Some questions are so simple, they're hard. Like, "Honey, did you remember to pick the kids up at school?" Sounds easy enough. I mean, I should be able to look around and see if the kids are with me or not, right?
I got one of those questions the other night after our first day broadcasting the PGA Championship from the magnificent Whistling Straits Golf Club in Wisconsin. This was my first week working with the crew of pga.com, a talented group of super nice people. Getting to know each other over a thin-crust pizza and some of Milwaukee's finest, I mentioned I'd been doing some work for Continent of Great Cities, helping mission teams plant strong churches. As I told my new friends how I'd drunk the Kool-Aid when it came to Christ, that I'd fallen for Him hook, line, and Savior, one of them asked me:
"So how would someone begin a relationship with God?"
Yes! For someone sharing his faith, this was a tap-in, a batting practice fastball, a chip-shot field goal...
"I'm sorry, what was that again? Can you rephrase the question? Can I phone a friend? Wouldn't you rather discuss instrumental music or why Phoebe wasn't really a deacon?"
This most basic query put me in a momentary quandary. Someone really smart and famous - maybe G.K. Chesterton - once wrote that it's more difficult to defend that which you truly hold dear than something you don't really believe in. (Okay, it probably wasn't Chesterton; he wouldn't have ended a sentence with a preposition.) For example, I might make a more coherent case for a presidential candidate than I could explain how deeply I love my wife.
The first thing I told the guy was that it was a really good question. Then we talked about beginning with some very basic prayer, asking God who He is and if He's real and being completely honest. The real answer, of course, is that there is no formula. There never is in real relationships. Books on dating or parenting offer helpful hints on how to achieve success in those areas, at best, and, at worst, reduce those endeavors to simple algebra that never quite equates in real life.
"How would someone begin a relationship with God?"
Good question. Here's another, "Does the school cafeteria have a dinner menu?"
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Big But Not Easy
Ernie Els is the golfer with the syrupy swing and the Alfred E. Newman, "What, me worry?" facade. But there's a fire in the belly of the guy they call "The Big Easy" - and, no, I'm not talking about the kind of fire that goes away with a coupla Pepcid AC.
Saturday night, after the third round of the PGA Championship in Kohler, Wisconsin, I saw Els belch that fire on Alan Shipnuck, the former full-time golf writer for Sports Illustrated who is now "par" sona non grata with golfers and fellow media members alike because, in the estimation of everyone I know, he's an ambush journalist and a sniper, willing to take shots at anyone from any distance. One writer told me the reason SI took him off the golf beat is because none of the players would ever talk to him.
Well, Els was certainly talking to Shipnuck Saturday night, but there wasn't much I can repeat that would make it through my CyberSitter 2003 family-friendly internet filter. Suffice to say, Els is not a big fan of Shipnuck's work. Unless the index finger he was sticking in Shipnuck's face was to tell him, "You're the number one sportswriter in golf!" This particular dust-up is believed to have begun when Els learned Shipnuck had used one of his SI colleagues to get a quote from Ernie for a story Shipnuck was writing. Els wasn't happy. For ten minutes, he dropped f-bombs with abandon, an Enola Gay of expletives, to make sure Shipnuck knew he never wanted to talk to him again. Even Els' wife, Liezl, unleashed her own unique invective. I'd never seen a scribe proscribed quite like that. I was unable, however, to find anyone who felt sorry for Shipnuck.
Keep in mind, Ernie was already in a bad mood at the moment because of an 18th hole bogey that put him at 8 under par, 4 shots behind Vijay Singh with only one round to go. And for a minute there it looked like a stroke wouldn't be the only thing Els dropped. I thought the writer might go down, too, right there on the practice putting green as the sun set on Whistling Straits. Twenty-four hours later, Els would bogey the 18th again, this time costing him a spot in a PGA playoff. I hope for Shipnuck's sake he wasn't anywhere in sight when Els walked off the 18th green having notched yet another near-miss in a major championship.
Saturday night, after the third round of the PGA Championship in Kohler, Wisconsin, I saw Els belch that fire on Alan Shipnuck, the former full-time golf writer for Sports Illustrated who is now "par" sona non grata with golfers and fellow media members alike because, in the estimation of everyone I know, he's an ambush journalist and a sniper, willing to take shots at anyone from any distance. One writer told me the reason SI took him off the golf beat is because none of the players would ever talk to him.
