Are You A Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobic?

Phobias. A testament to mankind's foibles. Exhibit one: a hapless dental surgeon with ergasiophobia (a fear of operating).

If you're like me and yell at kids to get off your lawn, you might have a fear of youth – ephebiphobia. Personally I don't think I suffer from anything other than memories of missing pink flamingos.

The next time you see a person with a full beard, you may justifiably wonder if he has geniophobia (the fear of chins). Ask him to touch yours. If he won't, he's a prime candidate. On the other hand, if you are invited to touch his beard in return and you break out in a sweat and start hyperventilating, perhaps you have a fear of beards (pogonophobia).

House painters who only paint white may have chromophobia (the fear of color) unless they also have leukophobia, which is the fear of white. In which case they either don't look at where they're painting or they only paint clear lacquer. Then, I suppose, they'd be limited to painting glass houses... (Moving on; before I get trapped in this paragraph...)

I once had a tanning salon client who had to take the mirrors out of her tanning booth cubicles. Naturally, I asked her if it was because her customers had eisoptrophobia (fear of mirrors), but she assured me it was because the body builders would stay in the cubicle forever, after their tanning session, flexing and admiring their muscles.

If you are shopping for a phobia, here's one that caught my interest: ergophobics have an exaggerated anxiety about work, whether they're in the workplace, called upon to do work or have to face anything associated with a typical workday. Gotta check the disability clause in my insurance policy for this one. 

And the king of all kings – phobophobia is the fear of phobias. In other words, it's the fear of fear. I hope I don't catch that one. Not that I'm afraid I will... really...

Oh, and hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia? It's the fear of long words, of course.

You can find an exhaustive list of phobias here!

Fuelishness...

With gas prices soaring up 6 – 10 cents p/l overnight, with no corresponding increase in price per barrel on the world markets, you have to wonder if this is a note from one of the gas companies (who collectively posted profits in the billions last year) ...

But wait – quick research this morning puts government taxes (2008) taking around 32% off the top of pump prices.

So maybe it's a note from the tax man...

Help me out here. Trying to understand... or maybe I'm just being fuelish.

Think I'll walk to work. Luckily, I can.

Eight Notes to Diane

"Diane, I'm holding in my hands a small box of chocolate bunnies."

"Diane, it struck me again earlier this morning, there are two things that continue to trouble me. And I'm speaking now not only as an agent of the Bureau but also as a human being. What really went on between Marilyn Monroe and the Kennedys and who really pulled the trigger on JFK?"

"Diane, never drink coffee that has been anywhere near a fish."

"Diane, 6:18 AM, room 315, Great Northern Hotel here in Twin Peaks."

"Diane, last night I dreamed I was eating a large, tasteless gumdrop, and awoke to discover I was chewing on one of my foam disposable earplugs. Perhaps I should consider moderating my nighttime coffee consumption."

"Diane, it's 4:10 in the afternoon at the scene of the crime. Here's something we haven't seen before: a mount of dirt. Approximately a foot and a half in diameter. On the top is a gold necklace with a gold heart. Correction, half a gold heart. At the base of the mount of dirt is a torn piece of news print. Written with the words, which appear to be in blood: 'fire walk with me'."

"Diane, it is 4:20 PM. I'm standing on the bank of Wind River near the location of where the body of Teresa Banks was found. Diane, this case gives me a strange feeling. Not only has Special Agent Chester Desmond dissappeared without a trace, but this is one of Cole's blue rose cases. The clues that were found by Special Agent Desmond and Agent Stanley have led to dead ends. The letter that was extracted from beneath the fingernail of Teresa Banks gives me the feeling that the killer will strike again. But like the song goes, "who knows where, or when?"

"I'm going to begin today with a headstand.
[Cooper performs said headstand]
Diane, I am now upside-down. "

This moment of an unusual nature was brought to you by FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper, Twin Peaks. Now back to your regularly scheduled blogness.

Of Squirrels And Mothers

Being Mother's Day, of course I want to talk about squirrels.

Squirrels have the ability to breed every year and the young are born naked, toothless, helpless, and blind (like me... and you). The mother looks after the young, which are weaned at around six to ten weeks of age; which in squirrel years is.... six to ten weeks of age. They are very protective of their young and have been known to attack both people and pets. They are always looking for new nests, which helps in the distribution of food for their young. Once the young are weaned and ready, off they go to do their thing. They go to work, buy condo nests, mate and continue the cycle of life. It's a rule of nature.

