What’s that in tiger years?

Tiger Lilly turns 14 today. She could have had her birthday a couple of weeks sooner, but she tarried past her due date and our doctor finally had to induce. I think he offered chocolate. Despite her initial hesitancy to meet the world she has not been shy about getting out into it, whether it’s meeting the neighbors or traveling to China and Romania on missions trips.

Fourteen is an interesting time for her as each day brings new opportunities — and wardrobe. Camo BDUs one day, lacy camisoles the next, and she thinks it wouldn’t hurt to have a formal or two on hand for whatever might come up. It’s a time for looking back, considering one’s options and greeting the future with a smile.

Happy Birthday, Patience.

The escapades of a chaperone

So every other day, Benny comes over and hangs out with us. Except for the other day when Faith went to, as the Reverend Mother put it, “Hang out with the monks” at the seminary/monastery.

Which made me veeerry suspicious. They could be doing anything!!! You know those wily monks. They’re right up there with ninja cows. You just can’t trust ’em. So, naturally, I donned all black clothes, packed a couple of knives (I just got a new one, a nice Marine Corps knife), and was off to the monastery. As I spied, I made sure that nothing… er … ‘interesting’ was going on*. *Sigh* Nothing ever does. Every time we take Benny home, they talk about boring theological stuff that makes me fall asleep. But I resist!!! I must, because it could be a devious plan to talk about the most boring things in the world and make me fall asleep so that they can start doing ‘interesting’ stuff. It won’t work! I won’t let it!!!! I REGRET NOTHING!!!!!

Where did that come from?

Whatever.

Usually I sit in the back seat of the car and read with my good eye while keeping my evil eye on them. BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Sometimes I enjoy this too much. Not often, but sometimes. A lot of times it’ll be late by the time we have to take Ben home. I wanted to charge Faith 25 cents for every minute past 9:30 pm that we were out taking Ben home. It would’ve worked, but when I asked Mom about it, she said no. If I have to do this anyway, why not make some money while I’m at it? I don’t have any other form of income except for my allowance until I get a job.

Man, this sucks.

*This never actually happened. This is purely in my head and for my own amusement.

Ciao for now!!

That’ll work

Let’s see, you could have an acerbic, irascible, quick-with-quip wounded war veteran who is much older than his opponent as the Republican nominee for president, who could be going against a fresh, young face who has come out of nowhere in recent years to infuse and enthuse an electorate that seems eager for change.

How did that turn out for Bob Dole?

The winner(s) in a close one…

Well that was an exciting Super Bowl yesterday though some might say it didn’t measure up to other years. Similarly, I thought the Super Bowl commercials were pretty good overall, though some might say this was a down year. As for me, my standards may have been irreversibly lowered after last year; from now on any year that doesn’t feature two guys kissing while eating a Snickers bar is at least in for an honorable mention. In fact, I thought this year had a number of solid entries that made it difficult to pick a single best commercial, so I broke them down by category: Those With Animals; Those With Celebrities; Those With Breasts; The Surreal; The Worst and an “Open” category for commercials that didn’t easily fall into one of the other categories but made me smile.

Those With Animals
Cute animals are always a good start and are deserving of their own category even though these could easily fall into the “Surreal” niche. For example, the Fedex commercial with the big pigeons for the “heavy stuff”. Ok, pigeons bigger than a bus get attention and the creators went just far enough with the gag with the scenes of chaos in the streets. Of course, Fedex isn’t in competition with gargantuan carrier pigeons so the strong product benefit message gets kind of lost. I also liked the Sobe “Thrillicious” commercial with the lizards mimicking Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. Great animation, loaded with little extra bits of business like a mini-fart cloud, but the commercial seemed to suggest that drinking Sobe turns you into a zombie, albeit one with rhythm. Better was the Budweiser Rocky commercial where an aspiring Clydesdale misses the cut to be on the Bud team but is taken under the paw of a Dalmatian coach (personal trainer?) who puts him through grueling exercises and training, turning him into a ripped “Italian Stallion” (they did use the Rocky theme). Somehow, though, I couldn’t help wondering if the horse was really on steroids, and if the Dalmatian gave him “the cream” or “the clear” since the Clydesdale’s head was nearly as big as Barry Bonds’. That was enough to tip the balance in favor of my favorite animal commercial, the Bridgestone tires “scream” commercial where a squirrel chasing an acorn into the road appears about to meet his maker (or KingDavid), but for the superior handling of the tires. Instead of squealing rubber we heard and saw the animatronic screams of the squirrel, owls, deer, the woman passenger…I don’t know, it just moved me.

