Just Stuff

Saw a recent study that noted American workers waste an average of two hours a day online.



Whatever....

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Catch any of the show "Half Their Size" sponsored by People Magazine? Muy inspiring.


http://www.people.com/people/package/halfsize2007/0,,20004741,00.html


They achieved their goals by:


1. Setting a long-term goal

2. Dedicating themselves to reaching that goal

3. Exercising regularly (both with and without their trainers)

4. Eating well and finding a nutrition plan that worked for them - South Beach, Weight Watchers, LA Weight Loss...

5. Staying patient and realistic


The 'subjects' who achieved the greatest results were - no surprise here - the ones who fought hardest to achieve their goals. In so many ways, this exercise bit mirrors life....you get out of it what you put into it.

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I don't typically post links, especially twice in one day, but William Shatner's 1978 rendition of Elton John's "Rocket Man" is just too tasty to pass up. Just plain kooky...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NN3MGN899yE

Stars Dancing, Heath Ledger and McCoy

When a guy is married to a dance teacher, as this guy is, well, you're going to watch "Dancing with the Stars." In my defense, I do veto "So You Think You Can Dance," "Dancing with the Animals," and any other form of television tango.

Here are few token thoughts on last night's episode:

1. Somewhere between her Oscar-winning turn on "The Last Picture Show," her Emmy-winning run on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" and last night, Cloris Leachman clearly received a lobotomy.

2. Kim Kardashian - Coordinated as stripes on plaid. Sister, you have but one hope - it's time to unveil the rack.

3. Thinking of buying McCoy a Bruno the Judge for Christmas. Not a likeness doll, the man himself. Excitable, witty, cuddly, fits in a handy carrying case.

4. Julianna Hough - Fictional though it may be, we husbands and wives all have our "free-pass list." Perhaps the cutest young lady on Planet Earth, Julianna, albeit Morman, half my age and way out of my league, scantily twirls atop my list.

4B. Ms. Hough's partner, the kid from "Hannah Montana," has more bangs than a cheap porno.

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Read that Heath Ledger's folks decided to give their deceased son's entire estate, estimated at $30 million, to his two-year-old daughter, Matilda.
I can envision this upcoming conversation between Matilda and her mom, actress Michelle Williams:

Mom: "So, um, honey, how would you like to go shopping today?"
Matilda: "Nah."
Mom: "Okay....how about a nice massage and facial?"
Matilda: "Nah."
Mom: "A mani-pedi?"
Matilda: "Nah."
Mom: "Well, honey, where would you like to go?"
Matilda: "Park."
Mom (hopefully): "Avenue?"

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It only lasts a few seconds, happens just before I go to bed, and I look forward to it all day.

Not, not that.

I typically handle the putting down of McCoy each night. Part of the dad duties, the division of labor, the volley of mom and dad. As I ease the kid into his crib, he looks at me and giggles. One hand then finds his mouth, and he blows me a kiss that would melt even the coldest of hearts.

Often times, it's the best part of my day.

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Quick Music Trivia

Q: Who is the only woman (to my knowledge) to have TWO top-40 songs written for her?

(Hint: It's not Christie Brinkley)

A: Rosanna Arquette - "Rosanna" by Toto and "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel

Weekend

Am certain Austin proper was a veritable carnival this weekend, a hippy haven, a Razorback refuge. But on the heels of Vegas, the Mudds instead largely chose to hibernate in Suburbia.


Plus, I'm flying my mom into town this weekend, so that will be wild. Strip joints, raves, all that.(Told Jenn to buy a box of wine and we'd be good.)


Driving in this morning, noted a leftover stench of the Devil's Lettuce and patchouli....

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Ran across a pack (a troop, more accurately) of Cub Scouts yesterday at the park. Brought to mind the one burning question I wish I'd asked by pop before his passing:

"So, pop, why the Indian Guides?"

