Brevity - Easier Said Than Done. What I Mean is, Sometimes It's Fine to Be Brief, Other Times It's More Appropriate to Use a Lot of Words.

When I was getting my doctorate in Doctoral Studies at doctordegrees123.com (it's actually not as prestigious as it sounds), the credits we earned were tied more to quantity than quality. I recall some of my classmates copying and pasting entire scripts of Who's the Boss? episodes solely for the purpose of meeting the 5,000 word minimum. As I tried to take my education a little more seriously, I kept my copy-paste plagiarism to medical shows like E.R. or Who's the Boss? (the later seasons when the storylines were on life-support - rimshot! Gotta get a rimshot guy on staff.)

So it's no wonder that my training in prolificity has spilled over into my leisure writing. I'll give you an example: one of my regular readers - for the time being let's call her 'mom' as she's married to my dad - broke the news that I could get the same point across in a tenth of the words. I rebutted her for nearly twenty minutes straight, emphasizing and re-emphasizing the virtues of a well-composed if loquacious diatribe. She later told me the call dropped two minutes in. Subsequently I emailed her my stance on the matter. She said her internet's been spotty and not to bother resending it for fear of "clogging up the cables".

The longest English-language novel is a work of the notorious late sci-fi writer and philosopher L. Ron Hubbard, now intergalactically known as "that creepy Earthling". It's called Mission Earth and it tips the scales at 1.2 million words. That might be an airy novella in the thin atmosphere of Uranus, but it's a weighty tome here on Earth. Of course, in today's world of inexpensive self-publishing, anyone can write a novel (seriously - they let anyone write these days), no matter how verbose. Hubbard's Earth looks like a pamphlet on childhood bulemia compared to Mark Leach's Marienbad My Love - 17 million words in sum. I bet Marienbad didn't even make it all the way through.

[You know, on second thought, the pamphlet could really be about any topic; childhood bulemia just took on the quality of 'littleness' to me and seemed contextually appropriate. Offended readers can call (877) SEAN-930 to express their contempt.]

I guess my point is this: tough cookies. If you're looking for a breezy stroll through the literary park, try Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist. You know what, try The Alchemist anyway, it's actually a pretty moving piece of literature. Plus it's wicked short so you can take it in in like one sit--

Eph.

Sans Screen, SPF 1366 x 768, Part I

I'm the cute one.

A friend of mine who owes me money was recently lauding me for the near-metronomic rhythm of my posts. She likened me to a bouncing ball, with its steady, dependable cadence, just randomly striking the keyboard until it finally depresses "Publish Post", and in turn, all of my readers. But notable as of late was my six-day absence. "omg wtfru? ru ok? ttyl," read her tersely-lettered text. It was then I realized I'd completely missed her 14th birthday.

But li'l Stacy wasn't the only devotee who felt the void. I received tens* of inquiries into my whereabouts. Did I fake my death to escape scrutiny and ultimately incarceration as a result of my shady dealings with the printer who ruined my business cards by omitting the "h" in "johnatron"? Of course not. I faked his death. Was I kidnapped by a tribe of lost children who broke free from an exploitative Fox reality show called Adolescent Peninsula? Or maybe the stress of the job got to me, and I flew the coop to Australia where I'm now living a life both foreign and exotic - as an Australian blogger.

Most often it's the simplest explanation that is the right one. I was kidnapped by children.

They took me to their hut in the forest where I was ridiculed for my gargantuan stature. Not a teen amongst them, they cackled with glee, encircling and spinning around me in a dizzying array of LOLs and LMFAOs. "Forsooth! The monster hath arms what dangle as a common tree ape!" (I did mention the show aired on Fox-Middle English, no?) The Lilliputians were horrid captors, alternately forcing me to play Nintendo DS and explain what kissing feels like.

The first night was the longest - the Winter Solstice (normally falling on December 21st, it was pushed back a month to coincide with the Presidential Inauguration). They braided my hair, and adorned me in their native garb, mostly Aeropostale. I listened in awe as the girls spoke in admiration of the one they called 'Ryan Gosling'. Meanwhile the boys huddled around an edge-tattered magazine photo of Hayley Duff, about whom one offered, "she's pretty like Mommy." With Capri-Sun heavy on their breath and an air of pants a-wetted, the tiny ones slept.

Morning. We woke to the unmistakable glow of Yo! Gabba Gabba on the 37" Panasonic LCD. We sat Native American-style, mouths agape, backs hunched, and stared. Hours passed. The littlest among them, I called her Carla for it was her name, presented me with a flower she took back, Native American-style, from Dylan, the boy she used to like but who seemed to be ignoring her the past couple days. I thanked her, and patted her head, to which she responded, "ouch, get off." Which is so Carla, by the way. Later, Kyle asked if I wanted to race around the Mushroom Bridge. My spirits were suddenly buoyed! Where was this idyllic bridge? Had I stumbled, hostage-style, upon a utopian cluster of star children? In my head I saw the next half-century of my life, teaching these youths the ways of the world, while steeping myself in their innocence!

