Funegro

Moonshot Wiffle Ball Bats

2010-09-14T10:21:00.000-05:00

I just found the first item for my Christmas list...

Anne Rice leaves Christianity

2010-08-02T10:14:00.000-05:00

Anne Rice leaves Christianity – The Marquee Blog - CNN.com Blogs

Anne Rice still believes in Jesus - she says that her faith in Christ is central to her life. She says she can no longer belong to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious and deservedly infamous group."

Sign Me Up

2010-02-24T12:00:00.000-06:00

This would make such an impression at the poker table...

Colonel Whiskey Tortoise

The 100 Cheesiest Movie Quotes of All Time

2010-01-21T13:45:00.001-06:00

Education for Christian Living

2009-12-02T16:02:00.001-06:00

Nice Cover

2009-12-02T09:50:00.001-06:00

kris oliver - A Satisfied Mind

2009-12-01T13:39:00.000-06:00

kris oliver - A Satisfied Mind

How to estimate church attendence

2009-11-24T08:49:00.000-06:00

How to estimate church attendence: "It's a complex thing to measure church attendance but here are a few pointers on arriving at an accurate number based on the attendance figures they give you.

- 50% if its a Pentecostal worship service because they count the legs and forget to divide by two.

- 30% if its a Baptist church because they count members on the roll and not all of them are still living.

+ 10 if its a Vineyard service because those rugs on the floor were actually people!

+ 20% if it's a fundamentalist church because they don't count the people they didn't want there.

- 30% if it's an Anglican/Presbyterian/Methodist church because the number they gave you is from their huge Easter service.

+ 15% if it's an ethnic/non-western service because all those people coming late missed the counting.

- 10% if its a megachurch because the worship team and welcome team got counted during all 5 services.

- 520% if its a Catholic church because they count the parish, not the church attendance.

+ 20% if it's an emergent service because those having a smoke outside were not counted.

- 25 % if its a Reformed church service because they count the people who SHOULD have been there.

- 15% if it's a house church because the neighborhood kids playing video games in the back room somehow managed to get counted with everyone else. So did the guy delivering pizza.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

How can we make your stay more enjoyable?

2009-10-22T20:52:00.010-05:00

Here's a comment card from the hotel we stayed at during our vacation last month.

Chloe filled it out.

As you can see, she felt quite good about the hotel. Nothing but accolades and praise. Such a glowing response to the first question would suggest a customer at the height of contentment describing a perfect stay that wanted for nothing.

That is, until this 7-year-old reaches the second question. Where, I imagine, the light dawns oh so gloriously on the myriad possibilities that come with such an open-ended and generous inquiry.

Empowerment sets in at the mere thought of "What else can we do?" Well, why couldn’t that porter put her on the luggage cart and give her a ride up and down the elevator every time she enters the lobby.

Apparently, this sense of entitlement extends to the card’s final query, which she ignores, opting instead to continue her answer from the previous and potentially far more lucrative question.

Sweet Dreams are Made of Seven Nation Army

2009-09-24T16:20:00.001-05:00

Sweet Dreams are Made of Seven Nation Army sound bite Mash up sound bites

The grandiose genius of Metallica

2009-09-12T17:27:00.003-05:00

Over the past two weeks, I've been rediscovering the collaboration that happened 10 years ago between Metallica and the San Francisco Symphony. Was captured on the S&M album.

The first 12 minutes of it are absolutely epic and include an Ennio Morricone opener. The whole affair is thundering and massive. Curiously, several pieces on the double album remind me of a James Bond theme.

And while the brilliant collaboration seems odd, a study last year suggests both heavy metal and classical fans are united by a shared 'love of the grandiose'.

Metallica is playing Dallas in two weeks (Sept 29). Anyone up for an evening of grandiosity?

shemp

2009-08-20T14:05:00.003-05:00

Kind of blue

2009-08-17T17:52:00.005-05:00

While enduring a wait on the tarmac and deprived of “all electronic devices”, I reached for the American Way magazine. On page 42, I encountered this disturbing image.

Let’s temporarily suspend the discomfort that comes with looking at a shirtless man born in 1940. The old man, bare-chested thing induces flashbacks of Jacques Cousteau’s leathery, gray haired and considerably less taut chest on display aboard the Calypso. Hey, at least M. Cousteau’s shirtlessness was part of his job.

As opposed to the practice of this so-called Dr. Lite, which I would assume includes a doctor’s smock to cover up his well-defined, if not occasionally oiled pecs. (Given the old man's guns, I'll grant you that smock might be sleeveless.) Whatever. My doctor’s office won’t even let me in the door without a shirt or shoes.

Anyway, thanks to a ubiquitous ad campaign in the sports sections of metro newspapers, I’ve seen more of this guy’s improbably sculpted body than I’d care to.

And I certainly didn’t need to see what’s beneath that chest. Cartilage, bones and some sort of atomic blue fluid coursing through his aging veins. What the?! All before the morning beverage service, too. This primitive coach passenger in 22F can’t make heads or tails of this X-ray vision ad. Maybe the point is that the secret of Dr. Lite and Cenegenics resides in blue kneecaps. Or perhaps its that if I’m experiencing sudden blueness in my skeletal extremeties, I should call Dr. Lite.

Too confusing. I’ll just schedule an appointment if I experience hair loss.

This Will Get Your Day Going...

2009-08-10T09:57:00.001-05:00

The "Iron Man" influence

2009-07-23T11:57:00.003-05:00

My parents are moving from the Huntington Beach house this week. Heading to Texas after 35 years in that house. The house I grew up in. So I’ve been thinking and writing about it. A lot. Thanks for indulging me on this one.

----

During my recent – and final – visit to the house last month, I went for an early and sentimental Sunday morning run to the beach. Trotting up Hamilton Boulevard next to my high school, I spotted an open gate to the campus. Enticed, I took a slight detour and serpentined my way through the aging, empty place. Memories from those four years of the 20th century came flooding back – in various shades of clarity.

None was more vivid than the one evoked when spotting the school cafeteria, a curious place I remember more for assemblies than for meals.

One of those gatherings was to hear a guest speaker: a DJ from one of the LA FM album rock stations. He wasn’t a celebrity, in the broad cultural sense. But as a naïve, rock-loving teen, my sense was neither broad nor cultural. In these simpler times, FM radio ruled. So for me and the other couple hundred high-schoolers crowded into this room our honorary guest was just this side of royalty.

I mean, this guy made a living spinning records, probably (in my mind, anyway) bringing home righteous bucks and Hollywood starlets. All for dropping a needle on some Zeppelin and Aerosmith while occasionally offering his somnolent observations and the hourly station ID. He had it made. And here he was, seated with a microphone at the lunch table of honor in the Edison High School cafeteria.

We offered our rapt attention to this special guest as he stumbled through his, shall we say, loosely prepared remarks. Then he took some hard-hitting questions from the fawning audience. “Who’s your favorite band?” “Have you ever met Van Halen?” “Do you get to wear headphones at work?”

Then someone asked about the challenges of the job. In between sips from white Styrofoam of what I assume was stale industrial coffee – surely a futile defense against the morning’s hangover and overly fluorescent cafeteria – he rambled a bit on how vital it is to select music appropriate for certain parts of the day.

He then leaned into the mic on the table and uttered the line that, for reasons unknown to me, is the one and only line I remember from four years of high school.

“I mean, you wouldn’t want to play ‘Iron Man’ at 7 in the morning, man.”

Decades later, huffing my way out the school gate and toward the beach and along the sand and back to my soon-to-be former home, I consider all the classes, lectures, practices, instruction . . . all the teachers, coaches, monitors, crosswalk guards and that one graduation speaker I encountered during my lackluster high school career.

Total recall: One sentence.

I’m left to wonder why I couldn’t have remembered something a bit more constructive. And whether or not I heard (and subsequently forgot) a sentence or two that could have paid rich dividends for me later in life, or at least helped to avoid some pain. “Buy coastal real estate now.” “Invest in Apple Computers.” “When you have kids, don’t take them to Six Flags on the final Sunday of Holiday in the Park. The lines are terrible.”

But the real revelation for me was this:
I think The Line had a significant impact on my life.

