Sews Your Mother!

This past weekend my wife dragged me – um, I mean – I willingly accompanied her to a local fabric store while she shopped for material to sew a birthday gift. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that spending precious hours of the weekend meandering through row upon row of fabrics and notions (what exactly is a “notion” anyway?) is not exactly my idea of time well spent. My wife, however, seems to derive as much enjoyment from the experience as I do wandering the canyons of lumber-laden shelves and towering walls of bright, shiny, wondrous power tools at a home improvement store. Go figure.

She, like many other women of her generation, learned to sew both from her mother and from now-extinct Home Economic classes once routinely offered in junior and senior high schools. My own mom was/is a seamstress par excellence. When I was a kid, Mom’s porcelain-colored Singer sewing machine was an appliance at least as important to our household as the refrigerator, stovetop, washing machine or our family television. Okay, maybe not the TV.  

In fact, long before the expression, “There’s an app for that!” became part of the vernacular, I remember another common phrase used around our house as I was growing up. If any of us kids needed a cheerleading outfit, a hip and trendy vest, Halloween costume, pair of warm, snuggly pajamas, Paisley/Carnaby Street shirt or even a Neru jacket like the ones the Beatles wore stepping off of the BOAC airliner on the tarmac at JFK – my mom would pull the cover off her sewing machine and say, “I’m sure there’s a pattern for that!” Then she’d paw through her overstuffed boxes of sewing patterns searching for something remotely close to the article of clothing we were asking for. 

If she didn’t already have a pattern or one that could be altered to come close (trust me on this, fashion standards were a lot more tolerant and forgiving in the 60s), she would load us kids into the family station wagon – a candy apple green Plymouth number with fake, wood grain ‘paneling’ on its sides – and haul us down to one several sewing/notions/fabric stores on Honolulu Avenue.

I would sit as quietly as a kid could sit amongst a cavernous room full of other moms looking through thick, oversized catalogs of patterns from companies like Butterick, Simplicity, McCalls and Vogue. (My wife says that Vogue patterns were the most difficult to master. I wonder if Madonna sews. My wife and I live in different worlds.)  

Anyway, I remember one article of clothing in particular my Mom made for yours truly that – in retrospect – probably seemed like a righteously cool idea at the time. But the reality of the finished product was embarrassing at best. It was a one-piece pair of overalls made of dark chocolate brown, wide-wale corduroy. I’m talkin’ WIDE, wide wale. Like drive a MatchBox car between those bad boys.

What on God’s green earth was I thinking? In my defense, I was the drummer in one garage band or another from sixth grade through senior high, so I did have a proclivity to push the fashion envelope – at least as much as my short-sleeve-white-shirt-polyester-tie wearing, tapered haircut-loving Dad would allow. Apparently, however, a corduroy nerd suit was permissible. Either that or my Dad’s in heaven snickering at me even now.

Last weekend as I caught up on emails, texted and absentmindedly shuffled after my wife while she picked her way through bolts of wildly colored material and “fat quarter” packs (don’t ask), I half-wondered if sewing as a hobby was quickly becoming a lost art. Wide wale corduroy overalls notwithstanding, that would be a shame.

Then again, my talented and oh-so-crafty wife reminds me that there is an ongoing resurgence of young, upwardly mobile girls and women taking up old-school arts like knitting, quilting and needlepoint. Me? I’m holding out for macramé to make a comeback.  

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 2.9.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Bowled Over By Commercials

I’m glad it’s finally February. For one thing, I can’t remember a January before this last one that I had to turn on the ceiling fan just to be able to sleep comfortably at night.

With any luck, this month will at last bring some more seasonally cold temps and rainfall. But I’ll leave the official weather prognostication and precipitation prestidigitation to my columnist colleague at the CV Weekly newspaper, Sue Kilpatrick.

Mostly, I’m thankful it’s February because those awful, terrible, annoyingly vapid JCP commercials with all the screaming people are supposed to be replaced by, well, something else. It seems like only yesterday that we were subjected to months of that screaming guy in the commercials for Universal Studios’ King Kong attraction.

