Woody needs to make a confession here: I'm not a big Halloween fan. As holidays go, it's always seemed more of a trumped up excuse to saturate kids' blood with sugar than anything else. Oh, sure, the kids look cute 'n' all in their costumes, but here's a hint to you parents out there: the kids stop looking cute in costume after a certain age. In fact, teenagers in costume just look like teenagers in costume. These days there's very little distinction between what teenagers choose to wear on Halloween and what they choose to wear at school, except perhaps the presence of a bit more blood on Halloween. Also, there's just something pathetic about kids who are old enough to shave running up to doors and looking askance at the pitiful offering you drop in their oversized pillowcases.
Now, admittedly, Woody's kids are still young enough to be in the "cute" category. We'll be having "Trunk or Treat" at the church tonight, and they will be dressed up as a colonial girl and an indian princess. Cute. No; very cute. Right off the Cuteness Scale, truth be told. Daddy will walk them around the parking lot after the ward dinner and games, and remind them to say "thank you" after they get their treats, and then look forward to putting his feet up on the recliner afterward and nursing his sore back. That's Halloween.
In fact, as a teenager myself, I was more interested in passing out candy at the door than I was in dressing up and escorting younger siblings around the block. Not that I was shy about sharing in the bounty, you understand. Even at 47 I'm able to consume up to my weight in sugar in a single night, although at this age I'm also more likely to pay certain, um, consequences later on. Probably while I'm trying to sleep later that night, for instance.
Woody's philosophy on costumes is that, after about age 10, costumes are for stage. It always amazes me when people try to dress up for Halloween at the office. Mostly they just embarrass themselves, as when one gent tried to dress up as a sumo wrestler last year. Had a hard time negotiating through cubicleville with his inflatable body suit. Or a former boss of mine who used to dye his beard brown and dress up like a hippy. He was just dating himself more than anything else.
I grew out of the "scary" phase of Halloween years ago. Time was when I could go trick-or-treating in our neighborhood and visit the house where they always turned their garage into a haunted house. They always grossed me out when I stuck my hand into the bowl of pork and beans that was supposed to represent someone's innards. And, of course, these days Halloween is really just an excuse for networks to trot out their entire collections of every horror film ever made and make sure we get to see previews during commercial breaks for the entire month of October. Thanks, guys.
In the meantime, I have had no desire in the last couple of decades to visit anything like the haunted fun-house type venues that spring up during this time of year. Knott's Berry Farm does one that's supposed to get scarier every year. Why? Seems people like to be scared. I'm not one of them.
I guess I just have a low threshold for Halloween. I'm not really sure why, but I'm always glad when it's over. Then I can get on with anticipating all the turkey goodness of Thanksgiving, and the sights and sounds that represent Christmas beyond that.
On the other hand, Halloween has given me one thing to look forward to every year: Dinner-In-a-Pumpkin. That's become a tradition in the Woody household since the Woodyettes were tiny. Maybe I'll post the recipe here later.
After I recover from tonight.
Bah. Humbug.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
#86 - Sing Along Plug
Last month I wrote a piece on how the telephone can raise your blood pressure with very little effort. I made passing mention of the fact that I've been asked to participate in the Yorba Linda Arts Alliance's second annual Messiah Sing Along, and really didn't think much more about it after I posted it.
Well, apparently someone has been doing WebCrawler searches for the Sing Along, and has surfed to this page looking for it. They wouldn't find it unless they searched through my archived posts, so I've added a link for the Sing Along to my blog roll on the right.
I hadn't realized it before, but there's a photo on the YLAA site that shows yours truly staring intently at his music while performing the tenor solo last year. Can't see my face too well, but the a-frame on which it sits hasn't changed since the concert. Just juxtapose my smirking mug from my profile onto the performance photo, and you get the general idea. Woody at his finest.
If you're in the area on the Sunday following Thanksgiving, feel free to drop by the Nixon Library at 2:00 and listen to (or, better yet, participate in) the Messiah. It's a great way to kick off the holiday.
Well, apparently someone has been doing WebCrawler searches for the Sing Along, and has surfed to this page looking for it. They wouldn't find it unless they searched through my archived posts, so I've added a link for the Sing Along to my blog roll on the right.
I hadn't realized it before, but there's a photo on the YLAA site that shows yours truly staring intently at his music while performing the tenor solo last year. Can't see my face too well, but the a-frame on which it sits hasn't changed since the concert. Just juxtapose my smirking mug from my profile onto the performance photo, and you get the general idea. Woody at his finest.
If you're in the area on the Sunday following Thanksgiving, feel free to drop by the Nixon Library at 2:00 and listen to (or, better yet, participate in) the Messiah. It's a great way to kick off the holiday.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
#85 - Of Sports and Stuff
Note: This is my annual birthday essay. It's a couple of days late, but better late than never. I've done this -- largely for myself -- every year since early adulthood. I can't help myself. It's a little like Congress. Every two years they feel a compulsion to run for office, believing they've done something constructive during their last term. Likewise I like to feel that I've done something of note during the year since my last birthday. Since that's not the case, I get to ruminate on just about any topic I choose. Why I chose this particular one, heaven only knows.
I'm not certain if it was the migraine with which I awoke this morning, or the effects of a hot shower on a fevered brain, but I got to thinking about hockey. Specifically professional hockey. You know: the sport we did without for an entire year. You don't remember that? That's funny... neither does anyone else I know.