As I gazed into the cloudless sky, mind adrift in our Halcyon days to come, Kyle informed me that the Mushroom Bridge was a track in Mario Kart: Double Dash!!

Well that was all I could take. Indignation boiled in my veins. I erupted upwards, breaking from the chains I voluntarily self-styled out of sinewy vines I collected throughout the morning, barking primal growly sounds - all vowels, none of those pesky consonants. As I towered over the now-shaking kidlets, I wondered who is the real monster here? Is it I, grazing the vaulted sky at 180 centimeters, all of my 75 kilograms trembling the earth beneath? Or could it be I was a slave to these digital child-demons?

But then it struck me. I was enslaved with them. We were all lowly subjects of The Screen. As though waking from a dream only to find oneself in a nightmare, I surveyed my landscape. I wasn't in a forest hut at all! I was in nine-year old Jacob McCovey's trailer! My woodland friends, Ashlee, Noah and Shyla were actually "Ashlee", "Noah" and "Shyla" - co-stars of Fox's exploitative reality show Adolescent Peninsula! And the screens - oh, the screens! Sony Bravias® here, 3.5" OLED cellulars there! Oh how we basked in the diodes!

Rather than fight, I fled. I had to toss Cody to the ground to get to the door, for which I fully expect a suit to be filed, but it was barely a blip on the radar of what was really wrong with the scene. I ran for what seemed like days but was only about thirty yards, as a cab was waiting just off the set.

"Take me to Time-Warner Studios. And step on it. I have lives to save."

When he informed me he wouldn't be doing that, I settled for my one-story ranch in Cinnaminson. My google-machine was about to get a work-out.

* 'Zero' is a 'ten', right?

I Bet Presidential Speechwriters Abbreviate 'God Bless America' to 'GBA' in Early Drafts

So I got you guys a new President. Please, don't thank me. But you're welcome. Try to give him some time to get acclimated to our ways of governance. If he gets a little rambunctious early on, just know his heart's in the right place. It's our collective mission to guide him procedurally - this is his first time presiding over a sovereign nation - that I know of.

Also, keep your phones charged and on your person. BHO is notorious for calling upon the everyday citizen to serve his common man for the greater good of society at large (or as I interpret it, he's got a case of the you-do-its). It's too early to know exactly how this may manifest itself. I picture a text coming through requesting that you, Gary Kellerman of Allentown, PA, take your neighbor's trash out as she's experiencing an onset of flu symptoms. Or you, Regina Plaus of North Bridge, MI, would you mind shooting this Talibani fellow in a manner that prohibits him from firing that ground-to-air missile at our Boeing CH-47 Chinook utility chopper? It hates missiles.

Regardless of the method of contact and nature of request, do your best to accommodate. America's really busy right now, and excuses like "I just got Super Smash Bros. for Wii" won't exactly resonate with our leaders. Of course if you have a two-player set-up and your screen size exceeds 42", drop a line to johnatronheartswii@prodigy.net with your poor reasoning for why you think that'd be acceptable and turn-by-turn directions to your house.

Public service is the cornerstone of a functioning complex society. Today you may have two operational hands and really enjoy the Azure hue of your '08 Saab 9-3 Convertible. But if on a whim you self-impose a deadline of Friday to go Ivory, and your hands are otherwise engaged in a Guinness record-seeking rocks-paper-scissors-off, it's your fellow citizen whose assistance you'll need. And let's face it, you'd do the same for them, but mostly because you're recklessly enamored with the smell of urethane basecoat.

Will the mere fact that an advocate of voluntarily service is in the highest public office set the land ablaze with a renewed spirit of altruism? Of course not - this isn't an ill-conceived Happy Madison production. But what if it did? What if we felt anew the kinship to our common man, and the inherent duty we'll all charged with to care for one another - a duty not enforced by any institution, but rather our own sense of righteousness?

[at this point in the movie, a motorized-cart-drawn, raggedly-hewn Steve Buscemi would roll across the screen babbling incoherently about his 'Nam flashbacks and endorsing the foolish scheme that will enable the crude but good-hearted protagonist to overcome some gimmicky injustice and win back the deed to the home of the love interest. 'S grandmother. 'S grandmother. Tell me again - how hasn't Sandler won an Oscar®?]

Let's Use Our Inside Voices Today

My shirt. I'll let you decide if fun has been poked at me yet today.

Even Lou Gehrig went 0 for 4 from time to time.

Look, my head hurts. And not in a good way. I celebrated last night after winning the Philadelphia Museum of Art's coveted Van Gogh's Ear, annually awarded to the person who is most conspicuously absent from the Museum. It takes perfect non-attendance to qualify - I've been in the running five years straight now. The event was hosted at City Hall, in the Mayor's private office. That makes two nights in a row I've slept on Nutter's desk. This is getting ridiculous.

This afternoon I was fortunate enough to receive the Lobotomy, a honor bestowed by pharm giant Wyeth. It goes to the person with a headache so malicious it can only be compared to an orchestra of mutes playing kickball with your skull. You thought the orchestra would be emitting something cacaphonous, didn't you? Then ask yourself this: why would they be mutes? Come on, people. Critical thinking skills.

