Mr. Huizenga will see you now pt. 2

After dragging this tale out for the better part of 2 weeks, I almost tempted to remind folks there was a game I went to. Given the first couple of posts on this trip, the game would appear to have been secondary. Given that Tech lost, it was. Such is life. On with the story and an otherwise Semitic-free post.

Miami is generally thought to be a fairly tropical place filled with def bods, most of whom wear next to nothing and stay up most nights binging on cocaine. In fact, that's probably why most people go there. Were I ever to find myself in a state of cocaine-fueled paranoia, I'd probably take some comfort in knowing the last thing I'd ever see was a spray-tanned, roid-raging mook beating me to death with a lead pipe for eyeing his heavily siliconed lady friend on South Beach.

But that's not why I go to Miami. Oh, no. Who needs beaches, babes or cocaine when I've got Yellow Jacket football in the Orange Bowl?

So after a rather uneventful drive from West Palm Beach down some stretch of interstate, we ended up in Land Shark Stadium. A stadium that, I believe, is named for a thoroughly unnecessary beer created by the thoroughly unnecessary Jimmy Buffet. Those would be strikes 1 and 2 for any scoring at home. The fact that the scenery on our particular route had the beach and all its beautimus trappings cleverly disguised as your basic barren, concrete landscape would be, if not strike 3, at least a foul tip. Thus far not quite the hot, sexy scene Miami I was envisioning. Of course, since our convertible Ferrari turned out to be a 2009 Chevrolet Aveo, that's probably just as well. Sensible? Yes. Sassy? No.

(BTW, I know that as the scenery was en route to the stadium, technically, that would be strike 1, making Jimmy Buffet strike 3. But this was the first time Tech had played in the Orange Bowl since 1967 so I'll be damned if I was going to let that Hawaiian-shirted goofball ruin my evening. He's already ruined too many ears.)

We were told to arrive early, so we did just that. I can only assume that the powers that be suggest early arrival to allow for the maximum tailgating time since, being a rather professional operation, entrance to/from the stadium was rather painless. What this all means is that given our inability to find even a McDonald's on the way--seriously, Miami, what gives? Doesn't all that cocaine make you slightly hungry?--we pulled into our spot an impressive 2+ hours before game time. This gave us maximum to watch everybody else do their tailgating and pretend that we actually had something to talk about. It's hard to adequately describe the overwhelming sense of failure that accompanied sitting in a rented Chevy Aveo, watching folks set up grills and prepare food that you know you'll not be getting. Especially when it's a somewhat un-Miami 45F.

In our favor was Two for Tuesday on the local rock station so I got to remember how much I hate radio. But at least I heard some Foghat. Andy decided if ever there were a prime situation to roll down the windows and crank "Slow Ride" this was it. I agreed and decided the time for action was now so I took off my jacket, leaving me only a sweatshirt, a sweater, an oxford and a t-shirt from being shirtless. Go wild. Indeed.

But after one too many Van Hagar songs we decided to take our chances inside the stadium. While the parking lot seemed fairly secure it was perilous enough that a fellow just this side of stable was warning of impending eternal damnation. Figuring that Hell, in fact, had already frozen over, Andy went back to the car to retrieve his jacket.

In the meantime, I stood and listened to a somewhat convoluted theory on how this game, the death of Michael Jackson, and I'm sure if I'd stuck around long enough, the Jews (sorry) all meshed together to ensure that God's wrath would be visited upon us. The would-be victims seemed to be taking the news rather well. A fact that can either be attributed to the stoic piety of the attendees or general boredom with life in their hometowns.

After riding the tallest escalator in the world, (really, like 10K feet) and an acceptable meal of chicken strips, we found our seats. And after all sorts of announcements and pregame mumbo jumbo, what would turn out to be the highlight of my evening occurred: an appearance by Alto Reed (possibly a stage name), former(?) sax dude for Bob Seger's Silver Bullet Band, playing America the Beautiful.

Much like the previous sighting of Romeo Crendel in the terminal in Atlanta, Mr. Reed's appearance had a randomness that really made me wonder just how he'd got to that point. Though I missed much of his almost certainly soaring rendition of ATB pondering such a thing, I decided it probably involved an Orange Bowl official aimlessly driving around Miami, probably looking for cocaine, and finding Mr. Reed playing on a street corner instead.

I'd hoped Mr. Reed would pull out his patented playing two saxophones at one time bit or at least play that smooth bit from "Turn the Page". Alas, he didn't do either. Andy and I decided that the dual saxes was a bit too physically dangerous to be attempted nowadays. Just as well since I subsequently learned the move was actually banned in 1985 for fear it would encourage youngsters to play the saxophone. But man, it would have been awesome and a childhood dream would have been fulfilled. Admittedly, a childhood dream I'd not thought about since childhood, but a childhood dream nonetheless.

And then some lady sang the national anthem and the game started and during any stoppage of play, they used the PA to thank everyone who'd ever come to any event in the history of the world. A safe bet that poor bastard is still sitting in the announcer's booth thanking corporate stooge after corporate stooge for helping make your 2010 Fed Ex Orange Bowl such a bitchin success. Oh yeah, did I mention it was cold?