But back to JCP, which, in case you haven’t caught on to their marketing sleight of hand, is what JC Penny is now calling itself. You know, like Kentucky Fried Chicken tried to become relevant and cool by calling itself KFC. Or like California Pizza Kitchen suddenly became CPK. It’s marketing gimmicks like this – along with obnoxiously loud and uncreative commercials like the current JCP teaser campaign – that make me cringe with embarrassment at my own profession.

Thankfully, this weekend has the potential to redeem my faith in the creative process.

As someone who has spent the last thirty years or so writing advertising copy (not “verbage,” please!) including literally thousands of TV and radio commercials or “spots” as we call them in the biz, the annual NFL Super Bowl broadcast is Christmas, the World Series and Olympics all rolled into one event.

To get an idea how important and prestigious the Super Bowl is to advertisers, the going rate for a mere thirty seconds of airtime on this Sunday’s broadcast is a reported $3.5 million. For thirty seconds! That’s over $116,000 a second. Even the Federal Government doesn’t spend money that fast. Oh wait, yes it does.

This year’s Super Bowl advertisers include Volkswagon, Acura, Coca-Cola, Toyota, Career Builder, Anheuser-Busch, Audi and others with deep marketing budgets. I really couldn’t care less whether the Patriots or the Giants win on Sunday, since the Dodgers didn’t even make it into the playoffs (and that right there should tell you how much of a football fan I am.)  No, I’m more interested to see whether the agency creative teams have come up with winners or wieners to debut during the broadcast. If I have to go to the bathroom or the kitchen, I’ll be going during the game itself so I can be sure not to miss any of the commercials. I’m not kidding.

At some point in the early 80s, the Super Bowl became the place for advertisers and the agencies who produce their commercials to showcase new, hopefully breakthrough work – spots that were created to be talked about at office water coolers all across the country the following Monday. The advent of online streaming video channels has only increased the importance of having a hit commercial air during the Super Bowl.

Apple’s “1984” commercial to launch the Macintosh computer was one of the first TV spots to use a “big idea” concept along with feature-film production values (the ground-breaking spot was directed by newcomer Ridley Scott, who went on to direct Aliens, Thelma & Louise, Gladiator, Black Hawk Down and other mega-hits). It also enjoyed the highly unusual status of airing only once – during the game itself – and never again. At least, Apple never paid to have the commercial run again.

This Sunday I’ll be glued to the set, watching to see if another water-cooler-worthy commercial is aired. I’m certain of one thing, however. If the ad agency creative teams have done their jobs, the only screaming heard during Sunday’s game will be from unhappy Patriots or Giants fans.

Then again, it could also be me screaming at the summer-like weather that continues to torture my very soul. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 2.2.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Of F-bombs and Family Fare

So, where were we? Well, in addition to receiving vitriol-soaked missives attacking me for daring to voice an opinion different from theirs, and – in the name of tolerance and civil dialogue, ironically – demanding the removal of my column from the CV Weekly newspaper in which it runs every week (I wonder, do these enlightened folks ever look in the mirror and recognize themselves as the primary source of the hate, intolerance and demonization in public discourse today? Probably not.) … besides that, this time last week I was writing about primetime television and the possible elimination of FCC restrictions on content allowed to be shown by network broadcasters.

You remember primetime television, right? That block of time just after the dinner hour (ha!) that used to be reserved for good, wholesome family entertainment? Not hardly. According to the Parents Television Council (PTC), a group that advocates for “family friendly TV”, the use of profanity alone has skyrocketed in recent years. A recent Wall Street Journal article quoted a PTC report last year showing 1,227 bleeped or unbleeped uses of the “F-word” or “S-word” on primetime network broadcasts. As recently as 2005 there were only five such instances. Sadly, some would call that progress.

Actually, I’m surprised last year’s bleeping total isn’t higher. It’s gotten so that you can’t even watch a morning news program without the ever-present, ever-lovin’ sound of bleeps. When you also factor in the violent and perverted plots, along with the flood of salacious, lewd and downright crude content, I’m beginning to think that “TV” should stand for “Toxically Vile” or “Terribly Violent.” Maybe “Too Vacuous” would be even more appropriate.

I’m no longer surprised to hear of parents who have either completely pulled the plug on TV in their homes, or who have dramatically limited what content they allow in by way of strict parental controls or prescreened DVDs.

