Tag: holidays (Page 19 of 19)

Mid-Holiday Catch Up

December 29, 2003 / DB

I’ve been a bad, bad blogger. Thus Internet Santa failed to bring me the additional web hosting space or wireless Internet base I was hoping for. Remember when we were kids and the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed to stretch on for an eternity? I’m not really sure where the last four weeks went, but they passed by entirely too quickly. I didn’t even get a chance to watch It’s a Wonderful Life or A Christmas Story this year. Que bummer! As an added bummer, unlike the 10-12 days we got off as kids, now we only get a couple days off to relax. No more spending an entire week in front of the new Atari for 20 hours a day, listening to my new stack of tapes, or creating Dungeons and Dragons characters for a solid week.

The real Santa was good to me, though. I got a new pair of jeans, a copy of The Beatles Revolver, Old School on DVD, and the latest Stephen King Dark Tower book. A new belt! Boxers! Slippers! Yep, married life is good. We have been busily accumulating furniture, so there weren’t a lot of fun things to get for the house. Speaking of new furnishings, I’m sitting on our new sectional couch in the basement watching Spies Like Us as I type this. I just need to throw on Sheila E’s “Love Bizarre” and it’s Christmas 1985 all over again.

Remember that stretch of bad luck I mentioned earlier in the week? Well, it got even better on Wednesday. S was at the airport picking up one of her sisters and her car got towed. That’s one dead battery, one clogged sewer line, and one $150 bill for a towed car in three days. But no flu yet!

Friday night, after getting all the brothers, sisters, and stepsisters together for dinner, we returned to our house for the annual Trivial Pursuit game. In the past, it’s been males vs. females. Consider yourself lucky that there was no blog last year. Otherwise you would have heard in great depth about our epic, two males vs. six females victory, keyed by my unprecedented four pie pieces on one turn performance. One of the stepsisters received the new Pop Culture DVD edition, which features the ability to steal pie piece turns from others. We were in four groups of two, and again I led my team to a glorious victory. Unfortunately, the rest of the family isn’t as impressed with my performance as I am. “You married a dork,” was an assessment S received after I correctly identified RIF as Reading Is Fundamental (Bonus of playing with Catholic schooled people: the book van never came to their schools). People really freaked out when I knew who Up With People were. Call me a dork; I just know I’m the undisputed king of Trivial Pursuit around here. What percentage of Trivial Pursuit games each year are played between Christmas and New Years anyway?

Christmas Eve Mass was quite an event. We attend at the church S grew up in. The priest is originally from Ireland, so although he has only a slight accent, it really comes out on words like condemnation, and damnation. You know, good Catholic words. Saying those over-and-over helps get through the homily. For the second straight he, he screamed at us, as if there was no microphone in front of him. It’s safe to say he’s not big on reforms in the Church either, as each year he’s focused on an old-school view of things. But it’s always fun to say “mayercy” (mercy) and “Jayzus” afterwards. It was also fun to look up and down our pew (the family takes up an entire row) and notice that I towered over everyone. Not so fun was sitting one spot away from a very off-key grandmother. I glanced at her once, when she was about three notes off during “Silent Night”, saw my brother-in-law eyeing her dismissively, and almost lost it. I couldn’t look that direction the remainder of the Mass. I observed that we don’t use the word hark enough anymore. I think I’ll start doing that. “Hark, Keith Langford seems to be a little out of synch tonight.” Finally, there was no distraction like last year, when I could look out the windows behind the altar and watch the snow blowing sideways and wonder how much accumulated for each time the priest yelled “vairgin” at us.

I’ve watched at least 20 hours of the Saturday Night Live marathon on Comedy Central. I may lobby the government for an educational grant to obtain copies of every episode in the history of the program, and then compile a list of the greatest episodes, individual sketches, and musical acts. Sounds like a decent way to earn a living. Based on what I’ve seen, the top five guest hosts are: 1) Alec Baldwin. Even in bad years, he makes it a great show. 2) Steve Martin. Spans the gap from the Not For Prime Timers through the show’s other ages. 3) Tom Hanks. Always good. 4) John Goodman. 5) Sarah Michelle Gellar. Surprisingly funny, hot, and not afraid to work with the sexual humor. Future contender: Jack Black. Top cast members: 1) Eddie Murphy. Freaking carried the show across three bad years. 2) John Belushi. Sheer genius. 3) Will Ferrell. Appeared during a period with fairly solid casts, and still managed to be in almost every sketch. 4) Phil Hartman. More than a voice. 5) Bill Murray. The kinder, gentler side of Belushi’s genius.

