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February 29, 2004: Babies, Bears And Dragons
Yesterday, the weather was warm and several members of my wife's family celebrated my wife's aunt's birthday with us. We ate lunch at Chili's at noon and then spent a few more hours at our house watching the babies. Then, Melanie, Seth and I hopped over to my mom's after 5:00 p.m., where I prepared my mom's tax returns. After we returned to our house at 8:00 p.m., we bathed the baby, put him to bed and looked at old photographs of my family. We went to bed at 11:00 p.m. It was a fun day. The end.
If you are a parent of a baby, you understand yesterday was, in a word, AMAZING. This is because every parent knows that you can't usually accomplish this much activity with a nine-month old.
Since Seth's birth, I feel like one of the creatures in "Dungeons and Dragons" who never leaves his lair. In the version of the game I played, the "Monster Manual" determined the percentages for finding a certain creature in the lair. Some creatures, such as dragons, rarely, if ever, leave their lairs. When your adventure took you to the dragon's lair, therefore, chances were great that your character would encounter a dragon.
My character, Foron, the wizard who liked Chuck Norris movies, never encountered a dragon. Unlike most other wizards, Foron was dimwitted and not blessed with any great magical abilities. One day, Foron couldn't navigate through the forest quickly and, before he could look up from his map, a chaotic horde of evil bugbears with giant battle axes slew him. I never had to worry about Foron encountering a dragon again. I devoted my energy to video games, and, in particular, improving my high score on Q*Bert.
At the age of thirty-six, I don't encounter bugbears anymore. Telemarketers have replaced them. It's easy for them to reach me because, like most dragons, I'm almost always home. This is not a bad thing. But, as I sit down to watch the Oscars® in a few hours, I'm not going to have any meaningful understanding of the nominees in any of the categories.
This past year marks the first time since I can remember that I haven't watched a majority of the films and actors nominated for an award. It's not that I didn't want to watch movies. Although the quality of American films has dropped since American Pie 2, that never stopped me from watching movies. I admit that I enjoy a good, crappy movie (read: "popcorn movie") like "Freddy v. Jason." In fact, that film was one of the four films I actually saw this year. The other two were "The Matrix" films and "The Return of The King."
Becoming a parent means you take care of your child's needs first. I will happily do that. But, once in awhile, it's still nice to spend some quality time watching films or eating a dinner in a restaurant. These are pleasures that now require planning.
Tonight, I'm going to cross my fingers and hope "The Return of the King" wins Best Picture®. It's the best picture I saw. And it had a dragon in it too.
February 28, 2004: Words Of Love
Like all truths contained in the Declaration of Independence, cute babies are self-evident. Or as my mother-in-law says, "There's no such thing as an ugly baby."
Thousands of cute babies will apply this year to appear on the cover of "BabyTalk" magazine. Our son is one of them. He thinks he should appear on the cover of "BabyTalk." So many people (not including his parents or blood relatives) have told him he's cute that he now believes it.
I've told our son the chances of his becoming a finalist are slimmer than Yasser Arafat converting to Judaism. But our son wouldn't listen. He made me take the digital photograph of his playing on his stride-to-ride walker. Then he insisted I crop the photograph to the 50Kb specification to send to the magazine. Our son can't talk yet. But I know he wanted me to do this. I showed him the "BabyTalk" magazine and told him, "That could be you son!" Then he looked back at me with both an impish and angelic expression in his eyes that proclaimed, "Yes, daddy, I can be that baby on the cover of BabyTalk magazine!"
Now I've realized what a horrible thing I've done. If our son doesn't make the finals of the "BabyTalk" contest, the damage to his psyche could harm his future perception of himself and, hence, his development. What will I tell him if he ever discovers "BabyTalk" magazine rejected him as that cute baby for its cover? And don't tell me that he won't learn of his rejection either. Before the time our son can finally use his hands to smear peanut butter over our new keyboard, the internet will be even bigger and better than it is now. It's amazing how much information you can uncover on Yahoo! in fewer than two point three seconds on someone you haven't seen in twenty-five years. I don't want to imagine how simple accessing personal information online is in ten years.
