Watching the news today, I debated posting something light-hearted. However, I had been planning to post this today, and upon reflection, I think that evil has taken enough today. I spent much of the day checking the news, and cried when I read many of the updates. My thoughts are with the families and friends of the victims tonight.
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Like most American boys, my toys growing up were miniaturized machines (saving my collection of Care Bears and My Little Ponies). I played with Micro Machines on the school playground with two or three other boys who had also failed to graduate to sports. I also played with LEGO, which were a lasting passion. I developed a descriptive nomenclature for the pieces based on their relative dimensions, and have kept that nomenclature into adulthood. I spent many evenings as a college student with Heidi building LEGO sets. Travis and I would have LEGO battles on slow Friday nights in Socorro, though I have always preferred the preservation of my creations. Heidi gave me an Imperial Star Destroyer set, which remained proudly displayed in my home until my ex-wife insisted it find a new one. Like a loyal pet, I asked my friend Jessi if she would want it, knowing her and Egypt would take take care of it for years to come. To my knowledge, it has been disassembled and reassembled for each of their moves, and I imagine that one day their child will blossom into a brilliant nerd, and on prom night he and his friends will come home early, and build a LEGO Imperial Star Destroyer (by that time it may have an ere of hipster cred for being "vintage").
I talk about childhood toys to prove a point, I was, and am, a nerd. Deeply nerdy, chubby, and the youngest of the children whom I was usually grouped with by my parents (cousins and family friends). This meant that in addition to my natural athletic inability, I was the smallest owing to age. Even so, I was frequently exposed to traditional children's games and sports that I was terrible at, and constantly ensured a loss for those who had to suffer through being on my team. When playing Cowboys and Indians, if I was a cowboy, the game would end with me forced onto a reservation.
During the long Alaskan winter, the certainty of being locked inside the house was a blessing for children as hopeless at active games as I was. Unfortunately, the subjugation of the young nerd extended beyond the backyard.
It seems like all kids had a car mat in Alaska, though they may be somewhat less common in places where playing outside wasn't an ordeal that Shackleton would fear. Car mats are still sold, though I remember them being less whimsical, generally having a sensible grid of roads printed directly onto a sheet of white vinyl that no doubt leaked as many carcinogens into the soft skin of children as they did into the communities where they were made.
My brother and I often played with our Matchbox cars with Dave. Dave's car mat had two houses. The manufacturer saw fit to include a strip mall, a car dealership, and a church, but no apartments, and only two houses. As with anything, he who is picked last in dodge ball, is last to be allowed to pick his house and car. Or at Dave's house, this meant not getting a house at all.
Clever and industrious as the three of us were, rather than expanding the car mat to include a house drawn at the edge of town, or converting the church to a chouse, I was instead declared homeless. Being of no fixed address in a car mat society has some advantages, you need not commute, for example. While Jason and Dave were busy driving back and forth, from home to work, I was free to feel deeply cheated. Eventually, my whining would allow me to live in a "shelter" in the basement of the church. Jason owned the strip mall, every store was his, what they sold is hard to say, as I do not recall anyone ever going to the strip mall other than him. Dave owned the car dealership, which was essentially a parking lot for Jason and Dave's wealth of cars, as no money ever changed hands, just endless trade-ins of equal value. They drove gleaming autos, some with sleek lines, some with outlandish tail pipes or paint schemes.
"You're too poor to own a house," they would say when I wanted a shiny car from the car lot, "you can't have another car"! So I would offer the single car I was issued at the beginning as a trade. Dave, the car dealer, knew the value of the cars in his lot, and knew that my car did not constitute and even trade.
"You can't trade your car for one of these cars," he would tell me. Sometimes, he would say, "maybe two of those cars, but not one," smirking that he knew the rules of the game forbade the homeless from owing more than one car. I would plead a little longer, then my imaginary, miniature self would walk back to my once green station wagon, climb into the hole where a door once was, and drive back to the shelter in the basement of the church, and sulk.
