National Lampoon's "Trip to the Store"

When it comes to my rare opportunities for a solo road trip, I have a hard time taking my own advice. After all, I have often been heard to say that the secret of success is Low Expectations... although with my manager, I am always careful to say that the secret of success is managing expectations. See, I changed that one word -- I'm saying essentially the same thing, but now I sound like a Business Sage.

So you'd think I could maintain that cautious optimism (emphasis on the cautious) when it comes to making a break for it -- excuse me, I meant to say "going out alone"-- but you have only to click here and here for examples to the contrary. Regardless, even my trip last week to buy a grill seemed fraught with possibilities.

OK, maybe not like free tickets to the ballgame. But at least hassle-free: zip about 20 minutes down the interstate, grab the grill I'd already found, zip home, Bob's your uncle. What could possibly go wrong?

I don't know about you, but I'm a sucker for a story involving the words "What could go wrong?"

In this case, I think the solo nature of the trip was in part a smokescreen to get me to ignore the fact I'd have to pony up the bucks... but to be honest, the incumbent appliance is in such disrepair that grilling has been akin to cooking with an acetylene torch, so I had already mentally conceded the point.

All was carefree, until halfway into the outbound trip, when I encountered a sign with the Pennsylvania State Motto: "Roadwork ahead" (Memo to the Commonwealth: You might get away with it if you translate it into Latin). In a trice, we were at full stop.

I was approaching, sadly, the granddaddy of all delay-causers, the dreaded "Left 2 Lanes Closed". Now, here's something I've never understood: mathematically speaking, if you go from three lanes to one, shouldn't it take 3 times as long to put the same traffic through 1/3 the original roadway? Why do I end up at complete halt, and three miles from the actual closure? It took me over a half-hour just to get to the construction area!

As a saving grace, it was a pleasant evening; I was able to enjoy the spring weather with windows open... for about 5 minutes, till dusk began to descend. Another math equation: what do you get when you add dusk, spring, a tree-lined highway, and (100*(a warm vehicle+ a driver emitting CO2))? You get an A if you said "a cluster of vehicles filling up with mosquitoes". Actually, I can only speak for myself; I suppose it's possible the others were all listening to a lively symphony on public radio and conducting along vigorously.

Of course, when I finally made it to the Choke Point, I was faced with another mystery of road construction: what are all those people doing, anyway? A road crew makes all those "How many [fill in the blank] does it take to screw in a light bulb?" jokes look like understatement.

At long last, as it were, I arrived at my destination, with my "20-minute trip" having taken just over an hour. Of course, the purchase itself was no speed marvel, since the retail community is getting paid by the hour, but it was routine enough, I suppose. Then I was confronted with another of my negative qualities.

I have this thing about large objects and small spaces, particularly vehicles. I always figure it'll fit "somehow". I had purchased a pre-assembled grill (I don't really want to build anything that essentially produces a controlled explosion) but I really didn't pre-measure it, or my minivan ("featuring 3rd-row seating!").

The good news was that one of the store employees had come out to help; the bad news was that he was expecting me to have a plan. I was kinda hoping he had a plan. And I could tell he was a little contemptuous that I clearly had not thought this through.

No big deal: just take out the third seat. And then stuff the third seat into the second seat. Wait, my daughter's car seat is in the way. No, I can't put it there -- that's where my son's car seat is, from when I folded down the rear seat, earlier. Yes, I would appreciate a hand with this van seat since it weighs more than I do (at least till I started in on the Cheez-Its again).

OK, wait, the grill would fit right in the back if not for the shelf. Got a screwdriver? Sure, I'll wait. Back so... soon!? Let me grab all these little screws & nuts. Now heave! Oops, too tall -- try to lay it down. That crash is just the grill grates "shifting", right? Whew, finally... oh, I guess the propane tank goes up front with me, then.

I suppose it could've been worse; for several hundred bucks more, I could've bought a grill that I would have had to carry the van inside. And... I get home a mere 2 1/4 hours from the time I left. But for a good cause!

Except it's 5 days later and the new grill, and tank, and shelf, are still sitting in the garage. Haven't put them back together yet! Haven't used them yet! Haven't gotten rid of the old one yet! But: at least something's crossed off The List.

The Human Comedy

One of my most obvious qualities is that I always try to find the humor in everything. While I tend to think this is an excellent quality, particularly for a blogger, it must be said that it's not universally admired. Some would say, for example, that there's a fine line between "finding the humor in everything" and "refusing to take anything seriously."

At minimum, I think I have become a little more savvy about it than when I was in third grade. I still remember that one day, something struck me as funny (no idea what, at this late date), and I actually stood up to share this comic gem with the rest of the class. Alas, Miss Hunt was not amused, and I was summarily dispatched toward the principal's office. I say "toward" because I was so terrified of Getting In Trouble that I merely lingered in the hallway till I thought a sufficient interval had passed for the punishment I was sure to receive -- 39 lashes with a metal-studded whip, I suppose -- and slunk back into the room. Miss Hunt, it seemed to me even then, was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and I suspect she never figured it out. Gee... I sure hope she's not reading this!

All these years later, I'm hoping to become an adult any day now; I confess I succumb more often than not to the temptation to slip a joke into an e-mail memo at work. And I still get sent to the principal's office from time to time. One day we were inundated with "leaving early" memos, so finally I sent one that said, "I've thought it over and I've decided to stay till 5:00." One of my closest colleagues got in my face about that one, and it was only later that I found out he was headed to a doctor's appointment because he was facing a serious health issue.

As my son would say, "Is that funny? No." It's not a rhetorical question for him; he's just really working to master the twisted internal logic of the Knock-Knock Joke. So he tries to make one up, then he looks at me quizzically: "Is that funny? No."

My daughter has no such torments of self-doubt. She will initiate a knock-knock joke, then end it with a string of words that would be several sentences, if they were sentences. Or (sometimes) even words. But she always laughs uproariously, as if being tickled by the feathers of a thousand geese.

When they get a little older, perhaps I can make them understand that there's no need to "make up jokes" -- there's plenty of comedy lying in the road.

Or driving on the road: every time I see the IBS Septic Service truck go by, I wonder if the guy who named it knows what else IBS stands for.

Or beside the road: when the local florist puts up a sign that says "Everyday Sympathy Weddings", I imagine she really meant to make that one descriptive phrase, rather than a bulleted list of 3 distinct occasions.

Or beside another road: I recently saw a highway historical marker put up by the state Highway Superintendents. It was commemorating the first meeting of the State Highway Superintendents. Glad they didn't have to convene a blue-ribbon panel, or even do much research, to come up with that one.

And finally (oh, who are we kidding? More like, "enough for now"), I'm not even sure if this is funny in the Three Stooges pie-in-the-face sense, but the irony is so abundant that I just had to share:

Away back in the early sixties -- in that benighted era we now know as "before I was born" -- there was a famous incident in which Jack Paar, then-host of the Tonight Show, walked off the program and basically went on strike. The previous evening, the NBC censor had removed a joke he told as being too offensive for even sophisticated late-night viewers, and Jack took it personally.

I recently heard that same joke told on the air... by a radio preacher who was using it as a sermon illustration. The joke itself, that is, not the controversy. I can't remember what the point of the joke was to be; all I could think about was the irony. And I'm not sure what, if anything, all of this proves... except, maybe, once and for all, that God has a sense of humor.

You Must Remember This

With as much talk as you hear about etiquette, you'd think we'd be a lot better-behaved society. Not only has Peggy Post taken over from mom Emily as the Manners Maven -- and what is it about passing down these crowns, anyway? What qualifies "Dear Abby's" daughter to be an advice columnist? Does Martha Stewart have kids? Rachel Ray better get at it!

Sorry. Tune in in about 30 years when my (3)7-year old takes over for me. Anyway, in addition to Peggy Post getting quoted in every news story about impolite behavior, we have a column in our paper called "Ex-Etiquette", written by two women -- one of whom is married to the other's ex-husband. I guess instead of "in-laws", they're "ex-laws". Or maybe "out-laws".

Update: Martha Stewart has a daughter, described as a "radio personality" -- for Martha Stewart Living Radio on Sirius. Be afraid... be very afraid.