Well, Els was certainly talking to Shipnuck Saturday night, but there wasn't much I can repeat that would make it through my CyberSitter 2003 family-friendly internet filter. Suffice to say, Els is not a big fan of Shipnuck's work. Unless the index finger he was sticking in Shipnuck's face was to tell him, "You're the number one sportswriter in golf!" This particular dust-up is believed to have begun when Els learned Shipnuck had used one of his SI colleagues to get a quote from Ernie for a story Shipnuck was writing. Els wasn't happy. For ten minutes, he dropped f-bombs with abandon, an Enola Gay of expletives, to make sure Shipnuck knew he never wanted to talk to him again. Even Els' wife, Liezl, unleashed her own unique invective. I'd never seen a scribe proscribed quite like that. I was unable, however, to find anyone who felt sorry for Shipnuck.
Keep in mind, Ernie was already in a bad mood at the moment because of an 18th hole bogey that put him at 8 under par, 4 shots behind Vijay Singh with only one round to go. And for a minute there it looked like a stroke wouldn't be the only thing Els dropped. I thought the writer might go down, too, right there on the practice putting green as the sun set on Whistling Straits. Twenty-four hours later, Els would bogey the 18th again, this time costing him a spot in a PGA playoff. I hope for Shipnuck's sake he wasn't anywhere in sight when Els walked off the 18th green having notched yet another near-miss in a major championship.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
GBPGA
Some of you have been trying to find my broadcast of the PGA Championship on the web. You have to be an AOL member. Log in and you should find the link to the PGA Championship webcast.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Comic Relief
You've heard the old joke, right: "Old truckers never die, they just get a new..." (In a rare burst of civility, I'll withhold the punchline and let you fill in the blank.) Apparently, old comedians never die, they become political commentators. The list of comics-turned-pundits reads like a "Who's #*%*#%& Who?" of popular 1980s stand-up artists. Al Franken, Bill Maher, Whoopi Goldberg, and George Carlin are all more popular these days for telling people how to vote than for telling jokes (though the two can be confusing at times). Hey, whatever pays the bills.
And for that matter, not all of the aforementioned yucksters are complete idiots politically. The other night, for example, Bill Maher asked a conservative guest on his talk show for a good reason why gay marriage should be banned, something other than the apocalyptic cries of the radical right about how our civilization depends on who's allowed to stand at the altar.
It got me thinking about this issue in particular and how my faith should and does affect my politics. I can make what I believe to be a strong case for why God would be against gay marriage. But if America isn't a theocracy and we don't outlaw sins like adultery, what would be my next "line of defense."
People like Maher are asking real questions and fair ones, in my opinion; the kind Jesus was never afraid to answer. Of course, he had the slight advantage of being the Son of God and all. I, on the other hand, am left to wonder how my citizenship in God's kingdom could and should encroach on the world of American politics. And that's no joke.
And for that matter, not all of the aforementioned yucksters are complete idiots politically. The other night, for example, Bill Maher asked a conservative guest on his talk show for a good reason why gay marriage should be banned, something other than the apocalyptic cries of the radical right about how our civilization depends on who's allowed to stand at the altar.
It got me thinking about this issue in particular and how my faith should and does affect my politics. I can make what I believe to be a strong case for why God would be against gay marriage. But if America isn't a theocracy and we don't outlaw sins like adultery, what would be my next "line of defense."
People like Maher are asking real questions and fair ones, in my opinion; the kind Jesus was never afraid to answer. Of course, he had the slight advantage of being the Son of God and all. I, on the other hand, am left to wonder how my citizenship in God's kingdom could and should encroach on the world of American politics. And that's no joke.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Tee & AA
We here at the boone box are always on the lookout for ways you men can impress that special lady in your life. (Ladies, and by that I mean all non-men, a recent court order and my wedding vows preclude me from looking out for you.)
Guys, remember that a woman wants to know how much you care. And what better way to communicate your love than wearing a sexually-explicit t-shirt when you're out with her in public? It says, "I have only one thing on my mind." And, "I have only one thing on my mind."
In some cases, it might also say, "Whaddya mean I can't board the plane?" Last week, according to the Palm Beach Post, American Airlines kicked a couple off Flight 952 from Miami to New York because the man wouldn't change or turn inside out his shirt featuring a man and woman engaging in an act in which t-shirts are unnecessary, if not cumbersome.
The woman involved (in the incident, not on the shirt) didn't understand all the fuss. "It's a picture of a man and woman, and the woman's breast is showing. The flight attendant basically walked up to us and yelled, 'You have to take off that shirt right now.'"
(Apparently, the man would've been allowed to board the plane topless.)
Four Miami-Dade County lawmen and three federal security agents escorted the lusty lovebirds off the plane. While the couple was released without being charged, several of the officers offered to keep the tawdry tee in custody and under close surveillance.
