The Blackberry Bump

I have to say, THREE people e-mailed me today to ask whether I'm ever planning on blogging again. If I'd thought any of you were still looking for a blog entry, I would probably...well, I wouldn't have written anything, but I would have been wracked with guilt over not writing. But thank you for the support--I'll try to do better.

I recently found myself on a plane from Phoenix to Philadelphia, and on the plane I met the last charming CFO in America. No, honestly. He was witty, genuinely interested in people as human beings (I wasn't aware that you could do this as a CFO--I kind of thought they had to remove this functionality to get the CFO program to run), a devoted husband, a proud father, and just an all-around great guy. He reminded me immediately of one of the best bosses I've ever had. I had resumes in my briefcase (bad habit), and I have to tell you, I was hard-pressed not to hand him one. Should you have a hankering to work in real estate in the Philadelphia area, you should work for his company immediately.

This rare character alerted me to a cultural phenomenon that had escaped my notice. His patented name for it is the "Blackberry Bump," and it occurs when two people who are unsuccessfully multitastking on their Blackberries collide. He claimed it was the hot new workplace compensation claim, and you know, he may be onto something. Counting Blackberry Bumps is now my favorite airport pastime (I counted three just at my gate on the way back--although I did cut myself some slack and count it even if only one of the portable electronic devices concerned was an actual Blackberry). Apparently it's rife in the Real Estate community.

Anyway, Dan, if you're out there, that was the best plane flight ever. I got:

• a great conversation
  

• a new pastime (highway alphabet was getting dull)


• my faith in humanity

That's a pretty smokin' gift with purchase--way better than frequent flier miles. Thanks again!

Now That's a Public Bathroom

But is charging five pounds enough to keep it nice?

It's Like Ivory, Only Made Out of Harriet

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

Should I be disappointed that I don't have any wisdom teeth? (I never had any--I'm very highly evolved.) Or should I just be glad that no one will be wearing my bone as jewelry?

It's Official

I'm no longer part of the prime demographic. I can't remember where it begins and ends, but I'm fairly certain that, at the ripe old age of 35, I've been booted.

There was a period in my life where I was watching adult TV shows when other people my age were watching "Blossom" or whatever else they had for kids my age. My favorite show got canceled. Every single time.

When "Friends" came out, I liked it, so I was pretty sure it would be canceled. After all, lots smarter shows got canned, and I had liked those, too. But it didn't get canceled, and that's when I realized that I had become a part of the prime demographic--that my age (and therefore my presumed disposable income) meant that my opinion mattered just a little bit more than usual for a very brief period of time.

I know the market is thick with medical mysteries right now, and that "House" is a tough show to beat. I know that most people will probably only allocate one hour to the medical mystery in their weekly TV viewing, and to those people I say, "Of course you must choose `House.'"

And next to House, Stanley Tucci's character (whose name I didn't even have a chance to learn) was barely abrasive enough to warrant mention. But I was still pretty enamored of the show. And when I read of its cancelation yesterday, I realized that my time in the prime demographic is over.

I'm pretty sure after 35 you enter the category of "people who have lots of responsibilities to go with their money and therefore can't be as easily persuaded to part with huge wads of cash for largely irrelevant items." This means we get to sit back and pray that eventually some network will program the equivalent of "Murder She Wrote" in an attempt to win market share by courting the less desirable spenders in the TV audience.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to order some brochures on old folks homes.

DirecTV is a Gateway Drug

This afternoon I have accomplished the improbable. I have successfully persuaded my DirecTV to stop trying to sell me porn. I'm a geek (I'll pause to let the shock wash over you) and I watch Star Trek. Not all the time (I've seen them all, so there'd be no point in that), but I still enjoy a trek fix from time to time. There's a channel on my DirecTV lineup that specializes in Star Trek. Or at least it used to.

Nowadays when I turn to that channel, I get a lascivious invitation to order a whole lot of porn. I'm not sure how I feel about porn. I know some men who respect women and also happen to consume a whole lot of porn, but frankly, if all other factors are equal, I prefer my men porn-free. Not that I've been given a choice (and all the other factors are so rarely equal).

But I do know that if I have to choose between Star Trek and porn, I'd really rather have the Star Trek. The answer was one of those high-tech solutions that guys go to college for a million years to figure out ("unplug it and then plug it back in"). And my DirecTV is porn free.