Mention the Indian Guides to a Texan, and you'll get in return the tilted-head, quizzical look of a puppy. But spend your early days up north, Ohio in this instance, and you'll understand. The Indian Guides were the ugly, pasty, wimpy stepbrother of the Cub/Boy/Eagle Scouts, and, for whatever reason, the early herding grounds of the Mudd Boys.

Here are some similarities between the Indian Guides and the Cub Scouts.

1. Young boys
2. Weekly Meetings
3. Camp Outs

Here are some differences between the same:

Cub Scouts - Snazzy uniforms (neckerchief included!)
Indian Guides - Lame headband

Cub Scouts - Achievement patches of merit
Indian Guides - Lame feathers of merit

Cub Scouts - Got to wear snazzy uniforms to school on meeting days
Indian Guides - Bad hair day from wearing lame headband

Cub Scouts - Prime table seating in lunch room
Indian Guides - Lame seating next to lunch-room ladies

Cub Scouts - Tents
Indian Guides - Lame teepees

Cub Scouts - Bonfires
Indians Guides - Smoke signals (and kerosene asphyxiation)

Cub Scouts - Advancement potential to Boy and Eagle Scouts
Indian Guides - Extinction

I do remember, however, one perk of the Indian Guides. It seemed more father-son oriented than the rival Cub Scouts, in so much as each father-son tandem got to choose a 'tribal' name. For instance, my pop was Big Bear, and I was Little Bear. My buddy Brad was Little Buffalo, his dad Big Buffalo....and so on.

So while the Indian Guides were mostly a Big Embarrassment, and the lone remnant from my two-year stint was a couple of smelly feathers and a lousy bead necklace, at least we had that, which was nice.

(Editor's Note: A search of Indian Guides found that it is a YMCA-based organization. That explains it - we were always a 'Y' family....)

Duds and Daughters

I know squat about the current fashion trends. Me, I tend to side with conservatism with a strong nod toward comfort. Think Wally Cleaver in flip-flops.

(Note: I arrived late to the flip-flop scene. A career jock, I was always a tennis shoe guy. But a few years ago I relented, mostly because I felt too old - and too young - for the tennie and sock look. Not gonna say it wasn't traumatic, though. When purchasing my first pair of flip-flops, I plopped them down on the conveyer belt. The cashier rang them up...and up popped "Men's Thong" on the register.)

Anyway, let me try to get this straight about today's attire. The more out-of-style, the more laughable it recently was, the more in-style, en vogue it now is? And in many respects, the uglier, the better? Penguins are in, Polos out? Tight is golden again? I'm so confused.

I recently saw a guy wearing O.P. pants and an Izod. This is a good thing? How far behind are those Vecro wallets?

And these men's tees with Romanesque paintings all over them. Jenn was going to buy me a shirt but said those were all she could find and knew I wouldn't wear one. She was right. To me, the only place a Phoenix belongs is in Arizona or across the hood of a '78 Trans-Am.

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Unless raw, brute, sheer strength is required - like keeping Rosie O'Donnell in line - then I'm all for equal employment opportunity amongst the genders. In fact, sorry Barrack, but the most powerful person in Illinois (America? the universe?) isn't a politician at all but instead a female former newscaster from Chicago.

But something about a chick calling a football game on TV just makes me squirm.

Don't get me wrong - the woman providing play-by-play for the Michigan State-Indiana matchup did just fine. Knew her stuff, offered some insights, all that. But it simply didn't feel right. And it's not a sexist thing - trust me, she was better than many a male announcer - just more of a can't-put-my finger-on-it thing.

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Reason #82 To Suspect We're In Trouble With McKenzie
The kid dresses like it's the evening gown segment of a beauty competition - to go get groceries with her mom. She goes through more wardrobe changes on a Saturday than Elton John and has never seen a mirror she didn't adore. I'm raising Cher.