Your stupidity aside, the award was two Advil, and I couldn't be more appreciative. Unlike the Academy Awards, this isn't one of those "it's just an honor to be nominated" competitions. You either win, or you cry in the fetal position for six hours. Nothing honorable about that.

I feel like I'm always the one talking - what's up with you? Family well?

Crickets, huh? Ooookay. Back to me, I guess [rolls eyes].

Let's see, what's happening this week? I usually have fairly interesting things going on. Monday I have a dentist appointment, Tuesday I'm in Nome for the Iditarod prelims, Wednesday night's my adult Microsoft Word for Beginners class. Slow week I guess.

Hey let's take some calls.

Huh. Not a radio program, I just gathered. This whole time I've been reading aloud.

See TV's The Office Thursday? How funny was it when -- you know what, let's cut our losses here. I'll see you Monday. It's team jersey day, so go ahead and wear, you know, a team jersey.

Some People Think Obama Will "Paint the White House Black", But I Don't Think He'll Do That

A really, really good artist's rendering of the White House after being painted black.
It appears there was some overspray on the trees and bushes.
I think they're coming back Monday to finish the chimney.

It'd be an understatement by an order of magnitude to say the challenges our nation faces are daunting. Any leader staring down the behemoth tasks in our way should get the full support of his constituents. As things stand today, that's just not the case. But the leader we've chosen - Barack Obama - must deal with still more insurmountable adversity. Why? Simply because he's Muslim. And historic though the times may be, the invective spewed leading up to the 2008 election was despicable to say the least. Full of misinformation and blatant ignorance, it spoke poorly of our nation. Superpower, yes. Supercool - not so much. So when people say things like "Obama's going to paint the White House black", I feel it's my place - not as a man, not as the regional manager for Bic's new line of Click Stic® Metallics, but as an American - to speak out.

Let's face it - so many presidencies are judged by the first hundred days in office. A tone is set. Is he sprinting out the gate or meandering passively? Never is this benchmark truer than today. The imminent closing of Guantanamo Bay will present challenges the likes of which we aren't even yet aware. A tattered economy will require such immediate and razor-sharp attention, it could take an entire administration to get right. Do we really think it would send the right message to the American people to focus on aesthetics? It's so far down on his list of priorities, I haven't heard a single pundit even mention it.

They were going to tape the whole thing in one shot,
but there was a My Two Dads marathon on TV Land.

Painting the White House black isn't like you or I freshening up our colonial two-story with a new coat of Behr. At six stories and 55,000 square feet, the residence registers as a landmark in dimension alone. A single laborer, working eight hours a day (allowing fifteen minute breaks every four hours - you can bet OSHA's going to be all over this one!), can cover about 900 square feet of surface area. Exterior paints typically take three coats, especially if you're looking for duration, so triple your labor figures right there. The average paint crew is three Russian men, one of whom will call in sick two days out of the week. We're looking at a three-and-a-half month project.

That's to paint the outside. Would he paint the inside black as well? During wartime? Remains to be seen, but most experts I spoke with hung up on me.

So I pose the question - taxpayer funds or no? It is a private residence, after all. Gosh forbid the next owner wants to paint it white again! I don't know about you, but I've painted a light color over a dark one before - talk about hitting a wall! I think the nation would agree with me - once you go black, it's best never to go back. To white. Paint.

The last radical redecoration of 1600 Pennsy took place under Kennedy. Prior to that? FDR replaced nearly a hundred twenty-five rugs. And installed ramps. Lincoln was the most notable living space architect - it's alleged he kept fabric samples in his breast pocket at all times (forming the origin of the saying "what, are you keeping fabric samples in your breast pocket or something?") Would it be fitting for Obama - raised in militant jihad camps and an integral part of the Weather Underground Organization, at age 8 - to assume the role of First Renovator? This blogger says, "I don't have enough information to decide."

Drive-by media my ass.

Words to Your Moms... Volume 2

It's kind of sad that the Olympics - the revered and time-honored institution that it is - can only pull its weight every four years. Words to Your Moms comes at you weekly. "Lazy" is the first word that comes to mind. Keep it real, Olympics. If you want to stay relevant, you'll learn a little something from johnatron. Weekly's where it's at. Oh, and if you think you're off the hook, Special Olympics, think again. You're not that special.

apoplectic (adj): (a-poh-PLEK-tik) inciting rage up to and including causing a stroke

Paco closed tight the last of the drawers. "I can picture it now. When Dr. Undermuck comes in on Monday, he's gonna completely freak out! He hates finding frozen lab mice in his desk drawers!"

Despite the already disturbing nature of the prank, Pam was growing concerned at the demented pleasure Paco seemed to be deriving from it. She detested Dr. Undermuck as much as Paco - at least she thought so - but an innocent cryomousing was quickly becoming an unsettling act of terrorism.

Paco grinned devilishly. "What do you think he'll do when he sees them?"

"He's gonna go apoplectic."

"I know, right?" Paco's eyes couldn't have been wider. He crept delightfully around the office like a thief that really took joy in his profession.