Guys, remember that a woman wants to know how much you care. And what better way to communicate your love than wearing a sexually-explicit t-shirt when you're out with her in public? It says, "I have only one thing on my mind." And, "I have only one thing on my mind."
In some cases, it might also say, "Whaddya mean I can't board the plane?" Last week, according to the Palm Beach Post, American Airlines kicked a couple off Flight 952 from Miami to New York because the man wouldn't change or turn inside out his shirt featuring a man and woman engaging in an act in which t-shirts are unnecessary, if not cumbersome.
The woman involved (in the incident, not on the shirt) didn't understand all the fuss. "It's a picture of a man and woman, and the woman's breast is showing. The flight attendant basically walked up to us and yelled, 'You have to take off that shirt right now.'"
(Apparently, the man would've been allowed to board the plane topless.)
Four Miami-Dade County lawmen and three federal security agents escorted the lusty lovebirds off the plane. While the couple was released without being charged, several of the officers offered to keep the tawdry tee in custody and under close surveillance.
Monday, July 26, 2004
220, 221 - Whatever It Takes
A quick coda to the previous post. The flip phrase "fistful of dollars" doesn't do justice to that part of the story. On that Sunday morning at church, I shared the Reader's Digest version of the story to two classes and suggested anyone interested in contributing to the cause could see me afterward. I asked God to multiply the first five dollar bills handed me and He did, to the tune of $221.
After we had helped our new friends, I totaled up the cost of getting the power turned back on, putting them up for a night in a hotel room, and buying them a random sack of groceries. Take a wild guess what it came to. If you said something other than $221, please move back two posts and deposit 75 cents.
I guess God just likes to show off sometimes. I, meanwhile, remain a work in progress. While my kids have repeatedly suggested we call our new friends to see if they want to go to church or other such functions with us, I actually went out of my way last week to avoid the outstretched hands of two guys on a street corner because I knew the boys would want to stop and help and frankly I wasn't up for it at that particular moment.
I hope you're getting the moral of this story: if you introduce your children to Christ, your life will never be the same - it'll be way less convenient. And before you know it, stuff will start adding up to 221. And through it all you may discover the road to heaven has stop signs at street corners where people need money and gas and food and you. Don't say I didn't warn you.
After we had helped our new friends, I totaled up the cost of getting the power turned back on, putting them up for a night in a hotel room, and buying them a random sack of groceries. Take a wild guess what it came to. If you said something other than $221, please move back two posts and deposit 75 cents.
I guess God just likes to show off sometimes. I, meanwhile, remain a work in progress. While my kids have repeatedly suggested we call our new friends to see if they want to go to church or other such functions with us, I actually went out of my way last week to avoid the outstretched hands of two guys on a street corner because I knew the boys would want to stop and help and frankly I wasn't up for it at that particular moment.
I hope you're getting the moral of this story: if you introduce your children to Christ, your life will never be the same - it'll be way less convenient. And before you know it, stuff will start adding up to 221. And through it all you may discover the road to heaven has stop signs at street corners where people need money and gas and food and you. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Like Father, Like Son
It's been said no one is totally useless in life; they can always serve as a bad example. The guy with the big melon pictured to your right is living proof. Couple of weeks ago, the fam and I were leaving Wal-Mart (which, by the way, is usually my favorite part of going to that particular establishment). I noticed a guy positioned at the exit holding a cardboard sign. I thought about asking him what he needed, but it didn't seem especially practical with a van full of family. I pulled out onto Southwest Drive, only to hear Andrew - spiritually mature beyond his 7 years of age - say, "Maybe we should help that man."
Exactly. We wheeled around and introduced ourselves. Turns out, the guy needed a little gas for his car and a friend or two to go to bat for his and his brother's families who've just landed in Abilene.
A few days later, thanks in part to a fistful of dollars collected from our friends at Highland, we helped get their electricity turned back on. They trusted us enough at that point to let their three kids come with us to Vacation Bible School.
I have no idea how the plot will thicken in the ensuing chapters of this story. But I do know the Author has a knack for happy endings. And because my oldest is way more like his Heavenly Father than his earthly dad, these characters might actually be excited to turn the page.
Exactly. We wheeled around and introduced ourselves. Turns out, the guy needed a little gas for his car and a friend or two to go to bat for his and his brother's families who've just landed in Abilene.
A few days later, thanks in part to a fistful of dollars collected from our friends at Highland, we helped get their electricity turned back on. They trusted us enough at that point to let their three kids come with us to Vacation Bible School.
