My Prosopopoeia

Time out for the publically pius

2009-02-26T11:27:00.000-08:00

Have you noticed the latest “in” thing to ask for when saying a public prayer?

People who know me know that I am fundamentally opposed to public prayer. I think most of it is contrived, and although not necessarily insincere, I think people tend to say what they feel they are expected to say in a public prayer, therefore, rendering it less like a prayer and more like a public performance. Can you say Pharisee? Like it or not, time set aside for pontifical petitioning is a part of our social structure in the Bible Belt. This has led to a phenomenon in recent years in which people offering public prayers continue to ask God for “traveling mercies” and a “hedge of protection.”

While I’m sure people are modestly sincere in their requests, I often wonder if they can truly define what they are asking for with the phrases “traveling mercies” and “hedges of protection?” When you ask for “traveling mercies,” what does that mean? Is God supposed to feel sorry for those who are traveling? Is He supposed to set up discount gas stations along the way because the price of fuel is too financially demanding? If we knowingly and willingly run over Bambi and eight pedestrians while making our cross country trek is God supposed to turn a blind eye and say it doesn’t matter because we were “making good time?” Or perhaps “traveling mercies” refer to the suspension of bladder function among toddlers and the elderly because it is too time consuming to have to stop every couple of hours in order to relieve urinary pressure.

Then there is the ever popular “hedge of protection.” I’m not sure who was the first to turn this phrase, but I bet they are mighty proud. I also bet they have no clue as to what they were asking for or praying about when they stumbled upon this literary masterpiece and coined a religious phrase that has embedded itself in the culture of the publicly pious all across the land.

My question, however, is, why a “hedge?” If this is supposed to be the immensely defiant bulwark capable of staving off the onslaught of hell’s immortals, then why don’t you ask for a structure that cannot be penetrated with something as simple as a bad attitude and pinking sheers. I want a by God “6-foot-thick-stone-wall-surrounded-by-moat-in-a-hermetically-sealed-dome” of protection. A hedge … puh-leeze!

Needless to say, I have a hard time bowing my head and closing my eyes during public prayers. Have you ever tried to roll your eyes when they are closed? It’s not that easy. I try not to make a big scene, but if you watch closely, you will probably notice a quaint look of exasperation drift across my countenance. Admittedly, it's not the best Christian witness to be openly and sarcastically anti-social during such times of quiet introspection … but then again, maybe God will see fit to raise a “hedge of concealment” around my poor behavior. Then, perhaps I will feel free to open myself to God and truly speak with and listen to Him without the need for an audible “Amen” before the coin toss.

Living Undecidedly

2008-10-06T18:16:00.001-07:00

Aaaargghhh!

Does anyone have any real idea who to vote for in the upcoming presidential election? I have been watching and reading as much as I possibly can, and I'm still undecided. I've never been undecided this late in an election process. But there are certain factors that are influencing my decision.

First, I think the Republicans are both one-trick ponies. Palin took on the oil companies in Alaska and McCain is a "war hero." I'm not knocking McCain's accomplishments and I deeply appreciate those people who put their lives on the line in our armed forces, but just because you are a member of the military does not make you a "hero." I will keep the rest of my opinions on the subject to myself because I do not want the two people who actually read this blog to get upset and start sending out the Office of Homeland Security labeling me as an insurgent of some sort.

On the other hand, the democrats are smoke and mirrors. What have they done? Have they done anything? I think the real wild card in my decision-making process is Biden. It's obvious, after watching the VP debate, that he is much more polished than his counterpart. Like others, I really liked the idea of Palin when the Republicans announced their selection. But the more she speaks, the more I realize she doesn't really understand. Obama may be as inexperienced, or more so, as she, but he at least comes across as knowledgeable and intelligent when he speaks.

Then there are the issues. McCain is all about the war effort in Iraq. That's all his campaign talks about ... war, war, war, war, war ... did you know he was a "war hero?" It makes me wonder how quickly he would attack a middle eastern country if he had an itchy trigger finger. For some reason I think Obama's idea of talking to people might just work after what we've gotten ourselves into in the last eight years. Obama, on the other hand, sometimes comes across as too weak on foreign policy issues.

On education, I like Obama's stance on K-12 public education, but I like McCain's ideas on higher education. As an employee of a private institution of higher learning, I think Obama's ideas would be dangerous to private schools.

I lean toward Obama on the tax plans. Call me weird, but I don't think more tax breaks are what our country needs right now. In fact, I think we need to be paying more taxes. Everyone wants to benefit from the services that government offers, but nobody is willing to pay for it. What we really need is to reform the tax system. It's not fair that people who don't even qualify to pay taxes still receive tax returns and "economic stimulous" checks. Which just for the record, I think the economic stimulous refund that we all received recently was one of the dumbest things of which I had ever heard.

Then there is just the personal enjoyment in making Hillary Clinton squirm. I would vote for Palin just to tick Hillary off because she would not be the first woman in the White House, but I would vote for Obama just to keep Hillary out of the White House for at least 8 years, and possibly as many as 16 if Biden were to run after Obama's tenure.

Oh well, I guess I'll watch another debate and maybe then I will make up my mind.

Que Sera

2008-07-30T07:56:00.000-07:00

So … I haven’t written anything in a while.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve been writing a lot lately, just nothing to be posted here. I am currently writing the text for a history/coffee table book to coincide with our university’s centennial celebration that begins Aug. 31. The book won’t be done by then, but if we can get it out in October I will be extremely happy.

I haven’t had a whole lot to write about lately but there has been some interesting activities. My daughter’s softball season wrapped up recently. If you recall, my bro-in-law and I ended up pretty much running the board that directed the league. Things ran fairly smoothly. We had a little dust-up toward the end that could have blown way out of proportion, but we settled it among the board without too much collateral damage. All it took was a strongly worded email to board members, one of whom was the cause of the contention, in which I forcefully stated that nit-picking the rules will not be tolerated, especially by board members. I may have accused someone of being “thick-skulled” and not understanding the point of what we were trying to accomplish … and I may have used some “colorful adjectives” in one or two places … no more than two. I think there are generally far better and more sadistic ways to state things than by drawing from the FCC’s list of improper terms. However, some people never get it and one must resort to the basest level of interpersonal communication to finally relay the message. I think I made my point because the subject was dropped and I haven’t heard from the complaining party since.

We had been expecting to have trouble from this person all season long and treated him with kid gloves and tried to bring him along nicely. He did pretty good for the most part, but just couldn't keep from reverting to his self-destructive pattern of behavior that has subsequently resulted in banishment from nearly every youth sports league in the county. I think we were the last, and there’s a good chance he won’t be associated with us next year.

After many failed attempts at explaining things in a civilized manner, I think I finally spelled it out in language he could understand. The phrase “immature bickering” might have been a little hard to grasp, but I'm pretty sure he got the point behind “seriously pissed-off redhead.”

Sometimes ya just gotta do what ya gotta do.

Natural Disaster Day

2008-06-27T11:29:00.000-07:00

You can always count on the television media for a good chuckle. Whether they are grossly oversensationalizing a story or just plain screwing everything up, they tend to regularly step in one mess after another.

This being said, as I was at home for lunch today I was watching one of the news channels. They were so interested in covering events that they had a split screen. Not just two events being televised at the same time, but four.

As I sat watching I turned to my wife and asked if this was one of the signs of the apocalypse. It must have been natural disaster day for divided among the four screens were raging wildfires, tornadoes, flooding and Obama and Clinton campaigning for the presidency.

… by the way, if you haven’t noticed the size of Hillary’s head (literal not figurative) look at her next time she is standing next to Obama. Her head is twice as big as his.

When Office Politics Fail

2008-06-18T09:02:00.000-07:00

Don’t you just love office politics? Those annoying little things that just get under your skin. Thinking one thing while expressing another in order to accomplish your goals. The only thing worse is when you have to play politics with people who micromanage and don’t let anyone under their command actually be involved in any of the decision making process. All decisions on all matters must cross a singular desk where they bottleneck and start backing up and affecting all maters material to that division as well as some that aren’t … in other words, everybody in the organization starts to get a little irritated with said division that can’t seem to accomplish anything because everything comes to a screeching halt due to egotism and micromanagement.

That being said, I generally try to refrain from writing things on here that could inevitably get me in trouble, but this time I am making an exception because I really don’t care if I get called on the carpet on this matter. I’m willing to share my opinion and take my punishment if necessary.

Each fall at our small, faith-based university we have a new student orientation weekend named with a Greek term meaning "fellowship." The last few years the person in charge of this weekend, whose office just happens to fall under a major micromanager, has been polling the students to get a better feel for what could be done to improve the event which officially opens each new school year. The main knock on the orientation is that it feels too much like church camp. Needless to say, the school’s response is to try to make it feel more “collegiate” and less “churchy.”

This August marks the beginning of our centennial year and the person who is presumably in charge of student orientation petitioned the faculty and staff for theme ideas to tie into the school’s history. Our original school mascot was the Jackrabbit. It was changed in the late 1940s to the current nickname. We really have no curent mascot to use with our nickname because no one can tell you exactly what a Pioneer is supposed to look like. Just ask Utica College in New York. To make a long story short, I submitted the theme idea, “Embrace Your Haretage!” with a big picture of a jackrabbit … and yes I misspelled “heritage” on purpose. We had ideas of t-shirts with the theme and logo printed on them going to every new student and faculty or staff member that wanted one. There are so many things we could do with the jackrabbit to benefit the school in the public eye, and seeing as how I am in the Public Relations Office, we have discussed these ideas at length. A few years ago, our office passed out jackrabbit t-shirts during homecoming and the students and alumni loved them. They were asking for more.

When this idea was passed on for an informal vote among faculty and staff, the majority loved it. Then it went to the administrator’s desk. Needless to say the idea ran head first into a brick wall that remains consistently closed to differing opinions. The only opinions that matter are the ones that generate from within the wall. None of the “senseless graffiti” that splashes up on the outside of the wall will ever seep through.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t want this to sound like sour grapes because someone “poo-pooed” in my potty. I couldn't care less who comes up with the idea as long as it is something students will accpet and enjoy. I even pointed out that the idea would work without the Jackrabbit just in case said administrator (who actually likes the jackrabbit … or so I’ve been told) thinks we are pushing to change the school mascot. Just use the theme “Embrace Your Heritage” and tie into the school’s history in any number of ways.

But as we all know, rabbits don’t fly.

Anyway, once the idea was officially shot down we were suddenly without a theme for our student orientation, and the deadline for getting material printed on time was quickly passing. So the great wall opened up and brought forth a new “collegiate” theme for our centennial student orientation weekend………. “Celebrate a Century of Fellowship.”

“… And may God bless us, everyone. Don’t forget to save your nickels and pennies for the foreign missionaries. Now boys and girls lets huddle together and sing “Come by Here” and don’t forget to be in bed with lights out by 8 o’clock … we have a big day tomorrow.”

Hey batter, batter ...

2008-06-10T08:19:00.000-07:00

Kids.
Not a big fan of kids. I don’t really know why. It is probably because I am not allowed to beat other people’s children … or other children’s people for that matter. But still, being around too many kids makes me somewhat uncomfortable. I’m also rather over protective so therefore I feel like I have to be on the watch for anything and everything that could possibly harm whatever kid is in the area. This, to me, is rather tiring.

I know I’ve broached this subject before on this blog, but it comes up every year at about this time. While I don’t generally enjoy being around groups of children, especially at church functions where you are expected to treat every hellion as though it were an angel of mercy sent forth from the Almighty, I inevitably end up coaching girls’ summer-league softball. The last two years I have helped my brother-in-law coach his daughter’s team. This year, however, my child finally decided she wanted to play, so I am coaching her team.

My daughter is one of the oldest on her team. She plays in the 5-7 year-old league since she was 7 on Dec. 31. She is 8 now and is one of two 8-year-olds on the team. The other is a friend of hers who played last year and played pretty well. They both could have played up to the 8-10 year-old league and would have been successful at that level, but since this is my daughter’s first year, I thought I would keep her with the younger kids until she kind of learned the ropes. Her friend, therefore, decided to stay in the younger league as well.

Altogether, there are 10 girls on the team. They range from the quiet and shy 5-year-olds to the boisterous and out-spoken 8-year-old who is not my daughter. But they are all good kids. And like any kid they are seeking approval for their accomplishments from caring adults. Yet at this very impressionable age, you can already pick out the girls that are going to have trouble as they continue to grow.

I’m pretty lucky with this group really, we have several kids who seem to come from good, solid, two-parent homes. The parents love and encourage them and are willing to participate in their activities. Then there are others. One really cute little girl has a chance to grow up to be a good kid, but something is going to have to change or she will slip through society’s cracks and become another statistic. In an early practice I was talking to the girls about having their mother, father or older sibling just play catch with them so they can work on their hand-eye coordination and just get used to catching the ball.
“My daddy’s in jail,” this girl said. Then with a big grin on her face she added, “but he gets to come home in January.”

How do you respond to that? I said the only thing that came to mind … well, not the only thing, but the only thing that is appropriate to say to a 6-year-old … “Well, tell him he better stay out of jail because you need somebody to play catch with.”

Another girl comes from a broken home with a mother, father, step-father and who knows who else in the equation. She has a lot of talent and potential, but those involved in her life seem to be a little overbearing. Apparently she can never do anything good enough. They always expect her to do something more. She will do exactly what I ask her to do and then have to answer to her parental figures about why she didn’t do that one extra thing. We’ve played two games so far and this has had her nearly in tears at both games.

While working at a newspaper, I saw this parental behavior manifest itself in a high school basketball player. The girl’s parents sat at opposite ends of the gymnasium and continuously yelled at her throughout the game, no matter what end of the floor she was on. And I’m not talking about encouraging, well-wishes. The parents would joke about not being able to sit together because the other one yelled too loudly. You could tell that it really bothered the girl not to be able to perform to her parent’s improbable expectations. It didn’t help that she came from a very successful athletic family with an older sister who was bigger, stronger and more athletically gifted. And while this young lady was an excellent player, she would fold under the pressure of big games. You could see her physically become overwhelmed even though there was no need. There is no doubt in my mind this was due to her parents’ behavior. She was a very nice kid, but always seemed somewhat melancholy around adults who came to the practices or games … that is, until you paid her a compliment. I’ve never seen a kid’s demeanor change so much with one simple compliment than I did with her. She went form a kind of head-down approach to things, to looking up with bright eyes and big smile when I would speak to her.

My point, I guess, is that 5-7 year-old, summer-league, recreational softball can be an interesting study in child psychology ... and it’s probably not the most appropriate place for parents to expect their child to manifest herself as the next Cat Osterman or Jennie Finch. However, practices that begin at this early age can definitely carry over to detrimental behavior in later stages of life.

I just hope I don’t end up sending my child to year’s of therapy – not for softball related issues anyway.

Demopublicanism

2008-05-27T14:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve had some interesting conversations lately. As our country tries to decide which person will be the best leader for the next four years, I find it interesting to get the take of people who aren’t from our country. Working at an institution of higher learning, I am privy to many international students.

I have spoken with three international students lately on the subject of who they would vote for if they were allowed to vote in our elections. They are a male Venezuelan, male South African and female Latvian. Granted I only got three responses, but the responses were quite interesting.

The Venezuelan simply said, “Anybody but Chavez” … in reference to his country’s political climate. Apparently the constituents don’t really like the regime in charge.

The other two, whom I asked on different days in different places with them nowhere near each other both said: “I definitely would not vote for Hillary.” Their reason was the same also. Neither one of them think she is trustworthy.

I have to admit, this is exactly the way I feel about Mrs. Ex-president, but it was really interesting to hear that from a couple of International students around 21 and 22 years old.

… and for the record, to all those weirdos who are clamoring for an Obama/Clinton ticket, do you really think that Clinton would ever accept the position as vice president? She would do everything in her power to be the main figurehead and would probably do whatever she could to alienate Obama within the party and to sabotage him at every turn in order to advance her own political agenda. She has no desire to be vice president. She has already been vice president. And she is way too narcissistic to accept second-place to a junior senator.

Random thoughts

2008-05-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

Just some random thoughts …

 I was on the treadmill the other day. I finished my morning jog to Building 429’s Carry Me. A few days later as I pushed a little harder, I completed the time to the Wings classic Live and Let Die. I’m starting to wonder about the choice of music on my mp3 player.

 Jimmy Dean gave our school $1 million dollars a few weeks ago.

 Yes, that Jimmy Dean.

 I went to the store the other day and bought sausage. I bought Jimmy Dean sausage. Thought it was the least I could do.

 It’s youth softball season. I don’t know why I put myself through this every year. I would much rather spend my evenings being lazy.

 My socks are too small. Why do they come in sizes 6-12? That’s a huge difference. But what do you do if you have size 12 feet? The next size up is 13-sasquatch. Do you want your socks too small or too large?

 Our softball team is the Jackrabbits. It’s a cool mascot. I’m trying to get all the college kids excited about using the jackrabbit as our unofficial school mascot.

 We don’t really have a mascot. We have a couple of nicknames for our women’s and men’s athletic programs, but no mascot.

 It's rained here the last two weeks. I like rain. Except that it makes my grass and weeds grow and now I have to mow the lawn. Oh well, I still like the rain.

Second-grade Worries

2008-04-25T06:25:00.000-07:00

I have to brag on my daughter a little bit. Closing out her year in second grade, she has significantly surpassed her reading goals and is starting to devour words at a prolific rate. This morning was no different.

As I was in the kitchen downing my morning regimen of medication, my young daughter was making her lunch in preparation for school when she offered, “Dada. I’m not going to have heart disease.”

“Really,” I say. “Why not?”

“Because I eat Cheerios and it says right here, (pointing to the box that was still on the table) ‘Proven to reduce cholesterol and the risk of heart disease.’”

Next step ... Med school.

Get Expelled

2008-04-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

Check this out ...

GetEXPELLED.com - a resource website for EXPELLED the movie - in theaters 2008

I Are Educated

2008-04-15T07:19:00.000-07:00

Talk to anyone who knows about global education and they will tell you that the US is lagging behind other progressive countries. It’s not that we are dumber than the rest of the world … well, yeah, maybe it is. I would say, however, that our smartest and most gifted are just as smart and gifted as everyone else’s smartest and most gifted, but we have fewer smarts and giftedness to go around. Call it what you will, we just don’t put a premium on education in this country.

Working in higher education, however, you like to think that most people have a general grasp of basic core knowledge. After all, everyone you deal with has a minimum of a high school diploma and has managed to score moderately well on the college entrance exams. Yet oustide these hallowed walls of higher learning there are still those who lack basic fundamental skills … such as simple, single-digit addition.

Case in point: My brother-in-law and I, along with a few other guys, have taken over the Optimist Club Softball program that gives girls ages 5-16 the chance to play summer league softball. The program was in shambles and was about to fold so he and I, mostly he, joined the Optimist Club with the express intent of taking over the program. So far, things have run pretty smoothly. We will have four leagues for girls ages 5-7, 8-10, 11-13 and 14-16. Take special note of those age divisions: 5-7, 8-10, 11-13, and 14-16.

We are currently in the process of registering for the upcoming 2008 season which takes place in June. Girls register for leagues according to their age on Dec. 31, 2007. This is plainly stated on all material that has been sent out concerning registration.

Yesterday I received a question via email concerning registration. The email read, “If my child is 6yrs old and her birthday is in August, will she be put in the 5-7 yrs old catagory [sic] or bumped up to the 8-10 yrs old catagory [sic]?”

And we wonder why all the good jobs are going overseas.

We've come a long way

2008-04-02T14:24:00.000-07:00

In the ongoing saga of realizing ones mortality and the rate at which each individual ages, I must say that I had yet another revelation. This revelation being that one should take things at a more moderate pace once one is no longer immortal.

I’m not real sure what happened, but it involved an incessant stubbornness toward pushing oneself and the unrelenting, sadism of the modern-day treadmill. Needless to say, my left leg feels like it is going to detach at the hip and walking may no longer be an optional mode of transportation. But before you call me old, why don’t you get on a treadmill and push out 2 ½ miles in 30 minutes or less. It's not record pace, but it's pretty good for someone who is not used to doing that sort of thing.

Anyway, for the real reason of today’s post, I thought you might enjoy reading excerpts from the 1950-51 student handbooks at our small, faith-based university. In the pre-Cleaver era of homemaking and social norms, our fine, pioneering institution published separate handbooks for men and women. Needless to say, the women’s handbook was twice as long and dealt much more with personal appearance and behavior. The men’s handbook had smaller words and more pictures.

Under the heading “Wayland women and their dates,” the first paragraphs read, “Residents of dormitories must be properly introduced to their escort and their escort introduced to the (dorm) Counselor before dating. Each new escort must be introduced to the Counselor. Escorts will call for the residents at the dormitory. There will be no meeting elsewhere.” A few paragraphs later, “When cars are used for dating they are to be used only as transportation to and from the points of destination.”

There is no heading in the men’s handbook about, “Wayland men and their dates.”

And how about “Wayland women and the Lord’s day?”

“Worship in the Lord’s House on the Lord’s Day will help fortify, strengthen, and give wisdom to meet the challenge of each week. Residents will faithfully attend the church of their choice. Wayland women are appropriately attired for church attendance when they wear their ‘best dress’ or suit, with hose, gloves and hat. They are on their best behavior when they refrain from chewing gum, from unnecessary chatter, and when they contribute, individually, in every way to the worshipful atmosphere within the Lord’s House.”

Nothin’ about going to church in the men’s handbook.

“Wayland women and their dress”

“Residents are expected to dress modestly and neatly at all times, and appropriately for all occasions. Shorts are not allowed at any time inside or outside the dormitories. … Slacks and blue jeans are worn only on certain occasions and then by special permission of the Dean of Students. … Residents will not leave the dormitory with their hair rolled up. … Be alert to the styles of the moment as long as they are those becoming a Christian young woman. Watch your color combinations. Dress with taste and originality.”

You guessed it, nothing in the men’s book about how to dress.

Then we have the “Personal pointers for Wayland women.” I have just chosen some to give you an idea of what is included.
11. Be attractive! Cleanliness, good posture, appropriate dress and refinement are all a part of good grooming. (We all like our women to be well groomed.)
12. Refinement has no place for the boisterous and uncouth, or the blasé. (Can't stand those blase and uncouth chicks.)
13. Chew gum in private only. (But smoke, drink and prostitute yourself in public)
15. Familiarity shows lack of proper discretion and is out of place on Wayland campus. (I'm not real sure what they mean by this ... and I'm kind of afraid to ask.)

And, of course, there are no personal pointers in the men’s handbook.

But, I guess that’s not too bad for a school that in its formative years boasted in its promotional literature that “the town has no nightclubs and no negroes.”

Who says change is bad?

Gaming with grace

2008-02-19T13:31:00.000-08:00

My sister told me the other day that I’m getting old. She always says that. Of course, she is nearly two years older than I am, so what does that make her … obsolete?

The latest episode that brought this on is admittedly a sign of aging, however, and is somewhat embarrassing. Not embarrassing in the sense that I suddenly discovered the need for adult diapers while giving an address to a crowded room at a donor banquet, but still embarrassing by other lesser standards.

It seems as though a certain affinity for video games has followed me into my adult years. And so, a couple of years ago, my wife bought me a Playstation 2 for my birthday. I bought a few games that I enjoyed messing around with … a couple of auto racing games, golf and things like that. But I decided recently that I wanted a good “butt-kicking” game. So with a gift card I received for Christmas, I purchased a Star Wars game. It’s pretty cool … or so I think although I haven’t yet gotten past the training portion of the game. You can play as certain battle soldiers or Jedi masters.

However, the graphics are designed as such that you have to run all over the place looking around you in every direction. The reason I haven’t surpassed the training stage just yet and the cause of my sister’s accusation is that the constant movement gives me motion sickness.

