Ahh, Halloween. It’s here. You know how I know? Because last Saturday I walked into my nearby hardware store and saw on display row after row of fake Christmas trees. Nothing says Halloween like Christmas trees.
What about all the Halloween stuff, you ask? Did they ever have that out? Oh sure. If you stopped in between the day after Father’s Day and the Fourth of July, you could have bought an assortment of Halloween decorations. Fireworks for your July 4th celebration weren’t available at that time because those were on sale during Groundhog’s Day.
I know the subject of retail stores displaying Christmas items too early has been beaten into the ground, so I won’t do it here (anymore). But seriously. Christmas trees? (I lied)
I expect that from Wal-Mart or Target, but not the hardware store. I know they’re trying to copy other stores who profit from Christmas long before Christmas arrives, but they haven’t quite figured out how. In the seasonal section of the store, right next to the fake trees, they still have barbecue grills and riding lawn mowers for sale. For those that don’t know, I don’t live in southern California or Florida or someplace that sees the sun after October. If people in my town are buying Christmas trees, they aint buying lawn mowers. Make up your mind, hardware store!
So, if you’re a fan of Halloween, hopefully you bought your decorations during the 15 minutes in which they were available. And who isn’t a fan of Halloween? If you’re a kid, you get loads of candy. And the reality is you don’t even have to dress up and walk around the neighborhood burning calories. You can be a true glutton – American style – and just graze on the candy your parents buy to give out to the neighborhood kids. You can also score more candy at school every day during the week leading up to Halloween.
If you’re an adult, you have an excuse to buy loads of candy and the power to yell at your kids, “Hey! That’s for the trick-or-treaters that come over. Put it back,” and then pull out a piece for yourself and eat it right in front of them.
On Halloween, everyone – young and old – also has an excuse to dress up and pretend to be something they’re not. This way, Matthew McConaughey can put on a costume and pretend to be a vampire instead of wearing his usual outfit and pretending to be interesting.
Tons of crappy scary movies hit the theaters around Halloween too, while a lot of good scary movies are shown on TV. For instance, even though I haven’t seen it, I imagine the latest SAW movie, and all the ones before it, is pretty crappy. Then again there have been about 18 of those, so people obviously like them. And to keep audiences coming back for that many sequels, the writers and producers obviously create wildly different plot lines for each one. I’m sure not one SAW movie looks anything like the others, and I would no doubt be completely lost by randomly picking one and watching it without first seeing the ones that came before it. So they’re probably pretty good after all.
For those that prefer movies with a little imagination, this week AMC has been running Alien and The Shining, two classic scary movies with great writing and top-notch directors. However they can’t hold a candle to Poltergeist, the scariest movie of all time. How can I definitively say it’s the scariest movie ever? Because I watched it when I was five or six years old and it gave me nightmares for a week. It’s scary as sh*t.
Now, you might say, “Why don’t you watch it as an adult and see if you still think it’s scary?” Well, I would watch it again except that when I watched it as a kid, it gave me nightmares for a week. It’s scary as sh*t! Did I not say that already?! Pay attention.
I can’t even watch the DirecTV commercial with the little girl from that movie because it’s too spooky. And you know the worst of it? Poltergeist is rated PG. It’s true. Get a hold of a copy and see for yourself. It came out before the PG-13 rating existed, but why it didn’t receive an R rating is beyond me. Aside from all the other freaky things in that movie, did you know there’s a scene in which a guy goes into the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror and then PEELS HIS FACE OFF? And not the way Fred and Daphne would peel the masks off the bad guys at the end of Scooby Doo. He peels it off in little pieces, exposing a lot of stuff that you wouldn’t see unless you worked with cadavers. And it’s rated PG! Episodes of Desperate Housewives don’t even get that rating. We’ve definitely softened as a society.
But you know what? In some cases that’s a good thing. Sure it’s stupid that nowadays kids who play sports don’t know if they win or lose because no one ever keeps score, but on the flip side we no longer hear anyone say, “Good luck with your Small Pox.”
So yeah, Halloween. Enjoy it.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Ugly Politics? Redundant.
“The man who invests his time in politics, follows it, studies it, believes in it, believes in its ability to sustain, broaden and improve society at large, to empower the common man to create a better life for himself and for those around him, is a man who might as well repeatedly bludgeon his balls with a hammer.” – Mohandas Gandhi
Ok, maybe Gandhi didn’t say that. Or maybe he did. Who knows? He’d probably say it if he were alive today. And living in the United States. And following U.S. politics. And if he lived in my house. And looked remarkably like me. And if he went by my name.
Ok, so maybe it’s just me. Gandhi would certainly deal with today’s nonsense better than I am. But he’d have his hands full.
Consider events of the last couple weeks: 50% of our country’s population openly cheered the fact that the U.S. was not awarded the Olympics, and 100% of the population openly decried the fact that our president was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Ugh.
If some alien life form were to read those two pieces of information, they’d likely think we’re a nation of self-loathers.
But this is not going to dissolve into an attack of one side or the other. That’s the problem. There’s too much attacking. We need something that erodes party lines, something that draws us together to achieve a common good. Something like Abe Lincoln’s “O’ Brotha', My Brotha'” speech.
To accomplish this, here are some things that I think need to happen over the next few weeks to unite us all:
TMZ captures footage of Keith Olbermann and Ann Coulter locked in the throws of passion at a New York City bus stop while waiting to begin their daily commutes. The two admit the affair has been going on for the past six months and that they’re expecting a child together.
