A scar? On my eye? This definitely got my attention, as I have always imagined traumatic injuries to the eyeball would have to be indescribably awful.

“I don’t recall ever hurting it,” I told him. “I’ll ask my parents about it.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t know anything about it,” he replied. “Chances are, they didn’t even know.”

My parents might not have been the single best parents in the history of parenting, but I tend to think they’d be fully aware of anything that had the potential to have scarred my eyeball.

“Did you have dogs or cats growing up?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, dogs. Actually, both.” I found the question odd, but maybe he just wanted to distract me from thinking about the aforementioned eye scar, but really, that’s not something you can just easily forget.

“It’s fairly common,” he explained. “You can get an infection from, well, their poop (note: I’m assuming he means dogs/cats here and not my parents). Most people get an infection, get some scarring and never even know it. It’s not really a problem, but it can cause some holes in the eyes down the road.”

I might have passed out a little at “holes in the eyes.”

Later that day, I told Mom about the scar. The following is what she told me:

Does this look like the kind of guy who would like about eye pain?

Um, what?

“You were young. I think it was the second grade. You came home from school, whining about your eye hurting. I told you to go to your room and work on your school work. You came downstairs crying, saying you couldn’t because your eye hurt.

“I told you to go outside and play. You came inside crying, saying you couldn’t because your eye hurt.”

Note: I’m detecting a clear pattern of parenting from my mom, namely the “go do anything away from me” style.

“I looked in your eye, and I couldn’t see anything. You kept telling me it hurt, but I didn’t see anything. We sat down to eat supper, and you didn’t want to eat. You cried and said your eye hurt.

“I finally took you to see Dr. Noss. He took a look and said ‘Rose Lynn, he has a stick stuck in his eye. We’re going to have to pop his eyeball out to remove it.”

Me: “Wait a minute! So at this point, were you feeling appropriately awful since you thought I was faking yet they had to REMOVE MY EYEBALL?”

An artist’s rendering of the medical procedure.

I feel like there are two life lessons to learn here. One, I’m reminded of Matthew 7:3-5:

“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

Mom was too busy with her own routine (and to be fair, it was a busy one; however, allow me to again remind of you STICK IN THE EYEBALL), to truly notice that I was suffering. On my end, I didn’t stop to think that perhaps I could have been slightly more descriptive in terms of my pain and agony, particularly when trying to get Mom from stopping her work around the house, including making a large dinner, to pay attention to me. However, again, I was in the second grade.

Also, I had a stick in my eye.

The second lesson is that despite my mother’s best efforts to keep this story covered up for the past 30 years, I can no longer let her live this down. It will be brought up in every conversation from now until she passes away, and even then, I might bring it up in a eulogy. Every story about her, every conversation with her will involve the eye story.

I’m never going to stop talking about it.

Barnes & Noble can go straight to the fieriest depths of hell, which is, of course, a complete impossibility, but not because it’s a corporate entity already devoid of a soul but because the company is, I’m quite positive, hell itself.

I’ve not always felt this way. As recently as five weeks ago, I championed the company, even to the point of recommending Barnes & Noble’s e-reader, the nook, over the market leader, the Amazon Kindle.


It’s only fitting that the nook logo is a frowny face.

Oh, but then came four weeks ago, at which point the cracks in my long-standing appreciation of Barnes & Noble began to show, culminating into a full-out divorce following things I discovered on Tuesday. I share them with you now, in part to vent, but mostly to caution others who might be considering venturing into the nook world. I hope you will think long and hard against it, opting instead for wiser investments, such as the Kindle or simply tossing your cash out a window and watching it scatter off in the wind.

Mid-February, or In Which Kevin Learns the nook Technical Service People are Incompetent Morons
I spend the bulk of my daily lunch break reading, getting at least a good 45 minutes in before it’s time to start back to the grind. This one particular Thursday, as I got out my nook and prepared to get lost into a new story, I discovered the device had, without warning, completely reset itself, thus causing me to have to re-register the device.

This wouldn’t have been a problem, but my work doesn’t have a public wi-fi connection, so I had to wait until I returned home. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but my home wi-fi simply wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times I tried. I did some trouble-shooting with other devices, and everyone connected without a problem, and my password worked, leaving the fault lying with the nook.

I called customer service, explained the problem, got transferred to the nook technical support, explained the problem again and finally got a bit of help from a friendly representative. The only problem with him, though, was when he said his solution would work “10 out of 10 times,” leading me to believe that I had pretty good odds of it actually working.

It did not.

I called back, only this time, I began my descent through what has become the single worst (and longest) customer experience service in my life. The first person who answered could not be understood. This had less to do with the fact he spoke unintelligible English (although that certainly didn’t help) and more to do with the fact it sounded as though he was sitting in The Loudest Spot on the Planet.

Have you ever called someone who was in a crowded bar or at a concert, and no matter how loudly that person talks, you simply can’t hear much of what they’re saying over the din in the background? This was like that, only somehow louder and more annoying.


I asked the rep repeatedly if perhaps something could be done about the noise, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I mean that quite literally; I doubt he was able to hear me.

He tried to help me, mostly by instructing me to turn the device off and then back on again. He repeated this four more times, none of which proved even slightly more effective than the previous times, unless you include its effectiveness in making me angry.

As he tried again (a sixth time total!) to have me shut the nook off and then on, I snapped.

“How many times can you ask me to do this and think it’s going to do ANYTHING different at all?” I asked, my voice raising.

