What Would You Name It?

One of the largest, if not the largest, cereal makers in the world has just introduced a new crunchy nut granola bar. In a decision which may go down in the annals of marketing as the most generic, least imaginative name EVER, they decided to call this crunchy nut granola bar the Crunchy Nut bar.

If this launch is typical of most new product launches, that means ten to twenty million dollars have been spent to develop, research and get packages out on the shelves. And those are 1980's numbers.  So who knows how much they really plan to spend.

Do you think they could spare a buck two eighty for a BETTER NAME?

I think the ad agency that did the launch commercial currently running may feel the same way. The spot I saw is like watching a SNL spoof of the kind of careful, let's not make a mistake thinking found in the brains of most marketing and research people when it comes to developing names. It's almost like the agency felt the need to explain why the name is so generic and boring -- because someone in research came up with it.

The commercial features a bunch of people in lab coats sitting around wondering what to call this sweet and salty new product. While all the labcoat peeps are pondering this deep question, one of them in the back of the room suddenly says "I've got it!!  We can call them Crunchy Nut bars!!"  Whispers of "genius" buzz throughout the group.  And the nerd in the white labcoat smiles shyly, overcome by his own brilliance.

I'd like to hope there was a huge battle between the agency creatives and the marketing people over what the name should be. And the agency lost because it's not their money being spent. When in doubt, play the money card.

Do you think a candy called Tootsie Rolls would get past those guys?  Or Snickers, Milky Way, and Twizzlers? Maybe Raisinets might make it -- it has the main ingredient in the name -- a favorite naming device of MBA's. They also like to add ET or ETTE  to anything.

Speaking of which, they would spend months arguing whether it should it be RAISINETS or RAISINETTES. There would be one on one focus groups to determine whether the name spelled with two "T's" was too French. Respondents would be asked probing questions like, "Do you think that spelling the name RAISINETTES sounds French?"  Since the answer is YES, the research report would come back showing that respondents consider the name French. Then there would be more research to determine of being French was good or bad.

Years ago, a famous and sometimes unintentionally funny English dog trainer named Barbara Woodhouse wanted to put her name on a chicken based dog food.  She was the lady who would have owners say "WALKIES!!" to their dogs if they wanted them to heel.  

When it was time for dinner, she'd call her own dog by holding up the bowl and saying "DIN-DINS!!" -- in her distinctive high pitched voice.  Since her dogfood was targeted to women with small dogs, I thought the name DIN-DINS would resonate with them, especially with a group that tends to talk to their dogs like they're very special weshul, puppy wuppies. The client, on the other hand, wanted to be serious and call the product Woodhouse Dinners.

DIN-DINS was more fun. Certainly more memorable. With great appeal to the target. I could see women whose dogs were their surrogate children picking up on Mrs. Woodhouse's distinctive way of calling her own pups -- "Poopsie Woopsie, it's time for DIN-DINS!"

To determine a winner, we did RESEARCH. A respondent was shown two cans, one with each name.  Then the moderator asked each one this ridiculous question, "Which name seems more serious?"  Oh please.

I left the observation room in flames after two of these interviews. I told the client there was no reason for me to stay with the deck stacked against me like that. 

Anyone - you, for instance -- knows that the first rule of inventing new products is to come up with an ownable, trademarketable NAME for whatever the hell it is you're trying to sell. In fact, that's half the fun.

I was in the very room, a small empty office we were using to paper the walls with ideas, when Dennis Yeider, an art director,  came up with two of the best names in dog treats -- Snausages and Pupperonis.

[NOTE: The first rule of advertising is to FIRMLY AFFIX THE BLAME.  The next rule is: If you were in the same room when a great name was invented or, at least KNEW someone who was near the room on the same day. you can take credit, too.

For instance, the number of people who now take credit on their resumes for coming up with the Sears DieHard battery grows exponentially by the year. It was another art director by the way.]

Our group's assignment was to invent a name for two snack sausages for dogs. Pupperonis was clever. Snausages was brilliant. So was the creative Dennis came up with. I bet you still remember it.

Did I mention there was no research to fuck things up? That was twenty years ago when clients weren't so afraid. When they still knew the value of giving a new product a distinctive name. One that doesn't sound like a generic descriptor for the whole category.

What if the Volkswagon Beetle had been called the Volkswagon small car that gets good gas mileage?  Where would we be without The Bug?

I think you get the idea. 



 

FLY ME TO THE MOON

So Mo'Nique, the larger than life [and most airline seats] celebrity, wants to sue United Air Lines because she's black.  Wait, I mean she says they were mean to her because she's black.  Apparently she was ensconced in her comfortable First Class seat [seats?] that are so friendly to widebodies like herself, when her assistant, who was in coach, felt the urge to put something into Mo'Nique's carry-on.  [Has there ever been a more affected spelling of anyone's name?].  Sources say the item was a hair dryer.  Why her assistant hadn't packed the hairdryer ahead of time is beyond me. BUT. Instead of asking permission to enter First Class, which, as those of us who usually fly coach are aware, is sancrosanct in this post 911 day and age of stupid rules we have to follow in case someone might be a terrorist, the assistant apparently felt it was her RIGHT to do as she pleased, because she was with Mo'Nique.  Not so fast, attitude breath. The flight attendant, who, by the way, is in charge of all cabin behavior, took exception to Mo'Nique's assistant coming into the First Class cabin all la de da and they had words.  It's now a "she said-she said" situation.

Anywho, Mo'Nique -- I just love writing that name -- and her entourage deplaned and caught a different flight.  But not before Mo'Nique -- there I go again -- called a press conference and asked everyone to never fly United Airlines again.  Well, Mo -- if flying United means you and your people won't be on board, I'll be making my reservations today.

