The game went to overtime. Under the league’s rules, first team to score wins, without the other squad having an an opportunity to tie it up. Denver got the ball. First play, Tebow throws an 80 yard TD pass to beat Pittsburgh.

The OT went just seconds, long enough for the snap, the Tebow dropback, a look downfield, the toss and Demaryius Thomas’ scamper to the endzone.

Boom. Game over.

Well now I know how the Steelers felt.

I shan’t repeat all the details of the smackdown this past Wednesday noon to see if I or a friend had the better and correct solution to turning off another pal’s closed captioning, which visual impediment was driving his significant other nuts. You can read the details here.

Suffice it to say, I should have been wary when “Milt” showed up with an iPad, something he’s never done at any previous one of our regular weekly lunches. Silly me. The guy, it turns out, had spent the better part of two days, surfing the web for the solution. Which he apparently found at some obscure blog site.

He won the coin flip.

In 71 seconds flat, he had the TV screen clear of the nettlesome text. Had he not been explaining his process to the other two of us while pressing buttons, he would have completed the task in well less than a minute.

Sigh. What a bitter and ignominious defeat.

Had I spent my advance time, researching my solution instead of regaling you, my loyal public, with the details of this significant battle, I might have been better served. Then again, the luck of the coin flip sealed my doom.

I shan’t bore you with the solution’s details. If you desire them, email me and I’ll reveal the skewed method necessary to turn closed captioning on and off with one of those HD cable boxes. Or I may simply forward to request on to my conqueror.

Until then, I’ll be tending to my wounds. If there’s enough balm?

I’ll call them Dale and Milt, because, well, those are close enough but not their real names.

They are as past the dawn of their dotage as I am. Which means that none of us hears very well.

I know the exact moments when my hearing went from good to not so good at all, at least in my right ear. During the summer of ’70, I thought it a boffo idea to stand right in front of the massive set of speakers at the Atlanta Pop Festival, while the Chambers Brothers were doing an extended version of “Time.”

The diminution of auditory acuity settled into a permanent state several months later during a Grand Funk Railroad concert, at a moment in rock history when such big guitar outfits prided themselves on their ability to generate deafening decibels.

I cannot speak for the genesis of my lunch pals’ conditions. But can say there are times when our lunch table resembles one of those Saturday Night Live skits about the hearing impaired. (Not that such condition is something to be taken lightly.)

At any rate, because of his acceptance of his condition, Dale’s TV at home has closed captioning set to the “ON” position. Which is all well and good, but for one small thing. It apparently drives his usually understanding significant other to serious distraction when she’s watching by herself. And neither has been able to figure out how to turn it off.

I believe Dale may have called the cable company, but to no avail. He’s brought the subject up continually during our weekly get togethers. Much to the chagrin of Milt and I, who would prefer, on occasion, discussion of other matters.

By the strangest coincidence, Tuesday a week ago, I went to run on my elliptical machine at home. When I turned on the TV it faces, Closed Captioning was ON. I have no idea how it happened. And my better half denies being the culprit, though she admits she often starts hitting buttons on the clicker, because . . . well . . . because she can.

Fortunately I was able, in a matter of seconds, find the path to turn it off. Which I did. The next day, I regaled my lunch mates with that techno epiphany, taking the position that the solution to Dale’s dilemma was on his TV clicker, not the one to his cable box. Immediately, or perhaps sooner, Milt went into House of Commons back bench mode, harrumphing at my position, toward which he was and remains vehemently opposed.

So, we set up a smackdown.

Tomorrow, instead of eating at one of Louisville’s many fine lunch spots, we are gathering at Dale’s to see which theorist proves correct? Milt says he can get the closed captioning off, using the cable clicker. I say, I can do it with the TV clicker.

I proposed rules for the battle. Flip a coin. Winner gets ten minutes to fix the problem. If he fails, other guy gets ten minutes. Etc, etc, until a solution appears, or we both admit defeat. Kind of like, college football overtime. Unless, of course, the first guy gets it done. Which, I suppose, makes it more like NFL OT.

Dale, who only wants the closed captioning off so that there will be peace in his hacienda, thought the rules legit and fair. (He’s even springing for lunch.) Milt, not so much Despite ongoing negotiations between his people and mine, we have not settled on process.

Tomorrow, Wednesday 1/25 noon, is set for click off.

May the best man, hopefully me, win.

I’ll report back on the results, even if defeated.

Sitting at the next table, having an animated conversation with her computer was a lovely young lady. She was talking with a friend . . . in France.

