DUCK, DUCK, GOOSE
Today I bring you three duck tales. Unfortunately, they aren't the happiest of stories, so if you are particularly sensitive towards ducks, you might need to keep a hanky nearby.
TunaU is located on the banks of the Red Cedar as the fight song goes, which means we have lots and lots of ducks. Big ducks. Little ducks. Ducks who climb on rocks. Everywhere, ducks. The only animal on par with the ducks around here are the squirrels who are equally numerous and pushy.
I cross the Red Cedar river on the foot-bridge to walk from my car to work and back again. As you stand on the bridge looking up and down the river, it's a very pretty sight. To the east are some small rapids as the water moves downhill and downriver. To the west the river is calm and quiet. With tall trees on both sides, the river is a picture-postcard kind of place in all four seasons.
Walking to my car yesterday after work, I scanned up and down the river as I usually do, just to see what's going on. To the east there were dozens of ducks sitting atop of rocks and tree stumps. To the west, there were four ducks. Four former ducks to be more precise. It looked as though they had frozen in mid-bob. The bodies were on top of the surface, but as you followed their necks, it just stopped.
I've never seen anything like it, and several of us looked in horror, realizing there wasn't a darn thing we could do about it. How sad. I will have to confer with PhotoTuna, as he is the resident nature specialist to find out if this is a common occurrence. Speaking from a purely selfish point of view, it's going to be pretty ewww to have to look at four headless frozen duck bodies all winter. At the same time, I have to wonder how freaky it is for the fish to see a bunch of duck faces underwater. Ewwwww times two.
This entire scenario of deceased ducks reminded me of a TinyTuna story. Back when she was about three years old, I came to pick her up from preschool one day after work. I was quickly whisked aside by the director who told me that the school's pet duck had died, and the class had buried it. She wanted me to know this ahead of time, in case TinyTuna was sad or upset or had any questions.
Oh boy. We didn't have pets, and this was her first experience with death. I took a deep breath, found TinyTuna and headed for the car.
"I heard you had something sad happen today," I said gently.
"What?" TinyTuna asked.
"The duck...from your class..." I said slowly, waiting for her to clue-in and lead the conversation.
"Oh yeah," said TinyTuna, matter-of-factly.
"What happened?" I asked.
She stopped walking and looked at me. "The duck stopped moving it's wing," she said. "So we threw sand on his face." And with that, she shrugged and continued towards the car.
"Uhhhh..Well...Ok then," I said, realizing with that one sentence, the conversation was over and my skills as a grief management counselor were no longer required.
Luckily, not all my duck tales involve former ducks. One narrowly escaped becoming a dead duck hat trick. Back at TunaU, where the ducks roam the campus as if they were buffalo in search of deer and antelope playmates, I was driving home on a rainy afternoon. As I left the ivy covered halls of academia at rush-hour, I was on East Circle Drive: a two-lane one-way road. A duck picked this inopportune time to cross the street. I couldn't move over -- that lane was blocked. I couldn't stop -- the roads were wet and slippery, and traffic was moving too quickly. I started sending leaned-over emergency messages to the duck: Don't. No, don't. Don't cross. No. Stay there. No. No. Oh no....
As the old joke goes, my Karma ran over the duckma. I heard an awful *thump*thump*thump* and looked, horrified, in my rear-view mirror. I cringed when I saw the cloud of feathers behind my car. As I moaned at the duck's apparent demise, I was stunned to see out of the corner of my eye, the dazed duck walking on the other side of the road. His butt may have been a bit balder than before, but at least he'd live to quack another day.
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Saturday, January 31, 2004
DUCK, DUCK, GOOSE
Today I bring you three duck tales. Unfortunately, they aren't the happiest of stories, so if you are particularly sensitive towards ducks, you might need to keep a hanky nearby.
TunaU is located on the banks of the Red Cedar as the fight song goes, which means we have lots and lots of ducks. Big ducks. Little ducks. Ducks who climb on rocks. Everywhere, ducks. The only animal on par with the ducks around here are the squirrels who are equally numerous and pushy.
I cross the Red Cedar river on the foot-bridge to walk from my car to work and back again. As you stand on the bridge looking up and down the river, it's a very pretty sight. To the east are some small rapids as the water moves downhill and downriver. To the west the river is calm and quiet. With tall trees on both sides, the river is a picture-postcard kind of place in all four seasons.
Walking to my car yesterday after work, I scanned up and down the river as I usually do, just to see what's going on. To the east there were dozens of ducks sitting atop of rocks and tree stumps. To the west, there were four ducks. Four former ducks to be more precise. It looked as though they had frozen in mid-bob. The bodies were on top of the surface, but as you followed their necks, it just stopped.
I've never seen anything like it, and several of us looked in horror, realizing there wasn't a darn thing we could do about it. How sad. I will have to confer with PhotoTuna, as he is the resident nature specialist to find out if this is a common occurrence. Speaking from a purely selfish point of view, it's going to be pretty ewww to have to look at four headless frozen duck bodies all winter. At the same time, I have to wonder how freaky it is for the fish to see a bunch of duck faces underwater. Ewwwww times two.
This entire scenario of deceased ducks reminded me of a TinyTuna story. Back when she was about three years old, I came to pick her up from preschool one day after work. I was quickly whisked aside by the director who told me that the school's pet duck had died, and the class had buried it. She wanted me to know this ahead of time, in case TinyTuna was sad or upset or had any questions.
Oh boy. We didn't have pets, and this was her first experience with death. I took a deep breath, found TinyTuna and headed for the car.
"I heard you had something sad happen today," I said gently.
"What?" TinyTuna asked.
"The duck...from your class..." I said slowly, waiting for her to clue-in and lead the conversation.
"Oh yeah," said TinyTuna, matter-of-factly.
"What happened?" I asked.
She stopped walking and looked at me. "The duck stopped moving it's wing," she said. "So we threw sand on his face." And with that, she shrugged and continued towards the car.
"Uhhhh..Well...Ok then," I said, realizing with that one sentence, the conversation was over and my skills as a grief management counselor were no longer required.
Luckily, not all my duck tales involve former ducks. One narrowly escaped becoming a dead duck hat trick. Back at TunaU, where the ducks roam the campus as if they were buffalo in search of deer and antelope playmates, I was driving home on a rainy afternoon. As I left the ivy covered halls of academia at rush-hour, I was on East Circle Drive: a two-lane one-way road. A duck picked this inopportune time to cross the street. I couldn't move over -- that lane was blocked. I couldn't stop -- the roads were wet and slippery, and traffic was moving too quickly. I started sending leaned-over emergency messages to the duck: Don't. No, don't. Don't cross. No. Stay there. No. No. Oh no....
As the old joke goes, my Karma ran over the duckma. I heard an awful *thump*thump*thump* and looked, horrified, in my rear-view mirror. I cringed when I saw the cloud of feathers behind my car. As I moaned at the duck's apparent demise, I was stunned to see out of the corner of my eye, the dazed duck walking on the other side of the road. His butt may have been a bit balder than before, but at least he'd live to quack another day.
Sign My Guestbook!
Today I bring you three duck tales. Unfortunately, they aren't the happiest of stories, so if you are particularly sensitive towards ducks, you might need to keep a hanky nearby.
TunaU is located on the banks of the Red Cedar as the fight song goes, which means we have lots and lots of ducks. Big ducks. Little ducks. Ducks who climb on rocks. Everywhere, ducks. The only animal on par with the ducks around here are the squirrels who are equally numerous and pushy.
I cross the Red Cedar river on the foot-bridge to walk from my car to work and back again. As you stand on the bridge looking up and down the river, it's a very pretty sight. To the east are some small rapids as the water moves downhill and downriver. To the west the river is calm and quiet. With tall trees on both sides, the river is a picture-postcard kind of place in all four seasons.
Walking to my car yesterday after work, I scanned up and down the river as I usually do, just to see what's going on. To the east there were dozens of ducks sitting atop of rocks and tree stumps. To the west, there were four ducks. Four former ducks to be more precise. It looked as though they had frozen in mid-bob. The bodies were on top of the surface, but as you followed their necks, it just stopped.
I've never seen anything like it, and several of us looked in horror, realizing there wasn't a darn thing we could do about it. How sad. I will have to confer with PhotoTuna, as he is the resident nature specialist to find out if this is a common occurrence. Speaking from a purely selfish point of view, it's going to be pretty ewww to have to look at four headless frozen duck bodies all winter. At the same time, I have to wonder how freaky it is for the fish to see a bunch of duck faces underwater. Ewwwww times two.
This entire scenario of deceased ducks reminded me of a TinyTuna story. Back when she was about three years old, I came to pick her up from preschool one day after work. I was quickly whisked aside by the director who told me that the school's pet duck had died, and the class had buried it. She wanted me to know this ahead of time, in case TinyTuna was sad or upset or had any questions.
Oh boy. We didn't have pets, and this was her first experience with death. I took a deep breath, found TinyTuna and headed for the car.
"I heard you had something sad happen today," I said gently.
"What?" TinyTuna asked.
"The duck...from your class..." I said slowly, waiting for her to clue-in and lead the conversation.
"Oh yeah," said TinyTuna, matter-of-factly.
"What happened?" I asked.
She stopped walking and looked at me. "The duck stopped moving it's wing," she said. "So we threw sand on his face." And with that, she shrugged and continued towards the car.
"Uhhhh..Well...Ok then," I said, realizing with that one sentence, the conversation was over and my skills as a grief management counselor were no longer required.
Luckily, not all my duck tales involve former ducks. One narrowly escaped becoming a dead duck hat trick. Back at TunaU, where the ducks roam the campus as if they were buffalo in search of deer and antelope playmates, I was driving home on a rainy afternoon. As I left the ivy covered halls of academia at rush-hour, I was on East Circle Drive: a two-lane one-way road. A duck picked this inopportune time to cross the street. I couldn't move over -- that lane was blocked. I couldn't stop -- the roads were wet and slippery, and traffic was moving too quickly. I started sending leaned-over emergency messages to the duck: Don't. No, don't. Don't cross. No. Stay there. No. No. Oh no....
As the old joke goes, my Karma ran over the duckma. I heard an awful *thump*thump*thump* and looked, horrified, in my rear-view mirror. I cringed when I saw the cloud of feathers behind my car. As I moaned at the duck's apparent demise, I was stunned to see out of the corner of my eye, the dazed duck walking on the other side of the road. His butt may have been a bit balder than before, but at least he'd live to quack another day.
Sign My Guestbook!
Friday, January 30, 2004
NEW BOOKS
New books that swam through my office today....
Virtuoso Mariachi
How many years of training does it take to become a Virtuoso Mariachi? Or, how many margaritas does it take not to care? Sounds like PhD research to me.
The Ultimate Guide to Cymbals
An "Ultimate" guide suggests this new glossy paperback is superior to other "less ultimate" guides to Cymbals. To complete the torture, this "ultimate" guide comes with a DVD. The perfect background music for your next house party!
Yodeling in Dairyland : A History of Swiss Music in Wisconsin
Is it any wonder I never get any work done with all this fascinating reading material at my fingertips? Yodel-lay-hee-hoo!!!
Sign My Guestbook!
New books that swam through my office today....
Virtuoso Mariachi
How many years of training does it take to become a Virtuoso Mariachi? Or, how many margaritas does it take not to care? Sounds like PhD research to me.
The Ultimate Guide to Cymbals
An "Ultimate" guide suggests this new glossy paperback is superior to other "less ultimate" guides to Cymbals. To complete the torture, this "ultimate" guide comes with a DVD. The perfect background music for your next house party!
Yodeling in Dairyland : A History of Swiss Music in Wisconsin
Is it any wonder I never get any work done with all this fascinating reading material at my fingertips? Yodel-lay-hee-hoo!!!
Sign My Guestbook!
NEW BOOKS
New books that swam through my office today....
Virtuoso Mariachi
How many years of training does it take to become a Virtuoso Mariachi? Or, how many margaritas does it take not to care? Sounds like PhD research to me.
The Ultimate Guide to Cymbals
An "Ultimate" guide suggests this new glossy paperback is superior to other "less ultimate" guides to Cymbals. To complete the torture, this "ultimate" guide comes with a DVD. The perfect background music for your next house party!
Yodeling in Dairyland : A History of Swiss Music in Wisconsin
Is it any wonder I never get any work done with all this fascinating reading material at my fingertips? Yodel-lay-hee-hoo!!!
Sign My Guestbook!
New books that swam through my office today....
Virtuoso Mariachi
How many years of training does it take to become a Virtuoso Mariachi? Or, how many margaritas does it take not to care? Sounds like PhD research to me.
The Ultimate Guide to Cymbals
An "Ultimate" guide suggests this new glossy paperback is superior to other "less ultimate" guides to Cymbals. To complete the torture, this "ultimate" guide comes with a DVD. The perfect background music for your next house party!
Yodeling in Dairyland : A History of Swiss Music in Wisconsin
Is it any wonder I never get any work done with all this fascinating reading material at my fingertips? Yodel-lay-hee-hoo!!!
Sign My Guestbook!
E IS FOR MORE JOKES
Never to be outdone, the Canadians have some egg jokes of their own.
What do you get if a chicken lays an egg on the top of a barn?
An eggroll!
What do chickens serve at birthday parties?
Coop-cakes!
And some other various chicken - egg type jokes.....
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a pit bull?
Just the pit bull.
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a dog?
A hen that lays pooched-eggs.
What do you get when you cross a ghost with a chicken?
A poultry-geist!
No more jokes...I'm egg-sausted.
Sign My Guestbook!
Never to be outdone, the Canadians have some egg jokes of their own.
What do you get if a chicken lays an egg on the top of a barn?
An eggroll!
What do chickens serve at birthday parties?
Coop-cakes!
And some other various chicken - egg type jokes.....
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a pit bull?
Just the pit bull.
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a dog?
A hen that lays pooched-eggs.
What do you get when you cross a ghost with a chicken?
A poultry-geist!
No more jokes...I'm egg-sausted.
Sign My Guestbook!
E IS FOR MORE JOKES
Never to be outdone, the Canadians have some egg jokes of their own.
What do you get if a chicken lays an egg on the top of a barn?
An eggroll!
What do chickens serve at birthday parties?
Coop-cakes!
And some other various chicken - egg type jokes.....
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a pit bull?
Just the pit bull.
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a dog?
A hen that lays pooched-eggs.
What do you get when you cross a ghost with a chicken?
A poultry-geist!
No more jokes...I'm egg-sausted.
Sign My Guestbook!
Never to be outdone, the Canadians have some egg jokes of their own.
What do you get if a chicken lays an egg on the top of a barn?
An eggroll!
What do chickens serve at birthday parties?
Coop-cakes!
And some other various chicken - egg type jokes.....
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a pit bull?
Just the pit bull.
What do you get when you cross a chicken with a dog?
A hen that lays pooched-eggs.
What do you get when you cross a ghost with a chicken?
A poultry-geist!
No more jokes...I'm egg-sausted.
Sign My Guestbook!
E IS FOR JOKES!
It's food Friday, and today, boys and girls, ChefGrace has delcared E is for Eggs. Am I sharing a recipe? No way, Frank Perdue! I just visited my boyfriend, and I bring you some really awful, rotten, stinky, EGG JOKES (CAPS LOCK ON!). These are courtsey of The British Egg Information Service (oh, those Brits really know how to live)
Why can't you tease egg whites?
Because they can't take a yolk!
What do you call an egg from outer space?
An Egg-stra terrestrial!
What do you call an egg that goes on safari?
An eggs-plorer!
What day do chickens hate the most?
Fry-day!
...And my favorite joke from this site, because it has absolutely nothing to do with eggs:
What do you call a French Man in Sandals?
Phillipe Phallope
Sign My Guestbook!
It's food Friday, and today, boys and girls, ChefGrace has delcared E is for Eggs. Am I sharing a recipe? No way, Frank Perdue! I just visited my boyfriend, and I bring you some really awful, rotten, stinky, EGG JOKES (CAPS LOCK ON!). These are courtsey of The British Egg Information Service (oh, those Brits really know how to live)
Why can't you tease egg whites?
Because they can't take a yolk!
What do you call an egg from outer space?
An Egg-stra terrestrial!
What do you call an egg that goes on safari?
An eggs-plorer!
What day do chickens hate the most?
Fry-day!
...And my favorite joke from this site, because it has absolutely nothing to do with eggs:
What do you call a French Man in Sandals?
Phillipe Phallope
Sign My Guestbook!
E IS FOR JOKES!
It's food Friday, and today, boys and girls, ChefGrace has delcared E is for Eggs. Am I sharing a recipe? No way, Frank Perdue! I just visited my boyfriend, and I bring you some really awful, rotten, stinky, EGG JOKES (CAPS LOCK ON!). These are courtsey of The British Egg Information Service (oh, those Brits really know how to live)
Why can't you tease egg whites?
Because they can't take a yolk!
What do you call an egg from outer space?
An Egg-stra terrestrial!
What do you call an egg that goes on safari?
An eggs-plorer!
What day do chickens hate the most?
Fry-day!
...And my favorite joke from this site, because it has absolutely nothing to do with eggs:
What do you call a French Man in Sandals?
Phillipe Phallope
Sign My Guestbook!
It's food Friday, and today, boys and girls, ChefGrace has delcared E is for Eggs. Am I sharing a recipe? No way, Frank Perdue! I just visited my boyfriend, and I bring you some really awful, rotten, stinky, EGG JOKES (CAPS LOCK ON!). These are courtsey of The British Egg Information Service (oh, those Brits really know how to live)
Why can't you tease egg whites?
Because they can't take a yolk!
What do you call an egg from outer space?
An Egg-stra terrestrial!
What do you call an egg that goes on safari?