Since the game was turning out to be not really that much fun for Tech fans, I began to pin my hopes on what was sure to be an amazing halftime show somewhere around five minutes into the game. For my patience (and $125), I was rewarded a mini-concert by Kool & the Gang. Or at least Robert "Kool" Bell and some dudes who probably were in grade school the last time The Gang had a hit. You takes what you can gets.

I was nonplussed but since the temp was no hovering around 40F, I really didn't care. I certainly wasn't going to shake my groove thang anyway. The fans from Iowa, however, really seemed to enjoy this unexpected treat. Not really sure whether this is because Iowans really do love "Ladies Night" and the other classics of that funked-up catalog or they just couldn't believe their good fortune at getting to see a real, live, black man in person.

(Jeepers creepers! Marge will never believe this. They really are like us, but with darker skin.)

But kudos to Kool & the Gang for bringing the funk. But more so for being able to keep a straight face while hordes of uber-white cheerleaders scattered about the entire field, did what I'll generously call a routine to the sounds of "Jungle Boogie." Simultaneous, organized, mass, spasms were more accurate.

It's the small moments like these that make trips like this worth it for me. Sure, I was ticked because Tech lost. I didn't see the beach. Didn't see any cocaine. And I'd really preferred Miami have lived up to its end of the deal, temperature wise. But when irony just plops down at one's door like that, it's all one can do but say, "Thank you."

Thank you.

Mr. Huizenga will see you now

Being as I have the day off, I spent a fair portion of the morning flipping around the channels. Actually, I spent a fair portion of the morning asleep but the portion that I was awake was spent flipping around the channels. This activity was for no real reason; I didn't want to watch TV and certainly wasn't going to sit through Maury or the umpteenth airing of Sportscenter. Per usual, this was all just as well as I found only disappointment in the selections. That is until I stumbled across a rather intriguing title in the guide, The Whale That Ate the Jews.

(Now who doesn't love the Jews? Okay, maybe the Nazis. And I suppose large swathes of the world, in general. And Al-Quaeda isn't really that gear on all things hasidic. But as for me, I'm a-OK with God's chosen people and generally defer to His wisdom on these sort of matters. Plus, I'm pretty sure the Jews own the interwebs.)

So natch, I does a double take and figure that even if this turns out to be nothing more than a sequel to The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh, it's worth a look. Turns out I misread the title. It was actually The Whale That Ate Jaws. I don't know about you, but that's more like snooze city to your beloved correspondent. Never been much of a fan of Jaws and the fact there's only one killer whale movie that matters, Orca, pretty much speaks volumes.

Speaking of the Jews...I really should get back to my Orange Bowl tale.

You can hear it rattle

It's still rather nipply around here and since the weather is what people talk about when they've nothing else to talk about, people are talking about the cold. As I tend to think it's better to just go along with the crowd on these matters, I just agree, "Yes, it's cold and it sucks, etc." The etc. being my only giveaway that perhaps my heart just isn't in such convos. The weather on Jupiter would make for much more interesting discussion. Therefore...

Andy and I never got up the nerve to approach Mr. Coach Romeo Crendel, not sure what I would have said to him anyway. Perhaps, "That sure is a swell coat you got there, chief." But I continued checking back to make sure he was still there. With each glance, I could feel the slightest tingle of excitement rising further up from my toes that I might share a plane with such a person of such note. Not so much note that I recognized him on my own, mind, but of more note than the hoards of Mr. & Mrs. Blue Hairs who would also be occupying our space.

Please understand, I've nothing against the aged. Pulp's Help the Aged is on my running ipod and I have seen an episode of The Golden Girls. Clearly I'm not ageist. And with any luck, I'll get there one day as well but if young whippersnappers ever want to see where they're headed, then fly to West Palm Beach out of Atlanta. Admittedly, I'm not much of a mathelete, but I'm quite certain the median age on our flight was death. In fact, barring an in-flight incident, I think Andy, Romeo and I were the only three who could legitimately expect to live the whole way.

I'm generally not a miserable bastard. Nor do I get into dead pools and the like, but nevertheless I began making mental bets with myself over who might not see touch down in West Palm. (Not that I wanted anything of that sort to happen, because I've no doubt these were all good and decent people much loved by many and even getting the occasional card from children/grandchildren to remind them of such. But when faced with free time one bides the time as best one can. So...) The even money was on the gent who was at the front of the line to board, was comfortably in his seat by the time we boarded, only to discover he was in the wrong seat just before takeoff.

Not to be outdone was the lady who lost her pocketbook. Understandably distressed, she was determined to get off the plane. In fairness, at this point, so was I and had decided that if she led the charge, I'd have her back. I thought better of it since the doors had been shut and the jetway was, by then, a few steps away from the plane. Leaping not being one of my strong points.

Admirably calm, the flight attendants nevertheless were having a most difficult time making the lady realize that in this post-9/11 world, we don't play around no more. Rules are rules. I thought there was a chance some jackboots would come marching down and toss her off onto the tarmac or at fire up the tasers. Of course, I wasn't hoping for such a scene, but again, post-9/11, since she posed no danger to anyone and fit no obvious profile, I figured the full arm of Homeland Security was raring to go.

