Old Boomer Reflects on Young Millennials

Ask me anything about the millennial generation. That's the group of people born between the mid 1980s and early 2000s.

I am an expert because I've been soaking up endless articles and broadcasts about them. Turns out, a fair number of hand-wringing pundits fret about handing the world over to this surging demographic.

Millennials are the biggest generation since the baby boomers. According to the media, they live with their parents because they are un- or under-employed and up to their ears in student loan debt. It is also said that they are lazy, self-centered, entitled, and unable to compete.

Older folks tisk and shake their heads and remind anyone who will listen that this is the generation where everyone who participated in little league got a trophy, even the team that lost. No wonder we're losing out to China! On the other hand, I like the idea of a whole generation where crushing your opponent isn't the most important thing.

As for laziness and being self-centered, that is said about every generation when its young. They said it about my generation, the baby boomers.

I acted pretty entitled when I was in my 20s. I was a legend in my own mind, so talented that no one could tell me anything. I was an expert on everything. I cringe now to think of how arrogant I was.  I outgrew it (I think) and so will the majority of today's younger people.

Studies have actually shown notable millennial strengths:

• They are compassionate - probably because they weren't taught in little league that winning is all that matters. 
• They are less likely to be racist and homophobic than their elders. Most, when asked about gay marriage, don't understand what all the fuss is about.
• They are less materialistic. It is known that this generation is less interested in car ownership, for example, than any in modern history.
• They are closer to their parents than we were. I think that's nice. When I was in college, I talked to my parents on the phone maybe once a week. Long distance was expensive in those days. Now, thanks to improvements in technology, college students regularly talk to their parents daily or more.
• Technology is the key to the millennial generation. These kids eat, sleep, and breathe technology. It's no joke that when handed a new device, they figure out how to use it before I can get the instruction book open. And because of social media, they are connected to the rest of the world in ways we couldn't fathom in our day. 

Like everyone from every generation, I like to fret and worry about the up and coming younger folk and how they simply don't measure up. In fairness, I have to remember what it was like for  boomers when we were young.

• The Viet Nam war, Watergate, and later AIDS, led to disillusionment and a life-long mistrust of government and authority in general. 
• As a result, boomers rebelled against many sacred institutions, from industry to the military, from universities to religion. According to our elders, we simply had no respect. 
• As boys, we grew our hair long. It was a visible way to separate ourselves from adults.
• Girls wore their skirts short. I don't know what they were thinking.
• Our music was a loud expression of our emotions and sometimes our politics - just a lot of noise according to our elders.
• We didn't get along with our parents. We moved in different worlds and didn't understand each other. It was called the generation gap. As we matured, we were determined to have a different kind of relationship with our kids, and broadly speaking, we succeeded.

Now boomers are portrayed aging rapidly, set to soak up all of what's left of Social Security. We complain about government but can't wait to get our hands on medicaid. We bumble around technology, mystified by social media, and surrounded by vinyl and VHS which we can't enjoy because the machines which played them broke down long ago.

If I'm right, millennials will complain about the generations that come after them. I hope I last long enough to savor the irony.

Watch Out! Here Come the Holidays!

They're here. Again.

Would it be possible to celebrate the holidays every other year? I've only just recovered from last year and it's time to again get on that merry-go-round of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. Halloween has passed for this year. We got exactly 0 (zero) trick-or-treaters.

Halloween doesn't do a lot for me. Ever since I was sick a few years back, I don't see the humor in fake cemeteries, depictions of dead (or undead) bodies, or blood everywhere. Plus those fake spider webs are just annoying.

I don't celebrate all holidays. Kwanzaa and Hanukkah are not on my list. I might give a passing nod to the winter solstice, but I don't go out of my way to celebrate. I happen to have a birthday in December, which I mark as a national holiday by taking the day off.

Thanksgiving is the one I hate the least. We host dinner for family and a few friends. It's a lot of work, but it's just food. No presents and very little pretense of religious tradition or ritual. We don't have to decorate the house, just set the table and make sure there is enough silverware. Without presents and caroling, there is plenty of time to just hang out and visit with loved ones. At our house, if you want to watch a football game, you can go into a special room designated for that activity.

Christmas, of course, is the most hyped. Pressure to participate pushes in from every side. You have to attend a friend's music concert or a child's pageant. You must decide whether to visit family or offend them by staying home. And the  the hassle of shopping is enough to make one crazy (or in my case, crazier). And there is, hands down, nothing worse than the forced gaiety of holiday office activities. Don't even get me started on secret Santas - as if we needed yet another person to worry about making happy.

New Years sucks. By December 31, you are fat and hung over from the other holidays, and ready for regular life to return. Instead, you have to go to "the biggest party of the year" and stay up later than you normally would. After that, there's nothing to look forward to but the long, dark winter ahead.  No days off until Memorial Day.

I've been called a Grinch before, so don't bother. Look, it's not like I hate every minute of the holidays. There are moments I really enjoy. It is good to get together with family you don't see very often. The seasonal food can be really wonderful. And there is nothing nicer than the colorful lights that pierce the night during the darkest time of the year.

Suggestions for coping:

• Lower your expectations. If you don't expect a perfect Christmas, you won't be disappointed when you don't have one.
• Enjoy what you can and ignore the rest. You don't really have to go to every concert and party. But it's ok to appreciate the lights that go up in your neighborhood. You don't have to make Grandma's traditional fruitcake that takes 16 hours. Go to your local upscale supermarket and buy one.
• Years ago, I  stopped buying individual gifts for my family members. Instead, I made one big donation in everyone's name to a favorite non-profit organization. The family appreciates it as much as they would a wrapped gift, and they don't have to drag home a bunch of stuff they don't need.

First Comes Love, Then Come Alternative Relationship Models, Then Comes Marriage

I'm just boomer enough to have spent my life questioning the established norms and mores of marriage. Who needs a piece of paper to prove their love or commitment? And the "wedding-industrial complex" - what a racket that is with it's tens of thousands of dollars of required dresses, fancy invitations, a huge reception with an expensive band or DJ, and the Chicken Dance. Oh my god the Chicken Dance!

Yes, in the old days, gay people were often the ones who questioned traditional marriage. They, we, espoused loving relationships in different forms. Let each person, couple, or group decide for themselves what kind of relationships they will form and leave traditional, permanent, monogamous marriage to unimaginative straight people.

Later on, some of us tried having commitment ceremonies which resembled weddings, but lacked legal teeth. None of the approximately 1,000 rights that go along with marriage applied.

Fast forward to the 2010's. Turns out that LGBT people are the ones most likely to champion legal, traditional marriage. While marriage rates in general are plummeting and the number of  single person households is rising, LGBT couples are falling all over themselves to get down to the courthouse for that marriage license.

Someday it will only be gays and lesbians trumpeting traditional values in congress.

So everyone pretty much agrees that gay marriage is here to stay and that soon it will be legal in all 50 states.