Reminds me of something hardball legend Joe Dimaggio once said when asked why he plays so hard every game...."Because you never know when someone is seeing you for the very first time."

last night

I'm not the most technological sort - my cell phone is a rotary dial - but I'm smart enough to know this: With all this talk of stock market crashes and financial unrest, I've never been so happy to be poor. I quote Dylan: "When you've got nuthin,' you've got nuthin to lose."

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I hate to be judgemental, but you know that red-haired gal from "Sex in the City"? Cynthia Nixon? Well, have you checked out her 'girlfriend?' I'm sure she's a most pleasant young woman, but, ouch. Is her dad Captain Kangaroo?

Now Ellen, she has the right idea.

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What I Wish Would Come Back

1. Longer hair on guys. These things - styles - tend to ebb and flow. Made fashionable by Jesus, now taboo by Howie Mandel (who actually used to have long hair, the hypocrite), longer locks will probably come back around. Truth be told, I like it because the longer my hair is, the shorter my nose appears.

2. Bob Barker - True, he's almost hermetically sealed by this point. But we all have a purpose, and Bob's purpose was to the hold that anorexic mike on "The Price is Right" and get sexually harrassed by white-trash whackos. Caught a few minutes of Drew Carey hosting TPIR the other day; I haven't seen anything that awkward since McKenzie make McCoy walk in stilettos.

What I Wish Would Go Away

1. The song "Melt with You." Okay, it was a decent song upon it's 1983 release, when it accompanied Nick Cage and his strange triangle of chest hair in "Valley Girl." But enough already. It's a neck-and-neck tie to decide which phrase I've heard most over the past 25 years:

1. I'll stop the world and melt with you.
1a. No.

2. The combo handshake - We men still run across about, eh, 3-5 percent of fellow fellas who, when posed with a simple handshake, go instead with the handshake to "bro" to clenched fingers trio. About 1 percent will even throw in the index finger point while in the midst of the shake. It's uncomfortable, tricky to master amongst strangers and, moreso, just plain weird.
The handshake-to-hug combo, seemingly the new millenium greeting amongst buds, completely escapes me.

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Home last night with the kids while Jenn grabbed dinner with friends. I don't mind the single-dad nights so much. McKenzie plays me like a fiddle, usually squeezes an ice-cream run outta me, and McCoy runs around like my Uncle Saul - in his diapers alone. Together, we tempt fate as the kids run with scissors, me with hedge clippers. But we have some laughs, do the tandem bath bit, make a communal fort at bedtime. Needless to say, my leash runs longer than Jenn's.

The best part about manning the fort, though, is that I get dibs on the remote.

Like many a pop culture fan, I grew up a child of TV. Oh, I spent plenty of time patrolling the neighborhood on my low-rent Moxie bike, following a few pedals behind my buddies on their shiny Mongooses or sparkling Red Lines (envy still burns deep within me), or playing ball on makeshift diamonds while using a No Trespassing sign as home plate. No older than 8 or 9, we'd disappear for the day; today, I wouldn't let McKenzie out of the house on her own for 10 minutes, never mind 10 hours, without pepper spray and a shank.

But come evening, when the smells of meatloaf or spaghetti or pot pies called us home, I usually found the tube.

Hard to believe now, but back then three channels seemed enough to entertain. Gilligan (I was always a MaryAnn guy), Bewitched (black-and-white hottie), Three's Company (two hotties), I Dream of Jeannie (boy did I). The Hulk, Dukes of Hazzard, Fantasy Island, The Love Boat. Long before reality shows, they helped shape my reality as I cut my pop culture teeth. I loved them all.

Heck, even today, before I have a big decision to make, the following acronym always comes to mind:

WWGBD

Which, of course, is: What Would Greg Brady Do?

