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Monthly Archives: December 2008

A lady came in to ship a sweater to New York on Friday.  It was one of those super-tacky Christmas sweaters.  She was shipping it overnight, for early morning delivery on a Saturday.  It was going to cost 80$.  The sweater itself had cost only $20.

The reason for this, she tells me (oblivious to my silent protestations), is that her 24-year old Brooklyn-transplant brother needs it to wear to a Swanky Sweater party.  Because God forbid he should have to show up in a sweater that was only marginally ridiculous, preventing his being the center of attention for every goddamn milisecond of that depressingly competitive affair .

And for a moment, I have a crystal-clear mental image of her vanity-ruled brother: sitting on the bed in his dirty little apartment in Brooklyn, greasy bangs swept carefully to the side, half-reading a book on some esoteric B-movie actress or whatnot in the hope that being the most impressively obscure of all his friends will bring him happiness, half-daydreaming about the contrived and artificially complex comic book he’ll never write, studded ear just barely picking up on the music on the 80s game shows his room mate is drunkenly watching (room mate does this not because he enjoys it all that much, but so he can tell people he mostly spends his time drunkenly watching 80s game shows).   I have met a thousand of her brothers over the last 3 years.

And for a moment I really fucking hate my generation.

But then H-Bomb made a perfectly timed your-mom comment a bit later, and my faith in Millennials was restored.  And then I remembered that I take myself way too seriously, and that my contempt for greasy hair is unjustifiably severe.

I am going to be home for like a week at Christmas, so if anyone wants to get drunk and watch 80s game shows, let me know.  That actually sounds kind of fun.

Oh, shit.  And what do you people want for Christmas?  I get a discount on personalized photo gift items (mouse pads, mugs, puzzles), so if you’ve got a picture you’re especially fond of, I can make that happen for you.


And if you’re driving somewhere — the gas station, say — and “The Way We Were” comes on the radio, and you start to tear up a bit, I feel like a Blackberry would probably judge you for that. But not a CameraPigeon.

This shitty quarter is almost over.  In honor of this, a serenade from Mama Cass:

Emily, I am still waiting for pictures of your delightfully grout-free home.

Everyone else, I am still waiting for pictures of whatever you have pictures of.  Just put something up so I have something to look at that isn’t fucking rainy Portland.