Music Video Melange

I detest treadmills. Although I run regularly on rubberized asphalt, packed dirt, turf and, yes, really hard cement, something about putting my full, unrestrained weight on a thin strip of textured plastic while running at speeds in excess of 10 miles per hour is unsettling. I'm afraid I'll fly off the back like a bad Schick Quattro Titanium ad or step on the strip of unmoving platform and twist my ankle. I feel like a spoiled horse on a hot walker, high stepping for my owners beat. I feel like an experiment.

My coaches see treadmill workouts as excellent pace work and the holy grail of cross-training. They advise a liberal dose of machine running, especially when the weather outdoors is not conducive to performance-level athletic training.

The local gym is a friendly place that, at this time of year, is busier than an anthill in the fall. Most guys who work out head straight to the weight rooms after saying "hi" to Shirley, the front desk attendant. Most women go to the cardio equipment (including the treadmills) and start marching. On a good day, there will be more women in the cardio section than on the first life boat off the Titanic. Social and exercise psychologists have tried unsuccessfully for years to determine what draws the female gender so exclusively to treadmills, but the research is as of yet inconclusive.

In an effort to encourage male use of the treadmills (and thus collect a hefty check from the Surgeon General) the gym has kindly placed a bank of televisions in front of the machines presumably so that we can be entertained as we pound off the pounds. Unlike the TVs at BestBuy, these units are tuned to several different channels, designed to reflect the demographics of those watching. That is, they are all tuned to various editions of ESPN.

The other day the gym broke from the unspoken rule and put one of the sets on CMT, Country Music Television. Like most treadmill runners, I listen to my own tunes when I run; something motivating, with a quick beat and a happy disposition. My current running playlist includes Nickelback and Avril Lavigne, but I'll sometimes throw in some 90s dance music like Madonna, Cascada and Whitney Houston. It's music I would never listen to under less calorie intensive circumstances, but that pushes me toward faster times on the otherwise stimulus-free treadmill.

Without sound, music videos are difficult to understand. Why is the attractive blond swinging a bat into a nice car? Why does the fat guy dance around? What's with the old guy?

By far the most disturbing thing to watch is Sugarland's "Stay" a music video commonly thought to be about requited love and a woman who doesn't want her man to leave to see another woman (although I maintain that it's a song about a meddlesome mother-in-law). In the back of the viewers mind is the pervasive thought that any man leaving Jennifer Nettles is an utter buffoon. But if you haven't seen the music video, I don't want to ruin it for you. I have embedded it below for your viewing pleasure:



How can she sing so well while crying so hard? How can anyone produce that many tears to a simple guitar and organ accompaniment?

Imagine watching that muted while running in the fourth mile of a six mile distance workout with Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" playing in your ears. Because that is exactly what happened to me. Lavigne tackles the same moral and social quandary as Sugarland, but from a completely opposite perspective. The conflict causes a stunning confusion.

While tears are flowing on screen and rosary beads clutched tighter for prayer, the sound in my ears tells me to go away. The girl on screen is resigned, the girl in my MP3 player is taking control. The girl on screen is wearing white to Lavigne's black.

Maybe the conflict was a good thing because it got me thinking about something other than how much treadmills scare me. Then someone changed the channel. Arizona was playing Illinois and the Wildcat's star was having a big game. My player started on something from Nickelback and I continued running.

Attack of the Sheiks

I had a traumatizing experience the other day. I know we say that a lot here at FCN (and it's true that trauma is attracted to us), but this experience was find- a- beetle- in- your- sealed- water- bottle- type trauma. It was learn- your- Grandma- is- remarrying- your- Grandpa trauma. It was paint- your- toenails trauma. It was the kind of thing you don't forget until another traumatizing thing takes its place on the memory hot seat.

In case you haven't figured it out right now, the horrid thing that happened to me was that I filled my car's gas tank

The actual filling really wasn't that bad; modern pump technology makes the passage of gasoline fuel quite pain-free. What really got me was paying the clerk after the fact.

As background, I usually do the pumping while my father handles the paying. The system works out quite nicely; whenever we carpool into town or drive together recreationally, I'll glance discreetly at the gage and, if the dial is anywhere below half-way, comment on the low level and swing the car toward the nearest station. The system had, until last Saturday, worked out quite dandily and I had yet to pay for the miles I drove.

