When did every single product, service, and company get together and decide that they must have a slogan? Maybe it’s just me, but it seems nary a commercial or advertisement can exist without some kind of pithy phrase or tagline attached nowadays. I know my memory may be faulty, but it seems like very few firms had a “motto” in the distant past. Sure, the “big guys” did; I recall what a huge deal it was every time McDonald’s or Coca-Cola would change theirs. Yet, not everyone had to have one, did they?

“An American Revolution.” “Your World. Delivered.” “Do Something.” “Just Do It.” “Feel Better.” “Let’s Build Something Together.” “Think.” “Stop. Think.” “Think About It.” “Think Outside the Bun.” “Yar! Genius.” “Feast.” “Eat Fresh.” “Obey Your Thirst.” “Easy.” “Shop Victoriously.” “Bringing Your Home to Life.” “Bringing Ideas to Life.” “Throwing Boring Overboard.” “Quote. Buy. Print.” “You and Us.” “What’s in Your Wallet?” “Watch What Happens.” “Like It Never Even Happened.” “Expect the Unexpected.” “Life Comes at You Fast.” “A Better Way Forward.” “The Relentless Pursuit of Perfection.” “Real Service. Real Savings.” “Not Reality. Actuality.”

Whew! I think I broke a sweat from reading the action words! Ready for another ridiculous aspect? All of the catch-phrases are copyrighted or trademarked in some fashion. Yep – if you use them, some sort of legal action can be taken. Uh…

Anyway, what I was getting around to is my current personal favorite: UPS “What Can Brown Do for You?” Comedic fodder of a cosmic magnitude. But at least two broadcast programs have already let loose on the iconic shipper. Instead, I’d like to highlight a subtle irony in their new batch of TV commercials; something that slipped past the higher-ups at corporate. Or maybe they figured you wouldn’t notice. Don’t underestimate them — unless you’re a big fan of “alternative” or “college rock,” this did not even register upon your subconscious. Luckily, you have me – and I’m in a mood to share.

There are at least two or three of the ads, each featuring somebody drawing on a “whiteboard.” An infectious, unique tune plays in the background while the friendly person draws you a picture about offered services. Literally. What’s the catch?

The uncredited name of the musicians providing the song: The Postal Service. (The band, of course, not the ubiquitous federal mailer.) Talk about pushing the envelope!

It’s a good thing that I’m already an Alton resident. I think if I was a “new prospect” considering this area for a possible relocation, I believe I’d take a pass. Hey – wait a minute: I am happy to be here. It is my home, and I honestly cannot think of living anywhere else. Most days.

But I’m already privy to Alton’s finer “nuances.” As soon as I figure out what they are, you’ll be the first to know. Just kidding.

Seriously, though – I was out for my “dog jog” Sunday, admiring the mess that is the long-anticipated Illinois Avenue extension. It still baffles me how there was money for this road to nowhere…while the rest of our crucial infrastructure continues to crumble. Jobs? Oh sure – there’s enough repair and expansion here to keep everyone employed and then some. If the work was to actually be done.

My personal pet peeves are the state of the sidewalks, the endless litter and the abandoned or ill-kept properties – both personal and commercial. A drive through anywhere but the downtown antique district would be enough to send anyone away in a hurry. With the doors locked, no less. Fortunately, that section is currently benefiting from a parking and street-curb “facelift.” Yeah, that’s what we need.

As I let my Labrador drag me past our gleaming new police station – not going to criticize that necessary upgrade – I was reminded of Saturday’s lead-off story on Channel 5’s evening newscast: Alton will have to lay off firefighters and cut police services because of the smoking ban’s dwindling effect on casino tax revenue.

What the hell? Did I not literally run right past a prime example of pork-barrel spending? This silly Illinois Avenue extension has been in various stages of planning for the last two decades. I distinctly remember seeing a diorama of it in City Hall more than fifteen years ago. Somewhere, I recall the explanation being about a quicker response time for emergency vehicles as the impetus for the mostly-useless route anyway.

So here’s the $64,000-dollar question: if we can “no longer send paramedics with each ambulance call,” and the “firefighters can only handle a single structure fire at a time,” and we have to stretch Alton’s finest even further than we already are…then who in the blue blazes is going to need quick, direct access to the Berm anyway? Well?

This is not the first time we have put the onus of our faulty policies on critical services. The firefighters in particular have had a rough go of it in recent years. What has to burn to the ground before we wake up?

We have a new high school and a new riverfront amphitheater in addition to the still-fresh Law Enforcement Center. Soon we’ll have a new highway connecting a largely-forgotten ancillary business district with a bypass that doesn’t need another intersection. Don’t tell me that we “ain’t got the money.” Someone’s got the money.

And it definitely won’t be the new residents avoiding our quaint municipality like the plague. They watch the news, too.

As we prepared for an evening comedy show down at the Argosy casino, I remarked to my girlfriend that I would wait until the end of the night to shower. We had attended a similar event a year or two ago, and I distinctly remember coming home smelling like an ashtray. Top it off with the fact that I’m a reformed smoker myself…the worst sort to subject to a hazy environment. Then I recalled the recently passed ban here in Illinois. My “day” became a little bit brighter.