I can’t play the game for very long without feeling queasy and unwell. And for some reason my sister says that means I’m old.

… I’ll bet she wouldn’t say that if she could see me playing my video games while sitting entirely too close to the TV in my wife's small antique rocking chair.

Random stuff

2008-02-05T14:53:00.000-08:00

• I haven’t blogged much lately. Been quite busy what with work and classes and basketball games and stuff.

• Not sure who I’m gonna vote for. I kinda like Huckabee, but his tax plan is a joke and he won’t get the nomination anyway. I don’t think Clinton can win a general election.

• We’ve basically had two families controlling our country for the last 20 years. Why would we want to stretch that to 24 or 28 years? I really don’t think that is a good idea. It doesn’t matter what two families you choose, we need some freakin’ diversity.

• I’m glad the Giants won and that is difficult to say as a Cowboys fan, but the Patriots are cheaters. Period. That is not acceptable.

• I wrote a research paper this weekend. It’s not very good. I basically wrote some opinions then found some information to go along with what I was saying. I didn’t even bother to read over to make sure I spelled my name correctly. I’m not really enjoying this class, can you tell?

• My daughter asked me if we had electricity when I was a little kid. I said yes and explained that we even had television … but no SpongeBob.

• I think I’m getting old.

"I see stupid people"

2008-01-09T11:58:00.000-08:00

I just read an article on MSN reporting on the displaced residents of New Orleans suing the U.S. Government for more than $3 quadrillion. To put this in perspective, that is a 3 with 15 zeros behind it. What is this world coming to?

My wife bought me a t-shirt for Christmas. It’s solid black with white lettering on the front. It says simply, “I see stupid people.” I’m thinking it is quite appropriate for this situation. And for all those people who are trying desperately to find someone to blame for what happened to them, I have a few things to say:

1. The levies always fail. No exceptions. If the flood waters are rising, the levies will fail. You can count on it. Once the water reaches a certain level, the levies will break. It has happened over and over and over again and it will continue to happen because there is nothing manmade or in nature that can withstand the eroding power of water.

2. Contrary to popular belief, George W. Bush is not God. Bush did not call down the powers of nature to send a destructive hurricane to your doorstep. Bush does not have the power or authority to use the forces of nature to target specific neighborhoods. Furthermore, Bush did not build the levies and he certainly did not sabotage the levies causing them to fail. They do that on their own.

3. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if you live below sea level in a coastal city … there is the potential for moderate to heavy flood damage. Come on, people. Grow up! I live in tornado alley and I guarantee that if a tornado rips through my house tomorrow I am not going to sit atop the pile of rubble crying until the president and government officials feel my plight and offer to bail me out of my situation. First of all, I don’t want splinters in my butt. Secondly, I’m smart enough to know that if I’m not doing anything to fix the situation, there’s a good chance that it ain’t gonna get fixed. And thirdly, since I live in a volatile area, I half expect a tornado to disrupt my life some day, anyway. I give thanks for every tornado season that passes without incident in my neighborhood.

4. Finally, and I know this one is really hard to believe if you are inclined to lean that direction, but hurricanes are not racist.

Needless to say, I’ll be one upset tax payer if the government uses my money to help these people who want nothing more than a free handout. I have no problem with the government stepping in to aid those who are working hard to better their situations, but I guarantee those people are probably not the ones who are filing multi million-dollar law suits. After all, some people in my part of the world are already paying for mandatory flood insurance policies in order to keep cost down for those who live in legitimate flood planes. That’s asinine enough, but it leads to another point that if they are going to rebuild, they should not rebuild below sea level. It will happen again. And again, the levies will fail.

The Virgin Birth ...

2007-12-17T07:53:00.000-08:00

I had a thought as I drove to work this morning.

… that happens every once in awhile, but it’s usually only one thought because it’s a real short distance from my driveway to the office – just over two blocks.

As biblical scholars continue to study and pore over manuscripts and bits and pieces of ancient documents, comparing them to those already known and in existence, they continue to develop new theories, thought and pictures of Jesus and the Bible.

One such developing theory surrounds the question of whether or not Jesus was truly born of a virgin. Some scholars are saying that the original Greek word used to describe Mary in Isaiah as well as the gospels simply means a “good, virtuous woman” or something along those lines. Therefore the conclusion they draw, although they have no real evidence to back this up, is that Jesus therefore was not born of a virgin and that this “miracle” occurred within natural law. However, it is still outside the confines of Mary’s marriage to Joseph.

Fine … say what you want to say. Will it destroy my faith if Jesus was not born of a virgin? Not really. I don’t think Jesus' identitity and what He did and accomplished is based on whether or not His mother was a virgin.

However, the thought that hit me driving to work this morning is this: If Jesus were not born of a virgin wouldn’t that in essence mean that God condoned an act of sinful nature and used it as His vehicle by which He delivered the message and means to save all mankind?

The 10 commandments came about long before the birth of Jesus and commandment seven clearly states “you shall not commit adultery.” I may be wrong, but isn’t sex outside of marriage considered adultery? Don’t both the Old and New Testaments teach that sex is meant for the confines of marriage? If this is so, why would God, who is intent on His followers trying to live a life free from sin, use an act of sin as His vehicle for the salvation of mankind? Would this not give credence to those who say that having sex whenever and wherever they want is OK because God condoned the act of Mary?

Please feel free to weigh in with your thoughts. And I would especially like to hear Little David’s thought on the matter since he holds a master of divinity (or should I say divination) degree and a Ph.D. from theological seminary. And Little David, if your answer is too long for the comment box, please feel free to email me and I will post it as post in and of itself.

I scuffed myself

2007-11-20T12:47:00.000-08:00

I rearranged my office today.

Stole a desk from another office.

Got everything neatly organizaed and in its place.

Suddenly remembered why I've spent the last five years using a desk with no middle drawer. ... It's a short world

Here's lookin' at you

2007-11-08T06:54:00.000-08:00

Well, our little city, in the words of one local businessman, has “finally repealed prohibition” and ushered in a new era of sin and debauchery. An era in which the sin and debauchery is legal as opposed to the illegal sin and debauchery that we are currently experiencing. Tuesday’s election in our town included a referendum for the package sale of alcohol. It’s been a big deal in this town and pretty much caused a split right down the middle. The referendum passed by a mere 36 votes with an additional 57 provisional ballots yet to be approved and counted.

What does this all mean?

The proponents say it will bring new business, increased opportunity and convenience to our town.

The opponents say it will bring new business, increased opportunity and convenience to our town.

With a split like that can you believe that both sides actually say they are doing what’s best for the youth of our town?

Crazy, isn’t it?

Personally, I voted against it. I’m just fundamentally opposed to supporting any type of business that has the potential to destroy and ruin lives that are already in pretty poor shape to begin with if people are turning to alcohol for the answers. Does this mean I am completely against drinking and think that everyone who imbibes is in the express lane to Hell? No. If you want to drink a glass of wine with your dinner or have a beer after work that is completely up to you. I have no problem with that. I don’t do it because I know it would be wrong for me to take part in such activities but I’m not going to condemn other people for such an act. Many people will be responsible with their consumption of alcohol and it will never cause them a problem. But many more won’t. What I do have a problem with are the irresponsible people who don’t know when to stop. Therefore, I don’t want to support any business or organization that feeds their habit, making the procurement of alcohol easier and more convenient.

I think, however, the opposition to the amendment failed to win any additional support once they took the stance that, “We are doing this to protect our youth.” The group officially named themselves The Coalition to Protect the Youth. I felt at that moment that all money spent to fight the movement would be money lost because, in my humble opinion, once you exploit anyone or anything for personal gain, you are doomed to fail. But what do I know? I’ve just worked in newspaper and public relations for the last 12 years. I don’t really have a feel for how people publicly react to certain situations. Of course, no one asked my opinion. They seldom do and even more seldom do they listen to my opinion when I offer it, so I basically have learned keep my mouth shut … sort of.

One side said we have to protect our youth from the evils of alcohol. The other said we must increase tax revenue in order to provide them with more opportunity in our small town. Alas, silly me, I thought we should have left the youth out of it since they are neither old enough to vote nor drink. Perhaps it would have been more effective to ask people to “Vote No” simply on principle. Once you start throwing out statistics, everything you say can and will be rebutted by your opposition.

But it’s too late now. So I sit here in my office on our college campus, listening to the supporters clink their champagne flutes in celebration of their victory and the impending wealth that alcohol will inevitably bring to our community. With their hope and vision and promise for the future completely laid out and tied into the completely reputable alcohol industry I fully expect our enrollment to double within the next three years.

... Any Other Name ...

2007-11-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

This is yet another entry in the “What’s In a Name” category, but many times the name is all you need to see the humor in a situation. Around here, we have one particular name that stands out above all the rest.

Our school has a long and storied history when it comes to women’s basketball. We were at the forefront of bringing women’s basketball to mainstream America. It was our team that played the Russians, traveled to Mexico City for international tournaments and our coach pushed to change the rules of the women’s game to a full-court, 5-on-5 contest. Granted, we haven’t done much in the last 20 years, but with everyone else, including major state universities, picking up the women’s game, it has been a little difficult for our small, private school on the dusty plains of Texas to compete in the recruiting game. Our team has had only three losing seasons in its history. Unfortunately, two of those have been the last two seasons.

Still, our women’s program holds the collegiate record for the longest win streak (131 consecutive games) and our program has more wins (1,425 including Saturday’s season opener) than any women’s collegiate basketball program at any level. That’s more wins than Tennessee, University of Connecticut, Duke, North Carolina or any of the teams mentioned among the best in women’s basketball. The only potential drawback, however, is that the team is named the Flying Queens.

Yes, it’s an easy nickname to make fun of and it has been on several national lists as one of the worst nicknames in college sports. But there is a good reason for the name. In the late 1940s, the team was sponsored by the Harvest Queen Mill which still operates in our fair city. With their sponsorship, the school decided to name the team the Harvest Queens. This sponsorship was key as the team began to build to its historic status. A few years later, a local businessman, Claude Hutcherson, began flying the team to all its games in his fleet of Beechcraft Bonanza airplanes. Thanks to his sponsorship, the team became famous world-wide, and the name was changed to the Flying Queens.

However, it’s the latest team sponsorship that has given me cause to chuckle. It’s not a major sponsorship. This group isn’t shelling out thousands of dollars to have their name on the team warm-ups, but it is enough of a sponsorship to pay for schedule posters and things like that. And in so doing, the sponsorship name appears on the posters. It may not be a big deal to many people, but its not every day your athletics team is sponsored by Kornerstone Funeral Directors. …

Note to PR flacks

2007-10-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

When writing a script for your university president to be used while recording a video segment for the upcoming capital campaign and describing the campaign's focus, one should stay away from the phrase ... "growing our endowment."

No more taxes

2007-10-22T14:48:00.001-07:00

I went from no fortune in the fortune cookie to this ... I'm starting to worry.

How will I die? Your Result: You will be murdered. This doesn't guarantee pain and suffering, but it will be at the hands of another. Perhaps the vile deeds of a past life will attribute to this horrific demise. Do not fear murder. There is a rare epiphany that comes from this type of death. You will see it in the last moments.
You will die while having sex.
You will die while saving someone's life.
You will die in a nuclear holocaust.
You will die in your sleep.
You will die in a car accident.
You will die of boredom.
You will die from a terminal illness.
How will I die? Create a Quiz

Fortunes

2007-10-09T11:31:00.000-07:00

Went to lunch ...
Ate Chinese ...
My fortune cookie had no fortune ...
I'm a little disturbed by that!

Four Things

2007-10-04T07:00:00.000-07:00

I was tagged by Rach to do this. So, here goes:

Four jobs I’ve held (other than my current position).
Grocery store flunky (Same as Rach)
Radio personality
Music minister
Sports editor

Four films I could watch over and over.
Pale Rider
Star Wars trilogy (original)
The Incredibles
The Dream Team

Four TV shows I watch.
Flip this House
Sportscenter
Seinfeld
My Name is Earl

Four places I’ve lived.
Whitehall, Montana
Roby, Texas
Antlers, Oklahoma
Hobbs, New Mexico

Four favorite foods.
Fried okra
Corn bread
Chicken fried steak
Egg rolls

Four Web sites I visit Daily.
www.wbu.edu (I kind of have to)
various blogs
That’s about it, really. I don’t do much Web surfing

Four favorite colors.
Dark Blue
Dark Green
Sage green or mint color
Grey

Four places I would love to be right now.
Golf course
Scotland
Ireland
Living in the White House

Four names you love but could/would not use for your children.
Maximus
Briana
Jupiter Moon
Wrigley

Now I guess I have to tag a few people so I choose: SmilyMama, Splineguy, Janie, and Patti

What the ...

2007-09-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

I saw an interesting sign the other day.

I was in Andrews, helping out with the parents and decided I wanted a Dr. Pepper. I went to the local convenience store and as I walked in I saw a big sign on the door featuring the convenience store’s logo and a picture of a guy in a shirt and tie with his head literally buried in a pile of paper work.

The wording on the sign said “Need a better job? Apply with us.”

Where, in the name of all creation, do you have to be working in order to consider a job at a convenience store as a step up?

Formidable Sense of Doom is Closing in

2007-09-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

Help!!! My baby is growing up!!!

I’ve told several expectant fathers over the last few years that your worldview completely changes when you have a daughter. I don’t know what it’s like when you have a boy because we only have one child. It popped out as a girl and has stayed that way ever since.

Young men growing up in the world are expected have a certain lack of sensibilities when dealing with members of the opposite sex. There’s the locker room humor, and the … well … things never really get past the locker room humor stage. Let’s face it, guys are fairly one dimensional and are happy living in that one dimension. But once you have a daughter, all those jokes suddenly aren’t so funny anymore. After all, someday some stupid, ignorant, jerk is going to be saying those things about your daughter. Wouldn’t you like to get hold of him some evening in a dark alley with some super glue and a roll of duct tape?

It’s not that all guys are bad … then again, maybe it is. After all, I have female acquaintances in their college years whom I’ve told will never find a guy that is good enough for them. How do you think I will feel about my own daughter?

As I was sitting on the couch Saturday evening, the brilliant 7-year-old blonde walked up beside me.

“Da-da,” she said, because that is what she calls me. “I have a crush on Corbin.”

The little man inside my head reacted immediately, ripping at handfuls of hair while running madly around the room and planting himself face first into the padded walls, only to get up and commence screaming and running around the room again, and again, and again …

“Oh really?” I said in a calm, cool voice. “Why do you have a crush on Corbin?”

“He’s soooo cuuuute!”

My left eye began to twitch.

… as it turns out, she is not in the same second-grade class as Corbin, which is a good thing, but she has resorted to stealing his shoe at recess. … This is serious.

Her Pa-Pa and I are at a loss. After all, how do you sufficiently put the fear of God into a second grader in terms that he will understand for the next 20 years? I guess we could shave all the fuzz off his teddy bear, then hold it over his head just out of reach until he crumples into a huddled mass of hysteria. Or we could just take away his cookies at lunch.

… I’ll have to think on that one for a while.

Questions for scotte

2007-09-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

Sorry that I’ve been away for a bit. Things have been quite busy around here. But scotte asked for some interview questions, so here we go:

1. I see through your profile and your blog that you live and work in the Oil Patch. In your informed opinion, are we paying too much at the pump?

2. Are we in danger of using up all of our natural resources, and should we put more of an emphasis on alternative fuels?

3. In your dealings in the field, have you ever run across Dewaine White who sales for Key Energy out of Midland?

4. What is your religious background and do you have any current feelings toward organized religion?

5. Who is going to win the Super Bowl this year, and why?

Interview Questions

2007-08-27T11:51:00.000-07:00

I picked these up over at Paul's place. I've had them for about a week (or longer) and I'm just now getting around to answering them. These are five questions Paul asked of me.

1. Just imagine. You’ve won a prize and you can select one of these free options: a) a parachute jump, b) a hot air balloon flight, c) a guided deep sea dive. Tell us about your choice...
Probably a guided deep sea dive. As much as I’m afraid of drowning, I would feel more comfortable and in control of my situation knowing that there was a guide and that I had equipment that would keep me safe. I don’t like flying, and heights tend to make me a little uneasy, so the hot air balloon is out. Furthermore, to jump out of a plane for no apparent reason is just insane.

2. What is the best piece of advice someone has ever given you? Please expand on it.
I don’t really know. I’ve never been one to bookmark certain times in my life. I guess, although this is not very profound, the one thing I remember was a college professor telling us as students that when looking for a job, it’s not about what you know, it’s about who you know. You don’t expect that coming from a college professor, but he said if you know someone who can help you get a certain job, then use them. As things stand, with the exception of my first job out of college, every job I have held since then has come through connections I have made throughout my life.

3. Please comment on this statement: ‘Atheists are living in denial.’
I think in order to truly deny something exists, you have to at least question its existence first. Therefore, my answer is kind of wishy-washy. I think some atheists/agnostics truly don’t think there is a God. In my opinion these people would be fairly indifferent to any conversation concerning the matter, and just blow it off as the mindless ramblings of the confused. Others, however, just claim to be atheists/agnostics in order to accommodate their personal agendas. In my opinion they would be more adamant and abrasive in defense of their position, and would strive to prove their point at all cost.

4. Is there a material thing that you’ve lost and really want to retrieve / repossess? If so, tell us about it. If you can’t think of anything, please tell us what material thing you would like to lose or which annoying habit you would like to get rid of.
I don’t really lose too many things. I’m rather anal about making sure things that could be easily lost, especially those that are important to me, are returned to their proper places. As far as something I would like to lose … my wife has a little decorative, blue, glass purse that she likes to have sitting out. I think it is ugly, breakable and doesn’t go with any of our other décor.

5. What is your personal dream and what is stopping you from realizing it?
My personal dream is to write a book. The only thing stopping me is me. I just refuse to sit down and get started. I keep telling myself I don’t have any ideas that are good enough, or I won’t know what to do with it when I finish it, so why bother. Those are pretty lame excuses, really.
I also want to build a castle, or at least travel to Scotland and Ireland and visit all of theirs.

As per my part in this interview process, I agreed to send five interview questions to anyone else who might be interested. Just do the following:
1. Leave me a comment saying “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Is it Ironic?

2007-08-16T08:39:00.001-07:00

In my morning Bible reading today, I ran across a verse that instantly became one of my favorites, Proverbs 10:13 -- "Wisdom is found on the lips of him who has understanding, but a rod is for the back of him who is devoid of understanding. " (NKJ) or "Wisdom is found on the lips of the discerning, but a rod is for the back of him who lacks judgement." (NIV)

A few hours later as I attended a reception for a U.S. Senator, in my attempt to shoot pictures over the crowd I and my camera strap promptly swatted the back of the head of a former Texas Speaker of the House. Irony?

(I will point out, however, that I like the former speaker and think he did a good job.)

I had nothing better to do

2007-08-07T14:05:00.000-07:00

No surprises here. Of course, I have the same personality type as two of my fictional heroes: Bruce Wayne and Darth Vader.

What do we do now?

2007-07-19T14:40:00.000-07:00

We officially wrap up our softball season tonight with our season-ending pizza party. We will hand out certificates and medals and a few goodies from the university at which I work. … It’s never too early to start recruiting.

Our season ended last week amidst controversy. The tournament, originally scheduled as a double-elimination tournament, dropped to single elimination after thunderstorms disrupted things for two nights. However, certain people made a stink and needless to say, the girls in the various leagues got a good taste of poor sportsmanship from their parents who taught them how to act like complete idiots within the confines of a public forum.

That’s a whole other soap box that I want dive into right now, but you should realize that once the police get involved, things have gone too far.

Our girls, who managed only four wins during the regular season, somehow won two of our three tournament games, losing the championship by only one run. We were quite proud of them. They really improved throughout the year.

I must admit that I am kind of sad to see them go. Not because of the softball, but because some of them need something positive in their life. They have problems that could be solved or at least dealt with properly if they had the right role models and support structure in place. But our pathetic social norms don't give them the opportunities they need to succeed.

One of our girls, Pinky, has a problem with ADD. I generally don’t buy into the ADD myth. I think it is an excuse and copout for parents who don’t want to deal with their children. Occasionally, however, you will find a child with a legitimate problem. This was the case with Pinky. You could see her fight it and knew that there were other forces at work when she was off her medication.

At our final game, this girl’s mother and older brother were there. I think she wants nothing more in this world than to impress her brother. She has said several things throughout the course of the season that makes me think this. It’s obvious that these children come from broken homes and when he is around, she wants him to accept her and be impressed by what she has accomplished.

That did not help the situation.

Each time Pinky stepped into bat, you could tell she was struggling with the voices in her head. The ADD was taking control. Her brother was telling her that she had to hit the ball. The opposing players were yelling at her unmercifully, trying to get her to swing at bad pitches … and she obliged. She tried not to. You could see her try to hold her bat, but when everyone yelled “swing” she would.

It became too much to handle in her final at bat. Pinky swung at a bad pitch and then turned, rubbing her forehead with a pained look on her face.

“Are you alright?” I asked her. She assured me that she was so I barked a few words of encouragement to her, and then she stepped back in. Another bad pitch … another bad swing … and she stepped out again.

It was too much.

“Are you OK?” I asked again.

Pinky burst into tears.

I knelt beside her as she cried. The game was waiting for her and all the parents and players were staring. Fortunately the umpire gave me a little extra time. I tried to comfort her, but what can you say.

“I’m trying …” she sobbed … “but … everybody … is … yelling at me … and I … just can’t stop…”

This little, 8-year-old girl was battling not only the demons of ADD, but personal demons as well. What happens to kids like her? What role do we play in her development? Where does she go from here?

I asked someone who has been coaching kids longer than I have what she does in situations like this. Her reply was that all you can do is pray for them, support them and be a good role model for them when you are around them. She coaches basketball and said there have been times when she has kept kids with her between tournament games because she knew if they went with their parents, all they would hear was griping and yelling about how bad they played or what they need to do differently.

What are we teaching these kids? Why are parents so stupid? We treat them like trash then wonder why they are trash when they grow up.

Another girl on our team is a brilliant child. She is very smart and analyzes everything. She makes contingency plans for how we should handle on-field situations should they arise. She is a cute kid with a bright smile. But she comes from a broken family and she is starved for affirmation from a strong male role model.

I don’t know her family and don’t know the dynamics of her situation. But I do know that she craves positive attention from me or the other coach. When standing in a group talking, she will always stand as closely as she can to one of us and just wait for us to put our hand on her shoulder or pat her on the back and tell her she is doing a good job. She’ll hang around after the game and help us clean up just to hear us say, “Thank you.”

She has so much going for her but you wonder if she will throw it all away by getting mixed up with the wrong people and doing things she shouldn’t do just to feel accepted by some boy.

What’s going to happen to her? Will she become a productive member of society or just another statistic?

I asked my friend if we were allowed to shoot the parents.

… she didn’t answer.

Keeping up with cable TV

2007-07-10T12:43:00.000-07:00

My back hurts.

It’s not a bad hurt, just kind of a dull ache that will eventually stretch itself out. It’s the kind of hurt that comes along after a few hours of strenuous exercise in a manner of which one is not accustomed.

In other words, I had an eventful weekend.

You see, the wife and child were out of town this weekend and I needed something to occupy my time. A lot of guys with a free weekend will stock up on their beverage of choice and call all their buddies. Not me! No, sir! First of all I’m not an overly social animal, so I don’t have a lot of buddies that I would openly invite to my house. Secondly, I would rather do something moderately constructive or destructive as the case may be. So when I have a free weekend, I don’t take out the beverages, I take out the carpet.

And now my back hurts.

The ambitious idea behind the project was spawned by any number of home improvement shows which fill the airwaves on cable television. In every show you always hear the “home improvers” talk about putting in hardwood floors which increase the sales value of the house. Therefore, it stands to reason, that if my house has hardwood floors, its value will rise as well. I figured that out all by myself.

