Monday was Memorial Day. Said so on my 365 Days of Dave Barry calendar, so it must be true. Memorials, of course, are more memorable when you actually remember the person you're commemorating.
For example, I noticed my 6-year-old son, Nicholas, reading my t-shirt at breakfast this morning, the one emblazoned with "That Pat Boone Is A Lovely Man," an actual quote from Sharon Osbourne (wife of Ozzy) on that family's TV show in reference to their former neighbor and my still-current uncle. Here's how the conversation ensued:
Nicholas: "Where did you get that shirt?"
Me: "Mommy got it for me at Dillard's a couple of years ago."
(pause)
Nicholas (incredulously): "Is Uncle Pat famous?"
Me (credulously): "Yes. In fact, he's a very famous singer."
Nicholas: "You mean like Kira?" (the yellow ranger who fronted a garage band in the TV series Power Rangers Dino Thunder...but you knew that already)
Me: "Well, she's a TV character. Uncle Pat is a real singer, one of the most famous ever."
(As I tried to make a connection, I realized he never listens to the radio and has virtually no clue what a recording artist even is.)
Me: "Have you ever heard of Elvis?"
Nicholas: "No."
Me: "How 'bout The Beatles?"
Nicholas: "Are they the ones who wear red shirts?"
Me (puzzled): "I think you're thinking of The Wiggles."
Nicholas: "No, they wear different colored shirts."
Me: "Oh, yeah."
Nicholas: "Are most of The Beatles dead?"
Me: "As a matter of fact they are."
Nicholas: "I think I saw them singing one time, and they all had on red shirts."
I'm sure the extant Beatle, Paul, would be pleased to know his group's legacy is secure with the next generation: the mostly-dead band with red shirts.
I hear a growing number of God-folk who are convinced war is summarily evil and that Bush is either the Antichrist or at the very least next of kin because he sent so many Americans and others into battle. I have serious concerns, myself. But there are those in uniform who actually believe it is the essence of Christ to defend the defenseless, even to the point of giving up their lives.
Better than a token "thank you" to those selfless souls, I hope all of us can celebrate this holiday by giving up our lives for someone else. No matter what they're wearing.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Air Pollution
I may have to give up my hip hop music. The lyrics are getting quite bawdy.
This should be of great interest to those of you considering a romantic relationship with a rapper. He may not be willing to make a long-term commitment if the words of Ludacris in 2004's Song of the Year, Yeah!, are any indication:
Forget about game, I'm a spit the truth
I won't stop 'til I get 'em in they birthday suits
For those of you without street "cred," let me interpret. That last line includes not only disturbingly poor pronoun usage but also a not-so-veiled reference to nudity, a condition that afflicts all of us at some point and an attribute many "rappers" actually look for in filling out a "posse."
Yet these hip hop stars, what with their "bling bling," seem never in want of "shorties." Perhaps these women are the same ones who're attracted to the guy with the naughty mudflaps or the amateur mammographer. Don't say I didn't warn you if some night you ain't cuttin' and he puts you on foot patrol. Do you understizzle, my shizzles?
---
Move over, Bill Shakespeare. You've got company, and it's coming from an unlikely source: that's right, country music. Specifically, Gretchen Wilson. Her poetic genius abounds in this tasty lick from her hit song "Homewrecker":
Now, honey, I'm a Christian
But if you keep this up
I'm gonna go to kickin'
Your pretty little butt
Credit where credit's due.
---
I've held off on this next supposition for a long time. But having spent the better part of the last four months in airports, I'm finally ready to say it.
There are two kinds of men in this world: those who wear red pants, and those whom women find attractive.
Controversial? Perhaps. Accurate? Absolutely. Moving on.
---
Speaking of airports, it's always awkward to witness customers berating innocent employees, but the behavior of a woman I encountered at DFW the other day was especially appalling and merits public censure. Upon deplaning, this woman - 60ish and obviously not from around here - began badgering an American Airlines agent. She was all, "I'm flying to Zurich, but they told me my bags had been sent to Frankfurt!" Calm down, lady. Zurich, Frankfurt, what's the difference? Be glad you were among the fortunate few to step foot in the greatest country God ever made. The same American ingenuity that lost your luggage also rid the world of an evil dictator, who was probably plotting an invasion of Zurich or Frankfurt or wherever your luggage is erroneously headed. A lost bag is a small price to pay. In case you haven't noticed, we're still at war here. America is tightening its belt, such as opting for the Grande Latte over Venti at Starbucks and refusing to reduce our gasoline consumption despite the fact that it's roughly equivalent to the minimum wage. How 'bout a little sacrifice on your part?
---
The best commercial on television right now is the one in which the family tries to save its collective cell phone minutes by speaking fast, like an auctioneer. Very funny.
