03/31/03’s illustrious band:

White Rice

Brought to you by the world’s whitest Asian culture festival.

Amy 2.0 and I are back from our trip to Des Moines to visit Skeeter. It was a great trip; a good time was had by all. Our transplanted comrade seems to be flourishing in his new soil. We were treated to tours of his palatial new house, which is fabulous except for the bridal boutique-style wallpaper in the hallway and the upstairs landing. The pink window swags will have to go, too. But the rooms are sunny, and the yard is just itching to be landscaped by an expert.

Then there’s Skeeter’s new office in downtown Des Moines. They have an employee cafeteria AND a gym right there in the building. What, me jealous? It looks like a pretty decent place to work, if you like big windows and cheerful colors. We spent some time Saturday afternoon picking out plants for Skeeter’s new desk.

Also on Saturday, we visited the local botanical center. It was a nice diversion on a windy, chilly day. For the better part of an hour, as we walked around the eco-dome, I pointed at bright blossoms and asked my horticulturist friend, “What is that? Will that grow in my yard?” Time after time, the answer was no. Knowing my own ignorance of plants, I was not discouraged. I just kept asking, figuring I’d hit the jackpot eventually.

Finally Skeeter informed me, very gently, that we were walking through a tropical environment filled with tropical plants, NONE of which were suitable for my Minnesota yard. So I really didn’t need to inquire about each of them, because the answer would always be the same. D’oh!

The botanical center was hosting a Japan America festival in its educational wing, so we stopped to check that out, too. It was the whitest Asian event I’ve ever seen. The only person I saw wearing a full kimono was a tall, thin young woman with milky skin and bright red hair. The staff at the merchandise table were all Caucasian. The guy teaching flower arranging was Caucasian. The guy teaching Japanese vocabulary words was Caucasian. The people serving sushi -- fishless sushi, since acquiring and safely handling sushi-grade raw fish in landlocked Des Moines was beyond the festival’s means -- were Caucasian. Only the lady painting people’s names in calligraphy characters and the gentleman demonstrating origami appeared to be Japanese. They wore kimono-like robes over jeans and T-shirts. I asked the origami man where he was from. The answer? Minneapolis.

And you know what? It didn’t matter. He folded a mean paper crane.

Saturday evening, I broke away from Skeeter and Amy to attend a birthday dinner for Master Choi, a big-deal kung fu master who was in town giving a seminar. I joined one of my own teachers, who was also attending. Since this was a special dinner for an honored guest, we were looking forward to some really fine Chinese food. But it turned out to be very Americanized Chinese food: lots of white rice and fried meats with sauces. My plate boasted deep-fried chicken chunks with sesame sauce, deep-fried chicken with “spicy” Peking sauce (about as hot as a Dorito) and deep-fried chicken with no sauce at all.

And you know what? It didn’t matter. I enjoyed conversation with my teacher and the other people at our table, and I got Master Choi’s autograph on a photo.

That’s really all I did for the entire trip: enjoyed food and conversation, and more food and conversation. It was refreshing to just hang out and run errands rather than having to hustle from place to place, from chore to chore. For dessert at the Chinese restaurant, I got a fortune cookie that said, “A good friend is the strongest defense.” Leave it to a pastry to sum up a whole weekend.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

Administrative Note:

It has come to my attention that people who have subscribed to this site have not been receiving their updates this week. I think I've fixed the problem, but let me know if the drought continues.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

Sorry, no band name today. Too busy watching the late-season snowfall outside. Make it stop!

03/26/03’s illustrious band:

Paco Will Not Beg

Brought to you by one of the funniest birthday cards I’ve seen in a long time.

Last night several friends gathered to celebrate one guy’s birthday, and that’s where I saw this brilliant card. On the front is a Hispanic man in an aqua leotard with sequins forming a starburst design on the front. A circus trapeze dangles in the background. The man stares broodily into the distance over his brushy mustache. The front of the card reads,

"So, you will not go to Omaha with Paco?

Paco can teach you many things.

But Paco will not beg."

Inside, it says,

"Birthday or not, don't go with Paco."

For some reason this struck us all as terribly, terribly funny, and the lines were repeated ad nauseum for the rest of the evening. "Pass the fries. Paco will not beg!" It's the Omaha bit that does it for me. Paco isn't inviting you to some exotic locale, oh no. He's inviting you to Omaha.