Those With Celebrities
The only two celebrities I could remember off hand were Justin Timberlake for Pepsi and Will Ferrell for Bud Light. I don’t remember too much about either commercial since my mind always tries to block these two guys out when I see them, but I do remember they both seemed to be about “sucking one.”

Those With Breasts
I know, I know — it seems as if just about every commercial featured breasts in some way. The ones I selected, however, simply, um, stuck out. The first I’ll mention in this category was the CareerBuilder one where the poor working woman drone is so demoralized by her evil boss that her heart leaps out of her chest and through her shirt like a scene from Alien. Ok, it’s not really about breasts, but it struck me as a kind of “anti-breast” commentary on all the other commercials that fixate on womens’ chests. Or maybe the copywriter just needs a new job. The Victoria’s Secret commercial featured legs, breasts and music that I could actually hear because it also induced nearly absolute quiet in my living room filled with 20 people. A very awkward quiet. The best, or most over-the-top, breast commercial was the one with the chubby mechanic on a road call to jump start a woman’s car. He puts one end of the cables on her battery, then opens his coverall and attaches the other ends of the cables to his nipples, cues the ginormous sound machine in his truck and with a swig of AMP accomplishes the mission. The best part, however, was the “Do Not Attempt” message that stayed at the bottom of the screen throughout. Ya think?

The Surreal
This is the largest category as it appears advertisers are going farther and farther out there to make their ads to stand out. Sometimes this can be rather dark and even vaguely disturbing, such as the CareerBuilder ad with the Jiminy Cricket-type character being eaten by a spider, the Cars.com ads for extreme “Plan B” car negotiating that suggest having a head-shrinking witch doctor or a hulking wrestler in a circle of fire are acceptable ways of doing business, or the Doritos ad that suggests you shouldn’t tease or tempt a six-foot mouse. Bridgestone also appeared in this category when the driver of the car, on a dark, winding road, must suddenly steer around hazards such as a deer, Alice Cooper and Richard Simmons. You could feel the drama as the driver’s hands tightened on the wheel as he fought with himself over the urge to run Simmons down. Similarly the E-trade ads with the talking baby/day-trader had a way of arresting your attention in a kind of creepy way. The first ad featured the baby spitting up at the end, which isn’t a good idea when your audience is probably stuffing their faces. I was just about ready to write off the second one, where the baby talked about renting a clown with all the extra money he’d made with E-trade, when the kid looked at the clown then back to the audience and nearly took the words out of my mouth when he said, “I really underestimated the creepiness factor.”

Then there’s the silly-absurd ads like the ones from Bud Light that suggest their beer can give you powers like being able to breathe fire or fly. The one that nearly won this category in my household, however, was the Planter’s cashews ad where the ugly woman with the unibrow nevertheless had all the men around her completely smitten — all because she used cashews as perfume. The winner, however, was the commercial for Tide with the poor guy at a job interview (perhaps he got it through CareerBuilder) who is undone and shouted down by a large talking stain on his shirt. This one seemed to get the most and loudest laughs from our group.

