The March of History

This weekend, the Monkey House was enthralled and delighted by the success of the Baltimore Ravens in their playoff game against the Denver Broncos. With one more playoff win, the Ravens can play in Super Bowl XLVII on February 3, in New Orleans, LA. On this day in 1967, the very fist Super Bowl was played in Los Angeles, CA. The game was called the AFL-NFL World Championship, and a lot of things were different about football and the US, when the Green Bay Packers defeated the Kansas City Chiefs.

But that is not what I really want to talk to you about. Today, about a hundred years earlier (1870) to be exact, Thomas Nast published a political cartoon that gave the Democratic party its symbol: the jackass. They would prefer to refer to it as a donkey, most likely, but I think we can all agree that most Democrats, simply by nature of being politicians, are jackasses. Incidentally, four years later, Nast drew an elephant in a cartoon to represent the GOP, and, instantly, those jackasses became elephants.

That is not what I really want to talk about, either. In the world of letters, today was the day, in 1899, when California school teacher Edwin Markham published his poem, “The Man with the Hoe.” Inspired by Millet’s 1863 French painting of a similar name (only in French), the poem contains the lines, “Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave / to have dominion over sea and land”? I sometimes feel that way when I look in the mirror and watch my bulbous nose spread slowly across my face. Anyway, a great scandal occurred when Markham’s poem was reprinted in an Eastern newspaper as “The Man with the Ho.” The paper broke sales records that day, but was forced to field countless complaints later for “not delivering the goods.”

Yet, again, that is not what I really wanted to talk to you about. In 1987, Paramount used this day to announce that they would place a 30-second ad for Diet Pepsi at the front of their videocassette release of Top Gun. So, the movie that gave us “the need for speed,” and miraculously bright shots of Tom Cruise’s pearly whites, may also be responsible for the thirty-five minutes of wretched merchandising in the movie theatres, today. Thank you Paramount for every Bod commercial I have ever had to tolerate.

However, let me get to my point since the previous is not what I wanted to talk about, either. What is really on my mind is that on this day, in 1981, Omaha, Nebraska, native Bob Gibson was elected to the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year on the ballot.  This is remarkable not because of Gibson’s stellar career, his ferocious personality, nor the fact that he hails from the largest city in my current home state.  This is remarkable because this year’s Hall of Fame balloting, 32 years later, produced not one inductee.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, not one baseball player currently being considered for inclusion was deemed worthy of the Hall.  Not Mark McGwire (again), not Roger Clemens, not Barry Bonds, not anyone. The highest vote getter, at 68% (you need 75% to get in), was Craig Biggio, a highly respected second baseman, in his first year of eligibility, whose claim to the Hall rests on his 3060 hits (a pretty good number).

And why is it that baseball's writers, who are the gatekeepers of the Hall of Fame, have found no one from among a heady list of recent stars to invite into the HoF? Well, I blame Lance Armstrong. His recent fall from grace has cast a pall upon every sportsman and woman of his era. After all, if Lance was a juicer, they all must have been, from Sammy Sosa to Smarty Jones.  And, if they were all cheating, do they belong in the pantheon of their sport?

I will let you decide. I gotta go…Oprah’s on!

And at the End of the First Quarter...

The last week of first quarter begins tomorrow.  It is always amazing how quickly the time goes by.  One minute it’s August and you are nodding off during a professional development session that seems painfully familiar to something you talked about at the last professional development session you went to, and the next minute it’s October and you have three weeks worth of grading to complete in seven days.  As this milepost approaches, it is a fine time to check and see how the year is progressing.

To this point, my classes are going wonderfully.  My freshmen are great kids.  They are attentive, funny, and curious on most mornings. And, even when they are not at the top of their game, they usually do very little to make things more difficult for themselves or me. That counts for a great deal in my world.  My sophomores--more numerous and spirited--are still pretty good students.  They too are engaged, interesting, and curious.  A recent class chat about their own use of language and about a New York Times article on the President’s use of language was a really rich discussion. My sophomores are particularly social, and I am trying to use that strength of theirs by giving them more discussion-based lessons.  So far, I like it, they like it, and it really encourages them to think about things (score!).

Yearbook, always a work in progress, seems to be getting itself off the ground after a slow start.  I have some real go-getters (and a few sloths) who are shining right now.  I will do all I can to keep them doing what they do (and nudging the sloths to action).  I am encouraged.

In general, my “I’m okay, you’re okay” philosophy is serving me well.  I am seriously busy all the time, but that has always been the case.  I only occasionally feel like I am going to completely lose my shit because I have three weeks of grading to do in seven days, but that has also always been the case.  I do not feel as if I am particularly being put upon any more than in the past (okay, maybe a little bit--but it's okay).  However, I do feel (for the most part) calm and happy, which is a really great headspace to be in, but (again) no real change from the past.  Truth be told, I still get overwrought while watching sporting events, but that is no change from the past, either.

So, I find myself asking myself, what is the benefit of this whole “okay” thing anyway?  Well, it is probably like the Romney-Ryan tax cut plan: it is too complicated to explain the math. Suffice it to say that I anticipated that this year would involve a lot of stress-management challenges (and it has involved them), and I hoped that being aware of them, prepared for them, and accepting of them would make them less stressful. So far, so good.

