Kites, phones & a Bell

I'm so convinced multi-tasking is detrimental to true efficiency that I refuse to walk and chew gum at the same time.

This puts me at odds with the rest of the productive world and in happy harmony with one of the world’s most renown geniuses.

That would be Alexander Graham Bell.

I had the opportunity to work on a very enjoyable story this week for msnbc.com about the Zilker Park Kite Festival today in Austin, Texas. 

Among the many things I learned is I want to spend more time among people who fly kites, a global phenomenon that predates Christianity by 200 years. Kite people are splendid and artistic problem solvers who allow their inner 6 year olds to emerge anytime it gets a little windy.

I don’t know whether they get high as their kites, but they act like they do. They are perfectly at peace. Near the eve of the biggest kite festivals of the year, the participants conveyed no tension. 

It has me wondering why “Go fly a kite” ever became such a nasty putdown. It should be something doctors recommend instead of things like Valium.

So I intend to go fly a kite in the very near future. And I’ll, as I usually do, leave my smart phone behind.

I’ve had mine a month now and am pleased to report there’s no danger of it  enslaved me.

It provides so many marvelous conveniences, but that only makes me more aware of the need to keep its seductions at bay.

And that brings me to the man whose name in phone history towers above even Steve Jobs.

That’d be A.G. Bell, a man I confess to having known little about prior to this week. I thought he was a Yank like me, but he was a hosehead. Who knew?

Yes, he was born March 3, 1847, in Edinburg, Scotland, and at age 23 moved to Nova Scotia where he resided until his death August 2, 1922, at age of 75, bearing a mirthful resemblance to St. Nick. The  Alexander Graham Bell National Historic Site in the provincial town of Baddeck not far from his estate.

Bell, of course, is famous for having been issued the patent for the first telephone on -- anniversary alert -- March 7, 1876. Remember that tomorrow the instant your phone rings.

Here’s a thought: What sound would the original phone have registered if it had been invented by a man named Alexander Graham Horn?

I was surprised a story of kites would lead me to Baddeck, but I wanted to include some history of kites and was stumbled into illumination that Bell was an avid and life-long kiter.

“Alexander Graham Bell spent his whole life tinkering with kites and in 1909 constructed these enormous monstrosities capable of lifting grown men 100-feet in the air, ” says Bell museum superintendent Eddie Kennedy. “He was a genius, but a child at heart. He adored kites.”

And that wasn’t even the most fascinating thing Kennedy told me. It turns out the man credited with inventing the now ubiquitous form of communication was uneasy about how they’d be used.

“He said he didn’t think anyone would want one in his home or his office because the phone would be too much a distraction,” Kennedy said. Talk visionary.

Think about that. The man who invented the device was ambivalent about its apps about 130 years before apps about things like angry birds became an international insanity.

Looks like I have a new hero to research and, like another hero of mine, Ben Franklin, he, too, was into kites.

So soon as it gets windy, I’m going to go find a really spiffy kite and a long line of thread I can unspool into the distant winds.

And, yeah, first thing I’ll do is see if my distracting little smartphone has an app for that.

A disdain toward multi-tasking doesn’t preclude a kinship to cool.

Undercover Boss -- me!

I remember seeing the first “Undercover Boss” promos and thinking, gee, what a novel idea. I’d love to watch a show where the CEO is revealed to be a moron and emerges with a new respect for working stiffs.

And, of course, I haven’t watched even a minute of it. I watch enough mind-deadening TV that I don’t need to pump more reality sewage into the swamp -- and that sounds like the premise for “Undercover Mob Boss.”

Yet, I remain charmed by the concept and think how much fun it would be to have a role in the show.

Since I work alone, can’t afford to hire anyone and even coke-headed producers wouldn’t dream of putting a show like that on the air, I spent yesterday pretending I was the Undercover Boss of myself.

I auditioned the 23 or so distinct voices in my head and allowed one of them to step forward into the boss role to survey what I do, how difficult it is, and gain a new appreciation for the peon employee.