My house was built in the 1950s when ever structure was pier and beam and the only decent flooring material was wood. However, over the years, everybody wanted to cover up the wood with carpet. The carpet that was in my house was not original by any means, but I’m betting it had been there for a good 20 years. Some brilliant architect had even decided that putting ceramic tile on top of the wood in the entry way was a good idea.

Do you have any idea how much sand paper it takes to grind your way through a quarter-inch tile? … Me either. I would suggest taking the tile up before you start sanding. However, working your way through the adhesive material underneath the tile is quite a taxing experience. My wood in that area is still a little green, but I'm hoping a nice, dark stain will hide the other discoloration.

Needless to say, it took a day or so to prep the floor for sanding. I had to remove the carpet and padding, take up all the carpet tack strips lining the edges of the rooms, then remove all the staples that were used to hold the padding in place. I had to take out the tile and chisel out as much of the underlying material as I could without damaging the wood. I had roughly 550 square feet to cover once the floor sander was ready to go. I started sanding at about 9 o’clock in the morning and didn’t finish until around 3 p.m. And God forbid that any type of power equipment be built to fit people that are more than 6 feet tall. Spending six hours in a slight stoop is not easy.

Thus … my back hurts. But I now have really cool hardwood floors. I just need to find the time to stain and polyurethane them. That ought to kill a few more brain cells.

Just Another Office Outing

2007-06-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

I could be wrong, but I’ve always felt that it’s important to remain fully clothed when on public display. Especially when they public involves your mother’s co-workers.

Every summer for the last four years, our small development department has run off for a few days to hold a work retreat at which time we brain storm and plan for the upcoming year. Our group is kind of in charge of raising money for the university, so if any of you feel to urge to make a charitable donation to a small faith-based institution, please let me know.

The first few years, we went to a small town where we stayed at a hunting lodge and ate at the only eating establishment in town, a small restaurant named “Crackers.” For the last two years, however, we have headed off to Ruidoso, N.M., for a few days in the mountains. This is a welcomed change from the lodge that encourages hunters to clean their game outdoors, not in the bathtub, but it still provides some interesting moments.

This year, the retreat provided an enlightened study of human nature and social customs of adolescent females. Our supervisor brought her youngest daughter with her for the weekend and the daughter brought a friend along. Both girls are 14 years old. We quickly discovered that the way to make two 14-year-old girls completely shut up is forced social interaction with a group of people over the age of 30. They probably didn’t say more than 2 words to any particular person the entire weekend. I’m not sure they even talked to each other. Combined, the two girls had all the personality of a fence post.

It didn’t help matters that our supervisor was stricken with altitude sickness upon reaching Ruidoso and did not get out of bed for three days. She was in no situation to supervise the youngsters.

I’m not sure how these two girls function among their peers, but among us, they sat motionless, watching movies on the cabin’s DVD player. They occasionally played a game of cards, but we never heard them so much as speak to each other. We could hear the TV and the shuffle of the cards, but nary a peep from the chicks. Occasionally someone would make a direct comment to them which was met only with a mono-syllabic response.

Yet, while these girls were so appalled to be around us, they didn’t mind one bit walking around, or sitting around the cabin in their bikinis. Yes, that’s right, their tiny little, two-piece swim wear. They were too uncomfortable to utter a sound, but comfortable enough to display their udders. I found this moderately disturbing.

First of all, when I was 14-years-old, I don’t remember girls having boobs. Of course, they may have had them but were more discrete and just didn’t go around showing them off to all creation.

Apparently things have changed in the last 20 years, and certain female attributes are making their appearance earlier in the life cycle. While one of them, the supervisor’s daughter, is on her way to a “mature” body, she still needs a little more time to grow. She at least had the decency to occasionally wrap a towel around her as she moved around the cabin. The other one, however, is fairly developed and she knows it and she doesn’t mind showing it off to a bunch of people she doesn’t even know. I’m just glad the president of our university, who was there for some of our meetings, wasn’t around during the times that the youngsters were disrobed.

During these moments, I remember thinking to myself, if my daughter, who is now 7, ever does something like that when she is 14, she is going to have one very irritated father.

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with looking good. There is nothing wrong with dressing in a way that makes you look good, as long as it is done tastefully. But at some point a person must stop and realize, “Gee, I should probably wear some clothes.”

Five things I dig about Jesus

2007-06-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

I was tagged by Patti, so here's five of what could be a long list.

1. He was a rebel without being “rebellious.”
2. He was a man without being “human.”
3. He loved while being hated.
4. He was a poet.
5. He is awesome!

Now to explain myself.
1. Jesus was a rebel. He bucked the system and fought the establishment. But He did it without the intent to harm, tear down or destroy. He was here to teach, inspire and save.

2. Jesus was wholly human and wholly divine. Yet in his humanity, he didn’t fall into the traps that so easily ensnare the rest of us.

3. I would say the ability to love your enemies is the most Godly thing any of us can strive to achieve. It ain’t easy, yet He did it unconditionally.

4. No one can turn a phrase like Jesus. His words and teaching are filled with multiple meanings and are so powerful. There is a poster that hangs in my office that quotes John 8:58, “I tell you the truth. Before Abraham was, I am.”

5. As you read through your New Testament, look at all the instances where mortal men simply would have folded and tried to shrink away into the background. John chapter 18 tells about the betrayal of Jesus and how Judas led the Roman soldiers to Jesus. When they first saw Jesus, they didn’t know they were talking to, but when Jesus “revealed” himself to them, they “drew back and fell to the ground.” Jesus was in control of every situation and his presence was awe inspiring. These men had come to take Jesus by force, but when they saw Him, they knew immediately who He was.

I am also supposed to "tag" five people, but I think everyone I know has already been tagged. Except maybe Spookyrach. So, you're it.

Dealings in the Dugout

2007-06-06T13:48:00.000-07:00

It was the bottom of the third and we were down by one run. I’d like to say it was the bottom of the ninth, but this is youth-league softball and we only get to play a certain time limit and time was quickly running out.

We were sitting at 0-2 in the young season and desperately in search of a win to boost our confidence. It had been a closely contested game with both teams questioning calls and umpire’s interpretations of the rules. I, of course, am totally opposed to youth-league coaches and parents getting too involved and too competitive, but I am just an assistant coach on one team and can’t control the actions of others. I am also very competitive and like to make sure the correct calls are made and that our girls have every opportunity to win.

After our first two games it was painfully obvious that our girls could not hit the ball. Every time a pitch came near the plate, they were ducking for cover. If one of them decided to actually swing the bat, she was generally looking out at left field instead of watching the ball. It’s very difficult to make contact when you can’t even see what you are swinging at.

Needless to say, we spent the better part of two hours the day before the game working on nothing but hitting the ball. And it paid off.

Trailing by a run our team needed to score more runs in that half inning than we had scored total in the previous two games. It was a daunting task for our young warriors, but we had managed so far to keep the team's morale and energy level high and they seemed to be having a good time.

“We just need a couple of hits,” I told them before getting ready for the inning. “If we get a couple of hits, we win the game.”

“But what if we don’t hit it?” asked our intellectual child.

“That’s fine,” I replied. “A walk is as good as a hit.”

“But what if we don’t get on base?” she asked again.

It’s tough arguing with a 10-year-old. Especially one who is probably as smart as anyone on the field but still one comment away from a complete emotional breakdown. Not having time to get into a deep philosophical discussion about the probabilities of another 10-year-old throwing three out of seven pitches over the plate in the strike zone while facing the pressure of winning or losing the game with screaming parents and noisy coaches yelling throughout the entire process, I simply said the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re going to hit the ball because I’m the coach and you have to do what I tell you.”

Yup … that’s good coaching.

While it may not have been logical, it seemed to satisfy the youngsters who promptly went out and loaded the bases with only one out. The next batter, a girl who may not get a hit all season, was hit by a pitch. She was awarded first base, driving in the tying run and bringing up one of our heavier hitters. With the game on the line, this girl drilled a double to right field, eventually scoring two runs after some indecision on the base paths, to win the game.

We are now 1-2 and ready to make our run. Our next game is against the league’s best pitcher, but we know if you can ever rattle her, she will fall apart. We know this becuase last year she started crying on the mound when she hit a stretch where she couldn't throw a strike.

... Not that we would intentionally make a young girl cry ...

A Coaching We Shall Go

2007-05-24T14:23:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of year again … youth softball season. Once again, I let my brother-in-law rope me into helping him with an 8-10 year-old team. This is our second shot at this coaching gig. We did fairly well for being first-timers last season, but this season may be a little different.

I can’t really put my finger on it, but there is something different about this group. I want to say we have better fielders and a stronger defense all around, but our offense is seriously lacking. This could be a problem as we played great defense in our first game, but still lost 4-1.

Things will definitely be interesting, however, as we have a very eclectic group of young ladies. Our most boisterous player is experiencing softball for the first time and couldn’t understand why a runner is not allowed to run from second base to first base when the ball is hit. Throw in the fact that she just turned 10 years old but stands only 3-foot-2 and refers to me as Coach Paddie, which only vaguely resembles my real name, and there we have one of our more interesting players. And she really is only about 3-foot-2. My 7-year-old daughter is taller than she is.

Then we have our intellectual. She will be one of my favorites on the team because she analyzes everything. When she makes a mistake in the field, she can tell you exactly what that mistake was down to the minute detail and outlines a contingency plan for approaching the situation the next time it occurs. Then she stands in the field and corrects her teammates’ grammar as they yell at each other or opposing players … not simple stuff, but obscure grammatical rules that most high school students don’t understand. Of course, she is still a girl and gets emotional when things continually don’t go as she has planned.

We also have a pink child who reminds me somewhat of my daughter, except that she is in serious need of ADD medication. She will be a decent player in the field (can’t swing a bat, although she brings her personal pink bat with her to practice and the games), if we can just get her to focus long enough to … “look at the pretty butterflies!” I call her “Pinky” all the time, but I don’t think she knows why. Everything she has is pink. Our uniforms are navy blue, but she has pink cleats, pink wristbands, a pink bat and pink batter’s helmet.

Then, of course, there is the obligatory youngster who is in need of physical activity more than the rest of the team, yet doesn’t move during practice. This could explain the growing need for physical activity. She doesn’t take instruction well and doesn’t understand the need to actually act like she is a part of the team. When she is through with batting practice, she wants to go home and can’t figure out why we make her stay. She has a lazy attitude to go with her lazy metabolism which adds up to one thing – a youngster who the coaches try to hide in right field where nothing ever happens.

And like every team, we have the one girl who is just the nicest kid and tries hard to do everything you ask her to do, but “bless her heart,” she just doesn’t have an athletic bone in her body. (Have I ever explained that you are allowed to say anything about anybody as long as you preface it with “bless her heart?”). The poor girl is just slow … and weak … and scared of the ball … and she can’t catch … or throw ... or hit … but she is a nice kid and never gives us any problems.

Needless to say, our season should be quite interesting. Maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to put the right pieces in the right places and squeak out a win or two.

Adding to the clan

2007-05-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I invested in a toy, mainly for me. You read about it a couple of posts ago – Shaggy/Mater, the family truck. Mater’s been good to us so far. He’s taken me where I needed to go and has hauled some light stuff that I just didn’t want to fit in the back of the Jeep. I’ve learned how to properly wake him up in the morning to make sure we can get out of the driveway without incident. If you wake him up too quickly, he tends to be cantankerous and shows it by shutting down in the middle of the intersection near the house. You’ve got to wake him up gingerly and scratch him behind the ears for a few minutes, then he’ll be ready to go for the rest of the day.

The only problem is that Mater is a gas hog. As you well know, gas prices have skyrocketed and hit an all-time high. This doesn’t mix well with a vehicle that tops out at 11 miles per gallon on the highway. I, of course, had to buy a truck that has the biggest engine Ford was putting in its commercial vehicles at the time. Fuel conservation apparently wasn’t such a big thing in 1986.

Suffice it to say, Mater is a good vehicle and we don’t plan on getting rid of him any time soon. We will still drive Mater quite a bit and use him to haul things around, but in an effort to do my part to conserve fuel and finances, meet ….. “Lightning.”

Lightning is a simple, stripped down, nothing fancy two-wheeled mode of transportation with a 1 human-power engine. Lightning goes 0-to-60 only in a 60-mile per hour wind on a downhill grade. Lightning probably tops out around 20 miles per hour, but averages closer to 10. Fuel economy, however, is unbeatable.

Of course, with the style of bicycle, I feel like I should be tooling around leisurely on a cobblestone path in a small European village. The handlebars are high enough that I can sit up straight and it is a simple, single-speed machine on a lightweight, aluminum frame. No frills. If I was still single and trying to pick up chicks, I wouldn’t be caught dead on a bicycle like this. But … I don’t have to impress anybody, so I’ll just hop on my silent hog and ride.

Not only is it fuel efficient, but it is good exercise and can be moderately therapeutic. I highly recommend it. Lightning and I made our first trip to the office together today where co-workers marveled at the shiny new vehicle parked in the breakroom. They kicked the wide, white-walled tires, buffed the paint and admired the ergonomically designed seat.

Yup, Lightning made quite and impression. It's safe to say he and I will be spending a lot of time together over the next few months as we traipse back and forth from home to work, to the post office, the store and maybe even out to eat every once in awhile.

Mater's a little jealous because Lightning actually gets to stay in the garage, but he'll get over it. Afterall, he knows that this is what's best for all of us involved. Mater will get to exercise his muscles on occasion and Lightning will become a valuable member of the family. Afterall, a little exercise might do me some good as well.

See you on the bike path.

... And with the wind at your back, may all your rides be downhill.

Other Duties as Assigned

2007-05-11T08:19:00.000-07:00

We’ve all been there … reading the job description for a position we have applied for, or perusing our contracts from year-to-year before we sign them. Within these documents, there is always a list of job duties that one must perform, and at the end of every list there is always the disclaimer “other duties as assigned.”

What does that mean? Are we occasionally supposed to bring a cup of coffee to our vice president? Are we supposed to help students with their homework? Are we supposed to vacuum our own offices after the Christmas party that got a little out of hand – you just can’t trust a bunch of Baptist with free will and a rum cake.

Today it meant that I got to play gardener. Not just go-out-and-pull-some-weeds-and-water-the-flowers gardener, but instead, go-out-and-trim-a-tree gardener.

There’s really no point to this story. But that is what I did this morning because I really have nothing else to work on. But, the tree is trimmed and I can now walk under it without having to duck.

So there …

Deleting post

2007-05-07T06:16:00.001-07:00

Deleted the previous post. There are some people around who read my stuff and I don't want to get in trouble or cause any undue tention among people I know.

To ask, or not to ask

2007-04-09T14:54:00.000-07:00

I should have known better than to question how to perform a sonogram on a horse.

Obviously it's not something you talk about every day. In fact, I don't think I have ever talked about it. I have definitely never seen someone perform a sonogram on a horse. I didn’t know how it was done and I was obviously talking to someone who did, so before I knew it, I was uncomfortably ensconced in a full-blown conversation about horse breeding.

A young student stopped by my office earlier today. She is a student worker for an office that works closely with ours, so she spends quite a bit of time in our building working on various projects. We all know her as the girl from Arizona who rode her horse to school.

She didn’t literally ride it, but as a high school student, she was looking for a small university where she might be able to board her horse so she could continue to train it and ride it. She looked at several other school nearer to her hometown, but they didn’t have any way for her to bring her horse with her. When she contacted our admissions office, somebody knew somebody who trains and breeds (apparently) horses in the area. They put her in contact with this family and the family agreed to let her board her horse at their place in exchange for some afternoon help with their other horses. It was a good deal for her and a good deal for us because she is basically a good kid and is fun to pick on.

Knowing, however, that she spends much of her spare time with horses, I always like to ask how her horse is doing. Apparently it’s breeding season in the world of horses. They just birthed a colt at the old stables and are expecting another one any day. She had pictures of the new critter of which she is quite proud. Then she told me that later in the afternoon she was going to have to perform a sonogram on a mare. This is where I made the mistake.

“That must be interesting,” I said.

“Yea,” she answered, “but it's kind of gross because the glove only goes up to here.” She pointed to her shoulder.

Now, I’ve watched enough television and heard enough stories to know that there are times when a human must stick their arm up an animal’s rear end to accomplish certain necessary functions. I was not aware that sonograms were such a function.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you do a sonogram on a horse?”

And there it was -- the simple question that led to a discussion about horses and their mating habits.

Did you know that horses in captivity are artificially inseminated because they “go crazy” and are so rough that they could actually kill each other? Horses in the wild can apparently handle it, although there might be significant bruising.

She proceeded to tell me that she would much rather be the one who sticks her arm up the female as opposed to the one who has to deal with the male. At which point I just stared at here because I couldn’t quite imagine what that would entail. I mean, do they usher the male horse to a private room and give him a dirty magazine?

I didn’t really ask because I was moderately uncomfortable at this point, but she proceeded to tell me about the male horse and the dummy and how she would much rather work on the female than be the one on the other side of the dummy with the bag.

“With the bag?” I should have kept my mouth shut but the question was out before I could stop myself.

“Well, somebody has to catch it.”

Yeah … that’s what I thought, too. I’ll admit, however, that while the conversation was a bit disturbing, it was also enlightening in that I didn’t really know that much about breeding horses.

I pointed out to the young lady that she would have to forgive me if I failed shake her hand any time in the near future. To which she replied that shaking hands wasn’t so bad … “You should be the one who has to eat with them.”

Time to Play

2007-03-27T07:45:00.000-07:00

I got a new toy.

This was a completely unnecessary purchase on the part of my wife and I. I didn't really need a new toy, but living life as a male in West Texas meant that something was seriously lacking if I didn't own a truck.

I had a small truck a few years ago, but we outgrew Lao Che (the Isuzu) and traded it in for a more family friendly Jeep Liberty. Since then, the urge to own a truck has been ever present. This weekend we ran across a pretty good deal.

Meet, Shaggy! Shaggy is a 1986 Ford F150 XLT Supercab with a V8 and only 56,000 original miles (as verified by a mechanic who said there was no way this engine has 100,000 miles on it.) I bought it from a co-worker, who bought it from the original owner. For nearly 20 years this truck was just driven to work and back.

As with most of us over time, there are a few cosmetic issues that need to be ironed out. I had the motors for the electric windows replaced yesterday, and if you'll look closely at the windshield, you will see a piece of duct tape holding the bracket for the new rear view mirror in place. (Have I ever mentioned that you can do anything with duct tape?)

Shaggy didn't officially get named until Monday afternoon. We had the truck for three days and I thought we were going to call him Mater, a name which my daughter really liked, but after sleeping on it, the offspring decided we would be better off naming the newest family member Shaggy. Afterall, our other vehicles are named The Mystery Machine and Scooby. So ... Shaggy it is.

And now I can truly say that I am living the American Dream -- three automobiles in the garage and only two licensed drivers. What more could a guy ask for?

Random Thoughts

2007-03-23T13:07:00.000-07:00

I sat in the doctor's office yesterday. Nothin' major, just a routine check up so he can tell me that I still have diabetes and that my cholesterol is still too high ... for someone with diabetes that is. Normal people would love to have my cholesterol level, but I guess I'm abnormal.

As I sat in the waiting room, I pulled out my textbook to catch up on some reading for my class later that day. I had to chuckle to myself. Unfortunately, I was all alone in the waiting room, but I was wondering how much fun it would be to sit in the waiting room of a doctor's office, reading a text book about death and dying and spouting off statistics to some poor old lady sitting beside you?

The Pink Room

2007-03-20T07:50:00.000-07:00

I’m a guy.

That’s never really been in question. I enjoy backyard barbecues, playing sports and napping through Sunday afternoon golf tournaments. I take care of the lawn, pay the bills, do minor house repairs. I watch ESPN as I’m getting ready for work every morning. I enjoy action flicks and watching things blow up. … just guy stuff …

I’m secure in my manhood, so it doesn’t bother me to drive a minivan or let my daughter dress me up like a princess. But this weekend I did something that I’m not sure I would have considered doing in years past … I painted my daughter’s room.

This was no ordinary painting project. About five years ago, when my daughter was 2, we moved into this house. It’s a simple, good sized, two-bedroom facility. In our master bedroom, we have two closets, a king size bed, two bed-side tables, two full chests of drawers, a bookshelf, sofa, treadmill and a fireplace. And we still have plenty of room to maneuver. My daughter’s room isn’t much smaller.

The color schemes in our house are rather interesting. Our bedroom has grayish paneled walls with hunter green carpet. It doesn’t really match the beige carpet that is in the living area and small hallway leading to our bedroom. My daughter’s room has the same paneling, but it was painted an off-white color. On the floor, however, was break-out-the-shades electric blue carpet. When we first looked at the house, we walked into this room and my daughter immediately began running in circles and calling it the blue room.

We have always wanted to renovate her room, but we waited several years for her to get past the drawing-on-the-walls stage of life. She did a pretty good job of marking up her room. We didn’t say much, because as long as she wasn’t writing on the other walls in the house, we were happy. We knew we would be painting her room at some point. That point was last Saturday.

As always happens when I begin a project, it tends to grow exponentially and become a true beast. Not only did I end up painting the room, but we decided to pull out the electric blue carpet and re-finish the original hardwood that was underneath. Let me tell you right now that polyurethane is a mad-dog killer. A friend of mine once said in college that chemicals only kill the weak brain cells. I’m sure I lost a large portion of atrophied cells as well as some that I was using on a regular basis. My poor cats didn’t have much to work with in the first place, but survived the fumes fairly well after moderate freak-outs.

Once the floor was finished, it was time to paint. I know what you’re asking, ‘Why didn’t you paint before you did the floors?’ That was my original plan, but as I said before these projects tend to grow exponentially. As it turned out, in order to avoid paying a full weekend rental for the floor sander, I had to get it finished and returned on Friday. Therefore, the painting was pushed back to Saturday.

The true test of masculinity came in the form of painting. Being a father, I tend to spoil my child and give in to her wishes in matters that I don’t deem overly important in the greater scheme of life, such as which fast-food restaurant to eat at, which children's movie to rent and so on. This non argument centered around color. Her choice of color … pink!

Not just pink, but by-gosh, hide-the-women-and-children pink! Pink on steroids! A cotton candy machine with delusions of grandeur, trying to take over the world. Pink! Pink! Pink! With, of course, tasteful purple curtains selected to match her new butterfly themed pink and purple bedding. All-in-all, a $60 painting project turned into a $400 remodeling weekend. … And the room is now pink!

When the lights are off and just a little ambient light filters through the purple haze splashed across the windows, the room comes to life with an unearthly pinkish glow that escapes through the gaps below the doors. The unholy hue reaches out its tethered paw in an attempt to spread its aura to whatever comes within reach. The filtered pink and purple light against the dark wood floors has an almost black light affect on our solid white cat. He becomes a odd yellowish tinted fur ball that is just short of an ethereal glow. It's weird.

But while pink is not my first color of choice … in fact it is nowhere on my pallet … my daughter is happy and she is no longer sleeping on the couch in our room. Last night we returned to our normal bedtime routine of reading her a story (or two), having “mommy time,” saying a prayer then clicking off her pink bedside lamp and tucking her in while Billy Idol sings her to sleep.

… and all is well.

Hoops Chapter Two

2007-02-15T08:42:00.000-08:00

We are now three games into our intramural basketball season and us old guys are standing near the top of the heap. Last week we played two games in three days. Thank God we have had eight days to recover before tonight’s game.

Last week, we played the team that is favored to win the whole thing … and they might because there is a good chance most of us aren’t going to be able to perform at the top of our ability once the “playoffs” roll around. As for this night, however, we were victorious.

The game didn’t start until 10 p.m., well past the bedtime for most of us older fellows, and our young opponents had a definite game plan: They were going to run us and be physical. We, of course, were macho enough to try to keep up with them, regardless of our own personal wellbeing. Fortunately, we have two former collegiate All-Americans on our team.