With two youngsters around, we are of course pretty obsessed with manners ourselves. It's a little unfortunate, actually, since my 4-year-old has decided it's amusing and much less taxing to pronounce her L's as W's. I say "decided"; she's perfectwy... I mean perfectly ... capable of enunciation. Goodness knows she gets all kinds of practice. In any case, I spend a lot of time reminding her to say please, and then reminding her again that "please" has an "L" in it.

It's all part of teaching your kids to make you look good. No, what I meant to say is "teaching your kids to grow up to be people you'd want in your home if you weren't forced to let them live there." All right, what I'm trying to get at here is that if you want your kids to stand out from the crowd -- in the good way, not the "spiked purple hair & nose ring" way -- teach them some manners.

Clearly manners are like the weather. From the cashier who won't even look up to the guy who cuts you off in traffic to everybody and his brother talking on their cell phones through dinner, conversations with others, and funerals, etiquette is no doubt easier to spell than it is to observe in the wild.

As you might guess, like any truly good and heartfelt rant, this one is based in experience. A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of visiting the church where I was born (not literally, of course... but only because it was a Wednesday). As a preacher's kid, I spent a lot of time there in my first 3 years of life. Later, when I was in grad school and living nearby, it pleased me to the depths of my tradition-obsessed soul to attend there for 2 more years and be part of the same choir in which my parents had sung.

So I was equally tickled to be there again, and moreso because my wife had been invited to be guest preacher for the day. Over the course of the day I met, once more, some people who had been part of the church 20+ years ago during my last stint, and even some who were there my first time around. And when I spoke with them, what do you suppose is the first thing almost all of them said?

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Can we agree that the purpose of conversation is to foster goodwill and a sense of community between two people? Why, then, would you begin a conversation with the verbal equivalent of the duelist's glove slap?

Now this is by no means an isolated occurrence. Naturally, it's a staple of high school reunions; my 25th featured several instances of this gambit (ironically, most of the time by people who wouldn't have been caught dead speaking to me the first time around).

Last week my wife was also accosted in just such a manner at a funeral home by someone who followed up by saying, "I came to church on Christmas... I wore a purple dress." This was, as you can imagine, the very key that unlocked a virtual flood of memories. She always takes pains to memorize everyone who attends once, cross-referenced by occasion and color.

Look, rest assured that once you have jogged my memory a little, I will regale you with the many fascinating things I recall about you from That Special Time In Our Lives.... Till then, please remember that in my adult life, I've lived in 5 towns in 3 states, attended 7 churches, and had (gulp) 10 different jobs. So a little context, at least, wouldn't hurt -- have some pity on a guy.

Talk: Not So Cheap After All

It pains me deeply that I haven't posted in a couple of weeks... but I'm actually somewhat comforted to think that anyone who might read me regularly is probably just finishing the last mega-post anyway. The truth is, the hiatus was kind of unavoidable; the epic 3-part Orlando entry used up all my words and I had to wait for the new shipment to come in.

Unfortunately, I suspect someone screwed up the order -- it seems to be all words like "malfeasance" and "egregious", so it might have been intended for one of those political bloggers. At least it's clearly a blog-related batch: many of the words are misspelled and all the plural words seem to have sprouted apostrophes.

Anyway, even in my absence I have been thinking bloggy thoughts, and by a coincidence one of the major topics of discussion in the world as a whole was, in fact, words. How they can be used, who can use them, and what the consequences might be for using them.

Of course, I refer to the incident in which a certain radio Personality decided to use some, shall we say, "racially loaded" language, causing a prolonged bout of Analysis by all concerned, as well as a lot of people that really had nothing to do with it. I mentioned in my Orlando saga that I was at least blessed with 4 ESPNs in the hotel; what I didn't mention was that in thumbing through those channels, and the adjacent news channels, I was greeted by the face of the aforementioned Personality at seemingly every turn. Well, either him or a certain rotund (and orotund) fellow -- whom I also decline to name -- who I believe has been designated by the UN as Special Representative for Minorities and Oppressed Persons Everywhere. How else to explain why he turns up on my TV whenever Injustice is afoot?

OK, I'm being a bit arch just because I enjoy it, so let me be clear: what the Personality said was stupid and offensive and wrong (in perhaps more senses than one -- they look like any other basketball team to me), and he deserved to be punished. The furor, however, really stems from more than just the act itself.

First, this was an excellent opportunity for white America to leap up as one and proclaim, "We're not racists, oh no, not us." It's not like anyone is seriously going to try to defend the guy, so it's an absolute free shot for everyone who can claw their way in front of a microphone.

Second, since it was a sports-related story, it provided a chance for the sports networks to assert their journalistic chops, to prove they're not just the Toy Department of the television universe. So we saw wall-to-wall coverage (at least for the whole time I was in that hotel room).

Third, he was really living in the wrong time; this is an era where one of the most prized virtues is Political Correctness, so any comment that's stupid and cruel and offensive is always going to be raised to the level of a felony.

Interestingly, as a white middle class male -- not the "majority", exactly, but fairly privileged at least -- I have found that it's "my kind" that is the last acceptable target for ridicule. Last year Hefty advertised their One-Zip bags as being so simple, even a husband could use them. I actually sent them a protest e-mail; I said, I get the joke but I notice you don't advertise them as simple enough for Polacks or blondes. They did respond promptly, but basically said lighten up, it's a joke.

But of course, we've all gotten used to the Bumbling Dad/Husband from TV sitcoms and commercials. And I suppose it won't kill me... it would just be nice if we all stopped trying to look good at the expense of others. It would be egregious malfeasance not to.

No Kingdom, No Magic (Part III)

I’ve never, ever had to break one post into three pieces. I’m only grateful that this is not in Word so you can’t see how many words it actually is. And at this point, I’m only about 12 hours into a 2-day business trip, so I’m sure it looks like it’s going to end up like the Encyclopedia Britannica.

After a few hours of semi-fitful sleep, in the morning I meet a couple of my co-workers and we head off in a rental car to breakfast. We are a few blocks along before we realize that none of us really has a clue where we’re going, and we’re each mostly waiting for the other to take charge. We wander aimlessly enough that we have to call the hotel to ask them how to get back; by chance, we run into a 7-11 and decide to give up and stop for donuts etc.

Let’s recap how well we are meeting our objectives so far, shall we?

• Comfy hotel room: not so much
• Housekeeping picking up after me: don’t hold your breath
• Ample expense-account meals: I did have a second donut. Um, and later, an apple fritter, and a couple pieces of chocolate, and 3 of those cookies the size of hubcaps... but I digress. Fortunately, any food eaten in a conference room doesn't count -- more on that in a moment.
  

And although we didn’t mention “balmy Florida climate” as a primary objective, I’m compelled to point out that it rained almost all that day as well… or perhaps the skies were merely weeping in sympathy. Of course, it could be worse: the second day was lovely weather, but since it was experienced almost entirely through the conference room window, I didn’t get much benefit.

As for the meals, the meeting hosts had sandwiches brought in for lunch both days, which fell well short of deluxe but was at least catered by Panera and quite tasty. And the one dinner the team went out for was mind-blowingly delicious. Pursuant to my standard Road Policy, I ate until I was full and then continued for about 1000 calories more (causing me to wake up sick in the middle of the night…and I would do it all again in a heartbeat, assuming it continues beating).

The meetings themselves were pleasant and productive enough and not very interesting in this context. There’s probably something funny to be said about PowerPoint presentations and project plans, but I’m trying not to turn into a complete Dilbert here.

With regard to the trip home, perhaps the less said the better (although as a general principle it’s certainly too late for that). I will say this: US Airways is the Kmart of airlines. They’d like you to think they’re “thrifty” and “no-frills”, but mostly they’re shabby and dirty and just putting in time. Have you ever heard of that old illustration about monkeys and typewriters – if you have enough monkeys, eventually by random chance you get all the works of Shakespeare? That’s USAir’s business plan: take a bunch of planes and some people wearing uniforms, then find people with a wad of cash and the need to get somewhere; eventually, just by random chance, somebody’s gotta make it home, right? The generally haphazard air is accented by the cattle car ambiance – except I’m pretty sure cattle would take one look and say, “No thanks, we’ll walk.”

Every stewarde… oops, flight attendant… can do the whole spiel in her sleep, and often does. In this case, the “welcome to your destination” message included an apology for being late – and it didn’t sound like she had to reach back too far into her memory to recall the correct phrasing. It turns out that the departure/arrival times on the tickets and schedules are mere placeholders because they can’t fit “your guess is as good as ours” in the little boxes.