Also entertaining was showing the card to our ultra-perky waitress as we invited her to enjoy a piece of the cake. She read it, mulled it over for a moment, and then chirped, "That's cute!"

Paco is not cute. But Paco can teach you many things.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/25/03’s illustrious band:

Jack is My Yenta

Brought to you by Jack La Lanne, the Godfather of Fitness.

Yesterday I had the privilege and pleasure of conducting a phone interview with health icon Jack La Lanne. Talk about your motivational speakers! As he evangelized about how fitness is king and nutrition is queen, I felt like shouting "Amen!" or "Yes, Drill Sergeant!" right on cue. He also informed me that your health account is like your bank account: you get out of it what you put into it. The keys to success are pride and discipline. Besides, being fit and healthy will make you sexy, Jack says. Can't go wrong there. I got plenty of great sound bites for my article.

The best part is, once the business portion of the interview wound down, he wanted to know all about me. He says I'm a lovely lady who deserves a man -- a rich, sexy man, don't bother with the poor, fat slobs -- who's worthy of me. And later, while I was talking to his wife about photos, he picked up the other line and interrupted to bellow the name of a young man he wants to introduce me to. The guy lives in Malibu, so it may not work out. But Jack is on the job for me. Jack is my yenta! This is even better than free samples of gluten-free snack foods.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/24/03’s illustrious band:

Alan Smithee

Brought to you by artful dodgers everywhere.

“Alan Smithee” is the pseudonym a movie director uses if he or she to disown a project, usually when the project was taken away from that director and heavily altered against his or her wishes. (Producers, screenwriters and even actors also occasionally hide behind the name.) It’s the only directorial pseudonym permitted by the Directors Guild. If you notice the name Alan Smithee (or variant spellings thereof) on the credits, it’s a red flag that this film is not what its director intended and is probably not any good. Alan Smithee has directed over two dozen films to date.

“Alan Smithee” is a anagram for “The Alias Men,” and some people feel that’s how the name came to be. Others maintain that Smithee’s creators originally planned to use the more common name Alan Smith as a bad-rap deflector shield, but then added the double E so as not to defame any real Alan Smiths.

Yeah, I’ve got a couple projects I wish I could have credited to Alan Smithee. Not too many, though. My parents taught me early that it’s best not to do anything you wouldn’t sign your name to, and so far that has proved to be excellent advice.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/21/03’s illustrious band:

The Belt of Self-Esteem

Brought to you by that odd guy at the gym.

At the gym the other day, some friends of mine spotted an oddly dressed guy working out. He was wearing what appeared to be a wrestling singlet, with a gold belt around the waist. Sort of a super-hero costume, but there was no cape, and it looked more like Wonder Woman’s swimsuit-type outfit than Superman’s full-body leotard. In other words, the man looked significantly out of place in a metro suburb. But he went about his exercise without a care in the world, oblivious to the raised eyebrows all around him.

The theory, then, was that the gold belt was some sort of charmed object, a talisman that granted the wearer special powers. You encounter these kinds of things if you play Dungeons & Dragons: enchanted weapons that confer superior fighting ability, magical cloaks of invisibility, boots of speed in which you can run like the wind, crystals that let you read minds.

For other examples, ask any actor, athlete or soldier who puts on a different attitude along with the costume or uniform. Actors become entirely different people when they dress in character. Baseball players are notorious for superstitiously investing their clothing and possessions with magical, luck-enhancing powers. And everyone from a marching band member to a Green Beret stands a little straighter, a little prouder, a little more determined when in uniform.

Workout Guy’s golden girder must have been a Belt of Self-Esteem, the wearing of which instilled enough confidence that he could go out dressed like a dorkwad with his chin held high. Most fashions are like this, if you think about it. Bellbottoms, for instance. No one could possibly wear those in public unless the bells concealed reservoirs of imperviability to normal aesthetic perception. Same thing goes for mullet haircuts -- there’s got to be extra moxie stashed under the mudflap. And leisure suits. Don’t you think there must have been tiny motivational speakers whispering pep talks from beneath those vast lapels?

