By the time this holiday season is over, Amazon expects to have sold 3 million Kindles in 2009. For those of you who don’t know what the Kindle is, it’s Amazon’s version of an e-book, the new technology that digitally displays books on something the size of a…well, a book, I guess. Except it isn’t as thick as your run-of-the-mill book, of course. And did I mention it’s digital? Plus, the Kindle can hold 4 GB of memory! I’m not exactly sure how gigabytes translate into literature, but you can bet your binky it’s more than one measly novel like boring, stupid, pointless, run-of-the-mill books hold in between their covers.

And guess what?! We live in a capitalist society, so that means there are multiple e-book options in the marketplace! The next big ones are Sony’s e-Reader and Barnes & Noble’s Nook. While sales have been delayed on those competitors thus far, the first batch of shipments should arrive by the tail-end of the holiday season. It’s only up from here, too. One consumer report expects 20 million e-readers to have been purchased by 2014. As you can see, the Kindle, Nook, and Sony e-Reader are important trailblazers in this next great technological wave of the future that will finally annihilate the tyrannical and torturous rain of evil, manipulative, boring, stupid, pointless, run-of-the-mill books.

…

Okay, so I went a little overboard there, but you need to understand sarcasm and tone is a very tough thing to convey in the form of the printed word. Clearly, I’m very much against e-books. One of the main reasons is that I don’t see the appeal. In college, what do you do when your professor emails you a large article? Hell, what do you do when your professor emails you a small article? You print it out! At least I did. Why? Because reading something on paper is easier and quicker than reading something on a digital screen. Experts have debated it. Studies have proven it.

Of course, my argument reeks of hypocrisy. For one, I first became passionate about this topic by reading a newspaper article…wait for it…digitally. Also, I’m making this argument through my blog which is consumed by its readers…wait for it…digitally. Does that make me part of the problem that I’m discussing? Absolutely not. I’m sharing a completely different type of information than e-books have to offer. Kindles and nooks are meant for books - those big things they asked us to read while we went to the media center in elementary school. If you’d rather digitally read a book, whether it’s non-fiction or fiction, Twilight or The Great Gatsby, please speak now or forever hold your piece.

I understand the appeal of a device that can contain multiple books. You don’t think I wish I could carry around something only slightly larger than an iPhone that contains everything ever written by Kurt Vonnegut? Of course I do. However, doing so with an e-book comes at a high price. It takes away the aesthetic beauty that a book has to offer. When I was younger, I read nearly every Hardy Boy book the Marsh Elementary School library had to offer. The pages in those books, which were published by Viking Press between the Fifties and Seventies, had a very distinct scent. Something about that scent relaxed me and excited me every time I signed out a new volume and set out on a new mystery with Frank and Joe Hardy. Two weeks ago, I ordered a few books online, including an old Viking Press edition of John Steinbeck’s The Winter of Our Discontent. Do you know what happened the first time I opened that book and took in my first whiff of the Viking page smell? I became a little boy again giddy about going on his next literary adventure. That could never happen with an e-book.

The feel of reading a real book is something that should not be sacrificed. There’s a calming element to holding a book in your hands, opening the cover, pulling out the bookmark, turning to the page you last left off, reading the page, turning the page, reading the page, turning the page…Am I crazy, or is that not how reading was intended to be done? Were we supposed to scroll down with our fingers, or peel away at each page with our fingers like we’re uncovering more and more of a great gift that’s been given to us?

Maybe I sound like an old fuddy duddy right now standing in the way of progress. Maybe I’m the guy telling Henry Ford people like going for a pleasant stroll too much to ever become dependent on getting around in an automobile. Maybe. All I’m saying is that people should read, and they should read a lot. But not like this. Don’t succumb to this technological fad. Let the e-book phenomena die. In pretty rhyming terms, let the popularity of the Kindle dwindle.

Lastly, I want to add that by the end of my life, I hope to have written a whole bunch of books. If I’m lucky enough to have a fan who finds my work worthy enough to keep at home, I’d like to think my novels could someday fill his book shelves.

Not his e-reader.

I’m charming. That’s not me talking, it’s just the feedback I’ve gotten from satisfied customers. Before you start to think I’m a male prostitute, the satisfied customers I’m referring to are various parents and grandparents. Before you start to think I have an old people fetish, the satisfaction I’m referring to is nothing but charm.