The upside is, since all the flights are equally screwed up, you seldom miss your connection.

I got home just about an hour later than originally planned, and since I do these trips perhaps twice a year, I’d say I have about a 50/50 chance of recovering from this one in time for the next one. With any luck Southwest will fit my schedule best and be cheapest... or maybe it'll be a location served by Amtrak.

No Kingdom, No Magic (Part II)

In Part I, we managed to travel 1500 miles or so in the space of about 700 words; I’ll warn you ahead of time that our mileage is going to vary from here on out (and not in the direction of economy).

When I left off, I was traversing the entirety of Central Florida in a taxi…

Finally, about 45 minutes out from the airport and with the meter showing $55.75, we pull up to the hotel. I get my luggage first, then hand the driver $61 – knowing this falls well short of a 15% tip, but also mindful that I have to keep something in my wallet for the rest of the trip. I say thanks and walk away quickly, thus forfeiting the opportunity to learn a few interesting words in some obscure dialect. I head into the hotel…

…Or at least “toward” the hotel. The front door is locked and although I can see the front desk there’s no one in sight. I have to pick up the intercom phone and get buzzed in. I go to the desk to check in, slide my credit card under the security barrier that’s drawn across the counter and get myself checked in (making certain to request the $4.99 “unlimited Internet access for the length of your stay”), then head wearily down the hall.

The growing unsettled feeling I’ve been experiencing suddenly snaps into place as the realization dawns: other places that could be described as Extended Stay are hospitals, nursing homes, and minimum-security prisons, which is in fact the vibe I’ve been trying to put my finger on.

Inside the door I discover that what makes this a “suite” is that the foyer has been replaced by a sink, refrigerator and 2 burners. Oh, and the cupboards contain a few pots & pans, dishes, and silverware obviously salvaged from the nearest yard sale. Other than that, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference from your basic Motel 6 or TraveLodge.

OK, I admit I’m disappointed at the absence of “deluxe”, but it’s late, I’m tired, and the TV works fine (not one but 4 ESPNs!), so I make a quick call to my wife and then head off to the shower.

The hotel industry for many years scammed us, or at least me, into feeling pampered to find toiletries and perhaps even a little package of coffee in our rooms. Some even had (gasp!) blow dryers, and you could call the front desk to get a toothbrush if Homeland Security stole yours during baggage screening. Then I, at least, stopped to consider that even if you’re paying as little as $60 a night (our frugal, corporate-bean-counter-appeasing rate on this trip) that’s the equivalent of $1800 a month for basically staying in a stranger’s guest room – and hoping he really washed his sheets since the last guest left. So when you get down to it, we probably shouldn’t be excessively grateful that they provide 49 cents’ worth of shampoo, even if it is laden with fruits and botanicals.

So I leave my glasses on the desk and head for the bathroom. At first I’m having difficulty locating the shampoo, so I assume it’s just my eyesight. Frankly I’m not a sure bet to locate the shower without my glasses unless there’s a pretty strong light… so I retrieve them and conduct a more thorough search of the premises.

Though I don’t find any shampoo, I do find a card that says toiletries may be obtained at the front desk – but my fully-corrected vision (well, almost) allows me to read the fine print which reads: “At selected locations”. I’m getting the feeling this is a location that isn’t selected for anything save perhaps the Witness Protection Program.

I note further on the card, incidentally, that since this is an Extended Stay Hotel, I will also have an Extended Wait for housekeeping; they don’t show up till day 7... unless you pay extra.

Well, it’s close to midnight and I have to be presentable for a meeting first thing in the morning, so there’s no alternative but to “shampoo” with a deodorant soap bar about the size of a credit card. At least I don’t have to worry about my scents clashing – and I suppose almonds and honey can stand in for fruits and botanicals.

Out of the shower and at least fresher than my post-air-travel/interminable-cab-ride self, I decide to pop on the Internet just for a sec. Note: this has everything in the world to do with the desire to catch up on important e-mails, and to maximize the value of my $4.99 expenditure, and is not related in any way to my fantasy baseball team. Or… my other fantasy baseball team.

I’m met with a login screen that requests a password and I realize that the desk clerk didn’t say anything about a password; there will be no Internet tonight. Nothing left to do but go to bed.

At home, I’m generally pretty good about getting to sleep – many nights it’s a race to hit the pillow while still conscious – however, I am susceptible to random background noise and stray beams of light. And since the word “hotel” is actually taken from the Old French meaning “random background noise and stray beams of light”, I lie awake and restless (I believe this is where I’m supposed to use the word “enervated”) for some while. Finally I give up and shove in my earplugs, which I’ve left out in an effort to ensure hearing the alarm, and drift into fitful slumber. But not before realizing the gibberish the desk clerk scribbled on the keycard sleeve must be the Internet access password; I briefly consider getting up but I’m exhausted and I don’t want to be The Guy Who Gets Out of Bed in the Middle of the Night to Surf the Web, so I finally surrender to my weariness.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a reader had roughly the same reaction (enervated, anyone?), so let’s all take a break here and marshal our strength for the big finish… next time, I promise.

No Kingdom, No Magic (Part I)

As a part-time employee working from home and a full-time dad, one of the big events in the year’s calendar is when Dad Goes on a Business Trip. Schedules are juggled – in particular, I have to be very careful how the week’s menu is set up, on behalf of one who is not an enthusiastic practitioner of the culinary arts – and there is a general buzz of anticipation.

OK, that’s mostly me (although my wife’s principal reaction was that she’d be able to keep the house clean, with a barely-unspoken “for a change”); as recounted previously, I just don’t get out of the house among adults too often. In this case the anticipation redoubles when the destination is revealed to be Orlando.

Orlando, while not quite Vegas, certainly evokes a certain mental picture: sunshine, warm weather, a giant frolicking rodent. Everyone I meet is jealous of my great fortune, especially with the last vestiges of snow on the ground and daily “high” temps in the low 40s. I protest in vain that I’m unlikely to have much recreation time on a two-day business trip, much less an opportunity to visit theme parks.

I am forced, however, to acknowledge that I am looking forward to a comfy hotel room, housekeeping picking up after me, and ample expense account meals. And it’s an Extended Stay Hotel, which means a suite! Living large, no doubt.

Of course, a trip to Orlando plus school-vacation week equals a plane full of families of all descriptions. Yet the flight down, a Southwest non-stop, is completely uneventful. Board on time, leave on time, arrive on time; everyone from 1 to 100 is placid and well-behaved. Even though it’s much more fun to be scornful and dismissive, I have to admit that Southwest rocks.

While I’m no road warrior, I’ve traveled now and then for the past 25 years, and it seems to me that all airports are more or less indistinguishable. The exception is probably Orlando: the airport is basically standard-issue, but you can always identify Orlando by the herds of families wandering around with dazed looks on their faces – either on their way, trying to reach the hotel “not far from the Magic Kingdom” before the kids explode; or headed home, fishing grimly in their Mickey-logo fanny packs for the last remaining 20 bucks needed to obtain the somewhat-edibles they’re not going to get on the plane. A novice traveler would do well to remember that, while the Food Network has programs on nearly every conceivable topic, there are no shows celebrating the joys of America’s Airport Food.

I get my luggage quickly and head for Ground Transportation. I’ve decided not to rent a car, since I have other teammates flying in who will be, but my hotel reservation says “Orlando”, so surely I can take a cab quicker and cheaper anyway. I neglected to visit Yahoo Maps ahead of time, but what’s the worst that could happen? Ten or fifteen minutes? $10-15 plus tip?

As I said, I’m no road warrior. The fare is close to 2 bucks before I even get out of the airport – not counting the mandatory 50-cent “airport surcharge”. As we travel, I’m mentally keeping a running tab of a 15% tip so I’ll be ready when we get there in a couple minutes. It gets harder to keep up as we pass from street to highway to toll road to interstate and the meter continues to click (well, digitally) like the gas pump when I fill up the minivan.

I do, of course, want to appear a road warrior and not Cletus just off the hay wagon – since I basically am just off the hay wagon, I’m always wary of being fleeced by cabbies – so I keep silent as if this is just what I expected. Finally, more than a half-hour and 40-some-odd dollars into the trip, I can’t help but ask: “Are we getting anywhere close?” The driver, whom you’ll be absolutely stunned to learn is a foreign gentleman, tells me it’s 3 more exits.

