Looking Backwards At 2011 And Laughing Like A Giddy Monkey

Another year bites the proverbial dust, another 365 days fade into history. Turns out 2011 was another year of milk and honey, prosperity, pain and tumultuousness. What can I say? Shit happens, and it seems to loom around me. I’m misfortune’s favorite customer.

Yet 2011 wasn’t all that bad, as far as years go. Looking back at the madness, I realize now I was genuinely happy. While I end the year with back problems and blood pressure higher than an air traffic controller on crank, things were relatively okay for me in ’11. I attribute this happiness to my girlfriend, who is a loving and constant companion. My Filipina sex machine has been there for the entire ride around the sun, and I wish she'll be around for many more.

Presuming the Mayans were full of shit and the world isn’t hit by an asteroid in December 2012, I hope to report new and exciting things next year.

For now, here are some of the bizarre things that happened to me in 2011:

* Sold my motherfucking house! Chateau le Scheiße is gone, outta here, and not my problem anymore, thanks to a nice woman from upstate who purchased it in October.

* Won an award from the New Jersey Press Association. This one was for a story I did on law enforcement’s efforts to stem the rising tide of drugs in the community.

* Performed three standup acts and even got paid. Now I’m a real standup comedian. Watch out, Hollywood!

* It was a busy year writing-wise. Finished writing Ravaged Earth Revised. I’m quite pleased at the final result, a year-long effort of writing and editing. Slated for a 2012 release, this new iteration of Ravaged Earth reworks powers and contains a few surprises, such as information on Martians, Martian tech, and a thrilling plot-point campaign. In addition, I also wrote four guidebooks for Ravaged Earth and four companion adventures.

* Attended Philcon and got to speak about Ravaged Earth and gaming at a few panels.

* Attended Gencon with my girlfriend and had an absolute blast. Dating a girl geek is comforting, since we share several areas of interest. I ran two Ravaged Earth games, talked about the upcoming releases from Reality Blurs (like Agents of Oblivion, which was released in October to great acclaim) and hung out with several people from the gaming industry. We even went to the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library, something you should definitely do if you find yourself in Indianapolis.

* Attended my first steampunk-themed costume ball in July at Dorian’s Parlor. This is a fantastic event, a place where Victorian costumes mingle with the latest in cutting edge steam technology. Corsets, tophats and goggles. All that plus quirky bands, a fashion show and open bar make it the ultimate debonair swankfest and neo-vintage salon.

* Took my father to see Bill Cosby in concert for Father’s Day. My father introduced me to Cosby’s comedy via record albums in the 1970s. Seeing this old man on stage cracking wise and relating his own brand of homespun humor was cathartic in a way.

* Speaking of the Cos, Cosbython 2 was a rollicking success! Celebrating Bill Cosby’s birthday in July in style with ugly sweaters, pudding pops and Kids Say The Darndest Things the board game.

* Held a party celebrating Tommy Wiseau’s birthday, the longhaired, mumbling actor and director of The Room. I called the event Room-A-Palooza. We watched The Room, played board games and ate pizza. Any photos of me dressed as Wiseau have since been destroyed.

* Survived both an earthquake and a hurricane in the same week. An earthquake rumbled across New Jersey and the house shook like two elephants fucking in the parlor. Less than a few days later, Hurricane Irene swung through the eastern seaboard. We get it! God hates shoobies!

* Performed on an Internet comedy show, the Jersey Comedy Syndicate on UStream, and brought back my character, Lazlo Fink.

* Watched several movie classics from the American Film Institute’s top 100 films. While I’m not finished the list, I did make a severe dent in it, viewing such treasures as Sunset Boulevard, Casablanca, It Happened One Night, All About Eve, Double Indemnity and The Searchers.

* Recorded more lines for HG World, a zombie audio drama. The show garnered a Parsec award in 2011, making it an award-winning zombie audio drama!

Next year I hope to run away with my little pineapple Asian persuasion, get my novel published, do more standup, and demo my RPG at Gencon and who knows, maybe even Origins. Gods willing! Hail Eris! Hail Cthulhu! Let's make it happen!

