(From the Janesville Messenger, 11-30-08)
Physically, T.J. is a boy of 13.
Mentally, T.J. is a man.
T.J. has grown up quickly, placed in a role that each of us hope we never have to fill.
T.J. is his father’s caregiver.
Perhaps that label is overstating the severity of the situation. T.J.’s father, Thomas, is not incapacitated. Thomas can drive and get around, but he’s lost a lot of weight, he can’t work, and his body is riddled with disease. And worst of all, his doctors have told him he will not get better.
And that has placed T.J. in a position of doing a lot of things that a boy normally wouldn’t have to do.
But to T.J., they are second nature. One thing that stands out in the mind of his father is one day when T.J. was eight, when Thomas was struggling to bend down and tie his work boots. Without a word, T.J. came over and did it for him. After that, T.J. made sure he was up before 5 a.m. every day to take care of that simple task for his dad.
“He’s been like a war hero,” Thomas says. “Or an angel. It’s like he can read my mind.”
Thomas can pinpoint when things started to go awry with his body. In 2003, a piece of heavy equipment fell on his abdomen. The accident led to a damaged and infected pancreas along with kidney problems. When he was finally well enough to go back to work, he discovered a strange change to his body. The upper part of his body would no longer perspire, even when doing hard physical work in 90-degree weather.
Other odd physical ailments followed. One day behind the wheel of a work truck, Thomas drove over a bump and the jolt knocked out his vision. His passenger had to take the wheel and guide the truck to the shoulder. Thomas’ sight eventually returned.
Thomas wears a thick, bushy beard these days, an appearance he doesn’t like and apologizes for. But that and the thick layers of clothes he wears are a necessity, as he is always cold, even in mid-summer.
A parade of doctors examined Thomas and could not determine what was wrong with him. He was told it could be anything from multiple sclerosis to Lou Gehrig’s Disease.
Through it all, T.J. has been there by his side. “He always has a positive attitude,” according to Thomas. “We’re a team. There is no ‘I,’ just ‘we’ or ‘us.’
“He’ll say to me, ‘Dad, there’s nothing you can’t tell me.’ But I tell him, ‘You’re only 13 years old!”
Thomas hates that it has to be this way. “I feel like I’ve taken his childhood away from him,” he says, “because of everything that’s happened.”
But T.J. has never complained. His only question is why it had to happen to Thomas. And that’s a question Thomas doesn’t know how to answer.
As Thomas’ lack of energy increased, his ability to work decreased, finally ceasing altogether in 2006. He has been able to live off his life savings, the result of a successful career.
Since then, his primary responsibility has been to be a father. And he isn’t done yet.
“I want to teach (T.J.) everything I know,” Thomas says. That includes how to frame houses, build furniture, finish drywall, and pour driveways, as well as every detail worth knowing about fishing.
Thomas has a daughter, too, but she doesn’t live with him. He worries that his close bond with his son might make her think he doesn’t love her just as much. But one of his stated goals is to still be able to someday “walk her down the aisle.”
Thomas now knows the cause of his problems. Tests showed that his body was loaded with chemicals, including arsenic from treated lumber, apparently from working in construction. This appears to be the cause of the cancer that now inhabits his body. He has been told that there is nothing more that can be done for him.
“You never know what your life holds for you,” Thomas says. But he isn’t looking for sympathy. Thomas simply wants his son to know that he appreciates the devotion, strength, love and affection that T.J. has shown him. And to let others know that his modest, unassuming son is truly an adult in a child’s body, in many ways more mature at 13 than some of us are decades later.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Change We Could All Believe In
(From the Janesville Messenger, 11-16-08)
My regular readers tell me that they least like the columns in which I comment on politics. I have heard that statement from enough people that I have purposely avoided that topic during the course of this year’s elections. If you are one of those readers, my apologies for this column.
After a campaign year that got even more nasty and divisive than I thought possible, I was pleasantly surprised on Election Night to hear statements from John McCain and Barack Obama that gave me hope for the future.
In his extremely gracious concession speech, McCain lauded Obama and urged his supporters “to join me in not just congratulating him, but offering our next president our good will and earnest effort to find ways to come together to find the necessary compromises to bridge our differences and help restore our prosperity, defend our security in a dangerous world, and leave our children and grandchildren a stronger, better country than we inherited.”
“Whatever our differences,” McCain said, “we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that.”
Obama, in return, also extended an olive branch and echoed the same theme of working together.
“Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long,” Obama said. “And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your president, too.”
It would be easy to dismiss such talk as the usual public relations statements that are supposed to be recited after an election. Call me naïve, but in the case of both Obama and McCain, I believe they meant them.
What surprised me most about McCain’s concession speech was how early in the evening it arrived. I expected to go to bed not knowing the results of the election. I couldn’t help thinking, watching McCain speak, that the guy seemed relieved. Not just relieved that the election was over, but relieved that he wasn’t the one inheriting what a friend described as a convulsing economy, a fractured political landscape, two nagging wars, and a financial crisis that only ten people really understand.
That doesn’t mean that I think he wanted to lose. But I think he saw that it was not the end of the world to return to the Senate and be the solution-seeking politician he used to be before the forces of the GOP coerced him to change.
McCain is an honorable man. It surely horrified him that several of his appearances, including his concession speech, were marred by angry constituents that even booed him when he dared utter something nice about Sen. Obama. His rebukes of those misguided supporters and defense of Obama were incredibly admirable. How must one feel to stand at a podium and think, these are my people?
Unfortunately, “party first” thinking is not limited to hardcore people at political rallies. Now that their legislative branch domination of the GOP is complete, both on the national and state level, I envision Democratic legislators drunk with power, ready to push their agenda forward like a runaway bulldozer. That would be the last thing we need right now.
I sincerely hope that President Obama and Governor Doyle do not allow that to happen. Based on my past experience working with state legislators, I must admit I have more confidence at this point in the President-elect.
However, as I write this, Rep. Mike Sheridan from Janesville is considered the front-runner to be elected speaker of the state assembly. He would be a good choice; Sheridan knows the value of compromise. He reached out to management at General Motors and his efforts certainly resulted in the local plant remaining open a good five years more than it might have. Elevated to a leadership position, he would now be free of party pressure to set the example and work toward advancing the people’s business.
The one thing missing from our state and national legislators in the past few decades has been the spirit of compromise in the name of the big picture. Anything less than a complete victory is seen by hard-core party members as weakness. Had our founding fathers taken such an approach at their Constitutional Convention, this great nation would have never been formed.
Obama’s message was “Change.” McCain’s was “Country First.” I do not see those ideas as mutually exclusive of one another. At this time of crisis, we have to quit focusing on whether we are Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, and just focus on being Americans.
That, my friends, would be a change we could all believe in.
My regular readers tell me that they least like the columns in which I comment on politics. I have heard that statement from enough people that I have purposely avoided that topic during the course of this year’s elections. If you are one of those readers, my apologies for this column.
After a campaign year that got even more nasty and divisive than I thought possible, I was pleasantly surprised on Election Night to hear statements from John McCain and Barack Obama that gave me hope for the future.
In his extremely gracious concession speech, McCain lauded Obama and urged his supporters “to join me in not just congratulating him, but offering our next president our good will and earnest effort to find ways to come together to find the necessary compromises to bridge our differences and help restore our prosperity, defend our security in a dangerous world, and leave our children and grandchildren a stronger, better country than we inherited.”
“Whatever our differences,” McCain said, “we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that.”
Obama, in return, also extended an olive branch and echoed the same theme of working together.
“Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long,” Obama said. “And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your president, too.”
It would be easy to dismiss such talk as the usual public relations statements that are supposed to be recited after an election. Call me naïve, but in the case of both Obama and McCain, I believe they meant them.
What surprised me most about McCain’s concession speech was how early in the evening it arrived. I expected to go to bed not knowing the results of the election. I couldn’t help thinking, watching McCain speak, that the guy seemed relieved. Not just relieved that the election was over, but relieved that he wasn’t the one inheriting what a friend described as a convulsing economy, a fractured political landscape, two nagging wars, and a financial crisis that only ten people really understand.
That doesn’t mean that I think he wanted to lose. But I think he saw that it was not the end of the world to return to the Senate and be the solution-seeking politician he used to be before the forces of the GOP coerced him to change.
McCain is an honorable man. It surely horrified him that several of his appearances, including his concession speech, were marred by angry constituents that even booed him when he dared utter something nice about Sen. Obama. His rebukes of those misguided supporters and defense of Obama were incredibly admirable. How must one feel to stand at a podium and think, these are my people?
Unfortunately, “party first” thinking is not limited to hardcore people at political rallies. Now that their legislative branch domination of the GOP is complete, both on the national and state level, I envision Democratic legislators drunk with power, ready to push their agenda forward like a runaway bulldozer. That would be the last thing we need right now.
I sincerely hope that President Obama and Governor Doyle do not allow that to happen. Based on my past experience working with state legislators, I must admit I have more confidence at this point in the President-elect.
However, as I write this, Rep. Mike Sheridan from Janesville is considered the front-runner to be elected speaker of the state assembly. He would be a good choice; Sheridan knows the value of compromise. He reached out to management at General Motors and his efforts certainly resulted in the local plant remaining open a good five years more than it might have. Elevated to a leadership position, he would now be free of party pressure to set the example and work toward advancing the people’s business.
The one thing missing from our state and national legislators in the past few decades has been the spirit of compromise in the name of the big picture. Anything less than a complete victory is seen by hard-core party members as weakness. Had our founding fathers taken such an approach at their Constitutional Convention, this great nation would have never been formed.
Obama’s message was “Change.” McCain’s was “Country First.” I do not see those ideas as mutually exclusive of one another. At this time of crisis, we have to quit focusing on whether we are Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, and just focus on being Americans.
That, my friends, would be a change we could all believe in.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Hairy Situation
(From the Janesville Messenger, 11-2-08)
The photo that runs next to this column doesn’t look like me.
In fact, except for a month or so during the summer, it hasn’t looked like me for a while. The clean-shaven appearance depicted here has been replaced with facial hair, in the form of a horseshoe moustache.
You are probably wondering what a horseshoe moustache is. Basically, it’s a moustache that extends from the corners of the lips down to the chin. It is so-named because it resembles an upside-down horseshoe. Most people mistakenly call it a Fu Manchu. I have also had people refer to it as a handlebar. I didn’t know which was correct, so I had to look it up to find out.
To prevent you from potential future embarrassment – after all, what could be a bigger social faux pas than wrongly identifying a moustache - both a Fu Manchu and a handlebar are moustaches where the ends are grown out long; the ends of the Fu droop down and the ends of the handlebar point up, like Rollie Fingers with his waxed tips.
Though it is not a common sight on me, facial hair hasn’t been a rarity, either. My driver’s license has a 2003 photo in which I look like a goateed criminal from a Quentin Tarantino film. At one time or another, I’ve had just about every facial hair combo imaginable, including a collegiate attempt at a Civil War general look with the moustache and sideburns connected.
What is rare – these days anyway - is when I grow it for my personal satisfaction. Generally, it means I have a part in a local theater production. Earlier this year, to play the role of George Bernard Shaw in the Janesville Performing Arts Center’s production of “The Frogs,” I had to sport a full beard. When my current shrubbery first appeared, several people assumed I was doing another play.
Truth be told, there really isn’t a reason. I came back from a summer backpacking trip in New Mexico with two weeks of growth and just decided to see how it looked if I shaved it this way.
You don’t see this style of moustache much these days, though my favorite baseball player, Robin Yount, still sports one. So did Joe Namath when he was the toast of New York, and John Lennon during the “Sgt. Pepper” era. Even though it’s not unusual, it’s still a bit on the edge.
Reactions to my new look have been pretty comical. Many people didn’t say a word when they first saw it – which I generally interpret as disapproval. Others have accused me of trying to look like a biker, or of being inspired by the cowboys I saw in New Mexico. A couple of my co-workers think it makes me look Mexican, and have nicknamed me “Carlos.”
The general consensus of my teenagers’ friends is “thumbs up.” However, I don’t score well among the demographic that consists of adult females with the last name of Lyke.
Not long after I returned from New Mexico, I did a presentation at my mother’s church. When my mother saw me walk in, she had this horrified look on her face. She immediately put her fingers in front of her face to draw a moustache. I knew exactly what she was telling me.
Of course, the superdelegate in this opinion poll is my wife. If she could hold me down and shave it off herself, she probably would. In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already tried it while I’m asleep. Maybe I shouldn’t be giving her ideas.
Now that the horseshoe has passed the two-month mark, she’s realized that this look – which she has dubbed “a hick from the ‘60s” - isn’t necessarily a passing fancy. We’ve had to come to an understanding that she’ll just have to accept my moustache, and I’ll just have to accept the fact that she won’t grow her hair to her waist. Not that I didn’t try striking that bargain, mind you.
If my new look survives into 2009 – and trust me, there is great pressure for it not to - it will probably be time to replace the photo that adorns this column. Until then, I recommend drawing on the moustache with a black Sharpie marker. If you do that, however...please don’t add horns.
The photo that runs next to this column doesn’t look like me.
In fact, except for a month or so during the summer, it hasn’t looked like me for a while. The clean-shaven appearance depicted here has been replaced with facial hair, in the form of a horseshoe moustache.
You are probably wondering what a horseshoe moustache is. Basically, it’s a moustache that extends from the corners of the lips down to the chin. It is so-named because it resembles an upside-down horseshoe. Most people mistakenly call it a Fu Manchu. I have also had people refer to it as a handlebar. I didn’t know which was correct, so I had to look it up to find out.
To prevent you from potential future embarrassment – after all, what could be a bigger social faux pas than wrongly identifying a moustache - both a Fu Manchu and a handlebar are moustaches where the ends are grown out long; the ends of the Fu droop down and the ends of the handlebar point up, like Rollie Fingers with his waxed tips.
Though it is not a common sight on me, facial hair hasn’t been a rarity, either. My driver’s license has a 2003 photo in which I look like a goateed criminal from a Quentin Tarantino film. At one time or another, I’ve had just about every facial hair combo imaginable, including a collegiate attempt at a Civil War general look with the moustache and sideburns connected.
