Heaven help us.

While the numbers of students graduating each year from colleges, universities, graduate programs and professional schools tell a different story, few people who have truly explored the phenomenon of the "dumbing of America" doubt its reality. At a time of increased technological literacy—particularly among America's youngest generation—it is easy to assume (erroneously) that instant and text messaging, the 24-hour news cycle, virtual forums, online discussion boards, and the Internet in general are bringing unprecedented levels of information and copious opportunities to develop communicative abilities. Wrong.

As a regrettable and poignant illustration of my point, take for example the following excerpts from comments posted in response to a Youtube video. These are actual, unaltered comments from Youtube users. Heaven help us.


ashleyluver82
sorry... NICE* If you are small minded the astric (yes that is what the little star thingy is called) means that I am correcting a typing error from my last response.

tomatojt
...those who cannot properly spell ASTERISK ought not refer to others as "small minded" (especially given the fact that "small minded" usually means "selfish, petty, or narrow-minded" not "ignorant" or "uninformed".)

captaintripps6969
LOL! What the hell IS an atric?!?!

tomatojt
An asterisk, as explained correctly by ashleyluver82—albeit spelled incorrectly—is "what the little star thingy is called". See the little "*" above the number 8 on your keyboard? That's it. As far as I know, an "atric" doesn't exist. Best of luck to you.

OMG

Yesterday on Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion, Billy Collins (US Poet Laureate, 2001-2003) shared several short and delightful poems, two of which ("Flock" and "Oh My God") have been faithfully transcribed below. Also included are the introductions he provided with the pieces.

...I began to write this when I came across a sentence in an article about printing. and the sentence was "it has been calculated that each copy of the Guttenburg Bible required the skins of 300 sheep." So a fairly short poem called "Flock":

I can see them squeezed into the holding pen
Behind the stone building
Where the printing press is housed,
All of them squirming around
To find a little room
And looking so much alike
It would be nearly impossible to count them, and there is no telling
Which one will carry the news that the Lord is a shepherd,
One of the few things they already know.

I have a little poem which is titled "Oh My God," which is an expression that you hear rather frequently these days. There's "Oh, My God," and then there's another expression, "I was like 'Oh, My God,' which doesn't make much sense to me. "Say, what were you like as a child?" "I was like, Oh...my God." I don't know what that means. But here it is; it's short form. Oh, My God.

Not only in church

and nightly by their bedsides

do young girls pray these days.

Wherever they go,

prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe.

Even in the pedestrian mall

outbursts of praise spring unbidden

from their glossy lips.

Class-ified

Today I went to South Coast Plaza with the hopes of returning a Lacoste polo; the transaction hinged on finding something I liked better for which to exchange my shirt. Mission: failed.

Who knew I could ever, EVER feel so out of place among bourgouise! I felt awash in uncomfortability and insecurity in ways I can't recall having felt before. E.g. While in Hugo Boss, I noticed a female customer's gaze, which she concealed in a perfunctory and rather ineffective way. The woman kept peering demi-discreetly at my bag to see where I had been shopping. Sad is the fact that she felt compelled to size me up based on name-branding, but sadder still was my relief that I carried a Nordstrom's bag, and not one from Penny's or Sears. (I know, I know: I've already admitted how pathetic that reaction was, so there's no need to leave comments about it for this post.) What kind of person judges others on such a thing? And what kind of person seeks approval and validation from those who judge others in this way?

Essentially everyone at South Coast (with a few notable exceptions) was decked out in duds that cost, mmm...each outfit probably cost about as much as I've made in the past month. Observing the well-heeled isn't a particularly novel experience for me, but this was super-high-end-couture made to look casual, to give the impression that the wearer wasn't trying too hard. The effect was bizarre...almost surreal: it was conspicuous consumption made to look effortless and natural. It was conspicuous consumption under the facade of inconspicuousness—an ingenious design achieving the ultimate aim, inspiring awe through an ostentatious display of wealth. Their apparel screamed out, "LOOK AT ME! I'm so rich, I can waste money on clothing that looks thrift store, but cost about as much as you spent last year on gasoline. I'm so rich, I can afford not to show it off."