That’d be me.

Undercover Boss: “Morning! I’m here to work with you.”

Me: Welcome aboard. I’m prepared to share with you all my secrets. Ask me anything.

U.B.: “Let me start by saying how handsome you are.”


Me: "And let me start by saying what a fantastic start you're off to, my brown-nosing little friend!

Camera pans to a sign on the door that says, “All Guys Welcome! My Door is Always Open, My Toilet Seat is Always Up,” as I let him in to the shabby little office right above my favorite bar.

U.B.: “Quite an office you have here.”

Me: It’s like a little clubhouse. I told my wife a few years ago I wanted a ‘Bob Dylan Theme Time Radio’ poster for my birthday. She said, ‘What, are you still in the eighth grade?’ I told her no, but my office is.

Camera flash summarizes the first three hours of the morning with clips of me tossing wadded up pieces of scrap paper into a 5-foot high waste paper basket nailed to the wall 12-feet from my desk. The ones that miss, about 50-percent, I then thud chip into a lower waste basket with my pitching wedge (camera shows startled diners in the bar below spilling hot soup in their laps as the jarring noise sparks alarm).

U.B.: “Do you ever do any work here?”

Me: Not really. I try to avoid things that make me sweat or cause my brain to hurt.

The show segues to a shots of me expertly juggling three bean bags and swapping punch lines from movies like “SlapShot!” “Hot Fuzz,” and “Zombieland” with old friends on the speaker phone. The iPod blasts a lively playlist of Delbert McClinton, Todd Snider, Joe Ely and Kris Kristofferson.

U.B. “I packed a lunch. Do we eat here in the office?”

Me: Rarely. I spend so much time deep inside my own head, I really need to get out and see people. The isolation is the worst part of the job. So about once a day I pretend someone’s phoned in a bomb threat and I dash downstairs to the bar for safety and suds. Let’s pretend that right now so we can get good seats in time for the Showcase.

Cameras cut to me and the U.B. sitting on bar stools getting ready to ridicule goofy contestant bids on “The Price is Right.” After Drew Carey announces the winner to the Showcase Showdown and the comely supermodels wave the show to commercial, we watch the local news and return upstairs.

U.B.: “What’s the biggest misconception about how you work?”

Me: “That I’m drunk all the time. I joke about it a lot, but it’s surprising and a little disappointing how often I’m sober. But I perpetuate the myth so others can have vicarious fun.

The afternoon work session is a virtual rerun of the morning fun enlivened by a segment where I show the U.B. how I prank bar patrons in the parking lot by pushing my car’s remote panic horn button the instant they slam their car doors. Hiding behind the curtains, we both crack up at their muddle-headed confusion.

U.B.: “Well, after watching you work, I think you’ve earned a little bar time.”

Me: What a splendid idea! I think you’re going to work out fine here, kid!

The U.B.’s voice over concludes the show: “He doesn’t earn enough money to warrant a raise, but I can’t fire his lazy ass ‘cause he’s good for morale. He’s worked for me for nearly 20 years and still have no idea how the hell he does it.”

The picture fades to black after the camera pans across the stoic faces of the bar regulars looking on in disturbed silence as me and my imaginary U.B. yuk it up in the corner.

The phrase “Another day, another dollar,” would fit perfectly if you just subtract the part about the dollar.

Aged Oscar thoughts & recent tweets

It’s been two nights and I’m still startled awake by nightmares that 94-year-old Kirk Douglas is in my room trying to present me an award for best supporting blogger.

That was the Oscars that was supposed to appeal to a youthful audience?

Producers must assume everyone born after 1980 are morons who can be pandered to by pretty young hosts who chirp “Twitter!” “FaceBook!” and “App!” every seven minutes.

I don’t know why we expect so much from an Oscar telecast when the only industry more historically disappointing than the movie industry is the one that makes ugly gas guzzlers in Detroit.

I have a lot to say about the issues raised by the Oscars, in particular, the age issue. I’m itching to talk about it because for the next few months I’m perfectly middle-aged.