Here I am, feeling pretty good, but as I type this I see, just at the edge of my periphery, a folder full of papers that compose a mere quarter of what lies before me to be assessed.  And, so, I will leave off this particular entry to tackle that job, for before me looms a distraction from my professional responsibilities, as my beloved and oft-maligned Baltimore Orioles face the dreaded New York Yankees in the MLB Divisional Playoffs.  Yes, that’s right, the playoffs. After fifteen years.

How can I not be okay?

Yankee Arrogance

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

--Simon and Garfunkle, "Mrs. Robinson"

Last night’s MLB All-Star game was a bore. It started with a “titans of baseball” worthy pitcher’s duel, as Roy Halladay, Jered Weaver, Cliff Lee, and Dave Robertson twirled against each league’s starting line-up, and then became just another game as “big” names like Tyler Clippard and Miguel Montero entered the field. In the end, the NL beat the AL 5-1 and I was in bed by 10:30. Who is complaining?

Well, I guess I am. It has become standard the past few days to gripe about the number of ball players who declined their invitation to play in the game. Many were injured, Alex Rodriguez and David Price, for instance, and were unable to play. Some had pitched too recently to pitch again on Tuesday (but don’t tell Cy Young that), such as Justin Verlander, and CC Sabathia. Still others were simply overwhelmed by the day-to-day pressure of their job and needed a break, like Derek Jeter.

I am no fan of the Yankees, you may know, but I have always had a healthy amount of respect for team captain Jeter. He always seemed to play the game the right way, he always seemed to be in the mix during the biggest moments of the biggest games, he always seemed like a winner, but, more importantly, he always seemed like a winner who won with integrity. No cheating, no scandal, no negativity seemed to touch this apparent paragon of America’s game. Until now.

Just this past week, Derek Jeter reached a milestone in the career of any great hitter. He reached 3000 career hits, a feat only 25 or so other ballplayers have done in the more than 100-year history of the game. And he did it in spectacular fashion, going 5 for 5 on the day, driving in his team’s winning run, and hitting a home run for number 3000 (something that only he and Wade Boggs have ever done). He was voted onto the AL roster despite his less-than-stellar .270 average, his meager three home runs, and his paltry 24 RBI. But, no matter. He’s Derek Jeter, and that alone qualifies him for the All-Star team. He is, and always will be, a star. After all, one of my own baseball gods, Cal Ripken, made plenty of All-Star teams during years when he was not performing at his best. It is the nature of the fan vote. Often name recognition is enough to get one elected, even when one is flirting with the Mendoza line.

However, Mr. Jeter, citing the mental and physical toll of his quest for three thousand hits, declined to play in the game. He even declined to show up in Arizona for the festivities. Wow. I guess, when you reach a certain age, and you’re coming off of a calf injury, and you just went through the struggle to reach a milestone in your sport under the watchful eye of the voracious New York media, you might feel a bit spent. Sure, take the game off. But, come on, at least show up for the introductions. The people love you. Give them some love back. Very disappointing, team captain, very disappointing.

Yet, there is more. Many players, as I mentioned, could not or did not play. I believe there were roughly sixteen. Of those sixteen who bowed out of the game, four followed D. Jeter’s lead and neglected to show up for the game at all. Of those five (Jeter included), four were members of the New York Yankees. Is that a mere coincidence? Or is it indicative of an organizational sense of superiority? Was it an indication of personal integrity that the dugout was full of players who were not going to play but still appeared (it is an honor to be selected, isn’t it?), but that eighty percent of the no shows held roster spots on perhaps the most arrogant organization, not just in sports, but, perhaps, all the world?

Again, I have no love for the Yankees…and I probably have less now than I did yesterday morning. But, to be fair, I am probably looking for reasons to hate them. I suspect one day, when my perfect nightmare comes to pass, that the Yankees will merge with the New England Patriots to form the most loathsome, despicable, arrogant franchise in the entire universe. Hell, they might even ask Man U to join them. But, for now, I can despise them separately, and continue to take every small piece of mildly negative news about them and turn it into a significant indication of how awful they are, not just as a franchise, but as people. Okay, maybe I have crossed a line, there. Strike that last bit. Except for…no, no, just forget it.

If I may get back to my main point here, so I can conclude this rambling screed: would the game last night have been better if Derek Jeter and CC Sabathia and Alex Rodriguez were sitting in the dug out? No. But, does the lack of appearance by multiple members of the team with the largest fan base in the entire nation indicate yet another disconnect between players and fans, between baseball and the sad sacks like me who love the game? Yes, it does. Yes, indeed.

Cashed Checks and Imperfect Balances

Should we talk about the weather?

Should we talk about the government?

--REM, “Pop Song 89”

The sweltering of the plains has begun in earnest for the summer. Saturday was steamy hot--which did not preclude us from several beverages out on some friends’ deck; yesterday was slightly more brutal (except we are not sure just how brutal, since, according to the paper this morning, an equipment malfunction made it impossible to read the temperature and humidity…they couldn’t run to the nearest bank to read the sign out front?)—which did not preclude us from mowing the lawn and doing a bit of yard work in the AM; today portends to be more of the same. I planned on a fishing excursion to a nearby lake this morning, but the forecast, along with the fact that I stayed up late watching the rebroadcast of the US Women’s World Cup rousing victory over Brazil, convinced me to stay in this morning. I plan on taking the fishing trip tomorrow. The weather will most likely remain, but I will have had a bit more sleep.