Finally, in the second half as the teams were trading buckets, I yelled from my position on the sidelines that we should slow it down and put our big fella in the paint. We put the other All-American on the wing and let them play a two-man game. It worked. The rest of us played defense and rebounded while these two carried the offensive load.

But when it was all said and done, the other team failed to recognize our secret weapon: the theatre technical director. Trailing by a point with 11 seconds left, we brought the ball up the floor. Somehow the ball got loose and the technical director scooped it up and dropped in what we like to call a jump hook (although I’m using the term loosely) for the win. It was a huge victory for the ‘old guys.’

With the game over, we stood around looking at each other and comparing wounds: bruised knee, swollen knee, hyper-extended knee, bruised and bloodied ankle, and a complete inability to comfortably walk up the flight stairs in order to get out of the building. But other than that we were all good. The technical director was happy. His wife was at the game and he said he would probably get lucky after hitting the winning shot. Needless to say, he was the first one out of the gym. I just hope his knees aren’t too weak to play tonight.

Hoops Chapter One

2007-02-01T07:53:00.000-08:00

There we were, seven valiant warriors. The task laid out before us was daunting, but we faced it like men. Grown men. Unfortunately, that was the problem … we were grown men and standing in our way were kids. There must have been 20 of them …and they must have all been 6-foot-5, 230 pounds … big Germans … yeah, that’s it … the superior race, Arians … and they were snarling.

As we stood across the way, sizing up our opponents, realization came crashing down. This was it. It was time. Time for, intramural basketball.

Time is a funny thing. It is the ultimate life lesson in give-and-take. While time gives you experience, wisdom and hopefully a bigger bank account than you had when you were young, it takes from you your … well … youth. Gone are the days of competitive basketball when the coach would yell at the team to get the ball inside and you knew that meant it was coming to you. Gone are the days when you would annoy, hound and harass your opponent into making mistakes and capitalizing with easy scores. Gone are the days when shear energy and quickness could propel you past any opponent no matter their size or ability. Gone are the days when you could run circles around the other team and never get tired.

… Completely gone!

Yet, together, our small band forged on. We were shorthanded as four of our team members had other obligations. Yet we met our challenge. We proudly wore our badges as “The Over the Hill Gang.” Fortunately three of our teammates were still in their mid to late 20s and able to carry the load as far as superior conditioning is concerned. One member is right at 30 years old, a barrier that the rest of us had eclipsed by several years.

It was brutal. It was bloody. Three minutes in, some of us were screaming for oxygen. But we kept going. After all, what else could we do? We had signed up for this inhumane torture of our own free will. There was no turning back now.

It’s funny how I didn’t remember basketball being a physical game. I remembered the easy baskets. The 20-point, 10-rebound nights. I remembered lay-ups, jump shots, tipped balls and quick, decisive rebounds. I remembered picking and rolling and seeing nothing in your way when you were lucky enough to get the ball. I remembered posting up and going around bigger players or shooting over smaller ones.

But when those assets that once made you a fearsome competitor are gone, reality quickly settles in. It all came screaming back after taking that first solid shoulder in the paint … the bruises, the sore muscles, being shoved, hit and even picked up and slung around by a bigger player because it was the only chance he had at stopping you. I remember the three pair of sports goggled shattered and broken throughout the seasons and the blood streaming down your cheeks and soaking a jersey during a playoff game.

Yet as time ran out, we were still standing. I sat against the cold gymnasium wall resting an ice bag on my upper lip. The bleeding had finally stopped. As we took off our jersey smocks and changed our shoes, I looked at our small group. No, we did not win the game, losing by a narrow, 3-point margin, but what we won was of greater value. We proved that we could do it. We were still standing. We may be breathing hard, but we were still breathing.

Unlike our competitors, we will go home and take some pain medicine. We will flex our joints so they don’t get too stiff. We will try to get comfortable enough to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before getting up and going to work the next day. Our younger competitors don’t understand that just yet, but they will one day. And we, as grown men, will take our place in society. We will continue to work and uphold our responsibilities to our employers and our families. We will be cordial and professional to all those who walk through our office doors. We will hide our wounds and rest our sore muscles … and we’ll be back!

Oh yes! We'll be back!

Random thoughts

2007-01-26T09:46:00.000-08:00

1. How can a state believe in capital punishment, but not spanking?

2. Does anyone besides me absolutely love those new "un pimp your auto" Volkswagon commercials? They make me want to be a fair-skinned, light-haired, blue-eyed, non-rapper who talks with a funny accent. Oh ... I guess I already have four of those criteria covered and people who aren't from around here might already think that I talk with a funny accent. I guess those commercials were made for people just like me.

3. Did y'all know that I can now ocassionally beat Little David in ping pong? I'm so proud.

Committee on Committees

2007-01-23T14:47:00.000-08:00

I have been described as many things: crotchety, old, cantankerous, cranky, and that is just from my sister. Of course, I think she is just jealous because I spend my days hanging out with 18-22 year olds and am in essence way cooler and more up-to-date than she is. She, after all, hangs out with people who are one urine test away from the big house. I will admit, however, that I am not the type who enjoys social events. A friend of mine, who is very much a social animal, says that when he talks to his wife about going to an event, the first thing she asks is if there will be other people there. That’s kind of the way I feel. I’m much more comfortable in small groups where I feel in control of the situations.

So how did I end up on the “hospitality committee” at work? Another “friend” of mine decided it would be moderately humorous to nominate me for the committee. I know that in a job situation like this, we are all expected to serve on various committees, many of which never meet or do anything, but I’m not exactly known as the best party planner for social events. My standard phrase is, ‘I don’t like dealing with people,’ which explains perfectly how I ended up with a career in public relations.

It’s not that I don’t like the other people on the committee. They are all nice people and I get along with them very well, but I just don’t feel that party planning is one of my strengths.

However, as I sat through a meeting of the committee on Monday, I began to wonder how certain things would get done if I hadn’t been there. I went to the meeting expecting it to be a short affair concerning decorating for our winter employee banquet which was only five days away. That is how the meeting started as we sat around discussing things like tool, chargers and votives. I’m still not sure what a votive is or if I even spelled it correctly, but I was shocked when I discovered they were not talking about hardware.

It was during this course of discussion about decorations when someone broached the question: What are we doing for entertainment? Need I remind you we were only five short days from showtime. The reply to the question was even more interesting: Well, I was thinking we could ask Amy, one of our students, to sing.

Now, I am not a party planner, but I do work on deadlines and I understand the need to give people an appropriate amount of time to plan and prepare. This was apparently lost on all but one other member of the committee. We were meeting five days before the event and no one had planned the entertainment.

As we sat there, the group began making grand plans for how Amy could do this or do that at which point I, being the only person in the group who actually knows Amy, said, “Wait a minute. You can’t count on anything yet. This is extremely short notice and Amy might have other plans.”

The concept seemed lost and suddenly I realized why it makes me so angry when people ask me to produce and eight-page table piece and have it printed and ready to go by next Tuesday – they just don’t get it.

As it turns out Amy is free on Saturday. She is a gracious young lady and said she would be glad to perform and she will do a wonderful job. I won’t get to see or hear it, however, as I have somehow managed to double-book myself and I just can’t seem to get away to enjoy the social event of the year. Aww Shucks!

Crime and Punishment

2007-01-17T11:42:00.000-08:00

Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned discipline? My wife is a school teacher in the public school system. It’s little more than a glorified day care and we wonder why our education system is in such a mess. Teachers really have little control over what goes on in the classroom. Unruly students and litigious parents drive the policy making. There’s just no such thing as good, old-fashioned discipline -- unless, of course, you happen to be a coach at a private institution of higher education where you are free to discipline your charges as you feel led.

Our women’s basketball team has been up and down this year which is a vast improvement over the constant state of 'down' to which these young women aspired last season. They are very talented, but at times seem to lack the drive and focus it takes to be competitive. I would say they have more raw talent than most of the teams in our conference, but have yet to actually believe in themselves.

Last Saturday, as an arctic ice storm blanketed our area of West Texas, our young ladies played the No. 2 ranked team in the nation. After falling behind by 18 points at the half, our team fought back and controlled the second half. We lost by six, but the second-half performance was one to remember and hopefully build on.

So how does our team respond to their strong performance? By showing up late for practice on Monday. Not all of them were late, just three. But when you only have eight players to begin with, that is a significant percentage of the team. As a result, the coach wasn’t in a good mood and decided to take it out on his players.

Each week, I make a point to stop by practice and watch for a little bit before interviewing our coaches in order to prepare a special PR related newspaper page for the local media. This day was no different, other than the fact that the coach had something special planned.

I arrived at practice just in time to hear him outline his discipline program, and it was not pretty. To get a better understanding of what the team was required to do, you need to understand our gymnasium. The court is a sunken court, so in essence our gymnasium has two levels with the majority of the seating on the upper level. Seating is on either side of the court and the gymnasium has the capacity to seat 3,000 people.

In his little exercise the coach required the players to sprint up to the second level, around a corner, then sprint up to the top of the upper level seating area. They would then walk across to the next isle, walk down the steps, sprint to the next isle, sprint up the steps, walk over to the next isle, walk down, then sprint all the way to the other end where they entered the seating area, sprint down the steps and run a lap around the court where they would stop and do 20 pushups. They were then required to repeat the process on the other side of the floor, this time doing 20 crunches upon completing the lap around the floor.

… And that was one circuit. The players who arrived on time had to complete five circuits. The players who were late … 27, one for each minute. I sat with the coach and watched as his team began the drill. About 30 minutes into it, the player who finished first, a great young lady with an excellent attitude and work ethic, you’ve met her before, finally completed her five circuits. As they ran, the coach sat there and contemplated the rest of the day. His original plan was to practice from 1-2:30 and give the players a chance to rest their legs after the weekend’s tough games. His new plan was a little more intense. The girls ran from 1-3 p.m., then had to return at 6 p.m. for practice. And after practice, “they are going to run some more,” he said.

While I sat there contemplating mortality and how a drill like this would easily send me to my grave several times over, I realized that the chances of any player showing up late for practice again were exceedingly slim. And if one were looking for a way to adjust someone’s behavioral patterns, this would probably do the trick.

It's a shame you can't do this to ignorant fourth-graders ... or better yet to the parents of ignorant fourth graders. After all, isn't adjusting someone's attitude what punishment is all about?

Holiday Meme

2006-12-13T14:22:00.000-08:00

1. Eggnog or Hot Chocolate? Eggnog, definitely eggnog. My 6-year-old really enjoys it, too, and likes to drink eggnog with her dad. Or she likes to drink her dad’s eggnog … something like that.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? Just puts them under the tree. But for some weird reason, he thinks his elves have to assemble it, in the loving room floor at 1 or 2 in the morning so that it is fully assembled when the child wakes up. Annoying little elves.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? I used to say white, but that’s all anybody does anymore, so I’m going with colored. But it has to be a solid color like all red or all blue. Multicolored lights are still ugly.

4. Do you hang mistletoe? No!

5. When do you put your decorations up? Whenever we get around to it.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? All of them. I even like green bean casserole. Basically, I like to eat during the holidays and it really doesn’t matter if we are having the traditional turkey and dressing or enchiladas, it’s all good.

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? As I have mentioned before in these meme’s I have long since forgotten my childhood. It must have been traumatic.

8. When or how did you learn the truth about Santa? Never believed in Santa. I told you it was traumatic.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Sometimes yes, Sometimes no

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree? Let the kid do it. This year it is decorated, but all the ornaments are on one side. But, hey, I didn’t have to do it.

11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Love it. It makes things more interesting.

12. Can you ice skate? Sure … maybe … I would like to think that I can if I ever tried.

13. Have you ever fallen on the ice? What kind of stupid question is this? Show me someone who hasn’t fallen on the ice and I’ll show you an habitual liar with serious delusions of grandeur.

14. Do you remember your favorite gift? Of course I do. If I didn’t remember it, it wouldn’t be my favorite, now would it?

15. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Family gatherings and time off from work. It’s also pretty cool to see your child’s face light up throughout all the excitement.

16. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? Pumpkin dessert that my wife makes.

17. What is your favorite holiday tradition? I kind of like the rather new tradition that my family has started, having Christmas on New Year’s. It allows us to visit both families during the holidays and the excitement of opening gifts isn’t blown all in one wad.

18. What tops your tree? An Angel.

19. Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Depends. Generally I really prefer giving gifts, but there are those people that I really don’t like that I’m expected to give gifts too. It’s not that I prefer getting gifts from them. I would really prefer that we do away with all the false pretenses and crap like that and just let people know what we really think of them.

20. What is your favorite Christmas Song? “What Child is This” is pretty cool, and I really love Whiteheart’s version of The Little Drummer Boy. It rocks.

21. CANDY CANES!! YUCK OR YUM?? Yuck. What a waste of candy. Does anybody ever eat the whole thing? Or do you just suck on it until the end of it gets really sharp and pointed and then you try to pierce the top of the empty Cool Whip bowl when your throwing it in the trash.

22. What is your favorite Christmas movie? National Lampoons Christmas Vacation is pretty good, and I like Nightmare Before Christmas. Gremlins and Die Hard provide some moments of entertainment. I really don’t like those sappy, disgusting holiday movies.

23. Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman or Charlie Brown? Charlie Brown. I’m so indifferent to the other two that I can’t even think of anything derogatory to say about them.

It Must be Monday

2006-12-04T14:50:00.000-08:00

The day started off like most other days. I woke up.
Then things took a turn for the Monday.

While getting ready for work, my wife comes in and says she needs to leave early. She asks if I can take the child to school. Of course I say sure and begin working on the child to get her all spit polished for her day. While rushing around to put the finishing touches on her, my wife comes in the back door and yells, “I just blew up the garage door opener!”

Our garage door opener has been rather cantankerous lately. We would have to nurse it first thing on a cold morning, working it up and down until if finally opened all the way. We had no such luck today. I ran out to the garage where I was met by a fully smoking door opener. As black smoke billowed out of the motor, I began working on detaching the device so that my wife could get to work. Yes, I know door openers are supposed to have a release button, but if this one does, it is well hidden. I’m guessing it was put in 30 years ago and has finally just worn out. I finally get the arm detached only to find out that the door still won't open because the door hits the arem on the way up. Frustrating.

While working on the door, my child starts laughing.

“Daddy’s got water on his boom-boom.”

Boom-boom, of course, is the descriptor we used for "rear end" when she was really small and it just kind of stuck.

How in the world could I have gotten a wet spot on my rear end? As I was rushing around, dealing with the garage door I had a hunch where the liquid may have originated. Racing into the house to grab my stuff so I can drive my wife to work, I decide to check out my hunch.

Sure enough, I was right. My child had spilled her milk on the living room chair and I had sat in it while brushing her hair. Now, not only was I trying to get my wife to work on time, but I was going to have to return home to wash and dry my pants before I went to work.

We finally decided that I would just drive the family to school in my vehicle. While heading that way, I proceeded to make my daughter cry as I scolded her for not telling anyone that she had spilled her milk. I told her I wasn’t mad for spilling of the the milk, but for not telling anyone and trying to hide it because it was now going to cause me extra time.

After dropping them off at school (my wife is a teacher), I raced back home, disrobed, washed the pants and dried them with the iron, dressed again and headed for the office.

And after all that, I still made it to work on time.

To Proofread, or Not to Proofread?

2006-10-31T09:18:00.000-08:00

We’ve all done it. Anyone who has ever written anything comes to that point where you just want to get it over with and you don’t want to see it anymore. Therefore, you cut corners and fail to give it that one last read, assuming that everything is will be fine, only to find a glaring mistake once it is too late to correct.

Working as a journalist, I have had more than my fair share of mistakes. Many of which are pointed out so graciously by blue-haired, bitter, old women who desperately need a life.

I had to chuckle, however, as I glanced over a story written by a co-worker. I was about to send it to the local media outlets. Our school’s annual “scholarship pageant” will be held within the next couple of weeks. Being a good, faith-based institution we are especially careful not to call it a beauty pageant. In fact, we are so worried about stereotyping that we go way out of our way to not pick the prettiest girl, even if she is also the most deserving. ... but that's a soap box for another post.

Anyway, about four paragraphs down, as the story talked about the talents and abilities of the young ladies it said, "... it will be a touch decision for the judges.”

… ooops!

Silly questions ...

2006-10-25T06:33:00.000-07:00

I stole this from my sister who said I should do this.

1. List two things that are true of you that are not stereotypically true of members of some group that you belong to.
a. I never sleep past 7 a.m., even on weekends, no matter how late I stay up the night before.
b. I cook the majority of my own meals.

2. List two unusual talents that you have.
a. I can wiggle my eyes back and forth really quickly.
b. I can curl my tongue.

3. List two unusual weaknesses that you have.
a. I have a very strong gag reflex. I get the dry heaves while brushing my teeth.
b. There may be others, but I’m not going to tip off my mortal enemies in fear that they may use the information against me.

4. List two unusual things that you aspire to.
a. I want to write a book.
b. … apparently I have very low aspirations for myself …

5. List two words that you use more than most people do.
a. I don’t use any words more than other people. No catch phrases, no identifying statements. Some people think I am rather quiet and don’t talk much at all. They apparently just haven’t found the right topic to get me motivated.
b. …………….

6. List two foods that you dislike and most other people like
a. onions
b. more onions

7. List two strange habits that you have
a. I am not a habitual person … or I’m habitually not a person; something like that
b. I tend to fabricate the nature of my unorthodox behavior.

Inquiring Minds Part II ...

2006-10-17T06:22:00.000-07:00

... And furthermore, just because a mouse has a bigger head, ears, eyes and teeth, does that really make it a new species? I've seen humans like that and we don't classify them as a new species.

Inquiring minds ...

2006-10-12T13:21:00.000-07:00

Breaking news from the world of science!

It appears that a new species of mouse has been discovered on Cyprus. I just read an article on the MSNBC Web site that says, and I quote:

“The "living fossil" mouse has a bigger head, ears, eyes and teeth than other European mice and is found only on Cyprus…"

My question is, if they just found it … it has just recently been discovered … it has been hidden and undetected for however many thousands of years (or perhaps just a few days) … then how do they know it is found “only on Cyprus?”

… just thought I’d ask.

What can we do?

2006-10-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

I should be working right now, but I must admit that the thought of being a slave to anything at the moment is relatively unpleasant.

I’m sure anyone who is half-way human and some of those who aren’t have heard all about the school shootings in the news lately. I don’t know the full stories about what all is going on and I don’t care to know. Watching the news programs disturb me a great deal. I get so tired of hearing all the crap surrounding the idiots in society. I hate hearing all the bad news all the time. And that’s exactly how new stations should promote themselves … “All bad news! All the time!”

To top it off, the reason I don’t really feel like working at the moment is that we had a shooting/non-shooting at the local high school this morning. I haven’t heard any of the facts, but unsubstantiated rumors say that no one was injured and there were no fatalities. Radio reports are saying there were no shots fired at all, but a mother of a high school student just walked past my door after picking up her son who said he heard the shots and hit the ground.

At this point, I don’t know the truth and I don’t really care. It still invokes in me a rage, born from disgust, discouragement and cloud of depression about the state of society. I would love to rid the world of stupid, bad people, but that is not an option. The Christian in me knows that we should love these people, pity their situations and pray for them, but the human in me wants to see them disappear.

Why do I get so upset about these things? My wife is a teacher in the school system. My daughter is a first-grader in the school system. The university for which I work currently has student teachers working in the school system, several of whom I consider friends. And some of those were at the high school this morning.

… As I walked out of the class just the day before, a young lady in the class walked beside me. This class is doubling as an undergraduate level course for traditional students like her, as well as a graduate level class for old(er) people like me. As we exited the building she said in a somewhat light-hearted manner, “I thought we were all going to die today.”

Our class ran a little long and in the process one of the students for the next class came into the room. He was a big guy, a wide body, with a slicked back pony tail and had the general look of someone who might want to thwart the government. I can’t really explain the look other than to say he didn’t really look like the proverbial alter boy. He was wearing an oversized shirt and moderately baggy pants.

“When he came in,” the young lady said, “he had his arms down by his side and I couldn’t see his hands. I wasn’t sure if he was carrying his books or a gun.”

Although she said it in a light-hearted manner, I could tell there was a hint of seriousness about it as well. In moments like that, you realize how much these situations affect the people around us. While that thought never crossed my mind, it had crossed hers and it is apparently something some of our students worry about. And what could I do? I couldn’t reassure her. I couldn’t tell her not to worry because that will never happen here. I couldn’t tell her that if someone did attack our school they would surely choose to shoot up the education building, not the business building.

So what did I do? I reassured her that we had all survived. … Boy, that’s a big help isn’t it.

I guess there’s no real point to this blog entry other than to say I just don’t understand what makes people do this kind of thing. And furthermore, I have no idea what can be done to prevent it.

… I guess that’s why I’m not ultimately in charge. Thank God.

A Sign of the Times

2006-08-24T11:52:00.000-07:00

A sign of the times, or simply a linguistic faux pas? I’ll let you decide.

Last weekend was freshmen orientation weekend out the ol' alma mater. This is a weekend where the kiddies come in, play games, get introduced to various university faculty and staff members, learn the rules and, among other things, participate in various service projects.

One such project involved a large group of newbies and their group leaders, students who volunteered to help teach the fish the ropes, cleaning up an area of road near our town’s cemetery.

Being the PR whore that I am, when I got wind of the project I grabbed my camera and rushed out to make sure the work was properly documented and sent to the local paper. Not that we would ever do something like that just for the public relations value, but you just can’t buy that kind of advertising.

Obviously, I have been out to the cemetery many times. I have several family members buried out there and I drive by it every time I visit my sister. However, I have never run across the family plot for our university’s founder.

He was a doctor who donated land and money to jump start the school back in 1908. He died in 1948 and is buried in the cemetery along with his wife, parents and one child.

As we are currently making plans to celebrate our centennial, one idea is to plan some special junk out at the family plot. Therefore, I thought I should know where it is. Another university employee who has done a lot of research and work on the idea was serving water and crackers to the students who must have felt like they were on a chain gang as they were lining up next to a chain link fence, hoeing and digging up weeds by the bucket fulls, dragging them to the dump truck and sweating profusely in the 90-degree temeperatures on a very humid day. I broke a pretty good sweat just standing there watching.

By the way, who in their right mind would decide that wearing flip-flops to go out and dig up weeds and trash in the hot/humid West Texas sun would ever be a good idea? Freshmen!

Anyway ... I ran across said employee as she completed handing out bottles of water. We struck up a conversation at which point I asked her, “Will you show me Dr. John’s Web site.”

Gives a whole new meaning to “visit myspace,” doesn’t it?

petty poetry

2006-08-22T07:15:00.000-07:00

There once was a man with a shoe.
It smelled like a big pile of poo.
He turned about,
But it knocked him out.
Thank goodness he didn't have two.

Surviving the frontier

2006-08-03T11:49:00.000-07:00

I typically don’t like flying, although I am becoming more accustomed to it. But it’s just not natural. The only thing I dislike more than the thought of being on board a massive passenger jet as it plummets to its fiery doom is the thought of drowning in a cold, unforgiving body of water. I’ve always heard people say that drowning is a peaceful way to die, but how do they know? Have they done it?

I’m not really afraid of flying. I’m secure in my Christianity and I know that all my post-life arrangements have been taken care of. I also realize that if I’m suddenly called home to glory, I won’t have to worry about making the house payment at the end of the month. Life will be much easier when it’s over.

Still, flying is just not natural. (Unless you're a seagull)

However, when duty calls, one must answer. To this end, a co-worker and I boarded a plane for Alaska last Sunday. We had a week’s worth of work ahead of us in the northern most state, a place neither of us had been before.

