The Lazy Bastard Returns

The public outcry has been more subdued than one might imagine. Three days without a new posting, and only three or four people out there concerned in any way. Perhaps, I have developed an overinflated sense of the importance of this blog to my minions out there, but I expected a little bit more. I don't mean in the "Please, write another posting for me--it's all I have to keep me going each day" vein, but rather in the "It's about freaking time you stopped--I knew that you were a deadbeat loser with nothing to write. Thank God your useless drivel has finally dried up, you hack!" public outcry. But alas, neither happened, so I shall return to my daily attempts to make sense of my life and make fun of those around me for your viewing pleasure. Please enjoy the ride.
It has been a whirlwind since last I posted. I find it extremely difficult to find the time/serenity to sit down on a computer uninterrupted when I have the inlaws in town. Mostly, in no part to them, but rather the excitement and buzz around the house when they are here. My kids, who really don't sit still all that well to begin with, never sit still when Meemaw and Poppy Joe are around. They bounce from one of them back to me or Kim, and the futility of sitting down trying to get a thought together with any varying degree of success in an exercise in futility. So thank goodness, I am back to work today and have the opportunity to sit down in a quiet office for a spell and write the thoughts that are permeating from my skull. I decided to narrow my topic today to the events of the last several days, to try to catch everybody up to the swarms of extraodinary occurences that pass for my everyday life here in suburbia. While the list was extremely lenghthy, I have included for your perusal only the top ten moments of the past 72 hours of pure holiday joy.

10. The Weight Update: When last I left you, I was going to post a daily update of my weight gain over the course of the holiday season. I don't want to disappoint any more than I already have, and I have been tracking it every day.
Saturday (Christmas Eve) Pre-Holiday Weigh In: 163.0
Sunday Morning (Christmas Day--Pre Breakfast) Weigh In: 164.5
Monday Morning (Boxing Day) Weigh In: 165.0
Tuesday Morning (Post Boxing Day) Weigh In: 166.5
Wednesday Morning Weigh In: 168.0
Let's take this one day at a time, shall we. As posted earlier, the breakfast has been the consistent, grease-riddled bagel sandwich hell every morning. Thank God, I got up early enough this morning to avoid the opportunity, but Sunday, Monday and Tuesday morning, I coated the lining of my stomach with enough cholesterol-laden pork byproducts that it is a wonder I woke up at all this morning. It isn't enough that I have four strips of bacon on my breakfast sandwich and the grease soaked fried egg and 1/2 lb of cream cheese--he also slaps a pound of sausage on the table and yesterday, he baked blueberry muffins, just in case I was trying the Atkins excuse. The only slight jump between Christmas day and Boxing day (which I fully expected to be the most dreamatic of the week going into it) was due to the fact that the turkey would have taken too long to cook because it was still slightly frozen, so we went with ham only on Christmas day and saved the turkey (and all the trimmings) for the day after Christmas.
This leads us to the pound and a half increase each of the next two days. I can't possibly count the number of cookies, candy, fudge, snacks etc. that I have helped myself to over the last couple of days. There is always something on the counter in easy reach that just makes its way to my hand and into my mouth this time of year. I can't explain it, but as I wander through the house and into the kitchen, if there is a platter of smoked beef, pepperoni, and cheese sitting on the counter, I feel that there is an obligation to grab a Ritz and slap some meat and cheese on the damn thing. If there is a container of fudge, I owe it to the person who put it there to sample a hunk or two out of outright courtesy. Thank God I don't like butter cookies because that would be two more oversized tins that I would be forced to consume. As it stands now, we are plus five pounds so far with still three good days of overindulging to go. I swear I will keep you posted.

9. Current Health Concerns: Now I am not convinced that there is not a direct correlation between #10 and #9, but there exist a few ongoing health concerns that I may as well introduce now. There are three main reoccuring things that I should probably get checked out at some point and all three have reared their ugly heads over the past 72 hours:
The first of which is my right eye. For the past three or four months, it has been twitchy. You know when you don't get enough rest, your eyes may flicker in an annoying fashion. This sometimes can persist for three to five days (I looked it up on WebMD, so you know it has to be true). Well, my twitching lasted for a solid three months, where every day, there was an uninterrupted twitching. You want to talk about annoying. This stopped about three or four weeks ago, but over the past week, it has come back to remind me how aggravating this condition can be. I will continue to chalk it up to sleep depravation (though I swear I am getting in at least 7 hours a night), but there may be some sort of severe neurological issue that I have no desire to find out. It may just be the cholesterol jammed under my eyelid keeping them from staying open properly or utilizing a normal blink pattern.
The second health concern is an ongoing pain on my back just to the left of my right shoulder below my neck. Sometimes it feels like it is a deep muscle or tissue pain, and other times it feels like a bee sting just below the surface, and yet still other times it feels peculiarly itchy, but this has also been going on for several months. It flares up and shows no outward signs, but it is constantly there. I have no idea what might be causing it, perhaps it is nothing, just random pain in the same spot for several months might be considered a normal part of the aging process or it could be skin cancer--who knows, but ignorance as they say is bliss.
The last health concern that I will bore you with is the small hiatal hernia that clogs my digestion and makes for a dining adventure every time I sit down to a table. Generally this, like all of my other ailments, flares up with some consistency. Unlike the other issues, I did go to see my doctor about this one. There is nothing like regularly choking on your dinner and having to excuse yourself like some bulemic who doesn't have the courtesy to wait until they are finished with their meal. After discovering the problem with my GI tract, my doctor prescribed that Prilosec OTC, which clearly states on the box not to take if you are having problems swallowing your food (which was the whole damn problem to begin with), so needless to say, I am no longer going to that quack for medical advice. Heartburn ain't the problem.

8. What I got for Christmas: Not that anybody out there gives a rat's ass what comprised my bounty Christmas morning, I will tell you anyway. I was loaded down with goodies from Meemaw and Poppy Joe--six ties, two shirts, a new printer for the computer, a sweater, a variety of nicknacks (no pattywacks), two toolboxes, ratchet set and a new grill brush. Not bad from the in-laws by the way. From Kim, I got a new GPS for the Opamobile, Cinderalla Man on DVD (0utstanding movie, we watched it last night--well actually, Poppy Joe and I watched it, Meemaw and Kim watched the parts that did not involve somebody getting their face bashed in. Poppy Joe made about 50 comments through the course of the movie like "This is a Rocky rip-off." and "I missed something, how did they get so poor?" and "Oh, I guess it is a true story." after they show the what happened to Braddock in the later years at the very end of the movie. You gotta love that Poppy Joe.) From Shari, we got a new DVD player, and from my brother-in-law, Jason, I was loaded down with Bucs regalia--new hat, new Cadillac Williams Jersey, and T-shirt. All in all, pretty awesome take--Thank you all who contributed.

7. James Dungy's Funeral: Look, I don't want to put a negative thought into this posting, but I just wanted to mention how troubling I found the news that Tony Dungy's son took his life. When I was working in Tampa many years ago, the Dungys used to come into my restaurant with some degree of frequency and there was never a classier guy or a better family man. I know that you have read all of this in the newspapers and every sports journalist has chimed in, so this is probably repetitive, but Tony Dungy is just one of those people who just oozes a genuine nature that is impossible to ignore. I met James when he was probably 10 years old, and if my growth through my teenage years is any indication, I am certain that he changed a great deal over that time, but the whole Dungy clan just seemed to be extremely grounded. I hope that they are able to see their way to the other side of this tragedy.

6. Tampa Wins a Big One: Cliches and sports are one and the same, and I am pulling out a doosy of a cliche with the old "Winning ugly sure beats losing pretty." My beloved Bucs are one win away from clinching the NFC South a year after plunging to the depths of the Sam Wyche-like 5-11 last year due in no small part to a huge win this past weekend over the Atlanta Falcons. Now even though this was a huge matchup and turned out to be an elimination game for the Falcons, this game made no appearance on any televisions out here in the desert. I was left searching for scraps of highlights on ESPN later that evening. What I understand about the game is that both teams did everything in their power to lose this one, so much so that there was a blocked field goal and a missed 30 yarder in overtime, and Tampa had to rely on a 41 yarder with 14 seconds left in order to avoid a tie.
Now those of you who are not football savvy, a tie in the NFL is about as common as a Tsunami in Kansas City. They never freaking happen. Think about it. You play 60 minutes of absolutely torturous between the hashmarks, grind it out, beat the hell out of each other and your body, adrenaline draining, energy sapping, sweat-drenched good old American Football. At the end of which time, you have somehow managed to keep it deadlocked. 9 times out of 10, the team who wins the coin flip wins the game on the first drive of overtime. The one time that this doesn't happen, the team who wins the coin flip elects to kick (and the coach gets fired two weeks later--I swear to you that this has happened--somebody actually elected to kick in OT) and the team who lost the coin flip wins it on the first drive of overtime. The body is not built to sustain an extra 15 minute period, and the defense is living on fumes at this point of the game. The only way the game ends in a tie is if there is a blinding snowstorm with snow piled up to the players knees and the wind is circling at 60 mph, and the only way a team wins in that circumstance is when the losing team fumbles the snap on the ninth punt of Overtime and you are lucky enough to find it and land on it in the end zone.
But on a sunny day in Tampa, these two teams couldn't figure out a way to get it done until there were 14 scant seconds left in the game. But like I said, an ugly win is a beautiful thing when it means we are one game away from qualifying for the post-season. Thank God Steve Smith of the Carolina Panthers decided that he needed to bump a ref and utilize some of the forboden lexicon when he felt he was unnecessarily roughed falling out of bounds early in the third quarter. It saved Dallas and enabled them to beat the Panthers, thus opening the door for the Bucs win to be meaningful. God bless you, Steve Smith.

