Although we're all officially back to work (OK, the kids have a little vacation left), our thoughts often drift to the Sunshine State. They weren’t kidding about that, by the way; it turns out the State Legislature previously rejected “The Oppressive Heat State” as bad for business.
This was the big Yearly Vacation Trip, including our Date With Mickey. Wait, I already used that with Donnie Iris. In any case, I'm pleased to report that the trip, logistically, was about as routine as could be hoped. There’s even one measurable incidental benefit to flying Southwest: the in-flight magazine, Southwest Airlines Spirit.
The big general-interest magazines like Life went extinct awhile back, but it seems airline mags are the 21st-century equivalent, with an eclectic selection of articles. And they’re even interesting… generally.
My favorite piece this month was an essay by the editor on high school reunions. I briefly considered pasting my own picture over his at the top of the page, because it was kinda funny/kinda touching, or in other words what I'm shooting for in this blog. It was also a reminder, as if I needed it, that he’s a pro and I’m not, and that there’s a lot more to being a writer than good grammar & spelling.
Since I started my own writing “career”, I’ve become much more sensitive to connections and parallels, so I immediately identified with his topic. On our way to pay homage to the Oversized Rodent, we attended my parents’ 60th Anniversary party – which of course also served as at least a partial family reunion.
It was the first time this combination had coalesced in 3 years; perhaps 4 or 5 times in the last 10 years. As a result it took on almost the quality of a high school reunion: infrequent, and a group of people that knew each other most intimately several years ago. I should stress above all that we had a wonderful time during our visit, and time with my family (especially as infrequent as it is) is one of my most prized commodities. At the same time I think it's important to acknowledge that success in these instances is not a foregone conclusion, no matter how loved your loved ones are.
At such times it’s hard not to see each other through the lens of those long-ago experiences… even if the “prescription” has changed significantly in the meantime. Not only that, but I think there's a temptation for most of us to play the same part, even if we’ve outgrown it.
At my recent high school reunions, I was still amazed that the Pretty Girls would talk to me and that the Cool Guys acknowledged me – despite the fact that I’m a married man now, and that 25 years or so tends to level the “coolness” playing field to a large degree.
In the same way, when the family assembles, it’s all too easy for me to be the smart-alecky little brother. Now I know how Jerry Mathers felt when they made “Still the Beaver”; it’s tough to play the same role at 44 that you did at 9 (or even 19). After all, Lucy played basically the same character into her mid-70s – but at the end, none of us could bear to watch.
At a high school reunion, you have the luxury of playing that part, since you probably won't see these people for another 5 years (and chances are you don't care that much about their opinion anyway). Family, or any real relationship, is a different story. The highlight of the week for me was viewing a pile of old family photographs -- but as treasured as they are, I want to make sure none of us gets frozen (or freezes each other) into that image from long ago. In those experiences, I think it's best to remember: snapshots are valuable memories, but life itself is a motion picture.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Into the Rodent's Jaws
You think you understand something about life, and then you become a parent; suddenly everything you once knew is inoperative. For example, we used to drive cars. Then we had a child. At first, everything seemed normal enough, but then one day I woke up and there was a minivan in the garage. I’m still not sure what kind of cosmic waves were emanating from our home … must’ve been those gamma rays that were always creating mutants and raising havoc in those ‘50s movies.
In the same way, once the kids are out of diapers, at least, a sort of homing instinct begins to grow. The swallows always return to Capistrano; the buzzards come back annually to Hinckley, Ohio; and every family with small children is inexorably drawn to the vicinity of Orlando, Florida.
As a matter of fact, most of them were there last week when we visited the Magic Kingdom. I quickly deduced why they call it a Kingdom – it’s approximately the same size as Liechtenstein, at least when you include all the other associated Disney fiefdoms. It even has a moat, at least in a functional sense, in the miles of Mouse-ka-highways that surround the nerve center. I’m pretty sure that if any evildoers massed to attack, Central Command would have time to scramble squadrons of costumed characters to defend Cinderella’s Castle.
The main impression, as a result, that you tend to take away from the whole venture is the utter immensity of it all. There are something like 35,000 people living in my town… but there are approximately 55,000 Cast Members (not “employees”, “staff”, or “indentured servants”) at the Magic Kingdom. And I literally cannot even comprehend how many other sweaty, suddenly-much-poorer souls were in attendance along with us (and Disney ain't telling, either -- I asked them).
But there is clearly no enterprise on the planet more attuned to processing the great wads of humanity (and cash) that show up every day. After awhile I confess I stopped thinking of myself as “someone on vacation having a good time”, or even “a customer seeking to get my money’s worth”, and I became what industry sometimes describes as a “throughput”: a commodity designed to go through a certain process and come out the other end in some different state.
Here’s the truly odd thing – I say that not in resentment for being manipulated, but in sincere admiration for how they pull it off. Despite the fact that we were surrounded by more people than have ever watched UPN, we really never experienced an interminable wait. That’s fairly significant considering two of our party were under 7.
And you know what, we had a lovely family time, despite being trapped in the world’s largest convection oven. In fact, considering the unrelenting barrage of entertainment (and courtesy, and even cheerfulness), I even came away with an almost unsettling sense of having gotten my money’s worth – which anyone who has seen me with my hand over my wallet knows I do not say lightly. I think that in some sense I began to see the way we were being efficiently fed through an enormous machine as part of the show.
So I find myself against all odds recommending the experience and even considering repeating it. Someday. After my feet and my bank account and my internal thermostat recover. And here’s a little extra ammo for my family to save up and use against me: if I balk, remind me of the feeling of a family of four, ranging in age from 4 to 44 and in life attitude from totally trusting to … somewhat skeptical :-) … remind me of those four people all cackling gleefully as we blast the Bad Guys together on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. The omnipresent MasterCard ads would describe those moments as "priceless", and although that's not the way it shows up on my Visa bill, it will certainly remain a slide in my mental Powerpoint of highlights for some time to come.
In the same way, once the kids are out of diapers, at least, a sort of homing instinct begins to grow. The swallows always return to Capistrano; the buzzards come back annually to Hinckley, Ohio; and every family with small children is inexorably drawn to the vicinity of Orlando, Florida.
As a matter of fact, most of them were there last week when we visited the Magic Kingdom. I quickly deduced why they call it a Kingdom – it’s approximately the same size as Liechtenstein, at least when you include all the other associated Disney fiefdoms. It even has a moat, at least in a functional sense, in the miles of Mouse-ka-highways that surround the nerve center. I’m pretty sure that if any evildoers massed to attack, Central Command would have time to scramble squadrons of costumed characters to defend Cinderella’s Castle.
The main impression, as a result, that you tend to take away from the whole venture is the utter immensity of it all. There are something like 35,000 people living in my town… but there are approximately 55,000 Cast Members (not “employees”, “staff”, or “indentured servants”) at the Magic Kingdom. And I literally cannot even comprehend how many other sweaty, suddenly-much-poorer souls were in attendance along with us (and Disney ain't telling, either -- I asked them).
But there is clearly no enterprise on the planet more attuned to processing the great wads of humanity (and cash) that show up every day. After awhile I confess I stopped thinking of myself as “someone on vacation having a good time”, or even “a customer seeking to get my money’s worth”, and I became what industry sometimes describes as a “throughput”: a commodity designed to go through a certain process and come out the other end in some different state.
Here’s the truly odd thing – I say that not in resentment for being manipulated, but in sincere admiration for how they pull it off. Despite the fact that we were surrounded by more people than have ever watched UPN, we really never experienced an interminable wait. That’s fairly significant considering two of our party were under 7.
And you know what, we had a lovely family time, despite being trapped in the world’s largest convection oven. In fact, considering the unrelenting barrage of entertainment (and courtesy, and even cheerfulness), I even came away with an almost unsettling sense of having gotten my money’s worth – which anyone who has seen me with my hand over my wallet knows I do not say lightly. I think that in some sense I began to see the way we were being efficiently fed through an enormous machine as part of the show.
So I find myself against all odds recommending the experience and even considering repeating it. Someday. After my feet and my bank account and my internal thermostat recover. And here’s a little extra ammo for my family to save up and use against me: if I balk, remind me of the feeling of a family of four, ranging in age from 4 to 44 and in life attitude from totally trusting to … somewhat skeptical :-) … remind me of those four people all cackling gleefully as we blast the Bad Guys together on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. The omnipresent MasterCard ads would describe those moments as "priceless", and although that's not the way it shows up on my Visa bill, it will certainly remain a slide in my mental Powerpoint of highlights for some time to come.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Everybody Has a Dream
There are four distinct television periods in our home. First is 7-9 am, dominated by a wide variety of animated programs (but always including, if at all possible, “Magic School Bus”); next is midday, which is a TV-free zone punctuated by an occasional video; fourth is the after-8-pm/after kids’ bedtime period.
In between the last two is the pre-bedtime period. Understand that we don’t as a rule use TV as a child-distraction technique, but in the half-hour or so before bedtime, it can be an effective landing strip for kids to come down from a long, busy day. Even at that hour, it’s possible to find kid-oriented programming, but that’s not cartoon time in our den.
No, even if you take Our Boy out for ice cream, or the circus – or ice cream at the circus – his main preoccupation will be whether he’s going to miss “Unwrapped”. If you’re not familiar, this is a show on the Food Network that goes behind-the-scenes to show how things like M & M’s, ice cream, or chips are made. I have to admit that I am often as transfixed, or more so.
His official bedtime is at 8, but unfortunately that’s when The King makes his entrance, and nothing will do but that we watch at least a few minutes. I’m speaking, of course, of the one and only Emeril. Once he’s seen the segment before the first commercial, it’s as if his day is officially complete and he can go to bed fulfilled.
I’m not sure I understand the fascination. Maybe it’s because he’s loud and boisterous and laughs at his own jokes. Maybe it’s just the “Bam!”, although my son rarely if ever emulates it. One way or the other, he’s clearly the Big Cheese, or Pork, or Pasta, at our house.
The truth is I’m a bit obsessed with him myself. I wish I were an accomplished chef, a wealthy man, a TV star, a celebrity… but it’s really not just a shallow envy of someone who could buy and sell me 100 times over.
I want his support staff.
When he stands up to cook, you know it wasn’t him who chopped all the veggies, boned all the chicken breasts and measured all the spices. When he gets every pot in the house dirty, it’s not him staying after the show to wash dishes; he doesn’t have much incentive to re-use a measuring cup and he never runs out of clean paring knives.
I’d surely love all that, but I’m really most fixated on something even more obscure. After he does the opening bit, the theme song plays and the stagehands come out. One wraps him in a clean, white apron; one pins his mike on him; and right before he takes center stage, they hand him a pristine, snowy white towel.
If he were in my kitchen, he’d be wiping his hands on the same scrap of paper towel all day – trying not to use up the whole roll, since I also have no shopping support staff. And forget about using a kitchen towel, because guess who’s the laundry support staff?
Every time I see the show, that towel seems to loom a little larger, glow a little brighter. I think at this point I’d chop all the veggies, bone all the chicken breasts, measure all the spices, wash all the dishes… if only there were someone to hand me a pristine, snowy white towel when I’m ready to cook.
In between the last two is the pre-bedtime period. Understand that we don’t as a rule use TV as a child-distraction technique, but in the half-hour or so before bedtime, it can be an effective landing strip for kids to come down from a long, busy day. Even at that hour, it’s possible to find kid-oriented programming, but that’s not cartoon time in our den.
No, even if you take Our Boy out for ice cream, or the circus – or ice cream at the circus – his main preoccupation will be whether he’s going to miss “Unwrapped”. If you’re not familiar, this is a show on the Food Network that goes behind-the-scenes to show how things like M & M’s, ice cream, or chips are made. I have to admit that I am often as transfixed, or more so.
His official bedtime is at 8, but unfortunately that’s when The King makes his entrance, and nothing will do but that we watch at least a few minutes. I’m speaking, of course, of the one and only Emeril. Once he’s seen the segment before the first commercial, it’s as if his day is officially complete and he can go to bed fulfilled.
I’m not sure I understand the fascination. Maybe it’s because he’s loud and boisterous and laughs at his own jokes. Maybe it’s just the “Bam!”, although my son rarely if ever emulates it. One way or the other, he’s clearly the Big Cheese, or Pork, or Pasta, at our house.
The truth is I’m a bit obsessed with him myself. I wish I were an accomplished chef, a wealthy man, a TV star, a celebrity… but it’s really not just a shallow envy of someone who could buy and sell me 100 times over.
I want his support staff.
When he stands up to cook, you know it wasn’t him who chopped all the veggies, boned all the chicken breasts and measured all the spices. When he gets every pot in the house dirty, it’s not him staying after the show to wash dishes; he doesn’t have much incentive to re-use a measuring cup and he never runs out of clean paring knives.
I’d surely love all that, but I’m really most fixated on something even more obscure. After he does the opening bit, the theme song plays and the stagehands come out. One wraps him in a clean, white apron; one pins his mike on him; and right before he takes center stage, they hand him a pristine, snowy white towel.
If he were in my kitchen, he’d be wiping his hands on the same scrap of paper towel all day – trying not to use up the whole roll, since I also have no shopping support staff. And forget about using a kitchen towel, because guess who’s the laundry support staff?
Every time I see the show, that towel seems to loom a little larger, glow a little brighter. I think at this point I’d chop all the veggies, bone all the chicken breasts, measure all the spices, wash all the dishes… if only there were someone to hand me a pristine, snowy white towel when I’m ready to cook.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Brought to You By Hanes
Our local sports/civic arena has fallen on hard times lately. Every year seems to be a virtual torrent of red ink (“but don’t worry, we get great benefit to our economy from the visitors”); now the main tenant, the hockey team, has flown the coop.
If you’ve watched SportsCenter lately, you might guess what solution is being proposed. Maybe you’ve seen some highlights from an Astros game at Minute Maid Park, or perhaps you schedule your New Year’s Day activities around the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl. In the 21st century sports world, the way to raise quick cash is to sell naming rights. The Army used to say, "If it moves, salute it; if it doesn't move, paint it." The modern equivalent is selling sponsorships; our local arena is selling every surface, region, and object, down to individual seats.
I’ll say more about that in a sec, but the most positive local news the past few days is that we’ve finally achieved a respite from the oppressive weather we’d been experiencing – one day last week brought a high temperature of 96 and a heat index of 115. It made me wonder, to the extent that one could form a coherent thought last week, whether it would have been a good time for a fire & brimstone kind of sermon: you know, clean up your act or you could be having this kind of weather for all eternity.
After thinking about it, though, I concluded that would never work. In the first place, one of my core beliefs (and I still intend to explore those more fully sometime) is that you can’t scare anyone into believing. Even more than that, you can’t impress today’s spiritual consumers (word chosen intentionally) with a threat of hell or a promise of heaven. Maybe colonial-era folks – who weren’t having all that much fun in this life, especially if you were the colonize-ee – were motivated by thoughts of the next, but in the present age if faith doesn’t have benefits for the “user” right here/right now, it’s going to be a tough sell.
The good news is, we believe faith does mean something more than pie in the sky, by & by. But even if threats were effective, I’m not sure we have much ammunition. After all, it may be hotter in That Other Place, but I can’t imagine there’s as much humidity.
And if you were wondering, I thought the first “title sponsor” of my blog should be Hanes – since this entry is… umm… brief.
