I have not made any New Year’s resolutions since January 1, 1987, when I vowed I wouldn’t do that anymore.
That also was the year we (my fellow DJ and I) hosted a Live New Year’s Party at WMOR Radio in Morehead, Kentucky. We didn’t do a live remote from a bar or ballroom, but instead (for budgetary concerns) we had about 25 people in the hallway outside the booth, mostly friends from high school home on Christmas break. I’m not entirely sure, but I believe there was alcohol involved.
This is what happens when you turn over a radio station to two 19-year olds.
Anyway, we did a countdown of the top 50 songs of the year with a big “Auld Lang Syne” singalong at the end in the booth. We planned out the evening perfectly, with the #1 song being played right after the midnight sing.
About ten before midnight, our friends came in the booth from the hallway and we sang. We celebrated for a few minutes more, then told our friends they had to leave. FCC regulations and all, we explained. And Jim (the boss) might be listening. After they left, we congratulated ourselves for timing everything out so perfectly.
For a little while…
About quarter after twelve, it occurred to us that we hadn’t played any commercials during the evening. This is a somewhat important part of the radio business, I’m told.
We played thirty of them in a row, hosed down the bathrooms and left.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
I know the words to "Come on Eileen"...
VH1’s Top 100 Songs of the 80’s was on TV last night. At the same time, the American Movie Channel had the Top 100 Movies of the last 100 years. I couldn't look away.
It seems everyone has a countdown of some sort. Well, why not me? For the next couple of weeks, I’m going to countdown some things.
Here’s the lineup I’m considering:
Top 10 Movies I Tell My Wife I’ve Already Seen So We Won’t Rent Them
Top 10 Times I’ve Almost Peed My Pants
Top 10 Light Bulb Wattages
Top 10 Things I’ve Forgotten to Buy at the Grocery Store
Top 10 Women/Girls I Almost Asked Out
Top 10 Months of the Year
Top 10 Songs I Sing without Really Knowing the Words
Top 10 Pairs of Sunglasses I’ve Lost
Top 10 Substances I’ve Gotten Stuck to My Shoe
I can’t wait to get started.
And in case you are wondering…Livin’ on a Prayer and Casablanca
It seems everyone has a countdown of some sort. Well, why not me? For the next couple of weeks, I’m going to countdown some things.
Here’s the lineup I’m considering:
Top 10 Movies I Tell My Wife I’ve Already Seen So We Won’t Rent Them
Top 10 Times I’ve Almost Peed My Pants
Top 10 Light Bulb Wattages
Top 10 Things I’ve Forgotten to Buy at the Grocery Store
Top 10 Women/Girls I Almost Asked Out
Top 10 Months of the Year
Top 10 Songs I Sing without Really Knowing the Words
Top 10 Pairs of Sunglasses I’ve Lost
Top 10 Substances I’ve Gotten Stuck to My Shoe
I can’t wait to get started.
And in case you are wondering…Livin’ on a Prayer and Casablanca
Friday, December 28, 2007
I, for one, use Expedia...
Ah, travel agents…
They represent people too lazy to get on the internet and book it themselves.
They keep telling me their “client” is very demanding while they demand unreasonable things.
They threaten that the client is going to cancel if he doesn’t get his way. They whine. They threaten. They sometimes alternate between the two in perpetuity.
When they call, before the threats or the whining, they like to tell me they are calling from the United States. Well, congratulations. I didn’t realize they had phones there. Call me from the Artic Circle. Then I’ll be impressed.
Now, I’m not talking about the people who plan trips for large groups. These guys are usually slick, classy and organized. I’ve met a lot of great ones here. They don’t whine. They don’t threaten. They don’t have to.
The people I’m talking about are those who book plane flights and hotel rooms for six people and are convinced they have organized the SALT II Nuclear Peace Talks.
Having said that, I think I’ll call my travel agent. I need my car washed.
They represent people too lazy to get on the internet and book it themselves.
They keep telling me their “client” is very demanding while they demand unreasonable things.
They threaten that the client is going to cancel if he doesn’t get his way. They whine. They threaten. They sometimes alternate between the two in perpetuity.