To overcome his state’s tremendous deficit, Arnold Schwarzenegger agrees to sell California to Mexico. To alleviate fears of Californians and U.S. residents as a whole, the governor immediately erects a billboard along the state’s border that reads: “California – Now Owned by Mexico. The Difference? Absolutely Nothing.”
In an effort to end the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq sooner rather than later, President Obama changes tactics by removing all U.S. troops from both regions and replaces them with millions of pigeons and Dick Cheney, armed with nothing but a 12-gauge shotgun. Both countries surrender within 2 and ½ half weeks.
After harkening back to Vice President Joe Biden’s impassioned speech during the 2008 campaign, President Obama assigns Biden to spend the next 10 months riding the train back and forth from work to home, over and over, all day long. Excited, Biden asks the president if he wants him to brainstorm policy issues while spending his days riding the rails. Eager to not break his spirit, Obama smiles and says, “Hey why not?”
Stephen Colbert is awarded the honor of being the key-note speaker at every White House Press Corp dinner from now until his death, no matter who the president is.
Levi Johnston, the father of Sarah Palin’s first grandchild, agrees to pose in Playgirl magazine. That would be hilarious.
President Obama heads to L.A. for another appearance on Jay Leno’s show, presumably to atone for his off-color remark about the Special Olympics the last time he was on the show. Instead, Obama is unable to enter the studio because moments before he arrives, NBC announces it has traded Leno to CBS so that he can fulfill his long-overdue destiny as the replacement for Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes.
TMZ captures footage of Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck locked in the throws of passion at a New York City bus stop while waiting to begin their daily commutes. The two admit the affair has been going on for the past six months and that they’re adopting the latest Gosselin child to run away from home.
MSNBC and FOX News agree to massive buyouts from HBO. As part of the agreement, each “news” networks’ correspondents are forced to live on a deserted island, similar to Survivor. The only difference to the popular reality show is that this version is hosted by Ryan Seacrest and the island is completely devoid of any cameras.
In a huge boost to the economy, the federal government raises more than enough money to pay for the funds needed for healthcare reform by tying Michael Moore to a tree on the White House lawn and posting a sign next to him that says, “Kicks to the Groin: $2.”
In a slightly smaller boost to the economy, the government buys the Washington Redskins, then turns around and sells the team to Canada. The Canadians are disappointed later when they learn, in their attempt to replace their most valued citizen, Pamela Anderson, that they misunderstood the U.S. when we said, “We have a bunch of boobs you might be interested in.”
And finally, after years of threatening to expand his country’s nuclear power and making claims that the Holocaust is a myth, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is captured by CIA agents in the middle of the night, stripped of all control of the nation, and forced to marry Kate Gosselin.
Ok, maybe Gandhi didn’t say that. Or maybe he did. Who knows? He’d probably say it if he were alive today. And living in the United States. And following U.S. politics. And if he lived in my house. And looked remarkably like me. And if he went by my name.
Ok, so maybe it’s just me. Gandhi would certainly deal with today’s nonsense better than I am. But he’d have his hands full.
Consider events of the last couple weeks: 50% of our country’s population openly cheered the fact that the U.S. was not awarded the Olympics, and 100% of the population openly decried the fact that our president was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Ugh.
If some alien life form were to read those two pieces of information, they’d likely think we’re a nation of self-loathers.
But this is not going to dissolve into an attack of one side or the other. That’s the problem. There’s too much attacking. We need something that erodes party lines, something that draws us together to achieve a common good. Something like Abe Lincoln’s “O’ Brotha', My Brotha'” speech.
To accomplish this, here are some things that I think need to happen over the next few weeks to unite us all:
TMZ captures footage of Keith Olbermann and Ann Coulter locked in the throws of passion at a New York City bus stop while waiting to begin their daily commutes. The two admit the affair has been going on for the past six months and that they’re expecting a child together.
To overcome his state’s tremendous deficit, Arnold Schwarzenegger agrees to sell California to Mexico. To alleviate fears of Californians and U.S. residents as a whole, the governor immediately erects a billboard along the state’s border that reads: “California – Now Owned by Mexico. The Difference? Absolutely Nothing.”
In an effort to end the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq sooner rather than later, President Obama changes tactics by removing all U.S. troops from both regions and replaces them with millions of pigeons and Dick Cheney, armed with nothing but a 12-gauge shotgun. Both countries surrender within 2 and ½ half weeks.
After harkening back to Vice President Joe Biden’s impassioned speech during the 2008 campaign, President Obama assigns Biden to spend the next 10 months riding the train back and forth from work to home, over and over, all day long. Excited, Biden asks the president if he wants him to brainstorm policy issues while spending his days riding the rails. Eager to not break his spirit, Obama smiles and says, “Hey why not?”
Stephen Colbert is awarded the honor of being the key-note speaker at every White House Press Corp dinner from now until his death, no matter who the president is.
Levi Johnston, the father of Sarah Palin’s first grandchild, agrees to pose in Playgirl magazine. That would be hilarious.
President Obama heads to L.A. for another appearance on Jay Leno’s show, presumably to atone for his off-color remark about the Special Olympics the last time he was on the show. Instead, Obama is unable to enter the studio because moments before he arrives, NBC announces it has traded Leno to CBS so that he can fulfill his long-overdue destiny as the replacement for Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes.