The seconds passed like minutes and her equally seasoned boy toy began to get a little more distraught. I suspect this was more to do with the fear of being SOL if someone asked him about his grandkids during the flight than the civil disobedience going down. Meanwhile, folks all around gave the the universal look for I'm-not-really-looking-but-I'm-trying-to-look-like-I-am-so-maybe-this-lady-will-sit-down-and-we-can-leave-and-I-can-get-back-to-my-WordJumble. It really was all going to Hell, post-haste.

But at the last moment, her pocketbook was found. By her husband. In her seat. Where she had put it when she sat down. Hiding in plain sight. An odd, somewhat sarcastic cheer/groan swept through the cabin. This cheer may or may not have been led by me. A happy ending to be sure, and all was forgotten by the time the attendants dispensed with the increasingly paltry snacks.

The goodwill carried over for the rest of the flight. I enjoyed trying to hear my ipod over the roar of the engines and occasionally snuck peaks at the bodice ripper, the not-quite-elderly lady to my right was reading. The inflight entertainment, episodes of the funny 30 Rock and somewhat less funny Parks & Recreation, fared less well. I think someone misoverestimated the interest of these on a flight filled with exactly 2 people under 50. In the end, though, everyone survived and we all deplaned with far less drama and far greater speed than we, uh, planed.

Thank Jeebus for the early bird special at Denny's.

(Note: with any luck, my next post might actually get around to the real, live Orange Bowl. Though if one saw said game, one would probably wonder, "why bother?")

Marque Mouchoirs

Since most of the God-fearing western world--or at least the parts that matter--follows college football, it's probably not much of a news flash to most that Tech had a pretty good year. No, they didn't beat THE CCCI, but they did entertain me quite a bit and won the ACC championship to boot. I'll probably be accused of settling for less but I'll take that most seasons, like this one for instance. Which is probably of great comfort to the team and all who sail with it since, as a fan, I have a tremendous impact on the outcome. Or at least that's what the jumbotron always tells me.

But because they won the conference, Tech found themselves playing in Miami in the Orange Bowl. Because I'm required by law to attend any game that I can't think of a good enough reason not to, I was there. Which was actually the point of all the previous sentences of gibberish. Sorry.

This would be the point where I'm obligated to point out that I'm not a fan of air travel, but do it anyway. Therefore: I'm not a fan of air travel, but do it anyway. What's not to like? There's virtually no hassle, it's cheap and life generally doesn't get much more fun than cruising along at 30K feet with the constant fear that you're suddenly not going to be. I like to think that all planes will remain in flight as long as at least one person onboard is willing it to stay aloft. I magnanimously provide this service free of charge on all my flights. You're welcome, Earth.

I suppose that getting somewhere I want to be is actually a rather nice bonus to flying, but I must admit that one of the biggest thrills of the whole experience is the prospect of seeing famous, or at least interesting, folks in the terminal. Not Tom Cruise/lovely Gwyneth famous, honestly who gives a rat-ass about seeing them; I'm not TMZ. No, I want the obscure and esoteric. (If they must actually be famous, smoking French actresses only please.) Which is why I was giddy when I heard the terminal's voice-in-the-sky page Alejandro Pena. Who he? Only the former Atlanta Braves reliever in the early 90s.

Alas, I didn't see him though I immediately began looking around like a jackass, expecting him to be right beside me and announce to everyone, well, me, "Hey, I'm Alejandro Pena. I wonder what I'm needed for and can I eat my hot dog first." Understand, that in my world a famous person is the only individual with that name from then on. Do you know any other Fennis Dembo's besides THE Fennis Dembo? I rest my case.

Since the rich and famous--admittedly, I'm being slightly generous with the terms--are the only people that have any reason to be anywhere at anytime, it only seems fair and the easiest way to avoid confusion. I know that's a tough pill for Mr. Tom Hanks of 362 Lois Lane, Hillsboro OH 45133, his wife Greta and their two adorable children, Jennifer and Orson to swallow, but so it goes.

So having accomplished somewhat a goal for the trip, I hurriedly ran back to tell Andy my good fortune. However, before I could even get through the "Guess who" part of "Guess who I heard paged" Andy began, rather conspiratorially, "That's Romeo Crennel at one o'clock. Don't look." Now you may know your former NFL coaches who also happened to briefly coach at Tech. In some cases, I do. Sadly, in this case I did not.

A brief bio on Mr. Crennel ensued from Andy, which will not be repeated here. Suffice to say the highlight of his coaching career, and probably life, was no doubt being featured on one of those "amusing" Coors Light commercials. The ones where they take a clip from a post-game press conference and make it look like the coach is answering questions about beer from a pack of assorted goofballs. Humor does not belong in football. Beer does not belong in goofballs. Goofballs do not belong on Earth. So I guess it all evens out.

And to think I haven't even gotten on the plane yet. More to follow, though probably of equal insignificance.

Who needs Alan Thicke anyway?

As I was saying. I really didn't intend to take a break from writing, but it just sort of happened that way. Two months probably gave even the most infrequent of visitors to this site a chance to memorize key lines and phrases of the Flat Stanley post. Which is not to say that tale did not deserve the spotlight, but even Cats eventually closed. Please note, I'm not comparing myself to Andrew Lloyd Webber's whiskered meisterwerk. Personally, I'd like to think I'm somewhat more entertaining, but admittedly, Sir Lloyd Webber set that bar set pretty low. Which is why he's been knighted and I'm posting drivel to a disinterested world. Of course, Roger Waters has never gleefully pined for my death either, unlike SLW. I guess we really were all equal in the end.

