Victims of an Ancient Spell

The question normally thrown at me is “Why do you pronounce it that way?” When what should be asked is, “what’s with the weird spelling?” I refer, of course, to the element with the atomic number of 13—Alumin(i)um.

Lots of words are pronounced differently between the U.S. and the U.K. Most have the same spelling (the ‘either’ ‘tomato’ ‘advertisement’ ‘controversy’ rages on) some are said differently because of different spelling. In England, and most of the world, element 13 has an extra letter.

Alumin(i)um was actually named before it was discovered. British physicist and chemical guru Humphry Davy was trying to isolate the metal from the mineral alumina in 1808 and proposed that if successful it be named Alumium, then changed his mind to make it Aluminum (strike one for the US spelling).

Davy was quite the element celebrity of the time having previously isolated the elements potassium, sodium, calcium, strontium, barium, and magnesium.

Devotees could hardly wait for his next –ium discovery but then he upset his fan base by dropping the last “i” for element 13. Giving the metal a non-ium ending created, literally, hardly any contention amongst everyday folk. People the world over barely raised an eyebrow and many just put in the “I” because they expected it to be there. So there were two spellings and pronunciations. It’s not like they were ever confused by what they were referring to.

Webster dictionaries in the U.S. actually listed the –ium spelling all through the 19th Century, but the largest U.S. manufacturer of the material preferred the shorter spelling and in the mid 1920s, The American Chemical Society decided there was no room for “i” in ium, and officially adopted the spelling as Aluminum.

However, in 1990 the –ium ending was officially accepted by the International Union of Pure and Applied Chemists (IUPAC), (strike one for the Brits spelling) and it is used in most of the world. The IUPAC actually lists both spellings on its periodic table though (for you nitpickers out there) Aluminum is listed as an ‘also known as’. Incidentally, it’s also not the only element with an a.k.a. The debate over whether its caesium or cesium just never ends.

There is little (i.e. nothing) to substantiate the story of the American Chemical Society representative who, at a loss for words when asked for the official ending of element number 13 said “…um…” thereby condemning forever the U.S. spelling to be shorter. Seldom addressed is the question of why Humphry Davy suddenly broke with his own tradition by leaving the “i” out element 13’s name. Perhaps sudden bitterness at his parents having left the “e” out of both his?

Facebank

Facebook’s stock went public late last week and has gone down every day since. The press is all over how Facebook is overvalued (don’t buy) while at the same time touting its future potential as being unlimited (buy now while you can).

Seeing as its stock value is directly related to advertisement revenue I decided to monitor all the ads on my Facebook pages for a day with the specific purpose of seeing how relevant they were to me and thus decide whether to buy or not.

Morning

There were seven ads on my morning Facebook page. The first ad was for Spartan Beast—a 13 mile assault course consisting of mud and military grade obstacles. Those that know me are already laughing. I cannot think of anything, ANYTHING, in ANY of my digital profiles that would cause any company to think that I am either capable or interested in such an endeavor. I could hardly be said to be a Spartan Puppy let alone a beast of any sort of fierceness. Zero out of ten for this ad.

Four ads are about dating (from three dating sites). It doesn’t take a massive amount of data mining to figure out I’m single, so I can see the logic in targeting me. However, one ad states “see pictures of women, free” and another “find your next hot date.” These ads work on the assumption that, as a single male, my priorities are looks and loose morals. This may be relevant to many to single men, but I doubt anyone would deny that looks-only ads relate to short-term situations. Any long-term relationship would need to consider traits such as personality, good conversation, or hobbies. Regardless of how shallow I may or may not be (which depends on if it’s a Friday night), I deliberately don’t volunteer as little personal information online as possible—and this alone should tell the singles sites that I’m not the sort of person to whom online dating appeals. These ads, collectively, get two out of ten.

There is an ad for a specific product—a survival strap—which looks like a braided bracelet but which, in an emergency, unravels into a potentially lifesaving piece of military grade rope. Now, I am a bit of a ‘be prepared’ nut so I clicked over to the Website which contained a number of testimonials. A firefighter used it as a replacement bootstrap in a wildfire; a cross country skier used it to splint a friends broken leg; and while some stories are everyday life (tying cans to the back of a ‘just married’ car; making a leash for a dog) most fall into the category of extreme sports/military/survival type situations. Again, it is difficult to conceive a situation where I’m in a military or extreme sport emergency because for that to happen I’d have to be in the military or do extreme sports. The most extreme pastime I’m involved in is Youtube surfing. But for reasons of geekness this product appeals to me to the tune of four out of ten.

The final ad is for Michaels Stores—a hub of art and craft supplies including floral, scrapbooking, and wall decor. I would assume that the user profile used to generate a Michaels Stores ad would be almost the exact opposite of the profile that appeals to a Spartan Beast. This can only mean I have yet to put enough detail online for anyone to say for certain what appeals to me and someone figured that one of the two diametrically opposite ads would surely appeal. No. Nil points.

Mid-afternoon

My mid-afternoon ads kick off with one from a company that sells “intelligently funny tee shirts,” a fact they illustrate with an image of a squirrel sitting on top of an amplifier playing a banjo. How much intelligence is needed to know this is not actually possible I don’t know, but suspect it’s not much. Even a squirrel knows it can’t play a banjo (they are not the easiest instrument to play) so anyone with the intelligence of a squirrel should see though the slogan. However, funny tee shirts I’m all for, I’m just not sure about how they’ve chosen to promote them. This gets a four.

I can list my home for 3.99% with a certain realtor. This assumes I’m a home owner which I’m not so it’s an instant zero, but I should note the text which states “I’ll get you results or fire me the next day!” The next day after what? The next day after you sign up? The next day after a trial period ends? The next day after a full moon? Other non-useful sales statements include “founded in the year X” and “billions and billions served.”

The number of ads from dating sites has dropped to three (from two companies), though two of them still insist I am interested in “looking for free” at girls designated “hot.”

A curious ad that’s just a name. Terry Fator. I realize, but only after following the link, that he and his cast of ‘hilarious characters’ are performing at the Mirage in Las Vegas. No disrespect to Mr. Fator, but is he enough of a household star that his name alone can carry the ad? One out of ten because I had to work hard to know what the ad was.

And finally, a product. Like the survival strap, it consists of rope. This one however is a “chunky and show stopping rope necklace.” And I can hardly argue. If I were to wear in public the bright yellow, inches thick piece of neck ware, the show would certainly stop and, in all likelihood, refunds demanded and the authorities sent for. Zero.

Evening

This is actually late night because I have a life in the real world and it takes precedence.

First off was the Spartan Beast again, and if anything I was feeling less adventurous at midnight than I was at mid-morning but it can’t go lower than zero. Second was a new ad—Simons Shoes—including the tag line “from the oldest shoe store in Boston.” Boston is approximately 2,400 miles away from where I’m sitting, so I’m guessing they want me to buy shoes online. I never buy clothes online. I can’t figure out why, of two pairs of jeans, both with a 34 waist, only one will actually fit me. An inch is a standard measurement. Clothes shopping where you can try them on is frustrating enough, why would I do it online? A one.

Just one ad about meeting single women. Apparently as the day progresses it is assumed my libido decreases.

Firestone tires is up next, with a special offer no less. Fair enough on this one. In all likelihood I drive, and maybe I need tires. Two.

The next heading was “Careers at TSA.” Like many international travelers I have opinions about the Transportation Security Administration. It suffices me to say however, that as a non-US citizen I’m not eligible to work for any US government agency. Another zero then.