So what’s the deal with this Microtouch personal trimmer than has been advertised incessantly over the holidays? I swear that’s the only thing that I’ve seen an ad for on Comedy Central, VH1, or the ESPNs over the past week. Ad rates are either very low on cable over the holidays, or these things are selling like hotcakes and there’s a lot of income to buy seven days worth of time.

Why do home crowds boo NFL officials when they look at the replay and overrule a call that’s obvious? In the Colts-Texans game, Houston scored, the play was reviewed, and the receiver’s foot clearly came down out of bounds. Yet the fans lustily booed the decision. It’s one thing to boo a fumble that occurs in a pile-up where there’s no good angle to see it. But when every replay clearly shows the receiver was out of bounds, how can you boo the decision?

Why is Magic Johnson on the Best Damn Sports Show in a UCLA jersey? Seriously, someone explain this one to me.

Christmas Classics

December 29, 2003 / DB

One of my biggest failings in recent weeks has been not providing you with my guide to modern Christmas music. Initially, I wanted to review Band-Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas” and John Lennon’s “So This Is Christmas”. Then, on my drive from San Jose to Monterey, as I listened to the CD I made for Christmas a year ago, I thought of doing a little blurb on each song I added to that disk. Finally, I decided to pick the highlights from the disk rather than each song. This began in my hotel room in Tucson while watching Rudolph. Sadly, I’m just finishing it now. Hopefully you can use this to prepare for next year’s holidays.

“The 12 Days of Christmas” – Bob & Doug McKenzie – I just discovered what a toque is. So after 20 years, the song finally makes sense. To an 11 year old in 1982, this was the height of comedic genius. Who would have imagined that Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara, not Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas would be the most visible stars of SCTV two decades down the road (Not to mention John Candy, RIP)? For those not familiar with the Canadian version:
A Beer in a tree
Two turtlenecks
Three French toasts
Four pounds of back bacon
Five golden toques
Six packs of two-fours
Seven packs of smokes
Eight comic books
They got distracted and missed the last four days.

“Father Christmas” – The Kinks: Full of classic Davies Brothers smarminess, a great song that just happens to be about Christmas. “Father Christmas, give us some money. Don’t mess around with those silly toys. We’ll beat you up if you don’t hand it over. We want your bread, so don’t make us annoyed. Give all your toys, to the little rich boys.”

“Santa Claus is Coming to Town” – Bruce Springsteen. Pure holiday joy. “He’s coming up through Philly. Flying over New York. He’s flying down the Jersey Turnpike.”

“Do They Know It’s Christmas” – Band-Aid: The song that launched 1000 tributes. It’s not possible to underestimate how important this song was, how perfectly it fit its times, and how great a song it is to boot. Pure pop simplicity, if you had to pick one song that summed up all the best of the New Wave, pick this. It trounces the utterly ridiculous US counter “We Are the World”. Where the US singers were all made up following the Grammy’s, and the video was heavily produced, Band-Aid was done on low budget, with many of the artists looking as if they had just rolled out of bed to be there. Forget Ethiopia in 1984, it’s a timeless message that deserves to be repeated each year. The only downsides to the song: Phil Collins’ visible presence and allowing Sting to sing a line with the word “sting” in it. “There’s a world outside your window, and it’s a world of dread and fear.”

“So This Is Christmas (War is Over)” – John Lennon: Band-Aid’s older brother, a classic song of the season with a social message. Yoko’s completely over-the-top singing actually makes the song. I’ve always loved the drums coming out of each chorus and the big, bouncing bass line. It just destroys Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” once again proving John was the better Beatle. “And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?”

