The whisper of epithets

My Facebook account has been acting rather strange for the past couple of days. This is hardly cause for an adjustment of the nation's DEF-CON status. However, it does, as the kids used to say, blow. (Pretty impressive I used 3 commas in a 10-word sentence, no?) Though I'm generally not too keen on fads or what keeps contemporary minds afloat, I have become somewhat enamored with Facebook. Sure, we can lament how it has replaced actual, meaningful contact between friends and family, but I suppose any contact is better than nothing. And the stinker in me can't help taking devilish delight in giving totally random, absurd "updates" to friends waiting for some bit of self-insight or reflection.

Back in the 20th century, we had to actually attend family reunions and class reunions for the awkwardness unique to seeing people you sort of know but not really and probably spent the interim between meetings devising ways to avoid those very people. Now we can just click "add as friend" and never give them another thought. Your unknown relative/forgotten friend day will probably be brightened thinking you're really interested in what he/she has been up to all this time. You'll feel good in knowing you gave the appearance of caring but didn't actually expend any energy. Everybody wins.***

But as for now, I can't do anything like that. Every time I try to log on I get a slightly different message telling me that my account is temporarily unavailable. Try again in a few minutes. While this is likely due to some aspect of the communist conspiracy and general effort to keep a brother down, it has the ultimate effect of keeping me uniformed. And since news cycles, even personal ones, are so quick these days, there is no telling what I have missed. I fear I will now be on the outside looking in as new references and inside jokes are made amongst folks whom I've known for far too long. This has caused great consternation.

Damn you, Facebook. Damn you all to Hell.

Until you get this ship righted and I'm back in the chosen fold, of course.

***Understand this doesn't apply to my friends and relations on Facebook. You are all awesome in every way. I was just waiting all those years until something as mind-blowing as the internets to come along to make communication easier. What with the monopoly AT & T had on the phone service all those years, I thought of it as saving you a little scratch. And then all that food preparation that would have to be done for any reunions. And let's not even talk about the postal service.

A flat Earth calls for a flat hero

There's a children's book called Flat Stanley. I realize this news is most likely not a shock to the plugged-in readers of this particular site. I like to think that I'm with it as well. Alas, it would appear that I've let my plugged-in-edness lag a bit in the children's literature dept: I'd never heard of it.

Wikipedia says the book came out in the early 60s and since Wikipedia never lies, I'll defer to them and admit defeat. It goes without saying that I wasn't born yet so perhaps that will hold my excuse, however tenuous. The timeline of when Flat Stanley did or didn't come into being really has nothing to do with the rest of my tale so it's probably best just to move on.

In this book, there is a boy called, surprisingly enough, Stanley and through some sort of misfortune he ends up being flattened. Whether by a suitcase or a 10-ton weight or a piano or something, Stanley goes from being a rigid, normal boy to the malleable and paper thin fellow the so man schoolkids apparently love.

One would reckon this to be a somewhat traumatic situation for the little gent. That his family probably would require years of intense therapy resulting in hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills, and the very real possibility that the family would shatter. But since Stanley's family is made of stronger stock, and this is a children's book not a Lifetime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney, they made lemonade out of life's lemons.

Clever, if somewhat cruelly, his parents dub him Flat Stanley and discover he can fit in an envelope. While I'm not really sure how this problem or solution came up--again, I've not read the book--this eureka moments results in the newly christened Flat Stanley being sent sent all over the world. I suppose getting to see the world for the price of whatever a postage stamp goes for these days isn't that bad. But considering what Stanley's been through, it seems a little macabre that his parents immediately hatch a plan to send him as far away and as frequently as possible.

Of course, this may have been in their best interest as well. It seems rather likely that DFACS would start snooping around after hearing about a little boy getting flattened in his own home. The whole tale really doesn't suggest the best environment for child rearing, but I guess we're not really dealing within the confines of reality with this one.

Given the popularity of the book with everyone (except me, apparently) some ingenious soul, probably a teacher, decided kids might enjoy making their own Flat Stanleys and sending him all over the world. That way some do-gooder can take his picture in front of, say, Big Ben. The cynic in me can't help but think this is little more than a means to prop up our lagging postal service, but I'm sure the stated goals of the project are a bit more altruistic. Probably to promote peace, equality and acceptance of flat persons or some such. Maybe even teach kids that geography can be fun. I don't know.