I wear magical clothing all the time, myself. As usual, today I have on my Superior Sapphire Necklace, which conveys serious Girl Power. There’s also the Red T-Shirt of Motivation, crucial for getting lots of work done on a Friday, and my Anti-Harassment Belt, which prevents my jeans from plummeting and causing an unfortunate incident in the workplace. If I had an important meeting today, I’d trade them for a Suit of Respectability and a Helmet of Serious Hair. At the moment I’m also sporting the Jacket of Not Freezing my @$$ Off. You can probably guess what that’s good for. (Not good enough, though. I had to drop and give myself 20 a few minutes ago just to restore circulation to my fingertips. Apparently when the executives flee the premises at noon on Fridays, they take the heat with them.) Like Workout Guy, I am dressed for success.

So you see? Sometimes the clothes do make the man. Or woman. Or transvestite.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/20/03's illustrious band:

The Ag Channel

Brought to you by Skeeter, who just moved to Des Moines.

You know you're in Iowa, Skeeter says, when local Cable TV includes the Ag Channel. So far, he's watched a cattle auction and a national FFA (Future Farmers of America for the agriculturally impaired) competition. That's a niche market that just isn't being served here in the metro area. He's managed not to OD, though, what with the challenge of finding the grocery store, post office, video store, etc., in his new town.

Personally, I'd rather see the Editorial Channel (EdTV!), where you can watch people mark up important documents with red pens and argue over the placement of semicolons. Or the Library Channel, where people walk around quiet buildings looking at old books and magazines. During sweeps week, I bet they'd do a special on the Dewey Decimal System. Or how about the Fanfic Channel? (Fanfic is fan fiction -- stories and scripts that super-fans write for their favorite shows. There are, for instance, billions upon billions of Star Trek fanfic sites on the Internet. And every author writes herself or himself a role in the beloved cast.) Broadcasts would consist entirely of people sitting around writing scripts . . . for the Fanfic Channel.

What would you like to see on TV?

OK, that's it for me today. I'm off to not listen to war coverage on NPR; instead, I'm going to see the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra with Amy 2.0. We'll catch up on the war soon enough. For tonight, I'll take those fleeting notes, those proofs of the human capacity to create beauty as well as to destroy, to heart instead.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/19/03’s illustrious band:

L is for Loser

Brought to you by my ex. This is a rant, but a short one. So far. This week's drama: another reading from the Book of Trout.

My state tax refund arrived in the mail on Saturday, but it was less than what I had filed for. I also received a notice saying that $205 had been "recaptured" by a collection agency. Collection agency?! I don't have any collection agencies after me! My bills are paid up! So I knew this could mean only one thing: Mr. Ex and his snot-green pickup. Well, it's technically his parents' pickup now, since as you may recall I made him sell it to them to get my name off the title, since he kept missing payments on it and I kept getting charged for them.

But it turns out that the irresponsible sonsabitches never quite completed the title transfer. So when they -- or Trout Boy himself, because you know mommy and daddy are still letting him drive the truck -- got a few unpaid parking tickets racked up, and the parking agencies turned them over to a collection agent . . . sure enough, the collectors looked at the title info and assumed it's still my truck.

So I mailed my ex-in-laws a rather sharply worded letter. They owe me $205, immediate closure on the title business, and an extremely sincere apology. Otherwise I'm taking their sorry butts down. I've had way more than enough of this.

But enough about me. Let's talk about the war the geniuses in Washington will be starting tonight. We're all losers when it comes to war. Makes my little problem seem petty by comparison. Let's all hope it ends quickly, or I'll be forced to deal with Saddam and Little Georgie, too, because SOMEBODY has to be the responsible adult around here, and it looks like this is my week.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/17/03’s illustrious band:

The Smile Tree

Brought to you by Skeeter, who has officially buzzed off to his new job and home in the near south.

Skeeter is a plant guy, so his office here at Media HQ was full of plants while he occupied it. Some people referred to it as the Jungle. The visible proliferation of leaves over the tops of the cube walls served as a handy landmark: Take a left at the Jungle and go two more doors down.

The workplace green didn’t make the trek to Skeeter’s new digs; instead, several of his colleagues, including me, have adopted his plants. Now we’ll always have an excuse to keep in touch so we can ask the expert how to keep the poor things alive. My neighbor across the aisle, for instance, inherited a spider plant -- no small undertaking for a man who believes that unabridged dictionaries were invented specifically for dropping on eight-legged scuttlers.