“Sir, it is what the manual suggests.”

“Six times? SIX TIMES?!? Does it REALLY say that the customer should turn it off and on to infinity, or does it perhaps say that it might work after 17 times? Is that our goal?”

“Sir, I’m simply trying to help.”

“You are failing greatly at that. Also, I can’t take this noise any longer. I need to speak to someone else.”

He placed me on hold, where I waited for over 10 minutes. Barnes & Noble also has terrible hold music. They really need to improve that.

Finally, another rep got on the line, and after a quick review of the problem, he offered a sure-fire solution: “OK, sir, can you please shut the device off and turn it back on?”

I’m not sure what a wolfman feels like the morning after having turned into a wolfman, having terrorized a town at night only to wake up the next morning, back in human form, fairly certain things got out of hand but without a totally clear recollection.


I say that because I went full wolfman on the rep. I don’t recall everything, but there was some yelling, some vague threats, some very specific suggestions and some salty language.

I finally just asked if it wouldn’t be easier for me to take the damaged nook to a brick-and-mortar Barnes & Noble store and have it replaced. The rep agreed, telling me I’d get an email shortly thereafter allowing me to trade in my nook for a refurbished model. I wasn’t too happy about getting a used product, but that’s how their warranty works after 30 days, and, well, a used nook was better than the one I had which didn’t work at all.

By the next evening, I had the replacement nook in hand, back at my house and ready to get everything set up and working. The nook, however, had other ideas, choosing instead to have the exact same problem connecting to wi-fi that my previous one had. Instead of suffering through another call with B&N’s customer service, I searched online and learned several others had experienced a similar problem after switching to AT&T U-Verse for their internet service. This seemed odd because I had asked the technical support person exactly that and was told he’d never heard of such a problem.

I followed the advice on a forum (found on the B&N website, mind you, which maybe the tech support guy should perhaps be familiar with), and fixed the problem in under two minutes.

In order to help others who might be having a problem with this (OK, it was to actually be a smart ass, but whatever), I called the B&N support team and told them about both the problem and the very simple solution.

“Oh, that’s actually the first thing we ask people who have the connectivity problem,” this rep told me.

I’m pretty sure I howled.

Early March, or In Which Kevin Has Problems Getting the Proper Book to Download
I am a fan of the author Frank Bill. He writes gritty stories about towns similar to the one I grew up in, and the fact he’s from southern Indiana (near Louisville, I do believe) only makes it that much better. Last week, I couldn’t wait to download his new novel, Donnybrook, and get reading it over the weekend.

I downloaded it Wednesday night but didn’t open it because I was finishing up another novel. By the time my Thursday lunch break rolled around, I was anxious to open it, so imagine my surprise when despite clicking on a picture of the Donnybrook cover, the book that actually opened was a romance novel called Wed to a Highland Warrior.

I begrudgingly called B&N’s customer service line, and again was met with some lackluster customer service. This time, the rep (who appeared to be in a non-U.S. call center) had trouble accepting my claim from the start.

After I’d explained the situation, he said this: “So to recap, you downloaded the wrong book and need help getting the correct one?”

Um, no.

I tried explaining again, and he read his answers back to me from his manual and assured me that everything should be OK, despite heavily implying he didn’t believe me. He later confirmed this by saying he tried downloading the book on his own, only to see that it opened without a problem.

While this was going on, I took to Twitter to contact the author, who almost immediately wrote back and said I was the second person to have reported that exact problem to him. Look, no offense to Mr. Bill (again, I think he’s an excellent writer), but it’s not as if his book is a massive bestseller. If two people had reported the same problem downloading the book on their nook, it’s highly likely that those were the ONLY two people who had downloaded them on their nook.

Yet Barnes & Noble assured me it wasn’t a problem.

The rep, however, told me he’d refund my money and I could try downloading it again in two weeks. He never gave me a clear indication as to why I’d need to wait two weeks, but I also knew I wouldn’t wait that long because I wanted to read the book now, and this is America and we have no patience.

I ended up ordering a hardcopy of the book (it arrived Monday, and let me tell you, so far, Donnybrook is amazing), and by all accounts my money was refunded. It would have stopped there had it not been for another Twitter message from the author telling me he’d contacted his publisher and the problem was being resolved.

I called B&N back to find out why I’d been given such poor information, and this time the rep tried telling me he could fix everything simply by archiving and then re-opening the original purchase. One problem: the first rep had already deleted my book after giving the refund (which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do). This rep, though, couldn’t understand why the first guy even suggested that because a) it could’ve been fixed in a much easier fashion; and b) for reasons I still don’t understand, once you download a book, if it gets returned you can never download it again.

A hundred monkeys (particularly those dressed in vests) would likely provide better service, and that factors in their proclivity to toss their own poop.

