So, again, the nice thing about extending your weekend thoughts is that if you devote Monday and Tuesday to looking back and enjoying the things you might have had the opportunity to do over last weekend, you avoid the front part of the present week. And since you’re going to look forward, anyway, on Thursday and Friday to whatever you have planned in the upcoming weekend, you really only have to be confronted by the work week on Wednesday.
There are flaws in that plan. Not paying attention to detail isn’t something that can safely be done in every workplace. Mentally checking out isn’t something that every profession will allow. But if you have the opportunity — perhaps during a lull or your regular lunch break, while waiting on hold or staring at that screen willing an email reply that you know isn’t coming in a timely fashion or during a meeting where someone else clearly hasn’t done their homework — it could be worth considering. You’re already subscribing to the philosophy of Dean, Reno and Frenette, anyway.
So onto to Thursday, which is basically the prelude to the weekend, right?
Sports shows in the studio this evening. And aside from being able to pronounce sophisticated words like “Mobile” things went well:
They talked sports on the sports talk show, as well. Novel concept, I hear you say. We’re innovators around here. Tonight’s topic was baseball:
And before I realized it, they’d wrapped their two shows, returned everything in the studio to their home positions, shut down the lights and had gone on to their post-production meetings, editing, homework, parties or wherever else they may go.
I returned to my office to stare at the screen waiting for email replies. Dreaming of the weekend already.
The handlers, for lack of a more appropriate term, were wonderful with both the animals and the students who were working the show. And some of their creatures work school and other promotional events all the time, so they apparently take it in stride.
The ladies said the animals would do better out of their carriers than in them, so after a moment of “Awwww,” and a second moment of photographs, the crew got down to work and did a nice job pulling the program together. And the hosts created a tight little segment with their furry guests.
Off-camera the lemur jumped on me. And I learned that a bengal cat will grow to be a bit larger than a domestic feline. This one was still growing. We were told that you can tell them apart mostly by their softer coat and their personality. They generally behave more like dogs, she said. But this guy was too chill to be bothered by anything going on around him. That lemur wanted to be the star, however. You can see it in here:
The news show was done after that. I missed a lot of it, trying to be useful, downstairs working on other things.
Driving home this evening, I had a nice view of the sun:
Something about the angle of it in the sky, even as it was descending toward the horizon, is starting to feel different. Like the sun is bigger, brighter, and should-be-warmer. It isn’t yet. But either some ancient neuron in my brain has begun to detect the seasonal shift or my keen powers of critical observation are seeping into my subconscious.
It still isn’t warm — nor would you expect it to be warm here just now, but on general principle I demand it nevertheless — so either instinct or perception is wrong. But there was a feeling that an optimist might ascribe to optimism.
I’m a resigned realist.
Probably I owe Phoebe a photograph. It was a rare evening, indeed, when she chose to sit on me. If she’s going to choose to cuddle with someone it will be The Yankee. (And almost always on one of the blankets.)
This is a thing she does near the end of her time cuddling. Having rolled over, she stretches her full body out. I’m not sure if she’s surveying the ground below her, or just enjoying the moment or trying to wake up or fall back asleep.
Eventually, she pushes off with her back legs and gracefully rolls toward the floor. Here’s the side view before that happens:
I think we’d now, finally, have to use three hands to count the number of times she’s voluntarily sat with me. It’s progress. Maybe she was jealous of the bengal cat. Maybe she’s noticed something about the sun, too.
I wrote of this last week — because we saw this last week, and we went back there again, because the fullness of life allows you to have a routine Tuesday lunch meal if you have walking-distance choices. And so we go to Chipotle, which is pretty good here, and I’ve only gotten sick once there, thank you very much — and I get to write about it again, because we saw it again.
As noted last week:
The carefully selected handwriting. This is the sort of thing that’s discussed before it’s done, right? “No one could read my handwriting,” and so on. Then there’s the frowny face. And the first-person. It has grown self-aware. And is sad. Now, is the sadness brought about by the existential dilemma of being a soda dispenser? Is the sadness because the dispenser knows this isn’t her fault, but is rather a faulty hose somewhere between here and the syrup? Maybe the grief comes because it knows a manager — the third shift leader in charge of liquid refreshments — forgot to fill that order.
Or maybe there’s a legal issue. It wouldn’t be the first time. Forty-some years ago Barqs was sold outside of the family, but the heirs, the Robinsons still had some companies with the Barq’s name and so the trademark battles began. The 5th Circuit of the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled in favor of the family, so it was the root beer’s new owners that were out of order and … here we are.
It’s the same note. Someone fixed the problem on the Barq’s, and then decided to take that strip of paper, because it’s going to happen again, because Gerald is closing next week and Gerald is just the worst.
(I’m assuming no Gerald works there, and bear no ill-will to him. Unless he is closing, and unless he’s the beverage guy and unless he is, in fact, the worst.)
