We sat right above the tunnel where the players come out (this is also where the cheerleaders sit and undulate pseudo-sexually). The whole goal of going to a Timberwolves game, of course, is to touch or in some way attract Kevin Garnett’s attention as he walks on and off the court. Unfortunately the man is very intense and either didn’t notice or ignored my hoarse screaming.

I suppose if I were him I wouldn’t be that interested in making brief personal connections with random people I’ll never see again.

At the end of the game (we won) he walked into the tunnel with his head down and didn’t even flinch when people reached out and brushed their hands on his shoulders. How many times did this happen before it became unexciting for him? And when did it stop being weird as hell?

If I walked down the hallway at work and people reached out and put their germy, unwashed hands all over me, I’d probably collapse into the fetal position and cover my head with my hands.

Other players, either because of their relative un-stardom or because they were in better moods, seemed a lot more interested in this whole fan-player tunnel-touching ritual. Ricky Davis high-fived every kid who lined the entrance. Eddie Griffin pretended to remember this (crazy?) trashy lady who claimed she met him at “the club” (is there only one?). This acknowledgment caused her to declare, definitively, that he wasn’t an asshole.

Mark Madsen was the best, because he looked right at me and pointed when I yelled “Mad Dawg!” in that suburban-high-school-jock-voice I sometimes do. Maddy (sorry, that’s what my friends and I call you), if you read this, could you please put a link up on your always-entertaining-and-adorably-sincere-blog? Or, even better (and I know this is asking a lot) could you maybe come out a little early before the next game, turn to the stands and yell “B-DAWG!”?

I can assure you I will not find it weird or off-putting.

As long as you don’t try to touch me.

Then, just for kicks, make it play on every page of the site, even if the user has already watched the whole thing and muted it. That way they’ll have to scroll down to the bottom and stop the ad every time they load a page.

Or you could just have a big header at the top of every page that says “GO AWAY!” Whatever’s easier.

I watched the Super Bowl tonight despite the fact that I hate the Super Bowl. It’s an overhyped excuse for comercials between two teams that aren’t necessarily the best in the NFL. But the other networks seemed to concede the night to ABC so there wan’t really anything else on.

This ad for the new Toyota Camry hybrid really stood out.

Because it was so terrible. It features a bilingual dad explaining to his son why they bought a hybrid:

Son: Papá, why do we have a hybrid?

Father: For your future!

Son: Why?

Father: It’s better for the air, and we spend less because it runs on gas and electrical power. (Points to dashboard display.) Mira, mira aquí. It uses both.

Son: Like you, with English and Spanish!

Father: Sí!

Son: Why did you learn English?

Father: (Pauses.) For your future!

Both my parents are immigrants from Argentina, and I grew up speaking English and Spanish. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was offended, but I was definitely put off. The commercial is a blatant, moronic attempt to reach out to the Spanish speaking audience, and the association between hybrid cars and “hybrid” families is forced and unnatural.

When I was growing up, my bilingual parents were working hard on their graduate degrees (for my future!) and saving every penny they could (for my future!). We drove a broken-down 1979 Chevy Monza they bought at the Goodwill for $400. For my parents in 1986, buying a new car to ensure my sucess in the future would have been as ridiculous an idea as signing me up for polo lessons.

But even more than that, the ad just smacks of condescension and false-multiculturalism. I find it annoying, and I’m probably one of the people they were trying to reach out to.

For a more subtl (and probably more objective) analysis, check here.

And hey, if I can wear it, maybe you want to wear it too. So here you go (click the shirt to buy):

Commenting on Microsoft’s (and others’) practice of screening job applicants by IQ scores:

I can save Microsoft a pile of time and money by reporting a fact no school wants to admit, one that will flatten the world far more than any other factor: pretty much everybody is smart.

And, quoting an article by education guru John Gatto:

After a long life, and thirty years in the public school trenches, I’ve concluded that genius is as common as dirt. We suppress our genius only because we haven’t yet figured out how to manage a population of educated men and women. The solution, I think, is simple and glorious. Let them manage themselves.

The whole article is in response to Tom Friedman’s new book (and the accompanying article in the NYT) “The World Is Flat”. I think Searls’ essay is just as valuable as the writing that inspired it.

That means I have to move lots of files and databases to a new server. So posting may be light for a few days while I get everything sorted out.

I’m sorry to see them go.

Besides the election (which happily seems to be floating along quite non-violently), nothing I could write would have a chance of getting much attention this post-election day. There is something about a new puppy; soggy piles of leaves in the back yard; The Lion King. Any of these would make a perfect sacrifice to the election news cycle. But so would a blank page. Even better would be a post about not writing a post, which is what this thing appears to be turning into.

So I leave you to ponder Dan Rather’s incoherencies. My favorite was when he said something about how Missouri would “swing count Bassie.” Just try to imagine what it’s like inside his head. Must be like standing on the half-line of a dodge ball game that’s being played with wet kittens.

See you tomorrow.

In her mind, Halloween was a celebration of evil and death (and of evil death). It was not something she’d grown up with in Argentina. Young people don’t do anything resembling Halloween there (except, perhaps, mugging people for money/candy, but that’s not the same spirit).

To hear my parents tell it, most holidays in Argentina involve military parades. That pretty much explains why they don’t do Halloween. Even if you could find that many costumes, it’d be pretty terrifying to see 10,000 soldiers dressed as grim reapers marching down the main avenue in town. Sort of faux-apocalyptic. Or real-apocalyptic, depending on your disposition.

