I have an irrational itch to buy a van. Not a mini-van, but a full-size, gas-guzzling, doesn’t-fit-in-the-garage VAN van. Something from the Ford E-series. I don’t know why, exactly, but here are 10 possible reasons I can think of:
1) A van says, “Fashion doesn’t apply to me. I’m beyond fashion. I’m post-fashion. You wouldn’t understand.”
2) Vans are boxy. Boxy is good. Whatever the opposite of aerodynamic is, that’s what vans are. I like to displace a lot of air when I drive. That’s just me.
3) It would be a home away from home. I could have a picnic in there. Or spend the night. And if that van’s a rockin’, you know, I could be playing Snowball Fight on the Wii Fit or something.
4) Almost nobody has one. That would place me in an elite club, like astronauts or serial killers or the number of people who saw Glenn Beck's new movie “The Christmas Sweater – A Return To Redemption.”
5) It may be the closest I ever get to my dream of driving a bus, which I’ve had since I was a kid when I used to break into the old church bus parked across the field from my house. I did get to drive a city snowplow once, for a couple miles, but that’s as close as I got.
6) I could get one of those “Haulin’ Ass” bumper stickers. Classic.
7) If I had a van, I might name it Ghost Dancing and travel the country to find myself like William Least Heat-Moon, who wrote “Blue Highways,” which sold a bazillion copies. I wrote a book about Lake Erie, which I explored in an old Dodge Caravan I named “Red Van.” My book didn’t sell quite as many copies.
8) I could deliver cakes.
9) Dude, we’re getting the band back together. (Actually, I was in the marching band, so a van wouldn’t be large enough. But we could get the trumpet section back together.)
10) I need a van to pull the bass boat, which my wife won’t let me buy – yet. But the longer I talk about how much I want a motorcycle, the more practical the van/boat combo is going to sound.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The First Annual Carpies
There is nothing sadder (or more perversely satisfying) than a TV commercial gone horribly off course.
Some are stunningly, inexplicably bad. Remember the one a few years back in which it appeared as though Orville Reddenbocker’s corpse had been reanimated to sell popcorn? Apparently, the creative requirements called for “repulsive.”
Others are good/bad. These are the ones that are superbly executed, generate a lot of conversation, win prestigious awards, yet somehow miss the mark. Like the “I’m a Mac and I’m superior to the PC,” ads. There, I said it. Probably nobody will agree with me, but I think the Microsoft ads in response were much more persuasive, except maybe to those who see themselves as that Mac Guy, but that’s a subject for another blog.
Then there are the evil bad ads, perfectly honed to hit their target audience right between the eyes, but without an ounce of decency. Like the late night spots for the Girls Gone Wild videos or just about any recent Burger King ad.
But the most sadistically satisfying ads are those where the creative team paid so much attention to the imagery that they forget what the hell they were supposed to be talking about.
Which is the case with the first annual winner of my very own awards contest, the Carpies.
And the winner is….
Korean Air’s “The Color of Perfection”
One by one, beautiful images convey upscale, sexy scenes of sexy, upscale people doing routine things, like standing on a hilltop in their underwear beneath a Photoshopped sky to a soundtrack of ethereal music. Words appear out of thin air.
Words like breathtaking, exquisite and visionary.
Still more words: graceful, understanding, pledging - even admired.
Wait for it…here’s the pitch: “What Korean Air is made of,” says the perfect female voice, followed closely by the perfect male voice putting the final touch on this masterpiece of snootiness: “Excellence in flight. Korean Air.”
(The “color of perfection” is apparently turquoise, which is the recurring visual cue woven from scene to shining scene.)
And when it’s over, the viewer is left panting, wondering two things: “What perfume was that?” and “Did that really say ‘pledging’? What the…”
There are many words and phrases that one might insert into an airline ad: safe, reliable, comfortable, roomy, less bus-like than Northwest.
“Pledging?” “Admired?” “Understanding.” What Korean Air is made of, apparently, are platitudes written on yellow sticky notes left over from last year’s strategic planning session.
I think the team that produced this spot is the same group that sends me spam that looks almost legit except for the broken English that shatters the illusion (“she will show you much adulation for this product”).
For pointless perfection, this year’s Carpy goes to…what was the name of that aquamarine-colored perfume again?
Runner Up: Amazon.com’s Kindle
(Note: Sorry, the video of this ad was pulled from YouTube.)
Amazon is running its first commercial for the Kindle, a device that is actually pretty cool, but whose attributes are veiled in a cloak of cuteness in this peppy little spot (which was made by an amateur, but that’s not the point).
If it were an ad for reading, it wouldn’t be half bad. But I’m going to assume that people who might buy a devise made for reading already, you know, read. Why not instead clue them in about how the Kindle might improve upon something they’ve probably been doing without a Kindle since the first grade.
OK, there is this: “Books in 60 seconds.” That little nugget is tucked in at the end. Eureka! An actual attribute! But I need more than that to convince me to spend $250 for another electronic device, as though I don’t already have more of them than I have pockets to put them in. For 250 bucks these days, I expect a blinking thingy to not only point the way to the next exit, but tell me the number of fat grams in today’s special at the nearest diner.
The Kindle is thin as a pencil, holds 1,500 books at a cost of just $9.99 each for New York Times Best Sellers. It weighs less than a Wendy’s double with cheese and downloads whatever title you want in seconds out of thin air without a computer or cell phone.
Instant books for cheap without killing trees? Sign me up!
But first, you have to tell me about it, which the ad never gets around to doing.
Perhaps – and even this is a stretch – perhaps if Kindle were already a household name, then this ad might have some redeeming qualities. But I’ve asked actual people who I assume can read and most have only a vague idea about what it is.
Maybe that’s because the advertising is, you know, vague.
Note: This ad is terrific for what it was created to be – a very well done, stop-action viral video submitted in a contest. I applaud the young LA photographer who crafted it and won $20,000 for her trouble (I believe that’s her in the ad). And I applaud Amazon for its use of social media to engage customers.
However.
Like the ad for Korean Air, the Kindle spot leaves me wondering what the perfume smells like.
Some are stunningly, inexplicably bad. Remember the one a few years back in which it appeared as though Orville Reddenbocker’s corpse had been reanimated to sell popcorn? Apparently, the creative requirements called for “repulsive.”
Others are good/bad. These are the ones that are superbly executed, generate a lot of conversation, win prestigious awards, yet somehow miss the mark. Like the “I’m a Mac and I’m superior to the PC,” ads. There, I said it. Probably nobody will agree with me, but I think the Microsoft ads in response were much more persuasive, except maybe to those who see themselves as that Mac Guy, but that’s a subject for another blog.
Then there are the evil bad ads, perfectly honed to hit their target audience right between the eyes, but without an ounce of decency. Like the late night spots for the Girls Gone Wild videos or just about any recent Burger King ad.
But the most sadistically satisfying ads are those where the creative team paid so much attention to the imagery that they forget what the hell they were supposed to be talking about.
Which is the case with the first annual winner of my very own awards contest, the Carpies.
And the winner is….
Korean Air’s “The Color of Perfection”
One by one, beautiful images convey upscale, sexy scenes of sexy, upscale people doing routine things, like standing on a hilltop in their underwear beneath a Photoshopped sky to a soundtrack of ethereal music. Words appear out of thin air.
Words like breathtaking, exquisite and visionary.
Still more words: graceful, understanding, pledging - even admired.
Wait for it…here’s the pitch: “What Korean Air is made of,” says the perfect female voice, followed closely by the perfect male voice putting the final touch on this masterpiece of snootiness: “Excellence in flight. Korean Air.”
(The “color of perfection” is apparently turquoise, which is the recurring visual cue woven from scene to shining scene.)
And when it’s over, the viewer is left panting, wondering two things: “What perfume was that?” and “Did that really say ‘pledging’? What the…”
There are many words and phrases that one might insert into an airline ad: safe, reliable, comfortable, roomy, less bus-like than Northwest.
“Pledging?” “Admired?” “Understanding.” What Korean Air is made of, apparently, are platitudes written on yellow sticky notes left over from last year’s strategic planning session.
I think the team that produced this spot is the same group that sends me spam that looks almost legit except for the broken English that shatters the illusion (“she will show you much adulation for this product”).
For pointless perfection, this year’s Carpy goes to…what was the name of that aquamarine-colored perfume again?
Runner Up: Amazon.com’s Kindle
(Note: Sorry, the video of this ad was pulled from YouTube.)
Amazon is running its first commercial for the Kindle, a device that is actually pretty cool, but whose attributes are veiled in a cloak of cuteness in this peppy little spot (which was made by an amateur, but that’s not the point).
If it were an ad for reading, it wouldn’t be half bad. But I’m going to assume that people who might buy a devise made for reading already, you know, read. Why not instead clue them in about how the Kindle might improve upon something they’ve probably been doing without a Kindle since the first grade.
OK, there is this: “Books in 60 seconds.” That little nugget is tucked in at the end. Eureka! An actual attribute! But I need more than that to convince me to spend $250 for another electronic device, as though I don’t already have more of them than I have pockets to put them in. For 250 bucks these days, I expect a blinking thingy to not only point the way to the next exit, but tell me the number of fat grams in today’s special at the nearest diner.
The Kindle is thin as a pencil, holds 1,500 books at a cost of just $9.99 each for New York Times Best Sellers. It weighs less than a Wendy’s double with cheese and downloads whatever title you want in seconds out of thin air without a computer or cell phone.
Instant books for cheap without killing trees? Sign me up!
But first, you have to tell me about it, which the ad never gets around to doing.
Perhaps – and even this is a stretch – perhaps if Kindle were already a household name, then this ad might have some redeeming qualities. But I’ve asked actual people who I assume can read and most have only a vague idea about what it is.
Maybe that’s because the advertising is, you know, vague.
Note: This ad is terrific for what it was created to be – a very well done, stop-action viral video submitted in a contest. I applaud the young LA photographer who crafted it and won $20,000 for her trouble (I believe that’s her in the ad). And I applaud Amazon for its use of social media to engage customers.