In the interim there was a fair bit of news on this particular home front. The EPJ became the EMJ (Magistrate) and the workload of this office increased somewhat. I saw dozens of flicks, some of which were actually decent. There were a couple of big holidays scattered about. I must be honest; those were nice to see come and go. There were some quiet sad times that will not be mentioned. There were also some much happier moments. None of which involved any sort of proposal/ring concerning the lovely Marisol and me. This was much to the disappointment of far too many folks without dogs in that fight. So to speak.

Instead, she gifted me a camera whilst I gave a coat that was pretty snazzy if I do say so myself and will do a much better job of keeping her whole body warm rather than just one little area of one tiny finger. All the hens around here seemed to be blown away that I was able to purchase such an elegant gift all by myself. I believe this is what's known in the biz as a "back-handed compliment." While it's a relief to know that they are quite certain of my raging heterosexuality and masculinity, sad they thought me some sort of cro-magnon man whose idea of a thoughtful gift was a Hooters calendar and gift certificate combo. Obviously, that's more a Valentine's type gift.

I suppose the happiest and bestest news to come out of those missing months was that the new year will bring new life to my inner circle. Much to all our delight, my close, personal friend, MB, managed to get herself knocked up by dear hubby, Gustav. Well done, sir. An addition is always a joyous occasion if for no other reason than the chance for me to name yet another character in this saga. World, please welcome Baby EZ, who, barring a terrible ultrasound picture, will be a girl.

I was initially worried about the matronly MB, but she seems to be adjusting to being in the family way quite nicely. Updating me on the situation last night, she had decided that she didn't want Baby EZ to be a "pink tutu girl" though quickly adding, "Unless she wants to." I thought that seemed very motherly. Of course, I tried to act like I knew what a "pink tutu girl" and offered solidarity because tutus are clearly part of the communist plot and must be stopped.

Realizing that today's toys, devices, etc. can quickly become tomorrow's clutter, MB admitted that they were trying not to buy too much stuff for Baby EZ. Good thinking, that. But not content she continued, denouncing strollers "prams, carriages or whatever you call them" pretentious. She further declared that said contraptions were too big, ergo she'll forgo one for a sling. Personally, I'm holding out for a papoose, but I digress.

She'll not get much argument from me on the size point, though I assured her that for all their size, strollers are really rather portable since all the space-age polymers and such used therein are quite foldable. Childless that I may be, I do keep up with those advancements that make modern life easier, especially any that transport wee ones. I also strongly advised her to reconsider purchasing, making a mental note that MB's gift subscription to Parents probably should be fast-tracked. I keed.

But as for the pretentious bit, this is unique to MB. And by unique I mean, she's the first person in the history of the world to ever offer hold such a position. Of that I am quite certain and was therefore quite intrigued; I couldn't help but ask for clarification. It seems that after test-driving (test-pushing?) several models she couldn't shake the notion that she was just a little girl playing Mommy with her doll and couldn't get comfortable. It seemed a bit late in the day to point out that this was sort of the not-so-subtle point of all that childhood preconditioning with dolls, etc. that she skipped by dressing in black and reading Camus from age 3, but whatever.

Also, MB finds the multiple cup-holders, all-terrain traction and wi-fi capabilities a bit unnecessary. At this distance, that seems a fair point. Hopefully, she'll won't decide otherwise when she's bogged down in the mud, three miles from home with Baby EZ, her bottle of soy milk and her cup of whole wheat, organic cheerios desperately trying to find out what happened on last night's Grey's Anatomy. But that's probably a ridiculous notion. No one cares what happened on Grey's Anatomy anymore.

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.

He's holding with impunity

It took an awful long time, most of September to be exact, but I was quite jazzed to feel a cool, crisp autumn morning this morning. Over the years, I've determined that this is, in fact, my favorite time of year just because. I suppose it would be manly of me to say autumn is my fave because it's football season. Nothing says machismo like sweaty dudes in skin tight uniforms running into each other and popping each other on the butt after a job well done.

In reality, though, I have no real reason. Feel free to give me a reason in the comment section. But this morning's full blown splendor was a reminder that those god-awful hellish days of hell we call summer are gone until they come back. Which, given my luck, will probably be a couple of days from now.

Speaking of football, Buster has joined up with a local team of ragamuffins for an introduction into that very sport. Having never known him to show interest in any sport that doesn't involve cute creatures and a gun, I was pleasantly surprised. And finding my attempts to discuss the more obscure realms of the early 70s Swedish prog scene with him meeting with indifference, I've been looking for something of mutual interest. Besides iCarly, of course.

Not that I have much experience actually playing football. But I've got a decent enough handle on the formal qualifications and rules: the match is usually played on a field of some description among contestants wearing colorful uniforms with mascots that are usually ferocious animals, insects or rapers/pillagers. UC-Santa Cruz Banana Slugs being a notable exception of outside-the-box mascot thinking. Probably why they suck.

Practice started a few weeks ago; his first game was this past weekend. In the interim, Marisol had been giving me updates on how things were progressing. I was expecting to hear how he stacks up with his teammates or how many tackles he made. Marisol's updates covered these things somewhat. The major point, however, seemed to be the fact that Buster's not a big fan of 'the cup' and can't really understand why he has to bother with it.

