Commercial Slogans Part Of The Language

"NICE SHOES!"

The comment caught me by surprise. I was standing in front of one of those automated money machines, depositing a paycheck which was spent three years ago on one of my credit cards, when I saw this sharply-dressed guy out of the corner of my eye.

He sauntered my way, arms waving wildly, like an oversized pigeon trying to fly. And then he stopped, no more than five feet away from me, and stared into my face.

Then he glanced down at my feet, looked back into my stare, and proclaimed, proudly, those immortal words:

"NICE SHOES!"

And off he went, leaving me scratching my head, clueless as to the meaning of his exhibition.

Where he got this concept, of course, is from television. In particular, commercials. The reference to my shoes came from a Nike commercial, first aired last year, starring Bo Jackson. Never mind that I was wearing Reebok's at the time; that fact never came into play (obviously).

The "nice shoes" line has become one of many commercial-quipped bits which are an integral part of civilization. Nike is the uncontested, unofficial leader, thanks to sports gods Bo ("Bo knows shoe endorsements"), David Robinson (as in "Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood"), and the tandem performance of Spike Lee and Air Jordan ("Doyaknow? Doyaknow?" and "It's gotta be the shoes!" are the two most prominent).

Of course, Nike is not alone in well-known commercial quotes. Bud Light hit the big time with its "Gimme a light" campaign a few years ago. Wendy's "Where's the beef?" spawned a billion imitations (not to mention sales; no, let's not mention them).

Furthermore, to be well-quoted, a comment does not even need to be an ad. "Read my lips." "A thousand points of light." "Mother of all wars." "Cowabunga, dude!" and "Go ahead, make my day" are some of the more obvious catch-phrases of late. But commercials use the same line on a continual basis, making them even more memorable.

Jingles are also making a comeback. These musical snippets were big in the 1970s and early 1980s, and include several all-time classics: the Oscar Mayer wiener song and "I'd like to buy the world a Coke."

Lately, jingle wars have been fought between soft drinks, which spawned Billy Joel's line a few years ago, "Rock 'n roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore!"

The biggest battle has been the diet drink duel between Diet Pepsi's Ray Charles and Diet Coke's team of Paula Abdul and Elton John. They're cute, catchy and make some people agree with Joel's line.

Of courser jingles were hardly new in the 1970s. One of my mom's favorite commercial memories dates back to the 1950s, when a majority of the ads were still on radio.

It was a Pepsi commercial which mom remembers the best. The sing-song plug went something like this: "Pepsi Cola hits the spot; twelve full ounces - that's a lot; twice as much for a nickel, too; Pepsi Cola is the drink for you." The ad would close with the singers spewing the word "nickel" quickly and repeatedly.

(In case you're wondering about part of that slogan, Pepsi was then sold in 12-ounce bottles for five cents, while Coke was, apparently, sold at the same cost but in six-ounce bottles.)

But the youth of the 1950s were as adept at remembering slogans then as today's youth. And, as is the case of today, my mom and her friends reworked the song, with a slightly different twist:

"Pepsi Cola is the drink; pour it down your kitchen sink; tastes like vinegar, looks like ink; Pepsi Cola is a stinking drink!"

I have no idea what they repeated at the end of the commercial. I am, however, quite positive it was not "NICE SHOES!"

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

High School Grads Show Freedom Of Choice

One of the great things about living in the United States is the freedom of choice. You can be Democratic, Republican or Socialist in your political backings. You can be pro-choice or pro-life. You can wear bikinis or one-piece bathing suits.

There are many areas of society where the youth have two, three, or more choices. Invariably, their decisions - for example, buying a Chicago Cubs baseball cap instead of a Cincinnati Reds cap - can be seen as a vote. In this case, mark one ballot in favor of the Cubs.

I was hit by a sudden inspiration while driving home from Whittemore last week (while dodging deer on M-55, no less). I decided to take a non-scientific, informal survey of today's youth.

I posed questions to members of the Whittemore-Prescott and Ogemaw Heights graduating classes. These queries were distributed by instructors at the schools, and seniors had the option of filling them out. (Ah, freedom of choice.)

Of the 246 seniors attending the two schools, 103 responded (that's 41 percent, for you aspiring math majors). Actually, there were 104, but one guy filled out the survey twice.

What is this, Chicago politics?

Seniors were asked: "Settle the debate: Which is better?" And some of the answers may surprise you.

Then again, I could be wrong.

(1) Michigan or Michigan State?