All to say that if you are a twenty-something squirrel who is still living in your mother's basement playing Nintendo all day, you are a freak of nature.

And if you are a young squirrel starting off on your own, a bit of advice: never let your mother live with you.

Once mothers identify you as a food source; beware. Every bit of chatter at squirrel family gatherings will be seen as an invitation to move in. Being spotted dangling from the bird feeder is a good indication that you a good provider. You should make a habit of burying your assets and professing poverty to her every chance you get.

As squirrels age, they remain both agile and wily... and should you find a nice home of your own to move into; three pointers. 1) Get cable. TV antenna towers leave gaps they can sneak into. 2) Prune. Trimming back tree branches within leaping distance of your nest is a good idea as well. 3) Keep balcony doors securely locked. Living in the treetops does not mean you are safe. Mothers are very good climbers and have been known to scale brick walls onto balconies twenty floors up. If you see your mother on your balcony, check back again in 24 hours. If she is still there with a pleading look on her face (with perhaps baby pictures) and a vision of domestic bliss; take care. You only have to open the patio doors once.

Many mothers will try to convince you they just want to live in your attic. Do not fall for this. Before long, they will assume run of the whole house, be after your nuts every chance they get and will invite their friends in. You'll find your time at home surrounded by a bunch of bushy-tailed retirees expecting you to serve them herbal tea and peanut butter cookies.

If you should come home one day and unexpectedly find your mother in your house, you shouldn't trap her with a net as this may cause harm. The best thing to do is make her want to leave (and this doesn't mean throwing her purse out the door and locking it after they run after it – that's just plain mean). You might try to make the environment unattractive to her. Leaving a radio on all day and night with a 24-hour talk radio station blaring, leaving sweaty clothes around, or distributing urine soaked kitty litter are all known deterrents. Warning: this may make you want to move out as well. If all this doesn't work and you still find your mother coming down the chimney; relax. Remove all breakables in the room, close all drapes and doors to the other rooms, open all windows and exterior doors, shut off all the lights and shout "Rand's cooking dinner tonight!"

They should run straight out of the fireplace and bolt for the light of outdoors... and freedom. 

Happy Mother's Day Mom. I know you had a laugh with this. Miss you.

Just For Fun

For All Those Sweating The Details

For all those who give up their nights, overnights and weekends for the cause... for all those who wake up at two in the morning with a thought and write it down... for all those who come in early and leave late; who drink a pot of coffee in one gulp... for all those who worry a job to death... and for all those who go out of their way to make sure their work is the best it is allowed to be... and in the end, act like it is nothing at all...  this is for you.

You are all the heroes of industry and the champions of professionalism, excellence, quality, client relations, patience and perseverance.

This pre-moistened towelette may not seem much in tribute, and I did rip it off from a luncheon that I wasn't invited to, and it is just a photo that I took on my kitchen table... but those in the trenches enjoy any weird, appreciative gesture. Sometimes the weirder the better.

To those not in the creative process, I can't really explain it except to say it's all part of the mojo of the scene and how dedicated artists and copywriters bond.

And so I announce the Refreshing Towel Award. Feel free to bestow it on someone who sweats the details day in and day out.

Quick Thought

Takes a lot of hard thinking sometimes to come up with a substantive thought, and we all know the end result may be nothing at all. Because all that thinking has a habit of getting in the way.

And then we take a break from thinking and think about nothing at all for a while. Suddenly, a quick thought about what we had been thinking about before pops up.

The mind is a funny thing.

"I've been thinking Hobbes --"
"On a weekend?"
"Well, it wasn't on purpose..."
- Calvin & Hobbes

Where?

Graphic Reflections

Connecting Vistas. Bridging Silos. Spanning Communities.

Reflecting Strengths. Building Futures. Constructive Directions.

(Beginning to work on visual concepts for a conference. Graphic identifiers for national organizations who hold annual gatherings are often location-based and themes are woven around a local feature. Hamilton is known for its Skyway Bridge, which brings out interesting thematic possibilities, and its nickname "The Hammer". )

Sniffing Hummingbirds

Witness the tiny hummingbird, able to hover in mid-air by rapidly flapping its delicate, hollow-boned wings up to 90 times per second.

They are the only birds able to fly backwards (without the aid of hurricane-force winds). They consume more than their own weight in nectar each day, visiting hundreds of flowers to do so. They are known to survive a decade or more, which in bird years is a ripe old age. Their heart rate can reach as high as 1,260 beats per minute (even without the help of films with the word 'cheerleader' in the title).