In other news, I have been thinking lately about the current difficulties that we are in as a nation, specifically, that slippery eel that is the economy, which is sluggish to say the least. Here in Nebraska, we have been pretty lucky compared to many other places, but things are still far from perfect. The mayor proposed last week a hike in property taxes and wheel taxes, in order to raise revenue for roadwork and other operating costs. That still apparently will not save the jobs of some city workers.

I don’t mind paying a bit more to keep things running smoothly, to have parks and street lights, paved roads and a fire department. It is worth the extra fifty bucks a year (or so) it will cost us to maintain those services that I find important for my quality of life. And that money is collected and used by the city that I live in. Every day I can see my taxes being necessary when there is a pot-holed road, a broken water main, a darkened street lamp, or an overgrown park field.

On the federal level, however, things are a bit more complicated. I don’t see the money I send to Washington being directly spent…except on things like war, war, and war. Oh, right, we did give all those banks and car companies all that money…and we gave all those folks cash for their push-pull-drag-or-drive clunkers, so I know that money was well spent. But, it appears that the Feds are in a tougher spot than my town is. The deficit rises; revenues are stagnant. Current natural disasters will cost billions; expensive military actions are still being waged on multiple fronts. The promised jobs created by the wealthy are not materializing; some corporations are not paying any taxes. And Congress and the president can’t seem to see eye to eye on any solution.

And here is where our wonderfully balanced form of government is perhaps making things worse when it should be making things better. For, while the Senate has a Democrat majority, which (one would think) would cooperate with a president from its own party, the House is GOP-controlled. And, do you think that maybe the House majority might feel that they have an interest in keeping the economy in the tank until 2012? Wouldn't that be better for their party?

Am I a conspiracy theorist? No. Do I understand politics? Yes, I do. In that respect—the “I understand the gamesmanship of the political arena” respect—I completely understand why the House might be doing what I think it’s doing. But, I don’t like it. But, I am not going to start lobbing “evil Republican” bombs around. I am not going to point some naïve finger and say, “Hey, you red state bozos, quit holding this country hostage and fix the problem.” Nope. I am not going to do that. Because I know a few things: I know that the situation we find ourselves in is the end result of many years of (and both parties’) myopia, avarice, and lack of wisdom. I know that, were the situation reversed, the Dems would do the same thing ( not as effectively…probably more like ineffectively). I know that, most likely, even if the two sides come to a compromise, it will be, like most compromises, well, compromised, and any policy they agree upon will sound great in the paper, but will generally be toothless, useless, and maybe even more detrimental than helpful.

That does not mean I am not fired up at yet another example of party politics taking precedence over the common good. But, what do we do? We do what we always do. We pay our taxes, we try to keep calm, we carry on, we pick cucumbers, we keep the lawn trimmed, we open a beverage, we fill up the kiddie pool, and we hope that the weather breaks soon.

So it goes….

I Hate Boston, But I Love Boston

Monkey and I spent the past weekend visiting our friends from the Long Haul Project in Boston. I was not only looking forward to spending time with our “new” friends but never having been to Boston made me look forward to the impending travel even more. The fact that our excursion would occur over the July 4^th weekend made it even more exciting. After all, Boston (and its environs) is the epicenter of the Revolutionary War.

Now, some of you that are close to me, and even those of you who are not particularly close to me, but just happen to be around when I am in a sufficiently grumpy mood, might be a bit confused here, thinking, “Boston? I thought ATR hated Boston.” No. You misunderstand me. Let me clear that up. I do hate Boston…the band. I do not hate Boston, the city.

And, of course, now those of you not familiar with my hatred of Boston are curious to know why I hate said band (again: NOT the city). Well, it’s more than a feeling, I will tell you that. It’s a difficult loathing to describe, or even justify, but there is something about the style that they managed to carefully develop and hew to forever that just doesn’t sit well with me. Their sound is so clean, so clear, so “wah-wah without the wah,” if you will. It just always seemed so produced. And the pitch of the late Brad Delp’s voice was like Cartman’s “brown noise”—it just does bad things to me inside.

However, I stress, once again, that the city of Boston, despite its very, very close ties to the band Boston, is the object of no animosity on my part. Now that we have cleared that up, let’s move on.

There are many things that I expected to see in Boston, the famous Liberty Bell, the Washington Monument, a host of Celtics jerseys. Strangely enough, beside the jerseys, none of that other “patriotic” stuff was there. Our hosts calmly explained to me that those things are located in other cities, I think one of them was Atlanta, I don’t remember, but I still enjoyed some of the patriotic sites that we did see, like a bronze sculpture of ducks (which was being sorely abused by an army of three year-olds) and a veritable host of soldiers in His Majesty’s Dragoons, or something. I was confused; really, I thought we won the war. Apparently, nobody in Boston was told. Does that make Tom Scholz and Brad Delp the founders of a British band? Do they have more in common with The Who and Pink Floyd than .38 Special (WARNING: link plays "music") and Toto? But, I digress.

What I loved about our trip, aside from the company (both the expected and unexpected kind), was that we enjoyed such a range of experiences. We went to some lovely restaurants, where Monkey and I enjoyed plenty of (but not exclusively) seafood. We miss our seafood out here in the middle of the giant North American continent. We sometimes brave a fish dinner, but not often. It just isn’t the same as having it on the coast. For instance, at our first dinner, at a groovy South End place called the Beehive (where I had my recent smooth jazz experience corrected by the trio that played while we ate), I had a scallop dish that was so fresh and tasty that I nearly cried. It was so nice to have that kind of dining experience.