To wit: After high school, I elected to study Radio/TV in college and volunteered to be music director of the campus radio station so I could, among other things, select music appropriate for certain parts of the day (and play some Ramones).

Then, after rejecting my first (and only) post-college job offer as a DJ – a less-than-tempting four-figure salary to spin records during the weekend graveyard shift in the border town of Laredo – I still chose a career path I thought would impress high school kids if I ever came back to speak. It occurs to me the Edison career counselor might have told me this shouldn’t be a top factor in choosing a career path . . . (if only I’d remembered that counsel).

There might be lessons to be learned here.

Like to teach my kids to discern and listen for (and remember!) the important stuff.

Or to choose words carefully, because you never know who will remember what you say. I’m fairly certain the DJ didn’t intend for The Line to play a defining role in the life of at least one impressionable high school kid at the cafeteria.

Of course, the biggest lesson I take from this is, no matter the circumstances . . . never, never, ever play “Iron Man” before breakfast.

Un-Easy Rider

2009-07-21T09:13:00.006-05:00

Take a long road trip with someone and, invariably, you begin to pick up on their habits. And, if the road trip is long enough, those habits will grate on you until you pray for swift and sudden deliverance.

Riding the same train every day is kind of like that.

I see the same people every morning. It's like a station wagon filled with total strangers, a carpool experiment that sometimes goes awry.

Among the 14 or so in the last car on the 8.40 southbound, the least popular rider among us is, hands down, the guy who enjoys talking loudly on his phone in some agitated Middle Eastern dialect. Sometimes I close my eyes and am magically transported to a boutique bazaar where I am being subjected to high pressure sales tactics to purchase either a rug or a waffle iron.

Then there's this guy who, for the duration of the trip, triumphantly holds his iPhone at eye level for all to see. I'm not sure if this is health-related (i.e. his neck prohibits him from the traditional head-down mobile position) or if it's a brazen exercise of conspicuous iPhone consumption. "Hey, everyone, I'm playing PacMan!"

No doubt my train actions drive someone on board a little nuts, too. But, hey, if these people can't deal with a little fingernail clipping and electric shaving, I say get off the train!

It Beckons...

2009-07-07T17:15:00.001-05:00

IMG_4151, originally uploaded by koliver.

Hate It or Love It?

2009-06-25T14:31:00.001-05:00

Enjoy This Little Ditty from Matt and Kim

2009-06-25T13:05:00.002-05:00

Father's Day: The New #1

2009-06-22T23:52:00.004-05:00

While in the bliss of my Father’s Day massage at Nordstrom yesterday afternoon, I had a minor revelation.

That Father’s Day has edged out the birthday on my personal list of important dates.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love the birthday, the cake and associated pageantry.

Yet it slipped to second in the rankings of days for which I am uniquely qualified to be honored.

The current rankings:
1. Father’s Day
2. Birthday
3. Wedding Anniversary
4. Labor Day (the day off here gives it the edge)
5. Valentine’s Day

This is a massive move for Father’s Day. All my life I’d viewed the day as a Hallmark fabrication, a quasi-Title IX maneuver to level the field severely tilted by the wildly popular Mother’s Day.

But my perception changed yesterday. There are a few reasons that come to mind and account for this day rocketing up the charts to the top spot.

1. Father’s Day is a shared experience.

This year I took more pleasure than usual in both extending and receiving Father’s Day wishes to and from total strangers. For a day, we were connected by a fraternity of fatherhood. I also found great joy in exchanging wishes with dear friends whose parenting skills I respect – and whose children I know and admire. And, of course, the privilege of exchanging wishes with my own dad, with whom I relate to more with each passing year. Contrast that to the birthday experience which can feel a bit solitary – although I do share a birthday with my mother and Johnny Bench.

2. Father’s Day and the U.S. Open. Absolute genius.

3. Father’s Day honors some degree of achievement (noting here the distinction between fathering a child and being a father). Technically speaking, the birthday simply recognizes another year of survival on this planet.

4. For Father’s Day, a silly song is not obligatorily directed at you by co-workers or restaurant personnel.

5. Father’s Day is a collective and societal celebration of values, priorities and family.

6. And that family of mine gave me some really thoughtful and cool gifts – including the massage.

7. Numerically speaking, it’ll be a few more years before my birthday gets interesting. Plus, Father’s Day feels more novel (only had 10 of those).

8. Your chance of getting an unfunny, off-color card and/or novelty gift for Father's Day is significantly less than on your birthday.

9. I ignored work this Father’s Day weekend. Instead, I swam with my kids, sat with my family and watched the beautifully touching and affirming Up, and, from my third base coaching box, waved my son home for his first home run of the season.

Maybe I’m late to this Father’s Day party. A co-worker told me he’s always ranked Father’s Day higher. But for me, this was the year I got it. The year the rankings shifted.

Of course, it’s only mid-June. Come September, Labor Day could come on strong . . .

Bombhappies - Blank as a Blank Piece of Paper

2009-06-18T10:55:00.000-05:00

Don't Understand Icelandic, But I Understand Beauty

2009-06-16T10:14:00.001-05:00

Mrs Doubtfire - Recut Trailer

2009-06-16T09:50:00.001-05:00

There's magic in this mashup.

2009-06-05T16:51:00.009-05:00

I can't say enough about this utterly charming video.

The concept is brilliant. The execution is stellar. The song is infectious. The creativity in bringing it to life is enviable.

What a delight and pleasure to see a fresh faced and beautiful Julie Andrews, along with a kinetic, long-limbed Dick Van Dyke. I love the visual and sonic rhythm, the child's voice, the wonder and curiosity expressed through the eyes.

But the reason I watch it again and again -- and the reason I want to share it -- is the emotion it evokes. Joy. Optimism. Happiness. Hope. What a gift.

Next to Keyboard Cat + Walker (which evokes something completely different), this mashup is just about the best thing I've seen in 2009.

It gives me a smile - and "a deep satisfaction."

If Nothing Else, fantastic Band Name...

2009-06-05T10:46:00.001-05:00

today’s unfortunate vending machine incident

2009-06-03T20:03:00.003-05:00

as expressed in Haiku verse.

verse one
snickers bar stuck
mocking gravity’s allure
sixty five cents lost

.
verse two
next choice, a kit kat
snack expense: a buck thirty
must you keep the change?

18 things I can do underwater I wish I could do on dry land

2009-05-30T21:51:00.006-05:00

1. Levitate
2. Double flip
3. One handed handstand
4. Two handed handstand
5. Flying kung fu kicks
6. The “whirling dervish”
7. Wear goggles and look cool
8. Tread air
9. Long jump 35 feet
10. Amuse my friends
11. Hold my breath without being accused of something
12. Get service without shoes or shirt
13. Make my hair look like that
14. Bench press 400 lbs
15. Self actualization
16. Avoid mosquitoes
17. Be on time
18. Math

Too Good Not to Share

2009-05-28T14:42:00.001-05:00

Does This Mean Last Week's Count Needs to be Adjusted?

2009-05-28T12:55:00.000-05:00

Bodies found in funeral home bought at tax sale :: Lake County :: Post-Tribune

Happy Song of the Day

2009-05-28T10:37:00.000-05:00

The Hulka Syndrome

2009-05-28T09:30:00.003-05:00

With age comes experience.

With experience comes perspective.

And with all three comes The Hulka Syndrome.

The Hulka Syndrome (THS) is that shift of allegiance or empathy you feel as an adult towards a person -- real or fictitious -- you first encountered in your youth.

Perhaps you’ve experienced THS at a family gathering or a high school reunion. Or maybe while watching the movie Stripes, which is exactly when THS hit me with swift and surprising clarity.

Let’s review the film’s plot. Slacker joins the Army. Clashes with his old school, hard nosed commanding officer. Finds redemption, reconciliation and respect. (Of course the film loses its way during the Winnebago-laden second half, but that’s another post.)

The first half of the film thrives, largely due to the generational tension created between the two main characters, the slacker John Winger and Sgt. Hulka.

When the film was released in 1981 – and for years afterward – my college friends and I would howl at the antics of Winger (Bill Murray). To us, this guy challenged authority and seemingly antiquated attitudes while staying true to his carefree self. He was a lazy hero striking a blow against the uptight establishment. In truth, Winger was us. Undisciplined. A bit aimless. Hazy on his future. Certainly not Army material.