Today, as you see, the problem is with Mr. Pibb and, why, I’ve just noticed everything there is a second tier soft drink. I’ve only just noticed this because I don’t drink them, of course, haven’t for about 16 years. I do enjoy tea, however, nectar of the gods, and Chipotle can usually make a good tea. Not this week, however. It was unsweet. Gerald. He’s the worst.
What’s the point of Chipotle Tuesday if the tea is bad? Leftovers, I guess, but really.
This is the point of Tuesday. Time in the studio. Me and my old friend Camera 4. Go way back. The stories we can tell. Makes the other cameras jealous: I could have had that shot.
Camera 4 was one of three cams that helped shoot a band tonight.
All the cameras got in on some sort of programming or another. You can’t have the electronics growing jealous of one another. They’ll tell Gerald.
Here’s the other show the students produced this evening:
You know what they say, all the cameras can get good shots if they’ve got good operators.
As far as I know, no one says this. But they should.
A U.S. Senate report released on Thursday says Republican congressional leaders’ refusal to publicly acknowledge Russian election interference in 2016 contributed to a watered-down response by the Obama administration https://t.co/9lD2DeaV9u
That tweet is framed politely, the report spreads the condemnation a fair bit. Which is easy to do, there are many fingers to point in many directions. But, ultimately, everything seems to follow the rule of gravity, and point downward. Lowest common denominators being what they are.
Full day in the office, followed by several hours in the studio. So there’s not a lot here. (Initially I wrote lout, which was more typographical error than subliminal message, but I fortunately caught it just in time.) I do have some video from the studio, however. Tuesday night we watched the news:
And they made white chocolate strawberries, which may be the way to go there, it turns out:
Tonight was sports:
So many sports:
I hope that’ll keep you for now. We’ll try to do better next Thursday, and at least a few of the days in between. See you tomorrow, then, right?
Standing in the back of the control room this evening, talking with the engineer, the young man running the teleprompter and the reporter who was casually sitting at the lighting position. We work in a dark control, as you should, and on the light panel there is a small gooseneck lamp so you can see the many buttons and potentiometers.
The reporter, says to no one in particular, that she thought it was a microphone, until she saw the little beam of light coming out of the bottom.
So I started singing “Ground control to Major Miya,” which she took up. And then she asked me what my favorite Davie Bowie song is. Which was a mistake on her part.
I’m not a Bowie fan, really. I know the hits, and I appreciate his place in the scheme of things, culturally, and his artistic image. He’s just not for me. But, I said to the young woman who may know Bowie’s entire catalog or just has a tenuous grasp on her parent’s appreciation of Bowie’s music, I’m going to say his duet with Bing Crosby.
I could write an essay, I said, on how Peace On Earth/Little Drummer Boy allowed for the post-postmodern remix culture we all live in. This was where I looked at everybody listening, to make sure they were still with me, and the two college students and engineer, who is about my age, all agreed.
Some music executives, I said, sat in a boardroom with a lot of drugs and said what if we put Bowie and Mr. Crosby together. And there were a lot of drugs in that boardroom to come up with that idea. But then you take a look at the conceit of the special, Bing is house-sitting for his distant relative, Sir Percival Crosby, and along comes Percival’s neighbor, David Bowie. He comes over to borrow a cup of sugar or his piano or something, a conversation develops and then they sing this song.
Bowie hated Drummer Boy. The show writers had to add in the Peace On Earth bridge to get him to go along with it. He only did the special, Crosby’s last, since his mother was a fan of the crooner. And so this unlikely thing was born.
I’m riffing on this singularly odd musical moment, we’re out of ideas, we can only mash things up, and the continued success of this bizarre collaboration has made every pop culture thing possible in the last 40 years. Everyone is really going along with the argument. (Remember, this Christmas special, where the gag is Crosby staying at a relative’s house, which turns out to be the former home of Charles Dickens, is older than everyone listening to me.)
Sometimes I wonder if my best role here is just in saying random things like this that makes people think. But right about then another student walks up. He’d been sitting at the camera position, as far away as possible in the room.
“I heard you say Bing Crosby’s name. I have a Bing Crosby story. Well, my family does.”
And if there’s one thing that life tells you, when people come from across a room to interject themselves into the conversation with an anecdote, it’s worth hearing out. They don’t always pay off. But this one did, in a big way.
Sadly, it isn’t my story to tell. But if you see a studious young man with an intensity about old crooners behind his eyes, ask to hear the story. He’ll happily tell you about it. And it is worth hearing.
Anyway, that all happened between these two shows. Miya, interviewed the baseball coach in this show. She’s doing a nice job with it, but everyone here is doing some good work. Even the freshman, who’s apparently taking over everything:
And they talked, what else, basketball in the talk show. It is, of late, not the happiest of topics. But, hey, angry talk is sometimes successful talk?
(It’s actually easier, and better, to do happy sports talk. That’s why they’re putting smiles on their faces.)
Anyway, let’s all put smiles on our faces. Tomorrow’s Friday, and then the weekend will, happily, be upon us.