Not wishing such trauma for the tyke, I told Marisol it would only take one shot in the business for him to decide his cup as vital his helmet. She then proceeded to tell me how she managed to install it incorrectly, creating much discomfort. It would seem that of the two possible ways for it to go, she guessed wrong. While I enjoy talking with Marisol and am sure there was no doubt an interesting and possibly amusing tale therein, discussion of her 8-year old's nether regions and the protection thereof is something I'll leave to his parents. Sometimes you've just got to take a stand. Cameron taught me that.

So after all the talk of practice and cups fell away, that left nothing left to do besides play an actual game. Being one of the bigger kids out there, they stuck Buster on the line; His instructions being to hold off the fellow directly in front of him until he hears the whistle. This he does well, but is still working on the idea of following the ball. It's good that him and his opponent can batter like rams with neither giving in, but not quite as important when the fella with the ball has already finished his endzone dance.

And in a remarkable attempt to induce an asthma attack, they have him playing both ways, offense and defense. At this level, that means little. Essentially, after four downs or less, he's doing the pushing instead of being pushed. I say less, because the world of mighty mights is feast or famine. Either a play loses 5 yards or scores a touchdown. There is no slow, methodical grinding drive and on every play either the offense or defense simply imposes their will.

(An aside--that's my all-time favorite holler I've ever heard at a football game: "Defense, impose your will." That it was said by a tiny-ish dude of Arabic descent and not, say, Russell Crowe in full battle armor atop a fiery steed made it all the more better. My second all-time fave just happens to be this post's title. We Tech fans are an erudite bunch of fanatics.)

Thus far, Buster's team has been on the receiving end of most of that imposing. Though they managed 19 points in the first game on about 4 plays, they've also gave up the better part of 50 points. Unlike some areas of modern life, on the football field having more means you win. Last night, they only gave up 27 but were held to a goose egg. Progress perhaps, but the cheerleaders didn't even bother to show up. This made that whole "We've Got Spirit" cheer as lopsided as the game, and it is ultimately what I blame the shutout on.

Those looking for the bright side would be pointed towards the fact that Buster's defense stopped an extra point. A few tears aside, no one was injured. Buster's early game cup difficulties were corrected. And Marisol's post-game snacks were a hit. Rah.

Do you wish you had Jeff Goldblum's hair

It's interesting the way events unfold. As previously mentioned, for the past week or so Georgia has more closely resembled the rainy season in Vietnam instead of its usual easing from summer to autumn. After close consultation with the weather radar courtesy of the interwebs, it does appear that most of the heavy rain has fallen, and the flooding has peaked or crested or whatever it is flood waters do when they can rise no more. The sun has even managed to rear its forgotten head most days this week. So good on ya, golden orb of the sky.

Photographic evidence, and common sense, to the contrary, Six Flags continues to insist they will be open this weekend. That's good news for the 40 or 50 customers they'll no doubt have. However, I sort of figure most people in the Atlanta area are more concerned with trying to get rid of that pool in their living room that God just delivered. Going wild on the Mindbender just doesn't seem that important right now. If by chance some locals aren't so distracted, I'd question the parenting prowess of any who would send their child to a dilapidated amusement part, already expecting in its death throes, that just happened to have spent the better part of the week totally submerged. What could possibly go wrong?

But in the middle of all this rain, the big story around here was that the local barbecue pit burned. To the world outside, I realize this sounds trivial. Yes, the messiah is busy ridding the world of nuclear weapons, hatred and general uncoolness, and your beloved correspondent is moaning about not getting to eat roasted swine flesh. Fair enough, but out in the hinterlands, losing a local business has far more real-life impact. The only way my little burg is going to be struck down by a nuke, targeted by terrorists or invaded by the Ruskies (Red Dawn to the contrary) is if some crackpot somewhere goes horribly off course. Where I'm going to eat lunch on Thursday, on the other hand, is about as real as realpolitik can get.

As a result, there's been much handwringing and gnashing of teeth the past week as we all try to figure out just what to do for lunch. One of the many advantages of the modern world is the restaurant. I've no interest in sitting in a field/stand/pond for hours on end hoping that my next meal hops/flies/swims my way. Apologies to the Nuge, but the extent of hunting and gathering I prefer to do for most meals is hunting the menu for and gathering my tray with.

I realize that in olden times I would have probably been among the first to succumb to starvation, but the upside is that I'd have been so thin, the others wouldn't have bothered eating me. Oh, sure those rugged frontiersmen could fell a buffalo at 300 yards, but polio could stop them dead in the tracks. Today, we've got Ted's Montana Grill serving bison burgers and polio is all but eradicated. Who's laughing now, pioneers?

And even the barbecue pit has a happy ending. Since the lunch rush had just ended, the fire was quickly discovered and brought under control that the building was not destroyed. More importantly, no one was injured. And some slaughterhouse gave a few pigs a last-minute commute.

Of course, that also meant that some slaughterhouse workers lost their jobs and probably the trucking company lost some business. Maybe there is something to the Chaos Theory after all. I just hope there's not another butterfly flapping away on the other side of the world for a few weeks.

