It's Mac's fault. It's Mac's fault!

After taking the week off to rebuild the porch, sink deeper into debt, and make George Bush proud of what we're doing with our tax rebate, our home computer decided it wanted in on this plan. We've had an iMac for the past several years, and it was starting to get a little long in the tooth. This past weekend, the logic board decided to crap out on us. The computer still works, but the built-in monitor doesn't. Handy given the prominence of the monitor hanging of the top of the computer.



It works with an external monitor, so my options if I want to keep using this one are to either glue a sheet of cork board to the front of it and use it to post my daughters' latest artistic creations, or remove the monitor and turn the gooseneck into a lampshade. Both are reasonably viable options, but it was time for a new Mac.

I was a little hesitant, because the rumor sites all said that new releases of the iMacs were about due. However we couldn't afford to wait any longer, so Saturday I came home with a shiny new 20" iMac with 4gigs of memory, a Time Capsule on the side, dual overhead cams, and chrome headers. Yeah, it's a Hemi.

And, conveniently, Apple released the new iMacs today. TODAY!

Okay, it’s not even remotely a big deal, but it IS hugely ironic. The good news is there is not much change to the one we bought. Instead of a 2.48gigahertz processor, it’s a 2.66. We'll never notice the difference. Otherwise, the specs and price are the same. But can you believe that crap? And no, I'm not going to return it because the additional gigahertz just ain't worth the two days I spent setting the new one up. But, man...that's uncanny.

The original iMac we bought years ago was purchased through MacMall, Apple dropped prices a week later and MacMall wouldn’t honor the price change. This is why I’m afraid to buy a new car. The day after we buy it all cars will run on plastic grocery bags.

But regardless, I'm happy now. More importantly, my lovely wife is happy now, as she's able to surf the net like she's Danica Patrick on the final lap.

When I finish the lampshade iMac project I will be sure to post pictures.

Our new Passover Tradition

Before
Originally uploaded by daninhim

It was just over two years ago that we broke ground turning our humble little abode to a slightly bigger but still humble palace. Groundbreaking actually occurred during Passover 2006. So, in an effort to keep with Passover tradition, Dad and I tore apart the front porch this past weekend.

I never liked this porch. It's only four feet wide, and the railing makes the porch useless for anything but collecting leaves and varmints. And what's with those wagon wheels in the corners? Yeesh. Add to this the fact that I hadn't bothered putting a fresh coat of paint on the railing in the 8 or so years we've been in this house, and suddenly said humble abode was starting to look like it needed an old Chevy up on blocks in the front yard. It was time for some refreshment of the curb appeal.

Demolition was easy. Those columns weren't holding anything up. And the railing balusters were so dried out that one good smack with a Fubar took them right out.

I'm no fan of regular maintenance. For example, the landscaping in the front yard is "mulched" with river rock, so I don't have to do the typical suburban thing and shovel mulch every year. Thus, I wanted the new porch to be relatively maintenance-free. Thus, we had to consider a relatively new product: lumber made of PVC plastic.

I'm sure you've seen those vinyl fences that Home Depot and Lowes sell these days. They suck. They look ugly. Put one of those up on your property and you're barely making a statement of "I'm too classy 'nshit to have some ol' chain link fence in my yard". However, this new PVC lumber they've got actually makes a bit of sense. For one thing, it's textured to look a little more like wood. And for another, it's available in all sorts of widths, cuts well on a table saw, and is generally easy to work with. Aside from the fact that it is ridiculously expensive, nor overly "green" unless you count the gallons of paint and wood cleaner used over time if we did it with wood, it can be a good option when used appropriately. I'm hoping this was one of those appropriate moments.







For anyone who cares, those arches were made by hand, and the posts consist of pressure-treated 4x4's with the top half covered in a PVC tube made for this purpose, and the bottoms clad with PVC planks cut to fit each side. The project went smoothly and was relatively within budget (that is, the budget we'd set after the initial sticker shock for the PVC). There's still plenty more to do, like replace those discolored shingles, paint the ceiling, and build a deck over the porch to make it a bit more attractive.