I have no idea how the plot will thicken in the ensuing chapters of this story. But I do know the Author has a knack for happy endings. And because my oldest is way more like his Heavenly Father than his earthly dad, these characters might actually be excited to turn the page.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
For Whom The Boone Tolls
A friend of mine we'll call "Val Durrington" phoned me yesterday as I was driving from Tulsa back to Abilene. He said, "Let me guess - you're somewhere on I-44 between two toll booths." He wasn't watching me on Harry Potter's Marauder's Map, though a succession of toll clerks magically made $14.75 vanish over the course of two days. All that money they suck out of interstate motorists, and it's still...Oklahoma.
Here's what I saw when I finally exited:
- Call off the dogs. I've found Dr. Hook. They'll be appearing at the Musclecar Truckfest in Anadarko, OK later this month. Looks like the comeback tour is ahead of schedule.
- It was either truth in advertising or a bizarre coincidence. At the Sprint PCS store on 71st St. in Tulsa, I met a guy with a wooden leg. As I left the parking lot, I passed a truck with a sign on the door that read "Pegleg's - Buy, Sell, Trade Cars."
- I did not see the 900-foot Jesus who once appeared to Oral Roberts, but I must admit I wasn't looking for him, specifically.
- I'm not sure I've ever had more fun ordering dinner than I did at Fish Daddy's Thursday night when I asked for a "cuppagumbo." Go on. Say "cuppagumbo" right now wherever you are. If you don't immediately perk up and lose 3-5 dress sizes, I'll gladly put you on the same "preferred" e-mail list I'm on, which allows me to receive discounted Viagra and other products of a sensual nature, such as low, fixed-rate home loans.
That was the last free paragraph of this post. To continue, please deposit 75 cents.
Here's what I saw when I finally exited:
- Call off the dogs. I've found Dr. Hook. They'll be appearing at the Musclecar Truckfest in Anadarko, OK later this month. Looks like the comeback tour is ahead of schedule.
- It was either truth in advertising or a bizarre coincidence. At the Sprint PCS store on 71st St. in Tulsa, I met a guy with a wooden leg. As I left the parking lot, I passed a truck with a sign on the door that read "Pegleg's - Buy, Sell, Trade Cars."
- I did not see the 900-foot Jesus who once appeared to Oral Roberts, but I must admit I wasn't looking for him, specifically.
- I'm not sure I've ever had more fun ordering dinner than I did at Fish Daddy's Thursday night when I asked for a "cuppagumbo." Go on. Say "cuppagumbo" right now wherever you are. If you don't immediately perk up and lose 3-5 dress sizes, I'll gladly put you on the same "preferred" e-mail list I'm on, which allows me to receive discounted Viagra and other products of a sensual nature, such as low, fixed-rate home loans.
That was the last free paragraph of this post. To continue, please deposit 75 cents.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Double Feature
How sick would someone really be whose two favorite movies this year are The Passion of the Christ and Anchorman? 'Cause I know someone like that. And I'd like to get help. For him. Or her. If indeed there's something wrong with that. Which of course there is...
Stay classy.
Watch Out For Ron Burgundy's Guns. They'll Getcha.
Stay classy.
Watch Out For Ron Burgundy's Guns. They'll Getcha.
Friday, July 09, 2004
"My Name Is Dick - Do You Know What That Means?"
Al Campanis and Jimmy the Greek are laughing in their whitewashed tombs. They've each moved down a notch on the list of Dumbest Things Ever Said By Public Figures thanks to the fine work of Richard Riordan, former mayor of Los Angeles and soon to be the ex-Education Commissioner of California.
Last week in Santa Barbara, Riordan was meeting some of the students in an elementary school classroom when a 6-year-old girl, Isis D'Luciano, told Riordan her name meant "Egyptian goddess." Confused, or maybe drunk - it was already mid-morning by then - Riordan responded, "It means dirty, stupid girl," then chuckled the chuckle of a man whose reputation and public life was flashing before his very eyes. When the little girl repeated the correct meaning of her name, Riordan replied, "That's nifty!" proving his vocabulary was every bit as anachronistic as his sense of political correctness.
The story took an even more bizarre turn at that point when the superhero Isis, not seen since Saturday mornings in the late '70s, appeared out of nowhere and kicked the crap out of the commissioner.
Isis Educated Riordan On The Proper Way To Speak To Girls
This incident further proves every politician should whenever possible try to emulate former President Bill Clinton, whose exchange with the little girl would've no doubt gone like this:
Isis: "Do you know what my name means?"
Clinton: "That depends on what your definition of 'is' is, Isis."
