The Lost Seinfeld Episode

When I picked up my deck stain at the Sherwin Williams store, I realized I’d stumbled onto the perfect scenario for a Seinfeld episode.  I couldn’t believe that the beleaguered Seinfeld writers, who appeared to run out of ideas by the 9th season, missed this one.

I had just listened to a history of the Seinfeld show on my six-hour drive to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  The audio book went into excruciating detail on the “show about nothing,” hammering away at the premise that the episodes focused on the minutiae of everyday life, taking a small incident beyond its logical extreme into the realm of absurdity.

I stared at the array of paint samples in the store.  Each had been given a specific name by someone who had clearly gone soft in the head in the process.  There was “laughing taffy” (i.e. pink), “blue bicycle” which was indistinguishable from “amidship.” I didn’t know what to make of “bunglehouse blue” other than it sounded like a raunchy bordello.  The color “grayish” looked exactly gray to me, there was no “ish” to it.

I immediately thought of the comedic possibilities for the character Elaine, who wrote the pretentious clothing descriptions for the J. Peterman catalog.  What if she received the assignment to name and to create a story about all the colors in the paint store?

The following is my script.


Scene:  Jerry’s Apartment – Elaine and Jerry together.

Elaine:  Jerry, remember that J Peterman description of the dark brown jacket?

Jerry:  Yes, the oilskin jacket that is the color of the most beautiful brown horse you can ever imagine?

Elaine: Nods agreement.  Peterman told me that description doubled sales.

Jerry: I’m not surprised.  You see there are certain young girls who are, quite frankly, obsessed by horses.  And when they grow up to be women they still have this “je ne sais quoi” about anything that reminds them of a horse.  Some women just go for the horse. Worked for me last month. Continue reading

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Robert McNamara and Me


My first brush with greatness came in the mid-1960s on a Utah ski vacation that overlapped with Robert McNamara and his family.  As a preteen, I was only vaguely aware of the man.  My parents, who still had complete confidence in the government, never talked politics and rarely watched the evening news, and yet the snippets drifting through the ethos must have seeped into my psyche.  I could easily recognize him standing in front of a crude map of Vietnam, or pointing at a graph with rising zig zagging lines.  But his appearance made the most distinct impression – that slicked back hair oozing with grease, ramrod straight part and rimless glasses.  He looked like the epitome of steely-eyed control.  He scared me, but I wasn’t sure why.

At the ski area my unease deepened as I witnessed McNamara first hand.  This was a man you stepped aside for.  I remember standing in line for the chairlift watching McNamara and his family cut directly in front of us to the head of the line.  There was a strong undercurrent throughout the slopes, a frisson of excitement and awe. We were in the presence of greatness, breathing the same air, and sitting on the same chairlifts. It was here that I learned that he was the Secretary of Defense, in charge of stopping the spread of Communism, routinely making life and death decisions both for our country and individual families. Continue reading

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Podcast: Robert McNamara and Me

As a 12-year-old, speaking truth to power

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Marketing Unplugged: Super Foods

Going to the grocery store can be a dreary chore, so I reframe the trip as a contest of wills between me, the wily consumer, and marketers, eager to suck me in with their coveted eye-level shelf-space, flashy packaging and dubious health claims.

I have seen marketing terms come and go.  Natural, light, organic, craft, vine-ripened, and various iterations of fresh (farm fresh, fresh frozen, fresh picked, etc.) have all have grown stale with overuse.  The word “artisan” is in the process of being flogged to death.  When properly used the word implies a product that is individually made, perhaps a loaf of bread made by a stooped woman from the old country with knuckles gnarled from a lifetime of kneading.  Now McDonald’s has co-opted this word to describe its buns.  When I asked the cashier with the greasy hair and visible bra what makes the flattened bun “artisan,” she said, “How am I supposed to know?  Do you want it or not?”

The grasping maw of McDonald’s marketing department has perpetrated an identity theft on the true artisans of the world. Continue reading

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Podcast: Marketing Unplugged: Superfoods

What the hell is a superfood anyway.  Turns out it is nothing.

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The Dumbest Player on the Hockey Team

Last month Nick and I spent 36 hours in the clutches of the Marquette General Hospital in the Upper Peninsula, Michigan, investigating his fleeting episode of chest pain, which turned out to be nothing more than a flush of heartburn.  As we left, the nurse practitioner handed Nick a copy of his medical records to give to his home town physician.