The flight was relatively uneventful and the airline only lost one piece of luggage. As my co-worker was discussing this at the flight counter at 3 a.m. on a Monday morning in Fairbanks, Alaska, the lady working there pointed out that we should be happy. After all, five of our six pieces showed up. Interesting concept, but apparently she failed to realize that we really wanted all six pieces of luggage.

All in all, though, our experience was good. We ate our fill of reindeer sausage, fish and crab legs. And the fact that there was about 22 hours of sunlight a day didn’t bother us much when we turned in each night.

The scenery around Fairbanks was really interesting. From a distance, the mountains were a gorgeous, imposing image in every direction. But on further inspection … let’s just say I didn’t know that Alaska had that much swampy, marsh land.

And the trees were none too impressive. The landscape was covered with black fir trees. These were skinny, scraggly trees reaching skyward with awkwardly placed limbs and fronds. They are called black fir trees for a reason … because they are black except for some blueish-greenish fronds on the ends of their scrawny little limbs. Apparently, they are one of the few trees that will grow in that cold, marsh land.

Anchorage was a little different. There was more green greenery covering the mountains, and there was, of course, earthquakes.

At roughly 5:20 a.m. on Thursday morning I awoke to the violent shaking of my motel room. The quake nearly rattled me completely off the bed. It didn’t last long, however. By the time I realized what was going on, it was over. My co-worker got online and discovered that it was a 4.9 on the Richter scale, centered about 4 miles from where we were staying.

I can honestly say I didn’t mind the quake so much. It was no big deal. But I was angry that it woke me up so early in the morning. I’m not someone who can just crawl back in bed after I have woken up, especially when I was scheduled to be up in another hour-and-a-half anyway. The problem was that it was 5:20 a.m. on Thursday and I knew I wouldn’t see another bed until we got home at 2 p.m. on Friday.

Another thing one should know about Alaska is that every business of any type is apparently required by law to have a bear on display as you enter through the front door. Our motel in Anchorage had two. I referred to this as the “Bear in a Box” phenomenon, drawing a few chuckles from our Alaskan hosts as we sat down to lunch on Thursday afternoon.

It was at this lunch that I experienced another strange Alaskan phenomenon known to locals as chicken fried steak. Being from Texas, I know darn good and well what a chicken fried steak is. Legend has it that the western cuisine originally found its way onto the plate in Lamesa, Texas, my birth place. Being a connoisseur of this West Texas staple I decided to try the Alaskan variety to see if they do it justice.

Now … don’t get me wrong … I like sausage gravy. My mom used to make it all the time. It is a rare treat to find a restaurant that actually cooks the sausage, then makes the gravy using sausage grease. A lot of places will dump some crumbled up sausage into their already prepared gravy mix and call it sausage gravy, but we all know that is not the real deal. However, it is safe to say that sausage gravy belongs on a biscuit, not on a breaded, deep fried processed meat patty. Apparently, Alaskans are unaware of this notion. The taste sensation was somewhat unique. The mixing of the meats created a sensory overload for my taste buds. It’s not that it was bad, but I just wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be eating. But then, why would expect anything different. This was, in fact, the only time I have ever been served chicken fried steak in a bowl.

The flight home wasn't too bad. I was seated on the back row of the plane. The only seat behind me was the lavatory, a seat that saw plenty of action throughout the nearly seven hour flight. I wish someone would explain to me what the fascination is with airplane lavatories. As soon as the plane is off the ground, people are lining up for the lavatory. Flight attendants are moving serving carts one way or another to make room for the constant stream of people wandering up and down the isle in search of relief. Do these people not use the bathroom before they get on the plane? My idea of a good time is not spending seven hours on a cramped airplane eagerly anticipating my turn in the john. But maybe that’s just me.

I also understand that people flying coach are going to experience a certain level of discomfort during a seven-hour flight. The seats are cramped and there is very little leg room. And I know that people want to lean their seats back and try to relax as much as possible during the flight. However, I would like to believe that most people would be kind and gentle when they prepare to lean back, invading the personal space of the person behind them. Once again, apparently that’s just me.

I’m a little above average in height, making plane rides all the more uncomfortable. The person sitting in front of me apparently had no concern for anyone else’s needs during the flight home. As soon as the wheels left the runway, the older gentlemen slammed his seat as far back as it would go, crashing into my knees. The two people sitting next to me looked in disbelief as a pained expression crossed my face.

No apology. No explanation. No moving the seat back up even a whisker to alleviate the pressure on my joints. But that was OK. I’m sure this gentleman didn’t rest very well because I know he felt it every time I shifted in my seat. Which turned out to be quite often … you know … since the seats were so cramped and uncomfortable.

But we made it back no worse for the wear. I survived the plane flight and all of our luggage made it back, too. Which is a good thing. We will need it next week when we head for Austin.

Just one of the Girls

2006-07-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

Girls …

We’ve all heard the stories about how some prissy young thing refuses to delve into any type of physical activity because she doesn’t want to break a nail. But you never really expect to hear someone say that. I mean, really … it’s just a literary allusion of mythical proportions, isn’t it? Especially in West Texas where little girls grow up dipping Garrett’s sweet snuff and showing livestock at the county fair. Sure, they may dress cute, but when they are pushing a hog or steer around the show ring, you realize there is nothing cute about them. They’re tough.

My last few posts have concerned the 9- and 10-year-old softball team that I was coaching with my brother-in-law. Girls, of course. We were down to the last week of the season, engulfed in tournament play. Each game was crucial. We needed to win if we wanted to keep playing.

I missed the first three games of the tournament due to a work retreat. Our girls won two of those games. After one loss, we were riding the fence. One more loss and we were out of the tournament.

After two days of brainstorming and planning with co-workers in the mountains of New Mexico, we loaded up the vehicles and headed for home, arriving in town about 45 minutes before our teams’ next scheduled game. I quickly changed into my softball duds and headed for the field.

As we were sitting in the dugout, waiting for the game, little KW walked in. This girl is quite an athlete. When the season started it was obvious that we weren’t going to have enough girls to regularly field a team, so another player basically recruited her to play for us.

KW was willing to play every position. She was fast and quick and threw the ball harder than most boys her age. There were times in practice when I would back up first base while she was at shortstop, or I would catch while she worked on her pitching. I was frightened. The girl had an unorthodox motion in which she didn’t really throw the ball, but whipped it across the diamond. Therefore, although the ball generally reached its intended target, it never got there by traveling a straight line. We eventually moved her to first base when she wasn’t pitching because our other first basemen would run away when she tried to throw them the ball. This girl wasn’t scared of anything.

After comparing our haircuts prior to a game (my spiked do was considerably shorter than her lengthy locks), I told her that I would cut her hair like mine if she didn’t pitch better. She dug in and fired off some good pitches, then looked at me and grinned. The other coach nicknamed her “Trouble” because she was inevitably giving someone fits – usually members of the other team. After every game she would run the length of the foul line doing flips, and it was her idea for the team to circle up at home plate and kick dirt on the plate in a show of team unity after every win.

She was scrappy. She was tough. She was sitting in the dugout staring at me with a look of uncertainty clouding her big brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Slowly she uncovered her hands and lifted them up where I could see. There, before my eyes, were perfectly symmetrical nails, gleaming with a clear coat of polish. Not a nick. Not a scratch. Perfectly manicured hands.

“I don’t want to hurt my nails,” she said.

I suddenly realized that amid all the bravado, the talk, the chatter, the steely 9-year-old eyes glaring out from under that visor, that in fact, deep down, this bastion of athletic ability was still a little girl.

A season apart

2006-06-28T13:33:00.000-07:00

I suddenly realized that it has been a while since I have waxed eloquent … or expectorated profusely … upon the annals of the Internet. I guess you could say that I have been a little busy with my class work and coaching softball. And my job really gets in the way of the important things.

Anyway, softball is going great. Our little troopers are 6-1-1 with another big game tonight. Somehow we have managed to work our way toward the top of the league standings. I’m not real sure how this has been accomplished because Jackson and I don’t do a whole lot of coaching. Or at least it doesn’t seem that way.

Jackson has worked diligently with the pitchers and when our girls are on, there is nobody in the league that is any better. As for my role, I’ve determined that I am more of the sports psychologist. I take it upon myself to keep the team loose and focused.

We have two really good pitchers, but they tend to get a little tight when they realize there is another team waiting to hit the ball. It’s amazing how seriously they take the game. You can see the tension on their faces. They don’t want to fail. When they don’t do something exactly perfect, they look at us with big questioning eyes waiting for us to impart wisdom that, quite frankly, isn’t always there. We don’t always have the answers for why the pitch isn’t flying directly over the plate.

Our standard line is to just relax and have fun.

“Karli,” I ask, “Why are you so tight? There is no pressure out here … we’re just going to make you run extra laps if you don’t throw strikes….. Victoria, pretend that’s me behind the plate and pitch like you did in practice the other day when you were trying to hurt me.”

Our team has an interesting dynamic. We live within a predominately Hispanic society. Only two of the seven teams in our league have white coaches. Ours and one other. Of course nobody can stand the coach of the other team because he is a real pain in the rear. He is the type of guy who takes it ultra seriously. His team is there to win and nothing else is acceptable.

To say the least, his girls really don’t have that much fun. They are scared of getting yelled at if they do something wrong. Heck, the last time we played him, he yelled across the diamond at his assistant coach, a high school girl, because he thought she did something that she didn’t do. He spent the whole time complaining about how the umpires were cheating him and about how bad our girls were. We won 8-1.

We get him again tonight and I hope I just enter the game with the right attitude. I want to beat him so bad, but I have to realize that this is not about me or Jackson. This is about our girls having fun and playing hard. If we lose, so be it. Just as long as our team did its best, that is all that matters.

Now, as far as our interesting dynamic is concerned. Like I said the majority of the league is Hispanic. There a few white girls on the pain’s team, one of whom is his daughter. She is just the sweetest kid in the world. After our last game she told my wife, who was her third- and fourth-grade teacher, that she wished she played for our team. That, my friends, is a tragedy. But she saw how our girls were having fun while she and her teammates were constantly under pressure to be perfect. There is no doubt her team is very talented. They may have the most talent in the league. Their problem is that they are too uptight … a reflection of their coach’s attitudes.

Of our 11 girls, six of them are white three are Hispanic and we have the only two black girls that I have seen in the league. We had another Hispanic girl, but her parents pulled her off our team after the first game. Jackson and I got the distinct feeling that they would rather have their child playing for a Hispanic coach. That is perfectly fine with us, but it was interesting to be on this side of discrimination.

I think the cultural mix on our team is great. All of our girls get along and there are no preconceived notions or expectations placed on each other. Our girls are great, and they are smart and have a good understanding of the game.

I have often said that coaches receive way too much credit and way too much blame for how their team performs. I firmly believe that and this experience has verified that notion. There are times in the field that our girls constantly make the right decisions about where to throw the ball, what base to cover or who should be the cut-off on a throw from the outfield. These aren’t things that Jackson and I have spent much time covering in practice, but these kids are really making us look good.

It will be interesting to see how the season turns out. We have four games left, prior to the post-season tournament. I would love to see our girls win the regular season and the tournament, but I know that will be extremely difficult. The great thing about kids at this age is that they are visibly better every time they take the field. The pitching is better, the hitting is better and the fielding is better, so who knows what will happen when the teams meet for the tournament.

However, when it is all said and done, I just hope that our girls can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that they had fun. After all, isn’t that what sports are all about?

Game Two ...

2006-06-05T11:23:00.000-07:00

Youth sports in America.

You never really know what to expect. Happy kids. Unhappy parents. Disgruntled coaches. Unorganized administration. Well, last week we had it all.

Jackson and I have a very simple philosophy when it comes to coaching 9- and 10-year-old girls' softball: Have Fun. This is what we try to instill in our young competitors. To this end, Jackson and I agreed that we should only practice a couple of nights a week, depending on how many games we play that week. We also agree that we shouldn't practice on Saturday or Sunday. God forbid that parents be forced to spend time with their children as opposed to pawning them off on strangers who just happen to be supervising a youth sports team. We also agree that we should keep things simple … just the basics. We aren’t going to try to turn your 10-year-old into Big-Leaguer over night.

Well, last week we had our first parental run in. We scheduled practice on Tuesday and Thursday with a game on Friday. We showed up at our usual time on Tuesday and practiced for about 30-45 minutes while storm clouds rolled into the area.

As we took a break from some fielding practice, I noticed lightning rip through the evening sky to our north. It was a good distance off, but I began to get a little concerned. Soon the low rumble of thunder rolled over us as another streak split the sky.

“Uh, Jackson,” I said. “I think we should quit.”

Another team was practicing nearby and yet another was waiting for our backstop. Those teams showed no signs of quitting because of a little lightening. I however, tend to play it safe around the forces of nature. I figure quitting practice a little early is far better than attending some 9-year-old's funeral simply because we wanted to make sure she could complete that throw to first base.

Jackson and I, along with a couple of parents, watched the clouds for a few minutes and decided it would be best to call off practice. After all, we only had five of our team members there anyway.

As Wednesday rolled around, Jackson and I discussed the weather forecast and its impending effects on Thursday’s practice. We received more than an inch of rain Tuesday night and were scheduled to get some on Thursday as well. Jackson and I made an executive decision to cancel Thursday’s practice and just encourage the girls to be at the game on Friday.

Apparently this didn’t go over well with at least one parent. It amazes me how ultra-competitive and stupid some parents can be. They think that if their child isn’t on the field for several hours every day with coaches berating them and pointing out everything they are doing wrong in an attempt to force them to get better, then their child isn’t properly benefiting from the program.

This, of course, goes against our philosophy of having fun. Heck, Jackson and I don’t even try to make the girls do every little thing correctly. We have a few things that we are focused on. We tend to think that if the girls at this age can do a couple of things correctly they will be a step ahead of the competition at the next level. Therefore, we focus on one or two things that we are trying to get our girls to do instinctively.

Well, one ultra-competitive overlord decided to pull his girl from our team. It’s a shame. She was a nice kid and she was having fun. We let her play the position she wanted to play even though we have other girls who could do a better job. The other girls, however, were happy playing other positions so we left this one where she wanted to be. Dearest mommy and daddy, however, felt that we weren’t doing enough to further her athletic career, so they called the league president and requested that their daughter be placed on another team. They specifically requested two teams, one of which we were scheduled to play on Friday night.

(Big Grin! You know where this is going, don’t you?)

Friday night rolled around. Due to the desertion and two other players not being able to attend for family reasons (divorce can really be ugly), we were left with seven girls. Jackson and I, however, were determined to get our girls a game. This is, of course, what they are here for.

The other team, coached by the league president, had no problem letting our team play with seven players. We had a full infield and only one outfielder who really enjoyed being the only player out there. She loves to run and is pretty good at it.

As mentioned in a previous post, we have been searching for a good pitcher and have found a real fire-baller who Jackson has worked with quite a bit. This girl can actually throw strikes … consecutively. That is utterly amazing for girls this age. Jackson has worked on her mechanics and at our last practice she was firing pitches on a rope. Some pitches even had a little movement on them which you never expect to see at this level.

We handed our pitcher the ball and lined up with our seven girls against their full compliment of players. Our outfielder chased down a couple of balls … our first baseman got a big hit … our third baseman made a great fielding play … and our pitcher mowed down their hitters.

In the end, our rag-tag little group of ballers walked away with a much-deserved 12-2 victory. And Jackson and I couldn’t help but grin.

Afterall, that’s good coaching.

The First Day of School

2006-05-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

I can’t say that I actually remember any of my first days of school. Kindergarten is a hazy fog. I remember my fifth birthday because I thought I would be able to go to school the next day because obviously I was old enough. But they wouldn’t let me in. How disappointing. I can’t even remember with any clarity where we actually lived or what school I did time at for my kindergarten year. I guess I huffed too much paste in the boys’ room and killed off those weak brain cells.

I have no recollection of my first day of junior high, high school or even college. Nothing in particular really stands out about any of those days, except for the first few days of third grade that I spent disease ridden in a hospital bed.

But tomorrow … Tomorrow is the first day of graduate school. I hear stories all the time about people with a family working a full-time job and attending grad school in the evenings. I never really thought I would end up doing that myself. Had I really intended to pursue a graduate degree, I should have started immediately after finishing my baccalaureate degree. That would have been the smart thing, and that's what I tell students now if they are anticipating future education. But let’s face it, when planning a career in journalism, a graduate degree is definitely not required. Heck, a college education isn’t even a prerequisite to get a job as a reporter. (Please feel free to insert your own jokes about pinheaded journalists.)

(Dramatic music builds in the background ) But, alas, as the winds of change blow wistfully across my career paths, I sway toward the lure of higher education, reshaping my will in order to fulfill a higher calling that has been thrust upon me by fate. I must, at long last, return to the classroom where I will face the demons that lie before me in an attempt to climb the next rung on the corporate ladder. (music builds to a crescendo) After all, to advance in the field of higher education one must advance academically as well. (music fades)

OK, so my reaction might be somewhat dramatic, but how would you like to be going back to school when you're 33? It’s easy for me to sit around with college kids and rehash stories of the good old days and offer them advice about which professors to take (I work at my alma mater), and which ones to stay away from. But it’s not so easy to sit here thinking about returning to the classroom and having to take another 37 hours -- 40 if you count the leveling course.

Can I do the work? Sure. That is not the question. The questions surround the time commitment that I will have to make for the next three years. I hope to finish in two, but that may not be an option. I have to work classes around my schedule. The university will foot the bill for four classes (12 hours) a year, but if I want to finish in two years I will have to take an additional two courses, paying for the tuition out of my own pocket. Finding the classes will be easy enough. I work at our main campus and we have three other campuses within an 80 mile radius where courses are offered, as well as our virtual campus that houses all our online courses.

Yet, the fact remains that I am a moderately impatient person. Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not one of mine. I will start my first class tomorrow and want to complete the whole degree within a year. After all, as a full-time student I regularly took between 30 and 35 hours a year, not counting summer terms. It’s at this point that I have to tell myself, ‘Idiot! Those weren’t graduate level courses.’

Oh well, since this first course is a leveling course (junior/senior level) I can use it to get back into the swing of things. I assume I’ll have to spend some time in the library – yuck! I never liked spending time in the library. They are always so depressingly quiet, and librarians have a tendency to be strange. But I will be better able to judge how things will work once I am back in the classroom. Then perhaps I can double up during some terms and try to finish in two years, culminating in a magnificent graduation ceremony where I will be decked out in colors.

And the most important thing about earning a graduate degree? Once you have a decorative robe, you no longer have to feel like a piece of trash wearing a Hefty bag while marching in the convocation line with all the Ph.Ds during the year’s first chapel service.

After all, we must have our goals.

The Seventh Inning Stretch

2006-05-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

There we were, standing in the dugout. The hot West Texas sun was beating down on our pale, sun-burn prone skin. There was no shade on our side of the field, but that was OK. It was the first softball game of the season and we were just excited to be there. Of course, by “we” I’m referring to myself, the other coach and the six girls who were wondering if we would have enough people to field a team.

Eventually, two more girls showed up and we knew, by rule, we were allowed to play with eight. Our young warriors warmed up on the sideline as Jackson and I penciled in a lineup and batting order.

This was it … the moment of truth. If you have never experienced 9 and 10-year-old girls softball, then you haven’t … well, I’d like to say that you haven’t lived, but that would just be blatantly incorrect. What I should say is that if you haven’t experienced 9 and 10-year-old girls softball, then you haven’t experienced 9 and 10-year-old girls softball, because quite frankly, there is nothing else like it.

The fact that I’m helping coach this team is amazing in and of itself. But then again, Jackson needed someone who knew how to keep a scorebook; something I can do in my sleep should the need ever arise. Jackson’s daughter, my niece, is on the team. He needed help coaching and apparently I was the logical choice.

For someone who generally hides when there are large or small groups of children around, coaching youth league softball isn’t exactly a dream come true. However, since it is sports related, I have been able to tolerate it so far. The kids aren’t that bad and if you can keep them busy doing stuff, they don’t really have time to annoy you. I can definitely think of worse things to do.

Anyway, the game was nothing spectacular. In fact, it was anything but. If you play pitcher or catcher in this league you see a lot of action. If you play anywhere else, you can use the time to finish your homework, check your email on your palm pilot, talk on your cell phone or brush up on your psyche-out chants if you don't feel like lugging your electronic equipment onto the field with you. This is apparently why you hear singing and chanting coming from the dugouts of high school softball teams. All those girls must have played youth league softball where they never had anything else to do.

As a sports reporter, I once talked to a high school softball player and applauded her and her teammates for not being like every other team in the state which found it necessary to rattle off those annoying sing-songy chants throughout the entire game. She agreed, thinking it was kind of stupid.

At her next game, however, the team decided to start chanting. I was sitting near the dugout taking pictures and keeping a score book. When I heard the sudden noise I looked over at her, giving her one of those “what-the-heck” kind of looks. To her credit she was not taking part in the singing. She returned my gaze then promptly turned around and told her teammates to stop it because it was embarrassing. I had to like that girl.

At our Tuesday evening game, however, our young kids had nothing better to do since the game really didn’t involve them. They worked on their songs and chants while watching the grass grow in the outfield. The pitcher and catcher tossed the ball back and forth in a failed attempt to get the other team out.

All-in-all it was a stunning tale of inadequacy as the two teams combined to score 17 runs on 2 hits in two innings of play. The game was called when the time limit expired.

That’s right, 17 runs (we lost 9-8) on 2 hits. There were a grand total of 27 bases on balls issued. Neither team managed to get three outs in any particular inning. Due to league rules you are only allowed a certain number of batters per inning. When that number had batted, the inning was over.

To our credit, our team got both hits. And our pitcher did manage to strike out a couple of batters in the second inning, but walking 27 batters doesn’t make for exciting softball.

Needless to say, at practice today, our girls are going to work on pitching.

What's in a name

2006-05-10T08:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I have finally decided to take the plunge. I am returning to the classroom in search of that elusive master’s degree. I have kicked around the idea for several years but continued to have hang-ups concerning what degree to pursue.

My undergraduate degree is in communications. Let’s face it, working in the communications field is not that difficult. While it helps to have a degree it is not required. And furthermore, a graduate degree in communications will do little good unless you want to teach in that field.

My other option was along the same lines – a master’s degree in education. Once again I don’t really want to teach, but I could have specialized in English and taught creative writing or something like that at a high school level. Lord knows an alarmingly large number of high school students definitely need a little help learning how to write. Some are quite eloquent. Others, however, couldn't write the sentence “See Spot run” if you spotted them “see” and “run.”

There is another big drawback to pursuing a master’s degree in education at my university, dealing with certain personnel issues. I don’t think I would be able to stomach taking classes from certain individuals. I'll just leave it at that.

But I had an epiphany the other day as I sat in a small office in our business building. Our virtual campus is housed in the business building and I was talking with the director of the VC when the Division Chair of our business department wandered in.

At this point I have to side track to tell you the name of the Division Chair. I promise you that this is absolutely, positively, 100 percent true. I could not make this up no matter how hard I tried.

Our Division Chair is a military man complete with short, cropped hair and demanding demeanor, although he is very good natured and has a good sense of humor. He grew up in a small town 20 miles east of here and was always known by his middle name – Brian or Byron or something like that. It wasn’t until he stood before a large congregation of students at Texas A&M University as a freshman that he realized how humorous his name really is. Our budding young Division Chair was required to stand before this large group and introduce himself. As he walked up on stage, he decided to use his name as it appeared on all of his official documents. This proud, young, military man stood before the group and introduced himself as Otto. B. Schacht. (last name pronounced Shot). To top it off, he married a woman named Madonna.

Needless to say this man is good for a story or two.

Anyway as we were talking I suddenly realized that a degree in management would be perfect for me. I have since checked on all the criteria and will soon be registered to pursue a master’s of art in management.