What is rare – these days anyway - is when I grow it for my personal satisfaction. Generally, it means I have a part in a local theater production. Earlier this year, to play the role of George Bernard Shaw in the Janesville Performing Arts Center’s production of “The Frogs,” I had to sport a full beard. When my current shrubbery first appeared, several people assumed I was doing another play.
Truth be told, there really isn’t a reason. I came back from a summer backpacking trip in New Mexico with two weeks of growth and just decided to see how it looked if I shaved it this way.
You don’t see this style of moustache much these days, though my favorite baseball player, Robin Yount, still sports one. So did Joe Namath when he was the toast of New York, and John Lennon during the “Sgt. Pepper” era. Even though it’s not unusual, it’s still a bit on the edge.
Reactions to my new look have been pretty comical. Many people didn’t say a word when they first saw it – which I generally interpret as disapproval. Others have accused me of trying to look like a biker, or of being inspired by the cowboys I saw in New Mexico. A couple of my co-workers think it makes me look Mexican, and have nicknamed me “Carlos.”
The general consensus of my teenagers’ friends is “thumbs up.” However, I don’t score well among the demographic that consists of adult females with the last name of Lyke.
Not long after I returned from New Mexico, I did a presentation at my mother’s church. When my mother saw me walk in, she had this horrified look on her face. She immediately put her fingers in front of her face to draw a moustache. I knew exactly what she was telling me.
Of course, the superdelegate in this opinion poll is my wife. If she could hold me down and shave it off herself, she probably would. In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already tried it while I’m asleep. Maybe I shouldn’t be giving her ideas.
Now that the horseshoe has passed the two-month mark, she’s realized that this look – which she has dubbed “a hick from the ‘60s” - isn’t necessarily a passing fancy. We’ve had to come to an understanding that she’ll just have to accept my moustache, and I’ll just have to accept the fact that she won’t grow her hair to her waist. Not that I didn’t try striking that bargain, mind you.
If my new look survives into 2009 – and trust me, there is great pressure for it not to - it will probably be time to replace the photo that adorns this column. Until then, I recommend drawing on the moustache with a black Sharpie marker. If you do that, however...please don’t add horns.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Adventures In Customer Service
(From the Janesville Messenger, 10-19-08)
There is an old joke about service after the sale. The joke goes that a recently deceased soul is given a tour of both Heaven and Hell before deciding where he would like to spend eternity.
When he visits Hell, it looks like a big fun party, much more exciting than the sedate and boring Heaven. He chooses Hell, but when he goes back there, it’s no party at all; it’s eternal suffering. When he protests to Satan and asks why it was different in his previous visit, Satan replies, “Before, you were a prospect. Now, you’re a customer.”
That’s the way I feel right now about several of my experiences with home improvement.
Exhibit number one is Eon, a Canadian company that made the material we used to build our back deck and stairs. Eon makes an interesting polymer product for decks that is advertised as an alternative to wood or composites that resists cracking or splitting. Their product is also backed by a 25-year warranty, and I always feel good about putting 25 years between home improvement projects.
All went well until about two and a half years after the deck was built. We discovered a crack in one of the posts, as well as a couple of decorative parts. Relatively minor stuff, but worth replacing. So I followed the instructions on Eon’s web site and made a claim, which involved sending them digital photos of the damage and a copy of my receipt.
A customer service rep told us that “shortly,” we would be receiving a letter in the mail regarding the status of our claim. Apparently, in Canadian English, “shortly” means “never.” Finally, four months later, I re-contacted Eon to find out the status of my claim. At that point, they sent me a letter denying my claim – not because my claim was without merit but because they are having some sort of dispute with the Big Home Improvement Company that sold me the product.
The letter, a grammatical wonder, refers to their “Warranty Police” (policy?) that states, “This warranty does not cover product that have (sic) not been paid for in full. As (Big Home Improvement Company) has not paid us for this merchandise, we accordingly are not honouring the warranty, as the warranty specifically excludes such coverage.”
As copouts go, this might be one of the better ones. I guess I am supposed to march into the office of Big Home Improvement Company’s CEO and demand that they settle their dispute with Eon. Good plan, Eon; I’m right on it. And I hope the customer service rep is proud that she saved her multimillion-dollar company about $60 worth of replacement parts.
Meaningless warranties seem to be a pattern in the home improvement industry. Not long after I purchased my house, it was re-roofed with a shingle that had one of those 25-year guarantees I like so well. By the time the roof was on its ninth year, the shingles had already deteriorated badly, curling, cracking, and loading up our gutters with muck.
Our roofer told us that the shingle company had stopped manufacturing this particular type of asphalt shingle because they had been failing relatively quickly. This looked like a clear case for exercising our warranty and getting our shingles replaced.
The company’s first response was to offer us about two hundred dollars worth of coupons for new shingles. Having paid almost $10,000 for a roof, this really wasn’t what I had in mind. The offers didn’t get much better from there. From our experience, as well as other stories I read online, it appeared that the company’s tactic was to stall and make lowball offers and hope you gave up. We ended up doing something we hoped we would never have to do – hire a lawyer and threaten to sue.
Getting an attorney woke them up, and we ended up settling the case. Still, it meant having to re-roof for the second time in a decade, and the settlement didn’t even cover half of our cost. In case you are wondering, the only reason the manufacturer’s name is not listed in this article is because it might violate the final settlement we signed. But if you Google the term “shingle failure,” you might be able to figure it out.
Alas, poor customer service in the home improvement industry is not limited to great big faceless companies. The same year that our deck was built, a local contractor poured a new driveway for us. The driveway looked sterling for about six months, until a crack the size of a California fault line developed. When we complained to the contractor, he told us that that was “normal,” but promised that he would come out and take a look at it. Nearly three years later, we still await his visit. If he ever does come by, he’ll see that, besides the cracks, the concrete he poured now has more chinks and pock marks than a teenager’s face – and a teenager would be a decade older than my driveway.
As frustrating as those situations have been, it heightens my appreciation for the folks who do it right. I highly recommend a book by Hal Becker called “Lip Service,” where he chronicles his own personal experiences with really bad – and really good – customer service.
(p.s. After this column appeared, I received a response from Eon apologizing for causing me "distress" and alerting me that the parts were on the way. And they, indeed, have now arrived.)
There is an old joke about service after the sale. The joke goes that a recently deceased soul is given a tour of both Heaven and Hell before deciding where he would like to spend eternity.
When he visits Hell, it looks like a big fun party, much more exciting than the sedate and boring Heaven. He chooses Hell, but when he goes back there, it’s no party at all; it’s eternal suffering. When he protests to Satan and asks why it was different in his previous visit, Satan replies, “Before, you were a prospect. Now, you’re a customer.”
That’s the way I feel right now about several of my experiences with home improvement.
Exhibit number one is Eon, a Canadian company that made the material we used to build our back deck and stairs. Eon makes an interesting polymer product for decks that is advertised as an alternative to wood or composites that resists cracking or splitting. Their product is also backed by a 25-year warranty, and I always feel good about putting 25 years between home improvement projects.
All went well until about two and a half years after the deck was built. We discovered a crack in one of the posts, as well as a couple of decorative parts. Relatively minor stuff, but worth replacing. So I followed the instructions on Eon’s web site and made a claim, which involved sending them digital photos of the damage and a copy of my receipt.
A customer service rep told us that “shortly,” we would be receiving a letter in the mail regarding the status of our claim. Apparently, in Canadian English, “shortly” means “never.” Finally, four months later, I re-contacted Eon to find out the status of my claim. At that point, they sent me a letter denying my claim – not because my claim was without merit but because they are having some sort of dispute with the Big Home Improvement Company that sold me the product.
The letter, a grammatical wonder, refers to their “Warranty Police” (policy?) that states, “This warranty does not cover product that have (sic) not been paid for in full. As (Big Home Improvement Company) has not paid us for this merchandise, we accordingly are not honouring the warranty, as the warranty specifically excludes such coverage.”
As copouts go, this might be one of the better ones. I guess I am supposed to march into the office of Big Home Improvement Company’s CEO and demand that they settle their dispute with Eon. Good plan, Eon; I’m right on it. And I hope the customer service rep is proud that she saved her multimillion-dollar company about $60 worth of replacement parts.
Meaningless warranties seem to be a pattern in the home improvement industry. Not long after I purchased my house, it was re-roofed with a shingle that had one of those 25-year guarantees I like so well. By the time the roof was on its ninth year, the shingles had already deteriorated badly, curling, cracking, and loading up our gutters with muck.
Our roofer told us that the shingle company had stopped manufacturing this particular type of asphalt shingle because they had been failing relatively quickly. This looked like a clear case for exercising our warranty and getting our shingles replaced.
The company’s first response was to offer us about two hundred dollars worth of coupons for new shingles. Having paid almost $10,000 for a roof, this really wasn’t what I had in mind. The offers didn’t get much better from there. From our experience, as well as other stories I read online, it appeared that the company’s tactic was to stall and make lowball offers and hope you gave up. We ended up doing something we hoped we would never have to do – hire a lawyer and threaten to sue.
Getting an attorney woke them up, and we ended up settling the case. Still, it meant having to re-roof for the second time in a decade, and the settlement didn’t even cover half of our cost. In case you are wondering, the only reason the manufacturer’s name is not listed in this article is because it might violate the final settlement we signed. But if you Google the term “shingle failure,” you might be able to figure it out.
Alas, poor customer service in the home improvement industry is not limited to great big faceless companies. The same year that our deck was built, a local contractor poured a new driveway for us. The driveway looked sterling for about six months, until a crack the size of a California fault line developed. When we complained to the contractor, he told us that that was “normal,” but promised that he would come out and take a look at it. Nearly three years later, we still await his visit. If he ever does come by, he’ll see that, besides the cracks, the concrete he poured now has more chinks and pock marks than a teenager’s face – and a teenager would be a decade older than my driveway.
As frustrating as those situations have been, it heightens my appreciation for the folks who do it right. I highly recommend a book by Hal Becker called “Lip Service,” where he chronicles his own personal experiences with really bad – and really good – customer service.
(p.s. After this column appeared, I received a response from Eon apologizing for causing me "distress" and alerting me that the parts were on the way. And they, indeed, have now arrived.)
Saturday, October 11, 2008
A Dose of Unreality
(From the Janesville Messenger, 10-5-08)
When one topic just won’t do, it’s time for another “Short Attention Span” column.
ELVES AND GOBLINS DO LOOK SIMILAR: Halloween may be at the end of this month, but Kohl’s in the Janesville Mall already has a Christmas display in the store. In fact, their display was up in September. I’m assuming there are other stores doing the same. Now that’s scary.
THEY CAME FROM JANESVILLE: You don’t need to rent a scary movie for some good Halloween fright. Just pick a random story on the Janesville Gazette web site, Gazettextra.com, and peruse the reader comments section. Yes, these people are among us...
POLL-TERGEIST: Is it an accident that Election Day is so close to Halloween? This year has already been one big “Trick or Treat.” We were all treated with “Economic Stimulus” checks, but too many of us were tricked by having our house plastered with foreclosure notices.
I’LL HAVE IT ON THE ROCKS: If you are looking for a good place to park your car in Milton, I don’t recommend the rock wall near the Milton College campus.
That is, unless you really enjoy hearing the sound of the underside of your car scraping against rock as the tow truck tries to remove it.
GOOD THING IT’S WALKING DISTANCE: Ironically, this car was parked about 50 yards from CESA #2’s Driver Education fleet.
IT PAYS TO GET THE LEAD OUT: Speaking of autos, it’s been difficult, but high gas prices have forced me to change my leadfoot ways. Since I’ve started slowing down to drive the actual speed limit (ahem), the fuel economy in my car has increased by 1.5 miles per gallon.
UNREALITY SHOW: The National Football League, either by accident or by design, has hit upon the greatest consumer loyalty scheme in the world. It is fantasy football, where sports fans like me have their own “teams” of real players that accumulate points based on their actual game performances and use those points to compete in a league against other teams. Now, instead of just watching the Packers every Sunday, I end up watching several games, even if it’s just to cheer for individual players. Nationwide, fantasy football has become so popular that the TV networks have even tailored their game reporting to include fantasy stats. And speaking of which....
DISTRACTION JACKSON: DeSean Jackson is in my doghouse. Jackson, a wide receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles, is personally responsible for my lone Fantasy Football League defeat.
Three weeks ago, Jackson caught a touchdown pass – he thought. He started celebrating his score before he actually crossed the goal line, dropping the ball at the 1-yard line and nullifying the score. This resulted in my fantasy team losing six sure points in a matchup that I ended up losing by two. Yes, it’s three weeks later and I’m still mad about this.
THE LADIES ARE REVOLTING: In a related development, a new website gaining popularity is called “Women Against Fantasy Sports.” (This is not a joke – womenagainstfantasysports.com.)
RECESSION OBSESSION: Throughout the year, the big debate has raged on: is our economy in a “recession”? Instead of focusing on the word “recession” and its technical definition, can’t we just pick a term we can all agree on, like “Big Flippin’ Mess”?
HAPPY NUDE EAR: Want to get rich? Invent a cream that permanently kills ear hair. Middle-aged men would line up for it.
“KAZAKHSTAN” RHYMES WITH “KICK STAND”: Cyclist Lance Armstrong is coming out of retirement to once again compete in the Tour de France – for a team from Kazakhstan. Lance must have really liked “Borat.”
THIS IS NO WAY TO RAZOR SON: Want to annoy your mother? Grow a horseshoe moustache. I can tell you from experience, it works.
When one topic just won’t do, it’s time for another “Short Attention Span” column.
ELVES AND GOBLINS DO LOOK SIMILAR: Halloween may be at the end of this month, but Kohl’s in the Janesville Mall already has a Christmas display in the store. In fact, their display was up in September. I’m assuming there are other stores doing the same. Now that’s scary.