We had two fun moments. First, you might notice in the picture that the gutter doesn't reach all the way to the right. That's because the longest in-stock gutter we could find was 21 feet, and the roof is 22 feet. And I wasn't about to special order or piece things together. I'm considering a rain chain or something decorative in that corner. But the fun part was getting a 22-foot gutter home in a minivan. It stuck two feet out the tailgate and about four feet out the front passenger window. I had to drive home carefully to avoid taking out a speed limit sign.

Then there were the moles.

We've had mole trouble for the past several years. I knew they were living under the porch, but I had no idea there was an entire compound under there. At one point dad put a small step ladder on the ground just in front of the porch. When he stepped on it, the ground opened up, exposing a hole the size of a waste basket (note the white piece of wood in the "after" picture, lying on the grass in front of the porch). I was able to reach under the porch the entire length of my arm, and there was still more to go. Luckily nothing bit me.

So there it is. Our annual Passover project. for next year's Passover seder, perhaps a pool.

Schmaltz in my veins, and Gribines in my heart. Don't call a doctor, it's Passover!

Tomorrow marks the first night of Passover. One of my favorite Jewish holidays, second only to Shmini A'tzeret (please note, that was the first of several references only Jews will get. For more information on Jewish holidays, consult your local library).

As long as I can remember, Passover was a pretty well-organized holiday. My mom would start cooking about three years in advance, stashing away briskets and chicken dishes in recesses of the basement freezer. That freezer was a constantly rotated inventory of large foil-wrapped platters, and I always knew Passover was coming when the number of platters became so many that the secret tin of frozen chocolate chip cookies she thought I didn't know about became almost impossible to reach behind the frozen tsimmes.

She'd invite no one officially, yet we never seemed to have fewer than 18 people including at least one person whom no one else at the table knew and and everyone wondered who invited. For years I thought it was Uncle Izzy, til I realized Uncle Izzy died in 1803.

Grandpa Jack would spend all morning bent over a wooden bowl preparing the chopped liver. From the depths of New Jersey Aunt Gert would deliver the 55-gallon drum of rendered chicken fat she'd been storing since last Passover (ah, schmaltz...sandwich spread of the gods) as well as the gribiness, a delicacy consisting of bits of chicken skin and onion fried black in schmaltz, (and low fat, too) and mom's friend would deliver the most insanely large and elaborate bouquet of flowers gathered since last season's Rose Parade.. Dad and I would spend a half hour wrestling with the nine-thousand pound dining room table he built himself out of solid oak and kryptonite (it's that heavy), and grandma would spend most of the afternoon grabbing various youngsters' arms, giving them $5 bills, and telling the to put that money in a safe place because, "you were always my favorite grandchild, not like your sister who never writes me."

The service was impeccably organized. Grandpa Jack, in his brown polyester shirt with the tan circles, would lead the proceedings with his Brooklyn accent and Ashkenazi prayers. As the youngest in the family, I'd usually get stuck asking the Four Questions. Mom would force the table to sing "Dayenu" in a key that totally pissed off the dog. My sister, my uncle and I would make the same lousy jokes every year about rabbis overcounting the days the Jews spent in the desert and about the "frog bowls" used to pour the wine into during the recital of the ten plagues. And when the meal started, it was matzah with schmaltz, chopped liver with schmaltz, and perhaps a hard-boiled egg with a little schmaltz on the side. In more recent years my brother-in-law Hillel would become the butt of a corny joke as the meat in the Hillel sandwich. And ever year, the various children would take that brief eighth of a second out from their meal to find the afikomen, which my unimaginative grandfather would predictably hide in the same place each year, under the chess set on the counter directly behind his seat. Easiest dollar you could earn.

Of course times have changed. My grandparents have long since been gone and, living 8 hours from home we don't always make it back for Passover. This year, however, we are looking forward to a new challenge. We're hosting.