I don’t really know what charm is. I don’t try to have it and I don’t know how I have it, but damn it do I have it! For years I’ve been charming the pants off the friends of parents, the parents of friends, the friends of grandparents, and the grandparents of friends. They love me. Have I met your mother? She probably loves me. Have I met your grandmother? She probably wants me to marry you…only if you have girl parts, of course.

Today I saw into the sneaky matchmaking world of the elderly and realized how appealing I am as a potential mate for granddaughters everywhere after I accompanied Grammy to her company/friends’ Christmas party. Going in, I knew I was golden if I met any pretty girl remotely near my age. How could you not sleep with a man who gives up his Sunday (when the Patriots are playing, nonetheless) to escort his aging and sickly grandmother to a party in Lincoln, Massachusetts? I’d have that girl in the coat closet in less than 15 seconds.

My night went another way, though. There was no coat closet rendezvous. Instead, I met almost nothing but grandmothers. Apparently Grammy doesn’t roll with a young crowd of twenty year-old hotties. Still, the possibility for something in the future was there. Every nice old lady I met had basically the same thing to say: “Oh, you know what? He should meet my Marie.” In grandparent language, that means “my granddaughter Marie.” I guess grandparents consider we, the grandchildren, their possessions. I’ll allow it, since the only other thing they really have is Medicare.

Every other grandmother was basically more of the same. “Too bad my Deanna isn’t here!” “Would my Tara love to meet you!” “My Jenny would absolutely jump your bones.”

Okay…that last one is a bit of an exaggeration, but the point is clear: Grandmothers love a charming, tall, and handsome young man who looks phenomenal in a sweater. You can’t call me conceited for saying that, either. All the data is right in front of you. It’s science, and you can’t argue with science.

(Speaking of science, the token staunch Republican at the party had the line of the night when someone mentioned all the new jobs being created by Green technology: “I’m burning CO2 until the day I die!” he declared emphatically. Good for him.)

In the end, I wasn’t able to milk the kind deed I performed for Grammy to get some “You’re such a great grandson” nookie from an attractive young lass. I did, however, plant seeds with some smitten old women who may or may not offer me a sweet dowry someday to wed their granddaughters. While they might not physically live up to the Kiel Servideo Gold Standard of Beauty, I may have to seriously consider the offer from a financial standpoint.

After all, before I left, one of the women said to me, “Dont worry about getting a job. We’re all rich. We’ll take care of you.”

See guys, I told you I’d make it through the rough patch somehow.

There is snow on the ground and winter has finally come to New England. Chances are it won’t leave until some point in March, so get used to it. I’ll quickly grow tired of the persistent snow and the dreary skies like the rest of you, but one thing that’ll never really been problem for me in the winter is the cold. It’s never bothered me too much, and this season I don’t want to have to listen to everybody complaining about it. Do you expect anything less? Does a New England winter promise you anything other than what you receive? No and no. So please don’t whine about it.

There’s a simple solution to cold weather: Layering up. If it’s 15 degrees outside, wear a couple sweaters under your bulky winter coat and three pairs of socks if that’s what it takes. When you’re clothed properly, the temperature won’t affect you. One of my favorite things to do in wintertime at school was walk around Boston no matter how cold it was, and that’s a city where every street is a gruesome wind tunnel. When you dress right for cold weather and all the necessary parts are covered, though, you’ll be perfectly fine. There’s nothing I love more than being warm and covered all over, but still feeling the cold air on my exposed face.

As much as we all love summer, the same solution to temperature extremes cannot be said about that season. You can never wear few enough clothes for 90 and humid. No matter what, a river of sweat will flow down your back to the ass crack delta. Until we live in a nude-condoned society (possibly coming in 2012 - that’s what the Mayans were really hinting at), the dressing down cooling technique on a hot summer day will be impossible. However, layering up in the winter is both simple and effective. We all own too much clothes anyway. Just throw on all the shirts that have been accumulating in your closet over the years. You won’t look fat; you’ll look snug. Actually, why don’t you tack on a few extra pounds of winter weight too while you’re at it? Most animals do, and so should we.

I know I’m breaking a Man Law by demanding women wear more clothing, but I’d rather a girl be warm and calling me sexual pet names than cold and whining about the cold instead. I understand a lot of guys are afraid of women dressed up in the winter because they can’t truly gauge certain physical characteristics of the female body. “What could they be hiding under there?” men wonder. Personally though, I love a girl bundled up in her winter’s best almost as much as I love her in a bikini, so don’t lump me in the same category as those pigs. (By the way, ladies, I’m free this weekend…and for any other weekends in the near or distant future.)

