First gut response while the CNN babe is reading her transcription of the Flight 93 tapes released today in Alexandria, Va.:
Am I to believe that, under moment of great stress and trauma, that these hijackers would be sending their final prayers to Allah ... in English?
UPDATE: The New York Times notes that the hijackers were indeed speaking Arabic. Which still leads me to wonder how a presumably non-Arabic speaking CNN reporter would know just minutes after the tapes were released what was being said. No tinfoil-hat stuff here, just saying ...
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
Sad and pathetic
A lot of heavy stuff here lately ... time for a chuckle in my most favorite way -- at my own expense.
Funny scene on the streets of suburban Tampa on Friday afternoon:
Guy in a black 2006 Rapidlyagingdudemobile, late 30s, sun shining off his receding hairline, windows down, 7-speaker Bose cranked up to the max, just absolutely rocking out ...
The song? "Behind these Hazel Eyes" by Kelly Clarkson.
Hi.
Funny scene on the streets of suburban Tampa on Friday afternoon:
Guy in a black 2006 Rapidlyagingdudemobile, late 30s, sun shining off his receding hairline, windows down, 7-speaker Bose cranked up to the max, just absolutely rocking out ...
The song? "Behind these Hazel Eyes" by Kelly Clarkson.
Hi.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
The latest
The Wife was telling me a story the other night about one of her dogs throwing up.
The Young Daughter observes this mess and says something along the lines of, "She must not have taken her medicine. When I take my medicine, I don't get sick."
The Wife was quite surprised by this. We had no idea that The Young Daughter had drawn the connection between her medications and her episodes of the past few months, which were usually punctuated by vomiting unconnected to any real nausea or upset stomach or carsickness or any other condition that usually generates vomiting.
Among the medicines she's taking is Thalidomide, the drug immortalized as one of the memories of the '60s in Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." (Third verse: "Starkweather, homicide, children of thalidomide.") Baby boomers remember that the drug was originally the miracle cure for morning sickness, with the unfortunate side effect of horrendous birth defects. The drug was taken off the market in the United States until 1998, when it was approved for heavily controlled clincal trials. There are those, including one of the doctors that we are seeing, who believe it might be effective in treating neurofibromatosis.
I, of course, am in favor of most things that might help. Research seems to indicate that only serious side effects of this particular treatment are in utero. The Young Daughter's 5; that's not a high risk. But that doesn't make us any less apprehensive about it.
In two weeks, The Wife and The Young Daughter are traveling to Birmingham, Ala., to meet with the man who literally wrote the book -- actually, several books -- on NF1. Will he have some answers? We don't know. But we'll keep asking the questions.
------
I am reminded of a story from May 2002 (click here and scroll down to May 10, 2002), back when I had no understanding of the realities of this situation and wanted said understanding even less.
The link to the press release in that post was active until fairly recently. It's been awful quiet out of Dr. Parada's office lately. He said "five years." He has one year and one month left to restore my faith in the medical profession. The clock is ticking.
The clock is ticking, goddammit. Find a way to fix this. Now.
The Young Daughter observes this mess and says something along the lines of, "She must not have taken her medicine. When I take my medicine, I don't get sick."
The Wife was quite surprised by this. We had no idea that The Young Daughter had drawn the connection between her medications and her episodes of the past few months, which were usually punctuated by vomiting unconnected to any real nausea or upset stomach or carsickness or any other condition that usually generates vomiting.
Among the medicines she's taking is Thalidomide, the drug immortalized as one of the memories of the '60s in Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." (Third verse: "Starkweather, homicide, children of thalidomide.") Baby boomers remember that the drug was originally the miracle cure for morning sickness, with the unfortunate side effect of horrendous birth defects. The drug was taken off the market in the United States until 1998, when it was approved for heavily controlled clincal trials. There are those, including one of the doctors that we are seeing, who believe it might be effective in treating neurofibromatosis.
I, of course, am in favor of most things that might help. Research seems to indicate that only serious side effects of this particular treatment are in utero. The Young Daughter's 5; that's not a high risk. But that doesn't make us any less apprehensive about it.
In two weeks, The Wife and The Young Daughter are traveling to Birmingham, Ala., to meet with the man who literally wrote the book -- actually, several books -- on NF1. Will he have some answers? We don't know. But we'll keep asking the questions.
------
I am reminded of a story from May 2002 (click here and scroll down to May 10, 2002), back when I had no understanding of the realities of this situation and wanted said understanding even less.
The link to the press release in that post was active until fairly recently. It's been awful quiet out of Dr. Parada's office lately. He said "five years." He has one year and one month left to restore my faith in the medical profession. The clock is ticking.
The clock is ticking, goddammit. Find a way to fix this. Now.
I stand and salute
From our wire services:
Now this dude's a hero. There's a way to be a patriot without killing other people in the process.
CHATTANOOGA, TENN. -- The only U.S. conscientious objector to receive the Medal of Honor in the Second World War has been buried at a national cemetery with a 21-gun salute, although he refused to carry a weapon while serving as an army medic.
Desmond Doss, 87, died March 23 in Piedmont, Ala., where he and his wife, Frances, had been living with family.
A horse-drawn hearse delivered the flag-covered coffin to the gravesite Monday in the Chattanooga National Cemetery. Military helicopters flew overhead in a tribute formation.
Doss was ridiculed for his beliefs but "remained true to his convictions even when it was not the most popular thing to do," said Patti Parks, a retired U.S. navy commander and director of the Medal of Honor Museum in Chattanooga.
