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.

The end of the world is nigh, sort of

Doomsday has a Website: http://www.december212012.com/

At least that means I won't have to finish paying off my house.

It's worth noting that he did it without the mouse

Happy Birthday, Jackson Pollock. Make your own Pollock here: http://www.jacksonpollock.org/

Column: If the bikini fits ...

On the season eight premiere of “American Idol,” a woman auditioned wearing nothing but a bikini. And I know what you’re thinking: How could it possibly have taken eight seasons for someone to think of auditioning for “American Idol” in nothing but a bikini? Whatever happened to American ingenuity?

It was a tasteful bikini, of course, if your definition of “tasteful” entails having to superimpose an “American Idol” logo over the woman’s rear end to make it acceptable for broadcast on national television. And she got picked to go on to the next round despite trash talking judge Kara DioGuardi, which got Paula Abdul so upset that she started to gesticulate wildly and speak in tongues, just like in seasons 1-7.

Bikini Lady also walked up to host Ryan Seacrest and kissed him full on the lips, leaving him with a bemused look on his face that seemed to say, “I wonder if this type of thing will keep happening when I take over for Larry King?”

But it doesn’t really matter whether she wins the competition, since she’s already gotten the real prize: hundreds of thousands of views on YouTube. Because these days anybody can get on TV — reality show producers have taken to knocking people unconscious, and when they wake up their wives have been swapped and they’re standing on one leg on a pole in Fiji — but you have to be really popular to get thousands of people to watch you on the Internet in an effort to avoid doing actual work. (And we wonder why we’re in a recession.)

But the “American Idol” incident isn’t the only bikini in the news this week. In Australia, Ananova.com reports that a Navy commander is under fire for suggesting that woman sailors could boost recruitment by wearing bikinis. And I know what you’re thinking: Australia has a Navy? Well, it is an island after all, and they have to defend themselves from attack by New Zealand, specifically by Orcs.

In his defense, he was simply responding to the question, “If female sailors all had to be hot and wear bikinis, would that help recruitment?” He responded, “It would certainly get the right demographic,” but apparently the proper answer should have been to whack the interviewer with a boomerang. (That’s legal in Australia — it’s in their constitution, right next to the picture of Nicole Kidman.)

But the message is clear: There is immense power to be found in the bikini. It’s ironic, since when the bikini was invented in 1947, it was considered a second-class alternative for people who couldn’t afford an entire bathing suit. But since then it’s become clear that the only thing more persuasive than women in their underwear is women who might as well be in their underwear, plus, they’re out in public where they might, at any moment, start playing volleyball.

(Incidentally, Madison Avenue realized this when they created the Swedish Bikini Team, which, contrary to popular belief, was made up of actresses and models and was not actually a bikini-clad commando unit. Which I realize may come as bad news, for both beer drinkers and Sweden’s national security.)

These latest examples are surely the sign of a trend — can it be long before Hillary is wearing a bikini to her diplomatic sessions with Vladimir Putin? Or at least sending an emissary in one, like whoever happens to be on the cover of this month’s SELF magazine? Russia would surrender immediately, possibly to the Australian Navy.

Of course, there is a potential problem with this strategy: Namely, what if at some point men stop viewing women as sex objects? Or at least realize that just because a woman is wearing a bikini doesn’t mean she’ll let your hairy body anywhere near her person.

Unless, of course, you happen to be Ryan Seacrest. Sorry, Simon.

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.”

Column: Your guide to the Springsteenaugural

Heading out to Washington for the inaugural? Well, you don’t need to be one of 3 million people standing aimlessly out in the cold. Instead you can read this handy inauguration guide, and be one of 3 million people standing out in the cold in an informed kind of way.

To start off, on Sunday you should plan to be at the Lincoln Memorial for the inaugural weekend kickoff concert, when President-elect Barack Obama will acknowledge his status as the first African American, ever, to be a fan of Bruce Springsteen. Reports say Springsteen will perform at the event, although his representatives are not expected to confirm that until sometime during his third song.

Then on Monday evening, make sure to attend the Youth Concert at the Verizon Center. The event is intended to remind Americans that our youth represent the future of this country, so we should be prepared for the future to include a lot of videogames and ecstasy. Performers have been kept under wraps, but reports point to such big-name teen stars as Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers and Bruce Springsteen.

But it’s on Inauguration Day that the real excitement will take place, the true pomp and circumstance that reminds the countries with kings and queens that we can be just as self-important as they are — but better, because we don’t have to wear all those kilts and sashes.

With that in mind, here is a quick rundown of the order of events:

· Musical selections: The event starts off with the United States Marine Band, followed by the San Francisco Boys Chorus and the San Francisco Girls Chorus, and Bruce Springsteen.

· Call to Order: Sen. Dianne Feinstein will remind all present about how Democrats plan to reach across the aisle and, their hands still shaky and sweaty from excitement, embrace whomever happens to be sitting there.

· Musical selection: Aretha Franklin will sing a duet with Bruce Springsteen and then hug him, effectively burying him within her prodigious bosom.

· Joseph R. Biden will be sworn in as vice president by the Honorable Justice John Paul Stevens, whom Biden will later refer to as the drummer for Led Zeppelin.

· Musical selection: John Williams, composer, with Itzhak Perlman (violin), Yo-Yo Ma (cello), Gabriela Montero (piano), Anthony McGill (clarinet) and Bruce Springsteen (Fender Esquire).

· Barack H. Obama will take the oath of office, after which he will spread his arms over his head and every American watching will ascend into heaven.

You’d might think that would be the end of things, and that President Obama would run directly from the podium into the Oval Office to start fixing up our messed-up country. But no, first there is a luncheon, during which Obama will escort outgoing President George W. Bush to a departure ceremony; there, you can watch Bush dodge shoes thrown by David Gregory.

