Just a few things I've had laying around that have never seen the light of day.
Is Your M&E Track Fully-Filled?
Almost 20 years ago I began my career in the entertainment industry as a bright eyed and hopeful recent college graduate. And, as in most fields of work I'm sure, the path I've taken since then, did not exactly match the path I thought I would take. Instead of accepting academy awards and being the object of frivolous lawsuits by jilted super models, I found myself accepting one job after another in the post-production field.
Post-production, for those who don’t know, is the finishing work that happens to movies and TV shows after they are shot. This would include editing, creating special effects, creating the sound and music, and finally putting all the pieces together to create a “master” video tape that gets delivered to the studio or broadcaster. The master tape can take many forms, but it must be technically perfect in every way according to long lists of highly technical specifications that tell you just how bright a scene can be or how loud the audio is allowed to go.
Picture: Generally good quality…
Audio: Failed, M&E track not fully-filled
Most people in post-production know what an M&E track is. But for those who don’t, here is a brief lesson in Post Production 101. The sound in a movie contains three discreet elements of audio: Dialogue, Music and Sound Effects. Everything you hear in a film comes from those three combined parts. When the Dialogue is dropped out, you are left with the Music and Effects track. This is used when someone wants to place foreign language dubbed dialogue in the film for viewing in another language. This only works correctly when the M&E (Music and Effects tracks combined) is fully filled with all of the sound effects needed to make the show sound normal. Every door slam, footstep and shuffle of papers on a desk. Where would society be with the sound of Indy’s bullwhip, the hair ripping out of a 40-year-old virgin’s chest or the seductive zipper on Angelina Jolie’s bustiere? If any of these effects are missing, the M&E track is not "fully filled," the film is subject to rejection when a diligent QC operator sits in a dark room scrutinizing it frame by frame and society as we know it crumbles into chaos. Simple, right?
So, M&E is the background noise that takes place under the talking. It is what fills the void behind everything we are watching and paying attention to. If it is done well, you usually don’t notice it. But if the M&E were not there, the overall impact would be that there is something very seriously wrong with this picture.
So it is in life.
Take a moment to think of M&E as the background of your life, the things that go on behind all the talk and chatter and ranting. Think of M&E as the ambience that gives our lives flavor, character and depth. Strip out all the voices in your head and the verbal ballyhoo around you, and simply listen to what is left. Is it fully filled?
I remember the day I decided to go to film school. I was sitting in my truck on a hill somewhere in Glendale overlooking the valley and drinking beer with some friends. This was our favorite pastime back then; it is a miracle that I eventually found a woman who would marry me, I know. I am pretty sure we were listening to the soundtrack of a John Hughes’ movie on the cassette player, killing my battery once again. John Hughes’ films of the mid 1980’s captured exactly what my generation was feeling right then, somehow making you feel like that movie was made just for you (The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles… Pretty in Pink). And the music became the backdrop of our lives. So sitting on that hill, I had an epiphany (yes, epiphany) that changed the course of my life. Music is what makes movie reality different from our living reality and wouldn’t it be great if we all walked around with our own theme music or score playing in the background of our daily chores and such. John Williams and the Boston Pops following you everywhere, playing music that fit each moment perfectly. You are standing in line at Starbuck’s choosing between a Caffé Vanilla Frappuccino® Light Blended with soy milk and a Half Caf Cinnamon Dolce Crème, and just when you choose the Frappuccino® and the barista hollers the order in, your string section blares with a triumphant chord and the audience knows you’ve won this battle…until next time. That is what separated movies from reality! Music! I know what you are wondering. And I will tell you. I was drinking Olde English 800.
5 years later I had a degree in film production from the illustrious CSUN film school. I spent the next 6 months unemployed and wondering why no one offered to give me money to make the film I had not yet written, my own Sex, lies and Videotape indie blockbuster. I have a FILM DEGREE for crying out loud!! It was another 6 months as a gopher lackey to a so-called producer born and bred in Beverly Hills with a Cartiere platinum and diamond encrusted spoon in her mouth before I started doing anything meaningful with my education. From there I began my career as a servicing manager, and my long education in post-production was underway. That script still isn’t written, but I’ve stopped wondering why no one is knocking down my door to give me money.
I have often wanted to ask people, what would the music behind your daily life be? Classical, Rap, R&B… Calypso? Be careful. Whatever you say hints greatly at how you perceive yourself. Think about it.