Doss, who refused to carry a weapon during his wartime service in the Pacific, was the subject of a book, The Unlikeliest Hero, and a 2004 documentary, The Conscientious Objector.
Medal of Honor Society records show he was among 3,461 recipients of the highest U.S. military honor.
While under enemy fire on the island of Okinawa, Doss carried 75 wounded soldiers to the edge of a 120-metre cliff and lowered them to safety, according to his citation.
During a later attack, he was seriously wounded in the legs by a grenade. According to the citation, as he was being carried to safety, he saw a more critically injured man and crawled off his stretcher, directing the medics to help the other wounded man.
"He wanted to serve. He just didn't want to kill anybody," said a veteran who attended the service, Fred Headrick, 85. "Most all of them (Medal of Honor recipients) received their medal for killing someone. He received his by saving lives."
Now this dude's a hero. There's a way to be a patriot without killing other people in the process.
Why I hate technology
I'm so disgusted by this story. I would be just as disgusted if the guy wasn't a high-ranking federal official in an agency entrusted for securing the safety of the American people. If he is found guilty of the crimes for which he's charged, he's both sick and stupid, and I hate the fact that my wife and children share a planet with people like him.
The Wife and I have been batting around the idea of letting the Old Daughter have limited, heavily guarded, heavily filtered Internet access on the computer in her bedroom. The Wife has always been staunchly 100 percent opposed to it; I was 99 percent opposed to it, thinking that there might be an argument in favor of letting her have some freedom to do research, play her games, e-mail her friends, etc., without having to use the centrally located desktop in the living room.
The Old Daughter, of course, is 100 percent in favor of having Internet access in her room. We were almost ready to bend; I proposed that as long as she was fully open to random and unannounced searches of her browsing history, e-mail sent items, and the rest of her hard drive, I would consider it. The Wife reluctantly agreed to that proposal.
I've changed my mind. If I caught something in a history or a cache, it's too late. That toothpaste doesn't go back in the tube. I'm now back to being firmly opposed to letting children have Internet access in a non-common area of the house.
In my house, at least, I'm sure the problem wouldn't be outgoing material. And if an indecent proposal did make its way in, I'm sure it would be reported the second it hit the screen.
But we can't take the risk of letting the sick and the stupid into our house.
The Wife and I have been batting around the idea of letting the Old Daughter have limited, heavily guarded, heavily filtered Internet access on the computer in her bedroom. The Wife has always been staunchly 100 percent opposed to it; I was 99 percent opposed to it, thinking that there might be an argument in favor of letting her have some freedom to do research, play her games, e-mail her friends, etc., without having to use the centrally located desktop in the living room.
The Old Daughter, of course, is 100 percent in favor of having Internet access in her room. We were almost ready to bend; I proposed that as long as she was fully open to random and unannounced searches of her browsing history, e-mail sent items, and the rest of her hard drive, I would consider it. The Wife reluctantly agreed to that proposal.
I've changed my mind. If I caught something in a history or a cache, it's too late. That toothpaste doesn't go back in the tube. I'm now back to being firmly opposed to letting children have Internet access in a non-common area of the house.
In my house, at least, I'm sure the problem wouldn't be outgoing material. And if an indecent proposal did make its way in, I'm sure it would be reported the second it hit the screen.
But we can't take the risk of letting the sick and the stupid into our house.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Another day, another airplane
Sitting in coach Sunday afternoon, on an airline where I don't carry Gold status. It's much more entertaining to people-watch in coach. In first, you see several variations of the same person, either the old white guy in a suit or the overdressed 50-ish woman self-consciously knocking back a bloody mary before takeoff.
From Seat 7D, I quietly look around from under the earbuds, only seeing, not hearing. It's much easier to make up stories about people when you can't actually hear what's going on ...
-- At the bulkhead, there are the young parents with the 5-month-old baby. They're trying desperately not to be Those Parents. They're both looking around just the slightest bit; whenever they make eye contact with someone, they give the apologetic "I'm sorry she's so loud" look. They're doing fine, though, in comparison to ...
-- ... The Militant Single Mom, three rows back and across the aisle. She sits in the middle as her kids (I'll call them Tyrone and LaKeisha) fight over the window and the aisle. Tyrone and LaKeisha are generating enough volume to get in under my Shure E300s. MSM, meanwhile, doesn't give a shit, and she just absolutely dares you to say something about it. Her big brown eyes are spitting fire; it might be directed at the kids, and it might be directed at you. Best not to find out. It's all she can do to get these kids back home. She's been taking crap from them for an entire week of "vacation," and she doesn't care at all that you're going to get two hours of it.
-- Taking a deep breath and running his fingers through what is left of his hair is the guy on the aisle across from MSM and her brood. He's wearing a white polo shirt with a logo of some small software company, as anonymous as the one for which I work. Clearly, he's carrying the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. It's written all over his face. I'm reading it line by line. He's been traveling too much and working too hard, his marriage is faltering, and he'd rather be getting an ice-water enema than making this particular trip. Two things are true about a business guy traveling on Sunday: 1/he's outbound, not inbound, and 2/he's leaving behind stuff he'd rather be doing and stuff that, in the scheme of things, is more important than whatever he's headed off to. Both, I can tell, are true of this guy. He's been sitting in his seat quietly enduring MSM to his right and the baby up front; he gets his laptop out of its briefcase and taps away idly on it. If I got out of my seat to go to the bathroom, I'm pretty sure I'd see a typical business traveler's work: a half-hearted game of solitaire.
