Smart Students, Even Smarter Stores

To witness the entire range of parental emotions that occur when sending a kid off to college, look no further than a Target store in a college town. Or a Wal-Mart, or any other “big box” retailer that has caught on to a growing marketing opportunity; college-bound kids and their parents.

This past weekend my wife and I drove a pickup truck filled with shelves, a bike, books and other bulky stuff down to our youngest son’s college near San Diego. He’d driven his own car down a few days earlier to begin setting up his dorm for his junior year, but needed us to follow with the larger items that couldn’t be shoved, wedged, stacked, crammed, jammed or jimmied into his small sedan.

While there, we helped him empty out some even larger items from a storage unit he and several fellow students had rented together for the summer so they wouldn’t have to schlep things like refrigerators, microwave ovens, floor lamps and inkjet printers all the way back to their respective hometowns.

If you don’t have a kid in college, you may be surprised to learn that it isn’t unusual for today’s dorm room to be decked out like a nice studio apartment. An apartment with semi-gloss-painted cinder block walls, sure. But nice, nonetheless. I certainly don’t remember my digs at San Diego State to be anywhere near as well appointed as what students are used to today. Then again, I went to college in the last century. I’m not even sure they had invented the microwave oven yet. I doubt it.

I do remember that my college roommates and I didn’t have a stereo or TV in our room, much less a DVD player (not invented yet), game consoles (ditto) or all the other electronics and entertainment paraphernalia so ubiquitous in today’s college dorms. (Note to my kids: yes, we did have electric lighting and did not cook mastodon steaks over open fires. Puh-leez.)

And yet, even with multiple vehicles and a storage unit’s worth of student stuff, we found ourselves making a trip to the nearby Target store for fill-in items that we somehow had not acquired during his freshman and sophomore years. Hard to believe.

Now, Target is one of many contemporary retailers who’ve discovered that there’s gold in them thar dorm rooms. To wander the aisles during back-to-school week in any college town is to be an eyewitness to memorable moments in merchandising.

The store where we shopped had a giant section dedicated entirely to college students, including dorm-designed furniture, window treatments, bedding, small appliances, filing systems, throw rugs, hampers, bath caddies, electronics, extension cords, printer supplies, lighting, snacks … even a large selection of industrial strength air fresheners. I told you, these guys are smart.

Last Saturday, the college dorm section of the San Diego Target was packed with list-carrying families. As our son gathered his supplies, my wife and I were thoroughly entertained watching other moms, dads and siblings follow their college students like ducklings up one aisle and down another. One poor (or soon to be poor!) dad was obviously spent both emotionally and physically. He plopped himself down on a nearby display futon and just sat there, motionless and staring, as his college-bound daughter, wife and younger offspring took turns depositing various items into the hand basket on his lap.

While we watched, the dad’s face betrayed a range of emotions; from sadness, to melancholy to absolute zombie-like exhaustion. It reminded me of how I felt when our first-born went off to the land of higher education and even higher student loan balances.

Now that our fourth and last “child” is a junior, I wonder how time could possibly have screamed by so fast? Wandering the sales floor at Target last weekend, I also found myself wondering why today’s college kids live more comfortably than I do.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

The Con is On

My father-in-law called while I was working at my desk. He asked if I knew that one of my sons (the one attending college in Missoula, Montana) had been in a car accident in British Columbia and was now in jail.

Wait. What?

I was vaguely aware of my pulse rate doubling and blood pressure spiking as my father-in-law explained that he had just received a very disturbing call. Apparently, my father-in-law answered his phone to hear a young man simply say, “Hi, Grandpa? It’s me!” When my father-in-law said he didn’t know who ‘me’ was, the caller said, “Oh, you don’t recognize my voice? It’s your grandson!”

Apparently my father-in-law didn’t respond quickly enough, so the caller continued, “Which grandson do you think this is?” When my father-in-law finally asked if the caller was (my son’s name), the caller excitedly said, “Yeah, it’s me!"

Ding, ding, ding! Light bulb flash! Hearing this, the warning bells and whistles went off in my mind as I’m sure they must have in my father-in-law’s mind at this same point in the call. Recognizing the call for the scam it was (along with sending up a silent “thank you” prayer to the heavens), my heart rate returned to normal as my father-in-law continued to recount the call from the con man. The caller proceeded to shovel his manipulative manure about how he and some friends had supposedly driven over the border to Canada and had been sideswiped by another car. To ramp up the drama, he said that one of these friends had been killed in the accident, and somehow – the sequence of events wasn’t exactly made clear – my supposed “son” had wound up in jail and, oh yeah, just happened to need $2,200 wired to him immediately in order to get out and get back home.

