Tuesday, October 31, 2006

The Great Pretty Good Pumpkin...alright, the Okay Pumpkin

Every year I have pretty much carved slightly different versions of the same jack-o-lantern. They all have fangs and demonic eyes and are scary the way a jack-o-lantern is supposed to be. After all, they are supposed to frighten away evil spirits on All Hallow's Eve to keep them from taking up residence in your house.

Tess, of course insists on carving her happy pumpkins with silly, lopsided grins. I call them her "village idiot" pumpkins because they look like the banjo player in Deliverance or George W. Bush. So they are frightening in that way.

This year I decided to carve a different type of jack-o-lantern. There are no fangs. The eyes aren't particularily demonic, but still, there is something strangely disturbing about it.

When lit up, it may not have kept the demons away, but it sure seemed to keep the number of trick or treaters to a minimum. Still, after staring at it for awhile, it kind of grows on you. It is actually kind of cute.

Don't you agree?

Okay, maybe not.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Halloween 1968

In 1968 Vietnam was still going strong, Lyndon Johnson was president, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, the first heart transplant was performed, Elvis made his comeback on national television, Lisa Marie Presley was born, the musical Hair opened on Broadway, Helen Keller died in her sleep, Robert Kennedy was assassinated while campaigning for president, riots erupted at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, Jackie Kennedy married Greek millionaire Aristotle Onassis, Nixon was elected president, Apollo 8 orbited the moon on Christmas Eve and I turned 10 years old.

It was an eventful year.

On a more disturbing note, Vanilla Ice was born on Halloween day in 1967. And we all know how scary he was. Fortunately none of us knew who or what Vanilla Ice was. And as Halloween approached, my best friends -- Robert Tullis, Dave Little and Jim Lonnevick -- and I were more concerned about what costumes to wear than the body count in Vietnam. We had decided to go Trick or Treating as a group and I convinced them that we should all go as characters of one of our favorite television shows at the time -- Dark Shadows.

Dark Shadows was a schlocky Dan Curtis soap opera with twist that appealed to my 10-year old psyche -- it was about witches, vampires, werewolves and other supernatural creatures. My friends and I watched it every chance we could after school. I put dibs on being the main character: Barnabas Collins. He was a classy British vampire who wore a tweed overcoat with a short cape and carried a cane with a silver wolf's head. In my 10-year-old opinion, he was pretty darned cool.

Dave was going as Quentin, a character played by actor David Selby. Quentin had these porkchop sideburns and turned into a werewolf at the full moon. Jim was a bigger kid and made a natural Count Petofi. Count Petofi was an evil count whose hand had been cut off and reattached. It had special powers. Jim recreated the green hand with a rubber dish washing glove.

Robert ended up being Aristede, Count Petofi's foppish sidekick. It was the only male role of any distinction left after I snagged Barnabas, Dave took Quentin and Jim played Count Petofi. I convinced Robert to be Aristede by letting him wear a cape that belonged to my grandmother. She also helped sew together the tweed overcoat with short cape for me. I fashioned my own cane using my grandfather's walking stick and some aluminum foil shaped kind of like a wolf head. I forget what Dave made his sideburns out of, but it looked a bit like roadkill stuck to his face. Jim also recreated Count Petofi's beard with a portion of an old dust mop.

Looking back at the photo, we looked more like Mormon missionaries than the characters from Dark Shadows, but at the time we felt pretty cool. It was only after the seventh or eighth time we were asked by puzzled adults handing out candy what we were supposed be that we began to feel a bit self conscious.

I tried not to let it get to me. Because that night I was Barnabas Collins, creature of the night and sophisticated British gentleman who could drink your blood. It was only after I lost one of my fangs on a tootsie roll that I slunk home dejected to count my candy.

But looking back, that was a significant Halloween for me. I was in 5th grade and it was really the last time we could Trick or Treat and be kids. And it was the first time we were allowed to go Trick or Treating without our parents tagging along.