So throughout my youth, my mom’s October thirty-firsts were pronouncedly uneventful. They began with her helping my sister and I find costumes. For me, that meant opening a bottle of wine, burning the end of the cork, and smudging my face with hot soot. Then I’d throw on some nylons, wrap a silk handkerchief around my head, and declare myself a pirate.

Once the costumes were finalized, we’d take them off, put on six or seven layers of sweaters and long underwear, and then put them on again. Things changed over the years; I grew, made new friends, lost old ones. But no matter what happened, come the end of October my costume was the same: chubby, swordless pirate.

Honestly though, it never bothered me. Somehow it was fitting. Maybe it still is.

After we were dressed, we armed ourselves with pillowcases (not spares, mind you; our everyday, functioning pillowcases) and went out into the candy-y night. The minute we stepped out the door, every light in the house went off. She must have had them on a timer or something.

From the street you could barely tell the house was there. For my sister and I, it was like walking away from a black hole. But unlike that miracle of physics, our house was meant to repel, not attract. My mom’s stated objective was to make children (or their parents) believe that this place was not only unlikely to have any nice or sweet things to give away, but was also very probably unsuitable for living creatures.

And yet, some kids always ventured. Why is it kids insist on going where they are clearly not intended to go? If a house is completely dark and displays no Halloween paraphernalia most people will conclude these people either aren’t home or don’t want visitors. But not kids. For them, a dark house is a challenge.

It’s like they think someone’s trying to fool them out of candy they rightfully deserve. _Oh, I see, they turned the lights out so we won’t get their candy, those jokers. Well, we’ll show them!_

But they didn’t show anyone. If my mom even bothered to come to the door, she came bearing a frown and nothing more. She had no candy. I remember her going through the house the week before Halloween just to make sure there was nothing around that could possibly be misconstrued as candy.

Oftentimes, though, she’d just stay in bed. She’d put on headphones and listen to _I Pagliacci_ so loud the frantic knocking of sugar-crazed children was no louder than the ticking of her bedside clock.

Meanwhile, her children (that’s me) would be out in the neighborhood, greedily collecting from anyone who dared crack open their door. We were ruthless, I tell you. Completely without mercy. _Out of candy? TOO BAD! Get out your wallet or something cause we’re not leaving without out at least six more ounces in the bag._

_Fine. In the pillowcase. Whatever. Make with the Lincolns._

I’m sure I must have felt bad about taking candy from all these people when I knew my mom was refusing to give candy to their kids. But that feeling was hidden deep inside, in a place obscured by partially digested Milk Way bars and un-chewed Sour Patch Kids.

But in a way, it didn’t matter. Because those kids had normal parents who carved pumpkins and hung dried corncobs on their front doors. When they got home, their moms and dads would probably check their candy for razor blades; mine would simply advise us to empty out the pillowcase before going to bed. Not as comfortable, you know?

And then, even before we started eating it, my sister and I would carefully search for a hiding place for our candy. This was because my dad would have no qualms about throwing it in the garbage the next day. One night of this strange American tradition he could withstand; after that, back to normal. Things with artificial flavors and Yellow #5 might as well have been labeled “Radioactive”. Candy bars lived on the lam in our house, always seconds away from a cruel and heartless demise in the depths of the trashcan.

All of which explains why, now that I have my own house, I’m so eager to participate in the Halloween tradition. Last night we set out those little lunch-bag jack-o-lantern lights, put pumpkins on the front porch, and strung up little orange pumpkin lights. The house was practically singing, “We want to give you candy!”

But no one came. Scratch that: seven kids came. And three of them were suspiciously teenaged-looking.

The first two girls were dressed as princesses or queens, but they wouldn’t speak. They just looked at me doe-eyed and felt around in the candy bowl. Trying to avoid the trick-or-treat pencils, I presume.

After them came the teens, who clearly weren’t even taking themselves seriously. You’re too old to trick-or-treat if you were born in the same decade as the person handing out the candy. Rule of thumb.

At the end of the night, when it became clear there weren’t going to be any more kids, I turned out the pumpkin lights and closed up shop. There was barely a dent in the huge mound of candy in the bowl. A disappointing turnout, but then, fewer kids at the door means more Kit-Kats in my belly.

And more chocolate in my pillowcase. Just in case my dad stops by.

Well, it is, as you know, Halloween weekend, which, judging by the elevated hype and hysteria, has been promoted to national holiday status. If that’s the case, you might as well have some good Halloween music to go along with it. And a candy corn flag.

Somehow it seems fitting that the White House is haunted. Can you imagine the number of people who have been killed in that place? Why, some!

And if you don’t just want to _see_ dead people, but _make_ some_, you’re going to have to train yourself to use some kind of weapon. I suggest playing cards. Aim for these spots.

And now for some weird robots: a drummer, for when your bandmate stays out too late drinking, an excellent Mario Brothers player, for when your roommates pass out from video-game exhaustion (believe me, I’ve seen it happen), and a hungry president, to replace those gaunt-looking candidates (oh, wait, that’s not a robot).

Finally, if your Halloween plans are scant, you can always amuse yourself other ways. Use this private library kit to put circulation cards in your books so your friends won’t steal them (they still will, though). Or, tie a digital camera to a kite and take pictures from above. Of course, this would be much more fun if you tied the camera to yourself, and then tied yourself to the kite, but then who’d hold the string?