Games are now some of the most exciting parts of the Olympic Games.
I must admit that I’m also taken in a little by the nationalism of it all—performing for your country and not because you signed a multimillion dollar contract and are getting paid to be there. Yes, yes, I fully understand that the whole thing has become overly commercialized and politicized. The innocence that the Olympics once had has long been lost, if it ever really existed at all. There will never be another Miracle on Ice, because the miracle of it all was the players on the U.S. men’s hockey team were innocent college kids taking on a Soviet machine that hid its professionalism behind a façade of amateurism.
In some ways, that’s OK. Now you truly have the best athletes in the world competing against each other. The National Hockey League even puts its season on hold so its players can scatter around the globe, return to their home countries and perform in the Olympics.
But it seems to me what makes the Olympics so compelling is not so much the sports as it is the athletes behind them. I’m particularly drawn to the athletes in the lesser-known sports because they practice just as hard and just as often as the better-known athletes, but they do it out of the spotlight and away from the endorsements. There are endless stories about people who live on the edge of poverty so they can compete. They spend four years living for this one moment. And there are stories like the figure skater who performed two days after her mother died. That’s what the Olympics are about. That’s what the Olympics do—they bring out that kind of will in people. And they keep me glued to the tube for 16 days.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
A weird lesson
The New York Times ran an interview last week with Tony Hsieh, the CEO of Zappos.com in which he talked about the importance of corporate culture. Zappos is one of the most admired businesses in the nation, and one of the reasons is the culture it has created.
Hsieh had previously founded another dot.com company, but he came to dread going in each morning because as it grew he started hiring his employees based on skills and experience, ignoring the importance of chemistry and culture. Eventually, the company evolved into the exact kind of place he didn’t want it to be. So he sold the company and started anew with the decision to learn from his mistake. Now, corporate culture is Zappos' top hiring policy. The compay actually interviews employees twice—once for skill sets and once for cultural fit.
What struck me as interesting is that they actually ask potential employees how weird they think they are on a scale of 1-10. “It’s not so much the number; it’s more seeing how candidates react to a question,” Hsieh said. “Because our whole belief is that everyone is a little weird somehow, so it’s really more just a fun way of saying that we really recognize and celebrate each person’s individuality, and we want their true personalities to shine in the workplace environment, whether it’s with co-workers or when talking with customers.”
I like that. And it made me wonder what my answer would be.
If you asked my kids, they’d probably rank me as an 11. I’m sure part of that is simply because I’m an adult, and all adults are weird to them. But also because I like to have a little fun with them. When they were little they once asked me what my favorite holiday was. I told them Flag Day. It was a joke, but now every June we have to break out the flag-covered tablecloth and stars-and-stripes paper plates and have a picnic to celebrate Flag Day.
They also asked me what my favorite color was, and I told them plaid. They believed me, and one year when they were shopping for my birthday, they came across the ugliest plaid shirt ever made and insisted they buy it because it was my favorite color. Beth tried to explain that she thought I was kidding when I said that, but to no avail. When they got home, I got a stern warning from my wife: “You better be excited when you open your present because it’s all of your own doing. And you have to wear it at least once.”
Fortunately, the store only had the ugliest plaid shirt you’ve ever seen in an extra large, so I had to take it back and exchange it for something a little more subdued. (Why they didn’t have any in other sizes still puzzles me to this day. Did people buy all of the other ones? Why? Or did they only make one because they knew it was so ugly no one would ever buy it?)
I’m not sure where I’d rank myself, but as Hsieh said, the number really doesn’t matter; it’s the reaction. And it’s the result. Hsieh is absolutely correct in his emphasis on culture. It seems to me that we all work too long and too hard to be stuck in a place that’s not fun. That's a good lesson, weird as it may sound.
Hsieh had previously founded another dot.com company, but he came to dread going in each morning because as it grew he started hiring his employees based on skills and experience, ignoring the importance of chemistry and culture. Eventually, the company evolved into the exact kind of place he didn’t want it to be. So he sold the company and started anew with the decision to learn from his mistake. Now, corporate culture is Zappos' top hiring policy. The compay actually interviews employees twice—once for skill sets and once for cultural fit.
