If you've learned anything about me through this blog over the years it's how much esteem I have for the men and women who navigate the nation's highways and biways as truckers. It was this noble vocation, after all, that gave the world one of the finest "Old So-and-Sos Never Die" jokes, to wit: "Old truckers never die; they just get a new Peterbilt." God bless truckers.
One thing, though. I don't get the obscene mud flaps. I've thought about this a lot, and I'm still not sure what message truckers are sending when their flaps are festooned with the silhouetted image of an ostensibly nude woman - and is there anything sexier than ostensibly nude? - in the classic upright and locked position, practically begging...to be splattered with mud.
Is the message for women? "If you're 102 pounds, disproportionately buxom, and ostensibly nude, I'm your man!" Or is it for men? "Hey, fellas. Check out my flaps. This is an accurate representation of what the women look like who regularly throw themselves at me when I roll in to the Stuckey's in Bucksnort, Tennessee at 3 a.m. Jealous? You should be."
I'll keep thinking on this one.
---
You've always heard, "Beggars can't be choosers." Not true. Some of the choosiest people I've met have been beggars. The other day at Sonic, Ellen asked me for some loose change after lifting her shirt to show me a bandaged wound. I offered her the chicken wrap I'd just bought for myself. She declined and reiterated her request for cash, which I was happy to give her.
A homeless woman in Monterey, California told me she never under any circumstances accepted food from people. Too risky, she said. More risky than starvation, I wondered. A guy I met on the corner of LBJ and Preston in Dallas one time told me he'd "made" a couple hundred dollars that day. I said, "You mean you've been given a couple hundred?" He said, "Same thing." He only had one leg.
---
Millions are spent on R & D in the area of kitchen cleaning utensils. There are times, though, when the only thing that'll rid cookware of caked-on crud is your fingernail.
---
The winners of official PGA TOUR events so far in 2005 are as follows: Stuart Appleby, Vijay Singh, Justin Leonard, Tiger Woods, and Phil Mickelson (twice). All are in the top 15 in the world rankings. If Mom was aware of this fact, she'd likely utter her trademark retort to any unusual feat in a sporting event: "It's fixed."
---
There are few times when a mother telling her little boy, "Here's an idea: you be quiet and I won't beat you" is funny. To the woman in 12B on the 6:59 flight from DFW to Abilene February 9: that night was not one of those times.
---
Anna Claire turns 3 next week. She's at a great stage in her language skills when certain words are uttered forcefully, if not accurately. She's all in to princesses right now, and one of her favorites is Sleeping Beauty. Except from her, it comes out "Seeping Booty." Which sounds like either something a contestant in the strongman competition might experience or perhaps a condition that prompted the pose struck by the mudflap floozy.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Casting Pearl Before Swine
By now, the Religious Right is on Red (Pink?) Alert over the news that an upcoming episode of a PBS kids show about a cartoon rabbit, Buster, features a same-sex couple engaging in the shamefully lubricious act of - hide the women and women - eating dinner. Personally, I've always felt public television's greatest threat to America's youth was Teletubbies.
As expected, every conservative organization, institute, and alliance from the Whigs to the Illegitimate Daughters of Strom Thurmond have decried this development as the latest incontrovertible evidence that the liberal media is leading America further away from the traditional values of places like Helena, Montana, and escorting our country instead straight to Helena handbasket.
But before we throw the bunny out with the bathwater, take note of the paean paid to Johnny Carson, who died last month. Did you see the footage of Johnny's song-and-dance number with Pearl Bailey? The year was 1964. Black-and-white wasn't just the way people watched TV back then. It was how so many of us lived, certainly when it came to race relations. When Pearl met Johnny that night 40 years ago, white men didn't dance with black women, not in polite company anyway. They just didn't. But there was the fully-integrated Carson - and, mind you, merely a budding comedian with a career to build circa '64, not the undisputed and eternal King of Late Night - gettin' jiggy with Bailey, so talented, so pretty, but so very...you know, black. You can still hear the echo of sets across the Deep South and other pockets of white superiority shutting off en masse at such an abomination.
Indeed while Carson fiddled four decades ago, Christian America still burned with the fire of segregation. Most of our fair schools, synagogues, and churches remained free from the scourge of socializing with Negroes. Christian college students who stayed up late that night witnessed two things on their TV screens they'd never seen on their campus:
1) a white man fellowshipping a black woman
and 2) people of any skin color actually dancing.
Instead of taking the lead in welcoming blacks into a lily-white world, God's people by and large were wallflowers while the entertainment industry asked the African-American community if it could have this dance. The Civil Rights Movement accompanied Carson's derring-duet in the mid-'60s, but here's guessing nothing in Washington had a more profound impact on normalizing integration than what was coming into living rooms outside the Beltway from television studios like Carson's in New York.
As with most of us, the entertainment world often misses the mark (see After M*A*S*H and any of the disasters perpetrated by erstwhile Seinfeld cast members). And it's not as if African-Americans have had it easy in Hollywood. Far from it. But Show Business gets it right a lot, too. Sometimes uncomfortably so. And on that night in 1964, Carson got it right.