5. Poppy Joe Project Update: "I can sit still." He said that to me with a straight face. He looked me right in the eye and insisted upon it, in fact. (I can't be certain due to the twitchiness, but I am almost positive that he looked me right in the eye) and told me that he could sit still and do nothing. This frenetic malcontent could actually sit still if he chose to do so. Poppy Joe, you sad little man, there is no freaking way. In the four days that he has been here, this is the list of things that he has completed between the 19 trips to the hardware store(s) and grocery store(s):

1. Replaced the screen door to our back patio--the 32,000 flies that have invaded our home during the past 16 months will have to find a new way to meet their death.
2. Replaced the broken sink faucet in the kids' bathroom
3. Replaced the broken sink faucet in our bathroom--for the record, my faucet still works perfectly well, despite Kim's belief that I slam the water off every time I brush my teeth or shave--hers is the busted one--she is a brute of a woman (more on that later)
4. Replaced the broken shower faucet in the kids' bathroom
5. Replaced the broken shower faucet in our bathroom
6. Patched up a hole in the wall in the laundry room that I caused when I slammed the door open in a fit of rage
7. Locked both back windows in the Opamobile firmly in place so that no human can ever get them open again--sort of like the backseat of a cop car--not that I have ever had the opportunity to experience what that might be like, but I have heard.
8. Brought the Minivan in for work on the brakes
9. Fixed Shari's running toilet
10. Fixed Shari's Garage door

We still have a couple of days left and I am looking at putting in some wood flooring, but Kim seems to think that we may be pushing our luck. It's good that we have this guy on retainer.

4. Christmas Morning: We're going to cut back this year--you know, stay within a budget, make sure that we don't go overboard. Maybe get one big gift for each of them and then some trinkets and cheap things, so that the tree looks good surrounded with presents. Every year, its the same mantra, and every year we fail more wholly than the previous year, but we insist upon trying to cut back. And perhaps it isn't solely our contribution to the pile that makes it appear so overwhelmingly ludicrous when they spend an hour of non-stop package opening on Christmas morning. There are others who assist us in creating this annual monster, as well. The most egregious conspirator is Meemaw. Because of her habitual nature of picking up something for our kids every time she sees anything that they might like, storing it away for 6-8 months, packing it into one of those trunks that Tom Hanks had in Joe Versus the Volcano (an underrated movie by anyone's standards), and travelling out here every holiday season. She couples this with another 3 or 4 large boxes that she ships out in the weeks leading up to Christmas, because she can't fit them into the space that Southwest Airlines has allotted for her and Poppy Joe--those swine. On their own, these toys are harmless, but taken as an entirety, we end up with probably 60-80 gifts for the kids, Kim and I each year. There is nothing I can do to deter her. In fact, by writing about it here, I will no doubt encourage her to outdo herself next year, and we will have to annex a Christmas tree room to allow enough space. The only thing that keeps her from bringing even more now, is their need to bring food out here in their luggage, because the same items out here cost them double, and they just can't imagine paying that much for bacon. I live for finding wrapped ziplock bags of frozen ground beef pressed between wrapped presents in the neverending suitcase each holiday season. My only solace is that it was even more preposterous those years that they drove out here and could really pack the car appropriately, and bring a cooler to supply us with enough meat for the entire week.

The big gifts for Hunter were a tilting art desk, several X-Box and Nintendo DS games, an MP-3 Player, and a video camera. For Lauren, she got a double sided easel, a doll house, a new bike and a fish tank. Each of them also got an absolute deluge of hundreds of other various toys, games, clothes, electronics, gizmos, gadgets, doohickeys and thingamajigs. Lauren really got into the whole opening gift thing this year. As kids progress through their first several Christmases, there is a change each year. When they are only a couple of months old, they have no idea what is happening, and in the case of my daughter, she just screamed uncontrollably for the whole weekend. When they are just over a year, your overload them with gifts and they still have no idea what is going on. When they are two, they get it, but they don't quite get it. They love getting all the stuff, but they lose their focus from one present to the next and they generally end up opening everything they can get their little mits on, whether it belongs to them or not. Ornaments are generally good fodder for their destructive ways, and getting into the presents isn't always a study in efficiency. By the time they turn three, Christmas is a much anticipated event. They grasp the whole Santa thing and there is significant expectation in the days leading up to the event. They open the gifts with much more proficiency and Lauren would open one gift, take about 20 seconds to look at it, become overwhelmed with enthusiasm, and then toss it aside and ask politely for "another one, please."

Hunter is at the point that he understands if he opens something that was given to him by somebody in the room, he had better thank them right away. When he opened his mobiBLU Cube MP-3 Player, he made sure that he thanked Shari accordingly. He also is the mystery gift getter. Sometimes, he is elated and runs around screaming with delight, and other times, he is equally subdued. We expect this bipolar thing to kick into high gear as he enters his high school years, but for now, we just chalk it up to him being 8.

3. The Fantasy is Over: Yes, sadly my friends, the Fantasy season has ended and I was run over by the most unlikely of those to ring the death knell in my honor. Willie freaking Parker. Don't know who he is? You aren't alone, but he is the third string Steeler running back who hasn't had a decent week in about two months (I should know, he was on my team for about four weeks before I jettisoned his sorry ass for lack of production). Then he goes and drops 130 yards and a touchdown on me out of nowhere. The worst thing imaginable in a fantasy league is watching CBSSportsline.com online and things are looking pretty good, and then suddenly, Willy freaking Parker goes from 5 points to 27 points in one play. Here is the rundown. He's got 50 yards after the half--not bad, but nothing to worry about (each 10 yards gets you one point). Then, he decides to rip off an 80 yard run for a touchdown. So he gets 8 points for the 80 yards, plus two points for a TD run over 50 yards, plus 6 points for the TD, plus 6 more points for going over 100 on the day. Suddenly, instead of five points and a manageable deficit, I'm looking at 27 points and desperation trying to come back when a cheeseball scrub like Willy freaking Parker suddenly outgains both of my starting running backs.

And on that note, what the hell happened to Warrick Dunn on Saturday? He had 59 yards at halftime, and the game goes five quarters and he ends the day at 59 yards. I mean if I had to lose, at least the Bucs won, but did he shatter a kneecap in the locker room? Did Mora forget that #28 could actually provide some yardage and give the Bucs defense something to think about? This guy had to sit Marvin Harrison and Edgerrin James and he still stomped me. Well done FUPA and congratulations. I hate you.

So the Princess league championship still eludes me. Next year, I will own those SOBs.

2. The Double Standard: I don't know how many of you read the comments that people post on this blog. Hell, I don't know how many of you actually read this blog, but there is a comment from my beloved wife after my Jonesing For a Fix posting last week:

"Did I mention that when Lauren broke her arm and I spent hours at the doctor with her unable to reach my dear husband at work...he left for work that morning in work clothes and everything...I get a call from him that evening admitting that he was golfing the whole day and didn't get my calls? Why are you upset about this dear? He wondered. Gee."

I bring this up for a couple of reasons that will hopefully become abundantly clear momentarily.

On Tuesday, we decided to pack up the minivan and head up to Sedona for a family hike. It was to be a lovely day of cool Arizona sunshine and fresh air away from the trappings of the Phoenix metropolitan area for a few hours. So we grabbed the kids, strapped the inlaws into the back seat and drove up the road to beautiful Sedona. For those of you not familiar with this area of the country, it is absolutely spectacular. There are some great hiking trails and one of our favorites takes you along Oak Creek for a couple of miles of traversing rocks and watching the kids soak their shoes, socks and lower pant regions.

On the way to our destination, I admittedly was watching the scenery a little bit too much and Kim made one of those "panicked, the kids are going to die, oh my God!" noises and I looked up to realize that I was veering too far to the right and the front right tire went off the road for about .79 seconds where there was a loud thud. There was a deafening silence in the car for the duration of the drive and there was a Kafkaesque sense of loss that I was experiencing with the understanding that as soon as she took a look at the wheel well, I would have hell to pay. I am OK with this, because it was my fault. I momentarily took my eyes off the road, and quite frankly it was dangerous, foolish and truly could have endangered the lives of my immediate family. On the way home there were the inevitable remarks from the peanut gallery in the backseat (AKA Poppy Joe), "Hey, how about staying between the lines this time," and "Maybe you can keep all four tires on the road on the way back to Phoenix." He even left me a message on my phone as he called me from the backseat that will be equally inept, but I'll listen to it at another time, as I have gotten far off topic again.

The point of this diatribe is what happened on our hike as we took turns carrying Lauren over the rocks and along the creek shore. I carried her about 65% of the time, Kim carried her about 25% of the time, Meemaw and Poppy Joe carried her about 5% of the time on our two hour hike. During one of Meemaw's opportunities to hold Lauren, we were at a point on our walk where we had to walk across some rocks. (not unlike the terrain that the rest of us had to walk with Lauren in tow). Hunter and I had found a comfortable seat up in the rocks as we waited for everybody to catch up. I could see Joe and Kim below us as they looked back to Meemaw and Lauren.

The next thing I hear is a loud splash and I see Kim and Joe running willy-nilly, pell-nell all over the place trying to get back to Lauren and Meemaw. I still couldn't see them but I could hear Kim screaming my name all of a sudden and Hunter and I made our way down to find the whole gang. Lauren was seated upright on one of the rocks crying, Meemaw was face down on another rock with half of her body submerged in the murky abyss. Both were completely soaked by the frozen water and covered with a thick layer of algae and slime.

Now to be completely fair (and let's face it--that is one of my strongest attributes) I didn't see what happened. Perhaps a gale force wind came up when Meemaw tried to make the 21 inch jump from one rock to the next. Perhaps they were knocked over by a Puma who was trying to attack my small child and Meemaw saved her life by immersing her in the sludge. Perhaps some hooligan's from the other side of the creek were swinging on a rope swing, flew off at dangerous speeds and kicked my poor mother-in-law in the torso and she did all she could to keep poor Lauren from flying thirty feet, head first into the rocks. But based on the facts of the before and after I witnessed, most likely, Meemaw slipped and fell and dropped Lauren as she did so--an accident by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly no one could question that there was a strong potential for severe peril to both of them due to these circumstances. My concern, obviously was to make sure that they were both all right. Meemaw sustained a slight scrape to her chin, and Lauren appeared to be cold, miserable and uninjured in any way.