An eggs-plorer!
What day do chickens hate the most?
Fry-day!
...And my favorite joke from this site, because it has absolutely nothing to do with eggs:
What do you call a French Man in Sandals?
Phillipe Phallope
Sign My Guestbook!
SOUNDTRACK MEMORIES
The conversation started yesterday with Highwaygirl discussing flashbulb memories in relation to the 18th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. I never knew this idea of “where were you when” had a name and scientific research to boot, but it’s good to be able to pin a title to the pile of mental minutiae I have stacked in the back corner of my mind.
In my free moments yesterday, I started ticking off the big moments others had listed: Challenger disaster, Persian Gulf War, Oklahoma City, Elvis, September 11, 2001, Reagan shot. Throw into the mix several others: Watergate, Nixon resigning, Iran-Contra hearings, O.J. Simpson car chase and subsequent trial, etc. etc. For some of these, I have clear recollections. Others are more hazy.
When the Challenger exploded, I recall leaving work at noon, going home and watching television. The 73-second flight seemed to be on permanent replay status: Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief – Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief. You half expected that even during the commercial break you’d still be able to see the footage of the accident replayed as a faint image behind the ointments and the frozen pizzas. I remember the television playing for hours and hours on end.
My recollections of The Persian Gulf War are that it was not unlike a media event. Although I am well aware that it was anything but, my flashbulb memory is a compilation of CNN news reporters on hotel balconies discussing the military attacks while the rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air provided the appropriate audio and visual backdrop. Even CNN Reporter Arthur Kent earned the nickname “The Scud Stud”, making the entire affair seem very Hollywood. I can remember thinking the world had gone mad.
September 11th was a different matter. I was up north teaching, and didn’t even hear of the accident until my 11am student arrived for a lesson. She told me she was upset, and my first thought was “boy trouble.” Finally, she asked me if I had seen the news, and I told her no, I had been teaching all morning. And then she told me. My overwhelming feeling that day was one of helplessness. I couldn’t leave because I had to teach, and I had no idea what was happening. I grabbed every spare moment I could to phone family in Michigan and Washington, DC. I called the public schools to see what was going on. For the entire day I was at the mercy of my student’s words and my own worst imagination.
At home that evening I watched my worst fears realized. On every channel it was shown over and over again: airplane – building – explosion – grief – airplane – building – explosion – grief. Hour after hour it was played, discussed, agonized over, and then played again. I watched. And watched. And watched. Even when I gave in to sleep, it played on.
The next day at work, I watched. The next evening at home, I watched. I was exhausted and saddened, and still I watched. It felt strangely disrespectful not to. Thankfully, my family and friends were safe, but for countless others, this event was now on permanent replay. They couldn’t turn off the television and make this nightmare go away. How could I?
Following the attacks, National Public Radio began to play selections of music that gave comfort during times of crises. Various members of the artistic community offered their suggestions and gave commentary. Listeners sent in their ideas as well. They were as varied as a patchwork quilt, ranging from Bach to Beethoven to Brahms to The Beatles. It was something new to think about. It was a way to soften the flashbulb that had blinded our lives.
Today, as it has been for so many other tragedies of my lifetime, television is ever-present. It informs and educates, but too often gets bogged down in the images of despair and anguish. Thankfully, music is also present, but it isn't imprisoned in a purgatory of pain and suffering. It may be borne of grief, but it also embraces solace, compassion, and most importantly, hope.
Having flashbulb memories means always remembering the tragedies of the past. But I'm all the more grateful for my soundtrack memories that remind me to never forget the possibilities for the future.
Sign My Guestbook!
The conversation started yesterday with Highwaygirl discussing flashbulb memories in relation to the 18th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. I never knew this idea of “where were you when” had a name and scientific research to boot, but it’s good to be able to pin a title to the pile of mental minutiae I have stacked in the back corner of my mind.
In my free moments yesterday, I started ticking off the big moments others had listed: Challenger disaster, Persian Gulf War, Oklahoma City, Elvis, September 11, 2001, Reagan shot. Throw into the mix several others: Watergate, Nixon resigning, Iran-Contra hearings, O.J. Simpson car chase and subsequent trial, etc. etc. For some of these, I have clear recollections. Others are more hazy.
When the Challenger exploded, I recall leaving work at noon, going home and watching television. The 73-second flight seemed to be on permanent replay status: Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief – Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief. You half expected that even during the commercial break you’d still be able to see the footage of the accident replayed as a faint image behind the ointments and the frozen pizzas. I remember the television playing for hours and hours on end.
My recollections of The Persian Gulf War are that it was not unlike a media event. Although I am well aware that it was anything but, my flashbulb memory is a compilation of CNN news reporters on hotel balconies discussing the military attacks while the rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air provided the appropriate audio and visual backdrop. Even CNN Reporter Arthur Kent earned the nickname “The Scud Stud”, making the entire affair seem very Hollywood. I can remember thinking the world had gone mad.
September 11th was a different matter. I was up north teaching, and didn’t even hear of the accident until my 11am student arrived for a lesson. She told me she was upset, and my first thought was “boy trouble.” Finally, she asked me if I had seen the news, and I told her no, I had been teaching all morning. And then she told me. My overwhelming feeling that day was one of helplessness. I couldn’t leave because I had to teach, and I had no idea what was happening. I grabbed every spare moment I could to phone family in Michigan and Washington, DC. I called the public schools to see what was going on. For the entire day I was at the mercy of my student’s words and my own worst imagination.
At home that evening I watched my worst fears realized. On every channel it was shown over and over again: airplane – building – explosion – grief – airplane – building – explosion – grief. Hour after hour it was played, discussed, agonized over, and then played again. I watched. And watched. And watched. Even when I gave in to sleep, it played on.
The next day at work, I watched. The next evening at home, I watched. I was exhausted and saddened, and still I watched. It felt strangely disrespectful not to. Thankfully, my family and friends were safe, but for countless others, this event was now on permanent replay. They couldn’t turn off the television and make this nightmare go away. How could I?
Following the attacks, National Public Radio began to play selections of music that gave comfort during times of crises. Various members of the artistic community offered their suggestions and gave commentary. Listeners sent in their ideas as well. They were as varied as a patchwork quilt, ranging from Bach to Beethoven to Brahms to The Beatles. It was something new to think about. It was a way to soften the flashbulb that had blinded our lives.
Today, as it has been for so many other tragedies of my lifetime, television is ever-present. It informs and educates, but too often gets bogged down in the images of despair and anguish. Thankfully, music is also present, but it isn't imprisoned in a purgatory of pain and suffering. It may be borne of grief, but it also embraces solace, compassion, and most importantly, hope.
Having flashbulb memories means always remembering the tragedies of the past. But I'm all the more grateful for my soundtrack memories that remind me to never forget the possibilities for the future.
Sign My Guestbook!
SOUNDTRACK MEMORIES
The conversation started yesterday with Highwaygirl discussing flashbulb memories in relation to the 18th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. I never knew this idea of “where were you when” had a name and scientific research to boot, but it’s good to be able to pin a title to the pile of mental minutiae I have stacked in the back corner of my mind.
In my free moments yesterday, I started ticking off the big moments others had listed: Challenger disaster, Persian Gulf War, Oklahoma City, Elvis, September 11, 2001, Reagan shot. Throw into the mix several others: Watergate, Nixon resigning, Iran-Contra hearings, O.J. Simpson car chase and subsequent trial, etc. etc. For some of these, I have clear recollections. Others are more hazy.
When the Challenger exploded, I recall leaving work at noon, going home and watching television. The 73-second flight seemed to be on permanent replay status: Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief – Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief. You half expected that even during the commercial break you’d still be able to see the footage of the accident replayed as a faint image behind the ointments and the frozen pizzas. I remember the television playing for hours and hours on end.
My recollections of The Persian Gulf War are that it was not unlike a media event. Although I am well aware that it was anything but, my flashbulb memory is a compilation of CNN news reporters on hotel balconies discussing the military attacks while the rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air provided the appropriate audio and visual backdrop. Even CNN Reporter Arthur Kent earned the nickname “The Scud Stud”, making the entire affair seem very Hollywood. I can remember thinking the world had gone mad.
September 11th was a different matter. I was up north teaching, and didn’t even hear of the accident until my 11am student arrived for a lesson. She told me she was upset, and my first thought was “boy trouble.” Finally, she asked me if I had seen the news, and I told her no, I had been teaching all morning. And then she told me. My overwhelming feeling that day was one of helplessness. I couldn’t leave because I had to teach, and I had no idea what was happening. I grabbed every spare moment I could to phone family in Michigan and Washington, DC. I called the public schools to see what was going on. For the entire day I was at the mercy of my student’s words and my own worst imagination.
At home that evening I watched my worst fears realized. On every channel it was shown over and over again: airplane – building – explosion – grief – airplane – building – explosion – grief. Hour after hour it was played, discussed, agonized over, and then played again. I watched. And watched. And watched. Even when I gave in to sleep, it played on.
The next day at work, I watched. The next evening at home, I watched. I was exhausted and saddened, and still I watched. It felt strangely disrespectful not to. Thankfully, my family and friends were safe, but for countless others, this event was now on permanent replay. They couldn’t turn off the television and make this nightmare go away. How could I?
Following the attacks, National Public Radio began to play selections of music that gave comfort during times of crises. Various members of the artistic community offered their suggestions and gave commentary. Listeners sent in their ideas as well. They were as varied as a patchwork quilt, ranging from Bach to Beethoven to Brahms to The Beatles. It was something new to think about. It was a way to soften the flashbulb that had blinded our lives.
Today, as it has been for so many other tragedies of my lifetime, television is ever-present. It informs and educates, but too often gets bogged down in the images of despair and anguish. Thankfully, music is also present, but it isn't imprisoned in a purgatory of pain and suffering. It may be borne of grief, but it also embraces solace, compassion, and most importantly, hope.
Having flashbulb memories means always remembering the tragedies of the past. But I'm all the more grateful for my soundtrack memories that remind me to never forget the possibilities for the future.
Sign My Guestbook!
The conversation started yesterday with Highwaygirl discussing flashbulb memories in relation to the 18th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. I never knew this idea of “where were you when” had a name and scientific research to boot, but it’s good to be able to pin a title to the pile of mental minutiae I have stacked in the back corner of my mind.
In my free moments yesterday, I started ticking off the big moments others had listed: Challenger disaster, Persian Gulf War, Oklahoma City, Elvis, September 11, 2001, Reagan shot. Throw into the mix several others: Watergate, Nixon resigning, Iran-Contra hearings, O.J. Simpson car chase and subsequent trial, etc. etc. For some of these, I have clear recollections. Others are more hazy.
When the Challenger exploded, I recall leaving work at noon, going home and watching television. The 73-second flight seemed to be on permanent replay status: Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief – Lift off – Soaring – Explosion – Grief. You half expected that even during the commercial break you’d still be able to see the footage of the accident replayed as a faint image behind the ointments and the frozen pizzas. I remember the television playing for hours and hours on end.
My recollections of The Persian Gulf War are that it was not unlike a media event. Although I am well aware that it was anything but, my flashbulb memory is a compilation of CNN news reporters on hotel balconies discussing the military attacks while the rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air provided the appropriate audio and visual backdrop. Even CNN Reporter Arthur Kent earned the nickname “The Scud Stud”, making the entire affair seem very Hollywood. I can remember thinking the world had gone mad.
September 11th was a different matter. I was up north teaching, and didn’t even hear of the accident until my 11am student arrived for a lesson. She told me she was upset, and my first thought was “boy trouble.” Finally, she asked me if I had seen the news, and I told her no, I had been teaching all morning. And then she told me. My overwhelming feeling that day was one of helplessness. I couldn’t leave because I had to teach, and I had no idea what was happening. I grabbed every spare moment I could to phone family in Michigan and Washington, DC. I called the public schools to see what was going on. For the entire day I was at the mercy of my student’s words and my own worst imagination.
At home that evening I watched my worst fears realized. On every channel it was shown over and over again: airplane – building – explosion – grief – airplane – building – explosion – grief. Hour after hour it was played, discussed, agonized over, and then played again. I watched. And watched. And watched. Even when I gave in to sleep, it played on.
The next day at work, I watched. The next evening at home, I watched. I was exhausted and saddened, and still I watched. It felt strangely disrespectful not to. Thankfully, my family and friends were safe, but for countless others, this event was now on permanent replay. They couldn’t turn off the television and make this nightmare go away. How could I?
Following the attacks, National Public Radio began to play selections of music that gave comfort during times of crises. Various members of the artistic community offered their suggestions and gave commentary. Listeners sent in their ideas as well. They were as varied as a patchwork quilt, ranging from Bach to Beethoven to Brahms to The Beatles. It was something new to think about. It was a way to soften the flashbulb that had blinded our lives.
Today, as it has been for so many other tragedies of my lifetime, television is ever-present. It informs and educates, but too often gets bogged down in the images of despair and anguish. Thankfully, music is also present, but it isn't imprisoned in a purgatory of pain and suffering. It may be borne of grief, but it also embraces solace, compassion, and most importantly, hope.
Having flashbulb memories means always remembering the tragedies of the past. But I'm all the more grateful for my soundtrack memories that remind me to never forget the possibilities for the future.
Sign My Guestbook!
Thursday, January 29, 2004
ALL SYSTEMS GO
It's back to the routine. School. Teaching. All the usual. The drive north was blissfully non-eventful and I gave thanks to every snow plow who was involved in clearing the way. Poor TinyTuna is back at school facing standardized testing for the next week and a half, or so.
I'm waiting on my next student, who (obviously) is not here yet. I'm still struggling on Beelzebub's iMac, which is always annoying. Today's fun included playing "find the Internet browser". Explorer seems to be gone, but I found something called Safari that said something about Google which I figured was good enough for me. Why is it I cannot find anything I need to find on a Mac?
Read Highway Girl's Blog (sorry can't link. Beelzebub and all. Click on the link to the right) about flashbulb memories. A "where were you / what were you doing when..." kind of proposal. The whole thought has definately lit a spark in the recesses of my memory, but it will have to wait until later when I have a bit of time.
Sign My Guestbook!
It's back to the routine. School. Teaching. All the usual. The drive north was blissfully non-eventful and I gave thanks to every snow plow who was involved in clearing the way. Poor TinyTuna is back at school facing standardized testing for the next week and a half, or so.
I'm waiting on my next student, who (obviously) is not here yet. I'm still struggling on Beelzebub's iMac, which is always annoying. Today's fun included playing "find the Internet browser". Explorer seems to be gone, but I found something called Safari that said something about Google which I figured was good enough for me. Why is it I cannot find anything I need to find on a Mac?
Read Highway Girl's Blog (sorry can't link. Beelzebub and all. Click on the link to the right) about flashbulb memories. A "where were you / what were you doing when..." kind of proposal. The whole thought has definately lit a spark in the recesses of my memory, but it will have to wait until later when I have a bit of time.
Sign My Guestbook!
ALL SYSTEMS GO
It's back to the routine. School. Teaching. All the usual. The drive north was blissfully non-eventful and I gave thanks to every snow plow who was involved in clearing the way. Poor TinyTuna is back at school facing standardized testing for the next week and a half, or so.
I'm waiting on my next student, who (obviously) is not here yet. I'm still struggling on Beelzebub's iMac, which is always annoying. Today's fun included playing "find the Internet browser". Explorer seems to be gone, but I found something called Safari that said something about Google which I figured was good enough for me. Why is it I cannot find anything I need to find on a Mac?
Read Highway Girl's Blog (sorry can't link. Beelzebub and all. Click on the link to the right) about flashbulb memories. A "where were you / what were you doing when..." kind of proposal. The whole thought has definately lit a spark in the recesses of my memory, but it will have to wait until later when I have a bit of time.
Sign My Guestbook!
It's back to the routine. School. Teaching. All the usual. The drive north was blissfully non-eventful and I gave thanks to every snow plow who was involved in clearing the way. Poor TinyTuna is back at school facing standardized testing for the next week and a half, or so.
I'm waiting on my next student, who (obviously) is not here yet. I'm still struggling on Beelzebub's iMac, which is always annoying. Today's fun included playing "find the Internet browser". Explorer seems to be gone, but I found something called Safari that said something about Google which I figured was good enough for me. Why is it I cannot find anything I need to find on a Mac?
Read Highway Girl's Blog (sorry can't link. Beelzebub and all. Click on the link to the right) about flashbulb memories. A "where were you / what were you doing when..." kind of proposal. The whole thought has definately lit a spark in the recesses of my memory, but it will have to wait until later when I have a bit of time.
Sign My Guestbook!
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
ANIMAL PLANET
It is a wild and wooly day in the world of animal news. Today's tidbits include mollusks, mammals, birds and reptiles. Throw a human or two into the mix, and you get a pile of stories nuttier than a box of turtles. Today it's TunaNews, Animal-Style!
Waiter, There's a Clam in my Soup
A Florida man blamed clam soup for his psychological and sleep disorders and subsequently sued for over $50,000 in damages. Judge and jury felt the case lacked merit, and the prosecution suggested that perhaps the man's previous prison term and his current listing as a sexual predator may have caused some of his psychological anxiety. The mollusk clammed up at the proceedings, and the shell-shocked plaintiff was awarded a mere $407 in damages.
And Your Little Kids, Too
The awful headline reads 134 Cats, 6 Dogs removed from Utah Home. It's definitely a cringe-worthy tale, and yet the whole story is written in a very "Hey, an apple!" kind of way. The animal cruelty investigator was quoted as saying, "You could see cats on top of everything, tables, chairs, Tupperware containers, beds, the floors." Well, yes. Cats on floors? Not that unusual. The same goes for cats on beds, tables and chairs. I suppose I can give you Tupperware containers as unusual, but I don’t really understand why, in the midst of 140 cats and dogs, the animal cruelty expert felt compelled to comment on molded plastic foodsavers in her report.
