My Chronic Impending Disaster

What to do in New York!

2007-03-23T09:26:00.000-05:00

The next in my continuing series on the fabulous places I visit, what I do there and the things that I eat. Today, I'm back in New York City! The Big Apple! The City that Never Sleeps! I arrived yesterday and am on my wait out today. Let's relive the high points, shall we?

Best Lunch: Teresa's Deli on 42nd Street

This little piece of New Yorkiana combines the hurly burly of the New York Stock Exchange trading floor with the stolid comforts of sandwiches. Zipping out from a planning meeting in a nearby office, I had a Turkey and Swiss with lettuce, tomato and mayo, and a bag of Cape Cod potato chips. The turkey was sliced sublimely.

Best Place to Walk from One Building to Another: 42nd Street to Park Avenue

After our planning meeting, we took a delightful jaunt from 42nd Street to Park Avenue. The rain had stopped and it was a freshly minted sunny Spring day. I soaked in the sun through my dark suit and took a deep breath of cigarette smoke and exhaust. Ah, New York in the Springtime!

Best Place to Have Your Flight Cancelled: LaGuardia Airport

I arrived at LaGuardia after a successful day of pitching my company's wares the home base of an important (foreign owned) American company. Flush with excitement, we cabbed it to LaGuardia, our Blackberries tapping and beeping with the manic energy that serves as the soundtrack to American business today. Upon Arrival, I quickly discovered that my flight had been cancelled. No worries, I was flying Northwest Airlines. Surely my hometown airline would have no trouble getting me home from New York! But, alas, 'twas not to be. No flights, no way home, no how. But surely there would be a hotel nearby -- I could see two outside the window. But alas, 'twas not to be. A quick call to my travel agent confirmed that no rooms would be available this night. Drat! I was forced to cab it again to a fine hotel by JFK airport.

Actually, I'm not sure what is best about LaGuardia. Presumably many plans fly in and out daily. Just not mine.

Best Hotel: The Doubletree Hotel, JFK Airport

It wasn't just the comfortable, utilitarian room, or the available iron and ironing board, or the lineup of "Still in Theaters", "Hollywood Hits" and "Adult Desires" movies on demand or the hot, fresh chocolate chip oatmeal cookies they give you when you check in, it's...

Actually, it is just these things.

Best Steak: The Doubletree Hotel, JFK Airport, "Welcome to New York Strip"

I asked for it medium rare. And it was! Not to rare, yet not too well done. Yes, indeed. This was a medium rare steak. Yessir! And what a delightful name. Sitting cross legged on my hotel bed, chewing carefully and slowly the way you're supposed to, sipping my Coke and dutifully eating my peas and carrots, I felt truly welcomed to the fair borough of Queens.

Best Neighborhood: The Doubletree Hotel, JFK Airport

I can't answer this one, because I never left my room.

Best Place not to be Stuck in the Airport: JFK Airport

Geez! I gotta go. Catch you next time!

Captain America - The Scoop!

2007-03-15T08:21:00.000-05:00

It's not often that my hobbies and profession come together so nicely. Here, the comics news site Newsarama interviews New York Daily News reporter Ethan Sacks about how the paper got the scoop on the death of Captain America in the pages of Captain America #25:

NRAMA: Speaking of the scoop; there had to be a good level of coordination between you (the NY Daily News) and Marvel Entertainment. Approximately when would you say the exclusive was agreed upon?

ES: The exclusive was agreed on about two months ago. The New York Post – the Daily News’ arch-rival (picture an Australian Galactus running a paper) – had an exclusive when Spider-Man unmasked in Civil War #2 and I heard plenty about it from my editors. When I whined to Marvel that they should’ve kept me in the loop, too, they promised me a future exclusive when a story with mainstream interest would surface. So two months ago, I got a call from Marvel’s PR contact calling me into the Marvel Bullpen for a little powwow. They revealed the plans for Cap right then and there. The publisher wanted several conditions for us to get the exclusive: That we commit to most of a page up front and put a good-sized piece of art with it. It was a no-brainer for us, and my editor gave the green light later that afternoon. I didn’t even tell my wife.

Some scoop. Sacks whines about not getting the story the last time Marvel had a story that might have mainstream interest. Marvel PR says, "OK, we'll take care of you next time." And, with two months advance notice, they managed to get the story in the paper. Not exactly the classic image of the reporter dogging the company and the editor shouting "stop the presses" to get that story to us for working his deep cover contacts, is it?

It's not Sacks who trumpets this as a big scoop -- it's Newsarama. Public relations -- the art of how companies communicate to the public through media and influencers (today's definition) -- should be a required course in the media age. How organizations and media build relationships that lead to stories shouldn't be such a mystery -- it ain't rocket science folks.

It can be fun though...next time you see a big entertainment story -- or even a business story -- that strikes you as a little odd, that has you asking, "why was this on the news?" ... play the game PR people play from the outside. Ask: Who wanted this story told? Who were the unnamed sources? What did it take for this story to make the big splash that it did?

Captain America - RIP

2007-03-07T08:58:00.000-06:00

http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/story/503132p-424376c.html

And, of course, this video tribute (view at your own risk...Oy!)

Captain America died today.

As an imaginary character living in an imaginary world of superpowered heroes fighting outlandish villains, Captain America was still, well, a little different.

His modern incarnation -- a man born of the depression and created during World War II revived and forced to reconcile his values in today's world -- was at once uncomfortably cornball and choke-back-the-manly-tears inspiring.

In the comic world, this is going to piss people off. But there's a tradition here. Back in the late 60s, the writers had Captain America quit and become "Nomad" when he couldn't represent the America he saw on the streets and in the Capitol. In the 90s, I've read, he was forced by the government to hand over his shield to John Walker -- more "my country, right or wrong" than the exemplar of the American Ideal.

What captures America today? Captain America has never been more a 'man out of time'. His government no longer holds itself out as a shining beacon meant to bring the free peoples of the world together. Instead, we hold forth that we must protect our own at all costs, and if the rest of the world won't go along, we'll go it alone. Where legitimate dissent is viewed as anti-American. Where supporting the troops means putting more of them in danger, for reasons increasingly unclear. Where we act like bullies and fools and wonder why no one likes us...

It's been a few years...time for Captain America to be recast.

If I were the storyteller, by the way, I'd call the assassination of Steve Rogers a ruse. The original Captain America goes underground, while others take his place. Steve Rogers dons a new mask and takes a tour of his namesake country to rediscover who Americans are these days, for real. To get back to basics. To find out the price of milk. He gets on the Internet, finds out what makes people happy and what really scares them. Discovers who we really are and what those ideals are that we really need a Captain America to uphold and protect.

And, along the way, who really needs a good kick in the head.

Would Be? Might Be? Is!

2006-12-21T08:54:00.000-06:00

"But as the president has made clear, we simply cannot afford to fail in the Middle East. Failure in Iraq at this juncture would be a calamity that would haunt our nation, impair our credibility, and endanger Americans for decades to come."

Robert Gates, US Defense Secretary, December 18, 2006

This is the most egregious lie being propagated by our leaders at this time. It is important that we reframe the issue -- get beyond this will we decide to succeed or not succeed. The decision is out of our hands. Or rather, we made poor decisions, and we failed in Iraq. Past tense. Our credibility is impaired, Americans are endangered. The failure has been accomplished. It's over and done with.

The question now is not one of success or failure -- that question has been answered. The question before our leaders and our country now is how to contain the failure to just Iraq. Humpty Dumpty has fallen...all the president's men can't put Humpty back together again.

America doesn't have to be a peacenik or Pollyanna. But it has to stand for something more than questionable invasions and quick fixes.

That's why how we got into this is still relevant. We need to decide who we are in the world again. Is America a force for good? Then let's do good in the world. Let's invest in a more peaceful world -- whether that means raising the global standard of living or exerting military force to protect ourselves and our allies.

In the end, America must stand not for a way of government but for helping the peoples of the world to live good lives -- to give voice to the voiceless, open opportunity to the poor, and ease the pain of the ailing.

Who Watches the Watchmen?

2006-12-21T08:39:00.000-06:00

Late at night, under the covers and by flashlight, I've been re-reading Watchmen graphic novel by Alan Moore and David Gibbons.

If you haven't read it, go forth, buy it and read it.

For a story drawn from 1980s Cold War fears of imminent nuclear armageddon, the story remains remarkably relevant today. And for the conspiracy minded among you, has it been remarked that the horrible event at the climax of Watchmen and the events of 911 could be seen as eerily similar? What if 911 was "manufactured" for the sole purpose of bringing the world together, and we blew it? Or, more likely, 911 could have brought the world together, but, as Alan Moore seems to say, it really just wouldn't have worked anyway... someone would have blown the secret, changed their mind, squandered the goodwill of the nations of the world...

OK ... so it's been remarked... http://www.leanleft.com/archives/2004/01/28/2218/, and ... probably other places, too... But read it or read it again. It's that good.

A Smile for the Season

2006-12-15T14:46:00.000-06:00

Nothing makes you smile a sweet, winter-holiday-related smile like walking into the lobby of a Minneapolis office building ... and ... and ...

...practically running smack dab into a real-live Elvis Impersonator, performing "Kentucky Rain" before a crowd of shocked downtown office workers!

Yeah, baby!

*Note: not the actual
Elvis Impersonator seen in
Minneapolis. Photo
"courtesy" of www.elvis2k.co.uk.

An Update

2006-12-14T16:48:00.000-06:00

I'm "working hard" in a suburban Minnesota Starbucks. And don't let anyone tell you different.

So...an update:

* Thanks to all who have written to inquire about illustrating my fine comic script. I'm contacting y'all now, or will be soon. If you're interested and haven't written, check out http://domparkercomic.blogspot.com and then send your samples to kkadet@gmail.com.

* Episode X of Peter Flak, Big Time Detective is live at One Minute Stories (http://oneminutestories.blogspot.com). Our hero is confused and weak of stomach, pursuing his supposedly dead publicist to the posh Carstairs Hotel and being pursued by a dogged TV reporter with her own agenda. Will Detective Flak find the answers to his vexing questions? Will he do any detecting? Will anything ever happen in this story?

The answer is... what were the questions again? The story is steaming toward a pulse-pounding, mind-blowing, mildly amusing conclusion in the coming ... umm weeks or so. Don't forget to start at the beginning...

Star Search

2006-12-01T13:49:00.000-06:00

I've officially finished with the first draft of my magnum opus of a comic book script, now called "Wings." Three issues and 60+ comic pages of kid-with-invisible-wings-and-his-friends related action. You can see my "pitch" and the backstory at http://domparkercomic.blogspot.com.

If you visit and have before, you'll note that the script itself is no longer there -- I've done a lot of editing and it wasn't so current anymore. The site now is officially dedicated to my efforts to recruit an illustrator who can bring this story to life.

If you are an illustrator visiting here from the many places I've posted my plaintive plea for an illustrator/collaborator, have a look at the Dom Parker/Wings project blog. You'll find the backstory to the tale I've penned, a description of Dom, the main character. I'll be adding descriptions of the other main characters over the next couple days.

My biggest challenge, of course, is finding an artist. I thought perhaps that there would be someone out there willing to do this for "experience," but so far, no one's taken a bite on
my pitch. Not surprising, I guess, given that I'm sitting what would probably end up being over 100 hours of work if it were to be pencilled, inked, colored, lettered and nitpicked over by the writer.

Again, if you're an artist, and you're good, let me know if you're interested... I'm soon going to discuss what I can invest in this project in real dollars with my Lovely Wife.

Anyone with interest, ideas, comments or questions, feel free to comment here or email me!

More on the Artistic Process

2006-10-25T09:46:00.000-05:00

Have you ever made up a song in the car? I do this all the time. I have written about a half-a-CD's worth of songs...out loud...while driving to work in the morning.

Unfortunately, I can't remember any of them.

It gets me back to the question of "harnessing the creative process." As in, "how do you do it?"

I believe it is childish to think that you can only create 'when the inspiration strikes'. That's an excuse. The artist captures inspiration and turns it into something, not just poorly sung lyrics shouted out to silently to fellow participants in a traffic jam, but inspired words and music carefully crafted into something that...well... might well mean something.

Or at least be enjoyable.

Writers...write. Creators...create. Office workers...get out of the coffee shop and go back to the office.

For the stuff I write without much inspiration, but with, I hope, some art... check out One Minute Stories...

More later.

My First Comic Con

2006-10-09T13:23:00.001-05:00

After a lifetime of avoiding true geekdom, I attended my first comic book convention yesterday, the FallCon put on by the fine folks at the Midwest Comic Book Association. Since I'm generally not allowed to go to such events alone (and because they're a lot of fun), I brought the family 5- and 6-year-olds along for the ride.

Brushing over the remembered anxieties of a pre-teen kid, I explained to them on the way to the Minnesota State Fairgrounds how I was always afraid to go to a comic book convention back at ages 10-16. I always thought it would be "weird" or somehow "too much."

Part of it, too, at that time, was that I'd never wanted to be a comic book "collector". I bought comics because I liked the stories. I wasn't comfortable being around people gauging the value of each comic, or buying up multiple issues of the same comic so that they could save them for resale some day -- mind you, this was in 1980-81 or so, before the I dropped out of comics and well before what I understand was the great comic boom of the late 80s and 90s, which I pretty much missed out on. This was around the time that my best friend beat me to 7-11 and bought up all the copies of the Uncanny X-Men issue where Kitty Pryde fights the demon alone in the mansion, and I had to shame him into letting me buy it off of him. Back then, you just didn't want to miss an issue of X-Men -- we thrilled to Alpha Flight, cringed at the depredations of the Hellfire Club and cried our way through the Dark Phoenix saga ... and we knew we were in on something special -- not valuable -- special.

Back to the present. To my everlasting delight, my oldest son says that he'd never feel too weird to go to a comic convention, because he loves this stuff...this and I still won't let him read a modern comic. Funny how such freedom from what others see as strange or embarrassing is available only to the very young and the very old -- or those of us who are old enough to decide for ourselves. Like me ... nearing 40 and dammit, I was going to a comic convention!

FallCon was a modest affair. Call it about 8 rows of artists and dealers. Not much of the weirdness in the aisles associated with some of the bigger cons that I've read about. My five year old was apparently cute enough to merit a couple of door prizes -- a giant bag of about 50 recent comics, a ton of licorice and assorted candies, and about 20 of dice of varying denominations (I told my wife they were "D&D dice" -- I'd given up role playing games about the time I gave up comics, so I have no idea if they're used for anything else...). Then, I'm pretty sure the guys doing the raffle ticket prizes overheard our numbers and made sure the little one was a winner -- he chose a Spawn action figure, which in a five-year-old's hands was pretty disturbing. But it was his call.

The kids made sure that we made a beeline for "The Batcave" to see the Batmobile and Bat Cycle, and where an aging, pot-bellied Batman, a wavy-haired puffy-chested Superman, and a chubby red-haired Robin milled about, along with a Wonder Woman who I admired for her confidence to be willing to don the costume. And she pulled it off pretty darn well.

Then, on to the artists. FallCon is a place for collectors to find lost issues and old toys, creators to meet and network, and fans to meet local talent and get good deals. Me? I just wanted to soak it all in, and maybe see bit of what it's like to be a creator.

What did I learn?

1. It's hard to strike up a conversation with a 6 and 5 year old in tow. No problem, because they had a great time, and so did I, but let's just say that "short attention span theater" was the order of the day.

2. The FallCon was filled with really nice people. Besides giving us free stuff, we chatted with the creator of Frontier (no link -- looks like good-comics.com has gone down the tubes), who showed my kids how to draw Spider-Man. I bought a copy of Issue #0.

Also chatted with another creator whose name escapes about "getting back into comics" and how to connect with artists, since I have a script I'm helplessly trying to finish for what will be no good reason if I don't seek an artist. He let me tell him about it, and thought I should look into a manga style for the art ... not something I'd thought of given my old school experience.

3. Even the toy guys were pretty nice -- one guy was happy to "downsell" me to a cheaper item so he could make a sale of a Spider-Man figure to my kid. I can appreciate that. By the way....

4. ...there are a lot of toys at these things. Hold onto your wallet if you bring your kids!

5. There are a lot of people out here just trying to get into the field ... and the combination of the web and on-demand printing is making it easier to get in. I'll talk about the Web in a second, but, it's heartening (and a little unnerving) that so many have such passion for a medium that they'll give over so much of their lives to drawing out their stories because they've been thinking about it and just want to get back into comics.

6. There is no reason in the world why a creator can't build a large audience via the web and make a little money at it...if they're able to deliver quality and work hard at self promotion. Moreover, I'm pretty convinced that the big guys could make some money online as well if they'd put some effort into it.

7. FallCon is really for the serious comic fan -- you almost need a plan coming in -- to see certain people, or search for certain comics and toys. If they thought about it, they could draw in a wider crowd. You could set up workshops that help kids make their own comics, or invent a character. You could have someone giving comic art lessons throughout the day. You could give people rides on the Batmobile. Do a kids/teens self-made costume contest. Put together a "readers panel" ... Hold a "new creators" or "under 18" contest -- say, for scripts and art -- and let visitors vote.

Might have to volunteer next year...

Anyway, thanks to FallCon and the MNCBA -- the kids said, enthusiastically, that they'd do this again, and a good time was had by all.

New Stories Update

2006-10-06T14:13:00.000-05:00

I've started to get a bit more prolific on the writing front, so I thought I'd share the lastest with you, my loyal reader or two...

On my One Minute Stories blog, I've started a new series: Peter Flak, Vain Detective, the story of a good-looking homicide detective who arrives on the scene with his own press agent -- he's grossed out by dead bodies, but has a nose for the news -- being on it, that is. Here are links to Part I, Part II and Part III.

I'm also pretty fond of a recent One Minute Story called "Dreams Have Eyes," if only because I like the title.

Anyway, if you like the stories, share 'em around... and feel free to send me your own... it'd be fun to open it up a little more.

I've been working privately on my comic script -- issues 1-2 are online. I've decided to finish it as a three-part series and see if I can find someone to draw it, since my artistic abilities are confined to poorly proportioned doodles.

Meanwhile, people I've informed seem to be pleased that I'm not going to relocate myself and family to Australia, which I guess is comforting.

Finally, it might comfort you to know (it comforts me, anyway) that life feels a lot less like a chronic impending disaster these days. Perhaps I'm closer to the solutions we're after, or maybe I'm just getting better at going with the flow. But you never know what's...impending...

Fame and Fortune

2006-09-25T10:14:00.000-05:00

It is horribly vain to admit you want to be famous. And yet there are days when I want more than anything else to shout from the rooftops.

Which, of course, leads to a different kind of fame: "Local Man Shouts From Rooftops, Taken Away in White Van."

But that's just negative thinking. Putting up barriers where there ought be none.

Fame is for obsessives. Fortune, likewise, is for those willing to sacrifice to get it. And who's got the time to make those kinds of choices, really?

One of the reasons the Web has taken off is the promise of easy money. You can reach so much, generate "network effects" so quickly, that you can get fame and fortune without the hassle of hard work. You put up a blog or a MySpace page, and you think...wish...hope...that the whole world will beat a path to your virtual doorstep.

That's the underlying weakness in the foundation of Web 2.0 and participatory communication. Most people don't have the stomach to be creators. They're not obsessed -- they're dilettantes, fascinated by the sparkling promise of easy Internet fame, convinced that if they put the silly video they made with their friends up on YouTube that the whole world will find it just as funny as they did when it was screened for 15 of their drunkest friends.

People fret that LonelyGirl15 turned out to be a fake. Of course she was. It takes work to be entertaining. It takes work simply to be found on the Internet. Real "lonely girls" don't become Internet stars because they aren't that interesting, or aren't willing or able or talented enough to be interesting. Or, if they are, aren't willing to engage in the very specialized type of self-promotion that spurs "the Internet" to choose your "performance" over all the other lonely voices on the Web, speaking to no one but a few classmates and unfeeling search agents.

I find LonelyGirl15's "outing" as an actress fed lines by a wannabe director and screenwriter to be comforting. There's no free lunch. An unknown can create something new and compelling that gets everyone talking. If they're savvy and obsessive and vain and willing to sacrifice for fame and fortune.

There's hope for us all.

Work and Play

2006-09-22T09:41:00.000-05:00

I've been nose deep at work lately, which is a good thing. Lots to do, and lots to think about

For the past month, my job had been dangling before me an opportunity to move with my family for two years to Sydney, Australia. The Wife and I were getting pretty excited. Last week, it was cruelly snatched away. Apparently, they hadn't budgeted enough for us get there...and back.

Some key learnings from the experience: They really wanted me there. A lot. Apparently, I interview pretty well when properly motivated. And, perhaps I have a bit of entrepreneur in me, looking for an outlet.

I've decided to take all of this as motivation. To get on with my work and stop waiting for the deus ex machina to reach down and pluck me out of ... all of this. You want to change your life? Change your life. You want to be more engaged, get on top of things? Do it! You want more surprises? Surprise people...they may just surprise you back.

# # #

When Is A Vacation Not a Vacation?

2006-08-23T10:32:00.000-05:00

When is a Vacation not a Vacation

1. When your entire office knows they can email and call you on your cell phone.

2. When you blackberry is sitting next to you on the coffee shop table.

4. When you have a to do list that includes mostly client projects.

5. When you're pretty sure you're not going to get to do any writing, except when you're waiting for Outlook to download the giant client report file so that you can start on the giant report you need to write for the client so she doesn't get asked by her boss what we're doing for all of the money they're spending and she'll have to say she doesn't know which is silly because she knows exactly what we've been doing on pretty much a day-to-day basis but even so I've procrastinated on this report so much that I shouldn't have to be doing it on vacation and yet here I am at a coffee house all ready to write my latest story and instead I'm waiting to work on this report and sometimes I think I just need to leave the country. Heh.

Talk to y'all later...

My First Illustrated Comic

2006-08-18T09:01:00.000-05:00

I've been trying my hand at comic script writing over at a great forum for budding comic creators called PencilJack. After posting a number of scripts, a terrific illustrator in the UK looking to build his portfolio emailed me to see if he could do a script of mine. I'm ashamed to say that I presented him with a rather odd one... It serves as a vast exaggeration of what I thought was a funny situation and, perhaps, a side of me that just wants to crawl into a corner by himself...although Mrs. Chronic finds it a tad too close to the bone, you might say...

Anyway, click here to check it out at my story blog, and let me know what you think.

Home Improvement

2006-08-07T09:26:00.000-05:00

As I aimed the garden hose at my burning face and squeezed the trigger, I found myself musing on how, when I die, the coroner might find himself marking the story of my body's life by the scars left from home improvement projects.

Yesterday, the project was refinishing the wooden front porch -- about a 12'x4' space. The project began with a belt sander, a frisky little device that bucked like a puppy on a leash, ready to take off if I didn't maintain a firm grip. Two days, seven sandpaper belts and one wide, red scrape down the inside of my left wrist later, I had a mostly sanded deck, with large areas of paint left around the edges.

Next, the Internet said to "strip" the deck, so I went out and got me some deck stripper, giggled some, wistfully fantasized about deck strippers, put on a baseball cap, latex gloves and safety goggles and went to work rolling the pungent liquid onto the deck. At some point, I decided switch from roller to stiff-bristled brush, so I lifted the safety goggles, unscrewed the roller from the pole and in doing so, spattered deck stripper on my face.

I felt what I imagine a vampire feels when splashed with holy water -- "It burns! It burns!" Thus the firing of the garden hose at my face.

Later, after a cleansing shower, I took inventory. There's the purple bruise on my toe and still-not-yet-healed scrape across my shin from dropping a large wood frame during the construction of the kids' bunk bed -- a project that involved much swearing and use of Resolve to dissolve the blood on the carpet. There are the host of little cuts on my hands and wrists, the most fresh from rolling two rocks from the woods to the garden -- the rocks must have weighed 200 pounds each.