Who among us, even as recently as a score of years ago, could conceptualize the Skyped, connected world we now live in? Future generations will laugh, when viewing pictures of electronic devices connected by wires and cables.

* * * * *

The evidence is anecdotal, but I must ask?

Now that it’s under the gun, what with Crit Luallen auditing and all, is MSD actually taking its job seriously? For the last month or so, it seems I’ve seen workers fixing sewer lines on every other block. And they actually seem to be working as opposed to taking a break.

Plus there are any number of sub-contractor trucks, doing sewer line tasks around town.

It’s about time. Compared to the other utilities around here, MSD has seemed defiantly inefficient through the years.

My anecdote. Several years ago, they did some serious repair work in my back alley, which required tearing it up. It was being done at the same time that L G & E’s efficient subs were replacing gas lines to each home. The latter came, got the job done, filled in the holes they needed to cut in the pavement and moved on.

The humongous hole MSD cut remained unpaved for a month. I started making calls. To no avail. So I resorted to my favorite tack. I called the administrative assistant to Bud Schardein, the head of MSD.

Bottom line, this lady yelled at me, the customer, over the phone, barking that I didn’t know what I was talking about, that MSD didn’t dig that hole. Even though she was in an office downtown, and I watched them dig.

Anyway, it’s nice to see them doing some work around town.

* * * * *

Barack Obama seems to be getting it from all sides. The GOPers and Tea Partyites, who hate him. The Donkeys who supported him. I’m not sure I understand.

Anyway, a pal shared this blogger’s observations of the situation. It contains this stunning video of FDR, and how he dealt with such attacks by his political enemies.

It’s going to be interesting to watch how Obama tries to get reelected. Will he come out swinging? Or will he remain trapped in a box, as I suggested in this previous blog?

Um, how cholesteriffic!!! You’d think they’d have the common sense to stuff that butter with a hard boiled egg, before coating it with sugared batter and dropping it in boiling oil. Then you’d have a real American treat.

While the Film Babe and I did not traverse the entirety of the fairgrounds last night, I don’t believe that particular menu item is available.

We did see a new perennial, the bacon cheeseburger with 2 Krispy Kreme® donuts replacing the usual bun. We did peruse a vendor’s stand, offering Fried Derby Pie®, along side a big ol’ tray of Fried Kool-Aid™. We scurried past quickly, our thinking that even inhaling the air around such foodstuffs might add avoirdupois and increase cholesterol readings.

Admittedly a visit to the State Fair is about eating something that you would under other circumstances never consider. That said, we were modest in our consumption, choosing a BBQ stand for dinner. I went with the Pork Butt on a Stick, which, frankly, was damn good. Essentially a big ol’ pork chop, presented in a way — Henry VIII style — that knife and fork weren’t necessary. Finger food in extremis.

* * * * *

My favorite part of the Fair — tchochky exhibition booths — has been moved to, I believe it’s called, the South Wing.

I love the booths where you can get your glasses, wedding bands or shoes cleaned by a guy with a nose ring, attempting to sell you a bottle of the cleanser. You know the area I’m talking about.

In anticipation of future grandchildren, we bought his and hers t-shirts. Mine says, “Somebody Special Calls Me PePaw.” Hers: “Somebody Special Calls Me MeMaw.” We shall wear them proudly and only on the most special of occasions.

* * * * *

We chose last night for our annual Fair visit for one reason only. The Turtles.

I love Flo & Eddie. They have great voices . . . still. And their repertoire is laced with pithy, clever humor. (“Roll another joint for the Gipper.” “You’re my pride and joy etcetera.” )

The duo, famous for “Elenore” and “Happy Together” and covering Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me Babe,” headlined the WAKY Oldies Show, another Fair tradition.

That was the good part. The bad part was having to sit through The Buckinghams, who were still more than kind of a drag, the “Grass Roots” who probably weren’t, though “Midnight Confessions” is a pretty neat pop tune, the insufferable, treacly Association, and Mark Lindsay, lead singer of 60s Dick Clark house band, Paul Revere & the Raiders.

The undercard was kind of sad for me. Guys who are 50 years on from the glory days, but still mired in them. Lindsay did get off the best line of the night, when describing the American Revolution-era unis the band wore on “Where The Action Is,” a daily Dick Clark TV show in the 60s. “Who wouldn’t have fun wearing a frilly dickie?”

Flo & Eddie added some perspective to their portion of the show. They hit the stage in blonde wigs and robes, chanting some Hari Krishna nonsense. At one point, Mark Volman broke into a Doors dirge, with a dead on Jim Morrison imitation. To the crowd’s confusion, they started another oldie with a discordant Zappa intro.