The truly odd thing about this story is that in addition to all the animals, there were three children in the house as well. You'd never know by the headline, and you'd scarcely know from the article. Mention of the children was limited to 13 words of a 110-word article. Don't get me wrong. Animal cruelty is horrible stuff. But cruelty towards children should rate more than 13 words.
A Day at the Beach
The cold weather these days is no picnic for Virginia Beach pelicans. Animal rescuers are doing everything they can to lure the birds out of the water before they freeze. It's too bad The Pelican Man isn't around anymore to help out. It looks as though he has a beautiful Pelican Sanctuary in Sarasota, Florida. Leave it to a former mitten-man to turn a turkey baster and a bathtub into a million dollar animal rescue enterprise.
There's a Snake in my Boot
Neighbor got you down? Feel like nobody is listening? What better way to get your point across to your enemies than put a live poisonous snake in the mail. This idiotic reptilian scheme was hatched by a father (who was both lawyer and judge) and his son who were feuding with neighbors about who was to pay for a faulty four-wheeler. The dopey duo, which had planned to plead guilty to this heinous act, then proceeded to fail a random drug test. Prosecutors, wanting to try the two men together, were forced to wait, as the elder idiot still had traces of Marijuana in his system on Monday. It is expected that the pair will admit to mailing "unmailable" material (Hrmph. I thought that’s what taxes were). Whatever you call it, "mailing unmailable material" sounds a lot less threatening then being charged with attempted murder on the UPS Express.
Can't we all just get along?
Oh California. You've done it again. The $1.5 million lawsuit trial is about to get underway, pitting a disgruntled dog owner against the city of Escondido and a former cat. Former, because the cat went to the big litterbox in the sky last October. Escondido, because that is the location of the city library where the now-deceased cat hung out. Dog owner, because it was his 55-pound Labrador that was scratched on the nose while in the library in question, by the now-deceased cat. Disgruntled, because during said altercation, the owner went into a full scale panic attack when his dog was "mauled", and has since had to live with the humiliation of being the owner of the "wuss dog that got beat up by a cat."
The disgruntled dog-owner (serving as his own lawyer, if that gives you a clue about his mental stability) is going for a Mohammad Ali themed legal battle. He plans to demonstrate how the former cat was much like Ali: a tiger in the ring (the library), and a pussycat outside of it. He also hopes to enter into evidence a picture of him (the guy, not the cat) with the boxing great, claiming the photo gives him (the guy, not Ali) credibility.
Surely it will take a judge with the Wisdom of Solomon to sort out this mess. Too bad Snake guy is busy with his own legal woes. If disgruntled dog guy happens to win, maybe he can rescue a pelican and then celebrate with a bowl of soup. Just watch out for those clams.
Sign My Guestbook!
It is a wild and wooly day in the world of animal news. Today's tidbits include mollusks, mammals, birds and reptiles. Throw a human or two into the mix, and you get a pile of stories nuttier than a box of turtles. Today it's TunaNews, Animal-Style!
Waiter, There's a Clam in my Soup
A Florida man blamed clam soup for his psychological and sleep disorders and subsequently sued for over $50,000 in damages. Judge and jury felt the case lacked merit, and the prosecution suggested that perhaps the man's previous prison term and his current listing as a sexual predator may have caused some of his psychological anxiety. The mollusk clammed up at the proceedings, and the shell-shocked plaintiff was awarded a mere $407 in damages.
And Your Little Kids, Too
The awful headline reads 134 Cats, 6 Dogs removed from Utah Home. It's definitely a cringe-worthy tale, and yet the whole story is written in a very "Hey, an apple!" kind of way. The animal cruelty investigator was quoted as saying, "You could see cats on top of everything, tables, chairs, Tupperware containers, beds, the floors." Well, yes. Cats on floors? Not that unusual. The same goes for cats on beds, tables and chairs. I suppose I can give you Tupperware containers as unusual, but I don’t really understand why, in the midst of 140 cats and dogs, the animal cruelty expert felt compelled to comment on molded plastic foodsavers in her report.
The truly odd thing about this story is that in addition to all the animals, there were three children in the house as well. You'd never know by the headline, and you'd scarcely know from the article. Mention of the children was limited to 13 words of a 110-word article. Don't get me wrong. Animal cruelty is horrible stuff. But cruelty towards children should rate more than 13 words.
A Day at the Beach
The cold weather these days is no picnic for Virginia Beach pelicans. Animal rescuers are doing everything they can to lure the birds out of the water before they freeze. It's too bad The Pelican Man isn't around anymore to help out. It looks as though he has a beautiful Pelican Sanctuary in Sarasota, Florida. Leave it to a former mitten-man to turn a turkey baster and a bathtub into a million dollar animal rescue enterprise.
There's a Snake in my Boot
Neighbor got you down? Feel like nobody is listening? What better way to get your point across to your enemies than put a live poisonous snake in the mail. This idiotic reptilian scheme was hatched by a father (who was both lawyer and judge) and his son who were feuding with neighbors about who was to pay for a faulty four-wheeler. The dopey duo, which had planned to plead guilty to this heinous act, then proceeded to fail a random drug test. Prosecutors, wanting to try the two men together, were forced to wait, as the elder idiot still had traces of Marijuana in his system on Monday. It is expected that the pair will admit to mailing "unmailable" material (Hrmph. I thought that’s what taxes were). Whatever you call it, "mailing unmailable material" sounds a lot less threatening then being charged with attempted murder on the UPS Express.
Can't we all just get along?
Oh California. You've done it again. The $1.5 million lawsuit trial is about to get underway, pitting a disgruntled dog owner against the city of Escondido and a former cat. Former, because the cat went to the big litterbox in the sky last October. Escondido, because that is the location of the city library where the now-deceased cat hung out. Dog owner, because it was his 55-pound Labrador that was scratched on the nose while in the library in question, by the now-deceased cat. Disgruntled, because during said altercation, the owner went into a full scale panic attack when his dog was "mauled", and has since had to live with the humiliation of being the owner of the "wuss dog that got beat up by a cat."
The disgruntled dog-owner (serving as his own lawyer, if that gives you a clue about his mental stability) is going for a Mohammad Ali themed legal battle. He plans to demonstrate how the former cat was much like Ali: a tiger in the ring (the library), and a pussycat outside of it. He also hopes to enter into evidence a picture of him (the guy, not the cat) with the boxing great, claiming the photo gives him (the guy, not Ali) credibility.
Surely it will take a judge with the Wisdom of Solomon to sort out this mess. Too bad Snake guy is busy with his own legal woes. If disgruntled dog guy happens to win, maybe he can rescue a pelican and then celebrate with a bowl of soup. Just watch out for those clams.
Sign My Guestbook!
ANIMAL PLANET
It is a wild and wooly day in the world of animal news. Today's tidbits include mollusks, mammals, birds and reptiles. Throw a human or two into the mix, and you get a pile of stories nuttier than a box of turtles. Today it's TunaNews, Animal-Style!
Waiter, There's a Clam in my Soup
A Florida man blamed clam soup for his psychological and sleep disorders and subsequently sued for over $50,000 in damages. Judge and jury felt the case lacked merit, and the prosecution suggested that perhaps the man's previous prison term and his current listing as a sexual predator may have caused some of his psychological anxiety. The mollusk clammed up at the proceedings, and the shell-shocked plaintiff was awarded a mere $407 in damages.
And Your Little Kids, Too
The awful headline reads 134 Cats, 6 Dogs removed from Utah Home. It's definitely a cringe-worthy tale, and yet the whole story is written in a very "Hey, an apple!" kind of way. The animal cruelty investigator was quoted as saying, "You could see cats on top of everything, tables, chairs, Tupperware containers, beds, the floors." Well, yes. Cats on floors? Not that unusual. The same goes for cats on beds, tables and chairs. I suppose I can give you Tupperware containers as unusual, but I don’t really understand why, in the midst of 140 cats and dogs, the animal cruelty expert felt compelled to comment on molded plastic foodsavers in her report.
The truly odd thing about this story is that in addition to all the animals, there were three children in the house as well. You'd never know by the headline, and you'd scarcely know from the article. Mention of the children was limited to 13 words of a 110-word article. Don't get me wrong. Animal cruelty is horrible stuff. But cruelty towards children should rate more than 13 words.
A Day at the Beach
The cold weather these days is no picnic for Virginia Beach pelicans. Animal rescuers are doing everything they can to lure the birds out of the water before they freeze. It's too bad The Pelican Man isn't around anymore to help out. It looks as though he has a beautiful Pelican Sanctuary in Sarasota, Florida. Leave it to a former mitten-man to turn a turkey baster and a bathtub into a million dollar animal rescue enterprise.
There's a Snake in my Boot
Neighbor got you down? Feel like nobody is listening? What better way to get your point across to your enemies than put a live poisonous snake in the mail. This idiotic reptilian scheme was hatched by a father (who was both lawyer and judge) and his son who were feuding with neighbors about who was to pay for a faulty four-wheeler. The dopey duo, which had planned to plead guilty to this heinous act, then proceeded to fail a random drug test. Prosecutors, wanting to try the two men together, were forced to wait, as the elder idiot still had traces of Marijuana in his system on Monday. It is expected that the pair will admit to mailing "unmailable" material (Hrmph. I thought that’s what taxes were). Whatever you call it, "mailing unmailable material" sounds a lot less threatening then being charged with attempted murder on the UPS Express.
Can't we all just get along?
Oh California. You've done it again. The $1.5 million lawsuit trial is about to get underway, pitting a disgruntled dog owner against the city of Escondido and a former cat. Former, because the cat went to the big litterbox in the sky last October. Escondido, because that is the location of the city library where the now-deceased cat hung out. Dog owner, because it was his 55-pound Labrador that was scratched on the nose while in the library in question, by the now-deceased cat. Disgruntled, because during said altercation, the owner went into a full scale panic attack when his dog was "mauled", and has since had to live with the humiliation of being the owner of the "wuss dog that got beat up by a cat."
The disgruntled dog-owner (serving as his own lawyer, if that gives you a clue about his mental stability) is going for a Mohammad Ali themed legal battle. He plans to demonstrate how the former cat was much like Ali: a tiger in the ring (the library), and a pussycat outside of it. He also hopes to enter into evidence a picture of him (the guy, not the cat) with the boxing great, claiming the photo gives him (the guy, not Ali) credibility.
Surely it will take a judge with the Wisdom of Solomon to sort out this mess. Too bad Snake guy is busy with his own legal woes. If disgruntled dog guy happens to win, maybe he can rescue a pelican and then celebrate with a bowl of soup. Just watch out for those clams.
Sign My Guestbook!
It is a wild and wooly day in the world of animal news. Today's tidbits include mollusks, mammals, birds and reptiles. Throw a human or two into the mix, and you get a pile of stories nuttier than a box of turtles. Today it's TunaNews, Animal-Style!
Waiter, There's a Clam in my Soup
A Florida man blamed clam soup for his psychological and sleep disorders and subsequently sued for over $50,000 in damages. Judge and jury felt the case lacked merit, and the prosecution suggested that perhaps the man's previous prison term and his current listing as a sexual predator may have caused some of his psychological anxiety. The mollusk clammed up at the proceedings, and the shell-shocked plaintiff was awarded a mere $407 in damages.
And Your Little Kids, Too
The awful headline reads 134 Cats, 6 Dogs removed from Utah Home. It's definitely a cringe-worthy tale, and yet the whole story is written in a very "Hey, an apple!" kind of way. The animal cruelty investigator was quoted as saying, "You could see cats on top of everything, tables, chairs, Tupperware containers, beds, the floors." Well, yes. Cats on floors? Not that unusual. The same goes for cats on beds, tables and chairs. I suppose I can give you Tupperware containers as unusual, but I don’t really understand why, in the midst of 140 cats and dogs, the animal cruelty expert felt compelled to comment on molded plastic foodsavers in her report.
The truly odd thing about this story is that in addition to all the animals, there were three children in the house as well. You'd never know by the headline, and you'd scarcely know from the article. Mention of the children was limited to 13 words of a 110-word article. Don't get me wrong. Animal cruelty is horrible stuff. But cruelty towards children should rate more than 13 words.
A Day at the Beach
The cold weather these days is no picnic for Virginia Beach pelicans. Animal rescuers are doing everything they can to lure the birds out of the water before they freeze. It's too bad The Pelican Man isn't around anymore to help out. It looks as though he has a beautiful Pelican Sanctuary in Sarasota, Florida. Leave it to a former mitten-man to turn a turkey baster and a bathtub into a million dollar animal rescue enterprise.
There's a Snake in my Boot
Neighbor got you down? Feel like nobody is listening? What better way to get your point across to your enemies than put a live poisonous snake in the mail. This idiotic reptilian scheme was hatched by a father (who was both lawyer and judge) and his son who were feuding with neighbors about who was to pay for a faulty four-wheeler. The dopey duo, which had planned to plead guilty to this heinous act, then proceeded to fail a random drug test. Prosecutors, wanting to try the two men together, were forced to wait, as the elder idiot still had traces of Marijuana in his system on Monday. It is expected that the pair will admit to mailing "unmailable" material (Hrmph. I thought that’s what taxes were). Whatever you call it, "mailing unmailable material" sounds a lot less threatening then being charged with attempted murder on the UPS Express.
Can't we all just get along?
Oh California. You've done it again. The $1.5 million lawsuit trial is about to get underway, pitting a disgruntled dog owner against the city of Escondido and a former cat. Former, because the cat went to the big litterbox in the sky last October. Escondido, because that is the location of the city library where the now-deceased cat hung out. Dog owner, because it was his 55-pound Labrador that was scratched on the nose while in the library in question, by the now-deceased cat. Disgruntled, because during said altercation, the owner went into a full scale panic attack when his dog was "mauled", and has since had to live with the humiliation of being the owner of the "wuss dog that got beat up by a cat."
The disgruntled dog-owner (serving as his own lawyer, if that gives you a clue about his mental stability) is going for a Mohammad Ali themed legal battle. He plans to demonstrate how the former cat was much like Ali: a tiger in the ring (the library), and a pussycat outside of it. He also hopes to enter into evidence a picture of him (the guy, not the cat) with the boxing great, claiming the photo gives him (the guy, not Ali) credibility.
Surely it will take a judge with the Wisdom of Solomon to sort out this mess. Too bad Snake guy is busy with his own legal woes. If disgruntled dog guy happens to win, maybe he can rescue a pelican and then celebrate with a bowl of soup. Just watch out for those clams.
Sign My Guestbook!
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
PRIME DIRECTIVE
First, the facts of the news story. A Tuna-U student just made math history by finding the largest prime number in the history of ever. Said historical number has more than 6.3 million digits and blah de blah lots of facts about how many trees one would have to kill in order to print the dumb thing out. On 1400 sheets of paper. Which, ironically enough (and thank you for asking), is not a prime number.
Now, read the story a little more carefully. If truth be told, the student didn't find the largest prime number in the history of ever. A student's computer found it. More specifically, a student's computer program found it. Said program was downloaded from the Great Internet Mersenne Prime Search homepage. Yes, that's right. It is the homepage for the GIMPS.
Regrettable acronym? Mmmmaybe so.
Juvenile taunting aside, I have a hard time appreciating the true wonder and excitement of this discovery. But, in the interest of higher mathematics and a potential TinyTuna current event for tomorrow (weather permitting), I'll go with the younger, hipper crowd and say Woo! Get out of here with your big prime number bad self, math dude.
Eh. Yeah. Whatever.
Sign My Guestbook!
First, the facts of the news story. A Tuna-U student just made math history by finding the largest prime number in the history of ever. Said historical number has more than 6.3 million digits and blah de blah lots of facts about how many trees one would have to kill in order to print the dumb thing out. On 1400 sheets of paper. Which, ironically enough (and thank you for asking), is not a prime number.
Now, read the story a little more carefully. If truth be told, the student didn't find the largest prime number in the history of ever. A student's computer found it. More specifically, a student's computer program found it. Said program was downloaded from the Great Internet Mersenne Prime Search homepage. Yes, that's right. It is the homepage for the GIMPS.
Regrettable acronym? Mmmmaybe so.
Juvenile taunting aside, I have a hard time appreciating the true wonder and excitement of this discovery. But, in the interest of higher mathematics and a potential TinyTuna current event for tomorrow (weather permitting), I'll go with the younger, hipper crowd and say Woo! Get out of here with your big prime number bad self, math dude.
Eh. Yeah. Whatever.
Sign My Guestbook!
PRIME DIRECTIVE
First, the facts of the news story. A Tuna-U student just made math history by finding the largest prime number in the history of ever. Said historical number has more than 6.3 million digits and blah de blah lots of facts about how many trees one would have to kill in order to print the dumb thing out. On 1400 sheets of paper. Which, ironically enough (and thank you for asking), is not a prime number.
Now, read the story a little more carefully. If truth be told, the student didn't find the largest prime number in the history of ever. A student's computer found it. More specifically, a student's computer program found it. Said program was downloaded from the Great Internet Mersenne Prime Search homepage. Yes, that's right. It is the homepage for the GIMPS.
Regrettable acronym? Mmmmaybe so.
Juvenile taunting aside, I have a hard time appreciating the true wonder and excitement of this discovery. But, in the interest of higher mathematics and a potential TinyTuna current event for tomorrow (weather permitting), I'll go with the younger, hipper crowd and say Woo! Get out of here with your big prime number bad self, math dude.
Eh. Yeah. Whatever.
Sign My Guestbook!