And it brings to mind some of my favorite songs about auctioneers. There's "The Auctioneer" by Leroy Van Dyke (no relation) and..."The Auctioneer" (instrumental version) on the flip side of that 45, just to name two. Good stuff.
---
America - nay, the world - will have its newest American Idol by night's end. It's down to the lead singer from Krokus and the girl who looks like a melange of each of the last 15 one-hit divas. Methinks Bach isn't nervous about losing his legacy.
You have to admit Idol is exceptionally emblematic of America, circa 20-aught-5. Let's sit around doing nothing except deciding who among those who actually got off the couch long enough to audition best tickles our big, fat fancy and who should go back to their jobs as cooks at a mini golf course. We've as a nation become the dudes from Mystery Science Theater 3000.
---
Finally, I've tried to get into Tejano music. I really have. But I think my inability to speak Spanish is a hindrance. Guess it's just not my "thing." Maybe some of the Tejano singers could rap! Then they could say whatever they wanted, and I wouldn't be offended.
This should be of great interest to those of you considering a romantic relationship with a rapper. He may not be willing to make a long-term commitment if the words of Ludacris in 2004's Song of the Year, Yeah!, are any indication:
Forget about game, I'm a spit the truth
I won't stop 'til I get 'em in they birthday suits
For those of you without street "cred," let me interpret. That last line includes not only disturbingly poor pronoun usage but also a not-so-veiled reference to nudity, a condition that afflicts all of us at some point and an attribute many "rappers" actually look for in filling out a "posse."
Yet these hip hop stars, what with their "bling bling," seem never in want of "shorties." Perhaps these women are the same ones who're attracted to the guy with the naughty mudflaps or the amateur mammographer. Don't say I didn't warn you if some night you ain't cuttin' and he puts you on foot patrol. Do you understizzle, my shizzles?
---
Move over, Bill Shakespeare. You've got company, and it's coming from an unlikely source: that's right, country music. Specifically, Gretchen Wilson. Her poetic genius abounds in this tasty lick from her hit song "Homewrecker":
Now, honey, I'm a Christian
But if you keep this up
I'm gonna go to kickin'
Your pretty little butt
Credit where credit's due.
---
I've held off on this next supposition for a long time. But having spent the better part of the last four months in airports, I'm finally ready to say it.
There are two kinds of men in this world: those who wear red pants, and those whom women find attractive.
Controversial? Perhaps. Accurate? Absolutely. Moving on.
---
Speaking of airports, it's always awkward to witness customers berating innocent employees, but the behavior of a woman I encountered at DFW the other day was especially appalling and merits public censure. Upon deplaning, this woman - 60ish and obviously not from around here - began badgering an American Airlines agent. She was all, "I'm flying to Zurich, but they told me my bags had been sent to Frankfurt!" Calm down, lady. Zurich, Frankfurt, what's the difference? Be glad you were among the fortunate few to step foot in the greatest country God ever made. The same American ingenuity that lost your luggage also rid the world of an evil dictator, who was probably plotting an invasion of Zurich or Frankfurt or wherever your luggage is erroneously headed. A lost bag is a small price to pay. In case you haven't noticed, we're still at war here. America is tightening its belt, such as opting for the Grande Latte over Venti at Starbucks and refusing to reduce our gasoline consumption despite the fact that it's roughly equivalent to the minimum wage. How 'bout a little sacrifice on your part?
---
The best commercial on television right now is the one in which the family tries to save its collective cell phone minutes by speaking fast, like an auctioneer. Very funny.
And it brings to mind some of my favorite songs about auctioneers. There's "The Auctioneer" by Leroy Van Dyke (no relation) and..."The Auctioneer" (instrumental version) on the flip side of that 45, just to name two. Good stuff.
---
America - nay, the world - will have its newest American Idol by night's end. It's down to the lead singer from Krokus and the girl who looks like a melange of each of the last 15 one-hit divas. Methinks Bach isn't nervous about losing his legacy.
You have to admit Idol is exceptionally emblematic of America, circa 20-aught-5. Let's sit around doing nothing except deciding who among those who actually got off the couch long enough to audition best tickles our big, fat fancy and who should go back to their jobs as cooks at a mini golf course. We've as a nation become the dudes from Mystery Science Theater 3000.