Anyway, I never got hockey. Being a lifelong southern Cal boy, I've never really gotten any winter sport. What's the point? Here in the desert (hint to those wishing they lived in California: anywhere south of, say, Sacramento is desert. Just thought you should know) we have to artifically freeze everything, including our snow. Really. Our local mountains don't get real snow until about February, which means that if they want any business during ski season, they need to make their own. With hockey (and, by extension, ice skating related sports) we have to freeze entire swimming pools' worth of water, then run over it with something that sounds like Italian food run amok, then play a sport that only Canada could have dreamt up. It was either the Canucks, or one of our perpetually brain-frozen states like Minnesota or Michigan.
In fact, hockey was probably invented when some Canadians (or Minnesotans, or Michiganians) got wasted in a saloon and decided to have a bar fight outside on the frozen parking lot. Parking lots up there stay frozen pretty much from September through about July, so it's not like they can play baseball or anything. I mean, look at the Twins, for Pete's sake. Anyway, I imagine they were having a grand old time until the saloon's owner got mad and threw one of his overcooked hamburger patties at one of the brawlers, who managed a wonderful slap shot with a pool cue and knocked the burger cleanly into the net of some guy who was ice fishing in a ditch next to the parking lot. The brawling crowd stopped long enough to congratulate the shooter by knocking a few teeth out of his head, then resumed their fight. I believe that pretty much encapsulates the entire sport.
People in the northern climes can enjoy these winter sports by virtue of the fact that they never get sick during the winter. They don't pass winter colds around because every time they sneeze the germs simply freeze in mid-air and fall to the ground. There they (the germs) (also, at times, the people) lie dormant until the first spring thaw in late June. "Do not travel to Minnesota in late June" should be stamped on every tourist brochure. Every cold germ in the state suddenly springs to life and resumes travelling to its destination, which is precisely where you will be standing at that moment; overwhelmed by an attack of every cold germ generated during the previous winter. That's why their ball teams never win games during the summer months. The players are too busy fighting off everyone's winter colds. This also explains Garrison Keillor.
So I'm no fan of hockey. Then again, I'm not a fan of any professional organized sport these days. For one thing, none of these sports really resembles the ones with which I grew up during the 60's and 70's. As a kid, I remember being a die-hard, dedicated fan of the Dodgers. The Angels (then called the "California" Angels) were pretty much a non-entity and, besides, the Dodgers had Vin Scully. In those days a kid could join a team's fan club, send in a dollar or two, and get a packet of neat (cheap, but neat) stuff like a team photo, tacky felt team pennant, and a copy of the team's schedule for that year. You could go to a game with your Dad for a very reasonable price, listen to your Dad swear at all the drivers in the parking lot, and get some cheesy souvenir at the game that you could take home and brag to your friends about for the next six months. I did that exactly once as a boy. I've never forgotten it. I also played a fair amount of sandlot ball in those days, and I got pretty good. I could pitch fairly accurately, although I didn't exactly strike fear into batters' hearts. I was small and wiry, and had pretty good bursts of speed, so I was a better than average base runner. I also made sure to play with guys that a were a year or two younger than myself so I would look better by comparison. Hey, I was no fool.
Of course, in those days professional athletes weren't known by their contract terms. Players tended to be more dedicated to their teams than they were to their vanity clauses, and it was easier to root for the home team and memorize their roster. These days the game is more about salary caps and corporate profit than it is about the game itself. Sportsmanship always takes a back seat to annual salary negotiations, and endorsements are far more important than team loyalty. Also, it was much easier to turn an athlete into a "role model" when you had no clue that he was so tanked up on steroids that his autopsy would reveal gigantic muscles and very little brain.
Maybe this just reflects my age. At 47, I've come to realize that my own accomplishments in this life will never make front page news. This is fine, since I have no desire to be featured in a "Programmer Arrest of the Day" story on the local news anytime soon. Truthfully, at my age I'm glad to be as healthy as I am. I still have at least as many teeth in my head as I have fingers on my hands, and my eyes are still functional even if I do need "progressive" lenses now. Of course, this also means that I spend copious amounts of time trying to get my head into just the right position so I can still read things like this essay without getting major cricks in my neck. My knees are starting to get into that "personal barometer" phase of life where I can tell a storm is coming without ever looking at weather reports on the internet. Athletic achievement for me is climbing the six flights of stairs to my office in the morning (I'm good for one climb every two or three days) instead of taking the elevator. On those rare occasions where I actually have to run (or even trot) for short distances, I now require a full three days to recover, assuming I haven't torn any minor ligaments. A good workout for me involves climbing a stepstool to find out if my wireless gateway is still working properly.
Pathetic? Perhaps. But here's what I can also do: I can, with very little effort, comfort my daughter when she tells me that she saw a scary light in her dark bedroom. I can magically make snacks appear when the kids are dying of hunger, precisely at the moment I was about to tell them to brush their teeth for the night. I can push a vacuum cleaner around with the best of them, and prepare three-course meals in a single skillet for dinner. (My meatloaf's to die for.) I can take a customer's vague and nebulous requirements and produce a web-based tool that wasn't probably what they were expecting but works better than they hoped for. I can help someone find information about an ancestor that they never knew before and help them connect with their past a little better. I know exactly when to say just the right thing to help my wife know that she is the single most important person in my life now and in the eternities to come.
I'd like to see your average steroid-enhanced-egomaniacal-multi-millionaire-whining athlete do that.
I'm not certain if it was the migraine with which I awoke this morning, or the effects of a hot shower on a fevered brain, but I got to thinking about hockey. Specifically professional hockey. You know: the sport we did without for an entire year. You don't remember that? That's funny... neither does anyone else I know.