However.
Like the ad for Korean Air, the Kindle spot leaves me wondering what the perfume smells like.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Quick Carps
Life in The HUp Lane
Distracted drivers are now the rule, not the exception. If the Pope got behind the wheel of the Popemobile, we would no doubt see him texting, juggling a McMuffin and iced cap, and fiddling with his Tom Tom (not in an unholy way). Not to mention occasionally sprinkling water on the gathered flock.
It is folly to criminalize the behavior of the masses (not the pope kind of masses, but, well, you know what I mean). Instead can’t we just build highways to accommodate the new norm? It’s just lazy engineering, if you ask me. What could it cost to add some padded guardrails, rumble strips between lanes and roundabouts so people with more important things to do can circle until they press SEND without being distracted by traffic signals?
Big cities have High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lanes. Isn’t it time for the Head-Up-A## (HUP) lane?
I Have Doubts
Insert rimshots where appropriate.
I choose not to believe in gravity, my mind is made up, so just go sell your socialist agenda somewhere else – I’m not buying it.
I’m skeptical of the “labradoodle.” Sounds to me like a shoddy breeder left the back gate open then found a clever way to profit from his carelessness.
Don’t get me started on grapples. Like we really need an apple that tastes like a grape. Make me brussels sprouts that taste like bacon, then I’ll be impressed.
In Michigan, they have yellow, flashing turn signals. Is that not the epitome of pointlessness?
Founding Typo
As a strict constitutionalist, I insist on spelling Pennsylvania with one “n.” Also, I Spell random words with capital Letters.
Distracted drivers are now the rule, not the exception. If the Pope got behind the wheel of the Popemobile, we would no doubt see him texting, juggling a McMuffin and iced cap, and fiddling with his Tom Tom (not in an unholy way). Not to mention occasionally sprinkling water on the gathered flock.
It is folly to criminalize the behavior of the masses (not the pope kind of masses, but, well, you know what I mean). Instead can’t we just build highways to accommodate the new norm? It’s just lazy engineering, if you ask me. What could it cost to add some padded guardrails, rumble strips between lanes and roundabouts so people with more important things to do can circle until they press SEND without being distracted by traffic signals?
Big cities have High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lanes. Isn’t it time for the Head-Up-A## (HUP) lane?
I Have Doubts
Insert rimshots where appropriate.
I choose not to believe in gravity, my mind is made up, so just go sell your socialist agenda somewhere else – I’m not buying it.
I’m skeptical of the “labradoodle.” Sounds to me like a shoddy breeder left the back gate open then found a clever way to profit from his carelessness.
Don’t get me started on grapples. Like we really need an apple that tastes like a grape. Make me brussels sprouts that taste like bacon, then I’ll be impressed.
In Michigan, they have yellow, flashing turn signals. Is that not the epitome of pointlessness?
Founding Typo
As a strict constitutionalist, I insist on spelling Pennsylvania with one “n.” Also, I Spell random words with capital Letters.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
This Bud’s For Market Research
NEWSFLASH: Budweiser drinkers are 42 percent more likely to drive a truck than the average American.
That’s not all. We also know that people who drink Blue Moon are 105 percent more likely to own a hybrid, Corona drinkers know how to party and those with inflated egos prefer Heineken.
OK, maybe we didn’t need a marketing research company like Mindset Media to tell us that the driver of the pickup with the “Back Off” mud flaps probably isn’t your average Stella Artois sipper. Or that the guy at the bar hugging the green Heinie bottle isn’t as important as he thinks he is.
But did you know that Bud Light drinkers are 48 percent more likely to play the lottery, Michelob Ultra fans are 34 percent more likely to buy life insurance and craft beer drinkers like me are happy-go-lucky slackers who are 52 percent more likely to watch “The Office.”
In case you were wondering.
These and other fascinating facts are examples of what marketing types call “Who gives a…”
No, actually, according to a story in Advertising Age magazine, they call it psychographics. Companies pay lots of money to learn what customers and potential customers are thinking. I’m analyzing your thoughts right now. (You think I’m kidding, but you’re reading this on Blogger, which is owned by Google and The Google knows what you had for breakfast [toast and OJ].)
I’m not sure how they do it over at Mindset Media, but the Research Division here at Carpenter Communications has uncovered some “psychographics” of its own, based on years of observing average people, often while drinking our pretentious craft beers.
Here are just a few of our recent findings:
• Some beer psychographics you won’t hear about in Advertising Age: Keystone drinkers are 56 percent more likely to need life insurance, nearly 13 percent of PBR drinkers can read and those who drink Guinness are 82 percent more awesome than those who drink all other beers combined.
• Women who bought the “Flirty Girl Fitness” video also purchased Ben-Gay and Ace bandages. (Over 78 percent of people who purchased “Flirty Girl” were actually men in pickups who drink Bud.)
• Those who drive white Ford Explorers with crinkled left front fenders and Michigan plates are six times less likely than people who aren’t INSANE to grasp the concept of “merging” on I-475 this morning. Jerk.
• People who live in glass houses are 97 percent less likely than the average person to throw stones, and nearly 200 percent more likely to buy Windex in the economy size.
We have also discovered that those who answer psychographic research surveys are 75 percent more likely to have nothing better to do but watch Dr. Phil with their cat all day.
The Google tells me that you are currently thinking that our Research Division dropped out of college, which may or may not be true. However, before you dismiss our psychographic analysis, let me just ask you one thing: Where do you think the idea for the Snuggie came from? It’s got Dr. Phil and Fluffy written all over it.
In the interest of fairness, we should point out that our Research Division does like his Heineken.
That’s not all. We also know that people who drink Blue Moon are 105 percent more likely to own a hybrid, Corona drinkers know how to party and those with inflated egos prefer Heineken.
OK, maybe we didn’t need a marketing research company like Mindset Media to tell us that the driver of the pickup with the “Back Off” mud flaps probably isn’t your average Stella Artois sipper. Or that the guy at the bar hugging the green Heinie bottle isn’t as important as he thinks he is.
But did you know that Bud Light drinkers are 48 percent more likely to play the lottery, Michelob Ultra fans are 34 percent more likely to buy life insurance and craft beer drinkers like me are happy-go-lucky slackers who are 52 percent more likely to watch “The Office.”
In case you were wondering.
These and other fascinating facts are examples of what marketing types call “Who gives a…”
No, actually, according to a story in Advertising Age magazine, they call it psychographics. Companies pay lots of money to learn what customers and potential customers are thinking. I’m analyzing your thoughts right now. (You think I’m kidding, but you’re reading this on Blogger, which is owned by Google and The Google knows what you had for breakfast [toast and OJ].)
I’m not sure how they do it over at Mindset Media, but the Research Division here at Carpenter Communications has uncovered some “psychographics” of its own, based on years of observing average people, often while drinking our pretentious craft beers.
Here are just a few of our recent findings:
• Some beer psychographics you won’t hear about in Advertising Age: Keystone drinkers are 56 percent more likely to need life insurance, nearly 13 percent of PBR drinkers can read and those who drink Guinness are 82 percent more awesome than those who drink all other beers combined.
• Women who bought the “Flirty Girl Fitness” video also purchased Ben-Gay and Ace bandages. (Over 78 percent of people who purchased “Flirty Girl” were actually men in pickups who drink Bud.)
• Those who drive white Ford Explorers with crinkled left front fenders and Michigan plates are six times less likely than people who aren’t INSANE to grasp the concept of “merging” on I-475 this morning. Jerk.
• People who live in glass houses are 97 percent less likely than the average person to throw stones, and nearly 200 percent more likely to buy Windex in the economy size.
We have also discovered that those who answer psychographic research surveys are 75 percent more likely to have nothing better to do but watch Dr. Phil with their cat all day.
The Google tells me that you are currently thinking that our Research Division dropped out of college, which may or may not be true. However, before you dismiss our psychographic analysis, let me just ask you one thing: Where do you think the idea for the Snuggie came from? It’s got Dr. Phil and Fluffy written all over it.
In the interest of fairness, we should point out that our Research Division does like his Heineken.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Bigot Justice-Balloon Boy Mashup
Forget Balloon Boy’s parents, I’d like to see a reality show based on the whacky misadventures of the Louisiana justice of the peace who refused to marry an interracial couple out of “concern” for the children they don’t have.
His Honor Keith Bardwell of Tangipahoa Parish said he doesn’t believe he is a racist because, well, for one thing he has had black people in his very own home and even “allowed them to use the bathroom,” for crying out loud!
Vindicated!
Not so fast. Nobody was buying the JP’s BS, and now the ACLU wants him F.I.R.E.D. ASAP.
What shocked me about JP Bardwell’s attempt to defend his actions wasn’t the inherent racism in his “I’m-not-a-racist” reply, or even that a man who thinks like him has held elected office in the United States for more than 30 years.
What shocked me is that Goober has indoor plumbing.
A reality show based on a racist could be enlightening and entertaining at the same time, in a Sammy Davis, Jr.-meets-Archie Bunker kind of way: “In this week’s episode of ‘The JP,’ hilarity ensues when a series of missteps lands Justice Goober at a Lenny Kravitz concert.”
As for Balloon Boy Falcon Heene, now there’s a child of an interracial couple Justice Bardwell can legitimately feel sorry for.
(Extra credit goes to those attentive readers who connected the dots between Archie Bunker and Lenny Kravitz.)
His Honor Keith Bardwell of Tangipahoa Parish said he doesn’t believe he is a racist because, well, for one thing he has had black people in his very own home and even “allowed them to use the bathroom,” for crying out loud!
Vindicated!
Not so fast. Nobody was buying the JP’s BS, and now the ACLU wants him F.I.R.E.D. ASAP.
What shocked me about JP Bardwell’s attempt to defend his actions wasn’t the inherent racism in his “I’m-not-a-racist” reply, or even that a man who thinks like him has held elected office in the United States for more than 30 years.
What shocked me is that Goober has indoor plumbing.