Eventually, I would drive my station wagon around town for lack of anything else to do. Jason and Dave would be commuting, wheeling and dealing, and generally having a grand time. Eventually, they would grow tired of their nine-to-five grind. They would realize that homeless, doorless brian was driving around the town freely, while they had to spend some arbitrary amount of time at work. It was simply unacceptable that I was free to drive my jalopy around the grid of white vinyl streets.
"How are you buying gas," someone would demand?
On a good day I could invent some way that I could afford gas, or that my car did not need gas. If the Matchbox wights were with me, this would suffice, more often than not, the inevitable boredom of imaginary middle class life would demand that the issue be investigated further.
"This is your last tank, and you just ran out." My car would be forfeited on some road, and I would be forced to walk back to the church. My car would remain there, abandoned, until it was impounded. The impound lot was also the car dealership. My station wagon would sit, lined up with the fanciest cars available, imaginary rust growing on its mostly paintless body. This would continue, until I would decide to steal my car back.
Stealing the station wagon would have been easy, I imagine. The car lacked a door, and I would have had the key. All my car mat avatar would have to do is run to my car before anyone could stop me, jump in, and drive off.
We all know what happens if you steal a car from the impound lot, a car chase ensues. Sometimes I would not need to steal the car from the impound lot, because rather than mess with the running out of gas business, I would just be accused of stealing gasoline. No matter what the crime was, the outcome would be the same, my car would be impounded, I would go to jail, which did not exist on the car mat, but unlike a third house, we could imagine it.
Sometimes, knowing that jail inevitably came after the car chase, I would rampage the city rather than be caught. I would ram my all steel, American made, V8 station wagon into their luxury cars, drive through their yards, and crash through their businesses. In time, my rebellion would be put down by two older, stronger boys. The game would be over.
If there was an adult present, we would be ordered to put our toys away, and I would be lectured about acting civil, and playing fairly. If not, I would be pummeled into submission. Either way, we would move on to another game I was sure to lose.
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In all fairness, this should be regarded as childhood satire, rather than absolute fact. Like almost anything, you can buy a worn, green, station wagon Matchbox car on the internet.
=======================================================================
Like most American boys, my toys growing up were miniaturized machines (saving my collection of Care Bears and My Little Ponies). I played with Micro Machines on the school playground with two or three other boys who had also failed to graduate to sports. I also played with LEGO, which were a lasting passion. I developed a descriptive nomenclature for the pieces based on their relative dimensions, and have kept that nomenclature into adulthood. I spent many evenings as a college student with Heidi building LEGO sets. Travis and I would have LEGO battles on slow Friday nights in Socorro, though I have always preferred the preservation of my creations. Heidi gave me an Imperial Star Destroyer set, which remained proudly displayed in my home until my ex-wife insisted it find a new one. Like a loyal pet, I asked my friend Jessi if she would want it, knowing her and Egypt would take take care of it for years to come. To my knowledge, it has been disassembled and reassembled for each of their moves, and I imagine that one day their child will blossom into a brilliant nerd, and on prom night he and his friends will come home early, and build a LEGO Imperial Star Destroyer (by that time it may have an ere of hipster cred for being "vintage").
I talk about childhood toys to prove a point, I was, and am, a nerd. Deeply nerdy, chubby, and the youngest of the children whom I was usually grouped with by my parents (cousins and family friends). This meant that in addition to my natural athletic inability, I was the smallest owing to age. Even so, I was frequently exposed to traditional children's games and sports that I was terrible at, and constantly ensured a loss for those who had to suffer through being on my team. When playing Cowboys and Indians, if I was a cowboy, the game would end with me forced onto a reservation.
During the long Alaskan winter, the certainty of being locked inside the house was a blessing for children as hopeless at active games as I was. Unfortunately, the subjugation of the young nerd extended beyond the backyard.
It seems like all kids had a car mat in Alaska, though they may be somewhat less common in places where playing outside wasn't an ordeal that Shackleton would fear. Car mats are still sold, though I remember them being less whimsical, generally having a sensible grid of roads printed directly onto a sheet of white vinyl that no doubt leaked as many carcinogens into the soft skin of children as they did into the communities where they were made.