Music is obvious. It is easy to think of music in the background of your life. It can be a powerful accent to everything we do, heightening or taming our emotions, adding a sense of poignancy to the events of the day. But if music is the constant structure on which we ride throughout life, effects are the beats, the tempo, the sizzle, the nut. Effects are those elements without which life would have no value or interest. Effects are the noises that add texture and substance to everything we do. They are things that give you peace and fulfillment; what you do when you are not behind a computer screen, making a dub, designing a DVD menu, generating a revenue report or trying to fake a laugh at yet another of your client’s off-color jokes over cocktails when you would rather be home with the kids playing Go Fish and wiping Ritz cracker crumbs off your shirt …I digress.
Effects can be anything: books, writing, poetry, painting, riding your bike, cooking, fishing, hiking, playing Xbox, traveling, horseback riding, motorcycle riding, teaching high school kids how to play the drums, paint ball wars, swing dancing, gardening, protesting the Iraq war on a street corner in Atwater Village and trying to get cars to honk in support... the little things that make you you.
I am a book guy. I love learning, love reading, love exploring life, religion, philosophy and the arts. Give me the Bible, poetry by Pablo Neruda, Of Human Bondage, The Sacred Art of Japanese Bondage, the Tao Te Ching, The Tao of Pooh… The Te of Piglet, and I am a happy guy. Get me in the kitchen on a Saturday, tri-tip roast, a rack of spices and a bottle of fine Napa cab, and you won’t find a more contented man.
For most of us, if our lives were put through a 2 pass, 4 channel master QC, we’d fail. We’d fail not because we don’t work hard and try to put the best picture out there for the world to see. We would fail QC for the smaller things. We’d fail QC because our M&E tracks are not fully-filled. We’d fail QC because we didn’t spend enough time listening to the music, reading that book, playing with our kids, molding another ashtray out of clay or standing up for what is just and right and good in this world.
So, here is your hall pass, your mental health day. Enjoy the music. You are free and able to fill your life fully with amazing effects that will make you smile and laugh and cry. Go on. Get outta here. Seriously. Go.
Post-production, for those who don’t know, is the finishing work that happens to movies and TV shows after they are shot. This would include editing, creating special effects, creating the sound and music, and finally putting all the pieces together to create a “master” video tape that gets delivered to the studio or broadcaster. The master tape can take many forms, but it must be technically perfect in every way according to long lists of highly technical specifications that tell you just how bright a scene can be or how loud the audio is allowed to go.
Picture: Generally good quality…
Audio: Failed, M&E track not fully-filled
Most people in post-production know what an M&E track is. But for those who don’t, here is a brief lesson in Post Production 101. The sound in a movie contains three discreet elements of audio: Dialogue, Music and Sound Effects. Everything you hear in a film comes from those three combined parts. When the Dialogue is dropped out, you are left with the Music and Effects track. This is used when someone wants to place foreign language dubbed dialogue in the film for viewing in another language. This only works correctly when the M&E (Music and Effects tracks combined) is fully filled with all of the sound effects needed to make the show sound normal. Every door slam, footstep and shuffle of papers on a desk. Where would society be with the sound of Indy’s bullwhip, the hair ripping out of a 40-year-old virgin’s chest or the seductive zipper on Angelina Jolie’s bustiere? If any of these effects are missing, the M&E track is not "fully filled," the film is subject to rejection when a diligent QC operator sits in a dark room scrutinizing it frame by frame and society as we know it crumbles into chaos. Simple, right?
So, M&E is the background noise that takes place under the talking. It is what fills the void behind everything we are watching and paying attention to. If it is done well, you usually don’t notice it. But if the M&E were not there, the overall impact would be that there is something very seriously wrong with this picture.
So it is in life.
Take a moment to think of M&E as the background of your life, the things that go on behind all the talk and chatter and ranting. Think of M&E as the ambience that gives our lives flavor, character and depth. Strip out all the voices in your head and the verbal ballyhoo around you, and simply listen to what is left. Is it fully filled?