Laziness pt. 19

As most have heard by now, most of Atlanta is currently underwater. Thankfully, my little corner of the world is not. Instead, we've only gotten about 7" of rain since last Thursday. Some folks may recognize this picture as the the big hill on the Scream Machine at Six Flags Over Georgia. Wow. They claim they'll be open this weekend. Um, yeah.

Put whatever you want here

Being that Marisol is a highly influential member of the local media (entire population: 4), she sometimes gets in to events that us mere mortals wouldn't. Snazzy soirees with really beautiful people doing really beautiful things and the like. Most of the time, however, she just goes to events that the average person doesn't want to read about in the paper, let alone actually attend. Often she attends these sorts of things stag, a lone reporter braving the fierce world of rotary club meetings and secretary luncheons.

Every now and then, though, she'll decide that it's okay to be seen with me and bring me along. Usually she doesn't even request I not embarrass her which is awfully sweet. As most know, two of my hobbies are telling inappropriate jokes in mixed company and starting fights with random strangers for no reason. A high-class function offers a golden opportunity to do both. Why else would they hold them? Certainly not because polite society really cares who the Rosicrucian of the year is. Which is a shame considering the joy they bring driving those funny little cars in parades. Or maybe that's the shriners. Whatever.

Anyway, last night found us sitting at a table at the annual Soil/Water Conservation banquet. Now this probably sounds like the snoozefest to end all snoozefest. Au contraire. I suspect Jack Bauer himself would have found the evening's festivities too intense and requested the powers that be take things down a notch.

Actually...that's not true.

The dinner was just as one would figure. Plenty of very nice and very decent people sitting down and breaking bread together. A nice meal. Free in fact, but since I generally avoid the foods most normal people eat, I mainly ate bread and picked the bananas out of my banana pudding. Our meal was interrupted by the occasional award. But these all seemed to be controversy free so I'll presume the recipient is a no doubt deserving super person. Then we enjoyed a speech on bio fuels. Yes, bio fuels. They said it's the future but they never offered if there bio-fueled future involved jet packs. It had better or I think I'll pass.

More or less the one thought that never left my mind was that this was the perfect moment for a dude engulfed in flames to just come running through. Maybe to show how bio-fuels can burn a man just like good ol' fashioned gasoline. Or for the matter, show how bio-fuel can be set aflame but never burn. I'm guessing that would guarantee the business of the entire world of popular music. A blazing Axl Rose marching around the stage singing Welcome to the Jungle? That would take badassness to another level. Heck, Axl might even would be cool again.

The possibilities are endless, I suppose. Lord knows I had plenty of time to think about all the wonders that will await as soon as we surrender to our bio-fuel overlords. But I did keep a close eye on the door for a man on fire. Alas, no such dude ever showed. Probably because it was raining.

Hang in there

The other day as the EPJ and I were getting ready to close up shop, the phone rang. Not much of a phone fan to begin with, calling as I'm walking out the door is virtually guarantees no answer. I know it's very popular for automated answering services to repeat the mantra about "Your call being very important to us. Please stay on the line." Of course, "your call" is not important to them. Otherwise, you'd be greeted by a friendly human voice instead of Mr. Roboto. That's how you know the EPJ and I really do care, that personal touch.

However, I often dream of automation--even my dreams are geeky-- just for those instances when someone would call our office at 4:59 and hear the "please stay on the line" part. I can imagine some dude sitting on a couch, throwing various things at his wife/kids, repeating, "I'll give them 5 more minutes," for the next 15 hours. This particular thought has lighten many of my darkest moments.

Until we take that technological leap, folks who call so close to quitting time are taking their lives into their own hands. So to speak. I figure that in the extremely unlikely event the caller is someone I'd actually want to talk to, he/she has my cell and our recreational plans/discussion of the weather can be handled outside of company time. Should the call be regarding business, well, I suppose that's what one gets for daring to call at the end of the day. A surefire way to be trampled is to get between the EPJ, me and the door at 5 o'clock. Strangely, there's no mad dash to get here in the mornings.

For reasons best known to her, on this particular day the EPJ actually answered that last call. Just as well; it happened to be her husband on the other end, who although I've not given him a snazzy pseudonym, is a decent enough fellow. At precisely the same time, Maureen from across the hall burst in to tell us the building was on fire or the town had exploded or something. I didn't really care and wasn't paying much attention. It was dangerously close to 5:01 pm, and my car wasn't going to drive itself home.

But somewhere in all the confusion, Maureen overheard the EPJ say she "dropped them off." While this statement would have seemed to be of no interest to anyone other than Mr. EPJ, Maureen was rather intrigued.

Maureen: "Dropped what off, where?"

Me: "A bag of kittens at the bridge."

Please understand I did not think this a particularly witty quip nor one that would have even the slightest ring of truth. Quite simply, it just popped in there. Much like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Had I workshopped the line for hours on end and arrived at the most awesome comeback in the history of awesome comebacks, I couldn't have gotten a more perfect response.

Maureen: "Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!? Oh, no!!! How could you do that?"

The EPJ was still on the phone and had not the slightest idea what she had done. She looked on clueless.

Apparently, I sold this line incredibly well. Likewise, Maureen obviously thinks the EPJ is pretty all-around awful person even though they've been friends for years. In fact, the EPJ is a pretty all-around decent person, but I always enjoy confirming one's worst fears. Plus, I try to encourage irrational conclusions at every opportunity.