A reality show based on a racist could be enlightening and entertaining at the same time, in a Sammy Davis, Jr.-meets-Archie Bunker kind of way: “In this week’s episode of ‘The JP,’ hilarity ensues when a series of missteps lands Justice Goober at a Lenny Kravitz concert.”
As for Balloon Boy Falcon Heene, now there’s a child of an interracial couple Justice Bardwell can legitimately feel sorry for.
(Extra credit goes to those attentive readers who connected the dots between Archie Bunker and Lenny Kravitz.)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Restaurant Rants: Pass The Ketchup
I put ketchup on eggs. It’s genetic. Anyway, my wife and I were in a restaurant in Tennessee, eating eggs with ketchup, when some kids in the booth behind us gasped, standing on their seats, pointing, and yelled to their parents – and half the restaurant – that a couple of Yankee freaks were putting KETCHUP on their eggs.
Until that point, I did not know I was different. Kids can be so cruel.
I hate stereotyping. But just as I had arrived at the totally unfair conclusion that the ladies in the booth across from me at lunch might have evening jobs that involve poles and bad 80s hair band music, they dumped a paper bag of crinkled dollar bills on the table and started counting them. Then, they began to discuss – loudly and in colorful terms – their pet peeves about their customers, erasing all doubt that I had misunderstood and that they, perhaps, simply worked for a vending company with a very lax dress code.
Fill the ketchup. FILL the KETCHUP! I got so irritated at lunch one day that I collected mostly-empty bottles from six tables, arranged them neatly in a circle on the table next to me, then told the confused waitress when she returned, nonchalantly, “You’re a little low on ketchup.” It was a jerky thing to do, but I’d do it again. I would.
I was in the kind of place that might employ the abovementioned dollar-bill ladies exactly one time in my life (it was a long, long time ago and I was obligated – I was in the wedding party). I spent half the night laying low and the other half chatting with a half-dressed but very sincere waitress about her Comp II class. [I was barely out of college myself, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds.]
Anyway, the perky scholar said, as if embarrassed, that she was not normally a waitress. No, she was a dancer, but she had pulled a hamstring and was on “light duty” that night. It was – in that place, at that time – the single funniest thing I had ever heard, as evidenced by the $12 Bud Light coming out of my nose.
Waitress: “Would you like ketchup for your fries, honey.”
My daughter (about age 3): “Duh!”
Where does she get it?
The older I get, the more insistent I become about two things: If you don’t put the paper on the porch, I’ll read it online and you can just skip my house and credit my account. Likewise, if the salad doesn’t arrive before the main course, then don’t bring it at all. Is that so unreasonable?
And, when the waitress forgets the ketchup with my omelet, and I have to ask for it a second time, throwing off her routine, I will bet you $100 she doesn’t return until my eggs are cold. Guaranteed.
On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the kinds of places where the waitresses anticipate that you might want ketchup with your eggs are the same places you are most likely to find boisterous women counting dollar bills at the next table. Not to stereotype.
Until that point, I did not know I was different. Kids can be so cruel.
I hate stereotyping. But just as I had arrived at the totally unfair conclusion that the ladies in the booth across from me at lunch might have evening jobs that involve poles and bad 80s hair band music, they dumped a paper bag of crinkled dollar bills on the table and started counting them. Then, they began to discuss – loudly and in colorful terms – their pet peeves about their customers, erasing all doubt that I had misunderstood and that they, perhaps, simply worked for a vending company with a very lax dress code.
Fill the ketchup. FILL the KETCHUP! I got so irritated at lunch one day that I collected mostly-empty bottles from six tables, arranged them neatly in a circle on the table next to me, then told the confused waitress when she returned, nonchalantly, “You’re a little low on ketchup.” It was a jerky thing to do, but I’d do it again. I would.
I was in the kind of place that might employ the abovementioned dollar-bill ladies exactly one time in my life (it was a long, long time ago and I was obligated – I was in the wedding party). I spent half the night laying low and the other half chatting with a half-dressed but very sincere waitress about her Comp II class. [I was barely out of college myself, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds.]
Anyway, the perky scholar said, as if embarrassed, that she was not normally a waitress. No, she was a dancer, but she had pulled a hamstring and was on “light duty” that night. It was – in that place, at that time – the single funniest thing I had ever heard, as evidenced by the $12 Bud Light coming out of my nose.
Waitress: “Would you like ketchup for your fries, honey.”
My daughter (about age 3): “Duh!”
Where does she get it?
The older I get, the more insistent I become about two things: If you don’t put the paper on the porch, I’ll read it online and you can just skip my house and credit my account. Likewise, if the salad doesn’t arrive before the main course, then don’t bring it at all. Is that so unreasonable?
And, when the waitress forgets the ketchup with my omelet, and I have to ask for it a second time, throwing off her routine, I will bet you $100 she doesn’t return until my eggs are cold. Guaranteed.
On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the kinds of places where the waitresses anticipate that you might want ketchup with your eggs are the same places you are most likely to find boisterous women counting dollar bills at the next table. Not to stereotype.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Letters No. 1
Dear Faceless Corporation,
I am in receipt of your letter dated September 29, 2009. Is this some kind of freaking joke? Seriously, who taught you people how to write?
According to your correspondence, I am either A) about to be evicted or, B) nominated for a Nobel Prize. It was unclear. I’m sure even you can understand why this might concern me.
Why not save a few trees and just say what's on your mind. I don’t think either of us wants me to call your 1-800 number for clarification, getting angrier and angrier as your auto-attendant system transfers me seven times before delivering me – now cranked up to a homicidal rage – to YOU. Do we?
Here's a little free advice about how to structure future letters.
1) Tell me first what happened or what is going to happen, and what it means to me.
Example: “The house is on fire. You are in danger. “
2) Tell me, very clearly, what you want me to do, or what my options are.
Example: “Run.”
3) Would it kill you to pretend to care?
4) Grovel, deflect blame, cover your ass – whatever you need to do – only after telling me what I need to know-slash-do. This is less important because I’m probably not going to read it, anyway, but if it makes you feel better, knock yourself out.
I hope this letter was helpful. I value our relationship. OK, I was kidding around there; we don’t have a relationship.
Love,
Scott
Dear Acer Group, Inc.,
I'm typing this letter on one of your Acer POS netbooks, which are really cute, but...
I'm sure you know by now that the unfortunate clustering of the arrow/Pg Up/Pg Dn/Home/End keys was not the smartest idea you ever had. Right? So, I don't have to tell you.
Still, I was wondering: does your 90-day warranty cover the replacement cost of my picture window?
Luv U Bunches,
Scott
Let me put something out there, just for discussion, that might help prevent further damage to your personal brand. Just to think about. You might - I think you know I'm just looking out for your best interest here - you might not want to cheat on your wife with subordinates less than half your age. Just a suggestion. I may be wrong.
Keep your World Wide Pants on, Dave, LOL. (You can use that one if you want to.)
Scott
Dear President Ahmadinejad,
The new suits look good, Mahmoud. Didn’t you get the tie I sent?
Say, you might want to lighten up a little over there. Just sayin’. The rocket thing – not cool. People are already pissed about the election.
You know I’m always straight with you, bro. That whole “the holocaust never happened” thing is a little out there. People don’t always get you.
Still up for some beer pong on Thursday?
Call/text.
Scott
Dear Glenn Beck,
The gargoyle in the red hat will emerge from the lagoon on Labor Day. Please send sardines.
Keep your head down, dude. We’re praying for you.
FreakyFreddy57@AOL.com
Dear Mr. Wldozskiwicz,
Thank you for your recent letter. We here at Carpenter Communications place great value on the input we receive from stakeholders such as you.
Our Engineering Dept. is checking into the physical feasibility of your suggestion about what we can do with our “juvenile/elitist/communist drivel.” The sketches you sent were very helpful.
Get well soon,
Scott
I am in receipt of your letter dated September 29, 2009. Is this some kind of freaking joke? Seriously, who taught you people how to write?
According to your correspondence, I am either A) about to be evicted or, B) nominated for a Nobel Prize. It was unclear. I’m sure even you can understand why this might concern me.
Why not save a few trees and just say what's on your mind. I don’t think either of us wants me to call your 1-800 number for clarification, getting angrier and angrier as your auto-attendant system transfers me seven times before delivering me – now cranked up to a homicidal rage – to YOU. Do we?
Here's a little free advice about how to structure future letters.
1) Tell me first what happened or what is going to happen, and what it means to me.
Example: “The house is on fire. You are in danger. “
2) Tell me, very clearly, what you want me to do, or what my options are.
Example: “Run.”
3) Would it kill you to pretend to care?
4) Grovel, deflect blame, cover your ass – whatever you need to do – only after telling me what I need to know-slash-do. This is less important because I’m probably not going to read it, anyway, but if it makes you feel better, knock yourself out.
I hope this letter was helpful. I value our relationship. OK, I was kidding around there; we don’t have a relationship.
Love,
Scott
# # #
Dear Acer Group, Inc.,
I'm typing this letter on one of your Acer POS netbooks, which are really cute, but...
I'm sure you know by now that the unfortunate clustering of the arrow/Pg Up/Pg Dn/Home/End keys was not the smartest idea you ever had. Right? So, I don't have to tell you.
Still, I was wondering: does your 90-day warranty cover the replacement cost of my picture window?
Luv U Bunches,
Scott
# # #
Dear David Letterman,
As a public relations professional, I’d just like to tell you what a great job you’ve done handling you’re recent image problem. Telling your audience about the blackmail and the underlying affairs so they would hear the news from you first was a smart move. Poking fun at yourself was very effective, too (careful not to overdo it!).
Let me put something out there, just for discussion, that might help prevent further damage to your personal brand. Just to think about. You might - I think you know I'm just looking out for your best interest here - you might not want to cheat on your wife with subordinates less than half your age. Just a suggestion. I may be wrong.
Keep your World Wide Pants on, Dave, LOL. (You can use that one if you want to.)
Scott
# # #
Dear President Ahmadinejad,
The new suits look good, Mahmoud. Didn’t you get the tie I sent?
