Lastly, Through a Hogshead of Real Fire

Standing in the library last weekend, the conversation went something like this...

Mr. Ginley: Oh, look! It's the movie, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. In Blu-ray. Want to watch it?

Me: I've never seen it. The movie really got panned when it came out in, what, 1978?

Mr. Ginley: I thought it was pretty good. You know it has Peter Frampton in it. And the Bee Gees.

Me:  Well, Peter Frampton was pretty easy on the eyes. Barry Gibb, too. Okay, we can give it a shot.

So, Sunday evening we popped in the the disc and began to watch.

The premise was plausible enough. One Brit and three Australians, alleged natives of Heartland, U.S.A., take up the name of a band that was popular during the first half of the century, and start playing Beatles tunes.

Peter Frampton plays Billy Shears. The Gibbs brothers play the Hendersons. (Late of Pablo Fanque's Fair). Billy Preston plays Sgt. Pepper.

The music was reasonably well done. But someone was smoking something mighty powerful when they came up with the premise.

We watch as the improbable (certainly not a strong enough word) plot unfolds. A record deal is signed by getting the lads boozed and doobied up. They move to Los Angeles, where they are seduced by a team of, frankly, pretty skanky looking women. They party, they record, they go on with their lives oblivious to the fact that back home, the bad guy has stolen the town's instruments that were said to keep the moral fiber of the town on the straight and narrow. The town turns into a modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah. Billy Shears' girlfriend (her name is Strawberry Fields) packs up and departs to the strains of She's Leaving Home to bring back the boys and save the day.

In the meantime, there is a van equipped with robots, Alice Cooper sings Because to his classroom of robotic followers, and Steve Martin, as Dr. Maxwell Edison, croons Maxwell's Silver Hammer. And, oh yes, Aerosmith plays a bad-boy band (big stretch) singing Come Together.

Spoiler alert: The lads return to the home of their birth and save the day.

Throughout the flick, Mr. Ginley says, "That's not from the Sgt. Pepper album, is it?"

"No, that's from Abbey Road," I reply. Or the White Album. Magical Mystery Tour. Let it Be. Revolver. Rubber Soul.

There are a lot of clever references to Beatles lyrics. Mr. Kite, played by George Burns, is a featured player. (Yes, THAT George Burns. He dances AND sings. Bless his heart.) The bad guy is named Mean Mr. Mustard.  And there is a Lucy. In the sky. With diamonds.

When we at last get to the boisterous, happy ending, the whole town comes out to sing. And, inexplicably, their are many familiar but up-to-that-point-unseen, faces. Carol Channing. Keith Carradine. Wilson Picket. Helen Reddy. Bonnie Raitt. Tina Turner. Peter Noone. Etta James. And many, many more. (Presumably to mimic the cover of the original Sgt. Pepper album, which featured a hodgepodge montage of celebrities.)

Well.

It was at this point that I reminded Mr. Ginley of his earlier opinion of what a good movie this was. His defense was his age and circumstances at the time he saw it. (i.e. There may have been alcohol involved.)

He also pointed out that our son, having viewed Paul Blart, Mall Cop, proclaimed it was the best movie he'd ever seen. Of course, he was not an adult at the time, so he may be forgiven (if still teased about it).

Did I enjoy the show? I can't say it was 113 minutes of my life well-spent. But there were elements of nostalgia that I suppose made it somewhat palatable.

On the other hand, we didn't pay good money for the movie, we could take it back to the library. So that's a plus.

A big plus.

At the Hop

One week ago, I was winging my way toward Columbus for the third and final sisters birthday extravaganza of the year.

I was on a high. The Indians had just won Game 2 of the series in a heart-stopping finish.

The weather was perfect.

And my sister, Diane, chose the perfect venue to celebrate her birthday: The Short North Gallery Hop. The three of us welcomed my sister-in-law, Kay, to the festivities.

We assembled at The Eagle, a restaurant that serves comfort food. Fried chicken, corn bread, mac and cheese and such. As one would expect on a football Saturday, the OSU game was on all of the big screen TVs. Only occasionally did I glance up to see the score and (another) Buckeye touchdown, before I resumed my participation in the conversation. It was nice because they seated us upstairs, away from the rabid fans, so we were able to visit and yack without too much hoo-ha.

The Gallery Hop is held the first Saturday of the month. The local art galleries stay open late, as do the many shops. Diane purchased a small pen and ink drawing. Denise fell in love with a painting of a monarch and its ascent to butterfly-dom, but the $2,000 price tag made it a no-go.

We each (except for Kay?) bought a little something from one shop or another. Handmade soap. Dangly earrings. Wax lips, a candy necklace, Elvis cards and a magnet (Big Fun).

The street was packed with folks of all ages (but mostly young uns), strolling and gazing at art in motion. It was bustling, fascinating and a lot of fun.

Sadly, Kay had to depart before we got to the ice cream. Our destination was Jeni's, but when we arrived, the line was around the building, and there was no place to sit and eat it. And we really wanted to sit at that point, so we went to a different Jeni's in another part of town. There were still several people enjoying their desserts, but plenty of room to sit. It was goooood.

