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Thursday, February 16, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
To Edna With Love
My mother-in-law passed away the other day following a stroke.
Dr. Edna Richard was 76.
She passed away barely six months after my father-in-law. To lose loved ones so suddenly, in succession, leaves us with heavy hearts and often overwhelming grief.
And memories. Rich, wonderful memories.
Edna Richard gave the world three wonderful daughters while presenting countless more in a career that spanned over 40 years.
As an Ob/Gyn, Dr. Richard's eyes were the first ones seen by hundreds of babies. She spent her life caring for families in their most intimate, joyous moments.
Now that she's gone (and not subject to a howling hospital administrator) I can share a little secret: She kissed each and every baby on the forehead before handing it over to the mother.
Dr. Edna Richard was a beautiful, elegant woman. My wife has fond childhood memories of waiting in the living room for her parents to descend for some "warm up" dancing before a night on the town.
She was always impeccably dressed, always in a dress, except once, an experience as odd for me as catching Mitt Romney in a Soul Train dance line.
She loved and embraced me and my two children as her own (we like to say in our family the only "steps" lead to another floor). And once we gave her two additional granddaughters, well, I was good as gold.
Naturally, for a woman who had at least 50 Godchildren, her grandchildren were the best, the brightest and most beautiful. "She is so intell-eee-jent," she would gush in her thick Haitian accent, "She connn-nnnnects with people."
Other than watching a kid devour ice cream there are few greater pleasures than watching a grandparent in their element.
Trust me, if Edna had her way they would be hammering away on Mt. Rushmore for her six grandchildren.
My mother-in-law had a wonderful, often unintended sense of humor. Countless times I would be sitting in a room with her and Tania (my wife) listening to them speak French and she would turn to me and remind me, in English, that Haitians often speak French. Then she would turn around and go back to speaking French.
Haitian custom calls for posing stoically, straight faced, in photographs. It's mostly generational, and if you look closely you see pride bursting through.
When people die we go through photos. For me, one stands out.
In it my bride to be, hours from her wedding, is standing in sweatpants and a t-shirt, wearing her veil and a smile set to last through the evening. Her mother is next to her, holding her hand.
On this day, in this picture, Mom is smiling.
And somewhere, today, she is still smiling down on her daughters, her grandchildren, and all of the children she cradled and kissed through the years.
Godspeed cherie.
Dr. Edna Richard was 76.
She passed away barely six months after my father-in-law. To lose loved ones so suddenly, in succession, leaves us with heavy hearts and often overwhelming grief.
And memories. Rich, wonderful memories.
Edna Richard gave the world three wonderful daughters while presenting countless more in a career that spanned over 40 years.
As an Ob/Gyn, Dr. Richard's eyes were the first ones seen by hundreds of babies. She spent her life caring for families in their most intimate, joyous moments.
Now that she's gone (and not subject to a howling hospital administrator) I can share a little secret: She kissed each and every baby on the forehead before handing it over to the mother.
Dr. Edna Richard was a beautiful, elegant woman. My wife has fond childhood memories of waiting in the living room for her parents to descend for some "warm up" dancing before a night on the town.
She was always impeccably dressed, always in a dress, except once, an experience as odd for me as catching Mitt Romney in a Soul Train dance line.
She loved and embraced me and my two children as her own (we like to say in our family the only "steps" lead to another floor). And once we gave her two additional granddaughters, well, I was good as gold.
Naturally, for a woman who had at least 50 Godchildren, her grandchildren were the best, the brightest and most beautiful. "She is so intell-eee-jent," she would gush in her thick Haitian accent, "She connn-nnnnects with people."
Other than watching a kid devour ice cream there are few greater pleasures than watching a grandparent in their element.
Trust me, if Edna had her way they would be hammering away on Mt. Rushmore for her six grandchildren.
My mother-in-law had a wonderful, often unintended sense of humor. Countless times I would be sitting in a room with her and Tania (my wife) listening to them speak French and she would turn to me and remind me, in English, that Haitians often speak French. Then she would turn around and go back to speaking French.
Haitian custom calls for posing stoically, straight faced, in photographs. It's mostly generational, and if you look closely you see pride bursting through.
When people die we go through photos. For me, one stands out.
In it my bride to be, hours from her wedding, is standing in sweatpants and a t-shirt, wearing her veil and a smile set to last through the evening. Her mother is next to her, holding her hand.
On this day, in this picture, Mom is smiling.
And somewhere, today, she is still smiling down on her daughters, her grandchildren, and all of the children she cradled and kissed through the years.
Godspeed cherie.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Debate Envy
I love a good argument.
Just ask my friends and family, and if they tell you I don't like one get back to me and I'll convince you they're wrong.
Some people have this crazy notion that arguing is a bad thing and it's best to keep things to yourself or just nod in tacit agreement.
Which brings me to the Florida primary. No noddin' in agreement there. Instead, the Republican wannabes have been flinging poop and hammers at each other since storming out of South Carolina a couple of weeks ago.
It sounds like the new slogan should be, "Come to Florida, and leave your TV at home" given the relentless attack ads from all sides. And as is often the case, cash is king, with Romney about to be crowned after outspending Newt Gingrich by a large margin.
He who has the most dough has the most toys, and most votes. Sad but true.
Except in debates, which are the great equalizer.
As a debate lover, this year is special. In fact, it seems like the debate schedule is tracking the NBA's condensed lockout schedule (teams play every night this year, right?), sans the candidates riding charter planes together or getting busted in nightclubs.
I haven't watched all of them, but I've tuned in to plenty of spin doctors for a post debate house call, "Sportscenter" like highlights for political junkies.
Some feel that the number of debates is hurting Republicans heading into the general election. Instead of focusing on their common opponent, President Obama, they are using valuable resources taking live shots at each other on a regular basis.
Not sure I buy that.
For one thing, if there were, say, only four debates instead of the 16 we have had so far, it would force candidates to drum up votes solely through appearances, attack ads, PAC ads and online begging.
With fewer debates, who knows how quickly we would wither down to today's "Final Four." I suspect the path of attrition would have been far different.
Regardless, I'll take a live debate any day over the canned speeches and hand picked audiences of the campaign trail.
There is nothing like purely unscripted moments in debates. Who could forget Richard Nixon sweating in the first televised debate, Ronald Reagan's "I'm paying for this microphone" moment, the Michael Dukakis rape question, George H.W. Bush staring at his watch or Lloyd Bensten's "You're no Jack Kennedy" swipe at Dan Quayle.
Interestingly, only Reagan ended up winning his election.
After Republican voters settle on a nominee, I hope there are just as many debates in the general election.
I also realize 16 plus debates in the fall is as likely as Barack Obama appearing on an episode of "Hillbilly Hand Fishin'." As the incumbent, President Obama would have little to gain and plenty to lose by engaging in multiple debates, and I would expect him to employ the "Rose Garden" strategy with plenty of safe, staged, scripted moments for the press.
Boring, but effective.
Just ask my friends and family, and if they tell you I don't like one get back to me and I'll convince you they're wrong.
Some people have this crazy notion that arguing is a bad thing and it's best to keep things to yourself or just nod in tacit agreement.
Which brings me to the Florida primary. No noddin' in agreement there. Instead, the Republican wannabes have been flinging poop and hammers at each other since storming out of South Carolina a couple of weeks ago.
It sounds like the new slogan should be, "Come to Florida, and leave your TV at home" given the relentless attack ads from all sides. And as is often the case, cash is king, with Romney about to be crowned after outspending Newt Gingrich by a large margin.
He who has the most dough has the most toys, and most votes. Sad but true.
Except in debates, which are the great equalizer.
As a debate lover, this year is special. In fact, it seems like the debate schedule is tracking the NBA's condensed lockout schedule (teams play every night this year, right?), sans the candidates riding charter planes together or getting busted in nightclubs.
I haven't watched all of them, but I've tuned in to plenty of spin doctors for a post debate house call, "Sportscenter" like highlights for political junkies.
Some feel that the number of debates is hurting Republicans heading into the general election. Instead of focusing on their common opponent, President Obama, they are using valuable resources taking live shots at each other on a regular basis.
Not sure I buy that.
For one thing, if there were, say, only four debates instead of the 16 we have had so far, it would force candidates to drum up votes solely through appearances, attack ads, PAC ads and online begging.
With fewer debates, who knows how quickly we would wither down to today's "Final Four." I suspect the path of attrition would have been far different.
Regardless, I'll take a live debate any day over the canned speeches and hand picked audiences of the campaign trail.
There is nothing like purely unscripted moments in debates. Who could forget Richard Nixon sweating in the first televised debate, Ronald Reagan's "I'm paying for this microphone" moment, the Michael Dukakis rape question, George H.W. Bush staring at his watch or Lloyd Bensten's "You're no Jack Kennedy" swipe at Dan Quayle.
Interestingly, only Reagan ended up winning his election.
After Republican voters settle on a nominee, I hope there are just as many debates in the general election.
I also realize 16 plus debates in the fall is as likely as Barack Obama appearing on an episode of "Hillbilly Hand Fishin'." As the incumbent, President Obama would have little to gain and plenty to lose by engaging in multiple debates, and I would expect him to employ the "Rose Garden" strategy with plenty of safe, staged, scripted moments for the press.
Boring, but effective.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Jim Cramer The Everyman
As a market commentator I have always taken CNBC's Jim Cramer for what he is: An effective entertainer. The host of "Mad Money" has been around a long time and is a fixture among financial talking heads.