Then there's the thin scar on my forehead, obtained 17 years ago, during a stop to see a friend in Cleveland on my way to Minnesota. My allergies were horrible that trip, the floor of my little maroon Ford Escort was covered in Kleenex, and my sneezing fits were increasingly violent. So I'm with my friend Naomi digging through the Escort for a package of Sudafed, when I feel another sneeze come on. So I stand up and sneeze hard, slamming my head into the corner of the open car door. It sounded like I'd been shot. Blood streaming through my fingers, I turn to Naomi and say, "Why did you hit me?"... Which strikes her as the funniest thing she's heard in the longest time and she laughs and laughs while I grab at wads of dried Kleenex to stop the bleeding. I saw her a couple years ago at the wedding of a mutual friend, and she still could hardly speak she was laughing so hard. Meanwhile, you can still see the scar, faintly, over my right eyebrow.

Okay, that had nothing to do with home improvement. Except to say that, in general, it's best for all concerned that I continue to hire experts for most projects and save my frequent flier miles for long summer trips.

# # #

Get Rich Quick Scheme (or, "My One Hit Wonder!")

2006-07-28T09:16:00.000-05:00

Every so often, I have these genius type brainstorms that I'm sure would make me a ton of money if I were ever to put in the necessary work to make them happen. Or even to write them down. I don't do either, which is convenient, in that it allows me to be smugly satisfied that I would indeed be wealthy, famous and important if I were to do so, while simultaneously excusing me from said effort.

This morning I found myself dissecting the modern folk song. The local public radio morning show played a song called, "Analog Girl" by Guy Clarke (I think). The song offers a mildly contrarian nostalgic take on the kind of girl who has, if I recall the lyrics right, "a mouse in her pocket and SPAM(r) in a can."

There's a whole genre of songs like this -- the semi-humorous folk song. They take a semi-clever hook of obvious timely nature and, well, describe it. The listener thinks: "Ha ha. That's funny. He's singing about an analog girl who doesn't have a cell phone and whose web site catches the morning dew." But there's nothing really funny there, beyond that he's singing about it. The more you listen, the more you realize that it's just an awkward title and descriptive lyrics to go around it.

Then I realized that the country music industry is pretty much built on songs like this. Songs that make you feel nostalgic without giving you anything real or poetic or funny to grab onto. Then I thought: I could write one of these! I could write a one-hit-wonder novelty song!

Then I thought of one. It's a can't miss hit! I'll even give you the title, you my vast Internet audience. Are you ready? Really? Here it is:

Dancin' to Stairway

It's a nostalgic song about how we children of the 70s and 80s spent high school dances draped over one another, unable to dance a step, swaying, practically melting into one another while Stairway to Heaven seemed to play on and on and you hoped it would never end. Or wondered if it ever would. The tune would be driven by a folk-acoustic guitar but punctuated by slow Jimmy Page-esque electric riffs. The refrain would go something like:

And we clung to each other
Her head on my shoulder
On and on we swayed
Dancin' to Stairway...

This song would sell, I'm telling you. I only ask that if you steal it before I write it, let's keep the lawyers out of it. Just give me credit and pay me gobs and gobs of cash so I can quit my job and write up more of these. I got a million of 'em.

10 Years On

2006-07-11T21:21:00.000-05:00

This year is my 10th year at my job. I never thought I'd stick with this job for 10 years. Then again, I should have known better. Per the previous story, I'll tend to keep on keeping on. I don't know much about changing direction.

Anyway, my 10th year coincides with the 10th anniversary of my agency's first client; tonight, they held a celebration, and I got to go. Much irony for me: the last time I changed jobs, it was for this client, the chance to help them launch as a brand new company. I was a fresh-faced 28 year old, ready for bigger and better things, to take my talent to an international stage. My first assignment: coordinate the planning of a launch party for some 3,000 people that would set the stage for employees that they were going to be part of something great.

Now, when I was considering "bigger and better things", that did not in any way involve event planning or employee communication. But there I was watching the CEO deliver the speech I'd written as 3,000 people rose as one in a standing ovation.

Here I was tonight, standing alone and apart among a much smaller crowd of a leaner company set for the long haul, watching a new CEO handle his own speech. Then navigating past the games and the pony rides, trying not to trip over tent stakes and picnic tables for familiar faces, and not finding many. Here I was balancing a paper plate that sagged under the weight of overcooked chicken and pasta salad, wondering what I was doing there, beyond angling for company logo swag.

They've changed. They've passed the torch to a new leader, a new team. They chose their path, made their moves. Ten years ago, the big party was meant to put a happy face on the doubts and fears of employees facing a newly uncertain future. Today, they were relaxed, happy. They know where they stand, where they're going. There's a strength there, a serenity you find, when you're in the place where you're supposed to be.

Me, I met few old clients. We talked. We reminisced about people we thought we'd forgotten. And I left, squinting into the setting sun.

Swimming for My Life

2006-06-28T22:29:00.000-05:00

A couple of days ago, I nearly died. It seems worth admitting.

The wife and kids and I went to a local beach on Sunday. A little lake with a sandy beach, a shallow swimming area, a dock where you can rent pedal boats on one side and a fishing pier on the other. While my wife supervises the 2-year-old sleeping in the car, we set up shop on a picnic table, lay out the towels, snacks, water bottles, squirt guns, a pail full of shovels and a beach ball.

First off the kids decide that Daddy should take them on a pedal boat ride (or is it a 'paddle boat'? It does require a lot of peddling...). We boat about the lake, riding to other side and back again. After much begging, I make up a superhero story for the ride.

One thing I should mention is that I was fasting that day. It was for a medical test and it turned out negative, so no worries, but I was really hungry. Feeling kind of weak. I'd intended to take it easy that day, but there I was out on the lake with the kids, furiously peddling the boat. And, with much banging of the dock, we made it back just fine and I worked up a little sweat and decided that this was good -- I'd gotten my 30 minutes of excercise in for the day.

At this point the romping and playing in the water begins. A massive squirt gun fight erupts.
The 2-year-old awakens, and my wife brings the pail, shovels and beach ball to the edge of the water. A mound-style castle is formed and the dirt around it is excavated and filled with water. Imaginary dragons patrol the moat. While vigorously defending myself from the onslaught of SuperSoakers, I break a squirt gun.

My wife interrupts with a shout: "The beach ball!"

The beach ball, it seems, has floated unnoticed to the boat dock. Another dad has a toddler in an inner tube floating off the dock, and is gamely trying to grab the ball as well.

"Don't let him do that," my wife says. "Go get the ball."

I sigh. I go to get the ball. The dad is now fumbling between his toddler and the ball as I jog to the dock. Finally, he chooses the toddler and lets the ball go. I reach the end of the dock. The dad shrugs and I laugh. Yeah, of course you'd choose the kid!

The ball is just out of reach, so I roll my eyes and reluctantly jump into the lake.

"It's pretty shallow here," the dad says helpfully.

The ball is a good, I don't know, 10 feet ahead. No problem. I forge ahead, trudging through the brown-green water with my arms up like a GI in a Vietnam movie.

The ball is still a good 10 feet ahead. Maybe eight now.

Water's getting deeper. I'd probably get there a little faster if I swam. We'll start with a crawl. Don't want to go crazy -- I'll go heads-up style. Gotta keep my eye on the ball.

I maybe make up a foot or so. Getting kind of tired. How far have I swum?

I turn around. Whoa.

The dock looks rather small. For a moment, I recall that it actually took quite awhile to get this far ... in the boat. Hrm.

Ball's still out of reach. Maybe if I can just reach it, I can lean on it. I can float. Let's try a breast stroke. Always been my best. My form is perfect ... I can do this forever.

Wow. How far am I away now? The dock looks pretty small from here. The ball's still maybe, I don't know, 10 feet away. That's even farther than before. This might be a problem.

I strain to keep the rhythm -- sweep arms, breathe, head down, frog kick, glide, sweep arms, breathe, head down, frog kick, glide -- my heart is pounding. I'm getting tired.

But, I came out here for the ball. I'm breathing hard. I can't go back without the ball.

It's at this point that I realize that I could die, right here. In the lake. Chasing a corporate logoed beach ball we got for free at some long-forgotten summer festival.

I stop swimming. I tread water for a moment. The wind carries the ball swiftly across the lake. Soon, it looks as small as the dock behind me, back where I started. Where I have to go now.

I'm too tired. I'm not going to make it. I gulp a mouthful of lake water. Heart pounding harder. Breathing heavy. I yelp, squeal. I'm having a panic attack. I look up at the bright blue sky of a perfect Sunday afternoon, and I float.

I can float.

I can float here all day. I start in on a new rhythm: Arms out, kick, legs straight, arms sweep back, glide...repeat. Elementary back stroke. Keep going. I can keep going.

As I swim, I write the news story in my head: Area man, father of three, drowns in lake pursuing a free beach ball. Talk radio has a field day: "What kind of guy gives it all up for a beach ball? We'll miss him...not!"

I keep swimming. My six-year-old is shouting for me. "Daaaady! Daaaady!" I try to answer. Bad idea. He can wait.

I keep swimming.

The climax is anti-climactic. I live. I make it to the dock. The six-year-old meets me there on the dock. We walk together to the shore.

My wife is back at the picnic table. I catch her eye and smile weakly. She's shaking her head at me.

"What did you want?" I say to my six-year-old, casually, trying not to show how hard I'm breathing.

"I was just saying, 'Hi!'," he says. I give him a hug and rub his head.

Tethered

2006-06-20T14:22:00.000-05:00

I work in a tall building in Minneapolis, on the top floor. Nothing special about that, it just worked out that way for my company. This morning, it's a longer wait than usual, so I take out my Blackberry wireless device and start to mess around...I check the time, check emails, and then start in on a half-hearted game of BrickBreaker.

This guy gets on board the elevator with me and hits a button two floors below mine. Out of the corner of my eye, with most of my attention focused on the tiny, bouncing pixel charged with destroying the artfully arranged bricks on BrickBreaker's 2nd level, I take note of the guy. Boring brown-grey suit, tie, about six-foot-two, brown hair, weathered face of a guy who makes a lot of money and gets outside to enjoy it once in awhile...must have been in his early 50s. He nods at me.

"We're really tethered to those things, aren't we?" he says.

"Uh...yeah, yeah we are, aren't we," I say, taking a second to realize that he's talking about the Blackberry.

"Seems like we're always tethered to work these days. Work has to go everywhere with us."

"Yeah, it does. But you know, I kind of like it. It gives me fair warning on what's waiting for me at the office." It's always a pleasure to have someone new to hear my standard line on the Blackberry. It's getting old for everyone else.

"Well, sometimes, you don't want to know, right?" I tear my eyes away from the device and hit the escape key, pausing the game. The guy has a stony look to him, gazing off in the distance ... all the way to the elevator wall somewhere above me.

"Ha," I laugh, "I guess that's right."

"We have to turn those things off sometimes, right?"

"You just have to set your limits, you know?" I say, trying to be helpful.

"We're really tethered to these things. It's like there's no line between work and home. We're always on," he says, again, with a sadness in his voice that translates itself right into that place where sadness weighs heavy on you, just around the jawline and over the eyes.

"I guess so," I say, and I look down, sharing his ... ennui, I guess.

The elevator "bongs" with the signal that it's reached his floor and the man exits.

"Well, try and have a good day," he says.

"You, too," I say.

And I realize in that moment that this is a profoundly sad man, who, despite whatever else he has going for him, feels powerless over the forces of his life, powerless to do anything to assert control over his time, unable to set boundaries. Powerless, except for his ability to reach out, over a 45-second elevator ride, to someone who might just be a kindred spirit, who might just understand. I realize all that, and the fact that he has no idea that I would soon attain a personal high score on BrickBreaker, and the resulting sense of accomplishment would carry me a good hour into this second day of the week.

# # #

Parent of the Year Award Application

2006-06-14T10:18:00.000-05:00

So, I'm outside with my two-year-old the other day. He's great. I'm trying to do some yard work -- pullin' weeds, puttin' up flower fences so the irises don't droop, weed whackin', layin' down mulch in the garden, that sort of thing. I call him "Pig Will" from this old story by Richard Scarry about "Pig Will and "Pig Won't", where Pig Won't is the kid who won't do anything his parents say -- won't help out, won't do chores, won't go with Dad to work on the boat and just sits around and gets bored while good 'ol Pig Will does all of this, has a great time with Dad working on the boat and at the end of the day gets an ice cream treat. At the end, Pig Won't learns his lesson and becomes "Pig Me Too!"

Anyway, my two-year-old is a little Pig Will -- anything I ask he shrugs his shoulders and says "OK" and off we charge. He's a good kid and a tough one -- he rarely complains, and doesn't 'sweat the small stuff' as my Dad would say. So I'm getting ready to haul 40 lb. bags of mulch across the yard to the garden, so I plop him down on the rock bed by the side of the house by a strange toy that involves pushing boats and water and little spinning wheels and set to work.

I walk by with the first couple bags and he's playing just fine. Drop the bags, trudge back, think about how I should be using a wheel barrow, pick up two more bags and trudge along. Pig Will is still playing, but he's shifting around a bit. Wonder if he needs a diaper. Mental note -- check later. Drop bags, trudge back. Pig Will is waving his arms, but this is nothing unusual for a two-year-old. Who knows what's on his mind? I sling another bag over my shoulder and trudge back to the garden. Now Pig Will is grunting, still waving his arms. His voice is starting to sound like a kind of whimper, or something. Never heard that particular sound before, actually.

Now, my little guy is a pretty good talker, so when he grunts and whimpers and waves his arms, well ... it's time to go back to the garden and drop off another bag and see how he is when I get back. So I do, and he's still doing it -- the whimpering, the grunting, the waving of arms, the confused and possibly horrified expression. Something clicks in the parental part of my brain -- perhaps I should check this out!

I bend down and look at him, and he looks up at me sadly and says, "Ahh!". Oh, hey, there, I say, it's okay!

Then I notice an ant on his leg. Actually, a couple ants. I brush them off. "It's okay -- it's just a couple ants! Brush, brush, brush!" Then I notice the ants on his other leg. And another crawling on his foot. "Ooh...lots of ants...wow...it's okay. Brusha brusha." And I brush them off his other leg.

But I'm starting to get a feeling that there's a theme at work here, which is when I notice about a dozen ants on his overall shorts, two on his left hand, a few more on his right arm and one on his forehead. Wow, I think. That's a lot of ants. That's when I decide to pick up Pig Will and see what's going on here. And then I say it aloud: "That's a lot of ants!"

Because it was a lot of ants. Where Pig Will had been sitting were about half dozen very large little sandpiles with holes in the middle -- ant hills -- hundreds of ants swarming about, no doubt in a frenzy over the giant diapered create sitting atop their homes. It's at this point that I realize that the giant diapered creature had been mostly stoically enduring a swarm of dozens of ants crawling over his entire body -- up and down his legs and arms and even under his shirt.

"Wow, kiddo," I say. I call him kiddo sometimes. "You've got ants all over you!"

"Yeah," he says. "Ants. On my legs."

"Yeah, and on your nose...beep, beep. Let's get these ants off of you. Do you like ants on you?"

"Nooooo."

"Yeah. Daddy sat you down on an ant hill. Sorry 'bout that."

"Yeah," he says, giving me a very stern look as I peek down his diaper to be sure I haven't missed any stray ants. "I don't like ant hills."

In Search of a Rose

2006-06-13T10:33:00.000-05:00

Where will I wander and wonder?
Nobody knows.
But wherever I'm a'going I'll go
In search of a Rose.

Whatever the will of the weather
Whether it shines or snows,
Wherever I'm a'going I'll go
In search of a Rose.

Don't know where it's found,
But I don't mind.
As long as the world spins around,
I'll take my time.

I'll savour the softness of summer;
I'll wrap up when winter blows.
Wherever I'm a'going I'll go
In search of a Rose.

--Mike Scott/The Waterboys

Idleness and depression are often the direct result of idealism. For some, the Ideal is all that is worth doing. Anything less is not. Idealists quickly find that they have two routes: They can devote their entire being to reaching the Ideal, turning life into a quest for Perfection -- excellence at their job, the perfect mate, the ideal home, model children, the perfect life. Or, they can lay their hammer down and give up the quest, knowing that the Ideal is impossible...
choosing, through inaction, the perfect path of least resistance, perhaps hoping that the Ideal will find you. Counter-intuitively, perhaps, both ways are equally effective.

The "third way" is to choose the Journey over the Ideal, knowing that Truth and Beauty can be discovered along the way. To keep searching for the Rose, not because you expect to find it, but to savor the boundless paths you'll take on the way to Wherever.

In a Curmudgeonly Spirit of Sharing...

2006-06-09T15:04:00.000-05:00

Vacation has come and gone, and I'm back, ready to take on the world and stuff. Or at least to blog and blog again. In the spirit of sharing, here are some things that I've been thinking about...

> I hate summer. There's too much pressure. "Oh what a nice day! We can't waste such a nice day!" There's a lot of pressure in a nice day. You have to embrace it. You have to plan for it. You have to have amazing experiences during them. You have to go outside on nice days. Sometimes, I'm perfectly happy in my air conditioned family room watching the damn television. I shouldn't have to feel guilty about not meeting some artificial standard of nice day ecstasy.

Oh yeah: And it's too damn hot.

> My new-ish Blackberry email machine came pre-loaded with a game called "Brick Breaker". I've discovered it. This is a bad thing. But amid my assault on the digital bricks with my digital ball and laser blasts and what have you, I am being careful this time around. My old Palm Vx has a broken Calendar button as a result of my heavy-thumbed obsession with a handheld Asteroids game.

> My oldest son finished kindergarten yesterday. Nothing terribly remarkable here, but it brings back memories. Putting him to bed last night, he suddenly says, "Why do we have to be done with school? I like going to school." I'm glad he can say so, but feel sorry as well. Later, he'll discover, as I did, that it's not politically correct to admit that you like school and that you actually want to learn something.

> Credit the Newsarama blog for this one: Check out Alienware's Superman Notebook computer. A sign of the apocolypse? Or of the coming rapture...?

Motivate Me

2006-05-16T13:17:00.000-05:00

Back in grad school, my friend and periodic reader Gary and I created what we called "The Intensity Sign." It was, simply, the word "INTENSITY" hastily scribbled in pencil on a sheet of yellow lined paper as a reminder to be... well... intense. Focused. Driven. You post it over your desk and it reminds you that the time has come to get the damn job done and move on.

You might guess that I'm in need of such a sign right now, plunking away these workday hours on a blog, and you'd be right. But these days I'm in need of deeper motivation than a reminder to be motivated, so to speak. I'll note a few... perhaps you, the reader, can share a few of your own.

"My family" -- yes, yes, of course. I'm working really hard because my family needs me to. OK, now that this is out of the way...

"Stickin' it to The Man" -- I have this theory that I could, if I wanted, get done most of what I have to do in any given week in about two days. This would leave me three days a week to obsessively pursue useless activities -- expounding on the media and politics, writing and reading comic books, surfing the Internet for online comic books, drinking coffee, sketching comic books -- while being paid a healthy salary. Downside: Amusing in the short term, mind numbing and self destructive in the long term.

"Becoming The Man" -- if I work really hard, I could get promoted, gain more responsibility, make more money, and buy a cute little cabin up in the woods by a lake and hide there during my infrequent vacations. I could be The Man, the guy in the office that people humor because they have to, follow because they must and fear because, well, because I'm The Man. Downside: Hating myself.

"Completion of Current Self-Loathing Cycle" -- (or, Avert My Chronic Impending Disaster). Even though my blog gets updated much more often, I don't like myself when I act like this. Usually it happens after I finish some big projects and I'm not sure what to do next. I should go on vacation. Fly a kite. Stick my feet in a river. Catch a fish. And then come back.

With Intensity!

What to Do in Cerritos, California

2006-05-07T10:57:00.000-05:00

And now, the long-awaited review of my latest business trip. I recently spent three days and two nights in Cerritos, Calif., a non-descript town of unknown size about 30 miles south of Los Angeles. Let's get right to it!

Best Place to Stay -- Sheraton Four Points
I stayed at the luxurious Sheraton Four Points Hotel in Cerritos. It was very conveniently located. We could walk to numerous local restaurants, like Macaroni Grill and Starbucks, as well as shopping like Old Navy and Borders.

The hotel itself was well appointed. The shower left something to be desired -- while competently designed, it took a little over an hour for the tub to drain. My feet certainly got a good soaking!

However, it didn't have wireless access in any room, except the lobby. Look, Mr. Sheraton, Motel 6's and Holiday Inns have wireless -- you can spring for Wireless, too!

Best Restaurant -- Arte Cafe or something like that
On night 2, we had a late meal at this restaurant in the mall across the street. I ate the lamb chops with mashed potatoes and some vegatables. They were suitably delicious, but through the entire meal, I kept thinking about how I was eating lamb, which is, as you may know, a baby sheep. A baby!

Best Ribs -- The Wood Grill
Shout out to the Wood Grill, where I ate a full rack of baby back ribs. From the chest cavity of a pig! Why was I thinking about this all weekend?

Best Long-Form Magazine Article -- Harper's
The previous might have something to do with the article in the May issue of Harper's which discussed how the modern pork producer must engage in rather disturbing forms of artificial insemination to breed pigs, since the old-fashioned way carries high risk of disease, which, due to the lack of genetic variation among pigs selectively bred for their large size and deliciousness, would be disastrous.

Best Movie -- Mission Impossible 3
I have a colleague whose example encourages me to embrace my inner geek. His office is an ode to the tech gadget, decorated with comic book posters. So, traveling with him for the first time, I rode his wave. First, we made the pilgramage to Fry's electronics, a geek warehouse par excellence, and where he beat me out for a $60 2GB flash drive, and where, I must admit, I could have spent a lot of money of I so desired, but I didn't. But he got the flash drive, USB hub and a power strip, because, you know, you can't have too many.

Then we had dinner, indulged in three little bowls of tiramisu, and then trooped off for the 10 pm showing of MI: 3. This was a popcorn movie if there ever was one, and we each stuffed our faces with a medium popcorn and Coke.

The popcorn was stale, the Coke unnecessary, and the movie incredulous but fun. My eyes are still popping from the glare of Tom Cruise's teeth, but frankly, I went there to see unbelievable stunts, explosions, high tech gadgets, more explosions, gun fights and more explosions. Ka-Boom! Mission Accomplished!

That's about it for my trip to the Los Angeles metropolitan area. I hope you'll clip and save this advice, and you can do what I did in Cerritos!

Los Angeles Travelogue

2006-05-04T20:49:00.000-05:00

My latest business trip takes me to Los Angeles. L-A. La la land. Yeah, baby.

On this trip, we decided to stay outside of the city in a little town called Cerritos.

Here in Cerritos, they have a Sheraton, where I'm staying, a Macaroni Grill, an Old Navy and a Borders, and palm trees, right outside my window! I can't quite see the ocean, but I'm sure it's here somewhere outside of the Sheraton. Maybe I'll go out tonight and check. Or, I might just avail myself of the various treasures in the Starwood Entertainment Network on the good 'ol television. Movies for only $12 bucks, and I don't have to go anywhere!

Tomorrow, we'll work some more and then drive the minivan back to the airport and have more adventures. Maybe we'll through Compton. By highway at least...

The Common Good: No Sacrifice At All

2006-04-30T12:57:00.000-05:00

David Brooks again shows why he's the liberals' favorite conservative in his New York Times column this week (registration and possible payment required; free registration at the StarTribune). His theme is one I've been harping on here and in political conversations for some time now: why can't a Democrat get up and say what they stand for -- because clearly they stand for both everything and nothing today.

