as a lounge is a place where you sit and relax - I send you a story about the living in such a lounge:
A rather interesting tale!
A few months before I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our
small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer
and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted
and was around to welcome me into the world a few months later.
As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he
had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me
the word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it. But the stranger? He was our
storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures,
mysteries and comedies. If I wanted to know anything about politics, history, or
science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and
even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major
league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never
stopped talking, but my parents didn't seem to mind. Sometimes one of them would
get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what
he had to say, and would go elsewhere. (I wonder now if they ever prayed for
the stranger to leave.)
Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger
never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our
home ... not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our longtime visitor,
however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad
squirm and my mother blush. My parents seldom drank alcohol in the home. But the
stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look
cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely)
about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and
generally embarrassing. I now know that my early concepts about relationships were
influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of
my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked ... and NEVER asked to leave.
More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our
family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first.
Still, if you were to walk into my parents' den today you would still find
him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and
watch him draw his pictures. His name? We just call him TV.
(Special Note: This should be required reading for every household)