And Now, A Word From (insert product here)

    I have written about media entertainment (in one form or another) on occasion. I have spoken about reality shows, soap operas, and classic songs. I have rattled on about my dependence upon my laptop (which is currently in the shop). I have spoken about how my portable media player acts as my own soundtrack. Even as I type this, "Green Onions" is playing in the background. I have sometimes even silently wondered how my life would sound as a movie trailer. You know, those cool trailers where Don LaFontaine describes something really cool and it ends in some kind of O. Henry ironic twist: "In a world where a man is seated at the table by his beautiful wife. She stands in a beautiful red dress and serves him the best homemade lasagna known to mankind. She kisses him lovingly on the lips. Life SEEMS wonderful. Sadly, [sound of vinyl record abruptly skipping], he can't get the seal off the romano cheese. [man screams] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Anyway, I digress.

    It is no big secret to anyone that knows me that I love classic television and radio shows. I have enjoyed many shows that take me into an alternate reality ("Alien Nation"), allow me to witness a top-notch cop solving a case ("Dragnet"), or make me laugh and cry at the same time (the 6 O' Clock news). However, there is a sub-genre of entertainment in television in radio that people tend to dismiss, ignore, or tune out. That's right, folks. I am talk about commercials. 

    I have heard many people go on and on about how much they despise commercials. My typically holds the television remote in her hands with her right thumb literally hovering over the buttons. If it is a show that was recorded on our DVR, she fast forwards through the commercials with the speed and execution of an Olympic fencer. If it is a live show, she will switch to another channel. There have been many nights throughout our marriage where I have missed 10 minutes of three different shows due to her incessant commercial dodging. I admit to savage amusement when she changes to several different channels and they are all airing a commercial. It's even better for me if more than one of them is airing the SAME commercial.

    For the most part, I am on the other side of the fence from my wife. I love watching commercials. I think part of it is due to one fact that is as old as television and radio themselves. Television and radio shows would not exist without corporate sponsorship. No commercial, no show. In the early years of television, this was very transparent. Most TV and radio legends such as Jack Benny, Bob Hope, and Abbott and Costello starred in shows that were named after their shows sponsor. Commercials were incorporated into the script. To a point, such product placement still exists. 

    Nonetheless, commercials for me have the same effect sometimes as full length shows. Commercials have shown how we have changed (for better or for worse) as a nation. Personally, I am grateful for the fact that we no longer see celebrities advertise tobacco products. On the other hand, we still see people describe embarrassing medical conditions to their friends in a public restaurant. Personally, if I go out to eat with a friend and he happens to have anti-diarrheal medication handy, I question his taste in restaurants. Some commercials entertain me due to their placement. I personally think a conspiracy is afoot whenever I see a commercial for diamonds during a sporting event. Sometimes, I get to see an advertisement for prescription medication followed by an advertisement for a lawyer willing to take your case if you actually take this medication.

    I would be remiss if I didn't mention the icons commercials give us that we all take for granted. People are prompted to buy car insurance because a) a caveman tells us NOT to buy it or b) a hyper-caffeinated woman wearing too much makeup is willing to guide us through the process. Exotic animals urge us to buy breakfast cereals, snack foods, and the same car insurance provoking a caveman hissy fit. We even, on occasion, see a diaphanous, scantily clad model advertising a triple bacon cheeseburger (I don't know about you, but I am hungry all of a sudden).

    Today, on the day of this writing, we get to witness the event that brings the best commercials have to offer: the Super Bowl. My wife is not even allowed to hold the remote during the Super Bowl. Man, there have been some great ones to debut during the Super Bowl.I still get a warm and fuzzy feeling when I think of the commercial with "Mean" Joe Green throwing a kid his jersey. The kid got the thrill of his life during that moment and you can see it in his eyes. These days, that same kid would auction the uniform to the highest web bidder. But hey, that's free enterprise. He could probably get that stock trading baby to help him invest the proceeds of the sale.

