Monthly Archives: March 2006

Challenging Word of the WeeK: demit

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Demit
(dih MIT) verb

This verb is used both transitively and intransitively and is found most commonly in Scotland, but used elsewhere as well. To demit a position is to resign it, to give it up or relinquish it, and it often refers to public office. Intransitively, to demit is simply to resign. It comes from Latin demittare (to send down), based on the prefix di-, a variant of dis (away, apart) plus mittere (to send). Because of his need for “the woman I love,” Edward VIII of England (1894-1972) demitted his throne in 1936 — i.e., he abdicted.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House.

My example: Many are calling for Minnesota DFLer Dean Johnson to demit his position as Senate Majority Leader after either lying outright about conversations he claims to have had with Minnesota Supreme Court justices or, alternatively, casting aspersions on the impartiality of the Court. He may be able to withstand Republican ballyragging on the issue, but if the situation becomes too hot he could be defenestrated by his own party (which so far seems more interested in jugulating the person who leaked the recording than holding the Speaker to account).

I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

St. Patty’s post for She Who Must Be Obeyed

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Emily at Portia Rediscovered says she was epically disappointed that I didn’t have a St. Patrick’s Day post. Since Emily was one of the first to add me to her blogroll, and is single-handedly responsible for me being on two or three other blogrolls, I don’t dare disappoint her — epically or otherwise, even though I’m not Irish. Since my posts this week have tended toward the reminiscent I might as well go back into the vaults once more.

I don’t think there will ever be a St. Patrick’s Day when I don’t think about my first semester of college when I enrolled in the Spring term at the University of Missouri-Rolla campus. UMR is mainly an engineering college but it was close to where I lived at the time and a convenient way for me to knock out some general liberal arts credits before transferring to the main Mizzou campus in Columbia.

St. Patrick’s “Day” was actually a 10-day party at UMR. The campus was about 90% male then, almost all in grueling engineering classes that seemed to require binge drinking in order to cope. The reason St. Pat is such a big deal at UMR is because he is deemed to be the patron saint of engineers for having driven the snakes from Ireland and thereby creating the first worm drive (engineering humor). The rites and festivities of the season were under the auspices of the St. Pat’s Board: upper classmen (some I think were in their 30s) elected by their fraternities, eating clubs and campus organizations. For most of the year their duties seemed to be based around regular “meetings” marked by drinking and carousing. Come March, however, they were especially prominent in their filthy green coats (part of their semi-secret initiation rites) as they enforced the rules and protocols of the holiday (for those familiar with the St. Paul Winter Carnival – especially in the older days – think green Vulcans).

Part of the tradition was that all freshmen males were to have beards in the week or so leading up to St. Pat’s, and were to carry shillelaghs (an Irish cudgel). Most people think of shillelaghs as being a bit like walking sticks, but at UMR there were specific requirements: the shillelagh had to be at least two-thirds the height of the student and at least one-third his weight, and it had to be cut from a whole tree with at least some of the roots showing. The punishment for being caught beardless by a Board Member (and they usually traveled in packs of two or more) was to have your face painted green. The penalty for being without your shillelagh was to be thrown into Frisco Pond. Frisco Pond was actually the town’s sewage lagoon, but was called Frisco Pond because the St. Pat’s Board of 1927 rerouted the Frisco railroad into the pond after one of their meetings. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea to them at the time.

Fortunately I was able to cultivate my first beard, red and wispy as it was, and I cut myself a suitable cudgel. Carrying books and a shillelagh of the stated dimensions was a challenge, and even more so when certain professors wouldn’t allow them into class, meaning they had to be stacked in the hallways and guarded because Board members liked nothing better than to snatch unattended shillelaghs and then wait for their rightful owners to appear — followed by a honking procession to Frisco Pond. (I did mention the campus was 90% male and fueled by alcohol, right? During St. Pat’s week the campus looked like No Name City from “Paint Your Wagon.”)