“The Worst”
Where to begin? When you think of the amount of money that someone has to spend for a Super Bowl time slot, and then see the misbegotten effort the company puts forth, it strikes me as a bigger abuse of stockholder’s/investors money than Enron. It’s kind of like sending Travaris Jackson out as your Super Bowl quarterback. Among the worst this year was the Coke commercial featuring James McCarville and Bill Frist. McCarville’s face outdoes any clown’s in terms of creepiness factor, especially in High Def. Supposedly Coke won a bidding war for his services, topping the folks at Sobe who wanted to use him as one of their dancing lizards. Another flopper that went over with our crowd about as poorly as the announcement that we were out of chicken legs was the Parental Advisory ad with the drug dealer outside the quickie-mart complaining that he couldn’t make a living any more because kids were getting all the high they needed from their parents’ prescription drugs. Whatever. I kept expecting to see Jay and Silent Bob show up (once Bob got through over on the AMP commercial) to run the guy off their turf. Actually, what it made me want to do was run upstairs and hide the Lipitor — until I realized we don’t have any Lipitor. Speaking of drugs, the ad using a magical hand to wave a Zantac over a bloated woman to make her look better was just plain weird and wrong. Besides, I thought making women look better was beer’s job.

Another stunningly bad groaner was the Sisyphus ad for the Yukon Hybrid. Please, as if trying to sell people on the utility of a battery-powered half-ton SUV isn’t akin to pushing a boulder up a mountain anyway. Another car commercial made it into this category was for Audi, which was too bad because I kind of had high hopes for it at the beginning as they set up the scene like the infamous horse-head in the bed scene from The Godfather. Ultimately, what a waste of a premise as the “execution” left the commercial completely flat, almost as if the creative team’s heads had been cut off before the commercial was finished. Then there was the numbingly bad, even paralyzing, Gatorade commercial where a large dog drank loudly and messily from a water dish. That had a very high flinch factor as you kept wondering what it was about, and if you really even wanted to know. I remember feeling the same way watching Eraserhead 30 years ago, waiting for some pay-off or explanation. Then, and now, there wasn’t any.

But to get to the worst, however, you’ve got to have Go Daddy and Sales Genie slugging it out for a nice, dark wet spot at the bottom of the barrel. It truly galls me that I’m stuck with Go Daddy for my domain name following last year’s RegisterFly melt-down. There’s no effort to promote the benefits of their product (whatever it is), no offer to meet a need (except perhaps the most puerile), no product comparison. The ads aren’t even really saying “Look at me!” as they seem to be much more about looking at something else. At least the commercials inspire some emotion, even if it’s negative. The Sales Genie ads, however, are truly a waste of time and brain cells as I believe the animation, colors and dialog actually kill brains cells. With genius like this behind the company you really have to wonder how it ever became successful enough to make enough money to buy a Super Bowl ad, let alone two. Any future year without a Go Daddy or Sales Genie ad will automatically qualify as a “good” year for Super Bowl advertising.

Finally, there were some ads I liked that didn’t fit in any category other than they made me smile. The first ad, for Diet Pepsi Max almost fell into the “worst” category, however. First off, I can’t stand Joe Buck, so seeing him almost ruined it right off the bat except that he happened to be nodding off, which is what I do when I see/hear him so that was kind of funny. There were some other great clips in the ad of people nodding off before being revived with the product and going into a take-off of the old Saturday Night Live Night At the Roxbury skit. The commercial flirted with danger again as this skit is one of the most annoying skits in SNL history. Just as it was really starting to get on my nerves, however, the commercial ended with a guy snapping “Stop it!” to a couple of bobbing bimbos.

I also really liked the Bud Light ad with the guys being roped into a wine and cheese party with their girlfriends. What I like about these types of ads, while they focus on the guys’ obsession with beer, is that they at least portray the lads as being clever in the way they go about smuggling the beer into the party disguised as a block of cheese or a long baguette, or the way a TV is hidden in a box of Chablis. The clincher, though, was the pay-off line at the end where one the guys leaves the party “On a cheese run,” ranking right up there in my mind with “And a chain saw!” from last year’s Bud Light Super Bowl ad.

The warmest ad of the evening, however, was from Coke as it featured large cartoon character parade balloons of Underdog and Stewie from Family Guy breaking loose and competing with each other in slow balloon motion over an inflated bottle of Coke. It was funny, but especially satisfying when at the last moment a Charlie Brown balloon rose up out of nowhere to snag the prize. Yay! Charlie Brown finally wins!

