Category Archives: organizing

“The Glitch”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.                                                                     ––Freidrich Nietzsche

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.                                                                       —Edgar Allan Poe

Right now I’m having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I have forgotten this before.

—Steven Wright

 I am not perfect. As an opening line this is not up there with Dickens’ “It was the best of times,” Melville’s “Call me Ishmael” or even “It was a dark and stormy night,” but it did get your attention. My follies, foibles and slothful habits are well documented (see HLP 1985-present) or have a brief conversation with JoAnne (wife/editor) or any of the dwindling number of people who grudgingly admit to some shared level of friendship.

Around the house I have always considered myself a gazelle, frolicking from room to room, not creating a stir or upsetting the order of things. In my mind I put the top back on the toothpaste, refold the newspaper after reading, and place my empty tea cup in the dishwasher.   I see myself as a good person because my religion preaches that while we are all God’s children, He/She grades on a curve. As long as I can stay ahead of the troubled people who appear on reality television or hold political office, I am fine. I do, however, have a quirk known as “The Glitch.”

“The Glitch” is a lifetime malady not related to being in the prime of my senility. It is this: clearly imagine myself completing a simple task, such as making a peanut butter sandwich. I picture myself replacing the lid on the jar. I have done this literally thousands of times. (I am old and I really like peanut butter.) When someone, usually the editor, finds the open jar, I am baffled and at a loss to explain why it is missing.

Sitting at my desk, I see a wadded up Visa bill under a chair on the other side of the room. I distinctly remember the shot I launched with 00:04 seconds left in the half (a rainbow sky hook from 9 feet out) that nestled into the wastepaper basket. The crowd went wild, and then I returned to bill paying. However, there on the floor is the balled up paper mocking me. I also imagine and remember putting dirty clothes found under the bed into the hanmper, shutting open cupboards, and turning off lights before bed. The Glitch tells me I have done these things because on countless occasions I have.

Never mind my carbon footprint, someone is leaving muddy ones on the living room carpet although I distinctly remember checking my shoes before coming in. My “come to Jesus” moment came a few weeks ago when the editor was in Minneapolis for a weaving conference.   With no one to blame, I began to notice how many jobs were partially completed despite my clear recollection to the contrary. Dinner dishes I washed carefully took on grease and chunks of food overnight!

The Internet, a fairly good resource for many questions, is strangely silent on “The Glitch.”   After ruling out that I am distracted, lazy, careless, or preoccupied, what remains is a mystery.

guy4Tom H. Cook still feels like a Minnesotan. If everyone who visits him in southern California brings the TSA-permitted three ounces of liquid, his lawn will still die.

Questioning My “Self(s)”

The total self of me, being as it were duplex, partly known and partly know-er, partly object and partly subject, must have two aspects discriminated in it, of which, for shortness, we may call one the “me” and the other the “I.”
—William James (The Principles of Psychology)

I was brushing up on my Descartes the other day, particularly his classification of two worlds, one of mental objects and one of material things. That led me to William James, Piaget, Winnicott, and of course Wittgenstein. I added the “of course” as kind of a joke, but philosophers have been puzzling and grappling with the duality of self for hundreds of years. Despite their huge head start, after thinking for just a few hours I was coming up with insights and original ideas that, modesty side, could be game-changers in the field of dualism. Unfortunately “game-changer” reminded me the Super Bowl pre-pre-game show was on. Hours later I was so glazed over, my only thoughts were of nachos, switching my Internet provider, lite beer, and getting my hands on a Ram truck that I could drive up the side of a mountain.

I am not usually a deep thinker but a recent vacation had me questioning my “self” or “selves.” I was going to be gone for less than a week. This is like a gimme putt for golfers, easy to overlook but deceptively complex in its simplicity. I was packed and out the door in fifteen minutes. My other self was in charge of unpacking that evening. Someone had brought a stalk of bananas, three bags of cookies, two jars of peanut butter, enough medications for me to visit Albert Schweitzer in Africa, eight pair of underwear, five sets of earbuds, two shirts, and one pair of socks. My other self had to make do with the random assortment. (Neither of my selves would go to a local Target to supplement my wardrobe.)

This creature of the moment is often at war with my future self. At dinnertime there is only enough butter scrapings for one item. Do I garnish my evening baked potato or save the last bits, tucked deep in the foil, for a piece of toast in the morning? (Even though it might add clarity, I am reluctant to name my various selves, or speak in the third person.)