---
Finally, I've tried to get into Tejano music. I really have. But I think my inability to speak Spanish is a hindrance. Guess it's just not my "thing." Maybe some of the Tejano singers could rap! Then they could say whatever they wanted, and I wouldn't be offended.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Garden Variety
Sports weekends like this one are why people garden. Let's recap:
*Tiger Woods, in his first appearance since that epic Masters title, flopped at the Wachovia Championship. Tiger tied for 11th but never contended, his weekend lowlighted by an approach to the 14th Friday which landed just past the hole...and promptly spun left, off the green, and into the water. The winner was Vijay Singh, second to Tiger in the world rankings and about as popular with golf fans as a rash in one's nether regions. Of course, Vijay, himself, arose to stardom from golf's nether regions, namely Fiji, which helps explain why he's not especially interested in yukking it up with galleries or kissing babies...though he did extend that now-famous invitation following his 2000 Masters victory, "Kiss my (nether regions), everybody." He just keeps laughing all the way to the bank, which in this case was sponsoring the tournament. Saved him a trip.
*Meanwhile, on the tour distaff, Annika Sorenstam could've set a new LPGA record for consecutive victories had she won in Williamsburg. But instead of making history, she was history after an opening 76 (her first over par round since the Clinton administration). She never got closer than 7 shots all weekend to eventual winner, Cristie Kerr, whose Extreme Makeover 5 years ago included the elimination of 60 L.B.s and the addition of a bunch of "oh, boys!" When Kerr contended at the '01 U.S. Women's Open, NBC analyst Johnny Miller could hardly contain himself and kept drooling, "Cristie Kerr is so fffffff...it." It was like he wanted to say, "FFFFine!" or "FFFFFFFun to look at!" or "FFFFreaking hot!"
Still, Kerr's visage was merely a consolation prize. We wanted to see history, and the best Williamsburg could give us was the dudes with muskets in the colonial costumes.
*At the track, Giacomo (pronounced "giacomo") won the 131st running of the Kentucky Derby in an upset of epic and (to the bluebloods in Louisville) dyspeptic proportions. A 100-to-1 shot, as highly esteemed as Mr. Ed among the horse racing cognoscenti, Giacomo's victory ranked right up there with the great party crashers of all-time. This was Billy Carter as America's First Brother. John Daly winning the PGA. Fonzie at the country club with new love interest, Adriana, and her friends. (Snob to Fonzie: "A leather jacket. How gauche." Fonzie to Snob: "Yeah, well how gauche it with you, too"). The caddies storming the pool at Bushwood. After Giacomo crossed the finish line first, you could actually hear Churchill Downs denizens screaming, "Doody in the pool!" It's always good fun to see a little mud splatter on the rich and famous.
*And finally, the suits at TNT must've been thrilled to see both of their NBA first round Game 7s decided by roughly 426 points. The Pacers and Mavs both won blowouts, then were routed themselves in the opening games of their respective second round series Monday night.
TNT says, "We know drama!" So do we, and this weekend we didn't get it. Of course, you may have loved what you saw on the sports tube. And if that's the case, I'll gladly retract all of this and admit, like The Fonz, "I was wrrrrrr...I was wrrrrr..."
*Tiger Woods, in his first appearance since that epic Masters title, flopped at the Wachovia Championship. Tiger tied for 11th but never contended, his weekend lowlighted by an approach to the 14th Friday which landed just past the hole...and promptly spun left, off the green, and into the water. The winner was Vijay Singh, second to Tiger in the world rankings and about as popular with golf fans as a rash in one's nether regions. Of course, Vijay, himself, arose to stardom from golf's nether regions, namely Fiji, which helps explain why he's not especially interested in yukking it up with galleries or kissing babies...though he did extend that now-famous invitation following his 2000 Masters victory, "Kiss my (nether regions), everybody." He just keeps laughing all the way to the bank, which in this case was sponsoring the tournament. Saved him a trip.
*Meanwhile, on the tour distaff, Annika Sorenstam could've set a new LPGA record for consecutive victories had she won in Williamsburg. But instead of making history, she was history after an opening 76 (her first over par round since the Clinton administration). She never got closer than 7 shots all weekend to eventual winner, Cristie Kerr, whose Extreme Makeover 5 years ago included the elimination of 60 L.B.s and the addition of a bunch of "oh, boys!" When Kerr contended at the '01 U.S. Women's Open, NBC analyst Johnny Miller could hardly contain himself and kept drooling, "Cristie Kerr is so fffffff...it." It was like he wanted to say, "FFFFine!" or "FFFFFFFun to look at!" or "FFFFreaking hot!"
Still, Kerr's visage was merely a consolation prize. We wanted to see history, and the best Williamsburg could give us was the dudes with muskets in the colonial costumes.
*At the track, Giacomo (pronounced "giacomo") won the 131st running of the Kentucky Derby in an upset of epic and (to the bluebloods in Louisville) dyspeptic proportions. A 100-to-1 shot, as highly esteemed as Mr. Ed among the horse racing cognoscenti, Giacomo's victory ranked right up there with the great party crashers of all-time. This was Billy Carter as America's First Brother. John Daly winning the PGA. Fonzie at the country club with new love interest, Adriana, and her friends. (Snob to Fonzie: "A leather jacket. How gauche." Fonzie to Snob: "Yeah, well how gauche it with you, too"). The caddies storming the pool at Bushwood. After Giacomo crossed the finish line first, you could actually hear Churchill Downs denizens screaming, "Doody in the pool!" It's always good fun to see a little mud splatter on the rich and famous.
