I was a youngster when I began passing newspapers in the south side of Bangor, Pennsylvania, for the Bangor Daily News. World War II was engulfing the world in human slaughter. No one in America ever questioned who the “good guys” were. They were civilians who went into basic training in our U. S. Military, learned how to use a gun, and went overseas either to be injured, maimed for life, die, or return with victory shining in their eyes.

I still remember picking up my newspapers for delivery at the newspaper office on Main Street, next to the bank, and seeing huge headlines that filled half the front page: “FRANCE FALLS.” And I remember, several years later, putting a bundle of newspapers under my arms and going out into the streets calling “Extra! Extra!” when Germany surrendered, and later, on V-J Day, celebrating the victory over Japan. Those were possibly the only “Extras” ever published by our small-town newspaper.

Delivering this four-page newspaper along South Main Street meant folding it into a small square and throwing it up the steep incline from sidewalk level, while hoping it would land on the subscriber’s front porch instead of in the shrubbery. My route took me to Messenger Street, and going up Messenger Street to where it ended at Tommy Richard’s Apple Orchard. Then I turned right into what quickly became a country road. A return walk through some fields brought me to Snyder Street and then home on Miller Street. Invariably I whistled tunes of my own making as I walked along in the country. I loved the dusk of evening as daylight slowly began to disappear. I still love that time of day – it evokes pleasant memories.

(In autumn, I enjoyed walking over to Tommy Richard’s and watching them make apple cider. Everything went into the cider bin: good apples, rotten apples, and possibly some of the flies that were always swirling around. And that was good, well-flavored cider, let me tell you! Now-a-days you can’t buy cider like that at any price. And I never heard of anybody getting sick. Maybe we were a lot healthier in those times.)

The headache came when it was time for the weekly “collection,” when I knocked on the doors of customers or rang their doorbells to get paid. Too often no one was at home and I would have to make another trip on another day. But the compensation for that was at Christmas-time, when I collected “tips” from the customers. We newspaper carriers enjoyed making fun of the four-page newspaper. We called it the “Bangor Daily Keyhole” because people just looked through it.

I only “passed papers” for about a year when I was invited to take the place of a boy named Leopold as the mail clerk. He may have graduated from Bangor High School at that time. This meant picking up about 130 newspapers fresh from the printing press, taking them to the counter in the business office, and rolling them up inside an 8 ½ by 11 sheet of newsprint. I had already pasted on the addresses of the mail recipients. By far most of these were mailed to our brave people in the military. Most of those addresses indicated overseas delivery. The names and addresses were printed on strips of paper. I brushed paste on an entire strip at a time, held it in one hand and with the other hand cut and pasted each address on one of the 8 ½ by 11 sheets of newsprint. These were laid out in such a way that about a dozen sheets at a time could have paste brushed across their top edges. The four-page newspapers were then folded, tightly rolled up, pasted, and put into a pile. When the last newspaper was ready for mailing, I piled them into a bundle, tied a piece of twine around them, and carried the bundles to the post office. No postage was ever required; I suppose the newspaper paid the post office by the week or by the month. Leftover copies were put in a bin and eventually one or more was retained for historical purposes. (When the microfilm copy, made years later, skips an occasional day during that era it is my fault; I forgot to put that day’s newspaper into the bin.) But I was fast.

Even so, frequently I was the last one out of the building at night. I had no key. Holding the bundle of newspapers in one arm I would close the door with the other and it would automatically lock. One cold night I walked out of the building and absent-mindedly left my jacket inside. I didn’t even get across Main Street before I knew I had really goofed. Fortunately luck was with me. One of the newspaper carriers had somehow discovered that a never-washed window on the side of the building facing the bank was never locked. (He enjoyed telling us about how he and his girlfriend climbed through the window, found their way in the dark to a pile of blank newsprint laying on the floor, and made love. None of the grown-ups ever learned about this.) I set the bundle of newspapers down on the front doorstep, squeezed between the Daily News building and the bank, opened the never-washed window, climbed through, and soon emerged from the front door wearing my nice warm jacket.