The most important part of this whole discussion is, how does it affect me? Do I just toss aside my old convictions that alternatives to traditional marriage are valid and preferable? Do I now embrace the "wedding-industrial complex" and (when the time comes) hire a wedding planner who will facilitate the spending of much money for that special day? What about wills, pre-nups, gift registries, and china patterns?

I'm won't even mention all the children that LGBT people are having.

That still leaves us with one question. If we are to conform to traditional models of marriage, must we also embrace the Chicken Dance?

Dangerous Cake Obsession Causes Loss of Control

I have no control when it comes to cake.

Seriously.

At the office, if I hear there's cake in the break room, I single-mindedly zero in, nearly knocking people over if they get between me and that moist, spongy confection with sticky, sweet frosting. After I chow down (think Cookie Monster without the blue fur), I'm immediately overcome by regret. I don't recognize the obsessed person that I temporarily became. In shame, I slink back to my desk.

It doesn't matter how full I am, or if I'm on a diet, or already had dessert, if there's cake, I'm there.

When I was a kid and my grandmother served cake, I'd boldly ask her if I could take some home. My parents were appalled at my audacity, but we always left with cake in hand.

Sometimes coworkers, who I suspect of secretly being vegan, bring a plate of fruit to celebrate a birthday instead of cake. What kind of birthday is that? I like pineapple and strawberries as much as the next person. I can live without honeydew. But who prefers fruit to cake? Certain members of my family always request pie instead of cake for their birthday. That's only marginally better than fruit.

A coworker recently got married. I asked about the cake at the reception and he said they didn't have one. It took a moment for that to sink in.

Wedding receptions are a place where I expect to have cake. Preferably, white cake with white frosting and little soft, flower shaped candies on the side. If you have to make your wedding reception different, skip the hokey pokey. But for God's sake, give your guests cake.

Cake is not only good to eat, it is versatile. Cake can be designed to look like anything. It can be made to look like a football, cartoon characters, even scanned photographs.  One of my earliest memories is a cake someone made in the shape of our church. Even now, if I go by my childhood church, my mouth waters.

When I was on Weight Watchers, I was appalled to learn that cake was one of the worst things I could eat. It has more fat and calories than almost anything else I love. Only pizza is worse. Life is hard.

My favorite cake in the world is the Chantilly cake from Whole Foods. A white, moist cake interspersed with strawberries and blueberries, it is infused with a light whipped creamy frosting. Note, there is room for fruit with cake, just not instead of cake.

Perhaps sometime I will write about frosted sugar cookies. How can you have Christmas without them?

Coping With Depressing News

On the verge of paralyzing journalism induced depression, Clyde and I have gone on a news diet.

World events seem more depressing than usual lately. For a time of year that media outlets usually feature shark attacks because there's not much else going on, we seem now to be bombarded with news of unthinkable violence.

We no longer want to be constantly upset about Gaza, Syria, Iraq, Ukraine, and Missouri, just to name a few. Al Jazeera and BBC no longer play on our TV all day. When you take in the same depressing stories multiple times in an endless 24 hour news cycle, it starts to get to you. Research shows that watching the same traumatic footage over and over affects you as if it were happening multiple times, even though it really only happens  once.

Instead of watching the endless looping on cable news networks, I'm getting information about world events  mostly through public radio where repeating footage is minimal. The Daily Show and Colbert Report round out how informed I am, if they're not on break. I catch the local TV news occasionally, but there isn't much information there, unless you want lots of weather and local crime.

I used to get a daily newspaper. It came to my front step early in the morning and kept me well informed without the disturbing video overload. I read the articles one time, occasional cutting out the ones I wanted to send to friends - sort of an old fashioned way of sending a link, and then added the leftovers to the recycling bin. I was fairly well informed during those years. But like many people, I quit taking the paper when the price went up and the quality went down, a victim of electronic media.

In spite of information overload, it's harder now to be informed than it used to be. Studies show that with so many news sources these days, people usually only pay attention to the ones which reinforce their world view. In other words, we no longer learn anything from news outlets. We just get our existing opinions reinforced. This is why the Republicans and Democrats in Congress and elsewhere are moving further and further apart.

We should know what's going on in the world. Informed citizens make for intelligent voters.

Do you value being informed? How do you digest information in the 24 hour news cycle? How are you coping with the summer's endless stream of bad news? Just leave a comment, here or on Facebook. I'll follow up in a future BillsWeek.

Taxi Companies HATE Uber, and Other App Tales

I recently downloaded an app called Waze (pronounced "ways") to my iPhone. Waze gathers data from hundreds of users via their smart phones and converts it into traffic information that guides you to your destination using the quickest route possible. For example, I usually take I-25 home from work. But when there's a traffic jam, as there often is, Waze knows about it ahead of time and directs me to a different route. It's a-MA-zing.

Another great app I recently discovered is Uber. Uber, like Waze, gathers information from drivers' smart phones and directs them to passengers who have requested a ride. In other words, I push a button on the Uber app and minutes later a car comes to take me where I want to go. Payment is done via a credit card you enter into the app ahead of time so there's no cash and no tip to mess with. It's so much faster than a taxi which can take up to an hour to arrive after you call for it.

Taxi companies, by the way, HATE Uber.

Everything is an app these days. Doing things from a website on your desktop or laptop computer is so 2000s. Anything you need to do, you can do from an app on the phone in your pocket.

I assume that app is short for application, but it also brings to mind the iPhone's maker, Apple. But that's neither here nor there.

I have relatively few apps on my phone but I've come to depend on them. I have an app to read the local paper, a camera app, an "organizer" which keeps me on task, and a calendar. I have an app which tells me what time it is in any city in the world. I can listen to music via the Pandora app and I can even watch movies on the little tiny screen using the Netflix app. Though I've stopped using it, again, there is also a Weight Watchers app on my phone. I even have an app which tells me whether I've used the allotted monthly amount of data on my phone plan.

There is an app which tells you at what altitude you are, which can come in handy in Colorado. Though I've never used it, there's an app that gay men use to find other nearby gay men. There's probably something comparable for lesbians and straight people, but I wouldn't know about those.

Facebook and Twitter have apps. I haven't fallen under the spell of Twitter yet. Is it something that could benefit me in any way? What would I tweet about? Who would want to know when I go to the bathroom or some such other personal and mundane activity? But I digress.

There are a few things I haven't been able to find an app for. House cleaning, for one. Wouldn't that be great? An app to weed the garden would also be nice. Is there an app that would help me give pills to my cat? Hey, not long ago I would have joked that I wanted an app to avoid traffic jams.

The What's Not Here Anymore Tour

When visiting a new city, it's sometimes fun to visit the most impressive, unique sights. In Denver, you might take in various landmarks such as the state capitol, for example, or the Museum of Nature and Science. Coors Field could be of interest, and you might even swing by the Denver Mint, though it's not much to look at from the outside.