I wrote an email to Barnes & Noble’s customer service center, fully explaining my problems and asking for someone to at least attempt to provide some sort of rationale behind all the bad advice I’d been given. Their answer skirted all issues raised, choosing instead to say they’re shocked because they usually have great customer service. This led to a response of my own:

I really find Barnes & Noble’s response to be lacking. Other than my money being refunded, which frankly isn’t something you should be applauded because you kinda have to give the money back, you’ve done zilch to try to make this better. I’m not a customer service expert (also, neither is anyone I’ve spoken with at Barnes & Noble), but here’s what I would have done after a certain level of customer dissatisfaction: “Sir, we apologize for all the problems, and in an effort to try to make it right, we have provided you with a copy of the book in question, at our cost, in your Nook library. Please enjoy.”
However, that would be a waste of time at this point because I already have the book through other means.
I also want to point out the absurdity of this statement: “The level of service you received is unusual, as we are accustomed to providing the highest quality customer service at all times.” I’m fairly certain you are confused as to the meaning of the words “unusual” and “highest quality,” because the last two major issues I’ve had with Barnes & Noble have been met with the lowest quality of customer service, which to me makes this quite usual.
To help, try this: http://www.amazon.com/Merriam-Websters-Collegiate-Dictionary-Edition-ebook/dp/B000SEGJ5S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1362757226&sr=1-4&keywords=dictionary. When you download it, I hope you actually get the book you ordered. It’s frustrating when you don’t.
In summation, fuck that noise.
Yours very truly,
Kevin Hall

They sent me a $15 gift card.

Mid-March, or In Which the Proverbial Shit Hits the Metaphorical Fan
This past Monday, I received an email from Barnes & Noble saying that in order to process the return of my nook, I would need to contact them with a return authorization code provided in the email.

Seeing as how I had not attempted to return this nook, I found this email puzzling. I replied to it with a simple “Um, what?” and sent a longer email to Dan, a customer service rep with whom I’d previously spoken. Neither of my messages have yet to receive a reply.

On Tuesday, I spent the better part of my lunch break on the phone with various B&N customer service reps, trying to determine why I’d received this mysterious email, and no one could offer much help. Finally, after about 35 minutes on the phone, one rep said my account showed that I’d attempted to purchase a new nook at 5:40 p.m. on Monday.

I assured her I had not.

It was at this point I lost all interest in civility with Barnes & Noble, because someone somewhere had started messing with my account. This is definitely not acceptable, as I told the rep, who said she understood what I was feeling. I told her that I had just learned an unauthorized purchase had been attempted on my account, so I really doubted she fully understood what I was feeling unless she understood that I wanted to reach through the phone and start beating people with all the non-working nooks the company no doubt has in storage.


She gave me a number for the sales auditing department, saying they’d be able to assist me

Tuesday afternoon, I called that department, and after going through everything again, the rep told me they couldn’t help me and that I’d need to call customer service.

“They told me to call you!” I told her.

“I’m not sure why they did that because they would be the ones to help you. Nothing in our records shows anything on your account. I’ll transfer you back to them.”

I think the full moon returned.

The conversation took a turn somewhere along these lines.

“Now you listen to me, and you listen good. You will do nothing of the such. You are going to call them yourself and find out why their computer shows an attempted purchase at 5:40 p.m. and your computer shows nothing. Then you’re going to explain to me just what, exactly, Barnes & Noble is going to do to make this right.”

She at least tried.

The explanation was something along the lines of this: when I returned my nook, the company didn’t completely deregister the device. In the time since I returned it, someone else has bought it and has now returned it, and when they did, I got an email processing the return.

“So, to be clear, your company failed to completely wipe off all my information from my old nook?”

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“You see how that’s a problem?”

“Yes, and to make it right, you have my word we will clear that information now as we switch the registration.”

“You understand that your word means nothing to me, right? I mean, your company is fully of liars and morons and I’m still wondering how you’re going to make this right.”

“You need to talk to our customer service for that.”

“No, I need the number for your legal department for that.”

“We aren’t authorized to transfer calls to them.”

Fortunately, there’s this invention called “Google,” and it’s not difficult at all to find B&N’s legal contact. I prepared a brief email for them, and I think it is about the only way this saga can end:

Dear Barnes and Noble lawyers: I plan on shipping you a fine collection of turds. Most will be of a human origin, but rest assured there will be a mix of cat and dog feces in there as well. I need to know, however, if you prefer UPS or FedEx.

P.S. I will be eating lots of corn.

That’s what happens when you learn that a place as meaningful as Sue’s Hot Dogs is selling its business. Sure, the new owners could possibly keep that Steamshovel Road tradition going, but it just won’t be the same, no matter what happens.

Sue, outside her legendary hot dog stand. (Photo courtesy http://ed-henson.blogspot.com)

Our favorite teams won. Our favorite teams lost. New friendships started. Old friendships grew. Fights broke out. Karate kicks flew (well, that was just from Shane’s grandfather, but still, they were plentiful). Through it all, we had those hot dogs, those chips, those drinks. And that family, Sue and Jesse, taking care of us all.

So, today, as we think back to how much we loved pulling into that gravel lot, walking up to the window of her little trailer and ordering a sack full of hot dogs, I also think back to 1994, when Aaron Saylor and I spent some time doing a silly little radio show – This, That and the Other – on WSKV. (For more about the show, see this blog entry about the Corn Festival). I wrote this song as a tribute to Sue and her tiny, steam-bunned masterpieces.

Forgive the singing (it’s admittedly awful) and the poor production values (although I consider them part of the charm) and enjoy this boot-scootin’ tribute to Sue’s Hot Dogs:

It’s a bit of a shame the year’s best picture, The Master, didn’t even warrant a nomination, but such is the way it goes with challenging films from Paul Thomas Anderson. The year’s next best, Django Unchained, will have to be content with getting a nomination, which, given the content of the film, still is a bit surprising to me.

