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I’ve been trying to read the NY Post’s assessment of Take Two‘s stock. Take Two, for those who aren’t gaming inclined, publishes the Grand Theft Auto games. The article blasts the company for the content of its games in a great display of fire and brimstone and, in doing so, is both more than a little self-serving and quite incorrect in the process. Much of the gaming world is up in arms about this piece. I’m still trying to wrestle it down like a moldy sandwich. There are bits of bread that aren’t entirely green, but meat is most definitely rotten and, Lord, how did a rat tail get in here?

It all starts well enough. Christopher Byron, the author of the piece, begins by talking about stock prices. He tells us that Take Two’s stock has been a hot ticket. I agree. Any stock that goes up 500% in a couple of years should be watched with a wary eye. He talks a little, and eventually wraps up with, some recent problems they’ve had with the Securities and Exchange Commission. Again, I share his fears. Any company that gets that many visits from suited men from the Federal government must be held under a certain amount of suspicion.

But then things go to hell. Christopher Byron gets to leave the intended subject — I’m guessing stock prices from the title — behind and launch into a personal tirade, a tirade that is as silly as it is littered with inaccuracies.

He takes Take Two to task for its products:

Unusual? They have a couple of runaway hits (the aforementioned Grand Theft Auto games), a couple of great games (Mafia, Age of Wonders), some good games (Railroad Tycoon, Serious Sam), a bunch of other stuff, and — get this — a good helping of children’s games (Dora, Piglet’s BIG Game). This sounds like a great resume for a publisher. Oh, and yes I said publisher; Take Two doesn’t even make these games. They only market and distribute them (“produce”, as Mr. Byron says, is a bit misleading). Maybe Mr. Byron should cast that evil stare at Rockstar North, whose games are almost exclusively violent in one way or another (they are indeed the creators of the Grand Theft Auto games). Then again, that may require him to do some research, click on a link or two, and have a clue about which he speaks.

He then discusses the real sand in his underwear: one particular game published by Take Two, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.

First of all, GTA does not look “incredibly and shockingly” real. Here’s a screenshot and here’s another. What do you think? It’s almost cartoon-like in its appearance. Of course, these are just my eyes. My Byron may classify Pac Man as incredibly realistic depiction of circular construction paper consuming electrified food and colored bed coverings at enormous rate.

Second, sure you can steal a gun and shoot the police. You can entertain a prostitute and kill her. But you don’t have to so. It’s an open world; that’s really the beauty of the whole game. You do what you want. Nobody is stopping you and the punishments aren’t very harsh when you cross the very faded line. Mr. Byron, I suggest you spend your playtime doing other things, like furthering the story. Really, you should be ashamed. There is much more to do than watching the back of old Chevy bop up and down.

Finally, he gives us his speech. These are the lines to make them tremble. These are the lines to get people to read his article. This is his chance to step up on the soapbox.

People, and I say this with much more respect than he, this is insane. He can’t be serious. He simply cannot believe that playing a game — and let’s not forget that’s what this is — can even compare to pedophilia or stealing from folks for personal gain. The only plausible reason for making a statement such as this is to preach to the morally superior choir. He understands his intended audience. He wants to sing along, solidify their fears and misguided opinions.

It matters not that most lack a proper frame a reference. Not everyone has a copy of Vice City on their shelf. Not everyone has the initiative to witness its assured banality. That’s unnecessary. Opinions are formulated from the news media — this news media.

It’s a prostitution simulator despite the fact that you need to actively seek them out. It’s a killing simulator even though half the games I play have a higher causality count (including Super Mario Bros. — those poor turtles). It’s controversia; it must be evil.

They forget for a second that this game is an interactive version of any great mob movie (in fact the voice of the main character, Ray Liotta, is famous for his movie work). These things are for our kids, despite the fact that most studies or surveys say the average age of the modern gamer is somewhere between 24 and 27. I certainly don’t need Mr. Byron to look after the content that crosses my television and I don’t appreciate his efforts.

I also have no need for incredibly stupid suggestions such as this. This is a game and, it seems that I again must make this point for Mr. Byron’s sake, just a game. Comparing Grand Theft Auto to such morally reprehensible acts add flair to his argument. It also reveals him to not be of right mind.