If you’ve watched SportsCenter lately, you might guess what solution is being proposed. Maybe you’ve seen some highlights from an Astros game at Minute Maid Park, or perhaps you schedule your New Year’s Day activities around the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl. In the 21st century sports world, the way to raise quick cash is to sell naming rights. The Army used to say, "If it moves, salute it; if it doesn't move, paint it." The modern equivalent is selling sponsorships; our local arena is selling every surface, region, and object, down to individual seats.
I’ll say more about that in a sec, but the most positive local news the past few days is that we’ve finally achieved a respite from the oppressive weather we’d been experiencing – one day last week brought a high temperature of 96 and a heat index of 115. It made me wonder, to the extent that one could form a coherent thought last week, whether it would have been a good time for a fire & brimstone kind of sermon: you know, clean up your act or you could be having this kind of weather for all eternity.
After thinking about it, though, I concluded that would never work. In the first place, one of my core beliefs (and I still intend to explore those more fully sometime) is that you can’t scare anyone into believing. Even more than that, you can’t impress today’s spiritual consumers (word chosen intentionally) with a threat of hell or a promise of heaven. Maybe colonial-era folks – who weren’t having all that much fun in this life, especially if you were the colonize-ee – were motivated by thoughts of the next, but in the present age if faith doesn’t have benefits for the “user” right here/right now, it’s going to be a tough sell.
The good news is, we believe faith does mean something more than pie in the sky, by & by. But even if threats were effective, I’m not sure we have much ammunition. After all, it may be hotter in That Other Place, but I can’t imagine there’s as much humidity.
And if you were wondering, I thought the first “title sponsor” of my blog should be Hanes – since this entry is… umm… brief.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Not Quite the Fortress of Solitude
The trend is definitely exacerbated in the summertime, but it seems to get harder every year to find a television program with actors and, you know, scripts and things. "Unscripted" television (the industry term for what you and I call reality TV) is all the rage these days, of course. If that troubles you, keep in mind it could be worse: we had a reality boom once before, and all we ended up with that time was "Real People".
I still remember when "Survivor" debuted. I don't think even CBS was expecting much -- after all, it was the dead of summer -- but I was hooked instantly and so was seemingly everyone else in America, and the trend has mushroomed from there.
While there is much to dislike about many reality efforts and the genre itself, especially the way the contestants have gotten increasingly self-aware/conscious/referential, on balance I am enough of a fan that I try to check out a lot of the new ones, and end up watching several on an ongoing basis. At some point I will probably gather my thoughts about the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Recently I got to watch the debut of another new one entitled, "Who Wants to Be a Superhero?" It's a competition show with a group of "ordinary"... no, "average"... wait, "normal"? Well, let's just say they're civilians. They say they want to be comic-book style superheroes; they show up with their own persona and corresponding costume, ranging from "Captain Victory" and "Creature" to "Monkey Woman" and "Cell-phone Girl".
After one episode I'm still trying to determine how serious everyone is, and what is strictly tongue-in-cheek, but I'm intrigued enough to stop in again. Part of my interest stems from the fact that superheroes are big business around here.
Our son is 6, and our daughter is 4, and they spend much of their waking time playing with a wide assortment of action figures. And the assortment gets wider every week -- they can't wait for Saturday to arrive so they can hit garage sales to recruit more new "guys" for the Task Force. Some of them are good guys, some of them are bad guys -- although this is extremely fluid -- and some of them seem to be the dad of some of the others. This is also fluid, but our superheroes at least seem to feel the need to form impromptu family groups.
As parents we applaud the exercise of creativity indicated by the constantly-changing storyline -- not to mention the idea that they can play together for a period of time (hopefully even without a great deal of Adult Intervention). It also made me, as a parent who naturally wants the absolute best for his children, visualize my own "guys" as superheroes. What might be their secret identities?
Possibilities for my son:
I still remember when "Survivor" debuted. I don't think even CBS was expecting much -- after all, it was the dead of summer -- but I was hooked instantly and so was seemingly everyone else in America, and the trend has mushroomed from there.
While there is much to dislike about many reality efforts and the genre itself, especially the way the contestants have gotten increasingly self-aware/conscious/referential, on balance I am enough of a fan that I try to check out a lot of the new ones, and end up watching several on an ongoing basis. At some point I will probably gather my thoughts about the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Recently I got to watch the debut of another new one entitled, "Who Wants to Be a Superhero?" It's a competition show with a group of "ordinary"... no, "average"... wait, "normal"? Well, let's just say they're civilians. They say they want to be comic-book style superheroes; they show up with their own persona and corresponding costume, ranging from "Captain Victory" and "Creature" to "Monkey Woman" and "Cell-phone Girl".
After one episode I'm still trying to determine how serious everyone is, and what is strictly tongue-in-cheek, but I'm intrigued enough to stop in again. Part of my interest stems from the fact that superheroes are big business around here.
Our son is 6, and our daughter is 4, and they spend much of their waking time playing with a wide assortment of action figures. And the assortment gets wider every week -- they can't wait for Saturday to arrive so they can hit garage sales to recruit more new "guys" for the Task Force. Some of them are good guys, some of them are bad guys -- although this is extremely fluid -- and some of them seem to be the dad of some of the others. This is also fluid, but our superheroes at least seem to feel the need to form impromptu family groups.
As parents we applaud the exercise of creativity indicated by the constantly-changing storyline -- not to mention the idea that they can play together for a period of time (hopefully even without a great deal of Adult Intervention). It also made me, as a parent who naturally wants the absolute best for his children, visualize my own "guys" as superheroes. What might be their secret identities?
Possibilities for my son:
- The Human Alarm Clock -- We never set our alarm any more, for we know without doubt that Our Boy will be in our bedroom every day precisely at 7 a.m. And by "precisely", I mean after the clock hits 7:00 but before the second zero turns to a 1. Who knows, that might be a superpower that would come in handy at the Justice League clubhouse.
- Needle Man -- Not the kind that is used with thread, unfortunately. No one has, or could have, more skill at getting under his sister's skin. This would come in handy if she ever becomes an Archvillain, but I suppose it's possible that he could use it to frustrate other evildoers as well.
Options for my daughter:
- Siren -- I am, as you may have noted, a boy, and my sisters are enough older that I never really grasped a basic fact about girls: girls shriek. When she is angry, her voice can climb the scale... well, the cliche is that only dogs can hear it. I can tell you that I can hear it (not understand it, but hear it) but I'd just as soon not. The only thing more piercing than her angry shriek is... her happy shriek. I'm quite sure there's a way to use that skill to fight crime; maybe she could shatter the windshield of the getaway car.
- Monkey Girl -- Yeah, I know, that one's already taken (at least till that other chick gets bounced off the show). But I'd be foolish not to leverage her most outstanding skill: she loves to climb and clamber, and I can tell you from personal experience that she can use that talent to immobilize someone. Especially when you take into account the high-velocity impact she makes when she approaches her unsuspecting target.
If I'm dreaming big, I have to confess it's not just on behalf of the kids. I also figure that since superheroes seem to enjoy such a lavish lifestyle, in my old age I'm at least guaranteed the apartment over the Batcave.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
The Perfect Storm
When I began my career, I was teaching – a pretty individualistic pursuit. I got to set my own agenda, and I was responsible for my own success. Then I became a programmer and joined a small company, which slowly grew into a larger company, and was eventually swallowed up by one of the largest corporations in the universe.
Now that I’m a tiny cog in an enormous wheel – a guy with a 9-digit employee ID – I have to get used to the corporate way of thinking. One aspect of that is the reliance on buzzwords. Corporations are the folks who gave you task, purpose, and leverage as verbs, you know. One of our favorites, actually, is “synergy” – the concept of multiple factors working together in such a way that the whole exceeds the sum of its parts.
I will not try anyone’s patience by linking to my previous entries; but anyone who’s read this all along knows that I love music, and I love God, and I love kids. So you would think, in the name of synergy, that leading music at Vacation Bible School would be an absolute slam-dunk for me.
Over the years, however, I have come to the place where my least favorite sentence is, “Would you consider leading music at VBS?” Well, it probably runs a close second to, “Honey, did you do everything on the list I left this morning?” But that may be a discussion for another day.
Actually, VBS music is an excellent example of synergy, much like the recent bestseller and movie, The Perfect Storm… a confluence of an assortment of difficult circumstances. For example, I do love kids; I’m really excellent – with a few. Perhaps not so much with 60 or 80 eight-year-olds.
Now it appears to me that VBS publishing is a pretty big business, but in order to keep selling a new package every year, they have to keep coming up with new songs every year. And I mean new – it’s very rare that even the adults know any of the songs that come in the package; forget about the kids.
So we stick the words up on the wall, and we play a CD really loud, and we run through each one a few times, and we hope that somehow the kids can jump on a moving bus. And of course, it’s extremely helpful that probably half of them are actually under 8 and really can’t read the words anyway. Actually, that’s kind of a moot point: if you’ve ever had 80 or so kids in one room… you have my condolences. But I’ll bet my CD player and my overhead projector that if you did, they weren’t all attending to the same task, or for that matter all facing the same direction.
All of this is a little hard on my Musician side. When I do get… enlisted… to do the music, I tend to get a little over-focused on the idea of Leading Singing. I sometimes forget that the point isn’t really to get them singing, but rather:
Now that I’m a tiny cog in an enormous wheel – a guy with a 9-digit employee ID – I have to get used to the corporate way of thinking. One aspect of that is the reliance on buzzwords. Corporations are the folks who gave you task, purpose, and leverage as verbs, you know. One of our favorites, actually, is “synergy” – the concept of multiple factors working together in such a way that the whole exceeds the sum of its parts.
I will not try anyone’s patience by linking to my previous entries; but anyone who’s read this all along knows that I love music, and I love God, and I love kids. So you would think, in the name of synergy, that leading music at Vacation Bible School would be an absolute slam-dunk for me.
Over the years, however, I have come to the place where my least favorite sentence is, “Would you consider leading music at VBS?” Well, it probably runs a close second to, “Honey, did you do everything on the list I left this morning?” But that may be a discussion for another day.
Actually, VBS music is an excellent example of synergy, much like the recent bestseller and movie, The Perfect Storm… a confluence of an assortment of difficult circumstances. For example, I do love kids; I’m really excellent – with a few. Perhaps not so much with 60 or 80 eight-year-olds.
Now it appears to me that VBS publishing is a pretty big business, but in order to keep selling a new package every year, they have to keep coming up with new songs every year. And I mean new – it’s very rare that even the adults know any of the songs that come in the package; forget about the kids.
So we stick the words up on the wall, and we play a CD really loud, and we run through each one a few times, and we hope that somehow the kids can jump on a moving bus. And of course, it’s extremely helpful that probably half of them are actually under 8 and really can’t read the words anyway. Actually, that’s kind of a moot point: if you’ve ever had 80 or so kids in one room… you have my condolences. But I’ll bet my CD player and my overhead projector that if you did, they weren’t all attending to the same task, or for that matter all facing the same direction.
All of this is a little hard on my Musician side. When I do get… enlisted… to do the music, I tend to get a little over-focused on the idea of Leading Singing. I sometimes forget that the point isn’t really to get them singing, but rather:
- to let them hear the songs – maybe even get them stuck in their heads for a later date
- to get them focused on the theme of the evening or the week
- to get them excited about what we’re doing... or more accurately, to redirect the teeming mass of energy already in the room in the right direction.
Somehow it all works together, almost despite the music and certainly despite me. We just concluded our week, with someone else leading music, and the kids (and even the staff) had a great time. Looks like we have synergy working for us after all.
Monday, July 17, 2006
86 on the Chainsaws
There are a large number of web destinations called “Random Access”, but I chose the name anyway because it really is meant to be random – only appropriate since our minds are also (I thought of calling it “100% Brain Flakes”, but it's hard to make a URL out of that).
For example, I still remember the first time I heard Carole King sing “It’s Too Late” … I was in the back seat of a car driving through Troy, and I was about 10. My sister was in the front seat and our friend Lana was driving. I heard the song the other day while driving, and I had such a powerful flashback – even a sense of “10-ness” that I almost forgot how to drive. I was instantly back in that spot. Music is well known to induce that kind of reaction, but I think I got a double portion of that section of the brain; maybe it replaced some of those things I’m obviously missing.
In any case, there’s clearly no accounting for the things we remember. My wife asked me for a friend’s phone number the other day, and I rattled off … the number we last had in 1994 (in my defense, the first 4 digits were the same). I still remember watching a special, around 1990, starring the juggler Michael Davis. He’s as well-known for his comedy bits as for his technical skill, and I remember he did a bit with a bowling ball and a ping-pong ball that amazed me. It might have been him, or another juggler, who juggled revving chain saws – a bit of a step up from flaming torches.
In a way, I feel like I’ve made the same move. Normal life is a bit like juggling flaming torches for most of us, I think. And summer is supposed to be when the livin’ is easy, life takes on a slower pace, we relax a bit… but the more I live it, the more I think that’s only true in beer commercials. Since the beginning of summer, it seems as if I’ve graduated from torches to chain saws.
Everything goes up a notch, particularly the kid involvement. Now that they are out of school, they constitute a full-time job, to go with my part-time actual job (or paid job, if you prefer). Said employment is itself increasing the pressure, with a laundry-list of “first of September” deadlines.
Then there’s the carefree joy of planning and executing the Annual Family Vacation, including a visit to Disney, “The Hottest, Humidest, Most Crowded Place on Earth®”. In August, no less! Did I mention this has me filled with something falling short of breathless anticipation?
Although we finally broke down & bought a power mower for camp, the fact remains that I have two lawns to keep un-savanna-like. So when I arrive at our retreat, the first thing I do is retreat to the shed & haul out the mower. If I stay home, we have a wealth of beautiful new landscaping… but since the weather has been days of either downpours or oven-like heat, there are maintenance duties as well.
I’m trying desperately to do all of that and still attend to things like my fantasy baseball league (although I think divine intervention might be the best bet for my team), and the blog, and piano practice, and miscellaneous household chores. My wife has also reminded me that it’s poor form to squeeze one’s spouse in at the end of such a list – or even “in the middle”, for that matter.
The unfortunate reality is that most of those things are by no means optional, with the exception of the things I do for enjoyment. So I am constantly seeking ways to make all the pieces fit (which, by the way, accounts at least in part for the sparse nature of my posts – but I promise I’m writing them in my head all the time!); I know for sure that one more chainsaw will lead me to drop the whole group.
For example, I still remember the first time I heard Carole King sing “It’s Too Late” … I was in the back seat of a car driving through Troy, and I was about 10. My sister was in the front seat and our friend Lana was driving. I heard the song the other day while driving, and I had such a powerful flashback – even a sense of “10-ness” that I almost forgot how to drive. I was instantly back in that spot. Music is well known to induce that kind of reaction, but I think I got a double portion of that section of the brain; maybe it replaced some of those things I’m obviously missing.
In any case, there’s clearly no accounting for the things we remember. My wife asked me for a friend’s phone number the other day, and I rattled off … the number we last had in 1994 (in my defense, the first 4 digits were the same). I still remember watching a special, around 1990, starring the juggler Michael Davis. He’s as well-known for his comedy bits as for his technical skill, and I remember he did a bit with a bowling ball and a ping-pong ball that amazed me. It might have been him, or another juggler, who juggled revving chain saws – a bit of a step up from flaming torches.
In a way, I feel like I’ve made the same move. Normal life is a bit like juggling flaming torches for most of us, I think. And summer is supposed to be when the livin’ is easy, life takes on a slower pace, we relax a bit… but the more I live it, the more I think that’s only true in beer commercials. Since the beginning of summer, it seems as if I’ve graduated from torches to chain saws.