First, the facts of the news story. A Tuna-U student just made math history by finding the largest prime number in the history of ever. Said historical number has more than 6.3 million digits and blah de blah lots of facts about how many trees one would have to kill in order to print the dumb thing out. On 1400 sheets of paper. Which, ironically enough (and thank you for asking), is not a prime number.
Now, read the story a little more carefully. If truth be told, the student didn't find the largest prime number in the history of ever. A student's computer found it. More specifically, a student's computer program found it. Said program was downloaded from the Great Internet Mersenne Prime Search homepage. Yes, that's right. It is the homepage for the GIMPS.
Regrettable acronym? Mmmmaybe so.
Juvenile taunting aside, I have a hard time appreciating the true wonder and excitement of this discovery. But, in the interest of higher mathematics and a potential TinyTuna current event for tomorrow (weather permitting), I'll go with the younger, hipper crowd and say Woo! Get out of here with your big prime number bad self, math dude.
Eh. Yeah. Whatever.
Sign My Guestbook!
MINE!
I have reclaimed my office. TinyTuna has bundled up and trudged off to the car with Gram. What a trial! With enough movies and computer games to keep the twelve tribes of Israel busy, one might have hoped that TinyTuna would have made it longer than two hours and forty minutes before she sighed dramatically and whined, "there's nothing to do."
After lunch she fared better. As I blazed a trail to my workspace, I listened to forty-five minutes of *BOMP* *beeeeep* *ding!* from her Little Mermaid II computer game.
"Is that bothering you?" She asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
"Well, kind of," I answered. (Translated: "Is there a game where you can kill her?") "Are you almost done?"
"Almost." (Translated: "Not until you pry this keyboard out of my hands.")
And around and around we went. Finally Gram decided to bail. "You're going too!" I said as I practically pushed her out the door.
"Do I have to take my backpack?" She asked pathetically. (Translated: "You're not going to make me carry this heavy old backpack all the way to the car are you? I'm just a poor helpless child....")
"Yes, indeed, " I shot back. (Translated: "I told you this morning, whatever you bring to do, you carry yourself. Insert lecture #579 entitled "I am not your donkey".....")
"Oh." (Translated: "Damn")
So, off they went, and here I sit in peace and quiet once again. Except now it's time to go home and shovel. (Translated: "Damn.")
Sign My Guestbook!
I have reclaimed my office. TinyTuna has bundled up and trudged off to the car with Gram. What a trial! With enough movies and computer games to keep the twelve tribes of Israel busy, one might have hoped that TinyTuna would have made it longer than two hours and forty minutes before she sighed dramatically and whined, "there's nothing to do."
After lunch she fared better. As I blazed a trail to my workspace, I listened to forty-five minutes of *BOMP* *beeeeep* *ding!* from her Little Mermaid II computer game.
"Is that bothering you?" She asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
"Well, kind of," I answered. (Translated: "Is there a game where you can kill her?") "Are you almost done?"
"Almost." (Translated: "Not until you pry this keyboard out of my hands.")
And around and around we went. Finally Gram decided to bail. "You're going too!" I said as I practically pushed her out the door.
"Do I have to take my backpack?" She asked pathetically. (Translated: "You're not going to make me carry this heavy old backpack all the way to the car are you? I'm just a poor helpless child....")
"Yes, indeed, " I shot back. (Translated: "I told you this morning, whatever you bring to do, you carry yourself. Insert lecture #579 entitled "I am not your donkey".....")
"Oh." (Translated: "Damn")
So, off they went, and here I sit in peace and quiet once again. Except now it's time to go home and shovel. (Translated: "Damn.")
Sign My Guestbook!
MINE!
I have reclaimed my office. TinyTuna has bundled up and trudged off to the car with Gram. What a trial! With enough movies and computer games to keep the twelve tribes of Israel busy, one might have hoped that TinyTuna would have made it longer than two hours and forty minutes before she sighed dramatically and whined, "there's nothing to do."
After lunch she fared better. As I blazed a trail to my workspace, I listened to forty-five minutes of *BOMP* *beeeeep* *ding!* from her Little Mermaid II computer game.
"Is that bothering you?" She asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
"Well, kind of," I answered. (Translated: "Is there a game where you can kill her?") "Are you almost done?"
"Almost." (Translated: "Not until you pry this keyboard out of my hands.")
And around and around we went. Finally Gram decided to bail. "You're going too!" I said as I practically pushed her out the door.
"Do I have to take my backpack?" She asked pathetically. (Translated: "You're not going to make me carry this heavy old backpack all the way to the car are you? I'm just a poor helpless child....")
"Yes, indeed, " I shot back. (Translated: "I told you this morning, whatever you bring to do, you carry yourself. Insert lecture #579 entitled "I am not your donkey".....")
"Oh." (Translated: "Damn")
So, off they went, and here I sit in peace and quiet once again. Except now it's time to go home and shovel. (Translated: "Damn.")
Sign My Guestbook!
I have reclaimed my office. TinyTuna has bundled up and trudged off to the car with Gram. What a trial! With enough movies and computer games to keep the twelve tribes of Israel busy, one might have hoped that TinyTuna would have made it longer than two hours and forty minutes before she sighed dramatically and whined, "there's nothing to do."
After lunch she fared better. As I blazed a trail to my workspace, I listened to forty-five minutes of *BOMP* *beeeeep* *ding!* from her Little Mermaid II computer game.
"Is that bothering you?" She asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
"Well, kind of," I answered. (Translated: "Is there a game where you can kill her?") "Are you almost done?"
"Almost." (Translated: "Not until you pry this keyboard out of my hands.")
And around and around we went. Finally Gram decided to bail. "You're going too!" I said as I practically pushed her out the door.
"Do I have to take my backpack?" She asked pathetically. (Translated: "You're not going to make me carry this heavy old backpack all the way to the car are you? I'm just a poor helpless child....")
"Yes, indeed, " I shot back. (Translated: "I told you this morning, whatever you bring to do, you carry yourself. Insert lecture #579 entitled "I am not your donkey".....")
"Oh." (Translated: "Damn")
So, off they went, and here I sit in peace and quiet once again. Except now it's time to go home and shovel. (Translated: "Damn.")
Sign My Guestbook!
AND THE WINNER IS...
It's Oscar Day! Nominations are out, and here is the list. I haven't had much time to look it over, but I'm going to have to make a bee line for my local video store to see how many of these I can catch in the next four weeks. Magic Eight-Ball says outlook not promising.
Sign My Guestbook!
It's Oscar Day! Nominations are out, and here is the list. I haven't had much time to look it over, but I'm going to have to make a bee line for my local video store to see how many of these I can catch in the next four weeks. Magic Eight-Ball says outlook not promising.
Sign My Guestbook!
AND THE WINNER IS...
It's Oscar Day! Nominations are out, and here is the list. I haven't had much time to look it over, but I'm going to have to make a bee line for my local video store to see how many of these I can catch in the next four weeks. Magic Eight-Ball says outlook not promising.
Sign My Guestbook!
It's Oscar Day! Nominations are out, and here is the list. I haven't had much time to look it over, but I'm going to have to make a bee line for my local video store to see how many of these I can catch in the next four weeks. Magic Eight-Ball says outlook not promising.
Sign My Guestbook!
IRONIC IRONY
From an email received this morning:
The Winter Driving Program scheduled for today has been postponed, due to the winter weather
Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow...
Sign My Guestbook!
From an email received this morning:
The Winter Driving Program scheduled for today has been postponed, due to the winter weather
Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow...
Sign My Guestbook!
IRONIC IRONY
From an email received this morning:
The Winter Driving Program scheduled for today has been postponed, due to the winter weather
Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow...
Sign My Guestbook!
From an email received this morning:
The Winter Driving Program scheduled for today has been postponed, due to the winter weather
Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow...
Sign My Guestbook!
LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW
And since I've no place to go, I'm at work. Library work, not teaching work. Every school everywhere is closed today, so I have opted out of the "one hour drive that will take six hours to drive today" commute to the land of singing students. My emergency weather emails have now started to include a grocery list, which managed to catch my attention, right before I started laughing...
If you must travel the roads, be sure to include blankets, flashlights, food, water, one trashy novel, your last will and testament and a large IDIOT sticker to affix to your forehead, in the eventuality that you are stranded.
My Tiny office assistant extraordinaire has set up camp with an armful of DVD's. By the looks of her supplies, it seems she expects to be stuck for eight or nine days, rather than eight or nine hours. Although she brought an overwhelming number of things to do, I can guarantee you I'll hear the phrase "I'm bored" at least once today.
Meanwhile, I'm going to see if I can enlist this guy to help me shovel out my office. I'm also coveting his 007 cleaning supplies velcro belt -- I'm surprised Martha hasn't thought of one of these. Sweet!
Sign My Guestbook!
And since I've no place to go, I'm at work. Library work, not teaching work. Every school everywhere is closed today, so I have opted out of the "one hour drive that will take six hours to drive today" commute to the land of singing students. My emergency weather emails have now started to include a grocery list, which managed to catch my attention, right before I started laughing...
If you must travel the roads, be sure to include blankets, flashlights, food, water, one trashy novel, your last will and testament and a large IDIOT sticker to affix to your forehead, in the eventuality that you are stranded.
My Tiny office assistant extraordinaire has set up camp with an armful of DVD's. By the looks of her supplies, it seems she expects to be stuck for eight or nine days, rather than eight or nine hours. Although she brought an overwhelming number of things to do, I can guarantee you I'll hear the phrase "I'm bored" at least once today.
Meanwhile, I'm going to see if I can enlist this guy to help me shovel out my office. I'm also coveting his 007 cleaning supplies velcro belt -- I'm surprised Martha hasn't thought of one of these. Sweet!
Sign My Guestbook!
LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW
And since I've no place to go, I'm at work. Library work, not teaching work. Every school everywhere is closed today, so I have opted out of the "one hour drive that will take six hours to drive today" commute to the land of singing students. My emergency weather emails have now started to include a grocery list, which managed to catch my attention, right before I started laughing...
If you must travel the roads, be sure to include blankets, flashlights, food, water, one trashy novel, your last will and testament and a large IDIOT sticker to affix to your forehead, in the eventuality that you are stranded.
My Tiny office assistant extraordinaire has set up camp with an armful of DVD's. By the looks of her supplies, it seems she expects to be stuck for eight or nine days, rather than eight or nine hours. Although she brought an overwhelming number of things to do, I can guarantee you I'll hear the phrase "I'm bored" at least once today.
Meanwhile, I'm going to see if I can enlist this guy to help me shovel out my office. I'm also coveting his 007 cleaning supplies velcro belt -- I'm surprised Martha hasn't thought of one of these. Sweet!
Sign My Guestbook!
And since I've no place to go, I'm at work. Library work, not teaching work. Every school everywhere is closed today, so I have opted out of the "one hour drive that will take six hours to drive today" commute to the land of singing students. My emergency weather emails have now started to include a grocery list, which managed to catch my attention, right before I started laughing...
If you must travel the roads, be sure to include blankets, flashlights, food, water, one trashy novel, your last will and testament and a large IDIOT sticker to affix to your forehead, in the eventuality that you are stranded.
My Tiny office assistant extraordinaire has set up camp with an armful of DVD's. By the looks of her supplies, it seems she expects to be stuck for eight or nine days, rather than eight or nine hours. Although she brought an overwhelming number of things to do, I can guarantee you I'll hear the phrase "I'm bored" at least once today.
Meanwhile, I'm going to see if I can enlist this guy to help me shovel out my office. I'm also coveting his 007 cleaning supplies velcro belt -- I'm surprised Martha hasn't thought of one of these. Sweet!
Sign My Guestbook!
Monday, January 26, 2004
AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS
Six days and counting. In six more days we will have finally reached the Promised Land. It’s not so much a land of milk and honey. It’s more like a land of Budweiser (ver.USA only), Pepsi, Visa and Yahoo. It’s the land of Super Bowl commercials.
I am fully aware that on February 1, 2004, there is also a little matter of a football game (Go Pats, I guess), not to mention the anxiously awaited premiere of All-Star-Survivor. But, first things first. I want the ads. I love the ads. Since I can’t watch the Super Bowl for the Lions (stop laughing), I watch it for the ads. This annual obsession is a little unusual for me, because during the year I will generally do anything not to watch a commercial. In fact, TinyTuna doesn’t get to watch much non-PBS television because I can’t stand the TV’s incessant “buy-me” yammering. Its effect is like a food chain. Passed from TV to TinyTuna, distilled and strengthened by school and friends, by the time the fevered pitch reaches me, I’m saying no before she’s even started.
Aside from a few inexplicable exceptions that I love (Arby’s Oven Mitt, anyone?), commercials drive me nuts. Between physical maladies, feminine freshness and movies that I wouldn’t watch even if they were free, as soon as a commercial appears, my remote cries SURF!! And I do. Take back your chocolate frosted bombs, your plastic soldier bombs and your electronic arcade bombs. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am. I do not like commericial Spam.
Super Bowl ads are different. Super Bowl ads are clever. Super Bowl ads are thought provoking. Super Bowl ads are funny. Super Bowl ads are cinematic marvels. Some Super Bowl ads are so arty, we don't get them. But we love them anyway. I’m perfectly happy to contemplate corporate confusion as long as I'm comforted by snack foods. I must admit, though, that to this day, I still don't know what mLife is. It's been two years, and I still don't get it. If there is going to be a 2004 Super Bowl ad campaign for mLife, I'd suggest some clarification and another bag of chips.
I’ve been skipping down the memory lane of 2002 and 2003 Super Bowl commercials. There are too many great ads to list, but I have to give special props to Reebok’s 2003 “Terry Tate, Office Linebacker” ad, which still makes me laugh like an idiot (Break was over 15 minutes ago, MITCH!), and Bud Light’s 2002 “Robo Bash” ad, which pits the five-time world champion bot “Inflictor” against the old beat up challenger “mini fridge”.
This year there is an ad you won’t be seeing, and yes, it is political. The network claims the ad is “too controversial to air.” This particular commercial doesn’t endorse a particular candidate. Instead, it shines a light on the current economic state of our country and asks its citizens to think about how, and perhaps more pointedly who will end up carrying our economic burden. How is this controversial? I’d like to hear the network explain their rationalization for making me watch acid reflux cartoons, Bob Dole and his erectile dysfunction, and flowery classical guitar-infused ads for springtime fresh douching agents, while refusing me the opportunity to see one thirty-second spot that asks if it wouldn't be a good idea to spend just a moment thinking about the economic hole we as a country are digging for ourselves. Unlike the current commercial with the woman who finds a creative way to repair a hole in a boat, there isn't a tampon big enough to plug this one up.
Thought provoking doesn’t mean controversial. This ad, like all the finalists from this competition isn’t controversial. Some are tough. Some are smart. Some are funny. Some make you think.
Perfect for the Super Bowl.
Sign My Guestbook!
Six days and counting. In six more days we will have finally reached the Promised Land. It’s not so much a land of milk and honey. It’s more like a land of Budweiser (ver.USA only), Pepsi, Visa and Yahoo. It’s the land of Super Bowl commercials.
I am fully aware that on February 1, 2004, there is also a little matter of a football game (Go Pats, I guess), not to mention the anxiously awaited premiere of All-Star-Survivor. But, first things first. I want the ads. I love the ads. Since I can’t watch the Super Bowl for the Lions (stop laughing), I watch it for the ads. This annual obsession is a little unusual for me, because during the year I will generally do anything not to watch a commercial. In fact, TinyTuna doesn’t get to watch much non-PBS television because I can’t stand the TV’s incessant “buy-me” yammering. Its effect is like a food chain. Passed from TV to TinyTuna, distilled and strengthened by school and friends, by the time the fevered pitch reaches me, I’m saying no before she’s even started.
Aside from a few inexplicable exceptions that I love (Arby’s Oven Mitt, anyone?), commercials drive me nuts. Between physical maladies, feminine freshness and movies that I wouldn’t watch even if they were free, as soon as a commercial appears, my remote cries SURF!! And I do. Take back your chocolate frosted bombs, your plastic soldier bombs and your electronic arcade bombs. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am. I do not like commericial Spam.
Super Bowl ads are different. Super Bowl ads are clever. Super Bowl ads are thought provoking. Super Bowl ads are funny. Super Bowl ads are cinematic marvels. Some Super Bowl ads are so arty, we don't get them. But we love them anyway. I’m perfectly happy to contemplate corporate confusion as long as I'm comforted by snack foods. I must admit, though, that to this day, I still don't know what mLife is. It's been two years, and I still don't get it. If there is going to be a 2004 Super Bowl ad campaign for mLife, I'd suggest some clarification and another bag of chips.
I’ve been skipping down the memory lane of 2002 and 2003 Super Bowl commercials. There are too many great ads to list, but I have to give special props to Reebok’s 2003 “Terry Tate, Office Linebacker” ad, which still makes me laugh like an idiot (Break was over 15 minutes ago, MITCH!), and Bud Light’s 2002 “Robo Bash” ad, which pits the five-time world champion bot “Inflictor” against the old beat up challenger “mini fridge”.
This year there is an ad you won’t be seeing, and yes, it is political. The network claims the ad is “too controversial to air.” This particular commercial doesn’t endorse a particular candidate. Instead, it shines a light on the current economic state of our country and asks its citizens to think about how, and perhaps more pointedly who will end up carrying our economic burden. How is this controversial? I’d like to hear the network explain their rationalization for making me watch acid reflux cartoons, Bob Dole and his erectile dysfunction, and flowery classical guitar-infused ads for springtime fresh douching agents, while refusing me the opportunity to see one thirty-second spot that asks if it wouldn't be a good idea to spend just a moment thinking about the economic hole we as a country are digging for ourselves. Unlike the current commercial with the woman who finds a creative way to repair a hole in a boat, there isn't a tampon big enough to plug this one up.