The first line on the history and physical read, “The patient is a pleasant man in no acute distress who appears his stated age of 63.”  Yes, it is a hard reality to look as old as you are, but after glancing in the mirror, Nick had no quibble with the assessment.  However, the next sentence was startling.

“The patient states that he was the dumbest player on his college hockey team.”

We hooted until our stomachs ached, but then a sobering reality set in.  This physician had permanently etched this into his medical record, certain to follow him for the rest of his life.  This conversation was worthy of a meticulous dissection, I thought.  What were the steps that lead to this gross misrepresentation?  What possessed the physician to add this irrelevant detail?

I was on my way to the ER when the physician interviewed Nick, so over the next several weeks I questioned him extensively on the 10-15-minute interaction, trying to plumb the depths of the conversation and gather the slightest nuances in the exchange. I wanted to reconstruct the steps that had traversed the vast gap between a pleasant gentleman and the dumbest hockey player.

Nick reported that the ER physician was an athletic-looking man who appeared his stated age of 40.  He interspersed his cursory physical exam with simple questions, like where are you from, what are doing up here in the Upper Peninsula?  Nick felt that this was nothing more than the type of killing-time, blah, blah, blah conversation you have at a cocktail party with someone you will never see again.

I countered that any conversation in an emergency room is saddled with the unintended consequences of the patient physician-relationship.  “Nick, remember you were sitting on the examination table, feet dangling, wearing one of those demeaning paper outfits.  And you were talking to a physician who could be making life or death decisions, could whisk you off to an emergency angioplasty.  This was a man who could snap his fingers and send you down the rabbit hole of the health care system,” I said.

“Well, okay,” said Nick.  “This was the third physician that had done an identical history and physical.  My EKG and lab tests were entirely normal, and I was ready to leave.  I thought that if I established a rapport with him he would let me go, maybe come back as an outpatient if I needed a stress test.  The last thing I wanted was to stay overnight.  So yes, I was trying to be nice, but what about him?  What was in it for him?”

“Remember that both the hospital and physician are constantly rated on social media.  Your power was that you could have given him a crummy rating, saying that he was brusque and impersonal, no bedside manner, that sort of thing.  I just want to establish that that there was probably an implicit agenda on both sides of the examining table.  Okay, what happened next?”

“The physician saw scars on my knee and asked me how I got them.  I told him that I had blown out my knee playing hockey.  Then the guy turned around to fiddle with the computer.  He wasn’t even looking at me when he asked, ‘did you play in college?’  I thought it was a weird question.”

“In what way was that weird?” I asked. “Wouldn’t this still be in the realm of idle conversation?”

“Yes, but I had already told him that I regularly worked out on the elliptical and played a lot of tennis.  So I had established myself as a reasonably fit athlete.  And this guy was very athletic looking, and it just seemed like he was setting up some sort of competition as to who was the best.  I don’t know, maybe in retrospect I am reading too much into the remark, but it was just a weird vibe.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, all I said was that yes, I did play in college and then he said that he also played college sports.  Then he asked me where I went to college.  Now I felt trapped.”

I understood because Nick had played hockey at Harvard.  Outside of Boston, the mention of Harvard always prompts a response, typically negative. In fact, Nick has learned to drop the H-bomb very sparingly, often saying something like “I went to college back east,” in hopes of deflecting the issue.  People often assume Harvard students are too brainy for their own good, or belong to an elitist society whose members have birth certificates stamped with “Born to Succeed.”  Maybe the doctor was jealous.  And then there was the added issue of playing hockey there.  Maybe the doc thought that hockey was Nick’s way into Harvard, a jockish work-around to GPAs and SAT scores, obscuring the truth that he had worked his ass off.

Nick went on.  “I was so tired I just said it.  ‘I played at Harvard.’  Then it got really strange.   The doctor said, ‘What it was like to play on a hockey team with such a smart group of people?’  That put me at a complete loss.”

I nodded agreement.  If Nick said yes, everyone was really smart, he might set up an IQ battle with the physician and potentially alienate the very person he was trying to ingratiate.  Say no, and he might create the impression that the hockey team didn’t deserve the cachet of a Harvard education.

“I tried to finesse the issue,” said Nick.  “I told the guy that there were plenty of dumb guys on the team, and then we got interrupted.  I was going to add that I got tired of dumb jocks and precious preppies asking me for help in classes that they never went to.  I just quit the team, but he never heard that part.”