Everything goes up a notch, particularly the kid involvement. Now that they are out of school, they constitute a full-time job, to go with my part-time actual job (or paid job, if you prefer). Said employment is itself increasing the pressure, with a laundry-list of “first of September” deadlines.
Then there’s the carefree joy of planning and executing the Annual Family Vacation, including a visit to Disney, “The Hottest, Humidest, Most Crowded Place on Earth®”. In August, no less! Did I mention this has me filled with something falling short of breathless anticipation?
Although we finally broke down & bought a power mower for camp, the fact remains that I have two lawns to keep un-savanna-like. So when I arrive at our retreat, the first thing I do is retreat to the shed & haul out the mower. If I stay home, we have a wealth of beautiful new landscaping… but since the weather has been days of either downpours or oven-like heat, there are maintenance duties as well.
I’m trying desperately to do all of that and still attend to things like my fantasy baseball league (although I think divine intervention might be the best bet for my team), and the blog, and piano practice, and miscellaneous household chores. My wife has also reminded me that it’s poor form to squeeze one’s spouse in at the end of such a list – or even “in the middle”, for that matter.
The unfortunate reality is that most of those things are by no means optional, with the exception of the things I do for enjoyment. So I am constantly seeking ways to make all the pieces fit (which, by the way, accounts at least in part for the sparse nature of my posts – but I promise I’m writing them in my head all the time!); I know for sure that one more chainsaw will lead me to drop the whole group.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Liner Notes
Back when music used to come on large vinyl discs called record albums -- kids, ask your grandparents about those (and phones with long curly cords that plug into the wall) -- I enjoyed reading the sleeve inside the album cover. Not all of that material always survived the transition to cassettes (kids, ask your parents about those), but I'm happy to say that the tradition has revived pretty handsomely for the most part with the advent of CDs.
In addition to the photos of the band, and the complete lyrics of the songs, there are often a few paragraphs written by the musicians. Sometimes there are some insights as to the origins of some of the songs, but almost inevitably it's mostly thank yous (and I have written previously about that phenomenon!).
Tucked in amongst thanks to the producer, the family, and so on, are often acknowledgements of the backing musicians or guest artists on the album. And for some reason -- probably the human tendency/mania to create insiders & outsiders -- these often seem to be inside jokes, nicknames, and obscure references that will only be understood by those in the studio that day ("To Punky -- thanks for helping me make bail!").
Today it's my turn for my own Liner Notes. I have been much less active on the blog in recent weeks, and one of the principal reasons for that has been the preparations for my wife's 40th birthday party, which we held yesterday. By the way, I can say "40" with impunity -- she is facing it cheerfully, since as she says her frequent presiding at funerals has left her all too aware of the alternative.
The event was, as far as we could tell at least, a raging success, and for that we owe a debt of thanks to a lot of people. Our credit card debt is paid automatically each month by transfer from our bank account, but I don't want to let my thanks become automated (though skeptics will note that I'm still managing to get the computer involved).
So although I strive mightily to make this blog connection-neutral -- that is, my objective is to be just as interesting (or boring) to the random passer-by as I am to those who know me -- today is directed at those involved with the party. I have reason to believe several of them stop by this space from time to time! So, thanks:
I hasten to say we didn't make anyone wait in line, and there were adequate chairs so no one had to be on their feet... but it was the people who made the show, and we say thanks to all. Let's see... only 6 more years till Mark turns 50; write that in your calendars now!
In addition to the photos of the band, and the complete lyrics of the songs, there are often a few paragraphs written by the musicians. Sometimes there are some insights as to the origins of some of the songs, but almost inevitably it's mostly thank yous (and I have written previously about that phenomenon!).
Tucked in amongst thanks to the producer, the family, and so on, are often acknowledgements of the backing musicians or guest artists on the album. And for some reason -- probably the human tendency/mania to create insiders & outsiders -- these often seem to be inside jokes, nicknames, and obscure references that will only be understood by those in the studio that day ("To Punky -- thanks for helping me make bail!").
Today it's my turn for my own Liner Notes. I have been much less active on the blog in recent weeks, and one of the principal reasons for that has been the preparations for my wife's 40th birthday party, which we held yesterday. By the way, I can say "40" with impunity -- she is facing it cheerfully, since as she says her frequent presiding at funerals has left her all too aware of the alternative.
The event was, as far as we could tell at least, a raging success, and for that we owe a debt of thanks to a lot of people. Our credit card debt is paid automatically each month by transfer from our bank account, but I don't want to let my thanks become automated (though skeptics will note that I'm still managing to get the computer involved).
So although I strive mightily to make this blog connection-neutral -- that is, my objective is to be just as interesting (or boring) to the random passer-by as I am to those who know me -- today is directed at those involved with the party. I have reason to believe several of them stop by this space from time to time! So, thanks:
- to Bill & Laurie, who came up with a few things I needed at the last minute
- to Faith, who carried tables and chairs back and forth, and helped set up
- to Bob, who helped me set up the PowerPoint show, and then (quite characteristically) gave up his spot so more people could crowd in to see it
- to Randy & Connie, who stayed after to help clean up the carnage
- to Phred & Natalie and Gary & Jolly, who made a 200-mile round trip for a 3-hour party
- to over 50 of our friends, both longstanding and recent (I make it a policy never to refer to "old" friends), who came and brought food and laughed and talked, and honored us by their presence
- to God, who in the midst of a spell of oppressive weather and frequent storms gave us a beautiful day -- more a necessity than a pleasure when you give a party for 50+ people at a 1000-sq ft camp!
Tonight the people were so fine
They waited there in line
And when they got up on their feet
They made the show
I hasten to say we didn't make anyone wait in line, and there were adequate chairs so no one had to be on their feet... but it was the people who made the show, and we say thanks to all. Let's see... only 6 more years till Mark turns 50; write that in your calendars now!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
My Date With Donnie (Pt II)
If you didn't get a chance to read Part I, click here (or just scroll down) to read that first!
Back already? What did you think?
Now this song I mentioned was a hit for about 20 minutes. Plus it was, um, several years ago (hint: I was a DJ for the college’s 10-watt radio station at the time) and it was not the kind of worldwide smash you find being played on oldies radio -- and don’t think I’m not bitter that My Music wound up on “oldies” radio – so all I’ve had was my memories to carry me through. And since memory has a way of gilding the past (have I ever told you about my triumphs on the high school tennis team? Oh, all right, my “triumph” on the high school tennis team), the song just got better & better as the years passed.
When I found myself at flea markets and the like, I would often leaf through the albums box to see if old Donnie was there, but apparently the guy who bought his album was holding onto it. Gradually the song receded from the cluttered desktop of my mind to the back of the bottom drawer.
Not too many weeks ago I was walking down a street in a nearby city, on my way to Somewhere Else. Even a “be-right-back” somewhere else… but then I passed a used record store. Actually, I just realized, that’s redundant; there are no “new-record” stores. Anyway, there was a $1 box sitting on the sidewalk.
I’m getting there – don’t get ahead of me.
Oh, all right, you guessed it – I found Donnie in the box, metaphorically speaking. I went in the store, plunked down my buck, exchanged a few words with the guy working there – one of the few living humans who could be expected to have any clue what I was talking about – and became the proud owner of a 26-year-old vinyl album (on which I only recognized one song).
But there’s a new catch, and that was that my turntable was broken – some sort of needle/stylus issue. And since the turntable is (unsurprisingly, if you think about it) almost exactly the same age as the album, it was even money whether it was fixable.
I was brooding about this some days later as I sat at my computer, when suddenly it dawned on me: everything in the universe is available on the Internet. And since guys my age tend to be both nostalgia geeks and computer geeks, I wasn’t surprised to find a site dedicated to all things Donnie.
He’s actually a real estate agent now, but he still plays in a band with one of his original bandmates from the big time. And I gather that in and around Beaver Falls, PA, they’re still the big time.
And…. And! On top of that, clicking around the site for a few minutes (sorry, boss, I promise I made up the time), I found a Downloadable. Video Clip. Of The Song. Well, I sucked up that puppy in nothing flat.
Then I had a moment’s pause. How many stories have you heard of someone who pursued a dream, an obsession, a vague notion … only to find themselves disappointed? Maybe it wouldn’t be all I remembered.
But I threw caution to the winds and I played it. I have to admit, it’s a really cheesy video; but he did have a kind of tongue-in-cheek persona, so I took that with a grain of salt. But the song… you know what? The song still rocked.
It’s a tremendous relief to know I haven’t been pursuing some sort of white-whale-shaped inflatable pool toy all these years. It’s also a relief to get that out of the bottom drawer of my mind. I’m not sure I really want to look in that drawer again anytime soon – I’m getting too old to be sucked into any more 26-year quests.
Back already? What did you think?
Now this song I mentioned was a hit for about 20 minutes. Plus it was, um, several years ago (hint: I was a DJ for the college’s 10-watt radio station at the time) and it was not the kind of worldwide smash you find being played on oldies radio -- and don’t think I’m not bitter that My Music wound up on “oldies” radio – so all I’ve had was my memories to carry me through. And since memory has a way of gilding the past (have I ever told you about my triumphs on the high school tennis team? Oh, all right, my “triumph” on the high school tennis team), the song just got better & better as the years passed.
When I found myself at flea markets and the like, I would often leaf through the albums box to see if old Donnie was there, but apparently the guy who bought his album was holding onto it. Gradually the song receded from the cluttered desktop of my mind to the back of the bottom drawer.
Not too many weeks ago I was walking down a street in a nearby city, on my way to Somewhere Else. Even a “be-right-back” somewhere else… but then I passed a used record store. Actually, I just realized, that’s redundant; there are no “new-record” stores. Anyway, there was a $1 box sitting on the sidewalk.
I’m getting there – don’t get ahead of me.
Oh, all right, you guessed it – I found Donnie in the box, metaphorically speaking. I went in the store, plunked down my buck, exchanged a few words with the guy working there – one of the few living humans who could be expected to have any clue what I was talking about – and became the proud owner of a 26-year-old vinyl album (on which I only recognized one song).
But there’s a new catch, and that was that my turntable was broken – some sort of needle/stylus issue. And since the turntable is (unsurprisingly, if you think about it) almost exactly the same age as the album, it was even money whether it was fixable.
I was brooding about this some days later as I sat at my computer, when suddenly it dawned on me: everything in the universe is available on the Internet. And since guys my age tend to be both nostalgia geeks and computer geeks, I wasn’t surprised to find a site dedicated to all things Donnie.
He’s actually a real estate agent now, but he still plays in a band with one of his original bandmates from the big time. And I gather that in and around Beaver Falls, PA, they’re still the big time.
And…. And! On top of that, clicking around the site for a few minutes (sorry, boss, I promise I made up the time), I found a Downloadable. Video Clip. Of The Song. Well, I sucked up that puppy in nothing flat.
Then I had a moment’s pause. How many stories have you heard of someone who pursued a dream, an obsession, a vague notion … only to find themselves disappointed? Maybe it wouldn’t be all I remembered.
But I threw caution to the winds and I played it. I have to admit, it’s a really cheesy video; but he did have a kind of tongue-in-cheek persona, so I took that with a grain of salt. But the song… you know what? The song still rocked.
It’s a tremendous relief to know I haven’t been pursuing some sort of white-whale-shaped inflatable pool toy all these years. It’s also a relief to get that out of the bottom drawer of my mind. I’m not sure I really want to look in that drawer again anytime soon – I’m getting too old to be sucked into any more 26-year quests.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
My Date With Donnie (Pt I)
Recently I caught parts of the movie “My Date With Drew”. If you’ve never had the opportunity, the movie is kind of a documentary – closer to a home movie, frankly – about a guy who gets semi-obsessed with Drew Barrymore and spends the whole movie trying to find someone who knows someone who knows Drew who will return his calls. My wife caught a few minutes and almost immediately said, “Why is this a movie? Why should we care about this guy stalking her?”
I’m sure the only reason the movie wound up being released was that at the end, Drew gets wind of the project, checks out his website, and the next thing you know they are in fact having a date. It’s not necessarily a blockbuster film (actually, I believe it is a BlockbusterTM film) but it’s pretty charming, and the ending does make you feel like you want to cheer.
It had a little extra resonance for me because I have a little bit of an obsessive streak in me too. For instance, I’m really not a neat freak; I would probably say I’m more comfortable with a certain low level of chaos than most. Certainly more so than most, if not all, of the people I’m married to. But sometimes out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of something that’s crooked – a magazine left open, a picture slightly askew – and it’s like something tunnels inside my head. I’ll try to do something else: read a book, have a conversation; but I can’t rest until I fix that thing. Not the mess in the rest of the house, mind you, and certainly not my infamous To-Do Pile, but I’m on edge till that one glaring anomaly is put right.
I experienced a musical version of this as well. I don’t mean one of my obsessions was produced on Broadway, although it wouldn’t seem that out of place from what I read about the Legitimate Theater these days. I mean I got stuck on a song.
I may be the all-time champion of getting a song stuck in my head, particularly at about 4 AM, but what I really mean is that this song stayed with me for years. You see, as all right-thinking Americans agree, the music of my youth is the best music there ever was. And although Billy Joel, Styx, Barry Manilow and the like are not considered cool, I’ll put them up against anyone today. In fact, they’ll put themselves there – they still tour, very successfully. You may not be as familiar with Donnie Iris.
Donnie was the ultimate One-Hit Wonder, and if you remember his smash, “Ah, Leah”, you’re probably exactly the same age as I am, so perhaps I should pause while you rinse out the Grecian Formula. In fact, you're probably a bit fatigued -- so I will take a break and resume this story next time....
I’m sure the only reason the movie wound up being released was that at the end, Drew gets wind of the project, checks out his website, and the next thing you know they are in fact having a date. It’s not necessarily a blockbuster film (actually, I believe it is a BlockbusterTM film) but it’s pretty charming, and the ending does make you feel like you want to cheer.
It had a little extra resonance for me because I have a little bit of an obsessive streak in me too. For instance, I’m really not a neat freak; I would probably say I’m more comfortable with a certain low level of chaos than most. Certainly more so than most, if not all, of the people I’m married to. But sometimes out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of something that’s crooked – a magazine left open, a picture slightly askew – and it’s like something tunnels inside my head. I’ll try to do something else: read a book, have a conversation; but I can’t rest until I fix that thing. Not the mess in the rest of the house, mind you, and certainly not my infamous To-Do Pile, but I’m on edge till that one glaring anomaly is put right.
I experienced a musical version of this as well. I don’t mean one of my obsessions was produced on Broadway, although it wouldn’t seem that out of place from what I read about the Legitimate Theater these days. I mean I got stuck on a song.
I may be the all-time champion of getting a song stuck in my head, particularly at about 4 AM, but what I really mean is that this song stayed with me for years. You see, as all right-thinking Americans agree, the music of my youth is the best music there ever was. And although Billy Joel, Styx, Barry Manilow and the like are not considered cool, I’ll put them up against anyone today. In fact, they’ll put themselves there – they still tour, very successfully. You may not be as familiar with Donnie Iris.
Donnie was the ultimate One-Hit Wonder, and if you remember his smash, “Ah, Leah”, you’re probably exactly the same age as I am, so perhaps I should pause while you rinse out the Grecian Formula. In fact, you're probably a bit fatigued -- so I will take a break and resume this story next time....
