Saturday, April 16, 2011

Sweetest Little



"I didn't know how babies were made until I was pregnant with my fourth child."

Loretta Lynn

The week before birthday week this year, I arrived home from the office to a box on the counter for something I knew I hadn't ordered. Yes, the box was addressed to me. It had shipped from Lenexa, Kansas via someone, something, or someplace called "The Grommet."

Indeed, inside was a gift from a colleague who shares a monthly mail-watch for the Cambria Cove catalog. Although this gift is now available in lots of places in several colors, my box held the original baby pink electric appliance known as "Babycakes" that we both first observed therein. This discovery came a few months after we had elected to eat dessert first on a business trip to Overland Park, Kansas; when the bistro we'd targeted for dinner was closed for a special event, we just went across the street to a cupcake shop, sampled four of their creations, and downed the whole thing with ice-cold milk. Since then, we've had a unique internal radar for cupcake imagery, if not the real thing.

Anyway, the Babycakes is basically like a waffle iron for two-inch cupcakes and anything else I might want to concoct, so long as it's acceptable to form it into a two-inch something.

The inside has eight cups, and the whole surface is non-stick. Inside the box, I also found a small bag with a pastry bag and a couple of tips. I don't need it, since I have an entire set of bags and tips already; but, I don't throw anything away in this department - ever. I stored it in the bottom cabinet drawer where all the baking supplies live in our kitchen. It would be a good thing for a novice baker to use for "practice" some day. She knows who she is....

Another bag held a couple of rings. The people who created this appliance had the good sense to flute the edges of the baking cups and calculate the precise sized circle of pastry dough that would fit; then, also provide the cutter to do that. Not stopping there, the other ring can be used to press the precisely-sized dough circle into the cup and onto the flutes. Genius. Perfect for any miniature pie of any sort - pumpkin for Thanksgiving, pecan for Christmas, quiche for whenever, and so forth.

I looked forward to test-driving this little cupcake maker today and decided to keep it simple with one of the "emergency" boxed cake mixes from the pantry. Ever mindful of the altitude instructions, I used them - not knowing if the enclosed baking compartment of this unit would need the adjustment. After more than eight years, I'm still learning about the science of high-altitude baking and believe, but am unsure, that the "open" nature of a cupcake tin in a standard oven helps to create the air bubbles, popping, and endless rising of batter that usually results in an overly airy finished cake.


The instructions said to put about two tablespoons of batter in each cup, which I wasn't too disciplined about. However, with the first batch, I was remembering what happens when a waffle iron is over-filled and anticipated that I might have created a mess for myself. I had already read the directions when the box first arrived, but forgot to reread them before pre-heating the unit. The battle popped and sizzled as it hit the fully pre-heated unit; I thought I had invited another disaster. But, no! The directions said that it was OK to put the batter in the pre-heated unit - that it wouldn't affect the results. How could that be?


The first batch was perfect after five minutes, just as predicted. I unplugged Babycakes and began to gently prod around the edges with a dull knife to see if the nonstick surface had performed. All eight cupcakes were baked and popped right out. Too good to be true?


I put the second batch in the unplugged, cooling unit; then, closed the lid and plugged it back into the socket. Five minutes later, the cakes were done again. But, I found that this batch was sticking. They didn't really tear, but they weren't as perfect as batch #1. Since I don't have to be told twice, I decided that the best results came from putting the batter in the preheated unit because the bottom began baking before the rest of the cake. I don't know if that's true. But, it's my story and I'm "sticking" to it, since all the remaining cakes popped out after having been started this way. CRD Science 101.



The yield was predicted to be somewhere between 44 and 48 of these little babies. But, since I was profligate and imprecise with the batter, I only got 37 Babycakes. I haven't decided how I will finish them, but I'm almost equally a Frosting vs. Cake Girl. So, there will be frosting.


Observing how uniform and "perfect" this batch of cakes looked compared to anything miniature I've tried to bake in Colorado, I began to fret that they wouldn't taste or "feel" like cake. That they would be more like a chocolate muffin. But, again, no worries there. In fact, the process of baking the cake in the enclosed unit prevented the ungainly rising and resulted in a denser, more from-scratch like texture. Like all cakes, they will be even better tomorrow.


What a discovery! Dr. Jayhawk is moving in on the deal, already suggesting that his favorite blueberry muffins would be more perfect in the Babycakes. I can see all kinds of advantages to this thing, especially during hot weather. Fortunately, we don't have that much of it. But, no one - with me first in that line - wants to turn on the "big" oven when it's hot, any time of year. It's also possible to make just enough batter for as few as eight cakes. Portion control emerges in the form of recipe control, which has always been there for the taking in cupcake tins also; but, for which none of us has probably taken the time to figure it out.

The latest issue of the Cambria Cove catalog suggests that the manufacturer is doing quite well, as we can now order a whoopie pie maker and a cake ball maker from them, too. Probably for unit integrity issues, but maybe for other not-as-smart reasons, they may have overplayed their hand. I don't have time, inclination, or space for any more "cake" makers. Dr. Jayhawk asked why they didn't make the unit with interchangable plates, too. It's so obvious, an attorney could see it.


Oh well, here's to American Ingenuity, Capitalism, and cupcake goodness. In any size.



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Saturday, April 9, 2011

Unsettled, with a Chance of Cupcakes



"O, the land of cloudless day,
O, the land of an unclouded day,
O, they me tell of a home where no storm clouds rise,
O, they me tell of an unclouded day."

Joshua K. Alwood, 1800

I break for Spring. Since we moved here in 2002 and experienced our first "spring" in 2003, we have duly noted that it's unlike any spring we've ever experienced anywhere else.

It's more confounding than Fall, which also goes through transition pangs resulting in a decision to wear a wool sweater on a day that ultimately goes to a high of 75. Or, a cotton shirt without a jacket on a day that opens at 70 and lows to 30 by mid-afternoon.

Pity the trees and shrubs that don't know whether to wake up or stay asleep. Most can't control themselves, setting buds with abandon; only to have a load of heavy, wet snow arrive like a new dress for Easter.

So, in honor of that time on the calendar when others are breaking for Spring, even though we're not sure when it started or where it will end, I hereby put When Pigs Fly under the safe cover of hiatus.

It's a good time to stay low to the ground.
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Saturday, April 2, 2011

All Things Being Equal


"England defeats United States 2-1; USA: first loss to England since 1988.


ESPN crawl - 3:10 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time, April 2, 2011

It's almost time for Butler vs. VCU - the first of two Final Four semifinal games. We were hoping it would be Butler vs. Kansas, even though we rooted for the Indiana Cinderella to defeat Duke in the championship game last year. It's hard to think of Butler as a Cinderella this year, into the Final Four for the second consecutive year. And, VCU just gets stronger with each new group of pundit-naysayers declaring that they can't possibly beat whoever they're playing next.

Caution persists now among those same talking heads, as I've heard all week that it's hard to pick against VCU, based on their five consecutive wins in a tournament they weren't good enough to make; and their dismantling of Kansas, the only number one-seeded team remaining until last Sunday. I'm not sure how much credit to give VCU, as the jaw-dropping upsets of a Bill Self-coached Kansas team at tournament time are well-known by now, having been chronicled in When Pigs Fly. (Insert smiley face here.)

I could say that we're used to it. But, frankly, you never get used to losing like that. It's likely all the more stunning because Kansas frequently fields a very competitive team and tallies so many wins through a season, they look like they can't be stopped. I won't dismiss VCU by saying that Kansas beat themselves last weekend; but, it sure felt like that at times. Their senior (usually sharp) three-point shooters were cold as ice. It was ugly early and felt like a loss by the middle of the first half. We watched to the bitter end, because that's what we do. For either the USC Trojans in football or the Kansas Jayhawks in basketball, we believe that it's not over until it's over.