TMZ captures footage of Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck locked in the throws of passion at a New York City bus stop while waiting to begin their daily commutes. The two admit the affair has been going on for the past six months and that they’re adopting the latest Gosselin child to run away from home.
MSNBC and FOX News agree to massive buyouts from HBO. As part of the agreement, each “news” networks’ correspondents are forced to live on a deserted island, similar to Survivor. The only difference to the popular reality show is that this version is hosted by Ryan Seacrest and the island is completely devoid of any cameras.
In a huge boost to the economy, the federal government raises more than enough money to pay for the funds needed for healthcare reform by tying Michael Moore to a tree on the White House lawn and posting a sign next to him that says, “Kicks to the Groin: $2.”
In a slightly smaller boost to the economy, the government buys the Washington Redskins, then turns around and sells the team to Canada. The Canadians are disappointed later when they learn, in their attempt to replace their most valued citizen, Pamela Anderson, that they misunderstood the U.S. when we said, “We have a bunch of boobs you might be interested in.”
And finally, after years of threatening to expand his country’s nuclear power and making claims that the Holocaust is a myth, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is captured by CIA agents in the middle of the night, stripped of all control of the nation, and forced to marry Kate Gosselin.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Get Off My Lawn, Technology!
I’m no historical scholar. I’m also no technology guru. I’m no surveyor of societal movements. And, from this paragraph, you can obviously tell I’m no English teacher. All of that aside, it seems to me that today’s electronic breakthroughs, designed to make our lives easier, don’t do what they used to do (i.e. make our lives easier).
Inventions and/or advancements in technology used to do just that – advance us as a society. They improved upon the devices we use in everyday life or introduced something that vastly changed the way we live – like electricity or the automobile.
Nowadays it seems like our “advancements” are actually moving us backwards.
For instance, in the beginning, if a man of increased social stature, like a king or an overlord, wanted to communicate something to another man of similar stature, he would tell a less-prominent man the message and then send him running, possibly hundreds of miles, in the direction of the other king so he could relay the message roughly six months later. Then, just as the lowly runner arrived at the doorstep of the other king, he had to turn around and run back because he realized he forgot the attachment.
As time progressed, man created paper and ink, wrote the message down and tied it to a bird, which may or may not have delivered the note before eating it and pooping on the guy who was still running because his boss was slow to accept the newest technology. Eventually the kings/overlords decided to go back to using people to deliver messages, but because of the ability to write them on paper, the runners delivered hundreds of these letters in one trip and thus the postal system was created.
Communication changed forever with the invention of the telephone. Sure the postal industry still exists, but we no longer have to send a letter to our buddy three counties over to ask if he caught the end of the Bears game. We can exchange thoughts and ideas with someone on the other side of the planet as if they were standing right in front of us. Life has never been the same.
That is… until now.
Now, even though we still have the ability to talk to someone thousands of miles away while we drive, use the restroom or bother people in the movie theater, we opt to use our phones to type messages to the person on the other end of the line. Hmmm. I guess it’s a step up from using phones to hand write messages.
After all, talking to someone lets you easily pick up on their tone of voice and, if you say something funny, lets you hear them laugh. Boo! Who wants that? I’d much rather read about someone laughing, courtesy of the acronym LOL, which tells the typer that what they typed was funny enough to make their friend audibly chuckle.
Except that’s rarely the case. Whenever someone types LOL, they usually mean, “What you just typed was mildly amusing and may or may not have caused me to smile, but that’s about it.”
Then there’s the acronym LMAO, which indicates the reader laughed so vigorously that part of their anatomy is no longer attached to their body. This too is usually an exaggeration (except in extreme cases).
In addition to phones having typewriter capabilities, we’ve also made great strides in communicating with people over the Internet. These days we can log on and post a message to a friend or hundreds of friends at the same time. We can also send pictures and links, and receive responses from those same friends. Two of the most popular ways to do this are through Facebook and Twitter. Some of you out there, though, may remember this capability from about 15 years ago when it was called “e-mail.”
Thank God those days are over. E-mail is so archaic. It lets you send a message that’s as long as you want. No thank you! I much prefer to be limited to 140 characters. Plus, e-mail doesn’t let me see those (never-ending) handy updates from my friends on how far they’ve advanced in some online game.
So, given these trends in technological improvement, I’m wondering what’s next. Personally, I hope the airlines adopt a similar model of using an innovation from the past to improve their current efficiency. Perhaps on a trip from New York to L.A., we’ll one day sit in a plane that scoots along the ground as it’s pulled by a team of horses.
Maybe in the future, remote controls will be bolted to our televisions and wheelchairs will be operated by bicycle pedals. I’m sure in no time we’ll all be wearing see-through pants and shoes with holes in them as well. Yay! Oh wait… I think I’m a little late on that last one.
Whatever is on the horizon, I’ll be eagerly awaiting its arrival, shaking my fist at it from my rocking chair on the front porch.
Inventions and/or advancements in technology used to do just that – advance us as a society. They improved upon the devices we use in everyday life or introduced something that vastly changed the way we live – like electricity or the automobile.
Nowadays it seems like our “advancements” are actually moving us backwards.
For instance, in the beginning, if a man of increased social stature, like a king or an overlord, wanted to communicate something to another man of similar stature, he would tell a less-prominent man the message and then send him running, possibly hundreds of miles, in the direction of the other king so he could relay the message roughly six months later. Then, just as the lowly runner arrived at the doorstep of the other king, he had to turn around and run back because he realized he forgot the attachment.