After fire destroyed the press area the newspapers were printed in Quakertown by Charles Meredith of the Quakertown Free Press (who purchased the Bangor Daily News). Once in a while Mr. Meredith himself would show up. Up to that time I had been paid by the week. By that time repairs from the fire had been made and the printing press began rolling out the papers again. Mr. Meredith saw how fast I was, and when I asked him if I could be paid fifty cents an hour instead of by the week he consented. It could be that he didn’t know how late the papers were printed, and that I would be paid for the time between showing up after school until after the papers were taken to the post office. Or, more probably, he was just generous. Fifty cents an hour was very good pay for a kid my age, back then.

The paper delivery boys and I arrived after school and always hung around for a couple of hours waiting for the newspapers to come off the press. As an “indoor” guy I watched Al DeRenzis lock the lead print into metal forms and place them in the press. Then he would start the press rolling. It was a sight to behold! Seldom did things go smoothly, however. The not-perfectly-aligned rollers frequently ripped the huge roll of newsprint and everything had to be re-threaded by hand. This delayed even more the eventual delivery of newspapers. Once in awhile Mr. DeRenzis allowed me to pull back the long floor-fastened handle that started the press moving. What a thrill to feel that giant press moving at the command of my little fingers! (Giant-sized to me, of course, was all relative; I never saw a really large city newspaper-printing press.)

Sometimes I walked up the old creaky stairs to the second floor, where the job-printing work was done by Robert Sleeman: letterheads, fliers, whatever. Mr. Sleeman lived in Pen Argyl. He was a friendly guy, and once in awhile he allowed me to take a job-printing press through a run. (Now I see those presses in museums!) First I would spread ink on a circular metal plate, then get the press moving. Rollers ran over the ink on the flat round “table,” and on down across the lead form. A sheet of paper, lightly fastened to a pad, would be pushed against the lead and thereby printed. My job was to insert each sheet of paper at a time; when it was printed I grabbed it, quickly placed it in a pile, and put in another blank sheet. No thought was ever given to being too slow and getting one’s fingers caught and crushed. That just never happened.

Another favorite past-time while waiting for the newspapers to finally roll off the press was watching the linotype operator. I forget his name. The vast machine always had a small bucket of melted lead; below it a hot fire always kept it molten. After the operator typed a line he touched a button, a long thin arm reached down, picked up the line of type, dipped it into the molten lead, and whizz! a fresh line of type emerged ready to be added to all the other lines of type. It was an amazing process. At least that’s the way I remember it. I thought it would be fun to work on a linotype machine when I graduated from high school, but rather unexpectedly I decided to go to college instead.

The newspaper always included cartoon strips on an inside page. I remember “Mandrake the Magician” and his side-kick Lothar, and “Brick Bradford.” There were a couple of others. Every week the “mat” for each cartoon was delivered by the postman, and I had an opportunity to read it and tell my friends at school what the following week would bring in the adventures of Mandrake the Magician and Brick Bradford.

Against one wall in the front office was a gizmo they called a teletype machine. There it would sit, very quiet with a roll of yellow paper going through it. Suddenly it came alive with a clitter-clatter and typewriter-like keys began leaping up at a terrific pace! This was the Associated Press sending the national and international news over telephone wires. Soon the linotype operator tore off a sheet, place it on the linotype, and retype everything that had been printed by the teletype machine. To this day I think it was a marvel.

Mr. Meredith was a kindhearted man. When he learned that I planned to go to college he offered me a job through the summer as “circulation manager.” I didn’t have a clue as to what I was supposed to do. But I would come to work each weekday and spend my time drawing diagrams of the newspaper routes. I don’t remember anything else about that job. When I went off to college the job, created especially for me, disappeared with me. I owe a great deal of my first year’s college costs to this gentleman from the Quakertown Free Press who now owned the Bangor Daily News.

I graduated from Bangor High School in June, 1947, and several times when I came back home on a vacation from Albright College in Reading I would stop in the newspaper office to say “hello.” But there were personnel changes. It was never the same, and after a year or so I stopped going and said farewell to a very interesting period of my boyhood life.

