On the Perfect Someone vs. Someone Perfect

I should preface this by saying it doesn't really have anything to do with our marriage; it is something I was thinking about while exercising yesterday without listening to my normal podcast/lectures because I let Melanie borrow my earbuds since she forgot hers somehow (A-so maybe I was thinking about how great a person I am a little; B-it's not that gross, they were very clean earbuds).

Essentially, I wanted to talk about how finding a mate who is perfect for you is not the same as finding a person who is perfect then trying to live with her/him. (It won't be long because most of my thoughts were in between ideas about cycles per minute and dripping sweat).

I first thought about making a list:

• The perfect person knows how to fix all kinds of cars; the perfect mate does it before you ask.
• The perfect person wins at everything and has an extremely short learning curve for the new stuff; the perfect mate has weaknesses and allows you to exploit them.
• The perfect person comforts you when you have a sudden, inexplicable breakdown; the perfect mate has breakdowns too.

But then I thought that might become boring rather quickly--both for me and you--and moved on to what I think about each type of person.

Someone perfect: I can't say that I've met very many perfect people in my life, possibly a handful, but it seems like that is what we're often pushed to want. Movies and television try to tell us there are perfect people out there, and our friends and family encourage us not to settle for anything but the best. There probably are some people who are great in many different areas and who may not allow the evidence of their weaknesses to become visible. There are individuals I admire for their drive and talent, but the thought of living with them sits a little uneasy with me. I think perfect people, or those who come close to it, are best left for admiring at a distance. Even a mentor, someone who guides you through areas of life in which they were successful, should show some faults. Who wants to be around someone perfect everyday? They just constantly make you feel bad about yourself. Granted, it is often beneficial to have someone around who pushes you to be better. But when they do everything better than you? That's no fun.

The perfect someone: I also can't say that I've met very many perfect someone's in my life, and I think I married the first one who came along. (It's not a bad strategy). The perfect someone is about finding balance--and this applies to close friends as well as partners. Being with someone you admire does great things for your determination. Being with someone who admires you does even greater things for your confidence. I don't believe in there being a perfect mate, someone who compliments you entirely, in the way that match.com or any of those other sites proposes. It's something that develops over time. At first, you find someone you enjoy spending time with, and eventually, you learn how to make that time productive for the both of you. You learn when you need to be strong and when it's okay to be weak. A perfect couple is something that probably takes a lifetime, or at least half of one, to build together.

I'm happy that I'm not perfect and that Melanie isn't either (sorry, Carol). Ultimately, finding the perfect person to spend the rest of your life with--or the perfect people to share it with--is all about filling in gaps. And perfect people don't have gaps.

In case anyone suspects I secretly believe I'm someone perfect, let me explain how horribly inept I felt yesterday when Melanie and I went swimming (for exercise, not fun). Or rather, let me share a piece of Kurt Vonnegut's preface to Welcome to the Monkey House which I believe she could use as a motto: "In the water I am beautiful."

On Not Writing

Here’s a story about a twenty-six-year-old relatively newly-married girl, out of school for a summer and leaving her house only occasionally for air conditioning, workouts, and unnecessary coffee breaks.

Obviously, this isn’t a very interesting story.

As a student and semi-employed person during the regular school year, my current life doesn’t sound like a terrible way to pass a few months’ time, but as a writer, it’s kind of terrible. I mean that in the least whiny way possible. Because really, if you asked me what I want more than anything in, say, the first week of May or December, when I’m cramming in last-minute assignments and grading end-of-semester papers, I’d say that the one thing that would satisfy me, the only thing that would do, is free time. No obligations, nowhere to be, no deadlines. I would have a notebook full of fragments and half-ideas, and I’d be desperate to sit down with them. Now, I have all the time a person could need, and I have nothing. This is just the nature of the job.