*And finally, the suits at TNT must've been thrilled to see both of their NBA first round Game 7s decided by roughly 426 points. The Pacers and Mavs both won blowouts, then were routed themselves in the opening games of their respective second round series Monday night.
TNT says, "We know drama!" So do we, and this weekend we didn't get it. Of course, you may have loved what you saw on the sports tube. And if that's the case, I'll gladly retract all of this and admit, like The Fonz, "I was wrrrrrr...I was wrrrrr..."
Monday, April 25, 2005
Butt Darts and Long Knockers
Now that I've let the cat out of the bag (or the darts out of the, well, you know), I'm hoping you're all paying closer attention when sportscasters speak with forked tongue. Did you catch the latest example during Sunday's final round of the Houston Open?
As John Daly waited near the scoring trailer to see if his scintillating 67 would be good enough to get him into a playoff with Vijay Singh, the CBS cameras zoomed in to a tight shot of Daly in his bright orange shirt that prominently featured a Hooters logo on - where else? - his left boob. Anchor Jim Nantz, dubbed "The Prince of Puns" by his CBS cohorts, chose that exact moment to remind us that Singh and Daly are a couple of "long knockers."
Coincidence? Yeah, and guys go to Hooters for hot wings. Less surreptitious but equally funny was Nantz's line about the CBS Sunday night movie, Locusts: "If this movie is a success, you can expect a sequel in another 17 years." He was on fire, and I was absolutely eating his heart out.
I once had a friend encourage me to keep my on-air yuks to a minimum during Golf Channel telecasts. In critiquing some of my particularly comedic commentary, he said, "Jim Nantz would never say that." Well, that was several years ago. Is there any chance that Nantz is the one who changed, that he was inspired by my unique style to add a little extra levity to his play-by-play? Any chance at all?
Whaddya say we discuss it over lunch? I hear that Hooters place is famous for wings...
As John Daly waited near the scoring trailer to see if his scintillating 67 would be good enough to get him into a playoff with Vijay Singh, the CBS cameras zoomed in to a tight shot of Daly in his bright orange shirt that prominently featured a Hooters logo on - where else? - his left boob. Anchor Jim Nantz, dubbed "The Prince of Puns" by his CBS cohorts, chose that exact moment to remind us that Singh and Daly are a couple of "long knockers."
Coincidence? Yeah, and guys go to Hooters for hot wings. Less surreptitious but equally funny was Nantz's line about the CBS Sunday night movie, Locusts: "If this movie is a success, you can expect a sequel in another 17 years." He was on fire, and I was absolutely eating his heart out.
I once had a friend encourage me to keep my on-air yuks to a minimum during Golf Channel telecasts. In critiquing some of my particularly comedic commentary, he said, "Jim Nantz would never say that." Well, that was several years ago. Is there any chance that Nantz is the one who changed, that he was inspired by my unique style to add a little extra levity to his play-by-play? Any chance at all?
Whaddya say we discuss it over lunch? I hear that Hooters place is famous for wings...
Friday, April 22, 2005
Mass Hysteria
Two questions about the new pontiff:
1) Does he take immediate ownership of the Popemobile, and, if so, does his newfound infallibility clep him out of waiting in line at the Vatican DMV to sign it over to his name?
and
2) Are we 100% sure this isn't Leslie Nielsen? 'Cause this is exactly the sort of thing he'd do for a gag.
---
Equally blasphemous was my failure to include the chorus from Spinal Tap's smash hit "Big Bottom" in my recent post about mudflaps:
Big bottom
Big bottom
Talk about mudflaps
My girl's got 'em
As fans of the cult classic "This Is Spinal Tap" are aware, no discussion of mudflaps should exclude that epic reference. Mea culpa...which, by the way, is also an excellent name for a rock group.
---
On the topic of car accessories, I noted a window decal the other day that must've been hatched from the same Casanova that gave us the nude silhouette-encrusted mudflaps. On the back window of a Toyota pickup was the caricature of a grinning, would-be Romeo with both hands extended and cupped above the words, "Free Breast Exam." Again, I'm trying to conjure up images of the kind of woman who would be wooed by such festoonery...
"Grandma, tell me how you met Gramps."
"Well, honey, I was on the 101, trying to find a decent public restroom, when I spied your Grandpa and his truck. He had me at 'Free Breast Exam.'"