What I do know is that this notion has become quite popular and folks seem to get awfully excited about getting the opportunity. Look at me, I've written an entire post on taking a picture with a paper cutout. (There should have been a spoiler alert before that last sentence. Oh, well.) But there's a web site devoted to all things Flat Stanley and his many travels and the people, famous and otherwise, he's met along the way. If, by chance, I've not gone into enough detail about this whole business or you really need to see Dave Matthews shaking hands with one Stanley, then head on over there now. Don't worry, I'll wait.

Thanks to a cousin from somewhere other than here, Saturday night was my turn. Figuring that there was no better place to be than the Georgia Tech-Virginia Tech game, we decided to take Stanley along. Since Tech is rather stringent on everyone having a ticket, Stanley was smuggled in. Quite probably I was the only fellow smuggling in something other than a potent potable, but I felt no less rebellious. "Power to the people" being one of Stanley's less popular credos. As I get more set in my ways, my civil disobedience gets tamer and tamer. Or lamer and lamer.

So with Tech leading 7-3 at halftime and figuring the ushers were on a smoke break, I felt the time was right for Stanley to make his appearance. I realize that the average person probably would feel a bit stupid doing such things in any situation, let alone a football game. However, I love the children and believe they are our future and gladly obliged.


Afterwards, I didn't have the heart to fold Stanley up and send him back into the pocket of my Dad's seat cushion. My Dad's a nice guy and all, but I really wouldn't want to smell his ass for 3 hours and can't imagine a piece of paper would either. So I tucked Stanley in between my sweater and there he stayed for the rest of the match.

Stanley watched the contest amazed that an otherwise sensible 30-something would assign feelings to a cutout when Stanley's own parents clearly didn't seem to care to begin with. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere, but who cares Tech won. The real Tech, that is. Georgia Tech.

A home no more

It was announced yesterday where Furman Bisher is calling it a day. I suppose it shouldn't be too much of a surprise to hear a 90-year old doing such things, but Bisher is a little different. He was (is) the dean of southern sports journalism and was on the job longer than I've been alive. Actually, his career started before my father was born; my father is 67.

I'd wager Bisher has seen just about every major sporting event that has happened in the past 50 years and an untold number that simply occurred and time forgot. An interesting life to be sure. Perhaps as a result, he was also one of the finest columnists, on any subject, I've ever read.
These days whenever one of the old dogs of journalism hangs it up, it's common for the young turks to lament the passing of an era. Often such lamentations are unoriginal and trite. Faux sentimentality used to code the underlying message: "Time passed him by."

With Bisher though, it is doubtful his like will be seen again. Sports reporting today is more about flash, "wit" and the cult of personality than anything to do with an event. The game is a mere backdrop. Snark has replaced insight. Being clever is held in higher regard than being good or, God forbid, the facts. And the less said the better about the notion, sadly increasing, of modern sports reporters deciding they're de facto political commentators, peppering their columns and stories with unneccesary partisan asides.

In short, the idea that the reporter is there to report and not actually part of the story is as outdated as some probably think Bisher is. Since sports are such an integral part of our culture, I suppose it's only fitting that sports reporting is as shallow and meaningless these days as anything else we subsist on. Thank you, ESPN.

But there was a time when journalist actually knew how to relay events. To put them in their proper context--contrary to popular belief, not every strike out or touchdown is a significant moment in the life of a sports fan. To put us in that moment without self-aggrandizement. No, sports really aren't that important compared to death and taxes. However, they do help make all the unpleasantness in between a little more bearable. In that regard, Furman Bisher helped more than most. Selah

I think your car alarm is going off

Golly, it's a pissy day. The type of day where one is sure that's it's raining all over the world. Or maybe the sky is crying as I'm sure some blues song somewhere says. I hate the blues, btw, so I'll presume I'd hate that song. Actually, come to think of it there was a Stevie Ray Vaughan song by that very title some years back. Maybe he wrote it. Maybe he didn't. But I was correct. I did hate the song. Still do, in fact. Much like 99.9% of his output. Sorry, SRV. Nothing personal, but again, I hate the blues.