And finally, another attempt to get me to buy the necklace; which contains just enough rope for me to hang myself if I wore it in public.

Extra credit

For bonus marks I looked at the ads generated when I used aps and notifications.

These included a much better ad for Vegas titled “Terry Fator at the Mirage” I knew what and where instantly.

There was a very pertinent ad from the Scifi movie channel wanting me be aware of an upcoming movie, but where’s the trailer? Two other ads—for a kids snack food and a charity—both had little youtube videos I could watch. Surely a movie, whose product is moving images, should have a trailer.

The matchmaking companies gave up on subtlety and posted one that simply said “Like hot single freaky girls ? (click here)”. Not one of these ads has said “want to meet women that have similar interests, and like-minded points of view?”

A couple of ads were there because they had been ‘liked’ by a friend, and a few ads were there probably because of some piece of data in my profile. The best of these being an ad for a bookshelf that looks like a TARDIS. Very me. I attended BYU so there was an ad for BYU books for young readers though only two ads were from local businesses—a dentist and a bank.

So, for those that keep count, here are the scores (total ads 26):

• Pertinent ads, likely generated by information Facebook knows about me, eight.
• Somewhat pertinent ads, but probably shots in the dark, five.
• Completely irrelevant or confusing ads, eight.
• Ads because a friend has ‘liked’ or is into that sort of thing, five.

For all their algorithmic profiling of what will surely appeal to me, Facebook ads seem to miss as much as they hit for three reasons.

The first problem here is me. I withhold as much information as I can and allow only three apps to run, meaning that neither Facebook nor advertisers have much to go on (or so I think, they protect themselves legally from telling you what they know about you, which some say is a lot). I could fake a profile and frankly, I’d like my online persona to be that of a 32 year-old executive with a New York Penthouse and original Picasso’s in every bathroom, but I couldn’t bear repeated friend requests from all the hot single women.

The second reason is Facebook itself. It allows advertisers to target potential customers by selecting criteria—age, where they live etc. but it is only as good as the data users input. It also greatly restricts the ad size and number of letters advertisers have to work with.

Thirdly, the companies’ ads. Facebook does not advise companies on who to target or how to write an ad. So why aren’t companies smarter about this? If your product is a movie, put in a trailer; if your product is a destination, name it; don’t use a confusing image or a clichéd sales line. I think a lot of basic advertising principles are ignored in the Facebook world.

So, after all of that what’s the verdict? Well, I think Facebook’s stock is overvalued. I also think its future potential is unlimited. No, don’t thank me for wasting your time, if you hadn’t been reading this you’d have been reading status updates or looking at recently posted pictures.

Xmas 2011 pics at Temple SQuare

IMG_1491 b&w, a photo by Lincoln H on Flickr.

IMG_1507 a, a photo by Lincoln H on Flickr.

IMG_1482 Light b&w, a photo by Lincoln H on Flickr.

A couple of pics from last Christmas at Temple Square.

temple blue, a photo by Lincoln H on Flickr.

Xmas 2011, temple square

My Flickr account has more if you're interested.

A fowl inequality

It is sometimes that case that a group of people with a specific characteristic or “special interest” get privileges in the name of equal rights that others are denied. I’m not a confrontational person, but there is a group who is by no means a majority yet has a particular behavior which infringes unfairly on my life, and while I risk being labeled prejudice I cannot in all good conscience remain silent any longer.

I’m talking to you early risers. Yes you—the ones who are able to be in deep sleep at 5:30 a.m. and at 5:31 a.m. are completely awake, alert and—dare I say?—sparky.

My journey to wakefulness—which is by the way, completely natural—begins between eight and nine a.m. with slurred thoughts and leaden limbs that gradually become clearer and lighter over maybe a half hour. My first consciousness thought when I wake is “Oh, I’m alive then.” This thought is repeated a few minutes later when I wake a second time. Ditto that thought with each waking—no snooze alarm needed—until I can not only think but move. Having just woken up, the majority of my conscience in a befuddled state of woozy emergence, I need the concentration of a chess grand master to walk to the bathroom without falling over. Far from waking me up, a morning shower is something I actually have to concentrate on so as not to fall asleep in it. It is not unknown for me to discover that the reason I can’t put on my trousers is because I have put my shoes on already. And don’t expose me to noise or bright lights during this period or I shall become a nasty little Gremlin indeed.

This is not my choice; it’s just how it is.

I’m far from unique in how my body wakes but somehow the early risers have the entire working western world convinced that their way of operating is the only right way and everything else is unnatural.

For a start, most of the working realm starts at 8 a.m. if not before—though if you want to be recognized for promotion getting up even earlier is recommended. That’s a double disadvantage for all late risers.  Even if we get ourselves to an office that early, we sit there, disheveled lumps of humanity with our bloodshot eyes and nebulous hair, scaring everyone that comes near.

Then, it is perfectly acceptable for early risers to throw their fast-spoken, well-enunciated insults at me first thing in the morning while I’m still bleary about how they are chipper and alert and ready to be productive but how I can barely stand up without swaying precariously. 

“Good morning sleeping beauty” they smirk, “is someone not quite awake yet?” knowing full well I can’t retort because my brain functions engage one at a time and the bit which registers sarcasm is behind more essential functions like keeping my eyes open and breathing.

And the world accepts it as their right to do this. Mid-morning, slow-to-start risers have just as many productive hours, they just happen at different times. No one ever talks about my ability to be alert into the later hours. I’m typing this at half past midnight and am feeling quite attentive thank you very much.

Night Owls we’re known as, and I’d rather be that than an ‘early bird.’ At least I have an assigned species. In referring to themselves they use the nonspecific ‘early bird’ because the bird in question would logically have to be the rooster, and everybody knows that the sole purpose of the Rooster, bird or person, is to be really annoying in the mornings through noise. Owls are cool. Being an owl is a complete hoot.

If the early birds can make fun of the night owls in the morning, the night owls should be given equal opportunity to make fun of the early birds in the later hours when they get drowsy. But currently, in our some-sleepers-are-more-equal-than-others society, it’s considered inappropriate behavior to wake early birds up at 2300 hours just to rub our wakefulness in their groggy faces. “Who’s chipper and alert and ready to be productive now? No don’t worry—the rest of the world will continue to turn just fine without you.”

Why do early birds have the right to comment on their wakefulness while night owls are waking up, but it’s inappropriate for night owls to comment on early bird’s sleepiness when their fading? How does this inequality continue? When will I have an equal chance for sleepy retort?

These…these are the questions that keep me awake at night.

What’s in a synonym?

I place the blame for my regular indecision over which shower gel to buy squarely on the shoulders of 11th century Normans.

It was common in the Middle Ages for invading forces to replace the existing culture, religion, language etc. with their own, so as to not leave people in any doubt over who was in charge and prevent any patriotic resurgence.

But not the Normans that invaded England from France in 1066, oh no. Rather than cement their dominance through forcefully replacing the existing language they just let the peasants use the existing Saxon words while the elite used French, and we thus have many words duplicating the same meaning.

Many say we owe the Normans a debt of gratitude for a colourful language replete with a multiplicity of synonyms; I say, look how it has complicated the personal hygiene industry.

My particular dilemma is centred around how I want to feel after taking a shower. While shopping for shower gel I was confronted by two bottles of product of the same brand. One of which was blue and, according to the label, would ‘invigorate,’ (from the Latin, invigorare) the other was green and would ‘energize’ (from the Middle French énergie). After consulting a dictionary I found the only significant difference between the two words was their spelling.

