On the move and on the take. When news breaks, we fix it.

Whenever I happen to be in a new city on vacation, I inevitably wind up watching at least one local news program. You'd think this would create a sense of continuity- they have news in Iowa, we have news in Alabama. But I actually feel even more disoriented, as if I were listening in on someone else's dirty little secrets. "Stuckeyville police arrested Clem Foster of Dogpile Flats for indecent exposure and illegal possession of fireworks today..." I just know some local viewer is shaking her head and muttering 'Oh, that Foster boy. He just ain't right. Got himself all naked with those bottle rockets again.' All I can do is nod my head in sympathy and make a note to avoid the Dogpile Flats exit after Clem makes bail.

I never understand why local news anchors make a habit of explaining another anchor's absence. "I'm Derrick Smith. Doug Jones has the evening off." Well, that just tears it. CLICK.
It's not like I'm going to miss out on some subtle nuance of the city council meeting if Doug Jones calls in sick.

Our local news channels seem to get the same advice from the same image consultants, but they come out with completely fifferent results. One homework assignment is to come up with three concise words to convey the station's outlook on newsgathering. The CBS affiliate went with "First. Live. Local". Punchy. Empty. Obvious.

The competing NBC affiliate countered with alliteration: "Dedicated. Determined. Dependable." I'm. A. People. Person. At least the NBC people knew how to unpack their adjectives. I'm not convinced the idea was to sell the journalistic sizzle to the viewers, but to make sure it fits on a bumper sticker.

It also surprises me to watch other local broadcasts and realize what a zoo it really is back home. I'll watch a larger television market and every single anchor, meteorologist, field reporter and sports anchor has a hammerlock on his or her emotions. The entire half-hour goes by like clockwork. Once I get back home, it's like the inmates are running the asylum. "Now here's Dan with the weather... Dan, I understand you had a little problem with women's underwear last night, heh heh heh...Yes, Jerry, I was trying to find something you could wear on the air tomorrow...wokka, wokka, wokka." It's the Muppet Show...it's the local news... It's the Muppet Show AND the local news.

It's enough to drive me to bumper stickers: " Newswatcher Mike P: Mental. Muddled. Maladjusted."

Don LePre, Get Out of My Head (and take the little steamers with you)

For those of you blessed with 57 channels and an expensive new bird roost on your roof, allow me to share what you're missing on broadcast television at one o'clock in the morning. There are people steaming things, people using ladders as origami performance art, people learning how to sniff out desperate homeowners, and one very enthusiastic 35 year old Eagle Scout selling the GREATEST...VITAMIN...in the WORLD! It's a movable feast of electronic hucksterism. But wait, there's more. If you read this in the next ten minutes, I'll knock off one paragraph absolutely free.

When I was a child, I knew the broadcast day had come to a halt when an old grainy film of the Star Spangled Banner would play and an Indian's face appeared on a test screen. No more Hoolihan and Big Chuck for this cowpoke, time for bed. That farewell signal has now been replaced by an informercial showing people steam stuff. When they break out the steamers, my television has officially died.

My thoughts on the steam cleaning craze are similar to ones I had back in the days of the Water Pik. All that water has to go somewhere, but they never showed shots of Water Pik users looking for a place to spit or drown. Sure, scalding hot steam will clean even the most stubborn dirt (or essential caulking or adhesive), but steam also becomes water again. Steam cleaner users now have puddles of filthy water around their hardboiled countertops and sinks. I'm surprised they don't offer absorbent terry cloth towels for just a few dollars more. My personal theory is that the steam cleaners should be free but burn cream will cost three easy payments of $33.35.

Then there's the newest addition to the soft-core exercise video market. I kid you not, welcome to the jiggly world of Yoga Booty Ballet. That's right, I said booty. Booty, booty, booty. Not content to exploit the ancient torture test of yoga or the classic artistry of ballet, this video addresses the seriously underreported world of the booty. Exercisers begin with a satisfying and artistic yoga pose, then gracefully segue in a classic series of refined ballet stretches. Each routine ends with a jarring version of 'Can't Touch This' and a series of finger points and neck rolls which fairly scream "Oh No, he DI'INT!" and "You Best be Steppin' Off!" Watch the pounds drop off yer booty.

I'd thought I'd seen everything on latenight television, but a few months ago I saw an ad for a ear drying machine. I used to own an ear drying machine myself, but I called it a Q-Tip. Apparently my water-soaked ears are prime candidates for all sorts of nastiness unless I order the weakest hair dryer in the world in the next 30 minutes. Now this is where marketing genius takes over. In my head, I had a retail price of MAYBE $14.95. An ear expert with only a dream and an informercial needs to eat too. The announcer started out with that first price, which you just know is a blowoff. $99.95. A hundred dollars for an electronic ear blower. To sweeten the deal, the manufacturer offered four additional ear pieces. Ear-drying party at my house- we'll all be color-coded. The announcer then generously offered to reduce the price by one payment- now we're down to 66 bucks. Here was a problem I didn't know I had, solved by a product I didn't know existed, and priced to move. Genius, pure genius.

It's not so bad, though. At least I have a case of the World's Greatest Vitamins to keep me healthy, from my dry ears to my righteous booty.

Changing the face of Blogging one unfocused rant at a time.

Welcome to the huddled masses inside my head, yearning to breath free. I'm still a little conflicted over this issue, however. Breathing free is always a laudable goal, but these voices are costing me a fortune in Huddled Mass Chow.

This is my first blog entry ever- I'm not disciplined enough to maintain a regular writing journal, so now I've got to take it out on some wet-behind-the-ears technology. I can't wait to see what sort of AdSense spots arise from these blog entries. It would almost be worth it to throw off the Google revenue dogs with the most confusing keywords ever. Please ignore the following paragraph, unless you're a search bot working for Google. (Does anyone else get the impression that Google was named on a dare?)

So midget heroin dynasties never seem to sell real estate or Viagra to naked celebrities like Paris Hilton Paris Hilton Paris Hilton. EBay tortures get rich quick moguls with free airline tickets for Aruba. Michael Jackson's trial turns into urban legend faster than Nigerian banks urging PayPal updates. If only American Idol would enter free poetry contests for fabulous prizes and cash awards.

Now all I have to do is sit back and count the rubles. It must be horrible to live in a country after their native currency is replaced with some universal trinket forged out of aluminum foil. I remember having a huge jar of pennies when I was a kid and the entire family decided to spend the day wrapping them. The money would be used to go to Geauga Lake, our local amusement park. My hands smelled like dirty copper wiring for days, but we did raise nearly 37 whole dollars. I feel sorry for some poor German kid spending three days wrapping pfennigs only to discover they were now essentially worthless. No Geauga Lake, plenty of copper smell and all he can do is sell the rolls as brass knuckles.

I think I'm going to enjoy this blogging thing. Stay tuned for more random musings from what I like to call The Buffer Zone. It's not catchy at all, and more than a little played out, but I always thought I would call my syndicated column Greetings from the Buffer Zone. Chicks would dig me and the money would come rolling in. I'd buckle under the strain of impossible deadlines and eventually become an incurable alcoholic. Eventually I'd attempt some half-hearted comeback only to discover some snot-nosed kid had taken over my column space. Of course by then I would have spent all of the money earmarked for retirement, so I'd have to become a bitter old writer living off the dusty college circuit. But every boy's dream has to start somewhere, so Greetings from the Buffer Zone.