For that, the least I can do is join Johnny's inseparable sidekick Ed Mc Mahon in offering a posthumous but hearty "Hi-oooooooooo!"
As expected, every conservative organization, institute, and alliance from the Whigs to the Illegitimate Daughters of Strom Thurmond have decried this development as the latest incontrovertible evidence that the liberal media is leading America further away from the traditional values of places like Helena, Montana, and escorting our country instead straight to Helena handbasket.
But before we throw the bunny out with the bathwater, take note of the paean paid to Johnny Carson, who died last month. Did you see the footage of Johnny's song-and-dance number with Pearl Bailey? The year was 1964. Black-and-white wasn't just the way people watched TV back then. It was how so many of us lived, certainly when it came to race relations. When Pearl met Johnny that night 40 years ago, white men didn't dance with black women, not in polite company anyway. They just didn't. But there was the fully-integrated Carson - and, mind you, merely a budding comedian with a career to build circa '64, not the undisputed and eternal King of Late Night - gettin' jiggy with Bailey, so talented, so pretty, but so very...you know, black. You can still hear the echo of sets across the Deep South and other pockets of white superiority shutting off en masse at such an abomination.
Indeed while Carson fiddled four decades ago, Christian America still burned with the fire of segregation. Most of our fair schools, synagogues, and churches remained free from the scourge of socializing with Negroes. Christian college students who stayed up late that night witnessed two things on their TV screens they'd never seen on their campus:
1) a white man fellowshipping a black woman
and 2) people of any skin color actually dancing.
Instead of taking the lead in welcoming blacks into a lily-white world, God's people by and large were wallflowers while the entertainment industry asked the African-American community if it could have this dance. The Civil Rights Movement accompanied Carson's derring-duet in the mid-'60s, but here's guessing nothing in Washington had a more profound impact on normalizing integration than what was coming into living rooms outside the Beltway from television studios like Carson's in New York.
As with most of us, the entertainment world often misses the mark (see After M*A*S*H and any of the disasters perpetrated by erstwhile Seinfeld cast members). And it's not as if African-Americans have had it easy in Hollywood. Far from it. But Show Business gets it right a lot, too. Sometimes uncomfortably so. And on that night in 1964, Carson got it right.
For that, the least I can do is join Johnny's inseparable sidekick Ed Mc Mahon in offering a posthumous but hearty "Hi-oooooooooo!"
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Rear Passenger
My 6-year-old Nicholas is all boy, which is good seeing as how he's a boy and all. His high testosterone level also helps explain his infatuation with the Strongman Competition that ESPN is currently airing approximately 29 hours each day. When you think about it, those contests aren't that different from a typical day in the life of a lot of 6-year-olds. Find heavy stuff, pick it up, move it somewhere else. In fact, those musclemen are really nothing more than a bunch of little boys. Except for the massive quantities of performance-enhancing drugs coursing through their veins. That and their raging hemorrhoids roughly the size of Paris Hilton...only not as disgusting.
Which brings us to an exchange I had with Nicholas on the way home from a friend's house the other night. (I'd record this always-entertaining backseat banter with my kids if I didn't think they'd grow up and successfully sue me for invasion of privacy.)
Nicholas was going on about how awesome these vowelly-challenged, Eastern European beefcakes were that he'd seen on TV that day. Mind you, he couldn't pronounce a single one of their names. Most of them look like something our 3-year-old, Anna Claire, would concoct if she commandeered the keyboard. In fact, I'm going to type in a bunch of characters right now without looking, and I promise it won't be that different than the names of these strongmen participants:
gjkakr#%#@@9959nq's
Sure enough, that very guy finished third on last night's show.
I told Nicholas and Andrew (who's two years older and interested in much weightier matters in life, such as when the next Power Rangers series will begin) that those guys work really hard to get that strong but that there are some negative side effects. I said, "One of the bad things that happens to some of them is really gross, but I'll tell you if you want to know."
Gross is a relative term, especially if the relative in question is your 6-year-old son. So I proceeded to explain the intense pressure that lifting heavy weights puts on one's digestive system - pressure that's roughly equivalent to the new half pound beef and potato burrito at Taco Bell - and how many of those guys will tell you that when they lift that much, it feels as if their plumbing is about to come out their - ahem - their drains. That led to a rather graphic discussion of hemorrhoids, after which Nicholas said very sincerely, "What's the gross part?"
Exactly. After all, what's a little butt barnacle when you're 6? Blood and poop are practically currency at that age.
And some never grow out of it. Which means you might one day see Nicholas competing in one of those Strongmen contests. Of course, he'll need to come up with a different name, preferably one with no vowels. Where's Anna Claire...
Which brings us to an exchange I had with Nicholas on the way home from a friend's house the other night. (I'd record this always-entertaining backseat banter with my kids if I didn't think they'd grow up and successfully sue me for invasion of privacy.)