So, men and women alike, please dress accordingly this winter. When it’s cold, don’t whine. Just shut up and layer up. If it helps, picture yourself eight months in the future when you’ll be cruising down the street with the window down on a hot summer day…with sweat dripping down the ass crack delta.

When I first started blogging at the end of September, the blog was called Dear World, Please Give Me a Job and focused on the current state of my life as an longingly unemployed young man. I’ve altered that theme so this blog can instead serve as a chronicle (less negatively inclined) of my life as I enter the go-between era of my life betwixt college/formal education and career/family/permanence. I feel like I get away from that general idea at times, whether it’s with a blog about how much waitresses hate me or a movie review. Those random and out-of-place posts will still come, hopefully frequently, because, if nothing else, they encapsulate how I feel about something that’s important to me during this exciting time of My Roarin’ Twenties. However, in the end it’s just a distraction. It’s like the funny things guys write on the walls of men’s room stalls. Sure it’s funny or entertaining or just helps pass the time, but it’s ultimately not what you’re there for.

I’m here to talk about what I’m going to do with myself economically for the upcoming years of my life. What job path should I go down? I’m a substitute teacher right now and it’s great and fun. It allows me to do write during the day, for one. It’s not a bad job, but greener pastures have to lie ahead, right? I can’t tell the future, but I can try to make sense of the past. I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years, so let’s look behind us before we move forward, shall we?

Job 1: Paperboy

I was in the richest income bracket among middle schoolers because of my paper route. With a penchant for saving and pinching pennies, I’d amassed thousands of dollars before I’d reached high school, and I did it 30-50 dollars a week at a time. Starting the summer before 5th grade, I delivered 50 papers a day every day to neighbors that I’d lived next to my entire life but knew nothing about personally. (I still don’t.) I enjoyed doing it, but it was a lonely job. Before the route was mine, it belonged to my friend Tom. I thought the paper route was so cool, I’d ask him to let me help him. “Gee wiz, Tom Sawyer, painting that fence sure looks fun!” When the route was mine and mine alone, I couldn’t get anyone to help me…unless I payed them. (I’m what you might call a sucker.)

All in all, the work was easy and it gave me more money than I knew what to do with at the time. While having the responsibility every day after school was a bit of a drag, it was only 30-60 minutes of my day, depending on the weather. What else was a young teenager going to do with that time? Make out with girls? Ew, gross!

JOB GRADE: B

Job 2: Bob’s Seasonal Employee

I walked around the floor for 4-6 hour shifts looking for pants and shirts that needed to be refolded. (I still don’t know the proper department store method of shirt folding.) I nearly lost my mind with the same ten holiday songs playing over and over throughout my shift, every shift. I made prolonging breaks my specialty. I’d go for 15 minutes, punch out to take my actual 15-minute break, then punch back in before breaking for another 15. Not surprisingly, I was not offered regular part-time employment after Christmas.

Even though it was only a six-week job to get a little extra scratch for the holidays when my paperboy savings were dwindling already at the age of 16, I still remember this as the most unbearable job I’ve ever had.

JOB GRADE: D

Job 3: Friendly’s Dishwasher

Oh wait…THIS was the most unbearable job I’ve ever had. I was called on a Friday night and asked to come in the next day as a dishwasher even though I applied to be a waiter. Since I was nearly flat broke, I accepted. When I met my stereotypical New Hampshire white trash boss and asked him how he was doing, he responded, “Chillin’ like a villain from the floor to the ceilin’!” No joke. I told them after my break halfway through my shift that I would finish up the day’s work, but I wouldn’t be coming back. In the end, I only logged 5 hours as a Friendly’s employee.

The experience taught me that we need illegal immigrants in this country to do some jobs.

JOB GRADE: F

Job 4: Abe’s Getty Gas Attendant

It was the best of jobs, it was the worst of jobs. On a beautiful summer week night, there was nothing better than sitting outside with a book in hand and reading uninterrupted during the slow business hours. On bitter cold and windy winter nights, I contemplated drinking a gallon of gasoline myself to end my misery. Luckily, New England winters don’t last long. (That one is a joke.) When things slowed down for the last couple hours of a night shift, I loved staying inside and watching one of the TV’s two channels: FOX or NBC. On the plus, this is where I discovered the magic of Hell’s Kitchen. Ultimately, this under-the-table gig (shh, don’t tell Uncle Sam) got me my spending cash for the end of high school and any time I was home for break for the first year or two of college. It was the perfect job for me at the time. I even occasionally received tips, although I’ll never understand how a woman could ask me to pump her gas, check her oil, add oil, add windshield wiper fluid, and put air in her tires without even tossing me an extra fifty cents.

