Holiday Break

Sorry for the lack of a post this week. I entirely blame horrible weather, canceled travel plans and holiday anxiety. We'll see you next Wednesday morning with a glorious post in a glorious New Year.

Happy Holidays.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia

It seems that every holiday season becomes more and more difficult to find the right gift for that brother-in-law that comes through every year for you with a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Target. Well, this time around - you’re in luck. This year is extraordinary because after years of painful anticipation it is finally the twenty-five year anniversary of the Chia Pet. Thank God. This means it is acceptable to hand out Chia Pets to everyone on your list and not be cast as an incompetent gift-giver - all in the spirit of celebration.

You remember the Chia Pet right? It’s that little clay dog or groundhog or something (actually the first one was a ram, but who the hell knew that?) that grows some scientifically engineered plant matter out of its body. Now, with the marvels of modern technology, you can have your very own Chia Pet in the form of a Bunny, Frog, Hippo, Kitten, Pig, Puppy, or Turtle. And this year, you can get the commemorative Chia Head (that looks kind of like your brother-in-law) in celebration of the twenty-five year anniversary. What more could we ask for?

This display of amazing ingenuity first hit the market (as you can probably guess) back in 1982 by a company called Joseph Enterprises, Inc., and they‘ve been issuing new Chia‘s rather steadily ever since. I’d like to see the parent’s basement in which this company was based. Ironically, this Joseph Enterprise company also brought us the Clapper. You know, “Clap-On!…...Clap Off!”

Isn’t it crazy that the same son of a bitch that brought us the Chia Pet gave us the frickin’ Clapper? Hell, he probably invented the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed, the Pet Rock, and whatever was being advertised by that woman who screamed those hallowed words, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

I got a Clapper for Christmas one year when I was kid. I asked for it too. I didn’t care that the target demographic was 85 years older than me; I watched enough daytime television at the time to realize this was about as cool as it could get. I rigged it up so all the lights and stereo in my room would go on with two claps. I even had the “Smart Clapper” (scary, I know) which could turn on different electronics by varying the number and sequence of claps. It was all downhill from there.

Even though we may not all be lucky enough to turn on our electronic paraphernalia with a couple of hand claps, we can breath a sigh of relief that our holiday shopping is now easier than ever - all that Christmas shopping anxiety has just gone right up the chimney. So go ahead and show up this year with a Chia for everyone - it’ll be ch-ch-ch-charming.


Clap on your computer and e-mail John Poole at poolejohn@gmail.com.

And what do you do?

As the holidays shed their effervescent joy and happiness upon us, we find ourselves in holiday parties and family gatherings that are at times nothing short of awkward.

“So what steps have you taken to improve your life since I had this exact conversation with you in this exact location last year?”

With all this wonderful discussion flying around us this time of year, there is no better time for American actress Gwyneth Paltrow to come out with her little jab at American small-talk.

“I like living here [London] because I don’t fit into the bad side of American psychology. The British are much more intelligent and civilized than the Americans. People don’t talk about work and money, they talk about interesting things at dinner.”

Of course Ms. Paltrow denies these remarks, however there are records of her making similar comments to a British publication in January of this year. Whoops. I guess we can assume that her husband Chris Martin, the front man for the British rock band Coldplay, is a little more “civilized” than Brad Pitt.

Though the wits of Gwyneth may now be a topic of American discussion since her career must be largely fueled by Americans, the fact of the matter is that she probably isn’t that far from the truth. I often find myself (through much fault of my own) in conversation about careers and money with people I hardly know, let alone family members. For some reason, this country conditions you to throw the, “So what do you do?” question out there for no particular reason other than there being nothing better to talk about.

I’ve been to Europe a couple of times and I’m lucky enough to live among a number of Europeans, Australians, and South Africans in the Vail Valley. With this limited cultural experience I’ll go ahead and say that G-unit hit the nail right on the head. I guess I’ll have to take my New York condo off the market now - oh wait, I don’t have one, or a lucrative career in show business.

Even though I’m making the very American-like generalization that conversation among British is more interesting, articulate, and less focused on money, it is probably true that the British have a huge advantage with their accent alone. A good British accent can make a Michael Richards tirade sound compelling (ok, maybe not). Maybe this is why a pitch for the Iraq war by Tony Blair sounded more persuasive than the countless ramblings of George Bush.

So sorry this is such an inconvenience, Gwyn, but good-old British candor can sometimes be a little touchy on this side of the pond.


Give John Poole a detailed outline of your five-year plan at poolejohn@gmail.com

Frigid Memories

“It’s 6:15 AM and minus six degrees.”

These were the wonderful words coming from my alarm clock on this beautiful Monday morning. Morning radio DJs should learn that this isn’t the kind of motivation we need to get out of bed on Monday morning after getting in late the night before. They should say things like, “Good morning, there’s only four more days until Friday.” Or maybe they could kick off the day with something like, “Well, it’s minus six degrees, but Spring is only four months away.” I doubt either of those lines would have really fired me out of bed much earlier. I guess there really isn’t much to say on a cold Monday morning besides, “Get your lass ass out of bed and deal with it.” That is exactly what I did, kind of like a robot.

A few years ago, after graduating from grad school, I was talking with a friend from home about how it’s going to be an adjustment getting back into the real world and going to work early every morning at the same time after living the flexible graduate student lifestyle for a year and half. He calmed my fears by saying, “You just get used to, day after day, you pop out of bed and do the same thing over and over.”

“You mean like a robot?”
“Exactly.”

I’ve lived in the Vail Valley of Colorado for about sixteen months now (being a robot the whole time, thank you) and the experience has been nothing short of freezing. I remember getting in my car one morning last year and looking at the digital thermometer in the car - it read minus 22 degrees. Before this sobering day, I thought temperatures that low could only be read by the finest of scientific equipment, but apparently my low-tech car thermometer had no problem breaking this less than desirable news to me on that fine morning.

Minus 22 degrees is the kind of cold that immediately stops your heart when you walk outside and your lungs collapse inside your chest until you’re left gasping for air in the fetal position on the front doorstep. Ok, it’s a little less dramatic than that, but before that fateful day last year, I thought these obnoxious temperatures could only be reached on planets like Pluto (I know, I know) or possibly Jupiter.

So the reason for my reluctance to spring out of bed on Monday was a late night caused by a trip to Denver to see a rookie quarterback debut at Invesco Field. Though the temperature was a bit higher than minus 22 for the Seahawks-Broncos evening match-up, my feet turned into a couple of dumbbells lifted by Tatum Bell before the game. Despite the dumbness of my lower body, the game was fantastic mainly because of being lucky enough to score tickets in the front row of the stadium. I became very jealous of the benches for the players that have those foot warmers in the bottom. They should have those for the fans also - at least for the front row.

I could have easily heckled Jake Plummer or the rest of the Broncos bench, but in light of a recent outburst by an unnamed Seinfeld character, I decided against it. Plummer would have had to shoot back by calling me an overprivileged white guy or something - probably wouldn’t have gotten as much press.

Give John Poole some of those toe-warmer things and some moderate heckling at poolejohn@gmail.com