Feast Your Eyes (and Guard Your Wallet)

I went to the mall today with my wife, Renee and our younger son, Caleb. Our primary purpose was to pick up a ring my wife had to have repaired. Caleb and I were fine with that because it allowed us to look at some beautiful men's watches. I gave Caleb tips about fashion and function as it pertained to picking out such a fine watch. I wanted to make Caleb's eyes bug out by showing him how much these watches cost on average. Unfortunately, I was unable to do so. Apparently, all of these watches were on hold for someone. I know this because right where they usually put the price, they had apparently put someone's phone number (including the area code and country code). My wife picked up her ring then helped Caleb and me recover from our agape astonishment. This took a couple of minutes as Caleb and I kept pointing to the price tags on the watches and asking each other in unison: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

As we proceeded to go from store to store looking at this, that, and the other; we passed by numerous kiosks. This is roughly equivalent to having a county fair barker in the middle of the mall. There were people offering to give me piercings (no thanks), sell me a cell phone (no thanks), or sell me tickets to a Chinese acrobatic performance (that actually sounded pretty cool but maybe next time). I even got to witness something I had never seen before. There was a kiosk that demonstrated a woman getting an eyebrow threading. I saw the sign for this and got the image in my head of a woman (somehow) willingly getting her eyebrows sutured. However, it is apparently a grooming technique for women. I can only describe it by saying it's kind of like mowing your lawn with dental floss but only slightly less time consuming.

It was at this point that I needed to go to the men's room. This required me to pass through the food court. This made me glad that I had already eaten before I got to the mall. My eyes and nose were taunted by aromas and advertisements of tacos, cookies, Chinese dishes, burgers, and enormous slices of pizza. Any of these selections come with a beverage in a container so large, you could flush a camel's kidney's in less than two minutes. I find the offering of a beverage that size to be downright cruel because they offer this to a person then make them walk nearly a quarter mile to the nearest restroom.

I met up with my wife and son then we continued browsing.  We ogled overpriced sneakers, eyeballed expensive books, and peeked at t-shirts pushing a premium price. Again, it was a nice way to spend an afternoon. If I wasn't already broke before I got to the mall, I surely would have been by the time I left.

Harmonic Happiness

I have always enjoyed music from as far back as I can remember. I enjoy many different styles of music: rock, southern gospel, country (especially the older stuff), classical, blues. With very few exceptions, the one thing that ties my love of the genres together is the role of the guitar. The guitar is not just a beautiful, expressive, and versatile instrument. For me, the guitar is the primary element that makes a musician look cool and makes a song sound cool. It doesn't matter whether it's Marty Robbins falling in love with a Mexican girl, Stevie Ray Vaughan walking a tightrope, or the Everly Brothers trying to wake a girl at 4 AM (some 25 or 6 minutes after Chicago was searching for something to say), there would be a serious void without those strummed strings in the mix.

I have had a guitar around the house since I was about 13. My Dad would hang with his friends and sing old country and western songs. My Dad has even written a few songs over the years. It amazed me to watch my Dad strum those chords and sing songs like "Long Black Veil" or "Because He Lives". I, on the other hand, would sit in my room and struggle with that open C chord. One day, I finally got that chord to ring clear with no thudded notes. I then learned G, F (that was a toughie), D, E, A, and even a couple of minor chords. Some time after, I was not only playing along with my Dad, I was learning songs by Paul Simon, Bob Seger, and the Everly Brothers. I would even, on occasion, plug in, crank my amplifier, and bang out some power chords. In my mind, I was the next Paul Stanley. In reality, it only resulted in the windows vibrating and the neighbor's dog contemplating suicide.

I am now into my forties. My 70 watt amp is gone as well as the Les Paul I got at 17 (it was stolen 2 years later). I still have a very beat up late 1930's Gibson L-00 acoustic that my father gave me. Unfortunately, due to a nasty case of tendinitis (especially in my left hand) and the guitar's very wide neck, it is very difficult to play for more than 10 minutes at a time before the pain gets too bad to play. As a result, I am very out of practice and my older son is a better player than I was at his age. Nonetheless, I still pick up that old guitar and I start playing the chords to "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground". I never get tired of that song or playing those chords. Still, it does get heartbreaking sometimes that I can't play it for hours as I did when I was younger. I am sure, at some point, I will invest in another guitar that is a bit friendlier to my wrists. In the meantime, I just grin and bear it as I struggle with that nasty B7 chord.

This past Christmas, I got some really nice gifts. I got some rubber ducks to add to my collection. I got some DVDs of "30 Rock" (I love that show). In addition to these, I got a really cool gift from my older daughter. She got me a set of harmonicas in 7 keys. She told me that this would allow me to play something that would not be so hard on my wrists. As a result, I have been scouring the Internet for online lessons and tabs. So far, I have been practicing songs like "Love Me Do" and "Amazing Grace". Maybe over time, I can learn the harmonica part for "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground". At this point, however, I could have sworn I saw one of my cats updating his will.

