Stairway To Heaven - The Beatnix

My Driving Average

The excitement of driving a roofed car is nearly extinct for me, a victim of repetitive utility and familiarity. (Of course I drive an unspectacular and well-worn “auto-mobile” from the 20th century.)

Yet I’ve always subconsciously rated every drive.

Don’t know why. But I always have. When I arrive at my destination, I quickly review the factors I encountered between point A and B. Like traffic. Signals. Temperature. Cabin entertainment. And then I render a quiet judgment. It was a good drive. A bad drive. Or an “I can’t believe the whole wheel came off” drive.

Of course, I never kept score or quantified my drives.

Until tonight.

That’s when I played Driving Baseball on the way home. I counted all stop lights as at bats. Hitting a red light was an out. And a green light was a hit.

Tonight, I went 12 for 16. That’s .750, dear reader. I’m working on my Hall of Fame induction speech.

(Can you tell the grim prospect of a frigid Cleveland-Colorado World Series game in November leaves me seeking baseball excitement.)

Some observations on my drive.

As I came within 100 yards of an intersection, I watched the light like I was watching the ball leave the pitcher’s hand. If it turned yellow on me, it was like he threw a fastball when I was guessing slider or change up. On an 0-2 count. That’s an out.

On the other hand, blazing through the major Coit-Campbell intersection without even tapping the brake felt like a tape measure blast. Getting a green light at one of those inconsequential side streets felt like a cheap Texas League hit. Purists might accuse me of padding the stats.

And while it didn’t happen tonight, I can imagine that sitting through a major intersection's long stop light is akin to a strike out. Sit through two lights at that same intersection, and that’s like a called third strike, followed by a foul pop out on your next at bat. With the bases loaded. Oh, the shame.

Sneaking through a yellow light felt like beating out an infield single, while slamming on the brakes due to a late yellow light felt like getting robbed. A line drive or a blast caught at the warning track; just an out in the box score.

Turning right on a red? Sacrifice bunt.
Four way stop? Intentional walk.
Train? Rain delay.

The beauty of the game lies in its clarity. You stop or you don’t. No need for measurements or instant replays, no fouls or penalties, no huddling umpires debating whether or not the ball cleared the yellow line on the outfield wall.

I only hope I can keep up my torrid pace. Maybe if I continue to give 110%. Whatever. The excitement is back. I feel like a rookie again.

Driving. America’s pastime. Play it.

Happy Anniversary!

Today's is the 30th anniversary of Fonzie jumping the shark on Happy Days...enjoy!

Excellent Story...

http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/the_time_i_helped_some_jews

Worth Watching - July 17: Coen Brothers' No Country for Old Men Trailer « FirstShowing.net

Worth Watching - July 17: Coen Brothers' No Country for Old Men Trailer « FirstShowing.net

Back to School

My daughter started junior high today and my son started high school. I'm so proud of each of them. Since this is such a significant event in our family's history, I felt like it was a good opportunity to talk about what's important. I sat down yesterday and came up with this list of things that I would like for the kids to remember this year at school, and hopefully for the rest of their lives:

Thoughts on Beginning a New School Year

In life, you can either be happy or unhappy – choose happy.

Be yourself. Who you are is a gift from God and you honor Him by being exactly what He created you to be. Being you is a form of worship. Be attuned to what gives you real satisfaction and focus on that.

Do your best and then leave it in God’s hands. You can only do so much. Whatever the task, do your best and then don’t fret over it.

Tell me who you run with and I’ll tell you what you are. Choose your friends carefully. Surround yourself with positive, happy people that are helpful to you. Ben Franklin: “Be slow in choosing a friend; slower in changing them.”

Make good decisions. As you get older, the decisions start to mean more. Take time to think and don’t be afraid to ask for help. We don’t know all the answers but we’ve made a lot of mistakes that might be helpful to you.

Do things for the right reasons. Don’t do things because you want to please someone or get them to like you. The fastest way to misery and failure is trying to please everyone. Do things because they reflect who you are – an amazing, unique child of God.

Be gracious and positive. Don’t be critical – look for the good in every situation and person. You will be happier and will attract people that encourage you and give you life. Always be looking for some way to be helpful to others. It is better to be happy than right.

Open mind and open heart. When dealing with people, don’t be quick to judge - you haven’t walked in their shoes. God may have put you with someone to help them at a specific moment.

When you lose, don’t lose the lesson. When bad things happen, take a moment to learn from them.

Make it a habit to enjoy the moment. Depression comes when we fret about the past or worry about the future. Don’t get caught up in the busy-ness of everything and miss it. Enjoy each moment – take in the sights, the sounds, the smells.

