Fire lemmings and the FBI

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire. (Tell me when it's out.)
Tonight while on the treadmill at the gym -- somewhere between minutes 15 and 16 and incline 11.0 and 12.0 -- my mind wandered to a blog topic. I haven't written in a week and haven't divined a subject worth any comment. As I considered possible subject matter, the answer came in the form of a flashing light and claxon shriek.

The fire alarm went off at the gym.

Of course, it took me a moment to even register that was what was happening as my iPod was cranked to a level loud enough to deaden most ambient sound. Apparently, that was the case with virtually everyone else in the vicinity. I was on a treadmill at the far back of the cardio area. Looking forward across about 10 rows of equipment (bikes, stairclimbers and more treadmills), I saw approximately 100 people do the same thing as me: look up (see the flashing lights there), look right (see the flashing lights there), look left (see the flashing lights there), look at each other, and then, almost in a choreographed fashion, everybody looked to the right toward the check-in desk. No one got off their equipment, no one took off their headphones. We all just looked at the front desk clerk to either tell us everything was alright or that we were all going to die.

Sure enough, the alarms went off about 90 seconds later. But I just thought it was funny that we're all so skeptical, so blasé, that not much scares us. Emergency Broadcast System tests, the occasional earthquakes, high speed car chases, wars on TV...it takes a lot to get us alarmed, apparently. In a way, I kind of was hoping some flaming beam would crash down through the ceiling tiles above to see us scramble like frantic maniacs...our individual playlists scoring our customized cataclysm soundtracks.

Now that I think of it, I was listening to Coldplay's "Don't Panic" at that moment. Huh...

The Feds love Binary Pulse.
Over the past few weeks, we've been working on a unique, dimensional mailer for a client of ours. The design is a 12" long clear tube that encases a clear plastic insert that conforms to the inner circumference of the tube. On that insert is printed a black and white barbed wire pattern. Inside is a mailer that talks about data security; the recipient looks through the barbed wire to the partially obscured teaser headline within, hopefully compelling them to open the tube and read further.

This weekend, the printer running our initial samples sent a proof to me at home, and one to our client in San Diego, prior to running the thousand or so final pieces. I got mine, he didn't get his.

This morning, after investigating a bit, it turns out that the box the sample was in got scanned by UPS and flagged. Then the FBI actually came in and took the box for inspection. Homeland Security took our mailer sample! How cool is that? Turns out they later cleared it and forwarded it to the client. The fact that it was in a box undoubtedly made it more suspicious than it will be when mailed solo. I can imagine that, on an X-ray, the thing would probably look like some nefarious 007 nuclear bomb core. But, no, just a harmless plastic mailer tube.

Not sure why mine didn't get stopped, but, hey, at least San Diego County is protected from terrorists.

Hopefully we'll be able to beat not only the average direct mail 2% response rate, but our mailer may just set a record for being opened by the most national intelligence and security agencies, too.

Subcreature of habit

Between 1993 and 1996, I worked out religiously. For the first time in my life, I became highly addicted to exercise and improving my health.

In 1997, I got married.

In 1998, I became a father.

In 1998, I became a business owner.

In 1998, my exercise regime went to hell.

In 2000, I turned myself around and recommitted to working out. Fighting my own genetics, I even became a morning guy, waking up at 5am four and five days a week in order to go to the gym. I stayed with it for more than three years.

In 2004, I dislocated my shoulder. My workout regime suffered.

In 2005, I discovered World of Warcraft. My workout regime evaporated. What once was a noble addiction to self improvement was rapidly replaced by mindless self absorption.

The escape into Azeroth was a welcome diversion from the stress of my IRL existence. While I tapped into the evolving online world again and enjoyed many-a-long weekend night interacting with like-minded people, I realized I was feeding an endless quest for some virtual immortality that would never come.

A month or two ago, I came to the realization that, after playing WoW for two years, it was time to excise the tumor. The anticipation of the new expansion pack finally made me confront the dilemma of another probable year of descent into cyberlimbo, or choose to arise like the phoenix from the ashes. Or in my case, like a phoenix from off his asses.

I've totally let myself get out of shape. While my renouncement of soda -- the sole remnant of my low carb lifestyle of a few years ago -- has helped me keep my weight from spiralling too far out of control, I have just generally felt lumpy and lethargic for the better part of two years. I've sensed WoW at the root of it, for some time.

So, amidst other biorhythmic changes I've been acknowledging and letting manifest, I finally decided to cut the WoW cord this month. And this time it's for good. What's let me finally flip the switch is my decision to shift my addiction back to working out. I've been to the gym 4 of the past 6 days and it feels great. My body clock is ready for the change. The pendulum has swung and it's time get my butt back in shape.