Building the Bubble

More often than not, when I write for my blog, the hardest part is putting myself in front of my laptop computer and opening the word processor. Usually once I get started, the words start to flow pretty well. I become incredibly focused and tune out the world around me. It is really a great place to be. It is just me and the work. As each word transfers from my mind to my fingers to the keyboard to the page, a wall begins to form around me. I become encased inside a great big bubble.

Sadly however, a bubble is not an impregnable fortress. A bubble is actually a very fragile barrier. It takes just the softest projectile and POOF; it is gone. Many a time, I have told my family that I am about to write. They allow me to get started. They are even kind enough to let me get my bubble formed. You can almost see the rainbow colors shimmering all around the bubble as I type. I am in the groove. I am in the zone. I am in the bubble. The words are flowing in a feverish frenzy (in spite of the fact that I have been advised to avoid alliterations altogether). The keyboard and I are one. We are a powerful locomotive — The Literary Limited.

Without warning, a voice emanates from outside the bubble: “Daddy, what is the formula to determine that two consecutive integers equal to eighty-seven?” POOF! My mighty bubble is gone. I take a deep, cleansing breath. I try not to weep in front of my daughter as I mourn the loss of my precious bubble. “Are you OK, Daddy?” Yes, Baby Girl, I’m fine. Try x+(x+1). “Thanks, Daddy.” She kisses my cheek and leaves the room with her ponytail swinging like a pendulum.

I take another deep, cleansing breath. I read over what I have typed thus far. I attempt to get back aboard that train of thought known as The Literary Limited. I slowly peck out more words. Tap. Tap. Tap. With each word the wonderful bubble begins to form again. I am back at the breathless, breakneck pace (while continuing with alluring, alliterative phrases). The bubble is not only back; but it is bigger and better than before (Oops, there goes another one).

There is another unfortunate fact about a bubble. As it becomes larger, it also becomes more easily penetrated from a greater distance to its center. “Honey, I lost another 4 pounds today!” POOF! The bubble is penetrated with such force that I can almost feel the liquid on back of my neck. I take some more deep cleansing breaths. I am actually trying to avoid hyperventilating at this point. I look her into her eyes and state: That’s good news, Baby. You look great. “AWWWWWW!” After all, she means no harm. I am writing for pleasure at this point in my life. This is not the time to turn into Jack Torrance. Besides, she really DOES look great.

I close my eyes for a moment. I gather my thoughts. I look over the words again. Tap. Tap. Tap. I do my best to build the bubble once again. I must remember, however, that a bubble is a very delicate container. Its use is only meant to be temporary. It is great to be inside the bubble. But, I must also be thankful for the elements outside of the bubble. Without them, there would be no reason to write in the first place. Now, where was I? Tap. Tap. Tap.

Weak Scrod and Parachute Pants

There are some things in life that while being theoretically possible, their pursuit often seems to be an exercise in futility. You can only pursue them and hope for the best. The three best examples are: planning the next Buffalo Bills Super Bowl Party, explaining the plot of "Eyes Wide Shut", and getting a benefit from a warranty or insurance claim. I am going to explore the last of these items.

In April of 2008, I purchase a computer bundle which included the computer tower, a monitor, and a printer. In addition, I purchased an extended warranty. I purchased the extended warranty because, like the parachute pants I bought in 1984, it seemed like a great idea at the time. After all, this warranty was being backed by a reputable company which had gained a reputation for its customer service. In an effort to practice good taste, I will not mention the company by name. Let's put it this way, if you are in a seafood store, you don't want to get the weak scrod. In other businesses, it is probably best not to buy services from an agency that happens to rhyme with weak scrod.

We enjoyed our computer system greatly over the course of the coming months. Suddenly, without warning, the monitor gave up the ghost. It just stopped working. My wife called the company servicing our extending warranty. They told my wife that our monitor was covered under warranty until April 2010. That was really good news because it was the day before Thanksgiving. April 2010 gave us plenty of wiggle room to get our monitor repaired or replaced free of charge. My wife took the monitor to the store to return it. The man behind the counter then informed her that the monitor was not covered. Doing her best to maintain a cool head, my wife demanded to speak to the manager. The nice man (whose breath reeked of weak scrod) told my wife that when we purchased the warranty, it only covered the computer tower. Neither the monitor nor the printer was covered. My wife explained this to me on the telephone. I looked down and was sure that, for a minute there, I was wearing the parachute pants I bought in 1984. In the end, they wound up recycling our monitor and giving us a $10 gift card.