The next year, we were 6th graders and began feeling the pressures of leaving behind childish pursuits. I don't even remember whether I went Trick or Treating after that. So the Halloween of 1968 will always be the one I remember. Though my group of childhood friends have long since gone their separate ways (Dave sadly passed on last year), that night will live on in my memory.

And this Halloween, as I pass out candy to Harry Potter's, Pirates of the Caribbean and Ballerina's, I will think fondly of those four characters from Dark Shadows laughing and jostling each other to get their fair share of the bounty in their pillowcases before time shut the door on childhood forever.

Happy Halloween!

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Where the gnomes are...

It is gratifying to me to know that the gnome has indeed begun to roam. So far they have gone to California, Ohio, Washington (other than my home), Florida, Minnesota, Nevada, Canada, Australia and France. I'm hoping this will snowball and he'll see way more of the world than I ever will.

Thanks to all of you who have been good sports and played along (even those of you who have made disparaging remarks about the gnomes boyishly good looking face).

I've added a list on the right with links to all of the sites that have stolen and posted the gnome. I urge you to check them out, especially Shandi's amazingly creative approach to gnome theft. If you haven't stolen the gnome and still would like him, please be my guest and I'll add your link to the list. It could be the rise of the Gnomen Empire.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Stealing gnome

The first yard gnomes were created in Germany in the mid-1800s. British tourists began bringing them home and decorating their yards with them because the legend is that gnomes like to do yard work at night. One site I visited pointed out that gnome sales in Germany dropped sharply during both World War I and World War II.

I wonder why.

Regardless, as one might expect, I am drawn to gnomes in the same way I am drawn to pink flamingos and pinwheel daisies. Tess makes me keep my gnome in the back yard where the neighbors can't see it. It's just as well. It has become fashionable for people to steal yard gnomes and photograph them in odd places and at nicer vacation spots than most of us can afford.

So it dawned on me, why not put a yard gnome up at Dizgraceland and encourage any of you to steal it and place it on your site and encourage others to steal it from you. If you choose to take part in this experiment, please let me know, and provide a link back to Dizgraceland so I can keep track of where the gnome is traveling.

If you are computer graphic impaired, all you have to do to copy an image off a site is right click the image with your mouse and scroll down to the "save image as" command. Then save to your desktop and load it up on your own site.

Remember, a gnome is where your heart is. Share mine.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Who let the blogs out?

I wish it was cool to blog. I wish we could have cult followings and t-shirts and unauthorized biographys. I wish they did segments on us spitting on the paparazzi on those evening tabloid shows. I wish they went through our garbage and sold our gum wrappers on eBay.

But it isn't cool to blog. I mean, it isn't even unique to have a blog. Thanks to sites like and, everybody and their dog has a blog.

Something has to be done. I think we need to band together in militant little blog gangs and raid the other blog gangs. Maybe it can be Bloggers versus the Myspacers. I think we at are clearly the more serious literary bloggers anyway. Let's go over to and open up a major can of blogger whoopass. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. Let's go to work!

Ow! I just broke a nail on my keyboard. The rest of you go ahead. I've got your backs.

Power to the bloggers at!

As long as it's not down for maintenance.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Sunday school

I first sensed that life wouldn't be fair when my mother started sending us to Sunday School. It wasn't so bad before I started attending regular school, but once I started getting up early every day to educate my mind, I wasn't too thrilled to be forced to get out of bed on a Sunday morning to educate my soul.

A Christian Science church doesn't have much to occupy a kid. They are pretty plain. There isn't much decoration except for Bible quotes on the walls. They aren't like a Catholic church where you can at least get caught up in the spectacle of it all. They don't even have preachers or priests. They have readers . So you sit there while a couple of people read out of the Bible and the Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy.

It was a little bit better when we would break off into groups based on our ages. We'd go off to separate rooms and talk about what the reader's had read during the service. The only thing worse than listening to the readers at church was talking about it.

My other problem with Sunday School was when I started applying the cognitive reasoning I was learning in regular school, I was having a real hard time buying the bill of goods they were trying to make me believe based on faith alone. I began asking the Sunday School teachers questions like, "If god created everything and everything he created was good, where did evil come from?" I don't even remember the answer, but I know it never satisfied me.