By contrast, Sgt. Hulka (Warren Oates) was bred for the armed services. Focused, disciplined and tough, he was no-nonsense (and close shaven). His disdain for those who wasted his time and peddled nonsense was palpable.

In college, my friends and I elevated nonsense to an art form. Naturally, we cheered Winger’s defiance of Hulka on every viewing. Stick it to The Man – for all of us!

Yet when I stumbled across Stripes on cable a few days ago, I found myself cheering for a different character.

“Why doesn’t Winger appreciate Hulka?,” I wondered aloud. Then to my wife, “You know, that Hulka has a lot of skins on the wall. He really deserves respect.”

My wife and I often discuss films not aging well. That usually refers to films with Heston-esque overacting, dated production values, massive hairstyles, and wardrobes including but not limited to Members Only jackets and parachute pants.

I now have to consider that movies like Stripes don’t age well because the characters haven’t aged. And I have.

The onset of The Hulka Syndrome can be uncomfortable. (“What’s happening to me? I’m losing my sense of fun!”) I experienced another painful bout of THS during a recent viewing of Risky Business. (“I’d tan that boy’s hide if he chipped my egg.”) I can only imagine the violent THS reactions a John Hughes retrospective might trigger.

Funny how the characters of my youth who flout authority and tradition seem a little less funny today – undoubtedly the result of responsibilities like a marriage, a mortgage, a so-called career and parenting. Perspective, indeed.

I’m reminded of the profound change I felt after having our firstborn, that of suddenly viewing the world through the eyes of a parent instead of a child. No wonder, then, we view characters first met through the eyes of a child differently when viewed through the more seasoned eyes of an adult.

The Hulka Syndrome reminds me I’ve crossed the Rubicon. And in a surprising plot twist, I now stand on the other side of the generation gap, championing instead of cackling at the values espoused by my newest, bestest buddy, and big toe, Sergeant Hulka.

black lab + novelty chattering teeth

2009-05-27T09:11:00.002-05:00

RHS Acappella Choir - In Remembrance

2009-04-10T09:49:00.001-05:00

This was one of the songs that RHS Acappella Choir performed at the UIL competition this year. It was written by a high school music teacher in response to the death of one of his students. It is a truly beautiful song.

tuck or untuck

2009-04-06T19:14:00.002-05:00

At a recent party, I found myself surrounded by middle-aged guys -- nearly all with their shirts untucked.

Ordinarily this display of untuckiness doesn’t phase me. After all, my day job as a creative means I often wear shirts tailored to be untucked. Standard issue for creative directors (along with the black turtleneck and ironic t-shirt). And among the creatives at the agency, there are many kinds of free-flowing garments. So the notion of tucking is seen as restricting the kind of freethinking our clients pay for, the belt viewed as a tool of The Man (and/or account services). If this were an analogies test, it might be represented as follows: Tuck is to inside the box as untuck is to _________ the box.

But this birthday bash wasn’t at the agency. And I wasn't surrounded by creatives. I was at a polite and subdued gathering, mixing it up with accountants, financial managers, federal officials, corporals of industry. All were sporting a variety of shirts – from dress to oxford button down to tailored. And nearly all were eschewing the polish and finish of the tuck, choosing to let their sartorial guard and shirt tail down.

Perhaps I was witnessing the proverbial letting down of the hair on a Saturday night. Maybe even a defiance of middle-aged expectations, a mild flash of rebellion against the belted system. Or was something larger going on here. A small symbol, a manifestation of the recognition that our economic system, society and way of life is on the brink of utter chaos and those who have toed the party line for years are finally fed up. “Screw this. I’m wearing my shirt OUT!”

Regardless, ever since that party, I’ve been tuned in to the number of adult males choosing the untucked style.

There would seem to be many variables at play in determining whether or not one’s shirt is tucked in. A few that come to mind include the setting (ballgame or office), the pants (slacks vs. jeans), and one’s body style (does the tuck or untuck flatter).
It would seem to me the chief factor, though, is the style of shirt. Is it created to be worn out or in?

I’m no authority on this matter, though. And, frankly, as a mixed tucker myself, I welcome the guidance of others – if not the establishment of some tucklaws (thanks to KO for that designation).

So weigh in on this matter, please.
(And join in the conversation and observations on Twitter @TuckOrUntuck.)

The best eight bucks I’ve spent this year

2009-03-23T21:54:00.005-05:00

Last night restored my faith in and passion for live music.

Trekked up to Denton for a triple bill at the remote Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios in the industrial cement sector of Denton. My friend Max and I pulled his car into the parking space in front of the door, paid $8 at the door and were admitted.

No Ticketmaster. No $10 service charge. No “convenience charge” to print out my “Express Ticket” on my computer with my ink. No $15 parking fee. No parking hassles. No hassles whatsoever.

Along with about 40 others in the tiny room, we enjoyed three indie bands, all a bit ragged from their performances during the previous days at SXSW. Loved the Antlers, enjoyed the frenetic Tyvek, and got lost in the sonic swirl of the explosive and loud Asobi Seksu. The band finished with the epic Red Sea at about 1.30 a.m. Glorious.

Made me feel alive and totally engaged – and left me wondering why I don’t do that more often.

coolest world capital names

2009-03-19T12:58:00.002-05:00

Bucharest
Budapest (phonetically similar to Bucharest)
Cairo
Dakar
Djibouti
Funafuti*
Islamabad
Kathmandu
Khartoum
Kuala Lumpur
Nairobi
Minsk
Pago Pago
Prague
Reykjavík
Sarajevo
Tripoli
Vienna

If Dar es Salaam were a world capital, it'd be my favorite.

*also on my "Most Whimsical" list.

I've been Hoagie-d!

2009-03-17T22:15:00.004-05:00

While wandering past the downtown Dickey’s at lunch, I was drawn to a poster touting their new BBQ Hoagie at the low introductory price of $2.99.

Advertising works.

Intrigued, I strode inside and ordered one so-called brisket hoagie to go.

Back at my office desk I discovered in my Dickey's bag, quite possibly, the world’s smallest hoagie.

This reality collided violently with my perception of a hoagie: A massive, workingman’s two-fisted, City of Brotherly Love sandwich. An intimidating vessel of meat and fixings that commands respect as it emerges from a black metal lunch pail.

I must say my Dickey's "hoagie" was tasty. But I suggest this finger food should not be called a hoagie.

A few possibilities for the good folks at Dickey’s to consider:
--Hoagie, Jr.
--Mini Hogi
--The WeeWich
--TinyHoagie
--ShrinkWich
--Furious FistSized Fast Food
--The BBQuaintWich
--Sliced Dinner Roll with Meat

My Album

2009-03-11T08:46:00.000-05:00

My Album

the influencers

2009-03-10T23:46:00.008-05:00

In the agency world, much attention and energy is given to reaching the “influencers.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about influencers lately.

But not about those cool kids we marketers long to excite so they’ll influence their sycophantic pals.

Rather, I’ve been thinking about those people who have had an influence in my life.

Of course there have been many. Those friends and family members who have introduced me to different aspects of music, film, books, faith, work . . . the list goes on.

I can easily (and enjoyably) think of ten people who have influenced my musical tastes.

Mom, what with her Kris Kristofferson and Neil Diamond LPs rocking from the refrigerator-on-its-side sized stereo console nestled deep in our home’s shag carpet.

Phil P, my artistic and gifted friend who introduced me to FM rock in 8th grade. Phil was advanced in matters of music, his tastes running toward jazz and album rock. And while I never warmed to the fusion stylings he favored -- Chick Corea and Return to Forever -- I was astonished when he played for me side one of A Day at the Races. The harmonies and big, bombastic sounds of Queen was nothing short of a revelation. Epic. I also credit Phil for turning me on to Bowie, Heart, Steely Dan, Black Sabbath, Springsteen, and others.

Cousin Phil, who, during a 1970s Thanksgiving family gathering, set me up in his parents’ room with a pair of oversized Koss headphones and dropped the needle on some CSN&Y and Zeppelin. That was big. As a prog rock guy, Phil also introduced me to the genius of Pink Floyd and, much later, to Radiohead’s stunning OK Computer.