Cramer was interviewed the other day by MSNBC's Alex Witt about tax policy. Here's the link:
http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/cramer-govt-role-in-economy-a-bit-overblown/62dggns?from=sharepermalink-blogger&src=v5%3ashare%3ablogger%3a
I was struck, as I often am in such interviews, as much by what is said as what is not said, or not asked.
WARNING: THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST IS FOR MATURE READERS WHO HAVE TAKEN THEIR MEDICATION. VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED.
I realize wading into the whole "media bias" cesspool is a dangerous thing, and it's really not my point.
I could devote an entire post, let alone an entire blog, to the bias (real and imagined) in our media from both sides.
To wit: The network that declares itself "fair and balanced" often isn't, while the other one often leaves me wanting to "lean forward" in order to hurl a blunt object.
My blowhard is smarter, and better, than your blowhard. Frankly the subject bores me.
Back to the interview. At one point Cramer claims he pays a 56% percent tax rate on his salary, which I presume to be a combination of the top 35% federal rate and 21% in his state and local hit. For the remainder of the talk the scroll at the bottom of the screen reminds us of the high taxes paid by the mad money man. And yes, Cramer feels that people like him should pay more, particularly in capital gains taxes.
Here's the problem. Alex (in this case Dim) Witt takes Cramer at his word and doesn't follow-up. She doesn't bother with a simple question such as, "Jim, are you saying that you don't have any deductions or capital gains that would make your adjusted gross income and effective tax rate much lower?"
No property tax or business deductions? I'm highly skeptical. Jim Cramer is a smart, successful, wealthy guy. I doubt he pays his 56% and returns to his room at the YMCA, hotplate included.
It's important to note that Cramer is barred by CNBC from buying or selling individual stocks other than for his charitable trust, which he must disclose.
I knew that beforehand, not because Cramer shared (or was even asked) the reason he's not part of the capital gains party.
Maybe I am nitpicking, but this is an instance where I wish the interviewer had bothered to probe just a bit. Then again, maybe the only point was cross promotion of another NBC show, a tax "chalk talk" filler before the breathtaking tour of Cramers buttons and hats.
Tax policy is a big deal. And this was a missed opportunity.
Cramer was interviewed the other day by MSNBC's Alex Witt about tax policy. Here's the link:
http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/cramer-govt-role-in-economy-a-bit-overblown/62dggns?from=sharepermalink-blogger&src=v5%3ashare%3ablogger%3a
I was struck, as I often am in such interviews, as much by what is said as what is not said, or not asked.
WARNING: THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST IS FOR MATURE READERS WHO HAVE TAKEN THEIR MEDICATION. VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED.
I realize wading into the whole "media bias" cesspool is a dangerous thing, and it's really not my point.
I could devote an entire post, let alone an entire blog, to the bias (real and imagined) in our media from both sides.
To wit: The network that declares itself "fair and balanced" often isn't, while the other one often leaves me wanting to "lean forward" in order to hurl a blunt object.
My blowhard is smarter, and better, than your blowhard. Frankly the subject bores me.
Back to the interview. At one point Cramer claims he pays a 56% percent tax rate on his salary, which I presume to be a combination of the top 35% federal rate and 21% in his state and local hit. For the remainder of the talk the scroll at the bottom of the screen reminds us of the high taxes paid by the mad money man. And yes, Cramer feels that people like him should pay more, particularly in capital gains taxes.
Here's the problem. Alex (in this case Dim) Witt takes Cramer at his word and doesn't follow-up. She doesn't bother with a simple question such as, "Jim, are you saying that you don't have any deductions or capital gains that would make your adjusted gross income and effective tax rate much lower?"
No property tax or business deductions? I'm highly skeptical. Jim Cramer is a smart, successful, wealthy guy. I doubt he pays his 56% and returns to his room at the YMCA, hotplate included.
It's important to note that Cramer is barred by CNBC from buying or selling individual stocks other than for his charitable trust, which he must disclose.
I knew that beforehand, not because Cramer shared (or was even asked) the reason he's not part of the capital gains party.
Maybe I am nitpicking, but this is an instance where I wish the interviewer had bothered to probe just a bit. Then again, maybe the only point was cross promotion of another NBC show, a tax "chalk talk" filler before the breathtaking tour of Cramers buttons and hats.
Tax policy is a big deal. And this was a missed opportunity.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Wrestlemania, Youth Edition
At 6:00 am last Sunday, my son Thomas, age 13, and I headed out to his club wrestling tournament.
Cue the theme from Rocky, "Gonna Fly Now."
Youth wrestling tournaments are quite the spectacle, beginning with the early morning traffic jam for weigh ins. We arrive just before 7:00 am at the dark, dank gymnasium north of Chicago, a perfect setting for a blue collar sport. Forget the brie and chardonnay, this is a Velveeta and Red Bull crowd. Kids file in with gear over their shoulders, parents carrying coolers. Once inside, the kids are round up like Holsteins to have their weight, hair and fingernails checked.
After a quick team warm-up, we all sit, and sit, teams and parents clustered together on hard, unforgiving bleachers, which is fitting.
Wrestling is a grueling sport, who's one-on-one nature and continuous movement results in a twisting, reaching, ongoing vulnerability. I competed in high school with teammates who now coach my son. We are all older, fatter and balder, but the lessons remain. As legendary Iowa coach Dan Gable says, "Once you've wrestled, everything else is easy."
Beginning at 9:00 am up to 12 matches take place at once on four mats, made possible because kids as young as 5 don't need much room. Groups of kids are called up to the "bullpen" room by age group, then sent out to wrestle each other, often after a 30 minute wait with nothing to do but stare and flex at each other.
Whoever came up with chaos theory had youth wrestling tournaments in mind. Where else can a parent sit for over seven hours to watch their child in action for a total of 30 minutes, presuming each six minute match "goes the distance," which at the youth level is as likely as Tim Tebow embracing Buddha. Unlike baseball or choir (my oldest daughter's passion), where you are vested in a "team" because your kid is part of a group, it's hard to get excited watching the 40 or so matches before my guy is up. Then again I have never seen someone throw a hip toss on a mezzo soprano.
At the youth level matches are quick and random. Last year, Thomas lost a close match, after which I went for my constitutional. As I emerged, his coach ran up to me and said, "Man, what a great turnaround." Turns out he pinned another kid while I was, ahem, away.
On this day, Thomas lost his first match, then battled back against three opponents to take fourth place, winning a nice medal (any parent knows it's all about the hardware).
We headed back around 4:30, stopping for his obligatory McFlurry before we talk about the day. In his fourth match, for third place, he faced a kid known for headlocks, youth wrestling's version of a "one trick pony." Thomas countered him the first two times, stepping in and managing a takedown, but missed the third time and got pinned. I tell him how proud I am, for persevering, at which point he flashes a sheepish grin and says, "Thanks Dad, but I was just tired and ready to go."
Marv Levy, who led the Buffalo Bills to four straight Super Bowls, used to walk the field during warm-ups and ask his players, "Is there anywhere you would rather be than right here, right now."
My answer, of course, is no.
Cue the theme from Rocky, "Gonna Fly Now."
Youth wrestling tournaments are quite the spectacle, beginning with the early morning traffic jam for weigh ins. We arrive just before 7:00 am at the dark, dank gymnasium north of Chicago, a perfect setting for a blue collar sport. Forget the brie and chardonnay, this is a Velveeta and Red Bull crowd. Kids file in with gear over their shoulders, parents carrying coolers. Once inside, the kids are round up like Holsteins to have their weight, hair and fingernails checked.
After a quick team warm-up, we all sit, and sit, teams and parents clustered together on hard, unforgiving bleachers, which is fitting.
Wrestling is a grueling sport, who's one-on-one nature and continuous movement results in a twisting, reaching, ongoing vulnerability. I competed in high school with teammates who now coach my son. We are all older, fatter and balder, but the lessons remain. As legendary Iowa coach Dan Gable says, "Once you've wrestled, everything else is easy."
Beginning at 9:00 am up to 12 matches take place at once on four mats, made possible because kids as young as 5 don't need much room. Groups of kids are called up to the "bullpen" room by age group, then sent out to wrestle each other, often after a 30 minute wait with nothing to do but stare and flex at each other.
Whoever came up with chaos theory had youth wrestling tournaments in mind. Where else can a parent sit for over seven hours to watch their child in action for a total of 30 minutes, presuming each six minute match "goes the distance," which at the youth level is as likely as Tim Tebow embracing Buddha. Unlike baseball or choir (my oldest daughter's passion), where you are vested in a "team" because your kid is part of a group, it's hard to get excited watching the 40 or so matches before my guy is up. Then again I have never seen someone throw a hip toss on a mezzo soprano.
At the youth level matches are quick and random. Last year, Thomas lost a close match, after which I went for my constitutional. As I emerged, his coach ran up to me and said, "Man, what a great turnaround." Turns out he pinned another kid while I was, ahem, away.
On this day, Thomas lost his first match, then battled back against three opponents to take fourth place, winning a nice medal (any parent knows it's all about the hardware).
We headed back around 4:30, stopping for his obligatory McFlurry before we talk about the day. In his fourth match, for third place, he faced a kid known for headlocks, youth wrestling's version of a "one trick pony." Thomas countered him the first two times, stepping in and managing a takedown, but missed the third time and got pinned. I tell him how proud I am, for persevering, at which point he flashes a sheepish grin and says, "Thanks Dad, but I was just tired and ready to go."
Marv Levy, who led the Buffalo Bills to four straight Super Bowls, used to walk the field during warm-ups and ask his players, "Is there anywhere you would rather be than right here, right now."