“Chanukah Song” – Adam Sandler: I’m not a huge Sandler fan. This works nicely, however. “OJ Simpson, NOT A JEW!”

“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” – John Cougar Mellencamp: A great example of taking a classic song of the season and converting it to an artist’s sound. The bluesy, southern sound Mellencamp provides here is gorgeous. Adding JCM’s then toddler daughter for the closing chorus was an excellent touch.

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” – Various: I’ve always thought this an odd Christmas song, because when sung properly, it’s actually kind of sad and somber. An extremely popular song, I have versions by Coldplay, the Pretenders, Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo, and Diana Krall. Mr. Hanky tugs at the heart with his emotional reading (complete with toilet flush at the end), but Coldplay’s rings truest.

“Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” – U2: Darlene Love’s original version is arguably the greatest rock era Christmas song ever (Bonus trivia: Love was Danny Glover’s wife in all four Lethal Weapon movies). David Letterman has said as much. U2’s version is both true to the original, and modern in sound. More a song about lost love than Christmas, you can hear the pain in Bono’s voice. The band is in extremely fine form as well.

“Christmas in Hollis” – RUN-DMC: There were hip-hop Christmas songs before, and since, but it’s never been any better than the masters from Hollis. I love DMC throwing typical MC stylings in, like “the rhymes that you hear are the rhymes of Darrell…” “It’s Christmas time in Hollis, Queens. Mom’s cooking chicken and collard greens.”

“O Holy Night” – Eric Cartman: South Park kids + cattle prod = genius. “Those aren’t the words, Eric!”

“Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo” – South Park: A modern icon for Christmas, suitable for all religions, colors, and creeds. I hope all of you remembered to eat your fiber on Christmas Eve and got a visit. “Sometimes he’s nutty, sometimes he’s corny, he can be green or greenish brown.”

Back Home In Indiana

December 10, 2003 / DB

West Coast Dispatch

Tuesday evening: Odd trip. I’ve had difficulty connecting to the Internet each day, apparently I’m completely wiped out right now, so I can just sit here, watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and fire up the laptop. Speaking of Rudolph, the scene when the Elves sing to Santa, “We are Santa’s elves!” while he sits and listens strikes me as a little too fascist. Maybe it’s because the History Channel has shown nothing but Nazi documentaries all day, so that’s on the brain. The crazed look the reindeer get when first encountering Rudolph’s glowing snout is a little disconcerting as well.

We watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special last week (It’s on again later this week if you missed it). Little known fact: when I was five or six, my mom banned all Charlie Brown cartoons in our house. Did my mom have political differences with Charles Shultz? Nope. Someone she had dated long ago was involved with making the specials? Not that either. It’s because I would completely lose it anytime I watched. I think some of it had to do with how much poor Chuck got put down, both by himself and others. I was a sensitive lad and picked up on these things. It didn’t matter if it was the Great Pumpkin, the Thanksgiving special, or a Charlie Brown Christmas. I cried like a baby. The last straw was when Snoopy Come Home was on that fall. When Snoopy set out by himself, I couldn’t handle it. I sat in the corner and cried for what seemed like hours. It didn’t matter that he came home, I just kept on crying. It was probably a year before I was allowed to watch Peanuts cartoons again, and I think my mom made sure other kids were around so I was shamed into not crying.

Arizona is a strange place. On one hand, like the new south, it’s becoming more integrated, progressive, and the cities look more and more like every other city. But its maverick roots are always quite apparent. I saw one truck with a bumper sticker that said, “I’ve never seen an American flag burned at a gun show.” I’m not really sure what that means, or what one has to do with the other, but it seems representative of a certain element here. Even more interesting was a truck I was behind last night. Confederate flag flying on one side, an unknown state flag that featured the stars and bars on the other side. Confederate flag stickers plastered on the sides and tail gate. Then, for added effect, some more pointed comments were painted on the truck’s body. “Lee Surrendered but I didn’t.” A few anti-UN comments. Then, a list of various dates of importance to those on the far, far right: Ruby Ridge, Waco, etc. And this person is just driving down the streets of Tucson! Weird.

