Putting a state-of-the-art digital video camera with a zoom lens in the hands of a fifty-year-old man on Christmas morning is like giving a sixteen-year-old the keys to your Porsche. It just shouldn't be done. There I am, yelling a litany of parental cliches like "Look here, Cameron," "Puddy, what did you get?" "Savannah, what time did you get home last night?" We all turn into overbearing, obtrusive directors with some half-baked notion that one day we will assemble all of the footage into a meaningful chronological account of our time on Earth. I don't know about you, but I can tell you that most of the videos in my family wind up in a shoe box somewhere and surface only when some kind of cleanup is initiated around the house. . . .
I know I've captured enough moments when I hear Savannah say through my headset, "Jesus, Christmas morning with Cecil B. DeBuffett. Dad, we're hungry. Please put the camera down and make us some pancakes."
-Jimmy Buffett, A Pirate Looks at Fifty
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