My answer, of course, is no.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Growth 1, Resolutions 0
I'm not much for New Year's resolutions.
I'm not much for New Year's anything besides football, movies, Chinese take out, busting out the karaoke player or a good game of cards.
Many years ago I got in the habit of taping the "Rockin' New Year" show with the ball at Times Square. The kids and I would watch over breakfast, same result.
A creature of habit, that I am.
But I have never been big on resolutions.
Not that I don't reflect or look to improve. That I do quite a bit.
Since I hit my forties, perhaps coinciding with my metabolism's screeching halt, I took aim at three things I have always wanted to do, but not with a big pronouncement on January 1st.
I picked up a guitar several years ago.
I thought it would be fun to play for the kids, though I picture them telling stories someday of the times Dad "held us against our will" to hear the opening riff of "Day Tripper" several hundred times. Today I could probably earn half a sandwich on a subway platform.
I took a year's worth of improvisation classes at Second City, performing a few times with an ensemble which was great fun. I would love to do more but one artist in the family is enough.
And I started this blog.
A couple of years ago my boss at the time handed out an evaluation with space for "personal goals." I wrote that I wanted to start a blog.
Check.
If you are a reader of Just...Getting...Started, loyally or occasionally, I thank you. The response has been great.
Lord knows I have opinions. The idea of being "out there" with them and that people would enjoy reading them is both flattering and humbling.
Changes are coming in the new year as I take Just...Getting...Started to a bigger stage. Stay tuned.
And Happy New Year to all.
I'm not much for New Year's anything besides football, movies, Chinese take out, busting out the karaoke player or a good game of cards.
Many years ago I got in the habit of taping the "Rockin' New Year" show with the ball at Times Square. The kids and I would watch over breakfast, same result.
A creature of habit, that I am.
But I have never been big on resolutions.
Not that I don't reflect or look to improve. That I do quite a bit.
Since I hit my forties, perhaps coinciding with my metabolism's screeching halt, I took aim at three things I have always wanted to do, but not with a big pronouncement on January 1st.
I picked up a guitar several years ago.
I thought it would be fun to play for the kids, though I picture them telling stories someday of the times Dad "held us against our will" to hear the opening riff of "Day Tripper" several hundred times. Today I could probably earn half a sandwich on a subway platform.
I took a year's worth of improvisation classes at Second City, performing a few times with an ensemble which was great fun. I would love to do more but one artist in the family is enough.
And I started this blog.
A couple of years ago my boss at the time handed out an evaluation with space for "personal goals." I wrote that I wanted to start a blog.
Check.
If you are a reader of Just...Getting...Started, loyally or occasionally, I thank you. The response has been great.
Lord knows I have opinions. The idea of being "out there" with them and that people would enjoy reading them is both flattering and humbling.
Changes are coming in the new year as I take Just...Getting...Started to a bigger stage. Stay tuned.
And Happy New Year to all.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tim Tebow Is Not My Shepherd, Or Jesus Calls An Audible
Did the clock run out on "Tebow time?" Has "Tebowmania" run its course?
After leading the Denver Broncos to a series of dramatic, come from behind victories in recent weeks, quarterback Tim Tebow and company lost to the New England Patriots last Sunday.
“God’s Quarterback” has come back to earth (pun fully intended). Or has he?
For some, the game is an afterthought.
It is Tim Tebow's Christian faith, combined with his leadership, that has the football world caught up in "Tebowmania."
Fans everywhere drop down on one knee with a fist to the forehead in prayer. "Tebowing," it's called, the pose Tebow strikes during games.
Tim Tebow may be the savior football fans are looking for. Or he may just be a hard working, consistently average quarterback on a so-so team.
Did I mention that Tim Tebow believes in God?
Born in the Philippines and raised by Christian Baptist missionaries, Tim Tebow was an All-American, national championship winning quarterback at the University of Florida and a Heisman Trophy winner.
He had the credentials and leadership "intangibles," but most scouts questioned his ability to succeed in the NFL.
He appears to be a man of strong character, genuine and gracious, a leader by example not given to prothelizing.
Tim Tebow is hardly the first athlete to give thanks when given the forum. The "God Squad" is everywhere. We see it in player interviews, after a big play, or in player prayer circles after games. None of this bothers me unless it is somehow implied that God roots for one athlete or team over another (though it's hard to imagine God rooting for the New Jersey Devils).
As an aside, I couldn’t help but laugh when my son, then 9, thumped his chest and pointed his index fingers toward the sky after grace one night. I found it funny. My wife? Not so much.
The difference between Tebow and other jocks is that his ardent faith makes him a polarizing figure. He's gone on missions, says he's a virgin, and created controversy last year by doing a pro-life commercial during the Super Bowl with his mother, who went against her doctor's advice to terminate her pregnancy with Tim.
There's a vulnerability around religion that sets Tebow apart. He's "walking the walk," being specific, not simply pointing to the heavens. That rankles some people but Tebow appears, character wise, to be the real deal.
He also seems to take the constant attention in stride while pundits have a hard time controlling themselves. Announcers and scribes are all a flutter for Tebowmania. At some point I expect Tebow to get sacked, then have Fox announcer Joe Buck scream, “He is risen!!”
So no, we have yet to see Tim Tebow turn day old bagels into Lobster Newburg or a jug of Gatorade into wine. And there's no truth to the rumor that his image lingered on a gym towel or that Topps plans to create a Tim Tebow football card with scripture passages instead of stat lines.
All is well in Tebowland as long as he is winning. If the Broncos hit the skids and finger pointing begins, he’ll get thrown to the Lions.
And I'm not talking about the ones from Detroit.
After leading the Denver Broncos to a series of dramatic, come from behind victories in recent weeks, quarterback Tim Tebow and company lost to the New England Patriots last Sunday.
“God’s Quarterback” has come back to earth (pun fully intended). Or has he?
For some, the game is an afterthought.
It is Tim Tebow's Christian faith, combined with his leadership, that has the football world caught up in "Tebowmania."
Fans everywhere drop down on one knee with a fist to the forehead in prayer. "Tebowing," it's called, the pose Tebow strikes during games.
Tim Tebow may be the savior football fans are looking for. Or he may just be a hard working, consistently average quarterback on a so-so team.
Did I mention that Tim Tebow believes in God?
Born in the Philippines and raised by Christian Baptist missionaries, Tim Tebow was an All-American, national championship winning quarterback at the University of Florida and a Heisman Trophy winner.
He had the credentials and leadership "intangibles," but most scouts questioned his ability to succeed in the NFL.
He appears to be a man of strong character, genuine and gracious, a leader by example not given to prothelizing.
Tim Tebow is hardly the first athlete to give thanks when given the forum. The "God Squad" is everywhere. We see it in player interviews, after a big play, or in player prayer circles after games. None of this bothers me unless it is somehow implied that God roots for one athlete or team over another (though it's hard to imagine God rooting for the New Jersey Devils).
As an aside, I couldn’t help but laugh when my son, then 9, thumped his chest and pointed his index fingers toward the sky after grace one night. I found it funny. My wife? Not so much.
The difference between Tebow and other jocks is that his ardent faith makes him a polarizing figure. He's gone on missions, says he's a virgin, and created controversy last year by doing a pro-life commercial during the Super Bowl with his mother, who went against her doctor's advice to terminate her pregnancy with Tim.
There's a vulnerability around religion that sets Tebow apart. He's "walking the walk," being specific, not simply pointing to the heavens. That rankles some people but Tebow appears, character wise, to be the real deal.
He also seems to take the constant attention in stride while pundits have a hard time controlling themselves. Announcers and scribes are all a flutter for Tebowmania. At some point I expect Tebow to get sacked, then have Fox announcer Joe Buck scream, “He is risen!!”
So no, we have yet to see Tim Tebow turn day old bagels into Lobster Newburg or a jug of Gatorade into wine. And there's no truth to the rumor that his image lingered on a gym towel or that Topps plans to create a Tim Tebow football card with scripture passages instead of stat lines.
All is well in Tebowland as long as he is winning. If the Broncos hit the skids and finger pointing begins, he’ll get thrown to the Lions.
And I'm not talking about the ones from Detroit.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Blago's A Bore, And Certainly No "Boss"
In the end, Rod Blagoevich was a lousy politician and a dumb, inept crook.
"The harm is the erosion of public trust in government."
Those were Judge James Zagel's words to the former Illinois Governor as he handed down a sentence of 14 years, one of the stiffest ever for corruption by a public official.
Zagel's words were a rebuke to the defense team's notion that even if "Blago" is guilty there was no harm since he never profited from his crimes.
Think about that.
Rod Blagoevich will be 67 years old when he gets out of the federal pen, convicted on 18 counts of corruption including failed attempts to shake down Chicago's Children's Memorial Hospital and "sell" Barack Obama's vacant Senate seat for $1.5 million, a seat Blago infamously described on a Fed wire tap as "f*cking golden."
But Blago never profited from his schemes. He couldn't get them off the ground any more than a turkey racing down a runway.
You could say it was a fall from grace if the guy wasn't on the take from the day he took office. One has the sense that Blago schemed to get more Doritos in grade school.
But in the end, he couldn't seal the deal.
Blago's saga reminds me of the Woody Allen film "Small Time Crooks," where Allen plays a bumbling burglar determined to burrow underneath a bank building in order to rob it. With the help of Tracey Ullman, he sets up a "cover" business where Ullman bakes cookies in order to distract from the jackhammers and digging.
Problem is the cookies are a huge hit with every cop in New York.
Think of Blago as a Slavic Woody Allen.
As a politician, he's no Tom Kane.