I have an alternative tour. I call it the What's Not Here Anymore tour. After 25 years of living in the Mile High City, I know more about what a location in the city used to be than what it is now.

Though I didn't move here until I was 27, I grew up in Denver's orbit of influence. Denver was where we went to the airport. Denver was where all the TV stations came from. Denver was culture and theatre and shopping. Denver was fancy restaurants like the Spaghetti Factory where we ate whenever we came to town.  Hey, it seemed fancy at the time. Casa Bonita was also a regular stop - yes, I know the food is not that good, but for a kid just discovering his sexuality, those cliff divers were amazing to watch.

The malls in and around Denver were exotic because before 1980, my hometown didn't have one. There was nothing like that first sip of Orange Julius or an ICEE at Cinderella City.

The first traffic jam I remember was in Denver. My father drove the RV as my friend John and I watched from the overhang above the cab. We had to turn the radio off so Dad could concentrate while all those crazy freeway drivers tried to get around us. Naturally, the doors were locked because we were in the big city.

The first time I ever saw a gay couple making out, my family was driving through Cheesman Park on the way to my brother's apartment on High Street. My  parents pretended not to notice. Slack-jawed, I silently vowed I would return to explore this fascinating phenomenon and by golly, I eventually did.

When I moved to Denver, May D&F was the region's primary department store. The downtown location was an interesting paraboloid shape where the gigantic Sheraton now stands.

When I moved to Denver, Denver International Airport was still a massive construction site. Though the old crowded Stapleton Airport hasn't existed for two decades, I miss it. Oh sure, it was unnerving to land on parallel runways, two planes' wings nearly touching as they simultaneously approached the ground. But it only took 10 minutes to get from the end of Concourse E to my apartment on Columbine street. And I continue to be embarrassed by that circus tent that passes for the DIA roof.

It pains me now to see the wasteful demolition at the old University Hospital site, though we are promised new opportunities for housing and retail in the future, I'm starting to wonder if I'll live long enough to see it.

Try as I might, I can't exist totally in the past. I do appreciate the Denver of now.

• The blossoming of Lower Downtown (LODO) over the past two decades has really enlivened the city. 
• I love those whimsical dancing sculptures at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. 
• The Tattered Cover continues to shine as a literary beacon, even though it's moved around a bit and opened multiple locations. 
• Our Civic Center is second to none when it comes to gigantic holiday light displays. 
• The light rail system and Union Station redevelopment illustrate that people here have enough vision to invest in a bright future.

When all is said and done, however, nothing caps off the day like a visit to the Spaghetti Factory. It hasn't changed.

Tales of the 4-Plex

With the warmer weather this time of year, and with daylight continuing past dinnertime, our windows and shades are wide open so that we may enjoy the benefits of summer. Our senses are engaged by evening breezes, the occasional smell of a rainstorm, and as we move closer to August, the sounds of crickets.  Open windows blur the lines between outside and inside, and as you fold laundry or watch TV, you can't help but notice what some of the neighbors are up to. For example, the couple on the north end has new twin babies. The guy who regularly walks his dog in the yard doesn't always pick up the poop. The little girl across the way enjoys wearing princess dresses, predominantly pink, while her father favors tight fitting bicycle lycra.

Clyde and I are most entertained by the college students who rent the middle unit. We have no idea how many live there, because there is an endless stream of young faces going in and out. We are especially intrigued by two attractive young men who regularly hold hands as they come up the sidewalk. It's great that they are comfortable enough with themselves and their housemates, not to mention the neighbors, to openly express their relationship. Times have certainly changed.

This past week, the students welcomed yet another couple of housemates.

We know because we overheard them through the open windows. One of that hand holding couple stood on the front walk and gave the tour to a couple of newcomers. He indicated their patio and grill, pointed out the hose, discussed street parking, and described a couple of neighbors by name as he pointed to the different condos. When it came time for ours to be pointed to, we very clearly heard him say, "And two older men live there."

Ouch.

He didn't say it in a mean way. He wasn't disrespectful. He just said it as if it were a fact.

Olympia Dukakis as Mrs. Madrigal

I realize we are, in fact, older than he is. I also understand that our actual ages are way beyond his youthful comprehension. Who at 23 can accurately comprehend what it is to be in your 50s?  It's not that I expected he would describe us as "two hot guys," or anything like that. I might have hoped he thought of us as the nice "gay couple next door." I may have even fantasized that I was Mrs. Madrigal in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City books, inviting the tenants in one by one, lighting up joints, and exuding a nurturing, sage-like wisdom as I listen to their problems.

I don't suppose he would think me younger if I walked up to him, shook my finger in his face, and lectured that not long ago, I was his age. I was hot. I stayed up late. I had boyfriends. I militantly came out to my friends and relatives. I went to marches on Washington. Hell, because of me and all the generations of lesbians and gay men before, he is free to hold hands with his boyfriend outside. I wonder if he's ever even heard of Tales of the City.

Don't worry. I won't say anything. I have to face it. My bald spot is older than my neighbor. I go to bed at 8:30 when he's just on his way out. I couldn't live his life if I wanted to, and in fact, I don't really want to. I am comfortable as one of the older men next door. Now what can I do to get that guy to pick up after his dog?

So Many Passwords, So Little Brain in which to Store Them

It has come to my attention that we are using more passwords than ever, but the space in our brains isn't growing to accommodate them all.

I have passwords for my computer at home, my computer at work, and voice mail systems at each place. I use a password for online banking, to select Netflix movies, and to access a range of accounts from the power company to my credit card. I even have a password for making insurance premium payments online, something I do twice a year.

Why do I need a password to make insurance payments? If someone else wanted to pay my insurance premium, I wouldn't have a problem with that.

I don't think I should need a password to look up information about my gym membership, benefits at work, or the cat's microchip.

The only institution that hasn't made me use a password is my church, but I'm sure we're getting closer to collection plates with keypads on them, a safeguard from tithing hackers.

And how are we supposed to remember them all? If I don't use a password very often, I forget what it is. When I need it I have to click on the "forgot password" link and have yet another one emailed to me. Of course, to get the email, I need, you guessed it, a password.

Passwords are also getting harder to remember because they come with so many requirements. In some cases, you must use a combination of capital letters and small letters, a mixture of letters and numbers, and/or symbols that aren't letters or numbers. God forbid they make any sense so you can remember them. To ensure security, don't use the name of a family member, a city, a pet's name, or your birthday. And for God's sake, don't write them down because a crook might steal them.

It's worse when the password is assigned to you. Our new wifi came with a password that has approximately 27 random letters and numbers. I guess the neighbors won't be piggybacking for free on our internet.

Meanwhile, the worst finally happened. I walked up to an ATM machine and inserted my card. The screen prompted me for a PIN number. I reached for the key pad and my hand froze. I drew a complete blank. To save my life, I couldn't remember that number, one I've been using for years. Nothing.

