My son, Peter, has been churning out news articles for MacCentral from Appleland, and meanwhile, I’ve been chained to the oar writing my first big commercial Microsoft .NET application.
I’ve become convinced of it: many of us are not living the lives that we expected or prepared for.
Dutifully cognizant of our blessings, few of us are particularly miserable, but we’re not stand-up-and-cheer happy, either.
With Christmas gone and New Year’s on the horizon, almost no one in my immediate circle is really happy.
I will spare you the usual self-flagellation about how Americans and other citizens of developed countries don’t appreciate how truly privileged we are.
It seems with our hot running water and relative freedom of speech, though, comes the burden of expectations which in this day and age, few of us can hope to fulfill.
The other day, I saw a person standing outside a municipal building in Falmouth and didn’t recognize that it was my son. Duh.
In my own defense, rarely do I see Flargh-boy in actual daylight, so I’ve probably forgotten what he looks like in a “normal” setting. He is usually sitting down, in the middle of Kristalnacht-like chaos, dressed in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, staring at a computer screen.
I am also used to seeing him while his chi is being mangled by one or more shrieking or sulking children. These are by the way highly intelligent, creative children who nonetheless do not grasp that they live in a house with multiple floors, multiple rooms and a large fenced-in yard and, thus, do not have to share the same space as Daddy.
But I digress: given my recent experience, I can somewhat relate to the parents who thought they’d buried their son, Kevin Wickoff, an inmate who’d committed suicide at the Lexington, Oklahoma, Assessment and Reception Center. They thought they buried him – until they got a phonecall from none other than Kevin himself right after his funeral.
Maybe it’s the flu or Mad Cow or the latest “the sky is falling” from the Bush administration or an economy that is still pretty lousy for most of us peasants, but Christmas seems to be hanging like a dark cloud over a lot of people this year.
A German incinerator plant has found a way to turn incontinence pads like Depends into energy.
Located in the industrial city of Bremen, the plant has contracted with a local retirement home to purchase 100 tons of the stuff each year.
And we all thought that “Senior Power” just referred to a voting bloc.
For two years, I lived in the Brant Rock section of Marshfield, Massachusetts, in a cottage less than 1/10 of a mile from the beach. I could see the ocean from my front stairs.
Am I alone in wishing that defense attorneys would either have the integrity to tell the truth about their clients or just shut up?