We also enjoyed Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts (for free—hooray for Friday!) and an exquisite sculpture garden, the de Cordova, where my highlight was Steven Seigel’s “Big with Rift,” which consists of newspaper and whatever happens to come along and grow on it. I give it no justice in the description, but I told Monkey that if I lived nearby, I would visit that piece everyday.

A visit to nearby Walden Pond was also part of the itinerary. The weather held just long enough for us to make our way around the shore to see the site of Thoreau's cabin, to watch a young man release a pretty big fish, and to overhear snippets of every conversation being had. Water is quite a carrier of sound!

While we did experience a wide range of historical, cultural, and gustatory delights, we did not enjoy any musicals. I believe someone did propose we try to get tickets to West Side Story, which was playing nearby. Lucky for everyone, we decided not to.

On the fourth, we headed to the venerable Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play the Toronto Blue Jays. There were a number of Blue Jay fans there. I think they came south from Canada, although it is possible they are simply part of the Boston population that still thinks they are British subjects. I don’t know what Canada’s status is vis a vis the Crown, but I think they are still more closely aligned than Boston is supposed to be. At any rate, the result of the ball game was favorable to the home crowd (the Red Sox lost—God Save the Queen).

After the game, we had another great dinner near MIT (I think my arctic char raised my IQ five to ten points), and then walked to a nearby bridge to watch the fireworks over the harbor. The evening’s show was great, despite the occasional T train that blocked our view momentarily. It did confuse me, however, when one of the nearby spectators told his son that the fireworks were to signal the Queen that all was still well in her most loyal of colonies. I thought to correct this historical misunderstanding, but the child’s beaming face in the glow of the rosettes and showers of flaming metal through which he waved his Union Jack was so precious, I thought, “Who am I to interfere?”

We walked home along with a mass of people who literally filled the streets. It made me wish we could just get rid of cars altogether, so that everyday bikes and shoes could ride and wander wherever they desired without fear of being run down, backed into, or blasted in the face with exhaust. This is a dream that may never be realized, but, even as it was suggested that this is what the zombie apocalypse might look like, I continued in my reverie undaunted.

And what did this fabulous trip to Boston leave me with? What is my final thought? I have learned that I love Boston, the city, far more than I hate Boston, the band. Rock on!

Overcommitted. Is There Another Way to Be?

Recently, I was offered the opportunity to write curriculum for an online learning company. It sounded like a good gig, and they asked me during the summer, so I agreed to contract on for a unit or two. Of course, by the time the ball really got rolling on this project, we were into the school year. Needless to say, it has been hard to find time to get the extra work done.

I am not really worried about it, yet. I have about 9% of the work done, and about eight weeks to do it. As far as my regular school work, I am staying out in front of my planning by about a week, and I have a back log of only three days on my grading (really, that is nothing). So, right now, I am managing.

However, in two weeks, it's time for mid-quarter grades, already! This means I have to make sure that I have some meaningful grades in my grade book by then. Perhaps meaningful is the wrong word. What I mean is, I need to make sure that I have assigned and graded an adequate amount of student work to show a true reflection of student achievement (or lack thereof). Really, this just means I have to assign one more writing assignment in one more class. But, that one assignment might be the tipping point.

The way I figure this, I need to create a topic and a quarter per week for the online folks, and grade at least five sections of writing assignments per week as well. This is extremely doable, and will not add any real extra time to my school work load (which is already 60-plus hours a week). It will add time to my workload, in general, as I steal hours from somewhere to work on the online stuff.

And here is where the problems begin to start, since tomorrow ushers in another season of NFL football. Will I be stealing hours in front of the TV, in order to generate contracted curriculum? Maybe. More likely, I will be in the basement, tapping away at my laptop, while the games play on the TV. Unfortunately, that means the only place for me to steal some time from somewhere is to put a moratorium on yard work. As long as the grass stays brown and the leaves don't fall, I guess that will work out.

Zoinks!

Consolation Prize

What a weekend of camaraderie, sportsmanship (poor and otherwise), local travel, and frustration we had here at Central Standard. Our foray into the world of competitive rec league basketball left us with a realization that we really aren't as quick as we used to be, our Monkey is a good sport, and I play ball with a swell bunch of guys.

Saturday's first game, against a team of sub-21 year olds, was competitive for the first half, but young legs outlasted old (and no one was pantsed), and the wiser of the two teams lost by double digits. My legs and back held up, but our predicament was most likely summed up by one of our guards, who said to the opposing guard (and it was true), "I played against your dad in high school." It was disheartening, as well, when Monkey (a spectator at all three Saturday games) pointed out that any member of our team was old enough to have fathered any member of their team. Ick.

For game two, at 11:30, we had to drive to another high school gym. We played five games over the weekend, at three different venues. Fortunately, all of Saturday's games were nearby the Monkey House. The team we played for game two was not as young as our first opponents. They had at least a few players in their mid-20s. But, they were also faster and taller. Two players on this team were nearly a foot taller than any of our oldsters. Put those two things together, and you get a beat down. We lost by about thirty in the second game. We didn't even score until about ten minutes had elapsed. It was not pretty.