Ironically, according to Bill Zwecker, who writes about celebrities for the Chicago Sun-Times, he spoke with Mo'Nique's FORMER publicist way before -- okay a couple of weeks before this happened. The publicist allowed as how [a phrase I like almost as much as "come to find out"] she thought Mo'Nique and her entourage were the worst of the worst to deal with.

Which brings me to standing behind some jerkwad who was at the airline ticket counter yesterday trying to get something taken care of, but he wouldn't get off his cellphone, so the ticketagent wouldn't take care of him.  He absolutely refused to cooperate.  So she just said, sorry, I'm not helping you.  He went ballistic and started trying to pull rank, while still on the phone, shouting, and gesticulating, and still on the phone. Did I mention he stayed on the phone?

Meanwhile, she took care of me.

Sociology 101 In Which Mrs. Linklater Learns a Thing or Two

From time to time I make bold sweeping statements based on specious or spurious thinking.  One is slightly different than the other; I can never remember which is which because they are spelled too much alike.  At other times I make opinionated comments that are just plain wrong. Annoying. Stupid. Take your pick. This entry is no exception.

The upshot of my diva moment yesterday is that I headed for the business that pissed me off still pretty annoyed, but, as it turned out, I didn't have the confrontation I planned on when I got there.  Nobody's head rolled. 

After my previous post, many of you may have assumed that I would be heading to the place loaded for bear [a term I use without fully understanding its meaning].  Frankly, when I got there, enough time had passed that I decided just to let things go, unless somebody got smarty pants with me. People over sixty sometimes forget what they were mad about if too much times passes. That may have been part of it.

In the interest of full disclosure about the "business" I called up [see previous post] let's just say it rhymes with "SEARS." 

After a couple of failed attempts, I was finally getting new front and rear brakes at the Auto Center.  I was tired of downshifting to slow the car and coasting to a stop with my feet dragging. Bloody toes look so unattractive in sandals.

When I had called the "business" earlier in the day, I just wanted to know how late they would be open and whether or not I could wait while the work got done.

Sears is usually open until nine and most times they will finish while you wait, two important considerations for me. That was the information I was after before I got all hot and bothered by getting put on hold.

Like I said, driving over to the mall on a lovely evening with the sun roof open, all the steam slowly leaked out of my boiler.

I pulled into a bay and a very nice guy stopped what he was doing, told me to leave the car with the keys in it and go see another guy at the front desk to get a work order.

Here began a lesson in stereotyping. I was still prepared to have a toe to toe with the poopy pants who dissed me if he started up again.

Originally I figured I was going up against a Latino, based on the voice I heard on the phone. As you will see, I may need a crash course in diversity by the time this is all over.

Instead of one snarly Latino guy there were four Indian/Pakistani folks at the counter answering the phone and handling all the requests for service.  "Jello!"  "Jello!"  "Jello!"  "Jello!"

Apparently I couldn't tell a Latino from a Pakstani/Indian person on the phone. For sure, I wasn't going to be able to tell which one of these four had left me on hold listening to Yanni this afternoon. 

"May I yelp you?" The head guy came over to where I was standing. I can't type accents very well, but he sounded like one of my brothers when he leaves me a message from Abu the cabdriver. That was a little disconcerting. [Some day I will get to hear how minorities imitate white people. Maybe on my way to Hell. Actually, Jamie Foxx and Eddie Murray can do an east coast Causasian country club snotnose pretty well.]

The head tech from Indian/Pakistan was very polite and solitious. While I waited, he encouraged me to partake of the extensive repast found in the two large and well stocked vending machines positioned right next to the large Sony television. They were across from a number of comfortable chairs, where I could spend the evening watching re-runs of Seinfeld and The Simpsons, eating Cheetos and drinking Pepsi.

As I watched my car rising on the hydraulic lift, I noticed that all the mechanics in this Sears Auto Center were black. There were seven of them.

Let's see, all the guys at the desk were from Pakistan or India.  All the guys fixing the cars were African American.  Is this a reflection of the paradigm shift in social dynamics among working people? 

Where were the fat white guys with tattoos I was used to at the places I usually went? The ones missing a few teeth with really oily hands who hadn't read anything but the men's room sign since getting kicked out of school. Then I remembered the guy who usually works on my car is Korean, the honorable Mr. Moon who bows when he hands me my bill.  Wait a minute, I thought all Koreans owned 7-11s. 

What next? At some point the waiting room was empty except for the person waiting for her brakes to be finished. I was reading a magazine. The TV was just white noise in the background. The next thing I know the superviser from the front desk came in and changed the channel.  To a PBS episode of NOVA on String Theory.  We began talking about womenin science, the Fermilab acclerator, and quantum theory.  Every time he spoke, I kept hearing my brother's voice doing Abu the cabdriver.

Fascinated by his sing song speech, I let him do all the talking.  I was just listening. Then the guy who wrote up my work order came in and began watching the program with us.

The two of them, wearing their crisp, navy blue uniforms with the Auto Center logos began to explain things for me. Two Pakistani or Indian guys who work in the automotive department at Sears were breaking down String Theory into its component parts.  They discussed gravitrons and how the line is being blurred between science and philosophy. They were also talking about a lot of stuff I just didn't understand, frankly.

I mentioned that they might be the two most overeducated guys selling new tires and batteries.  They just looked at each other and laughed.  All Indians and Pakistanis are educated I began to think. Ooops there I go again creating yet another stereotype.

Then, in an attempt to put the shoe on the other foot, I got to thinking they might be looking at me and wondering if I had cats.

The good news is that they gave me an extra discount on the brake service.

They Just Don't Get It

So I call up a business. A guy answers. "Jello? How may I help you?"  Before I can say a word, another phone rings and he says to me, "Yust a minute, please."  He puts me on hold.

At this point I wonder whether he's going to tell the other people to wait, or do what some people do and make ME wait. ME, the person who called first. Who should be taken care of first. Who will be honking p.o.'d if he leaves me hanging.