Make room in your life for beauty. Music, art, dance – whatever relaxes and inspires you. It is NOT a waste of time. Making this a priority will benefit you in everything else you do.

Emphasize simplicity. Henry David Thoreau: “As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler”. Don’t be afraid to say “no” to things. Life is hard enough without further complicating it. Eliminate physical clutter, eliminate emotional clutter, and eliminate spiritual clutter. Things block our view of God.

Get organized. Different methods work for different people, but find something that works for you and stick with it. WRITE IT DOWN.

You can always come home. No matter how bad you think you may have screwed up, you can always call us or come home. We love you and nothing will ever change that.

Fred Rogers

Mr. Rogers was an amazing person. My therapist once told me that by watching Mr. Rogers you could learn how to be a perfect father...

The Triumphant Return of Ventriloquism?

News item:
Area man wins national talent show.

I don't know anything about this show. Don't know anything about Mr. Fator, the winner. Seems like a nice enough guy.

But I was struck by his quote.

"To know that I could be the person who brings ventriloquism back into the mainstream would give me so much joy."

Guess a mime might say the same thing.

I gotta tell you, the prospect of pantomime or ventriloquism in the mainstream doesn't exactly warm my heart.

That's not to say ventriloquism wouldn't be a blast at parties, traffic court, and the dentist.

In fact, I may someday take a correspondence course in ventriloquism. Maybe after the kids move out. Yeah, that's it. In the twilight of my life, I'll shuffle out to our garage workshop, carve me a dummy, and work on throwing my voice while drinking a glass of water.

For me, the best thing about ventriloquism is saying the word. Ventriloquism. It's a funny word, a dynamite punchline.

Not exactly a compelling reason to go prime time. It'd be OK with me to contain those creepy looking puppets to the realms of themed birthday parties, late-nite reruns of The Gong Show, and tourist-choked San Francisco street corners.

Genius of Merton

Very Cool Video

Patterico’s Pontifications » Putting Things in Perspective

Patterico’s Pontifications » Putting Things in Perspective

Best Opening Lyrics: No. 25 - Spinner.com - Free MP3s, Interviews, Music News, Live Performances, Songs and Videos

Best Opening Lyrics: No. 25 - Spinner.com - Free MP3s, Interviews, Music News, Live Performances, Songs and Videos

Crying Music

Do any songs move you to tears?

Not like tears of pure pain that might be shed during Muskrat Love or Whoomp! There It Is.

But tears resulting from powerful emotions triggered by the richness, the complexity, the sheer beauty of the music – and often powered by the memories the music evokes.

I can only think of a handful of songs that have that impact on me.

Point of clarification: These songs don’t make me weepy when I hear them while driving or at the gym (although, admittedly, that last scenario would be more than slightly awkward -- and pretty funny).

But when the circumstances are “right,” when the emotional triggers are in place, the following songs resonate very deeply with me – and have moved me to tears.

Red Sea by Asobi Seksu
Beautiful soaring vocals explode in a fuzzed out, reverb bliss at the song’s halfway mark. The transition between the two is the emotional high point for me. And as I was returning from my grandfather’s funeral last month, sitting on the plane with my iPod, I was thoroughly swept up in that moment – and in the sonic wall of sound that follows (for a glorious three and a half minutes). The tears that silently flowed were of utter joy and remembrance.

Lower Your Eyelids To Die With The Sun by M83
A sweeping, cinematic-style, 11-minute instrumental epic.

A Kissed Out Red Floatboat and Cico Buff by Cocteau Twins
The inimitable melodies of the Cocteau Twins strike a deep chord with me.

When Peace Like A River
The most beautiful, anguished, and hopeful hymn I know.

Those are the songs that move me.

So . . . what songs move you?

Liveblogging from Grand Cayman

Checking in from Grand Cayman, site of the Summer 2007 Amen Properties Retreat. Feeling very tired and a little sunburned after a day of snorkeling and hanging out. More to follow...

The grid

A violent lightning strike blew out the power to our neighborhood yesterday afternoon.

After several hours, a flotilla of utility trucks invaded our alley. No fewer than seven were lined up to replace the transformer behind our backyard fence.

With the arrival of the trucks, I wandered the alley to find out what was what. Let’s just say on this summer day in Texas, I wanted to express my keen interest in the situation and how quickly it might be resolved. (No AC = no air conditioning.)

Yet I didn’t want to seem pushy. Like I was impatient. That I was somehow displeased with these guys and their lack of progress. The situation was delicate.

