Thursday, November 13, 2008

Shame, Shame, Shame!

The lost Lenore continues her search for childhood failure stories, as well as moments of prepubescent humiliation, so naturally I'm happy to chime in...
"When I was a wee lad, since I had very low self-esteem and was afraid of everything, the result of both nature and nurture, I rarely would speak for myself. My poor social skills were noted on my kindergarten report card as I had this habit of speaking through my friend, Markie. Now Markie wasn't an imaginary friend, he was flesh and blood, but if I had to give an opinion, it was usually prefaced by "Markie says," a defense mechanism to turn attention from myself and on to another target, i.e. Markie. To give you a sense of my inner fragility, when asked as part of some class exercise to "be a tree," I refused, as I was terrified that, should I surrender myself to the concept of becoming an oak, I might never be "Dan" again. Speaking through or "behind" others became a habit, but the tide may have turned one day in grade school during a "Parents Day" event when I was asked a solution to some odd numbers problem. Afraid to give the wrong answer, I said, "I agree with (insert name of kid who had been asked previously and didn't have the right answer either)," which struck the parents in the room as being incredibly funny. Nothing like being laughed at by adults in front of your peers and your own parents to make you feel so small you wouldn't be picked up by an electron microscope. As I recall, my father took some action at this point and got me focused on my arithmetic, but the real result I think was my realization that this strategy of hiding behind others was doomed to failure, particularly if you choose people who are bad at math. Today, I am a self-actualized, confident, bon vivant and writer who never met a camera he didn't like, so yes, one can face shame and humiliation as a youngster and yet still rise to celebrity heights...at least in his own mind!"

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Fail Safe

The Lost Lenore seems to have been lost from the pages of the New York Sun as she's been so dang busy with her new book, FREE RANGE KIDS, soon to be hitting shelves o'er the land from the good people at Wiley publishing. Anyway, her most recent query asked for anecdotes about failure...the point being that yes, little Jimmy can fail a quiz or strike out in his Little League game and it doesn't mean he needs to have a private tutor and a sports psychologist. You can fail and still learn something and turn out fine. So, here's what I had to say on the subject (she loved it, as per usual...!)
"When I was in the fourth grade, one quarter, I got a "D" in a particular class. You have to understand, I didn't (don't) get "Ds." I was the fat kid/last kid-picked-for-dodge ball, so I had no self-worth whatsoever, since it became clear to me, from watching the daily vignettes from LORD OF THE FLIES in public grade school, that a person was deemed worthy based on either their physical prowess (I had none) or their mental prowess (good grades). To be fat AND stupid, well, I should just jump off the roof of the school and be done with it. So I was thoroughly upset, panicked, etc. I talked to my Dad about it, and seeing that it was of a concern to me, we both met with Mrs. Hunt, the teacher, and the culprit seemed to be my lack of understanding of how a battery works. To this day, I remain mechanically uninclined (I've been a competitive fencer for 22 years and still have NO idea how to rewire my electrical weapons, nor do I want to learn), but anyway, I was assured that this poor grade was not the end of the world and if I gave this battery thing another shot, I'd be fine. I did, somehow managed to get my mind around the idea of volts and currents or whatever, and got a better grade. Evidently, it must have had an impact on me as I still remember this 37 years later. I learned that I could "fail," or at least get a bad grade and (1) still have worth (2) still be loved by my parents (3) and that there is, in fact, something I could do about my situation. I think as children, we think that if we make a mistake it is irrevocable, that there's no hope, all is lost, woe is me (at least kids who grew up in the 60s and 70s; today's kids are likely to contact their lawyer and start a class action suit against the teacher who gave them the poor grade, but anyway...). You might say my failure taught me EMPOWERMENT. Like Alfred told Bruce Wayne, "We fall, so we that we learn to pick ourselves up." And there it is...

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Why do women DO that?

The Lost Lenore and her pal, Lance, are writing an article for Reader's Digest looking at why women do some of the very odd things that they do...I was asked to give my erudite and experienced input into the cobwebby labryinth which is the mind of the Typical Female...Read, chuckle, and nod in silent approval...

- Why do so many women own so many pairs of shoes in general?

I've asked women this question. They stare blankly into space for a moment as the gerbil gets a claw caught in the spinning wheel in their heads, and the response is usually one of three theories: (1) I don't know (2) Because I'm a woman and (3) It has something to do with SEX AND THE CITY.

- Why do so many women watch the Lifetime channel? I know very intelligent women who watch some of the sappiest movies I've ever seen. Is it a guilty pleasure?

I believe women watch the LIFETIME Channel because they want to make sure that Valerie Bertinelli and Victoria Principal stay gainfully employed and don't end up homeless.