I just turned 48 and my late grandfather lived to be 97. By that narrow calculus, I’m right at the peak of middle-agedness, so I’m perfectly neutral in regards to bashing both the too young and the too old. I need to seize the opportunity while it remains ripe.

But, of course, I can’t do all that now, not while I’m trying to keep up with every Charlie Sheen interview. So here’s another hybrid blog/twitter post -- and shouldn’t use of those two words get me trending with 20-somethings?

For those keeping score, I haven’t done one of these lazy hybrids since December 16. And I don’t know why I feel the need to defend laziness, something I often celebrate here and whenever I succumb to its sedentary temptations.

• Truly, Kirk Douglas’s appearance was scarier than some of theatrical entries in the the special effects categories. Having him present might have worked if they’d have put him in some context to show the kiddies what a great actor and dashing gent he once was. But having him out there in his condition was a mistake. It looks like he underwent some sort of nonagenarian plastic surgery, which ought to dissuade other nonagenarians from seeking the procedure.

• A nonagenarian is a person between 90 and 100 years old. I had to look it up.

• James Franco was a bore, but Anne Hathaway did nothing to diminish my love for her. In fact, if I were producing the Oscars next year, I’d rehire her and tell her to spend the entire three hours looking soulfully into the camera while the winners were announced on the crawl below her angelic face. 

• Part of me is hoping Charlie Sheen can truly heal himself. Addiction is a very serious problem and Sheen seems to have most of the ones I’d have if I were him. But treating addiction has become too big an industry that seems to encourage addiction.

• I’d rather hear what Keith Richards has to say on Charlie Sheen’s addiction than Dr. Drew.

• Interested in seeing my recent msnbc.com story on great city slogans and why they work? Check it out right here. 

• Know of any good blogs or want to recommend your own? Please forward the address and I’ll post here with the others. Don’t be shy. Only rule is you need to post at least once a week or it ain’t really blogging.

Here’s a handful of recent tweets  . . .

• How come Col. Muammar Khadafi has been Libya's absolute ruler for 41 years and has never been promoted? Maybe he's a humble tyrant.

• Just learned the people of Yuma, AZ, refer to themselves as Yumans. I plan to enter a 5K there so I can say I've joined the Yuman Race.

• My most irrational fear of aging is that one day people younger than me will have children older than me.

• Can anyone as habitually truant as I was ever be considered truly "old school?"

• The word for lies that resist fact and endure for mythological lengths ought to be "durabull." For example: "Fox provides durabull news."

• The next step in smart phone evolution is to include hardware like blades, scissors, etc. Yes, it's time for the Swiss Army Knife Phone.

• He was a great man, but does JP II really deserve sainthood? What'd he do besides act really popey?

• How come bread sticks don't grow on bread trees?

• Just met a man who on this chilly morning was wearing a musical bellows. He was dressed accordioningly.

Gotta run. I haven’t checked in an hour, but I think Charlie Sheen’s about to be interviewed again. Just for fun, I think I’m going to tune into the Cooking Network and watch until he appears. Shouldn’t be too long.

Death to Gaddafi

I do not consider myself the bloodthirsty sort, but when CNN broadcasts angry mobs executing Col. Muammar Gaddafi I’ll TiVo the kill.

Like I do with favorite sporting moments, I’ll likely watch it a bunch the first few weeks, then maybe once a month, then maybe once a year on the anniversary.

It’s something I may savor with a glass of cabernet.

He was the first contemporary tyrant I ever hated and you never forget your first.

He was always in the headlines for horrific and bloody mayhem when I was a young newspaper reporter in Nashville and Greensburg, Pennsylvania.

To me, he is a Founding Father of state-sponsored terrorism. His money and menace were behind the 1972 Olympic killings and a string of deadly bombings throughout Europe in the 1980s. His bombs blew up discotheques, and machine guns paid for with his oil money slaughtered dozens waiting to board airline flights in Rome and Vienna.

