Legend In My Spare Time

Guilty Pleasures

2012-02-06T21:48:00.008-05:00

We all have them. And I got mine.

Now sure. Some of a more prurient nature that I won’t get into here, and please, keep yours to yourself too (unless I am part of them). But we all have those things we do that, deep down, we are not really proud of, as we feel if they were found out it would somehow lessen how people view us.

Well, I am getting too old to care about such fronts. I yam what I yam. And here are a few of my guilty pleasures that may make you view me differently. I’m ready for the fallout.

Cici’s Pizza

Being half Italian, I may get disowned for this. Some of my more distant ancestors would likely give me a Youngstown Tuneup over the revelation that I occasionally frequent a place where their ‘Italian food’ as about as Italian as French Fries are French.

Sue me.

I subscribe to the theory that pizza is like sex - when it's good it's very good, and when it's bad...it's still pretty good.

C’mon $5.99 for all the pizza, pasta, salad, breadsticks I can eat? So what if it’s pimply teenagers making the pies instead of Mario? And so what if it’s not authentic? It tastes pretty good and there’s plenty of it. Look, there’s a half zillion pizza joints in this town, and if I wanna go plunk down twenty bucks so some sweaty Vito makes me a triple meat authentic pie I can. And I do. But more often than not I cruise over to Cici’s for a nice thirty minutes of shoving as many types of kind of okay pizzas as I can into my mouth.

And the coup de grace with Cici's is two words:

Dessert pizza.

I rest my case.

Techno Music

This is definitely going to get me branded as a hypocrite, given the tomes of stories I have written about rock music, what bands rock and which ones are lame-o-matic. I have certainly set myself up for criticism as I have painted myself as a Rock Snob.

Well, I am. When it comes to rock I like to think I have high standards and a discernment over what has integrity/talent and what sucks canal water.

Fortunately Techno isn’t Rock. It’s my diversion from it. And yes, I know it is a manufactured sound, something concocted in a studio replete with over-dubs, drum tracks and synthesizers. Something that cannot be duplicated on stage, but only on a computer.

But I loves me some FatBoy Slim. And Crystal Method.

Sorry.

Celebrity Apprentice

Donald Trump is a major assbag. A tool of the highest degree. But for some reason I get a vicarious kick out of watching celebrities chuck each other under the tires in the boardroom, trying to permanently attach their lips to The Donald’s backside. I don’t give a damn about the first 90 minutes of the show, but I must tune in to see if Dionne Warwick or Gary Busey goes sideways. The last half hour is must-see trash TV.

Plus Ivanka is smoking hot.

Wal Mart Socks

Actually, lemme alter that. Wal Mart undergarments. No wait – stuff from Wal Mart.

Seems like whenever I go to Wal Mart I check out with a typical Wal Mart slate of purchases: Fruit of the Loom underwear, orange juice, motor oil, an Alumina-wallet, some crappy DVD from the three-dollar bin, plums, Q-tips.

And socks. I don’t know who George is, but he makes good socks. Three pair for 8 bucks. Unless they got the price slash thing going on, when I can score three pair for 6 bucks. I’m talking argyle, reinforced heel and toe, office attire sock that I gladly wear under my $300 suit for special work occasions, like preventing unemployment or sucking up to the boss.

If he only knew.

But then again, now he does.

Overrated

2012-01-29T13:11:00.014-05:00

I guess I am obligated, based on recent stories; to address the category of most overrated rock bands. To recap, I exhorted on who I thought was the greatest rock band ever (The Who), which begat a story on the most underrated bands. Both of those stories were positive feel-goods, at least from my end, as I attempted to show why all the above were deserving of far more respect than they earned.

Now it’s time to flip the script.

Rock is littered with bands that achieved far beyond their talent. To be clear, I am not talking about one hit wonders here – those bands got their requisite fifteen minutes of fame then faded as they should have. Nothing overrated about the Starland Vocal Band or Bubble Puppy. They had their hit, had their time on the charts then went back to wherever they belonged…which was, not annoying us anymore.

No, I am talking about bands, some of them legendary, as the list will reveal, that in my mind fluked their way to fame. Bands that, if you dissect their work, even minimally, reveal a sham. Now, there is a common thread among the bands on this list, and that is excellent timing. Some appeared at the most opportune time and took advantage of a sentiment or a mood. Hey, cool. But do not ever confuse opportunity with talent. Cuz these bands, quite frankly, did not have much.

So here we go. I got my Hater Hat firmly planted on my head. And with a Ringo Starr (most overrated drummer) drum roll, I give you, first, the runners-up of Most Overrated Rock Bands in history:

Boston

This band roared onto the scene in the mid-70’s with a rich, deep, hard rock groove featuring double-lead guitars and the somewhat soulful voice of Brad Delp. They dominated FM radio airplay and their debut album went multi-zillion platinum. “I close my eyyyyyyes and I slip awayyyyyy….’ Then the double-leads kicked in. Infectious, soaring guitars.

Then we found out it was all manufactured in a studio. Tom Scholz was an MIT grad in Engineering who took basic guitar riffs and processed them through various electronic gadgetry, mixed it, mixed it again, then for good measure mixed it one more time before deciding it was a sound worth making money off of.

That first album had fans screaming for more. It took a couple of years for Sholz to 'manufacture' another album, Don’t Look Back, in 1978, that sounded, well, exactly like the first one. But since the debut was so good (supposedly), fans ate up the second one. They wanted more. It took eight years before they got Third Stage, which sounded, you guessed it, like the first two. The bloom was clearly off this rose. Three albums in twelve years were enough to show this wasn’t a band.

It was a science project.

The Sex Pistols

Here was a band that was the beneficiary of outrageously good timing. Coming out of Britain in 1977, they cashed in on a growing unrest among the masses due to a recession and a general distaste for the royalty over there. So they did a lot of heroin, screamed loudly, and hated everything. They didn’t do songs, they did primal rants. Zero musical value. Johnny Rotten (what an appropriate surname, even if it was concocted) couldn’t sing, Sid Vicious couldn’t play guitar, and the rest of the hacks were equally horrible.

“I-I-I am an Anarchist-ah!”

No, you suck. And it is an absolute travesty that they are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

KISS

Y’all knew this was coming, didn’t ya? I have never been a fan of KISS, but hey, at least take comfort in knowing there is a band that I think is even more overrated than them.

But first, my case for having them here:

To be fair, KISS is a great party band. They had some anthemic songs that to this day will get people out shaking their asses. And further, they put on one hell of a show. The KISS Army is a loyal, devoted bunch.

But musically, they’re kindergarteners. Know how most rock songs are three power chords? KISS couldn’t handle three, so they reduced it to two. Really, none of them are decent musicians, as witnessed by their laughable ‘Individual’ albums of the late 70’s. Okay Ace Frehley scored a semi-hit with New York Groove, but you would think that, with four albums consisting of a combined 40-plus songs…if they were any good, there would be at least a half dozen memorable tunes there, right?

There wasn’t. Because there’s very little talent. And they also had the annoying pretense of thinking they were better than they really were. Amazing what makeup and costumes can do, eh?

And Gene Simmons is the biggest douchebag on the planet.

And now…I give you the Most Overrated Band in Rock History:

The Grateful Dead

Oh my. I can already feel the backlash. The DEAD?!? How could you?

Here’s how.

First off, TWO drummers? WHY? Look, I have listened to the Dead’s music and I have divined nothing within it so intricate that it requires two percussionists. They basically play the same damn thing anyway. My guess is one of them was their dope connection so they felt obligated.

Their musical library. Quick – name a Dead hit. I’ll give you Touch of Grey and Casey Jones. Name another one. Okay, Truckin'. This band was around for forty-plus years and nobody can tell me what was so wondrously memorable about their songs. That’s probably because their legion of followers were as drug-addled as they were.

But the real reason is, they didn’t do songs. They did impromptu jams. And that’s the defense their fans give for their supposed greatness – it wasn’t about spitting out airplay hits, it was about their concert aura, how a Dead show was the most spiritually uplifting, five-hour tie-dyed party on the planet (I am still trying to figure out which planet they are referring to). So they just went wherever the feeling (and the dope) took them. And yes, I know, the Deadheads will say that’s what made them great, and why they followed the band on their tours. No two shows were the same – in Memphis they may do a 20-minute version of I Need a Miracle, and the next night in Nashville they may extend it to 30 minutes.

What-freakin-ever.

The thing is, even those extended, boring jams were lousy. They were of high-school garage band level talent-wise. What, Jerry Garcia dropped some killer blotter acid so he thought he was suddenly Jimi Hendrix? He wasn't. Bob Weir could sing, but when they went off-script, which they consistently did since they never had a script, it just sounded like a muddled mishmash of guys trying not to overdose while performing. Having been hatched in the San Francisco Summer of Love of 1967, they caught the imagination of the times and turned it into forty years of crappy musicianship. They were the epitome of the now-tired cliché - the more you drink, the better we sound.

So there you go. Four bands that each member of should wake up each morning thanking their lucky stars that they were able to get over on the rest of the world and make a fortune being lousy.

But knowing the Sex Pistols, they’re likely just to give us the finger.

What’s Your Sign?

2012-01-26T21:12:00.001-05:00

Every now and then, when I am in the middle of a, say, work conversation on a technical matter, I will preface a statement with “Well, the Virgo in me wants to know…”

The reason I do this is, according to the day I was born, I am supposed to be cerebral, pragmatic and inquisitive. I am also supposed to be anal retentive, critical, and generally a pain to be around. I would make a good accountant but a lousy chef. I am able to balance budgets but cannot get more creative than adding two plus two. Virgos are meticulous perfectionists. Supposedly.

Guess I better straighten up around here then in case the Zodiac Police drop by.

Look, I don’t want to poo-poo astrology, but the, ahem, Virgo in me has a hard time believing that your personality is predicated on what day you were born on. And further, that every single person on the planet that was born between August 23 and September 22 has the same traits. And if you were to go with the Chinese zodiac, they go by years (Happy Year of the Dragon, y’all). So in their system everyone born in a specific year have the same traits. So everyone born this year, 2012, will be like this:

The key to the Dragon personality is that Dragons are the free spirits of the Zodiac. Conformation is a Dragon's curse. Rules and regulations are made for other people. Restrictions blow out the creative spark that is ready to flame into life. Dragons must be free and uninhibited. The Dragon is a beautiful creature, colorful and flamboyant. An extroverted bundle of energy, gifted and utterly irrepressible, everything Dragons do is on a grand scale - big ideas, ornate gestures, extreme ambitions. However, this behavior is natural and isn't meant for show. Because they are confident, fearless in the face of challenge, they are almost inevitably successful.

Sounds like we’re gonna have a glut of porn stars in about 20 years.

I was born in the Year of the Dog. So maybe if we mix the traits of a Virgo with the traits of the Dog, we can get a bit more specific. Yeah, that may work, since now we’re talking about September 1958, 1970, 1982 and 2004:

Dogs can be a bit overwhelming, due in part to their attentive natures. They can march in and take control of a situation, even when it doesn’t involve them directly. This can lead people to think Dogs are nosy or gossipy, but in reality, he just means well. Money and status don’t matter to the Dog. He is more concerned with the welfare of his family and friends and will do whatever it takes to help them out of a tight squeeze or a rough spot.

Hmmm….so the Virgo says I am critical…but the Dog says I am concerned for the welfare of others. Yeah, okay – I am concerned over your inability to know bullshit when you see it.

Did I mention that Virgos are also known for their sarcasm?

I don’t believe in this astrology stuff. But I have to admit that it is interesting, and I find many things I don’t believe in interesting. Like the Tea Party. But I digress. I readily admit that talking about personality traits tied to astrological signs is great party conversation. It even has a certain fascination, as we tend to assess our personalities against what the zodiac says they should be. Invariably we find similarities that could make one conclude hey, there may be something to this. I find this happens when they talk about the ‘positive’ traits of their sign, but as soon as the negative traits are listed, they tend to go Oh no. That’s not me.

So people get what they want out of it. Hey, I’m down. Whatever works. But please – to let it run your life or plan your day? "Oh I can’t take Aunt Harriett to the store today…my eighth moon in the fifth phase of the third house says I’m gonna wrap my Prius around a tree.”

That’s a bit obsessive. Sounds like you were born in September.

Further, the signs say whom we are supposedly compatible with. Hey, many people believe that their mate must have a compatible sign lest the marriage degenerate into a miniature hell on earth. In my case, being a Dog, I am supposed to avoid Dragons. So all you 12-year olds are safe out there. But you 24, 36 and 48-year olds, watch out. We are supposedly oil and water.

Dang. And there’s some hot 24-year olds I would like to get to know.

But alas, I can’t. Not because I am old enough to be your father (shut up), but because your Dragon will devour my Dog. Which actually sounds kinda hot.

But I digress again.

Anyway, if you want to believe in this stuff, who am I to say you shouldn’t. It’s my nature to be skeptical. After all, according to the stars I am a vain, cold, unemotional automaton who falls asleep while making love. Virgos are supposed to make good bus drivers or pimps.

So don’t get on my bad side.

Year of the Buzzard

2012-01-25T13:54:00.018-05:00

I see that, according to the Chinese New Year, this is the year of the Dragon. Nice. And, of course, just like the traditional zodiac, everyone who is born this year will all have the exact same personality traits.

But that’s now what I want to talk about.

I was driving down I-4 this morning listening to the only FM station that plays rock in this town, and my mind drifted back to when I was coming of age in northeast Ohio in the late 1970s. Yep, I started doing a ‘back in my day’ rant in my head, and the crux if it was how little of ‘my’ music is on the radio these days.

Getting older? Sure. But nowadays it is more about ipods and playlists and downloads and Pandora and satellite radio that customizes each person’s songs to their personal liking. Hey, technology is a wonderful thing. Digitized music shrunk down to a device the size of a credit card that can store thousands of songs. Slip it in your shirt pocket, plug in the Skullcandy and you’re good to go. Consequently, traditional FM just ain’t what it used to be. It has become the poor-man’s playlist.

This was not the case in 1978.

Back then, FM radio was the shit.

Not only because of the music (which was a huge part of it) but because that was our only true vehicle for song delivery. Oh sure, we had eight-track tapes, but any good upstanding red blooded slacker-in-training in northeast Ohio listened to one station, and one station only - WMMS 100.7. The Buzzard. The station said those call letters stood for 'Where Music Means Something'. We always said it meant 'Weed Makes Me Smile'.

The 'Buzzard' moniker predated a lot of markets that imitated WMMS by calling their station ‘The Ape of Cincinnati’ or ‘The Wolf of Kansas City’ or whatever. The Buzzard was it. They won Rolling Stone’s FM Radio of the Year award nine years straight, and for many of us late-teens with raging hormones in the greater Cleveland area, it was our mantra. The Buzzard told us what to do. Whether it was Jeff & Flash on the morning drive, Denny Sanders mid-days, Kid Leo on evening drive or the BLF Bash late nights, they summoned, we obeyed.

Kid Leo signed off at 6pm, but on Friday nights he would end a bit earlier, so that we could be treated to Murray Saul telling us that we "GOTTA GOTTA GOTTA GOTTTAGGOTTAGOTTAGOTTA GET DOWWWWN DAMMIT!" which seque'd into the same three songs - Friday on My Mind, Cleveland Rocks, and Born to Run.

BLF Bash would play Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain (the full 20-minute version) every Saturday night at midnight while he likely banged some hot groupie in the studio…or so we imagined.

WMMS was our Facebook. It was our social network that told us where to be, who to be with, and what events that were not to be missed. In 1978, to celebrate their tenth anniversary on the air, the held a free - FREE - concert featuring none other than Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band. For the months preceding it, they copiously gave away free tickets to this show, held at the Cleveland Agora, and each time they announced that the twentieth caller would win I would dial (rotary-dial phone) like mad to score those tickets. Alas, I couldn’t. But that was okay, because they broadcasted it live.

I attended college in the mornings and worked at a grocery store in the afternoons. I was in the Produce department where most of my time was spent trimming heads of lettuce, wrapping packages of plums and smoking weed out back…or in the cooler. Being out of the customer area of the store provided me the opportunity to jam out to WMMS, every day, from 3pm to 9pm. Then I would get in my 1978 Camaro Z-28, pick up a 12-pack of Genesee Cream Ale, and me and my cohorts would do whatever criminal misdemeanors we had planned that night…while listening to WMMS. It was a time of relative innocence and freedom - of That One Summer where everything was shimmeringly bright - we were old enough to get down, but young enough not to have mortgages, babies or bills.

WMMS always had the first announcement of any concert dates, and I can recall one in particular - Led Zeppelin. Their 1980 tour. WMMS announced the tour dates at the Richfield Coliseum (which has since been torn down) and how to get tickets. Due to the expected onslaught of demand for such a high-profile show, they had a special arrangement that required getting a money order and mailing it in. The day they gave out the instructions I ran down to the post office to get that money order. Yes, back in those days that’s where you got money orders. The instructions were very explicit - tickets were $30 apiece (Thirty bucks!) plus a $1.50 handling charge, so $31.50 each. I drove like a bat out of hell (Meat Loaf) to the post office ready to hand them $63.00 for my money order then straight to the mailbox.

Standing in front of me was this very cute blonde who was trying to explain to the middle-aged teller what she was trying to do - ‘Uh, they told me I have to, uh, get a $30 plus a dollar fifty, I think, money order for…’

I jumped in. I said “She's going to see Zeppelin! She heard it on WMMS! She needs a $31.50 money order! And a $63 money order for me! ZEPPELIN!!!! WOOO HOOOO!!!!”

Yeah, I tapped that.

Sadly, that tour got cancelled when John Bonhan, Zeppelin’s drummer, died of asphyxiation. He drowned in his own vomit after binge drinking. So I never got the tickets.

Looking back, that event was the beginning of the end for WMMS, and for that phase of my life. Less than a year later, I graduated from Kent State and moved away from the Cleveland area. I became an adult.

Now it's over 30 years later. I'm a middle-aged, responsible father with a mortgage and a mundane job. As I drive down I-4 towards downtown Orlando heading to work, I have WJRR blasting through the box. And I hear that Red Hot Chili Peppers are coming to the Amway Center, tickets going on sale next week.

And I think, I hope Anthony Kiedes doesn’t overdose before the show.

Most Underrated in Rock

2012-01-21T09:56:00.019-05:00

Earlier this month I wrote a story on who I thought was the greatest band ever. The Who. Kind of surprisingly, a number of people agreed with me. I was waiting for the Led Zep legion to come out and hang me. Seems the consensus, based on my extremely small focus group of 12 followers, is that not only are The Who the best ever, but that Who’s Next was one of, if not the, greatest rock albums of all time.

Well, that’s a subject of another debate. This time I want to delve into the topic of most underrated band. The only one ground rule I had in this highly subjective competition was, it had to be someone people have heard of, so you can’t say ‘My cousin’s kick-ass garage band.’ These have to be bands that people would at least say, oh yeah…I remember them.

With that kick-off, I give you the three bands that I think truly never got the recognition they deserved. First, some Honorable Mentions:

The Spin Doctors - Awesome debut album with a quirky fun pop sound, then pfffft. What the heck happened?
Montrose - You're Rock Candy Baby...you're hot sweet and sticky. Sammy Hagar's first band.
Chicago - Never inducted in the R&R HOF, which is a glaring oversight
Midnight Oil - Most relevant Australian Band (Sorry AC/DC)
Cake - Best band you've probably never heard of

Now, I give you the three runners-up, in no particular order:

The Kinks

Okay. Everyone has heard of The Kinks. Many would even go so far as to say, “UNDERRATED? Cmon Jer…they got their due.”

I respectfully disagree.

Sure, they had longevity. Sure, they had hits – Lola, Sunday Afternoon, Come Dancing, Superman, and they even get re-relevantized every holiday season with Father Christmas (give us your money…we got no time for your silly toys…).

But my rationale for including them in this ‘Most Underrated’ category is, they gave us the best guitar riff in rock. And like most memorable rock riffs, it was simple and powerful. Five notes –

Da DADA Duh Da…Da DADA Duh Da…

Girl, you really got me now. You got me so I don’t know what I’m doing.

I just gave you an earworm and you’re tapping your feet now aren’t ya?

I rest my case.

Thin Lizzy

Trust me, this band was a lot more than 'The Boys Are Back In Town'. Led by one of the most charismatic frontmen in rock, a black-Irishman, Phil Lynott, this band had attitude. And they delivered that attitude with a tight, clean sound that had you simultaneously dancing your ass off and sticking your middle finger in the air in rebellion. Their songs were also the works of professionals of their respective crafts, that, when melded together, told wonderful tales of life in the streets, mysticism...and cowboys.

Yes, cowboys. This is my favorite TL tune -

Sadly, their career was short-lived thus never getting the true accolades they deserved. But for a period of time, from 1975 through 1980, nobody was better. And Phil was taken from us too soon, dying in 1986 at the age of 36.

Humble Pie

Wow. What a band. They were a power punch to the solar plexus courtesy of a driving blues beat punctuated by the one-of-a-kind voice of Steve Marriott. Steve was absolutely amazing. There was no voice like his – a soaring, snarling, soulful much-larger-than-his-body where-in the hell-did-that-come-from sound of absolute joy. Nobody put more of himself or herself into a song than Steve did. Thirty Days In the Hole, Stone Cold Fever. And, of course, he didn’t need no doctor –

But it wasn’t just Steve. That band also featured a guitarist that went on the have a decent career. Guy by the name of Peter Frampton.

But the winner of The Most Underrated Band in Rock History Is…

The Dave Clark Five

The DC5 was part of the British Invasion of the mid-1960’s (that coincidentally also brought us The Who and The Kinks). From 1964 through 1968 they traded top of the chart hits with The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, churning out hit after hit – Glad All Over, Catch Us If You Can, Because, Do You Love Me, Bits And Pieces…to name just a few.

They captured the tone of that era perfectly – that mid-60’s pop sound. They were The Beatles with more ‘party’ to them – they were innovative, being the first rock band to have a saxophone player. And if you were having a party, they were the band you wanted in the house. They also introduced the concept of ‘over-modulation’ to producing, later mimicked by Phil Spector and his Wall Of Sound. That sort of almost too-loud, make the speakers shake distortion that had you reaching to turn down the volume, making you think that it’s your phonograph player with it’s crappy speakers doing the deed.

Nope, that was just the DC5 doing their thing. And doing it very well.