A reader would be forgiven for asking the same question… let’s just say I have a restraining order against me prohibiting me from using the phrase “to make a long story short”. And since I don’t want a single post to be longer than the cab ride, I’m going to resume next time.

April 1-7, 33

Seems like archeology is continually bringing us updates from the past. Witness the furor over the supposed burial place of Jesus and the wife & kids. And after all, what are the odds that a man named Jesus and a woman named Mary would be buried in the same tomb? Um... pretty good, actually.

OK, never mind that one. However, in the spirit of the Dead Sea Scrolls comes the news of the very recent discovery of Jesus' Day-Timer. It was so recent that scholars have not had an opportunity to translate it; but by an amazing coincidence, I actually majored in Aramaic in college. In fact, I was the treasurer of the Aramaic Club -- what a wacky bunch we were!

I wondered what the entries would look like for this same week back then. Here's my best translation:

Sunday, April 1: Parade -- Grand Marshal (note: the card below was attached)

Monday, April 2: Help apostles study for final exam

Tuesday, April 3: Temple -- help clean up; Exercise (upper-body workout)

Wednesday, April 4: Appear on "Pharisee Jeopardy!" Remember to answer in the form of a question.

Thursday, April 5: Dinner with the guys -- I bring the bread & wine

Friday, April 6: Full workout. *Out late -- stay over at Joseph of A's?*

Saturday, April 7: Don't forget to leave early wakeup call for tomorrow.

Wanted: Tiny Pretend Donuts

I didn't really need convincing, but I recently got yet another illustration of the importance of spouses having different strengths. I will forever be happy to handle "Electronic Devices" and "Food Shopping & Preparation", as long as my wife is designated for "Dioramas".

All the way into April, I'm still having trouble adjusting to how much homework we have now that we're in first grade. I beg your pardon; as it turns out, only one of us is in first grade... yet somehow the homework turns out to be a family affair.

We have muddled our way through the various math worksheets and spelling lists and flashcards and phonics readers -- it's been no bed of roses, of course, but anything in the service of education. Plus we have to initial the homework sheet every night and I'm afraid if I fib it'll go on my Permanent Record.

Just when we could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, came the dreaded Diorama Project. The first graders were assigned to make a model of our community, and we got to be Dunkin' Donuts.

Not to worry -- the seven-year-old springs into action. He finds a shoebox, assembles crayons and scissors and tape and construction paper, and before we know it he's busily sketching, cutting, and assembling.

No, of course he doesn't! Who in their right mind expects a seven-year-old to even make a tangible contribution to a project like that? Let’s not be coy, folks; we all know that even for the older kids, the parents are doing the lion’s share of the work here. And in the case of a first-grader, probably the best you can hope for is that the kid stays at the dining room table long enough to watch his parents (OK, his mom) build the silly thing. As far as I can tell, the only educational objective being served here is that the kid learns that the parents can be made to do almost anything when a teacher writes it on an assignment sheet.

The saving grace for me is that we all agree that my arts & crafts abilities are confined to coloring inside the lines. Even then I’m better off from an esthetic standpoint if someone else selects the colors for me. So my wife naturally took the lead without my even having to whine. I mean, suggest it. She took a big batch of digital photos, found all the materials, sat him down to do what little cutting and coloring he could contribute, and put it together. Well, almost.

You would no doubt be stunned to hear that, before we knew it, it was the night before D-Day and we had a shoebox resplendent in orange and pink, but not “branded”. So I (as the “Electronic Devices” supervisor; see above) got to spend the evening surfing for logos and resizing them and printing them – and, as it turns out, creating a few of my own signs from scratch.

I felt kind of vaguely icky about how much work we parents did until I saw the rest of the projects. As it turns out, there’s a high percentage of photographers, artists, architects and graphic designers in first grade these days. What are the odds?

Notable Notes

I have noted (and whined, and made excuses) many times in this space about the stress of squeezing 10 pounds of tasks into a 5-pound sack of time, but last week I decided to raise the degree of difficulty. My wife was out of town at a 2-day meeting, I was supposed to be at choir rehearsal, and one of my favorite bands was appearing live less than an hour away. And so the usual dilemma, with some extra monkey wrenches: Fulfill my family obligations by staying with the kids? Honor my church commitment by attending choir rehearsal?

Nah.

I booked a sitter, boiled up some hot dogs for the kids, and took off to the MercyMe/Audio Adrenaline/Aaron Shust show in Albany. MercyMe is one of the leading bands in Christian music these days (at least in the more "mainstream", "radio-friendly" category) and one of the select few to receive my coveted "buy every CD when it comes out" status.

The show had its ups and downs -- more about that in a moment -- but all the way around was well-worth the time, expense, effort & overall disruption. Although I didn't actually quiz the kids about that last item. Eh, let them get their own blog.

I've been attending concerts for something like 28 years now, and whether Christian or.... what? pagan? I guess "secular" is the word I'm looking for -- there are always commonalities.

For example: I've still never quite come to terms with the custom of the encore. It always feels like the band is trying to squeeze an extra ovation out of me (and there's nothing that resonates more with me than compulsory enthusiasm): if you don't clap loud enough, we're not coming back out.... I understand the need for "dramatic tension" -- although it seems kind of self-dramatizing, especially for a Christian band -- but it really feels like it's become almost entirely a cliche.

One unique element: I was struck by the irony of attending the farewell tour of a band that's breaking up because the lead singer can't sing any more. Over the course of 16 years recording and touring (and largely screaming), Mark Stuart of Audio Adrenaline has systematically shredded his vocal cords. It was painful to hear him try to sing; as someone who only sings when I'm awake (I think), I can't imagine not being able to do it any more. And this guy had a serious pipe back in the day. Now he's croaking, or letting the other guys sing lead, or pointing the mike to the audience for them to do the singing.

And what is up with the audience singing?? Why would you pay $25 to go to a show and spend the whole night trying to drown out the lead singer? Why, there were so many inconsiderate people singing around me that I could hardly hear myself sing.

One more commonality, at least for a Christian concert: the Compassion International commercial (I won't say anything snarky about them; we've been supporters for a long time and they do great work) and a sprinkling of sermonizing from the guys on stage. Actually, I was pleased with the way these guys approached it; I've been at other shows where I wanted to leap up on the stage, grab a guitar and say, "Here -- remember this?"

Bart Millard, the lead singer of MercyMe, did leave us with a couple of cool thoughts:

• the reason some people in churches are so hard to be around is that they've seen others find a relationship with God and have their lives changed. Meanwhile, they've "hung around" God but haven't really experienced him -- who wouldn't be bitter?
• we need to soak in, absorb, live in the knowledge that the Big, Big God of the universe... all-powerful and knowing you better than you know yourself... is "madly in love with" you, and me, and each one of us.

I don't need to pay 25 bucks to know that... but it's good to be reminded just the same.

Those Who Do Not Organize the Past are Condemned to Repeat It

I read a newspaper article this weekend on the subject of mixed marriages. Of course, they emphasized the racial aspect of it, which only serves to highlight the drama... after all, isn't every marriage a mixed marriage?

I'm a great believer in the power of cliches; they are usually dismissed as trite, but really a cliche is just an observation so powerfully true that it comes to seem obvious. For example, "Opposites attract." It's undeniably true, and I would argue it's better news than it probably seems. I can tell you from this chair that I certainly wouldn't want to live with me. I think the "opposites" part is God's way of helping us fill the gaps -- and clearly if a Renaissance man such as myself is in need of gap-filling, it has to be universal enough to merit a cliche.

One notable mixture in this home refers to cleaning and organization. While I resist any facile characterization as a slob, it's also true that if cleanliness is next to Godliness, I'm probably more of a Christmas-and-Easter kind of believer. My spouse, on the other hand, considerately dropped in my lap an example of her mindset mere hours before I began to write this.

She noted that the wind was blowing pretty hard and that we might lose power (I'm not sure quite why it's so, but we sometimes lose power if a cloud passes overhead, so I understood her point). She said we needed to get prepared. Did she want to:

• a) make sure we had candles and flashlights
• b) stock up on food & fresh water, or
• c) make a reservation at a motel ?