Anyway, I never got hockey. Being a lifelong southern Cal boy, I've never really gotten any winter sport. What's the point? Here in the desert (hint to those wishing they lived in California: anywhere south of, say, Sacramento is desert. Just thought you should know) we have to artifically freeze everything, including our snow. Really. Our local mountains don't get real snow until about February, which means that if they want any business during ski season, they need to make their own. With hockey (and, by extension, ice skating related sports) we have to freeze entire swimming pools' worth of water, then run over it with something that sounds like Italian food run amok, then play a sport that only Canada could have dreamt up. It was either the Canucks, or one of our perpetually brain-frozen states like Minnesota or Michigan.
In fact, hockey was probably invented when some Canadians (or Minnesotans, or Michiganians) got wasted in a saloon and decided to have a bar fight outside on the frozen parking lot. Parking lots up there stay frozen pretty much from September through about July, so it's not like they can play baseball or anything. I mean, look at the Twins, for Pete's sake. Anyway, I imagine they were having a grand old time until the saloon's owner got mad and threw one of his overcooked hamburger patties at one of the brawlers, who managed a wonderful slap shot with a pool cue and knocked the burger cleanly into the net of some guy who was ice fishing in a ditch next to the parking lot. The brawling crowd stopped long enough to congratulate the shooter by knocking a few teeth out of his head, then resumed their fight. I believe that pretty much encapsulates the entire sport.
People in the northern climes can enjoy these winter sports by virtue of the fact that they never get sick during the winter. They don't pass winter colds around because every time they sneeze the germs simply freeze in mid-air and fall to the ground. There they (the germs) (also, at times, the people) lie dormant until the first spring thaw in late June. "Do not travel to Minnesota in late June" should be stamped on every tourist brochure. Every cold germ in the state suddenly springs to life and resumes travelling to its destination, which is precisely where you will be standing at that moment; overwhelmed by an attack of every cold germ generated during the previous winter. That's why their ball teams never win games during the summer months. The players are too busy fighting off everyone's winter colds. This also explains Garrison Keillor.
So I'm no fan of hockey. Then again, I'm not a fan of any professional organized sport these days. For one thing, none of these sports really resembles the ones with which I grew up during the 60's and 70's. As a kid, I remember being a die-hard, dedicated fan of the Dodgers. The Angels (then called the "California" Angels) were pretty much a non-entity and, besides, the Dodgers had Vin Scully. In those days a kid could join a team's fan club, send in a dollar or two, and get a packet of neat (cheap, but neat) stuff like a team photo, tacky felt team pennant, and a copy of the team's schedule for that year. You could go to a game with your Dad for a very reasonable price, listen to your Dad swear at all the drivers in the parking lot, and get some cheesy souvenir at the game that you could take home and brag to your friends about for the next six months. I did that exactly once as a boy. I've never forgotten it. I also played a fair amount of sandlot ball in those days, and I got pretty good. I could pitch fairly accurately, although I didn't exactly strike fear into batters' hearts. I was small and wiry, and had pretty good bursts of speed, so I was a better than average base runner. I also made sure to play with guys that a were a year or two younger than myself so I would look better by comparison. Hey, I was no fool.
Of course, in those days professional athletes weren't known by their contract terms. Players tended to be more dedicated to their teams than they were to their vanity clauses, and it was easier to root for the home team and memorize their roster. These days the game is more about salary caps and corporate profit than it is about the game itself. Sportsmanship always takes a back seat to annual salary negotiations, and endorsements are far more important than team loyalty. Also, it was much easier to turn an athlete into a "role model" when you had no clue that he was so tanked up on steroids that his autopsy would reveal gigantic muscles and very little brain.
Maybe this just reflects my age. At 47, I've come to realize that my own accomplishments in this life will never make front page news. This is fine, since I have no desire to be featured in a "Programmer Arrest of the Day" story on the local news anytime soon. Truthfully, at my age I'm glad to be as healthy as I am. I still have at least as many teeth in my head as I have fingers on my hands, and my eyes are still functional even if I do need "progressive" lenses now. Of course, this also means that I spend copious amounts of time trying to get my head into just the right position so I can still read things like this essay without getting major cricks in my neck. My knees are starting to get into that "personal barometer" phase of life where I can tell a storm is coming without ever looking at weather reports on the internet. Athletic achievement for me is climbing the six flights of stairs to my office in the morning (I'm good for one climb every two or three days) instead of taking the elevator. On those rare occasions where I actually have to run (or even trot) for short distances, I now require a full three days to recover, assuming I haven't torn any minor ligaments. A good workout for me involves climbing a stepstool to find out if my wireless gateway is still working properly.
Pathetic? Perhaps. But here's what I can also do: I can, with very little effort, comfort my daughter when she tells me that she saw a scary light in her dark bedroom. I can magically make snacks appear when the kids are dying of hunger, precisely at the moment I was about to tell them to brush their teeth for the night. I can push a vacuum cleaner around with the best of them, and prepare three-course meals in a single skillet for dinner. (My meatloaf's to die for.) I can take a customer's vague and nebulous requirements and produce a web-based tool that wasn't probably what they were expecting but works better than they hoped for. I can help someone find information about an ancestor that they never knew before and help them connect with their past a little better. I know exactly when to say just the right thing to help my wife know that she is the single most important person in my life now and in the eternities to come.
I'd like to see your average steroid-enhanced-egomaniacal-multi-millionaire-whining athlete do that.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
#84 - Getting Ants-y
Ok, I get it now. I didn't before, because this seems to be something of a regional problem down here in Orange County, but I finally understand the ant problem.
Regular readers (all three of you!) will remember my long-running feud with these tiny black marauders. I have worn out so many cans of so-called "poison free" ant spray this summer that our local stores no longer carry them. I've been reduced to begging to find enough mint-essenced bug killer to wipe these things out, and still they keep coming. It appeared that my cooking was simply too good to ignore, and the critters had hung "Chez Woody" signs at strategic entrances to our house.