Only a month ago, Lincoln seemed primed to walk away with the night’s top prize, but since then, Ben Affleck’s Argo has ridden momentum and will likely win Best Picture. I’m actually for this – Lincoln was technically a well-crafted movie in terms of direction, acting and writing, but frankly, it was completely boring through large chunk of its running time. Argo, on the other hand, proved to be a suspenseful and surprisingly funny movie. The fact that it celebrates the film industry also doesn’t hurt its chances (see last year’s win by The Artist for further proof).

I really, REALLY dig this trailer.

I offer my predictions on the top six categories, and I hope to improve on my recent picks: four of six in 2009, 2011 and 2012, with a five of six in 2010.

Keep in mind, these aren’t necessarily who I want to win (I put the Best Picture winners in order like this: Django Unchained, Zero Dark Thirty, Silver Linings Playbook, Argo, Lincoln, Life of Pi and Beasts of the Southern Wild; I haven’t seen Les Miserablesor Amour). I have a pretty solid feeling about four of the six this year, with the biggest unknowns at Best Actress and Best Supporting Actor. I feel like this is Jennifer Lawrence’s to lose, but a lot of support seems to be trending toward Emmanuelle Riva. I’m going to be torn about this one until the winner is announced.

As for Supporting Actor, I could see it going to either Tommy Lee Jones, Robert De Niro or Christoph Waltz, despite the fact Phillip Seymour Hoffman is the most deserving. I’m mostly leaning toward De Niro and Waltz, and of the two, I think Waltz deserves it most but the voters might want to reward a welcome return to actual acting by De Niro.

I wouldn’t be the least bit disappointed if Silver Linings Playbook ended up taking home the Best Picture Oscar.

Best Picture: Argo
Best Director: Steven Spielberg
Best Actor: Daniel Day Lewis
Best Actress: Jennifer Lawrence
Best Supporting Actor: Robert De Niro
Best Supporting Actress: Anne Hathaway

Its sequel, however, is none of that. In fact, it’s pretty much the exact opposite, mostly in that where Jurassic Park is great, The Lost World: Jurassic Park is terrible. As in perhaps the worst big-budget movie I’ve ever seen. Sure, other films might actually be worse, but they aren’t directed by Spielberg, a living legend, winner of multiple Oscars and the most successfully commercial director of all time.

Why pick on The Lost World now, almost 16 years after it came out in theatres? Well, in my defense, I have made most of the arguments (to be listed in a bit) since my initial viewing, but they’ve come back up again after I re-watched it with a friend who had never seen any of the Jurassic Park movies.

So, that being said, here are all the things I that make The Lost World god-awful (in no particular order, other than the biggest reason is at the end; also spoilers ahead):

• Jeff Goldblum’s character, who makes a return trip to an island filled with dinosaurs, continues to wear his trademark all-black clothes. I get that that’s his “look,” but at a certain point, practicality trumps fashion, so when in an environment that will likely require running away from man-eating dinosaurs (a fact, I might add, he points out to others will happen), I think it would be best to perhaps pack at least some sensible footwear other than leather boots.

• No one other than Goldblum seems to think it’s that big of a deal that his daughter stowed away in a trailer and snuck onto the island with them. In fact, his character’s girlfriend, played by Julianne Moore, encourages the daughter’s appearance, but that might just be because the she’s not her mother. Also, Moore plays an environmentally conscious hippie, mostly evidenced by the fact that upon the arrival of other people to the island, she almost immediately asks for granola.

• I cannot stress this enough: Goldblum’s daughter defeats a velociraptor through gymnastics. I repeat: Goldblum’s daughter defeats a velociraptor through gymnastics.

• And not only does she defeat it, the raptor actually stops what it was previously doing (mainly, preparing to kill then devour Goldblum) to watch her gymnastics routine. In Jurassic Park, much was made over the raptors being smart enough to learn how to open doors, but in The Lost World, they’re distracted by kids twirling around on pipes.

• After being freed from cages, a previously sluggish (and by all accounts peaceful) triceratops goes on a full-out rampage, running through tents, crashing equipment, lighting fires and, at one point, apparently tossing a burning jeep hundreds of feet through the air into a tree. At no other point does ANY dinosaur on the island act with such malice.

• Such as a pair of T-Rexes, who seek their injured child by cautiously peering into the medical trailer where its being treated. Do they smash anything to get it? Do they stomp around and growl? Do they at least wave their tiny little arms in a fit of fury? No, no and no. Instead, they carefully assess the situation, keeping a close watch on the scientists until the injured offspring is safely returned.

• At that point, the T-Rexes decided to seek their revenge, but instead of doing T-Rexy things (to wit, eating every living thing in sight), they push the trailer off a cliff. Only they don’t push it all the way off; they leave it teetering on the edge, waiting, I guess, to see what happens next. The lesson being T-Rexes are playground bullies.

• When they take the T-Rex off the island, it is revealed that plans are in place to open a Jurassic Park in San Diego. In fact, much of the park has actually been constructed. I don’t buy this for a second. There is NO WAY that park is getting any sort of approval, but I guarantee Jurassic Park: The Planning and Zoning Stage would be a far superior movie than The Lost World.

• A T-Rex is brought off the island. I had a difficult time declaring three machetes when returning from Haiti. I can’t imagine the paperwork required to bring back a live dinosaur.

• The press conference to show the dinosaur’s arrival on the mainland is in the middle of the night, doesn’t feature a single TV crew and no national media. This is a dinosaur. A living dinosaur. Arriving in the United States. I’m pretty sure CNN would be there. The park’s PR firm should be fired.