I remember the day I decided to go to film school. I was sitting in my truck on a hill somewhere in Glendale overlooking the valley and drinking beer with some friends. This was our favorite pastime back then; it is a miracle that I eventually found a woman who would marry me, I know. I am pretty sure we were listening to the soundtrack of a John Hughes’ movie on the cassette player, killing my battery once again. John Hughes’ films of the mid 1980’s captured exactly what my generation was feeling right then, somehow making you feel like that movie was made just for you (The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles… Pretty in Pink). And the music became the backdrop of our lives. So sitting on that hill, I had an epiphany (yes, epiphany) that changed the course of my life. Music is what makes movie reality different from our living reality and wouldn’t it be great if we all walked around with our own theme music or score playing in the background of our daily chores and such. John Williams and the Boston Pops following you everywhere, playing music that fit each moment perfectly. You are standing in line at Starbuck’s choosing between a Caffé Vanilla Frappuccino® Light Blended with soy milk and a Half Caf Cinnamon Dolce Crème, and just when you choose the Frappuccino® and the barista hollers the order in, your string section blares with a triumphant chord and the audience knows you’ve won this battle…until next time. That is what separated movies from reality! Music! I know what you are wondering. And I will tell you. I was drinking Olde English 800.
5 years later I had a degree in film production from the illustrious CSUN film school. I spent the next 6 months unemployed and wondering why no one offered to give me money to make the film I had not yet written, my own Sex, lies and Videotape indie blockbuster. I have a FILM DEGREE for crying out loud!! It was another 6 months as a gopher lackey to a so-called producer born and bred in Beverly Hills with a Cartiere platinum and diamond encrusted spoon in her mouth before I started doing anything meaningful with my education. From there I began my career as a servicing manager, and my long education in post-production was underway. That script still isn’t written, but I’ve stopped wondering why no one is knocking down my door to give me money.
I have often wanted to ask people, what would the music behind your daily life be? Classical, Rap, R&B… Calypso? Be careful. Whatever you say hints greatly at how you perceive yourself. Think about it.
Music is obvious. It is easy to think of music in the background of your life. It can be a powerful accent to everything we do, heightening or taming our emotions, adding a sense of poignancy to the events of the day. But if music is the constant structure on which we ride throughout life, effects are the beats, the tempo, the sizzle, the nut. Effects are those elements without which life would have no value or interest. Effects are the noises that add texture and substance to everything we do. They are things that give you peace and fulfillment; what you do when you are not behind a computer screen, making a dub, designing a DVD menu, generating a revenue report or trying to fake a laugh at yet another of your client’s off-color jokes over cocktails when you would rather be home with the kids playing Go Fish and wiping Ritz cracker crumbs off your shirt …I digress.
Effects can be anything: books, writing, poetry, painting, riding your bike, cooking, fishing, hiking, playing Xbox, traveling, horseback riding, motorcycle riding, teaching high school kids how to play the drums, paint ball wars, swing dancing, gardening, protesting the Iraq war on a street corner in Atwater Village and trying to get cars to honk in support... the little things that make you you.
I am a book guy. I love learning, love reading, love exploring life, religion, philosophy and the arts. Give me the Bible, poetry by Pablo Neruda, Of Human Bondage, The Sacred Art of Japanese Bondage, the Tao Te Ching, The Tao of Pooh… The Te of Piglet, and I am a happy guy. Get me in the kitchen on a Saturday, tri-tip roast, a rack of spices and a bottle of fine Napa cab, and you won’t find a more contented man.
For most of us, if our lives were put through a 2 pass, 4 channel master QC, we’d fail. We’d fail not because we don’t work hard and try to put the best picture out there for the world to see. We would fail QC for the smaller things. We’d fail QC because our M&E tracks are not fully-filled. We’d fail QC because we didn’t spend enough time listening to the music, reading that book, playing with our kids, molding another ashtray out of clay or standing up for what is just and right and good in this world.
So, here is your hall pass, your mental health day. Enjoy the music. You are free and able to fill your life fully with amazing effects that will make you smile and laugh and cry. Go on. Get outta here. Seriously. Go.
Nothing To Laugh At
It’s the smell that gives them away. Sometimes their clothes, but always their smell.
It was a dull office on a busy Wilshire Blvd., and my desk was the first and only one to greet those that entered the building. This was a dinosaur of a film company whose glory days had come and gone. They made a fortune in the 70’s and 80’s making biker movies and flicks about teenagers frolicking topless on Malibu Beach. I hated this job. Don’t most people hate their first job? I was a peon, a lackey for a low budget, B film production company. It was my job to do everything that no one else wanted to do, and that included picking up laundry and prescription medication for the bosses or cleaning out drains when someone put coffee grounds down the kitchen sink.