When choosing a university, students should look at what that school has to offer, not their sports programs. But image is everything, and as Zero Mostel said to Gene Wilder in The Producers, "If you got it, flaunt it!" And flaunting is what U-M does best.

State is like Michigan's kid brother, the one who always wants to be as good as the big guy, but never can catch quite up. This is pathetic. Even when MSU actually does edge out Michigan, the Wolverines manage to find a way to put State back in its place.

When making their decision, seniors chose Michigan over the Spartans, 66-35, once again proving their dominance. But I've heard rumors that a Whittemore teacher told seniors they had to vote for Michigan, because he was a U-M grad. (In some situations, freedom f choice may take a back seat to practicality.)

(2) Nike, Reebok or adidas?

Nike, on the strength of Air Jordan, David Robinson and Spike "Mars Blackmon" Lee, nipped Reebok by a 47-37 count. adidas, once the king of the foot market, stumbles along with 16 votes.

(3) "Old Kids On The Block" (aka/The Traveling Wilburys) or New Kids On The Block?

If that amphitheater ever gets built in the area, I can only give the owners one piece of advice: DON'T BOOK THE NEW KIDS.

The Wilburys easily outdistanced the boys from Boston, 73-9. Of course, 21 respondents chose neither, but that's beside the point.

(4) Coke or Pepsi?

This one surprised me, not only because of the final count (Pepsi, 56-43), but because of the diversity between schools.

Whittemore-Prescott was pro-Pepsi. The Cardinals chose The Right One by a 2-1 margin, 39-18. Must have been those neon cans they came up with a few months ago, which, when stacked in a certain order, spelled out the word "sex." (No, I am not making this up.)

At Ogemaw, though, Coke proved to be the real thing, winning 25-17.

(5) McDonald's, Burger King or Wendy's

I didn't put Taco Bell or Arby's on the list, because I wanted to stick to burger places. (Also, Taco Bell is my favorite, but I didn't want to show any bias.)

With TB out of the way, Mickey D's cruised to victory, outdistancing the BK Lounge, 61-30. Wedy's had 11 votes.

Ogemaw proved to make a close race not so tight, McVoting by a 32-8 count.

(6) Danielle Steele, Stephen King, Jackie Collins or George Orwell?

This King had more success. The master writer of terror scored 88 votes, while Collins was a close second with six. George "1984" Orwell scored three votes, nipping Steele, who had two.

Orwell would have scored better seven years ago, I think.

(7) War or Peace?

The object of war is to win - like America and the rest of the world did in Iraq. But peace beat war, 86-14. Go tell Stormin' Norman and the rest of the Scud Patrol that one.

(8) The Cosby Show, L.A. Law, ESPN Sportscenter or M*A*S*H?

With Michigan's win in Question No. 1, you could almost see the sports fans sharpening their pencils on this one. ESPN gathered 30 votes, just barely in front of the Cosby Clan's 28. Law scored 23, while M*A*S*H had 18 votes (not bad for a rerun).

Murphy Brown got a token vote.

When it comes down to it, I have no idea what all these numbers mean. But at least you know where today's graduates stand on the important issues.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

1991 Baseball History No Shock To One Fan

So the Ryan Express threw another no-hitter.

Yawn.

And that Rickey guy out in Oakland? Stole another base, I hear.

No biggie.

"Why so passive?" you might ask. (Go ahead, ask. I've got all day.)

Good question. Glad you asked. And I've got a logical answer, one quipped by Yogi Berra several years ago:

Just a case of 'deja vu' all over again.

What's that mean? Well, in a nutshell, it implies that these are events which should not have surprised anyone. Nor should have the responses from the two baseball stars.

Rickey Henderson's quest for Lou Brock's all-time stolen base record has been the subject of a thousand-plus stories in the papers, television and radio. He opened the year a few shy of the mark, and there was no doubt he would get SB No. 939 sometime during the year.

After all, when you average something like 80 steals a season, it would be a pretty lousy year if Rickey swiped only one or two by October 6.

So Rickey's pursuit of Brock's achievement was no surprise. Nor was his response on the field, when he grasped third base (the one he stole for the record), held it over his head, and exclaimed, much like a combination of Muhammed Ali and Mars Blackmon, "I am the greatest!"

That leads us to R. Nolan Ryan (or "Mr. Ryan" to the rest of you), the greatest strikeout machine baseball has ever seen. Unlike Rickey, Nolan handled his brush with greatness as professionally as anyone I've ever seen.

