Let there be light

It's dark at night.

I bet that's the kind of piercing insight and keen observation you read this blog for. You can stop rolling your eyes now. I'm not talking about outside - I'm talking about inside my house.

Our living room has always been light-challenged. There are ceiling lamps off to the side in what used to be a dining room, and another off to the other side in what used to be a bedroom. But no one really likes the harshness of those lights, or the amount of coverage they offer. And yes, a lot of rooms used to be other rooms in this house. It's like Disneyland - it'll never be finished.

Anyway, we used to have lamps on the end tables on either side of the couch, which made reading comfortable and easy on the eyes.

But then, in an act of sheer hostility and defiance, the lamp on my night table in the bedroom crapped out. It started doing strange flickering things when I turned it on. It was actually a little disturbing, since there was no rhyme or reason to when it would start acting up. I was scared it was either a poltergeist or conspiring to electrocute me. Or both. So I trashed it, and moved one of the ones in the living room next to me in the bedroom.

Ever since, my living room is like the moon: half in light, half in darkness. I was going to say covered in a fine gray dust with footprints from 1969, but why open that can of worms.

The problem replacing the lamp has been trying to find one that somewhat matches the remaining one. I don't know if you know this, but there are literally thousands of lamps to scroll through online - and it's exactly as much fun as it sounds.

I'm getting to the point where I'm ready to run out to Lowe's and just buy one. The wife doesn't want me to do it, but I told her we could look forever and the perfect one might never show up.

She said, "You're telling me."

Hepinstall!

I like to think I have a pretty objective assessment of my talent when it comes to writing. Essentially, I'm not bad. In fact most of the time I'm pretty good. And occasionally, I bat one out of the park.

On those days, when I'm feeling pretty good about myself knowing I've said exactly what I wanted to say, I walk with a little spring in my step. A certain joie de vivre if you will, knowing I've strung a few choice words together people will enjoy reading and thinking about.

Those are the days I try not to think about Kathy Hepinstall. Because if I do, then I have to face the cold, bright glare of harsh reality that I can't come close to how very good she is.

Hepinstall is a writer's writer. Reading her words are a joy. I don't know how she manages to make me feel awe and jealousy at the same time, but somehow she pulls it off.

She has the priceless ability to make readers feel deeply, surprise them and then leave them breathless. For a sample of what I'm talking about, have a gander at her latest blogpost Jesus Would Take The Middle Seat.

I like to imagine the words don't come easy to her, and that she struggles with the same angst and durang I do every time she faces a blank page. I'd like to think that. It would bring me enormous misery-loves-company joy. But reading her work, seeing the ease, flow and specificity of the words tells another story.

Kathy's also written four or five novels - I've lost count. My idea of being productive is leaving a note on the door for the UPS guy. Clearly we have different approaches.

If I were half the writer she is, I'd be twice the writer I am.

Which tells me I should start thinking about math teacher as an alternative career choice.

I bought myself some Time

Today I did something I love to do, and don't do nearly enough (pausing for a minute while you get that thought out of your sick little head). I bought the latest issue of Time magazine.

My dad worked at a newsstand for years, so I think I come by my love of magazines honestly. Right up there with Springsteen concerts, Breaking Bad and eating sushi, buying magazines hot of the presses brings me great joy.

When I fly, I get to the airport early to peruse the magazines at the gift shop. It's especially rewarding because they're always the first to get the latest issues. I give careful consideration to them, but I always walk out with the same ones: usually an Esquire, GQ, People, Fortune and Entertainment Weekly. Occasionally one of the car rags, but because I get enough of those at work they're not always on the top of my list.

I talked here about how I'll never use e-readers and why I prefer the experience of real books and magazines. I still feel that way, even though I admit I find myself doing more reading online on news sites about topics I would've picked up a magazine for in the past.

The reason I picked up this weeks' copy of Time was because it's the Answers issue. Ironically it didn't have the answers I was looking for.

Anyway, this isn't going to be the start of a new magazine subscription frenzy. My family got Newsweek for over forty years, and I continued the tradition right up until they stopped publication. That was the longest magazine subscription I ever had or will have. I even managed to save a few of the more important issues (like the Springsteen cover) and have them locked away in storage ("Hello, eBay?").

Right now I have subscriptions to Fortune, FastTimes, Los Angeles Magazine and Entertainment Weekly.

But unless my bathroom or my coffee table get bigger, I don't see getting more anytime soon.

Terms of endearment

The last time I looked, and believe me I don't look often, the iTunes Terms of Use Agreement had 38 pages. That's 38 pages that make liars out of all of us when it comes to having read it. Sure, we click the "Accept" button. We say we've read and understand it. But we've done neither.

Fortunately there are people who have way too much time on their hands that do go through them, and alert us to things we should know about.

Like the latest Facebook privacy invasion.

The disparagement clauses that don't let you post bad reviews of companies on Yelp.

How they collect and sell your information, even when they say they don't.

There's a lot of essential information in that Terms of Use Agreement. Not surprisingly, it's all skewed to protecting the site as opposed to the rights of those using it. And every site you visit, big or small has them. Except this one.

Until now.

Starting today, you're on notice that Rotation and Balance now has a short albeit strict Terms of Use policy that will have to be adhered to should you desire to continue using this site. And really, why wouldn't you?

Terms of Use Agreement for Rotation and Balance

Don't be a jackass in your comments. I'm not made of glass and I won't break if you disagree with something I've said or don't think it's funny. But try to be civil about it. Or at least be funny. I don't shy away from a good debate, but name-calling and insults don't make it one. If you do it, not only will I block your comment, I'll see to it you're put back in your cage where you can throw your feces at passersby and I don't have to watch.

Don't pretend to know me. Odd as this may sound, some strangers who leave comments assume an undeserved familiarity in their tone. This will come as a surprise, but I actually know who my friends are. I know who I know. And if I don't know you, don't pretend I do. By all means feel free to comment. Just not like you're a friend.

Tell me who you are. If you're going to take the time to comment, don't do it anonymously. Cause really - and I think you know this already - it's the coward's way to comment. If you're going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it. Anonymous comments don't count. Just look at the ones on any given Yahoo article.

Don't point out my typos. Let he who is without ever having had a typo cast the first stome (see what I did there?). It happens. I type fast - it's part of my job description. It's not like the boom mic hanging down in the middle of scene and taking you out of the movie. You'll still know what I mean. And I promise I'll eventually go back, reread and correct it. Keep in mind this isn't Miss Quigley's english class. It's a blog. You're lucky I can spell anything at all.

If you comment, check back for my reply. Don't just talk to me, walk away and never look back as if you were any one of my high school girlfriends (it's okay, I'm over it). If you're going to take the time to comment, I'll gladly take the time to reply if it calls for it. I'll probably reply even if it doesn't. What can I say, I'm a giver.

Never forget that you're appreciated. There are so many things you could be doing right now besides reading this. I never forget that, and I'm forever grateful you give these little musings any time at all. Often it probably takes longer to read them than to write them (does it show?). Anyway, nothing but gratitude.

So there it is. Not too bad, not too complicated. It's not like I'm selling music on here. I'm not even going to ask you to click on the "Accept" button.

First of all, I don't have an "Accept" button.

And second of all, if you've read this far, I already know you're pretty accepting.