Whoever I/we are there seems to be agreement that all media is to be saved for just the right moment. I will start a magazine article, book, or television show and decide that it is so entertaining that it would be better appreciated at another time. I have a stockpile of shows to watch, but will often suggest watching a marginal program to free up space on the DVR. This greatly vexes JoAnne (the editor) and she gets mad at us (oops, me) until future me retrieves an episode of Homeland or The Good Wife a couple nights later when there is nothing on.

The relationship is complicated. Present self squirrels away desserts in the freezer to be savored at a future date, yet the here and now self puts future me on the spot continually. For example, the deadline on this column is today. Do you think anyone got an early start on it?

Tom H. Cook is a former Fuller Brush scholar, linguist, and pipe cleaner artist. He is currently seeking investors for a fantasy jai alai league.

The Yarn Sale

He who dies with the most toys wins.        Malcolm Forbes

Now everything ‘s a little upside down,  As a matter of fact the wheels have stopped.  What’s good is bad, what’s bad is good, you’ll find out when you reach the top.  You’re on the bottom.
                         Idiot Wind (Blood On The Tracks) Bob Dylan

Existence is bigger, deeper, more profound and meaningful than the following revelation.  Life is like a card game. Early on the strategy is to win all the “pots” and collect all the stray cards possible.  Many years ago a tea set left by a great aunt spurred a fierce family competition.  Decades later the ubiquitous tea set is still rattling around the family.  No longer coveted, it is too fragile and memory-filled to put on eBay, but no one wants to dust and display it.  The hope is to foist it off on an unsuspecting newly married young niece. My generation is realizing extra cards (and sugar bowls) are a burden and count as points against in the big game.

My wife JoAnne is a fiber artist and president of the Southern California Handweavers’ Guild. To suggest she enjoys collecting yarns, silks, linens and fine fabrics is like saying Marco Polo liked to travel.  She has rescued yarn from Miss Havisham-like estates, garage sales of too-busy hobbyists, and countless church basement rummage sales.  We used to joke that she’d been in more churches than Billy Graham.  Our two car garage has always been given over to her passion.   The result has been many beautiful pieces through the years. Along the way she has also mentored and given freely to beginning weavers.

About a month ago she made the decision to divest.  Her goal was to sell 25% of her accumulation.  With the tireless help of her sister, Donna, she turned the garage into a store-for-a-day.  Thanks to Craig’s List and numerous Yahoo groups, word got out that things would be priced to move.  At the opening bell at 9:00 AM the line was thirty people long. The flurry of shoppers continued unabated for three hours before tapering off, followed by a rally in mid-afternoon. The sale left JoAnne and Donna in equal parts exhausted and euphoric.

In the afterglow it looked like orderly locusts had come and spirited off much of forty-plus years of collecting.  I asked JoAnne if she missed the 600 pounds of yarn. “No, I had more than I could possibly weave up in a lifetime.  It was time to let other people enjoy some of it.”

She had the look of someone who had just located the card they needed to complete a winning hand.

The Yarn Sale

Tom H. Cook was not swept up in the whirlwind of cathartic energy enough to part with his Mad magazine collection.  To view previous columns and even comment visit www.sanduponthewaters.net.         

  

Sand Upon the Waters is on the Web

I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work…I want to achieve immortality through not dying                                   —Woody Allen

Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.                     —Eleanor Roosevelt

 

Walking with a much younger friend the other day, I shared the news that I am developing a web presence.  My sister Nanci, a web designer visiting from British Columbia, was organizing my HLP columns and composing a website.  “I never thought of you as narcissistic” was my friend’s response.  It gave me pause.  

Granted, I subject old friends and former neighbors to my struggles and missteps on a monthly basis, but my portrayals rarely cast me in a positive light.  Of the seven deadly sins I mostly exhibit sloth, impulsivity, and a tenuous relationship between cause and effect.  I do not crave attention, but rather serve as a cautionary tale. I hope for, if not universality, at least  a faint recognition. My goal is to write about the important issues of the day, like garage sales, the conspiracy of objects, and what happens if you have nine dogs over for Christmas dinner.  Heady stuff.