Of course, I just want to be known on all my official documents as Jonathan R. Petty, MAM.

Cool kid

2006-05-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

Isn't she cool?

My daughter is a regular little fashionista. I don't really know if "fashionista" is a word, but that is the way I describe her. She has a definite sense of style, be it wearing cowboy boots with a miniskirt, or matching her shoes and hair ribbons. She does an excellent job for a 6-year-old.

She obviously loves pink, but has been known to wear other colors. A while back she decided she wanted to wear her black mini skirt. I said OK as long as she picked out some other clothes to go with it. She came back with black shoes, black tights and a black long-sleeve t-shirt with a pink lace spider emblazoned on the front. She showed them to me and asked if they would go good together. Even I knew enough to say yes.

Once she was all decked out with her hair fixed the way she wanted it (she's good about telling us if she wants a pony tail, dog ears, half pony tail or leave it down) she looked at herself in the mirror and said, "(Aunt) Rachel would like this outfit."

I wonder what she'll be like when she's a teenager.

Because I have nothing better to say

2006-04-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

Accent: Texan/southern. It has gotten worse over the years. When I was in college and spent a lot of time working in radio; I had very little accent. I had taken classes on pronunciation and things like that. I actually enjoyed speaking properly. But, alas, I fell off the annunciation wagon and am drowning in my cultural norm.

Booze: No thanks. Voluntarily tried a sip of non-alcoholic beer once and it was disgusting. I managed to make it through college without drinking which was quite an accomplishment since my roommates and friends “tied one on” every once in awhile.

Chore I hate: Mopping. I wish someone would invent self-cleaning floors.

Dog or Cat: Cat. Two in fact, Bogey and Bacall.

Essential Electronics: Television/DVD player

Favorite Cologne: I’ve never been all that interested in cologne. I currently use Old Spice body spray, however. Glacial Falls is my favorite.

Gold or Silver: Unfortunately, silver does not work with my coloring, so I have to go with gold, although I am currently wearing a silver watch and a silver chain. But I could never pull off silver framed glasses. They just look bad on me.

Hometown: I was born in “The Table,” but I don’t really have a hometown. I guess I claim wherever I am currently living as my hometown.

Insomnia: Only when I can’t sleep. Just kidding. I have never really suffered from insomnia. For some reason, I have always been able to successfully shut off my brain. And of course, some may say that is its constant state.

Job Title: Assistant Director of Communications. Only because a few years ago someone thought “communications” was more politically correct than “public relations.” I personally tell people that I am a professional butt kisser. I earned my B.A. in B.S.

Kids: One 6-year-old girl. She’s growing up too fast. She will graduate from kindergarten in a few weeks. Of course I tend to agree with Mr. Incredible on his assessment of elementary school graduations … “They keep finding new ways to celebrate mediocrity.”

Living Arrangements: I own my home (sort of) where I live with my wife and child. My wife wants another kid, but I don’t. I tell people we have a very expensive form of birth control … it’s called a two bedroom house.

Most admirable trait: **Gee, I have so many!** I don’t know if it’s admirable, but it’s fun. I consider myself and “equal opportunity insulter.” I pick on everybody from superiors to subordinates. Punching peoples’ buttons is a hobby of mine.

Number of sexual partners: One … but don’t tell my wife … and why are you asking anyway?

Overnight stays in the hospital: One. I was diagnosed with diabetes when I was 7 years old. I gave myself my first shot. By my estimation, I have given myself more than 21,000 shots since then. “Look, Ma! No track marks!”

Phobias: Scared of heights and small cramped spaces. So you can imagine that I’m not a big fan of flying. It’s just not natural.

Quote: See Mr. Incredibles' quote above about "celebrating mediocrity."

Religion: Christian

Siblings: None of consequence. But I do have an older sister. I tell people my parents quit when they finally got it right.

Time I wake up: 6 a.m. weekdays and no later than 7:30 on the weekends. I get a back ache if I lay in bed too long. Plus the 6-year-old is a pretty good weekend alarm clock. She has to have her Saturday morning McDonald’s.

Unusual talent or skill: I can wiggle my eyes back and forth really quickly. I have never met anyone else that can do that, so I don’t know what it looks like. I would try to do it in a mirror, but I can’t really see anything when I do it. I’ve been told it looks weird.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: Onions. Vile, filthy, abomination of the vegetable kingdom

Worst habit: I bite my nails

Yummy foods I make: I make really good steak burritos of my own design. No onions, though.

Zodiac sign: Scorpio.

Somebody wet my pants

2006-04-20T14:10:00.000-07:00

You know you are in West Texas when you walk into a room and the only topic of conversation is the rain, and you experience the childlike exuberance with which those participating embrace the topic.

Needless to say, it rained here this afternoon ... a much needed rain. There was a nice, slow sprinkle falling when I left my office for lunch. Just enough to dampen the atmosphere and make the ceramic tile in our entry way extremely slick. This is always entertaining since I work in the building where old folks with money come to leave donations. We just hope they fall on the way out after they have already dropped off their checks.

Coming back from lunch, the rain had all but stopped. I had an appointment in the science building on the other side of the campus, which for our small campus is roughly the equivalent of four city blocks. I decided to walk and breathe in the fresh air.

Upon leaving the science building, there was still barely a sprinkle. I thought I would head over the gymnasium to pick up some information from a couple of coaches. The gym is sort of on the way back to my office, if you take the circuitous route and sneak up on my building from behind, but it is still at least three blocks from the science building.

I hike to the Hutch through the damp afternoon air, watching the grass turn green before my very eyes. I spend about an hour in the gymnasium talking to various head coaches, one of whom was just named golf coach of the year in our region. That’s fairly significant since four of the top eight teams (including us) in the country are in our region.

As I polish off the interview and gently place my notepad and recorder in my pocket to protect it from the dampness and head back up stairs and toward the outer doors, I suddenly remember what this part of the world is famous for during this time of year … momentary torrential downpours.

… and I got wet.

To hum? Or not to hum?

2006-04-13T09:23:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those moments where you suddenly realize that you are in public, doing something that could be potentially embarrassing? I had such a moment yesterday while traipsing through Wal Mart after supper.

The moment was conceived Tuesday evening as I watched a few minutes of American Idol. Why I would ever admit to this in a public forum baffles me, but nothing else was on and I had a headache and didn’t feel like doing anything constructive with my time. Anyway, for some unknown reason, one of the songs periodically raced through my moderately uncluttered brain all day Wednesday.

However, making your way to the fitting rooms, where your wife is helping your daughter try on some new pants, by walking through the women’s underwear area is probably not the best time or place one should be overheard humming or whistling the tune to Queen’s “Fat Bottom Girls.”

Time for a meme

2006-04-06T07:21:00.000-07:00

I stole this from another blog. I just thought I'd throw it out here for the heck of it.

1) Who is the last person you high-fived? My daughter last night at supper.
2) If you were drafted into a war, would you survive? Probably not. I would get tired of waiting for the know-it-alls to figure everything out and would eventually try to do it all on my own.
3) Do you sleep with the TV on? Only when napping.
4) Have you ever drunk milk straight out of the carton? Yes.
5) Have you ever won a spelling bee? On.
6) Have you ever been stung by a bee? No, but I have been stung by wasps several times.
7) How fast can you type? I haven’t timed myself since high school, but I imagine it is faster than the 30 words a minute I could do then.
8) Are you afraid of the dark? Only when I’m scared.
9) Eye color – Sometimes blueish, sometimes greenish.
10) Have you ever made out at a drive-in? No.
11) When is the last time you chose a bath over a shower? Never. I only take a bath if a shower is not an option.
12) Do you knock on wood? All the time.
13) Do you floss daily? No, but I knock on wood, so my teeth are safe.
14) What happened to question #14? I don’t know, but this is how it read when I stole it off of someone else’s blog.
15) Can you hula hoop? The convex nature of my abdomen is not conducive to the curvature of the hoop.
16) Are you good at keeping secrets? Yes … well, the important ones.
17) What do you want for Christmas? A concave abdomen.
18) Do you know the Muffin Man? Yes, I snacked on his immediate family early last week.
19) Do you talk in your sleep? No.
20) Who wrote the book of love? Never read the book. I went straight to the Cliff’s Notes.
21) Have you ever flown a kite? In West Texas, you don’t fly kites … you kind of throw one up there and hang on for the ride.
22) Do you wish on your fallen lashes? No.
23) Do you consider yourself successful? Somewhat.
24) How many people are on your contact list of your cell? Five. However, I carry a small contact card in my wallet with several more phone numbers on it.
25) Have you ever asked for a pony? Not that I remember.
26) Plans for tomorrow? Work, then take my daughter to McDonald’s for supper since my wife will be out of town.
27) Can you juggle? As a matter of fact, yes I can.
28) Missing someone now? No, I found them all yesterday.
29) When was the last time you told someone I Love You? This morning.
30) And truly meant it? This morning.
31) How often do you drink? Whenever I’m thirsty, but never alcohol.
32) How are you feeling today? Partly cloudy.
33) What do you say too much? I try to maintain a certain level of eloquence with my conversational skills, refraining from repetition of colloquialisms or phrases.
34) Have you ever been suspended or expelled from school? No. But don’t ask me if I should have.
35) What are you looking forward to? Saturday.
36) Have you ever crawled through a window? Yes. But only because I locked myself out of the house.
37) Have you ever eaten dog food? No. But my sister has.
38) Can you handle the truth? I prefer the truth.
39) Do you like green eggs and ham? Of course.
40) Any cool scars? I have a small scar on my left index finger that I got while wrapping a Christmas present for my grandmother when I was but a wee child. We bought her kitchen knifes.

Now it's your turn. I expect full disclosure.

Didn't Jesus blow up parliament?

2006-03-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

I saw an interesting movie last week. While on our mini-vacation, the wife and I ditched the offspring and headed out for dinner and a movie. Since my wife went shopping earlier in the day I was allowed to choose the movie. And what should a self-respecting, red-blooded, American male choose? … V for Vendetta, of course.

The movie is based on a graphic novel, or glorified comic book if you will. It is about a “terrorist” who decides it is time to stand up against the oppressive government. I didn’t know much about the movie going in. I had just seen a few commercial trailers and thought the guy wearing the mask and black cape looked really cool wielding his vast array of cutlery.

On the way into the theatre, I took a quick peak at the movie poster on which was a picture of the anti-hero with the statement “People should not fear their government; governments should fear their people.” Interesting concept.

As the movie plays, it is made clear that V, the title character, is not a person, but an idea and as he says, “People die, but ideas never do,” or something along those lines. V is fighting against an oppressive British government of the future that strikingly resembles Hitler’s Nazi regime of the past.

Not to give too much away, but the movie ends with British Parliament being blown to pieces as V’s idea spreads throughout the masses. It is clear that V is not a person, but he is every person.

It was a great movie. I obviously don’t condone blowing up the government. That would just be stupid. But at some point we all have to take a stand for what we believe is right. If that means bucking the status quo, then so-be-it.

However, as I was channel surfing Monday evening I ran across a know-it-all politico who was lashing out against the movie. It was so pathetically obvious that he was a conservative, right-wing Republican spewing rhetoric concerning the liberal Hollywood media. He talked about how horrible the movie was and what kind of bad message it is sending to high school and college students everywhere. He admitted that he sat through it with his two boys … at which point I was thinking, ‘Idiot! Why did you take your boys? It’s obviously not a movie for children.’

Then this faux genius said something that just blew me away … “This movie says that blowing up Parliament is good and Christianity is bad.” I think my brain stopped working for a moment in an attempt to connect with this man on his level.

I couldn’t believe that those words actually fell out of his mouth. I was stunned that he could even begin to draw that conclusion from this movie. It had nothing to do with Christianity. The only thing obviously religious about the film was the fact that one of the people V was after was a church bishop who had apparently strayed from his religious vows. There was no discussion of Christianity in any way, shape, form or fashion. There are some religious overtones as far as martyrdom and sacrifice are concerned, but in no way does this movie portray Christianity in a negative light of any kind.

It is a story about a man who represents everyone, fighting against government leaders who are oppressive and wrong in the way they treat people. He spends his time fighting small battles while cultivating followers and telling them the truth in order to get them to understand until the final climax through which there is a rebirth of the vision and ideals for which he has sacrificed.

Huh … Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? I wonder if mister religious right had read any of his Bible lately.

A golfing we shall go

2006-03-21T07:45:00.000-08:00

Spring Break. You can always count on the weather to change around here during Spring Break. Last year, we got six inches of snow. This year we had to settle for rain. It was much-needed rain, however, so no one is really complaining.

My goal during Spring Break was to play a few rounds of golf. I originally had anticipated getting in three rounds, but windy, cold weather on Wednesday morning put a quick end to that.

On Thursday, we left for the in-laws. We headed out early in order to make good time. It is nearly a six hour drive and we needed to be there by noon. We stopped for breakfast about an hour down the road where we ran into Spooky and her crew. They were headed the opposite direction on I-40. After a quick bite to eat, it was back in the van and down the road.

We reached my in-laws in pretty good shape and immediately … before I even unloaded the van … my father-in-law, brother-in-law and myself grabbed our clubs and headed for the golf course. I knew it would be an interesting round because I had just spent six hours driving. There’s no real way to loosen up while buckled into a bucket seat, speeding down the highway.

I was right. My golf game started off blazing. I birdied the first hole and parred the second. After two holes, I was 1-under par and three strokes up on the pseudo dad who is generally a much better golfer than I am. That is when things changed. I suddenly remembered that I completely suck at golf. I triple bogied the next hole and things just went down hill from there.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I wasn’t alone. None of us were playing particularly well that day. In fact, I won a hole with a nine. My father-in-law scored a 10 after hitting two balls out of bounds and my brother-in-law quit the hole before finishing, forcing him to take one more stroke than the worst score … an 11. Golf can be an ugly game. I think some people wear funny looking pants and gaudy shirts just to take away from the fact that their golf game is so ugly.

The next day, my father-in-law and I played a different course. I didn’t have any pars or birdies, but all-in-all I played better. Most of my score card consisted of bogey or double-bogey. There were only three holes which were worse than that.

And while I didn’t win the game either day, nor did I come close to breaking 90, golf is a game that always gives you just enough to keep you coming back for more. After all, I was the only one to birdie a hole during the two days.

I wonder if I can sneak out to the course this weekend …

Breaking the Spring

2006-03-14T13:10:00.000-08:00

Aaaahhhh! Spring Break!
And what exactly does that mean? It means I sit here at my desk with little or nothing to do. The few miniscule jobs that I do have to accomplish can’t really get done because the people I need to talk to are not on campus. The students have disappeared as well, so things really get boring around here. Not to mention that basketball season has ended and the few weeks post basketball are always the most depressing time of the year for me.

However, I am only working two days this week. I decided to take the rest of the week off to spend some extra time with the family. My mini-vacation begins on Wednesday morning. I am getting up at the crack of dawn and heading out to the golf course where I expect to get my rear end waxed by a local math professor. He doesn’t have to work at all this week because the faculty gets spring break off. Faculty …. Thhhpppptt! Just wait until I start spreading rumors about him being into rear-end waxing.

After losing miserably to the Ph.D., I will load the family in the van and we will make the five and a half hour drive to Norman, Okla., to visit the in-laws, where I will no doubt get my hind quarters whipped again on the golf course by my father-in-law.

It’s tough being a golfer. Actually I don’t claim to be a golfer, I just tell people that I enjoy an occasional walk in the park. But, alas, I have taken up a hobby for which I am not well-suited.

It’s tough because I am an ultra-competitive person. I am not a sore loser and I am not a poor winner. I don’t run around and gloat (excessively) when I beat people at things, and I don’t sit in a corner and sulk when I perform poorly. However, I hate losing. I have learned to deal with it because I am a bad golfer.

The sad thing is, the only real competition you have on the golf course is yourself. It’s not like the other guys are playing defense. It’s just you, your club and some dimpled little ball that laughs maniacally as sails out of bounds. But what does it say when you are such a bad golfer that you can’t even beat yourself?

Well, I’ll have fun trying. I might be able to get in as many as three rounds of golf this week. I don’t think I’ve ever played three rounds in one week. I can’t afford it. The stupid game costs way too much. And then you have to buy all the special equipment: gloves, shoes, clubs, balls (because I always seem to lose mine), tees and whatever else you think might improve your game.

To be perfectly honest, however, I don’t wear golf shoes and I still play with the first set of clubs I ever bought. They cost me $75 used and I got them when I was in college so many years ago. I can’t bring myself to invest in the new technology which would supposedly improve my game. I tell people I’m not good enough to justify spending that much money on the sport. Of course, if I spent that much money, I might be a little bit better.

Oh well, I just try to swing easy, hit it straight and keep my goal simple: 90 … all I want to do is break 90. Is that too much to ask?

How uncouth

2006-03-08T06:19:00.000-08:00

You will sink in a mire. You like to think you're

normal, but deep down you really just want to

strip off your clothes and roll around in

chicken fat.

What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
brought to you by Quizilla

Happy Birthday

2006-03-06T06:35:00.000-08:00

“Daddy,” she said. In recent weeks, she has gone from calling her parents Mama and Da-da to mommy and daddy. “You have to say ‘Happy Birthday to me!’”

“Happy Birthday to me,” I replied.

Amidst the chaos that ensued as she tried to explain how I had misunderstood her statement, I managed to get a hug and wish the offspring Happy Birthday. My 5-year-old teenager turns 6 today.

We had her birthday party yesterday, but it has been made quite evident to us that today will likewise be a day of celebration. She has made a point to tell her teachers and anyone else at school that her birthday is on March 6. She is fully expecting to be wished “Happy Birthday!” during the morning announcements. Mommy is bringing cupcakes to the class later today, and tonight, it has been requested that we dine a Chili’s so she can have Kraft Macaroni and Cheese served in a fancier bowl than what we have at home. She also wants us to tell them that today is her birthday and she is expecting them to sing to her.

Six years seems like a long time, but the years have flown by. The offspring loves to reminisce about being born and how her toes were cute. She talks about being shown to mommy and being washed and cleaned by the doctors. She remembers that Mimi and Papa and Mamaw and Papaw were all there as well as aunts and uncles and other friends.

That’s quite a memory on the girl, but even her memory isn’t perfect. She still has questions about the day she was born. As we drove to a pizza joint after her party yesterday, the youngster piped up from the back seat …

“Daddy,” she asked, “did you like me when I was a baby?”

Everyone needs attention

2006-02-22T14:28:00.000-08:00

This has been an unusually busy week for me – and it’s only Wednesday. This weekend is homecoming at the old alma mater so that will keep me a little busy, but it won’t be too bad. Most of my stuff will involve athletic activities which I enjoy anyway.

But early this week – like yesterday – I was busy with other activities. It was TAKS testing day in Texas and for those of you who know, the TAKS test is one of the most moronic, idiotic, imbecilic excuses for a government regulated exam that anyone could have come up with.

I can just see the unintelligent legislator who happened across this idea … “Let’s take our entire education system, boil it down into one test and force our children at threat of life, limb and well being to complete this test that doesn’t even make sense to the adults who look at it. And furthermore, everything that every teacher in the entire state of Texas does or says throughout the course of a school year is based solely on the outcome of this one test. And whether or not they are competent enough to teach shall be determined by how some uncaring, degenerate of a third grader performs.”

Morons!

Anyway, Tuesday was TAKS day which means all the kids in kindergarten, who surprisingly do not have to take the test, need to be shipped out of the school so they won’t disturb those who are taking the test.

My 5-year-old teenager, being of kindergarten age, was being shipped to the metropolitan area 45 miles south to take part in a tour of the Science Spectrum.

I was fortunate enough to be able to accompany my child. Parents of various children went on the trip and were asked to be responsible for children as they toured the facility and played with the various science experiment type stuff.

Everyone who knows me knows how much I enjoy the company of small children. Those who don’t know me should understand that I have been barred by my wife from ever becoming an elementary school teacher because my idea of discipline is to take the first youngster who acts up in a class, bleed him, hang him in the corner and let him drip. I guarantee the rest of the students will behave accordingly for the entire year. Unfortunately, some people would look unkindly on my methods of discipline and might even consider them somewhat extreme.

As we entered the Science Spectrum I noticed that the students in my daughter’s class had selected buddies for the day. My child’s buddy was a young girl who is known to be a trouble maker. My child, God bless her, has chosen to befriend this girl because many of the other students want nothing to do with her.

Therefore, the students I was responsible for were my daughter and her friend. The assistant teacher looked at me apologetically when asking if I would take responsibility for her.

I said I would and you know what? I didn’t have a single problem with her. It was simply a matter of proper communication.

Sure, she got a little rambunctious at times but when she threatened to hit me I calmly looked her in the eye and explained that if she it me, it was only fair that I get to hit her back. When she was bothering me at another point, I told her that if she didn’t stop it, I was going to pull her hair.

“No you won’t,” she challenged.

“Yes I will,” I said matter of factly.

“But I’m just a kid,” she said.

“So,” I replied. “That’s still no excuse to be mean to me. Therefore, if you are mean to me, I am going to be mean to you.”

Apparently she had never had an adult, much less an adult male, explain things to her. Perhaps she doesn’t have much structure in her life. I didn’t get mad at her. I didn’t yell at her. I calmly just told her what I was going to do and made her believe it.

At other times, if she started to get a little wild, I would simply change the subject and talk to her about other things. She would participate in the conversation and would refrain from acting up.

I had no problem with her and all in all we had a pretty good day. As we sat through a movie in the Science Spectrum’s Omniplex, she fell asleep while leaning against my arm. And she even made sure to run over and give me a hug before they loaded the bus to go back to school.

Although I typically cringe at the thought of being around children who don’t belong to me, I also kind of feel sorry for those kids who aren’t given a chance. Everyone expects her to be a trouble maker when really, she isn’t a bad kid. She just needs someone to pay attention to her.

Toughest girl in the 14th grade

2006-01-26T06:05:00.000-08:00

There are several reasons I prefer women’s athletics to men’s. One reason is the simple fact that in post-game interviews, girls can generally form complete sentences. A little over a year ago, I interviewed a player for a game preview I was working on for the local paper. When asked what the team needed to work on, she replied, “We need to work on our defense and taking care of the ball. But we are getting there, progressively.”

Simply adding that word “progressively” changed that from a typical jock sentence into a prime example of what differentiates female athletes from men in most cases. I mean, when is the last time you heard a jock use any word that is more than two syllables? Much less, use it correctly.

Another reason I enjoy women’s athletic is because they are less like to showboat, show off, gloat or any of the other crap that ticks me off. I can’t stand all that extra curricular garbage that guys, for some reason, think makes them look cool. Their team may be down by 20 points, but if one of them dunks the ball they have to tug on their jersey, play to the crowd or make some sort of hand gesture that nobody understands as they perform their various renditions of the “look-at-me” dance.

I will admit that I have seen women do the same thing, but on a much lesser scale. And when women do it, it’s really stupid. But for the most part, the female athletes celebrate with simple high 5s for a teammate, or they just run back and play defense.

The same can be said for injuries. Guys always play it up, looking for sympathy. One of my biggest pet peeves is when an athlete supposedly gets hurt, wallows around on the floor like he is dying, takes an extended period of time getting up and then has to be helped off the floor only to return to the game after a few minutes. I literally told a high school athlete one day after witnessing such an incident that if I ever saw him do that I was going to personally kick his hind quarters. That young man went on to play basketball for Bob Knight at Texas Tech University and to the best my knowledge never did anything like that.

Female athletes typically don’t do that. Unfortunately, I have seen some serious injuries at which time the athlete is lying on the court in pain and has to be carried off. But those were legitimate injuries, not a jammed finger or ingrown toenail. For the most part, female athletes would prefer to get off the floor and deal with the minor injuries somewhere else.

Case in point: Last Saturday our women’s basketball team was playing against the No. 10 ranked team in the country. Our team has been struggling through conference play this year, but the young ladies valiantly took the court.