So it's admittedly disheartening to come to grips with the fact that I've forever lost the gavel.
See, Jenn also grew up within remote's reach, and her grip over such is militant. And with the onset of the DVR, her visual wingspan blankets the hours. Between Cheslea Handler, Oprah, Ellen, The View, I live with so many women, I feel like a flatscreen polygamist. And when you live with a dance teacher, as I do, and most everybody on TV is singing or dancing or juggling pitchforks while singing and dancing these days, you're going to get hit by the reality show anvil, too. I half-expect Chris Berman to come out in tights on Sportscenter.

But pity me not. Sure, there's McKenzie's movies, McCoy's cartoons and Jenn's shows, several of which our DVR devours each day, but there was that time in, what was it, May of '05, I did get to watch the last 9 minutes of a rerun of "M*A*S*H." Seems the theme song of "M*A*S*H" repulses Jenn to the point of nausea, so when I want to dig up her krytonite, I seek out Alan Alda.

Our evening choreography usually looks like this. Jenn, done with her myriad evening chores, tries to unwind in the corner pocket of the couch while McKenzie alternately dances, performs couch acrobatics and jockeys for Jenn's lap. McCoy jailbreaks, spraying papers, DVDs, toys et al in his wake. I stake out my slot and either pick guitar or read or gamely sit through another reality show. Sometimes I go upstairs to write or surf or watch some tube, but, what can I say, with all of us moving so often in different directions, I like to hang with the gang. Conformity is the only assurance of such.

So last night, with McCoy tranquilized and McKenzie doing the open-mouth bit on the couch, I settled in and watched a ballgame (USC lost to Oregon State, which makes Ohio State's 35-3 loss to the Trojans look even more silly). But after a quarter of ball and a pint of ice cream, I found the room cold, dark, quiet. Too much so, on all counts. I missed the chaos. I missed the shrieks and squawks. I missed the 'McKenzie get your brother out of a headlock's."

This, I figure, is my new reality TV.

A dad and his son

Helped bury my pop one year ago today. My brothers and I each took a handful of dirt from his plot, sprinkled it together on his casket and said good-bye to a man like I've never known.

Don't much feel like working today. Thought writing a little about the guy might be, how they say, therapeutic.

Even when he was a kid, my pop was never a kid, not really. Grew up in the Depression, worked odd jobs from the age of nine - caddying, hauling bricks, collecting bottles, the typical grew-up-during-the-Depression stuff. A small-town boy, he spied my mom when they were 12 or so, married her eight years later and died 60 years later with a wedding ring on his hand.

After serving in the Navy during the sweep-up stages of WWII, my pop took some classes but did most of his schooling via the way of the day - on the job. First a chemist then a plant manager for General Tire & Rubber, the job bounced the family - four sons strong by 1968 - from Missouri to Ohio and, finally, to Texas in 1977. My brother Steve worked for my dad for 20 years and reported that every day would find my dad making his way past the white collars and into the factory to visit with his charges, to shake hands, to ask about their families, to tell a joke. To my dad, the boss and the janitor differed only in title, not in rank.

He was just like that and, in my days, like no other. See, it wasn't so much what my pop accomplished in life, and for a small-town Missouri boy with a modest education and from little means, he accomplished plenty. It was how he did it. He would stop at tables in restaurants and compliment a father on what a handsome family he had. He baked bread for my mom, whipped up breakfast for his sons and took pride in his home. Attended church every morning, volunteered for his community, donated blood by the barrel. Loved coffee in the stillness of morning, sinking an eight-foot putt, walking his dog in the evenings and telling his wife that he loved her.

Ever meet somebody who seems to have the many secrets of life figured out? Like they owned a secret recipe to contentment reserved for so few? That was him, it really was. Spiritual but not judgmental; kind and fair and gentle and honest; simple but organized; a lover of the lighter side of life, but ever-mindful of his responsibilities to family and work; humble but proud; a fiercely loyal friend, employer, husband and father. To those who knew him, to those touched by him, he was a coach, a friend, a boss, a voice of reason, a calm in the storm, a rock. To his sons, he was our pop.

