To Dante and Back (sorry Eric)

Reading has become less and less popular. Okay, I know lots of people read everyday but many of them are not reading entire words much less entire books. Modern communication often requires people to talk in a language which had been exclusively reserved for personalized license plates. For example: “I would really appreciate it if you could send me a message on my cellular phone at a time other than right now.” becomes “plz txt l8r.” This is the human race’s alpha-numeric version of the clicks and whirrs dolphins use to communicate.
I appreciate the efficiency of this new version of the language, but I am too square to see any artistry in it. Crafting words is not just getting the most information into the fewest number of characters typed. Texting may be the modern day hi-tech version of the haiku. What is a haiku? It is a Japanese form of poetry which follows a strict set of rules requiring the poet to get the optimum amount of information into the fewest number of words. It is most commonly used as a tool to torture grade school students when it is assigned as homework to describe a spring rain.
Anyway, back to the reading habits of Americans. An AP poll published in August stated one in four people surveyed had not read a whole book in an entire year. The results were broken down into all sorts of sub-groups. Midwesterners read more than Southerners. Joke from the Midwestern point-of-view: It just takes longer to read a book when you have to move your lips. Joke from the Southern point-of-view: Reading is a great alternative to watching the paint dry on the barn.
Married men read more than single men. Well duh. A single man’s alternative to reading a book: hit the dance floor with a Jennifer Lopez look-alike and trip the light fantastic into the wee hours of the morning. A married man’s alternative to reading a book: re-grout the shower.
Women read more than men. Well, duh, again. A single woman’s alternative to reading: watch a man with severe delusions that he looks like Brad Pitt do odd arrhythmic gyrations at a garish discotheque. A married woman’s alternative to reading: watch a man with more thumbs than a hitch-hikers convention re-grout the shower.
I have readers in my family. I often have to take books from my kid’s sleeping hands after they try to read just one more chapter. My wife goes through spells of disappearing for hours or days when she becomes absorbed in a new literary discovery. My mother reads the classics and does not bat an eye if the page count of a book approaches a number akin to the blades of grass in Central Park. However, I have to say my brother, Eric, is the winner. Not only does he read more books than the entire population of many third world countries he reads books with titles too confusing for me to fully fathom.
Eric’s favorite book may by Dante’s Divine Comedy. I haven’t read it. I have a hard time dealing with the archaic language and situations. Maybe if someone updated it for the short-attention spanned 21st century man who will not get the Greek literature allusions any more than he can solve quadratic equations underwater, I’d read it.
I’ll get the ball rolling. Instead of Virgil as Dante’s tour guide through Hell, make it Geraldo. Just spending an extended amount of time with Geraldo is hellish in my mind. Also, for every level of Hell the punishments shouldn’t be so old school. Who can really empathize with sinners who are immersed in a lake of boiling pitch? That is so 14th century.
There are nine circles of Hell for Dante. Here are my suggestions. Circle One has sinners perpetually in the express lane at Dillon’s behind people with more than twelve items. Circle Two is a box of chocolates, all of which are coconut. Circle Three consists of riding in an elevator accompanied by three sumo wrestlers with 1,001 Strings playing the Paul Anka hit “You’re Having My Baby” on the little music speaker. Circle Four has you on a transcontinental flight seated between Anne Coulter and Keith Olbermann. Circle Five - karaoke. Circle Six is spent on the phone dealing with an automated directory trying to get connected to Heaven (“If you feel you have been cursed to eternal damnation in error please press 666 now.) Circle Seven - the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland. Circle Eight is talking to your insurance company about money they owe you. Circle Nine…computers…enough said.

Christopher Pyle was read to most every night by his mother as he grew up. She read everything from “Freddy and the Baseball Team from Mars” to “Mr. Clutch”, Jerry West’s autobiography. She will have a special place in heaven for that patience.

Vast Wasteland or Pixels of Pleasure

It is that time of year again. The time of year when every once in a while there is a little nip in the air? The time of year when the leaves on the trees start to take on the tinge of the brilliant colors soon to come? The only time of the year when the Royals are not mathematically eliminated from the 2008 playoffs? Nope (well actually that Royals thing may be true). It is the time of year when the new television season starts.
I have always liked watching television. Most experts on children and youth would say I watched a mind-numbing amount of television growing up. Before anyone gets the wrong idea about the quality of my upbringing (after all, my mother reads this paper) I have to differ with those so-called experts. With apologies to Charlton Heston and company let me say, television doesn’t make people stupid, people make people stupid.
I learned a lot from television. I learned how to use the word “prehensile” in a sentence. Thank you Mr. Green Jeans. I learned a little about Wagnerian opera. Thanks to Elmer Fudd singing Kill the Wabbit. (It ain’t over until the transvestite rabbit sings.) I learned being a comedy writer for Alan Brady was the job I really wanted when I grew up. Thanks to Dick Van Dyke. I also learned forty-three minutes into each and every episode of the A-Team Mr. T would construct an amazing contraption capable of disabling an army of three thousand using only the parts of a 1959 Edsel Corsair.
A few years back my family gave up cable so for me the new season revolves around ABC, CBS, and NBC. It’s is kind of like my childhood all over again. We don’t even get PBS. Fox does come in on the television in the basement but that is my children’s turf.
I only venture down there around ten o’clock every night because none of my kids seem to understand that light switches can move in two directions. One direction means the light bulbs are given the power to make light which burns energy supplied by the electric company which in turn creates small pieces of paper which are mailed to my house causing my bank account to shrink. The other direction causes darkness. This means the electric company does not have to send energy into all those light bulbs for a full twenty-four seven which causes those little pieces of paper to suck less of the funds from my checking account. Is that so hard to understand?! Can you use one one hundredth of the energy it takes to text message those six letters which, in their own cryptic manner, impart more information than eighty-five pounds of Guttenberg type, and just flip the stupid switch!? (Sorry…lost control there for a second…I’m okay now.)
What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the new television season is upon us. Here are some of my first impressions of the networks new offerings.
I watched The Big Bang Theory, or as I like to call it Two and a Half Minds. It is the story of two genius guys who are about as likely to attract gorgeous blonde paramours as it is likely to find the word paramour somewhere else in this newspaper. So, of course, a gorgeous blonde moves in across the hall. Now here comes the fantasy part of the show, she talks to them, willingly walks into their apartment and takes a shower in their bathroom. This only happens in television shows or those letters written to certain men’s magazines.
My favorite part of the show is the two main characters are named Sheldon and Leonard. This absolutely has to be an homage (for fifty bonus points find homage elsewhere in the paper) to Sheldon Leonard the producer of such classic sitcoms as The Danny Thomas Show, The Andy Griffith Show, and The Dick Van Dyke Show. He made great shows, but he should have outsourced the task of devising the titles.
The only other show I’ve seen is Chuck. This show is about a computer nerd who is suddenly thrust into a world of espionage and intrigue. He also has a gorgeous blonde become a major part of his life. Do you see a trend here?
The people creating television shows must have been the guys in high school who couldn’t get a date but had active imaginations. I smell a new career path…

It's Mime I Tell You, All Mime

As the world spins more and more rapidly (that is an analogy to describe how quickly aspects of our lives change, because if the world was really speeding up stuff would start falling off my desk) there are more and more things fading into history. The following is a phrase which may never be used by major news agencies again: world-renowned mime.
It was in the press recently though. Marcel Marceau, probably the last person to have that phrase attached to his name, passed away last week. Strangely enough, he had no last words.
When I told that joke at the dinner table my oldest daughter was aghast. She said it was tasteless. If any of the readers out there agree with her feel free to jam up the Globe Exchange phone lines with your complaints, but I still maintain it was funny.
I actually had great respect for Monsieur Marceau. I did see him perform on television and appreciated his ability to tell such complete stories with so little. He used body movements and facial expressions only to elicit in his audience understanding of complex situations and emotions.
However, as an art form, mime has more opportunities for ridicule than most. Admit it, if someone asked you to go to the Civic Center to see this “really cool mime” you would claim anything from relatives visiting from out of town to suddenly remembering you had a big presentation at work or even having to go to the emergency room to have a family of Emperor Gum Moth Caterpillars removed from your Eustachian tubes. Who would blame you? After you’ve seen one guy walk against the wind and find himself trapped in an invisible box you’d almost rather have to go to the hospital to get moth larvae removed from your inner ear.
The word mime itself is just funny.
Do you think Lorene Yarnell walked up to Robert Shields in a bar and asked “If you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the mime”? (Give yourself 50 bonus points if you remember the mime team of Shields and Yarnell from the late 70’s.)
In 1937 a gigantic tent was set up outside of the town of Alabaster, Alabama in which hundreds of pilgrims of a little known sect of Baptists, who believed talking to God was best done silently, held a three day revival meeting. To this very day there are folks in that part of the country who long for that old mime religion.
Since I pride myself on the exhaustive research I use to make this column educational I spent innumerable hours (okay, it was seven and half minutes on the internet) getting information on the state of mime in the 21st century.
First I found the School for Mime Theatre. As you can probably guess this place of higher learning is in one of the artistic centers of the United States, Gambier Ohio. Their website talks of a summer seminar which offered “opportunities for local community youth to interact with professional mimes” as well as participate in a live performance during the Fourth of July Parade. I am a pacifist by nature, but even I would have been sorely tempted to lob a few Black Cats at a group of local community youth playing tug-of-war with an invisible rope down Main Street.
I then found a message board for mimes, really, I did, promise. Here is the first message to catch my eye (I swear I did not make this up): “Do I really need to put a lot of thought into what my eyebrows look like?” But this is my favorite entry (I am still not making this up and even better it seems to be from the same guy who wrote the other question): “I was wondering if anyone had any mime music they could recommend. I want to practice at home, but I don't know what music to use.” I do hope someone helps this guy out. It would be so sad if he was stuck in his parents’ basement practicing his mime sporting Leonid Brezhnev eyebrows performing to Creeping Death by Metallica.