JOB GRADE: B

Job 5: Humboldt Moving Company

I know what everyone thinks of when they think of Kiel Servideo: sheer strength. Well, maybe not, but there’s enough muscle mass there to handle this job that I did sporadically for about a year. The best part about it was how much time driving from place to place took up. You’d fill up the truck in the morning, drive a couple hours to central Mass, unload the truck, and drive a couple hours back. And you’d get paid for the whole day! You can’t beat that with a stick…well, you can’t when you’re 18/19.

Still, there were enough days when things didn’t go that smoothly that really put a damper on things. Not to mention the whole operation was completely hit-or-miss based on whether or not you were put on the same crew as your friends for the day.

JOB GRADE: B-

Job 6: Lowell Spinners Scoreboard Operator

Since I grew up loving baseball and the Red Sox, you can imagine how much I loved a job that brought me to a beautiful baseball field for about 35 nights in the summer to watch some of Boston’s most promising young prospects. In my first year, I watched Justin Masterson, Jacoby Ellsbury, Clay Buccholz, and Jed Lowrie from the best seat in the house: the PA booth behind home plate. All I had to do was update stats and run graphics for the big board throughout the game, all while working alongside the best colleagues I’ve ever had: Jim/Pete doing the line score, Jenni on music, John making the announcements, and Scott running the video board. On top of all that, we played fun side games like stealing cotton candy from hawkers whose poles moved past the booth window too slowly or making fun of visiting player’s names and pictures in any way we could with our resources for the whole stadium to see. With all those elements, you have a recipe for two summers I will never forget.

JOB GRADE: A

Job 7: Boston University Quickie Jobs

When I needed extra cash at school, I found little side jobs on the Quickie Job board to make a fast buck. I once cleaned out a woman’s attic for $50 and only a couple hours of work. Not too shabby. Another time, I cleaned out an apartment that was a pig sty because an old couple was moving out. They planned on paying two people fifty bucks each for two hours of work, but I did it all on my own in one hour…so I made $100. Even less shabby. Those jobs payed for a lot of UBurger, Ana’s Tacqueria, and Beijing Cafe, so it was well worth it. The only problem was the really good assignments were few and far between.

JOB GRADE: B

Job 8: Methuen Public Schools Summer Landscaper

Doing this job taught me how serious my OCD was. I would weed whack every last weed or blade of grass on the parking lot curbs of Methuen’s public schools. My headphones would be on, my iPod shuffle would be rotating throughout my same 250 songs over and over and over again, and I would just keep my head down and go to town. For some twisted reason, fixing the ugly overgrown curbs pleased me. I didn’t mind this job because it paid well and made me good money in the summer to piss away throughout the school year. However, it got dirty and unbearable at times. One day, I had to pick up trash bags from a park in a destitute part of town (doesn’t destitute sound so much better than grimy and poor?). The bags were overflowing when my friend Ryan and I arrived there, and the bags broke when we picked them up. Maggots and sour milk and other sorts of fun junk got all over us. I’ve never been so sick and disgusted and furious all at the same time. We were housed off for about a half hour after driving back to the high school with the mess all over us.

But, like I said, the money wasn’t too bad, and now I have $800 waiting for me in a retirement fund. Florida, here I come!

JOB GRADE: B- …without that one day in the park: B+

Job 9: Intramural Umpire/Referee

This job was perfect for me since I have a sickness that convinces me I’m right about everything, which is precisely how an umpire or referee should be. I officiated soccer and softball, and one was certainly easier than the other. For some reason, all of the international intramural soccer players felt their games should have been called based on FIFA regulations. Plus they never got the hint that I wasn’t going to give them the call no matter how long they stayed on the ground holding their knee even though they got hit on the arm. Prima donnas exist at all levels. With softball, my job was a piece of cake. In the field, I made calling somebody out at first base an art form. I once pulled my fist back at 2nd base to punch someone out after a play at first, and I didn’t finish the single until I’d hopped all the way to 1st base on one leg. (Yea, I was obnoxious.) Behind the plate, all I had to do was make sure the ball landed on the strike zone mat…plus I hit on the cute catcher that inevitably played the position in every Co-rec game.

