I love a good Gold Medal

Confession:

The Olympics are a fantastic and unexpected gift to me, like finding a twenty dollar bill in the Target parking lot or passing a billowing gas monster in a crowded movie theater and convincing your family it was that "disgusting guy in front of you" that did it.

With each, I end up saying, "where the hell did that come from?" and taking it for granted though I may, I usually become obsessed with wanting that same surprise from everything else in my life...only to be left emptily disappointed. Unless it's a long movie and I've recently consumed more than four Cheesy Gorditas from Taco Bell.

The Olympics start (well they never stop for the athletes, but they start for you and I) about two weeks before they start. The host city begins their preparation about 12 years before they're even chosen as the host site. The athletes begin training for them roughly 6 months prior to their own conception.

But all I have to do is watch Bob Costas for thirty minutes each night and I'm caught up on who I should be rooting for and against. Pretty sweet deal for me. For example, I know who Apollo Anton Ono is. I just remember Apollo Creed, the indomitable heavyweight boxer from the late 70's who died in the ring at the hands of that Russian bastard, Ivan Drago. I then imagine Susan Anton in her loveliest pose with feathered hair. Lastly, I imagine John Lennon and his domineering wife lying in bed for three weeks protesting the Vietnam war without bathing or wearing clothes. Mash all those images up in a blender and you have the mnemonic device...Apollo Anton Ono. See? It's easy.

Anyway, I know who he is from the last Olympics and all the cool stuff he did and the sweet facial hair. But he hasn't exactly been in the forefront of the news the way that normal celebrities are. He's been busy training and getting faster at skating and things like that while regular celebrities like Jon and Kate plus Eight have been hogging the spotlight by breathing air and eating food and getting divorced and tending to their weird children. You know...important shit. The newsworthy type of behavior that catches my eye.

So Apollo comes around to my circle of interest twice, maybe three times in his lifetime, and only when there's a gold medal and a tearjerking National Anthem at stake. That's cool, I figure. But can't he and Lindsey Vonn-Jacobellis and Shaun White and Bodi Miller et al. do something for the other 1500 days between Olympics to keep me interested in them? Like, I don't know, something aside from trying to achieve a lifelong goal? Aside from getting up at 4 in the morning every day of the week to run sixty miles to train for the upcoming games four years down the road?

Come on people!? How am I supposed to keep track of your every move if TMZ won't follow you to your three hour workout before church each Sunday? Can't you spice it up a little? Why not attend said session on the bruised heels of a 13 hour bender at the Viper room with enough coke and Red Bull in your system to jump start your car? Why not show up for the free skate with a crowbar and a new tatoo over your face depicting the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Could you at least get divorced or file bankruptcy once between Olympic games?

Of course, all this absence of dirt is why we love the games. I cheered mightily for the Chinese couple to win the pairs figure skating gold. You know, the married couple that came out of retirement in their late 30's to train and live in separate dorms to capture the only honor they've never received. It could have been Betsy Ross and George Washington skating against them and I would have pulled in the direction of the Big Red...not because I'm a Commie, but because I cried during Rudy, Hoosiers,The Blind Side, Lucas, Angels in the Outfield, A League of Their Own, Chariots of Fire, Rocky IV, Victory, Ladybugs, Caddyshack and every other sports movie ever made.

We love winners and losers. We love to exhalt heroics and opine over near misses and lament what might have been. We love to look back in retrospect and adore the greatness of years gone by. We love a video montage that stretches our own shortcomings into someone else's achievements with a song we can beat our chest to. (Note: In my funeral video montage, there will be various pictures fading in and out of me from ages three to whatever age I kick it. Mostly toothy grins and hugs...really sap it up, please. The following songs need to be included: Prospekt's March by Coldplay, A Lack of Color by Death Cab for Cutie and Wherever I May Roam by Metallica. In that order. It'll be nuts in that church by the end.)

I love the Olympics. For a couple of weeks I can stop hearing about Charlie Sheen smacking the old lady around or caring whether or not Brangelina have adopted another child from Madonna's litter. For a couple of weeks, I can drift in and out of Bob Costas telling me who on this planet we should really be rooting for...regardless of country, religion or color. I like that. I also like when Danny Noonan overcomes the smoking Denunzio hollering in his backswing in order to sink that clutch putt to win the Caddy scholarship. Those are the things that really matter in life.