Then after that, you can head immediately over to Pennsylvania Avenue for the 56th Inaugural Parade. The parade is known around the world for its elaborate floats, like the one of a giant smiling Obama made entirely from live orchids. Children will be delighted at the close of the parade, when Santa Claus arrives at Macy’s, pulled by Bruce Springsteen. And that night, you should do your absolute best to get a ticket to one of 10 inaugural balls, which thanks to the economic downturn will all be held at Chuck E. Cheeses throughout suburban Virginia.

Finally, on Wednesday, you should try to be present when the newly inaugurated president and vice president will participate in a prayer service. If you’re looking for something to pray for, how about that they’ll be able to put all the hoopla behind them and get right down to business? Fortunately, they seem like the right men for the tough work ahead, and they’ve chosen the right people to help them.

It’s a good thing Bruce Springsteen was available!

Originally from northshoresunday.com. 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.”

Column: The secret to my (future) success

Last year I made a new year’s resolution to lose some weight, and I wound up dropping 8 pounds. So with that kind of track record, I’ve decided this year I’m going to resolve to become a spectacularly wealthy icon of material success. Wish me luck!

The first question, of course, is exactly how much success I want to attain. After giving it some thought, I’ve decided I want enough success to live a luxurious existence, but not so much that someone would want to write an unauthorized biography about me. (This means you, Madonna‘s brother.)

So then, how to do it? I’ve narrowed it down to the following four categories:

1) High finance. I used to figure this was not a good option for me, since I have no mind for business or numbers and find all those screaming men at the New York Stock Exchange to be vaguely intimidating, like those guys who yell at invisible people in the subway.

But as recent events have shown, I could probably do as good a job at this as anyone. In fact, if I had collected money from all of Bernie Madoff’s investors and did with it what I do with my own money — namely, nothing in particular — they would all be better off. Of course, they would also be better off if they had given it to one of those guys who yell at invisible people in the subway.

2) Rock star. I used to think my lack of musical ability could be an impediment here, but that was before I realized my penchant for tapping color-coded plastic buttons along with cheesy classic rock songs. Which I think is how Ted Nugent got started.

Yes, my kids got the Rock Band videogame for Christmas, and I’ve been reaping the benefits. I figure I’m going to need to parlay my Rock Band prowess into some serious cash in order to make up for scarring their young minds, as evidenced by the way my 7-year-old now walks around singing about Roxanne not having to put on her red light. I think he thinks she’s a cop.

3) Lawsuits. Surely there’s someone out there who should be paying me punitive damages. I mean, just look at me!

4) Publishing. This would seem to be a logical avenue to pursue success, since I am, ostensibly, a writer. One option would be to publish a book of my collected columns, and then keep all the unsold copies in my closet to burn in the fireplace, which would at least save me fuel money. I’m pretty sure this is what all my friends who are authors are doing.

But to achieve true publishing success I’d need a real “best seller,” ideally about one of the following topics:

• Vampires
• Dragons
• Harry Potter
• How Not to Look Old

I’m thinking my best bet would be to write a book incorporating all four, and then make it into a movie starring George Hamilton.

I suppose I could try to achieve my monumental success right here in the newspaper industry — except I think I’ve probably already gone as far as I can go, in that I actually have a paying job and have yet to be landed upon on my way into the newsroom by a despondent classified sales representative jumping from a higher floor.

Or rather than do any of these, I suppose I could just redefine “success” to mean a fantastic wife, some great kids, more pets than I can shake a stick at, a roof over our heads and a couple of cars that actually run. The best part about that is, I wouldn’t have to do a thing differently this year.

Although come to think of it, I could probably stand to drop another 8 pounds.

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.”

Column: That was the year that wasn't

As regular readers of this column know, this is the time of year when I like to look back on my predictions from 12 months ago to see whether my keen journalistic insight served me well in prognosticating the major events for the coming year. And those same regular readers are probably asking, “What keen journalist insight?,” because they know me.

So let’s see what I had to say about 2008:

1) The economy will continue to soar, and with it the value of our investments. If you haven’t yet put money in reliable stalwarts like Lehman Brothers or Madoff, better do it now! Clearly I was a little overzealous with this one — hopefully nobody actually listened to me. In retrospect, I’m sure glad I didn’t have any money to invest.

2) After a rough couple of years, President Bush will leave on a high note after successfully ending the war in Iraq, shoring up the economy and finally reforming Social Security. Not sure what made me think Bushie could pull it out — maybe I just felt sorry for him, being in so far over his head all these years. I should note that I also predicted he wouldn’t be hit by any shoes, which was correct, albeit just barely.

3) Once again, nothing interesting or even remotely noteworthy will come out of Alaska. Cut me some slack on this one — who could have possibly predicted Sarah Palin, or even the kafuffle over Sen. Ted Stevens, for that matter? This would have been an accurate prediction during any of the last 50 years, so you can’t really blame me for throwing in a gimme.

4) Comic book superheroes will rule the roost at the box office, led by a blockbuster sequel about a dark crusader for justice — “Punisher: War Zone.” OK, I was close on this one. I still think the only reason “Punisher” tanked was because it didn’t have Heath Ledger and was based on a comic book character that nobody ever heard of. Also, it kind of sucked.

5) Madonna will reinvent herself once more and launch her “Middle-Aged Matron” tour, performing standards from the American songbook while wearing tasteful sweaters and pantsuits, and not engaging in any controversial extramarital relationships with younger men, especially baseball players. Damn you, Madonna! Must you always defy expectations?

6) Audiences will cheer as Rosie O’Donnell single-handedly revives the variety show format, earning herself the title “The new Sonny and Cher.” Apparently I was the only one eagerly anticipating the variety show revival … and even I didn’t watch Rosie’s show. But I was right in my prediction that Jay Leno’s time slot would be changed, although I predicted they’d move him to 3 a.m. and broadcast him in Spanish.

7) The Jonas Brothers will be proven by an investigative team from E! to be animatronic creations designed by Disney scientists. Yes, I agree that this one was kind of far-fetched. E! doesn’t even have an investigative team.