Brooks notes a growing consensus by liberal intellectuals around an old but forgotten theme: The common good. Citing a recent essay by writer Michael Tomasky, Brooks notes:

"Tomasky is now back with an essay in the American Prospect, in which he argues that it is time Democrats cohered around a big idea -- not diversity and not individual rights, but the idea of the common good. The Democrats' central themes, Tomasky advises, should be that we're all in this together; we are all part of a larger national project; we all need to make some shared sacrifices and look beyond our narrow self-interest. Tomasky is hoping for a candidate who will ignore the demands of the single-issue groups and argue that all Americans have a stake in reducing economic fragmentation and social division."

He notes that Democratic pollsters are saying the same thing.
"John Halpin and Ruy Teixeira, have just finished a long study that comes out in exactly the same place. Surveying mountains of polling data, they conclude that the Democrats' chief problem is that people don't think they stand for anything. Halpin and Teixeira argue that the message voters respond to best is the notion of shared sacrifice for the common good."
As a conservative, Brooks points this out a more negative light than I would. If I were writing for Democrats today, I'd talk not in terms of "shared sacrifice" but about that shared mission.

I'd point out that we are a part of all of our communities, and in America, our government is not some separate caste of elites but an expression of ourselves, what we want for our communities, our states and our nation. Our shared mission is to make them all a place where people can improve their lives, make something of themselves and take care of each other when they can't do it themselves.

You can tax me for this. It's no sacrifice at all.
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Bonus! Visit some of my other political screeds!

Criminal Ineloquence

Invest in America

Hindsight is Foresight

State of the Union Part II

State of the Union Part I

Drinks Are On Me!

2006-04-27T09:23:00.000-05:00

An Observation:

Here's what my work life has looked like over the last eight months:

Sincere emotional and physical burnout at work. Ability to concentrate, focus and enjoy life severely impacted.
Said burnout contributes to loss of major account.
Loss of major account leading to dramatic turnaround in overall mood and outlook on life. Laughing more, speaking and acting with confidence.
Said outlook and mood improved by boss who, embarrassingly, pushes all the right buttons and sends me on a positive career course.
Contribute mightily to many non-revenue generating but important new business projects.
Receive raise via said boss.
Direct supervisor recommends me for promotion.

Exactly what's going on here?

Is being happy and confident is good enough in today's work world?

Or am I just better at this than I thought?

Regardless, it's severely impacted my blogging. So, I apologize to my thre or so regular readers and those of you who land here via odd MSN searches. Thank you for your support.

And smile! Drinks are on me!

The Opposite of Humor

2006-04-21T08:14:00.000-05:00

Or, "Snark for Snark's Sake"

I've discovered the opposite of humor and it is Newsweek. And Jay Leno. Newsweek and Jay Leno epitomize this pop culture referencin', we-all-know-what-jerks-they-are, it's funny 'cause it's cruel kind of humor that is just...not...funny.

Here's a recent Newsweek headline on Julia Roberts' appearance on Broadway: "It Sure Beats Mona Lisa Smile 2". Check out the article. No mention of the movie, no relevance. "Remember that Julia Roberts movie that sucked? Ha ha!" Basically, it's a cheap shot. The mass media equivalent of pulling on Julia's pigtails and then pointing a laughing.

This pretty much all there is to Leno's humor, and Newsweek is chock full of these. I'd offer more, but I'm late for a meeting. With a jerk. Ha ha!

Musings on Web 2.0

2006-04-17T08:17:00.000-05:00

I wrote this little musing on communications, where the web is going, etc. I liked it, so I thought I'd share it:

In 1971, Memorex launched its audio recording products with a commercial featuring Ella Fitzgerald’s recorded voice shattering a wine glass. The tagline: “Is it live or is it Memorex?”

The ad was a sign of the times. Back then, the pinnacle of the entertainment experience was the live performance. Real, immediate, unmediated.

Today, the media is the experience. Home theaters with high definition television and stereo surround sound are seen by some as superior to going to the movies. Most sports fans will tell you that watching a football game on TV has distinct advantages over seeing it live. iPods are piping all the music you choose in high quality sound, right into our ears. TiVo let’s you watch what you want, when you want, again and again.

We’re no longer passive consumers of entertainment. We’re creators. Bloggers aren’t journalists, they’re moderators, asking questions, opining, trying to set the agenda and create more chatter, whether among a small group of friends or in the global conversation on big issues. We create iPod playlists and download songs rather than buy entire CDs. We by video cameras and make our own movies to record our lives in living, moving color … we even can edit out the sad parts. Kids take video and music from the Web and make mash-ups and viral funnies that become conversation fodder among IM buddies, message boards, email, in the coffee shop and around the water cooler. We upload our photos to Yahoo or Snapfish to share with friends. With a few clicks, we create memory books, coffee mugs and t-shirts. We publish our novels on CafePress. We play our music and bare our souls on MySpace. Even if you don’t do all of this … you know you can. Maybe you even think you should. It’s not a part of life. It’s part of living.

The truth is this: We no longer “experience”. We no longer consume: We author. We collaborate. We participate.

We are the media. We are the message.

Where do you think things are going?

Creating Online Community

2006-04-06T15:01:00.000-05:00

Recently, the creator of the online comic "Johnny Saturn" posed a question on his forum about how one builds community online. Here is the answer I posted on his forum, slightly edited. He liked it, and I was quite proud of it myself (mainly because someone liked it). Perhaps you'll find it useful. Perhaps, someday, I'll find it useful, too:

...I follow a couple forums for humor sites that really have created community (see www.jaypinkerton.com or www.pointlesswasteoftime.com -- some of it is NSFW, if that matters to you).

Part of the community feel is that the people involved are invested in the site somehow -- their forum entries contribute to the site, they entertain and critique each other, they're creative together via humor. And they show off. I think part of it also is that people feel like they get to know these humorists on a semi-personal level -- they're part of something (Pinkerton, for example, has met a woman, taken jobs at National Lampoon and Cracked and moved from Canada to LA to New York since he started his forum). PWOT has been around long enough that there are core members of the community who meet offline once in awhile and clearly care about each other.

They seem to involve a good number of friends and fans in driving and moderating the forum and they have nurtured the community for many years. The folks who started the forums also contributed to other forums over the years, made internet friends and built a network that way.

Not an easily duplicated formula... I think it's hard to build the forum around Komikwerks because it's not a Johnny Saturn forum for Johnny Saturn fans. You might consider building a blog or community around the Johnny Saturn site and offering opportunities for fans to contribute ideas and art, letting us know where you are and how you're promoting the comic, offering sneak previews, introducing other projects, etc.

Just a thought (and I'm in PR, so I think about these things) ... I agree that vibrant message boards are the exception rather than the rule ... and I bet you'd get a pretty good readership for a blog...

What do you think?

So...

2006-04-06T14:48:00.000-05:00

My six-year-old informed me last night that I begin all of my stories with, "So...", as in, "So, Space Knight had been flying through space for many days..." or, "So, the Awesome Eight gathered for their weekly meeting in Sky City..." or, "So, would you get in bed already...?"

So, I thought, it could be worse. Here's the thing: I've been happy lately. A little bit more productive, not a lot, but happy. I'm not used to it, and not sure what to do with the extra energy. I've been running on the basement treadmill a few mornings a week, which is cool, given my mysterious 10-pound weight gain a few weeks ago and accompanying belly. I've had great conversations and a few bits of inspired wisdom to share with colleagues, which is fun. And I've been put in charge of "Web 2.0" for our office, which will be super neato cool, as soon as I figure out what that's going to mean.

I've even got nice feedback on a bit of inspired wisdom about building online community to one of my favorite webcomic writers, which I think I'll blog here separately.

It's not like life is so perfect. I just refuse to be bothered by it.

Here I am finding nothing to write about while I'm feeling strangely happy ...

But, I've never bought into the "you need to be tortured to be an artist" thing. You're an artist if you can do art, tortured or not. Which makes me...

So.

Where to Go With Nick Kristoff

2006-03-28T13:14:00.000-06:00

My lunchtime routine often involves a steak-guacamole-cheese-tomato burrito, a Coke and the opinion pages of the New York Times. I ignore ads, until today, when a powerful notice on the back of the Arts section caught my eye:

"Win a Trip with Nick Kristoff"

A "life changing," "incredibly grueling" experience for "one intrepid student" with the Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times columnist Nicholas D. Kristoff visiting the most impoverished parts of Africa.

The whole thing makes me queasy. I admire what Kristoff does -- he reports firsthand on teenage prostitution in Asia. Genocide in Darfur. The plight of women in developing nations where tribal traditions allow a woman to be punished for allowing herself to be forcibly raped.

So, yeah, hey -- why not join 'ol Nick on his tour of the underbelly of the world? It might just change your life! And, you "won't merely be Nick's traveling companion -- you might also have the opportunity to bring fresh perspective to his reporting via your very own TimesSelect Web log, or video blog on NYTimes.com ..." In other words, if your writing is good enough, and you don't piss off Nick or his editors, they'll publish your blog, and, as a budding young journalist, you'll have clips!

Here's a thought: Why doesn't "Nick" just bring Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie along and call it "The Simple Life: Africa"? Not only will the resulting press coverage shine unprecedented light on the most impoverished people in the world, but think of the ratings for that video blog!

What To Do in New York City

2006-03-22T08:55:00.000-06:00

Another in my continuing series of firsthand reviews of big city haunts frequented by this savvy business traveler. This week, I spent two days and one night in New York City. The Big Apple! The City That Never Sleeps! Yes, that New York City.

Best Hotel: Grand Hyatt on Lexington and East 42nd Street

I stayed in the Grand Hyatt because of its location near my conference. Good plan -- I could maneuver the rotating doors and be at the office in mere minutes. I'm sure it was near many exiting places to visit -- New York is full of them. But I pretty much stuck to the hotel and my meetings. But the hotel was delightful. A grand lobby and entrance resplendent in shiny marble. Friendly reception desk and concierge service. Crowds of young people milling about in their tuxedos and shiny dresses, having hallway conversations practically outside my door at 2:30 am while I was trying to watch a movie... more on that later!

The room was small but well appointed. Wireless was T-Mobile, which means it wasn't free. I consider this a big no-no for $245-a-night hotels, but it worked well. The shower had a glass door and the towels were surprisingly plush.

Best food: Grand Hyatt Hotel

When my conference was planned weeks ago, agendas were distributed, trumpeting a "Dinner in Soho!" Mysteriously, this was not to be. Instead, we dined in a majestic room (called the Majestic Room) in the Grand Hyatt itself. How convenient! The meal began with a salad wedge and dressing. The main course consisted of some sort of cut of prime rib, or steak, drenched in a gravy that helpfully attempted to overcome the meat's chalky texture. The Cabernet Sauvignon (a red wine) was tasty and refilled often, and the plate was adorned with a potato-quiche wedge thingy and those little carrots with the green stuff still hanging on. I highly recommend the dessert, fruit in a chocoloate shell bowl and the after-dinner candies.

Best Place to See a Movie: My room at the Grand Hyatt Hotel

I chose Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on the Grand Hyatt's "On Command" pay per view movie system. Why leave the room when you don't have to? The movie was gripping. There were some technical problems -- primarily some ghosting in the TV screen. Time to invest in some upgraded tech, Hyatt!

The TV had plenty of channel choices, and I did find myself enjoying HBO that I don't get at home, catching some of the first half of Titanic. Harry Potter ended at about 1:00 am, and, amid the excitment I couldn't sleep, so I tried out HBO again, and it didn't dissappoint: AVP: Aliens versus Predator. Oh yeah.

Worst Shopping: Duane Reade Store on East 42nd Street

Let me just say that I'm extremely disappointed that the Duane Reade doesn't carry postcards. My kid wanted postcards. Why couldn't they have postcards. The staff there looked at me like I was some sort of tourist.

Well, that's about it for now. Hope you feel a little bit more ready now for your next trip to the Big Apple!
-------------------
Check out my other informative travel guides:
Things to do When You're in Philadelphia and What I Ate in Chicago. You'll be all the better for it!

News of the Day

2006-03-15T08:43:00.000-06:00

Your Daily News Brief

> Daunte Culpepper was traded from the Minnesota Vikings to the Miami Dolphins for a 2nd round draft pick and pound of raspberry chocolate chip ice cream. Culpepper really stunk it up last year, but I'll miss my 4 year old shouting "Cuullll-pepper." All in all, my wife and I are pleased with our decision not to buy him a $50 #11 Vikings jersey.

> People have been clamoring for my personal opinion on where to have coffee in Mankato. Now that I have had a 16 oz Mocha Ice Crema at a Dunn Bros. in Mankato, I'd vote for the Dunn Bros. in Mankato. Added bonus: The place is clearly a converted Burger King, and is decorated like a furniture store. For dorm lounge furniture.

> Sadaam Hussein took the stand in his trial for the crime of being an evil dictator. With quotes that included the phrase "rivers of blood" and "I am the head of state," I'd say he did little to help his cause. I'll offer deeper analysis when I've read the rest of the article.

At the same time, have you ever imagined a more irrelevant trial than that of Sadaam Hussein? If you find him "not guilty," what are you going to do? Set him up in a two-room apartment in Baghdad and tell him to go get a job? What's he going to do? Open up a cafe? Or, do you apologize and let him run for election on the "My Enemies' Blood Will Flow Like Rivers" ticket? The guy is guilty because we blew up his army and houses and killed his sons and pulled him out of his hidey-hole. Pretending otherwise is theater.

The story I'm missing is the one that actually identifies, for real, who the bad guys are and what they want. I'll get back to you on this.

> This morning I've eaten a frozen waffle (toasted), a cup of milk (refused by my 4-year old) and a cup of coffee (Dunn Bros, Columbian, Dark Roast). If anyone out there has inside connections, please alert CNN.

Thanks.

I Would Pay for Digital Comics

2006-03-10T10:45:00.000-06:00

My last post, on Marvel's Runaways series, got me thinking about digital comics. Namely this:

There ought to be digital comics subscriptions from Marvel and DC. I am unlikely to put money down to own copies of graphic novels or trade paperbacks or, god forbid, any new issue of an ongoing series.

But I absolutely would pay to read them online. I don't want them in my house (to add to the 1200+ comics from the 1970s and 80s already there); I just want to read them. When I want to.
And, while I'm enjoying the heck out of some free online serials, all in all, I'd rather read my old favorites as a whole story, rather than a page at a time.

Marvel recently sent out a survey asking very specific pricing questions about digital comics, what people want, what they'd expect and how much they'd pay. I hope they asked these questions to the right people. I bet that they'd find that people like me -- comics fans in their late 30s or 40s who would love to read comics but don't want to clutter up their house with them (or let their little kids read them yet) would be happy to subscribe so they can read them in the comfort of their offices, coffee shops or living rooms.

Maybe Marvel would pay me to promote this...

Edit 11:53 am: some other blogs with interesting takes:

A take on the overall business model of comics -- print at home? Others?
http://storyboard.darkora.net/?archive=2005_11_01_news_archive.php#113219286185870308

A dissecting a dissenting view..."Comics are a collector's medium..." I'd disagree, as I think the author does, too... there ought to be a place for those of us who just want to read great stories...
http://returntocomics.typepad.com/return_to_comics/2006/01/digital_comics__1.html

Apparently, Marvel is definitely heading in this direction, but the "catalog" referenced is moving a lot more slowly and the selection is a lot more random than advertised... ideally, we shouldn't have to be "tantalized" by a digital offering into looking up the full series in print -- we should be able to buy access to the full series digitally...
http://cinerati.blogspot.com/2005/12/marvel-to-offer-digital-backissues.html

Runaways

2006-03-09T12:59:00.000-06:00

Despite the fact that I'm way too old for this, I've been reading Runaways Volume 1 at Barnes & Noble during lunch hours, which collects, well, Volume 1 of Marvel's Runaway series -- issues 1-18.

Besides gettting a really sore be-hind from sitting on the floor, this was a tremendous comic book adventure. Completely original concept, cool powers, unique characters. Fun, scary and fun.

The comic plays off the idea that every teenager thinks that their parents are evil at one time or another. The question: what if a group of good kids found out that their parents really were evil?

Great characterization, a perplexing mystery, and a complex plot where everything is far from black-and-white. Teen heroes gaining and losing confidence as they fumble with their powers, teenage angst, crushes, corrupt cops, supervillain parents and how to live with a pet velociraptor.

Most excellent.

# # #

Criminal Ineloquence

2006-03-08T21:04:00.000-06:00

Minnesota Public Radio held a debate with the four leading Democrats seeking the party nomination for governor. These people are criminally ineloquent.

I can't give you exact quotes. But, you know, if I'm getting ready for a candidates debate, I'd surely have prepared a damn good explanation of why I'm running for governor. One said said, essentially, "I'm running for the future. Because of our children." Of course you are. But you don't have to assume that your voters are children. Another, the leading candidate, basically said that he's for doing things better. Oh good. Thanks!

I understand that there's taking the high road and there's getting specific and you've got to know your audience and split the difference. But a simple question -- why are you running for governor -- deserves a simple answer. Here's what I want to hear:

"Look, Minnesota's got a long tradition of progressive government to help folks live a better life. We used to invest in education, and our schools were the envy of the nation. We used to take of our poor and our elderly. We used to put money into roads, parks and the arts. And we were successful. Great businesses grew and thrived. New businesses flourished. People stayed here, because they knew that the good life was here in Minnesota.

"In the past decade and a half, we've gotten away from that. We've cut education funding. We've starved our social welfare system -- we're leaving people out in the cold. We haven't addressed critical transportation issues. We've cut back on arts and parks funding. If it takes taxes -- well, that's what taxes are for -- they're what we contribute to better our communities.

"We've lost sight of why we as a state have come together to form a government -- so that we can make a better life for ourselves, our families and our communities, today and into the future. Minnesota was once a special place -- it can be that way again ... let us dare to be exceptional. That's what I'm here to do."

I'll put away my soapbox now. Maybe this makes sense only to me, but I just want to see Democrats be proud of who they are, and what they've accomplished. They need to stop being cowed by the "no taxes" crowd, and tell us what they'll use our taxes for. I think there's a majority that'll be proud to get behind a Minnesota that stands for something.

Kirby Puckett: Still Smiling

2006-03-06T21:36:00.000-06:00

"Kirby Puckett's going to be all right," he said in 1996. "Don't worry about me. I'll show up, and I'll have a smile on my face. The only thing I won't have is this uniform on. But you guys can have the memories of what I did when I did have it on."

- Kirby Puckett, on his retirement from baseball

Click here for some thoughts on Puckett from the morning of March 6.

Invest in America

2006-03-06T12:17:00.000-06:00

I've been musing on the problem of the Democratic Party message for some time. This morning's New York Times (sign in probably required) once again highlights a Democratic party adrift:

At the Capitol in Hartford the other morning, State Senator Christopher Murphy denounced the "disastrous prescription drug benefit bill" embraced by his Republican opponent, Representative Nancy L. Johnson.
Jeff Latas, a Democratic candidate in an Arizona race, is talking about the nation's dangerous reliance on oil imports from the Middle East. Ed Perlmutter, a Colorado Democrat, says he is running against "the arrogance and cronyism" displayed by Washington Republicans.
And in New Mexico, Patricia Madrid, the state attorney general, is urging the United States to set a timetable for quitting Iraq...
These scattershot messages reflect what officials in both parties say are vulnerabilities among Republicans on Capitol Hill, as well as President Bush's weakened political condition in this election year.
But they also reflect splits within the party about what it means to be a Democrat — and what a winning Democratic formula will be — after years in which conservative ideas have dominated the national policy debate and helped win elections.
And they complicate the basic strategy being pursued by Democratic leaders in Washington to capture control of Congress: to turn this election into a national referendum on the party in power, much the way Republicans did against Democrats in 1994.
Interviews with Democratic challengers in contested districts suggest that the party is far from settling on an overarching theme that will work as well in central Connecticut as it does in central Colorado.
And while Democrats have no shortage of criticism to offer, they have so far not introduced a strategy for governing along the lines of the Republican Party's Contract With America, the 1994 initiative that some Democrats hold up as their model for this year's elections.

My question: Why should this be so hard? Campaign not on "what might work" but on what you believe. Here's my proposal:

The Democrats should run on a platform called "Invest in America". The platform: "We are Americans and we care about America. Government isn't some stranger -- it's Americans, as communities, towns, cities, states and as a nation -- who've come together for common good -- to ensure security, opportunity and a future for our people. Democrats believe that Government is an investment in America.

Invest in Security -- by finishing up in Iraq, re-building global alliances, fighting terrorism and encouraging economic opportunity worldwide. In energy independence and conservation. In securing our country from terrorist attack
Invest in Our Workers -- by investing in high-tech manufacturing, research and development, training and education -- in new markets and jobs. And in helping folks who need a hand.
Invest in our Health -- with national health insurance, research into new therapies -- including stem cells -- and in ensuring that everyone has access to great health care.
Invest in Our Children -- in ensuring access to high qualtiy education, and ensuring that we're prepapred to compete in world markets.
Invest in America -- in infrastructure, in parks, and in the environment.

Let me know what you think...

Bitter Stroke

2006-03-06T10:12:00.000-06:00

What can you say?

The last time I saw Kirby Puckett was on the Plaza outside of the Metrodome. He and Blyleven were going to a card signing before an afternoon game. We were standing right outside the glass door of the Twins corporate offices, when out comes Kirby. I can't remember what he was wearing, beyond the then trademark dark glasses he's worn since his glaucoma diagnosis. But I remember being shocked at his size...the man had become a whale. Even in his playing days, he was shaped like a fire hydrant -- short, thick and solid. But now...

I remember being in my downtown office when Kirby retired. We gathered around the radio for awhile. Kirby thanked God and told us not to feel sorry for him. He'd had the chance to play the game he loved ... we loved ... so long and so well, there was nothing to be sad about, no regrets. He talked and talked and I don't remember what he said after that because you listed to Kirby back then and you just laughed becasue he had this patter and he was laughing and joking and having fun and you just went along for the ride, like his famous "climb on board" boast to his teammates before Game 6 of the 1991 World Series, where he went out and backed it up as few others ever have.

And I remember telling my friends Back East about becoming a Twins fan and saying that you just had to love Kirby Puckett. Even today, knowing how tarnished his legacy has become here, how that likeability turned out to be a bit of an act, I see him suffer and remember and think, you know, whoever he was to his wife and to his girlfriends and his buddies...to a fan, that act was for us and it made us feel good. It made us proud to be a part of his team. He doesn't have to do it for us anymore.

What can you say?

Good luck, Kirby. We're with you.

The Katrina Genre

2006-03-03T14:50:00.000-06:00

All I have to say about this is that you'd have to think some great books should come out of the Katrina disaster. When before, in the past 50 years, have we lost a city?

As far as Curtis Broussard Jr. is concerned, he is not missing. He is in Missouri City, Tex., where he plans to stay. But according to the State of Louisiana, Mr. Broussard, formerly of Cherry Street, New Orleans, has not been found.
His daughter, Antonette Murray, had not heard from him since Hurricane Katrina. In January, she finally reported him to the state, expecting to hear back that he was dead. But though he was added to the missing list, other family members had known of his whereabouts since September, and a reporter recently put Mr. Broussard back in touch with his daughter after a few telephone calls.

Despite intensive efforts to reach the scattered refugees of Hurricane Katrina, nearly 2,000 such names remain on the state's list of people still unaccounted for, out of 12,000 that had once been reported. Even now, new missing persons reports trickle in; there were 99 over the two-week period that ended Feb. 5.

But officials say the number is less a measure of the storm's lethal power, or even of the lives it upended, than of the trauma, disarray and instability that persist half a year later. Only about 300 of those on the list are believed to have died in the flooding; many of the rest are adrift in America, having failed, for a variety of reasons, to remain in touch with their own families. A call center set up by the state to reunite families has struggled to get government financing and research tools.