The reason we carried cudgels was in case a Board member approached you with a rubber snake and demanded that you “kill” it. This generally meant pounding on the snake with your cudgel until the Board member (not you) got tired. I weighed about 170 then; you do the math as to what my shillelagh weighed, minimum. I was fortunate to go largely unnoticed (as unnoticed as a guy carrying a tree can be) through most of this period. This was especially remarkable given that one of my friends from my hometown was on the Board. Toward the end of the week, however, he came up to me in the dining hall. “Red,” (for my beard) he said, “I think I see a snake.” With chants of “snake! snake! snake!” I was led outside and my “friend” tossed said snake on the ground. It landed, however, in a flower bed. “Freshman! Kill!” was the command. Hoisting my club over my head (and somehow not tipping over backwards) I brought it crashing down onto the hapless rubber creature — and even more hapless plants in the soft earth.

“Hit it again, it’s not dead,” was the order. I looked down once, then again. “Oh, it’s dead, alright,” I said. Actually, it would be more accurate to say, “Missing, presumed dead” because the rubber snake was nowhere to be found in the newly-created crater. Rather than wait around for CSI, or the gardener, the small group repaired to the dining hall to toast the success of the mission and I survived the week, the highlight of which was the St. Pat’s Parade.

In those days the St. Pat’s Board would be out early in the morning with mops and barrels of green paint, painting Pine Street in advance of the parade. High school bands from around the area would march, car dealers would drive demo models with pretty girls in them and various and sundry other parade standards would be present. In particular, however, I remember the Precision Pony Team: a group of students scooting along on empty pony kegs strapped to skateboards with rudimentary heads and yarn tails attached to the kegs. They wove patterns and formations down the street, stopping periodically to lift the tails of their “mounts” and drop handfuls of malted milk balls.

Much like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, the event culminated in St. Pat (not St. Nick) appearing on the route, riding a manure spreader and attended by his Guard. The duties of the Guard were largely to keep St. Pat vertical (he’d probably been drinking for four days straight) and to bring any fetching lasses from the crowd to St. Pat for a good luck kiss. (I did say the campus was 90% male and fueled by alcohol, didn’t I?).

After this particular St. Patrick’s Day all the other ones I’ve experienced have just kind of faded from my memory.

Note: the annual UMR St. Pat’s parade and related festivities still go on, but in a much more muted manner. A couple of alchohol-poisoning deaths were a factor (sad and true) to be sure, but I also think it was because some of those Board members finally graduated.

An “embellishment” gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.

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My, this is awkward. Minnesota Senate Majority Leader and DFLer Dean Johnson was heard on tape talking to fellow clergy (he’s also an ordained minister) and saying he’d received assurances from three Minnesota Supreme Court justices that they would not overturn Minnesota’s law preventing same sex marriages. Johnson presumably made this statement to convince the clergy that a constitutional amendment preserving the law isn’t necessary and as an attempt to keep these religious leaders from exhorting their flocks to back the amendment. The problem, of course, is that getting prior commitments from judges on how they’ll rule in advance on a prospective case is considered a big no-no. (Another presumption: the Reverend Senator Johnson has watched the Senate confirmation hearings for justices Roberts and Alito).

Oopsie. This leaves the majority leader with precious little wiggle room between either impugning himself or the State Supreme Court. Into that little space he therefore injected a big word:

Knee-deep in a controversy of his own making, Senate Majority Leader Dean Johnson admitted Thursday that he “embellished” a conversation he had with a state Supreme Court justice on whether the court would consider overturning Minnesota law to allow same-sex marriages.

Wow. Eleven letters and three syllables to replace a simple, one-syllable, three-letter word. I always thought shorter words are better; they seem to trip off the tongue more easily and have a better ring to them, but that might just be a false assumption on my part. Let’s test this theory by inserting “embellish” in place of some well-known phrases:

“Father, I cannot tell an embellishment; it was I who cut down the cherry tree.”
— George Washington

“An embellishment gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.”
— Sir Winston Churchill

“There are three kinds of embellishments: embellishments, damned embellishments, and statistics.”
— Benjamin Disraeli

“The great masses of the people… will more easily fall victims to a big embellishment than to a small one.”
— Adolf Hitler

“In our country the embellishment has become not just a moral category but a pillar of the State.”
— Alexander Solzhenitsyn

“You told an embellishment, an odious, damned embellishment;
Upon my soul, an embellishment, a wicked embellishment.”
— Shakespeare (Othello to Iago)

“We embellish loudest when we embellish to ourselves.”
— Eric Hoffer

“It is better to be defeated on principle than to win on embellishments.”
— Arthur Calwell

“Ye shall not steal, neither deal falsely, neither embellish one to another.”
— Leviticus 19:11

“A faithful witness will not embellish: but a false witness will utter embellishments.”
— Proverbs 14:5

“The photo is a horrible, filthy embellishment…”
— Uncle Ben

You know, I think the originals were more accurate. But how’s this for an update on a classic: “Bush embellished, Democrats relished.”