So we’re over a month into the summer break, and I’ve accomplished something that I really did need the time to do – I finished a draft of a novel that I’ve been working on for over a year – but all I can seem to muster the creativity to do now is revise that draft and nothing more. There’s not enough magic in stasis. So I tried reading some books. Well, three books, the last of which I haven’t finished despite how great it is. And I tried listening to music. And watching movies. The problem is that I do these things, hoping to latch onto something new, and then nothing happens. For now, I just try to be content with revising the novel and not worrying about writing new stories or whether or not someone will decide to publish my work this time around. It’s not the easiest place for me to sit in for long.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in place of all the writing I used to do. (Actually, I’ve been writing my thoughts in a journal just to make myself feel more productive.) I had plans, sort of. I mean, I understood the general path I should probably be on to succeed (i.e. get published, land a teaching job, etc.). But having a plan and having that plan actually work aren’t the same thing, and the more I sit with my thoughts, the more I question why I am doing things the way I have been. Why do I submit stories over and over? Why do I write new ones? Why do I go to school? There are some easy answers to these questions as well as some more complicated ones, but the main point is that these things I do are part of a plan that isn’t really working the way I hoped. Not yet anyway. Generally, the rule is this: be patient, grow a thick skin, and persist until a door opens. I know that. I just wonder sometimes, why this? Why not something else? Why do I have to publish short stories when I really want to be a novelist? Why not focus on the book and skip over the part of the process that’s hanging me up? Do people do this? Obviously some people do. I know of at least one person who has already. But it’s not the way of the MFA program or, as I understand it, the way to get an agent, and so on.

This has been a year of second-guessing for me. Even though this novel has been the one solid thing I’ve taken away from my first year in this program, which I had already been invested in and dedicated to before-hand, I spent a good several months hating everything I wrote and changing what I wrote and how, and for the first time in my life, I felt lost. Like I had lost my own voice. I believe this was a result of exposure to new books, new teachers, new voices, and that’s the way, I think, artists ultimately grow and mature in their craft, so it’s not such a bad thing, but there was this period of unsettling that was pretty scary. I’m only just starting to recover from it. And instead of inspiration for new stories, I’m left with more questions.

So, in my latest funk, this static period of no inspiration, I have latched onto this new idea: what if I shouldn’t be a writer, exactly? It’s not a crisis of identity, I don’t think. It’s just that I wrote this book with the inner concept of it as a movie to begin with – because that helped me to write it. And I’m a little embarrassed to admit that because, in many writing circles, film is thought of as a lesser art form, which I don’t actually believe is true. There are terrible movies, yes, but then there are also terrible books. I think that writers have a tendency to say it’s a cop-out of some kind, that it’s easier than creating and bringing to life a world in a book. But the more I imagine what my own story could be on a screen with movement and colors and music, the more I feel limited by words. I’m not saying that I don’t want to write my book, or that I don’t want to write more books after this one, just that I want to make something bigger than I’ve made so far. And I want people to experience it.

This could be a phase. I would be less agitated and confused if it is just a phase. But if it’s not, then what?

Anyway, I don’t know what this post adds to the world or why I’m putting it out there. I guess it’s a way to say, hey, I’m writing something, even if it’s really nothing.

On American Landscapes and Other Discoveries

Before I became a quasi-adult and responsible for planning and funding my own vacations, I was spoiled with trips to places like Southern Mexico and The Bahamas. In high school, I lived in San Diego, CA, one of the prettiest cities in the U.S., and spent one summer back from college doing nothing but surfing and reading books every day. Travel, when you're in your twenties, in school, and living on a graduate assistant's stipend, is often more creative than glamorous and sometimes involves sleeping in bunk beds while a stranger with sleep apnea gasps below you. But I've taken some trips on the cheap that, despite the spoiling of my youth, turned out to be pretty great.

The summer before Josh and I got engaged, I finished up my MA thesis, purchased a digital SLR camera, and took my dog on the road from Huntsville, Texas, to Huntington Beach, CA. I used the opportunity to visit my dad in West Texas, where I stayed for free, and to eventually spend a couple weeks with my mother - also for free. Growing up, my friends spent their summers in camp or playing baseball or visiting the Grand Canyon, and I always felt left out of those "normal" kid things, so I made a point to swing north and check out a few of America's natural attractions for myself. While it sounds like a fairly typical summer vacation to visit the Grand Canyon, this trip was important to me in ways that I didn’t anticipate when I set out, and I was excited about taking my first long trip alone.

My route took me from Dad’s in Midland through Roswell, NM, stopping in Gallup the first day. The hotel I’d booked turned out to be a cement block with faulty locks, burned out lights, and shady guests, and for about twenty minutes, I felt woefully incapable of travelling alone. Then I found another place, bought a cheeseburger, and put the setback behind me. There was a fantastic rain shower, which made the air smell dusty and wonderful. Though it was mostly a full day of driving, the dog kept things interesting: apparently, without grass, she couldn't relieve herself, so we got to know a few different parking lot-adjacent beds of rocks while she sniffed and sniffed and sniffed.