Midway through the second half, a sophomore guard who had just been reinserted into the game waved at the coaches to take her out. Not understanding why she had tired so quickly the coaches sent a player to check in for her. However, since there was no apparent rush, this player stayed in the game and continued to play hard for another trip down the court.

When the whistle finally blew to stop play, this young lady made her way over the bench, looking at her hand. The pinky finger on her left hand was sticking out sideways at an angle. She looked at her finger, looked at her coach and said, “I think it’s broken.”

On Tuesday, the young lady had surgery to repair the finger that had not only broken, but had twisted. Needless to say, she will miss several weeks while the finger heals. For some reason, healthy hands are key when playing basketball.

But as she played on with a broken finger and then came off the court, there was not a complaint, not a whimper, no wallowing around on the floor or jumping up and down at mid-court wanting everyone in the gymnasium to "look at her" … she just kept playing.

Tough kid, and that’s why I appreciate women’s athletics.

Meme

2006-01-25T11:21:00.000-08:00

I stole this from mi hermana, Spooky.

1) When you looked in the mirror first thing this morning, what was the first thing you thought? Huh.
2) How much cash do you have on you? $1.05 all in dimes and nickels – just in case I need a coke at the bookstore later today.
3) What's a word that rhymes with TEST? vest.
4) Planet? Neptune.
5) Who is the fourth person on your missed calls? I don’t miss calls, I just don’t answer the phone.
6) What is your favorite ring on your phone? Whichever one doesn’t sound like everybody else’s.
7) What shirt are you wearing? An off-white polo style with the university logo on it.
8) What do you label yourself as? Right! (as in correct not conservative. Although I am conservative. I’m just not right-wing conservative except on the third Tuesday of every month.)
9) Name the brand of shoes you've recently worn. Ummm... I have no idea. They were brown? (stole the answer from Spooky, also.)
10) Bright room or dark room? Dark or dim. It’s better for doing graphic work on the computer.
11) What were you doing at midnight last night? Sleeping.
12) What did the last text message on your phone say? Oh Please, I have better things to do than type on a telephone keypad.
13) Where is your nearest 7-11? Big Flat City, 45 miles south of here. (Again, same as Spooky’s, but we do have other convenience stores in the area.)
14) What's a saying you say a lot? I have no catch phrases. I try to vary my responses to things.
15) Who told you they loved you last? Wife.
16) Last furry thing you touched? Ghost kitty.
17) How many drugs have you done in the past three days? Let’s see … I shoot up three times a day and take one pill. Throw in that allergy medicine I took last night and I’m all good.
18) How many rolls of film do you need to get developed? Two, although I doubt that they are still good. I think I have had them around since I graduated from college roughly 10 years ago.
20) Your worst enemy? Stupid people … or administrators who are pathetically slow about doing anything other than holding uneventful meetings.
21) What is your current desktop picture? A picture of a small castle in Ireland. The photo was taken by a former student I know who went there on a study tour last summer.
22) What was the last thing you said to someone? "...I’m not sure who is supposed to pay for that pregnancy ad!"
23) If you had to choose between a millions bucks and being able to fly, which would you choose? Flying. If I could fly, I’d make a million bucks as the star of a freak show, or as a professional basketball player, or by saving money on gas.
24) Do you like someone? Yes. (Whew, that was a tough one.)
25) The last song you listened to? Theme music from The Incredibles. I watched it with the 5-year-old last night.

Bless the little cheerleaders

2006-01-19T13:23:00.000-08:00

Have you ever caught yourself saying something you never thought you would say?

I found myself in this very situation the other day.

I love sports. I played sports in high school. Made a living for several years as a sports editor of various newspapers and currently maintain a close relationship with a few coaches and teams at the university where I work.

Throughout this time, however, I have found one constant in my opinion … cheerleaders are worthless. They don’t really pay attention to the game and very often have to ask the person next to them how to spell G-O for the next chant they are planning. Even as a strapping young lad in high school, I never really paid attention to the cheerleaders. Quite frankly, I thought the athletes had much more going for them.

Needless to say, I have little use for cheerleaders who typically don’t lead cheers anyway. They do their little flips and gyrations during timeouts, but the real cheerleading comes from the athletes on the bench who actually know what’s going on in the game.

And I have no problem telling cheerleaders this. Last year, we had a student worker in our office who was a cheerleader and I constantly made fun of her. She was a good kid, though, and took it well. I did tell her I might have to change my outlook on cheerleaders after dealing with her for year. A current member of our Sunday school class is an ex-cheerleader. I haven’t really made fun of her, though. Her husband still plays for the basketball team. He’s bigger than me and has really sharp elbows. But they are both nice kids, too.

Back to my point … my 5-year-old teenager has stated for several years now that she wants to be a cheerleader. This hurts my heart. I try to get her to hang out with the athletes as much as possible and her babysitter, whom she adores, is even a basketball player. But that doesn’t change the stubborn offspring’s mind when asked what she wants to do.

“I want to be a cheerleader!”

Well, our church started a youth basketball league last year and this year expanded that league to include cheerleading. You know, it’s one of those leagues where people don’t keep score at the games because you just want the kids to have fun. That, my friends, is another huge soap box altogether.

Anyway, my youngster wanted to join the cheerleading along with her other little friends, so my wife and I decided to give it a shot. We paid the fee and collected the little outfit complete with pom-poms, a megaphone and weekly Bible verses that are way too long and have little to do with the day-to-day life a 5-year-old. (Another soap box).

Being the good father, I decided to support my child in this endeavor. Last week, I loaded up my camera and headed out for the games with cheerleader extraordinaire in tow. I snapped away while the little nugget cheered her heart out.

At one point, after a timeout, my daughter leaned over to me and said …

“Da-da, do you like this game?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m just here to watch the cheerleaders.”

KD and the broken nose

2006-01-09T18:19:00.000-08:00

I slowly walked into the gym.

I was a little early for my 2 p.m. appointment with the men’s basketball coach, so I decided to watch the women’s team practice for a while. It had been two days since a humiliating beat-down at the hands of a conference opponent and I wanted to see how the young ladies were reacting.

Now you must understand, being a man approaching his mid-30s, 6-foot-2 and 225 pounds, there aren’t many things that make me go “eeewwww!” And certainly, a group of college basketball players running up and down the court generally doesn’t fit into that category, aside from dodging a pair of sweaty socks that were thrown at me one day. But that is another story altogether.

Today, however, was different.

Standing on the sidelines was one of the starting guards still decked out in street clothes as her teammates pounded the hardwood under the scrutiny of their coach. You see, while the team took it on its proverbial chin the preceding Saturday, this young lady took it on the nose – literally. A sophomore, roughly 5-foot-8 and 100-and-nothing pounds dripping wet, this young lady plays much tougher than she looks. She is not afraid to take the ball to the basket among the bigger, stronger players, and has suffered a few injuries.

On Saturday, however, a trip to the backboard landed her in the hospital. As the team was hoping to claw back into the game shortly after halftime, this young lady crashed the boards looking for a rebound. All she found, however, was the heel of her teammates hand as it came crashing down across the bridge of her nose. After the 10-count, play was stopped to attend to the injury.

The coaches and trainers rushed to the court, as the young lady lay on her back clutching her face. Although I knew she had been hit in the nose, it was difficult to really tell what the injury was because there was not a drop of blood anywhere on the court.

She was helped off the court and taken to the training room where a doctor looked at her and diagnosed that she had indeed broken her nose.

Two days later, she stood on the edge of the court cheering her teammates as they worked. I walked across the gym floor to where she was standing. If I hadn’t known better I never would have guessed she had a broken nose. There was a little swelling, but very little bruising or discoloration. Her pettite glasses rested carefully on the bridge of her nose, giving her a rather studious look as she surveyed the court.

“Hey, girl,” I said as she turned toward me. “Way to take a punch.”

She smiled as we began to discuss the injury and her impending treatment. It turns out that she is going to be fitted for a face mask and then play the rest of the season. In her words, she wasn’t even going to miss a game. The coach, however, is going to wait for the doctor’s clearance before he allows her back on the court.

Due to the way her nose was broken, it was impossible for doctor to set it without minor surgery. However, if she plays the rest of the season the nose will heal itself slightly out of position, although no one would notice by looking at her.

She explained that after the season, the doctor will have to break her nose again and set it properly. This, of course, sent shudders down my spine, but she said she could handle it as long as they knock her out first.

As we continued our conversation I told her I was amazed at the lack of bruising and overall appearance. I've seen broken noses before and many times they are accompanied by a pair of black eyes.

“… And I can’t believe it didn’t bleed,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed. “The doctor looked at it and said there was definitely blood in there, but it had been stopped up.”

“That’s kind of weird,” I said, wondering how you stop a major nose bleed without even trying. I mean, I’ve woken up on dry winter mornings and have done little more than sit up in bed and my nose starts bleeding.

As I contemplated the strangeness of the situation and how the blood flow could collect without ever releasing, I wasn't really prepared for what she said next.

“Yeah,” she said. “But this morning I had a really big sneeze ……….

“Eeewwww!”

Over the river and through the woods

2006-01-04T11:18:00.000-08:00

The holidays are over and it’s back to work. Surprisingly, I was ready to return to a semblance of normalcy after a rather hectic week in which my wife, child and I visited both sets of grandparents, opened a lot of presents, ate too much food, got too little sleep, circumvented grass fires, drove through a snow storm, crossed the continental divide, dodged a few deer, worked in a round of golf, watched a few basketball games, nearly fell off a mountain, drove 2,189 miles and spent $245 on gas.

Was it worth it? Absolutely … except perhaps the part about nearly falling off a mountain.

After spending Christmas weekend in Norman, Okla., with my in-laws, we loaded the van and headed west for Grand Junction, Colo., where our college basketball team was playing a few games. We apparently got out of the Oklahoma City area just before the fires started on Tuesday.

The drive to Grand Junction was uneventful and gorgeous as we followed highway 50 through Colorado which runs alongside the Arkansas River for several miles. The drive through Gunnison was gorgeous as the snow-covered mountains overlooked the frozen lake.

My daughter kept asking if we were “stuck,” or “driving in circles” since we crossed the lake several times as we wound through the mountains.

We made it to Grand Junction with no trouble at all where we watched the basketball team play a couple of games. The team played really well even though it lost one of the two games.

My favorite player played great. I didn’t really get to tell her that prior to leaving Friday, because we were in a hurry to get on the road, but I’ll make it a priority to point out to her that I thought she played great over the weekend. She boosted her scoring average by more than a point and played solid defense. She also didn't make any big mistakes which has always been one of her strengths as a player.

The final game finished around 8 p.m. (Texas time) on Friday night. I knew the bus was returning home that night, so I had made plans to leave after the game as well. We were heading different directions because the family and I had to drive farther south and decided to cut across New Mexico.

While the bus had a rather uneventful return trip, aside from the stench of a loaded restroom tank and one player’s illness, our trip was far more taxing.

We had to dodge a herd of deer on a two-lane highway at one point. We came through unscathed, although a little rattled, but that was nothing compared to what we were about to face.

When a mountain pass becomes treacherous, highway departments should really consider posting signs that read “Stupid flatlanders must stop now!” There were plenty of signs reading “Chains required on all commercial vehicles.” But what the heck does that mean for me?

At one point as we trudged along in the snow and ice, we passed a sign that said the summit is 13 miles. “Good,” I think to myself. “If we can reach the top, we should be OK.” It took us an hour to reach the top of the mountain from that point.

And just to add anxiety to the already harrowing trip, as we reached a flat area on top of the mountain, we passed a sign that read “Chains or snow tires required on all vehicles beyond this point.”

Great! Here we are at the top of the mountain in a vehicle ill-equipped to continue the journey. My options are to turn around and go back down the way we came or break the law – and it was pointed out that proceeding without the proper equipment was unlawful – and go down the mountain by continuing forward.

I decided that if I had to go down the mountain one way or another, I was going to continue going forward.

The minutes passed into hours and the anxiety never lessened as we continued down the mountain only to discover that we had to reach the summit two more times before truly beginning the trek down. But our trusty van and its front-wheel drive, never slipped and never skidded on the ice, for which we gave much thanks to God. We were also lucky enough to fall in behind a snow plow and follow the freshly plowed highway much of the way down.

We were fortunate that after a long, hard day of cheering for her favorite team, my 5-year-old was asleep the entire trip. Had she been awake, I’m sure she would have constantly been asking … “Da-da, are we going to boom?” You see, the word “crash” has been outlawed in our van after we bumped bumpers with another vehicle backing out of a driveway one day a year or so ago.

After several days of hearing our 5-year-old repeat the story and reprimand us for “crashing,” my wife finally told her that the word “crash” is a bad word and must not be repeated in the van. She has stuck with that rule, occasionally correcting us if we use the word in casual conversation.

But we didn’t crash or boom.

By my calculations, it is approximately 170 miles from Grand Junction to Durango. For a West Texas boy, 170 miles means about 2 and a half hours of road time. But on the fateful night in the driving snow, it took us more than five hours to make that trip.

We eventually stopped about an hour south of Durango, in Bloomfield, N.M., where we stayed at a Super 8. Our room smelled as if it had housed someone’s hunting dogs the night before. The smell was probably similar to what the team was experiencing on their bus ride home with the loaded sewer tank. But at 3 a.m. and completely exhausted from the tense travel, what else were we going to do? If we passed up this motel, it was another two hours until we reached civilization.

We decided to sleep for four hours before returning to the road. After all, we still had roughly 11 hours of road time ahead of us before reaching my parents house on New Year’s Eve.

Needless to say, that 11 hours was nothing. We even killed an hour in Albuquerque eating a late breakfast. We traded our 10 to 20-mile per hour drive the night before for a pleasant 80-mile per hour pace on Saturday and finally came to a stop at 5 p.m.

The next day we took communion at my father’s church, dug into a big pile of world famous steak fingers then drove the final 2 and a half hours home. It was nice to get home and see that our cats were still alive and hadn’t destroyed the house. It was nice to finally sleep in our own beds, and it was nice to look around and see nothing but flat land, albeit burning out of control in several places.

After 2,189 miles in eight days, one gets a little road weary. But it won’t last long. After all, I have to get back on the road this Saturday if I’m going to watch the team play in Oklahoma City.

Happy Holy-days

2005-12-14T09:01:00.000-08:00

‘Tis the season to be jolly … Fa, la, la, la, la, la ‘freakin’ la’

I have been accused of being a “crotchety old man” by certain family members. That’s OK. It really doesn’t bother me all that much because I am a bit more conservative than some of the flaming liberals in our clan.

However, in my crotchetiness, I must say that I am not a big fan of the Christmas season. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with family and friends and I love working at a job where we get two weeks off. I love giving gifts to those people I care for.

What I don’t necessarily care for is getting "nickel-and-dimed" to death by every group, class and organization I am affiliated with that suddenly feels like they should do their part to help out the less fortunate. I also don’t like being accosted by bell ringers at every store front and intersection in town who are supposedly raising money for a “good cause.” Where is that money really going, and why do they not need to raise it in June?

Not only that, but you have to bring a Christmas ornament to this gathering or a gag gift to that. Your child is expected to bring a gift for a gift exchange in her ballet class. You have to cook brownies for this group or a cake for that group … and don’t forget the green bean casserole. You buy presents for kids in families you have never seen. You donate to special interest groups who are trying to pass out some Christmas cheer. You do all this and suddenly you realize you haven’t bought your own child a Christmas present.

Don’t get me wrong, my family has been greatly blessed and we are very fortunate to be in the situation we are in. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for all He has given us, be it money, food, family or friends who make our lives easier and more enjoyable. And furthermore, I love helping people out, but I would rather do it when it is least expected, not when everybody is telling me to do it and looking down on me if I don’t. And don't get me started on the over-commercialization of Christmas.

I really don’t know how to end this post. I really don’t have anything else to say. But I suspect there are more people out there who feel the way I do, and I hope they all get to stop at some point, relax and enjoy the people and places around them.

Merry Christmas!

Fun for the whole family ... or not

2005-12-09T07:59:00.000-08:00

I am obligated by the laws that govern web logs to post the following comment after participating in other events.

Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want--good or bad--BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.

Rice, Burritos and Dessert

2005-12-08T06:42:00.000-08:00

I must hand it to my little 5-year-old teenager, her brain is always working.

Last night was like many other nights in our household; we went out to eat. Like most people we have our favorite haunts for a quick mid-week dinner and on this night we chose a little Mexican food restaurant that we like to frequent.

As is the custom, my wife ordered her quesadillas, “cheese only.” I order from the menu and our child asked for her typical side order of rice and flour tortillas. We ate a few chips and guacamole while waiting for our food. The kid loves guacamole. She has eaten it since a friend of ours decided to feed it to her when she was a baby. She hated baby food, but she loved guacamole.

Our food came out and we enjoyed the dinner. As usual, our child didn’t eat much of her rice an managed only half of a tortilla. This is the same 5-year-old who polished off two homemade bean burritos and three fruit rollups for supper the night before. She has gotten in the habit of not eating much when we eat out, then asking for food as soon as we get home.

“I’m full,” she said as she began flattening out the remainder of her rice to make a pancake.

At this point I gave her my stern fatherly look and told her that I did not want to go home and immediately hear her asking for food to eat … she needed to eat her supper.

“But I’m full,” she said again.

We finished eating then had to run over to the store to pick up some items for one of the seemingly endless list of Christmas parties we have to attend each year.

We spend a few minutes trying to complete the self check-out line because the other line we were in was having trouble with the debit-card machine. Needless to say, checking out took longer than it should have, but we weren’t in the store too long.

We returned home and got comfortable. No sooner had I sat down to watch a little TV than my child saunters into the living room.

“Da-da,” she says looking at me.

I know what is coming. The three grains of rice she ate for supper have worn off and she wants jelly sandwich or macaroni and cheese. Remembering what I told her at supper, I am prepared to tell her no and send her off to bed hungry because she didn’t eat her supper.

She looks at me with her big blue eyes … “I’m ready for dessert.”

A slow grin spreads across her face because she knows she has caught me.

“That’s what you eat after supper, right?” She asks smiling.

What can I do? I have just been out-witted by a pint-sized kindergartener. And she knows it.

My next plan of attack was simple. “Ok.” I thought to myself. “She is going to ask for a brownie or a cookie and I can tell her that she didn’t eat enough supper to warrant a tasty treat for dessert.”

“What do you want for dessert?” I ask, trying to set my trap.

She looks at me, grins and says … “Cheese!”

Game, set, match! I lose.

Place in this World

2005-12-06T13:48:00.000-08:00

Last weekend proved to be interesting for me. Our university was hosting a combined basketball tournament that featured both college and high school teams. I usually make plans to attend a number of the games, but this tournament was a little different.

One of the high school teams hailed from my former stomping grounds where I spent five years as the sports editor of the local paper. This particular town was known for high school basketball; not only the astounding success the team has had throughout the years, but the style of basketball which it has made famous in high school circles. This high school team is probably the only team in the Southwest that is allowed to run the score up on its opponents without opposing coaches getting upset. In fact, if the team ever stopped running its full-court press, the coach would be on the next bus out of town.

As I was sitting in my office on Wednesday afternoon I received a phone call from a old college buddy. He was instrumental in bringing me to the paper where we worked together for several years. I moved on, but he stayed there and in a few short years took over as managing editor. Anyway, he said his sports staff was a bit shorthanded and he needed someone to string for him. In laymen’s terms “string” means write stories about the games.

It has only been four years since I left that paper, and the coaches that I had become very familiar with were still in place. I said I would be happy to cover the games, provided he caughed up some cash. After 10 seconds of hard negotiations, we agreed on the terms of my contract labor and I went to work.

I spent the next three days covering the team and talking to people I had known in my previous life. It was nice to see them. We talked about old times and they all told me they wished I was still at the paper.

“The guy they have now is real green …”

“The sports section has really gone down hill since you left …”

“I wish you’d come back and save the paper …”

… were a few of the comments I heard.

The accolades were nice and a definite stroke to the old ego. Let’s face it, we all like to hear that we are better at something than the other guy. But I have to admit, hearing comments like that always makes me wonder … “What did these same people tell the guy that I replaced?”

A Testing We Shall Go

2005-12-06T13:45:00.000-08:00

I heard from a lady who works at the university that my sister, the probation officer, attended a Rotary luncheon on campus a few weeks ago. My sister of course, is morally and fundamentally opposed to any and all types of social organizations.

So, it made me wonder what she was doing there. Had she been invited? Was she a guest speaker? Did she just crash the party for the food? Or was she there to administer drug tests to all our civic leaders?

“Excuse me high-powered attorney, would you mind peeing in this cup?”

Merry Crotchmas

2005-12-06T13:24:00.000-08:00

So, I haven’t written in awhile. I’ve been a little busy. Just today (well, yesterday actually) I was working on a Christmas card for our admissions office to send out to prospective students. No big deal, right? Well, it is when you are contacted at the last possible minute and have only limited time to dig up some festive photos to use on said card.

Anyway, I can’t really blame the people in the office. The boss just quit to accept a position elsewhere and they have kind of been left in limbo for the time being. And furthermore, it gave me something creative to work on which is always enjoyable.

However, you must be careful in choosing pictures to use on promotional material. For instance, in one of the photos I wanted to use, a student was wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. That’s all well and good, but we ain’t Harvard.

A few quick keystrokes in Photoshop and Harvard suddenly disappeared. Unethical? Maybe, but I’m a PR flack. What does ethics have to do with it? But just for the record, we ended up using a different photo anyway.

However, I was contacted today shortly before the card had to be sent to the printer. Let’s just say the VP in charge wanted to switch out a photo. To avoid going into all the gory Santa details, I will summarize by saying that in my return email I signed off … “Wishing you ‘Happy Holidays’ and may all your Christmas cards be crotch free.”

From the Mind of ...

2005-11-16T20:58:00.000-08:00

It would be nice to have the imagination of a 5-year-old. I guess we all did at one time, but too much television and too many bills to pay quickly erode your connection to the land of fantasy. Fortunately, some of us have jobs in which we occasionally get to be somewhat creative and can reconnect with our imaginary friends every once in awhile.

As I was sitting in the living room floor trying desperately to recover from my limited time on the old treadmill (but that’s another story all-together), my 5-year-old teenager strutted into the room.

“Da-da,” she said, “I’m a cowgirl.”

I looked at her. A princess crown lined in pink down-like feathers was nestled snuggly in her golden locks. Her small, slender fingers clung tightly to a “magic wand” shaped like a purple star. On her feet were pink Croc-like, aerated sandals and she wore a hot pink/orangish fleece hoody. In fact the only thing she had on that kind of resembled a modern-day cowgirls’ attire were her jeans. Of course they were emblazoned with beaded flower patterns down outer seam of each leg.

She was quite the picture of a Wild West heroine. Of course, no one in their adult mind would ever guess that she was a cowgirl, but that's OK. No adults were allowed to play.

“I’m pretending this is my hat,” she said as she pointed to the crown. “These are my black cowgirl boots and this is my rope.” She twirled the starry wand as she struck a pose that would make any runway model proud.

“I’m pretending.”

I could only watch as she hopped on her stick horse and road off into the sunset.

And all the World Wore White

2005-11-02T18:36:00.000-08:00

Loaded in the Jeep, the family and I were heading out for a quick supper and trip to Wal-Mart this evening. It was a typical exciting night out in the “big town.”

Now one must keep in mind before asking what we had to eat that I have been working hard on the treadmill and stationary bike, trying to shed a few pounds. I’m not excessively overweight, but would love to drop about 20 lbs. I like to tell people that if I lost 20 pounds, I could be playing free safety somewhere in the NFL (6-3, 200). Of course, with my latest comments on my feelings about the state of football in our fair country, I think I’ll sit safely behind my desk and pound away on the keyboard.