Retro Gaming

Back in the primordial epoch, circa 1980, I was a greasy little urchin with copious free time and a pocketful of quarters. I whiled away countless hours in video arcades, surrounded by flashing lights, bleeping pixels and a cavalcade of Japanese electronic entertainment. The early 1980s was a boom time for video games. They lurched from their humble beginnings with Pong and Space Invaders to a more evolved state of Pac-Man and Donkey Kong. At the dawn of the 21st Century, video games have advanced plots, lifelike graphics and more violence and gore than All You Can Kill Day at the Roman Colosseum.
Still, the simpler times showed us video games could be clever, friendly and outright weird.
I discovered a cabinet game at my local arcade filled with several arcade classics from the 1980s, and was transported back through time to my hometown in New Jersey. I was 11 or 12, had braces and a penchant for playing video games. Memories washed over me as I was treated to games I hadn't seen and played in almost 30 years. Nostalgic? Hells yeah!


If this arcade game were a woman, I'd marry it, then fuck it repeatedly with a shitload of quarters.

The game lets you select from the following arcade legends: 1942, 1943, Amidar, Arkanoid, Burger Time, Bomb Jack, Centipede, Congo Bongo, Crush Roller, Dig Dug, Dig Dug 2, Donkey Kong, Donkey Kong Jr., Donkey Kong 3, Galaga, Galaxian, Jr. Pac-Man, Frogger, Juno First, Jumping Jack, King and Balloon, Lady Bug, Mappy, Millipede, Moon Cresta, Mr. Do, Mr. Do's Castle, Mrs. Pac-Man, New Rally X, Pac-Man, Pengo, Pinball Action, Pooyan, Pleiads, Phoenix, Qix, Scramble, Space Panic, Space Invaders, Super Break Out, Super Cobra, Super Pac-Man, Tank Battalion, Time Pilot, The End, Sho - Lin's Road, Van-Van Car, Xevious and Zaxxon. Many of these I haven't heard of, like Moon Cresta and King and Balloon. After playing them, I understand why. Some of these games are easily forgettable, but others are hidden video game gems that should stand the test of time.


Like Donkey Kong. The classic Nintendo arcade game that introduced Mario and the titular gorilla, Donkey Kong was one of my early favorites. If you play the second stage right, Mario scores with the princess while Kong falls headfirst to an ignoble if not hilarious death.



Donkey Kong Jr., the popular sequel, has players in the role of Donkey Kong's son on a mission to save daddy Donkey Kong. This game is incredibly hard, as players will be climbing vines and dodging these snap-jawed critters and aggressive birds. It's insane how many things are out to get you in this game.


If gorillas are your thing, Congo Bongo is another classic arcade game. You play a hunter who has to climb through what looks like an M.C. Escher painting of passageways, bridges and annoying monkeys. I loathe Congo Bongo because I get killed and can't finish the first level. The perspective throws me off and I end up plummeting to my doom or being skull-raped by one of those monkeys. I want to find whoever designed Congo Bongo and kill them with a shovel.


I remember playing Crush Roller (or Make Trax as it was sometimes called) at a Chi-Chi's restaurant during my youth. If that reference doesn't date me, recalling the game was freakin' hard will. You play a paint brush being chased by two flounder-looking creatures. Your task is to paint the entire maze and use two rollers to crush your pursuers. A cat, a mouse, a bird and a tire roll over your nice paint job and force you to backtrack. If you thought painting your house was a thankless, labor-intensive undertaking, play this game. This is why people should hire professional painters.


I learned more about the natural world by playing Frogger than I did in my high school life science class. Frogger has everything: a Darwinian struggle of survival in a cold and unforgiving world, where aggressive predators thrive on devouring the innocent frog, who only wants to mate, eat flies and go home. This game may look cute, but it's survival of the fittest. To paraphrase Kermit the Frog, "it's not easy being green, homey."



Mappy. Goddamn it, how I love Mappy. Holy fuck on melba toast do I love this game. One of the shining examples of arcade games from the early 1980s, Mappy puts the player in the guise of a mouse in a policeman's uniform. The goal here is to bounce through a house and snag stolen loot from a gang of cats, who desire only one thing: to devour Mappy for lunch. Fast-paced, with a pleasant musical score and challenging bonus stages, Mappy is video game Nirvana.