8) Several forward-thinking Chinese corporations will introduce the latest sensation for kids: toys you can suck on. OK, so it turns out that sucking on Chinese toys would be bad. But I was right in my prediction that tomatoes would prove dangerous this year, even if I said it would be due to them falling on people from great heights.

9) The Patriots will face the upstart N.Y. Giants in the Super Bowl, where Tom Brady will crush them between his powerful, manly thighs. Hmmm … I think all those pictures of Tom in G.Q. were starting to cloud my judgment.

10) Barack Obama will be elected 44th president of the United States. Actually, I was just kidding about this one. But I’ll take it!

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.”

Column: Now you know the rest of the stories

It’s time once again for newspapers to name their top stories of the year, which is very helpful for the people who can’t recall who was elected president, or whether or not the economy imploded. Also, it fills space.

But here, as you may recall, we like to point out the important stories that should have gotten more coverage from major media outlets. The ones that are still in business, we mean. With that in mind, here are the top five At Large actual news stories from 2008:

5) Bruce Springsteen-related crime. First there was the Australian woman who was sentenced in March for stabbing her boyfriend when he wouldn’t let her listen to Springsteen music. (“I mean, who doesn’t like Bruce Springsteen?” she asked the arresting officer, and frankly, I had to agree.)

And then later that same month, cops in France stopped a man going 125 mph while watching a Springsteen DVD on a player he had mounted to his dashboard. An officer said: “He said he had a long drive to Paris and was bored.”

Understandable, but I don’t understand why he couldn’t have passed the time doing what everybody else does when driving long distances: Texting.

4) Shower curtains declared toxic. As if it weren’t bad enough that the tomatoes turned against us this year, we then came to find out that plastic shower curtains can kill you. Next thing you know they’ll be telling us to give up cigarettes.

It’s true — the Alliance for a Healthy Tomorrow (which sounds vaguely fascist, but in a nice way) announced in June that your average shower curtain gives off 108 — 108! — different volatile organic compounds, including several that are banned in toys in the U.S. and Europe. (Although notably not in China, where “Spritzy the Shower Curtain Clown” is selling like hotcakes.)

I just want to know how it’s possible that the innocent shower curtain, with its jaunty prints of fish and flowers and fresh, plasticy-good smell, could possibly be harmful? It’s depressing, but fortunately we have daring legislators like Brookline, Mass. state Rep. Frank Smizik, who went out on a limb to declare, “Toxic chemicals simply do not belong in everyday products like shower curtains.” And who says they don’t really teach you anything in legislator school?

3) Man attempts to sell wife for Celtics tickets. Finally I realize why I never get any of the really good tickets. I’m always trying to hit the “refresh” button at Ticketmaster.com, when all along what I should have been doing is offering to sell my wife.

At least that’s what Kyle Carter of Medford, Mass. was banking on. Carter, like the rest of the free world, wanted to see the Celtics play the Lakers in the NBA finals last June. Unlike everybody else, though, Carter placed the following actual ad on Craigslist:

“Trade my hot wife for 2 celts tickets! - $2 - (medford).”

But it’s not what you’re thinking (and we know what you’re thinking). Contrary to what some assumed, it was a very decent proposal Carter had in mind. “He and his wife are only looking for a basic dinner date, no hanky-panky,” reported the Medford Transcript.

“At first she said, ‘Oh, no, there’d be too many crazy people calling us,’” Carter said of his wife. “But she said she’d be open to it. And some of the guys who responded seem pretty normal.”

That’s right, perfectly normal guys willing to trade their Celtics tickets for dinner with somebody else’s wife. No word on whether he got the tickets, but it’s still possible that Nicolas Cage may wind up buying the movie rights.

2) Man beats up shark to save dog. I love my dogs, even the dumb one (no need to name names — she knows who she is, and besides, she can’t read), but would I dive into the ocean to rescue them from a shark? I hope I never have to find out, but just in case I’m thinking of starting to carry shark repellent on my utility belt.

I’m referring of course to the story out of Florida this past September in which a man punched — punched! — a shark to rescue his 14-pound rat terrier from its jaws. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: Who would want to own a 14-pound rat terrier?

Greg LeNoir, a carpenter in the Florida Keys, that’s who. After a shark pulled his dog under at a local marina, he sprung in to action. “I clenched my fists and dove straight in with all my strength, like a battering ram,” LeNoir, 53, told the Miami Herald.

To his credit, he succeeded and the dog is fine, although it is still a rat terrier.

And now, the No. 1 At Large news story for 2008:

1) Science invents the bio-beer. Yes, the good news is, they’ve finally created a beer that can help prolong life and prevent illness. I know, you thought regular beer could do that, but in actuality it only makes you feel like you’re living longer.

The bad news is, the students at Rice University who developed “Bio-Beer” — which, incidentally, sounds like something they should be running tests on at the Centers for Disease Control — aren’t old enough to drink it themselves.

“We started out with a strict policy that we aren’t supposed to drink anything in the lab,” Peter Nguyen, the team’s graduate adviser, told the Discovery Channel in November.

The problem with not being able to taste the beer — and as we all know, underage college students never let the stuff touch their lips, just like they never have unprotected sex or gain 15 pounds their freshman year — is that you don’t know if it tastes like, well, Bio-Beer.

And as it turns out, it does. Researcher Thomas Segall-Shapiro told The Sun out of London: “No way would anyone drink this until it tastes better.” Buck up, chaps — people used to say the same thing about Budweiser.

So that wraps up this year’s top stories. Once again, they reminded us about the resilience of the human condition, and also filled up space.

More that second thing.

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.”

What's keeping you up nights for 2009?

A very merry (Muppet) Christmas to you

Merry Christmas! And what better gift could I give than the entire new Muppets special, courtesy of hulu.com?



May your days be merry and bright, and stay tuned for an important blog announcement by the first of the year!