Using Wikipedia to self-diagnose

I’m tired. The preceding statement is not meant as a complaint, just a simple statement of fact. I used to think as an energy-challenged person I was in the minority, but as I look around it becomes more and more obvious there are a lot of people in the same boat (a boat which is not going anywhere anytime soon because no one has the gumption to pick up an oar and propel the dinghy onward).
Not being a card carrying hypochondriac I did not immediately go to medical professionals to see if I had a deeply entrenched malady causing my consistent sense of weariness. Besides, that would require too much effort. Finally, I went where it is easiest to access information, the internet. The first self-diagnosis was chronic fatigue syndrome, just because the name fit.
I quickly abandoned the idea that chronic fatigue syndrome was my difficulty. That problem is described as debilitating. I am not debilitated. I just prefer not to move around much. While reading the description of CFS I came across another medical issue which may have been more fitting.
My new discovery was called orthostatic intolerance. Here is the four years in med school (or at least dedicated viewer of ER) definition of orthostatic intolerance: the development of symptoms during upright standing relieved by recumbency. If you do not recognize the term recumbency don’t feel bad, neither does the spell check on my computer. (Have you ever thought how useless spell check is to people in highly specialized scientific fields? Every paper they write must look like Dean Martin’s eyes – enough red wavy lines to draw a roadmap from Boston to Los Angeles via Juneau. For those of you under 40 simply take out Dean Martin’s name and replace it with Lindsay Lohan’s, it’ll make more sense.)
Let’s take a moment to examine the definition. The development (process of something becoming larger, stronger, or more advanced) of symptoms (indications of a disease or other disorder) during upright (standing vertically) standing (being upright…seems somewhat redundant doesn’t it?) relieved (to end, lessen, or provide a temporary break from something unpleasant) by recumbency (sitting back down). This means when you stand up you really just want to sit back down. Talk about an “AHA!” moment.
I decided to read on. Symptoms (see previous paragraph for the definition of this arcane medical term) of OI are triggered by several things. Trigger number one is being in an upright posture for long periods of time. The hazy point is the real definition of “long” periods of time. Standing in line for a burger and fires I have stamina. Standing in line for tickets to the new Broadway version of Xanadu, an abysmal Olivia Newton-John movie from 1980 which was sadly Gene Kelly’s last turn on the big screen, makes me require an intravenous drip of caffeine. Trigger number two is a warm environment after exercise. Come on, any environment after exercise makes me want to lie down. The third trigger is an emotionally stressful event. I guess this translates to “When the going gets tough the OI folks need a cold compress and to elevate their feet.” The final trigger is an inadequate intake of fluids and salt. Can you say Medicinal Margaritas?
I admit it. I have no real medical problem. I’m just a lazy man trapped in a busy person’s body. Judging from the huge growth of energy drinks I must not be the only one fighting this.
The first one I heard of was Red Bull. Upon further investigation Red Bull may be akin to hot dogs. It is better not to know how it is made. Towards the bottom of the can it touts it is made with Taurine. Do you know what Taurine is? It is also known as 2-aminoethanesulfonic acid, which is an organic acid and a major component of bile. Taurine is found in the tissues of many animals, as well as plants, fungi and some species of bacteria. (Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, just like Grandma used to make.) It is called Taurine from the Latin word taurus meaning a defunct line of Ford cars. Sorry, it is called Taurine from the Latin word taurus meaning bull, because it was first isolated from ox bile.
To me this all means someone at some point actually said these words. “I know just what this needs, a shot of ox bile!”

Commerce over Art in a TKO

In 1974 there was a big hit movie in which Charles Bronson suffered through an atrocious crime committed against his family. He then picked up a gun, or seven, and began shooting the bad guys on the streets of New York City. The craggy faced tough guy exemplified old-fashioned American justice. Bronson was a mean dude.
America has come a long way since the “Death Wish” movie. We are kinder. We are gentler. Even our movies have softened up over the years. For example, a movie is coming out this month in which Jodie Foster suffers through an atrocious crime committed against her family. She then picks up a gun, or seven, and begins shooting bad guys on the streets of New York City. See what I mean. We have come a long way. Now the vigilante is pretty.
The following is a bit of trivia which may only be interesting to me. In the “Death Wish” movie one of the crazed criminals who started Mr. Bronson on his reign of revenge was played by Jeff Goldblum. Mr. Goldblum has gone on to have a very successful movie career. His character in the credits was Jeff Goldblum as Freak #1. How would you like to make that phone call home?
“Hey, mom, I just got a part in a big time movie starring Charles Bronson.”
“That is so exciting, son. I always knew you’d make it in Hollywood, even if your father tried to get you to go to DeVry and learn a proper trade.”
“Gee, thanks ma.”
“So, tell me. What is your part?
“Oh, that isn’t important. I get a good paycheck and my agent says it is a wonderful opportunity.”
“That’s so exciting, but I need to tell Aunt Bernice about this. What part are you playing?”
“Gosh, ma, do you really have to tell Aunt Bernice?”
“Of course I have to tell Bernice. She is always bragging about her Simon, the top salesman at the Florsheim store for four months running.”
“Well, okay. The script lists me as Freak #1.”
“Jeffrey, my son.”
“Yeah, ma.”
“Your father tells me there is a DeVry in Sherman Oaks right next to that big mall where you used to work in the food court. Let me get you the number.”
We will now return to the main thesis of this column. I fear there is a general slippage into a meaner, less empathetic, sort of society. One of the reasons for this is the fact that the arts are getting their backsides kicked by commerce. Art is something which shows people what it means to be human. Whether it be Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, or even little Billy’s portrait of his father showing him with the head of a wooly mammoth and the torso of an amoeba drawn entirely with carnation pink and burnt sienna Crayolas, art holds up an example of what man is capable of creating and most often aims to show what man should strive for.
On the other hand commerce shows what man is capable of doing in order to get more money than the other guy and therefore have a better car. Really, who would you rather spend a day with? Yo-Yo Ma playing Prelude from Suite No. 1 in G Major for Cello and discussing the intricacies of J.S. Bach, or that Jim Cramer guy from CNBC screaming at you about mortgage rates? (Okay, I know neither one would be at the top of my list either, but Mr. Ma would be easier to ignore while watching the football game, besides, just saying his name makes me giggle.)
My brother, who is a deeper thinker than most people I know, quoted Swiss philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau on his blog. The quote was the following: In a social system animated by competition for property, the human personality was metamorphosed into a form of capital. Here it was rational to invest only in properties that would produce the highest return. Personal feeling was a handicap since it distracted the individual from calculating his best interest and might pull him along economically counterproductive paths.
My translation (which may be entirely wrong): In a world which only values money, a person becomes nothing more than walking and talking nickels and dimes. All anyone cares about is making a buck. We all have to concern ourselves with getting our share of the pie. This means caring about each other and reaching for artistic growth leaves you poor.
Do you think Mr. Rousseau knew about Donald Trump?

This Column is Really, Really, Important!