Christian Scientists don't really believe in a devil per se. When you were sick or tempted to do something wrong, it was an "Error in thinking." When I would tell my mother I wasn't feeling well, she would tell me that that was "error" speaking. For years I thought she was saying "air." And I formed this image of the devil being made out of dark smoke or air.

I finally stopped going to Sunday School when I was 16 years old. I had a girlfriend by then and she was concerned that, being a Christian Scientist, I wouldn't go to a doctor if something was seriously wrong with me. It was just the excuse I needed to finally tell my mother I didn't want to go to Sunday School anymore. She was very disappointed. My brother's had given it up long before me. I had been her last hope of having a good Christian Scientist son.

I think being a Christian Scientist did help me learn how powerful our minds are when it comes to dealing with illness. But I honestly never missed being part of an organized religion. And to this day I sleep in on Sunday's and enjoy every minute of it.

And as I wrap up this post and try to post it, it keeps giving me error messages.

Or they could be air messages. It makes me wonder.

Friday, October 20, 2006


I don't really like mixing my work world with my blog world. But a local telvision program ran a story about an ad campaign I worked on and interviewed me. So if you are curious as to what my day job is, watch this video.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Daily Exorcise

"To work it out I let them in
All the good guys and the bad guys that I've been
All the devils that disturbed me and the angels that defeated them somehow
Come together in me now"
--Paul Williams; Phantom of the Paradise, "Phantom's Theme"

I was in high school when Linda Blair was freaking the world out in The Exorcist. I saw the movie at a drive in with some friends. Not being a Catholic I didn't get what all the fuss was over. Okay, the scene where Linda Blair abuses herself with a crucifix was kind of disturbing, but I didn't go into convulsions like the press was reporting that many movie goers were after viewing the film.

Watching The Exorcist was the first time I'd ever heard about exorcism though. Since then, I've seen tons of movies and read many books in which people are possessed by demons and have had to go through an exorcism to expel the demon ( or demons depending how popular the possessed person is) from their bodies.

I don't literally believe in demonic possession. But in a metophorical sense, I believe we could all use a little daily exorcism to get rid of our demons. Or maybe we need a ritual that helps us embrace our demons. Or accept them. Or just recognize them for what they are. Because I think I have met my demons and they are me.

Now before you suggest I get fitted for a straightjacket (44 regular if you must), I'm just pointing out that instead of looking for a demon to blame all of your faults, woes, misfortunes and bad behaviour on, perhaps you can just look in a mirror and acknowledge that maybe, just maybe there is no outside source to blame. There is no devil, it's not your mother's fault, the government isn't conspiring against you and you weren't cursed for ripping those tags off the bottom of your mattress years ago.

It kind of points back to my discussion about Yin and Yang last month. What makes us "us" is that delicate balance between angels and devils. We are all good and bad. Even saints sometimes leave the toilet seat up. And I bet even devils sometimes help old ladies cross the street.

So maybe instead of a daily exorcism of our demons, we should exercise both our demons and our angels. It's the only way they can learn to play nice together.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006



THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
--Carl Sandburg

I always thought Carl Sandburg's poem was the best description I'd ever read of fog. When I first read it as a child, I thought it described fog perfectly. Though growing up in Idaho, we didn't have harbors (or much of a city for that matter). Our fog came creeping out of the Boise River and settled primarily over the airport each winter.

Still, I loved fog. It was mystery. It was intrigue. It cloaked everyday objects in a misty coat of shifting shadows. I was always very disappointed when the cat moved on.

Seattle has its share of fog. It can slink into the city for days. I remember my first year at college in Seattle. I was heading home to Boise for Christmas and sure enough Sea-Tac Airport was socked in by fog. I waited for hours and finally my airplane popped through a window of fog and winged me to Boise only to discover the fog had beaten me there. The Idaho Statesman ran a photo of my father at the airport staring out the window at the fog while he waited for my plane. The plane landed in Idaho Falls a hundred miles away and I had to take a bus into Boise.