But it’s all a matter of perspective. Once upon a time, I might have avoided an establishment that would not allow me to indulge in my “God-given right.” Or maybe I wouldn’t have. Who knows? Yet I found myself reflecting on how vastly different points of view can be — seemingly from the same origination — as the evening drew to a close.

The program headliner was Bob Zany, a comedian I have come to know from the “Bob and Tom Radio Show,” broadcast weekday mornings on St. Louis’ KSHE 95. He can be acerbic and grating and brash — just the kind of humour that appeals to me. Which was fortunate, for I ended up being one of his targets. I couldn’t have been happier. How often does one have the opportunity to be part of the entertainment?

Shortly after we filed out of the auditorium, a patron approached us. She felt sorry for me, as she was a witness to my “humiliation.” I recognized her; she and her companion were seated not too far from us, albeit in the V.I.P. section. (Our group was not so…privileged.) Separately, a few minutes later, her date confided to me that he would have definitely kicked a tender part of Mr. Zany’s anatomy had the comedian picked on him instead. I laughed each declaration aside, trying diligently to convince them that I was not a “victim.” It didn’t work.

Again — a matter of perspective. Would I have had the same opinion somewhere back in my own past? I hope not. But anything is possible. Even change. Even positive change. May such be true for all of us.

(Thanks to Karen, Brian, Jennifer, Bob Zany, Dan St. Paul and Emo Philips for a wonderful night.)

Light jazz plays in an odd syncopation to my young son’s snoring. I am at my computer writing when I’d really rather be in bed myself. But I want to listen to him for a while. It will be longer than I care to imagine before I hear the lovely music again. The jazz I can tune in anytime.

It’s not that I prefer his heavy rhythmic breathing to that of my daughter; my laptop is located in his room due to the amount of sun it gets during the day. And for most of every fortnight, such is all that it’s used for.

Sometimes, instead of the writing or editing I sequester myself to do in my son’s room, I ruminate on the meandering and tragic circumstances that led to our regular separation – that of my children and me. Often, I think of my own parents’ divorce and how it parallels mine. Right now, I turn and gaze at the sleeping boy only feet from where I sit, facing the opposite way that this desk intends. How many miles away is his dreaming mind? Is it nearly as far as he and his sister will be for the next twelve days?

For the latter part of my childhood, I spent the majority of my family time as a “captive audience” for my mother and her opinions of my father. I never questioned her saintliness or his despicable level of maliciousness. On the rare occasions that I did spend time with him, it seemed to me that he was cold, stern and distant — to both me and my brother. I never second-guessed “my” perceptions or his behaviour. Gospel is above and beyond questioning in any form.

I am tired, yet my mind is fervently awake. I know the sleep that my children enjoy is not mine to have this minute. I hope that their dreams are as happy as they will be when they return to their mother tomorrow. My bed is made; it is mine and mine alone to lie in.

Sometimes the visions in my head are of my son and my daughter, and sometimes they are happy ones. Sometimes they are of my own mother, and sometimes those, too, are happy. But all are always wistful, the lot of them. They are dreams in the truest sense of the word – things that I deeply wish for, regardless of their relevance to reality.

Whoop-de-do.

Of course, it’s a regrettable shame: our time-honoured All-American pastime is now sullied and smeared with the filth of artificial athletic enhancement. How disgraceful!

So can we move on already? I think the point has been made. Our national heroes have basically been cheating. But what have we really accomplished?

For one thing, no issue is too small or too unimportant for our government to throw truckloads of money at — taxpayers’ money, no less — in the name of dithering, debating and dissecting endlessly…at least until the cash is exhausted. This grand, televised debacle has ultimately uncovered the spectacular revelation of “he did, he might not have, he could be lying, we don’t believe you, and I don’t know.” Bravo, ladies and gentlemen, bravo!

And where does it stop? Will we be having similar hearings on the use of other performance-enhancing substances? Like vitamins? Or caffeine? Don’t forget about Spandex, Lycra, CoolMax and Velcro. How about plastic? Boy, has the sports world changed since we came up with that! Astroturf? Gatorade? Carbo-loading? Protective cups? Shin guards? Ankle wraps? Are these not all unfair, unnatural advantages? Bring back the days of unleavened bread and dirty water. Cotton uniforms. Tree branches for bats; stones for balls. Aspirin? Fuggedaboudit!

Meanwhile, both globally and nationally, the earth continues down the path of environmental catastrophe. Hundreds of millions continue to do without sufficient food, water and shelter. A similar staggering group trudges through life without healthcare or proper education. Human rights are trampled en masse daily. Women are still considered property in many parts of the world. Ethnic and racial discrimination thrives everywhere. Oil prices skyrocket as we willingly chain ourselves to its influence. Garbage landfills slowly overtake our zip codes…and serve as homes to people in several countries. Millions — at home and abroad — line up for handouts in lieu of sufficient employment. And an increasingly pointless war rages on, obliterating lives both foreign and domestic.

But hey…let’s talk baseball. All the rest of that crap can wait.

Priorities, baby. Priorities.