I'm venting. Deal with it.

This is dedicated to my friend from Chicago (and for the sake of protecting his privacy, we'll simply refer to him as D. Olson). Actually, that might be a little too obvious. How about Don O. instead? No. Let's say his name sounds like Shawn Folson.

He proved to me over beers late the other night that there are pulsed-people reading this stuff and that some of them even pretend to like it. For a hack writer, that's living in Sarah Palin's body the day she was told "you have what it takes to make it as an Analyst on Fox". BAM! Sign there, go get a new wardrobe, announce the new gig, move from Alaska to NY or LA, have an espresso, look at Russia one last time, read some periodicals, BAM! I'm on it like that. Happy style. Ready to Rrrrrock!

Now, the point.

I love a good retrospective list. Here are some of the best I've seen during the Decade switch:

-The Top 101 places to eat in America that will KILL you.
-The Top 11 Thwarted Terror Attacks at the Newark Airport. Yesterday.
-The Top 91,234 Women Who Cut Their Hair Like Kate Gosselin only to have to grow it or buy extensions to feel alive again.
-The Top 1,124 Celebrities that died in November and December
-The Top 6 of 8 Albums of the Decade produced without a "voicebox thingy"
-The Top 43,295 Reality Show stars who double as meathead assholes in "reality".

All loads of fun, there was my favorite, an internet fueled list of words or phrases that needed to be retired from the vernacular immediately because of their overexposure in the recent past. These are the phrases that sound great until they are beaten bloody and senseless by local newscasters, bloggers and your own Grandma. Once Granny starts chirpin' on about OchoCinco's latest Tweet, its time to stop following him. And Tweeting. It may even be time to look for an alternative to cell phone usage. Smokesignals, ya'll?

Words and phrases like, "Too Big to Fail" and "Change" got wiped from the common speech pattern. So did, "Spending Money" and "Put it on the Visa".

Gone are the terms, "Vetting", "Hockey Mom" and "Bailout". Of course, if the McCain camp had done the proper vetting of a certain Hockey Mom it chose to front the campaign for them, they wouldn't have had their ass whipped so badly...bailout and stuff.

Sarcastik!

Anyway, I wanted to dedicate a little cyber-space to retiring some real phrases we tend to use in everyday speech that are starting to make me angry. I want them swept into the past like the words that these net-hipsters destroy every January in order to make room for fresher, more ridiculous words for people to beat to death. These are phrases that have been with us, in some cases, longer than the Moon has, so it may be tough. Bottom line, though folks...you can't say any of these things ever again.

I have that much power.


The Top 5 Things I Have Banished From Common Speech (and why):

5. "Are you Serious?"

As in:
Person One: "Wow. I woke up this morning and my neighbor was being dragged out from his house by a giant vulture. He was screaming and holding a cup of coffee...trying to reach his paper, too...but really freaking out. It was crazy. I'm not sure why he still gets the paper, since he's 27."

Person Two: "Are you serious?"

Either the guy is making all this up while trying to pull your chain and/or make you laugh and/or get you to look away from your muffin long enough to steal it, or he's being serious and a vulture ate his neighbor. Either way, you don't need to ask if he's serious. I've never heard anyone answer the question, "Are you serious?" with..."Ummm. Sort of?" They either are or they aren't. Your ability to discern that fact is paramount to your ability to survive the next cut in the survival of the fittest. Along with this saying goes, "Ohh....you're kidding!"

4. "Have a good one!"

The great George Carlin said it best...when someone said "Have a good one!" to him, he'd say, "I already have a good one...now I just need a longer one!" That was George's way of ridding this world of the weakest attempt at parting shots we have. There's nothing honest about this saying at all...it indicates laziness and inability to keep time.

"Have a good..." (oh shit, is it morning still, or afternoon...hurry! Think! Oh well....)
"One!" (Good! That covers morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night, day, week and life! I'm great at saying goodbye to people!!)