Thought provoking doesn’t mean controversial. This ad, like all the finalists from this competition isn’t controversial. Some are tough. Some are smart. Some are funny. Some make you think.
Perfect for the Super Bowl.
Sign My Guestbook!
AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS
Six days and counting. In six more days we will have finally reached the Promised Land. It’s not so much a land of milk and honey. It’s more like a land of Budweiser (ver.USA only), Pepsi, Visa and Yahoo. It’s the land of Super Bowl commercials.
I am fully aware that on February 1, 2004, there is also a little matter of a football game (Go Pats, I guess), not to mention the anxiously awaited premiere of All-Star-Survivor. But, first things first. I want the ads. I love the ads. Since I can’t watch the Super Bowl for the Lions (stop laughing), I watch it for the ads. This annual obsession is a little unusual for me, because during the year I will generally do anything not to watch a commercial. In fact, TinyTuna doesn’t get to watch much non-PBS television because I can’t stand the TV’s incessant “buy-me” yammering. Its effect is like a food chain. Passed from TV to TinyTuna, distilled and strengthened by school and friends, by the time the fevered pitch reaches me, I’m saying no before she’s even started.
Aside from a few inexplicable exceptions that I love (Arby’s Oven Mitt, anyone?), commercials drive me nuts. Between physical maladies, feminine freshness and movies that I wouldn’t watch even if they were free, as soon as a commercial appears, my remote cries SURF!! And I do. Take back your chocolate frosted bombs, your plastic soldier bombs and your electronic arcade bombs. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am. I do not like commericial Spam.
Super Bowl ads are different. Super Bowl ads are clever. Super Bowl ads are thought provoking. Super Bowl ads are funny. Super Bowl ads are cinematic marvels. Some Super Bowl ads are so arty, we don't get them. But we love them anyway. I’m perfectly happy to contemplate corporate confusion as long as I'm comforted by snack foods. I must admit, though, that to this day, I still don't know what mLife is. It's been two years, and I still don't get it. If there is going to be a 2004 Super Bowl ad campaign for mLife, I'd suggest some clarification and another bag of chips.
I’ve been skipping down the memory lane of 2002 and 2003 Super Bowl commercials. There are too many great ads to list, but I have to give special props to Reebok’s 2003 “Terry Tate, Office Linebacker” ad, which still makes me laugh like an idiot (Break was over 15 minutes ago, MITCH!), and Bud Light’s 2002 “Robo Bash” ad, which pits the five-time world champion bot “Inflictor” against the old beat up challenger “mini fridge”.
This year there is an ad you won’t be seeing, and yes, it is political. The network claims the ad is “too controversial to air.” This particular commercial doesn’t endorse a particular candidate. Instead, it shines a light on the current economic state of our country and asks its citizens to think about how, and perhaps more pointedly who will end up carrying our economic burden. How is this controversial? I’d like to hear the network explain their rationalization for making me watch acid reflux cartoons, Bob Dole and his erectile dysfunction, and flowery classical guitar-infused ads for springtime fresh douching agents, while refusing me the opportunity to see one thirty-second spot that asks if it wouldn't be a good idea to spend just a moment thinking about the economic hole we as a country are digging for ourselves. Unlike the current commercial with the woman who finds a creative way to repair a hole in a boat, there isn't a tampon big enough to plug this one up.
Thought provoking doesn’t mean controversial. This ad, like all the finalists from this competition isn’t controversial. Some are tough. Some are smart. Some are funny. Some make you think.
Perfect for the Super Bowl.
Sign My Guestbook!
Six days and counting. In six more days we will have finally reached the Promised Land. It’s not so much a land of milk and honey. It’s more like a land of Budweiser (ver.USA only), Pepsi, Visa and Yahoo. It’s the land of Super Bowl commercials.
I am fully aware that on February 1, 2004, there is also a little matter of a football game (Go Pats, I guess), not to mention the anxiously awaited premiere of All-Star-Survivor. But, first things first. I want the ads. I love the ads. Since I can’t watch the Super Bowl for the Lions (stop laughing), I watch it for the ads. This annual obsession is a little unusual for me, because during the year I will generally do anything not to watch a commercial. In fact, TinyTuna doesn’t get to watch much non-PBS television because I can’t stand the TV’s incessant “buy-me” yammering. Its effect is like a food chain. Passed from TV to TinyTuna, distilled and strengthened by school and friends, by the time the fevered pitch reaches me, I’m saying no before she’s even started.
Aside from a few inexplicable exceptions that I love (Arby’s Oven Mitt, anyone?), commercials drive me nuts. Between physical maladies, feminine freshness and movies that I wouldn’t watch even if they were free, as soon as a commercial appears, my remote cries SURF!! And I do. Take back your chocolate frosted bombs, your plastic soldier bombs and your electronic arcade bombs. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am. I do not like commericial Spam.
Super Bowl ads are different. Super Bowl ads are clever. Super Bowl ads are thought provoking. Super Bowl ads are funny. Super Bowl ads are cinematic marvels. Some Super Bowl ads are so arty, we don't get them. But we love them anyway. I’m perfectly happy to contemplate corporate confusion as long as I'm comforted by snack foods. I must admit, though, that to this day, I still don't know what mLife is. It's been two years, and I still don't get it. If there is going to be a 2004 Super Bowl ad campaign for mLife, I'd suggest some clarification and another bag of chips.
I’ve been skipping down the memory lane of 2002 and 2003 Super Bowl commercials. There are too many great ads to list, but I have to give special props to Reebok’s 2003 “Terry Tate, Office Linebacker” ad, which still makes me laugh like an idiot (Break was over 15 minutes ago, MITCH!), and Bud Light’s 2002 “Robo Bash” ad, which pits the five-time world champion bot “Inflictor” against the old beat up challenger “mini fridge”.
This year there is an ad you won’t be seeing, and yes, it is political. The network claims the ad is “too controversial to air.” This particular commercial doesn’t endorse a particular candidate. Instead, it shines a light on the current economic state of our country and asks its citizens to think about how, and perhaps more pointedly who will end up carrying our economic burden. How is this controversial? I’d like to hear the network explain their rationalization for making me watch acid reflux cartoons, Bob Dole and his erectile dysfunction, and flowery classical guitar-infused ads for springtime fresh douching agents, while refusing me the opportunity to see one thirty-second spot that asks if it wouldn't be a good idea to spend just a moment thinking about the economic hole we as a country are digging for ourselves. Unlike the current commercial with the woman who finds a creative way to repair a hole in a boat, there isn't a tampon big enough to plug this one up.
Thought provoking doesn’t mean controversial. This ad, like all the finalists from this competition isn’t controversial. Some are tough. Some are smart. Some are funny. Some make you think.
Perfect for the Super Bowl.
Sign My Guestbook!
AT THE SYMPHONY
It was a cultural-type weekend. Saturday night at the ballet, Sunday afternoon at the symphony. TinyTuna was thrilled. Sunday afternoon we ventured out (despite all emergency warnings of typical winter weather) for a children's concert which featured Peter and the Wolf and excerpts from The Firebird. I felt a pang of sadness as I remembered growing up with our record of Peter and the Wolf, narrated by none other than Captain Kangaroo.
It is appropriate to hum "The Circle of Life" here
As we enjoyed the concert, I was suddenly hit across the face with a sock-filled memory. Several years ago, I remember TinyTuna sitting in my office. I had the brilliant idea of playing a CD of Peter and the Wolf. I explained (probably a little too parentally and a little too multi-music degreed showoff-ishly) that the music told a story, and that each character had its own music and instrument. At one point, as we listened to the introduction, I gave a loud dramatic gasp and said "Do you HEAR that?? That is the music of the GRANDFATHER!!"
TinyTuna, not missing a beat, looked up from her coloring and said with a kind of disdain only a six-year old can muster, "Mom, that isn't a grandfather. It's just an old bassoon."
Whacked at the knees of good intentions yet again, I mumbled something pathetic to save face. After all, she was right. It was just an old basoon. She returned to her coloring, and I wept silently as I watched my perfect mother-daughter music education bonding experience crash and burn.
Sign My Guestbook!
It was a cultural-type weekend. Saturday night at the ballet, Sunday afternoon at the symphony. TinyTuna was thrilled. Sunday afternoon we ventured out (despite all emergency warnings of typical winter weather) for a children's concert which featured Peter and the Wolf and excerpts from The Firebird. I felt a pang of sadness as I remembered growing up with our record of Peter and the Wolf, narrated by none other than Captain Kangaroo.
It is appropriate to hum "The Circle of Life" here
As we enjoyed the concert, I was suddenly hit across the face with a sock-filled memory. Several years ago, I remember TinyTuna sitting in my office. I had the brilliant idea of playing a CD of Peter and the Wolf. I explained (probably a little too parentally and a little too multi-music degreed showoff-ishly) that the music told a story, and that each character had its own music and instrument. At one point, as we listened to the introduction, I gave a loud dramatic gasp and said "Do you HEAR that?? That is the music of the GRANDFATHER!!"
TinyTuna, not missing a beat, looked up from her coloring and said with a kind of disdain only a six-year old can muster, "Mom, that isn't a grandfather. It's just an old bassoon."
Whacked at the knees of good intentions yet again, I mumbled something pathetic to save face. After all, she was right. It was just an old basoon. She returned to her coloring, and I wept silently as I watched my perfect mother-daughter music education bonding experience crash and burn.
Sign My Guestbook!
AT THE SYMPHONY
It was a cultural-type weekend. Saturday night at the ballet, Sunday afternoon at the symphony. TinyTuna was thrilled. Sunday afternoon we ventured out (despite all emergency warnings of typical winter weather) for a children's concert which featured Peter and the Wolf and excerpts from The Firebird. I felt a pang of sadness as I remembered growing up with our record of Peter and the Wolf, narrated by none other than Captain Kangaroo.
It is appropriate to hum "The Circle of Life" here
As we enjoyed the concert, I was suddenly hit across the face with a sock-filled memory. Several years ago, I remember TinyTuna sitting in my office. I had the brilliant idea of playing a CD of Peter and the Wolf. I explained (probably a little too parentally and a little too multi-music degreed showoff-ishly) that the music told a story, and that each character had its own music and instrument. At one point, as we listened to the introduction, I gave a loud dramatic gasp and said "Do you HEAR that?? That is the music of the GRANDFATHER!!"
TinyTuna, not missing a beat, looked up from her coloring and said with a kind of disdain only a six-year old can muster, "Mom, that isn't a grandfather. It's just an old bassoon."
Whacked at the knees of good intentions yet again, I mumbled something pathetic to save face. After all, she was right. It was just an old basoon. She returned to her coloring, and I wept silently as I watched my perfect mother-daughter music education bonding experience crash and burn.
Sign My Guestbook!
It was a cultural-type weekend. Saturday night at the ballet, Sunday afternoon at the symphony. TinyTuna was thrilled. Sunday afternoon we ventured out (despite all emergency warnings of typical winter weather) for a children's concert which featured Peter and the Wolf and excerpts from The Firebird. I felt a pang of sadness as I remembered growing up with our record of Peter and the Wolf, narrated by none other than Captain Kangaroo.
It is appropriate to hum "The Circle of Life" here
As we enjoyed the concert, I was suddenly hit across the face with a sock-filled memory. Several years ago, I remember TinyTuna sitting in my office. I had the brilliant idea of playing a CD of Peter and the Wolf. I explained (probably a little too parentally and a little too multi-music degreed showoff-ishly) that the music told a story, and that each character had its own music and instrument. At one point, as we listened to the introduction, I gave a loud dramatic gasp and said "Do you HEAR that?? That is the music of the GRANDFATHER!!"
TinyTuna, not missing a beat, looked up from her coloring and said with a kind of disdain only a six-year old can muster, "Mom, that isn't a grandfather. It's just an old bassoon."
Whacked at the knees of good intentions yet again, I mumbled something pathetic to save face. After all, she was right. It was just an old basoon. She returned to her coloring, and I wept silently as I watched my perfect mother-daughter music education bonding experience crash and burn.
Sign My Guestbook!
Saturday, January 24, 2004
AT THE BALLET
I just got back from a night at the ballet, and I have a burning, unanswered question: Why are Chinese dances always choreographed in such a manner that the dancers have to keep their elbows bent and their fingers in a "we're number one" position the entire time? I've seen it done that way in every Nutcracker I've ever seen, and I saw it again tonight in Cinderella.
It just seems curious to me, because I know plenty of Chinese people, and I don't know a single one of them who walk around doing that. I tried to ask my boyfriend, but take my word for it when I tell you that a search of ballet Chinese fingers up doesn't return anything valid, pleasant, or appropriate for Internet surfers under the age of 18.
Where's a reference librarian when you need one?
Sign My Guestbook!
I just got back from a night at the ballet, and I have a burning, unanswered question: Why are Chinese dances always choreographed in such a manner that the dancers have to keep their elbows bent and their fingers in a "we're number one" position the entire time? I've seen it done that way in every Nutcracker I've ever seen, and I saw it again tonight in Cinderella.
It just seems curious to me, because I know plenty of Chinese people, and I don't know a single one of them who walk around doing that. I tried to ask my boyfriend, but take my word for it when I tell you that a search of ballet Chinese fingers up doesn't return anything valid, pleasant, or appropriate for Internet surfers under the age of 18.
Where's a reference librarian when you need one?
Sign My Guestbook!
AT THE BALLET
I just got back from a night at the ballet, and I have a burning, unanswered question: Why are Chinese dances always choreographed in such a manner that the dancers have to keep their elbows bent and their fingers in a "we're number one" position the entire time? I've seen it done that way in every Nutcracker I've ever seen, and I saw it again tonight in Cinderella.
It just seems curious to me, because I know plenty of Chinese people, and I don't know a single one of them who walk around doing that. I tried to ask my boyfriend, but take my word for it when I tell you that a search of ballet Chinese fingers up doesn't return anything valid, pleasant, or appropriate for Internet surfers under the age of 18.
Where's a reference librarian when you need one?
Sign My Guestbook!
I just got back from a night at the ballet, and I have a burning, unanswered question: Why are Chinese dances always choreographed in such a manner that the dancers have to keep their elbows bent and their fingers in a "we're number one" position the entire time? I've seen it done that way in every Nutcracker I've ever seen, and I saw it again tonight in Cinderella.
It just seems curious to me, because I know plenty of Chinese people, and I don't know a single one of them who walk around doing that. I tried to ask my boyfriend, but take my word for it when I tell you that a search of ballet Chinese fingers up doesn't return anything valid, pleasant, or appropriate for Internet surfers under the age of 18.
Where's a reference librarian when you need one?
Sign My Guestbook!
BIG WHEEL KEEP ON TURNIN'
Today I packed up my wheel and a big bag of fluff, hopped in the van of Big Sister Tuna (BSTuna) and went off for a spinning day. Five hours of forced relaxation later, I'm a happy camper. As I sat in the living room alternately plunging my arm elbow-deep into the soft brown Merino fleece and treadling my wheel round about and back again, I could feel the stress melting away like a spring thaw. As we drove home, I looked at BSTuna and said "I don't know why we don't do this more often."
It's not that I have any problem relaxing. I am a champion computer junkie and an avid couch potato. Looking at my house, it's obvious that being obsessively fastidious is not one of my shortcomings. But putting on the brakes at home is born out of exhaustion and necessity, rather than recreation. It's not an inferior form of relaxation, it's just different.
Spinning is different. It is participatory. It is artistic. It is tactile and creative. You cannot rush spinning -- it goes at its own rate. The regular rhythm of the wheel is relaxing, calm and peaceful, yet the results are exciting. Spinning is a craft of change -- it is the process of changing fiber from one form to another. And as the wool changes, I seem to change as well. The stressed out, unorganized frantic person morphs into someone more relaxed, open and focused. Out of a jumble of wool and frayed nerves comes beauty, order and function. Right brain and left brain are satisfied, as well as body, soul and spirit.
Unfortunately I'm not able to spin as much as I'd like. My version of relaxation seems to include a mandatory component of being comatose. I need recreation. I need "re-creation" of body, soul and spirit. Today I realized how important -- and absent this has been in my life.
It's time to make the time to take some time. Stop spending every waking moment as if it were a wind sprint. I'm going to make a point of joining the fiber folk a bit more often. To sit and spin and talk of lambs and sheep, crimp and lanolin, spinning dyeing and weaving. And then there are always the llamas, goats, alpacas, bunnies, yaks and camels.
Oh dear. I think I need a bigger backyard.
Sign My Guestbook!
Today I packed up my wheel and a big bag of fluff, hopped in the van of Big Sister Tuna (BSTuna) and went off for a spinning day. Five hours of forced relaxation later, I'm a happy camper. As I sat in the living room alternately plunging my arm elbow-deep into the soft brown Merino fleece and treadling my wheel round about and back again, I could feel the stress melting away like a spring thaw. As we drove home, I looked at BSTuna and said "I don't know why we don't do this more often."
It's not that I have any problem relaxing. I am a champion computer junkie and an avid couch potato. Looking at my house, it's obvious that being obsessively fastidious is not one of my shortcomings. But putting on the brakes at home is born out of exhaustion and necessity, rather than recreation. It's not an inferior form of relaxation, it's just different.
Spinning is different. It is participatory. It is artistic. It is tactile and creative. You cannot rush spinning -- it goes at its own rate. The regular rhythm of the wheel is relaxing, calm and peaceful, yet the results are exciting. Spinning is a craft of change -- it is the process of changing fiber from one form to another. And as the wool changes, I seem to change as well. The stressed out, unorganized frantic person morphs into someone more relaxed, open and focused. Out of a jumble of wool and frayed nerves comes beauty, order and function. Right brain and left brain are satisfied, as well as body, soul and spirit.