Hilary has been cooking for the past eight weeks, sending me on countless trips to the grocery for potato and beef products. Natalie has been studying the four questions and Jessica has practiced Dayenu, looking forward to their on-stage debuts. The plastic seder plates they made in preschool have been dug out from the art bins under their beds, the ones that contain semesters of crayon and marker masterpieces from their formative years. There's a new cup on the table, placed next to the Cup of Elijah, to remember Hilary's mom who passed this year. And my mom and dad arrived yesterday in preparation for the big event.

Now anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis is probably wise to the fact that my parents come in and part of the house gets renovated. No exception this time. Dad and I tore down the front porch this morning. Hopefully by the time the first seder starts tomorrow we'll be able to access the front door. My sister, her husband and two kids arrive tomorrow night, using a Passover visit as an excuse for their daughter to tour Carnegie Mellon in search of a design school. Tomorrow there will be at least a dozen for dinner. Maybe more. Maybe Uncle Izzy will be there.

But some things don't change. The back of my parents' car contained the contents of their freezer. The flowers arrived from my mom's best friend today. Again, a Rose Parade float. And I've already sought out the best location for the Afikomen hiding place, on the buffet behind my seat at the table. As my daughters recite from the Haggadah and sing the passover songs tomorrow night, I'm looking forward to the time when, one day, they will have the opportunity to make fun of MY shirt. Traditions live on.

And mom brought Schmaltz.

Primping for Pesach

"I'll tell ya ladies, this spa is fantastic. First, an egg bath, then a matzoh meal facial (which I thought was a little odd, but this IS Brooklyn), and a little potpurri in the bath. What a life!"

Jon Stewart Clarifies the Obama Gaff

Jon Stewart did a brilliant job of putting the story of Obama's supposed slam against the good people of Pennsylvania into perspective. I typically ignore most of politics but, being a Western PA self-imposed elitist myself, I couldn't help but take a stand here. Thank you Jon, you've done a wonderful job of clarifying the issue, saving Obama's campaign, and, oh wait, demonstrating what a glorious booze-hound Hillary is.

Wii Teeth

Hi y'all, I'm back. Sorry for the extended hiatus...it's been kinda slow, and I haven't had much inspiration lately. UNTIL NOW!

Okay, check this out. researchers have put together a video game that teaches kids how to brush their teeth. Pretty wacky and totally impractical, but really, someone's thinking. I mean, it's gotta work better than the way I attempt to train my kids to brush. Usually my training regimen consists of yelling at Natalie to stop spitting on the mirror, yanking the brush from Jessica's hands when she insists on brushing with the handle end instead of the brush end, and getting really, really annoyed with having to clean up globs of Oral-B from the counter, the footstool, the toilet seat, and the lights. How they get toothpaste on the lights I don't quite know, but they do. On a regular basis.

So, in regards to this invention, it obviously isn't practical to install a computer in the bathroom to handle this. So maybe they should come out with a version for the Wii. Kids could bring a spit bowl and do it right in front of the TV. Heck, if they can have a Wii version of competitive eating (no, really), they should certainly have one for competitive brushing.

Happy Easter

Dang, you know I saved this pic JUST so I could post it on Easter Sunday, and forgot all about it. Oh well, happy belated Easter everyone.

How kids get their way

The following is a transcript of an actual conversation between my wife and my 4-year-old....

Kid: Mommy, I can't find my smile.

Mom: Maybe it's here (tickling her in different places).

Kid: No, it's not back yet.

Mom: Maybe it's here, under the chair.

Kid: No, it's not back yet. Maybe it will come back if you give me a snack. I'll take Cheese balls.

Horton Has Hearing Damage

First of all, to the Goyim out there in Whoville, you're missing one great benefit of being Jewish on Easter. Five dollar movies with no crowds. We took the family unit to see Horton Hears a Who this morning on the cheap, and had the theater practically to ourselves.