My strategy was to show empathy, mix in a little gratitude, and show that, hey, I know a little bit about electricity. They needed to understand that I’m not just some suburban numbskull with a fusebox.

So I coolly sauntered up to one of the guys in a hard hat and tool belt. With only the slightest effort I made eye contact, gave a knowing nod and, quite possibly, offered an arched eyebrow of understanding.

“Thanks for getting us back on the grid,” I said.

Structurally, the sentence was good. The syntax, fine.

But at some point during my lunch today, I couldn’t help but think that across town, a group of workers at the local utility were enjoying a hearty laugh at the homeowner who spoke of the grid yesterday.

Now, I couldn’t tell you what a grid is, if we’re on one, or how many grid units I pay for in my monthly electricity bill.

For all I know, I could pop the faceplate off one of our electrical outlets and see the grid. Or hook a 9-volt to the grid and use it to open my garage door. Maybe the grid is a magical, Tron-like dimension filled with unicorns and wizards who shoot cartoon-y lightning bolts from their fingertips.

My wife reminds me I probably learned “the grid” lingo from Die Hard.

I think the hard-hat knew that.

But somehow I felt compelled to let this Reddy Kilowatt know that I get this whole electricity thing.

What motivated me to try to speak this guy’s vernacular? Maybe it’s a corollary of the “When in Rome . . .” truism. (When in the midst of a trained service professional, act and speak like one.) Maybe I was afraid he’d try to pull one over on me. (Uhhh . . . yeah . . . your power is on. Can’t you see it?)

Actually, I think I was just trying to make a bond, a connection with this guy. That from my razor-thin knowledge of the subject, I could wield a single word or phrase to earn me some quick cred.

I’ve done it with fishermen. (Catch any lunkers?) Weightlifters. (Working the lats?) Carpenters. (You like the lathe?) Even teenagers. (What’s shaking, homeslice?)

Come to think of it, this approach with teachers and professors has actually resulted in a couple of college degrees . . .

A joyous farewell

Our family gathered this past weekend to pay our respects to Grandpa, the patriarch who inspired us with his gentle spirit, his kindness, generosity, love, and faith.

That the weekend was one of the most profound and emotionally rich weekends I’ve experienced compels me to write. The only weekend that compares is the one in Tucson when our family gathered to celebrate my cousin Phil’s life.

Why both these occasions resonate so deeply for me was not in the grief and sorrow that accompanies the passing of a loved one.

It was the power of family on display. More specifically, the recognition and appreciation of the love and bond we share as family members in this temporal life.

The death that brought us together obviously offered vivid context to life’s fleeting nature. Even in our gathering, there were physical reminders – from graying temples and deeper wrinkles to stooped postures and an insidious disease – that we exist in a dynamic world, where nothing stays the same.

More context came from the barrage of news updates on the weekend’s UK terror activity, stark reminders that no guarantees are offered on this increasingly dangerous planet.

Indeed, we are but a mist, a vapor.

This was the proverbial elephant in the room. That this group of people, linked through the strongest of relationships, may never come this way again.

Rather than casting a pall over our time together, it served as a reminder of how precious and fragile life is. And I believe it served as the catalyst of glorious, loving behavior.

My family supported and embraced each other. We laughed together. We endlessly ogled over my sister’s beautiful infant, Britta, she a wondrous symbol of life and new beginnings. In our reunion, we found power. In our time together, we discovered joy.

We celebrated life by living in the moment.

How else to explain an impractical, yet spontaneous and absolutely awesome Sunday afternoon road trip to Yosemite with Aunt Joan, Uncle Ed, and Cousin Deb that concluded with an 11 pm burger run to In-N-Out? What a massive memory that is.

This weekend was truly special. It was something to be treasured, to hold dear to our hearts, to remember.

Much was said during the weekend about the generosity Grandpa displayed toward individuals and institutions alike. Even among the grandkids, we recounted how he not only remembered our birthdays (even when he was well into his 90s), but how he would still send us birthday gifts.

For me, this past weekend was the best gift Grandpa gave to us – a priceless reminder to love and appreciate the family he so indelibly shaped.

Note to gpa

That’s how the entry read on my PDA to-do list today.

It’s short hand for “Send a card to Grandpa.” And it's been on my list for a couple of weeks.

Sadly, the window of time has closed on that action item.

Grandpa died yesterday.

I regret I didn’t send him that note. Was going to include the latest picture of our kids. Maybe have them write a heartfelt, hand-scrawled expression of their love, too.

Woulda. shoulda, coulda. As with most passings, the living are left holding regrets like this. “If only I’d . . ." seems to dominate the ethos of those who grieve.