Well, it was and is truly over; and, that means that I mostly hang up the Mrs. Jayhawk mantle for another few months. Today, I'm a Butler Bulldog. I know that logic would suggest that I root for the team that knocked out my team. But, I don't have an emotional investment in VCU and continue to subscribe to the sentiment that they can't stay hot forever. By the time you read this post, we'll know for a certainty. My father is from Indiana; and, Mark's mother's family is from Indianapolis. So, we don't need to find our True North to know who to support when things get tough. It's a no-brainer.

Speaking of brains, it's multiple-birthday month in the Dickerson household. Mark kicks it off every year by conveniently having his birthday fall on the first day. That's right - he's an April Fools' baby.

I've known him almost 43 years; and I got the story straight just this week. I had been telling everyone that his father had told friends that the baby was due on April 1; and, that, if actually born on that day - regardless of gender - he planned to name the baby "April."

Wrong.

I don't know if the story has changed or I wasn't listening or I was listening too fast. The real story (now) is that his parents were able to choose the date of his birth and deliberately chose April 1. His father's naming story - as apparently recounted from the pulpit throughout Mark's formative years - was that he would name the baby "April" if it was a girl and "Fool" if it was a boy.

Well, the joke was on him. Mark was brilliant. He is also one of the most brilliant males of the human race I've ever known. That's why he's Mr. CRD. Well, one of the reasons. (Insert winking smiley face here.)

A bunch of other birthdays will come and go in our family and among friends before month's end. Easter is late this year; so, we'll have more than our fair share of opportunities to eat sweet things. It's probably a good thing that we get most of this kind of thing out of the way relatively early in the year.

I was sifting through a stack of greeting cards I've saved over the years and found a preponderance of flying pig and pig-related graphics. I suppose I could be known for other, more substantive things and pithy sayings, but the "When Pigs Fly" moniker fits and sticks.

Good thing, too. I have a few personal projects that I feel would be improved by flight. A couple of them feel like a 250-pound hog in a pink tutu. All I need is some wings for those porkers, and off I'll go.

The piano needs to be tuned. I can't do that myself; but, I could make the phone call. That sucker is going to sit there as just another large piece of furniture to be dusted if I don't get on it soon. I sat down to it last night and almost fell off the bench when I realized how bad it's become over the past few months. I'm a phone call away from making that pig fly. It should not be so hard to do. But, when will I both be in town and at home to have this task completed?

It's not looking good during birthday month. May? Maybe.


I have purchased a few of those little sample bottles of paint that are now so readily available (where were they hiding before they were so readily available?). I don't do large-scale projects myself. But, I have a couple of spaces that I can easily do myself. I just need to do it. Well, I just need to decide on colors. THEN, I just need to do it.

Why are these decisions so hard? I used to work in homebuilding, for crying out loud. I had no problem deciding what to paint a model home owned by someone else. But, I also have a file folder full of ideas that I've accumulated since we moved into the house in 2002. I have a self-inflicted case of the "Tyranny of Indecision." A subject for another post on another day.

This paint pig has the "I'm fixin' to start" problem. All I really need to do is just make a choice.

Without the distraction of college basketball, I should do what I do best: focus, choose, do.

Maybe I'll take a look at that paint folder during the Butler game. Although, it's a really tight contest here at 4:51 to go in the first half.

I should probably go through my e-mails and find the name of that piano tuner I was going to call just before Christmas...

...momentum seems to be swinging back to Butler.

...what time does the other national semi-final game start?

...pigs lined up like jets at O'Hare....

...this little piggy ate roast beef...

...what are we going to eat tonight...

...I should really get the clothes out of the dryer and fold them at halftime...

...where's Dr. Jayhawk?
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Saturday, March 26, 2011

Fly Away Home


Going-Away Party Cake at Young & Rubicam/Los Angeles August, 1981
Crossing the state line August, 1981.

Leaving California with remaining possessions and wedding gifts; squeezing Maid of Honor into picture, October 29, 1981.


Teasing University of Oklahoma friend/alum long-distance from Alameda, California after University of Kansas "Danny & The Miracles" Jayhawks defeat OU for 1988 NCAA Men's Basketball National Championship: Mark Alan Dickerson, USC'77 B.S., Political Science & KU'81 J.D. and Shannon Gayle Dickerson, future University of Nebraska, Lincoln'10 B.S., College of Business - Marketing; on April 4, 1988, 17 days before Miss Dickerson's first birthday.

“Kansas is a state of the Union, but it is also a state of mind, a neurotic condition, a psychological phase, a symptom, indeed, something undreamed of in your philosophy, an inferiority complex against the tricks and manners of plutocracy -- social, political and economic.”

William Allen White, American Journalist known as the Sage of Emporia (1868-1944)

"I don't know if I want to go to New York. They'll have to pay me a lot more money because I like it here in Kansas City."

Roger Maris, American professional baseball player (1934-1985)

As Madness Marches forward, I'm orchestrating my day around a schedule of broadcasts for which no one consulted me. If I want to be at the proper angle for flatscreen viewing, I'll need to take my seat by 2:30 pm Mountain, to be followed by the tip of the only other game that matters today at 5:05 pm. I'll repeat this process by 12:20 p.m. tomorrow, the broadcast time for the next match slated to fray my nerves. A fourth game is scheduled; but, if the Jayhawks don't defeat the inexplicable Virginia Commonwealth Rams before that, my Mrs. Jayhawk duties will be complete for another year. And, I'll be sad. Very, very sad.

Look what Dr. Jayhawk hath wrought. As he mellows with age, I'm on pins and needles. Frankly, I think he's twisting on that prickly seat as well. He's just learned how to submerge his angst so he can feign amusement at me. I returned late yesterday afternoon from four days of business travel to Kansas City - Jayhawk Land - with a fresh, new cotton KU shirt for him. He didn't cut off the tag until the team blew the Richmond Spiders back to Virginia in a gusty Kansas wind of basketball tutelage by 20 points.

We're always superstitious that way. My nerves are all his fault. Prior to 1981, I didn't care about the University of Kansas or the Jayhawks. Almost 30 years later, I'm completely in. "All In."

One of his many large, framed certificates of accomplishment says that the University of Kansas School of Law conferred on him the degree of Juris Doctor on January 9, 1981. But the School of Law didn't have a mid-year commencement, and his ceremony was not held until May. Though not impossible, it's unlikely we would be married if the KU School of Law had not made their graduates wait until a certain weekend in May. Sort of coincidentally, I decided to visit family in Olathe on that same weekend. The story of why I was there on that particular weekend has nothing to do with the availability of the relatives and everything to do with the fact that, if I was in the vicinity of Lawrence, Kansas on that weekend, I would get to see Mark for lunch.

We had disbanded our relationship more than four years prior, and I was curious to see what a period of graduate school at Magdalen College in Oxford, England and three years of law school had done to someone I had known for 13 years. We were what felt like light years away from our undergraduate experiences at USC. I was employed by the largest advertising agency in the world and based in Los Angeles. I wasn't going to move - for anyone - unless it was to go to New York City.

Lunch turned into afternoon window shopping on The Plaza. To prolong the time, he suggested that I should see KU. So I would know where he had been all this time. It's not like I was completely mesmerized by the campus, although it had - and has - several notable high points, vistas, venerable old buildings, and the like. Most of our major college campuses in America can say the same.

But, I was in tears by the time the driving tour had ended. It was unplanned, unexpected, not motivated by any intent to manipulate his emotions. I was mourning the loss of sharing his KU experience with him. I didn't like the way it felt. I didn't want to feel that way anymore. But, he had joined a law firm in Wichita, and I wasn't going to move for anyone. Repeat after me - "unless it was to go to New York City."

Yes, he had been too busy as a law student to sleep in a tent to get the coveted first-come, first-served student seats for the home basketball games. He'd study until the last minute before games, which were conveniently located just across the street from the School of Law at Allen Fieldhouse. Then, he'd get in line, show his student pass, and take a position in what was left - the rafters. But, he was in. In. "In." And, he would have gotten me in somehow, too. He was like that. He is like that.