What also made the DC5 beautiful was their simple message - let's have fun. There were no social statements to their music, no hidden lyrics that could only be discerned by playing the song backwards, no hidden agendas. They didn't try to make us think - they wanted us happy. Their message was this: We are gonna have a party, and we are gonna make sure every ass is shaking on the dance floor. Joy. Pure joy. Certainly what we needed as a country in the wake of the Kennedy assassination and the deepening of the Vietnam War. The world was bleak and sorrow filled the air...until the DC5 re-injected some much-needed and cathartic joy.

Their career was rather short-lived, as the psychedelic sound of the late-60’s made most people turn away from that pop sound of a few years earlier. Sadly for DC5, they weren’t some bubblegum band that should have been discarded. They were legendary, and those songs still hold up. If you disagree, give a looksee at the following, or as Dave said, WATCH ME NOW!” -

Tell me you aren’t gonna play that song at your next frat party.

They were (finally) inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2008, about twenty years too late, which, in my opinion, cemented their status as most underrated. It took the world far too long to catch on. Tell 'em Tom -

Better late than never, for the most underrated band in rock history.

Pop Tarts and Hurricanes

2012-01-19T21:35:00.003-05:00

I bought a house in 2003, in the nice Florida town of Port St. Lucie. A modest 3/2/2, 1600 square foot slice of suburbia. It was built from scratch and I moved in on December 17, 2003.

Nine months later, in September 2004, I was directly hit by two hurricanes. Frances and Jeanne.

Bitches.

I had never been through a hurricane before, and then – double wham – Frances, a Cat 2, hits on September 4, and exactly three weeks later, Jeanne, a Cat 3 followed the identical path. The eyes of both passed right over my nine-month-old house, as I stayed inside scared out of my wits armed with candles and a loaded shotgun. See, I had heard that after Hurricane Andrew hit Miami in 1992, that there was widespread looting. Well by God, nobody was gonna loot my house!

There was the first lesson. Nobody robs houses during a hurricane, dumbass. They do it afterwards, when the power’s out and the police are busy with other things…and if you live in Miami.

So the loaded shotgun was kinda unnecessary.

The days following the hurricanes were really crazy. You don’t realize how much you depend on electricity until you don’t have it. And I’m not talking about the obvious stuff like for air conditioning or cooking food. It affects everything. For example, gas stations. After the hurricanes passed, gas stations had plenty of fuel in their underground tanks, but you couldn’t get it…because it takes electricity to pump the gas into your car. Street signals don’t work, so each intersection was like a miniature demolition derby where playing chicken was the norm. The radio said to ‘treat each intersection like a four-way stop’ – yeah okay. Tell Earnhart Junior that as he tears through it at 60mph.

Life gets very boring without electricity. No television, no internet. You better have good batteries in your radio because that’s your only connection to the outside world. Which in retrospect, was not that big a deal, since all you are going to hear are 24/7 reports about intersections without working signals.

It is amazing how quickly our mightly country degenerates when there's no electricity. You kind of get glimpses of what Haiti must be like during these times. As we got to our third and fourth day of no power, people started getting desperate. And pretty ripe, from four days of no bathing (which is, by the way, why you are supposed to fill your bathroom tub with water prior to the hurricane coming). Reports of FPL repair trucks, and rumors of where they are restoring power, become the dominant conversation. Hand-made signs at intersections, directing the power trucks to specific locales with the promise of lemonade, food...or other basics needs (use your imagination) were constructed. "FPL...WE ARE ON ELM STREET...FREE BUDWEISERS!" You know how in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, women flash for beads? They were flashing for electricity after the hurricanes here.

Which brings up another phenomena that occurred in the wake of the storms. The electric dance. Not to be confused with the electric slide. Or the atomic dog. No, this was a spontaneous celebration of individuals when the power finally came back on. In my instance, it was a late afternoon as I was lying in my recliner with all the windows open, trying to get my house down to a comfortable 87 degrees. It was Day Five after Frances. I had my eyes closed, trying to force another break from harsh reality, when suddenly, I heard a 'whirr...POP' sound outside. Then there was a flicker of my lights...then off...then...ON! My cable box fired up, my a/c kicked on and my fridge started humming. Power! Overcome with relief, I took to the streets - "WE HAVE POWER!!! POWER I SAY!!! MWAAAAAHHHH HAHAHAHA.....!!!!" And proceeded to do a dance that confirmed my permanent whiteness:

The Electric Dance.

Eating obviously becomes a challenge. To this end, you are advised to stock up on non-perishable foods. MREs – Meals Ready To Eat – were distributed. And that’s another lesson learned. If you see a line of people anywhere, stand in it. Because it meant they were giving out something – ice, bottled water, new fenders…whatever. Get in that line.

You got nothing better to do anyway.

But back to food. Here in Florida, they advise residents to have a ‘hurricane kit’ at the ready, stocked with batteries, first aid kit…and non-perishable food items. I had one. It was stocked with Pringles potato chips, Planters nuts, and pop tarts.

Pop tarts. I had never in my life ever eaten a raw pop tart. They have to be heated in the toaster don’t you know – gotta kill all those preservatives. Well let me tell you – I ate so many GodDAMN unheated pop tarts in those days after Frances and Jeanne that whenever I see them now in the grocery store my mind immediately flashes back to those days after those hurricanes. I cannot even stomach to look at them, much less consume them. Even heated.

The plus side of the Hurricane Season From Hell of 2004 experience was my neighborhood grew closer. My next-door neighbors fired up their charcoal grill and cooked up food for everyone. And everyone brought their meats from their without-electricity refrigerators to cook up before they spoiled. We had a grand time.

But eventually thing got back to normal. Power was restored, and we got back to our lives.

Then Hurricane Wilma hit in 2005.

And I didn’t eat a single damn pop tart.

The Kids Are All Right

2012-01-15T18:56:00.000-05:00

I was just sitting here thinking about my largest source of pride. My son Nick. He is a great kid. Does well in school, is polite, never embarrasses himself or me.

Which got me thinking – is he a typical teenager?

I mean, I am, of course, biased. I’m his dad for crying out loud, and if he weren’t a good kid I would likely still insist he was. But he truly is a good kid. He lives with his mom, and as such I do not have daily contact with him, so I don’t know if he’s sneeking behind the water tower at school and copping a few puffs or bullying the neighborhood kids. So I ask his mom if he’s getting in any kind of trouble. Her reply: ‘Oh heavens no.’ If anything, Nick keeps to himself too much and should socialize more. But as far as warning flags as he morphs into an adult, they’re not there. Not yet, at least.

And to find out what a ‘typical teenager’ is I ask my friends and co-workers about their kids. Time and again, I hear few problems. Oh sure, there are cases of recalcitrance or worse, but it seems like the next generation is, by and large, doing okay.

Whew.

Rewind back to when I was a teenager. Rebellion was the buzzword. What we did was defined very easily – whatever pissed off our parents. Back then the social construct heavily touted was the Generation Gap – the gulf of values and beliefs that existed between our parents and us. And honestly, looking back on those days, I feel ashamed. My dad was a World War II veteran who worked two jobs to put a roof over our heads and food in our snarky, disrespectful stomachs. My mom also worked, and she thanklessly and selflessly gave of herself for me and my three siblings’ betterment. And their reward was attitude from all four of us. Or worse.

Good thing abortion was illegal back in the 50’s.

There were monumental gulfs on politics, music, damn near everything between my parent’s generation and ours. Rock and roll was here to stay, and Frank Sinatra was an old fogey. We questioned political leaders while our parents respectfully obeyed them. We protested, they conformed. We opened our mouths, they kept theirs closed. We were considered disrespectful anarchists, to be shoved into a corner and a lid placed on.

So okay. Back to today. Now we are the parents. Ohh boy. Payback time, right?

Doesn’t appear so.

My son loves classic rock, the same music I grew up with. He disagrees with me on some things, but agrees on many. And the ones he does disagree with me on, we can have a discussion about with total mutual respect and without shouting or slammed doors. I honestly cannot tell you the last time I had to raise my voice to him. And he interacts with other adults in a respectful manner. Further, his peers seem to be the same way…if how they interact with me on Facebook is any indication. Gawd, this was nothing like how my dad and I interacted when I was 17.

So does this mean we’re producing a bunch of clones? No. What I think it means is we have raised a generation of kids that ‘get it’ insofar as what we have tried to impart on them. They are free-thinkers, but they seem to, more or less, embrace the same values we did. There’s no perceived Generation Gap, at least as far as I can see.

What does this mean for our future? Not ours, in terms of our generation, but in terms of how the next generation will deal with the world. Well, I think it means they will be cooperative, collaborative, and a bit cynical.

Just like we were with everyone.

Except our parents.

What’s Your Zen?

2012-01-15T15:51:00.002-05:00

The world is crazy. Daily grinds can, well, grind you down. We all need an escape, an oasis where we can shut out the madness and calm our minds. Something that is positive, calming, rejuvenating.

So jumping out of airplanes doesn’t count.

I’m not talking about what we do for a rush or for excitement, but rather, what we do to just get away without burning vacation days or spending a couple thou on a cruise. So you can’t say ‘I hop a plane to Bali.’ No you don’t. Hopefully you have a regular activity that’s easy to access. I have one.

I hit chip shots.

I know. I live life on the edge. What can I say.

But that’s my point. This doesn’t have to be some kind of elaborate or costly thing. It just has to be your personal little getaway place. Well, mine is Saturday and Sunday mornings for about an hour or so at Casselberry Golf Club’s practice green where I put on my earphones, throw the iTunes on shuffle, dump my bag of shag balls, and zone in. Two bags of shots, 100 balls each. First bag is usually nice high flop pitches and the second are low running shots.

The world stops. And that’s the key to this activity. I think of nothing other than soft hands through impact, back of right hand to target, and keep the blade square. There are no thoughts of what bills to pay or how I want to throttle the Finance Director at work. Just club on ball, trying to make those shots land softly and roll out to the little flag on the green.

And I sing whatever is playing in my ears. This morning, the playlist featured the following:

So Watcha Want, Beastie Boys

What I Really Want, Alanis Morrisette

Weapon Of Choice, Fatboy Slim

Stormy Monday, Allman Brothers

End Of The World Party, Medeski, Martin & Wood

All I Wanna Do, Sheryl Crowe

Everything Is Broken, Bob Dylan

Backwater, Meat Puppets

Caress Me Down, Sublime

And yes, at times I get looks from other players as I sing ‘Mucho gusto me llamo Bradley-ah…I’m hornier than Ron Jeremy-ah…’

Like I care. It’s my own little impenetrable bubble.

I believe this is the key to sanity. Like that line about ‘dance like nobody’s watching’…? That’s how I practice. It is just me out there.

I now do yoga, which ranks second on the list of zen activities, but I am still learning how to do that, so I’m not at the ‘just let it flow’ level, as I am still trying not to vomit during downward dog. But I’ll get there.

So for now it’s me and my balls.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

The Genesis of Dweebness

2012-01-13T20:42:00.009-05:00

How does one become a geek? Is one born that way? Or is it more of a learned habit, of finding activities that one enjoys only to realize that they are judged as being the domain of societal misfits?

The answer, is, yes.

See, coolness is learned. But I believe we are all born geeks. I mean, how does a newborn know what cool is? They obviously don’t. What – did 3-month-old Fonzie shun his teddy bear diaper for a black leather one? No. The Fonz was in the same clueless pool of unknowing formula-suckers as the rest of us.

But somewhere along the way, the cool kids got something. Not a memo, but they just somehow became attuned to what others perceived as cool, and emulated it. God bless these perceptive people, as I was too busy wrapping my toy soldiers with paper from my mom’s adding machine as she cranked out numbers as an accountant. While The Fonz was out practicing how to impart a nuclear wedgie to the local sap geek, I was hiding from him – under my mom’s kitchen table, giving my plastic army men an armor coating of paper. Fonz was coolness in training. I was oblivious of what the world thought of, well, anything.

So we learn one thing that geeks have in common. Loneliness. Or more accurately, contentment in being alone. That was me. I was not a social kid. The majority of fun I had as a kid was in activities concocted in my mind, and executed without the assist of anyone. As a result, I was creative and kind of smart. And alone.

Cool kids are neither creative nor kind of smart. Or alone.

What cool kids are, is popular. That requires social contact. They thrive in social settings. My brother was very cool. So was my sister. Not surprisingly, they had – and still do have – lots of friends. They have PhD’s in popularity. They have always had an innate sense of what to say in a particular situation and it always came out…cool. They got the laughs. So did I, but never intentionally. Cool kids get people to laugh with them. Geeks get laughed at. Which just makes us wrap our plastic toy soldiers with more adding machine tape.

See, those toy soldiers don’t laugh back.

This sounds like a sad tale, and it is not necessarily so. It is just a matter of Darwinian selection. Everyone can’t be cool. If everyone were, then nothing would be cool. Cool is a special, ubiquitous quality that certain people just get. And Lord, there were many times I wished I could get splashed with what my siblings had, like a Holy Water of Coolness. I wanted to be able to saunter up to cute girls like I saw my brother do countless times, drop a couple of syllables, and have them walk off with me like they did with him. When I would try that, I would stand there slack-jawed, my brain erased of any thought, and oftentimes I would just drool or blurt out some kind of inane, insane comment about how nice the weather was…when it was ten below zero out. Consequently, the girl would laugh at me, then turn and walk away…and pass along to her friends that I was mentally retarded.

I didn’t have the gift. The Cool Gods didn’t lay their hands on me. And I never learned it under the kitchen table with all those toy soldiers and all that adding machine tape.

Dweebs are over-achievers. Cool kids are usually under-achievers. This stands to reason, since the cool kids got the respect just by being in that groove they were in – there was no motivation to achieve when the world was already eating out of their hand. This helps to explain, at least in my own case, why I got two college degrees and bristle at any perceived hint of rejection. Us dweebs try to construct a coat of respect, since we can never be just accepted…or so we think. Those formative years of being chased after school, de-pants'd in the playground, and being given held-down wet willies have permanently etched scars in our psyche.

Cool kids don’t have to go to therapy. They are very happy in a world that revels in their appearance. Geeks keep psychiatrists in business. Don’t believe me? How much you wanna bet that Freud was writing in his tablet, as the poor sap was on the couch, “Major four-alarm GEEK’…?

Okay, maybe not.

Because that’s another construct of geeks. The combination of isolation, societal awkwardness and too smart for our own good equates to major neuroses. We don’t see the world as it is, but rather, as the dangers to our fragile psyches that it can be. As I mentioned, we do not feel accepted…even when we really are. If a girlfriend says something like ‘I’m going to run to the store for some milk’ we hear, ‘She’s leaving me for good.’ We are a handful for anyone close to us. We feel misunderstood. We need constant reassurance that we are good enough. The vicious cycle in completed when the girlfriend leaves and we are left alone, clueless as to why she thought suggesting the Marvel Comics convention as a Saturday night activity was a bad idea.

Oh well. This is my lot. We are all – or most of us – constructs of our formative years. For many it takes a lifetime to overcome these experiences, if ever at all. In my case it is a constant cycle of gaffes and inner searches for why I do and act like I do. Why do I over-exert? Why do I try to be right? Why do I think someone will be impressed that I know the last 50 U.S. Open golf champions, when what is actually happening is they just want me to shut up?

Move over, I need a seat on Freud’s couch.

I have some experience in 12-step recovery programs. Want to find out where all the adult geeks are? They are at these meetings. One thing I have learned from my time in these gatherings is, we all share a common trait – we did not feel accepted; we felt like we never fit in.

Bingo.

Note that I didn’t say we didn’t fit in – I said we felt like we didn’t fit in. Chances are pretty good we were fitting in quite nicely, and that we were being accepted just perfectly. But we just could not believe it. You were all lying. I know you think I’m a societal leper. I want to get away from this. I want to get away from you. I want to go crawl into…a bottle of tequila.

Because tequila doesn’t laugh at you either.

And tequila also had the added benefit of…making me cool! Two shots and I was funny. Three and I am charming. Unfortunately, after the fifth I was vomiting. So there was a small window of opportunity for me to feel comfortable with you before I was doing technicolor yawns in the Men’s room. It was a delicate dance, and one that I could never seem to do correctly. But, it was in these recovery meetings that I found kindred spirits. People that felt just like I did. And acted out just like I did. And most importantly, showed me how to overcome these feeling of inadequacy and live a contented, serene life.

And I can also tell you this – I never heard anyone in these meetings say ‘I was the popular kid.’

Innocently Ignorant

2012-01-11T14:56:00.006-05:00

We all know the phrase ‘innocence of a child’, and how imaginative the world seemed when we perceived things through our untainted-by-the-real-world prism. And I find it cathartic to look back to these days when not only were things simpler, but they were also just plain illogical. This is believing in Santa Claus kind of stuff.

I had two huge misconceptions about how the world was, and in both cases it truly crushed me when I found out how things really were.

The first had to do with radio. Those that grew up in the Akron area in the late 1960s knew of WHLO 640 AM radio. With BIG Tim Phillips in the morning. Big Tim would play the top-40 hits on a tight rotation, and I would listen to The Archies playing Sugar Sugar, then a commercial break, then Donovan would sing Mellow Yellow. I was fascinated by this.

Because you see, in my mind, I thought the bands were actually in Big Tim’s studio playing the songs live. Never dawned on me that he was spinning records. My mind saw The Archies walking in, and when Big Tim announced, “Annnnd here’s The Archies with their smash hit Sugar Sugar….” That was the cue for Archie and Reggie to start singing. Accompanied by Betty and Veronica on tambourines, of course. I wanted to rush down to the WHLO studios, cuz of course I had a crush on Betty. And then they would quickly leave the studio while Donovan waltzed it, set up and crooned Mellow Yellow! And they did this all between a commercial break for Rick Case Honda! Amazing!

Alas, the bubble burst when my older brother informed me one day, “Hey Nimrod. He’s playing records.”

That harsh reality required about six months of frying ants with a magnifying glass as a coping mechanism.

My next shocking wakeup to how the world worked had to do with the American Golf Classic. This was a staple of ABC Sports every Saturday afternoon during the winter months, where, in a given week, Julius Boros would be pitted against Ken Venturi with the winner advancing to face the winner of last week’s Johnny Pott v Bert Yancey matchup. These matches were played at the famed Firestone Country Club in Akron, my hometown. And every Saturday, from December through March, there would be two new golfers playing Firestone in sunny weather, in short sleeves on a course a green as Ireland itself.

Meanwhile, I am looking outside at two feet of snow.

My mind could not comprehend the concept of videotape. It never dawned on me that the matches were recorded last summer for playback during winter months. NO! These pros were playing Firestone RIGHT NOW! I mean, I’m watching them!

So I concluded the following. I lived in Cuyahoga Falls, which is just north of Akron. Firestone was south of Akron. So in my mind there was a magical ‘line of weather’ that existed somewhere between my living room and Firestone, a distance of about 20 miles, where weather magically transformed from ten degrees and three feet of snow to sunny and 80 degrees. It made total sense to me, because it fit the juxtaposition of snow outside and sunshine on TV.

I informed my dad of this.

I told my dad that I wanted to go to Firestone Country Club TODAY. Being an adult, and my dad (translation: he thought kids were nuts), he said to me, “Son, you’re a kid. You’re nuts.” But no I’m not dad! LOOK! Orville Moody just made a birdie on the 16th hole! See the water tower? It’s Firestone! And it’s sunny and warm! LET’S GO!

My dad, in his usual manner when faced with these sorts of mindfucks I concocted, did his usual routine with me. He pulled out a Winston, lit it, took a couple of long drags, and proceeded to tell me that this was all make-believe.

NO IT’S NOT DAD!!! LOOK! MOODY JUST BEAT COODY!

My dad then laughed, realizing my child innocence. So he took me there. Firestone had the same three feet of snow on the ground that we had in Cuyahoga Falls.

So now it was totally obvious to me what happened.

They got a snow storm right after Orville putted out on 18.

Good thing they got that round in.

Best. Ever.

2012-01-08T09:49:00.003-05:00

A friend of mine, a fellow Browns fan who is an entertainment writer for the Jacksonville Times, recently wrote the following article –

http://jacksonville.com/entertainment/music/2012-01-06/story/best-live-albums-70s

Interesting.

Certainly, determining the ‘best of’ anything is a dicey proposition to be subjected to much debate. It’s based on opinion, maybe a survey to get a feel for what a group of people think, whatever. And at the end of the day you take a stand, then take the criticism as it comes and defend your choices.

Well here’s my criticism. How in the hell do you not include The Who Live At Leeds?

In my opinion, Leeds was the greatest rock band at their absolute prime kicking it out without accompaniment – it was just Keith, John, Roger & Pete leaving it all out there. They ripped though their hits (at the time) of Magic Bus, Substitute, My Generation, along with insane covers of Young Man Blues and Summertime Blues. And for good measure, after an intermission they came back and did a 45-minute rendition of Tommy. With no orchestral backup. Four men with their instruments, period.

Being a child of rock, I was influenced heavily by whatever the flavor du jour was in the genre. At one time I thought Blue Oyster Cult was the shit. There was my brief infatuation with Cheap Trick until I realized that their so-called ‘talent’ was, indeed, a cheap trick. The classic bands like Led Zeppelin & The Rolling Stones certainly left huge indentations into my consciousness. The Beatles deserved their place in immortality. As I morphed into an adult, I concluded that Zeppelin was the best rock band ever. Many of my contemporaries agreed.

My brother, who was/is a musician, would shake his head at me. He’d tell me to research Zep’s music and see where it came from – it was a rehash – or straight out pilfering – of the black man’s blues. Boogie With Stu ripped off Ooh My Head by Ritchie Valens. Not much of what Led Zep was original. He then would tell me, you want original? Try The Who.

The Who was part of the second wave of the British Invasion. After The Beatles and Stones came over, The Who came over with The Kinks and Dave Clark Five in the mid-60s. They did their share of pop-tinged music to garner airplay, but there was this depth and attitude…not to mention a propensity to destroy their instruments on-stage. They were punks before there was punk.

For that matter, they were trendsetters in virtually everything they did. They had the audacity to merge the words ‘Rock’ and ‘Opera’ together by giving us Tommy and later, Quadrophenia. Synthesizers? Listen to Who’s Next – perhaps the greatest rock album of all time. Right out of the gate we get synth’d with the opening to Baba O’Reilly. Staying with that album, name me a better line than ‘If I swallow anything evil, put your fingers down my throat’ from Behind Blue Eyes. Other just fantastic cuts like Getting In Tune and Song Is Over enrich the 48-minute experience before they coda the album with the anthemic Won’t Get Fooled Again, which weaved in the synthesizers, a Keith Moon drum solo, Pete’s scissor kicks and bunny hops and Roger’s microphone spinning into a nine-minute climactic cacophony of cynical rebellion. I will always smile and grin at the change all around before I get on my knees and pray that we won’t get fooled again.

