Column: At 40, the eyes (don't) have it

They say when you turn 40 everything starts to go. I figured this was a myth until I turned 40 and woke up to find I had made a Kafkaesque transformation into Ernest Borgnine.

First of all there’s my struggle with vitamin D deficiency, which has been well documented previously in this space. I’m happy to report that my levels are now approaching normal, thanks to daily vitamin supplements and getting more sunlight, primarily by sticking my head out the car window like a golden retriever.

But now I have another problem, one that I’d hoped could be attributed to the fact that I hadn’t cleaned my computer monitor since “twitter” was still just a nervous tic common among schoolgirls. Instead, it’s my vision that’s made me have to pump up my screen font to comical proportions, so that everything I work on looks like a children’s book. All that’s missing are the colorful watercolor drawings of frogs in pants.

[Read the rest of this week's AT LARGE by Peter Chianca here.]

AT LARGE Wednesday Link Roundup

☛ Better, stronger, faster: Man replaces lost finger with USB drive. A whole new meaning to "pull my finger."

☛ Watch Statler & Waldorf's appearance on "Late Night with Jimmy Fallon." Frankly, they should have given them this slot.

☛ Wait, is this possible? "Non-A**hole Discovered On Twitter." Sounds like an urban myth to me.

☛ Finally saw a picture of the robot model and found her vaguely attractive, in a department store mannequin kind of way. Disturbing.

☛ Oh, good -- I thought this might have been a gag. That would have just been cruel.

Update: US is kicking Japan's robotic butt

You may recall my recent concern over the robot teacher being tested in Japan. I was worried that it might not be as effective as a real teacher, and also, it might represent the first wave of our eventual enslavement by killer cyborgs. Taken together, those things spell "red flag" to me.

But as it turns out, the Japanese aren't even all that when it comes to robotics. Right here in the good ol' USA -- at U.C. San Diego, to be precise -- they've already overtaken the Japanese, designing a robot with 31 motors in the face, not just 19, that can READ facial expressions, not just mimic them. All at the bargain price of $75,000! If it could only play baseball you could replace the entire Red Sox starting lineup for less than we're paying Manny Delcarmen.

And as if that weren't enough, it doesn't look like a QVC host like the Japan model -- it looks like Albert Einstein! See the amazing and yet still vaguely creepy video here. And the best part is, you'll notice it has no arms and legs, making its potential role in world domination marginal at best.

Column: So these two Romans walk into a bar …

The problem with historians and archeologists is they’re always turning up things nobody really needs, like clay pots and pieces of old wallpaper, rather than items that could actually be useful, like all-powerful Arks of the Covenant. I’m speaking generally here.

That’s why I was excited to read about the latest historical discovery out of Cambridge University: the world’s oldest joke book, featuring gags from the Roman Empire. Professor Mary Beard told the Guardian of London that the book would dispel the myth that Romans were “pompous, toga-wearing bridge builders,” although I never really thought of them that way … Seems to me a culture has to have a sense of humor if it can manage to go 500 years without pants.

Here’s one of the jokes, which is apparently typical of the lot: “A man buys a slave, who dies soon after. When he complains, the slave seller replies, ‘Well, he didn’t die when I owned him.’” Ha ha! It’s funny, because it’s true!

Still, the concept of the world’s oldest joke book piques my interest for several reasons, not the least of which is that my late grandfather was a stand-up comedian back in the days when comedians really told jokes — mostly other people’s jokes. In fact, he bequeathed to me his copy of “The Complete Comedian’s Encyclopedia” by Robert Orben, which I think may have been the world’s second oldest joke book.

[Read the rest of this week's AT LARGE by Peter Chianca here.]

[Need some joke suggestions? These will make you the life of the party.]

The wearing of the green

Happy St. Patrick's Day from everyone's favorite green celebrity. (Sorry, it's not the Hulk.)

Column: That's MR. Roboto to you

Even in a poor economy, we’re always going to need teachers. Because someday things are going to get better, and someone has to teach children the skills they’ll need to ruin everything again when it’s their turn.

But now it seems even teachers have to worry: It just came out that scientists in Japan are testing an actual robot teacher at a primary school in Tokyo. Yes, I’m referring to a teacher created entirely in a lab, and presumably programmed not to get burnt out, surly or despondent over the fact that smoking is no longer allowed in the teachers’ lounge.