-- The Young Lovers, he in a New York Giants jersey and gym shorts, she in a pink sweatshirt and flip-flops. Their spring break didn't go well. They probably won't be talking come May. Wonder who paid for this trip.
-- The old fellow next to me has a hospital bracelet on. He apparently broke his arm during his Florida business trip. He takes up way more of his middle seat than a guy his size normally would. He looks very fragile. I'm scared to bump him for fear he might shatter.
Turn off your electronic devices, turn off your brain, watch as everything that's really important to you disappears at 1,000 feet a minute. Sit back, relax and enjoy the flight as best as you can.
From Seat 7D, I quietly look around from under the earbuds, only seeing, not hearing. It's much easier to make up stories about people when you can't actually hear what's going on ...
-- At the bulkhead, there are the young parents with the 5-month-old baby. They're trying desperately not to be Those Parents. They're both looking around just the slightest bit; whenever they make eye contact with someone, they give the apologetic "I'm sorry she's so loud" look. They're doing fine, though, in comparison to ...
-- ... The Militant Single Mom, three rows back and across the aisle. She sits in the middle as her kids (I'll call them Tyrone and LaKeisha) fight over the window and the aisle. Tyrone and LaKeisha are generating enough volume to get in under my Shure E300s. MSM, meanwhile, doesn't give a shit, and she just absolutely dares you to say something about it. Her big brown eyes are spitting fire; it might be directed at the kids, and it might be directed at you. Best not to find out. It's all she can do to get these kids back home. She's been taking crap from them for an entire week of "vacation," and she doesn't care at all that you're going to get two hours of it.
-- Taking a deep breath and running his fingers through what is left of his hair is the guy on the aisle across from MSM and her brood. He's wearing a white polo shirt with a logo of some small software company, as anonymous as the one for which I work. Clearly, he's carrying the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. It's written all over his face. I'm reading it line by line. He's been traveling too much and working too hard, his marriage is faltering, and he'd rather be getting an ice-water enema than making this particular trip. Two things are true about a business guy traveling on Sunday: 1/he's outbound, not inbound, and 2/he's leaving behind stuff he'd rather be doing and stuff that, in the scheme of things, is more important than whatever he's headed off to. Both, I can tell, are true of this guy. He's been sitting in his seat quietly enduring MSM to his right and the baby up front; he gets his laptop out of its briefcase and taps away idly on it. If I got out of my seat to go to the bathroom, I'm pretty sure I'd see a typical business traveler's work: a half-hearted game of solitaire.
-- The Young Lovers, he in a New York Giants jersey and gym shorts, she in a pink sweatshirt and flip-flops. Their spring break didn't go well. They probably won't be talking come May. Wonder who paid for this trip.
-- The old fellow next to me has a hospital bracelet on. He apparently broke his arm during his Florida business trip. He takes up way more of his middle seat than a guy his size normally would. He looks very fragile. I'm scared to bump him for fear he might shatter.
Turn off your electronic devices, turn off your brain, watch as everything that's really important to you disappears at 1,000 feet a minute. Sit back, relax and enjoy the flight as best as you can.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
My life, brought to you by iTunes
A tremendously fun meme. Simple rules:
1/Get your iTunes library.
2/Set it to shuffle
3/Ask the questions below and hit Play (or next)
4/Whatever song comes up, go with it.
Q) How does the world see you?
A) The Road Goes on Forever / Robert Earl Keen
This is a song about a girl I knew back in Anytown. Several of them, actually. However, the story never ended as well for any of them.
Q) Will I have a happy life?
A) Drinkin' on the Job / The Rainmakers
Now there's an idea.
Q) What do my friends really think of me?
A) Manic Depression / Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble
They could certainly be excused if that's what they thought.
Q) Do people secretly lust after me?
A) Free Bird / Lynyrd Skynyrd
Yeah ... probably not.
Q) How can I make myself happy?
A) A Million Miles Away / The Rainmakers
This song is a really really deep song about a guy who could be recovering from a traumatic experience, drug abuse, or homelessness. I always took it as that he was contemplating suicide, but that might be reading a little bit more into it. It does feature one of Bob Walkenhorst's very cool turns of phrase:
And the landscape in the dark,
it could have been New Zealand
New York, or New Mexico
So what else is new? Jim thought
Q) What should I do with my life?
A) More than a Feeling / Boston
Ah, a great song from the speakers of the Trans Am in the mid-'80s. Not much guidance there, though.
Q) Will I ever have children?
A) I Know My History / Van Zant
My history would suggest that I'd have a big family. By 21st-century standards, I do.
Q) What is some good advice for me?
A) The Three Fine Daughters of Farmer Brown / Eddie from Ohio
Hmm ... nah, that would probably cause trouble.
Q) How will I be remembered?
A) Creepin' In / Norah Jones
That's me, sneaking into places where I don't belong, over and over.
Q) What is my signature song?
A) Small Town Jericho / Sugarland
I always wanted to live in a small town. I never have. And I think it would be too late now. If you weren't born there, you'll never belong.
Q) What do I think my current theme song is?
A) Take Me Down / Kelly Willis
I don't believe the words you're saying
And I know the game you're playing
So it's only just for now
That I will let you take me down
Q) What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
A) Wide Open Spaces / Dixie Chicks
I lived in one place for 25 years. I haven't lived anywhere else for more than three. Might explain a lot about a lot.
