Green envy consumed me like leprechauns in a field of Lucky Charms, gentle reader, as I took in the tantalizing details about the black American Express card. The NPR host insisted on talking in an infuriatingly calm and collected tone, when in fact the topic demanded far more respect, maybe even fear. Here was a prime example of Captain Capitalism dispensing all the love and attention us rich folks require. The VIP lounges, the personal concierge, the lightning quick service–you might call these amenities, but they’re actually necessities, and don’t you forget that.
We were sitting at the dinner table, Muse and I, and out came the AMEX.
“Mine doesn’t look black at all,” I said in between bites of catered Burger King. “Does it look black to you?”
She very gamely took the card, gave it the once over, and furrowed her brows.
“Nope, it looks pretty clear. Wait, I think I saw some black. Oh, just some lint,” she said, brushing the lint off and handing me the card.
I smacked the table and roared, surprising Muse and launching some dinner rolls into the adjoining room.
“Damn it!” I shouted, “Damn it all to hell! I’m a CEO! Don’t I deserve an elite credit card?”
“Here,” she said as she reached for the card. “I’ve got three words for you: black magic marker.”
After spending five minutes improving my card, Muse handed me the finished product. It looked pretty good, actually, right down to the pretentious centurion.
“I don’t know if anyone will take this,” she began, “but it’ll always be good with me.”
“That’s sweet,” I replied. I had other plans for the card, though.
Later in the evening, I decided to give the card a whirl. I stepped through the front door with my card in hand, only to find a taciturn sky pouring out big, gray, silent drops of rain. I looked down at the card and found my delusions, my Muse, and my uncertainties all faded.
For reasons unknown to Parker Brothers and me, the boardgame classic Connect Four has captured the interest of the office recently. I’m not really sure how the game made it onto my desk or where it came from, gentle reader, but the ungainly blue-and-yellow set will remain there for days to come. Why? I can’t put my finger on it, really. Perhaps the game embodies all the qualities that make timeless games timeless: a gradual learning curve, hidden complexity, seemingly edible pieces, that kind of thing.
Compare this to modern favorites such as Cranium, which has allegedly sold a bajillion units. I picked one up for Board Game Night, thereby boosting sales to a bajillion and one, and the crowd reaction was decidedly lukewarm. True, there were colorful pieces, a truckload of activity cards, and a container of purple clay, for crying out loud, but the game ultimately wasn’t as compelling as Catchphrase, the perennial crowd favorite.
Here we were, a gathering of supposedly educated twenty-somethings, and the overriding feeling was patent stupidity. Northwestern University? No, you must’ve heard incorrectly. I actually went to Best Western University, where I learned to steal travel-sized shampoo containers while pocketing condiments from continental breakfasts.
Then again, perhaps a liberal arts education doesn’t prepare you for pantomiming “claw-foot tub” or recreating the double helix using frickin’ CraniClay, or whatever they call it. I ask you, when will someone invent the next classic boardgame? Will there ever be another Monopoly, another Connect Four, another Uno? When will we find, in a modern update to a lesser classic, Professor Plum in the Broom Closet with the Garroting Wire? Wait a sec. Do you smell an idea?
I usually don’t outsource to myself, if that makes any sense, but I’ve a nasty headache that’s dampening the creative spirit something fierce. Self-quoting is like grabbing something you’ve cooked, stuffing it down your throat, and then hocking it up for all to see. But hey, it’s Friday, and that makes all the difference in the world.
My mum graduates from the CPE program today, and the following, in all its unedited glory, is part of the speech I whipped up for her. And no, gentle reader, there aren’t any pictures. You’ll just have to imagine them, kinda like making pictures in your mind.
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I want to tell you a story about another time, another countryside, where a proud brown mouse lived.
One day, the proud brown mouse heard all the mice in the village crying out for food.
They were all very hungry.
So the proud brown mouse set out into the field to find some food.
He walked and he walked, and then he found a farm.
And on this farm was a cow.
“Please,” said the proud brown mouse, “could you give me some cheese?”
The cow laughed. “Don’t you know you need milk first?” she said.
“Can you give me milk?” the mouse asked.
“We need the farmer’s help,” said the cow.
So the mouse went closer and closer to the farmhouse.
Suddenly, the farmer burst out with a broom in his hand.
“It’s a rat!” he shouted. “I hate rats!”
Just as he was about to swing his broom, the cow mooed loudly.
The farmer stopped.
“I’m not a rat,” said the mouse. “I’m a mouse.”
And then they talked, laughed, and understood each other.
“Can you help me make some cheese?” asked the mouse.
“Of course,” said the farmer.
So he milked the cow, made the cheese, and left it on the porch.
The farmer was late for an appointment, so he dashed into his car and drove off.
The proud brown mouse looked at the huge piece of cheese and cried out.
“How am I going to carry this back? Can you help me?” he asked the cow.
But the cow had already fallen asleep.
Luckily enough, the farmer’s dog and vegetarian cat heard the cry for help.
“We will help you,” they said.
So the dog and the cat broke the cheese, carefully put the pieces into their mouths,
And all three of them started walking back to the village.
But then a crow who wanted the cheese for himself cawed loudly and flew toward them.
“Get away! Get away!” barked the dog, and the crow flew away.
It was evening when they arrived at the village, and the cat and the dog dropped the cheese in the town square.
“How do we slice the cheese?” wailed all the mice.
“Like this,” said the cat, and she sliced the cheese with her claws.
Far away, the farmer stepped out of his car and called to his dog and his cat.
Both of them heard the call and ran back to their master.
Just as the mice were about to eat the cheese, the crow returned, flapping in the sky like a thunderstorm.
“What do we do? What do we do?” cried the mice.
But the wise brown mouse, once proud but now humbled, remembered the dog.
And he squeaked and he squeaked until he barked and he barked,
And all the mice joined in to scare off the crow.
When they were safe again, they turned to the cheese.
The wise brown mouse stepped forward,
And he remembered the cow who gave the milk,
The farmer who made the cheese,
The cat who taught them how to eat it,
And the dog who showed them how to fight for it.
They ate with thankful hearts,
And the cheese glowed inside them like fire.
May we, too, remember the things that went into our pieces of C.P.Cheese.