Tuesday, April 3, was one strange day for me – the kind that comes with some expected happenings but also with some out-of-the-blue occurrences.
It started with a presentation I had to give in a graduate class I’m taking at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point (UW-SP). My partner and I were well prepared for the presentation, so it went well. The unusual part for me was how much at ease I was in giving it. Public speaking has never been my forte. I usually sweat fear and hope for a cancellation, but in this case those worries never came. I was comfortable. It gives me hope that I’ll live a long life because I may be able to choose speaking in public rather than dying, when I confront that choice.
After working for a couple of hours, I met my wife, Jenny, at our home where we met with a guy about installing a lawn, something we’ve been lacking since building our new home last summer. He walked through the details and set a date, April 16. To our surprise, he said I’ll be mowing a lawn this summer. I haven’t done that in four years, and I will be happy to do so, despite the fact it technically is a chore.
From there, Jenny and I went to Ministry St. Michael’s Hospital for an ultrasound to determine the sex of the baby we are having in August. Doctors need the ultrasound at 20 weeks for other purposes – make sure the baby is healthy, is growing correctly, etc. – but for us it was all about finding out whether or not we are going to have another son, or our first daughter.
I’d reveal what we are having, but since this column is all about surprises, I’m going to wait the reveal the sex until after we have the baby in August.
That didn’t stop us from revealing it to family and friends. Facebook came in handy for that endeavor, but our moms can spread the word just as quickly as the social network. Both our mothers informed non-Facebook relatives quicker than this year’s maple sugar harvest, which was over before it even started.
Facebook was part of another surprise for me. The news editor at the Waushara Argus, where I previously worked and which is in my hometown of Wautoma, posted a news story to my Facebook timeline about an endeavor I’m a part of at UW-SP. I’ll write more about this in the future, but it was a pleasant surprise that generated some “Friend” feedback – like our reveal of the baby’s sex – that made me feel good the rest of the day.
The last surprise of the day was both bad and good. It was bad for the people directly involved, but good for me because I was called something I never thought anyone would ever call me. I’ll explain.
After picking up my son from school, he and I decided to go out to eat, since Jenny had left for Minocqua for an overnight work trip. I turned from Center Street onto Michigan Avenue, following a long line of traffic. Immediately after turning, I witnessed the car directly in front of me rear end the vehicle in front of it, which was stopping for the long line of vehicles in front of it at a traffic light.
It wasn’t a typical rear-end collision in which both vehicles drive away unscathed. The colliding vehicle hit the other vehicle quite hard, rendering both vehicles unfit for driving. Both of the drivers said they were OK, although the driver of the colliding vehicle was expectedly emotional about the incident.
The driver of the vehicle that got hit was rather calm, though. An older gentleman, he didn’t get worked up about the accident and took it more as part of his day rather than an unwanted surprise. In fact, he was so calm about it he actually recognized me from my little photo in this column. “Hey, aren’t you the guy that writes for The Gazette?” he asked.
That surprised me, because I didn’t think anybody would ever recognize me from that little photo. “That’s me,” I told him, introducing him to the son I always write about. The gentleman was a little worried about how he’d get home, so I offered to take him home after the vehicles were towed away and the police officers got all the statements, including mine, they needed.
In the car, I learned the Whiting resident moved here about nine years ago to take care of his mother, and his employer allowed him to work from home rather than resigning, as he had initially planned to do. After dropping him off, he thanked me and said he’ll have to tell everybody he was given a ride home by someone “famous.”
Being called “famous” was the biggest surprise of a day full of surprises. I like to keep my ego in check, but surprises like that make it difficult. Seriously, when I’m grouped with famous people like Brad Pitt and George Clooney, how am I supposed to not smile?
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette Friday, April 6, 2012.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Yoda voice can make difficult readings easier to understand
When something is difficult to read, give it a Yoda voice. I guarantee you that it will make much more sense. Yoda, being the wise, old Jedi master he is, can make even the most difficult items understandable.