There is probably no newspaper headline in history more famous than the Chicago paper stating “Dewey Defeats Truman.” It seems odd to me the best known headline happens to be one of the least accurate. Not only was it the other way around, but this was well before anyone had heard of a “hanging chad” and the only time the words “bush” and “gore” would be used in the same sentence was if the author wished to describe a person hiding in a bit of shrubbery from a blood thirsty longhorn.
A newspaper headline serves more than one purpose. One is to alert the reader to the basic content of the story below it. Another is to entice the reader to read the story, or in the case of the front page headline buy the paper. Newspapers have this dumb rule about having truth be the basis for headlines. Otherwise the rule about enticing people to buy the paper would be the only rule and headlines would be much more fun. Can you imagine an issue of the News saying this? “Buy This Paper or DIE!” Circulation would go through the roof.
The world champion of fabulous headlines is far and away the World Weekly News. With such winners as “Tiny Terrorists Disguised as Garden Gnomes”, “Bible’s Four Horsemen Ask Directions in Paris”, “Ventriloquist Dead – But His Dummy’s Still Talking” and “Hotcakes No Longer Selling Well” this paper was the best. I use the past tense correctly. The World Weekly News is gone. I was shocked to find out this bastion of journalistic integrity was no more. No more would I get uncontrollable giggles while standing in line at the supermarket to sign over my mortgage in order to buy two gallons of milk. No more would I see the gleaming eyes (and teeth) of Bat Boy looking up at me. But worst of all, no more could I harbor my secret wish, my one true goal in life. No more could I dream of working for a newspaper which lets you make things up. Not just make things up but pull things from the depths of some wild imaginary trip which would make Timothy Leary check into rehab.
So, with the reigning champion of headlines going into retirement I decided to just cruise the internet and look for headlines which caught my interest.
On Time magazine’s website I read this: “Study: Estrogen May Fight Dementia.” For a man who writes a humor column, this headline screams for comment. Estrogen may fight dementia, but did the study say it won? Women with their recommended levels of estrogen may not have dementia but that doesn’t mean they aren’t carriers. Okay, now the other side. Since men do not have proper levels of estrogen they may have dementia. The problem is how can you tell? A man may have dementia but since he is never in touch with his true emotions he doesn’t really care.
The next headline I looked at was on Yahoo News: “Doctor Warns Consumers of Popcorn Fumes.” Since I worked at movie theaters all through my high school years I was worried. Not only did I pop popcorn and serve popcorn, but unfortunately, I cannot truthfully say I did not inhale.
I was relieved to find out the danger was in microwave popcorn. It seems the butter flavoring does not have pure butter (gasp) but something called diacetyl which can cause lung problems. Of course the greedy big business people have their response. The Flavor and Extract Manufacturers Association issued this statement: “We all know how hard it is to believe, but we can swear on any stack of Bibles you wish to produce, that there actually is a Flavor and Extract Manufacturers Association.” I know. I was shocked too.
The last headline was on CNN.com. It read: “Men Want Hot Women, Study Confirms.” I have a new dream. Since the World Weekly News will never be hiring again I want to work for whatever organization bankrolled that study. What a great job. Water quenches thirst, study confirms…Getting hit in the head with a Nolan Ryan fastball hurts like crazy, study confirms…Voting for a Democratic presidential candidate in the state of Kansas makes no sense as long as the Electoral College is still in place, study confirms.

On a mission

I don’t know when it became a requirement but it seems every organization nowadays has to have a mission statement. The definition offered by an entity called Business Directions says a mission statement describes the purpose for which your organization exists. Following this description I would hope people within the organization would not need to consult the mission statement frequently.
“Hey, Bob, I’ve forgotten what we’re doing here at Microsoft. Am I researching new and better ways to create software which will maximize personal and business productivity or does it have something to do with otters?”
“Well, Dave, let’s just whip out our handy dandy mission statement. Hmmm, nope, no otters, it must be that software thing.”
Referring to the mission statement on the wall throughout the day would be like checking the name tag your mom sewed into your underwear in order to remember your name. Useful, yet pathetic.
“Why is it so important to have a mission statement?” you ask. Even if you did not ask I am going to tell you. Otherwise this column will be entirely too short. Once again according to Business Directions the chief benefits are it will focus the energy and clarify the purpose of your group. This I understand. Keeping one clear purpose and making sure all of your energies go to that purpose would make most any group unbelievably productive.
Let’s use an imaginary mission statement for an imaginary company to prove this point. Our company is Paint Chips Inc. and its mission statement is “To create the most arcane names for all the paint colors in every hardware store in America in order to appeal to all the women and confuse all the men.” (You know what I’m talking about. A couple wants to paint the kitchen the man wants blue the woman can’t decide between ‘undercool’ and ‘cloudless’. I did not make up those color names, but they are both just blue as far as I’m concerned.) This mission statement is used to guide every decision made by the company. Let’s listen in to a staff meeting.
“Mr. Argyle, sir the synonym department needs to buy a new thesaurus. Will you authorize that expenditure?”
“Certainly, Mr. Grape, that fits right into our mission statement.”
“Mr. Argyle, the visualizer department wants to take a trip to Hawaii to look at flowers, sunsets, and volcanic activity.”
“Buy them the tickets, Grape. That fits our mission statement as well.”
“Sir, the fire marshal called this morning. He says we can’t chain the typists to their desks anymore. It impedes their egress if there is an emergency.”
“Sorry, Grape, that does not fit the mission statement.”
“Sir, I have to agree with the fire marshal.”
“Where in the mission statement does it say Paint Chips Inc. will concern itself with keeping our employees safe in case of a fire? I need them typing those names. Do you think those little cards are going to write ‘Sands of Time’ and ‘Relentless Olive’ on themselves? I don’t think so. Next item.”
Okay, maybe only focusing on the mission statement wouldn’t be a good idea after all.
This is the mission statement I found for Exxon: To provide our shareholders a secure investment with a superior return. That sounds great if you are investing a chunk of the trust fund Granddad left you. If there were truth in mission statements laws like there are truth in advertising laws it might go more like this: To provide our shareholders a secure investment with a superior return without regard to the environment, and being sure to jack up gas prices for no discernible reason other than that superior return part we mentioned earlier.
Actually, I think individuals need truthful mission statements more than companies. In addition, it should be required people share these mission statements with each other before entering into any kind of relationship.
A person applying for a job foregoes the resume and hands over his accurate mission statement: John Smith, To get a job in order to take home a paycheck while doing the very minimum to avoid getting fired.
An even more important situation would be before going on a first date. Bill Johnson: To have a meaningless physical relationship for no more than twelve hours while attempting to stick my date with the dinner check.

Race from the White House 2007

The well-worn path being created as more and more folks scamper out of the Rose Garden has to make the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue feel a little abandoned. If all my friends were devising weak reasons to stop hanging out with me I know I’d become worried. Nobody has resigned from the Bush White House because she had to wash her hair, but I expect Condoleezza to announce that any day now.
In an article published in the Hutchinson News Saturday, August 18th the Associated Press reported eight different high level advisors had resigned over the past few months. I knew most of the polls were showing only 30 to 40% of those polled approved of the way he was doing his job. However, I never guessed the people responding did not have A.C.L.U. cards in their wallets but rather employee parking passes for the White House.
One of the most recent to report his impending departure was Tony Snow, the Press Secretary. He said it was a decision based on financial concerns. The quote was: “I will not be able to make it to the end of this administration, just financially.” When you find out he only makes a lousy $168,000 dollars a year you understand. Really, he is a married man with three children. It must be hard to make ends meet supporting a family on that income. Hold it a minute, I’m a married man with three children. I make much less than the $3,230.77 a week he grosses and I get by. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t question what he says. As the President’s Press Secretary, he is the spokesman for the most powerful man in the free world (don’t tell Rupert Murdoch, we’ll just let him go on living the fantasy), so of course Mr. Snow has never uttered a false statement. (I’ve got to be careful because Alberto Gonzales hasn’t quit yet.)
Also, one of the most powerful men behind the man is going to leave the White House. Karl Rove has been one of the most, long-standing, influential confidantes (or co-conspirators depending upon your political leanings) for George W. Bush. He has announced he will be leaving his job soon. One of his chief reasons was he wanted to spend more time with his family. Hmmm, he has an ex-wife, a current wife and an 18 year old son. It sure takes a lot of time to fulfill those obligations.
My guess is the ex-wife would not be real thrilled to come home and find Mr. Rove parked on her couch eating chips, sipping a Bud, and watching the Braves game. She had a reason to divorce him so spending a Sunday afternoon discussing John Smoltz’s Hall of Fame credentials with her ex-husband (a.k.a. the ex-chief advisor to the commander-in-chief) cannot be on the top of her “to do” list.
As far as his current family is concerned if his eighteen year-old son is like most eighteen year-old sons he is enjoying the carefree days of college life. Having the old man show up at the frat house when you’re putting the moves on the highly cute and slightly inebriated girl from your comparative religions class is totally not cool. On the other hand since he can arrange to have the chief rival for her affection suddenly find himself sunning on the pale sands of exotic Guantanamo Bay, good ol’ Dad might come in handy.
But, the unkindest cut of all has to be his own daughter. Jenna announced her engagement. In order to distance herself from Dad she is willing to marry Henry Hager, some politico Padawan (that’s Jedi talk for apprentice) to the aforementioned Lord of the Sith, Darth Rovious. (I admit I have crossed a nerd line here, but it works, he got his start as an intern for Rove.) Henry’s father was Virginia’s first director of homeland security, so at least George knows their mail will be read and phone conversations listened to, making it easy to keep tabs on his little girl.
I bet the Georges Bush (Dad and Grandfather) are disappointed their little girl has stepped so far out of the circle to marry. Oh sure, he comes from a solid family, a rich family, he is politically motivated, he’s a Republican, but he didn’t go to Yale. I can just hear them at the dinner table: “Can you believe she’s marrying a Wake Forest man? Oh, the shame...”