---
And while we're on the subject, can anyone simply affix to his/her vehicle a random and rectangular piece of cardboard with the words "Temporary Tag" or "Tag Applied For" chicken scratched in magic marker, colored pencil, etc.?
I see this two or three times a day, but I ask, have you ever known anyone to be pulled over and have his/her makeshift tag challenged? This could literally save you thousands of dollars over the course of a lifetime.
And if that works, why stop there? How about, "About to fix dangling muffler." Or "Bilious exhaust fumes probably not hazardous." Maybe walk into a bank vault wearing a sandwich board that reads, "Not really stealing this money. It belongs to my cousin with the dangling muffler."
I encourage everyone to try this and report back to me. If you get in trouble, let me know and I'll have Leslie Nielsen absolve you of any eternal repercussions.
1) Does he take immediate ownership of the Popemobile, and, if so, does his newfound infallibility clep him out of waiting in line at the Vatican DMV to sign it over to his name?
and
2) Are we 100% sure this isn't Leslie Nielsen? 'Cause this is exactly the sort of thing he'd do for a gag.
---
Equally blasphemous was my failure to include the chorus from Spinal Tap's smash hit "Big Bottom" in my recent post about mudflaps:
Big bottom
Big bottom
Talk about mudflaps
My girl's got 'em
As fans of the cult classic "This Is Spinal Tap" are aware, no discussion of mudflaps should exclude that epic reference. Mea culpa...which, by the way, is also an excellent name for a rock group.
---
On the topic of car accessories, I noted a window decal the other day that must've been hatched from the same Casanova that gave us the nude silhouette-encrusted mudflaps. On the back window of a Toyota pickup was the caricature of a grinning, would-be Romeo with both hands extended and cupped above the words, "Free Breast Exam." Again, I'm trying to conjure up images of the kind of woman who would be wooed by such festoonery...
"Grandma, tell me how you met Gramps."
"Well, honey, I was on the 101, trying to find a decent public restroom, when I spied your Grandpa and his truck. He had me at 'Free Breast Exam.'"
---
And while we're on the subject, can anyone simply affix to his/her vehicle a random and rectangular piece of cardboard with the words "Temporary Tag" or "Tag Applied For" chicken scratched in magic marker, colored pencil, etc.?
I see this two or three times a day, but I ask, have you ever known anyone to be pulled over and have his/her makeshift tag challenged? This could literally save you thousands of dollars over the course of a lifetime.
And if that works, why stop there? How about, "About to fix dangling muffler." Or "Bilious exhaust fumes probably not hazardous." Maybe walk into a bank vault wearing a sandwich board that reads, "Not really stealing this money. It belongs to my cousin with the dangling muffler."
I encourage everyone to try this and report back to me. If you get in trouble, let me know and I'll have Leslie Nielsen absolve you of any eternal repercussions.
Monday, April 18, 2005
...Save A Few For Lefty, Too...
I'm saying a preemptive prayer for the Mickelson family tonight. The proverbial fan isn't going to know what hit it.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Nanny Nanny Boo Boo: They Still Can't Catch Tiger
With yet another inimitable display of carpe diem and a barely imitable fourth Masters title, Tiger Woods has ended his post-nuptial major championship winless streak at...zero. In his first appearance in a grand slam event since getting hitched, Tiger slipped on the world's only known coveted Green Jacket six months after slipping a wedding ring on the finger of Jesper Parnevik's former nanny, Elin Nordegren.
Cynosure Sunday, Tiger was far from perfect. In fact, it's hard to fathom the Tiger of the early Aughts when he was winning virtually tournament, major and otherwise, closing with back-to-back bogeys to moonwalk into a playoff. But while his swing isn't as foolproof as it was then, his moxie is, well, moxier than ever. The ability to hit shots and seize moments that other players simply can't helped separate Tiger then, and it's beginning to separate him again.
It's not that no one's ever birdied seven straight holes at The Masters...
Or that no one's ever turned a six-shot deficit into a three-shot lead in a span of 18 holes...
Or that no one's ever had the imagination and skill to play a shot from long and left of the 16th green off that signature slope and into the hole for an impossible birdie...
Or that no one's ever stumbled down the stretch but regrouped to win a playoff...
Or that no one's ever birdied 18 to win The Masters...
It's just that no one's ever done all that between breakfast and dinner. One day. Two unforgettable performances. Chris DiMarco's pluck was better than his luck: if Tiger's pitch had stayed perched on the edge of the cup at 16 and DiMarco's chip at 18 had dipped not lipped, Phil Mickelson could've slipped a Green Jacket on the very guy who gave him the read he needed to sink the winning putt in 2004.