Tom Kane is the fictitious Chicago mayor played by Kelsey Grammer in the new TV series "Boss."
Grammer is great in the role of machine emperor, a suspendered, fire breathing dragon in a show often over the top. In the first episode, Mayor Kane manages to drag an alderman around his office by his ear (literally) and have one of his henchman drug a doctor who may have leaked information about Hizzoner to the media.
In future episodes I can see him throwing a union leader down the stairs and sucker punching a boy scout.
Blago is no Boss. On tape, he's a foul mouthed brat, but hardly intimidating. In person he dresses the part in fancy suits, hollow ones at that. I picture those on the receiving end of his rants trying hard not to laugh.
I certainly can't picture him dragging a state legislator across the floor.
Or a fellow inmate.
"The harm is the erosion of public trust in government."
Those were Judge James Zagel's words to the former Illinois Governor as he handed down a sentence of 14 years, one of the stiffest ever for corruption by a public official.
Zagel's words were a rebuke to the defense team's notion that even if "Blago" is guilty there was no harm since he never profited from his crimes.
Think about that.
Rod Blagoevich will be 67 years old when he gets out of the federal pen, convicted on 18 counts of corruption including failed attempts to shake down Chicago's Children's Memorial Hospital and "sell" Barack Obama's vacant Senate seat for $1.5 million, a seat Blago infamously described on a Fed wire tap as "f*cking golden."
But Blago never profited from his schemes. He couldn't get them off the ground any more than a turkey racing down a runway.
You could say it was a fall from grace if the guy wasn't on the take from the day he took office. One has the sense that Blago schemed to get more Doritos in grade school.
But in the end, he couldn't seal the deal.
Blago's saga reminds me of the Woody Allen film "Small Time Crooks," where Allen plays a bumbling burglar determined to burrow underneath a bank building in order to rob it. With the help of Tracey Ullman, he sets up a "cover" business where Ullman bakes cookies in order to distract from the jackhammers and digging.
Problem is the cookies are a huge hit with every cop in New York.
Think of Blago as a Slavic Woody Allen.
As a politician, he's no Tom Kane.
Tom Kane is the fictitious Chicago mayor played by Kelsey Grammer in the new TV series "Boss."
Grammer is great in the role of machine emperor, a suspendered, fire breathing dragon in a show often over the top. In the first episode, Mayor Kane manages to drag an alderman around his office by his ear (literally) and have one of his henchman drug a doctor who may have leaked information about Hizzoner to the media.
In future episodes I can see him throwing a union leader down the stairs and sucker punching a boy scout.
Blago is no Boss. On tape, he's a foul mouthed brat, but hardly intimidating. In person he dresses the part in fancy suits, hollow ones at that. I picture those on the receiving end of his rants trying hard not to laugh.
I certainly can't picture him dragging a state legislator across the floor.
Or a fellow inmate.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Beaten With A Drumstick...My Thanksgiving With the Republican Wannabes
Thanksgiving 2011 was like no other, as the entire Republican presidential field came to our home for turkey and fixins.
How were we so lucky?
Amazingly, we were chosen via robo call to host the live event for Donald Trump's new Internet channel, EGOTV.
Here's how the day went:
10:00 am - The candidates arrive in their custom made buses, creating quite a traffic jam in the driveway. My wife and I greet them along with our children. The kids love Rick Perry's bus, which includes a flat bed and gun rack, complete with a turkey hunted down with his bare hands a few hours earlier.
10:30 am - "Turkey Bowl" football game. The highlights:
Newt Gingrich insists on being game historian, making rules such as "Go deep, go out," or "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi" sound like a dissertation on molecular physics.
Mitt Romney plays quarterback for both teams, naturally.
The game is tied going into the final minute when Romney completes a pass to Herman Cain, who bowls over Jon Huntsman and Michelle Bachman, then races towards the goal line with Ron Paul latched onto his right leg. With ten yards to go, Perry (who found it hard to run in cowboy boots) manages to lasso Cain from the sideline, bringing him down head first with a thud.
As everyone rushes to Cain's aide, he sits up, dazed, and explains that there is, "All this stuff twirlin' around in my head."
12:00 noon - The candidates watch football and wait for dinner. Perry cheers for his Cowboys, while Romney can't decide who to root for when he isn't nervously changing channels. Cain, still dazed, tries to remember where he has seen Huntsman and Rick Santorum before.
3:00 pm - Dinner.
At the dining room table sits my wife and I, along with Romney, Gingrich, Perry and Cain.
In the next room, at the kids table, my children sit with Bachman, Paul, Huntsman and Santorum.
Gingrich leads a prayer which goes on for over an hour, after which he announces a new book on Thanksgiving (written while everyone else was watching football), available on Amazon for $24.95.
Discussion centers around who can be the most conservative, with several ideas bandied around including:
- Privatizing Social Security, with funds invested in a nationwide chain of drive thru gun shops (Perry)
- Putting God on the $20 bill in place of Andrew Jackson (Santorum)
- Converting Head Start into a vocational job training program (Gingrich)
Things get heated over taxes as Paul begins jumping on his table while Bachman shoots peas at the other candidates.
At one point Cain says, "I am against government aid to pilgrims for the following reasons...LINE!!"
6:00 pm - Departure.
The candidates begin to leave. Perry says to my wife, "Boy, there were three great things about today, the food, the company and......let me get back to you."
Plenty of pleasantries to go around.
And who gets the leftovers? We do, the voters.
How were we so lucky?
Amazingly, we were chosen via robo call to host the live event for Donald Trump's new Internet channel, EGOTV.
Here's how the day went:
10:00 am - The candidates arrive in their custom made buses, creating quite a traffic jam in the driveway. My wife and I greet them along with our children. The kids love Rick Perry's bus, which includes a flat bed and gun rack, complete with a turkey hunted down with his bare hands a few hours earlier.
10:30 am - "Turkey Bowl" football game. The highlights:
Newt Gingrich insists on being game historian, making rules such as "Go deep, go out," or "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi" sound like a dissertation on molecular physics.
Mitt Romney plays quarterback for both teams, naturally.
The game is tied going into the final minute when Romney completes a pass to Herman Cain, who bowls over Jon Huntsman and Michelle Bachman, then races towards the goal line with Ron Paul latched onto his right leg. With ten yards to go, Perry (who found it hard to run in cowboy boots) manages to lasso Cain from the sideline, bringing him down head first with a thud.
As everyone rushes to Cain's aide, he sits up, dazed, and explains that there is, "All this stuff twirlin' around in my head."
12:00 noon - The candidates watch football and wait for dinner. Perry cheers for his Cowboys, while Romney can't decide who to root for when he isn't nervously changing channels. Cain, still dazed, tries to remember where he has seen Huntsman and Rick Santorum before.
3:00 pm - Dinner.
At the dining room table sits my wife and I, along with Romney, Gingrich, Perry and Cain.
In the next room, at the kids table, my children sit with Bachman, Paul, Huntsman and Santorum.
Gingrich leads a prayer which goes on for over an hour, after which he announces a new book on Thanksgiving (written while everyone else was watching football), available on Amazon for $24.95.
Discussion centers around who can be the most conservative, with several ideas bandied around including:
- Privatizing Social Security, with funds invested in a nationwide chain of drive thru gun shops (Perry)
- Putting God on the $20 bill in place of Andrew Jackson (Santorum)
- Converting Head Start into a vocational job training program (Gingrich)
Things get heated over taxes as Paul begins jumping on his table while Bachman shoots peas at the other candidates.
At one point Cain says, "I am against government aid to pilgrims for the following reasons...LINE!!"
6:00 pm - Departure.
The candidates begin to leave. Perry says to my wife, "Boy, there were three great things about today, the food, the company and......let me get back to you."
Plenty of pleasantries to go around.
And who gets the leftovers? We do, the voters.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Too Many Cooks in The Presidential Kitchen
It's official. I have "debate fatigue" before primary season even starts.
It seems there is a Republican presidential debate on every night, or at least as often as "Law and Order."
I love a good debate, and God bless 'em for having so many of them. They have provided plenty of good moments and, indeed, some comic relief.
But every time I watch and scan the stage I can't help but think of the old Bill Murray routine on Saturday Night Live, the one where he would give his Academy Award picks for Best Picture, Best Actor and Best Actress, ignoring the Supporting Actor and Actress nominees because "who really cares about these anyway."
Here's the link:
http://www.hulu.com/watch/270902/saturday-night-live-bill-murray
At some point soon, if they don't drop out on their own, someone from the RNC needs to step in and prod "Supporting Actors" Ron Paul, Michelle Bachman, Jon Huntsman, Rick Santorum et al. to exit for the good of the party.
I suspect the number of candidates will dwindle anyway, drastically, after the New Hampshire primary. Until then, voters are stuck with a diluted message delivered by candidates shouting into the wind.
It seems there is a Republican presidential debate on every night, or at least as often as "Law and Order."
I love a good debate, and God bless 'em for having so many of them. They have provided plenty of good moments and, indeed, some comic relief.
But every time I watch and scan the stage I can't help but think of the old Bill Murray routine on Saturday Night Live, the one where he would give his Academy Award picks for Best Picture, Best Actor and Best Actress, ignoring the Supporting Actor and Actress nominees because "who really cares about these anyway."
Here's the link:
http://www.hulu.com/watch/270902/saturday-night-live-bill-murray
At some point soon, if they don't drop out on their own, someone from the RNC needs to step in and prod "Supporting Actors" Ron Paul, Michelle Bachman, Jon Huntsman, Rick Santorum et al. to exit for the good of the party.