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast with Diane and John, I headed for home. Wondering what next year's birthday adventures would bring.

And thinking maybe we shouldn't wait for a birthday to get together again.

Say What?

One wouldn't think that in traveling 30 miles one would encounter idiosyncrasies in language.

Devil Strip?

And one in particular that I still cannot abide: the absence of "to be."

As in the sign someone posted on the fax machine that said, "needs fixed." I wanted with all my might to add "TO BE" between the two solitary words, but I refrained.

However, as anyone who has ever worked on my team knows, the absence of "to be" is guaranteed to launch me into an agitated chorus of, "to be, to be, to be, to be!!"

I was convinced this must be a regional quirk, since I hadn't heard this particular usage anywhere else, even when I lived in the Old Dominion.

The other night, my suspicions were confirmed when we attended a talk by Edward McClelland, who penned the book, How to Speak Midwestern.

It turns out, Cleveland and Akron are in two different zones.

Cleveland folks, whom he terms "Inland North," originally migrated from New England.

Akron natives ("Midland") originally hailed from Pennsylvania.

And yes, the whole "to be" thing is also a Midland thing, originating in Northern Ireland with the Scots-Irish.

I felt slightly better knowing there was an origin to the phenom, and it wasn't just because someone got lazy along the way and decided to drop the "to be." (Although that certainly could have been the original motivation, who knows?)

Other quirks between our two cities include the phrase "devil strip" used to describe what I grew up calling a "tree lawn." Mr. McClelland theorizes it was originally called a devil strip by coal miners who wanted their kids to be afraid of getting too close to the street.

As time goes on, and we become a more mobile society, many of our twangs and quirks are blending and disappearing. In a discussion we had at work, some of the younger folks said it was their parents or grandparents who had certain idiosyncrasies in their speech that hadn't been handed down.

I know that when I lived in Virginia, I didn't think I had an accent at all, until I hit a word with a twangy "a" sound, and the entire room burst out laughing.

Which I found amusing, since I had been talking to folks who hailed from Thailand, Venezuela, Israel and Germany, as well as places all across the U.S.

Who knew I had an accent?

Buy Buy Baby

"Do you notice any difference," my husband asked.

He took them off and handed them to me. I put on the yellow-tinted glasses and looked out onto the road.

"Nope," I replied. The street lights are more yellowy but it doesn't improve my night vision any.

And so, once again, we are disappointed by an "As Seen on TV" miracle product.

Like our ancestors, who also perhaps fell prey at some time or another to snake oil salesmen, Mr. Ginley and I have purchased our share of highly-touted products that did not deliver as promised. In spite of the claims by the ordinary-looking folks on TV who swore they were the best thing EVER.

Of course, being in advertising myself, I should know better. But something primal within me wants to believe that the Ginsu will be the best knife I've ever owned. (Not so much.) And Mr., who begged to try the amazing callous remover was quite disappointed. He inserted the batteries, turned it on, and watched the roller spin around...until he pressed it to the heel of his foot. At which point it stopped. Pulled it away, it spun, touched his foot it stopped. It was good for comic relief, but not much else.

A few years ago, I got caught up in a demonstration by a guy who was shredding cheese with a battery-operated gadget. I was mesmerized. Mr. Ginley whispered it my ear, "You won't be able to get it to work the way he does."

"But it also comes with all those attachments, and look, he's giving away free apple corers, and look at how nifty they are."

I feel only slightly better knowing that being a sap for these pitches runs in Mr. Ginley's family, too. His mom once purchased a set of encyclopedias from a door-to-door salesman.  His dad managed to halt the delivery of the entire set, but they let her keep the first volume. (Henceforth, when he and his siblings wrote reports for school, the subject had to begin with the letter "A.")

We're getting a little better. The other day, when Mr. Ginley paused at the "As Seen on TV" wall at the store, he said, "I wonder if Joe could use this antenna-thingy. It says it picks up all of the local channels, and he doesn't have cable, so it could come in pretty handy."

I pulled out my phone and asked the Google if it was any good. Nope.

And thus, I was able to save us a few clams.

But if we ever see a Car Cane, I'm pretty sure he's going to make me buy one.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

For the second time in two months, our 3-year-old computer flat-lined, and I had to take it to the tech doctor.

Hard wear.

The first time, the hard drive was toast, but a team of surgeons was able to extract most of our data and reload it onto a new hard drive.

"So," you are going to ask, as did the tech who serviced our machine, "did you back up your files?"

Well, we thought we did. Until we discovered the back-up drive, which is supposed to do its thing automatically, had pooped out sometime in April. After that, anything we hadn't backed up manually was available only on the damaged hard drive.

As I said, we were lucky, in that we were able to recover our data. Luck came with a $200 price tag.

Fast forward to this past week, when our computer once again displayed a dark screen with a different but equally ominous error code.

