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.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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)