THEY CAME FROM JANESVILLE: You don’t need to rent a scary movie for some good Halloween fright. Just pick a random story on the Janesville Gazette web site, Gazettextra.com, and peruse the reader comments section. Yes, these people are among us...
POLL-TERGEIST: Is it an accident that Election Day is so close to Halloween? This year has already been one big “Trick or Treat.” We were all treated with “Economic Stimulus” checks, but too many of us were tricked by having our house plastered with foreclosure notices.
I’LL HAVE IT ON THE ROCKS: If you are looking for a good place to park your car in Milton, I don’t recommend the rock wall near the Milton College campus.
That is, unless you really enjoy hearing the sound of the underside of your car scraping against rock as the tow truck tries to remove it. GOOD THING IT’S WALKING DISTANCE: Ironically, this car was parked about 50 yards from CESA #2’s Driver Education fleet.
IT PAYS TO GET THE LEAD OUT: Speaking of autos, it’s been difficult, but high gas prices have forced me to change my leadfoot ways. Since I’ve started slowing down to drive the actual speed limit (ahem), the fuel economy in my car has increased by 1.5 miles per gallon.
UNREALITY SHOW: The National Football League, either by accident or by design, has hit upon the greatest consumer loyalty scheme in the world. It is fantasy football, where sports fans like me have their own “teams” of real players that accumulate points based on their actual game performances and use those points to compete in a league against other teams. Now, instead of just watching the Packers every Sunday, I end up watching several games, even if it’s just to cheer for individual players. Nationwide, fantasy football has become so popular that the TV networks have even tailored their game reporting to include fantasy stats. And speaking of which....
DISTRACTION JACKSON: DeSean Jackson is in my doghouse. Jackson, a wide receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles, is personally responsible for my lone Fantasy Football League defeat.
Three weeks ago, Jackson caught a touchdown pass – he thought. He started celebrating his score before he actually crossed the goal line, dropping the ball at the 1-yard line and nullifying the score. This resulted in my fantasy team losing six sure points in a matchup that I ended up losing by two. Yes, it’s three weeks later and I’m still mad about this.
THE LADIES ARE REVOLTING: In a related development, a new website gaining popularity is called “Women Against Fantasy Sports.” (This is not a joke – womenagainstfantasysports.com.)
RECESSION OBSESSION: Throughout the year, the big debate has raged on: is our economy in a “recession”? Instead of focusing on the word “recession” and its technical definition, can’t we just pick a term we can all agree on, like “Big Flippin’ Mess”?
HAPPY NUDE EAR: Want to get rich? Invent a cream that permanently kills ear hair. Middle-aged men would line up for it.
“KAZAKHSTAN” RHYMES WITH “KICK STAND”: Cyclist Lance Armstrong is coming out of retirement to once again compete in the Tour de France – for a team from Kazakhstan. Lance must have really liked “Borat.”
THIS IS NO WAY TO RAZOR SON: Want to annoy your mother? Grow a horseshoe moustache. I can tell you from experience, it works.
Days of Big Hair and Legwarmers
(From the Janesville Messenger, 9-21-08)
When one topic just won’t do, it’s time for another “Short Attention Span” column.
ISN’T IT IRON-IC: Earlier this month, the Ironman Wisconsin competition was held in Madison, a grueling one-day endurance event that includes a full marathon, a 2.4-mile swim, and a 112-mile bike ride. A few days after the competition, an apparently serious letter to the Wisconsin State Journal suggested that the event be renamed “Ironmen and Womyn” (note the politically correct spelling), or simply, "Ironperson."
I say, why stop there? Let’s also rename the recent Robert Downey Jr. superhero movie “Iron Person.” After all, his metal suit has no, um, gender-revealing features.
And of course, you would have to rename and rewrite “Iron Man,” the iconic 1970 Ozzy Osbourne/Black Sabbath heavy metal song. In fact, here is a sample of the new lyrics: “I am Iron Person/I am gender-free in this new version/I am Iron Person/Politically correct when I’m rehearsin’/I am Iron Person/These rhymes are pretty bad but they will worsen.”
THERE’S NO CYAN IN BASEBALL: In "Field of Dreams," when James Earl Jones gives his speech equating baseball with all that is good about America, I'm all in. When it comes to baseball, I’m a purist. You should wear white at home, gray on the road, and stirrups over your socks. Unfortunately, ugly baseball uniforms are like a bad virus that just won't go away. We’re being revisited by the hideous ghosts of 35 years ago as teams are wearing bright solid-colored jerseys. The worst offenders are the eye-watering red shirts occasionally sported by the Boston Red Sox and Atlanta Braves, and the blue-and-red pajama tops worn by the Chicago Cubs. Those shirts look like they stepped out of Napoleon Dynamite’s closet.
DE-COMPOSING: At the risk of sounding like my parents circa 1978, here in a nutshell is why I am not a fan of much of today's "new" music. I'm in a store, and Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" comes on. But when the lyrics start, it's not Zevon singing and it's not his lyrics. The song then goes on to use part of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama," with lyrics that sound like a rewrite of Bob Seger's "Night Moves.” It turns out this song is called "All Summer Long" by Kid Rock and it's the biggest hit of 2008. I don’t mind remakes, but sampling parts of other songs and calling it your own original song? What a rip-off. Songwriting is indeed becoming a lost art.
CHANGING OF THE GUARD: Kid Rock also has the distinction of doing that crappy new National Guard song that they play at movie theaters before the feature film. The previous song done for the Guard by the group 3 Doors Down was terrific; I don't know why they felt the need to change it so quickly.
MAKE UP YOUR MINDSET: Every year, Beloit College comes out with their "Mindset List," which is intended to give those of us with a few years under our belts a snapshot of incoming college freshmen; in this case, those born in 1990. According to the authors, it is not deliberately designed to make the readers feel old, though that is usually the primary result. The list is always pretty good, but this year, I think the college reached a bit. For example, one item is "They never tasted Benefit Cereal with psyllium." Say what? Another is "The Royal New Zealand Navy has never been permitted a daily ration of rum.” Both of those left me scratching my head. Some suggested replacements: "They never traveled from Beloit to Milwaukee on Highway 15" and "Michael Jackson has always resembled a white female."
SHE WOULD PALIN COMPARISON: Since Sarah Palin was nominated for Vice President, my e-mail inbox has received three different photos of the Alaska Governor with her face Photoshopped over a model’s body in various stages of undress. I don’t recall that happening with Geraldine Ferraro.
HERE, PULL MY FINGER: You may have read in this column about my two-week mountain backpacking trek. I didn't know this until I returned, but I spent the entire trip with a broken middle finger. The break occurred before I left on the trip, as I was performing the death-defying feat of playing Frisbee in a park. A month and a half later, my finger is still shaped like a ketchup bottle. At least it gets people’s attention when their driving annoys me.
DAYS OF BIG HAIR AND LEGWARMERS: This month marked the 25-year anniversary of the first date I had with my wife, back when we were students at UW-Whitewater. Some of our favorite old haunts in Whitewater are long gone (RIP Salamone's Pizza) but it's still fun to hang around the town and reminisce. Since I worked weekends as a radio DJ at that time, I looked up the number one hit song in the nation the week we started dating. It was "Maniac," from the movie "Flashdance.” Hmm...maybe Kid Rock isn't so bad.
When one topic just won’t do, it’s time for another “Short Attention Span” column.
ISN’T IT IRON-IC: Earlier this month, the Ironman Wisconsin competition was held in Madison, a grueling one-day endurance event that includes a full marathon, a 2.4-mile swim, and a 112-mile bike ride. A few days after the competition, an apparently serious letter to the Wisconsin State Journal suggested that the event be renamed “Ironmen and Womyn” (note the politically correct spelling), or simply, "Ironperson."
I say, why stop there? Let’s also rename the recent Robert Downey Jr. superhero movie “Iron Person.” After all, his metal suit has no, um, gender-revealing features.
And of course, you would have to rename and rewrite “Iron Man,” the iconic 1970 Ozzy Osbourne/Black Sabbath heavy metal song. In fact, here is a sample of the new lyrics: “I am Iron Person/I am gender-free in this new version/I am Iron Person/Politically correct when I’m rehearsin’/I am Iron Person/These rhymes are pretty bad but they will worsen.”
THERE’S NO CYAN IN BASEBALL: In "Field of Dreams," when James Earl Jones gives his speech equating baseball with all that is good about America, I'm all in. When it comes to baseball, I’m a purist. You should wear white at home, gray on the road, and stirrups over your socks. Unfortunately, ugly baseball uniforms are like a bad virus that just won't go away. We’re being revisited by the hideous ghosts of 35 years ago as teams are wearing bright solid-colored jerseys. The worst offenders are the eye-watering red shirts occasionally sported by the Boston Red Sox and Atlanta Braves, and the blue-and-red pajama tops worn by the Chicago Cubs. Those shirts look like they stepped out of Napoleon Dynamite’s closet.
DE-COMPOSING: At the risk of sounding like my parents circa 1978, here in a nutshell is why I am not a fan of much of today's "new" music. I'm in a store, and Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" comes on. But when the lyrics start, it's not Zevon singing and it's not his lyrics. The song then goes on to use part of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama," with lyrics that sound like a rewrite of Bob Seger's "Night Moves.” It turns out this song is called "All Summer Long" by Kid Rock and it's the biggest hit of 2008. I don’t mind remakes, but sampling parts of other songs and calling it your own original song? What a rip-off. Songwriting is indeed becoming a lost art.
CHANGING OF THE GUARD: Kid Rock also has the distinction of doing that crappy new National Guard song that they play at movie theaters before the feature film. The previous song done for the Guard by the group 3 Doors Down was terrific; I don't know why they felt the need to change it so quickly.
MAKE UP YOUR MINDSET: Every year, Beloit College comes out with their "Mindset List," which is intended to give those of us with a few years under our belts a snapshot of incoming college freshmen; in this case, those born in 1990. According to the authors, it is not deliberately designed to make the readers feel old, though that is usually the primary result. The list is always pretty good, but this year, I think the college reached a bit. For example, one item is "They never tasted Benefit Cereal with psyllium." Say what? Another is "The Royal New Zealand Navy has never been permitted a daily ration of rum.” Both of those left me scratching my head. Some suggested replacements: "They never traveled from Beloit to Milwaukee on Highway 15" and "Michael Jackson has always resembled a white female."
SHE WOULD PALIN COMPARISON: Since Sarah Palin was nominated for Vice President, my e-mail inbox has received three different photos of the Alaska Governor with her face Photoshopped over a model’s body in various stages of undress. I don’t recall that happening with Geraldine Ferraro.
HERE, PULL MY FINGER: You may have read in this column about my two-week mountain backpacking trek. I didn't know this until I returned, but I spent the entire trip with a broken middle finger. The break occurred before I left on the trip, as I was performing the death-defying feat of playing Frisbee in a park. A month and a half later, my finger is still shaped like a ketchup bottle. At least it gets people’s attention when their driving annoys me.
DAYS OF BIG HAIR AND LEGWARMERS: This month marked the 25-year anniversary of the first date I had with my wife, back when we were students at UW-Whitewater. Some of our favorite old haunts in Whitewater are long gone (RIP Salamone's Pizza) but it's still fun to hang around the town and reminisce. Since I worked weekends as a radio DJ at that time, I looked up the number one hit song in the nation the week we started dating. It was "Maniac," from the movie "Flashdance.” Hmm...maybe Kid Rock isn't so bad.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
12 Days in The Mountains
(From the Janesville Messenger, 8-31-08 and 9-7-08)
If you took a vacation this summer, chances are it included hot cooked meals, a comfortable bed and indoor plumbing. It likely did not include having to hoist bags of food 20 feet in the air, checking your toilet for spiders, or eating food covered in dirt...unless you were my 14-year-old son and I.
Rob and I took two weeks of our summer to participate in the Boy Scout High Adventure at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. For two weeks, seven of us from Milton hiked and camped in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, taking only what we could carry on our backs - packs as heavy as 60 pounds.
We have been planning to take this trip for two years since we first heard about it from other Scouts. The opportunity to do something special and challenging with Rob was too good to pass up – an ultimate father-son experience.
It was no picnic, however. We would be hiking at least 70 miles on rugged mountain trails, braving the elements and forsaking comforts and conveniences that we take for granted. Our sustenance would consist of dehydrated food – add hot water and serve. If the weather didn’t cooperate – and it often didn’t – our only shelter would be our tents or a convenient tree.
It was also the ultimate way of getting away from it all. No watch, no Blackberry, no contact lenses, no hot showers, no phone, no light, no motorcar, not a single luxury. I often didn’t know what day it was, and had no idea what was going on in the “real” world – nor did I care. The last significant piece of news we heard during our trip west was that Brett Favre had been traded to the New York Jets. This was good information for us to know while we were on the trail, running into crews from other parts of the country. When they found out we were from Wisconsin, their first question was always “What’s happening with Favre?” Their surprised looks were priceless – particularly from the New York crew that was convinced we were kidding them.
Philmont is a lovely place with just the right amount of danger that requires rigorous adherence to safety procedures. For one thing, parts of the trails – even on the easiest treks – are treacherous. Imagine having about six inches on which to step, where a misstep potentially means sliding 40 feet down the slope of a hill. If Philmont were a Wisconsin state park, guardrails would be everywhere.
Also, there is wildlife in the form of bears, mountain lions and rattlesnakes. The biggest issue is the bears, whose keen noses follow the scents of anything from food to camera film. Earlier in the year, one boy who left a packet of Gatorade mix in his tent learned his lesson the hard way – the boy was bitten and the hungry bear had to be shot.
So keeping the bears away from your campsite is Job 1. Every night, anything classified as “smellable” has to be bagged up and hoisted by ropes over a special bear cable that is strung between two trees 15-20 feet above the ground. The cables are part of a “Bear-muda Triangle” that is formed at each campsite, with the other two corners of the area being your fire pit and your sump (which is essentially a drain sticking out of the ground, used to dispose of your dishwashing water). For maximum safety, you are instructed to set up your tents 50-100 feet away from the triangle.