Column: The dog who came in from the cold

It’s funny how dogs have their own personalities. Our 1-year-old yellow Lab Penny, for instance, is in possession of an unfettered wanderlust — she’ll take every possible opportunity to sneak out an open door. You tend to spot her for a second looking toward the heavens like Tim Robbins when he crawled out of the sewer pipe in “Shawshank Redemption,” and then, before you can get close enough to grab her, she hightails it off into the wild unknown.

Our 4-year-old black Lab Lilly, on the other hand, is our homebody dog. She seems to have picked up on the fact that if she sticks with us she gets two square meals a day, and there’s not a single couch in the house that’s off limits. Even when the others go galumphing off after squirrels or other people’s dogs, she’ll always give us that glance over her shoulder that says she’s still got our backs, or that she thinks we might be carrying bacon.

It’s Lilly’s penchant for staying close to home that has earned her the privilege of joining Annie, our 10-year-old golden, out the side of the house to do her nightly business, as poor Penny is relegated to the penned-in area in the front, yapping at the echo of her own bark, which sounds suspiciously like the dog she spots daily in the glass window of our entertainment center.

What we never counted on, though, was a sudden ice storm like we had Thursday night. One minute it seemed like regular rain; the next a branch that most people would consider an entire tree was crashing to the ground outside our door, right where the dogs tend to congregate. Within seconds the side of the house was a sea of limbs, branches and pine needles — and though Annie bolted right up on the porch, Lilly, our homebody dog who’d never left our sight for more than 10 minutes, was gone.

My wife, Theresa, went into the yard to call Lilly’s name — which she’d responded to every time before — but had to turn back when branches kept falling around her like bludgeons from the sky. This was around 11 p.m., and it didn’t take long for us to determine that our best avenue of behavior was to panic.

Still, I tried to remain calm. “Dogs have a survival instinct,” I told Theresa about two hours after Lilly disappeared, not having any idea what I was talking about. “She’s seeking shelter and she’ll be back when she feels safe.” Of course, I knew that Lilly knew the safest place was in our house with all the couches and the people who always forget to tie the trash up, not outside in the pouring, freezing rain. She wasn’t like Penny, who would clearly go with any family that had the same salty taste that we did.

Eventually we had to give up and go back to bed, if not to sleep, the whole time hearing the pounding rain and the crack-crack-crack of snapping tree limbs in the yard outside. Finally, the power went out, extinguishing any chance of spotting Lilly’s black fur against the rainy night. I was suddenly sorry for all those times I missed curfew back in high school, when my mother may have very likely been imagining me outside in the rain, trapped under a tree branch.

By the first light I think Theresa and I had resigned separately to ourselves that Lilly wasn’t coming back. I had visions of having to explain it to the kids — my son Tim, 7, had managed to sleep through the excitement, but my 9-year-old daughter, Jackie, had caught wind of Lilly’s departure and was panicking right along with us. And I felt guilty for every time I’d admonished Lilly for some slight or another she’d committed as a puppy, whether it was eating my shoes, or eating the new coffee table, or eating the wall. (Although really, what would make even a dog want to eat a wall?)

Then, at 5:30 in the morning, when my wife’s stepfather left his side of our two-family house to make his way to work, he heard a familiar jingle coming up the driveway. We were all lying awake in bed when we heard his voice coming up the stairwell: “Lilly’s home!”

Who knows where she’d been — she was moist, but not drenched, almost like she’d spent the night in a sauna. But she practically bowled us over as we ran down the stairs to see her. It’s a running family joke that of our three dogs, Lilly is “cheap with the love” — we think it has to do with her having to wear a retainer when she was a puppy (long story). But on Friday morning, her tongue was out and licking Jackie’s face like she hadn’t seen her in years. And that’s probably what it felt like, on both sides.

By the time the sun came out on Friday we had two smashed windshields, a crushed barbecue grill, a side door blocked by branches and enough wood to keep us in bark mulch through the next century. But somehow that’s all a little easier to take, because we also had our own early Christmas miracle, in the form of a pudgy black homebody dog who took a little longer than usual coming home.

A dog who, I might mention, will be doing her nightly business out front with her sister Penny from now on.

This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Follow Peter Chianca 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.”

Column: Dreaming of a light Christmas

The Christmas season is upon us. I know this because my house is in the middle of its annual transformation into a festive holiday state, a process that unfortunately does not involve elves working in secret in the middle of the night.

Given my druthers, I’d prefer my holiday décor to be more Spartan, sort of like the actual North Pole. This is mainly because I know the alternative is lugging boxes of holiday tchotchkes up from the basement for distribution throughout the household, which is my wife’s preference. And if you think that’s a battle worth fighting, you haven’t been married very long.

The process starts with the tree. When we were first married, my wife and I would throw our tree into the trunk of my Chevy Cavalier outside the garden department at Ann & Hope. But then kids entered the picture, and we graduated to chopping down our own tree at a tree farm so our family could experience the true meaning of Christmas: jockeying for a perfectly shaped spruce with dozens of cranky people armed with saws.

There’s also the process of stringing lights, one of the two times a year when I’m asked to risk my life at a great height, the other of course being when I clean my gutters. (OK, so that’s once every other year.) It’s a well-known fact in my neighborhood that it’s not Christmas until you see me hanging off the ladder, straddling between the roof and an extension cord that’s come up about six inches short. (Note to self: This year, start on the outlet end.)

Incidentally, there are many more holiday light options these days. Tasteful white shag lights seem to be the trend, but sometimes when I’m around my neighbors I like to suggest that we’re thinking of giant blinking colored bulbs this year, just to watch the blood drain from their faces.

Inside, of course, there’s a fair and equal distribution of tchotchkes, including reindeer, snowmen, Santas, a menorah — we’re a complex family — and the Nativity scene, which I’d advise you to always put well above dog height. (Luckily for Mary and Joseph, the dogs always seem to go for the sheep first.)

