Saturday, August 30, 2008

I finally got one!

I've always wanted a bean bag, if for no other reason than just to say I had one. And now I can. And do.

Work was clearing out the 4th floor and had a whole lot of things to give away. Yes, just give away. As in for free. Take it. Go! Be gone. There were 8 bean bags available. I raised my hand and said I'd take one. Some other greedy farker decided he wanted ALL 8, and was pretty pissed off when he found out I had replied first asking for just one.

Anyway, now I have a bean bag. A nice big red one.

And it takes center stage in my furniture-less lounge. I love it.

Friday, August 15, 2008

I hear voices

But not in that crazy 'need to see a therapist' kind of way. I mean in the way that my job requires me to listen to voice talent for a radio commercial.

The weird thing is that after a while, they all sound the same.

So here's how it works:

You write a radio script, send it off to voice talent managers, they rifle through all the voice talent they have on file and forward voice samples to you that they believe best fits what you're looking for. Then you sit down and start listening to voices.

Maybe you've written a funny radio commercial and the voice type you had in mind was Jim Carey. You'd then tell the voice talent manager that you're looking for a Jim Carey-ish type voice. Young, humorous, fresh. It's all about the adjectives. And the more you give the voice talent managers, the more they can pinpoint the exact voice you're looking for.

But some of them are just so boring. I mean put-me-to-sleep boring! Some of them sound as though they are about to read the morning news. You know the type, the tone goes up and down like gas prices. Almost sing song. And that's not good.

So, let me get back to my voices.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

They finally picked a name

While this may very well be MY blog, it is in fact read on occasion by my sister who bore a son last Friday. So I shall reserve negative comments about their choice of name for my one and only nephew to myself so as not to offend anyone.

Oh screw that, I'm entitled to my opinion! Dammit people, of all the names in the world, why, why did you have choose one that's as soft as a feather pillow?

"Hello, my name is Bradley, and yes I have a floppy wrist because I am a poof."

"Hello potential friends on the elementary school playing field. My name is Bradley, but please don't beat me up. Again."

"Hello, my name is Bradley. I like to write rhyming poetry, I drive a hybrid, and I read the Bible frequently. Amen."

Hey, it's their son. They can name him whatever they want. But the cool thing about being the uncle that lives overseas is that I might get to see him once every 3 or 4 years. So I can call him whatever the hell I like."

"My name is Bradley, but my cool uncle calls me Gator!"

"My Mom & Dad call me Bradley, but my uncle in America calls me Ripper!"

"Every 3 years I get a little confused. My parents call me Bradley but my cool uncle who comes to visit sometimes calls me Slasher!"

The name Bradley should be reserved for Missionaries, Life Insurance Salesmen, Librarians, and Botanists. What has my sister done?!

Monday, August 11, 2008

He may not have a name, but ...

he sure does have a cute face! Here's my nephew, just 10 hours after saying, "Peekaboo!".

"He's adorable, what's his name?"

So on Friday, my sister pushed and screamed and cursed as she welcomed a baby boy into the world. Okay, so she didn't push and scream - she had a C-section - but still, I imagine it's quite a thing to have a 7.5 pound 'thing' removed from one's body.

But the joyous part of this birth is not that my young nephew was welcomed into this world on the 8th day of the 8th month in the year 2008, but that when people peer down to look at the pink wrinkle monster and ask, "He is just adorable. What's his name?", my sister looks at them with a blank stare because she doesn't have an answer.

A few weeks ago, she emailed me asking for name suggestions. They knew it was going to be a boy so they wanted to be prepared. I sent her a short list. She liked two of the names I sent. They pondered them for a while.

Then when I asked what his name was going to be, I was told, "Oh, they're letting their 4-year old daughter choose his name."

Oh, okay, well, in that case, world please meet Bubble/Hungry/Kaka/Booboo.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Busy like a bee at the salt mine today

Yes, my friend down in the fairest Cape hit that nail quite squarely on its rounded head when she coined the phrase “salt mine” for one’s work place. For today, I returned from the dead only to find my daily schedule to be rather full.

Deadlines. This is what I work with. Daily. Hourly. And today, I shall be the Deadline Demon as I race against the clock to scribble out basic radio scripts and strategic platforms and other fun things like that.

Everything else has been pushed to the side. Not too far to the side though mind you. They need to stay far enough away that they don’t distract you as you speedily scribble away on your writing pad, yet close enough that you don’t forget that they have this little niggly line with a date that was etched by the hand of God herself.

So before my sharpened HB pencil sets fire to the page upon which I am scribbling, best I take a moment to ponder my existence.

Okay, moment taken. Now back to the grindstone. Time to scribble away. Ferociously.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

What does Bronchitis feel like?

If I was forced at gunpoint to make a wild guess, I would have to say it feels a little something like this pic.

Today I went to see my doctor. For verily, one goes to see a doctor when one is not well. I am not well. The friendly doctor asked many questions. Some personal, some not so much. Then I was carted off to have an x-ray.