I use and despise this saying. Its so easy and it sounds so familiar that we fall in love with it. But its hollow and lazy. Buy a watch. Anticipate the next time you'll see the person. Have them in the forefront of your mind as you say goodbye. Having a good one will always insinuate possessing a great package as far as I'm concerned. Thanks a lot, Carlin. I miss you.

3. "The Moment We've All Been Waiting For"

Oh, I want to puke when I hear it.

Is there anything worse than trite hyperbole? Its like "The Time of Your Life" or "The Greatest Show On Earth" or "The Coolest Blog Ever Located At www.chriskeefe.blogspot.com EVER!".

Including me in the phrasing is insulting. How do you know that this is the moment that I've been waiting for? MMA guys crushing each other's faces and nuts is cool...but the moment that I, personally, had been waiting for was that Keystone Light commercial where the short slacker dude offers to get the chips for the helpless hottie in the grocery store and he makes her hold his 30 pack of Key Light while he destroys the store with row-dominoes. That was the moment I had been waiting for, so don't assume anything about me.

Wait until the Olympics or the next election...or 2012. That's when this one will get bludgeoned. I want it replaced with:
"And now, the moment that some of you may have been waiting for...."

Accurate and trite, but not hyperbolic anymore.

2. "Oh well. It is what it is..."

Really, Aristotle? So you've solved the meaning of life, the space time continuum theory and explanation for Kim Kardashian's fame with one little convenient phrase? Lazy and underdeveloped.

Whenever you sit around with people you're afraid to challenge or don't know the mental capacity they have you tend to resort to this one...

Person: "Nice to meet ya. I see you drive a Jeep. I reckon you like to hunt and hate the President. Y'ever read the TARP act in full? Whaddya think about Harry Reid or the latest stimulus package? You got theories about the next season of Lost?"

You: "Well............It is what it is."

(Guns go off in the background)

Person: "YES!"

Grow a pair. Like or love something (yes this one hurts me) and choose a side. Don't cop out. To be sure, we can never use the commonplace way of describing a thousand baby seals being slaughtered by encroaching glaciers by writing it off with..."Well, it is what it is" ever again.

1. "When I was a kid....."

I swore as a kid I would never say this. Its just as dumb to equivocate 1976 with 2006 as it is to equivocate an Atari with a Wii...

(in a fat chinned, guttural-yet nasally voice with your lips stuck out like you never left the couch in high school and you're all pissed that you wasted EONS of cool gaming time on Pitfall)
"When I was a kid, we had Pong and Donkey Kong. That's it! And only three levels of DK. We got callouses from that joystick."
(Slobber comes out of your mouth as you remember how awesome Atari was, even though you have to feign hatred for your ungrateful offspring.)
"When, when (slurp) I was a kid we had to eat rocks and ride the Model T to school and there was no moon and toilet paper was made of leaves and there were no words.."

Just give it a rest you old bastard (and I'm self-referencing). Join the crowd. We get born, we get old and we get bitter. We watch technology and snowfall and social mores pass us by and we get angry. That's how it is, and nobody cares what it was like when you were a kid. Not even, in your heart of hearts, you.

So there you have it. Find some thing else to say during your next casual conversation.

Maybe you'll mean it when you say, "See you at another time I can't predict!"

The End of Tiger's Tale

Dear Jack Nicklaus,

Your record for most Major Championships won by a human being on the PGA tour is safe.

You can go on about your business; no need to tune in every Easter or Father's Day Sunday to check the leaderboard. Go ahead and mow the yard or play with the grandkids or build another golf course. Whatever you were doing with your spare time 15 years ago... go ahead and perfect that activity.

Sincerely,

TMZ

This is where the legend that was Tiger Woods comes to a halt. I don't believe that he'll win another Major. The Tiger is without teeth.

He has blood and he bleeds. He has emotions and they un-check. He has temptations and they groove. He makes mistakes; and instead of costing him a paycheck or a trophy, they might now cost him his marriage, idyllic status worldwide and the facade of respect he has been paid for the last 15 years. He's just like you and me, even though we never thought it possible.