No, I'm sorry, the correct answer is: "Clean the house so it will be easier when we get back."

On top of that, you know she believes in Tackling Things Head-On -- I would contend that tackling head-on has been proven to lead to head injuries and brain damage. I much prefer the time-honored "just don't bring it up at all and maybe she'll forget it has to be done" approach.

With the following consequence: for most of the past week our dining room table has been completely engulfed in loose photos and the albums designated to organize them. This isn't a new phenomenon; it happens every several months or so. Sometimes it's the den that's immobilized. I'm proud to report the following results to date:

1. as many as a dozen photos successfully placed in albums
2. several sporadic bouts of Putting Photos Into Piles, the significance of which no one can quite remember scarcely moments later
3. several meals eaten on a blanket spread out on the floor in the den ("Hey kids, good news! We're having another 'picnic!'")

There are all sorts of complicating factors, of course. I like to take photos of places -- sometimes because they're aesthetically pleasing, sometimes because they're personally significant -- but here's a hint: don't wait to label them for 10 or more years. You're just asking for trouble there. And while I'm an involved parent, if you're serious about 'sequencing' photos, it can be deadly difficult to distinguish between 3 and 4 years old. Or 2 1/2 and 3. And I'll admit it -- even to the dad babies often look alike....

Working together ought to be faster, but we get sidetracked both by the "look at this one -- remember?" factor and the inevitable discussion of priorities. She: "Where is this, exactly?" He: "Hmmm... it looks familiar...." She: "Well, if we don't know where it is, I'm throwing it away." He: " " (sorry, can't talk right now -- too choked up over the idea of throwing away a Piece of My Past. At least I figure it must be my past).

I have come up with the best possible solution: we bought a digital camera. Now instead of piles of photos, we have folders of photos on our hard drive (Of course, we've really shifted from "When are we going to organize photos?" to "When are we going to print photos?"). But if I can keep ducking it... it'll be our children, and maybe their children, who will have to sort out img_0147.jpg from all its numerically-anonymous digital brethren.

Almost But Not Quite

So I think it's safe to say it hasn't sprung yet -- or if it has, it's still buried under the foot-plus of snow that remains out there -- but spring is at least giving us the Coming Attractions trailer.

Speaking of which, this weekend, through the miracle of Digital Video Disc technology, I watched the trailer for a movie after I watched the actual movie. I was surprised to find (being normally such a trusting soul) that about a third of the scenes in the trailer didn't even make it into the movie; several of the rest were re-arranged to give a slightly skewed version of the story. So the next time you're in your local Multiplex and they tempt you with the charms of the Coming, caveat emptor.

Where was I? Oh, spring... anyway, I think we have a few more hurdles to clear before we get there. These include both a forecast of high temps in the 20s later this week, and St. Patrick's Day. This was rammed home for me with spectacular force on my weekly visit to the grocery store (I should say "our" weekly visit, accompanied as always by my faithful four-year-old companion).

I usually enjoy the music wafting over the PA, but it was a "wee bit" of a trial today as the Irish fiddles were skirling away at full volume. Now, remember, I love music -- in fact, I wrote one of last summer's posts at the intermission of a concert by an Irish band -- but I guess I have a skirling threshhold. By the time we got to the dairy aisle I was bleeding from the ears both internally, from the volume; and externally, from trying to claw them off. I was almost wishing for country music.

Of course, I'm usually a big enthusiast about holidays that have devolved into an excuse to drink till you hurl (yeah, I'm looking at you too, New Year's Eve).

As eager as I am for spring to get here already (or for this post to get to the point, whichever comes first), it's just as much true that I won't be too sorry to see winter go. You might know I always have an idealized goal of how "family life" is going to go; in this case I always envision us frolicking merrily through Outdoor Winter Activities. That butts up against reality, like no snow followed by blizzards followed by zero-degree weather... as well as at least one family member who from November to March is usually restricted to the "winter activities" that can be conducted from the corner of the couch under the electric throw. Not to worry, it has a 4-foot cord.

Still, we've had a couple big outings so far: one trip to the sledding hill, and one ice skating trip. I took one trip down the hill myself (and crashed), which was almost exactly as successful as the skating. A few things I learned about skating:

• Most of your Olympic skaters probably don't go quite as long between trips to the ice. I realized with a start that I hadn't had skates on since a year with a "19" in it... pretty sure those were the first two digits.
• An outdoor ice rink is a quaint and homey notion, but after a certain point in the season is not to be relied upon. Ah, the sensation of gliding along -- and coming to an abrupt halt as your blade slices through a thin veneer of ice the approximate consistency of a slice of toast. Without butter.
• Sometimes it's better to just go ahead and fall. It's actually quite possible to hurt yourself more contorting to avoid falling than it is just to hit the ice... particularly when the ice is the approximate consistency of a slice of toast.
• There is such a thing as biofeedback. After a few minutes (OK, less than one minute) on skates, several parts of my Bio were giving me all kinds of Feedback: particularly my ankles, which were retorting, "you're kidding, right?" and my hip flexors, which were making a sound reminiscent of when I tune my 12-string guitar.

Surely spring has to be better, right? Let's see: take the kids for lots of walks; teach them how to play baseball; wean the 7-year-old off his dependence on the training wheels......

Tune in again in 6 months to read about how I managed to blow the warm weather as well.

Working Through the List

The plan, of course, is always to post just about every seven days or so... after all, there are a few people who read this from time to time and I'd hate for them to think I'd given up and gone on the road as a professional Sudokuist (Sudokuer?). Rest assured, I haven't abandoned the goal of posting as often as possible. In fact, if you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts would tell. Of course, if you could read my mind, I wouldn't have a reason to post at all.

No, I fully expect I would have posted this weekend if not for another episode of "Cancel School Just in Case", brought to you by our friends at the local school district. And yes, the forecast was relatively scary, but I would really advocate the use of that old-school weather forecasting technique called "looking out the window".

I don't like to be The Guy Who Grumbles About the Way Things Were In the Old Days (OK, I do -- "curmudgeon" can be pretty funny -- but at least I try not to overdo it), but quite clearly things were different when I was a student. The schools always gave the impression they were looking for excuses not to cancel. Now I wonder if the frequency of lawsuits doesn't have the administrators figuring it's better to eliminate any chance of an incident.

It wasn't just the kids' unscheduled presence that put a ripple in the schedule; I was also trying to put together the powerpoints we use in worship. That took forever, due in large part to the fact that the church laptop I use has about the same speed and memory as an Etch-a-Sketch. For that I can blame the person who arranged its purchase -- which is extremely convenient because he's right here in this chair.

Fortunately all that effort was vindicated by the production of an outstanding, error-free presentation... no, wait, not that either. The less said about that, the better; but all in all, pretty close to what Mom used to call an Alexander day.

Meanwhile, the daily chores go on. I know laundry has to be easier than it was in the "pounding on a rock" era, or even the "manual-wringer" era -- they called Mondays "Laundry Day" for a reason -- but on the other hand, in frontier days people had, what, one change of clothes? Not counting Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' clothes. Granted I wouldn't want to be downwind, but the laundry volume had to be a lot smaller. It's not unusual for my daughter to go through multiple changes in one day all by herself ... although some of it is fairly necessary, since she is hard on clothes. Apparently it's prohibited by law to just laminate her.

That's another thing. In those days the four-year-old was caring for the chickens and the seven-year-old was out plowing the back forty, out from under foot like God intended. I have to be like Peyton Manning, with a clock constantly running in my head: the difference is, he's calcluating how long he has to throw before the rush gets him; I'm calculating how much laundry I can get done before WW III breaks out downstairs.

At such times I go to the Priority Folding Protocol, where stuff like socks & underwear is triaged into the "fold later (maybe even tomorrow (OK, next day at the latest))" pile. As a result I found myself faced with a significant clean-sock pile. With my gift for hyperbole in the pursuit of a laugh -- did you know I use hyperbole more than anyone else in the history of written communication? -- I said (yes, said aloud; I'm That Guy too), "I'll bet there are 50 pairs of socks here!"

Of course, I was just complaining to myself, and besides I can never guess the number of M&Ms in the jar, so I wasn't surprised when the count came up short of 50... in fact, there were only 43 pairs (plus 3 odd socks).