So...yes.

The EPJ's day job as an upholder of law, justice and the American way is merely cover for her true passion: feline-icide. It's a well-known fact that in America's seedy cat underbelly, the EPJ is more feared than a Chinese restaurant. It's the grandmotherly types one really has to watch out for, I guess. My cats certainly don't like her.

But because I like to promote harmony and brotherhood, or sisterhood in this case, I quickly assured Maureen I was only joking. The EPJ, no friend of the most adorable of God's creatures, but not, you know, psycho, hadn't dropped any cats off any bridge. Certainly not within the last 50 years anyway. A moment of relief was had by all. Then we all went out and kicked a dog.

Randomness pt. 2

Work, government holidays and other stuff have made for a rather busy past week for yours truly. Nothing too bad, but enough that I've not posted for a week. I'm sure that others, say POTUS, would argue they've had even less time for this sort of thing of late than me. But pissing matches don't really suit me. And it probably would be in my best interest not to enter into one with someone who could remove all traces of my existence with the snap of his finger. Apparently, he has a very powerful snap. But if I were going to get into such a contest with him over something, it probably wouldn't be over who is the bigger time-waster. Nevertheless, I'm going to stay in training.

To wit:

1.) A lady called this morning and wasting no time with formalities or particulars asked me the phone number for Statesboro. Not Statesboro police department. Not Statesboro bait & tackle. Just "what the number for Statesboro." Maybe they have a phone in the town square to take random calls; I wouldn't know since I've been to Statesboro, which is about 2 hours away from here, exactly once in my life. Nevertheless, because I'm the helpful sort, I suggested she call 411 and just ask for Statesboro. Undeterred, she then asked when her brother was to be released from jail. In a town about an hour from here. In another county. That I'm pretty sure doesn't have a jail. I then decided she terribly confused. Or drunk.

2.) Walking to get Marisol's morning libation (Gatorade fruit punch), I observed a gent pick up a still-smoldering ciggie from a newspaper dispenser. Figuring why waste a good smoke, he walked off, puffing away. His enthusiasm was as contagious as his cough. I understand from reliable sources that the pull of nicotine is rather strong. I know all too well that some bastards somewhere--govt., big tobacco, Hollywood--have just about priced the common folk out of the habit altogether. This leaves only club-hopping, trust fund hipsters and old, rich people with nothing much to live for anyway as the remaining customers for cancer-sticks. I guess those caught somewhere in between, like this dude, have to be thankful for the castoffs of strangers.

3.) Last year at halftime of the Ga Tech-Jacksonville State game, the Jacksonville State band did a sort of bizarre tribute to Mother Russia. Giving the dancers hammer and sickle flags to boogaloo with, the band played the works of various Russian composers and told of the Oktober Revolution in the only way fitting: song. They left out all the mass killings and such though. Reaction in the stands was pretty evenly divided between confusion and anger. This was, after all, a football game in the south, not Cal-Berkeley. I'm sure I would have had a similar reaction had I not been at the concession stand getting a hot dog. Though I suspect my reaction would have been tinged with laughter upon hearing numerous upstanding, God-fearing men yell out, "What the hell is this commie shit?"

Afterwards, the commie band director in question offered one of the more amusing non-apologies I've heard, saying essentially, "It's not my fault you uncultured rubes can't appreciate high culture like we Alabamans can. But hey, whatever, sorry." Tech fans, I do believe we just got served.

Making no such mistake this year, the Jacksonville State band marched triumphantly back into halftime with a patriotic display that even Sam the All-American Eagle from the The Muppets would have found over the top. Nothing but red, white and blue, old glory and nothing more left wing than a few selection from Mr. John Phillip Sousa. It all seemed to be that most American of symbols: the middle finger. All right you boors, you want patriotism then, by gum, here it is. Enjoy the perty dancing girls as you choke on this; we're going back to Alabama.

Who knew football could be so boorish?

Everyone's gone to the movies

I mentioned a few months back that our local do-gooder organization (which, much to their dismay, has me for its president) was just starting to think about getting on the road to maybe deciding on helping out on the potential renovation of our long-since-shuttered local movie house. Since then several strides have been made on that front, namely that the entire front exterior has been renovated and all the neon replaced.

Since I walk by the theater every day, I've been able to track the construction process the past few months. I'd gotten used to seeing workers coming and going as the cobwebs were gradually cleaned away from the entrance and the dirty, chipping red and lime green paint became a fresh shade of white and red. Once I saw the new doors go up I determined this project was actually happening and some day we just might see the old show look better than ever. When the workers quit showing up, I deduced that an unveiling couldn't be too far off. Logic being a good friend of mine that rarely lets me down.

On Monday night, not too far off got a whole lost closer. The locals brought out lawn chairs and sat on the street in front of the show for the grand unveiling of all this progress. I figured the turnout would be pretty good since the theater holds a special place in the hearts of so many around here. And, truthfully, there ain't a whole lot going on around here on a Monday night at the end of August.

Actually, there's not ever a whole lot going on around here, but I guess that's why people like it. Or at least drink to numb the pain. Anyway, even I was surprised at just how many folks showed up. I didn't recall advertising free beer and strippers, but apparently somebody did. Certainly all these people wouldn't have come just to see a theater lighting, but it seems they did.