As time progressed, man created paper and ink, wrote the message down and tied it to a bird, which may or may not have delivered the note before eating it and pooping on the guy who was still running because his boss was slow to accept the newest technology. Eventually the kings/overlords decided to go back to using people to deliver messages, but because of the ability to write them on paper, the runners delivered hundreds of these letters in one trip and thus the postal system was created.
Communication changed forever with the invention of the telephone. Sure the postal industry still exists, but we no longer have to send a letter to our buddy three counties over to ask if he caught the end of the Bears game. We can exchange thoughts and ideas with someone on the other side of the planet as if they were standing right in front of us. Life has never been the same.
That is… until now.
Now, even though we still have the ability to talk to someone thousands of miles away while we drive, use the restroom or bother people in the movie theater, we opt to use our phones to type messages to the person on the other end of the line. Hmmm. I guess it’s a step up from using phones to hand write messages.
After all, talking to someone lets you easily pick up on their tone of voice and, if you say something funny, lets you hear them laugh. Boo! Who wants that? I’d much rather read about someone laughing, courtesy of the acronym LOL, which tells the typer that what they typed was funny enough to make their friend audibly chuckle.
Except that’s rarely the case. Whenever someone types LOL, they usually mean, “What you just typed was mildly amusing and may or may not have caused me to smile, but that’s about it.”
Then there’s the acronym LMAO, which indicates the reader laughed so vigorously that part of their anatomy is no longer attached to their body. This too is usually an exaggeration (except in extreme cases).
In addition to phones having typewriter capabilities, we’ve also made great strides in communicating with people over the Internet. These days we can log on and post a message to a friend or hundreds of friends at the same time. We can also send pictures and links, and receive responses from those same friends. Two of the most popular ways to do this are through Facebook and Twitter. Some of you out there, though, may remember this capability from about 15 years ago when it was called “e-mail.”
Thank God those days are over. E-mail is so archaic. It lets you send a message that’s as long as you want. No thank you! I much prefer to be limited to 140 characters. Plus, e-mail doesn’t let me see those (never-ending) handy updates from my friends on how far they’ve advanced in some online game.
So, given these trends in technological improvement, I’m wondering what’s next. Personally, I hope the airlines adopt a similar model of using an innovation from the past to improve their current efficiency. Perhaps on a trip from New York to L.A., we’ll one day sit in a plane that scoots along the ground as it’s pulled by a team of horses.
Maybe in the future, remote controls will be bolted to our televisions and wheelchairs will be operated by bicycle pedals. I’m sure in no time we’ll all be wearing see-through pants and shoes with holes in them as well. Yay! Oh wait… I think I’m a little late on that last one.
Whatever is on the horizon, I’ll be eagerly awaiting its arrival, shaking my fist at it from my rocking chair on the front porch.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Just Call Me Stretch
A couple weeks ago, I shared a moment in my life from years ago that forever changed the way I view the world. I’m excited to announce that just this past week I experienced another one of these moments. And this time I can say that it will literally change my view from a physical standpoint.
For the better part of 15 years, I’ve thought that I was 5’ 8”. It turns out I am in fact 5’ 9”.
It’s true. Let that sink in for a minute. I’ve spent my entire adult life believing that I’m significantly shorter than I actually am. I don’t know how this happened.
Maybe my doctor got it wrong during a physical way back when. Maybe I’ve heard friends of mine who are the same height say that they’re 5’ 8” and figured I must be too. Maybe I’ve actually grown an inch over the last 15 years, putting me on pace to be just as tall as the average NBA player by the time I’m in my mid-120s.
Discovering the mistake came easy enough. My son was playing with the tape measure, and after I measured his height, he wanted me to check my own. I obliged, showed him the number and then glanced at it myself, even though I knew what it said. Or I thought I knew.
I was both excited and stunned. “I’m a beast,” I thought.
Then I wondered how different my life would be if I had known all these years that I’m tall. Would I have been popular in high school? Maybe my increased confidence level would have helped me talk to girls without wetting myself. I would have always sat in the front row on airplanes for the extra leg room. I certainly never would have bought a two-door Honda Civic. Perhaps my autobiography and Wilt Chamberlain’s would be eerily similar. At the very least, my driver’s license would say that I’m a towering 5’ 9” instead of a diminutive 5’ 8”.
That’s another thing – the government thinks that I’m short. Should I tell them the truth now, or will they punish me for misrepresentation all these years? Do tall people pay more taxes?
My wife reminded me that she’s 5’8” and that I’m taller than her, so she couldn’t figure out why I was surprised. But I always figured female heights are different from men’s, like foot measurements or pant sizes. For a man, a size 34 in pants means something vastly different than what it means for a woman. How was I to know?
One thing I do know – at one of my son’s recent doctor visits, his pediatrician predicted that, based on his current height and age, he would be over 6 feet. We used to wonder where he got the genes to grow that tall. Not anymore.
You’re welcome, son.
Monday, August 24, 2009
And Now I Know the Rest of the Story
Growing up, we all had moments in our lives that impacted us and strongly shaped how we view the world. Some of those moments shook the foundation of what we knew, or what we thought we knew, and taught us a great deal – possibly more than we wanted to know.
A lot of things fit all of those conditions: the first time we learned about death, the first time we ate a school-issued lunch and, of course, the first time we learned where babies come from.