I think mentally what has allowed me to turn the corner is the idea of supplanting one habit for another. (We'll avoid calling it an addiction.) While I was playing WoW, I was fully aware that I was getting out of shape. My feeble attempts to lead a double life at the gym failed miserably. It seemed I could only really have one habit. And that was finally what let me get my head back in the game. I told myself that I could only have one habit. And it had to be either WoW OR the gym. Once I thought of it as a binary decision, the choice became clear.

(Me on WoW.)

(Me off of WoW. Well, after a few more months at the gym.)

We're all creatures of habit. Some constructive, some destructive. I feel good about my decision. I'm sure it sounds stupid to people who haven't witnessed first-hand the mesmerizing power of WoW. Perfectly understandable. But take a look at your own life and I'm sure there's at least one equally nonsensical habit you have that you'd be better off without.

I found mine, and I'm looking forward to using my habit slot for a greater good. "Slot"...my last WoW reference ever. :(

This cat nap's got nine lives

What do I have in common with Newton, Galileo, Marie Curie, and Einstein? We are/were all ahead of our time. We all spawned theories our contemporaries often scoffed at or ridiculed us for. But I, unlike many of these great minds, may see some of my most dramatic, paradigm-shifting discoveries acknowledged for their greatness during my lifetime.

It seems some of my formative work in the area of power-napping, or as I prefer to call it the diurnal vegetative sciences, is gaining acceptance in wider circles.

Witness this story.

(While many tout the fact that Europeans have long extolled the virtues of the siesta, my research shows that Europeans are simply lazy.)

For years now, I've been forced to live with the common misperception that my naps are the involuntary result of lethargy or mismanaged "free time". But nothing could be farther from the truth. I've come to terms with this lack of understanding. Often with genius comes isolation. Still, I move forward undeterred.

The ability of naps to reduce stress and extend the vitality of the human heart is merely the beginning. My work is aimed at uncovering the truly transcendent power of the catnap. I believe the nap has the ability to allow us to move in the chaos between stars and surf the cosmic foam from which galaxies are born. The mysteries I seek to unravel are truly startling and will prove to change the course of human history.

I've submitted my research to the AMA, CDC, NIMH, NASA and various progressive think tanks to see how my research can be leveraged for the military industrial complex and benefit various aspects of the socioeconomic fabric of our planet.

They told me they'll sleep on it.

Facial profiling

I paid for my first haircut in nearly five years last night. Lori has been cutting my hair for that period of time as we looked to save dollars anyway we could. Now that we're breathing a little easier on the financial front, I thought it was time to relieve her of her pruning duties.

I began looking for a new place to go this week. Barber, hair salon...whatever you want to call it. As I do with anything, I began my investigation online, figuring anyplace that was Google-savvy had a leg up on the competition. I recalled a salon about a mile from our house that opened a few years back. It is called 18|8 and is apparently targeted solely for men. Hmmm...sounded good. I got online and checked it out.

Turns out this is a small chain of three locations. My interest in the place was heightened by the pretty insightful research they recapped on their Web site. Seems the entrepreneur behind the chain, Ron Love, did a large amount of market research into what men want from a haircutting experience. I have to tell you, just about every point on his list resonated with me. I don't want to go to a "fem" salon, I hate the SuperCuts assembly line experience, and I prefer sports magazines to copies of Cosmo. Suddenly I felt this place calling out to me. I even liked the backstory to his brand.

So I go there after work last night and the experience was great. At least two weeks overdue, I felt compelled to have my hair cut by John Deere. My "Centre Specialist" Rosi handled the clippers with the acumen of an Australian sheep shearer...something most traditional "fem" salon stylists can't do. It was fast, efficient...I even got the hot towel treatment. Apparently for seven bucks more I would get a five-minute neck massage, a facial, and some other "product" peddled on me.

So here's the point of the blog. Already aware that I was in a place clearly masterminded by a marketing-savvy pro, and sensitive to all the accoutrements deliberately crafted to make me feel comfortable (soft lighting, dark wood and brushed steel fixtures, private cutting area) I became aware about ten minutes in of the music playing overhead. I tuned into a sequence of five songs: Peter Gabriel, Erasure, INXS, Haircut 100 (ironic), and Phil Collins. All mainstays of my formative 80s. The Haircut 100 song really alerted me to the suspicion that I had been demographically targeted with the precision of a laser-guided missile. Frankly, I started feeling a little vulnerable...a little exposed.

Have I crossed into an age group so transparent that even my haircutting experience is customized for me? Sure, I understand the profile-ability of magazines and TV shows, but am I now one of millions of Gen X'er men who have become disenfranchised by the X chromosome-dominated hair and beauty industry and who have taken to the streets in search of alternative grooming? Did 18|8 know I would go online? Did they know I live in Irvine? Did they know I hate salons and being paraded around with wet hair in front of gossipy women with Medusa-like coifs of foil and frosting gel? And how did they know I like "Boy Meets Girl" and "The One Thing"?

I guess I'm just predictable. And/or it's a commendable case of a business man valuing branding and doing his homework.

Hat's off to Ron Love. Or should I say, hair off?