Do my columns merely serve as a buffer between real estate ads in a community newspaper, or are they, as one reader suggested, a desperate cry for help?  The real question is Are they worth preserving?  I am not talking Smithsonian, but JoAnne is tired of the boxes of newspapers that I seem incapable of discarding or organizing.  (An aside: the word fire hazard is tossed around entirely too blithely in contemporary culture.) 

I have written more than three hundred columns since 1980 and a compromise seems to be storing them in “The Cloud,” not in the basement, which we don’t have.  Nanci to the rescue.  She has searched for themes, added photos, and put together through wizardry and hard work a web site.  Might a book publisher or Hollywood literary type decide that my collected columns would make a best seller and a vehicle for Ben Stiller? I am more likely to attract a bored actuary from Dayton. 

As to the original charge of self absorption, I fear my motives are even more grandiose.  I do not paint, sculpt, or create in any meaningful way.  My website may be more like a futile grasp for immortality.  I get no money for clicks or visitors, but humor me and check it out at sanduponthewaters.net.

Tom H. Cook is grateful to The Hill and Lake Press for untold patience and friendship.

 

 

I am a Noodge

Noodge  verb, noun (Yiddish)  To nag or pester

I now believe we live by miracles, not improvements.      —Garrison Keillor

A classic Mary Tyler Moore episode features an exasperated Lou Grant pushed to his breaking point by news anchor Ted Baxter’s latest gaffe.  Barely able restrain himself when confronting the blithe cluelessness of his on air “talent,” Mr. Grant, with mayhem in his heart and a firm grip on Ted’s lapels, glowers at his prey.  Initially Lou is too angry to speak.  Finally through clenched teeth he snarls, “Ted, you know the way you are?”  Ted, still oblivious but fearful of being pounded into the ground like a tent stake, vigorously nods his head.  Grant, only slightly appeased but realizing the futility of his rage, entreats, “Don’t be that way!”

Writer Sydney J. Harris suggests that our personality is more than a set of independent traits that can be freely “shopped out” or exchanged.  The way we organize and integrate our collection of traits into a complex structure makes up our personality.  Changing one trait requires a reorganization of the whole personality.  Viewed dynamically, certain defects are the cost we pay for our virtues.  An ulcer or migraine may be the price of perfectionism.  Our positive traits are often intertwined with the unflattering.  A fearless gridiron pass rusher may not be good at waiting for a table in a crowded restaurant.   A dedicated research chemist may lack a scintillating wit in social settings.

This is a somewhat fancy rationalization for a behavior I possess that can drive others crazy.  I am a noodge. I show JoAnne the Harris article that suggests that being a pest is a core personality trait and that I would not be the “Self” I am without it, and that my identity was fragile.  The no-nonsense person that she is suggests that my remaining friends like me despite this trait rather than because of it, and that I better knock it off!   I have been known to hector, goad, needle, infer, harass, badger, browbeat, suggest, cajole, bribe, con, plead, hound, annoy, bait, browbeat, pester, tease, torment, plague, flatter, induce, bother, inveigle, urge, coax, and wheedle to get my way.  In my defense, I am rarely out to benefit myself directly.  I limit my practice to family and close friends.  All of them are immune to my charms.

I will not claim to be particularly gifted at managing my own life, but I am savant-like in my understanding of the needs of those around me.  Call it a gift, but if you seek to buy a house, select a pet, have a child, plan a vacation, tangle with a family member, choose a college, or make a retirement decision, I am a huge help.  Sadly I am not one to accept, “You have given me a lot to think about…thank you!”  For me that is not closure, it is merely blood in the water.  Polite indecision is an opening.  I flash to the salesman’s edict in Glengarry Glen Ross: A.B.C. Always Be Closing.

Pop psychologists would suggest that I must have deep-seated issues of my own that I am avoiding.  I have examined my inner life and found it neither troubled, complex, or even interesting.  That my closest friends from our Minnesota days are planning a move to California and will soon be house hunting…now that’s entertainment!  In the spirit of helpfulness I may have dropped by a few open houses (27), collected some realtor business cards (55), chatted with a neighbor or twelve, and forwarded a couple of listings (114).  Mixed in may have been a phone chat or two.