The caller told my father-in-law that he didn’t want “his parents” to know anything about the terrible incident until he was back at home so we wouldn’t worry. How thoughtful. How bogus.

My father-in-law had had enough experience with – and faith in – my son’s character and integrity to know that he would not hide any serious trouble from his mother and me – especially something that involved a car accident (been there, done that), jail (haven’t done that, thankfully) and the death of a friend (double ditto). Having had enough, my father-in-law told the low-life on the phone, “I’m good for the money, but the only way you’re going to get it is from your folks.” Hearing that, the creep hung up. Big surprise.

And yet, even knowing that the call was a scam and that my son was safe and healthy and happy and going about his normal daily routine out in Missoula, my in-laws were still worried that maybe – just maybe – their grandson, was truly in some sort of trouble. Later that day, when I told my own mom about the attempt to con my in-laws, she too was shocked. She was angry. She was appalled that someone would do such a thing. Then, she was worried. She asked if I’d talked to my son that day to make sure he was okay. Well, had I? Yes, I had. He was more than fine. He lives in Montana, after all.

“But,” my mom asked several more times, “are you sure he’s okay?”

Sigh. That’s how this scam works. It plays on the fears and feelings of those who love our kids. I’m just thankful my own grandkids are still far too young for a con like this to work. The mini monkeys range in age from two to six years old. If one of them calls in the next year or so saying they need a couple grand to get out of jail, I’ll laugh and tell them to go back to watching Bubble Guppies. And then I’ll call their parents to make sure they’re really okay.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Summer Medal Moments

It’s official: I’ve gone into Olympics withdrawals. Granted, I’m probably not as down as the London cleanup crews or vendors stuck with shelves of historically unpopular official souvenirs, but now that the 2012 Summer Olympics have come and gone, I’ll have to wait two whole years until the Winter Games in Sochi, Russia.

With the bizarrely boring spectacle of the 2012 closing ceremonies still on my mind, some closing thoughts of my own:

Baseball and Softball were both eliminated from this year’s summer games. Did you miss them? Me either. And how cool was it to watch South Africa’s Oscar Pistorius running on carbon blade legs alongside other world-class athletes? I don’t understand, however, why all the commentators kept comparing him to his “able bodied” competitors. Mr. Pistorius seems mightily abled to me.

All total, there were10,500 athletes from 204 countries in these Summer Olympics. Watching the opening ceremony, I wanted an atlas nearby to see where some of these countries are on the map. I mean, Benin? Burkina Faso? Kiribat? They made those up, right?

On the other hand, I had no trouble recognizing where a whopping 128 members of Team USA came from – right here in California. In fact, I read somewhere that if California had entered its own Olympic team, the Golden State would have had a larger presence at the London Games than Mexico, Turkey, Switzerland and many other countries. Maybe next Olympics we could have a smaller “California” flag for in the opening ceremony? Probably not.  

Speaking of that weird opening ceremony, the producers could have saluted the British National Health Service without the thousands of dancing nurses, patients and hospital beds and simply wheeled out a humongous set of British teeth. Ta da!!: the nation’s health system in one image. And the closing ceremonies were, well, unique. At first I thought they were a big flop, until NBC cut them short for a preview of their new show, Animal Practice, which made the closing ceremonies look stunning by comparison.

You won’t be surprised, but I did have a few questions while watching the Games these past two weeks. Like, can swimmers sweat in the pool? And, if the women beach volleyball players have to wear barely-there-bikinis as official outfits, why don’t the men have to wear Speedos? (On second thought, never mind. Men’s diving was already difficult enough to watch for reasons I won’t go into here. Then again, NBC’s “splashometer” was kinda cool.)

But back to beach volleyball; being held outdoors and all, the popular competition saw its share of classically bad British weather. From pouring rain and soggy sand, to sand that was so cold one of our Team USA women needed a medical time-out due to loss of feeling in her toes. So here’s a thought: why not hold events that can be affected by bad weather indoors and move things like swimming outdoors? I mean, what swimmer is going to be upset if it rains? Just wondering.

Watching both the men’s and women’s runners as they stood waiting to start their respective races reminded me of the way frighteningly powerful dragsters vibrate with pent up speed as they wait in the staging area for the green light. The sprinters seem to quiver with the same barely restrained energy just waiting to be unleashed. Impressive.

Not necessarily impressive but kinda funny were the slow-motion replays of the runners’ faces as they ran towards the camera. You don’t realize how elastic the human face is until you see it in super-slo-mo under great exertion.

