Winter 1998...Chicago Athletic Club...Round Two of the Scrabble Tournament...
My team won its first-round game against the young copywriters from the Leo Burnett ad agency, but our second-round opponent promised to be more formidable. We were going up against the editors of Playboy magazine.
Think what you will of Playboy, but the fact is their magazine had a reputation for publishing high-quality fiction and nonfiction. Now we were about to sit down across a Scrabble board from their jet-setting editors. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was pretty sure it would be either a trio of bunnies in horn-rimmed glasses or Hugh Hefner himself with two of his girlfriends as teammates. In any case, it was going to take all of our powers of concentration to focus on the game. We steeled ourselves and we went to face our opponents...and soon found ourselves sitting opposite three of the nerdiest twenty-somethings you ever saw.
"You're the editors of Playboy?" I asked.
"Well, not the editors," said the lone female editor.
"But we do a lot of the editing," said one of the guys.
"Yeah, a lot," said the other guy.
"Okay," I said. "Let's play."
They were tough opponents, and they quickly had us on the ropes. And the further into the game we got, I noticed my teammates were relying more and more on me to come up with words.
Midway through the game, our opponents put down WRINKLE and picked up 50 bonus points for using all of their letters. They high-fived each other, adjusted their glasses and sat back to watch us squirm. We were down by 45 points and looking at this rack: AEORRSV.
"There's got to be something we can do with this," I said. If nothing else, we could make WRINKLES. I started moving the tiles around...VARROES...VAROSER...REVAROS...
Eventually, I came to RESAVOR AND SAVORER.
"Those aren't real words, are they?" said one of my teammates.
"I'm not 100 percent sure, but I think so," I said.
We debated for a few moments which one to play. In the end, I was slightly more comfortable with SAVORER. I explained to my teammates, "You can put an 'ER' on almost any verb and define it as 'One who does whatever.'" So we played SAVORER.
The Playboy editors examined the word. "Savorer," said one of them. "One who savors. Nice play." We got points for SAVORER, points for WRINKLES, plus 50 points for using all of our letters. We never looked back after that, and soon we were saying good-bye to the editors of Playboy magazine and moving on to the next round.
There was a bit of intermission first though, so we took a break and had another round of cocktails. I was standing next to one of the big open-hearth fireplaces at the Chicago Athletic Club, swirling my Beefeater and tonic, recounting the SAVORER/RESAVOR dilemma and our ultimate victory to anyone who would listen when we heard this announcement: "The National Scrabble Champion has graciously agreed to an exhibition to raise additional funds for the Chicago Lighthouse," said the announcer. "The Champion will take on any and all comers in a mini-game of Scrabble for a donation of $20 per entrant." I don't know if it was the gin or the endorphins from my recent victory, but the announcer had no sooner put down the microphone than I blurted out, "I'll play him!"
There was a round of applause and I was simultaneously congratulated and ushered across the room to the registration table again where I paid my $20 and gave my name. While one of the organizers was taking my money and putting my name at the top of the list of challengers, I looked over at the Champ. He was standing off to the side of the registration table. In his hand was a club soda with a twist of lemon. On his face was a smug smile. And by his side were a half dozen of the best-spelling women in Illinois. I suddenly felt very overmatched. The organizer took my $20.
"Where do I go now?" I asked.
"Let me sign up the others, then we'll get started," she said.
I looked behind me. There were a dozen other people waiting to sign up for the challenge.
"Looks like you have time to 'resavor' the moment," said the Champ. His entourage of spelling-bee queens buzzed with laughter.
I searched my brain for a witty retort. "Yeah," I said. And then I retreated to the men's room to gather my wits.
Walking into the men's room at the Chicago Athletic Club is like walking back in time. You can pull a comb out of a jar of blue disinfectant and comb your hair. You can refresh yourself with a splash of Pinaud Clubman After Shave Lotion or Clubman Citrus Musk Eau de Cologne. And best of all, you can pee into a urinal full of crushed ice.
I don't know whose job it was to keep the urinals full of crushed ice, but if he had been present, I would have thanked him. There's just something about melting some ice that restores a man's confidence. I finished up, washed my hands, splashed on some Clubman Citrus Musk and went back out to face the National Scrabble Champion.