 See this picture? It's one of over five hundred and fourteen snapshots that I've taken of our son. I know this number is woefully inadequate for a new parent who has a really cute baby. But if "a picture is worth a thousand words," I could never take enough pictures to fully paint our wonderful world with our son. Even if BabyTalk magazine decides he isn't cute, I'm going to tell our son, in my best Bill Murray voice, "that it just doesn't matter." As much as we need a five-minute shopping spree at the local Toys-R-Us, the free years' supply of diapers, the free years' supply of baby food, and the free years' supply of baby ointment, winning this contest isn't something that really matters. Sharing the time with our son and taking another five hundred and fourteen pictures does. And I lack the time, vocabulary and storage space to describe how much I love our little guy.
Especially the storage space.
February 26, 2004: Dead Puppet With Fries
On the same day that American crowds flocked to Mel Gibson's "The Passion of The Christ," Clear Channel suspended Howard Stern's radio show, and two fishermen found a Labrador retriever alive one month after its owner's boat sank, a study linked oral sex to cancer. What this news portends is obvious. I can always rely on my cool sister to e-mail me the stories I can't locate. And this world's getting too surreal.
The news doesn't surprise me. French fries and donuts may not be good for anyone either and they're almost as popular as oral sex. I admit I have absolutely no statistical evidence for this statement. I'm simply relying on my empirical observations of my roommates in college and what information Corporate America® chooses to tell me. I've also known many people, some of whom actually exist, sing the praises of eating a good donut, enjoying an order of curly fries and engaging in oral sex--although not necessarily simultaneously or in that order.
But leave it to some nerds in Sweden with too many beakers and too few days of sunlight to conduct a study to ruin someone's pleasure of eating five chocolate-iced Krispy Kreme® donuts while watching Rupert on "Survivor: All-Stars." This time, it took some scientists in France to kill whatever joy we had left in the world.
I must lack the imagination required of a research scientist. The hypothesis that a link may exist between donuts or French fries or oral sex and cancer would never occur to me. And, let me tell you, I have had some very strange thoughts.
For example, during an evening of entertaining several friends at our house, I launched into an incredible, uncontrollable fit of laughter involving an episode of "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood." X the Owl had a copy machine in his tree. I never understood how X would have managed to fit the copier into his tree--even with Mr. Roger's help--because the copier was much larger than any opening in the tree. "Can you imagine what would happen," I asked my friends and wife, "if X the Owl had an accident and the copy machine pinned him to the floor?" I then explained that nobody, not even the affable Mr. Rogers, could rescue X, because by the time it would take everyone to cut the tree down, X the Owl might not be alive. I was the only one laughing as my friends and wife stared at me with their wide, open eyes in disbelief.
My wife later informed me I did not fully explain X's predicament. "I didn't know," she proclaimed, "that it was based on an actual Mr. Roger's episode with a copier in a tree." "Well, now that you understand," I replied, "does my saga of X the Owl amuse you?" "Nope," she deadpanned. That's when I realized that, for most people, a dead (or dying) owl puppet just isn't funny.
At least, I didn't imagine a puppet having contracted oral cancer from oral sex. That's just too surreal, man.
Update 2/25/05: The original Yahoo! link to the “oral sex” article vanished last year.
Update 5/27/06: After reading this today, I would qualify what happened as one of those “you had to be there moments.”
February 24, 2004: Mardi Gras Handbook
I noticed Yahoo! added masks and beads to its masthead this week. That can only mean it's Mardi Gras time again.
Between 1991 and 1993, I partook in the festivities of the street parades and celebrations of Mardi Gras. For the uninitiated, Mardi Gras in New Orleans is an open invitation to the poor, middle-class and extremely wealthy huddled masses yearning to be intoxicated to engage in acts of ribaldry and tawdriness together. In this last regard, Mardi Gras rivals even the best political conventions, where, as I understand it, only the upper middle-class and extremely wealthy can get their freak on together. And then it's usually not in public.