When they call, before the threats or the whining, they like to tell me they are calling from the United States. Well, congratulations. I didn’t realize they had phones there. Call me from the Artic Circle. Then I’ll be impressed.
Now, I’m not talking about the people who plan trips for large groups. These guys are usually slick, classy and organized. I’ve met a lot of great ones here. They don’t whine. They don’t threaten. They don’t have to.
The people I’m talking about are those who book plane flights and hotel rooms for six people and are convinced they have organized the SALT II Nuclear Peace Talks.
Having said that, I think I’ll call my travel agent. I need my car washed.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The smell of newsprint still makes me ill...
When I was 18 years old and was in-between colleges (waiting for another semester to start), I got a job as the Sports Editor of a bi-weekly newspaper in Morehead, Kentucky. My job, they told me, was to report on all the local sports, both college and high school. Perfect. Right up my alley.
And then they dropped the bomb.
I had to do a Man on the Street interview for each week. I would take a picture of five local citizens and ask them a question, such as, “Do you plan to vote this year?”
My first few weeks featured mostly people I knew. My boss then made a rule I couldn’t use anyone under 25 years old. Then another rule that I couldn’t be related to them. And then he said that I couldn’t give them $10 or offer to wash their car.
So I hung out at the post office, a solitary figure with a notepad and camera stalking people as they came to get their mail. It was pathetic.
For a while I was IN the Post Office, until people complained. Then I was on the front steps of the Post Office until later I moved (involuntarily) to the sidewalk in front of the Post Office. Then I moved to the Trademore Shopping Center out near Interstate 64.
Normal people didn’t want to talk to me. The people that would, well, their answers weren’t all that newsworthy.
Question: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Answer: Well, unless they move this bench, I’ll be right here. You gonna eat all of that banana?
I tried taking photos of people who were from out of town and then making up quotes. “Excuse me sir (or ma’am),” I’d say, “Are you from around here? Well, then can I take photos of you?"
For some reason, this didn’t work either.
The pictures were due Sunday and the copy on Monday morning. The film went into a dropbox. The slot was about three feet above the floor. So one week after killing myself and getting no results, I had an idea. I took the film out of the camera, put the cap on very loosely and dropped it into the box.
“Bad news, DT,” my editor told me. “The film cap popped off when you dropped it in the slot and the photos were ruined. So we’ll do two questions next week.”
Hmm…I hadn’t thought of that.
And then they dropped the bomb.
I had to do a Man on the Street interview for each week. I would take a picture of five local citizens and ask them a question, such as, “Do you plan to vote this year?”
My first few weeks featured mostly people I knew. My boss then made a rule I couldn’t use anyone under 25 years old. Then another rule that I couldn’t be related to them. And then he said that I couldn’t give them $10 or offer to wash their car.
So I hung out at the post office, a solitary figure with a notepad and camera stalking people as they came to get their mail. It was pathetic.
For a while I was IN the Post Office, until people complained. Then I was on the front steps of the Post Office until later I moved (involuntarily) to the sidewalk in front of the Post Office. Then I moved to the Trademore Shopping Center out near Interstate 64.
Normal people didn’t want to talk to me. The people that would, well, their answers weren’t all that newsworthy.
Question: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Answer: Well, unless they move this bench, I’ll be right here. You gonna eat all of that banana?
I tried taking photos of people who were from out of town and then making up quotes. “Excuse me sir (or ma’am),” I’d say, “Are you from around here? Well, then can I take photos of you?"
For some reason, this didn’t work either.
The pictures were due Sunday and the copy on Monday morning. The film went into a dropbox. The slot was about three feet above the floor. So one week after killing myself and getting no results, I had an idea. I took the film out of the camera, put the cap on very loosely and dropped it into the box.
“Bad news, DT,” my editor told me. “The film cap popped off when you dropped it in the slot and the photos were ruined. So we’ll do two questions next week.”
Hmm…I hadn’t thought of that.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
How about a tank of gas?
I used to work at a place where we exchanged gifts at Christmastime.
Well, some of us did.
We would draw numbers. Number one would open a gift. Number two could “steal” number one’s gift or open a new one. A gift could be “stolen” up to three times.