Instead, DiMarco's gritty 68 only prolonged his agony, our viewing, and Mickelson's sartorial duty as defending champion. What a difference a year made for Mickelson. Twelve months to the day after one of the most memorable finishes in Masters history, Lefty found himself in the third to last group with Vijay Singh, who two days prior had played behind Mickelson and afterward accused him of excessively aerating Augusta National's greens with his 8-inch spikes. (Their post-round locker room tete-a-tete was later aerated to the press.) Then to top off the week, Phil had to coat his archenemy in what was surely the most uncomfortable public wardrobe exchange since last year's Super Bowl halftime show.
For all the talk of how his rivals have closed the gap, none of the other Big Four - Vijay, Mickelson, or Ernie Els - posed even the remotest challenge on this most major of weekends. All that talk of how his marriage to the former Miss Nordegren was destined to derail him from his quest to better Jack Nicklaus' record of 18 grand slam titles rings hollow today.
Now halfway toward that magical mark, Tiger gets to have his cake and Elin, too.
Cynosure Sunday, Tiger was far from perfect. In fact, it's hard to fathom the Tiger of the early Aughts when he was winning virtually tournament, major and otherwise, closing with back-to-back bogeys to moonwalk into a playoff. But while his swing isn't as foolproof as it was then, his moxie is, well, moxier than ever. The ability to hit shots and seize moments that other players simply can't helped separate Tiger then, and it's beginning to separate him again.
It's not that no one's ever birdied seven straight holes at The Masters...
Or that no one's ever turned a six-shot deficit into a three-shot lead in a span of 18 holes...
Or that no one's ever had the imagination and skill to play a shot from long and left of the 16th green off that signature slope and into the hole for an impossible birdie...
Or that no one's ever stumbled down the stretch but regrouped to win a playoff...
Or that no one's ever birdied 18 to win The Masters...
It's just that no one's ever done all that between breakfast and dinner. One day. Two unforgettable performances. Chris DiMarco's pluck was better than his luck: if Tiger's pitch had stayed perched on the edge of the cup at 16 and DiMarco's chip at 18 had dipped not lipped, Phil Mickelson could've slipped a Green Jacket on the very guy who gave him the read he needed to sink the winning putt in 2004.
Instead, DiMarco's gritty 68 only prolonged his agony, our viewing, and Mickelson's sartorial duty as defending champion. What a difference a year made for Mickelson. Twelve months to the day after one of the most memorable finishes in Masters history, Lefty found himself in the third to last group with Vijay Singh, who two days prior had played behind Mickelson and afterward accused him of excessively aerating Augusta National's greens with his 8-inch spikes. (Their post-round locker room tete-a-tete was later aerated to the press.) Then to top off the week, Phil had to coat his archenemy in what was surely the most uncomfortable public wardrobe exchange since last year's Super Bowl halftime show.
For all the talk of how his rivals have closed the gap, none of the other Big Four - Vijay, Mickelson, or Ernie Els - posed even the remotest challenge on this most major of weekends. All that talk of how his marriage to the former Miss Nordegren was destined to derail him from his quest to better Jack Nicklaus' record of 18 grand slam titles rings hollow today.
Now halfway toward that magical mark, Tiger gets to have his cake and Elin, too.
Friday, March 25, 2005
TGIF
At age 35, I think I'm finally understanding what it means to be a true follower of Christ. For example, 2,000 years ago this week, Christ went to Calvary to purchase my eternal freedom. Whereas yesterday, I went to Anson to buy a truck. Now I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes: I made sure to get one with a big enough bed to carry my cross.
Anyway, now that I've mastered true discipleship, I give you this from Rick Warren, owner of at least three different Hawaiian shirts (as seen on Larry King Live) and author of "The Purpose Driven Life," "The Purpose Driven Church," "The Purpose Driven Lunch", "The Purpose Driven Home Game," and "The Purpose Driven 2001 Ford Explorer Sport Trac."
Side note: I've noticed that while 15 million people have bought his book and been blessed by his expression of the Gospel story and how it can radically affect one's life, some within the Christian community bristle at his success and then write him off as a huckster propagating religious fluff to sell books and make a buck.
Personally, I was blessed by this offering of his from an interview with someone named Paul Bradshaw. I hope you are, too.
People ask me, "What is the purpose of life?" And I respond, in a nutshell, that life is preparation for eternity. We were made to last forever, and God wants us to be with Him in Heaven. One day my heart is going to stop, and that will be the end of my body - but not the end of me.
I may live 60 to 100 years on earth, but I am going to spend trillion of years in eternity. This is the warm-up act, the dress rehearsal. God wants us to practice on earth what we will do forever in eternity. We were made by God and for God, and until you figure that out, life isn't going to make sense.
Life is a series of problems: Either you are in one now, you're just coming out of one or you're getting ready to go into another one. The reason for this is that God is more interested in your character than your comfort.