Mr. Do.
Jumpin' Jesus with a strap-on are you ever a weird game. One of my favorites as a kid, Mr. Do is a trippy game where you play a clown digging for cherries underground.


Mr. Do is patterned after Dig-Dug, another one of my favorite arcade games. Whoever wrote these games must've been doing some heavy acid, because this game, as I mentioned above, is really trippy. Mr. Do must dig passages underground and kill these creatures by throwing a ball at them or by squashing them with gigantic apples. Periodically, a bonus item will manifest in the middle of the screen. Snag it and a chorus of fucked-up looking Muppets will descend upon our hero. It's not a bad game if you're a student of Dada artists and stoned out of your mind.


Mr. Do was so popular, it launched a sequel - Mr. Do's Castle. This one pits Mr. Do against some unicorn creatures in a castle. The clown must knock blocks from the floors of the castle and crush his enemies. If Mr. Do wasn't motivated, he'd be called Mr. Don't. He's a badass. You know it, I know it and Mr. Do knows it. So don't fuck with him.


I never heard of Pooyan before. This game makes me so angry, I want to throw a baby in a woodchipper.


A retelling of the Three Little Pigs, Pooyan pits the player against wolves with balloons. The player is suspended from a gondola and shoots arrows at the wolves, attempting to pop the balloons before the wolves make it to the ground, where presumably, they rape the pigs.


I can't figure out how Jumping Jack got green lit. The premise of the game, to leap across the board, propelled with a bunch of seesaws and dodging pretty much everything in sight. One of the most bizarre things in the game is in the upper corner. See that character up there? The black Sambo-looking dude with giant red lips? Who programmed this game? David Duke? Was it popular to include racial stereotypes in video games in the 1980s? I realize back then, political correctness didn't run amok as it does today, but having a giant-lipped African native hurling boulders at you is wrong.

Flash Fiction Challenge

My entry in Chuck Wendig's latest flash fiction challenge: "An Affliction of Alliteration." Contestants had to write a story whose title uses alliteration.
Here's my story:

WOBBILY WOMBATS WEARING WATCHES

By Eric Avedissian

When things grew rough for the miners of Kingsbury Colony, when the bodies began stacking up like fucking dried cordwood in the sun, that’s when management flew into a tizzy. Too many men were lost in the bowels of this godforsaken world, buried under the rock, suffocated like dogs in an oil drum.

That’s when they brought in the scientists with their genetic splicing and cloning and diddling around with DNA.

The scientists created wombats four feet high and programmed their brains to tell time. Each wombat was given the ability through conditioning and biological programming to understand exactly when their shifts would start and end via special wristwatches strapped around their paws.

The blasted critters worked harder than any of the slackers they replaced.

The creatures stood on their hind legs and walked upright, wore dirt-covered overalls and mining helmets. They wielded pickaxes, drills and planted explosives better than most of their human counterparts.

What’s more, they made the Kingsbury Colony Mining Consortium a lot of money.

Their exploits were known throughout the Australian Confederation, from the twin planets Dingo and Walleroo to the crumbing remnants of Bixby’s Forge.

Russell Cobb, captain of class 7 ion-drive mining ship “Waltzing Matilda”, was less than thrilled.

“Bloody wombats,” Cobb muttered as he leaned against the railing overlooking the quarry. “How many of these fucking rodents you got?”

“About 200, I reckon,” said the mining overseer everybody called Snake. Snake wore goggles and covered his face with a cloth mask, protecting it from the planet’s dust storms. Kingsbury Colony was an arid, hellish world, with litter precipitation and immense sandy deserts. Snake, as his nickname suggested, felt at home here.

“The consortium likes this sort of thing?” Cobb asked.

“Consortium reassigned them offworld months ago,” Snake said, leaning back in his chair. “Thought it best to assign them less dangerous tasks. Some went to Dingo to harvest grain. Others went to the breeding pits of Bixby’s Forge to help repopulate the colony.”

“Yeah. Fair dinkum, I suppose.”

In the mine, a wombat paused, scratched its chin and extended its furry arm in front of its face. Eyeing the giant wristwatch, it saw the blinking LED display and recognized the digital numbers signified quitting time. The creature shuffled towards the lift, and pulled a lever mounted on a control panel. The hydraulic lift ascended, shimmying with a rusty groan, taking the wombat with it, up towards the mine’s surface.