Cancer took Joe in the end, first caught him a few years ago. He shrugged it off at first, then it came back with a fury a year later. But even during his last days, zapped by chemo and resigned his fate, he never lost the life in his eyes and the sweetness of his heart. He loved my mom more than anything or anybody else, and on his 80th birthday three weeks before his passing, they held hands like it was 1940 on some front porch in Monroe City (MO).

A tie or a bottle of Old Spice seemed moot on that birthday, so I wrote and framed him a letter, a list. Entitled "Things I Learned from My Dad," it went like this:

Ho-Ra-Dinka will make a baby smile…every single time.

Be patient (sometimes very, very patient).

Be your children’s biggest fan, not their staunchest critic.

Naps are good.

A three-foot putt is really a gimme.

Actions, not words, leave the biggest mark.

A bowl of ice cream is a great way to end the day.

Be a fair manager of people.

A corny joke goes a long way.

Marriage is tough but forever.

Be generous with praise.

Don’t spend it if you don’t have it.

Always compliment the chef.

Family, faith and fatherhood mean everything.

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For all intents and purposes, Joe lost consciousness on my birthday last year. During the morning hours, my brother Jay asked him if he knew what day it was. He weakly reached out to me and said, "It's Jeffer's birthday." I grabbed his hand, bent over and kissed his cheek. He said, "Son, you could use a shave."

By necessity, I've found over the past year that losing somebody close brings about an evolution of the heart. During the first few days, my pop seemed so far away, so gone. You wear the pain like a musty robe. Then, slowly, the hurt turns to fondness, the memories to nostalgia.. It's like a rocket shooting far into space, this newness of death, then slowly floating back from the heavens in the form of comfort. Heck, I can now talk to him anytime I want, and his kind face is readily in my mind's eye. I think of him often - every day, really, especially when these milestones roll around - and recognize little pieces of him in me. Like the way I'm curling up my tongue now while concentrating. Or how I feel a complimentary word is never wasted. Or how I believe that, regardless of pedigree, a man's true worth is measured by what he leaves behind.

I was given the honor of writing his obituary, a bit of which included what I've written above. I figured it was my way of saying good-bye, and it was the hardest 500 words I've ever written. But now, a year later, I know it wasn't goodbye at all, not with all he left behind.

So I'll see you later, pop.

Riches to Rags

A true tale of riches to rags.

No, not the life story of Willie Aames.

My life the last four days.

Started on Thursday, when I was at lunch and got a frantic call from the gym. Toilets were overflowing. Water everywhere. Great. It was a booby trap, turns out, but symbolic. 'Cuz when I walked in the door to find Jenn holding a sign that said "Vegas Baby!" - a birthday getaway gift/surprise - I almost dropped a deuce.

I must admit, I'm not really a Vegas kind of guy (I could, however, easily live in a hut on a beach and run a taffy stand). While not exactly frugal, I'm not a colossal fan of giving dough away with mind-numbing speed, a favorite past time of Sin City. The ever-present smoke that billows throughout the casinos doesn't provide the greatest of allure to an asthmatic, and the never-ending cache of lights and bells and dings and blings reminds me of watching my Aunt Rita play ping-pong while on a meth bender.

But four days away with no kids and no towels to wash and no alarm clocks, three nights in a plush Caesar's Palace suite with nothing to lose, did appeal to what little "Swingers" kid that lurks within. Plus, and I know I'm biased here, I think Jenn is far better-looking than Jon Favreau.

The following are, in my opinion, five of the dreariest activities one can endeavor:

5. Dentist
4. DMV
3. Listening to someone else describe "this crazy dream I had last night"
2. Looking at photos from someone else's luxurious vacation
and
1. Hearing, in vivid detail, about someone else's vacation

So I'll spare you the frame-by-frame replay. But here are a few observations from our 4 days in Sin City.

* A $12 drink tastes much better than a $4 drink; however, it lasts no longer.