Kirk Mc, my cool, older church friend with a hot rod whose speakers would be subjected to repeated plays of Bad Motor Scooter by Montrose and Train Kept A Rollin’ at, shall we say, exaggerated volume. And it was while riding in his back seat, in magnficent proximity to these speakers, that I enjoyed this first taste of "hard rock" and Aerosmith. Incredible. Later, Kirk (and his car) took me to my first rock concert: Aerosmith and AC/DC at the Long Beach Arena.

Kirk H, a baseball teammate of mine. With Prop 13 cutbacks, a few of us would pile into Kirk’s VW squareback instead of a school bus for away games. En route, Kirk blared Sex Pistols and the Ramones. This introduction to punk was glorious and defining.

Catherine, my co-worker at Brentano’s bookstore who introduced me to the sweeping atmospheric sounds of groups like Roxy Music, Cocteau Twins, and Ultravox.

Joel P who, in college, generously swapped albums with me so I could record various mixes on my beloved TDK-SA90s. Joel also turned me on to the curiosity and beauty of artists like Laurie Anderson and Bill Nelson.

Davey G, Max, Adam . . . fellow agency creatives who have over the years pointed me to some of my favorite bands: Asobi Seksu, M83, Pernice Brothers, Stellastarr, My Vitriol, Feeder . . .

Thanks for indulging me in this exercise, a consequence of reconnecting with old friends through Facebook – and revisiting the roles each have played in my life.

A few things strike me here.

1. How telling it is to connect the dots and track the development and shape of personal taste.
2. How easy it is to recall place. Decades later, I can vividly recall the back seats of the Kirks’ cars.
3. How I can still remember and feel the emotion of those wonderful Eureka! moments.
4. How grateful I am for these influences.

So . . . who has influenced you?

The coming evangelical collapse | csmonitor.com

2009-03-10T16:18:00.000-05:00

The coming evangelical collapse | csmonitor.com

Mystery Man on Film: The “Raiders” Story Conference

2009-03-10T16:14:00.000-05:00

Mystery Man on Film: The “Raiders” Story Conference

Long but fascinating read about the original brainstorming sessions for Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Rockology Revisited

2009-03-04T10:29:00.002-06:00

Below is the very first post that was ever made on Funegro, back in 2003. I wondered if anyone would like to revisit our selections with the benefit of a few more years of wisdom...

Personally, I have come to realize the greatness of Nirvana and would like to submit to the committee that we consider replacing Ted Nugent as the representative of the letter "N". For their definitive song, I would suggest the song that changed everything, Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Thoughts?

Original Post:

Below is an alphabetical listing of the greatest rock & roll artists of all time, along with their definitive works. A single artist was selected for each letter of the alphabet, and then a recording was selected that best represents their work.

Many thanks to the selection committee - me, Scott Biggers and Eric Oliver.

Aerosmith - Dream On
Beatles - Let it Be
Eric Clapton - Layla
The Doors - Break on Through
The Eagles - Hotel California
Foreigner - Feels Like the First Time
Grateful Dead - Truckin'
Jimi Hendrix - All Along the Watchtower
INXS - Don't Change
Jethro Tull - Aqualung
Kansas - Carry On My Wayward Son
Led Zepplin - Stairway to Heaven
Van Morrison - Moondance
Ted Nugent - Stranglehold
Roy Orbison - Pretty Woman
Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here
Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
Rolling Stones - Jumpin Jack Flash
Bruce Springsteen - Born to Run
Talking Heads - Once in a Lifetime
U2 - I Will Follow
Van Halen - Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love
The Who - Won't Get Fooled Again
X - Los Angeles
Yes - Roundabout
ZZ Top - La Grange

THRU YOU | Kutiman mixes YouTube

2009-03-04T09:35:00.000-06:00

Amazing...

THRU YOU | Kutiman mixes YouTube

Ignorance is bliss

2009-03-03T23:30:00.003-06:00

One of the most fascinating aspects of growing older is how clichés become reality.

I think of those phrases and truisms you hear all your life. From TV, film, friends, parents, wherever. An example might be “keeping up with the Jones.” As a kid, I understood this principle. You want to have what your friends have.

But sometime during my adult life, I experienced the seductive power of status, of gathering things and caring too deeply about how those things defined me, vis a vis my peers. That’s when I understood the cliché at a visceral level – and began to grasp the problems of living that way.

So there’s a reason these phrases have weathered the test of time: The universal and human principle of truth each contains.

This year, I’m experiencing the truth of “ignorance is bliss.” At least the truth for me.

Because 2009’s steady drumbeat of economic woes rob me of the bliss that comes with living in the moment. Perhaps this says more about my perspective and priorities.

But this year, I recognize how much of a drag this constant stream of gloomy news and dismal economic indicators is on my spirit. By their very nature, they transport you to the past and the future, out of the present moment.

And I resent those who force this news on me.

Chief offenders in my daily life are the big screen TVs in our downtown office building lobby that broadcast CNN, presumably to fill those idle seconds of its tenants waiting for the elevator. (Honorable mention goes to the blowhard at last week’s Mavericks game who forced his loud and unsolicited pessimistic economic opinions on all of us seated in section 119.)

In a day and age where news can be obtained in an instant from our handheld devices, this “push” tactic of content feels increasingly anachronistic. Especially when the content being pushed is lousy news, and, for me, comes with the personal subtext of poor investment decisions, hemorrhaging retirement funds, and my kids’ future.

My refuge from this distracting noise is the museum, a short walk from the building. It’s there I find inspiration in watching the children playing in the courtyard. Of course, these school kids are blissfully unaware of recession, market turmoil and the government’s grim employment outlook. In their oblivion, they experience the joy and play in their midst.

Inspired, I tried a media fast Wednesday. Away from the day’s toxic news my mood lightened. My senses sharpened. My food tasted better, the sun felt warmer, and, in the absence of roses, I sat and smelled the coffee. I was truly enjoying the day.

Of course it is this unplugging that makes our annual retreat to the New Mexico mountains so glorious. What a treat to experience that high-altitude feeling midweek in a flat urban environment. The simplicity of living in the moment. The joy of the present.

Indeed, the bliss of ignorance.

Funegro Classics: November of 2004

2009-03-03T17:20:00.000-06:00

Funegro: my deaconly purpose

Beardhead.com - Beard Caps and Mustaches You Wear

2009-02-23T12:16:00.000-06:00

Beardhead.com - Beard Caps and Mustaches You Wear

Abilene church drops electricity for month : Spirituality : Abilene Reporter-News

2009-02-23T11:55:00.000-06:00

Abilene church drops electricity for month : Spirituality : Abilene Reporter-News

My first thought was - that's going to make counting attendance very difficult...

The real holiday sale

2009-02-22T23:35:00.005-06:00

Driving past the nearby restaurant row on Valentine’s evening, I was struck by the packed parking lots and heavy traffic generated by this holiday. What a massive hassle to deal with that, I muttered to myself.

After arriving home I repeated the sentiment to my wife, who was seemingly content with her lot on this Valentine’s: Preparing a nice meal at home for her kids and husband, the owner/operator of this cheap Valentine’s date.

Later, my under-romanced wife and I recalled the Valentine’s dinners we’ve shared at restaurants – and the accompanying hassles. Babysitting arrangements. Overpriced obligatory roses. Battling every couple within a 90-mile radius for a decent reservation time, plate of pasta, and the attention of the overworked waiter. After 21+ years of marriage, who needs the aggravation?

Valentine’s Day, we thusly concluded, is amateur night for couples.

Much like New Years Eve, long recognized as amateur night for revelers. An open invitation for any yahoo to cut loose, be silly, over-imbibe, sport wacky hats and the occasional pair of novelty glasses – all in the lenient eye of the general public, who shrugs its collective shoulder at this behavior and sighs, “Hey, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

Although some of us – those who might lay claim to a higher order of world-weariness –tend to look down our nose at these hapless amateurs, whether for New Year’s or Valentines or . . . well, just about every holiday has an "amateur night" quality to it.

Think of those who trot out a sense of patriotism once a year – on July 4. Or those who wait until Thanksgiving to offer any sense of gratitude during the year. Or those who make their cameo church appearance every Easter.