By the way, if you missed any of these commercials, or want to see them again (even the bad ones) you can find a collection of all the ads from yesterday’s game in one place here.

Driving in the snow

by the Night Writer

I’m going to Scottsdale, AZ the first week in March for a business conference that I’ve been organizing for my Division. I’ve lined up some big name speakers, including an economist who also happens to be the National Policy Director for the McCain campaign. At the time we booked him last fall that was merely an interesting curiosity on his résumé; now it appears the interest factor has appreciated. Of course, what’s a business conference without golf, and what’s also ratcheting up for me is the anticipation and anxiety of playing at Grayhawk and the two TPC courses out there as part of the event. Even when I’m playing regularly my game is better suited for some of the gentler courses (slope under 130) around here. Contending with the sand and saguaros of the Sonoran desert, not to mention scads of senior executives, stretches my stress capacity. Especially because I haven’t played since the MOB Millard Fillmore Classic (a tradition unlike any other) last August 24.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to play, it’s just that after that time things seemed to keep coming up, like an overdue (but non-golfing) family vacation, more work in making up for the days off from said vacation, and distractions, like, oh, my father dying. In fact, the last time I came close to playing was in September when I was down in Missouri to visit him. On one of those days things seemed to be pretty stable and the home nurse was on her way for a regular visit so my brother, my nephew and I decided to head up to nearby town of Sullivan to play 18. We were just finishing our brats in the clubhouse before starting out when my brother’s cellphone rang and my mom said she had called for an ambulance and they were on their way to Sullivan as well, but to the hospital. Back in the car went the clubs, and us, and we met the ambulance at the emergency room entrance and spent the rest of the afternoon there. That really upset the old man because there was hardly anything he hated to see more than a lost opportunity to golf.

With March and humiliation approaching, I set out this morning for Lake Elmo and the Country Aire golf park which features an outdoor driving range with covered, heated tee-boxes. I took my clubs, picked up a large basket of balls and secured a toasty stall directly under a heater right in front of the line of large orange yardage signs. Big flakes of snow were falling slowly as I stood on the green mat and stretched, swinging a couple of clubs together to loosen up. As I did I thought back to the Sullivan clubhouse and golf course. For the last ten years or so it had been the home of the annual fund-raiser my father ran for the Shriner’s hospital, and I had been down there several times to partner with my brother and hobnob with my dad’s friends; some who, like me, had come from distant states for the fellowship and as a show of support. Golf had long been a big part of my father’s life, and one of the things he passed on to me. He wasn’t a very big hitter, but knew how to aim his steady slice (excuse me, “fade”) effectively, especially on his home course. He was a master on and around the greens though, and a preferred partner in a two-man or scramble.

I scooped a dozen or so balls along side the mat and started hitting 8-irons to see if my swing was still buried somewhere inside me. Somewhat to my amazement it was, though it looked to me as if I was barely carrying the 125-yard marker. I chalked it up to stiffness, being out of practice, the cold air and the light snow that was falling. My father hadn’t been able to teach me much about the golf-swing itself because our styles were too different. Our golf lessons, in fact, were a lot like those other driving lessons back when I was 15: testy and frustrating for both of us. In the end he sent me to other people, both to learn how to drive a stick, and how to swing one. Nevertheless, I always looked forward to playing with him. I don’t know that I’ve ever played, or will ever play, without thinking of him.

This morning after a couple of dozen shots I put the 8-iron away and started working up through the longer clubs, first a 5-iron and then my hybrid club. The first couple of shots with each club would be pretty ugly but then I’d start to get the feel back and was launching some good ones. Over the years my game has ebbed and flowed. No matter how good my game might be at any particular time, however, it was guaranteed to desert me if I played in a foursome with my dad. Maybe I just wanted too much to do well and to please or impress him. I had had some good shots while with him, but more often I was out of rhythm and veering between over-thinking paralysis and total brain-dead execution. I think the last time he may have actually seen me tee-off was at one of his tournaments a few years back. He didn’t play in these himself, but would cruise the course on a cart, teasing his friends and stirring things up. I saw his cart approaching as I prepared to hit my tee-shot and, true to form, I topped the ball and dribbled it into the creek a short way in front of me.