God is more interested in making your life holy than He is in making your life happy. We can be reasonably happy here on earth, but that's not the goal of life. The goal is to grow in character, in Christ-likeness.
This past year has been the greatest year of my life but also the toughest, with my wife, Kay, getting cancer. I used to think that life was hills and valleys - you go through a dark time, then you got to the mountaintop, back and forth. I don't believe that anymore.
Rather than life being hills and valleys, I believe that it's kind of like two rails on a railroad track, and at all times you have something good and something bad in your life. No matter how good things are in your life, there is always something bad that needs to be worked on. And no matter how bad things are in your life, there is always something good you can thank God for. You can focus on your purposes, or you can focus on your problems. If you focus on your problems, you're going into self-centeredness, which is "my problem, my issues, my pain."
But one of the easiest ways to get rid of pain is to get your focus off yourself and onto God and others. We discovered quickly that in spite of the prayers of hundreds of thousands of people, God was not going to heal Kay or make it easy for her. It has been very difficult for her, and yet God has strengthened her character, given her a ministry of helping other people, given her a testimony, drawn her closer to Him and to people.
You have to learn to deal with both the good and the bad of life. Actually, sometimes learning to deal with the good is harder. For instance, this past year, all of a sudden, when the book sold 15 million copies, it made me instantly very wealthy. It also brought a lot of notoriety that I had never had to deal with before.
I don't think God gives you money or notoriety for your own ego or for you to live a life of ease. So I began to ask God what He wanted me to do with this money, notoriety and influence. He gave me two different passages that helped me decide what to do, Corinthians 9 and Psalm 72.
First, in spite of all the money coming in, we would not change our lifestyle one bit. We made no major purchases. Second, about midway through last year, I stopped taking a salary from the church. Third, we set up foundations to fund an initiative we call The Peace Plan - to plant churches, equip leaders, assist the poor, care for the sick, and educate the next generation. Fourth, I added up all that the church had paid me in the 24 years since I started the church, and I gave it all back. It was liberating to be able to serve God for free.
We need to ask ourselves: Am I going to live for possessions? Popularity? Am I going to be driven by pressures? Guilt? Bitterness? Materialism? Or am I going to be driven by God's purposes for my life?
When I get up in the morning, I sit on the side of my bed and say, "God, if I don't get anything else done today, I want to know You more and love You better." God didn't put me on earth just to fulfill a to-do list. He's more interested in what I am than what I do.
That's why we're called human beings, not human doings.
Anyway, now that I've mastered true discipleship, I give you this from Rick Warren, owner of at least three different Hawaiian shirts (as seen on Larry King Live) and author of "The Purpose Driven Life," "The Purpose Driven Church," "The Purpose Driven Lunch", "The Purpose Driven Home Game," and "The Purpose Driven 2001 Ford Explorer Sport Trac."
Side note: I've noticed that while 15 million people have bought his book and been blessed by his expression of the Gospel story and how it can radically affect one's life, some within the Christian community bristle at his success and then write him off as a huckster propagating religious fluff to sell books and make a buck.
Personally, I was blessed by this offering of his from an interview with someone named Paul Bradshaw. I hope you are, too.
People ask me, "What is the purpose of life?" And I respond, in a nutshell, that life is preparation for eternity. We were made to last forever, and God wants us to be with Him in Heaven. One day my heart is going to stop, and that will be the end of my body - but not the end of me.
I may live 60 to 100 years on earth, but I am going to spend trillion of years in eternity. This is the warm-up act, the dress rehearsal. God wants us to practice on earth what we will do forever in eternity. We were made by God and for God, and until you figure that out, life isn't going to make sense.
Life is a series of problems: Either you are in one now, you're just coming out of one or you're getting ready to go into another one. The reason for this is that God is more interested in your character than your comfort.
God is more interested in making your life holy than He is in making your life happy. We can be reasonably happy here on earth, but that's not the goal of life. The goal is to grow in character, in Christ-likeness.
This past year has been the greatest year of my life but also the toughest, with my wife, Kay, getting cancer. I used to think that life was hills and valleys - you go through a dark time, then you got to the mountaintop, back and forth. I don't believe that anymore.
Rather than life being hills and valleys, I believe that it's kind of like two rails on a railroad track, and at all times you have something good and something bad in your life. No matter how good things are in your life, there is always something bad that needs to be worked on. And no matter how bad things are in your life, there is always something good you can thank God for. You can focus on your purposes, or you can focus on your problems. If you focus on your problems, you're going into self-centeredness, which is "my problem, my issues, my pain."
But one of the easiest ways to get rid of pain is to get your focus off yourself and onto God and others. We discovered quickly that in spite of the prayers of hundreds of thousands of people, God was not going to heal Kay or make it easy for her. It has been very difficult for her, and yet God has strengthened her character, given her a ministry of helping other people, given her a testimony, drawn her closer to Him and to people.