Remarkably, I can easily extricate myself today from this feeling– usually located somewhere between self-pity and self-loathing. My guilt isn’t as heavy, as it's simply no match for the sense of joy that comes with reflecting on a life so well lived.

We last saw Grandpa in September. He was 98. And he looked dapper in his woven suspenders as he waited for us in the lobby of his nursing home.

“Heyyyyyyy” he exclaimed gravelly as the four of us walked through the open sliding glass door. (This particular greeting was a Grandpa signature.)

My son shook his great-grandfather’s hand. My daughter gave him a gentle hug around his bent legs; he marveled at her strawberry blonde hair. This was the first time he’d met our then four-year-old, Chloe.

We enjoyed dinner with him in the dining hall, then returned to his room to visit. There we sat comfortably, chatting the time away. With some prompting, he’d regale us with stories about the boys (my dad being one of his three) and about life in California back in the 1930s and 40s. All I wanted to do was to listen, to absorb him. I was quite cognizant that this was a moment in time.

Yet moments pass. And as our time on this evening with Grandpa was nearing an end, we snapped some pictures to capture this wonderful, multi-generational occasion.

My favorite is the one posted here. I took it. But I forgot to take the self-timer off. So as I tried to hold the camera and the kids’ poses steady while the 15-second-timer ticked away, both the kids – and Grandpa – began laughing infectiously at my mistake. It was a total smile.

I cherish this image of our kids with their great-grandfather. And while we’ll never forget the time we spent together on this Monday night, we knew that, someday, these images would have to substitute for time spent with this true gentle man, this “radiant soul”.

And so it is that this must substitute for my Note to gpa.

"A Radiant Soul"

While jogging down Grand Avenue in Milwaukee last night, I ran past a historic, beautiful old church. Formerly the Grand Avenue Congregational Church, the building today serves as The Irish Cultural and Heritage Center.

Which would explain the music and hearty applause coming from its halls Thursday. Curious, I dropped in to discover what turned out to be an annual bagpipe and drums festival.

While I stood in the musty, narrow foyer listening to the spirited music, my wandering eyes met a large plaque on the wall. It was a memorial to someone. His name wasn't familiar to me. Looked like he was a minister deeply involved in the establishment and growth of this church decades ago.

As I perfunctorily read the plaque, I was struck by this description of the man:

“He was an inspiring, radiant soul.”

With these few words, I longed to know him.

Even as I walked away from the festival, that profound, poetic description lingered in my mind, overshadowing any onstage performance I'd witnessed.

I wondered what this man did to exhibit a radiant soul. Who did he inspire? How did he and his “radiant soul” impact the people who knew him? I thought of those who were fortunate enough to have been in the presence of his “radiant soul” – and how richer they must have been for it.

What a tremendous legacy to leave.

It’s a legacy that now extends to a middle-aged business traveler/erratic jogger from Dallas. And it will soon reach my children, who will hear of a remarkable, joy-filled way to live and be regarded.

May we all be remembered in such a way.

Why I Am Not A Mason

Yesterday, a co-worker posed the question:
“What would you do if you weren’t in advertising?”

I couldn’t come up with anything positive, so I offered this spin.

“I wouldn’t be a stonemason.”

That answer was based on my most recent “home improvement” effort, pictured here. (To be fair, this project is closer to the alley than the home.)

Based on the comically glacial progress of this deconstruction project, you could also eliminate any profession related to stones, building, demolition, or bricks. While we’re at it, let’s also cross off the list jobs having to do with project management, resource allocation, or multiplication.

A little background on my project. Apparently, back in the halcyon days of non-rolling, metal trash cans, homebuilders were flush with cement, bricks and a utopian vision for well-organized alleys. So they built an aesthetically pleasing place for the homeowner to house his unsightly trash can.

Sure, this square of bricks was fine for the static, late 20th century trash receptacle.

But these myopic homebuilders didn’t foresee the mobile technology that would revolutionize home sanitation services.

Because the arrival of the wheeled trashcan rendered the unramped trash square irrelevant. The thousands of vacant trash squares dotting our fair city bear witness to this trash-edy.

It was one spring day that I gazed upon our own discolored empty trash square with a disdain like never before. Its mere presence mocked me. That yawning, empty space . . . those walls that shielded nothing . . . why, it hasn't played host to a trash can since the '90s. The clarity came swiftly.

Destroy the trash square. Tear down these walls!

A few whacks of the sledgehammer into it and the project was officially underway.

That’s when my wife spotted me. Shrouded in a cloud of dust, striking my signature “Sledgehammer” pose. I was a heroic symbol of spontaneity and industry.