But the bear procedures don’t stop there. You have one set of clothes that you keep separate and only wear for bedtime – our ranger referred to these as “prison pajamas.” This prevents you from going to bed wearing clothes on which you may have spilled food. When it comes to food, you have to eliminate all traces of it. If you open a package of food, the entire contents have to be eaten – no exceptions. The rule of thumb, especially for our pickier eaters, was that if you weren’t sure you were going to like one of our culinary delights, you tried it from someone else’s open packet first. And if you should drop any food on the ground, no matter how small, it still has to be eaten. Personally, I ingested more dirt on this trip than during my entire childhood.
After you have your evening meal near the fire pit, you need to lick your bowl clean, as well as the serving spoon. With the cooking pot, a volunteer has to scrape the sides clean, fill it with water, and drink the whole thing. This was referred to as “human sumping.” The strict rules even apply to brushing your teeth; you swallow the toothpaste lather and suck your brush dry – no rinsing allowed. So they were indeed serious about keeping the bears away.
A typical day for our group started at 5 a.m. We broke camp, repacked our backpacks and ate breakfast, in hopes of hitting the trail by 7 a.m. and reaching our next campsite by early afternoon. We tried to get an early start every day because thunderstorms tended to form in early or mid-afternoon. The pattern soon became predictable - thunder would sound in ominous warnings before the wind would suddenly kick up and you could feel the temperature plummet. One dreadful afternoon, a gigantic storm drowned our campsite in three inches of rain, immediately followed by a long period of hail that covered the ground in ice, some of which remained unmelted the following morning.
We were told to expect temperatures in the 90s during the day and the 30s at night. It never came close to 90 – maybe not even 80 - but the nighttime predictions were accurate. Fortunately, we all had warm sleeping bags, which were often our only refuge when the temperatures plunged. It was hard for us to fathom that New Mexico could be much colder in August than Wisconsin.
When the skies were clear, however, the sights were amazing to behold. One early morning before the sun rose, I stood in a meadow and marveled at a sky full of more stars than I had ever seen before, all bright and twinkling. During the clear days, the sky was a shade of blue much deeper than the washed-out color we see here. It was a Georgia O’Keeffe painting made real, in life-sized high definition.
On a wilderness trip like this, modesty also takes a vacation. Your restroom is the great wide open. For number one, you find a rock and aim for it. For number two, you either dig a hole or use one of Philmont’s wonderful open-air wooden latrines, strategically located in full view of your campsite, a nearby trail, or both. These marvels of waste collection come in three styles – pilot to co-pilot (two seats next to each other), pilot to bombardier (two seats back-to-back) or the rare and luxurious “Red Roof Inn” (It has walls! And a roof!). One wonders about the dual-customer nature of each of these, because two men NEVER use them at the same time.
Think of the worst gas station restroom you’ve ever been in, imagine it being twice as bad and without walls, and that’s about what these are like. You do not simply seat yourself to do your business. Prior to seating, you must take a stick and run it along the underside of the seat, in order to knock down the potentially poisonous spiders that like to reside there. Apparently, many campers have had to end their trek early due to an unfortunate bite on their derriere (which, the rangers informed us, generates a big laugh on the camp radio). We were warned to be quick about our business because angry arachnids tend to climb back to the top after being knocked down.
Besides your trail food, your most valuable trail resource is your allotment of TP, known by the nickname, “white gold.” You don’t want to waste any, even if you drop a roll and it rolls 30 feet down the slope of a hill, causing you to chase after it while holding up your pants with one hand. I write that last sentence from experience.
So why would anyone go halfway across the country just to expose themselves to the elements, eat dehydrated food, use primitive potties, observe strict wildlife procedures, and perform the excruciating physical task of 
carrying a heavy backpack over 73 miles of mountainous – and sometimes dangerous - terrain for 12 days?
On Day 3 of the journey, we awoke at our usual 5 a.m. Before he left us that morning to continue the trek on our own, our ranger had us start the day by climbing to the top of Urraca Mesa, to a place he called Inspiration Point. The eight of us sat in silence and watched the sun rise over the miles and miles of New Mexico visible from our vantage point. It was so beautiful, I wept.
That is the best answer I can give you.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Making a Film in 48 Hours
(From the Janesville Messenger, 8-17-08)
I am not, by nature, a patient person.
When I am in the middle of something, whether it’s doing a project, reading a book, or even writing this column, I won’t rest until it’s completed and I can move on to something else. This trait has become even more pronounced since my life has gotten busier. Having a project linger drives me crazy; I obsess about finishing it. For me, instant gratification isn’t quick enough.
If I were a filmmaker, I would absolutely love the International 48 Hour Film Project. Filmmakers in several cities around the world enter into a competition to make the best short film completely from scratch in two full days.
On Friday evening, the filmmakers all draw a film style out of a hat (comedy, romance, sci-fi, etc.) and at that point, the clock is ticking. They have to come up with an idea, script it, shoot it, edit it, add music and special effects, and deliver a finished 7-minute product by Sunday evening. If you turn in your entry even a second past the 48 hour mark, your entry will not qualify for consideration.
Recently, the competition took place in Madison. I was not aware of this fact until about 9:30 pm Friday, when I got a call from the set designer of a play in which I had recently appeared at the Janesville Performing Arts Center. He told me about the project and said that his son-in-law and daughter were hard at work on a detective drama. Would I be available the next day to play the detective? As usual, I had things going on that Saturday, but I was so intrigued by what they were doing, I found a way to work around them and participate in the film.
To complete a project like this in 48 hours, you don’t have much – if any – time for sleep. The first draft of the script was e-mailed to me at about 3 a.m. By the time I arrived at producer/director Stephen Pickering’s home at 8:30, it had gone through a few more revisions.
There were only two actors, myself and a fellow named Tom Hall. Stephen’s directions to us were very clear in the e-mail he sent us prior to filming. “Tom, you are ‘Buddy Kant,’ the calm, collected, meticulous and self-justified serial killer/philosophy professor who bases his life on his own definition of reason and morality. Jim, you are the honest but obsessive detective who has finally caught the murderer he has been searching after for more than 10 years. He has given up a life, family, and marriage in order to dedicate his life to Kant’s capture.”
If the character name “Buddy Kant” doesn’t impress you, there was a reason for it. Besides the time limit, every film submitted for the contest was required to include a philosophy professor by that name, as well as a greeting card for a prop, and the spoken line, “I’d chalk it up to dumb luck.”
On Saturday morning, Stephen and his team found a location to shoot the film and we spent the morning doing test shots in what amounted to a rehearsal for the real thing later that evening.
The actual filming took place from about 6 p.m. until 12:30 in the morning. Scenes were shot several times from different camera angles and different approaches were tried. Different mixtures of syrup and cornstarch were used to simulate blood. I had to figure out how to convincingly throw Tom against a wall without hurting him.
Stephen and his wife Cameron assembled a top-notch team to put this together. Different crewmembers had different responsibilities, from music to editing to computer effects. In the interest of conserving time, while Stephen was in one room shooting a scene, Cameron would be in the other room editing what we had previously shot.
While my work as an actor was done at 12:30 a.m. Sunday, theirs was just beginning. They had 19 hours left to assemble all of the pieces into a finished film, which they decided to title “Kingdom of Ends.” They turned in their entry with about a half-hour to spare.
Four days later, on Wednesday night, all 15 submitted films were shown on the big screen at the Orpheum Theatre on State Street in Madison. I have to admit, it is quite a trip to sit in a movie theater and watch a film that you participated in, especially when the film is as good as this one is.
Stephen and company did a tremendous job. I’m still amazed they came up with the plot and concept within a couple of hours of being assigned their film style. Add their obvious technical skill, dedication, and sheer love of the art, and the end result is something they should all be proud of.
As for the acting, my castmate Tom is a tremendously nice guy who somehow found it within himself to play a very convincing creep. It would not surprise me if his performance took the Best Actor award for the Madison competition. One of my friends said he was so spooked by Tom’s character that he now sees him around every dark corner.
By the time you read this, the judges will have decided the winner of the Madison competition and determined whether “Kingdom of Ends” will move on to national or even international competition. In the meantime, you can watch the film on the Internet by going to YouTube.com and doing a search for “Kingdom of Ends” (be sure to put the title in quotation marks or you’ll never find it).
Maybe Dr. Buddy Kant will haunt your dreams, too.
(Follow-up 8-20-08: "Kingdom of Ends" won three awards - Best Special Effects, Best Use of Character, and Best Actor for Tom Hall. We didn't win Best Film, unfortunately, but it was really hard to argue with the film that did - a short called "To Be Okay" that you can also find on YouTube. While you're at it, check out the audience favorite, "Stools?")
I am not, by nature, a patient person.
When I am in the middle of something, whether it’s doing a project, reading a book, or even writing this column, I won’t rest until it’s completed and I can move on to something else. This trait has become even more pronounced since my life has gotten busier. Having a project linger drives me crazy; I obsess about finishing it. For me, instant gratification isn’t quick enough.
If I were a filmmaker, I would absolutely love the International 48 Hour Film Project. Filmmakers in several cities around the world enter into a competition to make the best short film completely from scratch in two full days.
On Friday evening, the filmmakers all draw a film style out of a hat (comedy, romance, sci-fi, etc.) and at that point, the clock is ticking. They have to come up with an idea, script it, shoot it, edit it, add music and special effects, and deliver a finished 7-minute product by Sunday evening. If you turn in your entry even a second past the 48 hour mark, your entry will not qualify for consideration.
Recently, the competition took place in Madison. I was not aware of this fact until about 9:30 pm Friday, when I got a call from the set designer of a play in which I had recently appeared at the Janesville Performing Arts Center. He told me about the project and said that his son-in-law and daughter were hard at work on a detective drama. Would I be available the next day to play the detective? As usual, I had things going on that Saturday, but I was so intrigued by what they were doing, I found a way to work around them and participate in the film.
To complete a project like this in 48 hours, you don’t have much – if any – time for sleep. The first draft of the script was e-mailed to me at about 3 a.m. By the time I arrived at producer/director Stephen Pickering’s home at 8:30, it had gone through a few more revisions.
There were only two actors, myself and a fellow named Tom Hall. Stephen’s directions to us were very clear in the e-mail he sent us prior to filming. “Tom, you are ‘Buddy Kant,’ the calm, collected, meticulous and self-justified serial killer/philosophy professor who bases his life on his own definition of reason and morality. Jim, you are the honest but obsessive detective who has finally caught the murderer he has been searching after for more than 10 years. He has given up a life, family, and marriage in order to dedicate his life to Kant’s capture.”
If the character name “Buddy Kant” doesn’t impress you, there was a reason for it. Besides the time limit, every film submitted for the contest was required to include a philosophy professor by that name, as well as a greeting card for a prop, and the spoken line, “I’d chalk it up to dumb luck.”
On Saturday morning, Stephen and his team found a location to shoot the film and we spent the morning doing test shots in what amounted to a rehearsal for the real thing later that evening.
The actual filming took place from about 6 p.m. until 12:30 in the morning. Scenes were shot several times from different camera angles and different approaches were tried. Different mixtures of syrup and cornstarch were used to simulate blood. I had to figure out how to convincingly throw Tom against a wall without hurting him.
Stephen and his wife Cameron assembled a top-notch team to put this together. Different crewmembers had different responsibilities, from music to editing to computer effects. In the interest of conserving time, while Stephen was in one room shooting a scene, Cameron would be in the other room editing what we had previously shot.
While my work as an actor was done at 12:30 a.m. Sunday, theirs was just beginning. They had 19 hours left to assemble all of the pieces into a finished film, which they decided to title “Kingdom of Ends.” They turned in their entry with about a half-hour to spare.
Four days later, on Wednesday night, all 15 submitted films were shown on the big screen at the Orpheum Theatre on State Street in Madison. I have to admit, it is quite a trip to sit in a movie theater and watch a film that you participated in, especially when the film is as good as this one is.
Stephen and company did a tremendous job. I’m still amazed they came up with the plot and concept within a couple of hours of being assigned their film style. Add their obvious technical skill, dedication, and sheer love of the art, and the end result is something they should all be proud of.
As for the acting, my castmate Tom is a tremendously nice guy who somehow found it within himself to play a very convincing creep. It would not surprise me if his performance took the Best Actor award for the Madison competition. One of my friends said he was so spooked by Tom’s character that he now sees him around every dark corner.
By the time you read this, the judges will have decided the winner of the Madison competition and determined whether “Kingdom of Ends” will move on to national or even international competition. In the meantime, you can watch the film on the Internet by going to YouTube.com and doing a search for “Kingdom of Ends” (be sure to put the title in quotation marks or you’ll never find it).
Maybe Dr. Buddy Kant will haunt your dreams, too.
(Follow-up 8-20-08: "Kingdom of Ends" won three awards - Best Special Effects, Best Use of Character, and Best Actor for Tom Hall. We didn't win Best Film, unfortunately, but it was really hard to argue with the film that did - a short called "To Be Okay" that you can also find on YouTube. While you're at it, check out the audience favorite, "Stools?")
An Interview With Bessie, Janesville's Cow
(From the Janesville Messenger, 8-3-08)
Bessie, Janesville’s famous cow, stood in the parking lot of the Oasis Restaurant and Shops for over 40 years, until the property was sold and razed to build a new Menards Home Improvement Superstore and Del Taco Mexican Restaurant. After being temporarily moved to an auto repair shop and refurbished, Bessie has returned to the property, now residing in the parking lot next to Del Taco.
This exclusive interview is her first since settling in her new home.
Q: Are you happy to be back on Milton Avenue?
A: Is the Pope Catholic? Does a newborn calf have wobbly legs? (Laughs) Of course! I missed the fresh air outdoors. And I missed my fans.
Q: Was the experience of being away from home traumatic?
A: Was it ever! Cows don’t like change. We like our daily routine. We get milked in the morning, go out to pasture, come back to the barn in the evening when it’s time to get milked again. Anything different throws us off.
Q: How did you cope with the stress?