But then why make two almost identical but not quite products? Looking along the shelf I realized that all brands sold gels that were the same in almost every way but labelled with a different synonym. Competition between brands I can understand, but for a company to sell products that compete against itself—how does that help anyone?

Having a multiplicity of synonyms raises questions (or queries, same thing) over which words to use. The ‘vernacular’ we use is almost identical to the ‘dialect’ we use—both defined as how people in a specific region speak. Perhaps ‘purchased’ fits the rhythm of a sentence better than ‘bought’—both of which are defined as “to obtain/acquire for money or its equivalent” in the American Heritage dictionary.

Unable to discern the difference with intellect only, I decided on a practical research solution. I purchased one and bought the other.

For the first week I lathered myself daily with the blue shower gel and felt undeniably invigorated—but, in all fairness, I also felt energized. And when I switched to the light green gel I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel, as per the label, totally energised—but also more than a little invigorated.

The bottom line here is that they produced the same result regardless of the adjective on the bottle or the colour of the contents. So if they do the same thing and the adjectives mean the same thing why don’t the companies in question save themselves a lot of effort and me a lot of confusion by just selling a single shower gel?

And how did such a plethora (excess, overabundance, glut) of products identical in all but adjective and colour come into being?
“How many shower gels should we put on the market?”
“Well, how did our test subjects report feeling after their shower?”
“Err, one of them said they felt invigorated.”
“Great. Look up all the synonyms for invigorated and that’s how many products we launch. Good job I took history, those Normans knew a thing or two about marketing.”

I submit therefore that despite the company’s inability to choose a single descriptive word and stick with it, that it is impossible to have a shower and not feel both invigorated and energized. Refreshed even. Which, incidentally, derives from Old French and is available in lilac.

Having eliminated the adjective and the colour, I turned to the ingredients. It might be that I am not sensitive enough to differentiate between the advertised sensations but its true their ingredients are not exactly the same. ‘Invigorate’ had identical ingredients as ‘energise’ with one added exception—Tetrasodium. Tetrasodium, a miracle of modern-day chemistry—guaranteed to invigorate without energising.

Then again, only ‘energize’ contains Polyquaternium-7 so maybe that’s what gives energise a different, if unidentifiable, shower experience. But Polyquaternium-2 (which one can only assume is a close relative of Polyquaternium-7) is found in another of the almost identical gels, only this one’s called ‘relax’—a word that is, to any linguist ancient or modern, the complete opposite of energise. I showered in ‘relax’ and felt both invigorated and energized, though confusingly, I could have also quite easily taken a nap.

What about natural ingredients? ‘Invigorate’ contained natural lemon oil and spearmint, whereas ‘energize’ contained lemon grass and citrus lime. Maybe its common instinct for all members of the animal kingdom to know that to be invigorated you suck on a lemon, but to be energized you suck on lemon grass, but this nuance was lost on my freshly bathed person.

Why brands of shower gel have multiple flavours—all of which simultaneously do something that is both different and exactly the same as their related products—eludes me. Though I admit to being perplexed as to why none of them advertise themselves as being good at making me clean (unsoiled, spotless…sparkling?). Which is generally my reason for showering.

The Once and Future Divas

What is really astounding about renaissance paintings is their size. Perusing a book of art, regardless of how big a coffee table is needed to hold it, gives you no indication that the originals are often so huge they are too big to put anywhere unless you have a castle or a palace. Which most of the original owners had of course. The biggest painting in the Louvre is Les Noces de Cana which is an astounding 22 feet high by 32 feet long. It is a curious thing then that thousands of people each day ignore it, because they are straining for a glimpse of the 30 inch by 20 inch work that hangs opposite, The Mona Lisa.

When I saw the most famous painting in the world I could hardly help but be underwhelmed. Sorry, no really I really am. The trouble was I already knew it so well; what it looked like, its history, and various interesting factoids about it (It’s painted on poplar wood, not canvas). And it’s not just a case of having seen it once or twice, I’ve seen The Mona Lisa everywhere all my life—children’s shows, the news, documentaries, comedy sketches—enough that it is very familiar to me; as I’m sure it is to much of the world.

Her every facet has been examined and discussed for generations. On television, professors of art reveal facts and secrets the casual observer does not perceive no matter how hard they look at the real thing (it took four years to paint—that’s three square inches a month). Reproductions on posters and in books allow you to see more detail than you can when you’re in front of the real thing; and in colors that are actually more true to when it was created than the original now shows. The morning I was at the Louvre I’d seen the image a dozen times, bigger, in better color, more detail, and less crowded conditions than the original itself.

So what added benefit then does seeing the original have? I argued to myself that one day the original will not be with us but I will always be able to say I saw it. Except of course the original will likely outlast me so I’ll never actually be able to say that unless I live to a ridiculously old age. And if that happens, the gathered audience will likely be more fascinated by my impossible longevity rather than the fact I saw a painting whose image they would surely have already seen.

There are things of historic import about the painting to be sure, but the vast majority of us don’t know them or wouldn’t realize their significance if we did (especially if our name is Dan Brown). The question of who she was created mystique and her various thefts gave her notoriety. But so what? Dare I suggest that in the age of celebrity, The Mona Lisa is mostly famous for being famous?

Elsewhere in the museum another well-known diva awaited and I had time, barely, to see her, which was lucky because she could barely be seen—The Venus de Milo.

The Venus de Milo is armless. Unless she falls on you. You feel sorry for her though. She stands at one end of an entire wing of impressive white statues, all of which have a complete set of limbs, making the whole scene like a snapshot of life in a school playground. The other statues hang around in groups, but none go near the ‘special’ kid, the one that’s a little ‘different.’ And unable to actually use sticks and stones, names is all they’ve got.

‘Don’t you wish you could point like us?’ they taunt.

‘You’re pointing at a ceiling tile,’ she retorts with a defiant sniff.

‘If you had arms to hold up that blanket you wouldn’t be showing so much,’ they mock, adding ‘it’s only because you’re not covered they come to see you.’

‘Like you can talk—Mr. Where’s my fig leaf gone?’

‘Bet you wish they’d put you in the armoury.’

‘Shut up.’

And so Venus is shunned by the other statues, defiantly upright though it must hurt inside. Longingly she looks over the heads of her human admirers, wishing she could join in with all other statue games, while they flaunt their ability to point, wave, hold things and otherwise make a single endless gesticulation.

Harry Potter and the Deadly Tedium

The seventh Harry Potter film (part one) was less exciting than watching a sloth. A sloth that trails behind all the other sloths because it can’t be bothered to keep up. A sloth that other sloths call ‘Mr. Lazy Pants.’ It was too long, too dark, and far too boring. Not much happened, then not much happened again. Something started to happen, but was quickly shamed into not happening by the other non-happening things. Every time I thought the engine was about to kick in and run all on its own it stalled right back to another ten minutes of Harry Potter and the Tent in the Wilderness. The Order of the Phoenix was pushing the boredom envelope—a great fight scene at the end but it was all of ten minutes long and you had to sit through two hours to get to it. I suspect many only saw that scene because their limbs were unable to get them out of their chairs. Deathly Hallows though makes seven years in Tibet look positively fast-paced and snappy; and I don't mean the movie—I mean seven years in Tibet.

Let me be clear, I am a Potterite. I have looked forward to each new Harry Potter installment. And they have, overall, done an outstanding job making the film versions. But my loyalty doesn’t stretch to praise just because it’s the latest addition to a franchise I’m a fan of.