Sadly, most of the people just bought gift certificates for different places. Imagine the joy of opening a $25 gift certificate from Wal-Mart…or the Home Depot. I don’t know if the creative juices weren’t flowing for these people or they were afraid their gift choice would be ridiculed, which did happen every once in a while. But only to me.
This seemed to be an opportunity to have a little fun, to buy something out of the ordinary. The gift would say a lot about the giver. The gift certificate thing to me seemed like giving them a free haircut or a carton of milk.
The first year I thought it was a gag gift exchange. I bought an electric hairbrush. Don’t ask me how it worked, I was afraid to plug it in.
The next year, I had a photo on my wall in the spare bedroom that was a picture of a hole at Pinehurst #2, the famous jewel (kind of like a cubic zirconia) of the Pinehurst, Inc. empire. I don’t know where it came from, but it was there.
Anyway, I wrapped up the photo and took it to the gift exchange. After my unfortunate recipient opened it, I realized that it wasn’t a photo but a page out of a magazine put into a picture frame. You could see the crease in the paper and where the staples were.
Oops. However, it’s still hanging on the wall in his office.
I refused to give in to the gift certificate ground swell, which had engulfed almost the entire office. It was a tough road. I don’t remember what I did for the next few years, except for the year I gave a book in the “Worst Case Scenario” Series and a Leatherman tool. No one saw the irony. Not sure I do anymore either.
Another year, I gave “Magnetic Poetry” for the gift. It’s a bunch of little magnets with words that you can use to string together sentences on your refrigerator. It’s for creative people (who happen to be standing in front of their refrigerator) and I thought I worked with these types. I thought it was a great gift.
However, not so. The blank look on her face after she opened it and the laughter that ensued is still a painful memory.
Unrelated to that, it was my last year with the company. I don’t know what they do now for gift exchange…maybe just trade $20 bills in unmarked envelopes…
Well, some of us did.
We would draw numbers. Number one would open a gift. Number two could “steal” number one’s gift or open a new one. A gift could be “stolen” up to three times.
Sadly, most of the people just bought gift certificates for different places. Imagine the joy of opening a $25 gift certificate from Wal-Mart…or the Home Depot. I don’t know if the creative juices weren’t flowing for these people or they were afraid their gift choice would be ridiculed, which did happen every once in a while. But only to me.
This seemed to be an opportunity to have a little fun, to buy something out of the ordinary. The gift would say a lot about the giver. The gift certificate thing to me seemed like giving them a free haircut or a carton of milk.
The first year I thought it was a gag gift exchange. I bought an electric hairbrush. Don’t ask me how it worked, I was afraid to plug it in.
The next year, I had a photo on my wall in the spare bedroom that was a picture of a hole at Pinehurst #2, the famous jewel (kind of like a cubic zirconia) of the Pinehurst, Inc. empire. I don’t know where it came from, but it was there.
Anyway, I wrapped up the photo and took it to the gift exchange. After my unfortunate recipient opened it, I realized that it wasn’t a photo but a page out of a magazine put into a picture frame. You could see the crease in the paper and where the staples were.
Oops. However, it’s still hanging on the wall in his office.
I refused to give in to the gift certificate ground swell, which had engulfed almost the entire office. It was a tough road. I don’t remember what I did for the next few years, except for the year I gave a book in the “Worst Case Scenario” Series and a Leatherman tool. No one saw the irony. Not sure I do anymore either.
Another year, I gave “Magnetic Poetry” for the gift. It’s a bunch of little magnets with words that you can use to string together sentences on your refrigerator. It’s for creative people (who happen to be standing in front of their refrigerator) and I thought I worked with these types. I thought it was a great gift.
However, not so. The blank look on her face after she opened it and the laughter that ensued is still a painful memory.
Unrelated to that, it was my last year with the company. I don’t know what they do now for gift exchange…maybe just trade $20 bills in unmarked envelopes…
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
In this corner...wearing the huggies...
The first gift Gracie opened was a Doctor’s kit. It had a white box and all kinds of stuff, stethoscope, band-aids, etc.
John thought that looked like fun and that is what Christmas Eve became…a brawl between a relentless, determined 10-month old and what eventually became a wailing, defeated 3-year old.