He leaves me hanging. The Muzak plays, I watch TV, finally forgetting why I'm on the phone in the first place because I wait so long. 

I call this portion the zen of waiting to rip somebody a new asshole.

Finally the phone begins to ring on his end.  Apparently the store has enough high tech telecommunications equipment to ring back when someone has been left on hold TOO LONG.

"Jello?"  That is not a misspelling.

"You left me on hold. The only reason you're talking to me now is because I'm so pissed off that you helped out the second person who called INSTEAD OF ME first that I waited to see if you would come back so I could get your name and talk to your superviser."

"But we are very shorthanded today."

"Being shorthanded has nothing to do with helping people in the order they called."

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk to  your superviser."

"He is on break."

"What is your name?"

"That is not important."

"Okay, then, bye."

He thinks it's over. 

Self Discovery Is Not Pretty

I learned something about myself yesterday. My self esteem is hanging from a very thin thread. 

On Friday a whole day's work went down the tube with one click of my mouse. On Saturday I had a four and a half hour drive home. These events did not affect my self esteem.

By Sunday I had to have forty "skeletons" written for a new product excursion. Twenty of them had to be rewritten again [redundant and yet, not redundant] from scratch, because of the file that vaporized on Friday. All so that other people could review them Monday morning for even more people to review after that.

Hard to believe but "skeleton" is a marketing term. It means that someone with an MBA and too much time on their hands came up with yet another layer of crap to make my job as a creative person even more difficult.

I can't just invent products. I have to have "platforms" for them. And the "skeletons" are like stick figures sitting around on the platforms waiting for someone to put a body and clothes on them. This is classic left brain thinking. Linear. Logical. Lame. A, then B, then C, then D. 

I'm all right brain. I go from 1 to 10. There are no stops along the way.  I don't need them.  Someone comes up with a fragment of an idea for something, In a heartbeat I've already named it, packaged it, figured out the target, strategy and done the creative. Okay, next.

But not when there's an MBA in the room. They have to earn their money.  And they do that by taking what I do in a few minutes and turning it into a three day process. For a lot of money.

Its basically just covering your ass when millions of dollars are going to be spent. Even then they can fuck it up.

In fact, while I was working for the leftbrainers on Friday, one of them came in and said --  you could probably skip this part couldn't you? 

Yes.

Once at a trial by fire seminar for "up and coming new people" held at an offsite location and hosted by the multi-national ad agency I worked for, the participants were given an assignment at 7:00 PM and expected to have the whole thing finished by nine the next morning. An all nighter. One of two during the five day retreat. Assholes. 

My team included a marketing person, a researchperson, a media person, a writer [me] and an art director.  In the olden days, creatives drove the engine and marketing played catch up.  For way too long now marketing and research have been driving the engine and creatives have to follow.

After reading the brief, I knew exactly what the creative had to be. That's the way it goes most of the time. Usually I have to wait for marketing to figure out what I already know, have 12 meetings to discuss it and then, FINALLY, I can start doing my part. No fair starting before they're finished.

Meanwhile at the seminar, without proper marketing supervision, I'd worked out the campaign in my head and started to talk to the art director about what we could do. This frightened the marketing, media, and research mopes. I was outside the box. They were worried that I would be OFF STRATEGY and screw everything up.  I assured them that creative people have the ability to think strategically and there wouldn't be a problem. On the other hand, I also know that creativity is not an option for most left brains.

I was right of course. About them and us. The art director and I wrote and designed a brilliant campaign. No, really. We were asked by the chairman of the agency who was there for our presentation to send it to New York to help save an account that was in deep do do. And I saw it on the air about a year later. No we didn't get any credit. Interoffice teamwork just means that the office with the account gets all the credit no matter who participated. It's part of the NOT INVENTED HERE syndrome.

Magically, the bullshit, and it is ALL bullshit, that the marketing, media, and research people on our team came up with -- the strategy, the rationale, all the reasons for the creative -- fit our work like a new condom. Even though they didn't see the creative until the presentation.  They had no idea if what we did would go with what they did until we presented it. Talk about tight sphincters.  Haaaaaaaa.  I loved it.

But this story is about yesterday, Sunday. And my self esteem, what's left of it.  Thanks to all those "skeletons" I had to write.  I only knew they had to be done Sunday. My own finish line was end of the day -- around five. At 10:00 AM I get a phone call. Turns out they thought noon was better.  Okay, my fault.  I should have ASKED, not assumed.

But, too late. So I work seven straight hours, never moving. Sending "skeletons" as fast as I write them. During the process, I try to reach my contact but she wasn't answering her cell phone.  I start to think she's really angry. I email with apologies. I call her cell again. I just know my long relationship with her company is over. I won't get paid. They must hate me. By the end of the day, having received no feed back, and, at the mercy of my mind, I was emotional toast.

Finally at eight last night she calls to say her daughter took her cell phone for the day while she was busy running a birthday party for a friend, so she's just starting to read everyhing and it's looking good.

I'm not fired? You're not angry?

Sometimes I scare myself.

Insidious Excess

According to my impeccable source, Montana is being overrun by people with too much money.

How much is too much?

Three words:  monogrammed toilet paper.

Three more words:  multiple helicopter pads.

Not that these folks aren't neighborly. Although when you've got over 100,000 acres how close could your neighbors be? They've invited all the local ranchers to a party to say howdy. To show how hospitable they can be, plans were made to order plenty of wine from a local distributor. They're all about supporting the economy.

Two words: longneck beer. That led to changing the order for wine to making an order for dozens of pilsner glasses.

One word:  glasses?

No porta potties will be harmed in the hosting of this event. Instead there will be an air conditioned trailer with running water and monogrammed toilet paper. Not so much for the local guests -- most of them would just pee where they landed. It's probably for the important friends of the rich folks who're flying in from out of state.

