Not Joining in the Writer's Strike

It’s over. 100 days after they started parading up and down the streets with their picket signs, the writers who think up scripts and funny jokes have finally come to terms with the movie and television studio types who make all the money when people laugh and cry during their favorite shows.

Two-thirds of Americans supported the writers. Only 4% felt the studios were right. The rest simply didn’t care. So which category did yours truly- a so-called writer- fit into? You may be surprised to learn that I found myself squarely entrenched in the “I don’t care” camp.

My reasons are simple. First of all, I’m not pretentious enough to consider myself a writer. I’m a pretender at best. So to assume that I have some brethren-like connection with these masters of creativity would be superfluous. (Okay, I just used a big word like superfluous, creating the impression that I am indeed an accomplished writer. Rest assured it’s an illusion.)

Second of all, I still haven’t quite figured out what they were so flaming mad about. Something about getting a higher percentage of DVD sales on the movies and shows they produced. And they also wanted a piece of the action when their creations appeared on the internet. Sounds good to me- maybe I could find a way to charge people when they read my online blog. But the legalities of the whole uproar confuse and baffle me.

Thirdly, I must admit that I don’t watch that much television. Call me un-American if you wish, but I’ve never seen a full episode of Desperate Housewives, Lost, American Idol, CSI (in any of the big cities), or House. And when I can’t go to sleep, I read a book or watch Seinfeld reruns instead of tuning in to the Lettermans and Lenos of the late night world. So to be honest, I didn’t really notice there was a strike going on, except when I saw pictures of some of the late night hosts sporting beards to demonstrate their support of the strike.

Shouldn’t those late night hosts- all former comedians- be able to think up their own jokes anyway? Turns out, except for the ridiculous appearance of their beards, they’re not so funny after all. The writers have a monopoly on humor, so it seems.

I will admit to watching an occasional reality show on television. Turns out they have writers, too. Which is curious bein’s how they don’t have scripts. Yet their “writers” are striking just like the rest, claiming their “creation of interesting scenarios and shaping of raw material into entertaining narrative” constitutes a form of writing that should allow them the same benefits afforded regular writers. Whatever.

Throughout the ordeal, I considered the potential impact of my own personal writer’s strike. Fortunately or unfortunately for you, I have decided against it for two reasons. First, I perceive a potential scenario where a little girl comes up to me in the grocery store and begs me to continue writing this column. “The only way we can get my puppy to go on the newspaper is to have your face showing in the bottom of his box,” she would say while wiping a tear.

Secondly, and more importantly, I don’t really want to grow an itchy beard.

Reading the Text without opening the book

Parents of yesteryear used to complain that we teenagers clogged up the home phone lines every night talking to our friends. And they had legitimate reason to complain. Like a lifeline thrown to an overboard sailor, communication among teens is a must in order to survive. So they say.

My generation kept the phone line busy. The current generation? Not so much. And sometimes I wish they would. It would keep me from having to deal with telemarketers. No, kids of today chat via the computer and on their little cellphones that take pictures.

But the thing they do most is text each other. Instead of simply dialing the number on the cellphone, they send little written messages that we, the parents, pay for. And they’re driving their English teachers batty because they absolutely can not spell a lick anymore.

Everything’s an abbreviation in the text world. There’s a morse code of sorts that only texters can decipher. Well, I have decided that as the supposed head of my household, I will do random spot checks of text message inboxes and outboxes to make sure my teen is on the up and up. And to do so, along the way I’ve had to learn a few abbreeves (I know it’s not a word but it fits the context of this column).

Check out these hypotheticals:

“R U crazy? IDK (I don’t know) what homework she gave out. I was ilegaly texting during class, U nut.”

“My parants think I’m in hear studying speling. LOL (Laughing out loud).”

“U almost hit watt? ST&D (Stop texting and drive).

“If u ask me, u should tel her 2 BIOYN (Blow it out your nose). LOL. That’s my .02 (Two cents worth).”

“BIOYN, u ACORN (A completely obsessive really nutty person). IDK u anymore. BTW (By the way), ST&D.”

“I actually like BN called ACORN. Y2K (You’re too kind- Not to be confused with Year 2000.)

“Well, nite. It’s 2 a.m. L8R (later), G2G (Gotta go).

Texters have a whole set of clues to let fellow texters know that adults are invading their privacy and expressing curiosity at inopportune moments. A few examples:

POS- Parent over Shoulder, AOS- Adult over shoulder, AITR- Adult in the Room and P911- Parent coming into room alert.

“Can’t talk. P911. Has no clue what I’m up 2. LOL. But still a PITA (Pain in the anatomy).”- And all along I thought Pita was bread.

A few of my random favorites:

YRYOCC- You’re running your own cuckoo clock.

SNERT- This one is tricky because it has word in it that might not be appropriate for G-rated audiences. I will describe it as mucous and let you guess the rest when I say it means a _____nosed egotistical rude teenager. (I’m not making this up. Look it up on the internet.)

And so, to honor the kids, I’ve made up a few abbreeves myself:

“Kids, get off the phone and GRTMBYAH (Go run two miles before your arteries harden).”