Nolan'd tale is legendary. A lot of people anticipated him going up against the Detroit Tigers last weekend, because he could very well strike out 27 batters. The Tigers whiff crew of Cecil Fielder, Mickey Tettleton, Pete Incaviglia (a former teammate of Ryan's) and Rob Deer was expected to turn Tiger Stadium into a wind machine more powerful than a Lansing politician in the middle of a campaign swing.

But Detroit missed out. And the Toronto batters missed everything.

When the Express hit Toronto (not the other way around, obviously) May 1, it hit with a fury. Sixteen strikeouts. No hits.

No major shock.

But even more impressive was Nolan's response. Instead of insulting the intelligence of everyone in the stands, his teammates, the other team and the television audience - as Henderson did - Ryan spoke calmly and collectively into the microphone, giving words of appreciation to everyone around him for their hard work, his laidf-back Texas drawl commanding the moment. Indeed, if he had been any more relaxed and composed, I would have sworn he had taken too many Valium after the game.

Yes, it was history. When this 44-year-old Texan throws a no-hitter, it's an historic event.

But it's not unprecedented. Let's face it. This was Nolan's seventh no-no. That's almost twice as many as Sandy Koufax, second on the list. Whenever Ryan goes out on the mound, you can almost expect a no-hitter.

No, the act itself is not surprising. It seems to happen every year. If you want a no-hit surprise, put me on the mound. Then you'll be in shock if there's a no-hitter.

How long will he keep it up? Who knows? Nolan could be throwing peas past his own grandson before he retires.

Yes, this will be a season of records and milestones in the major leagues. Rickey should steal No. 1,000 by the end of the year. And Ryan should have three or four more no-hitters by then, too.

When they happen, they won't surprise me. Not a bit.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Tax Time Offers Plenty Of Questions, Sweating

I am on the phone, sweat forming profusely on my brow, preparing to talk to the most powerful organization in the world.

The Mafia? Wimps, all of them. Joh Gotti? Get real.

The staff of 60 Minutes? Not even close. They might put you on the spot, but you know they can splice you right out of the segment.

The military leaders who directed Desert Storm? C'mon. Give me a break. Even military might can't compare.

No, this is one powerful group. They make strong men wince. Women shake. Accountants busy.

They are ... the IRS.

Ye,s they are the original Bad Boys. Long before the Detroit Pistons began elbowing their way to back-to-back NBA crowns, they were there, imposing on hundreds of thousands of people, many innocent, with the single-scariest word in the English language:

Audit.

This isn't about an audit. But it is about fear. Who do you fear more - Clint Eastwood, Mike Tyson, or the voice that says, in an ever-so-pleasing, yet terrifying, tone, "Hello, Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you?"

How can you help? Hmmm. Maybe by TAXING THE RICH INSTEAD OF THE MIDDLE CLASS!!!

Sorry. Lost my cool.

I am checking on other technical questions, the ones which all of us, at one time or another, must deal with.

For example:

"If the Pentagon thinks a paper clip costs $750, can I send you one in lieu of a check and get a partial refund?"

"If I form my own religion (such as, The Church of the Almighty Paul, Inc.), do i have to pay taxes?"

"Can a goldfish named Boris be considered a deduction? How about a car named Christine?"

"Are monies lost in failed S&Ls considered a business expense, or a stupidity expense?"

The line is busy. I'm not the only one with fears. I'll try again. One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingies. Three ringy-dingies.

Connection.

I am sweating and the IRS person hasn't even started to speak. Not that a delay is imminent. I ...

Oh. It's a recorded message. The next available IRS representative will be with me shortly.

Like it really matter.

I'm going over my notes. It's always a good thing to have notes with you when talking to the IRS. Even if the ink I use smears when sweat dribbles from my forehead onto the page.

A live assistant comes on the line. "Hi, this is Monique. How may I help you?"

(Haven't we been down this path before? Hmmm.) Listen, Monique, I got a problem, and I'm hoping you can answer it for me.

"Sure, what is it?"

Well ... uh ...

(I begin to look over my notes, squinting to read words which are now, literally, in a pool of water.

... OK. Here we go. Let's say that I can't pay all of my taxes that I still owe by April 15? What will happen?

(I picture her lips turning into an evil, diabolical smirk. The smile. The villainous laugh. The fangs sticking out of the corners of her mouth. Boy, eating late-night pizzas with sesame seed crusts whole watching Arsenio Hall can cause nightmares like this.)