None of the out of towners likes to let their feet touch the ground. They don't do interstate highways. Only helicopter pads. So you wouldn't expect them to poop and peep like the rest of us either. These are people who can hire people to wipe their butts. Have I mentioned the monogrammed toilet paper?

There will be valet parkers no doubt. A new experience for all the pick ups and Outback station wagons that'll be arriving. Wait till they find out they have to give their car keys to a stranger.

And then there will be intermingling of the species. Shitkickers and city slickers trying to make nice together.  That ought to be good for a couple of laughs.

I'm still dealing with the monogrammed toilet paper. There's a kiss my ass joke in there somewhere.

My Friend is Tripping

A friend of mine retired a few years ago and began to travel. Not content with the United States, he's been to the back country of China a couple of times, and did a tour of India a couple of other times. I don't think he's looked for the blue footed booby in the Galapagos or counted the penguins in Antarctica yet, but he's probably got enough miles by now to get a free ride to both places.

A while back he admired some photos I took. It's all about having good lenses I said, reminding him that he taught me how to shoot. So he went out and got himself a fancy new Nikon digital camera. With lovely new lenses. After a few tries, he said I was right.  It IS the lens. I don't know anyone else as skilled at giving a compliment.  Or as oblivious to how quickly he takes it away.

This picture of some African Kudu is an example of his rediscovered skills. Good one, Hume. 

Not content to stay home to wash his underwear and get the bugs out of his teeth, he immediately went off on a many thousand mile trip from Texas to lots of places in Colorado with his ex. Actually it was only a few hundred miles. But when you're traveling with former loved ones it just seems longer. 

Before that -- only a month before that, if I'm calculating correctly -- he was in Namibia [for the birth of Angelina's baby? Remind me to ask]. He was also in Botswana which is the country next door. At some point he was also in London and stayed at The Hague in Amsterdam.

Sorry my guided tour is disjointed. We were chatting on the phone as I was driving back from yet another marketing excursion to Ann Arbor last week, so I may have missed a few details at eighty miles an hour. [Yes, I drove ten over the speed limit like everyone else. Judging from the number of state troopers who were clocking us and not chasing us -- that is an acceptable speed.  However, I wish you could have seen the guy in the bright yellow Corvette who flew by me, only to leave treadmarks on the road trying to slow down to something under 100 as he simultaneously whipped over to the right lane and hid behind a truck. The cop must have been laughing so hard he let him go.]

But I digress. Camera boy is now making plans to go to Slovenia shortly. As soon as he can figure out where it is.  Myself?  I'll be at the Sears automotive place for new brakes. It's like going to Mexico, but I can drink the water. 

Patrick's Saturday Six Driving Back from Michigan Edition

I don't know how Patrick comes up with these questions week after week. [Link to come eventually]. Same with Scalzi and his weekend assignments. I think they're both in the hundreds now. Some people just have a sense of responsiblity that goes above and beyond normal expectations. Of course, Scalzi also gets paid.

Me, on the other hand. I avoid anything that looks like an ongoing obligation like it was a festering pimple and I was a teenage girl.

This week I'm Six for Six:

1. If you had the chance to press a button and find out for sure whether or not God exists, would you take that risk, even if it meant that believers might find out there isn't one or that non-believers might find out that there is?

Personally I want to wait and find out. Like the folks who don't want to know the sex of their babies. Surprise me!!!  Either way -- God or no God -- there would still be an argument. Nobody gives up any ground when it comes to religion or politics, no matter how apparent the truth may be.

2. Whatever your position on your belief of God, if you found out beyond any doubt that you were wrong, how much do you think you would change how you live your life?

I'd still fall asleep with the TV on. Eat over the sink. And log on only to check my hit counter -- the one that I just put up again. I'll let YOU be all about making change.  

3. In honor of Planters' 100th birthday, what's your favorite kind of nut?

Jim Carrey. I'm sure I'm not alone.

4. Looking back over your high school years, what label would best describe your personality?

Skinny as a stick.  Is that a personality type? No? Oh.

How about zany then. In fact, one of my kids described me that way not too long ago. I thought I'd moved on to amusing and witty, although I'm only a heartbeat away from being a psycho bitch at any given time.  It's part of my charm.    

5. Take the quiz: How controlling are you? (Thanks to Shelly.)

My cell phone just rang four separate times. Pretty much one after another. It seemed like someone was trying to get me to answer. Nope. Not going to happen.

I could hear the ringing out in the living room, where I always seem to leave the phone when I forget to turn it off. It's after midnight. I'm in bed. Well, now I'm not in bed.  I finally got up and checked out who was calling.  There was one message. Someone I know was trying to clear his voicemail -- WTF?!!! --  but every time he pressed some button he was connected to me.  He did leave a message after the second call saying he was sorry, but that didn't stop him from calling me two more times.  Now, if that were me I would probably wait until a time when I wouldn't be WAKING PEOPLE UP to figure out the settings on my cell.  But no, the people I hang out with are from the ME ME ME generation.  Tomorrow he will get a call from me that starts out,  Hey, A**hole, what were you thinking? I could call him back now, but then I'd have to talk to him. 

Meanwhile, speaking of control freaks, or people resembling them, it turns out I'm an 8% control freak. That would make me 92% laid back. I don't care if the toilet seat is up or down. I don't care if the toilet paper pulls from the bottom or the top. I do care if you flush however.

I was warned that I'm supposed to watch out for people who want to control me. And, shockingly, there are those who think they can, not realizing that they're in control of the stuff I don't care about. However, where do they turn when the sh*t comes down and there's a crisis? Then I get to be in control. Being in charge of the remote ain't going to put out the fire. So, I'll let you handle all the small stuff. I'm big picture.

6. Did you expect a higher or lower score?

Since I only checked TWO of the questions I didn't expect a very high score.  But there was a time when I could have checked ALL the questions.  Yes, even control freaks can change.  

Tragedy in Ireland

A friend sent this to me today.  I burst into tears thinking how much the Irish are suffering during their recent floods.