Say, you might want to lighten up a little over there. Just sayin’. The rocket thing – not cool. People are already pissed about the election.
You know I’m always straight with you, bro. That whole “the holocaust never happened” thing is a little out there. People don’t always get you.
Still up for some beer pong on Thursday?
Call/text.
Scott
# # #
Dear Glenn Beck,
The gargoyle in the red hat will emerge from the lagoon on Labor Day. Please send sardines.
Keep your head down, dude. We’re praying for you.
FreakyFreddy57@AOL.com
# # #
Dear Mr. Wldozskiwicz,
Thank you for your recent letter. We here at Carpenter Communications place great value on the input we receive from stakeholders such as you.
Our Engineering Dept. is checking into the physical feasibility of your suggestion about what we can do with our “juvenile/elitist/communist drivel.” The sketches you sent were very helpful.
Get well soon,
Scott
Friday, October 09, 2009
Gun Racks And Sweater Vests
I lead a pretty stable, suburban 9-to-5, cranky-middle-aged-male kind of life. Mow the lawn on the weekends, wear my slippers to the gas station, talk back to the news and complain about the neighbor who always BANGS THE DAMN GATE when he comes and goes UPTEEN TIMES A NIGHT.
But I also live distinctly different, simultaneous lives, the inhabitants of which do not know about each other.
In one life, I hang with cigar-chomping outdoor types who fish, hunt, swear and complain about the government.
In another life, I consort with people who ride bikes, spout Latin names for flowers, drive hours in their hybrid cars to look at birds and, well, complain about the government.
Writers, truck drivers, lawyers, factory workers, a surprisingly large number of nurses, students, teachers, retirees; health nuts and fat guys; Catholics, Jews, Methodists, agnostics (an evangelical or two, maybe an atheist in the mix); black, white, Latino, Middle Eastern (mental note: make more Asian friends); hopelessly optimistic and irreparably cynical. From gun racks to sweater vests, my circle of friends and acquaintances covers the range from redneck to erudite.
It’s all one life to me, but it does amuse me to think of a house party where all my Facebook/Twitter/Linkedin friends meet each other for the first time.
(The closest I’ve ever come to such an eclectic gathering was the surprise birthday party my wife threw for me in which members of my extended family mingled with my coworkers in a surreal scene that reminded me of the Country Music Awards.)
I’m sure such a party would go OK. My friends are a polite bunch. And I like to think we could find some common ground.
Most of my friends love the outdoors, to some degree. Some call themselves “environmentalists,” a term that would make others cringe. So, let’s just say we’re all conservationists. Agreed?
The government. OK, we all hate the government, except, of course when the government’s doing what we want it to do, like picking up our trash or saving our lives or giving someone else a ticket. I think if we just talk about “the government” without partisan labels, we’ll be fine.
Abortion? No middle ground there. But why would that come up?
Puppies! Pretty sure all my friends like puppies.
Race? Religion? Racists aren’t welcome in any my lives or my house, and I think all my friends, religious and non-religious, are pretty tolerant grownups. No problems anticipated there.
The beer/wine, carnivore/veg-head factions will self-select and pick neutral corners. No intervention needed on my part.
That just leaves healthcare reform and immigration. Those could be tough. Better steer the Glenn Beck fans to the basement and the Rachel Maddow crowd to the kitchen. The Lou Dobbs folks are on their own. If there’s a Michael Savage fan in the crowd, he can stay out in the yard because nobody will know what the hell he’s talking about, anyway.
OK, I think we can make this work. As long as nobody brings up concealed carry laws or gay marriage, in which case, I’m changing the subject to puppies.
But I also live distinctly different, simultaneous lives, the inhabitants of which do not know about each other.
In one life, I hang with cigar-chomping outdoor types who fish, hunt, swear and complain about the government.
In another life, I consort with people who ride bikes, spout Latin names for flowers, drive hours in their hybrid cars to look at birds and, well, complain about the government.
Writers, truck drivers, lawyers, factory workers, a surprisingly large number of nurses, students, teachers, retirees; health nuts and fat guys; Catholics, Jews, Methodists, agnostics (an evangelical or two, maybe an atheist in the mix); black, white, Latino, Middle Eastern (mental note: make more Asian friends); hopelessly optimistic and irreparably cynical. From gun racks to sweater vests, my circle of friends and acquaintances covers the range from redneck to erudite.
It’s all one life to me, but it does amuse me to think of a house party where all my Facebook/Twitter/Linkedin friends meet each other for the first time.
(The closest I’ve ever come to such an eclectic gathering was the surprise birthday party my wife threw for me in which members of my extended family mingled with my coworkers in a surreal scene that reminded me of the Country Music Awards.)
I’m sure such a party would go OK. My friends are a polite bunch. And I like to think we could find some common ground.
Most of my friends love the outdoors, to some degree. Some call themselves “environmentalists,” a term that would make others cringe. So, let’s just say we’re all conservationists. Agreed?
The government. OK, we all hate the government, except, of course when the government’s doing what we want it to do, like picking up our trash or saving our lives or giving someone else a ticket. I think if we just talk about “the government” without partisan labels, we’ll be fine.
Abortion? No middle ground there. But why would that come up?
Puppies! Pretty sure all my friends like puppies.
Race? Religion? Racists aren’t welcome in any my lives or my house, and I think all my friends, religious and non-religious, are pretty tolerant grownups. No problems anticipated there.
The beer/wine, carnivore/veg-head factions will self-select and pick neutral corners. No intervention needed on my part.
That just leaves healthcare reform and immigration. Those could be tough. Better steer the Glenn Beck fans to the basement and the Rachel Maddow crowd to the kitchen. The Lou Dobbs folks are on their own. If there’s a Michael Savage fan in the crowd, he can stay out in the yard because nobody will know what the hell he’s talking about, anyway.
OK, I think we can make this work. As long as nobody brings up concealed carry laws or gay marriage, in which case, I’m changing the subject to puppies.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Homecoming
About this time last year, our youngest daughter was attending her last homecoming dance in the high school gymnasium.
About this time 19 years ago we were a few weeks away from being parents for the second time, three years after the first time.
About this time 23 years ago – exactly 23 years ago this Saturday – Beth and I were walking down the aisle without much of a plan, or much of anything else.
About this time a few years earlier, it was us going to the homecoming dance in the same high school gym, dancing (strangely enough) to the same, lame Journey songs.
There were bad times. I don’t recall the details or the dates. But I remember the smallest things about the best times, like how something new and wonderful always seemed to enter the picture just when we needed it to.
Right on cue, about this time next year our oldest daughter will be a mom herself, planning for our first grandchild’s first Christmas.
This time 23 years from now, who knows. We still don’t have much of a plan. But we have something better – a history.
Happy anniversary to us.
About this time 19 years ago we were a few weeks away from being parents for the second time, three years after the first time.
About this time 23 years ago – exactly 23 years ago this Saturday – Beth and I were walking down the aisle without much of a plan, or much of anything else.
About this time a few years earlier, it was us going to the homecoming dance in the same high school gym, dancing (strangely enough) to the same, lame Journey songs.
There were bad times. I don’t recall the details or the dates. But I remember the smallest things about the best times, like how something new and wonderful always seemed to enter the picture just when we needed it to.
Right on cue, about this time next year our oldest daughter will be a mom herself, planning for our first grandchild’s first Christmas.
This time 23 years from now, who knows. We still don’t have much of a plan. But we have something better – a history.
Happy anniversary to us.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Notebook
I couldn’t decide whether to write about politics, religion or my cat, Tiger, an evangelical right-winger (unlike Maggie, our agnostic Labrador retriever, who leans Libertarian. Yea, it’s like Animal Farm at our house.). Then I decided sex was a much safer topic for my second official blog post.
But THEN, I had a REALLY great idea to write about… ANYTHING else, comically using uppercase words.
So, what follows is a complete list of incomplete thoughts I’ve been writing down in an actual notebook. Some topics may be developed into full-fledged posts of their own in the future, but most will not, for reasons that will be obvious. Enjoy.
Hi, I’m An Egotistical Slacker
Hi, I’m a Mac. I live with my parents, and I’m much cooler than you.
And I’m a PC. I just repoed Mac’s car.
Cleanup In Aisle B
My first paying job, when I was about 14, was handing out cheese samples in grocery stores (colby, mostly), so I’m more than qualified to offer advice to the grocery industry. Two words: Alphabetical aisles. No more guessing where to find tangerines, just go to the T aisle, between taco shells and toenail clippers. Simple! Once I figure out what to do with ketchup, I think the Kroger people are going to be very interested in talking to me.
Fancy Footwork
Tom DeLay is on Dancing with the Stars. Next season: Michael Vick dances the merengue with Squeaky Fromme.
Amped Up
Where the hell is the ampersand? Blackberry users, you know what I’m talkin’ about.
Bringing Bitchy Back
“Son of a bitch” is a phrase that’s due to make a big comeback.
Bedder Marketing
Speaking of sex, how can it be that sex is used to sell everything except beds? Why is there no Love Lounger, no Babymaker, no Nooner hide-a-bed? Too obvious? Get real. We have cartoon bears selling toilet paper that doesn’t leave “pieces”; I think the S.S Decency set sail a long time ago. So, how long before we start seeing commercials for the Craftmatic Coitus, the Position Number Bed or the BoinkMaster 9000?
Fashion Nonsense
I have never seen anyone in Walmart wearing a zebra print Snuggie and Crocks flip-flops, but I will. Mark my words, I will.
A Dream Come True
I have been DYING to use “BoinkMaster 9000” in a story since the 8th grade!
But THEN, I had a REALLY great idea to write about… ANYTHING else, comically using uppercase words.
So, what follows is a complete list of incomplete thoughts I’ve been writing down in an actual notebook. Some topics may be developed into full-fledged posts of their own in the future, but most will not, for reasons that will be obvious. Enjoy.
Hi, I’m An Egotistical Slacker
Hi, I’m a Mac. I live with my parents, and I’m much cooler than you.
And I’m a PC. I just repoed Mac’s car.