Monterey was brilliant. I woke to sounds of seals barking out on the piers. I highly recommend the Doubletree near Fisherman’s Warf and Cannery Row if you have the occasion to pass time in Monterey. $89/night rates during the week, extremely nice rooms, friendly service, warm cookies at check-in, and walking distance to many of Monterey’s most popular sites. The weather was absolutely perfect: sunny, 65, not a cloud in the sky. My meeting ended earlier than expected, so I marched up to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, dropped $17.95, and saw the penguins I’ve been watching on the Internet for months in person. Try as I might, I couldn’t coax them into jumping into the water, or running around (penguins do tricks, right?). They preferred to stand there and try to keep their eyes open. Apparently my favorite birds are quite adept and performing the trick of being drowsy. On occasion, they would change locations, which caused other penguins to snap at them in territorial dust-ups. Penguins also seem to have quite a range with their excrement. Without warning, they fire off massive blasts of semi-digested fish. It was equally gross and impressive. I would watch them for five minutes, then go check out some fish or otters or something, and then come back. Naturally, while I was away, there had been some kind of movement amongst the birds, but they were back to their drowsy ways as soon as I reappeared. Oh well, it was worth it.

If Charlie Brown made me cry, why didn’t the Island of Misfit toys? How depressing is that? Or maybe I did cry when Rudolph set out by himself after being called a misfit among misfits. This is seriously depressing. Every time Rudolph makes a friend, he loses them because of his freakish nose.

More notes while in the sky between Tucson and Chicago on Wednesday.

My first true Chicago flying experience. I’ve sat on the taxiway at O’Hare before, or in the lobby of another airport for an extra 30 minutes allowing traffic to clear before my flight departed. In fact, my first flight Sunday sat on the runway for 20 minutes before they could squeeze us into the pattern. But today was different. We were warned before we boarded that we should expect to be delayed up to an hour. So we pile on the plane, back out of the gate, and sit. No biggie, I was working on 3 ½ hours of sleep, so I grabbed a pillow, lay my head against the window, and slept for about 50 minutes. I woke to the cheery news that they had added an additional 45 minutes to our delay. Yes, there was some weather in Chicago, but the delay was primarily related to extra flights in and out of Chi-town added this time of year. Query: why add the flights if you can’t handle them, or if even a rainstorm will cause horrific backups? Just a thought. If we go the full 45 minutes, chances are I’ll miss my connection’s scheduled departure time. But it may be delayed too, and there are other flights to Indy this afternoon, so I’m not too worried. After 20 minutes, the captain breaks in to tell us we’ve been cleared. We hustle out to the runway and sit. Like many western airports, Tucson shares runways with a military base, so commercial and military traffic is staggered. We sit an additional ten minutes while eight F-16s take turns landing. Great, they’re protecting the airspace of landlocked Arizona and we’re forced to sit and wait.

Another DDB travel pet-peeve: the people who despite carefully numbered boarding groups, insist on barging in an established line in front of others. I’m quite proud of my Gold status with American, which allows me to board in Group One of each flight. I’m probably tenth in line this morning, with another ten plus people behind me in our group, and a lady comes barreling into the line three people in front of me. She’s clearly a part of Group One; she’s getting on the plane first. Why the rush? Not nearly as bad as Southwest, were people rarely have any qualms about jumping in front of 30 other people who have been waiting for an hour. We make our way onto the plane, she takes her seat, and I move to mine about five rows behind her. I get situated and notice that she’s pulling pillows out of the overhead bin space and throwing them towards seats behind her. A few land in the aisle, which she just leaves there. Is she trying to be helpful? Does she hate pillows? Is she a former flight attendant who can’t help herself? Whatever, she’s really pissing me off. A corresponding pet peeve are people who come rushing forward when exiting the plane and don’t adhere to the long established Zipper Principle. If you’re rushing to make a connection, that’s fine: let me know, ask if you can go ahead, and I’ll let you proceed. Otherwise, we’re all in the same situation. Cool your jets and let the people in front of you get off.