But now I get it.
Ants are related to salmon. Really. There can be no other viable explanation.
I've visited the locks on the Columbia river a few times over the years, and been on the tours. I've seen the salmon ladders that allow these retentive fish to return to their breeding waters in order to reproduce and die (if they don't get eaten by bears, caught in trawler nets, or fished by native Americans along the way first). I know these things because I've seen just about every National Geographic special, Disney True Life Adventure, and Bill Nye the Science Guy episode ever written on this topic. These fish are a programmer's dream: No matter what anomalies you throw at them, they keep doing what they're programmed to do over and over and over again. Without debugging! Even if, as humans have been wont to do whenever we crowd wildlife out of their natural element, their spawning grounds disappear, the fish will keep trying to get back to them to do what Nature programmed them to do.
So it is with the ants. Now, I'll grant you there are a few differences. Ants have way more legs than your average salmon, and even a salmon fingerling could probably devour an entire colony of ants in a single meal, if the ants would cooperate and drive themselves into the river, thus saving me the trouble of having to eradicate a new generation roughly every two days or so. (Sorry... I seem to be somewhat single-minded about this!) Also, the fact that fish live in the water, while ants live in my kitchen is one more difference that some snooty scientists might label "significant."
But having observed salmon in their natural habitat (my television), I can now state with authority that ants are related to salmon. And the blame for my infestations rests squarely on the shoulders of Orange County's first Spanish settlers.
I really can't blame the native Americans for this problem. For one thing, I can't afford the legal fees. But, truthfully, they at least had the sense to pack up their homes and move them to another location if the ant problem got too bad. The Spaniards, on the other hand, tended to be permanent. They built serviceable homes out of adobe and built ranchos on which they raised cattle and cheap tequila. What they didn't realize was, they were building their adobe dwellings directly on top of the world's largest ant spawning grounds. Had they been truthful, "Santa Ana" would have been named "Hormigaville," and property values would have remained in the basement until the Mafia figured out how to turn every ant hill into a gambling venture.
Once I made this connection, other fascinating aspects of early California culture became more easily explained. The colorful folk dances of the Spanish settlers, for instance. Sissy anthropologists will tell you that the dances have their roots in ancient tribal rituals. This is only partly true. They leave out the part that those rituals involved the stamping out of ants that had once again invaded la cocina, and some clown who was six sheets to the wind on cheap tequila decided to put it to music. He had to be drunk because he invented marimbas to accompany it. It explains everything.
So, year after year, the ant colonies return to their pre-programmed spawning grounds to breed several new generations of ants, and my kitchen floor happens to rest on top of one such ground.
So now I understand my ant problem. This is why they will likely never be completely eradicated while we live here. My best bet is to make some sort of peace offering to them. Perhaps keep a piece of rancid meat in my garbage can outside so they'll have something to eat and maybe skip my pantry.
In the meantime, I need to go have a conversation with Mrs. Woody about why she refuses to let me teach science and history to the Woodyettes.
Regular readers (all three of you!) will remember my long-running feud with these tiny black marauders. I have worn out so many cans of so-called "poison free" ant spray this summer that our local stores no longer carry them. I've been reduced to begging to find enough mint-essenced bug killer to wipe these things out, and still they keep coming. It appeared that my cooking was simply too good to ignore, and the critters had hung "Chez Woody" signs at strategic entrances to our house.
But now I get it.
Ants are related to salmon. Really. There can be no other viable explanation.
I've visited the locks on the Columbia river a few times over the years, and been on the tours. I've seen the salmon ladders that allow these retentive fish to return to their breeding waters in order to reproduce and die (if they don't get eaten by bears, caught in trawler nets, or fished by native Americans along the way first). I know these things because I've seen just about every National Geographic special, Disney True Life Adventure, and Bill Nye the Science Guy episode ever written on this topic. These fish are a programmer's dream: No matter what anomalies you throw at them, they keep doing what they're programmed to do over and over and over again. Without debugging! Even if, as humans have been wont to do whenever we crowd wildlife out of their natural element, their spawning grounds disappear, the fish will keep trying to get back to them to do what Nature programmed them to do.
So it is with the ants. Now, I'll grant you there are a few differences. Ants have way more legs than your average salmon, and even a salmon fingerling could probably devour an entire colony of ants in a single meal, if the ants would cooperate and drive themselves into the river, thus saving me the trouble of having to eradicate a new generation roughly every two days or so. (Sorry... I seem to be somewhat single-minded about this!) Also, the fact that fish live in the water, while ants live in my kitchen is one more difference that some snooty scientists might label "significant."
But having observed salmon in their natural habitat (my television), I can now state with authority that ants are related to salmon. And the blame for my infestations rests squarely on the shoulders of Orange County's first Spanish settlers.
I really can't blame the native Americans for this problem. For one thing, I can't afford the legal fees. But, truthfully, they at least had the sense to pack up their homes and move them to another location if the ant problem got too bad. The Spaniards, on the other hand, tended to be permanent. They built serviceable homes out of adobe and built ranchos on which they raised cattle and cheap tequila. What they didn't realize was, they were building their adobe dwellings directly on top of the world's largest ant spawning grounds. Had they been truthful, "Santa Ana" would have been named "Hormigaville," and property values would have remained in the basement until the Mafia figured out how to turn every ant hill into a gambling venture.