Going to Cell in a Hand Cart

Earlier this week I was part of a very large group of people placed in a contained space for over two hours. When we were released I was one of the few who did not feel the need to move as quickly as rats leaving the Bush White Hou…oops, I mean a sinking ship. Since I was taking a leisurely stroll to my car I was able to observe the other folks. This is my conclusion from that experience. Cigarettes have been replaced by cell phones.
I realize on first glance this seems like a dumb thing to say. Saying dumb things is something at which I excel. However, the more I think about this the more I think I’m bloody well brilliant for postulating this theory.
The first supporting detail was what I noticed Monday. Upon leaving the building a huge number of folks reached immediately for their phones. It was truly amazing to me how many people needed to talk to someone RIGHT NOW. It couldn’t wait until lunch time. It couldn’t wait until they drove to their next destination. It couldn’t even wait until the sun fully cooked away the residual air conditioning off their clothes. They had to call that very second.
That is an addiction my friends as insidious as nicotine, as hard to shake as a Lucky Strike habit, and as malicious as Marlboro mania. To put it simply… it just isn’t really a good thing for people to be that dependent on an electronic device for their happiness. Okay, so that wasn’t put simply. You get what I mean though.
The cell phone habit can do many of the same things that smoking does. The user may suddenly find himself facing a deficit in his cash flow. A two pack a day habit costs something like $40 to $50 a month. Cell phone bills can make that look like coins in sofa cushions.
As I extrapolate this theory further the parallels between cigarettes and cell phones are amazing. Cigarette packages fit perfectly into a man’s shirt pocket, so do cell phones. Cigarettes require you to use your mouth and your hands, so do cell phones. Cigarettes smolder for several minutes after you light them, so do cell phones.
A really cool cigarette smoker would keep a cigarette behind his ear as he walked around in public. A really cool cell phone user has a “hands-free” device attached to his ear as he walks around in public. Actually, both of these affectations makes me want to approach the person and very politely kick him in the shin and run away.
Back before they were outlawed throughout the land, cigarettes annoyed people in public places. Now cell phones do that. You’re sitting in a movie theater and just when the hero is deciding which wire to cut on the incendiary device planted in the basement of an orphanage filled with puppies the entire audience is treated to a tinny electronic rendition of Wild Cherry’s 1976 hit “Play That Funky Music, White Boy.” After the refrain and two choruses the yutz finally answers the incoming call. He proceeds to have a conversation, loudly. This makes everyone else in the audience want to strap an incendiary device to his Motorola, putting him out of their misery.
If you or a loved one are struggling with a cell phone addiction there may be help available. Lessons learned from watching people kick the smoking addiction could be applied to this newest scourge. Going cold turkey and flushing your cell phone down the toilet may not work for many people and it can be hard on the pipes. If a cigarette smoker can switch to a nicotine patch a cell phoner can get one which only texts. Some of the buzz without all the harsh health risks. A support group could help, but an 800 number hot line seems counter-productive.
If simpler methods fail one could turn to aversion therapy. For a smoker every time he took a puff a trained physician would administer an electric shock making the process of smoking much less pleasurable. Doing this for a cell phone addict would be much easier. They would not have to sit in a clinic. The cell phone could be wired so instead of playing an insipid song or vibrating when a call was coming in it could send 20 volts (not a commonly lethal level) into the person answering. After experiencing a few jolts like that talking to one’s BFF might be less attractive. The keypad could also be booby trapped with high voltage shocks so texting would require thumbs of asbestos.

Some things go together, some things don't

The old saying has always been, “politics makes strange bedfellows.” Well it appears business may create even odder ones. It was announced a few weeks ago the Energizer Company was going to purchase the Playtex Company. Just bringing this to your attention may be sufficient for a humor column. I am sure most people reading this have already come up with their own jokes about the Energizer Bunny and any one of many Playtex products. My work here is done…
Big companies have been buying big companies for ages. Here are some of note from the last decade or so. Exxon bought Mobile Oil and became Exxon/Mobile. Time Corporation bought Warner Communications and became Time-Warner. Then America Online bought them creating Time-Warner/AOL. These people may be stinking rich, but they are not very imaginative when it comes to naming their new companies.
This trend of just sticking the two names of the formerly separate companies together makes it easier for the general public to recognize the brands but it should not always be done. For example, if a certain diversified manufacturer purchased a particular heavy equipment manufacturer it would become Eaton-Caterpillar, which is down right unappetizing to say the least. However, if that same diversified manufacturer purchased a particular Pennsylvania company and then bought a certain insurance group it would be Eaton-Hershey-Chubb. This tells a simple story of cause and effect. If one major retailer purchased a retailer of home improvement materials it would be Target-Lowe’s, sounds like Robin Hood is trying to hit the Sheriff of Nottingham’s ankles.
There are some companies which should be able to do the hostile takeover thing simply because of their names. Pep Boys would have no trouble with La-Z-Boy, but neither of them have a chance against Manpower. Everyone who has ever used a quick hand game to decide who gets the last slice of pizza knows International Paper beats Rockwell International.
Another recent example of one company buying another is IHOP restaurants purchasing the chain of Applebee’s restaurants. These are two companies which do basically the same thing, feed hungry patrons. Yet they each bring something of benefit to the other. Applebee’s offers car side service, a wide variety of appetizers, menu items friendly to vegetarians and people trying to eat healthy. IHOP offers a dirt load of syrup.
The merger of two restaurant chains makes sense. Anyone can see them living together harmoniously, but some companies just do not go together. Can you imagine a merger of Smith and Wesson and Wesson Oil? The combined name flows off the tongue quite easily, Smith and Wesson Oil. Even though you can shoot the chicken and fry it up in one fell swoop, it is most difficult to load the bullets with your fingers covered with 100% pure vegetable oil.
Okay, maybe that example is a bit far-fetched. How about this? Phil Knight at Nike decides to buy L’Oreal. Athletic shoes and hair coloring products do not at first glance go together. However, I have seen women with such a bad dye job running away seemed like a good idea at the time. Upon closer inspection it is the snappy slogans associated with the companies which make them natural allies. Just Do It Because You’re Worth It. It even makes a complete sentence.
Slogans are very important to corporations trying to make sure they stay at the forefront of the public’s awareness. Think back. You can probably remember slogans from your early days. “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is,” is instantly recognizable to more than one generation of television watchers. As powerful as slogans are getting them mixed up can cause some real damage. So, merging companies must exercise caution.
Think of the disaster if the slogan Sonic is using to point out their restaurants are open deep into the night (Even sweeter after dark) became associated in the consumer’s mind with a different product. A product like maybe, Coppertone? People would be very confused. Or if the slogan Colgate toothpaste is using at the moment (So clean you can feel it) got mixed up with a company which sold kitty litter.
Now let’s take a moment to pick out some companies which really should merge. Taco Bell and Tums make a natural partnership. Without the existence of the one the other would take a real hit to his bottom line. Anheuser-Busch and Bayer are a match made in hang-over heaven. It may be a vicious circle but Jenny Craig being purchased by Russell Stover makes sense on many levels. Finally, for all you parents of diaper wearing children Huggies buying large chunks (no pun intended) of stock in Renuzit is a no-brainer.