A former co-worker devised this theory in dealing with a writer that often was difficult to read. “Read it out loud in a Yoda voice,” he told me. “You can decipher it then.”
I laughed at his theory, but being a big fan of Yoda, I did so. Not only did my co-workers get a good laugh from my wicked Yoda impression, all of us were able to understand what was written.
For some reason I can’t understand, a Yoda voice adds a dimension to undecipherable writing that slows it down, brings the necessary words to the front and minimizes the unimportant ones. It takes the fear out of reading bad writing, and we all know fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. No one wants to suffer when they read.
I wish I knew about this theory back in college. Reading Chaucer, “The Last of the Mohicans” and Thomas Paine would have been much easier. I could have saved myself hundreds of dollars by buying less Mountain Dew, which I needed to keep myself awake when I read this material for my many English classes.
The Yoda theory works great for me now, not just with some of the material I have to read for the paper, but also with instruction manuals in putting together things. That’s probably because many of these manuals are actually written in Yoda dialect, so reading them the way they were written makes sense.
I put together a portable basketball hoop two weekends ago, and the first sentence was an entire paragraph long, referring to numbers for nouns instead of the actual part that was needed. Yoda voice made it easier to understand, especially since the illustrations included with it were made in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Yoda may be a fictional character – undoubtedly George Lucas’ ultimate creation – but his value will extend centuries, especially if this theory becomes commonly used, as I propose it should. Schools could offer Yoda courses.
I can imagine it now: “OK class, today we are going to learn why size matters not, and why there is no try. But first, pull out your copy of ‘War and Peace.’ Today, when you read, make sure you put enough gruff in your ‘mmmmm’s at the beginning of each sentence.”
I hope people will make more use of Yoda, as it will make the world a better place. I just hope nobody comes up with a Jar Jar Binks theory. Then we will be in trouble.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 31, 2012.
A former co-worker devised this theory in dealing with a writer that often was difficult to read. “Read it out loud in a Yoda voice,” he told me. “You can decipher it then.”
I laughed at his theory, but being a big fan of Yoda, I did so. Not only did my co-workers get a good laugh from my wicked Yoda impression, all of us were able to understand what was written.
For some reason I can’t understand, a Yoda voice adds a dimension to undecipherable writing that slows it down, brings the necessary words to the front and minimizes the unimportant ones. It takes the fear out of reading bad writing, and we all know fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. No one wants to suffer when they read.
I wish I knew about this theory back in college. Reading Chaucer, “The Last of the Mohicans” and Thomas Paine would have been much easier. I could have saved myself hundreds of dollars by buying less Mountain Dew, which I needed to keep myself awake when I read this material for my many English classes.
The Yoda theory works great for me now, not just with some of the material I have to read for the paper, but also with instruction manuals in putting together things. That’s probably because many of these manuals are actually written in Yoda dialect, so reading them the way they were written makes sense.
I put together a portable basketball hoop two weekends ago, and the first sentence was an entire paragraph long, referring to numbers for nouns instead of the actual part that was needed. Yoda voice made it easier to understand, especially since the illustrations included with it were made in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Yoda may be a fictional character – undoubtedly George Lucas’ ultimate creation – but his value will extend centuries, especially if this theory becomes commonly used, as I propose it should. Schools could offer Yoda courses.
I can imagine it now: “OK class, today we are going to learn why size matters not, and why there is no try. But first, pull out your copy of ‘War and Peace.’ Today, when you read, make sure you put enough gruff in your ‘mmmmm’s at the beginning of each sentence.”
I hope people will make more use of Yoda, as it will make the world a better place. I just hope nobody comes up with a Jar Jar Binks theory. Then we will be in trouble.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 31, 2012.
Friday, March 23, 2012
March Madness has little meaning for tall, clumsy people
I’m 6’4” but of no use to anyone on a basketball court. Any team with me on its side would be doomed to failure because basketball and I go together like Jon Hamm and Kim Kardashian.