The phenomenal Usain Bolt may be the fastest man alive, but certainly not the most humble. Wow, if he wore red, white and blue I wonder if the press would be as enamored of his antics. Not likely.

I’ll admit to being baffled by the number of athletes from other countries who – lo and behold – are coached and train right here in the USA. If I ran the games, the rule would be you compete for the country where you live and train. Period. Otherwise, let’s just turn these things into the genetic games. It’s wonderful that 400-meter hurdles gold medal winner Felix Sanchez won at the ripe old age of 34. Well done, sir. Except – here’s a guy who was born in New York City, raised in California, attended high school here, ran for and graduated from USC and yet he represented the Dominican Republic in the 2012 Summer Games. Um, okay. Or how about Kirani James, Grenada’s home-grown sprinting hero, who, in order to compete at world class levels trains at the University of Alabama. The British are understandably proud of Team GB’s 10,000-meter gold medalist, Mo Farah who trains in … wait for it … Portland, Oregon. And on, and on, and on. Here’s a suggestion: why not hold all the Summer Games in the U.S. since it seems like the great majority of competitors spend most of their time here anyway?

And then there’s the Olympic flame itself. Did you seen that massive cauldron? No? Neither did most of the people attending the Summer Games in London. That’s because the good folks in charge of the flaming cauldron installed it deep down inside the main stadium where only those with the money and fortitude to get a ticket inside are able to see the thing. Every other Olympic flame has burned high and bright on top of the stadium or some other elevated position so all within the geographic area could see it, be inspired by it. I heard that if the wind is right and it’s not raining, you could almost see a heat shimmer rising above the stadium walls. Not too inspirational. In its low-lying position off to the side of the track and field events, even on TV it looked like an oversized campfire that someone left burning.

As far as NBC’s coverage of the games, I would have preferred that they spend less airtime showing us the hobbies and friends and favorite foods and pets of the American athletes and a lot more time showing more actual competition. I could also have done with fewer preliminary events vs. seeing more final events of different sports that aren’t normally broadcast in primetime – events like archery, trap shooting, weight lifting, table tennis, kayaking, even that controversy-rich, scandal-plagued sport of badminton! I’d rather see world-class competitors in those sports than to learn what Ryan Lochte likes to eat for breakfast before a race. And cutting away from the closing ceremonies to air a preview of their ultra-lame new “comedy,” Animal Practice? The biggest boneheaded blunder yet. Even if the show was in any way funny, the network numbnuts responsible for that move probably doomed the show at the outset.

One last Olympic thought; I’m certainly glad that us mere mortals don’t have that bright yellow line constantly moving out in front of us to show how close or far away we are to breaking records with our performance. That dang line would always be several Zip codes away from me.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Game(s) On

If medals were awarded for watching Olympics coverage, I’d win gold. Guaranteed. I’m an Olympics junkie. People who know me know I’ve never followed professional basketball or football (although I do like to watch the Super Bowl every year strictly for the commercials), and most baseball games can put me out faster than a Thanksgiving turkey stuffed with Ambien. But the Olympics? I’ll watch as much as I possibly can from every media source available.

The Winter Games are my favorite, but the Summer Games are a silver second in my personal rankings. Lest you think that watching the games is all about world harmony and appreciation of athletic prowess, however, for me it’s much more than that. Sure, I watch in awe at those teeny tiny gymnasts who are all focus and ferocity, flipping themselves over, under and above the mats, uneven bars and balance beams. And the runners and swimmers, divers and rowers are all just as thrilling and inspiring to watch.

But it’s also great fun to see a somewhat obscure sport (at least for the West Coast) like skeet/trap shooting capture brief worldwide attention. I cheered loudly for Southern California’s own Kimberly Rhode as she became the first American to medal in five consecutive Olympics by blasting past her competition to take the gold in Women’s Skeet. My shoulder hurt watching her score a near perfect 99 out of 100 hits on the clay targets, turning them into clouds of orange dust with each pull of her over-under shotgun’s trigger. And archery? Please. I was a huge fan of archery long before the Hunger Games made it a fad.

Athletic skills aside, I also get a kick out of watching moments like when one of those painfully young gymnasts says to an interviewer with the utmost of sincerity, “This is something I’ve been dreaming of all my life!”  Really? All 15 years of it? That’s so cute.

I’m fascinated by the names of the athletes from around the world. For example, the Chinese trampoline champion (and gold medal winner) this year is named Dong Dong. No kidding. Now, how fun would it be if his sport was ping pong. I’d love to hear Al Michaels say, “And the gold medal winner in ping pong is Dong Dong.” Okay, so I’m also easily entertained.