Many of the recent reports of missing people are from distant relatives or friends looking for news. But others are more urgent: they come from mothers looking for their children's father; from families who have just found a relative's body in New Orleans and need to register that person officially, a requirement before a body can be released by the authorities; or from people who seem only now to be able to assume any task beyond day-to-day survival.

"We get some calls that say, 'I just thought about my fiancé is missing,' " said Lenora Green, shaking her head in a mixture of sympathy and disbelief. "It's like they just click back into reality because of the shock they're going through."

I wish I could say I know anything about New Orleans, beyond two trade show visits that led to drunken stumbles about the French Quarter, one visit to a palm reader and the discovery that everyone has their own, unique take on the best food in New Orleans and each and every one of them is right.

One Minute Stories - Part II

2006-03-03T08:45:00.000-06:00

edit - 3/3/2006

My friend reads this piece and notes that it was John Cale who co-founded the Velvet Underground, not John Cage. However, I am heartened by the fact that they knew each other, and even collaborated for a time.

In conclusion...umm...yeah.

-----------

So I'm doing these narcissistic searches for any online reference, however unlikely, to my blogs. And I discover that "One Minute Stories" is a concept that is being explored by John Cage, erstwhile founder of the Velvet Underground and all around avant artiste at his site, Indeterminacy.

While I've never been a Cage guy...in fact, the lines above pretty much sum up all I know about him, I'm still getting this huge feeling of "i'm not worthy of having the same ideas as John Cage." Which, of course, is nonsense. I'm perfectly capable of having good ideas. I just don't.

Anyway, he's a much more disciplined artist, and the ideas are fascinating. Here's what he's doing:

John Cage was an American composer, Zen buddhist, and mushroom eater. He was
also a writer: this site is about his paragraph-long stories -- anecdotes,
thoughts, and jokes. As a lecture, or as an accompaniment to a Merce Cunningham
dance, he would read them aloud, speaking quickly or slowly as the stories
required so that one story was read per minute.

This site archives 186 of those stories. Each story is spaced out, as if it were being read aloud, to fill a fixed area. If you like, you can also read them aloud at a rate of one a minute.
You can read a random story (reload or select the asterisk for another), pick one by number using the form on the main page, or choose one through one of the three indices. The index of names lists people and beings and the stories they are mentioned in, and the index of first lines lists the first line of each story alphabetically. The stories often end in punch lines; the index of
last lines (my favorite) lists these alphabetically.
The stories are taken from two of Cage’s books, Silence and A Year from Monday, and from the Folkways recording of him reading 90 of them aloud as David Tudor plays piano (among other things). The numbering is arbitrary, except that the first 90 stories are those on the Folkways recording in order. Several of them (numbers 104, 124, 138, 139, 140, and 163) were not specifically presented as stories by Cage; they were taken from various longer texts.

So there you have it. I'd never heard of this before, but I will say that my version is a bit less complicated. I'm writing short stories. It takes about a minute to read them. I think. I've never tried it. You should. It' s fun. I hope you'll visit One Minute Stories. Visit John Cage's site, too ... but don't compare, for the sake of my self esteem. Just don't.

No More Guilty Pleasures

2006-02-27T07:40:00.000-06:00

Back in about 1992 or so, my roommate brought home a gift from his girlfriend -- the latest edition of the Rolling Stone Music Guide. A red-white-and-blue book almost twice as thick as my fist, the Guide contained written reviews and "star ratings" of almost every rock'n'roll album out there. Five stars was a classic, four among the best an artist has to offer and among the better in its genre. Three stars merely average in the grand scheme of things. Et cetera, putting each album and artist in critical and historical context of the history of popular music in the rock era.

I absconded with it almost immediately and read it nearly cover to cover, evaluating my musical tastes against those of trained critics, feeling alternately elated and disappointed in their take on my favorites.

There seems to exisit a class of people who want their tastes to be critically approved, and I, unfortunately was one of them. It was suddenly no good to like Billy Joel (** or ***), Joe Jackson (***) or Harry Chapin (**, ***). I had to feel guilty for thinking that Van Morrison's "Moondance" was overrated and dated, for feeling that John Hiatt's "Bring the Family" (***) was superior to "Slow Turning" (****), and being unmoved by any of Springsteen's five-star "classics" after "Born to Run".

The Guide ruined me. Suddenly, I was musically adrift. Some artists I'll probably never enjoy again. I turned to new music -- to alt country / rural rock to escape -- new-ish genres barely touched by the Guide at that time. But I still remember the ratings on some of my favorites, a good 13 or so years later.

Now, I'm going through my CD collection and re-discovering old music that was supposed to have sucked, but, you know, doesn't really. As I write, I'm listening to The Waterboy's "Room to Roam" (two or three stars or so -- I am doing this from memory). The Rolling Stone reviews gave four stars to anything they did before "Fisherman's Blues" and two or three after that.

I loved "Fisherman's Blues" -- still do -- I bought it on tape before I had a CD player (yeah, I'm old). Rollicking, Dylan-esque vocals melded with romantic Irish folk and emotional, universal lyrics, ending with a beautiful reading of Yeats' "The Stolen Child," the likes of which I've never heard on a rock album before or since.

"Room to Roam" was the follow up, and I grabbed it. Listened to it constantly. Lead Waterboy muse Mike Scott must have gotten happy for this album, one that dove headfirst into the Irish folk and romantic legends -- filled with stories and songs about Raggle Taggle Gypsies and a trip to Broadford Green in springtime, and heartfelt folk rock paeons to first loves and longtime romance.

There's probably a story behind all this -- I don't care what it is. There are surely more "authentic" Irish folkies -- it doesn't matter. For me, every time I hear "Room to Roam," I want to dance around the room and sing out loud.

In addition:

> I've seen Barry Manilow in concert. He was great. So were Paul Anka, Anne Murray and Judy Collins. So were James Taylor and Elton John.

> The Beach Boys sucked. Los Lobos didn't have it the night I saw them.

> Semisonic was the sexiest live band ever.

> As far as I'm concerned, no artist who became big in the Sixties and early Seventies has done an album worth listening to since 1983. That includes you, Bruce, Van, Crosby, Stills, Nash AND Young. It includes you, Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger, each of the Who, any former Beatle, Byrd or Animal. And it includes, you, Bob Dylan, who's had multiple lauded comeback albums that do nothing whatsoever for me. It doesn't include John Prine, who I like, because he was never that big in the first place. I'm sure there are tons of exceptions.

In conclusion, go out and get "Room to Roam." Maybe you'll like it, too. Or maybe you won't. One thing I promise is that hereforth, I'll no more speak of "guilty pleasures." There's no good reason to feel guilty at all.

I'm going to dance around the coffee shop now.

Why Yes, I'll Have a Port

2006-02-23T16:47:00.000-06:00

...or Coming of Age in the White House

Bush is right. The port issue was well vetted. The sale of US port management contracts is bad because it appears to be bad, not because it is. From the New York Times:

In the political collision between the White House and Congress over the $6.8 billion deal that would give a Dubai company management of six American ports, most experts seem to agree on only one major point: The gaping holes in security at American ports have little to do with the nationality of who is running them.
The deal would transfer the leases for ports in New York, Baltimore and Miami, among others, from a British-owned company to one controlled by the government of Dubai, part of the United Arab Emirates. But the security of the ports is still the responsibility of Coast Guard and Customs officials. Foreign management of American ports is nothing new, as the role already played by companies from China, Singapore, Japan, Taiwan and trading partners in Europe attests.
While critics of the deal have raised the specter that it might open the way to the "infiltration" of American ports by terrorists from the Middle East, the Dubai company would in most cases inherit a work force that is mainly American, with hiring subject to the same regulations as under the current British management.
Among the many problems at American ports, said Stephen E. Flynn, a retired Coast Guard commander who is an expert on port security at the Council on Foreign Relations, "who owns the management contract ranks near the very bottom."

The real question: What's going on at the White House political office? Or the communications office? Does anyone have their eye on the ball here? I'm what we like to call a "communications professional" (in other words, a 'PR guy')... but it doesn't take a trained professional: Of course this was going to be a political firestorm. Does Bush, with no need to stand for re-election, no longer care how he looks to allies or opponents? What happened to the famous discipline of the Bush White House? Who's minding the store 'round those parts?

If there's anything worrisome about the Bush White House these days -- and there is a lot -- it's their growing apathy toward the rest of government -- and by extension, the rest of the country -- all on our behalf.

They make me feel like a teenager, fighting for a say: I'm not a kid anymore, Mister President!

Balancing Iraq

2006-02-22T09:07:00.000-06:00

Here's a newsflash: The situation in Iraq is complicated. I found this stated in a straightforward, non-partisan way on Neil Gaiman's website. A friend of his serving in Iraq sums up the situation in Bagdhad -- from burning garbage for light and Fallujah refugees to the city's future as a tourist destination.

"I’d have to say that Baghdad isn’t exactly doing all that well. I’ve flown over the central city several times via Blackhawk……and I don’t think this city looked nearly this much like Detroit after a championship loss (or win, for that matter) twenty years ago. There doesn’t seem to be a single block w/out destruction visible from the air. It isn’t just the damage we’ve done (although we have done and continue to do our share)….

The utter lack of garbage pickup…..which if someone suggests it, leads at best to twice-weekly neighborhood burns. Hence the phrase you may have seen elsewhere re Baghdad burning—one never knows if those plumes of black smoke are from the aforementioned IEDs, mortars….or mass garbage burnings. Things are burned for light, because there is only electricity a few hours out of 24 after the bad guys have taken out the power lines or even power station again. Burned for heat, because there isn’t enough kerosene during this cold (definitely below freezing at night!) weather.

This will be a beautiful city and great tourist destination someday. Really it will! The most incredible full moons over sparkling waters, reeds lining the canals, glittering lights leading up to mosques…. And skies that can go on just forever, at night with stars so sharp they poke your eyes.

Impressive summation of the challenges and opportunities. Also, awfully cool to find Neil Gaiman's journal.

"My Audience Awaits"

2006-02-21T16:55:00.000-06:00

...or, staring at myself in the mirror and finding my blogs...wanting...

So, I'm rethinking the blog thing. I like what I've done so far here and on my short story blog, but I've come to a difficult realization: I want an audience.

The problem is that I've always been against, as a matter of principle, excessive vanity, narcissism and pretentiousness. But what is a personal weblog but an exercise in vanity, narcissism and pretentiousness?

Confessing your moral failures is the first step on the road to recovery and embracing the truth is, short of a miracle, perhaps the first step in averting one's chronic impending disaster.

Which brings me back to the point that I must admit that I really want an audience. The question is: how do I get one? What do I have to offer that would draw in the Internet masses to read about what I have to say? How can I convince the world to come to me, to read me, to love me? Or, better yet, to bookmark me.

One might begin by taking an asset inventory. What do I have that you, the Internet public need?

> Lots and lots of experience in public relations. Particularly for technology companies.
> A quirky take on family life, what with all of my children and stuff.
> In-depth knowledge of Marvel Comics between 1977 and 1984. I did have this goofy idea that I could do a blog reviewing something from my comics collection (about 1200 total) each week. That sort of thing does seem to be popular these days.
> A minor talent for writing, that I've been trying to nuture these days. But really, who wants to read short stories? What does that really offer the world? I need to write the damn book I've been writing...

What does this offer the Internet public? Here are a couple ideas I'll explore... if anyone's reading, let me know what you think:

> The Heroic News Blog -- Perspective on the latest in News, Politics, Entertainment and Comics (ok, that's just weird, but potentially readable).

> Dom's Blog -- A blog that tells the story of "The Boy Who Could Fly" through his own blog ... an experiment in episodic storytelling. (Possibly even weirder, but it might be fun. But would anyone read it?)

> The Yet Another PR Blog Blog -- a unique perspective on public relations written by yet another PR guy. (I'm bored just writing this one.)

I'm off to do the appropriate research. My audience awaits!

# # #

VPs with Guns

2006-02-17T09:39:00.000-06:00

Have a look at the news reports on how Dick Cheney shot his buddy on a hunting trip. There's a missing issue that merits discussion. Namely:

Why in God's name are we allowing the Vice President of the United States to go on hunting trips? Why are we allowing the man second in the line to the Presidency to be hanging around with guys with guns who could easily -- accidentally -- shoot him.

Look, if it's this easy to make a mistake -- to fire on your friend coming up from behind -- shouldn't we be thinking that it could easily have been our VP?

I'm not a gun-control freak -- I think we should have reasonable gun control laws that ensure the general welfare of the republic. There's a debatable range here. I'm not a hunger, but I'm all for hunting by hunters who know how to be safe.

But think about it: Cheney and is friends are experienced hunters. The knew the rules, knew the customs and knew how to be safe. And Cheney still shot this guy.

Forget the PR bungle and all that. The issue is: is it good judgement for the man next in line to be leader of the free world to be hanging out in the woods with guys with guns?

The Boy Who Could Fly - Part 2

2006-02-08T01:15:00.000-06:00

My comic book script, continued. Click here for part one.

Page 14

Panel 1: Caption: Day 2.

Large panel -- half the page. It's gym class. The boys are playing floor hockey -- each kid has a stick, and they're chasing a little ball. Dom is in the foreground, outside of the action, but focused, concentrating, waiting to see how he can be of use.

DOM (VO): I hate gym class. I'm too skinny, too weak. But I've always thought that maybe, if you let yourself go... forget what you can't do and just...fly...good things will happen.

Panel 2: Small panel: Dom raising his stick to take a mighty slapshot.

DOM (VO): I know how to fly.

Panel 3: Small panel -- big burly guys slams into Dom's back straight from behind.

Panel 4: Dom looking up from before at RON. He's smirking.

DOM: What the...?

Panel 5: DOM points stick at Ron's chest. In the background, people are pointing and staring. Ron is surprised, a little embarrassed looking.

DOM: "Hitting from behind. Wimp."

RON: "Yeah? I'll see you after school."

DOM: "No, you won't."

GYM TEACHER (off panel): "Hey! Break it up over there! Get back in the game!"

Panel 6: Dom, from a high camera angle, looking angry, but stifled. His shirt is puffed up behind him -- the wings are growing from his back... stretching invisibly.

DOM (VO): Like I said, sometimes it takes just one look and you find a friend. Or not.

Page 15

Panel 1: Dom is in the school hallway, banging his head against his locker, hand on the combination dial.

DOM: "Dammit!"

MICHELLE (speaking off panel): "You have to turn it all the way around."

DOM: "Shut up."

MICHELLE: "Aren't you a sweetie?"

Panel 2: Small panel. Reaction shot. Dom looking up, irritated...

DOM: "Yeah? Why don't you..."

Panel 3: Small panel. Irritation has turned into stunned and tongue tied. He's looking at a girl, and he's smitten.

DOM: "Uhh..."

Panel 4: Our first look at MICHELLE. She has very long brown hair, a little below her shoulders, that frames a sweet round face, brown eyes. Her eyebrows are arched in amusement and her smile says the same. She's a nice girl with a bit of a wicked sense of humor, and her reaction to Dom's anger ... and his smitten look ... is that he's kind of comical. She's very pretty in a sweet, down-to-earth way - not terribly cool. She's wearing a long sweater and skirt, and a leather-bead necklace. She's hugging a couple text books.

MICHELLE: "Nice to meet you, too."

Panel 5: Dom and Michelle in profile, standing in front of a wall of lockers. Dom has one hand in his hair, other hand reaching out to Michelle. He's smiling sheepishly, embarrassed. Michelle is still holding her books.

DOM: "Sorry. I'm Dom."

MICHELLE: "Don't be sorry about who you are. I'm sure it's not that bad."

DOM: "Aren't you the sweetie?"

MICHELLE: "Always."

SOUND EFFECT: Rrrriiiinngg...

MICHELLE: "And on that note..."

Panel 6: Michelle looking back at Dom over her shoulder, close up, still showing a playful smile.

MICHELLE: "I'm Michelle, by the way. Nice to meet you, Dom."

Panel 7: Dom, having fallen backward into his locker, with a look that says, 'whew.'

DOM (VO): Maybe this school won't be quite so bad.

Page 16

Dom and Brian are walking out of the school, backpacks slung over their shoulders. It's a beautiful fall day in New England. Red and yellow leaves blowing by. Other kids in the background. Bike racks by the door.

DOM (VO): But you never know what's coming next.

BRIAN: "So, I hear you're making lots of friends."

DOM: "What, gym class?"

BRIAN: "Yeah. Ron's gonna kick your ass after school."

DOM: "You mean, now?"

BRIAN: "Yeah. I guess so."

Panel 2: Dom and Brian, viewed from behind. In the distance ahead, in the school parking lot, right at the edge of the grassy field, there's a huge crowd of kids gathered around...something...

DOM: "And yet you're here."

BRIAN: "Figured you needed someone to call your mom after."

DOM: "Much appreciated."

BRIAN: "Hey, you think that's Ron up there?"

DOM: "You've got to be kidding..."

Panel 3: Dom and Brian from behind, right at the edge of the crowd. Voices from above the crowd.

VOICES: "Is he gonna be OK?" "What happened to him?" "Who did this?" "Geez, poor Ron."

Panel 4: Dom and Brian, having pushed through the crowd, shot from below, look down in shock. We see Ron's legs, laying in the grass, blue jeans peppered with bloody holes, like they'd been attached by a thousand hornets.

BRIAN: "Son of a..."

Panel 5: The crowd has split aside and looks on in confusion as Dom runs away, stumbling in panic.

DOM (thought balloon): "No...no!"

Panel 6: Dom has rounded a corner of the school. We see him from behind, left hand clutching the red brick. Dom is looking off, gaping and gasping. In the distance, we see Cyril's the trench coated silhouette.

DOM: "It was you!"

Page 17:

Panel 1: Cyril in close up. Sneering.

CYRIL: "He was waiting for you."

Panel 2: Dom in close up. Shouting.

DOM: "You nearly killed him!"

Panel 3: Cyril in close up. Facing Dom. Condescending.

CYRIL: "You should thank me. He won't bother you again."

Panel 4: Full view of Dom, walking toward Cyril, pointing, angry.

DOM: "No! This is wrong. I won't let you do this!"

CYRIL: "Careful, Dominic. You might lose control."

Panel 5: Dom's back. His backpack is on the ground and his shirt has ripped wide open. You can see a strange, jagged ripple in his back, a bunching of muscles where the wings emerge, as if they were real...

DOM: "Aahhggghh!"

CYRIL (he's visible in shadow, in the distance ahead): "See what happens when you get angry? You have power!"

Panel 6: Dom facing off against Cyril. Cyril's arm is raised, and the swarm of sand and rocks and dirt and grit swirls in front of him.

DOM: "You're crazy!"

CYRIL: "You're a fool. You choose to stand against me? After what I did for you?"

DOM: "Not for me! I'm definitely not with you!"

Panel 7: Cyril - arm out, rock swarm spreading out before him.

CYRIL: "So be it!"

Panel 8: Dom, in 3/4 profile, covering his face against the swarm.

DOM (thought balloon): No! I can't let him do this...and I know how...

Page 18:

Panel 1: We see Dom in profile and the traces of his shimmering wings, flapped forward...the rock swarm has blown between Dom and Cyril. Cyril is leaning back in surprise.

CYRIL: "Clever...you are strong...but...can you protect your so-called friend?"

DOM: "What...?"

Panel 2: Cyril, Dom and Brian in a triangle. The rock swarm has turned toward Brian. Brian has thrown a beer bottle, which is heading like a missle toward Cyril. Dom is reaching toward Brian, trying to protect him, but too far away.

DOM: "NO! Brian, get down!"

BRIAN: "Yow!"

Panel 3: Dom's face, grim, determined.

DOM (thought balloon): Focus...focus...

Panel 4: Dom striding toward Cyril. Cyril stumbling, off balance. He's being forced back by a powerful wind from Dom's wings. At the same time, the beer bottle is circling away from Cyril.

CYRIL: "No!"

Panel 5: Close up of Dom's face, inches from the beer bottle.

DOM: "Damn!"

Panel 6: Brian's face, hazy and unfocused, from Dom's point of view as he regains consciousness.

BRIAN: "Yo! Dom! You in there?"

DOM: "Yeah..Cyril?"

BRIAN: "Ran off. You wanna get up?"

DOM: "I'm OK."

BRIAN: "Let's get out of here."

Hindsight is Foresight

2006-02-07T21:26:00.000-06:00

http://www.startribune.com/562/story/225235.html (registration required, I think)

Rick Horowitz' column, published in the Star Tribune on Monday, said it as eloquently as can be said:

"Hindsight alone is not wisdom," the president declared. "And
second-guessing is not a strategy."
Well.

First of all, it's not second-guessing -- it's certainly not
hindsight -- if you said it before it happened. It's prediction. It's warning.
And there were all sorts of people sounding warnings long before Bush sent our
soldiers into Iraq. People who did war, or reconstruction, or counter-insurgency
for a living. Who knew that they were talking about and were ready to share
their experience, and their concerns.

The president and his people
weren't much interested in hearing them. Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld knew what
they knew, and they knew better than anyone else. So we went into Iraq without
enough troops to get the job done. Without enough armor to protect those troops.
Without a coherent plan for the days and months after the statue came down.

The president and his people knew better.

They were wrong. Of
course they want to change the subject!
And it's hardly second-guessing --
or hindsight -- to use the past to help pick your way through the future. Or
would you prefer that every impression be a first impression?"

Exactly. The President is basically saying, "Whether or not we blew it before, we're here now so you have to follow us." The problem is that normally when you screw up, you're forced to admit it. You're chastised for it. You're forced to endure a great deal of oversight to ensure you don't screw up again. Our President, on the other hand, feels uncomfortable with the prospect of people reminding him how he screwed up. Uncomfortable that, perhaps, others may feel it useful to keep a closer eye on him, given past performance.

As we say in our office, we ought to put Mr. Bush on a "performance plan," one where we set specific improvement objectives and keep a close eye on him to see how its going. No more illegal behavior. No more pronouncments that fly in the face of reality. No more ignoring contradictory voices.

Or you'll have to talk to...Human Resources.

(DUM DUM DUUUUUMMM!)

Are You There God? It's Me, Monica

2006-02-02T12:33:00.000-06:00

Are You There God? It's Me, Monica (subscription required)

I'm going to avoid the obvious "fun stuff" on this article and note that what struck me is Flanagan's characterization of the "heroic" efforts of Tipper Gore and the Parent's Music Resource Council of the 1980s.

I was in high school during the time of "Just Say No" and the dawning of the AIDS epidemic. The PMRC was roundly considered the epitome of meddling, middle-American evil. Today, Flanagan looks at the changing sexual mores of today's teen girls, and opines that what's missing is a sense of modesty, a sense that sex -- any sexual activity -- should be something special to a "nice" girl, and that whether there is an "oral sex epidemic"or not, girls need guidance. They need to know that they're hurting themselves -- and families aren't helping by letting them find their way on their own, or by insisting on pledges of abstinence.

Which brings us back to Tipper Gore and PMRC. Flanagan notes that the media and the left tend to vilify anyone who tries to protect children. And it's true -- they do -- hell, I do. And let's face it: the PMRC came off as a bunch of finger-wagging Chicken Littles shouting about how we'd all be corrupted by a bunch of songs. Frank Zappa was a bona fide American hero.

Now that I'm a parent, I'm not so sure. It's our job to help our kids make independent choices. It's also our job to instill them with values, to help them make smart choices. In the end, maybe the PMRC wasn't the right answer, or the right messenger ... but it doesn't meant they didn't have a point.