Supermarketing does not always make sense

I used to believe the advertising and marketing of products was a well thought out process undertaken by intelligent and highly trained individuals. I mean look at Darren on “Bewitched”, both of them, he (they) worked hard to come up with just the right imagery. Lately, not all of the decisions of the Madison Avenue brain trust make a lot of sense to me.
The other day I took a leisurely stroll through the local supermarket. Usually, I run into the store, get the few things I have been sent for (plus something with nougat or caramel), rush to the self checkout (grumble as the guy in front of me pays using a penny jar the size of a shop vac), and then scamper out (being sure to eat the contraband candy before I get home). This time I looked around and saw many puzzling things.
I came across a selection of very healthy cereals. I read the boxes simply to pass the time. I have no interest in eating healthy cereals. This prejudice was validated the more I learned about them.
The first brand I saw was called Perky-O’s. In big letters it proudly proclaimed it was gluten free. I have no idea what gluten is so I was willing to believe I would prefer not to have it as part of any well-balanced breakfast. Then I noticed another large label saying it had thirty percent less sugar. How can something called Perky-O’s have less sugar? Perky equals sugar.
It got worse. Next I saw a cereal called Good Friends. The package featured two very happy people with their heads together smiling out at me. They were way too happy for early morning. It said it was very high fiber. I suppose if you are going to share high fiber cereal with a friend it had better be a good friend.
In order to make the ingredients sound attractive the makers of Good Friends gave them a lyrical quality. One variety said it was made of a quartet of flakes, blossoms, granola, and raisins. Blossoms? Then I remembered the lyrics to that San Francisco song from the sixties. “If you’re going to San Francisco. Be sure to wear some flowers in your teeth.”
The other variety touted a trio of flakes, twigs, and granola. It actually said twigs! Who would spend nearly five dollars to buy cereal which boasts of twigs? I can buy a knock-off brand of Froot Loops for a buck fifty and then go into my backyard and add all the twigs my little heart desires, for free. I suppose it comes in handy when the main dish supplies its own toothpicks in every spoonful. I preferred it when my breakfast featured a prize of a decoder ring or little plastic “Freakies” characters, not bits of dead tree. Somehow I think I could make several more jokes abut having twigs in cereal, but I’ll let you all play the home version while I move on.
Wait, one more. “Don’t worry, honey, the new cereal I got is fine. Its bark is worse than its bite.”
I had to get back to something I understood so I went to the regular cereal aisle. My old friends were all there: Toucan Sam, Tony the Tiger, and those elf guys with the onomatopoeia names. But, wait a minute, something is not quite right. There is a new version of Rice Krispies. The box has big letters saying it is an “organic” version. This begs the question if one of the elf guys should change his name. I mean if the cereal is organic and helps your digestive system stay regular maybe the last guy should add another “O” to his name.
Every big corporation wants a piece of the action in supermarkets now. Disney has all sorts of food products. Breakfast cereals, ice cream and even Mickey Mouse lunch meat. You have to admit with the questions surrounding the manufacture of certain kinds of meat products it takes real courage to put a picture of a rodent on your package.
Disney has a lot of marketing experience but this last product has to be a mistake, Old Yeller dog food. Didn’t anybody in the pet food division see the movie? “Our dog food is specially formulated for the family pet that contracts rabies after fighting off an infected wolf to protect the children. Included in every bag - a box of tissue and a bullet!”

Where oh, where...

I didn’t grow up a dog person. We had gerbils. We had a fish tank. A fish tank with snails and fish until the snail to fish ratio got so out of hand looking into the tank was not possible due to the number of snails sliming their way across the glass. They might move slowly, but they multiply faster than a Hewlett Packard 9100B.
My wife grew up a dog person. I cannot remember all the names and breeds her family had, but she can. She had a dog when we got married. Her dog didn’t like me moving into his house.
His favorite way of punishing me was to ask to go out right when I was going to bed. He particularly liked it with wind chills hovering around Tenzing Norgay levels. He was a Shih Tzu so his ancestors were from the Himalayas. This meant he was better prepared for the cold than I. It also meant he was around ten pounds so he couldn’t take me in a fair fight. He had to rely on trickery. He would get me outside then stand stock still with his muzzle pointing directly into the frigid wind. Occasionally, he would peek at me to enjoy seeing the grown man shivering in flannel pants and slippers. If I hurried him and came in from the cold sooner than he wanted to I would be rewarded with a very warm spot on my carpet.
At the moment the senior dog in the house was a pet sitting episode gone horribly wrong. When we lived in Cimarron the kids ran a pet sitting service. We would take other people’s dogs into our house and all too frequently onto my bed. Anyway, a lady asked us to watch her dog while she was out of town. That was eight years ago. The lady was not placed in the federal witness protection plan, nor did she choose the same career path as Shelley Long. She is fine and living in Cimarron. By my calculations her pet sitting bill is now $16,790 (including the 15% gratuity); leap year days are on me.
The junior dog in the house caused quite a stir recently. Alice, the middle of our three kids, has always wanted a pug or something similar. My wife told this to a friend who works with the local humane society. That is what brought Rosie into our lives about a month ago.
On the 4th of July we had friends over for dinner and didn’t want the dogs under foot while we ate. Both dogs were placed in the backyard. The backyard which Dad (a.k.a. Me) had not properly fixed to hold a small dog. So, we now have a small dog and a fence with imperfections large enough for a small dog to fit through if properly motivated. Then came the perfect motivation: fireworks.
Once we discovered her escape we all scattered in impromptu search parties. Finding a small lost dog is hard enough, but on this night it was impossible. All the explosions made it sound like Bruce Willis was filming a re-make of a Sam Peckinpah movie directed by Quentin Tarantino in Chilton Park.
The next day we marshaled the troops. Flyers were made. Phone calls were made. We visited the Animal Shelter. We wandered the streets. I went to the radio station and asked the Steves (Brown and Deno) and Keith to announce the A.P.P.B. (all points puppy bulletin). We talked to the Humane Society people. Alice called her sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Teran, and had her translate our flyer so we could have it in Spanish. The Globe will place lost dog ads for free. Everyone was great.
I don’t write suspense thrillers so I will let you know we now have the dog back. After a week of being missing Rosie and Alice are reunited and there was great rejoicing. A nice person found Rosie on the evening of July 4th and took good care of her. She eventually saw a flyer and brought her to our house.
So many people were so helpful I cannot thank them enough. Not only people I count as friends, but people who were simply empathetic to a girl and her lost pet. Shona, Barb, and Jane from the Humane Society, the radio guys, Mrs. Teran, my wife’s walking buddies (Janie and Susan), strangers we talked to as we looked, friends who walked with us to look, kind-hearted mail carriers, and even the guy on the bicycle who took the flyer offered to him as he whizzed past my wife shouting back that he would keep an eye out.

Potter, Potter everywhere, nor any drop to drink

It happened quite by accident. A friend of my wife’s recommended a book to read aloud to our girls (Emilyjane was five and Alice was three, this pre-dated our third child, George). Little did we know the impact it would have on us, much less the world. Of course, I am referring to “The Sickness Unto Death” by Soren Kierkegaard. Our 3 year old had a very interesting take on the philosopher’s assertion that people often seek to disprove the existence of a supreme being because of their own shortcomings in avoiding sin. Naaaah, only kidding. The book I’m talking about was actually “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone”. The book which started it all for so many people sucked my family in completely (even George as soon as he crossed from the blob-like existence of an infant into a more sentient creature).
Today marks the one-week-left point before the final book hits the shelves. My family will be at the local bookseller for the midnight release to get our copies, yes, plural. In order to avoid dissention in the ranks three children and one wife will get his or her own copy. If I had to make book (so to speak) I’d give 3 to 1 odds the oldest daughter will finish the 784 pages first. Foregoing sleep and sustenance from the moment she gets hold of it, she will read until the end. I, on the other hand, will definitely be the last one finished. I like sleep and sustenance way too much. This is why I don’t rate a copy of my own. I take too long.
I take too long, partially because, unlike the children, I have a job. Being the slowest also means I will require something of the family which is hard for them to do, silence. “Don’t tell me anything that happens! If you do I may have to drop the book, which is roughly the size of a microwave oven, on your toes…twice.” A few days after the book is released, if someone peeks into the window as my family eats dinner, it is likely they will see four people eating and having an animated conversation. The fifth person (me) will be staring longingly at his spaghetti, sitting with each index finger planted deeply into each ear whilst humming “Stars and Stripes Forever” with great enthusiasm. Who needs the South Beach Diet? I have the I-Don’t-Want-To-Find-Out-If-Snape-Is-A-Good-Guy-Or-A-Bad-Guy-Until-I-Read-It-Myself Diet.
Truth be told, I haven’t read the last three books in the series. I listened to them. I love being read to. My mother did for the majority of my youth and I always placed myself in the proper spot so I could hear her read to my little sister when I was officially to cool to have my mother read to me at bedtime.
The Potter series is available in audio formats read by Jim Dale. Jim Dale is not a well-known actor. After you star in “Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World” it is hard to find just the right movie to follow up. He does a fantastic job. He is even listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for the greatest number of distinct characters voiced in an audio book – 134 in “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.” The former record holder was Rich Little reading “Pilgrim’s Progress” using the voices of every guest invited to the 1977 after Oscars party thrown by Swifty Lazar.
Mr. Dale also accomplished something a great number of fathers could not do. He kept three children still and quiet as our minivan traveled the width of two full states. I would much rather hear, “Can you turn it up a little?” as opposed to “Daaaaddd, Alice wiped her hands on me and I’m covered with cheese doodle dust!”
Something as big as the Potter phenomenon means everyone wants a piece of the action. A big chain of video stores advertised the book. Video stores are the haven of people who avoid reading. Students rent “Of Mice and Men” in order to write their book report, but show their ignorance when they keep referring to Lenny and his best friend Squiggy. Grocery stores have cardboard cut-outs of the boy wizard counting down the days to release. Pick up some milk, a loaf of bread and a pound and a half of Harry. Actually, the book may weigh more than that. This is why I feel sorry for the car hops at Sonic because with the purchase of every Potter book you receive a free side of french fries (or potato wands).