It is said that the hummingbird order, Trochiliformes, may be over 30 million years old. Aztecs liked them enormously. Their sharp beaks were symbolic of both intimacy and weapons. Hummingbird talismans were thought to aid sexual potency and skill at warfare. I can think of a few dates where one of those might have come in handy for both reasons. Still, interesting symbolism from a designer's POV.

A few years ago I was vacationing at the family cottage; now owned by my brother. He and his wife (quite the birders) had hung a hummingbird feeder on the deck and the flying pipsqueaks would zoom in, hover and then poke their beaks to feed on sugar water. I thought nothing of it for the first few days but once my mind settled into idle time I began to watch these guys with more than a little curiosity. I noticed they always hovered before they fed.

My dog stops to sniff his food before he eats.

Huh, I thought. I didn't know hummingbirds sniffed. Go figure.

Next Sunday: Going Squirrely

A Model Is Born

A recent, urgent need here for a virile middle aged model to wear a vintage jacket for an Alumni ad prompted folks around here to press me into posing for this shot.

Luckily they caught my good side.

At last I may have found my true calling. We have hair models, eye models, hand models and foot models for different purposes. I may be the first person in history who makes his debut by literally backing into the business as a "butt model."

Anyone know a good agent? (haha)

Foggy Thoughts

A fine opportunity this morning on my walk to work, to study things coming out of the fog just as my brain was, coincidentally, trying to do exactly the same thing.

Part of the magic of life; as long as you're not going sixty miles an hour on the highway...

Good Bull

We meet the bull and he is us.

No matter who we are or how genuine our intentions, there will be those who will consider our opinions, tweets, chatter and smiles and posts as... well, drivel of a male bovine nature.

It only takes a bad choice of words or a cranky reader's eye to enter the world of the misinterpreted.

Let us recognize bull for what it is; just another form of communication. One without a lot of meaning of course, but gee whiz Wally, we get enough meaning from things like the back of cereal boxes and television commercials about the dangers of STDs. Face it, we all have the capability to produce it and sometimes it's just plain fun. Let's remove the stigma and let the stuff flow freely.

Embrace your inner bull!

And let us also celebrate the bull in others. If we don't find a posting has enough bull, let us contact the person and say "I'm sorry but your post doesn't have enough bull. Could you please add more?"

I'm sure it will catch on. Remember where you heard it first.

Second Stories

Doris has just got back from the hospital with her first baby. Her husband Peter is rushing around clutching an old copy of Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care, 8th Edition trying to figure out how to sanitize baby bottles. Doris informs him she will be breastfeeding. Next door, Antonio is celebrating his 65th birthday by talking to his son in Nebraska.

Mary is upstairs working on the books and thinking about what to plant in her garden this year. Her father Ted would suggest tomatoes and carrots of course. But she is thinking a radical shift to herbs, Romaine lettuce and Cajun Delight chard is in order. Ted will just have to understand.

Marge is cooking her famous lobster marinara, drinking a glass of red wine and singing along with her favorite Tom Jones album, It's Not Unusual. Her husband Ralph is snoring away in his easy chair, oblivious.

Franky is practicing riffs on his keyboards following an all-nighter jamming with his new band. With Jackie on vocals he thinks that they finally have the chemistry they've been looking for. Next door, Natasha is phoning around to friends to see if anyone is up for dinner out and trying not to think about the job interview on Tuesday.

Edward is kissing his colleague Janice for the first time. He's been thinking about his affections for months, since his divorce came through, but was shy. She finally seduced him and he is overcome with gratitude.

Antonio has just gotten off the phone with his son and it rings again. He smiles, knowing it's his daughter in California. Reaching for the phone he can hear his late wife laughing. Next door, Muriel is watching A Fish Called Wanda for the umpteenth time and knitting a lilac sweater for her daughter who graduates this year. She knows she won't wear it but continues all the same.

What Was Old Is... Okay, Old

I offer this as a late thought to Earth Day, celebrated today in all kinds of wonderful ways.

Meet Mr. Samples. He is a linen maché construction made from old things and a piece of myself all in one. I'll explain the latter below. (It's a surprise.)

Years before the recycling craze; crazy people kept stuff. Ask any artist, crafts person or inventor – you may never know when something might be useful. Get into a project and look around at the stuff you've got on hand to see if you can use it.