* Multiple Choice: It is indeed possible for an 84-year-old woman to:
(a) Sit at the same slot machine for seven hours.
(b) Allow her cigarette ash to reach the neighborhood of four inches, both defying gravity and making for a neat party trick
(c) Glance at me 73 times in a five-minute span if I dared to win as much as a quarter
(d) All of the above

Answer: D

* The guys and gals of Cirque Du Soleil's "Love," a 90-minute aaahh-feat set to Beatles tunes, are the greatest athletes I've ever seen. My reasoning is such: I spent five years as a sportswriter and have watched sports since I was old enough to be propped by one of my three brothers in front of a TV; however, while I can envision one of the Cirque artists - male or female - running a crisp down and out or going baseline for a reverse layup or stretching a single into a double, I simply can't see Terrell Owens, Kobe Bryant or A-Rod doing a double-back flip from a highwire into a barrel 30 feet below, all while listening to arguably the Beatles's worst song - "Yellow Submarine." I mean, these folks were freaks - but not the bearded lady kind...the good kind.

Note: There were several children in the cast of "Love." They did nothing. No flips, no spins, no leaps. Just a jig or two. And while they were cute as hell, I haven't seen such child exploitation since "Webster."

* Caught Tony Bennett on Saturday night. He'd fallen. No, for a 127-year-old, the guy still has his pipes. Plus, how often can you say you drank an $18 martini while watching Tony Bennett on a Saturday night?

* My wife has a neat trick. She can camp at a craps table for two hours, hoop and holler on several occasions, high five her neighbors, flash a double Hook 'Em Horns sign, scream "You Da Man!" to a hot shooter, shake her booty, drink four sips from one beer....and win three bucks. God love her.

* The stench/film that one leaves Vegas with can best be described as a cornucopia of zinc, Pall Mall, Funions and Mr. "Yellow Pits" Murdock, my eighth-grade Life Science teacher.

* Most people are nice. Whether it be curse or blessing, I've always been the type to strike up a conversation with most anyone, especially in vacation mode. I'm interested in people's stories, what can I say? In doing so, my careful research has found that 96 percent of people are quite pleasant, and the other four percent are either (a) hard of hearing; (b) simply too busy; or (c) dicks.

* Some heroes fall hard. While killing time before our alleged Sunday evening flight - more of that in a moment - we were strolling through the Caesar's Forum (read: mall) and browsing at $900 purses. Came across a sports memorabilia shop. I duck in and, there, no more than five feet away, sat a bored, bloated guy who happens to own more base hits than any player in baseball history. Pete Rose, banished from the Hall of Fame for gambling, slouching in a card shop in Vegas signing baseballs on a Sunday afternoon for $20 a pop. Cruel, sad irony.

* Finally, if you want a 4 a.m. wakeup call from Floyd the Night Clerk, then that really means he'll pound on your door at 4:12 a.m.

See, we were supposed to return to reality on Sunday evening. Southwest Airlines had other ideas. A cancelled flight (and switch to a Monday 6a flight - ouch) later, we found ourselves the honored guests of the Ambassador Travel Lodge, which, as you might guess, is quite a roll down the stairs of luxury from the Palace Tower Suites. Nevertheless, we're simple folk, and there are several amenities of the A.T.L, which include:

1. A window unit that sounds like a Harley at full throttle...but not until you insert you room key into the control panel. (Huh?)

2. Comforters comprised of horse hair.

3. A coupon for $10 off on your first Pole Dancing lesson.

4. The water pressure of an eye dropper.

5. A view that includes a truck stop, a convenience store and a couple of whores.

6. And Floyd (see Rose, Pete - without the hits). Floyd, quite possibly Tony Bennett's grandfather, couldn't get the 'damn wake-up call system to work." But there he was, just 12 minutes past our requested time, hammering on the door like a 14-year old boy behind closed doors with a Speigel's catalog, a proud member of the Travel Lodge Night Clerk Hall of Fame.

Some other stuff happened on our trip, but you know what they say about Vegas...