I feel sorry for Tiger. Not because he got caught, and not because he did whatever he did and now the world wants into his ultra-private inner sanctum. I feel sorry for him because I warned him in 1998 about how this would go down if he didn't loosen up and he didn't listen.

Until now, the mention of his name would elicit one of the following thoughts in your head:

1) Amazing

2) Greatness

3) Rich

4)Powerful

5) Tenacious

6) The G.O.AT. (greatest of all time)

7) Unbelievable

8) Winner

9) And on and on and on and on and on

There were few amongst us-even the harshest media critics-who could find a flaw with El Tigre. He had a million dollar smile and physique, a billion dollar bank account and a trillion dollar inertia for greatness in the golf and post-golf world. His yacht is bigger and better than any Ward Parkway mansion. He can beat your club champion with a range ball, a 4-iron and a Jaegermeister hangover. If he doesn't play in a tournament, the unlucky network's ratings suck worse than a Browns-Chiefs Monday Night matchup.

I wrote a column for Kansas City Golf Magazine in 1998 that warned Tiger to chill out and take some time to normalize.I asked him to stick a frog in his pocket to remind himself he was still young; and for God's sake to stop throwing clubs lest he get a reputation as a spoiled rotten brat. "Be human", I said, "vulnerability is a strength." He didn't listen to me (though more often than not, he's been just peachy not to. After all, I've spent my time as a billboard for neurosis and epic failures.)

I feel sorry for Tiger the same way I do for Todd Marinovich, Ryan Leaf, Brian Bosworth and Tony Mandarich. Way too good to be true as advertised. Sid Finch was a hoax, but we bought it until April 2nd and then felt silly for taping the pictures of him on our wall.

I will not judge him for what he's done...but rather for what he didn't do. I always felt that the armor he put up to keep the image alive was too thick. I wish he would have read my column, because it was damn good and he might have just gone and screwed up a few times and had to apologize and learn from it. He should have roomed with John Daly for a season on the road just to feel what it was like to paint or drink yourself into a corner...only to realize that people get second (and third through fiftieth) chances to change, admit failures and move on. He should have taken a year off to travel to Prague and smoke fatties. He should have crashed that car 10 years ago.

I think this will be the end of Tiger's magnificent run. He is the G.O.A.T. and I will always believe that his talent would have been suficient for him to achieve all that he had sights to achieve. But the crowds are going to be ugly, the endorsements and adorers will begin to crumble; the failures on and off the course will be so much more vivid than his past achievements (if that is even possible) that I don't see a human being-with blood to bleed-having the emotional strength to endure what he has coming to him. I'm not saying he deserves it....but you make your bed and then you lie in it. To date, it seems he's made his bed from perfectly fluffy hundred dollar bills and Green Jackets. Now, it just looks like anybody else's Sealy. (Actually, he's probably got himself a nice spot on the couch...but I digress.)

Who will be cheering for him against Phil next year? Who won't be cracking infidelity jokes on late night about him for the next three years? Who will drop their endorsement first?

I forgive him already. He bled blood. I didn't think he could. He came clean. I didn't think he would. He screwed up and around and I believe he's in the same pool as most professional athletes and movie stars on that count. He will pay his pennance with Elin and his kids and family. He will bleed more in the next six months than in the 31 years he's been here. But you know, humans deal with this kind of shit everyday and they find a way through grace and character to manage their way through it.

I hope he has some of both stashed in his trophy case.

My Chance To Hang With The Jury

Let's see here...changing diapers. Kissing your 100 year-old aunt. Getting your oil changed. Standing in line at the DMV. Attending Christmas pageants. Purchasing (and selling) coffee, raffle tickets, garbage bags, flowers, wreaths, candy and cookies on behalf of children in your family and neighborhood. Wathcing Fox and Friends in the morning with your wife. The annual turn and cough grab. Jury duty.

All these things rank just below dental instrument jabs on the popular and world accepted list of Things You Feel Morally Or Legally Obliged To Do But Would Rather Be On Fire For Three Minutes And Have A Doctor's Excuse Note to get out of it list we all carry in our pockets.

