Benjamin is getting pretty good at walking. We are getting pretty good at lunging across the room to keep him from getting into stuff that previously was hard to reach.
Uh, 3… …girth units?
I really want to get into marketing. I am fascinated by how people use out-right lies and un-provable statistics to sell their products. The shampoo in our shower here (that Jacqueline bought for next-to-nothing because of deals and coupons at CVS, and she’s the best wife ever) says in bold font on the bottle “makes hair up to 75% smoother”
I’m no math guy, but I’m pretty sure that in order to have a percentage, you have to be able to quantify it. In order to quantify it, it has to have some objective standard. So “smoothness” can’t be measured, and thus can’t be given a percentage. There’s no such thing as a “smooth unit.”
That’s like saying “become 63% more popular in school” or “women are 12% more physically attractive after using this product…”
(…and if you didn’t get the connection with the title, watch this.)
The day I had a conversation with Michael Jordan.
Michael Jordan was pretty blatantly avoiding contact with the gallery as he approached the first tee of the 2005 Tahoe Celebrity Golf Invitational. I had procured spots right by the makeshift fence (think yellow rope) on the first row for myself and the friends who were with me. Again, keep in mind that Mike was ignoring all the fans gathered there, even when he was directly addressed.
He broke out a cigar that was approximately the size of a two-year-old’s arm, and proceeded to light it, having just teed off. A hush fell over the crowd as the foursome of celebrities began to make their way off of the tee box. I seized the opportunity like Eminem in 8 Mile and shouted, “Hey Mike, I graduated from Carolina in ‘02…”
[Insert awkward pause as everyone, with the notable exception of his Airness, looked at me.]
When it became obvious that all of the humans in earshot were waiting for his reply, he sarcastically (and without even so much as glancing my direction) said “congratulations,” not bothering to take the toddler’s-arms-worth of tobacco out of his mouth.
There ends my tale of conversing with Michael Jordan. It might have been sarcastic and borderline rude, but the greatest professional basketball player ever had spoken to me.
He’s back in town today, playing in the 2009 version of the same tournament. Maybe I should go and scream out “Hey Mike, 4 years ago I told you that I graduated from Carolina!” Just to see what he’d say.
Who’s Cutting off your Passy?
Two nights ago, we did it. We stopped feeding our son’s addiction. It’s his earliest addiction. We posted about it over a year ago, and as of two nights ago, he was officially a junkie.
We chopped the end off of all the pacifiers in the house, and forced him (and to be honest, ourselves) to go “cold turkey.” (which, by the way, I’m interested to know where that phrase came from)
What amazes me about the whole thing is how similarly i react when my idols are taken away. If LB could talk in complete sentences, we’d make a lot of money on the TV deal, and he’d probably have told you two nights ago that there’s no way he could make it two days without the passy. It was his best friend, his comforter, his midnight rescuer. He can’t possibly make it without it.
My pacifiers are things like a bank account in the positive, one vehicle per adult in the driveway, a sense of control over situations, etc. Take one of those away, or even threaten to, and I panic. Like my son lamenting and wailing over the loss of his passy, I am convinced I’ll never make it.
And like I did by the side of his crib, God patiently calls out “It’s going to be OK. I am all that you need. Find your rest in Me…”
Like a good Dad, Jesus frequently cuts off the end of my passy, to help me see that He’s all I need.
LB has started having conversations with himself.