Kim, being the stellar mother that she is, had packed an extra set of clothes for both of our children in the backpack. Lauren, because deep down, I think she knew that Meemaw was very likely to drop her into the frozen water. And Hunter because we all knew that he would be walking through the water whenever humanly possible. We did not think to pack Meemaw an extra outfit, but I had on an extra layer of outerwear that I provided to her so that she could dry off (at least her top half). When all was said and done, there was no harm, no major injuries, no whiplash, no broken bones, no severe hemotoma, no swelling of the brain, no lacerated kidney, no deviated septum--really nothing to report except for a frightened, cold three year old, who decided that Meemaw probably shouldn't carry her for the rest of the day.

Here is where the inequities of husbandry vs. motherdom comes in (I believe that they teach this course in most Liberal Arts programs). If, God forbid, I dropped Lauren on a trampoline, I would be accused of child abuse and after the authorities had their way with me and I had been deloused at the very least, Kim would have already packed up the kids in a Winnebago and taken off for Okieville. If you read her unedited comments regarding Lauren breaking her arm two years ago, you can certainly see that I am not far off base with this one. I was nowhere near the incident, but I have been in trouble for two years because I wasn't where I was supposed to be when there was an unavoidable accident in our home. Meemaw drops her on a bunch of rocks and nearly drowns the child and we all have a good laugh about it. I realize this is what I am up against, and I did have a good laugh about it myself, but if you don't think that there is a double standard, then you aren't paying much attention.

1. The Ranch Episode: I am well aware that there is probably nobody reading this posting at this point. I have spent the better part of a day writing this thing and it is probably the choppiest, longest-winded blog posting that anybody has ever had to endure. To reward you for getting this far, I will try to practice some brevity on this last point of my last few days.

While we were enjoying the splendor of a McDonald's lunch on Monday (yes, we needed to eat a full lunch before indulging ourself with our second Christmas dinner in as many days), we somehow got on the topic of my smacking Kim's butt once in a while. Now believe me when I tell you that she needs a good beatin' once in a great while, but these are nothing but what I call "Love smacks" and though I am certain there are those of you out there calling the local authorities, there is probably nothing I am doing that could be even remotely considered spousal abuse (well nothing that they can prove anyway--that bag of oranges trick works, believe me).

So as we joked about this at lunch, Kim brings up the old "Meemaw says that if you ever beat me, she is taking me and the kids back to Oklahoma with her." at which time I reply with some off-handed remark like, "Yeah, go ahead--good luck with that." Now admittedly this was probably not the proper response and in retrospect I would most likely not have said anything had I thought about it for a moment.

But as I took another McNugget (man those things are tasty now that they use 100% breast meat instead of the beak and feet that used to come in those bad boys) and got ready to dip it back into the hot mustard, I felt a bizarre pelting upon my right orbital and forehead and recognized the pungent malfeasance of buttermilk. My wife, in all of her incredible self-control chucked a full packet of ranch dressing at my skull and it exploded upon impact, covering my hair, shirt wall and drapes with all of its splendor. Classic.

I don't know what it all means, but I believe that under the current rules of our marital bliss, I get to take the kids and move in with Meemaw. I'm pretty sure that Meemaw still won't be able to carry Lauren on too many hikes, even in Oklahoma.

The Pre-Holiday Weigh-in

5:53 AM MST--163.0 lbs

Though Kim would have you believe that I am suddenly obsessed about my weight, this posting is not about trimming down, staying healthy or proving anything to anybody. It is that time of the year where I find it fascinating just how much food one can consume in an eight day period. From Christmas Eve until New Year's Day, there are literally hundreds of ways to find a reason to binge, and I intend to explore every one of them.

So for the next week, as the in-laws make their way to our home, I will track my weight for you. The holidays, in general, are a great time to load up on an extra 5-10 lbs of good winter fat. There are parties, huge dinners, candy, cookies, and cakes for as far as the eye can see, and the holiday season was developed in large part to expose us to the excesses that we cannot enjoy the rest of the year. I am not one to jump into these traditions half-heartedly, but rather embrace the opportunity to engorge myself to the point that movement is not an option. But I have the x-factor over the other 250 Million Americans out there who only have the holidays as their opportunity to put on extra weight, and his name is Poppy-Joe. I have not seen that Supersize Me documentary, but I would challenge the guy who ate nothing but McDonalds for 30 days to try the same thing with Poppy Joe cooking for him for a 30 day period. I would wager that the weight gain and health concerns would be at least equal to the task, and more likely, he would drop dead somewhere around day 16. I have seven glorious days of absorbing more cholesterol than any human thought possible, and I intend to make the most of my opportunity.

Let me give you a little landscape of my daily ritual beginning tomorrow morning (well tomorrow is Christmas, so there may be some adjustments to the "daily ritual," but you get the idea). I will wake up to the smell of the coffee brewing masked ever so slightly by the subtle scent of two pounds of bacon grease crackling in the pre-dawn splendor. Before I can get out of the shower, there will be a toasted bagel slathered with cream cheese, four strips of bacon and two eggs fried in the inch-deep bacon grease, piled high in a sandwich with toothpicks to hold it together for me. Most likely, there will be a slightly burnt bagel, also slathered in cream cheese in the trash because there was the scant possibility that the finished product would not be up to standard. I will gladly eat this masterpiece of breakfast sandwich glory, and when I finish the first half, he will already be starting to make a second one, "Josh, can I get you another one?"
"No thanks Joe, I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Positive--this is great. Really, thanks so much, but I'm stuffed."
"Well, just have one more, I already toasted the bagel--this one isn't burnt."
"Um, this one isn't burnt either, but I am fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure. Seriously, I can't thank you enough. Really this was fantastic, but I have to get going to work and I am full."
"Well, take one with you on the road."
"Um, they're a little messy. Besides Joe, I really am full. Why don't you sit down and eat?"
"Well, just eat some of this bacon then."

At this point four more slices of bacon and another cream cheese loaded bagel make their way to my plate, where I politely eat one piece of bacon before running out the door. During the day, I can only imagine what is being produced/consumed at the house, but when I return at night, the kitchen has been hit by a tornado and there is a 24 ounce piece of beef sitting on my plate with all the necessary accompaniments. After each bite, we have a ritual.

"How's that steak cooked for you?"
"Oh, boy Joe, it's just perfect."
"How's the flavor?"
"Unbelievable. Really great flavor."
"Got enough garlic for you?"
"I really love garlic--it is fantastic. Thank you."
"What do you think of this cut? You should've seen the marbling."
"Well you can tell--very tender and good texture."
"Did you try the mashed potatoes?"
"Um, not yet."

Next Bite.

"How were the mashed potatoes?"
"Wow--those really have a kick."
"Horseradish mashers--you like 'em?"
"Terrific."
"Not too spicy for you?"
"Are you kidding, they're great--nice job."
"Do you need some more horseradish--I made some horse cream for the steak if you want."
"Sure, thanks."

Taking some of the horseradish sauce, followed by dipping the steak into the sauce

"How do you like it with the horse cream?"
"Boy, that is fantastic."
"I told ya."
"Steak cooked allright?"
"Joe, why don't you eat something?"
"I'm fine--how's the flavor?"
Now most of you out there are thinking one of two things:

1. Look, you ungrateful bastard. That Poppy-Joe can come by my house any time he wants. Cooks for you for a week--I really don't see what the big deal is.
2. Come on. He can't possibly ask you the same thing that many times, that many ways. I believe that there might be a little bit of writer's embellishment going on here.

Let me address these individually if I may. I am not in any way ungrateful. The man is a fantastic cook, and I appreciate him taking a week out of his life to cook for us. He spends a good 6 to 8 hours a day shopping, prepping, and cooking while he is here. I think it is fantastic and the fact that there are 6-8 hours a day that he is not doing something else to drive me insane in my own house is unbelievable. My only real gripe is that when I want to cook a meal, he has to show me a better way to do everything. I stay the hell out of his way when he is in the kitchen, and I really don't need somebody to show me how they cut onions and peppers when I am making fajitas--I am kind of set in my ways. Now if he wants to grab the sharpening stone and hone the edge of my knives while I am cooking, I really have no room to bitch, but give a man some room in his own kitchen. Joe has to be involved--he can't control himself and can't stay away. I do my best to maintain as much patience as humanly possible, but my breaking point usually comes within the first 30 seconds of his arrival and my blood pressure doesn't return to a normal level until two or three days after he goes home. These are my own personal issues that I must deal with, and I admit that.

No, I am not exaggerating the Q & A session that goes on every meal. He is obsessed with my opinion about his cooking, and I have no idea why. If the meal isn't complimented at least a half dozen times by everybody at the table, the ritual must continue until the compliment quotient is fully realized. I have never seen anything like it, but it is a fascinating study in the human drama, and I would suggest to anybody who has the opportunity to see it first had to take full advantage of its splendor.

As the week progresses, I will be sure to keep everybody posted on the experiences that are the most painful, keep you abreast of the projects that he will undertake to keep himself occupied, and of course will keep you up to date on my weight gain. Kim, for some reason wants no part of having her weight published here on a daily basis, so I will leave you with a song in the spirit of the holiday season. Feliz Navidad.

You’d better watch out,
You’d better not cry.
You’d better not shout,
I’m telling you why.
Poppy-Joe is Coming to town.

Kim’s made him a list
He’s got his own too
I just pray to God
There’s enough left to do
Poppy-Joe is coming to town.

He smokes while you are sleeping
He cooks when you’re awake
He’ll ask you more than 10 damn times
If you really liked that steak.

Oh, you’d better sit down,
You’d better like food
You’re gonna have thirds
If you’re not in the mood
Poppy-Joe is coming to town.

And now I will be alerting the local cardiologist contingent of the impending vessel blockages that will be coming down the pike over the next 8 days.