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Best Supporting Actor
In the hazy days of my childhood in the pre-cable era, awards shows were always a big draw. The Emmys and Oscars were annually among the most popular shows. I'm not counting the Tonys, of course; nobody watched the Tonys, then or now. When you think about it, it's kind of amazing that they even put it on TV. What percentage of the nation lives within commuting distance of Broadway, and what percentage of them care enough to go to a show? Maybe we should start televising Little League banquets and the like.
I still watch awards once in awhile (it's hard not to; in the cable era, there's a new awards show almost weekly), but it gets harder to find the entertainment. I blame the homogenization of the acceptance speech. There used to be, it seemed to me, a presumption that the winners might say something interesting or even unpredictable, but those days are gone forever. Now it's a list of thank yous: my agent, my manager, my accountant, the head of the studio... zzzzzz.... sorry, did I doze off? The writer, the director, my costars..... if you're lucky and the music doesn't start up, they might squeeze in thanks to the family (actually, there have been some high-profile instances of the family being left out and some attendant marital friction).
Kind of reminds me of Father's Day. The most important "thank you day" is clearly Mother's Day -- that's the day with the flowers, the candy, taking Mom out to brunch, gifts (I gave my wife a stepladder this year*). Then down there at the end, there's Father's Day. There are a lot of reasons for that, like the fact that some part of society has convinced themselves fathers are optional. And the fact that an enormous proportion, whether they like it or not, are doing without a father to varying degrees. And the fact -- have I mentioned this previously? :-) -- that mothers are sometimes perceived as doing the real work.
[*Editor's Note: Lest I be tarred with the 'typical male' brush, the ladder was a big hit -- perhaps my most successful present since I gave her a wheelbarrow for her birthday.]
I hasten to assert that I am not complaining with a personal motivation. I'm grateful just to be a father, and my clan has made plenty of fuss about me today. In fact, I'm getting my Father's Day Wishes: I'm not cooking dinner tonight (they don't know it yet, but I intend to extend that notion all the way to the complete avoidance of any sort of chore); and I'm actually sitting on the couch, watching an entire Mets game from start to finish. Hey, it's the 18th of June -- I'm entitled to one.
And after all, what says "Hey, I'm a great dad!" more eloquently than completely abdicating my responsibilities, and ignoring my children between 1 and 4 PM?
I still watch awards once in awhile (it's hard not to; in the cable era, there's a new awards show almost weekly), but it gets harder to find the entertainment. I blame the homogenization of the acceptance speech. There used to be, it seemed to me, a presumption that the winners might say something interesting or even unpredictable, but those days are gone forever. Now it's a list of thank yous: my agent, my manager, my accountant, the head of the studio... zzzzzz.... sorry, did I doze off? The writer, the director, my costars..... if you're lucky and the music doesn't start up, they might squeeze in thanks to the family (actually, there have been some high-profile instances of the family being left out and some attendant marital friction).
Kind of reminds me of Father's Day. The most important "thank you day" is clearly Mother's Day -- that's the day with the flowers, the candy, taking Mom out to brunch, gifts (I gave my wife a stepladder this year*). Then down there at the end, there's Father's Day. There are a lot of reasons for that, like the fact that some part of society has convinced themselves fathers are optional. And the fact that an enormous proportion, whether they like it or not, are doing without a father to varying degrees. And the fact -- have I mentioned this previously? :-) -- that mothers are sometimes perceived as doing the real work.
[*Editor's Note: Lest I be tarred with the 'typical male' brush, the ladder was a big hit -- perhaps my most successful present since I gave her a wheelbarrow for her birthday.]
I hasten to assert that I am not complaining with a personal motivation. I'm grateful just to be a father, and my clan has made plenty of fuss about me today. In fact, I'm getting my Father's Day Wishes: I'm not cooking dinner tonight (they don't know it yet, but I intend to extend that notion all the way to the complete avoidance of any sort of chore); and I'm actually sitting on the couch, watching an entire Mets game from start to finish. Hey, it's the 18th of June -- I'm entitled to one.
And after all, what says "Hey, I'm a great dad!" more eloquently than completely abdicating my responsibilities, and ignoring my children between 1 and 4 PM?
Monday, June 12, 2006
Little Worksite on the Prairie
I am a creature much sought-after by advertisers: the Name-Brand Buyer. Since I was a boy old enough to take a bologna sandwich to school day after day (after day after day after day), those sandwiches have been unfailingly made with Oscar Meyer bologna and Hellman’s mayo. And as much as I love my laptop, I still use a lot of pens … but I will hunt through the drawer till I find a Pilot -- although in a pinch I’ll go for a Bic Z3. Also, I’m probably a “Toyota buyer” – although it’s hard to tell since they last so long we’ve only bought two.
In the movies, one of the brands I look for is Tom Hanks. According to imdb.com, I’m stunned to realize I’ve seen about 20 of his films. I’m not saying they’re all winners; do all in your power to miss Bachelor Party, The Man With One Red Shoe, or Turner & Hooch. And I’m not sure I’ll be making it to DaVinci Code, for that matter.
One I have missed to date, and which I might be safer to avoid entirely, is the 1986 Hanks/Shelley Long classic, The Money Pit. When it came out, we were apartment dwellers; since then we’ve lived in houses owned by our churches, so it never seemed quite relevant somehow. Now, however, I’m just too terrified to watch it.
About two years ago, we decided it would be great to have our own camp – somewhere to hide out, and a way to simplify vacation-time with two small children. So we bought a double-wide located near a lovely pond, not far from where we’re living. It’s not only a camp, but also a pointed lesson about perceptions, because where I see a quiet spot to get away, my wife sees a blank canvas.
When we were camp-shopping, we agreed we shouldn’t get a fixer-upper since neither of us is particularly handy. Little did I know she would become fanatical about developing those skills. Since then, we have experienced the following … ah, improvements (* - incomplete):
- Paint: Master bath (including trim and cabinets), master bedroom, kitchen, bedroom 1* , back porch, front porch (stain)
- Also in the master bath: light fixture, sink faucets
- Living room – paneling and trim*
- 2nd bath – wallpaper*, tub faucet
The outside has also experienced weeding, mulching, planting, digging up rocks… I can’t even recount it all. Suffice it to say that I made an enormous hit for her last birthday when I bought her a wheelbarrow. I was nuts to shell out for jewelry all those years!
On top of all that, it seemed kind of extravagant to buy a lawn mower for a camp, so I’ve been making do with a reel mower I bought some time ago to trim around the house. Now a reel mower – that is, the old-fashioned push mower with no engine – may be quite effective under some circumstances, but with uneven terrain and intermittent mowing leading to very tall grass/weeds, it’s roughly equivalent to cutting the grass with a steak knife. I might be better off if I just steal Bob Lanier’s basketball shoes from the NBA Hall of Fame and stomp the grass down (that’s mostly what the bar on the front of the mower does anyway).
Unfortunately I don’t think I have enough left in the bank to purchase a place to get away from the getaway, so for the time being I guess I’m still signed up for the work crew. There is one significant consolation, however: the kitchen is always stocked with Hellman’s mayo & Oscar Meyer bologna.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Lower Education
I recently found myself wondering (you’ll understand in a moment how I came to pursue this line of internal inquiry) whether any Nobel laureate, Rhodes Scholar, Pulitzer Prize winner, or someone of that ilk, has any 2-year college experience lurking in his or her past. Do you suppose a search – I’m not sure if Google is up to the task – would turn up such a thing as an A.A in Liberal Arts & Sciences (Mathematics)?
I am not a recipient of any of the above honors, although I’m hoping the Pulitzer gang inaugurates a prize for Outstanding Achievement in Sporadic, Polysyllabic, and Often Meandering Blogging. I am, however, the proud holder of the aforementioned degree.
Its main function in my life is to enable me to say I have the same number of college degrees as my wife. We each have three; big deal if 2 of hers are Master’s and one of mine is an Associate’s! I paid good money for that degree… well, actually, in those days you could almost pay for community college with change you found between the couch cushions. And I think, to be more accurate and less entertaining, my parents paid for it. Be that as it may, I’m doubly proud to assert that my community college education was every bit as valuable as the rest of it and almost incomprehensibly cheaper. But the point I set out to make, if I recall correctly, is that my family has really done its bit for education.
Of course, we also did our time on the other side of the desk, having a combined 18 or so years of teaching experience, depending on how you choose to count. I pile all this up not to brag, but instead to achieve the utter pulverization of my original thesis: around here, we know from education.
Just when we thought, however, that it would be safe to sink into the soothingly overstuffed Easy Chair of Ignorance, along comes the next generation of learners… and naturally (whether we like it or not), while they are learning, they can’t help but show these aging canines a few things along the way as well. So in case you were consumed with curiosity about whatever happened to Robert Fulghum, the following are a few lessons I’ve picked up from our in-house tiny taskmasters (or, if you prefer, half-pint headmasters):
- A pile of dirt, a plastic cup and some water beats anything you can find at a toy store. Why is this so hard for parents to learn? It’s a well-worn cliché that kids ignore the present and play with the box, and still we persist in handing them “stuff” that interests them for even less time than it takes to break.
- If you keep looking around, you can find something interesting in every situation. For example, my daughter is almost 4. Her name starts with “K”, so she is always on the lookout for the letter “K”. When she sees it, she experiences a sense of triumph on par with any world-famous archeologist.
- Every question is worth asking, as many times as it takes to get an answer that makes sense to you. I find that when I ask for help (as a man, I am permitted to do so at work, although not in my personal life and under no circumstances when directions are involved), a lot of times I give up after one round of questions – even if the answer doesn’t make any sense to me. Not so my son; he’ll keep drilling all day till he strikes oil.
- When you feel something, let yourself feel it all the way. Like any idea, this one can be taken to extremes. I’ve had it up to here with people (some of whom are not my children, or children at all) who think that being angry is a good reason to rave like a maniac. However, it’s wonderful to watch my kids being so happy they can’t physically contain it; and I wonder whether by letting themselves be reallyreally sad, they don’t get over it faster.
- The journey is more important than the destination. Yes, I know that one’s a cliché of greeting-card proportions (and not the Shoebox greeting cards either, I’m talking Helen Steiner Rice with flowers on the front). But it does take on a whole new life when you’re out for a walk and you keep stopping to pick up sticks… search for rocks… chase a toad into the bushes…
- If you love someone, tell them over and over and over again, at random intervals and for no apparent reason. A big hug around the neck & a kiss ain’t bad either.
Go talk to a kid today; if you really listen, you'll probably come up with something to make you laugh, or make you think. If you want to make an impression, bring a plastic cup and a pile of dirt.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Theology For Dummies: Family Edition
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who read a book once, and feel they’ve squeezed all the juice out of it; and those who hang onto a book as you’d hang onto an old friend. Not that I’d suggest keeping all your friends lined up on a shelf – although, come to think of it, that would be more convenient than trying to reach someone on the phone, and synchronize schedules, and….
I have heard a rumor that there is a third kind of person: the kind who regards a book as an unwelcome reminder of an uncomfortable experience of Compulsory Education. I choose to disregard that rumor, since that’s not the kind of world I’d want to live in.
I have already noted in this space which camp I fall into; rest assured that the books I singled out in that entry are old, familiar friends. I also mentioned that my response to the cliché “books for a desert island” question would have to include both the Baseball Encyclopedia and the Bible.
If you are a person for whom baseball exceeds a pastime and approaches mental illness – quick test: will baseball be mentioned in your obituary? – you might see the appeal of the former volume. Not only is it immense, and virtually impervious to being read cover-to-cover, but all those names and numbers are like videotape to those of my ilk.
The Bible is similar in a way. When I read the stories of Scripture, I recognize a lot of people I know – selfish, cowardly, a little slow on the uptake, or any number of other common human characteristics. OK, full disclosure: a lot of those “people I know” are people I actually recognize from seeing them in the mirror.
It is, of course, quite possible to read the Bible cover-to-cover. Still, it probably supports re-reading better than most other books you can name, and that is because how you read it and understand it changes as you change.
I’ve read the whole thing through, but I still find things I would be almost sure I’ve never seen before, because I see something I wasn’t in a position to see the first time. One excellent example of this is Eph. 1:4-6 --
I never really understood what adoption was all about until my wife & I adopted our son in 1999. I understood the part about a child coming to live with you; you take care of him and you come to love him. What came as a surprise to me was that a child who’s not “yours” can become yours, even instantaneously. We don’t have any biological children, but I can’t imagine feeling any stronger about one. Or, as I’m fond of saying, I couldn’t love him (or my daughter either) any more if I’d given birth to them myself.
It sheds a new light on my relationship with God. I don’t have any particularly strong claim on being part of His family. God knows ;-) the family resemblance is often not very strong. And yet for some reason it pleases Him to treat me as a son, and to love me as much as if He’d given birth to me. Now I understand this doesn’t mean I’m a second-class member of the family… being a child of God represents not just a legal status but a place in the center of God’s heart.
It also means I need to keep reading; who knows what else I’ll turn up?
I have heard a rumor that there is a third kind of person: the kind who regards a book as an unwelcome reminder of an uncomfortable experience of Compulsory Education. I choose to disregard that rumor, since that’s not the kind of world I’d want to live in.
I have already noted in this space which camp I fall into; rest assured that the books I singled out in that entry are old, familiar friends. I also mentioned that my response to the cliché “books for a desert island” question would have to include both the Baseball Encyclopedia and the Bible.
If you are a person for whom baseball exceeds a pastime and approaches mental illness – quick test: will baseball be mentioned in your obituary? – you might see the appeal of the former volume. Not only is it immense, and virtually impervious to being read cover-to-cover, but all those names and numbers are like videotape to those of my ilk.
The Bible is similar in a way. When I read the stories of Scripture, I recognize a lot of people I know – selfish, cowardly, a little slow on the uptake, or any number of other common human characteristics. OK, full disclosure: a lot of those “people I know” are people I actually recognize from seeing them in the mirror.
It is, of course, quite possible to read the Bible cover-to-cover. Still, it probably supports re-reading better than most other books you can name, and that is because how you read it and understand it changes as you change.
I’ve read the whole thing through, but I still find things I would be almost sure I’ve never seen before, because I see something I wasn’t in a position to see the first time. One excellent example of this is Eph. 1:4-6 --
For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will-- to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.
I never really understood what adoption was all about until my wife & I adopted our son in 1999. I understood the part about a child coming to live with you; you take care of him and you come to love him. What came as a surprise to me was that a child who’s not “yours” can become yours, even instantaneously. We don’t have any biological children, but I can’t imagine feeling any stronger about one. Or, as I’m fond of saying, I couldn’t love him (or my daughter either) any more if I’d given birth to them myself.
It sheds a new light on my relationship with God. I don’t have any particularly strong claim on being part of His family. God knows ;-) the family resemblance is often not very strong. And yet for some reason it pleases Him to treat me as a son, and to love me as much as if He’d given birth to me. Now I understand this doesn’t mean I’m a second-class member of the family… being a child of God represents not just a legal status but a place in the center of God’s heart.
It also means I need to keep reading; who knows what else I’ll turn up?
Thursday, May 18, 2006
What Happens in Vegas...
… ends up getting posted on the Internet. I always figured people who visited Las Vegas were either the smooth high-roller type, or the plaid-shorts/black-socks tourist variety. I was always certain, in any case, that people who visited Las Vegas were people who were not me.