As severe as that carnage can be, it’s still never been as bad as the scene in front of my childhood neighbor’s house — it featured life-sized light-up plastic Nativity characters that would get blown over by the wind every night, so that each morning they were strewn about the lawn like frat boys after a bender.

It’s all a fair amount of work, but I have to admit that at the end of the day — after each ceramic reindeer is placed and every strand of tinsel is laid carefully on the tree — there’s something to be said about sitting back on the couch in a darkened living room and looking at the tree and the blinking lights.

After all, it’s probably the one time during the otherwise frantic season when the whole family can sit together, even for a few minutes, wishing each other a Merry Christmas and meaning it. And that’s not to mention the genuine smiles on my kids’ faces when they look up and see me placing that light-up star on top of the tree.

Or at least straddling between the star and the extension cord.

Note: This column originally appeared in GoodLife magazine. 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.”

This week's column: Get a peek at your inner geek

Did you know that “geek” wasn’t always meant as an insult? In the old days, the word simply referred to a carnival performer who would bite the heads off live chickens. Just think, if there were no Internet, that’s probably what Perez Hilton would be doing.

Of course, it’s since somehow come to denote a person with odd tastes, poor fashion sense and a certain dearth of social skills. (Not me. Other people.) But as the CW matchmaker show “Beauty and the Geek” has shown us, that doesn’t mean people from all walks of life can’t be brought together by their common interests: namely, to humiliate themselves on national television.

So with “Beauty and the Geek” currently putting out a call for new nerds, you might be wondering if you’d be eligible. That’s where this simple quiz comes in — to find out, get your Ticonderoga No.2 pencil ready, and … begin!

1) Do you know where “Alderaan” is? (2 points.) “Mordor”? (3 points.) “Xanth,” “Gor” and/or “Discworld”? (4 points each.) Bonus: Add 1 point for every Starbucks you can name with WiFi access.

2) Do you have a friend who leaks you details about upcoming Java updates? (Yes: 3 points.)

3) Which of the following is the best song: A) “Cygnus X-1 Duology,” by Rush; B) “Gates of Delirium,” by Yes; C) “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic (Part I),” by King Crimson; D) “Cygnus X-1 Duology” is actually two songs — duh! (“D,” 5 points.)

4) The term “wafer thin mint” brings to mind: A) A tasty snack; B) An obese man who explodes in a restaurant, leaving his entrails exposed. (“B,” 3 points; 5 points if you found “B” absolutely hilarious.)

5) Have the three “Star Wars” prequels or the “Clone Wars” cartoon movie ever made you want to kill George Lucas, not in an allegorical sense, but literally, to the point where you’ve actually planned the means and an escape route? (Yes: 5 points.)

6) An “Easter egg” is: A) A festive holiday treat; B) A hidden object in a DVD or video game; C) Stop bothering me, I’m trying to unlock the nookie scene in “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.” (“C,” 3 points.)

7) Not that I have any insider information, but if someone were to say that Trevor Horn was planning a Buggles reunion, would your heart start beating a little faster? (Yes: 5 points.)

8) “The City on the Edge of Forever” is: A) A Lynyrd Skynyrd song; B) A U2 song; C) The “Star Trek” episode where Kirk has to let his one true love, Joan Collins, get run over by a bus. Sniff … What? I have something in my eye. (“C,” 5 points.)

9) At any time during your academic career, were you held upside down by a varsity football player? Had your books knocked out of your hands and scattered down a stairwell? Had your underwear pulled up past the small of your back? (Yes to any: 10 points, and have yourself a beer on me, brother.)

10) Have you ever worn a Starfleet uniform, a cape or a Conan the Barbarian loincloth to a movie screening, convention or other gathering in a public building? (Yes: 10 points. True story: I was once covering a “Star Trek” convention when I saw a guy buying himself a “Next Generation” uniform. When asked what rank he wanted, he replied, “Um … Lieutenant Commander?” For crying out loud, man, it’s your money — go for Captain!)

OK, this is usually where I’d tell you to add up your points, but the fact of the matter is, if you got past the fourth question without giving up, you’re a geek. You should audition right away.

But even if you don’t make the cut, you shouldn’t give up — there’s still always the chance that you might be able to impress and even date a buxom blonde woman who makes Sarah Palin look like a Fulbright Scholar, just like the women in the show.

Just make sure your online avatar is really hot.

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.”

COLUMN: Thankfully, my dear, I don't give a darn

As you may recall, around this time each year I like to take a moment to remind my readers why, even though things may get a little rough now and then, there are still plenty of reasons to be truly thankful. Even now, when the economy is tanking, stocks are falling and your corporation may, at any moment, blow away like a tumbleweed.

So, for those of you who aren’t too depressed to read on, here are this year’s reasons to give thanks:

· You didn’t run against Barack Obama.

· Tina Fey didn’t do a blistering imitation of you on national television. Six times.

· You weren’t the one who had to go in and face the Steinbrenners after the Yankees didn’t make the playoffs.

· Your failures weren’t so immense that they necessitated an act of Congress and $700 billion in tax dollars.

· You weren’t replaced as lead singer by an imitator your bandmates found on YouTube. Unless you are Steve Perry of Journey or Jon Anderson of Yes, in which case you have my condolences.

· Your sequel didn’t star Shia LaBeouf.

· You’re not out for the season.

· You, your car, your kid, your dog and your house have yet to be driven into by Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan.

· Your wife didn’t go to jail for trying to kill your online avatar, like a woman in Japan. Actually, the Tokyo woman was just charged with hacking, not murder, since it’s still not illegal to kill a fake digital person, even in Japan.

· You weren’t trampled to death by teenage girls while shopping for Dockers at a mall hosting an appearance by somebody in the movie “Twilight.”

· Joe Biden is vice president of the United States and not a guest at your next dinner party.

· Ellen didn’t try to give you her dog.

· Your bunk bed hasn’t killed you yet, even though the journal Pediatrics recently concluded that bunk beds are more dangerous than regular beds. This apparently has something to do with placing a bed 6 feet in the air rather than on the ground, although it will probably take another million or so in grant money to confirm that.