No matter where Grace went with this thing, John followed. He crawled, he scooted along the furniture, he grabbed and he pulled. It was like he had four hands, snatching and throwing. There were too many things in the kit for her to keep track of all at once.
We opened other gifts for John, but he wasn’t interested at all. He wouldn’t event look at them.
Grace tried to open other gifts, only to have to run back and try to collect her stuff back from John. He screamed and cried. She screamed and cried.
After about 15 minutes, Gracie gave up and sobbed uncontrollably in my arms. All was lost. The assault of the 20-pound boy was complete.
Holli got a pair of shoes. I got snot on my sleeve.
It was the best Christmas yet.
John thought that looked like fun and that is what Christmas Eve became…a brawl between a relentless, determined 10-month old and what eventually became a wailing, defeated 3-year old.
No matter where Grace went with this thing, John followed. He crawled, he scooted along the furniture, he grabbed and he pulled. It was like he had four hands, snatching and throwing. There were too many things in the kit for her to keep track of all at once.
We opened other gifts for John, but he wasn’t interested at all. He wouldn’t event look at them.
Grace tried to open other gifts, only to have to run back and try to collect her stuff back from John. He screamed and cried. She screamed and cried.
After about 15 minutes, Gracie gave up and sobbed uncontrollably in my arms. All was lost. The assault of the 20-pound boy was complete.
Holli got a pair of shoes. I got snot on my sleeve.
It was the best Christmas yet.
Monday, December 24, 2007
How to pick up chicks in the library...
I’m terrified of my wife.
She’s a huge fan of the Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks, which pokes fun at people who use quotation marks in inappropriate and incorrect ways.
The problem is I am now afraid to ever use them now. Well, almost. I can use them when recounting dialogue...
Example: “I’ve decided to leave you for a smarter man,” she said with a sneer.
But this is where it ends. Other than this type of usage, I don’t really know what the deal is.
Right now I’m wondering if I should have put the Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks in quotation marks in the second paragraph…and also if I should put the Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks in this sentence in quotation marks. I just don't know. Are the italics okay?
They never mentioned at Lincoln Elementary School that proper usage of quotation marks is the way to make sure your wife doesn’t think she married a dumbass.
(I'll probably need to edit this post after Holli reads it)
The liberal arts college I went to didn’t cover this either.
She asks me every once in a while if I read the blog today. “No,” I answer, “Didn’t have time.” If I were honest, I’d say, “No, I’m too stupid.”
I'm living a double life.
She’s a huge fan of the Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks, which pokes fun at people who use quotation marks in inappropriate and incorrect ways.
The problem is I am now afraid to ever use them now. Well, almost. I can use them when recounting dialogue...
Example: “I’ve decided to leave you for a smarter man,” she said with a sneer.
But this is where it ends. Other than this type of usage, I don’t really know what the deal is.
Right now I’m wondering if I should have put the Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks in quotation marks in the second paragraph…and also if I should put the Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks in this sentence in quotation marks. I just don't know. Are the italics okay?
They never mentioned at Lincoln Elementary School that proper usage of quotation marks is the way to make sure your wife doesn’t think she married a dumbass.
(I'll probably need to edit this post after Holli reads it)
The liberal arts college I went to didn’t cover this either.
She asks me every once in a while if I read the blog today. “No,” I answer, “Didn’t have time.” If I were honest, I’d say, “No, I’m too stupid.”
I'm living a double life.
Friday, December 21, 2007
They weren't any fun in college either...
A few months ago, while searching for possible criminal records of bullies who tormented me when I was a kid, I came across a website called LinkedIn.
LinkedIn is a networking website that gets people of the same industry together. It lets you search by job, school or area of residence. What one does is request to be put into people’s inner circle or as a “connection.” I’ve connected with 6-10 people, either at my request or theirs. Old friends that I lost touch with over the last 16 years.
It was a bit disappointing in how serious this thing is. I didn’t find one humorous sentence on the entire website. Everyone was on it to network and move up and get ahead, etc. Except, of course, me. I may get kicked out.