But here I am, attending a team meeting in perhaps the least businesslike city in America – well, I guess New Orleans has a lot of the same vibe, plus half the city got washed away, so they may win the title. I still don’t think I fit either of my theoretical demographics. I do have to admit that when I got here I was wearing my favorite bright blue pants – my wife calls them golf pants. But hey, they’re cool & comfortable, and they weigh about 4 ounces, so I think they’re great for traveling.
OK, I happen to love the color too.
It’s definitely a different world out here. For one thing, it’s been 90 degrees plus, the whole time (OK, it goes down to 75 at night). For a second, smoking is apparently compulsory. Coming from an environment where smoking is only permitted on alternate sides of the street from 9 pm to midnight, it’s a little startling to have to fight your way through a blue haze in the lobby.
Now that I think of it, hotels around here don’t really have “lobbies”, just casinos with a reception desk. So I suppose the biggest adjustment is walking past row after row of slot machines, with row after row of middle-aged women feeding coins and pulling the handle. Actually, relatively few of the machines still have the traditional handle; most of them are push-button.
Quick hotel quiz -- match the following (each "letter" may be used more than once):
The good news is that I get my minimum daily requirement of fruits and vegetables by means of a conscientiously-applied regimen of personal grooming. The bad news is that every time I leave my room I'm attacked by monkeys. (Quiz answers: 1b, 2a, 3c, 4a, 5b)
I certainly don’t have the time (or, frankly, the inclination) to get too used to it out here; I’ll be home before I know it. Unless you count another day of meetings and six hours on a plane, that is. I am doing my best, however, to squeeze a little adventure out of my trip. That can be a bit of a challenge in a city that bases its identity on self-destructive behavior, but if worse comes to worst, I can fall back on two things dear to my heart: leaving the work to the chambermaid, and expense-account meals.
I have proven once and for all what everyone has always suspected – I would travel 2500 miles for free food.
But here I am, attending a team meeting in perhaps the least businesslike city in America – well, I guess New Orleans has a lot of the same vibe, plus half the city got washed away, so they may win the title. I still don’t think I fit either of my theoretical demographics. I do have to admit that when I got here I was wearing my favorite bright blue pants – my wife calls them golf pants. But hey, they’re cool & comfortable, and they weigh about 4 ounces, so I think they’re great for traveling.
OK, I happen to love the color too.
It’s definitely a different world out here. For one thing, it’s been 90 degrees plus, the whole time (OK, it goes down to 75 at night). For a second, smoking is apparently compulsory. Coming from an environment where smoking is only permitted on alternate sides of the street from 9 pm to midnight, it’s a little startling to have to fight your way through a blue haze in the lobby.
Now that I think of it, hotels around here don’t really have “lobbies”, just casinos with a reception desk. So I suppose the biggest adjustment is walking past row after row of slot machines, with row after row of middle-aged women feeding coins and pulling the handle. Actually, relatively few of the machines still have the traditional handle; most of them are push-button.
Quick hotel quiz -- match the following (each "letter" may be used more than once):
| 1.Body bar | a. Ginger orange |
| 2. Conditioner | b. Grapefruit & pomegranate |
| 3.Facial bar | c. Lemongrass sage |
| 4.Shampoo | |
| 5.Body lotion |
I certainly don’t have the time (or, frankly, the inclination) to get too used to it out here; I’ll be home before I know it. Unless you count another day of meetings and six hours on a plane, that is. I am doing my best, however, to squeeze a little adventure out of my trip. That can be a bit of a challenge in a city that bases its identity on self-destructive behavior, but if worse comes to worst, I can fall back on two things dear to my heart: leaving the work to the chambermaid, and expense-account meals.
I have proven once and for all what everyone has always suspected – I would travel 2500 miles for free food.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
All In a Day's Blog
I try always to have a lot of cereal boxes in the house. Naturally we like to have a number of delicious breakfast options, but perhaps more importantly it's vital to have as much reading material available as is humanly possible.
I have written in the past about some of my reading preferences, but when the chips are down I'm an omnivore. I have a number of subscriptions in an effort to ensure I have something fresh on hand at all times, but if need be, I'll read anything printed-- English-language optional.
It was in such times of extreme distress that I would often scoop up Reader’s Digest. With most magazines I’m pretty linear – I read Newsweek basically back to front, even the business columns. But with RD I usually skip around and find the little anecdotes, especially the monthly features, like “Life in these United States” or “Humor in Uniform”.
You may have read these columns in the past and thought: I could do better than that. And we shall see, because today I am finally submitting a story that I’ve always “meant to”, since the day it happened to me 15 or so years ago. Hopefully this will turn out to be yet another of the many advantages of my somewhat checkered employment history -- a chance to be immortalized in “All in a Day’s Work”, as follows:
I have written in the past about some of my reading preferences, but when the chips are down I'm an omnivore. I have a number of subscriptions in an effort to ensure I have something fresh on hand at all times, but if need be, I'll read anything printed-- English-language optional.
It was in such times of extreme distress that I would often scoop up Reader’s Digest. With most magazines I’m pretty linear – I read Newsweek basically back to front, even the business columns. But with RD I usually skip around and find the little anecdotes, especially the monthly features, like “Life in these United States” or “Humor in Uniform”.
You may have read these columns in the past and thought: I could do better than that. And we shall see, because today I am finally submitting a story that I’ve always “meant to”, since the day it happened to me 15 or so years ago. Hopefully this will turn out to be yet another of the many advantages of my somewhat checkered employment history -- a chance to be immortalized in “All in a Day’s Work”, as follows:
I used to work in a large, open office with long tables where the worker bees sat, ringed by supervisors’ desks. As a result, everyone knew everyone else’s business. I listened one day as Mary, the head of the department, told Judy she was leaving for awhile. She explained to Judy that if the phone rang, she could pick it up on her own desk by pressing “pound-4”. Judy said okay, and Mary went on her way.
Before we knew it, the phone rang, and although Judy snatched up her receiver and jabbed at the buttons, it continued to ring. Finally someone called from across the room, “Judy, pound-4!” She continued to stab frantically as she called back, “I’m pounding as hard as I can!”
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Hall of Fame Numbers
One of the things I love about baseball is the central role that numbers play. They tell their own story: .300 is a good hitter; 3.00 is a good pitcher. Yet .300, 30 HR, 100 RBI means something entirely different to a baseball fan than .300, 5 HR, 40 SB. One is a power hitter, probably a big star; the other one is more of a speedy guy, probably leads off and scores a lot of runs. Even uniform numbers tell a story -- in fact, you can find an entire set of those stories at www.mbtn.net, which is a website that details every player who ever played for the Mets in order of his uniform number.
One of the most famous numbers in baseball is 44, which has been worn by such legends as Hank Aaron, Willie McCovey, and Reggie Jackson. So obviously I am in good company, since I myself am also now 44. This is not, regrettably, my uniform number but instead the one which, God willing, will keep increasing every year. Next year I make the switch from slugging to pitching -- Tug McGraw and Pedro Martinez are the two most famous 45s in Mets history, at least.
I have been in many ways struggling with this new piece of my identity... not specifically being 44; birthdays are not generally a huge crisis for me. Although I can't say I'm eager to hit a half-century. It's more the mindset behind my favorite (alleged) Satchel Paige quote, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?"
At one point I would've said early 30s -- not to mention that I could easily pass for that. Hey, some days I probably would've said 19.
The other night my daughter asked me, "Daddy, why is your hair getting all gray?" I told her that happens when people get older, and since I'm only half-old, I'm only half-gray. Not long after that, my son had the kindness to point out that I have "a little hole in my hair". And it probably goes without saying my waist is a little thicker and my knees are a little stiffer (although that's the beauty of BlogWorld: absolutely nothing goes without saying).
Still, I'm driving at something a little less tangible. I am at 44 very likely more than halfway through my days, and I still can't quite get it through my head that I'm a grownup. I have two small children who depend on me for support, both financial and emotional, and who I'm supposed to be helping shape into mature individuals. I, or we, own two cars and a camp and a house full of stuff. I'm supposed to be saving for retirement, for heaven's sake. That's a real eye-opener for me, considering that for all intents & purposes I didn't even have a career less than 10 years ago.
I have priorities and responsibilities and decisions to make; and sure, I share all that with my wife -- but in some ways that makes it worse. We have to work together as mature adults in tandem, when much of the time I'd rather either
Seems like only yesterday I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating chips, drinking iced tea, reading The Sporting News AND watching the Three Stooges (this is how I learned to multitask). The biggest thing I had to worry about was studying for my Chem test.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not Mourning My Lost Youth, not exactly anyway. We all have responsibilities that are at least sorta heavy, and I cope with mine OK, I think. I just can't help but feel like it would all go smoother if I really felt like an adult, down deep inside -- sometimes it's more like I'm playing the 'daddy' part in a never-ending game of House.
As a (very late) Baby Boomer, I also got caught in a generational/perceptional switch. In my Dad's day, grown-up men put on a suit and a skinny tie and a hat and went off to their serious adult jobs; I'm from the generation that wears jeans to work, and listens to rock 'n' roll, and spends money like they don't quite understand it comes in finite amounts. Somehow not quite so serious, not quite so adult.
I guess this probably sounds like the standard-issue Midlife Crisis, and that soon I'll be buying a red convertible and wearing my hat backwards... or maybe taking off on a cross-country journey to Find Myself. Maybe it is, or maybe it's a side-effect of all the steroids. Maybe it's just living in a culture that tends to glorify non-grownup behavior. In any case, I'm hoping I get it sorted out soon because I think it'll be hard to find an old-folks' home that has unlimited potato chips and iced tea available for afternoon snacks.
One of the most famous numbers in baseball is 44, which has been worn by such legends as Hank Aaron, Willie McCovey, and Reggie Jackson. So obviously I am in good company, since I myself am also now 44. This is not, regrettably, my uniform number but instead the one which, God willing, will keep increasing every year. Next year I make the switch from slugging to pitching -- Tug McGraw and Pedro Martinez are the two most famous 45s in Mets history, at least.
I have been in many ways struggling with this new piece of my identity... not specifically being 44; birthdays are not generally a huge crisis for me. Although I can't say I'm eager to hit a half-century. It's more the mindset behind my favorite (alleged) Satchel Paige quote, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?"
At one point I would've said early 30s -- not to mention that I could easily pass for that. Hey, some days I probably would've said 19.
The other night my daughter asked me, "Daddy, why is your hair getting all gray?" I told her that happens when people get older, and since I'm only half-old, I'm only half-gray. Not long after that, my son had the kindness to point out that I have "a little hole in my hair". And it probably goes without saying my waist is a little thicker and my knees are a little stiffer (although that's the beauty of BlogWorld: absolutely nothing goes without saying).
Still, I'm driving at something a little less tangible. I am at 44 very likely more than halfway through my days, and I still can't quite get it through my head that I'm a grownup. I have two small children who depend on me for support, both financial and emotional, and who I'm supposed to be helping shape into mature individuals. I, or we, own two cars and a camp and a house full of stuff. I'm supposed to be saving for retirement, for heaven's sake. That's a real eye-opener for me, considering that for all intents & purposes I didn't even have a career less than 10 years ago.
I have priorities and responsibilities and decisions to make; and sure, I share all that with my wife -- but in some ways that makes it worse. We have to work together as mature adults in tandem, when much of the time I'd rather either
- do whatever I want, unilaterally, and let everyone else shift for themselves, or
- let her make all the decisions while I shuck the responsibility.
Seems like only yesterday I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating chips, drinking iced tea, reading The Sporting News AND watching the Three Stooges (this is how I learned to multitask). The biggest thing I had to worry about was studying for my Chem test.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not Mourning My Lost Youth, not exactly anyway. We all have responsibilities that are at least sorta heavy, and I cope with mine OK, I think. I just can't help but feel like it would all go smoother if I really felt like an adult, down deep inside -- sometimes it's more like I'm playing the 'daddy' part in a never-ending game of House.
As a (very late) Baby Boomer, I also got caught in a generational/perceptional switch. In my Dad's day, grown-up men put on a suit and a skinny tie and a hat and went off to their serious adult jobs; I'm from the generation that wears jeans to work, and listens to rock 'n' roll, and spends money like they don't quite understand it comes in finite amounts. Somehow not quite so serious, not quite so adult.
I guess this probably sounds like the standard-issue Midlife Crisis, and that soon I'll be buying a red convertible and wearing my hat backwards... or maybe taking off on a cross-country journey to Find Myself. Maybe it is, or maybe it's a side-effect of all the steroids. Maybe it's just living in a culture that tends to glorify non-grownup behavior. In any case, I'm hoping I get it sorted out soon because I think it'll be hard to find an old-folks' home that has unlimited potato chips and iced tea available for afternoon snacks.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
That's the Way Mr. Chips Crumbles
This is usually where I write the paragraph that makes it appear as if I’m writing about one topic, before I swerve into the real topic. But first, a confession: my jones is getting the best of me. I made it for a couple weeks drug-free, but I’m back on the ‘roids. Next thing you know I'll be skulking in dark alleys looking to score....
One of my qualifications for writing a blog is the variety of my life experiences. OK, I'll be honest, my primary qualification is that I have an Internet connection, or at least that’s the only commonality I’ve found among the other blogs I’ve read. Even the ability to write a coherent (or interesting) sentence in English, or any other language, is not a prerequisite.
Anyway, I’ve done everything from working backstage at a tiger show to cleaning toilets as a church custodian, not necessarily in increasing order of fascination. But much of my career was spent teaching math.
One of the reasons I quit was because I probably got more affirmation and positive feedback from the tigers than I did from the students (or my colleagues), but there were at least three notable episodes that still give me a slightly warm & fuzzy feeling.
The first was during my abbreviated high school teaching career. I had an honors-level Algebra II class, and for a unit on systems of equations, I asked them to write their own word problem using three equations with three variables. One young lady asked me, “Does it have to come out even?” I suggested that she change her numbers slightly to make it "come out", and she said, “But then it wouldn’t rhyme!” She had written her word problem in verse, a rare instance of my being faced with excess creativity.
The second instance was in a Calculus II course – the highest level I ever attained. There was a local high school student taking the course. There was no single tipoff, but slowly I recognized this kid was sharp… in all likelihood, smarter than me. Not to sound pompous, but in the low-level courses I usually taught, it was unusual to catch that flash of intelligence. He made me raise my game; I knew if I wasn’t absolutely on top of what I was discussing, he’d catch me.
And one pretty minor episode that nonetheless still tickles me: in a math for non-majors course, we were talking about “number tricks” -- like, take a number, add 3, double it…. So I had them pick their own number and follow along as I went through the steps on the overhead, and when I unveiled the last line – “The answer is 5” – there was an audible and almost unanimous gasp. Made me feel like David Copperfield or something.
I was reminded of that earlier this week when a friend sent me a link to a number trick on the Web. Once you've checked it out, you might be interested to know how it works:
- If the digits of a 3-digit number are a, b, and c, the value of the number is 100a+10b+c.
- Scramble the digits, for example ‘bca’, which has the value 100b+10c+a. If you subtract one from the other (assume ‘abc’ is larger, it doesn’t affect the conclusion), you get 99a-90b-9c.
- Since I can rewrite this as 9(11a-10b-c), it’s clear this number is a multiple of 9 (or divisible by 9, if you prefer).
- From number theory, here’s the deal about numbers divisible by 9: the sum of their digits is also divisible by 9. So if you tell me all but one of the digits, I can subtract that sum from the next-larger multiple of 9 to find the missing digit. Note the insistence that you don’t omit a zero; if I leave out a zero, you can’t tell whether the missing one should be a zero or a 9.