It’s not that I don’t like the sport, because I do believe it’s one of the better ones. It takes skill, it’s physical and it’s one that provides plenty of excitement to watch or play.
Growing up and watching Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Karl Malone and Charles Barkley in the prime of their careers was akin to a thousand Jeremy Lins or Lebron James today. I even bought a pair of Michael Jordan Nike shoes with my first real paycheck, as I liked him enough to do so.
Part of the reason I’m no good at basketball is because I’m a naturally clumsy person. I need to practice a lot to acquire the right balance to be just adequate at anything, and I’ve never practiced basketball to the extent most others have. My wife will attest to my clumsiness, as she got a good chuckle last week when I attempted to ride my son’s scooter and I flipped it and myself over during a walk.
But the main reason I’m no good at basketball, despite my height, is I never fully understood the game. I was never on a team, so I never learned the fine intricacies of the sport. Fouls confuse me, as do other rule violations. I can’t tell the difference between a well-played game and a sloppy, what-are-rules one.
Over the years I’ve tried to educate myself more about basketball. But playing “Double Dribble” on the original Nintendo Entertainment System doesn’t work well in those regards. I’m usually successful when I get myself in a mindset to learn about something more, but basketball truly stumps me.
As a result, when March Madness rolls around, I cross my fingers that bracket seedings are somewhat accurate because the majority of my picks are based on which team has the higher seed. I don’t want to be the guy that picks more wrong games than right ones, and someday I’d like to win a pool to at least claim back a little of the money I’ve spent on them over the years.
This past weekend, my son, Braden, received a portable basketball hoop from his grandmother and aunts for his seventh birthday. After putting the thing together with some help (as they are almost more complicated than the sport itself), I promptly missed nearly every basket I attempted. I was worse than Marquette in the first half of its game against Murray State Saturday. I do hope they improve in their coming games, as I picked them to win it all in the work pool.
Braden, on the other hand, was hitting every shot like it was second nature to him. His aunts on his mother’s side were both good basketball players in high school, so maybe he inherited some skills I never received. I’m hoping he inherits my height, because combining the two could be good for Stevens Point basketball in the not-so-distant future.
If he isn’t, I’ll completely understand. One more awkward basketball player isn’t going to hurt anyone. Unless he’s clumsy, accidentally knocks someone over on the court and prevents a future star from ever playing again. I’m almost sure I never did that, but my memory isn’t always the best. I’ve flipped over on a lot of scooters, bicycles and skateboards in my life.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette Friday, March 23, 2012.
It’s not that I don’t like the sport, because I do believe it’s one of the better ones. It takes skill, it’s physical and it’s one that provides plenty of excitement to watch or play.
Growing up and watching Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Karl Malone and Charles Barkley in the prime of their careers was akin to a thousand Jeremy Lins or Lebron James today. I even bought a pair of Michael Jordan Nike shoes with my first real paycheck, as I liked him enough to do so.
Part of the reason I’m no good at basketball is because I’m a naturally clumsy person. I need to practice a lot to acquire the right balance to be just adequate at anything, and I’ve never practiced basketball to the extent most others have. My wife will attest to my clumsiness, as she got a good chuckle last week when I attempted to ride my son’s scooter and I flipped it and myself over during a walk.
But the main reason I’m no good at basketball, despite my height, is I never fully understood the game. I was never on a team, so I never learned the fine intricacies of the sport. Fouls confuse me, as do other rule violations. I can’t tell the difference between a well-played game and a sloppy, what-are-rules one.
Over the years I’ve tried to educate myself more about basketball. But playing “Double Dribble” on the original Nintendo Entertainment System doesn’t work well in those regards. I’m usually successful when I get myself in a mindset to learn about something more, but basketball truly stumps me.
As a result, when March Madness rolls around, I cross my fingers that bracket seedings are somewhat accurate because the majority of my picks are based on which team has the higher seed. I don’t want to be the guy that picks more wrong games than right ones, and someday I’d like to win a pool to at least claim back a little of the money I’ve spent on them over the years.