They showed their longevity by pumping out music that demanded your attention. One of my favorites is a somewhat obscure mid-70’s song off The Who By Numbers titled Slip Kid, which featured the following lyrics -

Keep away old man, you won't fool me
You and your history won't rule me
You might have been a fighter, but admit you failed
I'm not affected by your blackmail
You won't blackmail me

Right before Keith’s death in 1978 they put out Who Are You, and with that album, their immortality was solidified. My fave cut off that disc is Trick Of The Light, which describes a young man’s affection with a prostitute – ‘Did a shadow of emotion cross your face or was it just another trick of the light?’

After Keith's death they soldiered on, staying relevant with songs like Eminence Front in the early 80's, but they lost their heart and soul without Keith. They got a new drummer in Kenney Jones, who was very good, but he was no Keith Moon.

What made The Who so great? Well, it goes back to Keith. They were an ‘inside-out’ band. Most bands had the drummer keep the beat, as a person whose duties were nothing more than making sure the rest of the members had a metronome to synch to. Not The Who. Keith Moon didn’t keep a beat – that was John Entwistle’s job as bassist. Keith played ‘Lead Drums’ – listen to The Who’s songs and pay attention to that machine-gun splatter into background, and sometimes in the foreground, of Keith’s drumming. He was all over the place, yet always right there. No other band had this dynamic, which made The Who unique.

Pete didn’t so much ‘play’ a guitar as he attacked it. He played angry, and the object of his derision seemed to be that instrument slung around his neck. He treated guitars like an abusive husband treated a cowering, frightened wife. – ‘Do what I say bitch or you’re gonna get it’ – and she ended up ‘getting it’ anyway as the guitar, after its job was done, would get rewarded by having its neck impaled into a Marshall amp. Pete was saying ‘you are here to do my bidding and when I am done so are you.’

And Roger. Name me a better voice in rock.

The Who was a collection of extremely talented; one of a kind musicians that, when put together quintupled the sum of their parts. They were one of a kind innovators, who weren’t ‘one of’ the best bands in rock.

They were the best. Ever.

Vote For Me

2012-01-03T14:59:00.001-05:00

With the flip of the calendar to 2012, fasten your seat belts, as politics are going to take center stage for pretty much the entire year. And with it will come the familiar drone of Democrat versus Republican ideals, and how each feels the other is ruining the country. News flash - they are collectively ruining the country, as they cannot coexist because they are so hell-bent on discrediting the other. Our politics used to be about possibilities. Now it’s just about being not as bad as the other guy.

How inspiring.

In this sprit, or lack thereof, nobody asked me (surprise there), but if I were to run for office, which I would never do, here is how I would address the salient issues facing our great country:

The Deficit: The main problem on this debate is each side is only proffering half of the solution. Republicans say we must only cut our way out of it, Democrats say we must raise taxes to get out of it. They’re both half right, and if you put their half solutions together, you get the entire solution - remove redundancies and waste, and raise taxes, on an interim basis. Just as the Bush tax cuts were supposed to be temporary with a sunset at the end of 2010, enact tax increases with the same seven-year sunset. Target the wealthy with the largest (if not all) of the hit. Those that can most afford it should bear most of the burden. The rich aren’t ‘Job Creators’ - they’re rich. Because they keep their money. That's how you become rich, by keeping what you got. With seven years of increased revenues, the deficit will be reduced…if not totally eliminated. And the rich will have to suffer by having one less Beemer in their four-car garage.

Defense Spending: The two largest expenditures of our government are entitlement programs and defense spending. I’ll get to entitlement spending shortly. But let’s talk about defense spending. We have the largest, best trained, armed-to-the-teeth military on the planet. We have enough weapons of mass destruction to blow the earth to bits a thousand times over. We clearly are the baddest mofos in the block. So if we are to target redundancies, here’s where to start. Just to throw out a number - if our armed forces were cut by, let’s say, a third, that would not equate to being weakened by a third. We would still be the baddest mofos on the block by a long margin.

A great way to effectuate savings would be closing unneeded military bases around the globe. Is there any real reason to still have soldiers stationed in Germany, twenty years after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the crumbling of the Soviet Union? Look, I believe in defending this country from attack. But someone has to explain to me how a base in South Korea keeps that from happening. And if it's because of North Korea, I will answer that as soon as I stop laughing uncontrollably.

Entitlement Spending: Ah, the big piñata in this year’s election. Republicans would have us believe we must reign in this spending as it is bankrupting us. Well sure, if we are paying out more than taking in. Well folks, the expenditures are just going to increase significantly as Baby Boomers retire, so you better find a way to fund it, because a promise was made to them - pay into the system while you work and we will pay you back when you retire. And if this means increasing taxes to pay for it, so be it. Social Security works. The money that retirees receive each month gets plowed back into the economy in the form of their living expenses being spent on food, shelter, vacations, whatever.

How to fund it? Simple. Remove the ceiling on the amount of taxable income subjected to the Social Security tax. That number right now is $109,000. Remove it completely. Those fortunate enough to be pulling in $300k a year, right now, are only paying Social Security tax on a third of their income. There is nothing fair about that, especially when you consider that those making $300k a year are still eligible for Social Security when they retire. Now, I do not want to speak for everyone that pulls in a mid-six-figure salary, but I am willing to wager they will not need the Social Security stipend in their golden years. Wonderful. Others will need it, and your success will help pay for it. Greater good.

Now. For those that want to do away with Social Security, fine. Then all I ask for is a return of all my contributions - with interest - I have made into the fund since I began working. I will invest it myself.

Social Issues:

Abortion: It is legal. Period. Your moral stance on it is irrelevant. And for those that want to make it illegal, realize two things. One, women will still have abortions regardless of the law. Two, by making it illegal you will be creating hundreds of thousands of criminals - those women who will get abortions. How much jail time should they serve? And…how are you going to fund the construction of those prisons to put these scared women in? And once they serve their time, how are you going help put their lives back together that you have destroyed by making them convicted felons?

Marijuana: Legalize it, tax the shit out of it. There’s another revenue source for addressing the deficit. For those that decry that it introduces drugs into our society, wake the hell up. It’s here and it’s not going away. So instead of your local dope dealer reaping the benefits, why not your local government? And, by the way, you will also need far less prisons if it was legalized. Expenses reduced.

Death Penalty: It doesn’t work so why have it? If it was an effective deterrent to murder there wouldn’t be any more murders, right? Obviously this is not the case. And state-sponsored murder is still murder. So it is a total failure from a deterrent standpoint, but boy ho boy it makes us look real tough, doesn’t it? Actually no it doesn’t. It makes us murderers too.

Religion: This is tangential to the abortion topic. I don’t care who or what you worship to. If it makes you a better person, great. It will not make you a better politician or Senator or President. It is well past time to truly separate church from state and inject some common sense into who we choose to represent us. If God makes you make better decisions, wonderful. I would rather have someone who can rely on their experience and acumen to make good decisions. Can you picture a CEO of a Fortune 500 company kneeling and praying before the Board of Directors, or further, claiming that his/her beliefs are why they should be chosen to run a multi-billion operation? It is irrelevant. As it should be in politics.

Drug Testing: There is one group that has been conspicuously absent from having to pee in a cup. Lawmakers. While they are quick to enact laws to make others offload their dignity (like welfare recipients), they have never subjected themselves to the delight of taking a whizz while someone watches. It's time to change this. All state and national elected officials should be subject to random drug screens (if you want your mayor to join in the fun, pass a local law). First offense is counseling and treatment. Second offense is resigning your position.

So, with that slate of positions I am extremely confident I don’t have a snowball in hell’s chance of getting elected.

See where common sense gets you?

The Year That Was

2011-12-29T14:01:00.013-05:00

So 2011 is coming to a close, and the Year of the Mayan Prediction of The End of The World sits waiting. As is typical for this time of year, we tend to look back and review the year that was on a global level.

But this is my blog, so I am going to get personal.

2011 was an interesting year. I fell in love. I got my golf game back. I got my life back. I learned more deeply what makes me tick. I lost a childhood friend. I gained some new friends. I embarked on a new activity that I had never done before. I went to Memphis. I rekindled a childhood friendship. I went through a roller-coaster of issues at work.

In all, a typical year.

Love Comes Calling - In the Spring I fell in love with a lady that actually fell for me first. Imagine that. Ours was a brief, but torrid, emotion-filled experience that left both of us sated and exhausted. What started as what we viewed as divine fate bringing us together ended three months later with stark realizations of basic differences that, unfortunately, could not be reconciled.

Love Comes Calling Part Deux - In the Summer I met a much younger woman, 25 years younger than me in fact, that, again, seemed interested in me. Hey, as much as I like to think that I could actually be attractive to a woman in her 20’s, rationale says, uh no, dude. Until she reminded me that mutual attraction knows no age limits. We had a wonderful four months together that ended when, again, stark realizations set in. Here was a women blossoming and unfolding, wanting a family, and dating a guy that only has one more year of child support to pay. I could father her children, but only if was willing to delay my retirement for about ten years. I wasn't.

My Real Love Returns - Before there were any significant others in my life, I fell in love. I was six years old. And the object of my affections was a game. Golf. When 2011 started my golf game was in shambles, as I had played maybe a half dozen times in the previous two years. You have to know this about me - I am a golfer. It is in my DNA. And when I do not play for extended periods of time I get depressed. Conversely, when I play often I am happy. So, to connect the dots, at the beginning of 2011 I was depressed due to lack of golf. And my goal in 2011 was to be happy, ergo, play more golf.

Hey, I’m a man. We’re simple creatures.

My blog has at least five stories from this past year related to rekindling this passion. I played with former Pittsburgh Steelers. I re-connected with my dear friend from childhood, My Man Mike, and we played weekly. I practiced 2-3 times a week. And by the end of this year I got my handicap back down to a 7. Not as good as I used to be, but still not too shabby.

And I was happy again.

I'm Pretty Effed Up - About halfway though the year I re-connected with 12-step recovery meetings, and through this I discovered some ugly truths about myself. Things that most everyone else knew about me, but I was blind to. Things like arrogance, self-centeredness, selfishness and fear. But I also learned to give myself a break - the only perfect man was hung on a cross, and I'm not into having nails driven into my hands and feet. So I now know the things about me that drive people away, and it is now on me to do something about them. Like they say, the truth will set you free...but first it's gonna really piss you off.

Namaste - I took up yoga. This is a wonderful activity that blends exercise, stretching, breathing and inner peace. I met new friends, and I love my instructor. Literally. I love her. I don’t know if she knows this, and Lee, if you’re reading this story, surprise! I love you.

Goodbye John - An old friend from my childhood died, Johnny Allen. Age 52, of cancer. John was an odd kid, as was I, which made us pretty close - the two geeks on the block. John’s death was a real wake-up call that we could be taken at any moment, for any reason. Rest well, John.

Work Is A Four-Letter Word - My job is very demanding. Unfortunately, often that demanding-ness gets piled atop with unreasonable, unrealistic and sometimes moronic tasks, simply because someone had what they considered a spark of creativity. When the truth is, they were proposing things that didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of succeeding. This happened often this year, and it really reinforced the old adage, God grant me the serenity…you know the rest. I cannot control these people. I only have two choices - accept them, or find another place to work. One or the other will occur in 2012.

So as this year fades to a close and 2012 stands waiting in the wings, I take the lessons of 2011 along with me, which are three simple words - live, love laugh. Especially laugh.

Because I used to be disgusted. Now I try to be amused.

Happy New Year everyone.

YoGolf

2011-12-25T16:09:00.000-05:00

So it’s Christmas Day in Orlando. With no family in the area and no significant other to spend time with, I was faced with a dilemma – what do I do with myself all day?

This is what golf was made for.

I just got back from walking 11 holes at Winter Park Country Club, a delightful little track that is very walker-friendly. The course was technically closed and none of the pins were in, but that didn’t stop me – or the other two dozen or so players I saw out there.

Free golf! Merry Christmas to me.

Anyway. I hadn’t touched a club in about a month and hadn’t played in almost two months. This usually means a sloppy round where I swing too hard, and am too stiff to really play well. It would usually take 5 or 6 holes just to loosen up, let alone commanding my body to execute the shot my mind has envisioned.

Ah, but there has been something I’ve been doing for the past couple of months that I was curious in seeing if it would help my game. Yoga.

I have done about eight sessions of yoga, every Monday night, and I love it. Aside from the obvious benefits of stretching and gentle exercise, it has taught me some things I did not expect. Things like breathing. Don’t laugh. Many of us do not control our breathing very well, or underestimate the power contained in that seemingly automatic physical function. Slowing your breath down, feeling it, listening to it, can greatly affect your mental state.

Yoga also teaches you how to slow down, how to move gracefully, balance, discipline, and self-love. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean self appreciation for finding time to take care of yourself.

So today was the first time I played golf as a practicing yogi and was anxious to see if there was an effect.

There was. Quite a profound one.

To begin with, that anticipated stiffness and swinging too hard? Didn’t happen. I felt quite loose actually and I didn’t seem to have that ‘kill the ball’ mentality that accompanies the first round in a month. On the first tee I hit a nice solid 3-wood down the left side about 225 yards – a shot I would have taken in the middle of the summer let alone for the first swing in a month.

I walked, which offered a great time to work on breathing. In and out through the nose, deep, full breaths. Leisurely steps. Just be. Enjoying the moment.

My golf swings felt very flowing. Sure, I hit a couple of meh shots, but they weren’t from trying to kill the ball, but instead they were just from, well being human. That’s another thing yoga has taught me – there is no right or wrong. Just do what you can and accept. No judging. I really needed this kind of attitude instilled, since I get way too critical of myself. Not in yoga – each week I stare in amazement of my beautiful instructor, Lee, as she is able to execute positions I can only dream about accomplishing, but never once have I felt pressure to emulate. Be happy with being me, and love myself for making time for me.

By the middle of the round I noticed something else. I had gained distance. On the last hole, a 260-yard slight dogleg left, I hit a perfect cut-driver that settled five yards short of the green – that’s a 255-yard CUT driver. That was Jerry from 30 years ago right there.

This is going to be a wonderful marriage of two activities. Golf and yoga. For golfers like me that are starting to age, and you are finding that the body just doesn’t respond like it did when you were 25, try yoga. I think you will be very satisfied with what it does for your game, your attitude, and your frame of mind.

Merry Christmas. Namaste.

End Of An Error

2011-12-15T10:54:00.010-05:00

So the news today on my Yahoo ticker said that Defense Secretary Leon Panetta has ‘officially’ ended the Iraq War - the longest war in American history, nine-plus years.

Thank God.

This was a war that should have never been started. And before I am taken to task for Thursday-morning Quarterbacking or for the expected ‘there goes that liberal again’, let me just state that I was never in favor of this war. I recall the run-up to it in late 2002 and early 2003, when then-President Bush was ginning up the threat by Saddam Hussein and then-Secretary of Defense Colin Powell addressing the United Nations, thinking, ‘My God they better be right.’

They weren’t. Not even in the same country (literally) as being right.

This was a war launched with dubious claims about a far-away dictator that presumably was set on attacking us. The decision was made in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, and instead of focusing our response on those responsible for those attacks, a ‘threat’ was drummed up that was really a personal vendetta. Saddam tried to kill Bush’s daddy, so he must pay. So, instead of going after al Qaeda in Afghanistan, we went after the guy Bush wanted for his own visceral pleasure. Saddam had to pay, so give me a reason to make him.

Now, disagree with that if you must, and I know many must. Usually those neoconservatives that, to this day, insist it was a justified war. The problem with that mindset is, then, what exactly were we trying to accomplish there? Because that became a moving target - first it was about WMD. When none were found it was about ousting Saddam. Well, that could have been done with one very strategically placed bullet, not an invasion. Then it became about transferring Iraq into a bastion of Democracy amid a sea of Islamic fundamentalists. Then it was about staving off the easily-predicted civil war that we instigated. Then it was about not letting Iran take control of a country that we hoovered the leaders out of. Remember Dick Cheney saying we would be greeted as liberators? How did that work out?

You can tell when someone is losing an argument when they constantly change the rationale for starting it in the first place.

Here's what was accomplished - Over 4,400 Americans killed - more than died on 9/11. Over 100,000 Iraqis dead.

And for what? Panetta said nice words today, letting the troops know that their efforts were not in vain. Well of course he would say that. The troops were and are heroes - maybe even an elevated status of hero, for they did not question, only sacrificed. So my eternal gratitude goes to those that served, and they really had no choice - they gave oaths the defend and not question decisions made by those far above them. Their sacrifice is honorable and just.

It is those that put us into that quagmire that should be scorned.

Dick Cheney. Don Rumsfeld. George Tenet. John Ashcroft. And George W. Bush. The blood is on your hands.

Look where we are today. Awash in debt since the war was unfunded (and taxes were cut). No safer than before, because, again, no WMDs were found. Weakened. Military forces strained, battle weary and fatigued. Over 30,000 troops with missing limbs or other injuries and countless more emotionally crippled - that we now must take care of for the rest of their lives.

Yet despite all that, there are some who stubbornly and reality-vacated cling to the notion that leaving Iraq now is wrong. John McCain stated yesterday that we could face “failure” in Iraq if we pull out now. Well, Senator, with all due respect to your personal sacrifices, exactly what did we “win”? What gains are in jeopardy? Iran may swoop in? Well gosh, why wasn’t that considered before we even pulled the damn trigger in the first place? And lastly, just how much longer should we stay there? A decade? A century?

I am going to reserve expanding on my thoughts here as to what should be done with those that supported this mess and still do to this day. Yes, I understand that Congress authorized war actions - at the insistence of the adminstration's claims and through incendiary 'You're with us or you're with the terrorists' rhetoric - but for those that still, to this day, think it was the right thing to do, honestly, have and should lose all authority to make any such decisions in the future.

This was a war that had no other reason than to make certain people in power feel better. Bush declared himself a 'Wartime President', as if that justified whatever other bumblings he accomplished through his tragic presidency. He will go down as the only president to start an elective war, a war that did not need to occur. We were not threatened, there was nothing in our national interest at stake, other than his misplaced and swollen pride. Worst president ever? How could he not be?

In summary, the only thing that can be said, and the only real positive statement that can be made about this vulgar and immoral mess was made by President Obama yesterday -

Welcome home.

You never should have left in the first place.

Of A Certain Age

2011-12-04T20:17:00.011-05:00

(For John. You were a good man. Rest in peace my friend.)

“It’s a shame we have to die my dear, but no one’s getting out of here alive.”

- Dave Grohl, Foo Fighters

I got some sad news today as an old friend from my childhood days died. Johnny Allen, age 52, passed away from cancer. John grew up across the street from me, and we were pretty close as kids – climbing trees, building snow forts, that kind of stuff. Little Johnny Allen. Dead. Reality check for sure.

I know I am getting older. Hell, every person on this side of the ground is. But I am now getting to the point in my life where I go, wow, I’m 53. I really should be acting my age.

Someone tell me what that is, please.

I have heard older people say ‘You’re only as young as you feel’ or ‘Age is just a number.’ True. And I don’t feel – or act – 53. Heck, some may say I am still like the 10-year old kid climbing trees with Johnny Allen and that in certain areas I need to mature. I get that, but I tend to reject those pieces of advice. Stubborn streak I guess. I want to remain childlike but not be childish. And I know I have a long way to go in both those areas. I still have the ‘wow’ amazement of a child, which I want to keep, but I also have traits that make people shake their heads and say grow the F up. Good with the bad I guess. But I have to wake up to me every day so I will try to keep to my internal gut barometer on what is or isn’t acceptable. Like I like to say – the only perfect man was hung on a cross with nails through his hands and feet.

I’ve had some recent experiences that has reinforced the fact that most of my life is now behind me. Example – I just friended someone on Facebook, a guy I see every week at the place here in Orlando where us Browns fans congregate. He’s just Shaun to me, a fellow bud. Then I noticed he was born in 1976 – the same year I graduated high school. Here’s a guy that I just think of as a fellow suffering Browns fan, and he is, but he could be my son. Wow.

Many times you see these email threads where people reminisce of what it was like when they were younger, to illustrate how much things have changed. Well, here’s my list –

I remember straight-on Kickers in the NFL.

I remember when there was an AFL.

I remember watching Nixon resign on national TV.

Our TV growing up had three stations – CBS, NBC & ABC. Period.

We listened to music on albums or on 8-track tapes.
I owned 8-track tapes.

It’s hard to believe that those experiences peg me as ‘getting old’. Oh well. On the plus side of the ledger, I am still alive, and do not look my age. And a couple months back I actually had a 27-year-old girlfriend. She was born in 1983 – when I was two years removed from college & trying to pick up, well, 27-year olds. So I got that going for me.

But boy, some days I do feel my age. My annual checkups now consist of the obligatory prostate check & colonoscopies. So I guess, for a man at least, that aging means having a doctor stick things in your ass.

Good luck finding something there. Besides my head.

But as Johnny showed, we can be snuffed out at any time. To that end, they say to live your life to the fullest. Well sure. But also, just live your life. Because, just like me, you have to wake up with yourself every day.

I hope you like what you see.

Thanks

2011-11-24T09:34:00.004-05:00

It is Thanksgiving morning, and as such the tradition – besides the ingestion of unhealthy amounts of calories – is to reflect and give thanks; to count our blessings.

Okay, I’ll play.

To start, I am just not the type to wax on about how good (or bad) things are. I have adopted a somewhat fatalistic view of things; that everything is going to unfold as it is supposed to, and blessings or lack thereof in my life are happenstance flows in the river of life. However, that does not – nor should not – stop me for taking a pause to reflect.

I am thankful for my son. I love Nick. He is turning into a fine young man, and I realize just how fortunate his mom and I are for that. His mom told me last night of a close friend of Nick’s who got a hold of a loaded gun that his mom had in their house, horsed around with it, and shot his friend in the head with it. That friend has a less than one percent chance to live, and the boy may be charged with homicide/murder. Two teenager’s lives irrevocably changed through one tragic event. It could have been Nick. I am eternally thankful it wasn’t.

I am thankful for my mom. I just called her. She is 84 now, and is suffering from dementia. Her life has been one well lived, and it is a blessing to be able to call and talk to her; to hear that calm, yet frail, reassuring voice that everything will be okay…even when it isn’t.

I am thankful for my job. It has been a trying year, as the default stress of my responsibilities has been added to in the form of unrealistic directives and personality clashes. Last month I was docked a day off without pay over trumped-up charges which were designed to wake me up. Well it did. I now slap a smile on my face, check the attitude at the door, and strive every day to give the company a return on their investment in me. And I just checked my checking account and my paycheck was deposited a day early. So despite the recent trying times, I am grateful to be gainfully employed.