In this case; some sticks for a frame, left overs from a spool of stovepipe wire and screws to bind together the parts, some newspaper for padding, a set of well-used bedsheets (the older and smoother the better) for a skin, scraps of cloth for a costume, a secret recipe for the maché and some leftover acrylic paint somehow worked together to create a personality. I think there is some old anchor chain in his butt for weight.

Mr. Samples is an individual that has followed me around for many years. When I've moved cities he sits quietly beside me in the passenger seat. He has proven to be a stalwart companion. He may seem despondent on the surface but he's really quite the survivor. Quite popular in his time, he has sat on his little ladder overseeing some major decisions in executive offices, meeting rooms, and of course here at home. Presently, he sits in quiet retirement upstairs, doesn't eat much and never complains.

Mr. Samples is based on a character I came up with while doing a bit of clowning during college. After this shot (originally taken I believe by Fred Stephenson for a poster project) I adapted the costume, made from rags and articles from second hand shops, into Mr. Samples.

So... recycling over again has many meanings – for clowns like me anyway... Just saying.

Pick Your Happy Level Carefully...

Don't you think that people who are happy all the time are slightly irritating? Do you cringe when someone says "Have a nice day" or "Put on a happy face"?

Turns out being adverse to 'happy' is a good thing because the more cheerful you are the fewer days you may have on earth.

According to an 80 year study those who are serious are more likely to outlive those who are happy.

I've always maintained that feeling happy is an unnatural state, one to be avoided. Sure I have my happy moments but I have always tried to keep them to a minimum. And now, with this study on longevity, I feel vindicated.

As I get older I have made unhappiness into a fine art. I practice my scowl and growl in the mirror everyday. I do not turn my frown upside down. I detest sunny days. I celebrate my irritability and negativity with fast food and unhealthy inactivity. To my mind, Happy is next to Dopey on the Seven Dwarf scale. When someone smiles at me I wonder what they want. I do not consider it to be my responsibility to cheer other people up, nor is it other people's duty to make me happy.

And if my misery should make others happy, this is an unintended byproduct and I should not be held responsible should they suffer an early demise.

An Existential Map

(detail)

Existentialists; those who generally focus on the condition of human existence... topics include the meaning of life and the many obstacles and distractions including (thankfully) absurdity.

"I have an existential map; it has ‘you are here’ written all over it." Steven Wright

Wordplay

The Back Door

Glitz and bright lights might be the Hollywood picture they want you to take home. But scratch the surface, explore, look where others figure you won't and you may be lucky enough to discover texture, grit and truth.

Peeling paint, rusted barbed wire, broken pavement, hidden weeds...

...this is the proverbial poverty three blocks away from the bright lights.

This is life. This is honest. This is the back door.

Daily Quandary: Stains

I'm usually pretty good about going through life and figuring things out on my own. Occasionally though, I come across something that leaves me absolutely stumped.

Okay, we're taught from childhood not to get dirty. Stains are not only bad, but the worst case of dirty. Tough to clean and something to be avoided.

Throughout our lives we run the gamut from childhood grass stains on our knees to coffee and tea stains as adults. I believed until now that blueberry stains were the worst.

It's a rule. Stains are bad.

Stained Glass Art by Donald Ross MacIvor

My father (rest his soul) was a very frugal man and hated to throw anything away. It's in the blood. Obviously he found this stained glass someone had discarded, tried to get the stains out and after that, tried to make something useful out of it.

He was like that. He tried to find a use for everything. Rugs from bits of cloth. A chess board from scraps of wood. Maple leaves and lampshades from stained glass.

I've sort of grown fond of these pieces I have from him. Even though they're stained, I wouldn't part with them for the world...

:o)

It's Love Your Banana Day

A simple plea to give a banana some kind attention today. Careful what you say though, I hear their feelings bruise easily.

Social Media: Hugs For Your Brain

How well can we expect ourselves to right the world's wrongs, paint a masterpiece or concentrate on making life better for others when we have someone on our back or feel left out? Not very well, eh?

Relax. Evidently, there's a reason for that.

As the theory goes, when your brain becomes wrapped up in BS or feels excluded, it uses up glucose and oxygen at an amazing rate, starving your powers of insight and problem solving. (It's akin to the pain reaction, called the threat reaction.) The old gray matter just doesn't have enough gusto left over for the good stuff. It's left gasping.

Positive things, on the other hand, can cause your brain to release something called oxytocin, the so-called “cuddle chemical”. Contact in the form of hugs, kudos or simply being included in a discussion or activity can cause such a release and the effect on behavior is a heightened feeling of trust, empathy and generosity. Boom. Your brain now has the full use of the glucose and oxygen so you can be better at whatever you want to be better at.