Cleanup In Aisle B
My first paying job, when I was about 14, was handing out cheese samples in grocery stores (colby, mostly), so I’m more than qualified to offer advice to the grocery industry. Two words: Alphabetical aisles. No more guessing where to find tangerines, just go to the T aisle, between taco shells and toenail clippers. Simple! Once I figure out what to do with ketchup, I think the Kroger people are going to be very interested in talking to me.
Fancy Footwork
Tom DeLay is on Dancing with the Stars. Next season: Michael Vick dances the merengue with Squeaky Fromme.
Amped Up
Where the hell is the ampersand? Blackberry users, you know what I’m talkin’ about.
Bringing Bitchy Back
“Son of a bitch” is a phrase that’s due to make a big comeback.
Bedder Marketing
Speaking of sex, how can it be that sex is used to sell everything except beds? Why is there no Love Lounger, no Babymaker, no Nooner hide-a-bed? Too obvious? Get real. We have cartoon bears selling toilet paper that doesn’t leave “pieces”; I think the S.S Decency set sail a long time ago. So, how long before we start seeing commercials for the Craftmatic Coitus, the Position Number Bed or the BoinkMaster 9000?
Fashion Nonsense
I have never seen anyone in Walmart wearing a zebra print Snuggie and Crocks flip-flops, but I will. Mark my words, I will.
A Dream Come True
I have been DYING to use “BoinkMaster 9000” in a story since the 8th grade!
This Is My Blog
This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
Blogs are narcissistic and lame. Nobody cares what I think. And writing is not something that relaxes me.
So, to prove a long-standing theory – that writers just aren’t that bright – I’m starting a new blog. How do you like it so far?
A writer writing for fun is like a phlebotomist drawing blood at home on the weekend. Actually, drawing blood is a good analogy. Writing, for me, has never been something I did because I wanted to, but because I have to. It’s what I do.
Not to get all Chicken Soup for the Gag Reflex on you, but writers write, just as people who fix things can’t walk past a broken handle without reaching for one of those tools that tightens screws (a screwtightener?).
IE: I can’t help myself.
Writing is natural, if not healthy. It is the source of my anxiety and at least partly to blame for my lack of hair and excess of girth. The last thing I need to do more of is writing. If you are reading this, thanks a hell of a lot for enabling my self-destructive behavior.
So, I’m writing a blog. I’ll write every day unless I don’t feel like it, which I probably won’t, and unless you’re sending me checks, just get off my back about that. Like mowing the lawn and regular visits to my doctor, I’ll get to it when I get to it.
Two things:
The name of the blog is Carpcom. Ostensibly, Carpcom stands for Carpenter Communications. If you don’t like it, make me an offer for naming rights or go back to playing Farmville on Facebook.
Also, I’ve posted some essays under Old Stuff. These are, well, old stuff I’ve written over the years. Most of them were first published in newspapers back when newspapers paid me money to fill whitespace. I’m just narcissistic enough to think that someone might like to read them.
Blogs are narcissistic and lame. Nobody cares what I think. And writing is not something that relaxes me.
So, to prove a long-standing theory – that writers just aren’t that bright – I’m starting a new blog. How do you like it so far?
A writer writing for fun is like a phlebotomist drawing blood at home on the weekend. Actually, drawing blood is a good analogy. Writing, for me, has never been something I did because I wanted to, but because I have to. It’s what I do.
Not to get all Chicken Soup for the Gag Reflex on you, but writers write, just as people who fix things can’t walk past a broken handle without reaching for one of those tools that tightens screws (a screwtightener?).
IE: I can’t help myself.
Writing is natural, if not healthy. It is the source of my anxiety and at least partly to blame for my lack of hair and excess of girth. The last thing I need to do more of is writing. If you are reading this, thanks a hell of a lot for enabling my self-destructive behavior.
So, I’m writing a blog. I’ll write every day unless I don’t feel like it, which I probably won’t, and unless you’re sending me checks, just get off my back about that. Like mowing the lawn and regular visits to my doctor, I’ll get to it when I get to it.
Two things:
The name of the blog is Carpcom. Ostensibly, Carpcom stands for Carpenter Communications. If you don’t like it, make me an offer for naming rights or go back to playing Farmville on Facebook.
Also, I’ve posted some essays under Old Stuff. These are, well, old stuff I’ve written over the years. Most of them were first published in newspapers back when newspapers paid me money to fill whitespace. I’m just narcissistic enough to think that someone might like to read them.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Magic Day For Dad, Daughter
(First published about 1996 in a Port Clinton, Ohio, newspaper.)
Rachel's reluctance grew more noticeable as the boat picked up speed at the mouth of the Grand River.
She didn't say anything, but having been nine once myself, I could guess what she was thinking.
How much faster will this boat go?
Will I have to put those minnows on the hook by myself?
Are those doughnuts for anybody?
It was our first real fishing trip, just the two of us. There had been other outings, but her little sister, Lauren, and their mom were always along. You know.
The week before we had such a trip at Mallard Lake at Oak Openings Preserve Metropark near our Toledo, Ohio home. The girls fished for bluegill with tiny hooks stabbed into bread balls. Rachel, our oldest, concentrated as if she were performing surgery, but without success. Lauren, her carefree sister, effortlessly reeled in a carp the size of a football, then spent the rest of the night rubbing it in, in that sing-song six-year-old way that drives big sisters to the brink of violence.
Leaving the Grand River in our wake as we headed for the horizon on Lake Erie's central basin, it was already clear this trip was different for both of us. It was a real fishing trip on a real boat on the big lake – no bread balls or bratty sisters, just dad, some chewable Dramamine and high expectations.
I didn't grow up in an outdoors kind of family. My dad wasn't a fisherman. Still, when he noticed my interest in it he made sure I had the opportunity and a pushbutton Zebco 33 fishing reel. Today, I am in a better position than he was to pass on a pastime that will last a lifetime.
As a family, we have taken the same approach to hiking and camping – making new traditions, hoping we are instilling in our daughters the appreciation for the outdoors my wife, Beth, and I discovered more or less on our own.
We traveled Lake Erie from Toledo to Buffalo, Point Pelee to Put-in-Bay while I was doing research for a book. We spent whole weeks exploring the western shore of Lake Michigan, Kentucky hill country, and a plateau in Tennessee.
It isn't always easy, but the effort will be worth it one day, we tell ourselves. Pit toilets and mosquito bites are small prices to pay for memories of campfires and waterfalls.
I hoped the outing at Grand River would be for Rachel one of those memorable experiences like my first real fishing trip on the Maumee River in Toledo with a friend and his stepfather when I was about 12. I borrowed the waders and an Eagle Claw fishing rod that my friend gave me a couple years later when his step-dad, Ray, passed away.
I landed at least a couple dozen white bass in a couple hours that day, probably 20 more fish than I ever caught in a single fishing trip up to that point. It was one of those magic days – the first for me – that keep a fisherman coming back.
Whether we're camping, hiking, fishing or attempting any other family outdoor pursuit, we are seeking just such magic moments. Limit catches that make up for being skunked the weekend before. An unexpected panoramic view of the lake that compensates for the campground that looks nothing like the brochure promised. A pizza place or movie theater that appears out of nowhere just about the time it starts to downpour.
When our boat finally stopped an hour after leaving the dock at Grand River, Rachel swung the Eagle Claw rod over the side, pressed the button on the Zebco 33 and plunked the spreader into Lake Erie.
The first fish was exciting, but the double she caught on the next cast was the magic moment, for her and for me. Two fat fish dangling from the end of one line!
The story she wrote for a fourth grade class assignment talked about how she caught more fish than her dad that day – 12 or 15 or 17, I think. The number of fish, like the size, grows each time she tells the story.
Another outdoorsman – maybe even another outdoor writer – was born.
[Update: Rachel is now married and expecting her own child, who I'm expecting to take fishing in the years ahead.]
Rachel's reluctance grew more noticeable as the boat picked up speed at the mouth of the Grand River.
She didn't say anything, but having been nine once myself, I could guess what she was thinking.
How much faster will this boat go?
Will I have to put those minnows on the hook by myself?
Are those doughnuts for anybody?
It was our first real fishing trip, just the two of us. There had been other outings, but her little sister, Lauren, and their mom were always along. You know.
The week before we had such a trip at Mallard Lake at Oak Openings Preserve Metropark near our Toledo, Ohio home. The girls fished for bluegill with tiny hooks stabbed into bread balls. Rachel, our oldest, concentrated as if she were performing surgery, but without success. Lauren, her carefree sister, effortlessly reeled in a carp the size of a football, then spent the rest of the night rubbing it in, in that sing-song six-year-old way that drives big sisters to the brink of violence.
Leaving the Grand River in our wake as we headed for the horizon on Lake Erie's central basin, it was already clear this trip was different for both of us. It was a real fishing trip on a real boat on the big lake – no bread balls or bratty sisters, just dad, some chewable Dramamine and high expectations.
I didn't grow up in an outdoors kind of family. My dad wasn't a fisherman. Still, when he noticed my interest in it he made sure I had the opportunity and a pushbutton Zebco 33 fishing reel. Today, I am in a better position than he was to pass on a pastime that will last a lifetime.
As a family, we have taken the same approach to hiking and camping – making new traditions, hoping we are instilling in our daughters the appreciation for the outdoors my wife, Beth, and I discovered more or less on our own.
We traveled Lake Erie from Toledo to Buffalo, Point Pelee to Put-in-Bay while I was doing research for a book. We spent whole weeks exploring the western shore of Lake Michigan, Kentucky hill country, and a plateau in Tennessee.
It isn't always easy, but the effort will be worth it one day, we tell ourselves. Pit toilets and mosquito bites are small prices to pay for memories of campfires and waterfalls.
I hoped the outing at Grand River would be for Rachel one of those memorable experiences like my first real fishing trip on the Maumee River in Toledo with a friend and his stepfather when I was about 12. I borrowed the waders and an Eagle Claw fishing rod that my friend gave me a couple years later when his step-dad, Ray, passed away.