Cobb drained another 12-ounce tinny of Foster’s pale lager, the brew cooling his parched throat. He cracked open another can and offered it to Snake, who declined.

“Never touch the stuff, mate. Ever since the wife birthed two ankle biters,” Snake said.

It never occurred to Cobb that Snake was a family man. He always thought Snake was an antisocial tosser with as much likability as a road accident.

Cobb turned his attention to the wombats, who marched out of the mine single-file, like a conga-line of marsupial zombies.

“I know it’s none of my bizzo, but is that normal?” Cobb asked.

“Shift’s over. Time to rest. We give ‘em six hour’s sleep and it’s back to the mines,” Snake said.
Cobb rolled his eyes.

Snake smirked behind his mask. As far as he was concerned, Cobb’s only function was hauling ore back to Bixby’s Forge.

A titanic crane scooped a dozen containers of ore, lifted them from the ground and loaded them onto the spaceship. Robots with bulbous heads and four arms each transported the containers via lift into the ship’s filthy, crowded hull. Cobb observed this from a metallic gangplank, counting the containers as the robots handled them.

Ever since the wombats took over, output increased tenfold.

The fucking furry bastards were ripper.

A straggling wombat, still staring blankly at his wristwatch, stumbled upon a few cans of Cobb’s lager.

With chaffed hands, the creature picked up the beer can and regarded it with a curious stare. It sniffed the opening, then poured some of the liquid in its mouth. its eager tongue lapped the rest of the beer with wild abandon until it emptied the can. It tossed the can, which landed on the ground with a loud metallic clatter before lunging for another one.

For the first time, one of the genetically engineered wombats was off his face. It was full. It has a gutful of piss. It was bloody rotten.

In short, it was drunk.

Another wombat approached and fumbled with a can. The second marsupial observed his compatriot tear open the tab and imbibe the strange, yeasty concoction within.

The scenario repeated itself until the wombats, every one of them, consumed at least one beer. Apparently, the alcohol tolerance of the bipedal wombat critters was embarrassingly low. Some laughed, while others chundered on each other.

When Snake saw the wombats dancing and shambling in alcohol-induced euphoria, he shouted towards the gangplank.
Cobb peered from his perch and witnessed the chaos below. He slid down the ladders and landed with thud near the mine entrance, where Snake stood, fists balled in rage.

“Look what your lager has done! They’re bloody pissed! Every one of them useless!”

“Oi! Enough earbashing! I get it!” Cobb said. “Let ‘em sober up. Be right as rain in a few.”

“That ain’t the point, mate! Alcohol destroys their programming. Unhinges whatever chemical program the scientists jiggered up in there. These things will be lucky to know how to shit,” Snake said.

Cobb reached into his holster and pulled out his Ellerson Mark V laser gun. Behind his goggles, Snake’s eyes widened.

“You can’t, man! The conglomerate…”

“They’ll make more of these abominations, mate,” Cobb said with a sneer. “We tell ‘em raiders hit the mine and you were the only survivor. Spend some time with the wife and kids. You deserve a holiday.”

Snake nodded meekly and backed away. He realized stranger things happened in this part of space.

“Good onya, mate!” Snake exclaimed, as Cobb fired.

America the Lazy

Remember the good old days, say 1985, when Americans had a sense of manners and did the right thing simply because it was the right thing to do?

Remember when we weren't a nation of self-absorbed, obsessed dicks pepper spraying our way through a Walmart to get some stupid plastic piece of shit manufactured in China?

Remember when America had standards, a timeless sense of finesse and aplomb?

Those days of the Protestant work ethic and social etiquette are deader than Judge Reinhold's career. We're a nation that simply doesn't give a shit, about ourselves, about each other and about our impending crash and burn on the world stage.

America now is like a sloppy drunk Hollywood celebrity staggering out of her limo and flopping onto the red carpet, face marred with white powder and naked crotch exposed for the paperazzi. We're an international trainwreck because we've let our standards plummet disastrously.