This past weekend, my son, Braden, received a portable basketball hoop from his grandmother and aunts for his seventh birthday. After putting the thing together with some help (as they are almost more complicated than the sport itself), I promptly missed nearly every basket I attempted. I was worse than Marquette in the first half of its game against Murray State Saturday. I do hope they improve in their coming games, as I picked them to win it all in the work pool.
Braden, on the other hand, was hitting every shot like it was second nature to him. His aunts on his mother’s side were both good basketball players in high school, so maybe he inherited some skills I never received. I’m hoping he inherits my height, because combining the two could be good for Stevens Point basketball in the not-so-distant future.
If he isn’t, I’ll completely understand. One more awkward basketball player isn’t going to hurt anyone. Unless he’s clumsy, accidentally knocks someone over on the court and prevents a future star from ever playing again. I’m almost sure I never did that, but my memory isn’t always the best. I’ve flipped over on a lot of scooters, bicycles and skateboards in my life.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette Friday, March 23, 2012.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Reality show klutzes steal dream of ‘Finding Bigfoot’
The green-eyed monster inside of me has been itching to come out because some dudes have found a way to make money at a career I didn’t think was possible. I’m referring to the four Sasquatch searchers on Animal Planet’s “Finding Bigfoot” television show who are making mad money looking for a creature I had hoped as a kid I could spend my adult life finding.
I was obsessed with Bigfoot as a kid, most likely because I watched a lot of “The Six Million Dollar Man” whose epic battles with the creature defined my television viewing experiences in the 1970s. While Steve Austin may have revealed Bigfoot was actually an alien android, I wasn’t quick to fall for that theory. I agonizingly studied any book I could find on the subject, and watched everything on television about it. Plus, I saw “Harry and the Hendersons” three times at the theater, instantly making me the world’s foremost expert on the legendary beast at the time.
Set on being a Bigfoot hunter (a term I use loosely because I could never bring myself to harm one should I find it) as a kid, I figured I simply needed to move to the West Coast states when I got older and then spend my days in the woods searching for it. I assumed some college education in science would give me enough ability to track it, and the government would be happy to pay me to do so.
Others pointed out the government would never pay anybody to search for Bigfoot, so I should give up this unachievable dream. The government certainly pays for less worthy endeavors, I thought, but as I got older, I realized these people were probably right. I then turned my attention to becoming a journalist and columnist, probably so I could write about these foolish goals. I do get paid to do so, but probably not much more than I would have as an unpaid Bigfoot hunter.
Over the years, my once undying belief in Bigfoot has disappeared. I’ve asked myself one question: In today’s technological world in which nearly everyone has camera and video camera abilities through their smartphones, why hasn’t anyone captured definitive proof of the beast? Go on YouTube and search for “Bigfoot.” With one exception, all you will find are horrible videos that all appear fake, blurry or distant.
The one exception is the 1967 Patterson-Gimlin video. This video is the famous one almost always shown during Bigfoot documentaries. While nobody has been able to prove it’s definitely authentic, no one has also demonstrated it’s fake.
Whether or not it’s real, it’s definitely better than anything those bozos have filmed on “Finding Bigfoot.” The three men on the show are all big believers in Bigfoot, some having encountered it before they began the show. The female on the show is the skeptic, who argues against nearly everything they bring forth as proof.
The weekly show follows them as they go to known Bigfoot sightings to investigate. They talk with the witnesses and then go to the location it was spotted. They recreate the scene for the witnesses, and use the recreation to determine if they did indeed spot Bigfoot.
At night, they return the scene to see if the creature will return. Using night cameras, some of which are equipped with heat sensors, they attempt to find the beast. Often they’ll make Sasquatch calls, some of which they claim are returned. Once in awhile they’ll point out night noises as coming from possible Bigfoots in the area, and sometimes they claim something is throwing rocks at them, because apparently Bigfoot has nothing better to do.
In the end, they leave believing they’ve uncovered enough evidence to claim Bigfoot was in the area. Viewers, like me, think otherwise.