Now, at the risk of going all Abe Simpson here, can I just ask who in tarnation sets the volume knob in movie theaters these days? During the previews I determined that if I plan to take the kids to either Walle (the new Pixar flick) or Speed Racer, I'm going to have to invest in a family pack of ear plugs. There is simply no excuse for risking deafness in children in one of these places. Kids today have plenty of opportunities to lose their hearing what with iPods and such, without Lowes Cinemas helping them out thank you very much. Now excuse me while I go hike up my wrinkled socks..oh wait I'm not wearing socks...

As for the movie...it did not disappoint. Jim Carrey resisted hitting that level of annoying that sometimes turns him off to some people (including me), and Steve Carrel was stellar. They stuck, for the most part, with the story, except that the kangaroo (Carol Burnett) and her pouch-ridden offspring failed to emphasis their points with the expected "Me Too!" that was a major part of the original book. But no matter, they added enough to the story to make it a worthwhile full length film.

And yet, they never resolved the one thing that most bothers me about the story. When Vlad Vladikoff (the vulture, played wonderfully by Will Arnett) steals the clover and drops it in a miles-wide field of clover in hopes of it never being found, dontcha think that this would be a GOOD thing for the folks in Whoville? Why would the speck be in danger in this giant field of clover? Horton shoulda left it alone. Frankly, a vast majority of the problems inflicted upon Whoville were caused by Horton himself, what with the running and the jumping and the loud talking and such...

Today we become adults

Yesterday was a huge milestone for us. Especially for me. We accepted delivery from Ethan Allen of our overpriced but completely succulent leather chair for our living room. This completes the transformation of our living room from embarrassing waste of space to a comfortable room good enough to be on one of those design shows. Well, on one of those local access cable design shows. Not sure if it's HGTV-worthy, but close.

It also means we are officially adults. Gone are the days of ogling over Ikea's latest pressboard wonders (oh, sweet! Check out the OONGBLAT! It's black AND it's got shelves), as is the need to have milk crates anywhere within a 75-foot radius of the dining room. In fact, I just sent an email to my sister bestowing 6 milk crates upon her daughter, who's headed to college in the fall. That's right. We're giving up the milk crates, cold turkey.

Since the day we bought our house back in 1998, the living room has been a pit of despair. The room is 22 feet long but only 11 feet wide, and the fireplace on one of the long walls is not centered with the opposite wall. As a result, anything we've tried to do to make this room comfortable, livable, and stately has been a dismal failure. Of course, the puke-gray berber on the floor and the monkey-poop brown wood paneling on one wall didn't help any.

I remember we first tried putting a cheap particleboard entertainment unit on the wall opposite the fireplace. Nice, especially if you liked watching TV while sitting in the fireplace. Then, there was the computer desk. An Ikea special, I believe we moved it to different corners of the room eight times before we finally gave up and renovated the house. There were futon faux pas, bad choices in couches, and the ottoman. Oh, that ottoman. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Go to a local furniture store, pick out a swatch of custom fabric, and have an ottoman made to our specifications. Now we have this striped red rectangle that doesn't match anything we own, completely in the way no matter what room it's placed in.

When the kids came along, this room became even more hopeless. any previous post I've ever written here referring to a sea of Fisher Price was referring to the floor of this room. We'd surrendered to the madness and given up.

But then the renovation happened. And we decided desperate measures were in order. If you've read my blog you know we started off by putting built-ins surrounding the fireplace. This was our first major step of bringing this room into adulthood. Then, there was the Ethan Allen designer.

Ethan Allen has always been one of those stores I felt like I didn't dare enter unless I wanted to give up the idea of sending my kids to college. But after visits to half a dozen stores for new furniture for this room, we were desperate. So one night after dinner, I headed out to the local Ethan Allen, leaving the wife and kids at home in hopes being able to look around the store without having to stop at every easy chair while the kids did a recline test. But after an hour of talking to Patti, one of the store's designers, I realized I was entering this new phase of life.

Patti and I had a grand old time looking at different styles and colors, and pulling out fabric swatches to compare. That's right, you heard me. I'm comfortable enough with my manhood to say that. In the end I walked out of there completely giddy about the idea of telling my wife what I found (okay, giddy sounds a little fluffy, but still). I also decided that Patti HAD to come out to the house to seal the deal.