Every once in a while, however, a glimmer of hope appears on the screen. In this case, it isn’t the TV, but the silver screen. A couple of weeks ago my wife and I were trying to decide which of the current movies to go see in the theater. Although it was far from my first choice, we had heard several critics rave about “The Artist” and – never one to miss the chance to score beaucoup hubby points for willingly going to see a chick flick – we went. I was hesitant, to say the least. After all, the film is set in 1927 and it’s entirely in black and white. It’s a silent movie about a silent film star. You read that right – a silent movie. As in, no dialogue. And I was supposed to sit through 100 minutes of that?

The movie turned out to be one of the most enjoyably entertaining, inventively original pieces of movie making we’ve had the pleasure of seeing in a long time. The plot was engaging, the acting – Oscar-worthy, the costumes, music and art direction were all perfect. But how could that possibly be? There wasn’t a naked body (other than “Uggie”, a too-cute Jack Russell Terrier), no F-bombs or any swear words for that matter, no slam against the U.S. or our military, no corrupt conservative politicians, no evil, profit-hungry corporations, no hypocritical Christian character, not even a single drunken, party-hearty low-life from New Jersey.  

Even more surprising, The Artist won several top awards at the recent Golden Globes ceremony – an awards show with a penchant for celebrating anything controversial, non-traditional and counter-cultural. Just this week, the movie was also nominated for at least six Oscars. So, as I said, maybe there’s reason to hope. Then again, if the networks ever wind up showing The Artist on TV, they’ll probably want to trash it up to boost ratings.

And now, I’d better shut up. Because I certainly wouldn’t want to get any letters accusing me of inciting malice or hatred towards tolerant and enlightened progressives who like their films with sound. Even if it is the sound of falling f-bombs.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 1.26.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Primetime or Slime Time?

It might surprise some readers, but I’m actually not old enough to have watched original broadcasts during the infamous “golden days” of television. You know, those days when Lucy and Ricky Ricardo’s bedroom had two twin beds in it lest viewers get the idea that they actually slept together as husband and wife – or when Gone with the Wind couldn’t be shown on network television without censoring Rhett Butler’s shocking “Frankly, my dear …” rebuke to Scarlet.

I did watch every saccharin-sweet episode of Flipper and Lassie, but also grew up watching Roadrunner/Wiley Coyote and Bugs Bunny cartoons with more violence (albeit of the animated type) every five minutes than an entire hour-long episode of CSI today. I would plant my wide-eyed self in front of our family’s black and white TV so I wouldn’t miss a single episode of Sea Hunt or the Rifleman (I can even tell you how many shots Lucas McCain fired from his modified lever-action Winchester in the opening of the show each week*).

I developed a deep appreciation for fantasy and horror shows with a regular diet of Fright Night, Creature Features, Rod Serling’s Night Gallery, the Twilight Zone, the Outer Limits, the Night Stalker and other deliciously scary shows. Good times, indeed.

I’ve been thinking about TV and how it’s changed over the years because the U.S. Supreme Court this week began considering whether the Federal Communications Commission’s efforts to police the national airwaves for “dirty words and images” violate the broadcast-television industry’s right to free speech. According to a recent Wall Street Journal article, if the Supremes side with broadcasters, industry experts say that networks are poised to begin showing racier content and/or language like that now found on cable-channels, Internet video domains and other forms of entertainment that aren’t subject to the FCC’s indecency standards.

As if network TV isn’t already “racy” enough. If you watch any network lineup, you know there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of censorship or standards of any kind being imposed on broadcasters.

NBC’s Wednesday night lineup makes my point. For example, a week ago on the network’s new hit show, Whitney, the entire “plot” involved Whitney catching her live-in boyfriend in the act of, well, let’s just say he was taking matters into his own hand. Next up, the pilot episode of Are You There Chelsea? dealt with that endlessly hilarious subject of a DUI conviction. Too funny. After that, the season premier of Suburgatory  was about the lead character, Tessa – a high school student – trying to convince a new student to admit he was gay. By the end of the episode it was actually the school’s guidance counselor who came bursting out of the closet. And yes, Suburgatory is a comedy. LOL.