Then again, I’m probably too jealous. Why didn’t I think to grab a camera and take to the woods at the start of the reality television boom to pursue my former dream? Back then, nearly everyone who proposed a reality show got one. These guys did well at the end of the boom.
I guess I should have been a little smarter. Then again, I’d like to think Bigfoot is really an alien android sent to Earth to spy on humans. It would definitely have the capability to avoid my clumsy pursuit.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 24, 2012.
I was obsessed with Bigfoot as a kid, most likely because I watched a lot of “The Six Million Dollar Man” whose epic battles with the creature defined my television viewing experiences in the 1970s. While Steve Austin may have revealed Bigfoot was actually an alien android, I wasn’t quick to fall for that theory. I agonizingly studied any book I could find on the subject, and watched everything on television about it. Plus, I saw “Harry and the Hendersons” three times at the theater, instantly making me the world’s foremost expert on the legendary beast at the time.
Set on being a Bigfoot hunter (a term I use loosely because I could never bring myself to harm one should I find it) as a kid, I figured I simply needed to move to the West Coast states when I got older and then spend my days in the woods searching for it. I assumed some college education in science would give me enough ability to track it, and the government would be happy to pay me to do so.
Others pointed out the government would never pay anybody to search for Bigfoot, so I should give up this unachievable dream. The government certainly pays for less worthy endeavors, I thought, but as I got older, I realized these people were probably right. I then turned my attention to becoming a journalist and columnist, probably so I could write about these foolish goals. I do get paid to do so, but probably not much more than I would have as an unpaid Bigfoot hunter.
Over the years, my once undying belief in Bigfoot has disappeared. I’ve asked myself one question: In today’s technological world in which nearly everyone has camera and video camera abilities through their smartphones, why hasn’t anyone captured definitive proof of the beast? Go on YouTube and search for “Bigfoot.” With one exception, all you will find are horrible videos that all appear fake, blurry or distant.
The one exception is the 1967 Patterson-Gimlin video. This video is the famous one almost always shown during Bigfoot documentaries. While nobody has been able to prove it’s definitely authentic, no one has also demonstrated it’s fake.
Whether or not it’s real, it’s definitely better than anything those bozos have filmed on “Finding Bigfoot.” The three men on the show are all big believers in Bigfoot, some having encountered it before they began the show. The female on the show is the skeptic, who argues against nearly everything they bring forth as proof.
The weekly show follows them as they go to known Bigfoot sightings to investigate. They talk with the witnesses and then go to the location it was spotted. They recreate the scene for the witnesses, and use the recreation to determine if they did indeed spot Bigfoot.
At night, they return the scene to see if the creature will return. Using night cameras, some of which are equipped with heat sensors, they attempt to find the beast. Often they’ll make Sasquatch calls, some of which they claim are returned. Once in awhile they’ll point out night noises as coming from possible Bigfoots in the area, and sometimes they claim something is throwing rocks at them, because apparently Bigfoot has nothing better to do.
In the end, they leave believing they’ve uncovered enough evidence to claim Bigfoot was in the area. Viewers, like me, think otherwise.
Then again, I’m probably too jealous. Why didn’t I think to grab a camera and take to the woods at the start of the reality television boom to pursue my former dream? Back then, nearly everyone who proposed a reality show got one. These guys did well at the end of the boom.
I guess I should have been a little smarter. Then again, I’d like to think Bigfoot is really an alien android sent to Earth to spy on humans. It would definitely have the capability to avoid my clumsy pursuit.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 24, 2012.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Kids may want to become president, but parents will probably tell them ‘no'
Several weeks ago, on Presidents’ Day, my nearly 7-year-old son, Braden, told me he wanted to be president when he grows up.
At first I was proud of this statement. It showed me he was ambitious and was driven to be the best. Like him, I had similar thoughts when I was his age. Such noble goals helped drive me to success in school.