E N D

For breakfast on Friday, I had a huge, crisp and juicy Honey Crisp apple from 1st Orchards and Greenhouses in Michigan. As one person aptly put it, Honey Crisp apples are the Mercedes of apples.

Friday was a big day because I had to finish up my shopping for my friend’s birthday on Sunday. Since I was trying to stick with the local theme, I found a hilarious card by a local artist who goes by the title Rovenko. You can find her stuff on Etsy.com, but if you want to buy from a local store, then you can find her stuff at Paper Boy on W. Belmont.

Since I was on the run practically the whole day, I did not have time for a full lunch. Instead, I opened the bag of dill and garlic cheese curds I bought from Brunkow Cheese of Wisconsin from GCM, and snacked on those. Later, I had some delicious sweet corn on the cob from 1st Orchards.

Perfect Corn on the Cob:

For perfect corn on the cob, bring your water to a boil first then add the corn for only three minutes! It is not necessary to keep the cobs in for five because if you boil them too long you start to break down the sugars into starch and the corn starts to lose its sweetness. Drain the corn and then slather on Nordic Creamery’s sweet cream butter (it is lightly salted) and eat immediately while still steamy!
Dev xx

A new painting for the Paper Boy opening, which will be Friday August 28th.

Silently Surrounded, acrylic on board

To the right of this little painting you may notice a lovely art-deco deer planter piece. I picked that gorgeous number up in a thrift store in Kansas City. Kansas City has the best vintage stores! One day I am going to have to drive a trunk down there and come back with all mid-century furniture.

Happy Tuesday! I think it’s a perfect morning to grab an iced chai and visit the post office.

I am in the process of shaking things up and moving forward! In light of this busy time of year, I have been taking a break from the computer completely. My days have been filled with art and taking time to enjoy Chicago in the summer. I just need a little refocus time.

I have a book cover assignment in the works which has been fun thus far and the following upcoming shows:
Renegade Craft Fair Chicago
Ravenswood Art Walk
DIY Trunkshow
Indie Wed

Oh, and I have a show in a few weeks at the Paper Boy – a store packed with a plethora of goodies and one of my favorite stores in the city. The ladies that help run the Paper Boy are extremely talented and wonderful. Please stop by to say hello and have a class of wine.

Paper Boy opening: Friday, August 28th (was the 21st, but we moved it.) from 5pm-8pm. Viola!

PETER JACKSON ft Royce da 5 9
“Paper Boy” b/w “Come on Over”
out 31st August
Canada’s been the place for some of the biggest new hiphop artists doin it internationally in 09, and the latest in line is Peter Jackson.

As is the M.O. with Canadian artists, they been on the grind for long enough in their homeland, touring coast to coast, buildin the rep, and PJ’s no different.

He’s been on tour with Wu Tang, Obie Trice, D12, Classified, Lloyd Banks, Ray J, Drake, Kardinal Offishall, Nas, Clipse, Akon, KRS-1, and from mid August, is on the road again as official support for Busta Rhymes.

Also tight with the Slaughterhouse click, Royce da 5 9, Naughty By Nature, Joe Budden, Crooked I, he’s put together his Team 90 Nickel Entertainment situation for releases, first of all in Canada, and now movin the game overseas.

Currently finishing off his debut album, marked down for a November release, the first offering is this banger PAPER BOY featuring Royce da 5 9. Watch out for the flipside featuring JMore Come on Over which is currently rippin it apart on Canadian radio.

Fresh from inking a new management deal with the top McKee Agency, they roped in stablemate Chris Stacey to direct and produce the tasty video for Paper Boy.

Generally available from 31st August, he’s jus gettin warmed up. Watch out for the moves with this guy.

Hear the sounds & check the video at www.myspace.com/urbanelitepr

www.myspace.com/peterjackson905

I’m from Los Angeles.  Born in 63….renegade child before my time.  I say all that to say that at a early age (like 12) I left home and ended up on the streets of LA.  What do you do as a child on the streets….you steal, sell weed, and get a paper route.  Not a bicycle kind of paper route but a get in the back of a pick-up truck / or sit in the passenger window of said vehicle and throw papers into peoples driveways.  As I recall I made pretty good money for a 14 year old….like a couple of hundred dollars a week.