Example: 286, reshuffle to 628. Difference is 342. Sum of the digits is 9, so if you tell me any 2 digits I can subtract from 9 to find the missing one.
Example 2: 8594, reshuffle to 4859. Difference is 3735. Sum of the digits is 18; if you give me 335, sum is 11, 18-11=7.
So as you can see, your high school algebra teacher was right: algebra is vitally important to … let me think... no, I was right the first time -- it's the Foundation of the Universe.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Just Another Pod Person
Does it seem to you like mankind as a whole is achieving new highs in interpersonal communication? After all, there are innumerable books on the subject. Incidentally, if you’re looking for one, check out Deborah Tannen. Her book, You Just Don’t Understand, is the best one I ever read. Another good one that addresses both verbal and nonverbal communication in marriage is Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages.
Surely we’ve been brought closer together by e-mail, right? You can send your thoughts to someone halfway across the world, instantaneously. In fact, you can even send the same thoughts to dozens of people at the same time, and nothing says “personal relationship” quite like that. I find I hear from a slew of people every week… there’s a lovely fellow in Nigeria who’s made me a very generous offer if I can just help him with a little bank transfer problem he’s been having. And I do like to make new friends, but I continue to get mail from a large number of people that seem a little too interested in certain very personal aspects of my life and… well… person.
Still, I can’t quite shake the notion that there’s a whole lotta communicatin’ going on. I base that largely on the fact that virtually every one I know or see along my daily rounds has a cell phone. Actually, I left out part of that sentence: it should read, “has a cell phone surgically attached to his or her head”. Perhaps I’m not the best judge, since I have been known to put off making the most mundane phone call for multiple days. But do we really have this much to talk about?
When I leave the house, I almost never say to myself, “I wish I could make a phone call. I really need to talk to someone. I can’t wait to get to a phone!” But there certainly seem to be a number of urgent, can’t-wait conversations going on wherever you go. Note I didn’t say “top secret”; another wonderful virtue of cell phones is that they allow not only the two official parties to the call, but everyone else within a 20-foot radius, to stay in constant contact. It’s like being invited into someone’s living room, or perhaps their phone booth.
Not long ago I was driving past a downtown parking lot and saw not one but three young women in the pose we’ve become accustomed to seeing: standing about 15 feet apart, facing away from each other, motionless and slightly hunched. Not a scene from experimental theater, as it turned out.
Up until very recently, my indignation has been pure and unsullied. The problem is that we are in our second year of owning a camp, and while we spend as much time there as possible, it’s not enough to justify the expense of a phone. We’ve been depending for some time on the forbearance of our neighbor, but it seemed like a good idea to find a way to shift for ourselves; the barbed wire she put up along the property line is a bit unsightly.
So we bought the cheapest, simplest, most feature-free phone and coverage available, and the intent is to use it sparingly and for the most part to receive calls at camp. I hope we don’t turn out like the high school kids who plead for a cell “just so I can call home” (and end up talking all day to their friends sitting across the room), but I do have a vaguely uneasy feeling that we’ve joined Cell Phone Zombie Nation. So if you find me hunched over in a parking lot, you have my permission to drive a wooden stake through the heart of my phone.
Postscript I discovered through a bit of googling that I'm mixing up vampires and zombies:
Surely we’ve been brought closer together by e-mail, right? You can send your thoughts to someone halfway across the world, instantaneously. In fact, you can even send the same thoughts to dozens of people at the same time, and nothing says “personal relationship” quite like that. I find I hear from a slew of people every week… there’s a lovely fellow in Nigeria who’s made me a very generous offer if I can just help him with a little bank transfer problem he’s been having. And I do like to make new friends, but I continue to get mail from a large number of people that seem a little too interested in certain very personal aspects of my life and… well… person.
Still, I can’t quite shake the notion that there’s a whole lotta communicatin’ going on. I base that largely on the fact that virtually every one I know or see along my daily rounds has a cell phone. Actually, I left out part of that sentence: it should read, “has a cell phone surgically attached to his or her head”. Perhaps I’m not the best judge, since I have been known to put off making the most mundane phone call for multiple days. But do we really have this much to talk about?
When I leave the house, I almost never say to myself, “I wish I could make a phone call. I really need to talk to someone. I can’t wait to get to a phone!” But there certainly seem to be a number of urgent, can’t-wait conversations going on wherever you go. Note I didn’t say “top secret”; another wonderful virtue of cell phones is that they allow not only the two official parties to the call, but everyone else within a 20-foot radius, to stay in constant contact. It’s like being invited into someone’s living room, or perhaps their phone booth.
Not long ago I was driving past a downtown parking lot and saw not one but three young women in the pose we’ve become accustomed to seeing: standing about 15 feet apart, facing away from each other, motionless and slightly hunched. Not a scene from experimental theater, as it turned out.
Up until very recently, my indignation has been pure and unsullied. The problem is that we are in our second year of owning a camp, and while we spend as much time there as possible, it’s not enough to justify the expense of a phone. We’ve been depending for some time on the forbearance of our neighbor, but it seemed like a good idea to find a way to shift for ourselves; the barbed wire she put up along the property line is a bit unsightly.
So we bought the cheapest, simplest, most feature-free phone and coverage available, and the intent is to use it sparingly and for the most part to receive calls at camp. I hope we don’t turn out like the high school kids who plead for a cell “just so I can call home” (and end up talking all day to their friends sitting across the room), but I do have a vaguely uneasy feeling that we’ve joined Cell Phone Zombie Nation. So if you find me hunched over in a parking lot, you have my permission to drive a wooden stake through the heart of my phone.
Postscript I discovered through a bit of googling that I'm mixing up vampires and zombies:
- Vampire <=> stake through heart
- Zombie <=> destroy brain
So I guess I meant "destroy the brain of my cell phone" -- if it hasn't already done the same to me through a combination of deadly radiation and the general dumbification that seems to victimize many cell-users...
Friday, April 14, 2006
Paging T. S. Eliot
I was going to title this "The Cruelest Month", since that is in fact (a) what I had on my mind and (b) just pretentious and semi-literary enough to be one of my titles. I do work very hard on my titles; I like them to be a little bit mysterious but connected somehow so that when you read the piece, you eventually have that sort of "now I get it" feeling.
Ties in with one of my more annoying traits -- I have almost a compulsion to be surprising. Taken to its extreme, we get the almost weekly occurrence of some family member asking me what's for dinner, and me saying something vague and cutesy... because unquestionably, nothing enhances fish sticks quite like a dramatic, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition-style "reveal".
I see I have failed in that endeavor yet again, because quite unsurprisingly, I find myself in the third paragraph without having come within a $5 cab ride of my actual topic. However, before I sink to my hands and knees to try to gather up the skein of thought that lies unraveled around me, allow me to point out: I managed to work the pretentious and semi-literary idea into my title, but at least avoided the most obvious cliche. And in my defense, it turns out that any written material dealing with the subject of April is required under federal law to refer to T.S. Eliot in some manner.
I am actually in most respects a fan of April; as pointed out previously, anything associated with both baseball and the coming of spring can't be all bad. I can't help but wonder, on the other hand, who the genius was who decided it was a good idea to try to fit the beginning of baseball, the tax deadline, and Holy Week all within a few days. The pressure of balancing all those demands simultaneously is enough to induce a blogger to try to create an entire entry out of one barely coherent observation.
Theoretically.
My team (both teams -- the one I follow in the real world, as well as the one I created in the fake one) is doing well enough, thanks for asking. I have found as time passes that it's almost impossible to get another actual baseball fan interested in your fantasy team, let alone a random reader... so probably more than enough said there. I will note only that my guys keep getting hurt, but I can't dump them, because after all they're my guys.
Holy Week is extra services, extra music, extra rehearsals, extra demands on the pastoral spouse. This was all well & good prior to October 14, 1999... but gets a bit tricky when you start to factor in baths, snacks, bedtime, etc.
And taxes... I come from a long family tradition of licking the envelope while the postmaster is trying to padlock the front door of the post office. This is not entirely due to malingering; anyone who has ever done a clergy tax form would probably make an appointment for elective root canal just to get out of it. It's a little better with TurboTax to hold my hand, but still ranks considerably below sweeping and cleaning the garage and vacuuming the cars.
Wait, that's tomorrow.
The only saving grace there is that I haven't yet this month run into one of those misguided individuals who thinks ministers' salaries are tax-free. This has saved my blood pressure from the effects of expounding on a little thing called "self-employment tax". But there again, either you're on the team, and you know the drill -- or you're not, and you don't care.
Monday marks the end of two of those three competing events, and the beginning of our vacation. As a card-carrying pessimist (all of our "Locals" have negative numbers, naturally) I'm sure something else I haven't even foreseen will arrive on our doorstep before too much longer.
As it turns out, I guess I should've called this entry "The Waste Land".......
Ties in with one of my more annoying traits -- I have almost a compulsion to be surprising. Taken to its extreme, we get the almost weekly occurrence of some family member asking me what's for dinner, and me saying something vague and cutesy... because unquestionably, nothing enhances fish sticks quite like a dramatic, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition-style "reveal".
I see I have failed in that endeavor yet again, because quite unsurprisingly, I find myself in the third paragraph without having come within a $5 cab ride of my actual topic. However, before I sink to my hands and knees to try to gather up the skein of thought that lies unraveled around me, allow me to point out: I managed to work the pretentious and semi-literary idea into my title, but at least avoided the most obvious cliche. And in my defense, it turns out that any written material dealing with the subject of April is required under federal law to refer to T.S. Eliot in some manner.
I am actually in most respects a fan of April; as pointed out previously, anything associated with both baseball and the coming of spring can't be all bad. I can't help but wonder, on the other hand, who the genius was who decided it was a good idea to try to fit the beginning of baseball, the tax deadline, and Holy Week all within a few days. The pressure of balancing all those demands simultaneously is enough to induce a blogger to try to create an entire entry out of one barely coherent observation.
Theoretically.
My team (both teams -- the one I follow in the real world, as well as the one I created in the fake one) is doing well enough, thanks for asking. I have found as time passes that it's almost impossible to get another actual baseball fan interested in your fantasy team, let alone a random reader... so probably more than enough said there. I will note only that my guys keep getting hurt, but I can't dump them, because after all they're my guys.
Holy Week is extra services, extra music, extra rehearsals, extra demands on the pastoral spouse. This was all well & good prior to October 14, 1999... but gets a bit tricky when you start to factor in baths, snacks, bedtime, etc.
And taxes... I come from a long family tradition of licking the envelope while the postmaster is trying to padlock the front door of the post office. This is not entirely due to malingering; anyone who has ever done a clergy tax form would probably make an appointment for elective root canal just to get out of it. It's a little better with TurboTax to hold my hand, but still ranks considerably below sweeping and cleaning the garage and vacuuming the cars.
Wait, that's tomorrow.
The only saving grace there is that I haven't yet this month run into one of those misguided individuals who thinks ministers' salaries are tax-free. This has saved my blood pressure from the effects of expounding on a little thing called "self-employment tax". But there again, either you're on the team, and you know the drill -- or you're not, and you don't care.
Monday marks the end of two of those three competing events, and the beginning of our vacation. As a card-carrying pessimist (all of our "Locals" have negative numbers, naturally) I'm sure something else I haven't even foreseen will arrive on our doorstep before too much longer.
As it turns out, I guess I should've called this entry "The Waste Land".......
Friday, April 07, 2006
Acme Moving Company
It's a little unsettling for me to realize that every experience of my childhood was harmful to me in some way. After all, I would often play out in the sun all day without a biohazard suit; I really believed that chips were one of the four basic food groups (not your fault, mom, I promise); and perhaps worst of all I watched not only the Three Stooges but what used to be known as "Saturday morning cartoons". As everyone knows, the violence in the classic Warner Bros. cartoons poisons growing brains, which explains why I turned out to be the rage-filled menace to society that I am today.
I think all right-thinking Americans recognize that the king of the traditional cartoon universe is Bugs Bunny. Really, except for the vegetarian diet, I'd like to be Bugs Bunny. Always in control, always smooth, always the perfect comeback. (By the way, can someone explain to me what the deal is with Mickey Mouse? He's clearly the head honcho in the Disney world, but I just don't get the appeal; I can't even understand what he says.
Also, he's a mouse... and he has a dog.)
These days, however, I'm feeling more like Wile E. Coyote. It's not (I hope) because he has the biggest ego of all of them -- sure, Daffy's arrogant, but even he never claimed to be a Super Genius. It's not because he's always hatching schemes that never come to fruition... and I'm proud to say that my nose is smaller.
The classic Wile E. moment in probably every episode is when something goes wrong. He stands quietly pondering, and a little voice in his head prompts him to look up. A boulder, or even the side of the cliff, is bearing down on him.... It's too late to run, nowhere to hide; all he can do is put up a tiny parasol in a vain attempt to cushion the blow.
In my case, I was kinda minding my own business, not even chasing any Road Runners, when I looked up and suddenly found out that in all likelihood, we will be moving next spring. Kind of an occupational hazard for a minister's family, of course. But the size of the rock is exacerbated by the fact that this area is our home in a lot of ways. And the fact that I am not a Change Enthusiast.
But you know, it's not just an approaching rock; it's a test of whether I'm willing to live the faith I talk (and write) about. Can I put my own fears aside, and can I trust that God is truly going to provide? Can I claim for myself the promise that all things work together for good?
The parasol's not going to cut it this time -- all I can do is find a bigger Rock to hide behind.
I think all right-thinking Americans recognize that the king of the traditional cartoon universe is Bugs Bunny. Really, except for the vegetarian diet, I'd like to be Bugs Bunny. Always in control, always smooth, always the perfect comeback. (By the way, can someone explain to me what the deal is with Mickey Mouse? He's clearly the head honcho in the Disney world, but I just don't get the appeal; I can't even understand what he says.
Also, he's a mouse... and he has a dog.)
These days, however, I'm feeling more like Wile E. Coyote. It's not (I hope) because he has the biggest ego of all of them -- sure, Daffy's arrogant, but even he never claimed to be a Super Genius. It's not because he's always hatching schemes that never come to fruition... and I'm proud to say that my nose is smaller.
The classic Wile E. moment in probably every episode is when something goes wrong. He stands quietly pondering, and a little voice in his head prompts him to look up. A boulder, or even the side of the cliff, is bearing down on him.... It's too late to run, nowhere to hide; all he can do is put up a tiny parasol in a vain attempt to cushion the blow.
In my case, I was kinda minding my own business, not even chasing any Road Runners, when I looked up and suddenly found out that in all likelihood, we will be moving next spring. Kind of an occupational hazard for a minister's family, of course. But the size of the rock is exacerbated by the fact that this area is our home in a lot of ways. And the fact that I am not a Change Enthusiast.
But you know, it's not just an approaching rock; it's a test of whether I'm willing to live the faith I talk (and write) about. Can I put my own fears aside, and can I trust that God is truly going to provide? Can I claim for myself the promise that all things work together for good?
The parasol's not going to cut it this time -- all I can do is find a bigger Rock to hide behind.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Not For Nothing Do They Say Hope "Springs"
There are many signposts on the way to spring; I'm sure yours are different from mine. Groundhog Day is the first excuse to speculate on its arrival, and although the First Day of Spring is rarely what it's cracked up to be here in the Great Northeast, it's at least another source of hope.