I recently had the wonderful opportunity to serve jury duty. "Serve" is an excellent word for it. One might be inclined to say "attend" or "perform", but they would be innacurate. You "attend" a baseball game and can drink beer or eat a footlong, laugh, holler and leave whenever your team begins to stink. In KC, that moment comes whenever Zach Grienke is not physically touching the ball. You could "perform" a one man improvisational comedy routine at a local establishment to the joy and applause of everyone there and earn the adoration and fame that comes with such an act...If only you still had your chops from 20 years ago.

You "serve" jury duty. You start to involve the goverment, courts and bleach-wigged barristers in things and everything is about being served. You get "served" a subpeona. You "serve" jail time for holding a glass container outside a Mazatlan discotheque at 4:30 in the a.m. and you "serve" up a $20 bill and your more-worn-than-Wetteland Yankees cap to avoid "serving" more than that 3 hours of jail time in said Mexican holding cell. You "serve" your community after an MIP by cleaning trash near the highway from Laramie to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Most of the time, you've simply been "over-served" to begin with.

At jury duty, you get the chance to "serve" or be "served", as in, "You missed Jury Duty when we asked you to be there...Here's your fine and bench warrant. Ha! You got SERVED!"

Jury duty is awesome. There are many aspects of it that people who've never been part of it will really be jealous about missing. First, there's the unbelievable people-watching. You want to see a melting pot? It takes a village to raise a jury, and folks from every single solitary walk of life roll into that holding cell...err...waiting area for this pleasurable three hour staring contest. Some people realize they might know somebody and stare around the room for the three hours, praying their neighbor or local grocery store manager is there so they can go sit with them and bitch. Others stare at the ground or the back of their eyelids. More still create new "friends" and bitch about being there for three hours. That room should be called the Bitch Room.

Boredom reigns...until the movie starts. This is my second go round at JD since moving to KC. The last time, a weird woman who memorized her life for a living recited some important facts about completing our civic duty. This time, KC's finest celebrities made this awesome infommercial that really had me hooked. George Brett was the star. He wore some sweet khakis and deck shoes (no socks...totally laid-back-ready-to-head-to-the-golf-course-George look) with an equally awesome untucked Tommy Bahama number. Local news anchor Elizabeth "Probably Pretty Salty Twenty Years Ago" Alex was his co-host and the "serious" of the two. Throw in Charles Gusewelle and weatherman Bryan "Cleveland" Busby, and you had the veritable Who's Who of people that ought to make me love this civic duty of the KC scene. It was a good move on the part of Jackson County, but my gut tells me that George makes more money shooting 78 at Wolf Creek than he did for that three hour shoot, and was none to happy to "serve" his community by doing it.

Around 11:30 (or 3.5 hours of wishing I'd brought a book or could magically melt into the floor), 70 of the roughly 300 people in the pool were asked to scoot on upstairs to the courtroom for selection and assigned a number (yours truly at number 31). The other 230 people were sent home with their $6 check and a promise not to be bothered until 2012.

The next 18 hours until I left were a blur. Both sides of the case asked questions of the "panel" to try to vet the best 14 for their purposes. The closest I've ever come to being on a "panel" before was in 1988 when I went down the stairs of the Sigma Nu house on skis and embraced the wood paneling on the other side of the room. I was only on that panel for a very brief time before retreating to become part of the floor for the rest of the evening.

The very best part of the panel vetting and jury selection comes in the form of "That Guy" who really doesn't want to be part of this jury. You know the guy...

He's the same guy that is so insolent and bold that he's been slapped by hundreds more women than he's ever dated, and he still thinks that 15 year old pick up line is going to work. He's the same guy that fights his Grandpa and insists that he was defending himself. He's that guy you want to punch in the face just to hear the rest of the panel stand up and scream, clapping wildly as they put you on their shoulders and carry you out of the courthouse (the judge and lawyers are cheering just as hard).

In our case, "That Guy" was really on his game.

Prosecuting Attorney- "Raise your hand if you're simply too bigoted and backwards to trust that Police have sworn to take an oath to tell the truth, and that the presence of a Policeman on the witness stand will not cause you to hate the defense."