Here's how Mardi Gras works. On "Fat Tuesday," you arise at dawn to make your journey downtown, where the aroma of stale beer, putrid, half-consumed victuals and thousands of people who have consumed the missing half of the victuals, awaits. On your progress, you repeatedly take a large sip of a vodka and lemonade drink, which your friend thoughtfully packages in a large 40-ounce container for you. Avoid consuming breakfast food. This leaves more room for your alcoholic drink.
As the parade floats pass, make sure to jump often and flail the arms wildly so the extremely wealthy, masked dudes on the floats see and, perhaps, toss a worthless trinket of plastic to you. For better results, find someone you can carry on your shoulders (preferably someone smaller than yourself) and repeat your jumping and wild flailing. Scream "Throw me something mister!!!" until your vocal chords feel like John Lennon's after he sang "Twist and Shout." Then take another large, sip of your vodka and lemonade drink. Repeat the process as you continue your quest toward Canal Street.
Find a soft spot on the concrete somewhere on St. Charles Avenue. Gently place your head on the curb. Stare into the sky. DO NOT RAISE YOUR HEAD. Remain on the ground. Resist the urge to believe that your head will explode like in David Cronenberg's "Scanners." Stay cool, baby. If possible, convince your friends and others not to step on you too much.
Get into the taxi. Tell the driver your address. Do not look for stray baubles in the cab. When the driver reaches your address, thank him. Repeat your thanks. Then give him all your beads, baubles and plastic cups. DO NOT RAISE YOUR HEAD. Resist the urge to tip the driver with all money remaining in your wallet.
Get into the bed. Pull the covers over your head. Experience the wonderful, horrible sensation of spinning inside your brain. DO NOT RAISE YOUR HEAD. Always maintain a close distance to the bathroom and/or an empty, large waste receptacle.
Stay in bed for two days. Or until the aroma of stale beer, putrid, half-consumed victuals and thousands of people has left New Orleans. You should be safe by then.
February 20, 2004: Wish List
Eight Pilot G-2 07 felt tip pens in plain view on my desk
Food with labels proclaiming "Smaller and crappier!"
A vanity license plate on a Jaguar that doesn't say "JAGGIN"
Angel hair pasta with arrabbiata sauce from that Italian restaurant that closed last year
People who brush their teeth regularly
Grocery baggers at the Ashton Place Kroger's
A cat that won't climb into my lap and let stinky farts
More talk, less faaa-schnizzle
A heating bill accurately reflecting our heating bill
Memo from Oprah to Dr. Phil: "I'm pulling the plug!"
A Cheesecake Factory restaurant next to that multi-plex theater
The neighbor's trampoline back in the neighbor's garage
A fantasy sports league with informed and polite owners
The Donald to Omarosa: "You're fired."
Free copies for my free responses to Kinko's telephone survey
Making that cool, witty comeback in the deposition yesterday
Gristle in soy burgers and soy hot dogs
A Subway in the vacant lot instead of a storage center
Release of the Complete "James at 15" DVD Box Set
"Lingo" without the new blonde co-host
CLEs with popcorn and nachos and interesting speakers
Library books without boogers in them
February 18, 2004: Talk About The Passion
When I was little, I didn't believe in Santa Claus. My parents, both of whom are Jews, taught me Jewish traditions. I consider myself a Reform Jew now, and I do not regularly attend religious services or keep kosher. In fact, I will admit that one of my favorite sandwiches is grilled cheese and bacon and that "free ham" does not pose any dilemma to me. (I will elaborate on the "free ham" matter in the future.) But I digress. From an early age, I knew my religious background distinguished me from most of my classmates, who believed in Santa and celebrated Christmas.
I still enjoyed learning and singing Christmas carols in elementary school and watching Rudolph and Frosty and the Heatmiser ("he's Mr. Heatmiser, he's Mr. Hot. . . .") every December. And I loved my town's giant Christmas decorations that hung from the bridge and lamposts. So it didn't matter to me if my school or town didn't take an active interest in my heritage, which differed from theirs. My friends exchanged gifts on December 25 and I received a present every night for eight days at some time beginning in November or December. And everything was cool.
As I grew older, I never consciously considered how strongly my Jewish heritage influenced my own life. Nor did I appreciate how my being Jewish would influence or affect how others perceived me. I suppose it should have been obvious. My heritage defines who I am. But recent events in my life have forced me to consider issues of my heritage and religious background more carefully than ever.