Update:

Check out David’s post on the matter over at Our House.

Friday Fundamentals in Film: Key Largo

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If you like your good guys and bad guys in black and white with effective shades of gray then Key Largo is for you, and there’s a lot of star power to boot. The film was directed by John Huston and featured Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Edward G. Robinson, Lionel Barrymore and Claire Trevor (who won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress). There’s even a cameo by Jay Silverheels, TV’s Tonto from the Lone Ranger.

While the movie is described as a film noir thriller it’s not that noir-ish, and while there’s plenty of action it isn’t as suspenseful as you might expect. Still, it’s a very entertaining drama, well-acted and well-told and set against the backdrop of post-World War II America.

Bogie plays Frank McCloud, an idealistic but jaded war veteran who travels to Key Largo to visit the crippled father (Barrymore) and widow (Bacall) of George Temple, a friend who served under him in Italy. They are good, decent people and he tells them about George, saying, “You’d have been proud of him, like every man in his regiment. With good reason. It wasn’t just a matter of doing his duty. He was always looking for a way to do more. And finding it. George was a born hero, Mr. Temple. He couldn’t imagine his own death. Only dishonor.”

The Temple family owns a hotel, which also happens to have some unsavory guests in the person of Robinson, as gang-boss Johnny Rocco, and his assorted henchmen who are there to close a counterfeiting deal. Oh, and did I mention a hurricane is on the way?

As in Casablanca, Bogart plays a good guy who just wants to mind his own business and not get involved in any causes, but who ultimately can’t ignore his conscience. A subtext to the story that younger viewers are likely to miss is the postwar disillusionment Frank feels after sacrificing so much to defeat evil and then returning home to find things little changed, as ultimately manifested by Rocco. (Talk about great acting – one of the most powerful scenes is when Robinson is whispering to Lauren Bacall, even though she doesn’t speak and you can’t hear a word he is saying).

Thrown together in close quarters due to the storm, the Frank and Rocco naturally clash but when pressed to the sticking point Frank initially backs down to preserve his life, saying “One more or one less Johnny Rocco in the world isn’t worth dying for” even though it costs him the respect of the Temples (who apparently prefer dead heroes to survivors). It also costs him some of his own self-respect but he ultimately regains all when he realizes that “a fighter can’t walk away from a fight” and goes against doing the sensible because “your head says one thing but your whole life says another.”

Questions to answer:

  1. Was Frank’s bigger struggle with himself or with Rocco?

  2. Is “one more or one less Johnny Rocco in the world” worth dying for? How would you balance that equation?

  3. What is the one thing in the movie that Rocco fears, and why? Is this symbolic on a spiritual level?

  4. What do you think Nora meant when she said, “When you believe like George believed, maybe dying isn’t so important.”

Points to ponder: From the dialog in the story, why do you think Frank drifted between so many jobs after the war. What do you think his expectations were when the war was over, and how did he adapt to the reality?

Great quote:
“You’ve got to be lying. 800 people swept out to sea in a hurricane? Who would ever live here again if that really happened?”

About Fundamentals in Film: this series began as a class I taught to junior high and high school boys as a way to use the entertainment media to explore concepts of honor, honesty, duty and accountability. The movies were selected to demonstrate these themes and as a contrast to television that typically either portrays men as Homer Simpsons or professional wrestlers, with little in between those extremes. I wrote questions and points to ponder for each movie to stimulate discussion and to get the boys to articulate their thoughts and reactions to each movie. I offer this series here on this blog for the benefit of parents or others looking for a fun but challenging way to reinforce these concepts in their own families or groups. As the list of films grows each week, feel free to use these guides and to mix and match movies according to your interests or those of your group. I’m also always open to suggestions for other movies that can be added to the series.