Our Last Few Years with Opa

This morning, as I sat down to put together my daily posting and ramble through the topics that would be apropos, there were a myriad of thoughts which ran through my mind, but as I started each one, it seemed to be a difficult task to put the pen to paper so to speak (I am not computer savvy enough to know what it is called on a computer screen--something like HTML to monitor, but that is hardly important). I started a series of postings--first a fascinating study in Fantasy Football, a topic which no doubt, would have each of you riveted and been fodder for the water coolers across this great landscape of ours. But the words didn't come. After I deleted the two rambling paragraphs about my Fantasy league championship this weekend (by the way if you are interested, this one is for all the marbles, there is no tomorrow, add cliche here), and on Tuesday morning, I will know if I am another also-ran or Princess League Champion 2005. We'll have to wait to find out, because quite frankly, the posting just wasn't there.
I then tried to write an article about the membership here--generally a great fallback position for me, as there are 514 to choose from and each of them is a great story all to themselves. There almost always exists enough stored up venom to write a scathing attack on one of these poor unsuspecting bastards, but today, the venom just wasn't very potent. I wrote a couple of paragraphs about them as well, and deleted just as quickly. It was going nowhere in a hurry.
I called Kim in a panic, "Quick, honey, what can I write about? I got nothin'."
"Well, why don't you write about Poppy Joe? About the impending excitement of him coming to town--I'm sure that will be a good one." Of course! Poppy Joe, the true fallback position. I could pound out 5000 words on that guy with my eyes closed. He is a characature (that absolutely has to be spelled wrong) of himself just walking around. I can't even make the stuff up about him--it will write itself, and believe you me, when I do get around to writing that one, it will be a beauty, but that day is not today. There is something in my mind that I can't shake this morning, and I am compelled to write about my Grandfather, Eugene Goodkind or more fondly and recognizably, Opa.
Today marks the two year anniversary of his passing, and with that comes the memories of one of the most important people whose life I have had the good fortune of being a part. Opa was a first generation Jewish immigrant from Berlin. He was forced to move to this country when he was just beginning his adult life, before it was impossible to get out of Europe in Nazi Germany. He was stubborn as a mule, and never forgave the Germans to the extent that none of our family would dare purchase a Passat or a Mercedes out of respect to his feelings. He was a good man, but was not without his faults and foibles. He was generous to a fault with us, but he was one of the worst tippers I had ever seen. I always made sure to slip a little extra cash to the waitress out of his sight (he was legally blind for the last 20 years of his life, but he could see what he needed to see, especially an attractive woman).
He was a gambler. He loved to go to Vegas and Atlantic City. In case anybody was wondering, there is little doubt where I acquired my love of the wager. When Kim and I got married in Las Vegas in 2001, aside from the obvious excitement of our wedding, my fondest memory of that weekend, was sitting down at a blackjack table with him for the first (and sadly last) time for about three hours of absolute perfection. The man couldn't see the cards in front of him, but I would call out what was showing on the table (he had to know everybody's cards--not just their total--he wanted to know if it was a 10 or a queen showing) and I watched him clean up. He was very deliberate and though you wouldn't know it at 88 years, he was still as sharp as a tack. I don't even know who else came by our table to watch, and I don't remember how much money we won that day, but I remember thinking to myself how great it was to share something with him on a level that nobody else understood. I always knew that he played, and he always knew that I played, but there was nothing like sitting at that table together the day before I got married.
In fact, he was a large reason that we got married that weekend at all. Kim and I were in the midst of planning our wedding for Florida on Memorial Day weekend in 2002, but when we found out that Opa was going to be in Las Vegas with my parents and Shari for a convention that Dad had to go to, we decided that we would meet them there and get married the next weekend. Had he not been there, I doubt very seriously that either one of us would have had the initiative to get a wedding planned in a week. The thought of him not making it to see our wedding six months later was a powerful motivator.
He would have made it though, and a year later, he was out in Arizona to meet his first Great-Granddaughter, Lauren Elizabeth over Thanksgiving in 2002. To say that Lauren was a challenging baby would be unfair--she was the antichrist of babies, and the challenging ones would be a little bit offended if they were grouped in the same characterization as our demon child. She would not sit still for anybody--she was an inconsolable child, who had colic and would scream to the point that the person fortunate enough to have the opportunity to hold her for two minutes would be brought to tears themselves due to their feeling of inadequacy and incompetence--another topic for my therapist. Kim was the only one who could hold her for more than a 30 second period (and not because she wasn't screaming then, but just because Kim could just take it better than the rest of us). This pattern went on for the better part of a year, but that Thanksgiving weekend, with a two bedroom apartment overflowing with family members, it was overwhelming for Lauren (and especially Kim), and it was probably the worst it ever got.
Except when Opa held her. If anybody else touched her, turned in her direction, dared to make eye contact or thought about entering a 10 foot radius without express written permission, the next 45 minutes of our lives would be filled with screams the likes of which no human should have to endure. But when Opa sat down on the chair in the living room and Lauren sat in his arms, she was silent, content (and dare I say, happy?). There was a connection with the two of them, where she understood what a gentle, comapassionate man he was. As soon as somebody else tried to move her away, the screaming began again. I don't remember seeing Opa happier than he was holding his great-granddaughter that weekend (and I don't remember seeing Kim happier in those days than when we actually found somebody who could go near our child for more than a 5 minute respite--unfortunately it didn't last and we endured 11 more months of torturous hell).
At Opa's 90th Birthday party in July of '03, he was in rare form. He loved being the center of attention and he still was as sharp as ever and still a terror to the ladies. I don't think he met an attractive woman from the time my grandmother passed away who he didn't insist on flirting with. There were generations of family there and there were friends who came out of the woodwork to help celebrate his life, but there was only one lady there who captured his full attention. He sat in his chair with his cane within reach and flirted with a high-maintenence eight-month-old for hours on end. Lauren was motoring around by now and would come up to him and grab the end of the cane and wrestle with him as she found her way to her feet with his assistance. I just remember her giving it her all to try to wrestle that cane away, and his absolute delight in taking part in the game. There is a picture somewhere that captures the moment--her intently staring at him with all the determination she could muster and him just smiling from ear to ear in his glory with his Lauren.
Unfortunately, that was the last time that we saw Opa alive. I believe that he was ready to go, and had done and seen everything that he felt he needed to see. I know that he was sorry that he never got the chance to meet Leynie, his second granddaughter who was born two 1/2 months before he passed away, but his health wouldn't allow it. There are lots of stories that I can share about my grandfather, about his business, about his class, about his integrity and honesty, about his struggles, about his successes, about his charm, about his wit. He was truly the most decent man I have ever known--a true gentleman in every sense of the word, and on the anniversary of his death, my thoughts again find themselves with him, even when I am not riding in the Opamobile. Take care of Wilson, Opa--we love you.

Jonesing for a Fix

This is how herion addicts must feel when they are trying to give up the junk, but still live in the same neighborhood as their dealer and have to pass him on the street each morning as they try to get clean. There is a knowing glance--that look like "you'll be back, you poor bastard, you'll be back." The addict just keeps on walking, his head down muttering to himself, trying to convince the demons in his head that he has finally kicked this thing and there is no way he would ever get back on the juice, but realizing deep down that he is just kidding himself. Before too long, those subtle glances from his dealer are no longer just subtle glances, and he finds himself rationalizing "Just one hit, just one hit, and then I swear, no more. If I just get that one little fix, I will be fine. Just as taste..."
Well, we all know where this one goes. He's back to see his friend at the corner every day, sometimes several times a day--stealing from his girlfriend's parents to fill the addiciton. It isn't his fault you see, the desire is just so strong that he is willing to destroy everything in his life because he just can't stop. This is the sad fate that has reared its ugly head in my life again, only my addiction isn't smack, crack or meth. My mistress has a name, and her name is Golf, perhaps the ugliest four letter word in the English language.
There are those of you out there who are scratching your heads, saying, "But Josh, Golf is just a game--surely you can kick that habit." Au contraire, mon ami. Just a game--hardly. Golf saps every ounce of life out of your soul--it is an unforgiving bitch that refuses to let you be free. My marriage is constantly at risk to the whims of the Golf Gods, and yet I succumb to their siren like calls. Like the heroin addict, I can stop for a while, but once I get that taste, there is this uncontrollable urge for another round, and then another and before I know what has happened, every day that I have off, I am trying to figure out a way to get out for 18 holes, or maybe just a quick 9--what can be the harm in a quick 9 for crying out loud? "Come on, baby--you know I love you, but I gotta get out to the range. You understand, don't you baby? This is the last time--I swear it, the last time, but I gotta work out the kinks in my three-wood. Please, for the love of God woman, please just let me go! I got beat by freaking Bradley last week--come on--you gotta let me play, he won't shut up about it at work, now everybody knows. I just gotta work out a few kinks--why do you have to be so heartless? Why!?!?!" She just stares at me with that "I'm taking the kids to a place that you will never find any of us" look, and quite frankly, who can blame her?
The real problem is my job. You don't let a crack addict work at the supply lab (I saw what happened to Chris Rock in New Jack City and that blue-lipped freak never had a chance). But every day, I have to peer off the patio onto the lush silhouetted fairways of this magnificent course, knowing full-well that all it takes to go out and play a completely free round of golf on one of the greatest courses in the state is a 10 second walk over to the starter and a trip to the locker room to slap on some shoes. What kind of cruel hell have I created for myself? I don't even need to pay for golf balls, as I find at least 20 brand-new Nike, Callaway, or Titleist balls on the course each time we go out because the members and resort guests (who are shelling out nearly $300 a round for golf) aren't going to waste their time looking under a cactus for a $4 golf ball.
The grip that golf has on all of us who are foolish enough to pick up a club for the first time is that you never master it. It doesn't matter how good you become, you always can get better. You can be a 30 handicap and get excited when you actually have a day where you are playing in the fairway more often than in the rough. You can be a 18 handicap and nail a birdie on both the front nine and the back nine and be thrilled at how your game is progressing. You can be a single-digit handicap and get fired up when your sand wedge gets a little juice on it and you get it to spin in the right direction a couple of times in a round. You can be a scratch golfer and marvel at a bogey-free round. You can be on the PGA tour and ranked number one in the world and decide to revamp your swing entirely (twice) because you want to be able to become the greatest player the world has ever known.
The game is also extremely mental--it takes a great deal of focus, concentration, thought, course management, living within your game, determination, fear of failure, difficult decisions of risk-reward holes and so forth. You always have to be thinking about the shot that you are about to make and finding a way to forget about the shot that you just made to put you in the situation that you find yourself (good or bad). There is nothing worse on the golf course than thinking about how great your drive was and then chunking your wedge into the creek and turning a birdie into a double bogey. Nothing, except chunking your drive in the first place and thinking about that one before you chunk your three wood behind a tree, followed by a low liner to the thick rough on the opposite side of the fairway, back to the fairway where you end up chunking the the wedge into the creek anyway because you are so pissed off about the first four shots that you stop counting altogether because you lost track and you hate this freaking game and always will.
So once in a while, I go out and tempt fate and addiction and play 18. I am now in the throws of a severe craving. I find myself in the dining room gently sobbing to myself as I watch the deadbeats and hacks finish up on the 18th green just feet below. The course is wide-open today, and the hotel is at 28% during one of the historically slowest periods of the year. Do I dare risk getting caught out there with a five-iron in my hand and no reasonable explanation when Kim makes a surprise visit? Probably not. The reality is that playing golf with a guilty conscience takes away from the enjoyment. I don't understand it really, but it does. In my lifetime, one of the greatest pleasures that I take from any activity is that energy that is created when you are afraid of getting caught--it is supposed to make things more fun because the adrenaline rush associated with risk is intoxicating. I spent the better portion of my high school years trapped in my room due in no small part to this fact. But on the Golf course, relaxation is critical to enjoyment. There is nothing like being out on a sunny clear day with three of your best friends with only the slightest hint of a zephyr to deter your ball flight without a care in the world other than getting up and down to save par from the greenside bunker.
Kim doesn't understand this. Well, maybe she does, but she can't justify half a day (or more) on one of my precious days off to disappear and play golf instead of spending time with the kids. When she puts it into that perspective, there shouldn't be any conflict. There is no substitute for being around and watching Hunter and Lauren grow up, and truly, I hate to miss any of it. But do you think that our pal, the smack addict doesn't want to stop, doesn't know how he is affecting those around him, doesn't understand that he is destroying his life and the life of others? Of course he does. But like herion, golf doesn't give a rat's ass about me, my family or anything else. She knows I'll be back, she knows I can't quit.