My wonderful wife is Methodist. Like my many friends, she loves Christmas and enjoys its accompanying December festivities. Since our marriage in 2000, my wife and I have always celebrated both Christmas and Hannukah. We have decorated our eight-foot, artificial tree, much to the delight of Dorian and Daphne, our favorite tree-munching kitties. As the cats tug at the tree's ornaments, my wife and I delight in making holiday treats and buying Christmas gifts for our friends and family. This past year was special for us because it was our son's first Christmas and Hannukah.
Before our son's birth, my wife and I had decided to raise him "interfaith." That means we would educate him about the practices and traditions of our respective faiths. Sure sounds simple, doesn't it? But, as my wife has noted, we don't live in a bubble. And, like it or not, people have strong opinions about the meaning of their faith--be it Christian or Jewish. And, it's the feelings of others that create potential problems for raising a child interfaith. (Someday, I need to write a separate blog on the tension between the individual and the community, which was the basis of a college thesis on this matter. But I digress. Again.)
Anyway, on February 25, 2004, Mel Gibson's new film, "The Passion of The Christ," opens in select theaters across America. If you've reached this webpage, you've probably heard the debate concerning the portrayal of Jews in the film. I haven't seen the film, and, as rarely as I see films now, I may not have an opportunity to see this film for some time. But I have two things to say:
1: MEL GIBSON HAS THE RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH.
He has a right to voice his opinion and views. I have a right to voice my opinion and views. You have a right to voice your opinion and views. As long as nobody yells "fire" in a crowded theater, everything will be cool, just like Fonzie says.
2: PEOPLE MUST HAVE TOLERANCE FOR OTHER FAITHS AND VIEWS.
Faith is confidence in that which you cannot prove. Or words to that effect if I recall correctly. Anyhoo, please refer to the bottom of page 341 in Dan Brown's novel, "The DaVinci Code."
Now, I know many people will believe that Mel Gibson's film reflects the truth. That's because they have faith in it. The thing is, some people need to stop trying to tell others that if they don't share their faith that they're wrong. . . or doomed. . . . Or worse yet, required to read Paris Hilton's upcoming book, "Tongue in Chic." Not everyone in the world shares Mel Gibson's faith. But, agreement or not, everyone should have tolerance for opposing faiths or views of what actually occurred over two thousand years ago. I don't even know why, as a society that invented Tivo® and the Twinkie®, we still don't have tolerance for everyone's beliefs that do not involve any harm to others. But, as I mentioned in my own "Exegesis" on February 12, "some things don't make sense."
Some people may read this and still think that I am wrong, or a heathen, or that I fail to understand the meaning of Christianity. Some folks may ever opine that my beliefs really do pose a harm to me because if I don't accept Jesus I will go to hell. For these folks, I suggest you re-read the first paragraph under this heading and then ask yourself if you still believe Descartes really proved his existence when he posited "I think, therefore I am." If you think my faith or views are wrong, you don't respect my heritage as a Jew. That is not tolerance for my views. And I think that's pretty ignant [sic].
Ask yourself how you would feel now if you were the only kid in your school who believed in Santa Claus. Then imagine how you would feel now if instead of getting to watch Rudolph and Frosty and the Heatmiser every Christmas you could only watch the "Hannukah Harry Show®" because there were no Christmas specials in a world where Christianity were not the predominate faith. And you knew that everyone else lighted a menorah and didn't share, much less understand, your Christmas traditions. Then try to imagine how you would feel when someone made a movie endorsing a faith that you did not follow, and then thousands of people told you that your faith and religious views were wrong?
How would you feel?
Talk about that passion.
February 17, 2004: Note To Self
Dear Hoyt:
I could not allow you to watch yesterday's dialectic with Mel Gibson and Diane Sawyer on the role of celebrity in the portrayal and dissemination of Christianity in modern American culture. This was not an easy decision. Please let me explain.
As you know, on Monday, we had a five-hour, contentious deposition, a lunch consisting of nacho cheese chips and vanilla cola, a client who repeatedly screamed at and then hung up on you, and a lady who kept referring to you as "Ma'am" over the phone--even after you told her you were a dude.