But then I thought about it some more. Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to ascend to a position where approximately half the people in the country don’t like you? And a good chunk of those people not only don’t like you, they despise you with a passion, refusing to give you any benefit of the doubt and criticizing every action you make without any acknowledge of the ones you do right.
When I was a kid more than 25 years ago, presidents seemed to receive a lot more respect than they do now. The detractors were there, as they should be in a well-functioning democratic society, but their voices didn’t drown out everyone around them.
Turn on any of the news channels and watch coverage of the president. It’s rarely unbiased, as depending on the channel it’s either heavily skewed against the president or heavily weighted in his favor. Neutrality in news coverage has disappeared.
Even worse, read online comments to news stories about the president. It’s easy to pick out those who back the president and those who don’t like him, as the passion of both is easily discernible. Constructive comments are quickly dismissed by both parties, even though they might carry more validity than the strongly biased comments.
Braden isn’t eligible to become president for another 28 years. The environment’s change in hostility toward the president in the past 25 years makes me fear how bad it will be in another quarter century. If I’m still around, I wouldn’t want to watch as people throw hatred his way, simply because they don’t agree with some of his politics.
This hatred is one of the reasons I rarely turn on news channels or read online stories about politics. The subject manner interests me, but its presentation has turned me away.
Reasonability needs to take precedence once again. Until it does, I don’t want my son to become president.
In fact, I’d rather have him become a garbage collector. Once a job associated with dirt, hard work and little intelligence, it’s now a well-respected and well-paid profession people rightfully now appreciate.
I would think the same type of appreciation would apply to the U.S. president, as the ability to handle that job far exceeds what nearly all of us are capable of, despite what some of us might think.
I gave up my presidential ambitions well before I got to junior high when I realized the amount of public speaking it would require. Most of us know statistics show most people would rather die than have to speak in public.
Maybe by showing a little appreciation for the president’s speaking ability we can start to bring some neutrality back and make it noble again for kids to want to be president.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 9, 2012.
At first I was proud of this statement. It showed me he was ambitious and was driven to be the best. Like him, I had similar thoughts when I was his age. Such noble goals helped drive me to success in school.
But then I thought about it some more. Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to ascend to a position where approximately half the people in the country don’t like you? And a good chunk of those people not only don’t like you, they despise you with a passion, refusing to give you any benefit of the doubt and criticizing every action you make without any acknowledge of the ones you do right.
When I was a kid more than 25 years ago, presidents seemed to receive a lot more respect than they do now. The detractors were there, as they should be in a well-functioning democratic society, but their voices didn’t drown out everyone around them.
Turn on any of the news channels and watch coverage of the president. It’s rarely unbiased, as depending on the channel it’s either heavily skewed against the president or heavily weighted in his favor. Neutrality in news coverage has disappeared.
Even worse, read online comments to news stories about the president. It’s easy to pick out those who back the president and those who don’t like him, as the passion of both is easily discernible. Constructive comments are quickly dismissed by both parties, even though they might carry more validity than the strongly biased comments.
Braden isn’t eligible to become president for another 28 years. The environment’s change in hostility toward the president in the past 25 years makes me fear how bad it will be in another quarter century. If I’m still around, I wouldn’t want to watch as people throw hatred his way, simply because they don’t agree with some of his politics.
This hatred is one of the reasons I rarely turn on news channels or read online stories about politics. The subject manner interests me, but its presentation has turned me away.
Reasonability needs to take precedence once again. Until it does, I don’t want my son to become president.
In fact, I’d rather have him become a garbage collector. Once a job associated with dirt, hard work and little intelligence, it’s now a well-respected and well-paid profession people rightfully now appreciate.
I would think the same type of appreciation would apply to the U.S. president, as the ability to handle that job far exceeds what nearly all of us are capable of, despite what some of us might think.
I gave up my presidential ambitions well before I got to junior high when I realized the amount of public speaking it would require. Most of us know statistics show most people would rather die than have to speak in public.