Like the hard drive on an old, overloaded computer, my brain had crashed.

I didn't get any cash that day. I didn't even get my ATM card back because the machine wouldn't release it without a password. But my account was safe, gosh darn it.

Dripping Faucet? Go Get Your Tools

I'm not good with tools. I know the difference between a Phillips screwdriver and the other kind, but that's about it.

I recently did some caulking in the bedroom. I bought the tube of caulk and the squeezy thing with the trigger that you need to make it work. I successfully squirted a wad of goo into a big crack between the floor and the wall and smoothed it out. Some extra goo got smeared around adjacent areas. Attempting to clean it up with a paper towel just made it worse. It looks like hell. But I did it. I was proud.

Recently I had to reset the cable modem. To do that,  I needed to insert something small inside a little hole on the back. A nail would be ideal. I looked everywhere, but other than the nails jammed into the wall for the purpose of holding artwork, I couldn't find one anywhere. I finally found one in Clyde's tool box.

I have a tool box too, but I couldn't find a nail there. Are you surprised I have a tool box? I don't remember how I got it but it's always been in one of my closets, sometimes buried under paper bags or Christmas decorations. It contains a hammer and two different types of screwdrivers, Phillips and the other kind. It also contains a lot of cords and adapters for computers and VCRs from the 90s which I've held on to, just in case. They are not helpful for the current problem we are having with the cable modem, but that's a story for a different time.

I learned everything I know about machines from my dad. He was a good man, very wise about many things. But he was not "handy." Dad taught me everything he knew about fixing cars: get out your credit card and take it to a mechanic. The family tradition continues.

For the record, I do know how to change a tire, thanks to that long stretch of Interstate 80 between Laramie and Rawlins, Wyoming. Picture it: no AAA. Just me and a jack standing over a flattened wheel. And my equally inept boyfriend at the time who was at least able to read the directions from the driver's manual while I skinned my knees on gravel and got my hands and shirt all dirty and sweaty. I earned some butch points that day.

Currently, Clyde and I are coping with a drippy kitchen faucet, a bathroom towel bar that is falling off the wall, and a front door latch which sticks so badly that if there were a fire, we'd probably burn up just trying to get out. Any normal man (and many women, of course) could just make these repairs with their tools. I have even seen little kits at Ace Hardware for drippy faucets. But I don't know how to use them and my little Phillips isn't adequate anyway. I have decided to call a "handyman" company to fix all of these things at once.

I imagine the handyperson coming through our sticking front door expecting to see old people too frail to wield a wrench but finding instead two able-bodied men who should be able to fix their own towel bar. What can I say? I'm an embarrassment to manhood. So I just whip out my credit card and the job gets done.

TV in Every Room Not Quite Enough

We have three TVs in our house - 1.5 per person. One in every room except the kitchen and the bathroom.

As far as I can tell from a quick internet search, we are about average for U.S. households.

I've always watched a lot of television. When I was a kid, I plunked down after school for Petticoat Junction and Gilligan's Island, and after a break for dinner I sat through the prime time lineup, followed by the news at 10:00 and reruns of M*A*S*H before bed. In the summer, I would go outside and play, but only after the mid-day broadcast of Love American Style and before The Adams Family at 4:30. As a result, I've participated in a number of pop culture trivia contests over the years. I won a prize once for being able to sing all three verses to The Beverly Hillbillies.

In the mid 70s, I could recite the entire week's programming schedule for every channel. I was a walking TV Guide. To be fair, there were only four channels at the time. And none of them were on 24 hours.

Other than during dinner, my parents never limited TV time. There was one exception: my mother forbade me from watching Charlie's Angels. Of course it wasn't hard to disobey down in the basement with the volume turned low. I think Mom was worried that the sexy female detectives would inflame my youthful passions. If she'd only known my true nature, we could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble. The Six Million Dollar Man - now that inflamed me. And of course, Captain Kirk when he fought aliens with his shirt off. Other boys had angel Farrah Fawcett in a swim suit over their beds. I had a poster of speedo-clad male divers from Casa Bonita. Mom thought I was interested in diving. But I digress.

So apparently, now in the 21st century with hundreds and hundreds of channels, we need three TVs to keep up.

It's a wonder we ever do anything else.

It's better now than in the old days. You don't have to schedule your play time around the TV. You can watch when it's convenient. In addition to recording the traditional and cable network shows, you can also, courtesy of Netflix and cable on demand, watch multiple episodes of many series, past and present. Currently we are enjoying occasional marathons of Veep, Frasier, House, and Royal Pains.

Clyde and I watch TV together most of the time, as opposed to watching simultaneously in different rooms. This potentially changes when Clyde decides to watch an overly depressing or violent movie, or if I want to watch a sitcom that is beyond his tolerance for stupid.

While the television may be the center of attention when we sit in the living room, you can also find nearby: three laptops, an iPad, and two iPhones, all of which are capable of delivering YouTube, Netflix, and any number of other video streaming services. They are rarely all used at the same time, but usually the TV isn't the only screen running.

The laptops have the added advantage of being good platforms on which the cats may lounge.

There is plenty of entertainment available thanks to technology, but I think we need a TV in the kitchen. I can carry a laptop into the bathroom.

Living Together Signals a Change in Ways

Most of my adult life, I've only lived with cats. I last lived with another human nearly 20 years ago. Even back then when I was considerably younger, I was accused of being  too set in my ways to tolerate the day to day presence of another person in my home.

I had two roommates in college. College roommates are supposed to help you learn tolerance and compromise. All I learned was that I didn't want roommates.

Nevertheless, after a year of dating, Clyde has moved to my address. There is additional furniture in the house and an unusually full refrigerator.

What's happened to change my mind? For one thing, Clyde spends so much time at my house anyway that he might as well move in. My neighbors already assumed we lived together.

I do have some questions about cohabiting.

Forget about whether the toothpaste is squeezed from the middle or which way the toilet paper is loaded. What I need to know is, how do people who live together share a DVR? Is there room to record both persons' programs? What if one watches something but doesn't know whether the other has watched it - how does the former know whether to delete it?  Erasing Cosmos too soon could actually ruin the relationship.

Another issue which concerns me: step-parents are often resented by the children. I have the opposite problem with my non-human dependents. Far from viewing Clyde as an evil step-daddy, the cats prefer him to me. No, my feelings aren't hurt - just because I  have fed, kitty littered, paid vet bills for, given pills to, worried about, and generally taken care of them most of their lives. When Clyde and I are both sitting on the sofa, whose lap do you suppose they go to first? Not mine.

There are other adjustments to be made when the boyfriend moves in. For example, I can't put the remote on the other side of the bed like I used to. And it's more difficult to secretly watch Steam Room Stories (guys in towels) on YouTube. And even though Clyde is not judgmental, I feel guilty when he sees me eating junk food.