Now, I understand that, deep down, you need plenty of fun, food, relaxation and, "you know what," not to mention the occasional pee in the woods. But I also understand that, deep down, you don't want to upset me, your family, your friends or anyone else. Let's face it, you have a lot of guilt, but don't blame me--blame your parents. Anyway, I thought it best to have you watch the episode of "Average Joe: Hawaii" instead. It was a really cool episode because Larissa donned a "fat suit" and then pretended to be her mother. She then asked questions about her suitors, whom she watched via a hidden camera. (I ask you, can you get any more Freudian?) Anyway, I hope this compromise makes you happy--for now.
Sincerely,
Your Ego
P.S. Tell Superego I'm leaving Id in charge for the weekend.
February 16, 2004: Thought For The Day
How do some people have time to write detailed weblogs on every day of the year?
February 13, 2004: Shrinkwrap
Every week, as I sit on my ass and watch entirely too much television, I notice a few news stories about how Americans consume too much food. I don't know if that's entirely true, but, today, as I ate my chocolate decadent cheescake Philadelphia® snack bar, I noticed something that really troubled me. My snack bar is getting smaller.
I hadn't eaten one of these snack bars for at least a year. Sometime between the time my wife developed morning sickness and the time our son arrived, we stopped buying certain snackies. So, it's been at least a year, I figure, since I had one of these snack bars. Anyway, I told my wife about my theory on the size of the snack bar. Then I showed her my snack bar. And she agreed. My snack bar is definitely getting smaller.
But my snack bar isn't the only thing that's getting smaller. So are my Little Debbie ® cakes. Years ago, I had trouble fitting a Little Debbie into my mouth. My mouth hasn't grown but now I can easily cram an entire Little Debbie® in my mouth--and still have some room to spare. (Please pardon my having to use such a graphic description. But, with my apologies to Jello Biafra, truth is not pretty.)
The price of a package of Philadelphia® snack bars and Little Debbie® cakes hasn't changed. You pay about $2.00 or so for a package of ten Little Debbie® cakes, which is about twenty cents per cake. I can dig that but the cakes are so much smaller now that at this rate they won't be much larger than twos dime in a few years.
Then there's the "big grab" bags of chips Frito-Lay® makes. Big grab, my ass. I can't tell if "big grab" refers to the air in the bag or the chips anymore. I mean, I really love their chips...but can't someone figure out a way to fill the bag fuller with chips??!?
And did I mention the 88¢ Banquet® dinners? Boy, I'm sure glad we bought several! That way, I just might have enough to eat. Let's see, three times eighty-eight equals two hundred sixty-four. $2.64. Hmmm...that would buy a delicious hamburger. Mmmmm.....delicious hamburger.
Ok...I need to stop writing. I'm hungry again.
February 12, 2004: Exegesis
As a lawyer, I usually take cases involving employment disputes. I do this for two reasons, one practical and the other personal. The practical reason is that's what my boss wants me to do. The personal reason is more complex and requires a longer explanation.
In the early 1960s, when the media still respected the personal lives of celebrities and politicians, my dad enlisted in the Army. He had no choice because that's how a draft worked then. While in the Army, my dad sewed parachutes and had his face slapped once during a card game. He told me he never knew why the guy slapped his face. Some things don't make sense. Although dad never said those exact words to me, it is a lesson I learned from my dad's life.
Dad also worked in the library during his Army stint. He obviously preferred this work to sewing parachutes. After all, if you miss a book, nobody gets hurt. Missing a stitch on a parachute cover, on the other hand, could potentially cause more problems. After faithfully discharging his duty to his country, dad obtained a master's degree in library science. By the time I arrived, he worked at a small library.
In 1972, when the media sometimes questioned the public lives of some celebrities and politicians, my dad became the director for my state's library system. This was a much better job for my dad, who before was a director of a small library. Instead of determining the budget and resources for one little library, my dad now had the responsibility for ensuring that all the libraries in our state had adequate materials. And this would involve his dealing with politicians in our state's legislature.