Mall Diva, the early years: making a little girl cry

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More snow during the morning rush hour today, but I’ve got my laptop and everything I need to work at home so I’m not going to bother with the commute. I’m working away on our new ad campaign (now I get the big bucks not for writing the ads but ripping apart someone else’s work) when it occurs to me that the Mall Diva is scheduled to work today at the mall — and hates to drive in snowstorms. I ask if she wants me to drive, like we attempted to do Monday, and I get one of those “Oh, Daddy, my hero” responses. When the time comes we set off, but now Tiger Lilly has realized this is a great opportunity to get that second set of ear piercings her mother said she could have when she was 12, so she came along.

This piercing was uneventful (at least from my perspective; Tiger Lilly might have her own take on it here later). A lot of what I’ve posted this week has come about because I’ve been reminded of things, but maybe that’s what starts to happen when you get to be my age. Today’s piercing reminded me of when the Diva’s big request for her 4th birthday was to get her ears pierced like all of her friends. I thought I’d previously scared her out of it, but she had rallied and her mom (who doesn’t have pierced ears) and I figured it was no big deal, so off we went.

The Blizzard of ’82

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“A poet who reads his verse in public may have other bad habits.”
— Robert Heinlein

A couple of decades ago I was in a local Toastmasters club and entered a district “Tall Tale” contest. Our recent spate of snowy weather caused me to remember my winning entry:

The Blizzard of ‘82

I tell my tale through poetry,
the way tales were told of old,
when times were tough and adventures great,
and heroes all were bold.
For my adventure is an epic,
though incredible, I’ll admit,
for I know if I were you,
I’d believe me not a bit.

It was the month of January,
in a year that had seen snow,
when the famous blizzard came,
and the winds began to blow.
First two feet fell on Wednesday,
in a record-breaking warning;
for three more feet were on the way,
and on the ground by Saturday morning.

I went out to find the street,
which had vanished without traces,
and the snow had gotten past waist deep,
and into the darndest places.
But for my dog it was even worse,
to defy the law of nature,
which says five feet of snow’s too much,
for pet of 12-inch stature.

It was quickly obvious,
to all sane dogs and men,
that this was going to be a day,
best for staying in.
But by evening cabin fever had mounted,
even higher than my beer cans and the snow;
there was just one thing for the cure ?
a deep dish pizza to go!

I went out to find my car,
and with the aid of my faithful pup,
we located which drift it was under,
and I fired that sucker up.
My gallant car roared to life,
eager and ready to go,
but I could tell it was remembering,
warmer days in Tokyo.
I had great faith in my car,
(I sing the praises of front-wheel drive),
but for just a moment I wondered,
if we’d make it back alive.

We made our way onto the street,
untouched by hand or plow,
and started on our journey,
you’d have thought impossible until now.
Shouldering through the drifting snow,
we drove the narrow street;
on either side were lesser cars,
and empty cans of Heet.
Although the road was lost to sight,
I navigated well, I thought,
But after several moguls,
realized I was in a used Volkswagon lot.

Up ahead there was a snowplow,
stuck up to his axles,
so I pulled him out and thought,
“for this I’m paying taxes?”
But the front wheels kept on turning,
through ditch and drifted powder,
the wind was howling just outside,
so I turned the stereo up louder.
By now the wind was picking up,
and we were surrounded all by white,
I couldn’t see a blasted thing,
it may as well been blackest night.

So my dog got on my shoulders,
and put her head out of the sun roof,
and when she got the smell of pizza,
she gave a little “woof”.
With her barking directions,
we pulled up to the door.
I went in for pizza,
while she shook out her fur.

A hush fell on the crowd inside,
when I stepped into the room.
They wondered who this great man was,
who could brave the snow monsoon.
For they had been there several days,
afraid to venture out,
I was an instant hero,
and they gathered all about.
But I just picked up my pizza,
and another six-pack, just in case,
and pulling on my leather gloves,
I made to leave that place.
But then a lovely lady,
through her self down at my feets – uh,
I pushed her away because I knew,
she just loved me for my pizza.
“Please take me with you,” she begged,
clinging tightly to my waist,
“I promise I won’t eat much,
just a little taste!”
“Be gone,” I said, “Oh foolish one,
you surely must be mad!
This is not a fit night for you,
when you’re so scantly clad!”
I said if you’ll excuse me,
my pizza’s getting cold,
and I strode my way through that room,
like the purer men of old.