Nicholas was going on about how awesome these vowelly-challenged, Eastern European beefcakes were that he'd seen on TV that day. Mind you, he couldn't pronounce a single one of their names. Most of them look like something our 3-year-old, Anna Claire, would concoct if she commandeered the keyboard. In fact, I'm going to type in a bunch of characters right now without looking, and I promise it won't be that different than the names of these strongmen participants:
gjkakr#%#@@9959nq's
Sure enough, that very guy finished third on last night's show.
I told Nicholas and Andrew (who's two years older and interested in much weightier matters in life, such as when the next Power Rangers series will begin) that those guys work really hard to get that strong but that there are some negative side effects. I said, "One of the bad things that happens to some of them is really gross, but I'll tell you if you want to know."
Gross is a relative term, especially if the relative in question is your 6-year-old son. So I proceeded to explain the intense pressure that lifting heavy weights puts on one's digestive system - pressure that's roughly equivalent to the new half pound beef and potato burrito at Taco Bell - and how many of those guys will tell you that when they lift that much, it feels as if their plumbing is about to come out their - ahem - their drains. That led to a rather graphic discussion of hemorrhoids, after which Nicholas said very sincerely, "What's the gross part?"
Exactly. After all, what's a little butt barnacle when you're 6? Blood and poop are practically currency at that age.
And some never grow out of it. Which means you might one day see Nicholas competing in one of those Strongmen contests. Of course, he'll need to come up with a different name, preferably one with no vowels. Where's Anna Claire...
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Cereal Offense
One of the things that makes America great is its dedication to the continued development of new and often sickeningly sugary breakfast cereals. I believe it's been our manifest destiny. Would the great chefs of Europe ever have come up with Mud N' Bugs? When was the last time your kids asked for Muesli? Do I even need to answer these questions?
Yet for whatever reason, only two cereals come in a remotely functional bag: Corn Pops and Smacks, both of which ironically had the word "sugar" in their names many years ago before people were aware of the damaging effects of sugar and also when kids were a lot healthier than they are now.
We can put a man on the moon and Ashlee Simpson in the Orange Bowl halftime show, but we can't get more cereals to use these partially resealable bags?
Listen, if you want to hear Larry James talk about the plight of the inner city or Mike Cope challenge the church to be more Christlike, that's fine. Just know that I'll be here, asking the questions everyone else is afraid to ask. Now if you'll excuse me, Count Chocula is waiting.
Yet for whatever reason, only two cereals come in a remotely functional bag: Corn Pops and Smacks, both of which ironically had the word "sugar" in their names many years ago before people were aware of the damaging effects of sugar and also when kids were a lot healthier than they are now.
We can put a man on the moon and Ashlee Simpson in the Orange Bowl halftime show, but we can't get more cereals to use these partially resealable bags?
Listen, if you want to hear Larry James talk about the plight of the inner city or Mike Cope challenge the church to be more Christlike, that's fine. Just know that I'll be here, asking the questions everyone else is afraid to ask. Now if you'll excuse me, Count Chocula is waiting.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
New Year's Leftovers
Seeing as how my last attempt at posting quotes went so well, here's another. This from Italian philosopher and novelist (The Name of the Rose) Umberto Eco. He's no Dr. Evil, but I found this provocative:
"I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us."
Think about the things you learned from your folks that they weren't necessarily trying to teach you.
My mom taught me that it's never a bad idea to have a couple of show tunes memorized. (If you can remember the choreography, even better.) And that a little chocolate goes a long way. But one of the most important things she taught me was that marriage isn't about getting your way but surrendering your will.
My dad unintentionally taught me that being late doesn't make you virtuous, but it does make you adventurous. He taught me to challenge the biological precepts of food refrigeration and that eating mayonnaise that's been stored in the pantry isn't a death sentence. But more than anything, by leaving show business and devoting the best years of his life to finding safe homes for at-risk kids, he taught me that the underprivileged aren't all there by choice. And that you're probably never too far from the will of God when you err on the side of mercy.
---
In less than 48 hours over Christmas Eve and Day, both Johnny Oates and Reggie White died. One after a long illness, one suddenly in his sleep. Both way too young. I had the privilege of covering both men as a sports reporter. Each was a deeply committed follower of Christ, though White was always more vocal (which perhaps explains why he was chronically hoarse). In an era in which sports figures' faith is so publicly professed, these two backed it up in private. Writing a 1997 article in Wineskins Magazine about Oates' epiphany in the bowels of Yankee Stadium remains one of the highlights of my career as a journalist.
---
Two words I want to use more often in 2005: laureate and shard. Honorable mention goes to mawkish.
---
With so much of the world's attention focused on relief efforts in areas hit by the tsunami, Playboy has announced you'll soon be able to download playmate pictorials directly onto your iPod. We all have to do our part. Thousands dead, millions starving or homeless. At least I have my pocket porn.
---
One of the undeniable joys of Christmas is giving gifts to loved ones that you really would like yourself, then commandeering said gift and playing keep-away. Got the Saturday Night Live Best of Will Ferrell DVD for Amy and can't quit rewinding the skit with Garth Brooks selling his soul to Ferrell's Satan in exchange for a hit song...except Satan keeps coming up with crap, and eventually the deal is scrubbed. Funniest SNL sketch I've ever seen.