Q) What song will play at my funeral?
A) The One That Got Away / The Rainmakers
The old man's lament.
Well I did this and I did that
And I guess I did OK
I did whatever I had to do
And I did it my own way
Whatever hand I drew
Whatever hand I played
From place to place
I come face to face
with the one that got away"
In a lot of ways, that's strangely appropriate. I've never felt I've made the most of the opportunities I've had.
Q) What type of men/women do I like?
A) If I Wanted To / Melissa Etheridge
Odd that she'd pop up in that spot.
Q) What is my day going to be like?
A) Snakedance / The Rainmakers
This is the lion's den ... And yeah, I knew that before I came in.
From largelypro.com (and please note: the fact that the blogger had a close association with a band that popped up repeatedly in the above list had no influence on the content).
1/Get your iTunes library.
2/Set it to shuffle
3/Ask the questions below and hit Play (or next)
4/Whatever song comes up, go with it.
Q) How does the world see you?
A) The Road Goes on Forever / Robert Earl Keen
This is a song about a girl I knew back in Anytown. Several of them, actually. However, the story never ended as well for any of them.
Q) Will I have a happy life?
A) Drinkin' on the Job / The Rainmakers
Now there's an idea.
Q) What do my friends really think of me?
A) Manic Depression / Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble
They could certainly be excused if that's what they thought.
Q) Do people secretly lust after me?
A) Free Bird / Lynyrd Skynyrd
Yeah ... probably not.
Q) How can I make myself happy?
A) A Million Miles Away / The Rainmakers
This song is a really really deep song about a guy who could be recovering from a traumatic experience, drug abuse, or homelessness. I always took it as that he was contemplating suicide, but that might be reading a little bit more into it. It does feature one of Bob Walkenhorst's very cool turns of phrase:
And the landscape in the dark,
it could have been New Zealand
New York, or New Mexico
So what else is new? Jim thought
Q) What should I do with my life?
A) More than a Feeling / Boston
Ah, a great song from the speakers of the Trans Am in the mid-'80s. Not much guidance there, though.
Q) Will I ever have children?
A) I Know My History / Van Zant
My history would suggest that I'd have a big family. By 21st-century standards, I do.
Q) What is some good advice for me?
A) The Three Fine Daughters of Farmer Brown / Eddie from Ohio
Hmm ... nah, that would probably cause trouble.
Q) How will I be remembered?
A) Creepin' In / Norah Jones
That's me, sneaking into places where I don't belong, over and over.
Q) What is my signature song?
A) Small Town Jericho / Sugarland
I always wanted to live in a small town. I never have. And I think it would be too late now. If you weren't born there, you'll never belong.
Q) What do I think my current theme song is?
A) Take Me Down / Kelly Willis
I don't believe the words you're saying
And I know the game you're playing
So it's only just for now
That I will let you take me down
Q) What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
A) Wide Open Spaces / Dixie Chicks
I lived in one place for 25 years. I haven't lived anywhere else for more than three. Might explain a lot about a lot.
Q) What song will play at my funeral?
A) The One That Got Away / The Rainmakers
The old man's lament.
Well I did this and I did that
And I guess I did OK
I did whatever I had to do
And I did it my own way
Whatever hand I drew
Whatever hand I played
From place to place
I come face to face
with the one that got away"
In a lot of ways, that's strangely appropriate. I've never felt I've made the most of the opportunities I've had.
Q) What type of men/women do I like?
A) If I Wanted To / Melissa Etheridge
Odd that she'd pop up in that spot.
Q) What is my day going to be like?
A) Snakedance / The Rainmakers
This is the lion's den ... And yeah, I knew that before I came in.
From largelypro.com (and please note: the fact that the blogger had a close association with a band that popped up repeatedly in the above list had no influence on the content).
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A small request
If you are the praying type (and it's cool with me if you are, or not), I'd be grateful if you'd send a few our way.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Getting what I pay for
I'm going to blame my extended absence from this forum on Blogger's recent tendency to lag -- apparently for as long as a day or two -- before posts actually show up. Yep, that must be it.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Arrgh
Here we go, devolving back into monthly mode. I hate it when that happens.
Quick hits:
-- The Wife's Champion Dog had another litter of puppies. These dogs are apparently all the buzz in the world of dog-show people (at least, those who show her breed.) This is a very good buzz, and very good for The Wife and the Champion Dog. Five years ago, when she first got into all this, I wondered why the hell she was doing it. Now I understand. Very cool.
-- The Old Daughter recently won her school's spelling bee. Normally, this would not sound all that impressive -- hell, back in '82, I won my junior high's spelling bee -- but she did it 1/against a whole bunch of kids, way more than the 10 or so I beat and 2/she's in sixth grade, and given her July birthday was very likely the youngest kid in the competition. The win qualified her for an appearance in the county-wide spelling bee, against 45 other kids, most of whom were also in eighth grade. Her exit was far too early -- she got tripped up when the reader gave an obscure and kind of odd definition of the word "regency" -- but she'll be back.
-- I will be spending a good portion of my next two months in Montréal (I am there, in fact, as I write this), one of North America's most fabulous cities. Every time I'm here, I'm busy as hell and don't get much of a chance to see/enjoy much of anything. Plus, it's colder than crap. But one of these days, I'll share with you some of the wonders of this city.