I am thankful to my yoga instructor. She is a wonderful new friend that inspires and encourages me. I wish I had a hundred people like her in my life.

I am thankful for my health. Everything on the body still works.

I am thankful for my new group of friends gained though attending 12-step recovery meetings. We watch out for each other. Consider this a gratitude list.

I am thankful for the few close friends I have. Like my best friend Dawn. My day's not complete until we check in with each other. And My Man Mike - golf buddy and dear friend. Hit 'em straight Mike.

I am thankful to my siblings & nephews. We can at times be a dysfunctional bunch but there is always an undercurrent of love. Barb, Ken, Patty, Tony, Brian & Terry – I love you.

I am thankful that Jimmy Donovan is still calling the Browns games despite recovering from bone marrow surgery -

I am thankful to live in an area that allows me to pursue my favorite pastime – golf – year-round. In fact, I think I will go hit the driving range as soon as I finish this story and hit a bucket of balls before I gorge myself. I will then return to my apartment and turn on my HD television, lay on my sofa and watch football. Thank you Vizio, thank you NFL, thank you futon.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Namaste

2011-11-20T18:35:00.007-05:00

A while back I signed up for this Groupon thing, which I highly recommend (www.groupon.com). Each day some kind of deal comes to my inbox for food deals, entertainment, whatever. I especially like the golf deals.

Anyway, a couple of weeks back I got a Groupon deal for yoga classes. Now, six months ago that would have been an instant banishment to the trash folder. But this time it was different. I clicked on the deal and saw it was ten yoga sessions for $29. I was intrigued. I pondered it then thought what the hell. Let’s give it a try. It had been years since I tried anything new, and part of my latest life journey is to meditate more, slow down, and just be happy in being me.

I clicked, submitted my card number and presto – new yoga student.

Last Monday was my first session – ‘Gentle Beginner Yoga’ it was titled. The instructor, Lee, was fantastic. So upbeat, so positive. My classmates were equally ebullient. They had, as I was to find out, strong auras. The whole place has a serene feel to it – soft, warm colors, soothing music, calm, inviting.

So I grabbed my mat, shucked my shoes, and waited for the session to start. Lee comes in and in her always-positive way, got us loosened up. Here was the first indicator that this was going to be tougher than I thought – I was as tight as a banjo string. Then she started to guide us through the various classic yoga poses – downward dog, table top, cobra, cat. She emphasized the breathing – in and out through the nose. Feel your center. Open your heart. Hands to the sky.

Next came positions for balance. Stand on one leg. Simple, right? Uh, no. I was a quaking, quivering bag of unbalanced nerves and institutionalized stress and tightness. Lee was flowing through the motions with swan-like grace. I looked like an old woman trying to beat a mugger off with a purse.

Thirty minutes into this ‘Gentle Beginner’ session and I was sweating like a whore in church. If this was ‘Gentle Beginner’ I shuddered to think what ‘Rigorous Advanced’ would consist of. I was hyperventilating and shaking.

A couple of the moves I simply could not do. My body was just not ready for that type of movement. I looked at Lee and mouthed an ‘I’m sorry’ and she just smiled, then said to the class in her calming way, ‘Yoga is about you. You decide what you can do and what you can’t. You are not judged here.’

That made me smile. And relaxed.

The session ended with 15 minutes of lying on the mat while soft, chakra-tinged music played and the lights off. I smelled incense. It was lovely. About ten minutes in and I felt someone massaging my lower legs. It was Lee. It felt wonderful.

We then got up and did a final shake-off of our muscles. Lee then said that, whenever yoga masters end their sessions they put their hands together and, as an acknowledgement of the inner spirit in me honoring the inner spirit in you, we turn, bow and say, ‘Namaste’.

When it was over, Lee could not wait to ask what I thought. I said it was very positive and that I would be back. She said wonderful, and to not give up. I went back last Thursday for my second session. This one was titled ‘Hot Vinyasa Yoga’ – which was similar to Monday’s session, but with space heaters. I lasted a half hour. I could not finish the session, but I am taking Lee’s advice. I’m not quitting. I just registered for Monday night’s class. I am motivated and inspired.

My flagging but growing spirit in me is in awe of the strength of yours, Lee.

Namaste.

http://serenitynowyogacorp.com/

Left Out

2011-11-20T11:30:00.018-05:00

(For Andy - http://zipsclips.blogspot.com/2011/11/influence-silenced.html)

"I'm a lefty," Barack Obama joked as he signed official papers as U.S. President.

"Get used to it."

Our country has a long, ugly history of discrimination aimed at certain groups – blacks, immigrants, gays. Religious persecution. Haves versus have-nots. It seems like we thrive on conflict; we have to have some group to demonize to feel superior. Well, this rant is not quite to that level, but there is a group of individuals that have quietly suffered in a world not designed for them…a world that specifically tries to make their experience trying.

I am speaking about left-handers.

I am a lefty. I am not ambidextrous. There is nothing I do right-handed, save one activity which I will not mention here due to decorum. Anything done with my right hand feels awkward, unnatural. Trust me – I have tried. When I was ten years old I tried to play golf with my dad’s right-handed clubs and ended up flipping the club upside-down with the toe on the ground so I could swing lefty. That worked. Years ago my then-wife (and fellow lefty) bought me a guitar. And since I had never even tried to play a guitar before, I figured I would learn right-handed. It just never worked. The rhythm hand for a righty is the right hand and I had no rhythm in that hand – my rhythm hand was busy pressing down strings to make chords. My brain rebelled. The guitar went into the closet. I should have just done what Jimi did - flip it over and play it left-handed.

There is a school of thought that says lefties are creative due to using their right brains. Half correct. We are very creative, but it has nothing to do with which side of the brain we tap into. It has everything to do with trying to deal with a world not created with us in mind. Case in point – a manual can-opener. You hold it with your left hand and turn the crank with the right hand – it is designed for righties. Watch a lefty try to use a manual can opener and you will understand what I am talking about. You start a car by turning a key with your right hand. And this is after you open the car door from the right side.

I am passive aggressive by nature so I’ve done a couple of things just to show righties what we have to deal with. For example, my home and office computers are set up lefty, meaning that the mouse has the buttons reversed and resides to the left of the monitor. I love to watch righties struggle with it as they hit a button and get that annoying ‘What’s this?’ popup on the screen….they think something’s wrong with my computer and they will look at me. I just say ‘Left-handed’ and smile.

When I bought my house nine years ago, which I designed from scratch, I designed the kitchen to be left-handed. I am sure the ninety percent of the population that are right-handed are doing a collective ‘WTF are you talking about’ at that statement, but trust me. I thought this through. Righties don't have to.

I have renters in that house now, and I have no idea if they’re right or left-handed, but there is a part of me that hopes they’re righties and are wondering at this moment, as mom is preparing Sunday breakfast, why she seems to have to make awkward moves to get around that kitchen. Because the owner meant it to be that way. When I go through a buffet line, and if righties preceded me, the vats of food show their marks – spoon on the right, the right side of the vat empty. I scoop my food up lefty and leave the spoon on the left, marking my presence.

A task as simple as writing is even a chore for lefties. Ever wonder why many lefties have that crook in their wrists when they write? It is because our hand is going over what we just wrote. If we are using a pen, that is why you see smudged writing. That is where the crook came from – we are trying to get our hand out of the way; doing whatever we can to adapt to your world. I choose not to conform. I hold my hand like anyone else would. Deal with my smudges. If it is some kind of official document, I put a napkin under my hand.

I noticed there seems to be more lefties than there used to be. Thank goodness. I believe the statistic when I was young was that three percent of the world was lefty. Now it is up to about ten percent. And I believe that if there wasn’t religious persecution of us centuries ago (We were considered witches and burned at the stake. The Latin word for Left is Sinistra, or Sinister. The French word is Gauche, meaning clumsy or unrefined), and had teachers in the last century not forced lefties to write with their right hands and turned them into stutterers in the process, that percentage would be much higher. I would imagine it would be close to where it is supposed to me, which in theory would be half of the world.

And speaking of schools, look at a student desk. Righties get a nice extension to rest their right arm on. Lefties have to let their arm hang out with no support. Bastards.

So lefties of the world unite! Change your mouse buttons so you have to ‘left-click’ to open the menu. It is a small step but a good one to show these righties what we have to deal with. Don’t adapt - we've done that for long enough.

Solidarity, my sinister brothers and sisters.

Lobster Boy

2011-11-15T10:18:00.010-05:00

I remember when I was a teenager and the carnival came to town…I was maybe 18 at the time. Me and my girlfriend went and rode the rides, ate the carnival food and generally had a good time. Then our eyes caught a sign on the side of a tent - SEE THE AMAZING LOBSTER BOY - HALF MAN HALF LOBSTER! ONLY ONE DOLLAR!

Well, our curiosity got the best of us. I plunked down two bucks and we went inside the tent. And there sat a pitiable creature - a middle aged man who was born with a deformity. Instead of having a full set of fingers and toes, his hands and feet consisted of fused-together fingers and toes that, well, resembled a lobster. Thus the promotion. This poor man that life kicked in the teeth gave his canned speech about how he was born that way, that he is married and has three healthy kids. We were transfixed for about 30 seconds and then we had to get the hell out of there. He was, literally, a circus sideshow freak.

John Daly is the PGA Tour’s version of Lobster Boy.

Not that he was born with a deformity or had a raw deal tossed at him by life. But rather, because of what he has become on the tour. Big John burst on the golfing scene in 1991 when, as the ninth alternate, drove all night from Arkansas to Indiana to tee it up in the PGA Championship. Never having seen the course before, he relied on his caddy to give him yardages, bombed his prodigious drives past all the trouble, and ended up winning by three shots. A folk hero was born. Four years later he repeated the feat at the British Open, defeating Costantino Rocca in a playoff at, of all places, St. Andrews. Four years on the tour and he had already secured two major championships. He was a freak - far longer off the tee than anyone on the tour but also with a velvety putting stroke and solid short game. He added three other wins on tour to validate the major wins. He had talent.

But John was also a train wreck - four marriages, wrecked hotel rooms, alcoholism, domestic scuffles, suspensions from the tour, compulsive gambling, inexplicable blow-ups on the course, disqualifications, a reality show on the Golf Channel, weight issues, chain-smoking, lap-band surgery, hideous pants, hitting balls off of beer cans, hitting shots over horrified spectator's heads. Ironically, this just more endeared him to his legion of fans that saw him as the anti-establishment rebel that just grips it and rips it, finds it and rips it again. He brought the ‘Bubba Element’ to tour galleries - fans that couldn’t give a rip about whether he won…let alone compete. They just wanted to see him take out driver on every tee and bomb it. And he did. He would then shoot 77-81 and miss the cut by a mile…if he didn’t walk off the course first after purposely violating some rule or by pumping five balls into a lake.

Which is exactly what he did last week at the Australian Open. Five consecutive shots into a lake, trying to reach a par-5 in two. At last count he was hitting twelve when he decided that he could not finish, and walked off the course. He said it was because he ran out of golf balls. Well no shit if you're going Tin Cup on the twelfth hole when you know you have six more holes to play. It was a lame excuse that reflect lame behavior.

When the PGA Tour holds an event, the field of players is filled through a number of methods: Certain players are exempt, in other words, they are automatically invited, via their recent performances. This would include winners of recent tour events, the defending champion, the top 50 on the money list and so on. Then there are the ones that have to play their way in - these are called Monday Qualifiers - players that show up on Monday morning with maybe 4 slots to play for. The last group is what are called Sponsor’s Exemptions. This is a small group of freebie invitations doled out at the discretion of the sponsor of the event - they are usually used for local phenoms, maybe the head club pro at the host course. Anyone who can increase the paid attendance thus boosting the gate.

It is these Sponsor’s Exemptions that Daly lives off of. Daly last won a tour event in 2004. Once in a blue moon his name appears on the leader board, only to quickly vanish when the obligatory blowup occurs. He is not exempt from anything anymore, as he is ranked 666th in the world.

But sponsors love him. He increases the gate. He brings the Bubbas in.

In 2007 I served as a volunteer at the Ginn Sur Mer Classic in Port St. Lucie, Florida. A fringe PGA Tour event held in October, after the Tour Championship and thus after the ‘serious’ golf is done for the year. My job at that event was as a Marshal at the 16th tee - to keep the crowds quiet while a player was teeing off, and so on. The galleries were small; even the leaders couldn’t draw more than perhaps a hundred spectators. Then Daly’s group arrived. Five times the size of anyone else’s gallery. Fortified with, ahem, beverages, they whooped it up for their man…even though their man was on his way to missing the cut.

So why is this so bad? What’s wrong with letting a sponsor toss Daly an exemption so people can get excited about him being in the field?

Well, nothing, other than integrity and professionalism. Every other golfer on the planet has to earn their way into events. Every other player has to perform to maintain their exempt status. Thousands of players that were once good have seen their skills erode to the point that they can no longer compete on the PGA Tour, thus you no longer see them there. Not John. He gets a pass on his behavior and on the state of his game. He is doled out sponsors exemptions when other far more deserving players are Monday Qualifying.

His role has been marginalized down to suiting just one element - the morbidly curious. A two-time major winner, whose only redeeming value left to golf is to slake the thirst of those that cheer wrecks in NASCAR.

He is Lobster Boy.

The Republic Party

2011-11-09T13:49:00.005-05:00

This happens every time. Whenever I post a political story, I vow that it will be the last one, usually because I am able to vent my spleen and be done with it. And politics, like religion, are very polarizing subjects; subjects that people take hard stances on and these stances can erode friendships. And frankly, I value my friendships more than being right.

But dammit, there they go again.

The ‘they’ I am referring to is the Republican Party. And specifically, certain members of it that have ingrained such an abject rejection of anything not fitting their paradigm, that they do not even call the Democratic Party by its proper name - which is, the Democratic Party. Instead they have gone shorthand and now refer to it as the ‘Democrat Party.’

Really? This is how you have to get your point across, by purposely butchering the name of the opposing party?

His Rushness does this all the time - “The Democrat Party’ did this or that. And now there is a new offender - the Republican’s newest Flavor of the Month, Herman Cain. Saddled with accusations by four different women of sexual misconduct, Cain has, not surprisingly, rejected their accusations. Fair enough. He is trying to win a nomination, and the modus operandi in that environment is to deny deny deny. Make the accusers prove their case, innocent until proven guilty and all that. He is entitled to that. However, in the process of denying any wrongdoing, he, of course, has to throw in the following:

Cain said there was a "machine" trying to keep a businessman out of the White House, and said Sharon Bialek was a "troubled woman" put forward by "the Democrat machine."

http://news.yahoo.com/herman-cain-says-democrat-machine-him-200328060.html

The Democrat machine.

So in Cain’s reasoning, not only are the charges false, but they are part of an overall conspiracy by some concocted ‘machine’ and that further, said ‘machine’ is of the ‘Democrat’ variety. Never mind the fact that most believe the initial story was leaked from the Rick Perry camp, which can hardly be categorized as having anything to do with Democrats. But it is quite a machine if the results of his Texas gubernatorial elections are any indicator.

The point here is the total absence of professionalism replaced by opportunism - if something’s wrong with a candidate’s past, why, it’s the Democrats fault. Cain allegedly slid his hand up some woman’s dress and tried to force her head down to his junk - the Democrats did it! Please.

Want to know what the Democrats are doing while this all unfolds? They are patiently sitting back being entertained by the immolation of Republican candidates. Herman Cain is not even on the Democrat’s radar yet - he’s just the latest of a series of flawed candidates the Republicans have trotted out and tried to prop us as the Answer To Obama. In other words, there’s no need for the Democrats to fire up any kind of ‘machine’ against him - he hasn’t even made it out of the intramural scrum yet.

Write this down - Barack Obama will be re-elected. And the reason is the Republicans cannot get their collective act together. They are disenfranchised with Romney, they have been hijacked by the fringe elements of their (Tea) party, and as such they are trotting out each candidate on a circadian rhythm as the one who will take Obama down. This is just Cain’s month in the barrel. I predict next month it will be Huntsman’s turn. And these two already follow the implosion of Gingrich, Bachmann and Perry. Christie and Palin won’t run. So if the Republicans think “anyone” can beat Obama, then by God, get ‘Anyone’ out there and have at it. If they think Obama is such a disaster of a president, then why can’t they coalesce around one candidate and be done with it?

I will tell you why. Because they know they cannot defeat Obama. 2012 is a lost cause. The candidates know it, especially the smart ones like Christie who have chosen not to be part of the mosh pit. Romney has to run because it's his second and likely last attempt at it. 2012 is his last hurrah...which is exactly what it will be.

Yes, Obama is vulnerable, but his vulnerability will be pitted against disarray. And that disarray will be represented by either a candidate they really do not want (Romney), or whatever other candidate emerges from the scrum unscathed. Well, good luck with that. The Republicans have a habit of either eating their young or running candidates one election (or two) too late.

But I will tell you that there is a scintilla of truth to Cain’s claim of a ‘Democrat Machine’. There indeed is one, but it is presently on idle. It will be fired up once the Republicans finally settle on a candidate. There's no need to engage it now. But just to be clear, it is the same type of machine that Obama has been battling (birth certificate ring a bell?) since the day to took office.

And sorry, Pizza Man, but the Republican candidate ain’t going to be you. The Republicans cannot trot out an alleged sexual offender as a candidate, whether the allegations are true or not. The stink has already stuck. And further, it is hard for me to believe that four different women are out to get you. This isn’t one disgruntled former employee that may have a history of emotional problems - it is four different ones. One accuser you can discredit. Lotsa luck with four (and counting, I am sure).

Oh wait I forgot - it’s the Democrat Machine causing this, not Cain's inability to keep his Jimmy in his pants. My bad.

But anyway. Back to why I started this rant. These people cannot even call the Democratic Party by its given name, but instead truncate it to try to make it irrelevant. It fits with their all sizzle no substance approach to campaigning…and governing. Why, the problem is not us - it’s that other party who we have decided to change the name of.

At the end of the day, I have an implicit trust of the American people to see thought this and reject the abject pandering of…

The Republic Party.

The Riff That Saved Rock

2011-11-08T16:57:00.011-05:00

I love rock and roll. It is the soundtrack of, well, my life basically. Long as I can remember there was some kind of rock, whether it was bubblegum as a pre-pubescent teen, Elton John singing Rocket Man at the roller rink, or Black Sabbath groaning from my brother’s room. When I hear Maggie May I think of hitting puberty. If it's Boston's More Than A Feeling, it's copping more than a feeling from Marci Bartlett in an Ohio cornfield.

For my generation, rock was rebellion. It was a drastic left-turn away from the sound of our parent’s generation, which consisted of Sinatra and Streisand. It was mandatorily cool to rock. The fact that it got under our parent’s collective skin made it all that much better - “Turn that crap down!” was my dad’s favorite phrase when I was between 16 and 19 years of age. I sported tee shirts of all the concerts I attended - Blue Oyster Cult, Golden Earring, Deep Purple to name but a very few. It was a new, exciting sound.

I also realized that it had been around for about twenty years, having essentially started when Elvis stole the black man’s Delta Blues, swung his hips and made teenage girls cream their collective undergarments. But by the mid-seventies, it was still a fresh sound because it had regenerated itself a few times over - the British Invasion snatched the mantle from Elvis, who by then was busy making bad movies. Then the psychedelic sound reconstituted the 60s pop sound into a mind-expanding experience. The Vietnam War brought us the protest sounds of Crosby, Stills Nash & Young. And when I was in high school, Bruce Springsteen and his street troubadour style of gassing up the Chevy and getting the hell out of this dump of a town resonated with us teenagers wanting to tell our parents to shove it. Rock had a way of reinventing itself when it was necessary.

The 1980s came and with it some new sounds - the punk scene gave us The Clash and U2, two very relevant bands that kept things tight. Then there was the synth-tinged, dancy stuff of bands like Psychedelic Furs, The Smiths and Depeche Mode. Not my cuppa tea, but still, interesting new sounds. But these sounds, in my mind, were fringe efforts. The mainstream of rock and roll was, unfortunately, starting to fall under its own collective excess. Pseudo-metal junk bands like Warrant, Cinderella and Poison were taking over the airwaves. These bands brought nothing new - they were a rehash of what was already done filled with vacuous lyrics. Springsteen talked about busting out - Warrant talked about busting cherries. Hairspray and spandex took over. It was a wasteland of cheesy music videos. Something had to give, lest the soundtrack of our lives turned into Driving & Crying or Stryper. There wasn't a decent rock song from 1987 through the end of that decade, save Guns 'N Roses. By 1990, rock was dying, being choked of all relevance and integrity.

Then, in 1991, a group of surly slackers from Seattle gave us the following riff -

Four power chords. F–B–A–D. Simple. Revolutionary.

And rock was saved.

Suddenly spandex was out, flannel was in. Big hair was replaced by unwashed hair. Mosh pits were created. It was no longer about production; it was about plugging in the Gibson and letting it fly. Don’t need no mixing boards, don’t need no producer. Just let it rip. Keep it underproduced. Keep it raw. Keep the hairspray.

The Grunge Sound was born. Mother Love Bone begat Nirvana which begat Soundgarden which begat Pearl Jam which begat Alice In Chains. The sound spread from the epicenter of Seattle and bands like The Red Hot Chili Peppers and Stone Temple Pilots built upon its new relevance. And it was a sound that was true to the roots of rock. It was in your face without making you wince at its silliness. It had the same punch as Elvis had in 1956 when he told people not to step on his Blue Suede Shoes.

Now, I understand that many may not like Grunge. That’s cool. It is a somewhat dense, depressing sound, not conducive to dancing or picking up chicks. But it saved rock. I shudder to think what would have happened had Kurt Cobain, despite all his eccentricities, had chosen not to say ‘Fuck this shit’ and didn’t try to keep rock from careening over the cliff under the weight of its own ever-increasing irrelevance. The lyrics of Smells Like Teen Spirit may have a certain amount of WTF-ness to them, but that didn’t matter. It was the sound that mattered.

A mulatto. An albino. A mosquito. My libido.

Yeah.

How time flies. That was twenty years ago. Thus I sense that rock may be ready for another seismic shift. The novelty of Cobain’s indulgent self-pity has long worn off and has been cloned so many times that it is now just a caricature of his original. I’m sorry, but Buckcherry just doesn’t do it for me. So the time may be ripe for another guy (or gal) to take the mantle and shake us out of our complacency. It’s time for rock to reinvent again.