Those are all valid points against The Lost World, but they aren’t the primary reason I find it awful. There’s one sequence that absolutely destroys the movie for me. I want to preface this by saying I accept the willing suspension of disbelief in movies. I get that I’m dealing with a movie about living dinosaurs. However, within that world I still expect certain things to make sense, even when I’m watching a T-Rex.

So, about that T-Rex …

Just before the boat makes its grand arrival at the San Diego dock, officials learn the crew isn’t responding, the boat isn’t slowing and things just appear all out of whack. Before long, the ship arrives through the fog and smashes into the dock. As mainland crew members board to investigate, we see clearly that the area where the captain steers the ship is completely intact, including the door. This is important.

Someone notes that the boat’s crew members are in pieces, and the camera pans back to show a bloody arm still grasping the steering wheel. Another arm (it’s not clear as if it’s severed or still attached to a body) is on the deck, holding the contraption that lowers the cargo hold.

At that point, someone pushes the button and behold, the great T-Rex rises from the cargo hold, roars and heads off to wreak havoc in San Diego.

My point is, the T-Rex is large.

Just so we’re clear, the T-Rex (who average about 40 feet long, 18 feet high and roughly 7 tons) escaped from its holding cage, hunted the crew, killed them in the cockpit without the boat sustaining one bit of structural damage (and it couldn’t have reached them with its tiny little T-Rex arms), left some human body parts sitting around, wandered back to the deck, killed a few more people, then lowered itself back down into the cargo hold where it waited patiently for more humans to find it and raise it before it scampered off into the night.

Oh, and it also somehow managed to keep the boat on a perfect course to the dock.

And that, my friends, is why The Lost World is awful.

In 16 years, I’ll discuss my problems with Lincoln.

Let me tell you about Wilco.

First, though, let me make a few introductions: my name is Kevin. You’re going to get to know me pretty well over the years, but for now, I’ll hit the basics of what you should know: Springsteen. Wilco. Scorsese. Tarantino. Football. Seinfeld. Arrested Development. The Simpsons. Football. When you learn to talk, if you’re remotely familiar with any of those things, we’ll get along just fine.

You see that man over there? Probably not, because although I know little about babies who are about 12 hours old, I’m fairly certain I recall reading that they can’t see long distances. OK, so how about this? The next time the bearded redhead holds you, the one in the Phillies cap, that’s your dad. His name is Cory. I’ve known him a long time, and one thing I know about him more than just about anything else, he’s waited for this day more than you (or anyone) can possibly imagine (realizing, of course, you are 12 hours old and can’t imagine anything right now, but even when you are much much older, the sentiment will be the same).

Charlie, I first met your dad when he was 6 or 7 years old. He was precocious, which is a fancy way of saying “your dad was a bratty little turd.” At that time, in the mid-1980s, he was rather well known in Powell County because he was, even at that young age, a regular columnist for The Clay City Times. The debate raged (still does to some) over how much writing your dad actually did for his column, but anyone who knows Cory knows full well that he still writes like a 6-year-old.

His “Cory’s Comments” column proved to be a must-read for Powell Countians, and I was no exception. It seemed everyone who was anyone wanted to interact with your dad in hopes of getting a few sentences of fame in our small-town newspaper. One summer day, while at the farm of our county’s agricultural agent, I finally had my chance for the spotlight, as I delighted your dad repeatedly by showing him how a dog could sit and shake hands. As he laughed, I envisioned my future glory, knowing that teachers and fellow students alike at Stanton Elementary would marvel at my dog-command skills, and for a week, I’d be the toast of the town, or at least the fifth grade.

When the newspaper finally published the next week, Charlie, you cannot fathom my surprise when I failed to warrant even the scantest mention in your dad’s column. I no longer remember the content he chose over me, but suffice it to say it paled in comparison to my ability to shake hands with a dog.

Yes, Charlie, I’m still bitter.

But that’s really not the point. I’m still getting there (another thing you’ll no doubt learn about me: I can be long-winded, but I always have a point, and I will tie everything together in the end).

Now, Charlie, I take you back to late 1994 or early 1995 at Powell County High School. It was the night of a basketball game, and as I walked down the steps from the concession area upstairs, I passed by a young redheaded guy going up the stairs. At the time, my friend Aaron and I were planning our second season of an ill-fated radio show in Stanton, and I knew your dad was a fan. Seeing him on those stairs, I pounced on the chance to bring him into the fold and onto the show, pitching it as a way to do an updated “Cory’s Comments” but over the airwaves instead of print.

He accepted immediately.

To say that my life changed that day would be an understatement.

Charlie, I honestly can’t imagine my life without your dad in it. We became fast friends, going almost everywhere together (except to a Weezer concert that I honestly thought was for ages 18-plus), and perhaps no night was his involvement more noticeable than a summer night in 1996. That’s the night, Charlie, that your dad helped me meet the woman who would become my wife (OK, so she eventually became my ex-wife, but let’s just ignore that for now).

Standing in front of Delta Gas in the middle of Stanton, my group of friends and I kept noticing two girls in a convertible driving around the circle. Nobody had the guts to motion for them to pull over, although I kept talking about wanting to do so. Finally, your dad had enough and called me a name that I can’t print here but can explain it this way: you know that area you came out of a few hours ago when you entered this world? That’s what he called me.

I accepted the challenge, flagged the girls down, rode around town with them, and the next thing you know, a few years later we were married. The marriage didn’t last, Charlie, and that’s a hard fact of life you’ll learn: not every story comes out perfect in the end. Life is tough, but sometimes the friends who help you start the story will still be there when an unexpected end comes into play.