A: Normally, I would have jumped a fence, but unfortunately I was rooted to the spot. All I could do was to try to relax and find my center. You know, you can’t stop progress. Like when my cousin down in Harvard got moved from the middle of the intersection onto the sidewalk. There’s not much you can do except roll with it.
Q: And your cousin even has an annual festival [Harvard Milk Days] that features her.
A: I know! I was feeling pretty jealous and neglected for a while, until this whole thing came along with the move and whatnot, and I realized just how much Janesville really cares about me.
Q: You were able to go for a ride for the first time in over 40 years. How was that?
A: Being transported while I was lying on my side was a horrible experience. The kids think cow tipping is a big joke, but there’s a reason cows hate it; it messes up our organs. But it was worth it; I got a heck of a makeover. I don’t think I’ve ever looked this good.
Q: Instead of the Oasis, you’re next to Del Taco now.
A: I wish they didn’t serve beef, but that’s just me.
Q: What did you think about the recent controversy regarding the Mexican veil that was draped over your horns?
A: As a cow, I prefer to go au naturel, but once in a while, I don’t mind getting all gussied up for a special occasion.
Q: On a local newspaper discussion site, there was quite a debate about whether a Wisconsin cow should be advertising for a Mexican restaurant.
A: You’re kidding me, right? I’m a big fiberglass cow, people. Get a grip. And I don’t mean on my udders.
Q: Is it strange looking around and seeing the Oasis and the Ramada Inn gone?
A: And don’t forget, the Red Barn was out here, too, way back when, which made me feel right at home obviously. It’s that whole change thing again. Don’t like it, never have. But I’m getting used to it. I’ll tell you one change I’m glad about, though. With the pond filled in, all those dang geese are finally gone. Made it hard for a body to stay clean, if you catch my drift. I’d have to wait for a good gullywasher to come along and make me dainty again.
Q: Anything else you don’t miss?
A: I don’t miss the bar at the Hoffman House, either. I was sick of drunks using my hooves as a restroom in the middle of the night.
Q: Doesn’t being next to a home improvement center instead of a cheese shop deprive you of some of your charm?
A: What? Cows are naturally charming! (Laughs) Seriously, I thought I would stick out like a sore hoof, but it seems to work just fine. Glad I have my back to that roundabout thingy though. I’d probably get dizzy watching it all day.
Q: Any other thoughts you’d like to share with your public?
A: Yeah. I just want to thank all the fans who stop here to have their picture taken with me. That rocks. Way better than a milking machine.
Bessie, Janesville’s famous cow, stood in the parking lot of the Oasis Restaurant and Shops for over 40 years, until the property was sold and razed to build a new Menards Home Improvement Superstore and Del Taco Mexican Restaurant. After being temporarily moved to an auto repair shop and refurbished, Bessie has returned to the property, now residing in the parking lot next to Del Taco.
This exclusive interview is her first since settling in her new home.
Q: Are you happy to be back on Milton Avenue?
A: Is the Pope Catholic? Does a newborn calf have wobbly legs? (Laughs) Of course! I missed the fresh air outdoors. And I missed my fans.
Q: Was the experience of being away from home traumatic?
A: Was it ever! Cows don’t like change. We like our daily routine. We get milked in the morning, go out to pasture, come back to the barn in the evening when it’s time to get milked again. Anything different throws us off.
Q: How did you cope with the stress?
A: Normally, I would have jumped a fence, but unfortunately I was rooted to the spot. All I could do was to try to relax and find my center. You know, you can’t stop progress. Like when my cousin down in Harvard got moved from the middle of the intersection onto the sidewalk. There’s not much you can do except roll with it.
Q: And your cousin even has an annual festival [Harvard Milk Days] that features her.
A: I know! I was feeling pretty jealous and neglected for a while, until this whole thing came along with the move and whatnot, and I realized just how much Janesville really cares about me.
Q: You were able to go for a ride for the first time in over 40 years. How was that?
A: Being transported while I was lying on my side was a horrible experience. The kids think cow tipping is a big joke, but there’s a reason cows hate it; it messes up our organs. But it was worth it; I got a heck of a makeover. I don’t think I’ve ever looked this good.
Q: Instead of the Oasis, you’re next to Del Taco now.
A: I wish they didn’t serve beef, but that’s just me.
Q: What did you think about the recent controversy regarding the Mexican veil that was draped over your horns?
A: As a cow, I prefer to go au naturel, but once in a while, I don’t mind getting all gussied up for a special occasion.
Q: On a local newspaper discussion site, there was quite a debate about whether a Wisconsin cow should be advertising for a Mexican restaurant.
A: You’re kidding me, right? I’m a big fiberglass cow, people. Get a grip. And I don’t mean on my udders.
Q: Is it strange looking around and seeing the Oasis and the Ramada Inn gone?
A: And don’t forget, the Red Barn was out here, too, way back when, which made me feel right at home obviously. It’s that whole change thing again. Don’t like it, never have. But I’m getting used to it. I’ll tell you one change I’m glad about, though. With the pond filled in, all those dang geese are finally gone. Made it hard for a body to stay clean, if you catch my drift. I’d have to wait for a good gullywasher to come along and make me dainty again.
Q: Anything else you don’t miss?
A: I don’t miss the bar at the Hoffman House, either. I was sick of drunks using my hooves as a restroom in the middle of the night.
Q: Doesn’t being next to a home improvement center instead of a cheese shop deprive you of some of your charm?
A: What? Cows are naturally charming! (Laughs) Seriously, I thought I would stick out like a sore hoof, but it seems to work just fine. Glad I have my back to that roundabout thingy though. I’d probably get dizzy watching it all day.
Q: Any other thoughts you’d like to share with your public?
A: Yeah. I just want to thank all the fans who stop here to have their picture taken with me. That rocks. Way better than a milking machine.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Katrina Redux: The Work's Not Over
(From the Janesville Messenger, 7-20-08)
In the spring of 2006, nine months after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, I went with a group of other volunteers from our church to do clean-up work in Chalmette, Louisiana.
Chalmette is in St. Bernard Parish, a county that was almost completely wiped out by Katrina.
Out of 27,000 homes located in the parish, all but two were declared uninhabitable after the hurricane and flood. Though New Orleans’ poor Lower Ninth Ward got most of the media attention, St. Bernard Parish was as annihilated as any place.
At the time I was in Chalmette, I was amazed that even though it was nine months after the storm, it looked like it might have happened the week before. Debris was everywhere. Abandoned houses sat open, their fronts spray-painted with red X’s that stood out like scarlet letters announcing the sins Mother Nature had committed. Lawns were dead. Entire neighborhoods were dead. The number of FEMA trailers were relatively few, as residents who had fled had not returned.
But we were there to do our part, and that we did. We worked hard all week, reducing several homes to empty shells, the first step in making the structures habitable again. We did our job, felt good about it, and returned to the safety and comfort of our homes in Wisconsin.
Although the experience had a profound effect on me, some of those thoughts and lessons inevitably start to fade with time. And so I had not given a lot of thought to Chalmette until a recent newspaper article found its way into my hands.
It is now almost three years after Katrina, yet some of the photos accompanying the article looked no different than what I had witnessed 26 months ago. My heart sank. Though there has been progress since I was there, Chalmette has not returned to any type of normalcy.
Some people have moved back, but the parish still has less than half of its pre-storm population. Many abandoned houses with red X’s still stand. Empty, boarded-up strip malls still dot the landscape. Broken streets remain. In some cases, concrete slabs where houses once stood are the nicest part of the landscape.
The residents are poorer, the parish government is cash-strapped, and crime has gotten worse. While there are pockets of relatively normal life in the parish, much of the area is far from healed.
In retrospect, I don’t know why I thought it should be any different. I saw with my own eyes how bad things were, how far they would have to rebound. What kind of Pollyanna would think that one week of volunteering would magically result in the dramatic rebirth of an entire county?
It speaks to the magnitude of the destruction that even after thousands and thousands of volunteers have poured into Chalmette to help, the area is still a mess. Frankly, it boggles the mind.
After digesting all of this, I began to think about the specific houses my group worked on. Are they finished? Are they now inhabited? Had 80-year-old Benny moved back in to his house, or had he followed his family out of town? Have Cody and his mom been able to leave their trailer? What happened to Tom, the 76-year-old bicyclist shopping for salvageable items in the debris?
It was suggested to me that Samaritan’s Purse, the organization through which we volunteered, could tell me the status of the homes that our group worked on. I nearly made that call to find out. But then I thought, no, that’s selfish. It’s not about me or my group or a self-serving detective mission to verify that what we did made a difference. It’s about the people in St. Bernard Parish, and their continuing struggle.
While I am glad that I made the trip to help, reading about the current state of the area makes me feel like I could have and should have done more. It’s like the difference between having eggs or sausage for breakfast: the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed.
In the case of Chalmette, I was the chicken. But one thing is certain. Whether it’s Chalmette or some other situation, it’s time for me – and maybe for all of us - to be the pig.
In the spring of 2006, nine months after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, I went with a group of other volunteers from our church to do clean-up work in Chalmette, Louisiana.
Chalmette is in St. Bernard Parish, a county that was almost completely wiped out by Katrina.
Out of 27,000 homes located in the parish, all but two were declared uninhabitable after the hurricane and flood. Though New Orleans’ poor Lower Ninth Ward got most of the media attention, St. Bernard Parish was as annihilated as any place.
At the time I was in Chalmette, I was amazed that even though it was nine months after the storm, it looked like it might have happened the week before. Debris was everywhere. Abandoned houses sat open, their fronts spray-painted with red X’s that stood out like scarlet letters announcing the sins Mother Nature had committed. Lawns were dead. Entire neighborhoods were dead. The number of FEMA trailers were relatively few, as residents who had fled had not returned.
But we were there to do our part, and that we did. We worked hard all week, reducing several homes to empty shells, the first step in making the structures habitable again. We did our job, felt good about it, and returned to the safety and comfort of our homes in Wisconsin.
Although the experience had a profound effect on me, some of those thoughts and lessons inevitably start to fade with time. And so I had not given a lot of thought to Chalmette until a recent newspaper article found its way into my hands.
It is now almost three years after Katrina, yet some of the photos accompanying the article looked no different than what I had witnessed 26 months ago. My heart sank. Though there has been progress since I was there, Chalmette has not returned to any type of normalcy.
Some people have moved back, but the parish still has less than half of its pre-storm population. Many abandoned houses with red X’s still stand. Empty, boarded-up strip malls still dot the landscape. Broken streets remain. In some cases, concrete slabs where houses once stood are the nicest part of the landscape.
The residents are poorer, the parish government is cash-strapped, and crime has gotten worse. While there are pockets of relatively normal life in the parish, much of the area is far from healed.
In retrospect, I don’t know why I thought it should be any different. I saw with my own eyes how bad things were, how far they would have to rebound. What kind of Pollyanna would think that one week of volunteering would magically result in the dramatic rebirth of an entire county?
It speaks to the magnitude of the destruction that even after thousands and thousands of volunteers have poured into Chalmette to help, the area is still a mess. Frankly, it boggles the mind.
After digesting all of this, I began to think about the specific houses my group worked on. Are they finished? Are they now inhabited? Had 80-year-old Benny moved back in to his house, or had he followed his family out of town? Have Cody and his mom been able to leave their trailer? What happened to Tom, the 76-year-old bicyclist shopping for salvageable items in the debris?
It was suggested to me that Samaritan’s Purse, the organization through which we volunteered, could tell me the status of the homes that our group worked on. I nearly made that call to find out. But then I thought, no, that’s selfish. It’s not about me or my group or a self-serving detective mission to verify that what we did made a difference. It’s about the people in St. Bernard Parish, and their continuing struggle.
While I am glad that I made the trip to help, reading about the current state of the area makes me feel like I could have and should have done more. It’s like the difference between having eggs or sausage for breakfast: the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed.
In the case of Chalmette, I was the chicken. But one thing is certain. Whether it’s Chalmette or some other situation, it’s time for me – and maybe for all of us - to be the pig.
Bewatched
(From the Janesville Messenger, 7-6-08)
Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
If so, I can’t imagine why....
- Jazz/rock group Chicago
Chicago’s sentiments from the idealistic 1960’s seem quaint now. We all care about the time, because time makes us care about it. After our alarm clock wakes us up, our kitchen calendar tells us where we have to be and when, our Microsoft Outlook pops up a window to remind us when it’s time to go, and our Blackberry buzzes or rings for the same reason.
Thanks to the schedule functions on cell phones, iPods and PDAs, more people are starting to view wristwatches as fashion accessories rather than timekeepers. But to those of us who still rely on our wristwatch, it is much more than both of those; it is an appendage.
For example, recently my beloved Mickey Mouse watch broke. When it comes to entertainment, I’ll take Bugs Bunny over Mickey any day, but where timepieces are concerned, the mouse wins, watch hands down. This was my second Mickey watch, a unique one that had Mickey looking left instead of right and wearing a look of either surprise or anger - I could never tell which. Since I primarily wore it at work, either could have been appropriate.
I went to my backup, an old CBS-TV Olympics watch I had won as part of a sales contest over a decade ago. I had no intention of making that watch my permanent appurtenance, but it would do for the time being. Within a few days, however, I remembered why I had stopped wearing it in the first place. It had a flaw, a sharp point where the watch connected to the band, and the result was a pair of snagged dress shirts. Trying to fix the watch just made it look bad, so like a Tibetan protester, I boycotted the Olympics.
My final emergency watch was a pocket watch I used to wear at a time when I wore suits every day to work. I’ve always liked pocket watches but without the additional pockets a suit jacket gives you to carry your stuff, it became impractical, losing the fight for pocket space to car keys, change and breath mints.
It never really got a chance for a rematch. As I was trying to put the watch back into service, I managed to break off the piece of metal that holds the watch battery in place. Three clock strikes and you’re out.
The result was that I spent a week without a watch. It was amazing how such a small change can throw you off. It felt strange. I felt naked.
I looked like an idiot when, out of habit, I would end up staring at my empty wrist three or four times a day. To try and shake the habit, I transferred my cancer bracelet from my right wrist to my left wrist. It didn’t help; I looked even weirder trying to tell the time by looking at a bracelet.