According to the Telegraph of London, the robot can “carry out roll calls, set tasks and make facial expressions — including anger — thanks to 19 motors hidden behind her latex face.” That last part strikes me as wholly unnecessary, given that some of my best teachers had pretty much only one facial expression, hovering somewhere between incredulity and bemused indifference. (They know who they are.)

[Read the rest of this week's AT LARGE by Peter Chianca here.]

It's less creepy that that Burger King guy, but only vaguely

So Jack in the Box got hit by a bus, was in a coma for 2 weeks, and is now giving away free fries? How did I miss this?



Maybe it's because all we've got around here is Wendy's.

Column: Looking for a few good (piano) men

Has anyone noticed that our elected officials keep talking nonstop about the impending economic Armageddon? Whatever happened to all that hope we were supposed to have? These days it’s pretty much limited to hoping that everything you own isn’t foreclosed upon in your sleep, so you wake up lying in the middle of a field in your underwear.

But never fear, everything’s about to get better. It turns out Billy Joel and Elton John are coming back to town to help you forget about your troubles with their finely crafted pop nuggets. Since they’ll be playing football stadiums, you should probably note for future reference that Billy Joel will be the little bald dot, and Elton John will be the pear-shaped dot that looks like it’s had the most expensive hair transplant known to man.

Now, I should mention that in my youth I had what you might call extreme affection for these two men and their music, particularly Billy Joel. I had all his albums, and when I was in high school he married Christie Brinkley, an action that gave great hope to all of mankind. Or at least the segment of mankind that looked like Billy Joel.

So call it a desire to relive my youth, but I actually thought about trying to get tickets to their upcoming tour, which stops at Gillette Stadium in July. And then I saw the ticket price, $179.50, and my fond nostalgia was immediately replaced by a desire to paddle both of them furiously in the buttocks with an overstock vinyl copy of “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy.”

[Click here for the rest of this week's At Large by Peter Chianca.]

Column: Requiem for a Newspaper

In the newspaper biz these days, to say we open up forwarded e-mails from our colleagues with trepidation is an understatement. There’s always the chance that the next one you click on will bring with it the news that the entire industry has collapsed in a cloud of dust and tumbleweeds, and we should all just pack up our AP Style Manuals and head home.

And sure enough, I got one last week that hit me particularly hard: Turns out the community weekly that covered my childhood hometown of Carmel, N.Y., had closed for good, a victim of the Journal Register Company’s recent bankruptcy.

The Putnam County Courier was pretty much the only paper that had any idea of what the people there were up to — the local daily, at least when I lived there, seemed to consider us a quaint little extension of Westchester that was only really worth dipping into if someone was lucky enough to get run over by the Metro North train on its way to New York City.

[Click here for the rest of this week's At Large by Peter Chianca.]

Ryan DID start the fire

If you watch "The Office," you must watch this:

Column: Confused about commerce? Ask Dr. Business!

This week, we turn our column over to Dr. Business, our expert on finance and the economy, to answer your business questions.

Dear Dr. Business:
What will the proposed merger of Ticketmaster and Live Nation mean for concertgoers?

Music Fan in Mashpee

Dear Music Fan:
Well, essentially the merger will create an entity so powerful that it will be able to make you see any concert it wants, so be prepared to be sitting in the 12th row for the Dexy’s Midnight Runners reunion tour, having paid $300 for your ticket and not knowing what hit you.

Also, all tickets will be sold by auction, meaning admission to a Madonna or Bruce Springsteen show might wind up costing thousands of dollars. But on the plus side, if you go see Journey with the fake lead singer, they might wind up paying you.

Dear Dr. Business:
What will the new stimulus package mean to me and my family?

Hopeful in Hopkinton

Dear Hopeful:
If you’re an average, middle-class family, you should wind up seeing an extra $13 per week in your paycheck. But if you really want to stimulate the economy, you should take that $13 and use it as a down payment on a $2,500 HDTV, and then when you find that you can’t make the payments anymore, just stop answering your phone. Trust me, I think that will work this time.

Dear Dr. Business:
I found out my credit score is in the high 500s. Do you think I’ll be able to get a loan?

