The Father of the Man

One night, we were watching old family videos. One section of footage, originally shot on an old 8mm camera on a hot summer day in Philadelphia, circa 1968, would bring me to tears.

There was me, just learning to walk, in dark shorts, white shoes and a striped shirt, face surrounded by a reddish-brown, curly mop of hair. The sunlight in my tiny heart -- as in the hearts of all babies -- was more than a match for the light that shone off of the car fenders and windows of the row-homes.

My mother helped me to stand, holding my hands high as I faced away from her, and when I mustered the courage, I would waddle away, about six steps, into the waiting arms of my uncle, and then turn for the return journey.

Those Who Ponder Millenium Falcons

Must . . . not . . . . write . . . about Charlie . . . Sheen . . .

KIDS! I’ll write about kids.

One day, I was wandering through a bookstore by the seaside. It was crowded with people and it was one of those gloriously cluttered places, with teetering piles at the ends of the over-laden shelves. It was a beautiful mess. Books cuddled together on chairs and tumbled out onto the floor. It was the kind of place where you could make a discovery, not some electronic book-vending machine; not a place of credit cards and digital ghost novels. An honest-to-God bookseller's.

With a small summer-reading stack under my arm, I poked and flipped through whatever caught my eye. Turning a corner, I nearly stepped on a young boy -- maybe ten -- who knelt reverently over a gigantic, glossy tome spread open on the floor to a diagram from Star Wars. The title on the page: “Design Specifications of the Millenium Falcon.”

Dear Albrecht: IV

Albrecht Soothspitz, b. 1327

Albrecht has sent a new pile of letters up to me from his little cottage in the woods. It has been quite a while, but I suppose six-hundred-year-old philosophers with Wii addictions just aren't as concerned with deadlines as the rest of us. I hope you find his wisdom as enlightening as ever. If you have missed his previous advice columns, you can catch up here, here and here. Please remember: We at Hats and Rabbits do not necessarily share Albrecht's viewpoints.

"One Little Victory"

One little victory
The greatest act can be
One little victory

                                                                      ~ Neil Peart

A few days ago, I split my mind right in half. Somehow, I separated my intellect from my emotions during a low moment.

We all know what it means to be depressed and we can easily council people as to why things are not so bad as they seem. We try to help them get through with logic. If someone is afraid, for instance, that he has a brain tumor because of recurring headaches, but numerous scans and tests say all is well, we say: "The tests were negative. You are fine. You're being illogical." But that doesn't always work, because the emotion of fear can smother the process of reasoning. Emotions can overpower us.

Prestolinguistics

An appeal to those who speak the English language, for the sake of my own sanity. Selfish, yes, but I truly feel I might flip. Only you have the power to prevent Matarazzean flippage. Please consider the following:

Sometimes I think all understanding of the the power of language is gone; for instance, when someone tells me he "literally" is going to explode. This shows no respect for the word "literally." And if it merely shows a lack of understanding, I would submit that this lack of understanding is a sign of diserespect -- one doesn't respect the language enough to learn one of its most effective words.

But sometimes, I think people give the power of words too much respect, as if they believe that a mere statement can alter reality.