The Clapper

Friday night Chris and I watched the movie, “Money Ball” with Brad Pitt.  Well, starring Brad Pitt.  He was, much to Chris’ delight, not lying in bed with us.  It was a pretty good movie, and I especially liked that the people in charge didn’t add the usual Hollywood romance/drama to what was already a perfectly interesting plot.  Don’t get me wrong, I love romantic movies as much, if not much more, than anyone else.  But I don’t like when the sexy half-naked girl is added to a ‘based on a true story’ movie that didn’t originally have a sexy half-naked girl part of the story.  Because let’s face it, the sexy half-naked girl just isn’t in nearly as many true stories as Hollywood makes her out to be.  Anyway, Money Ball is a good, interesting movie based on a true story whose only downfall is that it’s based on a true story and thus does not end the way I wanted it to [Spoiler Alert:  Despite Brad’s and my favorite character, Stan’s, best efforts, the Oakland A’s still don’t win a world series on a miniscule budget].  But I digress.  This blog, as the title suggests, is not a review of ‘Money Ball’. 

After our Friday night movie was over, Chris and I had our usual discussion about who should turn off the lamp.  I’m really not sure why this discussion comes up.  Our lamp consists of a squat blue base, an equally squat blue shade, and a fluorescent lightbulb that precariously holds the two parts together.  Because the lamp has been with Chris longer than I have, I can only guess at its origins.  My hypothesis is that it was bought at the “Getting Ready for College” section of a Wal-mart or Target about ten years ago when Chris was actually getting ready for college.  But I mean no disrespect to the lamp.  I am simply making the point that the lamp is Chris’ and thus resides on his night stand on his side of the bed.  It just doesn’t make sense for me to turn off the lamp.  Ever.

And now, I finally arrive at my point:  I’m pretty sure this is exactly why the American public warmed so quickly to that little device known simply as, The Clapper.  But where is The Clapper now?  The last time I saw one was when Dad hooked it up to my sister’s and my little personal Christmas tree in our room.  Of course, now that I think about it, The Clapper didn’t really respond very well to clapping.  It worked much better if you made this loud ‘PSSSsssst’ noise instead.  [As in, “Psst, hey kid?  Do you want some candy?” only much louder].  I have fond memories of pretending to fall asleep at night while secretly psst-ing the Christmas tree on and off with Laura.

So maybe The Clapper didn’t make it to the 21st Century because it wasn’t properly named.  Perhaps The Psst-er would still be alive and well.  Or maybe The Clapper did make it to the 21st Century, and I just haven’t noticed.  But one thing is for sure, if I happen across The Clapper, and it is reasonably priced, I will be purchasing two of them.

My Psst-ing Partner in Crime and Me (And Santa, though I don't think he had anything to do with The Clapper)