The only time I've ever been in Allen Fieldhouse was for a campus visit in May, 2006 when Shannon was transferring from USC to...somewhere... to play soccer. We drove over to Lawrence on Memorial Day weekend and got the VIP tour. Standing in "The Phog" gave me the chills. The echos were haunting. The missed opportunities continued to haunt me, too.

I may never attend a home game there. I have seen the Jayhawks play in person - but, it was in California or Boulder, Colorado. It's not the same. I can't get those years back. Perhaps I've been trying to make up for it ever since. It's not like I was meant to be in Lawrence, Kansas when Mark was in Law School. I don't think we were meant to be married until we were - on October 24, 1981.

I left Lawrence that day in May, 1981 for the ride back to Olathe with a heart filled with despair and sadness. He decided that he should drive over to see me again on Sunday night, and my relatives kindly invited him for something to eat at their home. Before the dishes were even cleared, he was figuratively on one knee in their living room.

I said "yes." But, I didn't know what I was going to do next. After all, I wasn't going to move for anyone.

But, I did. And, he did. And, we did.

And, the University of Kansas and the team many love to hate, the Kansas Jayhawks, will always be linked to that day in May.

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Saturday, March 19, 2011

Don't Pick Me, Bro



"The NCAA Men's Division I Basketball Championship is a single elimination tournament held each spring in the United States, featuring 68 college basketball teams, both conference champions and at-large selections. The tournament, organized by the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA), was created in 1939 by the National Association of Basketball Coaches and was the brainchild of Kansas coach Phog Allen. Held mostly in March, it is informally known as March Madness or the Big Dance; the tournament, and especially the national semi-finals and final (the Final Four), has become one of the nation's most prominent sporting events."

Wikipedia page for "NCAA Men's Division I Basketball Championship," March 17, 2011

I made sacrifices for the team last night. It's not the first time.

I can read the pivotal moment like the veteran I am; I could see that Kansas would only be able to throw down the hammer on their #16-seeded opponent in the second round of the Big Dance if I left the room.

It was time to start the laundry.

Make no mistake. I'd waited all day for this game, just like Mr. Jayhawk. I had ordered my time, my tasks, and my pre-game meal around what would put me in the best possible position for focus. To do what would be best for the team.

After several years - some of them recent - when Kansas exited this annual tilt "prematurely" (which means, earlier than the pundits, fans, alums, and fans-by-marriage had expected or been told to expect based on a myriad of multivariate factors and statistics), I was ready for anything. This year's seeding and draw had two overwhelmingly disturbing attributes.

Namely, the "B" jinx.

And, in the history of the tournament, the "no 16-seed has ever defeated a one-seed" jinx.

These two pithy problems were compounded by what I like to call the "Commander-in-Chief Jinx," which was revealed while I was in a St. Louis-area hotel room earlier in the week. I groaned aloud and wondered why he didn't choose to pander for Ohio votes by naming the Buckeyes. We've already been down this road before. Specifically, last year. And, everyone knows what happened. If they don't, they get to hear about it this year every time the Jayhawks take the floor. To wit, the Northern Iowa upset by a two-point basket that was swiftly and predictably followed by the ousting of said Panthers by Michigan State in the next round.

So, I think the track record of the CIC speaks long and loudly for itself - in all matters of men's basketball and well beyond. I'm not sure how the University of Connecticut women's basketball program escapes this burden. But, I'm expecting them to do it again this year. It feels like Maya Moore is a tenth-year senior. If she shows up for pre-season next year, I think the NCAA should look into the situation.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

The "no 16-seed has ever defeated a one-seed in the history of the tournament" jinx just seemed ripe for the picking by the team from the program that basically invented the game. That the coach for which their Fieldhouse is named (Allen), launching the infamous warning ("Beware of the Phog"), was the champion for this madness in the first place would suggest to me that the 2011 edition of the Mythical Birds was well-positioned to take this hit. If the cumulative layering of jinxing was firing on all cylinders, then multiplying the CIC jinx by the one-seed jinx would equal a perfect storm for program ridicule to Infinity. And, beyond.

So, it was no surprise to me that Boston University came out shooting from beyond the arc like a four-seed. That the Jayhawks appeared to have forgotten their offensive answer(s) to the 2-3 zone defense. And, perhaps in a nod to UNI in 2010, that they were making BU's perimeter shooters look like they were NBA ringers in the first half.

Yes, certainly, KU was adjusting and beginning to modestly take control just before halftime. But, it wasn't enough. Not enough to stop worrying about that other, mysterious jinx.

The "B" jinx.

On my life, I was there; but, I didn't see the upset by one point coming in 2005 to the Bucknell Bison. A 14-seed with zero NCAA Tournament victories in its 110-year history, five scholarship players and even a borrowed band. I guess that qualified as a double-B jinx - as in, "Bucknell Band." An oxymoron.

On my life, I was there; but, I didn't see the upset by four points coming in 2006 to the Bradley Braves. A 13-seed that gave a team that had nothing to do with what was by then known as the "Bucknell Bummer" something to think about.

Separately, why do all these "B" teams have mascots with "B" names? Okay, Kansas was a very young team that year. But, old enough to be named a four-seed.

So, I was watching a slow-paced, slug-fest against another "B" team last night and trying to shake the jinx. I considered that - maybe - a review of all the associated "B" names that haven't exactly been bad luck for Kansas would help.

"Bill." Self, the head coach. "Brady." Morningstar, the marvelous senior from the backyard of Lawrence, Kansas who, periodically, shoots three-pointers unconsciously. "Baylor." A team that under-performed this season and presented no threat. In fact, they dutifully reclined a la doormat in Waco for their home game against the Jayhawks this year. Booya!!

"Big." For Big XII - their conference.

Oops. Maybe that's a bad choice, since the Big XII is currently only the Big X after two defections by Nebraska and Colorado. Which is a problem in the Big Ten, now with 12 teams playing next year and a huge marketing stumble trying to decide what to call themselves and explain why they have 12 teams.

They finally settled on BIG. Which, I guess is as good as anything. But, that doesn't help Kansas. At least, I don't think so.

No, now I could only hear in my head the B names with a less-than-silver lining. Bucknell. Bradley. BIG. Barack. Boston.

I had already spoken to ma boy, Thomas Robinson, about what he needed to do. And, with the playing time he was given, he was mostly doing it.

It was time to leave the room.

It worked on April 7, 2008. Not only did I leave the room - I turned off the TV and went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Bedroom. B-word. I flipped on a different TV and got a different result - a three-pointer by Mario Chalmers with time running out on the clock to put Kansas into overtime and eventually defeat Memphis. A team that was later found to be dirtier than dirt, requiring them to vacate that season and that loss on their side of the ledger.

So, I left Mr. Jayhawk to fume and sweat over a six-point lead and started the washer.

I found a few other things to do. I managed to occupy myself, listening only for signs of distress from himself or to recognize if something good was happening for Kansas based on crowd noise levels.

I heard a big roar. But, I was disciplined. I stayed in my passing lane and out of the room.

I heard another big roar. I wasn't hearing anything from Mr. Jayhawk and wondered if he, too, had left the room. But, I stayed focused and emptied a trash basket in the powder bathroom.

I heard another, HUGE roar. That's all I heard. But, in my self-sacrificing mode, I decided to brush my teeth.

Then, I heard another, hugely HUGE roar. I was thinking it was time to re-enter the field of battle. Before I could decide, I heard the reassuring seven-note bumper music that signals a time-out in March Madness. "duh-da-duh-da-DUH-Duh-Duh."

I ran (sort of) back to see what awesome awesomeness I had missed. Sure enough. I had taken one for the team.

I came around the corner to find that Kansas had hit three consecutive three-pointers after a Brady three-point attempt had first rimmed out.

They - and, I - never looked back.

Back. B word. As in, "I got yours."

Bill Self and the Jayhawks will now face Illinois in the third round. All things Illini hate Bill Self for leaving them to take the Kansas job.

I'm thinking of spending the game in the Basement.