Once I made this connection, other fascinating aspects of early California culture became more easily explained. The colorful folk dances of the Spanish settlers, for instance. Sissy anthropologists will tell you that the dances have their roots in ancient tribal rituals. This is only partly true. They leave out the part that those rituals involved the stamping out of ants that had once again invaded la cocina, and some clown who was six sheets to the wind on cheap tequila decided to put it to music. He had to be drunk because he invented marimbas to accompany it. It explains everything.
So, year after year, the ant colonies return to their pre-programmed spawning grounds to breed several new generations of ants, and my kitchen floor happens to rest on top of one such ground.
So now I understand my ant problem. This is why they will likely never be completely eradicated while we live here. My best bet is to make some sort of peace offering to them. Perhaps keep a piece of rancid meat in my garbage can outside so they'll have something to eat and maybe skip my pantry.
In the meantime, I need to go have a conversation with Mrs. Woody about why she refuses to let me teach science and history to the Woodyettes.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
#83 - Look Ma! I'm a Demographic!
For several years now I have taken some comfort in the knowledge that, stodgy though I be, I still qualify for inclusion in one of the "key demographics" that television marketers use to sell their advertising. They always seem to quote the "all important adults aged 18 to 49 bracket" when they show to what lengths advertisers will go in order to sell their products. The fact that my warranty is only a couple of years shy of expiration hasn't really bothered me.
It's the bracket that bothers me. See, when I was a younger man - closer to the 18 end of the scale - I generally bought into the images portrayed in that advertising. I had the boundless energy of youth and figured I would go forever. Like the Energizer Bunny™ but with shorter ears. In fact, the older I get the more I relate to my old solar-powered calculator. I can still do the math, but I'm getting slower. It could be worse, of course. In a couple of years I'll be in the next bracket ("Geezers") and will be targeted by advertising for hemorrhoid creams and overpriced funeral insurance.
With age comes a unique perspective. There was a day when the presence of a beautiful woman in a commercial would gain my instant attention. Some commercials over the years caused whiplash of the eyeballs as I tried to ogle the talent without alerting anyone else who may have been in the room with me. The truth is, I haven't really been part of that demographic for over a decade now. Actually, if you were to try to define my demographics, they would look something like this:
18-24 - Free and easy
25-36 - Married but still immature
37-now - Remarried and happy
It's that last demographic that advertisers have trouble with. Happy older males are bad for marketers. If we're happy, we're not spending money. Think about it: all the consumer goods targeted to "my" age bracket are designed for people "on the go." SUVs are targeted (irrespective of where they actually end up) for active people who will ultimately use them for climbing all over mountainous terrain to have outdoorsy adventures involving trees and bears. Whereas I would buy an SUV only for self-defense. The closest it would get to a mountain would involve an interstate.
Beer commercials are another example. I don't drink beer. In fact, I once received an invitation to join the Beer Drinkers of America and turned them down with a letter that would probably surface if I ever ran for public office and would show my extreme prejudices, so don't look for me to run for City Council any time soon. That said, beer commercials are obviously meant to show that only young people drink beer. This is because if they ever showed what people actually look like after three or four decades of drinking the stuff, beer manufacturers would never sponsor another sporting event. Ever. I don't belong to a demographic that thinks beer drinkers are studly men. I belong to a demographic that believes beer drinkers are perpetually one can short of a six-pack.
Shaving commercials always crack me up. It doesn't matter what I smear my face with, or how many blades are in my razor. If a woman ever stroked my face like that today, she'd better have tremendous medical insurance, because my sweet wife would likely send her to the nearest emergency room. (Actually, my sweet wife is exactly that: sweet. The worst she would ever do is use her patented Death Ray Stare™ which would shrivel the woman's hand and cause her to hide from public view for the rest of her life. Thought I'd better correct that perception right away.) Besides, I no longer care what other women think of me. I have this luxury now because I am already married to the only woman whose attention I crave, and she happens to enjoy my current mix of LectricShave and Norelco shaver. Take that, Madison Avenue!
No, I'm afraid the marketers have no idea how to handle my bracket. Truth be told, I like it that way. When Mrs. Woody and I watch TV nowadays, we simply mute the commercials until the show resumes. This means I see a lot of beer commercials, but I have no idea what they're singing anymore. Used to be bullfrogs or some such nonsense. Could be opera now, for all I care.
If I'm ever interested enough, I'll just ask someone in the next lower bracket. You know... a kid.
It's the bracket that bothers me. See, when I was a younger man - closer to the 18 end of the scale - I generally bought into the images portrayed in that advertising. I had the boundless energy of youth and figured I would go forever. Like the Energizer Bunny™ but with shorter ears. In fact, the older I get the more I relate to my old solar-powered calculator. I can still do the math, but I'm getting slower. It could be worse, of course. In a couple of years I'll be in the next bracket ("Geezers") and will be targeted by advertising for hemorrhoid creams and overpriced funeral insurance.
With age comes a unique perspective. There was a day when the presence of a beautiful woman in a commercial would gain my instant attention. Some commercials over the years caused whiplash of the eyeballs as I tried to ogle the talent without alerting anyone else who may have been in the room with me. The truth is, I haven't really been part of that demographic for over a decade now. Actually, if you were to try to define my demographics, they would look something like this:
18-24 - Free and easy
25-36 - Married but still immature
37-now - Remarried and happy
It's that last demographic that advertisers have trouble with. Happy older males are bad for marketers. If we're happy, we're not spending money. Think about it: all the consumer goods targeted to "my" age bracket are designed for people "on the go." SUVs are targeted (irrespective of where they actually end up) for active people who will ultimately use them for climbing all over mountainous terrain to have outdoorsy adventures involving trees and bears. Whereas I would buy an SUV only for self-defense. The closest it would get to a mountain would involve an interstate.