Life can be depressing enough. So when I want a musical escape from the daily humdrum, I really don't need to listen to some geezer moan about how shitty their life is because their old lady done left them for a back door man or their hands are bleeding from picking cotton all day. Situations, I hasten to add, that the (most likely) white performer is not currently experiencing nor ever has. Plus, I would think bleeding hands would make plucking cat gut strings on an old cigar box or blowin' that harmonica difficult. Thank God Led Zeppelin invented rock and roll so we don't have to listen to such moaning anymore.

That all has very little to do with the weather here. And in reality it's not raining all over the world. It's not even raining 20 miles south of here. Or at least so says the radar. And we all know how reliable those things are. What this all ultimately means is that it is highly unlikely that Buster's mighty mites match will be held this evening. Which is a shame since they're currently riding a one-game winning streak. No, they probably haven't turned any corner. But I'd like to think the first taste of blood (read:victory) has turned this otherwise somewhat well-behaved bunch of ragamuffins into raving lunatics desperate to feast upon the entrails of another group of unfortunate miscreants. Blood lust knows no age. Plus, they get snacks after it's all done. That seems to be the most popular part of the day for all involved.

But win they did on Saturday morning. Braving a monsoon at the start only to find the sun peek out by the end. The weather as peculiar as the game was normal. Though it was fairly close, the game was never really in doubt since Buster's crew scored two quick touchdowns and held the other team scoreless for the first quarter. At this level, the game is more or less deciding when the first team fails to score on their possession.

Added in was some rather bizarre play calling by the other team who insisted on lining up in the shotgun. Questionable logic if you're going to run it up the middle every time. And at this level, every team does. Every time. Except for when the snap went over the quarterback's head (often). And when they tried a reverse! Kudos to the coach for doing just what no one was expecting him to do, but there's a reason no one was expecting it. These are 8-year old who have never played football before. If you tell one of them to run the opposite way with the ball, that's just what he's going to do. Oblivious to the fact he's supposed to hand it off to the guy coming towards him. So instead of scoring that easy touchdown, he got tackled by his own teammate. Oops.

Surely, the coach was bummed he couldn't attempt the amazing fake field goal he worked on all week. That would have really caught us off guard.

Laziness pt. 20

Mia Farrow learns Woody Allen has signed the Free Roman Polanski petition.

Not one of the better ones

It didn't occur to me until I was walking to the post office yesterday afternoon, but I'm already upon the one-year anniversary of our France/England trip. Given the 5-hour time differential I would go so far as to say that at this precise moment one year ago my fingers were working diligently away at updating everyone on that day's events. The highlight of that particular day was going to Ultima Thule record shop in Leicester and buying an awful lot of records. By coincidence, I received two records in the mail today. Zounds. Plus ça change, je suppose.

Along the same lines, I was watching Stephen Fry In America last night. Not really sure what it is about titans of British comedy discovering a second life as your jolly, inquisitive travel guide, but it's worked for various Monty Python guys so why not Fry? Though he's a British national treasure with numerous series under his belt, if Fry is known in the U.S. at all, it's for being Hugh Laurie's (TV's House) comedy partner from way back when. That is a lament for another time, however.

As the title suggests, this particular series finds Stephen Fry in America, confused, bemused and bamboozled by the curious ways of us yanks. All of which is delivered with that dry reserve of which only the British can muster. Bemusement seems to be a recurring theme with the British. The idea that Americans are a lovable sort but, dear me, somewhat unrefined with an silly desire to have everything bigger, louder and all-around better just because we can. A fair point, but an oversimplification.

Fry himself seems to quickly realize this as he dwells deeper into the country, into the less heralded segments and rural areas. A coal mine in West Virginia, a Thanksgiving dinner in Savannah, even an Auburn-Alabama football game. Seems telling that the only stop in this episode that Fry found truly revolting was the pastel nightmare of Miami. Refreshingly, this was the one example of that big, garish, glaring distraction America that was highlighted.

I'm sure my surroundings color my view, but I tend to find more of interest in the forgotten. In this overexposed culture that we call the modern life, it's nice to (re)discover something and delve deeper into that which has not been rehashed endlessly. Which is not say, I don't enjoy a thriving metropolis, I do. But it just seems that in order to find any semblance of the unique or the individual it takes traveling along that overused phrase: the road less traveled. But I've already probably gotten too pretentious and really don't feel like developing that further.

I think I lost my train of thought somewhere along the way and probably shouldn't hit post. I will anyway. Maybe I'll delete it sometime. Maybe not. The next entry will be better. Unless it's not.