Desperate in Dorchester

Dear Desperate:
It’s too bad you weren’t asking me that question a year ago, when you could have walked into the bank with that credit score and the loan officer would have issued you the loan, given you a case of fine champagne and, in some cases, kissed you full on the mouth, like the Bikini Girl did to Ryan Seacrest. But these days, she is more likely to take out her book of actuarial tables, look through it slowly and carefully, and then use it to bludgeon you to death.

Dear Dr. Business:
How might I know if my company is planning to lay me off?

Worried in Wellesley

Dear Worried:
There are a few telltale signs, such as being asked to cover the front desk so the receptionist can attend the all-staff meeting. But another thing to watch out for is if, while passing by your boss, you hear her mumble, “Dead man walking,” and when you say, “What?” she says, “Oh, nothing” and then snickers to herself. Boy, did I find that out the hard way.

Dear Dr. Business:
Is it true this is a bad time to try to sell my house?

Cash-Strapped in Canton

Dear Cash-Strapped:
Frankly, there is not much chance anyone will have an interest in your house at this time, unless you abandon it in the middle of the night and leave the door open and unlocked. And even then it’s unlikely, because people will figure you’re just setting a trap and plan to lure them into a pit in your basement.

It is, however, a good time to sell your car, assuming you’re selling it to be used as a house.

Dear Dr. Business:
I read how executives are complaining about having to limit their salaries to $500,000 if their companies take government bailout money. How can they possibly not afford to live on $500,000?

Skeptical in Scranton

Dear Skeptical:
You’d be surprised how fast that $500,000 goes. For one thing, they might need to buy concert tickets.

Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Find more at North Shore Sunday, and follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”

Luke, I have a bra dryer on my head

I'm a little concerned that the bra dryer looks like Darth Vader:

Publish Post

Wait, no, my mistake. That's Wall-E. Whoa, even more disturbing.

Now when I say I'm an 'award-winning columnist,' it won't be something I just made up for my resume

I don't usually like to toot my own horn, because frankly I think that might be illegal everywhere except Nevada. But on Feb. 7, I snagged a first-place award for Best Humor Columnist from the New England Press Association. Which proves the journalistic truism: The more newspapers go out of business, the better I do in these contests.

Anyway, below is one of the columns the judges cited, from last June:

***

The other day I actually used the phrase, “Do you kids think I’m made of money?” And I did it without even a hint of irony — I was genuinely wondering what could have given my children, ages 6 and 9, the idea that I had the expendable income to afford, say, a hot tub, or a wall-mounted HDTV, or gas.

Then I thought, “My God, I’ve become my father.”

Like so many other aspects of growing older, I figure this must have happened gradually — it’s sort of like becoming a regular Oldies station listener, or reaching the point where you should probably be shaving your ears. But I knew I’d made the transformation when I realized I’d somehow inherited my father’s incredulity at his children’s seemingly complete lack of knowledge about the cost of, well, anything.

He found it particularly galling when my siblings and I left lights on, which we never understood — after all, we might want to come back into that room at some point, and leaving the light on would keep us from having to expend the extra effort required to flip the switch again. But now, suddenly, I find myself brimming with indignation when I come upon a lit light bulb in an empty room.

“That’s electricity … that we’re paying for … that no one is using!” I declare to no one in particular, since my kids are of course not there anymore, having moved to the other side of the house to determine the best spot for the wall-mounted HDTV.

That isn’t the only clue that I’ve morphed into my father — there are the flecks (OK, swaths) of gray that have appeared in my hair, and I’ve also become the family member suffering through a small cup of sherbet while my kids are scarfing down ice creams the size of their heads. I always felt bad for Dad when we went out for ice cream, and now, sure enough, I feel bad for me.

Not that I’m an exact clone of my father. First of all, Dad was (and remains) blessed with a swarthy Sal Mineo mane, whereas mine is starting to look like I skipped turning into my father and went directly to turning into my grandfather. He also knew how to put his foot down, while I still find myself negotiating with my kids far too often — they’re so adept at it I think they might be sneaking out of bed at night and watching “Boston Legal.” My son’s even starting to sound like Shatner.