I found a lot of people from the college I graduated, a small liberal arts school in West Virginia mostly attended by the underachieving children of rich Northeastern parents. I didn’t fit in. (exceptions 2 and 3) But, I had a good time clicking on the profiles to see where everyone had landed when the trust fund money ran dry.
One guy, who spent much of his free time out of class pretending (or maybe he wasn't pretending) to be a Werewolf is working in Washington, D.C. in the area of Space and Defense. Oh, good.
Another one summarized his career, starting with this statement: Interdisciplinary generalist in both academic and Internet arenas. I am particularly interested in UX design, arising out of my experience as IA, Content Strategist, and UI designer on integrated teams designing and implementing online applications and interfaces.
I have no idea what any of that means. I hope he’s making more money than I am.
LinkedIn is a networking website that gets people of the same industry together. It lets you search by job, school or area of residence. What one does is request to be put into people’s inner circle or as a “connection.” I’ve connected with 6-10 people, either at my request or theirs. Old friends that I lost touch with over the last 16 years.
It was a bit disappointing in how serious this thing is. I didn’t find one humorous sentence on the entire website. Everyone was on it to network and move up and get ahead, etc. Except, of course, me. I may get kicked out.
I found a lot of people from the college I graduated, a small liberal arts school in West Virginia mostly attended by the underachieving children of rich Northeastern parents. I didn’t fit in. (exceptions 2 and 3) But, I had a good time clicking on the profiles to see where everyone had landed when the trust fund money ran dry.
One guy, who spent much of his free time out of class pretending (or maybe he wasn't pretending) to be a Werewolf is working in Washington, D.C. in the area of Space and Defense. Oh, good.
Another one summarized his career, starting with this statement: Interdisciplinary generalist in both academic and Internet arenas. I am particularly interested in UX design, arising out of my experience as IA, Content Strategist, and UI designer on integrated teams designing and implementing online applications and interfaces.
I have no idea what any of that means. I hope he’s making more money than I am.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The "Other Careers I Considered" Series: Golf Writer
A few words about the men who write about golf:
Golf Writers never pay for anything. They eat like Ethiopian Refugees. They drink like Arthur Bach. They often have pizza stains on their shirts as they look for Dove Bars in the cooler. They get most of the vegetables in their diet by eating Subway Sandwiches.
Very few have ever actually purchased a golf shirt or golf hat with their own money. They get free balls, tees, gloves and shoes.
They usually have more than 50 putters, given to them by obscure companies hoping to get a kind word from the writer in exchange for free products. However, usually the kind word is PLEASE added on to, “Can I get another one of those? for a son, daughter, wife, or woman at the hotel bar in a tight-fitting dress.
But nobody's perfect.
Golf Writers never pay for anything. They eat like Ethiopian Refugees. They drink like Arthur Bach. They often have pizza stains on their shirts as they look for Dove Bars in the cooler. They get most of the vegetables in their diet by eating Subway Sandwiches.
Very few have ever actually purchased a golf shirt or golf hat with their own money. They get free balls, tees, gloves and shoes.
They usually have more than 50 putters, given to them by obscure companies hoping to get a kind word from the writer in exchange for free products. However, usually the kind word is PLEASE added on to, “Can I get another one of those? for a son, daughter, wife, or woman at the hotel bar in a tight-fitting dress.
But nobody's perfect.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Sign of the Apocalypse...
I’m watching Sportscenter last night. Something about the Eagles-Cowboys game from the past weekend is on. They show a picture of Jessica Simpson and mention that she came to watch Tony Romo play. Well, okay, move on please, I don’t care.
Then…it happens. They mention Tom Brady’s girlfriend. What am I watching, Access Hollywood?
I watch Sportscenter to hear about sports, not this drivel. If I wanted to know who Tom Brady and Tony Romo are shacking up with, I’d buy a copy of People or US Weekly or turn the channel to any of the five or so stations that pander to these second-handers.
Is nothing sacred?
Then…it happens. They mention Tom Brady’s girlfriend. What am I watching, Access Hollywood?
I watch Sportscenter to hear about sports, not this drivel. If I wanted to know who Tom Brady and Tony Romo are shacking up with, I’d buy a copy of People or US Weekly or turn the channel to any of the five or so stations that pander to these second-handers.
Is nothing sacred?
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