Unfortunately I'm not able to spin as much as I'd like. My version of relaxation seems to include a mandatory component of being comatose. I need recreation. I need "re-creation" of body, soul and spirit. Today I realized how important -- and absent this has been in my life.
It's time to make the time to take some time. Stop spending every waking moment as if it were a wind sprint. I'm going to make a point of joining the fiber folk a bit more often. To sit and spin and talk of lambs and sheep, crimp and lanolin, spinning dyeing and weaving. And then there are always the llamas, goats, alpacas, bunnies, yaks and camels.
Oh dear. I think I need a bigger backyard.
Sign My Guestbook!
BIG WHEEL KEEP ON TURNIN'
Today I packed up my wheel and a big bag of fluff, hopped in the van of Big Sister Tuna (BSTuna) and went off for a spinning day. Five hours of forced relaxation later, I'm a happy camper. As I sat in the living room alternately plunging my arm elbow-deep into the soft brown Merino fleece and treadling my wheel round about and back again, I could feel the stress melting away like a spring thaw. As we drove home, I looked at BSTuna and said "I don't know why we don't do this more often."
It's not that I have any problem relaxing. I am a champion computer junkie and an avid couch potato. Looking at my house, it's obvious that being obsessively fastidious is not one of my shortcomings. But putting on the brakes at home is born out of exhaustion and necessity, rather than recreation. It's not an inferior form of relaxation, it's just different.
Spinning is different. It is participatory. It is artistic. It is tactile and creative. You cannot rush spinning -- it goes at its own rate. The regular rhythm of the wheel is relaxing, calm and peaceful, yet the results are exciting. Spinning is a craft of change -- it is the process of changing fiber from one form to another. And as the wool changes, I seem to change as well. The stressed out, unorganized frantic person morphs into someone more relaxed, open and focused. Out of a jumble of wool and frayed nerves comes beauty, order and function. Right brain and left brain are satisfied, as well as body, soul and spirit.
Unfortunately I'm not able to spin as much as I'd like. My version of relaxation seems to include a mandatory component of being comatose. I need recreation. I need "re-creation" of body, soul and spirit. Today I realized how important -- and absent this has been in my life.
It's time to make the time to take some time. Stop spending every waking moment as if it were a wind sprint. I'm going to make a point of joining the fiber folk a bit more often. To sit and spin and talk of lambs and sheep, crimp and lanolin, spinning dyeing and weaving. And then there are always the llamas, goats, alpacas, bunnies, yaks and camels.
Oh dear. I think I need a bigger backyard.
Sign My Guestbook!
Today I packed up my wheel and a big bag of fluff, hopped in the van of Big Sister Tuna (BSTuna) and went off for a spinning day. Five hours of forced relaxation later, I'm a happy camper. As I sat in the living room alternately plunging my arm elbow-deep into the soft brown Merino fleece and treadling my wheel round about and back again, I could feel the stress melting away like a spring thaw. As we drove home, I looked at BSTuna and said "I don't know why we don't do this more often."
It's not that I have any problem relaxing. I am a champion computer junkie and an avid couch potato. Looking at my house, it's obvious that being obsessively fastidious is not one of my shortcomings. But putting on the brakes at home is born out of exhaustion and necessity, rather than recreation. It's not an inferior form of relaxation, it's just different.
Spinning is different. It is participatory. It is artistic. It is tactile and creative. You cannot rush spinning -- it goes at its own rate. The regular rhythm of the wheel is relaxing, calm and peaceful, yet the results are exciting. Spinning is a craft of change -- it is the process of changing fiber from one form to another. And as the wool changes, I seem to change as well. The stressed out, unorganized frantic person morphs into someone more relaxed, open and focused. Out of a jumble of wool and frayed nerves comes beauty, order and function. Right brain and left brain are satisfied, as well as body, soul and spirit.
Unfortunately I'm not able to spin as much as I'd like. My version of relaxation seems to include a mandatory component of being comatose. I need recreation. I need "re-creation" of body, soul and spirit. Today I realized how important -- and absent this has been in my life.
It's time to make the time to take some time. Stop spending every waking moment as if it were a wind sprint. I'm going to make a point of joining the fiber folk a bit more often. To sit and spin and talk of lambs and sheep, crimp and lanolin, spinning dyeing and weaving. And then there are always the llamas, goats, alpacas, bunnies, yaks and camels.
Oh dear. I think I need a bigger backyard.
Sign My Guestbook!
Friday, January 23, 2004
MISSING ICON
Bob Keeshan, better known as Captain Kangaroo died today. Right now, I am the saddest Tuna in the pond. I can only imagine that right now heaven is full knock-knock jokes and thousands of falling ping-pong balls as Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green-Jeans, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit have a family reunion of sorts.
Bob Keeshan, you were one class act.
Sign My Guestbook!
Bob Keeshan, better known as Captain Kangaroo died today. Right now, I am the saddest Tuna in the pond. I can only imagine that right now heaven is full knock-knock jokes and thousands of falling ping-pong balls as Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green-Jeans, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit have a family reunion of sorts.
Bob Keeshan, you were one class act.
Sign My Guestbook!
MISSING ICON
Bob Keeshan, better known as Captain Kangaroo died today. Right now, I am the saddest Tuna in the pond. I can only imagine that right now heaven is full knock-knock jokes and thousands of falling ping-pong balls as Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green-Jeans, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit have a family reunion of sorts.
Bob Keeshan, you were one class act.
Sign My Guestbook!
Bob Keeshan, better known as Captain Kangaroo died today. Right now, I am the saddest Tuna in the pond. I can only imagine that right now heaven is full knock-knock jokes and thousands of falling ping-pong balls as Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green-Jeans, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit have a family reunion of sorts.
Bob Keeshan, you were one class act.
Sign My Guestbook!
A FRIENDLY REMINDER
Our current terror level is:
Who are the people in your neighborhood? The Bert-Alert system advises vigilance, doing the (coo! coo!) pigeon dance, and singing about linoleum. Don't let the terrorists win.
Sign My Guestbook!
Our current terror level is:
Who are the people in your neighborhood? The Bert-Alert system advises vigilance, doing the (coo! coo!) pigeon dance, and singing about linoleum. Don't let the terrorists win.
Sign My Guestbook!
A FRIENDLY REMINDER
Our current terror level is:
Who are the people in your neighborhood? The Bert-Alert system advises vigilance, doing the (coo! coo!) pigeon dance, and singing about linoleum. Don't let the terrorists win.
Sign My Guestbook!
Our current terror level is:
Who are the people in your neighborhood? The Bert-Alert system advises vigilance, doing the (coo! coo!) pigeon dance, and singing about linoleum. Don't let the terrorists win.
Sign My Guestbook!
D IS FOR FLAN
It's Chefgrace's Food Friday, which means I don't have a recipe to share. I do, however, have a story that fits in nicely with D is for dessert day.
In my Tuna Salad Days I donned the traditional green cotton pants, white shirt, snappy beret, sash, pins, trinkets and other regalia which identified me as a member of the Girl Scouts. I don't recall my participation in this organization being any sort of life-changing event. It was goofing off with friends, going camping every once in awhile, selling Girl Scout Cookies, and earning enough badges to make a four-star general weep with envy. What's not to like?
One activity that I recall with a bit of gingham-checked pie-and-ice cream nostalgia was the Girl Scout bake-off. Unlike Pillsbury, we weren't required to cook it right there in the gym in front of God and country. We just had to rustle something up at home -- by ourselves -- and bring it in to be judged. I had two entries: A batch of ordinary (yet tasty) M&M cookies, and a Flan.
I did the cookies because they were yummy. It wasn't rocket science -- it was just the regular old Nestle chocolate chip cookie recipe with M&Ms instead of chocolate chips. Equally delicious before baking as they were after, M&M cookies were just fun. And it meant great school lunch dessert for the next few days.
I did the flan because I had a plan. That plan was to win, and the flan was my secret weapon.
Flans are a sort of eggy-custardy caramelish saucy concoction. They look impressive, but are a real pain to make. Flan creation involves melting sugar and coating pans and running water and trying to get the whole mess out without creating a kitchen disaster. A flan success was hard to beat. A flan failure was hard to hide. It was a culinary thrill of victory / agony of defeat kind of proposition. So I went into Olympic training, and turned out flan after flan. It was a piece of cake. Well, flan.
Bake-off day arrived. I packed up my cookies and my flan and headed out to the Middle School, feeling cool and confident.
My cookies were judged first. I sat at the table while the judge tasted my offerings. She liked them! I smiled. She offered me a cookie, and I gladly accepted. As I munched, she wrote up her comments, and then she looked at me and said, “The only criticism I have is that these cookies are not uniform in size.”
I had never heard of such a thing. It wasn’t like one was rock-sized and one was boulder sized. But she explained that I needed to measure out (with a measuring spoon and everything) equal amounts of dough, and shape them so they would look the same. I thought it was the dumbest thing I ever heard. “My family doesn’t care, so long as they taste good,” I remember mumbling in between bites.
The flan judging came a bit later. I sat at the table once again as a different judge tasted my offering. She liked it! I smiled. She offered me a piece, and I proceeded to make a classic, super deluxe Mince Pie Face.
“What’s the matter?” She asked.
“I don’t like flan,” I answered, grossed out by the very thought of eating that nasty mess.
“You don’t?” She was very confused. “Then why did you make this?”
My MPF eased into a half-smile. “I just wanted to,” I answered craftily.
I don’t think the judge ever understood. It made no difference, because I won anyway. Mission accomplished. I don’t remember what I did with the rest of the flan. All I know is that I didn’t have to eat it. I will never be a Martha, but I do know that not eating a flan is a very good thing.
Sign My Guestbook!
It's Chefgrace's Food Friday, which means I don't have a recipe to share. I do, however, have a story that fits in nicely with D is for dessert day.
In my Tuna Salad Days I donned the traditional green cotton pants, white shirt, snappy beret, sash, pins, trinkets and other regalia which identified me as a member of the Girl Scouts. I don't recall my participation in this organization being any sort of life-changing event. It was goofing off with friends, going camping every once in awhile, selling Girl Scout Cookies, and earning enough badges to make a four-star general weep with envy. What's not to like?
One activity that I recall with a bit of gingham-checked pie-and-ice cream nostalgia was the Girl Scout bake-off. Unlike Pillsbury, we weren't required to cook it right there in the gym in front of God and country. We just had to rustle something up at home -- by ourselves -- and bring it in to be judged. I had two entries: A batch of ordinary (yet tasty) M&M cookies, and a Flan.
I did the cookies because they were yummy. It wasn't rocket science -- it was just the regular old Nestle chocolate chip cookie recipe with M&Ms instead of chocolate chips. Equally delicious before baking as they were after, M&M cookies were just fun. And it meant great school lunch dessert for the next few days.
I did the flan because I had a plan. That plan was to win, and the flan was my secret weapon.
Flans are a sort of eggy-custardy caramelish saucy concoction. They look impressive, but are a real pain to make. Flan creation involves melting sugar and coating pans and running water and trying to get the whole mess out without creating a kitchen disaster. A flan success was hard to beat. A flan failure was hard to hide. It was a culinary thrill of victory / agony of defeat kind of proposition. So I went into Olympic training, and turned out flan after flan. It was a piece of cake. Well, flan.
Bake-off day arrived. I packed up my cookies and my flan and headed out to the Middle School, feeling cool and confident.
My cookies were judged first. I sat at the table while the judge tasted my offerings. She liked them! I smiled. She offered me a cookie, and I gladly accepted. As I munched, she wrote up her comments, and then she looked at me and said, “The only criticism I have is that these cookies are not uniform in size.”
I had never heard of such a thing. It wasn’t like one was rock-sized and one was boulder sized. But she explained that I needed to measure out (with a measuring spoon and everything) equal amounts of dough, and shape them so they would look the same. I thought it was the dumbest thing I ever heard. “My family doesn’t care, so long as they taste good,” I remember mumbling in between bites.
The flan judging came a bit later. I sat at the table once again as a different judge tasted my offering. She liked it! I smiled. She offered me a piece, and I proceeded to make a classic, super deluxe Mince Pie Face.
“What’s the matter?” She asked.
“I don’t like flan,” I answered, grossed out by the very thought of eating that nasty mess.
“You don’t?” She was very confused. “Then why did you make this?”
My MPF eased into a half-smile. “I just wanted to,” I answered craftily.
I don’t think the judge ever understood. It made no difference, because I won anyway. Mission accomplished. I don’t remember what I did with the rest of the flan. All I know is that I didn’t have to eat it. I will never be a Martha, but I do know that not eating a flan is a very good thing.
Sign My Guestbook!
D IS FOR FLAN
It's Chefgrace's Food Friday, which means I don't have a recipe to share. I do, however, have a story that fits in nicely with D is for dessert day.
In my Tuna Salad Days I donned the traditional green cotton pants, white shirt, snappy beret, sash, pins, trinkets and other regalia which identified me as a member of the Girl Scouts. I don't recall my participation in this organization being any sort of life-changing event. It was goofing off with friends, going camping every once in awhile, selling Girl Scout Cookies, and earning enough badges to make a four-star general weep with envy. What's not to like?
One activity that I recall with a bit of gingham-checked pie-and-ice cream nostalgia was the Girl Scout bake-off. Unlike Pillsbury, we weren't required to cook it right there in the gym in front of God and country. We just had to rustle something up at home -- by ourselves -- and bring it in to be judged. I had two entries: A batch of ordinary (yet tasty) M&M cookies, and a Flan.
I did the cookies because they were yummy. It wasn't rocket science -- it was just the regular old Nestle chocolate chip cookie recipe with M&Ms instead of chocolate chips. Equally delicious before baking as they were after, M&M cookies were just fun. And it meant great school lunch dessert for the next few days.
I did the flan because I had a plan. That plan was to win, and the flan was my secret weapon.
Flans are a sort of eggy-custardy caramelish saucy concoction. They look impressive, but are a real pain to make. Flan creation involves melting sugar and coating pans and running water and trying to get the whole mess out without creating a kitchen disaster. A flan success was hard to beat. A flan failure was hard to hide. It was a culinary thrill of victory / agony of defeat kind of proposition. So I went into Olympic training, and turned out flan after flan. It was a piece of cake. Well, flan.
Bake-off day arrived. I packed up my cookies and my flan and headed out to the Middle School, feeling cool and confident.
My cookies were judged first. I sat at the table while the judge tasted my offerings. She liked them! I smiled. She offered me a cookie, and I gladly accepted. As I munched, she wrote up her comments, and then she looked at me and said, “The only criticism I have is that these cookies are not uniform in size.”
I had never heard of such a thing. It wasn’t like one was rock-sized and one was boulder sized. But she explained that I needed to measure out (with a measuring spoon and everything) equal amounts of dough, and shape them so they would look the same. I thought it was the dumbest thing I ever heard. “My family doesn’t care, so long as they taste good,” I remember mumbling in between bites.
The flan judging came a bit later. I sat at the table once again as a different judge tasted my offering. She liked it! I smiled. She offered me a piece, and I proceeded to make a classic, super deluxe Mince Pie Face.
“What’s the matter?” She asked.
“I don’t like flan,” I answered, grossed out by the very thought of eating that nasty mess.
“You don’t?” She was very confused. “Then why did you make this?”
My MPF eased into a half-smile. “I just wanted to,” I answered craftily.
I don’t think the judge ever understood. It made no difference, because I won anyway. Mission accomplished. I don’t remember what I did with the rest of the flan. All I know is that I didn’t have to eat it. I will never be a Martha, but I do know that not eating a flan is a very good thing.
Sign My Guestbook!
It's Chefgrace's Food Friday, which means I don't have a recipe to share. I do, however, have a story that fits in nicely with D is for dessert day.
In my Tuna Salad Days I donned the traditional green cotton pants, white shirt, snappy beret, sash, pins, trinkets and other regalia which identified me as a member of the Girl Scouts. I don't recall my participation in this organization being any sort of life-changing event. It was goofing off with friends, going camping every once in awhile, selling Girl Scout Cookies, and earning enough badges to make a four-star general weep with envy. What's not to like?
One activity that I recall with a bit of gingham-checked pie-and-ice cream nostalgia was the Girl Scout bake-off. Unlike Pillsbury, we weren't required to cook it right there in the gym in front of God and country. We just had to rustle something up at home -- by ourselves -- and bring it in to be judged. I had two entries: A batch of ordinary (yet tasty) M&M cookies, and a Flan.
I did the cookies because they were yummy. It wasn't rocket science -- it was just the regular old Nestle chocolate chip cookie recipe with M&Ms instead of chocolate chips. Equally delicious before baking as they were after, M&M cookies were just fun. And it meant great school lunch dessert for the next few days.
I did the flan because I had a plan. That plan was to win, and the flan was my secret weapon.
Flans are a sort of eggy-custardy caramelish saucy concoction. They look impressive, but are a real pain to make. Flan creation involves melting sugar and coating pans and running water and trying to get the whole mess out without creating a kitchen disaster. A flan success was hard to beat. A flan failure was hard to hide. It was a culinary thrill of victory / agony of defeat kind of proposition. So I went into Olympic training, and turned out flan after flan. It was a piece of cake. Well, flan.
Bake-off day arrived. I packed up my cookies and my flan and headed out to the Middle School, feeling cool and confident.
My cookies were judged first. I sat at the table while the judge tasted my offerings. She liked them! I smiled. She offered me a cookie, and I gladly accepted. As I munched, she wrote up her comments, and then she looked at me and said, “The only criticism I have is that these cookies are not uniform in size.”