One of the adoptees now living with me is a small umbrella tree. Whenever I hear “umbrella,” I think of “Let a smile be your umbrella.” So I’ve dubbed the new tree a smile tree, and it will always remind me happily of the friend who have it to me.

Here’s to spring, new starts, and new growth.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/14/03's illustrious band:

Mmm, Crow!

Brought to you by a mistake I made and for which I must apologize.

In recent days, I have in this blog related stories about a blimp and about photos of Construction Jack toys. Those stories were not mine to tell; they came to me via work, so they were company property. I wasn't thinking of them in that light at the time, but in retrospect I realize it's certainly true. I should not have published those things, and I apologize for doing so. I have removed the offending references from the BND archives.

There's also been some confusion about who was responsible for those stories getting published in my blog, so let me clear that up, too. Although I learned of them from someone else, the decision to put that material in my blog was mine alone. If there are consequences to be borne from this, they too are mine alone.

So let there be peace online, and let it begin with me.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/13/03's illustrious band:

Blue Hats and Little Green Men

Brought to you by the cosmic 8-ball.

Remember the Magic 8-Ball toy? It's shaped like the 8-ball from a pool table, and there's a little window in the side. You shake the ball, peer through the window, and read the answer to your secret question on the floating die inside. Responses include "Yes -- definitely," "All signs point to no," "Outlook not so good," "Better not tell you now," and "Try again."

I had a question on my mind but no 8-ball at hand, so I asked it of the universe at large. If the answer was yes, I asked the Big U to show me blue hats; if it was no, I should see little green men. I decided to wait until I had three of one sign or the other before considering the process complete.

Well, it's March and I live in Minnesota, so there's no shortage of hats around, and a surprising number of them are blue. I saw my three within an hour of asking my question of the universe. However, I don't consider "yes" my final answer. I think I choose the signs I did because subconsciously, I wanted the answer to be yes, so I chose a yes sign that I knew would appear with much greater frequency than the no sign. Therefore, this wasn't a fair test of the cosmic 8-ball.

So I posed my question again, and this time I want to see purple feathers for yes and unicorns for no. I asked on Tuesday and still haven't seen anything one way or the other. However, it's kind of amusing to be on the lookout for purple feathers and unicorns in my everyday life. Searching out the answer might be more fun than actually getting it.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/12/03’s illustrious band:

Serious Play

Brought to you by a new toy trend in real-life action figures. Here are a couple more professions I hope to see roll off the assembly line in time for this year’s winter toy feeding frenzy.

• Chef Jeff (modeled after my Favorite Brother-in-Law): Comes with barbeque grill, grilling accessories and toy TV playing the Food Network’s cult hit program Iron Chef. Accessories: replacement propane tank for grill, all-meat cookbook, peel-n-stick tattoos, scale-model Harley Davidson motorcycle, and a fluffy kitten.
  
• Editor Edna: Comes with stylish reading glasses, pen and paper, computer, and removable carpal tunnel wrist brace. Accessories: Amazon.com coffee mug, ergonomically unhelpful chair with posture cushion that won’t stay in place.
  
• Martial Artie: Comes with gi (white pajama-like outfit), white belt, breakable boards and mat for practicing falls. And a kung fu grip, of course. Push the button in Artie’s back to hear him kiai! Accessories: replacement belts in various colors available for purchase at six-month intervals.
  
• Professor Pat: Comes with baggy khakis, tweed jacket, secondhand briefcase, stacks of ungraded student papers. (Professor Pat is gender-neutral, since subjecting others to one’s own sexuality would be politically incorrect on campus.) Accessories: coffee mug, single-gear bicycle, secret cache of mass-market fiction, voodoo doll of the chairperson of Pat’s department.
  
• Record Store Clerk Rhonda: Comes with black band logo/hipster quip T-shirt, backstage passes to local concerts, tiny little minimum-wage paycheck. Accessories: extensive collection of music you’ve never heard of. And you never will, because you’re SO UNCOOL!
  