The fog hung around Boise through the holiday and I had to take a Grayhound back to Seattle. When I arrived at the bus station and stepped into a cab at 2 a.m. to go back to my dorm, the cab driver pointed out that someone had stolen the Space Needle. Sure enough when I looked up, the Space Needle had been decapitated by a fog bank.

You have to admire the fog's persistence.

Fog is often used as a metaphor for clouded thought. But to me it is clarity. Fog smooths the lines of reality and softens our point of view. My dreams are often filled with fog.

I think when my time comes, and others are stepping into the light, I will walk into the fog instead.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006


Tuesday night is a vast wasteland on television. I found myself watching a a political debate between three candidates for a state of Washington Senate seat. It reminded me that I loath politics and politicians.

The debate was predictable. The Republican spouted right wing
Republican rhetoric. The Democrat spouted liberal Democrat rhetoric and the Libertarian spouted gibberish.

The journalists asking the questions asked predictable questions about the war, the economy and the environment. The responses were artfully vague and lacking in any real course of action on any of the issues.

If I were there, I would have at least asked interesting questions of the candidates that they couldn't have been prepped for:

Do you think Berber carpet is preferable to shag?


Have you ever wondered where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent?

Who framed Roger Rabbit?

It would have been fun to watch them flip through their crib sheets looking for answers to those questions. I think the Libertarian would have nailed them.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Self-portraits of the blogger as a young man

Before digital cameras and Photoshop, there was film, dark rooms and water colors. I dabbled. It wasn't as flexible as Photoshop. You didn't have the luxury of instantly knowing what you were getting. You took the photo, processed it, and printed photos and hoped for the best.

Even then, I messed around with self-portraits. The model fees were cheap and giving direction was much simpler. I could only print in black and white in my dark room. So I played around with hand coloring prints. The contact sheet above is a sample of one of my experiments.

I never really knew what I was doing or why. Sometimes I pretended I was being an artist. At the very least, I was capturing a piece of my own past in a colorful way.

Now we have almost completely become a digital society. Photoshop is much simpler than the darkroom. And I still like experimenting. The beauty is that I can still work in self-portraits, past and present. Digital painting opens up whole new worlds.

Saturday, October 14, 2006


It is sometimes nice to be in the dark. Enlightenment requires a heck of a lot of batteries. Sitting in the dark can be pretty peaceful.

I haven't always felt this way. When I was little, I was afraid of the dark. When the lights went out at bedtime, I pulled the covers over my head. Eventually, I allowed my nose to stick out. I eventually accepted that some demon wasn't going to rip off my face and pulled the cover down to my neck and exposed my whole head. I did get my mosquitoe bites on my eyelids, but that's another story.

Bottomline, I learned to accept the dark. Sometimes I even prefer it. Or I prefer dimly lit environments. There is nothing like soft light and shadows to soften reality.

It dawned on me (no pun intended) that some of you may be thinking I am referring to light and dark in a metaphorical sense here. You are thinking that light represents reality and darkness a delusional veil of fantasy that dulls it.

Not so.

Hey, don't use that denial crap on me. This is my life and my blog. I know when I'm being metaphorical or not.

I just like the dark.

I do.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Half full or half empty

I've always been a bit annoyed at the over optimistic twits who debate the burning question of whether a glass is half empty or half full. It is a relative question. If you are at a conference dinner for 1100 people, you can look at the glass as half empty and not a snowball's chance in hell of ever being refilled by the hundreds of servers scurrying around taking your salad before you are done so that they can serve the entry quickly and sneak off for a cigarette break.

I don't think it is wrong to see a glass as half empty. It's how you react at that point that counts. Some sit there and wait for it to be filled. Others don't care because the water tasted funny anyway. Some start screaming for someone to fill it up. And finally, some simply go find the water jug and fill the glass up themselves. I think I'd hire the latter type of person.