“Don’t like Mom and Dad making you pay the text bill each month? Then

PYBBPOADWI (Put your big boy pants on and deal with it.)”

So WWJD? Well, IDK but I think he might use the cell occasionally, but would prefer the personal touch. L8R. G2G. WOS (Wife over shoulder).

The Stroupes are proud of our little family van. We’ve had it for eight years now. It had traveled a little over 20,000 miles when we got it. The odometer is now tickling the 160,000 mark. It got us to Orlando, Florida to see Mickey Mouse last fall without so much as a cough.

But the family van has some quirks. Its little inboard computer went wacky several years back on the way to the beach, forcing the family to spend the night at a cheap hotel somewhere near Newberry, S.C. It turned out okay- the kids loved the swimming pool.

My adventurous mother discovered back in high school that the mileage on an odometer doesn’t advance when you travel in reverse. Trying to hide the extent of her adventures from her dad, she drove several backward miles with her head turned looking out the rear window in an ingenious attempt to avoid punishment.

But she ended up in bigger trouble when she became acquainted with a local ditch.

I might try driving the van backwards from now on to save precious odomoter numbers. I already park it backwards at the local drive-in movie theatre before we pull out the lawn chairs. But since the van is immobile at that point anyway, I get the feeling that doesn’t count.

Lately the van has been misbehaving again. It is related to the fact that you can take the keys out of the ignition while the engine is running. The kids think that’s funnier than an episode of Andy Griffith but it has caused problems. Often times, after the Stroupes and the key have long since departed, the radio- even with the volume down- remains on.

The usual result is a dead battery and an embarrassing request for a jump start from friends and strangers alike. The parking lots it has died in recently include Arby’s, Wal-Mart (twice) and our church’s. Some jumper cables, a stiff caffeinated drink, and a sense of humor go a long way in these circumstances.

Last week the van jinx struck again. The doors were left open all night to air out a spill and the lights stayed on long enough to zap the fickle little battery. My attempts to revive her the next morning before my wife and I ventured out in different directions to take the kids to school were fruitless.

My wife flagged down a bypassing neighbor and child number three was on his way. Another neighbor pulled in the driveway and offered his assistance. I must have looked pitiful because he didn’t even laugh at my bedroom slippers.

Moments before he pulled up, the van had roared to life. As I saw him exiting our neighborhood, our obnoxious family jewel intentionally conked out. I transported boys number one and two to school in my truck but soon returned to face off with my nemesis.

Knowing she was one step from the junkyard, the contemptuous lady wisely cranked right up. We kissed and made up and an uneasy truce has existed since. So if you see the Stroupes in our white van, throw up your hand. But don’t fret if we don’t respond, we may be in deep concentration bein’s how we might be traveling down the road backwards.

Getting Past My Fear of Rejects

I was preparing to have lunch in a cafeteria recently. I procured a tray, a spoon, and a knife without incident. But when I peered into the fork container, I shrieked in horror to discover that there was only one lonely, solitary fork left. Instinctively I picked it up but quickly placed it back in its dwelling once my good senses prevailed. For the record, I did not touch the prongy part.

I would like to tell you that I acted unselfishly to assure that the next person in line would not be forkless. But that would be an untruth. There were actually three reasons why that particular fork neither made its way onto my tray and nor eventually into my mouth.

Reason number one pertains to a particular prong which was slightly unaligned with the other three on said fork. Though not a problem to most normal folks, an out-of-line prong drives me absolutely bonkers with every bite.

A flashback of a recent experience at a restaurant provided the basis for reason number two. I had pulled the family van full of Stroupes into the overflowing parking lot only to discover that indeed there was a single parking spot available. The truck in front of me drove right past it so I proudly wheeled into the spot without hesitation.

Only when I got out of the van did I discover that the driver of the truck had stopped and was attempting to back into the spot when I cut him off. He angrily shook his fist and called me all sorts of names that I couldn’t decipher. But I got the message. Just when I was about to walk over to his truck to explain, my wife advised me to get back in and transport the Stroupes to an alternate eating establishment. Lesson: Don’t take the last one of anything unless you’re willing to fight for it.

I’m hesitant to share reason number three but since I’ve teased you so far, here it is. I couldn’t get past the fact that the little neglected fork had been passed by for some reason I was not aware of. It must have been snubbed time and time again for a legitimate purpose, I supposed. And I assumed greasy hands had handled and discarded it just as I had. Unwilling to be my own man, I went with the crowd and rejected the poor little fork simply because everyone else had.

Later that afternoon, I couldn’t help but thinking how God chose reject after reject to accomplish His mighty purposes in the Bible. Let’s see, there’s David, Rahab the prostitute, Joseph and his coat of many colors, and even a few of Jesus’ disciples. Several of the finest generals in American history graduated either last or near the bottom of their classes at West Point.

Throw in famous rejects like Rudolph and Sea Biscuit and a pattern emerges.

Therefore, I have decided that I will take the last fork in the container if given another opportunity. It may be destined for fork greatness in some way. And who am I to stand in the way of history in the making. I’ll grasp the fork proudly, by golly. I will, however, wash it off before using it.