My New TV

My new TV is great. It looks simple, but there's a lot more to it than you might realize.

It was not easy to buy. I bought my old TV with a roommate. We walked into Nobody Beats the Wiz in 1993, and the conversation went something like this:

"Hi. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, we need a TV."

"What kind?"

"Something about $300."

"OK, how about this one?"

And we walked out with a Goldstar TV that served me well for over 15 years. The only special feature the salesman mentioned was something called a comb filter. To this day I don't know what a comb filter does.

My new TV is bigger, brighter, crisper, and more expensive than that old one. I put a lot of time into choosing it. There was Internet research for hours, comparison shopping, looking up customer reviews, asking friends for their opinions, reading what the experts had to say. Even got a demo.

It has dozens of inputs, and it's not easy to figure out what they're all for. Long gone are the days when all I had to do was plug in the cable cord to the cable hole. With my old TV, there was only one jack. If I really wanted to get fancy I could connect it to a VCR. Now I have to navigate jacks of all different shapes and technologies and read the tiny description below each one. Even then educated guesses are required. I wish I had the manual.

My new TV has a really complicated remote with lots of buttons. I'm not sure what they all do. Before, I didn't used to have a remote at all. The sound on my old TV faded out at critical moments. The screen was small. It was heavy and thick. But it brought me many fond memories.

We watched Ray Houghton score in the World Cup to shock Italy. As I leapt to my feet cheering, a full keg cup smashed into my chest. "Ireland scores, beer flies!" screamed Angus from Ireland.

I learned to appreciate the humor of Beavis and Butthead for the first time when they announced KISS is "pretty cool for a bunch of mimes."

I remember one night my roommate and I stumbled upon "Ed." In one scene the hot girl that hapless Ed couldn't get was heading out with a biker dude. Ed stopped her and asked if she knew why she always fell for the rebellious types.

Yes, she said, "Ed, you're the safe one. I want some adventure."

No, he responded, "He's the safe one. You know exactly how that relationship will end."

My roommate and I hoisted a cold can of Bud in Ed's honor.

I watched that TV the old-fashioned way: at the mercy of whatever was on at the moment. With my new TV, there's a lot more planning and organization. It's plugged into a DVR so I now watch shows I didn't know I was missing in the first place. The DVR applies just a hint of psychological pressure to think about TV in advance. It wants me to have priorities, taste, and forethought. The more I make commitments and focus on what's really going to make me happy in a nearly infinite universe of possibilities, the more I enjoy my new TV. I'm getting used to it.

There's still more to learn after months of using my new TV. I expect to keep discovering advanced features for years to come.

My new TV is thin, flat and elegant. I'm sure the TV makers will keep coming up with bigger screens, new designs, and sexy enhancements to tempt me to upgrade. But my new TV is all I need.

I love my new TV.

Summer Morning, South End

(yeah, it's a poem. so what?)

The Chinese lady races the garbage truck
Her cart piled impossibly high
With cans from overnight hustle.

The sun burns the air
Inside the cars parked for the day.
Proof that the owners work in town
Or have called in sick
Or aren't working at all.

The squeak of busses and cabs
as they jockey among the cars and the bikes
and the young ladies walking with too many bags
while the two-strapping intern moves
like he doesn't even know it's hot

A butterfly finds beauty among the weeds.
Or was it a moth?
English sparrows and starlings fill the gaps
in the man-made noise.
They displaced the natives, too.

All these little moments.
I try not to sweat.
The humidity irons my pants.
The meeting starts soon.
An evening drink on the deck is not so far away.

Thoughts on Turning 40

Forty. In purely statistical terms, I'm now about halfway done. This is a big deal to some people. Me, I don't care much one way or the other about my age – today feels a lot like yesterday and, I'm guessing, not unlike tomorrow – but it does set the mind to wandering.

Have I really now spent more of my life out of school than in it?

How come I still remember my phone number in kindergarten but couldn't tell you more than a tiny handful of my friends' numbers today?

What's the next Internet, cell phone, or in-car cupholder, lurking in the wings now ready to change the world over the next 4 decades?