Of course, if you’ve ever seen Fox’s mega-hit show Glee, you know that when the students at McKinley High are boning up on their studies, it has nothing to do with cracking the books.

And there’s the wholesome (hole-some?) family entertainment flushed into living rooms each week courtesy of CBS and its highest rated show, Two-and-a-half Men. To be fair, the show is brilliantly written and acted and I’ve laughed my head off whenever I’ve watched. But I could never watch with anyone below the age of 18 in the room, and even then I would feel awkward. It’s raunchy stuff. In fact, about the only thing it – and the majority of other primetime shows on the networks don’t have – are the actual swear words and full frontal nudity still banned by the FCC. But it looks like that may soon be changing, as well.

I’ll have more thoughts on this subject next week. So, as they say in TV land, stay [bleep]in’ tuned.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

(* For the record, the Rifleman fires 13 shots from an 11-round capacity rifle. Nice trick.)

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 1.19.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc. 

What Would Martin Luther Do?

So, does it deepen or cheapen the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr.  when the holiday honoring him has become so mainstreamed there are now “MLK Day Sale!!” ads appearing online and on TV, in newspapers, etc.? I don’t remember seeing these kind of ads in years past and frankly, cringe a little each time I’ve seen one over the past week or so.

I mean, are the civil rights icon’s accomplishments and place in history honored by shopping for discounted lingerie on his holiday?

Does it enhance his significance now that his memory is used to sell stainless steel appliances at Sears?

Or should we be proud as a nation that MLK’s place in history is so accepted and expected that he has already been relegated to a place and status occupied by the generic “Presidents’ Day”?

This also begs the question: Since another iconic leader, Cesar Chavez, also has a national holiday honoring his work and memory (March 31), I wonder how long it will be before the two holidays are combined into a “Civil Rights/Social Justice Day”?

Just wondering.

A Great Gift for this Grandpa/Dad

Christmas came late to our house. Sure, a couple of weeks ago we did the whole tree and lights and roast beast and piles of presents and visits from the in-laws and exclamations of “We’re never going to do this again!” and Christmas Eve candlelight service and stocking stuffers and exhaustion and now-come-the-bills and, well … yeah, we did all that.  

But I received the best possible gift ever just this past weekend. It wasn’t wrapped in paper, tied with a bow or stuffed into a flannel stocking and hung from our fireplace. It didn’t even have a card or name tag attached. Nope. It was the gift of having each of our four adult kids and our four grandkids all together at our house on the same day, at the same time. Can you hear me smiling as you read this? I hope so.  

You see, as a family we are a busy and far flung bunch. Going from nearest to farthest away, our daughter, son-in-law and their 18-month old munchkin live “only” 36 miles from us in Santa Clarita. Our youngest son lives 125 miles away at his college in San Diego. Another son lives in Missoula where he attends the University of Montana, a less-than-conveniently traveled 1,215 miles from his La Crescenta roots. But the long-distance winner of our family is our oldest son, daughter-in-law and their three crumb-crunchers who live a whopping 3,927 miles away on the windward side of Oahu.

So, while it’s not exactly the four corners of the earth, our kids and grandkids live far enough away to make a visit from any of them something to anticipate, celebrate and treasure whenever we’re fortunate to have them come home – whether it’s for a couple of hours or a couple of weeks.

And yet this past weekend, a miracle of sorts happened. The parenting planets aligned and for one glorious afternoon and evening, the entire lot of us got together to reconnect, talk, catch up, play with grandkids, cousins, aunts and uncles, laugh until our jaws hurt and generally enjoy each other’s company after a long, long time apart. There was food on the table and football on TV. Cigars were smoked and stories swapped. It took nothing short of a cosmic convergence of conditions and scheduling to make the event happen, but happen it did. And it was oh, so very good.

Sadly, however, even the most wonderful of occasions must inevitably come to an end and ours was no exception. Our “kids” from Santa Clarita packed up the car, said their goodbyes and backed down our long driveway to head for home and much-needed rest prior to going back to their up-before-dawn jobs. Our youngest son disappeared into his room to begin packing his things for the next morning’s drive down to San Diego and the start of Spring semester. Conversations waned. Last sips of lukewarm coffee were swallowed. Leftovers were bagged and distributed and utensils rinsed and put in the dishwasher. Wayward purses and cell phones were located. Favorite toys reclaimed. Hugs were dispensed all around – the more greedy of us shamelessly getting two or three from the same person. Promises were made to Facebook, text or – gasp! – even actually make a voice-to-voice call to each other. Sometime.