I suspect the number of candidates will dwindle anyway, drastically, after the New Hampshire primary. Until then, voters are stuck with a diluted message delivered by candidates shouting into the wind.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Joe Paterno Must Go
Joe Paterno, the legendary Penn State University football coach, the winningest coach in the history of college football, is all but gone for his role in an explosive abuse scandal involving one of his former coaches.
Jerry Sandusky, who served as an assistant coach under Joe Paterno for over two decades, was indicted this week, charged with sexually assaulting over 40 young boys dating back to 1994. Sandusky, who suddenly retired in 1999, continued to office at Penn State while running a not for profit called The Second Mile, which benefited at risk youth.
And, prosecutors say, he continued to molest young boys.
In 2002, Mike McQueary, a graduate assistant to Joe Paterno, allegedly witnessed Sandusky raping a boy in the football locker room showers. The assistant told his father about the incident immediately, then Paterno the next day.
Paterno then reported the incident to his boss, Athletic Director Tim Curley, who resigned earlier this week.
The consequence for Sandusky? No legal action, no police intervention. He lost his locker room keys.
I am sickened on two levels.
First, how does McQueary witness a rape and not intervene? How does he fail to call the police himself?
When McQueary tells his father, how does the father not call police?
And when McQueary tells Paterno, how does Paterno not inform the police?
Life in Happy Valley won't be the same for a long, long time. Not for the victims, for Sandusky, for the administrators, for Paterno.
If the allegations are true, then at a minimum Joe Paterno looked the other way while a predator on his staff raped children as young as ten.
I am especially sickened, as a Catholic, with the parallels between the Penn State abuse story and the Catholic priest abuse stories.
In both cases, given the opportunity to protect our children, those in charge looked the other way.
Maybe it's pure coincidence that Sandusky's arrest comes weeks after Paterno won his 409th game, making him the winningest coach in the history of college football.
In the end, Joe Paterno will be remembered as a man who lacked courage, who failed to protect children from a monster. A man who appeared to stand for so much, a "molder of men," in the end stands for nothing. Except winning games.
Legally, Paterno is in the clear. Morally, he's on an island.
It's time to go, Joe. Now please.
Jerry Sandusky, who served as an assistant coach under Joe Paterno for over two decades, was indicted this week, charged with sexually assaulting over 40 young boys dating back to 1994. Sandusky, who suddenly retired in 1999, continued to office at Penn State while running a not for profit called The Second Mile, which benefited at risk youth.
And, prosecutors say, he continued to molest young boys.
In 2002, Mike McQueary, a graduate assistant to Joe Paterno, allegedly witnessed Sandusky raping a boy in the football locker room showers. The assistant told his father about the incident immediately, then Paterno the next day.
Paterno then reported the incident to his boss, Athletic Director Tim Curley, who resigned earlier this week.
The consequence for Sandusky? No legal action, no police intervention. He lost his locker room keys.
I am sickened on two levels.
First, how does McQueary witness a rape and not intervene? How does he fail to call the police himself?
When McQueary tells his father, how does the father not call police?
And when McQueary tells Paterno, how does Paterno not inform the police?
Life in Happy Valley won't be the same for a long, long time. Not for the victims, for Sandusky, for the administrators, for Paterno.
If the allegations are true, then at a minimum Joe Paterno looked the other way while a predator on his staff raped children as young as ten.
I am especially sickened, as a Catholic, with the parallels between the Penn State abuse story and the Catholic priest abuse stories.
In both cases, given the opportunity to protect our children, those in charge looked the other way.
Maybe it's pure coincidence that Sandusky's arrest comes weeks after Paterno won his 409th game, making him the winningest coach in the history of college football.
In the end, Joe Paterno will be remembered as a man who lacked courage, who failed to protect children from a monster. A man who appeared to stand for so much, a "molder of men," in the end stands for nothing. Except winning games.
Legally, Paterno is in the clear. Morally, he's on an island.
It's time to go, Joe. Now please.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Pre-Occupation With Wall Street
I have watched and read quite a bit about the "Occupy Wall Street" movement, which began in New York and has since spread to a number of other locales.
While some demonstrations number in the thousands, other groups would be challenged to occupy an elevator.
As much as I try, it's hard for me to grasp the message of the Occupy movement. Rich people bad, everyone else good? Wealth should be re-distributed? Corporate "fat cats" need to be held accountable? Basic cable and 4G for all?
I understand the frustration, even anger, which is real, and palpable.
For the most part, Occupy protesters are upset that so much is in the hands of so few. The so-called "1%" control most of our nation's wealth while the other 99% feel like they're looking in with lips pressed against a real life snow globe.
A CBS/New York Times poll shows that 42% of Americans majority agree with the views of the occupy movement. But what are the views?
As much as I love a good poll, this one reminds me of when Congress sends out "constituent surveys" with loaded questions like, "Should your tax dollars be used to build nuclear bombs instead of providing food and shelter to innocent, defenseless puppies?"
The Occupy movement is real, but the agenda, and sustainability, are unclear.
Some have tried to equate Occupy with the Tea Party. But the Tea Party, from the beginning, was a movement with a political agenda.
Say what you like about Tea Partiers, but they came, they saw, they conquered. They altered the landscape in 2010 by setting an agenda and running candidates for Congress. Loud ones.
So far the Occupiers operate outside the political realm. In fact, I saw Democratic Congressman Barney Frank pleading with protesters the other night to not cast aside the political process, even though most politicians have avoided Occupy like Donald Trump avoids the subway.
Perhaps the real "threat" or lasting impact of the Occupy movement is that the ranks of disenfranchised voters will grow, affecting future election turnout and leadership.
I hope not. Free speech is a precious right, and a responsibility.
What's your take on the Occupy movement? I would enjoy hearing from you.
While some demonstrations number in the thousands, other groups would be challenged to occupy an elevator.
As much as I try, it's hard for me to grasp the message of the Occupy movement. Rich people bad, everyone else good? Wealth should be re-distributed? Corporate "fat cats" need to be held accountable? Basic cable and 4G for all?
I understand the frustration, even anger, which is real, and palpable.
For the most part, Occupy protesters are upset that so much is in the hands of so few. The so-called "1%" control most of our nation's wealth while the other 99% feel like they're looking in with lips pressed against a real life snow globe.
A CBS/New York Times poll shows that 42% of Americans majority agree with the views of the occupy movement. But what are the views?
As much as I love a good poll, this one reminds me of when Congress sends out "constituent surveys" with loaded questions like, "Should your tax dollars be used to build nuclear bombs instead of providing food and shelter to innocent, defenseless puppies?"
The Occupy movement is real, but the agenda, and sustainability, are unclear.
Some have tried to equate Occupy with the Tea Party. But the Tea Party, from the beginning, was a movement with a political agenda.
Say what you like about Tea Partiers, but they came, they saw, they conquered. They altered the landscape in 2010 by setting an agenda and running candidates for Congress. Loud ones.
So far the Occupiers operate outside the political realm. In fact, I saw Democratic Congressman Barney Frank pleading with protesters the other night to not cast aside the political process, even though most politicians have avoided Occupy like Donald Trump avoids the subway.
Perhaps the real "threat" or lasting impact of the Occupy movement is that the ranks of disenfranchised voters will grow, affecting future election turnout and leadership.
I hope not. Free speech is a precious right, and a responsibility.
What's your take on the Occupy movement? I would enjoy hearing from you.
Friday, October 21, 2011
He Had Me At Hello
I found myself watching David Letterman the other night, which is rare. I can count on one foot the number of times I have watched Letterman through the years.
Former President Bill Clinton was the guest and I was struck by two things:
1) Clinton looks great. In fact, sans the gray hair he looks better than he did twenty years ago.
2) I love listening to a politician freed from politics, able to speak their mind without a the proverbial cup in hand.
There weren't any great revelations but Clinton was in his element, relaxed and ever eloquent.
I have read commentary lately about President Obama's disdain for "retail politics," the daily, one-on-one, behind the scenes aspect of public office.
Obama, the theory goes, is more comfortable in front of large audiences than in smaller settings. He's not particularly interested in working the phones and cashing in chits with members of Congress. One writer speculated that Obama likes humanity, but not human beings.
It's certainly debatable to what extent backslapping skills are necessary for a Commander in Chief. And connecting with Congress today must feel like knocking on a steel door. Once "inside," even infomercial king Billy Mays would probably wind up kicked in the teeth like Willy Loman.
President Bill Clinton was a master glad hander, the most effective in my lifetime.
Watching Clinton on Letterman, I felt the power of a man who simultaneously compelled two individuals (Letterman and I) along with an audience. He had me hooked for days after. Ask my wife, who is convinced I have a man crush.
Many years ago I had a client, a staunch conservative who had the opportunity to meet then candidate for president Clinton. "I don't agree with Bill Clinton about anything," he said, "but believe me, when he shook my hand and looked me in the eye, I was the only person in the room."
That I believe. I doubt Bill Clinton ever leaves a room without trying to connect with everyone. His Rolodex could power a river boat.
The most effective politicians master the public and personal; salesmanship and empathy. Despite his personal failings, Bill Clinton was effective working a room and getting legislation passed.
The man is persuasive. Heck, he got me to sit through an hour of late night T.V.
Former President Bill Clinton was the guest and I was struck by two things:
1) Clinton looks great. In fact, sans the gray hair he looks better than he did twenty years ago.
2) I love listening to a politician freed from politics, able to speak their mind without a the proverbial cup in hand.
There weren't any great revelations but Clinton was in his element, relaxed and ever eloquent.