That Guy: (Hand flies up faster than Usain Bolt's feet) "Oooh!! Oooh!! Meeee! Meee! I hate cops, Man, hate em."

Prosecuting Attorney: "Duly noted." (Scratches something on a notepad)

Defense Attorney: (Under his breath and with great joy) "I've gotta have this guy..."

But it gets better.

Defense Attorney: "Does anyone in the courtroom, just by looking at the defendant here, at his skin color or appearance, feel that they cannot be fair and impartial and uphold your sworn oath to find the defendant INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY? Anybody?

That Guy: (In his best Horseshack immitation) "Ooohh!!!! Ooooh!! Me, me!!!! I mean look at him, man. He looks so, well, mean and horrible and not white! Guilty! I hate that guy already!"

"That Guy" deserved 69 knuckle sandwiches.

He and I are not serving on the actual jury this week, and for that I am extremely grateful. We were both excused; me with my dignity and he having been forced to sit through the same amount of waiting as the rest of us. His dream of being tossed early for blatant idiocy was never granted by the Judge, who I presume has seen enough "That Guy's" in his day to enjoy watching them have to sweat it out even after making 69 enemies for two days.

My sincere hope is that That Guy does something stupid or gets sued about three years from now and the judge calls a special panel of the "November 69" (as the rest of us that had to put up with him have come to be known) and we get the chance to "serve" at his trial. He will be served well-done.

A Most "Nobel" Effort

I'm rarely critical of politicians. Check my record. I love them all and hate them all equally.

I despise their power. I am entranced by their worthiness or lack thereof. I am horrified by their politics. I am begging for normalcy in a vacuum designed to leak.

Somehow (maybe its my issue and not theirs) I'm drawn to talking about them. I guess in a vacuum, you need dirt. And in a bag of dirt, you need a cleansing agent or a filter. Otherwise, all you have is a bag of dirt.

Let me once again opine about the current topic of the day, which happens to involve our (seemingly) unlucky at-least-in-this-case-44Th Commander in Chief.

I don't apologize for people I've never met. I've never met our President. By the transitive property (my favorite property in mathematics aside from a little known lemma entitled "The Florence Lemma: A study of 'The Florence Lemma'...by Florence Lemma") I cannot apologize for Obama's actions, principles, legislation, ideals, hairstyles, choice in dog or massively unexpected wins in World Peace Medal competitions. Had I known, by the way, that winning the Nobel Prize for whichever selected category carried $1,400,000 clams as a "bonus" to actually hoisting the medal with Alfred's golden noggin forged into it, I can promise that I damn sure would have tried harder to bring peace to the world than I already have.

Things I've done to bring peace to the world:

-I changed a flat tire for a MAN in the parking lot of the Credit Union where I work. (Note: I didn't do this. Someone I work with did. I didn't fire him for wasting time on the job so that gets me big points.)

-I stopped a fight between my dog and the substitute Mailman she was attacking a couple of months ago. By all accounts he was just doing his job. Of course, if my dog could talk we would have the whole story and I'm sure he teased her or something devious. Either way, I stopped it and that's all that matters.

-I bargained with a would-be swindler at my local Farmer's Market over a loaf of bread she supposedly "hand-baked" and eventually got her to give it to me for free since the market was closed and she was tired of arguing with me. Don't give me that "hand-baked" crap you swindler... Everyone knows that bread grows out of the ground like pumpkins and pineapple and bacon.

Now, my credentials are pretty sweet and it would be hard for most of you to put up a resume that would rival it if we were both to enter the Nobel Peace Prize Contest officially at the committee website (http://www.gimmethepeaceprize.com/).

As it turns out, you don't even have to own a computer (much less register for the drawing) in order to win the sweepstakes.

Ponder this if you will, and bear in mind that I've asked this question in mixed company a couple of times with the expected mixed results..."Who do you think got second place behind Obama?"

Crickets covering the mouth of their young under a 50 lb. bag of flour in your basement couldn't describe the silence that question provokes. And you know why?

Because this is the first time in the recent history of the Nobel Peace Prize Sweepstakes that anybody ever really cared who won. Because it's polarizing. Because it's "news".