“But Dad,” their arguments always start, followed by a lengthy diatribe about how I, say, told them they could stay up until 9 p.m. but that it was currently 8:56. Their logic is unassailable, but somehow my father would have found a way to assail it, and us, right into bed. I also made an error my father never would have made, namely to declare that “My name is NOT ‘But Dad.’” This led my son to associate “Dad” with his favorite word, “Butt,” resulting in no end of hilarity. (“Dad-Butt-Dad-Butt-Dad-Stinky!-Butt,” etc.)

But the fact of the matter is, the older my kids get, the more I find myself engaging in the activities I most associate with my father: running alongside bicycles that have been recently sheared of their training wheels; throwing and catching baseballs while explaining the arcane rules of a sport that makes no apparent sense; poring over homework assignments that bear no resemblance to the ones I got as a kid. (What happened to carrying the one?)

And I don’t know about all the other fathers, but when he wasn’t complaining about the electric bill, mine was doing all of the above with no questions asked — in fact, it was understood that there wasn’t anything off limits when it came to leaning on Dad. And come to think of it, there still isn’t.

So as I sit here writing this on Father’s Day, I realize that maybe turning into your father is just part of being a father, period — and in my case, if I can embrace those fatherly activities with half the patience, love and aplomb that my father did, I’m probably in pretty good shape. In other words, if in the end I have to turn into somebody … there’s nobody I’d rather be.

And just to show I mean it, Dad, next time I visit — I’ll get the lights.

Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”

I have never once run a picture of a goat. OK, maybe once

As if we people in newspapers don't feel bad enough, now Paul Rudd is making fun of us. Paul Rudd!

And they don't even give you a warm washcloth as you're sinking

This pretty much says it all when it comes to flying.

Column: 25 random things about Fred

If you’re on Facebook, the social networking Web site, odds are someone has asked you to engage in the exercise where you share 25 personal facts about yourself. But I started to get concerned that maybe the practice had gone too far when I read the effort by my Facebook “friend” Freddy Frackelton of Woburn, Mass., which I reprint for you below.

***

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits or goals about you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

1. My left big toe is bigger than my right one. It might not sound like a big deal, but I think it’s starting to affect my balance. It’s either that or all the drinking.

2. I don’t know what “whist” is, and I’m too embarrassed to ask. And don’t suggest I look in the dictionary — who has that kind of time? I don’t know about you, but I work for a living.

3. I can play all 23 minutes of “Gates of Delirium” by Yes on the accordion.

4. I was the only one in my Cub Scout troop who was able to successfully field dress a deer. Unfortunately I did it during our hike at the wildlife sanctuary, which is why I never made it into Webelos.

5. I’m very close with TV’s “Law and Order” star Mariska Hargitay. In fact, if it weren’t for the restraining order I think I’d be seeing her pretty much every day.

6. When I was a child I had an imaginary friend named Pootsie whom I loved. But now she’s starting to make me nervous, because I think she may be responsible for my neighbors’ cats disappearing.

7. I own Michael Bolton’s entire recorded output. Not because I like it — I play it to try to get Pootsie to leave my apartment.

8. My great-grandfather survived the Hindenburg disaster, only to choke to death a few years later on a zeppola. Isn’t that ironic?

9. I have some funny hobbies. For instance, I collect vintage Coca-Cola signs. Also, I enjoy knitting! Plus there’s the porn.

10. I have a recurring dream in which Rachael Ray is trying to layer me into a giant chicken taco nacho. If I ever meet her in person I’d love to tell her about it, but that’s highly unlikely because of the restraining order.

11. When I eat shellfish, my face turns red and my head blows up like a balloon. I can’t for the life of me figure out why my mother keeps sending me those Red Lobster gift cards.

12. I dabbled in nudism for a while, but mall security kept hassling me so I had to give it up.

13. I used to have Patriots season tickets, but they were rescinded — something about the way I would try to paint the other fans’ bodies whether they wanted to be blue or not. Some people have no team spirit.

14. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but now I realize the six months I spent in juvie was one of the most productive times of my life. For instance, I learned how to kill a man with just one punch to the kidney. You know, hypothetically.

15. You know that Kevin Spacey character in “Se7en”? I don’t relate to him at all. Nuh-uh.

16. The last time I did one of these lists on Facebook, most of my “friends” wound up un-friending me. I’m afraid they didn’t realize I was just kidding about a lot of the stuff. For instance, I don’t really enjoy knitting.