He was an avid supporter of Iran when it held American’s hostage and later when it went to war with Iraq when Saddam Hussein was a key Middle East ally of ours -- and my how times change.

Ronald Reagan tried and failed to kill him with bombing raids in 1986, strikes that killed 45, including Gaddafi’s adopted daughter, but did nothing to deter him.

Then he and his henchmen were behind the Dec. 21, 1988, bombing of Pan Am flight 103 when it was 31,000 feet over Lockerbie, Scotland. The explosion killed 259 crew and passengers and 11 village residents upon whom the thousand pound chunks of debris without warning rained.

Two of the victims were local girls, Elyse Saraceni and Beth Johnson from  Greensburg’s Seton Hill College. The pair were returning from Europe to spend Christmas home with their families. I contributed coverage of the funerals and local outrage over the killings that remains unavenged.

The recollection of those poignant holiday losses still galls.

His body count may or may not be as high as Osama bin Laden’s, but his deadly aspirations have always been the same. 

That’s why I’ve been mystified by the change in Gaddafi’s stature over the last 10 years.

Admittedly, much about U.S. foreign policy mystified me over the last 10 years, but I’ve been most surprised about the shift in attitude toward Gaddafi by the people I count on to know better.

It was summarized thusly by David Blair, diplomatic editor of the prestigious Daily Telegraph in London. Here’s what he wrote in 2009:

"In his four decades as Libya's 'Brother Leader', Colonel Muammar Gaddafi has gone from being the epitome of revolutionary chic to an eccentric statesman with entirely benign relations with the West.”

Revolutionary chic? Eccentric statesman?

Now, I’m not versed in the deft, polite ways of diplomatic conversation, but WTF?

This is not some colorful and benign leader with quaint and idiosyncratic ways. This is a homicidal madman.

The revolution in Egypt was a euphoric triumph. What’s happening in Libya is compelling for more base reasons.

There will be no apologies, no trial, no exile to some cushy Mediterranean splendor.

This ending is preordained.

We’re witnessing the fruits of four decades of bloody repression ripen in real time. We have the opportunity to watch every step as determined mobs advance to an inevitable end that will make squeamish diplomats turn away.

Gaddafi’s vowed to fight to his last drop of blood.

It’s the one public utterance he’s made I wholeheartedly endorse.

Hope you like hell, you son of a bitch. There's a seat saved for you.

The sunny side of Earth 2050

I paused momentarily on seeing a Yahoo headline that read: “Scientists: Earth 2050 will be unrecognizable.” 

I thought, gee, why on Earth 2011 would I want to read a downer like that?

Then I felt shame for my knee-jerk pessimism. I was making the common mistake of confusing change with something detrimental.

It didn’t have to be that way.

In fact, the story, which I never bothered to read, could be a rosy development. Really, there are day-old diapers that don’t need changing as badly as does much of the planet.

But just in case my first impression was correct, I’m re-writing the story from the view of someone who isn’t averse to change and anticipates improvements the less visionary cannot fathom. Here you go:

“Earth will be unrecognizable in the year 2050 -- and you better start hoping you live to enjoy it.

Because it’s going to be safer, happier, healthier and hairier.

The munitions industry will perfect smart bullets that only hit people who really have it coming. The instant one leaves the barrel, new smart bullets will begin to determine if the target is hostile or psychotic enough to deserve lethal ventilation. If it concludes he or she is not, the bullet will automatically select a more worthy target.

“In fact,” says one scientist, “many smart bullets will get within a foot or two of the intended target and decide the world will be better off if it reversed and struck the person who fired it in the first place.” 

Starvation will be eliminated by advances in fax machine that will allow restaurants to fax leftovers to the hungry.

“These fax machines will allow restaurants to, rather than wasting so much food,  fax them to homes throughout the world where people are hungry. At first,  starving families may complain about static menus -- ‘What! Pizza Hut AGAIN!’ -- but variety will increase as even mom ‘n’ pop diners become acquainted with how to fax things like T-Bones and mashed potatoes without without jamming the machines.”