I shouldn't be surprised about this. Such things have happened many times throughout history. Scholars uncovered a record of an insurance claim. It appears that a man was looking to receive a benefit from Galilee Mutual Insurance. The man's claim asserted that while feeding his pigs, he dropped bag of pearls he was holding. The pigs began to eat the pearls and spit them out. The man was then severely hog cut. In addition, a wind storm blew in and destroyed the cages holding his sacrificial turtledoves. The turtledoves flew out and the man's dog ate them. Sadly, Galilee Mutual Insurance did not cover the man's claim. Galilee Mutual cited an exclusion in the policy: Matthew 7:6 – "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you." They also stated that the cages for the turtledoves would not be replaced as the windstorm fell under the Acts of God exclusion.

Another historical account tells of a man in 1588 that purchased a sextant. The sextant came with a 30 day no questions asked money back guarantee. The man filed a claim to get money back to return the sextant and repair damages to his ship. However, the warranty clearly stated that the sextant (a Vespucci 1600 model) was best used in conjunction with a map and a compass. The man used the Vespucci 1600 by itself and misinterpreted the readings. His ship wound up sailing right in the middle of the Spanish Armada fleet. This accidental placement in battle caused severe damage to his ship. The warranty also stipulated that the sextant is ineffective in British territory. The reason for this is that a sextant is designed to be used at night and the sun never sets on the British Empire.

As anyone can see, history clearly stakes the deck against a successful claim. All we can do is to get everything and writing and read the fine print as they say (whoever THEY are). Otherwise, you may be caught with your parachute pants hanging down and smelling of weak scrod.

What a Wonderful Word

I have always enjoyed learning new words. Some of this is due to the fact that from as early as I could remember, my mother would advise me to "look it up". I'd grab the family dictionary. This great tome of reference was handy for increasing vocabulary and killing cockroaches. I think my parents figured I would either acquire a large vocabulary and become a great orator or develop huge biceps and play running back for the University of Georgia. Let's just say no one's ever confused me for Herschel Walker.

There are some words that I just find amusing. They are legitimate words with legitimate uses. Nonetheless, they sound funny to my ears. Some words even sound like you are deliberately trying to be funny when you use them. I have asked some close family and friends what words sound funny to them. I had no idea such a subject would result in sitting with my two sons; one holding a dictionary and the other holding a thesaurus. My older son even noted the irony that A-OK, alley-oop, and wassup are all in the dictionary but newb is not. I therefore present the following words with the reason why I find them amusing.

• Annotate – This word came up because my daughter coincidentally called while my sons and I were involved in our vocabulary summit. The word simply means to provide explanatory notes on a subject. Still, I get the image of a 1970's medicine commercial: Having trouble remembering things? Talk to your doctor about Annotate. Write it down.
• Behoove – This word simply means that something is potentially advantageous or beneficial. I hear this word and get one mental image: insect shoes. Would it behoove a bee to wear shoes? How can a bee be behooved?
  
• Carafe – This word sounds funny to me because a carafe typically has a long neck. It is defined as "a bottle with a flaring lip used to hold beverages" (according to Merriam-Webster). I don't know what sounds funnier; the word or its definition.
  
• Defenestrate – This means to throw someone out of a window. It sounds like a health condition. Mind you, one who has been defenestrated quickly acquires a health condition.
  
• Guano – The word simply means bird droppings. I guess the scientific powers that be thought it would not sound offensive if they used a Spanish word. They were right. Now, it just sounds funny.
  
• Juxtapose – Come on, now. Why not just say "side by side" and be done with it?
  
• Ointment – Chicken pox is not funny. You should at least get a giggle trying to relive the itching. Salve just isn't funny enough.
  
• Onomatopoeia – This is the use of words to represent a sound (The thunder crashed. The snake hissed). Go ahead. Say it to yourself. You just giggled didn't you.
  
• Persnickety – This implies someone is fussy about minor details. If you don't find this word funny. I might suggest you are a persnickety, picayunish, fussbudget. Say THAT without a giggle.
  
• Phlegm – I don't know why this word sounds so funny. It just does. It's not a shame to have phlegm. It's just a shame to share it.
  
• Pomegranate – This is a tasty fruit. It brings the image of a magic trick. The magician made the rock disappear when he learned how to pomegranate.
  