- Why do so many women like Oprah?

Because all women want to BE Oprah. Rich, the center of attention (there's something odd about a woman who has her own magazine and puts herself on every single cover), a medical staff the size of Sloan-Kettering's at their beckon call, uberempowered, and at the same time, sensitive to the needy (let's give everyone in Ethiopia a new Pontiac!) generous to a fault (let's give everyone in the studio audience a new Pontiac!), but business savvy (let's get a new advertising contract going with Pontiac!)

- Why do so many women defend egotistical men, claiming they're
"insecure"?

Because women are insecure. If women admitted that the men they were attracted to were egotistical louts it would make them appear either shallow, stupid, or inherently defective (i.e. do women have a natural tendency to be attracted to egotistical louts), so they must defend these men so they themselves don't look bad.

- What's up with those twenty-pound purses? Do you really need all that stuff? I've taken less stuff camping for a weekend than many women take to work every day.

A woman is creature that wants what it wants when it wants it. And wants to look GOOOOOOOOD doing it. So that requires either a contract with Local 360 Teamsters Union to come out and do facial/body reparations every 15 minutes or an arsenal of assorted cosmetic and feminine products and devices (that thing they use on their eyelashes looks like some form of medieval torture device to me) which must be kept in complete disarray in a leather sack the size of a cow's udder and worth twice the GNP of Somalia.

- What do so many women have against beer?

Beer is masculine. It involves things like "hops" which women haven't a clue about, and usually sports as the vast majority of beer is consumed while watching Monday Night Football and just about anything on ESPN. Wine on the other hand is French, and therefore, feminine.

- Why do women ask so many questions? Maybe it's just me, but it
seems like many relationships have dialogues like this: "What time
does the party start?" "I don't know." "Will Joe and Jill be
there?" "I don't know." "Will there be food?" "I don't know." Are
you just naturally curious, or is there some higher
purpose/ulterior motive to all those questions?

Women are constantly afraid of being judged and found LACKING. Lacking in terms of their physical appeal, their mental prowess, whatever. It's a Western Society thing. Women are made to feel from the time they begin to toddle about that their main appeal is their appearance and one gets one's sense of beauty not from within, but from without. What do my friends and colleagues think about my new hairstyle? My new shoes? My new clothes? My new boyfriend? This puts a great deal of pressure on the typical female who therefore requires as much intelligence and reconnaissance as possible about every outing and venture in which they may take part. This allows them to prepare. WHAT TIME DOES THE PARTY START gives them the information they need regards how many hours, minutes, seconds, they have to shower, do their makeup, call in Local 360 of the Teamsters union, etc. WILL JOE AND JILL BE THERE? This may be her favorite couple...or likely, least favorite, the ones who are most likely to be in judgment about her, about her husband, etc. WILL THERE BE FOOD? Women are always interested in food so they can be sure to avoid it. It's their eternal hope, but it is never fulfilled as ultimately no woman has any defense against anything that contains chocolate, sugar, and carbohydrates.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

A-Rod, Madonna & Me

This time, Lenore solicited me for my thoughts about the whole A-Rod, Madonna, has-she-brainwashed-him-with-Kabalah (which isn't a Jewish laundry detergent btw) scenario. So first, here's my full response, followed by a link to Lenore's article in the NEW YORK SUN:

"Lenore: Deep A-Rod/Kabalah/Madonna thoughts? Isn't that a contradiction in terms? First off, I knew nothing about this, but did a google search, read some people's blog comments and have come to the conclusion that that this all a pathetic attempt at getting attention (whose attempt you ask? All of'em) and for C-Rod to lay the groundwork for any divorce or court proceedings. Beyond that, the real culprit here, the one that set the stage for this fiasco, is, of course....
George Steinbrenner.
A-Rod was a nice guy playing for Texas until he was seduced by Darth Sidious, I mean, George Steinbrenner, and joined the Evil Empire, and I'm not talking the former Soviet Union or WAL-MART. A few seasons of playing in pinstripes, and the guy is shirking his fatherly duties to hang out with a woman who receives AARP magazine and takes Centrum Silver. He's clearly been brainwashed, but not by Kabalah, which he probably thinks is some kind of kosher cereal.
There's really only one thing to do--an Intervention, whereby A-Rod can be turned from the dark side and embrace the sanity of another baseball team, like, I don't know...the Orioles. I mean, we need some help here. Any team that has Kevin Millar batting cleanup is in TROUBLE."

http://www.nysun.com/opinion/like-a-prayer-a-rod/81417/

Monday, June 2, 2008

Of Pantsuits & Dead Designers

This time, the lost Lenore is musing on the passing of fashion designer Yves St. Laurent and that famed sartorial invention, the pant suit. Is this good, bad or ugly...the pant suit that is? What about Hillary Clinton and all her myriad pant suits? Is there a political agenda here? What say ye?