Then there's the handheld Tetris game my sister gave Andrew. He's played it twice, me the hourly equivalent of four days. I now speak fluent Russian and suddenly have a taste for borscht, which, by the way, tastes really good after being left unrefrigerated for a couple of days. Thanks, Dad.
"I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us."
Think about the things you learned from your folks that they weren't necessarily trying to teach you.
My mom taught me that it's never a bad idea to have a couple of show tunes memorized. (If you can remember the choreography, even better.) And that a little chocolate goes a long way. But one of the most important things she taught me was that marriage isn't about getting your way but surrendering your will.
My dad unintentionally taught me that being late doesn't make you virtuous, but it does make you adventurous. He taught me to challenge the biological precepts of food refrigeration and that eating mayonnaise that's been stored in the pantry isn't a death sentence. But more than anything, by leaving show business and devoting the best years of his life to finding safe homes for at-risk kids, he taught me that the underprivileged aren't all there by choice. And that you're probably never too far from the will of God when you err on the side of mercy.
---
In less than 48 hours over Christmas Eve and Day, both Johnny Oates and Reggie White died. One after a long illness, one suddenly in his sleep. Both way too young. I had the privilege of covering both men as a sports reporter. Each was a deeply committed follower of Christ, though White was always more vocal (which perhaps explains why he was chronically hoarse). In an era in which sports figures' faith is so publicly professed, these two backed it up in private. Writing a 1997 article in Wineskins Magazine about Oates' epiphany in the bowels of Yankee Stadium remains one of the highlights of my career as a journalist.
---
Two words I want to use more often in 2005: laureate and shard. Honorable mention goes to mawkish.
---
With so much of the world's attention focused on relief efforts in areas hit by the tsunami, Playboy has announced you'll soon be able to download playmate pictorials directly onto your iPod. We all have to do our part. Thousands dead, millions starving or homeless. At least I have my pocket porn.
---
One of the undeniable joys of Christmas is giving gifts to loved ones that you really would like yourself, then commandeering said gift and playing keep-away. Got the Saturday Night Live Best of Will Ferrell DVD for Amy and can't quit rewinding the skit with Garth Brooks selling his soul to Ferrell's Satan in exchange for a hit song...except Satan keeps coming up with crap, and eventually the deal is scrubbed. Funniest SNL sketch I've ever seen.
Then there's the handheld Tetris game my sister gave Andrew. He's played it twice, me the hourly equivalent of four days. I now speak fluent Russian and suddenly have a taste for borscht, which, by the way, tastes really good after being left unrefrigerated for a couple of days. Thanks, Dad.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Ready For The Ball To Drop
With Christmas past and the new year encroaching, these reflections from Dr. Evil on the halcyon days of his youth probably speak to all of us in one way or another:
My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really.
I believe that riff by Dr. Evil in the original Austin Powers movie was inspired by the rarely-sung final stanza in the classic song from The Sound of Music...
Hot Rangoon summers and chilly luge lessons,
Burlap bag beatings in my adolescence,
Making meat helmets whenever it's spring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
This blog has been one of my favorite things in 2004. Thanks for stopping by, San Diego.
Happy New Year!
My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really.
I believe that riff by Dr. Evil in the original Austin Powers movie was inspired by the rarely-sung final stanza in the classic song from The Sound of Music...
Hot Rangoon summers and chilly luge lessons,
Burlap bag beatings in my adolescence,
Making meat helmets whenever it's spring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
This blog has been one of my favorite things in 2004. Thanks for stopping by, San Diego.
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Cut Cheese With A Rich, Full-Bodied Red
On the people mover at DFW airport. Coming out, beefy Cincinnati Reds first baseman Adam Dunn. Getting on, the explosively flatulent (thanks to someone else's creative audio editing) and fraudulent (which he did on his own) televangelist Robert Tilton.
One pitches, the other swings. Both made rich from their respective flocks. At least one of them occasionally gives his fans their money's worth.
One pitches, the other swings. Both made rich from their respective flocks. At least one of them occasionally gives his fans their money's worth.
Monday, December 06, 2004
UMC: No Gaiety With The Laity
From Pughtown, Pennsylvania - motto: "Get A Whiff Of Pughtown!" - comes the story of the now former Reverend Irene Elizabeth Stroud, a tale both ribald and riddled with double entendre.
Last week, the United Methodist Church defrocked Stroud as an associate pastor after she confessed that she is a practicing homosexual, and it got me thinking.
Does practice ever make perfect? How much practice does one really need for that type of activity? Would she have been punished had she declared herself a perfect homosexual?
And this defrocking business. Wasn't that the problem in the first place? She was defrocked because of what she and her partner did after de-frocking one another!
And when the church says Stroud may continue her work as a lay employee, aren't they just encouraging the same behavior?
This is what happens when you start asking questions. That's why I don't recommend it.
Last week, the United Methodist Church defrocked Stroud as an associate pastor after she confessed that she is a practicing homosexual, and it got me thinking.
Does practice ever make perfect? How much practice does one really need for that type of activity? Would she have been punished had she declared herself a perfect homosexual?