Crawling back into my hole. I promise I'll try to come out before next month.
Quick hits:
-- The Wife's Champion Dog had another litter of puppies. These dogs are apparently all the buzz in the world of dog-show people (at least, those who show her breed.) This is a very good buzz, and very good for The Wife and the Champion Dog. Five years ago, when she first got into all this, I wondered why the hell she was doing it. Now I understand. Very cool.
-- The Old Daughter recently won her school's spelling bee. Normally, this would not sound all that impressive -- hell, back in '82, I won my junior high's spelling bee -- but she did it 1/against a whole bunch of kids, way more than the 10 or so I beat and 2/she's in sixth grade, and given her July birthday was very likely the youngest kid in the competition. The win qualified her for an appearance in the county-wide spelling bee, against 45 other kids, most of whom were also in eighth grade. Her exit was far too early -- she got tripped up when the reader gave an obscure and kind of odd definition of the word "regency" -- but she'll be back.
-- I will be spending a good portion of my next two months in Montréal (I am there, in fact, as I write this), one of North America's most fabulous cities. Every time I'm here, I'm busy as hell and don't get much of a chance to see/enjoy much of anything. Plus, it's colder than crap. But one of these days, I'll share with you some of the wonders of this city.
Crawling back into my hole. I promise I'll try to come out before next month.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Coach of the Century
I love this story; stop me if you've heard it already.
I've found my new favorite basketball coach. His name is Jim Johnson, and he coaches high school hoops in a little town outside of Rochester, N.Y., called Greece. The school's name is Athena.
For their last home game, against a somewhat overmatched opponent, Johnson let student manager Jason McElwain dress and sit on the bench in uniform. I was a student manager; I would've probably given my right nut for the chance to do that.
With 4:30 to go and his team way up -- they eventually won, 79-43 -- Johnson put McElwain into the game. The fans go nuts, chanting "J-Mac! J-Mac!" It probably could have been interpreted as teasing. This was, after all, the 5-foot-6 student manager.
He gets the ball and throws up an air ball on his first shot. Then he missed a layup. So much for the nice ending; sit down and grab your clipboard, kid.
Not exactly.
Over the next four minutes, the kid hits 7 of 11 shots, including 6-of-10 from behind the 3-point line. The manager scored 20 points in four minutes, and set a school record for most 3-pointers in a game. I would have given both my nuts and a few of my toes to do something like that.
The manager scored 20 points in the only four minutes of high school ball he'll ever play.
Oh, by the way: The kid is autistic.
"I've had a lot of thrills in coaching and I've coached a lot of wonderful kids, but I've never experienced something like this ever in my life, you know other than my own personal family things," Johnson told WROC-TV. "My emotions, I couldn't stop crying."
I love this story. I hope this was the breakthrough moment for this kid; experts claim that high-functioning autistics can have experiences that actually help unshackle them from disease.
"This is the first moment Jason has ever succeeded and was proud of himself," Debbie McElwain, Jason's mother, told WROC. "I look at autism as the Berlin Wall; he cracked it."
For his sake, may that be the case -- and may he keep finding hammers to chip away at that wall.
I've found my new favorite basketball coach. His name is Jim Johnson, and he coaches high school hoops in a little town outside of Rochester, N.Y., called Greece. The school's name is Athena.
For their last home game, against a somewhat overmatched opponent, Johnson let student manager Jason McElwain dress and sit on the bench in uniform. I was a student manager; I would've probably given my right nut for the chance to do that.
With 4:30 to go and his team way up -- they eventually won, 79-43 -- Johnson put McElwain into the game. The fans go nuts, chanting "J-Mac! J-Mac!" It probably could have been interpreted as teasing. This was, after all, the 5-foot-6 student manager.
He gets the ball and throws up an air ball on his first shot. Then he missed a layup. So much for the nice ending; sit down and grab your clipboard, kid.
Not exactly.
Over the next four minutes, the kid hits 7 of 11 shots, including 6-of-10 from behind the 3-point line. The manager scored 20 points in four minutes, and set a school record for most 3-pointers in a game. I would have given both my nuts and a few of my toes to do something like that.
The manager scored 20 points in the only four minutes of high school ball he'll ever play.
Oh, by the way: The kid is autistic.
"I've had a lot of thrills in coaching and I've coached a lot of wonderful kids, but I've never experienced something like this ever in my life, you know other than my own personal family things," Johnson told WROC-TV. "My emotions, I couldn't stop crying."
I love this story. I hope this was the breakthrough moment for this kid; experts claim that high-functioning autistics can have experiences that actually help unshackle them from disease.
"This is the first moment Jason has ever succeeded and was proud of himself," Debbie McElwain, Jason's mother, told WROC. "I look at autism as the Berlin Wall; he cracked it."
For his sake, may that be the case -- and may he keep finding hammers to chip away at that wall.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Yep, definitely on a fast train headed way South
(somewhat continued from previous post)
Kids received money in the mail today for Valentine's Day from various relatives. Have no idea when the hell that tradition started; all I know is that it started about 25 years too late.
Anyway, each kid netted about $9 or so. We took them to Wal-Mart so each could buy $9 worth of toys.
The Old Daughter looked, and looked, and then found what she wanted:
Chips.
Yep, poker chips.
I got The Look again.
Instead of the bedtime story, The Boy and the Old Daughter opted for a few hands with me. Says The Boy, with an evil not-yet-7 smile: "Bluffing is fun. I like bluffing."