The space between airline seats fascinates me. I enjoy the angled glimpse of people you get. I like to check out what people are reading, working on, etc. Sometimes you hear far too much of their conversations, and the temptation becomes maddening. Other times, you can’t stop looking at the person in front of you simply because there’s nothing else to do. Today, for example, there’s a woman who vaguely resembles Alex Kingston, better known as Dr. Elizabeth Corday on ER. She falls into the “can’t stop glancing” category. She’s caught me a couple of times, but I like to think she enjoys it. Still, should I lean forward and tell her I just think she looks like an actress whose work I enjoy, I’m not stalking at 31,000 feet? She’s installing her iPod now. I’ll go ahead and stop before this gets too weird.

Dec. 1

December 1, 2003 / DB

I’m trying to get some work done today. Really. But it seems like I lose my network connection every five minutes. Outlook hasn’t worked for about 30 minutes. That’s all I need, when I’m in the proverbial donut week at work. Holiday last week. This weekend, visitors from Kansas City. Next work week, a trip to California and Arizona. Next weekend, a trip to Kansas City for a KU game and the Sinatra Party. I don’t need these motivational land mines.

December 1. To me, that’s the official start of the holiday season. I like a buffer between Thanksgiving and Christmas. No shopping the first weekend of the season for me. Hopefully you and yours had safe and happy weekends. Thanksgiving in Carmel, IN was uneventful, save a plumbing incident. We fed 12 people until they were happy. We played bad games. I took several long naps, read a lot, watched three movies (including the first of many viewings of Christmas Vacation). Funny thing, when you’re cooking for 12, you don’t have time to sit down and watch any football. I saw a total of five minutes of football Thursday, which was a little disappointing.

On the food tip, it was a very traditional Thanksgiving week here. Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, corn, rolls. All book ended with sushi on Tuesday (My first eel experience, which I was pleased with) and Indian food Saturday (I chose the Tandoori mixed grill. Outstanding!). Pretty traditional.

Speaking of plumbing, I enjoy dropping $250 to have a guy come run 35 feet of steel cable between our house and the main sewer line. Plumbing sure is some racket.

Whatever Frenchie came up with the term “a la mode” deserves a Nobel Prize.

I began this discussion with a couple of your this morning, but what’s the deal with Dan Dierdorf? Is there a worse announcer at a high level than him? The bombast and In Love With His Own Voice qualities of Dick Vitale without any of the charm and passion Vitale brings. The apparent obligation to comment on everything. And I mean everything. Worse, most of his observations aren’t good and he laughs as though he’s made some great joke every ten seconds. I think my favorite broadcast experiment was when ABC let Dierdorf do college games by himself for a year or two. He had no problem filling the airspace normally reserved for 2-3 people on his own. But, of course, he went to Michigan and he’s smarter than everyone else. I got to listen to him last week doing the Colts game, then yesterday for the Chiefs. His flaws are exacerbated by Dick Enberg, who’s about 20 years past his prime. Is it really that hard to put old announcers out to pasture?

Thankful

November 26, 2003 / DB

I wrote a Thanksgiving memory piece Monday I haven’t had time to finish. That’s my task for the afternoon. But here’s something to tide you over.
My wife.
Our health and happiness.
My new brothers and sisters and parents.
Our friends and family who helped make this the most amazing year of our lives.
The good fortune to live in a great house.
A job that’s maddening some days, but gives me a good income and the freedom to travel, visit friends, and pursue my writing.
ESPN Full Court.
Wayne Simien, Keith Langford, and Aaron Miles.
Bill Self.
Mark Mangino and Bill Whittemore.
Ed.
Scrubs.
The Fab Five.
Seinfeld reruns.
Will Ferrell.
One more album from Joe Strummer.
Wilco, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead.
Books.
My MP3 player.
Google.
Bubb Rubb and Lil’ Sis.
Caffeine.
Newcastle Brown Ale.
Any Glen, just as long as it’s not a blend.
Really good Mexican food.
Daylong e-mail discussions with some of you (you know who you are).
Epic eating binges when I return to my hometown.
Friends who make me want to return to my hometown more often than I can.
The freedom to write whatever I want on my own website.
Enough friends who read my thoughts to make the effort worthwhile.
Hosting our first Thanksgiving tomorrow.