I’ve always viewed this notion of “amateur night” as a negative. Probably because I’m far too shrewd and advanced in my human development to buy a $49 bouquet of roses on February 14 or to be caught dead with any of those holiday novelty items Hallmark is peddling. Those who do get suckered into such things are, well, suckers. Hacks. Pssshh . . . foolish amateurs.

What this view neglects though, is that at a deeper level, the actions these holidays encourage and promote are the actions and values that elevate our society.

Meaning that society stands to gain from these amateur nights.

Consider these values associated with the holidays:
--Joy and renewal (New Year’s Day)
--Equality (MLK Day)
--Freedom (July 4)
--Hope (Easter)
--Leadership (President’s Day)
--Sacrifice and valor (Memorial Day, Veterans Day)
--Industriousness (Labor Day)
--Gratitude (Thanksgiving)
--A couple of varieties of love (Valentine’s, Christmas)

And each one of these holidays invites you and me to try its particular value for that day. Each holiday is a sales event.

But not the crass kind we associate with the holidays. (Save at our GIANT LABOR DAY MATTRESS SALE!!!! Freedom from high prices!!!!)

What's different is that the holidays aren’t triggering a selling event. They are the selling event. Because what’s being sold are not goods or services, but an attitude. A value.

Imagine the calendar as a giant trade show, where each holiday has its own sales booth offering generous samples of its virtue to all comers. Let's check it out. Oh, look, it’s Thanksgiving. Over there. The booth with the spinning prize wheel and fishbowl of business cards.

As you approach it – which resides at the fourth Thursday of November – you are greeted by an earnest sales rep who welcomes you with a brochure and a dazzling smile.

Hi. Would you like to try some gratitude today? Go ahead. See how it feels. Oh, it looks fantastic on you. Not trying to be pushy here, but why don't you take it with you and try it for the next few days. I think you'll like it.

With any luck, every visitor to Thanksgiving – or MLK Day or Veteran’s Day or Valentine’s Day or whatever holiday on the calendar – has a positive experience with that specific holiday’s virtue and chooses to exercise it on that day . . . and beyond.

Because when the holiday “sells” its virtue and gets people to try it and live it, the sale makes our society better and stronger. Consider it a stimulus of civility. And in these unstable times, we need the maximum number of people adopting and exercising these values.

God bless the amateurs.

Extras Taking a Break on the Set of Flashdance

2009-02-21T00:30:00.002-06:00

what my kids found in big trash

2009-02-03T20:32:00.003-06:00

Christmas seems to come twelve times a year for my children, thanks to the City of Dallas' monthly big trash pickup. That such "riches" would be pushed to the curb as refuse is astonishing to these pint-sized treasure hunters (aka: hobos).

This month's tally:

--Briefcases (2)(entry code not included)
--Bolo tie (1)
--Various sports patches & ribbons (3)
--Mini BBQ grill (1)
--KAPPA ALPHA OMEGA membership card for Stan (1)
--Brass "STAN" beltbuckle (1)
--"STAN" chain bracelet (1)
--Astrological necklace: Taurus. (Presumably Stan's)

(Not pictured: non-working ShopVac)

Mysterious Ways In Which The Lord Works

2009-01-16T10:53:00.003-06:00

Never comes to the office holiday party

Changes the subject whenever anyone mentions past employment

Always minimizes windows right when you walk up

Logs onto Instant Messenger, but status always reads "BUSY!"

Even after all this time, still hasn't set up voicemail

Talks about family a lot, but doesn't have any pictures on his desk or anything

Parks in the alley instead of the garage, even though it's free for employees

Doesn't list any emergency contacts on HR form

Sometimes goes missing for days, then shows up with head all bandaged and acts like nothing happened

Always seems to have coffee, never seems to make coffee

Pretends to be on the phone when clearly none of the lines are lit up

Enables macros

---------

courtesy of the genius of mcsweeney's

Miniature Fisherman

2009-01-07T13:17:00.001-06:00

The worst New Years Eve

2008-12-31T21:54:00.003-06:00

Sitting at home on the biggest party night of the year, hanging out near my wife who is resting, recuperating from yesterday’s surgery. My daughter is watching an episode of I Love Lucy with our new 8-week old lab, while my son vanquishes foes in a videogame.

To drown out the distant screams of PlayStation avatars and studio audience laughter from half a century ago, Pandora is providing a stellar mix of trip-hop music while I peck away at the laptop.

And I’m at peace with this tranquil, if not downright dull domestic suburban scene on New Year’s Eve.

Several years ago, this would not have been the case.

Thanks to absolutely miserable New Years Eves I spent as a youth – file all under the “good, clean fun” tag that comes with celebrating the occasion with church folks – I felt the need as an adult to make up for lost time. The result: Huge pressure to experience the zenith of partying every December 31.

I trace it all back to that NYEve spent with about 200 area youth group kids – at Peek’s Family Funeral Home in Westminster.

Who knew this facility would have a giant room, large enough to accommodate a bunch of blissfully ignorant (and captive) kids, tables full of pizzas and Shasta, and a movie projector ready to play a double feature of The Cat From Outer Space and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers?

Clearly, being in the vicinity of the deceased wasn’t the worst part of the evening. Not even close.

Because whatever genius youth minister "planned" this gathering apparently neglected to check on seating options for the hundreds of kids. Folding metal chairs were at a premium on this special night.

So there I was, probably clad in my best Hang Ten shirt and Toughskins, trying unsuccessfully to sit Indian-style on the concrete floor with my greasy paper plate of pizza, enduring four hours of intergalactic feline wackiness and some dancing idiots (in the woods, I think).

I vaguely remember some youth minister carefully stepping his way through the masses of slackjawed kids sprawled on the floor to get to the projector, just in time (allegedly) to pre-empt the lackluster conclusion of Seven Brides with a half-hearted countdown.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . happy new year.”

After about 90 seconds of forced and manufactured enthusiasm at the appearance of the new year, as well as the exchange of some stiff, youth group hugs, the minister at the projector deemed the celebration complete – and sentenced us to spend those precious, first few minutes of 1978 watching the end of Seven Brides.

Released from our bondage, we shuffled out of the funeral home/entertainment hall in a daze. Finally, I snapped out of my hard concrete + bad cinema induced lethargy to suggest to my peeps that we go have some fun.

Let’s go toilet paper the Smith’s house!

Ahh, yes . . . more good, clean fun.

Suffice it to say, we were caught by Mr. Smith, who politely insisted that my cronies and I clean up the rather significant mess we created in his yard (and 20-foot trees).

I finally rolled home sometime around 3 in the morning, totally sober and in absolute control of my faculties -- apparently so I could vividly recall and relive for the rest of my life every painful detail of this night, the worst New Year’s Eve.

teeth and tuxes

2008-12-30T07:30:00.002-06:00

A few thoughts going through these guys' minds:

--"This was definitely worth $60."

--"The way my hair looks tonite will never go out of style."

--"I hope this picture never ends up on Funegro."

One must also appreciate the diversity of the club . . .

the counter's dream

2008-12-28T13:46:00.003-06:00

Last nite I had a dream. Part of it took place at church where, before worship services began, one of the ministers got up and exhorted the crowd with "I hope you enjoy the show today." The show?

And if that weren't enough, during the mid-service meet & greet -- the church's 7th inning stretch -- that same minister returned to the microphone. "OK. Let me encourage you to make your way back to your seats now. When you get back to your seats, be sure to check the attendance cards in the back of the pew in front of you, because during the break, one of our ushers has placed one $50 Carrabba's gift card in one of those rack of cards! Good luck!"

Indeed, this ill-advised promotional stunt in last nite's dream may have been a foreshadowing of this morning's anemic count of 527 -- and the sort of dramatic steps that might be needed to restore attendance to the dizzying heights of two years ago.

I'll check with my new Assembly Counters group on Facebook to see if it is normal for an emotionally invested counter to have these sort of prophetic dreams.

Random thought: What if brands could arrange for product placement in your dreams?

Leftover Meeting Food

2008-12-15T14:42:00.000-06:00

- Food

r.i.p. carlotta

2008-12-14T23:09:00.002-06:00

We buried our beloved black lab in the backyard about an hour ago.