Naturally the insecurities about my socio-economic status [which, upon further reflection, I found to be totally unfounded: standard-of-living-wise, I'm sure I'm in the top 1% demographic for income of all the world's citizens] brought out my pensive, self-reflective side. As I analyzed my feelings of shame, it occurred to me that they might have a different genesis: my guilt stemmed from my complicity of desiring to and being a part of the South Coast culture. I wanted to blend in and match in my Lacoste polo (which does look very good on me, btw). One thought led to another (as thoughts so often do), and soon I was awash in guilt: guilt from materialism, guilt from living in so wealthy a country, in so wealthy a state, guilt from shopping in one of the most decadent, ostentatious bastions of conspicuous consumption in the known universe. Guilt for wanting South Coasters' approval, guilt for being a part of their game...and for dessert at this guilt buffet: a sense of revulsion at their wealth and the prodigal ways that they spend it—all topped off with a little crème fraîche.

I should point out here that the whole shopping experience wasn't so neurosis-inducing. While the workers at John Varvatos made me feel "less than" [despite the fact that they are the ostensible servants and I am the client], the salespeople at Bloomingdale's were kind and hospitable. It was particularly bad at Hugo Boss, where the retailers took one look and me, sized up my credit limit, and snubbed me in an effort to hasten my exit from their store. Apparently I was polluting their rarefied air with my carbon-based life. Mortals are not welcome in the kingdom of sweetness and light.

And because no commentary on South Coast Plaza would be complete without a dollop of hypocrisy, allow me to indulge in a little superficiality of my own, by way of an observation I made while shopping. I saw two very...heavy-set (is that term still PC?) women walking into A&F. What's the deal with that? Don't they feel uber out of place in a repository of images of half-naked women, all unashamedly and quite blatantly a very narrow view of what constitutes 'beautiful' and 'fashionable'? (The definitions to these two terms, according to the photos bedecking the A&F walls, do not include shoppers with body fat percentages over 2%.) I suppose if they can feel okay going into a store like that, I should feel comfortable enough with my class-ification to shop at South Coast—but seriously, what were they going to buy there? They'd have to each buy two XXLs garments each and sew them together to get enough fabric to produce something that might reasonably be expected to cover their bodies.

No cause for complaints

Uber-demotion and socio-economic relegation to a position I thought I had escaped long, long ago: I'm back as a receptionist at my mom's real estate office. It's only a temporary gig until the office can find a permanent receptionist; it gives me something to do in the mornings and early afternoons until SAT classes get underway later in the day. Though the pay is only about a third of what I get for my SAT work (and this includes a secret pay increase above what the other receptionists get), there are some perks, namely that I get to eat lunch each day with my mom, and my limited computer/technology/ergonomics skills have officially crowned me the office genius.

Today I took an extended lunch, and I felt like a Jamba Juice, the nearest franchise of which is at the Downey Landing, a strip mall-type place about 12 minutes away from the office. As usual, the radio in the Prius was set to NPR, whose lunchtime fare includes PRI's The World, a show co-produced by NPR and the BBC. Though lunch is usually one of the least demanding parts of my day at the office, I found myself confronted with what must be the most disturbing story I've ever heard on NPR [and I have been exposed to more than my fair share of public radio].

A BBC correspondent was interviewing one survivor of the Democratic Republic of Congo's civil war:

...After they killed the members of my family, 19 members of the Interahamwe raped me, and then they killed 2 of my children in front of me. and then they took the baby off my back, and they tied a rope around it's neck and they forced me to pull the rope and kill my own baby. I was with my brother, and my sister-in-law. They cut off the hands of my sister in law and they tried to force my brother to rape me. My brother said, "You're my sister, I cannot rape you. If I rape you, I'll die, and if I don't rape you, they'll kill me. So I prefer that they kill me. " So the Interahamwe cut his head off.

If these men are ever caught, what would you like to happen to them?

Because I am a Christian woman, I can't meet evil with evil. But the only thing I can ask you for is to make these Interahamwe go back to Rwanda. Even if I stay alone in my own village, at least I'm with my Congolese brothers and sisters and I know that people will look after me. But please, I'm asking everyone to send the Interahamwe back to Rwanda.

As the story finished, I pulled into the parking lot, and despite the lunchtime rush, was fortunate enough to see a car pulling out of its space. I turned on my signal, and the car came toward me, which allowed a Johnny-come-lately driver access to the spot before I could get it. I felt something akin to fury welling up inside me. What kind of person steals a parking spot when another car has clearly been waiting for it and has its blinker on indicating dips?!

