I hope you’ve all returned to the office rested and ready to face a new year. Doesn’t January completely suck? Shitty weather, none of the warmth and happiness of December, and all the stuff you avoided in December is now waiting for you with a big grin. The only bonuses are college hoops getting into full gear and Super Bowl parties. Anyway, some thoughts while watching LSU manhandle Oklahoma. “How was French Lick?
We’re off to scenic French Lick, IN in a couple hours. No, we’re not camping out in Larry Bird’s front yard. We’re sharing a cabin with two other couples for the next two days. I had no idea, but apparently French Lick is kind of resorty. More in a Hot Springs way than a Branson way, but Larry is trying to build a casino there so there’s always hope that we won’t have to drive nine hours to see Andy Williams in the near future.
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.
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.
In catch-up mode, so look for more here tomorrow. However, I had to share this experience from yesterday’s trip home. We flew through Chicago, which naturally meant we spent an extra two hours waiting for our plane to arrive. We were flying Southwest, and since there were no seats in the waiting area, we decided if we had to sit on the floor, we might as well start the line for the B boarding group (Yes, we were those people.
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.
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 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.
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).
What a weekend. ESPN Full Court got turned on in time for me to watch KU play UT-Chattanooga Friday night. It’s a weird age we live in when you can feel like you’re sitting on the same couch, just 500 miles away and six months in the past thanks to TV. If all goes as planned, be looking for a lengthy discussion of the KU-Michigan State game on the Big 8+4 blog later this week.
Hoops season starts tonight, for me at least. Although the big KU coverage controversy was cleared up yesterday, my cable provider hasn’t jumped on the bandwagon yet, so I’ll be sitting here at my desk, listening to the game on Yahoo. It’s better than no coverage. I admit I’m part of the problem. I spent 45 minutes watching helicopters hover over the Santa Barbara airport yesterday, waiting for Michael Jackson’s jet to arrive.
Pauley Pavilion. Home of more championship banners than any other college arena. Old stomping grounds of Lew Alcindor, Bill Walton, and John Wooden. Truly one of the sacred places in all of college basketball. What’s cooler than enjoying an exhibition game there with 5,000 other people? (OK, OK, I shouldn’t make fun of UCLA fan for not showing up. College sports are different in the big city than they are in the hinterlands of the Midwest.
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.
Sadly, I arrived in Fresno extremely tired, so I’ve not had a chance to hunt down either Jerry Tarkanian, eat at a good Armenian restaurant, or see if Al Bohl was hanging out in the driveway of his old home. I may be staying in the world’s least impressive Courtyard by Marriott. Disappointing. Very disappointing. Since I’m a Silver Member of Marriott Rewards, I will be registering my displeasure at the highest level.
And so it begins: real life in Indianapolis. It was one thing to miss half of the best Royals season in a decade. The KU-MU football game. Or to not move my clocks a week ago. But not having access to a KU basketball game is a whole other thing. KU beat the EA Sports All Stars last night in a game that was not included in the ESPN Full Court package.
Nothing like an exciting MNF game that keeps you up until 12:30 AM. Come on, Tagliabue, start games at 8:00 Eastern! Seems like a good time to revisit my NFL picks from September. NFC East – Preseason pick: New York Giants. The Cowboys will not win this division. They make too many mistakes and I don’t trust Quincy Carter. They will, however, be in the playoffs. The Eagles are getting hot, Donovan McNabb is getting healthy, and Philly will win the East.
(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?
Tuesday might have been the real Opening Night for the NBA, but Wednesday was my Opening Night. The wife was working. The Pacers on early; LeBron vs. the Kings late. With some help from some rare evening caffeine, and the picture-in-picture button, I made it through the night. 8:00 – Pacers vs. Pistons on local TV. Scot Pollard, the hometown team, and Larry Brown. Magic vs. Knicks on ESPN. Drew Gooden and Tyronn Lue.
Day four of “Eastern Standard Time”. I fell asleep before kick-off Monday night, waking when it was already 10-0 Miami. I’m struggling with the concept of being an hour ahead of most of my coworkers (why aren’t they in the office at 6:30 in KC when I turn the laptop on?). Also, finishing my workday around 5:00 local time and still getting calls for an hour is odd. I’m sure my West Coast clients appreciate the voice mails I leave them at 5:00 AM their time.
Good: Marlins win in six. Josh Beckett is a freaking stud. His arm may fall off, he may succumb to all the temptations that will be available to him, or he just may have pitched the best he’ll ever pitch. But I love the fact his first postseason experience was much better that Roger Clemens’ first experience. I’m not sure why I’ve become obsessive about hating Clemens, but I have. Jeff Loria may be one of the worst owners in baseball, and a personification of all that’s wrong with the game, but he ain’t George Steinbrenner.