I said something to my son a few days ago about what we would do when spring gets here, and he was offended. Don't tell him it's not spring yet -- his kindergarten teacher said it was. Besides, the drive-in opened this week, and it's time to go get some ice cream!
For many of us, it's when we start to see and hear the birds. As I wrote this, two ducks just flew by about eye-level. That has to be a good sign, right? ... on the other hand, I couldn't tell whether they were headed north or south...
If, unlike my son, you need your spring to feel a bit more springy, you may wait for meteorological spring. Around here, we get subtle and fleeting hints: the first day you can walk to the mailbox without a jacket (or shoes!); that rich, green, south-windy scent in the breeze; the subsequent sneezing fits.
Whoa, there go some geese. Really hoping that's north.
What really inspires this ode is not the warmer weather we've had this week (outdoor blogging!), or the fact that I've moved down two jacket-thicknesses in that time, because the Real First Day of Spring falls on April 2 this year: Opening Day. You can have your vernal equinox, my friends, and it will not be the groundhog but rather the ground ball that determines the arrival of spring for me.
The harbingers:
I said something to my son a few days ago about what we would do when spring gets here, and he was offended. Don't tell him it's not spring yet -- his kindergarten teacher said it was. Besides, the drive-in opened this week, and it's time to go get some ice cream!
For many of us, it's when we start to see and hear the birds. As I wrote this, two ducks just flew by about eye-level. That has to be a good sign, right? ... on the other hand, I couldn't tell whether they were headed north or south...
If, unlike my son, you need your spring to feel a bit more springy, you may wait for meteorological spring. Around here, we get subtle and fleeting hints: the first day you can walk to the mailbox without a jacket (or shoes!); that rich, green, south-windy scent in the breeze; the subsequent sneezing fits.
Whoa, there go some geese. Really hoping that's north.
What really inspires this ode is not the warmer weather we've had this week (outdoor blogging!), or the fact that I've moved down two jacket-thicknesses in that time, because the Real First Day of Spring falls on April 2 this year: Opening Day. You can have your vernal equinox, my friends, and it will not be the groundhog but rather the ground ball that determines the arrival of spring for me.
The harbingers:
- Yahoo! opens their free fantasy baseball leagues for sign-up
- The players begin reporting for spring training (note: A Baltimore Oriole looks a little bit like a robin anyway, or at least the logo does)
- Season Preview publications begin to appear on the newsstands
- "In Port St. Lucie, Fla., today, a Mets split-squad defeated the Expos 7-3." Home runs were hit by several 20-year-old kids you've probably never heard of, and very possibly never will again
- The Transactions column in the sports pages really is a column, full of who was "optioned to Rochester" and "reassigned to minor-league camp" -- or perhaps just plain old released
- I conduct the draft for my fantasy league, assign players to teams & hit the switch
With each of those the anticipation builds and the icicles begin to thaw. But tomorrow night on ESPN, the honest-to-goodness first pitch is thrown out and baseball is back. Feels like I can take a deep breath again. Even if the game broadcasts for the first month feature guys huddled in the dugout in parkas gripping hot water bottles, even if shoes and jackets will continue to be required to retrieve my Sports Weekly from the mailbox, you can't take spring away from me now.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Blog of Shadows
There’s been a lot of talk lately in the sports world and even beyond about the new book, Game of Shadows, which is an expose of steroid use by athletes. If you read any of the early news articles, you would be forgiven for believing the whole book is about Barry Bonds. He’s actually only the most prominent figure to have his drug use detailed; there are a number of others from a variety of sports.
Anyway, seeing the furor over the book made me realize that it’s only a matter of time till my own secrets are revealed, so my best course of action is to confess on my own terms: I am also using steroids.
I have actually gotten two or perhaps three compliments on my blog, but I’m afraid those compliments are going to have to be voided – or at least asterisked – because I have been writing under the influence (WUI).
It started innocently enough; I complained to my doctor about a skin condition under my eye and he gave me some Hydrocortisone Valerate. If you are not chemically-minded, note that the “-one” ending is a dead giveaway that a chemical is considered a steroid. I promise I was only using it occasionally, but I’m sure that stopping that pesky itch made it easier for me to concentrate on my writing. For that matter, I can’t say for sure that the residue on my index finger didn’t increase my typing speed and accuracy.
I was almost clean from that when I suffered some inflammation in my ear and the doctor gave me Prednisone (again, note the –one). This is a no-fooling-around steroid … and I have to admit I just gulped down a handful before beginning to write.
To be honest, I read other bloggers and I wonder if maybe they’re getting a little “help”. Their jokes seem to go farther than even my best efforts, and it appears they’re able to recover quicker – some of them post every day. Hey, if everybody else is doing it, maybe it’s the only way to be competitive.
I don’t think I can go on living a lie, though. I have to stay on the stuff for 10 more days – as Barry could tell you (but will not), steroids are prescribed in a "course" and you have to taper off. But after that, I’m off the junk for good. In the future, this blog will be 100% natural -- no additives, no preservatives, no artificial colors or flavors -- chock-full of that natural bloggy goodness.
Anyway, seeing the furor over the book made me realize that it’s only a matter of time till my own secrets are revealed, so my best course of action is to confess on my own terms: I am also using steroids.
I have actually gotten two or perhaps three compliments on my blog, but I’m afraid those compliments are going to have to be voided – or at least asterisked – because I have been writing under the influence (WUI).
It started innocently enough; I complained to my doctor about a skin condition under my eye and he gave me some Hydrocortisone Valerate. If you are not chemically-minded, note that the “-one” ending is a dead giveaway that a chemical is considered a steroid. I promise I was only using it occasionally, but I’m sure that stopping that pesky itch made it easier for me to concentrate on my writing. For that matter, I can’t say for sure that the residue on my index finger didn’t increase my typing speed and accuracy.
I was almost clean from that when I suffered some inflammation in my ear and the doctor gave me Prednisone (again, note the –one). This is a no-fooling-around steroid … and I have to admit I just gulped down a handful before beginning to write.
To be honest, I read other bloggers and I wonder if maybe they’re getting a little “help”. Their jokes seem to go farther than even my best efforts, and it appears they’re able to recover quicker – some of them post every day. Hey, if everybody else is doing it, maybe it’s the only way to be competitive.
I don’t think I can go on living a lie, though. I have to stay on the stuff for 10 more days – as Barry could tell you (but will not), steroids are prescribed in a "course" and you have to taper off. But after that, I’m off the junk for good. In the future, this blog will be 100% natural -- no additives, no preservatives, no artificial colors or flavors -- chock-full of that natural bloggy goodness.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Quantum Leap
I’ve had kind of a running gag going with my wife where she asks me if I’m middle-aged yet. I’m 43, but I really don’t feel whatever middle-aged is supposed to feel like. I always answered no, till finally she asked me in exasperation, “How old do you think you’re going to get?”
As of now, I guess I’m shooting for at least 87.
She might be relieved to learn that I’ve apparently reached an advanced age in at least one respect; in fact, I might have skipped the middle & headed straight for the rocking chair.
Since I’ve been blogging, I’m always searching for topics, and one thing that’s struck me repeatedly is how much the world has changed just in my lifetime. So I think I’m well set up to be one of those geezers who starts every paragraph with, “Now, in my day….”
Oops, sorry, I had to go put my teeth in. Back now. So I make like Sam Beckett from the late, lamented Quantum Leap and time-travel within my own lifetime....
The easy signposts for this kind of thing relate to technology. When I was a kid, we got 3 TV channels. I guess public TV (it was called “educational” TV then) was around, but you had to tune that in with a whole different dial called the UHF tuner. And TVs had actual knobs, of course. Ours even had doors on the front. And I still vividly remember when we got a color TV. It also had a radio tuner and a “record player” (oh, what the heck, “hi-fi”), and it took up about the same amount of room, and weighed about the same, as your average compact car today.
By the way, when I was thinking about all of this, I really freaked out when I realized that my dad was born about the same time as commercial broadcasting… radio broadcasting. His father before him predated the Victrola.
“Compact car” was pretty much an oxymoron when I was a child, come to think of it. We had a succession of station wagons, including one with the legendary wood-like paneling, and the letters MPG were not prominently featured. Of course, with gas about 30 cents a gallon, who cared anyway? Gas stations were known as “service stations” then, because they gave you service – and sometimes a prize just for showing up. For many years, I kept the NFL team glasses we collected from our local Sunoco.
I think we all get the thing about the meteoric rise of the computer age – but I can’t help but think we’re getting a bit jaded about it. It’s worth (I hope) reminding ourselves that when I was born, “computer” was always followed by “room” because you needed the latter to contain the former. I have written elsewhere about getting my hands on a TRS-80 in the early ‘80s… with cassette data storage. And now I’m publishing this from a laptop (on my actual lap) via a wireless connection to the World Wide Web.
Actually, my favorite Stupid Technology Trick relates to the Texas Instruments SR-10 calculator, basically the original handheld calculator. Not too long after it hit the market, my parents had occasion to buy one for my sister. If you click on the link, you’ll find the SR-10 performed the basic 4 arithmetic operations, and square/square root, invert, and scientific notation. My parents bought it second-hand and paid Ninety-Five Dollars.
Oh, and by the way… when I was born, an entire race of people was still being widely oppressed not only by custom and social stigma, but by actual laws in many places. When I watch a show like "Eyes on the Prize", although I consider myself well educated and not altogether naïve, I shake my head the whole time. It’s hard to imagine that such a world existed in my lifetime. I understand fully that conditions between the races have not reached a state of perfection, but you can’t watch a group of children buffeted by a fire hose without appreciating the difference between then and now.
As of now, I guess I’m shooting for at least 87.
She might be relieved to learn that I’ve apparently reached an advanced age in at least one respect; in fact, I might have skipped the middle & headed straight for the rocking chair.
Since I’ve been blogging, I’m always searching for topics, and one thing that’s struck me repeatedly is how much the world has changed just in my lifetime. So I think I’m well set up to be one of those geezers who starts every paragraph with, “Now, in my day….”
Oops, sorry, I had to go put my teeth in. Back now. So I make like Sam Beckett from the late, lamented Quantum Leap and time-travel within my own lifetime....
The easy signposts for this kind of thing relate to technology. When I was a kid, we got 3 TV channels. I guess public TV (it was called “educational” TV then) was around, but you had to tune that in with a whole different dial called the UHF tuner. And TVs had actual knobs, of course. Ours even had doors on the front. And I still vividly remember when we got a color TV. It also had a radio tuner and a “record player” (oh, what the heck, “hi-fi”), and it took up about the same amount of room, and weighed about the same, as your average compact car today.
By the way, when I was thinking about all of this, I really freaked out when I realized that my dad was born about the same time as commercial broadcasting… radio broadcasting. His father before him predated the Victrola.
“Compact car” was pretty much an oxymoron when I was a child, come to think of it. We had a succession of station wagons, including one with the legendary wood-like paneling, and the letters MPG were not prominently featured. Of course, with gas about 30 cents a gallon, who cared anyway? Gas stations were known as “service stations” then, because they gave you service – and sometimes a prize just for showing up. For many years, I kept the NFL team glasses we collected from our local Sunoco.
I think we all get the thing about the meteoric rise of the computer age – but I can’t help but think we’re getting a bit jaded about it. It’s worth (I hope) reminding ourselves that when I was born, “computer” was always followed by “room” because you needed the latter to contain the former. I have written elsewhere about getting my hands on a TRS-80 in the early ‘80s… with cassette data storage. And now I’m publishing this from a laptop (on my actual lap) via a wireless connection to the World Wide Web.
Actually, my favorite Stupid Technology Trick relates to the Texas Instruments SR-10 calculator, basically the original handheld calculator. Not too long after it hit the market, my parents had occasion to buy one for my sister. If you click on the link, you’ll find the SR-10 performed the basic 4 arithmetic operations, and square/square root, invert, and scientific notation. My parents bought it second-hand and paid Ninety-Five Dollars.
Oh, and by the way… when I was born, an entire race of people was still being widely oppressed not only by custom and social stigma, but by actual laws in many places. When I watch a show like "Eyes on the Prize", although I consider myself well educated and not altogether naïve, I shake my head the whole time. It’s hard to imagine that such a world existed in my lifetime. I understand fully that conditions between the races have not reached a state of perfection, but you can’t watch a group of children buffeted by a fire hose without appreciating the difference between then and now.
Friday, March 17, 2006
A&E: Shorter-Term Memories
Yes, I really can write a 2-part piece on a bunch of shows that aren't even on any more. I actually published it in one piece originally, but then when I saw it kind of took up an entire page, I decided to break it up. So continuing chronologically, I've made it all the way to the Reagan Administration so far.
I always think of Hill Street as kind of an entry with St.Elsewhere. Also groundbreaking in its own small way; also a deft synthesis of drama and comedy. The show featured talent like Denzel Washington and Helen Hunt, passing through on their way to better things, and Howie Mandel & Ed Begley Jr., just passing through. Consider the greatness of a show that made Howie look talented. One of the reasons I loved it was their use of inside jokes and little winks to the audience….
…. Which was also a characteristic of another show I miss, Moonlighting. When they were at their peak in the first couple of years, I used to watch the clock all evening long to make sure I didn’t miss it. Later in the run, they were just looking peaked and I watched the clock to see if it was almost over yet. A great combination of smart and smart-alecky; maybe the fastest-moving show ever – don’t try to watch while writing a letter or picking up around the house.
I think many of the shows you fall in love with turn out to be like old girlfriends you’re still friendly with. At least I hear that happens; I’m married, so that would NEVER NEVER be something I would do. I do think I’ve broken up with ER, even though we still see each other regularly. When it started, it was a real shot of adrenaline, administered stat; I think it’s more like a pressure bandage or an IV drip of lactated Ringer’s now. Since basically all the actors worth watching have moved on (with one exception: Maura Tierney is awesome, light-years above her NewsRadio days), it seems almost like inertia (and NBC’s abject desperation) is all that keeps it going. There’s probably a life-support metaphor in there, which will be your homework assignment.
I seem to have a weakness for fast-talking shows: consider The West Wing. Also perhaps in the ER category (upon reflection, more than “perhaps”). It was – and I hate to say “was” but I think it’s the case – the rare show that could hook you dramatically and also make you think about larger issues. Such as, can a guy really get elected by telling the truth? I’m leaning towards “not”, but Martin Sheen made it seem almost plausible.
I missed one in there chronologically, I think. Actually everyone missed it; if they hadn’t, I’d still be watching it instead of missing it. That would be Sports Night, which I think the Trio Network’s Brilliant But Canceled show was invented for. I was biased toward it to begin with, since it’s about a SportsCenter-type show. Actually, it isn’t “about” that at all, and if more people (especially female people, I suspect) had realized that, its fate might have been different. There’s a vast difference between being set in a particular environment and being about that. Was Cheers “about” a bar? Was Barney Miller “about” a police station? Well, sorta.
I’m struck by how much of their DNA these shows seem to share – I’ll leave Adam-12 out of the discussion, since the 8-year-old me perhaps wasn’t quite as discriminating. Two of them were even created by the same person (Aaron Sorkin: Sports Night and West Wing). I suspect there would be many more creative names in common if I dug a little. I think it’s worth noting that every one of these shows is smart and funny and assumes the audience is smart enough to keep up. A network executive would no doubt counter that several of them weren’t wildly successful either. There are plenty of dumb shows I enjoy, but I can only give my heart to the ones that challenge me a little.