As bad as my watchlessness was for me, it would probably be worse for my wife. At least I take mine off. She wears hers to bed at night, because her uncorrected vision isn’t good enough to see the alarm clock on her nightstand.
Fianlly, I made what will most likely be my purchase highlight of 2008 - a new vintage-style Mickey Mouse watch. Bewatched again, I feel much better, like a caffeine addict who has gotten his 150 milligram fix in his morning latte.
As is my custom, I have set the new watch five minutes ahead, in a futile attempt to not be late for appointments. Though I think all that has done over the years is to condition me to the fact that my watch is fast.
Maybe if I set Mickey ahead ten minutes…
Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
If so, I can’t imagine why....
- Jazz/rock group Chicago
Chicago’s sentiments from the idealistic 1960’s seem quaint now. We all care about the time, because time makes us care about it. After our alarm clock wakes us up, our kitchen calendar tells us where we have to be and when, our Microsoft Outlook pops up a window to remind us when it’s time to go, and our Blackberry buzzes or rings for the same reason.
Thanks to the schedule functions on cell phones, iPods and PDAs, more people are starting to view wristwatches as fashion accessories rather than timekeepers. But to those of us who still rely on our wristwatch, it is much more than both of those; it is an appendage.
For example, recently my beloved Mickey Mouse watch broke. When it comes to entertainment, I’ll take Bugs Bunny over Mickey any day, but where timepieces are concerned, the mouse wins, watch hands down. This was my second Mickey watch, a unique one that had Mickey looking left instead of right and wearing a look of either surprise or anger - I could never tell which. Since I primarily wore it at work, either could have been appropriate.
I went to my backup, an old CBS-TV Olympics watch I had won as part of a sales contest over a decade ago. I had no intention of making that watch my permanent appurtenance, but it would do for the time being. Within a few days, however, I remembered why I had stopped wearing it in the first place. It had a flaw, a sharp point where the watch connected to the band, and the result was a pair of snagged dress shirts. Trying to fix the watch just made it look bad, so like a Tibetan protester, I boycotted the Olympics.
My final emergency watch was a pocket watch I used to wear at a time when I wore suits every day to work. I’ve always liked pocket watches but without the additional pockets a suit jacket gives you to carry your stuff, it became impractical, losing the fight for pocket space to car keys, change and breath mints.
It never really got a chance for a rematch. As I was trying to put the watch back into service, I managed to break off the piece of metal that holds the watch battery in place. Three clock strikes and you’re out.
The result was that I spent a week without a watch. It was amazing how such a small change can throw you off. It felt strange. I felt naked.
I looked like an idiot when, out of habit, I would end up staring at my empty wrist three or four times a day. To try and shake the habit, I transferred my cancer bracelet from my right wrist to my left wrist. It didn’t help; I looked even weirder trying to tell the time by looking at a bracelet.
As bad as my watchlessness was for me, it would probably be worse for my wife. At least I take mine off. She wears hers to bed at night, because her uncorrected vision isn’t good enough to see the alarm clock on her nightstand.
Fianlly, I made what will most likely be my purchase highlight of 2008 - a new vintage-style Mickey Mouse watch. Bewatched again, I feel much better, like a caffeine addict who has gotten his 150 milligram fix in his morning latte.
As is my custom, I have set the new watch five minutes ahead, in a futile attempt to not be late for appointments. Though I think all that has done over the years is to condition me to the fact that my watch is fast.
Maybe if I set Mickey ahead ten minutes…
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Too Young To Die
(From the Janesville Messenger, 6-29-08)
Twenty-four years old is too young to die.
You hear about the murders of young people, and you think that it could never happen within your family, not even within your extended family.
But that’s what happened. The son of my wife’s cousin – technically, her first cousin, once removed – was stabbed in the heart after a “verbal altercation” at a party in Chicago. A suspect has been arrested, a guy with an alleged reputation for cutting himself and others with knives, if the blog entries I read about the case are to be believed. Other hearsay suggests that the murder suspect held a grudge from an earlier incident where he crashed the cousin’s party and got so intoxicated that he went on a window-breaking spree that resulted in his arrest.
Regardless of the details, the only important fact is that a young man just starting to make his way in the world was brutally and senselessly robbed of his life.
Although we see his parents and grandmother occasionally at family events, I couldn’t tell you the last time we had seen him. I mainly remember him as a little tow-headed kid running around at family reunions. I recall at one such reunion, he and his sisters were a little bored and I entertained them by playing softball with them.
From what I gathered at the memorial service in his hometown of Madison, it sounded like he had gone through a bit of a “wild” period when he was younger but had found his niche and was a very happy young man.
He had graduated recently from the Illinois Institute of Art and was working as a graphic artist at a marketing firm. After his death, his family was surprised to learn that he was a celebrity in Chicago’s “street art” community, going by the moniker of “SOLVE.”
How is “street art” different than graffiti? Some people would say there is no difference. I would say that the main difference is that graffitists aim to deface public property, where street artists aim to beautify it or at the very least, make it more interesting. SOLVE would take an ugly rusty electric box and turn it into a green and pink polka-dotted wonder. Or, in one stunt that got plenty of attention, he adorned the seat of an el train with a real TV set that had “We are experiencing legal difficulties” on its screen. He employed stickers, stencils and a variety of other methods and materials. No matter what you thought of the concept, you had to admit the kid was both talented and clever. This was no gang-banger with spray paint. Although as one friend said at the funeral, “I would tell him, ‘It’s still illegal even if you don’t think it should be.’”
I had never been to the funeral of a murder victim before. The reverend who presided was a friend of the family, and his message was the right one – that anger toward SOLVE’s assailant would not bring him back.
He was eulogized by speakers representing the various parts of his life – his family, his Madison neighbors, his Chicago friends. The funeral home took down their art to allow his work to be displayed on their walls. A large number of his friends from Chicago made the trek to Madison, many of them wearing t-shirts or temporary tattoos displaying the SOLVE logo and some of his other oft-used icons. The leader of the band in which SOLVE played drums performed a couple of songs. The place was so packed that there wasn’t enough room for everyone.
His family made it clear that they intended the day to be a celebration of his life, not a mourning of his death. But the truth was still inescapable, and it was hard for me not to walk away thinking this was the saddest funeral I had ever attended.
There was a meal after the funeral, at a place called the Wil-Mar Neighborhood Center. It calls itself “A Place for all People” and hosts a variety of inclusive programs and events. As I approached the door of the center, I noticed that the outside of the building was covered with a huge, beautiful mural.
I couldn’t help thinking that SOLVE would have approved.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
A Tale of Two Cities - And Their Fake Cows
(From the Janesville Messenger, 6-15-08)
Pop quiz: What separates Janesville from Milton?
Some would say the most correct answer is one mile along Highway 26. But I think a better answer is each city’s attitude toward fake cows.
This weekend, Janesville celebrated “Bessie The Cow Day.” Bessie, a 16-foot-tall, one-ton fiberglass cow, was rededicated at her new home next to the Del Taco restaurant on Milton Avenue. The site is near the spot where Bessie stood for over 40 years in the parking lot of the old Oasis restaurant and shops.
Janesville loves Bessie. When it was announced that the Oasis and the Ramada Inn would be leveled to make way for a new Menards store, the first concern on everyone’s mind was, “What will happen to the cow?” The developers, mindful that they owned a local landmark and tourist attraction, decided to have her refurbished during the construction with the intention of returning her to her home after it was completed. This was a major newsworthy event in Janesville because, after all, Bessie The Cow is quite possibly Janesville’s best-known image. There is no shame in this – it is not uncommon in Midwestern dairy country. For instance, if you go to the web site of the Harvard, IL Chamber of Commerce, the first image you will see is their landmark cow statue.
Since Milton is a much smaller community than Janesville, it only follows that Milton’s cow is much smaller, too. She sits on the lawn of the Leuca Guild, a gallery featuring art, tea, jewelry, clothing and a variety of creative and earth-friendly products, events and services. The Leuca Guild is in one of Milton’s historic buildings, the 1867 Goodrich House, the one-time residence of Ezra Goodrich, son of Joseph Goodrich, who fathered both Ezra and the city. The Goodrich House sits across the street from another long-standing building - Milton’s best-known image, the Milton House National Historic Landmark.
While seemingly everyone in Janesville enjoys that city’s fake cow, not everyone in Milton embraced this happy Holstein. One person wrote a letter to the city objecting to the cow’s appearance in the presence of such historic buildings. In a city the size of Milton, all it takes is a letter from one person to shake up City Hall, so the city sprang into action. A meeting of the Historic Preservation Commission was hastily called to discuss the fate of the offending cud-chewer and determine if bovine intervention was necessary.
Why the Historic Preservation Commission? Apparently it was their charge to determine whether having a heifer on the premises udderly defiled the historic nature of the Goodrich House or its neighbor across the street.
The prosecution claimed that cows were not a part of Milton’s history; rather, they were introduced in the mid-20th century and thus had no place in front of a historic building. OK, I made that up, but it makes about as much sense as any other argument.
Actually, had that been the argument, an interesting counterargument could have been made. Two doors down from the Goodrich House sits the Milton Seventh Day Baptist Church. During a dispute with the church in the 1860’s, Ezra Goodrich claimed that the church sat on his property. In a case of teat-for-tat, he erected a fence around the church and pastured farm animals in the churchyard. So a cow standing in proximity to the Goodrich House may not have been an unusual sight at one time.
At any rate, the Historic Preservation Commission wisely and unanimously (albeit with one abstention) decided that the cow did not have to hoof it to another location. After all, how could you be nasty to a cow – even a fake one – during June Dairy Month?
In Janesville, a celebration. In Milton, a reprieve. Gandhi, a man who considered cows sacred, once said “you can judge a society by the way it treats its animals.” In the wake of this month’s events, Gandhi looks down at Rock County and smiles.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Uninvited Advice to Graduates
(From the Janesville Messenger, 6-1-08)
June is here, and with it, high school graduation. Another crop of young adults are completing their secondary education and are about to spring onto college campuses or into (gulp) “the real world.”
This is an exciting time for these young people. Their whole future is ahead of them. Decisions they make now could potentially impact the rest of their lives.
Unfortunately, not everyone is thrilled to see another group of teenagers move into adulthood. Too often, the news we hear is about the bad kids, not the good ones. People who think the current generation of high schoolers are unsupervised, immoral slackers on the road to Loserville need to look beyond the headlines. The vast majority of teens I run into are very impressive individuals. Seeing these kids in action, whether it’s at events at Milton High School, through Janesville’s DECA programs and Academy of International Studies, or participating in groups like SpotLight on Kids, I have seen enough to give me plenty of high hopes and expectations for these budding contributors to American society.
Graduates, you’ll hear a lot of words at your commencement ceremonies. Please indulge me to add a few more.
At this point in your lives, many of you are brimming with hope and idealistic intentions. Whatever you do, don’t lose that. Don’t let the crud you see on CNN or Fox News get you down. You live in a great country, but yes, it does have its flaws. Yes, you’re inheriting a huge national debt, a war we can’t seem to get out of, and a populace that seems more ideologically divided than ever. We are on one side or the other, and for far too many of us, compromise is out of the question. A lot of folks have given up, believing that true change for the better cannot happen. We’ve been let down too many times, whether it’s by our leaders, by our employers, or by our fellow human beings in general. Too many of us have lost the energy to challenge, to fight for what’s right, to try to make a difference.
And that’s our bad. You deserve better. But now you’re approaching a time when you don’t have to accept the status quo. For you, the future is now. You have the opportunities. In fact, your schools have given you more opportunities than my generation ever had, and many of you have taken advantage of it. Continue to build on that. We need your fresh ideas, your creativity, your energy, your enthusiasm. You can change the world. Honestly, you may need to. Peace and prosperity isn’t just an ideal; it can be a reality. Make it happen.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to make it sound like the adult generation is totally out to lunch or doesn’t care. There are a lot of wonderful people out there doing wonderful things. When you meet these people, embrace them, emulate them, follow their example. To steal from the United Way’s current marketing campaign, advocate and volunteer.
This year, you’ll be eligible to vote in your first elections. Whatever you do, vote. Even if you aren’t thrilled with the candidates, vote. Your voice counts. If you don’t like the major party candidates, then vote for a third party. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not a wasted vote; it makes a statement. If you don’t believe me, ask former vice president Al Gore. His inability to convince people to vote for him instead of Ralph Nader in 2000 cost him the presidential election.
If you have already declared yourself a Democrat or Republican, renounce that affiliation immediately. Too many in my generation are blindly allegiant to a political party, and only see things in black and white. When you look at an issue, think of it in terms of “what’s good for the country/state/people,” not “what’s good for the party/lobby/union.” Look at each issue individually, get informed, study both sides, and then make your decision.
Talk shows and blogs are bursting with people who have lots of complaints, but few solutions. Ignore them. Anyone can whine. Use the skills and knowledge you’ve accumulated to offer solutions, build partnerships, create opportunities.
And if you make a mistake, admit it, make amends, and move on. Too few public figures know how to do that. Use the mistake as a learning experience.
All right, I’ve prattled on enough, beginning to sound like an old man on a park bench. So I will end here with one last sound piece of advice from another prattling old man, Polonius, from Shakespeare’s "Hamlet”: This above all: To thine own self be true.
June is here, and with it, high school graduation. Another crop of young adults are completing their secondary education and are about to spring onto college campuses or into (gulp) “the real world.”
This is an exciting time for these young people. Their whole future is ahead of them. Decisions they make now could potentially impact the rest of their lives.
Unfortunately, not everyone is thrilled to see another group of teenagers move into adulthood. Too often, the news we hear is about the bad kids, not the good ones. People who think the current generation of high schoolers are unsupervised, immoral slackers on the road to Loserville need to look beyond the headlines. The vast majority of teens I run into are very impressive individuals. Seeing these kids in action, whether it’s at events at Milton High School, through Janesville’s DECA programs and Academy of International Studies, or participating in groups like SpotLight on Kids, I have seen enough to give me plenty of high hopes and expectations for these budding contributors to American society.