Beer commercials are another example. I don't drink beer. In fact, I once received an invitation to join the Beer Drinkers of America and turned them down with a letter that would probably surface if I ever ran for public office and would show my extreme prejudices, so don't look for me to run for City Council any time soon. That said, beer commercials are obviously meant to show that only young people drink beer. This is because if they ever showed what people actually look like after three or four decades of drinking the stuff, beer manufacturers would never sponsor another sporting event. Ever. I don't belong to a demographic that thinks beer drinkers are studly men. I belong to a demographic that believes beer drinkers are perpetually one can short of a six-pack.
Shaving commercials always crack me up. It doesn't matter what I smear my face with, or how many blades are in my razor. If a woman ever stroked my face like that today, she'd better have tremendous medical insurance, because my sweet wife would likely send her to the nearest emergency room. (Actually, my sweet wife is exactly that: sweet. The worst she would ever do is use her patented Death Ray Stare™ which would shrivel the woman's hand and cause her to hide from public view for the rest of her life. Thought I'd better correct that perception right away.) Besides, I no longer care what other women think of me. I have this luxury now because I am already married to the only woman whose attention I crave, and she happens to enjoy my current mix of LectricShave and Norelco shaver. Take that, Madison Avenue!
No, I'm afraid the marketers have no idea how to handle my bracket. Truth be told, I like it that way. When Mrs. Woody and I watch TV nowadays, we simply mute the commercials until the show resumes. This means I see a lot of beer commercials, but I have no idea what they're singing anymore. Used to be bullfrogs or some such nonsense. Could be opera now, for all I care.
If I'm ever interested enough, I'll just ask someone in the next lower bracket. You know... a kid.
Friday, October 07, 2005
#82 - Color Me Two-Toned
It's finally time for me to come out of whatever closet holds such things and admit that I am a vehicular schizophrenic. I say this with all due respect and apologies to those who have to deal with the real thing. I would submit, however, that most of us are "closet" schizos in one respect or another, and my dual personality just happens to manifest itself in the car.
Those of you old enough to remember actually sitting as a family on Sunday evenings to watch "Wonderful World of Disney" will remember that terrific cartoon (“Motor Mania” – 1950) of Goofy who transforms from a mild-mannered CPA (Mr. Walker) into the Road Demon from Heck (Mr. Wheeler) the moment he gets behind the wheel. Even in the sixties this disease was known to medical science. And since no sitting president has ever taken on this issue, I feel it my duty to at least go public with it and try to increase social awareness of this insidious malady.
For the most part, I consider myself to be a fairly even-headed individual. I am both a fiscal and social conservative, which means that I try to practice moderation in most aspects of my life. There are exceptions, of course. I am a sometime actor which indicates an ability to enjoy making a complete fool of myself every once in awhile. I only do this every few years or so, and this last stretch has actually lasted about five years now. Also, I don't mind singing in front of an audience. At least, I don't mind it if I've been asked well in advance, and there's a piano (with pianist!) handy.
But other than those quirks, I feel fairly conservative in my habits. I'm a teetotaler, I've never inhaled anything more dangerous than local Los Angeles air, and I've never met a needle that wasn't attached at the other end to a medical personnel.
I am also, however, an Orange County driver. [Begin theme from "Jaws."]
I can't be the only commuter in the country who goes through this same routine every day. Every morning I get in my car and silently swear to myself that I will not be in any kind of hurry to get to work. Gone for me are the days when I had to beat the timeclock or incur the wrath of my supervisor. These days I can stroll in pretty much whenever I get there, because my boss (who is on a telecon at home and hasn't yet shown up himself) knows that he will likely see me log on later that evening to work on whatever I didn't complete that day. Instant Messaging is both a blessing and a curse. My point is that I have no need to hurry in to work. I can take my time.
Mentally I know that I traverse parts of three freeways to get to work. If I manage to leave the house before 6:00 in the morning, my commute will almost always be relatively smooth. I can hit all three freeways with only minimal slowing at junctions, and arrive at the office less than half an hour after leaving my driveway. This includes the 22 Freeway which is currently undergoing widening that will probably not be completed before I retire in another 20 years or so. During construction, officials have lowered the speed limit to 55. Veteran drivers know that this is what Dave Barry used to call the "national pretend speed limit." This is precisely how all but three Orange County commuters choose to handle this speed limit. Oh, we tried. We really did. It took a full two months before most commuters even noticed that they had lowered the speed limit. Then for, oh, about three weeks everyone slowed down to about 67 out of deference to the construction crews. Then - you know how it is with these guys - some dude in a jacked-up pickup that sits taller than a pilot in a 747 decided he'd had enough of this mamby-pamby 67 miles per hour and whizzed by everyone on the left shoulder doing a solid 85. It's been business as usual ever since.
I have mentioned before that I drive two of the most gutless vehicles ever created. The Honda was not created gutless. But after more than 200,000 miles, I'd wanna go a little slower, too. The Saturn, on the other hand, was not built for Gran Prix racing. It was built to give beginning roller skaters a run for their money. I suffer mightily in this car because it doesn't understand my disease. (You thought I'd forgotten about my disease, didn't you?)
If I happen to leave after 6:00 in the morning, which happens frequently, my thought processes go something like this:
By the time I get to work, I am once again full of virtuous thoughts. Those crazy OC drivers need to calm down. They really do.