The first time my dad spoke before the legislature, he held up a pack of Lifesavers®. Back then, Lifesavers® cost five cents. Apparently, when dad became director of the state's library system, the legislature had only allocated five cents per person (or per capita if you want to be a Latin nerd about it) to the state's library system. Our state ranked last in funding per person for libraries. My dad's Lifesaver® proved successful and the legislature approved more funding for our state's libraries. Years later, people would mention this story about my dad, but I still don't have the original candy he used for his presentation. I probably ate it.
Over the next twenty-four years, my dad worked tirelessly to improve our state's library system. He developed a "carousel" library, which could be built in rural areas, where people had no library access. He created campaigns to promote libraries. As a child, I would always have a few of these library posters hanging on my wall over my room's Mighty Mouse wallpaper. The posters involved variations on "Ghostbusters" ("Who you gonna call...the library!") and "Max Headroom" (which showed a picture of my dad as Max Headroom and saying "Read On").
Dad even created the state's annual "Library Appreciation Day" dinner. Each year, the keynote speaker was a famous author or personality (Frank Gifford, George Plimpton, or Art Buchwald are a few I remember) and people would travel from around the state to show their support for libraries. When I was little, and too young to attend these dinners, dad would always make sure to bring me and my sister a copy of an autographed book signed by the keynote speaker. This explains why I have an autographed copy of "Gifford on Courage" at my mom's house.
In the late 1970s, my dad presented an "Info Show" with movies, books and interactive exhibits. I remember running around with my friends exploring the different booths and watching silly movies such as "Hardware Wars," a satire of "Star Wars," which every red-blooded nerd child of the 1970s knows and had probably seen several hundred times. Life was cool and my dad was the grooviest dude my friends and I knew.
Thanks to my father's efforts, by the early 1990s, my state now ranked at or near the top of all states in per person funding for libraries. Librarians across the nation and publications for librarians acknowledged my father as one of the most important library innovators. And, you don't need to hear it from me, his son either. Everyone who knew about my dad knew he was an innovator.
In 1995, when the media no longer respected the personal lives of celebrities, politicians or anyone else, something changed. An anonymous individual sent a note to some federal authority. This anonymous person accused my dad of criminal conduct. My dad didn't know why. I don't know why. Some things don't make sense. Anyway, later that year, I received a subpoena duces tecum for my law school transcripts and financial records. My spineless alma mater provided the records without any fight. My dad had to hire an attorney, and although no charges were ever brought, in April 1996, the state fired my dad.
I wasn't present for the meeting. It was in all the state newspapers. I saw the picture on the front page. I watched the coverage on the television. I listened to my mom cry. And I watched my dad's heart break. Then, I stopped eating regularly.
I have never been overweight in my life and I do not need to be missing any meals. But when I get upset, I don't like to eat. I probably lost twenty pounds off my 125-pound-when-soaking-wet body. I felt powerless. I was in too much shock to be angry.
My dad, of course, never learned why he was fired. They said they didn't have to give a reason. That's true. At-will employment works like that. "Thanks for building one of the best library systems in the world, Fred, now get the f*** out!" My dad couldn't understand why he should suffer such treatment. He filed a lawsuit challenging his termination. Like most other lawsuits, it dragged on and the firm representing my father (which was where I was an ASSociate [sic] at the time) did not place this matter top on its priority list. And, why should it have? My father was not the head of a major industrial manufacturing concern, a wealthy local businessman, or a kingmaker. So, of course, he couldn't afford to pay the substantial legal fees a large corporate firm requires to prosecute a civil action. My dad did receive support from the community, and to my community's credit, it contributed enough funds to allow my dad to proceed with the lawsuit. But, in the end, it didn't matter. My dad died in December 1997 and my family dropped his lawsuit.
Nothing about what happened to my dad makes sense. It never will. But what happened to my father will continue to happen to others. Again, it doesn't make sense. But borrowing a line from the movie Brazil, I'll say this: "We're all in this together." And, sense or not, I'm gonna do what I can to help.
February 10, 2004: YEEAAHH!!