As I’m sure is the case for most people, the first time I learned where babies come from was a jarring, unwelcome experience. The information was heaped on me in an unsolicited manner, much like the overcaffeniated people selling timeshares who make it difficult to go anywhere these days, including even Dairy Queen.
I was eight years old, and the messenger of darkness was an older woman – a nine year old by the name of Natalie Something. (I’m omitting her last name not to protect her, but because I don’t remember it. It’s not important.) I was enjoying a sunny afternoon outdoors at my then after-school program (it’s no longer my after-school program), when this harbinger of evil skipped over to me with a grin on her face.
She asked me the seemingly innocent question, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Not knowing the devastation she planned to deliver, I happily obliged by answering, “I have one brother.”
Barely able to control her giggles, she informed me, “That means your parents had sex twice.”
She skipped away, giggling even more furiously than when she approached, leaving me shocked and confused. Not to mention a little nauseous.
I don’t remember how it was that I knew about sex, or how much of the particulars I knew (like why people participated), but I did know about it because I was shaken by the revelation. I didn’t have to ask what sex was, just why God would allow such a thing to be true. Perhaps I saw something on TV after staying up past my bed time, or maybe I heard someone’s older brother talk about it. However I learned of it, I never gave it much thought until Natalie’s brief biology lesson.
In my mind, I probably thought sex was just something done by actors, and even then only because they were getting paid to do it. If anyone in real life actually did it, it was only those people who lived on the fringes of society – belly dancers, lion tamers, New Yorkers. These types of people.
If a subject wasn’t talked about on The Dukes of Hazard, I didn’t care. For all I knew, Daisy wore those skimpy shorts because they were the only pair she had. Looking back on it, that’s true. No one on that show ever changed their clothes. Ever! I know they were poor, but if they could afford enough gas to drive 100 mph all over the state of Georgia, surely Uncle Jesse could afford to go down to the thrift store for ONE new shirt.
I’m getting off topic.
At any rate, as I watched Natalie ask the same question of each of her peers, subsequently destroying the will of the other kids on the playground, I dismissed the notion that my parents secretly put her up to it. My memory is fuzzy after this. Before completely blacking out, I think I ran inside hoping no one would see me and start to think about what my parents had been up to. I was also grateful that I wasn’t the kid in my class who had five brothers and sisters.
(At this point I should mention that three years earlier, a different girl told me Santa Claus isn’t real. If it had been the same girl, you could argue that I grew up around a child with a particular mean streak. However, the fact that two completely unconnected little girls delivered these pieces of information speaks volumes about the female population. Somehow I’m not gay.)
Despite Natalie’s efforts to crush my fragile soul, I eventually grew into a reasonably well-adjusted adult (insert your own joke here). Nevertheless, I can assure you that my son won’t learn about the birds and the bees, or even hear the term ‘sex,’ until he’s 27. And my daughter won’t learn of it until she’s 45. Why the discrepancy in their ages? Well… because that’s just the way it is. I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m the dad, I make the decisions.
And I’m confident that I’ll have as much control over the situation as my parents had when I first learned the facts.
Yikes.
A lot of things fit all of those conditions: the first time we learned about death, the first time we ate a school-issued lunch and, of course, the first time we learned where babies come from.
As I’m sure is the case for most people, the first time I learned where babies come from was a jarring, unwelcome experience. The information was heaped on me in an unsolicited manner, much like the overcaffeniated people selling timeshares who make it difficult to go anywhere these days, including even Dairy Queen.
I was eight years old, and the messenger of darkness was an older woman – a nine year old by the name of Natalie Something. (I’m omitting her last name not to protect her, but because I don’t remember it. It’s not important.) I was enjoying a sunny afternoon outdoors at my then after-school program (it’s no longer my after-school program), when this harbinger of evil skipped over to me with a grin on her face.
She asked me the seemingly innocent question, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Not knowing the devastation she planned to deliver, I happily obliged by answering, “I have one brother.”
Barely able to control her giggles, she informed me, “That means your parents had sex twice.”
She skipped away, giggling even more furiously than when she approached, leaving me shocked and confused. Not to mention a little nauseous.
I don’t remember how it was that I knew about sex, or how much of the particulars I knew (like why people participated), but I did know about it because I was shaken by the revelation. I didn’t have to ask what sex was, just why God would allow such a thing to be true. Perhaps I saw something on TV after staying up past my bed time, or maybe I heard someone’s older brother talk about it. However I learned of it, I never gave it much thought until Natalie’s brief biology lesson.
In my mind, I probably thought sex was just something done by actors, and even then only because they were getting paid to do it. If anyone in real life actually did it, it was only those people who lived on the fringes of society – belly dancers, lion tamers, New Yorkers. These types of people.
If a subject wasn’t talked about on The Dukes of Hazard, I didn’t care. For all I knew, Daisy wore those skimpy shorts because they were the only pair she had. Looking back on it, that’s true. No one on that show ever changed their clothes. Ever! I know they were poor, but if they could afford enough gas to drive 100 mph all over the state of Georgia, surely Uncle Jesse could afford to go down to the thrift store for ONE new shirt.
I’m getting off topic.
At any rate, as I watched Natalie ask the same question of each of her peers, subsequently destroying the will of the other kids on the playground, I dismissed the notion that my parents secretly put her up to it. My memory is fuzzy after this. Before completely blacking out, I think I ran inside hoping no one would see me and start to think about what my parents had been up to. I was also grateful that I wasn’t the kid in my class who had five brothers and sisters.