· You’re not a Republican. Unless you are, in which case you have my condolences.

· Unlike the people behind “Speed Racer,” you didn’t spend $100 million on what wound up essentially being the world’s longest Mentos commercial.

· You, your car, your kid, your dog and your house have yet to be driven into by Jerry Seinfeld or Billy Joel.

· You didn’t work on your next album for 15 long years, only to have people say, “Eh. What else have you got?”

· You don’t have a show on the CW. The CW. You know, it’s a network.

· The Chinese government hasn’t recruited your 11-year-old daughter for its Olympic gymnastics team.

· Times may be a little tougher than usual this Thanksgiving, but at least you didn’t buy a house, car and/or TV that you can’t possibly actually pay for.

Oh, you did? Well, at least everybody else did, too.

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.”

Photographic proof of my bumpkinhood

When you move out to the suburbs, you're somehow able to convince yourself that your not really that far removed from your old life in the big city -- it's just a short jaunt down the highway, after all. Hit it during the right, low-traffic period and it's practically like you never left. And then one day, you look out your front door and you see this:


Yes, that was the view of my yard the other day, offering up sobering proof of my bumpkinhood. And they stuck around for quite a while, clearly comfortable with the thought that no one could possibly harm them while they were this deep in the wilderness. All I can say is, they were lucky they weren't in Sarah Palin's front yard, or they would have found themselves under blistering automatic weapon fire from her helicopter.

Anyway, I guess my city days really are truly behind me, and I'm OK with that -- the good news is, after you have kids you never go out anyway ... you might as well be in Iceland. And to keep with the spirit of this particular week, I'm thankful for my hearth and home, even if it's many miles from the nearest WiFi coffee shop.

Thanksgiving related note: Check out my Blogness on the Edge of Town blog for downloads of every song I could think of with "thanks" or "giving" in them.

COLUMN: So this is the thanks dads get

I can’t help but wonder why, when Thanksgiving rolls around, no one ever asks us dads advice on the holiday meal. You’d think all we were capable of on Thanksgiving was stuffing our faces and lying on the couch with our distended bellies hanging over our loosened belts, which is patently untrue. We also watch football.

But some of us fathers just happen to know our way around a kitchen. For instance, I am recognized throughout my household for my expert preparation of the following meals:

1) Hot dogs;
2) Tacos, from box;
3) Salami sandwiches (note: does not technically involve cooking).

But I know that not every dad can share my culinary prowess, which is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure those fathers can do plenty of things that I can’t, like swing a golf club without injuring themselves, or earn a living wage. So with that in mind, I thought I’d share the following Thanksgiving meal facts to help fathers stay up to date with their Turkey Day knowledge.

The turkey: Most of what I know about cooking a turkey I learned from my mother, who every Thanksgiving would get up at dawn to start stuffing that year’s partially defrosted specimen, get dizzy as soon as she put her hand in and have to go into her bedroom to faint, at which point my father would wake up and say, “Stuffing the turkey already?” This is a true story.

So that probably means if God wanted us sticking our hands up giant birds, he’d have made my mother less prone to nausea. Combine that theory with my daughter’s recent assignment to write a story from the point of view of a Thanksgiving turkey, which she empathetically entitled, “I’m Too Young to Die!,” and you have some serious ambivalence about the main course. On the other hand, what are we going to eat, pork loin? You see my dilemma.

So assuming you stick with the turkey, here are a few things to keep in mind: For one, even if you only have six people coming, you have to get at least a 30-pound bird. This will provide you with turkey sandwiches for weeks, and also make for a bigger target for the dog when you leave it unattended on the counter. Please don’t deny him his one chance to pounce on prey that’s already been basted.

Also, dads, even if you don’t take part in the actual cooking, don’t ever give up your traditional role as the carver. Carving is one of those universally approved manly cooking activities — for fathers, it’s the next best thing to pulling the turkey out of the oven, wrestling it to the ground and dismembering it with a machete.

The cranberry sauce: Cranberry sauce is one of those great dinner components that, in a pinch, could actually be a dessert (see also: glazed pecan rolls covered with cinnamon). And as an added bonus, it retains its shape out of the can, so you could, in theory, stick little plastic eyes and a nose on it and it would jiggle around like a gelatinous Mr. Potato Head. Just try that with creamy scalloped onions.

The vegetables: These are an important part of the Thanksgiving meal, given that they’re among the only components that can be easily baked in cheese sauce and/or cream of mushroom soup and then topped with little fried onions. If that doesn’t disguise the taste, there’s always more cranberry sauce.

The pies: You can’t help but wonder who was the first one, in the middle of making a Jack O’ Lantern, to look at the discarded innards and say, “Hey, that would make a great pie!” And yet pumpkin pies are a Thanksgiving staple, except among people who actually, you know, like pie. (True aficionados prefer pies made of chocolate pudding, like the ones introduced to the Pilgrims by Squanto.)

Most importantly, though, for dads, moms and kids alike, is to take a moment among all the bounty and recognize how lucky we are to have food on the table at all, much less enough to feed every Baldwin brother, should they happen to show up. So dads, if cooking isn’t your thing, you should still pitch in to show your gratitude — even if it means doing the dishes.

Just suck in your stomach and you may be able to reach the sink.

CNC managing editor Peter Chianca is busy shopping for the perfect turkey; this column is from 2006. 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.” See the column at North Shore Sunday.

Building a better (bio) beer

The good news is, they've finally created a beer that can help prolong life and prevent illness. I know, you thought regular beer could do that, but in actuality it only makes you feel like you're living longer.

The bad news is, the students at Rice University who developed "Bio-Beer" -- which, incidentally, sounds like something they'd be running tests on on the third floor of the Centers for Disease Control -- aren't old enough to drink it themselves.

"We started out with a strict policy that we aren't supposed to drink anything in the lab," said Peter Nguyen, the team's graduate adviser. "We do have a strain, and verified that it has the genes, and are in the process of brewing the beer."