My Long Haired Freaky Hippie Boy

Independence comes to people at different times in their lives. Sometimes, independence is brought forth through social uprising or revolution in its most extreme examples. For those of us who take our independence and freedom for granted because we have known it all of our lives, there are varying degrees of personal independence that we immerse ourselves in over time. Sometimes it is taken in gradual steps and other times, we recognize true freedom in one foul swoop as liberating our Mom's '84 Tercel Station Wagon from the confines of the driveway at 11PM and setting that baby free on the long stretching sandy beaches near St. Augustine when the folks are on vacation. (the latter of course is followed by long stretches in which one's independence might be again restricted for longer more painful periods of time, but freedom does indeed have its price).
In our formative years, we are more likely to go the way of small steps of independence. Watching Lauren for the past three plus years reminds me of that. Originally, we are trapped by the cruel nature of the human body that doesn't allow us to move freely. Eventually we learn how to turn over onto our stomachs, only to be outdone by mobility when we start to crawl. Before anybody catches on, we are stumbling around upright (only falling because to do so, means that we have thrust ourselves faster in the direction that we were heading, and generally, we are picked up by a larger person who can assist us in getting where we need to go faster). The progression continues until we are fully mobile and then, we start to utilize machinery to help us to expand our freedom--first that tricycle, then the two-wheeler with training wheels, and so on and so forth. I am sure that there are more progressions, but Lauren is only three, for crying out loud, I can't possibly forecast what comes next.
Aside from mobility, we begin to grab personal freedoms as well. These can come in all sorts of forms, from the foods we will eat (or not eat), to the clothes we wear, our personal grooming standards, boxers or briefs, and in each of these choices, our personality is somewhat changed. I bring this up because Hunter is starting to really define who he is on his own terms. To us, he has always been the goofy, funny, sports-challenged, video game playing sparkle in our eye. In a somewhat lazy way, he has continued to let his mother pick out his clothes each day (even though Lauren is already refusing to let us pick out even her pajamas at night without her approval). Look, I get in trouble if I pick out a pair of Dora the Explorer underpants when I should have known that today was Strawberry Shortcake, but as usual, that is another topic for another day. Hunter's underwear choices rarely enter into the realm of Strawberry Shortcake or Dora, but we would support him, even if it did. For those of you keeping track at home, he is a boxer (not briefs) guy, though when he pulls the waistband up to his chest, it creeps even me out.
The true independence that Hunter has embraced most recently has to do less with his wardrobe and more with his hair. For years, Kim has tried her best to keep him from growing too old too quickly. Right before our eyes, with no warning from him, he has escaped the little boy phase of his life and has become (I hate to say it out loud) a kid. You know the difference when you see it. They once had that little boy innocence, and now they have become mischievous full time. Like everything else, it started without any hue and cry, but rather mildly and without incident. Hunter decided that he would no longer get off at our bus stop two houses down, and instead, he and his friend Julien get off one stop earlier, about 1/2 a mile before our house. They then proceed to spend 30 minutes walking through the wash (Arizona for ditch) chasing each other and muddying up their shoes--you know, boy stuff. This happened one day about a month ago, and they have been doing every day since. I'm pretty sure that the busdriver has no idea that two 8 year olds are getting off at the wrong stop each day, but he is a brain-dead mutant anyway (nothing like entrusting our childrens life into the throngs of the truly enlightened on a daily basis--at least they still don't have seatbelts on those darn busses, boy would they be a nuisance).
It is good that Hunter does this--I think it is great that he gets some guaranteed exercise every day with his little walk, and the two of them generally are engaged in nothing but harmless fun (it isn't rattlesnake season for a couple more months). Occasionally, we have to walk down there to make sure that they are moving beyond the snail's pace that has been the trademark speed at which Hunter has motored through life. It will be years until he and Julien have stashed a bottle of Boone's Farm that they convinced a hobo to buy for them at Circle K under a rock, so for now, the only thing that we regulate is their pace.
Sticking it to the man by getting off the bus wherever they damn well please was only the first step toward Hunter's growth to true independence. About six weeks ago, when Hunter was due for a haircut, we gave him the choice that we always do, either Mom can cut it for you, or we can go to Great Cuts and get it done there. He goes back and forth on this, but in general, he doesn't care one way or the other (pretty much his Mantra on most things). This time was different--he suddenly had an opinion on the subject and decided that he didn't need a haircut from Mom, Great Cuts or anybody. He was going to let his hair get long, and he wasn't going to let anybody (including that busdriver) tell him otherwise. So for the past couple of months, he has gone without the grooming that we have become accustomed.
I'm going to say something here that may or may not be interpreted as it is intended (I don't know why on earth I would qualify any of my remarks at this point, if you haven't figured that out yet, I can't imagine that you would still be reading), but my son does not have the best hair in the world to begin with. It hasn't looked right since he was wearing that baby Caesar haircut when he was two, and no matter what my wife or any barbershop does, he is follically challenged. So when he decided that he wanted to be a good for nothing hippie, well I was all for it. Like so many things in life, his hair is now at that "akward in-between" phase, where it just looks dissheveled no matter what he does. There are cowlicks where cowlicks had never dared go before and the growth over his ears gives him the unwashed, uninspired, trailer-park look that we have come to enjoy.
Everybody goes through one of these long-hair phases. We all want to know what we look like, and at the time, it just seems right. The best part is when we get to look back at just how absolutlely preposterous we look at this point in our lives. Those of you who have known me for years can attest to the latter stages of high school where I went two or three years without cutting my 'fro, and looking back now, you should all be shown a long, painful, torturous death for allowing it to happen. What the hell was I thinking?
Childhood is all about stretching the boundaries and becoming our own person. My hippie child (I think we should all start calling him moonbeam or lillypad or washwalker or something cool and hippie like that) is bent on growing his hair out as long as we can tolerate--and believe me, there will be a breaking point somewhere down the road, where our precious Moonbeam is awakended by the gentle whirring hum of the hair clippers and finds himself tied down to a barber's chair as his dirt colored clumps are taken from him in a cruel realization of the power of our tyranny, and there will be hell to pay. He is convinced that his new do is a magnet for the ladies, and that now that he has long hair, they will be knocking down the door for a ride on the Bubbie-go-round. Freedom is a strange and wonderful thing. It shouldn't take the absurd hairdo of an eight year old boy to recognize that--the Dora underpants should have been our first clue.

