Some of you reading this blog may be unaware that I used to do some similarly amateur writing that was not in a blog format.  There should be a link to the old website somewhere on the side of this page or somebody on my staff is going to be fired.  There are links to old entries dating way back to 2003.

When I started this blog earlier this year I intended to eventually migrate some of my favorite things from the old site over to here.  So today I would like to present something I wrote in 2005 that generated lots of feedback.  And when I say “lots” I mean by my standards and not, say, J.K. Rowling’s.

I’m of course pleased that some of you remember this fondly, but do wish the subject matter had been more profound.  Then again, the fact that this is a “fan favorite” implicates you every bit as much as me.  I edited this just a little from the original, which probably matters to nobody, but I feel compelled to mention it because other bloggers make a big deal out of noting specific changes to previous posts.  I have yet to understand why.  Maybe it’s just part of blog protocol, or some remnant of actual journalistic practices to which I don’t even pretend to adhere.

***From August, 2005***

WELCOME to The Ark of Mark, which takes pride that it rarely descends to “bathroom humor.” This month we are making an exception. As part of an extensive bathroom renovation, we are getting a new toilet. Did you know that, like automobile and running shoe companies, toilet manufacturers give names to different models? For example, you can buy a Kohler “Cimarron” or American Standard “Champion” toilet. I don’t have a problem with this in principle. However, I do strongly object to a particular model name in the Kohler line. With all due respect to Dave Barry, I am not making this up.

They have a toilet called “Memoirs.”

I realize that somebody in Marketing may have chosen the name “Memoirs” just because it is a nice sounding word without even considering it sounds like a euphemism in this context, but don’t you agree they should have given this more thought? They have ruined the word “Memoirs” for me forever. I just went to Google and searched on “memoirs.” Below is a brief sampling of phrases using the word. Try to read them yourself with a straight face in light of what Kohler has done:

“Memoirs of a Geisha: A Novel”
“The Darth Side: Memoirs of a Monster”
“Turning Memories into Memoirs”
“Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant” (now that’s a museum exhibit I never want to see)

For the skeptical, the link to the “Memoirs” toilet is here. As a responsible amateur Christian humor columnist, I did e-mail Kohler and ask if there was some nuance I was missing about this name. As of this writing they have not responded. For the curious, we went with a Toto “Drake” toilet. (I mention this in case I ever want to brag that I’m the only amateur Christian humor columnist to make toilet recommendations).

***From September, 2005***

WELCOME to the Ark of Mark.  In our last visit we discussed the troubling decision by the Kohler Company to choose the curious and potentially disgusting name “Memoirs” for one of its toilets.  In a sincere spirit of understanding, I emailed Kohler to ask if maybe I was just missing something.  I have reproduced our actual exchange below.  This really happened:

Mark’s email to Kohler:

I’m sorry to take up your time with a question like this, but maybe you can email me the answer.  I hate to even bring this up, but do you really think Memoirs is an appropriate name for a toilet?  Was this chosen just because it sounds nice without really considering what sorts of memoirs are actually associated with toilets?  Or is there some other connotation I’m missing?  Again, sorry to take up your time, but I’m sincerely curious. Thanks.

Here is Kohler’s actual reply:

Thank you for contacting Kohler.  I do understand that Memoirs is an “odd” name for a toilet, however the name was chosen for the entire suite of products, including faucets, baths, whirlpools, sinks and accessories.  I am not sure how the designer came up with the name, however we describe the suite as follows; “The sophistication of traditional design serves as the inspiration for the Memoirs Suite. With its rich detailing, this suite of products echo the stylized lines of historically renowned furniture and architectural design. Two styles offer different dignified interpretations – the clean, crisp lines of the Stately design, and the added rounded detail of the Classic style, which resembles crown molding. With fixtures and faucets available, the extensive Memoirs Suite can accommodate both large and small bath and powder rooms.”  I am unsure if this response has fully answered your question, and if it has not, feel free to contact me again. Thank you for your interest in Kohler products.  Lisa W

Frankly, I was impressed by Lisa’s earnest reply.  It makes more sense that this name was given to a suite of products (although I still think they should give special consideration to the harsh reality of including toilets when naming a product suite).  It almost makes me regret having chosen another brand of toilet.  I will just have to come to terms with missing out on the dignified interpretations of historically renowned furniture and architectural design that served as the inspiration for the sophisticated traditional design of the Memoirs suite.  Alas.