Kurt said it back in 1991 - Here we are now. Entertain us.

An Influence Silenced

2011-11-05T10:16:00.005-04:00

“A writer’s job is to tell the truth”

I was sitting here on a Saturday morning doing the enjoyable slow wake-up that a weekend morning affords. No job to rush to, no clock telling me where I am supposed to be or when. Cuppa coffee, check emails, get updated on the internet news.

And there it was –

Andy Rooney passed away.

92 years old, and only a month after his last installment of life inside his brain at his usual place at the end of the weekly 60 Minutes program. At that goodbye segment, Andy said he wanted to work until he died. Well darned if he didn’t. A career that began as a World War II correspondent ended over 60 years later, and then only a month after that, gone.

Awesome. What a life.

When I started my little free-lance writing gig for my personal pleasure that has manifested itself in this blog and a published book, I tried to tap into my own ‘style’ of writing. While I had/have numerous thoughts rattling around my brain, I had to find a style that expressed such thoughts in an entertaining, cogent style. Like many undertaking such a task, I fell back on my influences, and I developed one that was an amalgam of them – Hunter S. Thompson’s edgy first-person method of expression, Terry Pluto’s conversational style that feels more like a chat than a read…and Andy Rooney’s method of saying what everyone thought.

That quote at the top of this story is Andy’s. And while many would argue – rightfully so – that Andy did not always tell the truth but instead told his opinion, understand - he told the truth as he believed it. And he did it in such a way that, even if you disagreed with it, you still had to either ponder it or laugh at it, but never ignore it. He had a folksy style of looking straight into the camera and talking to you, and then would deliver his opinion in a style that would sometimes make people gasp. But it commanded your attention. It made you think. And it forced people decide, is Andy’s truth my truth?

Reporters state facts. My ex-wife was a reporter and she once told me her job was to state the who, what, where, when of a story then end it. But a writer? Writers seek truth. And truth is a moving target that is viewed through whatever prism the writer or the reader sees through. Case in point – last month I wrote a story titled ‘Common Sense’ where I made four declarative statements. These statements were the truth…as I believe it to be. Statements like, if abortions were illegal there would still be abortions, or less guns would mean less gun deaths.

These are statements that can – and are – debated, but the point here is they reflect what I learned from Andy. State your truth, explain it, then let people decide where they fall and let them decide if it is their truth as well. This is why I sometimes hear from people that I am way off-base in my thinking. I’m not. I’m just stating my truth.

And so did Andy. Perhaps better than anyone in our time.

And he did it in such an entertaining way that – ponder this for a moment – he was given three minutes at the end of the highest-rated news show on television for over three decades. His was the last word after everyone else had theirs. There were the stories for the week, and then there was Andy, and then the ticking clock of the 60 Minutes sign-off. That stalwart show that has stood the test of time ended it every week with this disheveled curmudgeon character telling us ‘Didja ever wonder…?’

For a writer seeking the truth, it does not get any better than that.

Goodbye Andy. And thank you.

Hijo

2011-10-24T21:56:00.015-04:00

Parents love their children. No real news flash there. Many do because of the inseparable bond, others because they feel obligated to do so. Some are proud, some can't wait until they turn 18 so they can boot them out of the house.

I just love my son.

I was a reluctant father-to-be, as Nick, my only child, was not a ‘planned’ event; I got my girlfriend pregnant in 1993. There was a lot of fear on my part over becoming a father, as I imagined my life forever changing. Well, it did. For the better.

When Nick was born, the bond crystallized the moment I saw that schlock of brown hair as he was placed in my arms, at about two minutes old. Suddenly, all the things fathers told me permanently embedded. I was now a father, and I will protect this little entity with my life. It was an immediate, chemical reaction.

I missed the first few years of his life, as I relocated to Ohio. In early 2001 I returned to Florida, when Nick was 6 years old, and re-entered it. And that began my foray into real fatherhood. I learned to like Spongebob Squarepants, Ed Edd and Eddie, and getting slimed. I learned to be interested in whatever interested him, and adapted when those interests changed. In other words, Squidward was pretty cool when he was ten, not so much now. I used him to pick up girls at the mall because he was so damn adorable. I have a box of about 100 Happy Meal toys collected through the years from our dinners...and I am keeping every one of them. We would sit on the beach and talk. One night we were inundated by hundreds of hatching sea turtles during one of our beach talks.

I tried to teach him golf. He didn’t want to learn it. I took him to football and baseball games, but he would rather sit at home and draw. And draw. And draw. It was this proclivity that both his mom and I picked up on and realized that we may have a mini Michelangelo on our hands, so we enrolled him into summer art schools. Gifts from relatives were of the creative variety – sketchbooks, crayons, magic markers and the like. And Nick kept drawing.

When it was time for Middle School, Nick got accepted into a magnet arts school. He is now in a magnet high school, the Dreyfoos School of the Arts in West Palm Beach. He is in the eleventh grade now, and his work is absolutely amazing. Scholarships await.

I have had friends of mine ask if I am disappointed that Nick doesn’t play golf. Not at all. Not even for a moment. He is a talented kid, and I just want him to go with wherever that talent takes him. Like any parent, I just want him to be happy.

Nick is quiet, introspective, highly intelligent, and bit of a wiseass. He is respectful and courteous, but there is mischief in those eyes. In other words, he is just like me. He doesn’t call me Dad – he calls me Padre. He loves classic rock and boasts every Beatles song in his ipod. We don’t so much talk these days as much as we telepathically communicate – we know what each is thinking. I could not be prouder of him if I tried.

I remember being in a time management seminar at work when Nick was maybe three years old. The facilitator asked who had a small child. I raised my hand. She said to me, ‘Jerry, there is a high wire connecting two skyscrapers, 100 stories high. I’ll give you $100 to walk across it. Will you do it?’ Of course, I said no. She said ‘What about a thousand dollars?’ Nope. ‘One MILLION dollars?’ hmmmm…nope. ‘Okay. Your son just got loose and he’s going across the wire. Now what do you do?’

My immediate answer, without hesitation - ‘I go and get him.’

And that’s what being a parent is all about.

Common Sense

2011-10-23T10:08:00.010-04:00

Lately I have found myself defending my liberalism, which is fine. I understand that we are a nation of divergent opinions. What irks me are people that have stances that simply fly in the face of logic.

So in this spirit, below I will make four statements that, I believe, cannot be disputed, yet I know they will be. Because many (if not all) have been nuanced to death by those that would attempt to make people see what does not exist.

And you can take these four statements, add them up, and you get a pretty good barometer of where my mind is at. The sad truth is, in this day and age it would paint me as a fringe left-wing wacko. But to me, they’re simply common sense:

If there were fewer guns, there would be fewer gun deaths. Yep, I started off with the one issue that will likely have the most blowback. The initial reaction will be, ‘if you take away my guns only the criminals will have them.’ Well, possibly. But note how I worded it – if there were fewer guns. I am not advocating taking your gun away. The problem is, many do not have a gun...they have guns, plural, and does anyone really need ten of them?

We are armed to the teeth in this country. Sadly, Columbine-like events are becoming pretty common. In fact, I'll predict it right now: Within the next two weeks there will be a story of multiple killings by someone at a convenience store, bowling alley...or a school.

So I am sure that if we had, say, 30% less guns there would still be plenty to go around and we would be a safer country. Those that disagree will say the exact opposite – they would have us believe that more guns means a safer world, and fewer guns would make for a more dangerous world. Well, go ahead and believe that is you wish, but rationale and reason dictate that stance makes no sense. When it comes to guns, less doesn’t mean more. Less means less. It is arithmetic certainty.

If abortions were illegal, there would still be abortions. This seems to be the unacknowledged fact by those that are Pro-Life. In their mind it is a moral issue that would be fully addressed by passing a law. This is ridiculously over-simplistic. It assumes that a pregnant teenager possesses moral equivalency, and further that she would have that baby if she could not legally get an abortion. Doubtful. Improbable. She’s scared. And no amount of pleading or waiting time will convince her otherwise – you can try to fill her heart with whatever religious mores you possess, but she is pregnant. She’s not going to find God. She’s going to get an abortion.

Anyone that does not acknowledge that fact cannot see the world beyond his or her religious-tinted prism. So the difference between legal and illegal should be replaced with the difference between safe and unsafe. Again, that scared teenager is having an abortion. So the question becomes, do we endanger her health as well? I get that Pro-Lifers consider it morally wrong. But this isn’t about morality – it’s about making a medical procedure that will occur regardless as safe as possible.

Whenever I hear Pro-Lifers state that abortions should be illegal, the only question I have, which has never been adequately answered is, how much jail time should the woman get for having one? And don't cop-out and say that only the doctor would get sentenced - that's like saying only the drug dealer should get the sentence and not the drug user. You make abortion illegal and you have created a new, large group of offenders. Better keep building those jails, because they will quickly be filled with this new class of criminals.

Government creates jobs. Here it comes. I can feel it – ‘Government creates work, only the private sector creates jobs!’ Well, I am sure that policemen, firefighters, code enforcers, urban planners, teachers and social workers are thrilled to know that their careers that they went to college for or were stringently trained for aren’t really careers – they are governmental constructs.

To be sure, the country needs a robust private sector in order to push the needle and reduce unemployment – of that I totally agree. But ‘government’ jobs should not be vilified in the process. If Tea Partiers got their wish and “government” was removed from their lives, so would their safety, education, the roads they drive on and bridges their drive over. They may be free from the so-called shackles of government taxation, but the landscape they would preside over would look like Mad Max’s Thunderdome.

The free market needs regulated. Two letters: BP. Many on the right want us to believe that the reason the private sector is not flourishing is due to crushing regulation imposed by an overzealous government. Red herring. Not true. First off, the reason the private sector is not flourishing is demand is down because we are in a recession. Therefore, reducing (or eliminating) regulation will not increase demand. It will just truncate the process of getting goods that aren't being bought to the marketplace; a truncation that could possibly have disastrous results. Do we really want the FDA abolished so that prescription drugs with dubious claims can flood the market? Do we want the EPA done away with so we can return to the day when rivers caught fire? Regulations are there for a reason, very good reasons. And it is primarily this – the private sector is not interested in the public good. It is interested in making money.

Okay. Fire away. The only ground rule is, fight logic with logic. I used it. You do the same.

Know-It-All

2011-10-16T10:23:00.005-04:00

I have been doing quite a bit of introspection lately. This is due to a number of reasons, but chief among them is the desire to live the rest of my life happy, joyous and free. And it has become very apparent that one of the main roadblocks to that is how I interact with others.

People piss me off.

That phrase – right there – is the crux of my issue. I am arrogant. I flaunt superiority at the expense of others. I build myself up at the expense of others. This makes them upset at me which makes me upset at them. And when they express it I redouble my efforts to show them how wrong they are. In other words, my initial premise is ‘I am right and you are wrong’, and when you challenge me on that, it becomes a contest that I must win. And when you try to explain that it is no longer about the argument but rather how I am arguing it (arrogantly), I will try to win that debate. In other words, if you say I am being arrogant, I will argue arrogantly that I’m not being arrogant.

This helps explain why I am 53 and alone.

Who wants to be around that? Gawd, if I were dealing with someone like that I would tell such a person to go fuck themselves. Which, by the way, is quite an arrogant statement.

Where did this all start? Well, like most of our personality traits, as a child. Being the youngest, I felt I had to ‘earn’ airtime in our family. And to do so required (so I thought) outrageous behavior or statements. I thought my older brother was very smart and cool so I emulated that behavior. And finally, knowledge was highly valued in our tribe, so I embarked on obtaining two college degrees. Add all this up, and I became cocooned in my own smugness. Arrogant behavior became my subconscious and automatic response to most everything. I worshipped at the altar of ego, and equated happiness with being right. So I reveled in the win of the argument.

Well you know what? Oftentimes I did “win”. And then I was alone.

To the victor goes the isolation.

As I got older, I started to recognize that people didn’t like a know-it-all, but I was unable to put the brakes on my arrogance, so I developed a counter-balancing personality trait. Charm. My thinking was, yes, I have this negative aspect of my personality, but if I couched it in a pleasant, flattering persona, it would at least be tolerated. Take the good with the bad, right? I thought I could still be loved with this construct. Well, I was loved. Briefly. The ‘Charm Offensive’ worked for a while until girlfriends figured out it was a façade that hid my true essence.

But what really is my ‘true essence’? If arrogance was a learned trait in childhood and adolescence, that’s not my true essence. So what is the real me? Gosh, I just don't know. I do know I want to be liked by everyone, so the foundation for my behavior is unrealistic to begin with. So, basing my behavior on a ridiculous premise is a sure recipe for unhappiness.

I now recognize that arrogance and flattery were things I picked up along the way, so if those were stripped away, what’s left? Here’s where I am with that. I am human. Sometimes I am right, sometimes I am wrong, but more importantly, who really cares? I am just another bozo on the bus, trying to get through life like everyone else. And one thing I have learned is, I can’t do this gig alone. I need help. And that phrase right there – I need help – is, I believe, the key to breaking through the icy shell of arrogance that I have constructed. I don’t have the answers.

So here I am, and here’s what I have deduced so far. Arrogance was a learned behavior just like charm was. I piled crap on top of crap hoping the sweet smell of one would offset the acrid smell of the other.

So if you were to conclude that I am full of crap, grab a prize.

So who am I, really?

My gawd. Stay tuned. As soon as I figure that out I will let you know.

And I don’t mean that arrogantly.

Deja Vu

2011-10-12T11:05:00.003-04:00

“These students have to learn what law and order is all about” - President Richard Nixon, to General Robert Canterbury, Ohio National Guard, at Kent State University, May 4, 1970

“I, for one, am increasingly concerned about the growing mobs occupying Wall Street and the other cities across the country.” - Rep. Eric Cantor, describing the Occupy Wall Street movement, October 7, 2011

Quick question. Describe the most important American value, the most inalienable right that we as Americans have. Life? Liberty? Pursuit of happiness? Yes, those are all guaranteed in our Constitution and are pretty damn important. But I am going to offer up what I think the most important right we as citizens have -

The right to dissent.

Dissent. The right to freely express disagreement with a person, an institution or a government without fear of reprisal; without fear of your life, liberty or pursuit of happiness being infringed upon. The right to protest perceived injustices. This, to me, is what makes us unique in the world. We not only allow dissent, we embrace it.

That is, until someone in power does not like it.

I placed two quotes at the top of this story to illuminate. The first was how then-president Nixon described the student protests at Kent State University. For context, Nixon had chosen to invade Cambodia five days earlier as part of the expansion of the Vietnam War. This touched off protests around college campuses, and in the instance of Kent State, to students holding rallies on campus that included the burying of the Constitution since, it was concluded, Nixon chose to ignore it by invading a country without seeking Congressional approval first. To be fair, there was some violence - students trashed downtown Kent and set fire to the ROTC building on campus.

Five days later, the Ohio National Guard opened fire on the protesters who were peaceably assembling on campus, killing four and wounding nine.

Fast-forward to 2011 and the Occupy Wall Street movement. Now this movement does not have the same level of starkness as Kent State; in other words, the OWS movement seems more concerned about economic unfairness rather than escalation of a war that students soon saw themselves forced to fight - and possibly die - in. But that does not make their cause any less just. It is dissent over injustice. And it is spreading.

Now, read Eric Cantor’s quote again. Note the use of the word ‘mob’. I do not know about you, but that one word sends a chill up my spine. These are people that, to date, have been nonviolent young people dissenting. They are practicing an inalienable right of all Americans. They are, in essence, patriots. Our country was founded on dissent. They are simply mimicking the behavior we revere when we read about Revere.

The chilling aspect of Cantor’s quote is this is how the table gets set for violence. We have seen it before at Kent State - first you vilify the protesters, then you shoot them. As an aside, there were a number of things the Kent State protesters were being called - “Brown shirts”…”The worst kind of humans”…and this was by the governor of Ohio at the time, James Rhodes. It was no wonder that armed soldiers were placed on the campus at his order. They had to, as Nixon’s quote said ‘learn what law and order was all about’.

Well they did.

So I now have a familiar fear about these OWS protesters. The political propaganda machine, at least on the Republican side, is being geared up. They are not dissenting Americans, they are now ‘mobs’ according to Cantor.

The slippery slope to violence has started. Touched off, not by those exercising their rights, but by those who take exception to their use of them. I fully expect in the coming days of a “report” of these dissenters vandalizing property or endangering the lives of regular folks. Because that will give Cantor and his ilk the ammunition needed to, well, show them what law and order is all about.

And we will have to bury more young people killed at the hands of their government.

It Ain’t Easy Being Brown

2011-10-08T11:19:00.011-04:00

It is October, and we are smack in the middle of the football season. I love October – the weather cools, Friday nights belong to High School football, Saturdays are the domain of the colleges, and Sunday belongs to the pros.

The pros. Ugh.

This is not an indictment of the professional game. Instead I just got that uncontrollable chill go up my spine. It happens when I think about my beloved team, the Cleveland Browns.

Ugh. It just happened again.

I grew up in northeast Ohio, about 35 miles south of Cleveland and about 15 miles from the pro football hall of fame in Canton. The roots of the professional game were planted there. The league was formed in 1921 in a car dealership in Akron, my hometown. As a child in the 1960’s, Sunday afternoons in the fall had the same ritual – my mom would cook a vat of spaghetti sauce and all the relatives would come over to watch the Browns lay waste to their opponent week after week. Like clockwork.

Because, this may be difficult for anyone under 40 to imagine, but the Browns used to be really good. Consistently good. Not catch lightning in a bottle for one season good, but year in and year out in the playoffs good. The saying back then was, there are two things you can count on in December – snow and the Cleveland Browns. They were called the New York Yankees of pro football.

So that was the environment I was raised in, and I fully expected my adult life to be one of glowing pride of celebration of multiple NFL championships. In 1970, when I was 12, the NFL and AFL merged, and three teams from the NFL moved to the AFL – the Colts, the Steelers and the Browns. The reconstituted AFC Central was formed consisting of the Browns and three shitball teams – the expansion Cincinnati Bengals, the AFL-doormat Houston Oilers, and our perennial whipping boys, the Pittsburgh Steelers. At that moment in time, the Browns’ all-time record against the Steelers was 52-9. I kid you not. This was not going to be pretty, I thought – we would own that division for years on end.

Then in 1972 Franco Harris scooped a ball off the turf and the Steeler dynasty was born.

Ugh. It just happened again.

The 70’s and early 80’s featured glimpses of glories past, such as the upstart Kardiac Kids of Sam Rutigliano and Brian Sipe, but hopes were dashed on a ridiculously cold January day in 1981 when the first chink in our psyche, Red Right 88, was planted. The late 80’s brought a string of dominating teams led by Bernie Kosar that could not get past one person – John Elway. The Drive and The Fumble got added to the list of acrid memories.

The 1990’s brought turmoil. We hired a coach you may have heard of. Bill Belichick. But this wasn’t the hoodie-wearing genius Bill Belichick. This was the arrogant young punk version who had the nerve to cut Bernie Kosar. In mid-season. With the team in first place and the starting Quarterback, Vinny Testaverde, injured. That day made Belichick a vilified assbag in the minds of the fans. A 11-5 record in 1994 did not matter – Bill Must Go was the chant.

Well, he did, but unfortunately, so did the rest of the team. After the 1995 season Art Modell moved the team to Baltimore. And all those previous disappointments paled in comparison to having the Cleveland Browns….are you effin’ kidding me? taken away. Three years later, through incessant demands from the fan base, the NFL gave us a new team.

I use the word ‘team’ very loosely in this instance.

It was a team in name only. What it was, was the most horrid collection of truck drivers in football uniforms ever assembled. Just God-awful. 2-14, 3-13…records that we never dreamed of happening to the Cleveland Browns became regular occurrences. We changed coaches and general managers the way people change their underwear. Bust draft picks, overpriced free agents and snake-oil salesman general managers all conspired to turn the New York Yankees of pro football into the Washington Generals – the patsy team that every other team circled on their schedule as an easy win.

The newest incarnation of the Browns appears to be heading in the right direction, but I just don’t know. Not that I do not trust the people in charge, it’s that I cannot believe this team can ever be consistent winners. Somewhere along the way we apparently pissed off the Football Gods and they are making us suffer. As a result, our fan base is probably the most neurotic in professional sport - the only other team/fans I can compare to are Chicago Cub fans. We always assume the worst is going to happen, and often it does. LeCharles Bentley, Brady Quinn, Derek Anderson, Butch Davis, Willie Green, Bottlegate...and that's just the new incarnation of this team - we already carried Red Right 88, The Drive, The Fumble & The Move in our psyche before we got the new team.

So we assume the worst. And until 'the worst' stops happening to us, we will continue to go there. Sucks, but that's just how it is. We are like a beaten, abused dog - whenever we hear a newspaper being rolled up, we cower...even though we still love our 'owner' unconditionally. He can beat us and we still love him. Even when he just may be rolling up that newspaper to swat a fly - we think it's coming for us.

This helps to explain our collective psyche. You think Steeler fans think like this? Hell no. They're dogs that have been fed Filet Mignon and sleep on a feather bed. They got 6 Lombardis to ogle at. We get a glimmer of hope, and we think, 'How are we gonna eff this up?'

Here comes another ugh.

Often I am asked, ‘Why are you a Browns fan?’ Great question, and one I have pondered often, usually on the heels of a blowout loss. And I have come to this conclusion:

I blame my parents. They could have conceived and raised me anywhere else but northeast Ohio, and I would have been none the wiser. I could have grown up a Dolphin fan and at least have had two Super Bowl victories in my youth to point to.

But no. Cleveland it is.

And you know what? One day when the Browns win that Super Bowl, which will hopefully happen before I lose my marbles and being fed through a straw and am wearing a diaper, it will be a wonderful day. It will make all those years of mind-numbing catastrophes all worth it.

Go Browns.

Transcending Transience

2011-10-06T20:28:00.002-04:00

Frequent visitors to my blog know a couple things about me. One, I was born and raised in northeast Ohio – I have burned a lot of bandwidth writing about my upbringing there. Secondly, I now live, and have for about 25 years, in Florida. From Boca Raton to Orlando, and most places in between. I presently reside in Altamonte Springs, a suburb of Orlando.

When I first moved to Florida in the early 80’s, one of the large knocks on the Sunshine State was its transience-ness. Many lamented over the fact that the state was loaded people from everywhere else and as a result the place had no sense of community – nobody knew their neighbors, and even if you took the time to know them, they’d be gone in six months anyway. That trendy new restaurant down the street? Better hit it fast, because it will be gone this time next year.