I landed at least a couple dozen white bass in a couple hours that day, probably 20 more fish than I ever caught in a single fishing trip up to that point. It was one of those magic days – the first for me – that keep a fisherman coming back.
Whether we're camping, hiking, fishing or attempting any other family outdoor pursuit, we are seeking just such magic moments. Limit catches that make up for being skunked the weekend before. An unexpected panoramic view of the lake that compensates for the campground that looks nothing like the brochure promised. A pizza place or movie theater that appears out of nowhere just about the time it starts to downpour.
When our boat finally stopped an hour after leaving the dock at Grand River, Rachel swung the Eagle Claw rod over the side, pressed the button on the Zebco 33 and plunked the spreader into Lake Erie.
The first fish was exciting, but the double she caught on the next cast was the magic moment, for her and for me. Two fat fish dangling from the end of one line!
The story she wrote for a fourth grade class assignment talked about how she caught more fish than her dad that day – 12 or 15 or 17, I think. The number of fish, like the size, grows each time she tells the story.
Another outdoorsman – maybe even another outdoor writer – was born.
[Update: Rachel is now married and expecting her own child, who I'm expecting to take fishing in the years ahead.]
Brushing Up On Oral Care Options
(Never before published)
The oral hygiene industry is on the verge of what may be the most significant advancement in dental care since the discovery of "Retsin": The $5 toothbrush.
If you haven't visited the oral care section of your local supermarket lately - and what better time than February, National Dental Month - you would be amazed at the variety of products available to you, the consumer with yellow teeth.
Thanks to recent scientific breakthroughs in marketing, toothbrushes are now available with more options than most minivans, with sticker prices to match. You can spend up to $4.99 for luxury models, excluding options and destination charges.
The current BMW of brushes comes with "cross action" bristles, a "patented power cleaning tip," flexible head and an angled handle with rubber grip. It is available in approximately 47 color schemes, plus the "Blue's Clue's" edition for the kids.
How much would you pay now?
But wait! As a bonus, you also get a color "indicator" stripe that gradually fades to alert you that you are too stupid to figure out for yourself when it's time to buy a new brush.
Better stores carry the left-handed model.
These new, space-age toothbrushes promise cleaner, healthier teeth in just a few weeks when used as part of an oral care regimen that includes a tarter control, whitening toothpaste with baking soda, a plaque remover, fluoride rinse, antiseptic mouthwash and weekly visits to your dentist.
For problem teeth, there's "age-defying," peroxide, natural, enamel-strengthening, nighttime and "sensitive" toothpaste. And don't forget the flat, waxed, mint-flavored, shred-resistant and new "satin" floss.
But what do I do to prevent tooth decay between brushing, rinsing, flossing and reading the July 1994 issue of Time in my dentist's waiting room, you ask? Well, unless you are a slacker, you chew one of the new dental care gums on the market, which contain the same active ingredient used in cat box deodorizer.
I know what you're thinking. Cavity prevention didn't used to be this difficult. All you needed was the free brush your dentist gave you and a little dab of Pepsident and you were good to go. But that was before the invention of plaque, gingivitis and morning breath. So, unless you'd rather be using Poly-Grip, you had better put your money where your mouth is.
Sure, you can clean your teeth with a $1.99 brush, but one of those new high-tech toothbrushes would look much cooler in your Tommy Hilfiger designer toothbrush holder, which I actually saw for sale at Dillards during the holidays.
More to the point, I have proof that these fancy new toothbrushes really work. It says so in scientific papers with actual names such as "Plaque Removal Efficacy of a Novel, Advanced Toothbrush" and "Grip Architecture in Manual Toothbrushing." These and other compelling articles ("Perceptual Attributes of Flossing" is a real page-turner) are available on the Oral-B Laboratories web page.
Oral-B has the bragging rights to the current, state-of-the-art dental care device, the "CrossAction" toothbrush. According to the web site, the company spent three years, filed 26 patents and invested $70 million in a new manufacturing facility to develop this "bold departure from traditional vertical-bristle toothbrush design."
(You can learn a lot about dental care on the Internet. For example, the web site for Pearl Drops, the whitening tooth polish, has a "Guide to Better Kissing," a game called "Check Your Love Pulse" and a quiz to test your "carnal knowledge." Pearl Drops, incidentally, is sold by the same company that makes such brand names as Trojan and First Response, so you might say they have all the bases covered.)
Of course, as with most consumer products, the key to success is giving the consumer the most effective product for the greatest value, right? Don't be silly. The most important thing is having a great name. I'm partial to the Colegate "Navigator," which implies that it is a rugged, American-made luxury sport-utility toothbrush.
I would be remiss if I did not mention two other recent advancements in oral healthcare: The battery-powered toothbrush and a power flossing device that is basically a power drill with a piece of string clenched in the chuck - the manly way to floss.
With all of these new products competing for our dental dollars, I worry about where this oral hygiene arms race will lead. It's only a matter of time before the boys in R & D get together, probably over beer, and wonder why they never thought to combine the battery-power and "indicator stripe" technology, with a microchip thrown in.
Introducing the new "Tartar Terminator," the first toothbrush that not only sandblasts the crud off your teeth, but sends you a "tweet" to remind you when it's time to buy a replacement. Only $19.95
The oral hygiene industry is on the verge of what may be the most significant advancement in dental care since the discovery of "Retsin": The $5 toothbrush.
If you haven't visited the oral care section of your local supermarket lately - and what better time than February, National Dental Month - you would be amazed at the variety of products available to you, the consumer with yellow teeth.
Thanks to recent scientific breakthroughs in marketing, toothbrushes are now available with more options than most minivans, with sticker prices to match. You can spend up to $4.99 for luxury models, excluding options and destination charges.
The current BMW of brushes comes with "cross action" bristles, a "patented power cleaning tip," flexible head and an angled handle with rubber grip. It is available in approximately 47 color schemes, plus the "Blue's Clue's" edition for the kids.
How much would you pay now?
But wait! As a bonus, you also get a color "indicator" stripe that gradually fades to alert you that you are too stupid to figure out for yourself when it's time to buy a new brush.
Better stores carry the left-handed model.
These new, space-age toothbrushes promise cleaner, healthier teeth in just a few weeks when used as part of an oral care regimen that includes a tarter control, whitening toothpaste with baking soda, a plaque remover, fluoride rinse, antiseptic mouthwash and weekly visits to your dentist.
For problem teeth, there's "age-defying," peroxide, natural, enamel-strengthening, nighttime and "sensitive" toothpaste. And don't forget the flat, waxed, mint-flavored, shred-resistant and new "satin" floss.
But what do I do to prevent tooth decay between brushing, rinsing, flossing and reading the July 1994 issue of Time in my dentist's waiting room, you ask? Well, unless you are a slacker, you chew one of the new dental care gums on the market, which contain the same active ingredient used in cat box deodorizer.
I know what you're thinking. Cavity prevention didn't used to be this difficult. All you needed was the free brush your dentist gave you and a little dab of Pepsident and you were good to go. But that was before the invention of plaque, gingivitis and morning breath. So, unless you'd rather be using Poly-Grip, you had better put your money where your mouth is.
Sure, you can clean your teeth with a $1.99 brush, but one of those new high-tech toothbrushes would look much cooler in your Tommy Hilfiger designer toothbrush holder, which I actually saw for sale at Dillards during the holidays.
More to the point, I have proof that these fancy new toothbrushes really work. It says so in scientific papers with actual names such as "Plaque Removal Efficacy of a Novel, Advanced Toothbrush" and "Grip Architecture in Manual Toothbrushing." These and other compelling articles ("Perceptual Attributes of Flossing" is a real page-turner) are available on the Oral-B Laboratories web page.
Oral-B has the bragging rights to the current, state-of-the-art dental care device, the "CrossAction" toothbrush. According to the web site, the company spent three years, filed 26 patents and invested $70 million in a new manufacturing facility to develop this "bold departure from traditional vertical-bristle toothbrush design."
(You can learn a lot about dental care on the Internet. For example, the web site for Pearl Drops, the whitening tooth polish, has a "Guide to Better Kissing," a game called "Check Your Love Pulse" and a quiz to test your "carnal knowledge." Pearl Drops, incidentally, is sold by the same company that makes such brand names as Trojan and First Response, so you might say they have all the bases covered.)
Of course, as with most consumer products, the key to success is giving the consumer the most effective product for the greatest value, right? Don't be silly. The most important thing is having a great name. I'm partial to the Colegate "Navigator," which implies that it is a rugged, American-made luxury sport-utility toothbrush.
I would be remiss if I did not mention two other recent advancements in oral healthcare: The battery-powered toothbrush and a power flossing device that is basically a power drill with a piece of string clenched in the chuck - the manly way to floss.
With all of these new products competing for our dental dollars, I worry about where this oral hygiene arms race will lead. It's only a matter of time before the boys in R & D get together, probably over beer, and wonder why they never thought to combine the battery-power and "indicator stripe" technology, with a microchip thrown in.
Introducing the new "Tartar Terminator," the first toothbrush that not only sandblasts the crud off your teeth, but sends you a "tweet" to remind you when it's time to buy a replacement. Only $19.95
Why Disguise The Size Of The Fries?
(Previously published in The Blade)
Where was I?
Did I slack off on my reading? Miss a meeting? A memo? Or did they do away with the medium order of french fries when I was on vacation?
Maybe there never was a medium order of fries, I used to wonder. Maybe the good people at McDonald's have been humoring me all these years.
But now I see it for what it really is - a cruel hoax perpetrated on the American people.
Sometime during the first Clinton Administration fast food restaurants secretly removed "medium" from their menus. It might have been part of NAFTA.
Exhibit A: McDonalds still has three sizes of fries, but medium isn't one of them. There's "small," which is a little envelope containing approximately six fries; "large," which is, well, large; and "Super Size," a cardboard packing crate stuffed with enough deep-fried potatoes to feed both houses of the Idaho state legislature.