• Yoga Yolanda (fully poseable, of course!): Comes with roll-up yoga mat, water bottle with its own carrying strap and real sandalwood incense. Accessories: a skillion different lycra outfits, tote bag for mat, meditation cushion, yoga books and videos, CDs of yogariffic music, vegetarian cookbook, and many, many more!
  

Who am I missing?

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/11/03’s illustrious band:

Illicit Music

Brought to you by Senor Editor, guest blogger of the day. Senor Editor writes:

Sometimes it’s all about the tunes. I’ve always been a subscriber to one of the beliefs from the Aborigines of Australia: that of the Songlines. All of us are guided through our lives by the influence of the Songlines, mystical melodies that guide and steer us from lesson to lesson, adeptly leading us to that which we most need to learn. The Songlines originate in the Dreamtime, that in-between land we all inhabit in that brief instant before we fall asleep but just after we’re totally aware of what is going on around us.

As anyone who has spent any time around me knows, I once ran away from conventional existence and spent a year chasing dreams in Cayo Hueso (otherwise known as Key West). I had vowed at that time to never be ruled again by the norms and rules of cubicle life; to, as Walt Whitman had once written, suck the very marrow from the bones of life and let loose my barbaric yawp. But as fate, and perhaps the Songlines, would have it, I found myself departing the land of sun and “soon come” and buying parkas and wool socks in the land of “too damned cold.”

Now, leaving Key West was not in and of itself all that bad of a thing. What was far worse was leaving the Songlines. Upon returning to the everyday life of commuting and cubicle existence, I found myself becoming more and more withdrawn and removed from the effects (and lessons) of the Songlines. Subsequently, I’ve spent the better part of the past two years becoming more and more mired down in the rigmarole that living in a 4 x 5-foot upholstered space inflicts upon its inhabitants.

At least, until Monday. On Monday, I received a rather rude wakeup call. Something happened at the office that I very much did not want to happen.

Now how does all of this tie in to illicit music, you may ask? It just so happens that listening to music, however covertly, is verboten in the cubicle realm where I work. Even to pop the occasional CD into the old computer and listen via the headphones is off limits. Needless to say, this is a rule I break often.

I took an elicit music break in the middle of my funk, to indulge in a little Mr. Jimmy Buffett (specifically, his most recent album, Far Side of the World.) There came a point in the middle of the song entitled “Savannah, Fare You Well” that I realized I was as far astray from the Songlines as I could possibly be, and that to aggravate myself over something I didn’t want in the first place was truly the pinnacle of dimwittedness. Sometimes it takes a little music to point you back in the right direction.

I am far from perfect. Nor do I claim to have the best understanding of enlightenment among the human race. However, I do know when I’ve sold out. I’ve spent the better part of the past two years furthering myself down a path I never wanted to be on in the first place. It just took a few well-placed chords to remind me of why I was really here -- and it’s got nothing to do with a cubicle.

When you get in your cars to drive home this evening, pop in a favorite bit of music. Remember where it is you want to be, and remind yourself that nothing is out of your reach. You’ve just got to be daring enough to follow the Songlines.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/10/03’s illustrious band:

Sorry, no blog today.

03/09/03's illustrious band:

Mechanic in a Can

Brought to you by an interesting weekend at Sensational Acres. The Chinese having a saying that goes, "May you live in interesting times." It's considered a curse.

I made the radical decision on Thursday to skip my usual marathon of classes at the T'ai Chi studio on Saturday. It had been a long time since I experienced Saturday as a leisurely weekend day without five hours of martial arts, so I was looking forward to sleeping in and lounging around in my jammies all day. But I started paying the price for this break in routine almost immediately.

To start the weekend off with a bang, my garage door bit the dust on Friday afternoon. Actually, it did just the opposite; the ancient rails are so warped that the door could no longer make its final descent, and it's stuck in the gaping open position. I've known for a long time that this day was coming. I had just hoped it would come sometime after I got my tax refund.

And now I know exactly what I'll be doing with a substantial chunk of that pesky little windfall, too. A Saturday morning trip to Home Despot (after the planned lie-in) netted me an order for a new garage door with rails and a request to have it delivered and installed. This means that sometime during the coming week, an HD garage door installation professional will do a drive-by to assess the work site, make sure I ordered a door that will fit my garage, and determine whether anything out of the ordinary will be required. Once his curiosity is satisfied, the order for the door will be confirmed. And then, a week or two after that, the installation will get done. We hope. Meanwhile, my garage appears to have the hem of its skirt stuck in its waistband.

