I bought Wife a watch for Christmas because she didn’t have one but also because I like watches myself. The only problem with buying a watch is probably that once I find one that I really like, I realize that I like my money even better but when I was buying that watch for her, I figured that she was paying half of it anyway.
Just kidding.
Only the best is good enough for her. And I found one that she likes “a lot,” as she just told me in a chat window.
Frankly, amusement parks don’t give me much amusement. I can see all the happy people running around, sprinting back to the end of the line to ride the same rides over and over again, but like Steve Butabi told his brother Doug in “A Night at the Roxbury”:
I can’t taste it, Doug! I can’t! I’m so scared right now I don’t know what to do!
Of course, I never say that out loud. That’s just something I tell myself when I’m leaning against a wall somewhere, guarding everybody’s bags, clothes, cameras, while updating my Facebook status, looking as cool as I possibly can.
It finally happened. For weeks now, I’ve been walking around wearing a white shoe on my left foot, and a black one on my right, except on a few days when I’ve had a black shoe on my right foot and a white one on my right, and nobody’s said anything.
Today, though, when it happened, I was wearing white on left, black on right, and I had just got scrambled eggs, a sandwich, and the local Tampere specialty mustamakkara, a blood sausage.
Let’s say you’re in charge of a big science park, a place that introduces science to kids and families. Let’s say you want to have a unique attraction, something to keep people buzzing about your fine establishment for years and years.
Because you know that what you have is pretty darn good. You have all the cool things that people love to try out; the Indian fakir spike mats, the mirrors, the car with the square wheels, and dozens and dozens of other cool tests that explain gravity, light, mathematics, and laws of physics in an entertaining way.
But, like I said, let’s say you also want to spice it up a bit. Would you go with dancing bears, or an Einstein lookalike walking around, solving math problems with the visitors, fireworks in a bottle, or a full-blown particle accelerator?
Or would you instead train rats to play basketball with a ball that – in its former life – used to be in a deodorant roll-on stick? And would you then stop there, or would you create a pro league for the rats?
You know how “they” always say that 80 percent of human communication is body language. Some of them actually throw the numbers around a bit, based on “new studies” – this is where Son would ask me if I meant that ironically, and I kind of do – or whatever happens to suit their message so who knows which number is right. Maybe it’s 55 percent, or maybe 93.
Let’s just agree that it’s very important, muy importante.
“Success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration.”
– Thomas Alva Edison
Terry, my Canadian (exchange student) brother had a buddy called Sweaty. I’ve never met Sweaty, and in the only photo I’ve ever seen of him, he was asleep – or passed out – and not really sweaty, but I’ve always felt a connection to him.
I’m sure you can figure out why.
“What an honor that the amazing Markoolio was born in my fatherland”
– Son, July 15, jumping up in joy
You can take the boy out of Finland, but you can’t take Finland out of the boy. Even if the boy sometimes does everything to keep Finland deep, deep, deep down in the dungeons of his soul. All you have to do is trash talk Finland – or tell the boy everything you know about the country – and the boy will come to the country’s rescue, or answer in mono-syllable sentences.
Unless you’re a Finn, of course, in which case the boy will join you in trash talking Finland.
Turns out, I didn’t know anybody. I thought I could put all the names and faces together, but I didn’t recognize my best buddy. I probably would have had somebody asked me to find him in the crowd sitting in the sun, but when he came to shake my hand, I drew a blank.
Then again, he wasn’t sure who I was, either.
Almost like the first day of school.
Except a lot more fun.
Because on the first day of school I cried.
The last time I saw the dozen or so people I’m about to meet in six hours, Ronald Reagan had just sworn in as President of the United States of America, and a rockabilly fever swept over Finland. No cause and effect, at least I don’t think so, but simply a coincidence.
The first time my father came home and told my mother that he’d just witnessed a man die, I was about 11 years old. And – at least as far as I know – my father wasn’t a Mob hitman, so this was not an every day occurrence at the house.