Where to begin? (yes, spoilers follow, but they spoiled it for me first). How about the return of Doby the elf who is summoned by no-one yet appears at the right moment and saves the day stating that he “is always there to save Harry Potter” in a tone of voice that suggests this is a well-established and oft used catch phrase and that if you didn’t surmise it from the last four films during which he made no appearance, you’ve simply not been paying attention. It was also a bit of a fib. Doby’s method of saving them from a dungeon is to save everyone else in the dungeon and, with a “meet me at the top of the stairs in ten minutes,” leaves Harry and Ron find their own way out. And if he’s always there to save Harry where was this two-foot nothing bastion of salvation when Harry faced the newly embodied Voldemort at the end of Goblet of Fire, or any of the other myriad perils faced since they first met?

Or what about the lack of good character moments? In a franchise known for giving singular roles to its staggering line-up of world-class acting talent, this installment gave nothing to remember. Where was Snappe’s tour de force? Where was Hagrid’s comic relief? Where were the one-movie wonders of the Gilderoy Lockhart or Rita Skeeter mould? Any new faces (and all well-known ones) were instantly forgettable because the screen time for anyone not named Harry, Ron or Hermione amounted to less minutes than it takes to soft boil and egg.

Humor has been an element of all the films so far but here the funnies are only half attempted and seem out of place. Unexpected use of magic in everyday life (not to mention action sequences) has also been a staple up to this chapter but both are as absent from this film as our teenage heroes are from Hogwarts. There was great potential for an incredible action sequence with dozens of wizards battling on brooms but it happened, apparently, just off the edge of the screen I was watching. The special effects budget was instead spent on multiple Daniel Radcliffs in various states of undress. And not a white horse in sight.

The plot (boys meet girl, girl has tent, they all go camping) is decidedly holey. Potter and co. as Dumbledore’s army have taken out death eaters but when the clearly less powerful snatchers show up our heroes run, chuck a couple of token ‘poofs’ in the bad guys direction, get surrounded and...give up. The kids couldn’t travel by apparate at the start—which justified the wizards on brooms fight that no-one saw, but once that was done, they could travel by apparate because, well, frankly, we now need them to so Harry suddenly has had a birthday and that explains that.

And if they had to open the Horcrux locket in order to destroy it with the sword, why didn’t they open it when trying to destroy it before they knew they needed the sword?—because it would have wiped them out, silly. More to the point—why wear the locket? If you come into possession of a locket you know contains part of the very soul of the Dark Lord neither your first or last thought should be “I know, I’ll put it on; it goes great with my hiking boots.” Even after they knew it made them grumpy and irritable no one said “shouldn’t we wrap it in a Kleenex and carry it around in a pocket,” they just kept wearing it.

I’m sure many Potterites are currently preparing a statement along the lines of “there’s so much more in the books that explains all this.” And “Ooo” say the filmmakers “there’s so much to pack in,” presenting those as excuses for dull, bite-ridden, jerky, story-telling. But that doesn’t mean you can’t tell the story well on film. Lord of the Rings did—and the HP franchise has done it successfully more than once (with the director of this film too—even more baffling). A film should explain itself internally and not rely on some outside source. If I have to read a book in order to understand a film why bother seeing the film?

And I don’t accept it’s because this one is darker. A darker plot does not mean a film needs to retain nothing of the reasons we originally became fans of the stories. “This film is darker” the Pottersville creators say with each new installment, as if convinced that’s the only thing that will get audiences in to see it. Where are the things that made us love the franchise in the first place? Many a good series on TV and film has been ruined because the makers tried to fix what wasn’t broken and I fear that has happened here.

Nor do I buy the argument that “the books (and films) have had to become more adult as the readers of the series have gotten older.” Readers of all ages enjoyed the first ones and no one said it wasn’t dark enough or that there wasn’t enough undressing. “But the characters were younger then” Yes, they were. So? Older doesn’t inherently mean darker. At this rate if any of them survive till their twenties the plots will be so dark they’ll need Ingmar Bergman to direct.

And the argument that the plots and characters have matured to accommodate the ageing of the generation that grew up with them, excludes every following generation that starts the series (and every one before). The fact is most Harry Potter fans have not and will not grow up alongside the Harry Potter characters, so that argument is an excuse for making a darker film not a reason.

Yes, I shall be in line to see part two, because I am forgiving enough that one bad film (and a less exciting one) in such an immense franchise is allowable. But I find this one more alienating than entertaining. So much time spent being moody and sullen without any of what made the first movies watchable and interesting. Here’s hoping Harry Potter and the Perpetual Doldrum is not coming to a theater near me soon.

What's that in old money?

Recently I was reminded of my inevitable aging in a new way.

Commentary on getting old is not an original topic. Birthday cards joking about age abound, grey hairs arrive, and I swore I’d never grow too old for pop music but by the curly left horn of the great Jipply Gargler what the blazes is that ear crud the kids listening to these days? I mean, the fact that so much of today’s pop music uses samples of 80’s pop music proves that it was better back then surely?

Anyway I met a guy that sold hand-made wooden toys and—in a completely unconnected and somewhat baffling diversification—key rings made from old coins. He takes old coins, drills a little hole in them, puts them on a tiny chain, and arranges them in rows by decade.

Some were very cool. There were huge pennies from the 1800s when they put more metal into a penny than is used today in a hatchback; and there were coins so old the monarch effigy is male (though even if the queen were that bald it wouldn’t be immortalized on a coin). Many, of course, were of denominations or designs that no longer exist—like the three penny piece or the shilling.

But on the top row were coins that had no right being there. For example there were five pence pieces exactly like the ones in circulation when I was growing up. Ten pence pieces like the ones I used to balance on my elbow and then try to catch with the hand of the same arm without dropping any. What were these coins doing there? Suddenly, the no-longer-shiny-but-nothing-that-a-good-dollop-of-steak-sauce-wouldn’t-clean-up penny dropped. The coins given me as pocket money are not only defunct but are being made into novelty key rings. And looking at them were spotty, overly self-conscious teenagers giggling at the coins they used to use ‘back then.’

How dare they. 'back then’ indeed. I wanted to shout at them “Without ‘back then’ you wouldn’t have anything to plagiarize for what you define as pop music you melodically challenged generation of sample saturated, flossy eared, one hit wonder loving, flash in the pan dreamers. I’m a gen Xer, I used bigger currency and was proud of it! You, history will remember as the generation that let money slip through its fingers because it was so small and fiddly. Look, these coins on the lower rows are older and even bigger—aren’t they funny!”

So now when people ask ‘how old are you?’ I can't help but know I’m old enough that I can no longer use my magic disappearing coin box with the coins currently in use, even if I wanted to. (And I do).

Cleanliness is Next to Costliness

Dettol and Lysol are both advertising hands-free soap pumps which are currently top of my list for devices you simply don’t need. Yes friends, the liquid soap you used to squirt into your hands through personal effort is now available not at the press of a button. Lysol pitch the hands-free soap pump with the thought that hands come into contact with millions of germs every day but what about the ‘germs ending up on your soap pump?’

Well what about them? First of all it is standard practice that once you’ve squirted soap into your palm you immediately use it to wash your hands. Surely the microscopic nasties that leap to your finger (just the one) from the top of the soap dispenser are the shortest lived germs of any that you acquire; being, as they are, immediately immersed in germ killing liquid soap and, if you’re any kind of smart, hot water.