Who won the Super Bowl in 1997 and 1998?

-The Denver Broncos

Who leads the AFC West this year at 5-0 despite being predicted by lukewarm fans to finish 2-14?

-The Denver Broncos

Who played Mark Ratner in Fast Times at Ridgemont High?

-Brian Backer

See? You went 3 for 3 on that quiz and it still doesn't make sense. So why exactly is it that you can't even name another plausible candidate for Runner-Up at this year's Nobel Super Sweepstakes? I know you're scouring your brain for a name, so let me give you a couple that I suspect might have been close to the prize that Obama claimed by virtue of their contributions to World Peace last year...

-Me (the dog thing is pretty compelling)

-Kate Gosselin's Lawyer

-The Actress Who Played Ahmadinejad's Wife on SNL last week

Okay, we all got second.

Even Tucker Carlson was quoted as saying that this prize was the last thing BHO could have possibly wanted...the bar just got raised for him right beyond the area where NASA shot the moon with rockets...to search for water...on the moon.

Why aren't we criticizing this move? Shooting a rocket at the moon? What if we blew it up? What if the moon fired back at us?

I might dedicate the next 11 months to brokering a peace treaty between the Earth and the good people of the Moon. Not in the hopes of winning the 2010 Nobel Rock Star Prize, of course, but because I'm genetically engineered to solve problems for the most altruistic reasons. Plus, if the people of the Moon do have this water we're searching for, they're going to be way more likely to allow me to have exclusive rights to bottle and distribute it here on Earth.

Everyone wins. That's how you make peace.

Sad Day for The U.S and A.

I can't toss a picture up here per normal rules of the self-governing blog today. It was a toss up for a Google search between "Wide-Eyed School Child Watching A Presidential Speech" and "Disgusting Lack of Focus On Behalf of Normally Respectful Patriots"...neither returned the requsite emotions for the way I feel today.

I'm sad. I'm not a Liberal. I'm not a Conservative.

I'm a forty year old Conservabal Liberative.

I am a hearty fence-rider in most cases, struggling to balance myself between foolish obligation to any political or moral force that I may one day regret. I piss people off some times, appearing unwilling to choose a side and rolling around in the middle ground that is simultaneously created by and despised by polarity that we call the "Democratic Idealogy".

Conservatives spit at Liberals...Liberals spit at Conservatives. Whatever doesn't hit one side in the face falls into the middle, and I make it my politics by sifting through the mud in the middle to find some rational understanding of the human heart and brain. Most of the time, I find solace in the middle. I can rationalize and empathize with the greatest rationalizers and empathizers in history...Most notably musicians, poets, comedians and huggers (not trees, but huggy people).

That being said, it's much easier being me to simply stay away from politics and talk about anything else. Alas, today, I am just too sad.

My middle of the road mindset finds time for Bill Maher, Bill O'Reilly, Bill Clinton, Bill Gates, Billy Bragg, Billy Carter, Billy Graham, Bill Bradley, Bilbo Baggins and Bill Hader. My middle of the road brain cannot find time to listen to Bill "Hater"...the everyman quoted in blogs, headlines, reports and TV shows all week denouncing a speech designed to rally the kids of America to stay in School and delivered by the President of the United States.

I'm sad on two levels.

Level one:
The President wrote (or had his writers write) a speech designed, at least in theory, to inspire kids to set goals, work hard, and stay in school. He implored them to be respectful of and listen to teachers and to never give up on themselves. He asked that schools allow students to hear his message.

I don't have to tell you how schools and parents obliged.

I read it. I watched it. It was a good speech. It was the President of our country talking to my kids with the notion of leaving a lasting memory for them.

My kids did not hear it. No choice in that matter. I'll show it to them, so it's no big deal. Kinda pissed about that having to be an issue, but I'll survive.

Level Two:
This country is so self-absorbed that we have completely forgotten to wade into the spit filled middle of every battle to find common ground. Our President delivered a speech to kids and the freaking ALARM went off. I won't even say the following words to describe the public outcry that led to the banning of this speech to school kids. I want to, but I won't mention these words:

short-sighted
trigger-happy
ridiculous
wasteful
cold
internet driven-garbage

It's really sad. I won't waddle to one side of the fence to defend anybody's actions over the past week, but it's tempting.