With what could be construed as mercy, we were not scheduled to play another game until 5:30. We were able to take a break, eat some lunch, help some friends move some furniture, and get some new socks, before heading back to play the first game of the 3rd place games. We had gone 0-2 in our pool, so we were seeded third in our pool and were slated to play a 3 seed from another pool. This was by far the most exciting game we played, not because of the competitiveness of the two teams, but because the team we played was full of whiners, cry babies, poor sports, and total dicks.

It began after a few minutes, with the old guys holding a slight lead. The opposition started arguing with each other. Then they began complaining to the refs that we were pushing them too much under the basket. They protested every call. They protested every non-call. They never shut up. We had them rattled, for sure.

One player in particular, in UCLA shorts and wearing some kind of new-fangled do rag, was particularly violent in his play. He first elbowed one of our best shooters, drawing blood and swelling his cheek. Our injured shooter was out of the game, and was unable to play the rest of the weekend. UCLA's next foul was on a three-point shot. As our old man released the ball, UCLA gave him a shot to the ribs. Our player took offense to that and flipped off the kid. I am not condoning such behavior, but such actions just shows the uncalled-for nature of this foul. Maybe the elbow was an accident, but a shot to the ribs on a jumper is not accident. The angry youth followed that up by tackling an old guy after losing a rebound. Our bench called for an ejection or a flagrant foul. Their bench continued to woof, and they were assessed a technical foul. While our player shot his fouls, the other team stood at mid-court and yelled at him. Good sports, huh?

When the game was over, we had taken their best shot (literally) and had won. It was a bittersweet victory. It was good to win, but I, personally, hated playing them. After the game, all but two of their players refused to come out and shake our hands. Two of our players got into a shouting match with their bench. I tried to drag our players away, but they wanted to beef, so I got out of their way. Nothing came of it, thank goodness, but I felt a bit embarrassed by our players, as they descended to the opposing team's immaturity. After all, we were the more mature team. I wanted us to act like it. Alas, all's well that ends well, eh?

Sunday, we found out that we would play two games. One game at 10:30, and then another at 11:30 if we won. The 11:30 game would be for the Bracket Three gold medal. Our first game started much later than 10:30, due to the pace of the two games played before ours. The trouble with that was that we had a 12:15 game scheduled with the other over-35 team to decide the medal for that bracket.

After a flurry of emails from our team organizers, the CSG powers that be decided to let us play out our original bracket. Of course, if we won our first game, we were going to stay and play our 11:30 game and forfeit the other, but we were worried that a late start would leave us unable to make a 12:15 game if we lost. Our focus, however was on the matter at hand. We had a game to play some time soon.

Once we got under way, we could tell that we were going to be able to run with our morning opponents. That had a mix of older and younger players (some of their guys could have qualified for our team, I think), but they had one whippersnapper who was quick and could shoot. We played a zone defense to eliminate his ability to cut to the basket, and we hit a few shots ourselves (even I hit a three). The game came down to free throws. We missed ours and they made theirs. As our last desperate three sailed past the rim, the buzzer sounded and we had lost 45-43. It was noon. We were at least twenty minutes away from the gym where we were supposed to play our amis ancien. The organizer at the site came over and told us that the other team and the refs would wait for us. We gathered up our stuff and hit the road, driving (basically) from one end of town to the other.

This final game was the most enjoyable game we played. The pace was more to our liking (i.e., slower), the opponents were adequate sportsmen (we were slapping each others' hands as we walked back and forth to the locker room at half time; we congratulated the opposition on good play), and we all took the game seriously, but not too seriously. In the end, after our old guys held the lead for the first thirty minutes, their old guys made a run that we couldn't answer. We got as close a three points with a minute to play, but we came up short at the end.

And, so, after going 1-4 over the weekend, we walked away with a silver medal. Not bad to have something to show for an exciting, at times frustrating, but, overall, excellent weekend of basketball. ATR's stat line for the weekend: points: 5; shots: 7; shots made: 2; shooting %: .287; 3pt shots: 3; three point shots made: 1; 3pt %: .333. Don't worry, I am not quitting my day job.

Age and Treachery

I play basketball a couple nights a week with some guys in a tiny gym that is part of a local church. It is not a full size court, by any means. As a matter of fact, it is most likely smaller than the small court I used to play ball on down in the bowels of the Columbia Daily Tribune complex. The guys I play with are as misfit as the court on which we play. We have an age range from late teens to early fifties. We have a skill range from non-athlete to former prep star. What is similar amongst us all, is that no one gets too worked up about the games we play, and everybody plays fair (within the bounds of a pick up basketball game...there are some ways to circumnavigate the rules that are as time honored as peach baskets and the movie Hoosiers).

This weekend, a group of the over-35 guys are playing in the Cornhusker State Games. We run our first game at 8:30 in the morning. Yes, EIGHT THIRTY IN THE FREAKING MORNING. However, that's no worse than when we used to play softball games that used to start at 10:30 PM. Remember that?

Yesterday, our "coach" (the guy who registered the team (who is in Florida this weekend, and most likely won't even play in a game with us)) sent out an email telling us that we were mixed in with the over-19 age bracket. Why? Because they only had two over-35 teams sign up. So, as a result, instead of playing some old-timers league games with some equally slow guys who used to wear parachute pants, we now are expected to run (regulation-sized courts, mind you) with caterpillar-lipped boys who think Vanilla Ice is something you use to "ice your bros."