When was the last time you squirted the soap into your palm and then thought ‘You know what, I think I’ll walk the dog first,’ and then strolled down the road with a leash in one hand and a glob of liquid soap in the upturned palm of the other? "No I wont shake hands, I'm covered in soap. Could you get the door for me?"

And why focus on this particular source of germs? Never mind door handles, sinks, drains, and other people’s sneezing kids—let’s throw our substantial corporate R&D efforts at the germs that are acquired by the tip of a single finger from the top of a soap dispenser. Stephen King could no doubt turn such an idea into something terrifying but coming from the soap company it just smacks of a desperate need to make money from faux fear.

Anyway, to conquer this tiny and very short-lived threat to our health the solution is, apparently, to prevent us from having to touch the dispenser by encasing it in another dispenser, albeit a high-tech one.

So now we have liquid soap in a non-degradable plastic container, which we put inside another non-degradable plastic container, which only dispenses the soap if we also buy electricity in the form of batteries. Yes, it takes power to get your hands clean.

It is a staggeringly resource-heavy solution for a non-existent problem. Even now Kim Jong Il is kicking himself for not having thought of it first. We are using more plastic and generating more spent batteries and the net result is simply that a single fingertip that is about to be washed anyway, will not be slightly dirtier for a couple of seconds longer than its fellow digits.

What next? A campaign to target the germs that accumulate on the outside of shampoo bottles that are kept in the shower or on the packaging of septic wipes?

If only soap weren’t a liquid. Imagine a world where soap didn’t run everywhere if it found itself outside of the bottle. One day I’m sure science will create soap in a solid state that doesn’t need two dispensers and four AAs. If only soap were solid it could be sold in, Oh I don’t know, maybe a nice convenient bar shape.

Think Happy Thoughts

I recently got tagged by a good friend. “Tagged? Is she a correctional facilities officer?” No, She blogged on ten things that make her happy, and then tagged ten people to do the same (after being tagged herself I believe). I was the only boy she tagged, meaning she sees me as manly or effeminate.

The rules are thus: If you get tagged, you have to list 10 things that make you happy. What are the things that tickle your fancy, make you smile or still give you that butterfly sensation? What things do you seek out and truly enjoy? The only rule is that you can't say your kids or your spouse...it's too easy (you’ll note I’ve steered clear of that one).

Writing
I do like getting a good idea, jotting it down, playing with the rhythms and having someone else like it. Notice I don’t say blogging though. I tried to blog regularly about daily happenings but a) I don’t have the time and b) I just can’t write like that. I’m most comfortable writing in essay format about specific topics, so that’s what I do. I can’t accept a first draft. Everything I write is rewritten at least twice, left for a day (or in the case of this essay months), until I ‘feel’ it’s right.

Flying
To see from above how the land looks like generations before me couldn’t. I love seeing traffic get smaller and slower after take off. I like the obscure signs of man seen in remote places; looking down over deserted areas and seeing dusty roads that lead through hilly areas to a lone building with a large antenna, or a going over mountains and suddenly seeing one with its top missing, its sides stepped, and digging equipment everywhere. And I like the solitary feeling in the plane.

The BBC
But first, the news.
I have huge issues with US news media which I think does a great disservice to the people. That’s just my opinion, but seeing as US TV news thrives on opinion rather than actual news they might take more notice, or more likely, offence. BBC news however—Oh yes please. (NPR does a not too shabby job Stateside).
Then, drama. Lots of girls I know believe you can’t have too many adaptations of a Jane Austen story and the BBC certainly delivers there (almost monthly it seems). Not for me though. I had a few friends watch the first episode of Life on Mars. First the BBC one then the rough cut of the ABC one (obtained two months before its broadcast from “friends” with connections). Everyone agreed that Auntie Beeb’s version was great and ABC’s version was unlikely to get past episode three before being cancelled (though it has been reshot and recast apparently). So we can all agree that BBC do that well.
The comedy. Have I Got News For You—clever, funny, scathingly satirical, and would not get near being shown on a US network for their fear of alienating a sponsor.

(This doesn’t mean I don’t like US TV – House is great, as was BSG up to season three)

So, BBC news, comedy, drama, does that count as three things?

Thunder storms
England has, in my opinion, too much rain. On the other hand, Los Angeles has too little. I long for a good rolling of static power above my head, the wind whining between buildings, and rain. Then I love the walking in it, sometimes with hat and coat, sometimes without, but I’m not allowed in until I feel the wetness seeping through seams or trickling onto my scalp. Then it’s back inside for a warm-up shower and a cozy blanket while falling asleep to the sound of the rain hitting the windows. Native Angelinos are seriously disturbed by this behavior. They are raised thinking precipitation is evil, and if it touches them they rush to the cosmetic surgeon to buy new skin and/or to their priest to buy absolution. Why do I live in a non-rain zone? My body is not awake if there’s no sunlight around.

Things I don't like
I love things I don’t like. First off it's so much easier to whine. Here I am halfway through a list of ten things that make me happy, and already I find I have to stop and put effort into thinking of things that make me happy, while, with no effort at all, I am suddenly reminded how annoyed I get when at the end of some TV show it completely gives away what's going to happen the next week leaving me no surprise or enjoyment. I hate that. But of course things I don’t like allows me to write stuff (see item one); network news, buying tickets online, gum wrappings etc. So having a good whine about something that makes me mad, makes me happy. Pysch majors, have at it.

Green arrows at busy intersections (when its me turning).
When driving on those wide multi-lane roads, and you need to turn across the oncoming lanes its annoying to have to stop at the light and wait for the green arrow. But, when the turn arrow comes and you’re the only car turning…several lanes full of cars have to wait while you and you alone get to continue your journey. Do it slowly and savor the moment.

Youtube – the ultimate clipping service
Clips of shows I watched when I was a child,
clips of shows I can’t get in the US.
Clips of things I was actually at.
Clips of things I wish I could have been at.
I love clips I’m the first to find among my friends (so I look cool).
I love clips they send me that I had no idea existed until they arrive (making them look cool).
Commercials from long ago, and/or far away; clever music videos, rare footage, Cool things, the list goes on.

Speculative fiction
Which comes in many subgenres, but sci-fi, some fantasy, and I’m quite liking the recent uprising of superhero films. Isaac Asimov is a hero in the short story area, batman and X-men rule the superhero world. Combining fantasy and humor is rare so one could argue that Terry Pratchett has no real competition. One could also argue he’s the only one that could pull it off and deserves credit for forging his own genre, anyway Discworld books I like. I’d also recommend Good Omens.

How many to go, two? Two. Well then I like the number

two.
Two is great and makes me happy. Who doesn’t love two? Do you like two as well? (I say as well because if I added too to two, it would be three 2's in a row which is, of course, six, and that's just confusing).

And finally, please don’t expect a drum role, this list is not exhaustive or in any order…think…think…lemon cake! Yes. Oranges for eating and smelling, lemon for flavoring. When it comes to fruit I don’t do berries or whatever family plums fall into. I do do a lot of apples and melons. But when it comes to cake and especially icing, lemon is the favorite. And not any of this ‘hint of lemon’ stuff, give me lemon curd so strong it melts your taste buds and sends a sharp lemony sting round your mouth, through your cheeks, down you leg and across the road to the bus stop.

And that’s it. I now tag ten people. Some who will thrill to do this, some who have no time for such shenanigans, and some should really be in touch more than they are. DB, SL, KP, LC, RL, SE, EC, JC, MP, MH, give it up.

Six word memoir

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking its readers for their own six-word memoirs.

loads to be read on their site (you can submit your own too), or in the book.