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Saturday, March 12, 2011

Order of Magnitude


"Japan Quake May Have Shortened Earth Days, Moved Axis"

Jet Propulsion Laboratory - March 11, 2011


My Saturday is a disjointed mix: devastating news stories and images from Japan, mundane chores with modern conveniences I take for granted every day until I see stories like Japan, and the uniquely-American college basketball conference tournaments.

I have nothing to complain about. I also have nothing to say. Since I try to stay disciplined about this weekly posting, I rationalize that I'll log on; write that I have nothing to say, then log off again.

What can be said that has not already been said? Been written? Been broadcast? Been tweeted, reposted on Facebook, witnessed on Youtube?

Nothing.

I am nothing. I know nothing...

But, I know whom I have believed. And am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto Him against that day.
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Saturday, March 5, 2011

On the Border



"Kansas Seals Outright Big 12 Title With 70-66 Win Over Missouri"

KU Athletics

Columbia, Mo. - A powerful inside combination of Marcus Morris, Thomas Robinson, and Markieff Morris propelled the University of Kansas men's basketball team to a 70-66 win over the Missouri Tigers, Saturday, at Mizzou Arena.


Early in the second half, I began having a chat with My Boy, Thomas Robinson. I told him that it was time for him to take over the game. About 10 minutes later, Mr. Jayhawk turned and said unto me, "whatever you're saying to Thomas, please keep saying it!"

Yes. A Mother knows.

Looks like my job duties as Mrs. Jayhawk have been expanded.

If only I had power over sunspots, which are being blamed by CBS for abruptly ripping viewers away from an almost-but-not-quite-over rivalry game and season finale, with the outright Big 12 championship on the line. Their story is that the satellite transmission was cut; and, even though the announcers apparently continued to call the game, the Denver market got the dry, toasted opening few minutes of Oregon vs. Arizona instead. Online gametrackers were deployed, ESPN crawls were carefully inspected for any sign of bad fortune. Exhales were heard when the "Final Score Alert" showed that what we had left as a 13-point lead had dwindled to a four-point win. But, a win is a win.

Who said that?

We didn't get to see the excitement and fireworks of the last 3:28 of this Kansas vs. Missouri grind fest. But, if we lived in metro Kansas City this evening, we'd get to see a replay of the entire second half after the 10:30 news.

Mr. Jayhawk now officially holds CBS with the same disdain as Microsoft. Yep, it's that bad. He thinks they invented the sunspot story this afternoon to cover their switch for contractual reasons.

Oh, well. I have a SUPER busy week ahead and won't be home for four days. So, there is simply a limit to how much Mrs. Jayhawk can absorb this evening.

Just win, baby.

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Saturday, February 26, 2011

Like a Rock



I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Some bright morning when this life is over, I'll fly away
To a land on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away

When the shadows of this life have grown, I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Oh how glad and happy when we meet, I'll fly away
No more cold iron shackles on my feet, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Just a few more weary days and then, I'll fly away
To a land where joy will never end, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallellujah by and by, I'll fly away

Albert E. Brumley, shape note gospel music composer and publisher, 1905-1977

“Oh that I had wings like a dove, I would flyaway and be at rest.”

Psalm 55:6

"Rock Chalk, Jayhawk, KU"

University of Kansas Jayhawks Chant

I find myself abruptly at the end of February, suddenly looking ahead to March as though I've had no warning. According to the Blackberry calendar, I have a month of almost non-stop travel. The Day Planner of my alternate personality, Mrs. Jayhawk, looks like more fun. March Madness!! Game after game after game of collegiate nonsense, upsets, Cinderella stories, injuries, unrealized potential, and spoilers. Madness, indeed...

Every year is a unique adventure of sameness and the unexpected. I always stand guard early, waiting to take the emotional temperature of Mr. Jayhawk as the season progresses. Once upon a time, his mood would rise and fall with Jayhawk fortunes; at tournament time, he'd stop watching the thing altogether as soon as Kansas was out of it. As in other things, time has mellowed him to a sort of pragmatic, "they're 20-year-old kids" response of satisficing. Since we have lives and our own couple of 20-somethings with their own issues, this evolution is helpful.

Every season of sports - college and professional - brings a new raft of heart-wrenching stories of personal loss - the kind of five-minute ESPN packages that bolt me to the floor, bring tears to my eyes, and never fail to remind me of how I am personally blessed and how much Grace we have been collectively granted as a family.

From the jump, I was riveted as the story of this year's edition of the Kansas Jayhawks began to emerge. They were thoroughly outplaying expectations. The losses to graduation and the NBA would have brought many talented programs to their rebuilding knees. But, somehow, with each contest, this roster began to look like a championship contender. As the team piled win upon win, I began to wonder what circumstances would conspire to bring them their first loss. I was paying some attention to the stories about one of the young players who had lost both of his grandparents within a few days of each other.

But, the morning of their home game against Texas, I felt like a real alumni with close ties - not just a fan by marriage - as I absorbed the news that his too-young mother had died too soon the night before. Leaving him, at the tender age of 19, without an adult family member. And, leaving him with a lonely little seven-year-old sister 2000 miles away.

Incredibly, the announcers were saying that he was not only with the team, but that he expected to play. The whole roster came out in the first half with their hair and pants on fire and looked like they were going to pound Texas back to the Stone Age. Up-all-night fatigue overtook them in the second half, and they dropped the game in front of a national CBS audience.

I've been unable to shake this personal story of Number Zero - the subject of hundreds of "Zero is My Hero" shirts issued the past four weeks in Kansas Crimson and Blue. Particularly, I've been unable to shake that the personal story of tragedies of one Thomas Robinson have been borne beneath the glare and scrutiny of public eyes.

He doesn't know me from a fly on the wall. But, I send him messages of encouragement on Twitter after every game. I can only imagine how many hundreds of other such messages he's receiving.

As for the fortunes of Kansas in the NCAA Tournament this year, I believe one thing. And, one thing only: the Kansas Jayhawks will advance as deep into that tournament as Thomas Robinson is healthy and plays his role. The team's second of only two losses during the regular season had everything to do with Thomas Robinson - again. At Kansas State, they were blown off the court while T-Rob sat in street clothes on the bench, nursing a torn meniscus repair.

That's all I need to know.

I'm sure I'm not the only Jayhawk supporter that wishes I could fill the holes in his heart. I am uplifted by his performance every time he asserts his will in a game when his monstrously talented teammates are sagging. The whole dynamic of his on-court performance versus his off-court challenges will be revisited until the team wins the national championship or their post-season ends, whichever comes first.

May the best team win. May mothers' and fathers' sons from around the country stay out of harm's way and play to their potential.

Rock Chalk, Thomas Robinson.

http://www.kansan.com/news/2011/jan/27/robinson

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Saturday, February 19, 2011

Nose Job






"Myth: Three Americans every year die from rabies. Fact: Four Americans every year die from rabies."

Michael Scott - "The Office" - Season 4 "Fun Run."

"I'm one stomach flu away from my goal weight."

Emily Charlton - "The Devil Wears Prada."

A week ago, I declared that I thought I had sinusitis but was mistaken. Today, I'm reporting that I was right the first time. By Wednesday, the pain in my forehead, nose, cheek, and ear on the left side reached fever pitch. That, too - about 99.8.

I try not to run to the doctor at the first sign of pain - even when it spans several interrelated body parts. But, after not really sleeping much on Wednesday night, I decided that Thursday was the day. Sure enough, the doctor confidently announced, "Oh YEAH, you really have sinusitis - I'm sure."

It's not like I tried to sell him on the theory. The walking symptoms are all too-familiar to me. The trick is to wait long enough to be sure that I'll leave the doctor's office the first time with the medications I need to beat it; but, not long enough for my face to swell up too much, elephant-man style. I've actually mismanaged this dilemma while traveling for business, since I once failed to sound the alarm bell before leaving town. In that instance, I raced through south suburban Salt Lake City in a rental car with only 35 minutes left before the urgent care facility closed for the day. Anything to avoid the ER charge. By the time I got there, with 10 minutes to spare, the lump on the right side of my nose did my talking for me. Another round of another doctor's new favorite antibiotic for sinusitis.