The problem with not being able to taste the beer -- and as we all know, underage college students never let the stuff touch their lips, just like they never have unprotected sex or gain 15 pounds their freshman year -- is that you don't know if it tastes like, well, Bio-Beer. And as it turns out, it does.

Researcher Thomas Segall-Shapiro told The Sun: "No way would anyone drink this until it tastes better."

Buck up, chaps -- people used to say the same thing about Budweiser.

COLUMN: Stick it to your kids this Christmas

My kids are 7 and 9, and I thought that by this point they’d be able to occupy themselves for long stretches at a time, writing in their journals, folding origami cranes and doing intricate woodcarvings. Of course, I also thought my dogs would be leaving me my slippers by now, and that only happens if my slippers happen to travel through at least one of their digestive systems.

In reality, it doesn’t take very long for my children, when left to their own devices, to become booooooored — the more bored they are, the more o’s they put in. This despite the hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of toys and games we’ve purchased over the years; it’s enough to make you long for the old days, when if they got bored you could just send them out into the fields to work the thresher.

This is why I was so excited this week when I read that the Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, N.Y., had added a very special item to its lineup, which includes only the most classic and revolutionary playthings: the stick. If you had any doubts that a Depression is coming, this news should put those to rest.

But it’s true; Christopher Bensch, the museum’s curator, told the Associated Press that the stick is “very open-ended, all-natural, the perfect price — [and] there aren’t any rules or instructions for its use.” What I want to know is, where was Christopher Bensch the year I pledged to give only Christmas gifts that were available in nature? I’m still trying to live down my much-maligned “rocks with googly eyes.”

This news comes at a great time, because it was starting to seem like the only way to keep the kids occupied was to buy more sophisticated and expensive toys and gadgets. When they were little you could at least get by with blocks or little plastic zoo animals, but as they get older it becomes increasingly obvious that little plastic zoo animals cannot play mp3 versions of the songs from “High School Musical,” no matter how long you try to sync them.

It would be one thing if toys didn’t become obsolete almost immediately, like PCs or Rod Stewart albums. For instance, I recently cleaned out the garage and found several pricey items that were must-haves as recently as last Christmas, such as a giant Darth Vader that, in 47 easy steps, transforms into a Death Star with Darth Vader’s head sticking out of it. It’s the type of thing George Lucas must see when he’s on mushrooms, which I’m starting to think is most of the time.

But those crazy toys can be a thing of the past now, because the stick is making a big comeback. Bensch goes so far as to point out that the stick is “so fantastic” that even dogs love it, which frankly undercuts his argument a little bit, since dogs love everything — I mean, look what they did with my slippers.

Still, it’s a good reminder that there was a time when you could have fun with something that didn’t have a microchip in it. (I’m talking about you, Elmo — stop laughing, dammit!) I’m reminded of a friend of mine who grew up with his father lamenting his and his siblings’ lack of playtime ingenuity, pointing out the neighbors who could occupy themselves for hours with a piece of string. I think pieces of string were what the families got that couldn’t afford a stick.

So this has inspired me to sit my children down this Christmas, share with them the wisdom of the Toy Hall of Fame and present them with, not a new iPod, portable DVD player or game for the Wii, but rather their very own Christmas stick, which they in turn can make into — wait, let me check my notes — “a Wild West horse, a medieval knight’s sword, a boat on a stream or a slingshot with a rubber band.”

And I won’t even blame them when they start taking turns whacking me with it.

To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”

Exclusive 'Twilight' footage!

As the crowds assemble at the Square One Mall in Saugus, Mass. to meet "Twilight" star Rob Pattinson, I thought you might like to see this exclusive footage from the upcoming film, based on the insanely popular book series by Stephenie Meyer. I can't tell you where I got this, but it's WILD, baby!

Another Muppet video that will horrify and amaze you

You're telling me people can do things like this on their home computers? I'm more out of touch than I thought.



Thanks to Matt at Addicted to Vinyl for pointing this one out. Meanwhile, The Muppet Newsflash (yes, such a thing exists) reports that the Muppets will take over the Today show this Thursday, Nov. 13. Let's see if you can tell the difference.

COLUMN: E-mail's been Berry, Berry good to me

I tend to use my cell phone for two things, primarily:

1) Telling my wife I’m running late, which I believe is the end goal of all new technology; and

2) Ordering pizza so it will be waiting for me when I get home.

In other words, I’m not one of those people who is constantly yakking with his friends on his cell phone at all hours of the day, for one very deliberate reason: I have no friends.

Wait, I meant to say I don’t see a need for it. I offer this background as evidence that there was no reason to believe I could ever make a good BlackBerry guy. (For the uninformed, a BlackBerry is a handheld device that allows you to read your e-mail and browse the Web from anywhere, except underwater. Boy, did I find that out the hard way.)

In fact, when I was recently assigned one at work, I had an extremely averse reaction — it struck me as a way for them to get their claws into me 24/7, as opposed to just the 50-60 hours a week they’ve got me subjugated now. (I mean that in the nicest way possible.) Still, I decided to be mature and productive about the situation and hide it in my glove compartment, never to be seen again.

Well, as it turns out I didn’t do that, and after several months of evaluation, here is my assessment of my BlackBerry: I love it. I love it in the way my 7-year-old son says he loves hot dogs, namely, he wants to marry them (which, granted, shows a 7-year-old’s fundamental misunderstanding of marriage, not to mention hot dogs).

And when I say, “I love it,” I of course mean: I hate it. Sure, it’s an amazing device, but I hate how it’s turned me into the BlackBerry guy — the guy checking his e-mail at stoplights so he doesn’t notice when the light turns green, and who would get honked at mercilessly if the people behind him weren’t also checking their e-mail.

Of course, never once have I gotten an e-mail that couldn’t have waited until I got out of the car (“Attention, your muffler is on fire,” etc.). But I’m constantly haunted by the fact that such an e-mail could be there, right on the top of my queue, beckoning me to take my eyes off the road.