What struck me as interesting is that they actually ask potential employees how weird they think they are on a scale of 1-10. “It’s not so much the number; it’s more seeing how candidates react to a question,” Hsieh said. “Because our whole belief is that everyone is a little weird somehow, so it’s really more just a fun way of saying that we really recognize and celebrate each person’s individuality, and we want their true personalities to shine in the workplace environment, whether it’s with co-workers or when talking with customers.”
I like that. And it made me wonder what my answer would be.
If you asked my kids, they’d probably rank me as an 11. I’m sure part of that is simply because I’m an adult, and all adults are weird to them. But also because I like to have a little fun with them. When they were little they once asked me what my favorite holiday was. I told them Flag Day. It was a joke, but now every June we have to break out the flag-covered tablecloth and stars-and-stripes paper plates and have a picnic to celebrate Flag Day.
They also asked me what my favorite color was, and I told them plaid. They believed me, and one year when they were shopping for my birthday, they came across the ugliest plaid shirt ever made and insisted they buy it because it was my favorite color. Beth tried to explain that she thought I was kidding when I said that, but to no avail. When they got home, I got a stern warning from my wife: “You better be excited when you open your present because it’s all of your own doing. And you have to wear it at least once.”
Fortunately, the store only had the ugliest plaid shirt you’ve ever seen in an extra large, so I had to take it back and exchange it for something a little more subdued. (Why they didn’t have any in other sizes still puzzles me to this day. Did people buy all of the other ones? Why? Or did they only make one because they knew it was so ugly no one would ever buy it?)
I’m not sure where I’d rank myself, but as Hsieh said, the number really doesn’t matter; it’s the reaction. And it’s the result. Hsieh is absolutely correct in his emphasis on culture. It seems to me that we all work too long and too hard to be stuck in a place that’s not fun. That's a good lesson, weird as it may sound.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Kindle-ing the flame for reading
In November, my wife asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Ironically, at that exact moment, I was on Amazon.com and getting bombarded by ads for its Kindle electronic reader. It was one of those moments that make you stop and say, “Hmmmm.” I made a passing mention of it, but let it go and really didn’t think a lot about it until Christmas morning when, amongst all of the presents, there was a book-sized gift with my name on it. Sure enough, under the wrapping paper was a box with the familiar Amazon smile on it and a white Kindle inside. I pulled it out, flipped the switch and officially stepped into the world of electronic reading.
Granted, I have been reading newspapers and magazines online for years, but this was a little different. This was the next step, if you will. A step into the future. The idea of electronic books has been tried unsuccessfully before, but Amazon seems to have gotten it right—or right enough—and is moving the world in a new direction from which there's no turning back.
My understanding is Apple is creating a tablet computer that will make the Kindle almost immediately obsolete—perhaps as early as next year—and I wouldn’t be surprised by that. Apple not only has a tendency to do that, but that’s the typical evolution of all things electronic. My Commodore 64 somehow morphed into my MacBook Pro. PacMan an Atari became Wii. My collection of vinyl record albums evolved into eight-tracks and then cassettes and then CDs before finally settling into my iPod.
The Kindle may, indeed, be a relic in a few years, but that’s for the future to determine. Now is now. So after the Christmas chaos subsided and the girls set about learning how to be guitar heroes, I connected with the Kindle store and browsed the collection. I downloaded 10-page samples from a number of books I’ve been considering reading and gave it a test ride.
And I like it. Mostly. It’s certainly different, but that’s not such a bad thing. Graphically, it could use some work, as the photos are simply shades of gray and hard to view. But when compared to pages on a book that are nothing but text, there’s no real difference. Instead of flipping a page, you just click the “next page” button and read on. What I also like about it is that it’s searchable and you can make notes and highlights on the pages. I must admit that when I read a book, I keep a highlighter and pen nearby so I can underline passages and take notes in the margins for parts I want to remember. Weird? Perhaps. But I can’t help it if the rest of the world is messed up.
What I also like about it is the price. Because of cost or convenience, everything is shifting to the digital world, and this is no different. Now, instead of paying $30 for a New York Times bestseller, the books are $9.99. And why not? The publisher already has the text in an electronic format, so by pushing a button and sending it to Amazon for distribution he saves on paper and production costs, and that savings can be passed on to the consumer—me.