So home I trudged to a driveway full of snow. I seemed to be the only kid on the block not running a snowblower. In a fit of spring idiocy, I failed to drain the gas from my blower last April, leaving the fuel to turn sludgy in the tank over the summer and autumn. I knew I needed to pump the tank and refill it with good gas and carburetor cleaner, so I headed to the hardware store for supplies and advice. It's the kind of hardware store where they recognize returning customers and spend a few minutes sympathizing over whatever problem sent you through their doors. I wish I could have bought the garage door there, but they don't sell 'em. Anyway, I took my hand pump, fresh gas, fresh oil and a product known as Mechanic in a Can (brand name: Seafoam) back to the Acres to see if I could resurrect the blower.

Step 1: Siphon old gas out using the hand pump. Well, that didn't work, but I managed to dribble a few ounces of gas on my boots. So I picked up the blower bodily -- a small model, fortunately -- and dumped the gas toward the old-gas can. I say "toward" because I attempted this maneuver without a funnel, dribbling quite a bit of gas on my boots and mittens.

Step 2: Refill tank with oil/gas mixture and a generous dose of Mechanic in a Can. I managed the pouring without incident. But after pressing the starter button as many times as I dared, I had to concede defeat. The blower will not start. I carried it out to the shed to join its idle brethren, spilling more gas onto my parka. I'll have to call the hardware store Monday morning.

Step 3: Shovel driveway the old-fashioned way.

Step 4: Do a load of laundry.

Meantime, the garage door is wide-flaming-open, leaving my lawn tools and machinery on display for the whole neighborhood to see.

Well, not any more; I spent a while Saturday night moving the mower and my bike into the shed (Hiding! Don't tell anybody!) and hauling grubby shovels and rakes into the kitchen, along with my prized hammock and miscellaneous other whatnots. The kitchen? Yep, that's as far as I could get the stuff without tracking snow and muck through the whole house. Then I spent another while shifting everything from the kitchen to the spare bedroom, and another vacuuming and mopping dirt and slush from the kitchen. Finally I gave it a rest and watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Best part of the day.

So that's how I spent my fun Saturday off. And I learned my lesson. When the alarm rang Sunday morning, I vaulted out of bed and hustled off to my jujutsu class right on time.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/06/03’s illustrious band:

The Borg Scale of Perceived Exertion

Brought to you by the Borg. Exertion is futile!

OK, it’s not really the leather-and-rubber-wearing, all-subsuming Borg from Star Trek. The Borg Scale of Perceived Exertion is used in medicine and research to establish an indicator of how you feel when you exercise. On the Borg Scale, a good cardiovascular training zone would be 11-12: fairly light, and you should be able to talk normally without shortage of breath. (I don’t know why the scale begins at 6 instead of at 1; perhaps at 1, the subject is presumed to be asleep, or worse.)

• 6 = no exertion
  
• 7-8 = very, very light
  
• 9-10 = very light
  
• 11-12 = fairly light
  
• 13-14 = somewhat hard
  
• 15-16 = hard
  
• 17-18 = very hard
  
• 19-20 = very, very hard
  

It’s nice to have a handy measure for describing how hard you’re exercising. T’ai Chi Borgs at 8 or 9; I’d give brisk walking an 11, running a 14 and boxing a 17 or 18.

I’m interested in seeing the Borg Scale applied to other measures of exertion as well. For instance, if there were a Borg Attentiveness Scale, 6 would equal watching the latest episode of Sex in the City -- low effort required -- and 20 would be a high school civics class -- high effort required.

Dealing with your sweetie would be a 6 on the Borg Civility Scale, while dealing with your ex would be a 20. Dealing with my ex: 22.

Borg Happy Scale: Rush Hour, the movie starring Jackie Chan = 6; rush hour on a Friday afternoon during a blizzard when you have a full bladder = 20.

Borg Food Scale: hot fudge sundae = 6; brussels sprouts = 20.

Borg Celebrity Tolerance Scale: the late Mr. Rogers = 6; Carrot Top = 20.