My righteous indignation was quickly quashed as I reflected on the Congolese woman's refusal to seek revenge—or even justice—after the attrocities perpetrated against her. If she can forgive the men who murdered her family, killed two of her children in front of her eyes, gang-raped her and forced her to strangle her own child, my reasoning went, I think I can overlook this parking faux pas. I suppose it's all about perspective.

* * * * * * * *
For the whole interview, click here.
(if the above link doesn't work, click here instead, and find "Congo report (4:00).")

Kids say the darnedest things

Today in my SAT class somehow we found ourselves afloat in the sea of the Imus controversy. I'm not exactly sure how we ended up there, but knowing how way leads on to way, we were unable to 'come back' to the principals of writing for quite some time...

Curious to aggregate my students' opinions on the whole affair (or at least on certain particulars), I asked whether they considered the whole brouhaha much ado about nothing, an offense to both minority groups and women alike, or something in between. Several indicated that in the circles in which they travel, racial epithets are often terms of endearment, and when they are not, it's best to shrug them off rather than endow them with more power by making a fuss. [Just in case it wasn't clear, here's my indemnification: these are high school students, the opinions of whom I am neither officially endorsing nor repudiating. I'm just passing along a very small (and possibly unrepresentative) sample of their collective psyche. If you have objections—or kudos—I'm a messenger who can pass those along, but one who will by no means stand to be the final recipient of either sentiment.]

One student, Mr. Michael Ahn, commented that "if adults knew the things kids say in schools, they would go crazy," presumably because he considered the Imus comment relatively harmless in comparison to the daily regimen of political incorrectness to which students find themselves exposed. And this revelation brought to mind a sentiment I recently came across in David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster.

In one of the essays comprising that devilishly and delightfully clever book, Wallace points out that political correctness, for all its current fashionability, simply obfuscates the real problems of racism, sexism, classicism, et al, by cloaking them in acceptable terminology. As a society, Wallace asserts, we have been duped into believing that using the language of inclusivity and acceptance equates with adopting those values. Rather than promoting tolerance, this parlance of the socially polite has allowed discrimination and hatred not only to remain extant, but to thrive under the disguise of politically correct verbiage.

It would not, I feel, be too far of a stretch to believe Mr. Wallace might assert that contrary to the public upbraiding Imus received, he is due our gratitude for his clear and unequivocal use of terms deemed too vulgar for use in polite company. Though his bigotry is not to be condoned, much less endorsed, I can't help but surmise there are at least a few out there who appreciate the way his unveiled contempt has brought a real social problem out of the shadows and into public scrutiny.

Revelation, Revolution

I recently attended a baby shower for my friend Carissa, whom I met during my freshman year of high school in geometry class. [In fact, Carissa is the demonic genius responsible for my screen name and email address: having established herself at the front of my aisle, she was the gatekeeper of sorts for all homework that had to make it's way to our teacher. Somehow it got out that I enjoy growing my own produce, and Carissa being Carissa found herself in the vise of an irresistible compulsion to scrawl "TOMATO BOY" across the top of every assignment I submitted. We need not delve into the torment I endured at her hand because of my neurotic need to appear neat, professional and all-around-straight-laced before my teachers, but her graffiti was the source of much duress until I accepted the helpless estate to which I was relegated as the result of my seat assignment. But enough about Carissa; let's put the focus of this story back on me, where it belongs:] There I was, enjoying the delectable spread offered at the Los Coyotes Country Club, and partaking in lively banter among friends. But just as every rose has its thorns, I suppose ever bourgeois country club event is susceptible to a moment of reality.

Friend: I feel like we're all getting older: baby showers, engagements, marriages.
JT: [with mischievous grin indicating a moment of humor] Yeah, good luck with that whole aging thing. Lemme know how it works out for you.
Friend, rather than appearing amused at the clever joke, adopts a look of offense at the insinuation that Friend is aging but JT is not. Friend: Yes, JT. And part of getting older is making money. It's nice; you should try it sometime. [Having effectively belittled JT, Friend shoots a look of vengeful satisfaction from Friend's eyes.]