Oh yeah, and one last thing: Intramural Official of the Month for September 2008.

JOB GRADE: A

Job 10: Boston University Office of Housing Warehouse Assistant

This job has the longest title, and it will have the longest portion by far if I tell all the stories about it that I want to. Where should I begin…Well, for the first semester of my final year of college, life was perfectly blissful. When I wasn’t in class during the week between 9 and 5, I was working in the warehouse. And since I only needed to take 12 credits that semester, I was in the warehouse a lot. When I was working, I took on difficult tasks like finding the next best hiding spot for our massive games of hide-and-seek, setting ridiculous scores in Minesweeper on the office computer, and exploring the secret rooms of the warehouse to find hidden robot costumes.

Does this job sound unreal? Oh wait, there’s more. Since my friend Eric and I were the only people in during the morning for two days of the week, we didn’t have much work to get done. That allowed us to go to the diner Busy Bee in South Campus, where we became the affectionate regulars “Kiddo” and “Sport.” Finish up the morning with a bathroom stop at one of the nicest toilets on campus (for those of you still attending Boston University: one option is in the basement of the I.R. Grad Student building and the other is on the 1st floor of the Elie Wiesel Judaic Studies center, both on Bay State Rd. and kiddie corner to each other; consider that knowledge my alumni donation) and you have a great start to any day, let alone one that you’re being paid for all along.

And back to those robot costumes (because I know you’re all thinking, “Robot costumes? Go on!”), we decided it was necessary to film all sorts of events around campus with some of us wearing the giant box suits. When people saw the Office of Housing truck pull up to their building and a giant robot came out of the back instead of a couch, their faces were priceless. The culmination of all that wonderful footage can be seen here. (I just watched it for the first time in a while. It still makes me crack up. I don’t see how it couldn’t when you consider the context in which it was made.)

When I look back at how great this job (if you can even call it that) was, it hurts. Notice how none of the actual work-related pieces of the job are even mentionable in comparison to everything else. I miss this time of my life more than anything else, especially as I go through this difficult period, because I was living it up in college with a great and fun job to boot. Not to mention I became friends with every single guy I met on that job. Okay, I’ll stop before I get misty-eyed.

JOB GRADE: A+

Job 11: Substitute Teacher

I’ve talked about this job extensively, so I won’t say much. I will say that the most prominent lesson I’ve learned from subbing is that kids haven’t changed one bit, no matter the age level. Fashion changes, and the pop culture that consumes their lives changes, but kids are exactly the same as we were at their age.

Also, if you’re a young male teacher in this profession dominated by old ladies, you’ve got it made in the shade. Bribe the kids to do their work in exchange for answering any questions they have to ask about you. It works wonders.

JOB GRADE: A

Job 12: UPS Seasonal Driver Helper

I’m only a couple weeks into this one with just a few to go, so I can’t speak of the experience completely. What I can say is that on my specific route in Richtown, U.S.A., I’ve realized how disgustingly well-off some people are. Every time I deliver to the house that spent 900 grand just to refinish its basement, I want to poop on their doorstep. But I don’t. After all, it’s still light out. Also, I’m pretty sure that by the time my five weeks at this job are done, I’ll have wooed an unhappy young trophy wife and will have earned myself a Sugar Momma. Cross your fingers for me. My clientele aside, the job itself is easy enough. I run in and out of the truck all the day and drop packages (or should I call them parcels?) on people’s doorsteps. Plus, a woman’s already slipped me a $5 tip…and I’ve only delivered to her once! To be clear, she isn’t even one of the rich ones, so hopefully she’s just setting the bar low.

I’ve adjusted to how ridiculously some of the people I deliver to live, making the job much more relaxing. Plus, I like to think they’re good people who deserve it…right?!

PROGRESS REPORT: SATISFACTORY

JOB 13: ?

Looking back on this list, I realized I gave most of my working experiences, especially the more recent ones, good grades. I guess I really lucked out over the years, so who’s to think No. 13 won’t produce similar results? It’s coming folks - the Big One. It’ll have a salary and benefits and will fulfill me on every human level. Okay, maybe that’s a little naive, but a guy can dream, right? After all, 13 has always been my lucky number.