I had a birthday over the weekend.  It was a low-key affair devoid of pomp and circumstance.  I’m not big on circumstance and rarely countenance pomp.  For my gift I picked out a fire pit at Lowe’s that should let me light things on fire in my backyard without my neighbor calling the fire department on me.  I just re-read the previous sentence and am compelled to clarify that I am not thirteen.

During this birthday weekend I was putting gas in my car and noticed a neat motor scooter up by the entrance to the gas station.  I have always loved motor scooters.  I think they intrigue me more than actual motorcycles because I know I’ll never be bold enough to buy a true road motorcycle for fear of an inattentive driver hitting me in the ribcage with a Lincoln Navigator.  But a scooter could be used to putter safely around my neighborhood.

I could see myself on a motor scooter.  I even priced one once while on a business trip to China.  (They have a few scooters over there in China.  Maybe you’ve heard).  I found one that was very reasonable but figured shipping would be an issue, especially the part where I’d have to inquire about the shipping in Chinese.  I also figured it would be difficult to find replacement parts back home.

Mark:  Hi.  I need an oil filter and a spark plug for this scooter.
Scooter repair guy:  What brand is it?
Mark:  Um.  China brand.

So I was eyeballing the scooter at the gas station and thinking about my birthday.  Then a cute teenage girl came out of the store and walked toward the scooter.  She was wearing extremely pink, extremely tight pants and carrying a Coke.  Suddenly I felt very old to be riding a scooter.  My window of opportunity had closed for any kind of dignified scooting.  Alas.

I finished filling my gas tank and started to climb back into my car.  Much to my surprise, the teenage girl had continued past the scooter and was now walking down the street.  Perched atop the scooter instead was a gray-haired lady who had to be approaching sixty.

I should have thanked her for the spring she put back in my step.

Every year at about this time I take a moment to appreciate that my home is nestled in a lush grove of hundreds, maybe thousands, of maple trees.

Of course, that statement would be a lot more impressive if the trees didn’t look like this:

And here’s one raging out of control in its natural habitat:

So after I mow my urban yard next time, my maple forest will be reduced to the two full-grown trees that produce thousands of little helicopter seeds every year (maybe a dozen of which are actually sprouting right now in a damp gutter).

Let’s just say if one of these little guys fell in the woods, they wouldn’t make a sound no matter how many people were there to hear it.

I had a high school science teacher who once, in a moment of frustration, famously accused an out-of-control class of running around “like a bunch of blobs.”  If Mr. Duncan were to read this post he could accurately claim that I wrote it like a bunch of blobs.  If you’re looking for taut, cohesive writing, you probably should go visit some other blog today.

And most of the other days.

Blob One

There is a drink machine in our building where I will occasionally treat myself to a high-quality paper cup of French Vanilla Cappuccino.  I’m sure the French are swollen with national pride to know that a guy in Kentucky has such ready access to their Vanilla Cappuccino.  I’ve been patronizing this particular machine for years and just today noticed that it features “2” cup sizes.  I’d really like to ask the person who designed the machine’s graphics about the quotation marks around the 2.  Were they added for effect, and if so, what effect?  Or are they trying to hide something?  So many questions.

Blob Two

I was reading the headlines on Yahoo News and saw an article titled “How not to be a Bore at Parties.”  I’ve already got that licked.  I avoid parties.

Blob Three

I was rudely cut off in traffic a couple weeks ago by a guy with one of those Darwin fish the sole purpose of which is to mock the Christian “Ichthus” fish.  Thankfully, my faith is strong enough to not be shaken by little metallic legs sticking out the bottom of a peel-and-stick fish.  Surely the driver wouldn’t have minded if I had mashed the gas and angrily spun his car into a bridge abutment.  Because of all the choices I had at that moment, that would have been my natural selection.  “But Officer, I was only augmenting his worldview!”

(And did anybody catch the fish pun I made back there?  Sole?  Anybody?  Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother).

Blob Four

I close today with an embarrassing confession.  You know how sometimes parts of your brain will battle one another?  One part is totally willing to reach a conclusion and go on its merry way, while some other more grown–up part will pause and advise caution.  Last year we got satellite television service (including two DVR’s which I love with such passion that I will reserve comment on them for another time because I think all bloggers are legally required to extol the virtues of their DVR).  So I was happily searching the channel listings, excited about what new offerings I might find that I never had with cable.  As I’m scrolling along I go past one that is called the “Cocoa Channel.”

So the naïve, happy part of my brain thinks, “Wow!  A channel about cocoa!?  Must be some spinoff of the Food Network that caters to chocolate enthusiasts.  What will they think of next?”