I have read commentary lately about President Obama's disdain for "retail politics," the daily, one-on-one, behind the scenes aspect of public office.
Obama, the theory goes, is more comfortable in front of large audiences than in smaller settings. He's not particularly interested in working the phones and cashing in chits with members of Congress. One writer speculated that Obama likes humanity, but not human beings.
It's certainly debatable to what extent backslapping skills are necessary for a Commander in Chief. And connecting with Congress today must feel like knocking on a steel door. Once "inside," even infomercial king Billy Mays would probably wind up kicked in the teeth like Willy Loman.
President Bill Clinton was a master glad hander, the most effective in my lifetime.
Watching Clinton on Letterman, I felt the power of a man who simultaneously compelled two individuals (Letterman and I) along with an audience. He had me hooked for days after. Ask my wife, who is convinced I have a man crush.
Many years ago I had a client, a staunch conservative who had the opportunity to meet then candidate for president Clinton. "I don't agree with Bill Clinton about anything," he said, "but believe me, when he shook my hand and looked me in the eye, I was the only person in the room."
That I believe. I doubt Bill Clinton ever leaves a room without trying to connect with everyone. His Rolodex could power a river boat.
The most effective politicians master the public and personal; salesmanship and empathy. Despite his personal failings, Bill Clinton was effective working a room and getting legislation passed.
The man is persuasive. Heck, he got me to sit through an hour of late night T.V.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Sweetness...Timeless
Author Jeff Pearlman's new Walter Payton biography, "Sweetness," has some unflattering details about the Chicago Bears Hall of Fame running back. In the book, Pearlman alleges that Payton had affairs, battled depression and abused pain killers.
I have not read "Sweetness," though I did read the Sports Illustrated excerpt containing the allegations, which I found interesting but hardly surprising. Most Chicagoans have heard rumors of Payton's infidelity through the years, while pain killers and depression were ooh so common for players active in the 1970's.
In fact, the "broken down jock" narrative would make a good county music song: Legendary player (insert name) struggles with life after (insert sport), finances and marriage fall apart while depression and addictions intensify.
Jeff Pearlman insists his book is a balanced look at an enigmatic man, a "definitive" biography, in his words.
We could debate what, if anything, is out of bounds when writing about a public figure, and to what extent they should be "outed" for their shortcomings. A good biography paints a complete picture, which often isn't pretty.
For the record, I am as objective here as a life insurance salesman in a maternity ward. Walter Payton was my childhood hero and the greatest football player I have ever seen.
I was in 4th grade in 1977 when Payton rushed for an NFL record 275 yards against the Minnesota Vikings. I remember the game, and I remember proudly wearing my Walter Payton "iron-on" from the local sports page a few days later. And every day until the t-shirt fell off my back.
Walter Payton was Zeus in shoulder pads. So quick, so strong, so tough. With legs churning like pistons, he never stopped moving, redefining the football term "forward progress."
I never saw Sweetness take an initial hit. Payton rarely "got hit." He always delivered the blow, with a stiff arm I'm sure felt like being struck by an AMC Pacer.
Walter Payton played on some lousy teams, in a city of lousy teams. He was our collective hope back when Chicago was home to more dog teams than the Yukon.
Here's my Payton story:
My grade school was a block from Northwestern's Dyche Stadium, and in those days when the field was bad at Lake Forest College (yes kids, there was a time before practice domes and heated surfaces) the Bears bused to Evanston for practice on NU's artificial concrete, I mean turf. My buds and I made the trip hoping for a sweatband, arm pad or autograph.
One time I waited outside in the snow after practice, pen and paper in hand, when Walter Payton emerged from the locker room in his game uniform.
A camera crew from Sports Illustrated was there to take Payton's picture for a cover story on the Bears. I watched him approach the crew and insist that he wouldn't appear in any shot without his offensive line.
As the crew and flunkies haggled over the photo spread, a line began to form as a Bears official herded us kids for autographs. Inexplicably, I ended up in the back (should have thrown a stiff arm or two). Payton walked up to the line, looked at the first kid and bellowed, "I'm starting at the back."
I still have the runny, worn signature, and a glimpse into Walter Payton, the man.
Sadly, we will never know whether Payton suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), the progressive brain damage which strikes so many players, including his Super Bowl teammate Dave Duerson, who committed suicide earlier this year.
Sweetness was gone too soon, but his legacy is timeless.
Despite Jeff Pearlman's salacious morsels, Walter Payton will never be "semi-sweet."
I have not read "Sweetness," though I did read the Sports Illustrated excerpt containing the allegations, which I found interesting but hardly surprising. Most Chicagoans have heard rumors of Payton's infidelity through the years, while pain killers and depression were ooh so common for players active in the 1970's.
In fact, the "broken down jock" narrative would make a good county music song: Legendary player (insert name) struggles with life after (insert sport), finances and marriage fall apart while depression and addictions intensify.
Jeff Pearlman insists his book is a balanced look at an enigmatic man, a "definitive" biography, in his words.
We could debate what, if anything, is out of bounds when writing about a public figure, and to what extent they should be "outed" for their shortcomings. A good biography paints a complete picture, which often isn't pretty.
For the record, I am as objective here as a life insurance salesman in a maternity ward. Walter Payton was my childhood hero and the greatest football player I have ever seen.
I was in 4th grade in 1977 when Payton rushed for an NFL record 275 yards against the Minnesota Vikings. I remember the game, and I remember proudly wearing my Walter Payton "iron-on" from the local sports page a few days later. And every day until the t-shirt fell off my back.
Walter Payton was Zeus in shoulder pads. So quick, so strong, so tough. With legs churning like pistons, he never stopped moving, redefining the football term "forward progress."
I never saw Sweetness take an initial hit. Payton rarely "got hit." He always delivered the blow, with a stiff arm I'm sure felt like being struck by an AMC Pacer.
Walter Payton played on some lousy teams, in a city of lousy teams. He was our collective hope back when Chicago was home to more dog teams than the Yukon.
Here's my Payton story:
My grade school was a block from Northwestern's Dyche Stadium, and in those days when the field was bad at Lake Forest College (yes kids, there was a time before practice domes and heated surfaces) the Bears bused to Evanston for practice on NU's artificial concrete, I mean turf. My buds and I made the trip hoping for a sweatband, arm pad or autograph.
One time I waited outside in the snow after practice, pen and paper in hand, when Walter Payton emerged from the locker room in his game uniform.
A camera crew from Sports Illustrated was there to take Payton's picture for a cover story on the Bears. I watched him approach the crew and insist that he wouldn't appear in any shot without his offensive line.
As the crew and flunkies haggled over the photo spread, a line began to form as a Bears official herded us kids for autographs. Inexplicably, I ended up in the back (should have thrown a stiff arm or two). Payton walked up to the line, looked at the first kid and bellowed, "I'm starting at the back."
I still have the runny, worn signature, and a glimpse into Walter Payton, the man.
Sadly, we will never know whether Payton suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), the progressive brain damage which strikes so many players, including his Super Bowl teammate Dave Duerson, who committed suicide earlier this year.
Sweetness was gone too soon, but his legacy is timeless.
Despite Jeff Pearlman's salacious morsels, Walter Payton will never be "semi-sweet."
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Some Zzzs Please
Have you heard about "Go the Fu*k To Sleep?" Described as a "children's book for adults," it's pure genius. Check out Samuel L. Jackson on this youtube link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNhnCD0EZtE
C'mon, this is funny stuff. It's O.K. to laugh.
I love "Go The F*ck to Sleep" because it's another chink in the "perfect parent" armor; A sippy cup in the eye of the parenting fantasy as nothing but smooches and ice cream.
Parenting is a full contact sport. I would love for my kids to go to sleep on demand, just like I'd love walls without hand prints or a bedroom that doesn't double as a doll and toy minefield. And while we're at it, I'd like to wear dry cleaning within a mile of my house.
How can beings so small, so cute, be so utterly destructive and exhausting?
As far as kids and sleep goes, so far I'm 2-for-4. My twins were easy on the sleep front once they passed age two, though early on it felt like Vietnam.
These days, my younger ones are creating their own legacy.
When Audra was two she went through a diva phase, constantly changing her clothes. One night I awoke to the thump of little feet. Over the next week or so I would open her bedroom door and find her in one of three states:
1. Naked in front of a pile of clothes.
2. Asleep on top of a pile of clothes, either naked or in a, ahem, creative ensemble.
3. Running around the room in a creative ensemble.
We were forced to move all clothes to the top shelves of her closet.
As parents, we continually move things higher, out of a kid's way, as if a flood has struck the living room. Show me your refrigerator door and I can guess your kids age within two years.
Then there's Drea, who somehow can't fall asleep unless strapped into a car seat, and appears ready to vault out of her crib a la Mary Lou Retton.
If I can stay awake long enough, look for my follow-up book, "I'm Too Old For This Sh*t."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNhnCD0EZtE
C'mon, this is funny stuff. It's O.K. to laugh.
I love "Go The F*ck to Sleep" because it's another chink in the "perfect parent" armor; A sippy cup in the eye of the parenting fantasy as nothing but smooches and ice cream.
Parenting is a full contact sport. I would love for my kids to go to sleep on demand, just like I'd love walls without hand prints or a bedroom that doesn't double as a doll and toy minefield. And while we're at it, I'd like to wear dry cleaning within a mile of my house.
How can beings so small, so cute, be so utterly destructive and exhausting?
As far as kids and sleep goes, so far I'm 2-for-4. My twins were easy on the sleep front once they passed age two, though early on it felt like Vietnam.
These days, my younger ones are creating their own legacy.