Here's mine - more of a biography but still.

Inhaled, perspired, acquired. Exhaled, retired, expired.

Mother said not to medal

So it’s Olympic season, bringing with it the usual wow moments of amazing feats, the tut-tutting over bad calls by the officials, the antics of ruffled athletes, and a staggering amount of indifference on my part. I am not a sports fan. I’m not against them mind, I just don’t have a personal need to know what’s going on sportswise.

Except I’ve found a discrepancy on the way the overall winner is determined. Sports have many rules to ensure a level playing field, the Olympics themselves have strict rules of conduct and sportsmanship, but the medal count...that seems open to interpretation.

I present to you the medal results as reported by American network NBC on Sunday, August 17 at 3:30 p.m.



America is top with 65 medals won. China comes in second and Great Britain comes in fifth. Well done everyone I’m sure.

At exactly the same time and date though, the BBC reports things differently. China is in top place, the U.S. is second and Great Britain comes in third.



It’s nothing to do with time delay in the reporting—there is a four hour difference in the "as of" times on each site, but both tables show exactly the same numbers of medals for those countries. No, the NBC medal table is ordered according to total number won, the BBC (and the IOC) orders according to number of gold medals at the top, and when the number of golds is tied, you look at the number of silvers and then bronzes.

I’m not the first to notice. Sports fans are spitting venom at each other all over the place about which way to determine the best sports nation. But this blog is occasionally read by friends and cyber-wanderers, not daily by thousands that value it for its up-to-the-minute commentaries and behavior altering revelations, so maybe its news to some of them like it was to me.

Oo - and thanks to DG who sent me this link . It lets you sort medals won (golds or total) by polulation. By which method the most succesful team of these games is either the Bahamas (one medal for every 165,500 citizens) or Jamaca (one gold for every 452,000 citizens).

Extra Thick Shakes

When I was a kid I was amazed and astounded at San Franciscans. How smart was it to live in a city between major fault lines and where there is a 63 percent chance of a major quake in the next 30 years? Now I'm older, I choose to live in Los Angeles, which has a 67 percent chance of the same. Yes, I amaze and astound myself.

Yesterday was my most prolific earthquake experience so far. For those that have a few minutes here’s my account of those few seconds.

Little shakes are not uncommon in Los Angeles (especialy with kiddy meals), but today’s earthquake was a more substantial 5.4, and the epicenter (I’ve always wanted to go to a gig at the epicenter) was about 30 miles away from downtown where I work.

People talk about time slowing down in crisis situations. My theory is that it’s because you think faster than you can move (this is true even for Superman). For the few seconds the quake lasted I had an agile thought process that went through dozens of questions, scenarios and possible ways to react, but in the same amount of time there was room for only one action.

Big trucks shake vibrate my building so frequently it doesn’t really register. Luckily my subconscious, normally content to sit quietly and stay out of the limelight, keeps track of the mundane and raises the alarm when the normal becomes abnormal. Like a streaker in your office, you subconscious has the ability to make you stop whatever you are doing and demand you attend to what’s out of place.

My subconscious caught my attention, something was not normal. This is the point in any crisis where awareness is suddenly heightened. Your thoughts come more quickly and you stop typing memos and focus on what is out of place in the environment around you. The building was vibrating, and it was lasting longer than a truck would cause. You ask yourself questions: Is it a really, really big truck? An ATAT Walker coming down the street? Did something hit the building (I didn’t hear screeching tires)? Or, I asked, finally arriving at the reality I hoped to avoid, “is this an earthquake?” In the the time it takes to go through the process of realizing it is an earthquake its arrived.

Just as I discarded all the other possibilities the entire building lurched. Up or down, left to right? You don’t know which way it’s moving any more than a leaf knows which way it’s being blown; you just know the building moved suddenly and you were left to catch up with it; like jerking forward and back when you suddenly slam on the brakes of a car. So the question adjusts to “how big will it be?” the answer is, “no one knows, idiot,” so I quickly progressed to “should I get under the desk, stand under the door frame, leave the building, or run naked down the corridor like I’ve always wanted in case it’s my last chance?”

This last of course would really confuse people’s already overactive subconsciousness, “of course I froze officer, there was an earthquake and a streaker...”

I had just enough time to push my chair away from my desk to prepare for a heroic dive under it, when the shaking stopped. “Was that a foreshock to something bigger?” There was a prolonged creaking from somewhere and one of the office doors swung gently on its hinges for a few moments, but that was it.

While I’m sure everyone had a different experience, I think everyone asks themselves questions. Parents wonder about their kids. Off duty firemen wonder if they will have to go in. Earthquake experts wonder “is it an L wave or a R wave?” historians ask “will be similar to the 6.6 that happened on this day in Nepal back in ’95?”

The biggest aftershock was the avalanche of news media coverage that went over all ten facts about the quake ad nauseum. No one was hurt, there was no warning, 5.4, some books fell off a shelf. Without any major damage or injury they quickly started going on about The Big One and how it is sure to happen in the next 30 years. Something they are sure to not mention again until it happens, or there is another non-fatal shake.

It was though, a valuable experience. That earthquakes come with no warning is known, but until you experience that you don’t realize the implications. I know for myself that there is literally time to get under a desk and nothing else. There’s no heroic picking up a kid and running to safety, definitely no chance to get into a shelter or even dress down ready to streak. In the time it takes you to walk ten paces it’s done and over. In ten paces you are either back to typing memos or in a pile of rubble.

Do Not Delete

There were 120 e-mails waiting for me when I got to work this morning. Some of these messages are so important I received literally dozens of duplicates. Many people would callously delete them without so much as glancing at their content but that’s just plain rude. If someone’s taken the time to compose a message for me I give it the respect it deserves.

The first one, for example, happily announces that Dr. Piero Nete, a responsible attorney, has been looking for me. Turns out a distant relative died tragically three years ago leaving five million dollars (US) and I am the sole remaining next of kin. In a panic I call my parents but they are both alive and well. I forward their details to Dr. Nete because, after all, it should go to them first.

“Your degree is just a phone call away!” the second through twelfth mails announce. The degree is offered by a “prestigious non-accredited university”—which is fine by me; there are some accredited ones that are not prestigious. This online bastion of education eliminates everything from books to classrooms to homework to actually teaching! They issue a degree “based on my present knowledge and life experience.” How’s that for consideration of my fast-paced lifestyle? I shall call them as soon I decide which of my life’s experiences deserves a degree.

A colorful mail informs me the VIP Casino jackpot is at $10 million. Who couldn’t use $10 million? But to prove how important my e-mail is to me I shall finish going through them before I sign up.

Next is a mail from Shirley (Hi Shirley!!). I don’t actually know any Shirley’s but clearly she knows me as my name is in the subject line (and it’s my e-mail name, so I’m sure we’re chummy). It only has the word “hi” in it and a link with no explanation. Looks like she accidentally hit the send button too soon and I hate to ruin the surprise so I’ll wait for her to resend when she realizes her mistake.

Now, I am suspicious of the next one. It’s about my order #529510 from a pharmacy. Apparently it’s not unusual for me to order from online pharmacies, sometimes several times a week. I never remember actually placing the order, but it must be legitimate because their e-mails always list the order numbers. I’m assuming the medications are for a memory disorder I have. None of the deliveries has arrived yet (I’ve been waiting years for some), but my credit card hasn’t been billed either, so I don’t think I have grounds to complain. This next email however is from a company listed as (I kid you not) agebottom.com. In my family that kind of problem was always solved with grandma’s special mixture of aloe and onion juice, so why would I need to order something?