So here's what me-ye says:

"Dear Lenore: Not to disrespect the dead, but when I read your PROFNET query, an old joke came to mind. "He's so dumb he thinks Yves St. Laurent is the day before St. Laurent!" That is my one and only Yves St. Laurent joke. I didn't know the guy invented the pant suit. I mean, women were in fact wearing pants long before the day before St. Laurent came along. Just look at pix of women throughout history. I recall pix of Amelia Earhardt wearing pants. She was, of course, an Aviatrix which is not something you're supposed to ask your doctor about (if you have herpes...Aviatrix will not stop the spread of HIV...Do not take Aviatrix if you are allergic to eggs, walnuts, early 20th century biplanes or large bodies of water including oceans).
As a man, I want it to be known now and for the record that I am not intimidated by women who wear pantsuits. If a woman has a great body, it'll look good in anything, including a navy blue polyester pantsuit complete with oversized white satin bow blouse, the official 1985 officewear of women in the United States at the time I first entered the workforce.
Political repercussions? Nah. People are used to seeing women in pantsuits. In fact, they expect it. Hillary Clinton campaigning in a DRESS? How would that play in Peoria? Sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, Madame President Hillary Clinton is late, she got a run in he pantyhose and can't be seen in public that way, lest the Axis of Evil divine from this run, this veritable Grand Canyon divide of nylon threads, a sign of weakness, the inability to unify her constituency, her lack of attention to detail, and the fact that she has eczema and the heartbreak of psoriasis.
Whatevs.
There's nothing mannish about a pantsuit (unless you're Tilda Swinton). I think we've gone beyond that now. It's not the pants, it's the man or woman wearing the pants.
Now if Obama or McCain show up a rally wearing a miniskirt, that's a fashion statement NOT for immediate release..."

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Pricey Proms

This week, the lost Lenore of the New York Sun is writing a column about how proms are becoming more like weddings in terms of the cost and hoopla involved as parents may pay "$600, $700 even $1000" for prom "fixin's", girls getting their makeup "done" etc. So, as a man who never went to any prom as I was too busy becoming an obese, society-shunning reclusive hermit in my adolescent years, I thought I would now offer my own perspective...

"Actually, I've heard tell of parents paying a heckuva lot more than $600-$1000 for prom and it's "fixin's" not to sound too much like the condiment section at the Burger King (for men, "fixin's" are raw onions, relish, and nacho cheese sauce). Nowadays, prom goers expect limonsines, and they're going to cost you several hundred right there; I've even heard tell of kids getting helicopter rides, and now you're into the thousands.

To answer your question, "do high school girls really need their make up 'done'", no, in fact, they don't NEED ANY of this stuff, but it's all part of the rite of passage from child to adult...of course, if you really want to instill this rite of passage into your teens, I'd suggest having them PAY for it as I've found a huge part of growing up is paying bills. Actually, maybe there's an idea there. Just like parents will have Christmas credit union accounts where they have money put away throughout the year to pay for their holiday gifts, parents can work with kids to have them do the same thing for prom. Year before, kid gets a summer job, save the money for prom. Maybe Mom and Dad, ala corporate 401ks, can offer a 50% match. Personally, I've always found that I've enjoyed things I worked for and truly earned than gifts that were just given to me. Ultimately, the kids may find they enjoy the prom alot more when they know they've earned the money to enjoy it. Of course, kids may say they've earned it through their grades, but again, reality check time. School work is to "real life work" the way climbing Mt. Everest in a video game is to ACTUALLY CLIMBING EVEREST. Just a wii bit of difference there. Pun intended."

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

summer memories

Dear friend Lenore has a wonderful column now online at the New York Sun regarding people's personal "summer memories"...including one of Yours Truly. Check it out at
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/as-salamanders-waddle/78628/

She had to edit, of course, so here's my submission regarding her "Everything I need to know I learned in summer" in its entirety:

How about a near death experience?
It was summertime, I was 7, and Clyde was eating a hot dog.
Clyde was the family English setter, a dog that had absolutely no business taking up residence in a little rowhouse in Baltimore City with a backyard about as long and wide as your typical comic strip (i.e. TINY). English setters live to RUN and so Clyde had turned our once quaint wee patch of urban green into Hiroshima after the bomb.
Anyway, about the hot dog.
Clyde was white with black spots and splotches, strategically placed on his furry face that, with the hot dog lodged in one side of his mouth, made him look like a canine Groucho Marx.
Being a budding journalist and writer, I instinctively spotted a photo opp, and dashed about seeking a camera with film in it to capture the Kodak moment.
When I could find none, I was left with nothing to do but to pat my pooch on the head and head in for the evening after a day's summer play.
Unfortunately, Clyde had other ideas.
Personally, I blame Lorne Greene, remember him? After Lorne got kicked off the Ponderosa, he found himself in sent to TV purgatory otherwise known as Alpo commercials.
"Ol' Rex here really knows a good meal when he sees it," Lorne would say, rubbing his gnarled hand over some German shepherd's head as the dog's face violated a heaping bowl of Alpo dog food.
Of course, we now know it is a BAD, BAD, BAD DOG idea to touch a dog, particularly around the head/mouth when it is EATING.
Clyde mistook my head pat as a attempt to steal away is ballpark frank and like a drunken, angry Yankee fan (granted that's all a redundancy), attacked me.
Clyde hit me with full force, knocking me against one of two metal poles where my mother would sometimes hang summer wash when she didn't feel like tackling the Manhatten Project which were the family washing and drying machines (that's another story).
I remember things went fuzzy, like looking through wax paper. Luckily for me, I was blessed with a big bulbous head which made a much more easily accessible target than did my throat, otherwise some other PR guy would be writing this response to your PROFNET.
Clyde gnawed my head for awhile until some neighbor interceded. When all was said and done, I received a free ambulance ride (I remember wondering why I didn't feel any pain...they told me in the ambo that I was in shock...and kept thinking to myself, "Thank God for shock, thank God for shock, I LIKE shock!) and 36 stitches in the back of my head (and these were the days before dissolvable stitches...docs sewed you up with good old fashioned CATGUT boyhowdy...which, I have to tell you, is a real JOY to have to have removed...NOT).
For sometime after, everytime I had a summertime haircut, my father would tell the barber, "Not too much off the back. The scars will show."
So, at the ripe old age of 7, I learned about spectre of DEATH and BETRAYAL. As a high school student, I would write an essay about this experience, wherein I attributed it as a major factor in what path my life would take in ensuing years. Up to the Clyde incident I was a pretty active kid and pretty much a B's and C's student. After Clyde, I stopped going outdoors nearly as much, began cultivating a rich inner life (and rich diet), becoming the fat kid-last-kid-picked-for-dodge-ball, an afterschool special starring Bert Convy and Gary Coleman. My grades went from B's and C's to mostly A's and my fate as a pseudointellectual writer instead of a construction worker were sealed.
So that's my summer memory.
Oh, as for Clyde? Story goes my Dad gave him away to man who trained hunting dogs. Personally, I think it was just a prison break. Clyde got out of his tiny suburban prison and likely spent his days running, running, running over hills and dales, like Snoopy was always urged to do, chasing rabbits...

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Beach Etiquette. Just DON'T.

A reporter from a major Delaware daily asks, "What are the do's and don'ts of sunbathing? How close is too close for towels and blankets? How loud should a radio be? If you're close to someone, do you drink? Smoke? What do you do with your trash? And, what about kids?"

My response:

Unless you're a supermodel (being one in your own mind doesn't count), there are no "Do's" when it comes to sunbathing. Just don'ts. As in PLEASE DON'T...Don't subject us to your tired and poor cellulite, your huddled masses of flab that have been yearning to breathe free after a long winter, the wretched refuse of your bursting sans-a-belts. And if you need to dress like Marlon Brando in THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU (muumuu, oversized panama hat, mercury oxide that looks like you've dusted yourself in Bisquick), also DON'T. Regarding distance between towels and blankets, it's not the towels and blankets that are at issue, it's the people lying ON the towels and blankets. Generally, if I can hear the guy next to me breathing, they're too close. Regarding radio loudness (and nowadays, let's add portable TVs and DVD players, cell phone ringtones), these devices should be like children from the 1920s--seen, but not heard. I'm trying to relax. I don't want to hear the primal screams of RED SOX NATION on the radio. Drinking, again, depends on who is next to me. If it's the guy listening to the Red Sux, chances are he's already too drunk out of his mind to care. Smoke? I thought they hung people now for public smoking. Trash? Isn't that what the ocean is for? Kidding, kidding, I'm as a green as the next man (provided the next man is a 1980s lobbyist for Big Oil). Kids? What kids go to the beach? Are there malls there? Personally, I've never understood the allure of the beach anyway. It's hot, the sand gets into everything, you burn your soles trying to walk on it, and sharks attack within two feet of water so forget that. Maybe that's the best advice when it comes to the beach. Just DON'T.

Monday, May 5, 2008

AN IMPERFECT MOTHER'S DAY?