(Then again, upon remembering how hot JoAnna Cameron, the actress who played Isis in the TV series, was in those days, Clinton would've likely appointed a special investigator to determine her whereabouts and availability. He might have even shouted, "Shazam!" which is not just an expression of excitement but also Isis's crimefighting cohort.)
Last week in Santa Barbara, Riordan was meeting some of the students in an elementary school classroom when a 6-year-old girl, Isis D'Luciano, told Riordan her name meant "Egyptian goddess." Confused, or maybe drunk - it was already mid-morning by then - Riordan responded, "It means dirty, stupid girl," then chuckled the chuckle of a man whose reputation and public life was flashing before his very eyes. When the little girl repeated the correct meaning of her name, Riordan replied, "That's nifty!" proving his vocabulary was every bit as anachronistic as his sense of political correctness.
The story took an even more bizarre turn at that point when the superhero Isis, not seen since Saturday mornings in the late '70s, appeared out of nowhere and kicked the crap out of the commissioner.
Isis Educated Riordan On The Proper Way To Speak To Girls
This incident further proves every politician should whenever possible try to emulate former President Bill Clinton, whose exchange with the little girl would've no doubt gone like this:
Isis: "Do you know what my name means?"
Clinton: "That depends on what your definition of 'is' is, Isis."
(Then again, upon remembering how hot JoAnna Cameron, the actress who played Isis in the TV series, was in those days, Clinton would've likely appointed a special investigator to determine her whereabouts and availability. He might have even shouted, "Shazam!" which is not just an expression of excitement but also Isis's crimefighting cohort.)
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Changing The Litter In The Boone Box
Can low-carb communion bread be far behind? Does the Atkins symbol in a sanctuary constitute a graven image?
I have enough urgency in my life without gas station credit card machines demanding that I "remove card quickly."
Is the hand sanitizer phenomenon one big, biohazardous hoax? Will we soon discover, as the Seinfeld characters did about the fat-free frozen yogurt that really wasn't, that we've been had? Are teeny, tiny, little bacteria fraternities doing the backstroke in this goo? I feel dirty just broaching the subject.
George W. Bush - Dick Cheney + John McCain = (4)more years
And finally, as the first half of the baseball season ends with the Texas Rangers leading the American League West, I'd like to wish everyone a Happy Armageddon.
I have enough urgency in my life without gas station credit card machines demanding that I "remove card quickly."
Is the hand sanitizer phenomenon one big, biohazardous hoax? Will we soon discover, as the Seinfeld characters did about the fat-free frozen yogurt that really wasn't, that we've been had? Are teeny, tiny, little bacteria fraternities doing the backstroke in this goo? I feel dirty just broaching the subject.
George W. Bush - Dick Cheney + John McCain = (4)more years
And finally, as the first half of the baseball season ends with the Texas Rangers leading the American League West, I'd like to wish everyone a Happy Armageddon.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
You Say Potatoe...
No sooner had John Kerry announced John Edwards as his running mate than Republicans began publicly questioning whether Edwards was qualified to be Vice President. I applaud the GOP for their willingness to ask the tough questions about those who would govern this nation.
After all, Dan Quayle left sum mitey big shoos two fil.
After all, Dan Quayle left sum mitey big shoos two fil.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
The Lucky Sprem Club
If men are indeed from Mars and women's tennis players are named Venus, then what planet was Ted Watts on when he umpired a second-round match at Wimbledon between Croatia's Karolina Sprem and the aforementioned Miss Williams?
Watts mistakenly awarded a point to Sprem in a second-set tiebreaker. No one noticed, including the players, and Williams wound up losing the tiebreaker and the match. While he'll never sit in the chair at Wimbledon again, Watts can look forward to a bright future as either a star of those "Wanna get away?" ads for Southwest Airlines or Florida's Secretary of State.
SportsCenter immediately concocted a piece on the greatest officiating blunders of all time. But Watts' whiff made me think of two things for which I'm exceedingly grateful:
First, my screw-ups aren't televised...with the exception of things like "butt darts" and "youranalysis", which I brought upon myself.
And second, the number of good breaks I've received so far outweighs the bad it seems blasphemous to even put them on the same scales.
In the case of the latter, though I've dangled my share of chads, no recount is necessary.
Watts mistakenly awarded a point to Sprem in a second-set tiebreaker. No one noticed, including the players, and Williams wound up losing the tiebreaker and the match. While he'll never sit in the chair at Wimbledon again, Watts can look forward to a bright future as either a star of those "Wanna get away?" ads for Southwest Airlines or Florida's Secretary of State.
SportsCenter immediately concocted a piece on the greatest officiating blunders of all time. But Watts' whiff made me think of two things for which I'm exceedingly grateful:
First, my screw-ups aren't televised...with the exception of things like "butt darts" and "youranalysis", which I brought upon myself.