God help us all. God help me when The Wife delivers my well-deserved beating for my bad influence.
Kids received money in the mail today for Valentine's Day from various relatives. Have no idea when the hell that tradition started; all I know is that it started about 25 years too late.
Anyway, each kid netted about $9 or so. We took them to Wal-Mart so each could buy $9 worth of toys.
The Old Daughter looked, and looked, and then found what she wanted:
Chips.
Yep, poker chips.
I got The Look again.
Instead of the bedtime story, The Boy and the Old Daughter opted for a few hands with me. Says The Boy, with an evil not-yet-7 smile: "Bluffing is fun. I like bluffing."
God help us all. God help me when The Wife delivers my well-deserved beating for my bad influence.
Monday, February 13, 2006
I suspect I'm going to Hell for this
Grandpa Mike was teaching the kids to play five-card draw. They were using K'Nex (think Tinkertoys of 2006) as chips. They were enjoying that, and then I came home. I said, "Let's learn a new game."
"Cool," said The Old Daughter, 11. "What's it called?"
"It's called Texas Hold 'Em." I dealt the pocket cards, explained terms and the betting, and set down the flop. The Wife rolled her eyes. The Boy, not quite 7, said, "Hey, this looks fun."
The Boy bluffed his way to win two consecutive hands, one of them after he stared down his sister, who folded to his pair of 4s. Grandpa Mike won a few hands, I held out until the river for a flush to win one, and then it was dinnertime.
Didn't think much more of it until a few days later, when we were driving to Lowe's or Home Depot or Chili's or somewhere suburban in the minivan. The Wife said, "It's awful quiet back there; wonder what's going on?"
The silence continues for a few seconds. Then, the Old Daughter's voice: "Now, here's the flop ... "
Yeah, I got The Look. You know, the look one's wife gives you after it becomes completely evident that you've corrupted the children in some fashion; the look I get when The Boy knows the words to "Bohemian Rhapsody." I'm pretty sure I deserved The Look. I'm not going to worry about it, at least not until my two older kids show up to the table in sunglasses.
"Cool," said The Old Daughter, 11. "What's it called?"
"It's called Texas Hold 'Em." I dealt the pocket cards, explained terms and the betting, and set down the flop. The Wife rolled her eyes. The Boy, not quite 7, said, "Hey, this looks fun."
The Boy bluffed his way to win two consecutive hands, one of them after he stared down his sister, who folded to his pair of 4s. Grandpa Mike won a few hands, I held out until the river for a flush to win one, and then it was dinnertime.
Didn't think much more of it until a few days later, when we were driving to Lowe's or Home Depot or Chili's or somewhere suburban in the minivan. The Wife said, "It's awful quiet back there; wonder what's going on?"
The silence continues for a few seconds. Then, the Old Daughter's voice: "Now, here's the flop ... "
Yeah, I got The Look. You know, the look one's wife gives you after it becomes completely evident that you've corrupted the children in some fashion; the look I get when The Boy knows the words to "Bohemian Rhapsody." I'm pretty sure I deserved The Look. I'm not going to worry about it, at least not until my two older kids show up to the table in sunglasses.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Best of ...
Digging through the back issues, I found this from Aug. 29, 2002. No particular relevance to anything, other than a reminder that if you must wage war, there are plenty of things against which war should be waged. Here's one of them.
We're still accepting volunteers.
"There is never a shortage of bullshit"
Thus declared The Wife a couple of days ago. She noted that while we suffer deficits of many necessary things, there seems to be a perpetual bullshit surplus.
This is reality. Some people deal with it by meditating, or smoking weed, or lighting incense, or getting an occasional massage and spa treatment.
The Wife, right-leaning person that she is, has declared war.
"I am declaring war," she said, "on bullshit."
Now there's a war I can get behind.
This is a noble cause. Instead of obsessing and bitching and moaning and freaking out over things over which we have no control, now would be a good time to simply choose to not worry about them. Many things are just not going to get any better. That's OK, 'cause they're really pretty good. Let's say I take that excess energy freed up by ceasing to acknowledge bullshit and devote it to things that really matter, and who knows? Maybe I'll take less aspirin.
I know I won't be able to dodge the opponent every day, but it'll at least know I'm there.
The War on Bullshit is on. All are invited to join the effort.
We're still accepting volunteers.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
State of our Union: Fashion-challenged
So, Cindy Sheehan was arrested at the State of the Union shindig, and all I can think is, "Dear God, she wore a t-shirt to the Capitol?"
Monday, January 30, 2006
Karma bites man
We have a customer in a very average little town in northern Illinois. I think it's actually Illinois' second or third largest city, but let's just say it ain't Chicago. It reminds me of Anytown, only without the life that a major university brings (which, in Anytown, is the only life you'll find.) I absolutely love the people with whom I work there; to a person, they're the smartest and most fun group with whom I've had the privilege to associate. I've made some friendships there that transcend the job, and that's very cool.
But, other than those folks, the place has nothing which distinguishes it from any other very average town in the Midwest. Except this: from city limit to city limit, restaurant service is horrible. Upscale joint, local dive, national chain, doesn't matter. I've taken to calling the place the Land of the Eight Percent Tip.
And so it was that I found myself at a Steak 'n' Shake very late one night last week, and the shake I ordered never arrived. For me, it was just steak, no shake. So I dutifully put the 8 percent on the credit card slip, sighed and shook my head, and walked out the door. I got my keys out of my pocket, pointed them around the parking lot in one of my typical attempts to identify which rental car is mine, and then felt a chill of a high-20s evening.