For Mother's Day, my friend New York Sun columnist Lenore is seeking "a day of no advice to mothers! You too? That's what I'm writing about today: the fact that moms are expected to do everything perfectly right, and there are tons of books and magazine articles telling us precisely how to do that. And, of course, there are things to buy to "help" too -- like a thermometer to make sure baby's water isn't too hot. Can't we just feel it? If it makes us scream -- adjust the temp! And then there was a magazine article I read the other day -- four pages on "Taking your child out for a day in the sun." (Not really a whole day, of course, because the sun's rays are far too damaging in the middle of the afternoon.) How did we get to this point where moms are buffeted by so much advice and castigated for not peeling the grapes and finding lots of "teachable moments"?"

So, here's my response:

Dear Lenore: Well, your question is but the tip of the cliched iceberg. It is not merely mothers, but all of us who are inundated with the things we should buy to be healthy, wealthy and wise, the books we should read for better, more balanced lives, the classes we should take for inner peace and moral understanding, the car we should drive that doesn't pollute the environment and drive up gas prices, the music we should listen to that will raise money for the starving children in Somalia or east Philly, and on and on and on. What you are witnessing is actually the work of PR pioneer Ed Bernays. The way to sell things is to connect them to some emotional need and moral cause. You want to be a better person, right? You want the planet to be evergreen, right? You want to be a wise, loving, caring, smart, top of the line model Mom, right? Then...buy this book. Buy this hybrid car. Listen to these CDs. Connecting a product with a cause and also with an important emotional response--a sense of well-being, of responsibility, what have you--is a great way to sell said product. It's horrible, yes, but without it, capitalism would have gone the way of communism a long time ago. If we purchased, each, according to our needs, we'd stop buying. I mean, no Mom really needs that CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE MOMMY'S SOUL 4-disk set you can listen to in your car. As you note, you don't really need that baby water thermometer. But you want to show that you're a good Mom and since Jayne Seymour is using one of these things in the cover story of this month's REDBOOK, why hell, you gotta go out and get one lest you be considered a modern day Medea. It all started in the 1920s with Bernays, that's how we got to this point. And no, you can't have an imperfect Mother's Day because that would drive down sales and as you know, the best way to boost our economy is to go take President Bush's tax rebate and buy yourself a baby thermometer, a copy of THE JOY OF COOKING and box of Russell Stover chocolates. Happy Mother's Day.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

ON YOUR OWN AT BLOOMIE'S

Fellow scribe Lenore Skenazy is writing a column this week about how she left her 9 year old at the perfume counter at Bloomingdale's in Manhatten to fulfill his wish to make his way home on his own like an adult. She thought this was fine, but others thought it tantamount to child abuse. So, here's what I think...

Lenore: "New York City is as safe as it was in 1963." Why 1963? Is that when Batman finally got the Joker off the streets? I mean, there's a lot of nasty supervillains roaming Gotham's dark, drippy alleys you know--The Riddler, The Penguin, George Steinbrenner. Next thing you know, your poor kid has been whisked away to be trained as a bemasked Henchman, striped-shirt cannon fodder for the Dynamic Duo. BIFF-POW-BAM, I mean, it's hard for your average Henchman to get a decent medical coverage nowadays...
But seriously folks, the issue is how are we defining "kid." Perhaps the eyebrows would not be so raised if your son were 12 or 13. So long as you're in single-digit territory, there may very well be a good reason to be concerned. Heck, some 12 year olds are bigger than I am, they're physically imposing, i.e. not going to be easily whisked away to slave away in the Yankees farm system.
Of course, you're in Manhattan. In Baltimore, leave the kid alone for five minutes, chances are he'll end up with an STD and a corruption charge against him.
Then again, you might be guilty of child endangerment just by leaving your son at the perfume counter. Without an adult to protect him, he might be spritzed beyond recognition as a swarm of Bloomie's perfume workers hit him from every side with shots of ETERNITY FOR MEN, ARAMIS and the latest concoction from Calvin Klein...

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Too Sexy?

This time, the lost Lenore inquires, "Victoria's Secret...now too sexy?"
Me reply:
Dubbed the "poor man's Playboy," Victoria's Secret is not too sexy, not in today's anything-goes world where you can see--on basic cable--a woman give a man "digital" satisfaction (BREAKING BAD is the show) and where on "regular" TV, a bare butt or bare nearly anything is considered family viewing. Asking if VICTORIA's SECRET is too sexy is like asking are the Montgomery Wards/Sears bra ads too sexy, i.e. it's old school, old world, just plain old. Better question is, who even CARES about Victoria's Secret anymore? My guess is this "too sexy" business and the new line Victoria's Secret is now touting is more than likely a publicity stunt to give their tired line some attention. I'm reminded of a line from the movie, INHERIT THE WIND, where Gene Kelly, playing the H.L. Mencken role, says of "Matthew Harrison Brady" (William Jennings Bryan), "How do you write an obituary for a man who has already been dead for 20 years?" Victoria's Secret has been dead since the early 90s. The internet and cable killed it. It just doesn't know it yet.