[Next time: The third and final chapter of the Scrabble saga, in which a little voice inside his head helps Mike find the right word, and the Scrabble Champ teeters on the edge of defeat...]
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
My Encounter With "The Greatest"
I know I promised "Scrabble Memories - Part Two" -- and it's coming. But first, this (inspired by my friend, Stephen Parrish):
In 1977, I had a summer job as a bank teller at Citizens' Fidelity Bank in Louisville. My uncle was a vice president at the bank ("Citizens' Infidelity" he used to call it, and he liked to point out that almost everybody who worked at a bank got to be a vice president), and he helped me get the job. It was a good gig. The bank had 50-some-odd branches spread out around town, and my job was to fill in for other tellers when they went on vacation.
Some branches were better than others. Some were worse. Nice thing was that everywhere I went, they were glad to see me because I was extra help. And I had some memorable stays. I had been at the drive-through branch out on Dixie Highway, the main road going southwest out of Louisville toward Fort Knox, for about a week -- long enough to start to bond with some of my coworkers. Then one day in August, we got the news about Elvis' death. That was a rough day. Not so much for me -- I liked Elvis well enough, but I wasn't his biggest fan -- but for the female tellers between the ages of 30 and 50 (which was all of them). It was the worst day of their lives so far. You never saw so much crying. It was rough for me because I was the only one who could keep it together enough to wait on customers that day.
Toward the end of the summer, I was at the branch at Broadway and Fourth Street, Louisville's main downtown intersection. Despite its premier location, the branch was rather nondescript. And the manager was a crabby, balding, middle-aged guy. All business. Which was fine. I was just winding down the time until I returned to college that fall. I just wanted to finish out the week and get going. Then something extraordinary happened.
It was business as usual on a Friday afternoon when I looked up and saw someone coming in the main entrance. Not just any someone though. It was Muhammad Ali. You would never know he was one of the most famous people in the world though. He entered quietly...very unassuming...no entourage...and stepped up to one of the teller windows. He asked if he could cash a check. The teller was flustered. It was Muhammad Ali...and he wanted to cash a check...but it wasn't a Citizens' Fidelity account. The teller said, "Of course...I'll just need to get the manager's approval."
The crabby middle-aged manager was already hovering nearby, smiling and hoping there might be a reason for him to step in -- it was Muhammad Ali, for Christ's sake! The manager was apprised of the situation, and said, "Of course...I'll just need to call the main office and get it approved." Muhammad Ali had a seat at the branch manager's desk while the manager called the main office.
It was then that I made my move. I wasn't supposed to do this, but I didn't want to miss the opportunity. I put up my "closed" sign, locked my drawer, left the teller area and went out into the lobby. I walked straight over to Muhammad Ali while the manager was on the phone, stuck out my hand and said, "I'd just like to shake hands with the Greatest."
Muhammad Ali said, "Why thank you, son." Then he smiled and shook my hand.
The manager got off the phone. "It's no problem, Mr. Ali -- or is it Mr. Muhammad? In any case, we will be happy to cash your check."
No kidding, I was thinking. His signature is probably worth more than the stupid check anyway.
The branch manager escorted Muhammad Ali back over to the teller windows to cash the check. The manager and the tellers were all pleased as punch to be cashing a check for Muhammad Ali -- now that it had been approved by the main office. Muhammad Ali was very gracious. And before we knew it, he was on his way out the door, and the Broadway branch was back to being its nondescript self.
I later learned that the reason Muhammad Ali came into our branch to cash a check that day was because he was shopping at the store next door. He decided to buy a fur coat for his wife -- but they wouldn't take his check. So he came into our bank to see if he could cash a check, where despite the assurances of everyone that "of course!" he could, I actually don't think the odds were better than 50/50. Fortunately, somebody as the main office had the good sense to realize that it was embarrassing enough -- to the bank, to Louisville and to our nation -- that Muhammad Ali had to come in, hat in hand, and ask if he could cash a check. Imagine how much more embarrassing it would have been to all involved had somebody said, "No." So I'm glad it turned out the way it did. Muhammad Ali cashed his check, then went back to the furrier and bought his wife a fur.