Anyway, I am having little success in the weight loss department. Although I have been exercising, something tells me that eating pizza for the last three days tends to counteract the weight-loss activities.

Tonight was no different … A nice pizza buffet and off to the store. Of course, I ate spinach alfredo pizza, and drank diet Dr. Pepper, so that has to count for something.

We were headed to the store to stock up on snacks and junk for our weekend trip. Our Sunday school class, made up of kids who have been married for less than a year, along with us (the old fogies) and another couple just a few years younger than us, is taking its yearly weekend excursion to the mountains of New Mexico. Each fall, our class heads to Glorietta New Mexico for a weekend of sin and debauchery. We drink, smoke, dance and basically thumb our noses at the rules of the Baptist encampment where we stay.

OK. There is not drinking or smoking, but occasionally we have been known to cut a rug well after midnight which is woefully against the rules. And there are of course the stories of the cabin across the road that each year become increasingly unbelievable.

Anyway, after stocking up on junk that isn’t good for us … ie, there goes the already non-existent diet that I haven’t been following anyway … we piled back in the Jeep for the ride home. This is when my 5-year-old teenager began to dominate the conversation.

She has recently started making up her own songs. This is a trait she undoubtedly inherited from her dear old dad who is famous for his rendition of “Don’t Smell My Fart,” a parody of the classic Billy Ray Cyrus (back when mullets were cool) song. And that Irish women’s group’s song “Breathless,” which I changed to … Oh well, you get the idea.

My child, however, is on a much more ethereal plane when it comes to her compositions. I must admit it was quite cute as she made up songs about creation, encompassing all the colors of the rainbow and then some.

All you Biblical scholars out there might find it interesting to know the world was completely white until Jesus created the colors. And just to set the creation story straight, Jesus created the colors before, creating mankind.

No football, no problem

2005-10-27T08:32:00.000-07:00

2nd grade teacher recently left a comment on one of my posts saying they don’t play football in her neck of the woods. Instead they play soccer and lacrosse. That’s a little hard to swallow for a West Texas boy. Around here, if you don’t play football, you don’t play anything.

Things are different in our neighbor states. Soccer is big in New Mexico and in rural Oklahoma (eastern Oklahoma) baseball is the big thing. They play fall and spring baseball.

Of course, I work at a university that doesn’t have a football team. We used to … the fighting Jackrabbits. But that was a long time ago. We recently tried soccer. We fielded a women’s soccer team for three years before giving it the boot – or should I say giving it the cleat.

Oh well, basketball (scrimmage) starts tonight, so I’m happy.

Behold, the power of ...

2005-10-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

Like gossamer wings floating gently on the breeze, their indelible image dots the distant horizon. A calling card, crying out to the perpetually young, drawing children of all shapes and sizes in mythical proportions. It’s something we as adults cannot comprehend, but never should we underestimate the power of the Golden Arches.

My 5-year-old teenager lay bleary eyed amid the covers on her bed. It was time to arise and prepare for another taxing day of Kindergarten. This week the youngsters are studying the color gray, the letter “P” and the number 7.

“Dada, close the door,” she grumbles as she pulls her Dora comforter over her head. “It is too bright.”

Quietly I pick my way to her bedside, dodging a wasteland that once was lorded over by the diminutive Polly Pockets. I lean down beside her bed.

“If you get up,” I gently whisper, “we will get McDonald’s for breakfast.”

My words did not go unheeded for I invoked the name of the almighty. My daughter generally falls under the category of “high-maintenance” as she prepares for her day, demanding assistance in choosing her clothes and shoes while being forced to brush her hair and teeth.

But today was different. Today was McDonald’s. For obvious reasons, my daughter chose to be in Mrs. McDonald’s kindergarten class at her school. A wise choice which my wife, who also teaches at the school, agreed with. But the power of the arches far exceeds the question of finding qualified educators.

I had only left my child’s room when she zipped past me holding a pair of jeans and a shirt. As I, still clad in my bath robe, walked into my room in order to prepare for my work day, I glanced over to see that my child was already wearing her shirt and was in the midst of pulling on her favorite pair of jeans.

Before I had the chance to pull my clothes from the closet, she had her socks and shoes in hand and was asking for assistance in brushing her hair. I had no choice. After all, my child was answering to a higher calling.

This story tends to lose its luster as my child finished getting ready then waited patiently for her father to complete his morning routine. But the brilliant shine of the arches was written all over her face. We were going to McDonald’s.

I’m not sure what it is about the joint that intrigues kids so. The food is barely tolerable, the bathrooms are dirty and the playground is eerily reminiscent to feed lot in mid-summer temperatures. But somehow … some way … the marketing genius that is McDonald’s has tapped into the psyche of the American offspring.

Friday night curse

2005-10-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

It’s me again … suffering from the doldrums that are a Monday in the early fall. The afternoon consisted of menial tasks at the office while trying to battle the evil forces that are also known laziness and lack of focus.

The reality of my situation was that I had press releases to write and bills to requisition, but I’d rather be taking a nap or playing golf … or playing basketball. Once basketball season rolls around, you will probably tire of reading about the exploits of our teams, but the fact remains that I love basketball season.

Of course, that doesn’t quite fit with the status quo in West Texas where football is god. Last Friday was a big football day around here. The local team, holding onto an undefeated record, was scheduled to play their chief rival which was also undefeated and ranked higher in the state. The two teams are split by roughly 60 miles of highway, not nearly enough to keep rabid fans from flocking to enemy turf when the mighty pigskin is in action.

My brother-in-law went to the game. I thought about going, but decided I didn’t want to mess with the overcrowded high school stadium. The stadium was built to accommodate 7,500 fans. According to reports, there were more than 12,000 people at the game.

I spent nearly 10 years working as a sports reporter for a few small, daily newspapers in the area. I have seen my fare share of Friday night football games. I have dealt with dense coaches and brain dead fans. I have written glowing stories about egotistical athletes whose antics would make me want to puke. I have been there when riots broke out in the stadiums, fights broke out on the field and the rules of sportsmanship and fair play have been scoffed at like a bologna sandwich at a $100 a plate Junior Service League fund raiser.

I have seen and dealt with the basest of human behavior. I have dealt with athletes who needlessly showboat to draw attention to themselves. I have listened to armchair quarterbacks gripe and complain about the ignorance of the current coaching staff, all the while basing their arguments on game situation in which they have no concept of the actual rules. I have listened to parents who complain about coaches not playing their kids. I have taken phone calls early on Sunday morning from parents who gripe because the local sports reporter didn’t herald their baby as the basketball superstar that he so obviously was. (The following week said “superstar” scored only four points and was non-existent in a big game. Guess whose baby was mentioned early in the story for his lack of participation. The little punk and one of his buddies generally took the court either high or drunk, maybe both, so he wasn't very high on my list of favorite people to begin with.)

And according to my brother-in-law, Friday’s big game was no different. Fans and parents booing the opposition as the young men took the field. Dirty players making dirty plays through the contest. Trash talking … cheap shots … and at least one coach who has been known to run up the score whenever he gets a chance.

I’m glad I didn’t go to that game. I’ve seen so much of that garbage that it makes my stomach turn. There have been times in the past that I have actually hoped the local team that I was covering at the time would actually get beat bad just because the kids and coaches were getting too cocky, and forgetting about sportsmanship.

After hearing my brother-in-law tell his story I quickly pointed out to those listening … “that’s why I have become such a big fan of women’s basketball.” Not that women can’t suffer from these same issues, but there are fewer of them who harbor such delusions of grandeur and complete self idolization. Especially locally.

Our women’s basketball team held a gathering at the coach’s house several weeks ago at which time the players could get to know each other and the coaches could hand out team rules for the season. The following day, I asked the assistant coach how the meeting went. She said that of the 15 young women on the team, eight of them gave a brief testimony of how God and their faith played a part in choosing to attend this school. That’s pretty amazing.

They may not be perfect, but that is definitely a step in the right direction.

As my daughter would say, “Go Queens!”

What advanced degree is right for me

2005-10-12T08:23:00.000-07:00

You Should Get a MFA (Masters of Fine Arts)

You're a blooming artistic talent, even if you aren't quite convinced.
You'd make an incredible artist, photographer, or film maker.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

Interesting, huh. I guess I am sort of on the right track.

What Peanuts Character am I

2005-10-07T07:57:00.000-07:00

You are Schroeder!

Which Peanuts Character are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Sissa and the Band

2005-10-07T07:17:00.000-07:00

It’s somewhat of a ritual.

On the days I take Rae to kindergarten we always have to listen carefully as we leave the house. You see, the high school band practices just a few blocks away from our house and when more than 300 horn blowers are doing their thing, the sound easily travels the short distance.

As the melodic sounds of the warm-up scale drift our way Rae quickly points out that we have to drive by the band on our way to school.

This particular morning was a chilly one, but we still lower the windows and listen as we drive that way.

“Are they wearing coats?” Rae asks.

“I bet some of them are,” I respond.

“Do you think T--- is wearing her coat?”

“I don’t know. But I bet she is.”

T--- is the younger sister of E---- (see previous posts). Rae adores both of them and I can’t say that I blame her because they are both good kids.

As we slowly drive by the band's practice lot, Rae listens intently. Just before we lose sight of the band Rae sticks are hand out the window and waves.

“What are you doing,” I ask.

Rae grins. “Waving and T---.”

For Whom the Megaphone Cheers

2005-10-07T07:15:00.000-07:00

Rae and I were heading to McDonalds to pick up a Happy Meal. She has spent a few hours with me at work and we knew we were on our own for supper.

As we drove, my child, who is 5-years old, continued her cheering, “Go, Queens! Go, E----!” (see previous post)

She suddenly stopped and looked at me.

“Da-Da,” she said, because that’s what she calls me. “When I get older and when E---- is playing baksetball (that’s how she says basketball), and I’m a cheerleader, can I be a big cheerleader for E----?”

It was then that I had to explain to her that E----, who is a junior in college, only has a few years left to play basketball. Rae pondered this for a moment as a sad, thoughtful look crossed her face.

“But,” I said. “E---- might be a coach. Maybe you could be a cheerleader for the team she is coaching.”

“No,” Rae replied. “I want her to be a baksetball player and I will be her cheerleader..."

The Rubber Bracelet

2005-10-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

Rae, my child, had a traumatic experience at school a few days ago.

I was in charge of taking the pup to school that fateful day. It was Friday. Not just any Friday, but homecoming Friday for the local school district. The buzz of excitement spread throughout the school system all the way down to the kindergarteners. As students entered their elementary school, they were met by a cornucopia of temptations spread out across a table. The astronomically priced knick-knacks were selling like proverbial hot cakes and children as young as my daughter snatched up pom-poms, buttons, rubber bracelets and temporary tattoos.

My child, with her silken blonde pony tail and big blue eyes looked at me.

“Da-Da,” she said, because that is what she calls me. “I want a bracelet and pom-poms.”

Knowing that all this promotional junk is a cash cow for whoever is selling it, I generally try to stay away from such things. However, it is difficult to say no to the offspring so I walk up to the table and pull out my wallet. I was fortunate, however, in that the ladies working at the table knew my wife, who teaches at the school, and said she had already come by to get some things.

I put my wallet back in my pocket and my child and I headed off down the fourth-grade hall to find mama. Sure enough, Rae was met by a set of pom-poms and a few tattoos. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was supposed to have a rubber bracelet and button as well.

Rae came home that afternoon with a sad look in her eye. I listened as she and my wife told me that my wife had also purchased the other items and had left them at Rae’s spot in her kindergarten class. However, by the time Rae reached her seat, the items were gone. Some sticky fingered kindergartener had absconded with my daughter’s stuff.

As tears welled up in Rae’s eyes I was hit with an idea.

“Rae,” I said, because that is not really what I call her. “What if I get you another bracelet?”

She looked hopeful.

“Only this one,” I continued, “will be a better one because it will be for the Queens, not the Bulldogs.”

One of Rae’s favorite activities is to go to basketball games with her dad, wearing her cheerleader outfit and cheering at the top of her voice … “Go, Queens! Go, E----!” E----, of course, being the young lady who babysits Rae on occasion.

A few days later I called the coach and explained the situation to him. He and his assistant gladly agreed to give my child another bracelet. Rae was so proud of it. I kept her at my office one afternoon and she proudly showed her knew bracelet to everyone in the building. “It’s a Queen one,” she said.

As we left work that day, Rae sat in the Jeep and expressed her gratitude for the new bracelet.

“And Da-Da,” she said. “I will give you one that you can wear. … but you will have to get it for me.”

Oh well, I guess it’s the thought that counts.

Birthdays and Bible Characters

2005-10-04T06:29:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those days? You know, the kind of day where you find it difficult or downright impossible to get motivated about much of anything. I showed up at work about half and hour early today and so far haven’t done anything other than write this post. In another 10 minutes I will technically be “on the clock,” and I suppose I will have to accomplish something.

The most interesting thing I have done so far is to flip through a magazine and try to get ideas for a good Halloween costume. I’ve always kind of liked Halloween, it comes along just a few days after my birthday – that’s October 25 for all you family members who have trouble remembering. Growing up, my grandfather and I would always celebrate our birthdays together because his was on October 24. My parents could never remember whose birthday was on which particular day, but it didn’t really matter because we always celebrated them at the same time.

However, since my grandfather died, people have had a little difficulty remembering my birthday. In fact, a few years ago, the only person other than my wife who remembered my birthday was my mother-in-law. Granted, I don’t always remember birthdays, but there is usually someone around to remind me. Someone who will pick up the phone and remind me to call my grandmother or send mom a card. But nooooooo ……. Nobody remembered my birthday. Needless to say, I hold that over the family members.

Anyway, back to Halloween. Our Sunday school class is planning a Halloween party on Oct. 29. The catch is you have to dress up as a Biblical character. Perhaps the thinking behind this is to stay away from costumes depicting something scary or demonic or trashy whores who sell themselves into servitude. I’m thinking, “Yeah! Right. Have you read your Bible lately?” Dementors and Wraiths have nothing on the horsemen of the apocalypse.

Of course, coming up with ideas and being able to pull off the costumes are two totally different things. My best idea yet is to show up dressed as John the Baptist – after he was beheaded. Other than that, I’m thinking of dressing as Captain Jack Sparrow and telling everybody that I’m Noah. I don’t know if that will work, but it would be fun.

A little game of cat and mouse

2005-09-28T14:48:00.000-07:00

Cats are interesting creatures, of which we have two.

As cat lovers know and animal “experts” will tell you, the fuzzy little critters will occasionally supply their masters with gifts in order to earn affection or show that they are doing their part around the house. We only have one cat that chooses to display her affection in such a manner. Our cat’s gift of choice is usually crickets that she has caught in our breezeway and shop area and drug into the house through the cat door. Unfortunately, the gifts are seldom dead before delivery.

This was the case a few nights ago in my humble abode. The hour was approaching 11 p.m. as my wife and I lay in bed trying to get some much-needed sleep. However, a bad case of busy mind was keeping me from slumber and my wife had come to bed late after working on the computer throughout the evening.

Needless to say, we were both awake.

It was at this point that Bacall, the female cat, jumped into bed as she often does. While sitting on the bed, Bacall let out a muffled meow/growl, the type of noise she usually makes when she is griping at small creatures mocking her outside of the bedroom window. Generally when this occurs, I simply kick the cat off the bed and don’t think anything about it.

Tonight, however, I decided to turn on the bedside lamp. Man, am I glad I did. Standing at the foot of the bed was our dark, tortoiseshell cat staring at us, bearing gifts. The reason for the muffled mewing was soon evident as I noticed that wiggling in her mouth was not the usual maimed and slightly dismembered cricket, but instead was a small, lightly colored mouse, fighting desperately to escape.

Imagine my surprise.

Now, I said I was glad I turned on the light. I am not one to get freaked out easily, but imagine, if you will, waking up to the feeling of a small furry creature scurrying across your semi-clad body in the middle of the night, only to determine upon awaking that you are staring face-to-face with a diseased rodent. Not my idea of a good night’s sleep. I was potty trained at an early age and have been fairly successful to abide by the laws of nature as applied to human behavior, but I think such a scenario might have resulted in a certain level of incontinence.

However, since I was already awake and aware of the situation, I jumped out of bed, just as the cat dropped the mouse. As the little creature began to scurry away, I quickly wrapped it up in my covers and kept it from escaping.

At this point my wife was up, wondering what was going on.

“Mouse. Go open the door,” I said.

We have a sliding glass door in our bedroom that leads to the back yard. I thought taking the covers outside and shaking loose the intruder would be an appropriate and humane means of disposal.

One should realize, however, that it is a good idea when undertaking such an endeavor to move a significant distance from the open doorway. As I stood on my little porch and began shaking out the covers, the mouse fell to the ground and promptly bolted back into the house.

To make matters worse, Bogey, the male cat who is bigger, faster, stronger and quicker than Bacall just watched. The mouse ducked right inside the corner, just inches from the doorway and stopped, shivering in fear as he peared up at his worst nightmare. Bogey looked at the mouse, looked at me, looked back at the mouse, then calmly walked outside to see if there was anything interesting going on.

“Freedom!” You could almost hear the little critter scream as he watched the dreaded predator walk right past him without so much as feigning interest. Off like a shot, the little fellow zipped into the bathroom and dove under the cabinet, never to be heard from again.

…… After digging some fresh bedclothes out of the closet, my wife and I returned to bed, only to find Bacall, spread out across the sheets with a look of satisfied triumph splashed across her fuzzy feline face.

I don't really know where Bacall found the mouse, or what she had to do to catch it, but one thing was made perfectly clear. Between the dastardly gifter and the great white hunter who stared his prey in the face then walked away, I have determined that my house cats are worthless.

Or perhaps they’re just too well fed …………..

All about Me-Me

2005-09-23T08:12:00.000-07:00

My first solicited me-me … I feel so cyber-chic. How’s that for a neologistic “C” word M. Hibou? Did you know spell checker doesn’t even recognize neologistic?

Anyway, back to me … me

Five things I will do before I die:
1. Write a book. Unlike my sister who simply wants to have something published, I get published every day, but quite frankly, it’s not that impressive. However, I know I can write a book worth publishing because I’ve read my fair share of books that weren’t worth publishing. I just need the right idea.
2. Build a castle. To do so, I need to be moderately wealthy. Therefore, I should really get started on my book writing career.
3. Watch the women’s basketball program at the school at which I work win a national title. Preferably within the next few years before the current coach finds a better job and before current players move on. However, I have no control over this, so it falls into more of a “wish” category than a “will do” category. No pressure guys (err ... girls.)
4. See the church move away from its current business structure and become more of a … well … church, dedicated to touching lives one person at a time.
5. Break 90 on the golf course. I’m playing later today, maybe this will be my lucky day.

Five things I say most often:
1. “I apologize”
2. “No” – I have a 5-year-old daughter.
3. “You’d get more work done if you spent less time on the phone.”
4. “You should quit smoking, it’s bad for my health.”
5. “It’s George Bush’s fault.” I’m technically jumping on this band wagon. It seems people are blaming W for everything these days so I thought I would see if it works for me. My washing machine started leaking the other day. I blamed the Pres. I’m still waiting for the FEMA money to repair the damage.

Five things I cannot do:
1. Learn to like onions.
2. Dunk a basketball. (Once upon a glorious past ….. )
3. Keep the ball in bounds on the par-5 12th at the local golf course. I nearly took out the back windshield of a Ford Explorer that was driving by a few weeks ago. I can’t break 90, but I can break windshields.
4. Figure out why guys think it’s cool to wear their pants down around their knees. I would like to meet the first girl who told some guy that was attractive. Then again, maybe I don’t want to meet that girl. Or maybe it wasn’t a girl …
5. Watch CNN longer than 3 minutes without wanting to throw something at the completely incompetent reporters who sensationalize and editorialize everything from head colds to Armageddon.

Five things that attract me to other people:
1. A truly genuine Christian spirit. Not the ones who just give lip-service to Christianity, but the people who live it day-in and day-out in everything they do. I admire and envy those people who are few and far between.
2. A somewhat warped sense of humor.
3. The ability to laugh at oneself.
4. Similar interests
5. The ability to see the bigger picture and accept the fact that other people have different opinions and different ideas, even though they are wrong. :)

Five celebrity crushes: I must say I’m not really one to worship celebrities. It would be easier for me to think of five people I’ve known throughout the years that I have had a crush on. However, in the spirit of the game …
1. Winona Ryder
2. Marisa Tomei
3. Sandra Bullock
4. Christina Ricci
5. Carrie Fisher (those buns – in her hair – were really cool)

Five people I want to see do this me-me:
I honestly don’t know five bloggers who haven’t already done this.

A Tim Burton kind of world

2005-09-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

Don’t you just love that unsettling feeling you get every time you put on a new pair of glasses? I spent my lunch hour today being fitted for some new specs – sleek black frames that stand out against my reddish hair and reddish complexion.

Huh! I just realized that I am my old high school colors – red and black.

I digress.

As I was saying, the effect of having the prescription change considerably in one eye while not changing at all in the other provides a somewhat surreal experience while getting used to the new glasses. Throw in a rather accomplished astigmatism and you can completely forgo the PCP. I currently feel like I am living on a Tim Burton movie set. Everything I look at is significantly skewed. Currently, my flat screen, square computer monitor is anything but flat or square.

To explain what I am seeing, take a square piece of paper, grasp the upper right-hand corner between you forefinger and thumb. Now pull diagonally as hard as you can. That’s what the world looks like to me. These words are currently trailing upward toward oblivion. At least I feel like I am going places.

My new surreal surroundings make me feel somewhat like the picture my daughter drew of me this weekend. I have included it for your amusement. If you will notice the spiky, orange hair, that is a tale-tale sign that she has drawn a picture of her beloved father.

However, this particular picture shows me in full drag, wearing lipstick, make-up, mascara and earrings. Not to mention the delicately painted finger and toe nails. Please understand that I don’t generally dress this way. So how did my impressionable young child come across such an idea?

What you can’t see in this picture, the area that has been blurred, is that my daughter addressed it to her babysitter. You’ve met her before on this blog. She’s the girl in the picture.

And to think, I entrust the well-being of my only offspring to this person on a regular basis.

We must be having FISH

2005-09-01T07:49:00.000-07:00

Aaaaahhhhhh, freshmen.

You can always tell which students are freshmen. They are the ones who stare at you with a blank look on their face when you ask for their classification while filling out registration information.

They are the ones who try overly hard to either fit in or be different, neither group really succeeding at their goal. They are also the ones who constantly remind you that you have grown and matured (i.e. gotten older) over the years.

This is the case of one such freshman I ran across the other day. The women’s basketball team was filtering through my office on Friday morning to get their pictures made for the media guides and things like that. They generally came through in groups of two or three, but all of them showed up within a certain time span.

I was standing in our make-shift photography studio chatting with the coach and assistant coach while waiting for the next subject to appear in jersey with her freshly applied make-up and perfectly styled hair – you know, just like they look when they are playing.

(Of course, that reminds me of a time I showed up at the end of a high school practice to get a team photo because I specifically wanted the girls to look sweaty and tired … not perfectly manicured. That was fun!)

As we are standing around, waiting, a young girl from Anson joins the conversation.

“Listen!” she says since the three faculty and staff members in the room obviously weren’t paying her due attention.

After myself and the coaches exchange a brief glance, we turn to the youngster who begins her multi-syllabic, yet singular-word spill.

“…there’s-this-guy-in-my-class-and-he’s-from-Anson-and-he-has-like-four-or-five-brothers-and-sisters-and-one-of-his-brothers-names-is-Anson … Isn’t that weird?”

… For some reason this impressionable young child couldn’t figure out why we were laughing so hard. It seems none of us had the heart to tell her she had just epitomized the chatty little girl character in every teen movie ever made.

I’m looking forward to basketball season. It’s going to be interesting, if nothing else.