The inevitability of her condition gave me time to dig her grave this afternoon, a most surreal activity as she hobbled around in pain just feet away from the pit in the unseasonably warm afternoon air.

Symbolically, the temperature plummeted as we lured Carlotta into the car for her last ride, a sad and quiet trip with our family to meet our compassionate vet who finally eased her cancerous pain.

I rejoice that yesterday we got to share a great afternoon with her at Arbor Creek Preserve, watching her come to life as she splashed in the creek and occasionally trotted.

And we are forever grateful for this member of our family who constantly surprised us with her capacity to please and her ability to bring joy.

The Time Value of Money

2008-11-15T16:17:00.004-06:00

Consider the Sovereign Bank clock.

I do just about every weekday, en route to the train station. In theory, it should give me a sense as to whether or not I'll catch the 8.04 heading downtown.

The reality requires some degree of guesswork and mathematics, though, as the Sovereign Bank clock is comically inaccurate, off by an average of 70 minutes.

(It was 7:10 pm when I took this picture.)

Guess this could be viewed as an apt metaphor for the sad state of the financial industry today.

At the very least, a bank that can’t keep time doesn’t exactly instill confidence in this prospective bank customer.

“Hello, I wanted to check my balance.”

“Certainly, Mr. B. Looks like you have somewhere around $500 in your checking account.”

“Hmmm . . .I thought I . . .

“You know, give or take $200. You might have had a couple of transactions since last week. We’ll probably be updating our files pretty soon.”

To be fair to the Regional Director of Timekeeping at Sovereign Bank, it’s only been a few weeks since we went off Daylight Savings. I can only imagine the vast coordination and planning involved in pulling off the Herculean task of changing the time on that giant clock -- twice a year! Of course, in this day and age of people sporting their fancy “wrist-watches” and all, the public display of time could be viewed as a luxury rather than a necessity.

But keeping and displaying an accurate measure of a valued commodity seems like it should be right in a bank’s wheelhouse.

As opposed to that of my wife, whose bedside clock inaccuracies rival those of Sovereign Bank. But that’s another post . . .

Worst Series

2008-10-27T23:03:00.003-05:00

What a farce.

That the penultimate series for the "boys of summer" was nearly decided in tonight's comically wintry conditions is yet one more reason to shorten the season to 154 games.

And while the owners might cringe at the loss of eight games' worth of revenue, perhaps they can divvy up the proceeds from the brisk sales of those WS2008 long sleeve turtlenecks and wacky earflap hats. Those will look mighty good at the ballpark next August.

The Filter Monster!

2008-10-10T12:59:00.006-05:00

Just replaced our pool filter.

Judging from this warning sticker on the new filter, I'll be hiring a lion tamer to change the DE.

I'm not exactly clear what's going on here, but, best I can tell from the visual, one wrong move and the filter lid awakens, opening wide its well concealed jaws to either taunt you with sharp insults or secrete an acid-like substance to temporarily blind you. This maneuver seems counterproductive, though, as it would severely limit your ability to enjoy the spectacular pyrotechnic show that eminates from the filter's midsection.

Apparently, just prior to this dramatic event, the filter has gnawed your feet off in a thoughtful manner as to leave you with smooth nubs to balance upon and contend with the menace that is the agitated and clearly provoked Filter Monster!

perspective

2008-10-10T12:53:00.000-05:00

“The most valuable things in life are not measured in monetary terms. The really important things are not houses and lands, stocks and bonds, automobiles and real state, but friendships, trust, confidence, empathy, mercy, love and faith.”

Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) philosopher & mathematician

"But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal." Mt. 6.21

believe in a church?

2008-09-26T17:10:00.003-05:00

Maybe the good folks at First Baptist have some research that suggests this approach to church marketing is spot on.

But this billboard on the Tollway left me wondering if believing in a church is an issue.

Let's back up:
I'm not sure what it means to believe in a church. (To me, this is quite different than believing in the institution of the church.)

To believe it exists?
To believe it will have potlucks and attractive, shiny people?
To believe it will meet my spiritual, social and emotional needs?

I assume it's the latter option.

The church is people. And I want to believe in people. That they'll treat me well. They'll do what's right. They'll be selfless. They'll be encouraging. They won't let me down. They'll live by the Golden Rule.

Of course, people screw up. They don't do these things. They cheat, gossip, get small, petty and selfish. As a result, I lose faith in people. Perhaps the research and focus groups said they'd had a bad experience at a church. I get that.

Yet for an organization ultimately selling a higher belief, as well as a community united through that belief, this billboard struck the wrong chord with me.

employee recognition

2008-09-25T21:07:00.003-05:00

DART passengers disembarking at the Arapaho station are greeted with this poster at the train stop.

Let me congratulate Mr. Gardner II (undoubtedly from a proud lineage of train operators) on this recognition. This humble commuter looks forward to riding on a train captained by this lord of the rails.

I'm afraid I may be too late, though.

With this honor, I would expect he's risen above merely driving the train. No doubt with his new pedigree, he'll take on a Captain Stubing sort of role onboard, mixing it up with the rank and file riders. ("How's your ride this morning?" "Why, that's an unusual fragrance you're sporting." "Good afternoon, Homey, is that the new Snoop album you're listening to?")

Maybe JMG2 would invite a select few to dine with him at the Rail Operator's table. Or graciously point out some of the facts of the train, to say nothing of engaging the stunned commuters with his charming repartee. He would reassure and edu-tain over the tinny PA system. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. It's a pleasure to have you aboard. In the next 20 seconds, we'll be reaching a maximum speed of 51 miles per hour, then rapidly decelerating for another stop. I hope you've had as much fun riding the train today as I've had serving you."

Sure he might take the wheel for a ceremonial drive, for a fundraiser perhaps. Or for part of his DART farewell tour as he takes the big offer from Amtrak.

Of course, there's a downside of having your picture posted on a train stop that services such a diverse and colorful constituency. Let's just say I wouldn't expect Mr. Gardner II's shining face to be unblemished for too much longer. In fact, it would seem to be the equivalent of an open book test for taggers. Or it could be a brilliantly disguised sting operation to flush out the city's defacers. Regardless, over the next few days (hours?) I'm afraid the shining visage of our city's Rail Operator of the Year will undergo a significant and entirely unsanctioned overhaul, including (yet not limited to) blackened teeth, "crazy eyes", and, quite possibly, devil's horns.

Seems like a curious way to recognize a top employee -- and a heckuva train driver.

how i'm coping with the financial crisis

2008-09-25T20:46:00.003-05:00

While ingesting a steady diet of bad news in The Wall Street Journal and recalculating my retirement age, my mood was brightened considerably when our 6-year-old altered this picture of Paulson and Thain. Timeless schtick.

Takes me back to the days of creating similar art, with church directories, yearbooks, and freebies from realtors as my canvas.

Coke. Red Around The World

2008-07-24T15:36:00.001-05:00

Coke. Red Around The World, originally uploaded by The Searcher.

Jeff, I thought you would like this...

Dark Knight

2008-07-19T22:16:00.002-05:00

Loved it.

Good Article on Happiness

2008-07-17T21:31:00.001-05:00

I like this blog - I'm trying to pare down my RSS reading list but this one is a keeper.

Alien preparedness

2008-07-17T20:11:00.007-05:00

Stumbled across the movie Signs on TV the other night. I’ve always liked it. And while it’s not one of those rare flicks (e.g. The Godfather, Heat, The Game) that compel me to drop everything I’m doing to watch, I did get sucked in for a few minutes.

During that brief time, it hit me.

I’m not prepared for an alien invasion.

You probably know the film’s plot. The world is invaded by extra-terrestrials. These malevolent aliens are everywhere, even in a lovely two-story country home (with basement) occupied by a family of four.

The part I saw was when the men of this house (played by Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix) team up to nail strong and uniform planks of wood across doors and entryways. The result: Efficient, well-crafted, even aesthetically pleasing barriers that keep the aliens from advancing.

I can’t help but imagine how that scene would play out at our house.

Assuming the aliens would come in through the roof, they’d first complain about the lack of cool air circulating upstairs and that stain on the carpet.