State of the Union, Part II

2006-02-01T13:09:00.000-06:00

Whose Addiction? - Bush's surprisingly partisan speech. By John Dickerson:

Per my previous post: John Dickerson of Slate says it well:

"In 2005, Bush cast himself as groping for solutions to national problems
together with Democrats. Tonight, he depicted those who oppose him as lazy,
retreating, and negative. 'There is a difference between responsible criticism
that aims for success, and defeatism that refuses to acknowledge anything but
failure,' he said later in the speech. 'Hindsight alone is not wisdom. And
second-guessing is not a strategy.' He welcomes criticism in theory. But in
practice, he sees it all as defeatism, second-guessing, and 20-20 hindsight.

Politics is about defining your enemy. That's what the president did in
his 2006 State of the Union. But change the tone? This year, there can't have
been a person in the room who took that commitment seriously."

Maybe it was meant to be a political power play. Maybe he was throwing down his gloves to the Democrats. Maybe he's getting sick of being beaten up for bad decisions that led to the ongoing war in Iraq. If so, he needs to grow up. I just found all of it offensive.

State of the Union, or, I Have Seen the Face of Evil

2006-01-31T20:29:00.000-06:00

I've never been so afraid for my country in all my life.

I'm watching President Bush delivering his State of the Union address. He explains how he's appreciated the criticism and input of both Democrats and Republicans. That Congress should speak freely ... it's part of Democracy. In the same breath, he says it's not useful to criticize the past, we must only look forward.

And looking forward, he says: "There is only one option."

I felt a chill go up my spine. I fee sick to my stomach.

There is only one option? So - it's OK to debate and criticize, as long as you realize there there is only one option - my option. To move forward, and then, he says, to support our troops in their efforts to finish the job - clearly a way to soften what was a harsh threat to Congress.

And Congress cheered.

There is no excuse for this. Mr. President, there are always options. There are many options. You need to hear them. You'll make your choice from among them, and you and we will have to live with that choice. But my country is a noisy, messy place, where people can argue, debate, choose to stomp their feet and stand their ground or to listen and find compromise. If I want to dwell in hindsight, I have every right to. If I want to point out your mistakes, I will. If I want to offer options, new ways to see our choices in the world -- or support people who have these views -- I will.

That's America.

I've never been scared of George Bush or Republicans in Congress before. I am now. He will clearly leave this country a worse place than it was before -- one where people are afraid to speak their minds, where freedom of speech is under increasing attack. Protect our country, but live with the debate. Argue, fight, and make your decisions, but never stop the voices.

You may not like the shouting, but that beautiful noise is much safer than the chilling silence ahead.

One Minute Stories

2006-01-26T09:04:00.000-06:00

Not sure if anyone else likes them, but I do.

I've started a new blog. The concept: One new story posted every day that you can read in a minute: One Minute Stories.

The new blog combines some of the One Minute stories from this blog with new stuff cobbled together from whatever debris is floating around my mind at any given moment.

Click here to check it out.

Try, Try Again

2006-01-24T17:19:00.000-06:00

Yet another One Minute Story

I held the flint in one hand, and the steel in the other. Clack, clack, clack.

Nary a spark.

I kneeled like a penitent over the tiny twig teepee stuffed with bark, wood shavings, leaves and pine needles. I closed my eyes. The sun was settling into a thick, rusty pink glow over the lake and the air turned colder, more solid, like you could bite it.

I opened my eyes and struck steel to flint. Sparks flew. Again and again. Clack, clack, clack.

Something rustled in the leaves above me, but I didn't look. Squirrel, probably.

Clack, clack, clack.

Sparks flew. One fell on a leaf and sent wisps of smoke from the kindling. The leaf dissolved from within, forming a ragged hole.

Clack, clack, clack.

More rustling in the trees, but I couldn't be bothered.

Something hit me in the head.

"Son of a bitch!" I said.

Acorn.

Clack, clack, clack.

Sparks flew with a vengeance, and a leaf caught fire. Small orange flames, billows of smoke. I blew gently on the kindling and the flames leapt up in thanks.

"Son of a bitch!"

Another acorn.

I laid carefully chosen sticks gently upon the teepee and watched the fire with deep satisfaction, like I'd just rescued a kid from drowning or something. I smiled and looked around for some sign of recognition.

It was completely dark now. The moon was high in the sky. Some thirty tents surrounded me, all zipped closed and dark. Cursing, I looked up to see a gray squirrel squatting on a low branch. I swear it was looking right at me. It held an acorn in its forepaws and must have had a half-dozen in its cheeks. I waved at it and then held my hands to warm them over the fire, and then I decided to...

"Son of a bitch!"

# # #

Kid's Stuff: A One Minute Story

2006-01-09T09:11:00.000-06:00

A One-Minute Story (tm)

"G'mornin'," she said and I groaned.

"Hiya, angel," I said and stuffed my face back in my pillow.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked sweetly.

"Like a herd of sheep was marching on my head all night," I said into the pillow.

"Hmm," she purred. "Maybe we shouldn't have...you know."

I bolted upright, wrenching my back. "Maybe we should have," I growled.

She laughed. She always does that. Or, at least I imagined she always does that.

Anyway, she was already out of bed, sashaying into the bathroom. I watched her ... sashay. I listened to the toilet flush, and the water splashing in the sink. I listened to the soft thump of her feet on the floor. Then to silence. Then to the clatter of plastic and metal and a resounding crash of shattered glass, squeals of pain and shrieks of laughter. Then it stopped.

I raced to the bathroom and threw open the door. She sat, cross-legged, blood dripping from her arms and cheeks, amid the ruins of the shower door and the shards of the mirror, amid the clutter of toothbrushes, bars of soap, lipstick and makeup. She sat smiling, holding a small, squirming figure by the tail.

"Mouse," she said, unecessarily.

# # #

A Country Song (Annotated)

2006-01-05T09:32:00.000-06:00

"Drivin' Down the Road"(1)

I was drivin' (2)
Down an old dirt road in the dark
Through a tunnel trees headin' nowhere
I was gettin' there fast (3)

I was layin'
In a field of grass diggin' my toes in the dirt (4)
Runnin' my hands 'cross your face,
Feelin' your curves like a blind man
Tryin' to remember your skin.

I was standin'
On a white sandy beach, ankle deep in the surf
Jeans rolled up, hands in my pockets
Like I was posin' for a postcard
Hopin' for a storm. (5)

Back at home now
Sittin' at my desk job (6)
Boss's words commandin':
'Get your head in the game.'
Wait'll they find out...
I'm gone. (7)

(1) Written by me.
(2) Note use of the apostrophe to replace the 'g' in my gerunds. That's how you can tell it's a country song.
(3) In song, all roads should lead to "nowhere" or "you". They should never lead to "work" or "the pharmacy".
(4) My wife took a picture of me like this. I looked cool. Or was it someone else?
(5) Use of visceral nature imagery gives lyrics a powerful edge, implying a certain musical fury that will no doubt come across on the pedal steel. Or should we add a synth?
(6) Use of "desk job" in song is risky. In the rock era, few if any serious lyrics have included core office features such as "desks," "copy machines," and "tech support." I believe I am on the cutting edge here.
(7) Yes, I am.

The Boy Who Could Fly - Updated, with Action

2005-12-23T10:08:00.000-06:00

A comic book script (c) Impending (me), 2005. Newly updated 12-28-2005, 9:30 am.

Yeah, I know, the "boy who can fly" think has been done. But everything's been done... I've written 50 pages of this as a juvenile fiction type novel, but I wonder if it'd be better as a comic book. I've been reading about how to write comic scripts...Here's how I'd start it. The story is set on Aquidneck Island, home of Newport...

This is part 1 ... Click here for part 2!

Page 1:
Panel 1: DOM PARKER walks into the school gym. It's the first day of school. All of the students are gathered on the bleachers at the other end of the gym. Banners hang on the walls celebrating the "Portsmouth Patriots." Teacher types mill about on the floor in front of the students. We first see DOM from behind -- his view as he pauses to look over the assembled kids. He has a backpack slung over his shoulders. He's a typical kid, not one of the cool kids, above average smarts. He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

DOM (in caption -- voiceover(VO)): "First day of high school and it's another new school. Did this four years ago, and now here we are again. It's always the same, really. You look over the class and you pick a place to sit. If you're lucky, you find a friend."

Panel 2: DOM'S face. Again, typical kid. Skinny, good looking but not gorgeous. A little glum... a little thoughtful, a little standoffish.

DOM (VO): That's how it works. You just pick out a face in the crowd...

Panel 3: Closer view of the kids on the bleachers. Slight spotlight on BRIAN. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A bit tousled, a bit rough-around the edges. Wearing a crew-neck sweater, drawing in his spiral bound notebook.

Panel 4: Dom sits down next to Brian and gives a nervous wave.

DOM: Hey. BRIAN: Hey. You're new.

DOM: Yeah. Moved here from New Jersey.

BRIAN: Congrats. Brian.

DOM: Dom. What're you drawing?

Panel 5: Close-up of Brian's notebook. It's a scene with a knight in bloody battle with a dragon. Something out of Frazetta...or the brothers Hildebrand...but hastily scribbled.

DOM: Cool. You're pretty good.

BRIAN: Thanks. You play D&D?

DOM: No.

BRIAN: You want to?

DOM: Sure.

BRIAN: Cool.

Page 2

Panel 1: Dom sitting in class, among a bunch of kids at desks, next to Brian, mostly paying attention as Brian passes him a note.

DOM (VO): "Simple as that, you have a friend. You get an instinct for this after a while."

Panel 2: Dom walking down the street with his backpack slung over his shoulder, the school bus passing by in the background. He's at the top of the street, which is mostly unkempt field.

Dom (VO): "But it's hard. I used to like moving. I didn't like this one. But Dad's job moved and we had to move with it."

Panel 3: We see more of Dom's street. More unkempt field, but we see now that he's at the top of a hill that ends in the bay (one that looks more like a river -- we're on an island only a mile away from the opposite shore). The street is an unfinished development that runs in three esses down to the bay. There are five houses scattered about 2/3s of the way down. The one in the middle is Dom's house. DOM trudges down the street.

DOM (VO): "So I move on. Leave behind the old, take on the new. New friends, new school, new life. It sucks."

Panel 4: We see Dom's house. It's a colonial -- basically a big rectangle with an attached garage. The yard is a hill, the driveway winds a little. There's a really nice wide slate porch in front of the house, where you can sit and look over the street and down past a handfull of houses and see the bay. Nice house, not a mansion but a nice house. GRETA, a medium sized black dog is racing down the driveway. She's a black lab mutt -- smaller than a lab, a little chubby. "This is my new house. We moved here a month ago. Me, my brother, my sister, Mom and Dad and Greta, the dog."

Panel 5: Dom's point of view. We see the entry hall, stairs to the right, kitchen down the hall. Dom's mother, DEENA, is focused on her laptop computer at the kitchen table.

DOM (VO): "That's my mom. She's going to open her own business. Some kind of gift shop, I think."

DOM: "I'm home!"

DEENA: "Hi, Dom."

DOM: "How was my first day?"

DEENA: "How was your day?"

Panel 6: Close up of Dom's face. He's glum.

DOM: "Fine."

Page 3:

Panel 1: Dom's room. No posters on the wall. Bland walls, wood trim. Old style single bed with dark wood finish. Similar dark wood desk, flat, with books and notebook papers with on top. A bookshelf filled with paperback sci-fi and fantasy novels. Three longboxes holding comic books in the corner. Window that overlooks the bay.

DOM (VO) "This is my room. It's a room."

Panel 2: Full view of Dom standing in the doorway of his room. DOM: (out loud, in bubble): "I've got to get out of here."

Page 4:

Panel 1: Close up of Dom riding his bike down the street -- more field, some houses in the background. It's late afternoon, almost 4:30 pm or so. The sun is headed downward.

Dom (VO): "There's this thing you don't know about me. I need to be alone sometimes."

Panel 5: Dom walking out onto a rocky, shell-strewn beach. His bike is laying against an old wood post. A chain runs from the post across a driveway you'd use to bring your boat to the beach. A sign hangs from the beach that says NO FISHING. To Dom's left, the beach turns into a rocky shoreline -- big rocks that you have to climb and clamber over.

Page 5:

Panel 1: Dom is clambering over the rocks. Up ahead, there is a hill that rises into a cliff. Dom is clearly heading there.

Panel 2: Dom is pulling himself to the top of the cliff. Lush greenery -- trees and such is behind him ... this is a mostly private spot. But across the bay, there are houses. You might see a boat in the distance.

Panel 3: Dom pulling his sweatshirt off over his head. Panel 4: Dom, shot from below a bit, shirt off. He's skinny.

DOM (VO): "Something happened to me a few months ago. Something I haven't told anyone about." Panel 5: You see Dom's view over the bay. Some houses dot the opposite shore. You see Dom from behind again, arms crossed, clearly cold.

DOM (VO): "I haven't done this much. I can't. But...sometimes...I have to."

Page 6:

Panels 1-5 -- small panels. Dom in profile. 1) takes a deep breath. 2) lunges forward. 3) jumps off the cliff, falling...

Panel 4: Falling, head on, fear on face.
Panel 5: Face determined, wind whipping back his hair.
Panel 6: half the page...He swoops upward! Face set in a giddy, joyous smile. Great, transparent wings fan out behind him. Powerful, transcendent scene. For the first time, Dom seems fully alive.

Page 7:

Full page... multiple shots of Dom swooping and diving and turning. Ascending and descending... wobbling and catching himself at times -- he hasn't done this too often.

DOM (VO): "I can fly. But I guess you know that now..."

Page 8:

Panel 1 – DOM in close up, face grim, a little nervous, body tilted slightly downward.

DOM (VO): “The problem, of course, is landing…

Panel 2 – Dom from the side, long view, heading for the rocky, shell-strewn shore, still over the water, which is a bit choppy. It’s a gray September day, and the water is going to be cold. His arms are thrust out in front, to ward off the inevitable crash.

DOM (VO): “You can’t find advice for this on the Web. Some hang-gliding sites say you just kick your feet out and run fast. Sure.”

Panel 3: Dom swoops up a bit. He’s out of control now, arms and legs flailing. He’s about 12 feet off the ground, just at the edge of the shore, over a spot that’s much too shallow.

DOM: Whoaaa!

Panel 4: Splashdown! He lands flat on his back, in about 2 inches of water. It looks cold and painful. He lays there. His eyes are closed. The wings are gone.

Panel 5: Still laying on the shore, a shadow falls over him.

Panel 6: Dom opens his eyes. He’s startled.

Page 9: Part II

Splash page: Title: The Boy Who Could Fly, Part II: More Than Human.

DOM is on his back, inching backwards on his elbows. He’s open mouthed, wide-eyed and startled. He’s looking up at someone wearing black boots and a long, black overcoat. All you see is the left boot and the bottom of the coat.

DOM (VO): Great. First month in a new town, and I’m already busted. Of course, back in Vermont, they’d shoot at me. Thought I was a vulture or something.

Page 10:

Panel 1: Dom, still on his back, struggling to sit up. CYRIL still in shadows. You can tell he has long, dark stringy hair.

CYRIL (Mostly off panel): “That was extraordinary.”

DOM: “Who-who are you?”

CYRIL: “You know me.”

DOM: “What?”

Panel 2: Bigger panel. Our first view of CYRIL. He’s 16, tall, dressed in black. Pale face, shoulder-length, stringy black hair. A bit of a Goth. Black overcoat, black t-shirt, black jeans and tall black boots. His hands are in his pockets. He has a bemused smile on his face, like he knows a secret.

CYRIL: “This morning. At school. ”

DOM: “Yeah. Right. I was lost…”

CYRIL: “I showed you the way.”

DOM: “Uh yeah. Thanks.”

Panel 3: Dom’s standing, brushing himself off. You can see that his back and sides are scratched from his hard landing. Dom and Cyril are talking. Cyril is about 4 inches taller than Dom. Cyril is solicitous. Dom is turned away a little, not meeting Cyril’s eyes. He’s suspicious and nervous.

CYRIL: “I can show you the way again.”

DOM: “What?”

CYRIL: “Your power. You have no idea of your power, your strength.”

DOM: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Panel 4: Close up of Cyril, sneering.

CYRIL: “Don’t play dumb with me. I saw you. I know you. When you were younger, things happened. Plates flew off the table and shattered. Toys just out of reach, flew into your hands…”

Panel 5: Close up of Dom. Clearly, Cyril is touching a nerve.

CYRIL (off panel): “… You’d get mad, and glass would shatter. Enemies would back off with mysterious pain. Am I getting close?”

DOM: "And then, one day, you can’t take it anymore. So you shut it down. Turn it off. For your own good. And everyone else’s."

Panel 6: Close up of Cyril. Sinister…gleeful.

CYRIL: “Until something happened…”

Page 11

Panel 1: Full view of Cyril and Dom on the beach. Dom’s looking away from Cyril, gazing off into the distance, talking like he’s in a trance. Cyril looks gentler, expectant and excited.

DOM: “Yeah. Last year. It’s a family camping trip…I’m hiking in the woods. Me, my folks, my brother and sister…."

Panel 2: DOM’s family hiking up a mountain trail. Older sister, younger brother. Mom and Dad. Show them all from behind… Dom’s in the lead, happy, ready to take off up the trail.

DOM: “You guys are too slow… I’m going ahead!”

DEENA: “Be careful, Dom!”

Panel 3: Dom’s face…he’s running up the trail, around a bend. DOM (thought balloon): Shut up, Mom.

Panel 4: He’s rounded a corner. His family is out of sight. He’s facing a tall rock wall; behind him the trail falls off into a deep ravine.

Panel 5: Rocks falling from above…an enormous brown bear’s face staring down.

DOM (VO): I never saw it coming.

Panel 6: Dom from behind, flailing, plunging off the trail… a bear’s claw swiping the air where he’d been.

Page 12

Panel 1: Dom is falling. His shirt and jacket ripped wide open from the back, and the transparent wings spread out gloriously from his back.

Panel 2: Same view, still falling but now slowing, circling.

Panel 3: Dom laying on the ground, on his stomach, amid some trees, his body generally contorted.

DOM (VO): “I must have fallen 200 feet. I was even worse at landings then. Broke my arm here. Bleeding pretty badly. But I was alive. And I knew…”

Panel 4: Back at the beach. Dom and Cyril still talking.

CYRIL: “And you did it…again and again. You felt your power growing…”

DOM: “No…What?”

Panel 5: Closer in view of Dom and Cyril. Dom’s “trance” is broken and he’s looking skeptically at Cyril, who looks anxious, hungry and a little wild.

DOM: “Who are you? How did you…”

CYRIL: “Let me demonstrate…”

Panel 6: Close up of Cyril. Arms stretched out before him…gathering his power.

Page 13

Panel 1: Cyril gestures and a blast of rocks, shells and sand crashes over Dom. Dom cries out.

Panel 2: Dom looks up, and the blast of rocks, shells and sand has turned into a swarm, flying over Dom’s head.

Panel 3: Cyril, from behind. He gestures, we see the swarm scatter across the water.

Panel 4: DOM (VO): I’m not proud…I was scared as hell.

Dom runs away, toward his bike.

Panel 5: Dom racing away on his bike. Cyril laughing.

CYRIL: “You could learn a lot from me.”

Panel 6: Close up of Dom’s face, riding hard, a tear rolling down his right cheek. He’s scared, and ashamed.

CYRIL (off panel): "I’ll see you around!"

DOM (VO): That was my first day of school. It gets worse.

Click here for part 2!

# # #

A comic book script by (c) Impending (me), 2005

Winners and Losers: A One-Minute Story

2005-12-15T13:15:00.000-06:00

"You win some, you lose some," said Coach Jim Brodsky to the line of 22 somber-faced 10-year-olds. The boys were quiet, muddied. A few dirt-streaked faces were cut with tears.

Kenny had played the game of his life. Too skinny, too slow, he hadn't been a factor on the flag-football team this year, and he probably wouldn't play an organized sport again. But this day, he flashed through the defense like he was standing still, and ripped the flag from the opposing quarterback's hip before he could take two steps...and then did it again. They blocked him well from them on, respect he'd never received before.

Toward the end of the game, he had one more chance. The running back came around the left end, and Kenny reached and grabbed the yellow flag just as he went by. He ran hard, pulling Kenny off the ground, bouncing him along like a string of cans hanging from a newlyweds' car. The coach screamed for him to hang on, and he did, and the flag finally clicked loose, dropping Kenny to the ground.

But at the end of the game, their last game, they lost. For the first time all that fall. The boys didn't know how to take it. They'd never lost before. Some stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt. Others cried. The coach was grim.

"You win some, you lose some," he said. "Sometimes it's just not your day."

And sometimes, thought Kenny, it is and it isn't.

# # #

My Inner Voice

2005-12-08T09:54:00.000-06:00

My best friend of my high school years always said I had a stick up my butt, and he was right. I wouldn't ask out a girl unless I knew she'd say yes. It wasn't OK for me to take something just for me to be happy, or to do something, unless everyone would be happy. Other people were free to do what they wanted, say what they wanted... to be free. I was a man of honor, of duty. My job was to be sure that everyone was OK ... to take charge when I was needed ... otherwise, to hang back and help.

My friend, on the other hand, was obnoxious. He worked at Pizza Hut, and there was this waitress he was in love with (a Catholic girl!). He pursued her constantly, his smooth voice insinuating himself into her thought and into her life. I thought he was nuts. Clearly, she liked him okay, but she was a couple years older, and when someone resists that much, what's the point? Finally, she'd agree to go to the Howard Johnson's with him after the late shift, and then to a movie or something. He'd keep at it. I still thought he was nuts. Soon, he got pretty quiet about it with me...and eventually, I'm pretty sure she became his "first."

A month or so later, we were driving by her house to see if she was home, and talking about what went wrong...he was obsessed...she'd moved on...I was right -- she wasn't that interested, but he'd managed to convince her anyway. I'd have backed off long before...but who had the more interesting experience?

For various reasons, I'm finding it easier to listen to my inner voice.

It's a very simple thing...the inner voice says, "I'd like to go sledding today," and instead of waiting for my wife to bring it up, I say it aloud. Or my mom says, "What do you want for Hanukkah?" and my inner voice says, "I could use a nice sweater for work and some new DVD movies...but I shouldn't admit that I want anything," and, instead, I say it aloud and maybe I'll get a sweater.

I know, mundane. But it's a start.

It's a powerful thing -- not the inner voice itself, but the ability to recognize it, and to know you have a choice, that it's OK to want, to need and to act. It's OK to take as well as give. People may actually find that you're more interesting if there are things you want for yourself.

You might find yourself more interesting, too.

Bay Area Journal

2005-11-28T22:32:00.000-06:00

I finally took a vacation. With a massive movement of men and materials, the Family traveled by plane to my parents' house -- 9 days in Redwood Shores, Calif., just a bit south of San Francisco, where we were joined by a massive influx of relatives.

The scorecard: My wife and three boys, 5.5 years and under; my sister, her husband, and one-year-old; my brother, his wife, and boy and girl, 3-years and under; my dad's mother and her husband; my mom's mother and her husband; and my mom, dad and their, dog, Sadie.

But we got there early, dropped off the kids and headed up to Napa for two days of wine sipping, fine dining, mountain hiking and spa treatments. The wine on Day 1 was OK, and dizzying... they took us for six bottles.