A simple cure for the common cold will have an unexpectedly beneficial effect on rain forest preservation. Without the sniffles or other unseemly nastiness, the need for acres and acres of tree-devouring tissues or TP will be greatly reduced. Trees will thrive. Air will become cleaner.

The growth of landfills will reverse as engineers refine green ways to use all human waste, biological and consumer, to run collapsible Cadillacs that grow and shrink depending on nearby traffic conditions.

“A car will grow to spacious dimensions on interstates, and will reduce in city traffic to more manageable sizes. By 2050, urban parking garages will all have become butterfly gardens as collapsible cars will be folded up and carried around in shirt pockets and purses until they’re needed for the drive home.”

By the year 2050, hair will be farmed like soy, wheat and alfalfa. Bald men will, for a nominal fee, be allowed to harvest whatever color and texture hair they desire from organic neighborhood hair farms.”

So there.

We are in for dramatic changes and most of it will be beneficial to all mankind.

Personally, I’m hoping that some prestigious and still-thriving news magazine will in 2050 eventually unearth these bold predictions and someplace like that will publish something like this, citing me and my sunny foresights from all those years ago.

Maybe these very revelations will in 39 years vault me from obscurity to the forefront of public consciousness. I will be considered relevant and witty all across Earth 2050.

Of course, I’ll be 87 and about nine years past my life expectancy by the time that heady recognition finally arrives.

I’m optimistic I’ll enjoy a couple of good weeks of prosperity and flattering attention before my demise. 

See, we all have something to look forward to!

My Biblical confusions

I remember reading what to me seemed a profound Biblical phrase from when I was about 25. My recollection of the precise wording was: “He who uses well what he is given shall be given more.”

My memory of it is crystal clear.

So I was surprised this morning when I went to look it up and saw that for nearly 25 years I’ve had it all wrong.

The passage attributed to Jesus Christ that struck me as so indelible is from the book of Matthew 13:12 and says, “For to him who has will more be given and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised I had it wrong. I often forget the “not” part in many of the Ten Commandments, oversights that are forever getting me into hot water with my wife, my neighbors and, I guess, the Almighty rule maker.

And -- sorry, Jesus -- my version’s better. It’s more concise, makes more sense and doesn’t ramble about in such confusing fashion.

What do you expect? He’s just a carpenter. 

I’m a professional blogger, well, as professional as any blogger who doesn’t earn a dime relentlessly blogging can be.

So let’s go by my phrasing and issue a report card for over the past 20 years. That’s a fair enough time for a reckoning. What have I apparently used well enough to be given more?

Let’s run it down:

• Spare change -- If you ever need a quarter, I’m the man. I’ve always kept piles of change handy in my life. Ever since 1986, I’ve always tossed the daily change into an old wine carafe. Once it fills, I count it up and usually get about $115. So if my interpretation of the Biblical phrase is true, I’ve done well with change and have been given more.

• Friends -- A morose friend of mine was saying the other day he believes we only have one real friend in our lives. Nonsense, I told him. I’ll bet I have about 50 really good friends -- and I’m not talking about people whose mere company I enjoy. I have hundreds of those. I’m talking about 50 people who will without question help me do things like bury bodies in the woods. I tried to cheer the guy up by telling him, “Hey, there are probably two or three people right in this bar that are your friends -- and you’re not even very popular.” I’m glad I have so many good friends because that man is now very pissed at me.

• Wives -- It gets tricky here because, to paraphrase Bill Clinton, it depends on what the definition of the word “use” is. I’ve only had one wife and, believe me, that’s plenty. But have I used her wisely? I know some very religious men who insist the wife should be submissive. These men, one in particular, must use their wives very well because they are working on acquiring their third and fourth ones. I’m convinced most men don’t want real wives. They want mail-order brides unfamiliar with the English language. Maybe I should try that. I could really use a mail-order bride.

• Golf balls -- This confuses me because I don’t use a golf ball very well. I can’t hit it straight, far or near where I aim. Yet, I have hundreds of them.