And so on like that. How have you Borg today?

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/05/03’s illustrious band:

Book Bucks

Brought to you by a conversation with Amy 2.0.

Amy likes to travel, so she takes advantage of a credit card that awards frequent flier miles for money spent. This sounds like a good deal to me -- or it would if I ever went anywhere, especially anywhere requiring airline travel. But I don’t. I don’t need frequent flier miles. What I need is frequent book buyer miles or something.

Yeah, that’s the ticket. I need a credit or debit card that awards me points based on what I spend, like Amy’s, but those points have to be redeemable for something I actually want to buy. I’d like to earn book bucks to spend at Barnes & Noble; gas points to put in my fuel tank; calling minutes for my cell phone or long-distance service; grocery points to spend at Byerly’s; movie money to spend at Blockbuster or the local cinema. I’d even consider general mall money I could take to the nearby Mall of America.

Since this is a good idea, and more importantly, one that involves money, I can’t possibly be the first person who has thought of it. Surely there are already cards out there that offer these kinds of rewards. The trick, of course, is finding them. I don’t know where to start looking. Do you? I’ll try to spend some time on it this weekend and report back, but in the meantime, I’m open to suggestions.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/04/03’s illustrious band:

National Coalition for the Advancement of Baton Twirling

Brought to you by a blurb in a recent edition of the Media Headquarters company newsletter.

In the newsletter, under “Achievements,” a male employee is listed as having placed second in recreational baton throwing and twirling in the All-Midwest Baton Twirling Invitational in Council Bluffs, IA. Of course, I did not believe this. I sincerely doubted that baton twirling, that stereotypical avenue of female oppression, had survived into the 21st century. And I certainly was not convinced that a male, let alone an adult male, let alone an adult Midwestern male, would not only admit to but actually brag about having taken part in this, uh, sport. In a public forum, no less! So I had to look up twirling online.

When I entered “baton twirling” in a search engine, I got over 38,000 hits. I appears that baton twirling is not merely an activity for little girls in spangled swimsuits, but a sport complete with associations, coalitions, competitions, athletes, coaches, teams, squads, judges, scoring systems -- and guys! Not many, but a few. A good twirler has to be many things: dancer, gymnast, juggler, endurance athlete. A good routine these days contains as many splits, leaps and cartwheels as sequins, all while keeping the baton moving.

Twirlers may accompany marching bands and dance lines, but they also compete in individual and team contests, including the grandmommy of them all, Twirl Mania, held at Disney World. Twirling even made the front page of the Life section of USA Today on Feb. 17, 2003. (Click here to read the article.) Some take their talent onstage in beauty -- ahem, scholarship -- pageants.

Available products include baton shafts (in various lengths) and tips (in various shapes and sizes), novelty batons with hollow shafts, glow cartridges for use with same, metallic tape and streamers for decorating the baton, “action ribbons” and rosin. And that’s just the props! For costumes, expect to see anything you’d find on a dancer or figure skater, including leotards and shimmery tights, hair pulled back into super-tight buns and big, shiny smiles.

So I stand corrected. Baton twirling is alive and kicking, spinning around parade routes across the land. It may not be hip, but it is kinda cool.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com

03/03/03’s illustrious band:

The Old Familiar Enemy

Brought to you by our monthly reading from the Book of Spam.

As American troops again prepare to go to war, it seems appropriate to recall a previous conflict -- WWII -- and the role Spam played in it. By 1944, 90 percent of all Hormel products were being sent to the military.

It wasn’t all Spam, though; Hormel was also making a generic luncheon meat for military use that was higher in salt and contained no ham at all. Unfortunately, many soldiers believed they were one and the same and developed an intense dislike of Spam. They even immortalized their feelings in song, referring to Spam as “the old, familiar enemy.”

This dislike wasn’t restricted to the lower ranks, either. In 1966, former president Dwight D. Eisenhower wrote a letter to Hormel’s retired president on the occasion of Hormel’s 75th anniversary. In it he said, “During World War II, of course, I ate my share of Spam . . . as former Commander in Chief, I believe I can officially forgive you your only sin: sending us so much of it.”

Let’s all hope that today’s fighting forces face an enemy no fiercer than Spam.

E-mail the Media Sensation: jugglernaut@hotmail.com