Exhibit B: It isn't just the fries. Order a large Diet Coke and you'll get something resembling a paint bucket with a straw hole in the lid.
It's the same at Wendy's, which even came up with a slick, Madison Avenue name to sell its larger than large portion. They call it a "Biggie."
You can see what's going on here. Fast food franchises are systematically reducing the menu options until one size fits all and that size is extra large. It's the same marketing strategy used by the women's apparel industry, only in reverse.
Exhibit 3: Drive-thru jockeys are a little too defensive when confronted about the matter.
"We don't have medium fries," they scold through the speaker, leaving you twisting in the wind, searching for the right reply as the lineup of cars behind you wraps around the building, spilling out into rush hour traffic.
Apparently, it's written in the McDonald's training manual: "Patrons failing to utilize the correct vernacular when requesting the portion of french fried potatoes they desire should be instructed to rephrase their order and ask again, nicely."
The kindly drive-thru attendant usually puts it more succinctly: "Do you see medium fries on the menu, Einstein?"
"I'll take the middle one," I like to say, refusing to bow to their arrogance.
Obviously, some consumer protection legislation is called for here. We have laws defining what constitutes a loaf of bread, a cord of firewood and the cubic yards of mulch sold at corner gas stations, but you won't find a county auditor's seal on french fries. No sir. The french fry lobby is much too powerful.
Get "Dateline NBC" on the phone! ("French fries: They're America's Side Dish. But is someone playing fast and loose with your fast food? Stone Phillips uncovers the greasy details in this story we call, `You Want Fries With That?'")
If they dig deep enough, I think they'll prove another theory I have about the fast food industry. I suspect the voice on the drive-thru speaker is actually an operator at a switchboard in Oak Brook, Ill., who takes your order, types it into a master computer, then forwards the message via the Internet to the lady at the next window.
How else do you explain the indifferent teen in the headphones trying to serve you a piece of pie and a vanilla shake for breakfast? One wrong keystroke at Mission Control and some guy in Appleton, Wisconsin is pulling away with your McNuggets and Sprite.
If that sounds too bizarre to be true I've got two words for you: "Breakfast Burrito."
Where was I?
Did I slack off on my reading? Miss a meeting? A memo? Or did they do away with the medium order of french fries when I was on vacation?
Maybe there never was a medium order of fries, I used to wonder. Maybe the good people at McDonald's have been humoring me all these years.
But now I see it for what it really is - a cruel hoax perpetrated on the American people.
Sometime during the first Clinton Administration fast food restaurants secretly removed "medium" from their menus. It might have been part of NAFTA.
Exhibit A: McDonalds still has three sizes of fries, but medium isn't one of them. There's "small," which is a little envelope containing approximately six fries; "large," which is, well, large; and "Super Size," a cardboard packing crate stuffed with enough deep-fried potatoes to feed both houses of the Idaho state legislature.
Exhibit B: It isn't just the fries. Order a large Diet Coke and you'll get something resembling a paint bucket with a straw hole in the lid.
It's the same at Wendy's, which even came up with a slick, Madison Avenue name to sell its larger than large portion. They call it a "Biggie."
You can see what's going on here. Fast food franchises are systematically reducing the menu options until one size fits all and that size is extra large. It's the same marketing strategy used by the women's apparel industry, only in reverse.
Exhibit 3: Drive-thru jockeys are a little too defensive when confronted about the matter.
"We don't have medium fries," they scold through the speaker, leaving you twisting in the wind, searching for the right reply as the lineup of cars behind you wraps around the building, spilling out into rush hour traffic.
Apparently, it's written in the McDonald's training manual: "Patrons failing to utilize the correct vernacular when requesting the portion of french fried potatoes they desire should be instructed to rephrase their order and ask again, nicely."
The kindly drive-thru attendant usually puts it more succinctly: "Do you see medium fries on the menu, Einstein?"
"I'll take the middle one," I like to say, refusing to bow to their arrogance.
Obviously, some consumer protection legislation is called for here. We have laws defining what constitutes a loaf of bread, a cord of firewood and the cubic yards of mulch sold at corner gas stations, but you won't find a county auditor's seal on french fries. No sir. The french fry lobby is much too powerful.
Get "Dateline NBC" on the phone! ("French fries: They're America's Side Dish. But is someone playing fast and loose with your fast food? Stone Phillips uncovers the greasy details in this story we call, `You Want Fries With That?'")
If they dig deep enough, I think they'll prove another theory I have about the fast food industry. I suspect the voice on the drive-thru speaker is actually an operator at a switchboard in Oak Brook, Ill., who takes your order, types it into a master computer, then forwards the message via the Internet to the lady at the next window.
How else do you explain the indifferent teen in the headphones trying to serve you a piece of pie and a vanilla shake for breakfast? One wrong keystroke at Mission Control and some guy in Appleton, Wisconsin is pulling away with your McNuggets and Sprite.
If that sounds too bizarre to be true I've got two words for you: "Breakfast Burrito."
Internet Roulette: The Writer's Friend
(Previously published in The Blade.)
A writer will do anything to avoid actually writing - pace, fret, fiddle, golf. In the old days, we'd pass the lonely hours in our basement offices banking reams of crinkled paper wads off the walls into the wastebasket in the corner. But that was before the World Wide Web opened a whole new frontier of distractions.
Nowadays a writer with finely honed word skills, a little time between deadlines and the desire to squander both can fill the void playing Internet Roulette.
Here's how the game works. Just type (fill in the blank).com then sit back and let the wonders of cyberspace parade across your monitor. Once you satisfy your curiosity that fillintheblank.com is indeed an actual web site (as are www.www.com and www.dotcom.com) you are ready to begin some real brainstorming.
Let's say you are engrossed in a research project when it occurs to you that it's been years since you had a Fresca. Simply boot up Internet Explorer, tap in fresca.com and, Poof!, up pops the official web site for the Coca-Cola Company. You will quickly discover that Coke is keeping quiet about the fate of Fresca, but that the web site has several cool games, so the time was well spent.
Locating obscure beverages is just one example of the many uses for the web. In fact, just about any word that pops into your head can lead you down another aisle of the Internet's 24-hour superstore of knowledge. The whole fun of Internet Roulette is that you might end up in the frozen desserts section when you were only looking for canned fish.
For example, cars.com, as you might expect, takes you to an online car-buying service, but car.com is the web site for Carters Little Liver Pills, which generations of kids washed down with Fresca.
At dog.com, you can learn everything you ever wanted to know about canines and order a pekingese soap dispenser for $8.95, but you won't learn a thing about cats at cat.com, home site of heavy equipment manufacturer Caterpillar.
See? Hours of fun.
(Note to parents: Even innocent words, especially the names of major body parts, can lead to web sites that should only be viewed by people much more mature than you, if you get my drift.)
Recently, thanks to a rather lengthy writing project that I was trying to avoid, I had the opportunity to enter the names of numerous vegetables in my web browser, starting with the bean family.
I discovered that beans.com is a web page belonging to an Internet advertising company, the same company, I later learned, that owns the names refrigerator.com and nose.com.
Soybeans.com is a vegetarian food distributor specializing in "animal replacement parts" (that's fake meat). Stringbean.com was created by some guy to show off pictures of his family and rant about how Microsoft is taking over the world (best viewed with Netscape). Waxbeans.com was still under construction the last time I checked. I'll keep you posted.
Corn.com is the homepage for Capricorn Records, which distributes recordings by bands such as "311" and the "Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies," while carrot.com sells either music, poetry, boat cruises or all of the above. It wasn't really clear.
Potato.com, surprisingly, is not the homepage of Dan Quayle [note to young readers: Dan Quayle was possibly the greatest vice president in American history, except for all the other vice presidents]. No, Potato.com is a site for a non-partisan potato farm. Asparagus.com is the site of the Michigan Asparagus Advisory Board, whose motto, I swear, is "Spreading the good word about the virtues of asparagus, one of nature's most perfect foods."
Fruit opens another world of possibilities. Apple.com is obviously the home of Apple Computers, but you probably didn't know that orange.com is a software company, tangerine.com is a furniture company and both pear.com and banana.com will forward you to the same travel-oriented home page. Grapes.com is the web site of the Georgia Radio Amateur Packet Enthusiast Society, a group that could probably teach writers a thing or two about wasting time.
Cucumber.com, pickle.com, peas.com and avacado.net are all Internet-related companies, while watermellon.com is an, um, see "note to parents" above.
Of course, the Internet is about more than just produce. It is also about random letters that spell nothing at all. Out of a dozen attempts at entering strings of random letters from three to nine characters each, 10 turned out to be actual web addresses, two of them of the "note to parents" variety.
Internet Roulette has provided me with countless hours of distraction that would not have been possible only a few years ago. My paper-wad free-throw percentage has suffered, but my time-wasted average has improved substantially.
Disclaimer: In fairness to my profession, I should note that not all writers are so undisciplined that they sit around randomly accessing sites on the World Wide Web. Many of them are hard at work at this very moment spreading the word about the virtues of asparagus.
A writer will do anything to avoid actually writing - pace, fret, fiddle, golf. In the old days, we'd pass the lonely hours in our basement offices banking reams of crinkled paper wads off the walls into the wastebasket in the corner. But that was before the World Wide Web opened a whole new frontier of distractions.
Nowadays a writer with finely honed word skills, a little time between deadlines and the desire to squander both can fill the void playing Internet Roulette.
Here's how the game works. Just type (fill in the blank).com then sit back and let the wonders of cyberspace parade across your monitor. Once you satisfy your curiosity that fillintheblank.com is indeed an actual web site (as are www.www.com and www.dotcom.com) you are ready to begin some real brainstorming.
Let's say you are engrossed in a research project when it occurs to you that it's been years since you had a Fresca. Simply boot up Internet Explorer, tap in fresca.com and, Poof!, up pops the official web site for the Coca-Cola Company. You will quickly discover that Coke is keeping quiet about the fate of Fresca, but that the web site has several cool games, so the time was well spent.