I was left to wonder if they ever gig when they perform a broader range of their songs?

What I know about the oldies show crowd is this: We were a hobbling bunch.

* * * * *

Most important, after the show we were able to navigate Ring Road with dispatch. Our egress from the fairgrounds was quick and painless, which is not always the case.

It was a sweet end to a great Wednesday Night Date Night for the Mrs. and I.

]]> http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/08/25/happy-together-notes-from-kentucky-fried-fair/feed/ 0 http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/08/17/more-odd-news-from-the-courier-journal/ http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/08/17/more-odd-news-from-the-courier-journal/#comments Wed, 17 Aug 2011 12:06:49 +0000 mail http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/?p=1527 If only I could run as fast as I can read the entire morning Courier-Journal?

It’s getting thinner and thinner by the week. Some days, there’s not enough to cover the bottom of a regulation sized bird cage.

And curioser and curioser are the decisions being made by those in charge down at 6th & Broadway.

Apparently, they’ve gotten a clue that readers want expanded TV listings. So The Once Great Newspaper is going TV Guide. A new expanded “TV Week” will be available with your Sunday edition, starting mid September.

(Is there still a TV Guide? A quick Google surf indicates that indeed there is. Full listings for just about all channels are available online. For, no charge.) Which lack of exaction is the crux of the problem for not only the C-J, but newspapers everywhere.

For this new “up to 32 page” section, including expanded “prime-time grids with color coding,” puzzles, trivia and viewing tips, the well-bonused muckety mucks at Gannett want but a quarter of your moolah per week.

Call me a fool, but I would have thought the $17.75/ month I pay already for home delivery of the ever diminishing gazette might have gotten me this “bonus” perk. Silly, silly me.

I know that Mr. Garson and Mr. Ivory are struggling to keep this once treasured daily chronicle of news and comment alive. There’s a new paradigm out there, and words on papyrus will sooner rather than later be thought of like slide rules and telephone party lines.

It just seems to me that asking readers to pay more for something they should already be receiving is not the way to do it.

Coming off the ramp of the Gene Snyder onto National Turnpike, I saw a site I’ve never seen before in my town.

A convoy of sorts.

Three big military transport vehicles. Given their general dilapidated condition and the oil fumes they were spewing, I suspect Vietnam era issue.

They were ragged, but obviously a source of pride to those involved in . . . whatever. On one was a logo, reading “Ace of Spades.” On another, over a fire-breathing razorback, the moniker, “Wild Thing.” The third was designated, “Proud American.”

Trailing was an ancient Jeep, military issue also, designated “Wolfman.”

On the back of one of the trucks, somewhat explanatory, was a flapping sign reading, “We Support Vietnam Veterans.”

Riding in the bed of each of the trucks, like a ragtag guerilla outfit of some sort, were several guys, adults and young teens.

Mounted in each of the trucks were several machine guns.

If fosters knee jerk emotions one hopes never to consider.

I live in a bucolic neighborhood. Tall oaks, lots of shade. Managed yards. A minimum of litter on the ground. Though in an urban area, it is generally safe to walk the streets, even well after dark.

At the end of my block sits one of our gorgeous city parks.

Around the corner is a nifty little park with a playground, a relatively new service building with restrooms and a gazebo where concerts are held on summer Sunday nights.

Early yesterday morning, as the traffic for those heading downtown to work was just building, I jogged through that little park, past that gazebo.

Which was occupied by three grizzled, sun-dried and — I must assume — homeless people. Two men and a woman, dressed raggedly, sharing the morning’s first cigarette. Their body language said they were in their own world, focused on each other, ignoring (or unaware) of the cars slowing as they passed, the drivers taking in the intruders’ presence.

My gait slow enough already by habit and lack of athleticism, I too must admit, I gawked.

It was a bracing moment when the compassion handed down to me by my parents and grandparents was challenged. When the sense of equality that I have tried to use as a guide was put in question. When my prescient liberalism was rendered precarious.

Do I let someone in power know of infringement? The police? My council member? An elected official who also lives in my neighborhood? Should I not simply live and let live?

What will young mothers think, when they walk by on their way to the swings, their youngsters in strollers? Will they too be struck and say, “Not today, kids, let’s go play somewhere else?”

When I returned to the area near the end of my run, the trio was gone. But not my confusion. Nor my guilt about my thoughts and reaction.

A day later I cannot shake the vision that jarred me so. Nor the possibility that my belief system may have cracks.

If I see these folks come again, what do I do? Greet them as I try to do all that live in my neighborhood? Turn away and render them invisible?

Will I walk my talk in my own neighborhood?