Where Does It Go?

Okay IT people -- like there's any who read this journal.  Yesterday I worked eight hours writing stuff in a PowerPoint template sent to me in an email on AOL.  By 3:30 here was A LOT of work done.  And there was even more to do -- all for a 5:00 deadline. I manually saved as I went.  I just assumed it was all saving to the downloaded template.

When I thought I was done I clicked the X in the right hand corner of the PC I was using at the office where I was doing the work. 

Everything disappeared. 

No little message box asking if I wanted to save my changes.  Nothing.

Gone.  Pfffft.

Nobody could find the file anywhere.  The template I downloaded would come up as a blank.

The only place it might be is in my AOL downloads which I can check when I get home.  AOL on the internet doesn't give you that kind of access.

But do you know the feeling of losing EVERYTHING and knowing you have to go back and recreate it ALL -- AGAIN?

That's why I use a MAC.  They know that people like me are out there so I am instructed to take out my brain before I start and put it in the refrigerator during the time I'm working. That way nothing stupid can happen while I'm using the equipment. 

But a PC doesn't have failsafe backups like that.  They just let you think everything is fine and then they screw you when you aren't looking.  No kisses.  Nothing.

 

We'll Leave the Meth Out For Ya

Tom Bodette does the friendly and folksy Motel Six commericals -- the ones that end with "We'll leave the light on for you."  On my recent foray into Michigan to make the world safe for marketing, I decided to stay at one of those places.  No, really, I did.  You should have seen the looks I got from everyone else who stayed at the Marriott.

I've stayed in some pretty swank spots in my time. Resort hotels with entire tropical jungles transported to the lobby. With four star restaurants that have swans swimming up to the table. And people trained to do nothing but fold your napkin whenever you leave your seat.

But, except for the posh room service, Turkish terrry cloth robes, mirrors on the ceilings, hot tubs at the end of the beds, and phones in the marble bathrooms, hotel rooms are pretty much the same. Especially when you are traveling for work. It's just that some places charge an arm and a leg more because they fold a point on the teepee. Or provide you with mango flavored shampoo.

Most of the time I'm only in the room to shower, sleep, and use the toilet, so the candy on the pillow and the sexy bathroom with a glass wall that allows people watching TV in the living room to observe you as you bathe, brush your teeth, and perform any other normally private maneuvers, are lost on me.

I'm working, not playing. Or performing.

All this is leading up to my rationale for saving a ton of money and staying at the No Tel Six.  I did save a ton.  What I paid for three days wouldn't cover the tips at most places.

However, I told the desk clerk that I would give the place one night and if I didn't like it I would leave. I asked for a room with a view of the lawn in front of McDonald's and they obliged. So far, so good. There was no one else on that side of the motel, so I asked them to keep it that way if possible. I assumed when they said okay, that meant okay.

I walked into the room. After long hours on the road, it was refreshing to be hit with an arctic blast of non stop air conditioning.  Plus the hum of the retro machine that pumped out the icy air kept down the noise of the tractor trailers pullling in for the night.

Luckily there was an extra parking space next to me outside my room, so that the Dodge Hemi steroid pick up truck that pulled in could have room to stretch out and not trade paint with my rental car. Surprise. Apparently I was going to have next door neighbors despite my request, even though there were dozens of other empty rooms. Everywhere. The thump thump of that engine on that monster actually shook my room. But I was already unpacked so I didn't leave.

The tiny white towels were clean. But there were enough to cover my body and my hair. The soap was so small there was barely enough for one night.  But there were two at least -- one for the shower and one for the sink. I assumed correctly that I would get more each day. The beds were made. And except for the cigarette sized holes in the blanket, you didn't notice any unexplained stains or smells.  I didn't bring my black light with me however.

There was cable. Including HBO. The water in the one piece fiberglas shower unit was wet, hot and hard. Like my men. It's a JOKE. There were hangers.  There were drawers for clothes.  There were friendly strangers with no teeth who yelled across the lot and offered to help me unload my car. Or get me some ice. Only with a police escort, thank you.

I wasn't going to be there for more than sleeping time, so I was not missing all the fancy perks. Even though the family next door to me sounded like they were bouncing their kid off the wall.  Luckily the noise of the ice age air conditioner drowned out most of the noise.

I wasn't suffering too much and decided not to leave, until I realized the next day, when I got back from hours of work, that I wasn't going to get new towels. The ones I used were just folded up again.  EEEEWWWW.

I may be willing to sacrifice a lot of things to save money on a room -- low thread count sheets and foam rubber pillows, but when it comes to towels, don't go folding up the ones I've used and serving them up for the next day. Somebody has used them.  EWWWW.  Okay the somebody was me.  But EWWW nonetheless.  

Now that I think about it, some mango shampoo would have been nice too. 

I sure did save a boatload o' dough.

But, never again.

Virally Yours

This email arrived in the afternoon today. I deleted the other email I posted this morning at the request of the writer.  It was funnier and more like his real self. But, it wasn't as PC as it should have been. Meanwhile, he supplied me with this tame replacement.  I still think the Grudge Report is fun.  NOTE: He doesn't captialize very often, but I just left things the way he wrote them anyway.  I'm a control freak, but I pick my occasions.

We needed to promote a film called "The US Vs. John Lennon," which shows the parallels between Nixon and Bush, Iraq and Vietnam, and also shows how the Nixon administration abused its power to harass John and Yoko because they did not agree with what they said. It is a film that comes along at a perfect time, as we head into an election with the nation divided on the current foreign policy.

to make the point more clearly, a viral site was created to put the the actual news and politics of the time in a contemporary setting.

http://www.theusversusjohnlennon.com/

it is based on a real, and very popular news site called The Drudge Report,

http://drudgereport.com/

The Drudge Report recently linked to the Grudge Report as a real news story, and put a picture of Yoko up - you can see it on The Drudge Report under this headline.