Believe it Or Not, it's a (Guiness) Record!

Recently, pal Lenore of the NEW YORK SUN put out an APB for insights to this question:
"Why do kids LOVE Ripley's Believe It or Not and The Guiness Book of World Records so much?"
Here's my response:
When I was in the 6th grade, I won a trip to Washington, D.C., and while I was there, picked up my first paperback copy of the GUINNESS WORLD BOOK OF RECORDS. I was hooked. I used to pick up a copy every year. Then I got a life. But anyway, while I was still a fat, nerdy kid, I loved GUINNESS because, I think, there's something hardwired into human nature that makes us love anything that's EXTREME...the fattest guy (I can still see the pix in my book of this 3,000 pound dude and the piano case they had to bury him in) to the world's worst miser (Henrietta Green, turn of the Century, Victoria era type lady who was worth millions but saved soap scraps in a tin and had her son lose his leg because she spent too much time trying to find a free clinic). Besides, kids love things that are goopy and weird and odd (just watch 10 minutes of NICKELODEON, seems every other program involves kids being dumped in green glop) and I think that comes from the fact that kids are particularly intune with what is DIFFERENT. This is why kids who wear glasses or don't wear the "right clothes" get picked on. GUINNESS and RIPLEY's take differences to the extreme so it's a veritable kids' playground.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Not Remotely Understanding the Remote

This week, the lost Lenore of the New York Sun is working on a column about her befuddlement when it comes to navigating her TV remote. So, here's what I got to say about all that...

Personally, I'm not much of a Jay Leno fan and my interest in Letterman waned after the 80s (they're all DINOSAURS now, have you noticed?), but anyway, I do recall Leno telling a good story about his parents (whom he often mined for some of his best material) and the TV remote. Seems they were still bothering to change channels by hand, which totally mystified Jay. "Why don't you use the remote?" he asked. "Well," his mother replied, "We wouldn't want to wear down the batteries." "Wear down the batteries? In a remote? Here, here's $10, you'll have working batteries til the Rapture," or something to that effect, but Momma Leno was undaunted. "Oh, I don't like to use a remote. It might...might cause a fire." "MA," Leno lamented, "it's not a PHASER. If you miss the TV you're not going to blowup the vase," he said.

I found this humorous. That's as far as me and Leno go.

Beyond that, well, my pet peeve is universal remotes. You see these things ensconsced in plastic at the checkout line of every Target, Giant, Rite Aid and I have never divined just how any of them work. You bring them home and they universally don't work on anything. Maybe that's what is meant by universal remote. Universally ineffective. Personally, I think people (well, us old school dinosaurs who owned Texas Instruments calculators and played PONG when it first came out, and thought both were the zenith of COOL) approach their multi-functional remotes the same way they approach their multi-function cell phones. With the phone, you know you can program in people's numbers, but you can't figure it out, so you just punch in the numbers. You might be bright enough to text message. That's about it. You keep hitting the PHOTO button accidently and have now managed to fill up your phone with 4,239 weird angle shots of your office desk, car dashboard and assorted floors. Same thing with the remote. You know about the power switch and the button that maybe turns on your TV's DVD player, but you've given up trying to figure which combination of buttons always you to set up the TIMER RECORD so you don't have to stay up til midnight Sunday night watching ROBOT CHICKEN when you really need your 8 hours sleep. I know sometimes I hit a button and suddenly my TV screen has all this, this STUFF up on it, with strange symbols and markings that are either ancient hieroglyphics or have something to do with setting my picture color tone. Since I don't know what combination of buttons clears the screen and watching Sam Waterson berate some sleazeball defendant on LAW AND ORDER through all the orange and green glyphs gets annoying, I just turn the TV off (that button I can find) and read a book and that generally takes care of it.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

This week, Lenore is cooking up a Super Bowl oriented column for the New York Sun, this time looking at typical Super Bowl party foods--in this case, chili, dip, and buffalo wings. Why these items? And are there new foods on the horizon? So here's what I sez, I sez...