Of course there are advantages to having Clyde around.

I now eat fish occasionally, and it's not always disgusting.

Someone else did the laundry last weekend!

Also, Clyde has reorganized the kitchen closet. I can now locate the double-A batteries. And who knew I had two tape measures? Last time I looked, I couldn't even find one.

Clyde likes my cooking. He makes coffee early in the morning. He folds things that I just wad up. He even has an iron. I haven't had one in decades.

The other day, we went to Safeway instead of King Soopers. Who says I'm set in my ways?

I just have to figure out how to get my cats back.

I Wanted the Dowager Countess But All I Got Was Lady Mary

What's with all the personalized quizzes on Facebook? Along with cat videos and bitter political opining, announcements like the following proliferate: "I got Ginger, which castaway from Gilligan's Island are you?"

First, I'd like to say that these quizzes are a waste of time and serve no useful purpose. What kind of society values measuring yourself against shallow, fictional characters or pop culture icons? Wouldn't our leisure time be better spent studying the New York Times website or watching BBC News on TV?

Second, I'd like to say that I really enjoy taking those quizzes. It's interesting to compare myself with friends, although sometimes the outcomes are a bit puzzling. For example, I see myself as more of a Mary Ann.

If somehow you don't know what I"m talking about, just check out buzzfeed.com. They seem to be generating the most.

Here are some of the quizzes I've taken along with the results:

• What profession should you have? - I got writer. So far so good.
• Which President would you be? - Obama. Yeah!
• Which Star Trek character are you? - Captain Picard. Damn straight!
• Which Golden Girl are you? - Dorothy. There was general consensus on that one.
• Which period in history are you? - Elizabethan. Hmm. Ok. I did enjoy the Cate Blanchett movies.
• Which Downton Abbey character are you? - Naturally I was hoping for the Dowager Countess Violet, but I got Lady Mary instead. I guess that's ok. Just give Mary a few decades and she'll out dowage the Dowager.
• Which Big Bang Theory character are you? - The quiz said I was Penny. That was a real shock. Of course, she is from Nebraska. Perhaps that's it.
• Thank goodness for the "Friends" quiz. Of Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Chandler, Joey, and Ross, I got Chandler. I'm surprised I didn't get Phoebe based on the Penny experience. Could I BE any more sarcastic?
• What city are you? - I apparently most closely matched Phoenix. Phoenix? Really? Not someplace cool like Portland? I was really jealous of my friends who got Portland. It's bad enough that I can't be my chosen home city of Denver. But Phoenix? I guess it could be worse. It could be Tulsa or anywhere in Texas.
• Which state should you live in? - I got Louisiana. LOUISIANA? I can't even begin to explain that one. I did get very drunk in New Orleans some 30 years ago, but generally I'm not into bayous, large clumps of moss hanging from tree branches, or washing machines on the front porch. Wait, that's Alabama. At least that's what I remember about it from driving through.

I guess they aren't necessarily scientifically sophisticated tests. But they are fun. Here are some quizzes I'd like to take but haven't - yet:

• Which member of the royal family are you? - I'd want to be the Queen, of course, but I'd probably get Prince Charles.
• Which flavor of ice cream would you be? - I'd probably get vanilla. I've actually been accused of being vanilla in the past. I wouldn't dare to hope for, say, rocky road.
• Which Charlie's Angel are you? - Jill. Hands down, Jill.
• What Old Testament character would you be? Probably something slightly obscure and scandalous, like Jezebel or a resident of Sodom.

Yep, it's a huge waste of time, but as entertainment goes, what else would you be doing? It's a nice break from all those kitten videos.

Commencement Speech Wisdom

'Tis graduation season. All around us, high schools and universities are turning students loose on the world. Graduates don robes and funny looking flat-topped hats called mortar boards. That monotonous Pomp and Circumstance music plays over and over again. Friends and families sit uncomfortably waiting for their own among hundreds to march up to the stage and receive a written symbol of their hard earned diploma or degree.

A highlight of the event is the commencement speech. In big universities, it's usually delivered by someone noteworthy, like the President of the United States or a late night talk show host. Regardless of the speaker, the speech optimistically discharges the graduates with inspirational stories and a few pearls of wisdom.

I've always wanted to give a commencement speech. What better way to share my long accumulated wisdom? But I'm not a President or a late night talk show host. In fact, I'm usually in bed by 8:30. But I suppose I could write the speech anyway, in case someone needs a last minute replacement speaker.

COMMENCEMENT SPEECH:

To the class of 2014, here is some advice based on my personal experience which I wish to pass along to you:

You are not your job. You are not your car. You are not your house. Your identity is in your ethics, how you treat people, who you love.

Your first job won't be your life-long work. What you end up doing won't be what you think it will be today. At Nebraska Wesleyan University, I prepared for a career in education and expected to be a school teacher for the rest of my life. But I've also worked as an administrative assistant, youth minister, video and audio editor, technical writer, camp director, book and movie reviewer, feature writer, and quality assurance manager. Now I design computer based training which is a task I never could have conceived back at NWU.

Get a Triple A membership. That's American Automobile Association. You won't be sorry when you lock your keys in the car on Thanksgiving day. This didn't happen to me. It was someone I know (ahem, my sister). And if you do lock your keys in the car, make sure the engine isn't running. Ok, that one happened to me.

Always pee before getting into an elevator. I didn't do that once and sure enough, the stupid thing got stuck between floors. The voice on the intercom asked if I could wait a few minutes. I said, "Not really." After the maintenance guys finally pried open the door, I quickly thanked them and ran down the hall.

Clean out the freezer. If the meat has been there more than a year, throw it out. Cleaning out a freezer is like finding a 50,000 year old mammoth in a glacier. It can be of historical interest, but mostly it's just gross. While you're at it, clean out the pantry too. That spice you bought during the Clinton administration isn't doing anyone any good.

Education doesn't end with your degree. Keep learning. Travel. Try new things. Experience other cultures. Read books. Associate with people who are different from you. Watch The News Hour in addition to TMZ. Continue your education so you don't stop thinking. Life will always be interesting if you're growing your mind.

If you're going to ride in the back seat of your boyfriend's jeep, make sure his mother isn't sitting in the front when you get car sick and vomit in that general direction. I don't think I need to say anything more than that.

Be nice to people who are paid to take care of you. I mean restaurant servers, hotel housekeepers, doormen/women. Say please and thank you. Acknowledge their humanity. Tip well. Not only will you get better service, you'll feel better because you won't be acting like an asshole.

Here's an old fashioned idea: successful people have a responsibility to give back to the community. Rich people have an obligation to help the poor. By virtue of your education you are rich, no matter how much money you have. Whether through politics, charity, or volunteering, don't just take all that life has to give you. Give something back.

So for what it's worth, there's my graduation advice. Good luck out in the world!