Most people that came into the building, and there were not many of them, were there for a purpose: picking up or dropping off a delivery, the rare development meeting. I could not see the front door to the building around the corner from my desk, but a bell went off when someone entered and the rush of traffic sounds trickled in then out again. Within a few seconds I would see the person and direct them on their way. When I heard the bell and the rush but saw no one within about a few seconds, I knew I was about to entertain someone. Or, the other way around.
The bell told me it was only one person. Before I could see them, the murmured conversation told me the one person had multiple personalities. Often when this happened, I heard noisy bags of cans and bottles bound for recycling. No bags this time. Then the smell hit. It hit before I ever saw him. That had never happened before. A sickening sweet, acrid smell. A blend of sweat, exhaust grime, personal odor and urine. When that hits before the person is in view, you know they’ve been on the streets for some time.
The mumbled, self-conversation was peppered with little bursts of maniacal laughter. A murmur, then a chuckle, and the chuckle faded out rather than ceased. He came around the corner, and I saw now that his clothes matched his scent. I think that fairly sums up his appearance. He sat down in the empty chair in front of me as if I’d been waiting for him to arrive. His demeanor was friendly, and he greeted me with a shy smile.
“Regal Pictures,” he said enthusiastically. “Regal Pictures,” again, in a tone as if he’d just bumped into an old acquaintance. He looked around at the bad posters that my predecessor had chosen to decorate the office. Tasteless films exploiting whatever theme sold best that year: rebels on bikes, teenagers doing it in the back of a van; pretty teachers giving instruction in more than grammer to wide-eyed, male high school students too afraid to ask Mary to the prom.
“I worked here once,” my new friend announced with great pride. Before I had a chance to mourn my destiny, he continued, “yes, sir, must have been twelve years ago. I worked here at Regal Pictures…I think.” His voice and attention trailed off into thin air as he scanned more posters. For a moment he left me for another production office in the far reaches of his mind. I brought him back, asking how he was doing today. “Fine, just fine…” and again the last word floated out and away, the sound disappearing rather than ending. “I’m just trying to figure out what to do with my money though.” I took my hand out of my pocket and let the lose change drop. “Yeah, I invest in movies, you know? Done it a lot. I think…” If he didn’t need my money, perhaps an investment tip: don’t invest in movies.
“Regal Pictures,” he reminisced. Then the laugh again. It started strong, hearty, but it ended in the same place as did the last word of every sentence he spoke. That meaty chuckle began in his gut, ended in faint distress. “I came up here back then on the bus,” then the laugh again and gone. I asked which bus to make idle conversation on another slow day. “The bus up from, you know…the bus from…down there.” I nodded. By now I had grown accustomed to the smell.
“Man, I feel like I live here, you know?” Yes, I did know. “I mean, I feel like…” but he didn't finish the thought, unfortunately. He laughed again and as he did he turned to look me in the eyes. I met his gaze and time stopped. “I just feel like…” and his eyes filled with an earnest desire for something like truth, compassion, understanding. A drop swelled in the corner of each eye, and held on. I laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh, the one I used at social events when I couldn't hear what someone had just said to me, hoping it was a joke of some kind.
Again he laughed, full and loud. Again it faded off to that other place. I heard myself laugh once more, but I never heard it end as it trailed away incomplete.
The phone rang its obnoxious ring. Funny how descriptive a phone’s ring can be when you know who is calling. This one told me that that copy machine was jammed.
My visitor stood. I didn’t recognize him anymore. He seemed the same as when he entered my office. He laughed, same laugh, and told me to take care as he walked out of sight. If I wished the same to him, he didn't hear me. I heard the bell and the rush of Wilshire before I picked up the phone.
It was a dull office on a busy Wilshire Blvd., and my desk was the first and only one to greet those that entered the building. This was a dinosaur of a film company whose glory days had come and gone. They made a fortune in the 70’s and 80’s making biker movies and flicks about teenagers frolicking topless on Malibu Beach. I hated this job. Don’t most people hate their first job? I was a peon, a lackey for a low budget, B film production company. It was my job to do everything that no one else wanted to do, and that included picking up laundry and prescription medication for the bosses or cleaning out drains when someone put coffee grounds down the kitchen sink.
