"Can a Robotic Vacuum really change your life?"

No. No it can't, you lazy asshole.

www.buyroomba.com

I fold

I don't know what's more pathetic...the fact that I, a person that hardly EVER watches T.V., have decided to sit through a marathon of CELEBRITY POKER for an unknown amount of time (gosh it's late), or the number of times I've suffered through that Robot vacuum commercial.
Do you think people that have come upon legitimately hard times financially that catch this commercial for a $200 "robot" vacuum...maybe passing an electronics store with a few T.V.s on display en route to their 2nd job at a factory with no health benefits and a 75% chance of eventual dismemberment...Do you think they see that commercial and wonder what the hell went wrong? You know...with humanity?
Ok...I don't actually WORK at a factory...
I try to justify my viewership with specific factors...David Cross, a very funny guy, is playing. I actually like playing poker. But it all starts to waver and fade as the grim reality sets in...I'm WATCHING people play poker. For a while, I fantasize that I'm at the table as well, playing for some charity, trading some wimpy remarks with the others. That wears thin. I grab a beer to add to the casino vibe. Then it occurs to me.
I'm watching this because I know there's nothing else to watch at 2am that I wouldn't be able to wash away after I shut off the box. And it's for charity, man. Jeez...

Say...

Sudden moments of isolation are nice, aren't they? (no need to respond...)
Those times when you're in full-tilt social or performing mode, at a work party or a club or a friend's house...lots of noise, conversation, calculated interruptions. Maybe you hit the restroom...maybe you step out for a smoke...you're suddenly ALONE. Just you and the super-ego echoes. I've noticed that lately, in these stolen segues, I seem to strike up a brief conversation with myself. Something along the lines of "Here I am" or "That was interesting, huh?" Most of these conversations are brief, reassuring and pleasant (with a smidge of levity and a hint of irony). They're usually followed be an extended staring session at an object or pattern of interest in the area (if it's the Men's room, the pattern is almost always what's just North of the urinal directly in front of me). These few seconds give me the impression of empowerment and, to some degree, existentialist immortality.
When I was younger, I'd have conversations with God like these. Impromptu and effortless...made perfect sense. I didn't even have to say anything outloud...a simply wry skyward glance would suffice. These recent "how-do-you-doo's" are a little different but, still, seemingly directed outward. One of these days I must remember to scan the stalls for any listeners I may potentially freak out.
Then again, in this world of "hands-free" phone conversation, we are already a nation of solo-talking lunatics wandering the streets freely.
Voices bounding into the electric strata without a care in the world as to who might be listening.
I think my conversations are small checkpoints. My way of taking stock of my perception of it all and making sure I still have a grasp of the invisible world...where those fleeting "spots" in the corner of your eye might not be just dust...where, regardless of current surroundings, the right combination of cleaning agents, cheap cologne and bagged lunches can send you back to 11 am on any given schoolday in 1982...where those golden moments of dialogue shared with friends and colleagues maintain and thrive. Maybe I've always been talking to the same person. It always seemed familiar and external...I'd hate to ruin it by over-analyzing it. Then again, it's been so long, maybe it's "un-ruinable".
I suppose I'm comfortable believing that it just may be impossible for me to feel totally alone.