My dad used to call Florida ‘The Land of the Hustle’, and he wasn’t referring to disco. He meant it was a place to make a quick buck then get the hell out before the authorities caught up with you. Trying to find a reputable person to tile your roof or remodel your bathroom was like playing Russian roulette insofar as getting someone to actually commit to finishing the job. The shores were teeming with bales of washed-up drugs and Haitians. The growth rate was around 20 percent annually, and with it came anyone that ever swung a hammer, even if they couldn’t pass a background check or a drug test. People were on edge, scared. Looking over their shoulders. Nobody trusted anyone.

But something has happened over the past 30 years. For sure, I got older, so perhaps I view things differently now – it’s one thing to be 24, drinking beer and smoking pot on the beach with my buddy Gary while we took running starts from the road and tried to jump as far as we could off sand-duned cliffs to the beach below, risking broken bones and concussions, to being a homeowner with a good job and a teenage son. Perhaps time has mellowed me.

But I don’t think so. Rather, I think time has mellowed Florida. Things have settled. Tracts of homes became neighborhoods. People got nicer. They stayed. They grew roots here. Schools have dramatically improved, or at least they are on a par with the rest of the country – there was a time that wasn’t so. For example my son is in a magnet arts high school in West Palm Beach. 85% of their graduates receive college scholarships. Palm Beach County boasts two of the top-ten public high schools in the country. Read that again – in the country. There is a lot to be proud of here, and it has nothing to do with Mickey or Mojitos.

This is not to say we do not have our problems, but now they are universal in nature. In other words, problems all areas have – unemployment, scarce jobs and the like. But nothing endemic to just Florida anymore. This stabilization can be felt and touched. Restaurants have endured. My neighbors on the street that my house is on are still there – Rufus and Jocelyn from Miami live on one side, and Butch and Deena from Metairie, Louisiana on the other. People smile now. They ask how you are and mean it. When Hurricane Jeanne hit my neighborhood in 2005 and power went out for days, Rufus had everyone over for a cookout. We helped each other out. In other words, we became a community – one of the main things that we lamented was missing from our until-then dysfunctional slice of paradise.

See, we are all still from somewhere else, but we have all made Florida our home. Not for a summer, not until our parent’s money runs out, and not until the authorities from up north catch up to us. This is our home. And I love it here. I am proud of my Ohio roots, but I am equally proud of my adopted home.

All Floridians should feel the same.

Let There Be Rock

2011-10-05T13:17:00.010-04:00

To quote Joan Jett, I love rock and roll.

Which, I know, makes me about as unique as a grain of sand. It is the music of my generation, shared and adored by millions of baby boomers, gen x-er’s. millenials and whatever other demographic is out there of anyone under 65 years old. My son - born in 1994 - loves rock and roll, and now boasts having every Beatles song ever recorded on his iphone. Proud papa me. My song list includes the Beastie Boys, Rage Against The Machine, The Who, Korn, Nirvana, Average White Band, Soundgarden, Fatboy Slim, Prodigy...to name but a few.

Rock and roll came of age in 1995. Why? Because that’s when a Hall of Fame was opened to honor the greats of this genre, on the shores of Lake Erie in Cleveland, Ohio. That, to me, defined it's arrival - a shrine built to house the greats.

I have been to the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame many times, and I still love going there. You are greeted by a giant ‘teacher’ from Pink Floyd’s The Wall hanging from the ceiling ever reminding you that ‘If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding!’ The exhibits are fantastic - under glass is the original manuscript of Born To Run, written on notebook paper by Bruce Springsteen. Over there is Janis Joplin’s Mur-say-deez Benz…the Lord did indeed bought her one. In another section you get the geographical influences, from The Eagles representing SoCal to Booker T and The MG’s representing Memphis. A piece of the fuselage from the plane that Otis Redding tragically died in is on display.

However, the R&R HOF is not without controversy. There are a number of individuals/bands that have not been inducted, such as Chicago and Rush, and others that have been whose induction has been questioned, like Leonard Cohen and Madonna.

It is Madonna’s induction that seems to really make people go postal. Madonna? SHE’S NOT ROCK AND ROLL!

Okay, fair enough. Then I have one simple question for you -

Define Rock & Roll.

What exactly 'is' it? A sound? A lifestyle? Both?

Unlike other musical genres, rock & roll really has no definition. And when you go to the R&R HOF and see the exhibits of the early influences, you see why. It was the bastard stepchild of gospel, delta blues & country, basically. Poor blacks were creating a sound that was later cribbed by Elvis Presley. Early country artists like Hank Williams (SENIOR, thank you very much) were influencing it. It even has the influences of Caribbean, Afrikaan and Big Band. Throw all that together, shake your hips violently, toss in some pyro and good drugs, and voila. Rock and roll. It's sort of like when that judge tried to define pornography by saying 'I know it when I see it'. That's rock & roll - a mindset on an individual level that changes from person to person.

So what does that have to do with the R&R HOF? Everything. Cuz that's what you find there. A little bit of everything. Including Madonna.

Because, to me, the ‘mindset’ aspect of rock & roll is, it’s an all-inclusive party. It is the furthest thing from intellectual snobbery you can find. It is come one come all, stop that grinnin’ and drop that linen, let yourself GO revelry. Rock out with your cock out. It’s a dead man’s party, leave your body at the door.

And to that I say, effin-a right. Nobody, not even the cops, was ever kept out of a rock and roll party. So hell yes. Madonna should be in there. While you’re at it, put Donna Summer in there too - she’s up for nomination this year. I didn’t care for disco, but it got me laid. So should Donna get in I will recall my bell bottom polyester slacks, airport-hangar-wide lapel shirts, and Love Hangovers.

Just keep KISS out. Because they suck.

I still have standards, ya know.

The Best Time of the Week

2011-10-02T10:52:00.001-04:00

Quick question – what is your favorite time of the week? Friday at 5pm? Saturday night?

Mine is right now.

What is right now? 10:30am Sunday morning in the Fall. Got Sunday NFL Countdown on TV, a cup of coffee in front of me and a wad of nicotine gum in my mouth. I am going through websites trying to fine-tune the starting lineups of my four fantasy football teams, and am concerned about Beanie Wells’ ankle and Mario Manningham’s concussion. Will Mike Vick be productive with a bone bruise on his non-throwing hand at home against San Fran or should I take a flyer on Flacco Sunday night against the Jets?

And that’s just one of my fantasy teams. Got three more to cogitate over, and two hours in which to do it.

I will then don my autographed Bernie Kosar jersey and head over to Post Time Lounge in Longwood to join my fellow Orlando Browns Backers for this afternoon’s game against Tennessee. The TWO-AND-ONE Cleveland Browns. Tied for first place in the AFC North Cleveland Browns.

Life is good.

Now, by 4:00pm all this hopefulness may evaporate. The Browns may lose. Vick may be on the bench with a broken ankle, having amassed me three fantasy points as I face the prospect of heartbreaking losses.

But right now, it is sunny and hopeful.

For others, Sunday morning is shhh be quiet time due to over-imbibing on Saturday night. That’s fine; I am not about to pass judgment on other people’s favorite time of the week. I am just thankful that I woke up clear-headed and sober.

Hey, when you have to decide between Felix Jones’ dislocated shoulder and Jermichael Finley’s ankle, you better be lucid.

Bias, or By Us?

2011-10-02T09:49:00.002-04:00

I have had an interesting last few of days in the blogosphere, mainly due to a couple of stories I posted that generated some comments – thank you for that. Sadly, it seems like only my stories involving politics seem to generate a bunch of interest. Which is too bad, since I think it is kind of cool that Sam Snead never won a U.S. Open.

Anyway, I have been debating about a phrase that has been tossed around for years – “Liberal Media Bias.” It is used by those mainly on the right as a reason to cry foul for never getting a fair shake from the broadcast media. The point has been honed to a sharp point by some, namely Sarah Palin, as a badge of honor; as a way of painting any Conservative as an underdog in any contest – not only do they have to defeat their opponent, but they have to do it with a media machine that is decidedly tilted against their cause. They even take it a step further, implying that this ‘Liberal Media bias’ has been so pervasive (and apparently so subtle) that all us unwashed masses do not even recognize it. Ergo, they are here to free us from this brainwashing.

Thanks much.

I am a Liberal, so much of what I am about to write will be dismissed by many as myopic, since those on the other side of the aisle will claim that I wouldn’t criticize what I agree with, or would not even be able to recognize the bias. To them, I am one of the brainwashed. Fine, if that’s your take then stop reading.

If you’re still here, ponder this. Give the following a bit of cogitation:

A given media source may have a bias, but media, on the whole, does not.

Still here? Good. Time for elaboration: For every Fox News there’s an MSNBC. For every Los Angeles Times there’s a Wall Street Journal. For every Rush Limbaugh there’s a, uhhh…

Okay I’m stumped on that one. There is no bellicosity on the macro level on the left that compares with His Rushness. Based on that fact alone, one could conclude that Rush’s unchecked pomposity would singlehandedly tilt the scale of bias towards the Conservative side. But I am not going to fight fire with fire – I am not going to purport that there is a Conservative Media Bias as a retort to the claims of Liberal Media Bias. Instead, I am going to claim that there is bias everywhere, that, when added up, essentially balances the scale.

If you can’t get with that assertion, then I will offer that you only see what you want to see – if you’re Liberal you scream about Hannity while ignoring Maddow. If you’re Conservative you scream about the San Francisco Chronicle while ignoring the Christian Science Monitor. If that fact escapes you, it is you that is myopic. Media, collectively and completely, has no bias – the myriad of television, cable, newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs, added up, equals no bias. Because it is so voluminous and encompassing that there would be no way to assure a commonality along any ideological line.

It is not media bias. It is media by us.

Look, I watch MSNBC. I personally think Rachel Maddow does a very good job at giving her opinion. Re-read that last sentence. I said giving her opinion. I am intelligent enough to recognize an opinion when I hear it, whether it is one I agree with or not. Opinions, by definition, are biased – they are based on the person who is stating the opinion’s paradigm. So, those on the right that claim there’s a media bias and further that it is so subtle that most of us do not see it, you are insulting us. Stop it.

Therefore, do not tell me that, if I watch the NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams that Brian is feeding me the news through some left-leaning prism. Don’t claim that Scott Pelley is a moll of the left when he’s doing the same job on CBS. Because it is disingenuous at the least, and insulting at the most. There is news and then there is opinion. I know the difference. Do you?

A blogger took me to task for this claim of no bias on the macro level. His point was that his father was in the broadcast business for 25 years and he experienced this purported liberal media bias, therefore it exists. My reply to that is simple – my dad was a plumber for 40 years but I can’t fix a toilet. As well, what occurred in our parent’s day is not relevant – cable and the internet has made any comparisons to 1968 moot. So don’t tell me that you heard from someone who heard from someone that they were told that someone said there’s a bias. Prove it.

Or, in keeping with the American Way, just change the channel to something you agree with.

The Politics of Superficiality

2011-09-30T09:51:00.008-04:00

This is a tale of two former female governors. Two kind of hot former female governors. One is a Republican, one a Democrat. One is well-known, the other not so much so. One who, whenever she opens her mouth, says a bunch of words that she hopes results in a coherent sentence by the time she finishes it. The other speaks with depth and with a complete understanding of the subject matter.

And you want to know what’s sad? The ditz is the one being courted to run for President.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Sarah Palin and Jennifer Granholm.

When Palin was picked by John McCain to be his running mate in 2008, there was a collective ‘WTF’ around the country and a scurrying to Wikipedia to find out who this person was. Fortunately (or not) for us, it became extremely apparent in short order who she was – a Mama Bear gun-toting God fearing Lamestream Media-trashing vacuous airhead. This is usually where my Conservative friends turn on me, which is fine. I imagine they are right now taking exception to my use of the term vacuous…or are looking it up. That’s why I followed it up with the word airhead. It was an intentional redundancy. They essentially mean the same thing.

Granholm was governor of Michigan for eight years. And let me just cut to the chase in order to contrast her to Palin on the intellect scale. She was seriously considered for the Supreme Court. Of the United States.

Really?

You Betcha.

So why am I doing this comparison? And further, why am I centering it around something as shallow their looks? To make a point. A somewhat general one, but there lies at least a portion of truth to it – they like us dumb – ‘they’ being politicians. And more specifically, Republicans. I use Palin as an example of this - many on the right are ga-ga whenever Palin speaks, but just ponder the messages being sent by the Republican party over the past decade or so. They like to over-simplify complex situations into sound bites – ‘You’re with us or with the terrorists…Cut and Run…Appeasement…Class Warfare…’ Part of this has to do with a necessary simplification for understanding, but it goes too far to the point of insulting. Take the ‘class warfare’ moniker. Republicans want us to believe that an attempt at having rich people survive at a pre-Bush tax rate somehow is deserving of the word ‘warfare’.

It is not only disingenuous, it is also vulgar to those that have served our country and truly know what the word warfare means, which has nothing to do with tax rates. But that’s how the Republicans roll. Oversimplify, then inflame. It is the only way to get enough middle-class and poor people to agree with them that making Rush Limbaugh pay more in taxes is anti-American.

Some may be saying okay Jer, but I am still missing the point of bringing Palin’s & Granholm’s looks into the discussion. Fair enough.

I am attracted to intellect. It is downright sexy to me. You can take a person with average looks but with a strong intellect and I am aroused. Conversely, you can take a very attractive woman who is a ditz and as soon as she opens her mouth it knocks the hot right out of her. Kinda like a stripper in a Steelers jersey.

And I swear, whenever Palin talks, either it’s that twangy Alaskan accent or the fact that it’s a mishmash of words and mixed metaphors, but it feels like nails on a chalkboard to me. Just the other night, on Fox naturally, when asked for the umpteenth time whether she was going to run for president, in her rambling sing-songy reply she actually said ‘If I decide to throw my name into the hat…’

Jeezus H. Christ on a chicken sandwich, woman. The phrase is throw your hat into the RING.

Granholm, on the other hand, has intellectual heft. Her sentences are thoughtful, let alone grammatically correct. Not to mention actually completing her term as governor. Whoops – make that terms as governor. She served two. Completely. I could go on, but a video is worth a thousand of my words. The following is an excerpt on an interview with her:

Now. Disagree with her policies if you must. But you have to respect the intellect.

Or not. Because in many Conservative circles, intellect is now a dirty word. But in my world, it is attractive.

But fear not, Republicans. Granholm was born in Canada so you don't have to worry about her running from president. She's disqualified.

Shame.

Phrases That Tick Me Off

2011-09-28T21:12:00.004-04:00

I can sometimes be kind of picky when it comes to the English language. Don’t get me wrong – I have my set of quirks, such as ending sentences in a preposition, as in ‘Where are you at?’ I am not referring to those kinds of practices, although I am sure many cringe whenever I let my Midwesternness come out with those kinds of verbal tics.

What annoys me are clichéd or misused phrases. Especially when used by people trying to appear smart when they really aren’t. Yeah I know, that targets me as grandiose or better-than, but at least I try to be what I am. I would just ask the same in kind – if you don’t know what a word means, please do not act like you do, okay Sarah ‘Refudiate’ Palin?

Anyway. Here is the first phrase that makes me go cold whenever anyone says it –

“The fact of the matter is…”

First off, the phrase is “The fact is…” to add in ‘of the matter’ is some lingual infusion in an attempt to relevantize the issue being spoken of. What it really is is redundancy. Further, I highly doubt the person using that phrase has any idea what ‘the matter’ is anyway. But beyond the awkwardness of the phrase is the assumed hubris of the person using it, because what usually follows is their opinion. Not fact, let alone fact of the matter. Opinion. Think about this – how many times have you heard someone say ‘Well ya know, the fact of the matter is, monkey can indeed fly out of my ass.’

Okay, probably never. Work with me here.

Politicians use ‘The fact of the matter is’ often as a precursor of their stance on a given issue. They are about to launch into how the feel or think of a situation. Those aren’t facts! Ah, but a politician’s job is to convince people that what they say are indeed facts, whether they are or whether they are pulling shit out of their ass. Chances are good it’s the latter. So in summary, ‘The fact of the matter is’ can be translated into ‘I am about to give you my opinion framed with a fancy pretense so you’ll hopefully duped into thinking that I truly am stating some irrevocable truth of the universe. Vote for me.’

Well you know what? The fact of the matter is, you’re ignorant.

Next –

“At the end of the day…’

Arrgh. This hits 10 on the cringe factor. Some use it as an attempt at finality, as an attempt to get people out of the weeds of a discussion and to fast-forward to the endpoint. As in ‘At the end of the day, we are all in this together.’ Gee thanks so much for your insight, Gandhi. Can we now go back to giving each other verbal wedgies? Cuz that was kinda fun.

But really, it is just an attempt at predicting where things will go. In other words, giving your opinion couched in a fancy-sounding precursor. Save us the tea-leaf reading and come get dirty with the rest of us.

Here’s what I do at the end of the day. I go to bed.

NEXT! –

“Basically…”

How many times have you heard someone start an answer with this word, then launch into a five-minute dissertation that can be called any of a number of things such as complex, circuitous, grandiose, mind-numbing, or making you want to jab pencils into both eyes? Their answer is anything but basic. Therefore it cannot be categorized as basically. So stop it.

Because basically, the fact of the matter is, at the end of the day I want to filet these people like a legal-sized snook and use their skin as protective clothing and their bones as drumsticks.

But maybe that’s just me.

Confessions of a Dweeb

2011-09-28T10:31:00.009-04:00

I have trampled on this planet for 53 years now. And while I have hardly been a world traveler, I have been around a little bit. Grew up in northeast Ohio, lived in Houston, Miami and Orlando. Have done some cool things in my life but have not partaken in many others – for example, I highly doubt I will ever jump out of a perfectly good airplane. People that know me consider me, generally, as a nice guy that’s kind of cool and with it.

It’s all a façade.

I am a geek.

I was born a geek and I have been a geek ever since I was old enough to realize that I loved Lost in Space and wanted to be Will Robinson because I wanted a silver space suit. While other kids were aspiring to be football players, I was building model rockets and launching caterpillars into low earth orbit. When puberty hit me violently hard and late at age 15, I thought the girls would be impressed by my Hot Wheels collection. I played professional Putt-Putt golf. At one time I wanted to be a ventriloquist. In school my favorite subject was math and reveled in understanding L’Hopital’s Rule. Google it.

Or not. Cuz it is about the most uncool thing ever created.

When I got to college and starting rifling through calculus, I discovered drugs and alcohol, which was wonderful at the time, because it mainstreamed me into society but also landed me on academic probation – which was considered actually kind of cool. Girls paid attention to me, because after a few Budweisers I dropped the geektense and was able to ooze out smooth comments about their hair or butt. Comments like ‘You have nice hair and a nice butt.”

Suuuuuuu-ave.

During this time I let my hair grow out and by virtue of having grown about 6 inches in three months, was rail-thin. I looked like a Q-Tip. But for 1978, that was tres cool. And it was also the time of Disco, and being an aspiring head-banger (which was after being a geek fan of The Monkees until my really cool brother assured me they were a fake band of actors), I was able to at least understand that girls liked to dance and they didn’t like Led Zeppelin. So I pretended to like the Bee Gees. These actions were able to sufficiently suppress my inherent geekiness so I was able to get laid.

But I was not being true to myself. I looked cool. I acted (more or less) cool. But I was never cool. It was manufactured coolness with the aid of tight fitting pants, polyester suits, platform shoes, and marijuana. The geekness went into the closet, but it never went away.

My brother, bless his ultra-cool heart, tried to school me on coolness. He tried to impart upon me that girls didn't care about the capital of South Dakota or whether Johnny Miller won the 1973 US Open with a final round 63. He tried to impart a modicum of bullshit into my persona in order to impress. For example, rather than saying I played miniature golf professionally, say I was a professional golfer. Or just flat-out lie to them. Say I was the bassist in Supertramp. They weren't going to check it out, and even if they did, it would be after I was able to tap that ass a few times.

I tried, I really did. Problem was (and still is), I am a terrible liar. That's another habit of geeks. The truth eventually comes out, usually about five seconds after the lie - "Hi. Yeah I'm a roadie for Zeppelin....no I'm not."

So here I am, 35 years later and much too old to care about such pretenses anymore. The problem is a re-re-programming to get back to my geek roots. This story is part of that process. Getting back to my true essence – reveling in knowing the last 50 US Open champions, understanding the value of regression analysis in determining transit ridership trends, and working on limiting the movement of my left foot in the backswing in order to keep from swaying off the ball. None of those things are impressive to anyone else. None are going to get me laid or invited to where the cool kids go. But I am too old to care now.

I am letting my Geek Flag fly.

Stop Before You Kill (Yourself) Again

2011-09-27T21:35:00.003-04:00

In conversations I have had, many due to my recent blog posts, there seems to be a good number of people that are absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Barack Obama has zero chance of being reelected. Okay. Let’s discuss.

Not from the standpoint of what he has or has not done, as that is obviously subject to a wide range of opinions. Rather, let’s look at it from another angle. The most critical angle, if you ask me –

Who will run against him?

Now do me a favor. Don’t say, “It doesn’t matter! Obama is such a total and complete failure that they could run anyone against him!”

Well, have you looked at the Republican candidate field? It pretty much defines the word ‘anyone’ – Romney, Perry, Bachmann, Cain, Huntsman, Gingrich…and Palin waiting in the wings. And to recap, Perry was urged to join due to disenchantment with the field…which was after Bachmann was urged to join due to disenchantment with the field…which was after Gingrich was urged to join due to disenchantment with the field.

And ya know what, apparently they are still disenchanted. The flavor this month is New Jersey Governor Chris Christie. Republicans claim, why, if The Big Man From The Garden State joins, look out Liberals! Next stop The White House! Just like they did when Perry threw his hat in. And Bachmann. And Gingrich. The way this thing is going, if Christie’s shine lasts more than a month it will set a longevity record for this latest round of eating of young that the Republicans are engaged it.

Here’s the problem with the Republican Party of 2011-2012. It’s been hijacked by ideological purists on the far right. And too many of the candidates are tripping over themselves to out-Tea Party each other. Well look, I’m not electorate scholar, but I know math, and if candidates are trying to appeal to an ideological fringe that represents far too small of a percentage of the populace to elect anyone on a national level, that is just not smart. It is a guaranteed-to-lose strategy. 20 percent of the vote means 80 percent did not vote for you. 80 is greater than 20.