Of course, that’s not exactly how she saw me.

“What are you doing?”

“Knocking this thing down. It has to go."

“What are you planning to do with those bricks?”

[LONG PAUSE]

“Well, I mean, there aren’t that many. I’ll just put ‘em out for big trash.”

“And how are you going to get them out there.”

“Andrew’s wagon. It’s perfect.”

Hearing that, she spun to return from whence she came, leaving me to my destructive folly.

As the sun set, what remained of the trash square resembled London during the Blitz, the center of the square filled with brick shrapnel. For weeks the ruins stood, undoubtedly fueling the head-shaking chagrin of our second-guessing neighbors who viewed the devastation daily as they drove down the alley. Monday morning quarterbacks, all!

How could I possibly know how many bricks were involved in the creation and subsequent destruction of the trash square?

Last Saturday (that is, ahem, two months later), I knocked down the rest of the bricks. There's a pile of them in our pool yard. Big trash is coming this week. And Andrew’s wagon is getting pretty scratched up.

Alas, my vision for the open-spaced, border-free, wheelcan friendly trash zone is nearly complete.

Now that I think of it, I'd probably go into urban planning.

Examining the Relationship between Nitrous Oxide and Classic Rock

I had the distinct pleasure of receiving a crown a few days ago.

Not that kind of crown.

(Yeah, I know. A coronation would have made for a more interesting blog post.)

Alas, the crown was placed in my head. If only the preposition in that sentence were slightly different . . .

In fact, the crown bestowed upon me involved significantly less fanfare, scepters, goblets, turkey legs, and subservience from subjects.

It did, however, rank higher in the category of royally sharp pain.

To manage this pain – ultimately the consequence of lackluster flossing between teeth #14 and #15 – the good dentist suggested some nitrous oxide. That’s an offer that doesn’t need to be extended twice, even if my employee benefits only cover .000000001% of costs related to nitrous and other barbiturates.

So I settled into my reclined chair and, under a comically small nose mask, began my odyssey into traumatic dental work and late 20th-century rock. Classic rock radio station KZPS is the soundtrack for my dentist’s office.

A few deep breaths later, I giggled as the acoustic ceiling tiles began to shape shift and KZPS launched into its well-worn “classic rock lunch hour”.

The conditions wouldn’t exactly appear to be primo for listening. External competition for the music came from whirring drills, ringing phones, and discussions about insurance and area restaurants from the front desk. My overactive internal monologue and the loop of the dentist scene from Marathon Man playing in my head also created listening distractions.

But I not only heard the classic rock, I seemed to feel it at a deeper level. (That along with the intrusive crowning pursuits.)

Ironically, the nitrous served as an agent of clarity. It exposed some of the songs as thin and formulaic. Totally calculated. Joyless. And, in some cases, just plain silly. Like Dirty White Boy by Foreigner and Cherry Pie by Warrant.
Even a deep cut from Kansas Leftoverture and Great White Buffalo from Ted – two of my longtime favorites – came across as bland and uninteresting.

Yet the gas brought out the richness, layered complexity, and brilliance of songs like Houses of the Holy, Tush, and Won’t Get Fooled Again. I was struck by the passion and depth of these songs. Classic rock, indeed.

The nitrous enabled me to better define what makes a classic. Attention program director: The definition of classic should not be limited to a matter of time and popularity. (i.e. 20+ years old + Top 50 on the charts = classic.)

A true classic stands the test of laughing gas.

Of course this is a bit of a moot point, as KZPS changed formats Monday. Now the station is serving up “Lone Star Rock,” some hybrid of country and classic rock.

Assuming my dentist still has his tuner on 92.5 FM, I’ll see how Willie and Waylon stand the nitrous test next time I’m unceremoniously crowned and gassed.

A Welcome Breath of Fresh Air

Exhausted after a long day of work and allergies, while driving home through a torrential rainstorm tonight, I was refreshed and encouraged by an interview I heard on NPR.

Terry Gross -- on her "Fresh Air" show -- was talking with Dr. Francis Collins. I didn't know much about Dr. Collins. Knew he headed up the Human Genome Project. But I had no sense of his faith.

Can I tell you how pleasantly surprised I was to hear him speak about the wonder, the awe, the God he finds in DNA. In the 3.1 billion pieces of code found in every human cell. Frankly, it did my weary faith good.

In a time that finds atheistic scientists like Dr. Richard Dawkins basking in a generous media platform, spouting about the irrationality of God, it was wonderful to hear Dr. Collins speak and enthusiastically reconcile science and faith -- and how the two coexist peacefully in his scientific pursuits. Fresh air, indeed.