But a lot of things bothered me about that day. The obvious things bothered me, of course. That a stupid shop owner would refuse to take Muhammad Ali's check. And that a stupid branch manager would have to call the main office to get approval to cash the check. But beyond that, I wondered why Muhammad Ali put up with all of it. Why did he shop at a store that wasn't thrilled to have him as a customer? And why did he go into a bank that wasn't thrilled to serve him? And probably most of all, why did he go back to the shop after he cashed his check at the bank and buy something from a place that essentially refused to serve him? And on top of all that, why did Muhammad Ali put himself in a position where he would have to seek permission and approval of white authority figures? Couldn't he have gone into the store with a credit card? Or cash? Or have somebody do his shopping for him?
At first, those seem impossible questions to answer. But having grown up in Louisville myself, I know the answer. Muhammad Ali may be one of the most famous people in the world, but we never forget our roots. And the fact is, he was born and raised in Louisville, where black people -- even Muhammad Ali -- expected (and were expected) to seek the permission and approval of white authority figures. That's the way it was the day Muhammad Ali wanted to buy a gift for his wife...that's the way it was every day leading up to that day...and sadly, it's still too much that way in Louisville -- and in way too many other places -- to this day.
In 1977, I had a summer job as a bank teller at Citizens' Fidelity Bank in Louisville. My uncle was a vice president at the bank ("Citizens' Infidelity" he used to call it, and he liked to point out that almost everybody who worked at a bank got to be a vice president), and he helped me get the job. It was a good gig. The bank had 50-some-odd branches spread out around town, and my job was to fill in for other tellers when they went on vacation.
Some branches were better than others. Some were worse. Nice thing was that everywhere I went, they were glad to see me because I was extra help. And I had some memorable stays. I had been at the drive-through branch out on Dixie Highway, the main road going southwest out of Louisville toward Fort Knox, for about a week -- long enough to start to bond with some of my coworkers. Then one day in August, we got the news about Elvis' death. That was a rough day. Not so much for me -- I liked Elvis well enough, but I wasn't his biggest fan -- but for the female tellers between the ages of 30 and 50 (which was all of them). It was the worst day of their lives so far. You never saw so much crying. It was rough for me because I was the only one who could keep it together enough to wait on customers that day.
Toward the end of the summer, I was at the branch at Broadway and Fourth Street, Louisville's main downtown intersection. Despite its premier location, the branch was rather nondescript. And the manager was a crabby, balding, middle-aged guy. All business. Which was fine. I was just winding down the time until I returned to college that fall. I just wanted to finish out the week and get going. Then something extraordinary happened.
It was business as usual on a Friday afternoon when I looked up and saw someone coming in the main entrance. Not just any someone though. It was Muhammad Ali. You would never know he was one of the most famous people in the world though. He entered quietly...very unassuming...no entourage...and stepped up to one of the teller windows. He asked if he could cash a check. The teller was flustered. It was Muhammad Ali...and he wanted to cash a check...but it wasn't a Citizens' Fidelity account. The teller said, "Of course...I'll just need to get the manager's approval."
The crabby middle-aged manager was already hovering nearby, smiling and hoping there might be a reason for him to step in -- it was Muhammad Ali, for Christ's sake! The manager was apprised of the situation, and said, "Of course...I'll just need to call the main office and get it approved." Muhammad Ali had a seat at the branch manager's desk while the manager called the main office.
It was then that I made my move. I wasn't supposed to do this, but I didn't want to miss the opportunity. I put up my "closed" sign, locked my drawer, left the teller area and went out into the lobby. I walked straight over to Muhammad Ali while the manager was on the phone, stuck out my hand and said, "I'd just like to shake hands with the Greatest."
Muhammad Ali said, "Why thank you, son." Then he smiled and shook my hand.
The manager got off the phone. "It's no problem, Mr. Ali -- or is it Mr. Muhammad? In any case, we will be happy to cash your check."
No kidding, I was thinking. His signature is probably worth more than the stupid check anyway.
The branch manager escorted Muhammad Ali back over to the teller windows to cash the check. The manager and the tellers were all pleased as punch to be cashing a check for Muhammad Ali -- now that it had been approved by the main office. Muhammad Ali was very gracious. And before we knew it, he was on his way out the door, and the Broadway branch was back to being its nondescript self.