Chanukka, Quite Possibly the Dumbest of all Holidays

Now I don't pretend to be a religious scholar. Hell, those of you who know me well understand that I shunned all organized religion as soon as I was old enough to realize that I was able to do so without being struck by a bolt of God's wrath. So far, he has missed, but I'll keep you posted. So perhaps I may not be the one to write this posting with an unbiased tongue, but it will be much more fun this way, I assure you.
I do recognize that there are many sacred holidays in every religion, and though I may not follow any of these, I have a great respect for those who choose to do so, and I am not one to judge another based on their beliefs. In Christianity, there are many smaller holidays, but the two big ones make all the sense in the world. You have Easter and Christmas--one the celebration of Jesus being born, and one when he rose from the dead. Pretty much, the entire religion is based on these two events, and to celebrate them just stands to reason.
In Judaism, there are holidays that also make sense. Rosh Hashana--the new Year (who doesn't celebrate the New Year?) Yom Kippur--day of atonement (basically beg forgiveness for your sins or you can expect to be left out of the book of life for that year--somehow worse than getting placed on Santa's naughty list, by the way) Passover--suffer for a week because some exiled slaves couldn't take the time to ask for directions for 40 years and wandered around in a desert the size of Rhode Island. 40 years? What the hell were they doing, and did anybody ever think to let somebody else take the lead for a couple of days? Anyway, they made a movie about it, so check it out sometime, but as usual I have strayed off topic.
Hannukkah, Chanucka, Chanukha, Hannuchunackka or however the hell you spell it was what I had intended to discuss today, and discuss it I shall. For my readers who are uncertain about the actual religious importance of the holiday, let me give you the background that you need to make it make sense. Back in the day, the Israelites were not the most popular of all the cultures running around (boy that hasn't changed much has it?) and they were regularly attacked by larger, fiercer armies who didn't necessarily want them around, and they kept destroying their big temple (think of the Vatican with regard to the holiness of the place, or at least the Mormon Tabernacle) and it really made the Israelites mad. They had this thing (still do, as a matter of fact) where they have a lamp lit in the Temple (synagogue) at all times and it was called the Eternal Light. Well, one of the times that one of these angry armies destroyed the temple again, they burned all of the oil that was used to light this lamp. Somehow, the oil didn't run out in the lamp, and it stayed lit for 8 days until more oil arrived.
I will probably get my share of feedback about the accuracy of the story (Sumerians, Egyptians, Mesopotamians, Hitites or some other Biblical group who was responsible will be upset that they weren't mentioned by name), but this is the basic gist laid out before you. The candle didn't burn out for eight days. Now, I am not one to suggest that this is not relevant or equally exciting, but let's not make too much about it. If this is the highlight of your religion's success stories, maybe you want to look to find some other feel good story out there (maybe Sandy Koufax's perfect game).
How the hell did this thing ever get to be an 8 day holiday? Let's do some basic comparison. You escape slavery, spend 40 years wandering the desert and create a religion from all of the followers who suffered through it with that Rand McNally guy (I think they called him Moses in the day) and you get an 8 day holiday to mark it. Conversely, you go to Yankee Candle Company and pay for the really good oil and you make an 8 day holiday to commemorate it. Does this make sense to anybody out there? Eight days of lighting candles and spinning dreidels and getting socks all because somebody thought to lower the wick, so that the oil would burn slower. It isn't a freaking miracle--it's an excuse to create a gift-giving holiday at the same time as Christmas each year, so the Jewish kids don't riot. Don't get me wrong, if I was a kid, and everybody in the neighborhood was loading up on video games, and I didn't even get my annual supply of socks, somebody would have hell to pay.
And the people who are responsible for marketing this thing, really need to look at some better techniques. Christmas is everywhere. They got that Santa guy--he's a magnet for attention--red outfit, sleigh bells, reindeer, elves--these are marketable devices with cache. Christmas Tree--Brilliant, colorful, energetic full of fun. House Decorations--tacky, yet lovable. Chrismas cookies and Chocolates, Candy canes and Giant Spiral Hams. This thing just sells itself. Chanukkah--a nine hole candleabria, milk chocolate coins, potato latkes (if you name your celebratory food after an Andy Kaufman character from Taxi, there are more problems than I can resolve in one posting) and a song about a four sided spinning top.
Am I wrong here? At least put in the effort--market to your strengths. I remember as a kid when I used to have to tell people about this silly holiday at school and explain it all to them. They were just amazed that we got "an 8 day Christmas" instead of the one day thing. Somebody out there needs to recognize that there is real value in pushing that issue. As a kid, I thought, yeah--we have to spread one day's worth of gifts over 8 days, and while you guys have already burned out the brake on your Green Machine from skidding so much for the last week, we are up to day three of opening up a crappy book from Uncle Moishe. If somebody could just realize that Channukahh could provide 8 times the bang for the buck, you might find more people buying into this travesty of a holiday.
Until then, there will be more defections, more disenfrancised would be desert wanderers and more kids looking out their windows each night to see the tacky lights from the neighbor's house wondering "what if."
Yehoshua

The Opamobile

We all have vehicles that are somewhat necessary to get us back and forth to the world that surrounds us. Some of these cars, trucks, minivans or motorcycles are a statement about who we are, what is important to us and you can tell a lot about somebody by the car they drive. It is a truth that is inescapable.
Let's look at a few examples. A forty-five year old man who drives a Corvette is probably going through a mid-life crisis, is having issues with his operating equipment downstairs, and has probably recently left his wife to pursue 19 year-olds who might be impressed with that shiny slick red mortgage payment and don't know about the little blue pill he has to take yet.
The minivan screams soccer mom, two to three kids in tow, a back area filled with groceries and a routine that never leaves a five mile radius, except during the annual summer vacation, when that baby gets cranked up and locked in at 65 MPH on cruise control. The neverending sounds of "Are we there yet," muffled out by the ear-numbing decibel level of the headphones as the two kids in the backseat take a moment from "touching each other" to mercifully watch the DVD for a three minute span of pure driving bliss. (that really wasn't a sentence, but you get the idea).
A big beefy truck with a Hemi probably means that the guy driving it wants to empty one of those gigantic tankards of unleaded annually just so he can impress the guy at the local drive through--man those commercials are funny. That thing does indeed "got a hemi." (sorry Matt).
A Lexus, Infinity, BMW, Mercedes, et al really just tells the world that you have too much stinking money to begin with, and let's face it--the rest of us are just jealous. Thank goodness there are plenty of folks out here in the greater Scottsdale area with the resourses to remind the rest of us that they do have too much stinking money. God bless you all.
And one of those hybrid cars probably means less about saving money as it does about making a political statement about doing your part of saving the environment. Nothing like waiting six months to plunk down an extra 15K on a souped-up Corolla so that you can save $100 a year on gas and tell the world that you are doing your part by driving your Prius--way to go Dad.
And lastly, one of those ridiculous Hummers is a combination of the Lexus guy, Hemi guy and Corvette guy. Needs validation for his shortcomings, but has a load of cash to shove in the rest of our faces, and loves to flush gas down the toilet. But man do they look cool. We only see about 200-300 of these a day out here. "Sorry that we didn't save any gas for you kids, but Grampa G sure tried with that Prius of his."
Then you enter my world--that's right, the world of the Opamobile. Many of you may not know who Opa was, but he was my maternal grandfather and probably the finest person I have ever known. (that, by the way was in no way sarcastic--I realize that I have to point that out, due to my own posting history, but Opa was a true gentleman in every sense of the word). He passed away two years ago and I will probably go into more detail about him on Dec. 26th (the anniversary of his passing), but for today, let's talk about the ride.
I inherited the Opamobile nearly two years ago, and at the time, Kim and I were surviving on one beat-up Saturn with no functioning air conditioning in Arizona for a family of four. Believe me, it was a welcome gift, and I drove it cross-country from Daytona to Phoenix in two nights with Shari. Originally, Kim enjoyed the splendor that was this shimmery blue Buick beauty, but eventually we were able to move up to the future Soccer mom and purchase a minivan last year. We traded in the Saturn (and ran before they started that thing back up) and I took over the '98 Century.
I left out the perception that belies a '98 Buick, but each of you can probably come up with your own. This vehicle of mine conjures up an image of one of two things--either an elderly couple who believe in America (probably former GM employees quite frankly), and refuse to drive anything else. Or somebody so taken by that Tiger Woods guy that they actually believe he drives a Buick, and feel that they need to be more like him to improve their golf game. I am neither, but I have the pleasure of cruising for chicks in this thin slice of heaven 365 days a year.
Not that I am one to mess with good-old American ingenuity, but I just can't figure out how difficult it can be to make fully-functioning power windows. I have had the car for less than two years, and have had to fix, replace, or temporarily adjust all four windows (two of them twice now). The beauty of inheriting a car is that you can avoid a car payment, but if every other month you have to drop $450 to fix a power window that won't stay up, you kind of lose that benefit.
Right now, with the Christmas season in full-force and our holiday budget maxed out, I have two back windows propped up with a folded piece of paper jammed between the window and the housing in a foolhearty attempt to keep them from sliding down as I drive to work at 6AM in the 35 degree desert morning. Usually they make it two miles or so before they return to their more comfortable setting halfway open. My father-in-law will be here next week, and we will permanently shut them this time. I don't need him to spend another entire afternoon travelling to various Phoenix junkyards trying to repair these damn windows again. He probably will anyway, but there is nothing I can do to change Poppy-Joe. He is a determined fellow who needs to fix things to survive. Speaking of which, I probably should get my list of repairs/projects ready for him. If he has nothing to do, he will start creating his own projects and there are few things more frightening than a Poppy-Joe without an agenda. Kim, if you are reading this, please for the love of God, finalize that list now--we are quickly running out of time.
Anyhow, if you see me cruising around town in that lightning rod of sexy with the back windows down and the Sirius sports radio cranked up, realize that not every vehicle is what it appears. There is more truth than lies in the soft underbelly of the stereotypes that we have created in our minds for those around us. Perhaps there is a 63 year-old Asian grandmother on dialysis driving that Hummer after all.

Those Crazy Old Bags Made it to 40!