And second, the number of good breaks I've received so far outweighs the bad it seems blasphemous to even put them on the same scales.
In the case of the latter, though I've dangled my share of chads, no recount is necessary.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Let's Get Behind This...And Put The War In A Full Nelson
I believe we may have finally found some common ground with the world of Islam in this geopolitically tumultuous time. Muslim fundamentalists are promising to protest women's wrestling in the Olympics, calling the sport "vulgar and indecent." I couldn't agree more. If I want to watch surgically-repaired women shamelessly groping one another in skimpy outfits, I'll go to the half-price sale at a north Dallas Nordstrom's. (Come to think of it, that would make for great Olympic theater.)
While we're at it, let's jettison rhythmic gymnastics, the four-day opening ceremony, professional athletes, John Tesh, Olympic mascots...
While we're at it, let's jettison rhythmic gymnastics, the four-day opening ceremony, professional athletes, John Tesh, Olympic mascots...
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Putting The U-R-I-N-A-L Back In Journalism
Say what you want about the supermarket tabloid Weekly World News, but there's not a media outlet on this planet (or any other for that matter) that consistently breaks more news stories than the WWN. Just yesterday, I was shocked to learn of the Pope's near-death experience after being hit by a falling meteor. Did "fair and balanced" Fox News bother to share this with the American people? You decide. All I know is WWN not only had this exclusive bombshell, amazingly one of their intrepid photogs actually captured this horrifying moment on film! What luck!
Having worked in both local and national newsrooms, I can report to you with some authority that the only real difference between outlets such as CNN and the WWNs of the world is the number of credible sources needed to verify a story and put it on the air. CNN's minimum number is zero; Weekly World News' is slightly lower.
The truth is, nothing in Weekly World News is any goofier than the stuff of my dreams. For years, I've had this recurring quasi-nightmare that the light goes on in a radio studio signaling the beginning of my sportscast, and I'm dashing in at the last minute...without my script. So I stumble through 60 seconds of ad-lib audio gobbledygook. (Some of you who've actually heard me on the air are saying, "How does this differ from his real sportscasts?" To you I say, "Gobbledygook!")
Seriously, what is that all about? Does anyone else dream such things? My dad has led worship in churches for 50 years. He says he still dreams he's on stage ready to begin when he looks down at his book only to find a song he's never seen before.
I've even heard of a particular pontiff who kept dreaming a large object would come crashing down on him from the heavens. You would've heard about it, too, if the mainstream media would've done its job for once and actually reported the news. Maybe they couldn't find their scripts.
Having worked in both local and national newsrooms, I can report to you with some authority that the only real difference between outlets such as CNN and the WWNs of the world is the number of credible sources needed to verify a story and put it on the air. CNN's minimum number is zero; Weekly World News' is slightly lower.
The truth is, nothing in Weekly World News is any goofier than the stuff of my dreams. For years, I've had this recurring quasi-nightmare that the light goes on in a radio studio signaling the beginning of my sportscast, and I'm dashing in at the last minute...without my script. So I stumble through 60 seconds of ad-lib audio gobbledygook. (Some of you who've actually heard me on the air are saying, "How does this differ from his real sportscasts?" To you I say, "Gobbledygook!")
Seriously, what is that all about? Does anyone else dream such things? My dad has led worship in churches for 50 years. He says he still dreams he's on stage ready to begin when he looks down at his book only to find a song he's never seen before.
I've even heard of a particular pontiff who kept dreaming a large object would come crashing down on him from the heavens. You would've heard about it, too, if the mainstream media would've done its job for once and actually reported the news. Maybe they couldn't find their scripts.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Leaving No Oliver Stone Unturned
It finally hit me yesterday. How could I have missed it all these years? It took columns by "Molly Ivins" and "Cal Thomas" appearing on the same editorial page for me to wake up and smell the newspaper ink...hang on, I'm still smelling. Mmmmm...okay, here it is:
These two are the same person!
Can you honestly say you've ever seen these two in the same room? Of course you can't. It's actually quite clear after even a cursory examination of the evidence. Exchange Cal's carefully-lacquered coiff and cheesy 'stache for Ivins' eyeliner and Shaggy Doo and...ZOIKS!!! We might all need a Scooby snack after this revelation.
Even if you don't see the proof in the polaroid, check the fine print. Both use a poorly-disguised vehicle to spew their own personal, political venom: Thomas takes the religion route; Ivins prefers humor. And each, in a weird way, keeps the other in business. It's a schizophrenic he said/she said. (Or would that be I said/I said?)