With the exception of one nice young lady at a Chili’s in Ithaca, New York, I’ve never done very well with waitresses. I joke around with them plenty, though. That’s about all the flirting I have to offer. However, most waitresses don’t exactly take to it. I guess they’re busy trying to remember the orders for eight different tables. Priorities, priorities.

Saturday night, I was at a restaurant with a few people and did the same thing I always do: I tried to befriend/court the waitress. Of course, I did it in that obnoxious Kiel way that usually just pushes people away. I made jokes that weren’t funny and I wouldn’t quit when I knew I should. When I asked for my second water with a lemon, I stressed the importance of a “good lemon.” I’ll say that again - I stressed the importance of a good lemon. When I tried to explain my reasoning behind that statement, I only looked worse. “Well, it was such a great lemon the first time, it was almost as if I was drinking lemonade.” It was hopeless the rest of the meal. She thought I was being sarcastic. Can you blame her?

The saddest thing about my problem is how much I love eating at restaurants. I’m like a barren woman that wants nothing else out of her life but to have her own children. (Not the best or most appropriate analogy, but it’s late. Give me a break.) In an ideal world, I’d eat out for 67% of my meals. Considering waitstaff is generally female, that means I’d be interacting with the opposite sex as my server on a highly frequent basis. With my statistics, this spells major disaster. I may possibly be doomed to nothing but take-out Chinese food and home cooked meals, and while I love to cook, I only have so many options in my arsenal. (And you can only eat my chili so many times before you need new stomach lining.)

So I’m going to keep going to restaurants because, after all, practice makes perfect. It may not always be pretty - in fact, more often than not it’ll be terribly and painfully awkward - but slowly but surely I hope to fix my problem. Until I climb that mountain, consider this my sincere apologize to any waitresses out there who I have effected or will effect in the near future. Just keep smiling and it’ll be over before you know it.

And I promise to make up for everything on the tip.

Imagine trying to describe the Christmas spirit to someone who has never had any encounters with Western culture or Christianity. It’s an unparalleled feeling - an excuse to feel magnificent all over for no real reason other than the date on the calendar. The unadulterated happiness people feel for the few weeks around Christmastime can only be rivaled by the feeling you get after something truly rare and remarkable has happened in your life. For instance, when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, the next week was pure bliss. Endorphins were aplenty. That’s what the few weeks leading up to Christmas are like, except you don’t need to rely on a professional sports franchise to give you the high. It arrives annually, right on queue.

If you’re looking for your dose of the Christmas spirit this holiday season, you’d be remiss not to see Disney and Robert Zemeckis’ retelling of the Charles Dickens’ classic A Christmas Carol in theaters now. You’ve seen the story plenty of times before, and get used to it because you’ll see it retold in your life plenty more times. Still, like A Christmas Story playing 12 times in a row on Christmas Eve and day, Scrooge’s story never gets old. You know the plot: Three ghosts visit a crotchety and stingy old man on Christmas Eve to show him the holiday’s true meaning and change his wicked ways. Spoiler alert aside, this story will still grab you every time.

If you think Zemeckis’ film is overkill and believe you’ve seen the story enough already, it’s your choice not to see it. I promise you’re being silly, though. I have news for you: Every story has been told and been told plenty of times already. We all know that. There are no more original plot types out there to experience in a book or in a movie theater. However, each individual writer or filmmaker’s method of telling the story and showing you the hero’s journey is what does or doesn’t make the story worth reading or watching.

Robert Zemeckis makes this retelling of the classic worth seeing. Unlike any adaptation before it, Disney’s A Christmas Carol can be seen in IMAX 3D, Hollywood’s new frontier that’s been primarily contained to films aimed at younger demographics. I think that at this point, spending about a dozen dollars to see a movie in theaters means it must be worth the experience. As this new technology is becoming more and more prominent and utilized optimally, it’s worth the experience. 3D has the ability to bring you into the world more directly than art has ever been able to do. Before, it relied on common themes connecting to its audience to reel it in; with 3D, you’re already in the world and able to experience the events and lessons along with the characters. When the hero undergoes change, you undergo the change with him. When the hero experiences catharsis, you experience catharsis.