What’s even better, for books in the public domain, that means the price is even cheaper. I found the entire works of Mark Twain for just $1. I was pretty happy with that. More than 300 pieces of Twain’s writing for a buck.
But as I was downloading those works, I glanced over at one of the bookshelves in our living room, which is filled with nothing but Mark Twain books, including some 100-year-old first editions. It seems to me that there’s just something about holding a book in your hands while you are reading it that is going to be hard to duplicate with the Kindle. Or how you relive a part of the books each time you see them on the shelves. Maybe that’s something I will get over as I venture into this brave new world. Or maybe not. Perhaps I’ll be the last holdout, preferring ink and paper until the day I die. Like I said, the future will determine all of that. Now is now, the Kindle is pushing the world in a new direction and I’m on board. I’ll have to see how I enjoy the ride.
Granted, I have been reading newspapers and magazines online for years, but this was a little different. This was the next step, if you will. A step into the future. The idea of electronic books has been tried unsuccessfully before, but Amazon seems to have gotten it right—or right enough—and is moving the world in a new direction from which there's no turning back.
My understanding is Apple is creating a tablet computer that will make the Kindle almost immediately obsolete—perhaps as early as next year—and I wouldn’t be surprised by that. Apple not only has a tendency to do that, but that’s the typical evolution of all things electronic. My Commodore 64 somehow morphed into my MacBook Pro. PacMan an Atari became Wii. My collection of vinyl record albums evolved into eight-tracks and then cassettes and then CDs before finally settling into my iPod.
The Kindle may, indeed, be a relic in a few years, but that’s for the future to determine. Now is now. So after the Christmas chaos subsided and the girls set about learning how to be guitar heroes, I connected with the Kindle store and browsed the collection. I downloaded 10-page samples from a number of books I’ve been considering reading and gave it a test ride.
And I like it. Mostly. It’s certainly different, but that’s not such a bad thing. Graphically, it could use some work, as the photos are simply shades of gray and hard to view. But when compared to pages on a book that are nothing but text, there’s no real difference. Instead of flipping a page, you just click the “next page” button and read on. What I also like about it is that it’s searchable and you can make notes and highlights on the pages. I must admit that when I read a book, I keep a highlighter and pen nearby so I can underline passages and take notes in the margins for parts I want to remember. Weird? Perhaps. But I can’t help it if the rest of the world is messed up.
What I also like about it is the price. Because of cost or convenience, everything is shifting to the digital world, and this is no different. Now, instead of paying $30 for a New York Times bestseller, the books are $9.99. And why not? The publisher already has the text in an electronic format, so by pushing a button and sending it to Amazon for distribution he saves on paper and production costs, and that savings can be passed on to the consumer—me.
What’s even better, for books in the public domain, that means the price is even cheaper. I found the entire works of Mark Twain for just $1. I was pretty happy with that. More than 300 pieces of Twain’s writing for a buck.
But as I was downloading those works, I glanced over at one of the bookshelves in our living room, which is filled with nothing but Mark Twain books, including some 100-year-old first editions. It seems to me that there’s just something about holding a book in your hands while you are reading it that is going to be hard to duplicate with the Kindle. Or how you relive a part of the books each time you see them on the shelves. Maybe that’s something I will get over as I venture into this brave new world. Or maybe not. Perhaps I’ll be the last holdout, preferring ink and paper until the day I die. Like I said, the future will determine all of that. Now is now, the Kindle is pushing the world in a new direction and I’m on board. I’ll have to see how I enjoy the ride.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Ho Ho Ho Hum
If you want to know why anything in the world is done, just follow the money.
I say this because yesterday was exactly three months until Christmas and the stores are now gearing up—if not already at full speed—for the season. The catalogs are rolling in, too. I'm not sure when the first one arrived this year, but last year I made a concerted effort to mark the date we received our first Christmas catalog. It was Sept. 7, right after Labor Day. I decided just for fun (apparently I'm easily amused) to see exactly how many catalogs we would get by Christmas Day, so I placed a basket by the door, and each time one arrived in the mail I tossed it in the basket. We ended up with more than 100. Probably half I had never heard of or asked for.