A couple more e-mails with my name in the title. One of them is “2 me,” the other is “4 me.” I am 2 BC 2 open them now (U C, I F 2 P) so I’ll w8 and open them l8er.

Okay I’m back, and while I was gone another 47 e-mails arrived and each must be given due attention. I could get a prestigious, if non-accredited, degree in this.

Well here’s a turn-up…my loan has been approved! Although it’s followed by ten mails informing me my mortgage application is awaiting more information from me. I’m so confused, am I approved or not? The VIP Casino might well negate the need for both of these so I’ll leave them for now.

The next big thing on the stock market will be Honest Ron’s Airlines. I have a limited time to take advantage of its soon to be “soaring” profits if I “get in at the ground level” before it “takes off.” I call my portfolio manager but he can’t locate Honest Ron’s market ticker symbol. I tell him to call me when he does.

Oh hey, the VIP Casino jackpot has apparently gone up, $17 million. AND I get a $500 line of credit. I’m going to wait and see if it hits $20 mill.

The textuous style of the verbose mail next in line is a run on sentence of no small proportions but very small font that gives breath little chance and I think but can’t be certain as to its intention to incite me to overthrowing a government and then tangent the battle between nature and science without use of a scythe but wait you can’t end a sentence with a comma of which the young people of today are clearly suffering a lack of grammar skills and I could not agree more up the revolution my friend with a haircut would be nice,

My heartstrings are being tugged by the next one. It’s the story of Ernest Dillwedger—no, I’d never heard of him either. Born the youngest of 26 children to a poor Southern family, he suffered from extralaevuslobeius (an extra ear on the left side). He achieved his dream of becoming a fighter pilot, only to have his extra ear blown off by a stray land mine during a dogfight (between two greyhounds). Traumatized by the loss of his abnormal hearing, he hopes to undergo a revolutionary surgery where his big left toe will be grafted to where the extra ear once was. Any donation, however small, will help. How can I not do something? I forward him the tip on Honest Ron’s Airlines; that alone is worth more money than I can give.

Good news for me though, I’ve won a $500 gift voucher for groceries. Also an iMac, a flight on Jetblue, and a years supply of Lego. All free. Interestingly these mails all have missing graphics. Where a picture should be is one of those little red Xs telling me it’s missing. With great foresight though they have put links in for just such an eventuality: “if picture does not load click here.” Unfortunately most competitions in the US contain in the small print that you have to be a US citizen to enter and I’m not, so I have to let these go. Shame.

Missed my chance on the VIP Casino! The jackpot has dropped to less than $7m. That’s what greed does to you.

I C+AN’T BE_SUR,E BUT “I” TH1NK+ TH*IS O,NE is OFF,ERI+NG TYpIN+G LESSSONS.

A KI,N*D OFF_ER =) +BUT
I ”

+TH,!NK I_DO OKA-Y COM+PARA_TIVLEY SpEAK!NG

“Undeliverable: Sorry, this mail cannot be delivered. Follow the link and reset your password for access.” I can’t understand all this computer jargon; I forward this to the tech department.

And so it goes on. Most of these mails offer an unsubscribe link but why would I want to? E-mail is a key means for us to know what goes on in the world and so few people take full advantage of it.

As much as I warn against quick deletions of possibly important mails I must state that online vigilance has its place. Scam artists exist online as well as in the real world and some e-mails that look legitimate are anything but. Right here my last e-mail purports to be from my bank. It contains the correct security picture from my profile and the correct last four digits of my account number. I referred my roommate to the bank a month ago and apparently he opened an account so I get a $25 reward if I click to verify. Well that I just deleted. Free money from my bank, what am I, naïve?


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Remembering President Hinckley

Gordon B. Hinckley, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, passed away in January of 2008. Many personal stories have been recorded to honor his memory. This is one of mine, and it’s all true.

President Hinckley would have only one 90th birthday and only one 90th birthday celebration. If you were a student reporter assigned to cover the event, you would either be there, or write the “lost and found pets” column for the rest of the term.

I was assigned to report on the event along with Photographer Greg for BYU’s student paper The Daily Universe. It was my first actual “go-and-cover-this-story” assignment for my journalism class, and I admit to being both excited and a little nervous.

We barely started our hour-long journey from Provo to Salt Lake City when the air conditioning in Photographer Greg’s truck, desperately needed in Utah’s June heat, coughed and gave up with a shrug. We both developed instant coatings of glistening sweat. Several miles later other, more vital, bits of the truck showed they could shrug and give up just as well as the air-conditioning. The vehicle lost power, then suddenly lurched forward, then lost it again. Any obvious engine problems ran away and hid when we pulled over to investigate, only to reappear when we started toward Salt Lake again.

My grandfather never said “If trucks were meant to crawl they’d have limbs,” but if he had I’d have remembered his wise words at this point. Photographer Greg’s truck was crawling admirably. Salt Lake was getting nearer at the rate of 15 to 30 miles an hour depending on whether we were going up hill or down. We would barley make it on time and an air of uncertainty settled over the trucks increasingly clammy interior. Certainly the back of my mind was already working on new ways to report on lost pets.

Eventually the truck decided it was much too fine a day to be doing anything but sunbathe; it lurched its last and the engine died. As a subtle reminder that we should not loose our tempers, the truck had given up the ghost opposite the LDS temple at Jordan River about 15 miles south of Salt Lake City.

In his jeans and boots, Photographer Greg was far more suited to be walking alongside the dusty freeway than I was in my dress shoes, shirt and tie, and suit. In barely the time it took to say “dust” it covered our clothes and stuck to our non air-conditioned skin.

The priority was to get to a payphone (in answer to your question, no; cellphones among students weren’t nearly the epidemic in 2000 they are today). As luck would have it we were close to a multiplex that was sure to have one. All we had to do was get over the eight foot high wire mesh fence that ran along the freeway in each direction as far as the eye could see.

Photographer Greg was also better dressed to climb the fence.

As we walked toward the cinema I felt a pleasant breeze on my leg. Then another. In fact I felt a breeze every time my left leg took a step. I glanced down and saw a rip in my left trouser leg, extending from my waist, to below my knee. Step, flap, step, flap. A tear big enough to hide the Grand Canyon in exposed the seldom aired whiteness of my left leg to the elements.

Grimy from sweat and dust we walked into the air-conditioned lobby of the multiplex. Two young men behind a desk asked cheerfully if I would like a free membership to Gold’s Gym for a week. “Does it come with a complimentary sewing kit?” It did not, and the problem of getting 15 miles in 20 minutes eclipsed every thought of physical fitness.

I called an old roommate in Salt Lake who owed me a favor; a favor which I had decided was to be trouser shaped. No answer. “Lost any pets recently?” I asked the Gold’s Gym reps, planning a flying start to my new column that was looking likely to begin the very next day. Photographer Greg had better luck getting in touch with some relatives who lived nearby and arranged transport. Five minutes after we should have walked into the Conference Centre, we were again standing next to a sunbathing truck in the summer heat on a dusty freeway. Greg’s kinfolk pulled up in a big white truck and we continued our journey Salt Lakewards.

I thought the odds that they had happened to bring a pair of charcoal gray, self-stripe, 34 waist suit trousers with them remote, so I didn’t ask. But they did have a roll of clear packing tape which it was agreed I could take.