After all, Ebenezer Scrooge’s catharsis at A Christmas Carol’s conclusion is the epitome of the Christmas spirit. When December 25 draws closer and closer, his transformation is what happens inside all of us. It isn’t as drastic of course - while we get bogged down by life’s worries and lose sight of what’s really worth it for 11 months of the year, none of us are as cruel or heartless as Scrooge at the beginning of his tale - but something childlike and wonderful awakens in everybody at Christmastime. That’s what the Christmas spirit is. This holiday season, you have the opportunity to awaken that spirit in theaters in a very unique and entertaining way by seeing Disney’s A Christmas Carol.

And if it doesn’t work, perhaps you need to be visited by a few ghosts of your own.

Have you ever known the cliche “It” guy? Beautiful girlfriend/wife, successful and high-paying career, the best at any sport he plays, and a personality that charms your socks off?

Don’t you really fucking hate that guy? It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s human nature to hate him. Why do you think the entire country of non-Patriot fans hates Tom Brady so much? Even if you have two or three of those four characteristics for yourself, the fact that you’re hopelessly single causes you to resent him for knocking up the the most famous supermodel in the world only a couple years after he knocked up a beautiful Hollywood actress. Resent away. No one will think any less of you for it.

I’m very happy that I have nothing major going for me in my life right now. Honestly, I mean that in all seriousness. I’m at the lowest of the low, and I’m not complaining. I’m a single, unemployed, washed up former athlete with nothing but old man softball and weekly games of indoor soccer to show for myself. I have nowhere to go but up. How can people hate me for that? I know eventually things in those life departments will be just dandy, but for now I’m only a couple rungs above the man who collected bottles out of the dumpster behind my apartment sophomore year of college.

At times in my life, I’ve felt like things were going pretty well for the old Kielster. In middle school, for example, I remember riding my bike home one day from my 6th grade girlfriend’s house singing “I’m on top of the world…” to myself because she was the prettiest girl in our grade. That technically put me at the top of the middle school social chain. Things were a-okay for the Kielster. Add to that the fact that I was a straight A student, and how do you think some people reacted to my fortunate position? They hated my guts and treated me like a man who picks bottles out of dumpsters. I hated middle school, mainly for that reason. Most of those people used to be my friends, too, but that changed once I got the same thing they wanted. (Or maybe it was because I called myself Kielster…)

I don’t have to worry about that kind of unwarranted resentment at this state of my life. It must be impossible to have jealous hatred for an unemployed and poor college graduate with no dating prospects. Luckily, I’m living pretty happily right now considering the cards I’m holding. The deck is stacked against me, but I’ll get through it in due time. On top of that, people love an underdog story. All I need is an 80s montage song playing wherever I go as I slowly but surely progress towards success and I’ll be in business.

So as you can see, being on the bottom isn’t so bad. If anything, this situation should inspire love instead of resentment. Since Thanksgiving is a day away, I can say I’m very thankful for that fact. Now people have the wonderful opportunity to hate me for legitimate reasons, like my hypersensitivity, my argumentative nature, or the way I laugh. Those are all acceptable answers. All that matters is you can’t hate me for the unjustifiable reason of jealous hatred. Good thing, too, because nothing frustrates me more.

Now with that said, who else wants to talk about how much they hate Lebron James?

Today I turn 23. This presents a problem considering my blog’s URL is retired-at-22.tumblr.com. Do I go on writing under the retired-at-22 umbrella, or do I set the precedent of altering the website every year and change it to retired-at-23 for the next 365 days? As you can see, I’m faced with a far more serious predicament this birthday than what shot I should take first.

If I change the site, I’ll begin a snowball effect and pretty soon I’ll be writing for retired-at-28.com. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Retired-at-22 says so much more. Twenty-two is known to be the age people generally graduate from college (except for the smart students who take on longer programs; more college - what a concept). When I first had the idea for retired-at-22, it was a better answer to the question “What are you doing for work?” Instead of telling people that I was just another unemployed college graduate loafing around this summer, I told them I was retired. When people see retired-at-22, I want them to make the connection that I retired straight out of college. In many ways, I have.

It makes sense, or at least it does in my eyes. I’ve been part of an educational system for nearly two full decades. Now I’ve reached the end of the road of that system, and, at least at this moment, I have no idea what to do with myself from here. Getting educated was what I did best. I mastered it at every level and after every promotion, all the way from finger painting in kindergarten to writing feature-length scripts in college. Now that everything is done with, I want to go out on top. I did what I had to, I did it well, and I’m not going to do it anymore.