That was about three months ago. Yesterday we took delivery of the last piece we ordered. As I type this, I'm relaxing in the living room, my wife in the chair next to me reading a book, and the kids playing dominoes (the only toy) on the floor. All I need is a hound to fetch my slippers.

We already realize these chairs will be with us until the day we die, or at least until our daughters sell off our assets and commit us to a home. But until then, We're going to sit back, relax, and waste away into retirement. Maybe I can train Jessica to get my slippers.

Strangle Puppy

I would just like to report that since my post the other day (two down from this one) on Jessica's ballet class the song "Snuggle Puppy" has been running through my head endlessly. I thought I should get this in writing so that when I go completely postal and begin strangling small animals, the authorities will understand.

Vitamin water

By now you've probably heard about the tests that were done on major metropolitan water supplies, which found that many city supplies contain traces of various pharmaceuticals that were not removed during the water purification blitz.

What a media bonanza this will be. First, the bottled water companies are swooning, digging out the numbers of their advertising execs and telling them to get on the stick with new commercials. "Mmm, cold, clean, Deer Park. All the water and none of the ibuprofen!".

Then, the tree huggers are going to proclaim that this is the worst thing that could happen to the environment, because not only are we killing our babies, but we're killing or fish and polluting the earth with even more plastic bottles.

Next the water filtration companies are going to get on the stick, saying we all need to run our and buy PUR systems because our life depends on it (now ask yourself, what exactly can't an industrial water filtration plant do that a tiny cylinder of activated charcoal can?).

And finally, there's the cities themselves. This will take some creative thought, but I think we can spin all this bad news toward the positive side.

Indianapolis: Enjoy our late night entertainment with our new caffeinated tap water!

Philadelphia: If Tom Hanks had only had a drink of our water in that movie, he'd have been fine!

New Jersey: We still smell funny and the smog will cause deformities, but our tap water will mummify you nicely.

Who's going to be the first to capitalize on that peppy jingle by Joe Jackson, "Everything gives you cancer"?

As the story goes, people are taking meds, peeing them out, and the meds don't get filtered in the water treatment plants.

A vast array of pharmaceuticals — including antibiotics, anti-convulsants, mood stabilizers and sex hormones — have been found in the drinking water supplies of at least 41 million Americans, an Associated Press investigation shows.

Mood stabilizers? Honey, I'm sorry I pissed you off...here, are you thirsty? Have an ice cold drink. Anti-convulsants? That explains my lack of seizures. And sex hormones? Sign me up!

What I don't get is that millions of women take birth control. Therefore one would think there's a high level of birth control drugs in the water, right? Yet millions of other women have babies every day. Explain that one.

Better yet, don't. My mind is made up, please don't confuse me with facts.

Whatever doesn't kill you will only make you stronger. After all when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, right? Umm, cool, crisp lemonade. Now with more roxithromycin!

BOX

We've been Nintendo Wii owners for about a week now. It was great fun, while it lasted. But the kids have moved on. That's because they've now got a BOX.

You see, we purchased a chest freezer this week. Once we got past the hard nipple jokes and mentioned what we were getting to the kids, Natalie replied with, "Hah!!! Does it come in a BOX?? Can we have the BOX? Can we??

So of course, once the unit was moved into the basement, we were left with the makings of a fine fort, just big enough for two small children. After a couple of arguments, a stern talking-to and a brief time out, the two finally agreed upon where the windows should be cut out and what color the door should be. I haven't heard from them for hours now. Beat that, Mr. Nintendo.