Those of you old enough to remember actually sitting as a family on Sunday evenings to watch "Wonderful World of Disney" will remember that terrific cartoon (“Motor Mania” – 1950) of Goofy who transforms from a mild-mannered CPA (Mr. Walker) into the Road Demon from Heck (Mr. Wheeler) the moment he gets behind the wheel. Even in the sixties this disease was known to medical science. And since no sitting president has ever taken on this issue, I feel it my duty to at least go public with it and try to increase social awareness of this insidious malady.
For the most part, I consider myself to be a fairly even-headed individual. I am both a fiscal and social conservative, which means that I try to practice moderation in most aspects of my life. There are exceptions, of course. I am a sometime actor which indicates an ability to enjoy making a complete fool of myself every once in awhile. I only do this every few years or so, and this last stretch has actually lasted about five years now. Also, I don't mind singing in front of an audience. At least, I don't mind it if I've been asked well in advance, and there's a piano (with pianist!) handy.
But other than those quirks, I feel fairly conservative in my habits. I'm a teetotaler, I've never inhaled anything more dangerous than local Los Angeles air, and I've never met a needle that wasn't attached at the other end to a medical personnel.
I am also, however, an Orange County driver. [Begin theme from "Jaws."]
I can't be the only commuter in the country who goes through this same routine every day. Every morning I get in my car and silently swear to myself that I will not be in any kind of hurry to get to work. Gone for me are the days when I had to beat the timeclock or incur the wrath of my supervisor. These days I can stroll in pretty much whenever I get there, because my boss (who is on a telecon at home and hasn't yet shown up himself) knows that he will likely see me log on later that evening to work on whatever I didn't complete that day. Instant Messaging is both a blessing and a curse. My point is that I have no need to hurry in to work. I can take my time.
Mentally I know that I traverse parts of three freeways to get to work. If I manage to leave the house before 6:00 in the morning, my commute will almost always be relatively smooth. I can hit all three freeways with only minimal slowing at junctions, and arrive at the office less than half an hour after leaving my driveway. This includes the 22 Freeway which is currently undergoing widening that will probably not be completed before I retire in another 20 years or so. During construction, officials have lowered the speed limit to 55. Veteran drivers know that this is what Dave Barry used to call the "national pretend speed limit." This is precisely how all but three Orange County commuters choose to handle this speed limit. Oh, we tried. We really did. It took a full two months before most commuters even noticed that they had lowered the speed limit. Then for, oh, about three weeks everyone slowed down to about 67 out of deference to the construction crews. Then - you know how it is with these guys - some dude in a jacked-up pickup that sits taller than a pilot in a 747 decided he'd had enough of this mamby-pamby 67 miles per hour and whizzed by everyone on the left shoulder doing a solid 85. It's been business as usual ever since.
I have mentioned before that I drive two of the most gutless vehicles ever created. The Honda was not created gutless. But after more than 200,000 miles, I'd wanna go a little slower, too. The Saturn, on the other hand, was not built for Gran Prix racing. It was built to give beginning roller skaters a run for their money. I suffer mightily in this car because it doesn't understand my disease. (You thought I'd forgotten about my disease, didn't you?)
If I happen to leave after 6:00 in the morning, which happens frequently, my thought processes go something like this:
Hm. 91 looks chokey this morning. Better take the canyon and get on the 55 that way. Hey! Not fair! That was my idea! Go back to the rodeo, you stinkin' pickup, and go ride a bull! Oh, sure... get in front of me and hit the brakes. That's nice. And why don't you hang up that cell phone while you're at it?
[At this point, the disease has fully manifested itself, and I will devote the entire rest of my time on the canyon road jockeying for position with this turnip-brained redneck.]
Finally. The 55. Looks about normal. Nice transition from the on-ramp. Seems to be moving along fairly... Hey! Where'd that garbage hauler come from?? Doggone it, I can't get around. No one will open up and let me into the next lane!
[By this time I am in a funk that will not lift until the Second Coming.]
Okay, 22 is moving along at a crisp 70+. I’ll just keep it at 70.
[Here I am making at least an attempt to fight the disease. I will fail miserably.]
Hey! Why do you idiots think you can just jump in front of me and drive like little old ladies from Pasadena? Now you force me to show you how disgusted I am!
[Jump into the next lane and kick out of overdrive so I can “blaze” past, which almost immediately traps me behind some landscaper whose truck has not gone faster than 45 since it was manufactured in Yugoslavia.]
By the time I get to work, I am once again full of virtuous thoughts. Those crazy OC drivers need to calm down. They really do.
Monday, October 03, 2005
#81 - General Conference
We have satellite at Hacienda Woody, which means we can pull down BYU-TV. And that means we get to watch General Conference in our living room, except for the Priesthood session. This ability is a real boon for anyone with children who just aren't ready for sitting through 8 hours of religious instruction over the course of two days at a local church building. (Note: Woodyettes don't attend Priesthood sessions, so I have an advantage over dads with sons in that respect.)
It was a wonderful conference in my opinion, made better by the fact that our newly baptized Woodyette actually sat through at least one hour each day. Contiguously, I might add. Then, of course, her fanny springs couldn't take it anymore, and she resumed bouncing all over the house. Once the kids have been unleashed, all we can do is try to contain them down at the other end of the house so Mommy and Daddy at least can listen to the speakers.
One highlight for the girls was when the Tab Choir ended one session with "I Believe in Christ." "I know that one!" they chorused. Indeed, they've been singing that hymn every morning as part of their school devotional (if only the first verse) and they were thrilled to pieces to hear it on TV. Also, even though the younger Woodyette didn't sit through anywhere near an hour (combined!) of Conference, she still managed to pick up on scripture stories that were quoted by several speakers. Both girls have that wonderful capacity for hearing things that we (The Parents) are absolutely certain they weren't listening to. They'll sit with that glazed expression of one who can't believe how long this talk is lasting, only to spring to life and say, "The Liahona was the compass that Nephi used, huh, Daddy?" Aha. They do listen.