I’d remind them they’ve landed on a hot and flat part of the planet that’s subject to the volatile price swings of a deregulated electricity market. At seeing their collective alien eye glaze over in macroeconomic confusion, I’d change my tactics. “Hey, I’d like to see you scaly intruders shell out 700 bucks a month for energy to keep this house cool.“

But I digress . . .

My wife and I would probably hear the aliens rattling around upstairs, perhaps jumping up and down in a series of unplanned and, frankly, undignified gravity tests. They’d be speaking very loudly, too, quite possibly in their frustration with the poorly maintained recumbent bike they’ve encountered in the guest room.

At hearing these dull thuds and indecipherable dialects, we'd look at each other and spring into action.

“We can’t let them downstairs!” I’d heroically proclaim.

Just like in the movie, we would grab some wood and start building a barricade at the base of the stairs to repel the aliens.

Only this isn’t the movie. This is our house.

“Honey, didn’t we have a 2 x 4 left over from the fence?” I’d yell while running into the garage.

“Look behind the workbench,” my wife would say. “If it’s not there, the kids might have taken it out to the fort.”

Behind the workbench, all I find is a paint can lid, two Pokemon cards, and a CD case for Foreigner 4 (disc missing). So I grab the wood I find in the garage, which amounts to a couple of mismatched shelves buckling under the crushing weight of pool chemicals and pavestones, a 31-inch Johnny Bench bat, a dog-chewed broomstick, and my son’s losing Pinewood Derby entry.

“Where’s the hammer?” I’d shout over the bizarre alien dialogue, which is growing louder – either because they’re getting closer to us, or they just succeeded in burning 200 calories on that dusty bike.

Upon only partially hearing my question, my well-intentioned wife makes a dash for the baking soda.

Hammer-less, I’d use a picture frame to pound the finishing nail I found in my rusty toolbox through the broomstick into the bat. That sad endeavor would fail spectacularly. Out of view from my wife, I’d sheepishly lay the bat and broomstick across the bottom two stairs with hopes the aliens might step upon either awkwardly and suffer a temporary loss of balance. Psychologically, this could be a victory for earth.

Then in a flash of brilliance, I’d remember the emergency terror kit my wife dutifully assembled after 9/11, tucked neatly away in the hall closet. Surely that packed box of utilities would offer some relief and, ideally, some defense in this dire situation.

I’d open the closet, push the ironing board aside and pull out the box . . . only to discover I was the only member of this household over the past six years not using the terror kit as a mini-hardware store. Grabbing the two remaining items in the kit – an unwrapped tarp and a Sharpie – I’d pursue a diplomatic approach with the aliens by writing a persuasive and, if I may say so myself, a very clever headline across the tarp.

Needless to say, we all get probed.

WWII Poster

2008-07-15T14:11:00.001-05:00

17-0744a, originally uploaded by bpx.

The Spirit of Radio

2008-07-07T23:02:00.006-05:00

Last night was another of life’s simple joys.

Happened as I was preparing to read to my son in his bed. As I approached his top bunk, I could see he was fiddling with some piece of plastic.

Turns out it was the cheap transistor radio he scored during the July 4 weekend. Juxtaposed against the Wii, PlayStation2 and various electronic gadgets and gizmos in his room, this tiny radio seems, at best, quaint.

But there he was, curiously spinning the dial. He zipped past the gospel hour preacher. Past some guy jabbering in Spanish. And almost past the classic rock station. I stopped his itchy trigger finger before he could dispatch “Peace of Mind” by Boston, allowing me the chance to extol the virtues of one of the greatest debut albums, the first LP I ever owned.

The next spin of the radio dial yielded something beautiful.

A little context might help. The weekend had been tough on the boy. Some sketchy choices of his resulted in some discipline from me. Plus, a big family gathering overstimulated and exhausted him. So by the time he crawled into bed on Sunday night, he was weary -- and probably a little wary of me being there. With good reason. I had been irritable and quick-tempered.

The simplicity of the radio softened my mood, flooding my mind with memories. For Andrew, it was little more than a novelty. A sly smile would creep across his face with every station received.

Then we heard baseball.

I immediately detected the rhythm of the play-by-play announcer. The roar of the crowd. Quickly I told Andrew what he’d stumbled upon: His first baseball radio broadcast. And this was not some meaningless mid-summer Rangers game.

This was Red Sox vs. Yankees. Top of the 9th inning. 54,000+ at Yankee Stadium screaming as Manny Ramirez comes off the bench to face Mariano Rivera, who is trying to preserve the 4-4 score.

I tried to explain the situation. Two outs. Runner at third. The league’s best hitter against the league’s best pitcher. A classic confrontation in one of sport’s greatest rivalries. We were swept up in the moment, cheering and fist-pumping with each pitch. (Alas, there were only three; Manny struck out without even lifting the bat off his shoulder.)

The rally was quashed, the half-inning was over, and the announcer proclaimed the heart of the Yankee lineup was coming up in the bottom of the ninth.

“Dad, do we have to read?,” Andrew asked.

So we spent the next few minutes listening to the game on the radio and talking about baseball. I’d interpret clichés and jargon for him, while explaining how the announcers try to create theater of the mind for us, the listeners.

And how, when I was a kid, the radio would transport me to games. I vividly recall family road trips, listening to Lon Simmons call the Giants games. Or (much to my sisters' chagrin) the ever-present baseball game coming through Mom’s kitchen radio, perpetually tuned to a Dodgers, Angels, or Padres game. Southern California summers allowed us to enjoy the company of Vin Scully, Jerry Doggett, Dick Enberg, Don Drysdale and even Jerry Coleman. What great memories. What joy.

I hope last night will be the first of many play-by-play memories for my son.

My Talented Son

2008-07-07T22:27:00.001-05:00

He has more guts than I ever did - the only Freshman to perform a solo at the RHS Spring Choir Concert.

So this is how the other 56% lives . . .

2008-07-06T09:58:00.005-05:00

That I'm enjoying a coffee poolside isn't necessarily worthy of a blog post.

But that I'm doing it on a Sunday morning at 10 a.m., and guilt-free, seems like front-page news.

My leisurely Sunday morning comes courtesy of some construction at our church, requiring that our morning assembly take place elsewhere during the afternoon.

So after 40+ years of conditioning -- including mad scrambles against the morning clock, speed shaving, extreme ironing, breakfasts hastily consumed -- I'm having to reprogram myself to actually enjoy this leisurely Sunday morning. Without pretending to be sick.

Old habits die hard, though.

Exhibit A: My instincts to hush my actions in the backyard a few minutes ago as our Baptist neighbors were dutifully loading up their car for church. Wouldn't want them to get the wrong impression of us . . . Just like the cafeteria trick of dressing up to go to Sunday lunch after sleeping all morning. Alas, the reflex to seek approval and to maintain the illusion of piety is still alive. Ugh.

Here's hoping our summer schedule change provides the chance to let down our collective starched guard and enjoy a more casual, relaxed and joyful time together.

Tree at Grandview Point

2008-06-20T16:18:00.001-05:00

IMG_3305, originally uploaded by koliver.

We took a short hike down from Grandview Point at the Grand Canyon. I loved this tree.

Chase Field

2008-06-14T20:08:00.001-05:00

a letter to one of the parents on our Little League team

2008-05-12T23:07:00.001-05:00

As the assistant coach of the Rangers, I had the misfortune of hearing you lambaste Coach Mike during tonight's game.

And while I appreciate your seemingly civil tone after the game, I hope you'll consider sending an apology to the parents who heard your uncalled for tirade. I'm only glad my family -- including my mother visiting from California -- left moments before your outburst. Sadly, the kids on the bench and most of the parents were within earshot of your remarks and subjected to your totally inappropriate behavior. I can't envision a more embarrassing or lower point of the season, which is saying something given, as you loudly pointed out, our on-field performance.

Do I need to say I share your frustration? Of course I do. As a coach and parent, I want to win. Deeply. I want my son to do his best. I want all the kids to succeed wildly, to learn the game, to play it well. I'm delighted by the little successes and breakthroughs we see at practice. Some are about baseball. Some aren't. These kids are 9. They're still learning the game and how to get along with others. They're out to have fun. I hope they do. I think that's still the point. Which stands in contrast to the view you shouted to Mike that "this isn't any fun for the parents." Wow. Has it really come to this?

