Les Bonnes Choses

Fine, Carrie.

My birthday is coming up pretty soon, and if you're like most people, you haven't yet bought me a gift. I must admit that I am partly to blame for this, as I have not made generally public a list of suitable gifts. I also must admit that I am becoming just like every other hard to shop for dad out there. However, I can't see how it can be any other way: you're born into this world all bare-ass with nothing. From there on, you're a collecting machine so that there comes a time when you really don't need anything else. Sure, there's lots of stuff out there that I don't have but might like, though not enough that I've already gone out and gotten it for my own damn self. Other things can't be put on a birthday wish list with a straight face, like one of those 35 foot yachts that I've been seeing out in the harbour on Lake Michigan as we follow Lake Shore into downtown Chicago. Yes, one of those things would be a fantastic gift (though upkeep on one of those things would be a bitch), but I don't run in the kind of circles where yachts might be a gift-giving idea. Perhaps if someone could coordinate all of my readers; maybe each could chip in a couple of bucks?

You know, I remember being in the kitchen of my grandparents' house on Oxford St. at Christmas time, 1979. My mom or dad (can't remember which) asked what I wanted for Christmas. My answer: a jet pack. I must have picked the term up on the schoolyard, where the kids played Star Wars every recess. I also remember trying to draw a jet pack to show my parents what the hell I was talking about. I couldn't have been that committed to the idea because, although I am quite sure I did not get a jet pack, neither do I remember being disappointed that Christmas. Maybe I just didn't draw it very well.

So, yeah, a yacht or a jet pack. Take your pick.