As this was a theater lighting, it only made sense to have popcorn and cokes for to the assembled throng. Since the concession stand and the entire interior work hasn't even been started, we brought in a popcorn machine and a couple of of coolers of cokes. This necessitated the need for brave souls to man this particular fort. Using questionable logic, the powers that be figured that if anybody knew how to prepare popcorn it would be the one person who finds the very concept of popcorn thoroughly disgusting, i.e. me.

Therefore, that's where my two cohorts and I spent most of the night, handing out bags to whoever wanted one. This seemed to be everyone who wasn't me. Who knew not liking popcorn was such a revolutionary stance? I figured since the popcorn was free no one would complain if it was awful or attack the chefs. No one did. A riot would have sort of violated the spirit of the occasion anyway.

After a few, brief, well-meaning speeches that I'm guessing no one paid much attention to, the big moment arrived. The switch was thrown. Since I'd been assigned to concessions, I was afraid that I wouldn't get to see the lights actually come on. But, as luck would have it, I was out in the crowd doling out popcorn at that very moment.

For someone with my general demeanor, it's probably not a stretch to say there haven't been too many moments in my life I would describe as breathtaking. This was one. As the neon kicked on, townsfolk got to see a sight they most certainly never expected to see again. There was an collective gasp from the crowd that was quickly followed by a round of applause and then silence as we took the moment in. Though the moment quickly passed, it really did seem like some Norman Rockwell painting come to life. A nice evening to say the least. I suppose having to touch all that popcorn wasn't all that bad either.

Get your customs here

Somewhere along the way last week Buster crossed over from 7 years old to 8. Because this was viewed as a somewhat significant event, it seemed only fitting to celebrate in a significant locale. After very little thought and probably no prayer, Buster chose Chuck E. Cheese. A place loved by kids and, more or less, feared by parents. Being neither, I guess I was a sort of indifferent.

Sure, I could think of better things to do on a Saturday afternoon, discuss ways to improve the sewer system of some third world village, for instance. But I could also think of worse things. If my options were Chuck E. Cheese or being torn to shreds by bears, I would chose Chuck E. Cheese with little or no hesitation. A little known fact that before it was decided "Where a kid can be a kid" would be their slogan, some of the less stuffed shirts as Cheese HQ were hoping for "Better than being shredded by bears. Guaranteed."

Since this was Marisol's baby (so to speak), I didn't have to do much more than show up prepared for fun. This wasn't too much of a task since I'm pretty much always on standby for fun. A good thing since I'd hardly gotten in the door when Buster grabbed hold of me and dragged me towards all manner of sensory overload.

It touched my heart a bit that while his Mom was greeting his guest and getting everything ready to go he wanted me to share these moments with him. In return, I figured maybe I'd give him a few pointers in skee-ball or blow him away with my ridiculous skills at the basketball game. However, I quickly realized that the only part of me that was needed was my hands. His cup full of tokens and tickets wasn't going to hold itself now was it? Though I realize he would probably have grabbed the next familiar face he saw, I like to think he chose me because no one but no one could dispense a token faster than yours truly. Even after all these years college continues to pay off.

Either because they're good people or were paid to do so, Chuck E's cheesters handled all the set up, take down and provided the "entertainment". This they manage to do in a rather efficient but somewhat impersonal fashion since they manage to hold 6 (!) parties at a time. Each party has their own table, cleverly identified with a balloon with the birthday boy/girl name on it. The guests sit down, are delivered a pizza that rises to the level of edible but somewhat less than good and marvel at the fact that all the other tables are doing the exact same thing. Each table has a handler, ostensibly to ensure a smooth event. I strongly suspect, however, they're really there to ensure that each table stays on schedule and doesn't think they're actually going to sit past the allotted time.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, the animatronics come on and a band of something or others strike up a tune. Figuring kids focusing in on one particular thing might not be enough, they also add in a video on one side of the band and a animatronic chef playing the drums for no apparent reason on the other. Needless to say, all are playing different things at different times.

Ordinarily, this sort of thing would be right up my alley, but here I find it less than appealing. And in the middle of all this the handlers start to dance to, I guess, one of the songs being played by one of the three groups. I can't be sure because at that point I was quite certain that my my coke had been spiked with LSD.

With anticipation at a feve pitch, Chuck E. Cheese comes out and any kid that wasn't screaming before is screaming now. For those unfamiliar, Mr. Cheese, while lacking the elegance and dignity of Mickey Mouse, is a mouse who likes to skateboard, wear cool clothes and high-five. That seems to be about it.

Though the kids seem to take him at face value, it all seemed a bit too much like Poochie from The Simpsons for me. A character developed after years of intense R & D for maximum realism by a group of folks who've never been around a kid. Somehow, I just knew he was going to say "Hey, doooodes. Let's go be cool" or however it is the kids talk these days.

I suppose the joke's on me though. The good folks at Cheese HQ are doing something right. Scarcely after Buster had opened his last gift, the handlers were already cleaning up this go round and setting up for the next. I briefly felt sorry for the handlers and figured that after the third event in a row, they wish they were elsewhere, but then I remembered at least their not being torn to shreds by bears. Guaranteed.

Laziness pt. 18

Q: Mr. Putin, how do you like your glasnost served?

A: With a slice of beefcake.