Maybe my dad figured out my strategy or maybe he wanted to teach me a lesson in economics or maybe he just forget to fill-up, but whatever the reason, when I got into the car early last Saturday to drive into town, the gas light was on and my car was in need of fuel.

Half of me (well, more than half, really) wanted to drive the car to town, return with a dangerously depleted automobile and hope that my father would accompany me on my next excursion. A small fraction of me spoke against such pragmatic vehicular abuse warning that I might run out of gas on the highway and that it really wasn't a very nice thing to do.

Nice. It's the four-letter word that drives more indignities than any other except “love.”

Since when was I a “nice” person?

It was the above question that landed me at the gas station, pump in hand, paying my dues to the Sand Sheiks of the Middle East.

I watched the digital readout carefully, knowing that as a poor college student, I really shouldn't be splurging on a full tank. The numbers went by very quickly. The tank was barely half full when I reached my limit. With a cry, I removed the nozzle from the guzzle and replaced it in the swizzle.

Then I went to see the clerk.

I payed my bill slowly, placing every precious dollar bill on the counter with calm that belied my raging heart. I was being mugged, robbed of scarce funds that should have purchased an entire tank – would have a few short years ago – but were now worth half their previous value. The price of a movie, gallon of milk and egg had changed little in that time, but gas was a different story.

I was in Europe being extorted by ridiculously high gas taxes. I was in Yosemite subsidizing the gift shop with inflated park prices. I was in Texas at the Last Chance Gas where they could charge you anything.

That's when I realized, I was being attacked. My car, my person, my pocketbook were all taken hostage by the Sheik. I had no power over the price but the price had power over me.

I shook off my trauma long enough to thank the clerk, whose name was Shirley, and return to my car. Inwardly I cursed it for not being a hybrid.

When all was said and done, when I'd wiped the last restrained tear from my cheek, I learned one thing through last Saturday's experience: The next time my tank gets low, I am going to carpool with my father.

Signs of Outward Success

We know that real beauty is found on the inside and that no matter how wealthy or outwardly successful someone is, they can be a scum sucking scumbag on the inside. Phrased differently, Shirley who works at the convenience store is shining brighter on the inside than Uncle Wally who drives caddy.

While we know this, it is still nice to look at signs of outward success. These are ways you can estimate the individual wealth of a person without conducting an invasive auditing of their tax records. A successful individual will have...

...Name on underwear.
...Google rating >100,000.
...Steak every evening.
...>2 civil cases pending constantly.
...At least one service sector employee (lawyer, mechanic, masseuse) in constant employment.
...Church or beverage named after you.
...Chain of domestic service command.
...>3 refrigerators.
...>4 fireplaces.
...>2 filled piercings, at least one of which must be occupied by a 4 carat diamond.
...No hotel pens in entire mansion.
...Personal bouncer.
...64 piece entertainment system with a 3-year Geek Squad warranty.
...4-lane freeway as a driveway.
...LeBron James as personal basketball trainer.
...24/7 security to guard against impatient heirs.

The Music Was So Loud...

The other day I went to a concert. It was a big concert with a lot of skinny hairy people. The music was loud. It was so loud...

...The speakers danced to the music.

...A high pressure zone formed over the our town, pushing a weather system away.

...Aerosmith complained.

...Three cities over a mother begged her son to turn down his radio.

...The son's radio wasn't on.

...All the audience heard was a dull ringing.

...You could see the sound waves.

...The singer's vocal chords were rubbed smooth.

...No one noticed the difference.

...Shirley got hyphy.

...Anchorage, Alaska registered a giant 8.9 earthquake.

...There wasn't an unbroken glass or lens in the town.

...Bono, George Clooney and Angelina Jolie began a charitable campaign to curb global sound pollution.

...Al Gore made a documentary explaining that the rhythm of the music was making the ice caps melt faster.

...He also announced his candidacy for the Presidency.

...No one heard him.

Stronger Than It Used To Be: Level 23 Gel

The other day I went to the drug store to pick up some hair gel. You know, the stuff that causes your hair to appear wet even hours after it dries and can, if applied liberally enough, make the user look like a used car salesman. Well, I got to the hair care section after a few minor disruptions (you wouldn’t believe the monstrosities you have to walk past to get to the hair gel) and began sniffing out a deal.

If you have never been through the hair gel aisle before, understand that the process of searching for a product that is both sticky and cheap is fairly complex. Many providers have inexpensive imitations that flake away within minutes of application and make the user’s head look like dead grass patch. As a contentious male, I avoid these brands.