What’s worse, I’m also often tempted to answer my e-mails at such inopportune times (while driving, at an anniversary dinner with my wife, during funerals). This can of course cause no shortage of bodily and/or social and emotional harm, not to mention the fact that my stubby thumbs make said replies almost unreadable anyway. (“HOIJLDJKL, KLJOI. LOYPUOI, PETE.”)

I think what disturbs me is this pathological connection we all (meaning “I”) seem to have developed to our various forms of electronic connectedness. After all, what did we do before e-mail, cell phones and GPS? Besides get a lot more paper cuts from envelopes and drive aimlessly around strange neighborhoods swearing, I mean.

It seems to me there was something to be said for the days when people would carefully compose written letters, and then mail them and wait patiently for the reply. I’m afraid if Thomas Jefferson and John Adams had e-mail, their entire collected correspondence would have consisted of them flaming each other in all caps. (“TJ: NATURL ARISTOCRACY SUX - L8R JA >=( “)

So I guess the question becomes: In some ways, would we be better off as a people without these instant connections? And the answer becomes: No. Because then we wouldn’t be able to check our friends’ Facebook statuses 47 times a day, and know that Bill’s at work, Tom’s drinking yet more coffee and Julie has a hangover.

Also, I wouldn’t be able to e-mail myself column notes while driving. Which reminds me: HOIJLDJKL, KLJOI. LOYPUOI. (And I mean that in the nicest way possible.)

Peter Chianca is a CNC managing editor and the brains behind “The At Large Blog” (chianca-at-large.blogspot.com) and “The Shorelines Blog” (blogs.wickedlocal.com/shorelines). To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”

Spock's planet found -- thank you, President Obama!

I had a feeling everything was going to get better after Obama got elected, and here's the first sign of proof: Scientists have found Spock's home planet. Now it's only a matter of time before the entire universe is joined in a spirit of peace and harmony, and we're all wearing our pajamas to work and making out with green women.

Granted, they actually found the planet -- in the Epsilon Eridani solar system, the solar system closest to Earth and thus the one used by "Star Trek" writers to house Spock's Vulcan homeworld -- just before Obama got elected. But if President Obama doesn't announce plans for a manned spaceflight there by the end of his first term, then I'm a Gorn.

(By the way, why does everyone talk about how "Star Trek" shows a universe of peace and harmony, yet in every episode somebody gets phasered into oblivion? What's peaceful and harmonious about that? I'm just saying.)

Land of Hope and Dreams

Congratulations to President-elect Obama! Here's a song that seems appropriate for the occasion.

COLUMN: Election questions? Ask Professor Civics

With the election less than a week away, we turn this week’s column over to our resident expert, Professor Civics, to answer your last-minute voting questions.

***

Dear Professor Civics:

I notice there’s a ballot question asking to abolish the income tax. Could this possibly be a good idea?

Skeptical in Stoneham

Dear Skeptical:

Absolutely! The idea that we need an income tax to run government is one of those great legislative myths. In actuality, getting rid of the income tax would just force legislators to “trim the fat” from unnecessary programs like schools, roads and police.

In fact, if this initiative works like it’s supposed to, legislators will only have enough money left for their salaries and to pay the “escorts.”

Dear Professor Civics:

Another ballot question wants to “decriminalize” small amounts of marijuana. Couldn’t making it easier for people to smoke pot cause problems down the road?

Scared Straight in Saugus

Dear Scared:

Dude! That’s so … um … What was the question?

Dear Professor Civics:

I wanted to vote this year, but I missed the voter registration deadline! What should I do?

Dumbfounded in Duluth

Dear Dumbfounded:

Never fear. You can take the place of one of the people who won’t be showing up to vote, because they somehow got registered even though they are long deceased. E-mail me and I’ll put you in touch with a guy. We never had this conversation.

Dear Professor Civics:

I’ve read on blogs that the Republicans have rigged voting machines to benefit their candidates. Could this possibly be true?

Outraged in Orleans

Dear Outraged:

Ha ha! No, although blogs are usually extremely reliable sources of information, that particular rumor is completely untrue, except in Pennsylvania, Ohio, New Hampshire and Virginia. And also Florida, where old Jewish people have been known to walk into the voting booth, feel suddenly woozy and wake up the next day in a bar in Key West with a vague recollection of voting for Pat Buchanan.

Dear Professor Civics:

What will the cable news commentators do after the election is over?

Concerned in Colorado

Dear Concerned:

That’s still up in the air, but it’s expected that if McCain wins, Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann’s heads will melt off their bodies like the Nazis at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Dear Professor Civics:

I wanted to dress as a candidate for Halloween. Which one would make the scariest costume?

Undecided in Uncasville

Dear Undecided:

Well, they are all fairly scary, what with Obama maybe being a secret terrorist whose entire public life has been a carefully conceived 30-year ruse, and McCain always looking like he might, at any moment, hit you in the knees with a shovel.

But recent surveys show that people find vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin by far the scariest. They said this because of her extreme right-wing views, her seeming lack of intellectual curiosity, and also because of the second little head that pops out of her mouth and tries to eat your face off.

Dear Professor Civics:

Do you think I should vote in favor of a ballot question that would ban dog racing?

Wondering in Wellesley

Dear Wondering:

Absolutely not! The last thing we need is a lot of out-of-work dogs competing with all the brokers for street scraps.

Dear Professor Civics:

Do you think it’s possible that we’ve been so focused on silly minutia during this election season that the vast majority of voters haven’t really been exposed to the actual positions on the issues that will affect us the most?

Troubled in Trenton

Dear Troubled:

Dude! That’s so … um … What was the question?

Peter Chianca is a CNC managing editor and the brains behind “The At Large Blog” (chianca-at-large.blogspot.com) and “The Shorelines Blog” (blogs.townonline.com/shorelines). To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”

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