Two years ago, I think — after his valve replacement — he tried to turn the golf tournament over to a couple of other guys in the Shrine Club. The club responded by naming the tournament after him, even adding the word “Memorial” to the name. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, and proved it by continuing to help out with the event. Even last summer as he fought his way through the chemo treatments the guys would come by the house, wanting to know where to order the hats, or who to contact to have sponsor signs made, or for his help in straightening out the hash they had made of all the details he used to know by heart. And now this fall it will well and truly be “The Memorial.”

I was down to a few more minutes in my stall rental this morning when I finally took out the driver my brother had made for me last year. I had hardly had a chance to break it in. I took some practice swings, getting used to the longer shaft and the huge head that looks as if it should weigh a pound or more, though the club itself feels like a feather. “Well, here goes,” I thought as I teed up a ball on the tallest rubber tee on the mat. I took dead aim up the line of orange signs and brought the club back straight and high, swinging through and then watching as the ball rose straight over the signs and through the falling snow, still in the air as it passed the 250 marker. “Did you see that, Dad?” I whispered, wiping the snowflakes off of my cheek.

May the road rise up to slap you

Mitch mentioned today that Captain Ed has been learning to speak Gaelic. I’d like to try that sometime as well. It would be handy if I ever do move to Scotland. Besides that, it would give me new and interesting ways to curse Nick Coleman, perhaps even in a way he’d understand.

Of course, if all you’re interested in is cursing, the Internet was invented just for you. Go to The Curse Engine (An tInneal Mallachtaí) to find a handy tool that lets you create your own colorful curses in Gaelic, complete with a Gaelic/English translation and a handy pronunciation guide. You choose an option from three different columns, click on the “Mallacht” button, and then “Lay on, MacDuff.”

For example:

Gaelic: Go dtachta na péisteoga do thóin bheagmhaitheasach. (guh DAHKH-tuh nuh PAYSH-choh-guh duh HOH-ihn VYUG-wah-huh-suhkh.)
English: May the worms choke your worthless butt.

Gaelic: Go stróice cúnna ifrinn do chuid fo-éadaigh. (guh STROH-kyuh KOO-nuh IHF-rin duh khwihj FO-AY-dee).
English: May the hounds of Hell tear your underwear.

Gaelic: Go gcreime na gráinneoga cealgrúnacha do dhiosca crua.(guh GREH-muh nuh GRAWN-yoh-guh KYA-luhg-roo-nuh-khuh duh)
English: May the malevolent hedgehogs gnaw at your hard disk.

Gaelic: Go salaí an Cat Mara do chuid calóga arbhair. (guh SAH-lee uhn KAHT MAH-ruh duh khwihj KAH-lo-guh AH-ruh-wir).
English: May the Sea Cat soil your cornflakes.

Gaelic: Go n-aora scata Fomhórach ólta do chuid gruaige. (guh NEE-ruh SKAH-tuh FO-wohr-ukh OLE-tuh duh khwihj GROO-ihg-yuh.)
English: May a pack of drunken Fomorians satirize your hair.

I know you’re just dying to try it yourself, so I won’t delay you further. I did find it interesting, however, that the Gaelic word you click on to process the curse is “mallacht“. It reminds me of the Shakespearean word “mallecho”, which means “mischief”. It seems rather appropriate, that.

The Dream is alive

Last week I learned that a guy in our Atlanta office that I’ve talked to on occasion about our advertising and corporate sponsorships had left the company. It’s a field where talented people move around a lot, but I was a little disappointed because I enjoyed our conversations and working with him. I figured he’d leapt for a Bigger Better Deal somewhere else.