Christopher Pyle predicts Harry will survive the final book but will discover that Darth Vader is his father. If you wish to argue this point Christopher can be contacted at occasionallykeen@yahoo.com. The headline proves he occasionally listened in Mr. Knauer’s class.

Okay, it has been over a week and I haven’t seen one red cent increase in my bank account. The good people of this fair city voted for a casino. There was supposed to be this wonderful windfall of cash. I don’t know about you, but I’m a little peeved because I don’t have any money coming my way. I bet some multi-national corporation is in cahoots with the government to funnel all the money into an off-shore account to fund secret research in an attempt to develop an automobile which runs on grass clippings in order to hide it from the consumers thus lining the pockets of Exxon and Lee Iacocca.
What’s that? They haven’t even started building the casino yet?
I have been handed an article from a previous issue of the Daily Globe. Talk amongst yourselves while I catch myself up on the facts…
It seems it may be a while before anyone starts building the Las Vegas of the plains. According to the article by Mark Vierthaler (who seems to be very bright young man – probably due to the fact he had a certain newspaper columnist as his sixth grade teacher) there is an ongoing legal action which could make it a year before the Lottery people can even go ahead and make plans to build casinos. So, if we are waiting for the swift machinations of the court system and government bureaucracy, there may be casinos on Mars before there is one in Dodge City, America.
Even though it could be a year or two before the one armed bandits start eating dollars, I bet there are a lot of folks who think we got trouble right here in Its-Been-Like-Thirty-Years-Since-We-Had-Water-In-Our-River City and that starts with T and that rhymes with C and that stands for Casino. (I offer my sincerest apologies to Meredith Wilson.) Before people start calling evangelists, exorcists, and Buford Pusser to save us let’s look more closely at what a casino is.
My trusty paperback dictionary says a casino is a barrel, especially one containing alcohol. What? Sorry, I skipped a line, that’s a cask. A casino is a gambling establishment. That is seems pretty straight forward. Actually, the confusing part is the fact people keep calling it a “destination” casino. Isn’t anyplace you go your destination? But, you don’t hear McDonald’s calling itself a destination drive-thru. At the end of most days I head for my destination La-Z-Boy.
I don’t need to dissect the words. When I want to know about something I look to Hollywood. The way things are shown in the movies must be how it will be in real life. There are three different movies I know with casinos. “Ocean’s Eleven,” not the George Clooney one, I’m talking the real cool cat one with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. That was fun. Good looking guys and beautiful women laughing and having a great time. Nothing wrong with that, except our heroes are all thieves and Dean only had one song. The second one is “Dr. No” with Sean Connery. I think I’d look pretty good in a white dinner jacket playing baccarat impressing women and men alike with my savoire faire. Then there’s “Casino” with Robert DeNiro and Joe Pesci. Joe Pesci, oh, my goodness, if Joe Pesci will be in the casino I am not going. He is the most annoying thing to appear on screen since Pia Zadora starred in “Santa Claus Conquers the Martians.” If our casino follws this movie there will be more planted in the fields of southwest Kansas than wheat, if you get my meaning.
I’ve been to Las Vegas. It was years ago. I saw Sinatra perform. (Unfortunatley, it was Frank Sinatra Jr. and he had the talent and charisma of my ninth grade civics teacher.) I stayed at a hotel which was later blown up in order to make room for new hotels and casinos built to resemble famous landmarks from around the world.
Maybe Dodge should do that. Vegas already has a pyramid and the Eiffel Tower. We could build the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Nope, people already think gambling is crooked. Let’s try the Great Wall of China. It would look historic and keep the Oklahomans from attacking. That’s not flashy enough to attract tourists. We need something more American. I’ve got it. Create a casino built to look like Mount Rushmore. Who wouldn’t want to spend time in a building you entered by walking through Teddy Roosevelt’s mouth?
The initiative on the ballot passed handily. But I have two words for the supporters of the casino in Dodge. These two words often accompany the lifestyle surrounding a house of gambling. They are two words which should strike fear into the heart of every right thinking person in this town. What are those two words? I hope you are sitting down…Elvis impersonators.

To the stars through a cool ad campaign

This is my first column to appear in the Hutchinson News.


“Ad Astra Per Aspera?”
“Too high falutin’ nobody goes around speaking Latin. It sounds more like we are selling cars. Test drive the new Chevy Astra Per Aspera, today!”
“The Sunflower State?”
“Too cutesy, people will think we wear flowers in our hair like Haight Ashbury hippies.”
“The Jayhawk State?”
“That just ticks off the K-State grads. Maybe we should stay with Kansas, As Big as You Think?”
“I still don’t know exactly what that means, besides if someone thinks we’re Rhode Island small it does nothing to show them the error of their ways.”
The preceding conversation was made up, which I suppose is pretty obvious because no one actually says things like “the error of their ways” in real life. Otherwise the conversation does seem plausible because Kansas is forever trying to re-define its image.
I am a life-long Kansan. Sorry, this is a newspaper, so I suppose I need to come clean with full disclosure. I was born in Nebraska, but I moved to Hutchinson when I was five and have not claimed any allegiance to the Cornhuskers since Tom Osborne retired. I lived in Los Angeles for fourteen months. Then I came to my senses. For about two years I lived on the Missouri side of Kansas City, but I could throw a rock into Kansas from my apartment. Well, Roger Clemens could, but only after sitting out half the season and getting a contract paying him more than the entire day shift at Wal-Mart, not a particular Wal-Mart, all of Wal-Mart. My nearly-life-long Kansan status should allow me to give some suggestions for making Kansas more appealing to outsiders.
First, I think we need to let go of the stereotypes. Even though I currently reside in Dodge City and therefore could be bludgeoned by the butts of replica six-shooters for saying this, I think it may be time to stop trading off of the Gunsmoke television show. It went off the air 32 years ago. Don’t get me wrong it was a great show and Marshal Dillon was a true hero to more than one generation. However, we have to face facts. Most people under 40 do not remember the show. If you walk up to people in any bustling metropolitan area and ask, “What do you think of when you hear the word ‘Festus’?” most of them will back away slowly hoping you don’t follow them as they scurry into the nearest Starbucks for refuge.
It is also time to distance ourselves from Dorothy. Every time I told people out in L.A. I was from Kansas they felt it was required to make an inane Toto joke. The first few months I didn’t mind and I even laughed occasionally. Towards the end of my time in tinsel town my response got a little harsher. I asked them to check out my ruby slippers. The person bent down to look and before he could remark how I was simply wearing Chuck Taylors I smacked him on the back of the head with my limited edition hardback copy of L. Frank Baum’s Rinkitink In Oz. The outstanding warrant for assault with a blunt literary instrument may have contributed to my return to Kansas.
The most egregious misconception about Kansas is that the entire state is pool table flat. Dodge City has hills. This can be attested to by my fourteen year old daughter who has been spending great portions of June peddling her bike around town as part of a summer physical education class. Not only can my daughter attest to it but the pharmacy bill for Ben Gay and ibuprofen does as well. Besides, the gentle rolling of the high plains is much more interesting than those ostentatious mountains over in Colorado. Any yutz with an instamatic camera can claim oceans and mountains are impressive. The beauty and grace of the grassland requires a more restful and intellectual appreciation. I’ve got it, let’s start advertising in the Mensa newsletter.
Maybe I should re-evaluate the whole thing. We can just cave into the big city snootiness and start a whole new ad campaign.
The following should be read by an actor with a commanding, authoritative voice: “Tired of the hustle and bustle of big city life. Tired of never getting the rest your body and soul requires. Want to get away from it all? Go where there isn’t anything…Kansas.”
Wait a minute; I’m not sure that came out right…