Here are four signs that America is on the path to cultural and social suicide:

1. Our Food Sucks. I'm not talking about the quality. If you like the McRib, that's a personal preference of shoddy tastebuds and low income. I'm talking about presentation. We are a nation of wraps, where food is slopped into a doughy rap and rolled up and consumed. The sandwich is too complicated. Mass producing these slipshod wraps takes little effort and I want my food-slinging professionals to earn their minimum wage. Also, the bowls. Kentucky Fried Chicken has mashed potato bowls stuffed with chicken strips and corn. Just plopped into a bowl like some sad bachelor and consumed in bitter silence in front of the TV while Ultimate Fighting Championship is on. Wraps and bowls show no effort. It's like slackers control our food industry.

2. We're Note Polite. We as a society lack basic courtesy. When we cut in line at the supermarket to buy our frozen wraps, do we not offer a slight apology? No! America is becoming a very rude, naughty little boy who smears feces on the drapes just to get a reaction. We need a national nanny to scold us and give us discipline, to point out our shortcomings and correct our behavior. Or at least a national dominatrix to suspend us from the ceiling and spit on us should we err.

3. Reality TV is Awful. If one could say anything positive about the Holocaust, that catastrophic event in history where six million Jews were barbarically executed, it's this: at least those poor souls aren't alive to witness the cultural abortion that is The X Factor. Or American Idol. Or Dancing with the Stars. Or The Real Housewives of New York City. Or The Jersey Shore. Or a dozen more mediocre turd nuggets that pass for entertainment. Here's why reality TV is turning America into a dystopian gulag only Kafka could admire: it's utter manipulation so appealing, the masses don't realize they're being brainwashed by a cast of hedonistic, banal bottom dwellers. You know times have changed when Beavis and Butthead isn't the stupidest thing on television. Mike Judge's creation was a satirical look at culturally backward, ignorant youth. It was anti-intellectualism on a grand scale. Now we have a festival of retards parading around proclaiming their ignorance and getting cut fat paychecks to do so.

4. Our Leaders Are Corrupt. Not since the days of ancient Rome when Caligula made his horse Incitatus a counsel and fucked his sister have human leaders been so decadent. In America, Congress' approval rating hovers at 9 percent. That's no joke. As of today, Nov. 25, 2011, only 9 percent of the public approves the way Congress is operating. Even Al-Quaeda has a higher approval rating. Why this abysmal performance? American politics is about winning, not doing the right thing. Both parties - the Democrats and Republicans - are dysfunctional and incalcitrant, preferring to appease their financial backers and lobbyists instead of doing the right thing for the people. They also circumvent the Constitution like it's some hot new game at a swanky Washington D.C. cocktail party. The latest bumper crop of Republican presidential candidates have garnered vast support and present a plethora of ideas before the public, most of which are reactionary and thwart progress. The Democrats are too wimpy to embolden themselves and only tout bigger government. American politics breaks down like this: they're all crooks who whine when they don't get their way, but remind us of how good compromising is, even though that's the last thing they would ever do. Meanwhile, the money-filled dumptrucks keep unloading into their personal coffers.

That pretty much covers it. We're lazy, slovenly, the bearer of low standards and we just don't give a shit. The Chinese are communists and we're in debt to them. Our politicians are spewing such hateful venom at anyone who doesn't believe in Jesus, guns and the cleansing power of brutal violence.

America is like a sickly patient in need of a life-saving operation, and the only surgeon we have has beefy, clumsy, twitching hands. If we're going to get out of this alive and pull ourselves up, we've got to get our collective national shit together. We've got to focus on the things that really matter and delete the trivial, mundane bullshit that make political pundits chortle with orgasmic glee.

We've got to dare ourselves to be a kinder, respectful and better country.

We have a reputation to uphold.

Let's not lose sight of that now, people.

Song of the Occupiers

I've suspended any opinions on the Occupy Wall Street movement and the 99 percenters for weeks, because I wanted to educate myself on their organization beyond the reports from the mainstream media outlets.

This is a very contentious issue.

On one hand, you have people who truly feel disenfranchised and alienated by what they perceive as a culture of corporate greed, where the chips are stacked against them and success and the American Dream are inconceivable.

On the other hand, you have people who view the protesters as a horde of unwashed freaks, the bastard children of Woodstock and the commune culture of the 1960s who wish to embrace socialism and forego personal hygiene.