And by the way, don't even let me get started on the whole question of why they make "hand wash only" clothes in size 4T.

The Play's the Thing

The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) project uses the computers of people around the world. Whenever a participating computer is otherwise idle, it is scanning the ambient noise from space looking for patterns that might indicate an intentional effort to communicate.

In the same way, any corner of my brain that’s not otherwise engaged is always looking for blog ideas. There was an item in last week’s Sporting News that noted that both the college football national championship game and the Super Bowl featured an opening kickoff run back for a touchdown – by the eventual losing team. It occurred to me that it could be a good jumping-off place for a blog… if I wrote the kind of blog that supplies sports insights. I know from experience that many of the people who enjoy reading this (all 4 of you) don’t care that much about sports or even understand why I might care so much.

*Light bulb*.... One of the things I do attempt with this blog is to explain why something is important or interesting or funny, to try to get people to look at some topic differently. And it ought to be a better place to start than a couple of my occasional motivators:

• I thought of a joke and now I need to think of a couple hundred words to set up the punch line.
• It’s Friday and I haven’t posted anything in almost (or over) a week.
  

Usually, of course, it's such a brilliant, potentially life-changing insight that if I didn't share it immediately it would be tantamount to malpractice....

Think about the elements of great drama: conflict, resolution, some unexpected twists along the way. It also helps if the setting is recognizable enough that you don’t have to focus on that along the way, so you can reach a comfort level that promotes letting yourself be absorbed.

Of course, you’ve also just described every sporting contest: two teams , or a group of individuals, competing in a familiar event for a victorious result that can’t be predicted (just ask the 1980 Olympic hockey team). In fact, for many years the Olympics were a sporting event that happened somewhere in the world every four years; if you were lucky you’d read the story in the sports page the next day or catch a few highlights. Then ABC tapped into the intersection between games and drama – the Thrill of Victory, the Agony of Defeat; the stories behind the athletes – and now the Games are a televised phenomenon.

Any sport is, for those of us who love it, a familiar milieu that approaches ritual. But at the same time, since most of the time we’re watching it as it happens, the unexpected is almost commonplace. I have watched a staggering number of baseball games in my life – it would be an embarrassing number, in fact, except I’m not embarrassed at all because I’ve loved every minute of it. Still, when the Dodgers got two runners thrown out at the plate on the same play (in the playoffs last fall against the Mets), I saw something I’d never seen on the field before. I have to admit I wouldn’t have been quite so enchanted if the teams were reversed.

Much in the same way that I like to eat, but I don’t like all foods equally, I love “sports” but it’s baseball that gets its own dedicated portion of my brain. I don’t think I can explain that part very well; I have plenty of friends who are NASCAR fanatics but couldn’t care less about baseball, or who can’t wait for football season but are bored by basketball. In fact, it’s not that rare to talk to someone who loves college football (or basketball, for that matter) but doesn’t watch pro football (or basketball). Just a matter of how your taste buds line up, I suppose – and what you were fed when you were a kid.

In the current sports universe, free agency makes it possible for players to move between teams frequently. And so people like me are often asked, “Why root for the Mets? The guys keep changing – you’re really just rooting for a shirt.” I like to think there’s more to it than a laundry fetish. Regardless of the guys inside the uniforms, there is a tradition and continuity that preserves a connection.

My sister-in-law is a big fan of ER. When she was living in a town where she couldn’t get cable or even broadcast TV (and why even typing those words makes me break out in a cold sweat is something to explore another time) we taped ER for her every week. Well, OK, not quite every week; each Thursday at 9:58 my wife would ask if I was ready to tape it, and I’d scrabble around looking for a blank tape… occasionally I struck out. But she just wanted ER, no interest in any other show.

If you had watched ER in about 1994, and then not seen it again until last week, you might well wonder if it was the same show. None of the faces are the same – but they’re still doing the same stuff in the same place. I’m sure many people still miss George Clooney, or think Law & Order was best with Briscoe and Logan, but they’re still fans of the shows.

Well, I suppose the Mets' Briscoe & Logan are Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, and maybe the part of George Clooney is played by Mike Piazza... but really, how different is it? I haven't noticed any great drop-off in popularity of Shakespeare's plays since Lord Olivier made his last exit. In fact, the change helps make it fun; every new player and team provides a Compare & Contrast with the memories of the past.

I actually still enjoy ER, even in its post-peak years, and I'm an avid watcher of shows like Grey's Anatomy and Lost. But for pulse-pounding drama, sports (particularly baseball, of course) has given me unparalleled thrills. I will never, ever forget Game 6 of the 1986 Championship Series (won by the Mets in 16 innings); or, it goes without saying, Game 6 of that year's World Series -- the most exciting single event in the history of history; or even a regular season game like this one... which made me scream so loud I think my parents thought I'd fallen out my bedroom window. You want to talk reality TV? I got your unscripted drama right here.

And so ol' Bill Shakespeare said it best, as always (he must've been a sportswriter before his time) -- the play's the thing.

Season To Taste?

It was the noted philosopher and all-around role model Mae West who said, "Too much of a good thing is wonderful." Or at least she was quoted as saying that; when I was teaching, I always told my classes that everything in math is named after the guy who stole it from the guy who discovered it. I think quote attribution is similar -- and since she played a character in movies that was similar to what we know of her offscreen persona, there's an extra layer of complexity.

In any case, the wisdom of the quote was certainly tested this week. I think most of us who live in the Northeast have a fondness, or at least a tolerance, for the variety of the seasons. Even winter can be pleasing in its own way -- Currier & Ives got pretty famous with rustic winter scenes -- but I think a lot of us would have been fine with a couple of inches at Christmas, and another inch or two every so often just to keep it pretty. Instead, we basically got 2 months of brown and then the whole winter's worth of snow in one day.

I guess it shouldn't be too surprising, really; remember summer? Kind of nondescript and gray... until the temperature suddenly goes up to like 8 thousand degrees. If the pattern holds, spring will probably be completely blah, and then on May 1 the flowers will come out and the trees will turn green all at the same time.

Actually, it's autumn I'm a bit concerned about; if the kids are standing under a decent-sized tree when all the leaves fall at once, somebody's going to get hurt.

In keeping with the general "overkill" theme, we had not one but two snow days, occasioned by the always-fateful Snow Day Declared the Night Before. Seemingly inevitably, Day 2 dawned bright, clear and calm, and with completely cleared roads. So the family was treated to an extra day of Cabin Fever, and just generally 2 kids bouncing off each other like bumper cars.

To add insult to injury... the superintendent of the school where I went to high school was quoted in the paper about the necessity to cancel in that district because of the difficulty of transporting students in that town -- when we were notorious for never cancelling school, no matter what.

Say it with me: Fortunately, I'm not bitter.

And really, the pain of The Blizzard of '07, or whatever you would call it, was magnified by the contrast to the previous day. I had just heard the most joyful words of every winter -- no, not "Merry Christmas" or even "Super Bowl Sunday". The words I wait all winter to hear are, "Pitchers and catchers report." And so, in the depths of winter, a tiny green shoot of hope pokes through.....

Check Your Local Listings

I have to admit that I'm a big fan of reality shows. That probably sounds like it ought to qualify me for the Washington's Birthday Sale on lobotomies, but in truth I'm a little more discriminating than that.

I prefer the shows that feature people who can actually do something, competing with their talents, to those that are about trying to balance on a log or live in a house with a bunch of strangers. My personal jury is still out on the newest one, Top Design, but I have been an avid viewer of Project Runway, the just-concluded Top Chef, and (to a lesser degree) America's Next Top Model. Ironically, I've never been a huge American Idol fan, which probably has its origin in the same contrarian streak in me that had the school-aged Mark wearing doubleknits while all those around me wore jeans.

Combining my interest in reality shows with my son's well-documented fondness for Food Network makes me the ideal audience for The Next Food Network Star, which combines Top Chef with challenges that assess the chef's TV-hosting skills. Part of the swag associated with winning that contest is hosting an actual program on the Food Network. And while I'm pretty sure I don't have the skills to succeed on either side of the competition, I still enjoyed envisioning what my program might look like....

The more I imagined the outcome, however, the more I realized: digital cable may have brought about an explosion of cable networks but I'd be hard-pressed to think of one that would be right for my version of "Cooking With Dad".