1982

November 26, 2003 / DB

All week I’ve been thinking of Thanksgivings past. Our epic drives from southeast Missouri to Central Kansas in the late 70’s (If you haven’t made 12 hour drives in ice storms with nothing but AM radio to keep you awake, well, you haven’t lived. The added bonus of hearing Billy Joel’s “My Life” 900 times in 1978.). Leaving Kansas City after my mom got home from work at 10:30 to drive all night in 1982 (and hearing “Maneater” 1000 times). On to high school, when I discovered the joy of eating dinner with my family, then going to two friends’ houses and eating again two more times. College, when you used the break to prepare for finals, invent drinking games, and play football on Friday. Finally, adulthood, when you’d rather rent a movie and get some extra sleep on Thanksgiving Eve rather than drink until you’re silly. Add in the Dallas Cowboys to each age, and you’ve got a mishmash of memories spanning my life. But one Thanksgiving memory sticks out.

I’m guessing it was 1982, when I was in sixth grade, and the weekend before Thanksgiving we had a pretty heavy snowstorm. Within two days, it was warm again and the snow was melting down to the perfect consistency for making snowballs. The day before Thanksgiving, after getting out of school, a large group of fellow middle schoolers congregated at a section of our neighborhood that was well hidden by trees and houses, but allowed for good visibility to the traffic in both directions. We began assembling an arsenal of snowballs and picking off the cars that passed us. To our left was a large hill that went for several blocks, so the older guys could always identify high school kids early enough that we were extra ready to pummel them. What a great day! We were inside 18 hours of Thanksgiving dinner, football, and a four-day weekend. We had snowballs and steady traffic. For an 11 year old, this was about as good as it got. (It should be noted I was equally happy about blasting cars with snowballs when I was 21 and snowed into a house in Lawrence that sat at a busy intersection, but that’s another story.)

At some point, after we had entered a state of ecstasy that can only be achieved in winter when there’s a healthy supply of snow, someone shouted out, “TEENAGERS!!!!!” as a car slowly made it’s way down the hill. By then, our radars were locked in. Our packing skills refined. We were mean, lean, throwing machines. Every boy frantically scooped snow and dropped the lumpy product at his feet. Eyes twitched, arms hung loose yet poised, we all licked our lips in anticipation. Finally, the blue K-car came into view and we unleashed our destructive volley. I can still hear the smack of tightly packed ice against metal and glass. POP POP POP. It seemed like every snowball met its target, more than a few hitting the windshield on the passenger side. Before we could begin celebrating, however, a wicked screech pierced the air. The car jerked to a stop, and the passenger door flew open. Out jumped not a teenager, but a grown man in a suit and tie. Being a coward by nature, I turned and ran before most, so I didn’t hear the shout of, “STOP! POLICE!”

The next few minutes were a haze. All I know is my pre-teen, world class speed was confirmed, as even across empty fields and snow, I was one of the first to come out in the next neighborhood. I’m not sure why I went with the pack that way. I could have easily cut through a grove of woods and circled back to my home. Maybe it was the alleged police officer that was chasing us. Yeah, that’s probably why I stuck to the front of the pack, rather than separate myself and bring unwarranted attention. I know we made a couple abortive attempts to shake our pursuer, by eventually his partner in the K-car appeared and we were cornered. Again, my cowardly instincts took over, and I moved from the front back into the pack. The panting office that had chased us on foot walked up and joined his partner. He kept his hands on his belt, which held his suit coat back so we could see the badge attached to one side of his belt, and his revolver on the other. “Holy shit,” I thought, “I’m going to get shot by a cop on Thanksgiving Eve!”

I don’t remember much of the speech we got, although I do remember it was delivered in classic good cop – bad cop style. The passenger was angry, yelling and often turning away from us in frustration, while his partner attempted to diffuse his anger. One thing they said has always stuck with me, though, “They don’t serve turkey in jail!” What?!?! We’re going to jail?!?! I can’t go to jail, I’m only 11. I didn’t really do anything wrong. It’s Thanksgiving. How would my mom know to come and get me? What if I’m stuck there all weekend because of the holiday? I’ll miss the Cowboys game and copying Dungeons & Dragons manuals. This can’t be happening!