Day 2 may well have been my best day ever:

- Wake up late.
- Massive continental breakfast in the lobby of the Yountville Inn. Bagels, crumbcakes, fruit, juice, coffee and cereal; brought back more to the still-sleeping wife in our room.
- Relaxed in the whirlpool, then a dip in the well-heated pool.
- Shower and dress, head off to Calistoga, home of spas, hot springs and more wineries.
- We decided to hike up an old mountain mining trail...on the way there, we stopped at a spa and found a convenient appointment for mud baths and massage.
- A two-hour hike. Picnic on the mountain. Critters and birds flitting by. Massive, spread-winged vultures floating overhead (Vultures may not sound so great, but at the time, I thought they were eagles, so it was glorious...my outdoors-y brother-in-law burst the bubble upon seeing my digital photo of the bird in flight, but it was too late by then).
- On the way down the mountain, an amusing but embarrassing episode for my wife. The less said about this the better. Let's just say that it's good that we had a lot of napkins along.
- The spa -- I'd never done this. I must do it again ... first, a bath in hot steaming mud. Then a mineral bath soak. Then the steam room, a little relax time and a massage from my shoulders to my toes. Complete, giddy, bliss.
- Delicious steak dinner, then back to the hotel to seduce my wife and watch movies.

You can't really top perfection, and my extended family certainly would not be able to try. But there were no major blow ups, fist fights or hurt feelings to speak of, and everyone loved our kids. And we finished the trip with a visit to the Millbrae In-N-Out Burger, chomping down a fresh Double-Double and feeding french fries to the birds.

I know, positivity is boring. But this was indeed a good vacation.

And, now, back to our regularly scheduled misery.

People that I Miss

2005-11-09T14:08:00.000-06:00

This blog is pretty anonymous, and it should stay that way (except for you special few, you know who you are, you little dickenses...). But I've been mulling the past, and how I've left too many people behind in my life, through too many moves across the country and too much laziness and forgetting and closing off my mind and my heart to anyone or anything that might cause an excess welling of emotion.

Given the power of Google, I thought I'd throw out a few names of people I miss, who I think about all the time but have lost from my life completely... If you come across this, and think you might know me, leave a comment or send me an email. In no particular order...

Brian Anton -- my best friend through 8th grade. Then I moved. Comic readin', Micronaut playin' buddy. I remember you asking me once, in 8th grade, if we would still be friends if it weren't for comics. Two answers: yes...and what does that matter?

Homer Cepeda -- It was Homer and Brian and me through 8th grade. Went off to private school after I moved. You'd think you could Google a guy with a name like Homer Cepeda, but nothing comes up but the baseball stats of Orlando Cepeda.

Scott Chankin -- My bowling and summer camp buddy before I moved. I've never gotten over my guilt for not replying to your letter to me after I moved out of town.

Dan Rubin -- College buddy. I'd heard you'd been laid off. You'd always kept in touch. Now you've disappeared and I'm regretting not keeping up. Where did you go?

Eric Geoffroy -- College buddy ... best friend, really, until senior year when you moved off campus and I got a girlfriend, I guess. Tremendous musical talent who opened my eyes to real creativity. What the heck are you doing now?

Lisa Spencer -- that college girlfriend. Hey, look, I'm happily married with kids and all that, but I'd just love to know what you've made of yourself.

There's a longer list, but I'll stop there for now...

Nooooooooo!

2005-11-08T08:55:00.000-06:00

I'm at my office. I've got my pen, I've got my New York Times Arts section, open to the crossword puzzle. I'm ready.

And there's a line for the men's room.

This is so wrong.

Decisions, Decisions

2005-11-07T09:10:00.000-06:00

that little song at the end of my previous post has been a theme in my life of late. I've been having problems with decisions. It's really very simple: I need to do something else with my life. I need to follow my muse for writing. I need a job that I feel some passion for, or at least I can tolerate enough that I can do decent work. I need to be able to order my life so that I have a few "perfect days".

I need to quit my job.

Unfortunately, I'm afraid I'm moving in that direction, but not on purpose. My main client is putting us up for review. My business will take a big loss for the work I'm doing, for a client we may not get back. And for my part, it's all I can do to get myself to do any work at all ... I've been distinctly unimpressive to the very people who will make the review decision.

Decisions, decisions.

The idea, of course, is to choose your own path. To chose a goal, chart a course, and boldly sail the schooner of life in that direction, not letting the storms of distractions and the icebergs of fate impede your path or trap you in the sargasso of indecision.

My alternative theory is to choose the river of your fate and to see where it takes you...and if you feel you're going the wrong direction, you can hope that it will divide somewhere downstream and you'll be offered a new path, right in front of you, that a mere push of the pole will set you on a new course. But what if the river never divides? You can choose a new river, but it's very hard to do...since the river never stops and neither do you.

Decisions, decisions.

More Songs in My Head

2005-11-01T10:48:00.000-06:00

Some songs I'm imagining myself singing...

Livin' on the road my friend
Is gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath's as hard as kerosene.

- "Pancho & Lefty" by Townes van Zandt

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known...

I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes
I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us:
It's either sadness or euphoria.

- "Summer Highland Falls" by Billy Joel

I've been driving
Sixteen hours
This rain is like a
Metronome.

- "Been Set Free" by Peter Himmelman

I was singing a song about open plains
I was singing a song about a rope.
I was about a southbound train
I was singing a song about hope.

And it's not like I'm goin' nowhere
'Cause I'm getting there awful fast.
It's not like I'm in a hurry to get there
Sometimes I wish I had more of a past.

Everyone is cheering
While I'm leanin' against the rail.
Everyone sees their future nearin'
While I'm just afraid to fail.

And what were you thinking when you told me you loved me?
Did you even know that you had lied?
What were you thinking when you looked me in the eyes...
And made just one..lonely ... plea:
Decide...

"Decide" by me, Impending, today

ABC News: Bush Nominates Alito for Supreme Court

2005-10-31T15:34:00.000-06:00

Don't you get the feeling that all of a sudden, Bush and team have started to watch television. It's like each move and counter move is perfectly designed to integrate with prevailing wisdom of the press. The Harriet Miers nomination was kicked back by movement conservatives who thought she had no judicial credentials (because, well, she didn't...) ... here's Alito, with the mostest judicial credentials ever! Miers was too much of a blank slate ... Alito has lots and lots on his slate! It's like Bush is saying, "You want experience? You want a record? I'll give you the mostest ever!" And the media just eat it up. Having the newsmakers conveniently package the news into the storylines they've already written makes things so darned easy for them. The story just writes itself! Which, of course, is the problem...the nub, as it were.

One Minute Story: Comic Book Dreams

2005-10-27T12:17:00.000-05:00

I was sitting on a park bench, dreaming.

In my dream, I was in the army. But when I fired my gun, I didn't kill anyone. They would just keep coming and coming, over the dusty, dirty hill that was dotted with patches of green and brown grass and wavy, straw-like grains. Then I'd look over the hill and they'd be gone, and the hill became an expanse, a valley, that went on forever. So I forced myself over the hill and then I fell and rolled, but I didn't feel like I was rolling and I couldn't feel the bumps and I should have been bruised but I wasn't, probably because I was dreaming.

And I stood up with my gun at the ready...but there was no enemy, only this empty plain that stretched on forever.

So I sat down and laid my gun on my lap and I had a smoke. Only I don't smoke. So I started coughing. So I dropped the cigarette and it set the grass on fire. And there was fire all around me like in a ring and I got up and gaped at it, open mouthed I gaped at it, standing, ready to shoot something. But nothing came and it was hot. And I was scared.

And then I woke up.

* * *

"So, what do you think, Doc?"

"What do you think, John?"

"I think I'm getting hot under the collar!"

"What is that, some sort of movie line?"

"I think so. Probably not."

"What do you think your dream meant, John?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you have some unresolved conflicts."

"Pffffft. Okay..."

"I think you're angry and helpless. And you realize your only enemy is the one you can't fight -- yourself."

"Well, yes. That's all true, but..."

"But what?"

"But I think it was about my frustrations..."

"Yes, that's what I said..."

"...about my inability to successfully gain super powers."

"That's funny..."

"You see, I tried to irradiate a spider. But it's not easy to find radiation. They don't sell it at Radio Shack."

"I'd imagine not..."

"Cosmic rays aren't easily available, either."

"I'm not familiar with..."

"So, I've been working in my garage on an exoskeleton. Mostly with scrap metal and transistors, some old machine tools and minimotors."

"And what will this exoskelton do for you?"

"The exoskel-e-ton will give me super strength, of course. and I'll be bulletproof. Mostly."

"So, when you say 'bulletproof' that's really a metaphor for ..."

"Protecting me from bullets, yes."

"And who would be shooting at you?"

"Villains. Look, if you're not going to take me seriously, I'm going to have to..."

"Are you threatening me?"

"... take you to my garage and show you. It's really cool."

"That's okay. I believe you."

"You do?"

"No, I don't."

Lines in the Sand

2005-10-27T11:29:00.000-05:00

Some days I feel like I'm running around in circles. There's a starting line, just beyond the edge, but I keep circling just shy of it, every lap arcing so close that if I just stopped ... I could step right over.

But I can't.

Yesterday, I discussed with someone (OK... my therapist ...) what a thrill it might be to see what I can really get away with at work. Could I, potentially, finish a week's worth of work in one or two days, and then relax and enjoy the rest of the week. My answer: I probably could. What's scary about that? That I have no idea what I'd do with the rest of my time. But wouldn't it be fun to see if I could do it?

The problem is getting started. How do you get off the track? How do you 'just do it' when something, a little child inside you is screaming, "I don't wanna face this"?

So here's my answer: From hereforth, I'm going to take George Costanza's advice and 'do the opposite'. Whatever I want to do, I'm going to do the opposite. If I want to avoid work, I'm going to work. If I don't want to make a phone call, I'll make the phone call. If I don't want to write the article, I'll write the article. If I don't want to have lunch with my old boss, I'll call her and set it up.

God I hate this idea.

(which probably makes it a pretty good one).

My Perfect Day

2005-10-25T16:24:00.000-05:00

As it happens, I hate my job. What would comprise my perfect day?

6:00 am -- Wake up. Realize it's 6:00 am. Go back to sleep.

6:45 am -- Shuffle downstairs. Get newspaper. Have cup of coffee from coffee shop magically appear in my hand. Drink coffee and read paper. Cook can of corned beef hash. Feed kids.

7:15 am -- Eat bowl of cereal, corned beef hash and orange juice. Continue reading paper.

8:30 am -- Shower and stuff. Get dressed: No suit...but lookin' sharp and comfy.

9:30 am -- Go to coffee shop. Drink more coffee. Write stories.

11:30 am -- Lunch! Gyro or falafel. Read magazine.

Noon -- Make phone calls. Take meetings. Do Emails. Do work.

2:30 pm -- Writing time. Another coffee shop. Don't bug me.

5:00 pm -- Dinner! Lots of delicious food! From a restaurant. How 'bout some ribs?

6:00 pm -- Play with kids.

7:00 pm -- Put kids to bed.

8:00 pm -- Watch TV. Zone out.

9:00 pm -- Work more ... send more emails ... while watching TV.

10:30 pm -- Seduce wife.

11:00 pm -- Read compelling novel. Or comic book.

11:15 pm -- Fall asleep.

Opening Lines

2005-10-21T15:24:00.000-05:00

Someday, I'm sure to write a novel. Doubtless, I will choose from among the following opening lines:

Rene wasn't tired and she wasn't hungry. She wasn't anxious and she wasn't nervous. She wasn't happy and she wasn't sad. She was perplexed. And who wouldn't be: there was a sea lion in her living room.

* * *

Turbulence wasn't a word used lightly among pilots. "A little bumpy," they might say. Or, "we're hitting a rough patch." So when the speakers crackled with shouts of "Turbulence!" from the cockpit, Jack knew he'd best check the seat pocket for that little paper bag.

* * *

One thing I was sure about growing up: I would never be caught by an elephant with a pound of peanuts stuffed in my underwear. But here I am.

* * *

I like butter. A lot.

* * *

Swimming is easy. It's breathing that's the trouble. Always remember to breathe, my grandma told me and I took that advice to heart.

* * *

"Call me, Ishmael!" I shouted. But, alas, my love had gone to sea.

Thumbsucker - A Movie Review

2005-10-19T10:13:00.000-05:00

Last night, I went to a free sneak preview of Pride and Predjudice, and, after a series of wacky mishaps involving my mother-in-law and a large, extra-spicy burrito, and upon discovering that Pride and Predjudice is based on a Jane Austen book, making it a movie which no self-respecting male should attend alone, I found myself $15 poorer balancing a Coke, a bag of hot, buttery popcorn, and a ticket to "Thumbsucker".

Thumbsucker is a movie about resolving the conflict between who you are and who you want to be. Seventeen-year-old Justin Cobb has an embarrassing habit: He picks his nose. Ha! Just kidding -- he sucks his thumb. He does it by himself, when he's stressed, or tired, or just wants to relax. Understandably, his unrequited jock dad doesn't thinks he's an idiot, and his celebrity obsessed, fantasizing nurse mom is enabling. Dad gets so upset, he writes his own initials on Justin's thumb -- MFC.

Justin is a nice kid, a little buck-toothed and a little mopey. He's on the debate team, where he's in love with Rebecca, who has big boobs. It appears we're headed for tender teen romance when, after their first kiss, Rebecca notices MFC written on his thumb and asks him what it means ... so responds, well, poorly.

So Justin goes on a journey to see how he can change himself -- to become the person he's supposed to be. He tries hypnosis, pharaceuticals and pot. He gets advice from his hippie, new age orthodontist (Keanu Reeves), a recovering addict TV-star (Benjamin Bratt) and his recovering teen debate teacher (Vince Vaughn).

And eventually, you know, discovers himself and stuff.

You know, writing reviews is hard, and I have to get back to work. It was a good movie. I liked it... go see it. Thanks.

Art for Art's Sake

2005-09-30T16:00:00.000-05:00

Ahh...the glorious music of the keyboard...oh the art you can create:

l;aksdjfl;asdfja;sldjfasl;dfjka;sldfja;ldfja;ldfj;aldfj;aldfj;aldfjal;dfjal;sdfjla
;dfjla;dfjalsdf

Now, look how I start to mix in other rows... here's the middle row plus QWERTY! ...

aj;sdlkfjas;ldjfa;lsdfjqwoeituawoeitywoeitlkdfasl;dkfasodfjqopweityakdfj
aoetiuqwodfasdl;ufweijasdfwioetujawoeiuldkfwoe

And now, a little three-row action...

al;ksdjalkdjacm,v.x,cjgoeifnmaweoifnxcvkdhtiodnvawencvweopifnkl
d;vnaeiocvcmcxnwoehaxcvmnoer

And numbers!

;aklsdfl;aksj20935u239045lsdjf032459lksdjf23095ldsf340mncvc
gj3049lkdjeowkdac.,vcm409

With but a touch of the shift key...punctuation!

lka;sdnval;df()*#$@Y(*@NC@)#$*(SVMCXNGLDGC">NVEG@()$GNVDM<>SVMCXNGLDGC

(oops...CAPS LOCK! what spontenaeity!)

And now... the whole keyboard....!!!!!

lkajdlvna;lhgdkjh03489*()^(JHKDN(DS*Y983453mfdmnzxc,.vn48thasdklfzd90v8h4rtio

Thank you, thank you...yes I know... I feel blessed that we could be a part of this artistic experience together ...

How to Shoot an Apple off a Man's Head at 100 Yards

2005-09-26T10:46:00.000-05:00

How to Shoot an Apple Off of a Man's Head At 100 Yards

If you enjoy nature hikes up easy rolling hills, antiqueing in an old river town, a variety of unique crafts by local artists, and teeth-rattling near death experiences, the Stillwaters Art Fair, this Saturday and Sunday, is for you. Here are some highlights.

Nature Hikes

Bring your backpack and take a hike! Trails will take you through historic Stillwaters and up the Lenaole Overlook, where there's plenty of space to spread out the picnic blanket, sip lemonade and watch the apple-shooting exhibition down by the river from a safe distance. Don't jump -- it's only gunplay!

Antiquing

If it's old, it's here! Stillwaters is known worldwide for its antique stores, where the motto is, "It may be 100 years old, but it's new to you!" The Stillwaters Musket Society has recently taken posession of a cache of vintage Civil War Benchrest Rifles, found just last month by a now-unknown Wisconsin antiquer, for the annual Apple Shoot. Polished and lovingly restored, these beauties were designed to be accurate from 1800 feet...but that was a long time ago!

Arts and Crafts by Local Artists

What is Art, and what is a Craft? Well, we'll let the philosophers sort out that timeless question! We've put Arts and Crafts together in a one-of-a-kind tent show sure to satisfy the aesthetic eye. Special this year is a piece of metal-craft by artisan Chris Crawford of Minnetonka, who has developed an ingenious apple holder that can be sized for the youngest and most ... ample ... amongst us. But don't clamp that apple too tight, Chris! It has to fall off!

Teeth-Rattling Terror...and Fun!

This year's 100th Anniversary Apple Shoot should be more thrilling -- and safer -- than ever, due to new rules that require at least three weeks of firearms training for all contestants. Also, men -- and women, too, for the second consecutive year! -- who wish to wish to be Apple Tablers will use Chris Crawford's Apple Holders in hopes that it will help avoid unfortunate incidents like the wounding of Johnny Smeltstrom by Steve Olson, who accomplished what everyone agrees was an excellent piece of shooting when he tracked the apple as it prematurely fell from Johnny's head and shot a bullet right through the apple as it passed Johnny's sternum. Ouch! The new safety measures have led to some grumbling from long-time Apple Shoot enthusiasts, but most everyone agrees that sometimes the "old school" isn't the best school!

Remember, early sign up for Apple Tablers begins tomorrow. Tourists welcome! See you there!

# # #

One Minute Story: Takin' it to the Streets

2005-09-22T10:51:00.000-05:00

A One-Minute Story ...

"I'm mad as hell, and I'm..."

"Not going to take it anymore...yes, of course," I said drolly. This was becoming tiresome.

"But I really am. I'm ready."

"I'm sure you are," I said, and began packing up the assorted papers and file folders I'd spread across John's desk. The piles of papers and folders and magazines already heaped thereon made it hard to tell which papers were mine and which were his.

"That's mine," John said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I really have to go now. I have a meeting ..."

"I told you I'm ready to do something. What are we going to do?"

"What would you like to do," I said, sighing and sitting back down, briefcase closed upon my lap.

"Something. I'm going to quit. And tell the media. I've had enough of the lies, the deception, the sheer callousness..."

"Yes, well... I have to advise against that. You'd only find yourself alone. Ostracized. Jobless. Is that what you want?"

"Yes! I mean...no, not really," John looked sad, and conflicted, and I realized that he had told the truth the first time -- like Garbo, he wanted to be alone... but he wanted it to happen to him...not to happen because of his own actions.

"There are always consequences," I said. "Every action is a decision, especially when you can predict the outcome. What will you decide to do today?"

"I don't know yet. I have a lot of work to do."

"Don't we all..."

What I ate in Chicago

2005-09-20T10:45:00.000-05:00

I spent a week in Chicago at a trade show in the massive McCormick Place. I'm back now and my feet still ache. The highlights of the trip hinged upon, as usual in my case, what I ate and where I ate it. Here, for your consumption (get it, consumption...'cause it's about food...get it? no, not tuberculosis...what are thinking? Anyway..., is a recap of my visit.

Best cheeseburger -- the Boston Blackie at Boston Blackies. A half-pound of ground, grilled, cheesed deliciousness, washed down with a draft Sam Adams. Enjoyed with Travelin' Colleague Tony, who is from Boston.
Best Steak -- The New York Strip at the Saloon. This also was the only steak eaten on the trip, but it was a good choice -- gigantic, moist and delicious all the way through.
Best Spaghetti & Meatballs -- A little known fact about me is that I only order spaghetti and meatballs at Italian restaurants. However, I didn't go to any Italian restaurants in Chicago. After Friend Brian (one of the proud few that read this blog) blatantly ignored my plaintive cell-phoned pleas to attend his party, I walked Michigan Avenue, bought the Marvel 1602 graphic novel at Virgin Records, read more graphic novels at Borders, and even found time to pick up a bracelet for my lovely wife. Upon my return to the hotel, I ordered spaghetti bolognese from room service and dove into the world of 17th century superheroes. The spaghetti could have used some meatballs.
Best Drink -- Gin and Tonic, Tavern on Rush. The drink was competent, the conversation, with Friend Nancy and later joined by Travelin' Colleague Tony, was delightful. Even more important was that while I waited alone at the bar for said Friend Nancy, I'm pretty sure that at least two attractive women gave me the eye and a little smile. I'm happily married with three kids, so just that's enough fantasy to keep me going for awhile.
Best Sushi -- Mirai. I don't even like sushi. This sushi has left me craving sushi. The warm saki and Tsing Tao only embellished the experience.
Best Pizza -- None.
Worst Pizza -- Connie's at McCormick Place -- thick slabs of cheese covering bland red sauce and chunks of recently defrosted sausage.
Most Average Burger -- The Big 'N' Tasty, McDonald's at McCormick Place. First off, the the McDonald's "Express" doesn't carry the Quarter Pounder. Secondly, "Express" in McDonald's language apparently means "30 minute wait". However, the Big'N'Tasty was, as expected, medium sized and OK.
Best Pancakes -- Pancakes & Eggs in Rosemount. I didn't eat breakfast for the entire trip -- too lazy, too stressed. Until Thursday, on my way out of town, when Friend Colleen and Kid Will intercepted me on the way to the airport for delightful conversation and funny faces. Pancakes were fluffy, but small. However, two extra stars to the P&E for providing Corned Beef Hash as a side dish. It wasn't quite Mary Kitchen ... in fact, it might have been fresher than that... despite that, it was a delicious, welcome and stomach-filling treat, and I happily fell asleep upon takeoff.
Best Homecoming -- My 16-month-old, who gave me just about the biggest hug ever. Awwwwwwwwwwww....

I'm back now...

Overheard at My Wife's 20th High School Renunion

2005-08-30T13:10:00.000-05:00

Tall, blonde, beautiful former cheerleader from wealthy family to a gay man. Spoken with sincerity:

"You know, apparently some people didn't have a good experience in high school."

You think so?

# # #

Important Song Lyrics

2005-08-26T00:28:00.000-05:00

Popular Musicians Can Teach You So Much! Here are some "nuggets" that I have found very deep and meaningful for my life! Maybe they can help you, too! They sure do help me!

"Sad songs say so much," Elton John. They do don't they? Much more than the happy ones.

"She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me," Billy Joel. Billy Joel has a whole lot of what I like to call 'advice songs.' These have been very meaningful to me. I'm not sure what this one means. Perhaps women don't usually steal.

"Honesty. It's such a lonely word..." That's our friend Billy Joel again. I often feel quite lonely. Honest!

"But when you're born to run, it's so hard to just so down," Stevie Winwood. So true. I probably wasn't born to run, but I've kept this in mind!

Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care? If so I can’t imagine why? We’ve all got time enough to cry," Chicago. It took a band like Chicago to ask this timeless question. And to answer it. Indeed, we do all have time enough to cry, and shouldn't that be enough?

"I want a new drug...One that won’t make me sick...One that won’t make me crash my car...Or make me feel three feet thick..." Huey Lewis and the News. I think of this nugget as everytime I take my anti-anxiety medicine. Hee hee!

I'll probably think of more tomorrow! Oboy!

# # #

Folk Music

2005-08-23T09:02:00.000-05:00

Folk music. The music of the folk. Storytellers. Tellin' stories.

If I could choose a new career, right now, money no object, I'd be a folk singer. And I'd move on this right away, if not for my distinct lack of talent on the guitar and ability to carry a tune further than I could throw one. Oh, and the fact that I write songs almost daily in the car on the way to work...with lyrics that are forgotten almost as soon as they are composed.

Be that as it may, I've come to realize that there is a whole population out there of middle class folk who lack folk music telling ther story of said folk. Woody Guthrie covered the Depression-era dust bowl, and a host of unwashed, pale, wide-eyed, patched-jeans wearing folkies covered the Baby Boom in all of its Magical Youth.