As long a we're catching up, I should mention that I had the privilege of taking Jessica to her ballet class on Sunday. Now, I am no fan of ballet. In fact I hate ballet. I think it might have to do with my inconsolable fear of tights. But seeing a bunch of 4-year-old girls in matching pink tutus lined up like a line of Necco Candy Dots, turning and smiling at their mommies and daddies through the window while they pick their noses and generally ignore everything the teacher is saying, simply redefines cute. They were practicing for their first recital, a dance number done to the tune of "Snuggle Puppy" involving a series of kicks, twirls, and something that seemed to be a cross between a shasay and a poopy-pants-run-to-the-bathroom move. However, rather than dedicated focus, mostly what the teacher got were silly questions and non sequiturs from 4-year-old girls. "Miss Ruthie? My friend Taylor lives on my street." "Miss Ruthie? Can I call you Miss Rooster?" "Miss Ruthie? I have a boogey".

Worth the half hour. Can't wait for that recital. YouTube, here I come.

Kids' Rock

This is brilliant. And safe for kids....


Kids Songs Sung By Rock Stars - Watch more free videos

Only 34 minutes til first Wii injury

We bought a Wii today. Which, by the way, is why you should expect very little in writing from me for the next several days. Also expect the entire family to be malnourished and unbathed the next time you see us. For those of you who live in a cave, the Nintendo Wii is a video game machine. It's strengths are the fact that, in order to use it, you actually need to physically move. That's got its goods and bads, which we'll learn about later.

The Wii is in high demand. If a store such as Target or Circuit City lists them in the Sunday circular, chances are they only received a couple dozen and they'll be gone within an hour of the store opening. Today I happened to be out and about before Circuit City opened, and I knew they had some in stock. So I drove by about a half hour before the store opened, and saw a line of a couple dozen people. I figured what the heck, I can stand in a line for twenty minutes or so. While there I learned they had received 23 in stock. It turns out I was #22 in line. Hey, I have a Wii. Folks, it's just that easy. And I had a real good laugh at the dumbass who parked himself at the beginning of the line at 5:30 this morning. He got himself a Wii, and likely a nice case of pneumonia to boot.

Back home, after about 15 minutes of the kids setting up their "Mii" online personalities, we tried out some games. The girls got hooked on bowling pretty quickly. That is, until our first Wiinjury. It was Natalie's ball and, on the upswing, she smacked her thumb on the edge of the coffee table. Nice and purple now. But no worries, the Wii remote is fine.

It's that most wonderful time of the year!

It's Girl Scout Cookie Season!. Trans fats be damned, it's that time of year when everyone's your neighbor, every officemate is your buddy, and every dentist gets busy. It was only a few short weeks ago that a veritable gaggle of little girls in their brown outfits and green sashes (or was that green outfits and brown sashes...I wasn't paying attention) knocked on our door every five minutes, thrusting glossy forms filled with cookies and columns in our faces. At work, at least a dozen dads hot-glue-gunned order forms to their office doors and cubicle walls, then dragged their coworkers by the Herman Millers over to their offices, threatening to blackmail them if they didn't order thirty boxes each.

Delivery day arrived, and now the office hallways are littered with shipping cartons with the famous shamrock logo on them. Trolling through the boxes are the forlorned, hungry worker bees who at one time felt they were being pennywise and diet-conscious by not ordering any cookies, only now hoping to find a Samoa scrap or two hiding amongst the corrugated.

I feel it appropriate to mention that in the time it took for me to write the above, I consumed twenty-eight Thin Mints and a Tag-along.

This week's calorie-fest got me to thinking...where, exactly, are Girl Scout Cookies manufactured, and how? I mean, how does a factory survive by delivering a massive volume of product, all at once, and only once per year? I really wanted to know more. So, I dug out my trusty internet connection, and did my research. Here's what I found.

It seems that deep within the Arctic permafrost, south of the North Pole but north of, say, Cleveland, is a massive factory, approximately the size of twelve Wal-Marts. The factory is staffed year-round by the elderly. New employees are found by recruiters who troll the Mall of America early in the morning, looking for elderly mall-walkers who need a hobby. These recruits are promised a warm bed, all the Matlock they can watch, and a free LifeCall alert necklace in case they fall and can't get up.