JoAnne is a disciple of the nonintrusive school of quiet support, ready to listen and offer her opinion if solicited.  She is more directive with me!  “Our friends are able to blah blah blah let them blah blah blah own decision blah blah know better than blah blah blah lived successfully all these years without you blah, blah blah if your advice blah blah blah it’s not your business blah blah blah how would you like it blah blah blah let them blah blah blah!!!”

Talk about clueless!

Walkin the Dogs

Tom H. Cook is a now far away writer who misses everything Minnesota except the newly added May snowfall.  It is probably no coincidence that his two dogs are noodgey border collies. 

 

 

 

 

I Have Always Been an Acquirer

I have always been an acquirer.  An acquirer is a collector, without a plan.  It is only recently that I have begun to question the origin of this habit, and more importantly realize the exhaustive counter productive energy I have devoted to this activity.  A true collector, whether it is of Rembrandts or bottle caps has developed a “file philosophy”, a guide that helps them set limits and define what they value, making it easier to separate these items from the sea of pretenders.

I have never been able to resist people that seem to like me, literature on a cause that I should be more knowledgeable about, or 25-cent books on the discard shelves at the library that always I meant to read like, U. Thant, The Batter From Burma.  I never questioned the premise that if stuff is good, more stuff is better.

As a random chaotic thinker, I have always viewed the world as a rather length scavenger hunt, or an Indiana Jones movie.  A mysteriously produced gas receipt from a home I sold ten years ago may turn the tide of an IRS audit.  An airline ticket and luggage claim would prove to a Grand Jury that I could not possibly be behind the latest coup in Paraguay.  Scary as it seems, I actually think like this.  When in doubt save it, it may come in handy in establishing an alibi, although I have not done anything illegal or even interesting.  The problem is that if the situation ever arose it would be easier and considerably less painful to go to the gas chamber rather that dig through an attic and basement filled with old records that might exonerate me.

The serious reasons for becoming an acquirer are probably buried in self esteem issues (see SAND…HLP May, 1992), suffice it to say that having a lot of stuff on a low budget might have been a scrawny kid from Pennsauken’s way to fit in.  There have actually been times when having an extensive Frankie Valli album collection has been socially helpful, but in retrospect it may not have been that necessary.  I no longer feel the need to hade behind possessions.

The habit of picking up brochures, and getting on mailing lists has been a difficult one to break because the goal is moderation not abstinence.  Crime and pollution aside, there are other reasons to consider small town life.  Perhaps people in remote areas have a better perspective on the Arts.  The Amish for example wear only black but display a wonderful color sense in their quilts and other hand craft.  In Pine Scruff Falls, Minnesota (population 338) Maynard Ferguson plays at the consolidated regional high school every four years.  Everyone goes, next subject.

The fact that I am fifteen minutes from six galleries, twelve live theater spaces, and a coffeehouse run by Jungian biker still does not get me out of my comfortable chair on most nights.  My compromise is to keep believing that I would attend these happenings if I remain on the mailing list and have sufficient notice.  Part of me wants to believe that I really am a “player” in the culture scene.  Even if I do not plan to attend the John Greenleaf Whitter lecture series, JGW:  Was he Two Women?, perhaps I could at least pick up the information for a friend.  The result is that my life is continually cluttered with missed opportunities and good intentions.

I could not care less that the Jolly Martin Performance Company based in Wheaton, Illinois is doing a nine show run at the Homely Oak Theatre in Spring Lake Park of Guy De Maupassant’s The Necklace.  That it is in Finnish, with Burl Ives’ niece (fresh out of Hazelden) playing all of the female roles is not a lure.  Yet I accept the brochure and stack it up in my pile of things I feel guilty about not doing.  Granted the above example is less tempting than a host of other worthwhile projects that I have also not attended, but I feel a secret joy weeks later when I realize that because of my procrastination I have managed to miss all nine performances and that, alas it is now permissible to discard the handsome four color brochure.

Walking into a Realtor’s open house with friends out of idle curiosity, I have always been the one to take the literature even though the home is selling for twice the GNP of Micronesia.  Six months later I still have it, because I was intending to mail it to a friend because the roof line in the picture is similar to the renovation they have been doing to their home.  So I have found myself accumulating things that I now I will never use, but are also of dubious value to others.