Maybe I should be thankful. His public display of ignorance provides a safe passage into a discussion that leads back to actual financials. He worries that the Grand Theft Auto games encompass too much of Take Two’s paycheck:

Well, duh. Grand Theft Auto III and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City have been the biggest selling videogames of the last couple of years. The competition hasn’t even been close. For a while, they could barely make them fast enough. These sales numbers would impress even EA or Sony, a couple of big boys of the gaming business. I wonder how much of New Line Cinema‘s bottom line was padded with The Lord of the Rings. Having a runaway hit is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, this should breed excitement. Each Grand Theft Auto has been better than the last. A well established franchise keeps improving with age. Talk about bread and butter.

Mr. Byron blatherings are made all the more obscene by the fact that I’m not entirely convinced that he’s actually played the game. Ok, maybe he picked up a controller for a couple of minutes. Maybe he once witnessed a friend play from across the room. Maybe he peered through a store window. Maybe he once saw a commercial.

I can give no other explanation for his goofy talk. His separation of fantasy and reality is misaligned. I have trouble trying to swallow his arguments. I have more trouble trying to digest what his intolerant views of gaming have to do with his day job. It sounds to me that he’s simply cruising the mean streets of the information superhighway, just looking for trouble. Some of us Vice City game players know exactly how he feels.

A bond between a father and son is immediate but always changing, evolving if you will. If you told me today that I’d love my son more now than the day he was born, I’d have called you a liar. But I do. If you tell me I’ll love him even more a year from today, I’ll give you a crooked eyebrow but not be so quick to doubt your words.

Today is my son’s first birthday and for that I’m thankful. He’s an object of toil but an object of constant delight. Those little legs wander from room to room, carrying the brightest smile in the world. Teeth now decorate that smile, teeth that will soon feast on birthday cake.

The marking of this, his birth day, means that he’s accomplished a lot. A lot of firsts are complete:

First smile. Check.
First laugh. Check.
First word (“Hi”). Check.
First steps. Check.

It’s been an exciting year. Something new lies behind each corner. Each movement is the chance to see something for the very first time. The wife and I learned a lot. We know a little more about taking care of a child. We know a lot more about ourselves.

Happy birthday, son. I may not be too happy to leave the last year, the real year of firsts, behind but I’m quite excited about the year ahead. From your smile, I believe you are too.

AT&T is no longer my friend. It’s not like we were good buddies before but at least we had an understanding. I sent them a check every month and they provided a service. Times went bad and they left me in the cold. I’ve been spurned by a telco – the horror.

It all started when the wife’s phone up and died. Some battery swapping between the wife and I uncovered the problem: her battery was dead. It would never return to this world. A new battery would cost about $30. That hardly seemed worth it. Her contract was up and mine soon would be. Let’s just sign a new contact and get some new phones. It sounded easy enough.

It wasn’t.

AT&T has a ton of cool offers on their web site. Phones are free or provided for a deep discount. This wasn’t a surprise. All wireless carriers — Verizon, T-Mobile, Cingular — pimp out their phones to get that elusive contract. The first bit of crack is free. After that, poney up.

The problem is that, with AT&T at least, these deals are for new customers only. If you are a current customer or, in our case, a faithful customer of more than three years, they have little interest in talking to you. They offered me a couple of measly discounts to sign a new contract but no offer even approached what I could get if I wasn’t already an AT&T Wireless customer. It just wasn’t right.

I even mentioned this to the customer service rep. Why on earth would I accept this deal when any of your competitors would give me a much better one? Just get on the web. Take a look. Even you kick your own ass.

They didn’t even want to compete. Maybe AT&T assumes customers like them so much they don’t want to switch. I’m guessing their stock price is tied to the amount of new subscribers they acquire. Turnover rate is probably assumed to be high. Why fight it?

They should fight it because I’m now a Cingular customer. I have two pretty new phones and a plan that is $10 cheaper a month with more than twice the number of minutes. I’m upset that I had to spend the time to shop around and that I’ll spend the next month handing out a new number (I didn’t keep my previous number for a couple of reasons) but I can’t get too out of shape. They actually did me a favor.

This is the picture that went out in our Christmas cards this year. The ceramic tree is a family hierloom from my grandmother. The presents themselves are — shh — actually mine but went much better in the picture than his own. It’ll work out in the end. He’s much more likely to enjoy my boxes than I am.

The cards themselves went out late – which should be no surprise given my track record – so don’t get all sad you don’t already have one of your very own. They are in the mail. If you don’t get one, take solace. It’s not that we don’t like you. It’s just that we don’t like you that much – either that or we just don’t have your address. Work with us people. Like many things Christmas, cards were a last minute accomplishment.