'JOHN LENNON' PARAMOUNT/LIONSGATE MOVIE CAMPAIGN MOCKS DRUDGE REPORT... 

you can see a trailer for the film here,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAKd34w5MAU&search=US%20Vs.%20John%20Lennon

 

AOL COUNTER ATTACK

Mrs. Linklater recently hooked up her counter again, in case you're wondering why she only has a few hundred hits over there. AOL doesn't have anything to let people know when the counter is going to get an attack of PMS and revert to zero or turn itself off.  If you decided to turn it off yourself "they" won't change the date when you decide to start it up again. Or remember how many hits you had before or how many you have had since. The counter always reverts to zero and the day you began your journal.

What a crock.

So after months of feeding her numbers crunching addiction which began on DAY ONE of this journal, Mrs. L took down the counter over a year ago, when it went ka-blooey and kept re-starting itself.

Soon after it began acting up, she also received a mysterious TOS violation notice for ALLEGEDLY uploading porn somewhere on her FTP space. While she was sleeping. Here at AOL Journals one is guilty until proven innocent. Nothing you can say or do makes any difference. You aren't going to win when you get accused. If you haven't already discovered that, just try cancelling your membership.

Except for Armand of Un-Common Sense, NO ONE has ever been found innocent of a TOS violation. He is a member of our armed forces.  He has weapons at his disposal -- especially one that came in handy -- using AOL's own words to trip them up.  But most of us don't have his firepower. Or perseverance.

Recently, Mrs. L realized she had a number of lurkers, so she decided to start counting hits again. Despite the risk. Right after loading up the counter again, she hit the JOURNALS front page as an editor's pick.  Has she mentioned how much she deserves to be on that list?

Looks like there's about two hundred hits for the ten or so comments in the journal. Twenty hits per comment.  Okay some of those are Mrs. Linklater coming back to see if there are any more hits.  Ah, the addiction starts again.

I'm Ready For My Close Up Mr. DeMille

I wonder how many people under thirty know where the title for this entry came from?

Here's the deal. I've been out of town and computer free, keeping up with my AOL email on the phone. Yes, I could have done an audio entry BUT I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE IT. Okay?

At some point during the past few days people began leaving comments and congratulating me for making the Editor's Picks. First, thank you to Michal for picking me.  Second. It's about damn time.

I've been writing a journal since March 17, 2004. More than two years. I've never been an Editor's Pick. Not that I don't deserve to be, based on some of the lame journals I've seen profiled.

I don't know why I've been skipped over. After all, I was anointed for fabulousness by Judith Heartsong's secret judges when we were writing essays to compete in her monthly contests. Bet you didn't get a Heartsong Award to hang on your blog.

That was back when we had a nice little community here. Before the sh*tstorm caused by AOL's decision to scr*w its paying members last fall. And hundreds of people left. Sorry if I offended anyone by leaving the "i" out of sh*tstorm. And the "e" out of scr*w. Get over it.  [Meanwhile, there's a link to Judith's new blogspot blog in my Other Journals].

There's more. Armand, who is chasing bad guys in Iraq or Afghanistan these days, created the Kicking Ass and Taking Names Award just for me, because of something I did without regard to my own safety here in J-Land -- an honor I try to live up to every day. [The link to his blog, Un-Common Sense is also in my Other Journals].

I also tied Remo for Most Outspoken VIVI award last year. Remo has gone private to protect his own privates. They say a tie is like kissing your sister. Not when it comes to being tied up with Remo, however.

I've even been chosen to be a Guest Editor myself. In fact, I had so many incredible journal recommendations that they ran two sets of Editor's Picks that week.

But until this past week, I have never EVER been anybody else's Editor's Pick.  What's that about?  Is it something I said?

It no longer matters. I'm not a virgin anymore. I have made the team.  Finally.  If you want to see the whole list, go to KEYWORD and type JOURNALS. I'll get to a link after some sleep. I put several hundred miles on my car over the past few days, working and playing.  Maybe I'll even tell you a little about my travels if enough people beg me.

Meanwhile, yay for me.

I Should Go Back to Bed

Remind me not to listen to the news this early in the morning.

Phoenix may not have one, not two, but THREE serial killers. Note to REMO: Double the Kevlar.

Barbarro -- the popular Kentucky Derby winner whose rear leg snapped -- has infections in TWO legs now?  What's that about?  An early demise I'm thinking.

The two American soldiers who were abducted three weeks ago, tortured, killed and mutilated, not necessarily in that order, were executed in revenge for the rape and murder of the Iraqi girl by American soldiers. According to the insurgents. And those killings are any different than all their other murders? 

I was worried that Bush would nuke the North Koreans. Looks like Japan and China want first crack. Great.

Some psycho doctor blows up a building he and his wife own together so she can't get it in the divorce.  "I always told you I will only leave this building if I am dead." The bad news is that he survived the blast.

There are pet custody fights for the animals that survived Katrina which were adopted after the hurricane. One guy had a chip in his dog and it was still adopted out.  GIVE THE PETS BACK you assholes.

Last week I was headed for a visit to the peaceful, tiny town of Ellison Bay in northern Door County, WI -- where two people were just killed when some resort building blew the hell up. That could have been me if I hadn't stopped for lunch somewhere else and decided not to go there. And waited until this week.

There is now a new set of etiquette rules for using your Crackberry, er, Blackberry. Make them for cellphones too.  Personally I have only one pet peeve -- this morning at least. If you are interrupted by a call tell the person you'll call them back, or don't take the call.  Especially if it comes through on call waiting. Just say, I'm on another call.  Do NOT leave me hanging while you take the call for more than ten seconds or I'll hang up.  I got rid of Call Waiting because it was so annoying to me -- that beep in my ear drove me crazy. Leave a message. I'll call you back. Sheesh.