Check back again in 20 years to see if I'm typing homages to According to Jim or Fear Factor....
I always think of Hill Street as kind of an entry with St.Elsewhere. Also groundbreaking in its own small way; also a deft synthesis of drama and comedy. The show featured talent like Denzel Washington and Helen Hunt, passing through on their way to better things, and Howie Mandel & Ed Begley Jr., just passing through. Consider the greatness of a show that made Howie look talented. One of the reasons I loved it was their use of inside jokes and little winks to the audience….
…. Which was also a characteristic of another show I miss, Moonlighting. When they were at their peak in the first couple of years, I used to watch the clock all evening long to make sure I didn’t miss it. Later in the run, they were just looking peaked and I watched the clock to see if it was almost over yet. A great combination of smart and smart-alecky; maybe the fastest-moving show ever – don’t try to watch while writing a letter or picking up around the house.
I think many of the shows you fall in love with turn out to be like old girlfriends you’re still friendly with. At least I hear that happens; I’m married, so that would NEVER NEVER be something I would do. I do think I’ve broken up with ER, even though we still see each other regularly. When it started, it was a real shot of adrenaline, administered stat; I think it’s more like a pressure bandage or an IV drip of lactated Ringer’s now. Since basically all the actors worth watching have moved on (with one exception: Maura Tierney is awesome, light-years above her NewsRadio days), it seems almost like inertia (and NBC’s abject desperation) is all that keeps it going. There’s probably a life-support metaphor in there, which will be your homework assignment.
I seem to have a weakness for fast-talking shows: consider The West Wing. Also perhaps in the ER category (upon reflection, more than “perhaps”). It was – and I hate to say “was” but I think it’s the case – the rare show that could hook you dramatically and also make you think about larger issues. Such as, can a guy really get elected by telling the truth? I’m leaning towards “not”, but Martin Sheen made it seem almost plausible.
I missed one in there chronologically, I think. Actually everyone missed it; if they hadn’t, I’d still be watching it instead of missing it. That would be Sports Night, which I think the Trio Network’s Brilliant But Canceled show was invented for. I was biased toward it to begin with, since it’s about a SportsCenter-type show. Actually, it isn’t “about” that at all, and if more people (especially female people, I suspect) had realized that, its fate might have been different. There’s a vast difference between being set in a particular environment and being about that. Was Cheers “about” a bar? Was Barney Miller “about” a police station? Well, sorta.
I’m struck by how much of their DNA these shows seem to share – I’ll leave Adam-12 out of the discussion, since the 8-year-old me perhaps wasn’t quite as discriminating. Two of them were even created by the same person (Aaron Sorkin: Sports Night and West Wing). I suspect there would be many more creative names in common if I dug a little. I think it’s worth noting that every one of these shows is smart and funny and assumes the audience is smart enough to keep up. A network executive would no doubt counter that several of them weren’t wildly successful either. There are plenty of dumb shows I enjoy, but I can only give my heart to the ones that challenge me a little.
Check back again in 20 years to see if I'm typing homages to According to Jim or Fear Factor....
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
A&E: Thanks for the Memories
Please excuse me if I SHOUT WHEN I TYPE tonight. One of my ears is plugged up and I can't hear myself expostulate. The doc says that till I'm better I have to lay off the antihistamine. I'm a little worried; not only is it the only thing that keeps me from coughing all the time, but I don't want anyone to start thinking I'm pro-histamine. Take it from me, kids: just say no.
I do have friends, although you wouldn't guess it from a joke like that. Life being what it is, however, let’s face it: most of us spend way more time watching TV than we do with our friends. So it shouldn’t be a complete shock that some of us, at least, form attachments to TV shows. Here are some of the shows I wish hadn’t moved away:
The first show I remember looking forward to was Adam-12. What I remember was rushing through my bath to get downstairs in time for the beginning. I don’t know if I understand the appeal, then or now (of the show, that is. I’ve gotten over the appeal of rushing through my bath). On the other hand, when you think about it, there isn’t a lot of space between Adam-12 – which is in itself a direct descendant of Dragnet, the first great TV cop show – and Law & Order. And I think there’s a decent chance that this Law & Order thing might well catch on.
In the ‘70s, the show I waited for was the Rockford Files. Of course, since it aired on Friday nights, it could’ve put a real dent in my social life. I was fortunate, however, not to have a social life, so I was free & clear to hang with Jim, Rocky and the gang. James Garner is just one of those guys you can watch doing anything. He’s able to be the “hero” while at the same time being just a little bit cowardly & self-absorbed.
I owe an enormous debt to the show Soap. Not because it was a classic, although I did enjoy it. When Soap debuted, there was an enormous amount of controversy over the subject matter. Several ABC affiliates chose not to carry it, or ran it in late night… among them our local station. In its place, our friends at WAST ran a half-hour syndicated show called Second City TV. They got better-known when they did the late-night series on NBC, but the original show was even funnier (and ironically, in a lot of ways more subversive than Soap). Rick Moranis was great in the network version, but the show lost something when Harold Ramis left from the original cast to be a successful director. And don’t even get me started with Robin Duke and Tony Rosato.
The best show ever in my opinion was Hill Street Blues. It’s kind of hard to remember at this point just how groundbreaking it was for its time. The handheld cameras, the overlapping dialogue, the mixture of comedy and drama…. I loved everything about it from day one. I even made sure to watch it when I was in college – in those days, there was a TV in the lounge on our floor; nobody had their own. I would round up my friend Rob and stake out the lounge a little before 10 every Thursday night. Going to school in Western NY, I had a few Thursday nights wrecked by pre-emptions by Buffalo Sabres hockey games (another measure of my always-tenuous social life).
It appears that my memories runneth over, so I guess I'll make this post a Very Special Two-Part Episode. Will Our Hero survive to watch TV in the 21st Century? Tune in again, same Bat-Blog....
I do have friends, although you wouldn't guess it from a joke like that. Life being what it is, however, let’s face it: most of us spend way more time watching TV than we do with our friends. So it shouldn’t be a complete shock that some of us, at least, form attachments to TV shows. Here are some of the shows I wish hadn’t moved away:
The first show I remember looking forward to was Adam-12. What I remember was rushing through my bath to get downstairs in time for the beginning. I don’t know if I understand the appeal, then or now (of the show, that is. I’ve gotten over the appeal of rushing through my bath). On the other hand, when you think about it, there isn’t a lot of space between Adam-12 – which is in itself a direct descendant of Dragnet, the first great TV cop show – and Law & Order. And I think there’s a decent chance that this Law & Order thing might well catch on.
In the ‘70s, the show I waited for was the Rockford Files. Of course, since it aired on Friday nights, it could’ve put a real dent in my social life. I was fortunate, however, not to have a social life, so I was free & clear to hang with Jim, Rocky and the gang. James Garner is just one of those guys you can watch doing anything. He’s able to be the “hero” while at the same time being just a little bit cowardly & self-absorbed.
I owe an enormous debt to the show Soap. Not because it was a classic, although I did enjoy it. When Soap debuted, there was an enormous amount of controversy over the subject matter. Several ABC affiliates chose not to carry it, or ran it in late night… among them our local station. In its place, our friends at WAST ran a half-hour syndicated show called Second City TV. They got better-known when they did the late-night series on NBC, but the original show was even funnier (and ironically, in a lot of ways more subversive than Soap). Rick Moranis was great in the network version, but the show lost something when Harold Ramis left from the original cast to be a successful director. And don’t even get me started with Robin Duke and Tony Rosato.
The best show ever in my opinion was Hill Street Blues. It’s kind of hard to remember at this point just how groundbreaking it was for its time. The handheld cameras, the overlapping dialogue, the mixture of comedy and drama…. I loved everything about it from day one. I even made sure to watch it when I was in college – in those days, there was a TV in the lounge on our floor; nobody had their own. I would round up my friend Rob and stake out the lounge a little before 10 every Thursday night. Going to school in Western NY, I had a few Thursday nights wrecked by pre-emptions by Buffalo Sabres hockey games (another measure of my always-tenuous social life).
It appears that my memories runneth over, so I guess I'll make this post a Very Special Two-Part Episode. Will Our Hero survive to watch TV in the 21st Century? Tune in again, same Bat-Blog....
Friday, March 10, 2006
Theology for Dummies
I read an article recently on the vast “For Dummies” publishing empire. The publishers basically asserted that they had a book out for anything you could do or even think about, and if you don’t see it on your bookstore’s shelf today, come back next week.
I just checked and it turns out that while there is a “Religion for Dummies”, there’s no “Theology for Dummies”. These books, of course, are billed as the reference for the rest of us; but that’s my point in choosing this title.
I mentioned in my first blog entry that I would be writing about God at times, and I start today with one of my core beliefs: we are all theologians. We are all of us engaged in “the study of the nature of God”.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying we’re all equally good theologians. I would be the last person to endorse the theory that all pathways to God are valid, or that truth is subjective. Quite the opposite; I figure if you disagree with me, that’s a pretty good indication that you’re wrong :-).
But everything we do, whether consciously or unconsciously, reflects what we think about God: whether He exists, whether He involves Himself in the world. Even atheists, agnostics, and all the other flavors are theologians. We hope that those who are a part of the church think more deeply and more accurately about God, of course. You have to hope that listening to Scripture read and explained weekly, singing the hymns that at their best are tiny theology texts, and being around other believers produces better-quality insights.
And that brings me to another of my core beliefs: that’s what the church is for. We all know someone who says, “I don’t need to go to church, I can worship God right where I am” – which is true as far as it goes, although I believe in most cases you’d be hard pressed to see that philosophy enacted.
One of the major reasons we have church, however, is that as humans we can only see a limited “amount” of God. If I could see it all, I’d actually be God (and for that not being the case, we are both grateful). But if we all get together, I can show you the piece I see, and maybe someone else will show me a piece I’ve never seen, and when we put all the pieces together, we get a more complete portrait.
I saw this in a new way this fall when our family went on a cruise. We did a couple of shore days and I found it frustrating that I couldn’t take a real picture of the ship. It’s just too huge to fit the whole thing in the viewfinder. I guess what I needed was a whole “congregation” of people taking pictures and sharing them with me…..
I just checked and it turns out that while there is a “Religion for Dummies”, there’s no “Theology for Dummies”. These books, of course, are billed as the reference for the rest of us; but that’s my point in choosing this title.
I mentioned in my first blog entry that I would be writing about God at times, and I start today with one of my core beliefs: we are all theologians. We are all of us engaged in “the study of the nature of God”.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying we’re all equally good theologians. I would be the last person to endorse the theory that all pathways to God are valid, or that truth is subjective. Quite the opposite; I figure if you disagree with me, that’s a pretty good indication that you’re wrong :-).
But everything we do, whether consciously or unconsciously, reflects what we think about God: whether He exists, whether He involves Himself in the world. Even atheists, agnostics, and all the other flavors are theologians. We hope that those who are a part of the church think more deeply and more accurately about God, of course. You have to hope that listening to Scripture read and explained weekly, singing the hymns that at their best are tiny theology texts, and being around other believers produces better-quality insights.
And that brings me to another of my core beliefs: that’s what the church is for. We all know someone who says, “I don’t need to go to church, I can worship God right where I am” – which is true as far as it goes, although I believe in most cases you’d be hard pressed to see that philosophy enacted.
One of the major reasons we have church, however, is that as humans we can only see a limited “amount” of God. If I could see it all, I’d actually be God (and for that not being the case, we are both grateful). But if we all get together, I can show you the piece I see, and maybe someone else will show me a piece I’ve never seen, and when we put all the pieces together, we get a more complete portrait.
I saw this in a new way this fall when our family went on a cruise. We did a couple of shore days and I found it frustrating that I couldn’t take a real picture of the ship. It’s just too huge to fit the whole thing in the viewfinder. I guess what I needed was a whole “congregation” of people taking pictures and sharing them with me…..
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Two More Blocks, One More Board
I mentioned in Part I that I'm a sucker for books with a decade in the title. You know, like The Forties: There Was This Big War, or The '60s -- Everyone Was Stoned All the Time. I like to read about what the time was like. It's fascinating to think about how life has changed; I'll be writing about that some time soon. One of the best of the breed of book is William Manchester's The Glory and the Dream, which actually covers FOUR decades, 1932-1972.
Probably the best baseball books I’ve read are Bill James’ series of Baseball Abstracts from the 1980’s. Bill James was a pioneer in using baseball statistics to understand how baseball works, and like the vast majority of my favorites has more than a bit of ... well, smart-aleck in him. I would be hard-pressed to recommend them at this point unless you have an appreciation for Enos Cabell jokes, but at the time they were a hand grenade rolled into the center of the traditional “Joe Blow gives 110% and loves kids” school of baseball “journalism”.
This last one isn’t actually a book, but I wanted to point it out just to illustrate, perhaps once and for all, just how frustrating it can be to be me. Roger Angell wrote baseball columns for many years for the New Yorker. He has published several collections of those pieces, which are worth reading for anyone who enjoys graceful writing and has an appreciation for baseball from the ‘60s on.
He also has a book called A Day in the Life of Roger Angell, which collects a number of his non-baseball pieces, and one extreme oddity: it’s a summary of the 1961 World Series… written in the style of Greek tragedy. It’s very funny, but almost infuriating, because I’ve never found anyone to share it with. If you make a circle for all the people who follow baseball closely, a circle for all those who remember 1961, and a circle for those familiar with the structures of Greek tragedy, I have to think the intersection of those three circles is virtually microscopic (Note: I don’t “remember” 1961 in the literal sense, but I can tell you without looking it up who played in the Series – and most of the Series in history – and how it ended).
Standing in that intersection doesn’t make me a genius, or superior, but it does make me a minority verging on a mutant. I feel a little like the guy trying to tell jokes in Latin or Sanskrit or something. Say, what about that wacky Warren G. Harding, huh?
Probably the best baseball books I’ve read are Bill James’ series of Baseball Abstracts from the 1980’s. Bill James was a pioneer in using baseball statistics to understand how baseball works, and like the vast majority of my favorites has more than a bit of ... well, smart-aleck in him. I would be hard-pressed to recommend them at this point unless you have an appreciation for Enos Cabell jokes, but at the time they were a hand grenade rolled into the center of the traditional “Joe Blow gives 110% and loves kids” school of baseball “journalism”.
This last one isn’t actually a book, but I wanted to point it out just to illustrate, perhaps once and for all, just how frustrating it can be to be me. Roger Angell wrote baseball columns for many years for the New Yorker. He has published several collections of those pieces, which are worth reading for anyone who enjoys graceful writing and has an appreciation for baseball from the ‘60s on.
He also has a book called A Day in the Life of Roger Angell, which collects a number of his non-baseball pieces, and one extreme oddity: it’s a summary of the 1961 World Series… written in the style of Greek tragedy. It’s very funny, but almost infuriating, because I’ve never found anyone to share it with. If you make a circle for all the people who follow baseball closely, a circle for all those who remember 1961, and a circle for those familiar with the structures of Greek tragedy, I have to think the intersection of those three circles is virtually microscopic (Note: I don’t “remember” 1961 in the literal sense, but I can tell you without looking it up who played in the Series – and most of the Series in history – and how it ended).
Standing in that intersection doesn’t make me a genius, or superior, but it does make me a minority verging on a mutant. I feel a little like the guy trying to tell jokes in Latin or Sanskrit or something. Say, what about that wacky Warren G. Harding, huh?
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