I later learned that the reason Muhammad Ali came into our branch to cash a check that day was because he was shopping at the store next door. He decided to buy a fur coat for his wife -- but they wouldn't take his check. So he came into our bank to see if he could cash a check, where despite the assurances of everyone that "of course!" he could, I actually don't think the odds were better than 50/50. Fortunately, somebody as the main office had the good sense to realize that it was embarrassing enough -- to the bank, to Louisville and to our nation -- that Muhammad Ali had to come in, hat in hand, and ask if he could cash a check. Imagine how much more embarrassing it would have been to all involved had somebody said, "No." So I'm glad it turned out the way it did. Muhammad Ali cashed his check, then went back to the furrier and bought his wife a fur.
But a lot of things bothered me about that day. The obvious things bothered me, of course. That a stupid shop owner would refuse to take Muhammad Ali's check. And that a stupid branch manager would have to call the main office to get approval to cash the check. But beyond that, I wondered why Muhammad Ali put up with all of it. Why did he shop at a store that wasn't thrilled to have him as a customer? And why did he go into a bank that wasn't thrilled to serve him? And probably most of all, why did he go back to the shop after he cashed his check at the bank and buy something from a place that essentially refused to serve him? And on top of all that, why did Muhammad Ali put himself in a position where he would have to seek permission and approval of white authority figures? Couldn't he have gone into the store with a credit card? Or cash? Or have somebody do his shopping for him?
At first, those seem impossible questions to answer. But having grown up in Louisville myself, I know the answer. Muhammad Ali may be one of the most famous people in the world, but we never forget our roots. And the fact is, he was born and raised in Louisville, where black people -- even Muhammad Ali -- expected (and were expected) to seek the permission and approval of white authority figures. That's the way it was the day Muhammad Ali wanted to buy a gift for his wife...that's the way it was every day leading up to that day...and sadly, it's still too much that way in Louisville -- and in way too many other places -- to this day.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Scrabble Memories - Part One
It was January 1998 and I found myself a passenger in a car hurtling across a wintry Midwestern landscape en route to downtown Chicago where I had an appointment with destiny. Yes, my coworkers from the Northern Illinois Gas corporate communications department and I were on our way to play in the big charity fundraiser Scrabble tournament in the hoity-toity digs of the Chicago Athletic Club on Michigan Avenue. Little did I know that before the night was over, I would test my mettle in a head-to-head competition against the reigning National Scrabble Champion. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
I’m not exactly sure how I got into this thing. I was not a big Scrabble player. I had played enough, I suppose, mostly when on vacation visiting my friends, John and Julie, out in Idaho, where Scrabble made for a fun and relaxing after-dinner activity. John was an English professor and Julie is a freelance writer/editor, so they were excellent opponents. Beyond that, I played a few friendly games now and then, but I had never been in a tournament. Not even close. But this was a charity fundraiser for the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind, and my boss got the company to sponsor a team, so there I was.
When we entered the Chicago Athletic Club, it was everything you would expect of an exclusive and historic downtown men’s athletic club. Doormen greeted us and held open the lead-glass doors. The lobby consisted of marble floors, heavy dark paneling, a 30-foot-high ornamental ceiling, sparkling chandeliers and hushed tones. We were led to a bank of elevators and then taken up to the fourth floor, which was decorated like the interior of a British country manor…timbered ceilings, oriental rugs, fireplaces wide enough to hang a hammock, overstuffed chairs in comfortably worn leather, and settees covered in elegant but manly silk fabric of deep maroons and dark greens reminiscent of a jungle somewhere in the far reaches of the British Empire. I ordered a Beefeater and tonic and mingled while participants registered for the tournament.
I was chatting up the team from the Tribune Company when there was a major hubbub at the entrance. I made my way over and realized what was going on: The event’s guest of honor, the National Scrabble Champion, had arrived. He was an unimposing fellow…early 30s, about 5’8”, modest smile, neatly trimmed black hair that went a little too far down the back of his neck…but he was quickly surrounded by a bevy of blushing Scrabble beauties. Yes, it was mostly low heels and there may have been a little too much polyester involved – and I’m almost positive they all wore glasses – but there was no mistaking the pheromones in the air. The Scrabble Champ was in the house, and it was every articulate woman for herself.
Once the hubbub of the Champ’s grand entrance subsided, the tournament organizers got on the public address system to officially welcome everyone, go over a few ground rules and get the tournament started. We were playing in teams of three, and we would work our way up the ladder in a single-elimination tournament until we had a winner.