Are we bugged by this misrepresentation of our expected competition by the Cornhusker State Games? Well, I am. However, as you know, I will not back down from a challenge. As a matter of fact, I make them up for myself, sometimes. (Wait til I tell you what I bought today....) So, tomorrow morning, I am going to arrive at the Lincoln High gymnasium, with a backpack full of IcyHot, and the will to show some bad-ass kid who's been buying his own cigarettes for six months, that we old guys might not be at our physical peak, but that our years have honed our "skills" to a razor's edge, and that we might know a little Harlem Globetrotters trick or two (Is pantsing a foul?). The old saw: "Age and treachery will over come youth and enthusiasm" may never be truer than tomorrow. On the other hand, there is also the adage that says: "If you can't catch them on the fast break, you might as well pack it in." I'm expecting NOT to be packing it in.

Out of Retirement

I have always been a Brett Favre fan. He's always been an exciting football player, he seems to do a lot of good work for charity, he seems to be a decent husband and father. He just doesn't know when to quit. Apparently, I don't either.

In the two months plus that I have been un-CS, I have felt something has been missing in my life. And, darn it, a lot has happened in those two months that I could have been writing about. For awhile there, I just felt like I had no voice, no direction. Now, I feel like I need to get back to keeping track of even the most inane things that happen in my life.

I hope to keep from making a "will he or won't he" spectacle of my life every few months. That's not what I am about, and most likely, nobody will really pay that much attention to li'l ol' me. But, I think I need to keep this going.

You are welcome to come along, if you wish.

The Downfall of Falling Down

I haven't watched much of the Winter Olympics this time around. I've sen a curling match here and there, and Monkey and I did watch most of the ice dancing, but I don't think I have sat down and watched a whole evening's worth of programming on NBC since the opening ceremony. I did get the opportunity to watch some ski jumping a few days back, and I have watched just a few minutes of half pipe. And those two things together got me to thinking.

When I was just cutting my teeth on the Winter Olympics, the Lake Placid games of 1980, I remember watching some ski jumpers and thinking they were pretty cool. In 1984, at Sarajevo, I was even more enthralled. I could have watched those daredevils slide down that giant ramp and fly off into the ski to make a perfect knee down landing for hours. And I did.

But, as the Eighties moved into the Nineties, the sport of snow boarding began to pick up steam. It's popularity bloomed through the last part of the twentieth century until, today, it (and other extreme sports) seems to be surpassing many traditional winter games in popularity. And, nowadays, when I watch a long-haired kid rocket up off of the side of a cliff and do a multiple rotation multiple flip, it fills me with amazement. So much so that now, watching ski jumping seems staid. I find myself wishing that those Austrian snow birds would not only soar a hundred and forty meters, but do a half gainer on top of that.

Sadly, the thrill is gone for me and ski jumping. We will most likely part ways. Now, I hope those crazy kids don't find a way to ruin the biatholon.

The Magic Begins Again

Alright, I'll admit it, I am a sucker. Today is an excellent day on my annual calendar, as Spring Training begins for my old hometown ball team, the Baltimore Orioles. Another sign that spring is soon to arrive has been reached, as the tradition of Spring Training leads into the anticipation of Opening Day, a sign, itself, of summer's impending arrival. I am sure I am not the only person who finds some joy and solace in this annual occurrence, yet I still feel like a sucker.

I feel like a sucker because Mark McGwire is now a coach with the St. Louis Cardinals. I feel like a sucker because guys who won fewer games than they lost last year were awarded with multi-million dollar contracts. I feel like a sucker because the Orioles will most likely finish this season just as far out of the running as they have in each of the last dozen years. I feel like a sucker because I know I care far more about those 25 strangers than they ever will or can about this one.

But, you know what? I don't mind feeling like a sucker in this case, because, maybe it's not a sucker that I feel like. It's more like a kid. I feel like a kid, who wants to oil up his glove and toss the ball around, a kid who wants to watch the big guys take on the best ball players in the world, a kid who thinks, "Maybe this will be the year."

And that's okay.

When Will Buddy Holly Be Coming On?

While the East Coast got hammered with Biblical amounts of snow this weekend (which apparently most denizens of the region seemed to enjoy, according to an unscientific anecdotal study), we here in CS land got anything ranging from four inches of really wet snow to "janky" gray slush (sorry BE). Emotions here are ranging from angry disappointment to angry weariness. We here in Cornopolis have really had enough.

But, even as more fluffy white evil falls from the gray Nebraska skies, we look forward to paying little attention to the out of doors this evening, and enjoying a rousing (non-denominational) American football contest. The contest will also include a halftime performance by half of a legendary (read really kinda old) rock group who probably have never even seen a game of American Football. Yes, The Who will be performing at halftime.

Now, I don't mind that a band whose musical relevance passed into legend thirty years ago is performing on network television. That is almost to be expected in Prime Time. And, really, such performances are often quite enjoyable. Look at Bruce Springsteen's performance last year (admittedly, the Boss is arguably more currently relevant than The Who)--that was a good one. Was it last year? I can't remember. Any way, my point is--and this is a point I have made before--that, as I see it, this isn't just an irrelevant dinosaur from eons past. It's not even the dinosaur they are claiming it is.