Maybe by showing a little appreciation for the president’s speaking ability we can start to bring some neutrality back and make it noble again for kids to want to be president.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 9, 2012.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Skating rinks haven’t changed much in 20 years, even without ‘YMCA’
It’s been more than 20 years since I last stepped foot inside a roller-skating rink, and with several minor exceptions, they haven’t changed a bit.
The rink itself is still wooden, although I skated on a concrete rink at one now long closed in Hancock, and the walls all on the outside are still lined with cheap carpet to cushion those crashes.
One side still acts as the loading and unloading dock where skaters enter or leave the rink. For reasons I can’t comprehend, this dock is one step higher than the bay, providing one more way for those with less balance to fall.
The lounge area leading up to the rink is still filled with a variety of vendor games. Some of these games are the same – air hockey and skee-ball will always remain classics. Traditional arcade games such as “Pac-Man” and “Donkey Kong” have been replaced by lesser skill games in which people can win tickets that can be traded for cheap carnival-type prizes.
The food stand still sells licorice ropes, popcorn, hot dogs and any other type of inexpensive and easy-to-make food that provide a high profit margin for the rink owners. Surprisingly, the prices aren’t nearly as bad as one might expect, especially when compared to the same items at a movie theater. A large box of popcorn at the roller-skating rink sells for $2, whereas the same box at the theater costs a house mortgage plus a pledge that half the money you leave behind when you die will go directly to Hollywood to finance the 17th installment of the “Twilight” series, which will still contain some of the worst special effects ever seen. But, hey, Edward will still be better than Jacob.
The same horrible music still plays as people skate, although I’m not sure if I admire or admonish the deejay for not playing “YMCA,” which I had fully expected to hear at least six times while I was there.
The biggest changes are the ramps in the middle of the rink – an awesome addition I’ll never go near – and the allowing of rollerblades and scooters on the rink. The last time I was at a rink rollerblades were relegated to the parking lot outside. And scooters were still skateboards with a pole handle.
I was at the rink in Wisconsin Rapids because my son, Braden, was invited to a double birthday party there for several of his classmates. It was his first experience skating so I stayed to show him how, not quite certain I would even remember myself. To my relief, my balance memory was intact and I was able to concentrate on helping him rather than myself.
The experience was a thrill we’ll return to soon. Next time, though, I’ll come dressed as a construction worker in anticipation “YMCA” will make its triumphant comeback.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, March 2, 2012.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
World’s best birthday cake taunts those who can’t eat it
Every February my family and I go to my sister’s house in Ripon for my niece’s birthday party, and every year we get shafted.
Years ago it sort of upset me, but it’s been happening so long now that every year it’s become even more laughable. It’s reached the point where I have to share it with others, at the slight chance my sister might be offended and get mad at me.
My sister, Kelly, and her husband, Brian, hold a small party for their daughter, Samantha, and the only other ones who attend are my mother and stepfather and my grandparents. The party is fairly typical in that it consists of a potluck lunch, time for socialization, a gift opening and the singing of “Happy Birthday,” followed by cake and ice cream. The last part of this party is where the shafting occurs.
After we sing “Happy Birthday” to Samantha, she blows out the candles on the cake. The cake always looks delicious, as the frosting appears to be sweet yet not too heavy, and the decorating by the professional baker is enticing enough to make you want to put your face in the cake like a 1-year-old child and pig out.
But year after year, after the cake taunts us, it’s taken away and replaced by homemade cupcakes. Huh? The explanation is a bit complicated.
Years ago, I’m not sure exactly when, Kelly decided to hold two parties for Samantha – one with her family and one with Brian’s family. Neither family is particularly large, and one party with both sides used to be acceptable.
The separation forces our family to party first. We arrive around noon, and it’s over around 2:30 p.m. Brian’s family arrives about an hour after we leave.
Going first means the cake becomes only an object of lust for us. As we look at it and develop a want for it, it silently laughs at us, knowing we’re never going to taste its probably sweet, luscious outer coating and fluffy, moist chocolate or vanilla inside.
I honestly hope it suffers a horrible death when Brian’s family devours it.
