Candy Hand

Dear J-

Despite already owning both a good camcorder and a cheap one (think cell phone-quality) I find myself toying with that evergreen Flip versus Kodak debate in my head. Here, though, it competes with reality, like whether or not I want to eat this week, or other interesting purchase possibilities, like saving money towards another lens, maybe, or I don’t know, SOMETHING. It’s nothing I can’t live without, and it would only add to my hoarder’s curse: nothing is ever discarded, only added to the pile of questionable collectibles (anyone interested in an HP-34C for the blind?) I’ve managed to rescue over the years.

figgy is remarkably good at the vague misdirection when asking for candy: “I want a snack.” We suggest, which is usually met by an outraged howl of “NO! I want something ELSE!” Various other choices are made and rejected until finally we’re left pointing at the bag of pinata candy we’ve been doling out since the last party. I understand the inarticulate need to get stuff, like knowing there’s candy in the cupboard but not bold enough to ask for it out loud. For me part of the fun is the selection process: figuring out the pros and cons, what you can live with versus what you gotta have. Actually getting it is a bit of a letdown. Sometimes I wonder if figgy feels the same, but one look and you can tell that the candy is just as good as she’d hoped.

Somewhere between now and then your expectations get realigned. I’ll go through cycles of needing to have some kind of package on the doorstep when I get home, like a junkie hoping for a fix: maybe I’ll be as excited about this widget as I remember opening presents when I was six. Not quite, so rinse and repeat, throw another gadget on the pile for posterity. Living in the present and being thankful for what you’ve already got is a lot harder than it looks. I just need to look to figgy for validation: there will be candy tomorrow, but don’t worry about it and concentrate on the candy in hand.

Mike

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Premature Exit

Dear J-

Well, if you want a post-mortem, that may have to wait until later tonight, but the hockey season appears to be nearly done for the Red Wings (with my Chiefs bowing out of the first round of the WHL playoffs), down 0-3 to the Sharks. These deficits have been overcome before, but I’m not holding my breath — I’ve been coming to terms with it ever sincce I read the score on Wednesday morning. I’m not going to espouse the tinfoil hat-theories like fellow fans (but I suppose it’s oddly appropriate for Sharks to dive; having playoff games decided in press conferences is despicable but necessary in today’s NHL), but I will say this: these are tired folks — they’ve played as many games as anyone the past two seasons (the Penguins being the other) and as everyone is so fond of saying, they are an old team.

Even though Chris Chelios finally retired after 452 years in the NHL (what, you never saw him play defense against “Rocket” Richard?) that’s only dropped the average age by a fraction; Nicklas Lidstrom, who I remember as a fresh-faced rookie, just turned forty. Yes, the old jokes never get old (“Your team’s so old, they decided to make the colors red and grey”), so let’s think up a few more to throw around as excuses. Yet there’s truth in the adage that age is just a number: attitude dictates ability, and I’m not seeing the same desire out there on the ice. Penguins, yes. Wings, no. Same number of games, different results.

I work with another fan, and in comparing notes, I admitted that I’m almost looking forward to seeing them knocked out; she had told me what a great match Game 7 Habs-Caps turned out to be, helped by her just watching without worry. I suspect that’s why I’m looking forward to the World Cup later this summer — with no real dog in the fight, it’s instructive to watch the spectacle and contest without having an inherent bias. I know how that sounds — “man I wish they weren’t playing four single-elimination games” — but each of those four games would be ones I couldn’t stand to watch anyway; I want to get back to enjoying the sport.

Mike