At that moment, I was struck with a feeling of complete Loserosity. It's one thing to be in want of a career, a child, a wife or even a girlfriend, but having one's loser status pointed out to him by Friend, a successful professional in possession of that which one lacks, is a very cruel cut indeed.

Still smarting from that conversation, I found myself complaining to Eddie earlier today about bloggers who are "living the life," i.e. those who blog for a living. There are writers who are read on NPR, who, like professional bloggers, seem to inhabit a realm somewhere between the second and third spheres of Dante's Paradiso. In a special category all of his own is David Sedaris, whom I admonished Eddie not to bring up, for fear of the violent fit of envy the mention of his name induces.

But then as I was scheduling my week, I realized how saturated with blessing my life really is. (I had a hard time squeezing in my small group meeting and tuxedo shopping because of my full schedule, which includes preparing to teach youth group this Friday, arranging the skit for youth Sunday at church, making preparations for our young adult retreat, private tutoring a friend in AP biology, &c.) I am involved in my church's youth ministry, which helps steer 20-some adolescents into adulthood, navigating the pitfalls and dangers of the teen years (and those of us who have emerged on the other side can testify that those pitfalls are many).

On Tuesday, I am going shopping with a student for his prom tuxedo. After my chat with Eddie, I realized what an honor this is: as far as high schoolers go, prom and graduation are basically the two most monumental occasions around. They're the closest things we have to coming-of-age rites in this society. And here is a very bright, promising teen asking me to pick out the vestments for his initiation into adulthood (due probably just as much to his trust in my person as to his belief in my fashion savvy). *I* am living the life.

During my time of wound-licking contemplation, I was also reminded of the insight recently shared by a friend in Sunday school in a discussion on John 21:

Simon Peter saith unto them, "I go a fishing." They say unto him, "We also go with thee." They went forth, and entered into a ship immediately; and that night they caught nothing.

But when the morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore: but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus. Then Jesus saith unto them, Children, have ye any meat? They answered him, "No." And he said unto them, Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find.

They cast therefore, and now they were not able to draw it for the multitude of fishes...And the other disciples came in a little ship; (for they were not far from land, but as it were two hundred cubits,) dragging the net with fishes. As soon then as they were come to land, they saw a fire of coals there, and fish laid thereon, and bread. Jesus saith unto them, Bring of the fish which ye have now caught. Simon Peter went up, and drew the net to land full of great fishes, an hundred and fifty and three: and for all there were so many, yet was not the net broken.

I considered that when our catch seems most empty, when we most fear an empty catch, Jesus will come and give us instruction. And when we choose to obey, our nets will be filled. Though my life is overflowing, Jesus will hold everything together without any tearing, so that no blessing will be lost.

I ♥ Huckabee

In my presidential predictions, I forecasted the ascension of Senator Clinton to America's great throne. Unfortunately, it looks as though I will have to stand by that pronouncement, at least for the time being.

...unless, of course, the Democratic party implodes on itself worse than the GOP has. Or unless Carl Rove masterminds a genocide against every Democrat in the country—and I wouldn't put it past him, since he seems ruthless and crafty enough. (Please, my donkey-loving friends, take good care of yourselves for the next 18 months! I shudder to even think of what the American version of the Holocaust would look like.) Barring those two scenarios, a third Clinton presidency seems pretty ineluctable.

But that doesn't stop a boy from dreaming. Tonight I watched the first debate to help find the GOP candidate for the 2008 election, and I think I have fallen in electoral love with a candidate of whom I had previously never heard. In fact, because I didn't have time to watch the entire debate, I didn't even catch his name, a name which I searched the internet for when I got home tonight. That man's name is Mike Huckabee.

So what about Mr. Huckabee proved so irresistible? Unlike some of the other candidates, he responds candidly and spontaneously to the questions that are presented to him, instead of drifting toward safe, scripted "talking points." [Senator McCain bore a discomforting resemblance to a mechanical drone as he relied on an obviously scripted message, with pre-programmed gesticulation that made him appear to be doing "the Robot."] In my mind, answering questions directly and honestly—even when I disagree with the answers—is preferable to equivocation and ambiguity.