This economy has catapulted everyone into diversifing their hustles.  I”m a social worker by trade.  It’s my passion and I’m vey good at what I do.  My specialty is homeless/mental health/substance abuse.  I mean after spending 20something years on the street what else could I excel at but being a Social Worker.  I digress.  I quit my job a little more than a year ago.  At that time the economy was what it was….I have a business I had been working with for several years and I decided that more time and money and direction I could make a living off of my business.  So I quit my job and did very well for a year until the economy again did what it did.

Suddenly I want desire need a damn job……and so do 50,000 more social workers.  Hmmmm  Been sending my resume/cover letter everywhere with no response.  So I’m on CL and what do I see?  A Paper Route as a job and my lil brain goes heyyyyy; I gotta truck; I gotta Tribe member or two I might be able to get to join me in this adventure.

Well I got an interview tonite and lets just see how many social workers it takes to make a paper boi….

Whut?????  hahahahahahaha )

The Aquarium

“9 Blakely Way.”  That was the address of our home back in 1957;  the year I was born.  No NW, SW or Southeast just, “9 Blakely Way.”  We lived in a small housing project built from the 30’s to the 40’s which was on the outskirts of The Dalles Oregon.  It was a time of paper boys and the milkman, yes and Service Stations with .25 cent a gallon gas.  Common; was Mom charging groceries on a tab at the market and Dad working a couple of nights a week cleaning up the butcher shop to pay the bill.

Our home phone number was 6-9414; that’s right, just 5 digits, no area codes or mandatory prefixes.  Looking back I can honestly say it was a simpler time.  I was born the last of six children and I admit I was a bit of a momma’s boy.  All of the others had a time when they were the baby, but it only lasted until the next uninvited child came along, but me, I didn’t have that problem.  No one came after me…

This meant I spent a lot of time hanging with my Mother and her other stay at home mom friends.  I was a curious sort in my pre-school years and would ask questions like,” Do trees have blood?”

I learned at a young age that there were treasures to be had if a boy would keep his eyes peeled and on the ground.  It happened when I was walking the neighborhood.  Something shiny caught my eye. It was a glorious silver dollar. It filled my hand out to the very edges of its span.  It was embossed with stunning detail.  Man it was beautiful.   I wanted to keep it for ever!  

Until later that day, when the older kid two doors down informed me that I could have his Nestles Chocolate can full of marbles in exchange for my object of delight; the silver dollar. I jumped at the deal and made it home to show my mom what great glassy jewels I had leveraged for a mere dollar.  In the early 60’s a person could get a lot for a dollar and my mother being a sharp girl, pointed this out. She further instructed me to return the treasures and get the coin back. I did so reluctantly.

Upon returning home she loaded me into the car and we went to the market where I was unleashed on the candy section. I could truly see the wisdom in her actions and the events of that day only added to my awe of her position of greatness and knowledge of life.

Remembering this; from then on, when traveling by foot I always kept one eye on the ground. You never know what you might find. In my travels however the treasures seamed to be few and far between. Oh sure there were plenty of sticks, rocks and lizards to be had and I did revel in shinier, more magic ones.  Sometimes my attention would be drawn to a particular stick or rock. I would pick them up and after surmising that they were of no particular worth and not possessing any magical powers.  I would drop them back to the ground.

As I walked away I imagined the object pleading with me not to just leave them there. The stick would reason with me that by picking it up I had gotten it’s hopes up.  Perhaps it had dreamed of coming home with me, maybe even finding a nice cozy place in my room on the headboard of my bed or in a dresser drawer.

Needless to say I was an easy mark and often fell pray to their pleadings. This also translated into a personal theory that objects may very well have feelings, perhaps objects could dream, long for a “Someday;”  What if they could feel disappointment and pain like me?  What if that rock I just tossed into the creek couldn’t swim?  Maybe it was laying next to its Mother rock and because of me it may never see her again? This could get very complicated. What about my reckless shuffle across the field?  Did I disrupt the lives of many a happy object?  You’ve got to get a grip here Dukie!