Oops. now I'm in a frenzy and I have to drive somewhere. In the rain. In rush hour. 

Deep breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out.  Haaaaaaaa. Like that's going to work.

Harley Hangout

As much as she might like to try, all the make up, leather, studs and boots couldn't help Mrs. Linklater pass for a Harley babe any more. No matter how dark it is. At her most bad girl, Mrs. L still looked like a Sally Sue Suburban Soccer Mom. The truth is, after falling off a Triumph Trident in the pits at Road America lo those many years ago, she was asked to turn in her dog collar and chainlink bra for garden gloves and a station wagon as soon as possible.

Recently, for some reason, Harley Davidson has opened a huge showroom not very far from her boring tract house existence. So even if Mrs. Linklater won't be invited to ride to Sturgis ever again, she can still relive those halcyon days of yesteryear. She can stop by and sniff the leather, feel the heat from the pipes, and make people wonder what the heck someone's grandma is doing annoying the junkyard dog that patrols the showroom.

The question she has is why would the world's quintessential bad boy bike manufacturer want to sell motorcycles in the whitebread and mayonnaise suburbs?

It turns out that most motorcycle riders these days are suburban guys about 41 years old. A big change from just a few years ago when the average biker was some urban kid around 27. What we have now are a bunch of Hells Angels wannabes who carry briefcases by day and long to ride their hogs at night. After coaching T-ball.

The good news for Mrs. Linklater is that she now has a place to loiter on the weekends. The bad news is that all those Marlon Brando lookalikes she used to dream of wrapping her arms around look more like Bubba from the shrimp shack in real life. Or they're married with three kids and a mortgage.

Not to mention that Mrs. Linklater isn't exactly date bait in recent years. But it sure was fun standing next to that dude with with sawed off t-shirt and the ten tattoos. Who smelled like Aramis. 

Only in America

According to the morning news, some kid traded a paper clip all the way up to a three bedroom house.

Looking around my own home I would be willing to part with a jar of Skippy peanut butter for some Manolos.

And I'd happily relinquish two or three white plastic hangers for a BMW, with or without a year's worth of gas.

I'd even ratchet things up and swap my beloved Lava Lamp for a villa in Italy.

There's no reason why my Glide dental floss shouldn't be good for a set of patio furniture.

Now I wish I'd saved those record albums from the seventies. I could have opened a Hummer dealership with a couple of those.

Right this minute I'm hungry for some breakfast. I wonder if McDonald's would swap an empty toilet paper roll for some pancakes and sausage.

A cruise ship dinner on the lake is worth a rubberband or two, don't you think?

Slinging Six

Burnt food, inner children, carnival rides, summer days and dreaming -- it must be Saturday. Well, it was, yesterday.

1. What is the last food you prepared that you burned badly?

An English muffin only last week. I'm a culinary whiz, what can I say? I used a toaster I was unfamiliar with and the muffin looked like charcoal before I rescued it.

2. Did you eat it anyway?

I love charcoal flavor, so yes, I ate it. With a slab of butter and some orange marmalade.  I have had years of practice eating peanut butter and jelly crusts that my kids didn't finish.

3. What is your favorite carnival ride and why?

I don't go to carnivals. They have carnival people working there. Okay, I know I've just insulted people who read my journal. But the characters I've run into rank just above pedophile priests in my book. However, I always liked The Eagle Roller Coaster at Great America, which is a bonafide amusement park about twenty minutes from here. The Eagle a classic wooden coaster. That first plunge used to make me want to puke every time I rode on it. How perfect.

4. Take the quiz: How is your Inner Child?

SURPRIZED!!! 
You see many things through the eyes of a child.
Meaning, you're rarely cynical or jaded.
You cherish all of the details in life.
Easily fascinated, you enjoy experiencingnew things.

Yep, that's me. RARELY cynical or jaded. 

5. What is your ideal summer day?

Being in Montana riding on a horse. Okay, okay. Clear blue sky, sunny, about 75 degrees, playing tennis, softball, beach volleyball, or beach paddle. Now that I can't play my sports anymore, or ride horses, I'll settle for going to a ballgame. Or lying in a hammock. Or sleeping on the deck of a sailboat. Or driving with the windows down and the roof open.

6. What was the setting of the last dream you remembered?

The setting for the last dream I had was when I was sleeping in a 100 year old cabin.  I don't remember anything about the dream though. I only remember that I had a dream. That's good enough.

Breeding Season

Some pictures need no explanation. 

For instance, these demonstrate what can happen when you mate dogs with 1) a fish  2) a bird, and 3) a motorcycle. 

 

One Thing Leads to Another

With the holiday and all, I got to wondering whether any other countries have a phrase comparable to "As American as the Fourth of July."  

So I started with our British cousins and Googled "as English as".  This is what I found:

As English as God -- from an article about a British novelist in the Atlantic online.
As English as daffodils and tikka masala -- from a London newspaper quoted in someone's blog.

But by far my favorite was from Wikipedia:

English as She Is Spoke is the common name of a 19th-century book credited to José da Fonseca and Pedro Carolino, which was intended as a Portuguese-English conversational guide or phrase book, but is regarded as a classic source of unintentional humour

Sentence in Portuguese           Given translation          Idiomatic translation
As paredes têm ouvidos.       The walls have hearsay.     The walls have ears.
A estrada é segura?                Is sure the road?               Is the road safe?
Sabe montar a cavalo.     He know ride horse.    He knows how to ride a horse.
Que horas são?                      What o'clock is it?           What time is it?
Que faz ele?                           What do him?               What is he doing?
Tenho vontade de vomitar.      I have mind to vomit.      I feel like vomiting.

AND, LAST BUT NOT LEAST:
ORIGINAL: Este lago parece-me bem piscoso. Vamos pescar para nos divertirmos.

GIVEN TRANSLATION: That pond it seems me many multiplied of fishes. Let us amuse rather to the fishing.