But where, oh where, is the musical chronicler of the modern office worker. The dull-eyed, fresh-air deprived worker who once counted on lifetime employment in loco parentis from his company now at the mercy of efficiency experts, automation and the rising tide of highly competent foreigners happy to do his job at a more reasonable rate for the shareholders.

I've only heard one song about an office layoff -- Ben Folds' "Fred Jones, Pt 2", a song as emotionally fraught as any for those of us who aren't sure what 'added value' they bring to make themselves irreplacable:

There was no party, there were no songs

'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started

Noone has left here that knows his first name

And life barrels on like a runaway train

Where the passengers change

They don't change anything

You get off; someone else can get on

And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones

It's time.

It's hard when you're so close to it. I'd squirm if I heard a singer wailing,

"Outsourced...what a terrible way to be...

Outsourced! Why'd it happen to me?

I gave all I had for the company,

now they've shifted my job off to New Delhi..."

Ouch.

Or maybe, if the lyrics were a lot better (and I meat A LOT better), like those Depression-era grape pickers in California gathered around the tractor trailer, you'd find people gathering around on the sidewalks downtown, munching on their Vienna Beef hotdogs and nodding their heads and smiling...knowing that someone out there knows what they're thinking could happen any day... and maybe a few more people will try a little harder to be irreplaceable.

Or decide it's time to see what that old dream was all about...

# # #

Impending...in the Dells!

2005-08-18T21:21:00.000-05:00

No, no real disasters impending... but I'm blogging today from the gloriously tasteful environs of the Wisconsin Dells. A long-overdue family vacation, since I'm hopelessly burnt out at work...this may or may not help...I will admit to checking my work email here at the Route 12 Internet Cafe...my reward is...ta da!...I get to blog!

Getting here, was, as usual, half the fun ... a 3.5 hour drive from Minneapolis turned into about 6 hours, during which we were forced to pull over on I-94 due to a blinding rainstorm (and a near panic over my driving from a certain passenger...who insists that I was far closer to hitting that motorcycle than I possibly could have been...really! No...really!). We started driving again, and discovered we were still rain-blind, but were able to see well enough to inch the car to an off ramp and, as if called by a divine power, into the parking lot of a Burger King with a Play Place. Two cookies, one milkshake, a pair of Spider-Man goggles and a mini Optimus Prime Transformer, three bathroom breaks and one-and-a-half hours later we were back on the road.
If you've never been to the Dells, think Branson, MO, without the southern-fried tacky. More midwestern tacky...or... oh hell...it's hard to be cynical and aloof when you and your wife have three kids, five-and-under, in tow... When you have three kids, what's tacky about Pirate's Cove Mini-Golf? Or the Ripley's Believe it Not Museum? Or the Tommy Bartlett Water Show? Or the castle-themed Camelot Hotel, chosen to replace the campsite that was no doubt washed away in today's storms, which uses a castle shaped facade -- admittedly successful at delighting the kids -- to hide a perfectly lousy hotel where the wife and kids are trying to sleep while I -- assuming the traditional male role of hunter-gatherer -- head to the Wal-Mart for morning vittles -- a cereal variety pack, milk, bread and a squeeze bottle of jelly.

So, my loyal reader or two...wish me luck... in mending my jaded spirit...in fogetting the cares of the office...in relaxing enough to have a little fun...in getting a little sleep...and in stalking and capturing a delicious squeezable bottle of jelly before Wal-Mart shuts down for the night. It'll be a close one.

# # #

If I Were a SuperHero

2005-08-17T09:49:00.000-05:00

I've been relying on the esteemed Prof. Scott Tipton to revive my knowledge of the past two decades of Marvel and DC superhero history, further fueling my descent into fantasy universes I'd left behind for friends and women.

More productive, perhaps, is that my five-year-old son wants to start a company with me, one that would publish comics and make superhero movies. We've created quite the superhero universe already...he takes them quite seriously. But he's also come up with some rather ... odd ... heroes...that would make for fun stories:

STATUE MAN! He's able to stand completely still...like a statue!

ODDBALL! He's big and fat and round, and he can...what exactly can he do?

DINO SIX! A member of the Fantastic Six, Dino Six can turn into any dinosaur. Or, any part of a dinosaur. Like with a Tyrannosaurus head and Stegasaurus tail and Triceratops' horns. A formidable hero.

YELLOW LIGHT! He can look into the sun...without blinking or hurting his eyes! Very useful, because his bad guys hide in the sun!

SLOW MOTION MAN! He's so coooool! He moves extreeemleeeeeeyyyy sloooowwwwwleeeeeeey...

# # #

One Minute Story: "Desperation"

2005-08-15T14:18:00.000-05:00

He couldn't get rid of the feeling that there was so much left undone. It gnawed at his stomach, souring the fluids where he supposed his brain floated, untethered from his mind.

It was all very juvenile, really. Stack the boxes on the shelf. Check to be sure that the labels faced the aisle and like products were grouped helpfully together.

And the crates were empty and the labels were grouped, helpfully, and faced the aisles in a stunning display of All-American plenty. And yet, Jonathan sat on the floor and clutched his stomach, thinking of all that was left undone.

A cart peeked around the the aisle, followed by the slow shuffle of an older lady seeking Matzo ball soup mix, which was nearly invisible amongst the more gentile offerings. Then a boy of five or so rounded the corner, laughing. He stopped and ran back the way he came, his voice echoing across the aisle: "There's a grown-up on the floor over there. He has brown skin."

"Is he OK?" a woman asked.

"He's just sitting," the boy said.

"OK...you know, it really doesn't matter that he has brown skin, Jason."

"I know," Jason said.

But it does matter, doesn't it? Something has to matter, or nothing does, he thought. He thought about what his manager said that morning, when Jonathan asked him why his manager's new boss was arranging interviews with each employee.

"He wants to get a feel for morale. And productivity."

"Why?"

"Because that's what managers do."

"I'm not going to be here much longer," Jonathan said. "Can I skip this?"

"You've been here nine years. Where are you going now?"

"I've got a plan...there's so much..."

"Left undone...yes, I know. Look -- this job is what is it is and you are what you are..."

"What is that?"

"A very good stockboy."

"Don't you call me..."

"I know...it's the title..."

"I know...

"Do you want my job? You can do my job..."

"I don't want your job...thanks, though."

"It is what it is, you know?"

"You keep saying that. You know it makes no sense."

"I know, but it keeps you going, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Jonathan paused. "I'm going to go finish up now. Then I'm going to quit this job."

"Yeah?"

"For real."

Jonathan finished up. It took him two more hours. Then he punched out, took a deep breath of cool evening air, confirmed his schedule for tomorrow, zipped his coat and walked to the bus stop.

# # #

Space Knight!

2005-08-12T17:30:00.000-05:00

My kids and I play this game were we make up superheroes and then I tell stories about them. They're utterly insatiable. Here's me coming home from work:

"Hi, guys! I'm home!"

>>continued reading of books or leaping upon couch-pillow mountains<<

"Umm...hello?"

"Daddy! Tell us a Fantastic 6 story!" says kid 1

"No, tell us an Awesome Eight story!" says kid 2

"Tell us a Space Knight story!" says kid 1.

"OK, wait, Daddy," says kid 2, who is older by a year and a half. "Tell us a Space Knight story now and then tell us an Awesome Eight story for our bedtime story."

"How about we tell no stories now and read books for bedtime?" I say, hopefully.

"No, Daddy," says kid 2, and then togther: "Tell us a Space Knight story! Tell us a Space Knight story! Tell us..."

"OK," I say, and fall in a bit of a heap on the couch. The kids, 5 ("and a half!") and 4, clamber up onto the couch, and wait expectantly.

"Tell us the story that happens after the last story!" says kid 1.

"What happened in the last story?"

"Daddy, you remember -- when Space Knight won the race around the moon," says kid 2

"Right. And there he was with friend, Gronk."

"Gronk is really fat," says kid 1, puffing out his cheeks.

"Well, yes, he's a very big guy. And as you know, he's kind of a Space Mechanic. Anyway, Gronk says, 'Space Knight, I have a mission. You should come with me.' Space Knight says, 'Sure...what is the mission?' and Gronk says, "Well, I have to go to the planet Serracloob...'"

"Serracloob? That's an odd name," says kid 2.

"That's the name."

"OK."

"So, Gronk says, 'We have to get there fast. There's a space bus stuck in the swamps of Sierraclawb...'"

"Serracloob!"

"Right, '...in the swammps of Serracloob where some school kids were on a field trip.'"

"Why did they go there on a field trip?" says kid 2.

"Because there's lots of natural beauty there."

"I think there's lots of doody there!" says kid 1.

"I said 'beauty', not 'doody'!"

"Doody Doody Doody!" kid 1 says.

"He said, 'doody'...that's funny..." says kid 1. "The school bus should be stuck in doody!" says kid 1.

"Hey! Who's telling this story?" I say, and that quiets them down. "So...Space Knight says he's happy to go with Gronk, and they agree that they would go there in Space Knight's ship, Alice. 'Alice, we're going to planet Serracloob. How long will it take to get there?'

'It's pretty close, Space Knight,' the ship says in a soothing female voice. 'How fast do you want to go?'

'We have to rescue a bus full of kids...pretty fast!' says Space Knight.

'Then we'd better get moving...it will take us no more than a day,' says Alice.

'Then let's go. Are you ready, Gronk?'

'Ready, Space Knight!'

'Alice, get set for Super Duper Super Duper Super Extra Hyper Warp Speed...go!' says Space Knight and he punches a big red button and the ship shoots off into space. Shhhszzzzzzooooooooooom!'"

"Gronk is going to sit in the doody. Because he's so fat!" says kid 1.

"Hey! We don't talk like that. And Gronk is just big boned. And enough with the doody!" I say, exasperated. "So anyway, soon, Gronk and Space Knight arrive at the planet Sierra Club..."

"Serracloob!" shout kid 1 and kid 2 together.

"Whatever. And they land their ship just outside the creepy swamp. 'Better bring my crocodile repllent,' says Space Knight. 'And alligator repellent, too,' says Gronk, who is carrying a massive box of space bus fixit equipment.'"

"And Space Knight brings his stunner stick and his jet boots!" says kid 2. "But, what if they meet a bear?"

"Bears don't live in swamps," I say. "So they squish and squarsh through the swamp...squish squarch....squish squarch...when suddenly, crashing out of the swampy forest comes... a bear!"

"Hey! But... you said!"

"I changed my mind...there was a bear!"

"But ... well ... OK," said kid 2. "So Space Knight takes out his bear repellent...?"

"No! He didn't bring it! So Space Knight and Gronk run away as fast as they can through the swamp."

"But Space Knight can just use his stunner stick," says kid 2.

"But he doesn't! He and Gronk run and run!"

"But..."

"Who's telling this story? Anyway, Space Knight and Gronk come to this big tree. And they climb right up it because..."

"Gronk is too big boned to climb a tree!" says kid 1.

"He...umm... he's wearing jet boots. And that jets him up the tree."

"Scaaarrrrryyy," says kid 2.

"And the bear swipes at them with his big claws, but he can't reach them, so he trundles off..."

"He went away?" says kid 1.

"Yeah. The bear goes away. So after awhile Space Knight and Gronk climb down, and they find the bus full of children waiting for them. 'Hooray!" say all of the kids. 'Who are you guys?' And Gronk says, 'Hi! I'm Gronk. I'm here to fix the space bus.' And then Space Knight stands up extra tall, puffs out his chest and says, 'I...' and he takes a deep breath, 'I... am SPACE KNIGHT!' And all the kids look around as his voice echoes around the swamp."

"Then what happens?" says kid 2.

"Then they fix the space bus and fly home."

"What about the bear?" says kid 1.

"Umm, the bear found a big berry bush and is eating it."

"What's the part that happens next?" says kid 2.

"Then they all go out for pizza and milk and they go to bed."

"Yay!" they say together.

"Now go to bed!" I say.

"Boo! Now let's do an Awesome Eight Story!" says kid 2.

"Enough with the stories!" I say, and trundle them off to bed.

* * *

So, ends the first odd telling of a Space Knight Adventure. Need there be more?

Comments are welcome!

Democracy In America (or, "your tax dollars at work")

2005-08-04T10:00:00.000-05:00

-- Or, What I Believe...a Liberal's Case for the Vision Thing

There are times when a state ought go back to the beginning. Remind ourselves of what we're here for. Why we live together like we do. Why we have Government, and why it's important for us.

I'm not going to go into a history lesson. I just think it's time we remember what we've all agreed on here in America, and why we really are all in this together.

I think we argue so much about things like "taxes" and "education" and "welfare" and "defense" that we forget what we're arguing about.

Look...

* We all agree that we need a government. It sets the rules of acceptable behavior. It makes sure that contracts are enforceable. It keeps us from killling each other. It gives us an outlet for our agression.

* Government does more than that. It's not this amorphous "thing" out there. It's people who we've elected to help us make a better life for each other and our communities. And it's more people -- our neighbors and friends and people sitting in the car next to us on the highway -- who've taken jobs to help get this work done.

We have government because we've come together as a communities -- and groups of communities -- to do things together that we couldn't do on our own. To pool our resources and our energy to get things done and maintain the lives we like to lead.

What have we come together to do? What would you pay for? What is it that we have come together to do that makes you proud? Where should our money go?

That's what we should talk about...

I live in a suburb of Minneapolis. I walk around our parks and lakes on a beautiful day, and I hope my tax dollars are supporting this. I see a sign saying that the lake has too much bacteria for swimming, and I'm glad I pay for someone to check this, and would be happy to invest tax dollars in clean up. I drive on smooth roads, and am pleased to have been a part of this; I see potholes and am willing to invest my tax dollars to have them fixed. I hear our schools are suffering because they need more help from the state -- run schools responsibly, but raise my taxes if you need to -- education is important! People can't break out of the cycle of poverty -- we can come together and help ... I'm good with that. Should people die because they can't afford medical care? I don't think so ... let's do this right.

The list goes on -- I bet you can find "your tax dollars at work" in a lot of ways -- good ways ... lots of frustrating, head-scratching, cockamamie ways, too, and we need to keep working to fix that...

But as a country, states, towns, and communities we've come together to make where we live a better place. That's your tax dollars at work. Be proud of it.

Ignorant Man Returns, Part 3 -- The Ignorant Have Inherited The Earth

2005-07-14T11:07:00.000-05:00

A SuperGuy Story

The Thrilling-ish Conclusion!

International Falls, Minnesota

The border crossing wasn't one of the better protected entries to Canada. A determined malefactor in a powerful sport utility vehicle might rush across the American and Canadian checkpoints at either end of the bridge that straddled the Rainy River. But why? To violate the serenity of the fictional home of Rocky and Bullwinkle? To disrupt the work of the massive Boise Cascade plants that turned the mighty North American forests into pulp and paper? To wake up sleepy Fort Frances, where, on a quiet, summer Sunday evening, Ignorant Man drove in his 1982 Ford Escort from street to street, searching for a an open bar. One that might sell him a Molson beer.

You are supposed to drink a Molson upon arriving in Canada, he thought to himself.

But he saw no open bars before him.

Curious, he checked his rearview mirror. No bars either, but he noted that a man on a motorcycle followed him. And, he recalled, this man had been following him for some time.

Very curious, thought Ignorant Man, and nodded to himself. Idly, he scratched his belly.

He turned right, onto a residential street. The motorcycle followed. The man's helmet, he noted, covered his whole head. His leathers were black and red.

He took his car on a left turn, and checked the mirror the instant his turn was complete.

The motorcycle...and the man...followed. Ignorant Man smiled. He bounced like a four-year-old in his seat. He parked the car by the curb and checked to be sure his cape was secure, and then got out of the car...quickly and dramatically, with a swish of his cape, which then fell to the pavement in a heap. Tying it back on in a more secure fashion, Ignorant Man turned to face the man on the motorcycle, who had parked a good two car lengths behind him and was striding purposefully toward him. The man removed his helmet.

Ignorant Man tilted his head to the side, quizzically.

The man's face was clearly green and decidedly scaly. His nose was elongated -- more of a snout really -- and trailed wisps of smoke. His eyes were a deep, beyond-bloodshot red.

"You're Dragon Bob," Ignorant Man said, unnecessarily.

The man, Dragon Bob, nodded.

"You're supposed to be in Montreal."

Dragon Bob nodded again. Ignorant Man had now exhausted his knowledge of this situation.

"Why did you want me here? Why did you send Billy Joe Bob-san after me?"

"You forget the most crucial question," Dragon Bob said in a deep, throaty hiss.

"Ahh...How much cash do you need?"

"Exactly."

Ignorant Man was puzzled.

"I need $100,000. In cash. By tomorrow night."

"I don't have $100,000 in cash. Nor can I get that money by tomorrow night."

"That is unfortunate."

"Why?"

"Why?" asked Dragon Bob.

"Yes...why?"

"Because," said Dragon Bob, leaning closer, his voice almost a whisper, "if you do not, I will lay waste to this entire town and everyone in it. He took a deep breath, turned toward Ignorant Man's 1982 Ford Escort and breathed a blast of fire across the car. Ignorant Man could see the vinyl seats melting just before the engine exploded, popping off the hood and sending it clattering just behind him on the sidewalk.

Ignorant Man remained calm.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I can!" shouted Dragon Bob. "I am born of human woman and the last living dragon! I command fire and rule men's minds! I fly on reptile wings and rend with fang and claw! I am power!" And Dragon Bob ripped off his leather jacket and unfurled a pair of great, green, scaly wings. And he looked to the sky and roared, jets of fire spurting out of his mouth.

"Yes, okay," said Ignorant Man. "But...why?"

"Questions! I was warned about your questions. Your questions never have answers, do they? I...I have answers!"

"Oh, good!" Ignorant Man said.

"First," Dragon Bob began to tick off reasons on his scaly claws. "I am going to build a secret sanctuary, in the wilderness. Then, through means both scientific and...er... traditional...I will create an army of beings like myself. More advanced, more powerful than mere humans. Next, the army of my children will fan out across North America. They will take jobs from humans, they will gain seats in city councils, work their way up the political hierarchy and, perhaps winning a governorship or two, and the odd congressional seat until, inexorably, over time, we will take over the United States...and later, the world!"

"Hmm, yes, okay...but why?"

"Why? Why what?"

"Why take over the world?"

"Why not?"

"Yes, but why?"

"The world needs taking over. It's a mess. It's chaotic. We shall rule with an iron fist, under the appropriate constitutional guidelines, of course. There will be order. There will be sanity."

Ignorant Man nodded. Unknowingly. "I see that yes, but I have another question."

"Yes?"

"Why?" and Ignorant Man's power was such that Dragon Bob was compelled to answer.

"Well...you know, that is a good question." Dragon Bob began to pace across the sidewalk, back and forth, venturing now and again into the street. "It does seem like an awful lot of trouble, doesn't it? And it will take quite awhile. My children will seem quite freakish at first, and so our campaigns will require a great deal of cash. Which means we'll be fund raising all the time. I hate all that glad-handing and small-talk...that 'hi-howya-doin' and the speeches and the chicken dinners. And the taxes! You take over the world and they'll get you, won't they? Dang-it, they will!"

Foundering in the depths of despair, Dragon Bob stood in the middle of the street and roared, and as jets of fire lit up the night sky over Fort Frances, a horn blared and an engine rumbled, overpowering the dragon's roar.

* * *

"Eugene, did you see that?"

"Nah, George. I was sleeping. What was it, eh?"

"Funny looking guy in the street. All on fire. Looked like something out of a circus."

"No kiddin', eh?"

"I think we hit it. Should I stop, then?"

"Nah."

"Oh good."

"I did hear a bit of a bump though, eh?"

"You know, just because we're in Canada, doesn't mean you have to say 'eh' after every sentence..."

"Eh?"

The semi truck and trailer roared on toward the Minnesota border.

* * *

A bruised and battered Dragon Bob dragged himself onto the sidewalk.

"What are you going to do now?" Ignorant Man asked.

"I don't know," Dragon Bob said. "Maybe open up a little gift shop. Or a B&B. 'Dragon Bob's Inn' -- I like the sound of that."

Ignorant Man opened his mouth to ask a question, thought better of it, and wrote Dragon Bob a check for $5,000. "Good luck," he said.

Dragon Bob smiled his dragon smile. It looked evil without even trying. "Why, with this I could create a labora-...Thank you, Ignorant Man."

"No, thank you."

Dragon Bob whistled, and a furry, stripled creature with sharp claws and teeth ambled down the street. It stopped next to Ignorant Man, hissed and jabbed a bite at Ignorant Man's booth, sinking its teeth into the thick leather. Frustrated, it shook its head, and let go. Ignorant Man stuck out his tongue at it, and leaned closer...then stopped.

"Is this a badger?" he asked.

"Why yes."

"Thank you." Ignorant Man watched the badger and Dragon Bob walk off into the sunrise.

He sat down by his still burning car.

"I wonder how I'll get home," he said aloud, but like so many of his questions, it was left unanswered.

# # #

SO, HE DIDN'T LICK THE BADGER...OR GO TO MONTREAL.

DOES THE AUTHOR EVEN READ HIS STORIES FROM ONE EPISODE TO THE NEXT?

WILL HE EVER GET BACK TO WORK?

OH, AND I LIKE ERIC BURN'S IGNORANT MAN A LOT.

THAT'S ALL FOR NOW... HOPE YOU LIKED IT...

----------------------------------------------

Anger Management -- A One Minute Story

2005-07-07T17:19:00.000-05:00

Author's note... So, I'm in the elevator the other day, and this weird little drama starts playing out in my head ... what if...?

I walk on the elevator on the 53rd floor, hit the "L" button, and take my usual spot, holding up the corner with my back, hands gripping the brass bar just above my ass.

The doors close. The descent begins.

Across the car, I catch my reflection in the red plastic panel.

I fix my hair.

The elevator slows to a stop. I roll my eyes. Sometimes, working on the 53rd floor, you just feel entitled to an uninterrupted trip to the lobby. Once in a while. Every so often. When you want it.

The doors slide back into the shaft. This guy walks on.

He's short, a little stocky, but not too stocky. Older, probably in his fifties. Thin hair that fills his forehead. He's wearing a light blue shirt and a navy blazer. And he's carrying this briefcase...that's more like a ... a... a minature piano. It's this giant rectangular cube with a little briefcase clasp on top, black, all beaten up. Must be a lawyer.

I look at him and then at the case. What the hell is he carrying in there?

I look at him again. I bet I could take him.

"Give me your briefcase," I say, without moving.

"What?"

"Give me your briefcase."

He laughs, nervously. I don't. I don't blink and I don't look away. "Why should I?" he says, and his voice breaks a little, but he clenches his fist, too. I've got him -- he's considering it...

"I want it," I say. "I'm going to take it." And lean over and reach for the weathered black leather handle.

A meaty hand shoves me back. So I stand up and punch the guy in the gut. As hard as I can.

But it doesn't feel very hard. I must have held back. So I hit him again and again until the air rushes out of my lungs like an old accordian and in my head I picture a mighty pendulum swinging into my own gut and smashing me against the wall.

The man picked up his giant briefcase and left the elevator.

"I will have that briefcase," I tried to shout, but it came out as more of croak.

The elevator door closed.

I go back to work.

#

Superheroes -- A One Minute Story

2005-06-27T19:28:00.000-05:00

"Tell me a story! Tell me a story!"

"What kind of story?" I said, an errant drop of milk running from my spoon down my chin.

"Tell me a ... a Superhero story!"

"A superhero story? What kind of superhero story?"

"Tell me one about Captain Ethan!"

"Captain Ethan? What does he do?"

"Well," said the five-year-old and then tilted his head and looked down for a moment, "He can fly. And he's super strong. With a lot of great equipment. He's got a spaceship and a motorcycle and a jet car. And he's very acrobatic."