Days like today, I hate the viral Internet. I wish that the speech would have shown up in every classroom as a matter of fact...not a prejudicial and political tug of war. I cannot imagine jerking my kid out of class for any speech delivered by any sitting President since I've been alive.


That's why this overly-saturated, Internet-fueled ignorance and fuedalism must be stopped. Please come visit my Internet Blog again soon to find out the answer to how we take it down and get our sense of national pride back without tearing each other down to do it.

(Note: Ironical statement noted.)

Has the jury reached a verdict?

I love dogs.
When I was young, I had two dogs. Patches, a black lab mix and Muffin, a total mutt in every sense of the word. They lived like king and queen in our house, surrounded by love and attention, fed like army troops at precisely three intervals per day. They escaped our capture only long enough to chase squirrels and be returned by some other, equally dog-loving neighbor.
They both died of old age, but they appear in many family pictures, stories and memories.

I (my wife) got a dog of my own (hers) shortly after first getting married. She was a mean but sweet looking little Shar Pei, and we neamed her Emma. She was gentle and sweet to us...but not so much to every other oxygen breather. She lived a good ten years and enjoyed all the comforts a broke pair of newlyweds could offer.

I now have two rescued dogs...Trotter and Bessie. Both crazy, both requiring more excersise and attention than an entire herd of cattle could possibly provide, but ostensibly loved and cared for day in and out.

I love dogs. And that is why it seems weird for me to author this blog.

Here it goes...

Dear Michael Vick:

You were cruel, inhuman and despicable. You killed dogs for a profit. And as Green Day puts it so artfully in their new album, "You are forgiven".

Get the hell out there and prove me right.

Please, sign a medium sized contract to play the slash positon, back up a pocket passer, run the wildcat and get paid for a while. Learn how to be a man from the dirt floor up. Endure the humiliation and learn of humility. Trade in your crew for your family.

Get a couple of interviews under your belt. Tell people your story. Write a book. Get a new contract with someone willing to pay you for your heartfelt honesty. Capitalize, man! You're going to need money for the next part...

Save all that money for your kids and for their kids. Teach them something everyday. Become a spokesperson for the ASPCA, PETA, or the Humane Society. You may have to ask them first, and you may have to ask more than once. You likely will need to be sincere. Learn sincerity from your new friend, humility. They rarely are not in the same room.

Condemn your past affection for gambling on the outcome of a dog fight. Adopt, feed and raise ten dogs with the watchful eye of the media scrutinizing everything, from how hard you pet them to whether their brand of dog food is substandard. Endure the minutae of scrutiny that accompanies any famous footprints.

Appear on The Dog Whisperer and learn from goofy genius Cesar Milan as he shows you the power of the pack and the trust a dog can have for you if you show trust in him. Mostly, learn how to trust in yourself. Ultimately, Mike, a low self esteem can drive a man to kick a dog, both figuratively and literally. Believe what you're going through is worth it.

Visit the shelters in the city that pays you to come play there. Do all this with happiness in your heart! Miss practice because you got too wrapped up in it. Mean it when you tell the local beat writers and pundits that you have changed...

Convince other dog fighting rings to shut down. Crusade against it like the battlers of Whale Wars! Start a non-profit that saves old fighting dogs, and believe it when you tell ESPN that you really have changed. Endure the lonely nights cruising message boards, staring at the hurtful and unrelenting world that judges you and calls bullshit. When they spit at you and call you a fake and a phony and a thug...Go hug your dog for comfort. Feel it in his beating heart, the love and adoration that accompanies true unrequited love and trust. Know then, that your heart is pure, and that any message board is unworthy of your fear and depression. You have to earn both the hatred and the love.

Retire from football, and continue your pursuit at making your second chance the thing that defines you...your present will be your legacy despite your past.

You have a short leash Mike...just enough with which to hang yourself or to build an unsteady bridge.

It's your turn to learn a new trick.