Locating obscure beverages is just one example of the many uses for the web. In fact, just about any word that pops into your head can lead you down another aisle of the Internet's 24-hour superstore of knowledge. The whole fun of Internet Roulette is that you might end up in the frozen desserts section when you were only looking for canned fish.
For example, cars.com, as you might expect, takes you to an online car-buying service, but car.com is the web site for Carters Little Liver Pills, which generations of kids washed down with Fresca.
At dog.com, you can learn everything you ever wanted to know about canines and order a pekingese soap dispenser for $8.95, but you won't learn a thing about cats at cat.com, home site of heavy equipment manufacturer Caterpillar.
See? Hours of fun.
(Note to parents: Even innocent words, especially the names of major body parts, can lead to web sites that should only be viewed by people much more mature than you, if you get my drift.)
Recently, thanks to a rather lengthy writing project that I was trying to avoid, I had the opportunity to enter the names of numerous vegetables in my web browser, starting with the bean family.
I discovered that beans.com is a web page belonging to an Internet advertising company, the same company, I later learned, that owns the names refrigerator.com and nose.com.
Soybeans.com is a vegetarian food distributor specializing in "animal replacement parts" (that's fake meat). Stringbean.com was created by some guy to show off pictures of his family and rant about how Microsoft is taking over the world (best viewed with Netscape). Waxbeans.com was still under construction the last time I checked. I'll keep you posted.
Corn.com is the homepage for Capricorn Records, which distributes recordings by bands such as "311" and the "Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies," while carrot.com sells either music, poetry, boat cruises or all of the above. It wasn't really clear.
Potato.com, surprisingly, is not the homepage of Dan Quayle [note to young readers: Dan Quayle was possibly the greatest vice president in American history, except for all the other vice presidents]. No, Potato.com is a site for a non-partisan potato farm. Asparagus.com is the site of the Michigan Asparagus Advisory Board, whose motto, I swear, is "Spreading the good word about the virtues of asparagus, one of nature's most perfect foods."
Fruit opens another world of possibilities. Apple.com is obviously the home of Apple Computers, but you probably didn't know that orange.com is a software company, tangerine.com is a furniture company and both pear.com and banana.com will forward you to the same travel-oriented home page. Grapes.com is the web site of the Georgia Radio Amateur Packet Enthusiast Society, a group that could probably teach writers a thing or two about wasting time.
Cucumber.com, pickle.com, peas.com and avacado.net are all Internet-related companies, while watermellon.com is an, um, see "note to parents" above.
Of course, the Internet is about more than just produce. It is also about random letters that spell nothing at all. Out of a dozen attempts at entering strings of random letters from three to nine characters each, 10 turned out to be actual web addresses, two of them of the "note to parents" variety.
Internet Roulette has provided me with countless hours of distraction that would not have been possible only a few years ago. My paper-wad free-throw percentage has suffered, but my time-wasted average has improved substantially.
Disclaimer: In fairness to my profession, I should note that not all writers are so undisciplined that they sit around randomly accessing sites on the World Wide Web. Many of them are hard at work at this very moment spreading the word about the virtues of asparagus.
Thoughts On 35
(Previously published in The Blade)
"Excuse me, sir," the young man with the leather pants and pierced lower lip said as he brushed by me. Excuse me? I was sitting on a barstool facing into the pulsating crowd and, until that point, feeling very young and with it. Sir?
I'm 35. Where does he get off being polite to me?
I went to the club to hear a band after meeting one of the members at another club earlier that night. I went to the first club with a friend to watch his son perform.
That I feel compelled to explain what I was doing at either club is only slightly more pathetic than admitting I was there with the guitar player's dad.
To the "kid" who bumped into me, I was just a paunchy, bald old guy sitting at the bar. But inside, I was still the same paunchy, bald young guy I was in college, only I was drinking better beer.
So, nothing on my body is pierced and Docker's don't come in leather. But I was at the same club enjoying the same music as this polite but careless young man, who, by the way, needed a haircut. Why didn't he say "excuse me, man" or "dude" or "bud?"
Sir?
That three-letter word shattered the illusion (or was it a delusion) that I was having a good time. What I was really doing was watching younger people having a good time, vicariously gyrating, crowd-surfing and bumping into old guys at the bar.
Who was I kidding? I am no longer among the young. I am, at best, youngish.
Sitting there at the bar at 12:30, an hour past my bedtime, wondering if it would be prudent to finish a second beer, my mind wandered. I had thoughts that will not occur to the bouncing young people on the dance floor for at least another 15 years. Thoughts like:
"That looks like a fire code violation."
"I hope no one dings the doors on the mini-van. I just made the last payment."
"I think my daughter has this CD."
"Whoa! I'll bet her mom is HOT!"
"Did I turn off the iron?"
"They really should have more bathrooms."
"I wonder if they have a children's menu."
I should have seen this coming. A couple of summers earlier, a very sincere girl behind the information desk at an Ontario provincial park, who I guessed to be about two years older than my dog, became very concerned when I inquired about a campsite on the beach.
"That's usually where the younger people camp," she said as though she worried that my walker might get stuck in the sand.
Ouch.
Staring down the barrel of my 20-year high school class reunion, I was not quite sure what acting my age meant anymore. Thirty-five is one of those awkward ages, like 13 and 18 (and every teen in between). It is a bridge-crossing age -- the threshold between young adult and just plain adult. They used to call it middle age, until the Baby Boomer's got there and raised the bar to 55.
I am caught between two generations; too young to be a Boomer, too old for Generation X. I hate to think how many times I've come home from a typical night out and said to my wife, "We have got to get some (younger/older) friends." Actually, what I've got to do is jump to one side or the other - either pierce a fleshy body-part or join a ma and pa bowling league.
I am...conflicted.
I still roll my eyes when "older" people refer to the way things used to be, yet find myself using sentences that begin with "My first car..." and "Before we had computers..."
I can listen to Clapton and Korn and laugh hardily at both Chris Rock and George Carlin. I can use the word hardily. I can speak with authority about how "Saturday Night Live" used to be funny. I can read "Rolling Stone" and "Field and Stream" with equal interest. I can order a Chalupa or "Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun."
At 35, I was old enough to run for president and young enough to still elicit disapproving glares from my elders.
A few days after the night club incident, I opened the door to the mini-van in a parking lot, pausing to hear the end of a song on the radio. In the next car was an older man who clearly did not appreciate Bush played at notch nine.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, reaching for the volume knob while trying to stifle a smirk.
I've got news for that 16-year-old Canadian girl, too: I just might camp on that beach - if it's not too far from the bathrooms.
Addendum: At age 45, I like my music just as loud...and my bathrooms even closer.
"Excuse me, sir," the young man with the leather pants and pierced lower lip said as he brushed by me. Excuse me? I was sitting on a barstool facing into the pulsating crowd and, until that point, feeling very young and with it. Sir?
I'm 35. Where does he get off being polite to me?
I went to the club to hear a band after meeting one of the members at another club earlier that night. I went to the first club with a friend to watch his son perform.
That I feel compelled to explain what I was doing at either club is only slightly more pathetic than admitting I was there with the guitar player's dad.
To the "kid" who bumped into me, I was just a paunchy, bald old guy sitting at the bar. But inside, I was still the same paunchy, bald young guy I was in college, only I was drinking better beer.
So, nothing on my body is pierced and Docker's don't come in leather. But I was at the same club enjoying the same music as this polite but careless young man, who, by the way, needed a haircut. Why didn't he say "excuse me, man" or "dude" or "bud?"
Sir?
That three-letter word shattered the illusion (or was it a delusion) that I was having a good time. What I was really doing was watching younger people having a good time, vicariously gyrating, crowd-surfing and bumping into old guys at the bar.
Who was I kidding? I am no longer among the young. I am, at best, youngish.
Sitting there at the bar at 12:30, an hour past my bedtime, wondering if it would be prudent to finish a second beer, my mind wandered. I had thoughts that will not occur to the bouncing young people on the dance floor for at least another 15 years. Thoughts like:
"That looks like a fire code violation."
"I hope no one dings the doors on the mini-van. I just made the last payment."
"I think my daughter has this CD."
"Whoa! I'll bet her mom is HOT!"
"Did I turn off the iron?"
"They really should have more bathrooms."
"I wonder if they have a children's menu."
I should have seen this coming. A couple of summers earlier, a very sincere girl behind the information desk at an Ontario provincial park, who I guessed to be about two years older than my dog, became very concerned when I inquired about a campsite on the beach.
"That's usually where the younger people camp," she said as though she worried that my walker might get stuck in the sand.
Ouch.
Staring down the barrel of my 20-year high school class reunion, I was not quite sure what acting my age meant anymore. Thirty-five is one of those awkward ages, like 13 and 18 (and every teen in between). It is a bridge-crossing age -- the threshold between young adult and just plain adult. They used to call it middle age, until the Baby Boomer's got there and raised the bar to 55.
I am caught between two generations; too young to be a Boomer, too old for Generation X. I hate to think how many times I've come home from a typical night out and said to my wife, "We have got to get some (younger/older) friends." Actually, what I've got to do is jump to one side or the other - either pierce a fleshy body-part or join a ma and pa bowling league.
I am...conflicted.
I still roll my eyes when "older" people refer to the way things used to be, yet find myself using sentences that begin with "My first car..." and "Before we had computers..."
I can listen to Clapton and Korn and laugh hardily at both Chris Rock and George Carlin. I can use the word hardily. I can speak with authority about how "Saturday Night Live" used to be funny. I can read "Rolling Stone" and "Field and Stream" with equal interest. I can order a Chalupa or "Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun."
At 35, I was old enough to run for president and young enough to still elicit disapproving glares from my elders.
A few days after the night club incident, I opened the door to the mini-van in a parking lot, pausing to hear the end of a song on the radio. In the next car was an older man who clearly did not appreciate Bush played at notch nine.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, reaching for the volume knob while trying to stifle a smirk.
I've got news for that 16-year-old Canadian girl, too: I just might camp on that beach - if it's not too far from the bathrooms.
Addendum: At age 45, I like my music just as loud...and my bathrooms even closer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)