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

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....

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.

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.

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....

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."

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...