Fun and Games at the Games

Everybody’s heard of Wrigley Field. Even people who are not big baseball fans know about the ivy walls, the bleacher bums, and the fans who sit on the rooftops of nearby buildings to watch the games. There is also a history of broken hearts for the fans of the Cubs who play their home games in this historic venue. This heartache may be one of the reasons so much beer is consumed at the park. Frequently the aforementioned bleacher bums are pretty well lubricated by the time the seventh inning stretch rolls around. This brings me to something I find inexplicable.
But first, a digression: you know how sports teams often have free giveaways at the gate for the first so many fans who attend? T-shirts, hats, key chains, or the ever popular bobblehead dolls. I went to Royals stadium on the night they were giving away Denny Matthews bobbleheads. When you pushed a button it played sound bites of Denny calling unforgettable moments in Royals history. The sad part is these moments occurred twenty some years ago. End of digression.
The inexplicable thing happening at Wrigley Field was one of those giveaways. On June 17th the first 10,000 fans were given a Cubs Sharpie. Yep, pens which write with permanent ink. This ink resists a variety of cleaning fluids and possibly even napalm. The brain trust in the Cubs promotions department willingly handed 10,000 fans (adults, children, and drunkards) 10,000 pens enabling the greatest single day event of “For a good time call…,” “Cubs Rule,” “Cubs Stink,” and “I’ve had Rubella, Shigella, and Salmonella. Now I’ve got a bad case of Piniella,” graffiti and vandalism in sports history. From 2000 to 2006 I worked for the Dodge City Legend. Running the game night festivities was a major portion of my job description. I can just imagine the looks on John’s, Tom’s and Jimmy’s faces (the guys who worked at the Civic Center) if I told them I was going to hand out super-indelible, never-come-off-unless-a-nuclear-device-is-detonated-nearby, markers to the fans. What’s next, they say, “Rustoleum Spray Paint Night”? Or how about “The Legend, in conjunction with Smith & Wesson, present Small Hand Gun Night (BYOB – bring your own bullets)”?
All the extra showmanship around a sporting event, or game operations, (game ops as it’s said in the biz) is an industry unto itself. It takes a certain kind of genius to put a college-educated grown man into a suit designed to resemble something from a Timothy Leary hallucination (i.e. Stuff the mascot for the Orlando Magic) then place him on a large four wheeled scooter. Take the guy on the scooter and stick him in the pocket of a gigantic sling shot device. Stretch the sling shot device to its fullest, releasing the mascot guy making him a projectile rolling across the court running into giant foam rubber bowling pins which causes a crowd of 23,000 people to cheer loudly when he makes a strike or groan if one pin stays standing. Sheer poetry in motion and well worth the $2,250 (price includes shipping) it takes to buy the ten five foot tall foam rubber bowling pins. The “price includes shipping” statement begs one question. How angry is the UPS guy going to be when that box shows up on his route?
Another question may have occurred to some readers. How did he know how much ten five foot tall foam rubber bowling pins would cost? Easy, I went to Gameops.com. Where else would one find such wonderful stuff? Some of these things would be great just around the house. What rumpus room would be complete without 2 foot wide, 2 foot tall Jumbo Inflatable Dice? Just $250 for a pair. This bit of information was included on the description: No air pump is included, but is recommended for inflation. Darn, I wanted to spend a week and half light-headed as I blow 16 cubic feet of air from my own personal lungs into these vinyl shapes. For you Yahtzee fans out there you have a price break. A set of five 2 foot inflatable dice only costs $600, a savings of twenty-five dollars. Honey, where’s the checkbook?!
Now for my favorite item in the Gameops.com catalog. Everyone knows you can pick up 7-foot inflatable spheres known as Human Hamster Balls at every discount and convenience store in any town in the state, but only at Gameops.com can you find the Human Hamster Ball Repair Kit. For a measly $48 you get a piece of poly vinyl, industrial strength ultra vinyl glue and a bottle of Zippy Cool. What’s Zippy Cool? Zippy Cool is a lubricant for the Hamster Ball zippers, because everyone knows what a pain it is when your Hamster Ball zippers stick.

The sweet smell of success, or is that pie?

Everyone wants to be a success. The issue seems to be what qualifies as a success. If I were to score a single basket in an NBA playoff game I would consider that a success of epic proportion, and I do mean epic. Mel Gibson would be chosen to direct the movie version. I don’t know how he will explain having the whole thing subtitled because the characters are speaking the ancient Polynesian language of the Maori tribes in New Zealand, but I guess it just makes it more epic. On the other hand, LeBron James is deemed a failure if he scores less than 20 points. Success is relative.
Shooting for success can cause a lot of angst. The key is to keep the goals realistic for the person and situation at hand. I have worked in schools for a lot of years and some kids are adept at some things and not at others (Warning: making a statement of such insight and acuity of perception comes from years of intensive training and should not be attempted by an amateur.). Let’s say a student is asked to solve for X using the following number sentence: X + 17 = 18. Now a kid in middle school can have success with such a task and therefore feel good. Another example could be like this: A train leaves Sacramento at 2:00 AM on a Thursday. A second train departs from Chicago at 6:00 AM on the same day. If both trains travel at an average speed of eighty miles per hour, each stopping once for forty-seven minutes apiece (the first train stops at Winnemucca, Nevada and the second train stops at Ottumwa, Iowa), using only an abacus and a sharp stick in the dirt explain why the Bulgarian Agrarian National Union was unable to maintain political control after 1923. Trying to answer such a question would cause great anxiety or even a sense of abject failure in many folks. While we all knew one guy in our high school class who could actually answer the preceding question, we also knew the chance he would get a date for the prom was as likely as a Shakespeare in the Park production of “King Lear” starring Ashton Kutcher. Which kind of success would you prefer? A scholarship to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to study how quarks are affected when one reverses the polarity or getting to second base with Heidi Harris on a sultry April night. Personally, I received no scholarship and spent the night of my senior prom in my parents’ living room watching “Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters” on TV, that Irlene was a cutie.
A favorite movie line of mine was in “Heaven Can Wait.” Buck Henry is talking to Warren Beatty and he asks him to not so much lower as broaden his standards. That is probably good advice when one is deciding how to measure success in life. When I moved to Los Angeles my goal was to become the next Richard Donner (the director of “The Three Musketeers”, “The Omen” and “Superman: The Movie.”). I then broadened my idea of success. Instead of emulating Mr. Donner (director of multi-million dollar movies) my goal was NOT to emulate the Donner Party by getting stranded in the mountains and resorting to cannibalism to stay alive. I did get stuck in St. Johns, Kansas during a blizzard, but my mom had sent a bag of groceries with my family so once we borrowed a can opener from the nice lady in the motel office starvation was no longer a concern.
In America success is most often measured by the money and power one has accumulated. Since I am a married man with three children I do not have much of either. So I did a little research on what makes rich and powerful people. Malcolm Gladwell, a best-selling author and consultant to big companies was interviewed about what are the traits of highly successful businessmen. He pointed to two characteristics which are shared by most. The first is something he called “explanatory style.” This refers to how an individual explains failure to himself. Truly successful people do not immediately dismantle their egos when the have a set-back. There is not a lot of wallowing in self-recrimination which leads to a “what’s the use I’ll just fail again” mentality. The truly rich and powerful simply blame their staff, fire a few folks, and move on to the next triumph. The other characteristic is stamina, but I’m kind of tired now so I don’t think I will continue writing…

Being part of something bigger, which is part of something bigger...

From time to time I feel the urge to be intellectual. The most common way for me to do this is by reading a science or philosophy book. Now, I know some people think any adult reading a book which does not revolve around a detective or a raven-haired beauty suffering from amnesia, has to be a guy who ate paste in grade school and only kissed one female in his entire life, his mom. I beg to differ. I never ate paste, maybe a couple of tastes of Elmer’s glue, but I didn’t like it. (Quick note to my wife: I have only kissed one female over the last eighteen years.)
Before any readers of this column start accusing me of being an intellectual snob let me say I seldom finish any of these books. After a couple or three chapters my brain starts swelling like a tick which has accidentally hooked on to the femoral artery of the most recent Belmont Stakes winner. Really, I was fifty pages into my most recent book before I realized the author was not talking about Ray Nitschke, the middle linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, but rather Friedrich Nietzsche, the middle linebacker for the Prussian Existentialists (their cheerleaders’ favorite cheer is: “What does it matter. We’re all going to die eventually.”). Uh, sorry, I am now told he was a German philosopher of the late 1800’s. This heavy thinker said, “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” In my life I have to admit what doesn’t kill me usually makes me whine and complain like a debutante whose father took away her credit card. I can’t understand the paradoxical nature of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, nor can I drop a 230 pound running back behind the line of scrimmage. I’m afraid neither Mr. Nietzsche nor Mr. Nitschke would be very proud of me.
The work I am wading through now is a book by Ken Wilber called A Brief History of Everything. First of all I have to wonder about Mr. Wilber’s grasp of the English language. In my dictionary “brief” means something of short duration. His book is 548 pages. That ain’t brief. Brief is the attention span of my children as I explain why they…well, why they should do anything. Brief is Billy Donavan’s tenure as the head coach of the Orlando Magic. Brief is the amount of time I spend contemplating whether I should have that second doughnut at breakfast. (The answer is always an emphatic “Yes”.) Brief is not 548 pages.
Okay, here is what I think I learned within the first fifty pages. Everything, and I do mean everything, is a holon. (There will now be a slight pause while everyone looks up at the ceiling as if the answer for each confusing question in life is written up there.) What is a holon?” You ask (as you notice a water stain which looks remarkably like a hedgehog riding a unicycle). I just told you. It is everything. Try to keep up, will you?
Anyway, Mr. Wilber explains the word holon was coined to denote something which is at once a whole unto itself and a part of something else. Since Mr. Wilber is one of the most widely read and influential American philosophers of our time (not my idea – it was written on the back cover of the book) he explains the term by talking about the atom is a whole by itself yet part of a molecule. A molecule is a whole by itself yet is a part of cell. A cell is a whole by itself yet…well you get the idea.
Allow me to try to put the concept into terms of the more common man. A hamburger patty is a whole unto itself. A special sauce is a whole unto itself. Lettuce is a whole unto itself. Cheese is a whole unto itself. A pickle is a whole unto itself. An onion is a whole unto itself. A sesame seed bun is a whole unto itself. Yet they are all components of a Big Mac. A Big Mac is a whole unto itself, yet it can become a part of an enlarged waistline requiring elastic pants. Elastic pants are a whole unto themselves, but they are also part of my wardrobe because I keep saying yes to the second doughnut at breakfast. Which is a part of my crummy diet, which is part of the reason my wife keeps telling me I need to exercise more, which is part of…well, you get the idea.