Graduates, you’ll hear a lot of words at your commencement ceremonies. Please indulge me to add a few more.
At this point in your lives, many of you are brimming with hope and idealistic intentions. Whatever you do, don’t lose that. Don’t let the crud you see on CNN or Fox News get you down. You live in a great country, but yes, it does have its flaws. Yes, you’re inheriting a huge national debt, a war we can’t seem to get out of, and a populace that seems more ideologically divided than ever. We are on one side or the other, and for far too many of us, compromise is out of the question. A lot of folks have given up, believing that true change for the better cannot happen. We’ve been let down too many times, whether it’s by our leaders, by our employers, or by our fellow human beings in general. Too many of us have lost the energy to challenge, to fight for what’s right, to try to make a difference.
And that’s our bad. You deserve better. But now you’re approaching a time when you don’t have to accept the status quo. For you, the future is now. You have the opportunities. In fact, your schools have given you more opportunities than my generation ever had, and many of you have taken advantage of it. Continue to build on that. We need your fresh ideas, your creativity, your energy, your enthusiasm. You can change the world. Honestly, you may need to. Peace and prosperity isn’t just an ideal; it can be a reality. Make it happen.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to make it sound like the adult generation is totally out to lunch or doesn’t care. There are a lot of wonderful people out there doing wonderful things. When you meet these people, embrace them, emulate them, follow their example. To steal from the United Way’s current marketing campaign, advocate and volunteer.
This year, you’ll be eligible to vote in your first elections. Whatever you do, vote. Even if you aren’t thrilled with the candidates, vote. Your voice counts. If you don’t like the major party candidates, then vote for a third party. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not a wasted vote; it makes a statement. If you don’t believe me, ask former vice president Al Gore. His inability to convince people to vote for him instead of Ralph Nader in 2000 cost him the presidential election.
If you have already declared yourself a Democrat or Republican, renounce that affiliation immediately. Too many in my generation are blindly allegiant to a political party, and only see things in black and white. When you look at an issue, think of it in terms of “what’s good for the country/state/people,” not “what’s good for the party/lobby/union.” Look at each issue individually, get informed, study both sides, and then make your decision.
Talk shows and blogs are bursting with people who have lots of complaints, but few solutions. Ignore them. Anyone can whine. Use the skills and knowledge you’ve accumulated to offer solutions, build partnerships, create opportunities.
And if you make a mistake, admit it, make amends, and move on. Too few public figures know how to do that. Use the mistake as a learning experience.
All right, I’ve prattled on enough, beginning to sound like an old man on a park bench. So I will end here with one last sound piece of advice from another prattling old man, Polonius, from Shakespeare’s "Hamlet”: This above all: To thine own self be true.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
The Joy of Low Expectations
(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-18-08)
“I expect so little...and boy, do I get it.” - Scott Adams, “Dilbert”
Are low expectations the key to happiness?
Think about it. How many times have you gone to a lightly regarded movie but were pleasantly surprised that it was better than you thought it would be? Or maybe as a student you expected to flunk a test, but were thrilled to come out of it with a passing grade of C.
Some say that low expectations lead to a culture of mediocrity. If you’re talking about your child’s education, for example, that is a valid point.
If you’re talking about your favorite sports team, however, the key to your sanity is to think modestly. Take the Milwaukee Brewers...please.
For a period of about 15 years, the Brewers had been – how do I put this kindly? – a pathetic excuse for a professional baseball team. But at least you knew it, and adjusted your attitude accordingly. When a stiff like Glendon Rusch actually pitched a scoreless inning, it was a wonderful and pleasant surprise. When an automatic out like Henry Blanco managed to stroke a base hit, you were unexpectedly elated. Instead of worrying about the World Series, your hopes were that the Brewers would win as many as they lost. Unfortunately, for 15 years, the team couldn’t even do that.
Now, however, the worm has turned. The Brewers suddenly became a contender in 2007, and even held first place by a commanding margin until a spectacular late season collapse. In the end, they barely escaped with a winning record, their first since 1992.
Watching the Brewers’ big lead fade was painful for their fans. But I contend that the team could have finished with exactly the same record and made their fans ecstatic. How? By starting the season lousy and then putting on a furious and exciting rush at the end. That would have been much more satisfying than the disappointment of seeing a sure postseason appearance – which hasn’t happened in 26 years - slip from their grasp.
So now, fresh off last season’s success, the expectations for the Brewers have changed. You actually watch a game thinking they should win it. Unfortunately, as of this writing, that’s not been happening as often as it should. Even though their record is better than many past Brewers clubs, there have been plenty of disappointments, and it’s led to a widespread outbreak of “angryfanitis.” Mention the name “Eric Gagne,” for example, and your typical Brewer fan will start speaking in a second language – profanity.
But I am pleased to say that I have found a cure. I announced to my son that we were renouncing the Brewers. Instead, we pledged our allegiance to the Washington Nationals, the crummiest baseball team I could think of. The antidote worked immediately. The Nationals, buoyed by our sudden and unexpected support, promptly made us feel great by winning four in a row. And when they went back to losing...well, big deal, they’re supposed to!
With that monkey off our backs, I did a little research to see if others shared my theory on low expectations leading to happiness. And it turns out that it’s not just me that thinks this; it’s the entire country of Denmark.
According to the International Herald Tribune, over the last 30 years, the citizens of Denmark have scored higher than any other Western country on measures of life satisfaction, and scientists have concluded that the country's secret is a culture of low expectations.
"If you're a big guy, you expect to be on the top all the time and you're disappointed when things don't go well," Danish researcher Kaare Christensen said. "But when you're down at the bottom like us, you hang on, you don't expect much, and once in a while you win, and it's that much better."
On surveys, Danes continually report lower expectations for the year to come, compared with most other nations. And "year after year, they are pleasantly surprised to find that not everything is getting more rotten in the state of Denmark," Christensen concludes.
Logically, that leads me to conclude that Danish fans of the Washington Nationals must be the happiest people on earth.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
When Job Seekers Go Bad
(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-4-08)
When your job includes hiring people, you get an interesting insight into what people will and won’t do to get a job.
Whenever I have a job opening to fill, I’m amazed at some of the résumés or job applications that I receive. Once, I received a résumé that was handwritten in red ink with all capital letters. It looked like a letter from Son of Sam. I didn’t know whether to save it or give it to the police.
At one time, a lot of people received professional assistance in preparing a résumé. Now that everyone owns a personal computer, people think they can do their own. And this results in a definite mixed bag. Still, with software templates and a multitude of Internet resources at your fingertips, there is just no excuse for submitting a lousy résumé.
If someone submits a poorly done, error-plagued, or unresearched résumé or cover letter, I won’t give that person the time of day. In sales, first impressions and the ability to present yourself professionally are critical. If someone can’t do it decently in the job search process, I’m not confident he will do it in front of customers.
For a recent job opening, I received one résumé from someone that looked promising enough to interview. When I went to call her, I discovered that she had totally neglected to put her contact information anywhere in the résumé or cover letter. No phone number, no address, nothing. I’ll bet she wonders why no one responds to her job inquiries.
Another was an obvious form letter. Worse, the guy forgot to fill in the names on the form: “Dear {HIRING MANAGER}, I would be a positive addition to the {COMPANY NAME} team.” I didn’t check to see if he claimed “mail merge” as a computer skill.
But the ultimate résumé I received was one that should have been subtitled “Based on Actual Events.”
This particular guy called to get an interview, and his pitch on the phone was pretty impressive. He had extensive experience in the market where we were hiring, and he held an MBA. His résumé arrived via e-mail the day before the interview. Among other things, it revealed he had worked at the same company, at the same time, as a friend of mine. So I gave her a call to ask what she could tell me about her former co-worker. The response: “I’ve never heard of the guy.”
She asked what territory he had covered for her company and I told her Rockford. She said, “That was my territory. I’d have known him.”
Now the red flag was flying. So I dug a little deeper into his résumé. It turned out that the work experience most relevant to our position was also greatly embellished. But that was nothing compared to his education.
He earned his MBA from Columbia State University in Metairie, LA. Five minutes on Google revealed that the college and the degree were as phony as a three-dollar bill. The “campus” was nothing more than a post office box in Metairie. You paid a few thousand dollars, mailed them a six-page book report, and voilà! In less than a month, you had your MBA. The owner of the “university,” after making millions on the scam, served jail time for fraud.
It was too late to cancel his interview, so I decided to see how he handled some specific questions. I asked him about his university and mentioned that I had been through Metairie when I was in New Orleans on a Hurricane Katrina rebuilding mission. How had his school fared? Well, he said he personally hadn’t been back since he went to school there (!) but their transcript office had been located right next to Lake Pontchartrain (which he couldn’t pronounce). Because of that, all the records were destroyed by the flood, which explained why he didn’t have any official school transcripts, just copies of copies (!).
I asked him about the territory he covered for the company that also employed my friend. He confirmed that Rockford was a part of it, though the rest of the communities he mentioned were totally different than the list on his résumé. Did he know my friend, who also covered Rockford then? No, he didn’t. “She must not have spent much time working in Rockford,” he said. I couldn’t wait to pass that tidbit along.
I never let on that I knew the guy was a bald-faced liar. One thing he said that was truthful was that he had done business with our company at one time. We looked up his name and company in our records and sure enough, there he was. He failed to mention that he never paid his bill and we wrote him off as “bad debt.”
It gave me great pleasure to e-mail him later that week to let him know we were hiring another candidate. His smug response was priceless. “You must be very
confident in the new guy’s sales record, contacts and connections! Good luck!” I wanted badly to reply that I was also confident in the integrity of the “new guy’s” résumé, but I resisted.
Maybe I’ll just drape some burning pants on the phone line in front of his house.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The World's Worst Audition
(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-27-08)
About ten years ago, at an age where most people start to grow up, I found my inner child. I finally let loose the stage actor that was buried within me and let him come out to play.
Oh, I had done some goofy cable TV commercials before, but what I really wanted to do was Shakespeare. I would practice lines for no reason other than the sheer joy of doing it.
A chance meeting with Edie Baran, then the director of SpotLight on Kids, turned that dream into reality. She told me her adult troupe was going to do "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Rotary Gardens, and encouraged me to audition. I jumped at the chance and ended up getting cast.
I loved every moment of that first stage experience. Making your stage debut with live Shakespeare at Rotary Gardens was like hitting a hole-in-one on your very first golf swing. (In fact, if you're listening, Rotary Gardens...how about bringing it back?)
After that experience, I was hooked. Since then, I've been fortunate enough to play roles like the Cowardly Lion in "The Wizard of Oz" and Cogsworth in "Disney’s Beauty and the Beast," as well as another "Midsummer Night's Dream," this time as Bottom, the bad actor turned into an ass.
The only downside to doing community theatre is the time commitment. It means I'm rarely home in the evenings and even on weekends. Lately, as both my family and I have gotten busier, it's been increasingly difficult to find the time to do a show. In fact, I haven't done a play since January 2006 and I'm getting very itchy to take the stage again.
So when JPAC announced they were doing a Nathan Lane comedy called "The Frogs" this summer, I jumped at the chance to audition.
There was only one problem with this plan; the play was a musical, which means singing and dancing. I like to think I'm a decent actor, but that's about the extent of what I can capably do. Alas, when it comes to my vocal abilities, the notes are often as flat as Old Milwaukee Beer. Pair that with the fact that I am as coordinated as a cow on stilts, and that does not exactly make me ‘musical material.’
However, despite those limitations, I had managed to make my way through "Wizard Of Oz," though choreographer Donna Berg may still be having nightmares about my learning curve on the “Jitterbug" number.
So I went to the audition for "The Frogs," confident I would somehow fit in on a show that sounded like it had the potential to be a lot of fun. During the audition, we were required to sing a song from a Broadway musical. I chose a hilarious, politically incorrect song called "If You Were Gay," from the Sesame Street parody "Avenue Q."
As I rehearsed the song in the days prior to the audition, I discovered that I really couldn't sing it very well. But I was pumped to do the song, so I decided to just affect a character voice and fake my way through it, the way I had as the Lion and Cogsworth.
I did the song as best I could, which wasn't good. Before I left the stage, the vocal director asked me to sing some scales so he could find my vocal range. He might have had better luck finding D.B. Cooper. I tried, but I have no idea if anything I sang was in the general vicinity of where it was supposed to be. When it comes to my own voice, I have more of a tin ear than the woodman in "The Wizard of Oz."
That was probably the point where I should have admitted I was in over my head and made my exit, stage left. But unfortunately, I didn't.
I and the other hopefuls were called back to the stage to attempt to learn a dance number. Panic gripped me. What the choreographer wanted us to do was eons more difficult than anything I had been asked to do before. I must have looked as lost as Rush Limbaugh at a Greenpeace meeting. Fearing that it would look unprofessional, but unwilling to further embarrass myself, I opted out.
Amazingly, I still was cast - in the only non-singing, non-dancing role in the show. Next time, before I go through the stress of an audition, I will keep my strengths and weaknesses in mind. Because as Jack Handey once said, “If you think a weakness can be turned into a strength...I hate to tell you, but that's another weakness.”
About ten years ago, at an age where most people start to grow up, I found my inner child. I finally let loose the stage actor that was buried within me and let him come out to play.
Oh, I had done some goofy cable TV commercials before, but what I really wanted to do was Shakespeare. I would practice lines for no reason other than the sheer joy of doing it.
A chance meeting with Edie Baran, then the director of SpotLight on Kids, turned that dream into reality. She told me her adult troupe was going to do "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Rotary Gardens, and encouraged me to audition. I jumped at the chance and ended up getting cast.
I loved every moment of that first stage experience. Making your stage debut with live Shakespeare at Rotary Gardens was like hitting a hole-in-one on your very first golf swing. (In fact, if you're listening, Rotary Gardens...how about bringing it back?)