My professional life is equally muddled.  I am constantly receiving notice of limited enrollment workshops that would help me crisis manage, teach me to both delegate and accept more responsibility, get me out of a dead end job, solve my current problems in halt of the time, acquaint me with the new technology, or ease me into a stress free retirement a lot sooner that my chosen path.  They hint strongly that my current level of expertise in probably the equivalent of a physician sing leeches, and that if I want to help my clients, the organization, and avoid getting sued, I better get to the Ramada Inn in Brooklyn Center next Thursday and bring $135.00.  How can I blithely throw these opportunities away?  Obviously I can not, so I save them, both at work and at home they stack up.  If I went to even a tiny fraction of the inservices offered I would be fired for dereliction of duty.

My vow is to collect only what I am able to use, and cease to be indiscriminate acquirer of well intended things that do not fit my needs.  I am still a sentimentalist, but I feel less inclined to clutter my life with playbills and scorecards of past events that I have attended.  I have been guilty of mistaking form for substance and grasping at tangibles to validate my experience.  I have been reluctant to exclude opinions, fearing that I would narrow myself, forgetting that sometimes we are better defined by what we are not.  The adage, “if you do not know where you are going, any road will take you there,” contains well worn truth.  My goal is to return from a relevant “night on the town” with a full heart and an empty hand.

Tom H. Cook is a local mystic.  He is continually amazed by how little of the Sunday Tribune is actually necessary. 

 

 

Great Finds

On most Saturday mornings I wander around looking to see what my neighbors wisely or foolishly have put out for sale.  Some weeks it is stained Hello Kitty sheets, a three (formerly four) legged particle board laminate table, a used possum trap, a scratched Tijuana Brass album, a Kelvinator (I don’t know either but it requires 220 current), a collection of vintage margarine tubs, a not that clean stretched out plumbing snake, a Chevy muffler, a pile of enmeshed bamboo blinds, a mostly complete game of Sorry!, and a water-stained collection of Danielle Steel novels.  But some weeks there is nothing but junk!

Every collector has a “great find” story, told with the same gleeful chortle as Bain Capital executives over drinks at the club as they recount outsourcing an orphanage and shipping 900 children to be raised in India. The wily dealer came upon a pair of autographed Elvis socks for a dime and is later besieged with offers in the thousands.  Why he is still driving a rusted out, twenty year old Dodge van is never explained.  My tale is not of stealth, deceit or enormous gain, but rather impulse, regret, acceptance, and inconvenience.

A few months ago at a nearby apartment building I was early enough to witness the beginnings of an interesting looking sale.  A nondescript but pleasant accountant type in his 40s was bringing out boxes of model trains.  I have many weaknesses, but fortunately Lionel trains are not among them.  I asked if he would be bringing anything else out, and he replied that he would be selling his baseball cards.  I believe the term is feigned nonchalance and I am not very good at it.

Soon he began to bring out boxes of neatly organized baseball and football cards.   These were not the valuable Topps cards of my Ted Williams/Stan Musial childhood.  This younger neighbor collected in the 1980s-90s after other companies joined the “hobby” and proceeded to flood the market.  So this is not going to be a gloating, how I got rich story.  In truth, I was ambivalent. The owner of the cards was selling under a stress that I did not yet understand.  He was such a meek, likable guy, I did not want to take advantage of him.  Additionally, there were suddenly more shoppers; the hint of a real bargain can make an already unattractive crowd to turn ugly.

A sensible person might have said, “I’ll take one complete set.”  That would be about 770 cards in pristine condition, in number order, smartly boxed, and easy to carry.  I could look forward to many hours of reminiscing and did I mention the easy to store box?  Instead I heard myself saying, “How much for all of them?”  The now-crowded sale grew quiet.  People clutched their train sets and gasped.  “The crazy guy is going for it,” said one.  “He doesn’t know what these trains are worth,” said another.

In this bush league Las Vegas, I was “the most interesting man at the sale,” going all in with a pair of 7s showing.  Motioning me aside, he lead me behind a four foot tall potted plant.  His lips barely moved as he said quietly, “Look, I have a lot more cards.  We just got married and it’s a small apartment, and she wants my cards and trains gone.”