Think I’m off base with that claim of far-right hijacking? Okay. Have you been watching the Republican debates? In one a gay soldier serving in Afghanistan asked a question…and he was booed by the audience. Doesn’t matter if he has honorably served his country – he is turned on by men so that disqualifies him from hero status in their eyes. A moderator in another debate asked a question about a 30-year old without health insurance facing a deadly disease – the audience yelled ‘Let him die!’ And in both cases, not a single candidate came to the defense of that war hero or that dying young man. Nobody chided the crowd for their response.

You stay classy, Tea Party.

The problem here isn’t the candidates. The problem is the people that have become the representation of their party. And it has become the problem of the candidates because they feed off such sentiments. Instead, the candidates, or at least one of them, need to step up and grab a hold of their party – the Party of Lincoln and Reagan.

Abe and Ronnie are rolling in their graves, gang. This party and what they stand for bear little resemblance to those giants. In fact, Reagan would be drummed out of this incarnation of Teapublicans as being too liberal – he raised taxes and compromised with Democrats for crying out loud!

To be fair, there is one Republican candidate that has tried to grab the wheel and veer this metaphorical car away from the cliff’s edge and back onto pavement. John Hunstman. Huntsman is actually trying to infuse sanity into his party’s self-immolation. So how is Huntsman and his pragmatic, center-right stance playing with the base? What do the polls say? Look down in the single digits. You’ll find him waaaay down there.

So yes. I feel extremely confident that Obama will be reelected. And it’s not because he has done such a wonderful job. I personally think he has gakked on a number of issues. The main reason that reelection is a near certainty is he has moved to the center that has been violently vacated by the Republicans, who are test-fitting their tinfoil hats for the enjoyment of their fringe supporters.

Makes for good applause sound bites in Republican strongholds but it ain’t gonna play nationwide. Barry Goldwater tried that schtick in 1964. He got the John Birch vote, the Tea Party of the day, but he got waxed by Lyndon Johnson in the general election. Just like Obama will do to whoever comes out of this ideological scrum the Republicans are presently engaged in.

So to paraphrase Mr. Goldwater, since it is a perfect fit for this political climate –

Extremism in the attempt to gain national office is no virtue.

The Best Never To…

2011-09-26T11:29:00.019-04:00

How would you like to play, or even follow, a dream foursome consisting of Lee Trevino, Sam Snead, Byron Nelson and Arnold Palmer? Four players that are legendary, all Hall of Famers. Would be totally awesome, to say the least.

What would you say if I told you that each has a glaring hole in their professional resume? Multiple Major winners, all, each capturing three of the four Majors. But they never won that fourth crown. And when you see this list of names, the mind boggles. Sam Snead never won a U.S. Open? Really?

Yup.

So here we go. This list of players that, due mostly to the cruel winds of fate, never got that fourth big trophy:

The Best Never To Win the Masters: Lee Trevino. Lee Buck had a ‘thing’ about the Masters. For a while he bemoaned their deep south, genteel manner that did not look kindly towards minorities. He then changed his tune to say his game did not fit Augusta National. Let me tell you something - in his day there was not any course that didn’t fit Lee’s game. Many consider him one of the greatest ball strikers in the game, on a par with Ben Hogan and Moe Norman. Lee simply could not get his head straight when it came to the Masters. Thus, not only did he never win it, he rarely contended. He'd shoot 74-77, missed the cut and got the hell out of there.

The Best Never To Win the U.S. Open: Sam Snead. This falls into the ‘you gotta be kidding me’ category. Sam was born a golfer. God graced him with the most natural swing ever seen. Double-jointed, he could kick his leg over his head into his seventies. Literally, a freak of nature. Ah, but as God is wont to do, He placed Sam in rural West Virginia without a ton of smarts. Don’t get me wrong - I am not saying Sam was a dummy, but his tendency was to just keep swinging that amazing swing of his without much regard for the situation. Case in point, the 1939 U.S. Open where he had a one-shot lead going into the final hole, a relatively easy par 5. Par to win, a 6 for a playoff. He made an 8.

The Best Never To Win the British Open: Byron Nelson. To be fair, in Byron’s day not many American pros bothered to travel to Great Britain to play in the British Open. Was too expensive and the prize money was too low - this was before the advent of jet travel, so it involved taking a steamer across the Atlantic and three weeks out of your schedule...to lose money. Most would rather stay on this side of the pond and hustle in cash games. To give you an idea of how hardscrabble it was back then, Byron won 18 tournaments in 1945, 11 in a row, and pocketed the paltry sum of $63,000 for the year. Which at the time was astronomical, but with today’s purses, Byron’s 1945 season would have netted him about $20 million. Lord Byron retired in 1946 at age 34 after he won enough money to fund his dream - a ranch in Texas.

The Best Never To Win the
PGA Championship: (tie) Arnold Palmer, Tom Watson. Both of these are head-scratchers. Both had multiple chances to with the PGA but just got snake bit. Arnie being Arnie, he rarely played safe whether he was up 7 or down 7, and his legacy was one where he lost almost as many tournaments as he won. Well, count the PGA in that group. In Watson’s case, there was literally no reason for him not to win a PGA. He lost in a playoff to John Mahaffey in 1978, was tantalizing close many other times. It was simply a matter of the Golf Gods saying no Huck, you ain’t getting this trophy. Both Arnie & Tom made amends for this oversight by capturing the Senior PGA Championship.

And in the consolation category, I give you the Best Never to win any Major:

Colin Montgomerie. Sergio Garcia can be added to this list, but he still has time on his side. Monty’s days of serious contention are essentially over. Seven-time European Order of Merit (Leading money winner on the European Tour), Ryder Cup hero. Never won a Major. Only needed to make a par on the last hole from the middle of the fairway in 2006 to win the U.S. Open. Made double-bogey. In 1992 he was being congratulated by Jack Nicklaus for winning the U.S. Open when Tom Kite pitched in to steal it from him.

Gene Sarazen, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Ben Hogan, Tiger Woods. There is your elite of the elite group of players who have won all four Majors. Anyone else who has ever placed a ball on a tee has fallen short. Including that aforementioned group that came closer than anyone else.

I’ll Fix This

2011-09-24T22:10:00.008-04:00

Okay. Yesterday I wrote a story about the huge debt this country is in. And I went on a singular approach on how to address it – raise taxes on the rich. A stance befitting of the bleeding-heart socialistic Marxist tree hugger polar cap melting person some believe me to be.

I would rather think it’s just common sense. The rich have an excess of what this country needs. Money. I do not see it much of a sacrifice if a person that brings in, say, $3 million a year net, has that reduced to $2.5 million net. Just have a hard time grasping the hardship of that scenario. The one-month vacation to France may get cut to two weeks. Maybe Junior will have to drive a Lexus to college instead of the Beemer.

But okay. Some think that to be class warfare. Some think that to be Un-American. Some think that to be penalizing those that succeeded.

It is a fiscal crisis, people! Time for sacrifice! The middle class has already taken it up the five-hole repeatedly. And the poor, well, they’re freekin’ poor. They’re not the answer, when the answer is money. You don’t ask a ballerina to play middle linebacker, don’t ask the poor for money.

So I have an alternative to forcing Rush Limbaugh to let go of more of his money that he will never spend. Here’s my proposal. One fell swoop, one law change, and this all goes away. Ready?

Legalize marijuana.

First off let me state this – I don’t smoke pot. This is not an entreaty so that I can personally enjoy burning tree. So spare me the ‘Suuuure Jer. Blaze on dude’ responses.

Legalizing marijuana will have a wonderful dual benefit. First off, the government can tax the shit out of it and it will still be cheaper than what the street rate is, which according to my, ahem, sources, is around 80 bucks for a quarter ounce. That’s $320 an ounce! More expensive than gold! I am not an agricultural expert, but I would assume that a pack of Jamaica’s finest, if legal could be produced at a cost in the range of North Carolina’s finest tobacco. Let’s say around $5 a pack. Sell a pack of 20 blunts for $50 and everyone is happy. Literally. Giggly happy, in fact, for the blazers out there.

The second benefit is a major cost savings. Prison construction, which in case you haven’t noticed, is about the only grown industry left in this country. There are tens of thousands of people incarcerated for the crime of scoring a lid. And for the life of me, and if anyone can elucidate please do, I do not see the societal benefit of this. How am I safer because some stoner that likes to get baked and watch Ren and Stimpy while gorging on Twinkies is caged up in some medium-security fortress? I don’t know about you, but I do not recall one single violent crime committed under the influence of crippy. It is, literally, a victimless crime.

So to recap, tax revenue goes up and public expenditures go down. Win-win.

Now here comes the outcry – what about the War on Drugs, you tree hugger!

News flash, gang. We lost that war a looooong time ago. Think of the billions that has been spent fighting that “war”. Now think how much harder it is to score illegal drugs. What’s that you say? It’s still as easy as texting your dealer to meet you behind the Circle K in ten minutes?

I rest my case. War on drugs: Drugs 100, Warriors zero. Scoreboard. Move on.

Okay, there actually is a downside that bears a few sentences. Inhaling toxic chemicals is a health risk. Odds are good that condoning a substance that is smoked will result in increased rates of cancer, emphysema, COPD and other physical issues. As such, we cannot in good conscience actually have such a substance being legal, can we?

Hold on. Let me ask the Marlboro Man or Joe Camel.

I know. Considering such a societal seismic shift is enough to make someone drink. Which, coincidentally, is another mind-altering substance that is perfectly legal to ingest. And if we are going to talk about how being under the influence of pot is such a bad thing, tell me how many times a man got baked then beat the hell out of his wife and kids? How many bar fights centered around who lost the roach clip?

Nope, alcohol has the monopoly of those activities. People drink, they can get violent. People smoke pot, and they forget whatever the hell they were mad about.

So let me end with this. Let’s be adults here. Spare me the moral lesson that some would advance to decry such legalization. Any Holy Rollers (or politicians) that would be against this, I say this: Let he without sin cast the first stone.

Mr. Marley said it best. Legalize it. Don’t criticize it.

Classless Warfare

2011-09-23T09:27:00.016-04:00

Time to piss off my Conservative friends…

Which is sort of funny in itself, given that as soon as I refer to one of them as Conservative, they quickly correct me. ‘Oh I’m a fiscal conservative but I am Libertarian on social issues and a Vegetarian when faced with a steak from a mad cow…’

Whatever. I’m a Liberal. Bash away at such decisiveness if you must.

Anyway, my latest amusement has come from the Conservative’s latest sound bite that Obama’s proposal to raise the tax rate on the wealthy in order to help address the deficit, referring to it as “class warfare”.

Nice imagery. When I hear that phrase I picture a bunch of unwashed serfs storming a castle with pitchforks, torches and nooses screaming for the head of some gout-stricken Lord. A rise of the poor majority demanding blood from the rich minority. Hey, they’re using the word ‘warfare’, so don’t blame me if it evokes violent images. They choose their words carefully, and that is apparently the image they are trying to portray - that this is WAR.

Actually, no. It isn’t. It is an attempt at fairness. It is the president saying those that have the capability to give more should. We are not in a war, but we are, by everyone’s assessment, in a crisis. A fiscal crisis that has manifested itself in massive deficits from previous spending. Spending that included, yes, a stimulus package championed by Obama, but also two wars championed by Bush. The current situation is one of policies over the past decade. Bush started two wars and gave us (and decidedly, the rich) two tax cuts. And, that, pardon me my Conservitarianeral friends, is fiscal irresponsibilty - raising your expenditures dramatically while decreasing your income. It is a recipe for bankruptcy.

And here we are in 2011 awash in red ink.

So Obama says to raise the tax rate on the rich to be the same rate as the middle class. Sounds fair to me. But of course, I’m a Liberal, and as such I am naïve, right? I cannot possibly understand such complexities as managing budgets and fair application of fiscal policy.

Have I mentioned that I also have an MBA?

Anyway, this is not about me. It is about the rich paying their fair share. Oh but hold the presses - there aren’t any “Rich People” people in this country. The Conservatives now have a new phrase for them. They are “Job Creators.” Well okay, to an extent I imagine there is a scintilla of truth in there. Rich people do tend to have staff. Someone has to drive them around, cook their meals, clean their six mansions, nanny their kids.

And keep the serfs from storming the castle.

But they are not job-producing self-contained factories of middle-class prosperity. Why? Well, if these ‘Job Creators’ have benefitted so much from tax cuts in the past decade, why aren’t they singlehandedly pumping life into this moribund economy by employing all these people standing in lines looking for work? Their discretionary income has dramatically increased in the past decade while other income group’s has fallen. Go hire another chauffeur, for crying out loud!

Now, I can hear the blowback already - many rich people got rich by starting businesses, and many of them do employ people - the ubiquitous 'small businessman' moniker. Okay fine. I buy that. And in response I offer two things: One, Obama has cut taxes to small businesses, and two, you have to separate the income of the business from the income of the person running the business. What Obama is targeting is the personal income of people making more than $250k a year, not the income of the business itself.

So, in light of that reality, explain how a higher tax rate on Bill Gates's personal income is going to translate to more of a tax burden to Microsoft. You can't. Because it does not exist. Remember that when Conservatives bemoam taxing 'Job Creators' - their businesses are untouched by this proposal. So that covers the concerns of the true entrepreneurs out there - the Bill Gates & Warren Buffetts of the world who came from nothing and crazily prospered through hard work and innovation.

So back to the other category of rich people. Those that have perhaps inherited their wealth, maybe sports athletes who signed outlandish salaries, whatever. People that, hey, great for them, had wealth handed to them. Herein lies the fallacy of the Conservative argument. The clothes have no emperor. These rich people do not spur the economy. There is no trickle down. Money has flowed upwards, not down. So it is time to call them what they are - not the engines of the economy, but rather, selfish benefactors of recent fiscal policy. And for them to pay more in taxes is not any kind of warfare. I would, instead, use an entirely different term for the president’s request for more money from them:

Patriotism.

Country first, right? Or have Conservatives discarded that phrase since it didn’t get McCain & Palin elected in 2008? It is hard for us Liberals to keep track of what their phrase du jour is anymore.

No wonder they think we're confused.

Life By The Smile

2011-09-21T11:35:00.002-04:00

We all know how influential music can be to our psyche. You hear a song and you are instantly transported to another place in time. For me, if I hear Gerry Rafferty doing Baker Street, it’s the summer of 1978 and I am a 19-year old jammin’ around Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio in my black Camaro Z-28. If I hear Don Henley’s Boys of Summer, it’s 1986 and I’m drinking beer at Double Roads in Juno Beach, Florida, cliff jumping with my bud Gary. Kid Rock’s Bawitdaba is summer of 2000, and I am walking hand in hand with Carrie, my girlfriend at the time.

Powerful stuff, music. It time-stamps our memory. A System Restore checkpoint if you will.

Beyond evoking pleasant memories, every now and then a song comes out with a phrase that makes you back the tape (or cd or iphone) up to listen to again. When I hear such phrases, I tend to wear them for a while - Meet the new boss, same as the old boss…You cross a lawyer with the Godfather you get an offer you can’t understand (that was Don Henley, Gimme What You Got, from 1986 btw)…Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…

These aren’t time machine-variety memories, these are more credos we adopt, so they differ from that first set of examples I gave.

Then there are lyrics that make you stop, think and go, FUCK-IN-A YES!!! Transcendental thoughts or perhaps introductions to new way of looking at things. If I dare say, lyrics that make you intuitively handle situations that used to baffle. Potentially life-changing stuff. Well, in this category, I place the following lyric:

“I used to be disgusted. Now I try to be amused.”

This is from Red Shoes, by Elvis Costello, circa 1978. I first heard that when I was 19, and the resonance of it escaped me at the time, mainly because I lacked the perspective needed to truly grasp its depth. Or maybe because I was smoking a lot of pot. Whatever. Anyway, the other day I came across a Youtube clip of Elvis doing Red Shoes in concert when he sang that lyric, and I just froze. Then I chuckled.

See, since 1978, when I first heard that to now, I have been, let’s just say, around the block a few times. I have had enough life experiences - and been disgusted enough times - to recognize the inherent, timeless wisdom of that phrase. I lived most of my adult life disgusted. This person would tick me off or that situation. And I rebelled. I would let the world know - THIS ISN’T FAIR.

Well, there was my first lesson. Nothing is fair. Life is not designed with fairness in mind. The cosmos are not programmed to dole out fairness to Jerry, or anyone else. We get what we get. So the key, as I have found out, is how to deal with that. And one of the options is to be disgusted. Thing is, that does not change anything, except my attitude. It makes it worse. And as a result of that, I tend to do bad things to myself, let alone piss off everyone around me.

There had to be a better way.

Well, there is. And I will not go into the details of what that better way is, as it would send this story on another tangent. What I will say is I have taken Elvis’s advice. I now try to be amused.

The beauty of this is multifaceted. One, I am now smiling. Two, I am laughing at this world and all its dysfunction. Three, I am not responsible for any of it, only my side of the street, so I basically let the dervishes whirl. You all are now here for my entertainment, not my judgment. Now, that may not be the most spiritual way of looking at things, but it beats getting pissed off about it.

So the world will spin. To all the disease, hatred, wars, famine, clueless politicians, dopey people texting while driving, homeless people having their dignity robbed, crack babies, bosses with their heads jammed up their sphincters, Casey Anthony, Casey Anthony protesters, Casey Anthony’s attorneys, donkey poker players catching inside straights with 4-7 in the hole, here’s my request:

Amuse me.

Inconsequential Consequences

2011-09-18T10:09:00.007-04:00

The other day I was having a chat with a coworker, who I discovered is, like me, a Democrat. During our talk, I mentioned that ‘we Liberals” think this certain way, when she interrupted me and said, “I am not a Liberal. I am a Progressive.”

That was a head-scratcher for me, as I had never really pondered what the difference is. She then explained that it mainly had to do with differing views on Democratic fiscal policy, where Liberals believe more in a safety net for individuals approach where Progressives advocate more of a safety net on a macro scale, such as regulations in the food and drug industries, for the public good.

Remember that phrase ‘public good’ – I will be coming back to that later.

I did some on-line research, based on our discussion, to delve further into the purported differences, because, quite frankly, I have only heard this label ‘Progressive’ being used in recent years. Back in the day, Democrats were Liberals and Republicans were Conservatives. Ah, but not any more – there are New Democrats, Compassionate Conservatives, Red Dog Democrats, Tea Party Conservatives and so on. So, while doing my research, I found that the real reason for the moniker ‘Progressive’ is that the word ‘Liberal’ has been demonized by the right – in other words, a different word was created meaning essentially the same thing that doesn’t have the sneer factor associated with it. Picture a 2010 Republican political ad – “Nancy Pelosi (invoke sneer here) Liberals in Congress…” It helps if you grit your teeth and snarl while you say it, for effect.

So if this is the case, that Liberal and Progressive essentially mean the same thing, then call me either. Just do so with a level of dignity, please. If you can, then read no further. If you cannot, then I implore you to read on, because that would mean you are a snarler.

I mentioned public good earlier. This phrase enrages the right, as to them it is a buzzword for Nanny State, Huge Government and the like. And the right abhors such things – recently-announced Presidential candidate Rick Perry, in his announcement speech said that, if elected, he will make “Washington as inconsequential to your life as possible.”

Well that’s uplifting. Elect him and he will embark on deconstructing. Hope your 401K rebounds before you retire, since Social Security will likely evaporate with that kind of mindset.

But that’s not the ‘public good’ I was thinking of. It is another one, and it has ties to both Perry and, more directly, Michelle Bachmann, another Republican running. It has to do with the HPV vaccine. For those that do not know, HPV is a virus that is rather prevalent in young women that could lead to cervical cancer. Well fear not, as there is a vaccine, which, administered to girls around the age of 12, can pretty much eradicate that possibility. It is a simple as getting a shot and removing the possibly heinous way of dying. Awesome.

Ah, but hold on a sec – Bachmann has inside information about this vaccine that apparently the medical world is not privy to. See, she was at a campaign stop last week when a person told her that a friend’s daughter had the vaccine and contracted mental retardation as a result. Stop the presses!

So let’s recap. We have the combined wisdom and research of the medical community versus what a Republican candidate was told by someone about someone else’s daughter. In a rational world, this is no contest. Unfortunately for them, Republicans left rational at the station when they jumped on the Tea Party Express.

So, why would anyone – even the far right – actually be against a vaccine that will save lives? Sadly, it is a simple answer, and one that should give everyone pause – to their way of thinking, giving young girls a vaccine that has to do with the cervix implies tacit approval of teen sex. And we all know that is bad. Ergo, in order to maintain their indefensible position they have to demonize the vaccine through the use of innuendo.

What does this have to do with Perry? Well, let me first state that I think if he is elected (which he won’t; our country has had our fill of Texas swagger in the White House, thank you very much) we are in serious trouble, I have to give him much credit for approving the use of the HPV vaccine for Texas schoolgirls while he was governor. Now that’s a Compassionate Conservative.

But Bachmann is not part of that cadre. Too Liberal for her tastes. And she’s twenty points down in the polls to Perry. So out trots twisted logic straight out of Ferris Bueller implying that since she heard from someone who heard from someone that was at 31 Flavors last night that the vaccine may have dire side effects we should immediately halt the administration of it. Let women die a horrible death for the purpose of political gain.

Disgraceful.

So to summarize, on one side of the political spectrum you have the belief of research and medical advances. On the other you have hearsay and innuendo that, interestingly, is anti-women. And anti-science. Well excuse me Mr. Perry, but that is hardly ‘inconsequential.’ And excuse me, Ms, Bachmann, but I don't give rat's ass what some wingnut told you in passing at a political rally. To me, that is inconsequential. And that it isn't to you, is alarming.

So remember this story. And remember public good. Based on that alone you cannot in good conscience ever vote for these people. Young women will die.

That is not inconsequential.

I play alone…

2011-09-15T21:06:00.017-04:00

…YEAHHH with nobody else…

I gave up drinking alone a while back so that activity has been mothballed, but for as long as I can remember I have enjoyed playing golf alone. I doubt George Thorogood would get inspired by such an activity. Whatever. Go have one bourbon, one scotch & one beer, George.

I just got off the course after a solo round, mainly because My Man Mike cancelled out of our weekly round. Damn job of his. Since I had already packed my change of clothes I decided to press on in his absence. So after work I went over to Winter Park Country Club, a delightful, walkable nine-hole layout about ten minutes from work.

Now, I really don’t want to bore with details, but I am going to anyway. Mainly because it wasn’t boring. A number of things happened during the round that were just plain weird, funny, inspiring, frustrating. In other words, a typical round. So here we go. Now on the tee, from Altamonte Springs, Florida via Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio …

Me.