Over the summer, I seriously embraced the idea of being retired. For one, I had no job and relied on money I’d saved up after years of random part-time jobs, much like a retired septuagenarian would rely on each penny he’d put away after years of going door-to-door as an insurance salesman. (I imagine anyone from the middle part of the 20th century made a living this way.) I spent all my days in leisure, essentially taking a 3 month-long vacation. Here is an example of a day in the unemployed life:

Woke up, got out of bed, didn’t drag a comb across my head because there was no need to look presentable. Although it was close to noon, I still needed a coffee to get me going. With my sister and friend Dan in tow, we’d get to a Dunkin Donuts as fast as humanly possible. It had to be the right Dunkins, too. Our extensive studies and ample free time had given us the opportunity to determine the best Dunkin Donuts to hit within a five mile radius of any location. “I’ll have a large toasted almond iced coffee, 1 shot of coconut, 1 shot of mocha, cream, no sugar.” (That’s right - I invented the DD Almond Joy iced coffee.) With our cold jet fuel in hand, we’d hit the streets. Hitting the streets requires aforementioned jet fuel, car windows to be down, and music to be pumping. As Dan says, “It’s the soundtrack to my life!” After the streets have been hit an adequate amount, you settle on a destination. Sometimes it’s the beach and sometimes it’s a park. The bottom line is that it’s a gorgeous summer day and there’s nothing better or more productive you could be doing with your day…except maybe working.

All in all, I loved/still love being retired. The alternative is having a career. Who wants to do that at such an exciting time to live? I’m no where near ready to have a career in anything right now because I’m no where near knowing what my career should be. If I have to survive the next five years working part time jobs here and there to make the money I need to get by, so be it. I’m retired. I’ve been retired since I was 22 and it seems that’s how it’s going to stay for the time being.

Happy birthday to me.

While it’s never been a personal crutch, my name has always been something…different. Kiel, phonetically “keel,” isn’t as common as Michael or Matthew or David. I learned that back in elementary school when I had three of each name in each class every year. At the same time, it isn’t even as common as Ron or Aidan or Glenn. You might have one of those per class, or at least you know the name exists so that it isn’t a matter of confusion when you meet one. Still, the average person will be lucky (yes, lucky) if they meet one Kiel in their entire life.

When I introduce myself to people, the exchange goes like this about 90% of the time:
“Hi, I’m Mike.”
“Kiel. Nice to meet you.”
Mike’s face contorts in confusion. He leans closer with whatever he thinks is his good ear. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Kiel,” I respond loudly and clearly.
“Kiel? That’s interesting.”
It is interesting, isn’t it? So is the way your eyebrows refuse to separate into two separate entities, Mike.

Most people like to ask where my name came from the first time they hear it. Growing up, I always answered this exhausting question the same way: “I don’t know. I guess they wanted something different.”
“Well, I think they got what they wanted,” the person would reply, thinking they’re smarter and funnier than they are.
Other times I’d say, “Mom was really drugged up when she named me, and Kiel was the most comprehensible sound she could make.”

Of course, those tales of my name’s origin are untrue. I learned the truth a few years ago when my parents informed me I was named after 80s television star Kiel Martin. That’s right - the Kiel Martin of Hill Street Blues fame. Perhaps the stories I’d always told weren’t so bad after all. This is why they say ignorance is bliss.

Knowing where Kiel comes from doesn’t make it anymore common, which is ultimately my problem. While I don’t want to be a Mike or a Matt or a David (no offense to individuals referred to as such), I don’t want to continue having the same exchanges about where my name came from and how it’s pronounced for the rest of my life. Before I die, I’d love Kiel to catch on as a baby-naming fad. That way I could call restaurants to reserve a table without using my middle name, Anthony, to save time. (Yes, I do that.)

I’ve asked just about all of my friends and family members to name their son Kiel if they have one. None have agreed. I don’t blame them. Even I haven’t decided whether or not I want a Kiel Junior running around the house some day. Still, I hope that, in a world where people name their children things like Apple and Falco, enough Kiels can slip in there to bring my namesake to prominence.

Yesterday morning, I had my orientation as a seasonal employee for UPS. The woman who checked me in was intrigued by my name. She double-checked how to pronounce it and complimented it. She told me she and her husband were expecting their second son soon and were trying to come up with a name that could go with the original name they’d given their first son.
“What’d you name your first son?” I asked.
“Maverick,” she said.

There’s hope for Kiel yet.

Inspired by a good friend and his blog: Beta Male.