Technology peachick yelps

This week's art class project was about peacocks, continuing our bird unit. I needed a good, quick introduction to peafowl, which I found in the Plano Library. Colorful Peacocks, by Deborah Underwood, published by Lerner, was an excellent start, and the children retained the information. They especially liked learning the terms for the peafowl family--peacock, peahen, and peachick. Kids are kids, and they will forever like to snicker about bathroom words. The students were also impressed that a peacock grows its tailfeathers and becomes a grown-up at age three. I bet they get possession of the remote control, too.

My little students were born into a completely different technological world than their teachers. We have trouble rewinding the VHS tape about birds using the "universal remote". It's definitely a universe removed for me. If we handed the remote off to our college interns they'd have the video set instantly and tell us we were using an outdated media format.

In 1960 we went on a Colorado vacation and visited the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. The strongest memory is of the peacocks hollering "yelp" as we walked among the animal cages. I was amazed that a bird so beautiful could have such an ugly call.

Wanting to share the call of the peacock with the kids, I went Googling. Finding peacock sounds online was easy. Getting one saved and burned on a cd was a struggle. Windows Media Player rejected my burning proposals on grounds of copyrighted materials. My cd player rejected my burnt offerings with no explanation. After an hour of effort, I had one peacock yelp burned on a cd that only played on a computer.

All over the world billions of people are legally and illegally downloading copyrighted music and videos. They do it as easily as I flick a light switch ... or dial the kitchen rotary phone!


© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Who Do You Mute, Arlene?

I walk 47 miles of barbed wire,
I use a cobra-snake for a necktie,
I got a brand new house on the roadside,
Made from rattlesnake hide,
I got a brand new chimney made on top,
Made out of a human skull,
Now come on take a walk with me, Arlene,
And tell me, who do you love?

Don't diddley around in the recliner with your remote control, Dad! Be decisive. Mute the damn fools! Take the wind out of their annoying full-of-hot-air sails. "Ask your doctor if..." hitting the mute button on your remote control might relieve symptoms caused by overexposure to Sally Field with her once-a-month Boniva; to the Geico caveman with his nervous breakdown; to all those actors shrinking their prostates, erecting their dysfunctions, or being so superficial as to imagine gray hair ruined their relationship and forced them back "into the game".

Who do you mute?

I had the great good fortune to hear Bo Diddley perform in a small Oklahoma City club many years ago. I hope Bo's remote control is made of rattlesnake hide, and that he hits that mute button whenever Brian Williams of NBC's Nightly News narrates those near tragic/perky rescue pet stories for the blue-haired condo/dachsund-owners demographic.

Ask your doctor if using the television remote mute button is covered by Medicare and your supplemental Medi-gap insurance.




© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Why Ninety Minutes Is Not Enough

The World Cup games are just too darn short for some of us. It's not the lack of scoring compared to most American sports. It's not that we need to hear yet MORE ranting by the U.S. sportscasters about the proliferation of yellow and red cards. I admit ninety minutes isn't enough time to appreciate the tanned and lined visages of the coaches and refs who have been squinting, analyzing, instructing, calming, and letting go of the outcome of games played by comparative pretty boy youngsters.

I am watching World Cup matches when I can, mainly on the weekends. My tv is not high definition. It is small aggravation. If I sit on the sofa across the living room, the players resemble the VW bugs escaped from Chernobyl down on Chicago streets when viewed from the Sears Tower observation deck. When I sit in the rocking chair and skooch up closer, they look like day-glo orange meerkat finger puppets (made from hunter's fleece) in an bioluminescent green diorama. Yikes. It's the Netherlands again, and time to reach for the remote control.

A new Adam Sandler movie opened this week, and I would rather yank out all my teeth with needlenose pliers than see it. Still, I understand the premise involves having a "universal remote" control of the universe.

Watching the Netherlands in their orange uniforms makes me feel like I'm in need a universal Photoshop program to tame the contrasts and color saturation. The games are in the stoppage seconds before I get the nuclear reactor leakage out of the screen! Too late again. Netherlands, go home!

No one ever tells me what's cool until it's too late!

My son is off on a trip. He spent more time dressing his iPod than packing his duffel bag. I hope he has a toothbrush. He forgot his razor, but that might have been on purpose. Last year he only packed two days worth of clothes for a four day trip. New Orleans is not a place where you want to put on the same sweat-drenched clothes you wore the day before. Even if you put them on top of the a/c vent overnight they won't have dried out.

His iPod is dressed in an elegant but understated black glove with the fingers cut off. I did not know electronic devices needed clothes! Nobody ever tells me this stuff. I can't take a picture of the iPod attire, because it is off in the French Quarter or visiting the D-Day Museum. I think it is going to be too warm on the swamp airboat tour and the visit to the Metairie cemetery.

This seems to be commercial iPod outfit, but my son is going for a more indie look:


I'm trying to catch up, but I might be too late. In the summer iPod's and other electronic devices may go to nudist camps. This is my oldest son's first Speedo from the Baby & Me swim class we took in Omaha in 1983. I can't believe it is too large for dual VCR and DVD remote controls:


These outfits for all occasions date to my ex's mid-1960's G.I. Joe doll. G.I. Joe has a fuzzy blond buzz cut, bends, and is slightly larger than Ken. I especially like the Dubya look for the t.v. remote--flight suit and cowboy boots:


Size-wise, Ken's wardrobe may fit better, but the choices are limited. Here we see what the fashion savvy Samsung will be wearing to prom, while Nokia takes the field with its drum major look:



Maybe I should get the Sousa ringtones, but I still think electronics should definitely not wear clothing:

Gershwin, Ira

Summer time, and the living room's crowded
Fish bowl's algae-y, but the clutter's not mine.

Yes, I do need to clean the aquarium again, but I want it made perfectly clear:

The rest of the mess is not mine!

My living room is about 15x15'. Besides the sofa, two rocking chairs, one armchair, a bookshelf, two large house plants, and three matching tables, it currently contains:

Jeff's computer
Mike's laptop
Steven's current automotive redecorating project
Six clay projects
Three boxes of Steven's not-so-great AP sculpture projects
Two other nice large-scale student sculptures
Mike's face moisturizer
Two flashlights
Two screwdrivers
Two Quentin Tarrantino DVDs
One box of stuff to take to Goodwill
Two mobiles
Three bank statements
Mike's comforter and pillow from the dorm
Three remote controls
One cordless phone
One cell phone set on vibrate
Two pairs of shoes, size 11 1/2
Two papier mache lizards on a bus stop bench (O.K., those are mine)
Last December's Christmas cards, letters, and photos (mine, too)
One bowl of York Peppermint Patties, a low-fat food


It is a good thing I go off to work, hi-ho, hi-ho.