Next stop was Window Rock, AZ, where I circled the monument, which sits in the midst of Navajo tribe government buildings. I circled and circled because everything there looked so official, and I wasn't totally sure visitors were welcomed. When I did eventually park, I took several pictures of the monument, which is basically a rock face in which wind has eroded a large hole. It was sort of startling up close, and the peace and quiet of the place - at least until my dog started barking from the car - was meditative. The quiet got inside me, if that makes sense. It felt good there.

I drove through Indian Territory all the way to Tuba, AZ, before taking the interstate to Cameron, which is nothing more than a trading post outside of the Grand Canyon. From Window Rock, I felt more and more introspective the whole way through Navajo and Apache territories. For long stretches, there was literally nothing but land and more land in sight. And even though it looked similar to other places I've driven through without taking notice, that much of it is hard not to be affected by. Around one bend, there were wild horses right by the shoulder of the road. I actually turned off the radio and just drove, which is probably the longest amount of time I've sat in relative silence without feeling edgy ever. I was small and lost in the world, but in a good way. There's something reaffirming at the same time that it's terrifying to know you could actually be lost like that.

My room in Cameron overlooked the Colorado River. I still had plenty of daylight left, so the dog and I headed up to the Grand Canyon. The drive ascends quickly there, and not knowing at all what to expect, I actually mistook the deep ravine made by the Colorado River for the Canyon. The Grand Canyon itself was both impressive and a little disappointing. I think I expected to feel something as soon as I peered over the edge and saw how far down and across it stretched. Truly, when you think about something like that being eroded little by little over time, it's impressive. But when you step up to that giant depression expecting to be moved, and all you can think is that you've gone your whole life without seeing this quintessential attraction, it's hard to immediately see the beauty. The noise of all the other people was jarring compared to my day of solitude. But I still drove around to the various lookout spots. Some were more exciting than others. Back in Cameron, I ate a meal alone in the restaurant there, took a nice long shower, and watched the sun set over the river.

I returned to the Grand Canyon the next morning, when it was much quieter and the sun had only just risen, and that was when I was able to see how huge and arresting it is. I hardly took any pictures that day because I just didn't think about it. I wished I'd had more time to sit around and look out at it all morning. Alas, I had to hit the road. The last leg to Huntington Beach was long, hot, and full of time-consuming construction. I didn't mind it so much until later in the evening when my back began to hurt and the dog starting drooling on my shoulder. Even with so many miles behind me, I could actually feel something changing or settling inside of me. It wasn't something that I can even put a finger on now. It had something to do with independence and becoming an adult, but it was also about quieting down and listening to the world. Sometimes I forget about the beauty in simple things. That trip was simple. And it was mine.

Vacations, Family and Otherwise

Melanie and I have been thinking about what to do to survive the summer in the desert since we won't have the money to do lots of travelling. Over Christmas break we drove all over the country visiting family to save money, and, even though it was a little taxing on the butt, I enjoyed the road trips. The last trip like that I remember was several years ago when my family drove to the east coast.

My dad's navy buddies were having a get together in Virginia, and he wanted all of us to come so we could meet their families. They had done the same thing a few years before in Kansas, but he went on a solo motorcycle ride because we all had conflicting schedules—or at least an aversion to Kansas. This time, though, six of us packed up two cars and headed east.

There wasn't anything spectacular about this trip, but I will probably always remember how we managed to pack so much distance and experience into so few days. We had sketchy seafood from a buffet in Louisiana. We drove through the French quarter briefly before deciding the narrow streets did not provide a quick getaway from the seediness we knew was ahead. We visited family in South Carolina where we marveled at their beautifully secluded house overlooking a pond and experienced the vibrant atmosphere of a minor league baseball game. I still wear my Capitol City Bombers cap because I enjoy answering questions about the interesting team logo. We visited the D-Day Memorial in Virginia and nearly all the important tourist attractions in Washington D.C. as well as checking out Monticello and seeing Jefferson's awesome clock and reading desk. And we drove a lot. And we walked a lot.

