Yo Gabba Crappa!

After seven years of sifting through the absolute garbage that is now available for my children to watch on television, I've come to the conclusion that they have seriously been given the short end of the stick.  Sure, technology has advanced, and DVR and Netflix makes it possible for them to watch whatever cartoons they want at virtually any time of day (provided my wife and I allow it, of course).  But while that can be convenient, I'm not sure it's better.  Especially considering I have grown to loathe nearly every show that's on right now.

When I was a kid, my brother and I had to wait until Saturday morning to watch our favorite shows.  Now, I'm only thirty years old, and I am well aware that some of you reading this had to walk three miles in the snow, up hill, both ways, just to get to someone's house that owned a TV, and then had to spend an hour adjusting the antenna in order to see enough of the black and white picture peek through the static to make it worth watching.  I understand this, but I really wish you'd quit making everything about yourselves.  I didn't have to do that, and I only got to watch He-Man on Saturday mornings, okay?  Those Saturday morning cartoon fests where my brother and I would curl up on the floor of the living room in our pajamas and argue over who's turn it was to pick what we watched was what made the weekends exciting.  We had to wait all week to see GI Joe kick the crap out of Cobra.  We had to survive five days of school before we got to see if the Decepticons would succeed in overcoming the Autobots.  But there's no waiting anymore.  No built up suspense.  Now my kids argue about which episode of what season of SpongeBob they want to watch.  And forget sitting through commercials.  Spoiled brats.

Furthermore, where I really think kids of today are missing out, is in the quality of programs.  Entertainment has been replaced with "learning" where little animal rescuers scream at my kids in Spanish and expect them to respond back in kind.  Seriously, Dora?  Boots is standing right next to you.  LOWER YOUR VOICE!  And my kids aren't answering your stupid questions so you can quit staring at us with that retarded look on your face.  If you don't know what a triangle is, you deserve to get your stuff stolen by Swiper. 

Every episode of GI Joe would give you a nice life lesson, but after the awesome battles were over.  He-Man would give you some great advice, but after he had knocked Skeletor out with his awesome sword.  Not anymore.  Now we have Max & Ruby, two bunny rabbits that apparently have no parents.  Ruby's always bossing Max around to the point where I want to strangle the rude, selfish little...Anyways, my kids don't watch that anymore.   

Then there's Yo Gabba Gabba!  I know a few parents that are more obsessed with this show than their kids.  And it is, for the most part, pretty creative.  Odd, but creative.  The only real problem I have with this show--besides the god-like, orange tights-wearing weirdo that hovers over everything--is their choice of guest stars.  For some reason, they think it's a good idea to introduce my two, four, and seven year old to people like Sarah Silverman and Jack Black.  My kids don't need to know who either of these people are, and honestly, I wish I didn't know who Sarah Silverman was (if you don't know who this is, watch the first five minutes of The Way of the Gun and it will give you an idea of why she has no business on a kid's show).  I like a lot of the stars and musical guests they have on the show, but whether or not I like them is irrelevant.  The issue is whether or not it is appropriate for them to be on a children's show.

That being said, there are some pretty good cartoons out there.  I enjoy Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Transformers Prime, The Green Lantern, and SpongeBob Squarepants.  Granted I'm a guy, so my preferences are a little skewed.  Now if only I can get my son to watch them with me instead of My Little Pony, but his older sister seems to be winning out in that arena so far.  Personally, I think Nickelodeon needs to make ten more shows about teenage rock stars.      

A Day Without Hyphens

Getting my butt out of bed early enough to exercise is a major task for me.  In fact, rising from bed a minute earlier than absolutely necessary is a strain on my conscience and overall values.  Yet, for some unexplainable reason, I found myself walking out the front door and heading for the newly constructed Florida Tech gym a whole two hours before my first class of the day.  I plugged the auxiliary cable into my mp3 player and spent the two-cigarette drive to school rocking out to My Hotel Year.  The usual spread of semi-attractive/unattractive girls and under-committed foreign dudes greeted me as I made my way to the treadmill.  But it wasn't until I had set my run cycle and stuffed in my ear buds that I realized something was off.

Machine after machine was abandoned, their recent occupants beginning to gather along the second story rail.  Then the runners to either side of me left their treadmills without bothering to turn them off.  They walked to the railing and the gathering crowd, and I followed their stares to the several TV screens that hovered in a long row over the room.  Every one of them was tuned to a different news station.  Every one of them showed the same image.

Smoke billowed from the North Tower.  Reporters stated that a plane had crashed, a small twin-engine that soon turned out to be a commercial aircraft.  They were confused, the people they interviewed were confused, the people around me were confused.  I was confused.  I remember standing under the TV's alongside everyone else without a clue as to how I'd gotten there. 

The cameras zoomed to the tower as the reporters speculated on what had happened, and they interviewed more New Yorkers on the street.  I watched one woman as she gave her account of what had happened, and then in mid-sentence, her eyes grew wide and she said another one hit.  The cameras panned over and down as the fireball took out the middle of the South Tower.