You have to learn to deal with both the good and the bad of life. Actually, sometimes learning to deal with the good is harder. For instance, this past year, all of a sudden, when the book sold 15 million copies, it made me instantly very wealthy. It also brought a lot of notoriety that I had never had to deal with before.
I don't think God gives you money or notoriety for your own ego or for you to live a life of ease. So I began to ask God what He wanted me to do with this money, notoriety and influence. He gave me two different passages that helped me decide what to do, Corinthians 9 and Psalm 72.
First, in spite of all the money coming in, we would not change our lifestyle one bit. We made no major purchases. Second, about midway through last year, I stopped taking a salary from the church. Third, we set up foundations to fund an initiative we call The Peace Plan - to plant churches, equip leaders, assist the poor, care for the sick, and educate the next generation. Fourth, I added up all that the church had paid me in the 24 years since I started the church, and I gave it all back. It was liberating to be able to serve God for free.
We need to ask ourselves: Am I going to live for possessions? Popularity? Am I going to be driven by pressures? Guilt? Bitterness? Materialism? Or am I going to be driven by God's purposes for my life?
When I get up in the morning, I sit on the side of my bed and say, "God, if I don't get anything else done today, I want to know You more and love You better." God didn't put me on earth just to fulfill a to-do list. He's more interested in what I am than what I do.
That's why we're called human beings, not human doings.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Anatomy (And The) 101
We, 35 and 34, finished potty-training Anna Claire, 3, just in time for a spring break trip to southern California. After five straight days of airplane toilets, public restrooms, and port-o-johns, I'm strongly considering having all of us switch back to diapers.
Heading up the 101 during rush hour Monday night, Anna Claire made it clear she needed to use the facilities. Being new to this routine, she remains under the impression that sanitary lavatorial options are always at hand.
(Helpful travel tip: references to freeways in SoCal generally include both a noun marker, e.g. the 101 or the PCH, and copious profanity, "Go, @#$%&*! This isn't a @#$%&* parking lot, it's the @#$%&* 405!")
So we pulled off the next exit, which just so happened to be Sunset Boulevard where everyone who's anyone in Hollywood has gone pee pee or, in the case of Hugh Grant, worse. There are roughly 10 million people in L.A., 10 million of which are likely to be found on Sunset Boulevard at any given moment, many of them behaving rather roughly. Turns out Anna Claire is not the first person to find herself in urgent need of a public potty. Which explains why the McDonald's/Starbucks/coin-op laundromat where we alighted had only a single uni-john. It had a lock that required a quarter to open and a sign that read,
"THIS RESTROOM IS OWNED BY ALL OF THE COMPANIES IN THIS BUILDING."
After an initial peek and whiff, I felt compelled to scribble the postscript,
"...AND CLEANED BY NONE OF THEM."
That was a week ago, and none of us has contracted anything that a coupla rounds of antibiotics won't cure. But beware. The next time you need to do #2 on the 101, you might want to avoid Sunset and wait for a less noxious exit. Like Portland.
Heading up the 101 during rush hour Monday night, Anna Claire made it clear she needed to use the facilities. Being new to this routine, she remains under the impression that sanitary lavatorial options are always at hand.
(Helpful travel tip: references to freeways in SoCal generally include both a noun marker, e.g. the 101 or the PCH, and copious profanity, "Go, @#$%&*! This isn't a @#$%&* parking lot, it's the @#$%&* 405!")
So we pulled off the next exit, which just so happened to be Sunset Boulevard where everyone who's anyone in Hollywood has gone pee pee or, in the case of Hugh Grant, worse. There are roughly 10 million people in L.A., 10 million of which are likely to be found on Sunset Boulevard at any given moment, many of them behaving rather roughly. Turns out Anna Claire is not the first person to find herself in urgent need of a public potty. Which explains why the McDonald's/Starbucks/coin-op laundromat where we alighted had only a single uni-john. It had a lock that required a quarter to open and a sign that read,
"THIS RESTROOM IS OWNED BY ALL OF THE COMPANIES IN THIS BUILDING."
After an initial peek and whiff, I felt compelled to scribble the postscript,
"...AND CLEANED BY NONE OF THEM."
That was a week ago, and none of us has contracted anything that a coupla rounds of antibiotics won't cure. But beware. The next time you need to do #2 on the 101, you might want to avoid Sunset and wait for a less noxious exit. Like Portland.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
"Beggars Can't Be Choosers" And Other Hogwash
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.
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.
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.
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Two words I want to use more often in 2005: laureate and shard. Honorable mention goes to mawkish.
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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.
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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!!!"
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