And this defrocking business. Wasn't that the problem in the first place? She was defrocked because of what she and her partner did after de-frocking one another!
And when the church says Stroud may continue her work as a lay employee, aren't they just encouraging the same behavior?
This is what happens when you start asking questions. That's why I don't recommend it.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Sports Fruitcake Chock Full Of Nuts And Berrys
Hats (and towels) off to the men and women of our nation's armed, legged, and barebacked entertainment forces, who've proudly taken it upon themselves to answer the one question that's haunted 24-hour news network producers since the day after the election: "Whose idea was it to create 24-hour news networks anyway?" And, more specifically, "How many times can we run that same "we're-a-divided-nation" package before our 0.4 Nielsen rating shrivels into negative integers?"
("Hey, CNN! PETA's on the phone. It's about that dead horse you're beating...")
That's when our men in uniform sprang into action and our women wanting action sprang out of whatever they were wearing. First, it was Terrell Owens on Monday Night Football. The Philadelphia Eagles receiver known as "T.O." (Towel Off?) and Desperate Housewife Nicolette "Edie" Sheridan starred in a seductive, pregame skit featuring a just-showered Sheridan asking Owens to explain the instructions on her shampoo bottle. Well, it certainly succeeded in lathering up the American viewing audience, the most prudish of whom excoriated ABC for showing such filth and demanded that the network in the future skip the shenanigans and get right to the real reason they tuned in to watch the game: the slow-motion close-ups of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, tastefully festooned in their booby-trapped blouses and hip-hugging undies. (By the way, with the advent of High Definition technology, how soon before merely watching those cheerleaders on a big screen TV becomes a statutory offense?)
No sooner had those verbal volleys landed on ABC executives than the Pacers, Pistons, and half the city of Detroit engaged in real fisticuffs at an NBA game. It started when Pistons' big man Ben Wallace - the incarnation of that great line from Fletch, "He's 6'5", with the afro 6'9"..." - attempted to perform a tonsillectomy on Ron Artest of the Indiana Pacers. Push came to shove when Artest defiantly lay down on the scorer's table, and a fan threw down from 8 rows up in the stands his $10 beer, cup and all, which hit Artest between the numbers on his jersey. How hopelessly inebriated was that guy to:
a) decide it might be a good idea to chuck a brewski onto a man who could snap him in two like pre-cooked vermicelli
b) actually hit that target from 30 feet away?
The ring toss game at the state fair would run out of stuffed animals the first night in town if sober people could do that on command. Wars have been lost because soldiers, in complete control of all their faculties, couldn't lob grenades with such precision.
Well, the Battle of Detroit was officially on after the launching of that suds scud. Artest charged into the stands along with a couple of his hooligan teammates, and before long it had the makings of a World Wrestling pay-per-view steel cage match minus the class and dignity (or a script to determine the outcome).
Athletes from around the sports world were so embarrassed by what they saw from their NBA brethren Friday night that there wasn't a single incident of on-field misconduct...until Saturday afternoon. By then, 'Cockfighting had broken out in the Clemson-South Carolina game where players from both teams employed such tactical maneuvers as slamming their fists into the other guy's helmet. Not only did contrite officials from both schools voluntarily remove themselves from consideration for a bowl game, the Gamecocks replaced retiring head coach Lou Holtz with noted good sport Steve Spurrier.
Yet not to be outdone by those brouhahas (or is it brous-haha?) was an uprising in Washington, D.C. where city officials were trying to announce that the name of the new baseball team there would be the Nationals. (They can't pass a single page of meaningful legislation in Washington, but they can name 'em a baseball team lickety-split.) Some goofball, who perhaps had hoped the nickname would be as insensitive as those of the other sports teams in D.C., commandeered the podium and began screaming incoherently before being removed by security. Onlookers decried the outburst but agreed the man had a bright future in politics. The whole debacle must have been a great disappointment to former D.C. Mayor Marion Berry, who's done so much to bring honor and civility to our nation's capital in between prison terms.
So take heart, news producers. Our athletes and entertainers are taking their skills off the sports page and onto the police blotter where their true greatness, if not their naked bodies, will be revealed. And before you overreact to these acts of foolishness and violence, I urge you to remember the words of Mayor Berry when he said - and I'm afraid this is an actual quote: "If you take out the killings, Washington actually has a very, very low crime rate."
("Hey, CNN! PETA's on the phone. It's about that dead horse you're beating...")
That's when our men in uniform sprang into action and our women wanting action sprang out of whatever they were wearing. First, it was Terrell Owens on Monday Night Football. The Philadelphia Eagles receiver known as "T.O." (Towel Off?) and Desperate Housewife Nicolette "Edie" Sheridan starred in a seductive, pregame skit featuring a just-showered Sheridan asking Owens to explain the instructions on her shampoo bottle. Well, it certainly succeeded in lathering up the American viewing audience, the most prudish of whom excoriated ABC for showing such filth and demanded that the network in the future skip the shenanigans and get right to the real reason they tuned in to watch the game: the slow-motion close-ups of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, tastefully festooned in their booby-trapped blouses and hip-hugging undies. (By the way, with the advent of High Definition technology, how soon before merely watching those cheerleaders on a big screen TV becomes a statutory offense?)