Most people that came into the building, and there were not many of them, were there for a purpose: picking up or dropping off a delivery, the rare development meeting. I could not see the front door to the building around the corner from my desk, but a bell went off when someone entered and the rush of traffic sounds trickled in then out again. Within a few seconds I would see the person and direct them on their way. When I heard the bell and the rush but saw no one within about a few seconds, I knew I was about to entertain someone. Or, the other way around.
The bell told me it was only one person. Before I could see them, the murmured conversation told me the one person had multiple personalities. Often when this happened, I heard noisy bags of cans and bottles bound for recycling. No bags this time. Then the smell hit. It hit before I ever saw him. That had never happened before. A sickening sweet, acrid smell. A blend of sweat, exhaust grime, personal odor and urine. When that hits before the person is in view, you know they’ve been on the streets for some time.
The mumbled, self-conversation was peppered with little bursts of maniacal laughter. A murmur, then a chuckle, and the chuckle faded out rather than ceased. He came around the corner, and I saw now that his clothes matched his scent. I think that fairly sums up his appearance. He sat down in the empty chair in front of me as if I’d been waiting for him to arrive. His demeanor was friendly, and he greeted me with a shy smile.
“Regal Pictures,” he said enthusiastically. “Regal Pictures,” again, in a tone as if he’d just bumped into an old acquaintance. He looked around at the bad posters that my predecessor had chosen to decorate the office. Tasteless films exploiting whatever theme sold best that year: rebels on bikes, teenagers doing it in the back of a van; pretty teachers giving instruction in more than grammer to wide-eyed, male high school students too afraid to ask Mary to the prom.
“I worked here once,” my new friend announced with great pride. Before I had a chance to mourn my destiny, he continued, “yes, sir, must have been twelve years ago. I worked here at Regal Pictures…I think.” His voice and attention trailed off into thin air as he scanned more posters. For a moment he left me for another production office in the far reaches of his mind. I brought him back, asking how he was doing today. “Fine, just fine…” and again the last word floated out and away, the sound disappearing rather than ending. “I’m just trying to figure out what to do with my money though.” I took my hand out of my pocket and let the lose change drop. “Yeah, I invest in movies, you know? Done it a lot. I think…” If he didn’t need my money, perhaps an investment tip: don’t invest in movies.
“Regal Pictures,” he reminisced. Then the laugh again. It started strong, hearty, but it ended in the same place as did the last word of every sentence he spoke. That meaty chuckle began in his gut, ended in faint distress. “I came up here back then on the bus,” then the laugh again and gone. I asked which bus to make idle conversation on another slow day. “The bus up from, you know…the bus from…down there.” I nodded. By now I had grown accustomed to the smell.
“Man, I feel like I live here, you know?” Yes, I did know. “I mean, I feel like…” but he didn't finish the thought, unfortunately. He laughed again and as he did he turned to look me in the eyes. I met his gaze and time stopped. “I just feel like…” and his eyes filled with an earnest desire for something like truth, compassion, understanding. A drop swelled in the corner of each eye, and held on. I laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh, the one I used at social events when I couldn't hear what someone had just said to me, hoping it was a joke of some kind.
Again he laughed, full and loud. Again it faded off to that other place. I heard myself laugh once more, but I never heard it end as it trailed away incomplete.
The phone rang its obnoxious ring. Funny how descriptive a phone’s ring can be when you know who is calling. This one told me that that copy machine was jammed.
My visitor stood. I didn’t recognize him anymore. He seemed the same as when he entered my office. He laughed, same laugh, and told me to take care as he walked out of sight. If I wished the same to him, he didn't hear me. I heard the bell and the rush of Wilshire before I picked up the phone.
Below is a column I wrote for Small Wonders that never made it to publication. I wrote it the week Barack Obama was sworn into office. I gave the editor this column and one about "the kindness of strangers" and they chose to run the latter.
An Open Letter to President Obama
Dear President Obama,
I don't really believe that you will ever read this, but I am writing it anyway. Who knows? Maybe one day when you're bored you'll Google your name and hit "I'm Feeling Lucky" just to see if there is anything on the Internet about you and this will pop up.
I watched your inauguration on Tuesday with great interest. Congratulations on this remarkable accomplishment. Aside from Chief Justice Roberts' miscue during your oath (nice recovery, by the way) and the somewhat boring poetry reading, I'd say it must have been a pretty fulfilling day for you.