I might go so far as to claim that this particular band of hard rocking Brits ended with the death of their ferociously insane imp of a drummer, Keith Moon, in 1978. But, I will give them a bit of wiggle room, since even they realized (after four years and two albums with Kenny Jones) that they were no longer that which they had been before. So, let's give them the last four years of their primary incarnation and say they ended when they say they ended.

However, as these things often do--an extinct rockasaur is a hard animal to keep down--the Who kept at it, appearing sporadically throughout the nineties and the early years of the twenty-first century, almost like the "dying" old man over John Cleese's shoulder in THE HOLY GRAIL: "I'm not dead yet." But, really, they were. Cudgel to the head, please. Thank you.

The cudgel to the head? The death of bassist John Entwistle. We all figure, that's it for them, then. Right? You lose a drummer, no big deal. SPINAL TAP made it clear that the drummer is a place holder, a human metronome. A dime a dozen. (Facetiousness alert! Sarcasm meters should be detecting massive levels of snarkiness.) But, if you lose a whole rhythm section, you are done, ain't ya?

Ummm, apparently not. I guess we can call this the Lynard Skynard paradox. I am still trying to come up with the exact phrasing for this particular popular music theory, but you get the notion, eh?

See, CBS is advertising that The Who will be performing at halftime. But, really, it's Pete and Roger and a couple of other musicians. And that ain't the rockasaur that they are claiming it to be. However, having a zombie rockasaur impostor perform on CBS' halftime show fits right in with the most controversial advertisement. After all, The Who have a right to life, just like little baby Jesus (the 21st century version): Tim Tebow.

Shiny Things (That Aren't Glitter)

There's this whole big to do here in Cornopolis over Miss Nebraska (a newscaster on one of the local channels), and her experiences out in Las Vegas, where she is participating in the Miss Universe pageant. The front page of the local rag has a teaser of the story in the "insignificant news" section (which is cleverly (and annoyingly) titled "The (402) 411" (as in, the information for the zip code) so hip, so cool, so trendy (I have so lost track of my parentheses)). I will just call it "The 165, 222," since that is the product of 402 x 411. It makes the same amount of sense, doesn't it?

What was I talking about? Oh, the beauty pageant, right. So, there in the 165, 222 is a little article (right under the profile of the engineer who hooked his snow blower up to a motorized wheelchair to make a robot snow blower) about this (predictably) blond young lady having a time in Sin City. A picture shows her and another (genetically cloned) contestant (Miss Massachusetts), sharing a dessert of some sort with the manager of a local franchise anchor restaurant. Miss Nebraska wears a (predictably) red dress. Miss Mass wears a (not-so-predictably-as-it-used-to-be-but-still) blue dress. They both wear sashes and tiaras.

What's wrong with this picture, you ask? Well, at first glance, nothing, I guess. A couple of pretty girls and a handsome guy posing for a publicity still. Representatives of various states of the union sharing and smiling together. Opponents in a contest showing good manners and conducting themselves with respect for themselves and others. What's my problem?

It's those goddamn tiaras! I can't stand it! These are grown women, not six year-olds. They are not "Little Princesses." Yes, I have a sick (as in ill) little piece of my heart that finds all of these sorts of spectacles ridiculous and undermining to women's status as equals in our (still) patriarchal world. And the organizers of these contests can do whatever they want to make it look less like a "let's give the pretty airhead some attention" event. But, as long as the women involved dress like children at a tea party, I am just going to have to be annoyed.

Shocking Revelations

It was announced today that Mark McGwire has admitted to using steroids. All I can say is: "Well, duh."

At least now we know that the 1998 home run race between him and Sammy Sosa was evenly matched: one 'roided meat head vs. another. Fans of the St. Louis Cardinals were heard to exclaim, upon hearing the news, "At least our 'roided meat head won."

And so it goes.

The Most Frustrating Day

Monkey thinks she needs to get the dog out of the house. It's Sunday. I will be watching the Ravens. That means I will be screaming at the TV, most likely. They are playing the Patriots. That means I will be screaming at the TV more than usual, most likely. It is a Wild Card Playoff game. That means...well, you get the picture.

You might recall last year, I resolved (sort of) to not get so wrapped up in sports on TV. I am not doing that very well. But, as much frustration as it may cause me, as irritated as it seems to make me, as un-enjoyable as it might be for Monkey to be around me, it's actually kind of fun to get so wrapped up.

And now, it's game time.

New! New! New!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Things that are different this morning:

--dog is much better

--everything is one day older

--I am now a person who has seen AVATAR (in 2D)

--we are dangerously low on pie and cookies (the holidays must be coming to a close)

--Mizzou is embarrassed after dismantling by Navy

--about a million other things

Things that are the same this morning:

--it's snowing here (just flurries)

--the Ravens can still make the playoffs

--I am STILL only 40

--Monkey is still my favorite

--about a million other things

Snowshine Sun, Dog Soreness, and Raven Disgust

The last Monday of the old year has been a memorable one, for sure. First, it has finally stopped snowing here, and we are almost finished digging out (as a municipality). One side of our street has been plowed, and we expect the other side to be done sometime before spring. Our own walkways and driveways have been cleared and re-cleared over the course of the last four days or so. I am pretty sure the entire neighborhood is about tired of shoveling, snow blowing, vehicle pushing, etc. As a bonus, today, the sun came out for the first time in about forever.