All the sites were great, but what sticks out the most was how much an experience like that bonds a group together. Granted, we were sick of each other well before the trip was over, and we all had plenty to complain about, but that's not usually what my mind turns to. Instead, I think about answering trivia questions on U.S. presidents or the hundreds of pictures we took of the Washington Monument. Paddling around the pond in a small row boat or trying to hit golf balls over it. How comfortable sleeping on the floor felt after walking what felt like fifty miles around the capitol.

To be honest, I was probably against the idea of the trip in the first place. I usually am. It's not that I don't enjoy spending time with my family, it's more that I resist change. I tend to obey Newton's law of motion about an object at rest staying at rest unless some external force is applied to it. I hope that I will grow out of that at some point. I hope I'll be the dad waking the family up early so they can see the sunrise over the Atlantic, the one who stops to read all the plaques at the museum because someone made the effort to gather all that information, the one who is willing to drive all day when everyone else is sleeping and doesn't even mind because his eyes appreciate the newness in something as simple as another state border. I'm excited about family vacations where I can force my loved ones to experience life against their will, hoping I can convey to them what I think my parents were always trying to show us: happiness comes from the people around you, not the things.

In short, I look forward to passing down all the good I gained from my family on those long, sometimes hot, sometimes boring, trips that just wouldn't have been the same if we had the money to fly. And ignoring the mumbling from the back seat.

On Information Restriction: Two Cases

You might say that we live in an Information Era. With Wikipedia, Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, and the massive number of blogs on the Internet, there’s no shortage of user-generated information to dilute the all the credible information produced by legitimate news sources, journals, organizations, and other outlets whose content comes from experts and is reviewed for accuracy. Even respected news outfits like CNN and government representatives have turned to Twitter for reporting on or communicating agendas. However, the problem is not just that we have so much information available to us that we could literally never run out of it, or even that so much of that content is not credible or accurate; the problem is that, while we drown in information, there is still a lot more valuable information that gets restricted. Just today, I learned about two different cases that got me thinking about our relationship to information.

The first story is about Ai WeiWei, a Chinese artist and activist who appeared on Christiane Amanpour’s segment on CNN today. Through art, he comments on the Chinese government's oppression of free expression. One of his projects involves breaking urns from the Han dynasty or painting logos like Coca-Cola’s on them to demonstrate “the commercialization of an ancient culture” and bring into the national consciousness an awareness of the past while shattering old conceptions of it. Another was an installation made of children’s backpacks that criticized the local government for badly constructed schools and for officials’ weak response following the 2008 Sichuan earthquake that killed thousands of children. Chinese police have beaten him for his activism, and the government has shut down three of his blogs. Ai uses Twitter and other social media outlets to spread his message and believes such sites are the future of activism.

Meanwhile, China has banned or restricted sites like Twitter and Facebook as well as other sources of information, enforcing censorship laws through a “Great Firewall” to filter and prevent accessibility of certain kinds of information to its people. Google, which until recently operated on a .cn domain, adhering to the government’s censorship measures, has redirected searches on that domain to one based in Hong Kong, where they do not have to self-censor.

Just imagine if, instead of having only to regularly wade through the overwhelming magnitude of “bad” information, we were so blatantly kept from learning about our own history, certain religions, etc. Censorship isn’t a new practice, and in the U.S. we’ve had bouts of information restriction through bans on films and books, but the Internet is a global network. It seems like it should be free of such censorship, doesn’t it? How odd that I can search topics like the Beijing Olympics or Tiananmen Square in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and find different information than someone living in Beijing.

Here’s another example of information restriction that falls closer to home:

While driving to Starbucks today, I was listening to NPR and caught a portion of an interview with a former priest, Patrick Wall, who left the Catholic Church after acting as a “fixer” for several years. I missed the beginning, but Wall was in the middle of explaining his role in the Church when I tuned in. He said that when allegations or rumors about the misconduct of priests were received by the higher-ups, those priests would often receive new assignments rather than face expulsion or punishment by the Church. By sending the priests to new parishes, it avoided legal conflicts and protected the reputations of the Church and the individual priest. Wall’s job was to go to parishes in an interim capacity to clean up or “fix” the problem. He wished to teach and live a balanced life of prayer and service. Instead, he found himself being sent out all over the place, year after year, to deal with other people’s mistakes. His life, he said, was dictated by other men who had screwed up, and they were the ones who got to return to the monastery and live the kind of life he wanted for himself. In 1998, at 33 years old, he left the Church. Now, he is an advocate for victims of abuse in the Church.