She is quick to respond, and my fears come true. "Well, first you'll be slapped with a five percent penalty on the existing balance, which will continue to increase over a six-month period until it reaches 200 percent. And there's also an 11 percent interest charge which starts April 16 at 12:01 a.m., and is incurred on a daily basis. In other words, YOU BETTER PAY US NOW, MISTER, WHILE YOU STILL HAVE THE SHIRT ON YOUR BACK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

"Hope I answered your question. Have a nice day."

Click. Dial tone.

I pull out my calculator (boy, hope the sweat pool hasn't fried the circuits). I begin to calculate. My $100 still owed on April 15 would turn into $547,982.33 by May 1.

Looks like I'll have to send a whole box of paper clips instead.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Baseball Fans, Arise! Spring Is Finally Here!

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Undoubtedly, a sale was going on at some appliance store.

My body's alarm clock s out of whack, the result of jumping an hour ahead this week.

It must be spring.

That means my beloved Detroit Tigers are tearing up the turf at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. And my friend Oly's lovable Cubbies are blasting horsehide onto Waveland Avenue.

(In case you're wondering, Oly is the biggest chicago Cubs fan in the world. He eats, sleeps and breathes Cubs. He says he wants to be cremated and sprinkled along the first-base foul line after he dies. In another life, he might have been Hack Wilson or Grover Cleveland Alexander. Or even Ernie Banks, although since Mr. Cub is still living, that might be a bit difficult.)

It's been a long winter. Too much snow. Too many stupid million-dollar contracts. A war. Too many other distractions. As Tom petty sang, "The waiting is the hardest part."

No more. The calendar said spring began March 20. I know otherwise. Spring began April 8, when the first pitch was thrown and thousands of baseball-hungry fans screamed with delight.

Home plate has been dusted off. The tarp neatly rolled up in foul territory. The aroma of lukewarm hot dogs, even warmer beer, and mustard-slopped jumbo pretzels filled the nostrils of people luckier than me, who were able to catch the Tigers home opener in person.

Baseball.

It's box scores and errors, doubles up the gap and "standing by the side of the road and watching that one go by."

Baseball is Hammerin' Hank, The Babe, Stan the Man, Stormin' Norman, Daffy and Dizzy. It's Oil Can and The Ryan Express, Bam Bam and The Bash Brothers.

It's Ryno, The Hawk, and "Tram to Lou for Two."

It's bleacher seats and beach balls, tortilla wars in Anaheim, blowing up disco 45s in old Comiskey Park, the Green Monster and The Big Red Machine.

Baseball

Bo knows baseball. Bo knows football. Bo also knows hip injuries. Now, Bo knows Chicago (the White Sox, not the Cubs). Hmmm.

The "other" Bo - Schembechler - also knows baseball and football. One wonders which Bo knows more at times, though. Detroiters are still perplexingly perplexed with Bo's baseball knowledge; after all, in baseball, there's a tendency to do a lot of throwing of the ball.

Baseball is a field of dreams (sounds like a pretty good title for a movie, don't you think?), a vast wonderland of grass vs. turf, designated hitter vs. pitcher in the nine hole, good vs. The New York Yankees.

(As Tigers and Cubs fans, Oly and I tend to do a lot of dreaming. More often than not, mine takes place at work, which draws the wrath of my managing editor. There's the dream that the two teams will meet - finally - in the World Series, like they did in 1945, and like they should have done in 1984. There's the dream that Pittsburgh Pirate Barry Bonds will sit out the season, too upset because his contract is "only" $500 million [poor baby, where's my violin?]. There's the dream that I can become the next Ernie Harwell, even without changing my name. And there's the fantasy that Sports Illustrated swimsuit goddess Kathy Ireland will walk into the Herald's editorial department and say, "Gosh, baseball-loving columnists/reporters really turn me on!")

Like I said, a lot of dreaming.

There's plenty of other sports going on right now. The playoffs are approaching in basketball. They're already here for professional hockey. Tennis, golf and bowling are saturated on the television.

And, of course, the new World League of American Football, with its fancy helmet-cams and insipid team monikers (if Bart Simpson were quarterbacking the Birmingham Fire, what would he be? A spark? A match? Smokey the Bear?), it's all glitz and no substance.

Yawn.

But I have baseball now. Forever young, baseball is still the purest game in town. Foul lines stretch to infinite dimensions; in theory, a baseball game can last forever, since no set time limit controls its fate.

It's springtime. The Boys of Summer are back in action. And, by the way, as I am writing this, the Tigers are undefeated.

Save Oly and me a few seats in the front row.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.