The Daily Derenger

4/04/2003

In the middle of a recent wine tasting I partook in, the wine purveyor said that this particular wine sold like "a man on fire." Until that point, I was with all the lingo and cliches that he was using. But something selling like "a man on fire" didn't make any sense.

Let's analyze it for a minute. If a man was on fire, why would his value be worth anything? The man is obviously burning and would serve no valid purpose, especially in the retail word. Now I could see if there was a shortage of burning men in the Arctic and they were the only source of heat. In that case, a burning man would be a hot commodity. Literally. But to equate the selling of a top-notch wine to that of buring man is absurd.

He later went on to say that another wine sold like "hotcakes." This is a much more popular analogy used by millions of people. But where did it begin? Surely not in France since they clearly have toast as their breakfast fluff of choice. I would opt against Belgium since they have their syrup-traps called waffles. I would venture to bet that long before hot cakes came about there was something that sold much better. But you never hear about that. It's like the "best thing since sliced bread" saying. Certainly there was something better than sliced bread. And what's so special about the bread slices in the first place? Sell me a whole loaf, I have a knife. I buy my watermelon whole and then cut it up.

Now I'm hungry. Off to go have some pre-scooped ice cream.

4/01/2003

The war has caused businesses to become resourceful in their advertising now. The same was true right after 9/11. Wherever you drive, you see signs that read "God Bless America" and then usually something promoting their business.

Some businesses have nothing at all other than the patriotic messages. Others have "God Bless America" on line one and then "Kareoke Thursdays" on line two followed by "All you can eat shrimp Fridays" on line three.

How great is that? Nothing says "We Support Our Troops" like shitty singing and a seafood buffet. Let freedom ring.

4/01/2003

When I was a young boy I dreamed about playing for the Chicago Cubs. I remember how hard a cried when the Cubs lost to the San Diego Padres in the 1984 playoffs. I was 9.

As I grew older, I played baseball a bit more but knew I would probably never be able to play professionally. Something called not enough talent stood in the way. When I got to college I figured that since I wouldn't play baseball why not write about it. So I became the sports editor of my junior college student newspaper.

A few years later I enrolled in broadcasting school where I envisioned calling the play by play of a Cubs World Series. Or at least recapping the highlights on SportsCenter. That led to a job taking black and white pictures of the 1997 Arizona Cardinals, a team that went 4-12. I still clung tight to the possibility of one day working, in some capacity, at Wrigley Field.

Well yesterday my dream became a reality. As I climbed the steps which led to the gorgeous view of the Friendly Confines, I could anticipate that very view I had seen as a child many times and then as an adult.

The infield was covered to keep from being poorly affected by the cold, dreary March night. But it didn't matter to me. I was in Wrigley Field earning seven bucks an hour to be trained as a suite server. I had made it.

I began my training to work in the suites of Wrigley Field where I would tend to the needs and wants of people with more money that I could begin to imagine. Sure I wasn't playing center field or sitting beside Steve Stone but I was still in the game. Or at least able to see most of it.

Instead of fetching baseballs hit off the ivy-laden wall, I will be fetching sides of blue cheese for an ad exec's chicken wings. Not exactly where I thought age 28 would have me.

It has the makings of a great job as seen through the cynical eyes of me. And who cares what I have to fetch, I'll be in Wrigley Field all summer. The Cubs won their first game of 2003 15-2. Get your World Series tickets now. Instead of saying,"Hey Stoney, this fourth inning could be huge for the Cubs" I may now hear, "Scott, they need extra napkins in Suite 46."

Some dreams get a bit altered over the years I guess.

3/30/2003

For those of you who don't know, my mom is the most extreme pack rat there is. Not only does she save all her own things but those things that once belonged to others. Anyone. Anyone at all. Anyone who dare put something on the curb that my mom could get a nickel for at a flea market. This place is in such disarray that Fred Sanford would walk in and say, "Man, look at this fuckin' mess. It's awful."

I bring this up because something totally ironic happend today in regards to my mom's junk and my freelance writing. I currently am working on a huge feature article on 7 ladies who meet annually as part of keeping in touch from their high school days. 6 of the ladies graduated from the same high school in Joliet, Illinois in 1953 and the other lady was from the same school, class of '52.

I suggested to my editor that we get a recent group photo of the ladies from one of their luncheons. It could run as part of the story in addition to their senior pictures from high school. Now where could we round up such pictures from fifty years ago.

As I was letting my mom know about this project, she told me that just outside my bedroom was a yearbook from 1953 of the very high school I talking about. I figured she was pulling my leg because how could there possibly be such a thing out in the open, seen by me every day for the last year.

Sure enough the yearbook was from 1953 and all 6 of those ladies were pictured. Now I graduated high school 10 years ago and couldn't tell you where any of my yearbooks were. These ladies graduated a year after my mom was born and their yearbook was sitting atop a box of junk in my hallway.

Now my mom will never let me forget how her junking has benefited me. Surely I will have a story due about dental hygiene and she'll pull out a set of false teeth from a guy who died in the 70s.