First hole: I arrive to the tee just as a threesome of elderly Jamaican men were coming off the ninth green, and our paths intersected at the tee. Now, etiquette dictates that players making the turn (them) must yield the tee to players beginning their round (me). They obliged, and offered me to play through, which I accepted, but the problem was I hadn’t warmed up yet. So I let them hit their tee shots while I swung two clubs tying to get my back to pop. Each one of them was a good player, and the last guy swung cross-handed; in other words, he played right handed with a left-hander’s grip. Very rare. He proceeded to smack it about 220 yards down the middle. They then stepped to the side of the tee while I caught one pretty good, about 240 yards down the left side. We walked down the fairway together and we chatted. They were from Kingston originally.

So the round’s off to an interesting start…if you think a threesome of elderly Jamaicans, one with a crosshanded grip, is interesting. I do. I pitch onto the green and have a six-footer for birdie that I struck well but it horseshoed out on me. Tap in par. Off to a solid start.

Second hole: Short par 3, about 150 yards. I pull a 7-iron that settles pin high right, about 20 feet from Webster Avenue. Now this shot is hard enough, but when you have in the back of your mind the nagging thought that a dump truck could t-bone you at any second it adds a wrinkle of difficulty normally not accounted for. I have to hit a major flop shot over a bunker & catch it perfectly. The ball stops 6 feet past the pin, so I have basically the same putt that I did on the first. This time I made it. Par.

Third hole: Straightaway par 5, about 440 yards. I tag my drive about 250 with a peel-cut off the trees on the right. With about 185 to the green, I take out my trusty 7-wood and proceed to hit a skank pull-hook that rattles in the trees on the right. Ugh. For the third shot I have to execute another flop shot that I stick to, again, 6 feet. I run in the putt. Birdie. I’m one under. At this point I am glad I worked on my pitching the night before.

Fourth hole: Signature hold of the course. A right-to-left bending par 5 of about 530 yards. Left is death. Literally. Because it’s a cemetery. The play is to stay right off the tee and on the second shot to set up a wedge into the green, which is exactly what I did – drive in the right rough, a 3 wood down the right side, a punch sand wedge. Two putts, a solid par on the toughest hole on the course.

Now, I’ve got four holes under my belt, which is a good check point as to how I am doing. Well, shit, I’m one under. Got no complaints.

Fifth hole: Straightaway par 4. Road on left, trees right. And of course, I hit it where I always do. In the trees on the right. I only have about 100 yards left to the green but have to punch & run it due to the hanging branches, which I do, but a touch too firm and it rolls off the back of the green. Now, it bears noting that right behind the green is the intersection of two busy roads, and the evening rush hour traffic is humming behind me. I take my sand wedge, ball back in stance, and hit a perfect pitch shot. It lands about 15 feet short of the hole and starts rolling…and rolling…and…plop. Into the cup. A chip in birdie! Now, I may be playing alone, but I still celebrate, so I give it a fist-pump “YEAH!’ when the ball goes in. The next sound I heard was a car horn, and a guy yelling “NICE SHOT!” from his car in the adjacent intersection. I hollered a “THANK YOU!” at him and a doff of the cap.

God I love this game. And I’m now two under.

Sixth hole: Pretty little par 4, dogleg right, trees all the way down the right. Two ways to play it: There's the safe play which is a hybrid to the corner & a flip wedge to the green. Then there is the stupid way: Try to carry the trees on the right, cut the corner to go for the green.

I’m two under. Time to get stupid.

My driver is well struck but a touch low. Any other hole it would have been perfect. On this hole it’s jail. The ball rattles in the trees, which mercifully spit it into the fairway. Good break, but I have to hit another punch shot to the green, which came out just like the one on the previous hole – a touch hot, the ball settling off the back of the green. A tickly downhill chip leaves me ten feet from the hole. I run the putt in for a well-earned par.

Seventh hole: Short par 3, about 125 yards. I hit a smooth 9-iron to the middle of the green. Two putts later I have my par.

Checkpoint time. Seven holes down, I’m still two under. And I’m starting to think about it. Not good.

Eight hole: Basically a repeat of the seventh. A 125-yard par 3. I settle over my 9-iron with thoughts of ‘Wow I would really like to shoot under par’…this is exactly what NOT to think. I swing and the contact makes a sickening thud sound that occurs when the neck of the club hits the ball. We call that a shank. The ball goes dead left about 100 yards. I’m not loving this game so much now, but I am laughing at how much of an egotistical dumbass I am. I find my ball in the rough and hack out a sand wedge just trying to get it anywhere on the green. I did, and two putts later I register my first bogey on the round.

Final hole: Dogleg left par 4, trees left, parking lot right. Now, I’m one under, and I could just hit an iron & a wedge to the green, get my par and bask in an under par round. Well, what’s the fun in that? Out comes the driver, and there goes my ball into the parking lot, featuring a nice high bounce over a car leaving the lot. Well I’ll tell you something right now – I am finding that ball, I don’t care if it’s in Ocoee, and I am playing it. I find it, about 25 yards past the green, and I have your standard garden variety pitch shot over the parking lot, palm tree & bunker. Kid’s stuff. Needing one more good swing, instead I blade the pitch and it goes screaming into the palm tree, which, in this instance, acted like a parachute, depositing my ball on the green about 15 feet from the hole. Two putts later, I make a wild par and shoot a very satisfying one-under 34.

So to recap, in an hour & a half I met three Jamaicans, had a honking gallery cheer my birdie, shanked a stock nine iron, and damn near took out a Lexus with one of my drives.

Just a typical day on the links.

Nine Eleven...Fifty Eight

2011-09-11T10:07:00.004-04:00

So I got up this morning knowing that today is my birthday. In celebration, given that it’s a Sunday, my first act was sleeping in. As I trudged from bathroom to the kitchen to get a glass of juice & take my morning meds, I had a nice feeling knowing that, on my computer, there would be some nice messages from friends and family. Sure enough, there were. Seventeen emails, a couple of e-cards. People posted to my Facebook page their well-wishes. I read through them and I smiled. Then I turned on the television.

It was 8:46 a.m. The moment the first plane hit the World Trade Center ten years ago.

And I got somber. Up until that moment it was a nice morning. It instantly switched to what the rest of the world knows September 11 as. I watched transfixed the moment of silence, followed by the President reading from the Bible. Then people took turns reading names of the deceased at the podium. Ten minutes later, they had only gotten to the B’s.

We all remember where we were ten years ago. It is one of the timestamps on our lives that we each will never forget. For me, I was celebrating my 43^rd birthday with a morning smoke outside my office (I still smoked at the time). A man came out of an adjoining building telling me we were at war. I thought he was nuts. Going back into my office I found out the awful truth on the television. There were the smoldering towers, one plane crashed into each, eventually falling to the ground.

And I get selfishly mad. My thought was ‘These motherfuckers did this on my birthday.’

I am not very proud of that thought, as lost at the moment was the gross human sacrifice while my mind stayed self-centered on how it affected me. But that’s me. I am a contradiction of thoughts, as most are, and goddammit, this was about me, not about those poor souls that were jumping from the towers to their deaths. When the towers fell, I finally gave up any thoughts of it being a day of personal celebration and accepted the realization that the day that marks my entrance into the world concurrently marks the exit of 2,983 others at the hands of terrorists.

Prior to 2001, I used to tell people how to remember my birthday. It’s what you dial in an emergency. No such memory jogs are needed now.

So, on this and every September 11 from here forward and hence, you all will remember what this day truly means.

For me, it means another candle on the cake.

Happy Birthday Arnie!

2011-09-10T10:20:00.002-04:00

Today is September 10. Tomorrow, September 11, is my birthday. Virtually the entire world knows September 11 for another event that happened 10 years ago, but I stubbornly refuse to get drawn into that since, 43 years prior to planes crashing towers, I was born. So I’ve been around longer than the terrorists. But as I stated, this is September 10. And 82 years ago today, Arnold Daniel Palmer was born. I’ve always been kinda proud that me & Arnie darn near share the same birthday.

I grew up in Ohio, and one of my personal heroes is Jack Nicklaus. Heck, I even named my son after him (no, not Jack, his name is Nicholas…different spelling but same pronunciation). Jack is widely known as the greatest golfer ever, as his record is unmatched. Nobody took hold of golf tournaments and finished them off better than Jack. When his name appeared on the leaderboard the rest of the field would do a collective ‘Oh shit’ and usually fold. Definitely the most respected and feared competitor ever to step onto a course.

But Arnie was the most loved.

I had the pleasure to watch Arnie play back in his heyday of the late 60’s and early 70’s. I remember my first impression of him was how big his forearms were. I was maybe ten years old, and my dad had pretty good forearms by virtue of being a plumber by trade, but after seeing Arnie’s, there was no doubt that he would destroy my dad in arm wrestling. They were huge!

The other thing I remember from that encounter was Arnie had a charisma and connectivity to the gallery no golfer has ever had. On one tee, hundreds of people, including me, awaited his arrival. When he came through the ropes, the applause was on a decibel level reserved for heads of state. Perhaps this is why his nickname is The King. Anyway, Arnie had this habit of scanning the gallery, looking people right in the eye. And on this day, he did that with me – for a brief instance, Arnold Palmer looked 10-year-old Jerry straight in the eye and gave me a slight nod of his head and a wink. At that moment I was in orbit and had my hero chosen. Arnie looked at me!

As I came to find out, this was a regular occurrence with Arnie. He played to the crowds, sometimes to the detriment of his game. Oftentimes he was goaded into hitting a shot he should not have tried because the gallery insisted he go for broke. Coincidentally, that was the name of one of his books – Go For Broke. In contrast, I cannot imagine Jack ever letting the gallery dictate what shot he was going to hit. For Jack, the course was the forum for him to strategically navigate in the fewest strokes possible. For Arnie, it was his stage, and he had the leading role. And he played it to the hilt. This is why, win or lose, Arnie was and always will be The Man to many.

Arnie had/has a homemade swing. Nothing technically correct about it, as he would essentially ‘muscle’ the ball with a low penetrating draw that never seemed to get more than ten feet off the ground. His strategy was pretty much one-dimensional – hit it as hard as you can, go find it, then hit it hard again. Jack, on the other hand, was the quintessential strategist – he would hit whatever off the tee he determined would result in the lowest score on the hole – it could be a driver, 3-wood or 6-iron. Arnie was not so nuanced. It was driver. Every time.

As a result, Arnie did not win as many tournaments as he should have. He won more than 70 PGA tour events but only seven Majors. That total should have easily been double. Specifically, he lost the 1966 U.S. Open when he had a 7-shot lead with 9 holes to play. And he even admits that, at that point in time, his focus was not on winning the tournament but of breaking the all-time U.S. Open scoring record of 272. Jack would have never let that kind of thought enter his mind. If Jack were up 7 on the 10^th tee, he would make sure he was still up 7 on the 18^th tee. Arnie’s tragedies on the course just endeared himself more to his fans. Eventually it was not a matter of him winning or losing, it was just him being there, swashbuckling his way around the course.

Go Arnie…BABY!!

There’s an anecdote, I believe penned by Dan Jenkins, which most accurately described the Jack versus Arnie dynamic. The Golf Gods turned to Jack and said, ‘You will be the most successful, feared golfer who ever lived’, and then they turned to Arnie and said ‘But they will love you more’. And that is exactly what has happened. Jack is respected. Arnie is adored.

Living in Orlando, Arnie sightings are a common occurrence during the winter months. He has a home in Bay Hill and plays golf every day. Funny isn’t it – his career was playing golf, and he retired…to the golf course. And the folks at Bay Hill say Arnie’s out there every morning slapping balls, trying to find the ‘secret’ that will make him better…at age 82!

So in about an hour I am going to go play golf with a couple of friends. And I think, in celebration of Arnie’s birthday, I will try to pull off a couple of shots I have no business trying.

Happy Birthday Arnie. Fire at a flag.

You Get What You Get

2011-09-09T14:57:00.008-04:00

I was sitting here doing some amusing musing about the great complexities of life. You know, why are we here, how come bad things happen to good people, why haven’t the Browns ever made it to a Super Bowl…that kind of stuff. A couple weeks back I wrote about the strange twists and turns that a golf ball makes and how perfect strategy can avail you nothing while horrible shots can sometimes turn out good. The kinds of things that make many folks go nuckin futz trying to figure out.

For example, by all accounts Casey Anthony killed her kid, yet was found not guilty. Meanwhile, some poor soul who was just minding their business walking down the street gets blindsided by a bus. For those agnostically-inclined, this seems to be proof that there is no God. For the more pious, they would say that He works ‘in mysterious ways’.

I don’t think either is the case.

I don’t believe in justice. And the reason I don’t is that is a subjective term that varies in definition from individual to individual. My definition of justice may make you vomit, and vice versa. Further, using the examples from the last paragraph, the agnostic may think the only place ‘justice’ can be administered is in the courtroom since there is no supreme being, whereas the religious folks would say that the only one that can truly mete justice out is the One we meet upon vacating this earth. So, as it applies to Casey Anthony, the agnostic may say ‘she beat the system but karma will get her’ and the righteous may say ‘God will judge her.’ Justice is subjective and cannot be agreed upon. And further, on a personal level, it's not even something I desire.

My point of this isn’t to elicit opinions on Casey Anthony. I pretty much know what they are anyway. It is to point out the vagaries of perception in individuals, and further, my journey in trying to find what I truly believe is fairness. Well, here’s what I have concluded:

Nothing is fair, but everything is fair. Confused? I will elaborate.

Each person’s life is made up of thousands of incidents, some good some not so good. And if you were to take each instance on its own merit, rarely do we get what we deserve. I break the speed limit damn near every time I drive, yet I still have my driver’s license. On the flip side I treat people with respect and fairness, yet I am still single and alone. Now - take that one individual with their thousands of instances and multiply it by the 4 billion people on this globe and you have trillions of incidents. And if you take the sum of all these incidents and were to determine if fairness won the day, you would have to say yes. In other words, on a macro level it’s all good. On the individual incident level, nothing is fair. We don’t get what we deserve; we don’t get what we want.

We get what we get.

So I am sure some of you are saying ‘How Zen of you, Jer’. But the reason I have come to this conclusion is to adequately define, to my level of satisfaction, why apparently good people get screwed over while apparently bad people go through life unfettered by either incarceration or safes falling on their heads. Because that’s just how it is. I believe in God, but my definition of Him isn’t as a scorekeeper or an entity making sure everything is doled out fairly on a person-by-person level. I just think the randomness of our self will being imparted into the realm of everyone else’s self will creates conflict. And I cannot control traffic, weather, or how my golf ball bounces. I can just prepare the best I can, and execute to the best of my ability. I will either get what I deserve or I won’t.

And I am good with that. Because, honestly, what else can we do, outside of cursing God or picketing the Orange County Courthouse? So fine - be your own judge on what is fair, and feel free to be outraged when that paradigm is besmirched. I just want to be happy. So while you’re busy being pissed off, I’ll be on the golf course slapping drives towards water hazards that hit a rock and bound into the middle of the fairway, and hitting putts destined to go into the center of the hole only to be knocked off line by a spike mark. And I will smile, knowing that there’s no cosmic force out there trying to get me or doling out fairness to me…no unseen deity making sure I am getting what I deserve.

Just getting what I get.

Life Is Just a Fantasy

2011-09-07T11:42:00.007-04:00

With the start of the NFL season just a few days away, it is time for my annual rant about what has become a mega-million dollar industry. No, I am not talking about the actual football games themselves, I am talking about an offshoot of the games that has contributed mightily to the popularity of the sport:

Fantasy football.

Most everyone knows what fantasy football is, but for those unfortunate few that have lived their last twenty years in Croatia, I will burn a couple of sentences explaining: You draft your own ‘team’ of NFL players that competes weekly against other such drafted teams. You may have the Jaguars Quarterback, the Dolphins Running Back & the Raiders Kicker as your team (and if you do, I feel sorry for you if you have to try to win games with Luke McCown, Reggie Bush & Sebastian Janikowski as your skill player but anyway…) and these players get points for your team based on how they perform - a Touchdown throw may be worth 4 points, a Field Goal three points, and so on. Add up all the points your players scored and hope it’s more than your opponent for that week. Lots of fun.

The reason it has drastically increased the interest in NFL football is twofold. One, it has pulled in the interest of people who otherwise would not give a rat’s rump about football. Secretaries who once thought Benjarvis Green-Ellis was a law firm now know he’s a damn good pick up in the sixth round. Secondly, for fans that root fervently for one team, fantasy football gives them a reason to watch other games. What used to be a groan of “Dang. The four o’clock game is St. Louis at Atlanta” has turned into “Oh cool. I got Roddy White and Sam Bradford on my team.”

And this is why the NFL has done a delicate dance with fantasy football. It is technically gambling, as teams usually pony up money that everyone plays for, and the NFL abhors gambling…or at least pretends that it does. But fantasy football has opened up the game to the masses that otherwise would not care about the game so the NFL does not want to squash anything that doesn't put more money in the owner's pockets. And honestly, even though there is money on the line, it is not in the raw, base form of calling your bookie to lay three and a half when the Ravens visit the Browns. Heck, NFL players play fantasy football, and many times they draft themselves. And further, many fantasy leagues are “free” wink wink nudge nudge…

I was playing fantasy football before it was even called fantasy football. Seriously. I started a league in 1988, back when it was called ‘Rotisserie Football’. This was before the internet, fantasy football magazines, cheat sheets and the like. Preparing for the draft consisted of buying a Street & Smith’s NFL preview magazine and writing down team’s depth charts. You then had to make a judgment call on whose running back would have a better year. So, my sheet may have Emmitt Smith listed first, yours may have Kevin Mack. Totally subjective with little rationale other than whom I liked. As a result, draft nights were major clusterfucks, with guys drafting Bubby Brister in the second round. These days that doesn’t occur, as everyone just shows up with their copy of the cheat sheet from their favorite fantasy mag.

As I was Commissioner of the league I had to calculate the results of the weekend’s games. This was done by getting up very early on Monday mornings, about two hours before I would normally do, put on a pot of coffee, grab the newspaper that had the box scores from the Sunday games, and do the math - “Let’s see…Troy Aikman threw for 221 yards and a score…that’s 12 points…”In other words, all you soft internet babies out there, no website did the work for you. It was paper ‘n pencil, and lots of revisions.

Which brings me to my final point. I know this game. So this is a gauntlet throw-down to anyone that thinks they can outsmart a guy that’s been doing this since before many current fantasy football participants were born. You think you know that Mike Vick is a stud? Why - cuz your precious Fantasy Mag said so? Ha. I laugh at you. I fart in your general direction. You only think you know, because some source is telling you something that you are too lazy to find out on your own.

Back in my day we used to eat dirt.

I just did 3 fantasy drafts this past weekend, and frankly I love all my teams. I made a couple of eyebrow-raising selections, but you watch - Mike Shanahan is gonna run the legs off of Tim Hightower in Washington, and Beanie Wells will be the main cog of Arizona’s offense. Got them in the fifth and sixth rounds respectively.

See if your precious fantasy magazine tells you that, Posers.

Clarity and Closure

2011-09-05T10:49:00.010-04:00

I recall when I first got sober in 1996. I was maybe 2 months in at the time & I had a dull shuffle mien and a blank expression on my face. An old-timer came up to me and said, “The good news is, you’ll get your emotions back. The bad news is…you’ll get your emotions back.”

He was right. Old-timers in sobriety usually are.

This time around, I am sitting here with 3 ½ months since my last drink. Overall, I feel great. This is the fourth day of an extended long weekend and so far I have played golf twice, went to a movie, got my car fixed, bought a new computer, did a fantasy football draft, played cards, slept in, took naps. And hit 3 meetings (so far). Very relaxing.

My mind is clearing well too. Hell, just look at the number of stories I’ve posted to this blog since late May. Sixteen and counting. My imagination’s fired and streams of thought are turning into torrential floods. Sometimes I cannot process things quickly enough. At work I’ve turned into a more lucid, ‘with it’ worker, able to think well on my feet. Mentally, it’s all good.

But the emotions. Oh my.

There’s a guy in the rooms with 23 years sober named Al. Every time he speaks he says the same phrase – “This is an emotion-driven disease!” The first few times I heard that I nodded semi-knowingly, since the brain was still foggy. Now when I hear it I just laugh. At myself. Because I now see how my emotions dictated my actions. If I felt a certain way, I acted on that feeling. Which, hey, is great if you’re with a partner that likes spontaneity, but as a general rule of thumb does not lend itself to long-term contentment or serenity. How many times, when asked why you did something did you answer, “I don’t know”…?

The real answer is, “Because my emotional state at the time made the decision.”

And why is this so bad? Well, for so-called normal people, it isn’t, since they more or less have control of their emotional state. They recognize irrational fear as a make-believe boogeyman that doesn’t need acknowledged…let alone acted upon. They don't process a look from a person as 'That bitch hates me'. They don't equate getting cut off in traffic as a reason to get shitfaced. That’s not the case with people in active addiction or early recovery. We feel it, we act on it. Subconsciously and automatically. And much like firing a shotgun blindfolded, we sometimes, by pure luck, hit the intended target. But much more likely, we haphazardly miss and make a mess in the process.

This is why there is a Ninth Step. To right those wrongs we committed by the scatter-shot approach we lived our lives, inflicting the damage on the innocent bystanders that had only the misfortune of being in our way. To make these amends, we need, first of all, clarity of mind. Second, we need to be spiritually fit – the amend is about our wrongs, not the other person’s, and if we are not fit spiritually, such an action can turn into an argument. Or worse. And lastly, it requires some modicum of control, or at the very least, acknowledgement, of our emotional state.

I am in the process of righting these wrongs. The family was pretty easy – they know me & I know them, and on my trip last month to Ohio I was able to do so. Siblings that wanted to hang me by my nuts four months ago I can now have normal relationships with again. People I’ve owed money have been repaid. Those were the easy ones.

But then there are the tougher ones. And one in particular. The ex-girlfriend. I have tried but she is unwilling to accept it. And that is okay – I hurt her and she still has the scars.

And this is exactly where my emotional state is critical. Do I engage in ‘old behavior’, which consists of demanding she listen to me, to see what am I trying to do…or do I just accept this is how she is and move on? The answer, to everyone not with an addictive mind, is obvious. To people like me, it takes some processing to get there. It takes reliance on the advice of a sponsor, a lot of meetings. It essentially takes a re-wiring of my thinking. And this is what I eventually conclude through this process -

I cleared my side of the street. Time to move on.

And you know what? It hurts. It hurts that this person, who so loved me, wants little to do with me now.

But that’s what happens when you fire a shotgun blindfolded.