Actually, maybe the Sci-Fi Network would enjoy the part where we're cooking along peacefully and suddenly the calm is rent by the bloodcurdling shriek of my daughter pounding up the stairs from the playroom screaming bloody murder (hotly pursued by my son wailing that he didn't do it). Believe me, it's the kind of thing that blows out the sound engineer's eardrums.

There might be a few other features of the program that would be a tough sell. I might not make very good eye contact with the camera, considering I'm almost always either reading or doing a puzzle (whether crossword or Sudoku) while I'm cooking. And we'd have to take frequent commercial breaks so I can answer the phone and take messages for The Pastor.

Because of all three of the above issues, I tend to find it a challenge to get the whole thing done in a 30-minute timeslot; on TV, we could edit out the dead spots. I can tell you that my family would really enjoy having the meals come out right on time every night!

I should probably also mention that I might have a hard time sustaining an ongoing series with my somewhat... ah, "limited" culinary range (does frozen ravioli count as a recipe?) -- not to mention that my frequent reliance on cheese, cream, butter, etc. would probably leave most of my viewers dead or recuperating from bypass surgery before the season was over. But hey, it works for Paula Deen.

Living the Dream

This past week or so has brought a tiny ripple of excitement to my life: a number of people have commented on my Sudoku blog entry (and since it doesn't go without saying, commented positively). Naturally, I always have a number of people respond to what I write, but this is one of the rare occasions that the number was greater than zero.

The danger in receiving affirmation, of course, is that I might revert to the state I described in one of my earliest postings -- if I do something someone likes, I have to figure out exactly what made it enjoyable, and then try to duplicate that exactly. But of course, that way lies madness.

It did make me reflect on the event itself, as well as the other times I've engaged in a public contest of some sort. I have already alluded to my spelling bee debacle... well, perhaps debacle isn't the right word. How about "soul-scarring experience"? And while I was writing about my shipboard obsession with karaoke, I failed to mention that I was equally hooked on the trivia contests held frequently (especially after I won the first one I tried, which as you know is exactly like when crack dealers give out free samples).

As much fun as that was -- although it would have been better if the prize had been an upgrade to an outside stateroom, rather than a plastic trophy-- the contest I look back on most fondly was Broadcaster for a Day.

At the time we were living near Albany and the Yankees' AA minor league affiliate was located in the area as well. When they announced a Broadcaster for a Day contest, I nearly jumped out of my skin. If it would have helped, I probably would have slept on the sidewalk like one of those knuckleheads looking for a PS3.

As with almost any other mental illness, to understand my reaction you really need to understand my childhood. I fell in love with baseball at a really early age, but as a realist from nearly as early an age, I understood I was probably not going to get to live out that dream. If not, I probably got a subconscious hint from my own fantasies: like many kids I wanted to pretend to be a ballplayer, particularly a Met. But whom to identify with? A couple of the best players were black, and while I'm certainly no racist I am extremely literal-minded. This also let out all the left-handed guys and the pitchers. Bud Harrelson was close -- small & skinny and not a great hitter -- but a switch-hitter, and besides I knew they'd never let me play shortstop. So I ended up with ... Don Hahn. I have to tell you, if you can't dream any bigger than Don Hahn, you probably shouldn't bother dreaming at all.

However, I was primarily learning to love baseball through the voices of Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner, the Mets' radio/TV broadcast team. And although I eventually tumbled to the fact that baseball broadcast jobs are even scarcer than baseball playing jobs, it's always been my answer to the question, "If you could have any job in the world...?" . Of course, the flames were probably fanned by the fact that almost any native English-speaker (and a few members of the animal kingdom) would be more coherent than Ralph Kiner.
So naturally at the appointed hour I showed up at the local mall to do my thing. The test would be to sit in front of a TV playing a game tape and pretend to do play-by-play. I was a bit embarrassed to note that among the competitors was a handful of boys, probably 9 or 10 years old; I wasn't sure how I felt trying to beat kids. I felt a little better when one of the kids went up and his performance consisted of, "It's a ground ball. (long pause) And he's out." Clearly I would be saving him from embarrassing himself -- although it's true that Phil Rizzuto did pretty well for himself with a smiliar level of detail.

All I remember about my turn is that the tape was of a Yankees game (of course). It was the 9th inning and Tim Leary was pitching. Actually, he wasn't; he was mostly pacing around the mound sighing -- which was depriving me of "action" to describe while my precious minutes ticked away. I did know that his career at that point was kind of on the skids, so I said, "He's probably afraid to throw the ball -- lately they've been coming back at him faster than they went in."

In any case, it was enough to win the day, and on July 16, 1991, I stepped into the pressbox at Heritage Park (a big step up, literally as well as figuratively, from the summers I worked the concession stand there). When I got there, it turned out that "Broadcaster for a Day" really meant "Broadcaster for an Inning" ... but I whined and fussed and convinced the regular play-by-play guy that they really promised me the whole game.

For nine lovely innings I got to live the dream... and along the way, I began to think to myself, "Hey, maybe if I really impress this guy, he'll invite me back." Of course, the thing about most broadcasters is that they love the sound of their own voice, so he was always going to be a one-man booth if he had any say in it... yeah, that's it. That must be why. If he hadn't been so jealous of his airtime, I'd be in the booth right now.

Well, not right now, it's pretty cold out there. And not there, because the team moved about 10 years ago. But you get the idea.

It's been a long time and I frankly don't remember anything much about the game itself. I do have it on tape, but I haven't listened to it in years. I wonder if hearing the game again would have that same powerful memory effect that music does -- to bring you back instantly to the spot. What I do remember is that I tried valiantly to soak it all in, to absorb every minute of the experience and the thrill. I had limited success with that, as I think is almost always the case, but I do know it was one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me.

The Yanks' AA affiliate is in Trenton, NJ, now, and there are only a couple of minor league teams within 100 miles or so... but if anyone involved with those teams (or any others) are reading this thing -- hey, give me a call, I work cheap.

The Battle of the Ballroom, Part II

If you haven't already read Part I, go check it out now. Oh, come on, you can just scroll down; you don't need a link, do you? I can wait....

So I was waiting for the beginning of the tournament when I discovered something I enjoy even more than Sudoku -- free food. Of course, it kind of amazes me how we can delude ourselves about these things: I paid $25 to get into the event, and while I eventually found out there would be prizes, I'll bet they got a lot of stuff donated. I can tell you for a fact that while I hit the freebies pretty hard, I didn't get 25 bucks' worth out of it.

On my way back from the snacks, I mentioned to the reporter that I was there in part because I knew it would make good blog fodder. He wrote that down and even took my URL, but said he couldn't guarantee a mention. I was not surprised by that (nor by my omission entirely from this morning's feature story). I think what he was really looking for was someone to say, "I discovered Sudoku in your newspaper and it's brought me so much pleasure!" But since I didn't, and since their puzzle is generally so easy it's hardly even entertaining, I didn't give him the hook he was looking for.

Soon we were under way -- they distributed the Round 1 puzzle and we all began to work. This first one was pretty simple and, although I got off on the wrong foot by putting a 1 in a box that already had a 1, I got straightened out and quickly hit a respectable rhythm. I was probably 75% done and feeling good, when...

... the first person finished. Then another, and another, and.... I realized I had forgotten something crucial. I'm thorough. I'm methodical. I might even be called reliable; I almost always solve the puzzle eventually. However, I've never been called a fast mover, or particularly speedy -- at anything. As my shot began to slip away -- in the middle of the first round! -- I was able to turn up the dials in time to finish in the middle of the pack. The first 5 finishers get 7 points each; I was in the second (5-point) group. Then we all waited for the hapless 3-pointers to finish, or not finish as the case might be.

OK, not lost yet. Just gotta buckle down, pick up the pace a little. Round 2: the puzzle's a little more difficult, the results are exactly the same. The same woman finishes first; I wind up in the dead center again. We take a break, fortunately, for I've started to notice an uncomfortable sensation inside my skull. While I'm working the puzzle at (my) top speed, I can feel my synapses snapping and crackling like the power lines and tree limbs in our recent ice storm. Is it just the aging process? Or encroaching mental infirmity? I don't suppose it matters -- the warranty has long since expired and this is the grey matter that's going to have to get me through my Golden Years. I have to guess that my Blue Book trade-in value is close to zip at this point, as well.