• Quiche – Real men don't eat it because they can't stop laughing.
  
• Rubric – A rubric is the way that something can be categorized. To me, it sounds like a word you'd hear Scooby Doo say.
  
• Scabies – Once again, the scientific powers that be went for the funny bone. It sounds a lot funnier than saying someone has parasitic mites. Those jerks are snickering as we speak as they develop a new ointment for scabies.
  
• Similarly – OK let's review some of what we covered so far: After insisting that the pomegranate and the ointment be shelved similarly, the persnickety store manager was defenestrated.
  
• Spelunker – This hilarious sounding word defines a cave explorer. What strange however, is that in spite of what the word implies there is no verbal component to this noun. A spelunker does not spelunk. He can however be defenestrated.
  
• Sycophant – A sycophant is a social parasite; a person who users flattery or a self-effacing appearance to gain an advantage or favor. Again, this word brings a twisted mental image to my mind. The college-aged pachyderm told his parents: Mom, Dad, I'm a sycophant." OH NO! WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBORS THINK?
  
• Wiki – A wiki is a web site that allows visitors to make contributions or corrections for the purpose of reference on a particular subject. From what I understand, the word wiki is Hawaiian for quick. Of course, I read that on a wiki web page so that's probably not true.
  

There you have it folks: a list of words which sound funny to me in spite of their legitimate usage. I am certain as time goes on. People will point out words I omitted. They're just being persnickety.

Hey There, Sunshine

My work day usually starts off with a variety of routine sounds. The first sound comes from one of the four cats that roam our house. It is always the same cat of the four — Sonic. Sonic unfortunately has more respect for routine that he does for the sleep patterns of my wife and me. He jumps on the bed and emits what I have dubbed the Marge Simpson meow. In short, he meows at us; but is so apathetic he doesn't open his mouth to produce this sound. Sonic then feels it necessary to climb on my pillow and begin nuzzling my face. It's is usually at this point when I give the cat lessons in Newton's Law and the Laws of Aerodynamics simultaneously. All of this usually happens about an hour or two before the next sound of the day.

My alarm clock lies across the room. The reason for this is simple. If I have to get up and go across the room to shut off the alarm, I'll stay out of bed (WRONG!!). I reset the clock to go off in another hour. After all, I should have no problem going back to sleep and that extra hour will make all the difference in the world (WRONG AGAIN!!). The alarm clock emits a sound reminiscent of the Emergency Alert System tone as recorded by a mid – 1980's punk rock cover band. In spite of this, I endure this sound twice every morning; 5 days a week. What can I say? I can be as much a slave to routine as Sonic.

I then place my hopes upon my bathroom sink. Every morning, I approach the sink with the firm belief that my soul will be revived by the brushing of my teeth and the splashing of water on my face (Morning 3, Shane 0). I head downstairs to the smell of coffee and breakfast lovingly prepared by my wife. I walk into the kitchen to grab my coffee. It is at this point that I hear an ominous growl emanating from the kitchen counter. The coffee maker is hissing at me. It's almost as if my coffee maker doesn't like to do mornings and is in need of…well…a cup of coffee. I leave the room. After all, I already HAVE coffee. I am not going to tolerate such a contemptuous tone from a machine (I know; why stop now?).

Finally, I sit on front of the TV to look at some very important developments in the world. Once I see that the roadrunner has AGAIN eluded the otherwise intelligent coyote, I turn to the news and watch for the traffic report. Mind you, I take the same route to work five days a week. There isn't much short of a black hole in the middle of the interstate that will make me change my route. This is not an issue of routine. It is due to the fact that any alternative route will only further delay my trip. I view the map on the TV and listen to the reporter speak of accidents and construction work. Some roads are red (very slow traffic) and others are yellow (traffic just slightly faster than a funeral procession). Suddenly, something very out of the ordinary happens. The interstate that I take to work is GREEN. Things are looking up.

My dad used to greet me every morning by saying: "Hey there, Sunshine. BOY, DO I FEEL GOOD THIS MORNING." I decided to try this approach in light of the unusual traffic news. I stood in front of the TV and shouted: BOY, DO IFEEL GOOD THIS MORNING. At this point, the cat and the coffee maker let out a guttural groan. This is followed by the traffic reporter announcing a "rubbernecker delay" on the interstate that I take to go to work. Nevertheless, chanting my Dad's mantra felt good. Final Score: Morning 4, Shane 1.