(At this point I should mention that three years earlier, a different girl told me Santa Claus isn’t real. If it had been the same girl, you could argue that I grew up around a child with a particular mean streak. However, the fact that two completely unconnected little girls delivered these pieces of information speaks volumes about the female population. Somehow I’m not gay.)
Despite Natalie’s efforts to crush my fragile soul, I eventually grew into a reasonably well-adjusted adult (insert your own joke here). Nevertheless, I can assure you that my son won’t learn about the birds and the bees, or even hear the term ‘sex,’ until he’s 27. And my daughter won’t learn of it until she’s 45. Why the discrepancy in their ages? Well… because that’s just the way it is. I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m the dad, I make the decisions.
And I’m confident that I’ll have as much control over the situation as my parents had when I first learned the facts.
Yikes.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Cue the Scary Fish Music
There are only a few great television traditions to look forward to each year: the Super Bowl, A Christmas Story on Dec. 24, Duke losing in the NCAA tournament and Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.
During Shark Week, the Discovery Channel runs programming devoted to sharks in some form or another (as they did again recently). Whether it’s stories about world record-setting catches, documentaries about the history of sharks, interviews with people who have been attacked, or the network’s regular shows adopting a shark theme for the week, the programs never fail to entertain.
A lot of times on these shows, people will intentionally get in harm's way for the sake of our viewing pleasure by jumping into shark-infested waters and begging the animals to attack them. I often wonder what these people’s health insurance premiums are like, or if they lie to insurance companies about what they do for a living and just hope none of the adjusters see them on TV. That’s probably a safe bet because I imagine a lot of insurance adjusters only watch Sean Hannity or historical accounts of Native Americans getting robbed of their land and stripped of all their natural resources.
Anyway, Shark Week programming also strikes fear into its viewers by offering evidence that, at the point of birth, most sharks are roughly the size of a subway car. On top of that, during the first week of its life, a baby shark is taught by its mother to crawl on land and hunt down small children as they stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Shark Week even provides some comic relief because there’s always at least one documentary which says humans are more of a threat to sharks than they are to us. Yet these documentaries never show footage of a surfer emerging from the water, arms raised in victory, with a dorsal fin hanging from his mouth.
I know, I know, every year thousands of sharks are poached by hunters, but by and large the practice is limited to the eastern hemisphere of the globe. Not that that makes it right, I just personally don’t know anyone who’s ever had shark fin soup or has the complete set of a Great White’s upper and lower jaw mounted on their wall.
When I hear that we’re more dangerous to them than vice-versa, I don’t think about the reality of sharks being hunted, I instead think about the fantasy of a person wrestling a shark. It’s what we as American males do. We like to picture two creatures – human, animal or a mix of both – and imagine which one would win in a fight.
If you're factoring in strategy, sharks have multiple rows of teeth, and each tooth has a column of serrated “mini teeth” running vertically along its side. They clamp down on their prey, then whip their head back and forth, effectively sawing into their victim. My money’s on the shark.
I think we all went to high school with a guy who we thought had teeth like this (someone who probably repeated the 10th grade a number of times), only to learn he simply suffered from a severe lack of oral hygiene rather than being the product of some evolutionary man-fish crossbreeding. Whatever the cause, that guy was always in a lot of fights and he always won. It’s mother nature’s way – if you have shark teeth, you are winning most fights. You may not climb the corporate ladder, but that’s an issue for another day.
What was my point? Oh yeah, Shark Week is cool. And don’t get in a fight with a guy who has rows of teeth.
During Shark Week, the Discovery Channel runs programming devoted to sharks in some form or another (as they did again recently). Whether it’s stories about world record-setting catches, documentaries about the history of sharks, interviews with people who have been attacked, or the network’s regular shows adopting a shark theme for the week, the programs never fail to entertain.
A lot of times on these shows, people will intentionally get in harm's way for the sake of our viewing pleasure by jumping into shark-infested waters and begging the animals to attack them. I often wonder what these people’s health insurance premiums are like, or if they lie to insurance companies about what they do for a living and just hope none of the adjusters see them on TV. That’s probably a safe bet because I imagine a lot of insurance adjusters only watch Sean Hannity or historical accounts of Native Americans getting robbed of their land and stripped of all their natural resources.
Anyway, Shark Week programming also strikes fear into its viewers by offering evidence that, at the point of birth, most sharks are roughly the size of a subway car. On top of that, during the first week of its life, a baby shark is taught by its mother to crawl on land and hunt down small children as they stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Shark Week even provides some comic relief because there’s always at least one documentary which says humans are more of a threat to sharks than they are to us. Yet these documentaries never show footage of a surfer emerging from the water, arms raised in victory, with a dorsal fin hanging from his mouth.
I know, I know, every year thousands of sharks are poached by hunters, but by and large the practice is limited to the eastern hemisphere of the globe. Not that that makes it right, I just personally don’t know anyone who’s ever had shark fin soup or has the complete set of a Great White’s upper and lower jaw mounted on their wall.
When I hear that we’re more dangerous to them than vice-versa, I don’t think about the reality of sharks being hunted, I instead think about the fantasy of a person wrestling a shark. It’s what we as American males do. We like to picture two creatures – human, animal or a mix of both – and imagine which one would win in a fight.
If you're factoring in strategy, sharks have multiple rows of teeth, and each tooth has a column of serrated “mini teeth” running vertically along its side. They clamp down on their prey, then whip their head back and forth, effectively sawing into their victim. My money’s on the shark.