This week, I might have outsmarted myself. I was certain that the pressure in my ear drum had prevented me from hearing clearly when the doctor proudly pronounced the name of the antibiotic du jour.

"Ciprofloxacin!"

He fairly pumped his fist in the air at the mention, as I stuttered something like, "....did you just say CIPRO???"

Yes, he did. Say Ciprofloxacin. Cipro.

I've only experienced the nuclear medication that is Cipro one other time in my life. The ailment was entirely different, the circumstances of which will not be discussed here. Suffice to say, the remedy was more challenging than the ailment; which had been foreshadowed when that particular doctor had noted that "Cipro kills everything!"

What, exactly, was meant by "everything?" I had wondered at the time which part of me would constitute everything and hoped it wasn't all of me.

If you've ever downed Cipro, you'll understand what I mean when I say that the first couple of days on this drug make you feel like a copper penny flattened by a freight train. Like the doctor forgot to give you a prescription for the antidote that will permit you to do the remedial things. Like walk, eat, and sleep.

Of course, it's important to note that it also "works" for the thing you're trying to overcome. So, that's helpful.

If you're thinking that you've heard the word "Cipro" before, and it wasn't in the context of sinusitis, you would be correct. In all likelihood, you're thinking that it had something to do with national security. You would be right again.

You're probably an avid reader of the National Institutes of Health website and remember now that Cipro is used to treat or prevent dangerous exposures that are deliberately spread. Things like anthrax, plague, and tularemia. Stuff that could happen during biological warfare.

Sounds serious, right? I thought so....

The list of side effects to expect, but that aren't serious enough to call the doctor, includes eight items. The list of side effects that are serious enough to discontinue use and call the doctor numbers 34 items. Reflecting on my day so far, influenced by my active imagination, I might believe I've experienced half the list by now.

But, it's also true that the original ailment is under control and improving. A little confusion, restlessness, and loss of appetite seems a small price to pay.

So long as I live to tell another tale next week....


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Saturday, February 12, 2011

Bunkum





"I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything."

Anne Sexton, in a letter to W.D. Snodgrass on November 28, 1958.


Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...

At the end of a very challenging week, I'm tired. Not speechless, but not particularly able to concoct a story, recount a fable, or state a position. I'm tempted to make no entry in WPF. But, this moment is exactly the kind of time I should push myself - to see if I can create something - anything - out of thin air.

It's for the brain exercise. For the challenge. I don't want to do it. But, I'm stubborn.

We had a lot of weather this week. We, the residents of Highlands Ranch, Colorado; and we, the people of the United States of America. From Saturday to Saturday, almost two feet of the white stuff fell on our driveway. As recently as Friday afternoon, as the temperature managed to reach up into the 40's again, we still had 12" white borders all around the concrete sidewalks.

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens....

Meredith thought she had developed bronchitis - she's so rarely sick, she doesn't know a common virus when she gets one. A trip to the Student Health Center yielded prescriptions, a reason to go off-campus to eat, and an upbeat spirit.

I thought I had sinusitis. I so frequently get it, I almost think I have it all the time. Next to the Zyrtec tablet I swallow daily, year-round, I found what is clearly a Wonder Drug: Sudafed Triple Action. A pain reliever, nasal decongestant, and expectorant. My life is likely changed forever. I didn't have sinusitis. I worked 24 hours the last two days of the week, ending on a relative high note.

Brown paper packages tied up with strings....

I'm not depressed by weather - moving to Colorado in 2002 and re-engaging in four seasons made me stronger. I don't apologize for not driving on frozen streets, but I can drive on six inches of slush with the best of them.

I chose not to do either this week, sequestering myself in my wonderful home on purpose. I know a time when I would have felt that I had missed something by not being out and about. But, I think those days may be over. Nothing left to prove? Maybe. Nothing left to do? Never. But, I have more ways to do the things I want to do now than I did in the 20th Century.

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels...

Is this feeling the dreaded and awaited aging process? Maybe. A consequence of social networking? Naturally. A seasonal predilection? Likely.

My biggest challenge is suppressing my frustration when, within a month following the demise of daylight savings time, I realize that "day" has always been defined in my mind as "daylight." On those days when "day" ends at about 4:30, when the sun falls behind the Front Range and disappears into the Rocky Mountains, I am at my most sullen. It's not that I can't do "day" things in the dark. It's just that the "day" seems over. Did I get my fair share of "day" hours for my "day" work?

Sunlight deprivation. Isn't there a vitamin pill for that?

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles...

I'm not very sentimental during the winter months. That's just wrong, isn't it, what with Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and Valentine's Day all wedged into this section of the nocturnal doings. How can that be?

A complex world - with wars, revolutions, disappearing fortunes, incessant unemployment, and all the uncertainty that goes with all of that - seems to be reducing to me to appreciate micro-seconds of good health and good fortune in a very different way. I'm still willing to stop and smell the roses (a figure of speech, here in the high alpine garden of 80126). But, I'm more about moving on. Progress. Next steps. The next move. The hope of a new day.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings...

I've never thought I was one to wallow in trivia. But, I am thankful for very little things and massively big things now -- all at the same time.

I believe I enjoy a very long list of those very little things. I KNOW that I own a very long list of very big things. I'm not the type that weeps at the sight of the first snow every year. I'm more into appreciating that moment when everyone in the household returns safely to the house after having to commute in it. Does that make me a stone? Can I be both a cock-eyed optimist and a surly pragmatist?

Time it was, and what a time it was; it was a time of innocence, a time of confidences.

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.

Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you.






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Saturday, February 5, 2011

Laissez le début des jeux



"Good morning, good morning,
The best to you each morning.
Sunshine breakfast, Kellogg's Corn Flakes,
Crisp and full of fun."

Kellogg's Corn Flakes TV ad jingle, 1964

K - e - double l - o - double g - Good!

The weekend in 2011 now signals me to pick a topic for the blog thingy. Or, weave a story from my memory or imagination.

Super Bowl weekend is different. I'm starting on Saturday afternoon and won't publish until Monday. My co-workers in whatever office I'm working only want to know the answer from me to one question on Monday morning:

What was my favorite Super Bowl commercial?

Why?

What about that funny Bud Light ad?

OK, that's three questions.

Since 1984, it's seemingly been my duty to not only vote, but to give my marketing rationale. That, of course, was the year that Apple Computer changed the way advertisers viewed the Super Bowl. I had seen the storyboard in the summer of 1983. I was even asked my opinion by the general manager, because I was one of the youngest account executives in the office. I knew it was outrageous. I thought it could change the world. Somehow.

After Chiat/Day's media department "failed" (read: "didn't try") to sell back the million-dollar :60 time slot which ultimately aired a commercial costing just as much to produce in London, one million people lined up at Apple Stores (the old kind) the following week to see the debut of the new Macintosh. That was about $2.00 spent per person. Cheap in any language. Add in the approximate $18 million in unpaid media coverage as the spot ran over and over and over and over - everywhere; and - EVERYTHING changed.

I think it has changed again...

It's now Sunday evening. Almost half-time. I need that break, courtesy the Black Eyed Peas, since I don't leave the couch during the commercial breaks. And, the game has been interesting enough to keep me on the couch. Yes, I've been in this room a long time. I'm not keeping a scorecard of my favorite commercials here - just in my head. I'll know my top three spots when the game concludes. Maybe. It's becoming increasingly difficult with each passing year for me to "choose."

I already know what's NOT working for me. Excessive physical humor as the central storyline of a spot, so that rules out everything for Pepsi Max. Who thinks it's funny that a woman is berating a man for every bad thing he eats (remind you of anyone?), then throws a soda can that hits another woman, then runs away after leaving her on the ground? If the man was doing the berating and the can-throwing, would anyone think that was funny? What?