Pam considered a compromise she could live with. "Do you think maybe we can just leave one? Did we have to leave all eighty?"

"Pam - you said yourself he'll go apoplectic. That's the goal, right?"

"But - what if he actually has a stroke when he sees them? How will we live with ourselves? If he suffers apoplexy we're toast."

"Pam." An exasperated Paco put his head in his hands. "Let's look at it this way. How bad would it be if he died of apoplexy? Do you know who died of apoplexy? Geez, only Pope Martin V, Woodrow Wilson, and Warren G. Harding."

"Really?"

"Really."

"I'm off-put by how much you know about apoplexy."

"Pam. Consider me irked. Kill the lights and let's go. This isn't a threat, but if you keep it up, who knows what kind of frozen rodent you might find under your pillow tonight." Paco turned and headed for the door.

Pam stood still, more confused than angered. "How is that not a threat?"

The next morning

Dr. Undermuck was the foremost authority on a controversial practice called "just messin' around with lab mice" that garnered him more industry derision than he liked. Mice aren't protected by the USDA Animal Welfare Act. Dr. Undermuck knew two things inside and out - the Animal Welfare Act, and mice.

The good doctor swung open his office door and carelessly tossed his hat towards a hat rack he hadn't yet bought. He fell to his chair, still sleep-dazed, and in for the surprise of his life. Ten minutes passed while he checked email and played Snood. Nutri-Grain, he thought. He reached down and to the right, and pulled a drawer to reveal a cubic foot of mid-thaw rodent carcass. The doctor broke into uproarious laughter.

When at last he caught his breath, he shook his fist in feigned outrage and said aloud to no one present, "Paco and Pam!" Then he leaned back in his chair and fell silent, transfixed by the near-musical nature of the names. Paco and Pam. He repeated: Paco and Pam. Once more, but now with an ampersand: Paco & Pam. The Broadway legend, Gus Undermuck, was born.

He died moments later of Hantavirus pulmonary syndrome.

It's Like I Always Say, 01100101001110100101100101001.

They say people are more afraid of speaking in public than of dying. But could you imagine dying while speaking in public?

Now that I've terrorized your soul with the most nightmarish concept imaginable, let's talk about the inevitability of robots taking control of your free will which, relatively speaking, should scare you only as much as our nation is of peak oil - little to none.

[Full disclosure: The Author is a self-proclaimed nerdbomber. His favorite abstractly shaped hard candy is Nerds and he enjoys the alt-hip-hop stylings of N.E.R.D. The following comes fresh from the nerdery.]

So I watched three hours of The Science Channel last night including Where's My Robot, The Day of the Cyborg and Robosapiens. There's good news and bad news. We will almost definitely be overtaken by robots and completely lose touch of what we call humanity. But now the bad news - it's probably going to take another fifty to a hundred years. Will you live to see it? Probably not. For that, you can only blame your parents for conceiving you in the latter half of the twentieth century and not, disgustingly, twenty or so years from now.

There are two seemingly convergent paths down which the human-machine dynamo is currently hurtling. The first is the man-made development of robots - nuts and bolts, circuits, optics, maybe a hat - that are being created to emulate humans in both behavior and appearance. Picture Johnny-Five from Short Circuit, or WALL-E from WALL-E. These are physical entities only - mindless, and only as intelligent as the human-instilled programming inside it. Actually WALL-E was sentient, so forget him. On second thought so was Johnny-Five. Man, Hollywood is really screwing with our heads. Okay, picture Keanu Reeves - now there's an inanimate object that clearly lacks any cognition whatsoever.

Why are we building robots, and specifically why are we building them to looklike us? The answer is two-pronged - we're lazy, and we can. Remember the dude who invented the wheel? That lazy sunnova B was tired of lugging the kills from his hunt over his shoulder. When he showed up the next day with a wheelbarrow, he got more looks than a popped collar at a [insert any social event in any culture since the beginning of time]. But once the benefit was understood, all the other cave-gentlemen realized that Ug was on to something - maybe we can manipulate the world around us to serve our needs. Ug was positively slaughtered in a wheelbarrow robbery that went horribly and precisely according to plan.

The wheel was the forerunner to any machine that followed, and all the machines we can think of - a water-powered windmill, the blender in your kitchen, even the keyboard at which I'm now tapping - are the forerunners of robotics. No matter how specialized the function they perform (think refrigerator), we as humans expend less energy to accomplish an end result than we would if that machine didn't exist. And so we perpetually seek to build better and more capable automata. Are we lazy? Or did evolution bless us with the aptitude to devise methods that enhance our quality of life? The answer is yes.

Why then must Rosie the Robot resemble the rotund if reliable au pair she does? Why can she not merely be a monolithic cube on wheels? Because you don't want her to be. Trials of robotic servants over the years conclude that we want our bionic butlers to be recognizably us-like. We want a "face" with "eyes" we can peer into. If our robot was a blank surface of steel, upon what would our gaze fall when we tell it to scrub the tub that I was seriously going to do myself but I've just been so busy with - what's that? I have a phone call?