In order to let consumers escape these rip-offs, the industry has come together to create a set of objective criteria for determining hair gel strength. Each bottle has, in a clearly identifiable marking (black lettering on a white background, 12 point font, English and Spanish, etc) a number from 1-10 (the index was originally 1-5 but has since been expanded to make for better accuracy). Some brands call this hierarchy the “Strength Level” or “Power Ranking,” others just label it clearly as the “Industry Standard Hair Gel Viscosity Determiner.” Whatever the name, a gel shopper knows his number and tries to align price with power.

My number is 10. When I first started using gel, I experimented with lower numbers, but I soon found these to be terribly lacking in fortitude. After several embarrassing incidents surrounding Level 8 hair gel, I moved up.

I am beginning to get the feeling that gel companies know we consumers tie level with quality. As I perused the aisle yesterday I noted something for the very first time: Gel No. 11. The industry standard allows for no such product strength, but somehow an outlier (Ronald's Sticky Hair Stuff) was able to deliver the stronger gel anyway. Intrigued, I read the back of the bottle. The product was not imported (made in Hydrectemy Maryland, a city as fun to live in as it is to say. I think we may have a reader from that town). In fact the bottle had been approved by the USDA for consumption (I think they meant hair use). Somehow, using probably illegal and definitely unethical tactics, the company was able to make a stronger hair gel.

Needless to say, I purchased the number 11.

Yesterday I applied it for the first time…and it flaked off within an hour. This stuff is a complete scam! Less powerful then even the level 8 product I started with! I can’t return the bottle because there is a small paragraph of fine print hidden beneath the barcode that says “Industry Standard Hair Gel Viscosity Determiner Level 5.” In fine print beneath the 11 the bottle ads an addendum that its measure is out of twenty.

I'd been had.

As I got into my car this morning to file an official complaint with the drug store, I looked down at the gear shift and noticed something I had never seen before. My car has seven gears. It really doesn't need seven gears, but it has that many anyway. Unconcerned, I started the vehicle and drove the ten minutes to the drug store. Along the way I passed signs for a Grande Combo at Taco Bell (now with 7 more tacos than the Surgeon General advises), an ad for a computer with 3 terabytes of storage (sold for less then my current machine), a sign for McDonald's double happy meal now with supersized sodium and a dog with five legs.

Only slightly fazed, I parked between a couple of monster trucks that obvious consumed more gas per mile then my economy car did in a week and marched dutifully into the store. It took a while to find the hair care section (I got stuck in the perfume aisle, comparing Chanel No. 6, 110% Love and Rose 35), but when I did a shock was waiting for me. A new kind of hair gel was being sold right next to the Level 11 stuff I had purchased earlier. And this new bottle claimed to be Level 23.

I grabbed the bottle and ran to a customer service assistant who couldn't have been more then 90.

“This is a lie,” I said, exasperated.

The woman's face wrinkled into a smile and she shook her head gently. “No, sonny, that's the way it works.” She began to explain that marketing is like inflation, the value of a product doesn't really change but the numbers that describe it are always increased to give consumers the perception that they were getting more for their money.

She told me that she sang in a choir and was startled one day to see three “f”s on a musical score (double forte is supposed to be the limit). When she asked the conductor about the change he informed her that he wasn't happy with the volume he was getting and wanted to make the performance louder. The clerk was satisfied with this answer until she turned the page in her music and noticed that the three “f”s were followed by the word “EXTREME!” and the next page had the word “Blast” followed by some spittle marks.

“I told the conductor that 'extreme' is not an Italian word and that 'blast' and spittle don't give any musical direction, but he didn't seem to care anymore. He was happy with his volume.” The clerk, whose nametag read Shirley, gave me a sympathetic grin and sighed. “That's just the way things work these days. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, I think I'm alright.” Just then, the words of a Johnny Nash song from the 1970s flashed through my mind and I felt enlightened. Of course! How could I have missed what was so clearly in front of me? Level 23 gel was better, Chanel six was an improvement on 5, cars do need 7 gears and the Surgeon General is wrong about tacos.

I smiled at the clerk and placed the hair gel on the conveyor belt, ready to purchase the stronger product. Shirley shook her head sadly, removed her nametag and pointed to the clock. It was the end of her shift. Then she walked outside and drove away in her monster truck, leaving me with an inexpensive bottle of Level 23 gel.