Having been on the inside, Wall knows how impossible it is for such victims to seek justice. He explained that, when a priest was reassigned, there would be documentation in archival files but that there was a separate “secret archive” that hid additional information which might tarnish the individual’s reputation. Wall explained, “If you don’t know what you’re asking for, they don’t have to produce it.” Wall and other “fixers” like him were instructed in how to deal with scandals. In fact, according to a December 2008 NPR piece, there was a document called the “Crimen Sollicitationis “(1962), kept under wraps until 2003, that mandates secretive pursuit of such abuse investigations and perpetual silence on their findings under penalty of excommunication.

The practice of hiding information and sending priests on new assignments rather than rehabilitating or punishing them exacerbates insufficient protection for victims, whose allegations must basically be proven with tangible evidence before Church officials will treat the matter seriously. It also allows for repeated offenses by the same individuals. I suspect that this has changed some since 2003 when the U.S. Church hierarchy implemented reforms to address cases of sexual abuse that got a lot of attention during the preceding two decades. Now, with the current sex scandal plaguing the Church in Europe, U.S. officials are urging the Vatican to adopt those reforms world-wide. U.S. news outlets, like The New York Times, have reported that Pope Benedict may have been involved in covering up such scandals when he oversaw investigations in his previous position as Cardinal, indicating that such behavior may reach the highest office in the Church.

I lament the saturation of inaccurate information and non-news that’s privileged by media outlets – celebrity gossip, Joe the Plumber types’ sound bites exalted as expert opinion, misinformed hate speech that masquerades as political rhetoric, etc. But I’d rather deal with that than be restricted from any kind of information. For the most part, Americans are free to seek information, and while I might feel passionately in the moment that a person who holds up a stuffed monkey and a sign telling Obama to go back to Kenya should be punished, I can honestly say that the freedoms, not only of speech, but also of access to speech and other sources of information are among the greatest liberties we enjoy.

Exercise your freedom of speech - what do you think about our Information Era?

On Information and Our Addiction to It

I realize this might push against NBC’s “The More You Know” public service announcements, but I often wonder how much is too much when it comes to information. It reminds me of that new Ladders.com commercial where the professional tennis players are overrun by a mob of wannabes. They suggest it’s tough to stand out when there’s so much commotion around you, even if you’re qualified for that 100K position. (FYI-I checked out their site but was unable to find “teaching or “education” or “writer” in the field selection.) Yes, it’s great to have access to valuable information, like it’s great to be able to watch Wimbledon—the majors are the only time I pay attention to tennis—but trying to filter through what’s valuable and what’s white noise grows more difficult with every new social networking site.

When I hear about the tweets running wild in Iran or some other country resisting an oppressive government, I realize it’s a good thing. But then I have to listen to half a dozen idiots letting some news anchor in on their perspectives about health care or bullying in America’s schools. And, yes, I understand this doesn’t carry much weight coming from a blog, but I can’t help wanting to shout at the TV, “I don’t care what you think.” Even when the updates are from politicians and celebrities, they rarely amount to more than a platitude, a talking point, or a reductive gut reaction. For full disclosure, I don’t yet have a Twitter account, so most of what I have to see is filtered through other forms of media. I suspect I will eventually give in when I see a practical use for my life.

Then there’s Facebook’s news feed, through which I am barraged by status updates ranging from “A long day ahead of me, let’s hope it goes well” to “What a great night! Luv yall girls!” These are not pointed at anyone in particular; they just came to mind. In fact, I don’t blame people updating their status twenty times a day because that’s what the feature is there for. And I’m certain a very small percentage of users think “I wonder what Josh will think about this” when they are making their pithy comments. It’s not like they’re sending me an email every hour updating how they feel about the current situation, but I can’t help feeling that way. I blame Facebook for trying to immerse me in my “friends” lives and for constantly suggesting people I should be friends with just because we attended the same school or know some of the same people. But maybe I should take some of the responsibility. There’s nothing in the site’s terms and conditions that says I have to accept every friend request I receive, or that I have to read every link or status update that’s shown on my news feed.