Today I found out what the BBD was: he’d left to pursue a his singer-songwriter music dream, and has a self-titled album, Steve Baskin, out in circulation. Hit the link for more details and a sample of his music. One critic has described it as “southern-fried power pop” or something like that. It doesn’t sound all that southern to me (though he is a Georgia boy) but I like it. The album’s available on Amazon and iTunes and I’ve already downloaded my copy. It’s solid throughout and has a very original jazz-blues cover of the Beatles “Hard Day’s Night.”

Check it out. And in Steve’s words, “Buy lots.”

Super(b)

Ok, you blog long enough and it’s going to be hard to keep secrets. A recent commenter on the “Who is this guy?” post finally put it all together and realized that Tiger Lilly and the Mall Diva have super powers. As a matter of fact, here’s a recent photo of the red-headed Tiger Lilly transforming into her superhero form in order to escort Ben and the Mall Diva home, or responding to a distress call about a ninja cow in the vicinity:

The Mall Diva’s powers are more subtle and include being able to teleport herself. I can’t tell you how many times lately I turn around and say, “Now where did she go?” (Don’t worry, Tiger Lilly has super tracking powers as well).

Naturally, they got their powers from me, as that earlier post also revealed that I am also a superhero, perhaps the result of a CIA experiment gone wrong. If you find that hard to believe, credit my brilliant fat-guy disguise. No sir, no stupid Clark Kent eye-glasses for me – I mean, really, who ever fell for that?

So, now you know.

Of style and substance (abuse)

Man, people say the Ron Paul “Paul-bots” are obsessive, but checking out Hugh Hewitt’s blog the past couple of times makes me think there’s been some kind of Rom-bot Invasion of the Party Snatchers. There’s a new post every 17 minutes defending Mitt Romney or blasting McCain, or both, and absolutely nothing else. Even a headline suggestive of an economics story is written in terms of what it means to Romney’s candidacy. If we knew the world was going to end in 3 hours Hugh’s headline would be “Apocalypse snatches victory from Mitt’s grasp at the last moment.”

Oh well, Mitt seems like a decent sort. If it’s between him and McCain I’d vote for Romney, or some 6th or 7th party candidate, before I’d vote for McCain. Or maybe I’ll just go get a tooth filled instead. This race just isn’t that interesting or amusing to me.

Not like the other side of the fence where The Big O is facing off against the Big Uh-Oh. Do you remember back in 8th or 9th grade when people would start shouting about a “girl-fight” and you’d push your way through the crowd to get a good view — and then start pushing your way back out again after getting hit with a handful of hair? Man, girls fight nasty and yet everyone assumes they’re so much more refined and cultured than boys. Just try to look away, though. Similarly Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton race around trying to convince the Dem’s flotilla of special interest groups that he or she is the biggest victim and worthy of their vote. It’s as compelling as watching “Real Life Stories of the ER”, without that annoying message warning of graphic scenes. Plus there’s always the chance of seeing Bill Clinton wag his, um, finger at us again. Good times.

Then, just as you think the story is all played out, there’s a shocking twist like Teddy Kennedy endorsing Obama. That reminded me of another episode from my younger days. Ever play “Risk”, the game of world domination? Do you remember the visceral thrill you got when one of the players from a strategic alliance that had been cleaning up the board suddenly turned on his partner and struck from the rear? Yeah, you knew it was inevitable but it still gave you a pleasant shiver. This was even better than John Kerry forsaking his running mate Edwards a couple of weeks ago to jump on the Obama wagon. I can just hear Obama saying “Thanks, John, now would you mind not standing so close to me when the cameras are clicking?” I didn’t see the Kennedy endorsement coming, though, at least not this soon. I don’t know, maybe Ted thought Obama was an Irish name?

Speaking of alliances, some are saying that the distant third place Democrat candidate John Edwards is in line to be Obama’s attorney general. Wow, a trial lawyer and union puppet as head of the Justice Department? He’d make Halliburton look like a couple of neighborhood kids opening a lemonade stand.