Before taking it in, I did an online search for the error code, and found that all I had to do was insert the recovery disk for my operating system. The disk that didn't come with my computer. The disk that, according to Asus, the manufacturer of my laptop, they no longer send to their customers free of charge. A woman with a foreign accent assured me that I could buy something that might do the job. Not feeling the love, I told her, "no thanks."

The other alternative, according to Microsoft forums, was to download something that would fix my computer. Unfortunately, I couldn't get to the internet to download the fix because all I could get on my computer was the black screen of death.

Into the shop it went. Turns out, it was a corrupted Microsoft update. This time, because it was a different error and thus not covered by the warranty from the last repair, it cost me $45 to fix. (Et tu, Microsoft?)

Fearful that a third mishap could be around the corner, I ordered a recovery disk from ebay. Hopefully, this will appease the Electronics Gods, and I won't ever have to use it. But I will be prepared, just in case.

Technology is a wonderful thing, really it is.

But I gotta say, I do wax nostalgic sometimes for the days when I wasn't a slave to hunks of metal with sketchy recall. 

When the only faulty memory was my own.

Failure to Communicate

Trolling through my favorite muse (Facebook), I saw a post from a friend about email classes being taught in college.

A discussion ensued about the relative merits of communicating via email versus the other snappier methods such as instant messaging.

While I have always espoused the theory that brevity is the better part of valor, I have to take exception to the idea that the best way to communicate is by eliminating vowels and peppering one's messages with emojis.

I cannot tell you the number of times I've received an email communication that has left me scratching my head, wondering what the sender was trying to convey. It was obvious that their fingers did the thinking, that the brain took a powder while the message was being typed.

I hate to sound like a codger here (I know, that ship sailed long ago), but back in the day, when you had to type out every letter of every word, then reread your missive and correct it, all before sending, the world was a better place.

It's all too easy to fall into the trap of firing off an email/text/IM without taking the time to review it to make sure it makes sense. And yes, even I have been guilty of same. But it's not the way the circus should be run. (Monkeys, monkeys everywhere!)

I think teaching email writing is a swell idea, but I would argue this should happen in high school, not college. And that the course should include basic do's and don'ts. For example, do speak in complete sentences with wholly-formed words. Do use correct grammar. Do reread your email before you hit the "send" key. And never -- and I do mean never -- send an email when you're pissed. Write the email, get the bile out of your system, then hit the "delete" key. You'll thank me later.

Also, just to note, a well-written email (or cover letter or résumé) is critical if you are applying for a job that is centered around communications. Please, for the love of God, understand the difference between "your" and "you're." It's not that hard, it really isn't.

For those who think the business world is stuffy and that we should get on board with instant communication, well, I don't think we're quite there yet.

And if you send me a message with a lot of gobbledygook, don't expect me to take the time to try to figure out what you're trying to say.

I may be a codger, but I can hit the delete key with the best of them.

Getting Rocked

"Pop!"

I shifted my eyes slightly to the right and swore. Repeatedly.

Bright and early Monday morning, a rock hit my windshield, leaving a small hole and spidery cracks radiating from it. In one of the worst possible spots on the windshield, in my line of vision.

A call to my insurance company, a recorded message, and a transfer to the company they contract with to makes glass repairs, assured me that mine was a common occurrence.

The next day, Glass Guy #1 met me at my car in the parking lot at work, confirmed that I did not just want him to prevent the crack from getting worse, that I wanted to replace the windshield. The following day, I rendezvoused in the same place with Glass Guy #2, who scanned my credit card, and did the job on site.

Back to my Monday.

Like hateful bookends, the conclusion of my workday came with a visit to the dentist. After my plea for double the novocaine (a standard request because I have very sensitive nerves, I don't care if there was a root canal in that tooth), I sat in the chair for an hour and a half while he and his assistant did their thing. He drilled. And drilled. And drilled a bunch more. They took molds of my tooth. They crafted a temporary crown. I sat the whole time, my heart racing like a rabbit, fearing that the drill would hit a nerve.

Yes, I'm a big baby in the dentist's chair.

And so I took my sore jaw home to my Mr. He was appropriately sympathetic. Boo hoo me.

Then I took a look at my Facebook page. I saw the photos of the devastation in Houston. Not rivers, but oceans of water cascading down city streets and through neighborhoods. People in boats, rafts, being rescued. Neighbors saving neighbors.

And I realized a bigger lesson, not just about the relative nature of our pain, but also about randomness. About how quickly things happen, big and little, to cause us irritation (my case) or irreparable damage (Houston).

I go along every day assuming nothing will change. That I'll go to work, come home, eat, go to bed. With minor variations, it will go on and on and on. Then the realization that something can happen so quickly without warning and apparently at random. A rock. A storm. The passing of a life.

No way to prepare. But maybe the point is to be aware of where I am now. Of all that I have. The people who make my life hum. The birdsong. Squirrel chatter. Beautiful warm days and cool weather nights perfect for sleep. Enough money to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. And so much more.

Sometimes a small rock can teach a large lesson.