And then it was over. Even as I write this only days away from the Great Gathering of 2012, I’m fighting feelings of melancholy and sadness with the realization that I have no idea when – or even if – the scheduling stars might once again align to allow our family to get together all in one place at the same time. And yet, as I gain in years and (hopefully) wisdom, I realize more and more that it’s the very fleeting and transitory nature of these reunions that make them so special.

So, I’m not complaining. No, this is one hugely blessed, appreciative and grateful grandpa/dad to have had the privilege of a weekend like the one we just had.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 1.12.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

There Ought To Be A Law (Against More Laws)

It’s time to ring in the New Year and wring the necks of our state politicians who continue with increasing arrogance and aggression to intrude into – and affect the lives of – all Californians, from kids to seniors, business owners to students, parents to pets. Among the whopping 760 new laws that went into effect at 12:01 a.m. last Sunday morning, are the following:

The new California Human Trafficking Law mandates the disclosure of efforts California companies take to eradicate slavery and human trafficking from their entire supply chains. Seriously? However good-intentioned a law might be, I can’t help but wonder if one of the reasons over 2500 businesses representing more than 109,000 jobs have left California (according to the OC Register) in the past four years is because our state legislators never met a regulation they didn’t like.

The California Gay Bullying Law (Seth’s Law) requires school districts to have a uniform process for dealing with gay bullying complaints and mandates that school personnel intervene if they witness gay bullying. Or what? Huh, tough guys? Is gay bullying any worse than straight bullying? Fat kid bullying? Nerd bullying? Short bullying? What about bullying by constituent-pandering politicians?

The LGBT Equality and Equal Access in Higher Education Law requires state colleges and universities to create and enforce campus policies that protect LGBTs from harassment and to appoint employee contact persons to address on-campus LGBT matters. Yep, that oughta lower the cost of a college education.

The California Gay History Law mandates that school textbooks and social studies include gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender accomplishments and bans teaching materials that reflect negatively on gays or specific religions (Christianity excluded, of course.)

Judicial Applicant and Appointment Demographics Inclusion Law mandates gender identity and sexual orientation of potential judges into the state’s Judicial Applicant Date Report (say what?) to ensure more diversity in our state courts. Yep, that’s definitely what’s wrong with the California court system.

The Transgender Vital Statistics Law makes it easier for transgender Californians to get a court petition to change their gender on official documents and the Domestic Partnership Equality Law “corrects” inequalities between domestic partnerships and heterosexual marriages. Well, of course it does.

Another new law requires businesses with dress codes to provide workers leeway to dress according to their own gender identity. It’s a wonder there are any businesses here at all.

Lest you think our public servants in Sacramento are obsessed with all things gay, lesbian and transgendered – they’ve also enacted new laws for 2012 that mandate the use of car seats for kids until they are 8 years old (up from 6) or are 4’ 9” and/or weigh 60 pounds. (Confused yet?) I’d bet there have already been some nasty fights this week between parents and 6- or 7-year-olds who have to be strapped into a car seat once again. And to think my generation somehow survived childhood riding in family cars with slippery vinyl bench seats, hard steel dashboards and no seatbelts.

Also courtesy of our state government, as of last Sunday minors in California are no longer able to buy Robitussin cough syrup or use a tanning bed, but – wait for it – girls and boys as young as 12 can now receive preventive treatment for sexually transmitted diseases without parental consent. Oh yeah, and anyone can now purchase syringes over the counter without a prescription. So, in other words, kids – sex and drugs are just dandy but don’t you DARE get a tan or a cough. What passes for wisdom today is both mind numbing and soul deadening.

There are, unfortunately, many hundreds more new laws for 2012 that further control daily life and commerce here in California. If you’re as frightened with the growth of government and its increasing power over every aspect of our lives, our livings and even our very thoughts – I hope to see you in a voting booth this November. And until then, I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 1.5.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.