That chill shook me a little bit; just enough to make me drop my keys.
In a storm drain.
I knew it was going to happen the millisecond they left my hand. And all I could do was calmly think, "Yep, they're gonna land in the drain." I could see them down there; about five feet down, just far enough to where getting them out was going to be a project.
After determining that the cover of the drain was indeed cemented down, and that I was indeed cold, and that it was indeed 12:30 a.m. and it was doubtful that anybody at Alamo Rent-A-Car was going to care at that hour (or perhaps at any other), I went back into the restaurant ... and pleaded my case with the kid to whom I had just granted 10 percent. I told him my tale of woe. He went to the back of the store and came back with a broom handle, a long hook-like rod and one of his friends.
We poked around in the drain for about 10 minutes, when the friend came up with an idea. In the absence of a flashlight (nobody had a flashlight!), the guy went back into the restaurant and came back with several paper placemats and a Bic lighter. He lit the paper on fire and dropped it in the drain. "Hope there's no gas in there," he said as he dropped it.
The idea was genius; not only did it warm us up, but it gave us sufficient light to coax the keys onto the hook with the broom handle. The waiter nudged, I hooked, and we brought the keys back to their rightful above-ground place.
I was, of course, grateful; so grateful that I gave the kid all the cash in my pocket, which meant that his 8 percent wound up being closer to 100. Being a kid -- and probably on some level aware that I had basically stiffed him -- he took the cash.
Good for him, I say. And from now on, I ... well, I'll probably still meet bad service with a bad tip. But I will add a new procedure to the travel system -- the keys stay in the pocket until I get to the car.
But, other than those folks, the place has nothing which distinguishes it from any other very average town in the Midwest. Except this: from city limit to city limit, restaurant service is horrible. Upscale joint, local dive, national chain, doesn't matter. I've taken to calling the place the Land of the Eight Percent Tip.
And so it was that I found myself at a Steak 'n' Shake very late one night last week, and the shake I ordered never arrived. For me, it was just steak, no shake. So I dutifully put the 8 percent on the credit card slip, sighed and shook my head, and walked out the door. I got my keys out of my pocket, pointed them around the parking lot in one of my typical attempts to identify which rental car is mine, and then felt a chill of a high-20s evening.
That chill shook me a little bit; just enough to make me drop my keys.
In a storm drain.
I knew it was going to happen the millisecond they left my hand. And all I could do was calmly think, "Yep, they're gonna land in the drain." I could see them down there; about five feet down, just far enough to where getting them out was going to be a project.
After determining that the cover of the drain was indeed cemented down, and that I was indeed cold, and that it was indeed 12:30 a.m. and it was doubtful that anybody at Alamo Rent-A-Car was going to care at that hour (or perhaps at any other), I went back into the restaurant ... and pleaded my case with the kid to whom I had just granted 10 percent. I told him my tale of woe. He went to the back of the store and came back with a broom handle, a long hook-like rod and one of his friends.
We poked around in the drain for about 10 minutes, when the friend came up with an idea. In the absence of a flashlight (nobody had a flashlight!), the guy went back into the restaurant and came back with several paper placemats and a Bic lighter. He lit the paper on fire and dropped it in the drain. "Hope there's no gas in there," he said as he dropped it.
The idea was genius; not only did it warm us up, but it gave us sufficient light to coax the keys onto the hook with the broom handle. The waiter nudged, I hooked, and we brought the keys back to their rightful above-ground place.
I was, of course, grateful; so grateful that I gave the kid all the cash in my pocket, which meant that his 8 percent wound up being closer to 100. Being a kid -- and probably on some level aware that I had basically stiffed him -- he took the cash.
Good for him, I say. And from now on, I ... well, I'll probably still meet bad service with a bad tip. But I will add a new procedure to the travel system -- the keys stay in the pocket until I get to the car.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Fisher Price's My First Poker Blog
The casino in our city, Saturday night. Sat down at a $2 Texas Hold-'em table, started off with J-Kd, flop came up 2c-4s-9c, turn showed 6-c. I folded. It only got worse from there. But it's been a while since I had that much fun losing that much money.
The experience was diluted a bit by having a fight break out at the next table over, which was kind of distracting. The dealer at our table very much had a show-must-go-on attitude, which I guess he's trained to do, and kept slinging cards while he was yelling for security and we players were all watching for the inevitable firearm.
I take consolation in the fact that I never had good cards; I never folded too soon, basically. Had I played a little more pessimistically, the chips would have at least lasted longer, but I still doubt I'd be bragging about my winnings. I allowed myself to get rushed into a decision a few times, which seems to be the key difference between playing online and playing live (and with real money). I needed to give myself that extra second or two to think about what I was doing, and to get a read on the rest of the table.
But the fact that I've spent that many words analyzing what was possibly the weakest performance in the history of poker suggests that I'll probably be back.
-----
Overall, The Wife and I had a horrendously unsuccessful night at the casino. It was her first time in a casino, my fourth. The other three times (twice in Kansas City, once in Denmark) I came out a little bit ahead, mostly by playing blackjack. The Wife is apparently not Lady Luck. I'm not going to say how much we lost Satruday, lest people think we suddenly have a lot of disposable income and start calling us wanting loans. All I can say is thank God we have a big tax refund coming.