If you're still not convinced, you need look no further than their noms de plume. Rearrange the names "Molly Ivins" and "Cal Thomas" and you get - what else? -
Mostly Macho Villains.
I rest my case. As the great Johnnie Cochran would say, "That'll be $10,000 an hour." Also, "If the names can be rearranged, they must be the same."
You don't need to thank me. Just know I'd have figured it out sooner if it hadn't-a been for these meddlin' kids...
Monday, June 14, 2004
Son Of Butt Darts
In loo of anything meaningful to write and based on the whelming response to my "butt darts" post, I can only assume that you're about to burst in anticipation of more hidden bathroom humor from the Golf Channel archives. Well, America, urine luck!
Last June, a couple of hours prior to our Friday broadcast of the Club Professional Championship north of Albuquerque, I was tooling around the near-vacuous Twin Warriors Golf Club, stopping at the par 3 15th hole. Spotting the tower cameraman in his perch high above the green, I figured it was high time for some high jinks. I waited for him to see me, then stepped behind a large immobile tumbleweed and pretended to, as the French say, "whiz." The act was caught on tape, and the crew had a hearty laugh. (Remember, we're the same people who play butt darts at the Glory Hole.)
Not long after returning to the television compound, our production manager approached and asked if I'd relieved myself in the bushes at 15. I said, "No, the first time I did that I was 22." She wasn't laughing. Turns out one of the volunteers working the tournament had spied my shenanigan and reported it to the PGA of America. They weren't laughing either. Apparently, they thought I'd really relieved myself and on sacred Native American soil, no less.
I quickly explained the situation, repeating every 10 seconds or so that I'm an idiot. They agreed and let me off the hook. Naturally, my fellow crew members immediately unzipped a steady stream of excretory one-liners at my expense. I was the butt of their darts, you might say...or not.
As we signed on and I began introducing the various announcers, I decided to fall on my own sword or, in this case, microphone and end this madness. After my buddy Jerry Foltz finished his remarks and tossed it back to me, I said, "Thanks, Jerry, we'll look forward to youranalysis today."
I hope that volunteer wasn't watching.
Last June, a couple of hours prior to our Friday broadcast of the Club Professional Championship north of Albuquerque, I was tooling around the near-vacuous Twin Warriors Golf Club, stopping at the par 3 15th hole. Spotting the tower cameraman in his perch high above the green, I figured it was high time for some high jinks. I waited for him to see me, then stepped behind a large immobile tumbleweed and pretended to, as the French say, "whiz." The act was caught on tape, and the crew had a hearty laugh. (Remember, we're the same people who play butt darts at the Glory Hole.)
Not long after returning to the television compound, our production manager approached and asked if I'd relieved myself in the bushes at 15. I said, "No, the first time I did that I was 22." She wasn't laughing. Turns out one of the volunteers working the tournament had spied my shenanigan and reported it to the PGA of America. They weren't laughing either. Apparently, they thought I'd really relieved myself and on sacred Native American soil, no less.
I quickly explained the situation, repeating every 10 seconds or so that I'm an idiot. They agreed and let me off the hook. Naturally, my fellow crew members immediately unzipped a steady stream of excretory one-liners at my expense. I was the butt of their darts, you might say...or not.
As we signed on and I began introducing the various announcers, I decided to fall on my own sword or, in this case, microphone and end this madness. After my buddy Jerry Foltz finished his remarks and tossed it back to me, I said, "Thanks, Jerry, we'll look forward to youranalysis today."
I hope that volunteer wasn't watching.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
No Weddings, Two Funerals
The longest funeral procession in American history is underway. Beginning in California and ultimately ending with his interment in Washington, D.C., Ronald Reagan's farewell tour has already and will continue to elicit an eclectic outpouring of mourners, from Bo Derek to Lech Walesa, all paying final respects to the 40th President of the United States.
Smack in the middle of those two geographical points and a world away from the international spotlight, a mother and two young children in suburban Dallas will say an unspeakably sad and sudden goodbye on Thursday to a man who meant more to them than any world leader ever could. Brad Byker dropped dead at home plate Tuesday night while coaching his 7-year-old son's Little League baseball game. His 3-year-old daughter, decked out in full cheerleader regalia, watched with her mother from the bleachers, first with uncertainty then horror, as the most important man in their lives lost consciousness then his life.
Ronald Reagan lived twice as long as Brad Byker. Depending on your point of view or political persuasion, Reagan saved the world from the threat of Communism, freed millions of oppressed people, and made Lee Greenwood forever famous by allowing a lot of ordinary folks to feel proud to be an American again.