• Folding money -- I think this is the source of why I remembered that phrase with such clarity. It seemed like such a simple roadmap to riches. Use it well and you’ll be given more. If that’s so, then it’s damning evidence that I’ve done poorly with my money. I believe I use my money wisely. I’m not extravagant. But frets about money have dogged me my entire life. Life is not giving me more and I’m certainly not going to demean myself by running around after it.

• Time -- What gives with this? I’m a man with all the time in the world. I’ve fatigued proselytizing Hare Krishnas who fled my house saying, sorry, time to run. I’ll spend 15 minutes talking nonsense with the guys who work the butcher counter at the local supermarket. But have I used my time well? I’m 48 have no achievements and made no mark. I’ve had a hell of a lot of fun, but is that a wise use of my time?

Maybe one day it’ll all make sense, but it seems the one thing in my life I’ve really used well is, alas, my cents.

867-5309

The men at the bar cast eager eyes at me as I walked through the door. I imagine it must have been a look monumentals like Gen. George Washington, Pericles and Moses felt in slightly more trying circumstances.

These men needed an answer. And they looked to me to provide it.

It took me about two minutes before I shattered the tension and announced with cool confidence.

“Max Yasgur.”

They needed to know the name of the Bethel, N.Y., farmer who owned the land where the 1969 Woodstock festival was held.

I felt a cerebral surge of pride. It was particularly gratifying because I had the answer to that and every question right in my pocket.

I finally bought a low-end iPhone, a G3 for just $45. It is the most amazing device I’ve ever seen or conjured.

And I fear my smart phone will make me stupid.

That’s why my recollection of the late Yasgur was so satisfying.

Understand, in this great neighborhood bar there used to be a chalk board where the owner posted scintillating sports trivia questions. We spent hour after joyful hour challenging our intellects.

Then the stupid smart phone ruined it all. Our friend Dave stopped posing questions about six months ago when mental defectives started googling the answers before the rest of us had a real go at it.

With the answer to every question so easily accessible, why bother storing any information in our cranial warehouses?

My old phone was so decrepit we were unable to transfer the phone numbers to the new one. I had to do it manually.

Of the 77 contacts I figure I really “know” just five phone numbers. Just five numbers I could recall in a panic situation.

Ours will be the last generation to remember actual phone numbers and the only one we'll all remember is 867-5309.

Does that number ring a bell? Hell, does your phone even ring a bell? Probably not.

Now, the digital tsunami even has me feeling nostalgic for old phone numbers. 

I still remember the euphoria of slyly persuading an inebriated innocent to give me her number. The fact that it usually turned out to be a fake number did not diminish the heady jubilation.

Exchanging phone numbers was the first essential step in the tumultuous and exciting process that -- cross your fingers -- would lead to other, more vital exchanges.

Now, we give a person our names and within seconds they know everything there is to know about us.

Maybe I’m becoming more sensitive to the mass degradation of our brains because I’m dealing with a mother, 78, who, like many seniors, has self-diagnosed Alzheimer’s. She convinced herself the dreaded disease is stealing her faculties.

She watches a lot of TV and has also self-diagnosed fibromyalgia, mesothelioma and chronic fatigue syndrome. My thin patience will vaporize the instant Mom says she fears she might have erectile dysfunction.

As for the Alzheimer’s, it’s nonsense. She’s seen two physicians -- I was there for one of them -- who assured her their tests and observations reveal there’s nothing wrong with her.

They said she shouldn’t stress over forgetting minor things and suggest she might want to consider brain exercises like crosswords to help keep her sharp.

I suggest she just mutes the commercials anytime she sees an ad featuring a doctor, a lawyer or any elderly couple who appear on the verge of a romantic interlude.

She remains a vivacious and engaging woman and last night we chatted about how great it would be if, like Dad seven years ago, she just toppled over on the couch one day and was dead before hitting the floor.

She doesn’t fear death. She fears losing her mind.

I fear with my precious new smart phone I’m just giving mine away.

It’s something to think about.