I write to you from Burbank, California. I like to think of Burbank as a small town trapped in a big city's body. I think you'd like it. We're a family friendly town but not immune to the ways of the world. We've got our drugs, gangs and homelessness; the usual high cost of living and increasing unemployment. All in all, we're a lot like most other towns across the country.
Even though there are a couple things I may not agree with you on, I voted for you. However, a lot of people that I love and respect dearly did not. They are my family members, friends, folks at my church and co-workers. I hope you don't hold it against them. They were doing what they thought was best in their hearts. And they may be right. I guess we won't know for a few years.
But it is hope that I wanted to talk to you about. You used that word a lot during your campaign. Although it became an overused and commercialized marketing tool, I bought into it. It is a calculated risk to believe in a slogan, but I've done dumber things in my life.
Like everyone else, I hope that you can figure out a way to solve this economic crisis. People close to me have lost their jobs, and who knows, I may be next. But I hope you find a way to help average people before millionaires and Fortune 500 companies.
Like everyone else I hope that you find a safe and responsible way out of Iraq and Afghanistan without leaving those countries in revolt or in the hands of mad men. I hope you are able to bring our soldiers home before too many more of them die for this.
Like everyone else I hope that you make us all proud. While the significance of your election is most profound for the African American community, and rightfully so, we all embrace the tremendous turning point this means for our country and the world. Other nations that are supposedly "more civilized" are decades away from seeing this happen in their countries. I hope that your accomplishments bring a new day of racial equality and social justice everywhere.
Like everyone else I hope that you remember that even if some people did not support or vote for you, you are still their president too. You seem to be good at reaching across the aisle, not losing your cool or getting caught up in the games that others play. I hope that is a real gift, and I hope that you use it well.
But most importantly, Mr. President, I hope that you take time each day to stop the very important things that you are doing in order to take care of the two most important things in your life. I hope that you make that short walk across the hall from your office to your residence daily, and remember that you are a father first. I hope that you take the time to read to those daughters of yours. I hope that you play games with them regularly and watch them dance and tell them how beautiful they are. For there is nothing so beautiful as a daughter basking in her father's love and adoration.
I am a father of two girls not much younger than yours. And I hope you remember that family is the most important thing in life. I believe this is as true for world leaders as it is for the rest of us little people. Family is more important than politics, world affairs, polls or anything else. If you love those two girls as much as I love mine, if you put them first while under the stress of being the "leader of the free world," then I will believe that you are truly capable of accomplishing all that you have promised. I'll be pulling and praying for you.
I hope that you achieve all that you have set your mind to. And I hope that you do it while being a devoted father and husband. And more than I hope you make all Americans proud, I hope you make your daughters proud.
I hope.
I don't really believe that you will ever read this, but I am writing it anyway. Who knows? Maybe one day when you're bored you'll Google your name and hit "I'm Feeling Lucky" just to see if there is anything on the Internet about you and this will pop up.
I watched your inauguration on Tuesday with great interest. Congratulations on this remarkable accomplishment. Aside from Chief Justice Roberts' miscue during your oath (nice recovery, by the way) and the somewhat boring poetry reading, I'd say it must have been a pretty fulfilling day for you.
I write to you from Burbank, California. I like to think of Burbank as a small town trapped in a big city's body. I think you'd like it. We're a family friendly town but not immune to the ways of the world. We've got our drugs, gangs and homelessness; the usual high cost of living and increasing unemployment. All in all, we're a lot like most other towns across the country.
Even though there are a couple things I may not agree with you on, I voted for you. However, a lot of people that I love and respect dearly did not. They are my family members, friends, folks at my church and co-workers. I hope you don't hold it against them. They were doing what they thought was best in their hearts. And they may be right. I guess we won't know for a few years.
But it is hope that I wanted to talk to you about. You used that word a lot during your campaign. Although it became an overused and commercialized marketing tool, I bought into it. It is a calculated risk to believe in a slogan, but I've done dumber things in my life.
Like everyone else, I hope that you can figure out a way to solve this economic crisis. People close to me have lost their jobs, and who knows, I may be next. But I hope you find a way to help average people before millionaires and Fortune 500 companies.
Like everyone else I hope that you find a safe and responsible way out of Iraq and Afghanistan without leaving those countries in revolt or in the hands of mad men. I hope you are able to bring our soldiers home before too many more of them die for this.