Ask any member of the Tea Party movement about the Occupy Wall Street crowd, and you'll get prune-faced grimaces and hear derisive critiques such as "Nobody knows what they stand for" or "They don't even know what they're protesting."

Bullshit.

The mainstream media characterizes the protestors as hippies and losers who chant, wear Guy Fawkes masks and tote signs with pithy slogans chastising Wall Street for their insatiable greed.

I think some of the protestors are truly concerned about falling behind and being forgotten, while others are there for the carnival-like atmosphere. Most are young and glom on to any movement just to blow off steam. Some are ranting about the war, while others blame Washington.

The fact that it's a leaderless movement doesn't help their cause, either. There should be organization and a concise message to the movement.

What we see now are protests all over this great nation of ours, mobs of angry youths who essentially have no confidence in unfettered capitalism.

The Tea Party stand behind Wall Street and capitalism, because they represent the God-fearing American right to make as much money as possible.

Not only does Wall Street and the corporate robber barons make a boatload of money, but they have a penchant for sticking it to the little guy who is struggling for survival.

According to a new census measure, 49.1 million Americans are poor. These are people having problems with medical expenses and paying bills.

God bless America!

Presidential candidate Herman Cain, who claims God persuaded him to run for president, said if you're poor, it's your own fault.

If Horatio Alger saw what was going on today, he'd wonder why the Occupiers didn't get any old job and be happy with it, for struggling and labor are the pathways to success.

Writer Ayn Rand wrote: "In the normal conditions of existence, man has to choose his goals, project them in time, pursue them and achieve them by his own effort. He cannot do it if his goals are at the mercy of and must be sacrificed to any misfortune happening to others."

Jesus Christ, who many politicians invoke and wouldn't mind breaking bread with at their local country clubs (the ones that don't restrict Jews), once said: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

It should be noted that Jesus hated rich people. He loathed the hypocrisy.

Seems the hypocrites who own everything in America and who treat the unwashed masses like cattle are fond of proselytizing and attend church. They laud family values and God all the while greed consumes them and they take more and more.

If one works hard, one should be entitled to the fruits of their labor. However, you are only entitled to the fruits of your labor, not the entire orchard.

A century from now, how will America be remembered? When our descendants look back at the beginning of the 21st Century, will they view us with jaundiced eyes, embarrassed of our bickering and fighting? Will they see the Tea Party labeling President Obama as a foreign-born socialist and the Democrats as unpatriotic traitors? Will they see the Occupy Wall Street movement as condemning the Republicans as rich elitists and Nazis? Will future Americans, watching old videos of our civilization wonder why Congress didn't act sooner to avert the financial crisis?

What will they think of us, these people in the far distant future?

Will we have failed them?

Will they view the incalcitrant Congress as creating a logjam via divisiveness and hate?

If America sinks, it won't be at the hands of a foreign terrorist or an army of Mexicans streaming across the border.

It will be because of our stubborness and pride.

Houseless

Against all odds, I sold my house. Specifically, my ex-wife and I sold our house.

Why quibble over semantics, eh?

The hovel we called home is now somebody else's, thanks to an aggressive real estate agent and a prime location near the Delaware Bay.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but the fucker sold.

Hurrah and huzzah!

In a shitty housing market where home prices are falling faster than Michelle Bachman's chances of becoming president, we pulled the ultimate real estate coup de grace and unloaded this hipster den upon an unsuspecting buyer.

There's a grand myth about homeownership, one told around campfires for generations. Said tale goes something like this: owning a home is an investment, and one of the ultimate accomplishments of the American Dream, the other being getting a blowjob from Olivia Munn. If you don't know who Olivia Munn is, you're probably too old. Check your pulse, grandpa. Olivia Munn is like Betty Grable for Gen Y.

Owning a home is not the apex of human achievement. It's a millstone around your scrawny neck, thick steel manacles around your wrists, a one-way trip to the gulag. It's a lot of work and requires maintenance and thankless drudgery, much like dating a Jewish woman.

Truth be told, I never felt that place was home. It was just a building where I ate and slept and had to clean. Yard work? Don't get me started on yard work! I sweated like a suburbanite lost in the inner city ghetto every time I mowed that lawn. Grueling, back-breaking work.