IDIOMATIC TRANSLATION: This lake seems like it's full of fish. Let's have some fun fishing.


But that's just the BRITS' version of As American as the Fourth.

Canada is also amusing -- I found this story when I Googled As Canadian As:

True story, related by author Margaret Atwood in an interview.

Somebody in Canada started a contest to come up with a saying analogous to "As American as apple pie." The idea was to finish this sentence: "As Canadian as..."

The winner: "As Canadian as possible under the circumstances."

When I googled "As French As" -- I got a reference at a blog called Spinsanity which had a reference to a former presidential candidate as you'll see:

Washington Times editor-in-chief Wesley Pruden . . .began by stating "You have to feel a spot of sympathy for someone who looks as French as John Kerry".

Google provided other references, such as As French as Paris,, as French as Jennifer Lopez and Christopher Walken are American.  But I gave John Kerry the nod for stupidity. In a good way.

Returning to American references, I found As New York as cheesecake. As Wisconsin as cheese curds. Which I would change to Cheesheads. As Michigan as a Ford was another, which I would change to an Edsel.

Which made me realize that I could do this with or without Google.

As Cuban as Bill Clinton's cigars.
As Italian as Chianti, piccante, and spumanti
As Polish as a kielbasa -- in Roman Polanski's trousers
As Russian as vodka straight from the bottle out of the freezer
As Irish as Paddy's goat, Paddy's pig, O'Hanlon's breech, gin and orange. . .barnyard pets and booze pretty much cover Irish comparisons, except for the O'Hanlon's breech, which I think is a  16th century reference to a guy's crotch.

All these comparisons made me wonder if I accidentally stumbled on the origins of YO MAMA jokes. Perhaps they started out with YO MAMA is as ugly as -- which morphed into YO MAMA is SO ugly that -- wait -- here it comes -- your daddy takes her to work so he won't have to kiss her goodbye. 

Yep, there's a load of websites with nothing but YO MAMA jokes. 

And I was just riffing on the Fourth of July.






.

As American As The Fourth

Politicians, floats and marching bands are the usual mainstays of parades on the Fourth of July.  The parade I watched was no different than yours I'm sure. Or anyone else's across America. It was held on the main street of a small town in Wisconsin. It could have been in Oregon or Maine.

But maybe it felt a little more special because this town was the first one in the state to have a Fourth of July parade. There was history here. Along with vendors on rollerblades selling blue cotton candy.

The reviewing stand was across from the town's oldest building, a house converted into a quaint as shit gift shop, covered in red white and blue bunting.  I had a very comfortable seat provided by the [do I need to say gay?] owner of a popular antiques store who was one of this year's judges. To ward off the sun I was wearing my White Sox Championship cap, always a big hit in Green Bay Packer territory.

The parade started about a half an hour late, led by the county sheriff and his smiling wife, driving in his all black Ford vehicle with its patriotic red and blue lights flashing.  Behind them came all manner of amateur floats. The local ice cream parlor had a cooler and several people dispensing real sundaes to the crowd as their entry. There was a tiki bar on a flatbed featuring a forty year old fat bartender serving refreshments to two sixteen year old girls in bikinis that kept riding up their butts.  Several convertibles rolled by, filled with at least two dozen ladies wearing outrageous crimson chapeaux, representing the Red Hat Society, a national group for women over fifty who have nothing left to do with their lives but wear red hats.

There were old men, probably close to my age, carrying a multitude of flags and marching for the American Legion or one of the local Lions Clubs. There were also two uniformed veterans, a young one from Iraq, and an old one from Vietnam, sitting on chairs on a nearly unadorned flatbed and waving like they wished they could be doing something else.

There was a high school band with a drum section that sounded like it was marching to a different beat than the brass. I swear that one girl who passed by me with her lips around a saxaphone was only pretending to play. This sadsack group was understandably bad, since they were a very last minute substitute for the good band that had been scheduled.  The scheduled band had to cancel at the last minute -- that morning we were told -- because their bandleader was arrested the day before for having kiddie porn on his computer.

Interspersed among an array of marchers that included dozens of kids of all sizes and ages from a local art school in charming, handmade costumes, were all kinds of people passing out candy by throwing it at our feet. I guess there was a parade rule against throwing candy directly at anyone. Somebody probably sued. So feet it was. Mostly they were throwing Tootsie Rolls. The operative word is ROLL.

The local Shakespeare Society, the song and dance people from the summer theater troup, some huge fire engines and monster trucks blowing horns so loud that my sphincter puckered -- all were well represented.

Probably one of the highlights of the parade was the number of antique and vintage cars featured, from an old VW bus and a WWII Jeep to several colorful Ford Model A's, a bunch of 1967 Pontiacs and Oldsmobiles, and even an old Mustang. All painted with multiple coats of high gloss paint, accessorized with spotless white walls, wire rimmed wheels and cute kids waving from the passenger seats. 

With a notable exception -- one very old and very rusty pickup. It looked like someone had retrieved it from a backyard dump, dragged it out of the pond where it had spent the last fifty years, dried it off, got it started, and sneaked it into the parade before anyone realized they were there.  The bleary-eyed driver looked like he'd just finished doing time for something he'd perpetrated on someone's daughter. The creepy. mustachioed, longhaired guy in the passenger seat was in a sleeveless leather vest and had his tattooed arm hanging out of the window. Did I mention he was creepy?

There was no cheering when the weird rusty wreck rolled by. Only stares and whispers of disbelief.  On my part, at least. Not that the two guys noticed. They kept waving like the Queen of England and shouting Happy Fourth of July!!!

We dubbed it the Meth Float.

I think they were just ahead of the Miss Wisconsin car. 

Burn Baby Burn

Does anyone find it ironic that there has been such a concerted effort to make burning the flag a punishable offense? When burning the flag is considered the only proper and correct way to dispose of it.