Some words say more than others

Remember back to grade school when one of the subjects was language arts. I liked that term. Using the language properly is an art. It quite possibly is a dying art like the art of composing heart-wrenching ballads for accordion or painting unique card playing dogs on velvet. (I have a suggestion for spicing up the works of velveteen canine Texas hold ‘em, add Elvis as the dealer.) Anyway, the English language can be very frustrating, but it can also be used to say just the right thing in just the right way, or at least say something interesting.
Following in a long line of people over forty I say the popular culture of today’s youth can be pointed to as one of the main culprits in messing up the language. What with e-mail and instant message language trying to say things with the least amount of typing possible. I don’t understand why it is so important to get the information to the receiver so quickly. We are not talking about getting Admiral Nimitz the latest intelligence regarding Japanese troop movement near the Solomon Islands. We’re simply trying to let Tiffanii (with hearts dotting all three i’s) know that Greg and Jimmy are going to be at the mall and they are so hot I could just die.
Wait a minute I might be on to something here. Remember how the United States military used soldiers who spoke the Navajo language as a code the enemy could not break. The CIA and Home Land Security ought to look into arming teenage girls with Motorola Razors and injecting steroids directly into their thumbs to heighten their text messaging powers. Even if al-Qaeda intercepts something the messages would be as intelligible to them as Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s explanation of the plight of artists under Soviet control would be to the writing staff of Two and Half Men.
Not long ago I spent a big chunk of a Sunday afternoon on the internet. An afternoon I should have spent at the office catching up on paperwork or mowing the foot long grass in the backyard or playing catch with my son so he doesn’t empathize with that heart-wrenching Harry Chapin song. (How would that song sound on the accordion?) The internet trail I was wandering down was full of linguists. Linguistics is the scientific study of language. Theoretical linguistics looks at grammar, semantics, morphology, syntax, phonology, and phonetics. Was I studying the morphology of letters as they evolved from ancient Sanskrit to modern romance languages? Nope. I was reading an intellectual food fight about how many words are in the English language.
A San Diego based high tech wizard claims to have created a mathematical equation with which he can plot the growth of words in the English language. According to his website, www.languagemonitor.com, Paul Payack explains his algorithm tracks words and phrases in relation to their frequency of use and contextual usage and it is weighted, factoring in long-term trends, short-term changes, and citations in the major media. (Can you say “too much time on your hands”?) As of Monday May 28th Mr. Payack’s website says there are 993,412 in the English language.
Geoff Nunberg is a linguist who is contributor to National Public Radio, which means he is more intellectual than someone on ESPN and reads more books than someone on Fox, but isn’t going to win a Noble Prize anytime soon. Mr. Nunberg says Mr. Payack is full of beans. He said it in a more erudite way than I just did; after all, he is a linguist. The language gets new words added with some frequency. Some due to new discoveries in science (a new word coined which means something that was a planet and then a bunch of astronomy nerds got together and said it wasn’t anymore – Plutoed). Other words grow out of popular culture. (Truthiness, from Stephan Colbert, means something a person knows from the gut, not based on evidence, logic, intellectual examination or actual facts.) However, Mr. Nunberg doesn’t think someone can count the words and also many of the words counted are not words people really use.
All science and intellectual arguing aside words can say interesting things very simply. Poetry is supposed to give the most succinct descriptions of life. I get lost in serious poetry but the common man poetry of song lyrics do speak to me. Here are some of my favorites. I am not sure I understand exactly what they are saying but I like how they feel.
“Sometimes I feel like my shadow’s casting me.” – Warren Zevon
“I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused.” – Elvis Costello
“Standin’ in a bucket of bad news, havin’ a ball.” – The Lonesome Strangers.

Medical Science: From Hippocrates to Prozac

Some sciences are exact. It can be proven and repeated over and over that certain materials are combustible when they reach a certain temperature Fahrenheit. The temperature paper must reach before it will burn is 451 degrees. The temperature gasoline must reach before it will burn is 495 degrees. I do not know what the temperature has to be before a person’s hand will burn. However, I do know if you leave your car windows up on an August afternoon the steering wheel gets to that Fahrenheit level in the time it takes to run into the store and buy milk.
Unfortunately medicine is not one of those exact sciences. Over the last few months entirely too many members of my family have visited doctors for entirely too many reasons. I am not denigrating the doctors we have seen. I just wish these medical professionals had a magic book which allowed them to listen to the symptoms, diagnose the problem, and dispense a cure. While I’m wishing, why not have the cure be something simple like burying a potato in the backyard during a full moon to get rid of a sinus infection instead of paying $47 for a prescription which cures you nearly as fast as burying a potato in the backyard during a full moon would.
As I was wandering around the waiting room of one doctor’s office I picked up a pamphlet describing the symptoms of depression. I don’t think I’m depressed. What is there to be depressed about? The world is a safe and caring place full of sympathetic people who all wish to help one another lead a meaningful and productive life. Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. But, the country we live in is a shining beacon of truth and justice with a government devoid of greed and corruption led by men and women of unquestionable integrity. Oh, my. My house no longer has a basement which leaks whenever there is a rain shower of more than seven one hundredths of inch. Bingo! That one is true. Oh, I give up. Pass the Prozac.
That same pamphlet said depression is caused by an imbalance of chemicals in the brain. Here we are in the early 21st century and they trot this out. Hippocrates, one of those Greek guys from like 400 BC, said human behaviors were caused by bodily fluids called humors. These fluids were blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. Other then being somewhat gross (anything which talks about phlegm falls into the somewhat gross category) this was wrong. It was disproved by doctor type scientists, which was good because the idea led to doctor type barbers opening veins left and right to “balance the humors.” So here is this pamphlet in a reputable doctor’s office saying the chemicals might be out of balance in my head. Maybe Theodoric of York from the old Saturday Night Live sketch was right when he said: “You know, medicine is not an exact science, but we are learning all the time. Why, just fifty years ago, they thought a disease like your daughter's was caused by demonic possession or witchcraft. But nowadays we know that Isabelle is suffering from an imbalance of bodily humors, perhaps caused by a toad or a small dwarf living in her stomach.” I need an MRI to check for toads and dwarves.
Recently my wife and I took our oldest daughter to see a couple of different doctors in one day. This by itself is not a bother. The issue is the amount of paperwork and bureaucratic-like red tape one must wade through. I realize with the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996 (aka HIPAA) the government intended to protect the public from people prying into our personal medical business. However, I suspect the medical establishment is taking it too seriously. Every receptionist, nurse, and doctor asked us the same questions. I know they are supposed to treat the information as a secret but I really don’t mind if they tell each other. That just makes sense.
As I get older the doctors get younger. This makes it harder to take them seriously. A doctor should be balding with gray hair around his temples and a sympathetic face made more caring by the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Two of the doctors we dealt with this day looked more like refugees from the Disney Channel. When they came into the examination room I expected them to give us the test results using pom-poms and high kicks.
“Ready? Hit it. Your EKG was A-OK and we think you’re just swell.
We promise that in 30 days you’ll get the bill from H-E-A-R-T.
Goooo, heart!”

Christopher Pyle’s daughter is just fine, but he does still have the concern there is a toad in his stomach eating his Prozac. This knocks his humors out of whack. He may be a quart or two low on phlegm.