Once the new staffers arrive at the factory, they go through intensive training on how to cook millions upon millions of cookies, batch by batch, so that they all look exactly the same, without losing their minds. These training courses are led by Girl Scouts from around the country whose parents think they are at Summer Camp making leather friendship bracelets and riding ponies around the lake. During the training, whipping and demoralization is permitted, all in an effort to keep the breakeven cost at $3.50 per box.

The factory workers spend countless weeks baking their batches of cookies and flash-freezing them in the Arctic permafrost. This happens year-round in an effort to ensure there are enough cookies to go around when February comes.

It's important to note that, in America, the drug trade decreases tremendously in February. This is not because of cold weather, but rather because throughout the country drug dealers are contracted to get the millions of boxes of cookies delivered to the local schools and Girl Scout packs. The reason for this is simple. The right tool for the right job. If anyone knows how to deliver product efficiently, it's the drug cartel.

Think about all this while you chomp your Trefoils, knowing that with every bite you're helping the elderly and a drug dealer is temporarily distracted from his regular job of delivering addictive product to kids. Oh, wait....

Please note that no actual Girl Scouts were harmed during the research for this story. Plenty of Thin Mints were eaten though, and I brushed my teeth eight times today.

Proof postive that Elmo is, in fact, evil.

See here. IT seems Elmo DOES, in fact, have an EVIL switch after all. Was it not only a couple of days ago I pointed out the needless folly behind Elmo Live, and how we're destined to be overcome by furry happy monsters? This is the start, people.

Total Eclipse (not of the heart)

Took these from the front porch over the past hour. Cool stuff.

Man, I hope this thing has an evil-to-good switch.

Wow, this is definitely a sign of the coming apocalypse. It seems the inevitable successor to the Tickle Me Elmo bloddline (furline?) has arrived. And it's reached a point of artificial intelligence such that it puts Kevin Clash out of a job. Watch this.

I notice that this thing plugs in. That’s good because, a)we need a failsafe in case Elmo decides to kill its captors and take over the planet and b)this thing would probably eat Duracell D’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Whoda thunk that the end would come as a result of artificially intelligent and humorously ticklish fuzzy creatures that can't even speak in anything greater than a 4-year-old level of conversation? "Elmo Kill! Ha Ha Ha Ha! Elmo Crush! Ha Ha Ha Ha! Elmo very, very ticklish! Hee Hee Hee Hee!"


Note, I came across this on Engadget.

Bunnies-to-gore threshold

I believe my 7-year-old is reaching a transition point in her life. This is the transition from the world of Noggin and Disney to that of "real" TV, where violence is the norm. However that transition seems to be in contradiction with her threshold for violence that is fluffy versus bloody, as demonstrated by the following graph:



The graph can best be explained through the example of our TV viewing this weekend. On Saturday night, we watched Wallace & Gromit in The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. If you haven't seen this movie, definitely do so. You will never see a more adorable scene of bunnies getting sucked into a swirling vortex than in this movie. We also watched an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition about a single dad with 4 kids, former Iraqi marine, who got his leg blown off while on patrol. The descriptions and video regarding his story were surprisingly graphic (even Ty Pennington squirmed).

While both shows were "family friendly", there was definitely a "spectrum" of violence and gore here. On one end we have a movie with fluffy (okay, squishy, since they are made of clay) bunnies being sucked into a glass jar and staring longingly at their freedom outside the container. Even the actual Were-Rabbit was cute and adorable in galumphy sort of way. I mean come on, Nick Parks cannot do "dark" without doing "adorable" at the same time. On the other end was a documentary with graphic descriptions of war and destruction, including hospital scenes of the dad recovering and learning to live with a missing appendage.

My daughter, despite giggling uncontrollably throughout the rabbit/vacusuck scene, insisted she didn't like W&G and in fact ran out of the room in fear when The Were-Rabbit appeared. However when the images of the Iraqi dad became so graphic that mom wanted to shut the TV off, my daughter told her to sit back and chill, because this was interesting stuff.

Does this mean she's ready to watch Star Wars with me? I can't tell. I'm guessing Return of the Jedi is out. If she runs screaming from bunnies, imagine what trouble Ewoks would cause.