"I fear you may have pneumonia," she said.

"I assure you I do not," I replied with much fervor.

The x-ray came back. I did not have pneumonia. And I asked if I could pick up MY medical degree on the way out.

"Not so fast, slick," proclaimed doctor of false diagnosis as she scribbled impatiently on her little prescription pad. My eyes lit up - much like the eyes of a kid at Christmas time. For in her hand she held the magic book. Would she tell the friendly pharmacist to give poor, sick me some Prozac? Hardly! Her scribble read "Lexapro", but that's good enough I guess. And she also scribbled some more. On this one, she scribbled the illegible name of an antibiotic.

"You have acute Bronchitis," she claimed triumphantly.

"It burns like hell when I cough," I replied. "So trust me, there's nothing cute about it."

Monday, August 4, 2008

Sick calls

When I fall ill, which is not too often, I return to an infant-like state, requiring constant attention. Either that, or just fill me up with strong antibiotics and let me sleep for 48 hours solid. THAT, my avid readers, in my idea of heaven. But alas, for some, they prefer a more primitive route:

When someone is bed-ridden, homebound, or in the hospital, the priest will make a "sick call" to ensure the person receives the Eucharist -- an especially important duty around Easter time (the priest will hear Confession if necessary). In cases of possible death, he will offer Extreme Unction (in such a situation, call the priest as soon as possible, day or night!). Unction is a separate Sacrament that includes what follows below and also an annointing with Oleum Infirmorum (the Oil of the Sick).

For a regular sick call (i.e., one that doesn't include Unction), call your priest and, when he comes, remember that he will be bringing the Blessed Sacrament, the very Body of Christ. Men should remove any headcoverings, while women should cover their heads (I have no idea why - must be a patriarchal thing), and the house should be prepared accordingly. Now prepare the sick room itself:

Set up a table near the bed in a place where the sick person can see it, and cover it with a white cloth.

Place on the table the crucifix with a lit blessed candle on each side, a dish of holy water, a piece of palm (if you have some) that the priest can use to spinkle the holy water, and a dish of regular water. Some families include a small bell that the priest or sick person rings after Confession is complete (if Confession is received) to summon the family back into the room.

Lay a linen cloth across the breast of the sick person.

When the Priest arrives, meet him in silence at the door while carrying a lit blessed candle, genuflect, and lead him to the sickroom. Kneel, and stay with him and the sick one, offering your prayers, but do leave the room if Confession is to be heard, closing the door behind you. When the priest opens the door again, or rings the bell that some families include with their sick call sets, you may re-enter.

It is good to have a sick call set all ready in your family altar so in case of need you can just grab it. Crucifixes that hang on the wall, but then open up to reveal two small candles and a vial of holy water, and which can be set up on a table can be purchased from Catholic gift shops under the name "sick call sets," but you can make your own.

The Ritual
The priest enters the sick room itself.

V. Pax huic dómui.
R. Et ómnibus habitántibus in ea.

Of course this is said in Latin because Latin cures all ailments.

The priest lays the corporal on the prepared table, places the Blessed Sacrament on it, and sprinkles the room with Holy Water.

Aspérges me, Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor; lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor, Miserére mei, Deus: secúndum magnam misericordiam tuam. Glora Patri, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancti.

Translation for non-Latin speakers: "Cleanse me of sin with hyssop, Lord, that I may be purified; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow, Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost."

Exáudi nos, Dómine sancte, Paer omnípotens, aeterne Deus: et mittere dignéris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custódiat, fóveat, prótegat, visitet atque deféndat omnes habitántes in hoc habitáculo. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.

Very medieval when you have a religious person playing the part of a doctor and rambling off random things in Latin. How do we know that he was not rattling off his shopping list? Butter, bread, deodorant, People magazine, wood polish for my crucifix.

The priest goes closer to the sick person and, if necessary, hears his confession, in which case all others leave the room (if the sick call set includes a bell, family members can be summoned after confession by using it). Afterward, the Eucharist is given as it usually is outside of Mass, but the sick person, if possible, says the "Confiteor" and the "Domine non sum dignus" with the priest.

Confíteor Deo omnipoténti, beátæ Maríæ semper Vírgini, beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joanni Baptístæ, sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus Sanctis, et tibi, Pater: quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et ópere: mea culpa [strike breast] , mea culpa [strike breast] , mea máxima culpa [strike breast]. Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Vírginem, beátum Michaélem Archángelum, beátum Joánnem Baptístam, sanctos Apóstolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te, Pater, oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum. [the priest then says the Misereátur].

Okay, now it's this striking the chest thing that has me bothered. If someone is on their death bed, should you really be repeatedly striking them on the chest? Why not just let the poor sick guy go in peace? Nope, make a fist and pound his chest. Maybe there's a lazy Latin demon lurking around, who knows.