Home Street Home. I used to live in a '74 Mav just as ugly
as this one. It didn't have a 42-inch HD Plasma, but at least
the seats reclined.
Greg:
Settle down and stop weeping already. It's not what you think. I'm still going to write to you. It's just that this thing I use to write letters to you - Blogger, I think it's called - is asking me to upgrade to something called a "beta". As I am inextricably drawn with crow-like fascination to all thing shiny and new, upgrade I must. My viscera compels me. Be forewarned, though. My experience with the InterWebs has taught me that it is a capricious and multi-headed beast, and oftentimes takes all your hard work and makes it as though it never existed. So that means the hundred some-odd letters I have written to you could - and probably will - vanish as soon as I upgrade.
By the way, I'm lobbying to change the name of the InterWebs to ¡Shiva The Destroyer! I'll write more about this in the future on my soon-to-be-established technology HateSite, Dubba Dubba Dubba dot I Fucking Hate The Internet dot Com. There will also be an online petition to destroy all the InterWebs, and of course the usual number of hoaxes delivered with the appropriate authoritarian air. In the meantime, enjoy this incarnation of Dear Gregory while you can because as soon as I hit the big shiny "upgrade" button, in the terlit it all goes. Just you wait and see.
Speaking of in the terlit, Christmas is lurking just around the corner which means I'm not nearly done spraying the money hose on everything I see. As we all know, my shortcomings are legion, but chief among them are my ossum credit rating and my propensity for buying Christmas presents. It seems I'm equal parts miser and spendthrift. I have no problem whatsoever purchasing things for other people, but when it comes to myself, I completely freak out. Maybe it's that "deserving" thing, as in wondering if I really deserve it. I've really got that neurosis really bad. (And that one about throwing away bread, as in I can't or I freak out.) I spent a lot of time when I was younger feeling like I didn't deserve to eat. Man that's grim. No wonder I was 6'2" and 150 pounds at age 17. And it's no wonder I lived in a 1974 Ford Maverick when I was 27.
But all of those cheery thoughts aside, I've been entertaining the idea of buying a new TV for some time now (no pun intended), but can't quite bring myself to pull the trigger. (TV as you know is a necessary tool for football- , movie- and PBS-obsessed persons like myself.) On the other hand, if Teresa wanted me to buy her one, we'd've had it yesterday. But no. I took six years making comparisons and test driving before I bought my car. I've only spent about 18 months comparing TVs, so I suppose I have another (...plus nine, carry the five...) four and a half years to spend comparing sets before the suggested retail drops to my Magical Rock-Bottom Ultimate Dream Price of $59.99.
So yeah. And then to make matters more complicated, Aaron - who now specializes in digital video for Best Buy - told me that the best image wasn't from the plasma model I was thinking of. The best image was to be found on an LCD model which is umpteen pounds and tuppence more expensive. (Naturally. -Ed.) And then - and then! - this guy I work with, Mike Woo, gets all up in my grill about how the one I want doesn't have the right contrast ratio or some boo-shit. Daaaamn.
Look, either I'm going to have to reach deep into my magical ass and pull out a couple grand to spend on myself - HORROR OF HORRORS! Or I'm going to do the unthinkable. I'm going to shitcan my TiVo and go back to reading books aloud while Teresa recreates the action with sock puppets in front of an oil lamp. You know, just like we did when we were kids.
Cheers,
-Thaddeus
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