Football is a sport that's typically reaching its zenith about the time the thermometer is reaching its nadir, which means its cooollllllllllldddddddddd outside and even if we are in our nice, temperature controlled 72 degree homes, we feel the chill in our Super Bowl spirit, and thus partake in foods that are hearty, stick to your coronary arteries, like chili and assorted cheese dips. Plus, chili is rugged. There's nothing foo-foo (or is it frou-frou? who knew?) about clumps of cooked cow meat, tongue searing sauces and beans. Yes, that's right, BEANS. We've all seen that scene in BLAZING SADDLES, you can't get more testoteroni than that. Buffalo wings were conceived in dark recesses of a sports bar so people are used to eating them while watching Keith JACK-son talk about them "big hosses" of the CRIMSON TIDE, so football is part of buffalo wings BBQ-DNA. Is there another food or drink on the rise? Yes. The Chili-Cheese Casserole, served with tortilla chips. Yes, it's the incredible twoheaded transplant, where CHILI and DIP become ONE. Ohhh, Nelly, I tellya, it's a BARNBURNER!
P.S. Be sure to visit www.examiner.com and click on BALTIMORE edition this Super Bowl weekend to check out my Super Bowl "SINGLE IN THE CITY" column!

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Mets, Jets, and Giants, Oh My

Dear friend Lenore is writing a column this week for the NEW YORK SUN about what people think about the Jets, the Jets vs. the Giants, the Jets/Mets connection, and other things that New Yorkers want to read about since their team is inexplicably in the Super Bowl this year. So even though the sports scene in New York is about as important to me as the intracacies of insurance law (i.e. NOT AT ALL), I had to reply...

As a native of Baltimore, I hold within my genetic makeup a dark, unrelenting hatred of the Jets, given what Broadway Joe and his team did to our beloved Colts and all-but-elected-to-sainthood JohnnyU, aka Johnny Unitas in that famed Super Bowl of January 12, 1969...Super Bowl III...when Joe Namath, appearing at the Miami Touchdown Club, guaranteed a victory for New York.
Yuck. Ouch. Shudder.
Now how a playboy who would be remembered by more people for appearing in a pantyhose commercial IN PANTYHOSE than for his exploits on the gridiron, how this pot-sparkler (just invented that term...substitute "flash in the pan") beat the Great Unitas, well, it's beyond human comprehension.
So, I could give a rat's intercourse about the Jets. I like the Giants a lot more. One, they had the good manners to lose to our Baltimore Ravens (YEAAA, RAVENS, GO BALTIMORE, GOD BLESS CHARM CITY AND EVERYBODY ELSE CAN GO TO HELL!) in Super Bowl XXXV, many thanks Giants. Second, because I like this Eli Manning. Nice kid. Class act. Having had an older brother myself, I know about the whole sibling rivalry thing and it would be neat if Eli could out do brother Peyton and bring home that shiny trophy this Sunday. Two Super Bowls in the same family, a neat trick. Of course, that would spoil the first ever perfect season in the NFL, 19-0 with a Super Bowl for the Patriots, that would be neat too. So I wouldn't mind if the Patriots won. Either way I'm happy on Sunday.
The Mets/Jets connection? Easy. The names rhyme. That makes New Yorkers smile and laugh alot. You can get the same reaction by dangling keys in front of most New Yorkers. You can have your typical Yankee fan laughing for weeks with the whole "gotchya nose" bit.
Hint: Baltimoreans don't like New Yorkers. It's more baseball-oriented hatred though. If I need to explain it, you'll never understand. I mean, who can be a YANKEE fan? It's like cheering Goliath or the Germans when they invaded Poland. I mean, COME ON...
I know this probably doesn't help you, but I thought I'd share. We do that in Baltimore. More often we're sharing STDS or gunfire, but that's Bawlmer, hon...

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Okay, Lenore is writing a column for Verizonsurround.com's Newsroom (http://dslstart.verizon.net/ about what's the dealydeal with all these celebrities being pregnant and how we're all being inundated with it so that we know more about Britney Spears' life than we do our own. So, here's what I had to say...

My dear misguided Lenore. It is not that WE, if we are defining WE as the general public, that is so fascinated by celebrities' pregnancies, it is why are MAGAZINE EDITORS so fascinated with celebrities' pregnancies? Can't a single issue of US or ALL YOU or ME or ME MYSELF AND IRENE come out without some alcoholic, straggly blonde haired 20something socalledcelebrity stumbling out of or into rehab clutching a baby upside down by the foot, adorning their glossy front cover? Evidently not. Do these magazines and entertainment programs run these stories because they think we care or is it that we care because we're constantly being bombarded with these stories? It's that chicken or the egg thing...which the magazines would cover to let us know that the chicken was unmarried and high when the rooster came calling and will be there when the egg hatches to report that the chick inside was born addicted to crack. Anyway, it's a theory. Otherwise, I think people are just fascinated by the fact that CELEBRITIES CAN BREED TOO. It makes them just a thimbleful more human, and by making them human, we can relate to them. So when Eunice in the trailer park with 57 kids and another 29 on the way tunes in and sees Britney Spears with a baby in one hand and a Budweiser in the other, she can sigh and say, DAMMIT CLETUS, I TOLD YOU TO STOP A'HITTIN' YO SISTER WITH YOUR DADDY'S RIFLE! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WATCHIN' MY STORIES ON DA TV! Yes, Eunice and Britney share a common bond, and that's why we care.
Again, it's a theory.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Taken Out of Context