But there's a problem with the pure robot lineage - it will never develop the on-the-fly decision-making skills we as humans are expert at. As advanced as we may mold them to be, our robotic friends just can't find the je ne sais qaui of what it really means to be "alive". Didn't know this was a multi-lingual blog, didja? Well it es. And it's all for the best - should our mechanical nanny ("mechanny" - shotgun!) be as conscious and animated as you and I? Remember: there are unalienable rights that go hand-in-hand with life. Would WALL-E get to vote? Would WALL-E be taxed? When WALL-E ceases to function, would we bury him next to Grandpa?

But there's an alternative lineage, and while it mostly spares us from such ethical concerns, it throws us Neo-deep into a warped sci-fi reality we can barely grasp. So let's start small - your dog has a chip in it. When it runs away and is taken to the local vet, he scans it, and learns the rightful owner. Fido is a cyborg. He's a whole lot of biological organism, and a leeeetle bit machine. Your kids will be likewise. Take the Big Brother aspect out of it for a moment - such human-machine hybrids will be more common and more machine as new technologies are perfected. And why can we just cast the 1984ishness aside? Because whether or not our government could benefit from such endeavors, there are "upgrades" we as individuals will both want and need.

Dude loses his arm in a tragic workplace-fatigue competition. Scientists can now link an electrode to the nerve endings at stump's end, and by thought alone, dude can send impulses from brain to nerves to electrode to electrical signals that will accordingly command mechanical systems. Simply put, dude can control a machine with his mind. Similarly, real-life examples of amplified and clarified sound input ("super-hearing") and enhanced digitized visual information ("super-vision") that connect the outside world with our inner thoughts are just over the horizon. Like just over.

It's freakin' weird.

Take it a little further. Your organs are no more "alive" than your computer mouse. As such, we can rebuild organs - bladders, lungs, and one day even hearts - and you'll take one step further toward being truly superhuman. The latest and greatest tool in our technology toolbag is nanoscience. Soon we'll be able to control the universe at the nanoscale level, leaving virtually no barrier to what can be done in your body. The more synthetic our "parts" become, the blurrier the line between human and machine becomes. But as we'll never relinquish that one thing that science can't yet put its finger on - call it a spirit, a soul, or a life force - our descendants' superhuman bodies will still retain their humanity.

Now, do you want to buy this weed from me or not?

Let's Laugh at Comically Diminutive Cars!

One of my two life goals is to hijack a spaceship mid-flight. The other is to own and operate an all-electric car. Let's review some vehicles both in production and on the drawing board that just might fulfill that dream, all the while making as many electricity puns as possible, wholly discarding quality in favor of quantity. Meet me in the next paragraph to see what I mean.

No More Gas Personal Electric Vehicle
I really get a charge out of this banana-lookin' bastard. Developed by Myers Motors, this one-seater has a range of 25 to 30 miles, making it ideal for an urban environment. "Socket to me!" one might exclaim about this little sparkplug. Technically classified as a motorcycle by the US Department of TransportatiOn, the NMG plugs along at 75 mph, enabling normal highway travel where other three-wheeled EVs go static. Currently available in the United States of America, the NMG could be yours for a shockingly-low price of under three hundred Ben Franklins, more commonly referred to as $30,000. If the public adopts the magnetic styling of this vehicle, it may be the first to gain inductance into the Electric Vehicle Hall of Flame.

Lumeneo Smera
Check out this joule. I'd love the opportunity to drive this Faraday, and get a feel for how it holds the road. Looks like I just might be ready to grid of my Nissan! At a mere 35.5 inches wide, it fits two, and handles like a moped, requiring you to lean into turns. Ohm my God, how coulomb is that? The motors are in the wheels as opposed to the chassis and get you 93 miles on a singe-le charge. Of course, it looks more like something you'd see in a DC Comic than a regular guy like AC Slater driving it around! Generations of people might be electrocuted by this light person-conductor, though the manufacturer disputes that claim.

Reva
This car is built by Iondian manufacturer Reva Electric Car Company, so don't expect to walk up to the showroom window ampere in, because India is 8400 miles away or 16,800, if you plan on making a full circuit. At an irresistanceable price of $9,000 (or better if you have a connection that can get an employee discount). Eight hours of charge time, and you're in the ready state to drive up to fifty miles. Maybe one day we'll be sinusoidal wave-ing to our friends as we roll by in a Reva. It's a shame Ron Paul didn't have the funding Obama had, or else the country's desire possibly would have been to electRon. He loves Revas.

Subaru R1
Even Subaru has the potential and capacity to get in the electric vehicle game. Your biggest concern when driving the R1 should be getting struck by lightning, especially if you're holding a lightning rod out the wind-ow - the vertical glass surface you wind down the same way you'd wind some kind of electrical thing that requires winding, like a wind-up toy or something. The R1 also plugs along at about 65 mph, also known as the speed of light. It's a shame it can't get up to 88 mph, which is the speed that, when driven next to the clocktower which was struck by lightning at 10:04 PM, generated 1.21 jigowatts of electricity, sending Marty's Delorean time machine from 1955 back to 1985. The R1 is produced in Japan.