There are some Olympic sports I couldn’t care less about, like basketball, soccer or tennis. We see more than enough of those sports throughout any given year. Did you really miss softball and baseball this year? Exactly. Unfortunately, in the next Summer Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, golf will be a medal sport. Yawn. I’d much rather see competition in more obscure sports like skateboarding or even disc golf. Or why not ballroom dancing for that matter? They already do essentially the same thing on ice skates during the Winter Games. 

On the other hand, if there were an Olympic event for hair dying, NBC commentator Bob Costas would win the gold hands down. High definition TV cameras have not been kind to Mr. Costas.  

As long as I’m handing out fantasy medals, I’d like to award the entire United States a gold for diversity. I honestly haven’t seen another country whose citizenry is represented by so many beautifully different faces. Case in point: the effervescent, ridiculously gifted Gabby Douglas and her coach. Pretty cool.

As with most Olympics, there was controversy before these summer games even started. But so what if Team USA’s uniforms were made in China? Ironically, many of China’s own athletes have been training right here in the U.S. (along with many other country’s too – but more on that next week). And according to the Wall Street Journal, the Chinese athletes all wear U.S.-designed and engineered footwear and arrived at the London games on American-made airplanes. So, boo-yah. It’s a small world after all.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Doing Dallas

Last week I did something I’ve always said I would never, ever do. I purposefully traveled to Dallas, Texas in the hot-as-a-flippin’-furnace middle of July. Actually, I’ve always said I would also never, ever, ever go to Houston, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Albuquerque – or for that matter – any part of Louisiana, Alabama, Florida or Georgia during the summer months. I don’t like heat, you see.

Maybe it was all those simmering summers spent under the instruction of my DIY-Dad as he taught his often-less-than-enthusiastic sons how to roof our family home, hot mop the entire length of the driveway or blow clouds of itchy insulation into every nook and cranny of our oven-like attic (not to mention our ears, eyes and various other body cavities). Whatever the cause, heat and I haven’t gotten along since I was a kid, thank you very much.

Nevertheless, last week I flew out to the sizzling Lone Star state to attend the Echo 2012 Conference, an annual creative gathering “for artists, geeks and storytellers.” My youngest son accompanied me on this too-short trip. As a graphic design major in college, he would be considered the artist part of the demo, while I’ve often been accused of being a unrepentant storyteller. Personally, I think their slogan should be something like, “A creative heaven in a place as hot as hell.” But they didn’t ask me.

A few observations from my visit: First, I’m convinced that Dallas would be a vast, empty wasteland void of all life with the exception of rattlesnakes and Cowboys fans were it not for air conditioning. I mean, seriously. The constant, bake-a-cake temperatures (at night it dropped to a whopping low of only 85 degrees) must turn locals into some sort of tortoise/human hybrid or other heat-loving reptilian creature. Why else would so many people walk around in full length denim jeans wearing long-sleeved shirts in 100-plus degree temps? I even saw a few people walking around in hoodies, for crying out loud. Then again, it could be because the air conditioning inside their buildings seem to be set at temperatures that would make arctic penguins giddy. To go in and out of buildings in Dallas is to go from one extreme to another.

Another thing; they really do say “Howdy!” and “How y’all doin’?” in Texas. I think they mean it, too. Even the TSA folks smile and make friendly chit chat as they grope you. Their overt friendliness almost makes the molestation enjoyable. Contrast that with the surly, sullen, sourpuss of a TSA goon at LAX who emotionally abused a young family from Europe going through the line in front of me on the trip out. I wanted to personally apologize to the family for the nasty treatment they received for no apparent reason at all. Truly shameful. (Note to Los Angeles officials: Leave the facilities at LAX alone. Overhaul the personnel.)

But back to Dallas. Although I had only limited exposure to everyday Texans this trip, it seemed to me that Lone Star residents smoke a whole lot more than Californians. Then again, maybe I was just smelling my own hair smoldering in the heat and humidity. I just know something was burning.

Did I mention it was hot in Dallas? On the shuttle ride from our hotel back to the airport, I heard someone say, “It’s not just hot, it’s Texas hot.” Amen, brother. And just how hot does it get in Texas, Johnny? Well, before last week I’d never seen billboards advertising “The best swimming pool chillers in town.” Even in sunny California, we have pool heaters. But pool chillers? On the half hour drive from North Dallas back to the DFW airport, I counted four such billboards, each from a different company.

That’s hot, my friends. Even so, given the chance I’d go right back again faster than you can say baked beans and barbecued brisket.

I’ll see you ‘round town.