I think we all went to high school with a guy who we thought had teeth like this (someone who probably repeated the 10th grade a number of times), only to learn he simply suffered from a severe lack of oral hygiene rather than being the product of some evolutionary man-fish crossbreeding. Whatever the cause, that guy was always in a lot of fights and he always won. It’s mother nature’s way – if you have shark teeth, you are winning most fights. You may not climb the corporate ladder, but that’s an issue for another day.
What was my point? Oh yeah, Shark Week is cool. And don’t get in a fight with a guy who has rows of teeth.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
To even the most casual observer, baseball's outlook has probably looked bleak for some time. Dwindling World Series ratings and sliding participation rates among growing minority populations in the U.S., particularly among African-Americans, are a fairly good indication. Then there's Major League Baseball's performance-enhancing quagmire, which, despite current drug testing, continues to haunt the league thanks to its past demons.
Meanwhile, the popularity of many other professional leagues and their athletes is on the rise.
The NBA has enjoyed rising Finals viewership over the last few years, a return to the global mountaintop after the U.S. won gold in the 2008 Olympics, and soaring popularity for a number of its stars. The league has also kept itself at the forefront of fans' minds during its off-season the last two years, due to numerous star-player trades and the tantalizing 2010 free agency market. (Comparatively, baseball's biggest off-season story this year involved its highest paid player breaking off his marriage to date octogenarian pop stars and admitting he tested positive for a banned substance in 2003.)
The PGA's top two money makers on and off the course last year, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, were also the top two money makers in all of sports (Sports Illustrated, July 6, 2009 issue). They're so marketable that Mickelson made almost as much in endorsements ($46.6 million) as the top endorsement earners in baseball, football and basketball combined ($49.5 million). And Woods is so far ahead of the pack that he earned nearly double that of Mickelson.
Men's tennis celebrated Roger Federer's record-breaking 15th Grand Slam title last month, surpassing Pete Sampras, but the question of which one of them has stirred up less controversy during their careers is still up for debate. During their dominance of the sport over the last two decades, Federer's and Sampras' likability quotients have rarely been disputed.
Even the NHL has its playoff beards and the coolest trophy in all of sports.
Then, of course, there's football - the undisputed titan of American fandom. Every year the Super Bowl earns the highest ratings of anything on television, no matter which two teams compete in the event. In the NFL, the product is so good, the action so packed, and the athletes so stellar that nary anything they do off the field can diminish our passion for their feats on it – not steroid use, dog fighting convictions or DUI manslaughter charges. For years, baseball has been America's past time in name only.
So what is baseball’s allure in the face of rising competition and its own continuing controversies? What does baseball have that no other sport does?
Well, for one, its music. Or rather, its song.
That in-game hymn that’s shared by every major, minor and independent-league team, college and university, little league and pee-wee squad alike. At no other organized sporting event, at least inside the U.S., will you hear everyone in attendance simultaneously break into song no matter where their allegiances lie. No other game has a tune devoted to that very thing – the game.
The next closest thing, likely, is college football, where fans often serenade one another with the home team’s fight song. But if there’s just one fan in attendance cheering for the other school, you’re not getting so much as a hum out of that person. Plus, should you venture to a different campus the following week, you’re not likely to hear that song repeated. Nor would you want to. They’re meant to unite the fans of a team in creating one more stitch in the blanket that is home-field advantage.
And yet, when the seventh inning of a baseball game arrives, something feels right about the entire stadium gleefully singing the same number, no matter who the majority is rooting for or how many runs back they might be. If anything, even when the game seems out of reach, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” can serve as a welcome relief.
Nowhere is this more evident than in Wrigleyville. Fans fill the stands day after day, year after year, and no matter how bad the contest, or the season, is going for the Cubs, they all stand and belt out the melody. Oftentimes, it’s at the urging of a celebrity or local pro athlete who is leaning out the broadcast booth with a microphone in tow. Not that the organization needs them; instead it’s usually viewed as an honor to lead the rendition. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s tough to find a more captive audience.
But boisterous versions of the song are heard in hundreds of ballparks in and out of the country. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is universally known; sung by baseball fans before they’re old enough to distinguish right field from left. It’s believed that the song is so popular that for decades everyone sang it at the beginning of each MLB game, and that the ritual eventually moved to the middle of the seventh inning to accommodate L.A. Dodger fans who were just arriving to the stadium.
Even a book dedicated to the history of the song (Baseball’s Greatest Hit: The Story of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”) came out in 2008 to help commemorate the tune’s 100th anniversary.
Through constant change – integration, relocations, expansion, stadium lights, the designated hitter, artificial turf, the extinction of artificial turf, the wild card and interleague play – it’s been a staple, giving fans (pardon the pun) something to sing about no matter what the circumstances. The notion that the sport continues to draw major interest because of an in-game diddy is not the most ridiculous theory you’ve ever heard. Let’s face it, it’s not because of the beer prices.
Whatever the reason, it does continue to draw major interest. The current recession aside, attendance figures through the end of 2008, Major League Baseball is happy to tell you, suggest that the sport’s performance-enhancing drug controversy is not enough to keep fans away. Many view this as proof that the media are the only ones who care if the players use steroids or other banned substances.
Don’t be fooled. Fans care. They’ve always cared.