And that doesn’t exclude my wife’s presents; the last of which was wrapped last night. I have to say I was quite surprised at the ease of my late season shopping. The lines were reasonable and the stores prepared. Color me impressed. One store was open until midnight. Who shops at midnight? 10:45 pm, well that’s perfectly acceptable but midnight? Sheesh and — ahem – color me lucky.

When Cambell wasn’t posing for Christmas cards, he was nestling up to Santa. And by nestling, I of course mean peeking around the room at all the staring faces before bursting into tears. He was a good enough sport and we got The Picture. I’m sure Santa won’t hold it against him.

I’m finally in the mood for Christmas and, thankfully, I’m not too late; I’ll soon be heading to church. Before I go, I wanted to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas. The Son of God was born not so long ago and it’s about time I go and celebrate the occasion.

From egg nog to the Christmas tree, traditions are part of the Christmas holiday. I’ve got two on my docket and one already has a check next to it.

Several years ago, on a whim, the wife and I got together with our best friends for a little neighborhood sightseeing. This close to Christmas the sun sets early and little bulbs of green and red quickly light up to replace it.

Riding around in the car looking at Christmas lights was nothing new to the wife and I. Including our friends, however, was. We ended the night with the girls in the back seat singing Christmas carols and my friend and I searching for the a copy of the South Park Christmas album. The next year it became tradition.

Since then, we’ve added some members to our group. They had a child a couple of years ago and we added one just this year. We’ve outgrown both their Xterra and our own, requiring the quickly growning group to borrow a minivan to complete the adventure.

This year was much like the rest. We warmed up with some coffee and wound through neighborhood streets. Next year we might have to rent a bus. The minivan had just one empty seat.

My other tradition this time of year is to make some time in the schedule for Christmas with my father. This one has been a little sidetracked. It was supposed to happen last weekend and my wife, child, and I were sick. It was rescheduled to this weekend before a similar affliction occured within my brother’s family. We’ll get it done. In the meantime, Dad, Merry Christmas. We’ll catch you before the new year.

Ah, traditions. Now I can wait for the one where I open all my toys.

I woke yesterday morning to a knock at my door. I might not have heard it if it were not for the dog. I’m not normally expecting visitors at 6:15 am.

I wandered downstairs in my very own sleep-induced walk and fumbled for the light switch. The Christmas tree lit up. That wasn’t exactly what I was going for. A flurried, and useless, look through the peephole revealed nothing of my visitor. I decided to take my chances and open the door. I had my ferocious dog to protect me. If there was danger, maybe he would lick it to death.

Danger did not lurk on the other side but what did was a good view of why I was awoken from my sleep. “I hit your car,” were the words that greeted me. Our truck had received a bit of a spanking, courtesy of a neighbor who couldn’t be bothered to scrape the ice off her windows; a simple porthole is not enough. “I’ll be back,” I said as I hurried upstairs for a pair of sweatpants.

Today we discovered the truck was undrivable. The tailpipe is bent over backwards. I spent the morning waiting for a rental car. I could hardly contain my excitement over the tiny Chevy Cavalier the family will be limited to this Christmas season. Is there a kicker to this whole episode? Yep. It turns out the neighbor was uninsured. Here comes Mr. Deductible. A very uncomfortable, but necessary, visit to the neighbor’s house will be in order.

All this came on the heels of a hellish weekend. The whole Wootton family got sick this weekend. The wife and child were very sick, as was I for a while. The result was a very quick indoctrination to real parenting. The flu epidemic got us and got us good. Thankfully, the worst seems to be over. We’re barely carriers of the plague anymore! Not only can we breathe easy, we can breathe.

On the (kind of) upside, we picked out a new front door today. It’s just one of the several projects to come at our home. The old door is beaten to hell and sports the oddest door handle I’ve ever seen. Someone mentioned to me the other day that if a thief ever got in our house, they’d never figure out how to leave; the handle would have them puzzled for hours. We’re hoping the new door is better at stopping thieves from getting in, not out.

I’m taking a weatherman’s approach (i.e. I’m making a wild guess) towards the future. I’m hoping I have time to finish Christmas shopping in between the phone calls to the bank, contractors, bodyshops, and insurance companies. I’m really looking forward to Christmas itself, despite the fact that the house looks much like all the king’s horses and all the king’s men are still standing around discussing the remains of a Mr. Humpty Dumpty. We’ll take our lumps and make sugar. And maybe if I whine long enough that’ll be just what we need to make a batch of the wife’s cookies.