Unlike some of the other candidates, he is articulate, and (dare I say) presidential. [Did anyone notice how even moderator Chris Matthews grimaced and muttered an embarrassed "Oh, God," at congressman Ron Paul's pitifully simplistic and regrettably stupid response to a question regarding Constitutional amendment?] After seven years of a president who has misunderestimated the difficulties associated with spitting out a coherent sentence, it would be nice to have a head of state who uses real words and arranges them in a sequence that follows what other Americans recognize as a standard, grammatically governed order. The whole part about Huckabee's eloquence is icing on the cake. [PS: I recently laughed aloud after finding this Bushism: ""You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."]

What I liked most about him was that the views he expressed during the debate were my views. And, though after reading his webpage I do not agree with everything he believes, I do endorse the majority of his positions. For example, on the topic of the environment and global warming, he said,

The most important thing about global warming is this: whether humans are responsible for the bulk of climate change is gonna be left to the scientists, but it's all of our responsibility to leave this planet in better shape for the future generations than we found it. It's the old boy scout rule about the camp site: you leave the camp site in better shape than you found it. I believe that even our responsibility to God means that we have to be good stewards of this earth, be good caretakers of the natural resources that don't belong to us. We just get to use them; we have no right to abuse them.

He was candid and unapologetic about his faith. I find it deeply disingenuous for candidates to disguise their beliefs in order to appear more electable. As Huckabee himself was quoted as saying, "I’m not as troubled by a person who has a different faith. I’m troubled by a person who tells me their faith doesn’t influence their decisions.” For those of you who wax indignant at politicians who try to hide their personal belief as a political move to appeal to secular, undecided or centrist voters, have a look at what Huckabee said when asked about his faith:

...I've said in general, and I would say this tonight to any of us: when a person says that 'my faith doesn't affect my decision making,' I would say that the person's saying their [sic] faith is not significant enough to impact their [sic] decision process. I tell people up front that my faith does affect my decision process. It explains me. No apology for that.
My faith says 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,' ...I want to state very clearly: a person's faith shouldn't quality or disquality him for public office. It shouldn't do that. But we ought to be honest and open about it, and I do think that it does help explain who are are, what are value systems are, what makes us tick and what our processors are.

New & Improved

I pride myself on not watching much television. While this restraint is due in part to my busy schedule, a large portion of the credit falls to me for self-imposing this brand of ascetism. There are, however, certain costs associated with avoidance of the tellie, namely a lack of familiarity with certain ideas/words/movements/phenomena gaining social currency. One such event is the takeover of Cingular by AT&T. Am I the only one who was unaware that this had happened?

I exposed my ignorance last week while watching American Idol (my current, sole exception to the No Television rule) at a friend's house. "AT&T is the new Cingular," the commercial proudly proclaimed.

"What does that mean?" I asked naively. "Is that like 'brown is the new black'? Or '40 is the new 30'?"

For those as clueless as I was until recently, this advertising slogan is nothing like either of those two axioms. Or maybe it's exactly like that.

It cuts both ways

Here's a recent conversation I had with a teenage friend, whose identity I promised to conceal (so as to avoid making him and/or his acquaintances appear more deranged than necessary).

[At left is a photograph I took of myself this past winter while en route to Hong Kong with Danny. I decided to take advantage of my longer hair to try out the emo look. I guess I really should have been donning a black band T instead of this white V-neck undershirt.]







Teenage Friend: my friend cuts -_-
Tomato JT: oh no. why?
Teenage Friend: because she's depressed
Tomato JT: i always worry that students I care about will start harming themselves
Tomato JT: [notice i'm not as invested in students i dislike. they can cut. it's ok]
Teenage Friend: she was going to ask me to sadie's dance
Teenage Friend: by cutitng onto her arm, "sadies?"
Tomato JT: um...that is freaky.
Teenage Friend: that's SUCH A BIG WORD to cut onto your arm
Tomato JT: that's just INVITING someone to reject you.
Teenage Friend: i would've said yes.
Teenage Friend: i think if anyone's willing to do that for you, that's something special.
Teenage Friend: even though it is slightly wierd.
Tomato JT: "yes, i'd love to dance the night away with a girl who's blood is all over my clothes."
Tomato JT: "your emotional instability is a big turn on, and the creepiness/originality of your proposal method is a definite plus as well"
Tomato JT: what would you say to that?!?
Tomato JT: "i have a thing for girls who self mutilate"
Tomato JT: i am trying to imagine all the responses that one could give.
Tomato JT: they all sound CRAZY.
Teenage Friend: i can tell
Teenage Friend: hahaha
Teenage Friend: i should carve out "no"
Teenage Friend: wouldn't that be ironic?
Tomato JT: um. and equally weird
Tomato JT: she should ask you to prom
Tomato JT: it's shorter
Teenage Friend: LOL
Teenage Friend: HAHAHA
Tomato JT: imagine if she asked you to HOMECOMING
Tomato JT: omg: the carnage.