My teammates and I had an easy time of it in our first match – an overmatched trio of young copywriters from the Leo Burnett Agency. That will teach them to send children to do a senior account manager’s job. But I was worried when I was informed of our next opponent: the editors of Playboy Magazine.
[Next posting: Part 2 of “Scrabble Memories,” in which Mike faces Hugh Hefner’s best and brightest, and in an unexpected turn of events, finds himself going one-on-one against the National Champion.]
I’m not exactly sure how I got into this thing. I was not a big Scrabble player. I had played enough, I suppose, mostly when on vacation visiting my friends, John and Julie, out in Idaho, where Scrabble made for a fun and relaxing after-dinner activity. John was an English professor and Julie is a freelance writer/editor, so they were excellent opponents. Beyond that, I played a few friendly games now and then, but I had never been in a tournament. Not even close. But this was a charity fundraiser for the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind, and my boss got the company to sponsor a team, so there I was.
When we entered the Chicago Athletic Club, it was everything you would expect of an exclusive and historic downtown men’s athletic club. Doormen greeted us and held open the lead-glass doors. The lobby consisted of marble floors, heavy dark paneling, a 30-foot-high ornamental ceiling, sparkling chandeliers and hushed tones. We were led to a bank of elevators and then taken up to the fourth floor, which was decorated like the interior of a British country manor…timbered ceilings, oriental rugs, fireplaces wide enough to hang a hammock, overstuffed chairs in comfortably worn leather, and settees covered in elegant but manly silk fabric of deep maroons and dark greens reminiscent of a jungle somewhere in the far reaches of the British Empire. I ordered a Beefeater and tonic and mingled while participants registered for the tournament.
I was chatting up the team from the Tribune Company when there was a major hubbub at the entrance. I made my way over and realized what was going on: The event’s guest of honor, the National Scrabble Champion, had arrived. He was an unimposing fellow…early 30s, about 5’8”, modest smile, neatly trimmed black hair that went a little too far down the back of his neck…but he was quickly surrounded by a bevy of blushing Scrabble beauties. Yes, it was mostly low heels and there may have been a little too much polyester involved – and I’m almost positive they all wore glasses – but there was no mistaking the pheromones in the air. The Scrabble Champ was in the house, and it was every articulate woman for herself.
Once the hubbub of the Champ’s grand entrance subsided, the tournament organizers got on the public address system to officially welcome everyone, go over a few ground rules and get the tournament started. We were playing in teams of three, and we would work our way up the ladder in a single-elimination tournament until we had a winner.
My teammates and I had an easy time of it in our first match – an overmatched trio of young copywriters from the Leo Burnett Agency. That will teach them to send children to do a senior account manager’s job. But I was worried when I was informed of our next opponent: the editors of Playboy Magazine.
[Next posting: Part 2 of “Scrabble Memories,” in which Mike faces Hugh Hefner’s best and brightest, and in an unexpected turn of events, finds himself going one-on-one against the National Champion.]
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Video Generation?
I'm working with a friend on a short video based on an essay I published a few years ago. It's been eye-opening in a lot of ways. I always liked this particular essay, and was gratified when an editor liked it enough to publish it, but I never gave it much thought beyond that. Then, after my friend told me about some work he was doing with short videos and urged me to consider it, I decided to give it a try. I first made what I consider a "demo" video on my own, using animoto.com. (If you haven't heard of animoto.com, you just got your money's worth out of this posting. It's an amazing online service that will let you make really good videos for only THREE DOLLARS! Check it out.) I took the animoto video to my friend and said, "How about something like this?" He watched it, then told me he thought it was a great story and said he would work with me to make a professional quality video.