Like everyone else I hope that you make us all proud. While the significance of your election is most profound for the African American community, and rightfully so, we all embrace the tremendous turning point this means for our country and the world. Other nations that are supposedly "more civilized" are decades away from seeing this happen in their countries. I hope that your accomplishments bring a new day of racial equality and social justice everywhere.
Like everyone else I hope that you remember that even if some people did not support or vote for you, you are still their president too. You seem to be good at reaching across the aisle, not losing your cool or getting caught up in the games that others play. I hope that is a real gift, and I hope that you use it well.
But most importantly, Mr. President, I hope that you take time each day to stop the very important things that you are doing in order to take care of the two most important things in your life. I hope that you make that short walk across the hall from your office to your residence daily, and remember that you are a father first. I hope that you take the time to read to those daughters of yours. I hope that you play games with them regularly and watch them dance and tell them how beautiful they are. For there is nothing so beautiful as a daughter basking in her father's love and adoration.
I am a father of two girls not much younger than yours. And I hope you remember that family is the most important thing in life. I believe this is as true for world leaders as it is for the rest of us little people. Family is more important than politics, world affairs, polls or anything else. If you love those two girls as much as I love mine, if you put them first while under the stress of being the "leader of the free world," then I will believe that you are truly capable of accomplishing all that you have promised. I'll be pulling and praying for you.
I hope that you achieve all that you have set your mind to. And I hope that you do it while being a devoted father and husband. And more than I hope you make all Americans proud, I hope you make your daughters proud.
I hope.
A visit to the Canedays
LILLY THE MOUSE
I learned something new about my daddy when I brought Lilly home. He's "allergic" to rats. But when I told him Lilly was a mouse, not a rat, he said OK. He watched her very closely all evening though. When we walked in the door we threw our shoes and backpacks all over the room, demanded cheese and crackers then watched the same episode of SpongeBob 18 times. Lilly liked that. She liked the cheese and crackers too. Then it was time to do my homework. I worked on my math and Lilly told me that I got every answer right. She's very good at math. After that we ate dinner. It was taco night. And you know what? Mice like tacos. Soft tacos. After that as we were watching the Grinch, I heard Lilly squeal. When I looked I saw my Daddy trying to take 3 quarters out of her purple plastic purse. We put Daddy in a time out.
I like having Lilly over.
CLIFFORD THE DOG
I was so excited to take Clifford home today. But, when my dad saw Clifford, he wanted to make him ride in the back of his truck. I wouldn't let him. When we got home, my sister Chloe helped me with my homework, and Clifford double checked it. He's very good at math. My dad asked if Clifford could fix the computer if he was so smart, but I said no. Clifford's Mac. Daddy's PC. Clifford watched SpongeBob with us until dinner time. When I told my dad that Clifford wanted sushi, he yelled and asked if the school would reimburse him. I didn't know what that meant, so I said meat loaf would be fine too. Then Clifford left a "gift" on Daddy's bed. It looked like cotton balls to me, but dad was mad. He'll miss Clifford.
I learned something new about my daddy when I brought Lilly home. He's "allergic" to rats. But when I told him Lilly was a mouse, not a rat, he said OK. He watched her very closely all evening though. When we walked in the door we threw our shoes and backpacks all over the room, demanded cheese and crackers then watched the same episode of SpongeBob 18 times. Lilly liked that. She liked the cheese and crackers too. Then it was time to do my homework. I worked on my math and Lilly told me that I got every answer right. She's very good at math. After that we ate dinner. It was taco night. And you know what? Mice like tacos. Soft tacos. After that as we were watching the Grinch, I heard Lilly squeal. When I looked I saw my Daddy trying to take 3 quarters out of her purple plastic purse. We put Daddy in a time out.
I like having Lilly over.
CLIFFORD THE DOG
I was so excited to take Clifford home today. But, when my dad saw Clifford, he wanted to make him ride in the back of his truck. I wouldn't let him. When we got home, my sister Chloe helped me with my homework, and Clifford double checked it. He's very good at math. My dad asked if Clifford could fix the computer if he was so smart, but I said no. Clifford's Mac. Daddy's PC. Clifford watched SpongeBob with us until dinner time. When I told my dad that Clifford wanted sushi, he yelled and asked if the school would reimburse him. I didn't know what that meant, so I said meat loaf would be fine too. Then Clifford left a "gift" on Daddy's bed. It looked like cotton balls to me, but dad was mad. He'll miss Clifford.