For the results of Round 3, see also Round 2. And Round 1. Same winner, same clueless group bringing up the rear -- and me bobbing ineffectually around the median. As a math guy, I can't help but think of the statistics involved: the Spearman rank-difference coefficient of correlation has to be astronomical for this group, if you know what I mean, and why wouldn't you?

However, I'm still thinking that I might be able to creep up into 4th place, and one of the prizes, if I catch a break in the fourth and final round. And I get off to a lightning-fast start in Round 4; I might still be able to pull this out. Of course, this puzzle ... doesn't seem... all that... hard? That's when they announce: Oops, we gave you the final puzzle from the kids' event earlier. Misdeal!

We wait for the replacement to be Xeroxed at the front desk. and I wonder if I have any gas left in the tank. And when it finally comes down -- I could've had jet fuel, it wouldn't have made any difference. It was probably the hardest puzzle I ever saw; you know the phrase about "nowhere fast"? I was getting nowhere, excruciatingly slowly. The time was dragging on like I was at the opera.

It seemed no one was getting anywhere, so they announced we'd take a couple minutes to finish up, then score the round on the basis of how many correct numbers we'd filled in. At this, the guy across the table said, "I'll just start filling in numbers, then!" But I stubbornly stuck to my method -- what I would I prove by guessing right anyway?

Final score: me 9, Random Fill-In Guy 30. In fact, I believe I had the lowest (reported) total of anyone. So for the day, I wound up in a tie for 9th out of 15. That's even a lower rank, percentage-wise, than when I competed in the City-Wide Spelling Bee in 6th grade... and goodness knows I haven't recovered from that yet. I can tell you what place I finished in, and out of how many, and what word I missed (and why I missed it) -- but I'm not talking about it. I'll just say sometimes the people they have announce the words at these affairs talk kind of funny.

I did, however, win one of the door prizes: the book the puzzles were taken from, and an extremely tiny and cheesy Electronic Mini-Sudoku (I'm talking "attached to a keychain" tiny/cheesy). Plus, I did something for myself (and by myself -- not at all to be taken lightly). Also, I got a Coke and 3 M&M cookies absolutely free, if you don't count the $25.

And if the 8 people who finished ahead of me are unable to fulfill their duties as Champion -- maybe they'll get disqualified for using calculator watches or something -- I'm ready to step in and wear the crown.

The Battle of the Ballroom, Part I

I like to read history -- not so much the kind of history that relates big battles and geopolitics, but moreso the kind that helps you understand how the people lived. What life was like, in other words. That might more properly be described as anthropology, I don't know.

There are obvious differences between eras, but recurring themes as well. For example, every period seems to go through fads or crazes over games. The 1920s featured both crosswords and mah jongg; the 50s was notable for Hula Hoops; the 80s saw the success of Rubik's Cube. At present we're experiencing at least 2 such crazes -- not including video games, which have taken on a life of their own.

According to our friends at ESPN, poker is now a sport, with a televised World Series and everything. Now, a generation that mostly gave up homey family recreations like card-playing as unexciting has instead discovered the thrills of watching other people play cards on TV. I have perhaps remarked on such curiosities before (how unlike me to return to a familiar theme).

Although I'm pretty sure televised Sudoku will have to wait till the advent of ESPN-(some double-digit number), there's no question it has also become part of our cultural vocabulary (do I get any points for refraining from using the word Zeitgeist?). Why, just recently, Sherman's Lagoon did a whole week on Sudoku, and there can't be any better indicator of what's hip than the comics page. And no, I don't get all my ideas from the comics page.

You know -- by the way, this is our regularly-scheduled digression -- I sometimes feel bad about linking back to my previous posts so much. Then this week I was reading a Scholarly, Learned Theological Treatise that arrived in my e-mail inbox. The author constructed his argument at length and with care, complete with footnotes. When I got to the bottom of the page, I discovered that four of the six sources cited were this author's previous writings -- unpublished, at that. So this isn't just me yammering; I'm actually observing the current standards of scholarship.

As I have mentioned (ibid.), I enjoy Sudoku; I also have a bit of competitor in me, so when our local newspaper announced a Sudoku tournament, I was in all the way. Today was in fact that fateful day, so off I went to a local hotel "ballroom" to test my brainpower, and my knowledge of single-digit numbers, against the best this area has to offer.

It turns out the area doesn't have that much to offer (at least in volume), as only 14 other souls turned up on a sunny winter Saturday to match wits. I was issued ID# 10, which actually came in handy; later, when I had trouble finding my assigned seat, I was able to explain it by claiming I wasn't prepared to deal with any numbers greater than 9.

Since the newspaper was a co-sponsor, a reporter was circulating through the crowd (well, group, at least) interviewing my competition. I heard him say he was looking for a male contestant to interview, and someone pointed me out.

I didn't get to use any of my "A" material on him, like how I had brought my Sudoku dictionary (a Sudoku dictionary is an index card with the digits from 1-9 written on it. Or if not, it ought to be). Before I had much chance to uncork a magnum of sparkling wit, we were called into the room -- where I had the aforementioned seating issue.

You can imagine how I felt sitting there (at last) waiting for the tournament to begin... but to give you a better sense of what that was like, I'm going to continue this post next time in Part II.

The Sound of Music

My wife reminded me recently of a moment I'd completely forgotten. When our son was born, he had some trouble with jaundice and with getting his breathing regulated, so he was kept in the hospital for 6 days. His room was not quite the high-tech hospital room teeming with expensive equipment... it always seemed to me more like a storage room or perhaps an exam room with a "baby hospital bed" jammed into it.

While he was there, there usually was a radio playing in the background -- after all, we couldn't be there 24x7, so he was alone most of the time. On this particular long-forgotten occasion, I turned to my wife and expressed a festering anxiety: "I don't want my boy to grow up a country-music fan."

Well, for the first seven years, at least, I seem to have avoided that fate, but only because he's a musical omnivore. I only wish that there were an elementary version of "Name That Tune"; I could get a pretty good college fund started for him, because if he hears any sort of mildly kid-oriented tune (he's also pretty adept with Christmas music), he will identify it. And if it's playing anywhere in the environs, he will hear it. This is actually a useful extension of the axiom that says a kid can hear anything but his parents telling him what to do.

He certainly gets plenty of exposure in plenty of directions. When I was a kid, my parents were "easy listening" devotees. If you're not familiar, easy listening is basically elevator music, (occasionally) with words. While this has come in handy recently, since the "easy listening" music of the 60s & 70s makes up most of the "easy piano" books of the present day, it didn't necessarily help me develop a sophisticated musical palate.

In fact, I was surrounded; since I lived outside the school district I attended, I was transported not by a standard bus -- nor even by the now-legendary Short Bus -- but in fact in a regular station wagon with the rest of the literal outcasts (how sad is that, that I didn't even merit the Short Bus?). Every afternoon, all the other kids were called by bus number; then the voice intoned, "Station wagon, please... station wagon." Not that I'm bitter.... anyway, Mrs. Dickenson, the driver, was an aficionado of that same easy listening station. Narrow range of musical exposure -- that, and hymns! -- is what I'm getting at here. I was in high school before I figured out you could do a song with an electric guitar and drums.

The kids today, however (or "Those kids these days", if you prefer, but I'm not wearing my flannel shirt and suspenders today) get all kinds of chances to hear all kinds of cool stuff. Just watching kid TV, look (listen) what they can hear:

• Ziggy Marley does the theme from "Arthur" (the aardvark, not the drunken Dudley Moore!)
• Little Richard sings the "Magic School Bus" theme
• They Might Be Giants do opening AND closing themes for "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse", as well as "Higglytown Heroes"
• Taj Mahal performs the theme for "Peep and the Big, Wide World"
• and many, many more... perhaps you get the point

In addition, one of his favorite tapes is the soundtrack to Fantasia, which is honest-to-goodness, no-kidding-around, Philadelphia Orchestra classical music. Not only that, but he was flipping through TV channels not long ago when he stopped, transfixed by a sound I don't think he'd ever heard before.

It was polka, and he was clearly diggin' it.

He doesn't say no to much, although when we are in the car he will occasionally ask me to change the station if there are too many "girl songs" (i.e. female singers). Just in case, though, I stick to the radio preset buttons -- that way I know we're not going to wander into a country station by mistake.