And not one bit of that matters to Brad Byker's family. Who cares about world affairs when your own world is turned upside down? And what's a political crisis compared to personal tragedy?
Don't be misled. Nothing makes this okay. Nothing. At least not in this lifetime. No cliche, no grief strategy, no religion. Byker had given his life to Christ as an adult. He'd lived a little bit, heard the story of Jesus, counted the cost, and made the decision to accept God's ticket-punch into the kingdom of Heaven. His family is faithful, too. But this still makes no sense. Resolves no issues. Hurts no less.
In his book, Disappointment With God, Philip Yancey makes a fantastic (and accurate) claim: that those who ask "Why?" when life deals its most cruel blows don't really want an answer. What answer, Yancey writes, could possibly swallow up the pain? If God gave us an answer, would that really make it all better? Yancey suggests what we most desperately want is to know that someone is there, someone's in charge, and someone will hold us when we can't stand to go on. And for that, we can indeed look to the One who watched his own son absorb the most unjust penalty of all time. That still doesn't completely solve or salve. What it does mean, though, is that however good we may have had it here, the best is most certainly yet to come.
What a wonderful and awful life this is. So much blessing. So little we really have. Today. And nothing more.
Mourning has indeed broken. May we join this somber chorus and plead more earnestly than ever for the rapid return of the greatest leader any world has ever known.
Smack in the middle of those two geographical points and a world away from the international spotlight, a mother and two young children in suburban Dallas will say an unspeakably sad and sudden goodbye on Thursday to a man who meant more to them than any world leader ever could. Brad Byker dropped dead at home plate Tuesday night while coaching his 7-year-old son's Little League baseball game. His 3-year-old daughter, decked out in full cheerleader regalia, watched with her mother from the bleachers, first with uncertainty then horror, as the most important man in their lives lost consciousness then his life.
Ronald Reagan lived twice as long as Brad Byker. Depending on your point of view or political persuasion, Reagan saved the world from the threat of Communism, freed millions of oppressed people, and made Lee Greenwood forever famous by allowing a lot of ordinary folks to feel proud to be an American again.
And not one bit of that matters to Brad Byker's family. Who cares about world affairs when your own world is turned upside down? And what's a political crisis compared to personal tragedy?
Don't be misled. Nothing makes this okay. Nothing. At least not in this lifetime. No cliche, no grief strategy, no religion. Byker had given his life to Christ as an adult. He'd lived a little bit, heard the story of Jesus, counted the cost, and made the decision to accept God's ticket-punch into the kingdom of Heaven. His family is faithful, too. But this still makes no sense. Resolves no issues. Hurts no less.
In his book, Disappointment With God, Philip Yancey makes a fantastic (and accurate) claim: that those who ask "Why?" when life deals its most cruel blows don't really want an answer. What answer, Yancey writes, could possibly swallow up the pain? If God gave us an answer, would that really make it all better? Yancey suggests what we most desperately want is to know that someone is there, someone's in charge, and someone will hold us when we can't stand to go on. And for that, we can indeed look to the One who watched his own son absorb the most unjust penalty of all time. That still doesn't completely solve or salve. What it does mean, though, is that however good we may have had it here, the best is most certainly yet to come.
What a wonderful and awful life this is. So much blessing. So little we really have. Today. And nothing more.
Mourning has indeed broken. May we join this somber chorus and plead more earnestly than ever for the rapid return of the greatest leader any world has ever known.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Does It Depend On What Your Definition Of Would Would Be?
Once a year or so, I flip over to C-Span just to make sure our elected officials are all fully clothed and spewing their requisite vitriol.
Last night, they interrupted regularly scheduled programming to bring us Bill Clinton's address to BookExpo America in Chicago in anticipation of the release of his autobiography, My Life. The president of the company which published the book said in his introduction, "...this is a man who, if the laws of this country were changed and he were allowed to run again, would I dare say be a landslide winner."
Four years removed from his eight in office, I find Bill Clinton way too much like me to completely accept or categorically abhor. But the question had me wondering: would Bill Clinton be elected in November if he were allowed to run again?
Last night, they interrupted regularly scheduled programming to bring us Bill Clinton's address to BookExpo America in Chicago in anticipation of the release of his autobiography, My Life. The president of the company which published the book said in his introduction, "...this is a man who, if the laws of this country were changed and he were allowed to run again, would I dare say be a landslide winner."
Four years removed from his eight in office, I find Bill Clinton way too much like me to completely accept or categorically abhor. But the question had me wondering: would Bill Clinton be elected in November if he were allowed to run again?
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