Speaking of music for the Conference, one highlight for me was the new arrangement of "The Iron Rod." I didn't see who the arranger was, but it wouldn't surprise me at all to see Mack Wilberg's name attached to it. What I enjoyed about it, however, is that it was based on a melody that I have loved for years and always wished someone would do something choral with: a passage from Holst's "The Planets," found during the movement entitled "Jupiter." I hear this will be performed again during the bicentennial celebration of Joseph Smith's birth. I must have a recording of it.
As Conferences go, this one was, for me, more comforting than previous ones. It's not that the other Conferences didn't contain words of comfort, especially from Pres. Hinckley. This one just seemed to have more talks in it that seemed to be directed at me and my family, and nearly every one of them contained a message of hope, love, or comfort. I was, for example, particularly affected by Pres. Faust's address in the first session. It was, I remarked to Mrs. Woody, the most animated I believe I've ever seen Pres. Faust in all his years as a General Authority. He exuded the warmth and kindliness of a grandfather addressing his family over the dinner table. His talk about having the light of the Spirit in our eyes was very inspirational to me.
Pres. Hinckley's story of the woman who not only forgave but helped the young teenager who put her through multiple surgeries because of a careless act during the commission of a crime; this is the stuff of true Latter-day Saints. These are the examples that we not only need, but should crave in our lives.
Many stories and testimonies were, of course, borne in support of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Jr. I found my own testimony being strengthened as I understood exactly how and why the Lord chooses the humble through which to build his Kingdom on earth. I needed these talks as well.
In fact, I heard nothing in this Conference that caused me any distress. On the contrary, all of the talks reminded me that even though I am imperfect, yet I have the opportunity to improve myself on a daily basis. I need to give more heed to the counsel of the Brethren. I need to be more supportive of my wife and family. (Mrs. Woody may argue that one with me, but I think I always have room for improvement!) I need to be more dilligent in my family history responsibilities. I need to do more to prepare myself and my family for coming calamities.
Most of all, I need to be on my knees more.
P.S. Yeah, I know several cable outlets offer BYU-TV now. But our local cable company, the one we are forced to use if we want cable, the one that has a hard time keeping its executives out of jail, does not. So I got satellite because it does. Neener, neener.
It was a wonderful conference in my opinion, made better by the fact that our newly baptized Woodyette actually sat through at least one hour each day. Contiguously, I might add. Then, of course, her fanny springs couldn't take it anymore, and she resumed bouncing all over the house. Once the kids have been unleashed, all we can do is try to contain them down at the other end of the house so Mommy and Daddy at least can listen to the speakers.
One highlight for the girls was when the Tab Choir ended one session with "I Believe in Christ." "I know that one!" they chorused. Indeed, they've been singing that hymn every morning as part of their school devotional (if only the first verse) and they were thrilled to pieces to hear it on TV. Also, even though the younger Woodyette didn't sit through anywhere near an hour (combined!) of Conference, she still managed to pick up on scripture stories that were quoted by several speakers. Both girls have that wonderful capacity for hearing things that we (The Parents) are absolutely certain they weren't listening to. They'll sit with that glazed expression of one who can't believe how long this talk is lasting, only to spring to life and say, "The Liahona was the compass that Nephi used, huh, Daddy?" Aha. They do listen.
Speaking of music for the Conference, one highlight for me was the new arrangement of "The Iron Rod." I didn't see who the arranger was, but it wouldn't surprise me at all to see Mack Wilberg's name attached to it. What I enjoyed about it, however, is that it was based on a melody that I have loved for years and always wished someone would do something choral with: a passage from Holst's "The Planets," found during the movement entitled "Jupiter." I hear this will be performed again during the bicentennial celebration of Joseph Smith's birth. I must have a recording of it.
As Conferences go, this one was, for me, more comforting than previous ones. It's not that the other Conferences didn't contain words of comfort, especially from Pres. Hinckley. This one just seemed to have more talks in it that seemed to be directed at me and my family, and nearly every one of them contained a message of hope, love, or comfort. I was, for example, particularly affected by Pres. Faust's address in the first session. It was, I remarked to Mrs. Woody, the most animated I believe I've ever seen Pres. Faust in all his years as a General Authority. He exuded the warmth and kindliness of a grandfather addressing his family over the dinner table. His talk about having the light of the Spirit in our eyes was very inspirational to me.
Pres. Hinckley's story of the woman who not only forgave but helped the young teenager who put her through multiple surgeries because of a careless act during the commission of a crime; this is the stuff of true Latter-day Saints. These are the examples that we not only need, but should crave in our lives.
Many stories and testimonies were, of course, borne in support of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Jr. I found my own testimony being strengthened as I understood exactly how and why the Lord chooses the humble through which to build his Kingdom on earth. I needed these talks as well.
In fact, I heard nothing in this Conference that caused me any distress. On the contrary, all of the talks reminded me that even though I am imperfect, yet I have the opportunity to improve myself on a daily basis. I need to give more heed to the counsel of the Brethren. I need to be more supportive of my wife and family. (Mrs. Woody may argue that one with me, but I think I always have room for improvement!) I need to be more dilligent in my family history responsibilities. I need to do more to prepare myself and my family for coming calamities.
Most of all, I need to be on my knees more.
P.S. Yeah, I know several cable outlets offer BYU-TV now. But our local cable company, the one we are forced to use if we want cable, the one that has a hard time keeping its executives out of jail, does not. So I got satellite because it does. Neener, neener.
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