Though we celebrated my parents anniversary when they were here with the rest of the family over Thanksgiving, today marks the actual date that they tied their nuptials 40 long years ago. Vegas is laughing. Nobody took the bet that it would last this long. Most likely, nobody would have touched the over when it posted as 10 years O/U back in 1965, some true risk takers might have thought that they stuck it out until the kids were grown up and out of the house (over 10 years ago) but I guarantee that nobody believed it would last 40 years.
There are various theories as to how they have defied the laws of marriage/divorce for so long, and today is as good a day as any to explore this marvel of modern science. The first thing to consider is that they are both still alive at such an advanced age. They have both outlived my expected time line here on earth, and the fact that my father is still kicking is truly remarkable. Working as a pediatrician in a high-volume, high-stress environment for the better part of four decades takes its toll. Late night phone calls from panicked mothers who can't figure out why little Timmy feels splotchy still after she gave him some Children's Tylenol twenty minutes ago as instructed can have a way of affecting one's sleep pattern. And let's be perfectly fair here, Dad's diet over the last 40 years has not exactly been one that Dietician Weekly would highlight as their Nutritionist of the year in their big year-ending issue (on newsstands now, try to get a copy--good luck). Add to that the high cholesterol and raising four high maintenance kids, and his being alive is nothing short of a medical miracle. But he has made it this far, and as a retiree, he seems to be taking better care of himself, which does not bode well for my mother's long term health.
For the most part Gramma G is pretty healthy. She eats pretty well, and aside from an absolute uncontrollable, incurable addiction to peanut M&Ms, there is nothing pressing to cause us much fear about her long-term prognosis. That is aside from the fact that Dad has nothing to do now, but to look for things to annoy her. Dad is a well-meaning sort, but he has an uncontrollable urge to involve himself in everything, which is fine, because there really isn't much else to do. He eats, sleeps, plays bridge, works out and sleeps, oh yeah and he sleeps. Naps are a big part of his life, but I am convinced that Mom is slipping him a "Mickey" now and again just to get some peace and quiet.
Dad is loud. He has a very strong voice and likes to utilize the volume whenever possible. The real challenge is when you are having a conversation with somebody else and he can't hear. Let's say that you are picking up your parents from the airport and Dad gets the short straw and is sitting in the backseat. The last thing that you would want to do is have a conversation with Mom, because aside from being a necessary participant in every conversation (that may or may not involve him) Dad is as deaf as a post. So instead of just having to listen to him crank the decibels in the Buick up to that of a 747 when he speaks, we all have to talk at that volume. Generally, I just try not to speak in these situations.
But somehow, they make it work. Through the craziness that has become their existence, they have persevered. Mom hasn't killed him off yet, and dad's heart hasn't clogged to the point that it is irreparable, and now that he has retired, perhaps they can crank out another 10 years. Their recipe for success, for all of you out there in the formative stages of your marriage:

• Argue as much as possible over the most trivial things
• Always, always, always make sure that both of you are on the phone at the same time to be certain that all information is received in an accurate and timely manner (and not subject to interpretation).
• Drug your husband after he retires
• Make sure that you are matched up with somebody that realizes that they have nowhere else to go (think of Mayo in an Officer and a Gentleman)
• Replace your dog with a fresh one every time he or she passes away and make sure that the names find a way to keep getting goofier and goofier
• Sing Happy Birthday on the phone to your children every year at 5 in the morning until they are 60
• Don't laugh at Dad's belly (or belly button--dude, that's creepy)
• Be stubborn and right all the time
• Get stressed out for two days before every family vacation and continue the stress level at least the first two days there, calm down for one, and begin the panic for getting ready to depart in just three short days

There are certainly a few more "tricks of the trade," but these should get you to at least 15 years or so. After that, I guess we have to figure it out for ourselves. Either way, I am so happy for both of them. They are nuts (seriously--they need therapy and lots of it), but they are always amusing to me, and I don't know what could possibly be more of a reason for sticking together than that. Someday, Kim will realize the humor in watching them stumble through their golden years, but until then, I will snicker to myself and wait for the opportunity to laugh out loud with her. I hope that you both have a fantastic anniversary. Congratulations on defying the odds and continuing what has been the longest upset streak of my lifetime. I love you both--happy anniversary Mom and Dad!

Reader's poll--Please Respond!

All right kids, we are over a week into this blogging thing, and there has been a smattering of feedback from some of you, but I was hoping to find out more. If you could please respond to the following questionnaire, I would greatly appreciate it:
1) The posting I have enjoyed the most is:
2) The posting I have enjoyed the least is:
3) The topics have been:
4) The writing has been:
5) The character/personality that I would most like to hear more about is :
6) I enjoy the postings more when they are a) about somebody, b) about sports, c) about whatever sick thought is in your mind, d) cruel and biting, e) feel good stories (choose as many as you like)
7) You post too frequently/not frequently enough
8) The quality of writing is a) improving, b)deteriorating, c)remaining consistently good, d)remaining consistently bad
9) I check this blog a) daily, b) more than three times a week, c) 1-3 times a week, d) this is my first visit
10) The topic that I would like for you to write about next is:

Thank you for taking the time to fill out this survey. I hope to keep this interesting if at all possible. By the way, there is an actual posting from this morning if any of you haven't read it yet. Please see It's The Hap-hapiest Time of the Year below.
Josh G

It's the Hap-happiest Time of The Year

Now some of you probably have the Yule Log cranked up and ready to go, the carolers are running rampant in the street and those sleigh bells are indeed ring-ring-ring-a-ling ting-ting-ting-a-ling tee if you know what I mean. Just a week until Christmas eve and the last second panic shoppers are flipping the calendars and realizing that they don't have that last weekend to get this thing done. They might actually have to traverse the consumer mileu and purchase something before the 23rd and enter into the bowels of hell with the rest of the shoppers over the next 48 hours. Frightening, I know, and more than a few of you are probably sipping your morning coffee, reading this and coming to the realization that I may be right--sorry to alarm you at this hour.
That being said, the holiday season for me is only a backdrop for my enthusiasm right now. Sure, I love to get into a bloody brawl with Mrs. Anderson at Circuit City when the last of the miraculously last-minute arrival X-Box 360's is within arms reach for both of us as much as the next guy, but this time of year is when the NFL starts giving us Saturday football to bridge the void that is left behind as we await the kickoff of the college bowl season. Magically, I can finally watch my beloved Bucs on television as they get their asses handed to them in the blizzardy mudpit that will be Gillette Stadium in Foxboro today.
We live in football Purgatory here in Arizona, and I say that with all due affection and love of those cute little Cardinals down in Tempe (soon to be Glendale). I remember a similar world in Tampa, back when we wore the Creamsicle with pride and all 200 Buc fans that showed up would try to make enough noise that the Packer fans who had taken over the Big Sombrero knew that we meant business. There was nothing like showing up to that vacuous stadium with no tickets and spending about three hours buying some poor season ticket holder's four forty yard line seats for $20 and turning around and selling them for $20 each to some other poor sap who was still getting them for 30% of face value.
But the real shame of living here in Arizona now, or Tampa in the early 90s, is the NFL's policy on television regarding sellouts. This policy basically works like so: if there aren't enough football fans in the 5.8 million people in the Greater Phoenix metropolitan area and suburbs to fill a 78,000 seat stadium, then the rest of the 5,722,000 of your don't get to watch the Cardinals play on TV. The policy makes perfect sense, and in the other 31 markets out there, this rarely causes much flap, because the games are sold out for the next 50 seasons or so with waiting lists that transcend three generations. But here in AZ, we don't sell out games, and I don't mean all the games--I mean any of the games. I have been here for five football seasons now, and quite honestly, I cannot recall a sellout. When I went to the one game in SunDevil Stadium (yeah, they do play NFL football in a rickety 60 year old college stadium with aluminum bench seats here) against the Bucs to end a miserable season last year, there were more Buc fans in the staduim than Cardinal fans. How many freaking transplants from Tampa come out to Arizona, seriously? So when the Cardinals have a home game, we don't get a replacement game to watch, instead, we just lose the chance to watch a game. In other words, everywhere else in the country, you get two early games (East Coast) plus an afternoon game or one early game (West Coast) plus two afternoon games.
On the weeks that the Cardinals are traveling to another city, we always are afforded the opportunity to watch this train wreck of a team (who has probably won three road games in the five years I have been here). Good times for all. Which brings us back to my original thought which was--holy crap, I wrote a lot of ramble here, hold on a second and let me scroll back up--holiday season...shopping hell...X-Box 360 (boy that'd be nice to get this year, maybe I can try to track one down)...Gillette Stadi--oh yes, my beloved Bucs on TV today. Due to the fact that Tampa sucked last year (5-11--we actually lost to the Cardinals at the game I went to last year--who the hell loses to the Cardinals for crying out loud?), they get no love from a national TV perspective the following season. This is also a policy that makes no sense--since there is consistent parity in the NFL, nobody really knows who will be good from one year to the next, but they announce the nationally televised games as soon as the schedule is posted. Why not change it up as the season progresses? If you know after three weeks that Green Bay is just God-freaking-awful, pull their Monday night games and put on somebody that we want to see. The Bucs were supposed to be another disaster this season, an aging defense, an unproven offense and a pattern of a quickly spiraling downward win loss ratio (12-4 in '02, 7-9 in '03, 5-11 in '04), so expectations were extremely low. Look, let's be honest, at the beginning of the season, I didn't circle Superbowl Sunday as the most exciting upcoming football event, I circled the first day of the draft in April. I was praying that Matt Leinert made it through the season unscathed, because there weren't going to be too many teams with the opportunity to draft a player before Tampa.
But somewhere along the way, somebody forgot to mention this to those beautiful Pewter pirates (wow--two days in a row where I mentioned pirates in a posting--you don't think I have a problem or a fixation or anything--note to self, next time in counseling, make sure to discuss pirates with Dr. Smith) who have gone 13 weeks into the season and still sit perched atop the NFC South (well tied actually, but atop none the less) with a stellar 9-4 record. They have a chance to double their win total from last year if they can pull off a sub 20 degree miracle in Massachussetts this afternoon. I fear, however, that this week a dose of reality will set in. For those of you not familiar with this franchise, they are a snake bitten group (who admittedly rose from the depths of despair to win a Superbowl in 2002). There are a few things that have been let's say elusive to Tampa over the years. It took them 25 years to return a punt for a touchdown--that's right 25 years at 16 games a year plus an occasional playoff game, over 400 games before somebody actually returned a punt for a touchdown. They have still never returned a kickoff for a touchdown (that is 30 years and counting), and until they went to Chicago the last game of 2002, they had never won a game where the kickoff temperature was below 40 degrees, and have proceeded to do so twice (three weeks later in Philadelphia) in their storied history.
I hope that I am wrong, we need this win badly to maintain our playoff standing in a very tight NFC race. If the boys can manage to put together 60 minutes in the sludge that is Gillette Stadium, I will believe that they are back and ready to reclaim their form of three years ago. Today, for the first time all season, I will get to watch them and find out. Thank you NFL, thank you for getting me an early Christmas gift. Now let's just hope that Belichick and Brady are feeling as giving at 12:30 EST.