Some "concerned" citizens are angry about another "ridiculous" million dollar plaintiff's verdict. They've erected a giant "Help Stop Lawsuit Abuse" billboard over the interstate I use everyday. I don't blame them for bashing lawyers--or plaintiff's lawyers, I should say. Along with buying needless crap on Ebay® and watching idiots embarrass themselves in contrived situations, bashing lawyers has evolved into one of America's favorite pastimes. I even love to bash lawyers and I'm one myself! It makes me feel so good sometimes, I want to yell "YEEAAHH!" like Howard Dean did after he lost the Iowa primary.
And isn't it curious how the media presented Howard Dean's reaction to losing the Iowa primary. I watched that clip several times. How could I not? CNN later admitted it probably overused the clip. I'm not saying I agree with everything Howard Dean believes. But, last I checked, the media depicted him as the frontrunner before the results were tallied in Iowa. Then everything changed. It reminded me of Michael Dukakis' campaign when he climbed into that tank wearing an Army helmet. Even if you supported Dukakis--and I did--you knew he looked like a dweeb peering out from under that Army helmet. And let's face it in anachronistic terms: Dukakis' campaign “jumped the shark” when he allowed that photographer to snap that picture of him in the tank.
I'd bet you that years from now, when anyone remembers Howard Dean's campaign, they won't remember his stance on the war in Iraq or his views on George W. or our economy. People will remember the soundbite the media gave us. They'll remember the "YEEAAHH!"
It's no wonder everyone believes lawyers suck. That's the main depiction lawyers receive in the media. That's why next time I win a trial, I'm going to remember Howard Dean and resist the urge to yell "YEEAAHH!"
Oh...what the f***. . . "YEEAAHH!"
I'm feeling much better now.
February 9, 2004: End Of The Marathon
I've been trying to eat breakfast lately. I rarely eat breakfast during the week. Over the last few weeks, I started eating bran flakes. Then I switched to corn flakes, which, technically are "frosted" flakes. Now, at 8:30 a.m., I find myself munching on Cheez-It® snack crackers. I don't even like them as much as other snackies. But it's better than eating nothing for breakfast. And besides, it was the last bag in my office.
Most of my favorite junk food isn't available anymore. Spicy bar-b-que Doritos® are my all-time favorite snackies. Gone. Sour cream and bacon Ruffles® gone. Marathon® candy bars. Gone. Everyone recalls the Marathon® bars. Remember the plastic, red package with the ruler on its back? It was a simple candy concept. . .a foot of braided caramel covered with chocolate. The advertising told us that Marathon® bars lasted a long time. But I haven't seen Marathon bars since the last days of disco.
A couple years ago, I watched Oprah complain on her show that she couldn't find a certain kind of potato chip. (I have no idea why I was watching Oprah's show, but, then again, I'm not sure why I watched the entire episode of the New Degrassi High yesterday). Anyway, Oprah's potato chip manifesto did not go unnoticed by a certain potato chip manufacturer. And she soon found her favorite snackies back in production.
I wonder if Oprah likes Marathon bars as much as I do.
February 8, 2004: Bad Is Good
Melanie and Seth are sleeping now. Seth awoke at 5:00 a.m. I read some of The DaVinci Code and decided to take a break and update my page.
At this hour of the day, there is absolutely nothing worth watching on television. I admit, however, that I did watch an episode of the "new" Degrassi High. The "old" Degrassi High rocked. I even liked the theme song. The "new" Degrassi isn't too bad either.
Today's episode covered the problems of Jimmy and Liberty. Jimmy took his friend's Ritalin® to improve his basketball game. Jimmy played pretty well, and scored twelve points, including the game-winning three-pointer. That's actually better than Kobe or Shaq, if you ask me, because Shaq never will hit a three-pointer (or foul shots) and, based on his questionable off-court shenanigans, Kobe simply acts like he's taking someone else's medications. Anyway, Jimmy also fouled his own teammate and constantly ran his mouth and dribbled his ball like a fanatic. So the coach cut Jimmy.
Liberty also had her problems. She goofed delivering the school's newscast. She didn't take anyone else's medication, though, and relied on the advice of her friend to surmount her natural incompetence. She delivered a better newscast later. Then her friend, the older, incumbent newscaster congratulated her. She still wouldn't let Liberty deliver the rest of the year's newscasts. That sucked.