That spot - and the other two ads in the pool - had nothing to do with the product. If you blinked, you forgot the advertiser anyway.

That's my biggest pet peeve - someone will say "Oh, I LOVED that ad." Then, they proceed to name one of the advertiser's competitors as the sponsor. That's just dumb, Wally.

Anything resembling claymation with a gangsta rapper gets the old, heave-ho; so, I don't really care that Eminem won't do commercials. Although, he almost had me with "Imported from Detroit." One of my Facebook friends quipped that Eminem is the only person working in Detroit. Would be funnier if it weren't almost true. But, I can't root for him any more than I could cheer on Big Ben after his "personally challenging year." Sheesh. And, I'm not buying what he's selling either.

I call anything with a single sight gag automatically out - but, I'm giving the Doritos "Finger" and "Grandpa" spots a pass so far. The culture that has developed around the Super Bowl as it evolved from football championship game to marketing event to national event means that a one-time dose of humor may work better than a more creatively-layered message. Especially, for Nachos Doritos.

But, I'm old-fashioned. (Not old.)

Old-fashioned in the marketing purist sense. I don't mean to be a snob. I can't escape my experience any more than I can escape my gene pool. So, I'm 6 ft. 2 inches tall and think that the best advertising tells a story and makes an emotional connection. I can't escape a belief - an intrinsic value that belongs to me -that, if you're going to burn $3 million per :30 spot to run between the hedges today (that's the space inside the four-hour pre-game show and the 30-minute post-game show, just before the University of Southern California Trojan Marching Band appears on "Glee,"), you'd might as well make a solid point about your brand or product and try to persuade someone in the audience to remember your brand name. And buy your product.

I haven't seen the e*Trade baby yet - any baby - but, it would be difficult even for that crew to top "Shankapotamus." I've never tired of watching them try.

"Just a man and his smart phone - and an e*Trade app" comes really close. Especially when he breaks into "nobody know'd" in basso profundo. My relationship with that smart-mouth baby and his subsequent infant cohorts began on a Super Bowl Sunday. And, we remain close to this day.

So, game over; and, Green Bay wins the Super Bowl for the first time since I worked at Potlatch in the '90's and traveled there on business a few weeks after that win. The trip included a visit over to Lambeau, a twirl by the trophy, and $100 into the cash till of the souvenir shop. Green and gold shirts all around. Which, made no sense at all. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area at the time, and my husband wondered aloud how anyone in the family was supposed to leave the house in those clothes and get back home safely.

It's Monday already, and my conclusion about the 2011 advertising - even after sleeping on it - is that I didn't see anything great. I saw a couple of things that were "good." A few "OK," and a lot of stupid, silly, and pointless.

It leads me to observe that some of the best advertising on the air right now didn't make it to the Super Bowl. Although, who doesn't like to see an enormous log plow into Roseanne Barr? Everyone knows the Snickers gag now, but it still works. But, there will never be another "you're playing like Betty White."

Sure, a lot of advertisers probably didn't have the money or decided not to spend the money they have this year in this way. Or, it could be something more troubling.

Here's the question I'm asking myself: was the advertising on the Super Bowl last night there to advertise, promote, and persuade? Or, was it there to entertain?

Since the top-scoring spots in the Ad Meter test involved either animal(s) (dog(s)) or kid(s) (including a pint-sized Darth Vader), is the old adage still true? To wit....when you're out of creative ideas, insert *puppy* or *child* (here).

Is that the real reason that I'm so close to the e*Trade babies?

Generally, I now believe that this spectacle is too much, well, spectacle. Not enough game. Not enough real marketing.

Mostly cross-promotions: "Glee" singer from Fox hit show delivers histrionic rendition of "God Bless America" on Fox Sports-aired program. "Glee" advertises short version Chevy ad with "Glee" cast inside "Glee" program as ad on Super Bowl. Then, follows Super Bowl with full Chevy ad inside show as an ad break on "Glee." Are you with me?

Fox fills unsold inventory with ad after ad for their own shows that don't need any extra promotion ("Glee") or the next new show to come to the chopping block. What doesn't fall to the network is dominated by film trailers and other assorted garbage, such as Go Daddy.

The other "problem" for me is that, as recently as three years ago, no self-respecting advertiser would "leak" their Super Bowl spot a week before the big game in the full :60 length. Then, rack up 13,000,000 hits on YouTube and ultimately air the far less appealing :30 version during the game. With multiple social media tools - Twitter and Facebook included in this particular case -- did the advertiser get the same result, better results, or lesser results than would have accrued by running the :60 for the very first time in the second quarter?

I vote that the shock value has a dollar value yielded from emotional value. Otherwise, we're left with the shock value of most of the ad product yesterday: the one-trick joke, the one-time sight gag, offensive innuendo, lots of offensive innuendo, and less (Teleflora).

All of that notwithstanding, the ad tests and ad hoc comments on Facebook suggest that Volkswagen connected with consumers anyway. Either because they deserved to do so in the absolute or because their context in the Super Bowl environment of rubbish polished their brand by default. Or, because their leak favorably predisposed people to wait for it, like it again, and convince themselves it was exceedingly creative.

My opinion is that it is modestly creative. That it trades on the brand equity of an independent property is not a new technique. But, George Lucas isn't credited with the spot today. Deutsch/LA - what else you got?

It works. Probably because it reminded many of us about a time in our own household (recent or not-so-recent) where we messed with our kids' belief system. It's the same theme as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy; it just has a 21st Century twist. Or, does it? I saw "Star Wars" right out of college. Trust me, that is SO 20th Century....

While I was pondering this possibility with Mark last night, he revealed a story about doing something similar with our girls near the Shell station in Pleasant Hill, California. He was sitting in the car at a stoplight with Shannon and Meredith and timed the changing of the light from red to green as he watched the opposing green light change to yellow. He said, "Watch this." Of course, he then counted "...3...2...1," and the light MAGICALLY turned green. Shannon shrieked: "DADDY! How'd you do that?? Do it AGAIN!"

An eight-year-old and a three-year-old thought that either Dad truly was a magician, or that the reward for that yoke of a last name he'd dubbed them was an arsenal of Super Powers. Darth Vadar costume not included.

But, Quick! Without checking on YouTube first, name the featured car model in the VW ad.

If you can't do it - or, worse - you're wondering if I got the name of the car company wrong - perhaps you better understand what I'm trying to convey here.

It also felt like some brands were on the Super Bowl because they thought they were supposed to be there . Or, they were afraid that their competition would be there and they wouldn't, and they wouldn't then sell a few extra cans of sugar water/belly wash to the masses.

I give you the completely pointless ads aired by Coke. The fact that I could discern Coke as the advertiser in both cases well in advance of the reveal suggests that they have definitely found what someone in their organization believes is their tone and manner. That funky fire-breather ad was by Coke in my mind almost too soon.

So, here's the bottom line for me: I'm not sure the criteria I've always used to make my choice can actually be applied to most of the work I saw yesterday. Should I change my criteria and pick the best of the average and think in terms of who used the event best? Or, should I stick to my old criteria and confuse you completely by naming a commercial you don't even remember?

Hmmm.....what to do......

The best advertising I didn't see on the Super Bowl has been airing tonight - Monday night - on ESPN, during the Kansas vs. Missouri basketball game.

New stuff with the Old Spice guy...

The orange pretzel M&M on the couch next to a surly character actor on a show I don't watch...

"Chaos." (Allstate)

"That's logistics." (ups)

"What's in YOUR wallet?" (Capital One barbarians)

"Trouble." (Travelers Insurance) Yeah, it has a dog. But, the dog is the hero and tells us a story.

Did I mention the Old Spice guy?

And, Fight On, Clay Matthews III. Fight ON!!!

P.S. Passat.
































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Saturday, January 29, 2011

1/100,000,000





"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative."


Oscar Wilde, Irish Poet (1854-2000)


My periodic perusal of headline-style websites brings new dimension to the habit of Internet surfing. I can go a mile wide and an inch deep through a plethora of trivial and useless information faster that way.