I’ve been musing about the light outside my basement door. A couple of weeks ago, I shattered the bulb trying to change it and, while trying to fix my newfound problem, I made things worse. Long story short, I need a new light.

If that little light behind my house was all I had to worry about, I’d count myself lucky. It’s not. If I was forced to rank my worries in order, I’d have to say that light is somewhere around 162, give or take two. Yep, that sounds just about right.

Topping my list is mold and I’m not talking about a science project left in the fridge too long. A couple of weeks ago, the sump pump in our crawl space overflowed. Oddly enough, the pump appeared to be fine. The basin that collects the water was the problem. It had disintegrated. Water wasn’t looking for an escape through the conveniently placed pipes nearby. It was spreading directly into the crawlspace. For a while — and exactly how long, I’m unsure — we had our very own creek located right under us.

This didn’t seem like a very big deal. I was able to get the pump working and we bought a humidifier to clean up the leftovers. A couple of days later, our designated builder (the wife’s brother) sent a crew (consisting of her nephew) to replace the pump (lock, stock, and, most importantly, barrel).

Obviously, that wasn’t the end of the story. Shortly thereafter, I discovered mold between the rocks in the crawlspace. I pulled up some nearby boxes (we use our crawlspace as a storage area) and found more problems. The bottom of several boxes revealed even more mold. This didn’t look good. We called in some folks to do testing.

The test results confirmed our fears. Mold had found its way into our basement. It was in the crawlspace. It was in the rafters of the crawlspace and it was all over a leak near our fireplace. It was bad mold — evil mold, if you will. We needed to take action and we needed to take action fast. Mold of the evil variety isn’t that big of a deal to the wife and I. Factor in our 11 month old son and you have another story altogether.

What followed was a whirlwind of events. We quickly found a contractor willing to come in and fix our problems. We needed the mold removed. We needed our fireplace leak repaired. We needed all of this now.

The leak would be fixed by waterproofing the basement. We knew about the leak. In fact, we believe we can prove that the previous owner maliciously sold us the house without mentioning the leak. However, it was expensive to fix. Pipes needed to be run between the leak and our sump pump. These drainage pipes would carry the water to the pump and, eventually out of the house. The problem was that everything between the leak and the sump pump would be damaged. The floor would need to be destroyed to place the pipes into the concrete. The built in cabinet would need to be removed to get at the leak. We decided to waterproof the entire wall, meaning the wall would be left without – well – a wall.

Sadly, the mold was a bigger deal, at least in terms of overall price. Specialists cost money and this was no exception. They brought in their equipment to contain the mold. They wore heavy gloves and masks. We lost a lot of stuff we stored in the crawlspace but that wasn’t our real concern. We wanted to make sure it didn’t come back.

We added a couple of things to the bill to accomplish this. The crawlspace lacked ventilation of any kind. A humidex would fix that. The floor of the crawlspace is made up of simple dirt and stone. An extra sump pump and plastic sealer would help us out there.

The total bill was rather impressive, impressive enough that we spent Tuesday at the bank acquiring a home equity line of credit. I’m still getting over the cost and there’s more work to do. The mold is gone but the construction is just beginning. We’re still redesigning the basement. Hardwood floors? Maybe. A whole lot less paneling? Definitely. And what about the bathroom?

So, I’ve been musing a bit about my light out back when I have no shortage of more important things to think about. Why? I’m of the opinion that when the least of my worries is finally taken care of, the bulk of my worries will quite likely be history. At least, I’m hoping.

My TIVO is overflowing with unwatched television but I may soon have to clear some room. The Family Guy might be coming back and I’m just thrilled at the prospect. Little Stewie can again complain about his Uteran prison. Brian the dog will get to drink yet another Martini.

The show won’t be returning because of public outcry or because of the giant holes in Fox’s lineup. The DVD sales are through the roof. In this strange case of backwards distribution, the tail just might wag the dog (sorry Brian — trust us). The guys with the suits understand dollars and cents. They are hoping that popularity proven in the video store translates to the television screen.

I’m hoping too. A new season or two of one my favorite shows of the last couple of years would go wonderfully next to my copy of seasons 1 and 2 of Peter and family. Well that and season three. Christmas is coming, you know.