"He sounds just like me!"

"Daddy..." the boy said, taking the tone of a five-year-old school teacher. "You can't fly."

"Yeah," I agreed. "That's too bad."

"Can anyone fly?"

"Sure."

"Who?"

"Anyone...in an airplane or a helicopter or a rocket ship or a balloon or a hang glider..."

"Daddy!"

"What?"

"Can anyone fly without those things?"

"Sure...birds, flying squirrels, bats..."

"Squirrels can't fly!"

"Yeah, but they can jump really far..."

"Dumbo can fly, too."

"Yes, but he's a cartoon."

"But he's got these big huge floppy ears."

"Yes, but he's a cartoon."

"I know."

"You know you can't really fly, right?"

"I know..."

Me too, I thought, and took one last look over the tops of the trees and then finished my breakfast.

#

Grifters ... A One Minute Story

2005-06-21T09:10:00.000-05:00

"I didn't take it. I really didn't."

John stared at his wife, and hoped he didn't blink. I'm being sincere. I'm being really really really really sincere.

I'm indignant. I'm very indignant. Obviously, anyone who was accused of taking it, and, of course, had not taken it, would be indignant. See how indignant I am?

I wouldn't act this way if I had done what you said. I wouldn't. No one would. This is how one would act if they were accused of doing something that they didn't. Clearly, I am acting that way, and not the other.

"You took it, didn't you?"

Jolene wanted to roll her eyes. John's eyes were shifty. The corners of his mouth were drifting up into that ... not really a smile ... sort of a twitch ...

I hate that look ... it's his worst look. It feels like he's laughing at me ... like he thinks I'm too stupid to understand ... like I'm an idiot and he's toying with me and he thinks he can get away with it...

"No!"

I could push this... I could crush him... But...no, I have to believe him... take him at his word... pretend to understand... it's all for the best...

"Fine."

"Fine."

"So what do we do now?"

"You'll have to tell me," she said.

# # #

Heaven in a Cup

2005-06-17T11:28:00.000-05:00

Dunn Bros Coffee

I have tasted of the holy, and it is a Granita.

Not just any Granita, but a large Granita from Dunn Bros. Coffee.

And not just from any Dunn Bros. Coffee, but from the friendly folks in the shop by the historic Minnetonka Mills in Minnetonka, Minnesota. I can't speak for the other shops. I know you can't get this drink everywhere.

Let me just explain that a Granita is akin to the Starbucks Frappacino or Caribou Cooler. Sort of like a Morton's porterhouse is akin to Applebee's House Sirloin.

See, your typical Frappa-whatever is a mix of espresso and milk and water or something, poured over crushed ice and blended. The result is a decent, caffeine-filled, icy confection. Made poorly, you're left with icy chunks and chalky residue from the powdered espresso. Blended too fine, and you get a watery, chalky mush. Drunk with a straw, the liquid mix is typicallys sucked out, leaving you with half-a-cup of brown ice.

But the Granita...ahhh, the Granita. I don't know what they put into it: the usual espresso to be sure...sweet syrups are added... hazelnut? vanilla, to be sure... I don't know... I should ask, but I'm not sure I want to know...

They fill it right to the top, so you tilt it ever so slightly and allow the first taste flow into your mouth. Hold it there a moment. It's like tasting cloud. A cloud of deliciousness. Let the feeling run over you. It's stunning, really. Forgo the straw -- drink it right out of the cup -- it's more delicious that way, and remains delicous right down the bottom of the 20 ounce cup.

Other tips:
- Don't drink the Granita with sweet foods, like doughnuts. The sugar dilutes the tastes of the Granita. Do no dilute the taste of the Granita.
- Accept no substitutes. If your Dunn Bros. offers Frozen Lattes, they're not the same as the Granita. If you don't have a Dunn Bros., I'm sorry. Get thee to Minnetonka!

Maintenance - A One Minute Story

2005-06-15T14:33:00.000-05:00

Another short work of fiction...for you, Aaron...

"I'm healthy as a horse! A cow, even!"

"A cow?"

"Yes. A cow. One who has been stuffed full of the most delicious nutritious, muscle-building ingredients. One ready for consumption in the finest of dining establishments."

"So, you're saying you're ready to be slaughtered and eaten, then?"

"What I'm saying is that you have nothing to worry about."

"Well, that's good, then. Was I worried?"

"I thought you were. You should be."

"Now you're just messing with me."

"Aren't I important to you?"

"Of course!"

"Then why aren't you worried?"

"Because you told me not to be! And what would I be worried about?"

"Anything. I could be run over by a bus. Stung by a scorpion. Murdered by a late-night prowler. I could be struck down by an aneurysm. I could have a heart attack."

"Probably from eating all that cow."

"You ought to watch yourself, you know."

"I'm doing just fine, thanks."

"Everyone could use a little maintenance."

"And what, pray tell, do you prescribe for me?"

"You are getting a little heavy. And your diet. I'd be concerned about that."

"I had a salad."

"Yesterday. What nutritional delights did you foist upon yourself today?"

"That'd be a Bacon Double Cheeseburger, Bob."

"That would be lunch...and for dinner?"

"That'd be a Quarter Pounder with Cheese."

"And?"

"And...and I go sit in box and I feel shame."

Silence...

"And then what?"

"And then I get back to work, that's what. How do you feel about that?"

"I feel healthy as a horse!"

# # #

Another Day in Paradise - A One Minute Story

2005-06-11T21:55:00.000-05:00

A One-Minute Story(tm)

Johnny sat on the beach, staring at the sunset, bathing suit nestled in the sand and arms wrapped around his knees, which were folded under his chin. He was sitting the way you were supposed to, when you were staring at the sunset, on a beach. He'd been there for two hours. Just like that.

The air had cooled and Johnny held is breath for a moment. It was time. Still he didn't move.

The waves grew larger and more violent for a moment, and then crashed, foaming. The thin vanguard sheet of water slid up the beach, farther than it had before, and, not surprisingly, to Johnny at least, deposited an object at Johnny's feet.

He picked it up. It was a letter-sized resealable plastic bag, with a letter inside.

Johnny unsealed the bag and pulled out the letter, taking care to keep it dry.

He read the letter, crumpled it up, and threw it in the ocean. It dissolved quickly, and disappeared. He laughed, loudly, and if anyone else were around, they'd feel embarrased for him, even if he didn't.

And he didn't stop laughing, even as the bombs began to fall, and the slick, black suited men emerged from the waves with their guns, and swept past him, as if he weren't there.

It was just another day.

* * *

The Return of Ignorant Man, Part 2 - Ignorance Is Indeed Bliss

2005-06-06T15:07:00.000-05:00

The Return of Ignorant Man, Part 2 of 3

Much later, when the ambulence had gone, Ignorant Man turned on the television. "C-SPAN" was superimposed on the lower right corner.

The man on TV wore a blue suit, red tie and a vague smirk, and he spoke with a distinct Texas drawl. "I think younger workers—first of all, younger workers have been promised benefits the government—promises that have been promised, benefits that we can't keep. That's just the way it is."

Ignorant Man's eyes widened and he leaned back. 'The power is strong in this one,' he thought, and, taking no more than a nanosecond to clear his mind completely, turned off the television.

He then allowed himself to think, as he rarely did. He thought about his encounter with the man who'd been reduced to squirming mass of unanswerable questions just hours earlier. The encounter was unsettling at best, befuddling perhaps, and, at worst, would require Ignorant Man to seek answers, an activity he tended to actively avoid. He preferred his mind uncluttered, and was particularly adept at keeping it that way.

But he allowed himself to think about when he looked down at the man, who had worn a mask that covered his head down to his nose with half-moon openings that revealed coal-black eyes.

And, almost without thinking...no, entirely without thinking...Ignorant Man removed the man's mask and gasped with surprise. And, as one unaccustomed to feeling any sort of surprise, he ruminated for a moment on the uncomfortable fact that the man now unmasked was none other than Billy Joe Bob-san, his teacher, his guru, the one who, for a discounted rate of no less than tens of thousands of dollars, revealed to Ignorant Man the power of naievete, and set him on the path to...being Ignorant Man, which as Ignorant Man thought about it, raised a great number of questions. As always, however, he was wary of turning his power upon himself.

"Billy Joe Bob-san!" he cried. "Where have you been? What are you doing here?"

"No more questions!"

"How can you say that?"

"Stop it! Send more cash! Here!" And his guru handed Ignorant Man a card, on which was printed the name "Dragon Bob: Equatorial Adventures" with a phone number and an address in Montreal. Curious, Ignorant Man turned the card over, and there was handwritten in tiny script the words: "He must not know. Cash only! Do not lick the badger!"

Ignorant Man turned back to his former mentor and opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to ask a question, but was silenced.

"Stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop..." Billy Joe Bob screamed at the top of his lungs, over and over and over again until the young couple with the 2-year-old living just above Billy Joe Bob's basement apartment could no longer stand the noise and called an ambulance, which arrived to take Billy Joe Bob away and leaving Ignorant Man with nothing to do but watch TV and ponder what do do with this newfound mystery and how to make it go away.

Finally, after sitting for four-and-a-half hours with his chin resting firmly and resolutely against his fist, Ignorant Man arose.

"If ignorance is indeed bliss," he said aloud, puffing out his chest, "and, it is, then I must seek knowledge to once again attain that blessed state." He paused, and nodded his head to himself. "Yes. That's right. And so, I will call this 'Dragon Bob', I will bring cash, and, I will lick this badger. Or not. Depending."

Suddenly, the ceiling shook with a loud stomp. "Dammit, shut up down there. The kid is napping!"

Smiling, Ignorant Man made for the door.

WHO IS DRAGON BOB?

WILL IGNORANT MAN BRING CASH? OR LICK THE BADGER?

WHAT IS THE BADGER? A METAPHOR FOR OUR DEEPEST FEARS? OR A SHARP-TOOTH CREATURE OF THE CANADIAN WILDERNESS?

EITHER WAY, STAY TUNED FOR THE THRILLING CONCLUSION OF THE RETURN OF IGNORANT MAN, NEXT WEEK. OR SO. WHEN I WRITE IT...

-------------------------

The Return of Ignorant Man, Part 1

2005-06-02T17:38:00.000-05:00

((Note: Ignorant Man is a character I created for a shared superhero universe thingie called "Superguy" back in 1989 ... enjoy the glory that was SuperGuy here. Also: this is a work of fiction.))

A man awoke in a dark, silent place.

"'Where am I?" he said aloud. His voice echoed. He looked around and saw only darkness. He was sitting upon what he thought was a hard floor -- concrete, perhaps -- but could see nothing, as if he was floating in space.

'Nowhere,' he thought.

"Who am I?" he said aloud again, and smiled slightly as his voice echoed as it did before.

'I am Bart," he thought. 'An ignorant man.' He mustered his courage and thought again. He thought *hard*.

'No! Wait!" he thought. 'I am THE Ignorant Man!"

This notion pleased him greatly. The knowledge only increased his naivete. He put his fist under his chin and spoke in a low clear voice.

"I am Bart, the Ignorant Man, and I am nowhere." 'Now,' he thought, 'we're getting somewhere.'

"Goonie!" he shouted and giggled helplessly for a good 10 seconds as his voice reverberated around him. "Goonie goonie goonie!"

After awhile, the man calmed, and placed his hand back under his chin.

"I must ponder this. How does a man get to be nowhere? How can there be a nowhere? Nowhere means not anywhere, and where anywhere is there cannot be nowhere because it is where it is. But if it is what it is, and it is where it is, then where was it when it was there if not somewhere that is now nowhere? And if nowhere is what was once anywhere then why..."

"Shut up shut up shut up!" A voice cried out in the darkness.

"Was that my voice?" The man, Ignorant Man, asked.

"No, goddam it. It was no one!" Deep in our evolutionary past, the human brain was wired for language. Soon after, humans learned a communication mode wherin a person makes a statement, but speaks in such a way that it is apparent to the listener that he means exactly the opposite of the literal meaning of the statement. In English, we call this sarcasm. But through years of training with a dubious guru deep in the heart of one of the Dakotas, Bart cleared away his ability to recognize or even define sarcasm, and thus remained...unaware...of what the voice was trying to tell him. It went part and parcel with the power of naivete...the power of Ignorant Man.

"No one?" Ignorant Man asked, quizzically. "Can there be no one, when one speaks? Can there be a voice, without one to speak it? If there was, say, a voice without a mouth, would that mouth be able to eat? And if it could eat, would it not have to have a body? Or if not, what then of the food..."

There was a terrible scream. It echoed all around Ignorant Man. A light came on, and he was awash in white. He blinked. And then blinked again.

When his eyesight returned, he discovered that he was...someplace! Someplace cold and drafty. He was in a large room, with wood paneled walls, a concrete floor ('aha!' he thought), and cheap wood framed furniture covered in tough, rough, mossy colored cloth. Two chairs, and a couch.

Across the room was a wooden door with a rusty brassy knob. On the floor, in front of the door, was a man, curled up in the fetal position, muttering to himself.

"Stop, just stop, you goddam, ignorant, stupid, stooge. You just can be that unbelievable unconscioubulously stupid and ignorant..."

"Are you okay?" Ignorant Man asked.

"Stop...just stop!"

"What should I stop?"

"Ahhhhhhhhgggggggghhhhh!"

IGNORANT MAN HAS CLEARLY TURNED THE TABLES ON A DASTARDLY VILLAIN.

WHO IS HE?

WHAT DOES HE WANT?

CAN THERE BE A MORE DEVASTATING POWER THAN THE POWER OF NAIVETE?

GOTTA GO NOW!

Things to Do When You're In Philadelphia

2005-05-23T14:21:00.000-05:00

Just got back last week from a trade show in downtown Philadelphia. I'd lived in a Philly suburb when I was a kid, and had some fond memories, none of which were jogged on this visit to the Wyndham Hotel and Pennsylvania Convention Center. But... a couple sights seen and commented upon:

- The Phillies Game: A few of us stole away to see a perfectly dull contest between the Phillies and the St. Louis Cardinals. My takeaways: If you forgive the fact that they built it in an industrial park across the street from a Toyota plant, it's a really nice place to see a ball game. Brick and old-timey, without being fakey like Camden Yards. Downside: Waiting in line way too long for a Geno's cheesesteak that tasted vaguely of gasoline. A hot dog and much gastrointestinal distress ensued.

- The Franklin Institute: When I was 12 years old or so, the highlight of any weekend was a trip to the Franklin Institute -- a huge, gorgeous science museum. Giant Ben Franklin stature. Lots of buttons to push, balls sliding this way and that, titan-scaled human organs to clamber about and a 707 jet sitting right out front. So I had an hour, and there it was down the street, so off I trudged.

Let's just say this: If I was still 12, I would have loved it. I think. Too much space taken up by an IMAX theater, not nearly enough physics demonstrations (I know, I'm a geek), and for a giant building, it was just small. The giant heart was still there, but otherwise, too little 'wow' to make my heart leap as it did back then.

- Gastrointestinal Distress: After the show ended, I decided I couldn't wait in line at Rick's for a cheesteak at the Reading Terminal Market, which looked like the Minnesota State Fair dropped into the middle of the urban core, so I enjoyed a delicious gyro and Coke. But I was still disappointed in the Geno's cheesesteak experience from the ballgame the night before, so I stopped at a little deli/market near the hotel. Provolone cheesesteak with onions and another Coke served by a friendly Asian couple. Delicious. More gastrointestinal distress ensued, but I flew home happy.

- Philadelphia International Airport: The Northwest gate was easily the worst airport experience I've had in a long time. One bar, utterly packed, understandably. A fast-food court with dirty and extremely limited seating. Only one small magazine stand in the gate area. And an hour-long wait at the gate for my plane to arrive once it landed, and then another hour on the plane once I boarded.

- Cheesesteaks: On the plus side, lack of decent food at the airport ensured that I didn't stuff down another cheesesteak. Let me just note that I love cheesesteaks. One of my best college memories was a cheesesteak tour of Philadelphia with my friend The Cruiser ... we hit Jim's ... walked South Street ... and then finished at Pat's for the express purpose of dripping Cheez-Whiz on Passyunk Avenue. They were all very delicious.

But where I was stuck, cheesesteak culture was a little out of whack. How long is it acceptable to wait in line for a cheesesteak? If you're not at an original location (i.e., the ballpark), can the Geno's or Tony Luke's cheesesteak be delicious enough to be worth it (in my experience, I'd say no to Geno's -- as the Cruiser would as well, if I could find him)? Was it only tourists and convention-goers who wait 30 minutes or more for a bite of a Rick's steak? Questions to ponder another time, I suppose.

I'm feeling gastrointestinal distress just thinking about it.

My Literary Pedigree

2005-05-06T11:10:00.000-05:00

I read The Atlantic pretty religiously each month (in other words, mostly on the toilet) and it always leaves me feeling both edified and inadequate. It's the book reviews. The depth of knowledge required to write -- let alone read -- a book review for The Atlantic is unnerving, even frightening.

This month, Christopher Hitchens takes on the novel A Hero of Our Time, by Mikhail Lermentov.

Who?

In his review of this newly translated book, Hitchens expresses a passing -- even deep -- knowledge of early-to-mid 19th Centrury Russian literature and culture, and strong enough familiarity with the author to write as if many Atlantic readers may well have picked up on Lermontov, who died in the 1840s. Maybe he's right. And should I now feel shame for choosing (and mostly ignoring) "Irish Lit" over "19th Century Russian Lit" back in college?

Now, Hitchens is a confirmed, and possibly reformed, leftist. So his Russophilia can be excused... but the man -- and most of his fellow Atlantic writers -- are a damn sight better read than I am. I'm learning to accept that. Frankly, I spent most of my high school years studying Marvel Comics circa 1977-1984 and -- through college -- Classic Science Fiction of the 1940s-1980s (Asimov, Heinlein and Pohl).

And perhaps if it came to that, I could write rings around Hitchens and his ilk if there were a call to review Heinlein's Job: A Comedy of Justice , the Dark Phoenix Saga or "Herbie the Robot".

You have to have something to hang your hat on... You can run from it, or you can embrace it... But...but... is there any money in it?

Anxiety Attack

2005-05-02T11:45:00.000-05:00

It starts with feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you want to throw up but you know it's just not going to happen. But it lingers, and you just wish you could, or you would... you know...vomit...just to get it over with. But you don't because you're not supposed to do that, right? Unless you have to. Vomiting should not be a choice.

So you go on, paralyzed. You know your job, you know what you're doing. You could kick ass and take care of everything on your work plate in two hours. If you could just start. That's all. Just start.

But you can't start. You only can stare. You can't relax and do something else, because then you wouldn't be doing your job. But you can't do your job either, so you just sit...and stare. And click and click and click.

So you update the blog that no one reads. To get yourself typing, to get y0urself thinking. To limber the fingers and give the brain somewhere to spill its excess...brain stuff. And you wonder why your doing this? Why you're pretending to write for the public, when a private journal would do just fine? You wonder if anyone, besides the three people who you've told about the blog will ever read this? You strategize about how to draw readers to you ... should you tell more friends? Post the blog in the online forums that might as well be a row of shot glasses filled with Grey Goose? Why?

You hope, perhaps, that someone will read this...that someone will understand. That someone will say it's OK and rescue you from this trap. That someone will say, "follow me -- this is where we're going to go...and we'll do great things there."

But there are no rescuers. You know you can only rely on yourself, and if it's not your own decision, your own idea, then, really, it has no meaning for you.

That would be just like you, right?

---------------------------------------------------
And now, back to our regularly scheduled humor ...

One Minute Story #4 - The Damage is Done

2005-04-26T10:27:00.000-05:00

"I'm late I'm late I'm late!"

"What's late?"

"Everything is late. Articles. My period. Mr. Chow's Chinese Delivery. Reports. Invoices. Everything!"

"Have the clients noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"The late stuff."

"They'll notice soon enough. I'm just that far behind."

"Here's what I do: I make a list. You can tackle each item on the list, one at a time. Cross off each item as you finish it. Put appointments on a calendar. Put it all on the computer. It'll help keep you on track. It helps me a lot."

"Shut up."

"Why?"

"Because I know how to keep organized. I could teach you how to keep organized. I could create a school dedicated to nothing but helping people keep organized. I've got enough lists to fill a shopping cart. A shopping cart full of things...on lists. Shut up about lists."

"Okay. So I'll get back to work again.

"Good."

A long pause.

"So your period is late?"

# # #

Very Funny...Somewhat Disturbing

2005-04-22T09:08:00.000-05:00

We've recently had our third known reader (after my wife and friend Steve) ... since this blog was founded with guiding principles that emphasize highly personalized customer service, we just wanted to say: Hi, Brian! Thanks for Visiting!

Even better, Brian offers the first known review of what we at headquarters like to call MCID... without his permission, I will repeat it here... "Very funny! Extremely. Somewhat disturbing on occasion, but extremely funny."

That about covers it!

Let the integrated multi-channel cross-media marketing campaign commence.

Gloom and Despair: One Minute Story #3

2005-04-19T16:28:00.000-05:00

The man in the overalls leaned back against the rotting wood fence. The cross bar slipped out of the hole that once held it so snug and secure, and the man in the overalls stumbled and fell, his straw hat rolling like a tumbleweed till it disappeared into the tall grass.

"If it weren't for bad luck," the man spat, "I'd have no luck at all."

The man crawled into the tall grass. Later, when the police arrived, witnesses were said to have heard a creative string of curses, then nothing at all. All they found was an old pair of overalls and a bloodied straw hat.

# # #

One Minute Story

2005-04-13T13:54:00.000-05:00

((I have about 2 minutes until a conference call begins...This story thus shall be written in one minute))

Rapel, he thought. I'm rapelling.

"Rapell-ent," called a voice from above. "The word is rapellent. Actually, the word is 're-pellent'. And so are you." The voice was clear, strong, rich and female, one that brought up unwanted memories of his mother's nagging and great-aunt's psychological manipulation.

"Get out of my head!" Brian shouted.

"Why? It's so comfy in here," she said sweetly. And she began to gnaw upon the rope.

"Goddammit. How dare you?" Brian was feeling rudely violated, and in more than a little physical danger. "Where are your manners?"

"You stink," she said, sweetly again.

Brian bounced faster. His hands burned despite the thick gloves he wore.

"I can change," he cried.

"I'd rather you not," she called. "Or, rather, I'd rather you not knot."

"What?" Brian said, not hearing the silent 'k'.

"No knots!" she called, laughing.

Brian hit the ground with a stomp as the full length of rope came tumbling down the cliff like an attacking anaconda.

The laughing from above...stopped.

Brian squinted up.

"You've been repelled."

Drat.

It Takes a Tough Man to Make a Tender Chicken

2005-04-01T09:36:00.000-06:00

The New York Times > AP > Business > Frank Perdue, Chicken Magnate, Dies at 84

Frank Purdue, Dead. Probably my favorite advertising icon back when I lived in Rhode Island. Or was it New Jersey? There was his bust, on the TV screen -- this little bald beady-eyed fellow who did goofy stuff with chickens.

According to this obituary, he was tougher than he let on:

"In 1986, Perdue told to a presidential commission that he had twice unsuccessfully sought help from a reputed New York crime boss to put down union activities, actions he later said he regretted deeply."

Does that mean that the "reputed" crime boss refused to help, or was ineffective? We'll never know.

The other question Mr. Purdue always raised for me was whether it indeed took a tough man to raise a tender chicken. I mean, don't the chickens have it rough enough already, what with the cramped quarters, wallowing in their own chicken feces, the pecking and the incessent clucking and then the decapitation and the plucking and the rendering and the chopping and the quartering and the nuggeting and the deep frying?

I'm gonna go have me some chicken right now!