Your dad is that friend, Charlie.

But Charlie, I don’t mean to make it sound like your dad is a saint. No parent is perfect, and in an odd way, that’s really what makes them perfect, and if imperfection is the measuring point then your dad might be as perfect as it gets.

You see, Charlie, your dad and I haven’t always gotten along. We’ve almost had fistfights more times than I can count. We’ve had shouting matches. We’ve said cruel, hateful things.

And once we went years without talking.

The reasons don’t matter, other than to say we were both wrong, and we were both stubborn.

What matters, though, are two things: one, even despite being on non-speaking terms, your dad still came to my wedding, realizing that even though times might have been rough for us at that exact moment, perhaps the friendship was worth investing in just in case somewhere down the line we patched things up again.

Here’s the other thing that matters: we patched things up again. One evening in the summer of 2002, I came home from work, checked my email and found a note called “olive branch.” It was from your dad.

I don’t recall the exact wording, but it was along the lines of how it was time to let bygones be bygones and if a once-powerful friendship could somehow find a way to heal, then he would be in favor of it.

Now, Charlie, here’s why I want to tell you about Wilco. Your dad’s words hit me hard, and I couldn’t let them go unnoticed. I agreed to try to become friends again, and as part of my own olive branch offering, I invited him to see Wilco as they toured for Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

That night at the Brown Theatre in Louisville, we sat in the second row and marveled at the music before us. In that moment, the past wasn’t forgotten; it was just put aside as lessons learned.

Charlie, we haven’t looked back.

Since then, your dad and I have become brothers, which is what happens when you go through things, both good and bad, that can barely be put into words. Charlie, the day will come in which you’ll find yourself hanging out with Lollapalooza VIPs playing kickball or recovering from tragedies so immense they still seem unreal, but either way, I hope you have someone like your dad by your side much like I did. He is my friend, my brother, the Little Steven to my Springsteen (I’m writing this, so I can full well allow myself to be Bruce in this scenario).

Charlie, this man who holds you will mess up. I assure you that he will.

But more importantly, this man who holds you will give you everything he has, for as long as he can.

I tell you that with certainty because he’s done that for me.

So, Charlie, today, in honor of you coming into this world, and for every Jan. 15 from here on out, I will listen to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I’m not sure I’d be writing to you today without that album, and for that, I’m forever grateful to Wilco.

Oh, and Charlie, when you wear that Wilco jumper I gave your parents at their baby shower, now you’ll know what it really means. Yes, some people raised their eyebrows and wondered why one of Cory’s closest friends didn’t get a more elaborate gift, opting instead for something plugging one of my favorite bands.

The truth is, Charlie, that shirt, and the lyrics printed on it, represent the past, the present and the future. Your shirt says “Wilco loves you, baby.”

Charlie, we all do.

Last year, though, I opted for an overarching list that included all things I loved about the year, so I’m now thinking that’s the way to go. Oddly enough, this year, I had a hard time narrowing my TV shows down to 10 – we really are in an amazing era of quality TV. Note: These aren’t necessarily listed in order of favorites or quality.

So, I give you The 2012 List of So … There I Was’ Favorite Things

TV

Louie: This past year, three shows went so far past what other shows are doing that they deserve special awards just for themselves. Louie (the other two follow immediately on this list) led the way, going from a collection of short films about a comedian’s life to a series of Oscar-worthy short films about life itself. Louie proved to be the most accomplished piece of art I experienced in 2012.

Breaking Bad: The first half of the final season (the last half comes in Summer 2013) kept the show running at its usual high standards. Based on how the series ends its run, I’m prepared to call it my favorite drama of all time.

Mad Men: I’ve always appreciated Mad Men but never loved it. This past season completely changed that for me. It had no less than four episodes that belong on a list of “best episodes I’ve seen on TV,” and the show continued to prove that creator Matt Weiner has an overall vision he’s trying to achieve.

Parks and Recreation: A perfect balance of laughs and sweetness with a cast in which every single person could be the star of his or her own series.

Happy Endings: In terms of laughs, it’s the funniest pure comedy on network television. They throw so many jokes at the audience, and, surprisingly, most of them land.

Fringe: OK, so a weird show got weirder, but even in doing so, it remained a fascinating look at the lengths people will go to help the ones they love. Also, would someone please finally honor John Noble for the work he’s doing as Dr. Peter Bishop, one of the most wonderful characters ever created for television?

Homeland: When it’s good, it’s very good, but when it’s bad, it’s laughable. Fortunately, it stays very good most of the time.

Childrens Hospital: With no semblance of continuity, Childrens Hospital aims to do one thing and one thing only: make you laugh. It always succeeds.

30 Rock: After two so-so seasons, 30 Rock has returned to its brilliant form in its last season, giving a fitting farewell to Liz Lemon and company.

Downton Abbey: I love the show so much I couldn’t wait for Season 3, so I watched the BBC version. US fans are going to LOVE it.

Community: I always respected the show but never loved it. With the inventive episodes this year, I went firmly over into the “love it” camp.

Veep: While Girls gets most of HBO’s buzz, Veep proved to be one of the most consistently hilarious shows on television.

Music
Wrecking Ball by Bruce Springsteen: Bruuuuuuuce!

King Tuff by King Tuff: Pure adrenaline-fueled rock n roll. I only discovered this album in early December, and I’ve barely stopped listening to it.