As a show of protest we could all stop attending games, stop watching the broadcasts, stop buying the merchandise, and subsequently force sponsorship dollars to dry up. But even given the economic downturn, that’s a lot to ask. Especially when, presumably while clean thanks to current effective drug testing, there’s a guy in St. Louis slugging his way through history. Or when there’s a hitter in Minnesota flirting with .400. Or when Kansas City is excited about one of its pitchers for the first time since Bret Saberhagen. Or when a member of the White Sox just achieved perfection.
Take away all this drama and the fans still wouldn’t stay at home.
There’s just too much singing to do.
Meanwhile, the popularity of many other professional leagues and their athletes is on the rise.
The NBA has enjoyed rising Finals viewership over the last few years, a return to the global mountaintop after the U.S. won gold in the 2008 Olympics, and soaring popularity for a number of its stars. The league has also kept itself at the forefront of fans' minds during its off-season the last two years, due to numerous star-player trades and the tantalizing 2010 free agency market. (Comparatively, baseball's biggest off-season story this year involved its highest paid player breaking off his marriage to date octogenarian pop stars and admitting he tested positive for a banned substance in 2003.)
The PGA's top two money makers on and off the course last year, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, were also the top two money makers in all of sports (Sports Illustrated, July 6, 2009 issue). They're so marketable that Mickelson made almost as much in endorsements ($46.6 million) as the top endorsement earners in baseball, football and basketball combined ($49.5 million). And Woods is so far ahead of the pack that he earned nearly double that of Mickelson.
Men's tennis celebrated Roger Federer's record-breaking 15th Grand Slam title last month, surpassing Pete Sampras, but the question of which one of them has stirred up less controversy during their careers is still up for debate. During their dominance of the sport over the last two decades, Federer's and Sampras' likability quotients have rarely been disputed.
Even the NHL has its playoff beards and the coolest trophy in all of sports.
Then, of course, there's football - the undisputed titan of American fandom. Every year the Super Bowl earns the highest ratings of anything on television, no matter which two teams compete in the event. In the NFL, the product is so good, the action so packed, and the athletes so stellar that nary anything they do off the field can diminish our passion for their feats on it – not steroid use, dog fighting convictions or DUI manslaughter charges. For years, baseball has been America's past time in name only.
So what is baseball’s allure in the face of rising competition and its own continuing controversies? What does baseball have that no other sport does?
Well, for one, its music. Or rather, its song.
That in-game hymn that’s shared by every major, minor and independent-league team, college and university, little league and pee-wee squad alike. At no other organized sporting event, at least inside the U.S., will you hear everyone in attendance simultaneously break into song no matter where their allegiances lie. No other game has a tune devoted to that very thing – the game.
The next closest thing, likely, is college football, where fans often serenade one another with the home team’s fight song. But if there’s just one fan in attendance cheering for the other school, you’re not getting so much as a hum out of that person. Plus, should you venture to a different campus the following week, you’re not likely to hear that song repeated. Nor would you want to. They’re meant to unite the fans of a team in creating one more stitch in the blanket that is home-field advantage.
And yet, when the seventh inning of a baseball game arrives, something feels right about the entire stadium gleefully singing the same number, no matter who the majority is rooting for or how many runs back they might be. If anything, even when the game seems out of reach, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” can serve as a welcome relief.
Nowhere is this more evident than in Wrigleyville. Fans fill the stands day after day, year after year, and no matter how bad the contest, or the season, is going for the Cubs, they all stand and belt out the melody. Oftentimes, it’s at the urging of a celebrity or local pro athlete who is leaning out the broadcast booth with a microphone in tow. Not that the organization needs them; instead it’s usually viewed as an honor to lead the rendition. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s tough to find a more captive audience.
But boisterous versions of the song are heard in hundreds of ballparks in and out of the country. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is universally known; sung by baseball fans before they’re old enough to distinguish right field from left. It’s believed that the song is so popular that for decades everyone sang it at the beginning of each MLB game, and that the ritual eventually moved to the middle of the seventh inning to accommodate L.A. Dodger fans who were just arriving to the stadium.
Even a book dedicated to the history of the song (Baseball’s Greatest Hit: The Story of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”) came out in 2008 to help commemorate the tune’s 100th anniversary.
Through constant change – integration, relocations, expansion, stadium lights, the designated hitter, artificial turf, the extinction of artificial turf, the wild card and interleague play – it’s been a staple, giving fans (pardon the pun) something to sing about no matter what the circumstances. The notion that the sport continues to draw major interest because of an in-game diddy is not the most ridiculous theory you’ve ever heard. Let’s face it, it’s not because of the beer prices.
Whatever the reason, it does continue to draw major interest. The current recession aside, attendance figures through the end of 2008, Major League Baseball is happy to tell you, suggest that the sport’s performance-enhancing drug controversy is not enough to keep fans away. Many view this as proof that the media are the only ones who care if the players use steroids or other banned substances.
Don’t be fooled. Fans care. They’ve always cared.
As a show of protest we could all stop attending games, stop watching the broadcasts, stop buying the merchandise, and subsequently force sponsorship dollars to dry up. But even given the economic downturn, that’s a lot to ask. Especially when, presumably while clean thanks to current effective drug testing, there’s a guy in St. Louis slugging his way through history. Or when there’s a hitter in Minnesota flirting with .400. Or when Kansas City is excited about one of its pitchers for the first time since Bret Saberhagen. Or when a member of the White Sox just achieved perfection.
Take away all this drama and the fans still wouldn’t stay at home.
There’s just too much singing to do.
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