I forget the name of the kid who gave Jimmy the Ritalin®. I do remember the name of the principal, however. It was Mr. Radish. And you don't want to piss off Mr. Radish. The kid who gave Jimmy the Ritalin® started his own pep rally during halftime of the basketball game. Like many of the Degrassi students, I found the kid's antics entertaining at first. (The kid really had some good dance moves, after all). But, when the kid mooned the entire student body, I experienced the same outrage Mr. Radish did. I don't blame Mr. Radish for meting out punishment to the kid. Now the nurse will supervise the kid's Ritalin® regimen. But Mr. Radish still shouldn't have left those scissors on his desk and let the kid play with them. Mr. Radish has a lot going in on his "garden," if you know what I mean.
Finally, I especially enjoyed the performances of the kid who played Jimmy. I could feel his pain when the coach cut him from the team. I'm quite convinced that Jimmy learned his lesson and now knows better than to take someone else's Ritalin® before the big basketball game. ("Just tell your teammates that the reason they lost the team championship is because you took your friend's Ritalin®. Yeah, they'll understand.")
Yup, the new Degrassi High is both entertaining and informative. And, if it prevents at least one junior high basketball player from taking someone else's Ritalin®, the world will be a mighty better place.
February 6, 2004: Rock On!
Over the last several days, I've been listening to old tapes of "The Hoyts," my New Orleans band, circa 1992-1993. I played acoustic guitar and harmonica. Dan played electric bass. We later added a drummer, Joe, and, after that, our sound changed. Remember when Bob Dylan changed his sound and "went" electric? I don't either. But it was like that. My sister hated the new electric sound of The Hoyts. Most of our core audience (all seven of them) agreed. We stopped performing shortly after I graduated from law school.
When I listen to the tapes now, I'm thankful that American Idol didn't exist in 1993. I don't want to believe that I would have auditioned for the show. After all, I can't sing (of course, some would say that about Bob Dylan too). But, I did some crazy things when I was younger. Oh, yes, I'm too old now to drive my 1983 Volvo over someone's freshly-manicured lawn. I'm too old to order a taco without lettuce, meat, tomatoes and the shell at the Taco Bell drive-in anymore. And I'm too old to play my guitar onstage while wearing only my Bart Simpson underwear. These are all things I can't do now.
I shudder when I think what might have been if American Idol had held auditions in New Orleans in 1993. Fortunately, for me, reality television did not have the foothold in America that it does now. I've suffered enough embarrassment already, thank you.
February 3, 2004: Deep Chocolate Almond Cake
Melanie made cake for me today. It was delicious--soft, sweet and moist cake with chocolate, cream cheese icing. This cake won't last more than couple days. I know this. I plan on eating it for breakfast tomorrow, for dessert after lunch and again for dessert after dinner. I may even have another piece tonight too.
A few weeks ago, I told my wife that I wished there were a cake delivery service. You have pizza delivery. You have Chinese food delivery. Why not have cake delivery? My wife said that you can order cinammon sticks when you have pizza delivered. But cinammon sticks aren't the same as cake. Then my wife reminded me that the logistics of cake delivery would prove difficult for the cake deliveryman. That's because, as someone with commonsense, my wife understands that transporting cakes requires bulkier and larger boxes than transporting pizzas. Oh, yeah. She's right. So much for my cake delivery idea.
I am so lucky my wife understands the finer points of cake delivery. And I am so lucky she loves me enough to make me cake.
February 1, 2004: Learning To Crawl
Our son, Seth, crawled around the room today. He's quick. You don't understand how quick he is until you find him ten feet from his starting place. Then you understand the concept of "babyproofing" the house. Danger lurks everywhere. Corners, knobs, vents, and, of course, kitty tails (which are attached to kitties with sharp claws and disdain for those little persons who giggle when they yank kitty tails) all pose a potential hazard. Somehow, we're going to have to find time to install all these safety latches. Finding the drill first in this house will be a good start. Fortunately, I know it's not among the toys--yet.
All material ©2004 -2007 by HEG.
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