Tennis Elbow Not a Trivial Injury

Here's a nugget of wisdom I'd like to share with you: if it's been a while since you've been to the gym, don't jump into your old routine right away. You're out of shape. You'll hurt yourself. I know what I'm talking about.

Last summer, I moved into a high-maintenance condo-house which came with a lot of drama. I also met a new boyfriend, Clyde. Those two things kept me pretty busy.

So I temporarily stopped going to the gym. For about six months.

Meanwhile, Clyde and I discovered some common interests, including a fondness for premium ice cream.

As a result, I put on weight.

By New Years, I was decidedly fat. It was time to put some limits on the ice cream and start exercising again.

My first day back at the gym, I worked out on the elliptical and did some spinning. It felt great to be getting back in shape. After the cardio stuff, as was my habit in the past, I approached a weight lifting machine with gleeful abandon. I did ten, then twenty repetitions with just the right amount of sweat. I moved on to another machine. I was such a bad ass.

The next day, I couldn't move my arm.  A sharp pain near my funny bone constricted every movement. It felt as if I'd banged my elbow really hard on the counter.  I figured it would go away after a few days. Clyde, something of an expert in medical matters, speculated that I may have torn a tendon or cracked a bone. I berated myself for working out without properly warming up.

Long story short (too late, I know), after a couple months of pain and a visit to my doctor, an orthopedic surgeon diagnosed the injury as "tennis elbow."

No, I don't play tennis.

Tennis elbow sounds so trivial, like a medical condition only the rich have the luxury of suffering. But I'm telling you, it hurts like crazy. I can't lift heavy things. I have to use my other arm for raising the garage door. It's painful to shake hands.

Tennis elbow is caused by non-inflammatory, chronic activity in the tendon around the elbow.  There is no cure. Only time heals tennis elbow. Like a year. It can be treated with a brace strap thing. Many nights I take an ice pack to bed.

I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I'm just trying to raise awareness of the condition. Perhaps I could do a public service announcement or have some fundraisers featuring celebrities. Some sort of marathon, or perhaps a tennis match, is certainly in order. What color do you suppose the ribbon should be? What about a slogan? "Bend for the cure," comes to mind. Or, "T.E:  it's not just for tennis anymore."

In any case, I'll bare my suffering with that quiet dignity for which I am so well known. I think some ice cream would make me feel better.

Contemplating Life in Distant States

I love California. It truly has everything: obviously the coast and great weather, but also mountains, farms, and desert; big cities, small towns, beautiful countryside. On the coast, it's always spring with temperatures that range from cool to warm. There's nothing like the sound of pounding surf as you gaze from the pier up to the mountains; palm trees silhouetted against the hills as wave after wave crashes into the shore.

California truly has it all. Every time I visit, I ask myself why I don't live there.

So naturally, Clyde and I recently discussed moving to Minnesota.

Yep, you read correctly. Circumstances at Clyde's job were pointing to an opportunity in Minneapolis. When invited to visit, we went to check it out for ourselves.

Minnesota is no slouch as states go. It also has big cities, small towns, and beautiful countryside. While not particularly noted for mountains, there are lots of lakes and forests in which to experience nature. There's no ocean, but Lake Superior is certainly big and wavy.

The only problem with Minnesota really is just that it's so terribly freaking cold. Everyone we met seemed shell shocked by this past winter's extremely low temperatures. I've never seen an entire state so weary of snow. Even a local TV meteorologist, typically good natured and upbeat, humorlessly cursed the few inches that had fallen as we arrived. With exasperation, he described how the snow had all melted, only to reappear. He couldn't guarantee that it wouldn't happen again before spring finally asserted itself.

I remember living in eastern Nebraska when the snow stayed on the ground all winter and it never warmed up and you could go for weeks without seeing the sun. Ice on the road never melted, it just wore out if you were lucky. It can only be colder in states further north.

I've been to Minnesota many times. I like Minneapolis very much. It features the advantages of a fine city, including the arts and liberal minded people. The airport is conveniently located in town (unlike some other airports I could name ... Denver International) with light rail connecting the terminals to downtown. I already have friends there. I could live there.

Oh, and Saint Paul is very nice too.

I'm sure Saint Paul always appreciates being mentioned as a casual afterthought.

But in the end, the moon and stars realigned with the juxtapositions of work and home. It looks like we're staying put for the time being.

At least I am.

Clyde actually will be relocating soon. He'll be moving in with me and the cats.

Important Issues of the Day: Celebrity Guest Appearances

I looked forward all day to booting up my DVR to watch the sitcom New Girl. I carefully arranged dinner on the coffee table, situated the remotes for maximum accessibility, elbowed the cats away from my plate, and prepared to relax with a chuckle at lead Zooey Deschanel and a great ensemble cast including a bunch of really cute guys. My hopes for a pleasant evening were dashed when I realized that it was a rerun of the episode where they all go to Prince's house.

I didn't want to sit through that one the first time, let alone as a rerun.

I know it's just a sitcom, but do you really expect me to believe a group of socially challenged, underemployed young people who can barely afford to cohabit in their LA loft actually get invited to a party thrown by a 1980s pop legend? Do people Zooey's age even know who Prince is? What favors were called in so he could promote himself on this popular show?

I'm usually pretty annoyed when celebrities make appearances as themselves on my favorite shows. It's unrealistic. Implausible. It disrupts ongoing plot elements. And if I don't like the celebrity, it bugs me even more. Prince, as it happens, has always really irritated me. Between the screeching and the hair I've always had a kind of stomach churning reaction to the guy.

But it's not just Prince. It's any self-promoting celebrity appearing on fictional television.

You may have to have been alive in the 1970s to remember the worst, or best, examples of celebrity aggrandizement on a sitcom. On Lucille Ball's TV sitcom, Here's Lucy, there was a different special guest star every week. I would get so irritated at Lucy gushing and fawning over the celebs who almost always played themselves. It was the same plot over and over. Lucy would act like she'd never met a famous person before when in fact, all she ever did was to meet them. She was, herself, bigger than most of them anyway.

To me, Here's Lucy reeked of lazy TV writing. But I was only in grade school at the time so what did I know?

Could I BE any gayer? I'm trashing a TV show that's been off the air for 40 years. But I never missed an episode.

There is one guest star who plays himself on a sitcom and pulls it off: Will Wheaton, who's acting career peaked when he was a teenager playing Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation, has a recurring role on The Big Bang Theory. Wheaton plays himself with deprecation and humor.

Hot in Cleveland is a funny show where they also have a lot of celebrity guest stars. Joan Rivers, Mary Tyler Moore, Carol Burnett, the guy from Modern Family, that other guy from that one show ... But on HIC, the celebrities play characters, not themselves. It's highly entertaining to see familiar faces in new roles, entertaining instead of just self-promoting.

Maybe Will Wheaton's career hasn't peaked after all. Big Bang is one of the most popular shows on television. And Carol Burnett looked great on Hot in Cleveland. Mary Tyler Moore, however, didn't look so good.

Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive

Don't you hate it when a piece of music gets stuck in your head? It can be so irritating, especially when the only way to get it out is by replacing it with something equally annoying.

Bee Gees music is the worst because it repeats itself endlessly. Just try to get, "Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive, stayin' alive..." out of your head.

It doesn't matter if you know all the words. I can tap my foot to "Night Fever" all afternoon and I don't know a single lyric.

Some tunes are better than others. I was in a restaurant men's room the other day when a song I hadn't heard in years came over the sound system: We've Only Just Begun, by the Carpenters, a sweet, melodic pop tune about young love from the early 1970s. I remember learning to play it on the piano when I was a kid. Now I lingered over drying my wrinkly old hands, humming along until it was over, the nostalgia of an aging boomer. Fortunately, no one else came in. The song stayed with me for hours.

It's not always music from the 70s, though when you're my age, chances are pretty good that it is.

Sometimes it's a commercial. I like the song, Home, by Phillip Phillips. "Just know you're not alone, cause I'm gonna make this place your home ... " But now American Family Insurance has tacked their jingle onto the refrain. Every time I hear the song, I also hear the jingle, even if it's only in my mind. Of course that's the advertiser's evil plan - making it stay with you longer.

Then there's the stuff that barely counts as music. One week, I couldn't escape the 10 second theme from local television's 9NEWS, over and over and over until I thought I'd lose my mind.

Clearly it isn't always something I like.

Here's a rundown of my recent inner playlist. Try to guess which ones I enjoy and which ones make me insane:

- The Downton Abbey opening (complete with closeup of dog's butt - visuals can be part of it too)
- The theme to NPR's All Things Considered
- You're Lookin' at Country by Loretta Lynn
- The telephone ring tone of a coworker several cubicles away
- Those few measures of Gershwin repeatedly - I mean repeatedly - used by United Airlines
- The little dittys that play when the doors open or close on the subway at  Denver International Airport
- The notes played by Windows when I boot up my laptop (Mac people, I don't want to hear it)
- The theme from Star Trek Voyager
- Whatever was the last thing I heard

What I want to know is how to get from We've Only Just Begun to How Do You Make it Stop?

Food Fundies Ferment Frustration

I was once told that I shouldn't eat a certain prepackaged frozen microwavable dinner because no part of it had ever been touched by human hands. The person scolding me was your typical organic, all natural, vegetarian, self-righteous food fundamentalist who loves to judge other people for their inferior culinary habits. I dated a bunch like him when I was young. It occurred to me much later that if my dinner had been touched by human hands, it would have been the hands of exploited underpaid migrant workers. I couldn't possibly win that conversation.

I'll never forget the argument I had with the woman who would only buy brown eggs. Because they are brown, she opined, they are inherently better than white eggs. I insisted there was no difference except the brown ones cost more. I will concede that in many cases, brown is better than white. Rice and bread, for example. But after consulting with a doctor, a farmer, and a software engineer, we decided that the color of the egg is determined by the breed of the chicken and otherwise is no different.

Like other fundamentalists, food fundies think their's is the only right way and they will endlessly harass everyone else until we are just like them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for ethical and environmentally sustainable food production. I just happen to think that awareness raising can be done without clobbering people over the head with righteousness. I'm not saying all vegetarians, for example, are guilty of such extreme obnoxiousness. But those who are give all the rest a bad name.

Food righteousness is one thing. Food pretentiousness is another.

My family recently gathered for dinner at a very expensive Denver restaurant which simply dripped with self-importance. I won't say what restaurant, but it was in LoDo on Market just off 16th Street. This place's specialty is "molecular gastronomy." The concept is that the food would be prepared scientifically, frozen or heated to extreme temperatures and processed in such a way that our taste buds would squirt with ecstasy. I didn't think it was that good. Some of it was just weird. Why would I want a piece of fruit that had been pulverized into a ribbon swooping the length of my place setting? Just give me the original piece of delicious fresh fruit!

My grandmother mastered cooking the old-fashioned way: with her traditional electric oven and smooth glass stove top. Her cooking was an art form, not science, done by feel with the benefit of decades' experience.

I'm hungry. Maybe there's a mass produced prepackaged dinner in the freezer.

Valentine's Day - Secret Santa All Over Again

I'm waiting for the inevitable suggestion from a team building enthusiast at the office, that we do something dreadful for Valentine's Day.

One year, everyone actually decorated shoe boxes with slots in the lids so that we could deliver little greeting cards to each other's desks. Just like back in grade school, you could measure a person's popularity by the number of Valentines crammed into their box. Many had little chocolates attached. Some came in envelopes which exploded in glitter upon opening.

It was hell.

On top of that, I was still reeling from the secret Santa fiasco.

The prior Christmas I decided to really participate fully and be a part of the team. I went to the company holiday party. I also signed up for the secret Santa exchange. In case you are lucky enough to have avoided it, Secret Santas are usually chosen in a drawing. Each person is assigned to be the secret Santa of another person, buying them little gifts during the time leading up to Christmas. The "fun" part is keeping your identity from the person you are giving to and guessing who all that junk appearing on your desk is coming from. It  usually culminates right before Christmas in joyful exclamations of surprise when Santas' identities are revealed.

I drew my secret Santa name and planned out a month's worth of toys, coffee, and gift certificates. Pushing the monetary limit, I sneaked my coworker her favorite snacks. I put a decorative stocking full of swag on her desk. I bought a personalized dog toy for her dog.  I was kicking Santa ass.

Until the person to whom I was secretly giving all this junk actually looked me in the face and told me she was dissatisfied with the gifts she was getting from her secret Santa. They were cheap, she said.

I was pissed.

She didn't, supposedly, know it was me, but that shouldn't matter. One shouldn't complain about a secret Santa to anyone, just in case. And if she did know it was me, that's even worse.

I was so upset that I decided right there and then never to participate in secret Santa again.

And just when I was getting over it a month and a half later, boom! Valentine's Day.

I think the office should be a place where you go to work. But since Christmas, we've had a couple of birthdays (I must confess, I do like cake), a pot luck, and several "wear your favorite sports attire" days leading up to the Super Bowl. We sure have a lot of fun in my office. With just a week left, dare I hope that Valentine's Day will pass unnoticed?

No Escape from Sports and Television

A couple of regular readers have mentioned that they are looking forward to my detailed analysis of the Super Bowl this week. Sarcasm notwithstanding, it's hard to avoid the news that the Denver Broncos are one game away from NFL championship. The whole state is awash in Broncomania. Even the company where I work is having a "sports attire" day on Friday. I can hardly contain my excitement. Of course, along with any celebratory event at the office, there is a sharp reminder to adhere to the dress code. We don't want anyone taking fun too far.

Actually, the Super Bowl has little effect on me except it might be easier to get around during the game. Perhaps we could go to a movie or something.