The wife and I spent last weekend alone, quietly celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary. Seven blissful years gone – twelve now in total. These chains of love are starting to fit. In fact, they have never fit better.

Our destination was the sleepy town of Harpers Ferry. Sleepy is a charitable word for the historic town without the warm weather of summer or spring. We started our trip with a little exploration. We took a walking bridge across the Potomac and back again. We thawed our windblown ears in a local tavern. A trip through town featured a secluded — almost creepy — visit to the wax museum (Let’s not speak of part of the tour where John Brown looks at you on his way up to the noose.) and more than one trip into the local shops. A cookie to warm the belly, a beanie to warm those ears, and a Christmas quilt to warm the heart were the conquests of our travels. We braved the 200 steps to Jefferson’s rock and finally left to track down our Bed and Breakfast.

The next day we were off to Antietam, a place significant for featuring the bloodiest day of the civil war as well as the Union victory that triggered the Emancipation Proclamation. Perhaps less significant, it rounded out our tour of “the big two” Maryland civil war battles.

I found it interesting how hard the historians are on the Union, the eventual winners of the battle. General McClellan was too reserved, foolishly squandering an opportunity to crush the army of the South. He only had their battle plans and far superior numbers. Their hasty escape only allowed them to fight for two and half more years. Cmon. Give the guy a break.

McClellan was eventually fired (and, it seems, rightfully so) for letting the army of the South get back across the Potamac. His successor, Ambrose Burnside, is infamous for related reasons. Late in the day, a large force of Union soldiers were repeatedly beaten back by just a relatively few Confederate riflemen while attempting to take a bridge. They could have forded the river a little upstream or a little downstream. Instead, they wasted the morning and many lives in the effort. In a bit of historical sarcasm, Burnside Bridge was the reward for their commander.

The whole trip was quiet. We didn’t have to fight the crowds; there weren’t any. Except for some wandering boy scout troops scattered along our tour of Antietam, we were pretty much alone and that’s just how the wife and I like it. One of the real advantages to having a mid-November wedding is that tourist season is over. Our love doesn’t just make it feel like we are the only ones in the world, the population of the attractions we visit bare it out. It’s a nice way to spend a trip — no bumping elbows for me. The wife and I are on vacation. Only us two need be present.

Still, I must admit, our minds weren’t just on the two of us. We spent more than a little time thinking about what we left behind, in the form of just the best little baby boy on earth. This was our first overnight trip without our little bundle of joy and it felt like it. Don’t get me wrong. We had a grand time, particularly that part about sleeping until the late hour of 8 am, but by the end we were ready to return. We didn’t want him to forget our names. We didn’t want him walking away before we got a chance to witness it.

And what a wonderful way that was to end the weekend. We spent the weekend celebrating our love. We spent the trip home celebrating the fruits of it.

I brought a new mug into work the other day — something that was due, given that I lost my company mug about a year ago. I have a problem with it, though. While it just exudes coolness, with its Marvin the Martian motif, it’s considerably bigger than a normal mug. My cups of coffee are now 1/2 cups of coffee. I don’t know if I like having all that extra space.

The wife and I watched the return of 8 Simple Rules sans Jon Ritter this week. While I’d have to say the return episode wasn’t too shabby — it was emotional without feeling contrived, I don’t know how they’ll continue the show without their lead character. This isn’t like replacing a red shirt on Star Trek. He was the show. It’s too bad, really. Before his death, it was quickly becoming the only show on ABC worth watching.

The wife and I spent much of Saturday at a birthday party for the now two year old daughter of our good friends. I felt a little bad for our friends at the result; some of their planning backfired. A joyous pinata party ended up being a ritual hanging where all the kids took turns beating Sponge Bob with a stick. I hope she recovers soon. The birthday cake probably cheered her up. It contained what was left of his Square Pants after we carved him up.

We ended the night by catching the lunar eclipse. It was pretty wild to watch the moon and a star align. It’s like watching parent earth punish its unruly kids. You go to that corner and you go to that corner. It was first time I actually watched an eclipse occur. We got the telescope out and everything. I even got a long exposure picture, using the last of the film I bought specifically for photographing stars while I was in Hawaii.

After those fluffy things in the sky, quite literally, clouded our vision, the wife and I headed in from the sudden cold for some hot chocolate. Yummm. I was hardly surprised that we collapsed while watching Finding Nemo. This time my mug was completely full.