Snow in the Time of Cholera

That there's pa.

Come November, Jillian and I would descend the stairs faster than if we were pushed, which we were from time to time, usually by Bobby, that jerk. Meanwhile, William and Lucah were already in the kitchen, getting ready for work at the factory. Little Grace and Vicky would still be upstairs fast asleep. Zachary, Caleb and Noah would already be outside, probably doing something involving tackling. And there's no doubt Daniel wished he could be there with us, but apparently they're pretty strict about leaving base when there's wartime missions on multiple fronts. Yeah, growing up in a house with eleven kids wasn't easy - it was incredible.

And when we'd wake to see the ground completely covered in white, we knew what kind of revelry was in store. Caleb would come running in, ruler in hand, and breathlessly announce the tally. "We're over a foot!" And with that, he'd dart right back out as though he'd better take another reading in case it was higher. As Jillian and I were twins, we seemed to do everything together, mostly by happenstance. We never said "let's eat breakfast together", we'd just find ourselves spoon-deep in porridge only to look up and see one another. Mom forced us to consume something before spending the entire day outside. We were all home-schooled, so "snow days" were by Mom's decree. Suffice to say the kids had some influence; the word "please" abounded.

Time to suit up. In kid time, this took thirteen years. We put on fifty-five layers, even so, mom insisted we were under-dressed and going to freeze to death. I don't recall that ever happening. Once the mittens and wool cap were neatly in place, there was only one thing left to do - sprint at top-speed through the door, dive with reckless abandon and immerse ourselves in nature's best kind of precipitate.

We didn't even realize we were forming the fondest and firmest memories of our lifetime.

Hang tight. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait - sheeeit. Nevermind. That wasn't me. That was a movie I saw on Bravo. Not that I watch Bravo. I think I was flipping - no, what it was was, I turned the TV on, I assumed it was HBO. It was like, twenty minutes until a commercial came on. Seriously, I'm more of an ESPN guy. Or ESPN 2. FX. I basically never watch Bravo.

But the sentiment's the same. Didn't it used to snow a lot back in the day? You know, 1985 through 1996? Am I wrong about this? I could definitely be wrong about this - heck, one time I mistook my entire childhood for a movie that I saw on Bravo! Not that I watch Bravo. No, I'm pretty certain I'm right - it used to snow. It was...white. I want to say it felt like either cotton balls or maybe it was really hard like golf balls. That part isn't coming back to me. And it was usually...waist-high. Is that right? No wait, it was foot-high. Or maybe it was all under foot, like walking on a giant piece of paper. Which is a great example, because paper's white.

Hang on - did it used to snow? I know it doesn't anymore, that part's obvious. It hasn't snow-snowed - and you know what I'm talking about - since, I don't know, '02. That's a long time without snow-snow. What gives? My gut reaction is to blame Bush, but it would be giving him too much credit to pretend he controls the ongoings of the upper atmosphere. Is it something I did? Does karma exist? Is there a God? Where does outer-space end?

It's not exactly where-did-I-lose-my-glassesesque, but I'm just curious as the dickens over here. Where the frick is the snow?! Allegedly it happens in other parts of the country, but here in the location where johnatron magic happens, zilch. And I'm talking like nil; nada. From my perspective, the word snow is nine-tenths "no", one-tenth "sw", which stands for so what when it comes to God's opinion of snow.

Not sure what that last sentence was all about. What can I say, I'm frazzled.

But there's a silver lining. It's called hope. Snow still exists - in our hearts. In our memories. And in our faith that one precious day, we'll wake to find the ground white. We'll have our porridge, we'll fifty-five-layer up, and we'll dive into that ish like Louganis off the springboard. Plus, the 36-hour forecast says 90% chance for tomorrow. Ninety percent. Round that bad boy up to a hundred - that's a guarantee, baby.

It will snow again. But we have to keep hope alive. It's what Jillian would have wanted. I think she got cholera towards the end of the movie.

Huh, look at that. I got a Louganis reference in there. Don't see them much. Did you know he was gay?

Can't We Still Be 'Friends'?

[johnatron is off today. Filling in is Steve from America.]

"Oh man, I didn't know that. No, I didn't hear about that party/see those pictures from last weekend/find out who just got engaged/learn who's bi-curious now. No way, that's crazy. What? Oh, I see, yeah. No, I'm not on Facebook. I know! I should get one. Definitely by next week. Is that Coors? Another beer? Nadene!"

I've had this weekly conversation for about two or three years now. It's true, I don't have a Facebook page. Should I get one? Probably. Will I get one? By now, probably not.

Am I technologically inept? No way, man. I'm pretty good at the computer screen and keyboard. I can type over three emails per day. Is it some form of anti-socialism? Definitely not. I'm totally into staying up on things with my friends, or yes, I'm in favor of capitalism and free trade, depending on what you meant by that. If anything, as I ripen with age and friends move away, Facebook represents the perfect medium to stay in touch with people spread all over eastern Moorestown. Probably other places, too.