Warm and dry back in my house,
after the pizza and a few more beers,
I wondered how the story
would be told in coming years.
I realized I’d be the old-timer,
the children would all come to,
and climbing up on Grandpa’s lap they’d say,
“Tell us about the Blizzard of ‘82!”

Now leaving from the Norm Green Terminal…

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… Daunte Culpepper.

I’ve been a Culpepper supporter since his second year in the league, but even I’m feeling a bit relieved that he’s gone after the bizarro past few months. Some folks around here didn’t like his turnovers or his decision-making, and there are a few no doubt who didn’t like his color, but in his time with the Vikings he was definitely head and shoulders above all but one or two quarterbacks in the league. I was even going to make him my first round draft pick in last year’s fantasy football draft but the guy in front of me got him (which turned out to be a lucky thing for me and perhaps discounts the rest of my analysis).

There’s no question that Culpepper’s play was subpar this last season even before the “Love Boat” and the injury. He had two good games against weak opponents and four games that ranged from dismal to wretched. Whether it was because he didn’t have Randy Moss, Matt Birk or Scott Linehan (or all of them), the distractions of off-field personal issues (as a married guy he had to have had some issues at home both before and after the boat trip), or because he was trying to do too much to overcome the rest of the team’s deficiencies, the results weren’t there. Yet two years ago he was nearly the league MVP. For all the criticism of his fumbles and inteceptions, the accuracy statistics for his career are first rate. I don’t think he’d have had a problem adapting to the West Coast offense which, for all its short and intermediate passes, still needs the threat of a quarterback going deep.

Clearly something was going on in his relationship with the Vikings, and it isn’t a new development. Eyebrows raised as early as last November when he didn’t return to the team following his injury to hang out with the guys as they made a play-off push. Few know for sure what was going on behind the scenes, but Zygi Wilf was making the right sounds about paying Daunte his roster bonus. Daunte hasn’t said anything about what he felt about Tice’s departure, but you’d think he’d be open-minded about working for a guy like Brad Childress who knew the offense that helped make Donovan McNabb a star. Daunte’s demands for a bigger contract following his injury and bad season were so strange as to more than build a case that he was trying to engineer his way out of Minnesota, but no one really knows why.

He said something about feeling unwanted, but somebody must have really been leaving some ugly notes in his locker (or email inbox) for a franchise quarterback to feel neglected. His pouting and posturing make him look like a 265 pound crybaby (and yes, I know, Fran Tarkenton was a 175 pound crybaby), but his own estimation of his worth wasn’t much more divorced from reality than Brad Johnson’s claims that he’s still a legitimate starting quarterback in this league. (True, Johnson is efficient and won’t lose you many games, but you can measure the hang-time on his passes with an egg-timer and he needs a good defense to keep the game close so he can try and keep the other team’s defense off balance. If the team gets into a situation where it has to pass to get back into a game I don’t think he can overcome a good defense).

The issue for Daunte may be as simple as the extreme mortification of being charged in the Love Boat incident. While I was one of those outraged by that escapade (see Dead ship floating) I’d have been satisfied with a two-game suspension of all players involved even if it included the star of the team. Daunte probably could have just taken his lumps, acted contrite, and all would have been forgiven after beating the Packers again. Maybe the problem was that, thanks to his injury, it would be a long wait to redeem himself on the field and he didn’t want to sit here with that being the last headline in peoples’ minds. It is reminiscent of the sexual harassment charge filed against North Star owner Norm Green that was the last straw in his decision to move the team to Dallas.

Regardless of ability, once Daunte made up his mind he wanted to be gone the Vikings really didn’t have much choice or reason to try and keep him. Now that he’s gone, thoughts have to turn to who will play quarterback for the Purple. Johnson is not an embarassment at QB, but he’s not a long-term solution (and, given his age and lack of mobility may be an extremely short-term solution once the games start). Green Bay back-up Craig Nall has been brought in for a look because he knows the West Coast offense, but not many know much about his abilities since he hasn’t had a lot of playing time behind Brett Favre. There’s no shame in being Favre’s caddy, but there are many back-up quarterbacks out there who know the WCO and nobody’s clamoring for them. Nall is interesting, and had a strong NFL Europe season a few years back, but is unknown.