“Well, I guess that gets us to the launching pad for his fateful statement, but still what prompted his final leap?”

I looked over the hospital transcript to see if there was any way the statement could have been the result of a typo or a glitch in a voice-activated transcription.  The only possibility I could imagine was that the physician had dictated, “The patient reports that he WASN’T the dumbest player on the team,” but this is damning with faint praise.  “That doctor must have been carrying a lot of psychological baggage,” I said.  “You were just collateral damage.”

“Like what?” said Nick.

“Okay, I’m just brainstorming here.  Maybe you unwittingly prompted some deep-seated resentment.  Perhaps the guy had been rejected by Harvard, his grades, athleticism or both were not enough, perhaps his brother or sister had gone to Harvard and he was the only one in his family without an Ivy League pedigree.  Here he is in Marquette, logging hours in the emergency room far from the elitist East Coast that he aspired to, and now his conceptual nemesis shows up, vulnerable and anxious in his examination room.”

Nick was surfing the internet as I prattled on.  “Unbelievable. Look at this.  Here’s a profile says that he is an outstanding physician, had brilliant grades at Michigan State and does brilliant work and is one of the most reputed specialists.”

“Wow, how about that – you were in the presence of greatness,” I said.  “Now don’t take this personally, but the doctor probably thought you were a boring patient.  Rule/out heart attack is a routine protocol that wouldn’t require his brilliance.  On the other hand, if you had shown up with a fish hook embedded in your eyeball, well that might have piqued his interest, required some deft heroics on his part.”

Nick’s eyes widened as I gathered momentum.  “Your ER physician just got stuck with you.  Now imagine him at the end of the day, droning on as he dictates his dreary, repetitive cases – heartburn, sprained ankles, ear infections.  His eyes flutter, his head wobbles, and in this weakened state he uses a history and physician to exact revenge.  He wouldn’t remember saying it and would be shocked to see it in print, but here it is, forever more.

“The patient states that he was the dumbest player on the hockey team.”


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Podcast: Dumbest Player on the Hockey Team

What was the physician thinking when he put this into the medical record?

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Lists: Reasonably Flat Surfaces That Could Be Used for Forced Idleness Advertising

The airport experience is nothing but sequential moments of forced idleness.  As we stand numbly in security lines or fidget at the gate, our weary eyes dart around looking for stimulation.  Marketers have obliged.  Every available surface is slathered with ads – the pillars of the concourse, the elevator door, the escalator rails or the bottom of the bins in the security line.  I have even seen an ad on the floor beamed from a projector hanging from the rafters.

These ads are fleeting – elevator doors close, the bins in the security line are promptly covered by clothes – and thus they convey nothing more than product awareness.   But marketers must believe that even this brief exposure can seep into our psyche.  Marketers are like sharks, ever moving on the ocean floor, searching for new meat, eager to extrapolate the airport experience into the cracks and crevices of our daily lives.

Here are my top picks for the next wave of forced idleness advertising.  Continue reading

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Lists: Reasonably Flat Surfaces That Could Be Used For Forced Idleness Ads

Marketers view forced idleness, such as standing in  lines, as an opportunity for advertising.  The airport experience, where ads are slathered onto every flat surface, is the epitome of forced idleness advertising.  Now this advertising is poised to move into our everday lives.  What flat surfaces will be exploited next?

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Only to Find Gideon’s Bible

My family rarely stayed in hotel rooms when we were kids, so when I first saw a Gideon Bible I thought that it had been left by a previous occupant named Gideon.  I thought nothing more of it until 1968 when I heard the Beatles sing Rocky Racoon:

Rocky Racoon checked into his room

Only to find Gideons Bible.

A Gideon was not an individual, it was a group and why did these Gideons keep leaving Bibles in hotel rooms?

The Gideons quickly passed into my brain’s deep storage locker, but after a forty-year hiatus they came bubbling to the surface when Rocky Raccoon popped up again on the radio.

As a writer on the prowl for quirky characters and story lines, I was intrigued.  I discovered that the Gideons were an evangelical Christian organization founded in 1898 by two traveling salesmen who kept bumping into each other on the road.  They decided that they could multitask by placing Bibles in hotel rooms.

I tried to imagine an early scenario.  It is 1910; the Gideons have begun to deposit Bibles in bedside drawers.  I envision two traveling salesmen sitting at a dreary diner picking at the remains of their apple pie.  A persistent fly circles overhead, just missing the dangling flypaper. Continue reading

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