My brother and I often played with our Matchbox cars with Dave. Dave's car mat had two houses. The manufacturer saw fit to include a strip mall, a car dealership, and a church, but no apartments, and only two houses. As with anything, he who is picked last in dodge ball, is last to be allowed to pick his house and car. Or at Dave's house, this meant not getting a house at all.
Clever and industrious as the three of us were, rather than expanding the car mat to include a house drawn at the edge of town, or converting the church to a chouse, I was instead declared homeless. Being of no fixed address in a car mat society has some advantages, you need not commute, for example. While Jason and Dave were busy driving back and forth, from home to work, I was free to feel deeply cheated. Eventually, my whining would allow me to live in a "shelter" in the basement of the church. Jason owned the strip mall, every store was his, what they sold is hard to say, as I do not recall anyone ever going to the strip mall other than him. Dave owned the car dealership, which was essentially a parking lot for Jason and Dave's wealth of cars, as no money ever changed hands, just endless trade-ins of equal value. They drove gleaming autos, some with sleek lines, some with outlandish tail pipes or paint schemes.
"You're too poor to own a house," they would say when I wanted a shiny car from the car lot, "you can't have another car"! So I would offer the single car I was issued at the beginning as a trade. Dave, the car dealer, knew the value of the cars in his lot, and knew that my car did not constitute and even trade.
"You can't trade your car for one of these cars," he would tell me. Sometimes, he would say, "maybe two of those cars, but not one," smirking that he knew the rules of the game forbade the homeless from owing more than one car. I would plead a little longer, then my imaginary, miniature self would walk back to my once green station wagon, climb into the hole where a door once was, and drive back to the shelter in the basement of the church, and sulk.
Eventually, I would drive my station wagon around town for lack of anything else to do. Jason and Dave would be commuting, wheeling and dealing, and generally having a grand time. Eventually, they would grow tired of their nine-to-five grind. They would realize that homeless, doorless brian was driving around the town freely, while they had to spend some arbitrary amount of time at work. It was simply unacceptable that I was free to drive my jalopy around the grid of white vinyl streets.
"How are you buying gas," someone would demand?
On a good day I could invent some way that I could afford gas, or that my car did not need gas. If the Matchbox wights were with me, this would suffice, more often than not, the inevitable boredom of imaginary middle class life would demand that the issue be investigated further.
"This is your last tank, and you just ran out." My car would be forfeited on some road, and I would be forced to walk back to the church. My car would remain there, abandoned, until it was impounded. The impound lot was also the car dealership. My station wagon would sit, lined up with the fanciest cars available, imaginary rust growing on its mostly paintless body. This would continue, until I would decide to steal my car back.
Stealing the station wagon would have been easy, I imagine. The car lacked a door, and I would have had the key. All my car mat avatar would have to do is run to my car before anyone could stop me, jump in, and drive off.
We all know what happens if you steal a car from the impound lot, a car chase ensues. Sometimes I would not need to steal the car from the impound lot, because rather than mess with the running out of gas business, I would just be accused of stealing gasoline. No matter what the crime was, the outcome would be the same, my car would be impounded, I would go to jail, which did not exist on the car mat, but unlike a third house, we could imagine it.
Sometimes, knowing that jail inevitably came after the car chase, I would rampage the city rather than be caught. I would ram my all steel, American made, V8 station wagon into their luxury cars, drive through their yards, and crash through their businesses. In time, my rebellion would be put down by two older, stronger boys. The game would be over.
If there was an adult present, we would be ordered to put our toys away, and I would be lectured about acting civil, and playing fairly. If not, I would be pummeled into submission. Either way, we would move on to another game I was sure to lose.
=======================================================================
In all fairness, this should be regarded as childhood satire, rather than absolute fact. Like almost anything, you can buy a worn, green, station wagon Matchbox car on the internet.
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