Other thoughts and questions are more pragmatic.

What's with the hair?
I haven't lost much on my head. That's a good thing, or so I'm told. Over the last few years, though, things have changed a bit. My head is not my only follicular concern. My shoulders are getting furrier. The hair on my ankles is disappearing – I fear I'm just a few years away from a glaringly obvious sock line. Then there's the nose and the eyebrows. It's nothing catastropic. I just don't like the way the trendlines are pointing.

And, let's discuss gray hairs for a sentence of two. Where do they come from? It seems that nobody has ever seen a gray shoot emerging from the scalp; they seem to appear fully-formed, as long as all the other hairs around them yet somehow twice as wiry. Oh well.

How old do I look?
Phil Mickelson just won the Masters. For years I've assumed that guy was way older than me. He certainly doesn't seem like a young man. And now I learn that he and I were born two months apart. Egads!

It's not just Phil, either. At least once a month I see an article or TV interview featuring somebody with salt and pepper hair, a little extra weight, wrinkles and bags where signs of youth used to be. Every time, I think, how old is this person? And far too often these days the answer is, younger than me, my friend. Younger than me.

This may just explain why waiters, bartenders, shopkeepers and lost young tourists looking for directions have started to call me "sir" a lot.

Too late to retire young
The idealized retirement you see in TV ads does not appeal to me. It may work for others, but too much golf makes me twitch and I don't want to wear a blazer on a sailboat. Nope. That said, I'd love to work on my own terms. Do what I like when I like. Lose interest without guilt. Make money for fun. And travel the world.

Alas, it has become abundantly clear that none of this is going to happen by age 40 unless, you, dear reader, would like to send me a massive check right now.

No regrets, no complaints. Just the blunt reality that retiring young did not happen. Gotta keep making the doughnuts.

Bye-Bye Olympic Fantasy
Barring the unexpected discovery of untapped aptitude at curling, shooting, or archery, the Olympics are officially out of the question now. You could try to tell me otherwise and maybe I could find some shabby little country in need of a last-place finisher. Realistically, though, it's over. I just have to live with that.

And, Brett Favre and Chris Chelios notwithstanding, it's time to accept that the NFL and NHL aren't going to happen either. NBA, MLS, MLB – they're all goners.

Not that I was ever close to any of these, mind you. The difference is that it's officially time to hang up the dream. If I try really hard, I might be able to convince myself that it wasn't all my fault. The opportunities never presented themselves.

The 10,000 Hour Rule
Speaking of failing to excel, have you read Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers? I haven't. I've been told one of his core theses is that to be great at something you have to do it for 10,000 hours. It's the magic number.

Without bothering to do the math, I'm going to guess there are many, many things I've done that much by now. My "genius moment" has not yet arrived in any of them. For example, I've played a hell of a lot of soccer and haven't yet detected even the slightest trace of Beckhamesque skills in myself.

The cold reality is that I have not achieved genius levels at skiing, speaking, running, calculating tips, or using the Microsoft Office suite. On the flip side, I'm really getting the hang of breathing, walking, sleeping, and chewing. Keep hope alive!

There's no stopping the future
If I am, in fact, halfway down the slide of life, so what? The past is gone and tomorrow's coming whether I'm ready or not. The earth will keep spinning, clocks will keep ticking (albeit silently in this digital world), and headlines and headliners will come and go. Forty or not, we all have to keep plugging along.

So plug I will, with a big fat smile on my face.

I wonder if I have any polyps.

Why I Ski

In the most tactical terms, I ski because as a kid, my parents made me. It was like school: I went because I had no choice.

That was a long time ago, and I still ski. I go, in part, because of Franny Mogulbuster. She was a ski instructor at Smuggler's Notch. When I broke my leg at a lump called Big Birch at age 6, and my parents forced me back onto skis the next season, Franny greeted my tantrum of fear with a simple, "I'll take care of it."