Eventually, the cops left us, confident their severe lecture had taken ten hoodlums off the wrong path in life. We shuffled back slowly back to our homes. No one was even interested in a good game of snow football to end the day. We all just wanted to get inside and hope nothing else came between us and the next day’s feast. Until I got to college, I never threw another snowball at a car unless I knew exactly who was driving it. The image of the Raytown police officer, complete with his stereotypical mustache, brazenly showing his holstered gun to us was burned into my head. I think most of the other people I was with that day ended up in prison, but I learned my lesson. I wasn’t about to let a little classic American hijinks get between me and my favorite holiday, or anything else.

May all my loyal readers have a safe and happy holiday. I’ll be posting stuff throughout the weekend, so if you’ve still got access, check in from time to time.

D’s Notes

November 17, 2003 / DB

The Pauley Pavilion epic is still a work in progress. As I told my man Lee Perry, I’m trying to get it under 15,000 words so you can actually read it all within one work day.

Outcast’s “Hey Ya” really should have been released last summer. Everything about the song makes me think of being at the pool and hearing it endlessly. Or cruising the city with the windows down on warm summer nights.

What is it about the NBA that makes every team make a run? In every Pacers game I’ve watched this year, they’ve either come back from 10+ down, or had a lead of that much that they’ve blown. In the game I’m watching as I type this (Saturday night), the Pacers have been up 15 early, the Knicks have cut that down to three, and now it’s back up to 15.

As I mentioned before my trip, we saw Elf the night it opened. Definitely a new Christmas classic. Most of the reviews I read talked about how the final third was a bit of a clunker. But perhaps being warned about that made it tolerable for me. A little predictable and pat, perhaps, but I didn’t think it ruined the movie. Especially when you’re talking about a movie for all ages. Will Ferrell is genius for the entire 90 minutes. Hopefully this will be the movie that really sets his career alight. The true sign of a good comedy is not just do the punch lines make you laugh, but do the subtle things make you laugh. There were 3-4 really small pieces, almost background elements that made me laugh as hard as any of the overt jokes.

After suffering through an afternoon of Big Ten football, we got the final moments of regulation and overtime in the Florida State – North Carolina State game Saturday. I’m not sure who the ABC analyst was, but he kept complaining about the college overtime system. He said there’s “nothing good about seven and eight overtime games,” and he worries about the health of the players when games go on. I missed the beginning of his diatribe, but I think he wanted the point each possession began moved farther out than the 25-yard line. I’m not sure how that makes overtimes safer for players. If anything, it means they’ll keep playing without scoring, rather than have 27-27 games turn into 69-62 games. Also, with the TV timeouts and meeting of the captains between each OT period, both teams get up to five minutes to rest if they remain tied. Keeping the ball at the 25 means they are short possessions, in terms of plays, anyway. The system may not work in the NFL, but I think it’s the ideal system for the college game. I say more five-hour games that keep you on the edge of your seat. In fact, let’s scrap the first four quarters and just play overtime.

(The Knicks have just run off 15 straight points, tying the game. I’m telling you, runs….)

The Texas women’s basketball team was on my flight from Dallas to Indy Friday night. They were playing Duke in Lafayette Sunday. I’m sad to report they were all well behaved. I was kind of hoping one of the players sitting back by me, away from the coaches, might get tanked and cause a ruckus or something. I’m generally a little freaked out by tall women to begin with. Take a tall woman, put her in heels, and add the knowledge that she probably benches twice what I can, and I’m positively petrified. I was glad I was sitting close to a point guard who talked about how much she liked eating at KC Masterpiece at the Big 12 tournament in KC two years ago.

(Knicks 70, Pacers 63. The NBA is stupid.)