Now here's the interesting thing: My friend had read this essay years ago, but it didn't excite him the way the three-minute video version of the same story did. Interesting, huh? So what do I conclude from this? Well, I suppose it would be easy to conclude that we are well into the video generation(s), where a lot of people simply prefer video to the written word. Or one could conclude that "generations" have nothing to do with it...some people are just more visual than others and would rather see images than read words. But I know my friend is also an avid reader. So here's another possibility: Maybe I did a better job of telling the story in the video than I did in the essay. For starters, I had to cut about 75 percent of the words, so I can guarantee you that I got rid of any fat. One of Kurt Vonnegut's rules for short story writing is, "Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action." I think I made Vonnegut proud. In the end, we were examining every WORD, let alone every sentence. Interestingly, I kept some words because they slowed down the action to a pace that was more appropriate for the story. Combine the tight story telling with the appropriate images and a moving piece of music by composer/performer McKenzie Stubbert (licensed for a only a few dollars on rumblefish.com), and the result is a pretty powerful video. As soon as we're done with edits, I'll post the video here along with the original essay to see what you think. Meantime, check out animoto.com. Technology is an amazing thing!
Now here's the interesting thing: My friend had read this essay years ago, but it didn't excite him the way the three-minute video version of the same story did. Interesting, huh? So what do I conclude from this? Well, I suppose it would be easy to conclude that we are well into the video generation(s), where a lot of people simply prefer video to the written word. Or one could conclude that "generations" have nothing to do with it...some people are just more visual than others and would rather see images than read words. But I know my friend is also an avid reader. So here's another possibility: Maybe I did a better job of telling the story in the video than I did in the essay. For starters, I had to cut about 75 percent of the words, so I can guarantee you that I got rid of any fat. One of Kurt Vonnegut's rules for short story writing is, "Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action." I think I made Vonnegut proud. In the end, we were examining every WORD, let alone every sentence. Interestingly, I kept some words because they slowed down the action to a pace that was more appropriate for the story. Combine the tight story telling with the appropriate images and a moving piece of music by composer/performer McKenzie Stubbert (licensed for a only a few dollars on rumblefish.com), and the result is a pretty powerful video. As soon as we're done with edits, I'll post the video here along with the original essay to see what you think. Meantime, check out animoto.com. Technology is an amazing thing!
Friday, January 23, 2009
My Southern Blog-Post
I need help. I'm sure that's true in a lot of ways, but today I'm thinking in terms of two specific things.
The first is that I need help in determining where I'm from. I know I grew up in Louisville. That's not the issue. The question is whether Louisville is a Southern city or a Midwestern city. When I was growing up there, I always thought Louisville was part of the South. Maybe a little less so than the rest of Kentucky, but still a Southern city. Then I moved to Boston when I was 15, and my Southern accent confirmed that I was definitely from the South. But later in life, as I've returned to Louisville to visit, and as the city has evolved from a blue-collar, redneck town of cigarette factories and whiskey distilleries to a regional banking and medical center, I became conscious of the fact that Louisville was trying to change its image. Today, I think there are a lot of people in Louisville who would say they are from the Midwest. So in your opinion, is Louisville part of the South or part of the Midwest?
Regardless of your answer about Louisville, my second question will probably leave little doubt as to whether or not I'm a Southern boy. For a long time now, I've been fascinated by compound nouns. Not just any compound nouns, but the redundant compound nouns that seem to be common in the South. Is there really any doubt about where somebody is from when they ask, "Can I borrow your ink-pen?" Of course, when I was younger, I didn't usually use an ink-pen. I had a lead-pencil. And I grew up across the street from a kid named Paul-David. After school, Paul-David cleaned the blackboards with a chalk-eraser. His daddy worked on car-engines. On weekends his family went to visit his grandma-mother. At night he had sleep-dreams. When he studied for a test he used his think-brain. When I think back on it all I want to shriek-scream. Anyway, I'm collecting redundant compound nouns, so if you know any, please send me an e-mail message so I can put them on my blog-post.
The first is that I need help in determining where I'm from. I know I grew up in Louisville. That's not the issue. The question is whether Louisville is a Southern city or a Midwestern city. When I was growing up there, I always thought Louisville was part of the South. Maybe a little less so than the rest of Kentucky, but still a Southern city. Then I moved to Boston when I was 15, and my Southern accent confirmed that I was definitely from the South. But later in life, as I've returned to Louisville to visit, and as the city has evolved from a blue-collar, redneck town of cigarette factories and whiskey distilleries to a regional banking and medical center, I became conscious of the fact that Louisville was trying to change its image. Today, I think there are a lot of people in Louisville who would say they are from the Midwest. So in your opinion, is Louisville part of the South or part of the Midwest?