OK, so let me think? Maybe objects do have feelings and maybe they don’t, I’m not sure. Many objects did seem to speak to me in their own way. But maybe that was just the imagination of a goofy little boy; who by the way sported an endless bad haircut?

Well at any rate I do know this; by looking at this world which is so bejeweled with endless objects of interest and delight; having an appreciation and reverence for that which was left here by the hand of God or fashioned by mankind, a person could develop a peculiar kinship with “Things.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of the guys whose a slave to his car or boat (I wish I had a boat). I don’t spend hours polishing and waxing anything. In fact it’s just the opposite; I need to take better care of the things I have. Instead of being enslaved by the objects of my life, I like to think of myself as their Master. Maybe even the Lord of what I possess, heh… maybe even, like… the lord of my things. That’s it! I am “The Lord of My Things. No wait, try this. “Lord of the Things”. I like it!  I am “Lord of the Things”. More like a “Junk Whisperer,” really.

I want to believe the past few years of my artistic endeavors have reflected my close relationship with the objects of this realm. Thus far I have found it to be a natural and rewarding approach.

Have you listened…?  Then heard the whisper…?  If so you know what I’m talking about.

Walking into work this morning, I hear the faint cry of Cyndi Lauper. This is of particular interest for a few reasons:

• There isn’t an 80s radio station in town anymore, and
• The nearest car is stopped at the light half a block away. Well, it is coming from that car. LOUD.

It’s a large man in a small truck…blaring Cyndi Lauper no less!

As I cross the road, he barrels down it. I turn around because I’m shocked at the speed. I turn around again because I hear him coming to an abrupt halt. He stops at my building. My first thought (no matter how silly) is that he stopped to come and kick my ass. He looks at me, and boom! Hurls a newspaper at me. Now, I don’t think he was aiming for me, but he threw it with extreme force, very close to where I was walking. I don’t think he would have been displeased at all to see me get whopped in the head. Nothing against me, it just makes the job more fun (I would assume).

Hell, if I were delivering papers, I’d go all Nintendo Paper Boy on people too. And, after a while maybe I’d probably even get a sicker thrill from whopping people while Cyndi Lauper plays. Maybe I’d throw some Devo in there to keep it level.  

We provide part time jobs(offline) through our network. Our networks’s aim is to help others. We gather various part time jobs information throughout the world. Some example works are pizza delivery, courier services, paper boy, milk suppliers, car drivers, children care, watch mans, market buyers. Some extra works like home cleaners, car washers, gardening, ticket booking, luggage mans, movers and packers, architectures, paintings, drawing man, dust removers, mortgage workers, easy repair service, plumbing, etc…

We help all of you as by your interest. We hold your hands until you get your correct job as you are our network family.

Kindle 2.0:  I want you desperately

• Screen with 16 shades
• Faster and improved controls
• Super thin: I cannot believe it is thinner than my iPhone.

February 9th was supposed to be a special day; the day I would order my Kindle 2.0.  Unfortunately, it turned out to be a normal day.   Why would I get in line to wait for a Kindle 2.0 when Amazon never fulfilled all the orders from the original Kindle?  My dreams of firing my paper boy, having access to several books at a time, and being one of the cool kids are dashed.

Official Amazon Announcement

While being oversold could be a great marketing ploy, it is slightly frustrating to us technophiles who go into withdrawals when we cannot get our hands on our new electronic toys.  Amazon never fulfilled all of the original Kindle orders, and I fear the wait for a Kindle 2.0 could be rather lengthy.

My inability to get a Kindle 2.0 ASAP is extremely frustrating given that everyone is giving it rave reviews.  Ars technica, The BoyGenius Report, and many others are reporting that Kindle 2.0 is a great improvement on the original Kindle.  Amazon why do you taunt me so.  I must have one.