I had never heard of such a thing. It wasn’t like one was rock-sized and one was boulder sized. But she explained that I needed to measure out (with a measuring spoon and everything) equal amounts of dough, and shape them so they would look the same. I thought it was the dumbest thing I ever heard. “My family doesn’t care, so long as they taste good,” I remember mumbling in between bites.
The flan judging came a bit later. I sat at the table once again as a different judge tasted my offering. She liked it! I smiled. She offered me a piece, and I proceeded to make a classic, super deluxe Mince Pie Face.
“What’s the matter?” She asked.
“I don’t like flan,” I answered, grossed out by the very thought of eating that nasty mess.
“You don’t?” She was very confused. “Then why did you make this?”
My MPF eased into a half-smile. “I just wanted to,” I answered craftily.
I don’t think the judge ever understood. It made no difference, because I won anyway. Mission accomplished. I don’t remember what I did with the rest of the flan. All I know is that I didn’t have to eat it. I will never be a Martha, but I do know that not eating a flan is a very good thing.
Sign My Guestbook!
Thursday, January 22, 2004
A DROMEDARY TALE
A camel, a guy, and one near-permanent place setting right next to Darwin.
I'd like to be the fly on the wall years down the road when Grandpa explains to little Suzie how he nearly died from a fatal blow to the head. But it wasn't a night stick. It wasn't the mafia. It wasn't even an ice-skating hit man. The grim reaper made his entrance, stage left, and his name was Clyde.
Maybe Clyde was grumpy. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe the barn “Shui” was off and things were out of place. Whatever it was, Clyde decided some things just had to go. So he picked up the thing that didn't belong, and moved it. More specifically, he picked it up with his mouth. Even more specifically, picked it up and moved it with his mouth.
Except that thing wasn't a thing. It was a person. A full-grown adult-type person. And this poor shmoe was relocated head-first by the Two Humps and a Mouth moving company. One camel. Thirty-four teeth. One head. No waiting.
"Bad Camel! Drop it!! DROP IT!!!
Do you think this would work? What if the camel was angry? What if the camel was mad? Does it have mad camel disease? Maybe Clyde the camel always came in last at the races, and this time he wanted to get a head.
Ba-DUMP-Bump
Whatever the answer might be, Clyde isn't talking. If you ask me, I think Clyde was expressing his unhappiness at living in sub-zero temperatures. Clyde was his own Emergency Warning System -- CAPS LOCK ON -- and he just chose to deliver the message by mouth. If you think about it, it makes sense. Camels are desert, heat, sand dunes, Midnight at the Oasis kinds of creatures. There is nothing about camels that says snow and frozen tundra.
Happily, the chompee survived his close encounter of the camel-kind, and will live to tell the tale of a camel whose bite was worse than his bark, a twice-fractured skull and the metal plate in his head that sets off the airport security alarm. A true Dromedary drama.
Sign My Guestbook!
A camel, a guy, and one near-permanent place setting right next to Darwin.
I'd like to be the fly on the wall years down the road when Grandpa explains to little Suzie how he nearly died from a fatal blow to the head. But it wasn't a night stick. It wasn't the mafia. It wasn't even an ice-skating hit man. The grim reaper made his entrance, stage left, and his name was Clyde.
Maybe Clyde was grumpy. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe the barn “Shui” was off and things were out of place. Whatever it was, Clyde decided some things just had to go. So he picked up the thing that didn't belong, and moved it. More specifically, he picked it up with his mouth. Even more specifically, picked it up and moved it with his mouth.
Except that thing wasn't a thing. It was a person. A full-grown adult-type person. And this poor shmoe was relocated head-first by the Two Humps and a Mouth moving company. One camel. Thirty-four teeth. One head. No waiting.
"Bad Camel! Drop it!! DROP IT!!!
Do you think this would work? What if the camel was angry? What if the camel was mad? Does it have mad camel disease? Maybe Clyde the camel always came in last at the races, and this time he wanted to get a head.
Ba-DUMP-Bump
Whatever the answer might be, Clyde isn't talking. If you ask me, I think Clyde was expressing his unhappiness at living in sub-zero temperatures. Clyde was his own Emergency Warning System -- CAPS LOCK ON -- and he just chose to deliver the message by mouth. If you think about it, it makes sense. Camels are desert, heat, sand dunes, Midnight at the Oasis kinds of creatures. There is nothing about camels that says snow and frozen tundra.
Happily, the chompee survived his close encounter of the camel-kind, and will live to tell the tale of a camel whose bite was worse than his bark, a twice-fractured skull and the metal plate in his head that sets off the airport security alarm. A true Dromedary drama.
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A DROMEDARY TALE
A camel, a guy, and one near-permanent place setting right next to Darwin.
I'd like to be the fly on the wall years down the road when Grandpa explains to little Suzie how he nearly died from a fatal blow to the head. But it wasn't a night stick. It wasn't the mafia. It wasn't even an ice-skating hit man. The grim reaper made his entrance, stage left, and his name was Clyde.
Maybe Clyde was grumpy. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe the barn “Shui” was off and things were out of place. Whatever it was, Clyde decided some things just had to go. So he picked up the thing that didn't belong, and moved it. More specifically, he picked it up with his mouth. Even more specifically, picked it up and moved it with his mouth.
Except that thing wasn't a thing. It was a person. A full-grown adult-type person. And this poor shmoe was relocated head-first by the Two Humps and a Mouth moving company. One camel. Thirty-four teeth. One head. No waiting.
"Bad Camel! Drop it!! DROP IT!!!
Do you think this would work? What if the camel was angry? What if the camel was mad? Does it have mad camel disease? Maybe Clyde the camel always came in last at the races, and this time he wanted to get a head.
Ba-DUMP-Bump
Whatever the answer might be, Clyde isn't talking. If you ask me, I think Clyde was expressing his unhappiness at living in sub-zero temperatures. Clyde was his own Emergency Warning System -- CAPS LOCK ON -- and he just chose to deliver the message by mouth. If you think about it, it makes sense. Camels are desert, heat, sand dunes, Midnight at the Oasis kinds of creatures. There is nothing about camels that says snow and frozen tundra.
Happily, the chompee survived his close encounter of the camel-kind, and will live to tell the tale of a camel whose bite was worse than his bark, a twice-fractured skull and the metal plate in his head that sets off the airport security alarm. A true Dromedary drama.
Sign My Guestbook!
A camel, a guy, and one near-permanent place setting right next to Darwin.
I'd like to be the fly on the wall years down the road when Grandpa explains to little Suzie how he nearly died from a fatal blow to the head. But it wasn't a night stick. It wasn't the mafia. It wasn't even an ice-skating hit man. The grim reaper made his entrance, stage left, and his name was Clyde.
Maybe Clyde was grumpy. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe the barn “Shui” was off and things were out of place. Whatever it was, Clyde decided some things just had to go. So he picked up the thing that didn't belong, and moved it. More specifically, he picked it up with his mouth. Even more specifically, picked it up and moved it with his mouth.
Except that thing wasn't a thing. It was a person. A full-grown adult-type person. And this poor shmoe was relocated head-first by the Two Humps and a Mouth moving company. One camel. Thirty-four teeth. One head. No waiting.
"Bad Camel! Drop it!! DROP IT!!!
Do you think this would work? What if the camel was angry? What if the camel was mad? Does it have mad camel disease? Maybe Clyde the camel always came in last at the races, and this time he wanted to get a head.
Ba-DUMP-Bump
Whatever the answer might be, Clyde isn't talking. If you ask me, I think Clyde was expressing his unhappiness at living in sub-zero temperatures. Clyde was his own Emergency Warning System -- CAPS LOCK ON -- and he just chose to deliver the message by mouth. If you think about it, it makes sense. Camels are desert, heat, sand dunes, Midnight at the Oasis kinds of creatures. There is nothing about camels that says snow and frozen tundra.
Happily, the chompee survived his close encounter of the camel-kind, and will live to tell the tale of a camel whose bite was worse than his bark, a twice-fractured skull and the metal plate in his head that sets off the airport security alarm. A true Dromedary drama.
Sign My Guestbook!
TOUGH LOVE
Bessie better watch it, or she's going to end up in the glue factory.
My apologies to Bill Gates, whom I called Satan. My apologies to his team of lawyers as well as any other offended party who may have had a hand in corrupting my Internet Explorer last night. I couldn't even whisper to my boyfriend. Torture! But yay me for fixing it! Big pat on the back. Now I can breathe. Phew
Pray for sick students. I have a great story to share.
Sign My Guestbook!
Bessie better watch it, or she's going to end up in the glue factory.
My apologies to Bill Gates, whom I called Satan. My apologies to his team of lawyers as well as any other offended party who may have had a hand in corrupting my Internet Explorer last night. I couldn't even whisper to my boyfriend. Torture! But yay me for fixing it! Big pat on the back. Now I can breathe. Phew
Pray for sick students. I have a great story to share.
Sign My Guestbook!
TOUGH LOVE
Bessie better watch it, or she's going to end up in the glue factory.
My apologies to Bill Gates, whom I called Satan. My apologies to his team of lawyers as well as any other offended party who may have had a hand in corrupting my Internet Explorer last night. I couldn't even whisper to my boyfriend. Torture! But yay me for fixing it! Big pat on the back. Now I can breathe. Phew
Pray for sick students. I have a great story to share.
Sign My Guestbook!
Bessie better watch it, or she's going to end up in the glue factory.
My apologies to Bill Gates, whom I called Satan. My apologies to his team of lawyers as well as any other offended party who may have had a hand in corrupting my Internet Explorer last night. I couldn't even whisper to my boyfriend. Torture! But yay me for fixing it! Big pat on the back. Now I can breathe. Phew
Pray for sick students. I have a great story to share.
Sign My Guestbook!
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
RANDOM ACTS OF BLOGNESS - ACT II
More. As if there weren't enough already.
Emergency Weather
Upon returning from lunch, I went back and re-read my Emergency Weather Warning email thing. It says it will be windy with a little snow. But nowhere in this email does it say word one about my face freezing off. If you're going to warn me, then dadgumit, you'd better do it right.
The weather outside today BLOWS. Really -- It actually blows. Don't not be stupid and attempt a lunch excursion that extends beyond the pre-heated four walls of your place of employment. If you do, your face will freeze off, and you will have to stumble around in the middle of traffic in an attempt to find it. Then you'll have to find some face reattachment adhesive, which doesn't exist. You could chew some gum, except that you don't have a face. If you ignore this email, don't come here looking for any sympathy. We warned you.
Subliminal Messages
On the front page of the first section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of W giving his book report to the nation. On the front page of the second section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of a student praying to the porcelain God. Coincidence? I think not.
Say What?
Churchill was quoted as saying "Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words best of all." Evidently his 104-year old parrot subscribes to the same philosophy, because she is still alive, cursing Hitler and the Nazis. Awww. What's not to love?
Sign My Guestbook!
More. As if there weren't enough already.
Emergency Weather
Upon returning from lunch, I went back and re-read my Emergency Weather Warning email thing. It says it will be windy with a little snow. But nowhere in this email does it say word one about my face freezing off. If you're going to warn me, then dadgumit, you'd better do it right.
The weather outside today BLOWS. Really -- It actually blows. Don't not be stupid and attempt a lunch excursion that extends beyond the pre-heated four walls of your place of employment. If you do, your face will freeze off, and you will have to stumble around in the middle of traffic in an attempt to find it. Then you'll have to find some face reattachment adhesive, which doesn't exist. You could chew some gum, except that you don't have a face. If you ignore this email, don't come here looking for any sympathy. We warned you.
Subliminal Messages
On the front page of the first section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of W giving his book report to the nation. On the front page of the second section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of a student praying to the porcelain God. Coincidence? I think not.
Say What?
Churchill was quoted as saying "Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words best of all." Evidently his 104-year old parrot subscribes to the same philosophy, because she is still alive, cursing Hitler and the Nazis. Awww. What's not to love?
Sign My Guestbook!
RANDOM ACTS OF BLOGNESS - ACT II
More. As if there weren't enough already.
Emergency Weather
Upon returning from lunch, I went back and re-read my Emergency Weather Warning email thing. It says it will be windy with a little snow. But nowhere in this email does it say word one about my face freezing off. If you're going to warn me, then dadgumit, you'd better do it right.
The weather outside today BLOWS. Really -- It actually blows. Don't not be stupid and attempt a lunch excursion that extends beyond the pre-heated four walls of your place of employment. If you do, your face will freeze off, and you will have to stumble around in the middle of traffic in an attempt to find it. Then you'll have to find some face reattachment adhesive, which doesn't exist. You could chew some gum, except that you don't have a face. If you ignore this email, don't come here looking for any sympathy. We warned you.
Subliminal Messages
On the front page of the first section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of W giving his book report to the nation. On the front page of the second section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of a student praying to the porcelain God. Coincidence? I think not.
Say What?
Churchill was quoted as saying "Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words best of all." Evidently his 104-year old parrot subscribes to the same philosophy, because she is still alive, cursing Hitler and the Nazis. Awww. What's not to love?
Sign My Guestbook!
More. As if there weren't enough already.
Emergency Weather
Upon returning from lunch, I went back and re-read my Emergency Weather Warning email thing. It says it will be windy with a little snow. But nowhere in this email does it say word one about my face freezing off. If you're going to warn me, then dadgumit, you'd better do it right.
The weather outside today BLOWS. Really -- It actually blows. Don't not be stupid and attempt a lunch excursion that extends beyond the pre-heated four walls of your place of employment. If you do, your face will freeze off, and you will have to stumble around in the middle of traffic in an attempt to find it. Then you'll have to find some face reattachment adhesive, which doesn't exist. You could chew some gum, except that you don't have a face. If you ignore this email, don't come here looking for any sympathy. We warned you.
Subliminal Messages
On the front page of the first section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of W giving his book report to the nation. On the front page of the second section of the TunaU news, there is a large color picture of a student praying to the porcelain God. Coincidence? I think not.
Say What?
Churchill was quoted as saying "Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words best of all." Evidently his 104-year old parrot subscribes to the same philosophy, because she is still alive, cursing Hitler and the Nazis. Awww. What's not to love?
Sign My Guestbook!
RANDOM ACTS OF BLOGNESS
As my head swims through a combination Sudafed / Extra Strength Tylenol fog, I offer you these random thoughts on a cold, weather advisory, Alberta clipper's a-coming again (ooo, scared!) Wednesday morning.
Banner Ads
I have a banner ad for a Simon Cowell Bobblehead. That was fast. Why don't I get this kind of banner ad service when I talk about Evil Ducks? Evil ducks. Evil ducks. Evil ducks
Terrorism Safety
Thank God for the Internet. I mean, if I didn't have somebody out there alternately scaring the Bejeebus out of me, and then holding my hand and explaining exactly how I should live my life as I normally would, I would be a quivering mass of EVIL DUCK pâté. I offer this morning an outstanding terrorism safety instructional website, as graciously passed along to me by PBSTuna. I have to admit this was stomping the floor, tears rolling down my face funny, and it almost makes up for the Monday's Pachelbel "it's not my fault" Canon faux-pas. You see, our local PBS radio station has this unnatural affinity for Pachelbel's Canon and they feel compelled to share that love once every 24 hours. Not your fault? Uh huh. I believe you. Except not. I do, however, accept the offerings of Internet humor.
Candidate Roulette
Little Brother Tuna passed along this quiz that matches your personal and political views with those of the 2004 presidential campaign. I wasn't at all surprised to see the Shrub and the Oil Baron hugging the bottom of the pack, but can I tell you my horror at seeing Al Sharpton come in second? President of the United States? I think not. Guest host on Saturday Night Live? I'd vote for that.
Sign My Guestbook!
As my head swims through a combination Sudafed / Extra Strength Tylenol fog, I offer you these random thoughts on a cold, weather advisory, Alberta clipper's a-coming again (ooo, scared!) Wednesday morning.
Banner Ads
I have a banner ad for a Simon Cowell Bobblehead. That was fast. Why don't I get this kind of banner ad service when I talk about Evil Ducks? Evil ducks. Evil ducks. Evil ducks
Terrorism Safety
Thank God for the Internet. I mean, if I didn't have somebody out there alternately scaring the Bejeebus out of me, and then holding my hand and explaining exactly how I should live my life as I normally would, I would be a quivering mass of EVIL DUCK pâté. I offer this morning an outstanding terrorism safety instructional website, as graciously passed along to me by PBSTuna. I have to admit this was stomping the floor, tears rolling down my face funny, and it almost makes up for the Monday's Pachelbel "it's not my fault" Canon faux-pas. You see, our local PBS radio station has this unnatural affinity for Pachelbel's Canon and they feel compelled to share that love once every 24 hours. Not your fault? Uh huh. I believe you. Except not. I do, however, accept the offerings of Internet humor.
Candidate Roulette
Little Brother Tuna passed along this quiz that matches your personal and political views with those of the 2004 presidential campaign. I wasn't at all surprised to see the Shrub and the Oil Baron hugging the bottom of the pack, but can I tell you my horror at seeing Al Sharpton come in second? President of the United States? I think not. Guest host on Saturday Night Live? I'd vote for that.
Sign My Guestbook!
RANDOM ACTS OF BLOGNESS
As my head swims through a combination Sudafed / Extra Strength Tylenol fog, I offer you these random thoughts on a cold, weather advisory, Alberta clipper's a-coming again (ooo, scared!) Wednesday morning.
Banner Ads
I have a banner ad for a Simon Cowell Bobblehead. That was fast. Why don't I get this kind of banner ad service when I talk about Evil Ducks? Evil ducks. Evil ducks. Evil ducks
Terrorism Safety
Thank God for the Internet. I mean, if I didn't have somebody out there alternately scaring the Bejeebus out of me, and then holding my hand and explaining exactly how I should live my life as I normally would, I would be a quivering mass of EVIL DUCK pâté. I offer this morning an outstanding terrorism safety instructional website, as graciously passed along to me by PBSTuna. I have to admit this was stomping the floor, tears rolling down my face funny, and it almost makes up for the Monday's Pachelbel "it's not my fault" Canon faux-pas. You see, our local PBS radio station has this unnatural affinity for Pachelbel's Canon and they feel compelled to share that love once every 24 hours. Not your fault? Uh huh. I believe you. Except not. I do, however, accept the offerings of Internet humor.