When Audra was two she went through a diva phase, constantly changing her clothes. One night I awoke to the thump of little feet. Over the next week or so I would open her bedroom door and find her in one of three states:
1. Naked in front of a pile of clothes.
2. Asleep on top of a pile of clothes, either naked or in a, ahem, creative ensemble.
3. Running around the room in a creative ensemble.
We were forced to move all clothes to the top shelves of her closet.
As parents, we continually move things higher, out of a kid's way, as if a flood has struck the living room. Show me your refrigerator door and I can guess your kids age within two years.
Then there's Drea, who somehow can't fall asleep unless strapped into a car seat, and appears ready to vault out of her crib a la Mary Lou Retton.
If I can stay awake long enough, look for my follow-up book, "I'm Too Old For This Sh*t."
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Unknown Blogger
A friend of mine was recently lamenting the fact that a member of his family, an elected official, is often attacked on Internet message boards.
He's not bothered by criticism per say but that the fact that most of it comes via anonymous "comments" on political and newsie websites.
In the old days a dissenter had a few choices. Either show up at a meeting or hearing, call or write letters. And if your letter made it into the local rag, it was signed. By you. Name and city.
I'm not a fan of message boards, which are kind of like shouting out the window at passing cars.
But they're here to stay, along with our increasingly "anonymous" society.
Ironically, we become more anonymous by embracing Facebook and Twitter, "sharing" technologies that allow us to secretly view each others lives.
Does anonymity have limits?
The other day I came across this item in the Chicago Tribune in a story about President Obama's jobs plan.
"In his remarks, the president will make clear he's not going to support any plan that asks something of some Americans and nothing of others." This was according to a White House aide, speaking on condition of anonymity in a conference call with reporters.
Something is amiss here, beyond my "well duh" reaction to Deep Throat's earth shattering revelation.
A conference call?
First I've heard of that one. When I hear "anonymous source" I think of trench coats, chapeaus and parking garages, not a conference line and bank of microphones. I suppose the source used one of those voice altering machines you see on shows like 60 Minutes, or maybe as an extra precaution sat behind one of those kiddie "puppet stages" with the shade drawn.
And how did this source get the word out for the conference call? Maybe via email: "Please join me as I leak very special information about the Obama jobs plan." Or perhaps, borrowing from Gordon Gekko, "Blue Horseshoe loves Obama's jobs plan."
The conference call had to be set up en masse, no phone calls, because any reporter worth a darn would beg for an exclusive.
This is cheating, plain and simple. The annonymous source meets message boards.
If you are going to hurl tomatoes, or leak information, follow the rules.
Signed,
The Unknown Blogger
He's not bothered by criticism per say but that the fact that most of it comes via anonymous "comments" on political and newsie websites.
In the old days a dissenter had a few choices. Either show up at a meeting or hearing, call or write letters. And if your letter made it into the local rag, it was signed. By you. Name and city.
I'm not a fan of message boards, which are kind of like shouting out the window at passing cars.
But they're here to stay, along with our increasingly "anonymous" society.
Ironically, we become more anonymous by embracing Facebook and Twitter, "sharing" technologies that allow us to secretly view each others lives.
Does anonymity have limits?
The other day I came across this item in the Chicago Tribune in a story about President Obama's jobs plan.
"In his remarks, the president will make clear he's not going to support any plan that asks something of some Americans and nothing of others." This was according to a White House aide, speaking on condition of anonymity in a conference call with reporters.
Something is amiss here, beyond my "well duh" reaction to Deep Throat's earth shattering revelation.
A conference call?
First I've heard of that one. When I hear "anonymous source" I think of trench coats, chapeaus and parking garages, not a conference line and bank of microphones. I suppose the source used one of those voice altering machines you see on shows like 60 Minutes, or maybe as an extra precaution sat behind one of those kiddie "puppet stages" with the shade drawn.
And how did this source get the word out for the conference call? Maybe via email: "Please join me as I leak very special information about the Obama jobs plan." Or perhaps, borrowing from Gordon Gekko, "Blue Horseshoe loves Obama's jobs plan."
The conference call had to be set up en masse, no phone calls, because any reporter worth a darn would beg for an exclusive.
This is cheating, plain and simple. The annonymous source meets message boards.
If you are going to hurl tomatoes, or leak information, follow the rules.
Signed,
The Unknown Blogger
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Nobody's Foil on 9/11
Aluminum foil.
My wife will tell you I have an aversion to it. A big one.
I'm not afraid of it, but won't use it, unless I have no choice.
Growing up, my father used aluminum foil. And reused it. There was a drawer in our kitchen full of crumpled, crinkly used pieces of foil.
In fact, I don't recall seeing a fresh sheet of aluminum foil, coming from the box, until my mid-twenties.
We didn't grow up poor, and my parents aren't cheap.
My father, my parents, were children of war.
My Dad was 8 years old on December 7, 1941.
He grew up outside of St. Louis in a home often shared with soldiers from a nearby military base.
He knew sacrifice. As part of the war effort, aluminum was rationed along with food and other commodities.
He never forgot.
Growing up I remember hijackings and showdowns with the Soviets. I remember sitting in the school hallway with my head under a book, hiding from nukes, or whatever was headed our way.
I wondered how, when I heard about guerrilla warfare, they managed to escape the zoo and learn how to use a gun.
I remember vividly "The Day After," a movie about life after a nuclear bomb hits Lawrence, Kansas.
Have you seen any 9/11 specials, or read any articles?
So far I've seen little. It's too raw, too soon, too real.
They say 9/11 is our generations' Pearl Harbor.
If 9/11 was our Pearl Harbor, the parallel ends there, as we engaged in two wars which involved no shared sacrifice. No draft, war bonds or rationing. A missed opportunity by our leaders to truly unite our country.
My oldest children (twins) were 3 years old on 9/11.
My children, like my parents, are children of war, but they're growing up with little sense that life is different. They need to be reminded of war, which is sad.
So do we. Other than a longer wait for an airplane, we have little tangible evidence of war, other than lives sacrificed and a $3 trillion Visa bill.
Are we safer today than ten years ago? It seems we are, but seems is the operative word.
My twins, now in 8th grade, came home from school this week with a questionnaire for parents about 9/11. I found myself defining terrorism. "If we're scared or back down from our way of life, the terrorists win."
My daughter Nora asked, "What can we do to remember 9/11?"
That's an easy one. Cherish our freedom, and never forget.
My parents probably don't know Kid Rock from a pet rock, but they would appreciate his anthem "Born Free." My kids do.
And they don't use aluminum foil.
My wife will tell you I have an aversion to it. A big one.
I'm not afraid of it, but won't use it, unless I have no choice.
Growing up, my father used aluminum foil. And reused it. There was a drawer in our kitchen full of crumpled, crinkly used pieces of foil.
In fact, I don't recall seeing a fresh sheet of aluminum foil, coming from the box, until my mid-twenties.
We didn't grow up poor, and my parents aren't cheap.
My father, my parents, were children of war.
My Dad was 8 years old on December 7, 1941.
He grew up outside of St. Louis in a home often shared with soldiers from a nearby military base.
He knew sacrifice. As part of the war effort, aluminum was rationed along with food and other commodities.
He never forgot.
Growing up I remember hijackings and showdowns with the Soviets. I remember sitting in the school hallway with my head under a book, hiding from nukes, or whatever was headed our way.
I wondered how, when I heard about guerrilla warfare, they managed to escape the zoo and learn how to use a gun.
I remember vividly "The Day After," a movie about life after a nuclear bomb hits Lawrence, Kansas.
Have you seen any 9/11 specials, or read any articles?
So far I've seen little. It's too raw, too soon, too real.
They say 9/11 is our generations' Pearl Harbor.
If 9/11 was our Pearl Harbor, the parallel ends there, as we engaged in two wars which involved no shared sacrifice. No draft, war bonds or rationing. A missed opportunity by our leaders to truly unite our country.
My oldest children (twins) were 3 years old on 9/11.
My children, like my parents, are children of war, but they're growing up with little sense that life is different. They need to be reminded of war, which is sad.
So do we. Other than a longer wait for an airplane, we have little tangible evidence of war, other than lives sacrificed and a $3 trillion Visa bill.
Are we safer today than ten years ago? It seems we are, but seems is the operative word.
My twins, now in 8th grade, came home from school this week with a questionnaire for parents about 9/11. I found myself defining terrorism. "If we're scared or back down from our way of life, the terrorists win."
My daughter Nora asked, "What can we do to remember 9/11?"
That's an easy one. Cherish our freedom, and never forget.
My parents probably don't know Kid Rock from a pet rock, but they would appreciate his anthem "Born Free." My kids do.
And they don't use aluminum foil.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Remember When...
"Remember when' is the lowest form of conversation".
So says Tony Soprano during an episode of "The Sopranos" the other night.
Some shows never get old. I find myself watching reruns of shows like "The Sopranos," "King of Queens" or movies like "Caddyshack" over and over. I've seen "Goodfellas" so many times that I am prepared to perform it live for birthdays, Bat Mitvahs and Shriner dinners.
Guy thing.
The quote struck me, but "remember when" requires context. In Tony Soprano's case, he said it to a group over dinner as he left the table. The group included one of his captains, Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri. Paulie had been holding court, telling tales of life in the mob to a couple of buxom blondes. As in, "Remember when our friend disappeared off Long Island?"
So yes, Tony is right. It's best not to reminisce about capital crimes in public.
But is "remember when" the lowest form of conversation? Lower than gossip?
And isn't "remember when" important not only for linking ourselves to our past but also our family and friends?