Social Media, whether it be interacting on blogs, on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter or the hundreds of other sites out there (especially if you know nice people) can help you feel 'with it' and apply yourself better in your other activities. Like solving the world's problems. Or coming up with a new use for the ordinary household pickle.

So come on now, give us a hug and get back to doing good! :o)

TDOW (The Death Of Words)

Fast, fast, fast. The world is one huge passing lane and we gleefully barrel down the road at speeds that would curl Grannie's hair and give flight to poor old Uncle Albert's glued-down toupée. Knock me down and call me Suzie!

We are truly the chosen ones. We put the most in uppermost. Technology not only serves up quick solutions for our daily lives but a whole new language... ah... without actual words involved.

After all, words are so... so... cumbersome, aren't they? Finding the right ones often takes too long and even then we may still be misunderstood.

Acronyms have been around for over 6000 years and until recently were reserved for official things like larger corporations – NBC, IBM, GMC... It was a pretty cool idea for a secretary who had to answer the telephone several dozen times a day. It's only been within the last 50 years or so (thanks to social media, methinks) that the practice has seeped into our daily lives.

We all know the more common ones – OMG, LOL, LMAO, ROFL, WTF – phrases that have been incorporated into our daily email, text mail and notes. The number of acronyms in our daily vernacular are simply TNTC (Too Numerous To Count). There is a new dictionary. Language is being reduced. 

Keep this to yourself, but this is actually the first step in an evolutionary trend where pretty soon both words and acronyms will be passé. The use of keyboards and voice boxes will be seen as second class. Technology will give us the key to replace not only writing but talking. Speech, emails, text messages and all forms of communication will all be replaced by impulse transference. Computers will cease to be external devices but chips implanted in our brains. We will become directly linked to the WWW, our physical location and condition will not matter and we will become BLOBs (Big Lumps Of Blubber). 

TIFM (Take It From Me) if you have stock in anything hardware or fitness related – sell. TTFN.

Hearing Voices (The Good Kind)

When you write do you hear voices?

Call me nuts but when writing for broadcast, I try to imagine how it will sound.

When it comes time to make those voices real (in studio), small things like pronunciation, tone, feeling, inflection and timing all come together to make the words either flow into a stream of wonder or sit in a puddle as a sad waste of breath. There are a myriad of ways to puddle a two-minute and twenty-two second read. The mathematical possibilities are mind-numbing. Sometimes, though, you get lucky and find the perfect voice from a wonderful talent.

Such luck happened today in a great voice-over session. Two readings on a previously unseen script (okay, two-and-a-couple-of-bits readings) and all thoughts of puddles (and the voice in my head) were swept away.

And at the end of the session – the mark of a true pro: the man credits his brilliant read on a great script.

What class.

Wondering whether to invest in professional voice talent and audio production facilities for your broadcast projects? Invest. Definitely invest.

Personal thanks to Mark, studio whizzes Mike & Mike and team members Devin and Bryan.

Valentino Slow

Don't get me wrong, I like fast. It gets my adrenaline flowing. But I absolutely love the times when life is slow. Not the slow that is boring and uneventful. I'm talking "Valentino Slow".

When I was younger I loved a wonderfully talented woman with a heart so huge that it could swallow all the ills of the world – given half a chance. We parted to follow our dreams and I often hoped we'd touch base later in life and share a few laughs. I learned last night that she took her life a few years ago.

Looking back, it seemed that time slowed down when I was with her. Little things meant more. A meal wasn't fast food but a chance to hope the waiter was slow to take our order. A drive in the country wasn't a bee-line to get from A to B but an opportunity for laughter, song and carry on and who the hell cared how long it took to get there? Creativity wasn't something fraught with worry but something to be playfully cherished. Smiles were magic. In times like these you want to stretch out the minutes, to make the most of them. To slow down time, to cherish the passions of life and to delay the moment when you have to part as much as you possibly can. This is Valentino Slow.

We all know that life can be cruel and sometimes it gets too fast for things to make sense. People are commodities in the fast paced world of wheeling and dealing. You're hot one moment and "who are you again?" the next. And sometimes, sensitive souls get bruised, or hurt or eaten. This doesn't happen when things go slow.

So I'm a slow lover.

If more of us took the time to go slow and love each other more, maybe we could stretch the time we have together.

(For Lisa)