I personally consider it optimistic to look at a glass that is filled half way and be grateful it doesn't have a hair or cigarette butt in it. But then again, I have always believed the easiest way to clear a hurdle is by lowering the bar so you can step over it. You are less likely to trip and it is much easier on the knees. This is not to say I lack ambition. I am just practical and tire easily. I'm getting to old for high-impact activities.

So the next time someone asks you whether you think the glass is half empty or half full, pick it up and throw the contents into their face and say, "I'd definitely say it's empty, now."

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Social graces

I have discovered something about myself on this business trip. I am not a social creature.

Most people go to conferences to network. I am still of the mind that a network programs your television or, is something IT people maintain. This is why I am an anomaly in the marketing world. I really don't like to schmooze.

Other than the reception I slunk my way through last night, I've avoided hospitality suites left and right at this conference. I really don't want to buy anything from anyone and I am not selling. I am not looking for a job or trying to find someone for one. So I don't have the energy to "go fish" with my business cards in a hotel suite just to get a free drink and a stress ball with some bus company's name on it.

I haven't even sought out collegues to go to dinner with. I am perfectly fine with dining alone or calling room service. So obviously I will never be a leader in my profession or a person who will seek public office. I am not a good old boy nor am I that kind of guy everybody knows and likes. I can walk into a room and go completely unnoticed even though I've worked in this industry for almost a quarter of a century.

The cheese stands alone.But I do like crackers.

Monday, October 09, 2006

A star is born






Thursday, October 05, 2006

The Pooka Polka

"The Púca (also Pooka, Phooka, Phouka, Púka) is an adroit shape changer, capable of assuming a variety of terrifying forms. It may appear as an eagle or as a large black goat (its name is a cognate of the early Irish 'poc', 'a male goat' and it lends its name to Puck, the goat-footed satyr made famous in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream), but it most commonly takes the form of a sleek black or white horse with a flowing mane and glowing yellow eyes. "

polka n 1: music performed for dancing the polka 2: a Bohemian dance with 3 steps and a hop in fast time
--Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)

--Elwood P. Dowd, Harvey

I didn't really know much about Pookas before I started writing this post. I first heard about the Pooka when I watched the movie Harvey years ago. It starred James Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd. Elwood P. Dowd's best friend was a Pooka. This Pooka, however, took the form of a six foot three giant rabbit named Harvey. Harvey hung out in bars, drank and basically was harmless.

The Pookas from Celtic mythology apparently weren't quite as benign. Wikipedia goes on to describe the Pooka as "...the most terrifying of all faery creatures. One reason for this is its appearance, but its powers are also feared. It is said to waylay travellers and others about at night, and if it is able to toss them onto its back, it will, at very least, provide them with the ride of their lives, from which they will return forever changed. "

I think it would be fun to take a ride on a Pooka and return forever changed. But those supernatural kinds of adventures never really happen to me. The closest thing I get is to ride the train every day to and from work. It beats riding a bus, but I don't feel forever changed.

I do have a couple of Puka shell chokers from the 70s. I can also honestly say I have never danced a Polka. But I digress.

The thing I liked about Elwood P. Dowd's Pooka Harvey was that he was a jovial kind of creature that one would really like to hang around bars with. I imagine the author of the screenplay made Harvey a giant rabbit instead of the traditional Pooka was that having a white horse with blazing yellow eyes hanging out with you in a bars would seem kind of weird. Plus there is the issue of the massive amount of manure horses produce. A giant rabbit is much more manageable.

Watching the movie or the play, one never quite knew whether Harvey was a hallucination brought on by Elwood's drinking or a real spirit only he could see. I pretty much think this is the case with most mystical creatures. You never really see them, but you can't quite bring yourself to dismiss them altogether. Because you never really know. Just because you can't see something, doesn't mean it isn't there.

Look at air.

You can't (except in parts of Southern California). I rest my case.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Half baked fears

Our television is full of demonic icons conjured up by ad executives to prey upon our fears in order to sell products. Pop N' Fresh, the Pillsbury Dough Boy for instance. What is he other than a terrorist with a chef's hat. There he is with his pasty face, blackhole eyes and bloated body, leering at you while you try and open an explosive pipebomb of biscuit dough. What's not to be afraid of?