Sometimes “unknown” is a positive, however, when the “known” is too problematic. Aaron Brooks is a tremendous athlete and a free agent, but his mental melt-downs are too well chronicled and he might not be a good fit for the WCO. Brian Griese has some skill, but in my mind is a younger version of Brad Johnson. Kerry Collins? Oh, please, dear God, no. People that have only watched him play the Vikings might think he’s Superman, but against everyone else he looks as overmatched as Jimmy Olson.

One guy who intrigues me (in much the same way new Vikes running back Chester Taylor intrigued me a few weeks ago in this space) is former Cardinal quarterback Josh McCown. He’s young, big, has a strong arm and can run. He’s been inconsistent as a starter, having some big games and some bad games, but I wonder how much of that was because he truly is inconsistent or because of Denny Green’s mad genius act. McCown’s early career reminds me of Steve Young’s when he was with Tampa Bay after the USFL, and his tools make him an interesting option to bring in as a #2 that can be a future starter.

As for the Vikings latest acquisitions, Ryan Longwell is a bit of a whiner but not any flakier than your average kicker and has a history of performing in tough weather and intense situations; he should be an upgrade for the team, especially kicking in the Dome. Leber was considered to be a guy on the rise before his injury and the arrival of a first-round linebacker pick Shawn Merriman (which makes you wonder if Leber was so good why the Chargers spent a first-round pick on another linebacker). Hopefully he can run and think at the same time, a problem that has plagued the Purple’s linebacking corps for the last few years. Chester Taylor I’ve already said I like. He’s got size, speed and fresh legs and I see him as a Duce Staley (in his prime) type. Taylor with Mewelde Moore playing the Brian Westbrook role gives the team an effective tandem for Childress’s Vikings version of the Eagles offense. Even better if they end up with Hutchinson, even at that price. I’d rather they spend the money on a young, monster offensive lineman that will play at a high level for many years than throwing big bucks at a big name but high-mileage running back (I’d rather have the guy that opened the holes for Shaun Alexander than Shaun Alexander at this point). Now if they can parlay some draft choices to get into the top 10 to draft Texas defensive back Michael Hough I’ll really be impressed.

The thrill of the grill

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Kevin earlier posted a helpful reminder that today is International Eat a Tasty Animal for PETA (aka EATAPETA) Day where human carnivores are urged to eat additional portions of meat to take up the slack for vegetarians, vegans, PETA-types and their sympathizers who are boycotting meat for the day. This is the type of social activism I can get behind – even more so than International Talk Like A Pirate Day (mark your calendars).

On EATAPETA Day I can release the guilt of my animal (blood)lust. When I see a well-proportioned cow in a field I can’t help but undress it mentally as if it were a piece of meat – steaks, chops, ribs, roasts and all. A big reason for that is because back in my copywriting days I once got to work on the Omaha Steaks account, writing ads, promotional materials and — yeah, baby — a catalogue. Through the course of this assignment I learned the differences between chateaubriand, filet mignon, rib-eye, New York and Kansas City strips, t-bones and porterhouses and the miracle process of dry-aging. I would spend the mornings writing succulent words about marbling, tenderness and corn-fed flavor. By lunch time I’d be drooling for the Silver-Butter Knife experience; unfortunately the limit of my budget was strictly Quarter-Pounder with Cheese. After throwing myself at one (or two) of these I’d go back to work; it was akin to Uncle Ben dreaming of Melissa Theuriau — and watching Cyndy Brucato. The pent-up longing and desire I felt no-doubt reflected itself in the descriptions I wrote (we really moved some meat, let me tell you).

This was not to go unrequited, however. The time came to do the photo-shoot for the ads and catalog. Omaha Steaks sent up large quantities of their products. Of course, because it was for advertising purposes, they sent the thickest, juiciest versions available. (Spoiler alert: if you’re getting hungry right now and thinking sizzling thoughts you might want to look away from the next couple of sentences and rejoin this post in the next paragraph.) I learned, however, that food photography is a very difficult and demanding art. No matter how good the quality of the original item, it just doesn’t look good on camera (an important lesson for local restaurants to learn when shooting their commercials). Professional food techs make big bucks to come in and turn so much meat into those gleaming, “eat-me-now” images on slick paper. Trust me, though, no matter how good it looks after the techs have used their sprays, ointments and “make-up” on the meat, it’s not something you want to get your mouth anywhere near.