I guess, plain and simple, I've never been an early adopter, and I just missed the boat on this one. Facebook only started to really catch on at the end of my college life. A few of my friends were up and running with their own pages. I guess I would have created a profile too, but our house's internet connectivity was permanently set to "sometimes". Not ideal for quickly alerting* our friends that, once again, we'll probably start playing washers in our front yard around 6 before heading to the Darkhorse, so just look out your window and come down because you have next game. Sorry, you're stuck with Pete again. Odd numbers.

*I'm not sure if that's a feature of or the intent of Facebook. I assume it is one of many.

After college, I just settled into that schedule of work all week, PJ's on Thursday night, Philly on Friday or Saturday, marriage, Birds/Phils on the couch on Sunday, and then work again on Monday. For better or worse, the circle became smaller and the routine became more, well, routine. It's all a comforting sort of thing.

Sure, I have hobbies that I'd be happy to discuss, pictures that I'll show you, goings-on to update you about (we're celebrating Christmas this year!), but unfortunately in this news-by-the-second digital age we live in, I haven't gotten in the habit of updating my peers in real time. Maybe one day the pendulum will swing back in my direction, and all my idiosyncrasies will all of a sudden become trendy:

"Look how environmentally conscious he is with his fuel-efficient car and how he maintains a speed limit that maximizes MPGs!" (I've been known to drive my Civic slow as a bastard for no reason. I just get bored.)

"Sweet retro phone. Throw-back, I like it." (When I buy a cell phone, I always ask for the cheapest, most basic device they have. I'd buy that green Shrek phone with the pre-set numbers intended for kids to call only their parents and, I guess, poison control, but it only has four buttons.)

"Thanks for growing me my week's supply of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes! Your garden in your backyard is an excellent way to reduce carbon emissions resulting from needless worldwide food transport where we could simply be more self-sustaining and grow and buy things locally. Plus, your use of compost creates less waste and uses natural fertilizers, and using organic farming techniques with no additives, while encouraging me to eat healthier, will help wean us off our addiction to high fructose corn syrup, which is most likely responsible for our epidemic of obesity and type 2 diabetes." (Dude, I don't have a garden. I go to Acme. Jen has a 5% discount. And your mom brought those over for you.)

But I'm sure I'll never be that cool. Most likely I'll probably just slip into parenthood and have tech-savvy offspring who will be pre-programmed with these twittering abilities. Got to text before you can talk.

So listen, next time you guys want to have a party for the Eagles playoff game or have pictures of Dan in a sumo wrestler costume, just do what we've always done and tell me about it months later. It will be great to imagine how funny it must have been for everyone the first time around.

Steve from America

[sad emoticons]

Yeah. I just wanted to go ahead and clarify something from the 12/31/08 post titled "2009: The Reeee'MMIX'!!!!"

Did everyone get the clever title? See, 'MMIX' is Roman Numeral for '2009'. No one acknowledged it, and, I don't know, ever since late-2008 I've been feeling kind of blue about it. It's like, why do I bother developing these high-concept wordplays if my readership is just going to gloss right over them? I guess now I know how James Joyce feels. I should text him.

Could I have just put one "M" and solely relied on the topical pop-culture reference to all those really, really good songs that start with a clearly-educated gentleman bellowing "reeeeeeemixxxx!" Sure I could have. But don't you think I would have spelled it with seven e's and four x's, and not four e's and one x, if that's what I was going for? And what about the apostrophes? Were they there for my health? No. No apostrophe has ever been there for someone's health. That I'm aware of.

I just get down sometimes. Is it your fault? I guess so, yeah, but look - this time around, let's share in the blame. From now on, if there's a postmodern meta-gag somewhere in a post that I really want you to experience, I'll italicize the f-word out of it. That should be plain as day.

I feel better. You guys are okay, let's go to Red Lobster.

Words to Your Moms... Volume 1

You know, it's pretty evident we here at johnatron like to have fun. Just the other day was our annual staff picnic, and I spared no expense. Of course, I also spent no expense - sometimes the worst kind of ride is a free one. It's rare, but sometimes.

And so, in the spirit of lack of fun, I bring to you the first of however many:

Words to Your Moms...

panegyric (n): (PAN-uh-JEER-ik) a formal expression of praise, often a eulogy.

Though Daryl was terminated with just, albeit odd, cause (misappropriation of the company pet), his boss felt it necessary to say a little something to his staff before Daryl's departure.

"It's pretty amazing to think you've been with Rectix for 33 years, each one better than the last," Mr. Yeager said. "I doubt any replacement we can find will offer the same mix of dependability and comraderie we all enjoyed during your time here. Why you chose to take home Ronnie the Rectix Rhesus, we'll never know, but one thing's for sure - you'll be missed. As will Ronnie."

Daryl, stiff with self-consciousness yet brazen by embarrassment, quietly approached Mr. Yeager. "What was the panegyric all about?"

Mr. Yeager froze. "The, uh, the what?"

"The panegyric. I felt like I was witnessing my own funeral. You got up there - atop a desk, no less - and went straight panegyrical on everyone."

"Oh, PANegyric. I thought you said... [unintelligible]. Well, Daryl, I thought it was fitting to give you a proper send-off. Your colleagues will miss you. Plus, my staff loves my panegyrics."