Listen to the interview here.

And recall the words of the psalmist from Psalm 139:
"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body."

The Bracket of Life

What would your life look like if you laid it out in a tournament-style bracket?

Yes, the thought was inspired by March Madness – and The Enlighted Bracketologist. (Brilliant idea.)

But it was truly sparked by a recent breakfast discussion, talking about success. Specifically, financial success. Who is rich? Moreover, why? Did they become millionaires because they are brilliant and shrewd visionaries? Or is it a case of timing and dumb luck? Whatever. They were in the right place at the right time. Said another way, they made a series of decisions that put them in the path of a financial windfall, whether or not they knew that would be the ultimate result of that decision.

Money doesn’t have to the yardstick here. Could be contentment. Happiness. Just happened to be the focus of our discussion.

Which got me to thinking about the decisions we encounter in life.

And that if you were to lay out your life in a linear, chronological format, you’d chronicle thousands, maybe millions of decision nodes.

You’d certainly show the major decisions – like who to marry, who to work for, where to live, what college, church, associations to belong to (or not). To the degree they’ve impacted your life, those minor decisions might also be chronicled: where to have lunch, what movie to see, what book should I read. (Not sure paper or plastic qualifies.)

Regardless, these nodes visually remind me of a tournament bracket.

Of course, the bracket analogy doesn’t totally work, for a few reasons like these:

1. If money is the determining factor, not everybody starts out in life at the same point. You don’t get to choose the socio-economic bracket you're born into.
2. The tournament bracket pits winners against each other while banishing the losers. It's a a zero-sum proposition. Our life is a bit more complex. Here, the winners and losers define who we are.
3. The tournament bracket suggests two choices. Life’s decisions aren’t so black and white, offering multiple options.
4. In life, you have more control over the outcome. The tournament/sports example limits your involvement as a detached spectator. (Unless your name happens to be Pete Rose.)
5. Nobody organizes an office pool around your life.

But as I sit here, disenchanted and discontent with my lot in life on this particular day, I reflect on the choices that landed me in this place. At this time. Somehow I can hear David Byrne wailing, “How did I get here?”

Reviewing my life and its decisions, bracket-style, provides some clarity.

Because as I review this imaginary, massive bracket, I see similarities between those life decisions – both major and minor – and how I picked my unimpressive bracket for this year’s NCAA tournament. Sketchy knowledge. Scant research. Precious little understanding. Didn’t consult the experts. Did a few of the picks just to be different. (If I would’ve picked, say, North Carolina because I thought it would make others happy, that would really have made this analogy sing.)

Guess I’m just glad life’s bracket isn't a single-elimination tournament. For now, you can find me fighting to stay relevant and alive somewhere deep in the NIT-like consolation round.

Pinewood Pressure

My son’s Pinewood Derby car kit sits in my garage.

Frankly, it intimidates me.

Which partially explains why we haven’t started building the car for the big race.

The larger part of the explanation is the big race was three weeks ago.

So what went wrong? I’m still sorting it out. I can trace some of it back to my own unsuccessful Cub Scout career. That unspectacularly brief Scout stint was rooted in a low-hanging fruit approach. You know. Quickly grab all the activity badges for things I’d do anyway. Sports activities. Baseball card collecting. Eating. The occasional bath. Whatever.

In a clear case of the low-hanging fruit not falling far from the tree, my son appears to be adopting the same strategy.

Back to the Pinewood kit on my garage workbench.

(I should note the term workbench is a bit of a misnomer in our garage. Technically, this space is not a bench, nor does it host much work. It’s more of an oversized coaster for drinks, paint, and antifreeze.)

The good news: the kit is in mint condition and could yield top dollar on the open market. Or it could serve as a bittersweet souvenir. One that, in the years to come, could allow my son to recall the carefree days of his youth.

Really carefree. As in “I don’t care about the schedule for the 2007 Pinewood Derby.”

I mean, the whole thing just got away from us.

OK. There’s more to it than that.

Like the fear of woodworking (FLASHBACK: To 6th grade woodshop and the overlacquered, Bunsen-burner seared planter I crafted that my mother dutifully displayed at home). The fear of engineering and physics (FLASHBACK: To that unfortunate egg drop in high school). Heck, even a mild fear of decals, paint and graphite lubricant kept me from diving headlong into this project (FLASHBACK: Some other time. It’s a long and dicey tale.)

Given this checkered past, I wasn’t ready to relive it by building a car. And I wasn't quite ready for my son to feel the shame of the proud pack, who might just expose his dad as a sham. (I don’t think he reads this blog.)