Candidate Roulette
Little Brother Tuna passed along this quiz that matches your personal and political views with those of the 2004 presidential campaign. I wasn't at all surprised to see the Shrub and the Oil Baron hugging the bottom of the pack, but can I tell you my horror at seeing Al Sharpton come in second? President of the United States? I think not. Guest host on Saturday Night Live? I'd vote for that.
Sign My Guestbook!
As my head swims through a combination Sudafed / Extra Strength Tylenol fog, I offer you these random thoughts on a cold, weather advisory, Alberta clipper's a-coming again (ooo, scared!) Wednesday morning.
Banner Ads
I have a banner ad for a Simon Cowell Bobblehead. That was fast. Why don't I get this kind of banner ad service when I talk about Evil Ducks? Evil ducks. Evil ducks. Evil ducks
Terrorism Safety
Thank God for the Internet. I mean, if I didn't have somebody out there alternately scaring the Bejeebus out of me, and then holding my hand and explaining exactly how I should live my life as I normally would, I would be a quivering mass of EVIL DUCK pâté. I offer this morning an outstanding terrorism safety instructional website, as graciously passed along to me by PBSTuna. I have to admit this was stomping the floor, tears rolling down my face funny, and it almost makes up for the Monday's Pachelbel "it's not my fault" Canon faux-pas. You see, our local PBS radio station has this unnatural affinity for Pachelbel's Canon and they feel compelled to share that love once every 24 hours. Not your fault? Uh huh. I believe you. Except not. I do, however, accept the offerings of Internet humor.
Candidate Roulette
Little Brother Tuna passed along this quiz that matches your personal and political views with those of the 2004 presidential campaign. I wasn't at all surprised to see the Shrub and the Oil Baron hugging the bottom of the pack, but can I tell you my horror at seeing Al Sharpton come in second? President of the United States? I think not. Guest host on Saturday Night Live? I'd vote for that.
Sign My Guestbook!
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
AMERICAN I-DON'T-THINK-SO
Where to begin with this trainwreck known as American Idol? So many comments, so little time. Let me try to pull together my thoughts....
The people were freaks and the singing stunk.
There, I said it. But I wish I didn't have to. I wish this concept of "talent show" worked. I wish it would lure unknown, deserving talent out of the woodwork, and give it the recognition it deserved. Instead, we were given a gaggle of goons that acted as if they were on a group outing from the home for the mentally and vocally unstable. Scat girl -- Scooter girl -- Chinese Rappers -- Military crackpots. You name it, they were there.
And yet, weren't they supposed to be? After all, the producers have to choose so few from so many to get their chance with Randy, Paula and Simon. If you have Average Joe Singer up against Scooter Girl who does back flips up and down the aisles, who would you pick? Who would viewers rather watch? That's right. Miss November Trainwreck.
So in parade the nutballs. Many of them have no discernable skill in music whatsoever. They have no sense of rhythm, pitch or any working knowledge of their instrument. This slays me. I might as well go be a designer on Trading Spaces. Have I studied interior design? No. Do I have any home improvement skills? No. Do I have any artistic/creative talent in regards to flooring, wall coverings or furniture? No. But I live IN a house, and the house has paint and furniture and other stuff. Good enough.
That's the logic of the American Idol contestant. No training or skills required. As long as their car, shower and/or pet doesn't complain, they must be destined for greatness. So they enter the audition room and wail away, caterwauling their doo-wah-ditty in the hopes that their dumb ditty-doo makes the cut.
After an appropriate length of agony has passed, the contestant generally fizzles out like a spent Fourth of July sparkler. All that's missing is the fwoooooshhhhhh! when you drown it in water. The judges look at each other, and whoever isn't laughing the hardest has to come up with something to say.
Here's the next problem. The judges hurl insults at the contestants. The contestants turn around and hurl insults at the judges. The judges complain that the contestants are rude, and they are only being truthful. The contestants complain that the judges don't know what they're talking about and ooooh won't they be sorry when they find out how WRONG they were.
Ahem. Although the judges are harsh, at least part of it is done strictly for the ratings. Who didn't laugh when he told the poor guy that he would have a hard time making the cut in "Kosovo Idol"? The judgest are paid big bucks to fling invectives because that's what sells. The audience loves to hear them. The same goes for the spew the contestants hurl back. I'm sure there is nothing in the application form about charm, etiquette, poise or politeness. Heck, washed out wannabees even have a separate room to speak their minds after the fact, no matter how blue. Not only does it allow the contestant a few final moments to reign as Cleopatra, Queen of de-nial, it gives the show additional opportunities to flash its logo while it bleeps each curse clean away.
But let me tell you about life in the real world. The real world of singers and teachers. The world of competitions and judges. It's hard. It's tough, and sometimes it's downright cruel. Singers study for years and years and hear criticism week in, week out. That is a teacher's job. It's what they are paid to do. The singer's job is to be quiet, listen and learn, or quite frankly they will be shown the door, and let me assure you, politeness is not required. Fairness doesn't matter. Singers get criticized from head to toe: Hair, clothing, shoes, foundation garments -- nothing is off limits. Singers are used to hearing words like "unacceptable", "bad", "poor", "do it again, do it again, do it again, do it again" on a weekly basis. It doesn't matter if you like the comments or not. You learn to keep your opinions to yourself, and do what you're told. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, if necessary. If you're lucky, you'll eventually get paid to sing. Talent has a lot to do with it, but so does knowing when to shut up, buckle down and work. There are a million singers out there, and being rude, unprofessional, unprepared or just plain old unqualified, can get you replaced faster than you can say Prima Donna. Ask Kathleen Battle. The Metropolitan Opera didn't care much for her antics and she was shown the door. Forever. It may have been harsh, but it was necessary.
What I'd really like to see from American Idol is more constructive criticism from the judges and more respect from the contestants. Maybe people might even learn something.
Sign My Guestbook!
Where to begin with this trainwreck known as American Idol? So many comments, so little time. Let me try to pull together my thoughts....
The people were freaks and the singing stunk.
There, I said it. But I wish I didn't have to. I wish this concept of "talent show" worked. I wish it would lure unknown, deserving talent out of the woodwork, and give it the recognition it deserved. Instead, we were given a gaggle of goons that acted as if they were on a group outing from the home for the mentally and vocally unstable. Scat girl -- Scooter girl -- Chinese Rappers -- Military crackpots. You name it, they were there.
And yet, weren't they supposed to be? After all, the producers have to choose so few from so many to get their chance with Randy, Paula and Simon. If you have Average Joe Singer up against Scooter Girl who does back flips up and down the aisles, who would you pick? Who would viewers rather watch? That's right. Miss November Trainwreck.
So in parade the nutballs. Many of them have no discernable skill in music whatsoever. They have no sense of rhythm, pitch or any working knowledge of their instrument. This slays me. I might as well go be a designer on Trading Spaces. Have I studied interior design? No. Do I have any home improvement skills? No. Do I have any artistic/creative talent in regards to flooring, wall coverings or furniture? No. But I live IN a house, and the house has paint and furniture and other stuff. Good enough.
That's the logic of the American Idol contestant. No training or skills required. As long as their car, shower and/or pet doesn't complain, they must be destined for greatness. So they enter the audition room and wail away, caterwauling their doo-wah-ditty in the hopes that their dumb ditty-doo makes the cut.
After an appropriate length of agony has passed, the contestant generally fizzles out like a spent Fourth of July sparkler. All that's missing is the fwoooooshhhhhh! when you drown it in water. The judges look at each other, and whoever isn't laughing the hardest has to come up with something to say.
Here's the next problem. The judges hurl insults at the contestants. The contestants turn around and hurl insults at the judges. The judges complain that the contestants are rude, and they are only being truthful. The contestants complain that the judges don't know what they're talking about and ooooh won't they be sorry when they find out how WRONG they were.
Ahem. Although the judges are harsh, at least part of it is done strictly for the ratings. Who didn't laugh when he told the poor guy that he would have a hard time making the cut in "Kosovo Idol"? The judgest are paid big bucks to fling invectives because that's what sells. The audience loves to hear them. The same goes for the spew the contestants hurl back. I'm sure there is nothing in the application form about charm, etiquette, poise or politeness. Heck, washed out wannabees even have a separate room to speak their minds after the fact, no matter how blue. Not only does it allow the contestant a few final moments to reign as Cleopatra, Queen of de-nial, it gives the show additional opportunities to flash its logo while it bleeps each curse clean away.
But let me tell you about life in the real world. The real world of singers and teachers. The world of competitions and judges. It's hard. It's tough, and sometimes it's downright cruel. Singers study for years and years and hear criticism week in, week out. That is a teacher's job. It's what they are paid to do. The singer's job is to be quiet, listen and learn, or quite frankly they will be shown the door, and let me assure you, politeness is not required. Fairness doesn't matter. Singers get criticized from head to toe: Hair, clothing, shoes, foundation garments -- nothing is off limits. Singers are used to hearing words like "unacceptable", "bad", "poor", "do it again, do it again, do it again, do it again" on a weekly basis. It doesn't matter if you like the comments or not. You learn to keep your opinions to yourself, and do what you're told. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, if necessary. If you're lucky, you'll eventually get paid to sing. Talent has a lot to do with it, but so does knowing when to shut up, buckle down and work. There are a million singers out there, and being rude, unprofessional, unprepared or just plain old unqualified, can get you replaced faster than you can say Prima Donna. Ask Kathleen Battle. The Metropolitan Opera didn't care much for her antics and she was shown the door. Forever. It may have been harsh, but it was necessary.
What I'd really like to see from American Idol is more constructive criticism from the judges and more respect from the contestants. Maybe people might even learn something.
Sign My Guestbook!
AMERICAN I-DON'T-THINK-SO
Where to begin with this trainwreck known as American Idol? So many comments, so little time. Let me try to pull together my thoughts....
The people were freaks and the singing stunk.
There, I said it. But I wish I didn't have to. I wish this concept of "talent show" worked. I wish it would lure unknown, deserving talent out of the woodwork, and give it the recognition it deserved. Instead, we were given a gaggle of goons that acted as if they were on a group outing from the home for the mentally and vocally unstable. Scat girl -- Scooter girl -- Chinese Rappers -- Military crackpots. You name it, they were there.
And yet, weren't they supposed to be? After all, the producers have to choose so few from so many to get their chance with Randy, Paula and Simon. If you have Average Joe Singer up against Scooter Girl who does back flips up and down the aisles, who would you pick? Who would viewers rather watch? That's right. Miss November Trainwreck.
So in parade the nutballs. Many of them have no discernable skill in music whatsoever. They have no sense of rhythm, pitch or any working knowledge of their instrument. This slays me. I might as well go be a designer on Trading Spaces. Have I studied interior design? No. Do I have any home improvement skills? No. Do I have any artistic/creative talent in regards to flooring, wall coverings or furniture? No. But I live IN a house, and the house has paint and furniture and other stuff. Good enough.
That's the logic of the American Idol contestant. No training or skills required. As long as their car, shower and/or pet doesn't complain, they must be destined for greatness. So they enter the audition room and wail away, caterwauling their doo-wah-ditty in the hopes that their dumb ditty-doo makes the cut.
After an appropriate length of agony has passed, the contestant generally fizzles out like a spent Fourth of July sparkler. All that's missing is the fwoooooshhhhhh! when you drown it in water. The judges look at each other, and whoever isn't laughing the hardest has to come up with something to say.
Here's the next problem. The judges hurl insults at the contestants. The contestants turn around and hurl insults at the judges. The judges complain that the contestants are rude, and they are only being truthful. The contestants complain that the judges don't know what they're talking about and ooooh won't they be sorry when they find out how WRONG they were.
Ahem. Although the judges are harsh, at least part of it is done strictly for the ratings. Who didn't laugh when he told the poor guy that he would have a hard time making the cut in "Kosovo Idol"? The judgest are paid big bucks to fling invectives because that's what sells. The audience loves to hear them. The same goes for the spew the contestants hurl back. I'm sure there is nothing in the application form about charm, etiquette, poise or politeness. Heck, washed out wannabees even have a separate room to speak their minds after the fact, no matter how blue. Not only does it allow the contestant a few final moments to reign as Cleopatra, Queen of de-nial, it gives the show additional opportunities to flash its logo while it bleeps each curse clean away.
But let me tell you about life in the real world. The real world of singers and teachers. The world of competitions and judges. It's hard. It's tough, and sometimes it's downright cruel. Singers study for years and years and hear criticism week in, week out. That is a teacher's job. It's what they are paid to do. The singer's job is to be quiet, listen and learn, or quite frankly they will be shown the door, and let me assure you, politeness is not required. Fairness doesn't matter. Singers get criticized from head to toe: Hair, clothing, shoes, foundation garments -- nothing is off limits. Singers are used to hearing words like "unacceptable", "bad", "poor", "do it again, do it again, do it again, do it again" on a weekly basis. It doesn't matter if you like the comments or not. You learn to keep your opinions to yourself, and do what you're told. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, if necessary. If you're lucky, you'll eventually get paid to sing. Talent has a lot to do with it, but so does knowing when to shut up, buckle down and work. There are a million singers out there, and being rude, unprofessional, unprepared or just plain old unqualified, can get you replaced faster than you can say Prima Donna. Ask Kathleen Battle. The Metropolitan Opera didn't care much for her antics and she was shown the door. Forever. It may have been harsh, but it was necessary.
What I'd really like to see from American Idol is more constructive criticism from the judges and more respect from the contestants. Maybe people might even learn something.
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Where to begin with this trainwreck known as American Idol? So many comments, so little time. Let me try to pull together my thoughts....
The people were freaks and the singing stunk.
There, I said it. But I wish I didn't have to. I wish this concept of "talent show" worked. I wish it would lure unknown, deserving talent out of the woodwork, and give it the recognition it deserved. Instead, we were given a gaggle of goons that acted as if they were on a group outing from the home for the mentally and vocally unstable. Scat girl -- Scooter girl -- Chinese Rappers -- Military crackpots. You name it, they were there.
And yet, weren't they supposed to be? After all, the producers have to choose so few from so many to get their chance with Randy, Paula and Simon. If you have Average Joe Singer up against Scooter Girl who does back flips up and down the aisles, who would you pick? Who would viewers rather watch? That's right. Miss November Trainwreck.
So in parade the nutballs. Many of them have no discernable skill in music whatsoever. They have no sense of rhythm, pitch or any working knowledge of their instrument. This slays me. I might as well go be a designer on Trading Spaces. Have I studied interior design? No. Do I have any home improvement skills? No. Do I have any artistic/creative talent in regards to flooring, wall coverings or furniture? No. But I live IN a house, and the house has paint and furniture and other stuff. Good enough.
That's the logic of the American Idol contestant. No training or skills required. As long as their car, shower and/or pet doesn't complain, they must be destined for greatness. So they enter the audition room and wail away, caterwauling their doo-wah-ditty in the hopes that their dumb ditty-doo makes the cut.
After an appropriate length of agony has passed, the contestant generally fizzles out like a spent Fourth of July sparkler. All that's missing is the fwoooooshhhhhh! when you drown it in water. The judges look at each other, and whoever isn't laughing the hardest has to come up with something to say.
Here's the next problem. The judges hurl insults at the contestants. The contestants turn around and hurl insults at the judges. The judges complain that the contestants are rude, and they are only being truthful. The contestants complain that the judges don't know what they're talking about and ooooh won't they be sorry when they find out how WRONG they were.
Ahem. Although the judges are harsh, at least part of it is done strictly for the ratings. Who didn't laugh when he told the poor guy that he would have a hard time making the cut in "Kosovo Idol"? The judgest are paid big bucks to fling invectives because that's what sells. The audience loves to hear them. The same goes for the spew the contestants hurl back. I'm sure there is nothing in the application form about charm, etiquette, poise or politeness. Heck, washed out wannabees even have a separate room to speak their minds after the fact, no matter how blue. Not only does it allow the contestant a few final moments to reign as Cleopatra, Queen of de-nial, it gives the show additional opportunities to flash its logo while it bleeps each curse clean away.
But let me tell you about life in the real world. The real world of singers and teachers. The world of competitions and judges. It's hard. It's tough, and sometimes it's downright cruel. Singers study for years and years and hear criticism week in, week out. That is a teacher's job. It's what they are paid to do. The singer's job is to be quiet, listen and learn, or quite frankly they will be shown the door, and let me assure you, politeness is not required. Fairness doesn't matter. Singers get criticized from head to toe: Hair, clothing, shoes, foundation garments -- nothing is off limits. Singers are used to hearing words like "unacceptable", "bad", "poor", "do it again, do it again, do it again, do it again" on a weekly basis. It doesn't matter if you like the comments or not. You learn to keep your opinions to yourself, and do what you're told. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, if necessary. If you're lucky, you'll eventually get paid to sing. Talent has a lot to do with it, but so does knowing when to shut up, buckle down and work. There are a million singers out there, and being rude, unprofessional, unprepared or just plain old unqualified, can get you replaced faster than you can say Prima Donna. Ask Kathleen Battle. The Metropolitan Opera didn't care much for her antics and she was shown the door. Forever. It may have been harsh, but it was necessary.
What I'd really like to see from American Idol is more constructive criticism from the judges and more respect from the contestants. Maybe people might even learn something.
Sign My Guestbook!
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