This week, Lenore of the New York Sun is writing a column for tomorrow, Jan. 15th, about how statements by political candidates are being taken out of context and blownup up into pretty explosion of hoopla designed to help or hurt a candidate's chances for election. Like that whole Quayle-potatoe scenario. As for my two cents, well, that's what the media does. Forget PR, we folks got NOTHIN' on the media when it comes to spin. Of course, we're expected to rotate like a 45 LP, it's what we DO, but the media, well, they're supposed to be unbiased and just REPORT. But that can make for boring news, and besides, there are so many outlets now and so few real reporters left those who aren't running our VNRs as their own news packages find themselves pressed to MAKE news. One editor with a large metropolitan daily that shall remain nameless once told me that he and his colleagues had no interest in educating the public. "We're here to stir controversy," he said. Strange, I thought their job was to tell the truth, or at least a reasonable facsimilie thereof. Personally, I think if we got rid of private programming tomorrow, went completely federal-funded, i.e. everybody but PBS off the air, this would stop immediately. But we all know THAT isn't ever going to happen, so the media will continue to take things out of context because it gets everybody riled up and gives people things to blog about, talk in bars about, waste time in the office chatting about, and, so the media hopes, continuing to read their newspaper or watch their news program or listen to their radio talk show. We've stepped back in time to the 1800s, the days of Horace Greeley and yellow journalism where newspapers (which was the media back then) had no qualms about being aligned to particular parties, candidates, and causes. There is very little NEWS any more. It's really all OPINION. And so it goes...

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

There's No Crying in Politics

Now back from the holidays, Lenore is taking on the issue of Hillary Clinton and her recent crying jag. Is all the controversy because she's a woman? Or because she reminds people of their demanding mother, and people just don't want to cop to this? Well, here was my response...
First, I think you're dead wrong. People are MORE than willing to cop to their prejudice against older, female, empowered public figures who want to be President of the United States. In fact, people love to hate'em and are more than willing to say so in blogs, in 7-second soundbites on the CBS EVENING NEWS, in specially created MYSPACE pages and by aspiring Spielbergs on YOUTUBE. Unless you're 20something and subscribe to WIRED magazine, you're fair game. "Don't trust anyone over 30, especially if they're running for political office," should be the saying. However, I debate whether the public reaction to this whole Hillary-crying thing is somehow misogynistic...misogynetic?...I like Miso soup...um, against women. Remember all the hoohah about Edmund Muskie's waterworks back in the Reagan years? Got him booted right out of politics. Male, female, doesn't matter. It's like that line from A LEAGUE OF THEIR OWN: "Are you crying?" Tom Hanks' character asks one of his girl-ballplayers. "There's no crying in baseball!" Or in politics. Crying means you are weak, or worse yet, swayed by your emotions which, as we know, is a bad thing to be when you've got access to that little black briefcase with the big red nuclear-exchange-Armageddon button. That makes voters...nervous. Anyway, as a PR professional of 24 years, I can say that I think Hillary's problem isn't that she reminds people of their Mom or that she's a woman or that she cried or that she's old...or older. It's that she's not genuine. There's something very ORCHESTRATED about her...these interviews where she tries just a little too hard to loosen up. It's like, hey, I'm a woman, I'm okay with laughing and crying and being in touch with my feelings but at the same time, being a disciplined, hard working professional, so take notice, I'm a human being but I can get the job done and I have real emotions and you should appreciate all this about me because it means I'm a good, normal person who is worthy of your vote. It's just a bit, well, FAKE. One senses she just wants all the CRAP that's involved with becoming President--having to actually TALK to people and coo at babies--to get the $**%#@ over with so she can claim her birthright to the American Throne, I mean, Presidency. Obama on the otherhand, comes off, if anything, as GENUINE. And people like that. As the late great George Burns once quipped, "Sincerity is everything. If you can fake that, you got it made." Hillary needs sincerity lessons. And so it goes...
As for me, well, if I had a bumper sticker it would say, "DON'T BLAME ME, I VOTED FOR MICHAEL BEDNARIK." And if you know who he is, you win a cookie.