We spent most of the night giggling at our incompetence. We were flummoxed by the bingo game on the slot machines. We weren't sure why it was there, but we noticed that it seemed to change when we touched the screen, so we preceded every play on the slot machine with three taps on the bingo card.
In our state, gambling is only legal on "Native American land," which means the tribe buys up a few plots in the hotel district, plants its flag there and waits for it to start raining money. I consoled myself as we walked out, having drunkenly decided that I've made my reparations to the Indians for how my people treated them 150 years ago. We're even now.
-----
(To the overly sensitive, politically correct or Native American among us: That was a joke. Lighten up.)
-----
I'm not an early adopter; I'm just catching on to this poker thing. I'm playing at one of the few online sites compatible with Macs. I won my first few hands, then buzzed through my fake bankroll with alarming speed. Thankfully, refilling is as easy as clicking a button, and I'm now comfortably a few hundred fake dollars ahead.
Poker is a game that's well suited for my conflicting personality traits. I don't trust anybody and I tend to over-analyze situations, but I'm also one of the most optimistic people I know.
I do prefer to take my risks in environments I control (which is why I have no qualms with riding a motorcycle 140 mph but won't get on a rollercoaster). Ultimately, knowledge is control.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sources of knowledge out there. Cousin Otis has managed to make a career out of this, having extracted himself from the grind of mainstream journalism to become a globe-trotting poker blogger. That's so 2006; writing online about a game that incredible numbers of people are suddenly watching on television. Cards on TV? My parents played cards in the kitchen when I was a kid. My dad and mom and aunts and uncles would get together nearly every weekend to play canasta or some other equally uncool game. I can't imagine watching that on TV.
But I found myself on a Song flight recently with the little TV in the seat, watching ESPN during off hours. And there it was ... guys sitting around the table playing cards. After having successfully ignored the poker boom in the last two years, other than to occasionally marvel at the blogs, I found myself mesmerized. I found myself wondering why the hell So-and-So called with 5-2 offsuit. And then, I went online.
It'll be a long, long while before I'm comfortable using my kids' college money on a card game. But I now understand the appeal, and it probably won't be long before I'm seeking out a game.
The experience was diluted a bit by having a fight break out at the next table over, which was kind of distracting. The dealer at our table very much had a show-must-go-on attitude, which I guess he's trained to do, and kept slinging cards while he was yelling for security and we players were all watching for the inevitable firearm.
I take consolation in the fact that I never had good cards; I never folded too soon, basically. Had I played a little more pessimistically, the chips would have at least lasted longer, but I still doubt I'd be bragging about my winnings. I allowed myself to get rushed into a decision a few times, which seems to be the key difference between playing online and playing live (and with real money). I needed to give myself that extra second or two to think about what I was doing, and to get a read on the rest of the table.
But the fact that I've spent that many words analyzing what was possibly the weakest performance in the history of poker suggests that I'll probably be back.
-----
Overall, The Wife and I had a horrendously unsuccessful night at the casino. It was her first time in a casino, my fourth. The other three times (twice in Kansas City, once in Denmark) I came out a little bit ahead, mostly by playing blackjack. The Wife is apparently not Lady Luck. I'm not going to say how much we lost Satruday, lest people think we suddenly have a lot of disposable income and start calling us wanting loans. All I can say is thank God we have a big tax refund coming.
We spent most of the night giggling at our incompetence. We were flummoxed by the bingo game on the slot machines. We weren't sure why it was there, but we noticed that it seemed to change when we touched the screen, so we preceded every play on the slot machine with three taps on the bingo card.
In our state, gambling is only legal on "Native American land," which means the tribe buys up a few plots in the hotel district, plants its flag there and waits for it to start raining money. I consoled myself as we walked out, having drunkenly decided that I've made my reparations to the Indians for how my people treated them 150 years ago. We're even now.
-----
(To the overly sensitive, politically correct or Native American among us: That was a joke. Lighten up.)
-----
I'm not an early adopter; I'm just catching on to this poker thing. I'm playing at one of the few online sites compatible with Macs. I won my first few hands, then buzzed through my fake bankroll with alarming speed. Thankfully, refilling is as easy as clicking a button, and I'm now comfortably a few hundred fake dollars ahead.
Poker is a game that's well suited for my conflicting personality traits. I don't trust anybody and I tend to over-analyze situations, but I'm also one of the most optimistic people I know.
I do prefer to take my risks in environments I control (which is why I have no qualms with riding a motorcycle 140 mph but won't get on a rollercoaster). Ultimately, knowledge is control.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sources of knowledge out there. Cousin Otis has managed to make a career out of this, having extracted himself from the grind of mainstream journalism to become a globe-trotting poker blogger. That's so 2006; writing online about a game that incredible numbers of people are suddenly watching on television. Cards on TV? My parents played cards in the kitchen when I was a kid. My dad and mom and aunts and uncles would get together nearly every weekend to play canasta or some other equally uncool game. I can't imagine watching that on TV.
But I found myself on a Song flight recently with the little TV in the seat, watching ESPN during off hours. And there it was ... guys sitting around the table playing cards. After having successfully ignored the poker boom in the last two years, other than to occasionally marvel at the blogs, I found myself mesmerized. I found myself wondering why the hell So-and-So called with 5-2 offsuit. And then, I went online.
It'll be a long, long while before I'm comfortable using my kids' college money on a card game. But I now understand the appeal, and it probably won't be long before I'm seeking out a game.