Clearly, someone is interested in this information. Facebook and Twitter don’t have a social or political agenda, and they’re not providing a public service for the betterment of society. They exist to make money (and they do an excellent job of it). If viewers weren’t sending in tweets to news programs, the anchors wouldn’t be reading them to me. The people who are creating and sustaining this information are those who start to feel nervous when they haven’t looked at their phone in half an hour. People who feel that constantly keeping up with their friends and the world is going to somehow make it more interesting. It’s this addiction to being in the know that worries me a little. I feel like people are so berated with information—most of it inane—they lose the ability to distinguish between what is fact and what is someone’s opinion.

Maybe this is why the Texas Board of Education is able to remove Thomas Jefferson from public history textbooks—because they think he’s ideas are dangerous. (And they are dangerous to people who resist change and radical ideas like equality.) Maybe access to all forms of information can prevent an Orwellian future for America. The fact that government officials in places like China are afraid of an uncensored Google and Twitter speaks volume to their power. Still, I can’t help but wonder if this impact is somewhat blunted by the cacophony created by so many people having the chance to share their voice.

I have to admit, however, that if I had the money, I’d have an iPhone and an iPad.

(This is just me. Let me know what you think.)

On TV and why I watch it: good, bad, and reality.

When I hear a statistic like the average American consumes six plus hours of television a day (I think I might've pulled that from an old DFW essay, "Television and U.S. Fiction"), I want to scoff because I can't imagine my life being so filled with drivel. But then I think about lunch and dinner, and how Melanie and I usually spend that time on the couch. And then there's the falling to sleep to background noise. (We didn't listen to all the advice to not put a TV in the bedroom because it's a comfortable place to be and we needed something to sit atop that dresser). This doesn't account for most of the television I enjoy watching, it's just what's on while we consume in other ways. What else are we going to do, talk?

I say that with sarcasm only because we have plenty of time to talk to one another. We are lucky in that we're able to spend lots of time with each other. We don't venture out to separate jobs. We share several classes every semester. It is rare that a conversation begins "How was your day?" because usually I already know. I was there. So without television and discussions about what we've recently watched, we'd be forced into discussing the weather or something even more banal, like our lives. So television is an escape. It's a look at lives that are perhaps more interesting than the ones on this side of the screen.

Only, I don't really care about the people on television. While I feel bad for Sandra Bullock, I don't need to know more and more about Jesse James and his gross mistress. I especially don't care about the lives of people who are famous because they're on TV. I already know too much about Kourtney, Khloe, and Kim Kardashian. I knew too much when I found out how to spell their names. But I still see reruns of their show when nothing else is on. And I still hear celebrity gossip from Chelsea Handler and her harem of comedians. Granted, this is all non-scripted television (maybe we can stop calling it reality?), but what about the other stuff. The shows that have scripts and actors?

I don't like most of them either. I like shows that make me laugh. And even though I enjoy the occasional fart joke and some physical comedy (I do watch 30 Rock and The Office), I prefer smart humor. Because I like to think I'm smart. I like shows that are unfamiliar. It's tough for me to watch programs that rely on my emotional connection though. It bugs me that I know most of the characters' lines before they say them. This isn't an example of consistent characterization, it's a problem with a lack of originality. It's putting the same people in the same situations with a slightly different coloring. And I don't feel any connection to that.

But it wasn't really my intention to rant. Plenty of smarter people have explained the problems with television and it's not as if my saying it is going to change anything. The question still remains. Why do I watch so much television that I think is bad?

In part, it's about my inability to do anything better with my time. If something is on, as it often is, I'm going to pay attention. I'll probably make fun of most of it, but that just goes back to me feeling smart. (Again, I think that DFW essay is leaking into this). Mostly though, I watch it because my wife likes to. And she likes to think we're connected if we're sitting next to each other facing the same direction. I can't honestly say that she's wrong either. After a particularly predictable show, we'll talk about all the problems with it. It provides fodder for our conversation cannon. Still, I can't watch One Tree Hill. It just makes my brain itch.

In the end, I see it as an exercise in learning what to avoid when attempting to produce art. I try to write the opposite of TV. Ultimately that will probably lead to some starving artist cliche, but I could probably stand to lose the weight. What I really need to find a way for her to be emotionally connected to the XBox 360, but that's probably for another post.