Ah, but because food spoils quickly under hot lights you have to have lots of product on hand to refresh the shoot if it runs too long. Fortunately our team had some real pros involved and, as much as it hurt to see the “models” unceremoniously scraped into the dumpster when we were done, we still had 30 pounds or so of 3″ thick filets, 2 1/2″ strips, perfectly marbled rib-eyes and the like. What to do? What to do? Well, we simply had one of the best cook-outs in which I’ve ever participated.

Hmmm. This would have been about 1986 or ’87. Wasn’t that about the time when PETA started to get things cooking on their own account. Do you think these might be related?

Random What Now?….

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I’m sorry I didn’t post randomness last week, I know you were all sorely disappointed. I hope you weren’t too disappointed, though, or I might have to tell you to get a life.

Okay, here’s a quote for ya:

“There are three times when I laugh at a joke,
once when I hear it, again when I tell it,
and then when I get it.” -Tom Johnson

And in the light of that wisdom, I have a joke for you. Ahem:

What did the hotdog say when he crossed the finish line?*

(Wait for it…)

*For best results, tell this joke at around 2 or 3 a.m.*

Dad, do I get to go to Keegan’s now?

The great North Worst

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I tend to think that markets are efficient and I’m also not much of a union supporter but if there’s anything that can get me off of these positions it is Northwest Airlines (NWA).

Having lived in the Twin Cities for nearly 26 years I’ve become all to familiar with the lies, the arrogance and the public relations tin ear of the company. Whether it’s wresting a financial bailout from the state in exchange for jobs, maintenance hangers and training centers promised for Duluth that never materialized, or just decades of lurching from one crisis to another it appears the only thing NWA is any good at is forcing upstart competitors out of the local market. Despite a succession of new owners it seems there’s something in the water that keeps them from running a good business, and I don’t think it’s solely their labor costs. In my gut I feel as if there ever was a company that deserved a good slapping around from its unions, NWA should be first in line (though they probably still wouldn’t be “on time”).

The NWA management and unions usually tear at each other in a way that would make any dysfunctional family proud, but that doesn’t mean they forget their customers who also come in for our own share of abuse (such as the time a loaded NWA jet was kept sitting on the tarmac in Detroit for more than 17 hours without being able to unload its passengers – and the airline didn’t send out extra food, drink or even a honey wagon). The latest brainstorm came today with the announcement that if you want to sit on an aisle or in an exit row your seat is going to cost $15 more.

Of course, this is being promoted as an improvement in “customer service” for people who book late, though I wouldn’t be surprised if the company just came out and said “We’re doing it to grub more money out of you and we’re doing it because we can, and what are you going to do about it, walk to Tulsa?”

Yes, yes, I know, markets are efficient and airline seats that offer a modicom more comfort or room are a commodity like anything else so, as a capitalist, I should applaud this effort to leverage more money for the share-holders — or at least for the bonuses to company executives. (In which case, though, let’s just put every seat up for bid and let the airline live with that). I’m sure there’ll be letters to the editor tomorrow from the same egalitarians who complain about the injustice of having the HOV lanes converted to toll lanes. I completely supported that initiative because I figured if enough people were willing to use the extra lane I would still benefit by seeing reduced traffic in the “free” lanes. There’s no similar trade-off or benefit for me in the NWA scenario, and, in fact, it increases the risk that I’ll end up in a middle seat.

Frankly, it’s not a direct impact for me. Almost all of the air travel I do is corporate and my company pays the bill. My travel profile with my company’s travel service already pretty much guarantees me an aisle seat, and I’ve learned how to use NWA’s on-line facility to change seat assignments and preprint my boarding pass to score exit row seats. That was my way of “sticking it to the man” to make up for the various and sundry other indignities endured for the sake of not having to hook up with a wagon train in order to get to Oregon. This new policy, however, may make this strategy more difficult for me.

Why doesn’t NWA just say, “Thank you for choosing us as your airline. Would you like the physical beating or non-beating seat today? Non-beating? Of course, there is an additional charge.”

So, yes, I’ll pay it (or my company will — and don’t blame me if your life insurance premiums go up). Sitting in a middle seat in the fetal position while hoping to avoid an embolism is already bad enough. The risk of ending up in a middle seat between Mitch Berg and King Banaian, however is too terrifying to contemplate.