The Imaginary Mateys

For those of you not familiar with my daughter Lauren, I suppose now is as good a time as any to fill you in on the twisted spawn that Kim and I have created. Most the time, she is a very sweet three year old (the part she gets from Kim). Other times she is a menace to society (as most three year olds can be), which she gets from me.
But most of all, she is funny as hell. Any of you who have been around her can attest to that. I am her father, so naturally I am biased, but she just does things that leave you shaking your head. She asks innocent enough questions that any three year old might ask, "Mommy, how come we have two thumbs?"
Kim would respond, "Well Lauren, without thumbs, we couldn't pick anything up."
"Why else?"
"Well, thumbs help us do things, like cooking and working in the yard, and all kinds of things."
"No."
"What do you mean no?"
"That's not what thumbs are for, mommy."
"Well, Missy what are they for?"
And with a knowing smile and two thumbs firmly extended from her little fists and shoved right into Kim's face she replied, "Without thumbs, we couldn't do a Double Rock-On."
That's my girl.
Lauren lives to torment her older brother (mostly when he won't pay attention to her). She needs to be with him whenever possible, usually when he needs his space the most. If he is doing his homework, she makes us get her paper and crayons, so that she can do her homework too. If Hunter is on the computer, she has to get another chair pulled up "right benext" to him so she can watch every point, click and keystroke. If Hunter is watching a show, she throws a fit until he agrees to put on her shows so they can watch together. As all little brothers and sisters do, she loves to pick a fight, and in her short time on this planet, she has learned what drives Hunter up the wall and presses him until he snaps. Realize of course that this is a two way street, and just as often, he starts the confrontation, but she lives to be involved in any way with her Bubbie.
She also has a freckle on her right hand that she affectionately refers to as "Chuck." That's right, she named her freckle. Now, she has other freckles, but only one has a name, and only one has the ability to do all of the misdeeds that might otherwise be blamed on Lauren.
"Lauren, did you give that hotdog to Abby?
"No."
"Did you eat it?"
"I'm full."
"O.K. that's fine, but where did your hotdog go?"
"Abby ate it."
"I thought you didn't give it to Abby."
"I didn't. Chuck did."
"Your freckle?"
"Yep--I told him not to, but he said that Abby was soooo hungry, so he gave her the hotdog and the rest of my chips."
"Lauren Elizabeth--I told you not to feed that dog. She can't have any people food."
"I know. I told Chuck not to, but he wouldn't listen. He says sorry and sorry is a good word, right Kim?" (we love it when she calls us by our first names--She can't quite pronounce Josh, so it comes out Dothsh followed by hysterical laughter).
"Well, neither you or Chuck will be allowed to eat with Abby in the same room if you keep feeding her people food."
And as we do our best to maintain a straight face and remain serious, she gets two inches from Kim's face and holds her cheeks with both hands and says, "Chuck is sorry. Are you happy now, Kim?"
You want to strangle her, but the authorites might have something to say about that--even if you tried to blame it on Chuck. I think its great that she is developing an active imagination. Aside from Chuck, though, she really hasn't had any imaginary friends until yesterday, when the Mateys arrived. Just out of the blue, Lauren walked into the kitchen to introduce Kim to her two matey's who were little but big. These are aparently her two new imaginary pirate friends, who she calls her mateys. We were relieved, as I am sure each of you are to find out that they didn't fall into the toilet when she went potty.
Like all imaginary friends, the Mateys only talk to Lauren, but can hear us talking to them. It is a very convenient way of working. I don't remember my imaginary friends from my childhood, though I am sure I had a few, and I am quite certain that none of them had any kind of pirate affiliation. I do recall that one of my good friends and former roommates, John B. told me that he had an entire imaginary gang, and the saddest part was that when they voted who would be president of their club, he lost. It would be hard for me to envision a similar fate bestowed upon Lauren--at three, she pretty much runs everything in her world and most of the things in ours. If she can just figure out a way to get control of that renegade freckle, she'll have it all figured out.
Dothsh

It Gets More Frightening Every Sweeps Week

I don't know how they do it, I really don't. The TV executives out there, who have redeifined derivative to a point at which, there aren't just not any new ideas, but the completely horrible ideas have gotten to be so universally accepted as credible, that we keep going down a notch, where I didn't believe there were any notches left.
There are a number of contributing factors, and the pundits have all had their takes. 4000 stations out there trying to capture your attention for an extra milisecond to pump up their ratings just enough to justify the advertisers out there to pony up a little extra dough per 30 second spot. The follow the pack mentality that makes up most every business is no different in Television (Hell, in the NFL, when somebody figured out how to stop the West Coast Offense, every defense looked like the Cover-2 the next season). The TV writers out there are strangled in their own creativity because the networks don't want to risk stepping out and losing whatever ratings they cling to.
All of these make sense, but the one overriding reality that we all must face is simple--we are quite possibly the dumbest society that has ever been placed on this earth. I always have understood the need to appeal to the masses, but if the current offering of "entertainment" is an indication of what comprises the masses, it is pretty scary. Now as usual, my comments here will probably offend a good number of you out there who enjoy these shows, so consider yourself warned before you proceed. I, admittedly have not seen a good number of the offerings out there, so to quote my 11th grade English teacher, "Mr. Goldschmidt, your opinion may not necessarily account for a damn, and in this case--it doesn't." (Man, do I miss that guy).
The shows on network TV fall into the following categories at this point: CSI, LANDO, Reality, "Celebrity," Talent searches, Aliens, Cop shows that have no ties to CSI or LANDO families, The White House, really bad sitcoms, and shows about nannies or trading wives.
Let's look at them one by one (and realize that there are a few shows out there worth watching still). Since my opinions don't necessarily account for a damn, I will not bore you with the ones that I still watch. CSI--once a dynamic show that made the world of forensic science fascinating to the masses has grown to a three headed monster in CSIMIAMI and CSINY and of course CSIVEGAS (just called CSI). The change in backdrop doesn't really change the story lines all that much, but it does fill up three hours of valuable prime time network space on CBS as well as the wallet of Jerry Bruckheimer. The original is still mildly entertaining (better characters than the other two) mostly because it doesn't rely on that red headed freak, David Caruso or the over the top accents in CSINY (doesn't CSINY sound remarkably like Sinise--coincidence, I think not). I find it remarkable just how many hot people decide to forego the more traditional jobs of the incredibly attractive to pursue their love of searching for body fluids at crime scenes. Quincy, MD must have had more of an impact than I remember. NBC also stole the whole CSIBOSTON motif with Crossing Jordan.
LANDO (Law and Order) has LANDO (about 15 years worth of shows), LANDOSVU, LANDOCI, LANDOTRIALBYJURY. NBC has just got nothing else going, and it is so sad. Who watches anything on this network anymore? Really, who? Leno is horrible. the writing on the LANDOs has gone the way of the Wooly Mammoth, Fear Factor--freaking Fear Factor, Must watch TV on Thursday featuring "Joey." as the headliner and still cranking out episodes of ER--it's true, I saw a commercial for it the other day during Fear Fact---I mean while rapidly flipping channels. I thought ER was killed off when Clooney left, but apparently nobody told the writers, actors and key grips that it was over. Something like "Office Space" when nobody told that one guy that he was fired for 6 years, but he kept on coming in, and nobody had the heart to tell him that it was over.
Can we please stop making freaking reality shows? There I said it--it needed to be said, so I did. Why do you people keep watching this crap? They drag these things out and show every clip on the previews 50 times before the show actually airs and then they play the same clip before the commercial, and then again after the commercial, just in case your brain couldn't decipher that we were back to the captivating drama. The tribe has spoken--stop making these damn shows. How many times to I need to watch 10 cranky bitches act sweet and coy when the Bachelor shows up before gauging the eyballs out of each other in the house when he leaves and then take turns ratting each other out and wrestling with the agony of whether or not they have done enough to win the prize. The prize of course is the opportunity to continue the relationship three months later after the show has aired, only realizing then that the person you met was a complete jackass when you actually watch the show, and breaking it off the day after the final episode--man is that good reality TV. The only one that worked out was that annoying freak Trista, or Tristen or Krista or something and they made another horrible show out of their wedding.
And this brings us to the Celebrity shows--these are absolutely priceless. Dancing with the Stars, (I saw a clip for Skating with Celebrities coming soon to Fox--that should be just fantastic). First of all, who classifies these inbred freaks as stars. That Trista, Krista, Tristan chick is now considered a celebrity. They make a show trying to somehow find somebody that will marry this annoying tart, finally find a fool (lumberjack or fireman or something) who will, and suddenly, we have to watch more shows with her because she has entered the public consciousness as a Star. What the hell is going on here. Are we going to start seeing five-time champions on Jeopardy finally getting their due and be captivating to the nation? Probably not. Regardless, these celebrity shows are such a joke. They take 10 misfit hacks who are washed up, but you probably recognize them for their 15 minutes in the 80s (Erik Estrada, Vanilla Ice, Jay Peterman from Seinfeld, etc.) and we are supposed to care enough to watch them live together, learn how to skate or lose weight. Who comes up with this crap, and who keeps watching it?
The whole American Idol, So you think you can Dance genre is even more annoying. Who cares if you can dance? How the hell do 50 million viewers keep tuning in to Paula Abdul telling half-wits how talented they are, and then that Simon guy telling them they should go and be a yak farmer in Pakistan? I don't know, but the madness has to stop somewhere.
Speaking of madness, please stop tuning in to the Wife Swap/Meet your new Mommy/Trading Spouses nightmare. And please help me get those nannys off the air as well. It is just so funny when they take a rich, spoiled mother of three from suburbia and make her live with the immigrants who live in the hood with no central air and no rules. Boy does that make for a provocative situation, and I just can't wait to find out what happens next.
All right, I am certain that I could carry on for another 10000 words on this topic, but it has become mundane to write, and probably even more mundane to read. The saddest thing about it all, is that I still watch the damn thing, and am hooked like a smack addict. Once football season is over, I fear that even more of these shows will surface--they always do. I just hope that they don't find another way to lower the bar. There is only so much I can take. By the way, if any of you know where I can get a good deal on a 50" HDTV, I am in the market--nothing like the real-life feel of watching that Trista chick try a triple lutz and falling on her ass.
Josh G