Regardless of your answer about Louisville, my second question will probably leave little doubt as to whether or not I'm a Southern boy. For a long time now, I've been fascinated by compound nouns. Not just any compound nouns, but the redundant compound nouns that seem to be common in the South. Is there really any doubt about where somebody is from when they ask, "Can I borrow your ink-pen?" Of course, when I was younger, I didn't usually use an ink-pen. I had a lead-pencil. And I grew up across the street from a kid named Paul-David. After school, Paul-David cleaned the blackboards with a chalk-eraser. His daddy worked on car-engines. On weekends his family went to visit his grandma-mother. At night he had sleep-dreams. When he studied for a test he used his think-brain. When I think back on it all I want to shriek-scream. Anyway, I'm collecting redundant compound nouns, so if you know any, please send me an e-mail message so I can put them on my blog-post.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Maybe It's Safe to Come Out Now, Again
Years ago, I wrote an op-ed piece for the Cleveland Plain Dealer titled, “Maybe It’s Safe to Come Out Now.” I wrote it at the end of 12 years of rule by “The Great Communicator” and “Bush the Lesser,” and on the eve of the inauguration of a Democratic president. I’d have to dig up a copy to see exactly how the op-ed piece went, but the title pretty well sums it up: Like a groundhog checking for its shadow, I poked my head out in 1992 and determined that maybe it was safe to come out.
The feeling today is much the same…magnified by the persona of a new president who brings with him more hope than even the last super-bright, super-hopeful Democratic president…further heightened by the stark contrast to the dim bulbs of the departing administration of “Bush the Least” (better stay close to home, fellas; there are people out there in the world chompin' to try you as war criminals)…but then tempered dramatically by the swirling, toxic vat of global economic woes, global religious conflicts, global warming (why do we not collectively respond with uncontrollable pants pooping when scientists tell us that 25% of the world’s plant and animal species could be extinct by 2050?), peak oil, Israeli/Palestinian tensions, Indian/Pakistani tensions, U.S./Iraqi tensions, U.S./Afghani tensions, U.S./Iranian tensions, U.S./Venezuelan tensions (don’t those U.S. folks get along with anybody?), Russian/Ukrainian tensions, Russian/Georgian tensions, Chinese/Rest-of-the-World tensions, (thank God for the Russians and Chinese; they always make us look good: “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”), etc., etc.
Net-net: All said and done, I’m feeling somewhat more hopeful than yesterday. Enough so to put away that DVD of “Groundhog Day” that I’ve been watching over and over for the last eight years and emerge into the bright, hopeful new world that we now live in. First order of business: Get 80% off a new digital camera at the Circuit City going-out-of-business sale and take some pictures of all those plants and animals that are about to go extinct.
Congratulations, Barack. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.
The feeling today is much the same…magnified by the persona of a new president who brings with him more hope than even the last super-bright, super-hopeful Democratic president…further heightened by the stark contrast to the dim bulbs of the departing administration of “Bush the Least” (better stay close to home, fellas; there are people out there in the world chompin' to try you as war criminals)…but then tempered dramatically by the swirling, toxic vat of global economic woes, global religious conflicts, global warming (why do we not collectively respond with uncontrollable pants pooping when scientists tell us that 25% of the world’s plant and animal species could be extinct by 2050?), peak oil, Israeli/Palestinian tensions, Indian/Pakistani tensions, U.S./Iraqi tensions, U.S./Afghani tensions, U.S./Iranian tensions, U.S./Venezuelan tensions (don’t those U.S. folks get along with anybody?), Russian/Ukrainian tensions, Russian/Georgian tensions, Chinese/Rest-of-the-World tensions, (thank God for the Russians and Chinese; they always make us look good: “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”), etc., etc.
Net-net: All said and done, I’m feeling somewhat more hopeful than yesterday. Enough so to put away that DVD of “Groundhog Day” that I’ve been watching over and over for the last eight years and emerge into the bright, hopeful new world that we now live in. First order of business: Get 80% off a new digital camera at the Circuit City going-out-of-business sale and take some pictures of all those plants and animals that are about to go extinct.