Add my cell phone apps to this mix, and I'm willing to accept the moniker bestowed upon me by the meek and average in the second grade way-back machine: "Walking Set of Encyclopedias." If only they knew me now!


Google Queen.


For metallic leather shoes, the best way to either preserve or restore their luster is with the Tarrago Metallic Shoe Creme line. Bad scuffs can be re-dyed with the dye kit. Need to dye AND polish? Tarrago makes a kit containing both the dye and creme; save $4.00 per color with the combo kit.


I ordered Platinum #506 and High Silver #106.


Those hermetic jar seals on the French line of traditional canning jars (the kind with the clamp lid, not the screw-on lid) don't last forever. Container Store is chronically out-of-stock on replacement jar seals - I don't know the reason. But, beware of imitators! Those orange jar seals sold on Amazon for La Parfait may be counterfeit. Well, they do fit the French line, but they weren't actually made in France.


I haven't decided what to do yet. The measurements are listed in metric, and my jars have lid openings of 4" and 3-1/4" -- when we lived in northern California, these replacements seals were easy to find. I wonder if everyone is having problems finding them; or, if it's just that Denver doesn't have many specialty cooking stores in suburban neighborhoods; or, if things are so bad in California now that they can't find these jar seals either.


I "shoplifted" a bunch of replacement seals on Amazon. You know what I mean. You've probably done it, too. You're on a website, you put stuff in the cart, then you sneak off the web page without paying for it.


Some ingenious e-commerce sites send e-mails saying things like: "Did you forget to finalize your purchase on Crate & Barrel today?"


Busted.


So many of us may be doing it now, they're getting more desperate for closure. Last night, I received an e-mail offering me an additional 20% discount good for 24 hours if I would buy the stuff I left in my cart. It conveniently gave me a link that directed me right back to the exact spot where I fled the building....er, page.


Nice try!


I'm sure it actually works more than it doesn't work. They know it's cheaper to get a customer that was nine toes over the finish line than to drum up a new customer altogether.


Good stuff....


When we traveled with all the Dickersons (from the H. W. Dickerson branch) to Europe in 1985, we stayed at the Hotel Elizabethpark in Bad Gastein at the beginning of the trip. Alright, I know that was a really long time ago. And, according to Wikipedia, the population of Bad Gastein is up to a staggering 5,838 people now. But, does anyone know if they still have those dark green bar soaps in the rooms? I don't think so. I looked at the hotel website photos of the bathrooms, and I only see little bottles of clear liquid stuff on the counters.


Back in the day, I was so taken with these little rectangles that smelled of pine and laurel and verveine and a bunch of other green stuff, I cajoled Mark to walk down the street with me in the dead of Alpen winter into the village to buy six of the full-size bars from the local Apotheke. I eked out those bars for a very long time; in the days prior to the Internet, thinking I would never see them again anyway, I failed to save a wrapper. At least, I think that I didn't save one. In the meantime, we've moved from Alameda to Pleasant Hill to Highlands Ranch.


When someone asks me something I don't know, I say "let's go to the Google." I say it when someone wants to argue about something - anything. I don't believe it's the same thing as being intellectually lazy, since I'm actually seeking answers and intend to commit them to memory. To store them within the trillion cubbies inside my brain and hope that I'll be able to find 'em later, if I ever need 'em again.


I've been to the Google several times about this soap I loved in Austria. I've surfed and surfed. Over the past few years. And, recently. As recently as last night. It's highly possible that this soap doesn't exist anymore. It might have been a garden-variety grocery store type of product. You know, in the same way that Mercedes Benz is considered the middle class workhorse automobile of the common man in Germany.


Since it was a room amenity in a spa hotel located smack in the middle of a relatively tiny spa town in the state of Salzburg, I'm hoping that's not the case. But, I can't remember if it was from Austria or Germany. I think the wrapper was printed entirely in German. I've searched soaps from Austria, Germany, Salzburg, Vienna, Bad Gastein, Bad Hofgastein, soaps generically from Europe. I've scanned the websites of soap distributors all over Europe.


Beyond having no way to know if this soap still exists, I cannot know what type of ownership, name, formula, color, or labelling changes likely occurred over the past 26 years. Drat! I'm a marketer. And, one thing I know more than anything: it's very difficult to get people to stick to what works. New people come onto brands and products and want to embed their fingerprints on stuff that doesn't need to be changed, just for the sake of proving their mettle and fitness for the next level. The hardest thing to do when new to that type of position is to leave well enough alone.


I can only imagine that the object of my search lives in the marketing equivalent of a secure, underground bunker location; where someone in their wisdom has messed with my fantasy. Holding it hostage from my life forever.


That doesn't stop me from wondering if it's hiding in such brands as Argana by Argan Kontor; Alepp Laurel Olive Oil soap from Pegasus Trade; or Body Bar soap by Natalya.


Probably not.


Remember when weatherpeople were never able to predict the weather? Well, I want to assure you that those days are over. The Weather Channel app on my phone directed me to a link that announced that at least 100 million Americans are living in the upcoming "snow stripe" that will develop from Denver across the plains to somewhere in Ohio, to coincide roughly with Groundhog Day.


It must be true, because Facebook friends began posting articles today about the weather forecasts for Monday and Tuesday in their section of the stripe as fact.


I'm not sure the words "fact" and "weather forecast" have ever been used correctly in a sentence. But, since I can't talk about politics or business on WPF (for your protection and for mine), which means I cannot possibly comment on Egypt in any way, I'm left to talk about the inane and the meaningless. The distractions from reality.


I'm just one person. I may not be one in a million. But, according to the Weather Channel, I'm one in 100 million who will have nothing to talk about next week but the weather.


That is, unless someone can tell me who stocks real pie plates?


I mean the kind that used to hold a Marie Callender's pie....


Not the paper or cardboard type used now; and, not the foil pans sold in a package of three at Christmas with a preformed graham cracker crust pressed inside....


The kind that can be used to broil something in the oven....round...not too deep and not too shallow.....


And, not too expensive.....I'm not going to pay $14.50 for a tin pan that I need in quantity, that will likely only see the oven when Mark wants a Hebrew National.....


And, not non-stick, but I'd take that so long as it's dishwasher-safe.....


Would a restaurant supply company be the best source?

An inquiring mind wants to know....
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Saturday, January 22, 2011

Hope Springs


"Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday,
Got to work like a slave all day.
Here come Tuesday; oh, hard Tuesday;
I'm so tired; got no time to play.


"Here come Wednesday, I'm beat to my socks;
My gal calls, got to tell her that I'm out.
'Cause Thursday is a hard-working day,
And Friday I get my pay."


Fats Domino & Fabian, 1957





Stop me if you've heard this one before.



I've learned today that I've been living consecutive months of January since 2005 in complete oblivion and have missed six "Blue Mondays" already. If this past Monday (January 17) was not actually Blue Monday for 2011, and opposing viewpoints are correct that this upcoming Monday (January 24) will be Blue Monday for 2011, I'll see what I've been missing.



All I know about last Monday is that it was Martin Luther King Day, and all the banks, post offices, and government folks had the day off. Nothing "blue" about that, huh?!



Meredith went back to UCCS on Sunday afternoon after a month-long semester break; but, classes didn't start until Tuesday morning because of Martin Luther King Day. She seemed pretty happy about that.



I didn't have the day off because the day is not observed as a holiday in our company; and, I hadn't planned to take the day off on a day when I had so much catching-up to do from the big trek to The Ville anyway. But, I was just so happy to be back in the land of snow plows and mag chloride, I would have missed the point.



So, now I'm wondering if the rest of you were busy being Blue while I was busy being Busy. And, Oblivious.



Blue is my favorite color. I'm not amused that everybody wants to hijack the most beautiful color in God's palette for their own PR purposes.