Hollie Chastain

This Friday from 5-8pm at the Paper Boy on Belmont, my dear friend and art comrade, Laura Berger is having an art opening. I am bummed I won’t be able to make it, but you should try to get out there! What I love best about her work is that it has a heart and often her wonderful characters are reminding you that, “You are (indeed) doing everything right.” For overly self-critical minds, like myself, it’s a nice reminder. She is also incredibly nice and generous, so tip a hat to her and say, “‘ello!”

Please visit Laura’s blog for more wonderful art and her etsy if you would like to purchase art.

{ A R T O P E N I N G }
Laura Berger
Paper Boy
1351 W. Belmont
5-8pm.
wine + cheese + art + cards

Musikmachen auf der Straße ist jetzt en vogue.

Looptroop tuen es und missbrauchen dabei alles mögliche als Instrumente.

Lykke Li bringt den Trend von Schweden nach LA zu Bon Iver.

Beides schöne Versionen.

So there was this guy they referred to as “Paper Boy” – never knew why. Anyway, he was a cheap broke ass mofo. His best trick was scamming pizza. He would order two pizzas. One would be some crappy large pizza with olives and the second would be some meat filled goodness. He would order both pizzas to be delivered on the same street about four houses apart. The street ran parallel to the the house. Then he would wait. 

Lurking behind the trees as the Dominoes guy would pull to the first house, the Paper Boy would sneak into the backseat of the delivery car and grab the second pie. 

Then run like hell. 

I think he did this about once a week to a variety of pizza places around town. Surprisingly, they kept coming. Ah the days before caller ID.

Welcome to the all new truly exciting blog of one Matthew Kempster. A student.

I have built this blog to do one thing, analyse. That is the theme of this blog. If this blog had a life-long ambition, that would be it.

As I am a ‘paper boy’ (as people usually call it) I see a lot of news, I don’t watch much on TV, apart from the odd 6 ‘o’clock bulletin on BBC News and of course a few minutes GMTV because I don’t have time in the day for such a thing. I see newspapers when I put them through people’s doors and that is how I stay informed.

After the inform-ation of the news into my head I think about it, usually all day, then, and this is the part where this blog is reasoned, I will try to analyse it here. Not to any formal extent but it should end up looking something like this or this or this.

Of course, this blog could just plummet into non-existence, or even worse, stay here but get neglected, never to serve another purpose, rotting in the backlogs of the world wide web. I don’t want this to happen, but I will need to keep this blog alive. Like a plant. Please water my blog with comments if anything affects you or if you’re just feeling nice. OBVS I will comment back.

This essay represents the 13th post of The Angry Czeck Century Series, a thought-provoking collection of penetrating harangues of rancor leading to the Angry Czeck’s 100th Post. You are currently reading Post 99…wait! Wasn’t the last post Post 99? Fuck you. I miscounted, okay? This is the 99th post. Back off!

The other day, Mrs. Angry and I visited the local Barnes & Noble with the kids in tow. Angry Junior likes to peruse the “talking” greeting cards, so Mrs. Angry left him to explore the rack while she placed an order at the coffee counter. I sat at a table nearby with Angry Three several feet away.

Because our order was nearly ready, I left my seat to retrieve Angry Junior. I found him engrossed with the greeting cards. “Ready for breakfast, buddy?”

“Excuse me,” said an unfamiliar voice, “is that your son?”

I turned to find a fleshy old man standing behind me. His face was set in the grim and stony way in which one might regard a witch burning. He was dressed like a sweat sock.

“Yes,” I answered.

“He’s been unattended for at least five minutes,” Old Sweat Sock Man told me.

I nodded to Mrs. Angry. “My wife is right there.”

“Her back is turned,” continued Old Sweat Sock Man. “Do you know how quickly somebody can take a child?”

“Thanks for your concern,” I said, and I took Angry Junior to our table. I should have told the old man to toss my salad. I didn’t, partly because it would have disappointed Angry Junior, but mostly because such penetrating wit always escapes me at critical moments.

This guy is not welcome at Barnes & Noble.

But after stewing over this unpleasant episode for weeks, I’m ready now to make my retort to Old Sweat Sock Man.

Like the majority of your smugly judgmental ilk, I noted that you were without children. As you explored Barnes & Noble without hindrance of offspring, you saw an opportunity to fill the loneliness of your childless life by placing your inexperienced values on a complete stranger.