No sooner had those verbal volleys landed on ABC executives than the Pacers, Pistons, and half the city of Detroit engaged in real fisticuffs at an NBA game. It started when Pistons' big man Ben Wallace - the incarnation of that great line from Fletch, "He's 6'5", with the afro 6'9"..." - attempted to perform a tonsillectomy on Ron Artest of the Indiana Pacers. Push came to shove when Artest defiantly lay down on the scorer's table, and a fan threw down from 8 rows up in the stands his $10 beer, cup and all, which hit Artest between the numbers on his jersey. How hopelessly inebriated was that guy to:
a) decide it might be a good idea to chuck a brewski onto a man who could snap him in two like pre-cooked vermicelli
b) actually hit that target from 30 feet away?
The ring toss game at the state fair would run out of stuffed animals the first night in town if sober people could do that on command. Wars have been lost because soldiers, in complete control of all their faculties, couldn't lob grenades with such precision.
Well, the Battle of Detroit was officially on after the launching of that suds scud. Artest charged into the stands along with a couple of his hooligan teammates, and before long it had the makings of a World Wrestling pay-per-view steel cage match minus the class and dignity (or a script to determine the outcome).
Athletes from around the sports world were so embarrassed by what they saw from their NBA brethren Friday night that there wasn't a single incident of on-field misconduct...until Saturday afternoon. By then, 'Cockfighting had broken out in the Clemson-South Carolina game where players from both teams employed such tactical maneuvers as slamming their fists into the other guy's helmet. Not only did contrite officials from both schools voluntarily remove themselves from consideration for a bowl game, the Gamecocks replaced retiring head coach Lou Holtz with noted good sport Steve Spurrier.
Yet not to be outdone by those brouhahas (or is it brous-haha?) was an uprising in Washington, D.C. where city officials were trying to announce that the name of the new baseball team there would be the Nationals. (They can't pass a single page of meaningful legislation in Washington, but they can name 'em a baseball team lickety-split.) Some goofball, who perhaps had hoped the nickname would be as insensitive as those of the other sports teams in D.C., commandeered the podium and began screaming incoherently before being removed by security. Onlookers decried the outburst but agreed the man had a bright future in politics. The whole debacle must have been a great disappointment to former D.C. Mayor Marion Berry, who's done so much to bring honor and civility to our nation's capital in between prison terms.
So take heart, news producers. Our athletes and entertainers are taking their skills off the sports page and onto the police blotter where their true greatness, if not their naked bodies, will be revealed. And before you overreact to these acts of foolishness and violence, I urge you to remember the words of Mayor Berry when he said - and I'm afraid this is an actual quote: "If you take out the killings, Washington actually has a very, very low crime rate."
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Baker's Dozen, Blogger's Wife
Golfers will say you've "overclubbed" if the woman you married is way better than you should have had. In football parlance, it's called "outkicking your coverage." I'm sure poker players would have a term, too, if they'd ever get up off their fat aces and actually ask a girl out. (It's difficult to imagine the conversation ever progressing past, "Hey, little missy. Wanna come watch the flop to see if I flush?")
Pick the metaphor, and it applies to me. On this day 13 years ago, accompanied by her dad and "Trumpet Voluntary," Amy Nichols voluntarily walked down the aisle at Aldersgate Methodist Church in Abilene, Texas a little after 4 p.m. and agreed before God and man to become Amy Boone.
Scientists have a Rule of Thirteen, so named because, in order to generate a base formula (containing only carbon and hydrogen), the molar mass of the unknown substance is divided by 13. In a lot of ways, that rule describes our 13 years of marriage.
(Okay, I have no idea what that means. I just threw it in because Amy's dad teaches science at ACU. Thought it could be a telepathic, father-in-law/husband bonding moment. He's the carbon, I'm the hydrogen... Moving on.)
This is an unsuitable forum for me to express my love for Amy or to describe her greatness. Actually there isn't such a forum. Nor is there poetry, song, or work of art yet created that captures the fullness of a life with her. You'd have to be there. On the days in between the anniversaries. The January 12ths and July 22nds and October 14ths that pass without revelry but which when compounded produce a richness one can only appreciate in retrospect and humility.
You want to know the secret to a good marriage? Choose well. You can be a great spouse: loving, caring, considerate. But if you don't choose your mate well? Well, mate, you might just experience another scientific phenomenon: spontaneous combustion.
I've made too many poor decisions to count over the last 13 years. But the one I made November 23, 1991 - or rather the one she made on my behalf - has covered a multitude of sins.
Pick the metaphor, and it applies to me. On this day 13 years ago, accompanied by her dad and "Trumpet Voluntary," Amy Nichols voluntarily walked down the aisle at Aldersgate Methodist Church in Abilene, Texas a little after 4 p.m. and agreed before God and man to become Amy Boone.
Scientists have a Rule of Thirteen, so named because, in order to generate a base formula (containing only carbon and hydrogen), the molar mass of the unknown substance is divided by 13. In a lot of ways, that rule describes our 13 years of marriage.