Channel Orange by Frank Ocean: If Prince had been influenced by modern hip-hop, this is the album he would have made after Purple Rain.

Handwritten by Gaslight Anthem: Primary writer Brian Fallon moves past the broad strokes painted in previous songs and zeroes in on his own world, giving intimate lyrics with an anthemic sound.

The Tempest by Bob Dylan: In case you aren’t aware, Mr. Dylan can craft a song.

Boys and Girls by Alabama Shakes: The album is fantastic, but nothing can compare to seeing them live.

Movies

The Master: Paul Thomas Anderson makes challenging films, and this one is his most challenging to date. The pre-release buzz was that it was a fictionalized take on the founding of Scientology, but it proved to be an intense (and fascinating) character study about one man’s animalistic nature.

Django Unchained: Quentin Tarantino’s slave-revenge fantasy is his most linear movie to date, and it’s filled with great acting and gorgeous shots. It’s pure adrenaline in film form.

Moonrise Kingdom: Pure perfection from Wes Anderson, who deserves more Oscar buzz for this look at early love. It also has my favorite line of the year.

Wanderlust: If you can watch Paul Rudd’s ad-libbed mirror scene and not laugh and laugh hard, then I’m not sure I want to know you.

The Hunger Games: Big expectations, bigger payoff. This is exactly how adaptations of blockbuster young adult novels should be done.

The Dark Knight Rises: I didn’t expect it to be as good as The Dark Knight, and it wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean it’s not nearly perfect in its own way. Bane proved to be the perfect force of nature to take on Batman, and director Christopher Nolan provided a fitting end to a landmark trilogy.

Skyfall: James Bond is back in the year’s best pure action movie. It’s almost enough to make you forget about the terribleness of Quantum of Solace.

Argo: Ben Affleck, Oscar-nominated director. Yes, we’re a few months away from living in that world.

Books
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn: Just when you think you might know what’s happening, Flynn flips it all out from under you.

This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz: In this interconnected collection of short stories, Diaz continues showing why everything he writes is worth devouring.

Dream Team by Jack McCallum: As good as the 1992 Olympic men’s basketball team was, the behind-the-scenes stories are even better.

The Wind Through the Keyhole by Stephen King: I did not want King to return to his masterpiece, The Dark Tower series, because there was no need to mess with perfection. In this one-off story, King does what he does best: spins an interesting yarn (in this case, two).

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green: Kids with cancer? Sounds depressing, and it is, but it’s also beautifully written. Read this immediately.

Live by Night by Dennis Lehane: A prohibition-era gangster tell set in Boston then the South that almost begs to be adapted into a movie.

In One Person by John Irving: My favorite author returns to form with a beautiful and stunning novel.

You’re Not Doing it Right by Michael Ian Black: The comedian deftly blends big laughs with real emotion in this book about marriage and raising a child.

The Last Great Game by Gene Wojciechowski: It makes Duke fans appreciate Kentucky , and, maybe vice versa.

Sewerville by Aaron Saylor I’d love this book even if it hadn’t been written by one of my best friends. Buy it at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Concerts

Bruce Springsteen (April 17 in Cleveland and Nov. 3 in Louisville): Sunday school and church. The Louisville show very well could be the best concert I’ve ever seen.

Alabama Shakes (Oct. 8 in Louisville): I’ve made it clear I’m not a fan of hipsters, mainly because I can’t stand people who can’t get passionate about anything. However, as the Shakes concluded their set, I saw people, the hipsterish hipsters among them, openly weeping and shouting/stomping for more. That’s how good this band is live.

Radiohead (June 5 in Cincinnati): I never know how international acts like Radiohead will do in venues outside of New York, Los Angeles or Chicago, but I can’t imagine how they could get too much better than this night in Cincinnati.

Wilco (July 15 in Louisville): For my first Forecastle Festival, I went for one band, and they, as usual, didn’t disappoint.

Gaslight Anthem (July 18 in Nashville): It didn’t hurt that I was almost on the stage in a small venue.

Steve Earle (Aug. 23 in Cincinnati): I will always regret bumping into Steve Earle pre-show on the streets of Cincinnati and not at least offering to buy his dinner.

It was Christmas, and he was alone.

His name was Edmond. While he studied for a medical degree at the University of Kentucky, living by himself in a tiny apartment, his family — a wife and two small kids — remained at his home in Africa.

Edmond struggled with his English, botching several words and phrases, but what he lacked in “Americanized” speaking skills, he made up with is smile and laughter.

I worked with Edmond at the shipping warehouse for Gall’s Inc., a Lexington-based company, in the winter of 1998. Gall’s was, to be perfectly honest, a miserable place. Dry, hot air suffocated the workers, causing many long nights of frustration and fighting. But for some reason, this group took to Edmond, joking with him about his lack of knowledge on basketball and teasing him about girls. For the most part of that season, we all enjoyed his company and hoped to make him feel a little like he had some family in Kentucky.

One night while picking packages from a central aisle in the warehouse, J.J. asked Edmond about his holiday plans.

First of all, J.J. was an idiot. Edmond, with no family and few friends outside of Gall’s, had no holiday plans other than volunteering to work on Christmas day.

Second of all, J.J. was a genius. At least, he had an inspired moment or stumbled into it, but for whatever the reason, J.J.’s stupid question proved to be a blessing.

Once word spread throughout the warehouse — and if you’ve never worked in a warehouse, gossip travels faster than warp speed — the holiday spirit filled the air and the workers emptied their pockets to share with Edmond.