After that experience, I was hooked. Since then, I've been fortunate enough to play roles like the Cowardly Lion in "The Wizard of Oz" and Cogsworth in "Disney’s Beauty and the Beast," as well as another "Midsummer Night's Dream," this time as Bottom, the bad actor turned into an ass.
The only downside to doing community theatre is the time commitment. It means I'm rarely home in the evenings and even on weekends. Lately, as both my family and I have gotten busier, it's been increasingly difficult to find the time to do a show. In fact, I haven't done a play since January 2006 and I'm getting very itchy to take the stage again.
So when JPAC announced they were doing a Nathan Lane comedy called "The Frogs" this summer, I jumped at the chance to audition.
There was only one problem with this plan; the play was a musical, which means singing and dancing. I like to think I'm a decent actor, but that's about the extent of what I can capably do. Alas, when it comes to my vocal abilities, the notes are often as flat as Old Milwaukee Beer. Pair that with the fact that I am as coordinated as a cow on stilts, and that does not exactly make me ‘musical material.’
However, despite those limitations, I had managed to make my way through "Wizard Of Oz," though choreographer Donna Berg may still be having nightmares about my learning curve on the “Jitterbug" number.
So I went to the audition for "The Frogs," confident I would somehow fit in on a show that sounded like it had the potential to be a lot of fun. During the audition, we were required to sing a song from a Broadway musical. I chose a hilarious, politically incorrect song called "If You Were Gay," from the Sesame Street parody "Avenue Q."
As I rehearsed the song in the days prior to the audition, I discovered that I really couldn't sing it very well. But I was pumped to do the song, so I decided to just affect a character voice and fake my way through it, the way I had as the Lion and Cogsworth.
I did the song as best I could, which wasn't good. Before I left the stage, the vocal director asked me to sing some scales so he could find my vocal range. He might have had better luck finding D.B. Cooper. I tried, but I have no idea if anything I sang was in the general vicinity of where it was supposed to be. When it comes to my own voice, I have more of a tin ear than the woodman in "The Wizard of Oz."
That was probably the point where I should have admitted I was in over my head and made my exit, stage left. But unfortunately, I didn't.
I and the other hopefuls were called back to the stage to attempt to learn a dance number. Panic gripped me. What the choreographer wanted us to do was eons more difficult than anything I had been asked to do before. I must have looked as lost as Rush Limbaugh at a Greenpeace meeting. Fearing that it would look unprofessional, but unwilling to further embarrass myself, I opted out.
Amazingly, I still was cast - in the only non-singing, non-dancing role in the show. Next time, before I go through the stress of an audition, I will keep my strengths and weaknesses in mind. Because as Jack Handey once said, “If you think a weakness can be turned into a strength...I hate to tell you, but that's another weakness.”
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Getting Steamed On Your Birthday
(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-6-08)
Birthdays are interesting in the Lyke family. For one thing, several of them coincide with holidays. My brother was born on New Year’s Day, my sister on Veteran’s Day. My son arrived on Christmas Eve. My mother was born on February 22, which was Washington’s Birthday before the powers-that-be robbed that day of holiday status in favor of the Presidents Day three-day weekend. My father set the tone for the family by being born on April Fool’s Day.
The majority of our birthdays fall in the winter months, particularly January. A lifelong farmer, my dad explained that fact by declaring that “spring is planting season.”
These days, I don’t get much excited about my birthday on January 26. Once I passed the midpoint between the ages of 18 and 70, I decided that the only thing worth looking forward to is the key lime pie that passes as my birthday cake.
Even though I don’t consider my birthday anything special, my wife still enjoys celebrating her annual orbit around the sun, so I act appropriately.
With each year, however, it gets tougher to figure out a new and exciting gift for her. We’ve been together for 25 years, married for 22. Some guys can get away with giving flowers, chocolates, or gift cards. Unfortunately, the bar is set a little higher for me. Deserved or not, I have a reputation for creativity. So she expects that I will come up with something better than the old standbys. And frankly, I expect that of myself as well.
As March 29 approached, I was totally bankrupt for ideas. Write her a poem or a song? Gone to that well a few times already. Special music collection? Been there, done that. Gift certificate for a massage? Did that recently, too. Make her dinner? Sure, that’s such a rarity in my house that it’s still considered a treat.
Right up to the big day, I was still scrambling for gift ideas. Desperate, I logged onto the Internet, typing the term “creative gift ideas” into search engines to see what came up. Finally, a shadow of an idea formed. She’s really into healthy eating; maybe something connected with that? I stumbled upon a site that talked about food steamers that cooked rice, fish and vegetables. It seemed to fit the bill, but....
I had heard horror stories of near-divorces brought on by giving a kitchen appliance as a gift. Would this be viewed as an appliance, or a thoughtful creative gift acknowledging something important to her? An informal survey (with an unscientifically small sampling) indicated that I would be all right, so I went for it.
A scant few hours before her birthday dinner, I was carefully selecting a steamer that wouldn’t steam her. Then it was the equally important birthday card. I generally alternate years between funny and sweet cards. If I can’t remember which year it is, I hedge my bets and go for sweet. As luck would have it, near the card display was a group of books perfect for gifts, and one of them was perfect for her. Done and done.
The woman who rang up my purchases looked at the card and the book and said, “Oh, that’s so sweet. You’re going to make somebody cry.” I didn’t know if my wife would cry, but at that moment, my 14-year-old son looked like he was going to puke. As far as the cashier’s assessment, well, she must not have realized the steamer was a gift, too. Or maybe she did.
Dinner came out just fine, with the exception of not making the wild rice properly. Yes, it’s possible to screw up rice if you’re as culinary-challenged as I am. Maybe I should have used the new steamer.
Finally the big moment arrives, the presenting of the gifts. The card and book were well received. So far, so good. Steamer? I immediately started explaining why I thought this was a good gift for her. Important tip for the future: if you feel like you have to explain your thought process behind a gift, you probably shouldn’t have gotten it.
It took three days, but she finally broke it to me that she didn’t think she would use the steamer, but she appreciated the thought.
As it turned out, she would have loved another gift certificate for a massage. I guess I don’t have to worry about an idea for next year.
Birthdays are interesting in the Lyke family. For one thing, several of them coincide with holidays. My brother was born on New Year’s Day, my sister on Veteran’s Day. My son arrived on Christmas Eve. My mother was born on February 22, which was Washington’s Birthday before the powers-that-be robbed that day of holiday status in favor of the Presidents Day three-day weekend. My father set the tone for the family by being born on April Fool’s Day.
The majority of our birthdays fall in the winter months, particularly January. A lifelong farmer, my dad explained that fact by declaring that “spring is planting season.”
These days, I don’t get much excited about my birthday on January 26. Once I passed the midpoint between the ages of 18 and 70, I decided that the only thing worth looking forward to is the key lime pie that passes as my birthday cake.
Even though I don’t consider my birthday anything special, my wife still enjoys celebrating her annual orbit around the sun, so I act appropriately.
With each year, however, it gets tougher to figure out a new and exciting gift for her. We’ve been together for 25 years, married for 22. Some guys can get away with giving flowers, chocolates, or gift cards. Unfortunately, the bar is set a little higher for me. Deserved or not, I have a reputation for creativity. So she expects that I will come up with something better than the old standbys. And frankly, I expect that of myself as well.
As March 29 approached, I was totally bankrupt for ideas. Write her a poem or a song? Gone to that well a few times already. Special music collection? Been there, done that. Gift certificate for a massage? Did that recently, too. Make her dinner? Sure, that’s such a rarity in my house that it’s still considered a treat.
Right up to the big day, I was still scrambling for gift ideas. Desperate, I logged onto the Internet, typing the term “creative gift ideas” into search engines to see what came up. Finally, a shadow of an idea formed. She’s really into healthy eating; maybe something connected with that? I stumbled upon a site that talked about food steamers that cooked rice, fish and vegetables. It seemed to fit the bill, but....
I had heard horror stories of near-divorces brought on by giving a kitchen appliance as a gift. Would this be viewed as an appliance, or a thoughtful creative gift acknowledging something important to her? An informal survey (with an unscientifically small sampling) indicated that I would be all right, so I went for it.
A scant few hours before her birthday dinner, I was carefully selecting a steamer that wouldn’t steam her. Then it was the equally important birthday card. I generally alternate years between funny and sweet cards. If I can’t remember which year it is, I hedge my bets and go for sweet. As luck would have it, near the card display was a group of books perfect for gifts, and one of them was perfect for her. Done and done.
The woman who rang up my purchases looked at the card and the book and said, “Oh, that’s so sweet. You’re going to make somebody cry.” I didn’t know if my wife would cry, but at that moment, my 14-year-old son looked like he was going to puke. As far as the cashier’s assessment, well, she must not have realized the steamer was a gift, too. Or maybe she did.
Dinner came out just fine, with the exception of not making the wild rice properly. Yes, it’s possible to screw up rice if you’re as culinary-challenged as I am. Maybe I should have used the new steamer.
Finally the big moment arrives, the presenting of the gifts. The card and book were well received. So far, so good. Steamer? I immediately started explaining why I thought this was a good gift for her. Important tip for the future: if you feel like you have to explain your thought process behind a gift, you probably shouldn’t have gotten it.
It took three days, but she finally broke it to me that she didn’t think she would use the steamer, but she appreciated the thought.
As it turned out, she would have loved another gift certificate for a massage. I guess I don’t have to worry about an idea for next year.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Don't Walk in Janesville
(From the Janesville Messenger, 3-30-08)
You need a permit to do practically everything now. Including, if you live in Janesville, walking down the street.
With Tuesday’s Janesville City Council election almost upon us, it’s been disappointing that one of the more controversial issues being discussed by the city has been virtually ignored by the council candidates.
I’m talking about a proposal to require pedestrians to apply for pedestrian licenses.
These are not unlike driver’s licenses, but they could potentially be required for those who frequent the city’s sidewalks in high-traffic areas like Milton Avenue or Milwaukee Street.
The problem is, quite simply, driver distractions. Distracted drivers are a safety hazard, and one of the things diverting their attention from the road is the appearance of pedestrians along their routes. This is especially a problem in the warm weather months, when personal comfort requires less clothing.
Fortunately, the city has come up with a plan. They would like to regulate the appearance of pedestrians along with the actual amount of time that a pedestrian can be viewed by a driver.
When a pedestrian applies for their license, he or she will be evaluated according to standards developed by the city based on community values and aesthetics. Basically, what it means is that you can’t be too beautiful – or for that matter, too ugly – to distract drivers. You have to be judged “average” both in terms of body mass index and on the Clooney/Berry Scale. The Clooney/Berry Scale is a 1-to-100 point system of beauty where George Clooney and Halle Berry are considered 100 and everyone else is rated according to that standard. If your score falls above or below the “average” range, you may still be allowed a conditional permit if you follow certain clothing requirements that cover up your natural attributes or failings.
Beside the actual appearance of pedestrians, the city is also concerned about the amount of time that you are potentially exposed to them. There are no real studies on the subject, but the city has estimated that a driver is exposed to the average pedestrian for about 10 seconds. Since our natural tendency as drivers is to look over and see if we know the person, the city has judged this amount to be too long. However, if a pedestrian is walking more slowly, the driver will pass them by more quickly and not have the opportunity to stare at them.
So the city has decided that the maximum average allowable exposure is 6 seconds. Thus, citizens with a pedestrian license will also have to follow a speed limit, with fines or a loss of license for repeat offenders. Joggers, you’re out of luck unless you stick to lightly-traveled side streets or the city trail.
The amount of regulation involved, as well as the amount of time the city planning department has devoted to this, is mind-boggling. I, for one, would certainly like to know how the city council candidates in this week’s election feel about it.
If you would like more information on pedestrian permits and licenses, please call the “Let Us Walk” hotline at 608-APRIL-FOOL.
You need a permit to do practically everything now. Including, if you live in Janesville, walking down the street.
With Tuesday’s Janesville City Council election almost upon us, it’s been disappointing that one of the more controversial issues being discussed by the city has been virtually ignored by the council candidates.
I’m talking about a proposal to require pedestrians to apply for pedestrian licenses.
These are not unlike driver’s licenses, but they could potentially be required for those who frequent the city’s sidewalks in high-traffic areas like Milton Avenue or Milwaukee Street.
The problem is, quite simply, driver distractions. Distracted drivers are a safety hazard, and one of the things diverting their attention from the road is the appearance of pedestrians along their routes. This is especially a problem in the warm weather months, when personal comfort requires less clothing.
Fortunately, the city has come up with a plan. They would like to regulate the appearance of pedestrians along with the actual amount of time that a pedestrian can be viewed by a driver.
When a pedestrian applies for their license, he or she will be evaluated according to standards developed by the city based on community values and aesthetics. Basically, what it means is that you can’t be too beautiful – or for that matter, too ugly – to distract drivers. You have to be judged “average” both in terms of body mass index and on the Clooney/Berry Scale. The Clooney/Berry Scale is a 1-to-100 point system of beauty where George Clooney and Halle Berry are considered 100 and everyone else is rated according to that standard. If your score falls above or below the “average” range, you may still be allowed a conditional permit if you follow certain clothing requirements that cover up your natural attributes or failings.
Beside the actual appearance of pedestrians, the city is also concerned about the amount of time that you are potentially exposed to them. There are no real studies on the subject, but the city has estimated that a driver is exposed to the average pedestrian for about 10 seconds. Since our natural tendency as drivers is to look over and see if we know the person, the city has judged this amount to be too long. However, if a pedestrian is walking more slowly, the driver will pass them by more quickly and not have the opportunity to stare at them.
So the city has decided that the maximum average allowable exposure is 6 seconds. Thus, citizens with a pedestrian license will also have to follow a speed limit, with fines or a loss of license for repeat offenders. Joggers, you’re out of luck unless you stick to lightly-traveled side streets or the city trail.
The amount of regulation involved, as well as the amount of time the city planning department has devoted to this, is mind-boggling. I, for one, would certainly like to know how the city council candidates in this week’s election feel about it.
If you would like more information on pedestrian permits and licenses, please call the “Let Us Walk” hotline at 608-APRIL-FOOL.
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