(Okay, I have no idea what that means. I just threw it in because Amy's dad teaches science at ACU. Thought it could be a telepathic, father-in-law/husband bonding moment. He's the carbon, I'm the hydrogen... Moving on.)
This is an unsuitable forum for me to express my love for Amy or to describe her greatness. Actually there isn't such a forum. Nor is there poetry, song, or work of art yet created that captures the fullness of a life with her. You'd have to be there. On the days in between the anniversaries. The January 12ths and July 22nds and October 14ths that pass without revelry but which when compounded produce a richness one can only appreciate in retrospect and humility.
You want to know the secret to a good marriage? Choose well. You can be a great spouse: loving, caring, considerate. But if you don't choose your mate well? Well, mate, you might just experience another scientific phenomenon: spontaneous combustion.
I've made too many poor decisions to count over the last 13 years. But the one I made November 23, 1991 - or rather the one she made on my behalf - has covered a multitude of sins.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Where Will Rain Man Buy His Underwear?
In case you missed it, Sears and K-Mart have announced they're merging.
On one hand it reeks of a cheap publicity stunt by aging, passe celebrities - imagine the buzz in Hollywood if Loretta Swit from M*A*S*H married Welcome Back, Kotter's Ron "Horshack" Palillo...keep thinking...got it? There you go.
But on a personal level, I'm sure I'll enjoy the convenience of avoiding one store instead of two.
"Ooh, ooh! Mr. Kotta, Mr. Kotta! Now I can buy my generic flannel shirts and a bag of Funyuns at the same store!!!"
On one hand it reeks of a cheap publicity stunt by aging, passe celebrities - imagine the buzz in Hollywood if Loretta Swit from M*A*S*H married Welcome Back, Kotter's Ron "Horshack" Palillo...keep thinking...got it? There you go.
But on a personal level, I'm sure I'll enjoy the convenience of avoiding one store instead of two.
"Ooh, ooh! Mr. Kotta, Mr. Kotta! Now I can buy my generic flannel shirts and a bag of Funyuns at the same store!!!"
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Naked Bootleg
Last week, the NFL re-upped with CBS and Fox, guaranteeing that those two networks will televise football on Sundays.
Based on last night's intro to the Eagles-Cowboys' game on ABC, it would appear the league is considering moving Monday Night Football to Cinemax.
For Nicolette Sheridan, who dropped her towel and jumped into the arms of Philly receiver Terrell Owens (it was the first of T.O.'s many catches last night), it threatens to tarnish a career she's worked so diligently to build through such epic films as "Beverly Hills Ninja."
For the NFL, this latest black, ahem, eye comes less than a year since Janet Jackson's Super Bowl halftime show brought new meaning to the term "boob tube."
When it comes to developing young fans, it seems the league is the one throwing in the towel.
Based on last night's intro to the Eagles-Cowboys' game on ABC, it would appear the league is considering moving Monday Night Football to Cinemax.
For Nicolette Sheridan, who dropped her towel and jumped into the arms of Philly receiver Terrell Owens (it was the first of T.O.'s many catches last night), it threatens to tarnish a career she's worked so diligently to build through such epic films as "Beverly Hills Ninja."
For the NFL, this latest black, ahem, eye comes less than a year since Janet Jackson's Super Bowl halftime show brought new meaning to the term "boob tube."
When it comes to developing young fans, it seems the league is the one throwing in the towel.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
The ABCs of G, PG
Parental Guidance: knowing when a child is too young to take to the movies.
Here's a general rule of thumb - if your youngster is smaller than the largest tub of popcorn, wait for the DVD.
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Don't take this literally.
Here's a general rule of thumb - if your youngster is smaller than the largest tub of popcorn, wait for the DVD.
Don't take this literally.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
"I Was Behind Bars, And You Visited Me..."
This man was attacked and injured after jumping into a lion's den at the Taipei Zoo and trying to convert the lions to Christianity. I only wish I was kidding.
Sir, the Colosseum closed 2,000 years ago. Get over it.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Making Their Mao-ths Water
The Tiananmen Square massacre was worth it. Hooters has finally come to China. The Congressional Budget Office estimates the United States' two billion dollar trade deficit with the People's Republic will be erased by Monday.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Us, Weakly
Entertainment magazine editors face a difficult decision each week: should I do a feature story on Britney Spears' latest once-in-a-lifetime love or go ahead and kill myself now?
Here's how the bigwigs at Us Weekly adroitly laid out this week's cover:
*A 3/4-page picture of J-Lo declaring: "I'm ready to have a baby!" Choose one of my following two retorts -
a) Doesn't she have to get pregnant first?
b) The doctor doing the delivery room spanking shouldn't have a problem hitting his target. (Okay, I didn't just type that. That was my evil twin cousin, Andre.)
*Two inset boxes - one with a picture and caption, "Britney at home," and another screaming, "Nicky (Hilton) splits with hubby."
Say what you want, but those two have come up big for the owners who took them in Fantasy Dating Leagues. They've combined for three weddings, one annulment, and a divorce this year alone.