Just because I'm not interested, however, doesn't mean I can escape from it. Thanks to the ubiquity of TV, I am exposed to all kinds of non-stop sports.

It's not enough that Americans have more than one television per person at home. Or that we can watch anywhere using our mobile communication devices. There are screens in every restaurant, waiting room, bar, and everywhere else you can think of.

A favorite eatery in Lodo has a TV on literally every wall, sometimes more than one, so that no matter where you sit, you can't help but see "the game" or whatever's on. Last time I was there, I counted 13 from the booth where I sat. Basketball, soccer, and hockey were on view, along with a broadcast of American's Funniest Home Videos for balance. It was notable only for the absence of American football.

Even the nice restaurant where I took my boyfriend, Clyde, for his birthday, had a big screen with ESPN on the wall. I watched one man ignore his wife and kids repeatedly so he could check the score. Shaking my head in disgust, I missed what Clyde was saying to me.

On my weekly early morning visit to Village Inn, where it's just me and a bunch of old guys eating breakfast (yes, yes, I'm one of the old guys ...) the server, Regan, knows to sit me as far from the television as possible. But still I am never out of view of highlights from last night's game.

My favorite Indian restaurant has a TV in the corner where they used to show Bollywood music videos. It provided the perfect festive atmosphere in which to eat Indian food. But they have switched over to the usual whatever sports thing is on.

This isn't just an American thing. Waiting to board a plane in the Tokyo airport recently, we were practically forced by the placement of a big screen in the boarding area, to watch sumo wrestling. Man oh man, you can really see a lot of sumo wrestler details on those giant, high definition TVs.

At least at Annie's, on East Colfax, they show old movies sometimes instead of sports so that Clyde and I can guess who the actor is instead of what team is playing.

Clyde suggests having those little individual TVs like they do on some airplanes which you watch using headphones, viewing without disturbing others.

Actually, that already happens at my gym. Some of the exercise equipment has individualized screens where you can change your own channel and watch what you want. It can make a 30 minute cardio session go a lot faster. And even if you don't have your own TV on the treadmill, just look up. There are 10 hanging from the ceiling to keep you entertained while you work out. Never fear, the locker room has a couple too, in case you go too long without screen time.

Surfing the Stratosphere

I remember staying up all night with my friend John listening to the radio. This would have been in the mid to late 1970s. We didn't just listen. We ran the tuner up and down the AM frequencies and counted how many distant stations we could find from far away.

In a smaller town like Scottsbluff, Nebraska, there weren't a lot of radio stations so the airwaves weren't cluttered with local stuff. At night, there was nothing between us and the sounds which stirred our imaginations from places such as Albuquerque, Oklahoma City, and Denver.

In those days, AM radio was pretty diverse. There was music, of course, news, and talk shows, as well as advertising and weather. The Omaha stations featured farm reports and something about hog futures. Sometimes the smaller town stations had a hospital report where you could actually hear a list of who was in the local hospital that day. HIPAA regulations hadn't yet been invented.

One of the Chicago stations had a great late-night review of the newest porn movies and a psychologist who answered all kinds of questions about sex. Boy did I learn a lot on those nights. In the 70s, I found sex to be a thrilling and exciting subject.

About this time, cable television was starting to catch on. We got it before larger cities because we needed it. Scottsbluff's two local stations couldn't carry all the national network programming, but cable enabled us to get ABC, NBC, and CBS affiliates from Denver, as well as Channel 2 which in those days was known primarily for Blinky the Clown and reruns. Cable fixtures such as MTV and CNN were still a few years away.

In the late 70s, John's parents sprung for HBO. We didn't care that this radical new pay channel showed recent movies with no commercials. We were more interested in the R rated movies and seeing naked boobs. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but for me it was just a phase. That obsession kind of replaced the radio during sleepovers.

Nowadays, it's easy to log onto the internet and listen to a radio station from anywhere in the world. Not that I ever do it. It doesn't seem like such a big deal now when it's so easy. But I remember that magical feeling of awe when I was a kid, listening to sounds from far away. Just because we couldn't yet surf the net doesn't mean our imaginations were stuck in Scottsbluff. We were surfing the stratosphere.

Finally, BillsWeek Takes on the Pot Issue

I've had my mind on a lot of things lately. Ongoing issues with my house. My rapidly aging car. The fact that I, myself, am rapidly aging. It's actually been quite easy for me to forget that events of major historical importance have been happening all around me.

In case you weren't aware, marijuana is now legal here in Colorado for the first time ever.

The governor calls it a great social experiment. News outlets report that after just a few days, supplies are running low. Trendy restaurants are integrating it into recipes.

Conservatives, meanwhile, bemoan what's happening as the very downfall of society. One confusing Fox News discussion (according to the Daily Show, where I get my news) equated teen use of marijuana, text messaging, and the deterioration of civilization.

As a proud Coloradoan, what effect has the legalization of weed had on me?

None. Absolutely no effect at all.

In spite of the very downfall of civilization, I still trudge to work, stand in line at the supermarket, sit in traffic, and otherwise go about my day. I have yet to see anyone in Colorado more stoned than before.

In contrast, I daily see people driving under the influence of cell phones: swerving between lanes, driving at unsafe speeds. What do conservative pundits have to say about that?

I have noted with amusement the proliferation of green crosses around town, signifying an establishment selling medical marijuana; places with subtle names like The Clinic, Alternative Medicine, and Natural Remedies. There is also Discount Medical Marijuana for your more budget minded pot consumer. 

And as of this month, the non-medical retail shops are appearing with big neon marijuana leaves on upscale office buildings.

I voted for legalization. It makes sense to me to put revenues in state coffers rather than those of far away drug lords.

But I have no plans to take advantage of this new freedom to imbibe. I just go around every day like usual, watching carefully for drivers on cell phones.

After Hong Kong, Denver Seems Kind of Small

Ever since my extensive four day trip to Hong Kong in November, Denver is looking rather small.

Our highrises are shorter. Our light rail trains, though plenty cool, are not subways. We don't have those space-efficient double decker busses.

I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

The mile high city seems positively huge when you're driving inbound on I-25 after visiting Wyoming, for example.

Hong Kong, much bigger than Denver, is actually quite small compared to other Chinese cities that most of us have never heard of.

These considerations are important if your self-worth is tied up with where you live. And mine is.

Denver is the biggest city and the urban hub for a huge geographical portion of the United States.

Because I believe Denver to be superior to most other places, I believe myself to be superior also, simply by virtue of my being  smart enough to live here.

I have it on good authority that others feel the same way about where they live. New Yorkers exemplify this more than most. They believe absolutely and without a shadow of a doubt that they live in the greatest city in the world, and all others are inferior.

I enjoy the occasional opportunity to voice my opinion to these folks that the greatest, most vibrant city in the world is --- London. Hey, I like Denver, but I'm not stupid.