So I'm glad that house, with all its petty annoyances is no longer my responsibility.

It took years to finally sell the house, many months of nary a nibble before the big fish came knocking. many people are desperately trying to unload their properties. Some don't make it and face foreclosures and other grim realities in this sluggish and cruel economy.

I can put this wretched chapter of homeownership behind me. That place and me, we weren't a right fit. We just occupied the same space. True, the Bohemian hovel did provide shelter from the harsh elements and warmth from winter's icy touch. Air conditioning kept me cool during the summer's inferno. Yet the house just didn't suit me. Even the rock garden I built was overgrown with weeds. Try meditating looking at that. No inner peace there.

Good luck, house. Hope your new owners enjoy you.

Living in an iWorld

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”
- Steve Jobs

My introduction to the Macintosh came during college. The student newspaper I wrote for, The Whit at Glassboro State College used the Macintosh Classic, a weird hybrid of monitor and CPU in one package. Back then, I was a Windows/PC guy, and thought Bill Gates was a silicon-breathing computer god. To me, the artists and hippies of the college publishing suite used Macs.

I became a true Mac convert in 2003, after plodding along with Windows 95 on a Compaq Presario of all things. The newspaper I worked for then used Apple products and I was forced to assimilate to the iMac. Around that same time, I bought my first iPod, a seemingly magical music player. I hopped onto iTunes, purchased a few songs and listened to my heart’s content. The marriage of iTunes and the iPod was truly revolutionary.

The Mac OS, named after big cats, put Windows to shame. Where Windows frequently crashed and hit my with blue screens, the Mac OS is tightly-programmed, and easy for customers to use. Those funky icons, including a trash can and dreaded twirling beach ball of death only added to the mystique of using a Mac.

I took the plunge and purchased a Mac PowerBook in 2004. It was a beautiful, sleek machine. It became my music library, film studio, library and writing desk.

In 2008, I bought an iMac and in 2009 an iPhone. I love how these products work, how they integrate well with each other and how their various functions are user-friendly. Each time I switch that iMac on and hear that signature gong reverberate from its metallic heart, I swell with pride.

Steve Jobs, the founder and former CEO of Apple Inc. brought innovation and new technology to the world. His revolutionary decisions changed the way we use personal computing, how we listen to music, watch movies and communicate with each other.

For me, Apple computers were about functionality, aesthetic perfection, sublime design and a hip coolness you didn’t get with any other computer. The IBM clones were always boxy-looking, grey or tan boxes sitting on your desktop. Apple products, with their gentle curves and futuristic shapes made you take notice.

Apple computers made you realize the future was now and “Think Different” more than an advertising slogan.

Jobs, the creative and innovative force behind Apple, is gone.

Yet his legacy is one of pushing boundaries, of experimentation, of trial and error. Some notable failures, the Apple Lisa and Newton pad, gave way to the stunning successes of the iBook and iMac.

The indelible mark Jobs left on personal computing cannot be understated, and his personal style was reflected in the company's creative and inventive output.

Apple keynote addresses, when they rolled out new products, were always great. Jobs, in his signature jeans and black shirt, appeared like a tech-savvy Everyman instead of a corporate CEO. We sat in rapt attention as he explained the features of the iPone, iPad or tweaks and improvements to the OS software. Jobs nurtured the brand into a relevant cultural phenomenon, and the Apple Inc. logo became synonymous with high-end computing. He was the guru leading us into a digital Nirvana, a tranquil place with tools enabling us to do wondrous things. Apps became our means of recreation and productivity and brought the wider world to our palms and literally at our fingertips. A geek with an appreciation of pop culture, rock music and the arts, Jobs made it possible for us creative types to express ourselves through his products. Apple devices became the conduit for our energies and passions and functioned as digital playgrounds and workplaces.

Jobs had an innate ability of tapping into the technical zeitgeist of his times. Through his innovation, Apple revolutionized computing. Where others only gave us glorified calculators, Apple gave us the future and all of the possibilities that go with it. Within the silicon guts of his machines lay the foundation of productivity, of breaking down barriers, of communicating, obtaining information and consuming media.

We’re a better world because of Steve Jobs’ dedication and genius.