There are 160,000 people living in Salt Lake City and every one of them that owned a car was driving it around the Conference Center. Those that didn't were on foot, blocking the crosswalks. Realizing I could barley name three breeds of dog, I found myself planning emotionally charged lost pet stories and heart-warming found pet stories facilitated by my kidnapping and returning of the same.

At 6:25 p.m. Photographer Greg and I left the confines of the truck and walked (flapped) the remaining blocks. The parting in my trousers, big enough that I expected to see the children of Israel cross it any second, was too big to disguise, but people were too kind or embarrased to mention it and we entered the building without incident.

I quickly found a restroom and readied my suit for repairs. The packaging tape lived up to its name in that it was ideal for packaging. It was fully aware that sticking to cloth was not a compulsory part of its job description, and its efforts to stick to my poly/cotton trousers were half-hearted at best. I therefore used a lot of it, applying liberally down the tear, across the tear, and all the way round the inside of the leg at several places. My trousers could now stay up whether or not I was in them. I was as ready as I would ever be to go and see the prophet’s birthday celebration.

My every step was accompanied by a very audible crumpling noise and there were some curious looks from people as I walked across the lobby sounding like a giant packet of Doritos. But at 6:55 p.m. I finally walked into the media room and discreetly sat in a corner, legs permanently outstretched. Photographer Greg disappeared into the auditorium and I set about taking notes for the story. Gladys Knight closed the evening by having the entire congregation sing Happy Birthday to President Hinckley. I could well be the only person in history to sing Happy Birthday to a prophet while wearing a suit held together by packaging tape (though never let it be said I did not also have faith and hope).

The celebration over, we set out to find Photographer Greg’s kinfolk. He had arranged to meet them by the nearby Delta Center. The Delta Center takes up a whole block and we had not specified where around it we were to meet them, so for 40 minutes he walked and I crumpled around the Center until we stopped to stand conspicuously on a street corner. Had we known they switched their truck for an SUV we would have had a better chance of spotting them.

All had worked out for the better though. The prophet was 90 and well, we were on the freeway heading back toward Provo with words and pictures, and I did not expect to be writing stories that included the phrase “answers to the name of” any time soon.

The SUV lurched. And again. It sputtered, shrugged and lost power, and soon enough we found ourselves in a stationary vehicle at the side of the freeway. “I’m not jumping over any fences,” said I, but I didn’t have to. The SUV, perhaps realizing we didn’t have any more important appointments to keep, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to not make an effort. We restarted the engine and while there was no more lurching, the drive continued both cautiously and very, very slowly.

The next day in the newsroom I requested a reduction in stories requiring travel from my editors. I simply didn’t have enough trousers.

23 June 2000

The article about President Hinckley’s birthday celebration became my first published—albeit in the online edition only. This “story of the story” I made public for the first time in March 2008, a few weeks after his passing.

Best (check) Before

I don’t want to kill, cripple, or otherwise infect myself by eating out of date food. I would have thought the food industry doesn’t want me to either, if not through fear of lawsuits then because I am a guaranteed future income for them. Its not always the case however.

This jar of honey, for example, has printed on its underside ‘best by Mar 09.’ Helpful, easy.

This can of soup however, isn’t so helpful. Printed on its underside is ‘FF154225OCTA2.’ Yes, I see 25OCT amongst the other alphanumerics—standing out like a special forces sniper in a jungle—but only because I was stubborn enough to insist there was a date in there and kept looking till I saw it. Of course, it doesn’t say 25OCT is the ‘best by’ date. For all I know printing 25OCT on everything was the machine operators way of not forgetting his wedding anniversary again. If 25OCT is the expiration date, the question of what year the soupy contents becomes toxic to my person is anyone’s guess. The chunks in chunky soup are hard to identify at the best of times so I don’t rate my chances of working out which ones have grown in the can since it was sealed.

Then there’s the complete mystery stamp. This can of peaches has ‘619C5 1616’ printed on it, though it is hard to make out (only the top half of the digits are in italic you see). This code, I’m sure, comes in handy when the empty can is pried from the hand of a newly deceased digester of its contents, and is checked against a peach packaging database by investigators. The code may reveal such information as which factory sealed the can and where it was delivered to; or it may confirm an extreme case of out-of-dateness, and that a deadly virus that grows exclusively in out of date cans of peaches was likely involved. I don’t have access to such a database so I don’t want to risk my well being on its contents. No matter how organic it purports to be. But a Google search of the first part of the code tells me that if the 619C5 is referring to a computer chip, it is indeed way out of date.

So here’s the theory. The longest lasting foods have the most cryptic codes on the packaging. You see, if the can’s contents have a shorter shelf life they put on a clear best before stamp, that date comes and goes, I throw it out and replace it. But if it’s a can of food that lasts a really long time…well they wont make any new profits off me if they put on a clear best before date will they? So they slap on an ambiguous code, spread a few urban myths about mad peach disease, knowing that when I look at the base of the can I will have to err on the side of caution, throw it out and go buy some more.

A Big Hit

I'm really not into sports so I don't know how cool it is to have a friend in a Superbowl ad. But here it is, Eric hitting on Carmen and then getting hit by her body gaurds. Incidentaly, he reports she's really nice in person, none of that "My trailer is the wrong shade of pink; where's my tantrum advisor; I only eat fat-free, low-cholesterol, protein-enriched grains of rice" stuff.

The Royal Wave

Over the Christmas break (Dec 20, 2007) Queen Elizabeth became the longest living British monarch. If she makes it to 2015 she'll also be the longest reigning. Among her many contributions, waving...


Queen Elizabeth II Will Leave Behind Long Legacy Of Waving

Ee Buy Gum

The first in a series of posts tagged 'annoying.'

There are settings in which the act of chewing gum is not acceptable. Exchanging wedding vows is typically not done while smacking and popping sounds come from your constantly working jaw. Don’t chew gum at a job interview or while having a tooth extracted.

But gum has a very important place in society in terms of freshy breathness. It’s essential in certain social settings. It helps you concentrate in exams. So why is it so hard to get gum out of its wrapper?

Gum used to be packaged in one way, a stack of flat sticks, each individually wrapped in both silver and regular paper, and then collectively wrapped in a bundle so tight you needed a crowbar to get the first one out.

The trend now is to sell gum in little match-book-like boxes, you open the box and a dozen individually wrapped sticks offer themselves to your mandibles desires. What you don’t see is the other end, the end in the bottom of the box that holds on for dear life as you try to pull it out and when you do the paper lining the box comes with it as do all the other sticks of gum.

Regardless of wrapping the cost of getting that first bit of gum out is the sacrifice of at least one other bit of gum. Hopelessly squashed and mangled, its wrapper torn, possibly flung on the floor, you discard it before you can extract a useable piece.

Annoying huh?

Xmas stuff

A fabulous Christmas in the motherland.

Since last I was there, the family has moved northward and into a locale small enough to be rightly called hamlet (hard to imagine Shakespeare having success with a play called Village isn't it).

There was a reunion of Notability, the cheesily named vocal group of chums, some of whom I hadn't seen for a decade. Amazingly we all looked very much like when the group broke up. Would we sound the same? yeah, no one wanted to know, least of all us.

There was much traditional food that I miss so badly, and I got to practice my British accent among those who know it best. Interestingly (and quite flatteringly) the only two people to tell me I had lost my accent were from 'up north' from when I used to live there. I interpret that to mean I've lost any northern accent I may have once had but that the actually UK tones are relatively okay.

Here's me with the newest niece, and one of the kids climbing all over grandad.















For a New Year's resolution I resolved to make a resolution. So that's me set till next year...