When I raised my hand to be a coach, I was naive enough to think the challenge would be in managing the kids. Tonight, I was reminded how wrong my thinking was. Having said that, I'm grateful for and impressed by most of the Rangers' parents who continue to exhibit patience and support for the players, the coaches, and the team.

I only hope the next time you approach the dugout, you'll come with encouragement for the kids who, in my opinion, are learning and trying their best. Or for Coach Mike who continues to sacrifice his time, money and energy to do what he thinks is best for the kids who make up the team.

Religious Nuts

2008-04-29T11:38:00.001-05:00

spiritualfruitsm, originally uploaded by koliver.

Jeff and OJ

2008-04-28T22:51:00.001-05:00

cabin trip 2007-2 079.jpg, originally uploaded by koliver.

Excited Jeff

2008-04-28T22:50:00.001-05:00

IMG_1495.JPG, originally uploaded by koliver.

Jeff and Mao

2008-04-28T22:48:00.001-05:00

Jeff and Mao, originally uploaded by koliver.

Lunch at Costco

2008-04-18T15:40:00.001-05:00

Lunch at Costco, originally uploaded by koliver.

I highly recommend the Hot Dog / Drink combo at Costco if you're stuck there for two hours getting new tires on your wife's car. It's only $1.50, which leaves you enough to get the $1 footlong churro...

Love and complimentary breakfast is in the air

2008-03-21T21:02:00.007-05:00

As I motored northbound from downtown Wednesday, I was drawn to the letters hastily arranged on this Super 8 Motel sign that read:

Punja--

Will you marry me?

Anil

I hope Anil first inquired at the Mansion, Anatole, and W about the availability of signage there before settling on the Super 8. Seems like that might surface in counseling.

And I hope Punja was driving northbound. Not that the free HBO offer on the southbound side wasn't compelling . . .

Even better than the real thing . . .

2008-03-20T17:47:00.003-05:00

Mary and I celebrated St. Patty’s day Monday by seeing the U2 3D film at the IMAX.

Quite simply, it was mindblowing.

For one, the visual effects were stunning. This wasn’t the 3D cheese of Dr. Tongue’s Monster Chiller Horror Theater. We ducked the neck of Adam’s bass as he moved toward the camera. The flyovers of Larry’s drum kit were exhilarating. And as we were about to ask the people in front to sit down, we realized they were actual concertgoers – part of the film, not our IMAX audience.

Aurally, the film delivered the goods, too. The sounds – from the subtle piano to the primal percussive, from Bono’s glorious Pavarotti impersonation on “Miss Sarajevo” to the crowd’s thunderous approval – were pitch perfect. My only complaint was the volume, which should have matched the volume and intensity of the concert footage.

U2 3D challenged my notions of a filmgoing experience. I left the theater feeling emotions I’ve never had walking out of a film.

That’s because the third dimension served to break down the barriers typically established between you, the passive observer, and the characters you watch on screen.

In that way, the subject matter was perfect for this next generation of 3-D technology: For decades, U2 has transcended the vast spaces of arenas, stadiums and massive festivals to give performances that somehow feel intimate.

What a joy for this fan, who most recently paid hundreds of dollars for the privilege of standing 70 yards from the band when they played AAC, to be accorded unprecedented access to U2 (for eleven bucks, no less). All from the comfortable perspective of a plush cinema seat with plenty of leg room, cool 3D specs, and cupholders. A sharp contrast to the constant jostling with the hundreds of others who surround you on the arena floor, all vying for a good sightline and seizing any chance to inch closer to the band. For me, that experience ranges from a mere distraction to creating hostility.

Which is why I was struck by my reaction to the audience as I watched the concert on film. On one hand, I felt like I was part of them as I, too, was experiencing the electricity of a U2 show. But overwhelmingly, I felt like a detached observer watching their joy, their passion for the concert. This differs from previous concert films I’ve seen where my reaction would lean toward envy. As in, “I wish I was there. Those lucky so-and-sos, getting to see U2 . . .” Maybe because I had the best seat in the house and didn’t have to hassle with parking. Whatever. I shared their joy. Their unity in song, in dance, in reacting to the actions of the band, was a big smile.

In that way, the film was a celebration of humanity. Tens of thousands of people together, sharing a powerful experience and uniting for a moment.

That sounded a bit heavy. Sorry.

But it also served to make the band more human, too. At times, U2 3D makes you feel like a fifth member of the band who is just kind of exploring the stage. (Hey, what’s up, Edge?) Which makes the band feel lifelike, lifesize, real. If not short. As opposed to the glorification and magnification that comes with seeing them live. (At least from the seats I usually have.) With the proximity the film offered, I found myself focusing more on how well they work together to create affecting music and performances.

I highly recommend the U2 3D film. It was astonishingly real. I actually started to check the newspaper the following morning for a review of the concert. (Of course, it wasn’t particularly newsworthy, since it took place in South America about a year ago.)

Good news from Charlotte

2008-02-20T21:42:00.001-06:00

Love

2008-02-06T11:48:00.000-06:00

The Generosity of Snowmass

2008-01-04T15:43:00.000-06:00

Today was our last day of skiing in Snowmass. Eric (my brother) and I brought our families here for a few days of fellowship and we have been blessed with beautiful surroundings, perfect weather, excellent ski conditions, and the accumulation of many new fond memories.

I have been struck several times during this trip by memories of my first trip here in 1982. My first plane trip, learning to ski, seeing the Rocky Mountains for the first time, learning of Eric and Danna's pregnancy - many fond memories from the two weeks spent here with my family and Eric's inlaws, the McGlothlins and the Lincolns (Abe Lincoln, in fact - but that's another post).

But none of the memories I listed above are the most vivid.

When we experience the Eternal in our lives it changes us and it leaves an impression that is not easily forgotten. I experienced it on that trip in 1982, and it is still my most vivid memory.

One afternoon we took a break from skiing to walk around in Aspen. This was a time when Aspen was really coming into its own - trickle-down economics were fueling its transition from quaint skiing village to resort destination for the rich and famous. The manifestations of that change were evident as we strolled around the town, with swanky boutiques moving in next to mom and pop gift shops. One of these merchants that had recently moved into Aspen was Ralph Lauren, who had opened a Polo shop there.

That Polo shop represented so many things to a young Reagan-era Republican like myself - style, sophistication, wealth, legitimacy. Yet, I knew that anything inside was well beyond my reach. Don't get me wrong - we weren't indigent - I just knew we could never afford such an extravagance just for my pleasure. Still, we went inside to look around, if only to imagine and aspire.

Once inside, lots of brass and hunter green. Beautiful, immaculately dressed people asking if I needed help finding anything. The scent of Polo cologne. Stacks of beautiful shirts, sweaters, jackets - all beyond my reach.

It was then that Danna's father, Ray McGlothlin, pulled me aside and told me I could have anything in the shop that I wanted - his treat. I still get tears in my eyes thinking of that moment. What I picked out is inconsequential - what impacts me to this day is the power of the generosity that Ray showed me. Indeed, the generosity he has shown everyone around him for as long as I have had the privilege of knowing him.

Being here 25 years later has inspired me to try to be more generous to those in my life in this new year. I'm truly grateful for Ray and other people in my life that have shown me how to live the message of Christ.

By the way - I picked out a red, blue and yellow Polo rugby shirt. It was genius.

Stairway To Heaven - The Beatnix

2007-12-20T09:32:00.001-06:00

My Driving Average

2007-10-19T22:48:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-09-21T09:29:00.001-05:00

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

Excellent Story...

2007-09-05T10:41:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-29T10:25:00.000-05:00

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

Back to School

2007-08-27T09:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-26T17:33:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-08-22T22:07:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-16T13:53:00.001-05:00

Very Cool Video

2007-08-11T12:21:00.001-05:00

Patterico’s Pontifications » Putting Things in Perspective

2007-08-07T09:11:00.000-05:00

Patterico’s Pontifications » Putting Things in Perspective

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

2007-08-07T09:05:00.000-05:00

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

Crying Music

2007-08-02T23:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-13T21:27:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-09T23:11:00.001-05:00

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 . . .