Yep, that's right. This "Blue Monday" thing apparently got its start when Porter Novelli (a public relations firm with which I have actually worked in another industry) got an idea to create a campaign around a trumped-up depressing day, and concocted a press release that was signed by hoodwinked (and compensated) "scholars" declaring that, roughly, the third Monday of January is officially Blue Monday. At some point after the lead academician had exhausted the news value of Blue Monday, he subsequently solved for the "happiest" day of the year on behalf of an ice cream company. You'll be shocked to learn that this celebration occurs at a point after the Northern Hemisphere tilts back in the general direction of the sun. In other words, June.


I don't know - I'm just telling you what I read on Wikipedia.



My favorite part of the story is the formula by which Blue Monday is calculated. It's roughly the product of (W + D - d) x T to the Q divided by M x N (with a little sub "a"). W is the Weather. D is not defined; d is Debt. T is Time since Christmas, and Q is time since failing our New Years resolutions. M is low motivational levels, and N with the little sub "a" is the feeling of a need to take action.



All of that leads to either January 17 or January 24 in 2011. If it was January 17, I failed to kvetch sufficiently and feel that my opportunity to mourn my condition has been unfairly withheld from me by lack of sufficient news coverage of this landmark date. Yes, journalism is truly dead.



If it's January 24, then I only have the weekend remaining to prepare for this day of gloom.



I see by the Weather Channel app on my personal Blackberry that Monday, January 24, 2011 is scheduled to be one of the 300 days of sunshine we are promised each year by the Denver Chamber of Commerce. If you've ever been to Denver on one of these days, you know that it is absolutely impossible -- I mean, ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE -- to be depressed. The blazing glare of that fireball in the sky known as the Sun fairly sears your retina into believing that God's palette is bathed in a rose-colored layer of happiness. And, barring a genuine tragedy in your life, you have no shot at attaining the appropriate level of unhappiness that I suspect is required to truly leverage the potential of Blue Monday.





Nope. I think Monday, January 24, 2011 is already booked for "Blue Heaven."

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Saturday, January 15, 2011

South of O'Dark:30



"Airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror."

Al Boliska, 1960's radio personality



Eh bien, that was an interesting week.

I wasn't traveling for business back when WPF was born. Business travel had already long-reached the intolerable stage anyway. So, I didn't intend to write about my trip to the Mother Ship. Or any other 2011 event -- the inevitable travel required by a territory assignment now spanning 16 markets.

But, the trip marked for the week of January 10 is just too irresistible to ignore. I promise that anything I report here will be the truth; the whole truth; and, naturally, nothing but the truth. That means that I won't be able to report on much of anything actually related to the company, the business, my leadership, my colleagues, my corporate counterparts, and the cuisine of Louisville, Kentucky. To do so would certainly hasten my demise; which fate may have been sufficiently determined prior to this post.


No real names may be used. Some of those real names may be listening via one or more social media channels. No real names can be changed, even to protect the innocent or blameless. Analogies, euphemisms, and aliases would be wholly transparent...as a finite number of characters contributed to this epic tale.


I will note one matter of absurdity that is openly acknowledged by all involved at all levels; hence, a safe haven for ridicule. I will permit you to draw your own conclusion(s) as you ponder the title of this event, scheduled in early November for the dead of winter in a minor metropolitan area not equipped with snow removal equipment and any quantity at all of cutting-edge ice and snow melting chemicals. Sand and some salt slung from the back of a dump truck by a dude with a garden shovel? Check.

Yes, set your brain cells for "Stun," and absorb the full flavor of a meeting entitled "Getting Things Done Summit."


That's all I can say.

Well, I will add one more fact: an eight-hour tutorial of "Getting Things Done" requires four full days of "Out of the Office." OK, another key fact: it also requires a facilitator who appears to be the first truly indispensable person on the planet. She must be viewed as such, since she attempted to leave Charlotte, NC by jet for two consecutive days. That Charlotte didn't have sufficient deicer to move all the jets that wanted to get out meant that 24 people in Louisville would not get anything done for four days related to their direct responsibilities. They would also not complete the required "Getting Things Done" seminar, including the one-on-one counseling module. Naturally, I was especially looking forward to that 1:1 tutorial. Mmmm, mmm, mmm.

Let's focus on the obvious.

It's made even more obvious by the fact that I already made it my Facebook status on Tuesday. Some of y'all (that's Louisville for "you all") read that observation and thought I was being sarcastic. Did y'all know that Louisville is considered "The South?"

To wit, all the snow contained inside the dimension of our driveway in Highlands Ranch, Colorado on Monday morning was more snow than fell across Louisville metro for the entire week of January 10. I'm absolutely certain of it. Even if you subtracted the amount of snow removed Monday morning so that my driver could safely throw me and two bags into the back of an Escalade and trudge to DIA, you'd have more.

But, the schools across Kentucky seemed to be closed for at least two days. Indeed, much of the downtown area appeared to be shut down Tuesday and Wednesday. I didn't even wear a coat on Tuesday. I felt more like a stranger in a strange land than I could have possibly imagined.


Since I can't really write about anything, I'll divert to this admission: I am not gobsmacked by much at an airport. I've seen some truly stupid stuff. I've felt threatened by fellow travelers and TSA agents alike. I've been on old, rickety aircraft and brand-new (maiden-voyage "new") equipment. The flight attendants on long-bankrupted airlines aren't as cute as they used to be - in that "real people" kind of way. We seem to have more boys than girls now; the girls wear pants, and the boys wear pants. Depending on the flight, I am sometimes hard-pressed to tell them apart.

It's Monday, 1/10. I'm in DIA Concourse A, Gate 29. Waiting for the flight to Louisville, KY set for 11:24 a.m. Mountain.



No place to sit. Gate 29 is the absolute end of this long concourse which, thankfully, is not as long as the marathon known as "Concourse B." I'm in a chair next to a guy who smells like a hot dog. Raw onions and mustard, no waiting. He can't get comfortable in his seat, so he jumps up and plunks back down about every 30 seconds, juggling his late model Mac in one hand and his bladder-busting "Big Gulp" from the Conoco just inside DIA property in the other hand. I'm looking for a new seat when I hear the Gate 29 announcement: "Ladies & gentlemen on Flight 123 to Louisville, I regret to inform you that the facilities on board this aircraft are not working. Please use the facilities in the terminal prior to boarding. We apologize for this inconvenience."

This announcement is quickly followed by the first boarding announcement. I stand, look back to catch the terrified look on Hot Dog Man's face about the "facilities," and move to the front of the pack. That place where insufferable frequent flyers congregate to commiserate about the latest traveling horror. Well, none of us had encountered this level of a horror - no bathroom privileges on a flight set to take almost three hours. You know, a flight where they expect all of us to (simultaneously) drink drinks, eat snacks, and polish off the microwaved chocolate chip cookies with a big swig of water.

I've never seen a sadder group of folks trudge onto an airline. Since I take all the steps required to get an aisle seat as far forward as possible, I both see and feel long lines of folks from almost every demographic group in the country. The guy slated for the window seat happily appears, holding a Mountain Dew bottle of the size just beneath the two-liter.

I ruin his day with the question: did you hear the announcement in the terminal?

No, he didn't. Not only is he half-way through his Mountain Dew, he erupts with too much personal information regarding how he has unwittingly guzzled six iced teas in the restaurant with a colleague. He thinks he isn't likely to make it until we're airborne and at the altitude required to unbuckle a seat belt.

I smile. Uncharacteristically, I have not swallowed a drop of liquid in the prior three hours, at the risk of dehydration. Now, I will pass the supreme test of sitting politely in my seat with the extra legroom, all the way to Louisville and into the terminal restroom there.

But, God is merciful. Although a computer glitch had figuratively shut down the hopes and dreams of men, women, and children (did I forget to note that many, many children tend to be aboard planes on Mondays at midday?), what is called "The Miracle at 16,000 Feet" unfolds before our very eyes and bladders. Prayers are answered.

Green lights for miles - forward and aft.

And, that was just the first day...






















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