I was picturing my new best friend’s spouse: also early 40s, glasses, quiet, mousy, cautious, practical.  I imagined the quiet dinner where she summoned her courage and tentatively at first broached the subject of his collections.  She may have suggested that giving up baseball cards and model railroading, pursuits of a solitary man, might be a testament of their commitment to a new life together.  Perhaps she had coquettishly suggested other things they might do…

As if on cue the bride awoke and came out to the sale sputtering, “What are you doing talking to one guy in the corner when people are ready to buy the trains?”  She immediately struck me as someone who had not seen 7:00 AM in many years.   Braless, in very tight jeans, she may have lived forty years, but she had not spent her evenings setting up train switches or studying the Baltimore Orioles roster.  She made Janis Joplin look like a Junior Leaguer.   She had a very large eagle tattoo on her upper chest and many others tats on her forearms.  I believe her sleeveless T-shirt said something about being property of the Hell’s Angels.  Her boots, black leather belt and chains suggested that she was not the software designer I originally imagined.  I felt like asking her about John Belushi, and what it was like partying with Keith Richards.

Instead I held my tongue as she stormed off.  I watched him for reaction.  All I saw was love.  “Whatever she wants,” he shrugged.  He again asked if I wanted all the cards.  I assured him I did and we agreed on a price of $70.00.  As i loaded the 60,000 baseball cards into my car, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever love someone that much.

Only kidding, JoAnne.

Tom H. Cook is a formerly local writer.  His collection, discretely covered by a tablecloth, occupies a corner of the living room.

 

 

 

 

The Challenge

You make things harder than they need to be.  You think you are saving time, but you’re not.     —JoAnne Cook

For argument’s sake, let’s say JoAnne was referring to me.  She was alone in the kitchen when I returned from the supermarket.  I was carrying a gallon jug of milk in each hand, a large cottage cheese in my right armpit, and two 32 oz. yogurt containers nestled in the crook of my left arm and pressed against my ribcage.  She opened the door and half listened while I raved about my bargain hunting coup.  She was gone before hearing my epistle on the virtue of shopping on discount dairy day.

In hindsight it would have made sense to put all of my purchases on the kitchen counter, cleared space in the refrigerator and then calmly (perhaps after I went to the bathroom) shelve my purchases.  I can never tell when I will be overcome by The Challenge.  Suddenly before me was the belief that I could hold onto all of my shopping and somehow use my patella and chin to pry open the refrigerator.  After considerable struggle, I was actually able to accomplish that. I peered inside.  The fridge was more crowded than I remembered.  The cottage cheese was falling fast, and the bathroom trip was rising on my priority list.  I began to sweat and perform contortions not seen since the 1950s game show Beat The Clock.  It occurred to me that I was putting myself through this with no chance of winning a new washer and dryer.

The Challenge makes you do crazy things.  In haste, I managed to half flip, half nudge the cottage cheese into a prime real estate location on a lower shelf previously reserved for a milk gallon.  The center could not hold; both lemon yogurts, balanced briefly against each other before their inevitable tumble, landed in a manner that somehow broke their protective seals.  I may have stepped on one of the cartons as I completed a spin move, designed to prevent (unsuccessfully, as it turned out) a large, not quite sealed Tupperware container of gravy from hitting the floor.  Surprisingly the newly cleared space was not roomy enough to accommodate even one upright milk carton.

The noise brought JoAnne back to the kitchen, and while she did not slip on the gravy, I do not believe that cheered her.  She witnessed with a look that was not awe, my attempt at squeezing two milk gallons into a spot that already contained a large pot of soup stock.  The sides were drawn.  To put the milks down (take a minute to go to the bathroom) and rearrange things would have meant that the gravy, yogurt accident had been in vain.  I yearned to be finished with this task.  As it turned out, replacing the fallen yogurt (before it went off sale), and cleaning up a surprisingly pervasive gravy spill took longer than it might with a more conventional approach. I am not one to assign blame.  Let’s just say, the job became more complex than it initially appeared.

Why go through all of this?  If workaholics are driven by fear of their inner sloth, then I live a corollary. I seek short cuts and will go miles and hours out of my way in pursuit of one. I will labor tirelessly (albeit at cross purposes) for hours to steal an opportunity to nap.  Freud be damned, my most basic drive is to lie down, either on a couch or a backyard swing.  I curse The Challenge, because it exposes my inner laziness.

 

Tom H. Cook may still be paired with LeBron James and offered in a package deal to The Minnesota Timberwolves.  If not, he will remain a columnist living in a far away land writing about stuff.