Our family has had a challenging year. Harassment, the death of my father-in-law, work stress.
As they say, a crisis doesn't change people, it just exposes them.
We have also had some wonderful moments.
I got to watch my middle daughter perfect her latest dance moves.
I watched my son grow like a weed. I still beat him at arm wrestling, but it's getting close.
I held my oldest daughter's hand as we merrily jumped off a raft while on vacation.
And I chased my youngest daughter, everywhere. At 15 months, think of her as a top being pulled with a rip cord.
I had a chance to attend my 25th high school reunion, the ultimate "remember when." Those touchdown runs only get longer with time, especially for brutes like me who never carried the ball. Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?
We also had a family member diagnosed with dementia. So painful, watching a vibrant, successful woman slowly lose touch with her surroundings. And yet there still is a twinkle in her eye, a glimpse of what once was.
So no, Mr. Soprano, I think you have it wrong.
"Remember when" might seem mundane. Until you can't.
So says Tony Soprano during an episode of "The Sopranos" the other night.
Some shows never get old. I find myself watching reruns of shows like "The Sopranos," "King of Queens" or movies like "Caddyshack" over and over. I've seen "Goodfellas" so many times that I am prepared to perform it live for birthdays, Bat Mitvahs and Shriner dinners.
Guy thing.
The quote struck me, but "remember when" requires context. In Tony Soprano's case, he said it to a group over dinner as he left the table. The group included one of his captains, Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri. Paulie had been holding court, telling tales of life in the mob to a couple of buxom blondes. As in, "Remember when our friend disappeared off Long Island?"
So yes, Tony is right. It's best not to reminisce about capital crimes in public.
But is "remember when" the lowest form of conversation? Lower than gossip?
And isn't "remember when" important not only for linking ourselves to our past but also our family and friends?
Our family has had a challenging year. Harassment, the death of my father-in-law, work stress.
As they say, a crisis doesn't change people, it just exposes them.
We have also had some wonderful moments.
I got to watch my middle daughter perfect her latest dance moves.
I watched my son grow like a weed. I still beat him at arm wrestling, but it's getting close.
I held my oldest daughter's hand as we merrily jumped off a raft while on vacation.
And I chased my youngest daughter, everywhere. At 15 months, think of her as a top being pulled with a rip cord.
I had a chance to attend my 25th high school reunion, the ultimate "remember when." Those touchdown runs only get longer with time, especially for brutes like me who never carried the ball. Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?
We also had a family member diagnosed with dementia. So painful, watching a vibrant, successful woman slowly lose touch with her surroundings. And yet there still is a twinkle in her eye, a glimpse of what once was.
So no, Mr. Soprano, I think you have it wrong.
"Remember when" might seem mundane. Until you can't.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Money Can't Buy Me Love, or Wins
Dateline Miami.
Nevin Shapiro, a University of Miami booster, came forward this week alleging he paid thousands, and thousands, of dollars to Miami Hurricane jocks for the past eight years. 72 athletes are named as recipients of Shapiro's alleged largess.
What's not "alleged" is that Shapiro is squealing from the federal pen, where he is serving a 20-year sentence for running a billion dollar ponzi scheme. He's got an ax to grind since all of his newly bought friends bailed on him when he was sent away.
Shapiro says he paid cash to jocks, took them on his yacht, gave them NBA tickets and threw wild parties with women who weren't brownie scouts.
Yada yada yada.
One of the athletes named is former Cane and current Chicago Bear Devin Hester, who when initally asked about Shapiro said he never met him, then when shown pictures of him and Shapiro frollicking around town clammed up faster than a frog in a bee hive.
The NCAA can't touch Hester, or any other athletes no longer in school. But it's serious stuff, especially if coaches were in the know.
It's not the first time Miami has been in the penalty box. In the 80s Miami Hurricanes footballers were brash, dominant and well paid.
They won three national champinships.
Which is what struck me most about the Shapiro story.
Boosters waving cash is here to stay, but the money tossed around in this scandal went to bad teams. The Canes were mediocre in the years Shapiro alleges he paid players, which means either he continued with bad investments or other schools were paying more.
It's not the worlds oldest profession, but using money to buy influence is nothing new. The roll call of busted schools this year alone is extensive: Ohio State, USC, LSU, Georgia Tech.
And probably Miami.
I'm proposing yet another bowl game. The Lawyers.com Probation Bowl will pair the two ineligible teams with the highest year end rankings. Pay per view of course, with the money going directly towards sports cars for the winners.
Tickets are available, but only on street corners from men in dark shades and rain coats.
Nevin Shapiro, a University of Miami booster, came forward this week alleging he paid thousands, and thousands, of dollars to Miami Hurricane jocks for the past eight years. 72 athletes are named as recipients of Shapiro's alleged largess.
What's not "alleged" is that Shapiro is squealing from the federal pen, where he is serving a 20-year sentence for running a billion dollar ponzi scheme. He's got an ax to grind since all of his newly bought friends bailed on him when he was sent away.
Shapiro says he paid cash to jocks, took them on his yacht, gave them NBA tickets and threw wild parties with women who weren't brownie scouts.
Yada yada yada.
One of the athletes named is former Cane and current Chicago Bear Devin Hester, who when initally asked about Shapiro said he never met him, then when shown pictures of him and Shapiro frollicking around town clammed up faster than a frog in a bee hive.
The NCAA can't touch Hester, or any other athletes no longer in school. But it's serious stuff, especially if coaches were in the know.
It's not the first time Miami has been in the penalty box. In the 80s Miami Hurricanes footballers were brash, dominant and well paid.
They won three national champinships.
Which is what struck me most about the Shapiro story.
Boosters waving cash is here to stay, but the money tossed around in this scandal went to bad teams. The Canes were mediocre in the years Shapiro alleges he paid players, which means either he continued with bad investments or other schools were paying more.
It's not the worlds oldest profession, but using money to buy influence is nothing new. The roll call of busted schools this year alone is extensive: Ohio State, USC, LSU, Georgia Tech.
And probably Miami.
I'm proposing yet another bowl game. The Lawyers.com Probation Bowl will pair the two ineligible teams with the highest year end rankings. Pay per view of course, with the money going directly towards sports cars for the winners.
Tickets are available, but only on street corners from men in dark shades and rain coats.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Camp Getmeottahere
There are three "young child activities" every adult should witness at least once:
1. Watching a child eat an ice cream cone
2. Watching a child dance
3. Watching a child head off to summer camp
I have experienced all three in the past month through the eyes of my 4 year old daughter.
We signed her up for summer camp three days a week.
Could have done five days, or seven, or ten. The kid has not had a moment of separation anxiety since birth. I am confident if we dropped her off in Paris for a week we would return to find her in a beret sipping cafe au lait, surrounded by her new native friends.
On the first day of camp it's hard to tell who is more excited, the kids or the newly sprung parents, who suddenly has time to sip coffee without dodging toys and vomit.
But you get used to it.
It has been a few years since my older kids started summer camp. Now it's as routine for them as waking up in time for lunch. In fact, I'm planning to found "Camp Wanderteen" next year, where the sole activity will be aimlessly roaming parks while plugged in to an ipod.
The camp experience has me thinking, what would happen if adults were loaded up on buses, with backpacks and baseball hats, for four weeks of summer fun?
Here are a few activities for "Camp Getmeottahere:"
"Sweet Dreams" - Campers sit in circle time and hear stories about strenuous exercise and evenings that end after 9pm. Those who fall asleep the fastest get a special prize.
"Organ recital" - Campers line up to discuss their various ailments, with points awarded based on degree of acceptance. Bald spots and pouches get top billing.
"Connect me not" - Campers troll the mall with a blackberry connecting all day while ignoring those in their immediate presence.
"Remote duel" - Campers sit in front of flat screens and are timed to see how many shows they can fully recall over a single hour of channel hopping. Sporting events excluded, and women are given a five show lead.
How have your camp experiences been? I invite you to comment and would enjoy hearing from you.
1. Watching a child eat an ice cream cone
2. Watching a child dance
3. Watching a child head off to summer camp
I have experienced all three in the past month through the eyes of my 4 year old daughter.
We signed her up for summer camp three days a week.
Could have done five days, or seven, or ten. The kid has not had a moment of separation anxiety since birth. I am confident if we dropped her off in Paris for a week we would return to find her in a beret sipping cafe au lait, surrounded by her new native friends.
On the first day of camp it's hard to tell who is more excited, the kids or the newly sprung parents, who suddenly has time to sip coffee without dodging toys and vomit.
But you get used to it.
It has been a few years since my older kids started summer camp. Now it's as routine for them as waking up in time for lunch. In fact, I'm planning to found "Camp Wanderteen" next year, where the sole activity will be aimlessly roaming parks while plugged in to an ipod.
The camp experience has me thinking, what would happen if adults were loaded up on buses, with backpacks and baseball hats, for four weeks of summer fun?
Here are a few activities for "Camp Getmeottahere:"
"Sweet Dreams" - Campers sit in circle time and hear stories about strenuous exercise and evenings that end after 9pm. Those who fall asleep the fastest get a special prize.
"Organ recital" - Campers line up to discuss their various ailments, with points awarded based on degree of acceptance. Bald spots and pouches get top billing.
"Connect me not" - Campers troll the mall with a blackberry connecting all day while ignoring those in their immediate presence.
"Remote duel" - Campers sit in front of flat screens and are timed to see how many shows they can fully recall over a single hour of channel hopping. Sporting events excluded, and women are given a five show lead.
How have your camp experiences been? I invite you to comment and would enjoy hearing from you.
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