phones, Joe Pa and McCoy

Though my Ohio State Buckeyes are stumbling along this season - however, I do believe they have a Vince Young clone in freshman QB Tyrelle Pryor - I still got a kick outta watching Penn State Coach Joe Paterno during the Nittany Lions' win last week. Joe Pa, 83, has a bum hip from showing an 18-year-old punter how to correctly execute a pooch kick, so he's been exiled to the press box high above.


They showed him 76 or so times during last week's game, and the guy looked about as involved and interested as I did during high school geometry. I firmly stand by my theory that his headset isn't even plugged in and that he's reading not the playbook but instead Playboy.


Reminds me of former 20/20 co-anchor Hugh Downs. For the last few years of his career, I think they simply turned off his mike, rolled him just off-camera and had him read dummy cue cards....


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I don't mind my fellow motorists 'o the road talking on their cell phones or text messaging or emailing while wheeling. Really, I don't. We all have our thing to pass transit time. Me, I sing loudly, perfectly pitched, to hair bands of the late 80's.


I do have one sincere hope, though. In the very near future, I hope that car companies can create phone booths and cubicles equipped with engines and wheels, so I can be alerted to those who pay more attention to their phones and computers than they do me.

And Bon Jovi, for the record, never killed anyone.

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Celebrated McCoy's 2nd birthday at, fittingly, McDonald's on Sunday. With a second kid, you learn to never spend more than, eh, three bucks/kid at an event that features an honored guest who still craps himself. Plus, as if recall were an issue, he bumped his head on the slide and spent the cake-cutting/present-opening portion of the festivities in an apparent post-concussive fog. As you can see, he was elated to see everyone.

McCoy is my sidekick, my tail, my wingman. He's my little Pavlov experience. If I take a step away, he whines. A step closer, he smiles. A lean away, a tear. An inch closer, a laugh. Mostly, though, the kid just waddles within my shadow. The kid eats nothing that isn't produced by Nabisco - though he does a nice javelin throw with a carrot - and still drinks way too much milk. He's 47 or so words shy of the projected '50 words by the age of 2' mandate and sleeps through the night as often as Joe Paterno. He licked the flyswatter the other night and, frankly, throws a bit like a girl.

And I couldn't love him more if I tried.

Happy Birthday, kid.



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