We are relegated to cupcake eaters because I believe Kelly is embarrassed by her family – meaning us – so she separated the two sides to keep them from mingling from each other, thereby eliminating any chance we could humiliate her. In some ways, I don’t blame her. My mother and I both like to make people laugh, so we’re not afraid to bust out stupid humor or embarrass ourselves. If I were her, I’d probably want to separate the two families, too.
In separating them, though, she only gave us more fodder to potentially embarrass her. Need proof? You’re reading it.
And she will probably, too. I post this to my blogsite, allowing family members and friends who have no reason to subscribe to the paper to read my ramblings. A couple of months ago I would never have written this, purely out of the fact I wouldn’t want to embarrass or upset her, but I now know people need to chance it every once in a while and do crazy things like this.
I hope she realizes I’m doing so out of humor. When I’ve told others about it, they’ve laughed. I even had someone suggest I fill a syringe with alcohol next year and inject the cake with a little spice. It would probably be the first time any one has ever spiked a child’s birthday cake.
That’s a little too mean for my taste, though. Just because I can’t eat it, doesn’t mean I’ll ruin it for someone else. And who’s to say we won’t get the good cake someday. I wouldn’t want anybody ruining it for me.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Feb. 24, 2012.
Years ago it sort of upset me, but it’s been happening so long now that every year it’s become even more laughable. It’s reached the point where I have to share it with others, at the slight chance my sister might be offended and get mad at me.
My sister, Kelly, and her husband, Brian, hold a small party for their daughter, Samantha, and the only other ones who attend are my mother and stepfather and my grandparents. The party is fairly typical in that it consists of a potluck lunch, time for socialization, a gift opening and the singing of “Happy Birthday,” followed by cake and ice cream. The last part of this party is where the shafting occurs.
After we sing “Happy Birthday” to Samantha, she blows out the candles on the cake. The cake always looks delicious, as the frosting appears to be sweet yet not too heavy, and the decorating by the professional baker is enticing enough to make you want to put your face in the cake like a 1-year-old child and pig out.
But year after year, after the cake taunts us, it’s taken away and replaced by homemade cupcakes. Huh? The explanation is a bit complicated.
Years ago, I’m not sure exactly when, Kelly decided to hold two parties for Samantha – one with her family and one with Brian’s family. Neither family is particularly large, and one party with both sides used to be acceptable.
The separation forces our family to party first. We arrive around noon, and it’s over around 2:30 p.m. Brian’s family arrives about an hour after we leave.
Going first means the cake becomes only an object of lust for us. As we look at it and develop a want for it, it silently laughs at us, knowing we’re never going to taste its probably sweet, luscious outer coating and fluffy, moist chocolate or vanilla inside.
I honestly hope it suffers a horrible death when Brian’s family devours it.
We are relegated to cupcake eaters because I believe Kelly is embarrassed by her family – meaning us – so she separated the two sides to keep them from mingling from each other, thereby eliminating any chance we could humiliate her. In some ways, I don’t blame her. My mother and I both like to make people laugh, so we’re not afraid to bust out stupid humor or embarrass ourselves. If I were her, I’d probably want to separate the two families, too.
In separating them, though, she only gave us more fodder to potentially embarrass her. Need proof? You’re reading it.
And she will probably, too. I post this to my blogsite, allowing family members and friends who have no reason to subscribe to the paper to read my ramblings. A couple of months ago I would never have written this, purely out of the fact I wouldn’t want to embarrass or upset her, but I now know people need to chance it every once in a while and do crazy things like this.
I hope she realizes I’m doing so out of humor. When I’ve told others about it, they’ve laughed. I even had someone suggest I fill a syringe with alcohol next year and inject the cake with a little spice. It would probably be the first time any one has ever spiked a child’s birthday cake.
That’s a little too mean for my taste, though. Just because I can’t eat it, doesn’t mean I’ll ruin it for someone else. And who’s to say we won’t get the good cake someday. I wouldn’t want anybody ruining it for me.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Feb. 24, 2012.
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