17. I didn’t put down anything for 18-25, because the voice told me not to. No, not in my head — I was talking about Michael Bolton.

Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England; this column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. You can follow him on Twitter without risking a restraining order.

Looking for my own 25 random things? Click here.

And right now, Google is doing this to you through your bedroom window

Want to kill a few hours? Why not zoom in on EVERY SINGLE PERSON at the inauguration? I know Oprah is in there somewhere.

Secrets of the universe revealed

Watch and learn!

Column: A twit tweets and tries for tix

I have a son who’s a Red Sox fan. Actually, “fan” is probably not a strong enough word for Timmy’s feelings about the Red Sox, who have completely supplanted Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi even though none of them could last 10 minutes against Darth Vader. (Well, except maybe Youkilis, who might be able to fight him off with his massive head.)

This puts me in an interesting position. As a native New Yorker, it goes against my grain to actively support the Red Sox, and yet as the father of a Sox-obsessed 7-year-old I find myself compelled to hock something valuable and try to get tickets to at least one game every year. Knowing this, the Red Sox make the process as humiliating as possible, just to rub it in.

If you haven’t tried to buy Red Sox tickets lately, the process involves logging on to their Web site on a particular day and being shuffled into a “virtual waiting room.” After that, one computer sitting in a janitor’s closet at Fenway Park (I think it may be a Commodore 64) gives you a chance to buy tickets at some random moment during the next 24 hours, most likely when you’re in the bathroom or have fallen asleep at the keyboard.

In the meantime, the site tortures you with a little 30-second screen-refresh ticker that clicks down to zero, only to restart back at the beginning, over and over and over again. It’s a nice touch, probably devised by the same people who invented the little bomb symbol that used to pop up when your Mac crashed.

So to keep from going insane this past Saturday, I shared my waiting room experience in real time on Twitter.com, the “micro-blogging” tool that limits you to 140-character bursts of wisdom. It’s kind of like a telegram, if telegrams had funny little avatars next to them and were sent exclusively by unrepentant narcissists.

And so, following are my “tweets” (as they’re called) from my time in the waiting room, along with those of some fellow Twitterers (as they’re also called) who chimed in during my quest. (Note: Some tweets have been embellished to protect the innocent.)

· Preparing to spend the day in the endless Red Sox “virtual waiting room.” It’s like a Sartre play.

· The waiting room is nice, but all the framed pictures of Johnny Pesky are creeping me out. His eyes follow you wherever you go.

· I was going to leave the virtual waiting room up in the corner of my screen and try to work, but the digital readout is too mesmerizing.

· 10 ... 9 ... 8 ... 7 ... It’s like the bomb at the end of “Goldfinger.”

· [from @KimRossi] I’ve got 30 windows open.

· [to @KimRossi] Does the “opening more windows” method really work? I’m afraid my computer will explode.

· [from @KimRossi] It’s definitely worked for me in the past. Though I feel like I’m going to induce a seizure trying to scan all these windows.

· Is it ignoring me on purpose? I think it knows I grew up in NY. And I get this weird feeling that John Henry is watching me and laughing.

· They need some new virtual magazines in the virtual waiting room. I mean, “Highlights” from 1978? How much Goofus and Gallant do we need?

· Can feel the Red Sox tix slipping away through my fingers. Damn you, virtual waiting room! Must you mock me so??

· [from @KimRossi] I’m telling you: more windows is the key.

· OK, got seven Red Sox virtual waiting room screens open now. Am sitting here mainlining “5” brand Flare gum. Beads of sweat on forehead.

· [from @BillBrenner70] You really need to get a life. ;-)

· [to @BillBrenner70] No, I need to get Red Sox tickets! Haven’t you been paying attention?

· Success! After 3 hours, got four in August in G13. Thank you, Red Sox virtual waiting room, for smiling upon me in all of your munificence!

· [from @haverhill01835] Geesh man — it’s just the Red Sox — get a wide screen TV! The seats and food are better watching at home.

Come to think of it, I guess @haverhill01835 has a point … But he’s not the one who’d have to explain it to Timmy. Try doing that in 140 characters.

Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Read his column each week in North Shore Sunday and follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”

He will be missed

Obama Reads Bush's Letter - watch more funny videos

And thus officially ends eight years of making fun of W. Well, except for this.