Daryl grew increasingly agitated. "We actually hate your panegyrics! Remember your 'Ode to Joe'? When Jeff Connigan left? He cried, and not in a good way. For one thing you called him 'Joe' the whole time."

Mr. Yeager hesitated. "Okay, just - and I'm not trying to pick nits here - it's really not 'we' anymore. Your termination was effective yesterday. I just figured you'd want to come in for some cake."

"And the panegyric?"

"And the panegyric." Daryl stormed away. Mr. Yeager turned and gazed down from his first-story window. A single tear streamed down his cheek. He couldn't stop thinking of Ronnie. But he knew of one way to truly honor his memory - panegyrically. And he'd be sure to get the phrase "monkey business" in there somewhere.

Adobe Flash is Way, Way Too Hard

I've been put in my place, and boy does my place taste bitter. I feel - what's the word? - dumbful. The soundtrack in my head for the past three hours is a medley of the word "duh" blended with extended periods of "umm..." and the occasional "wait what now?"

I downloaded the free trial version of Adobe Flash. Dude. It's hard as all get-out.

Now, this is especially infuriating to me in particular as I was involved in the early development of the Apple Macintosh's GUI - oh, sorry, "graphical user interface". Sometimes I think I'm still talking to my fellow beta testers back in the late 80s. Yeah, we in Mrs. Willoughby's sixth-period Computers class were pretty cutting-edge, with yours truly leading the way. One concept I really grasped was "the mouse". So you can imagine my distress that I couldn't master the finer intricacies of Adobe Flash CS4.

Flash is the most popular software tool used for creating animation. It's award-winning and recognized as the standard-bearer in its class, but here's the problem - clearly, somewhere in the testing stage, Adobe, Inc. must have lost all its funding. So, they rushed it to market, and we're left with an end-user application that is figuratively impossible to figure out - literally.

Like I do in any foreign situation, I stared blankly and felt waves of panic. Flash is probably the kind of thing where, once you get it, it's like riding a bike. But I forgot that learning how to ride a bike was ridiculously hard and I fell often - it was Band-Aid central up in there. Today, as a professional genius, I take "getting stuff" for granted. I do not get Flash.

You'll see I mastered the "single-frame" concept. A pastiche of Dali, Rockwell, and my neighbor's daughter Becky, I found my voice and really explored the canvas. It's when it came time to animate that the insufferable dread began to hang over me like so many crushing waves in the middle of a stormy sea. Where is the "next frame" icon? Shouldn't there be a "GO" button? Move, damn you! Dance like no one's watching!

I had to step away from the situation. So I went down to the pub with me mates. Got a pint. Shot some billiards, or maybe snooker, I forget. At a distance, the answer became clear: "just give up!" And with that, I felt renewed! "Oy, blokes!" I told the blokes, in the blokiest tone I could muster. "Bollocks to that bloody programme!"

"Arse," I added.

It's a shame, though. Who knows what rich, multimedia masterpiece might have emerged from that picturesque setting? I bet three birds would have flown across the screen. The kind that are lower-case 'm's.

I leave you with some of my earlier works.

Hard-Angled Blue Reptile Guy with Cement Wall in Background (2009)

Green Trapezoid on Blue Rectangle, or, Where Goes God When the World Ends? (2009)

It's posterity's loss, really.

So Sometimes I Like to Look at My "Photos of You" on Facebook. Are We Gonna Have a Problem Here?

I mean, they're on there anyway. It'd be a waste not to look at them. But I have a defense, and it'd be awesome if you'd listen to it.

My overarching point is this: so whatsies? Who are you, the presiding judge in What's Okay v. What's Not, et. al (2009)? Wait, you are?

Think of the criteria that goes into every photograph, and agree or not, live inside the reality of what it takes to appear on Facebook:

You have to:
A. Be a 3D person (possibly the most challenging if you're out of practice)
B. Attend a function where someone has brought a camera
C. Be appealing enough that someone decides to capture you photographically
D. Not be deleted in the photog's initial scroll-through for blanks/blurs/drive-by moonings
E. Have your image successfully uploaded onto the photog's compy
F. Have your image deemed worth posting on Facebook

And lastly, and most importantly:

G. Someone's gotta tag that sucka. You can do it yourself, but then everyone sees "John tagged himself in a photo...", and you just look like a raving lunatic or worse - a chronic Facebook tagger.

After clearing all these hurdles, why not take a stroll down random-access memory lane? It's chock full of good friends and good times that you otherwise would be forgetting, plus you have the opportunity to get your wit on in the comment section.

But put on your Hat of Tomorrow, which I was perplexed to learn es un sombrero. Facebook is a mere newborn in the grand scheme. It was only in 2004 in my Cambridge studio apartment that I started it. But four score from now, it will be your life's photo album in sum. Now it's possible you're made of some aluminum-steel composite and have no feelings nor sense of nostalgia, but we with a limbic system tend to emote periodically. It's perfectly natural, and I invite you to do the same.

Unless you use MySpace. Dork.