Secondly, Ripken had another operation to remove some tumors from his torso. He had a similar operation last year at this time. None of the tumors were on his head, but he had one right on his sternum, so he is having a hard time finding a comfortable position to lay in. He is looking pretty miserable, six hours after his operation, but, after he keeps some food down and has a baby aspirin, he should be feeling better.

In an irrelevant vein, compared to the dog's recovery, I suffered the frustration and helpless disgust that is watching your NFL team basically outplay their rivals AGAIN, yet still lose due to boneheaded penalties and a lack of execution. Most likely, the Ravens will beat the Raiders on Sunday and make the playoffs, but, if they keep playing like they have (and nothing indicates that they won't), a loss wouldn't surprise me, but a deep run in the playoffs would.

Finally, we made a pretty tasty potato soup for lunch today, and we still have about ten pounds of gifted potatoes to get through!

Twofer

Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac
--Don Henley, "The Boys of Summer"

(I apologize if my opening lyric today causes anyone shock or illness.)

I know I JUST said, "Don't look back," but, upon a request from a fellow Blogoshpherian, I compiled a short list of the top ten albums of the year. If you are at all interested, you may access it here.

Plans for today include a short visit to Wilber, the Czech capital of Nebraska, to see if they have any kielbasa. Which reminds me that Chicago State actually has a dude on their team named Joseph Kielbasa. Monkey and I figured that if Chicago State had been playing Mizzou, the Antlers would have had an inappropriate field day with that one.

Also on the docket: possible visit to used book store, work party, watching the weather (a potential storm may scrub Tuesday's KC trip). Ah, the holiday season.

It' s Sunday. It's Dark. It's Snowing.

December arrived determined to wipe away any memories of a balmy November. Global warming is not on any one's mind today, here in Cornopolis. It's pretty chilly out there, and the snow has been falling slowly since about ten this morning. The next couple days could bring us six inches or so, all told. It probably won't close schools tomorrow or Tuesday, but it might be enough to make Parent Teacher conferences pretty poorly attended tomorrow night. You know how much I love PT conferences, eh?

It has been a pretty good weekend. The Florida-Alabama game was enjoyable. It wasn't a great game, but I was pulling for the Crimson Tide. I don't know why, but I have always liked Alabama, even as a tyke. And, equally inexplicably, I have never been a fan of the Gators. But, now that I think about it, that's probably Steve Spurrier's fault. Anyway, the Big 12 Championship game WAS exciting (unless you like offense), and unexpectedly competitive. Monkey asked me before the game if I thought it was going to be ugly. I told her I thought it would be, but I didn't mean ugly in the way it turned out.

In addition, the Steelers lost to the Raiders today. I feel a twinge of guilt, getting joy from others misery (see Florida, as well), but, when it comes to the Steelers, I know that their fans get as much satisfaction out of watching the Ravens flounder as we get out of their losses. But, in a less spiteful vein, Pittsburgh's loss (which is kind of inconceivable...as well as their loss two weeks ago to KC) opens up one more door, ever so slightly, for Baltimore to make it into the playoffs. Of course, the Ravens need to win on Monday night, and they need to keep winning, and they need Jacksonville to slip up at some point, but, with Pittsburgh's loss, they have an opportunity to move closer to the wild card.

Okay, no more sports talk.

Except to say that I jammed my finger playing b-ball this afternoon (not in the snow, in the church gym), and now I can't get my wedding ring on. Monkey is distraught, but I am wearing it on my right hand, and hoping the swelling subsides sooner, rather than later.

Okay, no more sports talk.

Except to say that the local ESPN radio station pulled my favorite talk show off the air this week. It was a show called THE SPREAD, and it featured former Husker All American Jason Peter. I liked the show for several reasons. One, it was on during my drive home (when I drove), so it became part of my routine. Two, Peter, a former defensive tackle who played a few seasons with the Carolina Panthers, was an unpolished, but thoroughly entertaining radio personality. And, three, Peter, a New Jersey native, had one of those East Coast accents (and attitudes) that used to make me a little homesick. Why the show was canceled, no one knows, but one day they were on the air, and the next day, they were gone. That happens in radio a lot.

Okay, no more sports talk.

Saturday, Monkey and I bought a new TV. But, they didn't have it in stock, so we have to pick it up Tuesday. I was thoroughly bummed, since we were going slightly larger, slightly more 16:9 aspect ratio, slightly more 1080p, and slightly more 120Hz. In sum, we were moving into the 21st century of TV receivers. I was thinking we would bring our shiny new LCD TV home on Saturday, hook it up, watch the Big 12 Championship, and then, on Monday, we could dig on the Ravens' Monday night appearance in all of their bright and shining (in black and purple) glory. Unfortunately, that ain't gonna happen. I got over it, but Monkey will tell you, I was one grumpy dude at the grocery store. At least I can watch the Army-Navy game (Go Navy!) on Saturday on the new tube.

I know, that non-sports item was awfully sporty. And, I haven't said a word about NCAA basketball.

O Captain, My Captain!

This is not the kind of news to start a day with, but I must make note of the passing of 80s wrestling icon (and video actor) "Captain" Lou Albano. Growing up, I don't think I ever saw Albano actually wrestle, he just barked into the mike and made wierd faces at the camera, but he was a huge personality in that world. In addition, he forever linked himself with 80s pop icon Cyndi Lauper, appearing in her video for "Girls Just Want to Have Fun."

Just add Lou to the list of pop culture icons heading to the big mansion in the sky, lately.