We found out he had always wanted a VCR. What a perfect gift that would make, we all thought. After Big Dave (and that’s not one of those ironic nicknames like calling a fat guy “Skinny”) made his way around to the 70-some workers, Edmond’s Christmas pot had about $150.

J.J. said he knew where he could get his hands on a nice VCR for $80, so we let him handle that end of the deal. Most of us assumed he would simply box up his old VCR, wrap it and spend the $80 on a new one for himself, but as long as Edmond received one, we didn’t care where it came from.
For my younger readers, this is a VCR. It’s kind of like a Blu-ray player for video tapes.

The rest of the cash went toward some movies, blank video tapes and a pre-paid phone card so he could call his wife and kids.

Word of our kindness soon made its way to the rest of the company, and Gall’s executives decided to get involved. But rather than send money or provide gifts, they did something even better: they showed up for the presentation of the gifts so they could bask in our warmth and feel good about themselves. We really loved those guys.

Everyone gathered in the break area in the front corner of the building, Edmond stayed behind, still picking orders on aisle “BC.” We sent Tatum, a wonderful girl who dated a guy who actually went by the nickname “Booger,” to fetch our new friend.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as he saw us huddled around a few packages and Tatum announced, “Edmond, since your family is so far away, we wanted you to spend this Christmas with your new family at Gall’s.”

He tore open the wrapping on his package, and when he saw it was a VCR, he whooped like a child receiving his first baseball mitt. “This is for me?” he asked.

He smiled. Then he cried.

We all followed. And we felt damn good about our generosity.

A week later, Edmond quit Gall’s. That’s not entirely true. He just stopped showing up for work. Our goodwill soon turned to anger followed by a desire to track him down and beat him with candy canes.

We had no such luck, though. We were burned by the Christmas spirit and decided from that point on to spend our money on those we loved the most: ourselves.

And to this day, we have no idea what happened to Edmond.

Or our VCR.

It wasn’t.

It was ugly.

It was messy.

It was destined to scar the fragile psyche of the loser, who was so thoroughly trounced, he might never re-enter the world of politics.

Simply put, it was the greatest landslide victory (or the most lopsided defeat, depending on your vantage point) ever seen in American politics, the effects of which are still being felt to this day.

I, for one, have yet to fully recover.

Actually, I think I’m the only one who hasn’t recovered.

No doubt, most of you are thinking of Walter Mondale, he of the 13 measly electoral votes collected in the 1984 presidential election, while his opponent, President Ronald Reagan, mopped up with 525.

I think I’m the only person who makes even Mondale look like a champ.

You see, in 1984, I squared off against James Clark for the right to be the fourth-grade president of Pam Collins’ classroom at Stanton Elementary. I didn’t actively seek the position; my dear friend, Sarah King, nominated me for the spot. Now that I think about it, perhaps “dear friend” might not be an apt description for her.

For about a week, James and I campaigned furiously in the classroom, brashly making outlandish promises we had no way of ever fulfilling: “less homework, more ice cream;” “University of Kentucky basketball superstars Sam Bowie and Melvin Turpin will visit our classroom at least once a week;” and “We promise to get Mrs. Collins fired.”

I felt good about my chances. Everyone knew me (but then, it was a classroom of 28 kids, so everyone knew James, too), and everyone liked me.

Or so I thought.

Election Day rolled around, and students headed to the polls. By that, I mean Mrs. Collins asked us to put our heads down, making sure to keep our eyes covered. She then asked those who wanted to elect James to raise their hands, followed by the same request for those supporting me.

She tallied the votes, made a few notes and instructed us to return to our normal, upright positions. Excitement filled the room, with each of these 9- and 10-year-olds anxious to know who would be representing them, or maybe everyone was ready for recess and another round of “steal the bacon” and/or kickball.

Mrs. Collins asked James and me to join her in the hallway, and I began practicing my victory speech in my head.

She gathered us close together in the hallway, pulling the door shut to give us some privacy. I was sure she didn’t want the 26 other students to have to watch James cry.

“I’m going to give you the results, but you have to promise never to tell anyone what they are,” she told us.

Sure, sure. Just tell us who won.

She showed us her notebook.

Either a) her college education properly failed to teach her how to adequately soften the pending humiliation of a child; b) the final count struck her dumb, rendering her completely unable to tactfully express the tally; or c) she wanted to avoid any and all liability in ruining a child’s life. No matter the reason, a few pen strokes in a notebook made fully clear what she could not:

James Clark, 27. Kevin Hall, 1.

Although it hurts to admit it, in the interest of truthfulness, I should probably point out here that I had a running mate.

And I still finished with one vote.

Another person, the aforementioned Miss King, nominated me.

And I still finished with one vote.

At one point, I considered not voting for myself, thinking that it would be egotistical and that taking the moral high road would benefit me later in life.

I’m glad I changed my mind.

So, to all of the candidates seeking the many offices open in Scott County and Georgetown, understand that somebody has to finish last. Yes, your feelings will be hurt. And unlike Mrs. Collins, I won’t promise never to tell anyone. In fact, it will be printed in our paper and online for all the world to see.

Just don’t take it personally. Laugh a little. Learn a lot. Come back next time ready to make the changes to get more votes.

After all, the following year, Sarah King again nominated me for the fifth-grade presidency, and I, being a glutton for punishment, accepted. This time, however, I won.

James Clark must have been absent that day.