Or take the "Jolly" Green Giant and his little imp "Sprout." Isn't he just the flesh eating ogre from the Jack and the Beanstock story? And Mr. Clean is a defrocked genie who dresses like an orderly in a mental hospital, spraying disinfectant on everything. Perhaps he is in league with the Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs bird.

The list goes on. There's the sinister leprechaun taunting you from a cereal box, "Orange moons, yellow stars, they're all after me luck charms..." Can we say, "WITCHCRAFT!" I'm sure he hangs around with his buddies Snap, Crackle and Pop or the Keebler elves casting spells.

The Geico Gecko slithers around talking in a Cockney accent like a slimy Artful Dodger from Dickens. He might as well be tempting us with an apple. Can we say, "THE DEVIL!"

I'm here to say, "RESIST!" Get TIVO. Fast forward through the spew that is speaking in tongues through your plasma screen before it's too late.

Do it before midnight god what am I saying...argggggggggggggg....

Monday, October 02, 2006

School of thought

Only dead fish go with the flow.

Never wrestle with a pig: You both get all dirty and the pig likes
--Even more Anonymous

Wise men make proverbs, but fools repeat them.
--The most Anonymous

Anonymous is my favorite philosopher. I believe he was Greek. I think he is also responsible for the phrase, "That's Greek to me."

Regardless, I am amazed that some people can open up a fortune cookie, read the fortune and then quote it for the rest of day like Einstein had just explained relativity to them. But then again, People Magazine is one of the most widely read magazines in the country. So that says a lot about the thinking processes of much of our population.

It does make me wonder about what makes people believe in one thing over another. We have so many polarized views in the world over politics, religion and just basic reality. What makes people jump on one bandwagon and not another?

I look at lots of research as part of my job. Statistically, people are generally fixed on one side of an issue or the other. And once they are there, you can do very little to change their minds. It's the undecided people marketing and public relations people target with persuasive arguments trying to get them to jump to one side of fence or the other.

I think initially children absorb the belief systems of their parents. The weak minded ones never break free of those belief systems. I think really good teachers teach you how to think and not to accept. That's where the smarter people break free from what they are told and develop opinions of their own.

It still amazes me when someone latches onto a really stupid idea and clutches it with a death grip, even in the face of daunting evidence that it is bull shit. Perhaps that is why I like Penn and Teller's Showtime show, Bull Shit. It rattles the cage of scared cows and makes them moo. Unfortunately, as with most great things, it is like preaching to the choir because only people receptive to it watch it. The idiots that need it are too busy watching Survivor.

But then again, all of this is just my opinion.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Making a point

I violated my own "don't write a long post" rule when I wrote about my dog Shep. But the rule was more tongue in cheek than pronouncement. I think the number of words should match the occasion. Shep deserved a few more paragraphs than my usual drivel. Though I seriously doubt that, unless he was your dog, it was a riveting piece of prose and captured too many people's attention.

Which is the point about blogging versus writing. If you make your living writing, you don't have the luxury of self-indulgence (unless, of course, you are someone like Stephen King...then you have enough money to indulge yourself to your heart's content). Blogging, on the other hand, is by and large always about self-indulgence. You write what you want when you want.

This is what makes blogging addictive and cathartic. It is also what makes it an iffy proposition if you are looking to be entertained on a regular basis. Let's face it, day to day life just isn't that interesting. Me writing about cleaning my desk and finding a ten-year old doughnut in a tape dispenser (don't ask) is fascinating to me, but not to a lot of other people.

I think this is why blogging hasn't caught on to a mainstream audience. They are too busy watching reality TV shows about the Dallas cheerleaders to waste time reading random thoughts from millions of strangers. And it is why any of the delusional bloggers out there thinking they are going to be discovered and made famous blogging are in for a very long wait (as in snowball's chance in hell).

Oh well, I'd better get back to cleaning up my desk. I need to find some coffee to go with that doughnut.