When those around me began to gasp, I realized I had been holding my breath.  A girl standing beside me that I'd never met before grabbed my hand and began to cry.  We stood there together for a long time. 

I don't remember leaving, but I do remember getting in my truck and crying.  I cried all the way home, in total silence, still confused, not yet angry.  In retrospect, I'm not sure there was much anger on that day.  Anger came after, when we had someone to be angry at.  For most of us, on that day, when the towers fell, there was only the person standing next to you.  It didn't matter who they were or where they were from.  There were no hyphens on that day.  No African-Americans, no Hispanic-Americans, no Asian-Americans, no German-Italian-English-Irish-Jewish-Americans.  There were only Americans.  Americans looking to others for comfort, for help.  And Americans giving comfort and aid to those that needed it.  On that day we were a nation unified.  We were neighbors to complete strangers.

Every year on this day I remember that girl that took my hand.  I can't remember what she looked like, I don't know her name, I never even spoke to her, but I remember needing her touch as much as she needed mine.  I remember the fallen that needed saving and the heroes that gave their lives to save them. 

I look back on September 11, 2001, and I remember how much I love my country.

The Smell

I was fortunate enough to have an amazing childhood.  For those of you who can't say the same, I'm deeply sorry for that.  I was blessed with two parents that stayed together, who put my brother and I above themselves in every aspect of their lives.  Because of this, I have a plethora--this word is not used nearly enough in normal conversation--of childhood memories that I can look back and smile upon.  Like the time my pop's brand new fishing rod was yanked into the ocean because he was busy baiting my brother's hook due to his refusal to touch the live shrimp.  Or the time I shot my big mouthed brother out of a tree with my newly acquired sling shot, and subsequently lost all sling shot privileges for the foreseeable future.  And then their was that lamp that our resident ghost broke...

I could go on.  But I won't, because childhood stories only really interest those who were actually involved in the story at the time or were directly affected by their outcomes.  Much like people who love to constantly tell everyone about the things their children say and do.  Guess what?  No one but you really cares.  I'm sure your kids are wonderful, hilarious, and brilliant, but we either have our own kids that do that same stuff, or we have decided not to have children in order to avoid everything you're talking about.  That being said, I have one more memory to share...insert evil laugh smiley face emoticon.

My most vivid, favorite childhood memory centers around my dad's piece of crap, red Isuzu pick-up truck.  Now my pops, being the overachiever that he is, was always available to take us and pick us up from school.  The truck was always stocked with an extra large bag of watermelon Jolly Ranchers, and when it wasn't raining, my brother and I, along with a various bunch of neighborhood kids, would pile into the bed and ride home with the wind blowing through our hair and big idiotic grins on our faces.  This, of course, was before the hooplah about "safety" and "seat belts" was the talk of the town, and somehow we all managed to survive the 25mph, three block commute from school to my house.  We even altered a classic Christmas carol to include that stupid rust bucket.

But that wasn't even the best thing about the red Isuzu pick-up truck.  The best thing, the thing I still carry with me after twenty years, was the smell.  It stunk of stale cigarettes.  AND I LOVED IT!  To many people, that smell is enough to make them vomit, but for me, it's the best smell on the planet.  Better than falling rain, freshly cut grass, and my own farts.  To this day I get odd looks from smokers after I bury my face in their shirts and take a deep breath.  Maybe that's why I'm not allowed in the smoking area at work anymore.

At this point, it might be prudent to confess that I do smoke.  And after the above story of my dad's smoke-filled truck, one might be inclined to blame my father for this particular habit.  To be honest, I started smoking out of the sheer boredom while waiting between classes in college.  A stupid decision, but one that i made all on my own.  I also don't want to hear any comments on how I should quit.  I know I should quit, but I rarely, if ever, do things because someone tells me to.  Like when someone posts pictures of cancer kids on Facebook and then proceed to tell me to Like it if I support cancer kids.  Well I do support cancer kids, but I'm certainly not going to Like your Facebook status out of guilt.  And frankly, I think non-smokers should be more tolerant of my "disease", or does that term only apply to other addictions such as alcoholism, drug use, and watching Jersey Shore?  Last I heard, people are dying left and right from tobacco use, but hey, they can quit just like that, right?  They don't need any support system...let's just shun them from public places and raise the taxes on them so they can't afford them anymore.  Quitting ain't easy.  It's like trying to get the garbage man to take an old trashcan.  You can keep putting it out by the curb, but chances are its still going to be there at the end of the day.  After several half-hearted attempts, you'll have to make some serious extra effort to get it to stick. 

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the smell!  One downfall of smoking is that you grow accustomed to the smell and you don't really notice it anymore.  I've quit on multiple occasions for a multitude of reasons, and it's only after I've been smoke-free for a while that I start to notice the smell again.  I've been known to follow co-workers back to their offices as they return from the smoking area just to get a whiff of what I've been missing.  One day, maybe soon, I swear I'll kick this habit for good.  But all the coffee and all the donuts in all the world will never compare to my love of the smell of cigarettes in the morning.