But honestly, I couldn’t even visualize success at this event. The best my mind could conjure was showing up with our entry: a clumsy car resembling a Dutch clog designed by American Motor Cars (AMC), circa 1974. A colorful yet poorly-sanded entry that barely passes muster at inspection, thanks to a parent-unconstitutionally-deputized-as-judge who gladly welcomes a shoddier entry than his son’s into the contest.

My imagination did allow me to see our entry starting the race well, even taking an early lead. At this, I could see the smile spread across my son’s face as our car zipped out of the gate, a good car’s length ahead of the others as it harnessed the glorious momentum of gravity.

But as this played out in my mind, before he could reach me to share in an enthusiastic father-son hug, our car would shudder to a stop on the track halfway to the checkered flag, quite possibly due to three of the car’s tires flying off the axle-nail, the fourth left on the rainbow colored wooden shoe to smoke uncontrollably from the intense friction generated by a heinously calculated wheel to body ratio, which the resulting noxious fumes call unwanted attention to.

As we both watch this in open-armed, slack-jawed horror, the shrieking over-vigilant den mother sweeps our smoldering uni-tired monstrosity from the track and gets four painted pine splinters in her right index finger.

Maybe I’ll just toss the kit . . .

The Good, The Bad, and the Buzzkill

Caught three band last nite at Nokia.

Silversun Pickups
OK Go
Snow Patrol

The good:
--Silversun Pickups. Those guys unleased a massive wall of sound that was absolutely glorious. They were tight and played with ferocity and power. Kind of reminiscent of Smashing Pumpkins and Catherine Wheel "Black Metallic". Next time they come to town, go see them.

Unless they're opening for two lesser bands.

Which was exactly the problem with this multiple act show. The Silversun Pickups were alloted less than 30 minutes and seemingly no props to crank out their genius. Didn't need the props. But a 25-minute set was criminally brief. I had to grab a live set from iTunes this a.m. to get my fix.

The bad:
--Nokia Theater. Another comfy, corporate palace a la American Airlines Center. Ads everywhere. Lots of space and legroom. Ideal for My Little Pony or Thomas the Tank Engine shows. But lousy for intimate and/or energetic shows. (And $15 to park? What the . . .)

The buzzkill:
--The two 20-something girls who must've taken 300 pictures of themselves enjoying the concert. I kid you not. Imagine that photo review session. "Here's us with our faces totally against each other. Here's us with only the top part of our cheeks touching. Here's us with a sassy, rock concert look. Here's how I looked during the encore. OMG!! See how surprised I look!"

--The 50-something woman with old-lady-wiry hair in front of us, shaking her moneymaker to Snow Patrol. Any notion that we were part of some hip scene was decimated then and there.

--Men carrying big, dumb drinks in hurricane glasses. This was a rock concert.

--Air drumming.

--Ballads and love songs. (Maybe this explains the frozen drink thing.)


Summary: Listen to Snow Patrol on CD. Enjoy the novelty of OK Go. And follow Silversun Pickups wherever they go.

Libby Lewis on Lewis Libby

Last nite I heard a news report on NPR. It was regarding the guilty verdict of Lewis Libby.

This report was filed by NPR reporter Libby Lewis.

What the . . . Libby Lewis?!? Lewis Libby?!?!? At first I did a doubletake, audio-style.

Then I realized the genius of it. Of how this clever naming convention increased my recall of the story -- and of the oft-forgotten correspondent.

Believing, then, that this is a trend, I look forward to future reports on newsmakers from the following NPR correspondents:

-W. Bush-George
-Obama Barack
-Cuban Mark
-NicolAnna Smith (job outlook: sketchy)
-Chris Luda
-Reynolds Burtt
-Oliver Erick

The Joy of Re-discovery

This morning, there was a can of Comet on my bathroom sink.

I encountered it shortly after rolling out of bed. Surprisingly, I was lucid enough to not use it as:
1. Talcum powder for my sensitive male skin
2. Coffee sweetener
3. Stuff for a protein shake

But I wasn't quite sure what to do with this Comet. Its presence was totally unexpected and, frankly, out of context for me. So, where should it be, I asked myself in a slow, pre-caffeinated way.

[PROCESSING . . . PROCESSING . . . ]

How . . . about . . . the cabinet under my sink? A superb answer. (Witness the self-affirmation.)

As I contemplated this move, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure what resides under this particular sink.