Congratulations, Barack. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Facebook Loses Face
A few weeks ago, after hearing about the wonders of Facebook from my girlfriend and my daughter, I decided to give it a try. It was an amusing (if not information-overloading) way to pass the time, and I did, in fact, connect with some people I hadn't seen or heard from in quite a while. I also found it gratifying that my daughter accepted me as one of her "friends" on Facebook, as did my niece and nephew -- both of whom had declined an invitation from their mother (my sister) to become her "friend." I also got my somewhat skeptical mother ("Isn't Facebook for young people?") to join, and simultaneously advised/threatened my niece and nephew to accept their grandmother's invitation to be her friend if she invited them to do so.
Anyway, all was well in the Facebook world -- until last week when my Facebook "friends" received a notice that I had changed my email address to lyndel_james6@verizonmail.com. Some friends thought it was me just goofing around. It wasn't. It was an unauthorized change to my account. As a result, I have been locked out of my Facebook account for about a week, while somebody named "Lyndel James6" presumably has control of it. I contacted Facebook to let them know of the apparent snafu. (BTW, Facebook doesn't do customer service over the phone. You have to write to them via email and wait for them to respond.) It's been three emails from me and a week now, and Facebook still hasn't responded. The whole matter was somewhat frustrating and annoying, but not terribly urgent. Friends (real friends in the real world) were monitoring my Facebook page and communications for me, and not much was happening. Until today.
Today started with a phone call from my niece in Pennsylvania. Her voicemail went something like this: "Hi, Uncle Mike. Wanted to let you know that I got an email about you today that said you had died in London. I figured out it was bogus because I knew you weren't in London, but then when I closed the email, my computer kind of went crazy, so I think there was a virus attached to the bogus email. Just wanted to let you know!" A short while later, I got an email from my daughter telling me that she and several other people on Facebook had received a message from me (aka Lyndel James6) saying that I was stranded in London and needed money (because I was "in deep shit after Christmas").
As you might guess, both messages were bogus (the one about needing money a little less so than the one about being dead, but bogus nonetheless), and I have spent most of the day today writing to family and friends to let them know that I'm not dead and that I don't need money -- but if they do feel inclined to send money, please send it to the real Mike O'Mary and not to my friend, Lyndel.
All of this serves to remind me that while virtual communities like Facebook are, for the most part, good clean fun, there's still something to be said for old-fashioned face-to-face communication. Lyndel isn't fooling anybody as it is. He'd have an even more difficult time showing up at the homes of my family and friends and trying to pass himself off as me.
On the other hand, maybe some of them would welcome the change...
Anyway, all was well in the Facebook world -- until last week when my Facebook "friends" received a notice that I had changed my email address to lyndel_james6@verizonmail.com. Some friends thought it was me just goofing around. It wasn't. It was an unauthorized change to my account. As a result, I have been locked out of my Facebook account for about a week, while somebody named "Lyndel James6" presumably has control of it. I contacted Facebook to let them know of the apparent snafu. (BTW, Facebook doesn't do customer service over the phone. You have to write to them via email and wait for them to respond.) It's been three emails from me and a week now, and Facebook still hasn't responded. The whole matter was somewhat frustrating and annoying, but not terribly urgent. Friends (real friends in the real world) were monitoring my Facebook page and communications for me, and not much was happening. Until today.
Today started with a phone call from my niece in Pennsylvania. Her voicemail went something like this: "Hi, Uncle Mike. Wanted to let you know that I got an email about you today that said you had died in London. I figured out it was bogus because I knew you weren't in London, but then when I closed the email, my computer kind of went crazy, so I think there was a virus attached to the bogus email. Just wanted to let you know!" A short while later, I got an email from my daughter telling me that she and several other people on Facebook had received a message from me (aka Lyndel James6) saying that I was stranded in London and needed money (because I was "in deep shit after Christmas").
As you might guess, both messages were bogus (the one about needing money a little less so than the one about being dead, but bogus nonetheless), and I have spent most of the day today writing to family and friends to let them know that I'm not dead and that I don't need money -- but if they do feel inclined to send money, please send it to the real Mike O'Mary and not to my friend, Lyndel.
All of this serves to remind me that while virtual communities like Facebook are, for the most part, good clean fun, there's still something to be said for old-fashioned face-to-face communication. Lyndel isn't fooling anybody as it is. He'd have an even more difficult time showing up at the homes of my family and friends and trying to pass himself off as me.
On the other hand, maybe some of them would welcome the change...
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