*And finally, in a touching tribute, Us Weekly editors scrapped a "Survivor" update to dedicate an entire eighth of an inch across the top of the cover to commemorate the death of Christopher Reeve, one of the few in Hollywood history to merit adulation and respect.
Good work, gang. Be sure and catch next week's edition featuring Mary Kate Olson and Calista Flockhart appearing on the spine of the magazine - between the staples - and election results in the News and Notes section on page 87.
Here's how the bigwigs at Us Weekly adroitly laid out this week's cover:
*A 3/4-page picture of J-Lo declaring: "I'm ready to have a baby!" Choose one of my following two retorts -
a) Doesn't she have to get pregnant first?
b) The doctor doing the delivery room spanking shouldn't have a problem hitting his target. (Okay, I didn't just type that. That was my evil twin cousin, Andre.)
*Two inset boxes - one with a picture and caption, "Britney at home," and another screaming, "Nicky (Hilton) splits with hubby."
Say what you want, but those two have come up big for the owners who took them in Fantasy Dating Leagues. They've combined for three weddings, one annulment, and a divorce this year alone.
*And finally, in a touching tribute, Us Weekly editors scrapped a "Survivor" update to dedicate an entire eighth of an inch across the top of the cover to commemorate the death of Christopher Reeve, one of the few in Hollywood history to merit adulation and respect.
Good work, gang. Be sure and catch next week's edition featuring Mary Kate Olson and Calista Flockhart appearing on the spine of the magazine - between the staples - and election results in the News and Notes section on page 87.
Monday, October 18, 2004
And A Little Child Shall Read Them
On the way home from church yesterday, Andrew (age 8) asked if he could read some of the book of Revelation after lunch. As Amy and I looked at each other, I could tell we were thinking different things.
Amy: "Quit looking at me and keep your eyes on the road."
Me: "Where did we go wrong? He'd always been such a good boy."
I told him I couldn't think of a time when it wouldn't be okay to read the Bible. Maybe in the middle of the night, I offered, but Amy correctly jumped in to tell him if he ever woke up and felt like he needed to read the Bible that he should go ahead and do it. (This is one of roughly 2,017 reasons why it's always good to have Amy around.)
After lunch, as I settled in to an afternoon of deep meditation and inner reflection, highlighted by the constant clicking between two NFL games and the movie "Shallow Hal" on TBS, Andrew opened his purple NIV Reader's Version and began reading the last book of the Bible. Periodically, he'd come in to ask me a question about what he'd read or more often just to marvel at that apocalyptic vision John witnessed and wrote about in Scripture.
In fact, it's possible that Andrew reading Revelation while I watch anything involving Gwyneth Paltrow is itself a sign of the apocalypse.
Hang on, I'll ask him.
Amy: "Quit looking at me and keep your eyes on the road."
Me: "Where did we go wrong? He'd always been such a good boy."
I told him I couldn't think of a time when it wouldn't be okay to read the Bible. Maybe in the middle of the night, I offered, but Amy correctly jumped in to tell him if he ever woke up and felt like he needed to read the Bible that he should go ahead and do it. (This is one of roughly 2,017 reasons why it's always good to have Amy around.)
After lunch, as I settled in to an afternoon of deep meditation and inner reflection, highlighted by the constant clicking between two NFL games and the movie "Shallow Hal" on TBS, Andrew opened his purple NIV Reader's Version and began reading the last book of the Bible. Periodically, he'd come in to ask me a question about what he'd read or more often just to marvel at that apocalyptic vision John witnessed and wrote about in Scripture.
In fact, it's possible that Andrew reading Revelation while I watch anything involving Gwyneth Paltrow is itself a sign of the apocalypse.
Hang on, I'll ask him.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Last Shall Be First
The fact that I've flown so often that I can most often get upgraded into first class is bittersweet:
It means I've spent a significant amount of time away from my wife and children. To say I love them way more than anything I do on the road would suggest that it's even a debatable question.
On the other hand, I do get free drinks and a hot towel before meals.
So, you know.
By the way, next time you board a plane and make your way to the coach section, sneak a peek at those elite passengers. There's a look in their eyes that seems to say, "You poor, pathetic loser. Get outta my face and get back to the cattle car where you belong." Either that or they're asleep with their eyes open.
It means I've spent a significant amount of time away from my wife and children. To say I love them way more than anything I do on the road would suggest that it's even a debatable question.
On the other hand, I do get free drinks and a hot towel before meals.
So, you know.
By the way, next time you board a plane and make your way to the coach section, sneak a peek at those elite passengers. There's a look in their eyes that seems to say, "You poor, pathetic loser. Get outta my face and get back to the cattle car where you belong." Either that or they're asleep with their eyes open.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
From The Editor
Because neither of us have enough to do, I've created a brand new blog, Poll Position, that will focus exclusively on politics. I didn't think it was fair to bury important stories like a football player pooping in a woman's laundry basket beneath political pablum and discussing who will be the next leader of the free world.
I hope you'll visit and make comments at Poll Position and continue to remind me just how important what I have to say really is.
I hope you'll visit and make comments at Poll Position and continue to remind me just how important what I have to say really is.
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