I mean, in our house, the under bathroom sink space is one of those forgotten storage places. And it's not ideal, what with that U-shaped pipe violating what could be premium space, turning it into a one-off novelty act. If I had to characterize the hierarchy of storage spaces in our home, it would go something like this.

1. Kitchen cabinets (These reign supreme – all other storage space is subservient and bows to this one. Similarly, every piece of stuff in our house aspires to reside in one of these cabinets. The equivalent of beachfront property.)
2. The bedroom closets
3. The hall closets
4. Under the kitchen sink (high toxicity and utility)
5. Bathroom cabinets
6. The kitchen drawers (This loosely configured community is comprised of sundry coupons, primitive and occasionally violent drawings from the Boy, and calendars emblazoned with the toothy grins and “helpful hints” of sellers of real estate)

Now, at the bottom of the list are our home’s versions of treasure chests, grab-bags, wild-cards. Spaces filled with low utility items, probably not touched since our move into the house. The upside to this is we enjoy minor game-show revelatory moments when we get a look at what’s . . .
27. In the attic!
28. Under the beds!
29. And under my bathroom sink!

So this morning, as I held the Comet and my breath with a certain degree of anticipation, I bent slightly at the waist to creak open the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet door and cram that can of cleaner up against a big, unmarked cardboard box. And would you like to see what’s in the box, contestant? [OPEN THE BOX] You just found valuable baseball cards! (Retail value: Over $300! APPLAUSE!) But that’s not all. Because sitting on top of the box are three long, narrow vinyl cases that contain . . . [UNZIP ONE OF THE CASES . . . THIS IS SO EXCITING!] a variety of cassette tapes from the 70s and 80s!

As I soaked in the imaginary adulation from the studio audience that wasn't there, my eyes were drawn to the handwritten titles on the cassette sleeve. The writing was mine, and usually declared a theme of the tape’s contents. I slid one entitled “Rock and Rhythm” out of the case and set it aside for my morning trip down 75 (and memory lane). Yes, my 20th century "auto" has a "audio-cassette player."

And what a tasty treat of early 80s music it served up.

While listening, I made these quick observations:
1. The tape is more rock than rhythm.
2. Back in the day, treble was king.
3. Music wasn’t as disposable.
4. Songs were eminently singable.
5. Oingo Boingo was underappreciated.
6. Lyrically, the stories were more fun.
7. iTunes doesn’t have a vast catalog of musical selections from Tommy Tutone or Gary Myrick & The Figures

That’s what I learned when I tried to recreate (sans tape hiss) the mix digitally. Regardless, here’s the link to the Mix Tape iMix. It’s a little heavy on the Clash (And the problem is . . . ?)

The whole experience reminded me of how the mix tape was such a labor of love. Finding the music from various LP collections around town. Agonizing, High Fidelity-style, over which song to open with, how to create just the right mood and flow. Applying suspect math skills to ensure not a second of the 90-minute Maxell was wasted with dead air.

Listening to the tape today -- some 25 years after authoring it -- was testimony to what a powerful stimulus music is. Each song seemed to bring to mind sights, experiences, posters, people . . . This tape unlocked portions of my brain I haven’t used since the Reagan Administration.

And as I sang and sailed toward downtown in my SAAB, I smiled at the wonderful surprises found in those dusty, nearly forgotten neural storage spaces.

Where does the wise man build?

Recapping the day:

The country's vice president survived an assassination.
The stock market plummeted.

At least I have hope in the risen Christ.

What the ...

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

Another return

Once again, it feels good to be back at Funegro.

I'd love to recommit to regular postings. If it weren't for the whole commitment thing, I would in a heartbeat.

Guess this post was inspired by a review of the Funegro archives. If you haven't recently, I'd encourage you to take a spin through the articles. Some classics. True points in time in our lives. What a wonderful snapshot it provides.

Was also inspired by an article in this month's WIRED. It's not so much an article as it is a series of soundbytes-in-print, testimony to our society's trend to consuming content and media in short, quick bursts.

To that end, they offer up Radio SASS, where rock/pop songs are trimmed down to about two minutes in length. (30 songs an hour!)

"Through time compression, you get the memorable heart of each song, with an average length of aproximately two minutes with NO self indulgent guitar solos, NO long intros, NO repetition of choruses again and again."

Stranglehold in 120 seconds? Sounds like a bad K-tel pitch. The guy behind all this? George Gimarc, from KZEW's Rock and Roll Alternative back in the day. The guy's got chutzpah.

Artistic integrity aside, it works. Especially on the crappy songs.

Sample it here.

Excellent Howard Johnson's 1970's Ad

hojomojo, originally uploaded by koliver.

Love the enormous turtleneck on that guy...