Even Toast Has a Purpose

I enjoy writing. Honestly, I do. There is just something a bit cathartic to me about looking at life via my warped perspective and sharing it with the world. Admittedly, I also feel blessed when family, friends, or (on occasion) other bloggers/writers tell me that my writing is funny or that they can somehow relate to what I have written. My mother was an avid reader. She also, in her later years, wrote short essays as a form of pleasure (and perhaps also a bit of catharsis*). If there is anything I regret about my writing, it is that I did not begin doing so while my mother was still here on this Earth. That's OK, though. I find a lot of my mom's writing style in my stuff. So, if you find that some of my writing to be poignant** or insightful, the compliment does not belong to me at all. One only needs to give credit where it is due and say "Nice work, Norma Jean".

Unfortunately, I am often quick to post my essays before properly proofreading them. This results in some overlooked misspellings or incomplete phrases that I have to correct in an essay that has already been posted for the whole world to see. Given that unfortunate trend, I try to have my younger daughter proofread my pieces before I post them. She is typically very accommodating about this. However, there are several comments that I hear from Brianna over and over again:

• "Dad, why do you always use such big words when you write? I feel like I always have to ask you what something means and you just tell me to 'Look it up'".
  
• "Dad, your writing is so dry. It's like toast. You just ramble on and on about whatever random topic pops into your head."
  
• "Dad, why you use so many bulleted lists in your writing?"
  

Imagine my surprise when, one day, my baby girl approached me with that puppy dog look in her eyes. That is a look that always indicates that she needs something from Daddy. Apparently, she had a writing assignment for a college English class. Even more strangely ironic, she felt that I was an appropriate person to assist her in this task. I could help but feel my mother pointing something out to me as if she were right there in the room. You can go to any greasy spoon diner in the world and order breakfast. As you enjoy your meal, remember this: even toast has a purpose. Also note below are two words that you won't have to look up their definitions.

* Catharsis -a: purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art b: a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/catharsis)

** Poignant - a: pleasurably stimulating b: being to the point. (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/poignant)


 

Curling Up to the Olympics

I'll be honest here; I'm not much of an athlete. Actually, to be truly frank, I'm barely qualified to be an armchair athlete. Like many red-blooded American men, I enjoy living vicariously through somebody else doing all the athletic work. I was thrilled to see the New Orleans Saints win their first Super Bowl. I have even experienced the thrill of seeing my beloved Atlanta Braves play at Turner Field. I have even taken my kids to see our local minor league baseball team (Rochester Redwings).

On top of all those great aforementioned experiences, I would be remiss if I did not speak of the Mardi Gras of sporting events; the grand-daddy of them all — The Olympics. This is the great armchair event to which our eyes, hearts, and spirited are treated every four years. Well actually, it's every two years. You see, you get the Summer Olympics then you get the Winter Olympics two years later. Two years later, it's the Summer Olympics again etc. This writing takes place in 2010. Therefore, I get to watch the Winter Olympic Games which are hosted in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. I get to experience watching such great medalists as Apolo Ohno, Johnny Spillane, and Bode Miller. My blood pumps and my adrenaline flows at the thrill of watching the biathlon, the luge, and (wait for it) curling.

For the unlearned, curling is not an Olympic sport for cosmetologists. It is not even a form of weightlifting. Curling takes place on a flat sheet of ice. One player slides a big rock on the sheet of ice toward the center of a bull's eye target. While this rock (actually called a stone) is sliding toward the target, two other players, each holding a broom (Honest, it's a broom) sweep the ice ahead of the stone's path in an effort to guide it toward the center target. These athletic sweepers can even guide the stone to knock their opponent's stone away from the center target. By the way, did I mention that this is an Olympic sport that has many countries competing for a medal? If I had known I could rise to THAT kind of greatness, I would have been quicker to clean my room as a kid. I could have stopped my parent's nagging and trained for the Olympics simultaneously.

As I sit and watch this sport (so deemed by the International Olympic Committee), my mind is full of questions:

• Why is it called curling in the first place? It's bad enough we have athletes with brooms. Couldn't they have called it something like Nordic Rock Ice Sliding or Highland Floor Darts?
  
• Are there kids somewhere with a poster of a curling team on their walls? Are their curling trading cards? Is there some kid trying to negotiate a trade for a 1976 Gery Kleffman (which will probably cost a 1981 Jürg Tanner and a 1979 Morten Sørum)?
  
• Are there endorsement deals for curling athlete? Is there a box of cereal somewhere bearing the likeness of a curling champion with a wide grin and thumbs up pose?
  
• I noticed the player wearing protective eyewear. WHY? Forgive my ignorance but it's not exactly a contact sport.
  
• What happens in the off season for curlers (is it OK to call them that?)? Do they audition for a role in "Stomp"?
  

I don't know if any of these questions will be answered. I may have to just sit and enjoy in silent ignorance. After all, it will all be over soon for another four years (or is it two?). I'd like to take a moment and apologize if I have unintentionally maligned or offended any curlers (that is hard to say with a straight face). May you all play your best and sweep your competition (Did you really think I was going to let that one get by?).

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 talking about commercials. 

    I have heard many people go on and on about how much they despise commercials. My wife 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.