Of course, you watched enough episodes of Touched By An Angel and Major Dad to understand the basics of parenting. You’re not without some knowledge, right? You’ve filled in the gaps with Dr. Phil and Oprah, and now you’re a goddamned expert. You should write a book. Everyone else has.

Meanwhile, you gasp at those savages who tether their children with leashes when in public places. How barbaric, you snarl beneath your breath on the way to the restroom. Why can’t these ignorant people trust their children to stay at their sides? Not that children should be allowed in public places anyway! Home and school is the proper place for children.

If you have kids, you may not approve, but you do understand.

You have all kinds of rules that, should you ever find yourself in the role of parent, you would so readily implement. You would never spank! (Or, depending on who you are, you’d spank all the time!) You’d never yell! Never allow your children to make an audible sound during dinner in a restaurant. And if they did, why, you would do the polite thing and leave at once!

Furthermore, you wouldn’t allow back talk! Nothing but “yes sirs” and “no ma’ams” from your perfectly disciplined and imaginary kids.

Yeah. We know how you’d parent. We know. You tell us all the time. If not face-to-face, then at least loud enough so everyone can hear what an enlightened bastard you are.

Sorry to bust your idiot balloon, bub. Kids are born not knowing your neat checklist of rules. You teach them what you can, you’re thankful for what they absorb, and if you want to stay sane, you pick your battles.

And sometimes, you manage to get things right. For example, I know that my son can be left without me hovering over him. I know he will not speak to Stranger Danger. These are the things you don’t know, Old Sweat Sock Man.

We see the way you look at us when Junior throws a tantrum. Hey, Pal, we want to get out of the house just like you Non-Replicates. We like going out to eat, too. And seeing a movie. I’m not leaving. I’m not changing my seat. And if you piss me off, I’m not even going to shush. Sorry if my kid’s loud Star Wars re-enactment is spoiling your witty conversation.

By the way, I already had that conversation, like, ten years ago. Don’t bother jotting down a transcript to use later for the feature film script you think you’re someday going to write. You’re not clever or original, and not all the double lattes in the world is changing that.

Secretly, every Non-Replicate thinks they’re Mickey Rourke.

Allow me to re-iterate, Old Sweat Sock Man: Eat. My. Shit. Go apply your creepy values where they are appreciated. And just so there’s no mistake, the mothers of the world do not need you to tell them to put socks on their infants.

Meanwhile, back at the bookstore, I’m sending Angry Junior to find some new sticker books. They’re several shelves away, and I’ll probably loose sight of him. I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut.

###

Hace dos días falleció Mark Haigh-Hutchinson . Un cáncer de páncreas ha sido el responsable de que este creativo de 43 años, actualmente responsable de RetroSudios nos haya dejado.

Respecto a su trayectoria, los títulos en los que participó hablan por sí solos. ‘Paper Boy’ , ‘Star Wars: Rogue Squadron’ para Nintendo64 y los títulos en 3D de la saga ‘Metroid’.

• Android One (1984)
• Highway Encounter (1985)
• Alien Highway (1986)
• Revolution (1986)
• Paperboy (1987)
• Overlander (1988)
• Thunder Blade (1988)
• Human Killing Machine (1988)
• Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade: The Action Game (1989)
• Italy 1990 (1990)
• Magic Boy (1993)
• David Robinson’s Supreme Court (1993)
• Star Wars: Rebel Assault (1993)
• Sam & Max Hit the Road (1993)
• Zombies Ate My Neighbors (1993)
• Big Sky Trooper (1995)
• Star Wars: Dark Forces (1995)
• Star Wars: Shadows of the Empire (1996)
• Star Wars: Rogue Squadron 3D (1998)
• Star Wars: Episode I Racer (1999)
• Metroid Prime (2002)
• Metroid Prime 2: Echoes (2004)
• Metroid Prime 3: Corruption (2007)

Mark Haigh-Hutchinson descansa en paz a la edad de 43 años dejando atrás una mujer y 2 hijas.