My brother-in-law who lives in Boston is solid. Sitting on my desk when I returned Friday was a large envelope. I opened it up and found a Boston Celtics calendar, signed by Paul Pierce. Mark had been handing them out somewhere and a friend of his had a few signed by Pierce. Kid isn’t a big sports fan, but he knows what his brother-in-law with the bar likes. I’ll be pouring him a few frosty ones over the holidays.

I’m in the midst of two straight books about Cuba. Purely coincidental. I knocked out Carlos Eire’s Waiting for Snow in Havana, his memoir of growing up in Cuba in the days just before and after the revolution. Today, I started a rather thick biography of Che Guevara, Fidel’s revolutionary partner and hero to insurgents around the world. With that in mind, I’m changing the name game I play with S. Now, rather than offering inner city ethnic names as possible ones for our children (DeShawn, Demetrius, LaDanian) I’m sticking to Latin names. So Ernestito, Carmelita, and Eugenio are going to be mentioned a lot around here in the coming weeks. I’m sure this will again be a game that only one of us enjoys.

The Pacers ended up winning 95-94. Dumb. It was a little cool seeing Reggie Miller get hot in the Garden, including a shot where he was fouled and literally fell into Spike Lee. Brought back warm memories of the two years I actually like Reggie (those being the two years Michael Jordan wasn’t playing in the mid-90s).

Call me Kevin Keitzman, but I smell something fishy in the Chiefs’ loss Sunday. Everyone and their mother called this as an upset. Chad Johnson was shooting off his mouth a week ago. And the Chiefs still can’t win with all that going in their favor? They either threw it to get the undefeated monkey off their backs, or significant numbers of players had money on Cincy. You read it here first!

Paging Orson Welles

October 30, 2003 / DB

(Make no mistake; there will be some discussion of LeBron James in this space later today.)

All this heightened solar activity has me thinking: why isn’t anyone taking advantage of this? It’s Halloween week, for crying out loud! I don’t care so much about sporadic cell phone usage, Arctic communications being cut off, or high frequency radio being wiped out at times. What better time to put a modern version of War of the Worlds out there? It’s the perfect confluence of world (I guess solar system) events, timing, and general unease.

I’ve always been fascinated by the original War of the Worlds broadcast. A link below tells the story of the impact it had on the nation. What’s most amazing to me is how much things have changed in the space of our grandparents’ lifetimes. Less than 70 years ago, the nation was so unsophisticated and dependent on one form of communication that a clearly identified radio play could spread unsubstantiated news reports and panic across the nation in less than an hour. Other than the sophistication and communication aspects, 1938 and 2003 aren’t much different. Then, they were still struggling to shake the Depression. War was a year away in Europe, and everyone feared what the US role would be. Pearl Harbor was three years away. Today, we’re coming out of a fairly deep recession. We’re in the midst of the war on terror. 9/11 and it’s resulting uneasiness is just two years in the past. As in 1938, we wonder what America’s role in the world is and what the implications for our health, safety, and security are.

A modern War of the Worlds would never work as effectively as the original. In 1938, you had the radio and nothing else. Outside urban areas, you generally had one choice for local radio coverage. If you wanted to listen to something else, you had to manually tune around to find a signal strong enough to fill the living room. Today, if say NBC decided to do a War of the Worlds, you have 100 other stations with different coverage proving whatever is on NBC is a movie. We’re pretty sure there aren’t any advanced life forms on Mars with the capability of launching an interplanetary invasion. Lip-synching entertainers, confidence scams, or urban myths can hoodwink us. But the days when an entire nation could get totally freaked out by a piece of fiction are long gone.

I wish some enterprising writer/producer living in a cheap apartment in LA took the massive releases of energy from the sun, added some sinister, imperialistic life form, and whipped up a piece of work that even if for only a few minutes, made my skin crawl just a little when I walk out to get the mail today and look up at the sun. Lacking that, I’ll dig up my MP3 of the original War of the Worlds this afternoon. I’ll imagine myself as a teenager in 1938, living on a farm somewhere far from a big city. I sit in front of the radio with my family, working on my lessons for school while gramps and granny listen to big band music. Suddenly, an announcer breaks in talking about explosions on Mars…