Three Wii for Bri, Mr. Lee, and Me (hehehe!)

It seems that I am locked with Kevin in an eternal struggle: he has been sent to suck me into his hair-brained get-rich-quick schemes, and I to rebuff him. These schemes usually involve the exploitation of my house. (For example: a) using my house as a T-shirt printing factory; b) running an autistic daycare center out of my house in the morning, and running an SAT prep course out of it in the afternoon. I labeled this idea "autistic SAT."; c) turning my garage into a gym, and charging others to use the facilities.) But, because his newest idea did not involve any of my personal property, and was a zero-risk investment, I conceded and decided to go along for the ride.

Kevin and Brina run a little Ebay operation called "fundourwedding." From this account, they sell a variety of items (usually tickets and small electronics) for purpose expressed in their company name. Brina's newest brainchild is using the relative scarcity and high demand for Wii gaming consoles to turn a quick buck. Through back door channels, she locates the date and time of Wii deliveries to Target retailers, then lines up early in the morning to purchase them. After tax the consoles run $270, and she can turn a $40-50 profit on each unit. There is no risk since unsold Wiis can be returned to Target within 90 days of the purchase date.

So I arose at 4:30 last Sunday to meet Kevin and Brina at the Target in Fullerton by 5am. When we got there, we discovered there was already a young man named Stewie waiting for the Wii. (That's Stewie's hand you see on the far right in the photo below.) He had been hoping to acquire one since before Christmas, and was very glad at having found out this Target might be his chance. Brina, her dad, Kevin and I set up camp, consisting of lawn chairs, some blankets, bottled water, snacks, and a deck of Bang! game cards.

At left is the photo Mr. Lee took of us after we were given our tickets guaranteeing one Wii console to each ticket bearer. We received the tickets around seven o'clock. Mr. Lee sneaked to the back of the line later to get a second ticket. To "disguise" himself and prevent being caught, he took off his glasses and changed his shirt. I know, it's a very "Clark Kent/Superman," unsophisticated disguise, but it worked. He walked out of that store with two units! The buying process using the tickets was considerably more complex than a usual Target purchase, but I will spare the reader the details as they are not very interesting and not critical to the story I am trying to tell. In any event, as we were walking out of the store, a customer coming in got the last ticket.

We called a second Target right down the street, and they said they had a few more Wiis in stock. I drove Kevin in the Prius, while Brina took her father. We picked up the last remaining units there, and headed to the Target in Anaheim—a city apparently not particularly interested in new technological advances. Although we had to arrive at 5am in Fullerton to assure ourselves of a Wii, we arrived after 8:40 in Anaheim to find plenty of units ready for purchase. This gave me a total of three Wiis to be sold on Craig's list, which does not charge commission and allows us to meet our buyers directly in order to avoid shipping costs.

* * * * * * * *

Addendum, 6/17/07: Kevin helped me sell two of the units for $210 a piece, and I sold the remaining Wii to Eddie at no cost. So much for my venture into venture capitalism.

* * * * * * * *

While I was blogging one day at Brina's house, Kevin saw the title of this entry and decided to impersonate me by composing a little story. What follows is what he typed, which, for better or for worse, I am publishing unamended:

Well the day started off early. At the crack of dawn. My best friend's girlfriend convinced me to camp out at the entrance of Target for the possibility of buying the elusive Wii. Ahhh the Wii, some say it was made for the female demographic. But I beg to differ. The gaming system is absolutely splendid and made for every man, women, boy, and girl. The Wii combines the precedence of classic nintendo games with the ingenuity and cutting edge technology of motion sensored controllers that move as you move. But I digress. I ended up waiting three hours in front of a Target with my best friend, his girlfriend, and the girlfriend's father. The wait was actually unexpectly delightful. The perverbial cherry on top of waiting in line for three hours was with our serendipidous friendship with our neighborhood Wii hunter, Stewy.