I can't blame retailers for this, of course. The first rule of any business is to make money; if you don't make money, you're not going to be in business very long. Christmas is not only retailers' most productive season, it's also their most profitable season. The day after Thanksgiving, after all, is known as Black Friday for a reason—that's the day retailers' bottom lines shift from being written in red ink to black ink. So there's really no reason why we should be surprised that they're pushing the season from three weeks before Christmas to three months before Christmas. As I said, just follow the money.
But it seems to me that we're losing something with this. Our innocence, perhaps? Or what's left of it. It used to be that Christmas didn't start until the day after Thanksgiving. There was a determined, set order to the end-of-the-year holidays—Halloween first, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas. There would be an excitement and mad rush for three weeks. It was totally different from the rest of the year, and that made it special. Now that set order is all stirred together. It's stew. Gumbo. Yes, there's still the mob scene on the day after Thanksgiving. But even that is getting lost, as stores are now staying open all night or trying to beat the competition by opening earlier. I know one person who was up and at a particular store last year at 4:00 a.m. And when he got there, there was a line. To me, that's insanity.
That doesn't mean we have to break out the stockings and string lights yet, of course. My wife and I reached a friendly compromise after a series of debates as to when Christmas in our house is allowed to start. I insisted that it couldn't be until after Thanksgiving. She reluctantly agreed, but only if she could set the definition of "after Thanksgiving." I reluctantly agreed. As it turns out, after Thanksgiving starts the exact second the last person steps out the door after Thanksgiving dinner. The football games are still on. I'm packing the refrigerator with leftovers and the dishwasher with plates, and she's hauling up tub after tub of Christmas decorations from the basement. She then stays up all night decorating, and by Friday morning, when others are waiting in line outside department stores, it's full-blown Christmas in our house. By Saturday she's wrapping presents and putting them under the trees (yes, plural, one upstairs and one downstairs) because she's already done most of her shopping—over the course of the last three months.
I say this because yesterday was exactly three months until Christmas and the stores are now gearing up—if not already at full speed—for the season. The catalogs are rolling in, too. I'm not sure when the first one arrived this year, but last year I made a concerted effort to mark the date we received our first Christmas catalog. It was Sept. 7, right after Labor Day. I decided just for fun (apparently I'm easily amused) to see exactly how many catalogs we would get by Christmas Day, so I placed a basket by the door, and each time one arrived in the mail I tossed it in the basket. We ended up with more than 100. Probably half I had never heard of or asked for.
I can't blame retailers for this, of course. The first rule of any business is to make money; if you don't make money, you're not going to be in business very long. Christmas is not only retailers' most productive season, it's also their most profitable season. The day after Thanksgiving, after all, is known as Black Friday for a reason—that's the day retailers' bottom lines shift from being written in red ink to black ink. So there's really no reason why we should be surprised that they're pushing the season from three weeks before Christmas to three months before Christmas. As I said, just follow the money.
But it seems to me that we're losing something with this. Our innocence, perhaps? Or what's left of it. It used to be that Christmas didn't start until the day after Thanksgiving. There was a determined, set order to the end-of-the-year holidays—Halloween first, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas. There would be an excitement and mad rush for three weeks. It was totally different from the rest of the year, and that made it special. Now that set order is all stirred together. It's stew. Gumbo. Yes, there's still the mob scene on the day after Thanksgiving. But even that is getting lost, as stores are now staying open all night or trying to beat the competition by opening earlier. I know one person who was up and at a particular store last year at 4:00 a.m. And when he got there, there was a line. To me, that's insanity.
That doesn't mean we have to break out the stockings and string lights yet, of course. My wife and I reached a friendly compromise after a series of debates as to when Christmas in our house is allowed to start. I insisted that it couldn't be until after Thanksgiving. She reluctantly agreed, but only if she could set the definition of "after Thanksgiving." I reluctantly agreed. As it turns out, after Thanksgiving starts the exact second the last person steps out the door after Thanksgiving dinner. The football games are still on. I'm packing the refrigerator with leftovers and the dishwasher with plates, and she's hauling up tub after tub of Christmas decorations from the basement. She then stays up all night decorating, and by Friday morning, when others are waiting in line outside department stores, it's full-blown Christmas in our house. By Saturday she's wrapping presents and putting them under the trees (yes, plural, one upstairs and one downstairs) because she's already done most of her shopping—over the course of the last three months.
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