(And did you see that food pun I did right there with the word “cater?”  If you people aren’t going to try any harder than this I’m going to go get a pseudonym and blog someplace else).

Let the record show that the duration of such thoughts were no more than a second or two before the wiser part of my brain kicked in and took stock of the situation.

“That’s not a channel.  It’s a show.  It’s on one of the shopping networks.  It doesn’t say ‘Cocoa Channel.’  It says ‘Coco Chanel.’  I think that is some kind of perfume or clothing or something.  But it’s certainly not chocolate.”

OK, then.

So it’s been a week since I last posted on this blog?  Yikes.  I like to think that rather than throwing out mediocre fare every day like many bloggers, I focus more on quality.  Today’s entry notwithstanding.

Over the weekend I had one of the stranger dreams I’ve ever had.  It was one of those dreams where even in the dream you’re not sure exactly what is going on.  This dream was like a cheesy movie.  What was unclear in the dream was whether the dream was simply like a cheesy movie, or whether I was dreaming about being in a cheesy movie.  If you think such nuance is irrelevant here, you’re pretty much correct.

I have had at least one other ambiguous dream.  I was a teenager and dreamed that I accidentally woke up at 4am and thought it was time to get ready for school.  I groggily took a shower and then realized it actually wasn’t morning, so I sheepishly went back to bed.  When I awoke at the proper time I was confused.  Because that dream ended with me going back to bed, I wasn’t sure if it was really a dream.  Maybe I really did take a shower in the middle of the night.  For several years I thought it would remain a mystery forever.  Finally I realized that if I had really done something that dumb I would have no doubt about it being real.  Teenagers are just gullible.

(Side note.  I recently heard about a few kids strategizing their tattoos for when they turn eighteen in a few weeks.  Let me stop and thank God this very moment that I did not permanently brand my body with anything that I thought was cool when I was eighteen.  I might have a tattoo of ZZ Top’s logo or, heaven forbid, Alf).

So in this cheesy movie I was among a group of friends in their freshmen year of college.  I was the mature, quiet guy in the group.  There was the gregarious, fast-talking, talented-but-always-on-the-edge-of-throwing-it-away guy.  There was the talented singer with a self-confidence problem guy.  Then there was a girl who was some kind of musician who was supposedly unattractive, but the movie people had obviously gone out of their way to try and hide that she was beautiful by dressing her up in frumpy, out-of-style clothes.

(Side note.  Clearly I would be one of the last people to accurately identify a woman’s clothing as either in or out of style.  The dream’s narrative simply told me that this was so.  Trust me).

The only real scene I remember in the dream involved preparations for some kind of talent show or concert.  The “evil” promoter was trying to exclude whatever band some of these kids (not me) were in.  I went to bat for them and in an emotional moment, challenged the promoter to turn the event into a competition wherein “our” band would have to get voted on by the audience in order to keep playing.

The promoter, confident that he would show us who was boss, took the challenge.  It was a momentous, tension-filled scene.

And then my subconscious threw a flag on the play.

I don’t remember the speech verbatim, but my character basically stood up and said, “This is stupid!  What are we doing here?  Isn’t it obvious what’s about to happen?  This lame band is going to show up and wow everybody and win the contest.  The promoter is going to get his comeuppance.  That girl over there is only dressed up to look unattractive and at some point soon is going to show up and be all pretty and we’re supposed to “ooh” and “ah” at her transformation because the only limitations that stopped her from being pretty were the ones she placed on herself.  I’m going to end up managing the college radio station until I graduate and the fast-talking guy is going to be the host of a popular radio show.  Seriously, is this the best dream we can come up with here?”

And then I woke up in bitterness and disappointment.  Not about having such a dumb dream.  I was disappointed that in my own wildest dreams, couldn’t I at least be the lead singer?  Just one time?

Now that I have been an official member of the blog community for a few weeks, I suppose I should open up and let you know a little more about myself.  I am sure many of you are clamoring for such details.  You strike me as the sort of folks who clamor.

During my budding blog career I will say many things, but I will not say these things:

1. “My primary regret from college is that I never took that year off to backpack around Europe.”
2. “Next year we will summer at the coast.”
3. “I missed the NFL playoffs last weekend because I was antiquing.”
4. “Tonight after work I’m just going to take a hot bath and then scrapbook for hours.”
5. “I texted until my thumbs bled the day Brad left Jennifer for Angelina.”

Not only do I have no interest in these particular activities, I am also philosophically opposed to forcing perfectly good nouns to act as verbs.