And there was Chip, a screen door salesman staying at our hotel during that same vacation. He volunteered to ski with me so my parents could have a break. Back then, it would have been weirder to refuse his offer than it would be to accept it today. For hours, he skied backwards with me between his legs. His only reward was seeing a scared little kid learn to have some fun again.

All these years later, I ski for them. I ski for the joy of being publicly, unapologetically good at something. And because I know that no matter how good I get, I can always find somebody better and there's always more to learn. I also ski because it's fun to teach.

I ski for that run through the bowls of Sun Valley when the stranger said to me, "You powder hounds piss me off." It was envy, not anger. I ski for the first time I tried bumps on telemark skis – laughing for 45 minutes as I tumbled and stumbled down 200 yards of liftline.

I ski for the snap of the early morning air as I load the car for a day trip, and to raise a finger to winter's worst.

I ski for Killington's Outer Limits in spring, Jay Peak's Corona after a big storm, and for the humbling perfection of Paradise at Mad River Glen. For the mind-bending experience of seeing thunder and lightning during a snow storm on my annual fellas' trip to Solitude.

I ski because chairlifts are a great place to catch up with buddies. And for the unlimited potential of the singles line – I've met people who retired young and rich, and octogenarians who still love to work. I met a guy who vacuum-packs vegetables all summer and skis all winter on his earnings. I rode with two girls whose Dad makes up a new story for them them on every lift ride. His improvised tale about a princess was so good I didn't want to reach the summit.

I ski because I love running into old friends in the lodge, hearing the whoops of strangers shushing through some hidden glades, and finding a trail on even the most crowded of weekends where I can feel perfectly alone.

I ski for the life lessons: You're not learning if you're not falling. Take care of your own equipment. Keep your hands where you can see them. No friends on a powder day. Go big or go home. And, of course, you never get hurt in the air.

I ski because I've nailed my hip on a tree, cut my chin, jammed my thumb, nearly broken my arm, and gotten lucky in more nasty falls than I can count. The injuries aren't fun. They're just better than the agonizing safety of my cubicle.

I ski because Chris Waddell, Bode Miller, and Lindsey Vonn inspire me. Because Johnny Moseley knew the Dinner Roll would cost him the gold and he did it anyway. Because The Hurricane is awesome, and Hermann Maier walked away from the most incredible crash I've ever seen and won his next race.

Because I've seen Suzy Chapstick and Arnold Schwarzenegger wipe out. They smiled and waved when people yelled from the chairlift. We're all in it together.

I ski because my parents met in a share house. Over 45 years later they still talk about it.

I ski to rocket down a wide-open trail and to feel the driving rhythm of a perfect mogul run. Because when the snow is right, the crowds are thin, and the turns just flow, I know what it must be like for a bird to ride the wind.

I ski because strangers say, "Hello," "Are you OK?" and, "Here's your ski, man." They hoot, clap, and holler at my yard sales, and expect the same in return.

I ski because when I dropped my ski at the top of Tuckerman's Ravine and it took off without me, all Ted could do was laugh as it went by. Because when I stood on soft snow at the top of Heavenly, I was amazed to see the Nevada desert below. When I was in Europe studying abroad, Jason and I took an impromptu trip to Cervinia and I experienced real powder for the first time. I was so unprepared I wore socks for gloves and shorts on my head.

I ski because two years ago my 74 year old Dad came to Sugarbush with me. He hadn't skied in 15 years and only did 6 runs, but I'll never forget it. When we had an apres-ski beer – "skiing mahogany ridge," he calls it -- I felt like his son and his friend.

On the flip side, I know a 66 year old who can ski me into the dirt any day of the week. The sport is as ageless as you want it to be.

I ski for the anticipation of the first turns of the year, and for the giddy farewell vibe when the days are long, the temperatures hit 50, and everybody knows the last run of the season is coming soon.

For parking lot barbecues, slushy bumps, hip deep powder, the still of the trees, and the mechanical chugging of the lift wheels.

For endless variety and timeless rituals.

I ski for the people I've met, the friendships it strengthens, the places it takes me. For the mountain of memories and the stories yet to happen.

Franny and Chip, whoever you were and wherever you are, thank you.